A very delayed update: the end and the tour...

First of all, I apologize for the delay in updating my blog. At the end of February and in early March, I traveled to Sri Lanka because I had to exit the country after six months and re-enter (a common visa procedure when you remain a country for over six months). Thus, I had a week long vacation and enjoyed the opportunity to kick back for a bit with my other fellow volunteers.

When I returned back to my school, the majority of my students had their bags packed, and their parents were picking them up because their exams were over. The school year was finished! Unfortunately, no one informed me about the exact date of when the school was over, and I was unprepared to quickly say good-bye or did not even have a chance to say good-bye in some cases. For me, the lack of closure was devastating because I will not see most of these girls ever again. Thus, I had very little to do during the month of March because the older students--the 10th-12th grade students--had examinations throughout the month, and I only had my lower primary students (grades 1-4) to teach on two days a week. Sometimes, living and serving abroad is a lot of waiting and sitting, and I struggle with that because I have way too much time to sit alone with my thoughts. During March, I did visit a few of the older teachers' homes, and it was nice to meet their families. My last official day at my school was March 31st, and a mixture of emotions flooded my system. I am still processing everything and will probably write about some of it later.

For the month of April, we have--my volunteer group--been traveling around northern India and are experiencing the diversity of India. The country is similar to a giant patchwork quilt of little coutnries because each state often has its own culture, languages, dress, diet, etc. For example, Keralites have a rice based diet and eat with their hands. Many of the states which we have visited have a more wheat-based diet and do not eat with their hands. I think that I could spend a lifetime trying to become intimately acquainted with this country.

So far, we've experienced Delhi, Agra (Taj Mahal), Musoorie (Himalayan foothills), Dharmsala (more Himalayan foothills and home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan goverment in exilte), the Golden Temple in Amistar, the Indo-Pakistan border, and a little more Delhi. Currently, I am in Delhi and had the glorious opportunity of Delhi-Belly (some sort of stomach flu-ish thing from some unknown culprit).

Although traveling is a wonderful thing, I must confess that I am a bad tourist. Often, I grow upset when we pack up and leave a place after two to four days because I wanted to understand more about the culture, the people, the history, and the landscape of the places which I visit. I want to build relationships and desire to be viewed as more than a client or a source of income to guest houses, vendors, and tourist attractions. Hopping around from place to place makes me feel discombobulated. After traveling a lot during the past year , I have realized that you cannot escape yourself despite a change in location and that almost anything can be memorable, wonderful, or breath-taking as long as you have good company.

A few strange things happened in Dharmsala. One day, David, Becca, and I were wandering around the narrow streets, and Becca stopped at a stand to peruse some moccasin-like slippers. The merchant told us that his selection was better upstairs in his shop, and we trampled upstairs. Although he approached the sale in a somewhat normal manner, the merchant’s eyes looked distraught yet glazed over. For some reason or other, he began explaining that he was having an extremely bad day, and then a story about his brother’s visa refusal came from his lips. From what I understood, he told us that his younger brother’s visa application was rejected—the rejection was stamped in his passport—and that his brother wanted to go to France to be with his girlfriend. “He is a nice boy! There is nothing wrong with him. That f**king embassy…we’re Muslim, and they think that we’re terrorists. I’m so angry that I could want to kill someone—it does not matter who…He is a nice boy. His happiness is my happiness, and his pain is my pain. The government gives visas to the Tibetans all the time. What about us? Do you think that it is fair?” He was nearly crying, and the pain in his eyes and the tremor in his voice was palpable. None of us knew exactly what to say, and we let him say whatever he needed or wanted to let out. Becca eventually purchased her shoes, and we left. Then this gentleman started bawling in his shop, and we wanted to comfort but knew that nothing that we could do would help other than listening.

After walking out of that shop and for the rest of the afternoon, I felt like weeping for that man, his brother, his family, and the brokenness of our world. Since I am an American, I can get a visa quite easily: no one inquires about my bank account balance or suspects a 22 year old, white female of anything. No one assumes that I am terrorist due to my religious affiliation. Can the world--the U.S., Europe, and even India as well--stop viewing every single Muslim as a security threat and instead, view him or her as a person with needs, thoughts, feelings, and a family? It breaks my heart to see people suffer, and I can only hope that humanity could treat each other with more justice, compassion and dignity. For me, I see Jesus as that model of love and compassion, and I pray and hope that you can summon some sort of love and respect from any source in order to make the world a more loving place. Can we—both personally and institutionally—treat people with more dignity, equality, and respect so we do not create terrorists through our apathy and denial of opportunities? If you’ve read Three Cups of Tea, the authors pose this question as well, and I read this book a few days ago. Coincidence? I think not.

The next day in Dharmsala, Becca, David, and I had some extra time in the afternoon and could not figure out what to do. Becca suggested that we go to this conversational English class for Tibetan refugees that we saw on a flyer on the previous day. However, we did not have the flyer anymore and stopped in a small coffee shop/community space, Rogpa, and this British woman happened to be going to the same class and said that she’d walk with us there. I had no idea what to expect by doing a drop-in class.

We approached the Tibet Hope Center, and a slew of people were gathered around a ping-pong table. Eventually, the organizer divided the students among the volunteers. I then found myself in a small classroom with four Tibetan young men and had no idea of where to begin. Their English compentency varied greatly, and I started asking questions about their homes, hobbies, and families. Little did I know that these questions were quite loaded because I was talking to refugees. All four had fled Tibet within the past five years, and I was shocked to hear about the recentness of their exile. Our “class” really turned into a strange form of group therapy, and they shared their stories about how the Chinese government stormed their homes, how their families were separated, their struggles with language and culture, the uncertainity of their situations, and their dreams and hope for Tibet. The afternoon moved me, and I did not expect such candid, thoughtful, and honest responses from them. I only felt bad that I was not able to come back again for another class.

How can we actively love our neighbors? Do we only express love to those we know? When will we finally move to action in order to make the world a better place? Lip service is never enough, and take time to listen and find a way to help someone who may never reciprocate the action.

The Oscars and India...

Yesterday morning, I was watching the Academy Awards on television. Being a southern California abroad, I must confess that it felt strange to be watching the Oscars at 10 a.m. with 95 degree weather. Anyways, a few teachers passed by during the musical performances from Slumdog Millionare and became very excited because their country was represented at the ceremony. The gentleman who won the sound editing award (and had the opportunity to give an acceptance speech) is from Kerala, and many people here are extremely proud of him. Right now, India is celebrating. Many people have asked me about Slumdog Millionare , but I have not seen it.

Just thought that I'd let you know the sentiments here!

Snack time!

Today, I arrived to the fourth standard (grade) class* during mid-morning snack time, and my eight students were munching on various crackers, cookies (known as biscuits), and mix (an Indian version of Chex mix) from their small plastic containers. Usually from the students’ excitement, a shrill uproar commences at my arrival to their class, and I have to calm the students down. I thought that my foreigner novelty would wear off after a few months, but my younger students, who are wonderful, are always excited to have me come to class. However, today’s uproar differed than most because the students were pushing each other and thrusting their small snack containers at me.

“Lindsey Auntie, eat snack!”
“No, Lindsey Auntie, eat snack first!”
“Lindsey Auntie, biscuit, my biscuit!”

My fourth standard students were fighting to share their snacks with me, and I initially told them that their parents would want them to eat their snacks. However, everyone insisted on sharing with me, and I crunched on a little bit of mix and pieces of broken biscuit halves with them. One of the shyest students, Shelsa, was sitting alone on her bench, and I noticed that she did not have any snack. I asked why she wasn’t eating, and suddenly, the other seven children started breaking biscuits and giving her handfuls of mix. Truly genuine, these children amaze me because sharing is their first response to anyone with empty hands. In fact, they even fight and shove to share with someone.

Imagine that we lived in a world where sharing and giving were our immediate responses to anyone’s needs. How awesome would that world be! In fact, it even resembles the Kingdom of God and the story when the little boy gives his five small barley loaves and two small fish to Jesus and the disciples to feed the multitude in John 6:1-15.

I love working with youth and children because they teach and convict me through their simplicity and straight forward actions. I can only hope that my fourth standard students continue their spirits of generosity.

*My school is a girls’ boarding school for standards 5-12, but on the same property, a new lower primary day school (from preschool age-4th standard) opened two years ago and has about 42 students, boys and girls. A few of the 2nd-4th standard girls live in the boarding at the larger school. I volunteer at the lower primary school on Monday and Thursday mornings (usually I come after snack time is over), and the lower primary students address me as “Lindsey Auntie.” My older students have a plethora of names for me: Lindsey Auntie, Auntie, Lindsey Kochamma, Kochamma, Lindsey Chechi, Chechi, and occasionally, Lindsey Miss.

Ten priests, one American, and two cultures...

A few weeks ago, someone knocked on my room door and told me to go to the school office because I had a visitor. Surprised, I went to the office and saw an elderly man sitting at the desk. He introduced himself and explained that he received information about me through Becca, a fellow volunteer. Coincidentally, a few days before, Becca told me that I may get a call from an English teacher who occasionally came to her site. This gentleman, Philipose, asked if I could help with an English class for a group of Mar Thoma priests who were being sent to the United States in May. (Mar Thoma is an Indian Christian denomination which has many characteristics of the Orthodox tradition.) Although I did not know what exactly what his request entailed, I agreed to come and to visit Philipose’s class. Through comparing and contrasting American and Keralite culture and language, I gained a lot of clarity about my experiences with cross-cultural interaction by helping these priests prepare for living in a new environment and culture.

In the first class, I learned that these priests little exposure to American culture and to American English, and in fact, my accent and certain idioms are challenging because most of their English exposure comes from other Indians. For example, many Keralites say, “Did you take lunch?” From this phrase, I get the impression that someone is asking me if I physically brought a some sort of bagged lunch on an outing; however, I am aware of the different phrasings and now know “Did you take lunch?” means “Did you eat?” In general, many expressions and phrases differ in our different English-es, and I have become fluent in Kerala English. We discussed and practiced a lot of different expressions in our class, and the priests benefitted a lot from learning new ways to phrase things. Sometimes, I worry about my speaking and writing skills when I return home.

Although they are being sent to a few Mar Thoma parishes sprinkled across the U.S. and Canada in mostly major metropolitan areas and have a three year term, I was surprised at their understanding of American climate, geography, and customs. On the classroom whiteboard, I drew a little American map and discussed the different cultures, even demonstrated a few different accents of certain regions, and talked about weather. Eventually, our class sessions turned into a long question and answer session about American life, manners, customs, holidays, etc. with many good laughs thrown in because of the cultural misunderstandings. When I was explaining some of my native cultural customs to the priests, they often asked, “Why do you do that?” Most of the time, I could explain the origin and meaning of certain American customs, but a few instances made me question a few of my customs as well because I did not have a reasonable answer for the priests’ questions. Here are a few funny comments and questions:

-Priest: What do you wear when it snows? Should I buy cotton clothing, or do I need a different material? Due to the heat, humidity, and different laundering practices, the choice of fabric (cotton, rayon, nylon, etc.) is more crucial when purchasing clothes here. However, I explained that the choice of fabric does not necessarily determine the effectiveness of garment for cold weather because a person needs to look at the other factors, such as the thickness of a jacket, if a collar will guard your neck from the air, etc. Also, I described the technique of layering clothing.
- Chicago is close to California, right? We talked about geography on the first day to clear up some misunderstandings. Like them, I had to learn more specifics about geography of the destination country. Now, I know the location and names of most Indian states, regional names, etc.
-I can’t ask any questions without being rude! One priest expressed his frustration about manners and politeness. In his case, I had to explain that it is not polite to immediately ask a woman, “Are you married?” upon first meeting. (And then ask, “Why aren’t you married?” if she says no; it’s happened to me countless times!) after you learn her name. In general, Keralites ask very personal questions in a direct way, and often, this can misconstrued as rude by the average American. In class, I explained the decorum of different conversational situations and more polite ways to ask questions. In my opinion, the nuance, phrasing, and tone of the question almost matter more than the question’s content at times, and we tried learning and understanding this concept in class.
-Why is winter so long? I could only laugh in response to that question. Remember, I'm from southern California, the land of little weather change.
-Do you eat rice in America? I tried not to laugh at that question. My response: “Yes, people eat rice in America, but some people do not eat it every single day at multiple meals. However, the average American diet is more wheat-based.”

During our discussion, I realized how far removed I am from American culture and how long I’ve actually been here. Like my priest friends, I asked similar questions and expressed frustrations about trying to understand the culture here. To my Keralite friends, I am sure that I appeared extremely clueless, helpless, discombobulated, and lost a few months ago. Although I can function a lot better within society here, there are some days where I am caught off guard become irritated, angry, hostile, or upset from incidents because I either become aware of new customs/habits or am exhausted from having to adjust so my mind-frame, habits, the manner in which I speak, or even certain aspects of my personality. I have turned into a chameleon and feel like the confused chameleon in the popular children’s book, The Mixed-Up Chameleon by Eric Carle. (I remember my parents reading that book before bed when I was little!) Cross-cultural interaction is full of compromise, and sometimes, I have to evaluate which aspects of my culture are negotiable and which are firm.

Sometimes, I find myself thinking, “I just want to be myself!” when I grow exasperated. But now, what does “myself” mean? Does myself mean that I want to use my normal vocabulary, colloquialisms, syntax, and idioms? Does myself mean that I can dress in a way which pleases me? Does I just want to be myself! indicate that I crave something familiar? Even my YAV year’s 5 and 9/28 months have turned my life upside down. Through the voluntary exile* from my homeland, I am sifting through my cultural, moral, aesthetic, and spiritual preferences to discover deeper truths which are stripped of cultural veneer, and the process can be painful, bewildering, and very emotional. At this point, I am not ready to list what has been left behind or what I have found in this sifting process, and in fact, I will only understand some things when I have returned home.


*Although voluntary exile may sound a little over the top, I recently read a lot exilic Biblical literature (Ezra, Nehemiah, & Esther; all having to do with the exile, return, and the Jewish Diaspora) and Jesus Wants to Save Christians: A Manifesto for the Church in Exile by Rob Bell and Don Golden (I highly recommend this book, which is quite critical and challenges American churches). So, the ideas and words of exile, journeying, and exodus have been stuck in my head.

Opera comes to Kerala...

…Composers often wrote music for castrati singers during the Baroque period. What is a castrato? Well, I must be quite frank and explain what castration is…
Imagine trying to explain castration to an auditorium of college students and professors in India. Yes, I did have to do that. I wonder if any of them truly understood my awkward description. Who knew that an English seminar lecture could be so racy?

On Thursday afternoon, I gave a lecture about opera at an English seminar at Bishop Moore College in Mavelikara. In November, an English professor friend asked me to speak and to sing at their annual department seminar because she thought that a lighter, more fun lecture would be good a cultural opportunity for the students. I agreed to come and thought that the event would be informal and small. However, I was wrong.

My fellow YAV in Mavelikara, Ariel, called me earlier this past week and told me that her students were excited about the opera performance. Then I panicked for three reasons. First, people were actually anticipating my speaking/singing engagement. Second, people thought that I was performing an entire opera, and attempting to do a one-person, a cappella opera would be quite an undertaking. And third, I had a cold and was a mucous factory. I have the uncanny ability to get a virus around the time of singing engagements. Although I appreciated the enthusiasm, I felt the pressure of my upcoming and eager audience who wanted to learn about a foreign art form. Since opera and classical singing have such a hold on my heart, I usually grow shy and avoid singing when people ask me to sing in a casual setting. Busting out an aria, melodie, or a lied often freaks people out with the volume, the foreign language, and the vibrato. Could my explanation and a cappella singing of a few arias give justice to opera, an art form which I love?

Armed with a Power-point presentation, a few audio samples, and myself, I condensed a few hundred years of music history, musical terms, story lines, and vocal technique in about one hour. (And I probably talked too fast at times.) When I do public speaking, I can usually gauge an audience’s interest level and try to cater to them, but gauging interest of a large foreign audience is very difficult. In addition, I was worried about their reaction to my singing—due to my cold, two Italian arias which were not too straining—because I initially scared some of my choir students by the loudness of my singing during our rehearsal warm-ups. However, the students’ reaction surprised me because they listened intently, gave a hearty applause, and approached to me after the program to talk. The English professors enjoyed the presentation because it introduced culture and explained some of the operatic references in English literature which they previously did not understand. (An example: Walt Whitman refers the term aria in "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.") After my lecture and singing, the morning keynote speaker felt inspired and grabbed the microphone to sing a medley of African-American spirituals during the closing of the ceremony. Then he asked me to give “a full evening of song in the sometime future” to his community a few hours away. I had no idea that sharing one of my passions in lecture form could make such a splash.

Although the saying, “music is the universal language,” feels cliché, my experience in India has confirmed the truth of that statement, and God uses music to bring so much sense and joy to my life. Since I dedicated the past four years of my life to studying music, I have daily moments where I miss formal musical training: I miss having a choral director lecture about lifting the soft palate, searching for best words to describe an instrumental theme, going over historical performance practice, needing to go over my German diction, singing scales and arpeggios, searching a rare musical score in a specific key, and even waiting for a practice room to be available. Now, I have different kinds of musical moments. These moments may not always substitute for my formal training cravings, but they show me why I chose to get a B.A. in Music and renew the sense wonder that music brings. While walking to Bishop Moore College, I stopped to talk with a book stall vendor, and in our conversation, he said that music brings us closer to the divine and explained some concepts about Carnitic music to me. (Carnitic music is south Indian classical music; I must be thankful for the required Worlds of Music class at the College of William and Mary because I can talk to people here about Indian music.) At school, my students ask to learn new songs all the time. During Christmas in Andhra Pradesh, we loved sitting on the roof and singing folk songs all night. Music has that magical ability to connect and to inspire people across cultures, and it has helped me build so many relationships. I feel so privileged and am blessed that I could introduce opera and music to a wonderful group of people.

"Genuine music fills the soul with a thousand things better than words. The thoughts which are expressed to me by music that I love are not too indefinite to be put into words, but on the contrary, too definite." -Felix Mendelssohn

Christmas abroad...

My friend, Sarah, laughs at how I often verbally preface questions and stories, and we’ve coined this characteristic speaking pattern as “prefacing.” Why do I this? Well, I sometimes become embarrassed that my train of thought has tendency to move fast and makes strange connections between ideas. In fact, I’m prefacing my own preface.

And thus, I must preface this blog with these comments:

Due to the neglect of my blog during the month of December, I have a lot of brief description about events but hate having to quickly gloss over some things. If I could write everything that I want to say, my blog would become more verbose than it already is. To truly convey all of my swirling thoughts, events, and emotions of the Christmas holiday season feels impossible, and I will attempt to give you a hint of my experiences here. Although I missed many of the Christmas traditions of home, the Christmas holiday—now stripped of my cultural trappings—began to reveal the significance of Jesus’ birth, and I had one of the most memorable and enjoyable holidays ever.

Moving on…

On December 19th, school closed, and I left for Aluva and stayed with Sudie for a few days in her apartment at senior citizens’ home. David, John, Sudie, and I had the opportunity to rest and to relax for those few days, and after all the craziness of rehearsing and preparing for my school choir’s debut, I welcomed the slowing and lack of schedule.

One day, Sudie, John, and I dressed up in our Kerala finery—saris for the ladies and a mundu/djuba combo for John—and went to a Hindu festival of the Dalit community where Sudie tutors a few days a week. At first, we were waiting around near the food preparation and were dropped off the side of the rode to the beginning of the procession. With women holding lamps made of coconut and oil, dancers, and drummers, we processed down the road for a long time and watched. Then we arrived at the colony and the community’s shrine, which was full of torches, candles, and decorations. Although we did not stay for the entire festival (we were there from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m.), I appreciated the invitation and hospitality of our neighbors.

Finally, Ariel and Becca arrived to Aluva on December 22nd, and we—volunteers, Achen, Kochamma, and their son, Binu—celebrated, sang Christmas songs, and had a special Christmas Eve style dinner. Among the volunteers, we had a white elephant/Secret Santa form of gift exchange. Then we closed the evening and prepared for the epic journey to visit Achen’s sister and her orphanage in Andhra Pradesh, a neighboring state about 1300 km northeast (about 800 miles).

Although the distance from Aluva to the orphanage would take 13-15 hours by car in the U.S., the train journey lasted about 24 hours, and the long distance train travel in India is quite an experience because everything becomes more chaotic at night at times. We rode Sleeper Class and had bunk reservations, but many people disrupted our sleeping at night. To make matters even more confusing, the noise occurred in several languages (English, Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu, and Tamil) because we were moving between states (each state has its own language). The journey drained us all, and I stumbled off the train in a state of bewilderment because the warm, dry air hit my face like a Christmas Santa Ana from home in San Diego.

Arid, extremely hot, and full of agricultural laborers, Andhra Pradesh greatly differs from the lushness and more developed nature of Kerala (the state where I live). For example, Kerala has some sort of enforced minimum wage of 250-300 rupees (around $5-6 US) for a day’s work in the agricultural sector, and Andhra Pradesh is the heart of Indian’s agriculture and food supply yet lacks an existing labor policy. Instead, the average laborer earns about 50 rupees (about $1 US) a day*. The poverty is much more pronounced than Kerala, and in where we were visiting, villages scatter the country-side among the fields of cotton, straw, and peanuts. On the roads in Andhra, oxen pull carts, and herds of cattle and goats can block traffic. In Kerala, the population contains around roughly equal amounts of Hindus, Muslims, and Christians, and Andhra Pradesh contains primarily Hindus. Many people told me that Kerala differs a lot from many places in India, and from my visit in Andhra, I now see it.

After we got off the train in Warangal, Achen’s sister, Anu, and her older “children” picked us up in a school bus, and we had to drive a ways to Gandhi Nagar, a village. An inspiring nun, Anu runs the Home of Love for Boys (the orphanage), two schools, and helps with providing health care and various needs to the neighboring villages. Allowing the boys to call her amma (mother in Telugu), she views herself as a mother and has 22 boys with ages ranging from five to fifteen. However, she also provides support, education, and a place to stay during holidays and vacation for the older “children” who picked us up at the train station, and the older children—ranging from ages 20-27 and having jobs or graduate school educations—come back to help with the Home of Love when possible and view the other boys as their brothers. The whole place functions like a very large family, and love permeates the atmosphere. I’ve visited a few orphanages in Mexico, but none of them felt as close or intimate as the Home of Love, which is a family who welcomed us all with such graciousness and hospitality.

Upon first arrival, the boys gave me a tour of the compound and showed me the various fruit trees and places. Since the language of Andhra Pradesh is Telugu, the boys and I struggled speaking at times, but some of them know some English. Being excellent hosts, they gave me some small, strange berry-like fruit and climbed up a guava tree to find a good guava for me to eat. We played and hung out for the afternoon (I taught Kamal, an adorable five year old, to high five and to pound it afterward), and I fell in love with their patience, energy, kindness, earnestness, and hospitality. During the whole visit, we had chances to worship, to sing, to dance, to interact, and to play games together.

On Christmas day, we woke up, had a big breakfast, and went to church across the road early in the morning. Boisterous beating drums and clapping dominated the Christmas songs, and I loved the energy behind the worship because my worship experiences in Kerala have a much more austere atmosphere. As a custom, the church presented us, visitors, with garlands of marigolds, and then we sang a few Christmas songs for them. We sat on the floor of the church, and to my surprise, the church overflowed with very young people. Although Achen does not know Telugu, he gave the Christmas message in English, and then Anu translated it into Telugu.

Based on Luke 2, Achen’s message emphasized the crowded inn and the humble beginnings of Jesus. These particular questions from the message resonated with me during the holiday: Is there room for Jesus? Do we crowd out Jesus? To be honest, most of our Christmas merry-making does distract us from Jesus’ life and message.

During most of the month of December, I struggled because I did not feel or see Christ’s suffering yet transforming redemptive love in all of the carol programs, Father Christmases, gifts, and decorations. In a Christmas program with the Tiruvalla Choral Society, I sang a hymn which contained the following words:
Thou didst leave thy kingly crown
When Thou camest to earth for me;
But in Bethlehem’s home
There was found no room
For thy holy nativity.
O come to my heart, Lord Jesus
There is room in my heart for thee!
Ironically enough, I had mixed feelings about that evening during that particular evening because the celebration was so full of pomp, bright lights, nicely dressed people, and cordiality while Jesus’ birth was in a dirty, messy, stable. The cognitive dissonance of that squeaky-clean church hall full of propriety and wealth and Jesus’ birth haunted me, and it simply did not feel right.

A few hours later, we arrived at second church in a different village for more worship, and many women were already singing and sitting down. Becca, Sudie, Ariel, and I sat down in the back because we did not want to crowd anyone. However, women and children continued filing into the small church, and I began to feel claustrophobic in the back corner because I was so squished. Most of the men sat in chairs outside the church door in order to let the massive amounts of women inside. The content and nature of the service remained similar, but the amount of people packed into the church overwhelmed me. To see these women—who have difficult daily lives—turn to God in such earnestness tugged at my heart. There was no room in the church, but there was plenty of room for Jesus.

While in Andhra Pradesh, I felt so much community, love, and warmth in the simplicity and genuineness of our celebration with the Home of Love and the local villages. Their reliance on God is much greater than my own, and they offer so much of themselves and what little they do possess to others and to God. They invited us into their home and created space for strangers and for Jesus.

Last year, if someone told me that I would eat mutton curry and rice for Christmas lunch, play volleyball in the dirt without shoes on Christmas day, would go to two Christmas day worship services in villages, and sing American folksongs of the 1960s and 1970s on the roof on Christmas night, I would have said that is crazy and is very different than my usual Christmas flavor. Growing up, My sister and I would often mention how the late afternoon and eve of Christmas day feels a little depressing because all of the expectation and anticipation is gone. However, this unexpected Andhra Christmas stealthily made room in heart for Jesus. Unlike the Christmas afternoon depression from years past, I experienced a deep joy which cannot easily flit away. Rooted in Jesus, this hope and joy sustains me so that I can continue moving forward and loving my neighbors each day.


*These are very rough figures that I heard from various people, and I mention them to illustrate the difficulty of agricultural life and differences between the states. Please do not take these as a pure statistics.

Finally, a few pictures!

From top to bottom, a picture of Ariel, Becca, and I at a wedding; some photos from the Thanksgiving visit of the fish workers; and two photos from my school Christmas program--a visit from Father Christmas and a few of girls in my choir and me.

I'll post more about Christmas and the holidays later!

Thanksgiving and the Christmas kick off...

We—volunteers, the site coordinator, and his wife—celebrated Thanksgiving on our monthly retreat with an attempt of re-creating the meal. First of all, we ate with silverware, and I felt confused and disoriented while using it because I have been eating with my hands for the past three months. Since turkey is rare in India, we ate two roasted chickens with roasted fingerling potatoes, and I have never enjoyed potatoes so much in my life. We savored the pumpkin pie and fought over it. Spoons were flying at that point. At this point, my fellow volunteers are family abroad, and we know each other’s quirks and feel comfortable with each other to the extent of bickering over last strip of pie crust. Although I do enjoy Indian food, it is very nice to eat something other than curry (which is anything cooked with a gravy/sauce) and rice.

During our reflection time before our meal, we spoke about what Thanksgiving meant to us, explained our typical celebrations, and mentioned things that we’re thankful for. Being the constant challenger of our norms, our site director, Thomas John Achen, asked if we choose to extend Thanksgiving to our communities and strangers around us. At first, I was somewhat confused but realized that most Thanksgiving celebrations are restricted to family and friends and are a day of indulgence. Often, we do not invite a complete stranger or bestow kindness. Although gratitude is a wonderful thing, does our gratitude move us to action? Does we feel so full of love and gratitude that it overflows to our neighbors—especially those who are less fortunate? I am not trying to preach, but these thoughts definitely crossed my mind during our celebration, which was lovely and memorable.

Over the holiday weekend, we were in Trivandrum, the capital of Kerala, and stayed in a center near the beach, and I relished in our beach time and closeness of the ocean. A few of us swam in our clothes—we already get enough attention so super-ridiculous modesty is often necessary—and played in the water. Very few people know how to swim here, and I have rarely seen any women who splash around in the water. To me, this feels like a tragedy. For those of you that know me well, I usually have to be dragged away from any body of water—lake, stream, pool, or ocean—because I will remain in it until I have to go. The combination of good food, good company, and beach time kept me in a state of bliss during the retreat.

On Saturday, we woke up early to observe the local fisher people. The small boats would come in on the beach, and a group of women and men would analyze the catch. Then they would wash their catch and auction their lots off. Using more traditional methods, other groups would spend around a half hour or longer to pull in their nets. I appreciate community activity and craftsmanship of small scale fishing. Most of these fisher people live in small settlements near the beach, but these settlements are rapidly disappearing. We visited a fish workers’ rights coalition and learned about the challenges and problems of the fishing sector. I cannot help but feel so angry because these people who have lived and fished on these beaches for generations are being displaced due to very harmful corporate fishing practices and tourist resorts. These native fishing practices contain a respect for the environment and keep many people meaningfully employed, and the fisher people have a vast local knowledge of the ocean and know how to live with the necessities. They only ask for subsistence living and legitimate ownership of their beach settlements. Why can’t the government and business people allow these people to live their peaceful lives? It saddens me that hundreds of thousands of people are told that their lifestyle has little value to their country because it does not generate massive profit.

To add fuel to the fire, the church and the Christian community did give some support to the fishers in 1980s, but most eventually left to cater to the needs and desire of the middle and upper class. As Jerome—the activist who spoke to us—sarcastically said, “They put a Bible in our hands and left. Now, the fisher people are being pushed off their land and rarely have enough to live on, but the church says that they at least have a Bible in their hands.” How can the church present such a hollow gospel and neglect their neighbors? There are some faith based organizations left to help the fishing communities, and we visited one place. I am thankful that a few people continue to fight and to love those who need support.

Although I have never participated in a debutante ball, this Sunday felt like my debut to Tiruvalla through my participation in the Tiruvalla Choral Society’s “Divine Incarnation Carol Program.” On Sunday, I sang in my local community choir’s Christmas carol program and finally wore my first sari, a choir uniform sari. Fortunately, the sari looked quite nice with a rich red color and simple embroidery. Unfortunately, two other volunteers, Ariel and Sudie, did not have my luck because they have orange and green or an odd shade of violet for their Christmas program saris. The sari is approximately 5.5 to 6 meters of fabric, and you have to go to a tailor to have the blouse (which is essentially a crop top) made. The folding, draping, and pinning process of the sari is an art unto itself, and two teachers had to help dress me. Due to my height, the sari was a little short on me, but everybody—my volunteer friends, the school teachers, students, and the choir—flipped out because I was wearing it and could somewhat pull it off. One of my students said, “Lindsey kochama, you look like a real Indian woman.” A guy in the choir said that I looked “really cute because of my taper.” I had a little trouble walking in it because I can’t take a normal sized step. I do not know how some women can wear the sari every single day. Regardless of a woman’s body type, saris look great, and I do appreciate having a dress standard which makes everyone look nice. In two weeks, my school has our Christmas carol program, and my students have asked me to wear a sari for that.

During Sunday’s carol program, I enjoyed the combination of English and Malayalam carols in our repertoire but was quite embarrassed because I drew so much attention during the evening. I know that everyone means well, but sometimes, being a novelty item does grow a little old. However, how could I hide? I am a six-foot, white woman who sings much louder than the average person. They formally announced my presence about 3 times, and even, the speaker (a pastor giving a short Christmas kick off homily in Malayalam) mentioned me impromptu. They—choir and audience—were so excited by the global representation and that I sang the Malayalam songs so well. Also, we were featured in the newspapers, and now, I am the foreigner pictured in the Tiruvalla Choral Society. On Monday, a few random people called the school phone line to congratulate my performance. I never expected this kind of welcome! Now, the Tiruvalla Choral Society has asked me to find some music for our spring program, and I may even conduct a song or two for the next concert.

P.S. I will post pictures when I able!

To be or not to be...

When I decided to serve abroad, I had this wild yet fantastic notion that the experience would resemble my previous mission and service trips with a longer time frame. Each day, I would wake up with a feeling of liberation and exuberance to rush forth and to restore the world. My days would be full of warm, fuzzy feelings about I felt God’s constant presence and how my neighbors and I have developed mutual relationships of love and respect. Each night, I would drift to sleep with the satisfaction of a day’s hard work. How reality shatters all preconceived notions!

During my interview with Thomas John Achen—my site director, he asked if I knew what ministry of presence meant because my year was a ministry of presence. Unfortunately, I have the uncanny ability to usually respond to questions—even to ones which I do not know anything about the subject—with some sort of answer that sounds remotely intelligent or that gives the impression of confidence to the listener. (Not always a good thing!) At the time, I replied with some pat answer about how God can use a person’s mere presence to bring change, comfort, or a myriad of other things. From my past experiences with my college UrbanPromise spring break service trips, I had an inkling of an idea what ministry of presence meant, but a few week-long trips do not truly embody the concept of ministry of presence. After being here for two and a half months, I am only beginning to truly understand, to know, to see, and to feel this slippery yet slightly mysterious ministry of presence, which is the essence of my time in India thus far.

Ministry of presence is the confidence of knowing that your entire existence’s value does not lie in tangible results. Ministry of presence will probably not give you statistics that will satisfy donors. Ministry of presence does not care about how many houses that you build, how many people that you feed, the number of churches that you plant, or the amount of social services that you provide. All of those tasks are important and necessary but are not ministry of presence. However, ministry of presence is attempting to learn hundreds of names, many of which you cannot pronounce correctly, in a place where a child is often nameless and is a number. Ministry of presence is inviting your students to celebrate Halloween with you. Ministry of presence is walking down the road to visit the old age home—more delicately known as nursing home or something of that sort in the U.S.—and talking or even simply sitting with those who never have visitors or any family. Ministry of presence is listening to a child’s sorrows and giving her a safe place to cry as you hold her. Ministry of presence is cutting part of your spoken English class in order to greet and to speak with a visiting elderly woman who rarely leaves the house due to illness. Ministry of presence is making a fool out of yourself while directing your fledgling choir in rehearsal because you have to convey your musical thought with a cultural and linguistic barrier. Ministry of presence is sharing a piece of your self with over 100 eleventh and twelfth graders each morning during devotional chapel. Ministry of presence is engaging with a person or a community in his or her or their joys, concerns, and even the mundane activities over a significant period of time. (Note that significant is a relative term here.) Ministry of presence will never solve the world’s problems or bring complete social justice, but instead, it provides hope and demonstrates Christ’s love.

Sometimes, I think that it would be easier to have a more concrete goal, such as vaccinating of people. Each day, I could have a task to do and would not have to figure out how I am going to build relationships with people. My day would have a set objective and routine work. Some sort of statistic could provide a means of accomplishment or could prove my productivity to someone else. And I could reflect at night and say that I worked for social justice for God’s kingdom through the pursuit of public health. But I am not in that position with my volunteer placement.

Perhaps, I am a product of American upbringing because I have been taught to do and told that my value lies in my doing. When I sit alone at night or am with a bunch of students, I struggle because no one has taught me how to be. It does not help that I am an extrovert and even have trouble sitting still. Ministry of presence relates more to being than doing. Having mastered the doing part of life, I am learning how to be. The concept seems simple yet indescribable. How do you explain that to someone? Do you normally ask your friends, “How are you being?” or “What are you being?” The English language does not have a sufficient, common idiom or interrogative for expressing the idea of being. How can I become content with simply be-ing?

Looking back at Jesus’ life, I see that He had no problem with ministry of presence or being. His whole life displayed to humanity that God wanted to be with us, and the gospel of Matthew (and Isaiah 7:14) gave Jesus the name Emmanuel, meaning “God with us.” Jesus understood human grief and wept with Mary and Martha when Lazarus died (John11:33-37). When a woman poured an expensive ointment or perfume on His head, Jesus allowed her to touch him, enjoyed the experience, and defended her gift when the disciples thought it was wasteful and unproductive (Matthew 26:6-13). Jesus knew when He needed to stop doing things and could retreat into solitude with God, but being with people or being alone was not a struggle for Him. I now see that Jesus mastered the balance of both being and doing. From my experience, the church often teaches Christians and people what to do or how to do something but rarely touches the idea of being. How did we overlook this?*

Ministry of presence and being takes more discipline and mental clout than I expected and does not come naturally to me. Each morning after leading the 11th and 12th grade chapel, I have added a centering prayer (i.e. meditating and being still for twenty minutes) to my personal devotional regime because I realized my need to learn how to be. At first, I could barely handle ten minutes of centering prayer but have slowly worked up to twenty. When I have missed a morning chapel for various reasons, my students later ask where I was and said that they missed me, and I suppose that my presence adds something to our school community. At night, I know that I may go to bed without a specific number of people that I have served that day or without something to tangibly display that day’s activities. To my surprise, I am becoming more content with that reality.

*Isn’t obvious that being is important when God tells Moses that God’s name is “I am who I am” in Exodus 3:14? I Am Who I Am stands for Yahweh, the Hebrew divine name of God.

Death, Schedule, and House Visiting...

Death
Finding a time and place to blog is more difficult than I anticipated!
During the end of our end of October retreat, Becca (one of my volunteer comrades) received a phone call and found out that her local supervisor’s wife, Mrs. Mathew, died from sudden kidney failure. Although she lived a long and full life, no one expected her death because she looked healthy and had a considerable amount of energy. When I visited Becca during the last weekend of September, Mrs. Mathew showered us with tea time snacks and talked with me briefly. Less than a week later upon meeting her, she was gone, and her death reminds of how fragility and temporal nature of life.
Since Mrs. Mathew was a wife of an Achen (pastor) and former college principal, her funeral became quite the social gathering. My local supervisor knew her and ran in the same social circle, and I went with her to the funeral. After a long, sweaty auto-rickshaw ride, we arrived to the Madriram Society, a compound composed of an orphanage, hospital, senior citizens’ home, and church, and the place was teeming with people. The day was unusually hot and sticky, and the crowding felt even more sweaty, congested, and muggy in the Madriram Society church and grounds. Mournful, wailing hymns continued throughout the afternoon and were amplified through the buzzing speakers. Although I sat with my Thomas John Achen, his wife, John, and Becca during part of the long service and the viewing of the body, I saw and chatted with many different acquaintances. The funeral displayed this intricate, long web of social networking in Kerala. Everyone seems to know everyone else and feels obligated to participate in the mourning process. I did not expect to attend a funeral or thought that I would learn so much about culture through a funeral. May Mrs. Mathew rest in peace.

My Current Weekday Schedule:
5:30ish a.m. Wake-up, plan my morning devotional for the 11th and 12th graders, hopefully go running if it isn’t too dark or raining
6:45-7:20 a.m. Lead morning prayers and devotional for 11th and 12th grade (yay, for daily 5-7 min. mini-sermons)
8 a.m. Breakfast
9 a.m. Morning teachers’ prayer
10 a.m.-1 p.m. I usually teach a spoken English class or two (they only last 40 minutes) for any age group varying from preschool to 8th grade. Since I have such a lack of resources (no printer, no copier, very few English children’s books, etc.; I am lucky if I have blackboard with chalk available), I find difficulties in teaching some of my classes because I want to do things such as making Halloween crafts. The preschool students are especially difficult to work with due to the language barrier.
1 p.m. Lunch
2-4 Another class during this time
4:30-6 Playing on the playground, teaching volleyball, or working with English Club (we’re working on a Christmas carol program—rehearsals start this week)
7:30 p.m. Teachers’ prayer
8 p.m. Dinner
9-9:30 Bedtime

The Ultimate House Visit
Since October 10th-13th was the holiday of Puja (a Hindu festival which celebrates education and learning), I went to visit my fellow volunteer, Ariel, in a town—Mavelikara—about an hour away. Ariel lives in a college women’s hostel (dormitory) and was alone because all of the college students went home for the holiday. On Sunday, we decided to visit Ariel’s teacher friend, Saloma. In Kerala, you do not usually call or tell someone that you are coming to visit their house; instead, you simply drop in, say hello, and are given massive amounts of food. Using the hostel auto-rickshaw, we were dropped off at Saloma’s home, and Saloma welcomed us into her home and introduced her family: her husband and two sons. After a house tour, conversation, and trying to put together a puzzle, we also met several of the neighborhood children and a few of the neighbors. Although we ate lunch not much earlier and expressed that we felt full, Saloma cooked some tapioca and fish curry for us. (Here, kappa—tapioca—is prepared and eaten like potatoes. A classic Kerala cuisine pairing is kappa and meen, fish and tapioca.)
Soon, Saloma suggested that we go visit her sister who is named Bina and also teaches with Ariel and her. After getting permission from Ariel’s hostel mother because we would get back probably after dark, Saloma, Ariel, her two children, and I piled into an auto-rickshaw and traveled to the south where the roads kept growing narrower and bumpier. After about an hour, we arrived to Bina’s house. Since it was close to tea time, Bina brought out fried bananas, sticky sweet rice balls, Kerala rice coconut cake, some mix (an Indian version of Chex mix), and tea. Bina’s family (husband, two children, and mother-in law) gathered around us in the living room and asked general questions, and then a neighbor came and brought us some appam, another Kerala version of rice and coconut cake. Waiting in expectation, everyone stared us and wanted to watch us eat the abundance of food before us. Being an excellent guest, Ariel started sampling everything, and feeling already way too full from the meen and kappa, I followed suit because of the peer pressure and the staring. I love and appreciate the hospitality of Kerala but struggle with these near force feeding situations of hospitality.
After Ariel and I finished our sampling of food, the collective household went to the neighbor’s house to meet all of the fellow neighbors. Suddenly, a woman brought out this sticky brown mass of rice, molasses, and spices on a plantain leaf—a special biysam which was dedicated in their Hindu temple earlier in the day--and someone grabbed my hand and slapped a blob of the biysam in my hand. At this point, I began to panic because I could not take any more “hospitality” (i.e. eating), and also, the biysam looked incredibly unappetizing and not sanitary*. However, I quickly swallowed down the biysam in order to avoid offending the neighbors who offered their special, holy biysam to me.
Then the 21 year old neighbor invited us to her wedding on January 21st and ran quickly inside her house to get something. Soon, she proudly presented a photo album to Ariel and me. Inside the album, we saw photographs of her fiancé who is in the Indian army. Although this young woman has met and corresponded with her fiancé, this whole situation baffled me because I would be terrified about marrying a man who I have met only a few times. Then we met some other neighbors who were walking up the road. Since it was getting late, all of Saloma’s and Bina’s family hopped into the auto-rickshaw and on a motorcycle (I never knew that it was possible to fit four people on a motorcycle), and we traveled about two kilometers in order to reach the beach.
With all of the children and adults, we played near the shore and enjoyed the sunset. One of the children took hold of my hand, and we jumped in the waves. Then a larger wave came, and we got soaked. Then, Saloma, her two children, Bina’s two children, Ariel, and I crammed into one auto-rickshaw and headed home. During our ride, Saloma told us that she wanted to take us to Hyderabad for Christmas, said that she would teach us to cook Indian food, and asked when I could come back to visit.
Although I do grow frustrated with the force-feeding, the hospitality of Kerala astounds me. In one day, I received an invitation to a wedding, was asked to spend Christmas with a family, and met about 30 people in six hours. What a crazy day!

*A day later, I got some sort of food poisoning and had to rest for a few days. It was probably from something that I ate during from this house visit; in my opinion, I blame the biysam.

Vignettes from the past two weeks...

It's been a while since I posted because finding internet 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.

Right now, I am in Aluva at my Achen's house for our retreat for the next five days. I love that our group is back together again.

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. 18^th, 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 11^th and 12^th 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 2^nd, 3^rd, and 4^th 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 5^th and 6^th 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 12^th 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 11^th and 12^th 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.)

Relief washes over my mind...

For the past two days, we've had the privilege of having Anne, Jaco, and Steve with us.  Anne and Jaco (which is short for "Jacob") are professors of English in some local colleges and have spent the past five years helping YAVs get acquainted with potential classroom situations. Steve is their young son and is a riot due to his precocious nature and zeal for aiding us in our knowledge of India and Malayalam.  Anne and Jaco gave us lots of fun games, materials, exercises, and ideas for teaching conversational English and working in either a elementary age or college classroom. Since I do not have any formal training in this avenue, their insights brought me so much relief, and I am so thankful that they have been helping us. With their great sense of observation, sense of savvy, and good senses of humor, they are excellent educators and taught us much more about our individual sites and Indian culture. 

In the afternoon, we started talking about Applachia for some reason, and eventually, the subject of American poverty began to permeate the conversation.  To Jaco and Anne, the idea of American poverty seems strange to them because the U.S. has the reputation of being the land of plenty.  Many Keralites go abroad to work in the U.S. and make decent money--especially because exchange rate of the rupee to the dollar is about 44/43 Rs. to $1, and to my surprise, I found out that many middle or middle-upper class Indians do happen to love the U.S. and that Indians who emigrated to the U.S. do like George W. Bush and the Republican party.  In these relationships, the Indians prospered and are content to maintain their prosperous standing. Who wants to give up or to change their position if everything seems to be going well? Complacency is a slow but deadly poison to the soul, and we usually do not realize that it is killing us before it is too late.

However, we had to explain to Jaco and Anne that U.S. poverty exists in the rural United States and the inner-city, and these situations are deplorable because we allow these conditions to exist.  For example, India has affirmative action for the Dalit (the untouchable caste) in colleges, but the students rarely graduate from college because they lack the resources and support system in order to adjust and to cope with the university setting and the continual prejudices--even when the caste system is considered illegal. A similar situation occurs in American colleges and universities with inner-city students, and in name, we say that students have opportunity but still remain with so many disadvantages; it's difficult to succeed. In some ways, the United States has a similar sort of caste system--a rigid racial and socio-economic order which structurally puts groups of people at a disadvantage.  I'm surprised at how the U.S. and India share many social problems and structural clashes. I guess that it's a small world after all because we all suffer from greed, the corporate agenda, poverty, structural inequality, and the inability to listen.  Although I do not want to sound fatalistic and hopeless, these issues display the reality of the human condition: that humans miss the mark again and again.

Maybe that's why I keep pursuing Jesus and desiring to live like Him.  Although I do not have the capacity to save the world by myself, I do what I can : look at my world with a critical eye, ask questions, constantly evaluate myself and my choices, realize that a material world cannot satisfy, attempt to obey the Lord's commandments, seek my neighbors, want justice for my neighbors, attempt to quiet my mind in a world of chaos, choose to become less, pursue and depend on God, choose to take up my cross, engage with the world around, have confidence that another world is possible, teach people that there is life before death, befriend the overlooked, encourage the weary, pray for something better, and most importantly, love God and people with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength. Some days, I feel like this path can appear to be losing battle, but the moments of pure unadulterated joy are the glimpses of the Kindgom of God which will never pass away.

(I do not mean to sound like a horrible televangelist right there.  Although I am committed to being a disciple of Jesus, certain discussions force me to evaluate and to re-evaluate what discipleship means and why I continue to follow this strange rabbi-carpenter-lover of people from 2000 years ago.)

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Tomorrow is our last day in Aluva at Achen's house, and I will move to Tiruvalla and arrive at the school.  Excited and terrified, I cannot wait for Monday and the upcoming adventures of living in a community for the rest of my time in India.  Anne told me that the school is divided into ten houses named after precious gems (Jaspers, Rubies, etc.), and these ten houses compete throughout the year for points.  So now I am caught up in a Harry Potter house fantasy and cannot wait to see the competition and spirit! 

"He has showed you, O man, what is good. 
       And what does the LORD require of you? 
       To act justly and to love mercy 
       and to walk humbly with your God."

                  --Micah 6:8

CULTURE SHOCK!!! India Orientation...

If I could sum up the past few days in a two words, they would be:

SENSORY OVERLOAD

Foreign sights, smells, sounds, and textures bombard me.  I feel like a three year old who is discovering basic life skills and is full of wonder at the smallest things.

To be honest, I have never felt so vulnerable in my life and feel so dependent on other people to help me.  Our site director told us that Jesus displayed that vulnerability in all his relationships, and through his vulnerability, he invites and empowers other people. When I get frustrated about my helplessness, I hope to remember that pearl of wisdom. I'll figure out more things over time. I wish that I eloquently describe everything in detail, but I will start a rambling list of interesting things.  

Our site director, Thomas John, and his wife, Betty, taught us how to eat with our hands, and you're supposed to mash up the food with your fingers and compress it together to blend the different flavors. Its funny how playing with your food is culturally acceptable! I cannot expect anything to be similar to my American life.  Even Indians even use toilet differently (if you really want to know the process, you can ask me). Each night, the power shuts off for a half hour or so at a designated time, and the current can be unreliable at times.   I've learned to shower/bathe using a bucket of water, and the humidity is extreme.  Monsoon season is upon us, and pouring rain falls often.  Banana and coconut trees are everywhere, and the verdant, lush landscape impresses me with its beauty.

During the past few days, our group (Rebecca, Sudie, Ariel, John, David, and I) has been struggling with learning Malayalam, the language of Kerala, and has had the opportunity to learn about Indian economics, education, politics, and history through Achen (an Malayalam address term for a pastor who is Thomas John, the site director) and a few of his friends who are professors at local colleges.  I am still processing all of the information but love the emphasis on social justice and finding ways to bring more equality through structural changes.  Although it may sound a little nerdy, I cannot wait to learn more on a more first hand basis.  Also, I am determined to have a working knowledge of Malayalam at some point, but the hardest part is mastering the alphabet and the unfamiliar sounds.

Hopefully, I will post a better update later along with some video and pictures. Please keep me in your prayers as I travel and get settle at my permanent site, the Nicholson Secondary School for Girls in Tiruvalla.  I’ve linked some of my friends’ blogs to this site as well for some more reading!