This Race Thing: Italy

NOTE: I write quite a bit in my journals and what not and some of it I post to my blog and some of it doesn’t make it (too raunchy, too sad, mom vetoed it, wouldn’t be able to run for public office, etc). I placed this one in the “too sensitive, possibly on some Bill Cosby stuff” category and was prepared to keep it for myself, but changed my mind because... well… I gotta get it off my chest! So let’s chat.

An American physician I met on the ferry from Croatia to Italy suggested that I read “Three Cups of Tea.” “Is that the book about the guy who builds the schools in Afghanistan,” I asked. “Yes,” he exclaimed, excited that I had some reference to build upon. He began telling me more about the book and suggested that the most important thing he grasped from the story was the need to educate girls. He went on to explain that when you teach a girl something you essentially teach a community. An educated female will spread her knowledge by teaching her offspring, her friends, and younger siblings and they, in turn, will teach theirs. I had heard of this concept before and mentioned that this educational model had been applied both positively and negatively throughout our history. “What do you mean,” he asked. “Well, look at the Willie Lynch for example. His methodology was used to educate an entire race,” I replied. I was met with a blank face, so I gave him some background about Willie Lynch, the southern slave owner, who essentially wrote the “how-to” book on creating slaves out of men.

Rome...

There are many, many facets of old Willie’s theory, but one of  his “breaking” philosophy is that if you take the strongest male slave and beat, maim, and/or kill him in front of all of your female slaves, then the female slaves will teach their children, both male and female, to fear the master and they, in turn, will teach their children. Willie believed that this type of psychological terror would have long lasting effects; essentially creating a slave mentally for many generations to come and teaching an entire race to fear.

 

Fontana di Trevi

After a deep breath, the physician said, “Let me ask you something… Do you think that we [Americans] will ever really get passed this race thing?”

“Someday,” I responded with an awkward laugh.

As we caught a train and made our way to Rome, we switched topics and easily continued our banter.

An hour into our train ride, a screaming match broke out at the end of the cart. The conductor had found a passenger, without a ticket, hiding in the restroom and the situation was clearly getting out of hand. Although this was an express train with no scheduled stops, it stopped at the next station and the police boarded.  The passenger, a middle aged, male, African immigrant, was not going without a fight and began shouting and pushing the police. While the melee progressed, I looked around at the other passenger’s faces and instead of looking alarmed, they looked bored and inconvenienced. Irritated whispering and demands for the police to hurry continued around me and then the lady behind me said, “tipico.” At that very moment, I understood her comment and being the only other dark skin person on the train, I became very uneasy; guilt by association.



Reminds me of my car back home.

Whether it’s living with the Roma population, the Muslim community, or African immigrants, Italy, like many countries in Europe, is struggling with issues arising from immigration and nationalism. So, while traveling through Europe, I had become accustomed to people first assuming that I was from Africa. Sadly, I had also gotten use to the occasional shifting of purses, the guarding of children, and the exasperated sighs when I was seated in their section. What I hadn’t become accustomed to was the reactions from those same people after they heard me speak or noticed my passport. “Oh! Americana! What part are you from,” they’d begin and hands that once clutched bags are now reaching out in handshakes and pats on the back. Not being able to switch that quickly, I find myself stuck somewhere between pissed and relieved.

Colosseum

This is one of the pitfalls of traveling with black skin and an American passport; it’s a double edged sword. A part of you wants to embrace your cultural roots by standing firm alongside all black skinned individuals. Yet, another part of you understands that the term “African American” doesn’t apply to you when you are overseas; Obama is African American, you are simply a Black American. Even now, it’s difficult to express how torn I felt on that train. Part of me wanted to turn to that lady and haughtily say, “That isn’t typical! We are both black and I don’t steal train fare!” Yet, another part of me knew that nationality and color aren’t the same things in these parts and as soon as I opened my mouth, my “American accent” would quickly disassociate me from that man at the end of the train. So I sat quietly, hoping that I was setting an example of how “we” act by having the most intellectual conversation I could muster with that doctor. Funny, but that line in Martin Niemöller’s speech: “And then they came for me,” kept running through my head the entire time.

Beautiful Churches Abound!

The man was eventually taken off of the train by force and we continued onto Rome, where I was blown away.

Rome is essentially a living museum. Aside from the big tourist attractions like the Colosseum, Pantheon, Forum, and the Vatican, there are countless basilicas, piazzas, and churches to visit. I nearly cried after entering San Pietro in Vincoli, which is breathtaking, and I would have slept on the cold concrete in front of Fontana di Trevi just to keep looking at it. Out of all of the countries I’ve been to and all of the sites I’ve seen, hands down, Rome is the most impressive thus far. I won’t even mention the food… My God!  If it wasn’t considered impolite, I would have picked up the plate on a few occasions and spit shined it. MAGNIFICIENT! And the Gelato! No words… I ate Gelato every single day I was there. Everyday!

At nights after I wound down and had a minute to process my day, I still couldn’t help thinking about that man on the train. I realized that I was still a bit angry, but this time for a different reason. I wanted to kick myself for thinking that my skin color was reason enough to associate myself with that man and that I needed to “counter act” his actions. I've probably been doing this on some level my entire life. On a rare ocassion i'll watch the news and the newscaster will say something horrible happened. "Two men beat an old lady and stole her purse. We wil have the full story after this break." I will sit there through the entire break thinking, "please don't be black people, please don't black..." As if their wrongs, if they are black, are a reflection on me. We may have the same skin color, but we are not the same!

I understand that many people see blacks as one big conscious thought; what the black man does uptown, surely affects how another black man is being perceived downtown. However, when we see ourselves as one monolithic person, instead of individuals, and began changing our actions to coincide, it can limit our personal choices. “’We” don’t do that’, ‘We’ don’t eat that,’ ‘We don’t wear that,’ and ‘we’ don’t go there” are all funny statements when the comedian uses them for kicks; not so funny when “we” use them as a crutch. When “we” solely allow our skin color to determine how we will vote, what music we will listen to, what religion or church we will attend, and where we will travel, then we are truly missing the point of being free.

Colosseum

If there are any throw back, cultural lessons I want to unlearn it’s this: color associations. I want to learn to disassociate. Not disassociate from other black folks like I’m not one, but disassociate from a mind-set that declares that because of my skin color, I must carry the sins and shortcomings of my brother on my back like a burden or allow my sking to determine my behavior. I also want to disassociate from a mind-set that assigns characteristics to skin color (e.g. All white people do that, all black people do that). In one of the very first posts I wrote, "Grey Matter", I said that I identified with my race first, my gender second, and my nationality third. If this trip has pushed me to do anything, it has pushed me to just identify as Davita, first and foremost.


So, will we ever really get over this race thing? I don’t know, but I’m going to try.

I got next!

I wish the Romans had invented elevators! BUNS OF STEEL!

Souvenirs = Junk!

The Vittorio Emanuele Memorial on the Piazza Venezia

The Forum

Independence Day in front of the Tomb of the unknown Soldier



Moses with horns @ Basilica di San Pietro in Vincoli

I Was There: Bosnia Herzegovina

"The greater our knowledge increases the more

our ignorance unfolds."

 - John F. Kennedy

There are only a few historical events that occurred when I was a kid that I can recall with clarity exactly where I was when I heard about them. I was in class watching television with my classmates when the Challenger exploded. I remember that vividly. The Berlin Wall, Rodney King, Tiananmen Square, and OJ in the white Ford, amongst other things, are all events that come roaring back to mind. Unfortunately, for me, the Bosnian War wasn’t one of those things. I knew that Yugoslavia use to be a country and I knew that the gist of the Bosnian war centered on Bosnia’s independence, but that was about it.

Performing Arts School/Center

Unfortunately, my lack of knowledge didn’t shock me. I understand my nature; more willing to laugh than cry, choosing a movie with Steven Siegal over Steven Biko any day of the week. I also understand that there are events happening all over the world that I do not have direct knowledge of. However, it seems inconceivable that I missed over 100,000 people being killed and over 8,000 men in Srebrenica being executed in the 90’s!   Even now, I’m not sure if my lack of knowledge was due to my age, if I chose to tune it out, or if it just wasn’t discussed much in the U.S news coverage. Whatever the case, as soon as I made it to Bosnia I became glaringly aware of my ignorance. Where was I when this happened?

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Neno on the far left leading our tour group

Sarajevo is one of those places that could easily be a tourist’s haven: well-planned city layout, deep historical roots, great shopping, nightlife, opera, theatre, and skiing really close. However, the city is still pulling itself out of the mire of the war, so they have yet to garner the tourist’s dollars their economy desperately needs. As such, they take what they can get and what they get are tourists, like myself, who come wanting to know more about the Bosnian War. Like Hanoi, like Phnom Penh and a number of other cities, Sarajevo’s tourist industry is now largely centered on war. As a result of this, I found myself surrounded by other tourists, mostly European and Australian, who easily conversed about the war and consequences of it. Not one to feel comfortable in situations where I’m out of my depth, I made it a point to use my time in Sarajevo as a history lesson.

Sniper's Alley

In order to get the most of my history lesson, I did two things. First, I read Black Soul by Ahmet M. Rahmanovic. Black Soul is an award winning, fictional book, based on true events and peppered with real statistics, historical quotes and news headline, about the Bosnian war. Although fiction, the story is a first-hand account of the war from a Bosniak Muslim’s point of view and it is amazing and captivating. I highly recommend it for those who can’t really sit down with a history book, but want to know more about the war while reading a storyline that hits you in the gut.  The second thing I did was sign up for a 4 hour walking tour with Neno from Sarajevo Free Walking Tours. Neno is highly recommended on Trip Advisor and I was lucky enough to get a tour on his first day back from vacation. He is not only well educated on the historical and political aspects surrounding the war, but he’s willing to discuss personal facets of it as well. This tour was worth the exercise!

 Names of the children who died from mortar attacks during the war.

Neno showed us Sniper’s Alley, Sarajevo Roses, the children’s memorial, and the Latin Bridge. More importantly he talked about growing up during the war and told stories of his mother burning flip flops to cook his school lunch on a makeshift stove. Neno also delved into a lot of the subjects discussed in Black Soul, including the genocide in Srebrenica, the systematic rape of Bosniak women, and the black market selling of food in Sarajevo, as well as, the selling of war victim’s treasures and organs in other parts of the world. The tour was also a look into the rich history of Bosnia before the war. While pointing out architectural features from the Ottoman Empire to the Austro-Hungarian times and sites built for the Winter Olympics in 1984, you can see that there is far more to Bosnia than war.

Latin Bridge: look up the history. Very interesting!

Interestingly enough, before traveling, I was a strong advocate for U.S non-intervention in international issues. I felt that countries should be able to handle their own disputes and that the American tax payers shouldn’t have to take on the “burden” of being the world’s police. Yet, as I shuffled through the atrocities that occurred in the Bosnian War, I wasn’t quite sure that this issue was as black and white as I had initially thought. The reality of the situation is that this wasn’t a war at all. More like soldiers taking on local firemen, teachers, writers and grocers who were learning how to be soldiers in defense of their country. This was slaughter by many accounts and my mind screams, “Where was I? Where were we? How did we as a nation, as a world, let this happen for so long before stepping in and squashing the whole thing?”

"Enough!" Spray painted throughout the city

Now, I’m sitting in a hostel in Croatia reading the news about a terrorist attack on the U.S embassy in Sarajevo and the answer is so simple. Just like the 90’s, things are happening in the world and I’m right here, you’re right here, reading about it from the safety of somewhere far away. For me, the difference is that I’ve been there. I know what that embassy looks like because I walked by it several times. Instead of the news fading in the background like someone else’s concern, I now feel incredible empathy for a country of people who were beginning to see the light and have now been pulled back into the muck of negative press.

This is one of the benefits of travel; international news becomes relevant because the world feels much smaller. I’m just saddened that I can’t see the entire world. This means that, for me, ignorance or indifference will still persist on many levels. Years from now, I’ll probably visit Sudan, see the effects of modern day genocide in Darfur and ask the same questions: “Where was I when this was happening?” or more importantly, “Where were we?”

Sarajevo Rose: After the war the city filled in the  bomb craters , where people were killed, with red paint.

Sarcastic monument to the international community. Basically, thanks for the largely inedible food provided during the war. I read that many countries shipped spoiled goods and/or medicines that weren't useful because it was cheaper than destroying it in their home countries. SMH...

Children's monument

National Theatre

Hand knitted scarves?

Or perhaps a pen made out of bullet casings?

Bullet holes are still seen on the facades of some of the buildings

Before and After: the picture in the lower left hand corner is what this area looked like during the war.

Dreamers vs. Realists: India

Not right, not wrong; just different.

My place is down this alley! Yes, he is zipping his pants.



I flew into New Delhi from Hong Kong really late in the evening, but had already arranged for the guesthouse’s driver to pick me up due to the hour and so I waited. He arrived very late and looked severely disappointed once he saw me. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was a young woman and not a man, if it was because I was an American, or if it was because, like him, I was dark skinned. Whatever the case, he walked twenty paces ahead of me as I nearly ran to keep up with him and off we went in his beat up little car whose engine took three minutes to turn over.



We made it to the guesthouse, which was located in Paharganj, a backpacker’s district that looks worse than anything I’ve ever seen in the States. In shock that I was actually staying there, I stumbled out of the car certain that this wasn’t the right place and that I was about to be robbed. Maybe I was moving too slow for the driver’s comfort, because he reached back, grabbed my bags and while asking me for a tip (which isn’t customary in India, but tourists typically don’t know that), he proceeded without me down an alley that smelled like curry, cigarettes, and really strong urine due to the open urinal at its entrance.  Not wanting to be left on the street by myself and without my bags, I followed. As we made our way through the back alley towards my home for the next few days, the driver stepped forward like a soccer player and kicked a sleeping dog that was in our path.

Welcome to India…

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NOTE: After I left India, I read reviews of Paharganj and many writers suggested that first time visitors to India should not stay there, but spend a little extra money and stay in Connaught Place. I could not agree more with this statement. The locals actually refer to Paharganj as the backpacker’s ghetto. It is physically shocking to see and can turn you off of India; especially if you come from a developed country. The experience is similar to coming to the United States for the first time and being dropped off in Marcy Projects in New York. You may get used to it, but It will take a while.

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Maybe too simple?

Typically when I arrive in a new country at night, things tend to look worse than they actually are, so I try to keep a positive attitude, wait until the morning and not let it get me down.  I explained this theory to an older couple during breakfast at the guesthouse the next morning. “Well Dear,” said the wife in a grandmotherly tone, “I’m afraid that India will look just as bad, if not worse, in the daylight.” Great! I spent the entire day in my room! I didn’t even go eat lunch or dinner. I emailed my husband telling him that I had made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here. I’ve been traveling for almost four months through ten countries and I have never seen anything like this in a major city!  I can’t believe this.

The Red Fort in New Delhi

To admit this revelation to my husband was actually a humbling experience. Before I left New York, I had been nagging him about a book I read called Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure by Sarah Macdonald. It’s about the life and experience of the author who moved to India to live with her ex-pat boyfriend. The novel is funny, but there’s a part in the book where an older, Indian, gentlemen Sarah is talking to says that the problem with Americans is that we are always looking at the person above us (financially, educationally, etc.) and we look at them saying, “I wish I had that! I wish I was that!” So, we are never happy because we are always seeking and working harder to obtain more. This gentleman told Sarah that in his culture, they look at the person below them and they say “Thank God I’m not in that position! Thank you God for everything I have.” Therefore, they are always happy and thankful for what they have and are ultimately content in life.

At least one wife is always going to be sick of your crap!

Now, I realize that his viewpoint isn’t reflective of ALL Indian’s views, but I spent days arguing with Chad about the nobility of simply being happy with what you have; never stressing to have or to reach for more. This is the right way to move through life! His response: “Nah babe, I just don’t see it. Where’s the motivation to improve?” Writing him off as confused, I let the argument die; but, now that I was actually in India looking at contentment in the face… I wasn’t quite sure of my position. Was this right or was this wrong?

The Taj Mahal - a love story! "Chad, will you build something like this in my memory?"

Dancing to the song in his head! Love it!!

After a highly stressful prayer session, I eventually made it out of the guesthouse. I visited Ghandi’s home and memorial museum. I walked around the Red Fort and saw a lot of what New Delhi has to offer. I even managed to make it all the way to Agra, where I saw the Taj Mahal in all of its grandeur.  Agra is just as challenging as Pararganj with its plethora of rickshaw drivers speeding down the streets, dodging camels, dogs, and cows, and always attempting to up sale you on a tour or rip you off. Despite the surroundings outside of the Taj, I found myself walking around the Taj at peace and people watching for hours. Happy, smiling, families eagerly enjoying one another while running shoe less across the grounds of one of India’s gems. Maybe, this is right?



I stretched a bit further and made it to Goa in the southern part of India. There I spent my days walking the streets with bulls, monkeys, goats and stray dogs and I learned to make the best chicken curry I’ve ever tasted from the owner of a local restaurant. Thanks Guarav!

Ahhh.... Goa.....

I also had a very unique experience at an Ayurvedic Spa Resort in Goa. While there I spent three days butt naked getting massaged, bathed, scrubbed, and beaten for three hours a day by two men. I actually paid for this! Even though I left looking like Don King when they dripped two gallons of oil on my head during the Dhara (Shiro Dhara) and even though I felt like that soldier in Platoon that was beaten with a bar of soap wedged into a tube sock when they pounded me with a round bolus of herbs wrapped in a cotton cloth during the Kizhi, I still loved every minute. The only awkward moment was the post shower everyday… “Uh… thanks, but I can wash my own pocket book.”

I'm feeling the shirt, man! Can I get a smile?.

During my trip, I realized that in order to enjoy India, I had to throw away the rose colored glasses that being an American affords one and see this country for what it is and not what I thought it should be.

Then Let me explain…

My first day walking around the Main Bazaar in New Delhi, I met two young ladies who were selling beautiful, vintage Indian quilts. I bought a few and ended up talking to the youngest girl who asked why I had come to India. “This was my dream!” I told her. She replied that going to New York has always been her dream as well. “However, it is not possible for my dream to ever happen,” she continued very nonchalant as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb.  To give up on your dreams with such ease at the age of seventeen is wrong! I was hurt and outraged for her and her statement proved just one more reason why India was starting to become a “horrible country” in my mind.

What is this animal?!

From the kicked dog, to being spat at by a beggar after being denying her money, to slipping in cow crap and having it end up under my toe nails, there were a thousand different situations similar to this that could have continued to build my case against India. “Everything is wrong with this place!” Yet, after that conversation with the girl in the market, I remembered another conversation with my friends from London who I met at Mount Bromo. They had visited the U.S during the previous year and commented that they had never felt so embolden. “Your music, your commercials, even the advertisements on the streets are all so empowering. We left feeling like we could do anything and then we got back to our country,” they said laughing.

The Neighborhood Boys! Smile?

Hearing about my own country through the viewpoint of another gave me so much clarity into my own mental state. They were right! I live in a country that tells ordinary people that they can do anything. Can be anything. Can go anywhere with hard work, perseverance, and a dream. Even the pages of my passport are stamped with messages that support this theory. “Democracy is based upon the conviction that there are extraordinary possibilities in ordinary people – Harry Emerson Fosdick.” No wonder I was having such a difficult time accepting India as is; I was looking at it and measuring it against an American standard that praises the extraordinary and reminds us that we are Dreamers and “Do-ers”.  While I looking at India as a checklist of what it could be, Indians were living their lives amidst what it was.  Dreamers vs. Realists.

In the end, I think that India has taught me a very important lesson: No matter how “open” you think you are, you have to understand how your own mind set colors your perception of the world, in order to see and accept that someone else’s isn’t right or wrong, just different.  

Smile?  Indians take very serious pictures!

Title: Tuk Tuk Chic

If my kids do this to me, then I'm having corrective surgery!

Stairs, escalators, and elevators are for wussies!

Hi Baby! Please smile...

Parliament

Going to the chapel and we're...

The last steps of Ghandi as as he made his way to pray right before he was assasinated