Exhale: A Different Approach to Post Abortion Counseling

Exhale. To expel. To emerge. To breathe. 

On a recent podcast by Fully Engaged Feminism, Laura interviews one of the founders of Exhale, an organization dedicated to post abortion counseling. The group’s mission doesn’t stem from polarized politics nor is their plight a guise for other intentions. Simply, it’s to give voice, to give heart, and to give a listening ear. They consider themselves Pro-Voice.

Aspen Baker briefly chronicles her experience post abortion. She found few counseling options, and those that did exist were tied to Christian organizations, which also were Pro-Life. At the other end of the spectrum was a feminist movement more concerned with establishing reproductive rights than providing outreach to women. Neither side seemed suitable to help her with the torrid of thoughts and emotions that consumed her, and because of that, she found several other women in the same position and decided to create a space where women and men could have an outlet to discuss life after the choice.

Aspen’s feelings may be misinterpreted by a biased eye, regardless of political affiliation. Imagine being a woman entering a medical center who has mulled over this decision, the choices, the variables in her life. Analyzing every minute detail, every scenario, and no matter the final decision, there is no concrete conclusion, no definitive closure regardless of the choice made. Each option entails a path of emotional and psychological effects, of some form of struggle or sacrifice. In the particular choice of abortion, it is quite common for a woman to walk the premises with a number of abortion protestors mere feet away. Voices calling that she can still be saved, it isn’t too late for the soul. They hold signs with images of fetuses, words succinct but sharp: immoral, hell, death, murder. Is this the Christian death row? To call each woman out as murderer? What stone do they have the right to cast? 

Then it is these same people, these same beliefs, that stand at the exit with sudden open arms. They speak of trauma, of sin, of forgiveness. These words of compassion coming from the same people that spewed vicious slurs. It isn’t a welcoming feeling for many women who have had an abortion. Something seems innately off, wrong, about the two -faced act. But often times, it is only these groups that offer any form of counseling, whether or not their political and religious intentions are made clear, if it is the only option, then some women would rather have a biased shoulder to lean on than none at all.

On the other side are groups who have fought for the reproductive freedom of women, and sometimes associate the vocalizing of post abortion effects as siding with Pro-Life attributes. The focus has been on establishing the law, but the voices and stories that catalyzed the revolution have gone mute. Unheard by many ears of the feminist movement because any sign of emotion signifies the opposite of their purpose, of their vision, of what they represent and are striving to achieve. 

Sometimes gray is the worst place to be, stuck in shades of white and black, and all there is is a fog. These are many women, no side hears their voice, their stories. Either there is no respect of the choice made or no respect for the feelings and thoughts that come later. So, Exhale was created as a space to remedy that void. To exist in the gray with those women, taking no political side but as they call, Pro-Voice. Let these women be heard. It isn’t about law, or right or wrong, or saving face. It is a sacred space of experience. 

In the end, there are no parties, no sides, no politics. At heart is the voice of a woman that many ears are deaf to. Listen and you will hear…

Am I not your sister? Your mother? Your daughter? 

Do not forsake love that binds. Do you not see how my heart weeps? 

Love. Please, oh please, just love me. I need compassion and a comforting embrace. 

Do not wipe away these tears. They are the words of my soul.

No judgement calls. I am no murderer.

Look into these eyes and you will see.

Am I not your sister? Your mother? Your daughter?

Shadow Woman

Melancholia. A jaundice soul. I am reminded of the shadow woman from the Yellow Wallpaper. In the daytime, she is a mere invisible rustle, but at night, she manifests. Rampant, chaotic, distressed. She flees, but from what because, after all, she is at wall and paper, no escape. No escape.

This is what it feels. Tonight, I listened to a podcast by APM: Speaking of Faith with Krista Tippett entitled The Soul in Depression. It confronts the stigma of depression, its poor contextual meaning, and how the voices of those touched by depression seem to go unheard. This is a subject plaguing my mind as of late. For several weeks, I’ve been taking an anti-anxiety medication. After some psychological and emotional episodes and confrontations at work, I felt I had two choices: quit or start seeing a psychiatrist. Though the first option almost was triumphant, as in I removed all personal possessions from my desk, had a serious, emotional conversation with my boss, and then left for a ‘personal’ day, having no backup plan, job, or sufficient savings to quit…I am, for now, stuck and eventually returned to my cubicle. But I haven’t put back up any pictures or returned personal keepsakes. I prefer to leave my desk barren. I have one foot out the door and there is no intention of going back. 

I chose a doctor based on my insurance’s list, and found myself sitting before a tall, lanky man whose shoes somehow seemed too big. But later I determined that wasn’t the case, it’s just the way he positions them, at times turning them towards each other when he begins an impassioned tangent, or how one dangles like a weight is dragging the toe down. He scribbles on yellow paper, and in my mind, I joked privately that he was likely drawing cartoons or sketching out a reverie. Though, I knew he was outlining my family history, my relationships with relatives, and my history with anxiety. At the end of the first meeting he asked if I had any questions. Yes, but not about me…do you ever see a therapist? And he laughed, amused by the query. “On occasion. I wouldn’t trust me if I didn’t.” His candidness and honesty from that one question was the only reason I decided to go back. 

So, for the time being, I’ve chosen to be put on medication. The doctor left it up to me. But the struggle over this decision has raised awareness of my own prejudice against psychological medications, the people who take them, and my skewed yet fully valid reasons for wanting to evade chemical manipulation. I had an intense anxiety about taking an anti-anxiety drug. 

My greatest fear is how this would effect me creatively. If I tamper with how I am innately, then how could that not alter a part of me that seems so heavily rooted in my shifted emotional state, perception of the world, etc. No matter the benefits, I will never sacrifice that. And a part of me feels that the sedation of people through medication is in essence slaughtering thousands of potential artists. This is a heavy bias. I openly admit that, and there are people who oppose this idea as well. Indeed, it isn’t necessarily fair to think that being an artist entails suffering, depression, running the emotional and psychological gambit, but it’s hard not to see a correlation when reading up in the lives of some of the world’s most famous artists regardless of their medium of choice. 

Another issue was that in deciding to take medication, I would undoubtedly have to confront that something is wrong. And I am not comfortable with acknowledging this yet. 

I have had relatively intense anxiety most of my life. The first incidence I can recall was soon after my parents divorced. I was six or seven and suddenly found that I could no longer stay composed in class. One second I was fine, and then an onslaught of feeling overwhelming, separate, anxious, it’d be difficult to breathe, and then I’d be sitting at my desk crying. Teachers had no idea what to do. I’d have to hear my father’s or mother’s voice, or have one of them come up to school just to hold me for several minutes, soothe me. Halfway through the school year, I was moved into a split grade class with several other students. And though I should have been distracted by the challenge of learning material from my grade level and the one above me, I could only stay calm if I looked at a picture of my mother that I kept in my desk. Anytime I’d start to sense those strained emotions, I’d just have to concentrate on her image, and after several minutes, I’d be fine. 

But even at home, my anxiety problems grew worse. I could no longer sleep in my bedroom for fear that if I was away from my parents that something would happen to them. I’d have nightmares of them dying in fires, crying out for help and I could do nothing because I was outside the flames. If left alone in my bedroom, it wouldn’t be long before I was screaming, crying out. And no matter how much they tried to be firm, to keep me in my own bed even with direct orders from our family counselor, I would always find myself at their bedside. The one time my mother locked me out, I pounded on her door for hours, crying, screaming how horrible she was and all I needed was for her to be with me so I’d know she was safe. I don’t remember if I finally fell asleep at her door or the couch, but I know I didn’t return to my bed. And this was how my life was for a few years, until my mother’s death. After she died, I never had problems sleeping in my room or staying at school. But those years of intense anxiety left a deep scar, and though I would fight back anxious feelings if they arose, I always wondered if working through it was enough. 

For the past two years, levels of anxiety equivalent to the magnitude I felt as a child have reemerged. The heart of it stemming from a detrimental relationship that helped propel me into the throws of an existential crisis whose edge I had been teetering on for some time. And the addition of accepting a position at a job I didn’t desire and don’t enjoy just contributed to feelings of shame, failure, anger, struggle, fear, and a great sense of Lost. 

Everything of the person I had been before that critical point seemed to evaporate. And what I was left with was the shadow woman. In the midst of an emotional hurricane, unable to sift through emotions, feel focused in heart, soul, and thought, I was a raw nerve. And all I wanted was to be alone, to cry, to be held. 

But, there is a side of depression and the emotions entailed that goes unnoticed by those never experiencing it. In actuality, this state is often the deluge of emotion, an inability to dam gates to keep it in, and though in a state of such darkness, it is also a period of intense feeling. And for the first time in my life, I was experiencing Feeling, it was so pungent to every sense that it was the overabundance of emotions that crippled me. I had become hypersensitive to not only my emotions, but to others’ as well. 

For that reason, I found myself on the verge of panic attacks in public or at work. To be so acutely in tuned with emotions is difficult to articulate. But to stand in an aisle with several people around and feel simultaneously frustration, joy, confusion, sadness…to be assaulted by an array of feeling at the same time just paralyzed me. It’d be difficult to breathe; I’d start wheezing lightly, and that tightening around my chest like my heart was in a vice, all I could do when this happened was flee. And on a few occasions, I left my cart or items and just left the store as fast as I could. But if this happens at work, I just can’t walkout and come back when I feel balanced or calm again. Instead, I’d have to cry in my car on lunch break or claim to be searching for an old file or document that was held in a locked storage room just so I know no one would seem me in such a state. But then strained work relationships with coworkers, bosses, and the stress of not only doing my job but fixing others’ mistakes, checking behind others was and is the dominant reasons for my dissatisfaction with my job. After my first session, I realized that almost the entire office is on a medication or self medicates through other means. I finally saw that I wasn’t necessarily innately crazy, but this job seems to have that effect on many of the people in it and talking with others outside the store I work at, medication or high levels of alcohol consumption are a bit of the norm for those in my field. 

So, my final decision is to get out. I decided that medication is short term, that I will not have my life be ‘tolerable’ with the help of a pill, but that I must recognize that on a deeper level I am troubled by not doing something I love to the point that it is destructive to me in many ways. But the podcast brought to light the awareness that came through this period of great pain for me, and how now on the other end, I see how beneficial it is to Feel, to be hyperaware of the state of others emotionally. It is that shadow woman that finally came into form, like a veil lifted, to find that in her was a light, a strength. That perhaps what I had perceived as distressed, as chaotic, was not the nature of her at all. Because it seems she is much more free than I had been. Wild and untamed, she feels, she sees, she fights to understand even when it might break her because that is Life, and in that is beauty, in that is spirit and spiritual. 

And I think of the woman, tearing down the yellow wallpaper, trying to free the shadow woman though in reality, she was freeing herself.

Elevator Conversations

Riding in an elevator with strangers has proven fruitful conditions for some of the most awkward social interactions and conversations I’ve ever had. The first came during the first week of moving in. I had a shopping buggy stuffed with my burnt orange comforter, cream yellow sheets, and pillows and found myself riding in an elevator with a young woman. I’m prone to laughing at random, sometimes it’s about a current something at that moment, but often my mind spontaneously decides to recall an experience or a statement that sends me into laughter. Anywhere from a short giggle to a full, robust laugh. As the elevator started, I thought about how odd it was to be pushing my oversized comforter and sheets in a tiny grocery buggy let alone riding up an elevator with it. I laughed gently, and the woman looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said, “Case of the sillies?” with a bit of a skewed tone. So, I told her why I was laughing, but I suppose I was more amused because she didn’t think it as funny. I realize that when I have a random bought of laughter that most people are either insecure or narcissistic enough to think it’s about them, and really, it’s almost to the point that I’m willing to voice that observation to them and remind them how ridiculous they are for being either or both, especially with a stranger. Really, so close.

The next strange encounter came when I was on the elevator with an attractive man, sweaty from exercising, and just so delicious for my eyes. I was elated to learn we’re on the same floor, granted I’ve never run into him since. During the brief ride up, we said some barely audible ‘hello’es and not even halfway up, my flip flop breaks. Damn, cheap Old Navy shoes. The door opens, I think he waits for me to go first since I’m a woman, and I just smile and motion for him to go ahead because I surely don’t want this hot piece to see me attempt to walk on a broken flip flop before saying screw it, and walking barefoot to my door. Having no other shoes in the apartment, I had to make an unplanned trip to my dad’s, but first, had to figure out how to McGiver my flops. No duck tape. No scotch tape. No super glue. No puddy. So, I find myself using band aids to secure the strap, which lasted long enough to get to the elevator, the first floor, and almost out the second set of double doors before breaking again. 

Another awkward conversation came began at the entrance doors when I opened a door for a middle aged man carrying several grocery bags. He said, “Don’t worry, I handle big loads all the time.” I nodded and pushed the button for the elevator, thinking maybe I should have considered a detour to the cafe/market to evade this elevator ride coupling. Once again he reiterates his previous statement, “I’m used to carrying heavy things all the time. This is a light load today. But I carry heavier a good bit.” I’m starting to think this is an odd come on, like he’s using ‘heavy things’ as a secret metaphor for his capability to handle a non-skinny woman, i.e. me. Then I picture him hoisting me up against a wall, and briefly imagine how strange that encounter would be…or would it? Dammit, Priscilla, gross, stop it. And I shake the image out of my head. He says he just got back from the gym, goes every day. “Oh, I remember the gym,” I laugh.  Luckily, the door opens, and I say, “Be sure to take some ibuprofen for inflammation.” He gawks, “Only natural stuff. Ginger for starters…” and then he starts listing off a list of natural supplements as the door shuts. Oh my freakin’ god, why do I say anything. 

And though this isn’t an ‘elevator’ conversation, it still occurred in my apartment complex. I stop by the the market aka well stocked convenience store to purchase a cheeseburger and a soda. As I wait, the clerk asks if she can ask me a questions. Sure, I suppose. I’ve only seen her one other time before this to order a hot dog that ended up being cold. This leads to a ten minute diatribe of her helping out her boyfriend’s cousin, a recovering drug addict, who moved in with them but refuses to pay for rent though she’s on the lease. Somehow this then turns into her living all the way out in past Ravanell, doesn’t make jack squat at the market, has threatened to quit but they won’t give her raise, and how in two year’s she’s helped them turn the market from a filthy, piss poor stop to a clean, organized place of business. “Who do you think suggested the slurpie machine, or the baked goods, or these snack stands?” Really…like seriously…you’re priding yourself on a freakin’ slurpie machine? Oh, jesus, is my cheeseburger ready…

I find it odd that dozens of seconds in an elevator ride can produce some of the strangest conversations, but perhaps that brief space and time of the ride reveals people as they are, no frills or facades, just the raw…and for once, I wish they’d keep it to themselves. Unless, I up the ante on awkward, and do a photo series of people in the elevator…haha, oh then no one would ever talk to me in that place.

Krishnamurti: On Fear

While on holiday, I took along several books, but only managed to break open Krishnamurti’s book On Fear. The book is filled with excerpts from talks and Krishnamurti’s journal entries on the topic of fear. It’s a small read, but I still haven’t finished it. But I did want to post some excerpts that I found poignant. Likely there will be a near future post where I take what I’ve read and apply it to my own personal fears, breaking them down to notice the full extent of their nature, though really all fears are just fear regardless of the manifestations they undertake. 

 

Page 15

So there is in our life this constant state of comparison, competition, and the everlasting struggle to be somebody – or to be nobody, which is the same thing. This, I feel, is the root of all fear, because it breeds envy, jealousy, hatred. Where there is hatred there is obviously no love, and fear is generated more and more.

Page 40

But a word brings fear or pleasure into being through association and remembrance. We are slaves to words and to exasmine anything fully, to look, we must be free of the word. If I’m a Hindu and a Brahmin, a Catholic, a Protestant, an Anglican, or a Presbyterian, to look I have to be free of that word, with all its associations, and that’s extraordinarily difficult. The difficulty disappears when we are passionately inquiring, examining. 

Page 43

Fear ceases only when there is direct contact…To die means that you have to die every day, not just twenty years from now. You die every day to everything that you know, except technologically. You die to the image of your wife; you die every day to the pleasure you have, to the pains, the memories, the experiences. Otherwise you can’t come into contact with them. If you do die to them all, fear comes to an end and there is a renewal. 

Page 45

You know fear is also used to civilize man. Religions throughout the world have used fear as a means of controlling man. Have they not? They say that if you do not do certain things in this life, you will pay for it in the next life. Though all religions preach love, though they preach brotherhood, though they talk about the unity of man, they all subtly, or very brutally, grossly, maintain this sense of fear.

Page 47

Most of us are very conservative. You know what that word means, you know what it is to conserve? To hold, to guard. Most of us want to remain respectable and so we want to do the right thing, we want to follow the right conduct, which, if you go into it very deeply, you will see is an indication of fear. Why not make a mistake, why not find out? But the man who is afraid is always thinking ‘I must do the right thing, I must look respectable, I must not let the public think what I am or not’. Such a man is really, fundamentally, basically, afraid.

Page 48 

But the difficulty is: when there is fear, we do not create. A person who is afraid can never find truth or God. Behind all our worships, all our images, all our rituals, there is fear and, therefore, your gods are not gods, they are stones. 

Page 59

Fear and love cannot exist together. In this country there is no love. There is devotion, reverence, but no love. Devotion to your guru, to your gods, to your ideals, is self-worship. It is self-worship because you have created your guru, your ideals, your gods; you have created them, thought has created them, your grandfather has, and you accept this because it satisfies you, it gives you comfort. So what you are devoted to is yourself. Swallow that pill and live with it! 

Page 71

Thought is responsible for fear; also, thought is responsible for pleasure. One has had a happy experience; thought thinks about it and wants it perpetuated. When that is not possible there is a resistance, anger, despair, and fear. So thought is responsible for fear as well as pleasure, isn’t it? This is not a verbal conclusion; this is not a formula for avoiding fear. That is, where there is pleasure there is pain and fear perpetuated by thought; pleasure goes with pain, the two are indivisible. 

Page 76

What brings this division between you, your wife or your husband, and your children? Division is disorder. Muslim and Hindu, Jew and Arab, Communism, totalitarianism, and freedom. These opposites are the essence of disorder. So what brings about disorder in our relationships, with the most intimate and the not so intimate? Have you ever thought about it?

Page 84

Fear itself, not the various forms of fear. See how we break up fear. That’s part of our tradition, to bring about a fragmentation of fear, and therefore be concerned with only one type of fear. Not with the whole tree of fear, but a particular branch, or a particular leaf of it. The whole nature, the structure, the quality of fear – in observing that very closely, in the very watching there is the revelation of the causation – not you analyzing to find out the cause but the very watching showing the causation, which is time and thought. 

Page 85

So thought and time are the central factors of fear. Thought is not separate from time. They are one. These are the facts. This is the causation of fear. It is a fact – not an idea, not an abstraction – that thought and time is the cause of fear. It is singular. 

Page 86

The self-interest in our life is the cause of fear.

Herstory

I’ll keep this brief…go vote.  

Ok, I should elaborate more. There’s a photography contest called Name Your Dream Assignment, which seems to be legit. And the award is more than any photographer could ask for, $50,000 to pursue your dream project. The top 20 with the most votes will go on to a final judging by professionals, where the winner will be chosen. No matter who is awarded the prize in the end, I hope the images captured and the journey trekked will be a compelling visual narrative for all communities. Below is the link to my idea, but I also suggest perusing others as you can vote for multiple people (just not more than once for the same idea). 

Herstory

Bangladesh

Many friends know I’ve been in quite the limbo these past months. Frantic like a mouse in a maze trying to find a way out of so much I’m unhappy with in life. Or perhaps unhappy is the wrong word…continuing to live a lifestyle, a career, making choices that go against my creative nature, my innate need for a sense of freedom and flexibility, and my desire to help, teach, inspire, participate in culture, community, life, in a way that enriches lives spiritually, artistically, epistemologically, and so on. 

And now I am at a crossing. I’ve been accepted into WorldTeach’s program to volunteer in Bangladesh. I would be teaching English and possibly photography or creative writing at an all women’s university in Dhaka for a year. Most of my expenses would be absolved because I’d be living in faculty apartments on campus and be permitted two free meals a day in the cafeteria. Along with this, I would receive a $350 monthly stipend (yes, in our country that seems abhorrently insufficient. I agree it isn’t much, but it’s enough). This is all fine, except for finding a way to cover my financial obligations while I’d be away.

The program requires a $2000 deposit that I’ll be reimbursed upon completion of my year of teaching. Along with this, I have loans and debt that need to be accrued for while I’m away. One student loan can be deferred since I’ll be working with a non-profit. The other is a parent plus loan; so, that can’t be deferred since it’s not in my name. I’ve estimated that I’d need approximately $5500 dollars to cover minimum payments (it’s horrible I know) for that year. So that’s $7500 needed to go to Bangladesh. An amount that seems completely unattainable with only about 4 months before leaving, and many of my friends think this a bad decision to go, for many reasons.

Reasons Why Priscilla Shouldn’t be Crazy and Go to a Third World Country (Would Bangladesh be considered 3rd world?):

1: The pay is insufficient. 2: Why would you leave us (yes, many have said this). 3: Um…didn’t you know that you’re photographing my wedding in the fall? Oh, well, now you do. 4: What about all the work you’ve done to establish yourself as a photographer in Charleston? As a potential business of your own? 5. If you can acquire that kind of money in 4 months, why not just stay and payoff a good portion of your debt? 6. What about Colorado? Or Atlanta? Or somewhere in the continental United States where I want to move in the near future and you can tag along? 7. Bangladesh is an Islamic country? Did your dad spazz when you told him that? You almost killed the man when you went to India and that was just for a month. What is he going to do for a year?!

All those reasons I’ve weighed heavily. I agree there are potential downsides. Likely the biggest one for me would be my lack of mobility, to be able to just hop in a car and go or even venture into town alone. These aren’t things a Western woman should do alone in this country, at least it’s not recommended. And for those that are news savvy, there was recently a military uprising of sorts, rogue guards or something in Dhaka resulting in over 50 people being killed and the government having to initiate emergency action. I also know that two volunteers left the program early last year, but I’m not privy as to why. 

I don’t have much time to accept or decline…basically several days. I was informed that fundraising is encouraged in order to ensure volunteers have enough money while they’re away for expenses or anything they may need. For some reason, I hate soliciting. I hate asking for money, for help in general. I’m not sure why. And I haven’t really raised money for anything since yearbook in high school. Though I was one of few to manage the sell of a full page ad, I wouldn’t say sales is my forte. But I have close friends that are very extrovert, very charismatic, and would hopefully help me in fundraising pursuits if I asked, but these are also the people that really don’t want me to go. So, I have some potential ideas to raise money…

1. Try my hardest to book 2-4 more weddings to photograph between the end of April and the end of June. If this happens, then I likely won’t need outside money, but I only have two gigs in May at undercut rates, which won’t be enough.

2. Tell my dad to sell the car when it’s paid off. It’s my gift for graduating, and once it’s paid off, it’s to be signed over to me anyway. It’s a Civic so the resell value should be pretty decent, at least enough to cover half my bills while I’m away. (Note: Many friends have voiced that they think this is stupid option. That I should keep the car because why wouldn’t I come straight back after my year is up?)

3. Sell. Sell. Sell. TV. Photo printer. Books. Thangkas. Decor. Anything that I don’t plan to take with me, that has no sentimental value, that I will not really need when I comeback. 

4. Fundraising Ideas: 50/50 raffle, setup a donation website, sell magazines (gags), perhaps see if close friends can throw a party or two with a small door fee, ask businesses to sponsor me, etc. 

5. Sell a part of my body for advertising purposes. A nice tattoo on the hand/arm with some website or company. (Yeah, I can guess the look on your face).

6. Sell advertising to put on my car. Magnet decals shouldn’t be hard to get.

7. Hook for a Cause…I’m kidding, but that is a catchy phrase for some reason. 

So, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I feel a bit rushed. I hate not having more time to prepare for expenses, for leaving. I wouldn’t want these next several months consumed by my current full time job along with the stress of raising money and the photography commitments I do have. That is precious time I’d lose being with friends and family, and taking in the nostalgic and tragic beauty I have so intimately found in the many facets of Charleston. 

My sister thinks this all an illusion. That I think happiness will be halfway across the world, and that I’m trying to escape or runaway from thoughts and feelings I associate with this town and my current life status. She fears the hope I’m putting in Bangladesh to free me, to save me, to renew me, will not come to fruition like I thought and that I’ll discover it isn’t where one is, but how they live that fosters happiness and wholeness. 

As for my decision…my instinct is silent. I hate it when it refuses to stir whether it’s in favor of or against a choice, an idea. But all that is there is silence. And all I’m left with are conflicting emotions and a mind that constantly weighs a judgement scale that refuses to teeter for one side or the other.

Insider vs Outsider

In Religious Studies, fieldwork is an expected practice, and when introduced to approaching fieldwork, it is quickly taught the potential dilemma that will arise: Insider vs Outsider. 

Insider is the person or group being studied. The outsider is the scholar. Being an outsider causes limitations both needed and impeding when conducting fieldwork. As an outsider, one automatically has a different understanding of anything seen or spoken by the group because that scholar comes in with personal biases, constructs from his or her society, and sometimes, paradigms of the academic world that only permit certain interpretations or theories to be published or accepted in the mainstream. The easiest example would be when Catholic priests would go into indigenous tribes around the world. They interpreted that group’s rituals through the scope of understanding within Christian teachings and beliefs. Therefore, a ritual to a particular deity would likely be interpreted as heretical, demonic, and so on because the point-of-view of the priest was constructed by different societal structures and religious beliefs. However, the ‘outsider’ status is necessity because it maintains enough metaphorical distance that the scholar can still analyze and critique the group’s beliefs and practices. (Note: critique isn’t meant in the negative sense)

But, this still creates a predicament. An outsider will remain too distant, too ignorant of the group’s practices, if there isn’t some stepping over into ‘insider’ domain. To know the language and comprehend through the contextual meaning the people do, to live with the people, to not only witness ritual but perhaps participate in it and all the while, attempting to suspend enough of one’s own beliefs long enough to make the leap to understand someone different. But this too can be problematic because where does a scholar draw the line between insider and outsider? When does too much of one or the other corrupt or jeopardize the research? And there really doesn’t seem to be a conclusive answer.

I’m bringing this up because I’m facing the same ‘Insider vs Outsider’ dilemma in my photography. Perhaps not to the same extent. But today served as an example of how I teeter on that border, never wanting to fully commit to one or the other. I attended a candlelight vigil to commemorate 50 years of Tibetans’ plight, to remember those tortured and murdered, to vocalize the atrocities committed by China, to ask with our hearts for peace. Immediately, I stand out with my camera not being the tiny point-and-shoot. I always explain I’m a freelance photographer because I’m not hired on with any publication nor do my images ever get published unless an image from an event is needed and it just happens no other photographer working for a publication went (I usually leave this part out). But I notice the skepticism that comes as well; I’m not necessarily trusted. And anyone has reason to be skeptical, and after all, I prefer people practice good hermeneutics even if it revolves around me. 

Personally, before going into an event, I determine an ethical or etiquette code to follow, with allowable adjustments depending on how things unfold. When it comes to religious events, I’m especially cautious. I refrain from photographing during prayers, moments of silence, and usually will consult someone about any particular restrictions I may not be aware of. An example is when I photographed a Native American Pow Wow, there’s no photography permitted during the opening ceremony and dance, and I would not have known had I not talked with the organizers; so, though I usually advocate “do and ask forgiveness later,” I don’t in the case of religious and spiritual events because if bonds of trust are so quickly tainted, that group will never want me to attend another event nor will I meet people who can help connect me deeper into that world.

As the event began, people circled around a small table with candles and an area with a mic where several speakers stood nearby. I stayed to the sidelines with the group, but maintained a front position. The crowd was small, an intimate gathering, so I decided to choose a spot wisely based on the setup and not move too much, perhaps only kneeling or small shifts to the side because I didn’t want to distract. When they prayed, I put down my camera, when there was a ten minute moment of silence, my camera was off; when they handed out candles after the opening speeches, I took one and did my best to not let my flame die (it did twice, eek). My behavior leaned a bit more towards the ‘insider,’ but due to respect, my background in Religious Studies, and my personal history and interactions with those in Dharamsala. 

There was another photographer there, obviously professional with his long lens and hood cover, which it was overcast so I wasn’t sure why he even bothered with a hood cover, but I digress. He moved around constantly. He didn’t take a candle and actually stepped away for several minutes during the moment of silence. And all this isn’t really that bad, but what did irk me was during the group prayers, he walked into the middle of the circle on several occasions to photograph the table of candles. And I’m just sort of looking at him, wondering if he realizes how obnoxious he’s being by stepping into the empty center enveloped by a crowd and getting right in front of the speakers while they’re reciting prayers aloud? It was just sort of tacky. Tacky because that was a particular image he could have gotten at another time. It’s a shot that requires a closeup, macro frame, but it wasn’t the type of image I’d even consider being obnoxious for. When people started accepting candles, I stood to the side to photograph the more ‘intimate’ images I wanted, but I didn’t push people aside or interrupt a poignant moment. He was a complete ‘outsider,’ perceiving the situation from a standpoint of photographer only. What shots do I need? When the opportunity comes to get those shots, take it. Find different angles. And so on. 

I understand his thought process as a photographer. But I also understood the purpose of the event, the type of gathering it was, and indeed, I sacrificed some good shots because of my choice to behave a certain way. 

In my short time as a photographer, I’ve learned two things very quickly. The first, a lot of people say they’re a photographer. I have never met so many photographers in my life until I became one. Seriously. And the second involves photographers’ etiquette. Many people I meet who aren’t photographers usually have a story about an obnoxious photographer they’ve encountered whether it’s been at an event, a friend’s wedding, their own wedding, etc. I’ve taken those stories a bit to heart, knowing I don’t want to be that type of photographer. The more that I can make myself ‘unseen’ though clearly visible, the better. And that ability to be ‘unseen’ in plain sight is possible when many variables are weighed and varying strategies and techniques are used to make me insignificant in a person’s or group’s awareness within that moment. And in truth, I find that to be the key in capturing a moment. It doesn’t always work out like I want, and I don’t always get the photographs I want, but this method has given me enough good/great images that I consider it effective.

So, the dilemma of ‘Insider vs Outsider’ now finds itself in my photographic ventures. I keep wondering when Religious Studies will stop popping up in each facet of my life, but it is a steadfast thing. Granted, one could say my personal scope is merely biased based on the constructs of my field of study…and I couldn’t say that’d be wrong.

The Foot Path

I’ve come to appreciate dirty feet. Strange. Indeed. 

India refused to permit me pure, untainted toes and soles. Never could a bucket shower manage to cleanse the remnants of winding stone and dirt paths. Paths that had been carved from the back of Himalaya, been trekked upon by thousands of feet before mine. The history of foot paths. Stories of all before, and all to come. Dirty feet no longer defined as unclean, but proud symbols of each step taken. Though footprints runaway with wind and water, never does a foot forget the journey. 

My heels are hardened from years of flip flops. How naked and vulnerable a foot can be, but it adapts to its surroundings. No matter if I step fifty paces in a day, each will be adorned with a fresh dusting. Last night, in denial of an empty ink cartridge’s state, I shook photo black noir hoping to jostle enough ink to finish a print. Not only was it unsuccessful, but tiny droplets of black ink sprinkled the carpet. Oblivious to that fact, I walked across the carpet several times before sensing a mild damp feeling. Little black dots stained my feet for the night. I had no urge to wash away the absurdity of ink on feet. 

I think it strange that often dirty feet mean unclean. I’ve read religious texts where feet are used for metaphors for a person’s social status, the bottom of the body, how it is of the earth. Nothing else would I prefer but to be of the earth, be a part of something so real, rather than lay fat and idle on a cloud. 

Dirty can be lovely. Forever it will remind me of the paths taken, by me and strangers alike.

All Work and No Play Makes Priscilla a Dull Girl

I admit a great folly of mine as of late, I’ve been struck melancholy. Loathe it. Fogs my vision and head. It makes me long for my bed, to slumber, for silence, to be alone, segregate myself from it all. I blame winter, I blame work, I blame myself for letting it fester and consume. 

With winter is an absence of light. It depresses me. The cold, the darkness by six. I wonder about depression rates of those that live much further north than I? Perhaps they sedate through fermented grain. I have yet to acquire a recreational outlet of that nature, and never thought much of it until stumbling into the working world.

But truly, the lack of light, the confinements of my access to light when the sun is out, greatly alters me. And the domino effect even trickles down to photography. How rare my camera has been picked up in the last thirty days. No inspiration. No daring spirit about me to find and capture. The thought of the effort exhausts me a bit even. And I think how I squander the two days a week I get to succumb to my whims. How time will be approaching for a submission I greatly want to find acceptance in. Time will go quick and I need a portfolio that is strong in narratives of people.

Finally, photography seeped into my dreams. Came at me in unconscious state. How it won’t let me forget her. And I’m in a restaurant by water, and ocean view on a breezy day, windows open wide welcoming in the salty air. And I fiddle with my camera, without notice of her, until I see gestures and movements and jewelry that could only be her. What am I doing? What am I waiting for? Photograph! And she’s scrambling around, slicing homemade cakes and pastries behind a counter, though I have no idea why. And old man and his dog come, sit for awhile, and I watch them through my lens. I know she’s over my shoulder, looking, watching me. In a bit she’ll critique, but I just keep on. As the crowd comes in, I find myself at the counter, swiveling on the stool, my camera drops, and I cry out. The color is gone, it only shows black and white. And the gent next to me is eating ice cream, obnoxiously, it’s dripping down the corners of his mouth. I’m in panic. I want my color back. And I’m smacking the camera body, popping open little doors, shutting them. After striking the bottom, the color bleeds in, and I sigh with relief. And out of the corner of my eye, I see a delicious grotesque site. A cake, tiers upon tiers, tall as can be, teetering on collapse and this woman in a canary yellow gown, old Southern in style, cinched at the waste with a flowing round skirt is on top of the counter standing beside it. Almost as if its potential collapse will cause hers. She is pungent against mint green walls and a white marble top, and I ask a waiter if hazelnut cake is on the menu today. I’m disappointed when he tells me no. And just as I finally raise my lens to capture the woman in yellow, I wake up. I realize it all a dream. And then am irked and saddened because all those images I took aren’t real. A few good ones lost in my dream mind. Curse this brain as I am obviously cursed by photography, marked in waking state and sleep alike. It has become me.

Music

I realized something about myself this week. I have a sudden need for silence. Well, not sudden, I just haven’t noticed it all these months. I come home from work, and I am so agitated that I want to be isolated and hear no words, no movement, even the soft shuffle of feet walking down the hall irks me. 

I tried to find the source of this, how I can reach such an elevated state of noise irritation that I want no sound. I’m primarily an auditory learner, and working in an open office has disadvantages for a person like me. I can hear chatting, paper shuffling, stapler dropping, fax machine dialing, and so on up to ten feet away. My ears so sensitive to the slightest wave of sound. So, not realizing, this affects my concentration, like a subtle antagonist. And if my stress level is further elevated, it just amplifies all this. I asked to be removed from people. It was seriously considered, even though my need for isolation and quiet seemed somewhat a concern, but in the end, it was decided others would interpret it wrong. They’d think me favored for having my own space rather than realizing it was helping ensure my sanity and letting me work in peace. 

This week, we also had annual evaluations, which went quite well for me. I had no worries about the caliber of my workmanship and professional ethics and neither did my bosses. But the one area of concern I knew would come up is my assertiveness…well not exactly. Basically, I take the initiative to handle problems, to fix them, and I make people aware of what went wrong in the process hoping they’ll learn from the mistakes and manage to not commit the same missteps in the future. However, a year and half later, this hasn’t been effective. People still make the same errors, sometimes maliciously, and then I’m held accountable for making sure we receive payment. I’m the first to be yelled out when something reaches over 30 days old. I’m tired of being the only one held accountable for something I have no involvement in until the end. So, for those that maliciously go against the process or don’t have proper authorization, I will recommend they be written up. Evidently, this is outside my bounds aka I offended egos. Was e-mailed by someone that he is a professional and shouldn’t receive an email like that. My response, “As professionals, I have the expectation that everyone will do their job correctly. It isn’t fair for someone to be paid when missteps are preventing the business from being paid.” And of course I assuaged ruffled feathers by stating my intention wasn’t to offend, but that people are abusing the privilege to use certain accounts. Anyway, this sort of thing was brought up in the evaluation. That I should go through more of a bureaucratic  process. My argument was that process is in no way efficient or guarantees a suitable results i.e. resolving the situation as quickly as possible. And that’s precisely how I dissect a problem. What information do I need to gather to properly understand what went wrong, what is needed to fix this? Who do I need to absolutely involve to get this done? Will their help assist in rectifying this problem or impede it? Is it quicker to do it myself? And so on. Because of this, I have clean schedules, my accounts are in good standing, and I’ve managed to fix aged problems that had been over a year old. And now I’m being told it’s not my job to fix them, that management should handle those that aren’t following the process and enforce the rules, and I honestly yelled, “Bullshit.” This started quite a dispute, yelling, crying, fighting about what he was saying versus what has actually occurred. How conceptually that was fine but in execution always fails and the burden is on me to fix it. I’m told we can’t change people; so, I should stop trying to. And I’m wondering if that’s the case, why bother asking me to change? So, in the end, an actually great evaluation took a horrid turn. When I felt we had reached a stopping point, I just walked out. 

They told me life isn’t fair. That they never thought they’d be in this business all these years. That they had other intentions and dreams. I just looked at them, and I said, “Twenty years from now, I don’t want to be saying the things you are now.” And I could see the cold shiver that went down the spines. 

So, my problem is I care too much. And I decided I’ll make the effort to comply to the bureaucratic process. I’ll go through the “chain of command” and will do nothing to personally resolve a situation even if I can fix it in a matter of minutes. My job is to find the problems, gather info, and make people “aware” so that they can fix it. And if stuff ages, fine, let it sit on that schedule for as long as needed. And I’ll just say, I followed your process, which works so much better than the one I was using. 

Anyway, since my disenchantment has reached new levels I didn’t think possible, my new tactic is to just do my job (or to the point I can now without stepping outside my bounds) and pushing out everything around me. I’ve managed to do this quite well with the help of my Ipod, which I hadn’t used since purchasing it over a month ago. I just crank it up, and do my work. I don’t pick up the phone unless I feel it’s necessary, I don’t chat with anyone unless they won’t leave from behind my shoulder, and I basically just ignore everything around me. Make notes of people’s mistakes and make the necessary copies and e-mails backing up my finds. However this isn’t helping my jadedness or cynicism for the work place. 

But I’m noticing I have an inclination towards certain tracks, and I’ll replay them over and over and over. 

Johnny Cash’s “Hurt”

The Weepies “No one knows me at all,” “Living in Twilight,” and “Slow Pony Home”

Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor  

Alkaline Trio “This Could be Love”

Udit Narayan “Dhadak Dhadak”

Billy Bragg & Wilco “Over Yonder in the Minor Key” 

I’m not sure what this eclectic collage of music says about my mindset. A mixture of folk, Indian, alternative, and classical. But in the several days I’ve tried this, it has helped me maintain a lower stress level at work. However, this hasn’t eased the concern of what my need for silence (silence from people around me) and isolation really means, or to what grave extent I’m being effected by my work environment that these two things have even become an insatiable need to just do my job.