I began this blog as a way to redefine, or perhaps rediscover, the beauty of ME after losing all my hair to alopecia universalis over 5 years ago. Join me in the movement to see ourselves and our world through a lens not offered by our culture.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Playing the Game

I've never loved conflict. At least not outside the walls of my home. I tend to value keeping the peace over getting my own way when I'm out in public. Okay, let's be honest. It's not necessarily peace I'm after. It's my standing with others. I would rather know that others like me than assert my rights and get what I'm entitled to. At least, that's how I was until I lived in Chicago for a few years. I started getting a little more, shall we say, demanding. Come to think of it, maybe I changed after I became a mom. Or maybe it's because I married a lawyer. Whatever the reason, I learned to be quite assertive and use very gentle threats to accomplish what I needed if I found myself being given a runaround. You know, threats to get an employee's superiors involved or take legal action. Nothing criminal. I could do that because I knew my rights and I knew there were these publicly recognized standards for service that I could cite in any complaint I might have. And it worked for me in Chicago. I had many proud moments. As a foreigner in another country, I really have no ideas what my rights are. I don't know what the standards of service are. I have no idea what the rules are. All I know is that the language here reflects a culture of politeness and pandering. I've heard more instances of "sir" and "ma'am" in seven months in the Philippines than I did in thirty-three years living in the US. So in all the confusing public encounters I've been part of here, I've held my tongue. I don't want to assume a position of superiority and entitlement. But I do find myself getting a little comfortable here, comfortable enough to hint that my needs aren't being met. And it backfires. Case in point: last week I took my son to a playground inside a memorial garden, which is accessible through the campus of a private school near my house. My husband has been taking the kids on weekends, and the last time I had tried it was closed. So I was really happy when I approached the guardhouse of the private school and the guards told me the playground was open and waved me in. We played for about 45 minutes before I saw a guard come to the gate and close it. I almost called out to him, but it was pretty far from where we were playing, and I figured the guard would be there at the gate to let us out when it was time to go. I saw a car pull up to the gate, honk, and go through after the guard opened it. We played for another half hour or so, but we were absolutely melting in the intense, tropical summer heat. We got to the gate and it was locked. I knocked and called out, and no one answered. We were locked in. The only other way out was on the other side of the memorial garden, which would put us out so far down the road that we would no longer be within walking distance of our house. I had no money with me, because we had just popped over from right across the street. The memorial garden had a sign at the gate with phone numbers. The first one, of course, was not a working number. The second number put me in touch with an employee of the memorial garden who very politely informed me that they had no control of this particular gate. It was controlled by the school. And no, they didn't have a phone number for anyone at the school. So I looked online on my phone for ten minutes or so and finally found a phone number for the school. (My son is in the background, re-faced and thirsty, crying because we can't get out.) I told the man on the phone that we had come into the memorial garden to use the playground and now we were locked inside. Could he send someone to open the gate? "I'm sorry ma'am, we have a procedure for opening the gate." Okay...I understand that. But when I came in no one said there was a closing time. I was on foot with my son and I just needed someone to please let us out real quick. "I'm sorry ma'am, there is a procedure." Umm...what did he expect me to do? I got a little heated. Moms do when a problem involves their kids. I insisted that someone come and let me out. Sure enough, a guard came over on a scooter and let us out. It only took one minute. He was on a bike. It was really not a big deal. But I committed the ultimate social sin of interrupting the lunch break. I was very polite to the guard who came. I asked him politely about the garden's open hours, for future reference. Fine. We walked through the campus and got back to the main gate of the school, where we entered. The guard there stopped me and accused me of falsely identifying myself as an employee of the school, which I laughingly denied as ridiculous. He said this entrance that we have been using for weeks is only open to employees and I would no longer be permitted to pass. I gave him a snarky response and went on my way, disgusted with the whole experience. So because I got a little heated and insistent with the guy on the phone, I got banned from coming to this really nice park that we had been so elated to find so close to home. I called the memorial garden and they assured me I can come anytime if I use their main gate. I just can't use the school gate anymore. The point is, I guess I should have played the game. I should have been more apologetic that I was stupid enough to get myself locked inside the garden. I should have told the man on the phone that I would wait inside until after the lunch break. I should have been more profusely grateful for being let out. I've heard from locals and expats alike that this strategy is much more effective here, even when getting a traffic ticket. So now, after growing into a healthy assertiveness, I need to go back to my conflict-avoidance skills. Turn them on in the Philippines, put them aside in Chicago. Ah, the beauty of cross-cultural navigation.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Enough Already!

I want to share a story that my water delivery lady told me randomly the other day. She got stranded in the middle of the night one time, in a part of the city known for being "dangerous". She had to walk alone on the side of the road and hope to catch a taxi or a motorcycle (this is the Philippines; hopping on the back of a bike is like catching a cab). There was another couple walking at a distance behind her. Soon a bike came up the road. She was hopeful, since she was ahead of the couple, that the bike would stop for her first. But it didn't. The driver passed her and picked up the couple. Then it started to rain. Soon after, another bike came and stopped for her. She told the driver where she needed to go, and he took her right to the door instead of dropping her off at the corner, which was more convenient for bikes. And he didn't charge her a penny for the ride. Gave it to her totally free. She told me that the bikes represented opportunity. The first one passed her by, even though "by right" it should have been hers. But God had something better coming that was just for her. Something special. Little did she know when was telling me this that only a couple days earlier I had gotten a little backdated surprise. This is embarrassing to admit, but I just learned about a certain feature of Facebook Messenger called the "Other" inbox. Apparently, I have been receiving messages from non-friends for a couple years now, but I never got any notifications and never thought to check the tab labeled "Other". I never even noticed it. I unintentionally have been ignoring people for years. Among those shunned are some faces of the past who had attempted to reach out and connect with me, some random "Hey Baby" messages from names like Deezel or J Cool, and some encouraging messages about this very blog. One of those encouraging notes was from an editor at a well-known women's magazine asking if I wanted to talk with her about contributing something to the magazine. The message was dated last year. Oops. I'm sitting on the side of the road, watching that ride pass me by. Except it passed by last year and I didn't realize it until now. I'm not upset about it anymore. Clearly, my life was meant to move in another direction. At least for now. I'm okay with that. Still, it's hard not to feel a little envious when people I'm close to are doing things like recording albums, starting businesses, and publishing books. I know a lot of people look at my life and say "Come on--you have two great kids, you have a Masters degree, and you moved overseas!" I know I'm privileged and that my life is not dull. But lately it feels...insignificant. I came here attached to my husband. It's his dream that brought us here. He gets to live his dream. Other people I know are living their dreams. I...don't know what my dreams are yet. At 33, I still don't know. I go into places like bookstores and banks and I think "See, this is all I would need. A 9 to 5 job at a cute little desk, very clear expectations, a little world to organize and control, and once in awhile a fun or challenging interaction with a customer". For much of my youth I dreamt of being a librarian. Maybe I'm not living my dream right now because my dreams tend to be on the small side. But if I dare to dream a little bigger, like imagining myself as the director of a community ESL center or having a talk show on issues of beauty and confidence, I almost immediately write them off as impossibilities. "That's just not me", I say. I could never do those things because my past has been marked by disorganization, fatigue, and fear. So instead I try to find significance in other ways. Like being pretty. Since losing my hair, I really had to step up my game in terms of appearance. I started accessorizing. I put on make up. I matched. And I got noticed. A bald girl will always get noticed, but I didn't always feel like people were looking at me strange. I often felt like people, male people in particular, were noticing me with appreciation. It helped to live in a city where head scarves (and even baldness) could be as much fashion statements as indications of a health issue. And then I started getting a lot of comments. I was told outright that I was beautiful. I began to think that's what I am--a beautiful woman. And that's all I am. If I can get men to notice me, I have accomplished something significant. This was especially important to me after going through so many painful adolescent and teen years desperate to be noticed but too shy and awkward to make it happen. I hit those developmental markers really, really late. But I'm bored with it, quite frankly. I mean, I'm still way too gratified by looks and comments. But I'm tired of constantly wondering if people think I'm beautiful. There's got to be more to me. A few years ago at my church, a speaker was giving an encouraging message to our dwindling congregation and was giving shout outs to people who were really doing a lot to help our church be a vibrant, hospitable community. The speaker named folks who were giving their time and energy in all kinds of ways. When my name was called, I expected to hear that I had put a lot of time into the children's ministry, or that I was leading the music team with excellence. But the speaker said that I was "an elegant member of the community". Now, I know what this person meant. I know this person meant that I was living with a very visible health issue in a way that spoke truth about human dignity and finding good in challenging situations. I know the person meant that I carried myself in a way that gave God credit for his beautiful creation. But I only know that now. What I heard at the time was "Wendy is good at being pretty even though we all know she is bald." (Dear friend, if you are reading this, I hold no ill feelings. You know I leaned on you and your family and I love you!) Well I want to be good at other things. Remember the movie Clueless? For some reason, I chose that movie to be the movie I could quote from start to finish in high school. Now, I still love the novel it was adapted from (Jane Austen's Emma). Anyway, Cher, the main character in Clueless (played by Alicia Silverstone), decides at one point that she needs a makeover, but this time it would be a makeover of her soul. Very dramatic and inspiring. I want to be more than how I look. I want to start something and actually finish it. I want to be smart about things and hold intelligent conversation. And...still be pretty. Because let's face it, being a bald woman is tough. I still need the puffing up bit. I believe that God is trying to draw me out. The real me, the one behind all the fear and the victim complex and the anticipated failure. I believe God has me on a path that is just for me. And my ride is coming. Maybe I'm not ready yet. But good grief, what is it going to take? Something drastic, like a move overseas and a battle with intense anxiety and people staring at my bald head like they've never seen anything like it before. Hmmm. I'm journaling now, trying to discover patterns from my life to see where I've been and where I might be going. I'm trying to listen to God. I'm trying to believe that He really loves me no matter what. Sounds so simple, doesn't it? But it's not a truth that is embedded in my core yet, for some reason. I don't get it yet. I'm still looking for validation from men (this time I mean "humans"). But it's not enough anymore. And that has to be a good sign that I'm on the right road.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Circus lady

I'm about to make you jealous. Ready? Imagine this: a peaceful drive through beautiful green palm trees, the ocean at your side; sipping an iced latte poolside as you gaze out over a crystal clear ocean reef; the sun beaming down as you close your eyes and hear the sounds of kids laughing and splashing. Sound relaxing? It should have been. And I should be accustomed to people staring at my bald head by now. But I've never experienced the staring like I did this past weekend when I was on a mini-vacation. First, there was the drive. It's summer here in the Philippines, our car is black, I want absolutely nothing covering my head when I'm out. So there I am, sitting in the passenger seat, in the privacy of my own car, bald. We pull up behind a small pickup truck with half a dozen girls riding in the back. One is awake, the rest are sleeping. I already know she will see me and stare, but I'm not prepared for her to actually wake everyone else up by shaking them, just so they can all get a glimpse of me, the "freak". I ask my husband to pass the truck illegally just so I can get away from the gawking. Then we find ourselves at this great hotel with beautiful ocean views. I am ready to read a book, relax, and watch my kids have the time of their life on the water slide...but first I have to walk through the grounds and find a place by the pool. This is a picture of that day: I have never felt so conspicuous. People stopped what they were doing to stare at me. They were out swimming in the ocean and they grouped together, pointing and coming closer. And here, people don't look away if you catch them staring. They hold that gaze. I tried not to let it bother me, but I ended up hiding in my room more than I wanted to. My husband told me they were staring because I'm so beautiful. (Nice one, honey.) And that's what friends and family tell me. But there is this element of abnormality that people are taken by, and I can't pretend it isn't there. I myself have stared at people who have lost limbs or have skin conditions, not thinking they are "freaks" but just captivated by something so different than what I experience in my own body. And now I am one of those people. I can't hold it against anyone who stares. Of course they will stare. I am not normal. I know this will make many of you question "What is normal, anyway?" But we have to admit that there are norms when it comes to human appearance. There are healthy bodies, and there are bodies that have obviously gone awry. When we see something that testifies to un-health, we are bothered by that. It's a normal human reaction. Maybe with increased exposure we can come to a place of peace about the variations we see in bodies. But in a place where appearances really matter, like the place I find myself living in now, it really just stinks to be the freak. Again, my well-intentioned husband tells me to strut when I see people staring. But I want to crumple up and disappear. It's ironic, because in high school I felt so plain and unnoticed that I would sit at home and daydream for hours about being in the spotlight somehow. Well, I made it into the spotlight, like it or not. So I know I need to move from a place of wounded pride to a placed of weathered pride, the kind of pride that says "I have learned that I am beautiful because I was created and I am known by my Creator". But how to react to the stares? Sometimes I want to make a face at people who are staring. Sometimes I want to act more distraught than I am, just to shame them. These are honest, gut-level reactions I'm confessing. Usually, I pretend I don't see people staring. I just feel the heat rise in my face and quietly suffer from embarrassment. But maybe I should learn to smile graciously and welcome the stares. Maybe then people will see past the bald head to the character being formed. Maybe then the next time they see someone else with a stare-worthy feature they will be gentle, remembering that they once saw a bald woman whose "abnormality" made her tender, not bitter. This journey is a long one.