The Adventures of Belle

A Long- Ago, Far-Away Place

2008-10-07T08:26:00.000-07:00

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

2007-11-02T09:03:00.001-07:00

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

2007-11-02T07:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-29T19:27:00.000-07:00

(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

2007-08-29T18:27:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-29T09:18:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-26T12:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Road Trips

2007-03-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

When my sister and I were little, my family used to take a ton of road trips. I don't remember the destinations besides one or two memorable ones, but getting there was the fun part.

On days that we were going on one of our trips, we would wake up at 5:00 a.m. to the tinkling of spoons as they stirred tea cups and whispered voices counting off items to be packed at the last minute. Nana would hurry into our room with a towel that she wet with some remaining hot water that she boiled for tea and would wipe the sleepiness from our faces. We would not be happy about this in anticipation of the cold feeling it would leave behind. Mom would leave some clothes on the bed for us to change into and bring us some hot milk to drink after we brushed our teeth. Each adult in the room would take turns asking us if we've used the bathroom yet because "we are not stopping on the side of the road ten minutes into our trip."

Nana would always say a prayer to the picture of Jesus hanging above our front door before we left on trips as we waited behind her in the living room. She asked for his protection on the road and for our safety. Each of us would be carrying something-- a pillow, toys, plastic bags of food and flasks of tea and coffee, and suitcases of the other less important stuff. As long as we had food for the trip, we were happy.

Most of our trips took place on the road that led from Bangalore to Conoor or Mysore and back. My sister would either sit on the lap of the passenger or on the lap of the driver (only in India) and help him beep his horn or hang a bag out of the window to see the wind blowing it into a balloon. I would usually be miserable in the backseat on my mother's lap preparing at any second to throw up into a bag she kept ready. I always suffered from motion sickness. I waited impatiently for the moment the family decided it was time to pull over for a roadside treat.

These came in the form of coconut stands. We would stop at a cart where a man would slice open a coconut for each of us, carving out some of the soft coconut inside so that after we finished sipping on the water, we would have tender bits of coconut to munch on. The best part was choosing a coconut that we suspected would yeild the most water. We would sit on the side of the road with the coconuts that were oftentimes too heavy and big for us to hold while mom and her brothers would walk among the tamarind trees that lined the road to find tamarind pods for our journey (as though we did not have enough food). My sister and I would soon join them, jumping as high as possible to find our own tamarind. On other rest breaks we would crouch on the grass and try to identify the plants we called "touch-me-nots" whose green petals would close up when touched. We liked bothering them, touching as many of them as possible to see them shut tight and slowly open up again.

My Nana would occasionally open the flask of tea and give us a drink from the cap of the bottle. These were special treats because tea was mostly reserved for adults and we felt special. She would also make these "puffs" which was puffed pastry filled with minced meat and veggies, another yummy road trip treat for us. Every 20 minutes, another packet of food would be opened and send back through the crowded van and an empty bag would be passed back up.

When we finally reached our destination, we would all tumble out of the van, sleepy from the trip and excited to be there. It didn't ever matter where we were going or how long it took us, or whether we'd enjoy the place. Getting there was the most interesting part. I don't know the exact saying, but it's something like "life isn't where you end up, it's how you get there that really matters." That's totally not the right saying, but it makes sense to me... that's when the real "living" happens.

Signifiers

2007-03-08T10:33:00.000-08:00

Okay no more dark and mysterious personal confessions (see blog below). I was hoping that people would say "omg yea i do that too" but nope doesn't seem so... I guess I'll just pretend like I'm normal and keep these weird oddities to myself. Good plan. I'm going to recall a really funny memory and hope that it redeems my weirdness. This is a very true story.

I was in India visiting my family a few years ago (winter, 2003) and spent a lot of time bonding with my cutie pie cousin who had just turned five at the time. She wanted me with her at all times and made sure I was always in her sight. One day after waking up from her nap she asked me if I would give her a bath instead of my grandma doing it, so I said okay sure why not... and began to prepare her bath water while she started to undress. I was still busy adjusting and readjusting the temperature when I thought I heard her say "Look at my sparkly pussy" and then I thought, no way, a five year old can't say something like that. So I turned around and said "what was that?" and, still in her underwear, she says it again, except this time, she points downwards...

At this point I'm beyond shocked and mad to think how she could possibly know a word like that. I continue giving her a bath and when she's done I take her to my room to find some clothes for her. She chooses a shirt and points to it and says "another sparkly pussy..." and I laughed and laughed till I cried... It was a CAT that had sparkles all over it. Her underwear had the same design. THANK GOODNESS.

I don't think I've ever laughed that much by myself before... she was so confused and asked me what was funny and I had to make something up... I can't wait to tell her the story when she's older. I guess I can leave it to cultural differences... certain words don't carry the same meaning there that they do in America. Americans just seem to have a way of dirtying the english language. The poor pussycat.

Night Patterns

2007-03-05T11:34:00.000-08:00

At night when I'm tucked into bed and waiting to fall asleep there is usually a space of time between total consciousness and deep sleep where I enter this weird zone of consciousness. I tend to do a few strange things during this time that I don't do in total consciousness and I will try to sum them up now. I'm just curious to see if other people do these things too and if you do this, maybe there's more to it that can be further investigated. Okay let me get right into it.

1) I see repetitious patterns when I close my eyes and i usually trace them to infinity until falling asleep.
2) I trace phrases by writing in script in my head, usually a phrase I repeat over and over again but doesn't really have any meaning. For example, tracing "have a nice day" repeatedly.
3) If I am overwhelmed with having just written a paper or typing a lot at work, I sometimes imagine typing a phrase. When I used to work at a bank I used to imagine using the number pad and typing in my social security number (or something of the like) repeatedly and really fast.
4) In addition to all of this I also grind my teeth to the tune of a song. It's like humming the tune but because I'm half-asleep I just grind. This is by far my worst pre-sleep habit, although I hate all of the above.
5) In tradition with regular day-dreams I usually imagine an event that truly happened but ending with a very nightmarish vision. For example, last night I thought about this man who followed me out of the gym and tried talking to me etc. and shook my hand (true event) but in my version, when he shook my hand, he injected me with AIDS because I dissed him. Very scary.
6) I see dead people.
7) Just kidding.

I have a feeling that these things happen because I still have all this excess energy that is preventing me from falling asleep and they force me to stay awake until I'm truly weary. It could also indicate a level of paranoia. Does anyone else experience any of this? If not, I may have to get this checked out.

P.S. There is also a time period between waking up and actually getting out of bed when I enter a similar zone, but during this time, I just have a random song in my head. Usually not one that I particularly like. For instance, this morning it was some Kelly Clarkson song- Breakaway or something...

1880 New York

2007-02-26T11:13:00.000-08:00

There is an article in the Washington Post dated November 11, 1880 that states thay "the politest people in New York are the beggars. They are not, however, the best people. The average business man has not time to be polite. He is too much engrossed in the pursuit of money. So are the lawyers, and the bankers, and the merchants, and all but the beggars before mentioned."

I came across this snippet of news while I was conducting research to find out what life was like in New York City in the 1880's (I'm writing a paper about a play that takes place during this time.) Anyhow, I found this statement quite interesting considering the fact that this statement is so explicitly stated in the newspaper as a fact rather than opinion. Everyone is after money-- whether a lawyer, banker, merchant or beggar... but I guess what the newswriter is saying here is that the lawyers and merchants are too busy making money that they cannot afford to be polite... whereas the common beggar on the streets of New York relies on politeness to make their money because they are too lazy to take part in the "pursuit." The whole idea of the American Dream essentially creates the opportunity for anyone, even beggars, to rise up on the social ladder. Not taking the initiative to do so is an ostracization from the American Dream and the categorization into the fields of "lazy" and "unresourceful" thereby making them... "polite?"

I understand the point of needing money to survive etc. but it's sad when people place its importance before other things that make people happy. But I'm starting to think more and more that money is what makes people happy more than anything else.

Lyrical Analysis

2007-02-23T08:59:00.000-08:00

"this is why im hot, this is why im hot, this is why, this is why,this is why, im hot this is why im hot, this is why im hot, this is why, this is why, this is why im hot, im hot cuz im fly, you aint cuz u not, this is why, this is why, this is why im hot im hot cuz im fly, you aint cuz u not this is this is why, this is why, this is why im hot"

Original, I must say. And so deep with metaphorical elements. Word choice and usage in this particular excerpt are compelling and drive the reader/listener to emotional levels. Repetition in the statement "this is why I'm hot" portray an element of insecurity, however. The sudden change from personal pronoun to "you aint cuz you not" and then back to the personal indicates a sense of comparison in style, specifically the case of being "fly" or "not" which also may suggest an insecurity or traces of envy.

The comma usage is additionally compelling because it provides breaks between each affirmation of being "hot."

Are you kidding?!

2007-02-19T09:42:00.000-08:00

I'm on a blogging roll.

So in Jerusalem yesterday, a car was stopped in the fast lane, congesting traffic and causing cars to swerve out of the way into other lanes to keep from crashing into it.

The cause?

The female driver and male passenger could not wait to have sex. In fact, they could not even wait to PULL OVER onto the side of the road. They decided to just stop, right there in the middle of the road, and get it on.

The punishment?

A traffic violation ticket for "holding up traffic." I thought places like Jerusalem were strict with the sexual stuff? I don't know people, you may find cars stopped in the middle of the road more frequently now if all they're going to get is a ticket.

The Ivrea Rebellion

2007-02-19T09:15:00.000-08:00

I found this quite interesting and thought you may too. In Italy, about 800 years ago, there was a tyrant that ruled with individualistic motives, placing his selfish needs above those of his people as can be seen by the unjust laws he created. One such law that demonstrates this is the one that states that HE has the right to sleep with the women of the town or village on their wedding night. This actually took place until a miller's daughter who had just been married and was about to be "de-flowered" by this tyrant rebelled against this act and cut off his head. She went to the balcony and dangled his head over the crowd of peasants beneath his castle window, initiating a rebellion against the dead tyrant and the destruction of his castle.

This rebellion has been celebrated since the 19th century with an "orange fight" that takes place every year in february (happened yesterday actually) where "peasants" hurl oranges and other fruit at "soldiers" moving through the crowds. Over the years, this practice has developed into an organized sport it seems... there are "teams" of peasants (throwers) and soldiers (the screwed ones). In order to participate, one would have to enroll with one of the teams and pay a fee that goes toward the purchasing of oranges.

Can you imagine how much those oranges would hurt on contact? Why oranges? Maybe they grew close to the town and were therefore the cheapest option... but again, perhaps a softer fruit would have been just as much fun and would yeild in fewer bruises?

What do I know? All I want to know is how this festival or sport as such turned from a young girl chopping off the head of the rapist to a bunch of men throwing oranges at other men. Where is the symbolism? What do the oranges stand for?

Also, who would sign up to be on the soldier/screwed side? I can imagine going to sign up to be on the peasant team and being told "i'm sorry, the list for peasant teams is currently filled to capacity, but there are openings to be a soldier for today if you don't mind being pelted with thick- skinned oranges! It may be a therapeudic experience."

Um I think not.

And another one bites the dust

2007-02-19T07:07:00.000-08:00

There is an urban legend that finds itself in circulation every once in a while... it appeared in a few newspapers recently and I heard about it on the radio. Supposedly there was a man named George (most common protagonist name in American literature-- implies that the story is the fate of the average American) who had worked for a company for 25 years. He was so loyal to his company that he was the first to arrive in the morning and last to leave at night. So loyal, in fact, that he worked a full week even after DEATH!! According to articles and radio reports he was slumped over his desk, dead after having a heart attack. A week passed by with nobody noticing anything.

Poor George spent his whole life working for a company that didn't even know he was there. Thankfully this story was not true. I would hope that my co-workers would realize something was wrong if I didn't show up to work for a week. Heck, who am I kidding, they notice when I'm 5 minutes late in the morning... but that's how it SHOULD be! It means that you matter, that what you do is important! Every story has it's lesson and this story clearly shows how people's lives are sometimes lost in the monotony of daily life-- he worked every day for 25 years, all just to die in the end with no reward.

While that story is thankfully a myth, there is unfortunately another story that isn't. According to Reuters, a man who lived in Long Island was found sitting in front of a "blaring television," dead for more than a year. His body had been preserved and sort of mummified because of the low humidity conditions of his house. People who knew the man assumed he had gone into the hospital for long term care because of his various illnesses.

Statistics show that the average American, by the age of 65, can spend up to 9 years of their life watching t.v. I guess you can say that television is a sort of escape from reality; a chance to experience adventure from the comfort of your very own couch. But is that really "experiencing" anything? It's tragically poetic in a way, that this man died watching television, experiencing a sort of adventure even after death.

Hair

2007-02-16T10:46:00.000-08:00

It's so funny reading over my own blogs because I know that if someone who didn't know me was reading it they would probably think that this was all I was about... but somehow because I've titled my blog "history lessons" i feel confined to discuss just that... I mean I know I can do whatever with it, but it would sound really weird if I went from talking about the meaning of life etc. to detailing the monotony of my day.

But lets do it anyway, for fun. So yesterday I had to go to this class that I attend once a week for my graduate program and I have this ritual, ever since undergrad actually, to always stop by the school cafe and get a 20 oz cup of hot chocolate. So there I was with my 20 ouncer waiting in line to pay when I look up to notice the boy standing in front of me. But not really even the boy, the HAIR of the boy standing in front of me. It was a big, matted mess with some areas curly and some straight... and all I could think when I looked at his face was "why are you trying so hard?" With the hair and the combination of his outfit he just looked like he was trying really hard to look like he wasn't trying or that he wasn't into fashion.

But seriously, I understand a person's need to rebel against the trends of fashion and the need to define oneself outside of these little groups according to fashion... but in rebelling and trying not to be fashionable, a group has thus been created. Voila!

And he kinda smelled too... I really wanted to say: "hey, this hairstyle is not working and you need to WASH your hair at some point... hopefully soon."

2007-02-06T13:34:00.000-08:00

Emily: We don’t have time to look at one another. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?

Simon: Yes, now you know. Now you know! That’s what it was to be alive. To move about in a cloud of ignorance; to go up and down trampling on the feelings of those…of those about you. To spend and waste time as though you had a million years. To be always at the mercy of one self-centered passion, or another. Ignorance and blindness.

- Thornton Wilder, “Our Town” (1938)

This is another little piece of literature that really makes you think about the people around you and the way you treat them… you sit around the dining table and barely look each other in the eye, you have seemingly meaningless conversation about the most mundane topics with people you care about… you sit next to each other on the couch watching television for hours on end… you talk about things while you are absentmindedly thinking about another place and time. You relive moments gone by and wonder if the moment you are reliving was actually “lived” in at all; perhaps it was spent absently thinking about another moment gone by.

We don’t appreciate things when we have them… it is always appreciated in some far point in the future when the moment is in some deep dark recess of your mind and it emerges for some reason and gives you a feeling of regret and hopelessness rather than euphoria.

My point is, the next time you’re sitting next to your brother or sister or mom or dad, live in the moment… look at each other in the eye and appreciate them, because even all the insignificant moments (that I often seem to complain about because I can’t seem to sit still) will one day make us long for them… but maybe we won’t be as regretful if we know we appreciated these moments. Maybe.

Past- Future

2007-02-06T07:37:00.000-08:00

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

- D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover (1928)

Though this was written before 1928 the words from D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover resonate through the changing times of history… perhaps because history doesn’t really “change”; when was there ever a smooth road to the future? The only way it could be smooth is if we knew what was beyond the horizon… the unknowing is unnerving, it makes us suspicious, and it causes people to act in bizarre ways… to imagine that one can “take over the world” as single men have been trying to do for centuries on end... if they could’ve only seen their mortality, maybe they would’ve appreciated other things in life…

Fortune Teller: I tell the future. Nothing easier. Everybody’s future is in their face. Nothing easier. But who can tell your past, --eh? Nobody!

Your youth,--- where did it go? It slipped away while you weren’t looking. While you were asleep. While you were drunk? Puh! You lie awake trying to know your past. What was it trying to say to you?

- Thornton Wilder, “The Skin of Our Teeth” (1942)

Wilder seems to have a different take on history… in most of his writing, he speaks about history in terms of circularity rather than linear progression. “Progress” seems to be the key word here, because the human race as a culture seems to make the same mistakes over and over again without learning and moving forward. To Wilder, our past is just as much a blur as our future because we forget it as soon as it happens. I tend to agree with this… our past seems inconsequential compared to the unknown future and so is forgotten like a meaningless event. Then suddenly, as the fortune teller brilliantly says, it slips away while you are sleeping and then you wake up trying to know what happened and trying to see who you have become… the person you are can be attributed to the tiny insignificant details that all add up together to form your history, your personality… but if they are thrown to the side to make way for the “future,” you will never know who you really are because you will not remember.

At some point in life we have to stop what we’re doing (in essence, most of us are like hamsters running ferociously in our metal wheel, trying to get somewhere, but only turning in circles) and realize that we’re working so hard trying to get to the future that we’re missing the present and blurring our past. The only “smooth road to the future” that we can say we know is death… and why would you want to rush toward that?

My AI History

2007-01-30T12:23:00.000-08:00

Anglo Indian history is nothing but a footnote or brief mention in standard texts... even though it is a history rich in drama, essentially covering the conception, its rise and fall and eventual balance act of a community as it discovers itself and reaches for an identity that is hard to find, not only in its early years, but even now. As children in boarding school my sister and I used to be called “foreigners” by the other students because we were lighter skinned and they thought we were white. When we were in fact in a foreign land after moving to America, we were called Indians. This confusion of identity can be a hard thing to wrestle. There is never a moment of clarity when one is by themselves… it is only when we are united as a family that identity becomes a non-issue. We all look the same, we speak the same, we dress and cook the same foods, we understand our difficulty in finding an identity we can call our own, and in the understanding that we are all facing the same struggles and issues, we reach a calming clarity. Of course, I am not surrounded by Anglo Indians in New Jersey so therefore find myself having to explain my nationality to those who question me on a daily basis. You know you’ve all done it at some point or another!

This picture really captures that sense of lost identity... the mysterious fog in the background, the lost look on our faces... especially considering that we're in our own front yard.

Anglo Indian History

2007-01-30T06:29:00.000-08:00

People always ask me "what" I am... as in "where" do I come from. It's a hard question to answer so I usually try avoiding giving a response. But hopefully this will answer some questions... this is "who" and "what" I am and "where" I am from:

Anglo Indians are defined, according to the Indian Constitution, as "a person whose father or any of whose other male progenitors in the male line is or was of European descent but who is domiciled within the territory of India and is or was born within such territory of parents habitually resident therein and not established there for temporary purposes only..."

Basically, when the British East India Company arrived and set up factories in India (1600), the soldiers (who were not allowed to be accompanied by their wives) found an occupation sleeping with the local women. Some married them and stayed, others who were married already, left. The East India Company (EIC) found this mating to be of use to them and encouraged these interracial engagements for a payment to the mother of five rupees for any offspring produced (1687). By the way, 5 rupees translates to eleven cents today. Nevertheless, there was soon many of these "Anglo Indian" children who were useful to the EIC for their service in the army or in civil positions within the EIC. The Anglo Indians prospered under the wing of the British and adapted to their western ways and culture, considering themselves more British and denying their Indian roots. Some children were even sent to England for their education and were brought back to serve the EIC.

This prosperity continued until about 1785 when the British noticed the abundance of Anglos in their company, and fearing a mutiny or rebellion as they had seen happen in other parts of India, in 1786 they ordered that "no person the son of a native Indian shall henceforth be appointed by the court in employment in the Civil and Military force of the company." So a majority of the soldiers who were Anglo were stripped of their jobs and livelihood, including their English education (as the British took away that privilege as well). They were also refused civil positions in the EIC. To make matters even worse, by another order of The Company, they were "debarred from acquiring land" near the EIC settlement.

This is when the Anglos really started forming their own subcommunity, feeling rejected by both the British and Indian communities. They married other Anglos and developed traits and characteristics particular to the group, including a unique style of cooking (a combination of Indian and western tastes), western attire with some Indian flair, a new style of language (English, with a lot of unique slang that borrows from Indian languages), and strong religious beliefs in Roman Catholicism. While this started to identify Anglo Indians as a new group and community, it helped to further segregate them from the Indians as well as the British.

All this took some time, but going back to 1790, soon after the orders that ousted the Anglos from the EIC, these orders were recalled because a war was about to take place in India and with the EIC stripped of many young and able soldiers because of their order, they were sure to be defeated. So, they issued a proclamation that summoned "all British and Anglo Indian men and officers to return to the Company's force" and anyone who failed to return would be "treated as traitors." The Anglo Indians jumped at a chance to prove their allegiance and obeyed the proclamation... sadly only to be thrown out of the military service again after they were used and the war was over.

The AI's (as they are currently referred) built their first school in 1836, La Martiniere (a school my father attended in North India) knowing that their education would be important now that they were not guarded under the British wing. Even so, there was not much they could do without the help of the British because they could not turn to the Indians who had a strong caste system that was followed. The Anglos did not belong to any caste. Over time however, this group developed a number of caste-like features and acquired a special occupational niche in the railroad, postal, and customs services.

When India gained it's independence, the Anglo Indians were not sure as to their fate in the matter. Because they identified so closely with the British, they were concerned that they would be kicked out of India too (even though this was the only place they had known). Many Indian nationalists did not trust the Anglos so their position at independence was difficult. They had never been to England and would not be fully accepted as a mixed raced society, but they feared that they would not be able to call India home either. For this reason, many Anglo-Indians left the country in 1947, some going to Britain, many to Australia, and a few to Canada. Some stayed in India and hoped for the best.

Currently, because of this diaspora or dispersion, the Anglo Indian community is slowly dying. Those who were darker skinned passed for Indian and married into Indian families. Those who were lighter passed for British or Australian and married into those families... very few Anglos continued marrying other Anglos, especially in countries outside of India. The fate of many Anglos living in India has been detrimental in the past 50 years. Finding employment remains a difficulty and many Anglos can now be found homeless, both in spirit and in life.

Family History

2007-01-29T13:32:00.000-08:00

I've started scanning old family pictures so that I can categorize them and possibly make a book one of these days that can eventually be passed down to later generations. As I scanned, I kept thinking about how quickly we age... and as happy as I was to see my parents and grandparents as young adults, it saddened me to think that there is something lost in their personality... the spunky, goofy faces I saw older family members making slowly turned into serious and mature ones. Do we have to necessarily give up that spunk as we age or does that naturally happen? I saw pictures of great grandparents I never knew, one that valued and honored his wife with gifts of poetry and the other who drank and ran after his wife with knives... but the pictures remain calm and cool; you'd never tell which was which. These pictures are so important; they show a lifetime of smiles, first steps, bad fashion, the appearance of small insignificant wrinkles...; and are later the only memory of the person's existence.