The top right corner of my computer says it is 6:59 a.m. on Sunday, September 14th. I sit in bed awake but my mind and body disagree with the clock, confused by the 17 hours of air travel, 11 hour time difference, and new sights, sounds, and smells of Bangkok. My body is on the other side of the world but my mind it taking its time to catch up.
Mom and I drove to the the airport in NYC early in the morning and my stomach was calm, I was not nervous, I was ready to go. Late into the night before, I gathered my things and thoughts, preparing myself for this next step and I fell asleep feeling the same way I did when saying my goodbyes: peaceful and ready.
Traveling through Abu Dhabi on September 11th during Ramadan on the national airline of the United Arab Emirates, the flight was empty; on a plane built for over 350 people there were fewer than 50. Among those 50 were two of the loudest, most annoying little children with the most inattentive parents in the history of the universe. For the entire flight the little demons screamed, cried, squawked, screeched, wailed, made every unpleasant noise known to man and beast to the point that the relative comfort of spreading across the middle row of seats was likened to dropping an ice cream before the first bite. Enter the modern wonder of direct TV on planes, countless movies, and my own fatigue. Most distracting - and it did not help with sleep - was the facade of modesty in the airline uniforms, beautiful Arab women wearing thin veils, the veils doing nothing more than accentuate their dark eyebrows, red lips, and distant allure.
Landing in Abu Dhabi is unlike anywhere I’ve ever landed. After 12 hours in the air, the pilot prepares the plane for landing but when you look out the window in anticipation of arriving in a new place, there is nothing - no skyscrapers, no visible roads - just sprawling dessert and a low, flat, tan, building designed to tolerate the unforgiving sun. It is possible we landed on Mars. Then you walk into the terminal and are smacked in the face with a contrast unlike most. Sitting along the wall that leads out to the main area are a group of women wearing burkas. Their eyes and feet are the only visible parts of their body. With them is a young boy in jeans and an American Eagle t-shirt. Covered by a blue and green tile mosaic, the terminal is a two-story imperfect sphere, wider than it is tall, the middle open so that you can see down from the second story. It is Ramadan and day time; none of the cafes are open. Red bearded men, their heads covered, wearing white shrouds and no shoes walk by British tourists in tank tops and money belts. A stern, shrouded, female security guard keeps a keen eye on things. Sikhs from India walk by, their trademark beards, curled mustaches, and head covering different from the beards, mustaches, and head coverings of the Saudis waiting for their flight. In an electronics shop an Arab man wearing a long, white, tunic talks with a shopkeeper about the new iPhone; in the window it is advertised at $1,545 - NO WARRANTEE. Duty free shops sell cigarettes, alcohol, perfume, and chocolate, while the shop next door sells mini versions of the Koran and hookas. The loudspeaker announces flights in Arabic while around me I hear Hindi, English, Spanish, French, Farsi, Thai, and other languages that I cannot name. With my eyes wide open, I pace the terminal for 1.5 hours.
Like the pilot, so too did the Western media prepare me for this landing, conditioning me to expect something other than I found. My reaction to being there was what interested me most; I was nervous. When I asked at the Etihad Airlines transfer counter for an aisle seat on the next flight, I hesitated momentarily when the man asked me for my passport. I thought of changing money but was afraid to present American dollars to the clerk, in front of a line. In just two hours of waiting I felt myself go through numerous, split second reactions of bigotry and stereotypical judgement. Ironically, there I stood, my first time in the “Arab World” (if an airport counts) on September 11th. Stupidly, I reacted with fear and anxiety, when around me all I saw were couples readying for a vacation, families traveling together, men waiting to get home to their wives, and grandparents anxiously looking forward to seeing their grandchildren. It is not right for women to be treated as servants, slaves, property or second-class citizens, it is not right to restrict free thought and public expression but neither is it right to judge whole countries, people, histories, cultures, ordinary men and women, based on nothing you’ve lived, seen, tasted, felt, or experienced first hand. There is no just reason for me not to change money in the airport.
Bangkok is cool. It is really cool. There is a skytrain, a metro, river taxis, multiple newspapers, bars, dance clubs, art shows, sports teams, cultural events. The list goes on. I will look at two apartments today, play pick up basketball on Tuesday night, meet mutual friends for dinner this week. On Saturday morning I got a spicy (spikey) haircut. My life here is making itself. There is still much for me to explore, just 40 hours old in this new city and without a day of work but, I fell asleep last night with the same feeling when I said my goodbyes: ready and peaceful.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Dreams Deferred
By Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
--
She sits across from me on the train, the exhaustion of her body mimicked in the tattered fibers of her clothing. It is 9:17 p.m.; I am on my way home from work and my ankles throb after eight hours of standing. Sagging over her slight shoulders, engulfing her beanpole wrists, her black jacket is three sizes too big, maybe an older brother’s, the elastic cuffs frayed at the ends, in parallel with her raspy brown hair that is no longer in a pony tail. Nearly empty, the subway car’s orange sherbet seats, bright lights, advertisements for foot surgeons, and new kinds of beer are all too familiar. Distracted by nothing, I stare, saddened to the core by this young girl and everything she represents.
Alone, she sits on the other side of the aisle. No more than ten, she is with no one, on her own. In rhythm with the speeding train, her legs rock back and forth, too short to reach the floor, perfectly childish. She sits forward to allow the backs of her knees to sit perfectly on the edge of the seat. She is a little kid.
After two stops, she reaches into her bag – an oversized, blue shopping bag - with her left hand and pulls out a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil. Peeling away layers of foil and wax paper, she finally gets to her dinner: a bacon and egg sandwich on a white roll. Parts of the bacon are too crispy so she cracks them off and throws them on the floor to join the foil. Furthering the perfect image of a child, her feet now hang above scraps of food, the same as a toddler who sits in a booster seat above the Cheerios they’ve thrown all over. This is her dinner. For dessert, she eats a donut from Dunkin Donuts. This is her meal.
Instead of a booster seat, a mother and father sitting with her for dinner, a family member with her on the train, a schoolbag, she continues her journey alone. She looks comfortable, as if she has done this many times before. But, in spite of her hardened shell and the independence defaulted upon her, she is still just a child with a playful curiosity in her eye. She starts to play with her food, the aluminum foil of her dinner becomes her distraction for the few remaining stops.
With great attention to detail, she tears one piece into a rectangle and folds it in half two times. Playing dress up, imitating, emulating, the role models from T.V., her block, movies, music, magazines, she puts the foil in her mouth, suctions it around her top teeth, and smiles into the window to admire her new grill. Stretching her neck to see her reflection, she laughs out loud in delight, pleased, smiling with joy at the altered reality she dressed-up her way into. Thrilled, her eyes sparkle, someone all of a sudden.
Three seconds later, as quickly as it comes, it goes, her amusement stops. With no one to acknowledge her or play along, to believe, to pretend, defeat sets in and, with a face of dejection she removes her grill and throws it on the floor. Her dreams, like the drool on the side of her mouth, wiped off and thrown away.
The doors open at her stop. She hops off her chair, grabs the huge blue shopping bag, and gets off the train in one of the most crime-ridden areas of the Bronx. Below her seat sit bits of crispy bacon, stale bread, and her dreams. Still alone, she climbs the stairs.
--
I worry about the state of our children. I miss my friend Eve, I mourn for her future (Gabriela’s beautiful phrasing), think of her family, miss our friendship, her laughter, smarts, concern for people. I just miss her. Her death and the violent way she left the world is on my mind all the time and affects me all the time in complicated ways I am not fully able to understand or articulate. Yet, one of the questions I come back to again and again is this: What are we doing to our young people? As I ride my bike through the streets and pages of case studies, crime statistics, and Op-Ed columns, I am saddened by the state of childhood, by how we have failed a generation of young people. It hurts me to know that 10-year-old children do not believe in their dreams -- dreams not just deferred, but dreams they never believed to begin with.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
An excerpt from February’s monthly report (names changed and organization called AA). ‘Rents and a break get here tomorrow; thank god.
I am totally frustrated, fed up, and out of patience, feeling like I don’t want to be working in Ahmedabad any longer. There is no one event that tipped the scale. In the beginning months I was fine to do anything, handling (more or less) certain frustrations, trying to work hard, excited at times and looking to contribute however possible. Seven months in, my patience is lost and my nerves are on their last legs, sick of people hissing at me in the street, the chaos of our office, and most things in between. Within AA I am an english-speaking secretary and the expectation with which people ask me to do menial tasks is annoying. People still stare in the streets, are rude, the city is dusty and loud. I don’t like it.
What I like least about it is my reaction. In a previous life I was a happy, energetic, (relatively) patient, stress-free person with an optimist’s outlook on each day, an appreciation for human interactions, and a generally pleasant countenance. Now, my interactions are curt, sometimes rude. I hate this, I don’t want to be rude to anyone, in my office, rickshaw drivers – anyone -- but it is a coping mechanism, one that I have done my best to avoid for months and months but find myself reverting to. It is not nice to be unkind it is not how I care to live my life but, sadly, I am.
This infects everything, my work with and commitment to AA most notably. I’ve started looking ahead, counting the days until I run the marathon and leave right after that. This is not a good way to be here and I don’t know how to change it – it must improve – for the remaining time. Hopefully a week with my parents, a break (we just had a break), and some time away will reinvigorate me for the balance.
What I find most problematic is dealing with _____ji, a man I have grown to appreciate so deeply for his archetypal imperfection. He is such a good man, a sweet man with a caring heart and the best intentions, but he doesn’t know what he is doing running an NGO and makes it up as he goes. He is stubborn, sexist in ways he is not aware of, frantic, a great talker. In him I see someone struggling to lead, to support a staff where funding might be running out, to help these workers, to play a part – to act in a space that requires a skill set he does not have and he tries every day, as best he knows, to cover his bases. He is not dumb or naïve, he is cunning, manipulative at times (I think he has ADHD. I mean that. I have never seen the man sit still for more than 10 minutes and even when he is sitting his eyes constantly dart around the room, and his hands fiddle with something. He does not focus or listen. At first I thought it was just his personality, and in part it is, but so too do I think he has ADHD. Yes, this is my professional, psychiatric opinion).
Because of his character, I have a very hard time telling him no. When he asks me to do something, we are not really able to talk through why he/AA is doing it – language is a problem but the bigger problem is that he doesn’t work in this way - what he is getting at, any sort of broader strategy or plan, so I have two options; “_____ji, this is a good idea,” and his excited reply of, “Good good good, very good!” or my reply of “_____ji, I don’t think this is the best option” and his defeated admission: “As you like.”
I am totally frustrated, fed up, and out of patience, feeling like I don’t want to be working in Ahmedabad any longer. There is no one event that tipped the scale. In the beginning months I was fine to do anything, handling (more or less) certain frustrations, trying to work hard, excited at times and looking to contribute however possible. Seven months in, my patience is lost and my nerves are on their last legs, sick of people hissing at me in the street, the chaos of our office, and most things in between. Within AA I am an english-speaking secretary and the expectation with which people ask me to do menial tasks is annoying. People still stare in the streets, are rude, the city is dusty and loud. I don’t like it.
What I like least about it is my reaction. In a previous life I was a happy, energetic, (relatively) patient, stress-free person with an optimist’s outlook on each day, an appreciation for human interactions, and a generally pleasant countenance. Now, my interactions are curt, sometimes rude. I hate this, I don’t want to be rude to anyone, in my office, rickshaw drivers – anyone -- but it is a coping mechanism, one that I have done my best to avoid for months and months but find myself reverting to. It is not nice to be unkind it is not how I care to live my life but, sadly, I am.
This infects everything, my work with and commitment to AA most notably. I’ve started looking ahead, counting the days until I run the marathon and leave right after that. This is not a good way to be here and I don’t know how to change it – it must improve – for the remaining time. Hopefully a week with my parents, a break (we just had a break), and some time away will reinvigorate me for the balance.
What I find most problematic is dealing with _____ji, a man I have grown to appreciate so deeply for his archetypal imperfection. He is such a good man, a sweet man with a caring heart and the best intentions, but he doesn’t know what he is doing running an NGO and makes it up as he goes. He is stubborn, sexist in ways he is not aware of, frantic, a great talker. In him I see someone struggling to lead, to support a staff where funding might be running out, to help these workers, to play a part – to act in a space that requires a skill set he does not have and he tries every day, as best he knows, to cover his bases. He is not dumb or naïve, he is cunning, manipulative at times (I think he has ADHD. I mean that. I have never seen the man sit still for more than 10 minutes and even when he is sitting his eyes constantly dart around the room, and his hands fiddle with something. He does not focus or listen. At first I thought it was just his personality, and in part it is, but so too do I think he has ADHD. Yes, this is my professional, psychiatric opinion).
Because of his character, I have a very hard time telling him no. When he asks me to do something, we are not really able to talk through why he/AA is doing it – language is a problem but the bigger problem is that he doesn’t work in this way - what he is getting at, any sort of broader strategy or plan, so I have two options; “_____ji, this is a good idea,” and his excited reply of, “Good good good, very good!” or my reply of “_____ji, I don’t think this is the best option” and his defeated admission: “As you like.”
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Living Here
From the window of my room on the tenth floor I can see a lot. Facing the intersection, I see the empty plot next door sprinkled with litter and surviving plants. A stray dog and her puppies roam for food. Across the street on both corners are empty lots and high rises just beyond, tall buildings of poured concrete that don’t sweat and will soon buckle under the yearly stress of ten months of dry heat and two months of biblical rains. Opposite our compound is a party plot, a series of three grass cordons decorated with flowers, ribbon, music, stages, and gross amounts of food in an over the top, tacky show of wealth. Announced by blaring eight-person bands, horse and carriage, and dancing processions, arranged marriages unfold here, the platform for wealthy, exclusive families to broadcast their mergers. Love is absent. Motorbikes speed by, green and yellow rickshaws spewing fumes prowl in the search for customers. A man wearing a wrinkled white dhoti rolls along on his fruit cart smoking a bidi, absent-mindedly steering his camel. Each morning, this is what I see. This is where I live.
At the train station last night I dismissed a mother of no more than twenty, her infant child swaddled on her hip, when she asked me for ten rupees. My nod so fast, it was almost instinctual, a reflex.
Living here worries me. Every day I see things that are not right and they’ve phased from outrageous to normal, my reaction no longer disgust or sadness or indignation, but of shrugged shoulders and self-centered concerns.
This afternoon, on the way to the store to buy 500 rupees of phone credit, I passed a construction site. Under the noon sun, two young women worked together to haul bricks from the street to the mason 100 yards away. One of the women, in a yellow sari, her muscular mid drift exposed, bangles covering her biceps, shoulders pulled back with a strong, royal stature, stood with a piece of rolled cloth on her head and a plank of wood on top of that -- the cloth serving as a shock absorber and soft base for balance. The other woman symmetrically placed bricks onto the piece of wood, five across and four high. Without looking down and with twenty bricks stacked on her head, the woman in the yellow sari walked to the mason.
Nearby, on a pile of sand, two young boys in t-shirts and nothing else were playing, their hair matted and dirty, almost dredded in filth, snot crusted to their upper lips.
Every night around 10 p.m., our doorbell rings. I know who it is; when it rings I scamper into the kitchen and look for something to give. A piece of fruit, some biscuits, leftover food if there is any, I try to find something. The man at the door is a Dalit (untouchable) sweeper who works in our compound and the neighboring ones. Without fail, he, and sometimes his son, make rounds of the building to beg for food. People toss him one or two rottis, some daal, vegetables on a good day. What he collects will be his family’s food for the day.
These are easy examples, obvious examples of destitution that stands in the most marked contrast to Western norms of what is and what is not acceptable. These are the norms. There are others that are as obvious – the caste system – and countless subtler ones that also stand in contradiction to what I’ve lived: most middle/upper class families have several house help (cleaners, cooks, ironers, drivers, washers); it is ok to drive like a lunatic (yes, a comparative measure against a Western norm that could very easily be tame driving by Indian standards – like all norms); it is ok to harass women; blatant corruption; piss anywhere you want; litter; answer the phone in the middle of an important meeting; wear white denim, ass-hugging bellbottoms.
Maybe adjusting or adapting or accepting norms is a coping mechanism, something you have to do not to go crazy in a new place where the customs are different from what you know. Sometimes there is no choice and you eat what you are served. In this international volunteer game, this is often encouraged and called acculturation or behavioral fluency, substituting Skippy peanut butter for locally roasted peanuts, or jeans for a lungi, or your greeting for a more appropriate, local one. In so doing, foreigners try to fit in, to assume a normal life as dictated by what’s around them, to substitute some of what they’ve known for the new world they’ve landed in.
But, I don’t want to be rude (yes yes, conversations on what is rude, what isn’t rude, social
At the train station last night I dismissed a mother of no more than twenty, her infant child swaddled on her hip, when she asked me for ten rupees. My nod so fast, it was almost instinctual, a reflex.
Living here worries me. Every day I see things that are not right and they’ve phased from outrageous to normal, my reaction no longer disgust or sadness or indignation, but of shrugged shoulders and self-centered concerns.
This afternoon, on the way to the store to buy 500 rupees of phone credit, I passed a construction site. Under the noon sun, two young women worked together to haul bricks from the street to the mason 100 yards away. One of the women, in a yellow sari, her muscular mid drift exposed, bangles covering her biceps, shoulders pulled back with a strong, royal stature, stood with a piece of rolled cloth on her head and a plank of wood on top of that -- the cloth serving as a shock absorber and soft base for balance. The other woman symmetrically placed bricks onto the piece of wood, five across and four high. Without looking down and with twenty bricks stacked on her head, the woman in the yellow sari walked to the mason.
Nearby, on a pile of sand, two young boys in t-shirts and nothing else were playing, their hair matted and dirty, almost dredded in filth, snot crusted to their upper lips.
Every night around 10 p.m., our doorbell rings. I know who it is; when it rings I scamper into the kitchen and look for something to give. A piece of fruit, some biscuits, leftover food if there is any, I try to find something. The man at the door is a Dalit (untouchable) sweeper who works in our compound and the neighboring ones. Without fail, he, and sometimes his son, make rounds of the building to beg for food. People toss him one or two rottis, some daal, vegetables on a good day. What he collects will be his family’s food for the day.
These are easy examples, obvious examples of destitution that stands in the most marked contrast to Western norms of what is and what is not acceptable. These are the norms. There are others that are as obvious – the caste system – and countless subtler ones that also stand in contradiction to what I’ve lived: most middle/upper class families have several house help (cleaners, cooks, ironers, drivers, washers); it is ok to drive like a lunatic (yes, a comparative measure against a Western norm that could very easily be tame driving by Indian standards – like all norms); it is ok to harass women; blatant corruption; piss anywhere you want; litter; answer the phone in the middle of an important meeting; wear white denim, ass-hugging bellbottoms.
Maybe adjusting or adapting or accepting norms is a coping mechanism, something you have to do not to go crazy in a new place where the customs are different from what you know. Sometimes there is no choice and you eat what you are served. In this international volunteer game, this is often encouraged and called acculturation or behavioral fluency, substituting Skippy peanut butter for locally roasted peanuts, or jeans for a lungi, or your greeting for a more appropriate, local one. In so doing, foreigners try to fit in, to assume a normal life as dictated by what’s around them, to substitute some of what they’ve known for the new world they’ve landed in.
But, I don’t want to be rude (yes yes, conversations on what is rude, what isn’t rude, social
constructions, etc.) to people just because everyone else is and it is not right for children to shit in the street, for families of a dozen to live in one room, to grope women on the bus, to throw trash anywhere, or to wear ass-hugging, white denim bellbottoms in the year 2008.
Maybe it is a coping mechanism -- it is not that hard to relinquish Skippy peanut butter - but at what point is the acceptance of norms an excuse for a dulled sense of morality, responsibility, right and wrong excused by anthropological masturbation that permits you to write it all of as a local norm. When did I go from fearing the approaching beggar because of how uncomfortable he/she made me feel, to brazenly dismissing illiterate, dirty children with a motion of my arm because everyone around me does the same.
I missed something, I’ve tipped too far, gotten used to things that no one should get used to, neither the person seeing it nor the person living it.
Maybe accepting norms is buckling under the pressure, acquiescing in the face of enormity. But it is not about the enormity, it is about what I see everyday and reacting. This is about personal behavior in response to norms, about looking out the window each morning and rejecting comfort, refusing to say that the view from my window is acceptable. My answer should not depend on what those around me say.
I can clean my own apartment, wash my own clothes, and, no matter how many times I see someone jump into a sewer in their underpants, remain indignant about something that is normal here but loathsome, inhumane and unjust. Even though I live here, I can remain outraged at the outrageous.
Maybe it is a coping mechanism -- it is not that hard to relinquish Skippy peanut butter - but at what point is the acceptance of norms an excuse for a dulled sense of morality, responsibility, right and wrong excused by anthropological masturbation that permits you to write it all of as a local norm. When did I go from fearing the approaching beggar because of how uncomfortable he/she made me feel, to brazenly dismissing illiterate, dirty children with a motion of my arm because everyone around me does the same.
I missed something, I’ve tipped too far, gotten used to things that no one should get used to, neither the person seeing it nor the person living it.
Maybe accepting norms is buckling under the pressure, acquiescing in the face of enormity. But it is not about the enormity, it is about what I see everyday and reacting. This is about personal behavior in response to norms, about looking out the window each morning and rejecting comfort, refusing to say that the view from my window is acceptable. My answer should not depend on what those around me say.
I can clean my own apartment, wash my own clothes, and, no matter how many times I see someone jump into a sewer in their underpants, remain indignant about something that is normal here but loathsome, inhumane and unjust. Even though I live here, I can remain outraged at the outrageous.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Yesterday someone stole my bike. In the morning, like usual, I rode to work, listening to music, taking in some warm morning sun, dodging cow shit mines, cars, bikes, and camels, on my morning route that cuts through the village, over the train tracks and then parallel to them. I parked my bike, locked it, and went upstairs to start my day. Normal, it’s the same day I’ve been living since September. At our office, the parking deck is on the ground floor of the building, bicycles and motorbikes perched in-between concrete support columns, making it impossible to keep watch out the window (not that I would). Just above the back wheel, where bikes in the West have a rear brake and brakepad, sits a single handcuff serving as the lock, jamming the back wheel before it is perched onto the kickstand that really is a stand; the bike is locked to itself. It is a joke of a lock, the handcuff from a police officer Halloween costume. Not more than 20 feet long, the driveway leads to a busy street, making this the easiest of thefts – the bike parked in a sheltered place, the lock a formality but not a deterrent, no guard, no gate, and a waiting, bustling street to disappear into. Quick cash.
When I first got the bike everyone told me that I should get a second lock. In the U.S. I rarely lock my bike on the street, bringing it inside whenever possible, well aware that in NYC it is just dumb to think that a lock will deter theft. Here, I didn’t get another lock, thinking I was invincible, or that no one else uses a second lock why should I. I don’t really know why, but I didn’t. “I will be back in 20 minutes, I am just going to the post office,” I told my co workers. At the bottom of the stairs, jingling the key in my right hand, I turned the corner and didn’t see it. Maybe someone moved it. The corner, the nook where a bike can’t fit, the street, the neighboring balconies, pan parlors – I looked everywhere. My bike was gone. My bike is gone and it ain’t coming back.
What a shitty feeling. Maybe there should have been another seven locks, maybe I should have had an alarm system on it, it is a moot point. I was robbed and that feeling sucks. It was probably someone from the neighborhood, someone who watches me come and go and finally worked up the gall the make his move. Loosing my bike and the money sucks, but the world goes on – the feeling of being robbed and totally helpless to do anything about it is the worst part. I just hope he needs the money and uses it for something good.
With my tail between my legs, I sulked upstairs in search of a: “Sorry, that stinks.” Instead,“You should have had another lock,” was the response from everyone. Great. Thanks a lot. That is really sweet. Your right, getting my bike stolen was my fault. I apologize. They mean well but it wasn’t what I was looking for. When the director returned he went crazy, ranting about how that person is a bad man, he must be caught, my cycle will be replaced in one or two or three or four days, and that man is a thief and a bad man. He is such a sweet man and is extra careful when dealing with me, but this enthusiasm was more than I wanted to deal with right then. I just wanted for someone to say, “Sorry man, that sucks,” and then get on with it, take a few days to think about the best next move and let is pass with time. More ranting, I must call the police, file a report. In the middle of his best-intentioned tirade, I looked outside and chuckled – good luck finding my bike, the same bike that every other person in Ahmedabad rides. That’s not like looking for a needle in a haystack, it is like looking for a specific needle in a needle factory.
I walked home.
When I first got the bike everyone told me that I should get a second lock. In the U.S. I rarely lock my bike on the street, bringing it inside whenever possible, well aware that in NYC it is just dumb to think that a lock will deter theft. Here, I didn’t get another lock, thinking I was invincible, or that no one else uses a second lock why should I. I don’t really know why, but I didn’t. “I will be back in 20 minutes, I am just going to the post office,” I told my co workers. At the bottom of the stairs, jingling the key in my right hand, I turned the corner and didn’t see it. Maybe someone moved it. The corner, the nook where a bike can’t fit, the street, the neighboring balconies, pan parlors – I looked everywhere. My bike was gone. My bike is gone and it ain’t coming back.
What a shitty feeling. Maybe there should have been another seven locks, maybe I should have had an alarm system on it, it is a moot point. I was robbed and that feeling sucks. It was probably someone from the neighborhood, someone who watches me come and go and finally worked up the gall the make his move. Loosing my bike and the money sucks, but the world goes on – the feeling of being robbed and totally helpless to do anything about it is the worst part. I just hope he needs the money and uses it for something good.
With my tail between my legs, I sulked upstairs in search of a: “Sorry, that stinks.” Instead,“You should have had another lock,” was the response from everyone. Great. Thanks a lot. That is really sweet. Your right, getting my bike stolen was my fault. I apologize. They mean well but it wasn’t what I was looking for. When the director returned he went crazy, ranting about how that person is a bad man, he must be caught, my cycle will be replaced in one or two or three or four days, and that man is a thief and a bad man. He is such a sweet man and is extra careful when dealing with me, but this enthusiasm was more than I wanted to deal with right then. I just wanted for someone to say, “Sorry man, that sucks,” and then get on with it, take a few days to think about the best next move and let is pass with time. More ranting, I must call the police, file a report. In the middle of his best-intentioned tirade, I looked outside and chuckled – good luck finding my bike, the same bike that every other person in Ahmedabad rides. That’s not like looking for a needle in a haystack, it is like looking for a specific needle in a needle factory.
I walked home.
Friday, February 8, 2008
My Biggest Fear
BC answers the phone. It is 9 a.m. in Great Neck. I know he is just beginning to stir at this hour, awake but in bed, eyes open but not on, periodically bothering Lezley to see if the paper came, if he pissed the bed, or for no good reason. I see his bedroom in my head, the very empty bed next him, the remodeled bathroom to help him bathe, the Venetian blinds drawn, a shoe horn about, powder on his dresser, an oft used comb. Through the crackle of the connection, a wire carries my voice across the world. The distance remains. Immediately I miss him. Hearing his voice lets me see his face; his patent hello, an upturn in the O after the few seconds it takes for him to place the receiver to his ear. Whhhats happening, he asks not just with his voice but with his personality. I hear his wise cracks, feel the sweet gestures, the semi circle of the receiver somehow now resembling his mischievous smirk as it communicates his thoughts and I feel his warm smile amongst these cold lonely mountain clouds. Soft hands, blue eyes, thin hair. I think back to shooting baskets in the park, teaching me to drive, when he let me use the remote ignition on the Maxima, days at the pool, lunches at Scobee, his Pittsburgh hat, that bad moustache, bar mitzvahs, baseball games, days in the hospital for him, days in the hospital for Doc, Tobey Gale, playing drums in the basement, the first Thanksgiving after Doc died, the look of 50 years of love he gave Doc and Doc gave him when she was inundated with tubes and machines - my Simoney he said as she turned, somehow, even though the doctor said she was going to die -- Montauk, swims in the ocean, walks to the park, everyday is fathers day to me, how lucky can a guy get, take it take it take it, Chanukah, sleep overs, tokens for the bridge, birthday parties, stories of UVa, Fuzzala, driving backwards in a rental car, meeting Doc at Grossinger’s, the bungalows, eating at that Italian restaurant outside of Liberty, bagels and lox, foster kids, basketball games, support and advice. A perennial presence.
It takes him a while to place my voice. Today he answers the phone without his dentures. "As far as I can tell I am all right." His words slither off his gums, aspirating his syllables. I’ve called too early. He is out of it, unsure at first who I am, where I am, or what hour it is. But, when I close my eyes and see him, my blue eyes just like his, I see the glitter in his eye looking for trouble the way he always does, his mind witty and ever ready with a sarcastic retort. Those quips don't come as fast now and their delivery is unreliable. This month he turns 89 and with each day his momentum increases, no longer aging with the invincibility of youth but aging in a real, mortal time, in units of faded memories, panicky midnights and medications required.
His routine is paramount, without it he is easily disoriented, rattled, confused, stressed and worried, inconsolable by anyone other than my mother, Lezley, or Big G. No more snooze buttons, he gets up when he is ready and eventually makes his way to the shower, already thinking about what to have breakfast. He eats the same thing every morning. Once dressed, he thinks more about what to have for breakfast, filling at least a half an hour and the empty room. Wheat Bran, half a banana, skim milk and his medication. That takes him to about 10:30 or 11, the perfect time to read the paper and start thinking about what to have for lunch. But, such a monumental contemplation definitely requires a change of scenery. From the kitchen, he goes to the living room to sit on the old couch in the white slip cover closest to the front door. Near the phone and with a clear view of the street, he is ready for action. He asks Lezley: “whatta we got?” He will eat lunch, take a nap, think about dinner, maybe watch jeopardy, worry about things, talk to my mom and my uncle, and get ready for bed. Small things like a note in the mail, a call from his grandkids, trip to the barber shop or supermarket, the occasional visitor or a walk to the park when it is warm, make his day, an event to rattle the monotony.
Such is aging I suppose – I don’t know - and the glass is overfull, an unbelievable life ripe with good fortune, love, health, and family. I think, but don’t really know, BC is living the last years of a wonderful life. His health is good and his medical coverage comprehensive – there is no immediate reason to think this - but at 89 the thought is there.
I don’t want him to die. This is my biggest fear and the single hardest relationship to be away from.
It pains me to be so far away. During university I saw him during the breaks and between summer forays, called often and felt nearby. Now, I call but it is not the same. Before I left my mom asked me what I would do if BC got sick. It was on my mind and yet her asking made gravity seem real, the thought holding more weight if she too was thinking about it.
I am here, I chose to be here and I try to stay in touch. It is not the same and in these important years it is not sufficient. I miss BC; thinking about it melts me into a 11-year-old child at sleepover camp for the first time, whimpering, helpless, a pain the rests just behind your stomach when you curl in your sleeping bag and try to fall asleep. What I fear most is the onset of some sort of Alzheimer’s (his memory is still sharp – there is no reason to think that he will develop it now) or another stroke, the fear that he is alive when I return but does not remember me. Or, of course, that he might die, that I might have said goodbye to him forever. I don’t pray often, but I pray to see him soon.
It takes him a while to place my voice. Today he answers the phone without his dentures. "As far as I can tell I am all right." His words slither off his gums, aspirating his syllables. I’ve called too early. He is out of it, unsure at first who I am, where I am, or what hour it is. But, when I close my eyes and see him, my blue eyes just like his, I see the glitter in his eye looking for trouble the way he always does, his mind witty and ever ready with a sarcastic retort. Those quips don't come as fast now and their delivery is unreliable. This month he turns 89 and with each day his momentum increases, no longer aging with the invincibility of youth but aging in a real, mortal time, in units of faded memories, panicky midnights and medications required.
His routine is paramount, without it he is easily disoriented, rattled, confused, stressed and worried, inconsolable by anyone other than my mother, Lezley, or Big G. No more snooze buttons, he gets up when he is ready and eventually makes his way to the shower, already thinking about what to have breakfast. He eats the same thing every morning. Once dressed, he thinks more about what to have for breakfast, filling at least a half an hour and the empty room. Wheat Bran, half a banana, skim milk and his medication. That takes him to about 10:30 or 11, the perfect time to read the paper and start thinking about what to have for lunch. But, such a monumental contemplation definitely requires a change of scenery. From the kitchen, he goes to the living room to sit on the old couch in the white slip cover closest to the front door. Near the phone and with a clear view of the street, he is ready for action. He asks Lezley: “whatta we got?” He will eat lunch, take a nap, think about dinner, maybe watch jeopardy, worry about things, talk to my mom and my uncle, and get ready for bed. Small things like a note in the mail, a call from his grandkids, trip to the barber shop or supermarket, the occasional visitor or a walk to the park when it is warm, make his day, an event to rattle the monotony.
Such is aging I suppose – I don’t know - and the glass is overfull, an unbelievable life ripe with good fortune, love, health, and family. I think, but don’t really know, BC is living the last years of a wonderful life. His health is good and his medical coverage comprehensive – there is no immediate reason to think this - but at 89 the thought is there.
I don’t want him to die. This is my biggest fear and the single hardest relationship to be away from.
It pains me to be so far away. During university I saw him during the breaks and between summer forays, called often and felt nearby. Now, I call but it is not the same. Before I left my mom asked me what I would do if BC got sick. It was on my mind and yet her asking made gravity seem real, the thought holding more weight if she too was thinking about it.
I am here, I chose to be here and I try to stay in touch. It is not the same and in these important years it is not sufficient. I miss BC; thinking about it melts me into a 11-year-old child at sleepover camp for the first time, whimpering, helpless, a pain the rests just behind your stomach when you curl in your sleeping bag and try to fall asleep. What I fear most is the onset of some sort of Alzheimer’s (his memory is still sharp – there is no reason to think that he will develop it now) or another stroke, the fear that he is alive when I return but does not remember me. Or, of course, that he might die, that I might have said goodbye to him forever. I don’t pray often, but I pray to see him soon.
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