Big Bird Thinks Breast is Best

6 01 2012

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Sesame Street has gone way down hill. (Damn you, Elmo!) Back in the day, Sesame Street was truly wholesome and worked hard to foster acceptance, caring, learning and hundreds of other good principles. So why does a discussion of Sesame Street belong on the reproductive health blog of a doula, childbirth education apprentice, and breastfeeding research assistant? Because throughout the 1970s and 80s, Sesame Street included frank, warm and fuzzy discussions about breastfeeding on the show. Even the popular Maria, played by Sonia Manzano, who has been on the show since 1974, breastfed her baby on the show. As the Huffington Post recently reported, breastfeeding on Sesame Street abruptly stopped in the 90s. They’re still showing feeding infants, but those feedings are all from the bottle. I, for one, am bummed. I thought they did an amazing job of tastefully showing breastfeeding as a healthy, normal way to feed a baby.

In my favorite clip, a woman named Buffy breastfeeds her baby in front of Big Bird. The segment’s sole purpose is apparently to establish the act of breastfeeding as normal. Here’s the transcript for the clip (embedded below):

Big Bird: “Whatcha doin’ Buffy?”
Buffy: “I’m feeding the baby. See, he’s drinking milk from my breast.”
Big Bird: “That’s a funny way to feed a baby.”
Buffy: “Lots of mothers feed their baby this way. Not all mothers, but lots of mothers do. He likes it because it’s nice and warm and sweet and natural. And it’s good for him. And I get to hug him when I do it, see.”
Big Bird: “Oh. Well is that all he ever needs to eat?”
Buffy: “Well, at first, when he was just born, and very tiny, this is all that he wanted and all that he needed, but now that he’s getting bigger, see, I mash up fruit and vegetables and sometimes a little bit of meat, and as he gets older he’ll need more and more different kinds of food to eat, but for right now, this is just fine. He’s drinking his milk.”
Big Bird: “You know… that’s nice.”

I love that Big Bird, who is developmentally aligned with a five or six-year-old, asks the same honest, curious questions that a real kindergartener might ask a breastfeeding mom. Just as children aren’t inherently racist, sexist or any other “ist”, children don’t view breasts as sexual or gross unless we feed them that idea. But they may not have seen breastfeeding before, and they might be curious!

Buffy answers Big Birds questions so gracefully, honestly and smartly. I like that she doesn’t shy away from using the word breast– there is nothing inappropriate about teaching children proper names for body parts. I love that while she’s clearly a breastfeeding advocate, she explains, in simplest terms, that not all mothers choose or are able to breastfeed, and without vilifying them. Buffy succinctly explains the benefits of breastfeeding: that the baby likes it best, that it’s healthy for him, and that it comes with skin-to-skin contact, in a clear, easy to understand and developmentally appropriate way. She explains how he’ll eventually be weened, and take on a healthy, balanced diet.

I imagine myself as a five year old being somewhat bored with this segment, but I think that’s fine! No one is forcing young children to be interested in what adults (or babies) do, just laying a foundation so that children will grow up imagining this healthy habit as a normal one. Sesame Street could make a huge impact if they’d return to this format of education, and away from the chaotic, grammatically incorrect world of Elmo. Educational television can be more than just numbers and letters. It can be about inclusion, friendship, hope, honesty, and promoting a multitude of healthy habits, like breastfeeding. And in the words of my childhood hero Big Bird, you know… that’s nice.


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Shy Sphincters and Orgasmic Birth

2 12 2011

I avoided Orgasmic Birth for a long time. Despite my rapture for all things birth, I assumed that this documentary was a bit too marginalized for me. I rented it last night, and discovered that I was terribly wrong. I absolutely loved it, and I daresay Orgasmic Birth might be my favorite birth film.

I wouldn’t say that Orgasmic Birth  is about orgasm in birth, though it is mentioned late in the movie. Instead, Orgasmic Birth emphasizes that the most positive birth experiences are paralleled with sexuality: allowing the experience to be physical and sensual, to create a space filled with love, and to find intimacy in the process of birth, with yourself, your baby, and those around you. There are many similarities between birth and sexual experience. Physically, the same organs are involved. Likewise, the same hormones are produced in sex and in birth, and they are incredibly powerful positive hormones that trigger not only the physiological processes, but also intense feelings of love and bonding between parents and their baby. Birth, when properly supported, sounds like sex. The terrified screams we hear in the media are not the realistic sounds of a woman who was prepared for childbirth. And, just like in orgasm, birth cannot easily happen if there is unwarranted pressure or audience. Women and their families should be given the time and privacy to “get in the zone,” just like they might if they were having sex.

Ina May Gaskin, who appears as an interviewee, is always good for a chuckle when it comes to sexuality in birth. Her great line in Orgasmic Birth refers to sphincters being shy, and how they can slam shut if their owner gets nervous (for review, a sphincter is a circular muscle that ordinarily maintains high levels of constriction… in this case, it would be the cervix). If some people can’t even relax their urethral sphincters to pee when someone is in a stall on the other end of bathroom, how can we possibly expect a woman to get her cervix to ten centimeters while lights are beaming down between her legs while a team of doctors and nurses stare and prod? All physiological and psychological evidence points to allowing a woman intimacy in birth. It is ultimately her experience, and she needs to make it her own to feel comfortable and yield the best results. While few women actually achieve orgasm in birth and most women still classify it as a painful experience, many women who are well prepared to manage the discomfort of labor are able to cope in a way that allows them to classify their birth experience as a pleasurable one. As for the actual orgasms, the film does show the birth and an interview of one woman who had two orgasms during labor, brought on by the labor itself. Ina May also talks about an unofficial survey that she did about orgasm in labor. She discovered that a surprisingly large percentage of women orgasmed at some point during their labor, though she doesn’t mention how they were achieved. I wouldn’t be surprised if all of them (or close to it) were the result of run-of-the-mill sexual experiences with a partner during early labor. The hormones produced during orgasm can speed labor, after all!

Despite my love for the angle of Orgasmic Birth, I wish the producers hadn’t selected such a radical title. If I, a birth junkie who hoards birth-related materials, avoided this movie for so long, then certainly many women and expectant parents shy away from it based on title alone. The preview emphasizes the orgasmic side of the film in a way that made me expect the whole film to be about hippie moms trying to orgasm during their births. I wish it had been edited to truly show the colors of the film!  Sure, there are a few crunchy expectant couples. A film about birth isn’t the same without a half-naked pregnant woman dancing while her husband chants and play a djembe. But most of the featured couples seemed extraordinarily… ordinary. You don’t have to be a hippie to have a magical birth outside on your deck, you just have to be open to the idea.

Perhaps what I loved most about Orgasmic Birth was that it preached truthfulness instead of propaganda. While I am a huge advocate for natural birth, midwives, doulas, homebirths, breastfeeding and all those other “liberal” birth topics, I’m also wary of a subset of fellow advocates who are militant about their views, and combative towards anyone that has a different view. It gives the whole movement an ugly face, which many are apt to shy away from. Orgasmic Birth  is clear in it’s pro-natural childbirth stance, but it doesn’t demonize other options. It shows that yes, epidurals mess with the natural physiological process of birth, and this leads to much higher rates of intervention. But yes, there are some women who absolutely need some sort of relief. If birth is too stressful and the mother is absolutely panicking, this isn’t good for the baby either. Orgasmic Birth also shows that with support from providers, childbirth educators, doulas, and families, a huge percentage of women who would self-elect themselves to the “absolutely needs an epidural” group would be able to cope with natural labor just fine with non-medication options of pain relief, like hydrotherapy or massage. The film shows that yes, there are many risks to giving birth in a hospital, and yes, the cesarean rate is way too high. But also that a cesarean can also be a lifesaving procedure. And no, not all hospital births end with a cesarean.

I also loved the story of a survivor of multiple sexual abuses, which highlighted the absolutely transformative power of birth. This woman knew that she needed to have a birth where she felt safe and loved, so she planned a homebirth with the support of a midwife and her husband. She discussed learning how to surrender her body to a greater force– a difficult process for everyone, but especially for someone who has been so traumatized in the past! “My son’s birth became the most powerful thing that had happened to my body.” Such a moving statement by this particular woman, and generally about the power of birth!

Birth has the capacity to deeply change a woman. She realizes that she is capable of absolutely amazing things. She is proud of herself. She loves the ability of her body to bear a child. She loves the baby that was the result of such determination, work and raw love. Birth is the physical, emotional and spiritual highlight of many women’s lives. Orgasmic Birth definitely emphasizes that all women should have access to this kind of experience. A powerful film, indeed.


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No Right to Complain About Birth in Other Places

1 11 2011

As the world reaches a population of 7 billion, there is a good amount of media speculation that India is the place where the 7 billionth of us came into the world. This has spawned a number of stories on birth in India, including a photo essay and accompanying piece in the New York Times that is worth a read, despite Lynsey Addario’s small swat at midwives. At first I was excited to see the coverage. For the number of births that occur in India, there is shockingly little information available about it on the internet. It was exciting to see images that were so similar to the experiences I had in India this summer. And then I made a colossal mistake: I read the comments.

I don’t know when I will finally learn to stop reading the comments on news stories. I don’t think I have ever walked away feeling satisfied by the snarky responses of anonymous trolls. I want to clarify that the comments on the NYT piece are not terrible, but less compelling articles have far more infuriating vitriol. Though there is one comment from a midwife on the NYT article accusing Ms. Addario of fear-mongering by not capturing all the joy and love in birth which angered me. If only she had seen how joyless and unloving birth in India was. Is documenting a “cold, harsh detached feeling” in birth a disservice to women everywhere if it’s documenting reality? I’d say Ms. Addario is actually doing us a service by showing what birth in another culture is like– empowerment through education! As much as I’d like it, not all births follow the midwifery model of care. It doesn’t make those experiences any less real.

My anger may be heightened by my recent midwifery school application process. I have spent the last month in a stupor, thinking and re-thinking and challenging and questioning my views on birth. One of my courses of thought is about how we as a culture do not talk about birth. We talk openly about pregnancy and babies, but we often step around conversations regarding the actual labor process. Many women would consider it impolite if a stranger asked about their births the way they ask for details about their babies.

As a child, I never really heard birth stories besides my own and that of my older brother. We were both born via cesarean, so that is how I imagined a “regular” birth. I was by no means sheltered. I had a library of books about where babies came from and puberty, my mom and I had regular “talks,” and both of my parents were always happy to discuss absolutely anything with me. I had sex ed in school, starting at the elementary level, and in sixth grade I watched The Miracle of Life along with the rest of my class. (I was the only one who didn’t scream or look away during the birth scene.) Despite it all, birth wasn’t really a topic though. That was fine. Birth seemed very far away. It’s completely natural for children not to have a real interest in birth when there more relevant reproductive health issues to attend to.

Birth is not out there as a topic early in life, and it is rarely a topic of casual conversation until childbearing is imminent. Throughout our lives, we talk about the specifics of death and we discuss illness and medical treatment in detail, but we don’t talk about the particulars of birth. If a celebrity dies, we often hear grisly details about their deaths, and autopsy reports make headlines. If a celebrity gives birth, we learn the baby’s name. We don’t see many images of birth besides the overtly dramatic representations in the movies, or the tales of medical emergency and triumph through invasive medicine seen on daytime “educational” TV. Even most medical residents  have never seen a natural, unmedicated vaginal birth. There isn’t much public discussion about the birth problems the U.S. has, with our staggering cesarean rate and our failure to reduce infant mortality. (I highly recommend playing with this tool on google and comparing the U.S. to other developed countries.)

Therefore, it left me furious to read all these disparaging remarks about birth in India. Certainly many of the anonymous posters have not seen births in their own communities, let alone in developing countries. We are not the ones to judge the birth practices of individuals on the other side of the world. Yes, I saw a lot in India that made me angry. But I have seen a lot in Brattleboro that has made me angry too. There are injustices everywhere. Yes, birth in India is different. That’s only to be expected. It’s a developing country with a huge poor population. Most women in India have safe births and healthy babies, just like in the U.S. They have a place to go, and trained medical attendants, just like in the U.S. Frankly, I’m surprised the medical care I witnessed in India was as advanced as it was. As phenomenal as immediate skin-to-skin contact would be, these babies will survive being separated from their mothers for a few minutes, just like billions of babies before them. That nurse holding the baby by one leg is doing the best she can, and what she was trained to do. She probably works longer shifts every single day than most nurses in the U.S. are ever allowed to do in their hospitals. They do their best with what they have, while some practitioners in the U.S. take shortcuts that increase risk to both mothers and babies, and demean their patients in the meantime. It’s sad, but it happens every day in hospitals in our own communities. Who are we to judge a different culture for doing their best when we have so much work to do at home?


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The Doula Book: What a Doula Can Do for You

1 09 2011

Yesterday I raided my local library’s shelf of birth books (not for the first time). It’s times like these that I’m grateful my friends and family recognize that birth is my career interest, and therefore do not panic when they see me schlepping around a cache of baby books. Because September is promising to be my busiest doula month in the birth center yet, the book on the top of my pile was The Doula Book, by Marshall Klaus, MD, John Kennell, MD and Phyllis Klaus, CSW, MFT. I’ve flipped through this book a few times before, but had never really sat down to read every word.

I plowed through The Doula Book in two sittings. While it’s full of noteworthy information, it’s also a strangely angled book. I’m still pondering who the authors expected their audience to be with this book. The subtitle is How a Trained Labor Companion Can Help You Have a Shorter, Easier, and Healthier Birth, somewhat of a contradiction to the main title, which seems to indicate the intended audience are doulas. Only a small fraction of the content seems geared towards expectant parents wondering whether they should employ a doula, some of it is tips for doulas, and the rest is scholarly information on exactly how doulas aid women giving birth.

The most interesting chapter for me personally was Obstetric Benefits of Doula Support. As a doula, I’m constantly having to explain what I do, why the position exists, and why my job is important, especially if a mother has a supportive birth partner. Klaus and Kennell, in addition to authors of The Doula Book, are also Principal Investigators of several studies of birth outcomes in women who have continuous labor support (doulas) versus those who have “traditional” obstetric care, with providers leaving the laboring woman alone for segments of her labor. They combine their data to present their findings here. The results are truly spectacular.

Perhaps the must stunning data comes from investigations of lengths of labor. During my doula training, we learned about what is often referred to as “The Guatemala Study” (Sosa, Kennell, Klaus, et all, 1980). In Guatemala, just as I experienced in India this summer, friends and family are excluded from the labor and delivery room, and women are left without continuous emotional support. In the Guatemala Study, one group was provided with a doula, while the other group was left without continuous labor support. In the no-doula group, the average labor was 19 hours (women came to the hospital early in labor, before the cervix had dilated past 1-2 centimeters). In the women who were given a doula, the average labor was 9 hours. The only difference in care was the presence of a doula throughout the woman’s labor. Had I not experienced similar results first hand this summer, I might have balked at this data. The results though, are so significant that they are glaringly obvious in person. During my own internship in a country where women are left to labor alone, it was obvious that labor sped up as soon as I established a supportive relationship with a mother. It wasn’t unusual for women who had been stalled at five centimeters all day to be pushing within half an hour of my holding their hand and promising to be there for their delivery. After the incredibly rapid delivery of one infant, the nursing staff adjusted their practice to be sure they kept a closer eye on a laboring woman when I or another supportive intern was helping out. While I’m not sure of the particular investigation, a childbirth educator I know told me about another study, I believe also in Central America, in which the investigators were able to show that there was a signficant difference in the length and ease of labor when a woman was simply sitting in the same room as the laboring woman, not even speaking to or interacting with the mother. The most important thing we can do for laboring women is to make sure they know that someone is there for them.

These results have been duplicated in the United States. In 1991, Kennell, Klaus, McGrath, et al, published what is referred to as “The Houston Study.” The study took place in a large, public hospital in which medical residents cared for mothers with a uniform care philosophy, with guidelines as to bed confinement, fetal monitoring, artificial rupturing of membranes, Pitocin use, etc. First-time mothers were either provided with a doula or not. In the study of 416 women, the 204 women who were not provided with a doula had labors averaging 9.4 hours. The 212 women who were given continuous labor support by a doula had an average labor of 7.4 hours. This is a statistically highly significant difference. (The shorter overall length of labor compared to the Guatemala Study can be attributed to differences in care, such as the use of Pitocin to speed labor, and when women were admitted to the hospital: four centimeters compared to one or two.)

Beyond the length of labor, there were other remarkable differences in how women fared with or without a doula. Of the 204 women who delivered without the support of a doula, 25, or 12%, delivered naturally (in this study “naturally” means a vaginal delivery without the use of anesthesia, artificial oxytocin or other medications, or forceps). Of the 212 woman who received continuous labor support, an astounding 116, or 55%, delivered their babies naturally, a statistically highly significant difference. The use rate of artificial oxytocin (Pitocin) in mothers with no doula was 44%, compared to a rate of only 17% for women who had a doula, a statistically highly significant number. The cesarean rate in mothers without a doula was 18%, while women who had a doula needed cesareans only 8% of the time, a statistically significant difference. It is amazing that the only difference in care between these two groups is the presence of a supportive stranger. Frankly I’m surprised that this study (and the dozens like it) haven’t completely changed the face of obstetrics over the last twenty years. The true medical (and financial) outcomes far outweigh the difficulty of setting up doula programs.

The benefits of having a doula even went beyond the mother and to the baby. In infants whose mothers had a doula, only 10% were kept in the hospital for longer than two days. In infants whose mothers did not have a doula, 24% stayed for more than two days, a statistically significant difference. When the investigators examined why the differences may have been present, they found one main reason for the disparity between the infant groups: maternal fever. Maternal fever developed in 10% of women with no doula, but only 1% of women who had a doula again a statistically significant difference. Interestingly, a British study (Fusi, Moresh, Steer, et al, 1989) showed that when a woman receives epidural anesthesia her body temperature surely but steadily rises, and if her labor is long enough (and births with epidurals are often longer) her temperature will eventually become a bona-fide fever. And how do we lower the epidural rate? Use a doula!

There are also many long-term results of a doula-supported birth. Multiple studies have indicated better results in breastfeeding, less postpartum pain, less postpartum depression, fewer infant health issues, better mother-infant bonding, higher self-esteem in the mother, and higher rates of mothers reporting their babies as less fussy, more clever, more beautiful and easier to manage than an average baby.

Everybody wins with a doula. The mother has a shorter, easier birth and comes away with more confidence and fewer complications. The baby is less likely to have complications, and has the added bonus of a more relaxed, attentive mom. The father or birth partner is relieved of some anxiety, and able to provide more loving, personalized support to his partner and child (more to come on that). Studies have even shown that the relationship between the parents often improves when a doula was present at their child’s birth, but remains the same when they labored alone (Wolman). Nurses are relieved of emotional support duties, and are able to better focus on the medical aspects of birth that they were trained for. Doctors and midwives are more likely to be dealing with simple, natural births that are faster and require less monitoring. Financially, even with the cost of doula services, reducing the cesarean and epidural rates in hospitals would save billions of dollars a year, and save individual families about a thousand dollars per birth. Best of all, there are community doula programs, like the one I work through, that offer doula services for free! How could you say no to that?


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Into the… Monsoon?

4 08 2011

Ah, Goa! India’s smallest state, Goa is well-known for its beaches and laid back vibe, and known for being one of the few places in India where it’s appropriate to wear things like bikinis, shorts and tank tops. During the high season, it is packed with European tourist. During the off season it’s a quiet place, hammered with rain and reportedly swarming with mosquitoes. Undeterred by the threat of monsoon, I decided easily and early that I’d still like to visit Goa. I selected two towns that I thought I’d like, one in the north and one in the south, and decided to split my time between them. Luckily Hans was more than happy to go along with my plan, and because he was only going to be in Goa with me for half of my week here, I let him pick which of my two towns he’d rather see. He chose Palolem, the southern town.

Generally, the beaches in the south are more sleepy but also more picturesque, while the beaches in the north are more crowded, wider and come with amenities like nightlife. Palolem is a quiet little village, tucked between a wet jungle and the Indian Ocean. The beach is stunning: crescent-shaped and lined with swaying palms, brightly painted fishing boats at one end, and a stream flowing past mossy boulders at the other. Hans and I arrived by taxi early in the morning, and checked into our room at the Palolem Beach Resort, which was right on the water. So much for the monsoon: the sun was shining bright and strong, and realizing our luck, we headed straight to the beach after breakfast. The sun was so bright, in fact, that Hans, wearing sunscreen and sitting in the shade was burnt to a crisp. Somehow I, laying in the sun and not wearing sunscreen for the first hour (I know, I know! But I’ve only had one peeling sunburn ever, in Puerto Rico in 1995, and my dermatologist says I have far less sun damage than everyone else my age, and I wear a moisturizer with SPF on my face every day no matter what) managed to escape any burn at all. It was an excellent day at the beach. Palolem Beach is tucked in a bit of a cove, so it gets nice gentle waves that are easy to swim in. The water was warm, but definitely still refreshing.

After the tide went out and the clouds rolled in:

There were dogs everywhere, terrifying Hans, who doesn’t like animals except for baby animals, hedgehogs and donkeys, but charming me. While I’m sure some were strays, many of them wore collars, pets on the loose. They were all well fed, healthy and friendly, far different than most of the dogs I’ve seen in India. True to the Goan flavor, they politely wagged up to us before running off to play. At one point, I saw six of them standing in a circle, looking at each other and taking turns barking. It was strange, but enchanting. I’m sure they were playing a game. Another dog-related Palolem highlight involved the corpse of a pig. I walked down the beach and saw this massive body laying in the sand, with a dog poking at it. I couldn’t tell from the distance what it was… a seal maybe? Upon getting closer, I saw that it was a dead pig, probably weighing 600 pounds and bloated from the sun. The dog was pulling the flesh off one of the pig’s legs and eating it. It was really gross, but soooo awesome too. It probably shows that I belong in the medical profession when my first thought (after “poor pig” of course) was about finding a knife and dissecting it. I didn’t have my camera with me, and when I walked back later to photograph it, the pig was gone, and no trace of it remained. I’m terribly sorry I can’t share photos of a half-eaten, bloated dead pig on a beautiful beach with you. I’m sure you’re sorry as well.

This one dog is my nap hero:

That evening, true to my no-sleep-on-the-train form, I had a meltdown again. This time, I just felt lonely. Even though I was traveling with Hans, I didn’t feel like traveling with a German guy who I had met in India was really traveling with someone. We’d only known each other since late June. Even in Madurai, surrounded by others who I regarded as friends, I felt like I was traveling alone. It was wearing on me. Though Bangalore and Palolem were more Western, I was still tired of being in India and having conversations only with people who didn’t really know me. I wanted my family. I wanted my friends. I was experiencing a kind of loneliness in which I’d begun to find companionship and solace in inanimate things like plastic bags. No really– I’ve developed a strange emotional attachment to a plastic bag from Inman Oasis, the hot tub place in Cambridge. Though I had no use for it, I couldn’t throw it away– it’s the physical manifestation of friendships with those I’ve been there with, and a token of my former stomping grounds: home. (The plastic sack now doubles as friend and laundry bag.) And so I cried, and when Hans wasn’t feeling well and decided to skip dinner, I walked around town feeling really alone, and then returned to the hotel without eating and went to sleep.

The next day, it rained. It was to be expected, and actually, after the consistently very hot sun of Madurai, a cool rainy day was pretty damn pleasant. Hans and I spent much of it partaking in Palolem’s excellent food scene. During our two and a half days there, we became regulars at my new favorite restaurant, Cheeky Chappati, owned by a couple of British expats. I had fried eggs and baked beans and grilled tomatoes and pesto pasta with olives and feta and French pressed coffee with no sugar and gin-based cocktails instead of Kingfisher and was simply in heaven. It was exactly what I, and my digestive system, needed. Cheeky Chappati was excellent in decor, music and entertainment as well. A huge pile of magazines and games sat in the middle of the place, and Hans and I spent hours playing some epic games of Uno. We then ran through the pouring rain to the bookstore down the street where we both picked up a few to read before heading back to our hotel, where some more dogs sat waiting on the porch, one even sitting in the Adirondack-style chair. Rain be damned, it was really an excellent day.

On Wednesday, it continued to rain. While we had changed our plan to save money by taking the bus, the rain discouraged us and we ended up booking a taxi. After breakfast we climbed in to the car, driving first to Vasco de Gama to drop off Hans, and then taking me on to Candolim, my chosen town of Northern Goa. I said auf wiedersehen to Hans on the street in Vasco, and headed off, completely on my own. I’ll miss having someone to travel with, and miss Hans, and how German he is. I once woke up to find all of my jewelry neatly laid out on a shelf, my FN Love earrings (thanks Angie!) even clipped together. I had gone to bed with all of my jewelry in a messy pile, sitting on my guidebook, on the floor. Hans had wanted to look at the book, and instead of dumping my jewelry on the floor, like I would have done, he carefully laid everything out. Because he’s German. And apparently that’s what they do. I’ll miss how much he sucks at thumb wrestling, which I taught him in Bangalore. I believe he’s the only person I’ve ever beaten, and six times in a row at that! While I dislike his dislike of animals, I will miss how terrified he is of dogs. And I’ll miss teaching English as a Second Language. While Hans’s English is very good– he conjugates fluently and understand everything I say unless I talk really fast with some slang to another American– he’s still learning more obscure vocabulary that isn’t taught in school. Among others, I taught: firefly, yawn, brick, draft (as in writing), cozy, palate, sassy, belly button, faint, amber, lobster and scar. And he can now list all fifty United States.

So now here I am, in Candolim, with no one to teach, or even to talk to. My solo adventure really begins.


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Thayagam Trust

28 07 2011

Last night my host mom took me to visit Thayagam Trust, the orphanage I decided to support. Amma and I drove (with Pondy) to the outskirts of Madurai, and pulled up to the orphanage just as the sun was setting (we were asked to come in the evening, otherwise the children would be too excited by the visit and would refuse to study during the day). I received such an amazing welcome from everyone. Neela, the woman who runs the orphanage, is incredibly sweet and kind, and the kids all seem to take after her. They politely greeted me with “good evenings” but I could tell that underneath their docile facades they were oozing with excitement. Amma, Pondy and I were seated in chair to speak with Neela while the kids sat on the floor to “study.” Things got increasingly wiggly really fast so after five or ten minutes, Neela asked them to come up in small groups and perform for me.

Thayagam Trust:

They put on the most adorable performances I have ever seen. I videoed most of it but due to restrictions at the internet cafe, I’m unable to share such large files. In a couple of weeks I will though! After songs and dances, they asked me to play a game with them. A previous volunteer had taught them how to play Duck, Duck, Goose, so we played. It’s really an interesting game to play with a mixed age group. The littlest ones (four years old) who would be the right age for it ordinarily, were completely overwhelmed by the older kids who took it very seriously and kept wiping out on the very slippery floor. And, of course, as the guest of honor, I was selected as goose far more than any one person should. Here’s me knowing I’m about to be called goose:

After Duck, Duck, Goose, Amma insisted that I teach them a new game. As a substitute elementary school teacher, I have an enormous arsenal of games, but with so much pressure to come up with one RIGHT NOW and kids swarming at me and pulling on all of my limbs, I completely blanked on a good game to teach a multi-age group of non-English speakers. After a moment of panic, I settled on Coseeki. Using Amma for a lot of translation, I taught it to the kids. It took some work, but they eventually got the hang of it. If you’re not familiar, one kid leaves the room, and the rest select a “secret leader.” The secret leader starts a pattern like clapping or patting themselves on the head, and everyone else copies them. The outside kid comes into the middle of the circle and has to guess who the leader is. The leader keeps changing the pattern, so the guesser has to keep an eye for who starts the new pattern first and where everyone is looking.

After games, the kids lined up with their notebooks so I could write their names for them. They write their names in Tamil characters, so getting them written in English letters is a huge treat. For me though, it was kind of a pain in the ass. Most of them had really difficult names to spell!

Eventually, Neela kicked them all outside so Amma, Pondy and I could eat dinner, which she insisted we stay for. She served up some excellent food: channa masala, chappitis and aloo paratha. After dinner, she enlisted two of the girls to take me on a tour. The tour had basically already been taken. The room that we played the games in is currently the only room, where the children play, study, eat and sleep. At one end is the kitchen, where all of the cooking is done. There is one toilet for everyone (there are currently about 30 kids). In the morning, they all stand in line. Just outside of the main room are the buckets where they bathe and do their own laundry. There is hope for expansion though: there is an unfinished second floor with three bedrooms and another bathroom. It is currently entirely concrete and bricks and lacks a ceiling:

My tour guides:

Back downstairs in the main room, the sleepiness among the little ones became evident, and Amma and I decided we should head out before they fell asleep.

Here’s the littlest boy and girl, with their enormous backpacks:

I handed Neela the donation that I and some of my readers made– well over 10,000 rupees– which Neela said was the largest donation she’s ever received from a girl. The orphanage receives no government funding, and relies entirely on private donation. They receive enough to make sure each child gets plenty of food, but they lack the essentials we have like spare clothing and beds (they have mats and pillows on the floor). It was only recently that someone donated a door for the orphanage. Neela designated the money I gave to go towards uniforms for the children so they can be like every other Indian student. The children are all so incredible: sweet as pie, smart, polite, healthy and happy. I’m sure they are only this way due to the incredible care that Neela provides for them, and I’m so proud to be able to have helped the Thayagam Trust.

 

 


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Categories : India, Madurai

Wah, Wah, Wahhh

15 07 2011

I came to India with the mantra that everything is experience. Even if I spent ten weeks riddled with insect bites and diarrhea and loneliness, it was all just experience and nothing bad can come of that. I’m also a believer in the flexibility of life: everything in life but death is changeable. If something isn’t quite right, you can change it! It might be difficult, but pushing for a positive change is a better expenditure of energy than passively complaining. Apparently some others do not share my beliefs. Complaining has come to my home in Madurai, and it’s exhausting.

Dirt. Yes, it’s everywhere in India. But did you really not know this before you came? Did you really expect a developing country to be as pristine and sterile as yours?  I too wish it was cleaner here, but I realize that whining about it will not do anything to fix it. It is what it is. No one forced you to come to a developing country.

Food. Shocking news!: This is India, they serve Indian food here. Surely it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine that a person who has grown up eating and cooking only Indian food won’t be able to prepare Western cuisines that are perfectly cooked to your liking. Surely any attempt by us to cook adequate Indian food in an area where Indian ingredients aren’t available would be a disaster. If you don’t want to be disappointed by what you order in a restaurant, stick to the local cuisine. There’s actually a huge variety of really incredible Indian food out there if you open yourself up to trying it.

Service. When you make demands instead of polite requests at restaurants, of course they aren’t going to bend over backwards for you. When you order off the menu instead of going through the buffet like everyone else, of course your meal is going to take longer. When you’re out in a group of thirteen people, of course paying the bill will be a slower process than usual. Service in India is slower than it is in the US and Europe anyway. Let it be a vacation! You have nowhere to be at 9pm on a Thursday night. Relax. When told to relax, crossing your arms and huffing and puffing will not help the situation, only exacerbate it. It is truly embarrassing to be a part of a group that is so rude to the local people. It’s mortifying. I shouldn’t have to feel compelled to hang back after everyone leaves and apologize profusely and offer a sizable tip in an attempt to make up for your rudeness (tips are not compulsory in India). And how obnoxious that there is the “ugly American” stereotype when it is the two Americans who are polite the entire evening, and the ones to do damage control for everyone else. The other American, whose farewell was the reason for the meal, was frustrated to the point of tears. Some sendoff.

Money. Everyone who does this program has at least some money. It’s not cheap to fly to India. Sure, you may have a budget while you’re here. I am! And so I also know that it’s really, really easy to stay within a budget. India is as cheap as the dirt that covers everything. The exchange rates, especially for European currencies, is phenomenal. And so when you complain about being charged 30 rupees when the menu said 25 rupees (a difference of $0.11 or €0.08) and you’re willing to hold twelve other people up over it, you just need to let it go. If it’s that much of a big deal and it’s truly going to derail your spending, I will gladly throw some money at the problem for you. Also, bargaining is not a chance to rudely demand the price you want. It’s meant to be a playful exchange between vendor and customer, to find a price that works for both of you. Believe it or not, there are actually normal price ranges for rickshaws around Madurai. Demanding something ridiculously low is not going to get you what you want. Walking to the next rickshaw is not going to help either. They all work together to help each other get good customers and they’ll give you the exact same price. The more stubborn you are, the more stubborn they’ll be. I get discounts all the time for smiling, teasing, saying I’m a student, or even just knowing the price that something should be. I know one volunteer who got a special price because she and the shopkeeper both have  “butt chins.” The people here want to treat us well, but you have to show you’re worth the special treatment.

And so I’m incredibly frustrated. My time in India is amazing, but now I can’t go a couple of hours without hearing how terrible something was. It’s not terrible; it’s just different. Take a deep breath, relax, smile and remember that there is a reason for choosing to visit India. It’s unlike anywhere else in the world. So why would you expect it be just like home?


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This is a Fucking Hick Town

11 07 2011

Friday night a whopping fifty-three of us from Projects Abroad descended (ascended?) upon the mountainous town of Munnar, in the Indian state of Kerala. Munnar was stunning: tea plantations cover much of the land, lending a beautiful lacy green pattern to all of the surrounding hills, which are punctuated by waterfalls and non-polluted waterways (a real rarity in India). Sadly, I’m clearly not meant to travel in large groups, and despite the fresh air and cool temperatures and amazing things to see, I was often in a bad mood from having to wait for fifty-two other people to be ready to go. There’s often a party scene on Saturday nights away from Madurai, and this weeks felt particularly like attending a fraternity party my freshman year at Kenyon. I didn’t come to India to babysit teenagers who can’t handle alcohol, and those few hours alone make me incredibly excited that this was probably my last Projects Abroad organized weekend trip.

I realize this is a complaint in itself, but I am also really sick of people complaining about India. The public toilets even in the US are disgusting, so why is it such a shock that the public toilets in a developing country be even worse? On the bus to Munnar from Theni, a four-hour journey, we were late to the bus and since we had such large numbers, not everyone got a seat. I ended up standing the entire way. It sounds awful, but it was actually pretty comfortable. The mountainous roads, with all their twists and turns, meant I was constantly rebalancing and therefore not standing still. After three hours I was offered a seat, which I declined, and arrived in Munnar in better shape than I usually am after sitting for a four-hour bus. Those who sat the whole way got off the bus complaining about what an awful trip it had been, and while I didn’t find it awful at all, it infuriated me that they had the audacity to complain when they had the luxury of seats. And so I got annoyed and went to bed.

It’s hard to see, but these gentlemen are seated in a spot labelled “Ladies Only” while I stood next to them for four hours:

Saturday morning we began our organized tour of the area. The roads around Munnar are hardly suitable for driving. They are single lane (but accommodate two-way traffic), careening around mountainsides with no guard rails protecting against topping over cliffs. Buses are not a wise choice, and so all of us piled into six hired jeeps. Our first stop was Eravikulam National Park, home of a particular species of rare mountain goat. We rode in mini-buses up a mountain, and trekked the rest of the way up on foot. I was in the  2/53rds of us who were lucky enough to spot a rare mountain goat. Go me. The view from the top was absolutely gorgeous, with far off mountains and tea plantations everywhere. Always the case in the Ghats during the rainy season, the view was quickly absconded by a cloud. Here’s the best shot I got:

Then we piled back into the jeeps. Say what you will, but the jeeps were totally the best part of the day. I was piled in with a group of raucous, fun people. Our driver let us play DJ with his Tamil music, and we all danced to autotuned Tamil songs and encouraged our driver to pass the other jeeps, cheering wildly as we moved up the line. Our jeep then took us to an elephant ride place. It was hard to be excited about it. It was nowhere near the caliber of the elephant place in Kumily. The elephants looked sad and mistreated, the dismal place was packed with Indian tourists, and the price they were asking for a twenty-minute ride was outrageous. I decided that I couldn’t support such an undertaking, and held back while most everyone else reserved their tickets for a ride later in the day.

Our next stop was a lake. It was underwhelming. Just a lake, with some trees, and some tacky crap for sale. I took this photo of Melinda trying to look underwhelmed:

But maybe twenty minutes later, I took this candid shot of Melinda unknowingly demonstrating how truly underwhelming this lake was:

Things perked up slightly when the rain came, absolutely pouring down in true monsoon style. We packed into a gazebo, and one of the jeep drivers played all of his English music, and we danced to Michael Jackson and Ricky Martin and Anne and I did some capoeira, which I would never have expected to do in India. The elephant riders then jeeped to the elephant place, and the few of us who had opted out jeeped back to the hotel for afternoon naps and spice and tea shopping in town. Melinda, Anne and I walked into town to buy Kingfishers and a tacky sweater for Melinda. While tacky sweaters were everywhere in Kodaikanal, they don’t exist in Munnar, instead replaced by tacky jackets. Melinda bought an amazing reversible “leather” and leopard print number, which the salesman tried to tell us was real leather, despite it clearly being plastic. Melinda’s  black “leather” later flaked off onto her white shirt. On the walk home, on dark, isolated roads, Melinda strutted her stuff and waved in the way leather and leopard will make you. A car pulled over and rolled down their windows. We were slightly afraid they would rape and kill us, but they only wanted to take photos with the crazy white chicks strutting down the road.

After dinner, things shifted to the Saturday party. I tried to hang in their and be social for a while, but I really wasn’t feeling it. At around midnight, a neighbor called the police with a noise complaint and I was grateful for an excuse to leave the party. The next morning those of us who were less into the party scene got up for a hike through one of the tea plantations and to a waterfall. Here’s the view of the waterfall from halfway up the tea plantation:

The six-hour bus ride home was perhaps my favorite part of the weekend. I sat between Hans and Rosie. Rosie and I had a chat about laws in the US versus the UK versus India. “Fly-tipping” is apparently slang for dumping trash on a country road in England, but I didn’t know that and asked if it was the same as cow-tipping, which they apparently don’t do in England (though do they do it anywhere?). It was educational for everyone. Hans, for fun, was reading a neuroscience text-book in his native German. I tried to read my own English book, but found the German next to be incredibly distracting. Science words tend to be really similar regardless of language, and I’ve had enough schooling in brain chemistry to be able to make sense of a lot of what was on the page. I was a horribly annoying seatmate, and kept asking Hans to read words aloud to me. Finally he gave up reading for himself, read slowly aloud to me, and answered all of my ridiculous questions about why everything is the way it is in German. Then we turned the tables, and Rosie and I coached Hans in his English swears and slang. He’s becoming very impressive, especially with all of the various forms of “fuck,” and it’s particularly hilarious because he’s usually so sweet and innocent acting. As we switched buses in a small town, he went up to Carolyn, another one of the now rare American volunteers, and my heart swelled with pride and laughter as he announced to her “this is a fucking hick town. It’s wicked boring.” Carolyn about busted a gut. Hans also has a habit of talking to himself, and Rosie and I giggled every time we heard him practicing his new vocabulary under his breathe. I then invented a game using his German-English dictionary. I would attempt to say a word in German, and he would have to figure out what I was trying to say and then give me the English translation. Language practice for everyone! We did shockingly well. Apparently my made-up German pronunciation is not as off as I would have thought. And now I have a small German vocabulary that includes words like “kugelschreiber” so if anyone ever needs to borrow or buy a pen in Germany, you’re welcome.


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