Cammy's Blog

Sri Lanka: "The Peanut of India"

2007-03-01T14:55:00.000+05:30

Indian tourist visas can last for up to ten years - which is nice, but they do not allow for uninterrupted stay. Every Indian-tourist-visa-holder must leave the country every 180 days or face deportation.

Luckily, for us volunteers, this meant a well-earned vacation to Sri Lanka!

Sri Lanka (or at least the places we visited there) is more westernized than Kerala, so we were able to indulge momentarily in things that we haven't seen, tasted, smelled etc for months. Stepping off the plane and walking into the international terminal in Colombo was like walking into the US. We were floored. Literally. We stopped in the middle of the floor and just gaped at the big screen t.v.s and bottles of fancy perfumes that surrounded us. The rest of the trip we spent completely unfloored, traveling from one city to another, trying to get as much as we could out of our week in Sri Lanka. Here's my Top Ten List of Stuff We Did in Sri Lanka:

10) Sang karaoke (and were promised to make it to the finals, because they "needed some white skin")
9) Watched a few rounds of elephant polo

8) Didn't get stared at... as much...
7) Drank smoothies and ate sandwiches at Cafe du Monde
6) Never wore a churidar (which provoked one volunteer to note "I'm walking like myself again!")
5) Got a glimpse of a box containing a box containing a box containing (etc) Buddha's tooth.
4) Visited tsunami camps
3) Surfed
2) Watched the movie Snakes on a Plane
1) Got our passports stamped so that we could re-enter India for 6 more months!

Northern India Pictures`

2007-06-02T11:32:00.000+05:30

Now that I'm back from our tour - and am FINALLY able to post! - I thought I'd share some photos with you.

Varanasi

Napping at the Taj Mahal
A Monk Debate in Dharamsala
Me in Jodhpur

Andy, and his cow friend, at the beach in Goa

Final Post - Part I

2007-08-14T03:10:00.000+05:30

Thanks so much, if you are still checking this! I have made it safely back to the U.S., and am gathering my thoughts for some final reflections. Before I left, however, I gave a sermon at Mandiram, which sums up some of what I learned during my time in India. This is it! Eventually, I will also post my final reflection letter... once I write it.

Mundakapadam Mandirams Society Ecumenical Church

Cammy Crane

22 July 2007

The Bible passages from this Sunday all deal with the subject of “calling.” God called Moses to lead the Hebrews out of Egypt; Jesus called Simon to tend to his flock; and the letter to Timothy calls us to look out for one another. From Moses to Simon to us, we are all called by God. God calls us to care for each other, to love each other, and to respect each other. We are called to do this in every moment of our lives. Even our smallest action should be an echo of God’s call to live as an unbroken community.

I believe that God called me to come to India. I left my home and everyone I knew in the U.S. for one year to learn more about this calling and this community that I just spoke of. I came to learn more about answers to questions like the following:
How does God call me, as an American, to live a life that is respectful and loving to you in India?
How does God expect us to create a harmonious community out of such a broken world?
As I said before, I believe that God called me to India… but I also believe that God called you to be my community, my teachers, the ones from whom I would learn more about the answers to these questions. Through your actions and your words, I have learned more about what it means to be a community – a responsible and loving global community.

At the beginning of my year here, someone asked me, “How are Indian people different from American people?” After thinking for a moment, I replied, “We are all the same people. We are just living in different cultures and societies.” Inherently, we are all the same. Americans, Africans, Indians – we all have the same emotions, we all need the same love, we all have the same dreams of justice. Our bones are made from the same material. The same blood flows through our veins. Sometimes, we forget this, and we treat people as if they were not human, as if they do not feel the same pain as us. We forget that we are all, essentially, the same.

Ancient Indian wisdom says that “A person who sees everyone in his or her own self, and his or her own self in everyone, loses all fear.” To me, this means that when we realize that we are all essentially the same, we lose all fear of each other and are able to live in loving, responsible community with each other.
People all over the world forget this knowledge, and they grow to fear each other. This fear drives people to sin, and this grows into sinful systems. Hatred, jealousy, and discrimination are just a few of the sins that come out of our fear of each other. No loving community can exist where these evils exist.

I have been so impressed all year by the way you have welcomed me into your community and by the way you have loved me without question. You saw the sameness in us, and you did not fear me, or distrust me, or discriminate against me. I was treated not as a stranger, but as a friend. This is true community. Imagine if everyone were treated this way! Hindus and Muslims, Israelis and Palestinians, Americans and Iraqis, all living with each other. You have shown me a glimpse of a loving, responsible community. It is this way of life that God has called us to live – one where we recognize that all people need to be loved and cared for and strangers are recognized as friends. And for showing me that, I want to say… “Nanni!”

Jesus asked Simon three times, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Simon did love Jesus, so Jesus then instructed him to tend to his sheep. Jus as Simon’s love was to lead him to action, our love for God should lead us to action as well. It should lead us to tend to our fellow sheep, our fellow human beings. Love for God should lead us to live out our calling to be part of a unified community. In other words, just as Simon’s love for God was to lead him to love and care for Jesus’ flock, our love for God should lead us to love others, the flock with which we live. I have seen the beauty of a loving community here at Mandiram, but India has also shown me how ugly a broken community can be. This is not to say that there is not brokenness in the U.S. There certainly is. In a way, though, I have learned more about the American community and its brokenness by witnessing the broken parts of the Indian community. Sexism, racism, caste-ism, and religious discrimination are still far too prevalent in Indian society and in American society. Too often, we forget that our love for God should elad us to love others without question, and without discrimination. It should lead us to treat everyone equally. It should lead to a well-tended flock; a responsible, loving community without sexism, racism, caste-ism or any form of hatred and inequality.

In one week, I will be returning to the U.S. But I will not be returning without having changed. This year has made me realize how much action God calls us to take in the world. We are called to heal the sick. We are called to build houses for our neighbors. We are called to care for our environment. We are called to raise our children. We are called to tend to this flock, to create unity in our communities where there is discord. And the truth is, this whole world is our community! We are each called, in our own ways, to care for our brothers and sisters around the world. This only happens by living each moment of our lives with a dream of equality and a passion to love in our hearts.

Someone once told me that finding God is like standing in a ring of people, and God is in the center of that ring. Each time you come closer to God, you take a step forward, a step closer to God. And as the others in the right come to know God more, they also take a step closer to the center of the ring. Soon, the size of the ring gets smaller and smaller as people move closer to the center. But the number of people in the ring does not get smaller, so soon, you find yourself smashed against other people. Come closer to God means coming closer to other people! If you truly love God, then love others, fight for equality, and live out your calling to community with that same passion. Create that loving, responsible community that God has called us to.

I will never forget you all and the love you have given me. I am so blessed to have had the opportunity to know you. I am grateful that you accepted me as one of you, and I hope that you continue this pattern of acceptance and love of others, no matter the color of their skin, their religion or their caste. For only by doing this will we ever live out God’s calling.

Ni

2007-06-20T16:40:00.000+05:30

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Malayalam is a very complicated language. Sometimes, it takes about 100 syllables to say something seemingly simple. Other times, a lot can be said in one syllable.

One of my closest friends here is Liji, who lives with and tutors the young girls at Balika Mandiram. She had seemed very upset one night, and when I asked her about it the next morning, she explained. People had been calling her "ni." In Malayalam, "ni" means "you" in a very informal way. I silently thanked my Malayalam teacher for telling me to call everyone "ningal," which is a more formal way of saying "you," and asked Liji more about the problem. "Ni," she explained, isn't just informal. It's a way of asserting your superiority over someone else. By calling her "ni," these people have been telling her "You're just the hired help, and I can treat you however I want and call you whatever I want." The day before, some people had yelled at Liji (and also at her sister, who works at the nearby hospital) for things that neither of them had any control over, calling them "ni" in the process. The problem, though, is that so many people have been calling Liji "ni." The yelling from the night before was just the last straw. As she spoke, there were tears in her eyes.

A lot can be said in just one syllable.

In Spanish, there are two forms of "you." "Tu" is the informal, "usted" the formal. When I was in Spain, our teachers cautioned us in our usage of these words. Many people doesn't like being called "usted" anymore, because it connotes a sense of distance and a lack of friendship. We were told just to use it with the elderly. But after seeing the look on my host grandfather's face the first time I called him "usted," I used the informal "tu" on everyone.

In Kerala, though, "ni" does not connote friendship and closeness. Friends are to be revered, to be upheld and loved. Using "ni" does not do that.

In Malayalam, Liji told me, it is best to just call everyone by their name.

Rain, Rain, (Don't) Go Away

2007-06-09T15:11:00.000+05:30

Last week, the monsoon rains came to Kerala. And after drenching us in delicious coolness for two and a half days, they left as suddenly as they had arrived.

My advisor told me that the monsoon got turned around and ended up in Oman. My neighbors told me that it got held up by something in the Arabian Sea (no one knows what that something is). The weather people keep promising that it will arrive tomorrow. All I know is - I WANT THE MONSOON BACK!

One evening after the monsoon rains, I was sitting outside on the porch with some of the young girls. Leya-kutty came outside, humming a little tune to herself. She walked up to a flower bush and gave it a big, wet hug, then picked up a leafy stick nearby. She carried it over to the porch and started planting it in a pile of gravel, all the while singing a hymn to herself. She was so obviously pleased with life at that moment. We all were! We were outside, and we weren't sweating. The air was cool, the sun was low, and everyone was getting along. Life just seemed so perfectly pleasant.

And of course, there's the practicality of needing water. India, for the most part, is very dry. Kerala is lucky to get two monsoon seasons, but the state still has to be careful about its water consumption. Wells have been dry for months here. The rains don't just make life more pleasant; they are life-giving!

Yesterday, it rained a little bit. Today, it sprinkled some more. Maybe tomorrow... torrential downpour?

Going on the YAV/YAGM Tour - Don't Hate

2007-04-12T16:52:00.000+05:30

Honestly, I had been dreading Easter. Most churches here hold early morning, day-long Good Friday services, which are supposed to include fasting. Hours of chanting in a language I can't understand, on an empty stomach, did not exactly sound pleasant. Easter, I was sure, could hold nothing better. But I got lucky. Instead of the usual 5 A.M. to 1 P.M. Good Friday service, I was treated to a speedy 9 A.M. to 11 A.M. service - the length of a normal church service here! Easter service was equally short. During Good Friday service, I was prodded out of my day-dream state when I heard the priest say my name. "Nothing bad, Cammy, don't worry," he apologized from the pulpit. He was describing a conversation I had had with him the week before. We had talked broadly about how I felt at Mandiram - I had said that I loved being here and loved the people here. "We are all family," one priest had said. "This is your home for this year, and this is your family." The priest was recounting this conversation, reminding all of us that we were all brothers and sisters; that even me, a woman from halfway across the world, could count the Mandiram residents as my family. I felt very loved (and slightly sheepish for having dreaded the whole church service in the first place).

This Saturday, I am leaving with my fellow volunteers to go on a tour of India. We'll be hitting up Varanasi, Delhi, Rajastan, spending some time in the Himalayas, and lounging on the beaches of Goa. I'm not telling you this to make you jealous (hehe) but to explain my upcoming month-long absence.

See you in May!

Lights out in Sydney

2007-04-03T15:14:00.000+05:30

Things are heating up here in Kerala. And when I say things, I really only mean the weather. The low is around 80F, the high is slowly creeping up to 100F. Everyone reassures me, "Now, even for us, this is really hot!" I just wipe the sweat off my face with my sweaty shawl, and try to smile.

A few nights ago, while coloring with the girls, the power went off. This is a common occurance, and by now, I've gotten somewhat used to the drill. We lit some candles, and within a few minutes, a light flickered on. Then off. Then on. The usually bright light was only emitting a small, orangish light. "Low voltage," one of the girls told me. So we played in the eerie orange light, and ate by the low light of the dining hall. When I made it back to my room after dinner, there was still low voltage. I could only have one light on at a time, and my fan was turning so slowly that I could actually watch individual blades circle around and around. I sat on my bed and read the paper. And this is what I read.

http://www.cantonrep.com/index.php?ID=345502&Category=24&subCategoryID=
Businesses and homes in Sydney, Australia, were planning to turn off their lights for an hour "to protest excessive greenhouse gas emissions." As I sat there, in my low-voltage lighting under my slow-moving fan, I suddenly felt a little bitter towards those Australians. They think they're making a difference by turning off their lights for one, measly hour? What about their a/c? McDonald's turned off its golden arches - would they still be cooking food inside? Of course, I applaud Sydney for their efforts. But at the time, I felt like something was missing. Like their sacrifice wasn't enough.

The next morning, I woke up. The power was completely gone. I ate my breakfast and read the paper. I read this: http://www.cosmosmagazine.com/node/1136. Sydney's blackout had been declared a success. Emissions were lowered by 10%. And still, I was bitter. For Indians, an hour without light is nothing. Try over 12 hours without any power. Then see how much your emissions will drop!

I wonder how much our town's emissions had dropped during our non-voluntary blackout.

Vegetables

2007-03-27T11:45:00.000+05:30

Last week, after a heavy meal of rice, curry, mour and vegetables, I made my way back to the big kitchen sink to wach my dishes. One of the residents was sitting on a small stool about 4 inches off the ground, cutting vegetables. After washing my plates, I asked her if she wanted help. "Venom!" she said. Sure!

I sat down on a similarly low (and uncomfortable) stool and learned how to peel carrots and potatoes quickly. Not quite as quickly as my elderly teacher, however. She would finish about three potatoes in the time it took me to finish one. As we were peeling, others would walk by us to wash their plates. All of them let out little gasps when they saw me sitting there, awkwardly scraping brown skin off of potatoes. Did I have on a finger guard? they all wanted to know. (Chopping usually involves wearing rubber, colorful tubes over a finger or two) Yes, yes, I have one on. Once that was out of the way, they all laughed a little and went on their way.

Eventually, we finished the potatoes and the carrots. It was time for the onions. "You're going to cry," advised the nearby nurses. I got through peeling maybe five or six onions before the tears started to well up in my eyes. My peeling buddy and I laughed. "Madio?" she asked. Enough? "Madi" I said. Enough. I stood up, my joints a little stiff from the awkward stool. I wobbled over to a sink to wash my hands and put away my knife and finager guard.

Dinner that night was delicious, if I do say so myself.

Vire Naranoo

2007-03-16T11:51:00.001+05:30

Before I came to India, I was warned:

“You WILL have stomach problems.”

I imagined myself, eating with families on straw mats. In the middle of nowhere. Where the cleanliness of food could never be accounted for. I imagined myself ordering food from street vendors, overcome by the food’s smell and throwing caution to the wind. I imagined lying in the bed, writhing with stomach pains. In a romantic way, of course. I imagined developing a tolerance for all those strange bacteria. “Yeah, I had trouble at first, but after some time, I just got used to the food and didn’t get sick anymore,” I imagined myself bragging.

Instead, I eat in a mess hall, where the food it always healthy and clean. There are no street vendors selling food in Kottayam. The food I eat is safe, safe, safe. For the most part, anyway.

Sure, I’ve had some ‘rhea. Sure, I’ve had some stomach cramping. But no vomiting. No hospital visits. No IV drips for re-hydration. At first, I thought I had to be doing something wrong to not be sick so often. I got puffed up, believing it was my rock-hard stomach that was getting me through. Oh yeah, I can handle anything! Then I realized that it wasn’t me. It was the food. The food I’m eating is fiiiiine.

So, why am I writing all of this, you might be asking? One - Because you may have the same kind of “romantic” visions of what I’m eating. The food I’m eating can’t be found in most places in the US, but it’s not unclean. And two - Because today, my stomach is upset. Not because of bacteria, or spicy foods, or any of that. It’s upset because I eat sooooo much! The food is safe and delicious, so why not? (Don’t say “Because you’ll get a stomach ache.”)

My health problems here have been random. But very few have to do with my stomach. And for that, I am thankful!

Some good news: The girls got a new teacher. SHE’S GREAT. She loves them and they love her. And she doesn’t carry a bamboo stick. Life is good.

Exams

2007-03-06T08:52:00.000+05:30

About a month or so ago, a woman arrived at Balika Mandiram, the Girl's Orphanage. Her name was Sumi, and she was going to be the live-in teacher for the 8 girls living at Balika Mandiram. She would be there to help the children with their homework, and help those who are behind to catch up. She seemed gentle to me at first - somewhat timid, but interested in helping the children. She would even quiz me! - on Malayalam words.

Two days after her arrival, she took me aside. "The children are very naughty," she told me. "Very lazy. They do not study. You must help me." I balked. These girls, who I love so dearly? Who care for each other like tiny mothers, who have encountered more than their fair share of tragedy and turmoil already, who try their hardest - Lazy? Naughty? But what could I say to Sumi? Of course I want them to learn. Of course, I've been helping. "OK, I will help," I told her.

The teaching system in India is very different than in the US. Learning is memorization; memorization is learning. And sparing the rod spoils the child. So it shouldn't have been a surprise when Sumi started caring a small bamboo stick around the study room at Balika Mandiram. But it was. And it shouldn't have broken my heart when the girls started crying because they couldn't remember how to count by two's past 22 or didn't remember how to spell elephant. But it did. Sumi seemed to want the girls to learn and to do well in school. But she seemed totally unsympathetic to them.

Today - Tuesday - most of the girls begin their final exams. Sumi had decided to take a quick break at her home this past weekend, and so had left Friday with plans of returning on Sunday. During the weekend, I helped the girls study as much as I could. Past English and math, though, my help is fairly useless. Despite the bamboo stick, Sumi can help the girls in more subjects than I can. She was really going to have to crank it up on Sunday to make up for her absence! But Sunday came and went with no sign of Sumi. During afternoon tea on Monday, Anju came up to me: "Sumi go. Sumi poyi." Yes, yes, she went to her house, I thought. Anju couldn't have just noticed that, after a three-day absence. I must have looked confused. "No, Cammy Auntie," explained another girl, "Sumi left Mandiram."

So, the day before the girls' exams began, their teacher left, never to return. Who would help the girls now with their Malayalam, their Hindi, their history and their science? How are they going to get through exams? I wondered if Sumi ever really had the girls' best interests at heart. I know that she felt the job of teaching the girls was overwhelming, but I felt frustrated and angry that she had just given up. I wondered if the girls felt the same way. "Anju," I asked, "are you happy or sad?" Happy that Sumi and her bamboo stick were gone? Sad that another person had given up on her?

"HAPPY!" she said, in a voice so loud she even shocked herself. She immediately threw her hands over her mouth and looked around to make sure Sumi was nowhere in sight. The other girls laughed. They seemed more relaxed, happier, than they had for the past few weeks.

Exams, shmexams.

Freedom does not taste like an omelet

2007-02-06T14:47:00.000+05:30

On Saturday, I got to attend the dance performance of Renjini, one of the Balika Mandiram girls. I, along with three other girls from Mandiram, sat through performances as beautiful as traditional Indian dances and as silly as a rendition of the 12 Days of Christmas, complete with Muppets soundtrack. The girls and I were scheduled to leave after Renjini's dance was finished. One of the families who had helped us volunteers during our first week of orientation was also there to see their son. Kind family as they are, they offered to take me home after their son's dance performance - which I wanted to see, and which was scheduled to be last.

Rejisar, one of the wardens and Mandiram, had come with an auto rickshaw to take the girls and I back to Mandiram. I asked him - would it be okay if a trusted family took me home instead? Instantly, he was concerned. A young woman - helpless, weak and mild - surely could not manage on her own! (This is nothing against Rejisar, it's just the culture he's grown up in). He wanted to meet this family before he said yes. After an introduction and after giving me his cell phone to use in case of emergency, Rejisar allowed me to stay until the end of the performance - approx. 10:30pm.

When I arrived at Mandiram that night, I went to Rejisar's house to return his phone. He beckoned me inside, set plates of snacks in front of me and proclaimed, "I will make you an omelet!" Well, if you insist! I went to bed that night, not feeling constrained, but feeling cared for and cared about.

The next night, around 7:30pm, I learned that my beloved downstairs neighbor, Maya-ammachee, had fallen the night before and broken her arm. Immediately, I gathered my flashlight and headed off toward the hospital. Women are not allowed out after 6pm, but I figured that surely they would let me go to the hospital, since it is so close by and since I hadn't known Maya-ammachee was there. Before I made it to the gate, the Ammachee at Balika stopped me. "Where are you going?" To the hospital, to see Maya-ammachee! "Can't you wait until tomorrow?" But... I didn't know... couldn't I...

She gave me a confused look. I could tell she was worried. I'm a woman. I can't go out after 6pm - period. "Go to the hospital tomorrow; tonight, rest."

And this time, there was no consolation omelet.

A.P.

2007-02-02T14:38:00.000+05:30

I have just returned from a week in Andhra Pradesh. It was my first time outside of Kerala. We did a lot, but I don't have time right now to write about everything. So, instead, I'm posting some pictures. Enjoy!

(We went to lots of villages - and were always greeted with flowers)

(Andy made some friends...)

(... and taught them how to rock)

(An evening view)

(I liked her hair... no, seriously)

(Sisters)

(Kyle tries on some glasses)

(Everyone should have one of these... the left shows how much water is in the wells, the right shows how much is being used)

Being practical

2007-01-22T09:33:00.000+05:30

All week, Kottayam has been aflutter with a “flower show.” For four days, a dry, dusty piece of land has become the center of town. Shops have been set up inside, selling everything from lizard repellant to bindis to sugarcane juice. Flower arrangement contests were held, businesses donated potted flowers to be arranged in spirals and windy paths, and the biggest and brightest flowers were put on prime display under a tin roof.

Yesterday, I finally got to see the “flower show.” Some parts were spectacular; others not so much. But my favorite part was the henna vendors. For just five rupees (that’s $0.11), a man would decorate the entire inside of your hand with sprawling, crawling designs. The only henna I have ever seen done has been done painstakingly, slowly, like writing on a cake with icing. A small plastic bag filled with brown goop, looped over someone’s stiff-from-staying-still hand. This “henna” that was being done at the flower show (I’m still not sure it really was henna) was much easier. Several carved wooden stencils lay next to a large box filled with mushy, hard, spongy material soaked in a dark dye. I watched as someone stretched out their hand, and the vendor pressed his stencils into the outstretched hand, covering it with patterns.

I couldn’t help it. The non-Indian inside of me was leaping with the joy of novelty. I had to have it done!

I pulled out five rupees from my wallet, handed it to the man, and stretched out my right hand. The crowd that had gathered around the strange white woman (me) gasped. “No! No! Left hand!” Oops. I stuck out my left hand. Thirty seconds later, it was covered with golden brown flowers and leaves. Beautiful. I protected this hand all the way through the flower show, all the way back on the bus.

Later that afternoon, I made my daily trip to see the young girls at Balika Mandiram. “Cammy Auntie!” the youngest ones cried as I arrived, and ran toward me to take my hands. As they came running, I realized – one touch from their sweaty hands and my perfect hand-artwork will be smudged. There wasn’t time to act, though. Pretty soon, my hands were in theirs. When they realized that I had been stamped/henna-ed, they called the other girls over so that everyone could grab my hand, run their fingers over the quickly-smudging designs. The bravest ones would grab my hand and press their hand into it, then laugh and how the pattern had transferred just a little onto their hand.

When study time rolled around, I headed to the study room. “Cammy Auntie, ninte sahayam venam!” Cammy Auntie, I need your help! Two girls were sitting on the floor, styrofoam, cardboard, tissue paper and glue surrounding them. I sat down with them, helping to glue colored tissue paper to styrofoam kidneys and cardboard cubes. When I was finished, despite my best efforts to protect my left, henna-ed hand, bits of glue and tissue paper had been incorporated into the design. And I thought to myself, ‘Well, it was nice for awhile. It was nice to do something touristy for awhile. But it isn’t practical. I’m going to need to use both hands.’

After dinner, and after preparing myself to say goodbye to the possibly-fake henna, I washed my hands. Orange suds dripped from my hands. I rinsed. I looked at my hands. The design was still there! I washed again, and still the design remained.

And I thought, ‘Maybe this wasn’t so impractical after all.’

Slices of Life

2007-01-15T15:26:00.001+05:30

Sometimes, when I sit down to type up a blog entry, I can't think of anything to write. Today, I am thinking of many things that I want to write about.

I want to tell you about the Harvest Festival I attended on Sunday. Harvest Festivals are celebrated in churches in Kerala by members bringing in produce and other items to be auctioned off for the church's benefit. The floor of the community hall was covered with produce. At least a hundred coconuts were stacked in one corner, taking up the space of a small bathroom. Probably a thousand bananas were stacked in another corner, still green and attached to their branches. Small piles of ginger lay among piles of larger roots, most of which don't have names in English. There was tapioca root, another lumpy root the size of a football, another larger root in the shape of a bowl and the size of a human head, and a few even larger roots the size of a human torso. Bottles of egg-yolk yellow ghee were actioned off, as well as cakes, beet syrup, jars of guppies, pepper and gooseberry wine.

I want to tell you about my trip to the park in Kottayam. As the sun set, I watched children crawl over a huge metal ladder structre in the shape of ABC. I watched women with headscaves run after little girls in little dresses. I watched two brothers chase each other, knock each other down, get up and start all over again. And at the end of the night, there was a water and lights show, complete with Bollywood music.

I want to tell you about my vain attempts to get malaria medication for my upcoming trip to Sri Lanka. I waited almost two and a half hours in the hospital for a doctor to show up (enduring the relentless staring and questioning of everyone around me - where are you from? what is your name? where are you staying?), and when he finally did, he told me that it wouldn't be necessary to take any medication. Thankfully, I had brought the names of two common medicines taken to prevent malaria. "Our pharmacy will not have these," the doctor told me, "but come back tomorrow, and I will tell you if we can order them."

I want to tell you about the family who invited me into their home recently. I walk by their house when I go for walks in the morning, and always stop and say hello. They have three children, two girls and one boy. The boy is the youngest, and the girls will whisper questions for me in his ear, which he will then ask me out loud, practically jumping up and down with excitement. They have a very nice home, and I even got to watch some Saturday morning cartoons with the kids. They invited me to breakfast, but I was afraid that the people and Mandiram would worry about where I was if I did not return. I was really touched by their kindness, though.

Sometimes, I write in this blog with a point in mind. Sometimes, the point is just to give you a little slice of what my life is like here.

Lights, Camera, Action!

2007-01-11T15:51:00.000+05:30

Yesterday, I found myself under bright lights and in front of a camera, talking about equality for woman in India. And it was awesome.

It started the way a lot of things start here - I was pushed into a moment I didn't have much right to be in, just because I'm American. After attending weddings of people I've never met, listening to speaches made by important people that I can't understand, and so on, I've gotten used to this kind of treatment. So when I showed up in the office yesterday afternoon and was shooed out with instrustions to go see the tv crew at the orphanage, I wasn't shocked. Well, I was shocked there was a tv crew here, but I wasn't shocked that the office staff found it logical that I should join the crew.

The crew, someone informed me, was shooting a piece on "abandoned children." My heart dropped when I heard this. Many of the children at the orphanage here have no living family, or family that has the money needed to support them. They are NOT abandoned. Then I was asked to be interviewed. Would I please accomodate them? I looked at the scene before me. Ammachee was sitting at an angle under the staircase, and two of the girls were playing behind her. If I didn't do the interview, I would feel more comfortable. If I did talk...

I never really agreed to the do the interview. But that's how things happen here, too. A man motioned me over to the stairwell. A crib was replaced with a potted plant from outside. Someone handed me a clip-on microphone. Lights on. Instrudctions to look at the camera when I speak. I wondered if they really wanted an interview in English... but there I was.

As the interview went on, I realized that this was one of the first times since I've been here that I've been asked for my opinion. I've heard many other people's opinions on a wide variety of subjects, but I am not usually given much chance to comment. Maybe it's because I'm not Indian. Maybe it's because I'm a woman. At any rate, being able to share my opinions made me start to get excited about the interview. What do I think should be done to decrease the number of "abandoned children," you ask? Ensure that women are treated and protected as equals, of course! (I think the interviewer nearly fell out of his chair when I said this, conservative Christian tv channel as he was a part of) If women were treated with respect, then abuse against them would decrease, rape would decrease, and there would be fewer unwanted pregnancies. Furthermore, single mothers would have a greater base to fall back on if they were paid the same as men and weren't viewed so poorly by society, and would therefore be better able to care for their children.

Ahh, it felt good!

"But... I mean..." the interviewer contintued, "what should be done spiritually?"

I decided that, unfortunately, now was not the time or place to explain how this was a spiritual answer. Instead, I told the story of another volunteer who works at a school that is run by a church. This school is attended by Dalit children, and it is in total disrepair. Walls are crumbling, there are no fans... and meanwhile, the same church has a second school for the upper-class children as well, and it is in mint condition. The church should be caring for the least of these, not catering to the rich.

When the interview was over, my initial ambivalent feelings had finally turned into feelings of relief. Even if nothing of what I said gets aired, at least someone heard it. At least I know that I have the courage to say these kinds of things. I got to say something that means a lot to me - I hope it will give me the strength and desire to do it more often!

A quick review of my past few weeks

2007-01-04T14:43:00.000+05:30

#1: Mandiram's Christmas Program

The residents sang, dressed up as Bible characters, and wowed the audience in Mandiram's Christmast Program 2006. In the Bible Play (which I'm pretty sure didn't include Jesus), I got to be Rebekah (sp?). I think my portrayal blew some minds. Or maybe not. Although my little feminist self got pretty excited when someone told me "Rebekah - very smart! She foolished Issac!" Yeah she did! I also sang 'Hark! The Herald Angels Sing' with my advisor. One verse in English, and then the surprise verse in Malayalam. The whole program ended up being a lot of fun, and I have some sweet pictures of the elderly residents in their Biblical costumes.

#2: Christmas in Aluva
All 5 volunteers (plus 2 of Kyle's friends, who are traveling the world, check out their site: www.wherearemikeandkristi.com) headed up to Aluva to celebrate with our program coordinator, Thomas John Achen, and his wife and son. Their kindness and love for us has been overwhelming; their house is really like a home away from home. On Christmas Eve, we barbequed some chicken while watching the fireworks, and laughed at how it felt a lot like the 4th of July. We went to Achen's church on Christmas, spent the day at his house and had a huge dinner later in the day. Most of the time, we talked about our experiences in India, about politics, about global issues, and laughed a lot. And ate a lot. Bob Marley's 'Redemption Song' will now forever remind me of Christmas.

#3: Yoga in the Mountains of India

The day after Christmas, the volunteers plus Kyle's friends took a bus to Idukki, a mountainous area of Kerala. We spent 5 days there, and it was pretty spectacular. The yoga center was on top of a large hill, and looked down over mountains and a river. We woke up early in the morning to meditate on straw mats of a mud hut, spent the morning doing sun salutations and learning other asanas (yoga positions?), helped out with maintenence in the afternoon, and rounded out the day with some more asanas and meditation. And of course, we were fed copious amounts of tea and food throughout the day. The site was beautiful, our instructers were understanding, and we had a lot of fun.

Now, I am back at Mandiram, trying to get back into the swing of things. I apologize for the lack of updates, but rest assured that I'll be back on track soon enough!

Polio

2007-01-08T14:29:00.000+05:30

Yesterday, the main caretaker of the girls at the orphanage was gone for most of the day on a rare trip home. When she returned, at first, everyone was excited to see her. Then, suddenly, things were kicked into high gear. Two girls went running off, and the main caretaker (who I simply call Ammachee, which means Grandmother) started calling out orders. "What happened?" I asked Ammachee. "Leya-kutty... poliodrop..." she answered.

That morning, I had read in the paper about the huge polio drop drive in effect in Kerala. Children were able to receive a vaccination against polio, a disease that unfortunately still plagues India, for free. Leya-kutty was apparently supposed to go to get her drops, but with Ammachee gone, everyone had forgotten.

Leya-kutty didn't understand what was going on, but she was excited about it. Her Ammachee was finally back, and everyone was running around for her sake. She wandered around aimlessly, singing to herself, occassionally running to Ammachee to give her a hug. She was perfectly content, oblivious to the fact (or at least, everyone was acting like it was a fact) that she had suddenly become vulnerable to the vicious polio. Everyone was worried for Leya-kutty, except Leya-kutty.

The two girls who had run off came back, breathless. The polio drive was supposed to end at 5; it was 6, but the nurses at the hospital had said Leya could come. Ammachee grabbed Leya-kutty and put her in a different dress (clearly, this is a special occassion?) and led her back outside. Anju and I both took one of Leya-kutty's hands, and we sped off to the hospital. The hospital, by the way, is maybe 50 meters from Mandiram, so it was not far off.

As we walked up the hill to the hospital, Anju quizzed Leya-kutty on questions the nurses might ask her. "How old are you?" she asked. "Three," Leya-kutty answered after thinking for a moment. "No," said Anju, "You must say 'I am three years old.' Say that." "I am three years old," responded Leya-kutty. "Okay, so, how old are you?" asked Anju again. "Three!" said Leya-kutty. Anju sighed, and we each pulled Leya-kutty up into the air, so that we could speed up the stairs more quickly.

Once we made it to the hospital, we went into a small cubicle labeled (in English) "Injection Room." Leya-kutty was led to a plastic chair. At this point, her giddiness had been abandoned, and was replaced with fear. She wouldn't let go of my hand. I stood next to her, as the nurse tilted her head back and opened her mouth. She looked at me with wide eyes, as though to say, 'Are you really going to let this happen to me?' The nurse uncapped a small tube, and squeezed a small, pink drop into Leya-kutty's mouth. Leya-kutty quickly closed her mouth, hoping the whole ordeal was over. "No, no," said the nurse. Again, Leya-kutty opened her mouth, and two more pink drops went in. And that was it!

As we re-entered the sunshine, I asked Leya-kutty, "Not difficult?" "No!" she said and smiled.

How to tell it is Christmas in Kerala

2006-12-20T08:48:00.000+05:30

10) The weather, apparently, gets “really cold.” The temperature drops to almost 70F in the mornings. Brrrr.
9) You get lots of Christmas cake. No Christmas cookies here, my friends. Just good ol’ Christmas cake. Which is a lot like fruitcake.
8) There are carol programs every day. In grand auditoriums, small churches, and even hospitals, people get together and sing songs, dance, perform skits, and Father Christmas sometimes makes an appearance as well.
7) Oh, Father Christmas. He pops up all over the place during this season. Father Christmas, a.k.a. Santa Claus, is white and does not speak Malayalam (his language usually sounds like “rar rar raawr rar rar”). He has someone translate for him. He wears a red suit and still has a big tummy.
6) Kids have to take exams. Every day. For almost two weeks.
5) Christmas cards are given out. They usually feature snow, and are in English. Even though there is no snow here and everyone’s native language is Malayalam.
4) People put up paper stars, and sometimes hang lights inside so they are lit at night.
3) You get a "Christmas friend," which is basically like a Secret Santa. My Christmas friend gave me my gift last night - it was a figurine of a Santa. Very sweet.
2) There are Christmas trees. Christmas trees in Kerala are usually large branches from trees, placed in pots and decorated haphazardly with streamers, balloons and shiny tin balls.
1) There is no snow here. It isn't cold. I don't often hear the Christmas carols I am used to hearing. There are no Christmas cookies, no Christmas break from school, no sappy Christmas commercials on the T.V., no pine or cinnamon scent. So, lastly, for me to be able to tell that Christmas is approaching, I have to look at the calendar.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

2006-12-08T09:53:00.000+05:30

While waiting for the bus yesterday, I saw a chicken trying to cross the road. She would run onto the street, skinny little legs flying out like a soldier's legs, holding up that big, heavy ball of a body. And inevitably, a car would come, or a truck, or a motorcycle, and she would turn herself around and dash back to where she had started. Eventually, she made it to the other side of the street - and she immediately turned around and ran back. For no reason. There were no cars, or trucks, or motorcycles. So why did the chicken cross the road? Not to get to the other side, that's for sure. However, I have two new hypotheses:
1) The chicken got a thrill out of trying to escape the traffic. She was a risk seeker.
2) She was chasing a bug.

Also, Christmas decorations are starting to go up in Mandiram. Paper stars, decorated with bright colors, are hanging up in buildings all over the place. The other night, on our way to dinner, I noticed that some of the girls had stopped to look at a tree. When I looked, there were two paper stars in it, lit from within. They glowed in the tree alongside a strand of multi-colored fading lights. Stars and lights up in a tree. It was really, really cool. And for some reason, it really, really started to feel like Christmas.

Sukamano?

2006-12-02T10:25:00.000+05:30

One of the first phrases that I picked up in Kerala was "Sukamano?" It means "How are you?" or, more accurately, "Are you well?" Keralites are not much for polite conversation - hellos and how are yous are usually skipped entirely, and conversations move directly into meatier topics. My American self still has trouble dealing with this (I like to blame it on the language barrier). So, even though I get made fun of, I still commonly as people "Sukamano?"

Yesterday, Lizzy Kochamma, one of the women who works in the kitchen at Mandiram, was admitted to the hospital. I went to visit her. She seemed to be doing well. She sat up in bed, smiled. And of course, I had to ask, "Sukamano?" Which, acutally, in this situation, makes more sense to ask. "Sukamane," she responded, smiling at my eternally asked question. "I am well." I asked her if she had any pain - only a little. I saw her food sitting on her desk, asked her about the food. We had a short, choppy conversation, and then I left. As I was returning, the Ammachee at the orphanage asked me about Lizzy Kochamma. "Ummm...," I started, "well... Sukamane!" She's well, I said. And Ammachee laughed. I think, in that moment, she realized the silliness of me going to visit people in the hospital, when we speak very little of the same language. And the silliness of me asking that same question, over and over. But I was able to continue in my bad Malayalam: "Vedena coriche. Itichoo." - Only a little pain. She was sitting up. And then I smiled big, emphasizing the smile with my hands. "She was smiling," I said. And Ammachee looked relieved. "Ahh, sukamane, sukamane," she said. She is well, she really is well.

Malayalam has been one of my greatest hurdles since coming here. My job isn't really a job; I am here to get to know the people living at Mandiram. It is difficult to get to know others without a common language. The first month was utterly frustrating. All I could ask, really, was "Sukamano?" Sukamano is still my stand-by, but I'm improving. I know more than that. Conversations with non-English speakers still mainly consist of staring at each other, waiting for someone to say something... but I can go past sukamano now. Sometimes, I feel like I should speak better Malayalam by now. Other times, I impress myself. "When you go back to America," everyone tells me, "you will forget Malayalam." True. But if I get to know the men and women at Mandiram better, it will not have been a waste to learn.

Trip to Trivandrum

2006-11-29T08:21:00.000+05:30

This past weekend, all of the volunteers gathered in Trivananthapuram, otherwise known as Trivandrum by us foreigners, to learn about the plight of the fisher families in Kerala. The experience with them was informative, but, believe it or not, I gained more insight from our time at the beach.

After waking up at 4:30am and spending the day trying to learn about the issues surrounding fishing in Kerala (how trolling has ruined the fishes natural habitats and patterns, how large fishing companies are depleating the number of fish in the once-abundant seas, etc), our group headed out to Kovala beach. Before leaving, I had put on my bathing suit, shorts and a tee shirt. After almost three months of wearing churidar day in and day out, I felt ridiculously uncovered. In our first week in Kerala, I had worn this exact outfit to the beach with no qualms. Now I found myself tugging at my shorts, pulling them as low as possible, trying to cover my pasty legs. "I feel scandalous," I told the group sadly. "The worst part is," someone replied, "I feel scandalized."

When we arrived at the beach, we found ourselves surrounded by American and European tourists in itty bitty bikinis. While I had planned on wearing my shorts and shirt into the water, I decided that wearing just my bathing suit would be okay; swimming in full clothes just isn't as much fun. The only problem was that I had to take off my shorts and shirt to do this, and I already felt very uncovered. I took a deep breath, quickly tugged off my shorts and shirt and ran into the water, hoping that the embarrassment would pass when I was under the water.

My uber-modesty shocked me. It is almost impossible to explain how naked I felt in shorts and a tee shirt, let alone just a bathing suit. I felt like I was missing several articles of clothing. Like everyone could see parts of my body that they shouldn't be seeing. Parts of my body that I've been comfortable showing for 22 years.

Fortunately, after about 5 minutes in the water, I felt liberated. I felt comfortable in my bathing suit again. And it felt great.

Back on the sand, however, men walked around and oogled at anyone not in a churidar or saree, covered from neck to toe. Several men had cameras and were taking pictures of the women in bikinis while they weren't looking. It was disgusting. Infuriating. My liberated body was revolted by the idea that these men were looking at myself and other women so one-dimensionally and even stealing images of our bodies from us. I would stare at these me, giving them looks of death to try to drive them away. I felt exploited. And I couldn't stop them.

The next day, at the train station, a certain man was staring at me. Now, us volunteers are used to being stared at all the time, since we are oddities in India. Usually making eye contact ends the staring. But this time, eye contact and giving evil looks did not stop the staring. Adding to my experience the day before, I couldn't handle the staring anymore. After warning the group, I looked right at the man (who was still staring at me); I shoved my finger in my nose, wiggled it around, pulled it out and stuck it in my mouth.

And I felt re-liberated.

Morning Brain Food

2006-11-21T09:23:00.000+05:30

Almost every morning, before heading to breakfast, I get a few words of wisdom from my downstairs neighbor, Maya-ammachee. Maya-ammachee was a freedom fighter in her younger years, and was once imprisoned with Gandhi for being such. She speaks English with great ease, forming complex thoughts with a clarity that makes them comprehensible. The combination of all these things makes Maya-ammachee pretty extraordinary.

Maya-ammachee believes that all people worship the same God. She has recently become interested in Buddhism. “I do not have many attachments to the world anymore,” she tells me. “Except I could never give up ice cream or chocolate.” She finds beauty in the slithering of snakes and the “knowing” eyes of lizards, and she lives in peace with the neighborhood kittens who like to sleep on her lounge chair. She has no shame in reading the children’s section of the newspaper in public and has no problem with asking Americans how they feel about Bush within the first 20 seconds of meeting them. After hearing about a 100 year old woman who is still working, Maya-ammachee has decided that, at 91 years of age, she could be doing the same. And she would, ideally, like to work with mentally challenged children.

So, after walking down the stairs of my apartment every morning, I turn slightly to the right to see if Maya-ammachee is there. We’ll discuss current politics (do I think that Hillary Clinton has a chance to become president? what do I think about the death penalty?), or the books we are reading (my current reading list comes directly from what I see Maya-ammachee reading) or the storm last night or what the Buddha meant by non-attachment. And even if we just talk about the weather, I always end up walking away feeling like I have been in a great presence.

It’s great to start your day so inspired.

Pen Pals

2006-11-11T12:12:00.000+05:30

Before I arrived at Mandiram, the girls had just received pen pals in the US. They showed me letters written in bubly, American script, some typed on computers, and almost all with decorative flower doodles. I helped them to read through the funny lettering, and then the letters were tucked away. I assumed that responses had been written, as I had seen some, but I wasn't sure.

A few days ago, I rememberd these letters and asked the girls about them. Some had replied; most had not. It wasn't that they weren't interested, just that their English was, understandably, not at a letter-writing level. The girls then took my hand, sat me down at a desk, and placed the unanswered letters in front of me. "You write?" they asked. Timidly, I uncapped my pen and looked down at the first letter.

Somol worked as the interpreter and reader. "My favorite color is green," she would read, "What is yours?" Then, loudly, she would call in Malayalam, "Shinu, what is your favorite color?" And Shinu would answer, Somol would explain in English, and I would write, "My favorite color is pink." I was the official writer and grammar corrector. But, unofficially, I became a cultural interpreter.

Many of the girls' pen pals wrote things like, "I would like to learn more about your culture," or "What does Kerala look like?" or even "Do you like living in India?" Thes sorts of questions and statements confused the girls. "What do you want your pen pal to know about India?" I would ask, and they would shrug their shoulders. It's like I asked them to tell me something about the air they breathed. The air is there; India is there. It's just there. It's everyday. What is there to know?

So, I ended up taking on the role of cultural interpreter. It began when one letter innocently asked, "What are your favorite foods?" After the interpreter interpreted, we arrived at this girl's favorite foods, poota, chapati and vegetable curry. And I knew I would have to explain: poota (made from rice flour, very crumbly and eated with bananna and sugar at breakfast ) and chapati (like a tortilla). The American pen pal would not have understood otherwise. My explanations continued through the shrugged shoulder responses. My eyes can still see what the pen pals want to know. The girls woldn't think to write about how women here wear sarees or how there are palm trees everywhere. But this is, I think, what the pen pals wanted to know.

It's funny how these seemingly unimportant details are passed over on each end, and yet are so desired. What is culture? It's the air we breathe. Int he US, it's scented with friend fries and pine needles, host to planes, soap bubbles and lightning bugs. In India, it's scented with burning trash and jasmine, host to mosquitoes, florescent lights and bright flashes of sarees. We usually don't notice this. But it's there, and it's important.

One of the American girls wrote that she would like to visit India one day. In that letter, I saw a glimpse of myself - or rather, my August self, my before-India self. What could I tell the girl? What would I have liked to tell myself? "What should I say?" I asked Somol. Somol shrugged her shoulders, then said, "Tell her to come." This time, I didn't do any cultural interpretation.

Can you keep a secret?

2006-11-05T14:30:00.000+05:30

Okay, I’m trusting you with three very precious secrets. Shhh… don’t tell!

One – Nancy, the wife of one of the employees here at Mandiram, is pregnant! Reji and Nancy were just married in June, and are already pregnant with their first child! The live in Mandiram (Reji needs to be around 24/7 to keep things running) so this is big news. The residents here don’t know yet, and it’s supposed to be a big secret (that I almost let slip last week, since I didn’t know that no one was supposed to know!). Nancy has been having some trouble – feeling sick and so on – but I think the couple is super excited, despite it. They won’t know the sex of the baby until it’s born because the procedures to find out a fetus’ sex have been outlawed (there was a high ratio of female fetuses being aborted, so the procedure was made illegal). So before I leave India, I might get to see a brand spankin new baby!

Two – Beena, the head nurse here, got a marriage proposal! She has to send in photos of herself to the prospective groom (pictures which I took), and then they’ll probably meet each other, spend some time together, and see what they think of each other. Quite a different process from the US! Beena said that this was her third proposal, but the two times before, the groom’s family had demanded too much dowry money and her family was unable to provide it. I’ve been trying to keep an open mind about the way marriage works in India. Because arranged marriage is just the way things are here, I often find myself shocked by how lightly it’s treated. Still, I get excited when I hear news like Beena’s. Would I be excited if someone I’d never met thought that he might want to marry me, and asked for pictures to see if I was pretty enough, then asked my parents for money in exchange for taking me off their shoulders? No. I wouldn’t. Even without the dowry situation, I wouldn’t be excited about it. But Beena is excited. And somehow, I’m excited for Beena. Is this a contradiction? I’m not sure.

Three – I played in the rain! Not exactly National Enquirer material, but it was pretty scandalous here. During lunch yesterday, it began to rain. Somol, the oldest girl at the orphanage, suddenly shouted “Tuni! Tuni!” Which I think means laundry, or clothes. She, Anju and I ran back to the orphanage and up onto the roof, which was covered with fresh, previously-drying-and-now-getting-rained-on, laundry. We slipped and slidded across the terrace, grabbing the clothes and throwing them into the stairwell. By the time we finished, we were soaked. So, I took the opportunity to play in the rain. It was great, and I think I, and everyone who saw me, laughed for a good long time.

A New Building

2006-11-03T09:37:00.000+05:30

Leya’s birthday turned out to be a bit overwhelming for Leya-kutty. When she came into the dining hall and everyone was wishing her happy birthday, she was happy. But when she realized that everyone was continuing to stare at her and that she was expected to blow out three candles, she cried. Leya-kutty is an expert at fake crying, but this was a real cry with real tears and real fear. Poor thing. When asked, hours later, about her lack of performance at lunch, though, she was all smiles and full of snappy comebacks. So, despite the tears, it was a good birthday for Leya-kutty.

Yesterday, a new building opened up at Mandiram. About 20 residents who were living in an older building are now in the process of moving into the new one. Aside from the drama that comes with moving – it seems that someone is always found to be hoarding soaps, and the other women (who are probably also hoarding soap) like to gossip about how many bars she had, and so on – the newly moved residents seem happy as clams. I went to visit Traciyammachee and Anamayammachee in their new room, and when I walked it, they were like new people. Despite the rain outside, their room was bright and sunny. Their belongings were neatly stored away and they were chatting happily on their beds. Traciyammachee put my ponytailed hair in a bun (a grandma hairstyle here) and Anamayammachee told me in English about all the going-ons in the new building. The best story was that she had to show one woman where to get water, then where the bathroom was, then where the sink was… and as Anamayammachee was telling the story, the other women kept interrupting her to remind her to tell the best part – that the same woman’s teeth fell out into the sink (and possibly went down the drain)! Ah, the humor of the elderly.

Last night’s dinner was a bit stressful for me. It is common for people here to talk about me, in front of me, in Malayalam. And that’s okay, because a lot of the people here don’t speak English. And at dinner, sometimes the staff (who I’m supposed to sit with) talk about me. So last night, as usual, they were talking while looking at me, and saying America a lot – general signs that someone is talking about me. I asked one of them, who speaks some English, what they were saying. He said they were talking about how the residents had moved into the new building. Now, I can’t know what they were saying, since they were talking in Malayalam; maybe they were talking about the new building. But I’m pretty sure they were talking about me. And I was infuriated that someone would lie to me about it. Why not just tell me? Were they saying bad things? At any rate, I’m going to have to come up with a method to get around (or over) this. And I think it will involve not eating at their table as much.