a day in the life

I’m just going to recount some of my memories from the past few days, so that I don’t lose track of them…so much happens all the time, and each day feels like years, I’m afraid I’ll forget all of my adventures if I don’t transcribe a few of them.
Jenine and I have been going fabric shopping, and we’ve found some incredible patterns and colors. My favorites are the cobalt blues, and I’ve gotten various kinds of Indian pants made. The markets are a bustle of activity, everyone screaming out their wares and trying to beckon you in…you know you will be ripped off, but at the same time, you marvel at how cheap everything is, and how beautiful. It always surprises me that, in a culture with so much ugliness and hardship, they have such gorgeous textiles and crafts. The markets also have a darker side though, because it is the perfect place for beggars to harass you. And at least for me, it always works, because I already feel selfish to be spending money on materialist goods when these people are hungry. The last time Jenine and I went, we were running around madly because we were late, and this old woman kept grabbing at us. Your initial instinct is abhorrent, because the beggars are dirty and they come too close and they tug at your clothing or your purse…but Jenine paused amist all the flurry and hurrying, and saw that the old woman was hungry. It is a good policy to never give money, because it might go to a slum lord or be used for drugs, but instead to provide food. We took the old woman to the adjacent store, and got her some daal. She was so thankful, and grasped our hands and touched her forehead and then her heart, and then each of ours. She had such a kind and gentle face, I think she might have been a little crazed, but in such a sweet way. She had drawn and wrinkled skin, which looked almost burnished over her high and sunken cheekbones, and the most merry and dancing eyes. She had only two teeth, which I got to see a lot because she was smiling all the time. I’ll never forget the feeling of her callused hands grabbing my face and pulling me towards her, looking into my eyes and saying something in Bangla about how she was thankful. The store owners brought us coffee, but it tasted like lead in my mouth, because I knew that she probably hadn’t had a hot cup of coffee in ages, so I gave it to her instead. She was so tickled to be able to sit at the table in the store with us, instead of being shooed out like trash. By this time, we had attracted quite a crowd (two Western women and a beggar, communicating with wide gestures and the barest minimum of verbal language), and a lot of the street children were looking longingly at us. We went to get them biscuits and mango juice, and as Jenine was in the store paying for it, this security guard came over and tried to scatter the children. I guess he thought they were pestering us, but he was so violent—he hit this little boy so hard with a stick that I thought the child’s arm was broken. I cried out and covered the kids with my arms, and then the man desisted and stormed off, probably cursing us in Bangla. Jenine came back out, and although the kids were frightened still, they were happy about what we gave them. There was also a man with a hunchback, which I’d never seen before. It was difficult to look at, because he was significantly shorter than me and had a perfect triangle made out of his spine, which seemed like a shiny mountain protruding from where the contours of his body should have stopped…we gave him some money too, because Jenine said it is okay to give to the disabled adults, as they cannot find work. Then, we rushed off to grab a CNG and finally escaped the maelstrom of humanity and smells and emotions and sensations…I feel so overwhelmed sometimes, I just want to cry. But we finally found solace, because we were headed to a poetry reading given by one of the other teachers, Victoria. It was a 36 page epic poem that she and another friend had written collaboratively, and it was absolutely stunning. I listened with my eyes closed in the lotus position, feeling the hard cold ground and the wet sticky air of the room, using it as a guided meditation and letting her words wash over me and cleanse me. The reading was held at a little store called Bishaud Bangla, an oasis of culture and aesthetics and arts…the man who runs the store is so courteous and kind, you can see his appreciation for beauty in his eyes, and the softness of his voice and the distinguished look of his salt and pepper beard, which doesn’t hide the smile lines creasing his cheeks. They sell handmade crafts of all varieties, and it’s also the best bookstore in all of Chittagong. After the poetry reading, we returned back to the university and had a good time hanging out all together and laughing and talking.
The next night was the teacher party, which was quite fun. It was held on the rooftop of the Peninsula hotel, the only nice hotel and bar in all of Chittagong. We had a good dinner, and swam in the pool on the roof, which is fifteen stories high and one of the tallest buildings. But, it was also hard to enjoy, because I kept thinking how opulent and selfish it was to spend the money for a party, when those funds should have been allocated for fire safety or something instead…
Then yesterday, which was the next day, I visited a Hindu temple with one of the students, and that was really interesting; I got some great photographs. After that, I went to visit the slum school, and took more great pictures…the kids are absolutely fascinated by my camera, and it seems to be the best way to bridge language barriers and play with kids regardless of age or culture. They kept shoving each other out of the way, trying to get individual pictures of themselves, but all the kids would cram themselves into the line of my lens and get so close to the camera I almost couldn’t even take a photo. The mothers, most of whom are cleaning staff at the university, are so sweet to me, and they treated me like a celebrity. They also want photographs taken, but they are more respectful about it, even wacking their children’s hands as the kids try to grab my camera. But I love taking photos for them, because they have no family portraits, so its really special for them to have pictures with their kids or of their wizened parents…I took a few pictures of these girls with their grandfather, and a few more of young mothers with their babies. One of the women treated me almost like a kid too, in a very sweet way—she walked over and started yanking at my clothes, straightening my dress and rearranging my orna, and wiping an invisible smudge from my face. I haven’t had that happen to me since I was five years old, and I didn’t stand for it well then either…but I was so surprised, I didn’t mind, because she meant well. All of the teenage girls were adorable too, they kept screaming “ma’am” (we joke that they are like sheep, bleating maaaaaa’aaaaam all the time), and gesturing for me to take pictures with them. They also greeted me by grabbing my face and giving me a kiss on each cheek, which was really endearing. The younger kids get distracted easily, so we bribed them with candy this time to make them sit still instead of rushing towards my camera; that way, I got some nice photos of them actually learning. I can really see how they’ve learned more just in the month that I’ve been here—even their mistakes are cute, because they use “hellohowareyou” as a way of saying they are excited to see you. I am going back every day this week, and also taking pictures of the classes held for the cleaning staff themselves.
Today, I took my first trip outside of the university by myself. I know it seems strange that I’ve been here for over five weeks and never gone outside alone, but it is really rather terrifying and I don’t speak the language and almost no one speaks English. I had to go to the Indian Embassy today to get my visa, and no one could accompany me. I was really nervous about it, especially because the Embassy could only see me at a specific time and I didn’t know where it was and they had guards with guns and a very intense process, but it was actually quite empowering. I will pick up my visa on Wednesday, so it’s all straightened out (after a few visits, because they didn’t tell me what I needed and they got confused as to whether I’m a student or teacher or intern or what). I hailed a rickshaw all on my own, and then went to King’s, the bakery shop. It was really nice to sit with a cup of coffee and a croissant, on my own outside for the first time since I arrived. I didn’t even realize how much I missed being on my own, having freedom and not being afraid to walk outside. I can’t wait to be able to drive to a grocery store and get food I like and that is clean, or go to a CVS and pick up medicine that I know will work. I’m homesick for the crisp smell of autumn and burgundy sweaters and the crunch of leaves and the way golden sunlight slants through Senior Row at Bryn Mawr and hot apple cider and French Onion Soup and my cell phone and the way my new books will crease the first time I open them…I feel guilty for wanting these things, because I look around me here and I know that these people will never get the opportunity to have such luxuries as a latte from Starbucks or an afternoon spent playing with musty manuscripts in the Rare Book room…I am nervous to come home and try to reintegrate into my life with my friends and my relationship and my family…it will seem strange to be within the narrow confines of a classroom again. But at the same time, I have to remember that the Bryn Mawr bubble is really a portal to the rest of the world, and although it feels selfish to spend hours analyzing a Renaissance fresco, I have a renewed confidence that I will use my education to benefit others. The other day, it was almost comical, I tried to give a five minute summary of what the European Renaissance entailed, and who Michelangelo was. Maybe that 300 level seminar with Professor Cast will come in handy…
Most of all, I want to remember what I wrote about in my grant application. The necessity of pairing privilege with responsibility, of vulnerability with compassion, cultural sensitivity while maintaining one’s core beliefs, all contextualized with the tenets of intellectualism and activism.