Shishur Sevay

This was our FIRST Christmas at Shishur Sevay, 25 December 2007.  

 
This was Ganga's first Santa exposure and she was NOT happy.

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Our SECOND Christmas at Shishur Sevay, 25 December 2008

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This Christmas — 25 December 2009

Rani is the star of this Christmas.  She is with us, and NOT to be left out of anything going on.  She used to live mostly in Rani's Crib (now a storage place for blankets and pillows) but now she lives in "Rani's House, a.k.a. Shishur Sevay, with HER very own Santa.

 Christmas 2009 was a lovely day at Shishur Sevay.  The day before we all made a menu, what the girls wanted, what they wanted to help cook, and we invited people close to us to our informal gathering.  It was styled on the "Open House" form of entertaining in the US.  There was no set time, food was available all day.  The TV was on all day with Christmas and other movies.  Our new special educator, who started work just the day before, also joined us and it was a great chance for her to just be part of our life here, and to get to know the children. 

After everyone had gone a couple of the girls sat down with me to look at what they had received.  Something was on their minds.  Their friends at school had none of the things they have.  For the first time I got confirmation as to where all the pencils and erasers and sharpeners go.  The girls give them away.  So, at their suggestion we started a bag of things to give away.  They understand the problem of giving to just a few kids, and they also said all the children are poor, so we will give things to each girl in their class.  They want to give away more of their clothes.  It is really extraordinary.  I think that children living on the street do try to take care of each other.  They form a group, a clan, separate from their families, and they take care of each other. 

This is not to negate their periodic childish behavior of fighting over a pencil or an eraser among each other.  But then it's about territory and boundaries and whether life is fair and who is loved most….. But in the real world of need of food or pencils, they will give away whatever they have.

Christmas Day 2009 became eventful late in the day.  Only one massi was scheduled to be on duty that night and she called to say she would be late.  She said she'd had trouble with her home and had to go to the police to file a complaint.  She lives far away and I knew there was a chance she would not be able to come at all, so we convinced on of the day massis to stay and try the night — and if she was tired she could go home in the morning.  (Usually the night massis sleep about 5-6 hours.)  I also told her since she was alone on duty not to worry about any of the laundry or cleaning, just to stay with the kids, especially Rani who is hard to get to sleep.

Around ten pm the night massi came, in tears, and showing me her scratch marks.  The girls were still awake so we all sat with her as she told her story.  She is a widow with two small children and her husband's family has told her she must take her children and leave their house since her husband has died.  This the the family of her husband.  This is the common fate of widows.  They locked the door and wouldn't let her in and she fought with them.  She had called the police but they would not respond.  She later filed the case but they said they would wait until the next day to look into it.  She has family but doesn't get along with them.  (She has a bad temper!)

I knew what the girls wanted and I appreciated their waiting for my cue.  I said that for the next two nights to bring the children here with her, and after that, on Monday we could contact people who could help.  She had brought the children before and the girls love having them here.  She had once asked me to take her children, but I wouldn't, and won't. They have a mother.  But this is the major problem for women, what to do with the children, how to raise them while working long hours…  But at least she has a job… and maybe we can get the kids into one of the "orphanages" that really serve as boarding schools for the poor.  

The girls said she had not eaten all day so they fixed a plate of food for her, including the shrimp we had saved for her.  We also packed food for her to take to her children in the morning.  She told us she had locked them in the house for the night — a common custom here when a mother has to work.  It just felt fitting, this last part of Christmas day thinking about children who have little, taking care of one of our staff, feeding her, telling her to bring her children….

Shared values, across religions, across class, age, across the world –  How do we get our values?  Where do they come from?  To be honest, I haven't a clue!

But, I do know how to make a nice Christmas Day at Shishur Sevay:

As Christmas Day began at Shishur Sevay, my children in the US were enjoying Christmas eve.  Heather, Andrei, Cici, and Tanya (Andrei's Mother) were having dinner, and after dinner we called them.  Each of the girls  talked with them, thanked them for their gifts, asked when they would visit.. what you would ask sisters and brothers far away.  The next morning here, I called them to ask how their day had been… We talk, we google chat, we email, we send pictures — we work on bridging. 

Here is a picture of Heather and Andrei's tree:

Here is a picture of the teapot that Heather and Andrei gave to Cici.  Cici sent it yesterday as part of showing me her new apt.  She just moved two weeks ago.

And here is ORCA, her new fish.  After Christmas she went home to Williamsburg to check on Orca and make sure he was fine.  

We have a family tradition (my kids and me) of names that "aren't".  We had a dog, a mixed puppy that looked more like Tramp than Lady so we named her "Lady."  We had a cat we named Oscar, a girl cat… because Heather had been in film and figured this was the only Oscar she would have.  Oscar loves her name.  Now, we have a little fish named Orca, because he is not an Orca, but Cici loves Orcas.  These are the ties that bind… silly traditions of no meaning to anyone except those whom they bind.

I miss my kids; they miss me.  I am always torn.  When I started Shishur Sevay I imagined a life of living here but with many visits to the US.  For a long time I simply could not leave for more than a day or two.  I think that situation has changed, or at least it is in the process of changing.  I have more support, infrastructure, and girls who will rise to any occasion, including my being away.  But there are the emotional ties and worries.  How will Ganga manage.  She used to run high fevers if I was away for a day.  She will be sad, very sad, and yet she has to become stronger and be without me.  I know that in my head, but it is not so easy to do.  And Rani?  Rani has just found me.    I have a new teacher who I think will be able to be in her world too.  It takes listening and being "with her" in what she is trying to communicate.  She taps and I tap back… We dance; we are silly; we play the dholak (Nicha says Rani is better than I am).  I really believe with these children, so locked away, it is all about letting them know they are heard.  it's not about teaching them to drum or to dance, but of hearing the drumming in them, and letting them know they are heard.

Many  years ago I was in a workshop where we paired off and had to "communicate" for 15 minutes without talking.  It had to be by facial and body language that we heard the other person and that we spoke to the other person.  I think of that here… I think of that with Rani especially.  How do I let her know I am listening?  First I repeat what she is "saying" usually with the drum.  We do this for a bit.  Then I try something different and she repeats what I am doing.  And then there is more back and forth, drumming together, talking together.  And then sometimes she just suddenly stops, looks at me, and laughs at me!!!!!  That's when I know for sure there is a very smart little girl inside her.

Season's Greetings from Shishur Sevay
 

20 September 2005 at 11:11 am (I know the time from the camera)

New York City

I was standing before this window.  You can see a faint reflection of me, and of my dog, Rupee.  Suddenly, standing there, I could see and hear six girls calling to me from a dumpster… I looked around and saw no one — but still I could see them, crouched in fear in the corner of the dumpster, garbage all around them.  I heard, "Help, Help!"  Their voices were soft, as if calling in the wilderness, in case anyone was listening.

Ten Days Later,30 September 2005, I wrote:

Last night I started wondering about my six girls, where they come from… I feel like they exist.  I feel I will find them.  But I don't feel that rush of pain that I must get there right now.  It feels more like pregnancy, more like adoption, waiting, preparing, and their being prepared… things that will happen in their lives to bring us to the same place.  And yet none of it will probably be as I imagine.  I know that too.  A week later the girls let me know there were two more girls with them.  Now there were eight. 

Twenty-Two Days Later, 12 October 2005, (New York)  I wrote this in my diary but  I do not recall if it was a dream in deep sleep or a waking reverie: …so then I mucked about in the dumpster.  I actually have this image of the dumpster, one of those long trailer-type ones — and stepping through the garbage, falling, pulling myself up, getting hurt, crying, mind crazed with pain.  But somehow out of all that came an understanding of who I am not, who I am, and I found six girls waiting to meet me, and God shipping me out as if I'm headed to war.  I could go AWOL, but that's not me — so I go where I am sent.  After some years of struggling for meaning, it coalesced instead of being scattered about, now with me as I climbed out of the dumpster.

May 2006 Kolkata: I listened to the cries of my girls, now louder and louder.  I wrote:

Amader meye're (My daughters)

Floating in the darkened night

Wailing to come home.

2 October 2006 Kolkata; One Year and Twelve Days Later

I have moments of thinking I am crazy… like maybe there aren't any orphans, but I saw them.  I feel them… I looked back through picture files, which are dated from the camera — the day I stood before that stationary store window, the reflection of Rupee and me… that was the day I saw the children in the dumpster.  I still see the, hear them, feel them…  It is hard, very hard.  I feel now like they are locked in one of those underground rooms that perpetrators build to keep kids…  I could have a hundred houses ready and that will not find them.  But all the meetings, all the places I go, lawyers, ashrams… they are the only way I know.  I have to just keep walking and talking and listening.  It's been a year but I have achieved a lot.  There is a home waiting, and legal papers… all this had to be done.

Ten Days in February 2007: One Year and Five Months Later.

Twelve orphan girls arrive at Shishur Sevay over the course of ten days.  First there were four, then one more, and then when we went the last time for three, we were asked if we would take two of the handicapped.  But when Gibi and I looked at them we both thought, "How do we say no to any of them?"  I said I'd take any child they gave us that day.  We came home with seven.  Even today, I tell the girls, "I heard you calling all the way in America, so I came."  Now we are family.  Sometimes I look at them and wonder who were the original six… it doesn't matter really, but I still wonder.

I just did a calculation online.  Including today, four years and three months have passed since I heard them calling to me from the dumpster.  I have no idea what significance, if any, that has… It's been a long time and it's been like the snap of a finger, gone so quickly.  I think most important is that when I first heard them they were invisible to most of the world.  They were nameless, not living among us.  Now you are getting to know them too.  Wednesday five of them will be dancing as part of their school's Diamond Jubilee Celebration.  They will be five among about 20 girls performing, indistinguishable  from the rest of their peers.  They live among us.  I am no longer the only one to hear, see, and feel their presence.  Our girls who are not performing will be watching and cheering for their sisters.  In their red and white school uniforms they will also be visible.

I've been wondering lately, "Why should orphans be poor?"

I made a table of class and activity schedules for the two groups of children, the little ones, with disabilities, and the older girls…. (After almost three years with the girls I still don't have language that flows comfortably from my mouth or through my fingers to distinguish the groups.)  I've been away from the blog as I've put most of my time and energy into the teaching part of our program.  I'm working on new ways of assessing our children, especially our younger ones.  I want to know what they understand, how they feel, and what they want to tell us.

I like making tables and charts as a way of understanding what I'm doing.  So here is the product of my efforts:

All of the above happens inside a plot of land 2160 square feet, and a house of about 1000 sq. ft. of living space.  I've redrawn the old diagram, adding colors where we have painted room, replacing the "garden grass" with the sand because after four attempts at grass I gave up.  I refresh the sand at times. The area is good for play.  When we started, the plan was to eventually put on a second floor.  But only the front room is new enough for that, and we would have to tear down the rest to rebuild.  For that we would have to move elsewhere.  That would interfere in the education, aside from cost and other such realities.  But basically, the very best thing we can do for the children is to have a steady predictable life of nurturance and study.  From where I sit (the yellow X) I see everything going on, and the kids see me.  Usually I can write and be in the midst of all this with no trouble.  The sound, voices, moving around somehow soothe me… I can relax because I know what is generally going on.  Anyway, it works.

It's really a cottage.  For now it is fine.  It is crowded though.  When the girls first came they filled up about half the floor of the big room.  Now they almost stretch across.  I look at them sleeping and wonder where my little girls went and how these big girls now take up the floor.  The little ones sleep among the big ones, and sometimes it is even hard to tell which is which.

Three years ago, before we had the children, I saw some small pajamas in a store.  I told Gibi I wanted to get four pair… and she laughed because we didn't know ages or how many.  I said I'd get one of each size, 2 to 5. The pajamas somehow disappeared into all the stuff, but this year we found them.  At night I see the four little ones in the four pair of pajamas I'd bought.  Yeah, it is mystical.  And I have the eight girls I heard calling to me in the US.  It is all mystical.  I live in a life that seems to unfold in some familiar way.

Souls sang to her heart,

Wild winds taking them afar,

Her nest-lings flourished.

I feel now that the souls carried by the winds, the ones I never forgot, have come home to me now.  And my nest-lings still flourish.

I was unaware of the controversy surrounding the title of Hillary' Clinton's book, "It takes a Village to Raise a Child."  It's a great title, a great proverb, wherever it comes from, but I keep running into situations that make me feel, "It Takes a Mother…"  I'm the mother.  Without me it all falls apart, and that's because generally no one ever cares about kids as much as mothers do. The mother, whatever the origins of her relationship with the children, is their advocate, the one who sees that their uniforms are clean, that their nails are clipped, that their homework is done, and their moods are attended to, mostly within her cultural framework.  For the most part, the village will not take care of the child unless the mother is part of the village.

If I try to single out what feels most important to the girls, it is the individual attention.  I am most aware of this when they are performing, or playing in the park, or showing me their books and papers.  It's having someone to say to, "Look at me."  It's having someone to whom you don't have to say, "Look at me" because she already is.  Sometimes I feel like I am giving out eye contact and a smile dose by dose, spoonful by spoonful, and I feel wonderful as this goes on.  It's all easy because I love watching them.

It's not by accident that our eyes meet.  They are searching and so am I.  I guess I do a lot with my eyes.  I glare, sometimes in jest, sometimes seriously.  Villages don't wink; institutions don't wink; it takes a mother.

This mother has been teaching in the interim between the English teacher leaving and a new one yet to be hired.  I have a Bengali teacher with me, or our Social Worker, so she can explain things I can't.  It is working well, co-teaching.  There is a careful balance between letting "understanding their problems" interfere in their performance, lowering expectations, and being sensitive to their vulnerability.  Two girls were in tears because they didn't know answers.  With the other teachers they have become disruptive, but today two of them became teary eyed and silent, muted.  It says something about how seriously they want to do well, how much they want to please me.  This was in spite of my telling them this was just to see where they were — a test with no consequences (except pride.)  One of the girls later told a teacher she thought she should stop school because she can't do it.  She is one of the brightest.  And she is back to being her cheerful self this evening.  They are so afraid of failing that sometimes they convince us they aren't trying.

I remember when I was young seeing a movie about penguins and the scene where all the little penguins come running to all the mother penguins and they all seem to find themselves.  I kept thinking, How do they find each other?  They all look the same.  Then I was a mother and went to school to pick up my daughter as all the children poured out of the school and all the mothers and children found each other.  Of course, I knew mine right away.  She looked like all the others, like all the other penguins, but something about her made her instantly recognizable.  It takes a mother to know her penguin(s).  I go to school to pick up my children.  All the little penguins are dressed in red and white uniforms,  But mine are instantly recognizable, and I am instantly recognizable to them.  (That's actually not so difficult as I'm easily recognizable by everyone,)  But for my children here, I carry an otherwise invisible beacon that says "mother."

While I have been writing this evening, the girls finished homework, had dinner and then made a concoction of dal, chilis, lemon juice, salt, chana — and maybe more.  They brought it to me to taste, along with a glass of water because they knew it was hot. They gave me a small spoonful;  I savored it as it became very hot and I reached for the water.  Then I tried a bit more.  I used to eat very hot foods — got out of the habit.  The girls asked why I didn't eat hot foods and I told them I had to get used to it again.  So they gave me a bit more, and watched to see what happened.  I took a bit more.  I told them I'd get myself used to it again.  I will.  Like I said, "It takes a mother."