Crying For Badassery

I cry a lot in this country. I cried in the States, but things here seem to set me off more easily. A teacher at my Islamic middle school says something nice to me. Tears start. My host mother says my arms are getting fat. Tears prepare to drop. My friend saves her last piece of chocolate cookie. Girl, get ready for a waterfall!

Despite that melodrama, I have the strongest Peace Corps ally that tries to keep me level headed. She’s ruthless, and she gets shit done. Her badassery is on another level. Envious. Honestly, I’d like to eventually get on that level. Hell, I’m aiming for that badass rugby level where a bloody nose just needs to be wiped before the next tackle. Considering that I still get emotional from being called fat, I say that level is going to take a while to reach. I assumed Peace Corps service was supposed to make me stronger. Although I am much stronger professionally, I’m still a wreck emotionally.

I recently went through a break up. It wasn’t volatile. I still wish him well, but considering that emotions are often known to intensify during Peace Corps service, I was prepared for sad times ahead. The first week, I cried every day. The second week, I binged on everything. It’s funny. The first week, it’s like I expelled my emotions with salty tears. The second week, I tried to replace them by consuming all the things that fulfill my sweet tooth. As it so happens, sweet does not replace the salty.

So, of course, my best ally comforted me using her awesome mix of back patting and ball busting. I needed both. It’s now the third week. I’ve started to wear a rubber band around my wrist that I pull hard and fast every time I think about his sweet smile or New Zealand accent or his really tight *snap*

I’ll try anything.

The first night after the break up, I cried all night. I cried because he and I weren’t suitable for each other, and I cried because I wasn’t strong enough to take it in stride. Obviously my eyes were puffy the next morning, but my eyesight was also strangely clear. From my idealistic and slightly melodramatic perspective, I saw that clearness as I cried all night, so my eyes were clean and ready to see the world. Considering that I cried a lot less than I did my last break up, it seems that Peace Corps is actually helping me to slowly reach that badassery level. I'm ready to see the world again, tissues at hand.

Bros and Bules

Often, we volunteers are called “bule,” derogatory word for foreigner, as we’re passing by. Because I don’t have white skin and have Asian facial features, most Indonesians can’t tell that I’m a foreigner until they hear my voice. So I do get by in a lot of situations without much notice, which is great sometimes. I can often enjoy social activities without the fear of harassment.

Less than a year ago, my Indonesian friends started calling me “mbak bro,” which is a modification of the endearment “mas bro” typically used for men. I love the term. It makes me feel more integrated. It means that despite living in a heavily gender separated society, my friends still accept my less than feminine attributes as part of my role as a female.

Recently, I’ve been getting called just “bro” when I go biking. In the beginning, I thought:

That’s fine. It’s better than being called the derogatory “bule.” Let them think what they want.

It eventually started to bother me because even though I can physically pass for Indonesian and as a result, receive less blatant negative attention, I get another kind of negative attention for not behaving the way an Indonesian woman would. I smoke in public. I have short hair. I wear short sleeves. I ngopi (have coffee) at night. Because of these things, I sometimes I get judged for not behaving as a typical Indonesian woman living in the village would. Men would speak under their breaths about me. They would ask inappropriate questions for being alone at night.

It seems that the other white volunteers can get away with doing these things because Indonesians assume they obviously have a different culture and would naturally behave differently. The white volunteers and I both receive attention for the color of our skin, both usually negative, but different.

Can I just say I’m tired of being judged for my differences? I just want to live my life. My current coping mechanisms have been having coffee in the evenings with my friends while enjoying a few cigarettes. But if how I deal with my problems is a big cause of my problems, what’s the solution? I try so hard to do the culturally appropriate thing, but most of the times I just feel fuck it. I have eight and a half months left. I have good projects in line, and I’ll still try really hard to please people. But I’m also going to enjoy that time of the day when I’m not sweating profusely from my cup of hot coffee and smoke those delicious tar-filled packs until I get back home. If some people think that’s an unhealthy philosophy to live by, that’s okay with me. Let them think what they want.

Bonansa English Show

My very first show with my neighbor, Andini

I had heard of the Bonansa English Radio Show from one of my English-speaking neighbors in the village. The Bonansa Radio Show is an hour-long English radio show broadcasted in Kediri City. The broadcaster interviews a few guests about a certain topic, all in English. At first, I was hesitant to join because it was the radio. I’ve never done radio before back home. But after my neighbor said it would be a great experience for the broadcaster and other radio guests to meet an American, I saw it as part of my job to do it. The funny thing with me is if I assign a task to my job description, my insecurities don’t play a large part in completing the task. Fake it till you make it I guess. After that first night, I was hooked. I was a frequent guest, and it’s never been difficult to say yes to an invitation since.

I guess the difficult question is: What do I make of this experience? Other than contributing to my personal growth and entertaining the broadcaster and listeners with my funny mispronunciation of the Javanese language, I was confused as to what I could make of this. The broadcaster had the great idea of inviting my students as guests so that they could practice their budding English skills and to expose them to different situations.

The first few students I brought were my middle school students. They were very shy, but seemed to enjoy the experience. The next students I brought were my university students. While the experience seemed to increase the ego of some of them, it also brought me closer to one. I teach English speaking to first year university students at the local university. In one of my classes, one of my students, Andy, often talks out of turn, disrupting the class in the process. The first few months were difficult with him. I would talk to him and ask why he would be disrespectful to the learning experience of the other students in class. He would make some flippant remarks, so I just ignored his behavior.

One day, Andy’s classmate said Andy disrupts class because he really wants my attention. I informed the classmate that acting inappropriately during class is the worst way to get my attention. After discussing the issue with some volunteer friends, I decided to invite Andy as a guest on the Bonansa English Show. Maybe that would help release some energy that he reserves for disrupting my class.

From Left: my university student, me, the broadcaster, an English teacher, a university student, Andy

The night of the radio show was one of the most memorable times of my Peace Corps career. Andy showed up and was ready to talk. Right before the show, he shyly came up to thank me for giving him the opportunity to show off his English skills. He even admitted that he was nervous. After encouraging him for a few minutes, he had a successful hour-long show, all the while looking for my encouraging nods.

Afterward, he thanked me again and apologized for being disruptive in class. He said he felt really comfortable with me and that he wanted to be confident like me. We then discussed more appropriate ways to express confidence that didn’t negatively affect other people. It was a good night, and I hope Andy took something from our conversation.

I have about nine months left of my Peace Corps service. It’s time to tie up loose ends and to share what I’ve learned with the new volunteers. They arrived in country a few months ago, so I’ve introduced the Bonansa English Show to a couple of them. I hope it can help them become confident like it did for me and to give them an opportunity to share that confidence with others. There are other Andys out there, and I hope they can all be given the opportunity to discover healthy ways to express confidence like my Andy did.

From Left: an English teacher at Max's school, Max (a new volunteer), a guest, the broadcaster, me

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.