I am . . . Ms. Ferkel

I am Ms. Ferkel but not for much longer
I am a St. Louis city girl who loves to go camping
I am a dancer at heart no matter how out of shape I become
an admirer of art and long walks in the dusk
a lover of music though I can't create it
at sometimes simple and others creative

I am the oldest of four and all that comes with it
Responsible, competitive, and motherly
I am a student teacher which is such an odd combination
To be student and also teacher all at one time

I am a 27 hour plane ride to an exotic country
I am a memory of the faces of abandoned children laughing with joy
I am a motorcycle ride through the crowded streets of a dirty city

I am a 25-year-old ski boat falling apart but dearly loved and full of memories
I am a digital SLR camera with multiple memory cards of pictures
I am a journal by my bedside table and a couple old books
I am a friend, daughter, sister, RA, teacher, student, mentor, employee, and more
For now, I am Ms. Ferkel but not for much longer

My Dupatta

My Dupatta

It is a silky blue with crystals lining the edge—sheer, seductive, and elegant. It is a splash of vibrant color in the midst of a sea of murky brown.  Dirt.  Dirt is everywhere in that city and swathes everything with its colorless grime.  In a city where starving, muddy cows roam the streets with their rib cages protruding, the splash of color is breathtaking.  In a place where car horns never stop and barefoot children pull on your dress pleading for food, the women in the dupattas are strong.  There is a deep beauty in the eyes framed by the silk.

I see an old woman with tan, leathery skin wrinkled in every possible place.  She is peering in my car window holding her hand to her ancient mouth.  Food.  She needs food.  Her bare arms glitter with gold bracelets and a vibrant strip of silk contrasts the darkness of her skin as it drapes over her head and around her shoulders.  Her eyes are hollow, pleading.  It is just a moment before the taxi is moving, and I can no longer see the woman.  But her image is burned in my head—the leathery face framed by that vibrant silk against the backdrop of the dirty city. 

I see a young girl, probably eighteen, full of life and vitality.  Her entire head is covered in white silk including her face so that all I can see are a pair of deep brown eyes.  Her form-fitting shirt and skinny jeans mixed with the full head covering represent the world she lives in with its collision of old and new.  The old religion, the old India, the old way of life, is in the white dupatta that masks her face and hides her mouth from the world.  But her eyes have life and independence.  She walks by in her skinny-jeans jumping comfortably onto a motorcycle, and she zooms out of sight, her silky white dupatta waving in the dusty air.

I see a woman at a train station.  She is probably in her mid-twenties.  Her arms gently cradle a naked baby.  As each person passes, she reaches out a hand, asking for money.  Her dark arm contrasts with the brilliant pink and gold material draped around her head.  The child hasn’t moved, but its arms are little more than sticks while its stomach is swollen to almost twice the size of its head.  Worms.  The dark arm reaches out once again asking, pleading for money.  None is given, and she retreats to a corner to hide from the excruciating sun.  There is not enough shade at noon, so she takes an edge of the gold and pink silk from around her shoulders and drapes it gently over the child’s face to hide it from the merciless sun.  She is wrapped in elegance leaning against a grimy concrete wall on a train platform covered in trash. 

When I see my dupatta, I see humanity.  I see old; I see young.  I see vibrancy, strength and beauty standing out like a soft pink rose surrounded by blackened ashes.