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...