Shopping at Barnes & Noble

Such a dangerous place for my wallet.

I bought a moleskine journal, tiny, easy fit into my purse. I want to write down those sporadic thoughts I lose to a possessive memory, daily sights, creative ideas. For five minutes I debated between a lined or a blank paged journal. Being a lefty, my freehand begins to slop, curving slightly up before trailing downward. But tonight I thought to myself, “No more boundaries,” and took home an unlined journal.

My original intent was to look for a birthday gift for a friend. Having different views on most topics, we find beauty in image, photography, to be a common thread, and new music finds on occasion as well. I got him a ‘table’ book so-to-speak, Ansel Adams’ Yosemite and the High Sierra. Then stumbling upon the religion section aka asking for budget trouble, I snagged Douglas-Klotz’s The Sufi Book of Life and an anthology entitled The Life of Meaning: Reflections on Faith, Doubt, and Repairing the World with authors ranging from the Dalai Lama to Jimmy Carter, a foreword by Tom Brokaw, and editors Bob Abernethy and William Bole and the contributors to PBS’s Religion and Ethics NewsWeekly. When I’ll get to these, I’m unsure, as the collection of my neglected and borderline orphaned books grows. In time, I think, in time.

And making my way to the checkout line, I came upon the postcard rack, which I’ve always loved finding random, artistic, poignant, thought provoking postcards, the images always striking something within. A simple black and white, a sign at a convention perhaps, it read “The key to success is following your heart.” I grabbed it. It’ll find its home on the inside cover of Adams’ book, and on the back, I have written in black marker, “It’s not too late.” I’m not sure of the reaction I’ll receive, if one at all. Quite the disgruntled stoic typically. But I hope he’ll think on it for longer than the time it took to read. I’m also somewhat unsure if I got it more for him or for me, perhaps both. Maybe I should make a copy and hang it in my cubicle. I used to say when my cubicle becomes covered with photographs that everyone will know my time there has ended. But I don’t think it’ll make it even that far…

In the Land of Shiva: Part VIII

Symbols, signs, a construction of the mind to obtain meaning. Organizing the cosmos. No different with letters, words. I think of the film the Miracle Worker, black and white, little Helen Keller lost in her mind, enraged, confused. No meaning in this place, she must have thought, what to do but be idle, be frustrated with a world that I can’t comprehend. Until she found the answer in water, her teacher signing in her hand feverishly, understand little Helen, find the two as one, I have given you the symbols, the word, now know the world. And she did.

But I am no Miracle Worker. I had no knowledge of the difficulty of my own language. Its complex origins of Latin, Spanish, German, French…the list is long. We make rules only to break them. A prolific language that creates itself, procreates into the largest in the world. And I struggle to teach her ‘water,’ to teach her ‘wet.’ Hembei squints when she doesn’t understand, puts a finger to her lips, almost scared to tell me an answer whether wrong or right. I do not scold or show disappointment. Any of that I hold for my person alone in my failure to be what she needs.

A small composition book holds sketches of faces, the human body, colors, weather, English words pointing to eye, rain, blue. I give it to her for a reference, for future notes. She has no books at home to read daily, no English newspaper dropped at her step. Those aren’t things to be afforded, luxuries that aren’t needed. Everyday begins with a ten minute refresher. I ask about the weather, point to parts of my body, I ask how she is. This becomes familiar and she gets comfortable, I feel better when I know she is relaxed. And in the background is Kay, holding up a letter card, waiting for the other women to say “L” or “S” and identity a picture.

So frustrated was I, and other volunteers, to discover the resources at our disposal. How am I to teach an adult woman with Dr. Seuss books and elementary school ABC flip cards? Why does she need to know the word for hamburger when it isn’t something she will ever eat, will ever be relevant to her world? It is all too simple, too irrelevant to life, it is words for a Western world, not for a woman in Dharamsala. We were told not to bring materials because likely they wouldn’t be tools easily purchased in the town or India. However, once we all arrived, the story was a bit altered. They would have permitted us to bring resources if only we had been willing to leave them there. And so many of us shouted, “WHY SAY THIS NOW! IF WE ONLY HAD KNOWN!”

My flatmate, Haley, was teaching special ed children. A program developed in Dharamsala by CCS, and no other like it was provided in the mountain town. Haley talked of all the things she could have brought for them, to have, and the regret in her voice was in all of ours as well. We would have filled suitcases with teaching materials had we only known. But Haley pulled from her creativity, and always managed to find craft activities and lessons to engage her students. I was always so proud of her diligence, her patience, her unbound love for those children.  And she would visit their homes, meet their parents, feign drinking from the beverage glass they kindly offered. She knew them, their world, and it only seemed to make her appreciate all around us even more. I learned much from this California native.

I made copies of Seuss’ words, cutout articles from the news, scoured the net on one of two computers at CCS hoping to find free TEFL resources. Lesson planning was a haphazard affair. I wanted her tongue to get used to the words, moving her mouth differently. And my month in India would only manage about two and half weeks of actual teaching. I was in a panic. Feeling a great pressure, realizing I was only a minute piece of a long continuum, but who would be there for her when I was gone? I should have stayed longer. Two or three months if for no other reason than to teach her. Between travel to and from Delhi, monsoon rains, sickness, a wedding and a funeral, our short time was even more shortened. It doesn’t take much for a small town to shutdown. It doesn’t take much for a foreign belly to fall ill. And all I was hoping for was to give her the words, give her the motivation to want to learn more after my departure, even if that meant finding a way to do so on her own.

And it was the day I was trying to teach her ‘wet.’ Bella and Jaggi were sitting in, listening to Kay and my lessons. This was the first day after the blowout; they wanted to ensure we could coexist in one room for several hours a day. I kept pointing to a picture of water, and saying ‘It feels wet,’ running my hands against each other, then trying to replace it with other things to express ‘feel.’ But Hembei wasn’t understanding, I wasn’t explaining it very well, and she’d say, “It feels water.” It was a logical association, I was indeed pointing to a picture of water. Finally, I reached for my bottled water, poured some in my hand, and touched it, “Wet.” Then I asked for her hands, poured some in hers, said it again, made her touch it, “It feels wet.” And in her eyes I could see the ‘aha,’ the moment of comprehension, and she nodded, smiled, and says, ‘feels wet.’ Thank you, and I sighed in relief.

I often wish I had taken her to the bazaar, spoken English in her familiar places. She could have learned much more, at least, that is what I believe. Put her in the context of the meanings, and how quick she would have caught on. This faith I always had in her.  When I left, I gave her my English-Hindi dictionary, small but precise in its included words, and told her to just keep reading, to speak, and she would come to understand it.

But my difficulties seemed ridiculous in comparison to other teaching situations. My other flatmate, Jaye, was so tender in heart. It affected her dearly to see dozens of children everyday, pull from meager resources, watch them eat the same plate of chickpeas each lunch. And when summer came, classes over, the school buildings held something similar to summer camp. Except the water was cut off. It wasn’t something funded by the government, so no water for a few months. and the volunteers had to find ways to bring in water for arts and crafts, washing tiny hands. It wore on her. At her home in Florida, she had been a Montessori teacher, she had faced so many problems as a teacher, but none compared to the ones in India.

One day, I came home, and found Jaye washing her undergarments in the shower bucket, scrubbing her Victoria Secret underwear with a bar of soap, and she was crying. No matter the reason, I had felt them all as well, India is a vestibule to a myriad of emotions. She said she had come with no expectations to this place. And I said sometimes we don’t know our expectations until we’ve been disappointed. I told her she should send her laundry out to be cleaned like I was so she wouldn’t find herself crying over a bucket of wet, soapy, panties. She laughed, and in moments of great emotional intensity, just the ability to release it in one breath of laughter can be the greatest relief, the best method for remaining grounded, or coming up from a state of despair. And the paradox was becoming us. To cry and laugh in the same moment, no sense of a sound mind were we, and we were learning to find solace in the crux of the paradoxical.

And somewhere in the Himalayas, in his meditative snowcapped cave, Shiva too is laughing…and only now do I see, darshan has found my eyes.

Mistress

I make a good mistress. This is a fact I’m beginning to accept. But I use the term in a non-traditional sense.

The majority of my friends are male. Odd perhaps, but true. And I’ve started sensing that in some fashion, I am like a mistress. Several of these men I’ve known since high school; thus, the history of our friendship is so rich and layered with experiences and conversations that, in a way, I know a part of them that their partner may never know. Others, though newer acquaintances, relate to me quickly in particular areas of interest.

I am sometimes the Creative Mistress. There is a unique connection in regards to creative inspiration, exchange of thoughts, artistic idea jousting. Creative people feed off of each other, fuel one another, foster insight into ideas, help birth new thought. It is a lively and passionate interaction whether the art be writing, painting, photography, drawing, and so on. And lately, I’ve been feeling quite the creative mistress, even with people I barely know, stumbling into a conversation with a stranger, and the artistic ideas flow. Just by a look, or a response, I know what is happening: an affair with creativity.

I have also been the Intellectual Mistress. Both my friends and I have been involved with people, lovers, that haven’t satiated us on an intellectual level. Some topics may even be prohibited with a significant other. So, I somehow may compensate in intellectual dialog, the areas of politics, religion, literature, random bits of knowledge that have never served useful in ‘real life,’ and let me not forget, I am a notorious news fiend. I skim several sources of news a day without really knowing why I have the urge to do so. Curiosity, a yearning to know, has always been with me, which may explain my hodgepodge mind.

And, I have been the Traditional Mistress (or whatever slur you want to replace this with). Sometimes, I’ve even felt as if I was a sexual mistress in my own monogamous relationships. This especially feels as so when sexual exploration occurs. Or, when I’ve been someone’s first intimate partner. It’s like having a tabula rasa to etch my ways of touch, kiss, pleasure, the art of love, into their person. Open them up like a lotus themselves to realize their own sexual desires and the importance of physical intimacy between lovers.

I was flabbergasted when my last lover told me he had never really sweat during sex before…until he met me. He thought it was only in movies, a fictitious though visually appealing scenario. At first, I thought he said this in jest, I even laughed, but then I realized by his facial expression he was serious. What do you say to that? This same man had also never showered with a woman, and I had looked at him and said, “That’s like sexual blasphemy!” When I think of the art of love, of pleasure, of spiritual intimacy through the physical, I always think of Kamala from Hesse’s Siddhartha. Though a character of fiction, I agreed with Kamala’s concepts, her code, for lovers.

My mulling over this idea of myself as mistress is still new, mere gestation. Originally, I thought why mistress rather than say a muse. But, I envision a muse as somewhat passive. Her presence alone can entice or jostle creativity. I am not egotistical enough to think myself so powerful or enchanting. There needs to be some form of interaction. Therefore, mistress seemed more suited for my nature. When I think of the word, I immediately associate it with passion. The types of ‘mistress’ I find myself embodying are rooted in the very things I am extremely passionate about: creativity, knowledge, and physical/spiritual intimacy.

Introspection

Ruminations.

I am lost inside my mind. Like a child, curious and wandering, my thoughts are wild, disjointed, unfocused.

In grade school, I asked for a typewriter. What child asks to be given a typewriter? But I wanted it, craved it, and I punched the keys on mint green paper, letters pounding, weaving their own trail. Words, my first love.

Even so young, I had already begun constructing the reality of my mind. The complex nexus, scenarios, plots. My mind is vulgar, creative, passionate, thoughtful, lust hungry, so much of the impure in this place. Makes me smile silently in the midst of people. How I wish they could read this mind.

But I fear being found. Letting someone in, so close to see the flawed within me. It’s as if I would be letting them trespass against my soul.

The Art of Touch

I enjoy the wind. It’s a lust filled element. Forever lonely, eternally needing solace in all it touches. And how she dances. Formless. Unable to be tamed. I admire it so.

Downtown on cobblestone streets, I walk, and on occasion turn my palms out, feeling wind, being touched. Sometimes I long for a hand to hold. To feel fingertips slide down, skin-to-skin, a connection in small action.

Reach for me, I’m asking, reach for me…

So, I Went to a Drag Show

Typically, my Friday nights entail an early sleep to shed away my work week side effects, grabbing dinner with a friend(s), reading, or editing photographs. I’ve always considered myself a thirty-five year old trapped in a younger body, and my friends have accepted this so sweetly over the years. But tonight, I was debating attending an art show in bleak weather when a friend called and said, “Come to the drag show at Pantheon!” After enlisting another friend to tag along, I figured it was a good night for some diva entertainment.

Before tonight, I had only been privy to one other drag show, which was in Asheville last Halloween. I was surprised that the Asheville gays disappointed me, but perhaps the better queens were absent that night. All I remember is a large woman reminding me of the mother from the original Hairspray (the Rikki Lake version), a tall lanky woman that kept approaching my friend wanting dollar bills but receiving none, and a lesbian couple that performed two emo-like skits with vampire themes. And then there was Edward Scissor Hands, I couldn’t determine if the person in costume was male or female. I found this problematic because I thought Edward was attractive, but unable to decipher sexual makeup, I just watched from afar. Now, not that I would have had a problem with Edward being a woman, I just can’t date a woman. I have always been fond of the male body, infatuated with it, and after experiencing sex, was committed to my desire for men, and to be blunt, for penis. Now types of men I’m drawn to…that’s a whole other blog entry…a topic I’ve been analyzing introspectively for some time.

Anyway, my expectations were so high tonight. I thought surely Charlestonian gays will know how to put on a show. Even if the entertainment would be lax, the atmosphere at Pantheon is a techno-hippy free love feel. The floor is a dance orgy, a cohesive mass of people in rhythm, it is Durkheim’s sociological theory of ecstatic states at work.  It is a liberation in movement and personal boundaries. Gay, lesbian, straight, bi, transgender, Black, White, Hispanic, tourist, it is all there, and in those brief hours, it is a diversified group of people with one common goal: to have a good time.

I walked in, had my wrist bound with a band, and paid the entrance fee. My fifteen dollars in change, however, was delayed. The man holding the three fives up with a smile. So, being in a carefree mood, wearing a low cut top, I opened it further to let him stick a five between my breasts, then another in my hand, and the last one he put in his mouth, which I grabbed with my teeth, stealing back my last bit of change. As I walked away, my friend said to me, “You know he’s straight, right?” My response, “Fuck, no! I wouldn’t have done that had I known!” Our other friend soon joined us and told me the cashier guy said I was cute and he was surprised that a woman that didn’t even know him did all that. I need better gaydar.

After a round of rum and coke and the three of us downing a shot of buttery nipple, we were ready to see some over six feet tall ladies walking in heals better than I ever could. Seriously, I sprained a foot Downtown after walking into the same hole in the King St sidewalk, not once, but twice, and I was sober.  These ladies lip synced like Milli Vanilli, wearing elaborate sequin costumes (or in one case, only faux daffodils), and dancing with a passion only seen in 80s pop culture films. When one came out with a colorful pink and blue feather headdress and skirt, surely, I thought Big Bird would have mounted her on the spot. The crowd was forever cheering, limbs extended with dollar holding hands, and point-and-shoots snapping away, which made me wish I had brought a camera had I known it was permissible.

Afterwards, the dance orgy ensued. Male go-go dancers shimmed across the bar. Most of which I couldn’t help but admire their abs and taut “cakes” as I was informed is the terminology to use when describing a nice butt. It was a brief moment of sadness to realize that any eye candy in that place likely wasn’t inclined towards my sex; so, I just drank and danced. Though I did figure out one distinction between sifting through straight or gay. If my ass got grabbed and was followed by a long, hard stare…he was straight. If my ass got grabbed and was followed by a chuckle and a kiss being blown in my direction as he danced off…he was definitely gay. And I knew going in that straight men show up only because they figured out that’s where straight women go to get away from them.

Straight clubs are completely different. Often times, dance floors are consumed by females, encircled by dozens of men, merely watching. Perhaps even taking camera phone pics while sipping on their plastic cups and beers. Almost like a herd of cattle being analyzed by the ready-to-mate bulls. It is only when a woman feels the sudden grind of a thrust happy groin against her buttocks does she know to be considered worthy by one of them. That process horribly disturbs me. This isn’t present at a club like Pantheon. I could be dancing with a complete stranger, male or female, just because that is who I found next to me in the dance mass. It is a refreshing feeling to walk into a place and not be concerned if I will be determined to be attractive, rather, I am there to enjoy my friends, dance with whomever is around me, and be oblivious to it all. Which, surprisingly enough, I got hit on more at the gay club than I do at straight clubs…what sense is to be made of that?

So, my night was filled with fun loving strangers, foreign hands and limbs touching or dancing around me, and I only got elbowed in the head twice (it happens because I’m so short and no one bothers to look down). All in all…an eventful night.

As for Saturday, my intended shoot is canceled. Perhaps some thrift store perusing in its stead, a trip to Redux to view the Munny artwork, the Gullah festival, food from one of my favorite Downtown restaurants, or even a Terrace theater matinée. Who knows. As of right now, it seems Saturday may end up a solo outing unless I’d be fortunate enough to have a friend(s) surprise me with their company…but either way, the day will be enjoyed.

Decisions…

For so long, I’ve debated this, days, months, actually…from the beginning. A year has come and gone, and I’m ready.

The life of cubicle has gradually grown more tiresome, what is forty hours of my life a week feels so much more. My body shows it. My friends see my tired eyes, my mind that never stays in focus, as if the auto mode is on. And everyday feels like that place is my dream state, I am never fully awake, never impassioned by what I do. Such the automaton I’ve become, merely fingers in motion on a keyboard, a paper pusher.

My disdain is festering. Always blunt by nature, but now I am letting my tact and empathy fade. I tell the one person I shouldn’t everything. I yell to him, vent in his office, ask why must I be all these people’s shit catcher? And that is what I feel like, the catcher at the mound having shit flung at me, with a love note saying fix it. I am told I’m not productive, a term used in the sense that ‘do I make money for the store?’ No, I do not up-sell people, ask them to purchase a car, estimate the cost of bodily damages to vehicles, and because of that, it is my job to clean up ‘productive’ workers’ slack, to hunt for the money they setup for us to receive but we never did because of people who failed to fax, mail, call, get authorizations, run a credit card and so on. And now, I help my fellow ‘unproductive’ accounting clerks, when they fail to accomplish their ‘unproductive’ duties. Help clean up receivable accounts, harass corporations for money owed, analyze schedules not my own to find problems and fix them…that is what I do…yet my title is merely ‘Administrative Assistant.’

At work, an elementary bulletin board was taped up, all accounting schedules assigned to particular clerks, and each week we are to initial a box for each assigned schedule. This indicates each of us have looked them over, aka done our job, and have made our boss aware of problems. This insulted me, a big yellow poster board, color coded blocks with my name beside them, I refused to sign it and still haven’t after three weeks. Practically scathing, I told my boss if we were going back to kindergarten then I wanted nap time back, or how about getting little star stickers to put up there when someone does a FANTASTIC job. I told him if he didn’t trust me to do my job, then I shouldn’t be there. Write me up for insubordination, I don’t care. Fire me, I said, and I’ll gladly stand in the unemployment line and take a check made with your tax money. Yes, I say this all to him, to his face, looking him in the eye. I have no reason to hide or be mute.

Just this morning, a sales manager walks in giving me paperwork and asking if the other paperwork is ready to send to a dealership. Yes, but they owe us money, I’m not giving it to them. Just give me the damn paperwork. Their guy is here. No, I don’t care. It’s their trade, and we need a check for the car. He huffs, Priscilla, just give me the fucking stuff. His tone alone just made me flip. And I responded with something along the lines of “What the hell did I just tell you? No! They’ll get their shit when we get our money. It’s easier to get what you need out of people when you haven’t given them the title to the car they’re buying!”

And in the adult world, I never thought it, never imagined, the extensive amount of blaming other people for your own inability to do your job. NEVER. This one co-worker in another department is given a new task, and for fifteen minutes he’s telling me how it’s several other people’s fault why he hasn’t done what he’s supposed to be doing. Finally, I just stopped him, and said, “Just stop! Do not play victim! At the end of the day, regardless of other people, it is your responsibility. If no one tells you why there’s a problem, you go ask them, if they don’t know, you keep digging until you find the reason for the fucking problem and fix it. Be accountable!” And his face at my reaction, he just looked like a baby deer that had been shot, and it didn’t bother me that I had said those things, the look of injury on his face I was and still am completely desensitized to. This is what I’m becoming?!

I have to leave. I have to find an out. My job was to fix the problems, clean up the messes, but now I am just a crutch for dozens of people I can no longer carry.

I am tired. I am irate. I am on the verge of verbally berating all these people until they feel so useless, so stupid, so inferior that I will have become the one person I vowed not to…my boss.

My creative mind is tired, unhealthy due to the lack of care and dedication I am able to put into my art, my writing, the things that are my life chord. My anxiety is getting worse. My insomnia is returning. My hair is falling out again like it did the last semester in college.

It’s time my cubicle fell apart. And if it soon doesn’t, I’m going to take a bat to it and make sure no one after me will have to sit in that same corporate prison, that soul suffocater, and witness these precious years of life, these opportunities to rise up, be squandered in such a hallowed place.

In the Land of Shiva: Part VII

The narrow alley behind the flat smelled of the monsoon rains, the cement absorbing that moistened hue, and it was occupied by a squatter…a rooster. How can a short bird, handicap of flight, have the ability to caw before the sun rises? There was no need for an alarm. The rooster was always the earliest to rise, pacing in the alley, singing like a vocal misfit. Not that I ever rested well in the twin cot, but still, I never enjoyed an abrupt awakening, in the literal sense anyway.

Each morning consisted of a similar series of events, our morning rituals. Haley made chai, would find an invigorating morning activity to start her day. Usually it was yoga on the rooftop or a hardcore mountain path run. No matter the hour, Haley was all teeth, a habitual smiler, a unfathomable holder of energy. And before leaving for her placement, was sure to take a series of nutritional supplements, droplets of liquid vitamins, cold and sickness prevention, she had it all, our own little Cali Chemist.

Jaye was often the last riser. Perhaps a bit of chai or toast. She never feared the non-pasteurized yogurt or milk that a staff member placed on the kitchen table shortly before one of us awoke. Then she’d meditate on her blue mat for fifteen minutes. Once she rolled out the mat, I usually found a reason to leave the room in order to give her a breath of silence. I always thought it funny that Haley never seemed to catch on to that. If she was in midst of passionate talk, ideas spouting out of her, Haley was in her own place, living in the words and thoughts, oblivious to the rest. And I’d laugh silently when I’d see one of Jay Bird’s eyes pry open and look across the room at Haley.

After the rooster would unkindly stir me awake, I usually laid on the cot for a bit, thinking. Enjoying moments of quiet. If bugs had found their way back to nestle into the sheets or pillow, I flicked them off. Always the same, tiny, black bugs, sprinkled like fresh pepper on the bed. Sometimes, I’d read Ishmael or Killing the Buddha: A Heretic’s Bible. Making notes in the margins or jotting ideas on a small notepad. I never acquired a taste for Chai like Haley or Jaye; so, I stuck with either toast or a banana and then a cup of filtered water. I’d grab the Hindustan Times and peruse the English articles to cut one out for Hembei as her homework. Usually, the easiest articles were pop culture related. I remember one being about Jessica Simpson signing on for a film role or something of little importance to the world. And I found myself reading the vast pages of classifieds for singles. Several, full length, newspaper pages dedicated to small descriptions of males and females, their caste, job, hobbies, and so on. I found it interesting that the paper and the culture had incorporated a special section for people who were HIV positive or had AIDS. India has one of the highest rates of HIV/AIDS in the world, but it’s presence had been assimilated into the culture. People infected were seeking fellow partners also with HIV or AIDS. I realized the extreme importance of marriage in Indian society at that moment. No matter how life unfolds, a person’s compliment must be found.

Soon, the sound of Tibetan monks chanting would echo through lower Dharamsala. Often, I would sit on the patio and listen. Having no knowledge of their words, but finding a comfort, a serene wave over me, just listening to those deep vocal tones, like the sounds rose up from the deepest depth of the belly. Sometimes, it made me tremble as if the sound found its way into my skin and reverberated through me. At times, I’d suddenly step out of myself, and realize the unique beauty of it all. Before me were the snowcapped Himalayas, an ash gray morning sky, and all the homes of Dharamsala, arranged in such a way, as if each layer was gradually bowing to the heavens, revealing only their colorful and worn rooftops.

It was rare not to enjoy a Dharamsala morning. Only if the monsoon rain dropped from belly of the sky early, did it damper our first hours of the day. The steep stone steps beside our series of flats would vanish beneath the deluge. A sudden waterfall, colored by dirt and filth, washing everywhere. Often our work would be canceled, but other times, we had to walk through it. It was easy for me to be soaked almost to the knee depending on the path that could be taken. And the rains came almost daily. Usually troubling us early and leaving a summer day that only got hotter. The problem with the rainy season goes beyond travel inconvenience and numerous power outages. Bacteria spreads everywhere. It is the season of illness. And with the water source having recently been changed, even the indigenous people of Dharamsala were filling clinics with stomach and digestive ailments. It wasn’t long until over 3/4 of our volunteer group became sick, and those of us that had to make trips to the clinic often came back with stories that didn’t put much faith in the small owned health clinics in lower Dharamsala.

But before the sickness came to me, before I grew tired and weak, it was those moments of solitude on the patio I enjoyed most. Watching as Dharamsala was gently being coaxed awake by its Tibetan brothers. If I was fortunate, I would watch as the upper flat woman did her morning puja. Lighting candles in a small shrine, saying her soft mantras, before giving me one meek smile and returning upstairs. The shrine had painted tiles with Shiva, Ganesh, and Durga. A sculpture of feet symbolic of Vishnu, and other religious pieces. How strange to be in a place where ritual and religion are like breathing…so natural and a part of life. All these traditions in one place, accepting of the others, and it all coexisted harmoniously. It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed in the states, and I thought, yes, this is the soul of India, and each morning she was so kind to reveal herself to me in the mountains, the land, the song, the puja, the words that I didn’t understand but that I FELT…how I miss my Dharamsala mornings.

This Week…

A call. A quick flee. Screaming into the phone. Pick up. Pick up. Hear me. And I’m crying on the highway, this can’t be safe. Not yet, I say this in my mind, it can’t be a prayer, I don’t pray anymore.

Medication and the mind don’t always mix. Morphine, nerve relaxer, and more. Random sleep, hallucinations, shaking, and an itch with no rash. I thought he had said something. I was wrong. A round of pills, a several hour sleep, and the mind forgets if the meds have been taken, so he takes them all again believing he had slept so much longer than he had. Then he sleeps on the floor, until his friend arrives, and shaken awake, in those moments, does he realize what he’s done. He feels death rising, he told me this the next day, and he thought how nice it’d be to have Pablito lay with him one last time before he slept for the last time.

I don’t do well with these things. I always try to stay so calm, the composed in the chaos, the decisive mind in the fluctuating circumstance. But who can bode well when the call is about your father? And I barely leave work without breaking a tear, don’t let them see you cry, don’t let them see the fear, don’t let them see the pain. And I bite my inner lip, my tongue, my cheek. Focus on the teeth, the pain in your flesh, hone in, don’t cry until the car. And in my mind I’m screaming, and yelling for no one to hear, he is all we have left, he is but one parent, I don’t want to be an orphan yet.

After I get it out, let it release, I gain enough composer to call grandma, ask for the doctor’s number, the man they both see. I can’t let her know, she doesn’t need this on her. And I call the man who prescribes these pills, and a nurse takes the message. But before she hangs up, I say, one last thing, make note, my father will be taken off the morphine, make sure the doctor hears that, put it in bold, underline it, it is no longer doctor man’s decision. It has now become mine. And I say it fierce, determined, she knows this tone, and her words fumble, she mumbles excuses. I don’t want to hear it, give Mr. PhD the message, I expect his return call, and I hangup the phone.

I arrive before the ambulance. His friend arrives. My friends, Mike and Tails, arrive. My brother comes in soon thereafter. And now I’m on the phone with the doctor, I’m enraged, but tactful. My words are succinct, with purpose, to the point. WHY have you kept him on this when these things have happened? WHY have you taken him off the morphine patch to a pill, and then upped dosage? Can’t you see in your office he is not of right mind? And he’s flipping through notes, scrambling his words, he says he never upped dosage, until he finds his misplaced notes staring him in the face that he had. His voice remains calmer than mine, this is an inquisition for him he knows. And I am no stupid girl, no crazed woman of ignorance, I made sure he knew that quick. And then he tells me what I never expected, father never told him of such side effects. All he ever said was no more pain, doctor, thank you, I finally feel no pain. And my fury transferred to the man laying in the hospital bed. How cavalier! How foolish! Why play with life like that!

The doctor hears me address father. Asking angrily if he never told the man. Father only turns his head away. He’s now known. The doctor asks for me to come to the next visit, tomorrow, in the morning. Yes, I’ll be there, with the grown man that evidently needs a sitter. My brother and I go to the nurses, ask for updates, make sure they make note of the current doctor, numbers, medications, and so on. I cannot stay. I cannot look him in the eye. He is safe. He is alive. And when I should be utterly relieved, I am instead filled with anger towards him. It takes all I have to kiss his brow before I go. My brother stays, he knows me well enough to know I am in no state to stay there.

The next morning, we sit in a lounge that feels more like death’s waiting room. People talk in old speak, barely audible, mumbling incoherent things, canes, wheelchairs, blind as bats. I’m beginning to think the doctor asked me to come to merely meet me, this impassioned brazen woman confronting him, questioning him, who do I think I am anyway!?

The doctor is younger than most. A Jewish man who always wears his yarmulke. I jokingly ask father if he’s single. He looks afraid. What? No Jewish man for me? He looks none to pleased. And I laugh and say, but Jesus was a Jew, and you love him. My father hates this the worst. He says Jesus is Christianity. I say, no, Jesus was the inspiration for Christianity, but in his life, was quite an orthodox Jew. He’s getting frustrated with me. Now he wants to talk religion, why I believe what I do. But I always refuse to go there. Then he mumbles about my soul, where it’ll be. I’ve heard this only several times over the years, it doesn’t bother me anymore. All I say to him is “Daddy, if your heaven exists, I fear it’ll be quite a lonely place.” And he doesn’t understand what I mean. I finally say we look at it differently. I look at religion academically, you look at it theologically. But now he’s truly confused. I’m not discussing this further. I won’t go there with him. He says he can’t make me tell him, and I say, “I’m glad you’ve accepted that.” Then he says something about trying to change, but obviously not enough. I’m assuming he blames himself, his half effort parenting on my now questionable afterlife state, my views on religion. I would have gotten to this place no matter what he had done differently.

The doctor talks fast, uses his hands, and my father tells a long story with details no man of medicine cares to hear. Earlier I had said, “Just tell him your symptoms. No story time. Get to the point, daddy.” Obviously, he didn’t listen. I fill in the things he missed. At one point, my father brings up alternative medicine, which I’ve been telling him to try for months, and the doctor seems a bit irritated by this, says if that’s what you want to do, then I won’t give you anything. They’re talking at the same time, not listening to the other, so I throw up my hands and say “Hold on!” And they both stare at me and listen. I explain that the alternative medicine is a possible method, one to be done in conjunction with medicine, but hopefully will work well enough to reduce father’s need of meds or at least lower the dosage; so, that over time, his body won’t adjust and require higher doses or more frequent use. The doctor, having been mute during my tangent, says he agrees. And I think, these men, really, they make me so tired, why would I ever want one to keep?

The doctor leaves the room. And my father starts to cry. His body is aging, it feels so much pain, how powerless one feels when one’s own body refuses to act, to yield to command. And I put my hands over my face, crying. He doesn’t want me to see him like this. He says he’s going to the restroom. When the door shuts, I only cry more, I cry so hard I’m gulping for air, dry heaving like I only do in the midst of an asthma attack. The door opens, and the doctor stops mid-sentence seeing me there. This strong willed woman he’s known for less than an hour’s time through a phone and a meeting combined has turned drastically. What a paradox he must think me to be. He grabs a tissue box, offers me one, and asks what is wrong. And he’s staring at me so hard. “It’s so hard to see him like this. So, helpless.” It’s all I can get out. And he sits in his chair with wheels, and moves towards me, and in a voice more gentle than I could have expected, tells me, assures me, it is his goal to give my father a pain free life without sacrificing his faculties. It may take time, but he will make sure it will happen. The morphine and nerve relaxer are to be flushed away, quickly, do not wait. It can be addictive, there may be withdrawal, but no more, he promises me. And I want to tell him that my grandmother was right, his yarmulke looks very nice, it suits him well, but I don’t.

I watch the pills swirl away. Feel much better about it all. And yes, the withdrawal came, but for a day or two. I had to argue with him a bit, but he knows better, he can’t win a verbal match with me. I tell him to be more careful with his life. He says he has no worries for me and my siblings if he goes. That we are strong, we can survive. His missing it. And I pull the only card I know to trump him: Then do it for the ones who do depend on you. My father is agape all the way. He helps his children’s friends more than his children, sometimes even strangers, and we accepted it long ago. I tell him if he dies, then what will come of Triell and my grandmother? Triell just got his GED, he’s going to college, at 26 never did he think this would be his life now, living with his adopted white family, as he calls us, though he knows we’re Lebanese. Who would take grandma to eat every Thursday morning, sit with her on the porch and drink peach tea, and buy her jewelry off the TV hoping to replace what she lost in Katrina several years ago? And he tells me what a low blow. Yes, I know. But if not even your children can save you, if we can’t be enough reason for you to take care, then do it for them. At least then I know you’ll be safe.

So, I accept, it’s okay, you aren’t doing it for me. Just do it for them, and I know you’ll take care.

In the Land of Shiva: Part VI

My mind struggles to find the words, the phrases, that sound right. And when I say ‘right’ I mean that paint the picture of India I saw, the emotive sights and sounds. Sometimes I’ve felt too textual in my writings, a historical dialog that dribbles on. And that’s not what I want…fit and proper…that is not India, that is not me.

My words were lost in her house. Cement slab floor, coated in thin layer of dust. A large bed for all to lay, blankets piled on the edge. Two chairs for Teachers while they sat on the cold ground. These women almost twice my age looking up at me like I am so special. How strange. The cup of water offered that I cannot drink. I feign sips often so not to offend. Wishing she knew I couldn’t drink for fear of sickness. How a simple gift can produce detrimental consequences, millions of bacteria in those drops, just waiting for a foreign belly to lay in. And at the highest point, the edge where wall and ceiling meet, an array of painted portraits, Hindu deities, their eyes always upon them. Bless them, I think, they are so good to me and I am but a stranger.

This was the home of Meena, a thirty something Indian woman with a round face, dark camel skin, and a slightly smeared red dot between her eyes. I first met her from above, looking down as she squatted before her door washing several tin pots with a rag and a bowl of soapy water. Soon, I find myself being kindly forced onto a chair, finding my hierarchal placement awkward, I want to be on the floor with them. No looking down, on equal plane. I observe this day, watching Kay go through elementary ABC cards with them, make them practice drawing upper and lowercase letters. Two months she has been their teacher. And I find Hembei writing away, easily reciting the words of cat, boy, girl. She is beyond the rest, and she is the reason I sit in that place. After that day, I will be hers.

Hembei taught herself basic English through the materials her fraternal twin children brought home from school. ABCs, simple writing, simple words, she knew them. All the while the several others progressed on a bit more slowly. When I think of Hembei, I always picture her in an emerald hued sari, long black hair braided tightly, and a shy smile, always looking away when her teeth were revealed. I liked hearing the music of her jewelry as she walked, how she created song everywhere she went, her bangles telling her story, each step she took.

Hembei, Meena, Usha, Percushy, and Indra. These were the women that went to CCS, said teach us English, we want to learn. And so they were given Kay.

Kay…the elder woman from my flat. I can’t say we got along for but a day. Something seemed awry in her methods. Rope learning, same flash cards, ABCs, it seemed a stagnant process for adults. But I had no experience in teaching my language, no certificate, just ideas. And I spilled them all to Kay, lets give them a way to use the words, to play with words, find beauty in English. But our ideas didn’t mesh. And in days she was threatened by me, didn’t want to compromise on how to teach these women. She accused me of attempting to take HER students away from her. For two months they had been hers. And in a fit of anger I retorted, “In two months you haven’t even gotten through the alphabet!” And she stormed off, having nothing to reply with.

I went to Jaggi about this, her possessiveness was blinding the purpose of us being there. The tension was showing in the lessons. I’ve never been one to hold my tongue. Not for anyone, and surely not for some crazed old bat. Kay was also dependent on people due to having injured herself before arriving to India. She needed a staff member or fellow volunteer to help her walk, watch as she shuffled along with a leg that seemed to want to twist around. If we didn’t invite her to places, she guilt tripped us until we found ourselves with her in the bazaar. Her words were soured with negativity, stories of how her life had been so miserable, and that undertone of whine, like it was innate to her voice, was maddening.

The night I spoke back, said she was going too slow, doing the same things, she was furious. In her room she huffed, and Jaye, sweet Jay Bird, she always wanted things to be so smooth in that place, went to Kay to assuage her. How awful Kay’s words made me, what a piece of work I was in her opinion, coming to Dharamsala and taking her girls away from her. No one would do that she said. My volatile state was festering, and came to an apex when she said loudly, “She’s just a little bitch.” This aged woman calling me a bitch…

I was just outside her door, and glared at her in such a fit of anger, “Who are you calling a bitch? You haven’t seen what a bitch I can be.” And these words were scathing, imbued with the disdain I had begun to hold for her. And I remember Jaye’s surprised face at seeing me react, and Kay, her pebble eyes like a Turkey ready for the farmer’s slaughter, looked at me through her glasses. Mumbled what a horrid person I was, and finding humor in Kay’s behavior, this woman being funded to be there through her church, she was on a MISSION, this god woman from Illinois, I just couldn’t help myself. “Isn’t it your Jesus who said he who has not sinned cast the first stone, Kay?” And being none amused by my comeback, in fact it made her shake, she stood up and slammed the door in my face.

I had it. This woman projecting her problems onto everyone. Sucking joy and peace like a leech on skin. This had happened with the group before us. Several girls had to move out of the flat because of the “Kay situation.” We had be warned by the remaining one at our arrival, but even in our efforts (my mild efforts) it wasn’t worth dealing with Kay. Not having paid thousands of dollars to be there, not being stressed by a senile waste. In the middle of the night, I hopped rooftops to the main center, found Jaggi sitting with Bela who had arrived from Delhi for a short visit, and seeing me, he knew. I didn’t care that I was in pajamas, that I had no bra on, that I was showing too much skin for their culture, I was a woman to be acknowledged and heard. And I recounted the entire fight, all the problems, Kay’s umbilical-like ties to our students. All the while, Bela was sitting quietly, watching me, so composed while I was on fire. Such a state that I call it Kali rage.

Bela would address Kay. Discuss things over with her brother Anil who managed the Dharamsala center. See, Bela is a psychologist, and knowing the previous schisms involving Kay, wanted to know her through a series of questions and conversation. Afterward, she met with me. And though she agreed with me, there is an element to Indian culture that isn’t as common in the U.S., an unwaivering respect for elders. Kay may be crazy, she may be wrong, she may be too dependent on others, but she is an old woman, and for that alone, deserves respect. I couldn’t comply. I wouldn’t comply. The best Kay could get from me was a silent mouth if she but stayed her distance. She had no right to project her problems onto others, no right to make us feel selfish for wanting to enjoy our time in India how we wanted, no right to be so controlling of our students’ learning that it was impeding their progress. I wouldn’t budge, and Bela knew, but she asked if I could just avert the situations if I saw them arising.

I did the best I could, and by that, I kept a shut mouth. I would not antagonize her, but even that bothered her. She then found me to be a bitch for not talking. And in the future, if Kay tried to meddle into our plans or trips, I’d take the fall, be the one to tell her there was no room in the taxi, or it would be just several of us going. She already hated me; so, why let her hate the others who would have complied but been miserable in her company? She no longer confronted me anyway, not with more than a few words meant to guilt me, but it never worked.

And reflecting on it, I still agree with the reasons I stood against Kay. I’m not saying my conflict resolution tactics were at their best (they weren’t). And I’ve tried to pinpoint the reasons for my dislike of that woman. She put herself in the role of VICTIM, in every scenario she could. Whether it be an inability to travel alone, even to just the Indian bazaar (which she eventually was forced to do once Anil made her) or feel like she was being violated by having another volunteer present. That is what irked me most about her. Rather than rising above her circumstance, whether in her physical or psychological difficulties, she waited to be rescued or waited to get her way. I find nothing noble in that. And I feared the effects this would have on the women as Kay was intending to stay in Dharamsala for six months.

I purge this frustration now because I never want to address this again. From then on, I worked solely with Hembei during our volunteering, and only assisted Kay if she asked me. My focus was not to fight. I went halfway across the world to help people and see what I had only read about, to feel and understand those words on paper. Kay was just an obstacle, a minute distraction that I had to decide to quickly deal with, and the only way I could was by pretending she wasn’t there. It perhaps wasn’t the most mature behavior, but it was the only way I could ensure I stayed dedicated to Hembei and myself.