The More I Learn, The Less I Know

So it has been two and a half weeks in India, in Palayamkottai near Tirunelveli, also known as the twin cities. The towns themselves are prolly about 500 or so years old, probably older actually but I don’t think anyone has really cared to count. Things are just moving along as they always have. Ancient history touches the present moment as people are living in the same houses their ancestors built in practically the same way their ancestors lived… probably amongst the descendents of the same cows, goats and chickens. I am staying in a place not quite so old, out in the suburbs, near the expressway that is still under construction. The expressway operates exactly like the roads, full of pedestrians, bicyclists, motorcyclists (three to four passengers on each), cows, goats, dogs, auto rickshaws, huge construction trucks full of heavy dangerous things, very tiny mini vans, jeeps and cars propelling themselves forward indiscriminately on any stretch of open pavement they can find, regardless of conventional lane usage or speed limit. Only on the expressway they are travelling much faster, at least the motorized vehicles are. The expressway is not finished either so at any given moment, without warning, you could apprehend a diversion, or someone else’s diversion, marked only by a pile of rocks and find yourself out of road or suddenly facing oncoming traffic, or both. Miraculously, people survive this on a daily basis. Dogs, however, are not so lucky.


A brief note on the weather: it is still hot and humid and generally miserable. All day, every day. I feel good for about five minutes after I bathe in the morning before I put on clothes. Then, the sticky gross feeling sets in and my feet return to their dirt caked state and I let go and let God for another day. Let us never speak of the weather again.

I am here to spend time with the students of the LIFT family. These kids come from destitute situations. Families of 12 will live in two rooms barely covered by a thatch roof with open sewers to be stepped over to enter the home. The rooms themselves are barely, maybe 5’ by 8’ and serve as the sleeping quarters, dining room, kitchen, storage room for large sacks of dried grains, and everything else you do in your home. There are often no doors to the homes at all and family members, relatives, and neighbors of all ages are constantly in and out of each. There is no plumbing, no running water. Chickens, dogs, and goats are in and out of the black slimy sewers (which are basically gutters running along the edges of the homes) looking for scraps of food. These same animals are then mingling about with the babies and the children and everyone else. Some of the children have slightly larger homes, with maybe three rooms for two parents and nine kids, some have smaller. One girl lives with five family members in a room about four feet wide and maybe nine feet deep on the second floor above her grandparents and uncle. This room also contains one bed, a refrigerator, a wardrobe and a makeshift kitchen and is accessible only by ladder. These children come to LIFT because they have shown great aptitude in their studies and want to continue going to school even though their families cannot support them to do so. The alternatives for them are to go to work or to do nothing and try to consume as little as possible. LIFT operates basically like a boarding school, although at this point the children go to a variety of different schools based on where they are accepted. There are too many children and not enough schools and teachers, and definitely not enough money for all of them. LIFT pays for school fees and tuitions as necessary. The children live in one of two boarding facilities, girls and boys separate, and are driven to school each day in the LIFT van which drops off and picks up everyone at their respective school at their respective time. They take all of their meals together and divide the chores of the houses amongst themselves. They are taken care of by a staff of cooks and caretakers who make sure everyone has what they need and on time. The kids range in age from 9 to 19 and require varying degrees of supervision. They are all very keen on studying and many of the students are top in their class. It is a brilliant crew of people and they have amazing senses of humor. I’ll have more individual stories soon.

We are all getting to know each other. I am not quite sure what I am doing here, how I should interact with them, what I can give them. We have a language barrier, but it seems to be getting smaller. I am picking up on several Tamil words and I have a knack for getting the big idea from pantomimes and tone of voice and I am quick enough, some of the time, to anticipate the questions based on observation. The kids are feeling more comfortable speaking English with me and there are a few spokes persons with more English experience who translate for the rest. Usually when we chat, a committee forms to discuss what I said. There will be much discussion, some argument, a general agreement and a response delivered by the spokesperson. Sometimes the response is simply a smile of contentment that they seem to all agree that they have understood what I said and other times, after several minutes of deliberation, I am asked to repeat my statement or question. Often times during these discussions the topic changes without my knowing it and I’ll get a question or response totally out of left field, or someone will insist that a song be sung. There is little to no getting out of a request to sing, so it is good to be prepared… or to really stick to your guns and be happy suffering the looks of disappointment you have inflicted upon everyone by not singing. Shame on you.

I still feel awkward and out of place. I am not sure what it is God wanted me to do here. I keep thinking that this one experience or that one moment is surely what I was supposed to witness or endure, but I have a feeling that it is not necessarily one isolated thing. I have so much respect for these kids. They are overcoming severe odds and doing amazing things with such kindness and optimism. They are struggling with so much pain and messed up lives and probably memories of unspeakable horrors, and yet they keep going. I am horrified and sickened by the conditions in which their families live, where they lived for so long and spend time visiting when not in school, and yet they are so proud to show me their homes and have me as their guest and I am truly honored. When I see their smiles and how excited they are that I have come to visit, and that they have purchased flowers for me and bottles of soda for me to drink (knowing that the water would prolly kill me), I practically die of guilt and am equally touched by their generosity and kindness and I have no idea what to do with the primal reactions of disgust at the situation and the desire to run screaming or throw up. It is exhausting and makes me want to cry and tell these sweet kids that I am so sorry that they have to live like this and then give them all my money, but I know that charity is hard to accept. I know it has to be structured and official so that those in need and those who can provide can come to a working agreement. It blows my mind. I had no idea what I was getting into.

I am writing this late at night at the Sweet Home (the name the college girls gave to the house where I stay) on the laptop I am borrowing. I will post it tomorrow sometime, hopefully, if I have some time to use the internet. Until then, goodnight and sweet dreams!

INDIA or I totally could have swam to the Maldives from there

So, okay. Here I am at the Southern tip of the great country of India. I am in a decent sized town called Tirunelveli in the state of Tamil Nadu. Here they speak Tamil and some English. I just found out today that the word for "flower" in Tamil is "pu". Dontcha. I went to see Kannyakumari, or the rock in the sea at the very tip of India where the three oceans meet. It was very similar to going to see the Statue of Liberty, but with more sunshine.

I have been here for two weeks now. Two weeks of sweating and eating and making a fool of myself as I bungle through learning an entirely new culture. It is entirely possible that I won't be able to write about this experience with any kind of clarity until I am home again and have some perspective. However, I will try to put some things together here. Please forgive me in advance for what will surely be an exercise in randomness and probably nonsense.

Things I don't need anymore:
1) Shoes
2) Silverware
3) Showers

Everywhere we wear slippers (or flip flops) and take them off when we enter homes, temples, churches etc. We eat with our hands, not an easy task for someone who mastered the knife and fork years ago. You'd think it would be easy, but it is not. And now, I bathe with a bucket of water and a mug. Rinse, soap, rinse, done. However, 103 degree temperature notwithstanding, it is still common knowlege that if you go out with a wet head, you are going to get a cold.

I am staying in a small house near the LIFT girls' boarding facility (also known as the Women's Hostel). The college girls have named the house Sweet House. I have a bed and a dressing room and an A/C unit that daily saves my life, although I have mixed feelings about it. I have a western toilet, thank goodness, because while it is one thing to learn how to eat with your hands... it's easy to watch and learn. I really don't want to have to ask for an explanation of how to hold my dress, drop my drawers, squat above a hole in the ground, do my business and then use a mug of water and my left hand to clean up without falling in or making a mess of myself. Not to mention I am dealing with a language barrier and it takes a committee to translate and respond. Sometimes the response is minutes later with a request to repeat the question. Right.

Being amongst several new cultures at once is both mind opening and mind closing. I am tackling India, Tamil, and community living. On the one hand I am seeing things that I never thought about before, broadening my experience and expanding my knowlege. On the other hand, I am prone, perhaps due to human nature, to believe that this is the only truth. My mind is tossing out useless information regarding much of my Western culture, and in the process is narrowing my mind to focus solely at what is in front of me. Everything I see is the new way and the new truth. I am discombobulated. There are moments of great clarity and many more moments of complete misunderstanding or being lost in a cloud of confusion. And it is hot. It is hard to think straight when your brain is melty.

I helped to make chapati this morning. Indian wheat pancakes, more like tortillas... but different. They were pretty good.

Ok, I know there are more important things, stories that could be narrated well, but I just wanted to get this randomness out of the way. I needed to start somewhere.

The Story of Confirmation Part III

Inside the church everything was hustle and bustle. We had to check in downstairs in the hall, get a candle and a program, our name tag (confirmation name in red) and a boutonniere. Before I could get there I had to find a seat for Liz and locate my sister, Jessica, and her boyfriend who had both come. I finally got downstairs and got my stuff and Ingedia was there. She had been able to make it after all. The situation with her brother's wedding got resolved and she was there for the ceremony. I was ready to do it on my own, knowing you'd be rooting for me from afar, but I am glad she could make it. I am glad I could include her in the night. I think she needed it more than I did. Although, I am learning that everyone's need for a spiritual presence in his or her life is no less important than another's. Everyone's time is of equal value. For all time, each life given to mark time, is a gift and the presence of God. Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.Matthew 25:45.

We made our way to our seats at the front of the church, Mary-side, fourth pew. The place was bright! So packed were all the stairs and ledges with Easter Lilies and daffodils and tulips and hyacinths that the whole hall was thick with their perfume. The urns to either side of St. Patrick were full of fine umber branches with papery organza blossoms fluttering around every stem. The baptismal font was full again and running. Such a change came over the church after the barren hollows of Good Friday. The stations of the cross were held in such a sombre place, the mood of which was desolate and empty despite being held within the same walls as this tumescent vivacity. So quietly and in earnest did we sit, stand and kneel with every station. It only took the shame of one missed genuflection to draw me into line with the rhythm of prayer. Our hearts broke with Pergolesi's Stabat Mater sung beautifully after every invocation of the crucial moments of Christ's journey. Only the cold hard corners of the hall were present for our petition, making the absence of our signs of God's life, of The Son, more poignant. Making the notes of the Dolorosa echo in our bones. And now! Here everything was full of life. Flowers were so numerous that you could not go forward without crushing a blossom, pews so full of sweet old friends, babies and all ages between that the aisles could barely handle the overflow.

I could not sit still. We had almost an hour to wait until the ceremony began and I rushed about locating all of the people from my table and the newest friends I had made at the Mundelein retreat. I squeezed them and shook hands way too long, and smiled until my face hurt. All the chatechumens were in burgundy robes and flip flops looking like ducks out of water and I immediately felt silly for thinking my costume awkward. Everyone was beautiful and nervous. Tricia and Emily, our table leaders, were beaming like proud parents ready to leak tears of joy at the slightest provocation. They were running the same track circles as I was, making sure everyone was ready and name-tagged and suited up. Renee was in the pew in front of me chatting away with her sponsor and looking radiant. A woman kept trying to give me a camera, which was not mine, and I kept refusing it and found out much later that it belonged to Liz and she was trying to lend it to me so I could take pictures. Ingedia had crumpled her candle into a weird new sculpture she thought for sure would not drip on her. The scene was near chaos when finally the lights were dimmed down to complete darkness and with it all of the voices and movement settled as much as it could, like a small girl whose ruffled dress tempts her to dance though she's been told to sit still.

To be continued...