A Long- Ago, Far-Away Place

A tea plantation and tea pluckers in the hills of Ooty

My earliest memory of boarding school:

I am five years old. My mother drives two hours to drop my sister and me to St. Hilda's boarding School which resides in an isolated hill station in Ooty. Up the winding roads, past the hills that are shaped like a reclining lady, outlining the curves of her body, we drive and drive. The knotted feeling in my stomach is ever present as I see the big black trunks, marked with our names in bold letters, loaded in the car filled with new uniforms, new shiny shoes, and toiletry. My mother is quiet and the sounds of Richard Marx play through the speakers as she moves through the dangerous curves that lead to the school.

(Gap in my memory)

We're in the first standard dorm. We meet the elderly dormitory matron, Aunty Vicky, who is in a wheelchair and seems to have a friendly and warm disposition. There is food around and other children with their parents, but I cling to my mother's dress, scared of this strange place that I had visited only once before when I took my entrance exam. My mother then says that it is time for her to leave; but I cling on all the way to the double doors that lead to the exit. The dorm matron starts to bribe me with candy, but no amount of candy will convince me to let go of my mother. I start wailing when the knots in my stomach get so tight that it makes me burst into a flood of tears. I am not ready to leave my mother. Who will take care of me? She's home alone-- who will take care of her? Where is my sister? Why isn't she with me? Who will I be sleeping next to? At night when I have bad dreams, is there another bed I can crawl into and be comforted back to sleep? My mother is crying too, and she doesn't let go of me either. Someone is holding my feet, preventing me from being carried away with my mother as she leaves. I hang between the comfort of my mother's arms and the cold hands of the unknown. My mother places me in the lap of Aunty Vicky and leaves before it becomes too hard for her to do so.

After much crying and comforting, I am told which bed will be mine and with my new classmates, we have a "welcome party" and play a game to get to know each other. There is a lot of food laying around and it feels surprisingly warm to be there. I meet Mohini, a girl who is also left-handed and who's father is a captain of a ship. We become best friends at that, and remain so for the next five years that I live at St. Hildas.

I've been to prison Part 3

My first day in prison was a crisp August morning, a season that symbolizes the shedding of life in preparation for rebirth and renewal. As the leaves of trees that lined the highway to prison gently drifted to the ground, I reflected on my own preparation for renewal. I was the unadorned learner seeking the knowledge of my mentor and of the incarcerated women. Their life experiences would no doubt be as important to my learning as my professor's education. On our way, we stopped at a deli to pick up some coffee and breakfast that would hold us over for five hours. After sipping, eating, and talking about what to expect, we slowly turned onto the road that lead to the prison; ironically referred to as "Freedom Road." The women call it that because it is the road that leads back to civilization, and to their freedom. But the road has a completely different meaning to those who use it to enter. When we reached the end of Freedom road, we turned into a small parking lot which would be one of many stops before we reached our final destination. Here, we put on our brightest smiles to alleviate the frown on the face of the woman who met us inside, lest she decide we could not visit that day. We gave her two forms of I.D. that she kept in exchange for a badge with a numeric ID. We pinned this on our jackets so that it was visible to all that we did not belong there.

We got back into my professor's car and drove through the gates of minimum security where I first witnessed many women in tan jumpsuits doing a variety of chores on the grounds. We stopped in another parking lot where we signed in as visitors and collected a set of books for the women in our class. Inside this building, there were many women sitting on long benches. I tried not to look scared or intimidated, though I felt that way inside. I smiled at them to show that I come in peace and that I am not judging them; but they looked me up and down and I felt that they were judging me. I guess in that way, I was judging them in making that assumption.

We got into the car yet again and drove through medium security as I noticed more bars and gated fences. We were admitted through one set of gates when the security guard noticed our badges. He received big smiles from us, again to prevent any problems, before exchanging a few flirtatious words with my professor. She laughed politely as we drove through the gate and then gave me an eye-roll signaling the distaste of his comments. She put up with this just to avoid any potential reason for having them stop the program that she has worked long and hard to preserve.

We finally enter the last parking lot, the closest we can get to maximum security. We walk through gate after gate that give a long and loud "BUZZ" when we approach, indicating that there are watchful eyes somewhere above us. This panopticon was a clear indication that we were in a different space-- where surveillance was an overt part of one's day and the knowledge of being watched changed one's behavior immediately. We submitted to another pat down before entering the big scary gates of maximum security and watched the guard flip through the books we carried as though it's contents may be a weapon of some sort to the women. I wondered if books had been refused entry into prison on previous occasions. Maybe someone crafty had used a book to store drugs inside? Before I could entertain other such thoughts, she approved our stack of books and allowed us to proceed.

All of a sudden, I was scared. The drive, the gates, the guards were all distracting points that didn't allow me to mentally prepare for the truth of this moment-- I would soon be face to face with women who may have done some really horrible things to end up here. As we walked down the sidewalk I heard yelling between two women-- curse words galore-- coming from the room where we would be meeting our class. What did I get myself into?

Life and Death in ‘Virtue’ by George Herbert

Virtue by George Herbert
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall tonight;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

Virtue, and the possession of it, does not determine one’s mortality. While it is a quality many respect and try to uphold, virtue cannot grant promises of life. If death is seen figuratively, however, “Virtue” can outlive the world of “coal”, the “sweet days and roses,” and the spring, all of which “must die.”
The four quatrains that make up the lyrical poem “Virtue” divide the speaker’s thoughts about mortality with the fourth tetra-syllabic iambic dimeter line in each stanza determining the verdict of the stanza’s subject. Each stanza begins with a trochee and continues with a predominant iambic tetrameter pattern. The rhyme schemes from the first three stanzas remain consistent with an abab, cbcb, dbdb pattern. However, there is a marked difference in the fourth stanza where the rhyme scheme deviates to an "efef" pattern. The “b” rhyme echoes the word “die” and is a sonically strong symbol throughout the poem, providing unity to the first three stanzas; while the “f” rhyme in stanza four introduces the words “gives” and lives” which breaks away from that rhythm.

The tension or pivotal changing point in “Virtue” takes place in the last stanza with the idea of living. While the speaker maintains that the day, the rose and spring, which encompasses both “sweet days and roses […] all must die,” the virtuous soul only improves with age and must live, even in a world blackened, like a piece of coal.

The repetition in this poem must be noted; for it gives the reader room to question the monologue of this speaker. The word “sweet” is mentioned six times in this 16 line poem and calls for further examination. The “sweet and virtuous soul” is likened to a “sweet day,” a “sweet rose,” “sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,” and “a box where sweets compacted lie.” The repetition sets a tone of determination and insistence on the speaker’s part as he tries to convince the subject to remain “sweet” if she wishes to live. It can be inferred that from the title of this poem, the subject’s “virtue” has to be maintained by remaining chaste, innocent and pure and by “never giving” into the world’s devious distractions. Support for this reading can be found in the connotation of the word “die” which often alludes to a sexual climax or orgasm in figurative language. The metaphor captures the animalistic tendencies inherent in humans and the raw passion that accompanies an orgasm, which can be seen as an unnecessary supplement to the reproductive act of sexual intercourse. Giving in to these animalistic tendencies suggests an impurity and a scandal to one’s virtue.

If seen in this light, the “sweet and virtuous soul” that “never gives” then “chiefly lives” does not only echo a command from a benevolent speaker but also indicates the result of not experiencing a sexual climax. Paired with the mention of the “bridal of the earth and sky,” in the first stanza, the mention of the bride on her last night of chastity prepares the reader for this interpretation. The soul, in the fourth stanza, is compared to “season’d timber” which, though better in age, also literally describes dried up wood, which is at the least, an unattractive way of describing a “virtuous soul,” and also lends support to the theory that this virtuous soul has been void of physical pleasures. The speaker reminds his subject that “though the whole world turn to coal,” she will not perish, which indicates the vice in the world, from which he hopes to protect her. The speaker, sounding paternally protective, hopes to preserve the innocence and purity found in the subject; however, one cannot escape mortality, and though his hope is optimistic, one must eventually succumb to death, whether figuratively, or literally.

I've been to Prison Part 2

(Read the Blog Below first)

When the project was finally over, it was time for final exams. I handed in my papers and prepared to begin my summer, but I recieved a call from my professor who asked me to meet her in her office. I wondered if she wanted a rewrite of my paper which I believed was total crap. I found a seat across from her, squirming around waiting impatiently for her reason to call me to her office. I was waiting for her to tell me that I had been mistakenly placed in the English program and that maybe I should find a career doing something else. She looked at me for a long while before going into a long story.

She has a power, she believes. The power to know something with conviction without having any reasoning. Oftentimes, she would find herself jumping up out of bed with an idea that seemed to come from nowhere. Starting the prison project was one such idea. She didn't know why it came to her... just that it was something she absolutely had to do. She is now known nationally and has appeared on television for it. Well, the previous night, she had a vision that I would be the next student teacher for the prison project. She usually had students apply and submit recommendations... but in this case, she knew it had to be me because of her vision.

I didn't know what to say. Of course I was ecstatic but it was also such an honor to be in someone's VISION! I said I would be happy to do it, but I can't deny that I had reservations about walking into prison and being surrounded by people who had been tried and convicted. Then I thought about the woman I had worked with and how I would've loved the chance to have met her. This was a great opportunity, seemingly meant for me according to my professor's words.

I had the whole summer to imagine what it would be like to walk through prison gates and meet these women. I pictured what I had seen in the movies... walking through a corridor of cells, stacked one on top of the other like cages. I thought about how I would present myself to them-- my professor had mentioned that I should wear plain clothes, with no makeup or jewelry or perfume. The women do not have these things and it may serve to segregate us further. I often wondered later if they were able to smell the fresh air on our skin when we entered the room and if it was more intoxicating that perfume would have been.

I've been to Prison

I haven't told many people this, but I was in prison once. And not just any prison... I'm talking about the real deal... maximum security women's prison in Clinton, NJ. You may raise your eyebrows and think I'm not the type... and you may be now wondering what I may have done to get in there? Well I'll tell you...

It all started back in the Spring of 2004 when my professor told our Women's Autobiography class that she made a project out of visiting a women's maximum security prison every semester with two student teachers to teach a group of women a combination course in creative writing and women's autobiography. I was instantly intrigued... I offered to be a typist, transcribing the writings of a woman who, week by week, told her story. She was a young mother of two, working three jobs to support them, but still somehow was unable to afford healthcare for her baby. She arrived home one day to find ambulances outside her house. She thought they were there for her mother who was taking care of her babies while she worked... but soon found her frantic mother screaming about her dead grandchild. DEAD? She was devastated, and so was I as I typed, unbelieving the content of this story.

She was soon taken to the hospital and allowed to hold her dead baby while she screamed and rocked back and forth, not knowing why or how this happened. While nurses pacified her, police officers began questioning her. It soon became evident to her, and to the baby's father, that they were under suspicion for some reason. I cried while typing, shaking my head in disbelief, not knowing how they could be so insensitive at a time like this. I had no face to put to the letters I typed, but I felt closer to this woman than anyone else at that moment. She always wrote me a letter to accompany her autobiography, thanking me for helping her edit and type her paper and hoping that I was doing well.... while she sat in her 6 x 6 cell.

She didn't have time to mourn and grieve before she found herself sitting in a courtroom, dazed with lack of sleep, being questioned about the treatment of her baby. They did an autopsy and found that it had been malnourished. Why was it not fed properly and why was it not treated by a doctor? They brought pictures of the baby, cut open, entrails exposed, looking nothing like the soft and precious baby she held in her arms only a week before, and shoved it in her face saying "this is what you have done to your own baby, you've murdered him."

I couldn't take anymore at this point. The injustice of this was too much to bear. I had nobody to talk to about this because I didn't know how to explain myself without detailing the story. So I went to my professors office, closed the door and without saying a word, just cried. She asked me if I was sure I could continue doing this. There was no doubt in my mind I wanted to continue, I couldn't abandon this woman halfway through our project. I just wanted to be around someone who knew exactly how I felt without having to talk about the actual ordeal.

The story concluded with the woman as well as the baby's father stuck in prison, charged with the crime while their living son is put into foster care. There is no happy ending here... no turn of events. She was poorly represented by court appointed lawyers and hopes for an appeal.

You may be saying to yourself... "yea, but you said you went to prison... you didn't really go to prison unless you mean vicariously."

No. I did go to prison. But you'll have to wait for the next story to hear about it.

Belle

Many a young girl has at one point aspired to be a Disney Princess. The glamorous gowns, the beauty, the happily ever after... These princesses seem to have everything going for them. Take Snow White... she sings

Some day my prince will come... Some day I'll find my love... And away to his castle we'll go... To be happy forever I know... He'll whisper I love you... And steal a kiss or two... And the birds will sing... And wedding bells will ring... Some day when my dreams come true

And the optimistic, high achiever does find her Prince and does have a happy ending. Ariel (or The Little Mermaid), after just a glimpse of watching Prince Eric dance with his shipmates decides she loves him and practically sells her soul (and her most prized asset-- her voice) to the devil, leaves her family and struggles against her odds to make him fall in love with her-- evident in a kiss of course. Though she is silenced, she still has her beauty and manages to make him fall in love with her. That is what you call ambition and independence. And let's not forget Aurora, better known as Sleeping Beauty. She literally just lays there for a hundred years waiting for Prince Charming to give her true love's kiss. She is so beautiful that she requires nothing but this in order to have her happily ever after because, though she is asleep, she still manages to attract her man (although I wonder what kind of morning breath one would have after a hundred years of sleep-- she still gets Charming though!) Little girls, that is called patience. But there is a girl, among the others, who hopes for something more than meeting Prince Charming and having her dream of marriage come true. Her name is Belle... and though her name means Beauty, she has dreams of far more than what people expect of her. In her opening song, she sings

there must be more than this provincial life... I want adventure in the great wide somewhere, I want it more than I can tell. And for once it might be grand to have someone understand I want so much more than they've got planned.

Meanwhile, the hunk of the town, Gaston, is telling people that he plans to

woo and marry Belle

and actually makes the announcement of their marriage without asking her! He just assumes that this is all she wants, but she is not just any Disney Princess. This is a girl worth looking up to... she recognizes that her little quiet village is just a small speck in the world and that there is so much else to see and discover. She pities the baker and the butcher who live every day like the one before without the thought that there may be more to life than this. But, you may argue, in the same song, she reads a romance novel and says that her favorite part in the book is when the girl means Prince Charming. But she's READING a BOOK!! Do we ever see Ariel, Snow White, Sleeping... well Sleeping Beauty does absolutely nothing... but you get what I'm saying... Belle is the first to actually prefer reading a book (for the third time) to talking to the hottest man in town. The town calls her peculiar because they can't imagine why she would waste her good looks by hiding behind books. Although she does end up with a handsome Prince, their love story is not based on appearances. They hate each other at first sight and learn to love small things about each other in time. She sees past his beastliness and sees his inner beauty that even he did not know existed. My favorite part is when he surprises her by giving her his very own library, knowing how much she loves books. Now, this is a real love story! I try to imagine what comes after the happy ending... for the other girls who haven't gotten to know their Princes, they may learn that he has a bad habit of picking his nose in public, or that he has this ridiculous obsession with his hair and won't allow her to touch it... etc.

But I have hopes for Belle.

On the ship

My father was a captain of oil tankers in the Merchant Marines and whenever my mom, sister and I were on the ship with him, we'd take frequent walks on the deck to pass away time. Since we were usually the only kids on the ship we had only a few ways of keeping ourselves occupied without getting into too much trouble. Being on the deck was great because there would usually be a really nice breeze that would playfully push you around. It was perfect for flying kites too; and one day we did just that. Mom had bought my sister and me kites shaped like planes made out of styrofoam. We were absolutely thrilled. We took them outside and started running down the catwalk to get onto the deck. The wind was extra playful that day though and pretty soon it was shoving us around and almost carrying us away. One gust in particular lifted me off my feet and my mom pulled at my pants to keep me safe. Our aeroplane's wings broke off and fell into the sea as big waves engulfed it. I looked over the railing to see it and realized that it could've been me. It was a really scary day but an adventure nonetheless.

Whenever we traveled it would take weeks and weeks to get to a destination and for all those weeks we would see nothing but blue. My sister and I would sit on the bridge and look out to see any sign of green which would mean a lot of screaming and laughing and excitment. All it would take was a thin narrow strip-- or even a remote island in the middle of the ocean-- and it would make our day!

To go ashore we would step out of the ship onto this pulley thingamagig that acted kinda like an elevator-- it was just a bunch of netting and a hard floor and they would slowly lower it down till it reached a speedboat. We'd jump out of it and into the boat which would speed to shore. We would roam about and by the end of the night we'd make our way back to the seaport and wait for a speedboat to take us back to the ship that would look magnificent in the distance. Sometimes the boat's generator would give up halfway and we'd have to wait for another to come by. In the dark. How we did such things with no fear, I don't know. These were pirated oceans too, mind you.

To get back onto the ship we had to hop from the speedboat to a plank and climb up a rope ladder. My grandmother was with us once and she wasn't familiar with all the jumping about and when she tried going from boat to plank, she put one foot on the plank and didn't take the other one immediately, so the boat moved a bit away and soon nana was doing the splits!! The guy on the plank had to quickly carry her so she wouldn't fall in. She had the fright of her life, but naughty as we were, my sister and I couldn't stop laughing for the rest of the day picturing nana doing the splits.