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.