is more difficult than I thought. The first two weeks have been extremely challenging, and I did not anticipate the amount of psychological adjustment that I would have to make. I can deal with things such as mosquitoes, weird food, lizards, bathing from a bucket, power cutting out often, and the heat. But I often talk to people and am not understood. People tell me that I'm sad when I am not, and I cannot read their nuances easily. The culture within my school (I live and work at a girls' boarding school with 475 girls from ages 7-17 and 25+ teachers) is difficult to penetrate. Each day has its ups and downs. I love recess, my spoken English classes, and interacting with the children. I am trying to take one day at a time and am in the process of establishing my daily rhythms. Each morning, I pray, "Lord, please get me through today." I celebrate each night when I slide under my mosquito net and fall asleep because I survived the day and usually learned something new. I asked God for a challenge, and God swiftly answered my prayer by kicking my butt these past two weeks.
To best illustrate my experiences, I wrote some vignettes based on objects and customs here. Some were written at much earlier times and may display some of my cognitive dissonance upon my arrival at school. Please realize that I am being stretched and am growing, and despite the confusion, I have no regrets about my experiences or my presence here. During orientation, I was warned that the first few months are difficult, and my orientation leaders were right about it. (Thanks, YAV staff and orientation leaders for being honest. I did not believe you at first. Now, your stories are very valuable to me.)
Laundry
Squeeze, rinse, and scrub. Rinse again. When doing my laundry by hand, I feel romantic and nostalgic for an earlier time period which I never knew. The physical act of my hands firmly wringing and rinsing each article of clothing evokes a feeling of satisfaction. Hanging the laundry up, I see the sun shining through the iridescent, thin cotton, and the birds whistle in the nearby trees. Dozens of white cotton shirts and uniform skirts billow and blow in the afternoon breeze.
Occasionally, a young girl peaks through the portico with her dark eyes quizzically staring at the situation. Without words, her face says, “Who is this strange person? Why doesn’t she speak the same English as me? Why does she look so different?” If I catch her eye and say hello, she shyly smiles and emits a short giggle. Maybe she will stare more or dares to say hello, a good afternoon, or good evening back. Then she flits away because she is worried about her English, wants to spread word about this tall madama who now lives at the school, or is simply afraid of a stranger.
Whatever the case and means of her departure, I am left alone. Hoping that maybe she will come back to talk, I wring and hang my wet churidar because my clothes need the sun to dry. No monsoon rains are forecasted today, and I must take advantage of the weather. It is difficult being a curiosity and a novelty to other people. On days like these, I desire a warm, intimate conversation so that I can exchange thoughts and ideas about my confusion about this school, this culture, this unusual form of Christianity, and this world. But at this point, I will even settle for anything beyond a greeting or an interrogation about my marital status or family.
(Written on Sept. 18th, 2008; third day of being at the school)
Rice
Rice is the staple of the Kerala diet and is featured in some form at most meals. Rice dosha (a pancake flatbread), idly (fermented, steamed rice and sorghum pillows), idlyappam (rice noodle and coconut nests), putta (ground rice and coconut steamed in a metal cone), parboiled rice, biryani, and the list of rice preparations go could on and on. However, I have not spent a day in Kerala without a heaping serving of parboiled rice, but my heaping serving of rice seems small compared to the mountains of rice on the Keralites’ plates.
During my first few days, I ate only with Sara kochamma and Susamma kochamma (my supervisors; principal and retired headmistress of the school) in the teachers’ mess hut because I needed to adjust to the school and eat more slowly than everybody else. Usually, the teachers would eat their meals before us, wash their plates, and go. Both Sara kochama and Susamma kochamma hinted at my small portions, mentioned my small bites, were surprised at my water consumption, and were concerned that I did not take enough rice. (I am over a foot taller than Susamma kochama and am at least 30 years younger; she eats more rice than me.) However, I continued eating my normal manner: eating when I was hungry and stopping when I felt full.
Around my fourth day at school, the kochammas decided that I should eat with the other teachers at lunch. One of the teachers started heaping rice on my plate, and I said the customary mathi, mathi (enough, enough) to signal the server to stop putting food on my plate. Instead, she kept shoveling rice onto my plate and then handed me a Mount Everest of rice and large sloshing curries on the side. With lightning speed, the other teachers sat down, mashed, mixed, and gulped their Mount Everests of rice with curry and vegetables. Conversation was sparse because everyone focused on their plates. Yet one teacher spotted me eating and said something Malayalam and gestured at my eating style: the slower, more deliberate small bites. Although I did eat some rice, my rice portion now resembled Mount Kilimanjaro instead of Mount Everest. The teachers laughed and started talking rapidly, and I pretended that it did not bother me.
All of a sudden, a teacher left her seat and went to the kitchen. She quickly returned and thrust about three more curries at me. “Do you not like? Here are more curry. Eat more. You did not eat enough. Eat! Eat!” she insisted. I tried my best to politely respond that I was full and did not want any more food. However, she kept shoving the food at me, and everyone was staring at me. I did not know what to do. Again, I attempted to explain that I was not hungry and did not need any more curry. “Eat! Eat! Eat!” We never reached an understanding.
Growing frustrated, I grabbed my plate and went outside the mess hut to empty and to wash my plate at the sink. All the teachers started murmuring to each other as I walked out. I did not want to be rude and did not desire to be forced to eat. Tears started forming, and I tried to hold them back until I reached my room. Someone noticed my sniffling and emotional struggle while washing at the sink and asked why I was crying. This comment only caused me to start weeping, and I tried explaining my frustration at this culture clash but sounded like a blubbering mess. A teacher who had the best English tried to explain that giving food was a Kerala expression of love, but I found that the insistence and near force feed situation felt threatening. In orientation, I was warned about this potential situation about food, but alas, there was little that I could do due to my emotional state. I fled to my room and felt more alone than before. The incident reminded me that I was an outsider and showed how I did not comprehend all of the nuances of this new culture.
Emotional and psychological confusion resulted from some uneaten parboiled rice. Who knew that rice could make someone cry?
(Written on Sept. 20th, 2009; the rice incident occurred earlier.)
Tea
From conversation and observation, Indians have a deep fondness for routine and daily rhythms, and four o’clock tea is an important marker in each day. In one of my seventh standard (standard is the equivalent for grade) classes, we discussed the differences between the foods, diets, and food cultures in Kerala, India and the U.S. In American life, breakfast, lunch, and dinner are the standard meals and eating times, but here, a child would list 4 o’clock tea time or snack as part of their average day and of every person’s eating routine. Tea time is my favorite time of day.
When I mention tea, please do realize that chaya (tea) is much different than our tea bags steeped in a mug for a few minutes. Tea steeps, and the leaves are strained out. The tea maker swirls and mixes in generous amounts of milk—powdered or real—and sugar. For me, I take much less sugar than most people, and some days, my tea has no sugar at all. Most Keralites have an extreme sweet tooth, and tea and treats are often syrupy, overwhelming sweet. The sweetness coats the tongue and clogs the throat at times, and I cannot handle it most of the time. (Around the kitchen and among the teachers, I am known as the one who does not like sweets. The reality is that I do not enjoy “Kerala sweet.” I do like my chocolate, cookies, pie, and cake.) Some people use tea cups, but most serve tea in small glasses without handles. On average, I drink about three glasses of tea each day: bed tea before or during my 11th and 12th standard morning devotional at 6:45 a.m., a glass with breakfast, and a tea time glass.
At school, I go to the students’ mess for my glass of tea at 3:30 p.m. each day. During this time, the mess is quite quiet because the girls are still in class. I sit down at the bench of a table with some of the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th grade boarding students who attend a primary school on the compound and are finished with school for the day. We chat and munch on a snack, and I drink my tea. (Little girls are not allowed to have tea at school.) Some days, I have to leave to teach a last period class, and other days, I can linger and enjoy the afternoon. Tea time signals a winding down and a moment to slow because the day will end soon. Having grown up in a rushed culture, I am refreshed by tea time. In addition, it also signals that playtime on the grounds will begin soon, and I look forward to the hour and a half of games and recreation with the girls. (Next week, I will start teaching some basic volleyball!)
During our orientation, I loved tea time at Achen’s house because we had an opportunity to gather as a community and sip tea together. Tea time was a break from the massive cascade of information thrown at us. Through the means of tea time, I do love how this culture has a built in, assumed moment for slowing and gathering during the day. This past weekend, I had the opportunity to meet with three fellow volunteers (Becca, Ariel, and John) in Kottayam, a bustling city, and John made us tea in his room. We drank our chaya, ate butter and cashew biscuits, and lounged on the bed and chairs. Exchanging stories and dilemmas of experiences at our different volunteer sites, we enjoyed each others’ presence and relaxed at the knowledge that we could clearly understand each others’ speech patterns and could speak with little reservation. I cherished that tea time with them and thank God for their continual support, their earnest hearts, their ears for listening, their honesty, their humor, their laughter, and their company. Even though I feel along at my site, they remind me that I am not alone in my frustrations and challenges of serving abroad.
Thank you, God, for the blessing of tea time.
(Written on Sept. 29th, 2009.)
Churidar
Churidar literally translates as pants, but a churidar is a women’s outfit containing a pair of pants, a long tunic, and a shawl. Each day, I pull on my baggy, drawstring pants and a matching tunic and then pin on my shawl across my shoulders. Sometimes, I am glad to wear a churidar, but more often, I rip off my churidar as soon as I get inside my room and put on a tank top and shorts. The humidity and heat makes one sweat constantly, and the shawl feels like a blanket at times of excessive heat. Since the teachers at my school must wear a sari at all times, I am lucky to wear my churidar because it is more comfortable and is easier to wear than a sari.
The churidar perplexes me, and I am unsure if it looks strange on me or is even flattering in its baggy glory. I do not even know how to judge what is beautiful anymore because the standards of fit in clothing and beauty are so different. The school girls often ask if I like wearing the churidar, and I do not know how to respond. When I finally wore my first churidar, my Achen said that I looked better in a churidar than the Western dress clothes that I brought with me. (First of all, I did not bring many or very nice looking clothes with me because I probably will not bring much of them back with me.) To make the situation awkward, David, another volunteer, said something of this sort: “So you’re saying that she looks hot in her churidar?” Confused by David’s comment, Achen is a grandfather of two and is very fatherly toward all of us, and I wanted to smack David (who is—normally—a lovely person) for that awkward comment and the explanation following. But I kept wondering, “Do I really look decent in this churidar?”
On the whole, I do get a positive response from my churidar, but this could result in my effort to accommodate to the culture. During recreation and play time on the grounds, I often wear some fitness capris and a t-shirt (not a very glamorous outfit by any means), and some older girls said that I looked good and pretty in my fading blue t-shirt. While walking through the 5th and 6th grade hostel, another girl said that I looked “very beautiful” when I wore a churidar. The variation in comments show how some people embrace a more Western perspective of beauty and fashion while others stick to a more Keralite aesthetic.
When I have talked to girls from more Northern Indian states, they tell me how they normally wear jeans and more westernized clothing at home and in places such as Delhi. Kerala adheres to more traditional dress system. Older women feel comfortable in their saris while younger women complain about the folding process and wish for a churidar. One woman said that she refuses to travel in a sari because it can make walking difficult. (To a degree, this is true; the softness and flexibility of a fabric is important in sari wearing comfort.) I can see the regional and generational conflict about the concepts of dress and beauty. To one woman, leaving without a churidar shawl seems taboo, but a simple shirt and long skirt is permissible. A neckline should be quite high, or a churidar shawl must completely cover the bust. But some bare belly from a sari is normal, and older women show their stomachs and backs with no shame. Showing a bare shoulder in a tank top or anything above the knee creates scandal. Some men wear long sheets which are essentially skirts—mundu and kaili—and at times, they can fold them up to make a wrap skirt that hits above the knees. I do not understand the concept of modesty and fashion here, and Becca and I talked about our bewilderment at dress standards we shopped for some more churidars in Kottayam this past weekend. (Of course, I bought fabric sets and have them stitched by a tailor in Thiruvalla so that my churidars fit properly.) Without much cultural help, we picked out what we liked and hoped that it was appropriate for our sites. I cannot tell what looks good or classy anymore. I only have a small hand mirror in my room, and this does not help me judge the fit of my clothes.
Maybe it is a blessing that my concepts of beauty, fashion, and appearance are currently out of whack. I think that the girls’ thick, black hair is gorgeous and shiny, and they think that my brown hair is fantastic and often reach out to touch it. They do not understand freckles and moles and asked how I got the “spots.” One 12th grade girl told me that she wanted to diet, and I wanted to scream because I thought that I would escape that toxic mentality from home. This young woman is beautiful in her current state and looks healthy. Since I have struggled and continue to struggle so much with issues of body image and appearance, I pray and wish that no girl or woman has to become so unhealthily obsessed with appearance. Conveniently enough, I had picked out a passage about the selection and anointing of David for the 11th and 12th grade devotional for the next morning, and here’s the crux of the passage:
“But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”—1 Samuel 16:7
I think that God likes to play these little jokes on me by connecting moments of my life together. The girl and I talked after that morning devotional, and I realize that I will never really know if I do look decent in a churidar, which is comfortable in its shapeless looseness. (Do not get me started on how annoying the shawl is…) I am guessing that God is blurring my perceptions of appearance so that I can remember what matters the most: our hearts.
(Written on Sept. 30th, 2009.)
