Beyond

Borders
Freely’s Annual
Summer Writing Contest

SUMMER 2017
First Place

LET ’S TALK
PERIODS! IT’S
CALLED A
VAGINA
TANYA DHINGRA
Tucked away in the
meandering gallies of a basti named
Tigri, not far from Saket, New Delhi,
there is a very impressive group of
girls. Energetically, these girls dance
behind closed doors, as if express-
ing their hesitations through their
“it.” Dancing so they will not feel
subdued when the time comes to go
home, never ever to talk about this
deep dark hole again. A body part
that is not to be named. It appears if
you speak the words, name it, and it
might just come alive! It might even
become a real part of your living
breathing body. It might as well
come out of its dark rabbit hole and
whisper its powerful, shocking, very
valid, very real name to you… vagina!
They are waiting impatiently for an
unfamiliar didi to come by and tell
them shocking (things they've never
fathomed, let alone heard) things
like, “Yes you indeed have three
openings between your legs and not
just two.”
Goodness! Didi, I thought you
were blatantly telling lies...
This workshop is a safe, no judge-
ment zone. We don’t tell lies. Today,
as we hold hands, sharing this trust
circle in a windowless, cramped
anganwadi, we promise this: “I swear
to tell truth the whole truth and
nothing but the truth.”
The workshop begins, it’s the first
of seven we’ve had this summer in
three partner projects of CRY. I’ve
been to Swati (Tigri and RK Puram),
Ahesas (Goyla Dairy), and Pahal
(Rithala). The age groups varied by
location, as did the girls’ religions
and socio-economic statuses.
I swear to tell truth the
whole truth and nothing but
the truth.
However, one common thread linked
all the girls at my workshops: the
taboo of menstruation and the
impurity associated with it. United
across social boundaries, these girls
experience very real cultural reser-
vations about pursuing an authentic
education about the process of
menstruation and the female body.
I am unfortunately talking about
the 80% of India’s adolescent youth
who don’t have simple privileges
like basic human rights over their
own bodies. I struggled against what
sometimes felt to be insurmountable
boundaries, to instill a simple and
clear education about the physiolog-
ical process of getting your period.
Many of the girls, in our age of widely
celebrated technological advance-
ments, still believe that their periods
are indeed a curse from God.
The essential part of every work- to sham her way out of her daily
shop is when we break into small chores. Hearing Anita, and observ-
groups to talk about our periods. ing the uncertain and embarrassed
smile on her
face, I realized
that for many of
these girls, to be
in possession of
a perfectly nor-
mal and healthy
body means to
cope with issues
far beyond just
the physical
symptoms of
menstruation.
However, it
wasn’t always
dreary news
Photo courtesy of Tanya Dhingra
bearing on my
part. There were
The real issues come to the surface,
plenty of laughs in between. Did you
and the girls feel acknowledged by a
know that a temple in Assam shuts
pair of attentive eyes and ears and
down for three days every month
someone hearing their individual
because the goddess is on her
voices. Anita, above in the yellow
period? I wonder how it is that they
dress, is sharing the story of getting
pick the three days in the month? Or
her first period. Her father hit her
a popular favorite: what would it be
because he thought she was trying
like if men could menstruate?

What would it be like if our knucklehead brothers bought us

pads… and no black polybag drama please! Carry them home
proudly in their hands so the world knows there are sisters
and mothers at home.
I can touch the pickle jar? And it won’t even get spoilt? Are
you saying that I can eat the pickle too? I am allowed to
bathe and wash my hair during my periods? And I don’t have
to sleep and eat separately? Are you seriously telling me
that I am not impure to touch?

A critical misconception that this instead, as a beacon of strength and

workshop addresses is a simple fact:
menstruation is a physiological pro-
cess that all females go through in
order to be able to give birth to an
offspring at a future time. It is NOT
a curse from God. Periods do not
make women inferior to men.
This menstrual myth unfortunately
is shockingly evident throughout our
patriarchal and religious culture in
India. It will only be broken through
education that is directed towards
normalizing the topic of menstrua-
tion for all girls across this nation.
The goal is simple and self-directed:
instill a sense of confidence in the
girls so that they feel comfortable
and proud of their female bodies.
The workshops encourage girls to
engage in normal day-to-day activ-
ities during their periods despite
cultural and religious restrictions,
but this needs to be done on a wider
level. Only then can we some day
hope for the female body not to
be viewed as a sexual object, but
dexterity. Gender does not define
the validity of their passions and
qualifications. Gender does not
define these girls.
The aghast expressions on the girls
faces usually render much need-
ed perspective on the girl-child
of India, viewing herself as more
than just a nurturing, birth-giv-
ing, repressed, unvoiced majority.
I hope to address some logistical
differences that arise in varying
communities like the direct cor-
relation between having a toilet
facility at home and having satis-
factory menstrual hygiene. A few
recommendations can be made to
the communities and CRY based
on the data which is collected via
pre and post workshop question-
naires that the girls fill out during
the workshop. The ultimate result
of all this is a deeper understand-
ing of the needs and wants of every
girl-child in India while maintaining
an unbiased attitude towards them.
Also, every time a mother tells her
young daughter that “a lizard licked
me” she will laugh a loud, hearty
laugh and instead of being dismis-
sive of her mother, she will educate
and empower her own life-giver, as
her mother wasn’t fortunate enough
to have had a strange, unfamiliar
didi walk into her life, and tell her,
A lizard licked me.
“there’s no shame in your period.”

About the Author

My name is Tanya Dhingra and I am a junior Public Health ma-
jor and international student at Temple University. I was born in
Chandigarh, India but have had a fairly nomadic life due to my
father’s work. I went to a British boarding school in the Himalayas
when I was ten years old. By a chance encounter, my father was
chosen to be the military and defense attaché at the Embassy of
India in Washington D.C. Moving to the States when I was 16 was
a life-changing, emotionally tumultuous experience but nothing
I would ever undo. My family moved back to India after a fleeting
three years and I have since been living here on my own, three con-
tinents away. When I visited my family in India this summer, I was
able to conduct menstrual hygiene workshops for a large non-profit
called CRY (Child Rights and You). I felt the need to educate and
empower girls I had not yet met, because felt an unwavering con-
nection to their day-to-day struggles as adolescent girls growing
up in India. I spent three months in New Delhi with my sister and
mother, carrying out these workshops across the nation’s capital.
These workshops, as photogenic and idyllic they might seem, were
an emotional roller-coaster. We are fortunate to have agency over
our own bodies, but these 97 girls (and counting) do not yet have
this fundamental human right.

There’s no shame in your period.

The first time I meditate my legs hurt so badly that I

think there must be something wrong with them. I am

in a mango grove just outside of Chiang Mai, Thailand.

The mangos are ripe and so heavy that they bend the

branches of the trees. The ground is crawling with

Second Place
red ants that bite. My legs are crossed and the pain is

oscillating in red waves up and down them. I have been

MEDITATING
sitting with my eyes closed for forty-five minutes. Or

has it been fifteen? Have I been here for hours? I am

restless and constantly moving. I readjust my legs only

IN THAILAND
to feel them fall asleep once more, the tingling growing

into a sharp ache. I hear the Buddhist monk’s slow, light

footsteps as he walks through the garden around us.

This is the first hour of a three day meditation retreat.

SPENCER NITKEY
I will spend all day meditating, breaking only for brief

moments to reset the mind, eat, and sleep. The first

time I meditate I am miserable.

The first time I meditate I am told to focus on my home,
my legs hurt so badly that I think the space where the breath
there must be something wrong with meets the nose. I am told to re-
them. I am in a mango grove just linquish control of my breathing
outside of Chiang Mai, Thailand. and simply note its in and out
The mangos are ripe and so heavy movement. At first, my thoughts
that they bend the vvbranches of drift like sailboats over a sea,
the trees. The ground is crawling entering quietly. I remember
with red ants that bite. My legs are performing in my high school’s
crossed and the pain is oscillating in production of Legally Blonde. I
red waves up and down them. I have bring myself back to my home.
been sitting with my eyes closed for I think about the three day trek
forty-five minutes. Or has it been through the jungle and rafting
fifteen? Have I been here for hours? down on the Mekong River. I
I am restless and constantly moving. bring myself back to my home.
I readjust my legs only to feel them I remember reading that, when
fall asleep once more, the tingling trying to relinquish control
growing into a sharp ache. I hear the of your breathing and simply
Buddhist monk’s slow, light foot- observe, it may feel like you are
steps as he walks through the garden drowning, but the body will not let
around us. This is the first hour of a you drown in open air and you must
three day meditation retreat. I will simply allow yourself to breathe
spend all day meditating, breaking without prompting. I find my home.
only for brief moments to reset the The longer I sit in silence, with noth-
mind, eat, and sleep. The first time Iing but my thoughts to accompany
meditate I am miserable. me, the more
combative
At first, my thoughts drift like sailboats these thoughts
over a sea, entering quietly. become. I
immediate-
The monk who is teaching us calls ly notice the lack of distractions.
himself Master T. When my knees There is nothing at my fingertips
and legs hurt, when my mind is diverting my attention. There is only
quickly becoming a monsoon, the sensation of thick humidity on
thunderously loud and chaotic in my skin, the pain in my legs, and
the face of the quiet concentration my mind, lashing out against its
being asked of it, his calm, blossom- constraints. Before this first hour
ing smile, and the contentment with ends I have remembered things I
which he speaks to us, are the only haven’t thought about in years: the
things that convince me this will hot-faced shame of being rejected
ever be worthwhile. by my crush in the 6th grade, lying
 Illustration by Julia Sanua

to my 4th grade teacher about why “Before you sleep, try to note
I hadn’t done my math homework, whether your last breath of the
hearing that my grandmother was night is in or out. And when you
dead. Master T calls this propensity wake, do the same,” the monk tells
for the brain to be anywhere but the us. My brain screams to life as I lay
present monkey mind. If my brain there. I worry. I doubt. I cry. As if in
is a monkey, it response, the
is King Kong. sky opens up
The monk gently As if in response, the sky and dumps
strikes his Tibet- opens up and dumps rain. rain. It shouts
an singing bowl It shouts in loud, rocking in loud, rock-
and the sonorous thunder, and strikes the ing thunder,
ring informs us and strikes
earth in bright white flashes
that the hour is the earth in
over. It is time
of lightning. bright white
for us to open flashes of
our eyes and stretch our legs. I open lightning. We all move our tents un-
my eyes. I don’t know whether I was der a thin stretch of concrete ceiling
breathing in or out when he did. at the far end of the garden. I don’t
remember whether I fall asleep on
That first night, I crawl into a small
an inhale or an exhale, but I wake up
tent I had pitched when we arrived.
breathing out.
The next day is easier. The rain By the third day, when it is time to
has stripped the air of most of leave, Master T sits with us and re-
its humidity, and though the sun flects on our experiences. He leaves
shines down, it is easy to find my us with one final, haunting piece of
home draped in the cool shadow of advice.
the mango tree. My mind is still an
“You should always practice this,
untamed animal and after fifteen
always come back to your home,
minutes, still grows restless and
always notice. It will give you control
uncontrollable, but halfway through
over your mind, and when you can
the day I find myself noticing these
control your mind, you can be happy.
thoughts, instead of being dragged
And I am happy. When you die, if you
behind them. They pass and sail
are scared of dying, find your home.
through my mind simply, and upon
Notice whether your last breath is in
noticing them, I watch them recede.
or out, and you will die happy.”
My legs still hurt, badly. After sitting
cross-legged for longer than ten I don’t know if I will ever be strong
minutes the numbness begins to enough, in my final moments, to re-
crawl up them once more. I was more member my home and note whether
able to let them sit. my last breath is an inhalation or an
exhalation. I do know now, that when
When I go to bed, I am exhaust-
the world spins with the vigor of a
ed but when I lay down in my tent,
monsoon, or my temper rises, that
my mind is no longer grasping for
if I can remember to find my home, I
thoughts, or angrily tearing me into
can discover, in the heat of my worst
the past or the future. I find myself
moments, something like peace.
revelling in the peace of having
nothing other than myself.

About the Author

My name is Spencer Nitkey and I am a senior English major. I
am originally from San Jose, California and spent most of my
life in the Bay Area before moving to Philadelphia for college. I
travelled to Thailand for six weeks as part of a USAC study away
program to study Buddhism, and Hill Tribe cultures. I also had
the opportunity to teach English to high school aged monks in
Buddhist monasteries.
 Third Place

ONE
It is easy to say this in the moment, while I can feel the touch

of ten small hands beckoning me to come play ball, while

I can hear the chanting of a hundred voices all singing the

LITTLE
same song, while I watch a dozen half-clothed children danc-

ing in the downpour of a late-afternoon thunderstorm. It is

much harder to feel that connection when I am home, 1,500

miles away, when the sounds of children chattering excit-

HAITIAN
edly in Creole is a distant echo in my ear, and the feeling of

mosquito netting nestling over my skin in the middle of the

night is a forgotten sensation. It is harder to feel that con-

GIRL I
nection, that sense of urgency to try to make things better,

that fire to make a difference. But I must try to remember,

and try to make a difference, no matter where I am. The

CAN’T
moment I stepped onto an air-conditioned plane and flew

back home did not coincide with the end of Maynefka’s—or

anyone else’s—suffering. My separation from their struggle

makes it no less real.

FORGET
SARAH WAGNER
From the white dust For the next few days, she takes
clouds that billow it upon herself to spend the af-
ternoons teaching me how to play
behind the pick up truck as we
Jacks with rocks. I watch her deft
speed down pot-holed country
fingers throw the rock up, snatch up
roads, to the deep green of moun-
the other four, and catch the thrown
tains that rise behind the shim-
rock before it hits the ground. She
mering chartreuse of rice paddies,
does it all silently and so calmly I
the colors of Dessalines come alive
can tell she has been doing this for
in the sunlight. The sound of dogs
years. She arranges the four rocks
barking in the dead of night, echoes
so as to make it as easy as possible
of American pop tunes filtering
for me to scoop them up before
through open doors, and the excited
handing me the fifth one. I toss it up
chatter of the children at Saint
and fail miserably. She retrieves the
Claire school as they rush to greet
rock I tossed, rearranges the other
us every morning and every after-
stones, and urges me to try again.
noon are the soundtrack of life in
When I finally succeed, her face
Haiti. Although I was only there for a
lights up with the brightest smile. I
short while, the sounds and colors of
don’t know who is more joyful at my
this devastatingly beautiful country
accomplishment.
will never leave my memory, and the
people will never leave my heart.
One little girl in particular seems to We look at each other from
be etched into my mind, and it is her behind our crooked elbows
that I keep coming back to. and she lets out a small laugh.
It is mid-afternoon and I stand on
Two days later, as I’m passing out
the steps of the school, watching
precious pieces of chalk to a mass
the boys sprinting across the open
of children with their arms out-
field, playing soccer in the hot sun. I
stretched, all calling “Ban m, ban
am tired after a morning of English
m!” (“Give me, give me!”), I see her
lessons, and I plop down on the
amongst the crowd and hand her a
steps next to a girl who is maybe 10
piece. When all the chalk is gone I
or 11. When I smile, Maynefka smiles
stand watching the kids dispersing
back. She has her head resting on
and notice that she has the chalk in
her skinny knees, studying me.
her mouth and is cracking it in half,
“Ou fatigue?” I ask. “You tired?” handing a piece to her little brother
She nods. and another to a friend. In a world
where a piece of chalk is worth its
“Me too,” I say, taking up the same
weight in gold to an eleven-year-
posture. We look at each other from
old, I smile watching Maynefka give
behind our crooked elbows and she
hers away.
lets out a small laugh.
As our nine-day stay comes to an
end and I watch the poverty pass
by me on the way to the airport in
Port Au Prince, I am overcome by a
feeling of hopelessness. How can
one person–or even a thousand
people–make any kind of impact in
the face of such seismic poverty?
My heart feels heavy as my eyes flit
across shack after shack, half-naked
children peering out from behind
corrugated metal doors; as it hits
me over and over just how hard it is
to simply exist in this country. I am
drained, questioning what exactly
I am doing in this land. What am I
doing to alleviate this suffering?
And then I am reminded of Maynef-
ka. I am reminded of her sweet
smile, of her bright bursts of
laughter, of her breaking her piece
of chalk. This is my hope. She is
my hope. It is not about trying to
change a whole country. It is about
the connection between two people
from vastly different places, from
vastly different worlds. We do not
come from America to alleviate the
suffering of an entire nation. Ten
people cannot do that. We come
simply to connect. We come to say,
“You are human and I am human and
despite all of the things that sepa-
rate and divide us, we are intrinsi-
cally, supernaturally bound.”
It is easy to say this in the moment,
while I can feel the touch of ten
small hands beckoning me to come
play ball, while I can hear the chant-
ing of a hundred voices all singing

Photo courtesy of Sarah Wagner

the same song, while I watch a dozen
half-clothed children dancing in
It is about the connection
the downpour of a late-afternoon
thunderstorm. It is much harder
between two people from
to feel that connection when I am vastly different places, from
home, 1,500 miles away, when the vastly different worlds.
sounds of children chattering ex-
citedly in Creole is a distant echo in struggle makes it no less real.
my ear, and the feeling of mosquito
So I force myself to remember, even
netting nestling over my skin in the
in the busyness of my own life, the
middle of the night is a forgotten
sounds of twilight volleyball games
sensation. It is harder to feel that
in the streets, the mud brown of
connection, that sense of urgency
rivers running through rice fields,
to try to make things better, that
the feeling of sweat trickling from
fire to make a difference. But I must
my eyelids as I play basketball in
try to remember, and try to make
the late-afternoon heat. I remem-
a difference, no matter where I am.
ber how helpless I felt as I realized
The moment I stepped onto an
over and over the scale and depth
air-conditioned plane and flew back
of destitution that surrounded me,
home did not coincide with the end
and I remember how one small girl
of Maynefka’s—or anyone else’s—
took that feeling away and replaced
suffering. My separation from their
it with hope.

About the Author

I grew up in Hagerstown, Maryland and am currently a sophomore
English major. This summer, I traveled to Dessalines, Haiti with
nine members of my church. We helped to run a week-long summer
camp at Saint Claire School, where around a hundred kids, aged
6-16, from Dessalines and neighboring towns were able to engage
in science discovery, music, arts and crafts, and English language
learning activities.
 It all started after I saw a Facebook

post about a summer teaching

program by a senior who complet-

ed the program. I love children and

traveling, but I was not sure about

teaching based on my past expe-

Fourth Place
rience teaching my sister. Regard-

less, I still applied, hoping that my

My Summer
genuine interest would compensate

for my lack of teaching expertise. I

was a bundle of nerves during the

in Poland
interview, so receiving the letter

of acceptance was a concoction of

emotions – partially excitement,

but mostly anxiety for what was

MICHELLE PURNAMA
to come. When I arrived in Poland,

I met the other American volun-

teers who seemed highly capable

of teaching English. My self-doubt

started kicking in because English is

not my first language.

Throughout the course of my teach-

ing, there were nights of worries

and nights spent not knowing what

to teach my students the next

day. There were days when I had to

overcome the blank stares from my

youngest students as they could

barely understand me without a

It all started after I to create a new one on the spot.
saw a Facebook post One day, I was teaching directions
using action cards, but my students
about a summer teaching program
struggled to remember the words.
by a senior who completed the pro-
Then, I switched it up and asked
gram. I love children and traveling,
them to dance to a song and move
but I was not sure about teaching
according to the action words that
based on my past experience teach-
I shouted out. The result: everyone
ing my sister. Regardless, I still ap-
started jumping and laughing and
plied, hoping that my genuine inter-
we even stayed past when class was
est would compensate for my lack
supposed to end! Despite these mo-
of teaching expertise. I was a bundle
ments of fun, teaching for 3 hours a
of nerves during the interview, so
day is still much more difficult than
receiving the letter of acceptance
it sounds, and the daily uncertainty
was a concoction of emotions –
proved to be mentally exhausting.
partially excitement, but mostly
anxiety for what
was to come.
When I arrived
in Poland, I met
the other Amer-
ican volunteers
who seemed
highly capable
of teaching
English. My self-
doubt start-
ed kicking in
because English
is not my first
language.
Throughout Photo courtesy of Michelle Purnama
the course of
my teaching, there were nights
However, I quickly grew to love
of worries and nights spent not
my daily teaching routine. I grew
knowing what to teach my students
to love even the mischievous
the next day. There were days when
students as I learned how to
I had to overcome the blank stares
turn their mischief into learning
from my youngest students as they
opportunities. I grew to love the
could barely understand me with-
sense of accomplishment after
out a translator. Sometimes, my
finishing each class, which made
lesson plans did not work and I had
me look forward to seeing my
students’ smiles and laughter in
class the next day. Moreover, how
could I forget that one time when
my youngest group of students
gasped from the back of the class
when I pulled out my stickers?
Everyday was filled with joy and
illuminated by their playful spirits.
Over time, I learned how to manage
challenges head-on and I found
myself taking on each day with a
more positive, can-do attitude.
Most importantly, I realized the
necessity of celebrating small
milestones for both myself and my
students. I patted myself on the
back whenever I did something well
and gave out candy and stickers
as prizes to my students whenever
they did something well, which kept
us all motivated. While they learned
English from me, I learned how to
be a child again, in terms of creativ-
ity and freedom of expression. My
fear turned into excitement, which
gradually sparked my passion in
Photo courtesy of Michelle Purnama
teaching.
family, my host mom offered me a
cup of coffee, to which I answered
While they learned English
yes. Little did I know that she would
from me, I learned how to
serve me a cup of coffee every
be a child again... morning, although I wanted it only
on that particular morning.
Outside of the classroom, I got to
interact with my host families (I was My host families made me feel like
placed with 2 host families). Their I was a part of them. On my last day
hospitality was unbelievable, to the of teaching, my 7-year- old host
extent that it was unsettling at first! sister told her mom that after the
They went the extra mile to make program, “she would just be star-
sure that I always had what I needed. ing at the computer” – her way of
On my first day with my second host expressing her sense of loss after
I was gone. The extent of warmth
and affection that they displayed to
a stranger like me still feels surreal
even until now, and I long to go back.
It is the same longing for home
that I experience when I have been
abroad for a long time. Instead of
going back home to Indonesia to
spend my summer with my family, I
found two new families in Poland.
I left my host community with a
heavy heart. At the bus station, I
was trying to fight back my tears,
but I ended up bawling when all of
my host siblings started to em-
brace me strongly. Their fondness
of me touched my heart, and the
painful truth that I might not see
them in the near future started to
really sink in.
I kept a journal with me throughout
this program to keep track of my
days in Poland and upon reading
through my entries, I realized that
I have actually benefitted from this
program as much as it has benefit-
ted my host community. My impul-
sive decision to jump into the water
was one of the best decisions I have
ever made. On top of all of the fond
memories made, I have learned to
speak with confidence and to trust
in myself. My self-doubt proved to
be futile since I have proven to my-
self that I do not have to be a native
English speaker to teach English like
a native. It is all in the mind, they
say, and I could not agree more.
My summer in Poland was a journey
of rediscovering myself, validating
my values, and ultimately letting
myself grow in a place like no other.
Albeit it was short, it was meaning-
ful and memorable. My heart tells
me that I will go back, and I believe
that I will. Perhaps not so soon, but
someday, I definitely will. Zalasowa,
you have a special place in my heart,
and I will be counting down to the
day when we will be reunited.

About the Author

I am Michelle Purnama, an international owl from Indonesia. I am
a Sophomore, Management Information Systems (MIS) & Entre-
preneurship double major. I have recently been elected as the
Co-President of Women’s Entrepreneurial Organization at Temple,
an organization that empowers aspiring female entrepreneurs. Re-
gardless, we welcome women and men, Americans and non-Ameri-
cans! This past summer, I volunteered with a non-profit organization
called Learning Enterprises to teach English in Zalasowa, Poland, for
5 weeks. Other than teaching, I got to experience the Polish life-
style, learn a little bit of Polish, and double my appetite through the
delicacy of Polish food.
 About Freely
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We work with students of ALL English writing abilities

to produce high-quality written work that speaks
to the global experience at Temple and beyond. We
also accept articles published in languages other
than English, including (but not limited to) Mandarin,
Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, and Portuguese. No prior
experience is necessary – only a desire to think globally!

If you’re interested in writing for Freely Magazine,

please contact Alex Voisine at alex.voisine@temple.edu.