Category: 2017-2018 Tufts 1+4 Fellows

By Faizah, Tufts 1+4 Participant

by Arlyss, Tufts 1+4 Participant

My family warned me time and time again. Sophia, my nine-year-old host sister, is quite the Carnavalera—meaning she loves to play Carnaval. I knew this entailed getting each other soaked and spraying foam, but boy was I not prepared.

This year on the Sunday of Carnaval, it was also my host cousin’s 13th birthday, so it was a double celebration, with lots of family at her house. In the early afternoon my sister and young cousin called me out into the storage area of the house. This was the room that connected to outside so it was acceptable to get soaked. Of course I went to to play, but after half an hour of pouring buckets of freezing water on each other, I was ready to warm up.

I went inside and everybody wanted me not to change into dry clothes. “If you change, they’re just going to get you wet again.” I thought there was no way, I’ll just choose not to go outside again. Little did I realize, it wasn’t my choice to make.

As I enjoyed my dry clothes, slowly I saw adults get roped into going outside one by one, and once you’re wet it’s your job to make sure everybody is, too. I fought to stay dry but eventually I was pulled off the banister, one adult holding my legs and another carrying me by the arms. I was carried outside with multiple buckets of water waiting for me. Everybody laughed as they saw me struggle in vain and I had to laugh as I saw the massive pot of ice cold water waiting for me.

This is Carnaval. This is having a host family. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know everybody there or that I didn’t want to be wet, I was going to be included in the fun either way, and it was so much fun.

As each person came back in the house completely wet, the furniture in the house was cleared to the edges of the room. Someone put on music, and the dancing began. Dripping wet we danced around the living room, every now and then being pulled outside and getting sprayed down with the hose, just to make sure we weren’t getting too dry.

It was one of those moments where I really felt a part of Ecuador; I really am a part of this family. This is my family, this is their holiday, and dancing the cold away was how we were going to celebrate. Everybody was laughing and running around, trying to avoid the wrath of the hose, foam, and buckets of water, but enjoying watching others be caught and laughing when they themselves had their turn, only then returning inside to change the music and keep the dancing going.

To finish it all off, we came inside to sing happy birthday to my cousin. All shivering from the cold, sitting in the scattered furniture, we ate birthday cake and talked over the fun of the day. And, after all, what good day doesn’t end with some cake?

By Kamil, Tufts 1+4 Participant

When I first decided to pursue Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, I had no idea what I was frankly getting myself into. I found several local dojos addresses posted online, and set out on foot to visit each of them. Their lack of websites and methods of contact served as a warmup. I travelled through many unfamiliar roads to uncertain destinations. Several were closed down permanently. Others had long since moved on. For those that stayed, hours were not posted. I swung by every now and then, knocking on doors and waiting on steps.

After 3 or 4 days, I was ready to give up. A fruitless week. Yet when I turned back, head hung in defeat, a car pulled up with an unfamiliar friendly face, sporting the sweatshirt with a team’s logo and colors I’ve long pursued.

The Spanish was still hard, but our chance encounter was certain, and the situation universal enough.

“¿Quieres entrar?”

I nodded my head, as the stranger pointed out class times on their wristwatch, and unlocked the padlocked staircase.

The dojo was small, I waited in set aside corner on a lobby couch, glass windows on all sides of a 2nd story complex. Gradually, people trickled in. A mere dozen, or so, ranging from teenagers to some elderly. Nobody knew my name, nor did I theirs, but that didn’t matter.

People put on an array of white, blue, and black robes matching sets of various belts, and starting jogging for a warmup.

I joined in. 

Little did I realize, intensive sets sets of pushups, crunches, burpees, and then drills regarding rolls and somersaults were standard. 5 minutes in, I was flailing and gasping for breath while everyone else maintaining their quiet and stable perfect forms. This went on for another good 10 minutes, and then the actual class started.

The actual technique looked simple enough, and really easy to do. The chance to watch someone else while I caught my breath was welcome. However when faced with replicating such movements on the ground, my arms and legs turned to jelly. I lost all coordination and was utterly dumbfounded by the effortless and simple technique I witnessed.

And then we rolled. Oh boy. It seems everyone uses the “hang loose” surfing gesture as some confirmation of an impending war. I was thrown to the wolves. Looking up, eye contact was an immediate issued challenge, or perhaps invitation to test out what we learned. The clock is set to a countdown, 3 minute rounds ensue. I bumped fists with a friendly enough looking college student, and then I was in the air, on my back, in a threatening arm-bar calling into question the structural integrity of my elbow. I tapped immediately, and looked a bit confused. My “friend” smiled. We stood back up and started over. I saw stars as he effortlessly applied a loop choke. I looked back to the clock. 2:15 remaining. Those might’ve been the longest 3 minutes of my life. I was left gasping on the ground when the bell rang. 

Then round 2 started. I hoped that some of the other white belt beginners would be easier to manage, and I ended up getting rounds with beginner high school freshman and a man in his 50s. I was creamed in seconds by everyone I faced. I managed to thwart a few attacks with sheer strength or my height, but it was mostly luck without any technique on my part.

I was sold. This is a brutal art, but it is an immensely honest one to pursue. I faced a half dozen unique fighters that defeated me dozens of times, and at the end, I stood up and walked back home unscathed other than my ego, as testament to the “Gentle Art”.

How did I find myself here?

I was never a sporty kid, and a bit of a wimp. I pursued music, dance, and theatre. And on my 18th birthday, I went on an extended camping trip deep in the Adirondack mountain ranges of New York. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was some formational soul searching for my fledgling adulthood. I spent a week fishing, canoeing, and hiking through breathtaking views on various peaks. 

Just as wilderness survival requires preparation and a plan, I decided I needed a plan for what I’ll do after high school. After all, adhering to semisolid guidelines half the time is better than aimlessly meandering in circles all the time. On our back, we visited a rural town. The kind with only a few thousand inhabitants, a single local bank, a single grocer, a single family run bookstore. Admitably, I’m a bit of a bookworm and rushed the bookstore at the first chance I had. 

It’s funny looking back, but I snagged a copy of Doctor Faustus and a self help manual. The former, had an extensive critic and analysis guide appended by a former now deceased alumni of Tufts University, where I committed to study. The latter, was a philosophical take on the need for morals and self discipline. It denounced passivity in life, letting whatever happens happen, and championed taking the reins of one’s future to ensure it is a good one. The last third of that book was a guide on healthy eating, exercise plans, and mental health written by a former navy seal. It was intense to say the least.

What stuck with me was the concept that the mind and body are interdependent, and you can’t let one go into disarray without the other. Neither could you hone one to a razor sharp level if the other held it back.

The express recommendation to pursue an art that steels one mind and body stuck with me. Jiu Jitsu has a reputation for being the most cerebral and complex martial art, as well as softest. Titles such as “Human Chess” and “The Gentle Art” get thrown around. The art itself is not much more than a century old, and only a few decades in the international limelight. A focus on practical full intensity sparring and the common occurrence of smaller and weaker people defeating giants are popular common events that don’t happen often (or sometimes at all) in many other martial systems.

When I showed up the next day that week, a spark of amusement shone in the eyes of the teacher. This only continued as I continued each day of the week.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but very few people return for a second class. Of those that do, most quit within a few short weeks. Jiu Jitsu is exhausting, and drains the entire body. It isn’t uncommon for people to gas out during warmups, as I did during a short 5-10 minutes of a 60-90 minute experience. The altitude certainly played against me.

Despite all that, the first month passed, I was invited to stay for the advanced class, then the second passed. One day, people began to ask for my name, and put a person to the new white belt gringo face. I began to get to know my fellow students on a personal level.

Many people train for years and constantly see others trickle by. Half of a class is usually white belts. Another quarter is the first color promotion to blue. The remains are the other 3 belt colors; purple, brown, and black. People who love the art, dedicate everything to it. However, most white belts never make it, and quit for various personal reasons. They’re “expendable”, and most people don’t expect much from them. 

Once a white belt shows dedication, self control, humility, and an open mind, they’re welcomed to the family. Past that initial hurdle, the international Jiu Jitsu community may have some of the most welcoming and humble people I’ve met. I realize I’ve personally wrestled many engineers, firefighters, architects, and several medical personnel or businessmen.

The famous old adage is “A black belt is a white belt that never quit.”

It’s amazing how liberating and stressful Jiu Jitsu can be. I struggled everyday, without fail for many months, to muster the motivation to get to class. It’s hard to intentional face opponents that completely outmatch you. It is harder to safely admit defeat, instead of fighting submissions using pure strength/weight/size advantage, especially when a less experienced practitioner stumbles upon victory. Sometimes, it’s hard to stay calm instead of spazzing out and accidentally hitting people when someone sits on your chest. These are all learning processes, and bear a striking resemble to Stoic philosophy. 

I made close friendships as one would expect from constantly working hard on a common goal with a core group of peers. By far the most rewarding parts of the process have been catching up to peers, experiencing their improvement during sparring, and improving in response to the changes they apply to their game. That, and Jiu Jitsu feels like a super power. The knowledge of a minor detail, a specific angle, a grip here or a foot there, can catch opponents completely unaware with an insurmountable leverage advantage.

I eventually started competing. I didn’t do too well the first few times. I plan on pursuing Jiu Jitsu to the best of my ability in the future, and to hunt the elusive black belt (After a decade of training.)

It might come as no surprise, that Jiu Jitsu is not for everyone. Not anyone can set aside their ego, willfully be “bad” and constantly reminded of that fact. Of those that can, momentary setbacks, bad days, and bad luck can eat away at the mind and willpower. However, I would say that most people find it hard-pressed to say any of the virtues promoted and required by Jiu Jitsu are vices in disguise, and that people are better off with such qualities, through avoiding the art.

I’m excited to see where my journeys take me, and what sort of future bonds and friendships I will find in the friendly international Jiu Jitsu community.

By Laura, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Everyday, on my bus ride to my apprenticeship, we pass over a viewpoint on the top of a hill. It overlooks the lagoa and the see beyond. Everyday, I make sure to look up.

In taking a gap year, I made the decision to learn by looking up. For a nerd like me, admitting that you can’t learn everything with your nose in a book can be painful. Admittedly, I would still dive straight into a library if I were looking for nuclear theories or a chronology of the Tudors, but I am quickly learning that the academic fields that strive to explore our similarities, differences, diversity and homogeneity as humans lack luster in text.

Last year, in a panic over what subject to apply for at university, I plumped for anthropology and archaeology. I read and read. Anthropology and Anthropologists; Adam Kuper. An Introduction to Environmental Archaeology; John G Evans. Power, Sex, Suicide; Nick Lane. Persistent tropical foraging in the highlands of terminal Pleistocene/Holocene New Guinea; Patrick Roberts. The Incredible Human Journey; Dr Alice Roberts.

That last title was a re-read of a book I was given in primary school. I had asked for it after watching the BBC documentary of the same name, in which Roberts travelled the world, visiting archaeological sites, genetic research centres and indigenous communities to trace the emigration of homo sapiens out of Africa and around the world. Out of all of the fascinating books I read last year, this one was yet again my favourite. I discovered very little new information, and some of the theories are becoming outdated, but unlike any of the others, this book sparked memories of watching Roberts’ conversations with almost every kind of person imaginable. I remembered native north Americans telling her about their folk tales of the split in the ice and the emigration of their ancestors from the north; I remembered conversations about genetic analysis at the Max Plank Institute in flashy open-plan spaces; I remembered the people of Flores describing the stories of what could have been homo floresiensis, existing in the maze of caves on the island. This book, at age 9, framed most of what I thought I knew about the humanity beyond 21st Century Europe.

Last week I was sat on a bus next to Sintra, another fellow who was testing out her Portuguese by reading a book she had bought about the political party PT. As we wound through the hills of Parana, I couldn’t help my eyes drooping – I never could stay fully awake on long bus journeys. I was nervous, and with my eyes closed, my brain began to swarm with images. Colourful dress, hunter-gatherer techniques, translators. Reindeer coats, folk tales, displaced peoples. Ever since that BBC series, I had marveled at anthropologists and their opportunities, and here I was about to visit an indigenous community in Brazil, utterly unprepared.

I do not plan on taking this space to retell what happened during our visit (though if you are interested I’m happy to talk about it!), but to reflect on my own expectations. Anthropology was always a somewhat uncomfortable seat for me; although I was fascinated, in reading the first book listed, I was forced to realise that any study of people as a contained, representative of humanity was problematic, and deeply rooted in colonialism. Ethnographic studies stemmed from racism and genetic studies marginalised native peoples further. As a white European, to walk into this community and ask deeply philosophical questions felt like those early 20th century anthropologists, and to dumb down my curiosities felt like a condemning of their intelligence. To overthink my every interaction was to imagine these people wrapped in cotton wool and yet did I ever even have a chance of my brain doing otherwise.

Ultimately, my group did seem to achieve a natural and healthy relationship over the day. That day did not contain the colourful traditional dress, the endless to and fro of a translator or the ancient farming techniques of a documentary. The stereotypes which I had unsuccessfully tried to quash for so long were happily disproved for the Gauraní and Kaingang. When it comes to the complex species that we call Homo sapiens, even a bookworm like me has to admit that written research can only take us so far. I do not claim to have solved the issues of interacting with marginalised ethnic groups, nor have completely abandoned my prejudice.  What I do hope is that I can keep clear a consciousness of my prejudice, and should I still chose to go into anthropology, I can hopefully use my knowledge to help others do the same. By definition, anthropology is “theology dealing with the origin, nature, and destiny of human beings”, a definition which I believe has a lot of room to innovate in. I still cherish that book and documentary, but this visit allowed me to stop watching others having those conversations, and start having them myself.

…

In many people’s’ eyes I had made it. I was sat in the interview room for archaeology and anthropology at St Hugh’s College, Oxford University. And finally the question came.

“I see you’ve chosen to take a gap year. If we offered you a place this year without deferral, would you take it?”

This time, without overthinking, I simply replied: “I would have to consider it very carefully. I think it is arrogant to study other people’s cultures when the only one you have experienced is your own.”

I can’t say for certain, (because who knows how the Oxford admissions system works), but I think that this was a major reason for my rejection, for this is when the mood of the interview turned. Looking back now, I don’t regret speaking my mind to this point. Maybe I will not have the prestige of studying at Oxford University, but perhaps I do not want to follow in the footsteps of the colonial anthropologists who would have preceded me there.

…

I woke up as the bus turned off the tarmac road and started bumping through the dry golden-green grasses. The images swirled back into my subconscious and Sintra looked up from her book. I think we all knew it was time to look up, and truly learn.

Sintra and I in the indigenous community’s classroom (how far did you really expect me to get from the books…) Photo credits to Daniel, a little boy almost as excited to jump in the river as we were.

Resources:

1. A. Kuper, Anthropology and Anthropologists: The Modern British School, Oxon, 1996
2. J. G. Evans, An Introduction to Environmental Archaeology, 1978
3. N. Lane, Power, Sex and Suicide: Mitochondria and the Meaning of Life, 2005
4. Dr A. Roberts, The Incredible Human Journey, 2009

By Arlyss, Tufts 1+4 Participant

I love french fries and chips and potato wedges and all things potato in general. Who doesn’t? But, we all have our limits. You’re probably thinking: “There’s no such thing as too many potatoes!” I, too, was once naive and full of potato-filled happiness, but then I spent almost six months in Ecuador.

Am I being dramatic? Maybe. But am I being serious? Yes.

I normally adapt to most things going on around me and just go along with what’s happening. This happens largely because I feel uncomfortable saying no or changing plans people already had. I feel guilty causing an inconvenience. For these reasons, I have always eaten everything my host family gives me, as long as it isn’t meat. I’m vegetarian, which means I end up eating a lot of rice and potatoes. There’s not always a lot of variety beyond that, but I eat what’s on my plate, whether I like it or not.

That was, at least, until the fateful day. I came down for breakfast, still being in a sleepy daze, to find just a plain, boiled potato on a plate. While not an uncommon occurrence here, by this time in the year another potato was not a welcoming sight for me. Nothing in me wanted to eat this unflavorful potato, but being that I didn’t want to seem ungracious, I took a bite. It had the same dull taste I had tried time and time again. I could not get myself to eat all of it. With half the potato eaten, I thanked my family for breakfast, but told them I didn’t want to eat more of the potato. I had hit my limit, not just of potatoes, but also of not standing up for myself, however trivial the situation.

Later that day as I was laying in bed, my host grandma called me downstairs saying we were going for lunch at a cousin’s house. We arrived and sat down to a lunch of crabs and crab soup. I’ve explained many times that I cannot eat that food as I am vegetarian, but I still was greeted with a chorus of “Are you sure you don’t want to try just a little?” and “When are you going to learn to eat meat?”

In these situations I usually just politely say I’m not hungry and avoid eating altogether. There are much more limited vegetarian options here, and families are much more hesitant to let the children cook, so I eat what I’m given. But that day, something was different. I wanted to be able to eat with the family and didn’t want to passively sit at the meal. I was still fed up with the potato from the morning, so when I was served the soup, I finally found the courage to to say something. “Thank you so much, but I can’t eat this.” It sounds simple, but it took a good five or ten minutes of mental build-up for me to get there.

And then the most amazing thing happened: nobody cared. It wasn’t a big deal. They just said okay, took away the soup, and brought me some rice with a fried egg and vegetables. Everything went on as normal. The world didn’t stop spinning, no one was offended, and the conversation didn’t come to a sudden, stunned halt. I felt relieved (and a lot less hungry).

Situations of me not feeling comfortable enough to say “no” are not uncommon. The week before, the second grade teacher at the school where I’m working had asked me to cover her class the following Wednesday afternoon because she couldn’t be there for the first couple of hours. I’m not qualified to teach math and reading and writing in Spanish. On top of that, it’s extremely stressful to be in a class of 30 six-year-olds and it’s also not part of the program; I’m not supposed to be in classrooms without other teachers. I already knew that I had a busy afternoon scheduled for that day, with my Tufts class, language exchange (to practice Spanish), and a check-in with Jessye (the Tufts 1+4 Program Administrator), but I didn’t want to let the teacher down, so I said I would be there.

However, after my weekend experience of saying no, I felt empowered. I did not want to miss my three scheduled events, and much more so I could not handle teaching a second grade class. After two days of trying to tell the teacher I couldn’t make it, but backing out each time for lack of courage, I built up the confidence to timidly tell her how sorry I was that I couldn’t make it.

And then, once again, the amazing thing happened: it was no big deal. She just told me that’s fine and to have a good day. That was all. The teacher wasn’t upset or disappointed. She understood that I’m just a volunteer and I have other things going on in my life here in Cuenca.

I had finally learned to say “no, thank you.” It didn’t matter how timidly or awkwardly I had done it. I had done it. I cannot tell you how proud I am of myself. I even received a few somewhat-proud “it’s about time” and sarcastic “congratulations” remarks from my parents and friends.

By Jamie, Tufts 1+4 Participant

One of the biggest worries that I had coming into this year abroad in Hyderabad, India was not making connections to the people around me. For one, I couldn’t speak Hindi or Telugu(the state language of Telangana). I stuck out like a sore-thumb due to my big, curly hair. Everything about me screamed “tourist.” Because I was new, I did not understand the community that I had just been privileged enough to be invited into. I was afraid that I would keep myself in a tight, closed off bubble for the entire year. I realize, now, that that worry couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Recently, during an in-country learning seminar in Meghalaya (located in the North-East of India), I created a list of people who had been kind to me. At first, I couldn’t think of anyone outside of the people closest to me. I was thinking about the big ways I’ve been show kindness instead of the small ones. After writing one name, it was easy to remember more. Here is my list:

-the Old Woman I walk by everyday on the way to school who I smile at and wave at even thoughwe’ve never spoken a word to each other

-the Local Shop Owner who sent His Son to walk home with me when the road was blocked at night

-the Auto Driver, Pandu, who calls me every once in a while to ask how I am

-the Naan Shop Owner who helped me hail my first auto

-the Kids who wrote me “Get Well Soon” cards when I fell sick

and many more.

After I finished writing my list, I felt overwhelmed by this sense of connection. I have so many people in my life in Hyderabad that I have been connected to through a smile, a drive, an act of kindness and it speaks volumes about how beautiful the community I have been lucky enough to join is.

That feeling of connectedness continued to present itself even after I returned from my seminar. The inspiration from this post comes from a moment I had with one of my students. He came up to me after I came back from the learning seminar and said, “Didi, where were you? I was scared you went to America!” all said with a worried expression and his hand on his heart.