Ten Years Ago Today: Our Hindu Wedding Ceremony

Ganesh is a god after my heart, full of mischief and intelligence and completely lacking in self control where sweets are concerned.. much like my new husband whose name, incidentally means Ganesh in Marathi.  One story tells of a young Ganesh headed home on the evening of his birthday after having stuffed himself silly on delicious ladoos and other tasty indian treats. His ride stumbles, having been spooked by a snake in the path, causing Ganesh to tumble clumsily to the ground, and in the fall his overly full belly bursts open, spilling his ladoos all over the ground.  Ganesh quickly recovers and begins hastily collecting the ladoos, putting them back into his stomach, before grabbing the aforementioned snake and using it as a belt. The moon, having witnessed the entire hilarious seen, bursts into happy laughter at Ganesh’s expense. Ganesh Chaturthi (Ganesh’s birthday) is celebrated each year near the end of August or beginning of September with much feasting, abundant ladoos and an avoidance of meeting the moon’s mischievous eye ;) 

In another story, it is said that Ganesh was created from mud by the goddess Parvati, wife to Shiva.  Upon creation, she assigns him the task of watching the door while she bathes, ensuring that no one can interrupt her.  Shortly after Ganesh takes his post, Shiva strolls up, demanding entrance.  Not surprisingly, a fight ensues between the two and as expected of a god credited with being “The Destroyer,” an enraged Shiva throws his trident at Ganesh, beheading him. Moments later, a seriously pissed off Parvati threatens to destroy the entire world, abstaining only if Ganesh is brought back to life and is there forth acknowledged before any other gods. When faced with a wife dealing with severe anger management issues (I can relate) Shiva fumbles for a solution and thus our elephant headed Ganesh came about. As a result of Shiva’s mishap and Parvati’s demand, Ganesh is invoked before all other gods at the start of any pooja (prayer.) He is known as the remover (and occasionally the placer) of all obstacles and as marriages tend to be full of obstacles, I am certain that our pandit (priest) sent a prayer his way at the start of our wedding.  I know I was sending prayers to anyone and everyone who would listen!

We had arrived at the hotel and had successfully navigated the stairs without any high heeled induced mishaps and I stood awkwardly adorned in my bridal finery in front of countless cameras while waiting for someone to tell me where to go next.  To break the tension, I had taken out my tiny Canon camera and was taking pictures of the photographers when the camera was wrest from my grip at the request of my soon to be sister-in-law.   Two minutes later I triumphantly tucked my camera back into one of the many folds of my saree for the duration of the ceremony (one can fit many things discretely in the folds of a nine yard saree...money, cameras, makeup, food, spare clothes, small animals..) 

My soon-to-be husband walked to my side and we humorously sized each other up, me in my Indian garb and him in his borrowed shoes and hat. He had forgotten the original shoes and hat in Chicago but chose not to tell me till we reached Bangkok in fear of provoking a Shiva style rage.  (Seriously though...I packed/did Everything!! All he had to do was remember the hat and shoes...sheesh!) 

 Ameya looked every ounce a raja in his pointy gold shoes, loose cotton cream colored pants, long silk red vest, soft cream coat with red embroidery, and lovely turban style red hat (sherwani.)   I looked quite nearly Indian in my beautiful red and pink saree with delicate gold embroidery, countless red, gold and silver bangles and pretty jewels following the line of my eyebrows on my forehead.  I was especially fond of my bindi which perfectly covered my ever deepening wrinkle, rendering me with a deceptively youthful appearance (or so I told myself.)  A bindi is a pretty jewel worn by women between the eyebrows.  I later read that the space between the brows is known as the sixth chakra (physical point of energy) otherwise known as “the seat of concealed wisdom.” I have never heard such a romantic phrasing for a simple wrinkle...

After just a few minutes chatting, Ameya was led away to take his seat under the mandap (outrageously flowery canopy under which we were to be married) and I was led to a seat in the front row to observe.  The first part of the ceremony consisted of the parents of the bride blessing their future son-in-law and entrusting him with the care of their daughter.  I later asked Ameya about the significance of each action within the ceremony such as why Mahapatra Uncle poured water into his hand with a spoon and what was the deal with the short bit of string they held between them.  His response was a clarifying “I have no idea.”  

A few moments later, I was led to the Mandap where Ameya and I stood facing each other with a silk cloth held between us, blocking our view. My ceremonial brother, Sid held one end and impishly peeked over to my side while Ameya’s cousin Shishir held up the other.  In past traditional weddings, the dropping of this cloth was the moment in which the bride and groom see each other for the first time. I can’t even begin to imagine.. After feigning happy surprise once the cloth was dropped, we exchanged beautiful flowered garlands and namastes (Jai Mala..formal acceptance and respect) before taking our seats, mine to the right of his in order to be symbolically closer to his heart. 

Our particular ceremony was an Arya Samaj wedding, which meant that while all of the prayers and chants were in Sanskrit, they were then translated to hindi, and from hindi to english.  From what I understand, our particular pandit (priest) is much sought after and upon returning to Bangkok from their Chicago visit last summer, Ameya’s parents consulted an astronomer for auspicious dates and immediately booked our pandit. (Despite the fact that Ameya himself had yet to ask me to marry him..) Our pandit was a tall, friendly looking man whose hair had deserted the top of his head in favor of his ears, giving him an endearingly sweet and approachable appeal.  He had a clear yet not overpowering voice, steady hands and didn’t seem to take any notice at all of the suspiciously pale hue of the bride.  He traversed three languages in a way I will forever envy, and his english translations gave voice to his particular brand of humor.  For example, when translating a vow that we were making to do things together as a couple, his english equivalent was, “even if you go to a club, you have to take her with.”     

Ameya and I sat shoeless on a red draped couch surrounded by four flower pillars, his parents to his left, my parents (the Mahapatras) to my right and a small sacred fire in front of us (dangerously close to my vast yardage of saree and torchlike hair.) Fire (agni) represents a purifying agent making it central to the ceremony and out of respect, we dropped handfuls of flowers in the small fire before Ameya’s parents offered symbolic gifts of clothing to the Mahapatras. 

We then had strands of white beads placed on each of our heads by Ameya’s eldest aunt, who understandably struggled a bit with his hat.  Our pandit placed my hand palm up in M. Uncle’s and fit Ameya’s hand under his. My adopted brothers Sid and Vivek alternately trickled water over the joined hands as Uncle removed his hand, placing mine in my husband’s and giving me into his care. Our pandit draped scarfs over Ameya’s and my shoulders, tying each end as securely as we were tying our lives and families together. 

Chanting began and Ameya was instructed to give a single word response while dipping a long spoon into a small bowl of ghee (clarified butter) before feeding it to the sacred fire.  I relaxed at this point as the endless chanting was having a lulling effect. My nearly husband was obliged to drop approximately 600 spoonfuls of ghee on the fire, each drop of course, requiring in depth instructions from his dad. As Ameya’s days leading up to the wedding had been considerably calmer than mine, I sat back and found vindictive joy in the line of sweat trickling down the side of his face as he hastily attempted to please his family with the quality of his ghee pouring.  I probably would have been even more smug had I already known that I would not have to repeat the same task five minutes later.

Weighed down with yards of material, flower garlands, white beads and knotted scarves, Ameya and I were instructed to stand and begin our seven pheras (circles) around the sacred fire, (without inadventently setting Bangkok alight.)  At the start of each phera, Sid (the brides brother) filled my hands  with puffed rice which together Ameya and I poured on the sacred fire causing a popcorn like scent to fill the air. (bringing the fact that I was starving to my attention..) I led the first three pheras of which halfway through, I placed my foot on a grindstone while more chanting commenced.  The grindstone signified both the strength of our marriage and the obstacles we would overcome. Each phera had a specific purpose and prayer; the first phera for a healthy respectful life together, the second for the ability to be strong and complement each other, the third for wisdom and prosperity, the fourth for faithfulness to each other and each others families, the fifth for the love of friends, family and charity, the sixth for a happy long life together and the seventh for the bond of friendship and loyalty to each other.   

Unlike a typical christian wedding ceremony where everyone sits as quiet obedient witnesses, indian ceremonies tend to be a bit noisier. (and definitely more colorful!) Throughout the approximately 90 minute ceremony, guests chatted aimlessly, hugged friends and relatives, drank tea and coffee and in a few cases of young cousins and old aunties and uncles... dozed off.  However, once the pheras began, guests perked up, and discreet elbows to those who had nodded off could be seen.  Not wanting to give into the entertainment value of tripping over my saree and grindstone, clumsily pulling my husband and myself into the sacred fire, I walked at an excessively sedate pace, unintentionally giving the image of a meek humble bride. 

After completing our seven pheras, we were again seated and 7 leaves with seven spoonfuls of rice were placed at my feet. These signified our seven steps together. For each ‘step’ Ameya made a specific vow and to show my agreement, I flicked the rice from the corresponding leaf using my toes. The first step signified our vow to share the responsibilities of married life, the second to fill each other with strength and courage, the third to work together for prosperity, the fourth to cherish each other in happiness and sorrow, the fifth to raise strong virtuous children, the sixth to fill each other with joy and the seventh to be lifelong partners. I suspect that at this point  Ameya was slightly jealous because while he had to pour endless ghee, I got to play soccer with rice.. 

Our pandit held a leaf with red vermillion powder in front of Ameya who dipped in his right hand ring finger in the mixture before turning to me.  He raised his red coated finger to my forehead and clumsily placed a red mark near the part in my hair, marking me as a married woman. (sindoor) Later, our friend Sabah dabbed at my forehead in an attempt to make me look less like a bludgeoned woman and more like a wife. 

Finally, a prayer was said over a lovely intricate black and gold necklace which is the traditional indian version of a wedding ring. (Mangal sutra) With the help of his mom, Sid, and Sid’s wife Namrata, Ameya awkwardly handled the delicate necklace, eventually managing to hook it around my neck.

A final prayer was said and the ceremony ended with smiles, rice throwing, hugging, feet touching, grumbling empty stomachs and necessary posing for millions of pictures.  As things eventually began to wind down, I imagined myself gorging on pounds of spicy paneer and countless numbers of tiny tea cakes which I had been eying all morning. Ameya and I headed toward the two stairs taking us from the mandap and to the glorious array of food, only to discover that his shoes were missing.  Having easily found mine and in a desperate search for food, I quickly and shamelessly deserted my husband to the tradition of bargaining with his new in-laws for the return of his shoes.  Marriage had truly begun...

Ten Years Ago Today: The Morning of...

Not to many years ago, the summer in which Spain gleefully won the Euro cup, I shared a week with friends in the tiny village of Esparaza on the french side of the Pyrenees.  We toured the nearby castle city of Carcasonne, hiked the crumbling ruins of the Cathars, and had beer splattered on us in a local pub by exuberant Spaniards upon Torres scoring the cup winning goal.  (The french were indulgent as their own team had exited the competition at a shamefully early stage..  in fact, the french have been quite crap at soccer in recent years..) We toured Esparaza’s hat factory, kayaked down quite clean rivers and we ate decadently rich meals.  

One night after a particularly fulfilling meal, we gathered relaxed and full to bursting in the sitting room. Warm dark wood floors met with pale cream walls as moonlight streamed in through tall open shuttered windows. Wine and conversation went hand in hand and as always happens at these things..a guitar appeared.  Dan, with his overly long preppy cut and crumpled cotton button up shirt, plucked aimlessly a few moments before settling in on a strum pattern. As I watched over the top of my wineglass, I fell completely and irrevocably in love, not with Dan (though he was lovely) but rather with the song he played.  Dan had unknowingly begun my love affair with the beautiful simplicity of Dylan’s song “Boots of Spanish Leather.”  Later when I had left a lover and France behind for good, the song took on a new shape and stronger personality. I took it out at gigs fully knowing I couldn’t give it it’s proper due and I played it late on warm Chicago summer nights with open windows and abundant moonlight. Recently I learned that the woman within the song had left this world behind and in paying my respect, I play it again.  At the ever so wise ages of 17 and 20 years, Suze and Bob Dylan met and loved with all the innocence and messiness that 17 and 20 would imply. But life has a way of changing the shape of that which we expect.  I have always thought of this song as a testament to the moment of letting go with grace, of holding one’s head high as a perceived future becomes opaque and a new one must be imagined.  Bob Dylan went on alone to become all that we know him as and his Suze married and shared 40 + years of life and love with her dear husband.  Luckily though, we still have reminders of the small moments all those years ago, to give us a soundtrack to our own small moments.

Recently, I have traded in my boots of Spanish leather for “One night in Bangkok.”  As I had mentioned before, the lead up to our wedding was fraught with chaos and unfortunately, romance had been tossed aside in favor of to-do lists and frozen smiles. After the first feat of simply making it to Bangkok, the days proceeding and the wedding itself became a series of tasks to be performed..all with their own cultural perils.  Smile pleasantly, bow to So-and-So,  shake hands with So-and-so, touch So-and-so’s feet, suck in the stomach, eat what is put in front of you and at ALL COST.. Avoid questioning the events, their planning, their execution and your part in them.  I simply went where I was told and did as I was advised, living my life in five minute increments.  In the midst of the insanity, I had completely forgotten that all of these random events had the intended outcome of me actually becoming married.  It wasn’t until about nine hours after the fact, when my new husband said something particularly stupid, (I can’t remember what exactly as he is quite prolific in the senseless things he says..) when I looked at him with the crashing realization that no matter what foolish things he says or does..I absolutely cannot leave him! (For 7 lives!!)  In the chaotic messiness of the wedding preparation, I had missed my chance to run screaming for safety.

The morning of the wedding dawned softly with the coo of a pigeon on the window sill and enough humidity to promise a warm day to follow.  I had opted to sleep through dinner the night before, yet still woke without the desire to eat. Lying on my back in bed, I lingered over my last few quiet free moments. I raised my arms to inspect and admire the dried cracking henna and the dark stains beneath, only to clumsily drop bits of henna in my eye. (Of course..)  So accompanied by the instant rousing desire to flush my eyes with water..the day had hastily begun.  

After a thorough eye rinsing, I wandered out to the dining room table to join Mahapatra Uncle for tea and toast. (‘Auntie’ and ‘Uncle’ are terms used for anyone elder than oneself, which is quite convenient for eradicating the need to remember 500+ names. However, since Mahapatra Uncle was standing in as father..perhaps a stronger title is necessary.) As the household slept on, we chatted aimlessly while I tried unsuccessfully to scrape henna from my arms. (I suspect that the Mahapatra household will forever contain tiny bits of my henna throughout..)   Having written the inscriptions for our wedding invites, Mahapatra Uncle is known among friends and in his community for having a gift with words.  He has a knack for giving the most simplistic moments of life a grandioso flair and for phrasing life’s incredibly complicated times in a way that seems as easy as taking a breath. Unfortunately, I can’t remember anything of which we talked about in those last quiet moments of the morning..I only remember feeling calm despite all that was to come.  

As dawn merged with true morning, the house began to wake. Sheena arrived with her minions at 6:30 am to begin the LONG and arduous process of transforming me into a beautiful, meek, indian bride.  My hair dresser was a pretty woman possibly in her mid 50s whose idea of a hairstyle involved 80s hair band style teasing, gallons of hairspray, the potential use of cement and approximately six thousand bobby pins.(I have never had my hair professionally done..so I have these same notions of all hairstylists.)  Though I had moments of skepticism and mild fears of resembling Zsa Zsa Gabore, the final outcome was a lovely upswept collection of curls. I suspect though, that in that moment had I been shot in the head, the bullet would have merely bounced off of my ironclad curls and I would not have felt a thing. 

Throughout the hair teasing, Sheena had been hard at work slathering me with foundation, essentially erasing my face in order to draw it back on with nicer features.  In the back of my mind, I could hear the voice of an indian friend referencing her own  wedding day makeup...”I looked like a fat man,” she had said. One of Sheena’s beautiful young Pakistani sidekicks had taken my hand and was attempting to bring beauty to my nervously chewed cuticles when Sheena mentioned in hindi that they would like three glasses of water.  My grasp of Hindi is incredibly rudimentary thanks to my Hindi tutor who gave up once he realized I would cook for him even without a lesson. (He’s gained 20 lbs since we first met over a year ago..) As a result, I have the comprehension of a one year old child and thus was able to add to Sheena’s request for water, asking for a fourth glass.  Surprised, Sheena met my eye in the mirror and asked with obvious apprehension if I in fact could understand Hindi.  Suspecting from her worried expression that slightly unflattering things had been said around me, I mischievously nodded yes. She quickly went back to work with slightly more gentle sweeps of the blush brush. 

Two hours, two pounds of makeup, 5 pounds of hairspray, 10 pounds of silk and 15 pounds of gold later, I stood in the middle of the Mahapatra home, afraid to move in fear of wrinkling anything, while everyone else bustled around, finishing their own last minute preparations.  I headed down to the cars in an elevator with Isha, a deceptively young and unassuming looking PhD student of biotechnology, and Saloni, a high school girl who always seemed to be wearing clothes I wanted.  One of them handed me a last minute gift, a pretty gold, green and purple necklace that would perfectly match what I was to wear later that evening. (Perhaps it is my adoptive indian side coming forward, but I strongly suspect that Isha would be a perfect match for my weight gaining hindi tutor Aditya.. both incredibly smart and nice, yet equally unaware of their appeal.)

As our cool air conditioned cars drove the single mile to the hotel in which the wedding would take place, I peered out the tinted window at a Bangkok in full morning swing; countless cars and motorbikes, incredibly brave cyclists, an array of food vendors and herds of pedestrians. I imagine that even saree and heel clad, I could have walked the distance to the hotel in the same amount of time it took our car to navigate the brutal Bangkok rush hour. 

Ten Years ago today: Henna

 Shaadi.com

I envy the idea of arranged marriage.  In fact, the concept of coming before a stranger minus a past or a bruised heart with the sole purpose of pledging to stand steady no matter life’s insanity has very real appeal.   In the Indian culture, arranged marriage is still very much common practice and many times it manifests in the form of a blind date set up by parents based on similarities, caste, income, level of education and social and family values.  The prospective bride and groom size each other up over a few meals and emails and if they like who has been placed before them, family rejoices and a wedding is soon to follow.  Of course, this concept does not translate into the western way.  We tend to scoff at the idea that our parents could possibly know our own hearts better than we do. We ignore the years our parents have seen and dismiss their lessons learned. We forget that they only want to protect us by setting us on our way unblemished.  (although I do cringe in horror just thinking of who my mom may have picked for me...)    Instead, we trample after love with the delicacy of elephants, time and time again, until some of our hearts start to resemble those dented canned peas hiding behind the overripe bananas on the grocery clearance rack.

 But sometimes.. oh yes, sometimes we get lucky.

Ameya and I came together, each bringing our own past.  After all, one cannot reach 31 years of age without having lived every one of those 31 years.  In our newly joined home, we have a room that I recently painted what I thought would be a lovely warm shade called ‘clove bud’  but actually turned out to be the color of the surface of the sun.  However, in the brutally cold Chicago, a pumpkin orange room thankfully goes a long way to inducing feelings of warmth.  In the ‘orange room’ we have a collection of gods; little Ganeshas, A stone Buddha, my rosaries from each country I’ve visited, a gold colored Lakshmi, and a lovely Shiva against a blue background.  Unfortunately, at one point my husband had let slip that this particular Shiva had been a gift to him from a past girlfriend and her family.  I then suggested that in our home together, it would be wise to leave items from the past safely in the past, especially since each time I glanced towards this proud god, he looked back with eyes that knew more of my husband than I did. But one does not simply give away Shiva, nor does one attempt to hide him behind other knick-knacks.  Shiva, is after all, the destroyer and by nudging him aside, one is foolishly asking to be taught a lesson...

A short time after Shiva and I grudgingly decided that we could share the same home, Ameya and I ran into someone I had once dated.  (For the sake of avoiding confusion, we’ll refer to him as ‘Rooney.’)  I stood next to my husband, made small talk and all the while I felt ashamed of myself because in the past, I had been in the wrong.  A few years back when I had been seeing ‘Rooney,’ neither of us were in a very steady place in life. He had been a friend for a long time and as a result, I had set unattainable expectations for him, foolishly overlooking the fact that he was clearly out of his depth. I did not take the time to build him up by telling him that he was attractive, smart and most of all kind (all things of which he was woefully unaware.)  I was not overly nice or supportive and to be blunt, I likely left him in worse shape than I had found him. I took his friendship for granted and for that I have been sorry ever since.  However, one does not blurt these things out when sitting next to one’s husband. So as I glanced at ‘Rooney,’ I gave an inward nod to Shiva, acknowledging a lesson well taught, and silently asked him to send some much deserved good karma in the direction of my past friend. 

Regrets, mistakes and insecurities do not magically dissipate upon completion of marriage vows and as I sat the night before my wedding, looking over my henna covered sticky arms, a thousand questions and fears raced through my mind.  The days leading up to the wedding had been full to bursting with checklists and travel and family and obligation and as a result, my first moments to sit and truly comprehend the magnitude of the step I was about to take, came just hours before our ceremony. Up until this point, the entire concept of marriage had always seemed slightly horrifying to me as I come from a family in love with the idea of love. They leap in so joyfully, headfirst, only to end up with brutal concussions for their trouble.  And while I admire the strength with which they jump, I had always been much more comfortable standing just a few paces away from the edge.  

However, In my work, I have had the privilege of singing for countless weddings and I have to say that all of the brides make it look so easy. (except for that one who started dropping ‘F bombs’ when I asked if she was ready to begin.) I never see any trace of a past walking with them down the aisle to the future.  And they always seem so relieved to finally place their hand in their husbands, as if the insanity is finally over rather than just beginning.. For Ameya and me....the insanity was truly just beginning. ;)

Bangkok is stunning and I have to say that it’s possibly the best place to contemplate having a pre-wedding panic attack.  We had had a mere two days between our plane touching down and our wedding, each overrun by multitudes of new people, sights and experiences and the exterior chaos had begun seeping inward. As culture dictates, the day before our wedding was set aside for the Mehendi celebration; a gathering in which the bride’s hands and feet are decorated with henna, thus beginning her transformation into a wife.  According to tradition, the mehendi usually takes place with the bride’s family.  However, since Thailand was a bit far to expect my family to travel (I myself nearly needed a horse tranquilizer for the flight..) Ameya’s best friend Sid and Sid’s entire family were standing in as my own.  From the time we landed in Bangkok until the moment I was handed over in marriage, I was a member of the Mahapatra clan, proud recipient of two lovely parents, a grandmother, two brothers, a sister-in-law, and a small dog, Rex. While Ameya had been staying with his family at the Hotel Lotus where our ceremony would take place, I had been staying in the Mahapatra home, a pretty 7th floor apartment with dark wood floors and light blue walls in the lush green Sukhumvit area of Bangkok. 

The day before the wedding, I awoke early, dressed in a pale green salwar kameez (skinny pants covered with a knee length tunic,) ate a very light breakfast in fear of having an upset stomach with henna covered arms, and settled in on the couch to be fussed over for the next couple hours. Sheena was a pretty and petite woman in her early 30s with a beautiful warm complexion adorned with purple eyeshadow, a silver nose ring, large earrings and long curly black hair. She began with one tiny curvy line on the inside of my arm, halfway between my wrist and elbow, and I watched in fascination as intricate designs burst outward, eventually encompassing my entire forearm and hand. She was using what looked like tiny foil pastry bags with the tips cut only slightly bigger than a ball point pen. Occasionally, I answered questions Sheena had seemingly asked only to realize that as she bent over my hands, she was chatting away on a phone which was permanently embedded in her ear.  

In an effort to get me to stop nervously biting my nails, Ameya had told me that henna is a manure based product, (as if a little poop is enough to get me to stop...) However, I did a bit of research on my own to discover that henna is thankfully, plant based (Lawsonia inermis.) The paste of ground henna (either prepared from a dried powder or from fresh ground leaves) is drawn onto the skin  and left on from a few hours to overnight. Once the dried paste is washed (or chiseled) off, a lovely rich brown stain is revealed.  Henna stains can last a few days to a month and I have read that the darker the stain, the more the brides’ husband and in-laws will love her. It is said that the longer the bride retains the mehendi, the more auspicious her future will be...or possibly it just tells that she is not effectively washing her hands after each bathroom break..

As the hours passed, the warm Thai sun came in from the balcony and the room began to fill with warmth and people. Two other henna artists had arrived and were in the process of covering the hands of my future mother and sister-in-law. Others wandered the apartment with cool drinks and plates of amazingly fresh and colorful Thai food (of which I was still terrified to eat.) My arms had been completely covered in henna and doused in lemon juice and sugar and I listened as women chatted lightly around me.  My friend, Joanna, had flown in to Thailand from Poland the day before and was ever present behind her camera lens, gleefully taking picture after picture, while trying to coax smiles out of camera shy sari draped ladies.  

Time passed as it has a habit of doing and people began to slowly trickle out of the apartment. As the bride must not step out of the house after the mehendi ritual until the wedding day, I was left to my own devices, quietly sitting in a chair on the 7th floor balcony, overlooking a Thai sunset.  While my henna dried and began cracking, I could hear children happily playing below, the drone of multiple air conditioners, and high pitched hindi music coming from an Indian soap opera inside the apartment.  I watched a huge grapefruit sun sink lower on the horizon while inhaling the smell of a thousand of dinners being prepared. I felt calm in watching the night slowly wash over Bangkok as the light from a million windows began to flicker over lush trees rustling in the warm breeze.  I found comfort in the continuity, in knowing that tomorrow, married or not, the breeze will still blow, the sun will still set, children will still play and the light from a million windows and countless lives will still flicker.

Ten Years Ago Today

"God has been good to our family."

My husband and I sat on his parents bed the night before we were to fly home to Chicago.  As the pale blue walls and air conditioner kept the warm stickiness of the Thai night at bay, my new father-in-law reflected on the previous couple weeks. With a contented sigh, he stated, “God has been good to our family.” 

*****

A mere three weeks earlier, I had been in Chicago standing on an unsteady ladder shouting obscenities at a tiny nail which refused to detach itself from the wall I was about to paint. At the time, I had no thoughts of being pampered, dressed and draped in gold and silk, fed fresh fruit and vegetables till my bursting point... I had no concept of being introduced and crushed into perfume scented hugs, no thought of smiling till the muscles in my face stiffened and cramped... I had yet to think of the moment in which I would settle my hand for the first time into that of my husband’s.  Rather, my entire being was focused on that stupid f*#@ing nail and how I couldn’t move on to the next task on my ever growing list until it came out of the wall.  I realized maybe I had taken on slightly more than I could handle.  Perhaps it was not wise to pick the remaining two weeks before the wedding to level the floors, move my things (including the 687 lb piano,) paint and ready my “bachelorette pad” for the next bachelorette, manage my petite youth choir annual holiday sing along, maintain my usual herd of students, rehearse and sing multiple masses, and yet still have time to take in deep breaths while reminding myself of my impending bridalness.  With a hot flushed face and anger induced shaky hands, I raised my hammer intending to destroy the wall around the nail when my future husband chose that moment to wander into my apartment with McDonalds fries. Upon quickly noting my rage, he hastily stated that there was no need to stress as we could simply rent the apartment for an extra month to allow time to finish everything off upon our return from Thailand.  I teetered between the need to bludgeon him with my hammer and the desire to tell him that he was the most beautiful creature on earth before finally settling somewhere in between with french fries and sniffles. 

From that point on, things fell into place without the need for an extra month’s rent; nails fell gracefully out of walls, pale yellow paint glided smoothly on, the piano sailed up icy back stairs (with the help of some EXTREMELY strong men and hot chocolate,)  my youth choir brightened the day for many retirement home residents, Christmas eve masses were sung (though not my best work,) bags were packed by 3am and Christmas morning found me in a Lorazapan induced stupor holding my fiancé's hand in a death grip aboard a large plane hurling itself at Thailand.    

*****

On any given Sunday after a mass in which I am the cantor, I can be known to randomly hum the music...incessantly!  The morning after our Christmas Eve masses was no exception, much to the detriment of those sitting around me for the first 14 hour leg of our journey.  My internal soundtrack was limited to the alto part of the chorus to ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High,’ on loop and occasionally a note or two would slip out without my knowledge. After what must have been approx. 14,786 verses of playback, we safely landed in South Korea, home of the 2002 World Cup, and ironically in 2003, the second greatest importer of U.S. beef.  I suspect that there is actually a very small number of vegetarians rushing off to tour South Korea (and North Korea as well..) as even tiny innocent looking edibles manage to have beef stuffed inside somewhere. Despite, the overabundance of post-moo food and a soon-to-be husband standing gleefully in line at KFC, I was impressed by Seoul’s airport with it’s abundance of orchids and extremely zen bathrooms.   

Six hours and two trashy romance novels later, our second plane landed smoothly just outside of Bangkok; 10:30 pm local time, 10:30 am Chicago time and about 24 hours after our journey began.  Ameya and I stepped off the plane, took deep breaths and threw ourselves into the awaiting insanity... 

The whole world is raging.. and I along with it.

My husband and I have had many arguments in the past few days. “There is no excuse for riots and looting,” he says, “they are hurting their own cause.” My Indian husband comes from a family with a mother who anticipated his every need and a father who worked long days and years to ensure that he had the freedom to go to any school in the world. As a result, my husband is highly educated and respected, speaking English with no trace of an accent. He has experienced racism surprisingly few times, once in small town Michigan, once when being mistaken for a refugee in Greece, once on a train in Paris, and of course, Border Control at airports. Each time, he was left temporarily infuriated. However, my husband has never experienced hunger, he has never known the hatred of someone who should love him. and he has never been struck down by those who promised to serve and protect... over and over and over. 

I grew up in chaos and fear, a conveniently absent father, rotating “stepfathers,” constantly changing addresses and schools, the smell of bars and cigarettes wrapped up with Saturday morning cartoons. In school, I learned how to stay awake in class while hiding bruises and missing hair and I learned to sit in defiant silence when the state intervened and sat me before a counselor. I remember one Easter in particular, I was in either third or fourth grade, I walked alone to the Baptist church down the street and I looked with envy at all the beautiful hats, colorful hair clips and shiny shoes. I crammed into a pew with strangers, embarrassed by my too small skirt and out-of-place exposed pale legs, but those thoughts were forgotten when the woman next to me took my hand and the singing began. 

Each time the State, eager to get another child off their books, sought family reunification, I learned of the metallic quality of the taste of hopelessness. I built walls, trusted no one, and from behind my walls, I sneered at the kids who had family, the kids who could be in the school musical, the kids who had rides home from soccer practice, the kids who had parents who told them that they loved them, rather than how much they hated them. My jealousy and anger burned.. every. single. day. I graduated high school with straight Cs and the occasional D and I failed out of college just short of my degree. 

Though twenty years have passed, today, that little girl is raging inside of me. She is smashing windows and stealing shoes, because she knows that the only reason she has become who I am is because of our white skin. It wasn’t until my early thirties, when I was living in Chicago’s Uptown neighborhood and learning the names of the kids selling drugs on the corner, that my foster parents, the first people to help me do my homework, told me that they had said no to the placement of a little black boy, shortly before I was placed in their care. These chosen parents of mine didn’t say no out of racism, but rather out of fear that this little boy would have too many battles to fight in their rural white community. Even so, I think of this little boy every day. Has he found love and hope? Is he alive today? Is he smashing windows and raging at a system that has abused, humiliated and broken him? I don’t condone destruction, looting, and stealing, but I do empathize with the rage. The whole world is raging and I along with it. 

But my anger is so small in comparison to the anger, fear and bitterness aimed at an unjust centuries old society. George Floyd was just a couple years older than me. We would have been in school together. There are no words to encompass the horror of what was done to him. While window are being smashed, we should all be smashing through our own complacency. We should be signing up to tutor, calling our representatives, using our churches as points of outreach rather than selfishly serving ourselves. We should be working with schools in every neighborhood, to ensure that every child has a chance. We should be speaking up when witness to racism. To the little boy who’s place I took and to the man that he has become, let me stand next to you, holding your hand... much as the woman in church held my hand so many years ago. 

For a small sound of hope, I am attaching a recording from the Moria Refugee Camp. These women have endured countless abuses, a horrific journey and are still daily robbed of their humanity in Moria. Yet they sing and they teach me about who God is and what it means to hope for a better world.  

Why I am here...

Boris Godunov changed my life. I am sure that the alcoholic composer, Mussorgsky would have enjoyed the irony of the fact that by setting his pen to paper, he was saving me... the daughter of an alcoholic.  As a sophomore in high school, I had just been taken back into foster care and I was in a new school surrounded by people I didn’t know or want to risk knowing. I was perhaps a little chubby, horribly awkward and I had the bad habit of accidentally washing my clothes with cherry chapstick inevitably left in one pocket. (still happens..) Algebra destroyed me, I missed my friends, my parents didn’t love me and at the ripe old age of 15 years, I was unbearably tired. 

I have forgotten so much of that time, though I eventually made beautiful friends and adjusted as most children are capable of doing. However, everything changed with my introduction to an ill-fated, slightly insane, 16th-century Russian czar. As the leaves began to crumble and the air took on a chill foreshadowing a brutal midwestern winter, our music class boarded a bus bound two hours west for Chicago. I sat staring out the window, wondering if the boy with the unsettlingly blue eyes would like me while a synopsis of Boris Godunov sat forgotten on my lap.

 Later that afternoon, I stared wide-eyed at my gilded surroundings from the luxury of my plush red chair as the lights flickered and dimmed at the Lyric Opera of Chicago. As the first strains of the orchestra picked up, all else left my mind, all troubles forgotten. By intermission, I had formed a link of empathy with my poor Boris and before the last notes died away, it was decided that I would be owned by this music.

Three Septembers later, I stood in the office of my new and first voice teacher and I was just as much an imposter as Dmitriy, the nemesis of my Boris. Luck and sheer naivety had gotten me into a university music program armed with only two songs, Caro mio ben and Bernstein’s Simple Song. Perhaps if I had known just a bit more, I would have never thought myself capable, but stupidity brings out the bravest warrior in each of us. I was hungry, I had nowhere to go if I failed and I simply wanted to sing.  

The path of my career has certainly been full of unexpected turns and steep drops. I have failed magnificently and I have succeeded quietly. Conceivably, I could have pushed harder and maybe found more of a place onstage, but being the center of attention never truly sat comfortably on my shoulders. Instead, as I became a competent musician, the fear of childhood and of closely avoided outcomes receded. Music made me independent, compassionate and powerful. 

Present day finds me thousands of miles from home on an island in the Aegean Sea. At times I look up to see a small boy in front of me holding his ukulele in the wrong hand, dirt under his nails, war in his past and his future unwritten. Other times I have an entire class in front of me, but I am drawn to the stubborn adolescent boy who refuses to participate. I watch him subtly until by the end of class I see that the light of interest has entered his eyes and his lips are mutely counting the beats of whole, half and quarter notes. Sometimes I look up to see a whole giggling choir squeezed into a tiny container, filling each molecule of space with their voices as they enthusiastically sing the spiritual I just taught them. And in a courtyard under a tree, a young girl sits, her rattling cough shaking her fingers from the neck of the ukulele while her intelligent eyes calmly absorb all. 

I am unapologetically rigid in my methods, expecting organization, respect and continuity. On these things I cannot compromise, because each time a student comes in front of me, I wonder if music and this child will choose each other. And if they do, I must make sure to arm this child with everything I can, so that when her journey begins, she will be stronger than I was. 

Why am I here?  Because they are. 

Side note... for any parents reading this post: please do not take your children to Boris Godunov for their first opera. I was a strange child and the outcome would likely not be the same. Try Mozart instead!