You know that well-known saying about God opening a window when a door gets closed, or in some cases, not so much closed as slammed in one’s face? Closed doors and roadblocks are a daily experience here in India when trying to do literally anything, from grocery shopping to setting up a cell phone, let alone a service project without the help of an established group or NGO. In the last week several doors were slammed. I found out that Etsy closed the shop we spent hours creating (they won’t even let me access the photos or text we wrote) to get the word out about the women’s empowerment program called anu LIFE because I set it up myself, and was managing it on the artisan’s behalf. How else was it supposed to get up and running when the ladies of anu have only the most basic of education; most of them didn’t even have the chance to complete high school? They haven’t yet been taught how to use a computer, let alone set up an e-commerce site (something that it’d be great to do a training on). Additionally, today I found out that the wrong bag was sent by the artisans to our very first US client. A red one was sent instead of a turquoise and red one. And 2 out of 4 volunteers who we recruited to help with this project have dropped out (we need 7). Deep breaths. Trying to think of both of these incidents as teaching/training opportunities, but it’s frustrating and even demoralizing.

Obviously, everyone who sees the way much of the population lives in India wants to help out. Cleaning up the trash seems like a great idea, until you realize that throwing trash on the ground in your own hood is totally culturally acceptable, and even if you yourself clean it all up, tomorrow the trash will be back right where it was. And possibly, BBMP, the government of India trash department, will fine you since trash can only be picked up in certain areas by people they have given permission to. (WTF???) Trying to revitalize an ‘anganwadi’ or preschool, which the Indian government by its own admission, isn’t able to adequately help and is underserved by NGO’s, is so necessary–research has shown the importance of early childhood education on the kids themselves and society at large. However, although we haven’t been told outright that this is the case (having dated this century I understand the brush off when I get it), we seem to have been denied access by the same government official we contacted to ask permission from because 1) he probably has zero use for us as women, and 2) may have realized that some of us are white, and therefore must have lots of money and somehow there’s an opportunity for a bribe in there somewhere, or 3) he is afraid that we might find out about possible corruption in the school. Regardless, all of that work benchmarking with other NGO’s in the educational space; recruiting a team of volunteers; developing a name and tagline for the project; designing a curriculum; fundraising and developing fundraising opportunities; visiting other successful projects in impoverished communities; collecting donations of clothing, toys and soap; and on and on, has seemingly been done in vain.

However, in the midst of all of these roadblocks, yesterday’s successful summer camp was a welcomed reprieve. It was held next to anu LIFE in an unused building (the rumor is that a baby had died there in the past and so no one wanted to rent it for fear of bad luck) in an impoverished neighborhood in East Bangalore. The camp is organized and run by expat volunteers. The whole purpose of the camp is fun. Pure and simple. No grandiose goals of pulling people out of poverty and changing lives. What a relief! Because that is definitely needed, but with a system here designed to help people cope with economic and educational disparity and not necessarily overcome it, the needs of the poor are so immense, so all consuming, and so socially acceptable in most cases, it’s so f—–g hard! And my ability to help is so utterly inadequate. However, a camp dedicated to helping kids have fun? Yeah, I got this.

Another window opened today when we went to visit an impoverished neighborhood AKA ‘slum’ (the word used here, which my cultural political correctness cringes at) where our friend Sara, a nurse, was helping a local nurse give inoculations to children. Until recently the nurse wasn’t getting a salary, but with Sara’s interest in the clinic the nurse is employed at, seemingly out of the blue the government started paying her (white privilege is alive and well in India). The inoculations were being given at the anganwadi preschool, which was the closest thing to a community center I have seen here. It was a place for kids and adults to gather and share neighborhood news—this morning a father of 3 was killed in a train accident—and to get necessary healthcare since many weren’t able to get to the closest clinic.

We were greeted with smiles. It was strange to be welcomed warmly after the other neighborhoods we visited where the people as a whole were much more guarded, and had every right to be with the amount of exploitation that goes on in the name of ‘helping.’ Perhaps this community has really been helped by outsiders, or is just more willing to take a chance. Their plights don’t seem as dire as those of others in Bangalore. The homes have walls and some even have out-houses. There are a few wells throughout the neighborhood, although the water isn’t always clean, and from 5-6 each evening there is running water at a communal faucet.

Bhagya is the teacher of the community anganwadi. She makes about $100 US a month to teach around 30 children ages 0-5 without an assistant. Assistant teachers are paid about $40 US a month, and local women can make that in a day as a housemaid, so no one sticks around long. Bhagya says she’s in it for the kids, not the money. The school is one room with a dirt floor, metal canisters are used as stools and food storage bins, but mostly the kids sit on a thin blanket on the floor which covers the rat droppings. There is a borrowed 2 pan burner and propane used to cook the government provided rice (yup, they provide rice each month but no way to cook it, although the anganwadi down the road where the tank is borrowed from has 2 propane tanks). The one room is surprisingly colorful and vibrant for all that it lacks. A visitor from Deloitte recently donated plastic fruit and veggies, beads, plastic balls, and letters, so there are a few educational materials. One wall is covered with student artwork, and educational posters, and also painted with the English alphabet and numbers, although that’s the only information not written in Kannada, the local language.

We were given a tour of the neighborhood and I was floored by the fact that it was so clean! Where was the trash? Bhagya explained that it had all been cleaned up on one side of the community because the government is building a road and had to make way for the large cement tubes used in road construction. Sure enough, the other side of the community was much filthier. Some of the tour highlights: a well attended outdoor vacation Bible school taught in front of Bhagya’s home; a woman with one dog and 7 orange kittens (so tempting) inside her home; a barn holding at least 9 goats; a woman screaming while beating her child inside her home; older women watching small babies; and almost all the women dressed in gorgeous saris and gold jewelry.

While this neighborhood may not be in as much need as others we have seen, this seems like a good place to start to implement at least some our anganwadi project initiatives. Although we have lofty sustainability goals, even if we can just get the kids some uniforms and mats to sit on, it’s a good, small start through a wide open window.

A neighbor has a foundation called ‘Let’s Do Some Good.’ Last week we went to check out their Bridge Program, which brings kids back to school who have dropped out, catches them up, and helps them get into a private or government school. There’s also a preschool so that older siblings can go to school instead of staying home and taking care of younger ones. In addition to the school visits, we were also able to visit the community where most of the kids come from. This is a community of trash pickers.

The anganwadi preschool project some of you have heard about will address a similar population so it was key for us to see a couple of preschools which are run successfully. We have run into more than a few roadblocks and obstacles so it’s great to see functioning organizations in this sector. 

The good news is that we have a name for our project! Links for Education. Ghandi said, “Basic education links children, whether of cities or villages, to all that is best and lasting in India.” Can’t go wrong with a name derived from a Ghandi quote. 

Yesterday’s WhatsApp message to a friend went exactly like this, “India is bad for my mental health. I feel there is so much that needs to be done but it’s so hard to get it done!” I wasn’t referring to the hassle that is trying to run errands in a place with horrific traffic and armies of well-meaning, yet untrained shop clerks. Instead, I was lamenting trying to do some good in a place with overwhelming needs, and finding the obstacles and hurdles if not insurmountable, at least daunting and depressing.

And when I feel like I should just give up, enjoy the expat life, and not worry about trying to do something helpful, India assaults the senses and brings me back to mine. As I drove to the Oberoi hotel last night with Dan, our once a month escape from our darling kids and day-to-day life, I was bombarded with stimuli, which reminded me on each and every street corner of how much the people in this place need, every single place I look there seems to be some kind of disfunction, and how little I have done thus far. And I know that I must. do. something. somehow. My thoughts were running wild, my head hurt, and my anxiety was high.

Sight: the colorful temples on the side of the road, the trash heaps being consumed by cows that meander through the streets; the ladies with stolen or borrowed babies stuck to their hips tapping on your car window to ask for money; entire families heaped together on two-wheelers helmitless; ladies in saris and men without shoes carrying heavy construction loads; hungry looking trash picking men and young boys riding bicycles with giant bags of loot precariously balanced on either side of handle bars; the lakes filled with snow – no, wait, that’s sewage.

Smell: the smells of the toxic lakes permeate for miles—vegetables are grown on the banks, people live next to the lakes, and animals swim in the lakes; the smells of fried food being cooked on the side of the road mixing with both your Uber driver’s sweat and the Mysore Flower oil fragrance procured from a local street market.

Hearing: the Bollywood tunes turned up on hight, and the radio DJ saying something about honey bees being able to predict rain; half clothed toddlers on the side of the road playing in mounds of dirt during school hours.

Touch: the feel of the relentless sun on your skin through the window despite the a/c; the occasional relief of a breeze that swirls dust in your hair.

Taste: the crunch of dirt between your teeth that in this summer season swirls all around everything, reminding you of the lack of pollution standards.

Yesterday, as it does from time to time, it all just became too much. Dan and I call this type of day a “bad India day”—those days that I just cannot handle this place. This should be differentiated from “F—ing India,” which is when we see something unbelievable, but typical for India, a somewhat humorous going-on, and chuckle quietly to each other. “Bad India day” is more serious and depressing. It’s when India gets beyond my senses, enters my heart and weighs me down. The frustration of the anganwadi projects’ recent stall due to corruption, and the uncertain and disorganized future of anu LIFE (more on these projects in a future post when I have the stamina to write all the goings on), were weighing very heavily on my heart. Every single thing that I saw, heard, smelled, touched and tasted yesterday reminded me of how much needs to be done and how I have done none of it.

Bangalore has a pretty happening hotel scene. As in people go to hotels to eat dinner and brunch. This was all very strange upon arrival to this place, but makes more and more sense as we approach our one year Bangalore anniversary. 5 star hotels here are lush and green with giant trees, no trash in sight, water you can brush your teeth with, clean air, food that is cooked in sanitary conditions, and are fairly cheap in comparison to home. They also have enticing events like wine tasting—all imported, non-Indian wines, which is a very special treat as a bottle of the equivalent of ‘2 buck chuck’ in the US can cost the equivalent of $30—and have delicious Asian, non-Indian restaurants. The Oberoi, which is where Dan and I have gone to twice since we have been here has an amazing Chinese restaurant and a Michelin-rated Thai restaurant which we tried out last night. Not once last night did I worry about the people living in shacks on the sides of the roads, or the trash, or the lack of clean water, kids not getting properly educated, etc., etc., etc. The Oberoi was an escape, a reprieve, a shelter from the storm, and for just one night, it was blissful to forget all that Bangalore needs. (Of course, Dan did end up with food poisoning that landed him on his back from the Michelin-rated Thai restaurant because India doesn’t let one get too comfortable or complacent).

The following post was written months ago, however, it’s going up now since I can’t seem to finish it before another holiday pops up. Hopefully even in its incomplete form it gives a sense of what American holidays have been like for us in India. Here goes…

Holidays can be tricky as an expat, to say the least. The traditions that seem so important in helping us mark the occasion at home may no longer be possible in our new country. And the people who we typically celebrate with may now be as far away from us as the globe will allow. These past 10 months I have learned that the key to a successful holiday in a new land is flexibility. The Butterball turkey you want to buy costs $200 US, no problem—your Indian oven is too small to hold the jacked up bird anyway—so instead you go out for dinner to a traditional North American Thanksgiving feast at a local restaurant. You may find out after you are seated that they don’t serve alcohol, but this year you can enjoy Thanksgiving dinner sober because your siblings, parents and in-laws aren’t there (love you guys!). You don’t have loved ones nearby to invite for the holiday, so just ask your new family—your house helpers and work colleagues. It may be the first time most of them have ever celebrated this holiday, and one of them may vomit all over the car on the drive back home, having never eaten this kind of food before or ridden in a car, but overall the holiday will probably be enjoyed by all.

The first American holiday to arrive post-move from home was the 4^th of July. I asked my What’s App mom’s network about fireworks, but disappointingly, I was informed that they weren’t being sold or shown until the Indian festival of Diwali. (And were they ever available in full force during Diwali! I almost never want to see or hear a firework again after the sound assault we were subjected to for 3 nights in a row during Diwali — all birds and small animals ran for cover). The only celebration I could find happening on the 4^th was a July 4^th brunch at one of the local restaurants, which seemed 1) possibly unsafe (Possibly a target for terrorism? I was new to living abroad and didn’t know the vibe of this town yet. I mistakenly assumed the whole world hates Americans), and 2) disappointing for lack of fireworks. This 4^th of July was starting to feel like that year I went to an all-night drum ‘n bass party in the dark basement of a DC club instead of watching fireworks outside on a picnic blanket; it was just all wrong.

The next big date on the calendar was Dan’s 41^st birthday. Because of the following reasons this was going to require a bit of planning and thought: 1) Dan dislikes any sort of birthday attention—hates it, really, 2) We had only been in Bangalore 3 months at this point so did we have anyone to invite to a party, and 3) Getting stuff you need in this town can lead to all sorts of frustration. Surprisingly, Dan willingly agreed to a birthday cook-out. We had recently bought a grill from an exiting American expat, and with the help of Kiran, had rigged it so that it would work in India (Kiran was all on-board since he secretly loves to eat beef, but he is a Hindu, and his wife would kill him if she knew). After 3 months of a mostly plant-based diet, Dan would again be able to eat meat and better yet, could grill it himself, thus, he would have agreed to literally anything which would have allowed this.

The guest list was the next hurdle. The last thing that I wanted for Dan was a replica of my 25^th birthday (my exact age then escapes me since I have tried to block out this whole fiasco) when an ex-boyfriend threw a ‘surprise party’ for me at my parents’ home in Northern Virginia. I had not lived there for several years and very few friends remained. So, NO ONE CAME, except for one friend who lived in the area and my loyal sister. My mom made a huge pile of veggie chili, the ex made a vegan cake, and there was no one to eat either. My mom ended up inviting the neighbors from across the street whose son I used to babysit. Ugh. It was so traumatic that I still cringe when I think about it almost 20 years later, and I cannot believe I am writing about it. But I am not taking myself so seriously these days. Long story short—I was determined that a similar experience would not happen to Dan. And since we didn’t have many friends at this point in our Bangalore tour, who would we invite? We decided on immediate neighbors, a few work friends, and Kiran’s family. Although the beef burgers were overdone and over-spiced and the veggie burgers were almost inedible, it proved to be a fun evening that even ended in a game of poker at the new picnic table in the backyard—Dan’s birthday gift, as well as a few drunk Indian neighbors.

And then there was Mia’s 2^nd birthday on October 20^th. This one was easy. We have been lucky enough to have a large community of little kids in our neighborhood, and one of the fellow expats hosts a weekly playgroup. So I invited them all over for pizza, cake, and to play on the new trampoline (gift from Nina and Papa) in our backyard. Unlike being back in Brooklyn, there was no angst about whether to try to squeeze 20 little kids and their parents into our 2-bedroom walk-up apartment or fight with Dan over the absurdity of paying $1000 US to hold a party at one of the overpriced local venues (yes, incredibly absurd, but what choice did we have when we couldn’t fit anyone in our apartment?). This year we had enough space to accommodate everyone! The only real hiccup was when the electricity went out several times during the party. At one point it was off for over an hour and a half, and the sun was setting. As I bribed the electricians to come to try to repair it for the 5^th time that afternoon, we moved the party outside. Fortunately, at the end of October, the weather was nice enough because it’s always nice in Bangalore.

Shortly after came Mom’s birthday. We went to the Taj Mahal, Delhi, and had brunch at the Leela Palace. Amazing trip with my brave mama and first visitor. Enough said. See previous posts for more info.

Halloween. Because it directly followed Diwali, which is the biggest holiday in Southern India, it didn’t get nearly the amount of attention it does back home. Just a Diwali afterthought with some store bought signs hung over door frames. A few of the homes we trick or treated at didn’t have candy bought yet well after dark (in my experience, Indians tend to be way more laid back than Americans, and are completely comfortable with last-minuteness), and had to run to the store, with promises of a fast return. The costumes were mostly store bought and less likely to have been made by an ambitious former art student Brooklyn Dad. But the best part of the evening was that we weren’t over-run with humungous crowds, and the gals were able to trick-or-treat freely with their friends in our neighborhood without fear of cars or abduction.

My 41^st birthday.

Thanksgiving.

Christmas.

New Year’s.

Masan’s 8^th Birthday.

Easter.

A chaotic and joyful Skype call with Brooklyn friends, and I am left feeling sad. These are the friends the gals and I spent the most time with back home. From weekly playdates, to breakfast meet-ups at a local diner, to yoga and exercise classes, to joint kids’ birthday parties and moms’ drunk nights out, these people, along with some other fantastic friends, were our Brooklyn family – our community. Everyone on the call looked wonderful…and the same as they did 9 months ago when we left, even though their lives have not stood still and they have changed as a result of living. But they seemed the same as they were when we left, and I feel so changed. I wonder if I came across as I feel on the inside, which is turned utterly upside-down and inside-out by this India expat experience. It just occurred to me that when we see each other again we will not be the same with each other as we had been. Will we be able to pick up where we left off or will we be distant and reserved? There are some friends that time and distance don’t matter with—when we speak after absences, it’s as if we have been seeing each other everyday. This includes my best friend from when I was 5 years old who I haven’t spoken with since I had Mia. I can call her right now and there won’t be any formality or hesitation. This is also what it’s like with my best friend from high school. And many other old friends. It’s a great feeling. I haven’t known my Brooklyn friends long enough to have been separated by distance to know if the relationship is strong enough to last, but the fact that 3 families have moved out of Brooklyn to the burbs and they are all still getting together occasionally is a great sign. As long as we respect that none of us have to fit into the old molds of who we were when we last were together we should be good.

A quirky psychology professor at Virginia Tech junior year hammered home that behavior is the result of personality times environment. Thus, Brooklyn Sharon is going to be and act differently than Bangalore Sharon. Trying to translate this new Sharon to the people so incredibly important to old Sharon was tricky during this hectic Skype call. These friends were maybe expecting me, as I was of them, to act the same as I had before I left home, or fit into the 218 Smith Street, Brooklyn, NY mold, which is no longer possible for me to squeeze into. Speaking to them was harder than I thought without the common language of expat-in-a-developing-nation-experience. Fortunately, what we did have was the common language of past experiences, mutual love of each other and our kids, and the same cultural background, which gave me a cozy and comfortable feeling in the midst of the twinge of sadness, despite being so far removed from each other’s daily experiences.

Small digression, speaking of cultural background, in Bangalore Masan’s best friends are a girl from Africa, one from the UK and one from Sri Lanka. Back in Brooklyn I didn’t think much about cultural diversity, and focused instead on race because almost everyone I knew was American. Now I am one of three Americans in my neighborhood, and one is leaving in June. In both Masan and Evie’s classes there are 0 fellow Americans. Our commonality these days lies mainly with Indians who have lived in America, not the European expats of the same white race.

One of my Brooklyn buddies asked me if I drive here yet. Good question, but hilarious proposition. I tried to explain the insanity of that idea, but I doubt it made sense without the context of this place. How do I even consider driving here when I can’t drive stick shift, there aren’t any traffic laws or lane lines, a ton of roads aren’t paved, speed bumps take the place of traffic lights in most parts of town, and if I get into an accident, I do not speak the local language, and many in Bangalore don’t speak English, and I may get dragged from my car and beat up if I cause the accident ala Shantaram.

On the call I mentioned that Bangalore is dirtier than Brooklyn, but how do I explain the heaps of trash that line pretty much every single roadway in this town? It’s like as if there were unmonitored landfills up and down Court and Smith Streets, going all the way into Manhattan, and only stops right outside of the boundaries of the Upper East Side where wealth keeps the trash at bay, before starting again in East Harlem? The level of filth is unimaginable, and plastic bags, including trash bags, have been outlawed. Kids and animals play in this mess, and many people pick through the smoldering muck to try to find things to sell. If we’re lucky, someone will burn the trash in an open fire, which will at least eliminate a tiny bit of the waste. There are services that pick up some of the trash, but oftentimes, the government isn’t monitoring the collection or the money allocated is being pocketed by local politicians without the job getting done. Some days the air is so thick with heat and pollution that the kids and I have trouble breathing. We now have air purifiers in all of the bedrooms. So yes, I would welcome the grit of Brooklyn right about now.

How can I explain that buying the right water bottle for the kids can take weeks because every time I buy one it breaks because everything plastic and not handmade is made in China and utterly crap.

Will it translate when I say that Evie has a slight Indian accent, does the Indian head wag and uses words like, “paining” for “hurting” and says “tomato” like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady? Will it make sense when I describe most of my days being spent trying to find ‘good’ bread or balsamic vinegar or meat (no, it’s not true—mutton and goat aren’t the same as beef)?

And how to explain the help situation. A situation you yourself refused to participate in before you learned the lay of the land and realized 1) everyone in your 700 villa community has helpers, and 2) you need help because getting things done takes so much more time and effort than you’d ever thought possible. And there isn’t a Target-like store around the corner to make things with 3 little kids easier, and even if you do find a store that has what you need, they will only have limited stock, and instead of 6 kids’ plates in blue they will have 4 and try to convince you that the red is close enough of a match, or the store will open up an hour late because they are having their holiday party while 100 customers wait outside the store without any signage warning you of this delay due to a party. Or you go to pick up your new glasses prescription and can’t get them because even though the signage says that the store opens at 9, it’s now 11 and none of the employees have yet to arrive. Besides the fact that by employing help you (or your husband in my case) are single-handedly supporting the families of people who are desperately poor and need the income, having all of that help frees you up to actually do something you’ve always wanted to. And in India this is completely dependent on your level of wealth, and because money goes farther here than at home, we, as middle class expats, are able to pose as wealthy with the same benefits.

Many of the Indian and expat women in my neighborhood have time to have a second adolescence, to explore their interests outside of their roles as wife, mother and/or employee. My neighbor is taking Indian singing lessons and acting in local plays. Other neighbors perform dances to Hindi songs at neighborhood gatherings. Others, like myself, work-out in cross fitness, yoga and/or Bollywood/Zumba classes, in my case, a blissful 4 days a week. THE BEST! I have also been able to really address my periformus syndrome by going twice a week to see one of 12 chiropractors in India, which has made a tremendous difference in my chronic pain level. And even Dan gets to take better care of himself by going to the gym twice a week and golfing at least once a week. This helps with the stress of dealing with a culture that does things so differently than ours does. Never in NYC would we be able to do all this with young kids.

Instead of spending all day cooking, cleaning and doing childcare, others are able to work full-time, volunteer with a local NGO, or in Urvi’s and my case, are able to try to sponsor that preschool where 35 kids sit day-in and day-out in utter squaller and disease (more to come on this) because they need infrastructure (working toilets, running water, electricity), teachers that actually have an interest in and training in teaching, scholarships to continue going to school, and hygiene and sanitation training (1000 Indian kids die each day of diseases which can be prevented with hand washing and soap). So although at times you feel spoiled, is your time better served doing housework or trying to help where the government hasn’t been able to. And if you don’t help, who is going to?

I cannot wait for our Brooklyn buddies to see all that India is about. The beauty and the squaller and everything in between. It’s the contrast that makes this place so interesting and incomprehensible. It’s a ‘you had to be there’ kind of place. So come be here! (I should for sure be writing the travel ads for this place!)

This is a picture of our neighborhood and what surrounds it. The trash goes right up to the posh and is blocked out by a fence and money.

Hopefully I didn’t scare anyone off…

Back home, the neighborhood would be up in arms when a hospital was closed and turned into condos, or when the local schools were too crowded to educate the neighborhood population and one closed its pre-k to make more kindergarten slots. Or when there had been a series of stroller thefts. Or one time when there were shots fired in a neighborhood park (where Mia, Evie and I happened to be at the time). However, like almost everything in Bangalore, neighborhood crises are completely different than they were back home, and are treated with an attitude I have come to respect, if not love and sometimes f—ing hate, which is that ‘it will all work out, somehow, and what’s the use of getting upset?’ This is a completely un-New York frame of mind, which tries, and hopefully elongates, my patience on an almost daily basis.

The latest crisis facing Adarsh Palm Retreat (until this afternoon) was the neighborhood cobra. For about a month this snake had been seen in the neighborhood primarily around the maintenance office and house helpers’ bus stop. It was originally spotted in one hole, but eventually transitioned to other holes in the same general area. Because cobras are poisonous (deadly) and we have so many young kids in the neighborhood as well as people who don’t wear shoes, obviously the residents wanted to make sure that the cobra was caught and given a new home far, far away. When the snake was seen repeatedly in the same location over the course of a week it became clear that the maintenance office wasn’t going to do take care of the problem themselves, for whatever reason. So several of us called any and all snake catchers we could find the phone numbers for. The person I spoke with told me to have the person who actually saw the snake call him get in touch. No problem. Done. After 2 hours of not hearing from the snake catcher I called him back. He said that because the snake had now gone back into his hole there was nothing he could do, and he would not come over to check it out. The American in me was cursing the guy under my breath thinking that surely in his years of professional experience he has come across a way to deal with getting a snake out of its hole since a) he is a snake catcher and b) snakes go into holes. Deep breaths. This is not how it works over here.

Several of our neighbors called snake catchers as well. One even managed to come see the snake, which the maintenance office took credit for arranging on the neighborhood message board. Like the first catcher, this one also said that nothing could be done until the cobra removed itself from its hole. In the meantime those not on the message board or neighborhood What’s App group – small children, gardeners, and houseworkers, weren’t even aware of the snake. And cobra’s are great at concealing themselves in the dusty, dirty summer ground. It took a group of expats protesting at the maintenance office for them to put up yellow caution tape around the area, which is funny because a cobra is not going to stay in one location, but better than nothing, I guess. Another solution was to put half of a brick on top of each assumed snake hole. Still another was to dig up the whole area near where the snake was last spotted, to no avail. That snake could not be caught.

Fast forward 2 weeks. The snake has been spotted here and there around the neighborhood in drains, still peaking out of holes, and apparently trying to burrow into houses through holes in the structure, although I don’t know if this can actually happen or if it’s just snake-lore. Today a neighbor posted on the What’s App group that the snake was in front of her house. Of course I had to see this snake who outsmarts all the snake catchers in town. As I approached this villa, I saw a house helper looking out the window as two local men essentially in shorts and flip flops, possibly construction workers, chopped erratically at the snake’s head with a sharp 2 x 4. Myself and a teenage neighbor yelled for the men to stop killing the snake. I even went so far as to point to the snake yelling, “You’re killing Shiva!” as I remember someone telling me once that killing a snake is like killing that Hindu god, and they would be guilted into stopping. Not exactly sure if I got that all right, but it was worth a shot. More on Shiva and snake killing here: http://daily.bhaskar.com/news/JM-know-why-is-killing-snake-is-considered-inauspicious-2574338.html

The guilt didn’t work. They said, “No Shiva” although for a second they looked afraid. When the snake was dead they threw the creature into a heap next to the street, and proceed to laugh and take selfies with it. Well, the selfie part is an exaggeration, but they did take photos of the butchered snake while laughing. At one point the tail of the snake was still moving while his head was bloody and broken. I asked why they had to kill the snake, and they said that

they called a snake catcher, but that it had already been 30 minutes and he had not yet shown up.

Never in my life did I think I would stand up for the rights of a venomous cobra. I was sure that I would be the one siding with the men killing the snake, and I believe I even wrote about this viewpoint in earlier posts. But seeing the creature being beaten and broken changed my mind completely. I am a sucker for the underdog, and I am now trying to get the neighborhood to employ a snake catcher. Dan and I are even willing to help pay the salary if this horror show can be avoided in the future. We will see. Also, if I ever see a cobra near my house I reserve the right to change my mind, and yell for the men with the 2×4 to come save me.

Thank you, gorgeous friends for asking for more recent posts. I am touched that my Bangalore adventures are of interest to anyone. It’s not that I haven’t been wanting to write, it’s just that I vacillate between feeling like an explorer to Mars with copious interesting (to me?) anecdotes and a boring pampered housewife with a nanny, driver and housekeeper and nothing of interest to write about (although the drama that comes with all this ‘help’ could fill a novella). Whatever strong emotion drove the writing of previous posts has dried up with the summer heat. The Bangalore air, which has a sedating effect all year-round (it’s crossed my mind that Dan put something in the A/C filters to keep me sleepy and calm so that I don’t really comprehend the reality of moving our whole family across the world away from our known universe) is even more draining with the current summer temps of 95 each day. I feel too sleepy and too overwhelmed with getting by to write. Often I just want to crawl under the covers rather than try to understand the experience or share it. Today I took 2 naps. I should have just done a photo blog.

As Cyrus Apple Juice Kisses continuously tries to mount the two female cats even though he has had parts of his manhood stripped (why oh why did I adopt 4 cats???), I will try to capture the essence of yesterday’s shopping experience:

9 months into our B’lore tour of duty and we have now almost fully transitioned to Indian plugs for our American-made important appliances, which can handle India’s 240v operating voltage. We are pretty much finished killing our devices brought from home, although Dan did accidently fry Mia’s US-made nebulizer yesterday morning (poor thing can’t shake this terrible cough; it maybe an allergy or asthma from the not-so-regulated air pollution), but that was because he hadn’t yet had his coffee (The housekeeper hadn’t yet arrived. Yes, we are those people at least for 1 or 2 more years, which is still strange coming from the do-it-yourself middle class American value system, but completely culturally appropriate and encouraged here. And I am definitely used to it. How will I survive when I return home?). Thus, yesterday I needed to buy my first Indian power strip so that I no longer have to prioritize between having my computer, TV, air purifier or phone plugged in.

Kiran and I hit up the closest mega store/mall called More. This was the first supermarket I ever visited upon coming to Bangalore. Think Walmart, but an Indian version. With rows of dried beans and grains, which I had no idea how to cook, no familiar food or brands stacked ceiling high in all of those dusty aisles, and I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to feed my family—this is when I swore I would never need or want a cook. Oh the naivete! Those early days are fortunately behind me, and now I am bestowed with the wisdom 9 months of surviving Bangalore has given me: I know the expat-friendly stores to shop in, and more importantly, how a good cook can turn those grains and beans into healthy and delicious Indian food.

Anyway, back to yesterday’s More experience. Upon entering the store we were privy to a neck tattoo in process on a stool in the open hallway directly across from the KFC. I was fascinated, and leaned in for a closer look and to ask some asinine questions, but the artist was focused and not interested in talking to me about his work, at least in English, which 9 months later is still all I know except for ‘naanu’ (‘me’), ‘namaskara’ (a greeting), and ‘sari’ and ‘theek hai’ (‘okay’ in Kannada and Hindi respectively). The nanny Vasanthi who treats me like a daughter, even though I am older than she is, is teaching me, “I want to go back to my country” although I haven’t gotten it down yet. It’s not true all the time, and most of the time it’s not, but I want to know how to say it when I reach my expat limit.

After refocusing, we make our way up the ramp to the first floor where the groceries are sold. A pile of floor sweepings greet us along with a woman dressed in a sari squatting on the ground filling huge, rectangular glue traps with scraps of cake, which I can only assume are rat traps, which she deftly slides under the bread shelves. The smell of the grocery store is nauseating to me on this hot day, and I hurry up to the next level, the home goods store. We find the power strip we need with the help of a very knowledgable woman in a sari and a Home Depotesque apron. We also look for tea lights for the backyard to light our year-round cook-outs, but alas, like the 5 other stores we have tried for tea lights, they only come in flashing multi-colors, no plain white.

Upon leaving the mega mall a small boy asks me to buy some of the stickers he is selling. He holds his hands up to his mouth to mime ‘hungry’ since he correctly pegs me for someone who doesn’t know his native language. I give him the rupees I have, and an older girl approaches us miming the same thing. She is holding a flattened, round wicker basket. I mime that I have already given all of my rupees to the boy. She doesn’t believe me, and while I am trying to convince her using sign language, Kiran tells me that she has a cobra in the basket under her arm that she will show me for money. Woah, what? I mime ‘snake’ and she shakes her head ‘no.’ She tells me through Kiran’s translation that it’s a new snake and that it is still at home, but that she will have it with her tomorrow. I ask Kiran to ask her if she is scared that it will bite her and she laughs and shakes her head ‘no.’ Kiran tells me that the fangs will be yanked out before the snake makes its rounds in the basket. Although I hate poisonous snakes I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for the fellow. Oh, this reminds me of another story I want to share soon about the neighborhood cobra…

I’m feeling literally sick to my stomach. The frustration and anger are at an all-time high today. I can’t even wait until I get home to my computer to write so I am frantically pushing tiny buttons on my phone in the car as Kiran navigates the relentless Bangalore traffic. The reason for this rage today is not the traffic, but what I am calling, in my angered state, apathy towards standing up, speaking out, marching for women’s rights.

This weekend is the Women’s March on Washington, DC. Sister marches are planned throughout the world in support of women’s rights. Kenya is having three, France is having seven, and Tanzania is having two. So how many marches are happening in India, a country of 1.34 BILLION people, the second most populated country in the world, with some of its states having more people than entire countries, with one out of six people on this planet living in India, and 652 million of these being WOMEN? Exactly ONE. In Kolkata. And how many people are signed up? SIX. That’s right. 6. And now with me having just signed up-SEVEN. And the email address of the coordinator is not working so I am cyber-stalking her to see if this march is actually going to happen with only 7 of us before I buy plane tickets and drag my 3 kids and husband to Kolkata to protect their rights whether they like it or not, damnit. (Dan is unhappy about this prospect, and thinks that we are going to be the only people there with our protest signs, but God love him, he’s looking at flights right now).

There’s no perspective from me at the moment. No trying to understand cultural differences in relation to this apparent apathy. There’s just anger. How can only 6 people want to support this historical women’s march in support of women’s rights when India was voted in 2012, by poll of 370 gender specialists around the world, the worst place to be a woman out of all the G20 countries. This is a culture, despite its gentleness and kindness to us personally, which has had a long history of being very shitty to women. According to the foundation for sustainable development, “Gender discrimination continues to be an enormous problem within Indian society. Traditional patriarchal norms have relegated women to secondary status within the household and workplace. This drastically affects women’s health, financial status, education, and political involvement. Women are commonly married young, quickly become mothers, and are then burdened by stringent domestic and financial responsibilities. They are frequently malnourished since women typically are the last member of a household to eat and the last to receive medical attention. Additionally, only 54 percent of Indian women are literate as compared to 76 percent of men. Women receive little schooling, and suffer from unfair and biased inheritance and divorce laws. These laws prevent women from accumulating substantial financial assets, making it difficult for women to establish their own security and autonomy.”

In trying to connect with others who may be interested in going to Kolkata this weekend, I posted a message about the event on a FB group I am a member of called the Super Mums of India. Like I was, you may be thinking, “Okay, mom’s group, good idea, Sharon, they will certainly be interested in supporting a march in support of women’s rights.” Right? Wrong. As soon as I posted, the moderator wrote the following:

And of course I had to respond:

Sharon Masaniello Otmar Sorry for not asking permission to post. Didn’t know I needed to as I thought this was extremely relevant for all women and especially mom’s of girls.

Like · Reply · 12 hrs

I’m pretty sure she removed my post. How can info about a woman’s march not be relevant for moms in India???

So what’s the deal? Why the low numbers of interest in this march? I’m blaming it on people being apathetic—too busy, too uninterested, content to let others do the heavy lifting, etc., but could it be more? Yeah, it sure could. Now that the anger has subsided a bit, the kids are tucked in, and I’m  somewhat sanely sitting at my computer, I am ready to give this some rational thought and try to find some clarity and drum up a bit of cultural sensitivity. Could the lack of participation be because it’s a march organized by the US and Indians don’t want to support us? I checked with Urvi and Kiran (my go-to people for all things related to Indian culture), and they both said that it’s nothing against the US—this is just how it is here. Activism isn’t a big thing: the majority of women don’t stand up for their rights. But why? It certainly can’t be because Indian women believe that their rights are being upheld so well by their countrymen.

A recent article in the Huffington Post discusses progressive Bangalore’s atrocious New Year’s Eve “night of shame,” and the ‘blame-the-victim’ mentality of the police:

“As the new year dawned on Bengaluru, scores of women were assaulted and molested by a mob of unruly, drunken men in an event that will probably go down in history as the city’s “night of shame.” Alarming photographs show female revelers crying on the shoulders of overwhelmed police officers, 1,500 of whom were deployed in advance to prevent just this sort of thing from happening.

“It turns out that for all its social and economic changes, its signs of prosperity, Bengaluru is still no safe haven for women. We shouldn’t be surprised, of course, for the data shows that crimes against women have been on the rise for years. In 2013 itself Bengaluru recorded the most number of such cases out of all the major south Indian cities and the situation has only worsened since then.

“…when you look at the response from Bengaluru’s own ministers and police, who played down the incident at first because apparently it wasn’t enough that multiple women attested to being groped and mauled. They must have asked for it, these men said in response, by leaving the confines of their homes, and that too at night.”

So women’s rights being protected is definitely NOT the reason. So again, why the lack of interest by women in marching for their own rights? I’m confident that it’s not an easy answer nor one that I am going to find at 10:51 pm on a Tuesday night as an American expat with 6 months in India under her belt. Like everything about India, it’s going to be complex and multifaceted involving many contradictions. That said, here’s one more article that I thought was interesting and I will call it a night. This article from Hindustan Times points to scorn or ‘peer pressure’ from Indian culture for “India’s regressive narrative” in regards to women’s rights:

http://www.hindustantimes.com/columns/india-needs-women-to-stand-firm-and-know-that-they-are-right/story-Gvx5NzybCbBsz4zkpmIFnI.html

“As Indian women enter India’s public places to study, work and play in larger numbers than ever, they expect liberation but find restriction. They are told what they cannot do: Don’t dress as you please; don’t travel alone; don’t travel after dark; don’t go to a nightclub; don’t talk too loudly; don’t retaliate if harassed; don’t complain to the police; don’t do anything that will spoil your reputation, your family’s honour or (if single) your chances for marriage.

“Oh, and once you are married, make sure the dishes are washed, the clothes cleaned, and the children and husband fed.

“For an Indian woman, there is no escape from a quick, early marriage. Those summits of female achievers, those role models we read about, those strong, independent women we know — they are exceptions to the rule, which is that the average Indian woman will be married by 20. It doesn’t help very much if the woman lives in urban India. The mean female age at marriage in rural areas is 19.7, in urban areas, 20.7, according to the latest census data released last month. Education is an efficient contraceptive — Indian women with a college degree have 1.9 children during their lifetime, against 3.8 for illiterate woman — but it appears to only marginally slow the inevitability of early marriage.

“In Kerala, the state with India’s highest female literacy rate (91.9%), the mean female age at marriage is 21.4, just half a percentage point ahead of Muzaffarnagar’s 20.9, even though Kerala’s female literacy rate is 32 percentage points ahead of Muzaffarnagar’s. In the end, young women, whether in Muzaffarnagar or Mallapuram, are shackled by tradition, shown their place and kept out of “trouble”.

“Those lucky to escape stifling lives in stifling small towns find the anonymity of the big city refreshing, but familiar moral judgements are often delivered by landlords, neighbours and auto drivers. If India’s regressive narrative is to change, women must make trouble, and we must support their right to do so. Else, the fate of educated Indian women — who drop out of the workforce in growing numbers despite surging past men in school and college — will be to keep those chapatis coming.”

My American marching friends, my girls and I and Dan will be joining you in solidarity in Kolkata on Saturday, even if we are the only ones who show up.

If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one.

-Mother Teresa

Maybe it’s my age, the results of the US presidential election (nope, not ‘over it’ yet nor may I ever be), or the fact that I live in a developing country, but lately I have been having an existential crisis. Asking myself those terrifying questions that usually get blotted out by the noise and movement of everyday, like: What’s the point of my life? and Why am I here? Lately these aren’t questions that flit in and out of my brain and disappear with the chaos of daily life and let me be; they stalk and harass me, creating a great deal of anxiety and angst. Some nights instead of sleep, these questions plague me so much that I have to get out of bed to write about my attempts to answer them in the hopes of quelling my anxiety.

India is like a very generous friend who lets you be the worst version of yourself, and doesn’t ask for anything in return. It’s easy to take from this loving country without giving back. The people are warm and welcoming, labor and goods are cheap, and there are opportunities to experience luxurious living for middle class expats which aren’t available for those in our income bracket back home. If I wanted to spend my 2 years in Bangalore attending fancy brunches, being pampered by spa treatments, drinking afternoon cocktails, playing golf, going to expat playdates or BBQ’s, hitting up the best lounges and restaurants, learning tennis or sunbathing all day I could do all these things, and no one would make me feel guilty. That’s the expat experience. However, as anyone who has visited or lived in India knows, there are a lot of people in this country in need of a lot of help. A LOT. It’s an amazing place in so many ways, but the needs are overwhelming and many. It would be pretty difficult to not notice. And to see and not try to help out would make me a total asshole, which I prefer not to be if I can help it (and sometimes I can’t).

However, and a big HOWEVER, I am trying to do this in a way that doesn’t perpetuate the white savior narrative that is so common when white people of privilege, like me, try to ‘help,’ but really it’s all about our own big emotional experience and trying to ‘save’ others who aren’t as ‘blessed’ as we are. All that to say, I am trying to figure out how to be helpful in a country which needs so much help without 1) being unhelpful and 2) doing the helping for the wrong reasons. Thus, trying to figure out where to start going down the volunteering rabbit hole in India is complicated. Getting involved in a non-profit doing ‘good work,’ in whatever form that looks like, should be easy, but like most things in India and because of my background, lack of language skills, and skin color, it’s complicated. As soon as I got here I knew that if I wanted to live with myself I would need to do something other than take, but was this desire to help my own sense of guilt over expat privilege or was it because I really think that I can make things better because of a skill that I offer? In assessing what I can bring to the table, my deficits are pretty obvious—I am not a nurse, a doctor, a civil engineer, a builder, or a teacher. Nor do I speak any local languages, like Hindi, Kannada or Tamil. What I AM good at is coordinating (i.e. figuring out what needs to get done and finding the best person to do it), I am comfortable begging and harassing until a ‘no’ is changed to a ‘yes,’ I have a husband with a good job, I am an expat, and I know a lot of good people at home who I can hit up for money (that’s you!). But finding an opportunity where my limited skills would be helpful has been a bit tricky despite good intentions.

The below few paragraphs examine my feeble attempts and the sometimes disappointing results:

When I first arrived in Bangalore almost 6 short months ago, I was invited to a fundraiser for an NGO that works with sex workers and their children. All that was required of me was to buy tickets, attend this event on the top floor of the Shangri La Hotel, sip cocktails, listen to the founder of the NGO, and chat with my fellow patrons. The event was well organized and raised quite a bit of necessary money, however, the whole thing made me feel uncomfortable. There was such a large power and privilege gap between the people the organization was helping and those attending the event. I had never met anyone from the NGO nor spent time learning about their goals other than perusing the website and the brochure handed out at the event, the needs of the population they serve, or how I could best help. I was invited because I am an expat in Bangalore, and by default, a person of power and means. So while I realize the benefit of these types of events, and will be happy to donate money now and again, attending fundraisers isn’t the type of help I want to give. Although given my limited skills it’s probably one of the only things I am qualified for.

The next opportunity I found for volunteering was a possibility my next-door neighbor and Bangalore BFF Urvi, told me about. An orphanage for blind kids. Perfect! Who could need more help than blind orphans? Surely, I could be of some service. When Urvi called to ask about the needs, the director told her that they really only need help on the weekends and asked us if we were able to teach something like yoga, dance or singing. Unfortunately, not so much. She hung up the phone as embarrassed as I was that we didn’t have the skills needed to help blind orphans.

Next came an opportunity for Urvi and I to participate in a weekly reading program at a local elementary school. This was not a government school, but a school for families from Tamil Nadu (a neighboring state) funded at least in part by a foundation. This opportunity involved reading very basic books in English to a second or third grade class each week in their ‘library’ (a small square room with a few shelves of donated books and games around the edges). The thought of working with elementary school aged kids was not hugely appealing to me with my own 3 at home, but this opportunity fit my skill set—a person with a pulse who can read English. Perfect! The school was over an hour and 20 minutes away, and several times despite our best efforts, we missed the reading period completely. The few times we did arrive on time we had difficulty managing the behavior of 25 young kids who don’t speak English, preferred to punch each other and giggle to being read to, and whose teachers left them in the room alone with us. And honestly, my heart wasn’t in it. It would have required so much energy to do the program justice. What the kids appreciated much more was us bringing in Krispy Kreme donuts and candy right before Diwali break. Was it helpful to sugar the kids up at school? Probably not, but the teachers and principal seemed to think it was a good idea and not too disruptive. Being Santa Claus every week was fun and gave us rock star status which was a big emotional boost for us, but our efforts weren’t helping in any meaningful way.

My big emotional experience.

3rd grade friends.

The next great idea I had was to find a tutor, this where the coordinating comes in, to teach English to the ladies who work in neighborhood houses. Since most people in Bangalore speak English, knowing the language would help increase their earning potential and the opportunity to do more than just clean. I contacted my neighbors to see if they might be interested in sending their house helpers to a once a week class, but none were. Regardless, I figured I could just hire a tutor for Lakshmi, one of my own house helpers. However, when I asked her about the prospect, she said that she wasn’t interested. Huh? Really? But it’s free. Apparently, her in-laws and her husband don’t want her to learn English because in a few years they will all be moving back to their home village. My idea seemed like a great idea to me, but no one else.

So the search continued. The Overseas Women’s Club (OWC), an organization run by expats which supports 22 charities held a meet and greet/career fair type of event a couple of months ago where members could meet the charities and find out how to get involved. Every organization I spoke with either wanted skills I don’t have, time on the weekend that I couldn’t give, or had enough volunteers already. There was one organization that seemed like a great fit, but it is over 2 hours away, and in Bangalore traffic that would be less than ideal.

Finally, I had a eureka moment and asked Kiran, our driver and knower-of-all-things-Bangalore, to help me figure out how Urvi and I could best help someone, somehow (damnit!) with our limited funds and limited skills. He suggested that the best thing was for us to stop at local government schools and ask what their needs were. Okay, good. This we could handle. What I liked most about this idea was that Kiran, a man born and raised in Bangalore and very familiar with its needs was telling us where he thought we could be helpful. After a few failed attempts to find a school with needs we could address, we found Patel Hanuma Reddy Government School, which is a school that Kiran’s brother-in-law built the school buildings for—so he already had an ‘in’ with the school community. With Kiran’s help translating, we spoke with all the students (who spoke Kannada) in each of the grades about what they needed. They told us books, notebooks, pencils, tables, chairs, art supplies, PE equipment. However, when we walked around the school and visited the school bathrooms we realized that they didn’t have soap, and were told that the children do the cleaning since the school doesn’t have the money to pay a janitor. As an OCD sufferer, this lack of hygiene struck me as being the number one issue that needed to be addressed. We also discovered at a later meeting with the principal that they were running low on drinking water because the middle man between the government and the school needed to be bribed to be able to do his job (did I mention how pervasive corruption is in this country?). I wanted to take the matter to the police, but Kiran laughed and said that wouldn’t help and wasn’t how things were handled in Bangalore. Instead, Kiran spoke with his well-respected brother-in-law who got things sorted out in just one short conversation with the middle man.

The current playground at Patel Hanuma Reddy Government School. Now taking donations towards a new playground!

It was agreed in our meeting with the school that we would fundraise for the supplies they needed, try to raise money for playground equipment, as well as pay for a janitor to clean the school each day. It was important to us that we do education around hygiene so that everyone in the school community and beyond would understand the importance of hand washing and what issues it can prevent. During our first conversation with the school administration it was discussed that an organization called Quess provides cleaning services to a neighboring school for 2000 INR a month. Since Quess was on our way back home we decided to stop by. I felt weird just barging in when we didn’t have an appointment, but that’s apparently how things get done in Bangalore. Security didn’t know what to do with us, and finally a random woman who was called by security pointed us in the right direction. Nainy. Turns out that 20% of her job was managing Quess’ foundation called Careworks. Quess has 9 companies under its umbrella so it’s doing okay, and under Indian law, it must give away 3% of its profits to charity. And guess what the charity does?

• School Enhancement Program aims to adopt 50 government schools and support holistic development. This includes infrastructure and teaching media to enhance quality of education and provide a safe and hygienic environment for students.

Perfect! We told Nainy all about the school we wanted to help and their extensive needs. This was on a Friday, and she said she’d speak with her boss about it. By Monday morning Careworks was conducting a needs assessment, and by the next day was starting the paperwork to adopt the school. So not only do I not have to hit you up for money for the school, the needs of the school will be addressed in a holistic way that will allow the school to function independently in the future. I literally didn’t have to lift a finger, and I got to use one of my few skills—coordinating. Careworks is so comprehensive that we were no longer needed, which was a positive for the school, but a bit disappointing for us. But again, it’s not about us. Because we felt we had to do something without overlapping efforts, we are collecting clothes, board games, and sports equipment for the school community. In the near future we hope to visit other schools Kiran knows about to introduce them to Careworks as well.

With Christmas coming up, Dan and I wanted to get the girls involved in helping out someone, somehow as well. I heard about a project called “Make A Wish” which involved sponsoring an orphan or very economically disadvantaged child by purchasing 2 Christmas gifts to be given to him/her at a Christmas party in mid-December (Do these Indian kids typically even celebrate Christmas? Wouldn’t this be better to do around Diwali? I decided to just going to go with it). It seemed like a simple way to get the kids involved, and the expat who started the program used a Mother Teresa quote in her marketing so you know I was on board:

I spoke with the girls about this opportunity, and they were excited. I asked Evie how many kids she wanted to sponsor, and she said 10, so 10 it was. We were sent photos of all the children along with their top two desired Christmas gifts. I was expecting toys or wants, and yet these lists were mostly made up of sleeping blankets, jackets, sweaters, and sleeping mattresses. Beyond heartbreaking. On December 11th the girls will be able to give the gifts out to the kids they sponsored and actually get to meet them. I would have preferred that there be anonymity with the gift giving so it’s not about us, however the public nature of the feel good moment may instill in the girls a desire to do good works, which is probably more important than ‘not letting the right hand know what the left is doing.’