I'm done with vacation. Apparently. I'm still staying at my friend's mansion a hop, a skip, and a jump away from one of my new favourite people, the weather is beautiful, and I am so happy.
Everybody still tells me I'm fat, but I ain't even mad – jiggly thighs are a well-known side-effect of ice cream and joy, and even my philandering crush can't get me down.
The main reason I'm so happy is due to my new favourite person (comes with PhD Barbie; family sold separately) whom I'm unexpectedly territorial about.
These are my people! So what if they make everyone feel welcome and loved and fed and fat and happy?! They're mine, d'y'hear?
I don't give my loyalty easily-- Okay, yes, I do. All it takes is a bit of honesty, some humour, and the willingness to discuss points of contention (and make me feel like I'm winning) – these are all I ask. The chance to share a meal and wash dishes is a bonus, but this with-ness is so very special to me. I wouldn't actually say this to this person, obviously, and I'm hoping this post mainly slips under the radar, but if I didn't let my Feelings out somewhere, I'd probably barf rainbows.
First, let me describe this person through my usually narrow-eyed, wary gaze – then I'll explain why he is different.
He seems nicey-nicey. My problem with nicey-nicey people is that they are usually stupid. Perhaps they choose naivete as a balm to the agonies of this world... but it's stupid. People usually know you're lying, and if you're not – you'll burn out because a lot of things in this world suck. However, his facade covers a clinical preoccupation with the bottom line, the meaning behind the action, the fine-tuning of processes that will lead to a better, if not the best, outcome.
He thanks and apologises to people a lot (and I say this as a Canadian). I once complimented his ability to flip an omelette, and he thanked me for the affirmation. I walked away feeling pretty fantastic until I got to dining room and squinted back towards the kitchen, wondering whether I could flick water at him and pretend it was an accident.
He compliments everything. And everyone. All the time. His wife, his daughters, his sons-in-law, the families of his sons-in-law, my teammates, my coordinators, murderers, drunkards – if he catches a glimpse of them, even from a distance, he has something nice to say about them. Then he actually hangs out with them and I'm subjected to hours of sonnets describing their walk in beauty, like the the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies... And one look at his earnest, bespectacled face tells you that he really means it. It's not inane; it's a palpable belief that creations of God are lovely and that he, personally, needs them (he doesn't – he does everything and then finds ways to automate all those tasks with renewable energy). In baggy jeans, a t-shirt, and a glorious farmer's tan, he walks with people wherever they're going, even if it's to a bar. Case in point, he accompanied me to a New Year's Eve party which was way past his bedtime, and slightly awkwardly (just sayin') introduced me to a Canadian MSF doctor in the hope that I would soon twerk my way into wedded bliss. I took my revenge in the form of a stir fry and/or breaded eggplant that... spectacularly aided his strict weight-loss regimen.
I haven't spent enough time with his wife, nor any time with his daughters, previous co-workers, or congregations to really know his flaws - but there was this one terrifying night he was livid after a run-in with some policemen and apparently ate a lot of ice cream in blind wroth. He apologised profusely for this heinous behaviour later (too late to repair our relationship, some might say); I thought of my own dear father and found it in my heart to forgive him. I recently defined mansplaining for him; he now loves self-identifying it. Of course, I call it explaining because I often do things wrongly and enjoy learning new options, but I think he gets a kick out of pretending he's not a flaming feminist. He tries to be cheap and conservative and fails miserably (most of the time – he once returned a second-hand shirt with holes in it, but I think he might have felt obligated to pacify my cheap heart). He also admitted (apologetically) that I left the tap running one night in his kitchen, causing him to slip and fall when he discovered the spillover in the morning. I felt so terrible that I laughed hysterically at his description and tried to do it again the next night.
You look at this description and you think that's great – he sounds like a pretty great person.
Great.
But without context, he's just a regular guy who does nice things and loves his family – not really anything to write the internet about.
Let me contrast this with my experience of a man's temperament and expectations. This should hold true for any patriarchal society, but some of it is my own perception as an Indian woman and some of it has been clearly articulated by a few Indian and/or African men.
Objects and people are targets for men – broken pieces of words, plates, hearts, can be pushed aside, smacked down, and cleaned up without any expectation of retaliation – not even eye contact, not even a murmur, nothing. Apologies, repentance, thanks – these are pipe dreams; the idea of acknowledgement of his wife's sadness, anger, or frustration is patently unnecessary.
If a man helps his wife, she will be lazy and expect him to be a slave for the rest of their lives together. The line has to be drawn early in the marriage, or misery will follow – this is biblical.
Women here don't love men with their whole hearts; they're looking for money. If he provides the money; she should provide service. What more does she want?
If he helps his wife around the house, he loses his self-esteem and her respect, which are both correlated with his distance from the kitchen.
A woman can work! In fact, she should work! And then she should come home and work more! Because that's play! Or her responsibility - whichever.
If a woman dresses a certain way or is alone at night, she gets what she deserves [from men]. Self-respecting women should know better and well-raised women do.
If he thanks or appreciates his wife or daughters – especially in front of others – his authority and power are in question. Isn't that what is expected of her as a wife or a daughter?
This whole worldview is built on scarcity – of respect, of authority, of love. As though people thrive when battling for measures of significance, security, and acceptance from their friends and strangers alike. As though care is something to be earned, power is something to be guarded at all costs, and loyalty must be ensured with with an iron fist.
If there's one thing I've learned from my favourite person's way of life, it's that blessings are a thousand-fold, while curses are to the third and fourth generation; it naturally makes sense for him to concentrate his energy on pouring out blessings instead of holding fast to his words and actions for fear of losing control. I have learned this lesson too in the past; I know that my offerings can only feed a multitude if I offer them freely to my Saviour. And yet the fear remains: if I give up what I have, what will I have left? Will it be enough?
Respect is what I am owed; money is what I have earned; authority is what I deserve. If I freely give up all these things, how can I possibly be filled? I've heard of a systematic spirit of poverty that affects everything from a need to have your car sparkling clean to having servants to ensure this, but I'd never really personalised it until today. I'd been absorbing it in fits and starts, coming to terms with the fact that while discipline and laws are biblical, they are not to be used to keep people out of the kingdom of God, but to bring them in. Jesus fulfilled every letter of the law not to delineate between the Saved and the Eternally Charbroiled, but to live in us and continue the generous work of welcoming others into the Kingdom. How that will play out with my desire to know right-and-wrong instead of shades of cray-cray remains to be seen.
I'm definitely not willing to fight to be loved or respected. Neither am I willing to hold on to blessings and happiness on the off-chance that I won't have enough left over for myself.
But, God help me, I don't know how to give and build up and serve freely either. And God does.
“I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” -Galatians 2: 20
Everybody still tells me I'm fat, but I ain't even mad – jiggly thighs are a well-known side-effect of ice cream and joy, and even my philandering crush can't get me down.
The main reason I'm so happy is due to my new favourite person (comes with PhD Barbie; family sold separately) whom I'm unexpectedly territorial about.
These are my people! So what if they make everyone feel welcome and loved and fed and fat and happy?! They're mine, d'y'hear?
I don't give my loyalty easily-- Okay, yes, I do. All it takes is a bit of honesty, some humour, and the willingness to discuss points of contention (and make me feel like I'm winning) – these are all I ask. The chance to share a meal and wash dishes is a bonus, but this with-ness is so very special to me. I wouldn't actually say this to this person, obviously, and I'm hoping this post mainly slips under the radar, but if I didn't let my Feelings out somewhere, I'd probably barf rainbows.
First, let me describe this person through my usually narrow-eyed, wary gaze – then I'll explain why he is different.
He seems nicey-nicey. My problem with nicey-nicey people is that they are usually stupid. Perhaps they choose naivete as a balm to the agonies of this world... but it's stupid. People usually know you're lying, and if you're not – you'll burn out because a lot of things in this world suck. However, his facade covers a clinical preoccupation with the bottom line, the meaning behind the action, the fine-tuning of processes that will lead to a better, if not the best, outcome.
He thanks and apologises to people a lot (and I say this as a Canadian). I once complimented his ability to flip an omelette, and he thanked me for the affirmation. I walked away feeling pretty fantastic until I got to dining room and squinted back towards the kitchen, wondering whether I could flick water at him and pretend it was an accident.
He compliments everything. And everyone. All the time. His wife, his daughters, his sons-in-law, the families of his sons-in-law, my teammates, my coordinators, murderers, drunkards – if he catches a glimpse of them, even from a distance, he has something nice to say about them. Then he actually hangs out with them and I'm subjected to hours of sonnets describing their walk in beauty, like the the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies... And one look at his earnest, bespectacled face tells you that he really means it. It's not inane; it's a palpable belief that creations of God are lovely and that he, personally, needs them (he doesn't – he does everything and then finds ways to automate all those tasks with renewable energy). In baggy jeans, a t-shirt, and a glorious farmer's tan, he walks with people wherever they're going, even if it's to a bar. Case in point, he accompanied me to a New Year's Eve party which was way past his bedtime, and slightly awkwardly (just sayin') introduced me to a Canadian MSF doctor in the hope that I would soon twerk my way into wedded bliss. I took my revenge in the form of a stir fry and/or breaded eggplant that... spectacularly aided his strict weight-loss regimen.
I haven't spent enough time with his wife, nor any time with his daughters, previous co-workers, or congregations to really know his flaws - but there was this one terrifying night he was livid after a run-in with some policemen and apparently ate a lot of ice cream in blind wroth. He apologised profusely for this heinous behaviour later (too late to repair our relationship, some might say); I thought of my own dear father and found it in my heart to forgive him. I recently defined mansplaining for him; he now loves self-identifying it. Of course, I call it explaining because I often do things wrongly and enjoy learning new options, but I think he gets a kick out of pretending he's not a flaming feminist. He tries to be cheap and conservative and fails miserably (most of the time – he once returned a second-hand shirt with holes in it, but I think he might have felt obligated to pacify my cheap heart). He also admitted (apologetically) that I left the tap running one night in his kitchen, causing him to slip and fall when he discovered the spillover in the morning. I felt so terrible that I laughed hysterically at his description and tried to do it again the next night.
You look at this description and you think that's great – he sounds like a pretty great person.
Great.
But without context, he's just a regular guy who does nice things and loves his family – not really anything to write the internet about.
Let me contrast this with my experience of a man's temperament and expectations. This should hold true for any patriarchal society, but some of it is my own perception as an Indian woman and some of it has been clearly articulated by a few Indian and/or African men.
Objects and people are targets for men – broken pieces of words, plates, hearts, can be pushed aside, smacked down, and cleaned up without any expectation of retaliation – not even eye contact, not even a murmur, nothing. Apologies, repentance, thanks – these are pipe dreams; the idea of acknowledgement of his wife's sadness, anger, or frustration is patently unnecessary.
If a man helps his wife, she will be lazy and expect him to be a slave for the rest of their lives together. The line has to be drawn early in the marriage, or misery will follow – this is biblical.
Women here don't love men with their whole hearts; they're looking for money. If he provides the money; she should provide service. What more does she want?
If he helps his wife around the house, he loses his self-esteem and her respect, which are both correlated with his distance from the kitchen.
A woman can work! In fact, she should work! And then she should come home and work more! Because that's play! Or her responsibility - whichever.
If a woman dresses a certain way or is alone at night, she gets what she deserves [from men]. Self-respecting women should know better and well-raised women do.
If he thanks or appreciates his wife or daughters – especially in front of others – his authority and power are in question. Isn't that what is expected of her as a wife or a daughter?
This whole worldview is built on scarcity – of respect, of authority, of love. As though people thrive when battling for measures of significance, security, and acceptance from their friends and strangers alike. As though care is something to be earned, power is something to be guarded at all costs, and loyalty must be ensured with with an iron fist.
If there's one thing I've learned from my favourite person's way of life, it's that blessings are a thousand-fold, while curses are to the third and fourth generation; it naturally makes sense for him to concentrate his energy on pouring out blessings instead of holding fast to his words and actions for fear of losing control. I have learned this lesson too in the past; I know that my offerings can only feed a multitude if I offer them freely to my Saviour. And yet the fear remains: if I give up what I have, what will I have left? Will it be enough?
Respect is what I am owed; money is what I have earned; authority is what I deserve. If I freely give up all these things, how can I possibly be filled? I've heard of a systematic spirit of poverty that affects everything from a need to have your car sparkling clean to having servants to ensure this, but I'd never really personalised it until today. I'd been absorbing it in fits and starts, coming to terms with the fact that while discipline and laws are biblical, they are not to be used to keep people out of the kingdom of God, but to bring them in. Jesus fulfilled every letter of the law not to delineate between the Saved and the Eternally Charbroiled, but to live in us and continue the generous work of welcoming others into the Kingdom. How that will play out with my desire to know right-and-wrong instead of shades of cray-cray remains to be seen.
I'm definitely not willing to fight to be loved or respected. Neither am I willing to hold on to blessings and happiness on the off-chance that I won't have enough left over for myself.
But, God help me, I don't know how to give and build up and serve freely either. And God does.
“I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” -Galatians 2: 20
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