The Blue Sweater: Bridging the Gap between Rich and Poor in an Interconnected World
One night in May my parents and I, camped out in my brother and sister-in-law’s motel-room-sized apartment in D.C. My mom just wanted us to be together. My parents had a futon to sleep on; I slept on a papasan chair cushion on the floor. It looked like a doggie bed.
The next day I looked at their book-shelf and realized I needed a book to read. Mire Bobbi (Hindi for my sister-in-law) recommended The Blue Sweater. My Dad said he wanted to read it, and took it out of my hand. My brother said, “Wait I haven’t read that yet, you can’t take it.” Mire Bobbi insisted I should take it, because he had plenty of other books to read first. Then we sat outside and I “read,” while she “studied.” Within a few pages my mind was going wild with ideas and we just kept talking about what I was reading. Here are some of the first words of Jacqueline Novogratz that stirred me up as I sat in my home nation’s capital:
In America, my grandparents raised 6 children, who then brought another 25 individuals into the world. My cousins and I stand on the shoulders of our grandparents and people like them who never asked for handouts, but supported one another and shared suffering and, through hard work and determination, gave their children better futures in a country that assured them hope and opportunity, if nothing else.
Today poor people the world over are seeking opportunity and choice to have greater dignity in their lives—and they want to do it themselves, even if they need a little help. Today we have the tools and the technologies to bring real opportunities to people all across the world.
The time has come to extend to every person on the planet the fundamental principle that we hold so dear: that all human beings are created equal.
Novogratz tells the readers that in this world that is getting smaller, markets, public policy, and philanthropy all play a vital role in offering this opportunity of equality all of humanity. But if you are afraid that this idealistic book of methods is not for you, you are wrong. This book is written much like a memoir with fascinating stories of adventures around the world, yet it challenges the reader to action.
I am under no illusions that we can make equality for all humanity happen. I am not an Enlightenment child. And as I read Novogratz story, the cycle of evil that grips our world is made clear. She spent years working in Rwanda before the war/genocide, making what seemed like progress. And yet two of the founding members of her organization that gave small loans to poor women and helped charities turn to profitable business, ended up in prison for their involvement in the genocide. Yet like Novogratz, I believe that we must do what we can.
I believe that our service to the poor is worship to the one who created all humanity equal. We can be the people who do not refuse the thirsty person a drink of water—and not only that but we can be the people who show people where to get the clean water and how they can sell the water to the people who need it and in doing so, improve the lives of an entire village.
Poverty Profanes the Gospel
He raises the poor from the dust
And lifts the needy from the ash heap;
He seats them with the princes,
With the princes of His people.
-Psalm 113:7-8
Last week my grandparents, whom I am staying with, had a houseguest from Uganda. His name is Hamlet. He is a priest in the Church of Uganda, a former parliamentarian, current chaplain for the Parliament of Uganda, an entrepreneur, and more than everything else an activist. Being a person with a vision for the economic and spiritual development of his people, he had so many words of wisdom for me since I have a heart for the economic and spiritual development of the people I work with in India.
He was surprised to discover that I do not have a car in India. He asked me if it was because I was afraid to drive there. I said, “yes, that’s a big part of it, but we also want to live a simple life as the people we work with for the most part do not have cars.” He said that while there is value in “living like the people,” there is also an importance to modeling social upliftment. He said that, glorifying poverty was one of the mistakes of the missionaries that went to countries in Africa. They pointed towards heaven and encouraged the locals to be content instead of working hard and trying to make their situation better in this life.
In another conversation, Hamlet lamented that so much of Europe regrets having ever sent missionaries to Africa. But, “they don’t realize that the gospel corrects itself. They don’t realize the value of the gospel,” Hamlet said to me. He went on to explain that after a generation of people grow up with the gospel, if the gospel is internalized the people start to realize the inconsistencies they were fed along with the gospel and they reject the mistakes. It is like John Wimber used to say; they “chew up the meat, and spit out the bones.” (Yes, yes, I realize that saying only makes sense in cultures where people do not chew up the bones).
In this case, one of the mistakes to be rejected in Africa is the glorification of poverty. While Jesus did come to earth, and live among us as a lowly human—he did not just stay that way and encourage us to stay that way. Instead, Jesus transformed himself through the resurrection—and encourages us to follow. So, perhaps we are not just called to live among the poor and handle our finances like the poor but we are called to model how to live a better life where we do not have to live in fear of how we will feed our children or pay our rent because we run sustainable businesses and we budget our money wisely.
I have seen the “poverty mentality” eat away at beautiful, intelligent, and gifted people. They run from crisis to crisis, never looking ahead and therefore they are unable to live to their potential. I want to be a part of helping people out of that destructive cycle. Because good news is not good news unless it is good news to the poor, and as Hamlet said to me, “poverty profanes the gospel.”
I am I in Baby Land USA?
For me Baby Land USA is a region stretching from Eastern Tennessee down to Florida with it’s major hub in the Atlanta area. I realized last night that all five of my friends who have had me stand with them as bridesmaids, have 2-3 children. We used to talk about God, traveling, and relationships. Then we talked about God, traveling, relationships and weddings. Then we talked about God, weddings and houses. Then they just started talking about houses and babies and God. When I come around they ask me about traveling and ca
tch up on the drama of singleton vagabond’s life.
I’ve held the babies. I’ve kissed the babies. I’ve brought them outfits from India. I’ve been glad not to have babies. I buckled in the babies. I’ve carried the babies. And, I’ve cried because all of them have babies, I don’t have a baby, and I like babies (and I had PMS at the time).
I like trying to figure out who the babies look like. One of my friends has two darling babies who look nothing like her…I mean if she didn’t go into detail about the awfulness of having her baby boy vacuumed out of her I would have thought her husband gave birth to the baby. The friend I am about to go have coffee with is a 6ft. beauty queen and her husband is at least 4 in. taller than her, so their baby boy is looks like a 3 year old with a baby head (but of course he’s adorable).
A few years ago one of my closest friends made a comment about how she couldn’t wait until I settled down to a normal life. But, I can’t really imagine having a “normal” Baby Land USA life. If I have children someday I picture my kids looking more like Brad & Angelina’s. But the weird thing is that the “most stylish mom ever,” another good friend, that I hung out with yesterday always thought her kids would be from around the world, and they are blue-eyed nearly bald children. Maybe the others will come later. She never thought she would be Stylish Susie Homemaker. Maybe it’s just a season.Will I have a season like that?
I am starting to get eager to travel a few states north where it does not seem as odd for someone in their mid-late twenties to be unmarried and unbabied.
On Being a Foreigner
I am a foreigner. To call someone a foreigner in the U.S., might be rude. It is at least politically incorrect. We call people from other countries, “internationals” or we call them by various labels such as “Latino,” “Asian,” “European,” “Middle Eastern” or “African.” Sometimes the descriptor is correct and sometimes it is not. We don’t seem to notice. But in many places in the world if you do not look like the dominant population, you are deemed a “foreigner.”
As I have lived in India, I have become comfortable with that title because every day I am aware that my surroundings are foreign to me. The feeling of people pushing me each other to get to the front of what I used to thingk should be a line (or Q) to get on a metro train, the smell of masala, onions, and garlic being heating in mustard oil, and the sound of the language I have to strain and guess to understand remind me that I am the foreigner.
When I am in the U.S. there is a sense in which I am still a foreigner. I look an American, I sound like an American, I smell like an American, but I don’t always feel like I fit in. Some things in the U.S. seem foreign to me. Everyone seems to have a car, technological gadgets namely GPS and phones that go online, white babies, houses, and green grass yards. I don’t have any of those things (and I’m not sure I want all of them).
But, the truth is that I have always been a foreigner. I guess that is why, when a little girl who had just moved from Hungary and didn’t know any English joined my third grade class, the teacher sat her next to me and asked me to help her. At that age I had heard the stories about my country, I knew that we were different. I knew I would never fit in.
The country that I heard about was not Korea or Italy or even the “good ‘ol days” of America, that so many evangelical kids are raised hearing about. The country that my parents talked about as the homeland was a far away place. Though I couldn’t remember being there, we were from a place were every child was loved and lived and danced and played—and taught the adults to do the same. In our country we didn’t need a president or congress or anything like that, because Jesus was the King and that met that everything went right. It is a place where everyone was healed and every tear was dried.
And the secret that my parents reminded me of everyday was that that country–that Kingdom that was so different from America was coming–coming to here. In fact that country actually existed in us. And, as we lived that dream of the Kingdom to come–praying for the sick, loving the poor, writing to people in jail we were a part of that invasion.
All these people (the ancient people of the Bible) were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers of earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. –Hebrews 11:13-17.
My Mother Dear
The following is poem in tribute to my mother—for mother’s day. I could never repay how wonderful she has been to me. Raising me and putting up with me still might be the hardest thing she’s ever had to do (though moving to India at age 49 might be a rival). I want to say that I got any goodness I have and most of the craziness from her—but I guess both my parents are both good and crazy in different ways. But my mom has always been a model of practical wisdom along with full on out devotion to Jesus. She has shown me what it means to let my faith impact all areas of my life.
My Mother Dear
My mother wears no pearls
Instead a string of stories
A collection of neighbors turned friends
On her neck, twirls
My mother plants no flowers
Instead gardens of compassion
A row of believers serving the poor
Around her a new forest, towers
In the Hospital in India
So it finally happened. I got sick. Really sick. The kind of sick that people in the U.S. expect that you would get if you come to India. The kind of sick that keeps tourist drinking bottled water and eating toast instead of curry. According to locals–I shouldn’t have “taken food from outside” not ever, but in this weather (over 100 F) not at all. As an American eating out is so normal, it’s hard to change that habit. It’s what we do for fun. My friend and I ate at a delicious Tibetan resturant in the refuge colony in North Delhi by the University. It is one of the only places in Delhi to get beef with steamed bread called Tingmo, chicken momos steamed, and I had a ginger, lemon tea. We also drank what I assumed was filtered water. I think I’m switching back to vegaterian eating and mineral water at least for a time.
I will spare the details, but about 24 hours later I was running to the toliet the whole night and by morning I had a 105 fever and was so weak I could hardly walk. My mom and the lady who washes her floors (luckly I was over at my parent’s place when this happened) put wet rags on my head, stomach, and feet. They gave me a fever reducer and Gaterade. My mom said we better go to the doctor. I agreed, but thought “what are they going to do?”
“The worse thing that could happen is that you could be dehydrated and have to be put on IV,” my mom said. Still I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t even bring a book with me to the hospital. When I got there, my blood pressure was low. My heartrate was fast. My fever was high. I got hooked up, admitted.
They wanted to know if we wanted a private or a semiprivate room. When we said private, they told us there were no private rooms available. It’s like on a menu here, you ask for the murg mali tikka, they said they don’t have it or that it will take time. You ask for something else. They don’t have it. You ask what they have, and they point to the menu and say whatever is on the menu. Then it turned out there was no one else in my small wing of the hospital, so it was like a private room anyway.
The hosptial was clean. The people were nice. Even the costodal staff wanted to look over me–I had to yell for a few bystanders to go away at times, but over all I was impressed.
Except for the rat incedient. My mom took the day shift, my dear friend Abby took the night shift–staying with me. In the afternoon of the first day my mom saw a rat. She freaked out. She got a guy to come get the rat. He chased it out of the room–but my mom was not convienced it wouldn’t return. She was right, the next morning in ran back through the room and into it’s hole. At that point, my mom went on the rall. I have not seen my mom like this. No matter who entered the room she kept yelling about the rat and how they needed a trap or posion and i didn”t want to sleep with the rat in the room. In Hinlish, in English, something might have even come out in Italian. Then she was sent to chemist to buy me more medicine. To fight cooruption, they have you buy your own meds. to give to the nurse to put in you (or rather your family). The staff had come to see what all the fuss was about, but other than a few giggles, shrugs, she curious peaks into the place where mom had seen the rat disapear into, nothing happened. So, she returned from the pharmacy with not only medicine but rat posion. She gave it to the orderly and demanded they put it around the room.They did. And, a few hours later they installed a refrigerator in our semi-private room.
Lessons: don’t eat meat in the summer in Delhi, drink bottled water, and bring your own rat posion to the hosptial.
Ps. I am feeling much better and am hoping to feel great by Friday because I am supposed to go camping.
Dating American 101
Many Americans date and pursue marriage in a poor manner. There have been times in my life when the dating process has seem like a strange set of traditions to observe…they have seemed foreign to me…until I have been face to face with a new set of values and behavior observed in regards to determining who to marry.
High School Senior Formal (Dustin was never my boyfriend--just my date a few times)
Dating in America is something that every kid looks forward to. Usually, for a boy it involves getting up the guts and asking a girl to the movies, mini golf, the mall or a dance. Before and even after one or two such events the boy and girl start talking on the phone and emailing, sending SMS. Sometimes people call this “talking to someone.” After a few more dates or a few more weeks of hanging out, the guy and girl might start calling this “seeing each other” or “dating.” Some one can talk to or see more than one person at a time. They are still not a couple until they have the D.T.R. (a conversation to define the relationship). At this point, one of the parties (traditionally the guy) expresses is feelings by saying something like, “I really like you,” or “I dig you,” or “I’m really into you.” And, if the girl feels the same way, or wants a boyfriend, she will also confess her feelings, they might kiss and from then on they are considered “going out,” “boyfriend and girlfriend,” “a couple.” Most of the time at this point it is agreed that the guy and girl will not “see anyone else” or even “talk to anyone else.” It doesn’t mean that they do not have friends of the opposite sex that they talk to, but it means that while they are going out with each other, they will not enter into other relationships like this one. From this point the couple hangs out a lot, both with other friends and one on one. They get to know each other, they get to know each other’s friends and family. After few months or more into it, if things are going well the boy or girl will get up the guts (once they are very sure) to say “I love you.” People I hang around call it the “L Bomb.” It is a big deal. It means you are serious. It means that (depending on your age), you might be heading toward marriage. But at any point (1 week, 1 month, 1 year, 3 years, or 5 years), the boy or girl might decide to end the relationship—to “break up.” No one likes to break up, but most people experience it. And, breaking up is by far better than divorce. If the youth of India want to adapt dating…as a means to love marriages the “break up” is essential.
From what I understand about arranged marriage the families to the hard work of finding out if this guy or girl is really the best for you. They think about family, education, religion, career, and hopefully if this other person would do a good job of loving and taking care of you. In many more modern families in cities, the boy and girl then meet and if they are agree then the marriage is “fixed.” It is a good system if you have a great family.
Dating is essentially a different route to trying to figure out if the boy or girl in front of you is the right person for you to marry. Instead of basing the evidence of whether or not this person is right for you on a CV, photo, and information about a person in dating the evidence can only be build up over time, through experience with a person. If my parents do not want me to marry I person I choose to date, it will be not because of information about him but because of experience with him. So, a good first impression is key (Think “Meet the Parents”). Dating must begin with both the boy and the girl being interested in one another, but both the boy and the girl must be unsure of the extent of his and her own feelings. Many counselors suggest that a couple date for a year—go through all four seasons together before deciding to get married. If they last that long, then it might be time to consider marriage but not before. If the couple is not very compatible (if they do not get along), if the girl and guy bring each other down, or are not going the same direction, then the best thing for them is to break up.
SHANTARAM
My friend Saroop said that “Shantaram” by Gregory David Roberts was a book that everyone who loves India should read…I agree. Not only that, but it is a hilariously entertaining and educating book. It is about an escaped convict from New Zealand who takes refuge in a slum of Mumbai. It is a 933 page book, I am 371. The following are a few more of my favorite quotes so far.
“There was an anouncement. It might have been in English. It was the kind of sound an angry drunk makes, amplified through the unique distortions of many ancient, cone-shaped speakers… (Roberts 100)”
Setting: the Victoria Terminus train station, Mumbai
I recently discovered the the only way to find out accurate information at a train station in India is by asking a coolie. They know everything. The catch is you have to know a little Hindi to be able to ask them your question and understand the answer.
“As the minutes passed I relected on that particulary Indian custom of amiable abduction (Roberts 185).”
In my experience people say, “Come.” You ask, “where?” “why?” and they say “Just come.”
Then there was the time that a friend sent a hired bear to give Linbaba (as the main character is affectionately called)a hug. But let me start at the beginning of the incident:
“We stood together for a moment, and then he reached out impulsively and enclosed me in a warm, bearish hug. I laughed as we came apart, and he fowned at me, clearly puzzled.
‘Is it funny?’ he (Abdullah) asked.
‘No,’ I reassured him. ‘I just wasn’t expecting a bear hug, that’s all.’
‘Bare? Do you mean it is naked?’
‘No, no, we called that a bear hug,’ I explained, gesturing with my hands as if they were claws. ‘Bears, you the furry animals that eat honey and sleep in caves. When you hold someone like that, we say you’re giving them a bear hug.’
‘Caves? Sleeping in caves?’
It’s okey. Don’t worry about it. I liked it. It was…good friendship. It was what friends do, in my country, giving a bear hug like that (Roberts 213).’
……a month later…..
A bear with her handlers comes to Lin’s door. The handlers who are painted blue from head to foot tell him that they have a message for him, but they will not tell him what it is or who it is from until he hugs the bear. The crowd starts shouting “Karo, Karo, Karo” (Do it! Do it! Do it), and he has no choice but to hug the bear–which is so big that it knocks him over. But the bear is quite tame. Lin is then handed this note:
“My Dear Brother,
Salaam aleikum. You told me that you are giving bear hugs to the people I think this is a custon in your country and even if I think it is very strange and even if I do not understand, I think you must be lonely for it here because Bombay we have a shortage of bears. So I send you a bear for some hugging. Please enjoy. I hope he is like the hugging bears in your country. I am busy with business and I am healthy, thanks be to God. After my business I will return to Bombay soo, Inshallah. God bless you and your brother,
Abdullah Taheri (Roberts 235).
Didi and Indian English
Monday is my birthday. I am turning 28. The funny thing is that I have been thinking about myself as 28 for at least a few months–so it doesn’t feel like that big of a deal. But it is weird that I am “didi” (older-sister) to most of my 20 something male students. In someways, it is beautiful to be called didi. I have been didi since I was four (and my brother David was born). In other ways, didi makes me feel old. There is safety in didi…I think. Is that a good thing?
Now here are some funny things that have been misunderstood:
Pushpa (our Indian host) to Sy (an American teenager): “Keep your plate!” Sy stands there for a minute with his plate in his hand and then says, “I’m going down to Godfrey’s house, do you want me to bring it with me?” Interpretation: In Hindi to keep and to put are the same words, what she met was to put the plate down and not to wash it.
Another time Pushpa said to Sy, “Do you have tea?” He started rummaging through his suitcase and brought her some green-tea. She laughed. Interpretation: “Do you drink tea?”
Some of my dear friends from Nagaland have difficulty distinguishing between the P and the B sound. So Pushpa becomes Bushba and Peace, Beace, but best of all Mayang was talking about how they make “bear -jam,” in his village. “So many bears and we put them in jars.” Pushpa knew what he meant but still could not hold back the giggles. We always tease the Nagas about how much meat they eat and how there are no animals left in Nagaland because they ate them all.
Naga jokes: How do we know that Adam and Eve were not Nagas? They ate the fruit instead of serpent!
What do Nagas name their dogs? Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner.
Mayang, Alisha, Peace, Toca & Ina–I mean no direspect you know I love you.
The North East
It is a different place here in the North East—North East India. People don’t stare. More people speak English—even the fisherman who sells his fish in the market speaks English. People wear “whatever” or “western-clothes.” It’s not a big deal for a young woman to wear a short skirt. Every other person is a Christian. We are not far from China, Burma, Bhutan, Nepal and Bangladesh. The local people are tribal people. Shillong is the native place of the Khasi people. They tend to be small stocky people, with good smiles who are very talented musicians. They love hot chillis. They have a weakness for alcohol and they are a Matriarchal people. Though I find it very intriguing that they value the daughters so highly in this culture, it is sad to see the affect on their brothers. Patriarchy also has a similarly damaging affect on women but we are so used to these affects they seem normal to us. I am waiting for the new order when women and men will be seen as equally precious as bearers of God’s image. Here the women study…earning degree. Then perhaps they become lecturers at a local college, the men stay home and at best do the cooking, cleaning, and raising the kids. At the worst, they drink all day and spend their wives earnings.
