My Ibu (host mom) asked if I smoked. I told her I did in America, but not in Indonesia. It’s true. I’m a different person here. I wouldn’t necessarily say better, but I’m supposed to play a different role here. Five days after I quit in America, I caved in Surabaya. But it was the city, and it’s more lax there. But now that I’m in the desa (village), I have to adhere to more strict gender roles. And one aspect of that role is not smoking. So although I caved in Surabaya, I think it’ll be easier to quit in the desa because everyone is curious to see what the American will do and judge her accordingly.
Every day I weigh the costs of being seen smoking in the desa. What will each puff cost me? Is this puff worth damaging my reputation as a teacher? Does that puff go against Peace Corps expectations of integrating into Indonesian Muslim culture? I’m not trying to force my way into this culture, especially not while blatantly disregarding one of its more important values. But there isn’t a day when my right hand doesn’t beckon the feel of its favorite accessory.
I understand that this is a symptom of withdrawal. When I see men smoking here it feels like they’re mocking me and asserting their manhood. I hope that one day it won’t feel that way. I hope it’ll feel as a reminder that I finally made a good decision about one of the bad choices in my past. Until that clarity comes, I’ll have to live in the smoky shadow of men in front of me, smelling that sweet, sweet smell. Enak!
No comments:
Post a Comment