Welcome (Back) to Freshman Year

The only other afro in Kolkata!

Every Fall, young Black Americans  across the states engage in a very specific “coming of age” ceremony.  A quincenera of sorts – only it is forced on us by the country in which we live, isn’t a whole lot of fun and happens when we turn 18.  It is the experience of going to a college that is not an HBCU and realizing that your mere presence is an event of sheer wonderment.  You are a novelty to many, a figure of ceaseless curiosity to most.

When I was 18 years old, I enrolled at the University of New Orleans, a state school with a good reputation and a handful of students (a child’s handful of professors) who looked like me.  What I remember most about my freshman year at UNO:

1.Whenver I was absent, everyone seemed to notice. (“Hey, why weren’t you in Freshman Comp yesterday?”) When I walked into class, random students would sometimes greet me by retracing every step I had taken on campus within the last 48 hours.   (“I saw you in the University Center right after you left the admissions office.  Did you like the meatloaf that you had for lunch in the cafeteria at 12:54 p.m. when you were sitting by that table closest to the door?”)

2. Because of #1, I often questioned why white students wanted to be my “friend.”  While I have no stories of obnoxious white guys trying to fulfill their black girl fantasies or presumptuous white girls trying to sneak and touch my hair, I do distinctly remember always being able to locate the other black person within 10 seconds of entering any room.  Walking around campus, it became second nature to spot one of us several buildings away and know with absolute certainty that the other black person had spotted me, too.  No words needed to be exchanged once we were within close enough range to verify that Yes, you are “the” event here, too, aren’t you? 

I have thought of that first year at UNO several times since I have been in Kolkata. I am no longer a self-conscious adolescent who finds any untoward look or comment worthy of passionate, vocalized emotion on my part.  I am a 36 year old woman who understands that people’s perceptions of and reactions to me are the issues of those particular people and therefore, must be addressed (or not) by them. 

It is quite interesting to be reliving my freshman year of college as an adult, though.

In Kolkata, random people greet me by retracing my every move.  A few days ago, one of the other guests in my hotel waved at me when we both happened to be at the pool.  “We saw you at the Victoria Memorial,” she beamed.  Really?  I wonder how?  There were HUNDREDS of people at the Memorial on that quiet, breezey Sunday afternoon.  I don’t bother asking this lady how she was able to spot ME out of the masses because this little lady seems to spot me all the time.  At breakfast.  In the gym.  Walking back to the hotel from the school where I am teaching…

The hotel staff does not ask for my room number when I walk in for the breakfast buffet.  They say, “Good morning, Ms. Kendrick.”  They are waiting for me by the time I reach the cafe as they have spotted me as soon as I stepped off the elevator.  At a cocktail party the management threw for its long-term guests, the sales manager casually mentioned, “When I see you in the mornings at breakfast, I want to say hello, but I understand that you are busy and need to run to school, so I just let you eat your egg and toast.”  When was this woman at breakfast?  How does she know I have an egg and toast each morning?  Should I put the lock on my door tonight?

I have not bothered to search the streets of Kolkata for another one like me.  I was here last year; my eyes already understand that they should not waste  time on such fruitless endeavors.  So, imagine my shock when I am at a cultural event and…there is another black lady.  With nappy hair. 

I hear her voice before I actually see her face and the neat rows of bantu knots covering her head.  When the dance troupe finishes its performance and asks the audience if it has questions, I am only partially paying attention when I hear it.  The voice of a black woman.  I crane my neck to get a closer look and am embarrased by the need I have to speak to this woman.  RIGHT NOW.  The need is so great that I suppress the urge to yell across the room, “Have YOU been “the” event everywhere you have gone, too?!”

Once the audience begins to disperse, I do something I did not often do during my freshman year in college. I intentionally go over to the other black person in the room with the conscious awareness that I am going over to the other black person in the room to talk about being the other black person (apparently) in Kolkata.  “Hey, how are you,” I begin.

“We should talk in the hall,” she answers.

And it is in the hall, that we do what our younger selves never thought we had the right to do when we were in college.  After all, we were the inheritants of the spoils of the Civil Rights Movement.  We could not, WOULD NOT sully Dr. King’s dream with admitted feelings of discomfort.  Questions of whether or not realizing the dream was worth these feelings of discomfort. 

“Yes, I am a constant topic of conversation when our group is out,” Iris tells me.  “We were in a temple the other day and some woman actually reached out and grabbed my hair.”

I tell Iris about the school girl who looked at me in utter horror.  She tells me about the rolled eyes and squinched up noses of nearly everyone in the airport when she first landed, her hair in braids.   On a Fulbright Fellowship with 16 other travelers, Iris, too, has had curious Indians try to guess at her country of origin.

“Camaroon?, they say.  South Africa?  Ivory Coast?” I add to the list of random African nations that have been thrown at me by street hawkers trying to get me to “just take look” at their merchandise.

“How long does it usually take them to guess America,” I ask Iris.  We both force an awkward laugh when Iris admits, “I have to tell them.  They never guess America.”  Some look taken aback when we tell them that we were born in the same country as President Barack Obama, the man several of our curious Indian brethern have told us they adore.

We talk a few minutes more about the textbook reasons why we would be so intriguing to the people here.  We joke about that scene in Good Hair when Chris Rock gets on an India-bound plane to figure out where the hell is all of this weave hair coming from and how do weave hair entrepreneurs manage to get enough of it to keep business booming back in the states?

When it is time to leave, Iris turns a bit solemn.  “You know, I have been interested in coming to India for a while now.  I read a lot of travel memoirs and skimmed blogs about this part of the world.”  I already know what she is about to say.

“No one ever writes about this particular India experience.” She looks surprised by this revelation as well as annoyed by it.

I think back to freshman year and how relieved I was when it was over.  How I have only talked about those two semesters of constant visibility a dozen or so times and only when in the company of others who had gone through this bizarre rite of passage. 

“You’re right,” I tell Iris as I head back into the room to join my friends.  “I wonder why.”

I am not a Naughty Girl, Ma’am

No Fun for the Naughty

A kid is a kid is a kid…

It is nice to be reminded of this when I walk into one of the 8th grade classes yesterday afternoon.  The last time I saw this particular class was exactly one week ago and I had taken great care to explain to them that their homework to write one paragraph was due that next time they saw me.  I had the class recite the day I would return to their classroom.  “We will see Keturah Ma’am again on Tuesday,” they all chimed in unison.

Needless to say, when I walked in on Tuesday and asked to see their homework, 15 girls proudly held up their notebooks while the other 30 or so looked around the room or at the floor.  “What?  How is it possible that only 15 of you were responsible enough to do your homework?” I started the standard teacher lecture, only I made this version of it more intense. Although I feigned confusion at why most of the class had not done their homework, I was completely clear on why they hadn’t.  I was the guest teacher who they would only see twice a week for a month so in their little minds it was okay not to take any work I assigned (especially HOMEwork) too seriously.

“This is absolutely unacceptable,” I continued my lecture.  “You still have to work on the days I teach you.  Although you are having fun when I am teaching you, this IS NOT a free period.”

Every American teacher gives this lecture to a room full of students at least once a month.  Every American student sits silently and pretends to pay attention to this lecture.  Occasionally, the goal of the teacher lecture is achieved and the offending slacker(s) is visibly ashamed and might shyly slip the teacher a repentant letter full of empty promises to do better.  Although a kid IS a kid, these Indian kids are…something different altogether. 

Before I  have even reached the pinnacle of my beautifully guilt-ridden speech about how deeply disappointed I am in the class I was beginning to think of as my favorite, a dozen of the students basically begin begging for my forgiveness.

“I am so sorry, Ma’am,” one of them shouts out randomly.  Several girls bellow out their own apologies as well.

“I did do the assignment,” another stands up and pleads for me to listen. “It is just that I forgot my notebook at home.”  When I tell her that this excuse is even worse than if she had not actually done the homework, she looks crestfallen and sinks back into her desk. 

I seperate the girls who have their assignments from the girls who do not.  “I want all of you on this side of the room to get up with your things,” I instruct them with a frown on my face.  “I would like the 15 girls who actually did what they were supposed to do to sit in these vacant seats.  You will have a fun assignment to do while your classmates take up our valuable time by doing their homework.”

This. freaks. the class. out.  I have been teaching for six years.  In a good American school.  I have NEVER seen anything like what I am about to describe to you. 

One girl begins to ferociously scribble in her notebook.  Her little pencil is biting violently into her paper as she calls to me, “Look, Ma’am, I am writing my paragraph.  I am doing it.  See, Ma’am.  I can go to that side of the room now?”  I tell her she can not.  That she must stop scribbling down random words and take her time. “Look back at your graphic organizer,” I respond to her plea with an expressionless face. “I expect to see each idea on that web explained in complete sentences that flow logically together.” 

While I am rebuking this child’s attempt to win my favor, one girl thinks she can “sneak” to the side of the room where the kids who are not in trouble are sitting.  From the corner of my eye, I see her inch her way two seats to the left, all the while keeping an eye on me at the front of the room.

“Where do you think you are going?”  The little sneak freezes and stares blankly at me, as if her brain can not formulate an excuse quick enough.  I swear, this kid reacts as if I were border patrol standing on that tiny bridge that seperates Tijuana from San Diego. 

“Ma’am,” she pleads.  “Please let me sit here on this side. I do not want to be on the side with the naughty girls.  I am not a naughty girl.”

It takes everything in me not to burst into laughter at this point.  This child is willing to sneak to the other side of the room eventhough she will not be allowed to do the fun assignment just to physically disassociate herself with having done something wrong. 

“Get back to your seat.”

“Ma’am, please.  I am so sorry.  Please, Ma’am.”

When I say nothing to her, only point to the Mexico side of the room, she bows her head and slowly slinks back to Tijuana.

 In the two weeks I have taught at Shri Shikshayatan, I have gotten in the habit of carrying with me pencils and pens with the name of my U.S. school written on them.  When someone has made a really good comment or has had the courage to read her work out loud, I have handed her a pencil or pen as a gift.  Today, 15 students get a pencil as they work in small groups on a funny story that incorporates all of the new words I have taught them in these two weeks.

The naughty side of the room shoots their classmates looks that suggest they would hurl themselves across the room, beat these 15 girls down and take their pencils were I not standing in front of them.   For me, this little episode is over.  I have made my point and feel no need to further my chastisement. For some reason, though, I do not think the class feels the same as I do.  A day later when I pass several of the “naughty” girls in the hall, they can not look me in the eye.

These kids are kids.  Just a little bit extra!

Assaults of Sincerity

With Sumeet, our "Good Samaritan"

One of the benefits of traveling abroad is the opportunity to step outside of yourself – your subconscious beliefs, your judgments about the “right” way to do things, your deeply buried prejudices and cynicism – and objectively examine the person your cultural norms have shaped you to be.  Both times I have been to India I have been truly humbled by the level of sincerity in most people’s offers to help.  There is a custom in America that we don’t even realize exists.  It is the custom of insincere offers to “help.”  Empty departing comments to “call you later,” or strained promises to “look out for your friend while she is in town.”  We say, “Sure, I will…” almost as easily as we say “Thank you” and “Good morning.”  We have come to expect the commitments we make to each other to be decoded for what they are: obligatory niceties that neither party truly counts as genuine commitments.

Last night, Sumeet, a 30 year old young professional of modest means, showed up at our hotel and fashioned himself the guardian of our group for almost six hours.  Two weeks ago, neither of us knew Sumeet.  He is a friend of a friend of one of the women here with the program.  When I asked Sumeet, “So, how do you know Mari?,” he nonchalantly replied, “Oh, we have a common friend.  She called me and said, Mari is in Kolkata; take care of her.”  And Sumeet did exactly that.  A young man with a full social life of his own, Sumeet showed up at our hotel the first week we were here just to introduce himself to Mari and take her out to see the city.  Last night, he was back again because we expressed interest in wanting to experience Kolkata night life. “We wanna dance!,” one of us had giggled into Sumeet’s cell phone.

Several hours after this giggled request to merely suggest places for us to go, Sumeet came back to our hotel.  When we told him that Mari was not with us tonight, he didn’t see how that information was relevant.  We wanted to go out and didn’t know our way around.  Therefore, he would come to show us and make sure we got back to our hotel safely.  Sumeet arranged the two cabs to haul us to the restaurant/lounge and upon receiving our bill for dinner, refused to allow any of us to pay it.  Later, when we were in the adjacent nightclub, Sumeet interrupted his own carefree dancing to basically scare off the requisite dudes who show up to clubs to get free grinding time on unsuspecting women’s butts.  “Back up, Buddy,” he said on more than one occasion when he could tell from our body language that we had no  desire to dance with the random men who found their way to our spot on the tiny dance floor.

It is important to note that Sumeet had never officially met anyone in this group.  When he had come to take out Mari a week before, they were on their way out as several of us were coming in and Mari simply waved and said: “Oh, this is my friend, Sumeet.”  This young man gave up a Saturday night to feed six strangers and make sure they were comfortable at a night club. 

Who does that?

Someone who does not simply say, “Sure, I will…” with no real intent of acutally doing it.  Someone whose culture does not quite understand false kindness and therefore, is not very good at following its rules.

Sumeet’s generousity is not the only instance where we, Americans, have found ourselves ashamed to admit, “Wow…I never would have actually done that.”  When Breanna could not find her way to one of the schools where we are teaching, a collection of complete strangers got her there.  One stranger spoke to the taxi driver who did not speak English, explaining where he needed to go.  Five minutes into the ride, the taxi driver then pulled on the side of the road to illicit the help of another. This person, who had been riding a bike to somewhere else, then rode up to a house nearby and called out a school girl.  He said something to her in Bengali and she nodded nonchalantly before going back into the house.

Since Breanna is an American, she was not comfortable with this chain of  events.  Who were these people randomly doing things for her and not feeling it necessary to explain to her what they were doing and why they were doing it?  As she tried to communicate with the taki driver and the man on the bike, they both looked confused as to why she seemed so intent on knowing exactly what was happening and if they would get her to the school like they said they would.

“It is alright, Ma’am,” the bike rider tried to reassure Breanna.

A minute later the school girl came strolling out of the house with her books in her arms. “Ma’am, you are trying to get to St. James School?”  Breanna nods her head and prepares to ask the girl if she can help her.  But, there is no need to ask for the girl’s help.

“That is my school; My mother says it is okay if I I leave a little early today so I can take you there.”  When Breanna thanks the young girl profusely, it is the school girl’s turn to be confused.  “It is not a problem, Ma’am,” she keeps reassuring Breanna, looking a little embarassed and fatigued by Breanna’s deep level of gratitude.

I have learned to be careful about what I say and the promises I make here.  There is no, “Sure, I will” that goes unfollowed.”  No “I want to help” that results in unanswered text messages or awkward avoiding of eyes the day after the help never comes.  It says a lot about the person American culture has shaped me to be when I find myself constantly surprised that “I will” means someone WILL.  When my sincere appreciation for a kindness granted to me is met with confused gazes.  Eyes that seem to inquire: Why would I not?

Because all too often, I don’t.

Secrets and Silence: A Better Way?

SSY girls gather for morning assembly

When I decided to become a classroom teacher eight years ago, I did do so for a very specific reason.  I wanted to teach at The Young Women’s Leadership School of East Harlem (TYWLS).  I wanted to connect with black and brown girls and prepare them for a world that could be vicious and unforgiving to American girls not fortunate enough to be born white and middle class.  In the six years I have taught at TYWLS, I have never had a moment of regret about becoming my girls’ teacher.  As a matter of fact, each year I find myself more humbled by the divine opportunity to be taught by them.  What I have had are many moments of despair and utter shock at the realities my students face in the 21st century.

Being placed at Shri Shikshayatan School (SSY) this summer has been perhaps another strategic move on the part of the universe.  While I had no influence on where American Councils for International Education placed me, I ended up at a school very similar to TYWLS.  Not only is it an all girl’s school, but SSY educates the Indian equivalent of TYWLS students.  Girls who are full of potential and eagerness, but whose parents lack resources and social power.

I wondered if SSY students faced the same challenges as my students back home.  Because marriage and female modesty are weaved into the fabric of the Hindu culture, I assumed that fielding problems with sex and dating was the one area where my Indian collegues and I differed.  I was sure they had to deal with mediating friendship break ups, random acts of crying and the persistent clinginess that comes when adolescent girls outnumber grown women in one  building.  But surely, pregnancy scares and risky sexual behaviors were blessfully non-issues here at SSY.  How lucky these teachers were to have circumvented this pesky problem!

According to a teacher at SSY, the teachers have circumvented this problem, but only because their students don’t share these problems.  Sharita made it clear to me, though, that a growing number of her older students are “engaging in affairs.”  When my mouth dropped open, she continued with, “Oh, this is not a new occurance.  Girls have done this type of thing before.”  Sharita says there is a misconception that good Indian girls don’t find themselves in the same sexual situations as good American girls.  The difference lies in the silence in which these encounters take place.

A good Indian girl will allow herself to be courted by a boy and if her parents are more liberal, she will go out on dates with this boy.  Like American girls, she will gab excessively about her “boyfriend” to her friends, showing them pictures and arranging “accidental” meet ups with the boy and her besties.  But, this is where the sharing with friends stops.  The good Indian girl will allow this boy to touch her.  In wholesome ways.  And not so wholesome ways.  This, she will not share with her friends.  The good Indian girl might then engage in sexual activity with this boy.  This, she does not share with anyone.  Not even her closest friend.  And if that sexual activity leads to an unwanted pregnancy, the good Indian girl finds her way to the medicine shop and whispers a request to a knowing attendant.  She goes to this medicine shop alone.  Although sometimes, she might bring along the young man who is the reason she is at this shop in the first place.  Sharita made it explicitly clear: she DOES NOT bring her best friend.  “Her best friend does not even know she is no longer a virgin,” Shamita reminds me.  When the medicine is taken and the good Indian girl’s menstrual cycle continues, so does her life.

So, the difference in my girls and these girls has nothing to do with premature sex that results in an unwanted pregnancy.  It is the secrecy that occurs during these universal teenaged catastrophes.  “That’s odd,” I say to Sharita.  “My girls definitely keep the secret from their parents and adult family members.  But, their best friend ALWAYS knows; she is normally the informant and confidante every step of the way.”  I can understand why a good Indian girl would not want to advertise the losing of her virginity to girls who are not in her friendship circle.  And an unwanted pregnancy…heck yes, she would be very selective in whom she confided with this mishap.  “But. why,” I badger Sharita, “would she not tell her bestie?  If only for consolation, not so much consultation.”

“Well, the friend will talk about her.  She will gossip to other girls that this girl is no longer a virgin and then, too…a baby?!”  I find myself feeling even more despair for the good Indian girls at SSY than I do for my girls at TYWLS.  To go through such a difficult predicament without the support of your best friend?  And to take it a step further, to know with certainty that your closest friend should not be trusted to do whatever her naive little self could do to help you get back on track?  Or to hold your hand (while scolding you for being so careless), reassuring you: “It will be alright.”  It seems terribly isolating.  And more judgmental than I thought even American girls could be.

I do not propose Indian culture become so accepting of teenaged sex that a girl is given a cursory, “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that” when she finds herself in what I am coming to learn is a common predicament for women across the globe: unwanted pregnancy.  I firmly believe every culture SHOULD find the mere thought of teenaged girls having sex, well…as not a very good thing.  Harmful, even.  However, when I listen to Sharita explain to me the shame and secrecy in which her students have to abide by for making the not so smart choice to have sex too early, something about this feels cruel. I was not having sex in high school, but I imagine if I were, it would seem completely unnatural not to share this momentous news with Megan Kimbrough.  How could I not?  And if I had missed my period, I can only imagine how completely terrifying that experience would have been.  15 year old girls are already fragile emotional creatures.  How cruel is it to not only make it difficult for them to go to a knowledgable adult about this rather common problem, but to make it just as difficult to simply say to a good friend: “I messed up and I am scared shitless about it.  Please hug me.”

Lost in Translation

(Moments) Before the Sky Started Falling

When the world is made up of billions of different people who speak hundreds of different languages and believe in twice as many variations of God, it is comforting to know that there are commonalities among this breed of animal we call HUMANS.  Recently, I found refuge in the common experience of sitting in a movie theater, allowing myself to be taken on a light, fun journey.

When Lena suggested we all go see Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara one evening, my first thought was: As long as it is air conditioned and doesn’t require having to negotiate another rate with another huckster taxi driver, I will do anything you ask.  My second thought: Wait…we don’t speak Hindi.  I was reassured that there really wasn’t much need to actually speak the language to enjoy the movie or even to follow the storyline. 

And THAT is the beauty of this universal experience of going to the picture show. As it turned out, I followed Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara pretty well. 

The Story: There was a really hot guy who was so beautiful that I found it hard to look directly at him as I feared I would go completely blind.  This beautiful man, Hrithik Roshan, had two buddies.  One was getting married and all three decided to go to Spain for a male bonding experience.  Hrithik The Beautiful had insecurities when it came to the ladies (This is the one aspect of the movie that has me completely baffled).  His soon-to-be married friend had a domineering, annoying fiancé.  His other friend had some abandonment issues with his father he had yet to resolve.  The three buddies drove around a lot and had adventures (by themselves and with random girls), shared laughs and drank beer.  Sometimes, there were odd moments where the only thing that was taking place on screen was Hrithik The Beautiful looking beautiful. This would go on for minutes at a time.  Hrithik would lie across the convertible as his buddy drove….looking beautiful.  Hrithik would become overly emotional on a sailboat and begin to cry…looking beautiful.  In between the male bonding experiences and Hrithik looking beautiful, the characters would just start singing and dancing.  In an open market where people were buying vegetables, during the convertible ride that featured Hrithik looking beautiful and once, singing and dancing spontaneously broke out while the three buddies were engaged in a citywide tomato fight. 

While the movie itself translated well to me and the other American movie goers, it was the experience at the movie theater that was most familiar.  I found it very comforting to know that there are OTHER people of color who do not feel pressure to be quiet in a movie theater.  Who believe that the movie going experience is a conversation, not a lecture.  When Hrithik Roshan walked onto the screen, the entire theater cheered and whooped as if we were at a football game.  And this was not a quick round of applause with a whispered “Yay, it’s Hrithik” kind of thing.  The exuberance lasted for almost a minute.  And included whistling and extensive commentary.  It was like being in the Magic Johnson Theater on 125^th Street, only the movie was almost three hours long and popcorn and soda came in one size – small.

I left the movie theater feeling like the world could be united, if only through Hrithik The Beautiful and other freakishly handsome actors like him.  “We are all more alike than different,” I mused.  The empty popcorn boxes strewn on the theater floor.  The reenactment of funny scenes by satisfied audience members as they headed back onto the busy city street.  I know this.  This is not foreign at all.  This experience has not been lost in translation.  I wonder what other ones have managed to transcend countries and languages. 

As luck would have it, Lena’s birthday happens a few days later and we all decide to go to a hookah lounge to celebrate.  This, too, is very familiar.  There are swanky couches outlining the club.  A young couple cuddles up on one of those couches, dim lights creating just enough naughtiness to make the youngsters feel grown up.  There is a d.j. playing what he thinks is good music, but what we recognize as Vanilla Ice.  There is greasy bar food.  There are drinks.  There is the requisite older man who sees a table full of youngish women.  He buys the table the requisite round of beverages and we politely thank him for this kindness by pretending to listen to him talk about his businesses. 

There is dancing while tipsy. 

There is ceaseless taking of photos.

It all feels like just another Saturday night in New York City.

Until…the ceiling in the bathroom begins to crumble and a person comes careening down into the stall.

Now, this, can only happen in India.

When the three of us who happen to witness the sky falling run screaming from the bathroom, the manager rushes over to apologize profusely for “this terrible inconvenience.”  He explains that the kitchen is above the bathroom and the guy was a cook.  None of us are sure how or why this cook went from steaming a few momos to falling through the ceiling, BUT…

Some things just don’t translate well.  We ask if the guy who just came crashing through the bathroom is okay.  Even strongly suggest someone take him to the hospital.  The manager nonchalantly waves off our concerns.

“We will get you a complimentary hookah.”  He looks at the six of us and adjusts.  “We will get you two hookahs.  Now come, Ma’am…come to our private lounge.”

This is the first time I was in a restaurant’s bathroom minding my own business when an employee came tumbling through the ceiling.  This is the first time the manager spends more time trying to pacify me than tending to his busted up property OR better yet, his potentially busted up employee.

This experience does not translate.  This experience is exclusive to India.

Perhaps It’s More Than “Just Hair”

The Afro in Action

If you have seen Good Hair, Chris Rock’s humorous documentary detailing the struggle Black girls endure to straighten their kinky hair, you have been granted entree into an ongoing contention in Black America. The lengths  to which many of us will go in order to obtain the long, flowing silkiness of “good hair.”  Unlike a lot of Black women who choose not to straighten their hair, I have no real political perspective on sistahs who live by the weave and plan to die by the weave.  I do not consider my kinky cloud of hair visual proof of my racial pride or present it as some sign that I am able to love myself more than Black women who meticulously perm or weave their hair.  I will admit,though, choosing to walk the world with an afro feels defiant.  And I like that defiance.  However, I rarely think of my hair as anything other than an inconsequential component of my physical description.  Keturah:  5’4.  155 pounds.  Smooth, Caramel Skin.  Nappy ‘Fro.

The only time I think of my hair as its own seperate entity is when others make my ‘fro its own seperate entity.

And if you remember the segment in Good Hair when the audience is taken to India, the number one locale for the finest quality of “good hair” to which weave makers flock, you will probably not be too surprised that here in Kolkata, my kinky hair has become its own seperate entity.  Cindy has shared, “I LOVE walking behind you when we’re out.  The looks on people’s faces – especially the kids…” 

And what are these looks, you ask?

Well, they run the gambit.  From open-mouth gapes of awe to giggles and shy waves to literally large crowds of school children following me through the streets.  The looks are sometimes accompanied by words spattered in faltering English from school children and their parents alike.  “Are you from South Africa?”  “Your hair…how do you…your hair…I have not seen anything like that?”  “How do you comb it?”  “Why is it red?” “I want to touch it.”  “I want to take a picture with it.”

These minor riots my gigantic red afro have caused are no more than inconvienient pieces of street theater to me.  Another interruption on my journey to get to somewhere in a set amount of time which will prolong what I thought would be one quick, simple errand.  I, along with Cindy, find these riots comical.  I understand them; when I look out on the streets of Kolkata, I see no other head that remotely resembles mine.  For miles and miles, nothing but long, sleek black hair.  This morning I looked in the mirror and almost did a double take.  What the hell is that, I wanted to ask.  Little wonder the locals can not look away.

BUT…

It is days like yesterday when I find it difficult to laugh at the attention my hair gets.  When the gapes are not of awe, but of horror.  While crossing a foot bridge to get to an outdoor shopping mall, the requisite collection of school children spotted me and two of the other American teachers, Breanna and Audra.  Their eyes immediately go to my hair.  Because I am focused on getting to this mall and am worried about the other women in our group who have not appeared in the taxi that was supposed to be following ours, I do not pay much attention to the looks.  I assume, like always, they fall into the awe or extreme curiosity category.

“I think you are scaring them, Keturah,” Breanna notices.

Fear.

My naps are causing fear?

I turn around and catch the eye of the youngest girl among the group.  And I see it.  Before I smile and wave at her and she returns that kindness, I see it clearly in her eyes.  She is horrified.

And try as I might to focus on buying a few more kameezes, perhaps a bangle or two, I can not stop a recorded tape from playing in my head.  The voice on the tape belongs to one of the Black girls who I teach back in the U.S. “I do not take pictures unless I have a new weave.  I wish my mother would let me stay home when I take my weave out and haven’t had a chance to go to the salon to get my hair done.”  Also on that tape is another Black girl.  Her voice over is blunt.  “I absolutely hate my hair.”  And another: “Hair should be straight.  I don’t know why anyone would want their hair to look like yours and Ms. Lavonne’s.”

I do not want to hear these students.  I want to think of my hair as just an inconsequential component of my physical description, but in addition to the voices of my students, I am also remembering the conversation this morning I had with Aysha, an Indian-American teacher in the program. In her early 30s, Aysha’s  mother has been trying to marry her off for a number of years now.  “One day I overheard her on the phone talking to some guy she wanted to fix me up with,” Aysha rolled her eyes.  “He actually asked her what complexion I was and I heard her say I was ‘wheaty.’ Can you believe that shit?” 

Wheaty means she was on just the right side of brown.  And ran no risk of strolling further to the other side.  It is a question that Aysha’s mother and the mothers of her friends field all the time as they try to find potential suitors for their daughters.

On the foot bridge, the young girl’s look of fear dissolved the moment I smiled at her.  When I waved, she flashed a timid smile and greeted me as all Indian children greet pretty much every adult they encounter, scray or not.  “Hello, Ma’am.”  The moment was over and Audra, Breanna and I made our way to the mall, eventually meeting up with the rest of our group.

I have had little success silencing that tape of my students, though.  And I find myself unable to downplay the message that is sent when a woman of color’s complexion poses to be a potential deal breaker in a budding courtship.  I would like to hold on to the belief that my hair is only of interest here because it is so unique.  That the stares I get are not any different from the stares the other American teachers get as well.

The next time I cause a minor riot, I will fight harder to silence the tape of my students.  I will tell myself that the desire Indian men have for lighter skinned women is not a new phenomenon among cultures that have been colonized.  The “wheat” test is no different than the “brown paper bag” test.  I will remind myself that the gigantic red afro is not an expression of my racial pride or some trite political perspective.

I will not search the faces of the young, counting those that register trauma.

Checking Off the Bucket List

Gifts From Students

Somewhere around the 3^rd or 4^th hour of our layover in Dubai, one of my fellow traveling teachers came up with a marvelous idea.  “We should all make a bucket list,” Breanna suggested.  “We only have five weeks, people.  Think about all the things you MUST do before we go back to the states.”  By the time our plane had landed in Kolkata, I had compiled my list; it was short, yet deeply sincere.

Keturah’s Bucket List:

1. Eat like a ravenous dog
2. Attend an Indian wedding
3. Learn how to properly tie a sari in less than an hour

I diligently went to work checking off my list.  On my first day at Shri Shikshayatan  School, the principal, Mrs. Ganguly, invited me to speak at the school assembly in front of her 4000 students.  After introducing myself, saying a little bit about my school back home and thanking the administration and faculty for being so welcoming to me, I decided to speak from my heart since the 4000 sets of eyes staring back at me seemed enraptured by my every word.

“Finally, girls, I would like to say I am looking forward to eating every single thing your lovely country has to over.  I am particularly prepared to stuff myself silly with garlic naan with extra butter.  Thank you.”  Now, it was not my intent to suggest to the students that they should bring me food.  That would be unethical and rather presumptuous.  However, if these eager-to-please girls chose to bring in food for me, well, how rude would it be to turn down the meals their mothers had worked so hard to prepare?

To my surprise, the kids immediately began handing over their lunches to me.  Only one day after my harmless comment, random girls were passing me samosas, halves of sandwiches and an assortment of fried pancake-looking thingies.  Once, I somehow found myself supervising a class whose lesson I had just finished.  For some odd reason, the teacher who was due to teach the class after me was not there and no one seemed to know when she would arrive. (Sidebar: A post on Indians and their disinterest in promptness is soon to come.)  When the class realized that I was going to stay for 10 extra minutes, their eyes lit up as they ripped off the tops of their plastic containers.

“Mam, here…” a tiny little 8^th grader who had spent most of the class period staring at me like I was Jesus offered.  “You should eat this.”  My little disciple tried to explain to me what it was I was eating, but her accent was thick and she spoke so softly that I had trouble making out what she was saying. 

Before I could finish whatever it was the first young lady had given me, someone else ran up to the front of the room with a variety of snacks. There were sandwiches.  More fried pancake looking thingies.  Lentils.  Bread.  Lots of bread.  And sweets.  While half of the class was begging me to eat their meager little lunches, the other half was literally shoving their notebooks in my faces.  Because the class period was shorter than I was used to and there were twice as many kids in the room, I had not had a chance to at least skim the students’ writing assignments as they worked.  Back home in the states, I routinely spot check most, if not all, of my students’ in-class writing before the period ends.  I discovered rather quickly this was not a remote possibility here in India. So, I only had the chance to check out about 5 girls’ paragraphs.  The other 45 were now standing before me shoving food in my hands and their orange, school-approved notebooks in my face.

“Mam, will you read my paragraph, please?” was becoming a resounding chorus as I waited for the next teacher to show up.

“Mam, will you sing for us?” was another frequent request.  Several less timid students made suggestions. “Do you know Akon?  Rihanna?  Justin Bieber?”  When I sorrowfully explained that I was 36 and therefore knew nothing about these American singers besides their names, class 8F was more than willing to catch me up.  Before I knew what was happening, two girls who seemed to be the requisite “queen bees” of any girls’ school were up on their feet singing and dancing to Beiber’s Baby, Baby, Baby.

Warning: What you are about to read for the rest of this post is really unethical.  Even as I was doing this unethical thing, I thought to myself: “Whoa…I can not believe I am actually doing this unethical thing!”

When I left 8F to go and teach 8A, this little devil popped onto my left shoulder.  An angel did surface onto my right, but I think she suffers from ADHD and is often not really paying attention when the devil puts ideas in my head.  “Keturah,” that sly devil whispered.  “If these girls are willing to give you all their food, beg you to read their little paragraphs AND put on a little talent show for you, well then…”

I walked into the classroom where 8A sat with the intent of starting my lesson the exact same way I had 40 minutes earlier.  “My name is Ms. Kendrick.  We will be working together for the next month on vocabulary building and paragraph writing.”

And I must say, I did EVENTUALLY get to that part.

But, before I or my inattentive, incompetent angel could stop him, that damn devil blurted out: “Is anyone’s older sister or auntie getting married between now and Aug. 12?”  The girls looked around, a bit confused.  Their regular teacher, who had been told to stay with me for the first class to make sure I was comfortable, repeated what I asked.  One girl stood up smiling.  “Yes, Mam…my uncle, not my sister will be married soon.  You will come?”

Of course I will!

The teacher excitedly exclaimed: “I will get you an appropriate sari.  You will enjoy yourself.”  The whole class is aflutter and excited. 

One more item left on my bucket list.  What is a girl to do for the next four weeks?

Solitude Re-examined

From the time I was in middle school, I knew I would be a traveler.  A wanderer. An explorer of sorts.  When I fantasized about my adult life, I never saw concrete careers.  I never visualized specific goals being acheived, hard and fast rules on the wheres, whos and whens of this grown up life.  The only aspect of my grown up life that materialized in my mind fully formed – a  healthy embryo carried out to term – was Keturah the wanderer, going from city to city.  Country to country.

When I think about those childhood fantasies I am struck by a truth that I never before saw as odd.  Maybe a bit unhealthy.  I always traveled alone in my girlhood fantasies.  I was in that city I saw in that movie where those people seemed to always be laughing and waxing poetic about this crazy world.  Unlike the people in the movie, though, my vision starred only me.  I was on that pretty tropical island I’d read about in some book, trying to drain juice from a coconut and finding myself terribly frustrated that after coconut #17, I still was thirsty and the sea water was too salty to drink so what the hell was I going to do.  The 12 year old me didn’t even consider adding the wise “guide” to direct me through this hurdle.  I never even imagined the requisite antagonist.  An enemy with whom I was forced to engage.  More telling, perhaps, the 12 year old me could not connect the fact that I was alone on that imaginary island to the reality that this minor detail was a key factor in why I had slaughtered so many coconuts, yet was still thirsty.  Bordering on dehydration.  For years, my “when I grow up” fairy tales played out in this manner.  Keturah.  Alone.

Why do I bring this up now?

Well, last summer I came to India.  Alone.  It was not the first time I had journeyed to a foreign country sans travel companions.  It was, however, the first time I FELT alone.   It was the first time I realized that, perhaps, my adventures abroad would be more meaningful, more exciting if they were experienced with co stars. 

This summer I am in India again, but not alone.  I am spending 5 weeks here with 9 other wanderers who have travelled the world both solo and with others.  It has only been two days since we have been in Kolkata, India, but already I have experienced this city on a much deeper level simply because I have experienced it with others.

Last summer, I aborted several outings because my appearance in a museum, an art gallery, a restaurant turned into THE BIGGEST EVENT SINCE THE BRITISH COLONIZED KOLKATA.  My gigantic red afro became an entity onto itself.  I found myself unsettled by this attention, confused and frustrated by my inability to decipher whether the attention was positive, negative or indifferent.  Although I found my time in Kolkata rewarding and deeply moving, I often felt isolated and found myself considering how odd it was to come half way across the world by myself.

This year, the gigantic red afro is still causing a stir.  However, there is someone else who is causing an even bigger stir than my crimson, kinky hair.  One of my collegues was born here in Kolkata, but she was adopted by her Irish parents when she was a month old and raised in Iowa as a guilt-ridden Catholic.  To hear Mari speak is to be taken back to that movie, Clueless, in which the white valley girl introduced the world to the infamous accent that would become the go to voice for imitating someone who was just not very bright.  When the 9 of us went shopping for appropriate clothes to wear in the classroom, people walked up to Mari and initiated conversation with her.  When she opened her mouth to respond to them, every single person looked confused and put off by what they heard.  “I think I have freaked this whole store out,” Mari laughed on the cab ride back to our hotel.  “As soon as I open my mouth, it’s like they don’t know how to deal with me.”  Mari is convinced that she has caused some families to shield their children from strange people like her.  Girls who LOOK soooo Indian (albeit, the American kind) but talk…well,  nothing like their uncles and cousins who moved away to the states!

When locals weren’t being bewildered by Mari’s odd way of talking, they were gawking at my ‘fro.  Same looks of wonderment as 2010.  Same whispers to friends.  Same stopping in tracks followed by prolonged “Hello, Mam…would you like to buy…”  The difference now?  I did not abort this outing. I did not feel anxiety in my belly and an intense urge to run back to my hotel and never come out.  I didn’t even notice the staring until one of my collegues pointed it out. “Wow, Keturah, they really can not stop staring at your hair.”  I laughed along with my travelling companion.  “Yeah, it’s a lot to process; it takes folks a while sometime.”

There have been no life-chaning epiphanies as of yet.  Just still, softly spoken murmurings.  Through group spottings of destinations after aimlessly roaming the streets of Kolkata in the middle of the day to never losing track of where I need to be because one of us is always standing guard, I have felt myself admit what 12 year old Keturah was unable to see.

Self-inflicted solitude is not always a sign of strength.  Quite often, it is the way of a coward.  A person who lacks the courage to connect.

8 Americans Roaming Around an Airport

Ashu is our leader.

We elected him while we were still in Washington, D.C.  As a matter of fact, as all eight of the educators who had been selected by American Councils for International Education (ACIE) to represent our country in India arrived in Dulles airport for our one-day orientation, Ashu just BECAME our leader.

“Hey, you’re with the India program, huh?”  Ashu warmly greeted each of us before informing us that he was arranging for a shuttle for all of us.  It would cost us $20 each. This made more sense than individual cabs and would be smart since we all would probably be arriving late to the first meeting and “if we’re all late, then they can’t really start without us, right?”

I don’t know what they plan on doing, I glanced at my teaching peers hailing from Baltimore, North Carolina, Ohio and Boston and other states  I remembered from skimming their bios.  But, I will be following this dude around Kolkata; my mama didn’t raise no fools.

Ashu is a good leader.  He is male. And right now, as we roam around the airport in Dubai with 7 full hours to kill before we connect to our flight to Kolkata, Ashu’s gender is really all that we need.  His assertiveness, his attention to “just making sure we should go here or ask this or not walk through those doors” is rather helpful as well. But, as for now.  This very moment…I am willing to follow him because he is MALE and…

Laura and I want to actually leave the airport and go out into the glitzy glam of Dubai.  The sun is beginning to set and I do not want to traipse around town with Laura, a perfectly lovely and assertive, detail-oriented person, but NOT A MALE.  Perhaps with Ashu, we have some protection, some validation for being out at night.

While our peers vacillate between camping out on the airport floors or coming with us to explore Dubai, Ashu, Laura and I strategize just how we are going to go about this mini-adventure.  We first need to figure out just where we need to be five hours from now when it’s time to board our flight.  We also need to find out where to exchange some dollars for whatever the currency is here in Dubai.  AND we need to find a bathroom so we can brush our teeth and pretty up for the big city.

Under Ashu’s guidance, we all roam Dubai’s massive airport amidst cursory glances from women covered head to toe in black robes.  The husbands and children, who are also covered in varying degrees, travel with these women and throw us curious looks.  With each step we take, I count the number of women who are not covered; thirty minutes pass and I have only seen a handful.

I look over at Laura, clad in yoga pants that she jokingly admitted she outgrew several summers ago and a t-shirt that barely covers her butt.  I look down at myself, wearing what I like to think of as my CUTE gym clothes because the flourescent pink t-shirt matches the florescent pink stripe running down either side of my stretch pants.  I think about the last time my cute gym outift made it to this part of the world.  One summer ago…in Kolkata… I was wearing this exact same outfit while walking down a sunny street.  A man asked me to get into his car.  When I looked at him like he was out of his mind and gave him the universal, “Negro, pahlease” look, this man seemed genuinely surprised.

It was my intent that Ashu would be taken for our wealthy husband if Laura and I went out to visit the city with him.  Or like our uncle/big brother escort around town.  Perhaps, this might not be the role in which our Middle Eastern brothers and sisters placed Laura and I in reference to Ashu.

“Uh..Laura…we look like whores,” I say in the nicest way possible.  “Let’s not go out into Dubai.”

Laura chuckles.  And so does Ashu.  Somewhere in between the duty-free liquor store and duty-free “random crap to take home to your relatives” store, the 8 Americans spot a Starbucks.  It is here where we wait.

So, a black girl with a gigantic, RED afro goes to India…

Some things happen.

The Big, RED ‘fro teaches some children.

The Big, RED ‘fro talks to some women.

The Big, RED ‘fro eats lots of korma, curry and naan.

The Big, RED ‘fro reports these  events to you.