Heart | existabovethenoise

Kindergarteners and teachers are dead and a 23 year old med student has lost her intestines.

If India and the U.S. have anything in common, it would be a whole slew of ‘isms and schisms’ and an inability to stop violence. They are inherently linked, some might say – the crime and the cure. In our multi-ethnic societies class saves. Or so we thought until working parents in Connecticut dropped off their 6 year olds in Newton for a day no one would forget. “How could this happen here?” is the question heard on both continents, struggling to figure out just what the fuck is going on and what the hell we do now.

See, she is like me, except I’m sure she’s smarter. She was in med school for goodness sakes. And she did what everyone says to do in this town, ‘never go out alone. Always go with a man.’ ‘A man’ (actually I was with 2 men) didn’t stop that guy on the motorbike from grabbing my breast in the middle of Vasant Vihar, and it clearly didn’t stop a penis parade and a bus driver from raping the life out of her. And we live in the good part of town.

There’s something about class that makes you feel safe. Like you bought out of petty violence. Sure, someone could kidnap your dog for a bribe or steal your car – but that’s because you have something and they don’t. It’s about stuff in these areas, not life. Life is what gets taken in ghettos and poor neighborhoods and slums and villages, where people get stabbed for cheating, women get acid poured on their faces for reasons unknown, where Black people sell drugs to each other for kicks. Cash saves you from crack pipes and crackpots. It is the bubble that insulates your life from ignorant bloodshed.

But nothing can save you from deranged men. It is always men, isn’t it? Men get bored too easily. They are simple-minded creatures that always need something to keep their fingers busy so that they don’t get it into their heads to use their hands for more destructive purposes. Don’t dare give them knitting needles though – they’ll stab your eyes out! White men with mommy problems. Brown men who’ve only seen naked women on web sites. Black men who get paid to play football. You know, I’m noticing a trend.

We ask, ‘How do we keep our kids safe if we can’t take them to school?’ Ban guns! ‘How did we keep our girls safe if they can’t take a bus?’ Ban tinted windows!

Is anybody asking that we ban men? It is a question worth asking. I don’t recall the last time a group of women got together and rammed a man with a metal rod that just so happened to be within arm’s reach. Women with daddy problems become activists or prostitutes – they don’t shoot up an elementary school for fuck’s sake. What is wrong with half of the world’s population that the rest of us have to be victims to their whims?

Do you sit down with your sons, your uncles, your brothers, your dads, your nephews and ask them who they hurt today? Ask them if they think it’s their right to hit or harm? Have they had desires to do things that would make someone else cry? Well, maybe you should ask.

There are things they aren’t telling you about themselves. And you should not permit them to lie to you or else you’ll have no explanation for the questions the reporters will ask. They will surely come probing, ‘What was going on at home?’ How many hot chappatis were you making while he was driving a bus around town to the soundtrack of a young girl’s screams? How many times did you let him believe that he deserved an education more so than his sister? Or that you would arrange his marriage with a fair, homely girl, after he was 25 and had done something with himself? Why would you even think this is a good idea? Well, because he deserves the best. This is what he is entitled to: a woman. A prize on the backs of so many other female sacrifices.

Who would want to be the mother of a rapist? The father of a baby killer? Do you think they ever thought that it would be their kid that would go out at night – or in the middle of the day, for that matter – and dash the life out of somebody else’s baby? Oh, and she’s not dead yet – for the record. But what kind of life is there to live after that?

She was your Emilie once. She liked glitter and pink too. But she made it past the age of 6, past the age when many Indian children die of preventable diseases like dysentery. She made it past infanticide and the abandonment of girl children. She made it to medical school. She made it to the movie theatre. She made it to the bus stop. But she never made it home.

I’d like to blame the NRA, and Sheila Dixit, and the private bus companies. I’d like to blame Satan, the manufacturer of metal products, and those who took chastity belts off the market. I’d like to blame people who told us we didn’t need metal detectors in kindergarten, and those of you who don’t send your children to school with Kevlar vests. I’d like to blame you all, in addition to the perpetraters. And I’d also like to note that proposing that religion in schools is a way to fix things is just about the fucking dumbest idea I heard since someone blamed rape on blue jeans.

Give me a damn break.

There are protesters in New Delhi. And there are mourners in Newton. There are dead hopes and dreams, and there is resignation. We do not have answers. The investigations will be a farce. We will debate the future of two nations – but we don’t know what we want. India wants to be modern, but can’t handle having women going outside after 7pm. And America wants to be inclusive, but it hasn’t yet found a place for all the mentally insane people walking around. All the things we want to be, all that we aspire to become, are illusions. We are what we are. We are what we have always been: a violent, murderous, deceitful bunch. A people with no sense of the future, and a predatory present. You don’t survive this hell to make it to heaven, quite the contrary. You must die here – really die here. Quit fighting, be an innocent 6 year old and let the Lord Shiva take you. Be a brilliant young woman with your whole life ahead of you, and let them pull the umbilical chord of the children you can no longer have.

We are a world of martyrs and executioners, and you can’t buy that off. Who do you bribe – or in the case of my countrymen, pay your taxes to – in order to afford protection from your neighbors in your safe neighborhoods? So, we need militias in Munirka is it? People in Newton ought to give their teachers nines, huh? There is no police force. There is no army. There is no people’s coalition strange enough and strong enough to protect us from the will of the deranged – a guy with an idea.

A guy with an idea has no price. He can’t be deterred, only momentarily distracted. He can’t be told how much your dad makes in lakh rupees. He can’t be concerned that you are only 6 years old. He is the unmoveable. He is unshakeable. He is the God of small things, just as you are if you consider the ant under your foot as a small, very small thing. A woman is a small thing. A child is a small thing. Ants and insects and people who only count for target practice for those feverish for feigned power.

Please have some Kool-Aid, my friends of two far away continents. What brings us together in tragedy, is the end of something that was worthy of this place. When even survivors are victims, who make a mockery of the tragedy and become assailants in their own right, what do we do next? Should we party in Mumbai for New Year’s Eve?

What exactly do we have to celebrate?

The Mayans were right. Something died this year. Humanity died this year. Something that we used to have that made us creatures worthy of this earth is no more. We have lost our redeeming qualities. We have reached the pinnacle and the shit is going down hill, folks.

On an abandoned dingy in the middle of the ocean, we are supposed to drown. You are not Richard Parker. You are the French cook – and you eat people! YOU EAT PEOPLE! We are not meant to survive.

(I love you mom & dad!)

For the last two weeks my best friend from high school and her boyfriend have been here in town. Though he was perfectly pleasant the first time I met him, some three years ago, I was preparing for the worst from his stay this time. There were many factors that led me to inform my co-workers that if I didn’t like him there might be a very tall, very homeless African-American man wandering around South Delhi looking for assistance. But, it turned out to be such a positive experience that it inspired this very blog post. Go figure!

See, we must be candid about this boyfriend. He remains on my shit list. ‘Why?’ you may ask. Well, because he needs to marry my best friend already (Hell yea, I wrote it)! And if he doesn’t, my shit list will turn to my hit list #alanancykerrigan. (No, just kidding – he’s like 4 times my size.) But, this trip was good for building confidence between me and my best friend’s Stedman. Since she is hopelessly in love, I have given up on trying to lure her away from him. To be frank, every time I have tried to hook her up with someone new, she’s ended up pushing me into the arms of some visible goon (she got me a couple of times with that one).

Anyway, my philosophy is if you can’t beat ‘em, beat ‘em over the head with your plan B. Stedman has given me multiple assurances that her day will come and we established a timeline that I’m satisfied with. I will send him progress reports and project plans over the coming months until he finally does the damned thing! #goodfriendshipsometimesinvolvesstalking

All this peace making and wedding planning, with a dude I’d previously said I really didn’t like all that much, got me to thinking about all the other people I actually still don’t like all that much. I usually hate to acknowledge that people with poor character or lame personalities (in my humble opinion) have any redeeming qualities, but recognizing that people aren’t 100% bad may be a sign that I’m growing older and ~~weaker~~ wiser. As I mulled it over, I realized that I have learned quite a few things from people I still find repugnant:

DON’Ts

Don’t lay all your cards on the table all the time. From a former friend, I learned that I don’t like people who don’t draw a line in the sand and declare what side of the fence they’re on. It’s a personality thing that I may grow out of. Actually, I probably won’t. But, I observed that when she interacted with people who were not like me, being ~~useless~~ aloof actually made her kinda popular. Having no opinion, moral stance, or declared conviction AND offering no additional information or assistance actually made her come off as neutral & ‘safe’ to disclose information to and court for support. In my personal life I still despise people like her, but in my professional life I’m learning how to play my cards closer to my chest without appearing deceptive in the end (yea, she needed to work on that part too).

My high school arch nemesis taught me this little gem. (No, I don’t think we ever did speak again – except that one time in college when I saw her in the subway trying to hook up with my friend’s [now ex] boyfriend). Never email anyone to tell them how much you really hate them. This is common sense now, but it wasn’t then when the interweb was new. P.S. It is highly likely that if you feel so compelled to tell them you hate them – they already know.

A guy I dated on and off for way too long taught me that guitar players are bad people. I’m not talking about the guy who lends a hand with his local church band when the regular bass player is hung over. I’m talking about the lead guitarist in any band that accepts (or aspires to accept) cash payment for a performance in front of screaming ladies throwing their panties on stage. 4 out of 5 sane people agree that of all musicians, guitarists are the biggest narcissists AND the least likely to succeed.

DOs

Be clear, not aggressive. I actually don’t like this person, because they are so aggressive. But, I learned from their professional example to put my foot down (early and often) and to set the tone for how I’d like to be treated. I always shied away from letting my ambition come across as bossy, until this person added too much bass in their voice in a phone call. In our conversation, I can admit that I’d been proverbially pimp slapped. But, in looking back, I now know that I could have avoided the interaction entirely had I been clearer at the outset – instead of trying to ‘be nice.’ Since then, I’ve gotten better at explaining how I operate, the limitations I have, and the expectations I have for others.

Bribe staff and co-workers with baked goods! From a previous co-worker for whom I (still) have very little respect, I learned that Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines are the best office managers. People may not respect your personality, but they will listen to you time and time again if you offer baked goods at regular intervals. I find this particularly helpful in India where most people don’t have ovens – so baked goods are a special treat. If I want talk time with anyone, I just send out that email “Hey guys, cupcakes at my desk.” And, you know what? No matter how effed up their work product or their attitude, they will always come for sugar calories from a box. Then, it’s my time to ambush! This also works in the affirmative – for special requests for time off and thank yous for obnoxious things you have requested or will request in the future.

Surround yourself with people who make you look good. (Disclaimer: It makes you look a lil desperate though if those same people also look up to you.) I have very little use for this particular lady’s self inflated ego, but she’s been in my presence long enough for me to observe her skillful art of tailoring her company in specific situations. She’s not interested in having Turtle and Drama hang out with her all day just because they are her most loyal friends. Nope! For a special occasion, she will clean up a wallflower with basic education and get them to stand next to her, so that she’ll look like a rockstar. While there are visible flaws in her tactic of swapping friends for fans, I would say that it is a sign of maturity to be around people who both make you look good and who feel that they can grow from your relationship. I personally believe that people who make me look good are a crowd of my peers and mentors, ambitious people of stellar character. But if you – like her – think the people who make you look good are a group of adult sized gremlins, perhaps you should disregard this entire paragraph altogether.