An exerpt from my journal

I'm walking beneath the hot Indian sun, its rays pulsing through the back of my neck while my sandals push down beneath the weight of my white body. Coming to think of yourself as a color is so dirty and backwards. The students all place their browned arms and hands next to mine and state how black they are. Their dark brown and black eyes show me way to their troubled thoughts and scattered emotions. Why have I been born as a Dalit and what does that even mean? Why has society selected me to be oppressed and poor while the high caste people aren't living with any heart of sense of reality, but they have nice food and a concrete roof over their heads. I'm walking to school it's about 8:30.m., the students have been awake since 4:30 or 5. They have already practiced yoga they have learned from a visiting guru, washed to be the most pure a human has potential to be, and eaten breakfast, the breakfast of everyday rice and sambar. A few radishes, some dal, and the spice of a green chili should make their bellies full and their bodies energized to take on their class schedule and let their voices flutter the national anthem and morning prayers. The huge power lines that rage over my head pass current I can hear whizzing through them. I imagine if the line would snap it would burst into flames or how the electricity could be causing cancer in those who surround it and use its energy when available to gain knowledge from their lessons with computers or see because of fluorescent lights that are bright penetrating the darkness of evening. I pass the women in printed saree making lunch for the students. Chopping onion and preparing at least 20 gallon pots full of white fluffy rice which in some instances has been given to the school by donation. They carry these pots in groups of four or five with the students, or the smaller ones they place on their heads walking ever so perfectly and waving at me in a military salute welcome as I pass them by. Learning about their past, I'm sure would be a struggle. To be a farmer or a cook and work hard for 1000 rs. a month ($10)... would you be an alcoholic with a bloated belly or liver disease? I would, you aren't left with much choice. But not the women, they are not allowed to partake in such activities. A nightcap to relax before your nightly slumber is unheard of the women are the ones who are constantly working. They sleep after their family has, they eat after their family has and they rise before their family has to nurture and feed those they serve. They suffer from goiters the size of softballs suspended on their necks, their feet are fungal and dry without shoes, their backs are bent as they mix and prepare, and their stomach is muscular as their saree sweeps to the side and exposes their dark flesh. The pillar of strength as Phil always states won't forever be subjected to the patriarchy of this country, they will be educated and their plight will be exposed as they strive for equality with the untouchables.