My last post was about Charleston, SC - a place I went with the sole purpose to relax. I just knew I was going to come back from this trip and be able to deal with the giant cluster-fuck/soul-drain that my job had become. In my heart, I truly believed that if I just took a few days off, all of the things that had been unmanageable and stressful and impossible would all suddenly be rendered easy-peasy because I would be well-rested and ready to tackle anything. I really gave relaxing my all, I worked really hard to relax. I never once opened my work app or my email, I did a lot of nothing. And it worked. I felt so light on the way back home.
Yeah, that lasted for about a day. And then the stress started to seep slowly back in, rising like the tide in a cave. By Thursday of the week I came back, I was sitting in my office with the lights out and my head on my desk just trying not to cry or scream or walk out of there forever with middle fingers blazing. I ran through the list of things that I usually rely on to get me through the day: another Nespresso drink from the break room, a blueberry pie from Friendly market, a meatloaf plate with mac & cheese and potatoes from Lowe’s Foods, a Blizzard. Things were bleak that day and I knew that even having all of these things at once wouldn’t help a single bit.
The only thing that could fix it would be for things to change at work.
I lifted my head up from my desk and went to talk to one of my coworkers who had gone from full-time to part time about a year ago. When she initially made that decision, I couldn't understand it, that's how indoctrinated I was in the toxic American work ethic mindset. I couldn't understand why anyone would want to work less because the only way I felt fulfilled and worthy myself was through my job.
My promotion at work was the thing that made me feel successful. It made me feel worthy of respect from my boss. It made me feel worthy of love from my husband since I was finally earning enough to be in the same tax bracket as him. It made me feel proud to tell people that I was an "Office Manager" like that was a core personality trait. It validated my decision to quit grad school because yeah, maybe I'm not a PhD, but an entire medical practice relies on me and that's kind of a big deal.
It made me miserable.
So I went to ask her if working less had really helped her like she thought it would. She said that it didn't make her life perfect or stress-free, but it really had contributed to her mental well-being. I cried in her office as we talked and then I went back to my office and booked a spiritual retreat where I could be alone and away from work and really search my soul for the direction I needed to go in.
I couldn’t afford a trip to India, so I settled for the next best option for a spiritual awakening- Norfolk, VA.
Only with this trip in mind was I able to continue working that Thursday. I packed my bags and made the drive up on Friday by myself, without getting lost if you can believe it (we won't talk about how I got lost on the way back home, even with GPS).
I got settled at the hotel and then went aimlessly walking about the city. Norfolk is a town I have rarely heard about and I have no clue why it isn't on everyone's vacation rotation because you can bet it is on mine from now on. I'm talking museums upon museums upon museums, beautiful location, and all the culinary perks of a largish city. The McArthur Memorial was right by my hotel and it was free so I went in. All the exhibits were centered around the life of Douglas McArthur, former General of the Army, and although war histories aren't my favorite topics, the museum had just enough art and cultural interest stories to keep me engaged.
Norfolk is located on the Elizabeth River and the boardwalk offers views of a busy port along with lots of bars and restaurants. As I was walking along the boardwalk, a random man came up to ask me if I'd heard about the music in the park happening that night. I usually don't engage with random men on the sidewalk, but it was daylight in a heavily trafficked area so I did. He just seemed like a lonely older man, maybe homeless, maybe (like me) just not super into personal hygiene. Either way, he pointed me to the park and told me I would have a great time. He was not wrong. I sat on the ground in the waterfront park, listening to live music and drinking red wine. On the way back to the hotel, I ordered so much Chinese food that when I picked it up, the lady asked me how many forks I needed and when I told her just one she said, "Well, I guess it IS the weekend....". I felt exactly like Sandra Bullock in Two Weeks Notice.
The next day, I went to the Chrysler Art Museum and holy art on the wall it was incredible! I spent about 3 hours walking around, marking rooms off the map as I went so I could make sure I hit every single exhibit. When I came outside, I called Wes to tell him about it and I was so happy that I cried. Wes was probably very worried about me at this point because not only had I booked a solo weekend away on a whim, but then I called him crying with ecstasy over an art museum. He was right to be a little bit worried, but it was exactly what I needed.
I kinda wanna cry again just looking at this small sampling of photos from the museum. Usually portraits are my least favorite type of art. I tend to spend the most time in front of landscapes and abstract pieces. This time, probably due to the mood I was in, I found myself channeling my friend, Faith, who told me in a museum in Charlotte that she likes portraits the most because she imagines the people in them. What were their lives like, what kind of personality did they have? That's what I did with the subjects of many of the paintings with humans prominently featured - I felt like I could sink into each of them, into their expressions and environments and lives. I felt so outside of myself that it was conceivable to me that I could have been any of those people in any of those scenes. Except for that chubby little boy with the dog in the middle on the bottom row, he just made me chuckle.
After leaving the Chrysler, I walked around aimlessly again. I can't recommend walking around aimlessly in a new city enough, especially when you have a heavy heart and a big decision to make. I had already scouted out the Little Free Library map and had not seen any within walking distance of my hotel. I had planned to stop by one on Sunday on my way to the Hermitage Museum which is a few miles from downtown. I came upon the Pagoda and Oriental Garden, something I had seen on Trip Advisor but that wasn't high on my list to visit in the short time I would be there. I figured I might as well walk through the gardens while I was in the area and it was worth it. A beautiful building nestled away from the city by a lush garden.
On the last turn on the garden path, BAM, there she was. A cute little box on a stick. Did I squeal extremely loudly? I did. Of course I did. But then I remembered all the times I've opened things up that I thought were LFLs and were actually people's well house or a food pantry or a bird house and I tempered my excitement until I saw that plaque that verified it was the very thing I wanted it to be.
Not only was it a LFL, it was a freaking JACKPOT. So many fiction books *insert heart eye emoji here* and a happy meal toy to top it off.
I had just finished May's blog post while sitting on the boardwalk that morning and I was feeling pretty good about myself so I had absolutely zero self control and left with 4 books.
I started A Man named Ove during my solo dinner at Syd's Pig Fish Café, but the bartender and my fellow diners were just as full of that famous Southern Hospitality (read desire to talk to strangers) as the man in the park so I didn't get the chance to read.
I haven't touched A Man named Ove since that trip, except to bring it inside and put in in my bookshelf. The first few pages were interesting, and I do plan on reading it, but it is one of those books that was so popular I didn't think it would be an interesting blog subject. The two Mitford series books I picked up are delightful and I tore through them. Although I really liked those books and would recommend them for light summer reads, they also didn't fit the bill for this purpose. That leaves us with Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows and, as you will see, it gave me a lot to talk about.
EROTIC STORIES FOR PUNJABI WIDOWS
Like any good book blog, I'll start with the cover.
The Reese's Book Club emblem almost made me pass up this book. I feel the same way about Reese's and Oprah's book clubs as I do about academy awards - I never really understand what is so great about the chosen book/film. The only exception to this rule for me is Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri which deserved every blasted thing it won and then some. Although this book is great fodder for discussion, I won't add it to the list of exceptions because I think it proves the rule. Namely, it is more a vehicle for sparking conversation than it is a piece that I would enjoy just for the story it told.
And it does spark a lot of conversation, more than I want to type here. I just want to sit in a circle with my friends and talk about the topics this book brings forward like feminism, women’s rights, cultural duty, arranged marriages versus love matches, the importance of education, sexuality, power, the list goes on. I can just imagine us interrupting each other and talking over each other with “What about this” and “I couldn’t believe that”. Although the story was a good one, I think the real value of this book is in the conversations it is capable of starting.
Between the title of the book and the summary on the back cover, I was expecting this book to center entirely on the conflict between the strict culture that women in general and widows in particular in the British Indian community are expected to submit to and their desire to read and write erotic stories. This was the premise of the book, but there was a secondary story line that gave the entire book a nefarious undertone.
The book centers on two women, Nikki and Kulwinder. Nikki is a young woman born in Britain to Indian parents who are fairly Westernized compared to most of the other characters. Nikki dropped out of law school and now works at a bar, something that disappointed her parents greatly. Her father was so upset that he booked a trip to India for himself and his wife where he died shortly after arrival. When the book opens, Nikki is carrying around guilt for exacerbating her father’s heart condition and is at a place of uncertainty in her personal and professional life. Nikki’s sister, Mindi, is more traditional and is seeking an arranged marriage. Although Nikki is firmly against this plan, she agrees to post Mindi’s personal ad on the marriage board in Southall, the Indian section of London. While there, Nikki sees a job ad for an instructor for a writing workshop. As a frequent protester and social rights advocate, this opportunity appeals to Nikki as a way to earn money while helping people, something that is lacking in her job at the bar.
The ad was written by the other main character of the book, Kulwinder. Kulwinder is a middle-aged woman living in Southall who was recently appointed Community Development Director of the Sikh Community Association, the only woman in leadership. Her goal is to increase the portion of the budget appointed to women’s activities and support organizations. Kulwinder did not begin to learn English until she moved to Britain from India as an adult and now lives in Southall where English is not spoken as often. Therefore, she is not fluent in English and has an even harder time with written English. This is important because she posted the ad that Nikki read. The class that Kulwinder marketed to the widows in her community was to learn English. Now that their husbands are gone, the widows have more need to learn English to complete the business tasks their husbands were responsible for. However, the ad that Nikki answered was for a creative writing class, not an English as second language course – two very different things.
The first few chapters of the book are what you would expect, both Nikki and Kulwinder navigating a Western world in the context of Indian culture. We see Nikki struggle with teaching English instead of creative writing to women who are mistrustful of her because she does not follow their culture as closely as they would like. We also learn that Kulwinder lost her daughter, but there are no details given at first because the focus is on her desire to get the woman’s group up and running. It seems like your typical book contrasting modern and traditional lifestyles.
Then WHAM! Things get real dark on page 42. Kulwinder gets a call issuing a threat that you know she has gotten in the past. As the book progresses, we learn that Kulwinder’s daughter, who was less traditional like Nikki, died under suspicious circumstances. Kulwinder knows that her daughter did not commit suicide, but she has no way to prove it, no help from the British police, and shame instead of support from her own community.
Nikki struggles for a few sessions to have the women learn the English alphabet before one of the women finds an erotic book that Nikki bought as a joke to give to her uptight sister. This sparks a light under the women and they run with the idea of coming up with stories of their own. Nikki is worried about how the classes will be viewed in the strict community and about how Kulwinder will react. The widows, normally viewed as weak, prove themselves as anything but and do not back down, forcing Nikki eventually to give in. The widows begin verbally telling erotic stories into a tape recorder which are then transcribed by one of the widows who is fluent in English.
I really loved how the author was able to make this group of women so much more than a group of silent, sad widows. In short order, the author gives each woman a back story and a full personality. One of the ways that they express themselves is through the erotic stories they write. If I were to teach feminism to a group of men, I would have a lecture titled, “Why romance novels written by women for women are an integral part of female empowerment” and I would assign them this book to read as an example. Sure, on the surface the stories are sex scenes, but in order for the woman to receive pleasure in the story, she must assert some power that she is not afforded in the general culture. She must either take what she wants or ask her partner to attend to her needs when so often the wife must attend only to the husband’s needs.
While reading about the secret desires of Punjabi widows, I could not help but think about the only widow I was ever personally close with, my Mamaw Avery. I never knew her husband, he died when I was 3 months old, so to me, Mamaw had never been married. She was a devout Christian, very conservative in all her ways.
Mamaw only had one suitor that I know of in the 16 years I was lucky enough to spend with her. His name was Shorty. I don’t know how they met or what Shorty’s intentions were or why he stopped coming around, but I do know he never set foot inside Mamaw’s house when they were alone. She would allow him to visit her, but they sat outside on the porch. I loved when Shorty would visit because Mamaw always made this apple stack cake smothered in applesauce that I’ve never found since. I would kill someone in cold blood and serve back to back life sentences to eat that apple stack cake again. Since I had never known my grandmother as a wife and only as a seemingly reluctant one-time girlfriend, I didn’t really see her as a woman who would have any sort of sensual desire. But reading about these women, who lived similarly conservative lives devoted to one man, having sexual fantasies makes me wonder if an old Southern grandma had similar secret thoughts.
The one clue I have suggests the answer is yes. Mamaw’s favorite song was Conway Twitty’s I’d Love to Lay You Down. So much so that my Aunt Alice had the radio station play it in her memory on the day she died. This song came on at the bar I was at last night and I sang along, thinking about all the women who might not have the privilege of saying it, but would just love for someone to lay them down and softly whisper pretty love words in their ear.
To conclude this lecture, romance novels are an important part of the feminist movement because the physical and emotional needs of women have been ignored throughout history and through fictional narratives, women learn that having these needs is not shameful and are empowered against settling into the patriarchal mold that has suffocated them for long enough.
The menacing air of the book thickens as we learn more about the circumstances surrounding Kulwinder’s daughter’s death and as the Brother’s (a group of unemployed young Indian men who earn money as “moral police” in the community) begin to threaten the rights of the women to meet and express themselves. This undertone of danger runs throughout the book and sets it apart from other book’s whose focus is solely on cultural constraints in the modern world.
I’ll leave all the mysteries of this book – what happened to Kulwinder’s daughter, how Nikki manages to walk the line between her family’s culture and her own wishes, if Mindi follows through with the arranged marriage, how the writing and reading of erotic stories change the widows' lives, and what exactly happens to the collection of erotic stories – for you to find out when you read it for yourself.
The mystery of what I did about my job I will solve for you right now. I stepped down from being the office manager. It has been almost 2 months since I made that decision and I have woken up every day glad to be alive and not having to convince myself to get out of bed. As I read back over my previous blog posts before beginning this chapter, I can see my thoughts shift and my feelings progress, almost like I was working myself up to this move all along. Although I was feeling just as overwhelmed in January, I could not have 1. Recognized that my relationship with work was toxic instead of a good dose of the ole American work ethic or 2. Been able to step down from a higher position to a lower one without losing a good chunk of my self-esteem. So I am counting this blog as a success, even though I can never seem to stick to the one book rule.
Comments