Packing

I have just a few more days left in India before I resume my journey around the world. I am a bit concerned that the amount of treasures I plan on bringing back to the states does not fit in my luggage. Gulp. I packed up a box of gifts to have shipped home and discovered that it will cost me 7,000 rupees (about 165 USD) to have it sent home. So.... now, this is a totally ridiculous sum of money in my estimation. I can't decide if I should try to cram everything into my suitcases and lug the heavy things the rest of the way home, risking airline weight limit violations, bag searches and spinal damage or if I should suck it up and spend the cash to mail the box and flit easily through the airports in the Middle East, Asia and San Francisco. Oh man oh man, I totally just want to put it on my credit card and ship the box but I am feeling super guilty about spending that kind of cash on sentimental trinkets when that sum is a third of a year of school for one of my new best pals here in India.GUILT.

Any suggestions? I mean, one doesn't go all the way around the world and not bring back some gifts for pals, and it is a tiny box only about 6kg, less than the weight limit for a carry-bag. Maybe I should go home and try repacking and see what happens.

Final Program

For the past few weeks the LIFT students have been dancing and drama-ing their hearts out every day from 7am until 10pm. Each day ends with a dramatic program in which one of 4 groups presents a major drama of their own design (plot and directing) as well as a welcome speech, a prayer song, some dialogues, a monologue and a commercial or two. After each performance there is about a half an hour of feedback where the other students, teachers and adult mentors give the kids critical feedback about plot, staging and overall performance and how that relates to leadership skills. They are amazingly talented and there is a lot to be said, both good and constructive after each day.

At this point, I don't know how many days we have been doing this, but everyone is exhausted. Tomorrow we leave for a summer camp road tour to Coimbatore, Ooty and one other place I can't remember the name of. This tour marks the beginning of the end of my time here. I have completed the major project I set out to do, which was collect portrait photos and profiles of all the students so that the Chicago LIFT team can create individual sponsorships for each child. This will be an amazing project when it is complete and I hope with all of my heart that we will be able to secure donors for each child. The sponsorship levels to take care of one grade schooler's needs for a full year of shelter, food, health care, transportation and school fees is $500, $1200 for a college student. Not so much when you think about it, yet it means the entire world to each of these kids. Literally, their entire world. I wish I could speak Tamil and fully understand how brilliant they are. I can tell just by watching, and the little bits of English conversation we have. But I think my mind would be blown to actually listen to all they have to say.

A few days ago, one of the college girls told me her life story in broken English. I knew that she had come from a family of five sisters and as the sixth girl in the family, her parents wanted to kill her instead of pay to bring her up and pay her dowry upon marriage. She narrowly escaped being murdered by the words of her grandmother who claimed the child looked like the Virgin Mary and prayed that she be spared. All of her life she was told she should have been killed whenever some chore was not satisfactorily completed or some other such dissatisfaction occurred. Her home village has no water, no well, no nothing but huts. Walking to the next village was the only way to get water and other supplies. This was also the only way to get anyone to a medical facility for health care. The sick, the elderly, the pregnant had to ride on bicycles or walk to the next village to get aid. So during grade school, this girl worked a part time job picking jasmine flowers for 30 rupees a day. She saved this money and used it to help poor people. Ok, so are you getting this? She is coming from the most destitute of destitution and yet still gave her money to buy shoes for babies and help others. Now she is studying to be an accountant and has great plans to help her native village get roads and a hospital and water. I almost cried when she told me the story, but I didn't want to let on that I know of a world so much different than hers. I only wanted to praise her and help her get there. Which I promise I will do. 

Not everything these kids say is so noble however. Here are a few priceless gems:

"Sarah, where you eyebrows?"
"Sarah, you have red spot on face. What is?"
"Sarah, this outfit not suit you"
"Sarah, why face so dull?"

Sigh....

Ok, Fine. We Can Talk About The Weather.

So it is hot here, as you may have heard. In the 100s every day, in the shade. Sometimes there is a breeze, but not often. Sweating profusely is normal. When I decided I would come to visit the LIFT kids during their summer camps, I was optimistic. I knew it would be hot, but really, how bad could it be? I'm a girl scout. I can handle anything. Except for this heat. By 9am I have to sit down. By 11am I am fighting to not pass out from the heat. Let's not even talk about 2pm. At the beginning of camp I started learning dances right along with the kids, my enthusiasm overriding my body's sincere requests that I stop moving or else risk severe pain. After two days of dancing and then collapsing in a heap for the rest of the day, I decided it would be better just to watch. How sad. I was truly sad, but then I had the wonderful sensation that I was not, in fact, dying and that smoothed things over. It is very frustrating to not be able to use your body. Walking, eating, everything feels like trying to do areobics in a sauna after getting out of an hour soak in a hot tub. Muscle fail. I feel terrible, too, because the kids are running around like crazy without feeling it at all, and I am the hippopotamus in the corner trying not to doze off. My next visit will be in December. This is just silly.

Dance, Dance, Revolution

Three weeks and counting... On the day that I wrote my last post, I had the opportunity to talk with my Chef A and also Laura from LIFT Chicago. They allowed me to vent my frustrations and offered perspective and understanding. Overall, that whole moment was a breakthrough for me here. Since then, I have lightened up a lot. Not only have I started working on some of the projects that I am supposed to do for the LIFT Chicago crew, but I have just let go of my own notions of myself and what anything means to me. Because it is not about me. It is about these children and some young adults who are benefiting from the family, structure and opportunity that LIFT is providing for them. They are so optimistic and positive.

So I decided to relax and just be here now, so to speak. There is nothing I can possibly DO for these children. They take care of themselves for the most part and they have a good structure here. What they need is stability and continuity so they can keep on keepin' on and graduate, get that good job and have a good life for themselves and their families. I will be better equipped to help them with that when I get back to Chicago and can work in my world to help them in theirs. In the mean time, I am just here to watch, listen and learn. And what I have realized just recently, is that I also have the greatest gift to be a child again for a little while.

Two or three nights ago, myself and the college boys were on the roof of the Sweet Home having our evening discussion. I had brought a few mangoes up with us to snack on and my camp lantern to see by. They had brought a straw mat to sit on and complete innocent optimism and joy. It was their idea to go to the roof and talk under the moonlight. As the moon rose in the sky they requested that I turn off the camp lantern so that we would just be under the moon. They taught me the proper way to eat a mango, after politely watching me make a mess of myself doing it the wrong way. And there we were, just gleefully sitting under the moon, sweating profusely with mangoes in our bellies chit chatting away about school and swimming and practical exams about welding and family members and there were some songs sung after many bashful attempts to get out of the requests. I was completely happy. Not a care in the world, just this moment! I am relishing this feeling, hoping to keep it going as long as I can. I will never forget this moment for all of my life.

Today we started the summer camps. We are headquartered at the Chittikollum parish church where all of the students spend all day learning cultural activities. The hours between 8am and 10pm are spent dancing and bonding with each other. The first few days will be learning folk dances, after that there will be traditional street theater sessions that will teach the kids about creativity, self expression, teamwork, organization and leadership. At the end of each day, a group of students will put on a program (what they call a performance) for the rest of the group. It is the group's choice of what elements they will bring to their program. I can't wait to see what they come up with. As for me, I spent the cool hours of the morning learning four new dance moves with the upper level girls. It was so much fun I could hardly stand it. As a student myself, I had extensive dance training through my school programs. From grade 4 through 12, I had dance class every day instead of gym. I choreographed many many dances in my time which culminated in a major dance piece performed during my senior year of high school. So naturally, this totally rocks my world to be dancing again. I am so happy that I have almost forgotten about how many mosquito bites I have and the fact that my toilet stopped working.

Right now, I am awaiting a ride back to the church to have dinner with the children and see the first evening program. I have reapplied a layer of DEET, refreshed my camera batteries and am ready to go.

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...