December 15, 2009

Expats, Immigration & Integration ...... Oh My!

Almost every meal, my host mother asks me, “Do you have this dish in America?” Not could you make this in America? But more specifically, do you eat this in your everyday life? Sometimes the answer is yes. Yes, we eat beef and broccoli stir-fry. Yes, we eat yellow curry sauce. More often than not though, the answer is no. We do not eat fermented fish paste, no boiled fish soup, no bland rice porridge, and definitely no chicken feet. Every once in a while, when I say we (“we” meaning all Americans as far as Cambodians are concerned – the concept that the United States is as large and diverse as, well, 50 separate countries, is impossibly difficult for this tiny, extremely homogenous culture to grasp) she gets a puzzled look on her face. “But, Whitney-oi, when I visited my family in America, the Cambodians there had this. America is just like Cambodia.” …Just like Cambodia if you’re living in Long Beach, California or Jacksonville, Florida perhaps (the two most highly Khmer-populated cities outside Phnom Penh), but probably not if you’re from Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania or even Sacramento, California.
Whenever she says things like this, I can’t help but think about cultural integration and what that means. How many times have you sat in a nail salon listening to Vietnamese and feeling like a complete foreigner in your own town? Do you consider your barbeque spareribs from China Sea Chinese food or American food? Does the Spanish-speaking population still have a claim to the American dream if they can’t speak English? Now, I don’t want to start a political debate about immigration laws, so let’s take it one step farther: if you studied or have traveled abroad, how often did you speak the native language? Did you hang out with mostly Americans, doing “American” things? Do you have to fully integrate to appreciate a culture? Should you fully integrate if you immigrate? And where’s the balance when you’re living abroad as an expat, hoping to share your culture?

When we first arrived for training, Peace Corps pushed us to integrate, integrate, integrate—or as I like to call it, “go native.” Live as Cambodians live, eat as they eat, speak as they speak. But is that realistic? As humans, we are programmed to seek out like-minded people, a sense of the familiar, and a taste of home. Even in France, every once in a while my American classmates and I would get together and go bowling or hit the Hard Rock Café for some good ol’ fashioned American fun. And trust me; the Hard Rock is très American. Similarly, here in Cambodia, birds of a feather flock together. Christian and I are always on the lookout at our site for other foreigners because let’s face it, sometimes we just need to speak English, or I just need to vent about how many times a child screamed “HELLOBARANGWHEREYOUGOWHATYOURNAME” as I biked down the dirt road near my host family’s house for at least the millionth time.

That isn’t to say that we aren’t happily adjusted. I can honestly say that I love teaching my classes, I love biking back from Sustainable Cambodia at night and looking up at a billion and one stars, and I love walking by the river with my students talking about everything and nothing. I eat rice two to three times a day, wear a traditional teaching skirt to school, and never show the soles of my feet to anyone. For all intents and purposes, I live like a Cambodian. But, I’m not Cambodian. And I never will be. I am much too independent and outspoken to fit neatly into the traditional female model, I’m too much of a snowbird to cover my shoulders when it hits 104 degrees outside, and I fear that I will never grow accustomed to the slow pace of life here after 22 years of fitting as many things as I possibly could on my “to-do” list before I rushed off to yearbook, painting class, piano lessons, cheerleading, horseback riding, theater rehearsal, or a sorority meeting.

One of the volunteers once told me she never really fit in America, and so coming here and being an outsider and minority was less difficult. At least here she stands out because of the color of her skin rather than some indefinable question mark. Not an unfamiliar story. Many of the expats living in Cambodia have “escaped” to find a familiarity they never could at home. I have seen volunteers fall so deeply in love with the culture that their integration seemed more like a homecoming than a willful assimilation into a new culture. But that certainly isn’t the case for everyone who travels abroad. I would venture to say for my host mother’s family living in Jacksonville, eating Amok fish, speaking Khmer, and attending Pagoda regularly, they are no more American than I am Cambodian. That is to say, we have witnessed another culture, and let ourselves be boiled down into that great melting pot without giving up our essence. We are wholly part, and yet wholly separate from the place we are living in.

I will take with me a deeper appreciation for my family as a result of living in a world rarely dominated by thoughts of the individual. I am more tolerant, more peaceful, and forgiving as a result of watching Cambodians step back from conflict that won’t benefit anyone. I am proud to say I am no longer afraid of spiders and creeping night-time things. And I understand that living with less does not make you less happy. At the same time, I hope to leave my female students with a sense of bravery and courage in the face of adversity. I hope to leave my co-teachers with a passion for their work as opposed to a feeling of obligation. And I hope to see my community embrace their civic responsibility more fully as a result of my service to make a brighter, more sustainable future for Cambodia.

No doubt about it -- Cambodia has left its mark on me. That’s not to say I identify with or am willing to embrace every aspect of this culture, but it has polished some of my undefined edges, and helped me fill in some of the blanks to that age old question, “Who am I?” With every step we take farther from home, we leave footprints behind us, but in the end, it is us who are changed the most. Give me a wheel of brebis and a bottle of côte du rhone and I’ll happily tell you what a Francophile I’ve become as a result of my junior year abroad. For those of you thinking, “I told you so” (ahem, mother), go ahead and say it. Each place I’ve lived has changed me – I believe for the better – and yet, as I look forward to the next chapter in my life, I am happy to say, “There’s no place like home.”

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December 5, 2009

The Gift of Music

I had heard rumors that Korea was donating electric pianos to every province in Cambodia, but I never believed it would actually happen. Or, on the off chance that it did, the piano would be a junky keyboard, quickly absconded by some Khmai staff for a small bribe, or shoved in a closet because it used too much electricity. Either way, I wasn’t getting my hopes up. Then, last Friday afternoon, while I was killing time between classes I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a piano. A good one.
I poked around until I found where the sound was coming from and to my utter astonishment there was a full size electric piano with weighted keys, built in metronome, working pedals, and—oh please, oh please, God—yes—they said I could play. The teachers in the room pulled up a red plastic chair, sat me down, and waited expectantly. To truly understand this moment, you have to realize I haven’t touched a piano in over a year, and haven’t seriously played in over four years. I always promised myself I would pick up lessons again after college and then I ended up in Cambodia where you can’t find lessons in the capital city, let alone out in the provincial towns. Every once in a while, when I’m fantasizing about my future apartment, browsing the William and Sonoma website in a last ditch effort to save my sanity when things get really crazy here, or playing Martha Stewart with the craft supplies I’ve managed to collect over the last six months, I get this longing to play. To just sit down and close my eyes and get lost in the music for an hour or two like I used to do once upon a time.

I put my hands on the keys and felt the smooth, cool, plastic beneath my fingers. My hands were shaking a little as I stared down at them, hoping that the music hadn’t left me for good. Playing piano is like learning a language…when you don’t use it for a while, you tend to forget. Did I still remember? I looked up at the staff—yup, they were still waiting—and then I began to play. I could feel my hands remembering the first notes of Fur Elise and, as my hands danced, I felt a little bit of that anticipation anxiety slip away—I still had it. It wasn’t perfect and it certainly wasn’t my most moving rendition of the first movement I’ve ever played, but it was there, inside, waiting to be polished.

The Khmai staff was sufficiently impressed and encouraged me to play more … but they didn’t have any music and I’ve long since lost so much of what I used to know by heart. I told them I’d be back and ran outside to find the head of the English department. I asked him if he thought I could play and if there might be people who would want to take lessons. Yes and yes. That’s all I needed. I headed over to the NGO I volunteer at to print out the last Sonitina, Nocturne and Aria I was playing before I quit, a few Christmas songs, and some miscellaneous classical music I thought would be good to “get back in shape” with and then began the long, impatient wait until the next morning.

I was at the school and situated by 7:20 a.m. (probably a new record). I had a small audience for most of the morning, but was more or less uninterrupted for three solid hours. By 10:30, I was starting to get some of my speed back, sure of the most common scales, and rediscovering some of the music that had been sleeping inside me…but badly in need of brushing up on my musical theory to make up for lost time (damn, that Barbra Crane was right-I DID need to know that stuff!).

Being able to play again is an incredible gift. It’ll be wonderful to share with anyone who wants to listen, but also a fantastic escape, and a little piece of home. More importantly, it’s a gift I can give to my colleagues and they can pass on to others when I’m gone. After I finished, several of the staff asked when I would be starting lessons. I said I could start on Monday and would teach a different person each day for one hour, five days a week. I know they were a little disappointed that I would only be taking five students, but learning to play will be a big commitment, and practicing will be a challenge at best.

I already designed my first lesson on the “language” of music. Interestingly enough, music is never taught in Cambodia except in a vocational capacity to monks and orphans learning to play traditional instruments. That means we are truly starting at the beginning. I feel like learning to play properly will be a great cultural exchange, the beginning of what I hope will someday be a true leisure and arts culture (since theirs was wiped out during the civil war), and good mental gymnastics to help push them beyond the easy, expected, and familiar.

It looks like Christmas came a little early this year…and what a present.

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December 1, 2009

Everything but the Cranberry Sauce

In any given Cambodian village you would NOT find turkey, cranberry sauce, butter, milk, an oven, pie crust, wheat flour, cheese, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, casserole dishes, canned corn, rosemary, or an electric mixer. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Thanksgiving is doomed. But this year, I was determined not to let the holiday pass with a stir-fried substitute. The whole idea presented a logistical nightmare. Thursday was out of the question because the NGO I volunteer at just moved to a new—fantastic –but still very unorganized location, which basically means my life is in absolute chaos. But maybe more importantly was the question of food. I convinced Tara to come up to my site, bringing with her all the necessary goodies from Phnom Penh that we couldn’t hope to find here (although a small store in town JUST started stocking cereal this past week, which is a huge upgrade from the usual prok-and-rice breakfast!). We set the date for Saturday, and she Christian, and two other volunteers who live at my site began preparing for the feast. So what do you get when 3 Peace Corps volunteers, a Belgian, and a Canadian set out to make Thanksgiving dinner in a wooden hut without an oven? A Thanksgiving dinner that was just like home –with everything but the cranberry sauce.

We spent all day Saturday wandering around the open-air market finding all the ingredients Tara wasn’t brining from Phnom Penh and the biggest chicken we could find, which ended up being only slightly larger than a Cornish hen. Anne was in charge of the chicken because in Belgium they cook whole chickens and turkeys in a pan without the aid of an oven. Score! I was in charge of mashed potatoes, stuffing, and gravy. Don’t worry mom, I didn’t tell anyone your secret recipe for cow-pie consistency potatoes. Tara was brining canned corn and concocting a delicious green bean casserole with onion rings and alfredo sauce. Who knew!? Christian had the sweet potatoes and pumpkin-pudding-mud-pie. David was in charge of lighting and keeping the charcoal clay burner under control. And last, but not least, we all pitched in a little love to make mulled wine.

Naturally, the whole process to about 10 times longer than it would in the States, and we ended up eating around 9:00 at night, but the wait was worth it!! Everything tasted the way it should, with a few substitutes and quick fixes along the way, and by the end of the night we were all unbuttoning our top pants button and kicking up our feet. In a word: success! We all crashed together in the NGO’s volunteer house and went to sleep dreaming of sugar plums dancing in our heads.

As if the weekend could get any better, on Saturday Christian cooked us a traditional Mexican feast complete with quesadillas, homemade salsa and queso dip, chicken flautas (my absolute all-time favorite Mexican dish), and Spanish rice. He taught us all how to make everything so I promise to cook all the Clinton Tex-Mex veterans the “real thing” once I return!
Although we spent most of the weekend pigging out, as we walked back to my house after dinner on Sunday night underneath a full harvest moon, I couldn’t help but feel it was a real Thanksgiving in more ways than just the menu. I’m especially thankful for my blessings here, where I am reminded daily of what it means to have less by simply looking at my neighbors. I am especially thankful for my friends here who helped me miss my family less and have become like family members in more ways than one. And I am thankful to know my family is at home, safe, happy, and healthy and unbuttoning their top buttons too.

Gobble, gobble, gobble!


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