Article for context: https://www.recordnepal.com/st-marys-school-grapples-with-sexism-homophobia-and-body-shaming
“Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.”
- James Baldwin
I am Saluja and I graduated from St. Mary's High School in 2014. In the last two weeks, many Marians have spoken up about the prevalent sexism and public shaming within the school. As someone who assumed several leadership roles, this period has resurfaced memories and offered an opportunity for reflection. In three days, I have gone from being proactive about showing solidarity to students speaking up about the chaos to deactivating my social media presence entirely. I did this right before AboutTime, a group of Marian alums, organized an Open Forum, a live, virtual space for Marians to share their stories. Before going further, I want to applaud each one of you for coming forward to confront your traumas, being patient in the midst of backlash, and for working tirelessly to organize meetings, draft recommendations, despite the emotional toll this has taken. And although we are not past that point yet, I am not here to defend your labor. I am here to talk about the complicity of our parents because more than the overwhelming messages in the alum group chat, the silence of home has kept me awake at night 12,382 kms away in Colorado. I am here to talk about the inevitable, expanding distance between me and my parents I have taught myself to normalize. I am here at the risk of validating how I am already perceived - wannabe woke, radical daughter who sounds too foreign to be understood. As poet Ocean Vuong asks, can we ever be truly heard by the ones we love most?, I am here knowing that these words will never reach the ones I want it to reach in ways I intend it to.
When I first read about the school's case, it was through an article written and published online in Nepali. Having studied in the school for 9 years, I was torn, shocked but not surprised. I immediately forwarded the article to my family via our group chat. I woke up the next morning with a voice message from my sister about how at home, they had found the perfect man for me- bahun, 2 years older, liberal (because he had studied in an elite school in Kathmandu like myself?), had an 80k annual paycheck- he ticked all the boxes. It has become ritual in my family to group call twice a day which I can hardly keep up with given the time difference, online classes and most importantly, confronting the daunting, banal questions. “Do you think we want bad for you?” “Just ask for career advice and initiate a conversation!” “Everyone is going to be booked. You’re already 23 years old! Or do you like girls? Is that what it is? Why are you so scared of talking to men then?” This is how I start my day before entering zoom to code the population dynamics of aphids over the past 5 years in the United States which is to say I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I don’t know how to do what I want to do anymore. Most days, the sound of three people talking over each other on messenger calls reverberate within the confines of my one person campus apartment. I suppose most of us who are abroad and homesick have had to fight this paradox. I am talking about this now because the response (silence) to the St. Mary’s article from my parents was the threshold for me.
For most of my school life, I was hardworking and occasionally made mistakes. Despite having been caught cheating in exams, bunking classes, I assumed leadership roles. I was the student who was granted chances over and over again. With every second chance, I filtered out the notoriety. I enjoyed favoritism in school. I was the student suffering sibling syndrome and playing catch up with my elder sister who had been the Head Girl. I participated in everything I could to convince myself I was as good. I exhausted myself and never realized how unhealthy it was for me. I was the kid who teachers would offer to write recommendations for. I was the kid who had the privilege to attend an international high school and fly to the West for a college education. I say this, one because it is important to recognize that we only have subjective experiences to offer here. With every second chance, the fear of losing that chance made me “disciplined” at the cost of voluntarily shaming another who wasn’t disciplined enough. As the House Captain, I once pulled a friend out of the assembly for her unoiled, messy hair and later found out that she had an abusive father who had literally pulled her hair that morning. With every value education class, I learnt to be selfish and unkind while also learning to be grateful. Two, because I have hope that in recognizing the complexities of our experiences, those of us who are vehemently defending the school will reflect on our own experiences and ask ourselves why we arrive at such conclusions. Hopefully, this will make us ask, what is at stake for others who are speaking despite their attachments to the institution?
I would not be here had it not been my home, my school, my family who made it possible for me to be where and who I am today. But what is the value of my education when all that I am being interrogated for is whether the person I date will tick the boxes. What is the value of my education if the school I grew up admiring responds to its own students speaking up against body shaming, policing and assault, saying the institution is doing nothing but respecting the "values" of "Nepalese society"? I want to know what constitutes this society and who defines these values. How is asking for answers and not settling for the lack of answers equivalent to taking your love for granted? These values are choking me. These values are choking us. These values extend beyond an article of clothing. If you read carefully enough, you know this is not about haircuts and uniforms anymore. These are the values that were created to keep us in check on how we woman, how we gender, how we class, how we caste, how we nation and whether we perform them better than our neighbors' daughter or not. These are the values I am confronted with at 7 a.m on messenger. But as much as I am angry, this is not about that. This is about the creation of values outside the bodies that perform them. This is me saying I am tired of performance.
When I told my mother I left social media because of our toxic conversations, she told my brother, “Hami marepachi thaha huncha!” What am I supposed to make of this? What do I tell the woman who I respect more than anyone, who at 7 months pregnant was working over time at a grocery store in New Hampshire to put food in our mouths, who still works a full time job sweating over emails written in "incorrect" English and whose three children are the golden trophies she is eagerly waiting to flaunt? Can I risk saying I am dying too? Can I tell her I am holding on to the values you cultivated in me outside of these scriptures, at our kitchen table? I want to tell her extending the same care you extended me to those who are speaking is what I am prioritizing right now. I want to tell her I am hurt you did not ask me once if I was one of the many who were abused or shamed. I am hurt you did not make an effort to understand the extent of what is unfolding because I don’t understand it myself. Is that an unrealistic expectation? Am I crazy or is it not too much to ask? I called St. Mary's my home for nine years and I still do. Of course this affects me. Of course I have questions. I believe I am worthy of answers because you taught me my worth. In the spirit of what Baldwin says, I am perhaps imitating what you would have done had you been in my shoes. This is the fruit of your upbringing. You will read it as failure. That is what scripts do to us.
Scripts make us scared of confronting anything that speaks truth to power. We are encouraged to speak until we threaten places of power. And because this is relative, someone is always exerting more power over somebody else and doing everything possible to maintain that power and (in) security. Sometimes the ones upholding that power are the ones we love most. Power shoves expectations down our throats until it becomes an obligation to be grateful. Institutions do that. Our elders do that. We do that. I do that. When I brought this up myself during one of our family calls, I was dismissed once, because there was someone at the door, and another time because my mother was brushing her teeth. It ended at “La la ma gaye aile,” before it even started. All I am saying is that this is not a conversation that can be had in passing. What is the value of my education when what I am finally beginning to unsee and render important is never taken seriously? Why does being respectful come down to keeping our insecurities guarded? What if I cannot honor that by virtue of your investment in making me more sensible? How can I do better to tell you this? All I have are questions, a stunted mother tongue, and a dear white friend asking me if I am okay to which I say I am because I cannot afford to read them my journal entries either. Not today. No translations available.