In a Word

I live in a country where everyone speaks English, but no one understands me.

It's almost like a false sense of security. I think I will be able to communicate my needs, and I almost can, but then things don't turn out quite the way I want them to. For example: I go to the store and ask for mosquito repellent spray, and I show my arm and say "for the skin". I am shown to the aisle that contains household insecticides. And forget trying to obtain information about the ingredients in a dish on the menu at a restaurant. "Gluten intolerance" does not translate.

Don't get me wrong--I know I am the foreigner here. If I want to avoid misunderstandings, I need to learn the language. And I'm trying. It's actually a pretty difficult language to learn. And really, I'm learning two languages at once. I'm trying to learn Cebuano, but I also need to learn how to speak and interpret the English of the Philippines. It's a fun challenge for a linguist!

One thing that has been especially hard is explaining my hair loss to people here. There are words that just don't come across in an intelligible way, like "autoimmune" or "alopecia". To be fair, a large number of Americans in the US don't know these words, either. But I feel a strong need to explain that I'm healthy and explain what happened, and I can't always do that. So I'm faced with some stigmas that I don't want to carry around with me. It's humbling to come to a place of acceptance in that.

The other day I went to get a massage. My therapist didn't say anything about my head until halfway through the session, when it was time to actually rub it.

"No hair", she said.

I lightly joked, "Yeah, it's easier for you this way!"

After a minute of silence, I decided to go ahead and try to explain. "I lost my hair when I had a baby. My hair all fell out."

"Oh, you have a baby?"

"Yes, two."

She was silent for a minute. Then, "Ma'am, why did you cut all your hair?"

Ok. I tucked this away in my mental lexicon: "hair loss" and "fall out" don't seem to connote involuntary action here. I tried again: "No, I didn't cut it. It fell out. It's a disorder called alopecia."

"Oh." Another minute of silence. "Ma'am, you have a disease?"

I cringed. For some reason, the word disease makes me think of boils on the skin and muscles wasting away. I think of being untouchable, unclean. The word disorder sounds so much more...internal. Unseen. Less scary. Sigh. "Yes, I have a disease."

"What is your disease, ma'am?"

"It's called alopecia."

"Oh." Silence. "But it's okay, ma'am."

Yes, it's okay. That phrase is probably the one I hear most around here. That's the Filipino motto. It's okay. And it really is! I definitely get a lot of stares here, but I also get a lot of "Oh, guapa". Guapa means beautiful. My housekeeper, who doesn't speak much English, always tells me "Ma'am, guapa" when I'm taking my scarf off at home or drawing on my eyebrows.

A beautiful thing I'm noticing is that the stares I get are not stares of disbelief or judgment. People here just stare at each other as a matter of course. Maybe it's because this culture is more communal, so people are really more interested in each other. Maybe it's because there's nothing else to do when you are sitting on the back of a Jeepney. Whatever the reason, I'm learning that I don't need to feel uncomfortable with the stares. Stares of curiosity turn into stares of compassion, which turn into stares of friendship.

It's still frustrating when I can't communicate exactly what I want. But Filipino warmth and the ability to laugh at potentially embarrassing situations makes communication a fun challenge. That's how I want see it from this moment on.