Tisch Global Jumbos

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 I discovered very little new information, and some of the theories are becoming outdated, but unlike any of the others, this book sparked memories of watching Roberts’ conversations with almost every kind of person imaginable.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.

By Cecilia, Tufts 1+4 Participant

My host uncle strums away on his guitar as the rest of the family sings and claps along to the upbeat song “Chola Cuencana”, full of smiles and cheerful laughter. Each note escapes into the air and bursts into a mist of joyful energy, filling the room with an aura of wholeness and bliss. We’re gathered in my host family’s living room in a circle of couches and mismatched chairs collected from around the house, taking in the beauty of the combination of sounds whirling around us. The pre-existing tension in the room begins to fade away and is replaced by a sentiment of peace and unity. I notice how important to me each and every person in this room truly is and how they’ve each impacted my life, and I’m immediately overcome with gratitude. This is a moment I never want to forget—sitting in a circle with my family and host family, exchanging aspects of our cultures free of the struggles of the language barrier, simply enjoying the beauty of the music surrounding me and appreciating the way in which it’s bringing us together.

When my host mom learned that my family was planning to visit from the U.S., she couldn’t wait to invite all of her siblings and their respective families over to our house for a big lunch celebration—which, in the Narvaez family, really means a big lunch celebration and a jam session. My host uncle who lives next door, his wife, and both of their kids are all talented musicians and regularly bring their guitars, talented voices, and musical excitement to every family gathering. This get-together was no exception—they showed up with their instruments and positive attitudes, ready to share the joy of music.

I was initially worried about my family and host family meeting, considering most of my family members don’t speak very much Spanish and the same goes for my host family with English. The first hour or so of the gathering was full of awkward interactions and confusing miscommunications, but the genuine affection provided by my very welcoming extended host family was enough to deem the get-together enjoyable. When we eventually sat down and started to sing as a group, my worries about my two families coming together disappeared almost completely. As the music began to fill the room, the language barrier began to fade away. I felt a sense of unity between all of us, despite our many differences, through this shared musical experience. 

My Ecuadorian family played and sang a few of their favorite songs—including Cuenca’s classics—then passed me the guitar, encouraging our family to present something to them. I have to say, my family isn’t on the same musical level as my host family is, but they were quite persistent, so we came up with something to perform for them. We sang a round robin of “This Pretty Planet”, a song that has had a strong presence in our family since my siblings and I we were young. To be completely honest, the performance was a bit of a disaster, but it was incredible to be able to share something so special to my identity with my host family and create an opportunity for connection between the two groups of people who are strangers to each other but both so important to me. We all laughed through our off-pitch and rhythmically disastrous singing, and when we finished, my entire host family clapped and cheered, thankfully caring less about the quality of the music and more about the beauty of this opportunity for cultural exchange.

This is one of the most memorable days I’ve had in Cuenca so far. What has stuck with me the most is the emotions I experienced in those moments—a combination of wholeness, bliss, joy, and connectedness, surrounded by so many people that I love and who love and support me. It’s incredible to me how the experience of sharing a few songs was able to bring together two groups of such different people—I’ve certainly learned to never underestimate the influential power of music. A piece of my musical identity now exists in Cuenca, right next to the people who have lovingly welcomed me into their family and made me feel like I belong.

By Becca, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Capoeira is art in motion. It’s dance, it’s gymnastics, it’s martial arts. When performed well, it’s two bodies moving as one in harmony. It starts with the premise of constant motion. A simple back and forth step called ginga is the foundation of everything else; stop moving, and you get got. From this base it builds, adding kicks, cartwheels, and other moves. With practice and strength, the moves become increasingly more complex and impressive, but these moves are only tools. One can have the best tools available, which in Capoeira terms equates to handstands, aerials, and a thousand unnamed calisthenic feats, but the real skill comes in how these tools are deployed. Independently, any of these moves may look like a cool trick, but when two partners are in tune with one another, a game of Capoeira is an exercise in connection, the composition of a masterpiece.

My first Capoeira class was nothing but discomfort. After being given the wrong class times, I unknowingly arrived 20 minutes late to class. I entered mid-class to a room of men, all Brazilian, all experienced, and none with a word of English. It seemed to be a learn-by-doing approach, except I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. The only thing I could gather was the format of the class: walk around the room for a minute, then make eye contact with someone and partner up, play for a few minutes, disconnect, and repeat. I started walking, and as everyone mildly-approachable paired off, I was left in the center with a large man, clearly of exceptional skill. He grasped my hand, we crouched, and the match began. He turned out into a slow-motion cartwheel. I stood in awe. My feet remained firmly planted on the ground, so uncertain of the right thing to do that I opted for nothing at all. He began the rhythmic back and forth of the ginga. I stood planted. He motioned for me to follow his lead. I sort of…swayed? I blink, and my partner’s hands and feet have switched places. While still upside down he plants his foot in my abdomen. Cartwheels, headstands, and 1-handed handstands overtake me. I quickly realize that for this man, gravity is more of a suggestion than a rule. The match seemed to last ages. Eventually, the master calls out Caminha! (walk) saving me from myself, and we disconnect. This process repeated several times, and eventually, sweet relief, the end of class.

There was no corporeal discomfort; I’d essentially stood in place for an hour. But what I’d lacked in physical discomfort, I more than made up for psychologically. I was lost and frustrated. I’d been asked to play a game without being given the rules. I didn’t even feel challenged, just really, really, confused. But I went back. And again after that. It’s been several weeks and I’m beginning to understand. By limitation of strength, coordination, and unwavering loyalty to gravity, my toolbox is still incredibly limited, but somehow this doesn’t matter. I show up to class, clad in the traditional all-white garb. The more I play, the more confidence I gain, and I begin to connect, becoming more in tune with my partner’s movements. Capoeira is a game with no losers. It challenges the body, but more importantly, it challenges the mind.

I could offer a lengthy extended-metaphor about how Capoeira contains symbolism for life: just as the ginga never stops, neither does life, or how the best kicks come from using the momentum of the opponent, so go with the flow; the medium lends itself quite handily to such compositions. But all of this would cheapen the fact that I really have learned lessons from Capoeira. My first class, I was so consumed with trying to learn the rules that I didn’t bother playing. But the discomfort didn’t stop me from going back, and for this I am grateful. Only after I gave myself permission to try something did I have any hope of success. I’m learning to connect without speaking a word, extending the capabilities of my own body, and beginning to understand that if I wait for someone to tell me the ‘right’ way of doing things, I’ll spend a lifetime waiting.

I’m still really bad. I can’t cartwheel to save my life, and my handstand is more of a hand-jump -hoping-my-legs stay-up-more-than-a-second. I don’t have many tools, but I’m learning to deploy what I’ve got. I’ve mastered the ginga. I understand how to dodge a kick, and I’ve begun to give myself permission to initiate responses, formulate combinations, even deploying my signature hand-jump every now and again. But the one thing I will not do is stand there. I need no permission to explore.

By Finn, Tufts 1+4 Participant

With October drawing to a close and my third month in Cuenca, Ecuador rapidly approaching I recently took sometime to reflect on how my time in the High Sierras has impacted me as an individual and young adult. I could go into the various little changes that I’ve endured, increased patience, acceptance of confusion, willingness to participate in activities that I don’t understand, but I think the largest single aspect that I identified is a greater appreciation of home. I’m not talking about trivial things and belongings or even my house and family but instead about a simple aspect of the first 18 years of my life that I have had constant access to. By this I of course mean nature. Coming from a tiny mountain town in Central New York surrounded by the rolling hills and lush forests of the Catskills and Adirondacks, nature and serenity has always been a part of my daily existence. Now for the first time in my life I find myself in a true urban setting where the only trees are those that line the streets and the smell of automobile exhaust lingers constantly. In a way I find myself experiencing a “climate shock” more so than a culture shock and there are times that all I truly want is to be enveloped in the quiet of the woods or the ability to gaze out into the dark night sky at a field of gleaming stars. Fortunately, Cuenca has many hidden gems within its limits. Green spaces are abundant and there are even a few areas that can make me forget all of the hustle and bustle of the surrounding metropolis. Overall I have recognized that I am truly fortunate to have such vast natural resources surrounding my home and have learned to appreciate more thoroughly the tranquil region in which I was raised.