as my little brother (the 5th one) would say.
Well, the rain or something's been sealing my lips, or fingers, I guess, and I've been disinclined to keep up my end of most correspondance or blog or any such thing. The days have been mostly spent murdering time gruesomely and brutally within the four walls of the wee coffee shop where I live, but it didn't go by without a couple of noteworthy happenings.
Noteworthy happening #1... Lor and I recorded a song for a human-rights convention in Calcutta. He'd written the song last year after a little girl named Purnima, held a press conference about her gang-rape and torture. It is epidemic in Bangladesh as well as all over the world. You can read brief accounts and see pictures of women, some as young as 4 years old, who have been victims of this racially-motivated violence at the website of the Bangladesh Awami Leauge. I think the song will be very well recieved. The person who requested the recording was nearly in tears, and he begged us to write a short message to Purnima and autograph it. I wouldn't have dreamed of it - I felt quite ashamed to be seen as a celebrity by a little girl who has been through such horrors and been so brave. But he insisted it would thrill her, so we did it, though I had to go away and cry somewhere afterwards.
#2 We played a benefit for Tsunami victims at the Park South hotel. It went really, really well, though I had the most wretched stage-fright before. All of the music was wonderful, and everyone was very kind. It is a funny thing, performing in plain-dress. It seems in a way quite a bit at odds with itself, but then, my motivations for plain dress are less humilty than truth, and since in truth, I'm a performer, there's no real conflict. More noticiably, it was the first time since moving to NYC that I've gone to a big social event and not been hit on - at all. Everyone was friendly and anxious to speak with me, which was very gratifying, but nobody flirted with me at all. It sounds ridiculous, but it was a little sobering. I've been so used to making a character of myself before I "go out" and attracting all the attention I want whether I really want it or not. Costume and makeup are powerful social tools. I can't say I was upset or even disappointed - I'm so far from the dating mood these days that it was actually a good relief. But it was sobering in that - "Oh gosh, this is actually real and not just in my head anymore" way.
#3...well, no number three. I guess that's it.
Of The Best Stuff, but Cracked
1 comment:
Amanda, I should tell our friends that thee really worked hard to get this done, both well and fast. One of my favorite comments from a customer in a copy shop owned by Bengali friends was, "Hey... l like the singer, (Amanda...) she has a whole Joan Biaz thing happening ..." But, on the more serious note, here is the song for thy Blogonauts.
Who Will Marry Me?
Words and music Lorcan Otway
I'm a Bangladeshi Hindu girl, I cannot say my name
I cannot show my face to you, I'm forced to flee in shame
I cannot find the words to tell, what they did to me
When the gangs came to my village and robbed my dignity
I cannot speak the words, my fear, and horror to relate
When the women of my village became the target of your hate
With nothing but my tattered clothes, I have been forced to flee
For after my public shame, who would ever marry me
In the decade before I was born, my land was wracked with pain
Democracy and Freedom, religious rights to gain
All the people of our land, shared the terror of that night
to cast off religious hatred and, emerge into the light
I can't understand why the world, allows hate to divide my land
Is our pain so foreign to your world, that you can't understand
The tears of my nation, a waterwheel could turn
Can they not touch your heart enough, our history to learn
How my story ends I cannot say, what's ahead I cannot see
Fundamentalism's fertile fields, are starved lands of poverty
But in the ruins of my land and life, I can only cry in vain
why must I bear the shame alone, who would ever share my pain?
One question more I'll ask of you, before I flee my land
One question more I'll put to you, I'm too young to understand
One question more I must demand, before I turn to go,
for the answer to this question, no young girl may ever know
My sister's bodies have become, the targets of your war
And our mother's and our grandmothers, for countless years before
How can it be our dishonor, why is it our disgrace?
Why is it not the rapist, who is forced to hide his face?
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