Bodecker

When I was a girl, my real academic education always took place at home with Dad as my teacher, so in a way I was home schooled. I always went to public school, as well, because Dad wanted me to have some social development among all sorts of people.

One of my seventh grade teachers turned out to be one of the most influential people in my life. His name was Mr. Bodecker. If I ever knew his given name, it is now long forgotten. He was incredibly intelligent and held some very unpopular political opinions. I had a great deal of respect for him.

One day he took me aside. 'Mai, I need to talk to you.

'You and I are what are called intellectuals. We live by our brain power. And we tend to get above ourselves. I don't want you to make that mistake. I cannot stand the thought of you becoming a snob.'

He was talking very seriously; clearly this was something important to him. 'We like to think that we are the most important people in society, but we aren't. Not at all. Society could get along without us perfectly well. It wouldn't be as easy or as much fun, but it would be possible. We are not the meat and potatoes of society.

We are just the dessert.'

Being thirteen years old, I interrupted. 'We don't eat meat.

'OK, what do you eat?'

'Dal and roti and paneer and vegetables and curd. Really good stuff.'

He laughed. 'We are not the dal and roti and paneer and curd - whatever those are - and vegetables and potatoes of society.'

'There are, however, people who really are necessary. Mostly they all into roughly three categories.'

'First are the producers, most importantly those who provide us with food. Farmers. And farm workers of all sorts. Nobody could live without the food they provide, the nourishment necessary to sustain life.'

'But that food wouldn't do us any good if it rotted on the farm, so we also need people to get it to us. Truck drivers, loaders, packers, grocers, all the people that get that dal and roti and paneer and vegetables and curd and potatoes to us.'

'And then there are those who clean up the mess. These are the least respected, but vitally important. Have you ever thought what it would be like if the garbage collectors refused to pick up your trash?

--An aside. In fact, I lived in Las Vegas for a time. Summers there in the desert are very, very hot, temperatures often hovering around 45C (115F) in the summer. I will never forget the summer the garbage collectors went on strike. My garbage was taken care of, though, thanks to Bodecker's teaching - and my own moral sense.--

'And the sewer workers and the grave diggers' - I didn't interrupt him to tell him we don't bury our dead, the fact is most Westerners do - 'and most women.'

That took me up. 'Huh?!'

'Most women spend most of their lives cleaning up after others, keeping homes livable. Think about your own home.'

I did. In our home, the men/boys did a lot more housework than in the average Sikh home (where, at least at that time, the men did little to nothing around the house), but still the bulk of the cleaning fell to the wives and our housekeeper. I vowed then and there never to be the perfect housekeeper, unlike most of my Sikh sisters, whose homes seem always spotless.

These are people society cannot get along without. Those who produce. Those who distribute. Those who clean up. These are the most important people, the ones most deserving of our respect. The ones who rarely get it.'

'Most of these people are workers, working class people, not the intellectuals. We are not just the dessert, we aren't the cake, we aren't even the frosting. I think we're those little sugar sprinkles that decorate the top of the cake.

Maybe we add a little beauty, a little sweetness, but people ought to wash out there mouths after eating those, they form cavities and eating too much makes them fat. My dear young Mai, we have to be careful not to become just a top-heavy burden.'

'Remember, we make life enjoyable; they make life possible. I suggest you learn to appreciate the workers and always treat them with the highest respect. If you ever start to consider yourself above these people, I promise you, I'll hunt you down and pull you down a few notches.'

To this day, his words are almost a mantra to me, a sort of poem.

Those who produce,
Those who distribute,
Those who clean up the mess.

Of course, I told Dad about all this. He agreed with what Mr. Bodecker had said; in fact, the two became fast friends.

These ideas weren't really new to me, however, although this expression of them was. One of our family legends fits in well here.

Why is it adults get great pleasure asking very young children,'What do you want to be when you grow up, little girl/boy? Do the childish dreams take them back to their own more innocent days, do they like to make fun of children's childishness or...do some of them actually want to know? Whatever the reason, when I was about 6, someone asked me and I fired back, 'I wanna be a Working Class Hero!' I have no idea where I might have picked that up, but it was never forgotten and to this day, when we are together, one of my brothers is sure to start singing - or at least whistling - L'Internationale. I was never actually a Communist, I have always been somewhat left of centre. I was told I'd outgrow this perversion, but I never have.

This philosophy of respecting workers has served me well in practical ways.

When I was, for a short time, playing the role of 'professor,' my colleagues couldn't figure out why, when some work needed done in my office, such as a light changed, it was done at once, while it took days or even weeks for the same service to be given them, or why I couldn't walk across campus without a groundskeeper handing me a flower or two.

As I mentioned above, my garbage collectors came and took mine during the strike, a way of saying thanks for the cold lemonade in the summer and hot coffee in the winter. ( I still provide those to our garbage collectors, by the way. Just a small way of saying thanks.) My 'colleagues' and my neighbours, of course, resented me, but they had never had a Bodecker, I guess, the set them down the correct path. Or seven older brothers to egg them on...

Note: The picture of the Sikh farm worker is from the Sacramento Valley in 1912, from a website called, Sikhs: The Most Visible Yet Most Misunderstood Minority. You might like to check it out.

Reprinted from the Khaliblog

A Smaller Version

A Smaller Version, originally uploaded by HarinderKaur.

From the 99%

THE PEOPLE UNITED
WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED!

ONE DEAD SINGH

 This holocaust did not happen only to the Sikh people, it happened to individual Sikhs.  Like me.

ONE DEAD SINGH

Who is he? Who is this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son is he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Is someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that will never come?

Where is he from? Does he live in Delhi or is he just visiting? Where was he born? What is his pind? When was he born? How old is he?

What is his occupation? Is he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or is he a taxi driver or a trucker?

What are his politics? Is he an Akali or a member of Congress? Is he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or is he political at all? Is he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.

Why is he keshdhari? Is it just habit, following family custom? Or is it deeply meaningful to him? Does he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or are those just incidentals that have fallen by the wayside of his life? Where is his turban? How does he feel as it is ripped from his head and his kesh is exposed?

How does he feel as he realises the mob is coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What goes on in his brain as the petrol is poured on him and set alight? What is he thinking as his body burns? Or is he beyond thought? Is he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?

What is his last awareness as he dies alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?

Questions without answers. Whoever he is, he deserves to be remembered. I doubt he had even a death certificate, so I have made him one.

(Click to enlarge)

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There is something so very final about the certificate. And, of course, I realise that all I have written is wrong and must be rewritten to reflect the truth of 25 26 27 years later.
Who was he? Who was this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son was he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Was someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that never came?

Where was he from? Did he live in Delhi or was he just visiting? Where was he born? What was his pind? When was he born? How old was he?

What was his occupation? Was he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or was he a taxi driver or a trucker?

What were his politics? Was he an Akali or a member of Congress? Was he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or was he political at all? Was he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.

Why was he keshdhari? Was it just habit, following family custom? Or was it deeply meaningful to him? Did he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or were those just incidentals that had fallen by the wayside of his life? Where was his turban? How did he feel as it was ripped from his head and his kesh was exposed?

How did he feel as he realised the mob was coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What went on in his brain as the petrol was poured on him and set alight? What was he thinking as his body burned? Or was he beyond thought? Was he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?

What was his last awareness as he died alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?

He was our brother and he was one single human being, one Sikh among the thousands murdered during the madness of those days in 1984.

He is our brother and he deserves justice.

One final, unanswered question: When?

THE CARNIVAL IS OVER

GOOD-BYE, SIMON.  MAY YOU FIND THE PEACE IN DEATH THAT ELUDED YOU IN LIFE.

MORE THOUGHTS ON 911 - T+10 YEARS AND COUNTING

Can you imagine 2,819 innocent people killed for no reason except some other people were filled with hate?  What kind of people could do such a thing?!  Surely thousands killed could never be forgotten.  And who could possibly expect the survivors and the families to ever recover?  The old life is gone and the new one difficult and sad.

Don't say that time heals all wounds.  Time heals nothing.  If the wounds are not properly treated, they can get infected and cause a slow, painful death.  Recovery is slow and difficult and uncertain, but we are a resilient species and most are able to go with their lives, live with that huge, gaping hole that never goes away.  It is good that we are surrounded by compassionate, caring people that are willing to help with the healing process, that do not advise us to "get over it and move on."    They see that that is simply impossible.  Of course, there are those who are not caring and compassionate, who retard the healing with their coldness and even hared.  They have their own problems.  We avoid them and ignore them as best we can.

What cannot be recovered we learn to live with.  We learn to laugh and enjoy ourselves again, live full, useful lives, contribute to society, move forward.  We work hard and eventually get to the point that it all becomes a constant presence in the back of the mind, not something always in front of our eyes.  It is a part of us, but not the only part.   We rediscover our humanity, in fact find a deeper humanity than we had before.

At some wonderful point, we may realise that our beloved dead want us to be happy, not to spend our lives in gloomy mourning, but to again enjoy the simple beauty of life, a child being amazed at the glow of a lightening bug, delighted at the purr of a kitten, swooning at the deliciousness of chocolate, laughing uncontrollably at old Three Stooges movies, again sleeping the sleep of the innocent.  

We may reach that point.  It is not impossible.  It is possible.

Not forgetting.  Overcoming.  This we hope for.  This we pray for.  This is my wish for all survivors of whatever tragedy life has brought them.   Please stop a moment and sing along with Pete Seeger and his many friends.

(Note:  Pete Seeger is a great overcomer, but that's a story for a different time.)

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwDcHLpCT4g

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Number of families who got no remains: 1,717
( this is heart breaking  )
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I cannot imagine how it would be to have no physical remains.  Of course, I lost mine, but I saw the bodies and that is very important.  Their ashes would have been scattered anyway.  I vaguely remember some sort of memorial in Montreal, but everything at the point is foggy-blurry.  

We are a strange species.  This is so important, to have a body, a funeral.  We pretend it's for the dead, but in fact, they are gone, beyond our remembrances;  they're really for the living.

This brings to mind a song I haven't thought of in at least 40 years:

I cannot buy you happiness, I cannot by you years;
I cannot buy you happiness, in place of all the tears.
But I can buy for you a gravestone, to lay behind your head.
Gravestones cheer the living, dear, they’re no use to the dead.

Here is a 1967 music video of the song, I would guess it would qualify as one of the first music videos. 

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qhUjixmP28

I seen to be overflowing with meaning and depth today, eh?  I have been given (and developed) a gift of expressing myself and have a compulsion to use it now and then.  I started out thinking about how USAers make such a big deal of 911 and no compassion toward those in other places who suffered needlessly at the hands of others.  Somehow, it changed, my thoughts and attitude changed as I wrote.  I saw how much I had learned and how much I have to share with these who suffered personal losses in 911.

After 911, several people got very angry at me that I didn't show the proper horror of the events of that day.   I bought us breakfast at McDonald's and we bought a pizza to bake for dinner.  There was no way at that time I could express what was in me. I couldn't even allow myself to feel much of anything.  Not only the obvious, but also the fact that Simon's son had been killed in a car wreck in Kenya (drunk driving) on June 10 and I was trying to care for a basketcase husband.  I was not yet ready, even in 2001, to look at my own feelings, but Simon's grief and then airplanes flying into buildings was just too much.  I went numb, which appeared as coldness to others.  

-- 

Note:  Should anyone want to see the Three Stooges Pie Fight (which I highly recommend), it is on YouTube at  Best Pie Fight Ever!

--

Credits:  All pictures are adapted from the public domain except the chocolates which were photographed by André Karwath 

I do think I owe a special thanks to Erik Colbourne whose cousin's leg was broken from people running on him at the World Trade Center.  Eric ji, whoever you are, you have my love and I hope that leg healed up - and your spirit, as well.

-- 

ARE THE TERRORISTS WINNING?

Source:  US Department of Defence

So, it's 11 September 2011, ten years later.

CBC has been obsessing about this, even outdoing the USA networks.

These have been a very difficult time for us Sikhs in North America.  We have been snubbed, bullied,beaten and murdered in a case of mnistaken identity.  I admit that I often think that this is a willing mistake on the part of those who have chosen to hate us.   We look different - even worse, we CHOOSE to look different.  We choose not to blend in, we choose to stand out.

Still, I, at least, feel a bit guilty when I explain that I am not a Muslim, a chunni is not a hijab.  Am I implying there is something wrong about being a Muslim?  No, I am not!  But sometimes, it is taken that way, especially by Muslims.  I can usually get them to see what I mean by asking, "Would you like to be taken for a Sikh?"

I heard of a group of Christian girls and women in Kansas City, who, with much publicity, donned hijabs after the attacks with the state motive to make it impossible to look at a woman and know iof she is a Muslim.  Look at the picture below.  Can you be sure of her religion?

GIRL IN HIJAB 

I have no idea how the Muslim community reacted to this, but it raised an interesting question:  How would we react as a community if a group of non-Sikhs grew kesh and tied turbans to protect us?  I'm really not certain, but it's interesting to think about.
Whatever.

It has been ten years, ten difficult years for Sikhs in the USA.  I will not compare the North American experience with what the Sikhs of India suffered in the last 15-20 years of the Twentieth Century.  That is a different situation, and I hope my fellow Diasporan Sikhs draw courage and commitment from those Sikhs. 

I think that this would be a good time to renew our commitment to stand for good for all humanity.  Let us live the truth of the words we say at least once every day:

Photo:  Courtesy NASA

To that end, I suggest we join with Pete Seeger, a great USAer and a great humanitarian, singing the great USA song of hope, optimism and commitment, WE SHALL OVERCOME.    I'll make it easy for you.  This video has on-screen lyrics.

CREDIT: GIRL IN HIJAB by Mohammed Ibrahim
               http://www.clker.com/clipart-girl-wearing-hijab.html