This is Not A-mer-i-ca
When I am new to a culture, I try to melt into it, even just a little bit. Maybe I do this by helping to chop veggies. Maybe I do this by giving smiles. Maybe I melt away while drawing with curious kids on the street. The first thing I do is learn how to say Hello and Thank You in their language. I dress conservatively. I take my shoes off indoors in Asian countries. I bow with my hands in prayer to say hello and goodbye. I touch the feet of elders as a sign of respect in India. In the end, I just don’t want to be in the way.
In India however, I couldn’t seem to get it right. I kept getting the phrase : “This is not A-mer-i-ca”. Every time someone said it to me, I became more humbled, and reminded that I have to surrender more.
I had just gotten to Ahmedabad, staying in a room in the NGO’s office space. They brought food in for lunch each day. We swept the kitchen floor, then called everyone over to eat. In the center of the floor, were tiffins (stackable metal containers filled with different curries, rice, dal — all things yummy), next to stacks of metal bowls, next to stacks of plates. As each person entered the kitchen, they took their place on the floor. Sitting down, we shuffled around the plates and food like a dance. Everything in India is like a dance. Together we took a moment of silence, then we started eating.
After lunch, each of us waited in line at the sink outside to wash our dishes. I felt a bit of excitement — washing dishes is something I love doing and was the most familiar thing. I walked up to the sink to find chalky soap in a container, with a tiny sponge. I turn on the water, swish off my food, sud the plate…
“No. This is NOT A-mer-i-ca!”
I stood there frozen. Not again. What did I do? “We do not wash dishes like that in India. Here, let me show you,” said one of the artisans, gathering my dishes and his. The man scraped off every bit of food and sauce from his plate into the trash with his fingers. He put 5 drops of water on the sponge, dabbed it in the chalk, and scrubbed each plate while dry. Then he turned on the faucet, adjusting it to only allow the smallest stream of water to come through. He rubbed his hands over the plate to make sure there wasn’t any food or chalk left on it. He put all of our dishes on the side to dry. He turned to me with a big smile, “See? Now you can do.”
I never knew that I had to learn how to wash dishes, but growing up in “America”, I really did have to learn how to wash dishes. I realized how sacred water is, especially when you don’t have it. Families living in the nearby slums came by the office once a week to fill their empty laundry detergent containers with city-supplied water from this black mega container. Each house/building has their own mega container, and since these families didn’t have their own space, they didn’t have water. It made me realize, I also don’t have my own water! I grew up in Los Angeles which has been in a drought for many years. We have to rely on others for our water, just like the slum families do. Yet because our infrastructure offers us enough water to drink, take long showers, water our lawns, and fill our swimming pools, I took it for granted. Racing through my mind were all of the things I take for granted like mountains, trees, star filled skies, sunsets, healthy food, shoes, art supplies from all over the world, clean-ish air, silence…and water.
Water is life. Water is sacred. Water is alive, she feels, she sees. She is watching and breathing everything we do. She knows what we do not know. She touches every single thing on this planet. She’s in our air. She’s in our blood. She is both a dew drop and a powerful tsunami. She is a bit of frost and a huge iceberg. The man didn’t just teach me how to wash dishes. He showed me that I need to respect water.
