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.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
The Reluctant Expat
Tomorrow marks six months. I have been in the Philippines for half a year. In some ways, it feels longer. I feel so far away from everyone I know and love. I feel like I've been away from my Chicago home for a long, long time. Then in other ways, of course, I can't believe how fast this experience is going. I still feel so green. I still feel like the bumbling new student and every week is the first week of school.
All the expats I know tell me that the first six months are the uphill battle, and once you get past that marker you start coasting a little bit and your experience moves toward "I got this". But at six months I'm more homesick than ever. I feel like I've had this "adventure" and now it's time to go back home.
But recently I've had to reflect on the kind of expat I've been. Is one way of living overseas better than another? Would the six-month mark feel differently if I had been living in a different manner?
I always thought that if I moved overseas I would really try to live life as a local. I would dive into the experience and all the newness around me. But here, I've simply tried to export my life in Chicago to the Philippines. Instead of taking local transportation like Jeepneys and motorbikes and tricycles, I drive my own car. My windows are up, my a/c is on, and I'm protected from the life happening around me. Instead of eating street food, I eat at nice restaurants and coffee shops. Instead of learning the language, I rely on English-speakers to help me out.
Now, there are reasons for all of this. I drive a car because A) it's safer for my kids and for my belongings, B) it saves me from spending so much time out in the polluted air, and C) it allows my kids to feel at home while we're stuck in traffic. I don't eat street food often because A) there are no guarantees that what you're getting is fresh and fully cooked, and B) much of the street food here is not gluten-free. I have had minor stomach issues fairly consistently since moving here as it is; I'm not looking to turn them into major ones. And I haven't learned the language because I can't find a good teacher--and because English is the preferred language when shopping, dining, travelling, etc.
So I haven't exactly been living like the average Filipino here. But I haven't been living like the wealthy ones, either. I don't have a nice car with a personal driver, I don't have a nanny and live-in household help to do all the hard daily work or deal with car issues, and I don't live in the nicest neighborhood with the best plumbing. I'm living in this weird state of tension, right in between "things aren't so different here" and "Help!!!"
Then last week my car died. Since then, I've had a harder time buying groceries and doing school drop-offs and pick-ups. I've mostly been using taxis, for the above-mentioned reason that I don't relish the idea of riding in the back of a Jeepney, breathing in deathly black belch. And I will not put my squirmy kids and their fifty bags on the back of a motorcycle. But I did ride my first tricycle the other day! The equivalent of 36 cents got me to the nearest grocery store and back. Pretty anti-climactic, really, but I did feel like I finally experienced a little bit of reality. And when I was walking down to the main road to wait for a trike, I had my umbrella out. Here, women walk under umbrellas on sunny days. Again, I felt like a true resident of the area.
But these and other little "real life in the Philippines" experiences haven't made me feel like a better expat, or that I'm really diving in and making the most of my time here. I think I build things up in my head as being more romantic than they are, and then once I experience them I just think "Okay, check that off the list" and get back to life the way I want it: convenient, cool, and easy. If at all possible.
One other thing about expat life--there's this expectation to travel around and see as much of this part of the world as possible while we're here. People are always telling us which dive resorts to go to or which islands to boat to, which places let you hold pythons and swim with whale sharks and which places have the best food and massages. We've been to a couple of other places in the Philippines other than the city of Cebu, but I'm already weary of the travel. I never was one for traveling much. I'm a homebody at heart. And I'm definitely not a beach-lover. I have no interest in learning to scuba dive and I can barely snorkel without having a panic attack. I would rather climb a mountain and save my fish-watching for the city aquarium. But around here, you're crazy if you don't swim with sardines or go island-hopping. I'm just a bit tired of the scene. Or, more accurately, I'm tired of hearing of the scene.
And my kids are already getting spoiled with the idea that we should go spend money doing something fun every weekend. Both days. Every Friday evening they ask "What are we doing tomorrow? Can we go to a beach resort/water park/mall arcade/bounce house?" What?! When we lived in Chicago we didn't go do something big and fun every weekend. (Maybe that's because we had parks and friends.) But we certainly didn't travel all the time. (Maybe that's because the only place within driving distance was Iowa.)
I have been calling myself the reluctant expat lately. I want to experience life in the Philippines while I'm here so that I leave with no regrets, but I desperately long for my old life with all its comforts and conveniences. I do the things my husband and kids want to do here, but I honestly feel like I'm just putting up with it all--and I feel like I might soon explode.
Luckily, I do have little outlets. I have been doing Zumba in my living room with a DVD. I get out and have coffee occasionally with women I met here. I am cataloguing all the things that I need in life to keep me sane and relatively happy. And once in awhile something forces me out of my bubble and into real life here. Maybe, at six months, that's exactly where I should be.
All the expats I know tell me that the first six months are the uphill battle, and once you get past that marker you start coasting a little bit and your experience moves toward "I got this". But at six months I'm more homesick than ever. I feel like I've had this "adventure" and now it's time to go back home.
But recently I've had to reflect on the kind of expat I've been. Is one way of living overseas better than another? Would the six-month mark feel differently if I had been living in a different manner?
I always thought that if I moved overseas I would really try to live life as a local. I would dive into the experience and all the newness around me. But here, I've simply tried to export my life in Chicago to the Philippines. Instead of taking local transportation like Jeepneys and motorbikes and tricycles, I drive my own car. My windows are up, my a/c is on, and I'm protected from the life happening around me. Instead of eating street food, I eat at nice restaurants and coffee shops. Instead of learning the language, I rely on English-speakers to help me out.
Now, there are reasons for all of this. I drive a car because A) it's safer for my kids and for my belongings, B) it saves me from spending so much time out in the polluted air, and C) it allows my kids to feel at home while we're stuck in traffic. I don't eat street food often because A) there are no guarantees that what you're getting is fresh and fully cooked, and B) much of the street food here is not gluten-free. I have had minor stomach issues fairly consistently since moving here as it is; I'm not looking to turn them into major ones. And I haven't learned the language because I can't find a good teacher--and because English is the preferred language when shopping, dining, travelling, etc.
So I haven't exactly been living like the average Filipino here. But I haven't been living like the wealthy ones, either. I don't have a nice car with a personal driver, I don't have a nanny and live-in household help to do all the hard daily work or deal with car issues, and I don't live in the nicest neighborhood with the best plumbing. I'm living in this weird state of tension, right in between "things aren't so different here" and "Help!!!"
Then last week my car died. Since then, I've had a harder time buying groceries and doing school drop-offs and pick-ups. I've mostly been using taxis, for the above-mentioned reason that I don't relish the idea of riding in the back of a Jeepney, breathing in deathly black belch. And I will not put my squirmy kids and their fifty bags on the back of a motorcycle. But I did ride my first tricycle the other day! The equivalent of 36 cents got me to the nearest grocery store and back. Pretty anti-climactic, really, but I did feel like I finally experienced a little bit of reality. And when I was walking down to the main road to wait for a trike, I had my umbrella out. Here, women walk under umbrellas on sunny days. Again, I felt like a true resident of the area.
But these and other little "real life in the Philippines" experiences haven't made me feel like a better expat, or that I'm really diving in and making the most of my time here. I think I build things up in my head as being more romantic than they are, and then once I experience them I just think "Okay, check that off the list" and get back to life the way I want it: convenient, cool, and easy. If at all possible.
One other thing about expat life--there's this expectation to travel around and see as much of this part of the world as possible while we're here. People are always telling us which dive resorts to go to or which islands to boat to, which places let you hold pythons and swim with whale sharks and which places have the best food and massages. We've been to a couple of other places in the Philippines other than the city of Cebu, but I'm already weary of the travel. I never was one for traveling much. I'm a homebody at heart. And I'm definitely not a beach-lover. I have no interest in learning to scuba dive and I can barely snorkel without having a panic attack. I would rather climb a mountain and save my fish-watching for the city aquarium. But around here, you're crazy if you don't swim with sardines or go island-hopping. I'm just a bit tired of the scene. Or, more accurately, I'm tired of hearing of the scene.
And my kids are already getting spoiled with the idea that we should go spend money doing something fun every weekend. Both days. Every Friday evening they ask "What are we doing tomorrow? Can we go to a beach resort/water park/mall arcade/bounce house?" What?! When we lived in Chicago we didn't go do something big and fun every weekend. (Maybe that's because we had parks and friends.) But we certainly didn't travel all the time. (Maybe that's because the only place within driving distance was Iowa.)
I have been calling myself the reluctant expat lately. I want to experience life in the Philippines while I'm here so that I leave with no regrets, but I desperately long for my old life with all its comforts and conveniences. I do the things my husband and kids want to do here, but I honestly feel like I'm just putting up with it all--and I feel like I might soon explode.
Luckily, I do have little outlets. I have been doing Zumba in my living room with a DVD. I get out and have coffee occasionally with women I met here. I am cataloguing all the things that I need in life to keep me sane and relatively happy. And once in awhile something forces me out of my bubble and into real life here. Maybe, at six months, that's exactly where I should be.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Brushstrokes
You have to take what you can get sometimes.
I love to recreate past moments. I was once told that I was refreshingly sentimental--but my sentimentality usually feels like a burden that costs me the gift of enjoying "today".
Moving to the Philippines has been hard, no joke. I no longer have seasons that I recognize. I don't have the crisp breezes and earthy smells of fall bringing back memories of school and cozy home days and holiday preparations. I don't have snow that blinds in the sunlight, forcing to mind memories of past storms and comforts.
I do have summer. I live in a forever summer. Most of my friends, stuck in snowdrifts in the Midwest, think I'm so lucky to be missing winter. But they don't really get how much I am missing it. Being a "homebody", fall and winter were always my favorite seasons. No pressure to be "outdoorsy", and it's always a good day to bake.
Still, I have a lot of good summer memories. I just hadn't expected to be reconnected to any of them here in the Philippines, because I figured I'd be too preoccupied with missing fall and winter. And summer in Cebu City is not like summer in the places I call home. Here, there are no parks. There are no decent beaches anywhere near my house. The sun goes down at 5:30 every evening, so there are no long summer evenings. I could go on and on about how the conditions and the sights, sounds, and smells around here fall short of really making me feel at home.
But then, there's this:
I love to recreate past moments. I was once told that I was refreshingly sentimental--but my sentimentality usually feels like a burden that costs me the gift of enjoying "today".
Moving to the Philippines has been hard, no joke. I no longer have seasons that I recognize. I don't have the crisp breezes and earthy smells of fall bringing back memories of school and cozy home days and holiday preparations. I don't have snow that blinds in the sunlight, forcing to mind memories of past storms and comforts.
I do have summer. I live in a forever summer. Most of my friends, stuck in snowdrifts in the Midwest, think I'm so lucky to be missing winter. But they don't really get how much I am missing it. Being a "homebody", fall and winter were always my favorite seasons. No pressure to be "outdoorsy", and it's always a good day to bake.
Still, I have a lot of good summer memories. I just hadn't expected to be reconnected to any of them here in the Philippines, because I figured I'd be too preoccupied with missing fall and winter. And summer in Cebu City is not like summer in the places I call home. Here, there are no parks. There are no decent beaches anywhere near my house. The sun goes down at 5:30 every evening, so there are no long summer evenings. I could go on and on about how the conditions and the sights, sounds, and smells around here fall short of really making me feel at home.
But then, there's this:
The sky. That glimpse of a summer sunset in the middle of city traffic was enough for me the other night. It carried me back to summers past in my hometown in Colorado, free from the stress of schoolwork and alarm clocks; the giddy freedom of being a new driver and cruising with the windows down; outdoor concerts and late frozen yogurt runs.
And then this:
Fall leaves! Totally out of season and without the accompaniment of the aforementioned breezes and wafts of cinnamon, but there they were--crunching under my feet. And I instantly traveled back a few years to a Chicago park with my kids, throwing leaves at each other for what seemed like hours. And then there's the "memory within a memory"--remembering that day in the park so well because it had brought back memories of my parents raking up piles of leaves for me and my sister in the backyard.
So there are little brushstrokes of familiarity here that I'm learning to spot. And now that I'm in my sixth month here, I think I'm ready to let them be enough for me.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Next time, stay for the whole thing...
I need to give you an embarrassing but important update on my last post. My daughter performed a song with her Chinese class at a school assembly, and I was a little annoyed to find that all the girls in her grade level except her were performing a dance in costume in front of the singing group. I wanted her to have her chance to shine, too. Well, I had to leave the assembly early to take my son to his school, and I missed the part where they give out awards. They do it every week, apparently.
And this particular week my daughter won an award! "For being a risk-taker by having the courage in trying new things and singing an entire song with confidence", it says. Almost two weeks after receiving this, I found the certificate in her backpack and had to ask her about it before she would tell me that yes, they called her up to the front and presented her with the award, etc.
So...the teacher did, in fact, have her eye on Esther. And she had her moment to shine. And wouldn't I rather she get recognition for the hard thing she accomplished instead of being chosen for a dance just because she looked cute in the costume? I'm satisfied (for now) and I think I need to take a step back, take a deep breath, and let my daughter make her own way. With mom close behind if needed.
And this particular week my daughter won an award! "For being a risk-taker by having the courage in trying new things and singing an entire song with confidence", it says. Almost two weeks after receiving this, I found the certificate in her backpack and had to ask her about it before she would tell me that yes, they called her up to the front and presented her with the award, etc.
So...the teacher did, in fact, have her eye on Esther. And she had her moment to shine. And wouldn't I rather she get recognition for the hard thing she accomplished instead of being chosen for a dance just because she looked cute in the costume? I'm satisfied (for now) and I think I need to take a step back, take a deep breath, and let my daughter make her own way. With mom close behind if needed.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
When's It Her Turn?
My daughter is an amazing girl. She is a voracious reader, she has a higher emotional IQ than a lot of adults, she knows how to make me laugh, she loves adventure, she tries new things even if she's scared. She's got a great ear for languages; she's studying Mandarin in school, and she's getting high praise from her teacher for her ability to memorize songs in Chinese. In fact, last week her Chinese class performed two songs at a school assembly in honor of Chinese New Year. I was so excited to watcher her perform because I saw how proud she was when she memorized the songs, ahead of most of her classmates.
I was also pumped that it was finally going to be her turn to "shine" for a few moments in front of her other classmates. See, there is this culture of achievement at her school that she hasn't figured out how to fit into yet. Most of her classmates either play an instrument, have a sport they're good at, love drama, star in cheerleading routines at school assemblies, or any combination of those. My daughter sees her classmates performing and asks me when it's her turn. It's that heartbreaking tension between wanting to be recognized but being too shy to put yourself out there. I know it well.
So last Friday I was so excited for her to be part of the Chinese New Year performance. Out she came with her class. I got my video camera ready. Then...a blaring music video was projected on a screen behind the kids and drowned out any chance of hearing their voices. And a group of four girls came out front dressed in cheongsam (Chinese traditional dress), dancing and singing into microphones. Camera shot of my daughter was blocked.
Now, I'm not the parent who insists on her kid getting the starring role. I'm not the parent who pushes my kid out front. But I was pretty disappointed that my kid didn't get her chance to be in front. The girls in front are the same girls in the cheerleading and dance performances. Surely they have plenty of opportunity to dance then. Why do they also get to be the main performers in the Chinese class event?! Why does every event have to be fronted by a stage show, anyway? Can't a class perform a song without having to idolize those in the class who want to dance?
I know I sound really judgmental. And I need to be very careful, because I have a lot of envy and resentment from my own school days. As I mentioned before, I always wanted to be the performer, but I was too shy to step up and try out for the parts. I asked my daughter how those girls were chosen. She said her teacher asked them to perform the dance. Now, my daughter was the only third grade girl not dancing in front. Part of me wonders if it's because she didn't look the part--perfect hair, bubbly personality, cute little dancing body.
Maybe that's unfair of me. You might be reading this thinking "Hey, I was the kid who performed. I was a dancer. I was the soloist. I resent the insinuation that I have no talent but won my way on stage by looks." You should resent that. That would be really petty of me. I am all for people getting to showcase their talent.
But here it's often misplaced. Like the other day when I was at the mall and there was an academic pop quiz event happening. Every time I passed the floor there was another stage act going on. I kept thinking "When do these students get to actually do the quiz?" First someone had to sing "You Raise Me Up", then a boy group had to dance, then a couple did a pop duet, and on and on it went. Kids were missing school for this.
My daughter is having a hard enough time fitting in at school with ADHD. I wish she could be recognized for the things she is able to contribute. But she's not gifted at those "main event" talents that everyone sees and recognizes and thinks are cool.
After a third or fourth meeting with her teachers and counselors about this and other issues, I was gently told that maybe I need to back off and let my daughter find her own way. But I'm afraid she will be pushed aside and swallowed up in the shadow of the performers. But I did ask if she had wanted to be part of the Chinese dance, and she said no because the dances looked too complicated. And honestly, she felt proud of herself for being part of the performance at all. So I will bite my tongue and build her up, and do my best to give her opportunities to prove that she can shine like the best of 'em.
A couple days ago she went to a birthday party at a Laser Tag place. I was so nervous for her; I could just see her doing poorly at laser tag and feeling bad about herself, getting laughed at by the other little commando kids. But I didn't say anything. I described what laser tag is like, and she wanted to give it a try. I took her, dropped her off, and came back three hours later....and was greeted by her beaming face. She had a blast! She was so proud of her score, which was not last place but was certainly down towards the bottom.
I realized then that my eight-year-old daughter is my greatest teacher right now. The challenge for me is to appreciate what I can do and what I enjoy doing without comparing myself to others or measuring the applause I get (or not).
But then we have a morning like this one, where she is crying that she doesn't have any friends at school, that no one lets her play with them, and she doesn't want to go to school. What do I do with that?! I want nothing more than to help her fit in and have friends. But I don't want to her change who she is. Or do I? Is the whole reason she felt bad about herself this morning that I was hard on her for losing focus and not getting ready on time?
Teaching her not to care what others think of her needs to start with getting plenty of affirmation at home. Let this be my wake-up call.
So I apologize--I'm tired this morning, and hungry, dealing with technical difficulties, reeling from a tough morning, and dealing with issues from my childhood that I thought were dead and buried. But there's nothing like raising a child to make you face your past. So if this post turns you off in any way, take it with a grain of salt and show grace. I'm a work in progress. Thankfully, so is my daughter. Her future is not written yet. There may be a place on stage for her yet. And if not, she will light up the shadows. The eyes that matter will see her. As they do each of us.
I was also pumped that it was finally going to be her turn to "shine" for a few moments in front of her other classmates. See, there is this culture of achievement at her school that she hasn't figured out how to fit into yet. Most of her classmates either play an instrument, have a sport they're good at, love drama, star in cheerleading routines at school assemblies, or any combination of those. My daughter sees her classmates performing and asks me when it's her turn. It's that heartbreaking tension between wanting to be recognized but being too shy to put yourself out there. I know it well.
So last Friday I was so excited for her to be part of the Chinese New Year performance. Out she came with her class. I got my video camera ready. Then...a blaring music video was projected on a screen behind the kids and drowned out any chance of hearing their voices. And a group of four girls came out front dressed in cheongsam (Chinese traditional dress), dancing and singing into microphones. Camera shot of my daughter was blocked.
Now, I'm not the parent who insists on her kid getting the starring role. I'm not the parent who pushes my kid out front. But I was pretty disappointed that my kid didn't get her chance to be in front. The girls in front are the same girls in the cheerleading and dance performances. Surely they have plenty of opportunity to dance then. Why do they also get to be the main performers in the Chinese class event?! Why does every event have to be fronted by a stage show, anyway? Can't a class perform a song without having to idolize those in the class who want to dance?
I know I sound really judgmental. And I need to be very careful, because I have a lot of envy and resentment from my own school days. As I mentioned before, I always wanted to be the performer, but I was too shy to step up and try out for the parts. I asked my daughter how those girls were chosen. She said her teacher asked them to perform the dance. Now, my daughter was the only third grade girl not dancing in front. Part of me wonders if it's because she didn't look the part--perfect hair, bubbly personality, cute little dancing body.
Maybe that's unfair of me. You might be reading this thinking "Hey, I was the kid who performed. I was a dancer. I was the soloist. I resent the insinuation that I have no talent but won my way on stage by looks." You should resent that. That would be really petty of me. I am all for people getting to showcase their talent.
But here it's often misplaced. Like the other day when I was at the mall and there was an academic pop quiz event happening. Every time I passed the floor there was another stage act going on. I kept thinking "When do these students get to actually do the quiz?" First someone had to sing "You Raise Me Up", then a boy group had to dance, then a couple did a pop duet, and on and on it went. Kids were missing school for this.
My daughter is having a hard enough time fitting in at school with ADHD. I wish she could be recognized for the things she is able to contribute. But she's not gifted at those "main event" talents that everyone sees and recognizes and thinks are cool.
After a third or fourth meeting with her teachers and counselors about this and other issues, I was gently told that maybe I need to back off and let my daughter find her own way. But I'm afraid she will be pushed aside and swallowed up in the shadow of the performers. But I did ask if she had wanted to be part of the Chinese dance, and she said no because the dances looked too complicated. And honestly, she felt proud of herself for being part of the performance at all. So I will bite my tongue and build her up, and do my best to give her opportunities to prove that she can shine like the best of 'em.
A couple days ago she went to a birthday party at a Laser Tag place. I was so nervous for her; I could just see her doing poorly at laser tag and feeling bad about herself, getting laughed at by the other little commando kids. But I didn't say anything. I described what laser tag is like, and she wanted to give it a try. I took her, dropped her off, and came back three hours later....and was greeted by her beaming face. She had a blast! She was so proud of her score, which was not last place but was certainly down towards the bottom.
I realized then that my eight-year-old daughter is my greatest teacher right now. The challenge for me is to appreciate what I can do and what I enjoy doing without comparing myself to others or measuring the applause I get (or not).
But then we have a morning like this one, where she is crying that she doesn't have any friends at school, that no one lets her play with them, and she doesn't want to go to school. What do I do with that?! I want nothing more than to help her fit in and have friends. But I don't want to her change who she is. Or do I? Is the whole reason she felt bad about herself this morning that I was hard on her for losing focus and not getting ready on time?
Teaching her not to care what others think of her needs to start with getting plenty of affirmation at home. Let this be my wake-up call.
So I apologize--I'm tired this morning, and hungry, dealing with technical difficulties, reeling from a tough morning, and dealing with issues from my childhood that I thought were dead and buried. But there's nothing like raising a child to make you face your past. So if this post turns you off in any way, take it with a grain of salt and show grace. I'm a work in progress. Thankfully, so is my daughter. Her future is not written yet. There may be a place on stage for her yet. And if not, she will light up the shadows. The eyes that matter will see her. As they do each of us.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Let's Talk About Sweat, Baby!
Among the many aspects of tropical life that I find incredibly hard to adjust to is this issue of sweat. Living in Chicago, I can safely say there were only two situations in which an observer would say I was sweaty: on the sandy beaches of Lake Michigan on a rare hot day, and in my Zumba class.
Here in the Philippines, I am sweaty 90% of the time. Sweaty when I sit in traffic in my big, black car; sweaty when I sleep; sweaty when I water the plants in the front yard; sweaty when I sit in an outdoor café. And for some reason, my sweat stinks here. Maybe I was in denial back when I only got sweaty for good reason. Here, it just feels gross--especially because I don't feel like I'm earning the amount of sweat pouring forth.
One of the natural outcomes is that my clothes are getting ruined. My scarves are turning yellow underneath, for one thing. (If only I were brave enough to go bald all the time...still not there yet.) And my clothes go in the hamper after only a half-day's use. Since my helper washes my clothes by hand in really hard water, they are literally coming apart at the seams. Wearing out before my eyes.
The Filipinos have a way of preventing this. Actually, I think what I'm going to describe has more to do with the social inappropriateness of sweat than saving their clothes--but I've decided to adopt this particular custom purely for the financial benefit. See, they wear towels under their shirts to absorb the sweat! Ingenious idea. I first saw it among children--some boys selling food on the street had rags sticking out the back of their shirts up at the neckline. At first I thought it was to protect their skin from the sun. But then I saw people in the mall with the same thing. I once saw a guy fixing his wife's collar on the back of her shirt. "Aw, sweet", I thought. Then he stuck his hand further down her shirt, and I confess I started staring at that point. "What?" Turns out he was fixing the towel under her shirt.
So last week the air conditioner went out in our car, and I found myself a sopping wet mess everywhere I went. Black leather seats, not good in heat. Yesterday I decided to go ahead and try it: stick a towel down my shirt and get over it. Here's what I came up with:
Before you laugh too hard....no, go ahead and laugh. It is hilarious. I was trying to use a bath towel. I had to choose between it sticking out the bottom of my shirt like a tail, or this. Not quite the Filipino way, but through trial and error I'm learning what size, color, thickness and position are just right.
Here's the good thing: once you've seen some of the tings people do around here to keep sun and sweat off their skin, you don't really feel all that foolish stepping out like this. Oh, and here's another good thing: my shirt is hanging up in the closet, still fragrant and ready for another day's use!
Now, I will take my towel, walk down to the corner to get some street food, and pat myself on the back for attempting in some small way the resourcefulness Filipinos are famous for.
Here in the Philippines, I am sweaty 90% of the time. Sweaty when I sit in traffic in my big, black car; sweaty when I sleep; sweaty when I water the plants in the front yard; sweaty when I sit in an outdoor café. And for some reason, my sweat stinks here. Maybe I was in denial back when I only got sweaty for good reason. Here, it just feels gross--especially because I don't feel like I'm earning the amount of sweat pouring forth.
One of the natural outcomes is that my clothes are getting ruined. My scarves are turning yellow underneath, for one thing. (If only I were brave enough to go bald all the time...still not there yet.) And my clothes go in the hamper after only a half-day's use. Since my helper washes my clothes by hand in really hard water, they are literally coming apart at the seams. Wearing out before my eyes.
The Filipinos have a way of preventing this. Actually, I think what I'm going to describe has more to do with the social inappropriateness of sweat than saving their clothes--but I've decided to adopt this particular custom purely for the financial benefit. See, they wear towels under their shirts to absorb the sweat! Ingenious idea. I first saw it among children--some boys selling food on the street had rags sticking out the back of their shirts up at the neckline. At first I thought it was to protect their skin from the sun. But then I saw people in the mall with the same thing. I once saw a guy fixing his wife's collar on the back of her shirt. "Aw, sweet", I thought. Then he stuck his hand further down her shirt, and I confess I started staring at that point. "What?" Turns out he was fixing the towel under her shirt.
So last week the air conditioner went out in our car, and I found myself a sopping wet mess everywhere I went. Black leather seats, not good in heat. Yesterday I decided to go ahead and try it: stick a towel down my shirt and get over it. Here's what I came up with:
Before you laugh too hard....no, go ahead and laugh. It is hilarious. I was trying to use a bath towel. I had to choose between it sticking out the bottom of my shirt like a tail, or this. Not quite the Filipino way, but through trial and error I'm learning what size, color, thickness and position are just right.
Here's the good thing: once you've seen some of the tings people do around here to keep sun and sweat off their skin, you don't really feel all that foolish stepping out like this. Oh, and here's another good thing: my shirt is hanging up in the closet, still fragrant and ready for another day's use!
Now, I will take my towel, walk down to the corner to get some street food, and pat myself on the back for attempting in some small way the resourcefulness Filipinos are famous for.
Friday, February 6, 2015
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.
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.
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