Messiah Complex

I’m figuring out so much about myself living here. On the most part, I love it. I love learning how my value for certain things has changed. Every time I deal with a situation that questions my readiness to serve, I ask: What am I willing to sacrifice to have this experience? Is this experience worth that sacrifice?

As liberating as all this self-discovery has been, there have also been things about myself I don’t enjoy discovering. For example, I’ve been called condescending. I’ve been told I’m too focused on the job. And most surprising, I’ve been called too competitive. These are three characteristics I would have never used to describe me. But put together and considering all the random comments I’ve received about my behavior, I think I finally have come to terms that I suffer from Messiah Complex.

Messiah Complex is always wanting to help others, thinking that I am wiser, and in turn, thinking that I always know better. And when I’m not actively helping people, I want nothing to do with them.

This is obviously an exaggeration of what I’m currently going through, and since this is my first experience outside of America, emotions are amplified. All of my character flaws are magnified and examined. I’ve accepted that I suffer from Messiah Complex, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to change.

A friend suggested that if I wanted to change, I should embody the characteristics of fictional people I admire. I currently admire Sherlock Holmes from the TV show Elementary.

Watson asks Sherlock Holmes if they are cut off from the world because their current lifestyle is focused solely on the job. Sherlock says:

“We’re not cut off from the world. We’re engaged in creating one that’s actually worth living in. One that addresses our needs entirely and eliminates anything extraneous . . . Then I met someone called Irene Adler, and that forced me to reexamine those convictions. She, of course, turned out to be a criminal . . . I feel liberated. I am now and forever post-love. And as such, I’m free to pursue a life of meaning.”

So, yeah, he is cut off from the world because he doesn’t accept its current state. Those who are busy creating and organizing how something functions rarely have the opportunity to experience how something functions. He sees living as a science rather than as something that ebbs and flows naturally.

I don’t know what it means for me to want to embody the characteristics of Sherlock Holmes, but I do. Until I find another fictional character that moves me as much as he does, I’m not going to try to change. I mean I’m working on not being so condescending, but other than that, take me as I am.

Mosquito Indiana Jones

I’m doing an absolute disservice for myself by trapping mosquitos in my mosquito net with me at night. It’s accidental, of course, but I woke up one day with bites all over my right leg. This misfortune has made me question my competency for life, or to be more specific, my competency for surviving Peace Corps service.

How does one make preparations for success only to have those preparations fail? I’ve begrudgingly accepted that no matter how prepared, there’s no such thing as a sure thing. I’ve accepted that sometimes things just happen; in those cases, timing is everything.

That mosquito must have already been hiding in the covers or pulled a crazy good Indiana Jones as I was stuffing the ends of my net underneath my mattress. Regardless, it’s just another reminder to stay on my toes in this country.

Figuratively, Mosquito Indiana Jones will forever undercut my attempts for success. I like to imagine that his role is the self-doubt that naturally manifests from attempting to adapt existing skills to new jobs in different cultures. He’ll make me nervous before a big language test. He’ll give me food poisoning before an important social function. He may even be there as I board the plane back to America in two years. He’ll always be there, and all I can do is work hard just to stay in the game. All I can do is try to find ways to close the mosquito net before he can fly in. Basically, I’m on the defense until I can figure out the rules here.

Although I have to admit I started to overcome my fear of Mosquito Indiana Jones when a cockroach fell from the ceiling and onto my head. Apparently, I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

Assimilating and Integrating

My intention was to keep my hair pixie hair short during my time in Indonesia. I knew it was going to be hot, and I needed a hairstyle that was as low maintenance as I expected my Peace Corps lifestyle to be. But I neglected to consider how Indonesian cultural norms would affect my American lifestyle choices while living here.

I haven’t had a haircut since I was in the States because our schedule has been jam-packed, so my cute pixie cut kind of morphed into the bowl ‘do of Lloyd Christmas in Dumb and Dumber. I am due for a cut. 

I went to two hair salons the other day, and they both refused service. One hair stylist was afraid I’d get mad if she messed up and the other hair stylist refused to enable my masculine life choices. So I decided to just grow out my hair. Having my hair a certain length didn’t mean the world to me, and I wanted to get along with community members.

During a particularly hot day a week later, I shed a layer of clothing and was clad in only a tank top and pants in my host family’s home. While I usually donned this relaxed attire in the States under cooler circumstances, it felt inappropriate to show so much skin after having been trained for the past two months to cover almost everything.

After an uncomfortable ten minutes watching television with my host family, I felt completely obliged to run to my closet and cover my collarbones and elbows. I strive for integration but seemed to have erred on the side of assimilation.

Conforming to culturally appropriate hairstyles and sacrificing physical comfort kind of scared me. Was I integrating too much to this culture? I don’t want to integrate to the point of turning my back on American privileges. When will I find that balance of incorporating both cultures into my daily routine? 

I realize that because I’m so used to covering my body here that I now stare at my Ibu’s cleavage and knees when they show. I look like such a perv, but I’m really experiencing shock at such audacity. And that pervy moment is when I realize I need to figure out this whole integration thing. I mean if my Ibu can show some skin, shouldn’t I also be able to? If she can integrate and find that balance between her culture and her physical needs, I should be able to, too. 

Forgetting English

We’re all required to take malaria medication as Peace Corps volunteers in Indonesia. We are given two options. One option makes me vomit every morning; the other gives me vivid dreams. Since I’d rather not vomit every morning, I now go on magical adventures almost every night.

Most of the dreams are about humdrum everyday life, but they are colorful, vivid, and therefore memorable. Then there are some dreams that border on aggressive and violent themes.

In one of the more aggressive dreams, I forgot English when I returned to America. I became an outcast and was exiled back to a small island in Indonesia. Although this seems more comical than aggressive, it was terrifying to be incompetent at something in which I had assumed fluency.

A current volunteer said volunteers typically return to the States and kind of snap back to their usual selves but with some noticeable differences. Forgetting English better not be one of my noticeable differences.

The dream was particularly aggressive to my emotional well being because not remembering English totally took away from my roots. I had no support in America anymore, and I had no support in Indonesia because not knowing English meant I was no longer considered an American.

And it didn’t help that I woke up from the dream laughing out loud. The strange thing is I don’t know if the medication caused that or if growing paranoid and a bit crazed is a typical Peace Corps milestone.

Donning Hulk Mode

I get a lot of attention in my village. When I say hi to an Indonesian on the street, my accent is apparent and I receive giggles in return. But because I’m Filipino-American and can pass for native Indonesian by appearance, I don’t get as much attention as the other trainees.

The bulk of what Indonesians know about Americans is from the movies. Movies like Herby and Home Alone inform Indonesians about what an American can and I guess should look like. Sometimes I get jealous when my fellow trainees are hailed down the street with:

“Bule! Bule! Hey Meester! Meester! How are you, Meester?”

I know it sort of annoys the trainees. Bule is derogatory. I don’t honestly want to be victim of derogative remarks also, but I am trying to convey the frustration I experience when not being automatically identified as American has caused me stress.

For example, principals have already asked during school visits if I am in fact American and can speak English. I understand where they’re coming from. Those principals want to make sure that the native English speakers they requested are actually native English speakers. And if all they assume about Americans comes from the movies, I shouldn’t be surprised by this question.

Despite that understanding, every time I have to answer that question, I feel so disrespected. My blood boils. I start to feel like the Hulk. My veins start to bulge (metaphorically), my shoulders expand (metaphorically), and my pants button pops off (metaphorically and literally because I’ve been eating so much rice lately).

As I open my mouth to respond to this ignorant, yet culturally fair, question, one of my fellow trainees becomes my ally and responds for me:

“Of course she’s American. She was born in America.”

Despite the affirmation, the principals still look skeptical, but at least they put off their interrogation. Because of my allies, I won’t need to don Hulk mode. But when I move to my permanent site after training, my allies will not be close by. Instead, I’ll have to make new ones. I will struggle through that process, but it can be good for me to practice how to accommodate ignorance despite the turmoil it causes my inner Hulk. After all, we can’t blame people for their ignorance. But we can take that as an opportunity to understand in hopes to educate. Basically, that’s the bulk of why I’m here.

Laba-Laba: Site Preference Criterion

Fellow trainees go on and on about where they’d like to be placed for their permanent site after training ends in June. They’d like to be placed close to the beach, high on a mountain, or biking distance from another volunteer. My preference criterion is based on one thing: laba-laba (spider in Bahasa Indonesian).

After being stared down by a gigantic laba-laba while squatting in the kamar mandi (restroom), I began to feel paranoid about who or what observes my daily routine. I constantly feel like I’m being watched and discussed. And it doesn’t help that every time I say hi to an Indonesian on the street, he or she giggles. Because I already have the village residents gossiping and keeping an eye on me, I’d rather no other creatures follow suit.

There is little possibility that my request will be taken seriously. Because my fear could probably be cured through exposure therapy, there’s no doubt in my mind that Peace Corps will choose a site for me with the most laba-laba if I request otherwise.

Current volunteers constantly say I will love my permanent site. Or rather, I will be very good at convincing myself that I do. I may fear laba-laba in general, but apparently the laba-laba at my permanent site will be an exception. They will, instead, become part of the family, part of the village, and in turn part of me.

By seeing it that way, I guess I can kind of get aboard that train. I mean I’m far from adopting a laba-laba and welcoming him into my home. But, uh, I guess I can kind of be open to eventually trying to, well, build some sort of working tolerance for those leggy creatures.