i heart my india

volume iii: diwali (or, christmas + new year's divided by indian irresponsibility)

diwali is the most important hindu festival in india. diwali/ deepavali is celebtated on the 15th day of the hindu month kartik and falls on amasvasya, no moon day. according to legend, on this day ram was coronated the king of ayodhya after he returned from exile. during his exile, ram rescued sita and engaged in battle with a demon. unfortunately, this particular battle was won thanks to hanuman and his monkey army, and is the reason we can't truly deal with the monkey problem in india. people celebrate by lighting diyas and candles. in the evening, people observe lakshmi puja. lakshmi is the goddess of wealth. and night is when the fun begins.

cole blume, my student-teaching-husband, used to say the following concerning our much-loved subcontinent, "typically, india is like anywhere else. but there is much more irresponsibility involved." the wonder that is indian irresponsibility, systematically and individually, is highlighted on diwali. brian and i went into the bazaar the saturday afternoon of diwali to rediscover our love and wonder for our home. after a year in india, the irresponsibility of everyday life-- indian driving practices, unreliable shopkeepers and train schedules-- can bog anyone down. but the irresponsibility demonstrated in fireworks is something that any true-blooded american can understand.

bred and i, kids in a candy store, spent more than we had planned on any firework that looked loud, dangerous or appealing. the storeowner selling fireworks, typically a grocer, turns his grocery store into a fireworks business for 2 weeks yearly to satiate the indian yearning for diwali fireworks. brian and i pushed and shoved along with the indian women, children and men in the shop, tightly packed to the brim with explosives. we bounced through the bazaar, stopping for chai, links of merigolds and other tacky leis to adorn our necks.

we returned to the bazaar hours later to take some hindu students to a temple. (yes, this picture of children bearning arms was taken at the temple. man, if you ask me, more kids should have guns-- please hear sarcasm before judging my lack of humanity). the stores, now adorned with strings of lights, glowed like christmas-style marshall field's window displays. we walked through the buzz, slipping students poppers (think of the poppers in america and then put them on an excessive amount of steroids= cock brand indian poppers) and feeling like the cool adults allowing the kids to partake in the forbidden fruit of firework goodness. as the night progressed, as did the level of inebriation and consequent amount of fireworks shot off, without warning, in various directions in the middle of the street. after scarcely manuevering past a few explosions, we made our way to mt. hermon to partake in the fireworks brian and i had bought that afternoon. we laced giant bottle rockets together with sparklers, blew off the overly powerful roman candles from our hands and acted just as irresponsibly as is necessary on the most important indian holiday of the year.

highlights:

1. "hold the line!!!" ethan, jamie and brian firing roman candles at the wall. the video on my camera looks like it was taken from a warzone. (see photo exibiting mt. hermon will never be the same).

2. the stupid comments made from the danger zone. i.e. , when we were all shooting off roman candles, i said the following, "don't point them at anyone!" and brian, "don't let go, because you will want to when it shoots with force out of your hand." i guess in lieu of demonstrating common sense in our actions we felt the need to make up by pointing out the obvious.

3. looking down the valley into dehra dun and seeing hundreds of fireworks exploding simultaneously for hours.

it's a wonder no one lost a hand, or, for that matter, an eye during our shennanigans. here's to you, ram. thanks for rescuing sita from the demon so we could suffer minor burns and live to tell the tale.

twinkies aren't just a hostess snack cake, baby

“so, what exactly is your background?” instinctively, i begin to sputter, “i’m white.” but people do not ask white people about their origins. i look down at my brown skin and reply, “i am asian-american. my grandparents emigrated from china.” although my grandparents emigrated from china, they largely shunned their heritage to merge into american culture. i was one of the only brown kids in my elementary school. i did not define myself by my color, but by their whiteness (the first of many definitions of self based on proximity). i could be considered a product of my environment. all of my closest friends are white. i am part of the “us,” and not the “them” because i too carry the invisible backpack of white etiquette. to others i am asian, or even latina, native american or hawaiian; however, to myself i am a member of the white middle class. my life is one of contradiction because my inner thoughts clash with my appearance. i will forever have to explain the relationship between the white woman who is my mother and myself. what does it mean that i was moved to tears the first time i truly realized that i am not white?

i wrote that for a sociology class junior year in college. i’ve been meaning to more fully ponder this topic for awhile, something consistently halting my effort before beginning. last week as i introduced the “who is an american?” project i designed for my u.s. history class i was again reminded of the my status as a cultural chameleon. or, to some, a twinkie. i asked my students, “am i an american?” “no, you’re something else… not totally american, maybe an american plus mexican or something… no, not mexican maybe native american…” the middle school social studies teacher recently asked her eighth grade class who an american is. the kids contemplated for a moment and responded that a blonde haired-blue eyed person who is white is the definition of an american. this coming from kids in an international school.

talking about things like this used to make me flush, become extremely uncomfortable, constantly working to defer attention to something else. once when i was in eighth grade, in a time of extreme self-doubt, i actually responded to the question of my background with the term “chink.” when i gained admittance to carleton college, “the harvard of the midwest,” one of my friends joked that it was because i could add to the asian column and make the campus more diverse. even though i was third in my high school class with a 3.9 g.p.a., the comment made me cower.

for the same sociology class mentioned above, i decided to “discover” the asian part of myself. what better time than asian cultural week (blacks and women get a whole month, asians are all about a single week)? for the first time i felt completely alienated from a group in which i was “supposed” to feel at home. accused of shrouding my “heritage,” though the heritage i knew best included chinese grandparents who never spoke chinese to us and take-out chinese food on friday nights, i was accused of veiling my background to fit in. to some of that asians at the gathering, i was the enemy. the sell out. the chinese girl with a whole table of white friends in the cafeteria. the chinese girl who didn’t know a word of cantonese or mandarin. the chinese girl who was a phony. and, also for the first time, i heard the term “twinkie.” yellow on the outside, white on the inside. i vowed never to make myself so vulnerable again.

as i recently flipped through the st. olaf brochure in the counselor’s office at woodstock i discovered my picture, taken during my body moveable class. part of me glowed at my accomplishment while another aspect of myself knew the truth, the photographer was looking for the brown girl to make the brochure look deceptively “diverse”—the catch-phrase of colleges in the new millennium.

i don’t know when checking the “other” or “asian/ pacific-islander” box became something to revel in rather than something disconcerting. the universal moment when we realize we are ourselves, unforgivingly. that we don’t need to be more asian, more “ethnic,” more “white.” that we get to define exactly what it is we will be, despite and because of all accompanying contradictions.

now repartee concerning my chinese-ness assert a closeness among my friends and i. my multicultural and mysterious browness has become akin to a party gag during my travels. i am a mysterious chameleon-like oddity, blending into the milieu. in china, thailand, vietnam, india, greece and ecuador i have been approached for directions in fluent mandarin, thai, vietnamese, hindi, greek, and spanish. i’ve come to revel in responding to, “where are you from?” with, “guess.” strangers have gotten into debates about my heritage. bhutanese. malaysian. tibetan. spanish. native american. naga. thai. indian. latina. greek. italian. i collect possible nationalities like stamps on a passport.

last week peter, an indian friend who lived most of his life in the united states, and i were running as the church crowd was walking around the chukker. a group of three foreigners blocked the middle of the road, so peter and i each ran around one of their sides. as we strode past, the man cried out “acca!” which is “good” in hindi. i replied, not purposefully loud enough to be heard but probably heeded nonetheless, “just because we’re brown doesn’t mean we only speak hindi” and threw my arms up into the air.

that’s the tricky thing. each of our appearances entail certain assumptions. it’s just taken me longer to accept the ones that come with being a cultural-chameleon-twinkie-chinese-american.

without music, life is a mistake (subtitled: currently listening)

the tension of opposites

tuesdays with morrie was my first exposure to what i have come to know as spectrums. the tension of opposites that morrie schwartz spoke of has evolved to form some basis of my take on reality. tonight the moon is pink. and it is not just pink. it is pink because of the glow of the sun in africa. everything is in reference to something else. things are defined by opposing entities. specifically, the republicans have dominated our country for long enough. and now it’s time for the tides to turn! (this is not the general point of the tension of opposites, but yet another pragmatic example).

we spend our lives trying to find some balance in the tension of opposites. some place on the spectrum that does not alienate ourselves from who we are. the spectrum widens according to emotional experience. the more happiness we know, the more vulnerable we are to hurt. bliss means the rubber band will contract to create unbearable pain. but, as is so well put in vanilla sky, “without the bitter baby, the sweet ain’t as sweet.” full humanness is taking it all.

the other element of the spectrum is the intrinsic and inescapable involvement of others. why does so much of emotional encounters seem to do with other people? that close relationships that bring the most joy also impel the greatest anguish? that letting people “in” allows for the widening of emotive experiences. only relationships that bring immense joy have the capacity to slam us with unbearable pain. and if and when these loves disappear, we shrink back to the midpoint on the spectrum with feelings of emptiness, lacking the luster of the other, though it’s been you all along. we stray from ourselves only to return, renewed, revived.

additionally, converses are drawn to balance us. being a spectacularly unique individual versus being painfully ordinary. i am worth something versus being weakly and vulnerably human and depending on others. i am nothing. i am everything.

if life is a series of pulls back and forth, then it must be about recognizing where you are honestly without judgment. i depend on others (without guilt). i am afraid of change (without remorse). i am myself and nothing else. only mired in honesty can we think about evolving.

i heart my india

volume ii: hold 'em (subtitled: c. "pocket aces" humm)

historically, poker nights have been a men's only event here at woodstock school. i garnered a half-hearted invitation to the first poker night of the year only because it was at brian's house (#section 34a. of the best friend clause, gender, religious background and other traits are to be forgone for the acceptance of said individual in given activity. invitation is to be made with disregard to the judgment of others.) similar to brian's invitations to sex and the city gatherings at homestead #1). think of it somewhat akin to the time your mom made you invite your sister to your boys only sleepover. my presence at the poker table would have resembled the time benny "the jet" rodriguez tried brought smalls to the sandlot for the first time. even though the following allegory (taken from the 2005 sat verbal section) demonstrates my card-playing prowess:

courtney is to poker is not as scotty smalls is to

since poker night was a testosterone-driven event, i never made it on the invite list. a month or so ago i decided to invite myself to tag along, as a little sister would tag along when her big brothers were playing homerun derby. however, just like my childhood friends came to realize during my stint as a tom boy, this girls' got game.

the simple fact that i have game, which was demonstrated on multiple occassions (especially when not accompanied by alcohol), won me (as i proudly told my ninth graders) a spot on the email list for last night's game. i felt as if i had truly arrived when dave " “pocket 2 of clubs and 7 of diamonds equals ‘all in’ before the flop” weber included a lone woman king (a.k.a. girl). chris "burnin' the flop" starr, ethan "i bet like kamikaze pilots, like i mean it" vandrunen, brian "straight flush and four of a kind in-one-night" meyer, dave and i started our first hand around 9. at 1:30 am (never a stranger to a late night for a worthy cause) the table was down to brian and i. we finally ended the night at 2:30, and though i did not take home the 500 rup. purse, it was more than a moral victory. to quote waiting for guffman, (this is a shout out for molly e. b. "grupe") "we women are just as strong as you men!"

i heart my india

throughout india, bumper stickers on tata trucks (note for the unfamiliar: you can think of tata trucks as american dump trucks on steroids, excessive makeup and distinctively unique horn jingles) affirm, "i heart my india" like new york tourists affirm "i heart ny" in t-shirt style. the bumper stickers avow an increasingly evident truth—india is not the same for any two people. situations and experiences make this country of over 1.2 billion into a country of over 1.2 billion versions of loveable and loathable realities. in all romantic and pragmatic definitions, india refuses to change for anyone. for better or worse, cows wander the streets and block traffic, trains run on “india time” and stomach bugs are as common as ogling indian men in bus stations. too often i poke fun at the irritations of living in a foreign, developing country. however, during the past few weeks, multiple things have affirmed my love for india. i title these volumes, i heart my india.

volume i: weekend adventures
one of the top reasons i stayed in india for a second year was travel. even weekend mini-holidays in rishikesh, home of attractive hippies, delicious italian and israeli food, cheap hippie apparel (scarves and flow-ey skirts) and incredibly kitschy indian souvenirs (like this moving-fish tank photo frame). after jessie, maddy and i participated in the first round of glutton bowl 2006,we ventured down to the river just in time for a torrential downpour, complete with an outburst of hail. i ducked into a jewelry store to seek refuge from the dime-sized ice chunks. however, rishikesh was the real refuge-- no students, cold mornings, attacking monkeys, dietary limitations (including the rule that you should not drink or smoke with stomach lacerations) or responsibilities. a little preview of the "pro- traveler" tour i will take through italy and india over winter vacation. god bless the schedule of a teacher. and the budget of an american in india.

what's an antonym for productivity?

this morning i was on a war path to dive into work. real work. not researching songs to learn on the guitar or browsing blogs. i pinpoint the following reasons for the bastardization of my plan.

1) no iPod to insulate me from the staff workroom. i don't have it for one day and my brain is spinning in hindi, kid, hiking, french, etc. conversations in the teacher's lounge. dear brian, i blame you.
2) sepsis of the brain deriving from another bacterial infection in my stomach (dave, am i using this term correctly :) ).
3) google images. always on the list of reasons why ms. humm is not an efficient worker.
4) i can't stop thinking about my rock star costume and the accompanying halloween blizzard of 1991. i am obsessed with the idea of trying to go trick or treating with my extremely limited hindi vocabulary. i would probably at least get a cup of tea, so much better than those damn black and orange peanut butter candies old people give out.
5) i also can't stop thinking about these sex bears. story: i love playing the claw game. you know, the one with the stuffed animals you can win. once i was trying to win either a harry potter or a scooby doo. and i got this stupid pink bear instead. to my surprise, as the claw lifted the pink bear, a blue one followed. i was puzzled by the two bears, seemingly connected at the crotch by a string. i pulled the bears apart in the perkins waiting area and the bears started vibrating, moving toward one another and avowing "darling, i love you."
6) the other 15% of my brain is pondering italian cuisine, indian beaches, the thriller dance in the micheal jackson video, what is for lunch, watching scooby doo episodes in my mind, ways to tie halloween into the study of world history, where i could find a pumpkin to carve, why scan tron sheets can't read pen markings, what the phrase, "golly, ned" means, what my face would look like with cheekbones, the meaning of halloween and why it originated, the ghostbuster theme song, what ligers do in the wild, if j.d. salinger is still alive and secretly writing somewhere, possible halloween costumes, including how i could dress as a giant bacteria, the possibility of jet packs in the future and why my cup of coffee is being used for good rather than evil in the firing of synapses.

a legitimate blog documenting my life in india is to follow. this has been diarrhea of the mouth from courtney "danger" humm.

p.s. happy halloween everyone.

"born to be a rock star"

yes, it's true. after seeing these photos, brian said, "court, you were born to be a rock star."



i was immediately compelled to quit my day job. but since i only know two songs on the guitar, and still can't really figure out the whole concept of singing in key, i figure i will just compile a post of "album artwork" featuring jamie, maddy, and two of my favorite students, rachit and shubi. our band name would have to be the classic standby, cheap sunglasses and our album title... looking for a home in dobighat. introducing ms. jamie vinson-van drunen on tambourine and back-up vocals, ms. madeline eiche on drums, rachit malhotra on cow bell and shubishish bhutiani on bass. and me, courtney "big red" humm as lead singer and guitarist. hey, if you know anyone who plays cow bell, tell them to give us a cow. you can always use more cow bell.