Now marks the 38th hour of a terrorist takeover in Mumbai, a western coastal city-- India's financial capital off the Arabian Sea.
I'm two hours away by flight in Delhi. In the past 8 years Delhi has seen similar human heists and terrorists blasts -- but nothing as targeted at Mumbai, where jean-clad gun-masters have shot more than 80 Indians and a clutch of Westerners. At least 100 people are dead.
Americans, British, and Jews are under unique attack. The terrorists, more than a dozen of them, are checking passports. But in India, now is a bad time to be a civilian, no matter your nationality. And across the world, as belligerent acts of political violence spikes, we are all on alert.
Yesterday, when phone calls from concerned family came at dawn, a wave of pain came over me. I was just in Mumbai 3 weeks ago. And everytime I shop in Delhi, a friend can point to every pillar and post where a body was blown to parts by blasts that struck a week before I arrived in Delhi.
In Mumbai, I was reporting at a women's business conference at a hotel that shares a name with the Taj Hotel now burned and blood-splattered. The Mumbai terrorists attacked the Taj Hotel and the Oberoi Hotel, a train station, restaurants, and a hospital.
Learning of the carnage in Mumbai, I couldn't help but think of the spirited and determined employees of the Taj Lands End where I was covering a conference. I couldn't escape thinking that people just like them -- warm, surviving, everyday people--put on their clothes for the day, said goodbye to their homes and families, entered their jobs, and faced the worst consequence for engaging the world.
For the rest of the day, I joined colleagues and friends, in angst and fear, debating who to blame for this terrorism; if we should launch a war of arms, or a war of silence -- refusing to grant the terrorists their limelight.
Either way, when will we see that our policies now, our state actions now, have failed us, have failed to reduce terrorism? When will we start thinking alternatively and passionately? When will we say No!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Sex in my Obama Panties and World Aids Day Project
I'm bringing together two important events -- Obama's presidential victory and World Aids Day-- to form a project: My Obama Panties and World Aids Day Project.
The site of this convergence will be my bum, where I am currently wearing a pair of Obama panties, and where my fight against HIV/AIDS starts.
Earlier this year, I got a pair of Obama panties -- underwear with Obama's face on it. I didn't wear them until today. It's a long story, but last night at a dance club in Delhi, I ripped my favorite jeans, my only jeans in Delhi, and today, I wanted to defy the destruction of my pants by wearing terribly proud underwear. So I grabbed the Obama panties.
Then the idea dawned on me. What if I wore my Obama underwear everyday, of course, washing them every night? Obama could be an intimate reminder to bring excellence to every part of my life, especially my reproductive parts, and also the men I choose to date.
This logic really got me brainstorming some action around World Aids Day, which pushes the global movement to stop HIV/AIDS every Dec. 1.
I find my best activism begins with my body and my life.
So in honor of World Aids Day – and its 20th anniversary--I am going to don the Obama panties – Every Day – to personalize my pursuit of a better world that Obama personifies. Only a man like Obama is worth even seeing my Obama panties.
Black women especially need an Obama Panties & World Aids Day project.
Today, black women form the cover-girl image of the Hiv/Aids epidemic in America. Black women are more than half of all new cases of Hiv – still more than 40,000 a year. And I'm writing this from India, where so many women, like in America, contract the virus from their main partner.
Many experts point to a lack of sex education in black schools and towns as a main cause.
But let's be real: Black women still struggle against the distortion of their worth in pop culture and in the world. Starved for positive reflections of our worth, we may be prone to finding security in haphazard relations instead of the independence, and self-study required to turn this epidemic around.
So I hope my project will encourage a conversation about personal responsibility.
Unlike many women in Africa, South America, and Asia, black American women have an incredible degree of choice in our sexual matters and education.
How long are we going to expect free, government-issued condoms to protect our crisis of self-esteem that undergirds poor sexual choices?
Sex in a much-needed conversation about race
After several days of refusing group hang-outs and instead, catching up on American music and books, I went out with two American journalist friends and a former AP reporter in Delhi who is Indian. All ladies --so much to talk about.
So we landed at a square table in Shalom-- a restaurant where the men waiters look a lot better than the food tastes--and the cathartic blabbering began with a topic ceremonious among girlfriends-- men!
Right away, the Indian lady talked about her Caribbean-born Indian husband who feels like a double immigrant. He's not exactly able to call the black Caribbean home, and then, after moving to America, he still wonders how his estranged Indian heritage forms his identity.
His double immigrancy was an expressway to talking about race and double consciousness: that historic feeling held by many black Americans who know their claim to America but can't reap the rewards of this claim.
Being so far from America, I've been struggling to articulate my ideas about race, but last night, we four women arrived at some points that are never too late to make.
And here, I'll share them with you.
Me: I experience the stares in Delhi, like I imagine anyone who looks different in this city would. But once people learn I'm American, suddenly I get the open door.
Indian lady: When they see you're American, many Indians just see money. If you ever need to hire an ass kisser, hire an Indian! Indians know how to kiss ass like nobody else!"
Me: I really feel racism at home in America. But there's a distinction. I experience a lot of prejudice. Racism happens when we start talking money, hiring, and systems. A study in Chicago showed that resumes with white names were 10 times more likely to be called for an interview than identical resumes with black names. See that's racism.
All my life, I've battled the perception that my race marks me as unintelligent. I can't tell you how many times I sat in a waiting room for an interview just to realize the other folks waiting for me were expecting a white person to walk in the door named "Malena." The idea that a black person could be so ambitious never crossed their mind. And I still get followed around in a boutique. Black people are tired of being criminalized.
[Later]:
Indian lady: I'm tired of people calling Obama African American. He is not African American! He's biracial. He's not even a son of a slave! Why can't America have a biracial president? Then it would really be a victory. For white people and for black people. I just don't get it.
American reporter 2: I think when it comes to race in America, race is whatever the public needs it to be at the time. Right now, black Americans needed Obama to be black, to claim their victory. But whites needed Obama to be black too, to relieve the guilt that the country can't elect a black man.
Me: Like so many Americans, Obama was not born black, but he became black, having the identity imposed on him. But also, Obama chose blackness as a political and social identity. But let's be honest, Obama wouldn't have stood a chance of winning if he were married to a white woman. That would have stole his claim to blackness in the eyes and blacks and threatened whites who still fear black men sleeping with white women.
Your bread?
So we landed at a square table in Shalom-- a restaurant where the men waiters look a lot better than the food tastes--and the cathartic blabbering began with a topic ceremonious among girlfriends-- men!
Right away, the Indian lady talked about her Caribbean-born Indian husband who feels like a double immigrant. He's not exactly able to call the black Caribbean home, and then, after moving to America, he still wonders how his estranged Indian heritage forms his identity.
His double immigrancy was an expressway to talking about race and double consciousness: that historic feeling held by many black Americans who know their claim to America but can't reap the rewards of this claim.
Being so far from America, I've been struggling to articulate my ideas about race, but last night, we four women arrived at some points that are never too late to make.
And here, I'll share them with you.
Me: I experience the stares in Delhi, like I imagine anyone who looks different in this city would. But once people learn I'm American, suddenly I get the open door.
Indian lady: When they see you're American, many Indians just see money. If you ever need to hire an ass kisser, hire an Indian! Indians know how to kiss ass like nobody else!"
Me: I really feel racism at home in America. But there's a distinction. I experience a lot of prejudice. Racism happens when we start talking money, hiring, and systems. A study in Chicago showed that resumes with white names were 10 times more likely to be called for an interview than identical resumes with black names. See that's racism.
All my life, I've battled the perception that my race marks me as unintelligent. I can't tell you how many times I sat in a waiting room for an interview just to realize the other folks waiting for me were expecting a white person to walk in the door named "Malena." The idea that a black person could be so ambitious never crossed their mind. And I still get followed around in a boutique. Black people are tired of being criminalized.
[Later]:
Indian lady: I'm tired of people calling Obama African American. He is not African American! He's biracial. He's not even a son of a slave! Why can't America have a biracial president? Then it would really be a victory. For white people and for black people. I just don't get it.
American reporter 2: I think when it comes to race in America, race is whatever the public needs it to be at the time. Right now, black Americans needed Obama to be black, to claim their victory. But whites needed Obama to be black too, to relieve the guilt that the country can't elect a black man.
Me: Like so many Americans, Obama was not born black, but he became black, having the identity imposed on him. But also, Obama chose blackness as a political and social identity. But let's be honest, Obama wouldn't have stood a chance of winning if he were married to a white woman. That would have stole his claim to blackness in the eyes and blacks and threatened whites who still fear black men sleeping with white women.
Your bread?
Sex in Beyonce's "Single Ladies (Put a ring on it)"
Just recently, when ripping the net of strong-black-woman music, I ran into Beyonce's new song, "Single Ladies (Put a ring on it!)".
The second breakout crank on her third solo Album, the song was just the magic I needed to remind me that I am always in control of my wants, desires, and my goals. And I can’t hang on to people who aren’t about building a bold new world with me.
Most refreshing, Beyonce toughened me up about men and my frustration with feeling so hungry for marriage --and primarily because living in Delhi makes me crave something stable and consistent. But she helped me reassert the ‘it!’-ness that I have!
So on the dot, I sent the video to some friends. Very shockingly, hardly anyone agreed with my reading of Beyonce as an ultra-feminist! Beyonce didn’t just spark a hot dance that I’m aggressively trying to learn, but she's started a real talk about women, marriage, and today.
You gotta see this video. It's ground breaking. And below, read some of friend's analysis.
Robert said: "Completely post-feminist. If Mariah Carey did that song, it would be more showy and if Christina Aguilera did it, it would be mournful. With Beyonce, it's matter-of-fact and dismissive."
Bukola said: "I fail to see how this is about female empowerment or feminism. At the end of the day Beyonce has to shake her ass at the camera to get attention. How is that post-feminist? The word you're looking for is faux-feminism."
Brie said: "At first I was surprised by some of the dance moves, then I remembered, this is Beyonce and she did coin the term 'bootylicous.'"
I said: "We all end up shaking our ass for some attention. It may not be as graphic as Beyonce, but in private or in public, we strut our stuff, and we ride so much of our confidence on our quality of booty shaking. I think she's making the reality plain. As much as the ring is a metaphor for the love she wants--Her booty is a metaphor for the love she has to give!”
The second breakout crank on her third solo Album, the song was just the magic I needed to remind me that I am always in control of my wants, desires, and my goals. And I can’t hang on to people who aren’t about building a bold new world with me.
Most refreshing, Beyonce toughened me up about men and my frustration with feeling so hungry for marriage --and primarily because living in Delhi makes me crave something stable and consistent. But she helped me reassert the ‘it!’-ness that I have!
So on the dot, I sent the video to some friends. Very shockingly, hardly anyone agreed with my reading of Beyonce as an ultra-feminist! Beyonce didn’t just spark a hot dance that I’m aggressively trying to learn, but she's started a real talk about women, marriage, and today.
You gotta see this video. It's ground breaking. And below, read some of friend's analysis.
Robert said: "Completely post-feminist. If Mariah Carey did that song, it would be more showy and if Christina Aguilera did it, it would be mournful. With Beyonce, it's matter-of-fact and dismissive."
Bukola said: "I fail to see how this is about female empowerment or feminism. At the end of the day Beyonce has to shake her ass at the camera to get attention. How is that post-feminist? The word you're looking for is faux-feminism."
Brie said: "At first I was surprised by some of the dance moves, then I remembered, this is Beyonce and she did coin the term 'bootylicous.'"
I said: "We all end up shaking our ass for some attention. It may not be as graphic as Beyonce, but in private or in public, we strut our stuff, and we ride so much of our confidence on our quality of booty shaking. I think she's making the reality plain. As much as the ring is a metaphor for the love she wants--Her booty is a metaphor for the love she has to give!”
Sex in my financial enlightenment!
Oooooookay! Now, I'm back.
And I have a new resolve. I will write every day!
Part of my reason is because I'm reading "Rich Dad, Poor Dad," an inspirational guide on how to get financially savvy. The book is a breezy and didactic read and I love it.
One lesson that stuck out is this:
Many poor or broke people who work their asses off don't realize the difference between an asset and a liability. An asset is something that makes you money, a liability is something that spends it.
The author of the book, Robert Kiyosaki, says we gotta find the things that are assets. Many of us burn a lot of cash on buying stuff instead of investing cash into asset-creating programs. The goal is to own your talents, your money-generating production instead of having others own them.
To me, that means I'm better off financially leveraging my talents in markets where they have value, in addition to saving my money, consuming less and targeting my consumption toward goals like a mutual fund instead of a leather couch when I know the futon will do.
Super capitalist Warren Buffett would agree. Right now, I'm reading a book about his rise to Wall Street hall of fame and his philosophy.
See, Buffett loves earning money, but he hates spending more than he has to. He prefers cheap restaurants and reasonable home arrangements. Making money is a sport to him, not a way of filling a consumption lust. Reading about Buffett, I learned that some things will always have a certain value --like coats in Chicago and flip flops in California. Looking at things this way, I'm inspired to work on building and leveraging talents that are intrinsically and classically valued -- like writing!
Which brings me back to my blog.
Why not empower my blog financially? Especially since I'll be blogging anyway!
Today marks the start.
Not only will I be working harder, writing daily insights, I will investigate dynamic methods of launching my site as an ideas forum, in addition, securing ways of monetizing the blog.
I hope you join me -- Sex in the Delhi loyalists...
If you're even a tad excited, drop me a note!
And I have a new resolve. I will write every day!
Part of my reason is because I'm reading "Rich Dad, Poor Dad," an inspirational guide on how to get financially savvy. The book is a breezy and didactic read and I love it.
One lesson that stuck out is this:
Many poor or broke people who work their asses off don't realize the difference between an asset and a liability. An asset is something that makes you money, a liability is something that spends it.
The author of the book, Robert Kiyosaki, says we gotta find the things that are assets. Many of us burn a lot of cash on buying stuff instead of investing cash into asset-creating programs. The goal is to own your talents, your money-generating production instead of having others own them.
To me, that means I'm better off financially leveraging my talents in markets where they have value, in addition to saving my money, consuming less and targeting my consumption toward goals like a mutual fund instead of a leather couch when I know the futon will do.
Super capitalist Warren Buffett would agree. Right now, I'm reading a book about his rise to Wall Street hall of fame and his philosophy.
See, Buffett loves earning money, but he hates spending more than he has to. He prefers cheap restaurants and reasonable home arrangements. Making money is a sport to him, not a way of filling a consumption lust. Reading about Buffett, I learned that some things will always have a certain value --like coats in Chicago and flip flops in California. Looking at things this way, I'm inspired to work on building and leveraging talents that are intrinsically and classically valued -- like writing!
Which brings me back to my blog.
Why not empower my blog financially? Especially since I'll be blogging anyway!
Today marks the start.
Not only will I be working harder, writing daily insights, I will investigate dynamic methods of launching my site as an ideas forum, in addition, securing ways of monetizing the blog.
I hope you join me -- Sex in the Delhi loyalists...
If you're even a tad excited, drop me a note!
Monday, November 10, 2008
Sex in the Delhi auto rickshaw
Photo by LoveLeLisa
My video to come.
A pot of millions, Delhi has over 130,000 rickshaw taxis sputtering around the city. Competition is thick like the pollution. Yet still, drivers turn customers down a lot. And many times because they don't want to drive a short distance. The longer the ride, the more likely they can hit you with a ballpark fair.
Last Sunday, I'd had it with auto drivers refusing to take me home. While standing on a corner near Khan Market, 15 minutes passed and two rickshaw drivers had stopped for me and sped off when they learned I wanted to go just around the corner. I stood on a long, dusky street. Five minutes into my wait, a skinny man with his hands behind his back walked up to me. I assumed he had a knife. So I stared him down so hard I missed an empty auto racing by. Shooooot, Delhi!
Finally, and as I started cursing out loud, a driver pulled up to me. By then, the night had totally collapsed on the city, and I was alone, trying to get a ride. The driver had a stringy head of hair that licked the skin below his hears. He was hunched over his wheel like most auto drivers are by the end of the day. He seemed too tired to say no. So I grabbed the main bar of the rickshaw and blurted my street -- Tilak Marg! And its address in Hindi.
It all appeared in slow motion -- but the driver shook his mangy bob no and pressed his gas. But I was in the mood for justice and exercise. So I took flight on foot and ran alongside the auto, holding it with my right arm. And as he sped up, I jumped into the moving auto, causing the driver to halt the auto and turn around.
That's when I went off.
"Look, there are police across the street," I pointed at the darkness. "If you don't take me to Tilak Marg, I will get them."
I couldn't even hear what he said back. So I kept yelling until the wheels started moving.
"It's the law. You take me. Now! 40 rupees!"
Right away, the driver turned in the direction of my house. Sure, I ripped a man's man-skin off. But that's what I had to do.
The whole ride, I sat up in the jittery machine in case he made a wrong turn and I had to jump out. Once we reached my destination, I gave him my money and patted him on the shoulder. I hope he learned a lesson.
****
And here is where I find my main frustration in India. I'm tired of fighting for a ride.
Like many men in this city, women with no car in Delhi have to take auto rickshaws. But being a woman in Delhi is a safety liability.
Buses, like many side streets in Delhi are clunky, horny cages of men. Every time I think about hopping on one, I see arms groping out the bus window and the warp of men turn to look at me from the bus, and I start chasing down a rickshaw.
Knowing how much people depend on them, rickshaw drivers go out of their way to mark up their fair in Delhi. The first few weeks I was in Delhi, many of them lied about the agreed-upon price at the end of the ride. I now prepare the exact change.
A popular way getting more money is to get the passenger so riled up, you know, so ready to knuckle-up, that you give an embarrassed-faced, peace-making tip having cursed the driver’s mama and kids.
Aside from the fair fights, many drivers have just been assaulting -- and only when I'm alone. One time, a driver kept slowing his car down to turn his entire body toward me and then body search me with his eyes. Another laughed wildly and every time he checked his rear view to look at me, his laughter got bigger and bigger.
Recently, I invented a cruel pose to avoid any hint that I can go for a run.
First, instead of asking the driver if he can take me, I practically bark out my destination. I then slap my hand on the central rickshaw bar connecting the front driver's seat with the passengers'.
When the driver repeats my order to confirm his trip I say yes with my best scowl, like I'm saying to-hell-with-you!
Yet still, people hear my accent and feel vibrations of a money tree. So now, I don a South African accent. All this-- the gangsta warrior dance and the fake African accent --makes me feel like a new kind of woman.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Sex in my take on Obama, written in news history
I tried and tried to resist being interviewed in India about Obama's win.
Reporters always call me when something big and black happens.
But when it comes to talking the Iraq war or the global financial crisis, then suddenly, my color and my gender disqualifies me. Which reminds me of the irony of watching the news of Obama's win on BBC TV where a table of old white men analyzed the election numbers.
Ok, who am I kidding!?
I was ecstatic to learn a reporter with the Indian Express* in Delhi wanted to talk to me about Obama! Being black in India has its perks for sure.
Chinki Sinha, the reporter, didn't quote me 100 percent-- not shocking here-- but this is what I said:
*I initially called Chinki's paper the "Financial Express." That's wrong. She works for the "Indian Express."
Reporters always call me when something big and black happens.
But when it comes to talking the Iraq war or the global financial crisis, then suddenly, my color and my gender disqualifies me. Which reminds me of the irony of watching the news of Obama's win on BBC TV where a table of old white men analyzed the election numbers.
Ok, who am I kidding!?
I was ecstatic to learn a reporter with the Indian Express* in Delhi wanted to talk to me about Obama! Being black in India has its perks for sure.
Chinki Sinha, the reporter, didn't quote me 100 percent-- not shocking here-- but this is what I said:
For African-American Malena K Amusa, who cast her vote at a party organised by the group Democrats Abroad, the victory was spectacular but the bigger concern is that Obama was seen more as a symbol of race rather than unity in the US. “His colour is an added bonus,” Amusa, a journalist working with a Delhi paper, said. “But the big fear now is Obama may not want to talk about racial profiling or affirmative action.
“We are wary that he is such a president of the people that he may not focus on race specific policies.”
But Amusa is happy she played a role, howsoever small, in creating history and though she missed being in the US, she celebrated in Delhi. “The elections proved that if you are Democrat, you cannot win without African-American voters,” she said.
As Johnson said, though much has changed over the years, the black community has struggled with stereotypes, prejudices and oppression. “Maybe with Obama, all that will change,” he said.
*I initially called Chinki's paper the "Financial Express." That's wrong. She works for the "Indian Express."
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Sex in Obam-ica to India to God
It was Wednesday morning in Mumbai when I nearly jumped out of my drawers to celebrate the news of America's new president Barack Obama.
Being far from home, from St. Louis and New York and being a part of Obama's monumental win was so aching, and still very beautiful.
The people I work with in India are remarkably sensitive to my home-lust and to the importance of my being black and electing the first-world's first black American.
And many of them shared their excitement with me, the best they could. One cook in the Mumbai guest house grabbed me with his great smile and said: "Big history made today!"
As much as that history was Obama's, that history was also mine and his -- and our undeclared campaign to relate to each other.
Lucky for the world, Obama and every day people coming together, and not McDonalds, is our generation's best example of a globalized earth that despite the reality of social divisions, desires deeply to celebrate life and understanding.
Most thrilling, the crazed election celebrations are turning Obama into a God.
Working up a new calling, Obama inspires us to re-envision a human religion based on the ethical pursuit of excellence and goodness.
This can happen. It has already.
Oooobamen!
--Malena
Being far from home, from St. Louis and New York and being a part of Obama's monumental win was so aching, and still very beautiful.
The people I work with in India are remarkably sensitive to my home-lust and to the importance of my being black and electing the first-world's first black American.
And many of them shared their excitement with me, the best they could. One cook in the Mumbai guest house grabbed me with his great smile and said: "Big history made today!"
As much as that history was Obama's, that history was also mine and his -- and our undeclared campaign to relate to each other.
Lucky for the world, Obama and every day people coming together, and not McDonalds, is our generation's best example of a globalized earth that despite the reality of social divisions, desires deeply to celebrate life and understanding.
Most thrilling, the crazed election celebrations are turning Obama into a God.
Working up a new calling, Obama inspires us to re-envision a human religion based on the ethical pursuit of excellence and goodness.
This can happen. It has already.
Oooobamen!
--Malena
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