So Strange

That is a very un PC title, but I can only think of that and far worse as a name for a family I work with. Of course I  was not referred to the entire family. The Regional Center Case Manager told me she has a little boy who needs speech therapy - she knows I am not a speech therapist. According to her she either can't find one, or hasn't tried. She needs a speech therapist who speaks Spanish, and who will agree to go to the home, so, as usual, she asked me to go. I agreed because referrals are very low, and any kind of intervention is helpful.

I knocked on the door of the Section 8 housing apartment and a short, dark-skinned black haired woman came to the door. She gestured to me to come in, and as my eyes became accustomed to the relative darkness I looked for a place to sit down. I found a chair next to a formica table laden with bottles of chile, an open box of oreos, salt, pepper, a few slices of bread, and boxes of fruit juice- the kind for children with the straw attached. A queen sized mattress was on the floor in the corner of the carpeted room, across from an old-fashioned, and old, TV which stood on a chest of drawers. Most of the drawers were open and socks and clothing spilled out. A sofa was next to the wall and it was covered with toys, stuffed animals, balls, ring stacks, a broken leapfrog computer, blocks, jigsaw puzzles. I was surprised by the toys which were of a suitable developmental level for the two young girls standing staring at a me with enormous brown eyes. A man sat on a chair and I presumed he must be dad.

I introduced myself.  The parents didn't introduce themselves. Instead the woman gestured to the slightly shorter girl with long dead straight black hair. I had thought the referral was to a boy, but I was obviously wrong. Right next to her stood a slightly taller, plump girl with long curly black hair tied into braids. I stared back and then the mother who obviously saw my confusion, said, 'it  is a boy, but he looks like a girl. The two, brother and sister, stood in front of the TV, transfixed by me, apparently, because they seemed frozen in place. I told the mother we needed to fill in paperwork. She and I pulled the chairs closer to the table, the surface of which, I soon found out, was very sticky. I gave mom my pen and she began filling in the paperwork. The girl approached me and placed herself directly in front of me, staring. She had slightly dysmorphic features, and although she is over three years old, she can't speak, at all. The parents and I spoke spanish, they don't know any english, but the mother informed me that the son has one word, and that is 'shoes' (in english.) He is two and a half and the girl is about 10 months older.

I explained to the parents that I would come once a week to work with the boy.  It is a one-roomed apartment. Mom and the children are cooped up inside. Dad works in Antioch as a waiter and only returns home once a week. The only outing they ever have is to Childrens Hospital once a week, as the little girl gets transfusions. Mom and the kids take the bus and Bart. All the toys, mom told me, are gifts from the nurses. Otherwise they would not have any toys at all.

My arrival with my bag of toys is an occasion for unrivaled glee. The girl is convinced I am there to play with her and when I come in she hugs my legs and won't let her brother get near. I explain that we need to sit and I have toys for both of them. In response to my reasonable remarks she begins to cry. When she cries and lies on the floor drumming her heels her brother approaches. He keeps still for maybe a split second then he runs around in circles. The girl stops crying and comes back. When she returns he also comes back then she pulls his hair, hard. I tell her to stop, and offer her a toy, but she looks at me and pulls his head harder. He cries, she pulls and I tell her to stop, then she cries. Once she stops crying again she then pulls my hair and kicks me. The boy hides behind a sofa and mom, on my most recent visit, remained in the kitchen cooking chilies, and I coughed and my eyes watered. It is like a circus. Sometimes when the girl stops crying she comes up to me, folds her arms across her chest and babbles in gibberish. No matter what I bring, the boy takes one look then goes to kick his large ball, hard, in my direction.

I have never seen dad again. Last week a man was there, I was not introduced, and after observing this insane performance for a few minutes he left to sit outside. From something mom said I understood he is her brother.

The kids consume enormous amounts of sugar. The boy climbs on the table and eats jam straight from the jar. The suck popsicles and drink soda. I am sure this does not help their excitable states, but I am not sure exactly what to do. I did say to mom that it would be good for him to drink water, as she said he likes it. She cut his hair before my last visit and now he looks like a little boy - a strange little enormous-eyed imp. Now the girl doesn't have that much to pull, but she manages to pull clumps nevertheless.

What I am doing there I do not know. I do not believe I am in anyway contributing and have told this to the case manager.

FRUSTRATING

Phew

I am sooooooo very grateful to be able to post this, and that nothing worse happened other than me being so shaken up that I had to have chamomile tea instead of coffee.

Yesterday morning I was on my way to the office, driving up E80. After signaling and looking back to check there was no one in my lane I exited at Hilltop Drive. Out of nowhere I heard sirens blaring and looked into my rearview mirror to see either a police car or a highway patrol car coming up behind me hell for leather. In the next nanosecond a Nissan Sentra sped by me, just missing my right rear, then it flew in front of me, back to the freeway where it "landed" in front of a large truck and kept on driving. In hot pursuit the police car followed it, also just missing me as it followed the exact passage of the Sentra. I smelt rubber burning and wide-eyed looked at the chase until the overpass blocked my view and I was left stunned, wondering what had just happened. Who knows - nothing was on the internet or in the paper, just another high speed chase.

Thank you thank you thank you that nothing worse happened!

Rakassah

I  flew in to Oakland Airport one March from some place or other. A female cabdriver picked up a few of us who were going to Oakland and points north. It took me only a a few seconds after I climbed into the front seat to notice that everyone in the cab, driver included, were covered in tattoos and piercings. I felt quite bare and naked. The hardware decorated women in the backseat were going to a belly dance festival in Richmond. I worked in Richmond which I knew had many things, but belly dancing was not one of them! So I thought.

A few years later I began classes in what was advertised as "Middle Eastern Dancing for Women" a euphemism for belly dancing. In March the teacher told us about the festival in Richmond. On the Saturday of the festival I decided to go and see for myself what this was all about. I drove down Barrett Avenue and found parking near the Civic Center. To my amazement I saw hordes of people walking toward the Center clad in harem pants, swinging skirts, flimsy veils, sequined belts, mirrored bras, ankle bracelets, arms adorned with bangles and fingers with rings. I felt an odd sense of dislocation, the middle east here in Richmond. Myself, I wore black pants and a plain unadorned T-shirt. I felt plain, dull, and boring as I gazed open-mouthed at the explosion of femininity around me. A veritable estrogen feast. Women of every age, color, size, bellies, arms, breasts exposed. The jingle of ankle bracelets, the sound of drums, ouds, and zills, wafts of incense.  The fabulous souks of the middle east recreated in Richmond, of all places. Crowded hastily erected stalls displayed loads of silver jewelry, sequins, feathers, sheer gauzy clothing, colorful veils, embroidered coats from Kashmir, pottery from Morocco. Yards of glittery fabrics, rows of zills (finger cymbals), even the men wore the same clothes. I watched tribal dancing, soloists, dancers with boa constrictors around their arms. Dancers came from all over the world and all over America. There was Maha from Tokyo, a male dancer from Sweden, tribal dancers from Chico, dancers with canes, wings, balancing swords on their heads, music from the stalls, snippets of conversation (My intention was to....... - I was a vegan, now I eat meat again ........ there is this fabulous chiropractor ....... my tongue piercing got infected .....)

After  several years hiatus I went yesterday, and was delighted to find the same bedlam and jollity, despite the many revolutions and uprisings which have taken place over the last year. The same unity and joy. A delight to share this music and beauty in the midst of all that is wrong.

And Now What?

"Scientists are predicting that America and Asia will crash into each within the next hundred million years.   And that ends this edition of the world news."

For goodness sake - was that really necessary to add to the long list of global woes, the renewed riots in Greece, the bloodbath in Syria, the warmest winter in the States, the coldest winter in Europe, the arming of military to fight against civilians in Darfur, the Israelis planning an attack against Iran ...

And that was just the very end of the news. That is why I do not listen to it - I just happened to turn on the radio for the five minutes drive from the gym back home (I know, I should walk.) I drive every day for work, and so I listen to books. I am thoroughly enjoying "Howards End" by E.M. Forster. He is an excellent writer. I just decided to listen to the news as the drive was so brief, and now to add to my list of worries is the impending crash between continents. Really, none of us will be around, quite probably the planet will not be around, why is it necessary to even put that concept out into the ether? It pisses me off.

Fears

As I grow older, I become more phobic. I have fears about crowds, about heights, about doing mathematics. I have conquered at least some of these fears - going to India certainly helped. If one fears crowds one shouldn't go to India, period. We went to the bustling vibrant town of Chidambarran. A magnificent temple is in the center of the town and all of the daily (and nightly) life takes place in and immediately in and around the temple. Siva is the deity here, and for thousands of years the Dikshita priests have carried out the ceremonies. Once a year Siva is taken out of his home, bathed, clothed, placed in a massive chariot and taken around the town. Taken is the wrong word. His massive stone chariot rests on enormous wheels of stone. The chariot is pulled by hundreds and thousands of pilgrims who pull the thick sisal ropes which move the chariot along the streets. They are the driving force, the motor. We arrived in Chidambarram specially for this ceremony. With my fear of crowds I find myself running barefoot over stones, dust, and asphalt trying to keep up with yatris (fellow spiritual travellers) running ahead of me. We are all trying to keep up with someone familiar ahead of us and we clutch each others' arms and scarves. We are in a swirling sea of excited Indian pilgrims. My fear of crowds dissipates and I joyfully merge into the ecstatic throng. My fear of heights I overcame on my last trip to the north when we had to walk across flimsy bridges over a swollen Ganges. So - I have a fear of computers and digital devices in general. In a terrible state of jetlag in Singapore I bought an iPad! My fogged thinking was that it would be really convenient to take to restaurants and cafes and blog and write. II shlepped my burgeoning amount of devices to work, but there we do not have access to wi-fi!!!!!!! Imagine that. My nights have been busy trying to read manuals. I went to the Apple store and got some advice. All seems so very easy and obvious when one is instructed by a chirpy youngster. However, I get home and don't know what on earth I nodded yes to so happily! But here I am, it is Saturday, and I'm in a cafe and it is working!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yahoo.

Don't - do

Don't run around bare foot.

Don't play with your food.

Don't eat with your fingers.

Don't stare at people, its rude.

Don't push in line.

Look to your left and right before crossing the road.

Wait for the green light.

Don't hoot at other drivers. (honk, for the benefit of Americans.)

I am sure we have all heard at least a few of these admonitions. In India all is topsy turvy. Everything we have been warned against, we must do if we are to survive, and not commit gross cultural misunderstandings, unrest, violence ...

When I was in the north, 18 months ago, I developed a horrible painful rash from the heat. I remembered that when I was first in India many years before people used some kind of powder for this condition. In congested crowded Vrindavan I saw what might be a pharmacy across the road from where I was standing. That is, I saw some bottles on the shelves of a stall with red crosses on them. I determined to go there to ask, but i had to cross the road.To my left, right, ahead of me, and behind me was a constant stream of people walking, limping, pushing carts, propelling vehicles with their hands or legs, bicycles with at least five people sitting on them, motorbikes likewise, pushcarts, buffalos, dogs, goats, pigs, rickshaws, cars, buses.   It took me two days and pain to get me to cross the road.

This time in Puducherry I had to cross something similar to a wide avenue to get to our hotel. Maybe something like a six-lane highway, although of course there was no such thing as lanes.  I  stood on a strip across from the hotel and looked to my left for a traffic light - nothing. Maybe to my right, if I just walk a bit. I walked, then realized I might walk forever, I was not going to find a light, and there was no such thing as a pedestrian crossing.  What to do? To cross the road was nothing short of suicide.

I looked at the never-ending flow waiting for a break of sort. Then, immediately to my left an angel appeared in the form of an old, skinny, barefoot woman. She hitched up her sari and began to cross the road. Here was my salvation, I hurried after her, shadowing each step she took. The pavement on the other side loomed up like a glimpse of land to someone who has been floating hopelessly at sea.

I reached the hotel safely.

What to Do

I was reading my very brief journal I kept in India, and was reminded of an incident which occurred on our second day there.

We visited Mahaballipuram, an area of magnificent stone carvings and an ancient temple. I remembered it from a previous visit, 18 years ago. What I remembered about that visit were the granite carvings, the  snake charmers, and a fight between a snake and a mongoose. I also remember walking along the lovely beach being pursued by a young girl, a beggar. She was in rags and held a tiny equally ragged baby. As is their custom, she latched on to me and didn't leave me alone. It was at a time when I was in desperate need of quiet time, and I am ashamed to say that I quite lost it with her. I told her to get away and asked whether she had ever heard of the world's population explosion. Of course it went by her.

On my return visit, 18 years later our group of 46 stood outside a temple, waiting to go in. Of course we were accosted by every urchin and beggar in the area. Again, a young girl stood in front of me holding out strings of synthetic beads and pearls. She shoved them in my face and tried to open my fingers. I looked down at her and shook my head. She gazed back out of large brown eyes. She was a pretty girl who was very very dirty. She stared at me and said, "please Ma'am, very every hungry." Despite my stoney face she continued. I looked at her, obviously she was hungry. She wasn't in good shape, but what on earth could I do? If I agreed to buy even one of her strands of beads the other hundred beggars around her would insist we buy from all of them. I looked into her eyes and shook my head. Her whole sorry life and future unfolded in front of me. Just then a security guard who had been on the outskirts of this group came over, raised his hand and he hit her on her back, hard. It happened so quickly. I felt myself screaming 'no' as he hit her again and all the street kids scattered.

It is very difficult when one is confronted with this level of misery and despair. One of the men who leads our tour is an Indian man, a Hare Krishna disciple. For the past few years he supervises an organization that feed 1200,000 children a day in Mumbai. For most of these children this is their only meal. They are fed in government schools and their parents now send them to school so that they can eat, and of course, learn. On my last visit to India I decided to donate to them, because I know where the money is going, and that it is an extremely worthy cause, better than the 10 rupees I can dole out to a few people to make me feel better.

If you are interested, this is the link

www.middaymeal.com