Looking for Daddy

A little girl and her father boarded the bus.  The father was tall with an angular jaw and dressed in a plaid Ralph Lauren button up.  The little girl was wide-eyed, pigtailed, and dressed in a fuscia lehenga with a bright orange choli.  Cute to the max.

In India, or, at least, on most busses in Bangalore, the women sit in the front and the men sit in the back.  This father made his way to the middle of the bus, where he stood, and tried to have his daughter tuck herself into the seat in front of me.  This was further away from him than she seemed to like, and she desperately looked for an option closer to him.  I scooted towards the open window, offering the space in between me and the 12-year-old girl beside me.  “Ba,” I said, patting the space beside me.  She looked up at her father, he nodded, and she scrambled between us, sitting on the edge of the seat, gripping the bar on the seat ahead of her, and craning her head to look at me.  I smiled, said hello, but she was silent, staring.

My seat was the last in the “women’s” section, so her father stood next to our seat.  When the bus hit a bump in the road, he leaned down, placed her back firmly on the seat, and instructed his daughter to continue holding on to the bar in front of her.  While she enjoyed looking back at me and peering out the window, every once in awhile she would turn the other way and make sure her daddy was still there.  He was.

The bus started filling up.

More women, some speaking angrily, boarded the bus.  The little girl’s father got pushed further from us, towards the back of the bus.  The girl turned, worried.  Her father smiled, nodded at her.  He was still there.  People continued to board; the bus was overflowing with people.  She turned towards me, anxious, and I said, “Ah, Appa idde.”  She turned to the other side, eyes searching frantically, and, sure enough, although there were rows of people between them, Daddy was still there, and his eyes hadn’t left his little girl.  

As we drove, she glanced back about once every two minutes, and I found myself looking with her.  His body was mostly hidden  by sareed women and he was no longer close enough to readjust her after a bump in the road, but Daddy was still watching.  Smiling.  Reassuring.  She couldn’t feel him, and she could barely see him, but he was there.  In the midst of the chaos, of the panic of people, even if she felt alone and helpless, all she needed to do was look.  And she would see that he had never stopped watching her.  That he was proud of her for sitting on her own.  That he  wasn’t going to leave without her, and that he would make sure she made it to her destinations afely.  This one look was enough to reassure her; to give her the peace to make it through the next two minutes.  Until the bus got a little more crowded, a little more loud.  Until it hit a bump in the road and she became unsure.  Until it was time to look back and double check that Daddy was still there.  

And he always was.

Ignorance Doesn't Change the World

Wasn’t it easier in the lunchbox days?

Always a bigger bed to crawl into?

Wasn’t it beautiful when you believed in everything?

Everybody believed in you?

‘Innocent’ – Taylor Swift

Sometimes,

I wish that I could go

Back to the days

When

My biggest decision

Was who to invite to my birthday party

Or which OPI Nail Lacquer to buy

And

My biggest prayer request

Was that I would 

“Do well” in my exam or presentation.

When

My biggest problem

Was an unfair teacher

Or conflicting social events.

When

My biggest worry

Was that I wouldn’t get a date to the prom

Or be accepted to a good college

And

My biggest spiritual hurdle

Was how to “Be a witness”

To my friends who

(gasp)

swore.

The days

When

I could buy a product without

Wondering

About the the people who made it

(fair trade)

(sweat shops)

(chemical exposure)

(child labour)

(conflict minerals)

And therefore become

Conflicted

Myself.

The days

When

Having a crush on a boy

Meant I never had to

Actually

Talk to him.

The days

Before I started thinking critically.

The days

Before I left my “bubble.”

The days
Before I learned
That believing in God
Can be hard sometimes.
Before I wondered
What Jesus really meant
When He said,
"Follow Me."

The days

Before I watched the news.

Before I interacted with the oppressed.

Before I saw people’s spiritual wounds.

Before I experienced a world of unnecessary suffering.

Before I knew heartbreak.

Before I recognized my privilege.

Before I asked questions.

Things were easier in the lunchbox days.

These days are hard,

And sometimes they hurt.

But I believe they are worth it.

I guess it's true what they say,

That

Ignorance is bliss.

But ignorance doesn’t

Change the world.


And it won't change me, either.

Work in Progress

I dabble in art.
And by "dabble in art",
I mean sometimes I just have to paint something.
Do something creative.
But I also love words.
Need words.
Crave words.
I also like to think that I can do the whole "mixed media" thing.
Emphasis on "like to think".
So most of my "work"
Ends up a mezcla of
words,
colors,
techniques.

This one, I was really excited about.
I've had a vision in my head
to do a piece that says "Grow"
For over a year now.
Its shape has changed,
but the desire has remained.
I found this great blog called Street Team
Where I learned about a technique called Gesso
(and Googled how to make my own - I improvised),
Another website called "Mixed Media Art",
And a really creative picture of a tree via Google Images.
I hadn't wanted to use a tree.
How generic.
How cliche.
Growth = Tree.  Always.
But I found this one when I was looking for an image for a worksheet,
And I loved this one.
Oh! And I pinned this cool image transfer tutorial on Pinterest.
An image transfer that didn't require any special paints
Or materials.  Supposedly.
I was pumped.

So I set up shop.
On this canvas, I was going to be incorporating
about 5 different techniques:

1.  Painting. Like artistically painting (if only imitating) a tree.
     (According to Picasso, "Bad artists copy.  Good artists steal."  I'm not sure which one I am...)
2.  Modge-podge.
3.  Gesso.
4.  Credit card painting.
5.  Image transfer.

Note to self: when trying out multiple techniques, some of them new, don't do it directly on the canvas. Test it first.

As I went along, I realized that I did things in the wrong order.  I should have gesso'd first, then credit carded, then image-transfered, then painted, then modge-podged.  And because of the gesso (essentially made of glue, baby powder, and water), my image transfers didn't come off of the canvas.

This is what I ended up with:

"Work in Progress" May 12/13, 2012

The white splotches?  Those are my image transfers.  Each one says "grow" or "become" in one of the languages that I have studies - Kannada, Spanish, English, French, Italian.  The white was supposed to rub off with water or nail polish remover, leaving the black lettering, but I had no such luck.  I like to think it would have looked really cool if it had worked...and the canvas and supplies have been sitting around my living room for about a month in hopes that I would be able to find a way to salvage the situation...to make it actually look good.

But I have decided that I am going to keep it like this.  After a month, nothing has changed. It's still the same, and it isn't perfect.  But when I look at it, I smile.  Because it is a work in progress.  And so am I.

Birthday Best

Tonight was my neighbor's son's birthday, and it made me so happy.  I wish I had some pictures, or had filmed the entire thing, but alas, I hadn't exactly been planning for a party.

It's Sunday evening, and my doorbell wrang at 8:00.  As, when I am within the 4 walls of my own home, I don't always dress appropriately for the outside Indian world (especially since I was getting ready for bed...yes, at 8pm on a Sunday night), I yelled "One Nimsha!"  (One minute!)  It wrang again.  (An aside:  my doorbell sings a different song each time it's pushed.  I wonder how many are in its repertoire?)  I pulled on my Eden Prairie hoodie and flannels (circa 2002) and opened the door.  Shobha, my neighbor, was standing there.

"Jen! It's my son's birthday!  Come fast!"  She pulled me out of my door and we started down the hallway until I stopped dead in my tracks.  "Shobha - I'm not dressed!!!"  She looked at my tattered sweatshirt in chagrin and said, "Go change.  Go fast!!"

So I ran back to my room, trying to figure out what I could easily pull on (I did laundry earlier this evening so most of my go-to's are drying.)  Then I ran out, slamming the door shut and trotting down the hallway.  (This was the point where I thought that I should bring my camera.  But the rush, mixed with my uncertainty as to whether or not my camera would be worth bringing because of its increasing slowness and low quality of photos, threw that out the door.

The room was overflowing with neighbors and a huge beautiful cake sat on a small table.  A handful of Yeshu's friends had also come, dressed all cute for a party...cuter than I was dressed, definitely :)

I won't give you a play-by-play.

But I wil tell you this:

I think birthdays really have a way of bringing out the best in people.  Challenging them to act their age, if you will.

Yeshu is normally the most unruly and disrespectful child I have ever encountered.  Blatantly disobeying, talking back to his mom, spanking her when she spanks him, throwing his garbage on the ground instead of in the garbage can, never doing what he is told.  But today, dressed in his birthday best, he was a different person.  Suddenly responsible.  He posed for pictures with his parents, even putting his arms around them and drawing them close.  He patiently waited while each guest stuffed a piece of cake into his mouth (it's tradition).  He thanked his friends for his gifts, and when it was time to serve the cake he went, unasked, to fetch more plates when they ran out.  He served all the guests, and then himself.

Maybe this is culture, perhaps he is performing according to social expectations and norms.  However, the birthday had an effect on his relationship with his big brother, too.  Kishan is a few years older, and generally they fight.  All the time.  Today, however, Kishan was a protective and proud big brother.  In each picture, he had his arms around Yeshu protectively.  He reported each gift, and who gave it, to his mother and (again, without being asked), carefully placed a julabee on every cake plate.

Will this "birthday behaviour" continue?  I doubt it.  But it was relieving to see the kids loving each other, respecting their families, serving their guests.  And perhaps, just perhaps, it was a sign of the becoming that will occur in this new year.

Deep observations aside, the night was full of smiles and laughter.  When most of his friends had left, Yeshu and a friend ran in to the bedroom to play with some new toys.  Kishan, like most oldest children, was left in limbo to decide if he was still a child or if he should hang out with the adults.  But when Shobha scooped him an extra big helping of Biryani, you can bet your buttons he stayed.  And when the adults whipped out the home videos, the little ones returned as well.  What started as a birthday ended up as an evening watching the footage from the birthday boy's parents' wedding.

I'm on my way to bed (again), but I can still hear the boys playing in the parking lot below me.
The party continues.

Jubilee!

Earlier this week, I met a new friend from England.  Her name is Ruth.

Halfway through the day, I got a text asking if I would like to come to her apartment tonight with some other Brits so that we could celebrate The Majesty Her Queen's Diamond Jubilee.  The celebration would include wearing tiaras and drinking tea out of newly-purchased teacups.

My reply?  Absoflippinlutely.

When I arrived, the BBC was on and I was met by two others from the UK that I hadn't met yet.  One greeted me with, "You sound American."  Well...I am American.  BUT my great-great grandmother was born within earshot of the Bow Bells so I have Cockney in my blood, I often crave London, and my grandma subscribes to Royalty Magazine (or is it Majesty Magazine? Probably both, actually)...therefore, I like to think I'm a smidgeon English and I love that I'm taking part in the Jubliee!  (I had already been following the celebration via Twitter, and it turns out that, once in a while, I knew more about the Royals and British history than some of the girls actually from the UK did!)

The evening was a smashing success, and at times we wondered that that we were celebrating England in a country that was so recently oppressed by its imperialism.  Que vida, no?

We drank apple juice (sometimes mixed with rum...) out of a new china set.  One teacup, from one of the Brits, boasted a picture of the Queen herself.  While we crafted some Union Jack bunting, we watched the Diamond Jubilee specials on the BBC, and our conversation that stemmed from this was both intellectual and humorous. And, of course, we each ended up confessing our schoolgirl crushes on William...or Harry...or both :)  To be honest, though, I was completely sucked in to the programme.  And watching it, being reminded of different events and circumstances, certain passions of certain Royals, etc., my respect for this family increased multifold.

Our homemade Union Jack bunting

We cooked baked beans and runny eggs sunny side up, fried tomatoes.  The reaction these girls had to the smells and tastes of food from home was absolutely priceless.  I made truffles and there was other chocolate to be shared.  We drank Tetley tea and watched bad British comedy.  The entire evening's festivities were conducted while wearing plastic tiaras.

It was absolutely brilliant and the loveliest of evenings.
God save the Queen!

Lands of Contradiction

Many people consider India to be the land of contradictions.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that the very first thing I read when I found out I would be coming here in 2010 described it as such.  A land of great wealth but of great poverty.  A land of the highly educated and the illiterate.  Etc.

Today, however, I was orienting a new employee to the U.S. higher education system.  And I realized that the good old USA is quite full of contradictions itself…

Let’s talk about the difference between private universities and state/public universities.  State schools are generally bigger…oh hold on, that’s not always true.  Stanford has about 20,000 students, grad and undergrad.  Ok…well, private universities pride themselves on their small class size and personable faculty and staff.  But no, my cousin at the U often had classes in the teens and enjoyed much better mentorship with her professors than I did at my small, private, liberal arts college of 3,500.  Well, because state universities are state-funded, they are often less expensive.  Actually, sorry.  We’re dealing with international, non-residential students, so the cost is actually very similar (if not more, because of lack of scholarship opportunities) to the cost of an education at a private university.

I’m not sure that these count as contradictions; the descriptions above of India are more statements of extremes, and perhaps the discussion on higher education in the U.S. is more of a lesson that one can’t generalize or make statement based on common beliefs.  But it definitely made me smile and shake my head, because whether extremes, generalizations, or commonly-held beliefs, it can be confusing.  And I’m sure my poor trainee’s head is a mess.

Speaking of contradictions in the USA, though… what about the English language?  I before E except after C, or sounding like hay as in neighbor or weigh…weird?