1.17.16

Growing into Adulthood

Remember, when as a little kid, you could wake up one morning and announce to your parents that you'd decided you would one day be a firefighter, and it was just as enduring as it had been the week before when you were adamant about becoming a doctor?  This is normal.  Expected, really. And even still, there was nothing wrong with you choosing to nix both of these career paths to dream of living as an artist a month later.  I've always been a dreamer.  I like reflecting and wondering what I could become.  I enjoy the fluidity of aspiration.  It's the concept of finality, that this particular manner of dreaming in my life, at least in regards to a career path, is nearing its end that is so strange to me.

I know that there will be joy in finding a place to settle into.  It's just accepting this realization of moving into a new chapter of life adventures.

I suppose I'll grow into reality-- and what new dreams can be found beyond.

But until then...

“You seemed so far away," Miss Honey whispered, awestruck.

"Oh, I was. I was flying past the stars on silver wings," Matilda said. "It was wonderful.” 

― Roald Dahl, Matilda

May we never lose our ability to dream of something more.

Food for Thought

Though I don't have time for a full blog post today, I wanted to share a quote with you all to consider on this Martin Luther King Day.  Don't forget to take time to think about the injustices we have overcome as a world, the countless more we have yet to conquer, and reflect on how we all can fit into the picture for a brighter tomorrow.
Peace,
Zoë



“True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring.” ― Martin Luther King Jr.

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Perspective Check

Sometimes, the hardest part of an experience is coming home.  There are, of course, the readjustment issues and the missing of places and people, but what I am really talking about it learning how to carry through and use what has been learned abroad once you are no longer immersed in the place and topic.  Sometimes it takes a harsh reminder to regain perspective, to be reminded what is important, and to not take our privilege for granted.

            I am back on a campus for the month of January for “J-term”, where I have one class that meets every day for three hours.  The topic of my course is “Reacting to the Past”.  It’s a bit complicated to describe, but essentially, we as a class are playing a “game” of sorts where we all take on the roles of different characters in Greenwich Village in 1913.  As our characters, we are debating between The Labor Movement and The Suffrage Movement, engaging in dialogue and reading and discussing pieces from the era.  Today, we voted on which faction would win—would we hold the Labor Party’s Pageant or attend the Suffragists’ parade?  We had some very strong personalities, and the debates were heated.  For me, as someone who abhors arguing, and usually has mild panic attacks in conjunction with public speaking, coming to class was something that caused a great deal of anxiety.  I was so wrapped up in making sure I could stand my own ground and not humiliate myself that I completely overlooked an extremely important character in the game.  This character may have been the most important one of all.

One student played the role of a 14-year-old Italian Immigrant.  As the setting for our simulation was a restaurant, her character worked as a waitress.  She shuffled about, replenishing snacks and cleaning up messes.  In the midst of our “great debates”, we inexcusably let her fall through the cracks.  It was revealed on the day of voting that her character had the power to award points (in the game, we are awarded points in conjunction with our activities, and they later influence our voting power) to other characters and factions based on how they interacted with and treated her.  Few points were distributed.  With just a few small exceptions, the rest of us all but ignored her.  We failed to acknowledge her presence- even though it was her identity, as a working female immigrant, that was discussed constantly in our debates.  My character in particular, was described as being strongly invested in fighting for the rights and empowerment of women immigrant workers.  But I never stepped forward.  We tossed about the words “immigrants”, and “workers”, and “women” incessantly.  We provided voices and opinions for these people we claimed to champion.  We assumed we knew best, but never did we ask what they wanted.  In the midst of the fight, we were blinded by our privilege.  This realization brought rushing back a semester of discussions, and field visits, and feelings.  I couldn’t believe I ignored this character.  I felt as if I had failed, not just the game, but the principles that I have claimed to stand for.

            I realize that this was a simulation, a game, and not real life.  But, it is a harsh reminder of what so many of us do everyday.  This could just as easily have happened today.  Whether we’re discussing the rights of immigrants in 2013, or advocating welfare laws, or even simply volunteering at a soup kitchen.  We make the same assumptions, all the time.  I think back to August, as I attended orientation before departing for India.  Our group spoke with a remarkable woman, Julia, who happened to have lived most of her life homeless.  She reiterated over and over again the importance of not talking for others.  She spoke of community organizations wanting to give out turkeys to the homeless for Thanksgiving, and how utterly ridiculous this was.  They didn’t turkeys— they wanted homes!  Did they ever even ask the people they were “helping” what they needed?  Never.  Just as it has happened time and time again, we constantly assume that we know what people need.  “We’re educated.  We’ve learned about the oppressed, we’ve volunteered, we’ve read about the inequalities in the world.  So obviously, as privileged members of white middleclass society, we know what’s best.  We’re here to help!”  We continue to speak for the oppressed, without ever taking time to listen to them.  We reduce people to labels and identities, and forget to interact with them as humans.  We provide voices for people who are capable of speaking for themselves. 

            One of the strongest concepts I took away from my time in India was that we do not need to raise people up, but that we need to stand in solidarity with and support others as they work to empower themselves.  We do not know what other people need.  We can only reach out, listen, and work to support each other as humans.  Today’s experience in class was a reminder of that.  It’s far too easy to be caught up in the rush of everyday life.  To become so centered on our own success, that we tune out others.  The most important thing we can do to improve the world is to listen.  If we’re not willing to reach out beyond what’s comfortable and admit that we are wrong, we will never move forward. 

These reminders may sting, but they are increasingly important.  The semester I spent abroad may be behind me, but I must continue to carry forward its ideals and perspectives into my life at home. There is still so much to learn.

Peace,

            Zoë

You should also read one of the poems Julia, the wonderful woman I mentioned above, wrote.  It really hits home on how we lump people together, reduce them to labels, and fail to ask them what they want.

My Name is Not “Those People”

By Julia Dinsmore

My name is not "Those People".

I am a loving woman, a mother in pain,

Giving birth to the future, where my babies

Have the same chance to thrive as anyone. 

My name is not "Inadequate".

I did not make my husband leave us –

He chose to, and chooses not to pay child support.

Truth is though; there isn’t a job base

For all fathers to support their families.

While society turns its head, my children pay the price.

 My name is not "Problem and Case to Be Managed".

I am a capable human being and citizen, not just a client.

The social service system can never replace       

            the compassion and concern of loving grandparents, aunts,      

             uncles, fathers, cousins, community -       

            all the bonded people who need to be

But are not present to bring children forward to their potential. 

My name is not "Lazy, Dependent Welfare Mother".

If the unwaged work of parenting,          

            homemaking and community building was factored         

            into the gross domestic product,

My work would have untold value. And why is it that mothers whose

Husbands support them to stay home and raise children

Are glorified? And why they don’t get called lazy or dependent? 

My name is not "Ignorant, Dumb or Uneducated".

I got my PhD from the university of life, school of hard everything,

I live with an income of $621 with $169 in food stamps for three kids.

Rent is $585...That leaves $36 a month to live on.        

            I am such a genius at surviving,        

            I could balance the state budget in an hour.

Never mind that there's a lack of living-wage jobs.

Never mind that it's impossible to be the sole emotional, social,       

            Spiritual, and economic support to a family.

Never mind that parents are losing their children       

            to gangs, drugs, stealing, prostitution, the poverty industry,       

            social workers, kidnapping, the streets, the predator.

Forget about putting money into schools...       

            just build more prisons! 

My name is not "Lay Down and Die Quietly".

My love is powerful, and the urge to keep my children alive will never stop.

All children need homes and people who love them.

All children need safety

And the chance to be the people they were born to be.

The wind will stop before I allow my sons to become a statistic.

Before you give in to the urge to blame me,        

            the blames that lets us go blind and unknowing        

            into the isolation that disconnects         

            your humanity from mine,

 Take another look. Don't go away.

 For I am not the problem, but the solution.

And...my name is not "Those People".

(Source: http://doorwayproject.wordpress.com/2011/05/19/my-name-is-not-those-people-4/ )

I miss

Lately, I've found myself feeling a little bit homesick for India.  So, I've made a list of all the things I miss.  Some of them might not make any sense to anyone but myself, but I included them anyway.

I miss the rain.

I miss hearing “Ok, ok”

I miss masala dosa.

I miss the sound of rickshaw horns.

I miss the children waving on the sides of the streets.

I miss the walk from Visthar to Lulu’s grocery store.

I miss having tea breaks twice a day.

I miss the clotheslines.

I miss the bangles that lightly jingle from delicate wrists.

I miss Julie the cat.

I miss walking around barefooted.

I miss the colors.

I miss sleeping in a mosquito net.

I miss seeing women walking down the street in brightly colored saris.

I miss the loud music played on the streets.

I miss seeing goats on top of walls, and wondering how they got up there.

I miss the song that the water filter played.

I miss the collective groan that you would hear from everyone when the power went out.

I miss seeing cows in the middle of the streets.

I miss the families on motorcycles.

I miss hearing the call to prayer.

I miss the smiles of the people.

I miss hearing the greeting Nama Skara.

I miss the sound of the broom as the cleaning women swept the floors.

I miss the geckos.

I miss sitting in a circle on the floor of someone’s house while drinking tea, and listening to their stories.

I miss the colorful temples.

I miss the open fields.

I miss hearing the men who sell tea calling, "Chai, Chai, Chai."

I miss the bright flowers.

I miss laughing every time a platter of papaya was brought out for lunch.

I miss eating with my hands.

I miss washing my own dishes.

I miss Biju’s pigeons.

I (kind of) miss taking bucket showers.

I miss the sound of that obnoxious bird. Starting out slowly, then getting faster and louder, like some sort of alarm.

I miss the slamming of screen doors.

I miss the people, and their kindness.

I miss the red dirt roads.

I miss the trains.

I miss the unexpectedness of everything.

I miss running on “India time.” (8:00?  More like 8:30.)

I miss running from Dwayne, that mangy mutt.

I miss the cookies served with tea.

I miss sitting on the rooftop, staring out into the fields.

I miss sitting and talking about social justice while drinking black tea until after midnight in Wayanad.

I miss parle g’s.

I miss how the trashcans were called dustbins, and were often labeled “use me”.

I miss walls with phrases like “Stick no Bills” or “No Urinating Here” painted on them.

I miss the tiny metal cups with no handles.
I miss watching weekly documentaries. 

I miss Ricky the dog, and how he waited for us at the gate.

I miss our "candle of social justice" (even if it was cheesy) 

I miss my SJPD family. 

For Lakshmi

           Over the course of this semester in India, I have often asked myself, what am I doing here?  In a world with so many injustices to fight, causes to champion, and ideals to stand for, why come all the way to India, when I could so easily study the same situations back home?  I have also at times questioned my future, and how I can use what I am learning.  How do I go forward from here, and what is it that will keep me moving?  Or, rather, what is it that moves me?

            Coming to India, I was eager to visit Agra and the Taj Mahal.  I know that it is notoriously touristy, but something about its shimmering splendor had always intrigued me.  It was one of those places that I could clearly recall reading about in my high school world history class; a place that I had sat staring at in a photograph, never dreaming that I would ever see it in person.  The Taj proved to be both breathtaking and overwhelmingly crowded— as was to be expected.  However, the most memorable part of our journey to Agra, for me, was not visiting the Taj, but the time that we spent in the train station.

            We arrived at the station tired from a long day.  Having set out from Delhi at 5am, the news that our train was delayed was not exactly the most welcomed bit of information.  After hearing stories from previous groups about trains being delayed for over twenty-four hours, I settled in for what I expected to be a long wait.  As I sat surveying the train station, the scene before me was a familiar one.  Stray dogs scavenged through piles of garbage, the familiar call of “Chai” from men selling tea echoed against the cement walls, and travelers carrying everything from suitcases to crates walked frantically through the crowds in pursuit of their trains.  Setting down my backpack, I noticed two small girls approaching members of our group.  This, too, was a sight that was all too familiar.  The girls gently tugged on a sleeve and reached out with cupped hands, as if stretching towards some sort of prayer.  Meeting begging children was not anything new, but no matter how routine the occurrence became, it never softened the blow.  People who have to resort to begging always make me sad, but when it involves children, it is even more disturbing.  Usually, we encounter the children quickly and in passing.  Sometimes a small bill will be offered, but, regrettably, usually we simply shuffle away.  I am left to wonder what sort of life these kids must lead, knowing that I never truly will be able to understand. 

There was something about these girls that struck a chord with me.  They were small, with shining eyes and eager smiles.  Noticing that the two group members the girls had approached were talking with them, I decided to go meet them.  Though there was a clear language barrier, the girls were friendly.  They showed us the sparkly pink bottle of nail polish they had, and admired the colors we had painted upon our own fingernails.  We shared cookies, played games, and sang songs.  We asked them questions, and tried to learn what we could about them.  The younger girl, we discovered was named Lakshmi.  She wore a bright yellow sweater and a mischievous grin.  After about half an hour, we had exchanged (and remembered!) a few vocabulary words and playful teasing.  Soon, a whole swarm of children surrounded us, not asking for money or tokens, but simply for friendship and attention.  They just wanted, for a moment, to be children.

Watching them all, I couldn’t help but think back to the kids I knew that were their age back home.  I looked at Lakshmi, eagerly pointing to objects that were yellow and showing me my nose, and saw the first grade students I had spent the summer with.  She was just as smart, just as driven, just deserving of an education as they were.  But, instead of spending her days in a classroom, she spent her days tugging on the sleeves of strangers, hoping for a sliver of compassion.  The injustice of it all hit me in the pit of my stomach, and left me with tears welling in my eyes.  But, how could I cry when Lakshmi was smiling?  I had to keep going.  I had to fight for her.  For Lakshmi— and for the millions of children around the world like her.

In Lakshmi’s shining brown eyes, I see so many others.  I see the Bandhavi girls in Koppal, living symbols of strength.  I see the little girl from my class this summer, and the look on her face when a classmate pointed out that she had worn the same outfit a few days in a row.  I see the kids that greet us on the side of the road.  I see the wide-eyed babies on the trains.  I see my younger cousins, drawing a sidewalk chalk mural with me on a summer afternoon.  I see the faces of countless children reflected in this little girl.  All I want is for all of these faces to have an equal chance, an equal opportunity, and for them to be able to smile, as often as possible, in the way that they all share. 

So this is what moves me.  When I find myself looking for an answer, or a reason, or a path towards my future, I will look back to that night at the Agra train station, and I will keep moving forward.  For Lakshmi.  For all of them.
Peace,
                 Zoë 

Thought for the Day

When we were in Delhi, we had the opportunity to visit the Gandhi Museum.  It was an incredible place!  Here is one of my favorite quotes from the visit:

A List

 There are many things about India that, a few months ago, would have made me do a double take.  Now, they’re about as common as seeing a squirrel run across the street, or someone riding their bike back home in the US.  Here’s a list to give you some perspective:
1-    Cows.  They are everywhere-- casually strolling along the sidewalk, standing in the middle of traffic.  Seeing a cow meandering towards you as you navigate the hectic city is not at all out of place.  Fun fact: Because it is revered as holy in Hinduism, hitting a cow with your car is a higher offence than hitting a person.

2-    It is not uncommon to see fires burning along the side of the road.  Don’t be alarmed!  This is not an act of arson, but how many get rid of the insane amount of garbage piled around.  With the size of India’s population, more trash is produced than can be effectively removed, fueling the horrible pollution and litter problems plaguing the country.

3-    If you see a man standing by the side of the road with his back to the traffic, there is a pretty good chance that he is peeing.  A friend and I decided to count how many urinating individuals we saw over the course of a two and a half hour car ride.  The final count?  58.  We didn’t know whether to be horrified or amused, but after being in India for nearly three months, we certainly weren’t surprised.

4-    Prior to this trip, “Madam” was a title I never heard outside of French classes.  Here, it is how most people refer to women (well, at least that’s how we, as obvious Western women, are addressed.).  I realize it is out of respect, but it always makes me feel just a little bit…old.

5-    The first time I saw a baby wearing eyeliner, I was alarmed.  It turns out, this superstitious custom is undertaken to protect children from “the evil eye.”

6-    The amount of stray dogs you encounter in the streets is unbelievable.  I thought I saw a lot when I visited Italy, but there are hundreds upon hundreds here.

7-    Mandalas, circular designs filled with shapes, are often drawn with chalk on the pavement in front of homes and stores – I even saw many sketched on the dirt paths of the slum we visited.  They are seen as a welcoming and hospitable symbol.  I love seeing these colorful designs as I walk the streets!

8-    On one of our trips. We stopped by the side of the road for a snack.  There, a man with a produce stand had a massive pile of coconuts.  He simply struck the top of the fruit with a sharp (and rather terrifying looking) instrument, stuck a straw in, and handed them to us.  Voila, coconut water!  This is a common occurrence. 

9-    When out in more rural areas, monkeys are about as common as squirrels.  But don’t get too close!  (They, disappointingly, aren’t especially friendly).

10- Frequently, when walking the streets, loud music can be heard randomly being played over speakers.  I have yet to figure out the source of the music in these situations, (or for that matter, why it’s being played).  I usually take these moments to pretend that my life is a Bollywood movie, and that the music is my soundtrack.

11- I cannot figure out how animals manage to climb up so high, but I frequently spot creatures ranging from goats to dogs lounging on top of walls.  I never expected that I would think seeing a goat casually perched on top of a 6-foot wall was an ordinary sight, but in India you learn to expect the unexpected.

12- Motorcycles are a common mode of transportation here.  Often, entire families (kids and babies included) will pile on for a trip.  Our record thus far is a family of five crowded onto one bike.

13- Everything in India is colorful…including the trucks.  I used to instinctively think that I was seeing a flamboyant “hippie van” driving up the road from a distance, when it would turn out to be a tractor or some other piece of machinery.  Trucks and other pieces of equipment are often painted with intricate colorful designs and adorned with tassels and bells.

Peace,
           Zoë 

Happy Diwali!!!

   I am writing to you from the city of Hyderabad (Where at the moment, in the midst of all of the fireworks going off, it sounds a bit like a warzone...)!  We are currently on our month long trip through India- taking us to five cities in three weeks.  In Hyderabad, we are staying at a hostel in a convent (which has been interesting…) as we complete our final course essay for our Environment, Ecology, and Livelihood class.

            Tonight, November 13^th, is Diwali— the festival of lights!  Celebrated by Hindus, Jains, and Sikhs, the holiday is observed for slightly different reasons depending on the religion, but all in all it is a time spent with family, friends, and LOTS of fireworks, all in admiration of a central theme in countless faiths, light.  (Check out the info graph I attached below for more facts and details about this holiday!)

            One of the girls on the trip happened to have a birthday that coincides with Diwali, so we took a break from our paper writing this evening and ventured out to a nearby restaurant to celebrate.  The streets were absolutely chaotic!  People have been setting off fireworks incessantly for the past few days (if you thought the noise on the 4^th of July in the US was bad…), but tonight the festivities culminated to a new level.  As we worked to navigate the streets, we had to dodge many firecrackers as they were lit at our feet.  A man even offered one of us a sparkler! All along the pavement, people had drawn colorful mandalas adorned with soft candles, and strings of lights and lanterns decorated fences, storefronts, and homes.  The lively energy permeating through the city and its people was enough to contend with the bright lights, colors, and constant spark of the fireworks.   All in all, it was a wonderful night. 

            For me, the most inspiring aspect of this holiday is that, though it is observed by different faiths, a common piece of celebration is still found.  No matter what your religious beliefs – or even if you don’t hold any at all – the concept of light is something that we all can share.  Perhaps for some it signifies one person or deity.  For others, it may be a special place, an idea, the company of a friend, a memory, or a hope.  It could be a piece of inspiration, comforting words, a drive towards liberation, love for others, or a wish for a better tomorrow.  Whatever your light is, share it, and be open to hearing about how light shines differently in the lives of others.  Take it as an opportunity, regardless of one’s beliefs or background, to learn from those and the world around us.  Whether your light is a blazing firecracker, a shimmering sparkler, or a softly gleaming candle— let it glow.  Together, with all of our different lights, we will burn all the brighter. 

Happy Diwali!  And whatever light represents for you, hold it, share it, and welcome it with love.

Peace,

            Zoë 

A Mandala and candles outside of a house on Diwali night. 

Source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/11/12/diwali-2012-festival-of-lights-photos_n_2115208.html?utm_hp_ref=interfaith#17_cool-infographic-on-diwali 

          

I'm a bit Behind...

So... I guess I did not keep the promise I made in my last post-  three weeks and I still have yet to update.  Sorry!  Life has been hectic as of late.  We just completed our first course, Globalization and the Ethics of Development, and had a busy week of paper writing and presentations.  Then last week, we spent time at Visthar's other campus in Koppal exploring issues of women, children, and labor regulations as we begin our next course, Identity, Resistance, and Liberation.  I'm working on an post overviewing the past few weeks, so you will be soon be updated on life in India!  Until then, here is a reflection I wrote for my last course as a preview to some of the things I have been thinking about.
Peace,
Zoë
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Fighting for Feelings

I am a strong believer in the interconnected nature of all humans, that we all share common needs, experiences, and sentiments.  Though we may hold a wide range of ideals or follow differing cultural practices, there are certain unifying elements and emotions that bind us together.  This unified nature applies to the right for all human beings to be able to freely live their lives with dignity.

John F. Kennedy once said, "In giving rights to others which belong to them, we give rights to ourselves and our Country.”  Though this particular quote was meant to be applied in the context of the United States, I feel that the general point it brings can be considered on a global scale as well.  There is something about empowering and enabling others that speaks to our connection as humans, and transcends all borders and barriers.  When we fight oppression for one person, we are in turn fighting for all human beings, and the shared rights that our existence demands. 

However, the challenge we face in advocating for certain global human rights lies with the risk of perpetuating ethnocentrism.  How do we keep from viewing all situations we encounter through the lens that we were raised to see the world?  Coming to India from the United States, I have often felt a twinge of guilt— what right do I have to assume that all humans desire the same liberties?  Separating what should be labeled as a fundamental right, and what is a part of my Western upbringing has proven to— and will no doubt continue to – be a struggle.  The experiences of this trip, however, are helping me come closer in my understanding of “universal human rights”, and all of the implications this term carries.

It is easy to generalize and make assumptions about groups of people we are not apart of.  Far too often, individuals decide what a group needs without even stopping to consider whether or not it is truly desired.  As was so poignantly conveyed by Julia, a woman we met during our orientation in Minneapolis and who has lived the majority of her life homeless, it is important to listen.  We do not need to be a voice for the powerless, but instead listen to their voices.  This is a vital point to consider when examining injustices.  I have often felt that I need to “do something”, but felt at a loss as to what course of action to employ.  What I am realizing, through time spent in India, is that action— though important – is not something that is always appropriate for me to take.  Sometimes, it is more constructive for me to work to recognize injustices, and then simply listen.  It is not necessarily my place to make suggestions regarding liberation, or for me to impose my experiences.  Rather, I need to be supportive of the needs and emotions people express, work to make others aware of this, and help promote a level of consciousness in society.  If we take time to listen rather than constantly make suggestions, the emphasis of a movement moves from the ideology that one person is right and the other is wrong, to simply focusing on human emotion.  It is not always promoting the specific rights that we think should be recognized, so much as considering universal feelings that should be emphasized.

I am not necessarily arguing for the imposition of a universal set of rights, but more for the acknowledgement of a universal set of emotions.  With variances found in different cultures and communities, it is unrealistic and insensitive to expect all of the world to operate in the same manner. Rather, we should focus on reaching a universal set of feelings— a universal sense of dignity.  No one should ever have to exist in a manner that forces them to feel inferior, or to live in fear.  During my home stay experience a couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to spend time with several young Muslim women.  Seeing them live their daily lives as influenced by their faith was beautiful.  For several, choosing to wear hijab was their choice, and an act that illustrated their faith and love in God.  I respect their decisions.  However, there was one moment when one of these women experienced fear.  Growing up with the ideals of her faith and culture, she admitted that she did not often speak to men outside of her family.  When faced with a hostile and confrontational man, she was filled with fear not only at his behavior, but in the level of inferiority she felt in her position.  In this moment, her dignity as a woman— a human being – was challenged, and she was living with negative emotions.  Here, her feelings were compromised.  When the feelings and emotions we as humans share being are harmed, it is our responsibility to acknowledge the unjustness of the situation.  No one should ever have to live in fear.  These are the feelings we must address. 

The measure of whether an act is oppressive or merely a societal practice should not be examined through one culture’s ways or set of ideologies, but whether or not an individual feels valued and comfortable in their community.  It is not constructive to deem one set of values or manner of living as correct.  Instead, we should consider how a person feels.  If I feel that something is oppressive or demeaning simply because my culture labels it so, then I do not really have the right challenge it.  If a person living in a way that I would find unappealing is happy and has freely chosen to exist in this manner, then I need to respect their choice.  However, if an individual feels fear, discomfort, inferiority, or is being forced to follow a practice unwillingly, than it is important to listen.  When the emotions we share and the dignity we deserve is compromised, we are not sharing the rights that our connection as humans requires us to give. 

All in all, we must consider emotion.  We must consider the universality in the sentiments experienced by the human race.  In fighting for the dignity of others, the objective is not to promote one way of living, but a universal way of feeling.  We all deserve to feel safe, happy, and at peace.  Perhaps, instead of working for the rights of others, we should be working for their feelings.  Fighting for the emotions of humanity, and the freedom to openly feel.

A Reflection on Books

Okay, so this has nothing to do with India- a new post with updates from abroad will be here later this week!.  Until then, I'm taking a break in celebration of International Book Week to reflect upon one of the most important things in my life- books.  (This is an essay I wrote for a class, but as I thought about International Book Week, these are the feelings that came to mind... )
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Books are an integral aspect of my existence.  In a way, I feel that I am more myself while in the midst of a good book than at any other time.  The object alone- the crackle of the spine, the feeling of the paper between my fingers, the smell of the pages- conjures memories from a life created by books.  Looking back, so much of what I have felt, thought, and experienced has been influenced by what I have read.  A love that innocently began in childhood has since grown into a passion that has in turn become part of how I live.  My world has been shaped by books. 

Growing up, my mother always told me “she could never deny a child a book.”  I am a product of this mentality.  My room at home features a vast wall of books that chronicle my evolution and growth as both a reader, and as an individual.  Between the pages of each volume lies a piece of my life- a memory or snapshot of who I was in the moment I read it.  From the days I spent imagining myself on the prairie with the Ingalls family, to coming of age while reading Anne of Green Gables, to time spent outdoors with a copy of Jane Eyre, the breeze in my hair and pieces of sunshine dancing across the pages, I find that within every book there is something that I have both gained, and something that I have left behind.  The stories of my childhood have now become time capsules for the sentiments I felt while reading, just as they were doors opening to new thoughts and experiences the first time I read them.  For this reason, I have a difficult time parting with books.  With pieces of myself and my experiences scattered between the lines, letting go of a beloved book would feel like casting off a personal connection.

            Observing my bookshelf, I can see my interests as a reader expand with time.  While Harry Potter and other coveted classics of my childhood still hold a prominent spot upon my shelves, I have made room for new additions.  A well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice is perched as delicately on my shelf as a finely dressed Austen character seeking the hand of a suitor.  The spine is creased with age and the pages are discolored with time.  I cannot tell you how many times I have read the book, but I can say that each time it meant something different.  In high school I read The Catcher in the Rye, and have since been hooked on J.D. Salinger.  A section dedicated to his novels and short stories holds a special place on my shelves, paying homage to that moment of discovery and the appreciation of questions and individuality his books brought to me. 

            When I returned home for the summer after completing my freshman year of college, I brought with me additions to my shelves.  Some were textbooks that I found intriguing, others merely books on new topics I acquired- all products of the growth and exploration I experienced in that first year.  Volumes of political theory- think Marx and Mill- appeared alongside newfound interests in Thoreau, and writings regarding peace and tolerance by Gandhi and the Dalai Lama.  Through this expansion my collection has grown all the more eclectic and in turn all the more reflective of my personality and interests. 

            As nonfiction works share a shelf with collections of abstract poetry, as classic novels mingle with modern young adult works, as fantasy mixes with theory, and as cherished childhood stories sit next to college textbooks, I see my life unfold through my books.   A seemingly simple set of shelves is my timeline, displaying the journey of my interests and acting as a visual explanation of all that’s influenced what I think of the world.  They are what I have seen, and what I will continue to strive to see in my surroundings.  They are my books, and they have shaped what I have-- and what I will-- become.  And so I hope to continue, observing life through the pages of a book.  

Like Riding a Bike Without Brakes…

            No, this is not some philosophical metaphor for my study abroad experience, (though in some ways, it very well could be…) and yes I did make it through this adventure unscathed (if you don’t count grease stains on my pants, stepping in poop, and narrowly avoiding crashing into a pole).  I did, however, end up having a very interesting experience. 

            I would first like to advise anyone who has ever contemplated riding a bike without brakes on the Indian roads, or any road for that matter, to reconsider.  For though it proved to be a worthwhile adventure, the security of being able to stop without having to jump off of the bike would have been appreciated. 

            This story begins on a Saturday afternoon.  Some of our group was planning to travel into Bangalore, while the five of us who opted for a more low key evening decided to hang around Visthar.  Lured by the promise of nutella, we made plans to visit the local grocery store.  Emma, an intern at Vistar who knew where the store was, led the way.  The bikes proved problematic from the start.  After finally finding enough available bikes on campus that were unlocked, we soon discovered that Amy’s had a broken chain and two others lacked brakes.  After Amy’s bike proved impossible to ride, we ended up having Kalyn perch on the basket on the back of Anna’s bike and headed on our way.  Fortunately, we live out in the country so traffic was relatively low— though it’s still terrifying when a car comes up behind you obnoxiously honking their horn to get past— and the terrain was relatively flat.  At one point, some young Indian boys sped past us riding two to a bike just as Anna and Kalyn were attempting to do.  They made it look so easy! (Though, the passenger in this situation was probably no older than 12, so these kids definitely had an advantage).  I’m sure they weren’t the only ones to laugh at how ridiculous we looked!

            After weaving around cars, pedestrians, and the occasional rickshaw along the winding country road, we arrived at the grocery store.   It was small, and had a retail of about 75% spices, with the rest consisting of shampoo, toiletries, and a wide variety of chocolates.  Missing American comfort foods, we were excited to find nutella, Pringles, Oreos, and a variety of Western candies.  Simply browsing the shelves of the store was interesting.  I’ve never been to a grocery store in a different country, and looking at the foods available was a brief window into the culture we are working to become apart of.  After picking up some snacks and what I was hoping to be some sort of stain treatment for the bike grease stains that appeared on my pants over the course of this adventure, we headed back.

            Though riding back proved to be a bit stressful— the hectic traffic, adjusting to riding on the opposite side of the road, and not to mention the cow poop I accidently stepped in— I decided to stop, breathe, and think about all that was around me.  As I coasted along the road admiring the tropical trees and plants, a car sped past blaring Indian music from its windows.  I suddenly realized that I had just successfully made a visit to a grocery store, a seemingly basic task, in India.  Though I had been abroad for a full week at this point, the whole experience of being here had still been a bit surreal.  But in this moment, things felt comfortable and real.  The scenery was beautiful and the people we encountered on the roads were kind (multiple times, noticing my awkward riding due to the lack of brakes, people had asked if I was alright).  I finally felt like I could stay for a while. 

            The rest of the ride back went pretty smoothly… until the road gently began to decline downhill.  As I began to pick up speed, I realized that I couldn’t slow down.  I spotted a driveway and decided to coast in, hoping I could slow to a stop.  It quickly become clear that my plan wouldn’t make a difference and that I needed to get off of the bike ASAP.  With an unexpected leap of faith, I jumped from the bike and miraculously landed on my feet.  The bike whizzed past me, and bumped into a pole.  Being someone who is generally uncoordinated, I was in disbelief at how gracefully I had dismounted the bike, not to mention thankful that I hadn’t crashed.  When my friends realized I was ok, we all laughed— this trip to the grocery store definitely ended up being more of an adventure than we had anticipated. 

After narrowly hitting the pole, one of my friends commented on how, through all of this, I was still very calm about things.  I thought about what she said.  True, I had encountered some undeniably bad luck— a “rogue bicycle”, ruined pants, and poop covered shoes— but I still felt un-phased.  To me, this journey represented everything that taking risks was about.  Sometimes life is a little bit like riding a bike without brakes— uncontrollable, scary, and flying past you, but in the end filled with experiences from which to grow. 

DISCLAIMER:  I am in no way encouraging you, readers, to attempt to ride a bike without brakes (especially in India).  It’s terrifying I never plan to do it again.