Expansions on notebook scribbling

On the first day women put flowers in my hair, bangles on my wrist, and a bindi between my eyebrows. The people of the village showed us the land that they own now and how they’ve been working so hard on leveling the ground by putting huge boulders on certain points of land and waiting for nature to do its work. They’ve been doing this manually for the past ten years. Women and men work side by side and earn the same wage.
The landscape is very dry for the most part. Big boulders covered mountains like lumpy blankets. The people grow peanuts and are moving towards tree crops because they take much less care… which is important because of the young people going to Bangalore, there will be less villagers to work the land. 93% of the Coolies’ children are in school and the people were very proud of the fact that they’ve been able to send their kids to Bangalore for jobs.
There was a cluster meeting and we (John, Lauren, Jim, Malika, and I….that was our group for the time at ADATS) sat down to talk with them with our translator Nazir. They were very open about all the questions. You have to remember that their peace came at a price. Coolies and Ryots fought with each other and some Coolies died so that they could have their freedom from the Ryots and form the Sanghas.
We were given coconuts with holes at the top and the jelly too. And roasted peanuts.
At the village school later on that day, a 12 yrs old girl looked me in the eye and talked to me in Kannada. Her teacher translated. “Miss, she says she wants you to stay”. I had just told the children at the village school that I am studying “women’s studies or how to give women rights.” At night the village had a black out so the van pulled up to the big clearing we were all standing in and turned its lights on. A big circle formed and a tribal dance started. Lauren, Malika, Siani, Jim, and myself all danced. The stars were beautiful that night.

On the second day the members of the Coolie Sangha sat down with us. Men in the front, women in the back; no talking from the latter. At night we went to the youth training center. Malika and I talked to a group of boys who were trying to teach us Kannada. I was grateful they didn’t ask to learn any English. I am tired of talking about America or quenching thirsts of people who think my country is better than theirs. We all played a village game called Kho Kho. I lost right away, but I am making myself try new things constantly and finding out I like them. Oh and a monkey stole my custard apple out of the car…Katy got it on video. Smart little devils.

For the last day the whole group sat down with representatives from different Coolie Sanghas and talked about education. Or, we did for a bit… They started asking us about the U.S. They asked why their country isn’t as developed as ours is. And I wanted to tell them that they shouldn’t buy into that… that just because we build up on every available piece of land, spend all of our time in front of TVs and computer screens, and our way of living is so wasteful… doesn’t make us more developed. It makes us over developed … not developed enough. It makes their Coolie Sangha look like a God-send for all the poor fucks in America who can’t get their personal shit out of the way when it comes to making a difference and working towards communal living. These men and women started with less than nothing… not even their lives and back breaking work belonged to them. It was bought and paid for with ownership and shit pay. Who’s more developed? Who gets to say?
Jim basically talked the whole time. That’s all he does and now while he does it he’ll be back in Jersey because he’s leaving tomorrow morning. Good riddance.
He proposed that we go to a temple Merk Mala which was erected around the graves of a Sufi saint and his wife. It’s believed that if you are crazy…or, as the people here believe, are possessed by a demon, you go to this place and stay there for eight days. During the hour of 7-8pm you walk around this tiny tiny altar and go into a trance. It’s a mainstream way of dealing with mental illness. I wanted to go and I guess I still would have went if I had known what it would be like.
The group was Taylor, Lauren, Katy, Fidel, Jim, Nazir, another translator, and Bridgette – an ADATS volunteer from New Zealand. Hoards of children surrounded us the moment we got there. I don’t think many tourists go there; and we wouldn’t have been able to if it wasn’t for Nazir. A woman asked Bridgette to take her baby back to America with her. The children flipped out whenever someone took pictures with a digital camera. The man with his foot chained to a wall tried to get our attention, but a little girl named Amina caught mine.
She is beautiful and wearing a dark orange shirt with matching skirt and a red head scarf made out of thick material. Just a triangular piece of fabric with two strings at the end. Her eyes take up her face and I can’t stop looking into them, frantically trying to find her if I lose sight of her for just a moment. She keeps laughing and smiling at me; always making sure to be less than five feet away from me at all times. I take some pictures of her and don’t like the feeling it gives me, but I’m beyond caring right now what I look like. Stupid American tourist. Weird or out of place. I have to capture her face… Amina’s face…somehow because I don’t trust my memory. I reject my instant impulsive thought “I want to take her back with me” Why? So I can dress her up and freak her out with a whole new world? So I can impose ideologies on her which should never enter her mind? Because I think that for some reason There is better than Here? Having condescending and superior thoughts like “I wish I could take her home” are pointless and disdainful. Thinking instead, “If my main goal is to empower her, how do I do so…or help to do so HERE?”
At seven we made our way inside the temple. I can’t describe…nor will I ever be able to… the sights I saw that night. Women convulsing on the ground, men raising their hands to the women if they wanted to come out of the circular area of entrancement. One girl was walking around crying “where is my sister?” and every time she tried to go to her mother and brother, the brother would raise a large stick at her and slap her on the back and shove her back in. She bit her brother once. The mother was wearing all black and I’m guessing that this girl’s sister just died and she was mourning, but thought to be crazy instead. Another woman had her hands tied behind her back and was being escorted by her father and mother. She is striking and so beautiful that I can’t help looking at her even though Jim keeps telling us to not make eye contact. She looked at me and smiled, saluted me with her chin and looked away. Das (the other translator) said that when she looked at us (she kept looking at this big group of foreigners) she doesn’t see us… because she’s crazy. He’s right, I’m sure, but eye contact is personal …
These parents… these people coming to this place… this is how they treat mental problems here…or any problem. It is normal to them… and not much different than pentacostal or charismatic practices, except here it’s mainstream whereas in the U.S. therapy and anti-depressants are the norm.
And I was fine with consoling myself with this until we were leaving. I looked for Amina and found her with her mother … having some oil or something put on her throat. And I let it hit me … Yes, this method of curing problems might work for them and it might be their norm and I’m okay with that, but raising a large stick to a grieving woman, slapping someone hard on the back as a sign of intimidation is not normal. Is never normal.
Amina followed me out to the bus and I waved to her the whole time. I didn’t get to hug her or hold her little hand or tell her that she can be anything she wants to be and to never let anyone take advantage of her or make her do something she doesn’t want to do.
On the bus ride home we were all quiet. Lauren said she cried a little, I curled up in a ball in my seat and did the same.
We arrived back to ADATS around 10 pm. We were all shaken up still and stood around the table listening to John, Ram (founder of ADATS), and Jim talk. Jim said something about Americans not being aware of the Class System and I made a face of disagreement because I’ve been very aware my whole life. Then he said “Oh but of course all Ramapo students know” and then I nodded. He had noticed my first face of disapproval and called me out on it.
“Do you have something to say?”
I was too tired to explain and I just told him that I disagreed with his first statement until he said Ramapo Students… I know it was an easy way out but I was so tired and numb… and not numb at all and on the verge of tears. Jim said “You’re always contradicting me. You’ve done it three hundred times already so I am just asking you if you have something to say!” And then.. there I went.
“Jim, I think you’re being belligerent and you’re always looking for an argument. I’m NOT disagreeing with you. I have nothing to say”
I had three cigarettes that night and I don’t feel sorry at all. I haven’t had one since and I don’t plan on it.
Ram brought out some home made wine and the whole group had some, got drunk, got into good conversations, and competitive games of Uno and Phase Ten.

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The Woes of the Sexual Woman in a Sexless Environment

I am a warm, vibrant, vital, passionate person, but not here.
My breasts are stripped of their sensuality and are reduced to mere pounds of flesh weighing me down. They do not make my back arch while my lover is kissing and cupping them in his soft hands, but make me curse shirts with indecipherable sizes.
My cunt only lets out and takes nothing into its warmth and wet.
My curves are question marks waiting for a defined period of exclamation points.