Laryngo-Tracheao-Whatever

This is me:

This is me on Laryngo-Tracheao-Whatever:

Today, Urban bundled me in the car and took me to Urgent Care, where an apparently Halfling doctor who spoke from a deep hobbit-hole (but otherwise seemed competent) accused me of Laryngo-Tracheao-Bronchitis, which is an infection & inflammation of all of the above, and borderline Pertussis, which is Whopping Cough. Before I could gather my wits and come up with a suitable retort, he was gone. This has been happening a lot lately: everything is sort of trippy and dark around the edges: events, and occasional Hobbits, seem to leap out at me, then vanish before I can react.

Not that there is a whole lot I can say in my defense. I have been whooping it up lately; also, my voice has vanished: I can only communicate via squeaks, whistles and texting. If R2D2 was a teakettle, this is what he would sound like. Urban manages to keep a straight face (most of the time) and the dogs back away slowly. The Hobbit merely shook his head and stuck a thermometer in my mouth.

Well, I am home now, fortified with tea, broth and Kick-Ass (the movie!). I am feverish, contagious and wallowing in self-pity. I have been poked, prodded, assessed and scolded. I have been plied with antibiotics and threatened with hospitalization. Cough syrup has been forced upon me. 

On the upside: Urban is taking very good care of me, I’m enjoying the special effects, this isn't the Middle Ages so I won't die, and I get to eat ice cream.

Sunrise: 6:55am

Urban had an appointment on the 80th floor of the South Tower at 8am on September 11th, 2001.

I was going to tag along (to NYC & the Twin Towers) and take a tour of the building. On September 8th, the overseas colleague he was scheduled to meet got sick and said he was unable to make the trip. Everything was cancelled. No NYC, no tour, no visiting friends, nothing. I remember we were both quite irritated. Urban ran his own business and last-minute, out-of-state cancellations cost us money. It was nobody’s fault.

We had planned to be away, so we went to Wisconsin instead. We were at The House on the Rock when we heard the news. Now, if you’ve ever been to The House on the Rock, you can imagine what that must have been like. If you’ve never been there, I’m not even going to try and explain. Maybe another time.

Anyway, we made it back to our hotel and sat horrified in front of the TV with the rest of the nation. It was many hours before either of us remembered where we had originally planned to be that morning. I can still feel the look on my face.

9/11 tore a hole in the world. I don’t know why I’m here to peer through from this side. I can’t believe that “someone was looking out for me.” That implies that someone was not looking out for the thousands of people who died. The thousands of people that we watched die. I just don’t believe that The Great Whatever is a micromanager, or maybe any kind of manager at all. I also don’t (like to) believe that my entire existence is mere chance. Some guy in Japan got the flu. I got to live.

We all remember where we were. We don’t often get the opportunity to remember where we weren’t. Life is unfathomable. We never know where it will end (up).

One thing is sure...every 9/11 around 6am, having been awake all night remembering, wondering and praying in my own weird way, the sun will come up and the sight of that rising light, the re-brightening of our world, will make me burst into tears. 

I search for words I don't have…and feel the life that I do.

Where is the other tomato?

I dunno about you, but I need a break from the serious stuff.

Last night, I acquired two fresh, ripe tomatoes from a friend and put them on the back seat of the Red Barron (our Hybrid SUV). When we got home, there was only one tomato.

I wondered: Where is the other tomato?

I looked on the floor, under the seats, in the hatchback. Urban & I had gotten into a stupid fight (as if there is another kind) on the way home, so he was like, Jeeze, now what? My reply: Well, SOMEBODY has to take care of things around here! At least ONE of us cares about the missing tomato! He gave me a long look, but said nothing and went into the house, because, really…there's no response to that.

I got a flashlight & looked again. No tomato.
After awhile I gave up and followed Urban inside, where we made up, ate frozen pizza and Thai veggie dumpling for dinner and watched the first half-hour of “Southland Tales.” No one mentioned the tomato.

Before bed, I asked, a little shyly, if he got the tomato and just didn’t say anything, you know, to fuck with me. We were fighting. He gave that same long look (if you’re married, you know the one) and said no. We went to bed. I wondered about the tomato for awhile before I fell asleep. Where could it be?

At about 2pm today, I am in the kitchen making lunch when I suddenly remember the tomato. It’s a bright, sunny day so I head outside, open all the Barron’s doors, and conduct a visual inspection. I even check the glove compartment. No tomato.

Did the Barron eat it? I think not. That goddamn tomato is in here somewhere.

I plop onto the grass, wish I had a cigarette, and stare at the Barron sitting in the driveway, doors agape. He’s not giving up his secrets. After awhile, Sabbath (our barn cat) comes over to see what’s up. Sabbath is inexplicably fascinated by our vehicles, and relishes the opportunity to explore them. He peeks in the front seat and hops up. This gives me an idea. I shoo Sabbath out, and go get the dogs.

Dogs can smell stuff, right? They use them to find lost people in huge tracts of land and collapsed buildings, so I figure a tomato in a Lexus should be no problem. 

Barnabas and Shiduri have been observing the drama from behind the fence, and are delighted to be included. They rush out of the gate, see the Barron’s open doors, and throw themselves in. After some pushing and shoving, which B-dog predictably loses, they flop down on the backseat and grin at me in anticipation. I tell them we’re not going anywhere, and try to explain about the tomato. They do not care. Just like their father.

I am on my own.

Although they disappointed me, I feel bad that the dogs are excited to go somewhere, so I hop barefoot into the Barron and cruise around the neighborhood. When the dogs are in the car, I drive carefully. (I used to say “I drive like an old lady,” but a couple of years ago I got totally obliterated IN THE CELICA, my I-will-blow-the-doors-off-your-jacked-up-customized-Honda-with-the-ridiculously-huge-spoiler-you-gel-haired-little-punk car, pulling out of a stoplight on HWY 7, by a tiny little old lady in an Audi TT. She was wearing an “I Love My Grandma!” sweatshirt. When we stopped at the next light, she looked over, smiled, and said: I hope someday you can get yourself a real sports car, kid. I learned respect the hard way.)

Anyway, with the pups in the car, I drive carefully, which is boring but gives me time to think. At the intersection of CR 10 & 123, I have a brilliant idea. My normally aggressive driving is just what I need to deal with the tomato situation.

I take the dogs home, usher them out of the car and into the house, grab my purse, and hop back in the Barron, still barefoot. This shouldn’t take long. About halfway down our long farm driveway, I hit the brakes. 

I was only doing about 10 MPH, but figure that’s enough to roll that little tomato right out of its hidey hole. I crane around and look at the floor of the backseat. I don’t see it right away, so I hop out, open all the doors, etc., etc.

There is no sign of the tomato.

I get back in the car, turn left onto Harff Road, and, getting up a little more speed, try again. Get out, open doors, look for tomato. Repeat. I do this about four times, going a little faster every time—I’m not crazy (really) so I’m not doing more than 25-30 MPH. 

That’s when the Sherriff pulls me over.

Sherriff: Ma’am are you ok? Have you been drinking?
Me: Uh…no. I’m ok and I have not been drinking.
Sherriff: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: I look crazy?
Sherriff: (gives me a long look. I resist the urge to ask if he’s married.) You have been driving somewhat erratically. I’ve been watching you get in and out of your vehicle. Is something wrong?
Me: So, yesterday I got two tomatoes from a friend…

I tell him the whole story. He starts laughing when I get to the part about the dogs. When I am done, he give me directions to the nearest veggie stand so I can go get myself another tomato. I really want to explain that I ALREADY HAVE A PERFECTLY GOOD TOMATO and if I don’t find it, it will ROT and STINK in my car. But, sanity prevails. I just thank him and head home. This tomato thing, and the fact that I am the only one who understands that the smell of rotting tomato is not cool, is starting to piss me off. The cop didn’t care. Urban didn’t care. Even my dogs, who can usually be relied upon for empathy, didn’t care. Fine! I give up!

The Barron lurches to a stop next to the house; I slam my door and stomp towards the front door, then realize I left my purse in the car. I stomp back, tug open the passenger side door…

…and there, sitting on the passenger side floor mat, is the tomato. Red, shiny and silent. Where were you, little tomato?

I may never know. But I’m glad you’re back.

Dear Friend, The Majority of People Can Still Be Wrong

The thing I always wonder about Nazi Germany is this: how did it happen? Did all the Germans just go insane? How does an entire culture get to the point that they can turn away and ignore the torture and murder of MILLIONS of people: and not far away, hidden from view people, but people they pass by on the street, people they do business with, people that are their neighbors? How do people support a political party that treats people, based on their religion/culture, as a problem that must be solved? Well, I think it helps that Germans were scared of “them.” Really scared.

It’s hard to reason with fear.

From: Saumya Arya Haas
Sent: Tuesday, August 24, 2010 6:01 PM
To: xxxxxxx
Subject: RE: Cold Chills

Hello Dear xxxxxxx,

It was truly wonderful to see you! and thank you for giving me the chance to respond to Wilders’ speech/ideas.

Regardless of what I say here… if you would like to know what Muslims think, you should get to know some Muslims and ask them, rather than basing your opinions on what someone else (including me) thinks that Muslims think.  However that’s not practical right away, so here is my response, based on my instincts, my experience with actual Muslims, living in India where Hindu-Muslim violence is not uncommon, being familiar with terrorist attacks (from many different groups: religious, political, secular, ethnic, etc.) in various parts of the world from a young age, and being an extremely patriotic American. It’s a long reply so bear with me.

Geert Wilders, the writer of this piece, is considered an extremist by many people. He is up on hate-speech charges in his native country, where no established political party will be associated with him. The UK tried to ban him from entering their country.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geert_Wilders

There is so much wrong with the reasoning in this article that I do not know where to start. Here is only one, minor, example. He says (about “Muslim ghettos”) :

“The shops have signs you and I cannot read. You will be hard-pressed to find  any economic activity.” Well, which is it? Are there shops, where presumably, people are exchanging money for products… or is there no economic activity?

What would you think of an architect who said “The pipes leak water everywhere. There is no plumbing in the house.” You would think they were mistaken, lying, or insane. How much would you trust their other statements?

Where are the references for his claims on facts and figures? is there reputable, government supported information, or are these figures produced by partisan organizations with an particular agenda? And if they are correct, so what? People can say, think and believe whatever they like. It is actions that count, and even that is does not justify discrimination. I’ve heard it said that the majority of convicted criminals in the USA are young African-American men. Should we treat all young Black guys like potential criminals? Lock them up just to be safe?

When you read Wilders piece, is there any other group that you would be comfortable generalizing about in this way? If you take out the word “Muslim” and insert the word “Black,” “Gay,” “Women,””Jewish,” whatever, how does it make you feel?  People call Wilder’s views racist and extremist because they are. As far as quoting numbers of what percentage of people fear Islam, I wonder, what percentage of Americans supported the abolition of slavery, women’s right to vote, interracial marriage, Civil Rights, etc, etc.? Do you think that if 60% of Americans are afraid of young African-American men we should do something about it? I’ve read that when it became legal for whites and non-whites to marry, the majority of Americans were against it. (I bring this one up because I’m in an interracial marriage and I know you would find it as distasteful as I do that there was a time that Urban & I, both American citizens, could not legally marry in our own country.)

The majority of people can still be wrong.

Wilder’s arguments and solution (which is not stated, but I am familiar with) do not stand up to common sense, common decently, the American Constitution or international human rights guidelines. People become criminals, and can be treated as criminals, the minute they are found guilty of a crime. Each person deserves to be treated as an individual. What crime have millions of Muslims committed, that we are so comfortable talking about them as though they are guilty of something? If Muslims are 25% or whatever of the population of Europe, so what?  Europe is made up of many nations and cultures; Muslims have been a part of that since Islam has existed.

The questions about Israel is a separate, political issue about governmental policies, not what citizens think. I know a number of (white, Jewish) Americans who are critical of Israel for whatever reasons. I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.

Wilder advocates against dialogue with Muslim leaders; I find that disturbing. His writing is full of absolute statements and hysteria.

I feel that Wilders’ speech and writings follow this formula and philosophy:

“It [does] not investigate the truth objectively and.. it present[s] only that aspect of the truth which is favourable to its own side. (...) [It is] confined to a few bare essentials and those must be expressed as far as possible in stereotyped formulas. These slogans [are] persistently repeated (…) Every change.. must always emphasize the same conclusion. The leading slogan must of course be illustrated in many ways and from several angles, but in the end one must always return to the assertion of the same formula.”

This is very effective because:

“[People]are ruled by sentiment rather than by sober reasoning. This sentiment, however, is not complex, but simple and consistent. It is not highly differentiated, but has only the negative and positive notions of love and hatred, right and wrong, truth and falsehood.”

These quotes are from Hitler, Mein Kampf.

Have you ever read the anti-Jewish rhetoric from Germany in the 1930s? It sounds very much the same. It was just as passionate, just as popular, and just as based on “facts.”

This is my theory: Germans believed that they had to protect themselves against an enemy, and that their survival depended on destroying this enemy before the enemy destroyed them. Germans began to believe that people who had lived peacefully alongside them, contributed to their economy and enriched their culture,  were dangerous outsiders who did not belong in Germany. I’m sure there were some Jews that were unprincipled, dangerous criminals—people are human after all. So, one Jew committing a crime became “proof” of the evil nature of all Jews. Jewish “ghettos” were portrayed as cancerous, dangerous cells that would spread and wipe out European values. Does any of this sound familiar?

What is Wilders solution? The mass rounding up and “deportation” of millions of people? Does that sound familiar?

The other thing I wonder about Nazi Germany is this: When was the moment? When did the German people tip from the talk to the walk? How did it go from free speech to state-sponsored genocide? Why didn’t anyone say: enough is enough. We are terrified of Jews, but we don’t have the right to eradicate them. Did any one say: We must stop before we do something insane.  If we look back with the luxury of hindsight, I think it’s apparent that there was not one moment, but many. Many.

The only cold chills I get are imaging what will happen to millions of innocent people if politicians like Wilder come into power.

I would like to be open and be able to talk about these issues, and I would like you to be comfortable talking to me. You are my friend and I love and respect you. But emails like the one you forwarded are hate speech, nothing more. I support the right of free speech for all, but it is a challenge to know how to reasonably respond to such virulent hatred masquerading as fact.

It’s ok to be ignorant and it’s understandable to be scared of things and cultures that we don’t understand. But it is not okay when our ignorance and fear is justification to limit the rights of other people…actually, there is nothing that justifies limiting the rights of other people. I cannot stand by in silence while my fellow (Muslim/Gay/Jewish/Whatever) Americans and fellow humans are demonized and have their dignity & rights stripped from them. These people are innocent. Where is this thinking going to end up?

I hope that you understand, and that your intrinsic compassion, intelligence and sense of justice will advise your thoughts and feelings.

With best intentions and much love,
Saumya

I’ll help you pack, even.

Dear People-Who-Are-Afraid-of-Islam-And-Think-Your-Fear-Should-Affect-Other-People's-Freedoms,

You have a right to your feelings. But you do not have to right to expect your feelings to limit the rights of other Americans.

The 9/11 terrorists were angry, violent, screwed-up people, ok? Muslim, male, young, Middle-Eastern, dark-skinned, angry, violent, screwed-up. It's the angry, violent, screwed-up action that makes a terrorist. Nothing else.

Islam has nothing to do with terrorism, or, it has as much to do with terrorism as does ethnicity, national origin, age and gender...which is to say, nothing. We may as well associate maleness with terrorism...all the 9/11 terrorists were men. That's just as (ir)relevant as the fact that they were Muslim.

Most terrorists are men. Many cultures of "manhood" advocate violence, but I haven't noticed a backlash against male culture as terrorism. Imagine people making statements, writing tweets and articles or holding signs that say:

We will be overtaken by MEN, and their goal is to get people in Congress.

It’s provocative for these MEN to want a community center near Ground Zero.

Don’t Dishonor my Son’s Grave. No MEN Near Ground Zero.

It’s ridiculous, right? It’s ridiculous no matter what word is substituted for “MEN.”

There is a word for generalizing about people who practice a particular religion, look a particular way, or are a particular gender: it is called BIGOTRY and it is not protected by the Constitution of the United States, or any rational, moral or ethical argument.

So, get over the Islam thing. Or shut the hell up, let people worship as they choose and get some professional help for your anger, insecurity and paranoia. Or move out of the USA to a nation that does not give people the right of religious freedom. (Did Saudi Arabia come to mind? One of those nations run by…MEN?) If you can’t respect the basic beliefs of this country: Liberty and Justice for All—then it’s you who doesn’t belong here.

Best Wishes,
Saumya

P.S. If you’re wondering what triggered this rant, it was this article:
Festive Muslim Holiday falls around Sept. 11 this year; US Muslims leaders fear backlash

It pisses me off that people in our country have to be afraid of celebrating their holidays. If terrorism is using fear to intimidate and control people, or words to that effect, and the Muslim community is afraid of us, who is it that is advocating terrorism??

A Night at the Temple

Concerts. Kirtan. Vodou ceremonies. I don’t care, as long as there’s music.

My body is caught in the current that flows over and from 18,000 people screaming along to Tool. I had a bad day, but that’s gone now. When the music starts, the music is everything. It both brings me completely into, and totally out of, myself.

50,000 people fall silent at the opening chords to The Smashing Pumpkins “Disarm.” We are sitting on a hill on Harriet Island, back when Lollapalooza was a tour. 10,000 people chant ancient hymns on the huge ghat steps leading down to the river in Varanasi. The whole city is lit by oil lamps on this sacred night. The State Theater is packed for the Black Crowes. We have balcony seats. I will talk about this night for the rest of my life, but right now, my whole world is Chris Robinson, on stage, wailing and dancing barefoot on a Persian rug. Over the course of two hours, 1400 people at the (old) Guthrie slowly lean forward more and more and more until we are all perched on the edge of our seats, breathless, as Ali Akbar Khan first caresses, then strums then totally fucking shreds on the sarod. All these experiences were distinct, but they are all the same.

Music usually raises a fierce joy, but there have been grueling times I endure only because music protects me, insulates me, wraps around me, and keeps the world out. Sometime the only thing that keeps me from being alone is a song that express what I am unable to articulate. Music lets me know that I am not the only one to feel something; it both helps me feel it more keenly and to overcome it: with music, the only way out is through. Sometimes I think that in buffering me from the reality around me, the music somehow absorbed it. So when I hear that song again, a little of that reality leaks out.

Music has always been something that frees me. At First Avenue, 200 people dance to P-Funk. George Clinton swings his multi-colored hair in a circle and yells “Are we LIVIN?” We roar back an affirmative: yes, we are livin. 100 people on a River boat chugging along the Mississippi jump up and down in unison to Michael Franti telling us to “throw your hands up high, ‘cause you never know how long you’re gonna live till you die.” The boat is shaking. 40 people crammed in an unfinished room at The New Orleans Healing Center groove to the Afro-Jazz rhythm of Kora Konnection from Senegal. There is no room to dance. A dozen people dressed in white do have room to dance around the center pole of a Vodou temple, as the drums call the Spirits. I am barefoot on the sand, under the stars, listening to music played by gypsies. We are deep in the desert of India, and I dance with my oldest friend.

Live music is best, but my everyday life has had a variable soundtrack coming from the radio, records, tapes, CDs and now our ever expanding digital collection. I love discovering new music, but I treasure the old stuff too. It can take me back to moments, places, people I have not seen in twenty years. The beat kicks in and suddenly I am there again, the memory stored in the music.

My husband and I, and most of our friends, slamdance to Ministry’s “Jesus Built My Hotrod” in the ballroom at a Marriot: he is wearing a tux, I am in my ivory silk wedding gown. We are grinning, young, drunk. I plug my headphones in and listen to Guns and Roses. Axl Rose is the only other human being who might be as pissed off as I am right now. I am in a car with my three best friends when  Prince comes on the radio. We crank it up, pull over on the freeway, and dance. We laugh like loons, and hug each other. My mom puts on a Peter Tosh record and we move to the sound of the Caribbean. Outside, the Minneapolis streets fill with snow. I must have been about six years old.

This is the story of my life. Then, now, always.

Bands I have seen live (as well as I can remember): 
Pixies, Beck, John Mooney, Smashing Pumpkins, Twilight Singers, Tori Amos, Ministry, Dead Can Dance, Flock of Seagulls, PJ Harvey, Bela Fleck, Ani DiFranco, Stanton Moore, Beastie Boys,  Sade, Black Crowes, Blink 182, Fall Out Boy, Sean Johnson and Wild Lotus, Panic! At The Disco, Gypsy Kings, The Decemberists, INXS, Beck, Billy Idol,The Killers, Liz Phair, Gypsy Kings, Modest Mouse, NIN, Roxy Music, Rage Against the Machine, They Might Be Giants, The Black Keys, Tool, Jewel, Ravi Shankar, Trombone Shorty, Jimmy Eat World, Aerosmith, Trip Shakespeare, Lenny Kravitz, Burning Spear, Alice in Chains, Ziggy Marley, The Breeders, Ali Akbar Khan, Babes in Toyland, Tracy Chapman, Michael Franti.

I would see every single one of those bands again, with the exception of Lenny Kravitz, who was so surly and wooden that he has the distinction of being the one artist who managed to make me dislike his music, which I previously liked, after seeing him live. Maybe he was having a bad day. But come on, man, you’re opening for Aerosmith. Have some humility.

Bands I hope to see:
MIA, Primus, Santigold, Lady Gaga, White Stripes, Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Rolling Stones, Snow Patrol, U2, Gaslight Anthem, Arcade Fire, My Morning Jacket, Muse, Gutter Twins, Wolfmother, Rob Zombie, Vampire Weekend, The Strokes, Ozzy, Sleigh Bells, Prince, ZZ Top, Marilyn Manson, B.B. King,  Pink, Godsmack, The Cure, Atmosphere, Black Eyed Peas, Arctic Monkeys.

Bands I wish I could have seen:
Ramones, Queen, Johnny Cash, Joy Division, GNR, Led Zep, Patsy Kline, The Clash, The Beatles, Nirvana, Bob Marley, The Doors, Peter Tosh, The Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix. The thought that I will never see Jimi Hendrix live in concert sometimes depresses me.

I almost didn’t go to the last show we had tickets for (Modest Mouse at the Orpheum) because I felt crappy. I have endometriosis, which results in chronic pain. I’m not in pain all the time, but when I am, I’d rather be curled up on the couch at home. But I wanted to go, so, fuck it, I went. There was a great crowd, everyone on their feet, screaming, cheering, singing along to the music. I look around at the wonderful cross-section of goateed, pierced, vintage-clothes-wearing Minnesota geekdom, and think: these are my people! At first I just stand there, sort of bouncing, listening to the show. But music comes in my ears and out my hips, so pretty soon I am swaying and grooving. Tentatively. Pelvic pain and pelvic motion do not go together. But after awhile, the music just…takes me, and I stop caring. I dance. I stop feeling anything besides the music. I stop being anything besides the music.

When the music gets going the beat comes up through the floor and pounds through the air, pulsing my sternum like another heartbeat. Everyone is moving, jumping up and down or swaying in place. I feel the life coursing through me, those around me, the universe. There is no difference. How can there be? We share a heart.

My own, personal Sita: a Blog entry with music

Click on the bold underlined links for songs. Other links are more information about terms.

I recently watched Nina Paley’s gorgeous, funny, moving, and profound animated film “Sita Sings The Blues: The Greatest Breakup Story Every Told.” You can watch it for free, here, so you know what this entry is about. It’s also just a great, great, great film.

If you are uncomfortable with irreverence, critical discussion and/or interpreting the Hindu tradition in contemporary contexts, skip the movie and this post. Please. You will find both offensive.

I believe that any understanding we have of divinity is more about our personal relationship with that aspect of Spirit/archetype/whatever-you-want-to-call-it than any sort of representative truth. My relationships do not reflect on anyone else’s. And, as it so happens, many of my relationships –-with deity figures, real people, my pets, myself-- are often challenging, tumultuous and difficult. I question and worry and occasionally blame and swear (yes! I swear at the Gods! If that bothers you, stop reading now!). I can be critical and difficult to live with. It doesn't mean I love any less. 

That being said, I’ve never liked Sita.

Huh? Who’s Sita and what did she ever do to you, Saum? Sita is (in no particular order) the loyal, beautiful, abducted, rescued, mistrusted, rejected and unshakably devoted wife of Rama.

Ok. Who’s Rama? Lord Rama is one of the incarnations of the God Vishnu, and hero of the well-known and beloved Hindu epic, The Ramayana.To many Hindus, Rama is the ultimate man, the perfect warrior prince who is wise, brave, dutiful, devout and also a total shit to his wife. I know that last bit is going to upset people. It upsets me, too.

I admit it. I don’t like Rama either. At all.

Why Rama? Why why why? When you are exiled, your wife follows you into the jungle where she will likely die. When she is abducted, she tells her captor that she will end her life before she breaks her wedding vows. When you rescue her and doubt her fidelity (Ravana was, after all, quite a charismatic, powerful, and persuasive fellow) she is so hurt that she tries to commit suicide by burning herself alive. According to some accounts, you help build the pyre. She throws herself in, but passes through this trial by fire unscathed. You take her back. You return home –-yay!-- and become king. After a few months, you tell her that this whole abduction thing has been terrible for your image. She is pregnant. You have her abandoned in the forest. Yet she raises your twin sons to sing your praises.  She never speaks a word against you. Your wife would die for you, Rama! And not just in a dramatic, song-lyric kind of way. She would actually die for her love of you. And you treat her like crap.

Re-reading what I just wrote, I realize that all of that is backwards. I should be asking Sita these questions. Why, Sita? Why do you put up with it?  You wimp. Stand up for yourself.

My dislike of Sita is actually so deep that it is evolving and multi-faceted. Here are some of the high points:

1. When I was a little kid, I thought she was whiny and boring. All she really does is get abducted and rescued. For that, I preferred Princess Leia, who could at least handle a blaster.

2. As a coming-of-age girl living in India, I resented that she was held up as the feminine ideal I was supposed to, but did not-in-any-way-shape-or-form, emulate.

3. As a teenager, I was, like, whatever. Bitch.

4. As a young woman exploring adulthood, she vaguely represented why I chose to live in the United States rather than India.

5. As a Women’s Studies scholar, my contempt became tinged with pity. I began to deconstruct her as a symbol of patriarchal cultural traditions that systematically strip women of their power.

6. She made me so uncomfortable that, like other stuff I dislike, I just stopped thinking about her.

7. I read Women Who Run With The Wolves and thought, there’s got to be a better Sita story out there somewhere. I found a few, and made up more, in an attempt to obscure the original Sita I knew.

8. As an occasional lecturer on Hinduism, I hauled her out as example of conflicting messages for women’s identity in contemporary India. 

9. I watched “Sita Sings The Blues” and realized that while all of these things are true, none are complete. What I dislike about Sita is that she represents a part of myself that I am ashamed of. She is me. I am her, in all her archaic, submissive glory.

I have both been that woman, and seen that woman. You know her too: the woman who seems so strong but who loves a man so much she will go anywhere, do anything, put up with abuse, suffer his contempt, endure his rejection, and still defend him, raise his children and never let her kids hear her speak a word against their father.

We all know guys who are great people but awful to their spouses. Rama sacrifices his relationship for his career as a God-prince. And Sita is the woman who sacrifices everything for the marriage that he is throwing away. In Paley’s film, Sita sings the Blues, but it could as well be Country (Paley did the Ramayana so well, but I’d LOVE to see the Mahabharata as a Country & Western saga, with everybody in cowboy hats, preferably directed by Joss Whedon).

This isn’t just an oppressed woman/abusive man thing, you know. Men are as just as stuck when it comes to archetypes, maybe even more so than women. Who wants to be the warrior every damn day? Where do men turn for reassurance that it’s ok to give up control, that they don’t always have to be the one doing the rescuing. It must be exhausting. There are certainly many male Sita-types in the modern world, men who love beyond reason and are doubly dammed by being considered unmanly for it. At least women have lots of role models for suffering.

Some people say that Sita’s relationship with Rama --actually, all romantic stories-- are not about men and women but about our relationship with God. I don’t know if I entirely buy this. It’s certainly not any more satisfying to imagine that in addition to occasionally following indifferent and abusive men, we also follow an indifferent and abusive God (although it would explain some things).

In the end, Sita asks her Mother Earth to take her back: the ground opens and down she goes. There may be something about a return to Earth-based traditions for individual empowerment, although it’s hard to imagine that’s what the composers of the Ramayana had in mind.

Of course, sometimes it’s worthless to try and figure out what composers of religious, or any, text really had in mind. It often ends up being conjecture, influenced by our own biased attitudes and experiences, so I’ll just go directly to understanding it through my own biased attitudes and experiences.

I was raised, and still adhere to, the belief that the characters of the Gods/heroes are not (necessarily) intended to be emulated, but to  present certain aspects of humanity in order for us to learn from them. I don’t think that anyone really believes that Zeus and Hera are a good example of how to run a marriage, or that because the Pandava brothers lost their kingdom in a drunken game of dice, we ought to follow their example. Huh? Who? Sorry, that’s another story…maybe with cowboy hats.

Does creation equal endorsement? Does representing a certain way of being advocate that it is a desirable way to be? Part of what makes me so uncomfortable with Sita is the implication that there is an admirable strength in this (feminine) endurance of (male) emotional brutality. Even worse, I believe there IS strength in it. Of course there is. But it seems exploitative to fashion a heroine to exemplify this quality.

If Ezili Dantor is the patron of single mothers, Sita is the patron of mistreated wives. I’d rather there was no need for either. But there is.  Sita is considered the perfect wife. But her existence has also helped me (and presumably other women) define what I don’t want to be, or wish I wasn’t.

Any hatred is self-hatred. I’m sorry Sita. It was never about you.

I want to identify with the fashionable female archetypes: Kali, Ezili Dantor, Boudicca, Rani of Jhansi. But there’s a little –or a lot- of Sita in me. Just as I cohabitate with Erzuli Freda, a good dose of the Virgin Mary (hold the jokes, you know what I mean) and every weeping, martyred saint I can think of.

Think about what unconditional love means. I mean, really think about it. It’s a concept we elevate, but in action it is a terrible force.

The thing about Sita that blows my mind is that she is not only devoted and loving, she seems utterly free of grudges or resentment (this could just be evidence that the Ramayana was written by a man). How do we tell the difference between healthy forgiveness and being an enabler of someone else’s abuse?

There is an awesome power in not letting another person’s actions influence how we feel. No matter how crappy they are, we will not be changed, and part of who we are is loving them. But we might love someone we absolutely cannot live with. I once loved a man I couldn’t live with, and I left him. I didn’t stop loving him. He didn’t deserve my love but he had it anyway. I am ashamed that I couldn’t stop loving him. My inability to love conditionally still upsets me.

I’m also blessed (and dammed) to know crazy, epic-sized love. I am hopelessly devoted, wildly enamored and irrationally infatuated with my husband. This love, and my own romantic fantasies, make me feel needy. Part of me desperately wants to be rescued (from what, it’s unclear, but a ten-headed demon-king + numberless minions would work just fine). It embarrasses me. I’m supposed to be empowered or something.

The idea of unconditional love is terrifying. Love will fuck you up like nothing else. It can be painful and humiliating. But we learn from it…I believe we only ever learn things the hard way (although it’s very possible that’s just me). It’s easier for me to be angry than forgiving. I’d rather scream along to Rage Against The Machine than sigh with Bessie Smith. Kali is the overwhelming rage of the Goddess, while Sita is the Goddess who refuses the path of rage.

As appealing as it is some days, I can’t go blasting through life ripping people’s heads off and sticking my tongue out at everyone. (It did take me a little while to figure this out.)

But I haven’t made peace with Sita. She is part of me, and part of being human. I don’t have to be one or the other, violent/submissive, Kali/Sita…I’m striving for “assertive, but calm.” Ha. That’s why we have so many images of the divine. Because we are a collection of archetypes ourselves.

We all sing the Blues.

There is wisdom in our inner Sita: the selfless devotion of love, a refusal to let betrayal make us bitter or hateful, and the final surrender of falling back into into the source of our power. Kali draws that power up, Sita sinks down into it. Sometimes that’s what we have to do. Sometimes it’s all we can do. It doesn’t have to be the only thing we do.