"But as for me, I will watch expectantly for the LORD;
I will wait for the God of my salvation.
My God will hear me.
Do not rejoice over me, O my enemy.
Though I fall I will rise;
Though I dwell in darkness, the LORD is a light for me." - Micah 7:7-8
I read through Micah at dinner tonight and was really hit by how clear God is about how He will guide us. It's especially relevant to me now as I walk the streets of a place I've previously called home, trying to discern whether I should return here again, and if so, what my role here should be. As tempting as it is to try to think through it all by myself - when I will return, in what capacity, how I should shape my life to prepare for returning - figuring this out is not something I need to work to do. Rather, I need to wait and pray. Though I know God has a plan for my life and that He'll guide me to where He wants me to be, I often forget that it's okay to not know RIGHT NOW where the path I'm on is headed. But, I trust that at just the right time God will show me what to do.
Give us this day our daily bread.
I think that knowledge of the trajectories of our own lives is also dosed out in daily portions. And those limitations necessitate an increase in faith...how smart, God.
"But as for me, I will watch expectantly."
I will know at just the right time.
Anyway, today. Today was busybusybusy. Woke up in an attempt to get to Mother's House at 7:30 to register for Kalighat. Thought I was leaving Paragon at 7:10. Walked out at 7:40. What? Turns out when I set my clock back an hour yesterday, I had forgotten that India is a half hour off from the rest of the world. So I was running a half hour late. Weeeeeeeee! Hopped an auto, ran into Mother's House. Registered. Grabbed a bus, with a little help from a guy I recognized from Sudder Street two years ago. He used to work at Tirupati, a roadside restaurant near Paragon, and pretend to be a Buddhist monk. Odd to see him so out of context.
Off the bus at the Kali Temple stop. Road to road to sidestreet to road, and then the familiar shops before Kali Temple, selling incense, flowers, beads, little statues. Lots of yellow, orange, deep red. Past the security guards who never check me unless I make eye contact and to Kalighat. Walking in there felt like any other day there...not like it had been a year and a half since the day they sang me the goodbye song. After getting my pass checked, donning a pink apron and dropping my purse in the volunteers' locker, I walked straight into the womens' ward. There were at least ten women still there who had been there a year and a half ago. I plopped down next to one and said, "Shanti! Eta khub bhalo apnake dekte pari." Shanti! It is very good to see you. We had a conversation about how she was feeling, lunch for the day, her family, how I learned Bangla. I repeat: we had a conversation. Like, I'm a person. She's a person. And we spoke and understood each other. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Repeat with about six different women, two of whom I didn't know from two years ago. Real conversations with words. It was crazy. I spent three months with these women, and could never understand the words they were saying to me, nor could I communicate what I wanted to say to them. Now I can. And I did. I told them I was so happy to have returned, commiserated with them about their pain, compared our families. All in Bangla.
But here's the thing: I think I was able to serve much more effectively when I didn't know Bangla. Before I knew Bangla, I had no chance of literally understanding what the women were saying, and I didn't even attempt to communicate anything with words myself. As a result, I was completely focused outside of myself, devoting all of my attention to the women - their body movements, intonation, facial expression - all in an attempt to gain some sort of understanding in order to serve them better. Because of this focus, I was able to really connect with the women beyond words, returning day after day to give foot massages and share songs. This time was different. Speaking and understanding a language you only know only a little of takes a whole lot of concentration. I found myself much more focused inside of my head than I was last time, because I was both working to understand the words I heard and produce my own correct sentences. Rather than just trying to serve, I was also trying to communicate. And while I think communication is very important, maybe the communication the women and I had before I knew Bangla was deeper, more effective, and more loving.
The place my Bangla did help A TON was with the mashis - the Indian women who work in Kalighat - and with one very young woman who seemed healthy, minus a healing head wound. When they found out I knew some Bangla, they were really excited. We talked for a long time, the five of us, in only Bangla. They told me I should have a Bangla notebook, so I went to the locker and grabbed my Bangla notebooks to show them. We read through a bit of my translated version of Psalm 121, sang the song I wrote last week, and practiced reading and spelling. The women - both the mashis and the younger residents - and I had so much fun! It's really wonderful to know enough Bangla to be functional, but not enough to actually be good. It means I'm forced to be constantly corrected and constantly learning. Hooray!
Okay! Time to leave the internet cafe. I need to go to bed to prepare for my CLS Kolkata visit tomorrow! Woohoo!!!!!
Love and Bangla,
Stephanie
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Ami abar ekhane.
[edit] Listen to this while you read: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NfJAh6hrCzw. It fits well with my current emotional / spiritual / general state of existence. And it's beautiful.
I am here again.
In Kolkata.
Everything is perfect.
I don't know how to accurately explain how wonderful it is to be here, but I will try. Also, I've been speaking Bangla for the whole past day, so writing in English feels very strange. The best way to explain today would be to give you a series of events so...here goes. :-)
After being dropped off at the airport, I had my first full-Bangla conversation of the day with the guy who gave me my boarding pass. It was wonderful. We talked about why I was in Dhaka, what I had done, where I had studied, what I liked about Dhaka...all in Bangla. Then, at the gate, I met a wonderful high school student from New York. She's Bengali, but lives in America. We had a fantastic conversation (in English) about culture, identity, multiculturalism...it was great. Then the flight. On the flight, I read the Bible...in Bangla. It was nutty. I didn't understand all of the words, but I know enough that I could recognize what I was reading. I'm going to keep reading the Bible in Bangla to practice. Wow.
When the flight began to land in Kolkata, I looked out the window and noticed...everything was green. What? Kolkata was not green the last time I was here. What. I told the guy next to me (in Bangla) that the last time I was here, Kolkata was not green. He said it was green because of monsoon season. That makes sense. Also, Kolkata is only green on the outside perimeter of the city. That makes more sense.
Landed, deplaned (that's a good word), through customs...and to my first Bangla argument. Fun! The currency exchange guy didn't have the taka exchange rate posted. I tried to exchange taka. He wanted 12,000 taka for...a comparatively very small amount of rupees. It didn't make any sense. I told him it didn't make any sense. He said the exchange rate was very bad for taka to rupees. I know the exchange rate. It's not. But it wasn't posted on the board that showed the rates (no clue why), so he could say whatever he wanted. GAH. What was interesting about the situation was that I was literally arguing the whole time in Bangla. And we both understood each other. We weren't arguing out of frustration with communication - we were arguing because he was trying to cheat me out of money. Woohoo!
Then I went to the next currency exchange place and had another full-Bangla conversation with a nice currency exchange man who gave me a better rate and talked about Sonagachi with me. Yaaaaaay. That was fun. THEN I went to the prepaid taxi stand next to the exchange place and ran into two white guys. I asked where they were from; they said Chicago. What. We shared a taxi to Sudder Street.
On the way to Sudder Street, the Chicago guys and I talked, and I asked the taxi driver a few questions in Bangla. He responded in English. It was like we were each trying to prove we could speak the other's language. Or we just both wanted to practice our second-language skills. The Chicago guys said they were only staying in Kolkata for two days and wanted to know what fun things there were to do in the city. They asked me what my favorite thing to do in Kolkata was. I said, "uh...take care of dying women?" They said they were thinking more about like, going to a Cricket game and asked where they could do that. I didn't know. They asked what I liked to do in my free time. I said I liked playing guitar on the roof. I wasn't very helpful.
We got to Sudder Street. I got out. Walked in the back way to Hotel Paragon. Walking along that street was like a dream. This is all like a dream. Same sewers, same rickshaws, same smells, same rundown rain-ruined walls. I walked into Hotel Paragon and the owners broke into wide smiles...and we began talking in rapid-fire Bangla. They remembered me. I remembered them. It was beautiful. I asked if my old room was available. It was. I went there. Everything Josefin, Jeff, Peter, and I did to the walls is still there, and it's been majorly built upon. Other people have drawn, painted, and written all over the walls. Spiritual stuff, silly stuff, portraits...all on top of and around what I wrote and drew. It's amazing.
Dropped my stuff down, locked the door, and went off to Mother's House for Adoration. Said hi to the guy who sells pants and stuff on the way out. And the guy who runs the shop on the corner. They all remember me. Argued with an autorickshaw guy about the price to Mother's House. He said a hundred taka. I told him in Bangla that I'm not stupid. It was fun. Hopped in another autorickshaw. Didn't have change. The guy next to me paid for me. It was nice. Went to Adoration, got there just as it was ending...apparently they changed the Sunday start time to 6pm. Talked another volunteer who was here the last time I was here and with the new sister in charge of volunteers. I'm working at Kalighat tomorrow. :-)
Walked back with some really sweet volunteers from Poland, Australia, the UK, France, and California. Walked down Sudder street for the first time...and everyone recognized me. It was ridiculous. Then to Khalsa for dinner. Just standing outside, AP (the guy at the counter) saw me and smiled. I walked in, and he said, "it's been what, two years? How are you? Your friend was here a few months ago. Not Jeff, the other one." Jake. :-) I told him I had missed Khalsa a lot. We sat down, and AP came over and said (I am not kidding) "dal mahkhani, right? That's your favorite." My heart melted. I've been gone for two years, and AP still remembers that I want dal mahkhani. After dinner, I told the waiter (who I saw nearly every day two years ago but could never talk with) that I am happy because I now I can speak Bangla. He said, in Bangla, that he is also happy now that I understand Bangla. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. After a fantastic dinner, I walked back down Sudder Street, and sat down at Tirupati. They handed me the guitar. I played and sang the song I wrote in Bangla. Then came here, to the internet cafe. The guys recognized me again, and said (again), "it's been what, two years?" We had a whole conversation in Bangla. I asked if I needed to register again. He said, "do you have the same thumb?" because there's a thumbprint sign-in system. I thumb printed. My picture showed up on the screen. Now I'm here.
Okay, sorry, that's a whole lot of text after a summer of writing nothing. There's something about Kolkata that makes me want to write and write and write, to get down in words all of my experiences, feelings, and conversations. ...especially when they're in Bangla. Today has been amazing. Coming back to this city I love and being able to speak has made everything so much more real. Granted, it's only been a few hours. We'll see about tomorrow.
One thing I've realized since returning is this: I can actually communicate in Bangla in Kolkata. I can't do that in Dhaka. I heard a lot of talk in Dhaka about dialect differences from Dhaka to Kolkata, but I didn't understand what anyone meant until I came back here. After a summer of learning a language and being somehow unable to understand what anyone was saying in public Dhaka, I understand nearly everything I hear in Kolkata. I don't know quite why, but somehow Kolkata Bangla is a zillion times easier to understand than Dhaka Bangla. And somehow, my Bangla blends well with the Bangla here. It's so easy to communicate. Maybe I'm overanalyzing. All I know is that I have had a ton of conversations today in which I'm sure I understood people and they understood me. It will be crazy to go back to Kalighat, Apne Aap, and Sonagachi in the next few days. Stay tuned for that. Aaah!
Okay, I wrote a ton.
I'm so excited about this.
Tomorrow: Kalighat.
Monday: CLS in Kolkata.
Tuesday: Apne Aap.
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday: Freeset.
This is amazing.
I need new adjectives.
Love,
Stephanie
I am here again.
In Kolkata.
Everything is perfect.
I don't know how to accurately explain how wonderful it is to be here, but I will try. Also, I've been speaking Bangla for the whole past day, so writing in English feels very strange. The best way to explain today would be to give you a series of events so...here goes. :-)
After being dropped off at the airport, I had my first full-Bangla conversation of the day with the guy who gave me my boarding pass. It was wonderful. We talked about why I was in Dhaka, what I had done, where I had studied, what I liked about Dhaka...all in Bangla. Then, at the gate, I met a wonderful high school student from New York. She's Bengali, but lives in America. We had a fantastic conversation (in English) about culture, identity, multiculturalism...it was great. Then the flight. On the flight, I read the Bible...in Bangla. It was nutty. I didn't understand all of the words, but I know enough that I could recognize what I was reading. I'm going to keep reading the Bible in Bangla to practice. Wow.
When the flight began to land in Kolkata, I looked out the window and noticed...everything was green. What? Kolkata was not green the last time I was here. What. I told the guy next to me (in Bangla) that the last time I was here, Kolkata was not green. He said it was green because of monsoon season. That makes sense. Also, Kolkata is only green on the outside perimeter of the city. That makes more sense.
Landed, deplaned (that's a good word), through customs...and to my first Bangla argument. Fun! The currency exchange guy didn't have the taka exchange rate posted. I tried to exchange taka. He wanted 12,000 taka for...a comparatively very small amount of rupees. It didn't make any sense. I told him it didn't make any sense. He said the exchange rate was very bad for taka to rupees. I know the exchange rate. It's not. But it wasn't posted on the board that showed the rates (no clue why), so he could say whatever he wanted. GAH. What was interesting about the situation was that I was literally arguing the whole time in Bangla. And we both understood each other. We weren't arguing out of frustration with communication - we were arguing because he was trying to cheat me out of money. Woohoo!
Then I went to the next currency exchange place and had another full-Bangla conversation with a nice currency exchange man who gave me a better rate and talked about Sonagachi with me. Yaaaaaay. That was fun. THEN I went to the prepaid taxi stand next to the exchange place and ran into two white guys. I asked where they were from; they said Chicago. What. We shared a taxi to Sudder Street.
On the way to Sudder Street, the Chicago guys and I talked, and I asked the taxi driver a few questions in Bangla. He responded in English. It was like we were each trying to prove we could speak the other's language. Or we just both wanted to practice our second-language skills. The Chicago guys said they were only staying in Kolkata for two days and wanted to know what fun things there were to do in the city. They asked me what my favorite thing to do in Kolkata was. I said, "uh...take care of dying women?" They said they were thinking more about like, going to a Cricket game and asked where they could do that. I didn't know. They asked what I liked to do in my free time. I said I liked playing guitar on the roof. I wasn't very helpful.
We got to Sudder Street. I got out. Walked in the back way to Hotel Paragon. Walking along that street was like a dream. This is all like a dream. Same sewers, same rickshaws, same smells, same rundown rain-ruined walls. I walked into Hotel Paragon and the owners broke into wide smiles...and we began talking in rapid-fire Bangla. They remembered me. I remembered them. It was beautiful. I asked if my old room was available. It was. I went there. Everything Josefin, Jeff, Peter, and I did to the walls is still there, and it's been majorly built upon. Other people have drawn, painted, and written all over the walls. Spiritual stuff, silly stuff, portraits...all on top of and around what I wrote and drew. It's amazing.
Dropped my stuff down, locked the door, and went off to Mother's House for Adoration. Said hi to the guy who sells pants and stuff on the way out. And the guy who runs the shop on the corner. They all remember me. Argued with an autorickshaw guy about the price to Mother's House. He said a hundred taka. I told him in Bangla that I'm not stupid. It was fun. Hopped in another autorickshaw. Didn't have change. The guy next to me paid for me. It was nice. Went to Adoration, got there just as it was ending...apparently they changed the Sunday start time to 6pm. Talked another volunteer who was here the last time I was here and with the new sister in charge of volunteers. I'm working at Kalighat tomorrow. :-)
Walked back with some really sweet volunteers from Poland, Australia, the UK, France, and California. Walked down Sudder street for the first time...and everyone recognized me. It was ridiculous. Then to Khalsa for dinner. Just standing outside, AP (the guy at the counter) saw me and smiled. I walked in, and he said, "it's been what, two years? How are you? Your friend was here a few months ago. Not Jeff, the other one." Jake. :-) I told him I had missed Khalsa a lot. We sat down, and AP came over and said (I am not kidding) "dal mahkhani, right? That's your favorite." My heart melted. I've been gone for two years, and AP still remembers that I want dal mahkhani. After dinner, I told the waiter (who I saw nearly every day two years ago but could never talk with) that I am happy because I now I can speak Bangla. He said, in Bangla, that he is also happy now that I understand Bangla. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. After a fantastic dinner, I walked back down Sudder Street, and sat down at Tirupati. They handed me the guitar. I played and sang the song I wrote in Bangla. Then came here, to the internet cafe. The guys recognized me again, and said (again), "it's been what, two years?" We had a whole conversation in Bangla. I asked if I needed to register again. He said, "do you have the same thumb?" because there's a thumbprint sign-in system. I thumb printed. My picture showed up on the screen. Now I'm here.
Okay, sorry, that's a whole lot of text after a summer of writing nothing. There's something about Kolkata that makes me want to write and write and write, to get down in words all of my experiences, feelings, and conversations. ...especially when they're in Bangla. Today has been amazing. Coming back to this city I love and being able to speak has made everything so much more real. Granted, it's only been a few hours. We'll see about tomorrow.
One thing I've realized since returning is this: I can actually communicate in Bangla in Kolkata. I can't do that in Dhaka. I heard a lot of talk in Dhaka about dialect differences from Dhaka to Kolkata, but I didn't understand what anyone meant until I came back here. After a summer of learning a language and being somehow unable to understand what anyone was saying in public Dhaka, I understand nearly everything I hear in Kolkata. I don't know quite why, but somehow Kolkata Bangla is a zillion times easier to understand than Dhaka Bangla. And somehow, my Bangla blends well with the Bangla here. It's so easy to communicate. Maybe I'm overanalyzing. All I know is that I have had a ton of conversations today in which I'm sure I understood people and they understood me. It will be crazy to go back to Kalighat, Apne Aap, and Sonagachi in the next few days. Stay tuned for that. Aaah!
Okay, I wrote a ton.
I'm so excited about this.
Tomorrow: Kalighat.
Monday: CLS in Kolkata.
Tuesday: Apne Aap.
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday: Freeset.
This is amazing.
I need new adjectives.
Love,
Stephanie
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Onek Shobdo (many words)
Sorry for not posting until day 20. I'll do better at this writing thing from now on. If you'd like a summary of the last three weeks, go read Margo and Nate's blogs. They've been much more faithful bloggers.
The past three weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. From group bonding to quick cultural adjustments, there have been a lot of forced changes to be made. Subsequently, writing a blog post has not been high on my list. ...but, after three weeks, I think I'm officially blog write-able. :-)
Much to my surprise (but not to the surprise of my wise friends), this summer has thus far been very, very different from my semester in Kolkata. I wake up in a large, air conditioned, private room with a dresser, desk, working fan, a bed bigger than any I've ever owned, and two windows. Outside, there are trees. Lots of trees. There are not trees in Kolkata. The air here is equally thick as Kolkata's, but with humidity rather than dirt. I have my own bathroom with hot water, which gets cleaned a few times a week by someone who isn't me. I walk out into a huge living room with a TV and computer, couch, and two open-minded, kind, intelligent friends also studying Bangla. We live in literally the richest area of the city, in a private, gated community a 10 taka rickshaw ride away from the US embassy. Before heading to class every morning at 9:00, I grab breakfast from the fridge in my flat. Because I have a fridge. My living area is a complete 180 flip from where I lived in Kolkata - a dingy, moldy, one-six person sized (depending on the week) room with walls that left one meter gaps before the ceiling. Other than the scheduled power outages (every hour, for an hour), living in this flat in Dhaka is about 8983438 times more luxurious than how I lived in Kolkata.
Class is from 9:00am to 1:00pm, Sunday through Thursday. We have four different classes, from three different instructors, in grammar, conversation, writing, reading, spelling...everything you can think of a person would need to know to become fluent in Bangla. Because that's the goal here. Learn Bangla. There are 12 of us here in the beginning program, two intermediate, and one advanced. We're all here to learn Bangla. 15 Americans, all here for different reasons. All of whom the US government has said, "yes. Your reasons are legitimate. We will house you, feed you, and teach you for the summer. Go learn something and make a difference in the world. ...and maybe work for us eventually."
Every time I go outside and see signs full of Bangla, or hear my teachers fluently speaking the language I learned to love in Apne Aap, Kalighat, and the gardens of a leprosy center many kilometers north of Kolkata, I need to close my eyes for a few seconds to make sure it's real. For months, this language was something dreamily unattainable, a beautiful mess of poetic gibberish my ears could admire but not understand. But somehow, in the past three weeks, Bangla has taken a few steps toward me, or maybe I toward it. Tenses, vocabulary, vowel shifts, verb conjugation, and case endings have smashed themselves together into something resembling basic language comprehension.
The craziest moment I've had in the process of this realization happened while walking back from dinner with a group from Servants to Asia's Urban Poor. Nine pm, dark, we were walking in a bideshi (foreigner) pack, seven sets of white skin together. A beggar boy stumbleran to me, tripping over a combination of curbs and muddy water in the street. He was carrying flowers, asking me to buy them. This is a normal occurrence both here and in Kolkata. All over the streets, there are pre-teen boys and girls selling various vaguely useless objects. Chunky plastic hairclips. Bags of mysterious orange snack food. Strands of white flowers. They dodge in and out of traffic all day, knocking on car windows and wobbling heads, “madam, madam, madam, madam…” This particular boy found me on the street, and followed me for a minute or two. As he stared up at me, smiling wide and pleading that I buy the flowers, I had the eerie realization that he was speaking words I understood. He did not tell me a string of lyrical nonsense. Rather, he told me the flowers would look beautiful in my hair, that I should put them on my head, that I wanted the flowers. I needed the flowers. And while I knew that I didn't need or want the flowers, for once in this journey, I was able to understand that this boy was a person, communicating with me rather than speaking at the brick wall of my brain, and that I needed to communicate back with him to complete the reasonable exchange. My response, inadequately light for the weight of the moment, was "lagbe nai." Do not want. After a bit more pushing, he left.
Recently, I've realized that language is something much more important than I ever thought it would be. After four months of living in Kolkata with extremely minimal Bangla, I was fairly functional. But I was skimming the surface of real relationships, because I didn't know how to ask things like "hey, how's your family," much less understand a response. Now that I'm learning how to legitimately speak this language, I'm watching the chance of real connection get closer and closer.
A few weeks ago, a lovely friend by the name of Katie Lundell posted the lyrics to a song by Derek Webb on Facebook. It's called Rich Young Ruler, and it's about God wanting us to give Him what we are most scared to give up. Stuff like our financial security, our SUVs, our comfortable houses - in essence, the feelings of control over our lives that are false in the long run anyway.
But the lyrics that are really getting to me are these:
"He says, more than just your cash and coin
I want your time, I want your voice
I want the things you just can't give me
Because what you do to the least of these
My brothers, you have done it to me
Because I want the things you just can't give me "
For me, what's hard to give to God is my time and voice. I'm pretty selfish about my time. But here, in Bangladesh, I've been given an amazing opportunity to learn Bangla for free. What the monkey?! For some crazy reason, the American government decided last minute that my reasons for wanting to learn Bangla were worth funding. And now I'm here. So what should I do with my time? Study. Yep. Study. I should study. Fortunately, I'm really, really, super-duper über motivated to learn this language. Every time I don't want to study, I think of Dipa , and remember how badly I want her to get an education and not end up as a prostitute. Seriously. That girl is awesome. That's how I've been coping with not spending my time teaching or otherwise clearly serving. It feels like the time I spend studying now is an investment in future service. So I will serve God by studying my face off. Please send me annoying Facebook messages to encourage this.
In other news, in the past few weeks, I've become close with a church here called Dhaka International Christian Church (DICC). The pastor is the cousin of my friend Heather's husband. The night before I went to church, I read the story of the prodigal son in Luke 15. Once again, I was reminded through it that God will always be waiting to bless me more, no matter how long I've been trying to live my life alone. In church, the pastor announced that he and his wife were starting a book study on The Prodigal God, a book by Tim Keller about the story of the prodigal son(s). I took the hint from God and went to the study. It's. Fantastic. A group of people from all over the world, all in Dhaka for different reasons, all wanting to study what God is trying to tell us through Luke 15. Yay yay yay yay yay! I've met some awesome people through this study - including a woman who will be working with Freeset for the next 14 years as their head healthcare person. Yay yay yay yay yay!
I think if there's anything huge I've learned in the past three weeks (other than an absurd amount of Bangla...haven't even started talking about that one), it's that God provides...extravagantly. I came to Bangladesh to learn Bangla, and have been blessed with a fantastic community, a diverse and supportive spiritual home, kind and challenging teachers, and a comfortable living environment. Yes, I would rather be living in Kolkata right now, serving in Sonagachi. But I'm not going to be the bratty child of God asking, "why can't I serve now, Father?" I know that now is the time to learn the language I need to serve God and others more fully and more effectively. So I'm going to study study study. Study.
In fact, this post is done now.
Time to study.
Love and studystudy,
Stephanie
P.S. Sorry it's so long. ...oops.
The past three weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. From group bonding to quick cultural adjustments, there have been a lot of forced changes to be made. Subsequently, writing a blog post has not been high on my list. ...but, after three weeks, I think I'm officially blog write-able. :-)
Much to my surprise (but not to the surprise of my wise friends), this summer has thus far been very, very different from my semester in Kolkata. I wake up in a large, air conditioned, private room with a dresser, desk, working fan, a bed bigger than any I've ever owned, and two windows. Outside, there are trees. Lots of trees. There are not trees in Kolkata. The air here is equally thick as Kolkata's, but with humidity rather than dirt. I have my own bathroom with hot water, which gets cleaned a few times a week by someone who isn't me. I walk out into a huge living room with a TV and computer, couch, and two open-minded, kind, intelligent friends also studying Bangla. We live in literally the richest area of the city, in a private, gated community a 10 taka rickshaw ride away from the US embassy. Before heading to class every morning at 9:00, I grab breakfast from the fridge in my flat. Because I have a fridge. My living area is a complete 180 flip from where I lived in Kolkata - a dingy, moldy, one-six person sized (depending on the week) room with walls that left one meter gaps before the ceiling. Other than the scheduled power outages (every hour, for an hour), living in this flat in Dhaka is about 8983438 times more luxurious than how I lived in Kolkata.
Class is from 9:00am to 1:00pm, Sunday through Thursday. We have four different classes, from three different instructors, in grammar, conversation, writing, reading, spelling...everything you can think of a person would need to know to become fluent in Bangla. Because that's the goal here. Learn Bangla. There are 12 of us here in the beginning program, two intermediate, and one advanced. We're all here to learn Bangla. 15 Americans, all here for different reasons. All of whom the US government has said, "yes. Your reasons are legitimate. We will house you, feed you, and teach you for the summer. Go learn something and make a difference in the world. ...and maybe work for us eventually."
Every time I go outside and see signs full of Bangla, or hear my teachers fluently speaking the language I learned to love in Apne Aap, Kalighat, and the gardens of a leprosy center many kilometers north of Kolkata, I need to close my eyes for a few seconds to make sure it's real. For months, this language was something dreamily unattainable, a beautiful mess of poetic gibberish my ears could admire but not understand. But somehow, in the past three weeks, Bangla has taken a few steps toward me, or maybe I toward it. Tenses, vocabulary, vowel shifts, verb conjugation, and case endings have smashed themselves together into something resembling basic language comprehension.
The craziest moment I've had in the process of this realization happened while walking back from dinner with a group from Servants to Asia's Urban Poor. Nine pm, dark, we were walking in a bideshi (foreigner) pack, seven sets of white skin together. A beggar boy stumbleran to me, tripping over a combination of curbs and muddy water in the street. He was carrying flowers, asking me to buy them. This is a normal occurrence both here and in Kolkata. All over the streets, there are pre-teen boys and girls selling various vaguely useless objects. Chunky plastic hairclips. Bags of mysterious orange snack food. Strands of white flowers. They dodge in and out of traffic all day, knocking on car windows and wobbling heads, “madam, madam, madam, madam…” This particular boy found me on the street, and followed me for a minute or two. As he stared up at me, smiling wide and pleading that I buy the flowers, I had the eerie realization that he was speaking words I understood. He did not tell me a string of lyrical nonsense. Rather, he told me the flowers would look beautiful in my hair, that I should put them on my head, that I wanted the flowers. I needed the flowers. And while I knew that I didn't need or want the flowers, for once in this journey, I was able to understand that this boy was a person, communicating with me rather than speaking at the brick wall of my brain, and that I needed to communicate back with him to complete the reasonable exchange. My response, inadequately light for the weight of the moment, was "lagbe nai." Do not want. After a bit more pushing, he left.
Recently, I've realized that language is something much more important than I ever thought it would be. After four months of living in Kolkata with extremely minimal Bangla, I was fairly functional. But I was skimming the surface of real relationships, because I didn't know how to ask things like "hey, how's your family," much less understand a response. Now that I'm learning how to legitimately speak this language, I'm watching the chance of real connection get closer and closer.
A few weeks ago, a lovely friend by the name of Katie Lundell posted the lyrics to a song by Derek Webb on Facebook. It's called Rich Young Ruler, and it's about God wanting us to give Him what we are most scared to give up. Stuff like our financial security, our SUVs, our comfortable houses - in essence, the feelings of control over our lives that are false in the long run anyway.
But the lyrics that are really getting to me are these:
"He says, more than just your cash and coin
I want your time, I want your voice
I want the things you just can't give me
Because what you do to the least of these
My brothers, you have done it to me
Because I want the things you just can't give me "
For me, what's hard to give to God is my time and voice. I'm pretty selfish about my time. But here, in Bangladesh, I've been given an amazing opportunity to learn Bangla for free. What the monkey?! For some crazy reason, the American government decided last minute that my reasons for wanting to learn Bangla were worth funding. And now I'm here. So what should I do with my time? Study. Yep. Study. I should study. Fortunately, I'm really, really, super-duper über motivated to learn this language. Every time I don't want to study, I think of Dipa , and remember how badly I want her to get an education and not end up as a prostitute. Seriously. That girl is awesome. That's how I've been coping with not spending my time teaching or otherwise clearly serving. It feels like the time I spend studying now is an investment in future service. So I will serve God by studying my face off. Please send me annoying Facebook messages to encourage this.
In other news, in the past few weeks, I've become close with a church here called Dhaka International Christian Church (DICC). The pastor is the cousin of my friend Heather's husband. The night before I went to church, I read the story of the prodigal son in Luke 15. Once again, I was reminded through it that God will always be waiting to bless me more, no matter how long I've been trying to live my life alone. In church, the pastor announced that he and his wife were starting a book study on The Prodigal God, a book by Tim Keller about the story of the prodigal son(s). I took the hint from God and went to the study. It's. Fantastic. A group of people from all over the world, all in Dhaka for different reasons, all wanting to study what God is trying to tell us through Luke 15. Yay yay yay yay yay! I've met some awesome people through this study - including a woman who will be working with Freeset for the next 14 years as their head healthcare person. Yay yay yay yay yay!
I think if there's anything huge I've learned in the past three weeks (other than an absurd amount of Bangla...haven't even started talking about that one), it's that God provides...extravagantly. I came to Bangladesh to learn Bangla, and have been blessed with a fantastic community, a diverse and supportive spiritual home, kind and challenging teachers, and a comfortable living environment. Yes, I would rather be living in Kolkata right now, serving in Sonagachi. But I'm not going to be the bratty child of God asking, "why can't I serve now, Father?" I know that now is the time to learn the language I need to serve God and others more fully and more effectively. So I'm going to study study study. Study.
In fact, this post is done now.
Time to study.
Love and studystudy,
Stephanie
P.S. Sorry it's so long. ...oops.
Monday, May 10, 2010
God to Stephanie: "Surprise! You're going to Bangladesh."
This post is a brief explanation of the whole "I'm going to Bangladesh now kthxbi" thing. Feel free to skip it.
In December, I applied for a Critical Language Scholarship to study Bangla in Bangladesh for the summer. Though it was something I certainly had planned on applying for since my sophomore year at IWU (thanks, Kara Lutzow!), I didn't think I would actually get the scholarship. In fact, I originally planned on applying for Hindi, but switched last minute because a) I like Bangla waaaaaaaaaay more than Hindi and was really only applying for Hindi because I thought it would be more practical and b) I figured Bangla would be less competitive. I finished the essays (please let me learn Bangla so I can legitimately communicate with the girls I'm trying to prevent from being trafficked), filled out all the forms, and hit "submit" from my Nana's house in Vegas with about 20 minutes to spare.
In March, I received an email saying I was an alternate, and they'd probably let me know by mid-April whether I was going. In April, that did not happen. I made two slightly frantic phone calls to a very patient man who explained (twice) how the alternate list worked and told me he really couldn't tell me whether or not I was going, but I probably wasn't. But there was always a chance. Having no clue how to plan for the next few months, I talked for a long time with a fantastic professor who reassured me that taking nursing classes, volunteering, and waitressing over the summer were really good uses of my time. In the next week, I applied for classes which were already filled up. I emailed volunteer organizations that never wrote back. I sent my resume to an internship that never called. My summer, contrary to how I tried to plan it, was completely empty.
At the beginning of May, the night before my May Term class began, I got an email from CLS that began with "congratulations." Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. I mean, of course. Of course I would try to plan an entire summer and God would have a better plan. Bangladesh. What.
I'm going to Bangladesh?
AAAAAH!
A few notes about the program:
1. It's funded by the Department of State. That means your tax dollars are sending me to Bangladesh. Thanks!
2. I'm going with 14 other American undergraduate and graduate students, who all want to learn Bangla for different reasons.
3. I'll be studying at Independent University, Bangladesh.
4. I'll be living in an apartment with two other students. So, no more sharing a room with middle-aged Japanese women with sharp knives who stare at me while I sleep.
5. I'll be in Dhaka from June 5 - August 7, then in Kolkata for a week.
Okee! There are some details.
More will come later. :-)
Love,
Stephanie
In December, I applied for a Critical Language Scholarship to study Bangla in Bangladesh for the summer. Though it was something I certainly had planned on applying for since my sophomore year at IWU (thanks, Kara Lutzow!), I didn't think I would actually get the scholarship. In fact, I originally planned on applying for Hindi, but switched last minute because a) I like Bangla waaaaaaaaaay more than Hindi and was really only applying for Hindi because I thought it would be more practical and b) I figured Bangla would be less competitive. I finished the essays (please let me learn Bangla so I can legitimately communicate with the girls I'm trying to prevent from being trafficked), filled out all the forms, and hit "submit" from my Nana's house in Vegas with about 20 minutes to spare.
In March, I received an email saying I was an alternate, and they'd probably let me know by mid-April whether I was going. In April, that did not happen. I made two slightly frantic phone calls to a very patient man who explained (twice) how the alternate list worked and told me he really couldn't tell me whether or not I was going, but I probably wasn't. But there was always a chance. Having no clue how to plan for the next few months, I talked for a long time with a fantastic professor who reassured me that taking nursing classes, volunteering, and waitressing over the summer were really good uses of my time. In the next week, I applied for classes which were already filled up. I emailed volunteer organizations that never wrote back. I sent my resume to an internship that never called. My summer, contrary to how I tried to plan it, was completely empty.
At the beginning of May, the night before my May Term class began, I got an email from CLS that began with "congratulations." Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. I mean, of course. Of course I would try to plan an entire summer and God would have a better plan. Bangladesh. What.
I'm going to Bangladesh?
AAAAAH!
A few notes about the program:
1. It's funded by the Department of State. That means your tax dollars are sending me to Bangladesh. Thanks!
2. I'm going with 14 other American undergraduate and graduate students, who all want to learn Bangla for different reasons.
3. I'll be studying at Independent University, Bangladesh.
4. I'll be living in an apartment with two other students. So, no more sharing a room with middle-aged Japanese women with sharp knives who stare at me while I sleep.
5. I'll be in Dhaka from June 5 - August 7, then in Kolkata for a week.
Okee! There are some details.
More will come later. :-)
Love,
Stephanie
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Namaste, USA.
It's cold. It's clean. It's quiet. Everyone is white, speaking English, and standing far away from each other. There is a garbage truck that drives around streets and picks up everyone's neatly packaged trash, and brings it to somewhere we don't have to see it. The government pays for this service. My room is full of stuff I don't need and never use.
My breakfast cost 250 rupees, which is 17 plates of noodles, which could feed either me for two weeks of dinners or a family for a whole week. Or it could be seven plates of noodles, and a sari. Clothing and dinner for a week. Or it could be two shirts, two pairs of pants, and seven plates of noodles. Clothe two kids and feed 'em for a week.
The average wage for an agricultural worker in (and around) Kolkata is 50 rupees a day. I spent five days of work on three pancakes.
Mmmkay, that's all for now.
My breakfast cost 250 rupees, which is 17 plates of noodles, which could feed either me for two weeks of dinners or a family for a whole week. Or it could be seven plates of noodles, and a sari. Clothing and dinner for a week. Or it could be two shirts, two pairs of pants, and seven plates of noodles. Clothe two kids and feed 'em for a week.
The average wage for an agricultural worker in (and around) Kolkata is 50 rupees a day. I spent five days of work on three pancakes.
Mmmkay, that's all for now.
Monday, April 6, 2009
But do I have to?
Printed my boarding pass.
I, uh, said goodbye to my girls.
And Dipa.
Who kept waving and turning around and looking back.
No blog post today.
See Facebook for photos of Kalighat and more Apne Aap.
I took a bunch of videos.
They'll get posted later.
Love,
Stephanie
I, uh, said goodbye to my girls.
And Dipa.
Who kept waving and turning around and looking back.
No blog post today.
See Facebook for photos of Kalighat and more Apne Aap.
I took a bunch of videos.
They'll get posted later.
Love,
Stephanie
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Red-light #2 and some lists.
It's hot here.
So this post might be a blob.
What I Will Not Miss:
1. Men trying to talk to me (or just looking at me) while they pee in public
2. Not being able to sleep because of the heat
3. Having to grope-block men with my elbows seventeen thousand times a day
4. Wasting plastic by purchasing bottled water
5. Muttered comments about my appearance as I walk by men
6. "No problem, no problem" no matter how obvious the problem
What I Will Miss:
Everything else.
Really, everything. The beggars, the nauseating smells, the music, the bartering, the clothing, the colours, the dialects, the languages...and Kalighat. And my girls.
Everyone at Apne Aap keeps asking me when I'm coming back. "Amar ke khub bhalo lagbe, kintu kolkhon jani na." I would like it very much, but I don't know when.
Aaah! I'm considering lots and lots of options about returning, but I know that everything will happen according to God's timing. It'll all work out according to His will, thankfully.
Gosh, my brain is going bingbingbing today.
"There are times when love demands that you break the rules." - Father Patrick
This could be stretched to justify all sorts of ridiculousness, but in general...I'm a fan. It's a quote from this amazing priest at Mother's House. Father Patrick, from Tijuana. He plays guitar. And I'm stealing one of his talks as a devo for campers this summer.
Dear brain, please focus. Love, Stephanie.
Sonagachi. The largest red-light district in all of Kolkata. Hundreds of multi-story brothels. I went with Sam, my wonderful Kiwi roommate. Yet again, why do I have so many close friends named Sam?! We went around five pm, before it got dark, via Metro. We asked for directions at the internet place and at Paragon before leaving, and again in the metro station and no the street on the way there. Everyone had the exact same response - wide eyes, nervous smile, and why you want to go there?" or "what you do there?" or, at one point, "you know what happens in that place, yes?" Indeed, we knew. And that's why we were going. The last person we asked for directions was a police officer, leaning against his bike just a block away from Sonagachi. He walked us part of the way there.
SO WHY WASN'T HE DOING ANYTHING ABOUT IT?!
I mean, I know why. Because he's a police officer, which means he gets first pick of the new girls, and in exchange he gets to lean against his bike all day and ignore the twelve-year-olds getting raped and beaten in the buildings next door.
The brothels are huge. The buildings are imposingly tall. And the women are EVERYWHERE. Hundreds, thousands of women, wearing make-up to make their faces lighter, bright red lipstick, dark black eyeliner. And western clothes. Flowy skirts and tight tank tops. Some wear jeans, the same skin-tight type we wear daily in America. And tall shoes. They look disconcertingly like someone in between normal American teenager and little girl playing dress up with mommy's make up. But they're twenty, thirty, forty years old.
And all they do is stand there and pose. Arms crossed, chin raised, waiting. In groups of five, ten, twenty.
And the men! Ugh. Many more men than women. Standing around, joking, trying to appear inconspicuous. Shut up. We all know why you're here. Hsdfjaldsjfkld! I wanted to get them all in a group together and show them videos about the emotional and physical effects of sex trafficking. I wanted to explain to them that women are more than their bodies. I wanted to tell them how their actions affect their wives. I...aaaaah! Sex trafficking will not stop until the buyers receive some sort of consequence for their actions. Apne Aap is working to pass legislation to punish the buyers. Currently, the women get punished for "inappropriate soliciting." How absurd is that? When they've been trafficked at eleven and twelve and forced through "debt" to stay in the brothel. What a ridiculous legal system.
Anyway, Sam wanted to buy sweets ('cause why not stop and buy sweets in the middle of a red-light district?), which ended up being a fantastic idea. It meant that we stood in one place for awhile, which meant that, after walking around a bit, we were called over by some of the women (two wearing saris, one wearing a green flowy tiered skirt and a black tank top and flip-flops - just what I would wear in the summer) the second time we walked by. I had been waiting the entire night to talk with women. Any women. We stood around with them for about fifteen minutes. Don't worry, no one thought we were prostitutes. And we didn't go inside the brothel. And we didn't face the street or pose with them. We talked about how I learned Bangla, our families, marriage, why I'm in Kolkata, their thoughts about America, my nose piercing and why my ears aren't pierced (Indian women love to ask me about my lack of holes in my earlobes) ...we pretty much exhausted my Bangla skills. And omigosh, it was wonderful. We laughed. We joked. They touched my hands and liked my henna. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH so wonderful.
I think two of them might have been pregnant.
And walking back, I realized something. I remember flipping through the YWAM guide post-Mexico, looking at all the ministry options. I remember seeing "prostitute outreach" and thinking "no freaking way." But now...yeah. I would love to do ministry with prostitutes, former prostitutes, children of prostitutes. I don't know if I have the stamina, or if I'm extroverted enough. I know I'm not mature enough, nor do I have the wisdom or the language skills to be effective in India.
But maybe I will eventually?
Okay, that's all.
Time to print photos for my girls.
Oh, also. One more list.
What I didn't expect to bring back from India:
1. An inherent distrust of men who walk by me on the street.
2. A lack of sympathy for many people's problems. After seeing a naked baby covered in flies sleeping on the street, everything else seems so minimal. I'm going to need to pray a lot about this. I know that suffering is relative to the individual. I just need to learn to feel universal empathy. And I'm going to need to ask for patience from my friends and family. Please be gracious to me if I say something like "but it doesn't matter" when you tell me about something that bothers you. I'm sorry in advance.
3. A passion for medical work. Thanks Kalighat.
4. A love of cold showers.
5. Lice. JK, I don't think I have lice.
6. A henna addiction.
Goodnight!
Love and preparation pandas,
Stephanie
So this post might be a blob.
What I Will Not Miss:
1. Men trying to talk to me (or just looking at me) while they pee in public
2. Not being able to sleep because of the heat
3. Having to grope-block men with my elbows seventeen thousand times a day
4. Wasting plastic by purchasing bottled water
5. Muttered comments about my appearance as I walk by men
6. "No problem, no problem" no matter how obvious the problem
What I Will Miss:
Everything else.
Really, everything. The beggars, the nauseating smells, the music, the bartering, the clothing, the colours, the dialects, the languages...and Kalighat. And my girls.
Everyone at Apne Aap keeps asking me when I'm coming back. "Amar ke khub bhalo lagbe, kintu kolkhon jani na." I would like it very much, but I don't know when.
Aaah! I'm considering lots and lots of options about returning, but I know that everything will happen according to God's timing. It'll all work out according to His will, thankfully.
Gosh, my brain is going bingbingbing today.
"There are times when love demands that you break the rules." - Father Patrick
This could be stretched to justify all sorts of ridiculousness, but in general...I'm a fan. It's a quote from this amazing priest at Mother's House. Father Patrick, from Tijuana. He plays guitar. And I'm stealing one of his talks as a devo for campers this summer.
Dear brain, please focus. Love, Stephanie.
Sonagachi. The largest red-light district in all of Kolkata. Hundreds of multi-story brothels. I went with Sam, my wonderful Kiwi roommate. Yet again, why do I have so many close friends named Sam?! We went around five pm, before it got dark, via Metro. We asked for directions at the internet place and at Paragon before leaving, and again in the metro station and no the street on the way there. Everyone had the exact same response - wide eyes, nervous smile, and why you want to go there?" or "what you do there?" or, at one point, "you know what happens in that place, yes?" Indeed, we knew. And that's why we were going. The last person we asked for directions was a police officer, leaning against his bike just a block away from Sonagachi. He walked us part of the way there.
SO WHY WASN'T HE DOING ANYTHING ABOUT IT?!
I mean, I know why. Because he's a police officer, which means he gets first pick of the new girls, and in exchange he gets to lean against his bike all day and ignore the twelve-year-olds getting raped and beaten in the buildings next door.
The brothels are huge. The buildings are imposingly tall. And the women are EVERYWHERE. Hundreds, thousands of women, wearing make-up to make their faces lighter, bright red lipstick, dark black eyeliner. And western clothes. Flowy skirts and tight tank tops. Some wear jeans, the same skin-tight type we wear daily in America. And tall shoes. They look disconcertingly like someone in between normal American teenager and little girl playing dress up with mommy's make up. But they're twenty, thirty, forty years old.
And all they do is stand there and pose. Arms crossed, chin raised, waiting. In groups of five, ten, twenty.
And the men! Ugh. Many more men than women. Standing around, joking, trying to appear inconspicuous. Shut up. We all know why you're here. Hsdfjaldsjfkld! I wanted to get them all in a group together and show them videos about the emotional and physical effects of sex trafficking. I wanted to explain to them that women are more than their bodies. I wanted to tell them how their actions affect their wives. I...aaaaah! Sex trafficking will not stop until the buyers receive some sort of consequence for their actions. Apne Aap is working to pass legislation to punish the buyers. Currently, the women get punished for "inappropriate soliciting." How absurd is that? When they've been trafficked at eleven and twelve and forced through "debt" to stay in the brothel. What a ridiculous legal system.
Anyway, Sam wanted to buy sweets ('cause why not stop and buy sweets in the middle of a red-light district?), which ended up being a fantastic idea. It meant that we stood in one place for awhile, which meant that, after walking around a bit, we were called over by some of the women (two wearing saris, one wearing a green flowy tiered skirt and a black tank top and flip-flops - just what I would wear in the summer) the second time we walked by. I had been waiting the entire night to talk with women. Any women. We stood around with them for about fifteen minutes. Don't worry, no one thought we were prostitutes. And we didn't go inside the brothel. And we didn't face the street or pose with them. We talked about how I learned Bangla, our families, marriage, why I'm in Kolkata, their thoughts about America, my nose piercing and why my ears aren't pierced (Indian women love to ask me about my lack of holes in my earlobes) ...we pretty much exhausted my Bangla skills. And omigosh, it was wonderful. We laughed. We joked. They touched my hands and liked my henna. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH so wonderful.
I think two of them might have been pregnant.
And walking back, I realized something. I remember flipping through the YWAM guide post-Mexico, looking at all the ministry options. I remember seeing "prostitute outreach" and thinking "no freaking way." But now...yeah. I would love to do ministry with prostitutes, former prostitutes, children of prostitutes. I don't know if I have the stamina, or if I'm extroverted enough. I know I'm not mature enough, nor do I have the wisdom or the language skills to be effective in India.
But maybe I will eventually?
Okay, that's all.
Time to print photos for my girls.
Oh, also. One more list.
What I didn't expect to bring back from India:
1. An inherent distrust of men who walk by me on the street.
2. A lack of sympathy for many people's problems. After seeing a naked baby covered in flies sleeping on the street, everything else seems so minimal. I'm going to need to pray a lot about this. I know that suffering is relative to the individual. I just need to learn to feel universal empathy. And I'm going to need to ask for patience from my friends and family. Please be gracious to me if I say something like "but it doesn't matter" when you tell me about something that bothers you. I'm sorry in advance.
3. A passion for medical work. Thanks Kalighat.
4. A love of cold showers.
5. Lice. JK, I don't think I have lice.
6. A henna addiction.
Goodnight!
Love and preparation pandas,
Stephanie
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