Today is a strange day.
Lately, I've felt like life is moving much faster than I am. I only have 60-some more days here. My time in India is nearly halfway through. It's odd.
Apne Aap is amazing. My girls are fantastic. They're learning, like, actually learning. As I wrote previously, I haven't had a translator for about two weeks, and it's actually easier to teach without one. We're easily, definitely communicating - one third English, one third Bangla, one third gestures, expressions and intuition. When I come back to Sudder and speak English with my American friends, I feel lazy.
Recently, I taught my girls up, down, right left, go, stop, fast, slow, turn, backwards, forwards, which way, this way, that way. We played a game that involved walking in a circle and me giving directions. If they messed up, they crashed into each other. We laughed through the whole thing, but by the end, they definitely knew all of the words.
After class last Wednesday, my girls insisted on Henna-ing me. It took about two hours. While it dried, we sang and danced and talked as much as we could. One of my girls said "no teacher, no students. We are friends." And that's what it feels like. We're all the same age. It's more like a bunch of friends hanging out every day, and one of us happens to know English, so I teach them English.
Also, I found out that my girls aren't prostitutes. Praise God. They do, however, live in the worst slum of all of Kolkata. Under tarps and such. When one of them wrote "I live in a hut" for her homework, she wasn't mistranslating. I want to go visit their homes, but I'm not sure if that's crossing any student-teacher line, or if it would be disrespectful. I won't ask, obviously. But I kind of hope they invite me. I want to help them financially, but I know that I can't. Teaching them English is, in a roundabout way, financially helpful.
Kalighat is difficult. I'm finally realizing that people die there, all the time. Last week, during tea, I suddenly felt an extreme imbalance in the world. My breath went short, it felt like someone had mentally shoved me off a chair, and I had a sudden awareness that someone had died. I stopped mid-sentence in a conversation, walked downstairs, and the Sisters were covering a man (well, his body) with a sheet.
What does it mean to die? Why does it inherently bother us so much? My current thoughts are these: God's Spirit dwells in us. When someone dies, God's Spirit leaves the body, and that feels AWFUL to anyone who sees or senses it. You could take the standpoint that it's really just life leaving the body that's so terribly disconcerting. But what's "life" anyway, but a verbal placeholder for "God"?
My new friends are amazing. Seriously. There's nearly nothing else to say. I've been praying about God granting me the ability to exist nearly completely here, and I can see Him providing me all I need again and again. I feel so ridiculously blessed.
I know this is a short post, but I honestly don't know what to write.
I'm here.
I love it.
And I'm listening to Mother India for the first time in a long time.
Love and henna,
Stephanie
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Slumdog Millionaire
Last night, my friend Jeff and I went to see Slumdog Millionaire at the local theatre.
Before I discuss the film, I think it's important to describe the context in which I watched it.
Jeff and I walked from the Metro to the theatre, around 8:30 at night. Past the vendors lining the streets, the men muttering "looks nice" and "hello" in my general direction, around the garbage and human waste cluttering the gutters, past the barter-at-will market that inevitably swallows me up and tosses me into some sort of directionless, infinite sensory overload every time I enter, and into the strangely air-conditioned building that houses a Domino's, KFC, Barista, and movie theatre. The seats are assigned, like an actual theatre, and there are four prices - 40, 60, 80, and 120 rupees, based on balcony location (there are two levels and the floor) and proximity to the screen. You can openly bring food into the theatre, rather than smuggle it under your coat like my mom taught me. You can talk throughout the movie. It's normal to clap and yell things at the screen. There's a seemingly randomly-placed intermission, during which men walk through the aisles, over feet and knees, selling plastic-packaged popcorn and styrofoam-cupped coffee. And, just like everywhere else in Kolkata, the women are mostly wearing sarees. Which, in juxtaposition with the Western-influenced movie theatre and GIANT screen, causes the idea that we're really just a bunch of Indians in America to somehow creep into my mind. We brought vegetable rolls (not like spring rolls - like the Indian version of a burrito) and garlic bread from Domino's (a splurge) into the movie. We got there two minutes late (...still early for me...), but still in time for the previews, which were for Western movies that are long gone to DVD in the States.
...and then Slumdog Millionaire began.
OH. MY. GOSH.
First of all, if you haven't seen this movie, go see it. Now. Ignore your schedule and take a trip to Blockbuster. Also, don't finish reading this post until you see the movie. Sorry. It's necessary.
If you have seen it, and have had any questions about what living in Kolkata looks like - it looks like that. Just like that. No changes. None. Yes, Kolkata is a different city than Mumbai, but seriously, this movie, especially the first scene, looked just as if I stepped out of Apne Aap or Kalighat or, uh, the back of my hostel. And what really blew my mind within the first ten minutes is this: two months ago, the setting of this movie would have looked like...a movie. I would have admired the cinematography and said "oooooh that looks fun." Probably would have laughed at the dogs, and seen the movie as a nicely-imagined not-reality. And now...it's just plain accurate. Interesting, but in a "oh hey, I live there" way. Not in a "wow, what's that?" way.
I'm living in a place that I would have seen as fictional two months ago.
But there really is that much garbage. There really are dogs everywhere. There really are adorable, dirty kids holding screaming babies who appear out of nowhere at your car windows and ask for money whenever traffic stops. Remember the scenes with the overhead shots of the traffic? With the funny little golf-cart looking things? Those are auto-rickshaws. And that's exactly what the traffic looks like. Always. And that little head-tilt that Jamal did throughout the movie, to mean yes and no and maybe? HEAD WOBBLE. And remember the garlands of yellow flowers on the photos in the police station? Those garlands hang on photos everywhere here. Same with the random slabs of meat hanging in shops. There's a street on the way to the Motherhouse that has approximately twenty butcher shops, all containing numerous huge slabs of dead animal hanging in the open, and occasionally a full skinned pig.
The only components that are inaccurate are the women's clothing (there is not even close to that much Western influence in Kolkata - but I haven't been to Mumbai), the accents (not prominent enough, but I'm sure that was a Western-film choice), the copious amounts of spoken English (most of the movie should have been in Hindi), the PDA (kissing at a train station = not okay) and the depiction of the kid as the god Rama, who was definitely dressed as Shiva. That was weird.
So...there's one part of the movie that...hm. Kept me awake all night. There's this one flashback where this guy swipes a bunch of kids and teaches them how to sing. At this point, I looked at Jeff wide-eyed and mouthed "no. no. no. no. no." There's an old, blind man who lives and begs on Sudder street. He has the most beautiful voice I've heard in a long time. He walks around with a younger man who guides him, and all the blind man does is walk and sing. And that's how he begs. And he's one of the only beggars to whom I'll give money, because he sings, rather than just asking for money and holding a crying baby. And honestly, every time I see him I realize that there are some beggars here who actually aren't lying, and somehow, in some strange way, that makes me feel awkwardly hopeful. But Jeff noticed a few weeks ago that he cries when he sings. He's not the only crying, blind, singing beggar. They're all over Kolkata. And it's odd, as Jeff recently noted, that there are so many blind people in Kolkata who are so good at singing. ...then we saw Slumdog Millionaire.
And now I can't help but picture all of these old, singing, blind men as kids, getting their eyes burned out with acid and being sent into the streets to beg for money.
I've tried to find out whether that really is exactly how these men all became blind and learned to sing, but Google searching has proven inconclusive. As awful as it is...the rest of the movie was so accurate, that I find it difficult to believe this part was manufactured. Especially when it's such a probable explanation for an over-abundance of blind, singing men.
And then...I wonder about the blind orphans at Daya Dan, and my stomach turns.
...
Okay, that's all.
Except...the random dancing and singing at the end of the movie? Pure Bollywood. Hooray!
Love,
Stephanie
P.S. I'm hennaed. I'll post pictures when I can.
P.P.S. I adore Apne Aap. Teaching is difficult, but coming up with creative ways to get my girls to learn is a lot of fun. My translators have been gone for about two weeks. I'm on my own, teaching for two and a half hours Monday through Friday. Prayer would be very much appreciated. Also, I still haven't figured out whether my gorgeous, 17-to-22-year-old friends/students are prostitutes. I might ask one of the directors soon.
P.P.P.S. There are five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten-year-old kids at Apne Aap who ask me for paper and pens the exact same way kids on the street ask for money - with a head wobble and a smile and an "Auntie, please, Auntie, please." I worry about what they do after school.
P.P.P.P.S. Despite the sadness in this place, I'm completely in love with India.
Before I discuss the film, I think it's important to describe the context in which I watched it.
Jeff and I walked from the Metro to the theatre, around 8:30 at night. Past the vendors lining the streets, the men muttering "looks nice" and "hello" in my general direction, around the garbage and human waste cluttering the gutters, past the barter-at-will market that inevitably swallows me up and tosses me into some sort of directionless, infinite sensory overload every time I enter, and into the strangely air-conditioned building that houses a Domino's, KFC, Barista, and movie theatre. The seats are assigned, like an actual theatre, and there are four prices - 40, 60, 80, and 120 rupees, based on balcony location (there are two levels and the floor) and proximity to the screen. You can openly bring food into the theatre, rather than smuggle it under your coat like my mom taught me. You can talk throughout the movie. It's normal to clap and yell things at the screen. There's a seemingly randomly-placed intermission, during which men walk through the aisles, over feet and knees, selling plastic-packaged popcorn and styrofoam-cupped coffee. And, just like everywhere else in Kolkata, the women are mostly wearing sarees. Which, in juxtaposition with the Western-influenced movie theatre and GIANT screen, causes the idea that we're really just a bunch of Indians in America to somehow creep into my mind. We brought vegetable rolls (not like spring rolls - like the Indian version of a burrito) and garlic bread from Domino's (a splurge) into the movie. We got there two minutes late (...still early for me...), but still in time for the previews, which were for Western movies that are long gone to DVD in the States.
...and then Slumdog Millionaire began.
OH. MY. GOSH.
First of all, if you haven't seen this movie, go see it. Now. Ignore your schedule and take a trip to Blockbuster. Also, don't finish reading this post until you see the movie. Sorry. It's necessary.
If you have seen it, and have had any questions about what living in Kolkata looks like - it looks like that. Just like that. No changes. None. Yes, Kolkata is a different city than Mumbai, but seriously, this movie, especially the first scene, looked just as if I stepped out of Apne Aap or Kalighat or, uh, the back of my hostel. And what really blew my mind within the first ten minutes is this: two months ago, the setting of this movie would have looked like...a movie. I would have admired the cinematography and said "oooooh that looks fun." Probably would have laughed at the dogs, and seen the movie as a nicely-imagined not-reality. And now...it's just plain accurate. Interesting, but in a "oh hey, I live there" way. Not in a "wow, what's that?" way.
I'm living in a place that I would have seen as fictional two months ago.
But there really is that much garbage. There really are dogs everywhere. There really are adorable, dirty kids holding screaming babies who appear out of nowhere at your car windows and ask for money whenever traffic stops. Remember the scenes with the overhead shots of the traffic? With the funny little golf-cart looking things? Those are auto-rickshaws. And that's exactly what the traffic looks like. Always. And that little head-tilt that Jamal did throughout the movie, to mean yes and no and maybe? HEAD WOBBLE. And remember the garlands of yellow flowers on the photos in the police station? Those garlands hang on photos everywhere here. Same with the random slabs of meat hanging in shops. There's a street on the way to the Motherhouse that has approximately twenty butcher shops, all containing numerous huge slabs of dead animal hanging in the open, and occasionally a full skinned pig.
The only components that are inaccurate are the women's clothing (there is not even close to that much Western influence in Kolkata - but I haven't been to Mumbai), the accents (not prominent enough, but I'm sure that was a Western-film choice), the copious amounts of spoken English (most of the movie should have been in Hindi), the PDA (kissing at a train station = not okay) and the depiction of the kid as the god Rama, who was definitely dressed as Shiva. That was weird.
So...there's one part of the movie that...hm. Kept me awake all night. There's this one flashback where this guy swipes a bunch of kids and teaches them how to sing. At this point, I looked at Jeff wide-eyed and mouthed "no. no. no. no. no." There's an old, blind man who lives and begs on Sudder street. He has the most beautiful voice I've heard in a long time. He walks around with a younger man who guides him, and all the blind man does is walk and sing. And that's how he begs. And he's one of the only beggars to whom I'll give money, because he sings, rather than just asking for money and holding a crying baby. And honestly, every time I see him I realize that there are some beggars here who actually aren't lying, and somehow, in some strange way, that makes me feel awkwardly hopeful. But Jeff noticed a few weeks ago that he cries when he sings. He's not the only crying, blind, singing beggar. They're all over Kolkata. And it's odd, as Jeff recently noted, that there are so many blind people in Kolkata who are so good at singing. ...then we saw Slumdog Millionaire.
And now I can't help but picture all of these old, singing, blind men as kids, getting their eyes burned out with acid and being sent into the streets to beg for money.
I've tried to find out whether that really is exactly how these men all became blind and learned to sing, but Google searching has proven inconclusive. As awful as it is...the rest of the movie was so accurate, that I find it difficult to believe this part was manufactured. Especially when it's such a probable explanation for an over-abundance of blind, singing men.
And then...I wonder about the blind orphans at Daya Dan, and my stomach turns.
...
Okay, that's all.
Except...the random dancing and singing at the end of the movie? Pure Bollywood. Hooray!
Love,
Stephanie
P.S. I'm hennaed. I'll post pictures when I can.
P.P.S. I adore Apne Aap. Teaching is difficult, but coming up with creative ways to get my girls to learn is a lot of fun. My translators have been gone for about two weeks. I'm on my own, teaching for two and a half hours Monday through Friday. Prayer would be very much appreciated. Also, I still haven't figured out whether my gorgeous, 17-to-22-year-old friends/students are prostitutes. I might ask one of the directors soon.
P.P.P.S. There are five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten-year-old kids at Apne Aap who ask me for paper and pens the exact same way kids on the street ask for money - with a head wobble and a smile and an "Auntie, please, Auntie, please." I worry about what they do after school.
P.P.P.P.S. Despite the sadness in this place, I'm completely in love with India.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I've got some friends that you should meet. Part two.
Books. :-)
My two super roommates - Jake and Tony.
Clearly, they love each other.
And Jeff!
"Look cute. Like, baby turtle cute."
Also, I still exist.
Oh hey, goats in the street.
Bueno.
Off to Kalighat.
Love and html,
Stephanie
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Best. Moment. Ever.
Warning: the following post has nothing to do with anything heart-warming, thought-provoking, or life-changing.
Except that's a lie.
This was one of the most amazing moments of my life.
Ready?
I don't think anyone could possibly be prepared for this moment.
I sure wasn't.
Okay.
So.
I was sitting in my room at Hotel Walson with Jill, Jake, Jeff, and Tony. And the fan was spinning quite quickly. So Tony said "that fan's going way too fast" or something like that. And Tony and I had just been discussing the joy of subtle sarcasm, so I responded with...
"That's actually really pretty stationary."
And I didn't say anything else.
About half a minute later, Jill was going through her suitcase, and reappeared with a black, rectangular box containing paper and envelopes. And Tony said something like, "man, that's fancy. I'm not sure what I think of it." And I said...(ready?)...
"That's actually really pretty stationery."
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The end.
Love and verbal GLEE,
Stephanie
Except that's a lie.
This was one of the most amazing moments of my life.
Ready?
I don't think anyone could possibly be prepared for this moment.
I sure wasn't.
Okay.
So.
I was sitting in my room at Hotel Walson with Jill, Jake, Jeff, and Tony. And the fan was spinning quite quickly. So Tony said "that fan's going way too fast" or something like that. And Tony and I had just been discussing the joy of subtle sarcasm, so I responded with...
"That's actually really pretty stationary."
And I didn't say anything else.
About half a minute later, Jill was going through her suitcase, and reappeared with a black, rectangular box containing paper and envelopes. And Tony said something like, "man, that's fancy. I'm not sure what I think of it." And I said...(ready?)...
"That's actually really pretty stationery."
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The end.
Love and verbal GLEE,
Stephanie
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Love, love, love - part two. And some other stuff.
After posting yesterday, I thought for awhile about what I wrote...and realized that I needed to add a little to it.
So here's the addition.
:-)
In regards to loving with actions...I had a quick question for all y'all. When I'm in Kalighat, loving with actions seems fairly straightforward, especially when I don't speak Bangla very well. But with you all, my friends and family, I'm a little more confused. Especially when you're *Google search* 8000 miles away. Wow that's far. It seems like, considering distance, the only way I can show you all that I love you is through words. Blog posts. Emails. Phone calls. Well, that and prayer. Hmmmmmmmm. So...how do I love-with-actions people who are 8000 miles away??? Aaaah!
And I'd like to clarify something super-fast. Even though God's trying to teach me to love with actions, I don't really feel like I've learned how yet. Kalighat, yes. Outside of Kalighat...not so much. So if that last post sounded like "look what I'm learning!", that's not what I meant to communicate. I meant more so "look what God's trying to teach me!", because He's definitely trying, and I'm definitely...trying to figure out how to learn.
Okay.
That's all.
But while I'm writing...
Something ridiculous happened today.
Yesterday, after teaching, Zareen asked me to come to Apne Aap around 11:30 today. And didn't tell me why. When I asked, she said one of the directors wanted to meet with me. Uhhhhhhhhhhh. Thus, from then until this morning, approximately twelve different ideas bounced around my brain. They were angry with me for being a half-hour late every day (vaguely likely). They thought I was teaching inappropriately and they wanted me to be more structured (likely). They wanted to tell me that the drama group wasn't going to work (likely). They wanted to kick me out of Apne Aap altogether (not too likely, but frightening). And when I got there, I was completely surprised by something totally different.
They wanted me to write a grant proposal.
Subachani (I think that's her name; I still can't remember it) opened an outline on her computer, and proceeded to explain to me their plan for creating a recovery and reintegration program for women in prostitution, based in a hostel. Full financial support for the first six months (phase one), counseling and therapy, community living - in six phases. Three years long. With eventual job placement and complete self-sufficiency. I'm not going to explain all the details, because it's waaaaaaaaay too complex, but it sounds like an extremely effective, and possibly very expensive program.
So...I wrote it. In four hours. With lunch, an exorbitant amount of chai, and a bathroom break. The whole thing, almost. I copied and pasted the what-Apne-Aap-does section from a different proposal, Subachani had given me an outline of the program, and I still have to write the "what next" section detailing the future. But it still ended up being thirteen pages. It'll be fourteen in between now and Friday, when I finish the "what next" section.
This is ridiculous. Two months ago, I wrote a research paper about Apne Aap. Today, I wrote a grant proposal for them. Because they asked me to.
OMIGOSH I WROTE A GRANT PROPOSAL FOR AN ANTI-SEX TRAFFICKING NGO.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And the girls were sitting in a larger room right next to where I was, and we kept waving at each other and laughing while I was type-type-typing, and they waited for me after their class, and we walked out together, and I adore them. And I love that we're the same age. And it's wonderful.
OH! And they changed my schedule. Now I'm teaching my usual twenty girls Monday-Thursday from 12:00-13:00, and then the class splits into ten-girl study groups from 13:00-14:00, Monday/Wednesday and Tuesday/Thursday. And I'm doing individual work with two girls from 14:00-14:30. Which is SO MUCH better. Because now I can teach group lessons every day, and spend the M/W and T/R time focusing more on individual, smaller, writing work. Or maybe the opposite. I need to think about it and plan my time. And ask you all for advice. Advice please?
AND! Friday afternoon = drama group...which we've been trying to start for a few weeks, but festivals and bus strikes and stuff have caused it to not happen. Boo.
This schedule is FANTASTIC. Because the afternoon shift at Kalighat is from 15:00-17:30, and now I can go to the whole shift every day, rather than being an hour late. Because I've been teaching from 13:30-15:30.
HOORAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Schedule:
Monday-Wednesday - AA noon-2:30pm, Kalighat 3:00 - 5:30pm.
Thursday - AA noon-2:30pm. Missionaries of Charity Day of Rest.
Friday - Kalighat 8:00 - noon, AA 1:30-4:30pm (They told me to be there at 1:30, but didn't really explain why. Something about sitting with the girls.)
Saturday / Sunday - Kalighat 8:00 - noon, and/or 3:00 - 5:30.
Also, Mass is at 6:00AM, and Adoration is 6:00 / 6:30 PM, depending on the day. And I'm a big fan of Adoration, because it's pretty much an hour of silent prayer / meditation at the Mother House.
Wow.
This is awesome.
And I just realized that I'm oddly doing exactly what my Mom does...teaching and taking care of sick people.
Hi Mom!
Also, credit to my Dad for the lesson I taught yesterday - it's based off of the M&MD Hebrew Fruit Salad Night from when I was, like, ten. Thanks. :-)
Okay, this was way longer than I meant it to be. And I have been staring at a computer screen for approximately five hours today, which is icky.
Time for dinner. Nom.
Love and I WROTE A GRANT PROPOSAL,
Stephanie
So here's the addition.
:-)
In regards to loving with actions...I had a quick question for all y'all. When I'm in Kalighat, loving with actions seems fairly straightforward, especially when I don't speak Bangla very well. But with you all, my friends and family, I'm a little more confused. Especially when you're *Google search* 8000 miles away. Wow that's far. It seems like, considering distance, the only way I can show you all that I love you is through words. Blog posts. Emails. Phone calls. Well, that and prayer. Hmmmmmmmm. So...how do I love-with-actions people who are 8000 miles away??? Aaaah!
And I'd like to clarify something super-fast. Even though God's trying to teach me to love with actions, I don't really feel like I've learned how yet. Kalighat, yes. Outside of Kalighat...not so much. So if that last post sounded like "look what I'm learning!", that's not what I meant to communicate. I meant more so "look what God's trying to teach me!", because He's definitely trying, and I'm definitely...trying to figure out how to learn.
Okay.
That's all.
But while I'm writing...
Something ridiculous happened today.
Yesterday, after teaching, Zareen asked me to come to Apne Aap around 11:30 today. And didn't tell me why. When I asked, she said one of the directors wanted to meet with me. Uhhhhhhhhhhh. Thus, from then until this morning, approximately twelve different ideas bounced around my brain. They were angry with me for being a half-hour late every day (vaguely likely). They thought I was teaching inappropriately and they wanted me to be more structured (likely). They wanted to tell me that the drama group wasn't going to work (likely). They wanted to kick me out of Apne Aap altogether (not too likely, but frightening). And when I got there, I was completely surprised by something totally different.
They wanted me to write a grant proposal.
Subachani (I think that's her name; I still can't remember it) opened an outline on her computer, and proceeded to explain to me their plan for creating a recovery and reintegration program for women in prostitution, based in a hostel. Full financial support for the first six months (phase one), counseling and therapy, community living - in six phases. Three years long. With eventual job placement and complete self-sufficiency. I'm not going to explain all the details, because it's waaaaaaaaay too complex, but it sounds like an extremely effective, and possibly very expensive program.
So...I wrote it. In four hours. With lunch, an exorbitant amount of chai, and a bathroom break. The whole thing, almost. I copied and pasted the what-Apne-Aap-does section from a different proposal, Subachani had given me an outline of the program, and I still have to write the "what next" section detailing the future. But it still ended up being thirteen pages. It'll be fourteen in between now and Friday, when I finish the "what next" section.
This is ridiculous. Two months ago, I wrote a research paper about Apne Aap. Today, I wrote a grant proposal for them. Because they asked me to.
OMIGOSH I WROTE A GRANT PROPOSAL FOR AN ANTI-SEX TRAFFICKING NGO.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And the girls were sitting in a larger room right next to where I was, and we kept waving at each other and laughing while I was type-type-typing, and they waited for me after their class, and we walked out together, and I adore them. And I love that we're the same age. And it's wonderful.
OH! And they changed my schedule. Now I'm teaching my usual twenty girls Monday-Thursday from 12:00-13:00, and then the class splits into ten-girl study groups from 13:00-14:00, Monday/Wednesday and Tuesday/Thursday. And I'm doing individual work with two girls from 14:00-14:30. Which is SO MUCH better. Because now I can teach group lessons every day, and spend the M/W and T/R time focusing more on individual, smaller, writing work. Or maybe the opposite. I need to think about it and plan my time. And ask you all for advice. Advice please?
AND! Friday afternoon = drama group...which we've been trying to start for a few weeks, but festivals and bus strikes and stuff have caused it to not happen. Boo.
This schedule is FANTASTIC. Because the afternoon shift at Kalighat is from 15:00-17:30, and now I can go to the whole shift every day, rather than being an hour late. Because I've been teaching from 13:30-15:30.
HOORAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Schedule:
Monday-Wednesday - AA noon-2:30pm, Kalighat 3:00 - 5:30pm.
Thursday - AA noon-2:30pm. Missionaries of Charity Day of Rest.
Friday - Kalighat 8:00 - noon, AA 1:30-4:30pm (They told me to be there at 1:30, but didn't really explain why. Something about sitting with the girls.)
Saturday / Sunday - Kalighat 8:00 - noon, and/or 3:00 - 5:30.
Also, Mass is at 6:00AM, and Adoration is 6:00 / 6:30 PM, depending on the day. And I'm a big fan of Adoration, because it's pretty much an hour of silent prayer / meditation at the Mother House.
Wow.
This is awesome.
And I just realized that I'm oddly doing exactly what my Mom does...teaching and taking care of sick people.
Hi Mom!
Also, credit to my Dad for the lesson I taught yesterday - it's based off of the M&MD Hebrew Fruit Salad Night from when I was, like, ten. Thanks. :-)
Okay, this was way longer than I meant it to be. And I have been staring at a computer screen for approximately five hours today, which is icky.
Time for dinner. Nom.
Love and I WROTE A GRANT PROPOSAL,
Stephanie
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Love, love, love.
My class. Normally, when they take pictures, they all try to look serious. But one of the girls moved and they all started laughing - and I caught this picture. And honestly, we all laugh through class anyway, so this is much more accurate.
Proof that I'm there too. But aaaaaaaah why don't they smile?!
Three from the right - Zareen, my lovely sometimes-translator. Three from the left (with the braids), one of the most beautiful faces I've ever seen.
Queen Victoria Memorial. Pretty. :-)
"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. This then is how we know that we belong to the truth, and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence whenever our hearts condemn us. For God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything." - 1 John 3:16-20
When I first sat down to write this post, I had no clue how to tie together everything that I've experienced in the past week. I've taught a bunch of classes and worked at Kalighat. Though both are difficult and emotionally trying, I've been very...calm. Comfortable. I've had experiences that have been completely new and a little shocking, but through it all, I've been...peaceful? Thus, trying to figure out what to write has been difficult. Teaching - amazing. Kalighat - amazing. But what to write about them?
And then I remembered the quote I read on a chalkboard in the Motherhouse yesterday, after Adoration (which was also amazing): "real love cannot be explained using words, only actions" and then some other stuff. I don't remember the whole thing. But it got me thinking - I've always been a big fan of 1 John 3:18 (oh hey Sam Toeller!). So much, in fact, that it's one of my "theme verses" for my time in India. Loving with actions, rather than words. I think that we often try to explain love as if it's an emotion, or a sentiment. We tell people we love them. But without the actions to back it up, what does that mean? Since I've been here, I've been extremely convicted to make sure that my view of love is not emotion-based, but action-based. Friendship love. Brotherly / sisterly love. Romantic love. Love of all people. Love of God. If I don't show people that I love them, through time, service, support, etc., how will they know? If I don't show God that I love Him, do my emotions really make a difference? I can say that I love God, but if I'm not giving my life to actively serve Him, I don't think saying it every so often really counts. Relationships take time, not just statements.
I've been at Kalighat for a week now. And I've found that the more I'm there, the more I love it, and the more I love it, the more I want to be there. A few days ago, a woman named Kamala came in. Her first day, she had two volunteers with her nearly the whole time, so I was with other women. Her second day, I somehow ended up next to her. She was thin, barely moving, wheezing when she breathed, quite old (maybe, it's difficult to judge age here), with long, tangled, silver hair. There was a bowl next to her bed into which she coughed blood and phlegm. Super. So I sat there, and stroked her hair and held her hand and rubbed her back and watched for her chest to convulse so I could put the bowl in front of her. And listened to her talk about...something. I'm not sure what. When the women talk for long amounts of time, and are clearly trying to tell me something different than "blanket" or "food," I imagine what they're saying as they're saying it. I have entire stories made up for the women to whom I've listened, about husbands, children, mothers, and once, I swear a woman told me a recipe for curry.
And as I got to know Kamala, I realized that I really just wanted to sit there with her. I often sit and talk with Holu, Asha, Laila and a few other women, but, for the last three days, I've mainly been with Kamala. Two days ago, a doctor listened to her breathe with a stethoscope, and diagnosed a collapsed lung and congestive heart failure, and added "she's not well at all." She didn't tell me how long she'd have to live, and I didn't ask. So I combed her hair and French braided it, so the Sisters wouldn't have to cut it off. I figured Kamala probably wouldn't be a fan of someone cutting her hair. It was quite long. And right after I finished, she twisted it up into a bun. I didn't think her hands would be that dexterous, nor her arms that strong. She had difficulty sitting up.
Since I've been with her, she's recognized me when I walk in, and she's been more comfortable with me. The first day, she was kind of distant, but the past two days, when I held her, she leaned against me and talked with me. I imagine she told me about the family that should have been there with her. Usually, the sisters encourage us to interact with all of the women...but they didn't get angry with me for being with Kamala. And I think Kamala and I both appreciated that.
I was going to go to Kalighat this morning, but I had forgotten to plan for Apne Aap today. So I slept in (10:30 - whoa), and bought candy for my students (pictured at the top!!), because I taught a lesson today on numbers and requesting things. What would you like, I would like, how many, do you have, I have, this, that, these, those, all, some, many, none. I placed all the candy (three different types) in the middle of the circle, and asked each girl which one they would like, and how many, and then separated the candy into three piles and asked them which ones they would like. They had to answer with something like "one of that, two of these, and one of this," using "this" for singular, close objects, "that" for singular, far objects, "these" for plural, close objects, and "those" for plural, far objects. And today, I had no translator. It was awesome. The girls and I had so much fun - they somehow picked up the word "enjoy," so they said "I enjoy class" over and over, and one girl said "I enjoy you." Hehe. Whenever I have them write sentences (often), they always work in something about me. When we studied "what do you like?" a bunch wrote "I like Ani." And who-what-where-when-why-how turned into "who is your favourite teacher?" I promise this isn't why I love teaching. But it's really nice to have such an encouraging group of girls, who openly express enjoyment of my two-hour-long class, joyously teach me Bengali and passionately complete the homework I assign. I feel extremely blessed to have such an amazing group for my first class. Oh...and they're probably the same age as me. I think most are eighteen.
Anyway, I got to Kalighat around four today (rather than three), because for the past two days, my taxi drivers have placed me in spots that are definitely not Kalighat. I walked to Kamala's bed, and she wasn't there. The volunteer next to her kinda half-smiled and shook her head, beckoned me over, and said "she died this morning." Oh. I walked into the common room for a few seconds, hugged my friend Jeff, and walked back in. Because there are lots of other patients. Holu was crying and clutching her stomach, and no one was with her - so I asked her kaemon achen? (how are you) and kothay? (where), and she pointed, and it was probably ovarian, she's young, so it could have even been menstrual pain - so I gave her a foot massage, and she calmed down. And then I helped distribute food, cleaned after dinner, washed dishes, joked with some Australians about the height of kangaroos, butchered some French with two volunteers from France, and went up to the roof for tea with the rest of the volunteers. A few volunteers asked me how I was, and honestly, I'm fine. Completely fine. Kamala was in a lot of pain, and looked very much at peace when she was sleeping before she died. She was old, I think. And I had prayed for her for awhile yesterday. So, nope, I feel fine. There are lots of other women at Kalighat to love. ...but I still swiped her name card before the Sisters could throw it away, which means her death affected me enough to cause me to steal from nuns. Uh...
Anyway, I'm learning that love isn't about how someone makes you feel, or even the inexplicable connection or chemistry between two people. It's about support, service, and doing everything you can to meet that person's needs. And needs are not the same as wants. Some women in Kalighat want two blankets - no. They get one. But when they're in pain - we're there. They need someone there, to give them a massage, a shoulder to lean on, a hug, some water - because otherwise they'd be dying on the streets. And please know that I'm aware that I need to take care of myself too. I'm not skin to skin touching the women with scabies. I promise. But I'm learning a lot about being who these women need me to be, for a few hours a day.
I don't think this post was anywhere near as focused as I wanted it to be.
But now it's 9:35, which means it's 9:05 in the States - OBAMA TIME.
Love and i-would-like-five-candies,
Stephanie
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Update panda.
Amy said something poignant last night.
Sometimes, God puts us in situations we think we can't handle, in order to make us into people who can.
She didn't say it exactly like that, but that's the general idea.
The last few days have been a blob of unexpected change. When I started at Daya Dan, I thought I'd be there for a long time. Kids with mental disabilities? I can fit there. But then I got sick for a week (last week), and I haven't gone back to Daya Dan. It's something I prayed about for a loooong time. On Saturday, I ran into Jill on her way to Kalighat, and decided to go with her. Kalighat is the home for the destitute and the dying. It's right next to the Kali Temple, a Hindu temple that honors the god of destruction. Working at Kalighat is the one volunteer option that, before I came to India, I "knew" I was going to avoid. It's pretty much a giant, crowded, hospice. IVs everywhere. Cleaning bedpans. Changing dressings. Washing dishes. A lot of icky wounds, a lot of people dying. Right next to a huge mass of people celebrating the god of death and destruction. Not a place I thought I'd be of help - actually, I didn't think I'd be able to handle it at all.
Then I went anyway.
And it was wonderful.
I know enough Bangla now to have basic conversations, and joke about how little Bangla I know. Coup coum.Also, I'm a very touch-communication type person. Thus, hanging out with old women who want hugs and people to listen and smile and nod? I can do that. Yes, there are other volunteers giving injections all around me, but I've learned to avert my eyes, and focus entirely on the woman who's trying to tell me (in Bangla) about her children, her past, and where she got her silver bracelet.
I've moved from somewhere I thought I could be of help (Daya Dan) to somewhere I thought I couldn't even stand to be (Kalighat) - and I actually feel more helpful at Kalighat. This is craziness.
Also, I taught English to ten-year-olds today (hence the picture). And it was AWESOME. No translator. By myself. And I suddenly realized that I know enough Bangla to comfortably teach kids. I'm still desperately trying to learn more, but today showed me that my attempts are actually working. I can't communicate with adults very effectively, but kids - definitely. I can say "good" and "very" and "little" and "go" and "stop" and "yes" and "it's okay" and "beautiful" and "my name is Ani" and "what is your name" and "what" and "where" and "who" and "why" and "when" and "how are you" and "i am fine" and "i like it" and a bunch of other phrases and words. And I used all of them. Hooray! And I drew stars on their papers, and they thought that was the coolest thing ever.
Okay, time for dinner.
India amazes me. God amazes me. I am here. Teaching English to kids and young women, changing bedpans, and loving dying women. Not what I expected. But wonderful.
Love and Apne Aap,
Ani
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