Really? President Barack Obama

It is post-election night and the entire ordeal seems surreal.  But I was there.  I stood three hours in line in my old neighborhood back in Detroit, excited to place my vote for a man that I believed could effect change for our nation.  A man who stirred hope within myself and so many other Americans. A man whose demeanor and intelligence has redefined what a black man is and can be.  Yes, I was excited to vote for Barack Obama.  

I'm currently a graduate student in Illinois but I didn't trust an absentee ballot to make it through the mail.  I had witness two previous elections "stolen" and felt that I had to visually witness my ballot being counted.  As such, I headed home on a bus to awake at 6:00am on Tuesday, November 4, 2008 to place my vote.  Everyone...and I do mean everyone knew the significance of this moment.  I wanted to return to my hood and stand with my people.  The people who I grew up with as a child.  The people who shared the joys and the sorrows of my neighborhood.  I voted at my elementary school: St. Suzanne. The school had since closed and was now a charter school.  My parents and I arrived at 6:53am to a line that was stretched around the building. (A great sign) I felt they unseasonably warm 70 degree temperature and knew that God was smiling on this historical day.  I watched my mother's nervous smile and my father's cool, yet, anxious stroll as we took our place in line.  We would stand there, with hundreds of other people, for the next three hours.  I wanted to experience it all.  As a writer, I stood with my book bag and my black leather journal which kept and consoled all of my thoughts.   This is what I will hand to my grandchildren one day.  I was pleased to immediately see childhood friends, whom I'd not seen for years.  After hugs and what up's? we all stood and waited.  

The emotions I felt standing in line to vote in Detroit were similar to what I felt as I stood in Grant Park last night.  I caught a bus back to Chicago and arrived in the "Obamacrazed" city at 9pm.  I quickly dropped off my luggage (great thing I lived downtown) and walked the five blocks to Grant Park.  My friend Radia accompanied me and was so ecstatic, as were the other hundred thousand people lining the streets.  I felt the energy but my emotions were dazed.  As I stood shoulder to should with strangers, who I felt immensely intimate with, I thought to myself: I should be crying.  I should be shouting with everyone, but all I could do was stand there and take it in.  I couldn't move.  Watching the man who has shattered the ceiling speak to us...I almost felt void.  Completely numb.  Unable to detangle the the emotions that bubbled over inside me: happiness, proud, hopeful, anxious, fear, disbelief...it all caused me to go numb.

Today, classmates approach me with tears in their blue/green/grey and brown eyes and ask me: were you there?  How do you feel?  

I believe it hasn't hit me as of yet. In the past, when I've been presented with situations and environments which overwhelm me, I often become outwardly emotionless.  While inwardly my body is a swarming pool fluctuating in temperature and temperament.  It's all so surreal.  I think I'm afraid to actually open my spirit up to what this means for me.  For my community. For the world.  

I wonder if this is how my ancestors felt when they heard that they were free.  Did they believe it?  What exactly did "freedom" mean?  What was next?

What is next?

Where did my Zen go??

Clearly I must be back in the States because I no longer have time to sit and ponder the wonders of the world:(  Nope.  It's back to the grind.  

Honestly, I'm too exhausted to even type this now.  Well (sigh), I guess it's official.  I'm a true American.

Sunday in Yokohama with Etsuko

Such Altruistic People!

I've spent the last week here in Japan alone.  No, it's okay, I've been keeping myself busy.  When a co-worker of my host found out that I would be here alone, she informed me that I should call her.  Now in America, this is generally the "polite" thing to say.  However, I'm learning that when abroad, people actually mean it.  (even if they don't, I jump right on it:))

Well Estuko meant it.  She previously asked me what I would like to do and since I had not yet visited a museum, I suggested that.  I figured we would be gone for three maybe four hours.  Wrong!  We spent the entire day in Yokohoma.  Starting at the Yokohama Museum of Art then off to do some shopping.   I was so impressed with her altruism and patience.  We were gone literally the entire day.  

I'm so happy that I continuously encounter people who are willing to extend themselves to me.  It's a reminder for me to make time for others when in the midst of my Gianinaness.  Thanks Etsuko!!

How Wondrous ....

Mt. Fuji!

How Wondrous Are Thy Works!

When asked if I wanted to climb Mt. Fuji, I replied: sure, without so much as a second thought. It wasn't until we were in the store shopping the night before the climb, watching as my fellow climbers purchased everything from energy bars to oxygen. Oxygen? We're going to need oxygen, I inquired? I was given a dumbfounded look as they replied: uh...yeah. It was then that I thought perhaps I should've investigated this more. This was only going to take a couple of hours, right? 3...maybe 4.? Just a few miles, right? I heard an exasperated laugh before hearing: yeah, okay, if that's what you think.

The next morning we arose early to catch our train that would ultimately lead us to a bus that would take us to Mt. Fuji. I had seriously contemplated not going because the truth of the matter was: I didn't really feel up to. I would have much rather preferred to spend the money on a new pair of stiletto's from the outlet mall that I was looking forward to visiting. But...that's shallow. Yes, I know. But as I stated...I'm not really the rustic type of girl. I love competition and I'll be your most fierce competitor, however, I just wasn't in the mood to climb a mountain. I sighed and thought: come on G, how often do you get an opportunity to climb Mt. Fuji? Many of my random, slightly insane, adventures in life start with this same question. But as always the response was: okay, why not?

I arrived at Mt. Fuji determined to make the best out of the experience and equipped with 2 liters of water, 2 albuterol inhalers, 2 bottles of oxygen, 8 energy bars, 5 cups of mott's cinnamon applesauce, a pack of hand wipes, a jacket and a pair of fleece pants. I no longer had the problem with over packing, I had learned that lesson: pack light:) I was set. It was 1:30pm. We started to ascend and approximately 20 minutes into the hike we hit our first incline. I felt my muscles tighten as if to ask: what's going on? we don' did our 20 minute work out! However, forty-five minutes later I made it to the next station: station six. Our group of six had become two as I realized that I wasn't mentally strong enough to help anyone but myself. If someone moaned and said they wanted to quit, I knew I would be the first to "amen" their suggestion. So I decided that if I was going to make this climb, I would have to become mentally strong and focused. And to do so, I may have to go at it alone. (Tough lesson I've learned...)

I was surprised and encouraged to see people of all ages making the hike. You saw children as young as five to senior citizens as seasoned as in their 80s. There was one lady (there is a picture of us in the slide show above) who had to be in her seventies. Her back was bent and her smile gentle as I watched her make the hike: slow and steady her body seemed to say. I thought to myself how wise the elders are and how much stronger they are just by their lived experiences. The distance to station seven was eighty minutes. I just wanted to be there already. Isn't that how we are? We just want to be air lifted into the sunrise without having to go through any of the twist, turns and discomforts that the journey is guaranteed to bring. That thought made me laugh as I became more determined to make it. I had my hiking partner within view as his paced slowed and I began to take deep breaths from my belly. Okay Lord, keep my lungs open.

As we ascended, the humid air cooled and I decided that it was time to put on the fleece. As I replaced the bag onto my back, I realized how much lighter my load had become. Isn't that how life is? When you start something new it's always heavier, harder and more complicated in the beginning. However, as you buckle down and work at it, it becomes easier, lighter, more rewarding. Stay the course. That was my next thought as I guesstimated that I should be approximately 20 minutes from station seven. What I need is some motivation, some inspiration, some music! Gospel music. I reached into my bag and took out my ipod. Gianina's Gospel Tracks. I have a mixed assortment of gospel songs which are untitled, however as soon as the first chord struck, I knew the author. This author wouldn't be known as artist of the year. As I heard the first verse, I knew I was in trouble. I wouldn't be able to continue. I've gone through the fire and I've been through the flood. I've been broken into pieces, seen lightening flash from above. My steps began to slow. ...But through it all, I remembered, that he loves me, and he caaaares, and he'll never, put more on me, than I, can baaaarrrreeeee...my feet became heavy as I felt surrounded by the presence of my ancestors. Those who sacrificed their lives for me. My lips began to tremble. My lungs tightened. I was having problems breathing. I knew it was time, I had to let it go. Before I could give myself permission, I felt the tears falling down my cheeks. It wasn't up to me. My spirit was in control of this...not my mind...but my spirit. As the verse repeated I reflected upon my past. I thought back to a childhood stricken with asthma. I thought back to endless nights of breathing treatments. I saw the faces of friends murdered in the streets of Detroit. I remembered the despair of working a mindless job after graduation. I remember dreaming and wishing that I could be used for my purpose. To feel joy about my contribution to life. To be something different than what the statistics stated. I looked into the dark sky and saw the flash of lightening. Then it hit me: I'm climbing Mt. Fuji. I'm climbing Mt. Fuji...without so much as a wheeze!! I'm in Japan...I just left India! I was, literally, above it all. I actually had to look down to see the clouds. Then I heard the words: his word said he won't, I believe it, I receive it, yes I claim it, It's mine! I could feel the warmth of their smiles. My deliverance, my healing, my joy, yeeeaaahhh, it's mine, it's mine, it's mine...Their blisters bursting with pride...you can't have it, their unshakable faith...he'll neva put more on me than I can bare. I felt my arms raise to the sky as my constricted throat opened: thank you, thank you, thank you. Who else but the creator could bring me to this place? Who else but the creator could create this? I'm not here to debate or argue about who God is but to acknowledge and respect his/her/its presence. Thank you God. Thank you ancestors for your resilience and strength. Humbly, I sing, I scream, I cry...THANK YOU!

My First Earthquake!!!!

I'm wondering if eating bar-b-que chicken, potato salad and a mixture of mustard and collard greens right before bed, was the best thing to do.  

I dreamt that I was in a very dark place taking pictures.  Of what....I'm not sure.  The next thing I know, this dark place was my parents basement.  The next picture I took had the glow of a ghost.  I double check the LCD monitor on the camera  and noticed that it was a white glow of two gorillas.  Gorillas in daddy's basement.  I quickly ran up the basement stairs to show my father what lurked in his basement.  "Daddy, daddy, look!  There are gorilla's in your basement!"  My father replied: There ain't no gorilla's in that basement girl!"  Uh huh, I replied.  I showed him the picture that I'd captured in my digital camera.  "See," I said.  My father looked confused and upon closer inspection, we noticed that there were also monkeys in the picture.  "Well," my father stated, "we'll just have to wait for a couple of weeks before we can get that taken care of."  Wait for a couple of weeks?? I couldn't believe my father was going to let anything, whether it be finances or time, prevent him from getting these wild animals out of our house.  

I went to sleep and suddenly felt my bed rocking.  Oh my gosh, the monkeys must be in here.  I waited a little longer to see if my mind was playing tricks on me.  There's no way that the monkeys would have climbed the stairs, unlocked my door and started rocking my bed, was there?  However, I was lying on an inflatable mattress, perhaps, it was just losing air and that's why it rocked so hard when I turned.  But I wasn't turning and the bed was definitely swaying back and forth.  Leave me alone you evil monkeys! I just wasn't going to lie there and take it.  Okay, it's now or never.  I leapt to the bottom of my bed and was surprised to find no monkeys.  I lied back underneath the covers.   Maybe it was the monkeys spirits shaking my bed.  The shaking had stopped.  I fell back to sleep.

The next morning, as we prepared to head out to Mt. Fuji, my friend asked: did you feel the earthquake last night?  What earthquake, I replied?  

Yogom Park PtII

Yoyogi Park on Sunday's

Meji Shrine

Japanese Wedding at the Meiji Shrine

Harajuku

Today, I visited an area called: Harajuku.  It is located in Tokyo.  My first stop was at the Meiji Shrine.  The Meiji shrine is dedicated to the deified spirits of Emperor Meiji and his wife.  When Emperor Meiji died in 1912 and Empress Shoken in 1914 the Japanese people wished to pay their respect to the to influential Japanese figures.  It was for this reason that Meiji shrine was constructed and their souls enshrined on November 1, 1920. (http://en.wikipdia.org/wiki/meiji_shrine) Check out slide show.

While there I was fortunate to witness a traditional Japanese wedding.  Like most brides, she wore white and maintained a demure demeanor.  There wasn't any cheering or outward displays of extreme happiness from the attendants or the public.  Everything was very quiet.  This was a serious, spiritual occasion.  Check out slide show.

The last place I visited was a park called: Yoyogi.  This place was an artistic haven!  There was everything from street performance artist, tap dancers, musicians, rappers, dancers, you name it!  I was in heaven.  Taken it all in and loving the freedom of expression.  If you weren't directly participating in the outward form of expression, you were blessed to be the recipient of it.  I walked, danced, clapped, chilled and just took it all in.  The energy of this place was great.  It put me in mind of Chicago during the summer festival months.  I thought to myself:  show me a place where art doesn't live and I'll show you a place that's dying.

Dinner at Yakiniku

Dinner at Yakiniku

My first dinner in Japan was at the restaurant: Yakiniku (which means grilled meat) in Zushi, Japan.  You buy the meat raw and cook it at your table.  I was served a huge bowl of rice, which I quickly devoured, and 4 small cutlets of meat.  It's interesting to see how my host communicates with little mastery of the Japanese language.  Most people do not speak English and if they do, it's very little.  Thus, we communicate by pointing to pictures.  Hey, when you're abroad, whatever works.  The food was pretty good.  A little expensive.  However, with the depreciation of the US dollar, life is quite expensive here.  Which equates to it be equivalent to prices that you would pay in the US.  Check out the slide show.

Sayonara

Welcome to Tokyo, Japan!

WELCOME TO TOKYO, JAPAN!!!!!!

After 11 hours, two planes and one lay over, I have arrived at my next destination.  The first thing I noticed is how serene and peaceful I felt.  Perhaps, it was due to the flight attendants who offered a sweet smile and courteous bow upon departing the plane.  Or maybe it was the sound of waterfall playing throughout the terminal.  Yes, you heard right.  Instead of hearing Jazz, Hip-Hop or unnecessary chaos on the P.A. system,  I heard sounds of the ocean.  Having studied the principles of Feng Shui, I am definitely a believer in "organizing" the flow of energy.  When boarding the transit train which would take me to the immigrations terminal, the sound of chimes sounded as the train proceeded.  Nice.  It was hot, humid and extremely muggy on the train, however, everyone seemed relaxed.  

As I walked through the immigrations line, I was surprised to see how quickly the line was moving.  Everything seemed to operate so efficiently.  I was even more shocked to see that I not only had to submit my passport for evaluation, yet, I had to electronically submit my finger prints and facial feature.  I've traveled many places and I've never had to submit fingerprints.  There was an electronic machine which took a copy of my fingerprints and facial features, just as you see them do in the movies.  Japan ain't messin' around! 

I passed through immigrations and headed to baggage claim, although, I was keeping an eye out for the lost baggage office.  (We know of my history with bags and international travel.)  I've learned that when traveling abroad, there is almost always an English translation.  So, after studying the information board to inform me which baggage terminal to head to, I was relieved to see that an English version flashed shortly after the Japanese.  Baggage Terminal B3.  Now, I was quietly telling myself:  what's the chances that your now....1 bag, actually shows up?  As I approached the terminal, I was tickled to see my red suitcase going around the carousel.  Well I'll be....I grab the suitcase and head towards customs.  Here's the part that I always hate.  TSA agents rummaging through your personal belongings.  I then saw a sticker on the back of my suitcase that stated:  Inspected by security.  I hoped this would save me the time of having to endure the strip search of my belongings. After about 10 minutes in line, it was my turn.  The attendant asked for my passport and asked me what I was doing in Japan.  I stated: tourism, visiting a friend.  He looked at me, smile and said okay as he handed back my passport. That was it?  I couldn't believe it!  Never and I do mean NEVER have I gone through immigrations and customs as quickly and efficiently as I had in Japan.  I could get use to this place.

Farewell Bangalore!

Wow, I can't believe it's already time to say goodbye. This has been an amazing experince and it couldn't have happened without the woman who opened her home, her time and her heart: Nikki, I love you lady. You have truly become my sister. I'm definitely going to miss our glutonous trips to Baskin Robbins:) You are a beautiful woman. I pray that God strengthens you, keeps you and blesses you abundantly.

With that said, Nikki and I celebrated my last day in Bangalore by treating ourselves to facials and to a great dinner. I also received a mahindi tattoo that morning. Then the time came: it was time to say farewell. I'm not really the outwardly emotional type of individual, however, when I hugged Nikki, something in my heart constricted. I was really going to miss her. After a few words, I felt her tears and I knew mine were a blink away, so, she quickly pulled away and said: no, I promised myself that I wouldn't do this. I can't afford to do this. I understood.

So, we departed. I entered into the airport and watched Nikki through the window as she patiently waited to ensure that I'd made it through. Upon checking in, I was dismayed to discover that I'd exceeded my bag requirement. How much, I asked? 25kg's. I hadn't taken the time to learn the conversion metric system from kg to lbs, so, I'm thinking okay, maybe I'm about 10lbs over. Whatever it was, I'm sure it wasn't more than $25-$50. The attendant informs me that it would be 18000 rupees for me to check my bags. I did understand that conversion. Since the US dollar is valued at about 42rupees for every dollar, I quickly calculated that I would owe about $450! So, back out the door I went (luckily Nikki hadn't left). Anyone who knows of my history with traveling internationally knows that my bags NEVER SHOW UP! I always have some sort of lost baggage issue. So, here I was once again, on the side of the road trying to remove clothes as the world looks at me pulling out my thongs and bras. I had to laugh...that's what you do...you just have to laugh at times. I instantly thought back to the first time my luggage was lost: Nigeria. I cried on the inside. I was so upset. Distraught. At a lost. Three years later, I'm shaking it off and making the best of the situation. If I've learned anything in life it's that sometimes you have to leave things behind you (own that truth). Sometimes, things are lost, never to return again (accept it). At other times, they're misplaced or post-poned until you can gain a better appreciation for them (understand that).

As I sat there on the side of the road trying to make a rash decision about what I absolutely had to have, versus what I could live without until I'd be reunited (hopefully) with, Eryka Badu's song: Bag Lady from her Mama's Gun album came into mind: Bag lady, you gon' hurt yo back. Draggin' all dem' bags like dat'. I guess nobody eva' told you, all you must hold on to, is you, is you, is yoouuuu. One day all dem' bags gon' get in yo' way. One day all dem' bags gon' get in yo' way. I said, one day all dem bags gon' get in yo' way, so, PACK LIGHT. PACK LIGHT. PACK LIGHT...OOHHHH...OOHHH.

At that moment, I decided to leave the entire bag. The entire dog-gon' bag. This journey was about many things: self-reflection being at the top of the list. I was definitely looking to de-clutter my life. To disconnect from all of the emails, meetings, assignments, television, noise...everything. I looked Nikki in the eye and said: you know what? I'm going to leave this entire bag.

Pack Light....

Pack Light....

And I'm on my way

Who says you shouldn't talk to strangers?

I was surprise to receive a comment on my blog from a woman here in Bangalore.  Although, I'd never met her, I felt her warm spirit and positive energy from her email.  She'd found my blog doing a google search for images of Prestige Ozone. (who knew?) After viewing my images, she contacted me to find out more information and also to say that she enjoyed my blog.  I was extremely pleased that this "stranger" had reached out to me.  

We exchanged more emails and the more we conversed, the more I wished I'd met her sooner.  Despite my scheduled departure for tomorrow, we decided to meet at the book store to talk.  

I'm so happy that we did:)  Evie turned out to be a really wonderful person.  She relocated here from Germany after marrying.   

One of the things we discussed (because there were several:)) was how life has it's own plans for you (I'm definitely a living testimony to this:)).  People come in and out of your life for different reasons and you may not know at the current time as to why. However, if you can get in contact (as Evie put it) or as I would say: become in tune with your spirit, you inner voice that lives not inside your mind, but within a place far deeper than words can articulate, that only action can display, you'll realize when you're on the right or wrong path.  I have learned (and am still learning) this very important lesson.  

Well, I could go on and on about our lunch, however, I'll leave it at this:  life is full on encounters with "Evie's",  we just have to slow down and be open to see them.

Evie, I'm blessed to have met you and I wish you the best in everything!

0.67 cent Threading?!?!

There's no way I could leave India without experiencing threading.  Despite an unbelievably horrific and painful eyebrow threading experience in Chicago, I thought I would be "open" and give it a try.  Nikki informed me that she had her eyebrows threaded and she didn't find it to be painful.  However, I've learned from my past experience in the back of the woods, to be a bit more cautious when it comes to matter's of health.  Thus, I went to a health spa located in one of the most prestigious compounds in Whitefield: Palm Meadows.  I must say:  I was thoroughly pleased.  And for sixty-seven cents, I wished I'd found out this during my first week!

Do the Black Girl Thing

It's always interesting to discover how other's perceive you globally.  How do others view Americans?  How do they view Black Americans?  How do they view Black American women?  While in Kenya, I experienced a cultural shock that has never left me.  Sitting in my room, a male student stops by to chat.  I had been at the United States International University in Nairobi, Kenya for a few weeks and it had been confirmed that I was in fact, American (not point five (half white/half african), not from the Kikuyu or Tiata tribe).  He came in excitedly and sat across from my twin size bed. Okay, okay, he said: Do it!  My eyes returned a look of confusion.  Do what, I replied?  He began to twirl his neck and shake his finger as he said: the Black woman thang!  He continued to smack and pop his lips utter things like:  uhhh huuhh, whaatttt.  Wow....was my first thought.  I saw in this young African student his perception of what a black American woman is.  We've heard it before: sassy, bold, rude, stupid...the word that stands out most: GHETTO!  I remember observing this student and his inaccurate depiction of the black woman while realizing just how influential media is.  Where else could he contrived these images?  I knew exactly how he wanted me to "perform" for him, however, I gave him my most perplexed look and responded:  I'm sorry, I do not understand what you are doing.  This seemed to disappoint and upset him.  

I reflected upon this experience after hearing a similar statement expressed here.  I unfortunately, had the experience of being followed and interrogated at the club house here in Ozone.  After a day of photographing images throughout the compound, I decided that I would go by the pool to meditate and relax.  I had my camera draped around my neck when I entered the club house.  This immediately alerted the security.  They quickly approached me and said: no pictures, no camera.  I replied, okay and informed them that I would not take any pictures, then I proceeded to the pool area.  My peripheral vision informed me that the security had now gathered in a circle of three and were whispering among themselves.  I continued to walk as I realized that one of the security guards was closely walking behind me.  My body immediately responded viscerally as centuries of racism and discrimination entered my mind.  It was if I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.  I stopped.  Turned around and looked him in his eyes: what's the problem?  He gives an embarrassing shake of his head and a sly smile.  Okay, maybe he doesn't understand English.  So, I ask another question:  are you following me?  He says: no.  Okay, so he does understand some English.  I feel my lips tighten as I turn around to return to my route.  I walk a little further and realize that he is still following me.  So, what happens? the "black" girl comes out of me.  I stop.  Dead there in my tracks.  I fold my arms, step aside and look him dead in his eyes. He seemed caught off guard and continued to walk three more steps before realizing that he no longer had anywhere to go because his accomplice had just moved aside.  He gives an embarrassing  smile as I say to him: why are you following me?  I asked you before, if there was a problem, and you said no.  So, why are you following me?  What's the problem?  He then asks me: you from inside or outside?  I replied: I already told you, numerous times that I was from inside, Villa 126.  I felt my right eyebrow raise as my neck protruded out and my head cocked to the right side: do not....follow...me.  This look, one that I had learned early on in the inner streets of Detroit as a child dared him to test me.  As the old saying goes: I've drawn the line....now you cross it.  Those were fighting words and you were prepared to do just that if someone dared to cross you.  He backed off.  I continued to the pool as my "black-woman-who-has-just-been-offended-but-is-too-prideful-to-retreat" walk guided me to the beach chairs.  Two minutes after I sat down and tried to busy myself like I was unaffected by the entire scenario, I looked up and saw that I was surrounded by three security guards.  Sweat beads began to fall between my breast.  What villa ma'am?  They inquired again.  I then notice a blonde hair woman, stretched out in front of me, basking in the sun and sipping cranberry juice, as I felt my throat constrict and my tongue go dry.  My focus was straight ahead: locked on the back of her blond hair: what's the  problem?  I could feel their gaze on me.  It was a gaze that I'd felt innumerable times before.  I'm...about... to... go... the... fuck... off! At that moment, the delivery boy from the restaurant in the club house where I frequented at least twice a week, runs up and exclaims: I know her.  She's fine.  She's okay.  Villa 126.  I know her....I know her.   The security guards appeared disappointed to hear that.  They began to converse in their language as the delivery boy ushered them away from me.  I now stared blankly at the pics in my camera.  Hurt, angered and unsure.  Maybe they were really just following me because the didn't recognize me.  I mean....I did have a camera hanging off my neck like I could've walked off the streets to try and take pics of their illustrious, private compound.  But why didn't he tell me why he was following me?  I asked.  I told him I wouldn't use the camera and I haven't.  I don't see them following anyone else around.  Well, maybe they know them.  Where do they get off surrounding me as if I'm a criminal or something?  Nikki told me that it was okay for me to come up here and sit by the pool, so, what's the problem?  Excuse me madam? I look up to see an Indian man wearing a white polo shirt.  So, they went and got the fucking manager! I repeat the question that has plagued my mind since my first experience of experiencing "otherness."  What's the problem?  Do you have card, he asked? Can I see your card?  I then asked him, what card?  Do I need a membership card to sit by the pool?  He replied: yes, you need to be a member.  I look towards the restaurant where I dine and spend my money weekly.  It is less than five feet away.  I then ask: I can eat at the restaurant and not have a card, but I can't sit....not actually swim by the pool?  Yes, he replied.  If the problem was that I needed to be a member to sit by the pool, why didn't they just say that when I walked through the door?  Maybe it was just a language barrier G...to hell with that.  I felt my head pop to the left.  I asked the security guards what the problem was when I walked in and they said nothing. Head pops to the right.  Then they follow and interrogate me for the last fifteen minutes when I've already told them what Villa I'm from.  Right eye brow now raises.  So, I'll leave finger now pointed at my chest when I'm ready to leave.  I will not be "escorted" out as if I committed a crime.  So you finger now pointed at manager can just go bye-bye.  Eyes fixed on his, they will not blink.  He looked at me for about three seconds then replied: okay, before leaving.  He notices my camera and states: no...before he could finish I reply:  I know...I know...can't you see?  The damn lens is on.

So, I take my time.  I spend the next ten minutes busing myself to collect my things.  I wasn't just upset, I was pissed.  Not because I didn't have the "membership card" to be "admitted" to the club, but how I was treated.  Later that night, Emilene and her sister Anita (the two women from Germany who are originally from Benin) come by for a visit and I retold the story.  As I spoke, those words began to conjure up my bruised feelings as my neck began to do it's own dance. They shake their heads, and laugh at my reenaction of the prior events.  Nikki then explains: now that's black American woman.  They all laugh.  Nikki who grew up in a predominately white neighborhood, previously broke down for me the difference between: a sister and a sistah.  Her nickname for me is Sistah Souljah. And she would always say how I'm such a sistah. Nikki doesn't view herself as a sistah, she's a sister.  She explained to me the difference:  A sister is a black American woman who is black but not necessarily reared (nor does she respond) typically like a sistah.  A sistah is a black women who is culturally conscious regarding issues of the black community, she's articulate, yet, street savvy, she can put you in your place by just the tone in her voice, she doesn't take any crap.  I interpreted this as her politely saying: smart, yet, she can get ghetto.  A sister is conscious but not so "pro-black", she's not all that interested in trying to support every Tyler Perry movie, she expresses herself, however, she is not as...emotionally expressive as the sistah.  I interpreted this to mean: she is refined.  A more simpler way to describe this is: a sister is a black women reared in a culture surrounded by white people.  A sistah is a black woman reared in a culture surrounded by black people.  A sister makes pumpkin pie.  A sistah makes sweet potato pie.  A sistah can play the game where you quote infamous sayings from black movies.  A sister can never quite get it.  A sistah grew up double dutchin' on the side walk and copying dance routines from BET, The New Dance Show, The fly girls off "In Livin' Color" and The Box (remember the Jukebox?)   Whereas, the sister only knows the traditional hustle that she gets to do every other year when she heads down South for the family reunions.

I'm okay being a sistah.  I'm okay being a sister.  I'm okay being me.  What I'm not okay is the stereotypes associated with what I should be and when.  Just because I'm black, (or Latina) American and woman, does not mean that I have to "perform" the neck swirling, finger poppin, tongue suckin eye rolling woman.  (Sure, I know that character and can perform her quite well, if I choose, however, my brown skin and nationality shouldn't make her synonymous with my identity).  Or just because I'm Asian (or Indian, or Arab) does not mean I'm passive and submissive. 

Sistah, sister, my Asia-sista's, my Indian-sisters, my mami's, my European-sistuh's...at the end of the day we're all women, all uniquely different, all amazingly beautiful.  

Invisible...NOTHING!

In every culture, there is the poor and disenfranchised.  We see them on the corner as we rush out of the Starbuck's to try and catch our trains.  Or perhaps we turn up our ipod's just a little louder and walk a little faster as we mute out their cries.  They give us a helpless look and extend their hands before uttering: change? got any spare change? Before they can form their lips to ask the next question, we've answered a ringing cell phone, picked up the latest Red Eye (Chicagoans) or perhaps switched our attention to something that would allow us to avert our eyes.  They get it: we ain't givin' them no change. So what do they do?  They continue to the next strolling person.  

Not here in Bangalore.  The poor has proclaimed: Invisible...NOTHING!  While riding in the back seat of our corporate provided vehicle, we are often approached by the poor in the street.  These women, who often carry a baby in their arms go to the window and knock. I'm unsure of where to look: too afraid that if I look away I'm a stingy, uncaring American, yet, it's too cavalier of a move to stare this woman and her baby in their eyes and then give nothing.  Maybe I could give something, however, my mind flashes back to the international security training:  do not roll down your windows.  You will put yourself at danger for you will become a target to the other homeless people who will also come and swarm your car for money.  So, there I am giving the woman an empathetic shrug as I mouth: i'm sorry and hope that she can forgive me and quickly move along.  

However, this ain't the US and you ain't getting off that easy.  I'm going to press my hands and not only my face, but my baby's face against the window and I'm going to wait.  I'm going to continue to beat on this window, point to my mouth, then force you to look into this baby's face.  Oh yes, we've been in this gridlock for over 4 minutes and I'm still going to stand here.  You're going to see me.  I am not invisible!  Yes...yes...feel that, the shame, the guilt...as you sit here with your carry away dinner bag from the five star restaurant and your back seat filled with shopping bags.  Yes, there are other cars but I've chosen your car, you gluttonous expatriate!  You can give me a few damn rupee.  Don't want to get dirty?  Afraid of your safety?  Oh, you hear my knocking. Hoping traffic will clear up? No chance: this is Bangalore.  I'm going to wait, me, my baby, our hunger...invisible.  Invisible?  Invisible NOTHING!

(sigh) I can breathe...the car is now moving.

Affectionate Men-P.D.A

I've noticed a very interesting relationship here in Bangalore.  From my observations and conversations with various Indians, it doesn't appear that it is appropriate for men and women to exhibit public displays of affection.  Rarely do you see women and men hugging, kissing or holding hands out in public. (that is, unless they're trying to cross the busy streets (holding hands)).  However, I've noticed that men often interlock their fingers together and walk hand and hand.  Or perhaps, they have their arms draped around each other's neck.  Their gestures and body behavior is quite loving and affectionate.  Upon observing this, I thought: Wow, I would've never guessed that India was so liberal when it came to gay/queer culture.  That's great.  So, I decided to inquire.  It was quickly asserted to me that India does not accept gay/queer culture and that if it does exist, it is very underground.  I then asked about the PDA of the men.  

The reply was that this is an affectionate way of saying: this is my very close friend, he is my brother.  Oh, okay.  Interestingly enough, women do not do this.  The only time I've witnessed women holding hands is when they're crossing the street.

It's funny how culture alters our perspective.  In the US, these men would have definitely been viewed as lovers and contingent upon their environment, embraced, ignored or rejected.  However, another culture can accept this loving display of affection publicly between two men, then, totally reject the idea of another aspect of intimacy between two men.  

Interesting...

Do I resort to paternalistic "understanding?"

My current research interest  has led me to dissect Frantz Fanon: Black Skin, White Masks.  It's a really great read which investigates the identity problem of the black man and the effects of the black psyche in a white world.  In Chapter 1: The Negro and Language, Fanon discusses how white men address negroes as if they're speaking to a child.  They begin by smirking, whispering, patronizing and cozening.  "Talking to Negroes in this way gets down to their level, it puts them at ease, it is an effort to make them understand us, it reassures them..."( Fanon, 32.) He later goes on to give an example of how a physician varied his level of communication between whites and negroes.  When the physician speaks to a European, he states: Please sit down...Why do you wish to consult me?...What are your symptoms?..." Then comes a Negro or an Arab: "Sit there, boy...What's bothering you?...Where does it hurt, huh?..." When, that is, they do not say: "You not feel good, no? (Fanon, 32.)  Fanon goes on to state that he was told by these European doctors that there is no wish, no intention to anger the Negro.  However, Fanon believes that this absence of wish, this lack of interest, this indifference, this automatic manner of classifying him, imprisoning him, primitivizing him, decivilizing him, makes him angry.  Fanon himself observed how he too, would adopt a language suitable to his patients. He began to notice that if he was treating a patient who had dementia, that he would began to adopt a dementia, feeble-mindedness language.  He realized that he was "talking down" to the patient.  In an effort to revert against such behavior, he makes a point to always speak normal French, to not allow himself to resort to paternalistic "understanding."

This was of much interest to me because I have noticed how I communicate differently with Ravi (and many other Indians who are not in the "professional" net working circle), our driver.  Initially, I would communicate in Standard English: Good Morning Ravi, How are you?  Good.  Can  you take me to Food Zone and then I'd like to go to FabIndia. After FabIndia we can then return to Ozone. Ok? However, after witnessing time and time again the uncertainty in Ravi's eyes, I begin to wonder how much English is he really understanding.  Or perhaps, like myself, someone who is trying to re-learn Swahili, I'm aware that although I may understand Swahili, I sometimes have a difficult time comprehending if a person is speaking too fast or if I'm unsure of the sentence structure.  So, I now speak to Ravi like this: Good morning Ravi, how are you? We go Food Zone.  Then we go Fab India.  The back home to Ozone.  Ok?  Ok.  Am I speaking down to Ravi? Or is it a language barrier?  I certainly don't look down upon Ravi, however, I have to wonder if I'm decivilizing him by speaking to him with paternalistic or in my case maternalistic "understanding."  

My thought, similar to the European doctors that Fanon refers to, is that I'm using a language that is easier for him to understand.  But is it really?  The first few weeks here, I spoke Standard English to Ravi and he often seemed anxious and confused afterwards.  So, I thought I was alleviating his stress by communicating with a broken dialect of English.  Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. However, Fanon's point is an interesting one.  I'll definitely have to take it into consideration. 

It Can

Could it be different...

dances the Indian girl at the corner of MG road 

as she hoola-hoops 

through her arms.

Could it be different...

sings the Kenyan girl whose baby brother's 

dusty eyes 

can no longer cry.

Does my Amerikan Auntie see me?

She does 

but averts her eyes.

Buy from me squints the Nigerian boy who presses his palms against the window

as his eyes bring shame 

to mine.

Could...

wonders the American girl as 

she rears her younger siblings as mommy 

gets ready for the club.

it...

swallows the hurt of the Black boy 

whose fathers whereabouts are 

unknown.

BE

Difference.

by: Jasiri

5 Words

I

fight

LOVE

with

 

SILENCE

by: Jasiri

OFF!

Upon docking at the village and doing some sight seeing, we came upon a "massage clinic."  Now Nikki had previously boasted about this wonderful spa experience she recently had and I had not had a spa session since November (since I was saving for this illustrious experience). We decided to pop in and check out the facility.  There was a family of tourists who were on their way out and they seemed quite pleased.  We decided to check out the prices.  They weren't bad at all.  A full body massage costed $20, which was more than a third cheaper than anything I could get in the States and amongst the more esteemed Spa's in India.  But hey, we were in the village, so it was cheaper.  The owner (whose title indicated that he was a "Dr.") informed us that the "Lady Dr.'s" would be another 20 minutes before they finished with the clients in the back.  While we were trying to decide if we wanted the "spa" experience, I heard the clients in the back laughing and giggling.  I'm like: okay, they seem satisfied: let's do it.

When our time arrived, we proceeded to the back and two Indian women held back the curtains and we step into a small boxed off section that had two wooden tables.  I was shocked to see two nude women in the bathing area which was connected to the small sectioned off area.  Apparently, they were shocked to see us in their session and immediately closed the door.  I explained to the lady that I was going to have a full body massage.  She smiled and nodded before saying, "Off" as she points to my shirt.  I'm like okay, no problem.  However, I'm waiting for her to inform me as to where my gown/towel was at and then for her to leave the room.  This is how it's done in the States.  While these thoughts are penetrating through my mind, she emphatically says "Off" as she pulled on my sleeve.  I'm like okay I guess I should start to undress.  I remove my shirt and before I could get it off, she's pulling on my shorts stating once again: Off! So, there I stood, in my bra and panties as I was hesitant to take off my bra.  Now, I'm not usually shy about de-robing for a spa session.  I understand that a professional massager has to be able to reach all of the intricate muscles and tissues, so, why did I feel so....hesitant?  Maybe because I was in a sectioned off room with three women, one of whom was pulling on my clothes.  The bra is now off.  I'm about to climb on the table when she looks at me frustratingly and says: OFF! Before I could questioned her, she starts to pull down my panties.  I'm like whoooaahh!  She then pulls out a thick piece of white cloth which was about 2 feet long and it had a string attached on it.  She starts to put the cloth between my thighs.  Okay, so, the cloth goes over your panties.  I'm preparing to tie the cloth when she yanks and I do mean yanks my panties down.  I grab her hand as she tries to pull them over my hips as I tell her: I'll do.  So, off comes the panties and I'm butt naked with a cloth up the crack of my ass.  

I climb on top of the oily (I don't guess they wash them off between customers) wooden table and she informs me to lie on my stomach.  So, I'm lying on my stomach contemplating the hygiene of the facility when I feel a huge amount of oil poured over my entire body.  Then comes her hands, rubbing the oil in.  I'm thinking: isn't she supposed to concentrate on certain areas at a time? I then hear the voices of the two ladies who have now dressed and come out of the shower.  Keep in mind that the bathing area is connected to this sectioned off room.  So, there I lie, bare assed, greased and ready for the skillet as these women discuss the price for their massage.  I dared not turn my head, fearful that I would give them a brown face to match the oiled brown ass which was prominently exposed as I rested on my belly.  The ladies leave and I feel the lady start massaging my shoulders.  I think back to the advise of my best friend Erica when I told her I didn't want to bathe the elephants: experience it all Nina, live in the moment. So I thought: I can continue to live in my head and totally miss this moment or I can relax, get out of my head and accept the moment for whatever it is.  Get outta your head G, get outta your head.  So, I relax.  Take a deep breath and concentrate on nothing.  Everything was getting better until I felt her finger dip a little to low in my gluteus maximus.  I constrict my muscles and say: no, too low.  So, she smiles and continues rubbing my calves.  I take a deep breath and think: okay, try to relax.  I hear a voice tell me: Turn.  Turn.  So, I turn on my back as she begins to rub my arms, then stomach and before I knew it, her hands were on my breast.  My eyes bucked as I realized: this woman is really massaging my breasts, grazing the nipple and all! So, I think to myself: WTF is up with this?  Then the other part of my mind comes in and says: Gianina, this is a different culture. Maybe, this is how they perform a massage. Then the other voice says: To hell with that, something ain't right.  At this point she had moved on to my feet and started beating my feet, up to my legs, then to my stomach.  She then started to beat on my lower stomach: ouch! My six pack that existed in high school, had long since left.  So, she continues beating right up to my breast.  These are breast! Soft, sensitive breast!  Ouch!  I hear the voice of my inner thoughts again: you're  a damn fool if you continue to lie up here and allow this to continue! Then the other voice intercedes with: she's a woman, you're a woman, she's just doing what she's trained to do.  Don't come in here with those ethnocentric western views! At this point she has moved her hands down to my calves as she tried to separate my legs which I have pried shut.  I kept my legs tight as I refuse to have her hands travel higher than my knees.  What if that oil on her hands causes her finger to slip? God forbid I get a vaginal infection out here.  God forbid if her fingers do slip and my reflexes cause me to swing and break this nice woman's nose, who's probably just trying to make some money to feed her children.  Now, it's not like this woman was molesting me.  I was in fact a grown adult who had sought out her services.  But my mind traveled back to interviews that I'd conducted with survivors of incest who often stated: if seemed that it had to be right because it was your father (or uncle, cousin, brother, etc.), however, you knew that something just wasn't right.  That's how I felt.  I'm sure the woman was doing what she had been "trained" or "instructed" to do.  However, something just felt wrong.  Maybe it's because she didn't seem to have a system, a procedure of sorts, instead I felt that she was just rubbing me, with an occasional squeeze here and there.  I felt her hands back on my stomach when the tip of her fingers grazed the top of my pubic hairs. okay, that's it, I'm done.  As I decide to protest and stand up for my rights, she indicates that I'm done and can go to the bathing room.  She's smiling and asking if I'm "satisfied".  I lie.  I smile and say yes.   I'm feeling a tad bit confused as I use the pail in the bathroom which has been filled with water to wash off all of the oil.  The door remains open and I notice the other massager taking sneak glances at me.  Now, I don't believe that these women were in any way attracted to me or that they intended to do any ill will.  Maybe they'd never seen a Black woman naked before.  Maybe they were interested in my tattoo and body piercing.  I'm sure that's probably what it was.  Before I could wash the remaining suds off my body, the lady smiles and whispers: tip tip as she points to an empty container. Damn, can a sista put her clothes back on before you start asking for a tip?? I tell her that Nikki has my money and that we will pay together.  She seems disappointed by this.  I quickly dressed and meet Nikki in the waiting area.  I felt violated.  A little shamed and quite silly at the same time.  I had made this decision.  I had voluntarily lied there like a greased up piece of meat, rationalizing my feelings and then I had paid my money for those confused emotions.  So, lesson learned here:  to hell with taking advise from Erica!

I have learned this lesson many of times before (but maybe not if I keep ending up in these peculiar situations): live in the moment but never second guess your instincts.  If something seems wrong, it is.  Stop with the rationalization.  Get out of your head and connect with your body.  (At least that's what all of my professors/advisors keep telling me.)  

Alright, I'm out.

Welcome to Kochin and Kerala, India

This weekend we decided to take a trip to the beautiful city of Kerala.  Kerala's motto is: God's own country.  And I must say the land is beautiful.  We arrived at the train station prepared for our 12hour ride. (It was cheaper than flying) We knew that the train would not be Amtrak, however, we weren't prepared for what we encountered.  The train seats were wooden benches, equipped for a maximum of 4-5 people where there were actually 6-7 people seated in each bench.  There wasn't any glass on the windows and it appeared to be overcrowded.  Now, I've been in some "uncomfortable" situations traveling, however, I wasn't prepared to do 12 hours like this.  And my phobia of international bathrooms had me anxious that the bathrooms would be indicative of the train.  Nikki and I took one look at each other and then Boss Lady went to work.  We (better yet, she) told our (her) driver to come back.  Called the airlines, got a quote, had our return tickets refunded and we were back snuggled in our home, within the next two hours.  5 hours later we arose to head to the airport.  The flight was quick, approx. 45 minutes and we landed in Kerala.  The driver arrived shortly after we landed and we entered the small white car for what would be an hour in a half drive from Kochin, India to Kerala.  

Our first stop in Kerala was to the home of the man who owned the house boat that we would stay on.  He was the father of a co-worker of Nikki's.  His house was beautiful, very unique and antiquish.  His wife prepared us breakfast....dang, I forget the name of the food but it was really good.  An hour later, we thanked him for his hospitality then headed to the boat.  

There were three men who would serve as our chef's/captain of the boat.  The boat was nice. (I've included the slide below)  They were all very nice and respectful.  The food was the bomb!  I swear, I know I've gained some weight since I've been here, because I've gone to work whenever Indian food has been placed in front of me:)  After sailing the beautiful water's for a few hours, we docked and decided to get out and see the village.  We stopped by a sculpture place, where they sculpted images of Jesus.  At the end of the trip we stopped by a museum in Kerala.  (I've included some of the pics in the slide)  Overall, I must say this trip was very beneficial meditatively.  I feel totally at peace with life.

Inside the Complex-Prestige Ozone

Kerala, India_House Boat

Leela Palace III

Leela Palace II