Madama Me

"It's a term of respect," Kochamma said during dinner when she noticed my expression of exaggerated agony at being referred to as Madama by those who know me well enough to call me a number of more endearing nicknames ("Mr. Cate" being one of them). Kochamma, the hostel's head warden, has visited the U.S. and speaks English in a haltingly slow but effective manner. I speak honestly with her about some of my feelings.

"But it's respect given solely for my skin color. It's a racial term stemming from British colonization. I don't like it," I respond, knowing how naive I sound. No matter how many times I request, or how many exaggerated expressions of pain I display, I am still commonly called "Madama" by the hostel staff. By now I consider the hostel staff part of my Mavelikara family, but to them I am “Madama.”

To Unni, the 24-year-old hostel “servant,” I am “Teacher.” A young man who I consider my peer must call me a term of respect because of his position in society. This is exactly what I don’t want! I asked him to, at least, call me “Cheychee,” which means “big sister.” The college students call me “Miss.” I live with these young women. We sit at prayer together. We make fun of each other. We pinch each other when we pass by and laugh together. But they are required by Ammamma to call me “Miss.”

I could list historical reasons why the term Madama is purely reminiscent of a colonized past. I could say that it is really another way of saying “white person” and it reiterates an “Us and Them” mentality. But really, the bottom line is, I just feel silly. It completes an image I have of a missionary that repulses me: the proud, pale lady here to save souls. A hardback Bible as large as an encyclopedia tucked under a skinny arm. She walks down the dirt road taking careful steps to avoid anything undesirable, never really fitting into the scene.

I walk down the street and, everyday, I hear “Madama!” uttered from children and adults alike as I pass. Sometimes I think even the cows are staring, mouths gaping open in shock, which really hurts where it counts because I grew up surrounded by farms and cows (until we moved to Wisconsin, which makes me chuckle and crave squeaky cheese curds). But here, even the cows know. The stares and the surprise does make sense. I live in a rural village. It isn’t often that a foreigner waltzses through the paddy fields, wearing a obviously oft-used churidar, holding the hand of one of their children. A strange picture, I admit.

Also, as often as I’m pointed at in surprise, I’m recognized and welcomed. I pass people on the street who know my favorite fruit, who have seen my family photos, who sold me talcum powder and rose water (my two favorite toiletries), whose directions I’ve trusted, whose chaia I’ve consumed in abundance (the abundance of which now rests in my abundant belly). People pull their cars over when they pass me to say hello and ask “Evide pogunu?” (“Where are you going?” The Kerala version of “What’s Up?” A greeting that doesn’t necessarily require a response further than “There”). The rickshaw drivers smile and wave when I walk past their hang out. I saw my doctor at the internet point (He is “my” doctor, my Loose Motion Guru). The guy who sold me shoes laughs at me because I came into his store in desperation showing him my broken sandals, which he kindly disposed of. The little girl who used to shyly wave to me from her door now yells, “Hello, Aunty!” when I pass.

Today I went to the Lower Primary School because, though students are taking exams and I’m not teaching, the teachers and I can chat. I smacked my lips after finishing a chaia and two kozhukuttu, one of my favorite coconut and brown sugary treats, handmade by Salama Miss with me in mind. I cracked open my Malayalam alphabet book that has been ceremoniously closed upon realizing that for every consonant, there an entirely NEW letter for each consonant/vowel combination and the memorization of lone vowels, which I had painstakingly accomplished, is quite useless for the actual practice of writing and reading. It is time to try again. I quickly re-established my previous headway (not much) and the teachers promised summer lessons (probably with the accompaniment of some delicious treats that will land heavily in my expanding thigh/hip/tummy region--I relish the thought).

A few friends have told me that I’m becoming a “Kerala girl,” which early in the year meant my hair seemed a bit dark, but now it’s a more meaningful compliment. My hair is growing, I’m pleasantly plumpish, I have decreased the decibels of my madwoman laughter (a humanitarian service), I listen (mainly because I can’t speak) and I know some basic Mavelikara stuff that fools people into believing I know what I’m doing. But mainly it means, as much as I stick out like a Weiner Mobile on the highway (and I don’t have any nifty whistles), we’ve realized that we have enough commonalities that transcend an inability to communicate well. We see each other for who we are. This is a big step.

My Village Family

I hesitated in August before creating this blog for my American friends and family. I now try ineptly to express my feelings and experiences. How do I find the combination of words that succinctly and honestly express both peace and frustration, loneliness and happiness, exhilaration and disappointment? Nothing is black and white and everything, once in black and white, is up for interpretation. I can only write about Mavelikara: one village of one district of one state in one country. The impressions I describe are only my own; spoken through a Western, female lens. There are few things I can say that do not deserve refutation or skepticism. One of those things is that my life in Mavelikara is a joyous one, filled with friends, laughter, conversation and delicious food prepared with welcoming love. When I criticise India, it is because I witness the pain of those for whom I care.

When Mary told me no one can touch her when she’s menstruating, she did so with a shadow in her eyes. Her experience may not be that of the average Indian woman’s, but her story is an important one and her pain is real. When Ryan itched his legs in pain, he did so in confusion. Ryan was not alone in his physical pain that day; a complex mesh of problems explain the actions of exhausted teachers, overworked and unsupported. What they did was crime committed by LP School teachers and parents through out Mavelikara (and probably Kerala, maybe through out India), part of an authoritarian educational system. If I reported them, Kallumala LP School may lose the few teachers it actually has; teachers who are exuberant and enjoy teaching. Nothing is simple; nothing is black and white.

When Ashley hugged me today, the kind of hug where you squeeze with all your might and sway back and forth, I felt sadness at the thought of having to leave this little girl I love, not knowing if she’ll eat everyday or who will pay her dowry. I criticize India because I know Ashley and Ryan and Mary and because I care about them.

India is a beautiful country. I have been welcomed without question by people who could demand answers for the actions of my country. The food in my stomach is prepared by people who ask “evide pogunu?” (Where are you going?) daily because they care about me.

I would be belittling the situation of my village family if I did not write about their pain, but I write about their pain in empathy-filled frustration. My country is lucky to not be the subject of this blog, because I would criticize much more harshly its actions and inactions than those of India. I write about caste, sexism and physical/emotional abuses in India, not ignoring the racism, homophobia, sexism, poverty and similar abuses in the United States. I write about the importance of empowering communities rather than simply providing charity, recognizing the complexity inherent in empowerment—and I still dig soup kitchens. I complain about having to wear a churidar, but I wear it out of respect for my village family. I drink mango juice even though it gives me “loose motion,” but that’s a different issue.

Is it possible to be happy and sad, angry and empathetic, respectful and assertive all at once? Yes. My pot won’t boil over because my anger is tempered by love—but it will still cook the pasta, I wonder if "simmering" is a confusing metaphor. I feel lucky to be able to “Simply sit and breathe” so that I can learn by listening to those around me.

*This blog piece is written in response to the comment to the previous piece called "Simmering." Please read both; your honest reactions are welcomed.

Simmering

I don’t know what to write, or how to express what March feels like in an Indian village. Maybe it’s the books I’ve been reading, maybe it’s a growing desire for some cheese and apples, or maybe it’s just March. My feelings could probably fit into the “culture shock” chart given to us at orientation. I remember looking at that chart during orientation week and wondering: two years in Italy, now three weeks in the U.S. and I leave for India in four days, where do I fit?

Mounting frustrations over the question “What am I doing here?” brought me to the conclusion, “Simply sitting and breathing,” which happens to be the punch line of The Worst Joke in Kerala (Q: What are you doing? A: Simply sitting and breathing. That was the joke). If I were, say, working here instead of volunteering, I could haughtily respond to the question, “What are you doing here?” with a top-notch, important sounding answer. The answer would give my presence significance. A reason for being. People might be impressed. My CV would be flush. Instead, (from this day forward) I say “Simply sitting and breathing.” I am no one of significance in Mavelikara. I’m not organizing, coordinating, or even assisting. My presence is my reason. I’m not important and that is significant. Because of me not being important, I can simmer on what is:

-Diane, a student earning her Master’s in English, told me last night about a friend of hers who asked her to call him “urgently.” Diane tried to contact him from a pay phone during the day to no avail. She told me that she cannot call from the hostel because Ammamma (the warden) would ask questions. “Who are you calling?” “What is your relationship to him?” Diane said Ammamma would assume that they are “in love and going to run away together.” This is an example of the type of assumptions made by adults regarding inter-gender friendships among young people in Mavelikara. Simmering.

- Mary, a freshman studying science, and I had a long conversation about menstruation. This was not “girl talk”, this was much more. She told me about her first period. She is Hindu and, she said, unlike Christians who are embarrassed by the onset of menstruation, Hindus celebrate it as a right of passage worthy of candies and cakes. She went on to talk about everyday life in her home while she’s menstruating, an unusual topic, but I soon understood why it was relevant. She cannot enter certain rooms in her house (the kitchen, the pooja room or prayer room). She sleeps in a different bed. No one can touch her. No one can touch her. No one can touch her. No. One. Can. Touch. Her. Simmering.

-Bishop Moore College (BMC) is a co-ed Christian college. The hostel where I live is for ladies only and is run by BMC. There are a significant number of Hindus living in the hostel (maybe more than there are Christians, a close tie if not) and I recently learned that these students are forbidden from going to temples while they live in the hostel. They are required to go to a Christian prayer service every morning and every evening. It explains why, many weeks ago, I walked out of my room at midnight to see hundreds of little candles lit and twinkling under the dark sky. It was a Hindu holiday that the students had to celebrate in secret at night because they were forbidden from doing so otherwise. Simmering.

-There is a student in second grade named Ryan who is mentally handicapped. The other day he tore his notebook and threw it in the trash. Or it could have been a classmate’s notebook, the language barrier confused things. I watched as the teachers yelled at Ryan and then hit him multiple times on the legs with a bamboo stick as punishment. He didn’t cry. He itched his legs where they stung and moved back towards the wall. Soon a few other boys were questioned and punished in kind. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to muffle my cry of frustration when they began to hit Ryan and the teachers reacted by showing me the trash can filled with discarded notebook and saying “Look! Look!” Simmering.

-The other day I noticed that Ashley has a lisp. What do you do when a kid has a lisp? I don’t know. Will she always have a lisp? Why is speech pathologist so hard to say? Simmering.

Without my room in the “ladies hostel,” my daily routine with the villagers, and my “Simply sitting and breathing,” I wouldn’t have so much on which to simmer. Imagine a pot of water bubbling consistently, not close to boiling over but no where near still. The sound is relaxing and the heated water could cook any fusili to al dente perfection. This is my new metaphor for March. And for my feelings of “anger” (I’m reclaiming the word) and frustration.

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Sweltering Sun and Rigorous Tag

As your winter draws to a close, I begin to sizzle in Kerala’s dry season. An Indian state known for its lush landscape sits in waiting these next few months for the monsoon rains of June and July. So does that mean the sarees are ceremoniously stashed in moth balls in favor of tank tops and shorts? Not a chance. A saree is protection not only from the cool but from the sweltering hot sun too. Lands End would be smart to run a line of India’s best utilitarian digs.

My former boss began many of our weekly staff meetings by asking for our “Highs and Lows,” a great way to get all the dirt from an emotionally charged team of young “Student Life Assistants.” Now into month seven of my Indian education, I’m ready to begin to break it down. But honestly, I will never be able to truly express what this year has meant. I will begin with lows. Without a second of hesitation or chagrin at my frivolity, my coconut fiber mattress is my lowest of lows. I remember what I thought when I first hopped hopefully onto my bed in September, “OK, this is how it will be.” When I’m really tired, my mattress is just welcoming as my carebear cloud of a bed at home, but it is no cloud.

A more pervasive low is my inability to act on the injustices I witness. Something I recognize now more than ever is the value of empowerment over charity. A recent article in Frontline highlights an organization called Andolan, newly created by Muslim women in Uttar Pradesh, a northern state of India. The chairperson of Andolan said, “We seek to create an alternative voice of Muslim women with the belief that Muslim women themselves can lead the movement towards equality and social justice.” Those are pretty meaningful words and it leaves me with a deeper understanding of my “ministry of presence.”

During our recent trip to Andra Pradesh, a state in southern India, we visited villages where Dalits (members of the lowest caste) are learning their rights and gaining them. Community leaders who visit to provide educational workshops recognize that they are just a tool. Though the Lower Primary school where I teach twice a week desperately needs an expensive facelift, what it needs more is awareness and support from the community. It needs a government ready to hire one teacher per grade (as opposed to two for four grades). It needs recognition of the injustice prevalent in an education system where poor kids get a poor education. The cyclical nature of these issues is frightening.

But the “Highs” of my seventh month in India are plenty. It’s hard to think of just a few. I played a rigorous game of tag with five kids from theDalit colony close by and went to evening prayer drenched in (very unfeminine) sweat. I roasted marshmallows (Thanks Mom!) with the kitchen staff over their cooking fire after dinner when the heat of the embers was perfect. I was asked, “How do you make marshmallows?” to which I obviouslyresponded, “With a stick and a fire!” A slightly confused question followed, “But no, the marshmallow itself, do you know how to make it?” WHAT?! It was a cultural emergency. How do I explain that no one KNOWS how marshmallows are made, but I’m sure it involves the same carebears who are protecting my cloud bed right now.

I’ve started and ended every day in India with curry, I relish a refreshing glass of just boiled water, and I can easily differentiate between good and bad chapatti. My previously short bob now reaches my shoulders, I am a“regular” at the post office and bakery (well, a few bakeries), and the hostel girls know my strange habits. The kitchen staff no longer wonder whyI sit with them in the kitchen, they know I just like it. Here I am in India.

Fruit Juice and Bowling Pins

I washed my face after a morning at Vidyapith, a grade school. I look different to myself in the mirror. Shirley Miss, a teacher at the college, warned me to wash my face with cold water aaaall the time. She describes the previous volunteers’ battles with dry-season zits as a horrendous affair. “They were covered head to toe,” she states with conviction. I wonder how her science fiction-esk exaggerations will describe me to future volunteers, “She was sooo short, the size of a leeetle mouse.” Her Dr.Who-ish concern is valid, however, and I follow her prescription.

My walk home from Viyapith was a short one. I passed a scampering lizard and considered the strange popularity of the idiom “to bell the cat.” I passed students who, immediately upon seeing me, began simultaneously bumping into each other like stubborn bowling pins and clutching each other like scared mice waiting for the immanent pounce. The affect I have on people in Mavelikara is a strange phenomenon.

I pass a woman in her early thirties who asks “You’re going to college here?” as she walks by. I answer “No” with a friendly smile, which she returns. Neither of us stop walking. Going to college here. A smile on my face. The college students are preparing for exams – big ones. They’re signing end-of-the-year diaries. Next year’s preficts have been elected. I walk past the college campus and the bowling pins fumble for the security of friends’ hands.

My stomach isn’t doing its 12:30 rumble. It’s too hot to eat rice. I am a ridiculous American. I just want cold water, fruit juice and an iced mocha. The cinnamon skies have become a sweltering sauna.

My afternoon is free. I decide to go into town after lunch. I haven’t bought a new churidar since before Christmas. I’ll get a cold fruit juice. Check my email. This freedom to spend an afternoon as I wish is a gift that none of the hostel girls have. I realize this as I concoct my afternoon away.