Colonize This!: Young Women of Color on Today's Feminism (22 page)

During the summer of 1990 my mother was doing research in the Kanesatake Mohawk Territory in Quebec to complete her master’s thesis, and she ended up behind the barricades during the Oka Crisis with my two younger sisters. I was in a state of turmoil. I had no idea of her previous involvement in such things. I could not comprehend why she was staying there or why she would keep my young sisters with her. I felt like shouting to the world to let everyone know how angry I was. I did not understand where my anger came from. But differently from any other time in my life, I wanted to tell people I was Mohawk. I felt a sense of real connection, stronger than I had ever felt before. When my mother came back to Ottawa after the crisis was over, I began to see another side of her. She was more vibrant, with a sense of purpose. One of her brothers from behind the barricades offered me healing and showed me a deep spiritual side of indigenous identity that I had never encountered before.

 

With his gift I began a long journey of self-discovery, though I was still accompanied by confusion about who my mother really was. As she prepared for her many court battles resulting from her political participation, I headed off for university. When I began my first year of studies, I was still angry and burdened with a sense of loneliness. I felt a need to reconnect with my identity. I decided to do this through my schoolwork. I began to orient my courses toward “Iroquois” topics. I often phoned my mother, who began to teach me what she knew. If she couldn’t explain something properly, she faxed me pages from books and newsletters circulating in Kahnawake.

As I began to understand more, I felt a different kind of pride in who I was, a pride based on knowledge and understanding. I finally began to see who my mother is as a Kanienkehaka woman. Without us realizing it, she had raised my sisters and I in the traditions of the Haudenosaunee, the precontact confederation of the Kanienkehaka, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga and Seneca nations, which has been widely referred to by the colonial name of the Iroquois. My mother taught me to stop and think about everything before making a decision, as is done in the Longhouse. She taught me to be confident and straightforward, to believe that “Hey, I’m a Onkwehonwe woman, and I’m equal to anyone. I can look after myself!” She taught me respect for others and their voices, for other cultures and other nations, for elders and the most fundamental thing: that I must think about how anything I do will affect the seven generations to come. In a sense, my sisters and I had become my mother’s ultimate contribution to the movement.

Many remark upon visiting Kahnawake today that it does not look like a reserve. Yet we are constrained by the typical limitations that frustrate the existence of every reserve. Our traditional life was governed by two very important principles: sharing and reciprocity. With these tenets severely limited by government interference over the years, we have lost much of our communal way of life. The Longhouse is the center of our traditional ceremonies. Many older people have returned to the Longhouse after experiencing a lifetime cut off from Kanienkehaka ways, for when they were young, it was illegal to continue the traditions of our ancestors. Through education and church indoctrination, through all the negative stereotypes and assumptions evident in Hollywood films and popular music, they were forced into another way of relating to the world. My people were not allowed to speak our Kanienkehaka language, to have Kanienkehaka names or to practice Kanienkehaka beliefs, including our songs and our ceremonies.

My own mother was not allowed to use her given Kanienkehaka name, Kahn-Tineta. It is a name whose full meaning cannot be translated into English. Does it mean “she stands in tall grasses,” or “she makes a fresh path across a green field”? Does it signify her birth in the spring? Or the memory of some member of our clan who had passed away? Her school teachers did not consider the value of the culture she inherited. She was forced to use the generic Christian name Mary, given to her by the nuns at school. At seven years old, she came home from school crying because she had been told she belonged to a dying race.

All of this had a detrimental effect on generations of our women. I realize now that in some ways those women who questioned our right to participate in the Wasase were resisting the effects of Western influences on our culture. European understanding, of our society and of their own, is skewed by male-centered cultural biases. It is worth remembering that the role of Haudenosaunee women did not automatically change after contact. Women continued to do the same things. We had a well-defined and important function in our culture. It is becoming more apparent to all of us that the church and the colonial state worked together to weaken indigenous societies. These colonizing institutions realized that our status had to be changed if they were to break our traditional worldview and teach us “civilized” European ways. As the colonizers imposed their legislation on us—deposing our governments, imprisoning our men and sending our children to residential schools—the bitterness of these lessons has been incised into our oral history.

The mother of the girl whose suicide attempt inspired our dance told me about her family’s experience: “My father was always sort of a Longhouse, but we had to hide. Cause they’ll get you arrested. You get arrested if you are Longhouse. And everybody is so afraid of you, as if you were a criminal. It’s still like that. I don’t know when it’s going to stop. They’re still like that. If you’re a Longhouse.” The church and the state could not change the physical reality of our lives, but in many ways they changed our thinking, which has been more damaging.

 

With all of this sad history in mind, it is easier to understand why some women felt impelled to question our participation in the Wasase. But the fact that they felt free to speak up and raise their concerns shows that some of our old spirit has survived. Our ancestors kept something alive. Through the Wasase and our use of the Kaienerekowa to solve the questions surrounding it, we were all empowered. Many of our women are single mothers like me, and in our society our connection with our children is most important. We all support each other. As I raise my children in the Longhouse tradition, I have come to see that the aim of our constitution is to ensure a balance of power and peace. I am proud of the strong role we women have to play in such a dynamic system. Our social importance is not dependent on any particular man. Our philosophy places us at the very center of the nation, reflecting our procreative powers, which mirror the life-giving strength of Mother Earth. We are the foundation of everything. We give birth. We raise the children. We carry our clan titles. We are the caretakers of the land. We are the rational mind of our traditional government. We advise the men and appoint them to office. We deliberate about when it is time to go to war, and we provide the calmness and stability that are needed to survive.

Since I took part in the Wasase, I have come full circle. There was a time when I did not understand who I was or where I came from. As I raise my children and move ahead in my academic career, I see now just how much my mother taught me. She showed me by example. Through participating in our old traditions and writing about them, I have had my eyes opened to my history and future. I now see that we already have the tools we need to succeed and to be able to work together. Our power comes from our men and women participating together in the social and spiritual Kanienkehaka traditions. Our ceremonies create a sense of openness and unity, and with unity comes empowerment, which is necessary not only in times of war but also in everyday life. No feminist theory is as powerful as the philosophy entrenched in the Kaienerekowa. The Wasase helped us find the strength and unity needed to provide a future for the seven generations to come. It showed us that we can all be a part of the dance.

 

Tanmeet Sethi

 

 

 

 

 

It is a small photo. You know it is an older print because a white, scalloped border frames the black and white image. My mother and father stand on a hill with a view of the city of Seattle behind them. They are newly married, but they are complete strangers. It is 1963 and my mother wears a sari and large sunglasses, with her hair in a beehive. It was her first time in the United States. Her father wanted a son-in-law who was industrious and able to stand on his own feet. That is how my mother came to this country. It was a short trip back to India for her husband, a three-day engagement and a three-day wedding. And just like that, my mother was transported to a land where she had no friends or family. There were no Indian grocery stores or Indian restaurants. There was no e-mail then. It was an ordeal to even make an international call. My mother says you have to make home wherever you are. This is what she did. And she thrived. I think of this whenever I hear anyone call Indian women “weak.”

 

It is another Sunday morning; I have the routine down now. I am only twelve but I know all the guru’s names in order and can play the harmonium in gurdwara. My religion is Sikhism and this is my place of worship. I feel at home here. At the same time, I never know how to explain my church to my American friends. Women on one side, men on the other. We all sit on the same floor, and my mom tells me that is because, in God’s eyes, we are all equal. Why can’t we sit together? That is just the way it is, she says. I remember seeing a phrase in one of my schoolbooks—“separate but equal”—and I think I understand.

 

Her brown baseball cap contains her long, flowing, black hair in a bun. She would not be caught dead back home in the pink-and-brown striped shirt and brown polyester pants that complete the outfit. It is a Baskin-Robbins, not a fashion runway by any means. Every ten-year-old child’s dream and it is my reality. My parents own this childhood ecstasy and my mother spends her days here, scooping out the thirty-one flavors for the local Louisianans to enjoy. In that outfit I suppose it is hard to recognize my mother. I think most customers are comfortable enough with their assessment of her as a foreigner of some sort. They wince at her Indian accent and dark skin. Most assume she is Latina and start to use their rusty high school Spanish with her. They seem offended when she tells them she does not understand what they are saying. Others just speak very slowly, and for some reason loudly, assuming she will have a hard time understanding them.

I am embarrassed by the way they look at her, like she is an alien of sorts. I wonder why they cannot see what I see. A woman who left all that was familiar to her to come to a foreign land where she is always an outsider. A woman who learned an entirely new way of living at an age when most of these people’s educations were done. A woman who left an upper-class family in India to work for a living with her husband in America. A woman who had to constantly explain her background because no one but her husband understood her memories. For a while I thought she was invisible. But then I realized that these people were blind.

 

A graceful artist performs the classical dance of Bharatnatyam and we study her, transfixed. Black kohl outlines her eyes in bold, dark borders. Her hair is tied back with garlands of jasmine strung through the curve of her braid. Shining gold necklaces and bracelets outline her form. Heavy bells adorn her ankles and sing her dance with every step. Her outfit is a juxtaposition of fuchsias and bright blues on a silk background that fans out in a peacock splendor when she bends her knees. She bows to the Mother Earth first to ask for advance forgiveness for the upcoming steps and leaps. Her hands are poised in distinct positions, changing with every step, for they also tell a story in their own tongue. The orchestra frames the dance with its
raag,
chosen specifically for this story-telling adventure. As she makes defiant moves with her long, elegant fingers and her graceful, bell-covered feet, she transports us along a heavenly story of the gods and goddesses. The spectators, both men and women, are entranced by her gestures and powerful stances. Riveted to their seats, they hang on her every word. She speaks and guides with her steps. As she moves, she acts as our teacher and we all listen.

My grandmother’s key chain is no ordinary key chain. Its chiming sound is subtle but pervasive. Made of sterling silver, it hung ornately on my grandmother’s
salwar
and always made an unmistakable sound everywhere she went. The ringing filled my childhood memories of my grandmother’s house in India. It hung a few inches long, with three rows of silver bells and a paisley-shaped border. Salwars do not have pockets, and its hook was an ingenious way to attach it to her body. It held the keys to all the doors and all the cupboards, where she kept her most precious silk garments and jewelry, the jewelry she was given as a new bride. The jewelry that she divided between her four daughters, two daughters-in-law and eight granddaughters before her passing six years ago. She gave me a set of earrings that hang delicately like chandeliers. They are made with pearls, garnets and rubies and reflect brilliantly off my brightly colored
lenghas
and saris. When I wear them, I think of how many weddings and parties they have attended. But my most prized possession of my grandmother’s is her key chain, because now I wear it, hooked onto my waist. As I move, its bells move in a rhythm that comforts me in a way I cannot explain. Maybe I am in awe of its power. I remember how my grandmother held the unique ability to open parts of the house. She was the ruler of that house’s treasures and now I hold the key to mine.

 

“What do you do for a living?” he asks innocently.

“I work in a hospital,” I say. (I don’t think strangers should be privy to my personal life, so I am purposefully vague.)

“Oh, so are you a nurse?” Of course he thinks that. This is my standard response from the average white American man. Always assuming I fit the stereotype of a woman.

“What do you do for a living?” This time asked by an Indian man.

“I work in a hospital,” I say.

“Of course you are a doctor; all good Indian daughters are.” This is my standard response from the average Indian man. Always assuming I live only to please others.

 

The women on the other side of the room chatter in a rumbling buzz of animated sounds. It takes a while before I hear fragments of their debate. “Poor thing,” I hear and then, “What will become of her?” I see my cousin try to leave the room inconspicuously, but not before I catch a grimace of shame on her face. She is twenty-four and unmarried, an unthinkable prospect to many of our female elders. She has not mentioned any stress to me about this during my summer vacation there. Maybe she is embarrassed, I realize. Maybe she thinks I, a still unmarried twenty-eight-year-old living in the States, will judge her as well. Suddenly, I wonder what they think of me. By now, they must either think I am gay or that I have a sordid past that has blemished my record. I think about my cousin and the pressure that lies on her to find a suitable match. What does she want to do, or has anyone even bothered to ask? A flurry of thoughts come to mind and I want to run to my cousin and comfort her. “You should do what you want to do. There is more to life than getting married.” But I hesitate. How can I impose the ideals of an American culture in which she will not live? But how can I allow her to be castigated by her culture for being human? I struggle with the realization that we are sisters, but sisters separated by more than miles.

 

Everyone
oohs
and
aahs
at this picture, my body painted with intricate patterns of
mehndi,
or henna, as Americans call it. It is the night before my wedding. My family and friends dance around me in a blur of lush colors and sounds. A woman paints curved lines and paisley prints on my hands and feet. She paints the letters of my husband’s first name, hidden delicately in the texture of the flowing design. Tradition states that on the wedding night, the husband should look for his name. If he cannot find it, the wife has eternal control of the house. It is a tradition steeped in old thought, where the wife has to win power in the house.

But even in modern times, it makes for romantic foreplay. I had always dreamed of the ceremonial mehndi pattern I would choose, as a Christian girl dreams of her white bridal gown. The origins of this ancient ritual lie in the decorating of the bride, to make her beautiful for her new husband. It is my tradition. It is chauvinistic, some could say. I know they would say that if they did not think the henna was so hip. Now, so many women have adopted the trend of wearing henna tattoos. It makes me angry that they frivolously wear these designs without understanding their origins and then tout their feminine power, as if they are stronger than other women across the world. I suppose they can be selective when they want to be.

It is only a few minutes before my wedding. I am looking out the window, dressed all in red. I thought this day would never come. I chose my own spouse and met with resistance. It seemed hopeless at times. But, eventually, my parents accepted us lovingly, unconditionally, and here I stand. I am weighted down by gold, gold on my arms, gold hanging from my ears, gold on my neck, even on my fingers and toes. There is a gold
tikka
on my middle part and a red
duputta
over that. It is heavy but not a burden. It is what women in my family have done for generations. I wear the weight of my culture and class and enter another cycle of my womanhood. My mother adjusts my
kurtha.
She stands behind me with a beautiful lavender and gold
salwar-kameez,
her face shining brighter than my jewelry. The picture is in black and white, but I can still see all the colors. Every time I look at it, tears enter my eyes. My mother, standing behind me in support; that is where she will always be.

 

They look so innocent, sitting on the bed, all girlishly joking with each other. It is hard to believe that this is an Indian brothel and that these women have to sell themselves for a living. They represent all cultures of India, from the fair-skinned Punjabi women of the North to the darker women of Madras. They all wear ornately colored saris and various gold ornaments. They explain their lives to me. They are like any other group of women who have to choose a profession for survival. They are excited to have a visitor, especially one who does not want anything from them but their stories.

It is a hot and humid day in Mumbai, as most are; the women wipe the sweat from their foreheads with the colored borders of their saris. They tell me why they moved to the red-light districts, their individual stories. One young girl tells how her in-laws threw her out because of an insufficient dowry. Wracked with shame and fear, she could not go back to her home. That would spell failure for her younger sister’s chance of marriage. Another was beaten by her husband for her infertility, another almost burned by her in-laws for the darkness of her skin. I sit in amazement of the stark honesty with which they tell their stories. They are all so welcoming to me, an outsider in many ways. We sit on the bed and laugh like friends while they explain the inevitability of their arrival to Falkland Street, one of the largest brothel districts in this massive city. The stories continue but all have a common thread. These women, without education or any money, followed their only recourse. Prostitution was an escape for them, a way to sustain their independence.

I am here on a medical assignment, to provide HIV education and prevention for Indian sex workers. I ask them if they are scared of HIV. They tell me that they refuse customers unless they bring a condom. Here, unlike their previous homes, they wield power with a small rubber ring. They express admiration that I am a doctor. But I have more admiration for them. Here they are, a reconstructed family, founded on a mutual understanding of what it takes to claim a life of one’s own.