A Walking Dollar Sign

Two days ago in Goa, a young Indian man perched on his motorcycle jumped up when I walked by.  “Excuse me ma’am, I have a question for you.”

Ugh.  I don’t want to buy anything and I don’t want to go to your shop and I don't need a taxi ride and I don’t need a scooter or drums or marijuana, I thought.

I stopped and waited for the solicitation.

“Why don’t foreign people want to stop and talk to Indians?  Why do you always think we’re trying to sell you something?”

Hah!  He caught me!  But seriously, because I’m a walking dollar sign in a tourist town like Goa.  If cash registers still made the “chi-ching” noise and I were a cartoon person, that noise would be my personal sound effect.

“Because, typically, Indian people are trying to sell me something.” I replied.

“You come here and you stay in hotels and you never get to know Indian people!”  He protested.

Awesome.  I come to Goa to relax after visiting Mavelikara, where I lived for a year, and I get harassed by an oily-haired motorcycle-dude for not knowing any Indians.  He is messing with the wrong foreign chick.

“I lived in Kerala for a year, I…”

“I know, I know,” He interjected nonsensically.

“Wait a minute buddy, you stop me on the street to ask me a question and then interrupt me while I’m respectfully answering you?!  No way!  You listen to me finish my sentence if you want to ask questions!”  I berated him.

Silenced, he let me continue.  

I explained that I have lived here and I do have Indian friends who I care about.  But, if he were to walk down the Goan streets in my shoes, he would not feel surrounded by friends, rather people whose income is desperately dependent on my dollar bills.  So yes, in Goa I don’t stop and talk to Indian people because, mainly, they just want me to buy something. 

I walked away in a huff, frustrated at being blamed for something I have no control over in a place I came to seeking relaxation. 

I also immediately considered immigrants to my country, a land of immigrants that often welcomes them with judgment and even fear, especially if they are Muslim. 

While living in Chicago, I met many immigrants who were struggling to survive in an unfamiliar land.  I will never walk in a new immigrant’s shoes, but one of the greatest gifts living in India gave me, was the ability to imagine what it might be like.   

I felt like a helpless child each time I tried to go shopping for basic necessities, when I stood at the bus stand not being able to read a single sign, when I didn’t know how to flush the toilet or how to find personal medication that I’d rather not have to ask everyone and their brother how to find.

I felt torn when I people harped on American foreign policy, wanting to defend my country but knowing I probably wouldn’t defend it if I heard the same in Chicago.

When I expressed frustrations about gender relations in Mavelikara, or religious intolerance at Bishop Moore College, it was met with defensiveness and distain.  Fair enough.  I was here for only a short time, enough to get my feet wet.  How dare I express frustration about things I was only beginning to understand?   

I had a few people I consistently went to for advice and help.  It was comforting to have those close friends, but I realized that they would never know who I really am.  How can you imagine someone being successful and independent when that person doesn’t even know that there is more than one type of mango?   

And, it took me until this return trip to realize that, when random people on the street asked me if I had bathed, they were really just saying hi.

I’m only realizing now, upon my return, many of the things I learned while living in Mavelikara.