Story tellers

 In one of my Master's courses, we are talking of story telling and social memory.

As the Elder now, for the little ones and my own siblings, this is more than just a curricular outline: I find myself sifting through the childhoods of the three as well as my own, as what I saw then was through the eyes of a 7 year old or a 10 year old or being the age I was when that particular event happened. 

Sometimes, when they tell me a memory they have or an assumption about a certain thing being this way or that, they ask me to confirm it. I go along with it, although I remember otherwise. Far be it from me to shake the foundation of what they have constructed in their memories of a life that changed all too soon.

I am asked " Do you remember what time I was born?" or "What had happened then?" And I have either to break it to them that at that young age, I was too excited by the arrival of a sibling to register the time and later lived on thinking that someone else will remember for sure. And that they'd be there forever.

Yet, that is not so. And as we wept over not knowing her birthtime, days after her younger daughter was born, my sister promised that she would tell her older daughter what her own and her sister's birth time was and insisted that I do the same for my children. " So someone remembers" she said, not stating the obvious "After you and I are gone"- in my culture it is deeply ingrained not to invoke Fate by stating what you do not wish to happen yet.

So what do I do now? I sift through what I remember. I ask my siblings if their 6 year olds have an email address. I ask if I may write to them about what is going on in my life or tell them about the times, I spent with them 2,3,4 years ago when Amma was with us and I went to Mumbai often.

I know that with the financial constraints and time differences, also the sheer soul-weariness of going back to houses that have redecorated their insides to accommodate for Amma's absence, I am not going back soon.

As  I learn to move from Spring to Fall without expecting to board a flight in between, as I learn to make do with Skype on weekends when we have the time or to wistfully gaze at WorldTime on my iPhone, I am learning to root my heart where my feet are. In doing so, I am finally, 10 years since coming to this new land, seeing new promise of home.

Then why does my vision blur as I write this. Because I am making up a story that I want to believe in and even as I write it, I know that it is not true. Naigaum, Dadar, Mumbai 14 will always be home.

Silent Voices: I was one

​I used to be one, you know: the bullied, the bystander the silent voice. 

Never with students though. With them, I am the epitome of activism. I stand up with students, and my children. I remind them the about the difference between 'tattling' and 'reporting', I help them work up the courage to speak up even if they were not the bullied. I also teach them that while the bully does need help, they are not to sacrifice their peace of mind and their shining selves to this cause. Others will step in and help.

With myself though, it was another story. Ignore it and it will go away. 

Until I realised that I had to do something to speak up for myself and others who are thus marginalised. In the 'expert' world we live in, where social capital drives many journeys, it is so easy to blend into the shadows for fear of ridicule. 

When the whispers and the insinuations become loud only to ones ears, when people one seeks help from make excuses on behalf of the aggressors, when one is labelled as 'too touchy, too sensitive, too thin-skinned"... the voices are silenced, marginalised, minoritized. I was one such person.

It took the voice of one young person at Quest 2011 to remind me that 'somebody cares'. I just to find that person. I started with me and went forward from there.

And since then, I speak. I speak often, I speak to understand. I am waiting for things to change, but I know, as do others, that I am not silent any more. And I am not alone, others are speaking too:softly, surely.

The secret: keep the discussions issue based. 

Resource allocation,
role clarification,
who is at the centre,
who is at the margins,
why?

This helps me use my White Hat at all times. 

Unless we do something with policy, and guidelines, brochures, classrooms and beautiful words painted into murals, they remain just that: just words.

I was reminded by a Guru on November 1st, 2011 at Parkland Public School that courageous conversations must happen. I was also reminded at Quest 2011 that "Equity work is hard work". And the Mahatma said: Be the change. So I will.

If I don't tell this story, who will? 

I am a storyteller

An unusual introduction
in a liberating class

where I am free to be me
and not a set of label who also breathes:
BSc, B.Ed, whatever

I am the first-born daughter of only children
On my shoulder lies the mantle
gently placed there
by my Teeamma
who raised me on her stories

As I do my children,
for the nieces and nephew, I have blogs

I share vivid recounts of their grandfather, my Pappa
and his first raincoat, that I had heard
or my tree climbing adventures as a child
reaching the highest branches for guavas that I have never liked
(just the thrill of climbing was the delight)

I was asked early: "Who will tell these stories,when I am gone"

And this is my destiny, as I walk
As an Elder: first born daughter of only children
caught between those here in spirit
and old souls in new bodies

Fortunate to be drenched
in the words
that are waiting
to be strung into tales.

Were there others?

I give thanks, this sunshine-filled mid-week day for my Gurus who come in various avatars. As I write this, I am delighted that both words have crept in on soft feet from Sanskrit where they were born into the language that I have adopted as my own.

We have been learning about the Titanic at school: facts, opinions, speculation and wonderings. I am always humbled the energy with which students throw themselves into learning when they are presented something engaging. And the gift given to me, as a facilitator, that I can ask questions that invite them to step out of a school-ed path of thinking and consider the whispers of silent voices.

We read through fact sheets, and pored over websites and newspapers. We made posters, dabbed recounts with fragrant teabags to make them appear old. We got ready for the Titanic Museum walkabout.
And then my most vocal Guru asked a question, honey brown eyes honest and earnest, stopping just to catch his breath:

Were the other ships?
Were there other people?
Do you know who they were?
Are we going to learn about them too?
Are there books, are there websites or photos?

See, this is the payback. Once I present one set of stories, the fertile mind is going to ask for more. The ethical and pedagogical responsibility for me then is to go out and find out more. So that I bear witness to the journey of learning: mine and theirs.

Critical thinking jumps out of coloured hats and cue cards and becomes a niggling question that I must ask myself:

Do I have the courage to admit that I don't know?
Do I have the courage to tell them what I do know?
Do I have the strength to walk with these questions until we find some answers?

Do you?

Namaste.