Simple things.
Keeping track of things is easy. My planner is in my bag. My phone is on my desk.
Keeping track of memories is harder. What was the first meal I ate in India? How did I perceive things when we touched down in Cochin? Surely I remember them now (Dosa and chamandi, everything is colorful and scary), but will I remember how spicy I thought the chamandi was two years from now? Will I remember the jovial and confused faces of my kindergarteners when I tried to teach them the 'v' sound? Maybe I will, or maybe I will file these precious gems away to be glimpsed only when I smell the pungently tangy aura of coconut chamandi.
Each day is beautifully uneventful and simple. From time to time we have a large festival, or feast, or some type of cultural celebration. And these moments are cacophonous, and aromatic, and wonderfully tasty on the lips of my memories. Each parish feast or temple festival is louder than the last, with more colorful sarees and more drummers surviving only on spectator energy in the stifling heat of midday. It's cultural experiences like this that I will absolutely never forget. But it's the simple things that I hope to hold onto more.
Kindergarten has a really tough time properly pronouncing the letter 'v'. It always comes out as a 'w' so vehicle sounds like wehicle, and love sounds like lowe. It stems from their mother tongue, which doesn't make much use of the teeth or the lips when producing language. So once or twice every class we will come across a word with a 'v' and everyone will pronounce it as if it were a 'w'. I will pause, and then begin the most fun game I like to play. Their faces when they try to mimic the way I place my top teeth on my bottom lip to produce the 'v' sound is, without any shadow of a doubt, the funniest and best part of my day every time we do this exercise. Even after 8 months it is impossible for me to keep a straight face. So then I start laughing and they start laughing and we're all off track but damn they're cute. It's beautiful. That laughter. I want to remember that laughter.
When we're not attending a feast, or marriage/ baptism/ first communion on the weekends, we are enjoying the slowness of village life. Even though it's the weekend I still wake up around the same time I would for school. Not because I set an alarm, but because there is an incredibly hungry young bird in the trees somewhere right outside my window. He or she dictates when I rise. We have an understanding though, if it's before 6 am we are going back to sleep at least until the sun rises. It could very well be annoying to be woken up between the hours of 5:30 and 6:30 on the days I can sleep in, but I love the melody too much. The sweet chirps are innocent, and I should get up and enjoy the cool misty air of the morning before it becomes blisteringly hot.
During the weekend days I spend a lot of time with goats. They are my new favorite animal. We have 8 of them. One mama, two duplicate sets of babies, and one odd ball named Sammy who was a gift for Father Johny. In June when we arrived, mama had the first set of babies. Two boys and a girl; Ron, Harry, and Hermoine. Just two weeks ago, mama had her second set of babies; again two boys and a girl named Emma, Patrick, and Philip. Got a goat? I'll name it. I'll also befriend it. They really get me, and I thoroughly enjoy their presence. I was present for the birth of the second set. I had never seen any kind of animal give birth before that. It was very slippery. Loads of fluids involved. And it was a bewilderingly beautiful process. Mama knew what to do, and so did the babies. They popped out, woke up, inhaled their first breaths of air, and immediately started to make their way to the food source. She licked them clean and after all was said and done the new family took a well deserved nap. I was not present for the birth of Ron, Harry, and Hermoine but we bonded anyways. Ron is my favorite. Harry can be kind of an asshole and Hermoine was always the biggest and strongest. It's hysterical to see their personalities mirrored in the new babies. Emma was the first to be born and is the spunkiest and most adventurous. Her brothers are always sleeping and following mom, while Emma likes to explore, at a safe distance, away from mom. Do I sound like a crazy goat lady? Probably. But they're my friends! I feed them the mushy bananas no one will eat, and the peels of the ones we do eat and they love me for it!
Then there are the peaceful weekend afternoons we spend walking through Aymanam, visiting teachers and students. This weekend we visited one teacher and spent the whole afternoon talking. These types of moments are the ones that may be less likely to remain cemented in my immediate memory, but are the most important to keep with me as these are the times where I get the most beautifully honest insights into this deeply complex culture. While some of the traditions can seem backwards to my western mind, they are second nature to this culture. Trying to understand, and respect, the honesty with which people can accept such customs is the most valuable lesson in tolerance that I will ever have. Tolerance not only to appreciate the differences between my native culture, and the culture that surrounds me, but also tolerance to appreciate parts of my own culture that I myself may not agree with. It's extraordinarily comforting to find the mirrored experiences in my life and the lives of others. Defining ourselves with checked boxes does little more than identify the location of our birth. Because if we explore more deeply into the cavernous depths of our personalities we are not so different after all. Even myself and this teacher, with whom we spent the afternoon talking, are not so different. Despite being a generation apart we have similar desires; to travel, to be self-sufficient, to love and be loved. And even though they are separated by the swift hands of time, we also share similar fears; of marriage, and of what the future of growing old holds for us. It's true we all grow up in different worlds, but at the core we are mostly the same. We are all connected by the experience that is being human.
Keeping track of things is easy. My planner is in my bag. My phone is on my desk.
Keeping track of memories is harder. What was the first meal I ate in India? How did I perceive things when we touched down in Cochin? Surely I remember them now (Dosa and chamandi, everything is colorful and scary), but will I remember how spicy I thought the chamandi was two years from now? Will I remember the jovial and confused faces of my kindergarteners when I tried to teach them the 'v' sound? Maybe I will, or maybe I will file these precious gems away to be glimpsed only when I smell the pungently tangy aura of coconut chamandi.
Each day is beautifully uneventful and simple. From time to time we have a large festival, or feast, or some type of cultural celebration. And these moments are cacophonous, and aromatic, and wonderfully tasty on the lips of my memories. Each parish feast or temple festival is louder than the last, with more colorful sarees and more drummers surviving only on spectator energy in the stifling heat of midday. It's cultural experiences like this that I will absolutely never forget. But it's the simple things that I hope to hold onto more.
Kindergarten has a really tough time properly pronouncing the letter 'v'. It always comes out as a 'w' so vehicle sounds like wehicle, and love sounds like lowe. It stems from their mother tongue, which doesn't make much use of the teeth or the lips when producing language. So once or twice every class we will come across a word with a 'v' and everyone will pronounce it as if it were a 'w'. I will pause, and then begin the most fun game I like to play. Their faces when they try to mimic the way I place my top teeth on my bottom lip to produce the 'v' sound is, without any shadow of a doubt, the funniest and best part of my day every time we do this exercise. Even after 8 months it is impossible for me to keep a straight face. So then I start laughing and they start laughing and we're all off track but damn they're cute. It's beautiful. That laughter. I want to remember that laughter.
When we're not attending a feast, or marriage/ baptism/ first communion on the weekends, we are enjoying the slowness of village life. Even though it's the weekend I still wake up around the same time I would for school. Not because I set an alarm, but because there is an incredibly hungry young bird in the trees somewhere right outside my window. He or she dictates when I rise. We have an understanding though, if it's before 6 am we are going back to sleep at least until the sun rises. It could very well be annoying to be woken up between the hours of 5:30 and 6:30 on the days I can sleep in, but I love the melody too much. The sweet chirps are innocent, and I should get up and enjoy the cool misty air of the morning before it becomes blisteringly hot.
During the weekend days I spend a lot of time with goats. They are my new favorite animal. We have 8 of them. One mama, two duplicate sets of babies, and one odd ball named Sammy who was a gift for Father Johny. In June when we arrived, mama had the first set of babies. Two boys and a girl; Ron, Harry, and Hermoine. Just two weeks ago, mama had her second set of babies; again two boys and a girl named Emma, Patrick, and Philip. Got a goat? I'll name it. I'll also befriend it. They really get me, and I thoroughly enjoy their presence. I was present for the birth of the second set. I had never seen any kind of animal give birth before that. It was very slippery. Loads of fluids involved. And it was a bewilderingly beautiful process. Mama knew what to do, and so did the babies. They popped out, woke up, inhaled their first breaths of air, and immediately started to make their way to the food source. She licked them clean and after all was said and done the new family took a well deserved nap. I was not present for the birth of Ron, Harry, and Hermoine but we bonded anyways. Ron is my favorite. Harry can be kind of an asshole and Hermoine was always the biggest and strongest. It's hysterical to see their personalities mirrored in the new babies. Emma was the first to be born and is the spunkiest and most adventurous. Her brothers are always sleeping and following mom, while Emma likes to explore, at a safe distance, away from mom. Do I sound like a crazy goat lady? Probably. But they're my friends! I feed them the mushy bananas no one will eat, and the peels of the ones we do eat and they love me for it!
Then there are the peaceful weekend afternoons we spend walking through Aymanam, visiting teachers and students. This weekend we visited one teacher and spent the whole afternoon talking. These types of moments are the ones that may be less likely to remain cemented in my immediate memory, but are the most important to keep with me as these are the times where I get the most beautifully honest insights into this deeply complex culture. While some of the traditions can seem backwards to my western mind, they are second nature to this culture. Trying to understand, and respect, the honesty with which people can accept such customs is the most valuable lesson in tolerance that I will ever have. Tolerance not only to appreciate the differences between my native culture, and the culture that surrounds me, but also tolerance to appreciate parts of my own culture that I myself may not agree with. It's extraordinarily comforting to find the mirrored experiences in my life and the lives of others. Defining ourselves with checked boxes does little more than identify the location of our birth. Because if we explore more deeply into the cavernous depths of our personalities we are not so different after all. Even myself and this teacher, with whom we spent the afternoon talking, are not so different. Despite being a generation apart we have similar desires; to travel, to be self-sufficient, to love and be loved. And even though they are separated by the swift hands of time, we also share similar fears; of marriage, and of what the future of growing old holds for us. It's true we all grow up in different worlds, but at the core we are mostly the same. We are all connected by the experience that is being human.
