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.

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.

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.

Please don't expect me to do that...

Last weekend my daughter went to her first birthday party here in the Philippines. I had heard that it is assumed that the entire family will come when a kid is invited, so we all decided to make an afternoon of it. The party was being held at a new hotel that has an amazing swimming pool and water park, so we brought our suits and towels.

The invitation said 2 pm, so we showed up at 1:59.

Upon arriving, we saw a sign for the birthday party...that said it started at 3 pm.

"Must be a mistake", we thought.

Before I go further, let me say that I feel the need to describe this party in detail because I was so fascinated by it--but I don't mean offense. I am in a time of learning and trying to understand the "why" behind the things I don't understand.

So, we head upstairs to the party room. Now, I knew from the invitation that this was a Frozen-themed party. I expected decorations. But nothing prepared me for what I saw when we stepped into the room:

It looked like a wedding reception. And it was clearly not going to start until 3 pm. The only other people there were the staff setting up the room and another American-ish dad with his son. (Though his family was from the US, the man was raised in the Philippines.) We sat together and looked longingly out the windows at the pool area. This was obviously not going to be a swimming party.

But here's what the party did have: vendors handing out French fries, popcorn, tempura, squid balls, and bubble tea, game booths where you could win prizes, a huge table full of toys (where kids could claim prizes during large group games run by an MC dressed as Anna from Frozen), a buffet (which we didn't stay for as we had already been there for hours and our kids had school the next day), a cake made of cupcakes which were all adorned with Frozen characters made entirely of icing, a DJ, and candy sprinkled around the centerpieces at every table.

A couple other kids finally started straggling in around 3 pm, and then the birthday girl came in with her family. Her mother was easy to identify. Her dress was gorgeous (and very shiny), her hair and makeup were immaculate. The birthday girl, turning 9, was harder to find. She was dressed as Elsa (Filipinos dressed as Nordic characters are pretty cute, really) but she was wrapped around her yaya and wouldn't let go for the first hour and a half of the party.

A yaya is a nanny. The relationship between a yaya and the children she cares for can vary from household to household. Here, it was really interesting to watch the mother make her rounds to guests, make sure the microphones were working, and braid her daughter's hair, while her daughter remained attached, literally, to her yaya. The mother told us that her daughter was throwing a tantrum, but to me it looked like a 9-year-old who was overwhelmed by being the center of attention at this very elaborate shindig. But who knows. I actually told my husband that the mm had probably told the girl to make a speech or sing or something. Lo and behold, one of the "surprises" introduced by the MC was that the birthday girl was going to grace us with a song! Her first time singing in front of people!

No wonder she was trying to hide.

Now, I did talk to the mom at several points during the party. During one of those conversations she told me that next year she's planning a Hollywood-themed party. !!  Aside from being ridiculously well-prepared, she struck me as someone who is generous and honestly loves to celebrate. She has four kids, so automatically she gets my respect. I think the birthday girl is her youngest. If I am very honest with myself, if I had the means (and a little less tact) I would probably want to throw a party like this one for my daughter if I thought even for a moment that it would make her feel loved and special. I mean, her name was up there in giant, Frozen letters! There were life-size Frozen figures up there! It could have been a dream come true.

I just wasn't convinced it was this little girl's dream come true.

But, who am I to judge? People had fun at the party, the loot bags and game prizes we came home with were beyond anything I've ever seen (seriously, it was like a second Christmas) and my kids had an amazing time.

Now, I wonder what my daughter is expecting for her party in a few months. You know how it goes at this age. Everything is about comparison and fitting in. and my daughter has really, really been struggling to fit in since we moved here. If I thought throwing this kind of party would help her gain friends and confidence, I think I would do it.

The problem is, I'm being shortsighted. If I did throw that kind of party, I'd be letting fear win over integrity. I'm so afraid my daughter will be teased and unpopular and go down the road of low self-esteem...or worse. But a party won't solve that problem. Young as she is, I need to teach her to be content, to love herself, to be kind, to be strong, to be thankful, and to share her wealth. Will she understand at age 9 that there are better places to distribute money than to spend it on a lavish, fancy party that would make her feel like a princess? It's one of those "she'll understand someday" or "she'll thank you for it later" scenarios.

But I want her to feel special now. (Hmmm...I seem to be channeling Veruca Salt, for some reason. The original Veruca, I mean.)

I won't throw a party that looks like a wedding reception. But I'm open to ideas for a party that celebrates who she is, what she enjoys, and also has the added benefit of giving other kids a really good time to remember her by.

Oh, I forgot one thing. The mom told me she put 2 pm on the invitations because Filipinos always show up so late to everything. I'll know for next time. :)

The New Standard

It's been so long since I've written anything here, I don't know where to begin catching up. So let's just jump right in to where I'm at now, shall we? Thanks for understanding. I've been busy...figuring out how to live in a foreign country on the other side of the world from everything and everyone I know and love. Forgive me.

Actually I had almost decided to call it quits on this blog. I don't have a wide readership, I don't often have large chunks of time when I can write, and, frankly, the subject matter is beginning to bore me. Maybe it's because I have moved out of my small, safe corner of the world and into a great big cultural enigma. Maybe it's because I see a lot of posts about true beauty and I think "Yeah, people get it. I don't have anything new to say."

But I recognize that writing is something that makes me happy, despite the effort it takes. I know this because I am constantly composing in my head. So I've decided to keep writing. After all, this overseas experience is turning out to be of immense importance to the very core of who I am. It might be nice to look back someday and remember how the process went. So the title remains "Beauty Redefined" for now, but be warned: the subject matter is shifting to reflect my experience adjusting to a new culture.

And this adjustment, by the way, actually has a lot to do with beauty, appearance, and self confidence. I have found that appearances matter even more in the Philippines than they do in the US. This really irked me at first, and often still does. Later, I'll get to why it doesn't constantly get to me anymore, but for now let me give some examples.

Cars. Cars here are always clean. Everyone's car is spotless. As I drive out of my neighborhood at 6 am every morning on the way to my kids' schools, I see professional drivers and household helpers out on the street, washing the cars. Here's what mine looks like:

 

Okay, I wrote that. No one would write "shame" on my car. But I have had people write "Princess" an make little drawings. The point is, my car is the only one on the road that is dirty enough to write on. As I drive behind the little buses with people sitting in the open back, I actually get laughed at...and even glared at. I once had a guy look me in the eye, look down at my hood, and look back at me, shaking his head slowly back and forth. I was shamed. This is a real thing. I get to my son's school and the teachers comment on the car. Washing the car is the first thing my helper asks to do when she comes to the house and sees it. (I have a helper who comes twice a week, so there is plenty of time in between for the car to get dirty.) And to make things worse, I scraped the front corner of the car against a wall one day (trying to turn this big beast into a teeny little driveway to get to a store, which I can't go back to because the guard still laughs at me when he sees me). I haven't had time to get the bumper fixed, so I boldly drive around in a dented, scraped, dirty car. And believe me, I feel the eyes on me. I feel the heat come to my cheeks as I drive around and see the looks people give my car.

 

 

The same goes for stains on clothing, trimmed trees in the yard, costumes for school programs, etc. Everything needs to be clean, shiny, spot-free, wrinkle-free...perfect.

 

Well. That is not how I roll. Especially in the kind of heat and humidity we deal with here. Who has the time and energy to maintain appearances? Filipinos do, somehow. They know how to look immaculate in any setting.

 

 

But I'm starting to understand why, I think. I mean, aside from the obvious historical fact that the Pinoy are a subjugated people with a self-esteem crisis. They were occupied by the Spanish for hundreds of years, and then came the Americans. When you've been occupied for so long, independence brings with it a need to prove yourself, I would imagine. One thing a clean, shiny car says is "I can afford to have a helper and/or driver take care of my car for me". I get that.

 

But there are also more practical reasons. If you have stains on your clothes, it means you let food drop at some point and didn't take care of it right away. I know from experience that if you have food on your clothes and they sit in a laundry basket because you don't have a helper to hand wash them, when you take them out they will be swarming with ants. You need to keep things much cleaner around here in the land of lightning-fast bugs.

 

Bugs actually contribute a lot to the lifestyle here. But that's another post for another time.

 

Anyway, I guess what I'm learning is that there are reasons to keep up appearances sometimes. I'm not used to feeling so inferior and sloppy so much of the time, but I can't let that turn my heart toward an attitude of judgment. I actually have a lot of respect for Filipinos--they are striving for beauty in a place where daily living is just not easy. I think their sense of pride is a thing to admire.

 

But...I also think it might be important for me to continue driving my dirty car and letting people confront their own stereotypes and judgments when they see it. What do you think? Should I be myself and be happy with what I'm capable of, or should I make more of an effort to assimilate and show respect for the community I'm in?



My undoing?

"I really appreciate your honesty and transparency. It's so refreshing!"

"Thank you for being so honest. I really appreciate it."

I used to hear comments like these a lot. I am the person who waits to be asked "How are you?" just so I can answer. I love to talk about myself, I love to be "real", I open myself up to people right off the bat if I get that trustworthy vibe from them (which I need to be more careful about). And many people have thanked me for it.

Not so here in the Philippines.

Here, I offend. I am the foreigner. I scare potential household helpers away at interviews because I'm "too honest" about the stress I'm under to keep the house clean and the family intact. I alienate neighbors because I don't act like a typical ma'am. I try to strike up conversations with people who clearly feel uncomfortable about me breaking from the conversational script in any given social interaction. I thought that by being vulnerable and humble and open I would make fast connections to people here, but the complex cultural histories at play and the infuriating fact that I wasn't able to pick up the entire language upon arrival (infuriating because I am supposed to be a linguistic genius) have built up a higher, stronger wall than I was expecting to be faced with.

So, I'm lonely.

And I'm losing my identity. I'm not part of a loving, supportive community where I get affirmation and kudos and gentle challenges. I'm not part of any community at all. I have always considered myself to be fairly independent, not needing to be with other people but choosing to. But I'm lost here without the safety net of having true supportive friendships to fall into when I doubt myself. And here, I live in self-doubt.

I have been told by a Filipina that I shouldn't be so honest and straightforward. I have been told not to open myself up to people here because they will either run away or take advantage. How do I make friends here then? I can vent with other expats, I can find guides to point me to resources I need in the city, and I can be prayed for at any church I visit. But these people will not be friends.

Never mind friends--how do I feel comfortable in my own skin? Or do I? Is that something I forfeited when I agreed to live cross-culturally?

Oh, the Horror!

Have you ever cleaned out a grease trap? I mean, a grease trap that hasn't been cleaned for a year? As of today, I have. Luckily it was dark under the sink, but from what I felt on my hands I imagine it looked like this:

Add some roaches and maggots (those I did see, crawling out into the light), and you have the nightmare that was under my sink. Now, we're living in a rental house. The owners never informed us about this thing. I have never lived in a house with a grease trap, so it wasn't on my radar at all. But the smell under my sink had gotten so bad, I had to get to the bottom of it.

Two hours later, I had black gunk up to my elbows, bacteria coating my lungs (I'm sure), and another notch on my "cockroaches killed" belt.

I will have nightmares about this day for years to come.

Then, the fumigators came to the house with their rat trap cages and placed them in my ceilings. If I hear cages rattling I'm supposed to call them to come remove the trapped rats. And we have glue traps set for mice too, which apparently I'm supposed to "just fold over and toss in the garbage" when a mouse gets caught. Grrreeaaaat.

Tomorrow, I do toilets! Yippee!!

Everyone is telling me to get a "helper" (i.e. housekeeper), and now I see the necessity for it. In a house this size and a country this hot and humid I could literally spend all of my free time cleaning. Literally. But finding household help is not easy. You have to get someone who is trustworthy and comes recommended by someone you know and trust. Well, I don't know anyone here yet.

I did interview one woman, but apparently I "scared her off". Really. I was feeling her out, describing some of the dynamics with me and my kids and explaining why I need help in the mornings, and apparently the picture I painted left her imagining a crazy kid throwing knives at her. Also, I asked her how long she thought it would take to clean our house each time she came. "3 or 4 hours", she said. So when I asked her to come work for us I named the hours she had described. But when I asked for four hours a day, that was considered an unrealistic expectation.

So, I won't get her, or anyone she knows, as a helper.

I've asked all around, but no referrals are coming in yet. In the meantime, my time really will be consumed cleaning this house. I don't even have the option of "letting it go" and putting it off. The bugs and rodents are too quick for that.

I feel disgusted...but as I reflect on other places I've lived, I realize that cleanliness and convenience are not as --

--sorry, I lost my train of thought. I hear a cage rattling above me. Ewww.....--

What I'm trying to say is that the things I'm dealing with here (rodents, clogged toilets, mildew, roaches, toxic grease traps, maggots in the trash) are not unique to this new land I live in. People have always had to share living space with critters and clean up after their physical needs. I guess the difference for me, personally, is that in my former life I could call someone or buy a product to take care of the problem such that I didn't have to see it, feel it, smell it or think of it. Here, I will be more hands-on and nose-in.

I hope my stomach is strong enough.

One thing--the smells and bugs and cleaning issues are so much a part of daily life here that I don't have to make any apologies for the state of my home or the smell of the trash. People here don't even register those things. Actually, today I as I was dumping my black water out in the front of the house, I was glad that the construction workers at the house next door were watching me get so dirty and sweaty. I almost wanted to go bum a cigarette off one of them and join them on their break. (Not really. I don't smoke. Just to be clear.) I wanted to say "See? I'm not a spoiled American 'ma'am'. I'm not here to hire help and look down on the country. I'm one of you! I clean my own grease trap!"

Okay, I have to go to bed. This rattling cage is really giving me the creeps. I have to get that fumigator back here first thing in the morning.

I'll clean a grease trap (once, but never again), but I won't dispose of my own rats.