Happy International Roma Day!



My Gypsy man's dad first saw this flag in Yugoslavia in 1971 when an acquaintance brought it back from the first World Roma Congress, where it was officially accepted as the Roma flag. The congress also adopted an international anthem. My husband's family uses both enthusiastically.

A later World Roma Congress established International Roma Day as April 8th. (That's today!)

What Rom would turn down an excuse to celebrate? My parents in law went to visit family in Slovenia, where they had a big party at a restaurant with a lot of dancing. I wish we could have been there!

But this day is not only for festivities, it's also to raise awareness of Europe's largest minority (12 million)--and one of the most persecuted. For example, many people don't know that between 400,000 and 500,000 Roma and Sinti were massacred in the Holocaust, and no recognition, assistance, or compensation was made by the Nuremberg Trials. Unfortunately, the attitudes that allowed such atrocities to take place 70 years ago still exist today, and while Roma are not dying in concentration camps, thousands are suffering all over the world in other ways.

I wonder frequently what I can do to help these people. I hope that by writing about my experiences with some of them, I can add a positive perspective and decrease the hate that is in the world. The lyrics of the national anthem, Gelem, Gelem, talk about overcoming:

I have travelled over long roads
I have met blessed Roma
I have travelled far and wide
I have met blessed Roma

Oh, Romani adults, Oh Romani youth

Oh, Roma, from wherever you have come
With your tents along blessed roads
I too once had a large family
But the black legion murdered them
Come with me, Roma of the world

To where the Romani roads have been opened
Now is the time - stand up, Roma,
We shall succeed where we make the effort.

Oh, Roma adults, Oh, Roma youth

The hymn has a beautiful mournful tone, but also prideful, confident, and hopeful. The stereotypical Gypsy is carefree, wants only to dance, sing, laugh, and entertain. It's true, from my experience, that Roma love to be happy and to have a good time. But they cannot be dismissed as a carefree people. The world should be paying much more attention to their cares and concerns, for a lot of good reasons, and then dancing and celebrating a day like today, shouting "Yasha!" right along with them.

I met the Gypsy man’s parents for the first time (not counting numerous Skype sessions) at the bottom of an escalator in the Salt Lake Airport about a week before our wedding.

My betrothed had driven us to the airport in the boat-like un-air-conditioned Mercury Grand Marquis I had inherited from my grandparents. We had held hands, resting them on the blue velvety middle seat, as I rehearsed in my mind how I would greet these people, strangers until recently, whose path was very soon to converge with mine. I wanted to fathom the importance and strangeness of the occasion but it was so important and strange that I could not. I had to check again if I had it right: “So, it’s the right hand? I will take their right hand, and do I touch it to my forehead first?” I practiced with his hand. In this culture, I had learned, there was a special way of expressing respect and honor to one’s parents in law. It would very much impress and please them, he had told me, if I were to use it the first time I met them. I was a little embarrassed, but enthusiastic.

I spotted them first and told myself to be calm, but my heart beat faster and my hands shook, especially when they finally saw us and made their way down to us. I felt inevitably awkward, impatiently waiting for them to hug their son whom they hadn’t seen for far too long. My soon-to-be mother in law reached out to greet me with a hug. I accepted, probably mumbling something half in Italian and half in Romani, before catching her unoffered hand, taking it in both my hands and bowing, bringing the back of her hand near my lowered forehead, then my mouth, then my forehead and mouth again. She broke into a huge smile and hugged me again. “Ovsasti, grazie, ovsasti, mi chai.” I repeated the gesture with her husband, received the same surprised, warm, happy response.

I’ve since repeated this gesture when seeing them after a long absence or when exchanging gifts, and I’ve thought about it a little more. Like other things in Roma culture, it feels ancient to me. From my cultural perspective, it could be seen negatively. Ever since they dismissed King George III, Americans don’t seem to think much of bowing. They might call this act not ancient, but primitive. That’s the problem, though, a long time ago the soup was overcooked in the great Melting Pot and we lost a certain texture and taste for, well, what exactly? I’m having a hard time pinning it down. Maybe the sacredness of family relationships, the value of self-abasement? Yes, maybe it’s individualism that has made us prideful. It’s something in our mindset that values the self over the family, that’s set us off on a wild goose chase for self-fulfillment, forgetting the people at home who could have given us the deepest joy and satisfaction.

This gesture sometimes feels embarrassing to me, I reason, because it’s such an expressive performance of a sacred but unfamiliar sentiment. It’s like saying, “You before me knew what it is to marry and bear children. You before me knew what it was to give every part of yourself for the sake of new life. Now I pledge to honor your sacrifice by devoting myself to this person, my companion, your son, and following in your footsteps.” It’s so beautiful it can hardly be spoken. So in wisdom it was written in gesture.

When the Gypsy man walks in the door from work each evening and sees our baby, they both get gigantic silly smiles on their faces.

He starts singing to her and she starts bouncing, her hands in the air, reaching out to him.

He sings his own little song to her “E tateske lachi chai, o tate mangol tut but, o tate kamol tut but!”

Then he takes her in his arms, gives her a big hug and kiss, pulls out his cell phone and plays a song, usually something like this, and they both put their hands in the air and dance. My little girl is serious about her dancing. She wants to dance all day long. It's in her blood.

How can I resist? I join them and we all dance together. That's us.

Happy International Women's Day!

To celebrate, I am going out with a big group of women to eat at Aristo's in Salt Lake. I love having an excuse to wear lipstick and a little extra eyeliner. The Gypsy man and my baby are having a daddy-daughter date at home. This will be the first time I've gone out alone without my little girl just for fun! Looking forward to some spanakopita and live music!

And to further honor women, especially Roma women, before the day is over, I want you to know about these five ladies:

http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

Saturday morning we were talking with the Gypsy man's family about his birth, of which we were celebrating the 31st anniversary. He was four and half kilos, his mother told me. That's TEN pounds. And he had been gestating for over TEN months. I thought this was an exaggeration or that it had to be an honest mistake the first couple times I heard it, but I am beginning to believe it. He was due on January 15th and born on February 25th. And his mother birthed the inconsiderate little chubbers at home, without complications, without medication, and not by accident, but with the planned assistance of a midwife. After a bad experience at the hospital with her first, she had chosen to have the rest of her babies at home, even when this one made the doctors think she would have to have a Cesarian.

But I am not as incredulous about this story as some might be. I am a huge fan of unmedicated labor and homebirth. I love that she trusted her body to go into labor when both she and the baby were ready, even if it was unbelievably late. I especially love that she knew she had options and made her own choice about how to labor. I didn't birth at home, but I was determined from the moment I knew I was pregnant to have my baby naturally, and the process of labor was the most incredible, satisfying, and spiritual experience of my life. I chose not to have medication also because I believed it would benefit the baby, and I think my mother in law used the same reasoning.

Roma women breastfeed their babies for as long as they can or as long as the baby wants to. And they don't feel like they have to hide it. I really admire that. I have not yet quite overcome the exaggerated sense of modesty that I think has something to do with my religious culture, which at least in terms of breastfeeding has I think unfortunately wandered too far from the attitudes of early Saints. The impression I have from my experience with my husband's family is that Roma women do not hesitate to sacrifice personal comfort and convenience for the wellbeing of their children. From these and other observations I know that Roma women are strong women.

The Gypsy man’s birthday is on Saturday. For a birthday gift, our friend presented him with a rad vintage book she picked up at a consignment shop while shopping for furniture. It’s a study on Gypsies with beautiful pictures, published in 1970 by National Geographic. We argued about who would get to read it first. We’re sharing. Isn’t that nice of me to share his birthday gift with him?

The genesis of the book was a Gypsy man from the UK who wanted to take a trip to India, the probable ancient homeland of the Roma, tracing their migration routes across Europe and the Middle East. A gadjo, or non-Rom (sort of like a muggle), working for National Geographic wrote the book after making the journey with him. This Roma man, Clifford Lee, married “the pretty blue-eyed daughter of an Irish butcher.” I could relate to the description of their courtship: “With Gypsy ardor he had wooed and wed her…” Yes, that was certainly how my husband did it too.

He wrote me an email about 15 minutes after our first real conversation, which I quote directly: “Tu sai che gli italiani dicono le cose come sono e così faccio anch'io :-) Hai dei bellissimi occhi e sei molto bella.”

Alright, I’ll translate, if you insist: “You know that Italians say things like they are, and I do the same. (smiley face—cute, my dear, very cute) You have gorgeous eyes and you are really beautiful.” It sounds better in Italian, doesn’t it?

So at the time I didn’t know it was Gypsy ardor—I thought it was Italian fearlessness. Mind you, when he first arrived in the States, he would rally his guy friends by saying, “Let’s go conquer some girls!” Well, that would not sound quite so medieval in Italian. What he really meant of course was woo. And he was and is fairly good at it.

We’re dancing. I am looking down at the sets of socks and slippers stepping together in rhythm, forward and back, following each other in a line, adding their own circular embellishment to the pattern on the rug. No one is barefoot and no one has shoes on. We have left our shoes at the door or carefully placed them in rows outside on the balcony. Once I begin to remember the rhythm I can look up, still uh-huh-huh-ing the beat in my head and visualizing the next steps, but also watching the faces. Chins held not up but evenly, not attention seeking, but gratified by admiration or appreciation. Then when someone makes a joke or begins to add still more enthusiasm to their movements, smiles that break forth with unguarded reciprocation.

No one makes nice speeches about their love and respect for each other. They don’t have to because they know how to demonstrate, how to act out the abiding joy of family by joining hands, agreeing in the same steps right and left, facing each other, accepting God’s gifts of music and bodies to move with it.

Now we’ve gone around a few times and my feet begin to follow on their own, and I begin to wonder: For how many hundreds of years have people been dancing these same steps? None of us who repeat this folk dance can explain where it came from, when or why it started, and we can’t fathom each of the individuals that have been accepted in and contributed to that social act.

This was my second trip to Italy with the Gypsy man to visit his family. The first time we had a wedding celebration at a large rented venue and invited many friends and relatives. We danced from 4 pm until 2 am. But weddings are not the only occasions Roma find to dance. This time it was our smaller immediate family and we were dancing in the living room, celebrating an event called Koombarluko (my own invented spelling): a child’s first haircut.

It usually occurs close to the first birthday, but we figured eight months was close enough to have the party for our baby while we were there for Christmas. We chose a kumitsa (a godmother, basically), one of the Gypsy man’s sisters, to be the one to cut her hair. It must be done before the sun comes up, so everyone woke up at what I call an ungodly hour and dressed to the nines before gathering at my in-laws. I remember sort of rolling out of bed when people were already starting to arrive, surprised to see a hazy sunless light peeking through the cracks of the shutters, and joining my sisters in law in the washroom to do my hair and makeup. Music was starting in the living room. By the time we were ready and had the baby up and dressed, we only had a few minutes before the sun would rise, and we came out in the living room to see a table spread with snacks, hot drinks, and pastries that my mother in law had prepared. One of my sisters in law was there late the night before, decorating a highchair with red sequined fabric and gold tassels so that it would looks like a throne.

We placed our baby there and sat on either side of her while everyone else gathered around to watch. The kumitsa, with the guidance of my mother in law, carefully snipped off a little of her extra long baby hairs in front and on each side, and placed the hair in a basket decorated with fabric and flowers. She proceeded to dress our baby again in a shiny pink dress, tights, and shoes—all gifts from her. Then she lifted her three times in the air. Others placed money (in amounts I thought overly generous) in the basket with the hair. Then we presented our gifts to each of the family members. We went shopping ahead of time to find an article of clothing for each family member: dresses or sets of clothes for the kids, nice sweaters or shirts for the adults. They don’t need to be wrapped, only carefully folded. The Gypsy man held them while I took one at a time from him and presented them to each family member, starting with the oldest and proceeding one by one to the youngest, each time exchanging a kiss on each cheek. When these ceremonies were over, we enjoyed the rest of the morning dancing, talking, and laughing. Later, we would need to find running water, a river or stream, and toss in the little bit of cut hair.

I asked my mother in law one night to explain the significance of this event and the meaning of each of its rituals. We were all sitting around visiting, and the room became a little more quiet when I asked my question. She sort of shrugged and began to say searchingly, “Well…it’s important…because…I suppose…the child needs to be healthy—” when my sixteen-year old brother in law cut her off saying provokingly to the room: “Basically, we have no idea.” Everyone laughed, and my Gypsy man turned to me and by way of further explanation raised both arms in a Tevye-worthy shimmy singing, “Traditiooon…Tradition!”