Bad reputation

The true Indian tales of Fool's Compass are leaving the blogosphere and hitting the stage! I'm sharing stories that have never even appeared in this blog at Previously Secret Information, the original storytelling series hosted by the incomparable San Francisco comedian Joe Klocek.

Mark your calendars now for the debut of "Bad Reputation: Hard-won Dating Advice for American Girls in India." The show's at 7 p.m. November 19 at the Sacramento Comedy Spot.

Click here for reservations!

Lady Business in the press!

My all-female improv troupe Lady Business got a wonderful review in Sacramento Press!

"Taking subject matter from the audience, the girls had the whole audience rolling, portraying everything from insecure rats to competitive cats to a disenchanted witch-turned-esthetician."

Click here to read the whole review!


Lady Business performs every third Saturday at the Sacramento Comedy Spot, weaving an entirely improvised show from the audience's true stories. Our next show is November 20, 8pm. $8. You can make reservations here!

Become a friend of Lady Business on Facebook for the latest business updates.

Hope to see you at a show!

They're in Hawaii, too

An open letter to my omnivorous friends

Hi.

This is not an easy letter for me to write. That's probably why I'm putting it on my blog, instead of sending it to you directly. I have gone to great lengths in my life to avoid being a preachy vegan. I hate to make people feel defensive, so I often find myself encouraging friends at the dinner table to "Go ahead! Get the ribs! Eat whatever you want!" I act as if my 20 years of vegetarianism are more of an uncontrollable personality trait than a conscious decision to boycott animal suffering. "Yeah, I'm vegan. I can't really help it. Let's talk about something else."

Today, at the risk of unpopularity, I need to say something different. I just finished reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals, which a friend gave me as a birthday present. Normally a meat-eating fiction writer, Foer began researching American farming practices when his son was born, in a effort to determine the best diet for his child. Three years later, he has written an amazingly well-presented non-fiction account of our country's relationship to food animals.

I can honestly say that it is, by far, the most difficult book I have ever read. It literally caused me physical pain in my chest while reading it. And it spurred me to action.

I became a vegetarian at age 15. I have used this choice as an excuse to turn a blind eye to farming practices in America. "I already don't eat meat," I tell myself. "I am absolved. My work is done. " The truth is that factory farming still affects me - in the way my country's rivers are poisoned by irresponsible disposal of farm animal waste, in the way that flus are bred through sickened crate-confined pigs, in the way that the overuse of antibiotics on farm animals is rendering these important drugs useless for humans, in the way my loved ones' health is compromised by nutritionally bankrupt food options, and in the way that millions of animals are still suffering in ways I can barely stand to read about.

When I finished the last page of the book this morning, I walked directly to my computer and made a $200 donation to Farm Sanctuary. And I vow to do more when I can. You all are my witnesses.

I don't expect you to all to have the same feelings I do about animals or food issues. I realize we all have our own battles in life, and everyone's heart holds different priorities. The last thing I want to do is alienate you or make you feel judged.

Humans and other animals have eaten meat since life began, and I do not believe it is inherently wrong. But eating meat in general, and eating meat in the specific way we eat it in America are two different issues. Right now, it is impossible to eat meat on a regular basis in America without financially supporting the factory farming system. These food corporations do not consider your health a top priority, but you definitely should. It is worth your time to take a look at what you are putting into your body. And Foer's book is a good place to start with that.

I say all of this with the utmost respect, because I value you and your health and the health of our community. And regardless of how you choose to eat in the future, I am looking forward to our next meal together.

With love,
Becca

Manuscript Monday: The dragonflies

This will be the last Manuscript Monday for a little while. I am changing directions, both geographically and in my writing. After three months of working on a non-fiction account of my experiences in India, I have realized the story I want to tell is better conveyed in fiction. The new year will bring a new start on page 1 of a new book.

It's discouraging to start from scratch again, but I expect my spirits will be bolstered by my upcoming trip to Hawaii. I'll be traveling around the islands for much of January. Perhaps there will be some new island tales for Fool's Compass. And, with luck, the first chapters of a new novel.

I want to thank everyone who has read and responded to Manuscript Mondays so far. I am sincerely grateful for your company and support while I try to cobble together my dreams, sitting at my desk in my pajamas. I wish you all a Happy New Year and the patience to trust that it is all happening as it should.

I leave you with another true tale of Goan magic.

With love and gratitude, Becca


I awoke ravenously hungry. The sun had barely risen. I doubted any cafes would be open, so I gobbled down the last of a package of biscuits I’d stashed in my purse and threw on my swimsuit.

I climbed down the hill and headed towards the beach. The first sun rays were just breaking over the mountains, illuminating the misty air. Even at this hour, there was plenty of life. Stray dogs chased each other into the waves. Indian men and women crossed the sand balancing large baskets of fruit and vegetables on their heads. Tourists saluted the sun on sandy yoga mats. In the middle of all this activity, the shorefront cafes remained resolutely closed. In some, waiters and cooks were still sleeping atop the tables.

If breakfast was impossible, it was time to swim. I dove into the warm waves, slipping under the white breakers to escape impact. I swam out as far as I dared, then flipped over to float on my back. I spread out like a starfish and opened my eyes to the blue sky. I saw hundreds of dragonflies zipping through the air overhead. I blinked to shake the last drops of saltwater from my lashes and looked again. They were really there.

The dragonflies dove and soared through the sky, flashes of light reflecting off their otherwise invisible wings. Some flew solo. Some spun together in a gravity-defying mating ritual. I’d never seen so many dragonflies in one place in my entire life. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. It was the sign I’d been looking for.

A month before my departure, after I’d burned my journals, given away my cat, and surrendered the keys to my apartment – after it was too late to turn back — I was hit with a huge wave of doubt about my decision to go to India. My friends in recovery had taught me the term “pulling a geographic” – essentially moving somewhere else and expecting your problems to disappear. It suddenly seemed like the whole India plan was yet another magic little story I’d made up in hopes that my life would get happy again.

I was supposed to be an adult, with a career and a home and a family of my own. I’d lost the first and I’d never even been close to having the rest. I was working two temp jobs in Sacramento and sleeping on a mattress in the yard of my boyfriend’s house because the open night sky was more comforting than his dismissive silence. My solution to getting my life back on track was to go sightseeing?

Once this doubt got hold of me, I simmered with anger and shame for most of the day. By evening, I was so desperate for the day to end that I decided to go sit on the porch and watch the California sun go down. Maybe by just breathing and focusing on something larger than myself, I could regain some vestige of inner calm.

I sat on the porch swing with a glass of iced tea and shuffled my deck of Medicine Cards. The Medicine Cards are like tarot cards based on Native American myths. Each one depicts an animal and a story about that animal's significance. A friend had given me the deck years ago, and I'd recently found it when I was packing up my apartment.

I held the deck tightly against my chest, closed my eyes and prayed to whatever Magic 8-ball wisdom governed the cards. “Oh Patron Saint of Laminated Animal Card Decks, oh Guru of Go Fish, please give me a clear idea of why I am supposed to go to India. Please give me faith to continue.”

I extracted one card from the deck and flipped it over. It was the swan. I opened the Medicine Cards book to the story of swan medicine.

In the tale, Swan is still in her ugly duckling phase and she is taking her first solo flight. As she soars over her homeland, she suddenly loses her bearings. Nothing looks familiar. All she can see is a swirling black hole... and a dragonfly.

Disoriented and afraid of losing herself in the black hole, Swan asks Dragonfly for help. Dragonfly explains that he is the guardian of the black hole, which is a gateway to other planes of imagination. To break the illusion of daily life and enter the other planes, one has to ask Dragonfly’s permission.

Swan is scared of the hole. Then she thinks about her frail, awkward body and her half-formed dreams and knows she needs to transform. She asks permission to enter. Dragonfly tells her that, in order to survive the black hole, she must surrender completely no matter what happens. She has to act with complete trust and never try to change Great Spirit’s plan.

Swan agrees. Dragonfly creates the magic that dispels the illusions of life and lets her enter the swirling, churning black hole. When Swan reemerges days later, she has a new graceful body with white feathers and a long neck. She tells Dragonfly that she surrendered completely to Great Spirit and was taken to “where the future lives.” Her faith has transformed her.

Reading this story as the sun set, I felt like a gong someone had just struck with a mallet. A single chime of knowing reverberated through my body. I, too, was an awkward, half-formed creation. I had lost my bearings and the comforting illusion of my daily life. My home, my pet, my work, my relationship, and my entire country were disappearing into a void. I was being asked to surrender to a plan I didn’t understand and literally fly into a new world.

It was terrifying, but Swan’s story seemed to promise that, if I trusted this process completely, I would return a creature of strength and grace. I wanted this more than anything.

In the weeks leading up to my departure, I clutched the story of Swan to my heart like a magic talisman. Whenever a dragonfly buzzed past me in the yard, I stopped and said a prayer of gratitude. When doubt settled on me, I'd go walking at a nearby lake and feel inspired by the sight of the flying insects. I hosted my going away party at Dragonfly Restaurant in Sacramento – although I didn’t tell anyone why I’d chosen that place.

Once I landed in India, I forgot about Swan and Dragonfly in the rush of culture shock. I’d certainly forgotten my commitment to trust the process. Instead I’d been begging for insight, worrying about where I should be, and complaining in my journals that I felt forsaken.

Now, floating on the Arabian Sea and watching the dragonflies’ aerial ballet, I realized I’d been guided all along. Before I left for India, I had definitely decided not to come to Goa. From the moment I stepped off the plane, everyone I met had pointed me here. Even after I'd surrendered and took a bus to this seaside village, I’d cluelessly walked miles in the wrong direction until my shoes literally fell off my feet. Finally, in a state of complete exhaustion and surrender, I was led to my perfect cliff-top room, where I slept deeply and awoke to a fleet of dragonflies. An impossible number. A miraculous number.

How could I have thought myself forsaken? I still didn’t have a plan, but for now, I had something more valuable. I had faith.

My spoon is just the right size, thank you

This morning I was meditating - sitting quietly with my eyes closed, running through my usual FAQs for the Great Universal Whatchamacallit. Questions like: "What the hell do you want from me?" and "How can I get out of my own way to achieve it?"

I was hoping for holy light and the clear voice of divine direction. What I got was a mental replay of this cartoon by Don Hertzfeldt:



At first, this seemed like the usual pop-culture flotsam my mind kicks up to keep me from achieving enlightenment. I can't sit still for 30 seconds before my inner DJ starts spinning Britney Spears or replaying soundbites from "The Office." But upon further reflection, I think there's a message in this cartoon for anyone with big dreams and bigger confusion about what to do with them.

(If you haven't watched the cartoon yet, you really should, or this post will cease to make sense. Go ahead. Click on it now. I'll wait. Ready? Awesome!)

So here's my big insight: We have to stop complaining about the size of our spoons. It never occurs to the stick figure in the film that maybe his spoon (his appetite, his desires, his aspirations and creative goals) are just the right size. It's his bowl of food that is too small. Don't limit your dreams to fit your circumstances. Create the circumstances that fit your dreams.

Today, I am an optimistic banana. And so are you.

Manuscript Monday: Buy! Buy! Buy!

I met a Swedish woman named Johanna on the train to Goa and she invited me stay in her vacation cottage in Anjuna. I'd been feeling lonely in Mumbai, so I happily agreed, even though I'd originally planned to skip Anjuna, a town known primarily for a nearly extinct rave scene and a huge weekly flea market.

Our cottage was right on the sea and the view was incredible. It was very early in Goa's tourist season. We had the whole beach to ourselves. My first night in Anjuna, with the ocean waves whispering in my ears, was the first night in India I slept straight through until morning.



I woke with one mission - to sit on the beach until every trace of jet lag and culture shock had melted into the sand. Johanna also woke with a mission - to go shopping. I had no interest in buying anything, but I didn't want to alienate my host on my first day, so I agreed to tag along.

I hung back as Johanna haggled with merchants over silk trousers and silver earrings, but I was the only other tourist in a mile-long row of shops. The vendors were not going to let me off easily.

One by one, the salespeople presiding over stalls filled with batik prints, ornate boxes, wrap skirts, hammocks and trance music CDs called to me. “Hello, madam! Come have a look my shop? Many nice things! Hello!”



“Hello!” I waved from my non-committal place in the middle of the dirt road. When their calls did not budge me, they got more assertive. A teenage girl in a shiny blue dress and bare feet marched over to me, kicking up red dust with each step. “What you looking for?” she demanded. “Sarong? I have nice sarong. You want dress? Everything, I have!”

“No thank you,” I said. “I’m just waiting for my friend.”

“You come look my shop!” She grabbed my arm and began pulling me down the road. I laughed nervously and attempted to disengage myself.

Then another shop girl grabbed my other arm. “You come look my shop,” she said. “My shop is right here. Come look. Looking is free.”



I suddenly realized my error in coming to Goa pre-season. I’d thought only of avoiding the tourist rush, but being one of the town’s only visitors meant every merchant hoped I'd provide their daily income. The two girls were literally pulling me in two directions like a wishbone.

“Stop! Please let go!” I said. One dropped my hand and I stumbled into the other, who didn’t miss a beat as I jarred her tiny frame.

“Come!” she said. I looked over my shoulder for Johanna, who was still in negotiations for a yellow silk sarong. The girl dragged me into her shop and began grabbing things off racks and tables. “You like dress? You like? Or pants? You want pants?” She whirled around and swept a pile of scarves off a table into her arms. “Or shawl, you want? I have red, blue, green. What color? How many you want?”

In the U.S., I am the kind of person who will spend half an hour hunting for something in a store rather than ask a clerk where to find it. This high-intensity customer service caused my brain to short circuit.

“I’m sorry, I have to go find my friend,” I said to the girl, who was unfolding sarongs with a flourish. I scurried out of her shop and back down the road, keeping my arms pinned to my sides so no one could grab them. When I found Johanna, she had a new sarong draped around her neck and was busy pricing silk pants. I told her I’d see her on the beach.

I was the only one on the sand that day. I laid out my sarong like a beach towel and sprawled on top of it. The sun was bright, so I propped a hat over my eyes. As the heat poured into my limbs, I felt myself begin to relax.

“Hello, madam! Hello!”

I pulled the hat off my eyes and squinted into the face of a young woman leaning over me. She wore a blue and white dress, with a long braid snaking over her shoulder. “Where you from?” she asked.

I sat up and smiled. “America.”

“Oh, America!” she said. “Your skin, it’s so white!”

“Yeah, I just got to the beach,” I said with a laugh.

“You whiiiiite,” she said, drawing out the word. “You white like chicken!” She threw back her head and cackled. “How old are you?” she asked.

“33,” I said.

“You look older!”

“Um…thanks?” It wasn’t the most flattering conversation, but I felt happy that a local was making the effort to get to know me. Then she stopped the small talk and clutched my hand.

“You come have a look my shop, now!”

Of course. “Not now,” I said, with mounting irritation. “I just want to sit on the beach by myself.”

She protested and pulled my arm. Before I could convince her to leave, another woman joined us. “Where you from?” she asked.

I wrested my hand away and turned to her. “America,” I said.

“Oh. White skin. You white like chicken, eh? How old are you?”

“33.”

“You look older.”

What the hell? Did these women all attend the same sales seminar? Generate Sales with Mild Insults!

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really just want to enjoy the beach. No shopping.”

“Then you come later,” the second woman said. She thrust her hand in my face, demanding a handshake. “You promise!”

I shook her hand out of politeness. The first woman held her hand out too. “You promise me!” she said.

I shook her hand. The two walked off. “You can’t break promise!” one called over her shoulder. I laid back down and put the hat over my eyes. Finally, some peace.

“Hello, madam!”

God. Damn. It.

“What?” I said grumpily, yanking the hat off my eyes.

“Where you from?” Another shop girl leaned over my sarong.

“America,” I groaned, and climbed to my feet.

“You white,” she said. “White skin. Like chicken!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t talk now. I am going swimming.” I took off at a brisk pace towards the surf.

“Come have a look my shop?” the girl asked, running alongside me.

“No,” I said. “I’m swimming.”

“After swimming, you come have a look?”

I marched straight into the waves. To my surprise, she followed me without hesitation, soaking her ankle-length dress. “You promise!” she said.

I jumped away from her and splashed out to sea, only to discover that I’d chosen the rocky, shallow end of the beach. The rocks ahead looked too sharp to walk across and too shallow to swim over.

I stood still in waist-deep water and tried to gain composure. Logically, I knew these women were just trying to make a living. There were so few tourists right now that every sale meant a lot. Still, I was on a tight budget and I had to carry every possession on my back for six months. I simply couldn't afford all these elephant tchotchkes and Stevie Nicks costumes. And logic aside, the inescapable sales pressure was making me crazy.

After several minutes of letting the waves lap my thighs and attempting to calm myself with deep-breathing exercises, I turned towards the shore and was stunned to see the shop girl still standing in the ocean in her dress, waiting for me. Water slowly creeped up her skirt towards her waist. Behind her, Johanna was making her way down the cliff to the beach as more shop girls headed out onto the sand to intercept her.

The girl in the soaked dress grabbed my arm. “OK. No more swimming. Now you come look my shop!”

I wrenched my arm out of her grasp and stormed past her as fast as I could through knee-high water. The shop girls heading towards Johanna detoured to me because I was closer. Included in their ranks were the two I’d already spoken to, one of whom ran over like we were old friends.

“Remember me?” she said. “You promised. Come look my shop now!”

“No!” I said sharply. “I’m not shopping. Go away.”

She reached for my arm and I yelled, louder than I’d intended. “Don’t touch me!”

“But you promised,” she said, reaching out again. By now the wet girl had slogged over to my other side and the other girls were approaching as well. I was the last human in a horror movie where the zombies ate wallets. And solitude.

“Can’t you understand?” I pleaded. “I don’t want to shop. I just want to sit on the beach. Alone!”

They kept up their chorus of calls. “Come! You come now! Come look! Looking is free!”

“NO! NO NO!” I closed my eyes and screamed out the words, fists clenched. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” The shop girls stared at me with wonder, and then at each other. Chicken lady has gone insane.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Johanna standing just beyond the group, staring at me with her mouth open in shock. I instantly felt ashamed. Her expression seemed to say, “Oh! So this is why you don’t invite strangers from the train to share your vacation rental.”

I pushed past the girls. Though still ashamed, I felt a very definite satisfaction when they moved aside and let me walk unhindered. I collected my sarong and called to Johanna that I would be taking a nap. I climbed the hill to our cottage, slipped back under my mosquito net, and wept. On my first day in one of the most tourist-friendly towns in India, I’d lasted two hours outside.

If I couldn’t handle Goa, the most Westernized part of India, how would I ever last six months in this country?