Not a Polar Bear or Pope

In Nepal, I did not experience many people staring at me or seriously haggling me very often. My skin is dark enough that many times I can pass for Nepali, or Punjabi, or Bengali depending who you ask. But since arriving in India two days ago it seems impossible to go for more than 10 seconds without someone not only staring, but rushing to get my photo.

At the Red Fort in Agra, lots of people cared more about posing to catch the two foreigners in the background than the Taj Mahal. A family – mother, father, and toddler – kindly approached and asked us for a photo. Not for one of us to take their photo in front of the world’s most beautiful building…the dad wanted a photo of myself, Sydney, and the baby. He even started to hand us the kid at one point.

I don’t know you and you don’t know me thus it is unnecessary, and weird, for you to thrust your child at me for a picture. If I was the pope, holding babies so their parents could click one photo would be part of my job. I am not the pope…so keep your kids to yourself.

And it’s not like this was one family. The “can I take a picture of you and my kid?” scenario has played out at least three times in the last 72 hours and I fully expect it to continue throughout our journey.

Some people prefer not to ask. Perhaps they recognize that it is inappropriate, awkward, uncomfortable, and borderline racist. Instead, they just strike a pose in such a way that Sydney and I are in the background or the foreground or any other ground that will let them memorialize these two pale skinned strangers trying to enjoy a historical site. Particularly interested groups take turns being the photographer or try multiple poses in search of the best effect.

This photo was used in our hotel's sightseeing guide. It inspired today's blog title.

I am more than my skin color – in America, in Cameroon, in Nepal, and even in India – I am a whole person. I’m not even that white. (I occasionally wonder how our experiences would be different if Sydney and I were traveling separately.) My whiteness is nothing in the shadow of the Taj Mahal so take a picture in front of that, not me.

The whole experience has raised some questions for me:

1) What am I doing to contribute to the idolization of white people and white culture?

2) What am I doing to make other people feel uncomfortable when they visit my country?

3) What am I doing to help dismantle a culture where thin and white are the definition of beauty?

While I cannot comment on the quality of all the unauthorized photos of me, I can show you what I chose to remember about my brief stops in Delhi and Agra.

 



Humayun's Tomb in Delhi.



Beautiful stone lattice windows were everywhere.

The Taj Mahal, seen from the Red Fort.

A step well at the Mehrauli Archaeological gardens in Delhi.

Me and Sydney enjoying sunrise at the Taj.
Please note that there are literally no other people in this photograph.



The classic reflection picture.

A beautiful gate at Fatepur Sikri, sight of the most organized scam I've ever witnessed.

 

 

How Was Nepal?

From March 10, 2014

How was Nepal?
And how were the last eight months of your life?

I don’t mean to be rude, but if you ask me this question I probably won’t answer. It’s just too hard. It’s too much information, too much complexity, too much everything to consistently and repeatedly verbalize. Plus it’s not all the happy, rosy, wonderfulness that is expected in those two second conversations as you pass someone in the parking lot.

But I understand that the question comes from a genuine place and today, sitting back at home after my last day of school, I’m in the mood to try and speak the past eight months of my life.

How was Nepal? Nepal was this…

Nepal was disorganized and lopsided.

Nepal was vibrant and fragrant and beautiful.

Nepal was handpicked for me by a group of children whose faces in my eyes are chased by tears because today I said goodbye and I don’t know if I’ll see them again.

Nepal was precious and delicate. Probably not how I would have designed it, but infinitely more meaningful because of that.

Nepal was a lot of weeds.

Nepal was overwhelming and too much to take in all at once. But I desperately want my memories to maintain their truth, even as the experience itself wilts and this season closes.

Nepal was Dipika, Sunita, Sajan, Asmita, Karan, Postraj, Bijay, Niran, Sarmila, Parbati, Dipa, Numa, Sunder, Roshni, Sapana, Sabina, Sangita, Rashmee, Sumanta, Namrata, Arjun, Suraj, Dipesh, Saswot, Hira, Shila, Sushma, Laxmi, Bimala, Dipraj, and Pawan.

Nepal was singing with class one, doing puzzles with class two, learning to whisper in class three, practicing the months of the year rapid-fire with class four, and wishing class five would stop yelling.

Nepal was walking to school and covering my face with a scarf

when a truck left me inside a tunnel of thick, cancerous, smoke.
 

Nepal was being caught by surprise when the mountain peaks were suddenly whiter and brighter after new snow.

Nepal was milk tea.
 

Nepal was me giving handshakes and high-fives and hugs at the gate. Nepal was my students going round and round in the line instead of leaving after the first goodbye. Nepal was me not even caring and perhaps even wishing they would never stop.

Nepal was biting my tongue and smiling through a salty, facial monsoon while my students told me not to cry or be so “sadly.” Nepal was me not even being able to correct their English, but only standing there sniffling.
 

Nepal was me walking home with the most beautiful bouquet of flowers

I will ever receive and realizing I have to come back.