Stripper Names?

Do parents really need guidance regarding what not to name their baby girls so that they don’t grow up to be strippers? Apparently, this site thinks they do. Sage advice from the site includes this gem:

“Baby Girl Names to Avoid: One of the biggest mistakes parents make when naming a baby girl is giving her a name that points her toward the pole. Avoid using car names. Mercedes isn’t classy, it just sounds like someone trying to sound classy. Mercedes is, however, and excellent name for a stripper. Be careful naming your baby girl after some characteristics like Chastity. When you name your girl Chastity you are only making her a target and a challenge to dozens of high school boys in the future. “

Reading this, I feel like I’m listening to a spin-off of Chris Rock’s HBO comedy special, which was hilarious. But he was making jokes. This appears to be serious. Strippers do not become strippers because of their names. It’s not an accident. There are causes like abuse, exploitation, parental neglect, poverty, low self esteem, and a lack of other options. There is something really wrong about stumbling across cautionary information about strippers while innocently searching for a baby name.

Also, who made this site an expert on stripper names? And how sick is the world if naming a girl “Chastity” makes her a target for dozens of high school boys? If parents taught their sons to respect women, then women would not have to worry about whether they might one day be perceived as sexual targets, regardless of their dress, past sexual practices, current sexual practices, or their name.

No Grazing

While having coffee after church today, I met a fascinating woman who does work with women’s and children’s health in South Africa. She’s Swedish and moved to South Africa because she married a South African. Her work in Capetown started off focusing on children’s health, but lead her to women’s health – because unless the mothers are healthy it’s unlikely that the children are. Interestingly, she said that working on women’s health leads inevitably to programs to increase the economic self-sufficiency of women.

The starkest example is the AIDs crisis in Africa. One of the highest risk factors for women in Africa is whether they are married. Married women are at an extraordinary risk of contracting HIV because their husbands are using prostitutes or sleeping with other women outside of the marriage and then bringing back sexually transmitted diseases to their wives (and children). Where women are not economically self-sufficient – which is most places in the world – they are trapped. They’re dependent on their husbands and feel that they have to stay, even if there’s abuse or adultery.

While I was in Cambodia, I saw the same thing. Women from different social classes are separated from one another. The men move between the different classes of women, sleeping with one class outside of marriage, and the other inside of marriage, and passing diseases between them. It’s incredible that prostitutes continue to be blamed for the spread of diseases, because it’s not them that are spreading it to the wives of the men who buy them. Prostitutes, like wives (and of course they’re often both), have limited power over the men that they sleep with. Often times, for example, they are not in a position to insist that a client wears a condom.

Apparently the only country in Africa which has seen a drop in the rate of HIV transmission is Uganda (hopefully Pas, who has done work there, will chime in). My new friend told me that this was because Uganda started a massive public health campaign aimed at curbing concurrent sexual relationships – something which my friend said was more common in Africa than the West (in the West you have lots of sexual partners but their more often one after another, instead of all at the same time). The issue with having multiple concurrent sexual relationships is that if one person in that chain contracts HIV, suddenly you have 4, or 6, or 10 others who contract it almost at the same time. It makes sense that it would spread rapidly under those conditions.

I honestly don’t know if this is true, and if you’re interested this theory is discussed in depth in a new book called The Invisible Cure, which I plan to get. The slogan of the Ugandan campaign was “No Grazing,” as in, if you’re eating one dish, don’t nibble from others. It was successful because it resonated with both the health workers in Uganda and the population at large.

It’s just so shocking that becoming a wife could be the most dangerous thing you could do in terms of your health. But on the other hand, it’s not at all surprising that becoming a wife in an unequal partnership could be risky. I think it was Abigail Adams who said that all men would be tyrants if they could. Women have to come together and support one another in becoming economically independent. As the AIDs epidemic demonstrates, women’s rights are quite literally a life or death matter.

Rape Conviction Leaves Polygamy Unchallenged

The polygamist Warren S. Jeffs, a prophet for fundamentalist Mormons, was convicted of being an accomplice to the rape of a 14-year old girl for “orchestrating the marriage of the young girl under duress” back in 2001. The victim testified that she had been forced into a “celestial marriage” (plural marriage) that she did not want, to a cousin that she did not like. Prosecutors argued that Jeffs knew that the forced marriage would lead to “nonconsensual sex,” i.e. rape, and the jury agreed.

What’s most interesting to me about this case is that it was not about polygamy. Instead of charging Jeffs with polygamy per se, prosecutors went after Jeffs for statutory rape. The conviction is unquestionably positive with respect to its definition of rape. Though the article mentions no allegations of physical force, the jury still found that a rape had occurred based on a lack of consent and/or sex that occurred under duress. Of course, we’re dealing with the rape of a minor, and the whole premise of statutory rape assumes a lack of consent on behalf of the minor, so perhaps I’m being too optimistic in terms of applauding the jury for their progressive definition of rape. Not knowing the applicable state law, I don’t know whether an adult woman would have received the same level of justice had she been forced into non-consensual sex, i.e. rape.

That’s one of the most fascinating aspects of rape law: Young women under a certain age are presumed not to consent – in fact, they are legally not allowed to consent – while women over a certain age are presumed to always consent, unless proven otherwise. If your below a certain age, the assumption is that you kept your legs closed; if your over a certain age, the assumption is that you willingly opened them. That’s why so much of rape law – which continues to be quite antiquated – focuses on the issue of force. Instead of assuming that it’s rape unless there is affirmative evidence of consent, our legal system assumes that it was consensual sex unless there was evidence of force. (Not all states, but many continue to have this assumption at the core of their rape law).

The problem with that is that sex continues to happen in our society in the context of inequality, and the reality of sex for many girls and women is not always, or even usually, an experience of equality. Set against the backdrop of inequality – gender, economic, age etc. – it’s ridiculous for our legal system to assume consent when sex happens. At least in the case of minors – who are protected by statutory rape but also denied the ability to consent by that same law – our legal system approaches sex from a more realistic perspective that recognizes at least some of the power issues involved.

The conviction of Jeffs is a victory for the victim and a general victory for women’s rights advocates. However, I’m disturbed that Jeffs was not also convicted under the anti-polygamy laws for polygamy. Although there are enclaves of fundamentalist Mormons spread out through the country flagrantly practicing polygamy and its attendant forced, child marriages against the law, the authorities consistently fail to take a stand against polygamy. Instead, the enclaves are allowed to exist relatively unmolested, despite the molestation and abuse that – by many accounts – goes on within those communities.

In America, we don’t have to look to Saudi Arabia or Afghanistan to find examples of female oppression. It’s right here in our own country and appears in many different forms, one of the most blatant examples of which are the fundamentalist Mormon enclaves led by men like Jeffs. In convicting him as an accomplice to statutory rape, our society has taken a step towards protecting the rights of children growing up within those enclaves. However, his conviction for rape leaves the broader issue of polygamy and its implications for the rights of women (in a patriarchal society) unexamined and unchallenged, and offers no clear protection for adult women within those enclaves. To offer protection to all women within those communities, in addition to enforcing the law of statutory rape, the authorities would also need to enforce the laws against polygamy, something which they have thus far been reluctant to do.

Issues Galore

BC: Hi, My name is Buttercup and this is not a cry for help.

Peanut Gallery: Hi Buttercup!

BC: Today, I went to an after-work cocktail event and I had two glasses of wine and lots of green jelly beans (they were free and lying around everywhere). Immediately after downing my second glass of wine, I jumped into a cab and headed uptown for therapy.

Peanut Gallery: Ohhh…

BC: I was buzzed which was bad enough, but what was even worse was that at the event I had played a game and won a huge bottle of organic vodka. It was organic! So, not only did I show up at therapy buzzed, but I was also carrying a large bottle of vodka with me. My therapist asked whether it was a cry for help.

Peanut Gallery: Was it?

BC: No! I told Therapist that of course it wasn’t a cry for help; my issue is food, not alcohol. Duh. But, then a few minutes later I started to cry and Therapist asked me whether I was going to remember our discussion tomorrow. I reminded her that I had only had two glasses of wine and told her that I was way less inebriated than she seemed to think I was. The problem is that in those situations any attempts at denial just make you look worse.

Peanut Gallery: *collectively nodding sagely*

BC: Therapist tried to get me back on track by asking me what had been kicked up for me related to food during the past few weeks that had made me start rebelling. I summoned all my powers of focus and tried to think of all the things I had been thinking I should tell Therapist during the last few days. I ended up telling therapist that I felt sad and like I had no one in the universe who was there for just me. *glaring at Peanut Gallery*

Peanut Gallery: What? Continue.

BC: I told Therapist, after warning her several times that I was about to tell her the most corny thing she had ever heard, about a story I had read somewhere – perhaps some Buddhist script or possibly some random piece of internet trash – that explains the struggle of human existence like this: Each soul is born with half of a heart and spends their life longing for and seeking their other half. I said -

Peanut Gallery: Yes?

BC: I said that sometimes that theory on human existence, suffering, and love made sense to me. Sometimes, I feel like I’m missing something. Sometimes, I feel more powerfully than other times that I would like someone to be there just for me, and I would like to be that someone for someone else.

Peanut Gallery: Um hmm…

BC: We talked some more about dating, and food issues, and how at the moment – possibly exacerbated by the fact that alcohol is a depressant – I felt sad and wanted to binge on chocolate. Therapist suggested that perhaps I could weigh whether the value I would get from binging was worth it to me. She also suggested that I consider calling someone I love as I had just talked about the importance of connecting with those I care about, and how relationships are the most important things in life.

Peanut Gallery: And?

BC: So, I muttered that I would think about it, gathered my resolve, felt ridiculous for contemplating a drunken binge immediately after therapy, left the building cradling my enormous bottle of vodka, and called Bean. We talked for 40 minutes, and it was good and we laughed a lot, and then my phone died. Then, I had some frozen grapes which made my teeth hurt. But, I didn’t have chocolate because I didn’t need it because Bean had made me feel better.

Peanut Gallery: Good work.

BC: Eh.

Skater Chick

When asked when it was that I first met her, I couldn’t say at first. I couldn’t think of a time when she hadn’t been present in my life, but I couldn’t remember when she had first entered it. I don’t really remember her in elementary school, but I’m sure she was there, somewhere lurking, perhaps waiting to pull me outside to play. Or maybe not? I was a relatively serious kid, mature for my age, and very focused. I didn’t really have space in between school, after-school activities, baby-sitting, and hanging out with my friends for a punk, teen-aged skater-chick with short spiky hair and baggy pants who just wanted to have fun, chill out and relax. She would have been very different from the girl I was back then.

My earliest memories of her are from middle school. I spent lazy afternoons watching soaps, making meringues, and devouring books one after the next, when I should have been working on papers, reading “assigned” books, or studying for tests. I did things last minute, and I did them well, and she helped me.

It was her idea to stand out in the snow in bare feet early in the morning to get a chill, so that I would have an excuse to stay home from school for just a few extra hours on the days that papers were due. She convinced me that I didn’t need to start writing until midnight, and she was proved right when I got one good grade after the next after staying up all night. She brought me packs of spearmint trident gum, smarties, neccos, M&Ms, diet cokes, pizza, coffee, and anything else I needed to stay motivated; anything else I needed to make the final push – the only push – bearable. She made cramming fun, and I did well at the cramming, so the system worked.

Through middle school, high school, and college, she was an unquestionable ally. Infrequently seen amidst my schedule of studying, waiting tables, and (in college) partying, she pulled me away from my work when I needed her to. She was resourceful, imaginative, and very persuasive, and she came up with amazingly creative ways to buy me more time to do the things she and I both wanted to do.

The relationship worked so well for so many years. I was grounded, focused and (felt) very much in control (of everything). Giving in to her whims was something I could easily afford. Sometimes, following her lead brought me temporary moments of stress, but I worked well under pressure, always got everything done, always did well, and with her also had time to experience life and have fun. It seemed like a perfect, balanced match, and for the longest time I never questioned it. She was just a part of my experience, someone who forced me to carve out space to enjoy life when I was least able to do that.

If I’m completely honest, I think the relationship worked as well as it did because she had less influence back then. She was a constant presence, an always willing partner in crime. But, back then I wasn’t all that into rebelling against what was expected of me, because I expected it of myself. I was my own worst task master. Back then, she provided a welcome respite. She was the bad influence that was good for me, because I was so focused and in control that the risk of me falling prey to any influence, bad or good, in more than a passing fashion was such a remote possibility.

Back then, I felt so in control that the idea of being “out of control” never crossed my mind. Granted, that was before I turned 30, before ice cream started stick to my body, before a series of relationships self-combusted, before two dream jobs turned nightmarish, before I had really loved, and before I had lost anything precious to me. It was before I grew up and realized how much of life is completely out of my control.

I had goals, dreams, an unswerving belief in myself and the future, insulating walls around my heart and body, and a clear path that I followed unerringly. I was disciplined, diligent, and wholly determined to succeed. It would have taken far more then one teen-aged skater chick to lead me astray. At 12 and 18, I was so much more together than her.

Now, not so much.

I Rock!

Starrlight just honored me with a Rockin’ Girl Blogger Award! Wow! I’m truly honored. When I started this blog, I did it mainly to provide a creative outlet for myself. I was also motivated by a subversive desire to throw a little more feminist pixie dust out into the ether. If anyone had asked me at that time how I wanted my non-existent readers to view me, even if I wouldn’t have said it out loud, and even though I didn’t necessarily believe it totally of myself at the time, secretly, on the inside, I would have wished that at least a few of them would think that I rock. Apparently, my wish came true. Thanks Starrlight!!

There are many Girl Bloggers that I read who unquestionably also deserve this award. Allow me to pass the Rockin’ Girl Blogger Award along to five of my all-time faves. The following Girl Bloggers are fierce, funny, compassionate, witty, inspiring, supportive, introspective, wise, whimsical, sassy women, and they all totally ROCK:

1) Wood: I love this girl like a sister. She’s been there for me during the last 6 1/2 years in ways that I could never repay, mainly because she’s so freakin’ strong, put together, and balanced that she hardly ever needs any support from me. She’s a wonderful mom, and a loving and supportive partner to her husband Dutch, who works outside of the home, and, among other things, teaches gymnastics in her spare time. Basically, she is Superwoman. Thank god she’s on my side.

2) Gypsy: This sultry, fire-cracker recently opened up a restaurant with her love, Lancelot, and has been working her fingers to the bone, in between other activities, to make the place a success. She also has the honor of being the person who gave me the metaphor that I needed in order to make the decision to leave my heinous Old Firm for my lovely new one. Gypsy, who knew that a 5 story building could be oh so much better than a 10 story one?

3) Wordnerd: I’m grateful for the many occasions on which she has shared her deep, compassionate, penetrating insight with me. She once asked me, after I had written a post about why I hated Old Firm, why my sense of personal self-worth was tied to my success or failure at Old Firm. That’s the type of penetrating question that will make a girl think, and it did.

4) Starshine: My first official “blog buddy,” Starshine is one of the warmest, kindest, most bubbly individuals that I have ever met. She’s going to be married in less than two weeks to an absolutely wonderful man that I’ve also had the pleasure of meeting. I’m so excited for both of them and I wish them a lifetime of love, health, and happiness.

5) Interstellar Lass: Lass is also someone I put on the “super woman” list. She’s the mother of two incredibly active children, she works outside of the home, and she and her husband just decided to to take in her Dad to live with them. That is such a generous, beautiful, and right thing to do, and I applaud her for taking care of her Dad like that.

Congrats Ladies! You all rock!

A Feminist, Not A Man-Hater

I did this little blogthing that I found on Sparky’s blog and was at first amused by the unsurprising results. I’m a woman and I believe in equality. Of course I’m a feminist! Frankly, I was shocked I was only 98% feminist. I even voted in favor of women picking up checks on dates on occasion, but I picked “agree” instead of “strongly agree,” so that may have been where I lost those two percentage points. No matter. I know that I’m 100% feminist.

Then I read the text under the picture of the woman with the boxing gloves, where she explained that even though I was a feminist I was not necessarily a man hater. She helpfully pointed out that I might even be a man, even though I was a feminist. Was that really necessary?

Do we really still have so far to go that a Blogthing has to remind people who might be identified as feminists that feminism does not mean that you hate men? We still have so far to go that we have to explain that feminism does NOT equal man-hater? Every woman alive has or had a father. Many of them also have brothers, sons, uncles, nephews, and male lovers. Of course being a feminist does not mean that you are a man hater – that would be hating a part of who you are. That is just plain silly. If there’s a critical mass of people who are still operating under the delusion that feminists are bra-burning, man haters, we are a long way off from the cultural gender revolution that we have to have if we are ever going to attain true gender equality.

I was in a better mood, but that just made me grumpy all over again. People, you can be a feminist, appreciate the history of women and the reality of women’s historically, socially, politically, and economically oppressed status, and believe that there should be change such that women and men attain a level of actual equality without hating men.

The trick is that we need more men to become feminists. Whether they identify as feminists or not, we need men to stand up with us, not for us but for themselves, and to demand change. If women and men continue to identify seeking equality with hating men, we’re never going to get there.

Usually when I meet men, at some point they generally end up asking me if I’m a feminist. I don’t know what it is. I’ve taken to responding, “Yes, aren’t you?” Usually, they guffaw, chuckle, or look bemused. Unless they’re completely intimidated, they usually become more interested. The bad, though tempting, ones because they see a challenge and something they think would be fun to tame. The cool ones because they’re either already aware or intrigued or both. Either way, it works to a woman’s advantage. Strong, sassy, and independent (i.e feminist) usually does.

Start spreading the word: Feminism means equality, not man-hater, and it’s HOT.

You Are 98% Feminist

You are a total feminist. This doesn’t mean you’re a man hater (in fact, you may be a man). You just think that men and women should be treated equally. It’s a simple idea but somehow complicated for the world to put into action.

Are You a Feminist?

Neina’s Story

The shelter is a narrow two-story, cement building on a crowded street in the middle of one of Kolkata’s red light districts, Khidderpore. The dirt road in front of it is littered with crumpled water bottles, the rotted remains of food, and other garbage. A river of brown water snakes through the dust, pooling in stagnant, foul-smelling puddles on the edge of the road. Men lounge along the sides of buildings dressed in lungis, some of them soiled, while groups of young women stand in the shade, decked out in brightly colored saris. The women on average look to be between the ages of 13 and 20, while the men range in age from young children to old men in their 50s or 60s.

I follow my new friend, a woman who has been doing community outreach to women in the red light district for the past three years, down a narrow alley to the door of the shelter. It’s covered with a steel grate and pad locked for good measure. My friend explains that the area is very dangerous, both for the young girls living in the shelter and for the community workers. Threats from pimps and brothel owners against her and her organization are common, but they don’t dissuade her from her work. She calls up through the grate to another woman, the field worker who resides in the shelter and cares for the young women staying there. I hear delighted cries from up above and the sound of footsteps tripping down the stairs. The women of the shelter are happy that my friend has come to visit.

Upstairs, I enter a small room, dimly lit by the sunlight filtering through the half-covered, and also barred, windows. A ceiling fan turns lazily in the heat, sending a gentle breeze through the room. The room is furnished simply with a woven carpet that covers about half of the floor space. A pile of cooking pots is set up in a corner, the preparations of the midday meal well underway.

On the carpet sits the young girl my friend has come to visit, a girl recently rescued from a brothel in Bihar, India. She’s coloring in a coloring book. Colored pencils and crayons are spread out around her. She’s coloring a picture of a family with a mom, dad, and two children. She’s made the faces neon yellow, and has stayed within the lines of the picture. She’s slight of build with very thin arms and legs, and looks to be abut the age of 12. Her skin is light brown and smooth, her eyes large and beautiful. Two of her front teeth are broken. When we enter the room, she greets us with a huge smile and a barrage of questions about the new “Auntie,” me, who has come to visit. She tells me her name is Neina*, and insists that food should be brought for me even though I tell her several times that I’m not hungry or thirsty. Her smile is infectious, she’s bubbling with happy energy, and she won’t take no for an answer regarding her offer of food. The woman in the shelter obliges her requests, and plates of white rice, egg curry, and dahl are brought for my friend and me.

As my friend and I enjoy our meal, using our fingers to shape the rice into bite-sized balls, the young girl continues a steady stream of animated chatter with my friend. She wants to know where I’m from, whether I’m married, and if I have any sisters and brothers. She’s worried the food will be too spicy for me but I assure her that it’s delicious. She says repeatedly that I’m beautiful and I tell her that she’s the one who is beautiful. Our exchanges are in bits of broken English and Hindi translated by my friend, and peppered with frequent smiles. Naina tells my friend that the other girls staying in the shelter have been talking to some of the neighborhood boys on the phone. She’s concerned because she knows what the boys of the red light district can do. She has seen it and she has experienced it first hand. The other girls living in the shelter have also grown up in a red light district, but as Neina explains, they have not yet been forced into prostitution so they do not fully understand the risks. She’s tattling on the girls, and my friend says she will place more limits on the phone. My friend says to me, “In addition to everything else, we also have to struggle with these things – the behaviors and needs of teenagers – like parents.”

After we’ve finished our food and talked with Neina for a little while longer, we take our leave. Neina is dissapointed to see us go, but says it’s ok. She knows that she will see my friend again soon. She follows us down the steps and says to me in English, “Thank you Auntie for come.” I look back and catch a glimpse of her radiant smile through the bars shutting behind us and say in Hindi, “Shukriya,” one word of thanks for her hospitality and warmth.

In the taxi ride away from the shelter to my hotel, I hear from my friend the details of Neina’s life. Her mother was kidnapped and sold to a brothel at the age of 9, where she worked as a domestic servant for several years. At the age of 12, Neina’s mother was forcibly raped by a client who had bought the right to do so. Subsequently, she was forced to have sex with men every day. When she was 15 or 16, she gave birth do Neina. The brothel owners separated mother from daughter, fearing that the mother would make trouble for them and speak up on her daughter’s behalf, if she was allowed to stay close to her daughter. Over the course of the next 10 years, Neina’s mother was repeatedly tortured and raped while forced to prostitute herself. Finally, no longer being able to stand the torture, and having learned of my friend’s organization’s efforts to reach out to the women of the red light district, she escaped from the brothel and sought the help of my friend’s organization. It took her almost a year to be rehabilitated, so deep were the effects of the trauma that she had been forced to endure. Eventually, she began working for my friend’s organization, advocating for the rights of women in the red light district.

Once she had freed herself, she asked my friend’s organization if rescue could be arranged for her daughter, Neina. She begged the organization to get Neina out. She said that she did not want Neina to suffer as she had, and said that she would not feel like a mother until she had saved her daughter. It took months of planning to arrange the rescue, most of which was spent convincing the police to assist in the raid. Corruption is a huge problem; brothel owners and pimps pay a lot of money to the police so that they will not interfere in the red light district. The organization pressured the police by bringing the mother before them and forcing them to hear her story, and involving the media to raise awareness about Neina’s plight. On the day of the raid, members of the police and my friend’s organization, along with a cameraman to document the raid, entered the brothel.

Inside the brothel, they found Neina just where her mother had told them she would be, in a small dark room in the back of the brothel. Two other young girls were in the room with her. Neina’s mother pointed her out, but Neina, afraid of the brothel owners refused to recognize her mother. She appeared to be in a state of shock, she was withdrawn, fearful, and did not speak. When tested by medical staff later on, it was found that all three of the girls had traces of drugs in their systems. It wasn’t until a week later, once Neina began to realize that she was safe and that the brothel owners would not be able to get to her, that she started speaking, recognized her mother, and admitted that she had been forced to work as a prostitute for the past year.

Neina told her rescuers that while growing up in the brothel, she and other young girls had been forced to watch the brothel owners and pimps brutally beat prostitutes who had refused to have sex. That was how the brothel owners trained the young girls to accept their fate to become prostitutes, by making them understand what the consequences would be if they refused. Neina said that the brothel owners would beat the prostitutes with bamboo rods and steel pipes all over their body. The would beat the women’s vaginas until their vaginas bled.

When Neina was 12, the brothel owners drugged her and gave her to a man in his 50s who raped her. Neina struggled and cried out, but she could do nothing to stop it. She felt helpless. During the next year, brothel owners, pimps, and men repeatedly raped and beat her. Neina considered killing herself, but then thought why should she kill herself when she knew that it was not her who had done something wrong. Neina was rescued two months ago, at the age of 14. She was malnourished, sick with tuberculosis, and drugged, and had to spend almost two months in a hospital in order to heal. My friend picked Neina up from the hospital and brought her to the shelter only two days before I first met Neina.

After Neina’s rescue the brothel owners filed a court case demanding her return. One of them alleges that Neina is his daughter and that she has been stolen from him. My friend’ organization suspects that large sums of money have been given to the police and the judge involved in the case to persuade them to return Neina to the brothel. My friend’s organization is currently battling the brothel owners in court. On their side they have the testimony of Neina and her mother, and the video footage of the raid. My friend believes they have a strong case and says allowing Neina to be forced to go back to the brothel is not an option. Instead, they are going to keep Neina safe, provide her with medical treatment, education, and some life and skills training so that she will be able to earn a livelihood outside of the walls of the brothel.

* Name changed to protect her identity.

Impressions of Kolkata

I’m sitting in a tiny booth with four computers and a small fan, just 20 feet away from Park Road in Kolkata, India. I’m so relieved to be off of the street, away from the incessant honking, smells, dust, putrefying piles of garbage, constant stares, and the frequent heart-wrenching begging. Kolkata is nothing if not intense. I’ve been here for 2 1/2 days and it’s been a constant assault on all of my senses. Frequently, I find myself walking down the street, silently thinking to myself, “Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap…” It’s not fear, it’s that it doesn’t stop. All the time, every where I look, there’s something I’ve never seen before, and it’s overwhelming. Neither good nor bad, just overwhelming.

Then there’s also the squalor. The buildings are scared by black stains, many of them covered by layers of dirt, dust and grime that look like they’ve been building up for the last 1,000 years. The streets are lined with gutters, filled with brown, toxic-looking liquid (much of it probably pee) and choked with debris, garbage, and human feces. I’ve been wearing flip flops, but I’m very careful where I step. There’s no where to sit except amidst the dust and the crowds of people. In comparison, New York is a pristine oasis of neatly organized calm. After wandering around the streets of Kolkata, I have a new found appreciating for the glass-covered, urban jungle, and I think I might just have to go kiss the ground in Central Park – in desparate gratitude for its existence – upon my return.

I arrived in Kolkata after a 14 hour flight from JFK to Mumbai (Bombay), a six hour layover (from 12:00 to 6:00 am Mumbai time) in Mumbai Airport, and a two hour flight to Kolkata. From Kolkata airport I took a taxi to the organization for whom I will be volunteering through the end of next week. The cabs here are kind of awesome. They’re bright yellow cars in the style of 1920s Rolls Royce’s and they’re everywhere. There are also tuk-tuks, but I’ve stuck to the more reliable, quicker, cabs so far.

The people I’ll be volunteering with are amazing. From the moment I met them, they greeted me with warmth, excitement, and genuine pleasure to have me here. The organization itself is focused upon stopping another generation of young girls from entering prostitution. To that end, they have reached out to adolescent girls living in the red light districts of Kolkata and in a few other areas in India, and have provided them alternative housing in shelters, education, health care, and skills training – all aimed to give them a viable alternative, other than prostitution, for supporting themselves. Because their mothers are prostitutes, and because they themselves have grown up in the red light districts, they are a high risk group in terms of the likelihood that they will be pressured into prostitution.

A word on the red light districts. Never have I seen such intense poverty. People are living on top of each other, crowded into decaying stone buildings or under lean-tos, with only ragged cloth as a roof covering or door. There’s garbage everywhere, as there is in most of the places I’ve seen so far in Kolkata. Some houses seem to literally rise up out of the garbage, almost as if they are part of the garbage heap upon which they are situated. The girls who live in the red light districts are stigmatized and treated with disdain. Some go to school, but other girls who are not from the red light district are told not to speak with them because they are “bad girls.” I’m talking not about the prostitutes, but their children.

I learned a little about some of the children’s lives when I met 5 teenage girls yesterday at a shelter, ranging in age from 13-16. They were amazing! Smart, funny, open, and bubbling with questions for me. The girls reside in a shelter run by the organization I’m volunteering with. All of the girls said their mothers support them living outside of the red light district; they don’t want their daughters forced into prostitution, they want them to have a different life. During our conversation (in Bengali and Hindi but translated into English for my benefit), the subject turned to violence against women. When I asked whether they had seen violence in their community they described in vivid detail the death of a woman who had been burned a live by her John just a few days earlier. The girls said “husband,” because in the red light district that is how the Johns are referred to. It’s less shameful then admitting that your mom is a prostitute.

Apparently, her John became angry with her and, after dousing her with alcohol, set her and her sari on fire. Just before dying, she lunged at her attacker, saying that if she died he would go on to do this to other women and that he should die to. She hugged her John and they both ended up being burned alive. The five girls had seen the whole altercation happen inside the cramped quarters where their mothers live. I can’t imagine growing up in that reality. I was stunned and inspired by their resilience. They’ve grown up with abuse and unspeakable horror, such as seeing people burned alive before them, yet they could animatedly discuss their love of dancing, talking to new people, carpentry, and their hopes for their future. One girl wants to be a math teacher, another wants to be a doctor. It’s overwhelming to me how many girls there are just like them who deserve so much better than the reality that they were born into.

Speaking of injustice and clashes between worlds, out of necessity, I walk past mothers with children, children alone, the elderly, and the crippled, staring fixedly ahead, ignoring their pleas for money or food. A fellow traveler that I met my first night here, Sarah from Scotland, told me how guilty she feels when she does the same thing and refuses the pleas for help. Having just arrived, I waxed philosophical, and said I didn’t feel guilty because supporting begging runs the risk of supporting the trafficking of persons for begging, and suggested that a better route would be donating to a local organization. Ha! That was after only 3 hours in the city.

Two days and many, many poor souls later, of course I feel guilty. I’m sickened by the poverty, not by the people who are poor, and not by their way of life, but by the fact that they have so little. In comparison, I have so much. I come from a world so different, and so filled with privileges it’s incomprehensible. Walking on the garbage covered side walk, navigating between skeletal bodies huddled against the sides of the path, many of them without even a piece of cloth to cover them, I feel sick to my stomach at the injustice. But, what can I do? Giving out rupees would accomplish two things: First, it would get me mobbed, and second, it would in fact support the trafficking of people for begging – a practice which results in, among other things, the forced maiming of children for sympathy points. As I don’t want either, I’m holding on to my rupees, but, yes, I feel guilty, but mostly I just feel sad. I feel sad that I have so much where they have so little, and guilty for giving them nothing. It feels cruel to walk past them without even a glance. I try to be firm and gentle, and to treat each person I encounter with dignity and respect. But, it’s not enough. People should not be living like this. It’s horribly sad.

Another School Shooting

I just saw this horrific news. A gunman shot 22 people to death at Virginia Tech this morning. It’s the deadliest school shooting to have happened in the United States. I am deeply saddened on behalf of the students and others killed and their families.

This is not the Revolutionary War and we do not need standing militias to defend ourselves against the English. How many people have to die before we get rid of the guns?