The Winter Cold (or Flu)

Winter is indisputably here. If you live anywhere near the Northeastern part of the country you'll know what I mean when I say the cold has been bone-chilling for the past few weeks. I'm half Italian in heritage. This always seems to work in my favor. But as our strengths are usually also our weaknesses, my South Calabrian genetics don't get me far with the American winter. My body yearns for the temperate Mediterranean hillsides studded with olive orchards and palm trees. Maybe a view of the Ionian Sea. As fate has it, though, it's 22F and frosty.

Every year as our breath becomes visible in the air and the grass turns to tiny blades of chlorophyll-laced icicles I remember that it's time to start taking vitamins in preparation for the annual cold season. Except I don't just get the cold. I get sick. It's a futile ritual, but it makes me feel like I'm not giving in so I strive on doubling my water intake, limiting my alcohol and caffeine, getting more sleep. Then it happens. The weather runs me down and the viruses and bacteria that my body can handle in reasonable weather take over for their annual death parade on my body. High fevers, night sweats, chills, severe migraines are all among the symptoms I'm lucky enough to experience during these week-long bouts of excitement.

My siblings and I all love our mother dearly. She brought us life and nurtured us well into adulthood. Perhaps too much. She gives her all, and when we decide to do something that isn't exactly as she would do herself, she takes it personally. For reasons that are difficult to explain, but probably rather simple to understand, my siblings and I call this form of my mother The Pterodactyl. It was the Pterodactyl that came out when my mother found out that I had begun my annual dance with Old Man Winter. Apparently, I hadn't been dressing warm enough, nor had I been eating enough. Shame on me. So after a tirade of choice words, a trip to the ER, and a Flu Rx I'm well on my way to recovery. But only after a sad annual conversation between my mother and I.

Being gay has its perks. I'll give you that. There are plenty of downfalls too, but most of you that read this are with me on the inequality stuff so I'm not going to waste my breath as it doesn't relate to this post and it would be preaching to the choir. The downfall you get to hear about tonight consists of three letters and strikes fear into the hearts of millions. HIV. The stigma is with us, owing to its original false-nomer, GRID (Gay Related Immuno Disorder). Since then it's gone through a number of other wonderful nicknames, "The Gay Cancer," etc.. To the point where now I can't even cough without my mother asking me, "Could this be HIV, Adam?" Even when I was in a committed monogamous relationship of over four years, my mother was convinced that my being gay alone put me in prime cadidacy for contracting HIV. It's not that I don't already know that she doesn't intend this comment to offend or worry me, but what else could it do to a person who has been conditioned by the society that he lives in to believe that his most likely cause of death will be A) The result of a brutal hate-crime or B) The slow and inhumane wasting away that goes with dying of AIDS-related illness. Why couldn't she have asked if it was Bird flu? Needless to say, people: we need to continue to fight ignorance with education. Both in preventing the spread of HIV and in understanding that we are neither the source, nor the cause of the pandemic that affects ALL humanity. Damn the statistics. I trust few statistcs about the gay community based on the fact that nobody knows what the population size is. In short, we're in this together. Stop looking down at us... and let me recover from the flu without the added stress of worrying about the possible ways I might have contracted HIV. It doesn't help!

Hot, Steamy...

Sex.

Have any of you noticed the lengths people go to in the name of sex? Not all people, but a lot. More every day. It's frightening.

I think it all starts out pretty innocently. Sex feels good, afterall. Maybe people don't want to feel alone. I didn't. Is it that people are mistaking sex for love? Or is it that people are falling in love with sex itself -instead of the people they have sex with? It used to be seen as an act of love.

It seems like sex is more frequently being used a weapon now. Not limited to rape. For example, "Whoa, (he/she) is so hot! I'm SO gonna bang that!" Even the word bang is a word of violence. I'm not the first to make this observation. Now, though, it's becoming more difficult to ignore. People are more interested in fucking, screwing, banging... but could care less about getting to know their partner. Loving them.

Shut up, kid. Stop your emo, judgy, puritanesque bullshit. Right? I'm sure that's what some of you are thinking. My point isn't to pass judgment. Just take a moment to think about this for a while. I'm a little lost myself on this issue. Help, maybe?

Hold my hand. Walk with me. See?

The Parks Tour

Squirrels, pigeons, rats. The homeless, the athletes, the musicians. Cracked cement, dirty patches of grass, benches.



How do you know a homeless person when you see them? You really don't. You can assume based on appearance. You can assume based on the piles of clothing and other items that the homeless are known for carrying around with them. You can assume based on (lack of) cleanliness, stature, or any of a variety of other indicators. The only real way to know, though, is to ask.


Then there remains the question of what homeless means. The saying -"A home is where the heart is" comes to mind. In that case, where is my heart? My heart lives all over the place. With family, with friends, with an ex lover, with fields of study and activities I enjoy, places I love -all over the place. If I had a permanent address my heart is not likely to reside there. So how displaced does that bring me from the homeless? No, I don't sleep outside swaddled in carboard and newspapers -but I do depend on the kindness -or sympathy- of others. Whether for work, for food, or whatever else, I am not self sufficient.

But then who is? Corporate executives depend on others, so do doctors, religious leaders, politicians... everybody. They're all valued, though -whether or not they have a permenant residence. You don't ask your physician where they go home to at the end of the day. You might ask where they went to school or about their training. You never ask questions of religious leaders -they're holy... or existing outside critique in most cases. Where they live, though, does not matter.

My family and friends don't seem too concerned with where I stay. Aside from making sure I'm safe and away from physical or legal trouble, they don't worry that I don't have a home persé. They just want to know what I do, what I am contributing. Do I have health insurance (yet), am I going back to school -this is what they care about.

The only thing that separates me from the term homeless is that there are still people that think I have value. That people -friends or family- believe what I have to offer is worth keeping me around for. This is the tragedy of the people that sleep outside in the cardboard and newspapers. That out of all the people they grew up around and all the people that got to know them, none value them enough to take care of them when they cannot take care of themselves. Or equally as tragic: that some people just need way more than even the people that love them can offer them. So am I homeless?

A thousand words each:

I am lost.

The NYU students are out in full force today. Most of them just moved back to town. Classes are just starting for the semester. Washington Square Park is the perfect place for me right now. It has no connection to the things I don't enjoy remembering. It seems like everyone here is either a hipster or a tourist. I feel like I fit in. Not because I'm a hipster or a tourist, but because like them i am also running from something. Or a lot of things.

There are little birds under the bench I am sitting on. If they're waiting for crumbs they're wasting their time. I have no food. I lost my appetite when my ex dumped me. We were together for four years. It happened two Saturdays ago. We went to a club together and he met a guy. He left me for him that night. A dinner guest recently asked him why he didn't transfer to a job location closer to where we lived. He said it was a loyalty thing.

I'm staring at my bruised fingernail as I write. I slammed it in my car door a few months ago. I remember that it hurt badly but I don't remember what it felt like. The car is destroyed now. A few weeks after a tree fell on it while I was sleeping. Termites. Karma can be a bitch.

A few feet away from me a girl is playing a cover to a love song. It's the same song that close friends of mine played at their wedding. I tried to model my failed relationship after their very successful one. I called my ex babe because I liked how genuine and sweet it sounded when they said it to each other. I loved him.

I'm not a smoker, but there is a pack of cigarettes in my bag. Marlboro Lights. I bought them because they're the kind my father smokes when he doesn't know how to cope with bad news. Right now I am struggling to cope. I don't like how they taste or make me smell, but they are good at keeping me from crying. I wonder if this is why my father smokes. I don't want to remember what this feels like.

Last Minute Reflections

I carry with me a small journal. My intentions were to fill it with life-changing accounts and adventures and other unbelievable experiences from this journey. Now I'm at the last leg of my journey and barely a quarter is used. This is not to say that there have been few things to write about or that I couldn’t think of anything to put down through the course of my time through Rajasthan and Gujarat. It's that this trip has been so busy and exhausting that I couldn’t find much time to write –either in the notebook or this blog. So instead I have been using the journal as a notepad. There are addresses, phone numbers, Hindi and Gujarati phrases, recipes, pressed flowers, a peacock feather or two, some notes about things I should write about when I get the chance, interesting or funny quotes from signs I’ve encountered along the way… The list goes on. But there are no journal entries.
It has been a little over a month away from home and I’ve decided it’s time for me to go back. There is so much to experience in India and in the rest of the world but at this point in my life I need to focus on academic work so the next time I land somewhere amazing I’ll be better prepared to work for the better good. And on the selfish side of things I miss my family and loved-ones. It’s an understatement to say that I’m in over my head here. As the poetry of Kabir and verse of the Bhagavad Gita only barely scratch the surface of the beauty of this country the images from the movie, Slumdog Millionaire don’t begin to describe the hardships. It seems like everything here is done to the extreme. Opulence, squalor. Obesity, emaciation. Fragrance, stench. Words are ill equipped to convey the ways in which Indian life differs from the life I’m used to living in New York. And as I’m sitting here ready to leave for home I know that I would if given the change return in a heartbeat. I, along with my friends from the Group Study Exchange that brought me here have often wondered how it is and why any of us could be as fortunate as we are. Fortunate to be here in India, fortunate to have met so many amazing people along the way, fortunate to be able to return to the Hudson Valley once it’s all over.
The organization that sent me here, The Rotary International, perplexes me. At times it seems clear to me that every member of the organization is a living saint. Their motto is "Service above self." And so many members often seem selfless and wise beyond explanation. The Rotary engages in projects that provides clean water to communities where the water is so polluted. They set up schools where children would never otherwise learn to read. They set up free heart, and eye clinics. They work tirelessly to put an end to polio through vaccinating children free of cost. And many other projects too. But some are more interested in helping people than others. At times Rotary members seem like pseudophilanthropic missionaries of idealistic western naiveté. From what I have seen, many of them spend so much more time socializing, taking photos of each other, and spending money to pat each other on the back than they do actually performing service above self. But I have only a small picture of the grand scheme of things. Their goals are spelled out in something they call the “Four Way Test.”-Is it the truth? –Is it fair to all concerned? –Will it build good will and better friendships? and –Will it be beneficial to all concerned? are the questions they ask themselves. Many Rotarians that I’ve encountered have a hard time remembering all four. Again, though, this is by and large –a wonderful group of people. My official capacity here is to work as a cultural ambassador between nations, teach my contemporaries what I can about my line of work in the Hudson Valley, and learn from them about the same work in the cities and towns I visit. It is true that I have learned a lot and even taught some too.
I hope I have done something to promote diplomatic and cultural exchange in a war-torn world. But I would be lying if I wrote that I felt like I have gained a better understanding of the world we live in.I have had so many life-changing experiences while over here that I don’t know who I am any more. My goals in life have shifted. My perception of the world around me has been blurred. The scenes around me are often reminiscent of scenes from a Star Wars movie. Large and unusual animals everywhere, unfamiliar languages in the background, incomprehensible music on the radios, completely different perceptions of personal space… and still the people here are so much like us. There are the people that do what they can to make a living. People that worry about what others think about them. People that fear about the future. People that pray for the end to suffering. People that don’t understand why the people in other countries are so uncivilized.
Because I grew up alongside and have become close with many Indian-Americans I have allowed myself to walk into this experience thinking that I knew what I was in for. At best I was better prepared to understand some customs and I had a handle on a few key phrases that proved useful throughout the travels. I knew what food I liked and didn’t like. I could get out of sticky situations by dazzling people with my faux knowledge of Bollywood songs. I am not an expert on Indian culture, languages, history, religions, or anything. In fact, my eyes have also opened to the fact that I am not an expert in any topic. And I doubt I’ll ever be. There’s just too much to learn.
And I want to end with a happy note. A few nights ago I went to see a movie in Ahmedabad -the largest city of Gujarat. While there I lost my cell phone. A man named Hardik Pathak found my phone, and cared enough to try to call somebody to locate me and return it to me. When that didn't work -he found my email address so he could return my phone to me. Pretty awesome, eh?