Transgender ban in Saudi Arabia

Last night, I was ready to write out my feelings in a bout of rage and hurt.  Now, it’s just hurt and I will be gentle because my feelings have become gentler thanks to unexpectedly falling asleep early last night.  I have had a night to separate now from my initial anger.  Saudi Arabia, let me start with saying that you are a kingdom of confusion, and that confusion is never ending.  Saudi Arabia’s people, on a social level, are in fact comprised of a lot of love and acceptance.  And people in Saudi Arabia are often more honest and authentic on an individual basis than many in western society that I’ve encountered.  I know this on a personal level because I have witnessed and experienced it.  My Saudi family is a prime example.  Trying to convey this to others is often near impossible, and I have given up on that.  So, I have to speak of Saudi Arabia more as a nation when the topic comes up, because I know that is the Saudi Arabia that people see.  And whose fault is that?  Saudi Arabia’s fault.  And that is because the country as a whole is an entirely different entity than the individual rays of light that are actually within those borders but who are silenced way too often.

To speak of a slightly larger scale than my family: there are artists whose expression is full of so much depth and a desire for progress that it hurts to look at – it’s a really beautiful pain.  Yes, there are Saudi artists and the art is absolutely stunning and powerful.  On a grander scale, however, none of this is evident to the rest of the world.  And that is because people with brilliance may be, and are, killed for their brilliance and uniqueness.  It breaks my heart sometimes, especially now. 

As of yesterday, a few news sources released yet another update on yet another ban announced by the Saudi government.  To quote Business Recorder: “Saudi Arabia on Tuesday banned all transgender persons to perform Umrah, furthermore also denying access to the holy cities of Mecca and Medina.

The directives were formally issued by the Saudi government, while the Consulate General of Saudi Arabia sternly instructed Travel Agents Association of Pakistan not to process the visa files of any transgender person.

The Saudi government has also urged its consuls all around the world to deny visas to any transgender person, specifically to those who wish to perform Umrah.

No reason has been given for this abrupt initiative.”

I’m not trying to express any shock on my part when it comes to this inhumane ban; I’m unfortunately not surprised by anything regarding Saudi Arabia.  However, I’m still very, very hurt and extremely frustrated that this is happening. 

To quote the Quran:

“To Allah belongs the dominion of the heavens and the earth; He creates what he wills. He gives to whom He wills female [children], and He gives to whom He wills males, Or He makes them [both] males and females, and He renders whom He wills barren. Indeed, He is Knowing and Competent.”  That is from the 42^nd chapter.  Verses 49 and 50.

So according to the sacred book of Islam itself: God makes some BOTH male and female.  Of course, one can (and should) argue that a transman or transwoman is not both genders.  Someone who is trans is the gender he or she is mentally, emotionally, sometimes eventually physically.  However, notice the lack of elaboration on that particular Quran verse.  There is no distinction as to whether the sex of a person or the gender of a person is being referred to.  Sex and gender are sometimes different for people; the Quran does not harp on this beyond a verse.  Regular people – not God, not religious figures like the prophets – are the ones who get bent out of shape about gender and sex and the NEED to have the two match regardless of one’s true self.  Humanity imposes sadness on itself – not religion.  Religion – in this case, Islam – is supposed to be a religion of peace, equality and love.  How is this being exemplified with this ban?  It is not – in fact, those responsible for this ban are directly opposing Islam.  The verse appears to be acknowledging that gender is a spectrum; it can be argued that the gender and the sex of a person do not always match at birth, and depending on someone’s decisions regarding their bodies during the course of their lives, the sex and gender of a person may never match according to the binary way of thinking re: gender or sex according to the world’s simple-minded description of the billions of human beings who have inhabited this diverse planet.  

To the trans community: not that this makes any difference in all of this, but know that you have at least one person who is technically Saudi who adamantly opposes this ban.  And especially to Muslim trans individuals who probably would like to see Mecca at one point in your lives: I’m sorry.  I don’t like to have to apologize on behalf of bigots who live with and swear by a perpetual state of hate and judgment, but I feel compelled to when it comes to this.

Moving on to America – with this recent election, is our country headed in a much better direction?  It does not feel that way.  I am afraid for my own minority groups I fit into, and I am also scared for all of the other minority groups that make up this country.  Because I am on the topic of the trans community, I would like to highlight some of the fear that I have on behalf of this community of authentic people: Texas has a bill looming more and more closely that would ban a person from using a restroom matching their correct gender.  A human biological need to use the restroom – in a space that is fitting for them – being BANNED by the government?  Um, what?  Yes, I know this is not new.  But it should not be REnewed in 2017.  I want to say that I doubt the U.S. government will announce a ban when it comes to “sexual minorities” entering the country (to use a commonly-used blanket term) but, honestly, who knows?  This country is turning down a dark and dangerous path; if Muslims are expected to be on a registered list, maybe those who are LGBT will be next.  Hmm, does this sound like the ‘40s in Europe all over again or what? 

I added in that last paragraph to say that I am not pleased with western society either, mainly my country.  I’m not saying that Saudi Arabia is the only culprit when it comes to inequality and injustice.  Every nation has its problems.  Speaking as an American who is half Saudi Arabian, I see the flaws in both governments and am disgusted by both sets of governments’ flaws. 

The millennial generation of Saudi Arabia and the future generations of Saudi Arabia will hopefully take at least miniscule steps toward a more humane environment, just as I hope to see happen in the United States.  Saudi Arabia will hopefully remember – at some point – that Islam is a religion that embraces humanity as a whole.  Humans are not God, and humans must remember that to make such judgment on one another and to impose oppression on one another is adamantly opposing the entire idea of religion.  Please, if you disagree and you believe some humans are inferior to others and that humans should ignore who they truly are: say it, and try to back yourself up.  See if you can while maintaining the values of Islam that you profess having innately within you. 

Deceit

My already tired heart has continued to become more and more exhausted this year.  2017, I can only hope, has something wonderful and energizing in store so that this heart of mine can be restored to the state that I want - actually, need - it to be.

The end of 2015 is when the cycle of death began. My father, my great-uncle, a cousin, a very good friend from high school, my college orchestra conductor. It all happened so quickly and all within about five and a half months.  The pain was acute, immediate, and overwhelming.  There were words I was able to use to describe my emotions: sorrow, confusion, shock.  Each person deals with loss differently, I realize, but there are so many professional resources, as well as a practically unlimited number of humans, to commiserate with and feel understood by.

There's another kind of less concrete pain...or is it even pain?...going on. It's something that has become a pretty consistent presence in my current life. I suppose I could use the words disappointment, anger, disgust, sadness. However, despite those rather simple words, the complexity and lack of sense attached to this phenomenon is not conveyed easily in words.  What I am referring to is deceit. 

I'm not going to kid myself or anyone who happened to click on this blog entry in saying that I have never told a lie or omitted the truth. I am a human.  However, my way of living does not contain lies overall. In fact, I could probably think of and list the specific scenarios during which I have told a lie.  I would also be able to articulate what I learned from that, how it affected me and anyone else involved, and the feeling of guilt would go hand in hand with each of the scenarios.

There are other humans, though, who live by lying. Pathological lying, constant deceit, shadiness- whatever you want to call it.  We all have flaws and we all make mistakes, but when deceit actually becomes someone's way of moving through life, I see it as more than a flaw. It is a truly damaging presence.  I've been surrounded by lies as of late. Some of it has caused my to feel hurt, and some of it has caused me to question humanity as a whole.

What I'm learning through these experiences and observations is that I am truly fortunate to have very genuinely good, honest people who are close to me.  I do not take them for granted and I do not take that very vital part of their character for granted. 

To those in the world who live honest lives and who are real, thank you. This does not go unnoticed.

Race

The year 2014 is reaching its bittersweet end - I add "sweet" to the "bitter" simply due to the fact that it is almost over.  Is it really over, though?  We all know that Michael Brown and Eric Garner were murdered this year; however, they are unfortunately not the only unarmed black men who have had their lives taken away by police officers.  There was Sean Bell in 2006, Aaron Campbell in 2005, Victor Steen in 2009, and Steven Eugene Washington in 2010.  There are more on the list, which anyone can Google and hopefully use common sense to recognize that there is, indeed, a pattern. None of this is a "fluke" and the fact that racism is still rampant in the United States is something everyone must understand in order for 2015 to be any different from years prior.

Race is a topic in America that continues to be TABOO.  This is incredibly problematic in that pretending something does not exist is not the solution to achieving acceptance or tolerance of that something.  In this case, I am talking about race.

Humans have different skin colors.  We look different, and there are categories under which we fall. Like it or not, those categories have been asserted by society; one of our many labels as humans is what we are racially.

I've been thinking about Ferguson and the reactions we have all seen on our social media platforms that have perhaps caused us to evaluate friendships.  I clicked the "unfriend" button for a couple of people - it was a knee jerk reaction.  Now I am actually pretty disappointed in myself for helping to perpetuate the divide that there is between "us" and "them" (meaning, in this context, people who are outraged by the fact that Michael Brown was killed, and people who think the police officer had no choice but to shoot.)  Putting a wedge between people with opposing views has never turned out well. And the power of social media is underestimated.  Even without a "like" or a comment on something that one posts, we can never know who will be impacted in some way by information or a viewpoint that we put out there for people to mull over.

The topic of race seems to make people angry or it makes people shut down completely and decide not to acknowledge that there are different races in the world.  We all need to listen to each other and learn about what it is like to be black, white, Asian, Hispanic (ok, I am fine tuning things now down to ethnicity, not race)... we should be asking each other how it feels - what society can do to improve its treatment of people of different races.  The solution is not to pretend that we don't all have different experiences in life that are because of what ethnicity/race we are.

Anyway... just some thoughts right now.  Yeah.  Basically I'm just annoyed at myself for initially being a part of the problem.  I should at least stay connected to people on Facebook and see what is behind their viewpoint, and allow them to talk to me so that I can talk to them too.  

Fathers

My mom just took my younger brother to Houston (they're still there, I think until tomorrow or the next day) to meet some members of his father's side of the family.

I think I'm the only one in the family who truly knows what my brother is feeling right now. I can relate completely, and I remember every minute of the first time I met people on my dad's side of the family.
It's all pretty parallel - John's dad's family speaks Spanish (they’re from Mexico), and John doesn’t understand.  My dad’s family speaks Arabic (they’re from Saudi Arabia) and I don’t understand. Both families (my dad's and John's dad's) are very warm, loving, hospitable and are loyal and connected to each other.

Another parallel: I knew John's family pretty well when I was a child and my mom was married to John’s father. John was a baby, so he doesn't remember any of it, but because I am 9 years older, I very clearly remember our trips to Mexico, and I remember his uncles Juan and Ariel, and his aunt Mika.
I remember John’s dad very well and he doesn't know him at all.
I relate to John when it comes to this, because my sister on my father's side, Sara (who lives in England) lived with our dad when she was a kid, and she remembers him very well and knows so much about him. For me, he is all just a myth and just a story, basically, but for Sara, he's really real. That's how John feels - I know a lot about his dad, but to John, his dad is this mysterious figure who doesn't seem to actually exist.

Anyway, it's hard to express in words what any of this feels like. Bottom line: I'm glad John has at least one person (me) who knows what he's going through right now. There are a lot of mixed feelings that come with the reunion of the family of our fathers - that part is so positive and so amazing; however, the fact that neither of our fathers make an effort to know us (unlike the fact that their relatives do make the effort) is something that is tough to swallow, and we are especially reminded of that during times like these.

John and I are both very lucky to have Mom and our family on her side, and we are both lucky to have relatives on our fathers’ sides who exemplify the qualities that are not present in our fathers themselves.

Happy Birthday

Today is my grandmother's birthday, and it's the first one I, and everyone in her life who is still alive, have experienced without her.  Marian Thomson Scheirman died on January 28 of this year and it's extremely weird not to call her today.  Because she was such a lover of words, I felt like I should write something on her birthday, but I don't really know what to write.  So, instead of writing something new, I want to post one of the last letters she got from me (I sent more after this one but I don't have any of them saved on a computer.)

December 20, 2012

Dear Grandmama,

As promised, here is a letter to remind you that I am thinking of you all the time, and that I miss you every day!

A memory that recently came to mind was when just the two of us were walking around in the field of flowers outside our apartment; we eventually ended up at a mound and stood on top of it looking at Mount Fuji in the distance.  I remember asking you why it looked so close when it was, in reality, far away.  You said that special things like Mount Fuji and the moon were easy to see from any distance.  Then, you started telling me about the moon, and that you could see the same moon from America that I saw from Japan.

Something else I remember was the summer visits to Overland Park, when you warned me about the chiggers and told me about the cicadas being “summer music.”  You also came outside with me sometimes at night to try and catch fireflies.  We would catch them in a jar and let them go after a few minutes.  That’s something that I will always remember about Kansas summers; that’s such a unique thing about the heart of America that I feel lucky to have experienced with you.

In 1994, my mom was about to have a baby, so you and Granddaddy took me, alone, to Oklahoma for our Scheirman family reunion.  That was such a special trip for me; it was so thrilling to ride cross-country in your blue Buick with you and have both of you to myself!  I remember feeling so independent because we weren’t traveling with Mom.  When we got to Oklahoma, we stayed in a cabin with a few relatives.  For years after that trip, I had a pencil made out of tree bark and a dream catcher necklace that you generously got me to have as souvenirs.

After we drove back from Oklahoma to Iowa City, my brother was about to be born.  We didn’t know he would be a boy yet, though.  On July 8^th, we woke up and Mom was already at the hospital (I’m not sure what day she went to the hospital – maybe the day before that.)  I had a stomachache, and you and Granddaddy told me it was because I was feeling nervous for my mom.  I was so upset at the idea that my mom would be in pain while she was having the baby.  You were very reassuring that she would be fine.  You took me to my summer day camp and dropped me off.  When I walked up to the park shelter with the camp counselors, they asked me how I was doing.  I remember answering, very casually, “Good.  Oh and my mom is having a baby today.”  At about 2 pm, you came back to pick me up, and the camp counselors asked you about the baby, and you said, “Yes, we’re going to go meet the baby right now!”  On the way to Mercy Hospital, I didn’t say a word because I was so anxious and nervous to hear the gender of the baby.  You broke the silence and said, “He looks like you.”  My heart sank because I was hoping for a girl, but I was feeling a little hopeful that by “he” you weren’t talking about the baby.  So, I asked you, “who are you talking about?”  You said, “Your mom had a baby boy.”  I was so sad the rest of the way to the hospital, but as soon as we walked into the room where my mom was, she was so happy.  A nurse handed John to me and my disappointment completely disappeared and was replaced with excitement.  From that moment, I was so happy about the idea of a little brother; I imagined climbing trees together and taking him in his stroller to the grocery store by myself (which, by the way, my mom allowed me to do later on when he was 1 or 2!)  I was so proud to be the older one, and from then on, you always instilled pride in me that I was the oldest.  Both you and Granddaddy often told me that I had a special role as the oldest grandchild, and as an older sister.

In the summer of 2002, my sister Sara, her mother, my mom, and I drove to Fort Collins (stopping at Mount Rushmore on the way) to see you.  Carla and Sara were never close to Carla’s mother; after they met you, they both thought of you as the mother/grandmother that they had never really had.  You have always had and always will have a special place in their heart, and they care about you very much.  You told me that Granddaddy, shortly before he died earlier that same year, told a visiting chaplain about me recently meeting Sara.  It was one of the last things that he talked about before he died, and you said that he understood how happy I was and how important it was to me to know my sister.

In 2004 and 2005, I went to Fort Collins to stay with you for several months during those summers.  One of those summers, we practiced Praeludium and Allegro by Kreisler every day until we performed it together at your church.  The same summer, you also taught me two pieces on the piano: Für Elise and a piece by Jules Massenet.  You were very patient with me, and by the end of the summer, I was able to play both pieces effortlessly because you reminded me several times a day to practice them, and you sat next to me as I learned each piece measure by measure.

The latest memory I have of us, of course, is from August of this year when you visited us in Minnesota.  It was right before I moved to Vermont for my new job.  The timing was so perfect; I was glad you came before I moved.  It was so fun seeing you every day!  And I really enjoyed the party we had with our friends and relatives in Minnesota. 

Now I will show you some pictures of my life in Vermont.  I love you very much, and I look forward to hearing from my mom how you are doing.  As I always say at the end when I write to you, “talk to you soon!” 

Love, Alia

Why Vermont is Cool

People have been asking me a lot about Vermont since I have moved here, and for some reason, I’ve been really bad at describing it.  If I say that it’s really quiet (which is true), that makes it sound boring.  If I say there’s a lot going on, it sounds like a more populated place than it actually is.  I focus mostly on Burlington when I tell people what it is like here, since Burlington is where I live, but in general, the whole tiny state of Vermont has a strange balance between silence and noise.

This liberal state might be the only place I have ever experienced talking to someone who would be labeled a “hick” or a “redneck” who fully and proudly supports Obama.There are bumper stickers that say “Keep Vermont Weird.” It is indeed a weird place, and I guess that is why I don’t usually find the right words to fully give someone a picture of what it’s like to live here.

Let’s take I-89, one of the main highways.  The term “rush hour” here takes on such a different meaning than any rush hour I’ve ever experienced.  Rush hour here means that there are possibly 10 more cars than usual on the road in sight.  And I’m talking about 8 in the morning and 5 in the evening on weekdays.

  The rush hour that I was talking about

Meanwhile, City Market, the co-op in Burlington, is usually packed, and it’s often difficult to find a parking spot there.  The hundreds of coffee shops and restaurants are crowded with locals and tourists, and Church Street, the town center of Burlington, is usually very alive.



The lake front (Burlington is right on Lake Champlain) is quiet but never dull; there are always people – college students, travelers, local families, and random people like me who somehow ended up in Vermont for some reason or another – walking and biking in whatever season it happens to be.  During the summer there are swimmers, paddle boarders, fishermen/women, hippies smoking joints, hipsters playing their banjos and ukuleles, and families from all over the world who faithfully return to Burlington every summer because it’s their chosen vacation spot.

Want to catch a drag queen and drag king race involving cupcakes, high heels, and glitter?  Burlington is the right place.  Looking for a tree house open to the public to hang out in?  Go to Burlington!

You can walk down Church Street and hear a mix of languages – you’re bound to hear a lot of French because of the nearby Montreal; I’ve heard Chinese, Arabic, Vietnamese, Somali, Amharic, Hebrew, Spanish, Portuguese, and lots of Russian.  For a city as small as Burlington, I think the demographics are pretty impressive.

Vermont has a lot of great spots outside of Burlington, too.  For example, the most beautiful drive I’ve experienced in Vermont was half an hour south from Burlington to Charlotte.  The drive was full of views of the mountains, farmland, rivers, streams, and old wooden bridges, and there were probably about four other cars that I saw during that entire drive.  We were surrounded by complete silence the whole time.

                      

Another good spot is Stowe, which is the quintessential New England ski resort town that has the Trapp Family Lodge.  The Trapp Family Lodge (click for pictures: http://www.trappfamily.com/) is managed by members of the von Trapp family, the ones that the Sound of Music tells the story of.  The family left Austria in 1938 and immigrated to Vermont.  Now, the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe is a tourist destination that attracts people from all over the world in all seasons.  You don’t have to sacrifice your entire bank account to enjoy Stowe – you can sit at the coffee shop at the lodge and see what it would be like in a parallel life to actually be staying there.

Skiing in the winter, hiking in the spring, swimming and outdoor concerts in the summer, and the famous New England colors in the fall are some of the reasons that people will travel so far for Stowe.  I have been to Stowe briefly twice, but I definitely want to go for a full day sometime and experience one of the hikes or days of skiing that I hear about so much.
Montpelier is the capital of Vermont and it is another very typical New England village/town that is a good representation of this region of the U.S.  I have never seen such a small capitol building; the town is quiet and relaxed and very quaint.  It is a town that can easily be seen in half an hour, but a person could also find a full day’s worth of stuff to do in Montpelier.

                                 

In southern Vermont, a place that I really liked was Bellows Falls, a town of about 3,200 people.  It is tiny.  You can walk through it in ten minutes.  You can meet a very warm, friendly Greek woman who owns a pizzeria (she’ll make you a vegan pizza if you ask) and ask her why she ended up in Bellows Falls.  She has nothing but good things to say.  The Greek woman isn’t the only friendly person in that town – every person we encountered was extremely kind and excited to tell us about what their town has to offer.
                               
Again, as I mentioned above, Bellows Falls is a town with a mix of liberal, progressive thinkers in a very quiet, country setting.

Vermont has taken me a few months to really, genuinely appreciate; the more I discover here and the more people I meet, I realize the value of being here.   You can be a part of any religion, be of any nationality, any class or educational background, and any age.  No one cares “what” you are; no one even thinks about who you are or where you came from unless you choose to bring it up. Nothing will really faze a Vermonter.

Maybe I’ll eventually be able to articulate this place, but I doubt it.  I missed Burlington while I was in New York City for a weekend a couple months ago.
Anyway.  Vermont: it is just what it is, and I love it.

 

High school writing

I was just looking for a really old email, and in doing so, I found this, which I sent myself back in high school when I was about 16. I remember constantly thinking up scenarios like this in my head; I did stuff like write about elevator rides and make fun of human behavior in situations like that. I still think about typical human actions and reactions in mundane situations all the time, and I try to defy those expected interactions by doing something "unusual," but I know, fully, that despite my resistance to our conditioned, socially sculpted norms, I do all the things that I don't want to admit that I do.
Anyway, here's an exaggerated example of people at family reunions; by far not my best writing or humor, but it's something. It was kinda cool to find something  from more than 10 years ago.


Family reunions are interesting functions. While each one varies, there are a few common, standard types.

In some families, the reunions are polite, civilized, and predictable, where just about every conversation goes somewhat like this:
Person 1: Hello, my name is Tom, and may I ask what yours is?
Person 2: Well good afternoon, Tom! I’m Dora. Nice to meet you.
P1: The pleasure is certainly all mine, Dora. Hmm, so I wonder how we’re related.
P2: I will just take a look here… what is your last name? My maiden name is Smith.
P1: Oh, you brought your family tree, how glorious! My surname is Jones. . . Ah, I see. Our great-great-grandmothers were second cousins. And that would make our great-great-great-grandmothers or grandfathers first cousins!
P2: Yes, I suppose so. I don’t have that many generations written on here yet - this is all I’ve written down so far – I’ve really got to do some more research on the genealogy.
P1: Oh, I do too – I have been meaning to get to that as well! Oh, listen, I am collecting the relatives’ addresses, and if I may have yours, you can expect a Christmas letter from my family next December!
P2: That would be simply marvelous. Do you happen to have a writing utensil? I normally carry my handy-dandy black ballpoint pen in my purse, but I seem to have taken it out earlier.
P1: That happened to me once. It was awful, let me tell you. Fortunately I now have a utensil with which to write, and my address book… Well, thank you very much for your address! I see you live in Houston. I had a friend in my college days from Dallas! What an amazing coincidence that is, huh?
P2: My, that sure is something!
P1: Perhaps you know him – John Smith?
P2: Hmm, not off the top of my head, no.
P1: Shame. Very nice fellow. Well, it was great meeting you, Doris.
P2: Actually it’s Dora – Doris is very close though - good memory!
P1: Oh, yes – Dora. What was I thinking? I apologize profusely. I’m not too good with names.
P2: No problem at all – I am not good with names either. We seem to have many things in common! Anyhow, again, it was wonderfully fantastic to meet you… Timothy, was it? I must go and see who that fellow there is. Goodbye!

Then there are the loud, hugs-and-kisses kind of reunion – among the older generations, anyway. However, those under, say, twenty-five, seem to feel the need to be “cool” around cousins around their age. A typical conversation at one of these reunions might go something like:

Person 1: OH MY GOODNESS!! Little Samuel?! I remember you from when you were THIS LITTLE! I have received several pictures of you from your parents but it has been ages since I last saw you! Give me a smooch, honey! How old are you now? Sixteen?
Person 2: Seventeen.
P1: Seventeen already?! Unbelievable! I met you when you were just two months old! Do you remember?
P2: Hmm, actually I can’t quite remember back that far… sorry.
P1: I am your dad’s first cousin, silly Sam! Surely you remember! My name’s Christina but just call me Auntie Chris! Here, let me get a picture of you and my daughter Lisa – she’s fifteen, almost your age! You two will get along great! Woops, I’m out of my fifth roll of film; you just wait right there while I get more from my car! Lisa, why don’t you two get to know each other while I go do that?
P2: Uh…‘Sup?
P3: Huh? I had my headphones turned up.
P2: Whatever. So, what band is that?
P3: Metallica.
P2: Heavy metal’s tight. You listen to Korn?
P3: Who doesn’t?
P2: Yup.
P3: Yeah…
P2: There’s your mom.
P3: ‘Kay. Well after this picture, I’m gonna jet.
P2: Aight.
P1: Well I’m baa-aack! Lisa, are you listening to that polka music again? Take off your headphones so people can talk to you!
P3: I-I… um… what’re you talking about, Mom?! It’s Metallica!
P1: What a teaser! She’s just a teaser, Sam! She can’t get enough of that polka CD that her grandma gave her! Anyway, get close for a picture! Say cheese!
P3: (blushing still from her secret love for polka having been devulged) I’m so not saying cheese. Saying cheese was sooo yesterday.
P1: You silly goose! Well you two just look so adorable! This is going to be framed!

And of course, you can’t forget the World War 3 family reunions – the kind where people compare their kids so much that they end up despising each other before even learning one another’s name:

Person 1 (Smiling ingenuinely): Hiiiiiiiii. Have you met my son Jason?
Person 2 (Also flashing a fake smile): I don’t believe I have. And THIS is my son Matthew.
P1: Hi Matthew. Well Jason here has just started college at Princeton. He has so many scholarships, we’ve lost count! Ha-ha. Isn’t that just a riot?
P2: Well MATT here is at Harvard and he graduated high school with so many
Advanced Placement classes that he will only need to be in college for three years! He is majoring in business management and communications.
P1: That’s great. That’s great. Did I mention Jason’s scholarships?
P2: You did, you did. Good job, Jason. You are probably almost as smart as my
Matthew!
P1: Did you just say almost? How rude!
P2: I am just speaking the truth. My son is extraordinarily bright. It must run in the family! I, too, was a star student.
P1: It was very nice meeting you. But I’d like to go and talk to somebody who
will actually appreciate my Jason’s wonderful gifts and talents!
P2: You are just a funny one, aren’t you? You know, I don’t even care to know how we are related now. You are very rude and are a conceited show-off. My poor Matthew should not have to be treated this way after all the hard work he has gone through to reach the success he has now – have a nice time at the reunion. Bye-bye.

Of course, by no means am I saying that ALL family reunions consist of exchanges such as the examples above. But perhaps some of you have experienced conversations similar to these… or not. Either way, it is easy to see that family reunions are unique experiences, quite unlike any other function, no matter what sort of family is involved!

For Shane

Today has been surreal in that our good family friend, Shane Hansell, passed away yesterday.  There was a rainbow right around the time he left.
A lot can be said about Shane Hansell as a human being.  Isn't that true of all cancer sufferers?  Why is it that the most pure-hearted, selfless people are the ones who seem to be afflicted by this disease?
Early this morning when I learned of Shane's death, I was so angry and upset.  I questioned God's existence and I wanted to scream at the universe.  Why does this happen to people like Shane; why do some of the dregs of humanity deserve to stay on this earth instead of Shane?

I've had the day to process this and I'm working on turning the anger into gratitude.  Anyway, it's important to think of the positive points:

-Shane had three very wonderful children.  I've known Travis since 6th grade - not very well, but we were in a lot of classes together - and I know that he got a lot of his good qualities from his father.  Allie is a beautiful, smart girl who has been an amazing mother to her little son, Anthony.  And Reid - he's 16, just a year younger than my brother.  Reid and John (my brother) are best friends, and have been best friends for about ten years.

-Shane was like a father to my brother.  We don't have a father figure in our household; that's okay, but a boy probably could use a male role model from time to time.  Shane held that role for John more than just time to time; he genuinely was a constant and amazing man for John to learn from and look up to.  John was at their house all the time; he learned from Shane's words and actions, and I believe that he is a better person because of Shane.  Maybe he doesn't know it yet, but he'll realize that when he's older.

-Shane was honestly, from an outsider's perspective, anyway, one of the most loving, compassionate, selfless husbands I ever knew.  He treated his wife, Julie, with so much care and respect.  I see so many marriages (not the new ones, but the ones that have lasted for a couple decades or more) filled with tension, coldness, and forced love.  From what I could tell, Shane had nothing but honest love for Julie (and vice-versa.)

-He had a kidney removed in 1992 due to cancer.  He got a lot better, and he was fine for many years.  In 2006, cancer found him again, and he had his second kidney removed and was put on dialysis.  That was six years ago; he said that he wanted to see his youngest son (Reid) turn 16.  Sure enough, he fought hard - he was angry and frustrated and determined - and he made it.  He saw his son turn 16, and he also recently visited Travis (the oldest) in Colorado.  He did everything he could to be there for as long as he could for his family.

Shane, you have one of the purest souls of anyone I've been privileged to meet.  Your family and friends love and miss you, but we'll focus on the fact that we're all so fortunate to have had you in our lives.  I cannot even begin to imagine or comprehend how Julie and your three kids and your grandson must feel.  Take care of them.

Depression: Is it real?

Depression seems paralyzing.  I haven't experienced it myself (I'm talking about internal depression, the disorder, not just life-altering sadness caused only by external forces.)  I only mention this (not in the way that there are people who immediately say, "But I'm not gay!" when talking about LGBT-related issues, or something to that effect) because I want to preface this rant/opinion/thought/whatever it is with the fact that I have no personal, first-hand knowledge of clinical depression.  But I feel compelled to write something about it right now.

The topic is on my mind because I overheard two women at work today in the coffee room talking about the fact that "depression" is fiction, made up, and completely concocted by one's intent to receive pity or to give excuses as to why they're not living a fully functional, productive life.  WHY did I not speak up?  I have no idea!  Because I didn't let out my annoyance there, some stupid blog is where I'll express it.  I'm pretty sure I used to subconsciously have a slightly negative opinion of depression until I actually knew people who suffered from it.  It is so real.  I imagine it to be like this: you know how we all have those periods in our life (it could be days or even as long as years) when it seems like we're staring through a tiny window (I know, the term "tunnel vision" would've sufficed to explain that) and we're completely in this restrictive zone where we feel emotionally or physically or mentally trapped.  I look at depression as being a long-term (or maybe depression can be very short-term) state of that.

That's all I really have to say on the matter.  It is demoralizing as humans to demoralize others for something that is completely unrelatable (is that a word?) It's like that phrase, "Seeing is believing" - I guess it takes seeing to understand something, and I get that.  But it's a good goal to reach, in my opinion, to not only believe in what we see, but to trust that millions of people wouldn't make something up.

(photo borrowed from mummydaze)

In America seeking the real American Dream... or not

The American Dream... what does it all mean?

Yesterday, I received a phone call from my temp agency while I was at work.  Although we're not allowed to use our phones in the room where we work, I always have mine nearby and on vibrate in case it is a phone call I need to answer.  Being that this call was from the temp agency through which I have my current employment, I thought I'd better leave the room to speak to them.  I answered, and the conversation was as follows:

Me: Hello?
Temp. Agency Employment Counselor (i.e. TAEC for the rest of this post): "Hi, Alia, this is Persephone (name changed for sake of my internet reputation) from XYZ Temp Agency.  I'm just calling to let you know that I forgot to have you sign two sheets of paper, so I'm gonna need you to come in sometime soon and sign those.  Are you able to stop by today and do that?"
Me: Actually, as it happens, I'm working right now.
TAEC: Oh, right, you're working for ____.  Well, what we could do is have you come in at 6 in the morning tomorrow; the office opens at 6 and there will be someone here.
Me: Actually, could we do this by mail or by email?  It would be pretty hard for me to get from my town to where your office is located, and make it to work on time, all while during rush hour.
TAEC: Nah, we're gonna have to have you do it in person.  It'll take 2 seconds, and if you could just swing by, that would be great.  They're your payroll forms so they're really important, and we're gonna need those signatures on there, 'kay?
Me: (too surprised by the fact that this conversation seems at all logical to TAEC to respond) Alright, I'll see what I can do.  Thanks.

I sat at my desk, angry and completely stunned.  It's not simply the fact that I was going to have to wake up at five in order to correct a mistake that I was not responsible for.  That's a first-world, tiny problem in the grand scheme of things.  It would not be much of a hardship at all to drink some extra black water/caffeine combination that our bodies run on like gasoline, get into my car with the heater on to envelop myself in a contained environment shielding me from the morning cold, and barrel down the highway to a rectangular office building to lift my hand and sign my name.  I could handle that; I would not die.  No, it was, of course, the principle of the matter that angered me.  How is it that a salaried, full-time employee at a multi-million corporation can make a mistake, and then treat the hourly-waged pawn piece of a temp, the one working for the client, that way?  How was it my responsibility to drive (at least!) an hour and a half to put my signature on these forgotten forms?  Because I have been in a grim state as of late, due to many factors, I dramatized the situation in my head, resulting in thoughts about our country and the growing normalcy of temp agencies.  After about half an hour of working while seething, I called the agency back.  The conversation:

Lady at Front Desk (LFD): Good morning, you've reached ______; this is Janice (rather than use her actual name, I'll use the name I gave the voice of my GPS), how may I help you?
Me: (explained the previous conversation with Persephone) So, I was wondering who I should contact to request compensation for my time and for the gas.
LFD: What's your name?
Me: (spelled out my name)  Are you sure it isn't possible to do this by mail?
LFD: Oh, I see you live in the town of R and work in the town of P.  Correct?
Me: Yes.  And with rush hour traffic, it would be nearly impossible to make it to work in time.
LFD: Well, unfortunately we cannot offer you compensation.  What we can do is send you to another one of our offices that is on the way from your town of R. to the town of P.  Would that work for you?  I can speak with them to make sure someone will be there before your working hours, and we'll get back to you later today.
Me: Sure, that is definitely more manageable.  I appreciate your help!

A few hours later, I hadn't heard back, so during one of our breaks, I called, and Persephone answered.  She said that she had been "given the information," and would be in touch with me shortly.

Work ended, and I checked my voice mail.  After Persephone, Janice, and whoever else got involved in this Complicated Form Signing Matter had had the day to mull over this issue, the message on my voice mail from Persephone was as follows (I still have the message, so here's a pretty accurate transcription):
Hi this is Persephone from _____.  I'm just calling - um, just wanna follow up with you.  I'm gonna mail those forms that you have to sign.  I'm gonna mail them to you.  I'm gonna put my card in the envelope, so when you sign them, just shoot em back and mail them back to me and we'll be good to go.  If you have any questions, just call _________.  Thank you.  Bye."

No, none of this is truly the American Dream.  Who is actually happy to be living this scenario?  It's not the American Dream for someone spending half a day figuring out the logic of using the postal service to fix their mistake.  However, the American Dream as we know it is actually, in reality, quite unhappy (2.5 children - come on, half a child would not be ideal now, would it?, a large house that we hardly are in to enjoy, a one man and one woman family, 50% of the time resulting in divorce, one automobile per person, a safe, 8-hour job in an air-conditioned, clean office, being protected by a health insurance company that, in fact, makes its money off of denying the "care" it promises) is rapidly resulting in millions of people finding themselves dependent on a third party to ease their financial stress.  The temp agency, as I have discovered from many conversations since returning from the Peace Corps, is becoming the way to financial stability for so many people.  Companies love temps; they get work done cheaply without needing to provide benefits.

The American Dream has taken a small handful of our population far, setting them at the top.  At risk of sounding like a bitter 20-something-year-old hipster: Corporations are eating us alive right now.  They didn't necessarily in the past, not to this degree.  But now, our population is larger, corporations are more resource-consuming yet not paying the taxes that would replenish those resources they use (need examples?  I can write a list, but not here - I should at least attempt to stay on topic), and we're becoming more and more dependent on the mercy of said corporations, such as temporary agencies, to survive.  And, slowly but surely, people equal chess pieces in the large-scale, patriarchal family of a nation that we are.

(Oh, and for the record, today was my last day working with this temp agency; therefore, I do not mind putting this post up right now.)

A sheephuman in Times Square

For the last three months, I lived in New York City with a cousin of mine. Inspired by a human wearing a unicorn mask walking around an ordinary, urban setting (I think I saw it on YouTube), I decided to grace Times Square one night with my sheep/human presence.

Johnny, are you out there?

You have two sisters and a brother; I'm your sister in America. I'm 27, and you're around 35. All I know about you, besides your approximate age, is that your name is "Johnny" (maybe Johann?), you're from Germany, and your mother's name is Margarita (although, I don't know how she spells it.) She also has red hair.
So... maybe someday you'll Google the name Fawaz Khusaifan (or Khesaifan, or Khisaifan, or Alkhusaifan) out of curiosity, and you'll see this. I don't know him, and our sister barely knows him anymore. He doesn't seem to want anything to do with his children, and that's his loss. But the siblings should know each other.
This is pretty personal information, I know, but I decided to write something that the whole internet would have access to, cause you never know, right? :)

India: walk it out

On December 1st, I finished Peace Corps and headed to India for eight days. One of my best friends, Heidi, is doing an internship at the Sangam World Center in Pune, about four hours from Mumbai. To try to describe those eight days is going to be tough (I keep putting off this blog because of that), but I'll do my best.

The December heat in India was unlike any other type of hot climate I had ever felt. I've been in a few hot climates before: Florida, southern California, and Israel, but the heat of those places feels a lot different. Although it wasn't summer, I now understand the term "Indian summer." It's this spicy kind of hot there - you are immediately enveloped in heat through all your senses - the smells of the air, exhaust, food, and most of all, people, hit you right away. There are SO many people - yes, it is a well-known fact that India is home to 1.3 billion people, but it is a different story when actually there. That is when you see HOW that population is possible in one country - there seemed to be a person within a foot (or less) of me in every direction I turned, at all times.

And there is so much color! There are the green palm trees, the tan baboons on the side of the streets, the multi-colored saris or kurtas or scarves on almost all of the women, fruit stands, painted vehicles, painted walls, flowers, dirt, puddles, cars, rickshaws, horses, motorcycles of all colors (motorcycles and rickshaws are the main vehicles that take up the streets), brown skin, black hair, henna, bright signs.



After leaving my bandura (my Ukrainian instrument - a gift from my school at the end of my Peace Corps service) with a woman outside of the airport to be put into storage for the week, I saw my name on a sign among all the people waiting for the recent arrivals. I got in the car and we started the drive to Pune, a city four hours from Mumbai, where I flew into. On the way, that's where I saw the baboons, and I saw cliffs, new kinds of trees, hills, and the dark blue Arabian Sea. I forced myself to stay awake for most of the drive so I wouldn't miss anything.

PUNE
We got to Pune in the evening, the city that I stayed in for the first few days, and the driver asked rickshaw drivers, motorcycle drivers, shopkeepers, and pedestrians for "bes Alandi? Bes Alandi?" We were trying to find the Sangam World Center where my friend works, on Alandi Road. After maybe 45 minutes, we found it; the gate guard let us drive up to the door of the center, and after paying the driver and walking toward the door, I could already hear Heidi's voice. Yep, same Heidi as always. :) I was relieved to see (or hear) that. After our loud, screaming, hugging reunion (in front of about ten people), Heidi got out a bunch of food from the fridge and I got to have my first curry in over two years. The spices were perfect, although a shock to my system after more than two years of a Ukrainian diet (actually, we'd had Indian food on the airplane on the way to Mumbai, so my body was already hating me while my taste buds were loving me.) Eating Indian food in India is spectacular.

So, after the rice, curry, naan and salad, we went to the doctor for Heidi to have her ear looked at. Heidi's friend (now my friend too) Hayley came too. The doctor's office is in a tiny little house a couple blocks away, with a small divider between the waiting benches and the table where the doctor sat, talking to the patients. For 60 Rupees, Heidi had her ear looked at and was prescribed several medications for what may have been an ear infection or just a blocked ear, which we were able to get at the pharmacy across the highway. The reason I'm even including the doctor's visit in the blog is that this is the first time (other than when I lived in Japan as a child) that I have been stared at/ been admired/have caused fascination or curiosity simply because of my skin color. It was a really interesting feeling, and I think I was more surprised by the realization that I had never really experienced that (I don't count the years in Japan, since I was too young to understand why people were always looking at me) than by the fact that people were staring at me. A father kept nudging and whispering to his 3-year-old son to approach me; a woman with a baby sat, beaming at me non-stop; people passing the office on the street looked in and said hello and wanted to touch my hand.

After getting back to Sangam, Heidi and I sat out in the December heat (that sounds like such an oxymoron to this Minnesotan!) in the garden on the big wooden swing with our lime soda and gulab jamun from the sweet shop - conveniently next to the doctor's office - until around midnight.

The next day I went for a walk with Heidi to accompany her on some errands, we met up with Saga (who also works in Pune); we stopped at a coconut stand, then back to Sangam, started Heidi's scrapbook, had chai several times, and then Hayley, Heidi and I went to the tailor to pick up Heidi's finished dress. Heidi set herself on fire not too long ago, ruining one of her favorite saris. So her solution was to take the material to the tailor, who rescued the non-burned part and now the sari has been morphed into a dress for Heidi. I bought a pretty brown kurta, put it on at some point (or maybe not - I can't remember), and then we made a night of it and went to an amazing restaurant. We had lamb and chicken and a lot of types of bread and rice. The chocolate restaurant nearby couldn't be neglected, so we drank various hot and cold chocolate beverages out of "Love Me" and "Hold Me" cups. It was a good day.




After eight of the best hours of sleep I had had in a very long time, the next morning and afternoon was filled with food, scrapbooking, relaxing in the garden, a rickshaw ride to the main street in Pune, getting tempted at the mall by fish pedicures, though not doing it (but hey, if I ever get a pedicure in my life, it'd better involve fish sucking on my feet), an amazing, crowded, vibrant open-air cafe with more spicy, amazing, perfect food, and above all, people, rickshaws, and motorcycles everywhere.

Back at Sangam, my debit card decided not to work for some reason, but in the end I'm glad it didn't, because it got me out of the building (alone) and I walked around that area of the city for quite some time looking for an ATM and really getting more of a feel of where I was. I stopped at the same coconut stand; she remembered me and I was blown away by her beaming smile - such a welcoming sight. Although I love Ukraine with all my heart and am super patriotic to it now, anyone who has spent time there will understand that it was extremely refreshing to be in the midst of smiling strangers when I went to India.
That night began the epic journey to begin what would be an unforgettable few days in Amritsar.

We took our rickshaws to the airport (by this point I was getting used to rickshaws but I still think they're fun, no matter how many times I go on them), and our flight to Dehli was just a couple hours. We had a few hours to wait at the Dehli train station before our train to Amritsar, so we played Flux, and then I found Masala Cheetos and we joined the party out on our train platform for about an hour. I caught a really bad cold at some point that night, but other than that, the train ride was really comfortable. It was like platzkart in Ukraine but with three bunks on each side. And the bed was already made! At least mine was, because I think someone had just been sleeping in it, but that didn't bother me - I slept well other than the occasional being woken up by my newly dripping face.

Refreshed and hungry the next morning, we got off the train in Amritsar and found some rice and daal and naan. After satisfying our breakfast needs, we got a rickshaw to the gated community in which our Couchsurfing host lived. Jolly was an amazing host; we had a great room in his beautiful house - he was really helpful when we had questions about how to get places, what to do in Amritsar, etc.

AMRITSAR
The city itself of Amritsar - in the Punjabi state - is surprisingly small (geographically, and the population is only 1.2 million), compared to what I had pictured. But the famous Golden Temple is right there in Amritsar, where thousands of people take pilgramages to every day. The Sikh faith is something that I'm really happy to have learned more about while there. The main value is that "a service to God is a service to humanity." An extremely open, accepting religion, it's impossible not to feel completely comfortable in the presence of such a place.

Before going to the Golden Temple, we stopped at the nearby Jallianwala Bagh, a memorial site, explained here:






And then we went to the temple. Needless to say, seeing the temple in person is a surreal and amazing experience. It is about 250 years old and millions of people have touched it, walked on it, swum in the water, and slept on the ground; however, because there are so many thousands of willing volunteers, the floors are always scrubbed, the surfaces polished, and every day, the whole place is immaculate.





We caught a rickshaw back that night and the next morning, we had chai with our hosts and then went back into town. That day we were all excited because we were going to the Pakistani border, in the village of Wagah; the ceremony can be read about here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wagah

We got into the city at around eleven, and we decided to have breakfast and then look around the city some more until we headed for the border (about an hour away.) After being followed into a cafe by a man very aggressively wanting to sell us tickets to the Wagah border (he even stayed for about 15 minutes, sitting at the table next to us without ordering anything), the three of us determined that we needed to start enforcing our "walk it out" policy more.
(West Side Walk It Out
South Side Walk It Out
East Side Walk It Out
North Side Walk It Out)
Anyway, after talking about various methods of "walking it out" after we were finished with our breakfast - the bearded man in white had finally left the cafe but stayed right outside the door, waiting for us to come out - we successfully did it. We went out the door, turned right, and walked it out like like pros. We bought tickets to the border from another man who was very kind and polite, and we were told to meet the group at 3. So, we had a couple of hours to kill, which we did with stellar killing-time skills.

At 3, we met with the rest of the group going to the border. Waiting with the group, the bearded man in white spotted us and started shouting at the people who were in charge of our tour. As he was yelling in Punjab, I can only use contextual logic to make a (pretty sure) guess that he was expressing his displeasure that the new guys had "stolen" his customers. I'm not completely sure, but it was pretty awkward for a second.

Driving to the border, after I was instructed not to sit in the back of the Jeep with Heidi and Hayley for some reason, we listened to amazing music while marveling at the slice of the Punjabi region we were getting to see whizzing by. Once we arrived in Wagah and parked near some colorful semi-trucks, we walked a couple kilometers to the border ceremony. As we approached the ceremony, I felt as if I was arriving at a huge, important sporting event, a concert, or something else equally expectedly exciting... but in this case, it was a border ceremony that is held every single day at the same time. And it appears that every day is just as amazing as the day before. I'm so grateful that I had this experience - it was unforgettable.








The "VIP" section was for us foreigners; we were in bleachers of our own, separate from the Indian nationals. Heidi, Hayley and I agreed that it would have been an even cooler experience to be in the crowd with those from India, because there was such a love for their country felt throughout the crowd; there was a lot of enthusiasm and it would have been fun to be in the middle of that feeling.

After the ceremony was over, we posed in some photos with more people who requested it (if single men asked for them, we said no; families or little kids, sure.) Hayley purchased an informational DVD from a guy on our way out. A few minutes later, a boy (maybe 13 years old) asked Hayley over and over to purchase one of HIS DVDs at a higher price, because there was English in it (Hayley just wanted the Hindi one that she had already bought), but after about five minutes of the convincing 13-year-old's marketing skills, Hayley was about ready to buy an English DVD from him. Before she had the chance to say "ok, sure, fine," a middle-aged man passing by us grabbed the boy, smacked him and shoved him back, and told him to leave us alone. We felt really guilty, but I guess that's a normal occurrence; the cultural nuances of India are very intriguing to those who aren't from there.

Back to Amritsar we went.



We got to the Golden Temple again that evening, ready to walk around it more and eventually head to the Free Kitchen for dinner. The Free Kitchen was a memorable, great moment. There were hundreds of people in a large room; we all sat next to each other in a line on the floor and volunteers walked around distributing bread, daal, water, and rice pudding. Outside of the large hall were about 5 dozen people sitting around gigantic containers or piles of onions, potatoes, peppers, and other foods, dicing, slicing, cubing, and washing them, preparing for the steady supply of visitors to the Free Kitchen.


After our dinner, we walked around the temple, sat near the temple, went inside the temple, and explored the surrounding buildings. While sitting in a building near a guru reading the sacred book, a 12-year-old boy slowly walked past us, obviously interested in being acquainted. So, I said hello, and he was extremely friendly, well-spoken, and adorable. We talked to him for a few minutes, and then we went back outside. About five minutes later, the boy came running up, with handfuls of suji halwa, the sweet cream of wheat-type food eaten by everyone after a visit to the temple. He wanted to make sure we had gotten some; we ate and talked with him for a few minutes, and then he ran away again. We were commenting on how adorable the kid was and how we wanted to ask him more questions about the Sikh religion, which he had started telling us about. After about ten minutes, he reappeared, this time with his older sister (about our age), his grandmother, and parents. We talked to him for at least an hour then, really amazed by his composure, his good English, and his sense of humor. The family would have been really great to stay in touch with; I regret that we didn't exchange email addresses.

Sitting near us was Nov Joti, a man around our age who had come to the temple alone. We then talked with him for quite awhile, and learned a lot of very good information about the Sikh religion and what it is all about. He has just finished his final exams in dentistry, and hopes to work abroad for awhile where dentists are well respected. Nov is the one who told us about the importance that the Sikhs place on putting humanity before anything else; they believe that God wants, above all else, human rights, mutual respect, and dignity on this world.
The hair on a person's head is considered sacred, and should not be cut; that is why men and women often have very long hair. Men keep it coiled on their head with the turban to keep it up. The turban has many other purposes/a lot of history, which can be read about here:
http://fateh.sikhnet.com/s/WhyTurbans

We had to pull ourselves away from the temple and the cool people we met, since it was close to midnight by then, and once we got our shoes and found a rickshaw, we were on our way. The driver wasn't familiar with the exact place we were going, but he stopped along the way to ask shopkeepers and passerby, and we were going the right direction. The turn to the gate approached, and one of us said, "Ok, turn here" but probably too late (plus, the rickshaw was very close to the curb); the vehicle didn't slow down (it was probably going at round 50 mph), and while turning, the rickshaw hit a rock on the side of the road. We started bouncing, and all of us hit our heads hard, and before we knew it, we were all screaming while the rickshaw was tipping over. My first thought was, "Oh no, Hayley is going to be really hurt" because she was the one who fell first, followed by Heidi on top of her, and me on top of Heidi. I probably lost consciousness for 5 seconds, and when I realized what was happening, there were men who seemed to appear out of nowhere, standing next to the rickshaw and telling us they would help us out of the rickshaw. Somehow, Hayley and Heidi were both okay (no more than just a little blood, some bumps, and shock); I was unsurprisingly okay too, being that no one had fallen on top of me. We all stood up after about 30 seconds, and the poor driver was near tears, he was so worried. He kept saying, "Madam, please, are you okay?" Somehow, although we were all in a state of shock, Hayley managed to have the sense to call Jolly (our host) and let him know what had happened. After we got out of the rickshaw finally and gathered our things, the driver walked us across the road to the gate and told the guard what had happened. While we were walking toward the gate I heard the rickshaw being started up again by one of the guys who had come to help us - it started running fine! Those things are tough.
Hayley paid the driver and we all reassured him we were okay (I asked him several times if he was okay but he wasn't showing any concern for himself); he was still shaking and looked really upset as he walked away. I felt really awful for him and I hope he's okay.

So, we walked it out after the rickshaw accident; we were fine.

Although I can't compare this to an actual car accident (usually those are going a lot more quickly and there is glass involved, which there wasn't in the rickshaw), I now know what the after-shock feels like. First I cried for about 10 seconds, then I started shaking, then I started freezing (I was cold for about half the night and couldn't stop trembling.) It's strange how a body physically reacts to something like that. All of us complained about the same stuff - bad headaches, aching necks, legs, and shoulder blades. But above all, we kept repeating over and over how amazing it was that none of us had serious injuries. We all definitely had concussions - to be discovered the next day - but besides that, we really had nothing to worry about. We fell asleep at some point that night, and in the morning we all woke up with headaches, and after showers and getting dressed, we of course got back in a rickshaw and went back into town.

Hayley's necklace/earring set that she had bought early in the day survived. She had left it at the jalabis stand, unknowingly, and we did some backtracking to places we had been, and were unsuccessful. But when we went back to the tea stand, which is next to the jalabis stand, the jalabis people handed Hayley her little plastic bag with the necklace/earrings and said, "I think you have left your luggage here." And then it survived the rickshaw accident. So Hayley was meant to have those. :)

That day was really nice; we were all in the same state (we were all kind of nauseous, dazed, and exhausted) so we took it easy. Hayley's doctor friend told us over the phone to just keep hydrated and not to do anything stupid, basically. Our tea man and our jalabis man kept us company for a little while; then we went to some Hindu temples.




There is a Hindu temple with an indescribable interior. We didn't take pictures inside; however, I'll attempt right now to find something on the internet...

Here we go:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jay_malya1618/6079438440/

It was like a maze, with low staircases, a few tunnels, narrow passageways, and mirrored tiles on every visible surface.

This is the other one; we got there just in time, before the temple went to sleep for the afternoon.



We then went to a nice restaurant; I wasn't hungry, which was unfortunate, because the food was amazing. I made myself eat some of the lamb and chicken, though; we were all still in a daze and not feeling so well. There was some sari shopping sometime during the day, as well as drinking more chai. We got henna on our hands from some guys on the street; they were incredible. A girl was making an appointment to get all of her wedding henna done there, so we knew they must be good. Our henna dried on the rickshaw ride home.



Then, we went to bed, woke up at 4, and were on our way to the train station to get back to Dehli to get our flights back to Mumbai (in my case)/Pune.

At the Dehli train station, we sat on the floor minding our own business; however, a lot of people wanted to talk to us, take our pictures from a distance, or simply stare at us. It didn't bother us much at first, but one of the guards (carrying a large wooden stick) was not having it. He shooed away people, keeping his eyes on us and making menacing faces at people who tried to mess with us or even look at us. It was really funny but also intimidating! We definitely felt well protected, even if we weren't feeling the need for it. A boy took a photo of us on his phone, and the guard waved his stick at him and yelled, sending the boy and his group out the door of the main hall.

One train fight (a disagreement between two men about assigned seats), several hours of sleep, and a rickshaw ride to the Dehli airport later, our trip had come to its end.

When I got to the Mumbai airport, it was time to track down my bandura. First, I asked the info desk to direct me to the left luggage area. They sent me to the counter, which had closed an hour before. I left the building (which I guess I wasn't supposed to do) and asked a security guard how I could get a hold of the luggage storage people. He told me to go back inside and wait for someone to show up, which didn't happen for about half an hour. Eventually an Indian guy came up to the counter looking for his lost ID - I was happy about that because he could call the phone number listed at the counter (cause he had a phone and also cause be speaks Hindi, which helped the situation); he didn't have time to wait for long though, so he didn't get his ID unfortunately. But eventually a man came to the counter; when I described my bandura, he looked very perplexed, sprinted off for ten minutes, came back sweating, and said that I was in the wrong terminal.

This was an hour after I had started my mission of finding my bandura, and my flight to the States was in about two hours. I started getting a little worried. But the man was extremely helpful - he rushed me through luggage screening and out the door to the bus that would take me to the international terminal. Once I got to the other terminal, I got in line to get my passport checked, allowing me into the airport. I thought the left luggage counter would be inside there, just as it had been inside the other terminal. No, I was mistaken; after waiting for 15 minutes in line, I had to get out of line and run to another part of the terminal, down an elevator (I asked people along the way - it was like a scavenger hunt), out the door to a place with taxi drivers, and I found a security guard, asked him, got pointed to another security guard, and finally found someone who knew. The security guard who knew what I was talking about didn't even do anything, and this other guy out of nowhere appeared, saying, "Oh, madam, it's you. I got a phone call about you." We rushed down an alley, into a storage room, where I hugged my bandura and thanked the man. Then, he walked with me all the way back to where I had started (where I needed to check in.) I got through check in/check my luggage pretty quickly, and even had about half an hour to spare before boarding.

At my layover in London, I had about 20 minutes between getting off the plane and boarding the next one (due to our flight landing late); I went up to an employee and asked if I could go through the express security. She said to get in the back of the line and that she couldn't help me unless one of her colleagues came with me and "allowed" me to get through. So, in my ultra polite way, I jumped the line, apologizing to everyone, got an employee to help me, and ran to my next gate; the gate closed at 8:10 am, and I got there at 8:11. They let me on the flight and we took off very soon after.

THAT flight got to New York late; I had to go through customs, pick up my luggage, and then switch from JFK airport to LaGuardia airport for my flight to Minneapolis. By that time, I was exhausted and just wanted to be home. I got through customs within half an hour, then asked a woman if I needed to pick up my luggage despite being told at the beginning that it would go straight through to Minneapolis. She said, "Um, we don't clear your luggage through customs for you, so yeah, you need to pick up your luggage right now." So I waited for ten minutes or so, saw that all the luggage was there (but didn't see mine), so I basically just said "forget it" and went to LaGuardia. By then it was something like 1:15 pm and my flight was at 2:25 pm. The shuttle to LaGuardia took a good 45 minutes; I got to LaGuardia at 2, and somehow made it onto the (tiniest ever) airplane to Minneapolis. There were only 20 passengers; my bandura got to ride under a seat in first class. The flight attendant's sister was about to go to Ukraine on a mission trip. It was a good relaxing flight.

Hello Minneapolis!



Thank you Nancy for this amazing welcome home cake! She had it delivered overnight, fresh, from New Orleans in time for my coming home.



Finally in Minneapolis with my mom and brother (who I hadn't seen in over two years - he's so tall!), I filed my luggage claim, came home, ate Cajun cake from my mom's cousin Nancy, and crashed (oh, and my luggage was delivered to our house at midnight two days later - yay!)

My leg is still numb, my stomach's still recovering, and I'm only just now fully getting over my jet lag. But none of that stuff matters at all - the only thing I can think about when I think of India is that I need to go back.