the Bubble

You may think I'm talking about Edina, where students avoid contact with the nearby city of Minneapolis, aka the "Inner City." But actually I'm talking about where I live in New Delhi, India, which you would expect would be filled with smells of spices, rotting garbage, unwashed people, and car exhaust. And it is, but we can't see it from . . .

inside the compound at the American Embassy School where the fountains run, the gardens grow, the population density is about 1/5th of what it is on most sidewalks, and food is plentiful.

Here's my little "cave," my bedroom with the new quilt I bought at . . .the American Embassy quilt sale - well, it WAS made by Indian women who are being microfinanced - and there's the comfy reading pillow that allows me to hibernate here and watch episode after episode of "Rome" or read yet one more book about India, just in case I decide to leave the compound.



And here's my partially-decorated living room, another cozy retreat from the hubbub that I can almost see from my patio - I know people are out there, on the other side of the wall! At least, I hear children playing and dogs barking and cats fighting and nightly fireworks and various loud electronic emissions.
So is the reclusive lifestyle we live here a problem? Don't we deserve to have just a little refuge from the poor people surrounding our barb wired lovely gardens and exclusive private school?

One of my colleagues was ordering lunch at the staff canteen and when the server asked her if she wanted a beverage, she said "Not today. I'm poor. " And then we sat down and I looked at her and said, "If you're poor, what is he?" And she realized that she, a multimillionaire in the eyes of most Indians, had just said that to a man who has worked full-time serving food in our canteen for 25 years, for a salary that is probably about 1/10th of hers. Not to mention that the cost of a full lunch is between 80 cents and , if you go wild, $2. She looked chagrined. I should have apologized, since I do the same kind of thing sometimes.

Instead, I felt like Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms - with loud music playing (in my head - "Onward, Christian So-o-o-ol-diers, marching as to-oo war . . .). "Here I stand. I can do no other." Actually, we laughed. Just think, if only Martin Luther and Holy Roman Emperor Charles V had had a good laugh, instead of taking themselves so seriously with all of this Excommunication and Reformation stuff. We'd probably still be enjoying the Inquisition

As the faculty advisor for the student newspaper, I get an inside view of the bubble (does that give anyone else an image of a mime?). In our last issue, a student wrote an article about "getting to know your driver when you're stuck in traffic." It was a humor piece - ha, ha, the thought of actually talking to "your" driver. What, you don't have a driver? Does anyone not have a driver?

Dialogue at a recent meeting of newspaper staff, brainstorming for the next issue:

Editor-in-chief: OK, let's here some ideas.
10th grader: What about another video game review?
Other 10th graders: No, that was stupid, X, you got a lot of details wrong!
X: No I didn't. I heard what Joey said and he doesn't know what he's talking about.
Massive yelling ensues (interestingly, only the 10th grade males).
Editor: Ok, other ideas?
12th grader: What about an article on how teachers act different on the week-long minicourses?
Editor (who is a 12th grader): That sounds great!
Advisor Ms. G.: What are you talking about?
Editor: You know, how teachers act all normal and everything on field trips, and then get all uptight when you talk about stuff - like, how the boundaries change.
Advisor: So what sorts of boundaries are you talking about? (legal issues dancing like sugarplums in her head)
Editor: Well, talking about stuff kids around here do.
Advisor: Hmnn, well I'm curious to see this article, because there might be some issues if you talk about specific cases (thought: "Delete article.")
Editor: Well, what about another article complaining about how it's not fair that high school students have to share the soccer field with the elementary school kids this year?
Advisor (sigh): That's not an article, Editor, it's an opinion piece.
Editor (rolling his eyes): Ms. G, that's what the newspaper is FOR. Everyone knows what's going on already.
Advisor: Well, what about an article on the massive city strike, the one where strikers were shooting at cars 20 miles from here?
Editor: No one CARES about that, Ms. G. It doesn't affect us.
Advisor: How about an article on the violence in the recent elections?
Editor (impatiently): Ms. G., students just want to write about stuff that affects them. They don't care about stuff that goes on "out there."
Advisor (voice rising): Well, isn't that a part of a newspaper's mission? to educate people? (this is actually a deep philosophical issue, but high school editor is no longer listening to my Jeffersonian rant).
Editor: How about an article about how the new high school took away one of our five lounge areas, and the new cafe doesn't have enough coffee drinks?
Staff member: Yea, I wanted a mocha the other day and I had to settle for a double cappucino! And the sound system wasn't working right!When I plugged in my ipod, only 3 of the 4 speakers were on!
Advisor mumbling to self.

So there we are, freedom of the press here in the AES bubble.

Why ever leave campus? In fact, you don't have to. You can get deliveries from: several grocery stores, the pharmacy, a bakery, and a strange liquor "entity." This is how the latter works. You call a number. There are two men who "work" there - Berev and Shektev, or that's what the names sounded like to me when I heard them. What I was told is that they get liquor from "the Russian Embassy." But yesterday I heard that they're not actually Russian, and they don't get liquor from the Russian Embassy. They buy duty-free liquor from the US Embassy, or maybe the Swedish Embassy - depending on who's telling the story - (we can't do that; only embassy staff can) then sell it from their "office," which is near the Russian market (hence the Russian connection). But you can't actually go to this office - no one has seen it. Oh, and their number has changed in the past week - the old one doesn't work anymore. So everyone here is calling and ordering liquor and no one even knows where it comes from or who is selling it. Hmnn . . . but it arrives quickly, is alcohol, and is cheap. No questions necessary. And so it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut would say.

Everyone else comes to you, also. Tailors, rug sellers, leather briefcase makers, etc. Today, on campus, for people who want to buy holiday presents, home furnishings, and everything in-between, was the "American Women's Association MELA." As soon as you get to India, the word "sale" or "fair" disappears and is replaced by "mela." I first heard the word as "melee" and imagined events with people running crazily into each other, burning things, and shouting "Huzzah!" But it's apparently a bazaar, and quite the "thing" here. You can spend every weekend at a different mela - ranked in order of the best to worst, according to people with more shopping stamina than I, there's the "Blind School Mela," the "Swiss Embassy Mela," and now, our very own. So, for the daring people willing to leave their apartments and go 100 yards to the school field, there is India!

Uh, wait, Pizza Hut? Of course, along with the Glen Campbell CD that kept playing over and over. (That's Debbie, Robyn, Genta, and Christopher, by the way.)

I didn't know what to do. I wondered where I was, in Limbo? Didn't the Pope eliminate Limbo? Where was India?

I decided to go to the booth at the mela that might be able to help me out. . .


There was a little girl there with a skinned knee who looked more lost than I was, so I asked them where else I could go to find out who and where I am. So, I went over to the booth where my friend Brent was deeply engaged in some activity.

This looked good. Everyone was leaning over the table with intense looks. There was a line. And I recognized the man behind the table as the US Embassy physician. Were people paying for finger pricks? Was he giving out LSD samples? Then I saw the answer to my questions . . .or at least the answer to my question about my questions:
This was great! Now I had an excuse to have my palm read - it was only $2, the proceeds were going to a good cause, and he was a "real" doctor. Maybe he could tell me all about myself. Wait a minute, did I really want that? Plus, by the time I got to the front of the line, some 10-year-old boy was watching with way too much interest. I got worried that maybe this stuff worked and this kid would find out enough about me to run screaming to his mother.

If you're going to get your palm read, this was the way to go. Dr. Campbell spent about 10 minutes reading my palm, with revelation after revelation. OK, here's the scoop. I'm going to live almost forever, I have an "old soul" that has already lived several lives (that's how I usually feel after running these days ), I am stubborn, I have an intense long-term love that will begin in middle age (any time now . . .) and I have two other strong love connections that are children - I assume my own. Now, stop shaking your head, this guy is a REAL DOCTOR. And he even studied palm reading in Hong Kong. When I told him that my half-Japanese grandmother used to read tea leaves, he scoffed at that, "Well, that's easy." So he must be an expert. And, I had not told him that I have two children and am unmarried. But, it gets even better. He told me that I have a strong "head" line, which means not that I need a lobotomy, but that I will "live and die studying." I liked that. More troubling was his final observation, which he said was the "strongest" of all - I am "ruled by" my senses. Hmnn . . .I did like him stroking my hand while telling my fortune. Wait . . .what? Have I no self-control? Will I live my life sniffing the ground like a dog? No, Dr., don't tell me my turn is over. Don't send me out there with no way to protect myself from the onslaught of sensory stimuli!

So there is some trauma possible in "the bubble." I decided to leave the mela and go across the street - to get away from Glen Campbell, my troubling palm reading, and head to the American Embassy compound, just to get a different perspective on life. This is India, right? There I sat, in the middle of Delhi, understanding what life was like for the masses:



Yes, I'm sure that most New Delhi folks were enjoying Sunday afternoon by the pool, ordering "fresh lime sodas" (you can't call them by any other name - all three words are necessary -or the server has no idea what you are talking about).







Here, from the archives, is an example of a relaxed citizen of the world's largest democracy:
Ouch! Maybe you can't see this - click on the picture to enlarge it to the level of sickening detail. This man has stuck needles through his skin in numerous places (I had a student like this last year). He is part of a parade that occurred, on a recent Sunday afternoon, of men with needles through their faces, torso, and limbs. And this demonstration of religious reverence (actually the Flagellants come to mind) leads me to believe that he would not approve of sitting by the pool on a Sunday afternoon. So let's not think about him anymore. Instead, let's turn away from the pool and look in the opposite direction, away from the pool, for another taste of India.


Look! It's the AES teachers playing softball against the school softball team. This is probably the only place in Delhi where anyone is playing softball. Are we actually in India? Seriously, I'm starting to doubt that I've left Minnesota.




Back to the archival photos. Let's see what was happening on another Sunday, in another part of Delhi - before they banned me from the streets due to my illicit photography of prime minister's residences:

Here's one of the many untended and deteriorating ruins - this one the 12th-century fort at "Haus Kauz Village." In the course of visiting this ruin, I saw three groups of boys and young men playing viciously competitive games (or is that "matches?") of cricket and then was almost hit by a firecracker on its way to exploding. Then some authority came and started digging a hole in the middle of one of the unofficial cricket pitches, which meant that two other officials had the job of watching him dig the hole - the upshot was that a heated argument among the cricketeers had to stop because they could not continue the game. No, this was definitely not Minnesota. But I couldn't remember - when had I last been out of the US bubble?

To be honest, I HAD crossed the street between the school and the embassy compound, which involves seeing a few people from India bicycling along, or a rickshaw here and there. But maybe this was my personal version of The Truman Show. OK, if I run in one direction, will I hit a wall? No, just the barbed wire fence around the embassy. Maybe if I run down the street between the embassy and the school . . . . although the idea of millions of people watching me with great interest isn't so bad, now that I think about it.

So ok, it's too easy to stay perched behind walls here, and it requires actual effort to get out into "real" Delhi. Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to escape from centrifugal forces pushing me to stay inside (ok, Mike Roddy, I realize that my understanding of centrifugal force is flawed due to my 1970s physics experience, but I don't care - it's just an analogy, OK?). But it takes time - I do have a job here - and I'm seeing a lot more unfamiliar territory than I used to in MN (unless you count my trips to the math or science "wings" of EHS. I never COULD find Mike Roddy's room on the first try, another thing he probably doesn't "get" about me. )

Here's a lovely photo of me taken by a local photography prodigy, my 4-year-old friend Kayla, that will serve as the "random photo of the day."