Potter Barn Therapy

I’ve been craving browsing a Potter Barn catalog. I’m in that phase of my service when I feel like my life is so chaotic that I need to be surrounded by something aesthetically pleasing. I need beauty, symmetry, and most important, organization. Once I get my fill, I believe I can return to my Peace Corps life and make some sense of the chaos.

We just finished our Mid-Service Conference. The group of volunteers I’m in has been in Indonesia for about 17 months. The conference was held in a hotel in the capital of our province. We stayed at the hotel for 11 days. It was wonderful. Beds were made every day. Towels were fresh. I’ve never felt so pampered in 17 months! I was finally able to scrub out the bike oil stain from my leg. That alone is success in my book.

During our stay, I even got my hands on an outdated Pottery Barn catalog. That afternoon, I unashamedly stayed in my hotel, ate an Oreo blizzard, and perused those pages for hours in my underwear. I definitely needed the inspiration that came from the beautiful organization in that catalog. Browsing through a Pottery Barn catalog was like therapy for me. I soaked in the organization, the clean lines, and the (omg) symmetry. It helped calm my mind. It helped make my return to permanent site easier.

When I got back to my village, I saw it so differently. 11 days is a long time away. As much as I enjoyed the time away, I missed my site. I missed Kediri. I missed my home. My life in Kediri still seems so disorganized, but thanks to some Pottery Barn therapy, I think I can tackle the last nine months in cool stride.

Ngomong Opo?

I’ve been living here for more than a year, and my Indonesian is not where I want it to be. I was arrogant in the beginning of my service. My language skills were budding, and I thought it would be so easy to become near to fluent living in the village. I thought I’d be conversing with grace and joking with flair. The truth is I can barely order a hot tea. My bad pronunciation is no longer considered cute. It’s just a sign of my incompetence.

I can converse Indonesian with people that know me well. They are used to how I speak, my sentence structure, and intonation. I can talk to them easily. But with people I just met or the waiter at the café, no cigar.

The weirdest thing about this language deficiency is that I’m more comfortable speaking in the local dialect, Javanese, rather than in the national language. While this skill is helpful for getting close to people in my village, it’s completely inappropriate when used in formal situations, which occurs quite often.

I just want to preface that Peace Corps prepared me well in terms of language acquisition. I practiced a lot during training. I practiced with the taxi drivers, my neighbors, and my host family. Things were looking good. I guess I just got lazy when I moved to permanent site. I actively sought out the English speakers in my area and neglected to practice every day with my host family. So while I improved my public speaking skills (in English) and improved my joke telling skills (in Javanese), my Indonesian vocabulary went down. It’s my own fault.

I’m thankful that most people in my province mix Javanese and Indonesian in their daily speech, so whenever my laziness to practice Indonesian leads to a miscommunication or misunderstanding, I briefly excuse my incompetence with the Javanese question:

“Ngomong opo?” (What did you say?)

This usually delights people and tricks them into thinking I’ve totally mastered Indonesian and have moved on to Javanese. They don’t realize that I haven’t even answered the question. This is not a proud moment for me. It actually depresses me, but I’m trying to just survive. My mood is further dampened after I go to my favorite café and try to order a simple hot tea using Indonesian. The waiter replies:

“Ngomong opo?”

Curses! Foiled again!

Peace Corps Chic: Looking Rough in the Rice Fields

We get a lot of free time as Peace Corps volunteers. While most of my time is spent strengthening relationships I’ve developed with the Indonesians in my area, this past holiday stretch has sent most home to spend time with their families. So I spent a lot of time with other volunteers and myself these past few weeks.

First unfortunate realization: I tend to overdue it with the biking when I’m bored. From my experience, biking helps relieve some of the craziness that often envelops me when I spend too much time indoors. I start to doubt my service. I wonder why I’m still here. Am I making a difference? These are the questions that have been plaguing me for the past year. Even though I know I am actually doing projects and am not sitting on my ass, being indoors for hours can cause me to forget all that I’ve been doing. So I bike. A lot.

The first few kilometers are enjoyable. But after realizing I have nothing else planned for the rest of the day, I bike more. A few kilometers turn into several that eventually turn into 50-60 kilometer days. I’m the fittest I’ve ever been, and I’m proud of that. But I need to rest. I am always exhausted, and it doesn’t help when Ibu yells at me for looking so ugly and tired when I come home. Although it’s not ideal, I’d rather be exhausted than crazy.

Second unfortunate realization: Indonesia doesn’t look good on me anymore. The increase in biking and chain-smoking has left me feeling and looking exhausted. I miss the days back home when I could wear make-up, short dresses, and a clear face. This no longer happens here. What one volunteers calls “Peace Corps chic” has overwhelmed my entire lifestyle. I no longer feel pretty. I feel rough, and I look it.

First fortunate realization: I have ten more months of my Peace Corps service. I have a few cool projects I’m excited to see to completion, and I’m especially excited to be able to work on these projects with the very cool Indonesians in my life.

Second fortunate realization: Despite my looking rough, I’ve found someone who appreciates me just as I am. Although I’d rather he know my American self, it’s taken me a long time to get to the point of accepting myself just the way I am, Peace Corps chic and all. And perhaps that’s the best realization and the only one worth remembering. :)

The Iceberg Theory

I just came back from a bicycle trip, so I spent the last few days recovering. Yesterday I slept in, ate breakfast, did laundry, and slept some more. It was a glorious day. After my third nap, I decided to bike to my favorite café for a smoothie. I got on my bike and sped away.

On the way there, I was leered and jeered at by a group of men on a truck. At the next intersection, some young boys yelled, “Bule bule!”* One of those young boys then threw his shoe at me. I just brushed it off and kept biking. About a block from the café, a few guys on their motorcycles slowed beside me and started clapping. I’d accept that behavior if I were competing in the Tour de France, but really, guys?

I started to wonder what happened. Why was the catcalling so bad today? Was it my clothing? I’m wearing long pants and a baggy t-shirt. It really shouldn’t matter what I’m wearing. I shouldn’t have to blame myself for their behavior. This happens regardless of what I wear.

I was especially sensitive to the catcalls today because I interacted with only my host parents, my neighbors, and the many cats in our area. It was a peaceful day in the village. Because I was safe at home, I guess I didn’t bother to put on my “armor.” This is armor I’ve built in Peace Corps to help deflect against any cultural habits that I find offensive.

For example, when the teachers at my middle school engage in their culturally appropriate chatter by calling me fat or mentioning my acne, I’m ready for it. When my ninth grade boys whistle as I pass their classrooms, I’m ready for it. When motorcyclists slow their pace to clap at me, I’m ready for it. But I was not ready for it today.

One of my Indonesian friends said I shouldn’t bike or go out at night because it’s dangerous for women. Women need to be protected, he says. He used money as an analogy. If, for example, we openly display our money when we walk down the street, someone will, of course, want to steal it. I had no response. Only after this conversation did I realize he compared women to money, to an object. Women are not objects. It’s simple really. Women are people and objects are objects. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. Maybe I’ve been conditioned to believe what he has been conditioned to believe.

Being a Peace Corps volunteer is supposed to be tough. I realized that, which is why I built this armor against things I expect to be offensive. Cultures operate differently from one another. But wouldn’t it be great if I didn’t need the armor at all?

Peace Corps suggests we use the Iceberg Theory to understand foreign actions. For example, at the top of the iceberg, the foreign act is the teachers calling me fat. In my culture, that’s incredibly rude. Why does physical appearance need to be mentioned so blatantly here? Although weight is sometimes openly discussed in America, the topic is completely inappropriate in a professional setting.

Coming back to the Iceberg Theory, underneath the surface of the water is the bigger part of the iceberg. This is where intention lies. From my experience, Indonesians tend to express care by asking if I’ve eaten, if I’ve already bathed, and where I’m going. They are just making sure I’m healthy and safe. These are personal questions I answer on a daily basis. So the weight question doesn’t really faze me anymore. They just want to make sure I’m taking care of myself.

But what about my ninth grade boys or the motorcyclists that clap at me? Do they care? It seems that they’re more concerned about acknowledging me as a woman, and as such, an object. They don’t want to make sure I’m healthy or safe. This is not a cultural difference that I can try to understand using a theory. This is a universal problem that typically stems from the objectification of women.

Anyway, I try not to let it get to me. I try to be the best person I can be and do good things. I’ve never been a big picture kind of person, so I really have no clear idea what we can do to change this. I just want to say that I’m tired of wearing my armor for things I shouldn’t have to. Cultural differences: okay. Female objectivity: not okay. I think my time can be better spent on more useful things than on worrying how much of an objectifying beating I can take that day. And I'll step off my soapbox now.

*Bule is a derogative Indonesian word for foreigner.

Just Say No

I’ve always had a hard time saying no. It’s not that those elementary school D.A.R.E classes on just saying no to drugs didn’t help. They did. I attribute my very limited drug addictions to the success of those classes. The problem is I don’t know how to say no to certain people. I am not necessarily a people pleaser, but I feel obligated to say yes, especially to those I admire.

Last week, a teacher at my Islamic middle school asked me to teach his class for him. My first thought was, not surprisingly, “Well I guess I can try.” He’s a good teacher. I’m sure he’s missing class for an important reason. I was ready to say yes, but what came out was, “No.” That was a surprise. Why didn’t I say yes?

Looking back, of course I should have said no. No preparation and expecting me to teach? I don’t pick rabbits out of my hat anymore.

In the beginning of my Peace Corps service, I tried so hard to please people. I devoted to the Yes Man philosophy. This was a new chapter in my life, and I wanted to make the absolute best of it. For the most part, it has helped shape my current good experiences. But in some ways the Yes Man philosophy harmed my development because I wasn’t saying yes to just open up to new opportunities; sometimes I was saying yes to avoid confrontation.

At this time, I’m more comfortable saying no. I mean there will definitely be instances when I can’t say no. No one’s perfect. I still have so many problems, so many vices.

One of my high school teachers said the age range that I’m currently in is the time when people figure out themselves. We figure out how we operate and learn how to test our limits. As nice as that sounds, I don’t think I’m fully there yet. Not yet. But at least I can say for sure that I’m better at saying no, and knowing that makes a big difference.

Mbak Bro!

Most of my students, both middle school and university, fear speaking English because they are worried about making grammatical mistakes. Every time my students say this, I always try to express that their grammatical mistakes are okay. As long as I understand the meaning, mistakes are all right. The point is communication. If they can communicate, I don’t care if they misuse the present perfect progressive tense. To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure what that tense is trying to describe.

I try to practice what I preach. I always intentionally, and unintentionally, make mistakes when I speak Indonesian with my students. To err is human. Peace Corps suggested that making these mistakes makes us seem more human to our American-glorifying students, which should in theory make them more comfortable being human with us.

The one instance I surprised myself embracing my humanness was when I responded to “Mas,” which is the identifying term for male in Java. My hair has always been short in this country. It’s just too hot to keep it long. Since having short hair isn’t common in Indonesia, especially in the village, people often mistake me for a boy. I usually just correct them and explain that Americans have flexible style options for both men and women. They usually apologize and seem super embarrassed once I correct them. Not a big deal.

But that one instance I responded to “Mas” was a bit confusing for me. Indonesia has pretty strict gender roles. I’m feminine, but I don’t really fit in. Maybe my not fitting in has allowed me to float around in terms of gender roles. I can be feminine and masculine at the same time. My close Indonesian friends seem to understand this, too, because they call me “Mbak Bro.” Mbak is the identifying term for female in Java. The original term of endearment is “Mas Bro,” which roughly translates to “dude” or “boss.” But because I’m female they’ve tried to integrate my floating personality into the term. In my opinion, it makes the endearment so much more endearing.

As soon as I realized I just responded when someone called out “Mas,” my first thought was:

“What the fuck is wrong with me? Who am I?”

But then I realized that those people don’t mean to disrespect or judge me for having short hair as a female. They are just trying to communicate. And since I want to practice what I preach to my students, I’m okay responding to that term.

Wilson

As much as I’ve developed professionally here, I’m still dealing with the same personal problem. In the film Cast Away, Tom Hanks’ character gets stranded on an island by himself. His only companion is a Wilson volleyball that he names “Wilson.” His friendship with Wilson is explained by desperation. There is no other person on this island with him, and he personifies the volleyball and develops a complex relationship with it.

I want to preface that I’m not comparing my Peace Corps service to being stranded on a deserted island by myself. I have plenty of support here and at home. I am also not comparing the person I’ve identified as my Wilson as being less than human. But I have developed a complex relationship with a Wilson that has harmed as well as improved my overall service.

I found my Wilson eight months ago. The ways Wilson has harmed my service:

• Avoiding certain areas of school so that I wouldn’t have to run into Wilson and in turn, not being able to socialize with certain people 
• Getting unreasonably sad every time Wilson neglects me 
• Causing me to develop an unhealthy relationship with him, a community member I’m supposed to serve as part of my service 

The ways Wilson has improved my service:

• Allowing me to explore past my comfort zone in terms of personal relationships 
• Helping me improve my Indonesian language skills 
• Keeping me busy with other activities in the community in trying to avoid interaction 

For the past eight months, I’ve been debilitated by this relationship. There have been many good experiences with Wilson, and many bad. I quickly learned how to control my destructive outward feelings towards Wilson, but it’s all still there internally.

There’s only 14 months left of my service. If I were to choose to extend a third year, my Wilson would be a major factor in the final decision. I still feel successful as a Peace Corps volunteer. Wilson doesn’t change that. I’m doing things I never thought I could do. I feel like a leader here. I fully intend to continue that feeling back home, but am I willing to prolong this relationship? I don’t know. I just know that I’m excited for the opportunity for Wilson to cast away from my life the way he did for Tom Hanks’ character. It’ll be an incredibly sad moment to see Wilson float away from my life raft, but I’ll be entirely ready when he does. Because when he does, it means that I’ll finally be able to escape the island.