Eric Levi Ward

Eric Ward was one of my students. Two years ago, he was in my class for one semester. A quiet kid. I would put him in the middle of a boisterous group, hoping his quietness would help restore order.

Helpful and a real buddy, Eric was ready to carry books, move furniture or run errands especially if it involved running to the other end of school in the rain.

I was his efolio interviewer. Efolio-that special occasion of dubious value when kids about to graduate demonstrate what they've learned and grown to love in their four years at high school. Eric's presentation consisted solely of pictures of him working out at the gym. Lifting weights, doing push-ups and various other exercises.

Being an earnest academic and bookworm, I was not much impressed at this emphasis on physical development. I remember quizzing him on the lack of intellectual evidence. "But Dr. Sen, I want to be a Marine". He was sad that he didn't get a full score of 40 with me, I think he got a 36. He graduated and did become a marine.

Eric died in action at Afghanistan. The kid who walked around the hallways, TA badge proudly hung around his neck, is never going to show up in school reunions. There are many things he will never do. But today I want to think about the thing that he did do. He achieved his dream of becoming a marine. The long list of awards in the newspaper attests to him being a darned good one too.

I salute him for having the courage and conviction to pursue and attain his dream. For his generosity and friendship, his sureness of purpose. As the nation honors his ultimate sacrifice I think of the quiet boy and his young heroic life. Rest in peace Eric Ward.

Home and Away

It has been nine days since I left Seattle with my students. I left full of enthusiasm and excitement at the thought of introducing my little chickens to the culture and country I grew up in. Seeing their faces light up at things I would not usually notice, a pink goat on the road (somebody must have played early holi), or a man riding his motorbike on a truck (I have pictures).

Not everything went as planned. What a surprise. I guess it is best to concentrate on the lessons learned and happy memories. Memories of the twins singing Journey at barista, or Megan/Delaney/Stephanie and Helen siging in the car as we drove back from the Gardens. Climbing 800 steps to the top of Gomateshwara, watching the kids try on outfits at Fabindia. If life is a patchwork of experiences, then mine is one colorful canopy.

We've seen the temples, the palaces, the churches and the gardens. Played throwball with the kids at Grace school. Spent a night with host families. Now it is time to go shake paws with the tigers and then head home. Home sweet home.

I have lived in India for twenty years yet the only place I can think of as home is my lttle corner in the pacific northwest. I miss Parvez Arno and Aki.

A Lost Language

This evening, I was on the phone on a transatlantic call to Bangalore. I was talking to a bank teller about some mundane account matters. In the course of our conversation, my friendly teller needed to go check some details, and asked if he could call me back. I told him I was calling from the United States, and that it would be an international call for him. In a touchingly warm yet formal voice he told me "I'm sorry ma'am, but I do not have that privilege". In an instant, I knew what he meant, without any direct, blunt refusal.

Waves of a nostalgia swept over me, for a language, a turn of expression that seems to be receding from our daily lives. How often do I use idiomatic English, to say "You have an advantage over me" if someone I do not know recognizes me. Language is now a tool, a means to a very tangible end, not a journey to be enjoyed for its own merit. I seldom use words just because they are fun. Rather, the object is to have meaning apparent to the largest number of listeners. In this mass commodification of daily language, there is no place for beautiful, musical idioms that require context and subtext. Fare thee well, my lost language, at least till the next telephone call.

Shopping with Kids

This morning I took my kids and husband to the mall. The goal was to buy a few gifts for family I'll see in a few days. Basking in the early morning sun, we set out, thinking it should not take us more than a couple of hours to buy something for three people whose tastes we know fairly well.

Well, here's what happened. The first place we had to go, absolutely had to go, before we even stepped into a store, was the food court. "Might be a good idea to get lunch out of the way", I thought. After all, fed kids are less likely to be cranky, right? What I forgot is the extra energy that comes with the calories. So there we were, two adults desperately hoping that no one notices our kids happily pretend napping in the hollow shoe display case as we looked at a purse.

That ended when one of them discovered that the mannequin's hands could be moved. So naturally, the correct thing to do was to shake hands and introduce themselves. To each and every mannequin in a three-storey store. Attempting a diversion maneuver, I asked them to follow me to the fitting rooms, where I can keep them enclosed. Of course, fitting room stalls have half doors and what can be more fun than sliding under doors, reporting on all the activity going on in other stalls? Red faced, I ran away from that room, shrieks of surprise ringing in my ears.

Well, the shopping ended soon after this. But not before we took a trip to Baskin-Robbins. As the kids explained, "we're tired from all this work and need a pick-me-up". Indeed.

The Importance of Being Polite

As I grow older I am probably turning into my mother, my aunts and many other elderly female relatives who badgered me in childhood about the importance of being polite. The very fact that I'm blogging about it points to my being from a different generation and planet. Why be nice and gentle when a sharp retort can be so much funnier?

I teach at a high school. Everyday at work, I hear countless students being very rude and nasty to each other. Or so it seems to me. Once, a girl took pity on my shocked face and explained "I'm only nasty to people I like". Call me crazy, but being called 'stone cold ho' does seem somewhat harsh. Even between friends.

We all face days when we feel less than charitable towards our fellow beings. I've been guilty of many sharp comments that I've later regretted uttering with all my heart. But this is not about those days. This is about the celebration that seems to be going on of rudeness passing for wit, of condescension and belittling passing for a show of affection. When did this happen? Whatever happened to saying nothing if one had nothing nice to say?

It is not only at school that I find bad behavior. I find it in appalling TV shows, the entire reality tv genre, partisan reporting in all forms of media. Regardless of how volatile the topic is, a certain dignity of approach and refined vocabulary, in my view, adds to the flavor of the argument or exchange. I mean, come on, why settle for 'your mom' replies when there is an entire family tree to choose from? I for one plan to say 'your great-uncle's cousin, three times removed', the next time someone asks me who picked out my outfit. Or maybe I'll just smile and let it pass.

Off we go

Next week, I will be taking some of my students to India for a ten-day cultural immersion. The idea is fun and full of promise. But as departure day draws closer, my thoughts are more of those who'll stay behind, and that which remains to be done.

My husband and kids, amazing people who live with my incessant chatter. My friends, my students and coworkers, all of whom matter in the daily workings of a reasonably sane existence.

Then there are the dreams...of changing the world, changing hearts and minds...leaving a tiny yet indelible footprint on some corner of this world just so someday I have the satisfaction of knowing that---where there used to be nothing, there is this. Sounds naive and insubstantial but I believed it possible. Still do. Hence the juggling act of a practical need to make living with a need to create a life beyond the daily grind.

Well then, back to India. Going to be a great trip, to Mysore, Bangalore, Belur, Halebidu. Days of unruly traffic, roadside dosa stalls and sandalwood in the air!

My First Blog Post

For the last few years I have thought on and off about starting a blog. Encouraged by my husband, I finally decided to put thought into action, finger to keyboard. Here it is! It is weird how the idea of interaction has morphed into interfacing...the Austenian world of lives lived in letters has returned, with a tech twist.