For the past several weeks I've been studying the Bhagavad-Gita as interpreted by His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivendanta Swami Prabhupada (wow- what a name!)  As the founder of the International Society for Krsna Consciousness, Prabhupada interperets the ancient text within the context of Krsna consciousness, or the belief that Krsna is the Supreme Personality of Godhead.  While there are hundreds of different and often contradictory intepretations of the Gita, Prabhupada's book is one of the most universally recognized and accepted readings of the Gita.  His commentaries are for the most part scriptually based, referencing a multitude of Hindu texts including the Vedas and the Upanishads.  His analysis of the text is very thorough (sometimes too thorough), and his interpretations generally stick closely to the original meanings of the Gita.

Now having said this, I have a few bones to pick with Prabhupada.  First of all, his treatment of women is abhorrent.  In several instances, he refers to women as being "child-like" and inferior to men.  Although the Gita does not suggest such ideas about women, Prabhupada strongly maintains that women are spiritually weak and require the supervision of men.  He also declares that women are less intelligent than men and therefore are not capable of reaching Krsna consciousness on their own.  

I must say I was rather disappointed with Swami Prabhupada's negative treatment of women, particularly since his views were not scriptually based.  Given that the rest of his commentaries are rooted in Hindu scriptures, it's most unfortunate that he chose to express his personal bias against women within the framework of an otherwise impartial reading of the Gita.  Not only does such a bias negate the highly influential role of women in the history of Hinduism, it discredits Prabhupada's reputation as a scholar and interpretor.  It leads me to question his scholarly authority and authenticity, and causes me to speculate about the accuracy (or inaccuracy) of his other interpretations.   

I realize that every individual will add his or her own unique slant to the interpretation of any text, but I can't help but feel cheated and insulted by this blatent act of irresponsibility and ungrounded bigotry.  Why did Prabhupada feel it necessary to badger women so badly in his commentaries?  Why was his hatred of women so strong that he couldn't rise above it in order to provide a bias-free interpretation of the Gita?  What was it about women that frightened him so much?  These questions are obviously rhetorical and will most likely never be answered, but they do merit some contemplation. 

I know very little about the life of Swami Prabhupada, and perhaps some of the answers lie within his childhood or early adult experiences with women.  I'm sure some of it is culturally-based, and some of it undoubtedly was influenced by the era in which he lived.  But what puzzles me is how someone as brilliant and enlightened as he can also be so damn ignorant and bigoted.  If he truly was a master of renunciation, then why couldn't he detatch himself from hatred?  And if he truly believed in the omnipotence of Krsna, then why couldn't he see Krsna in women?  It seems to me that anyone who reaches Krsna consciousness, regardless of their cultural influences or socialization, would be able to recognize the divinity in all life.

Maybe I'm being too hard on him.  Afterall, he is a great scholar and one of the most enlightened beings I've ever encountered.  I suppose that's why I'm so disappointed in his sexist ideologies.  It angers me when someone who is so wise in most areas can be so ignorant in other areas.  We often have a tendency to place spiritual leaders on pedestals and expect them to live up to some great ideal of perfection, but we forget that they are only human just like us.  None of us is without fault, so I can't justifiably criticise him without being a hypocrite.  I guess I should just accept him for who he is, and not for who I wish he were.  All in all, I really liked most of what he had to say, and I plan on reading more of his books in the future.  But damn, it really pisses me off that he comes sooooooo close to being totally cool and then ruins it by slandering half the population!

In the midst of much social upheaval and chaos, I dedicate this video to all life on this beautiful and sacred planet.  With much love,
"I Say a Little Prayer for You"

Just hurry up and get it over with.  Oh, God, don't kiss me again.  Yuk!  If I can just hold my breath long enough I won't have to taste your sour breath and saliva... Oh, not the tongue... I think I'm gonna gag... no, I can handle it.  Just think about something else, yeah something else... the money... the money... the cold hard cash.  If I can make it through this disgusting experience without throwing up, I'll have enough money to get a hotel room tonight.  It'll all be over shortly... I can do this... Yeah, yeah, that's it, keep going, you're almost there... hurry up...almost, almost... 

Done. Finally. A sigh of relief.  Now just give me my money so I can get the hell outa here you sick bastard!  

He puts his hairy arms around me and snuggles up closely, in-twining his bony legs around mine.  His eyes are closed, his hot putrid breath in my ear, his limp manhood exhausted.  He's snoring.  Jesus Christ!  There's no way in hell I'm gonna lay here all night with your sweaty cold body on top of me.  You smell so horrible... don't you ever shower?  No wonder you have to pay for sex... That's it, I'm gonna puke... I gotta get up...get off of me...

I run for refuge in the bathroom, locking the door behind me.  I lean over the toilet and let it all out... purging myself of his nasty toxins... the more I think about him the more I purge...the smell...the taste... the degradation...I puke until there's nothing left in me to come out... my stomach muscles continue to cramp as I dry heave into the bowel...

I stand up, lightheaded, dizzy... I turn on the faucet of the sink and rinse out my mouth... God I wish I had some Listerine... soap, yeah soap, that'll work... I dispense the liquid soap onto my tongue and swish it around, allowing it to bubble and foam.  I rinse it out until every last particle of him is gone...

I look up and witness my reflection in the mirror.  Oh God, bad idea!  Don't look at yourself...don't think about it... just go out there and get the money and go...

He's awake now, sitting up against the pillows, completely naked, smoking a cigarette...he stares blankly at the ceiling...he is silent.  A hundred dollar bill is lying on the nightstand... Thank God, at least I don't have to remind him... I snatch the hundred dollar bill and secure it safely in my bra.

So now what?  Am I supposed to say goodbye? I hope he's not expecting a goodnight kiss.  I casually walk over to the bureau and retrieve my purse.  I can feel his eyes watching me, but I don't dare look.   My black stilettos are lying somewhere on the other side of the bed... that means I'm gonna have to walk past him... oh hell with the shoes, I can walk barefoot!

With my purse clutched tightly against my bosom and my paycheck snugged securely in my bra, I gently turn the cold metal knob and open the door.  The bright florescent lighting of the hotel corridor startles me as I peer out into the hall... it's silent, lifeless...good, no one will see me.  I quickly close the door behind me and make my way  to the bright red exit sign down the hall.  The stairway is dark and cold, but I don't care.  I run down the steps, ignoring the sharp particles of dirt that pierce the soles of my naked feet... finally, the back exit door...I hope the fire alarm doesn't go off... it doesn't, thank God...

The cool night air feels good.  I take a deep breath, allowing the crisp fresh oxygen to fill my lungs.  I stroll along the cold pavement.  The night is unusually quiet, almost dead.  Strange for a Tuesday night in the Quarter.  I can hear faint whispers of Cajun music playing from somewhere off in the distance.  Someone's having a good time somewhere... somehow.  I continue to walk up Royal Steet, passing sleeping towne houses lined with black iron gates and hanging plants...  

Crossing over to Ursalines, I can now see my destination three blocks up the street... the Empress Hotel... twenty dollars a night... Oh how I can't wait to take a nice long hot bath...
and a bed, a real bed, all to myself... Oh yeah, tonight I'm living in style!  No sleeping on the park bench in Jackson Square tonight, no fighting off rats for leftover scraps of po'boys...Tomorrow I start my new job at the restaurant... eight bucks an hour plus tips...forty hours a week...in a month I can afford a deposit for an apartment... All I have to do is get through the next four weeks... I can do it... I'll figure out something... Soon this will all be over and everything will be okay... No one will ever have to know about tonight... It'll just be my dirty little secret...someday I'll forget about it, God-willing...


 

For years I had dreamed of going to San Francisco- the gay mecca of the world!  Disillusioned by the poverty and corruption of New Orleans (where I lived miserably for a year), and bored out of my mind with Cincinnati, I had decided that I would treat myself to a vacation in the high life of gay culture.  So, two years a go, I booked myself a seven day trip to San Francisco. 

Upon arrival, I was overwhelmed by the beauty and magic of it all.  So many colorful people, smiling faces, shops, restaurants, coffee houses, street vendors, rainbow flags- it was as if I had died and gone to Gay Heaven!  I stayed at a luxurious hotel right outside of the Castro district, where maids brought me fresh towels, linens, and chocolate, and I spent the afternoon lounging in the jacuzi sipping mimosas and contemplating which exotic ethnic restaurant I would dine at that evening.  I brought with me my most elaborate gowns and jewelry so that I would look every bit the part of a pampered diva.

My first evening there, I decided to take to the streets and experience the nightlife in all its glory and wonder.  I was almost too overwhelmed with the possibilities, but I decided upon a martini bar across the street from my hotel.  The bar was small but cozy, and had that 1940's caberet kind of feel to it.  I sat down near the piano where a gentleman was gracing the patrons with his music, and I ordered an apricot martini (which was very tasty, by the way!) 

A young boy-ishly good looking man approached me and asked to join me.  Naturally, I honored his request.  His name was Juan.  He was a self-proclaimed poet and free-lance dancer.  We talked and laughed for many hours.  He had been born in Puerto Rico and came to San Francisco at 16 to live with his uncle.  He was a brilliant conversationalist, passionately discussing his favorite literary works, artists, and poetry.  He also spoke fluent French, and flattered me with lovely complimets in the language of love!  He was very charming, and I liked him a lot.

By the time the bar had closed, we had been so caught up in our conversation that we hardly noticed the time.  Not wanting the evening to end, we decided to go to a nearby coffee house where we spent the rest of the evening sipping lattes and enjoying eachother's company.  By dawn, I decided that I should probably go back to the hotel and get some sleep before I set out for the day's adventure.  I asked Juan if I could call a cab for him, but he declined.  I assumed he lived nearby, so I gave him my number, wished him a goodnight and retired to my hotel.

Later that day, after getting my much needed beauty sleep, I dolled myself up and went out in search of my next adventure.  As I passed the coffee shop, I casually peeked in and to my suprise, Juan was lying on the sofa, still dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before.  Curious, I went inside and gently woke him. 

"Juan, what the hell are you still doing here?" I jokingly inquired, assuming he had probably just fell asleep after having too much fun the night before.  He sat up and offered a sleepy smile.  

"They don't mind if I sleep in here when it's too cold outside," he replied.

Too cold outside?  What the hell is he talking about.  "Why didn't you just go home?"

His big brown eyes had a childlike innocence to them.  "I don't have a home."

He must be joking, I thought. I mean, come one, a smart, talented and wordly man like Juan couldn't possibly be homeless!  I mean, he even spoke French, for Christ's sake!  But something in his expression told me that he was being honest.  

"You mean... you don't have a place to live?"

Over the course of several hours he poured out his life story to me.  He had been kicked out of his uncle's home when he was 16.  His uncle, a devout Catholic and abusive alcoholic, had disapproved of his nephew's sexual orientation, and threw him out one day after catching Juan making out with a guy in the living room.  He had never known his father, and his mother, a schitzophrenic, was residing in a mental hospital in Puerto Rico.  He had no other relatives in the area, and spent the past four years living in shelters or staying with friends.  He had managed to obtain a job at the public library for a brief period, but was uanable to earn enough money for a place to live.  He was fired from his job for spending too much time reading and neglecting his duties.  So now he relied on the kindness of strangers and "generosity" of sugar daddies to survive.  Oh, and he was HIV-positive.

My heart broke.  What an injustice!  This poor boy- so brilliant, so talented- had been denied his God-given right to enjoy a decent life.  He didn't even have the chance to finish highschool, much less college where he belonged.  And HIV-postive? Jesus Christ!  Now he doesn't even have a hope!  He explained to me that one of the local shelters offered medical assistance to HIV-postive people, and that his doctor was a very caring and generous man who often gave him pocket money under the table.  But still, this was totally outrageous and unacceptable.  There must be something I could do to help.

So I offered to share my room with him at the hotel, but he declined.  "I don't want to intrude," was his reply.  Bullshit! I thought.  How could he be intruding?  I wanted him to stay with me.  But he wouldn't change his mind.  "I'll be fine, Shaneequa.  I've got friends around town.  I've been out here for four years now, I'll get by."

Still determined to help, I reached for my purse and pulled out a hundred dollars.  "Here, I want you to have this. I insist.  And if there's anything I can do to help, please, please, please call me.  You can even come back to Cincinnati with me, if you'd like."

Juan smiled graciously and took a twenty dollar bill from the wad of cash I handed him.  "I'll accept this much only because it means so much to you."  He left the remaining eighty bucks on the table.

He rose to his feet,  put the twenty dollar bill in his pocket and kissed me on the cheek.  "You're a special lady."  And with that he walked out of the coffee shop, disappearing into the big, magical city.  I would never see him again.

I went back to my over-priced fancy hotel and slipped out of my three-hundred dollar gown.  I sat on the bed and cried.  



 

In the midst of a seemingly hopeless situation, I am reminded of the legacy of one of the world's greatest anthropologists, Zora Neale Hurston.  Born in poverty in the deep south during the height of the Jim Crow era, Ms. Hurston conquered obstacle after obstacle in order to follow her dreams.  During a time when most Black women didn't attend highschool, Zora graduated from college.  Working as a maid, cook, and seamstress, she struggled daily to make ends meet, and often went hungry in order to finance her education.  Having no place to live, Zora scraped up enough pennies to purchase a car so that she would be able to travel from place to place in search of her destiny. 

Upon completeing her Anthropology degree, Zora was faced with the cruel reality of racism in the academia.  Colleges and universities did not hire African-American professors during the early 1900's, with the exception of a few Black colleges who rarely hired females, and Black anthropologists were certainly not in demand.  Still determined to pursue her dream, Zora decided to work independently, traveling to New Orleans, Haiti, Mississippi, South America, and other places, gathering stories, histories, and folk tales of the people.  She submitted her findings to Black-owned newspapers and publications, and garnered some success as a freelance writer and anthropologist. 

Finally by the 1930's, after years of lukewarm success and much rejection, Ms. Hurston was extended the offer of a publishing contract.  Soon her works became available to the larger public, winning the critical acclaim of many in the prestigious literary circuit.  Works such as Tell My Horse, Their Eyes Were Watching God, and Dust Tracks on a Road became international bestsellers, winning Zora the respect and noteriety she so greatly deserved.

But all the fame and critical acclaim was not to last.  By the mid-1940's, public interest in Hurston's work dwindled, and soon she was without a publisher.  Publications of her books ceased, and Zora was once again unemployed and broke.  By then in her late 50's, Zora found it difficult to find work, and often relied on the charity of friends and family to get by.  But she never lost confidence in her dream.  She continued to write, and by the early 1950's she had accumulated a mass of several unpublished manuscripts, all sitting on her shelves collecting dust.  Health problems began to plague her, and soon she was unable to take care of herself.  At the age of 65, Zora was evicted from her home and forced to live in her car.  She remained homeless until 1958, when she was committed to a mental hospital.  There she died two years later at the age of 69, and was buried in an unmarked grave.  There was no funeral, no memorial, and not even a mention in the newspapers. 

When I think of the life and legacy of Zora Neale Hurston, I think of a woman who knew no boundaries- a woman who fought diligently all her life in pursuit of her passion.  Plagued by poverty, homelessness, racism, sexism, and poor health, Zora maintained a strong sense of faith in herself and never gave up hope.  Since the time she was five years old, she was determined to give voice to the legacy and wisdom of the invisible masses, and that is exactly what she did.  Several years following her death, a revival of interest in Ms. Hurston's work soon took off, in part due to the relentless efforts of Alice Walker, who was inspired by Zora's legacy.  A headstone was eventually erected in the location of Ms. Hurston's grave, and today Zora Neale Hurston is a canonized figure in the literary world.  Her books are widely published and have become staples in every classroom and library worldwide.  Zora's dream was finally realized.

I thank Zora Neale Hurston for all she has given us.  She is a true inspiration for all who have ever felt hopeless, rejected, or voiceless.  And she is a constant reminder that no matter how cruel life can be, we must continue to persevere and follow our passions.