A tale of two haircuts

I’ve only been to one hair salon since arriving in Cambodia: Mee In, around the corner from my house.  It’s run by a Korean woman whose little boy, Dong Min, attends Logos, so Logos teachers get a nice discount.  She speaks a bit of English, like all the Khmer girls who work for her, and a bit of Khmer.  Dong Min, currently in Sarah’s first grade class, is always in the salon running around or playing video games.  He’s known as a handful at school, though he behaves pretty well for Sarah.

 

Sarah went there a few weeks ago for the second time.  The first time, two years ago, they’d given her bangs against her will, and it took a while for the bangs to grow out and for her to overcome her aversion to returning.  But return she finally did.  She walked in to find Dong Min, with his back to her, screaming at the top of his lungs.  Everyone in the salon – mom, employees, customers – was trying to ignore him, except for one employee making a faint attempt to cheer him up. 

Sarah walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.  “Whatcha doin’, Dong Min?”  He whirled around sheepishly, eyes wide.  Busted! 

“I’m hungry.”

“Oh, really?  Do you think you’re going to eat soon?”

“Yeah, my dad ordered pizza, but it’s not here yet.” 

Sarah encouraged him to find better ways to distract himself than screaming, then took a seat for her haircut.   Dong Min’s mom is the only one that cuts hair, but several Khmer girls wash and blow it dry.  They go all out blow-drying it, at no extra charge: two girls work simultaneously for ten minutes so it looks amazing.  As they were blow-drying Sarah’s hair, a young Korean guy stood up from the chair where he’d been sitting the whole time.  “Let me do it,” he told the girls in English.

“No, only two at a time.  That’s the rule.”

“No!  Let me do it!”  He pestered them until they let him help.  Was he a visiting nephew?  A trainee?  A bored customer?  Sarah voted for “visiting nephew,” but had no way of knowing.  She went on to get an acceptable haircut: no bangs this time, thankfully.

Today was my turn for a haircut.  Last June it ended up shorter than I wanted, but it's finally long enough for a bun or a braid.  Today I was hoping for just a small trim, and for them to redo the layers, which had grown out.  The same guy was sitting there, but came and stood behind me watching them blow-dry my hair before it was cut.  Would he ask?  Nope.  He just kind of slouched around, observing everything with an emotionless expression.

As they finished, a crowd of girls gathered around me and brought me a Korean book of hairstyles.  “Which one you want?”  I flipped hesitantly to the “long” section, aware that East Asian hairstyles favor extreme layering, with hardly any hair left the longest length.  Usually, instead of a photo, I just show them the length I want and the shortest the layers can be.  Finally I pointed to one, but stipulated, “Please don’t make the layers so short.  Please have some hair this long...” (pointing to my hair) “and some that long" (pointing again).  They showed the photo to the Korean guy, who was listening intently with a skeptical look.  Dong Min’s mom consulted briefly with the Korean guy.  He laughed nervously and kept glancing at my hair, then away.  He seemed at the center of the perhaps eight people surrounding me.

Wait!  Was HE the one cutting my hair today?  Shouldn’t they ask me first?  Will I get a discount for this?  Will I need another haircut afterward?  His body language clearly indicated that he had no idea what he was doing.  I tried to maintain a neutral expression.  Koreans are perfectionists, and she's got her business at stake: surely she wouldn’t let someone cut my hair without thorough training.

Finally Dong Min’s mom picked up the scissors, and my whole body relaxed.  I wonder if that was the original plan...  My relief lasted only a minute, though: after cutting straight across the longest length I’d indicated, she began to cut the top half of my hair the shortest length, also straight across.  This wasn’t normal layering!  This was 50/50 for each length, and it looked horrible!  I *am* going to need another haircut after all!  How short will they have to make it?  I spoke up anxiously: “Please also cut some hair in between.  Please do not only cut it short or long.”  This would never happen if we were fluent in the same language... 

“Layers?”  “Yes, layers, please.”  She gave me a look that said “Duh!” and told me, “You say straight!”  I don’t remember mentioning the word “straight,” but if I did, I probably thought she meant “not curly like the model in the photo.”  I guess that explains all the dirty looks from that guy.   

She got right to work adding layers, and to my great relief, my hair started to look normal again.  No buns or braids for a while – it’s nearly as short as last time.  But in spite of everything, I think I actually like this haircut.  

Foil thy foes with joy

Some Korean moms invited us Logos teachers to a concert by a Cambodian children's choir.  It's run by a Korean NGO that works with low-income children and families.  "You won't believe how good they are!  If you love music, it will bring hope to you for Cambodia!"  they promised us.  Four of us gladly accepted tickets, but tried not to get our hopes up too much.  They'll be super-cute, and we'll enjoy it no matter what...

No, they were seriously amazing.  I haven't heard a choir that good in years. 

They sang in English, Korean, Khmer, and even Middle English: Benjamin Britten's "Ceremony of Carols."  Its text is taken from 16 Middle English poems on Christmas, and I found the words powerful and fresh.  

I used to think the hundreds of Christmas songs I knew had expressed the wonders of Christ's birth pretty thoroughly.  Do we really need MORE Christmas songs?  But I'm realizing that's idiotic.  If the almighty God really did become a baby, the implications are endless.  I wonder what other gems we've forgotten over the centuries.

Here's the text of one song, "This Little Babe."  It's the second half of the poem "New Heaven, New War" by Robert Southwell.  I love the paradoxical imagery.

    (Side note: my dear friend Suzanne sent me a link to this free Christmas album by Andrew Peterson.  I love him for his creative, thought-provoking, and sometimes playful lyrics.  The album, called "Behold the Lamb of God: the TRUE tall tale of the coming of Christ," may contain the only song ever composed about the genealogy of Jesus...it's called "Matthew's Begats."  Even if you're sick of Christmas songs, these are mostly originals, and go far beyond the story of Jesus' birth.) 

        This little babe, so few days old,

        Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;

        All hell doth at his presence quake.

        Though he himself for cold do shake,

        For in this weak unarmèd wise

        The gates of hell he will surprise.

        With tears he fights and wins the field;

    His naked breast stands for a shield;

        His battering shot are babish cries,

        His arrows looks of weeping eyes,

        His martial ensigns cold and need,

        And feeble flesh his warrior’s steed.

        His camp is pitchèd in a stall,

        His bulwark but a broken wall,

        The crib his trench, hay stalks his stakes,

        Of shepherds he his muster makes;

        And thus, as sure his foe to wound,

        The angels’ trumps alarum sound.

        My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;

        Stick to the tents that he hath pight;

        Within his crib is surest ward,

        This little babe will be thy guard.

        If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,

        Then flit not from this heavenly boy.

Beauty is in the (double) eye(lids) of the beholder

Comparing yourself to others, especially cross-culturally, can warp your self-image. After 2 ½ years in Cambodia, it makes less and less sense to me that Americans enjoy looking tan. While I don’t approve of the skin-whitening products ubiquitous here (no FDA = some are quite dangerous), my appreciation is growing for people’s natural skin tone – including my own pale skin. Sometimes I catch myself wishing my eyes and hair were darker, a thought that never really occurred to me earlier. I struggle not to envy my students’ luxurious, silky black hair that never seems to frizz. I think many Cambodian girls are truly lovely, making us American girls look commonplace and plain by comparison. Still, it’s taken me a while to realize to what extent Western standards and ideals have influenced Asians, particularly Koreans. 

Yes, the “whiter is prettier” value is pretty hard to miss, and as far as I know, it’s true across Asia. But Koreans (and other Northeast Asians?) have added a number of other criteria that yield one unified standard of beauty in Korea. The Korean girls considered “most beautiful” seem to vary in little except hairstyle. By the way, Koreans have a reputation for being naturally good-looking as a country, so it’s intriguing to me that their standards are so specific. 

*Disclaimer: in writing critically about Korean standards, I do NOT mean to let the US off the hook. Americans’ obsession with beauty has led to rampant materialism, eating disorders, etc. I’m convinced that US media are partially to blame for modern Asians’ view of beauty. However, I think the US allows for more variety in traits considered beautiful.* 

Unlike Cambodians, about 80% of Koreans have narrow eyes, which they refer to as a “single eyelid” - Korean has a specific word for it. This is considered ugly; everyone wants a double eyelid, opening their eyes wider. Double eyelids can be attained in two ways. I’ve known for a while that plastic surgery was common and a simple procedure – essentially ALL Korean stars have had it done, as well as many “ordinary” Koreans. (I’m glad I don’t know which of my students have had it done, but I’m sure several have.) “It’s not even considered surgery,” a Korean was quoted as saying in this recent article. Option #2, I just learned, is a special temporary glue that creates the same look for a few hours. This film clip shows a high school student demonstrating its use. Actors and actresses are even commonly required to wear contacts while filming that create the illusion of bigger eyes. During my last layover in Japan, my friend Yumiko and I visited a photo booth...it automatically made our skin paler and enlarged our eyes about 30%. 

The other “problem” with Koreans’ appearance is a bit harder to solve. Many Koreans are very self-conscious about their faces being round or square, rather than oval. They feel that their faces are just too big. There are at least two home remedies for this. One is sleeping on your side, rather than on your back, and alternating sides in hopes that your chin will become pointier. I’ve heard Korean moms sometimes recommend this to their children. The other is using cheek rollers, which supposedly smooth out your cheeks and make them less round or chubby. I know some of my students have been borrowing each other’s cheek rollers lately, so they seem to place some confidence in this technique. 

The more long-term solution is drastic: double-jaw surgery rearranging your jaw and chin. Plastic surgery is a major phenomenon, with 4000 clinics offering it in Seoul. Nose jobs are also common – many women dislike their naturally flatter noses and want ones that are more sharply defined. One in five women have undergone plastic surgery for their jaws, noses, etc. Korea is so competitive about everything - academics, music, appearance, social status – and surgery is seen as a way to get an edge. Reading this article on the topic yesterday made me sad, and also reminded me of a quote from the Korean drama I’ve been watching. “Beauty is always something you can achieve,” a teacher divulges to an overweight girl. “There are no ugly women, only lazy women.” 

At Logos, we’re encouraging girls to have confidence in their inner beauty and find their identities in Christ. Only recently have I realized that I have most of the traits they dream of – double eyelids, a pointy chin and nose, and white skin – in spite of my own insecurities about my self-image. I’m growing in my understanding of what an uphill battle they’re in, and rejoicing to realize how far some have come from these twisted attitudes. My mom says they need their own version of the “Black is Beautiful” movement: maybe “Asian is Attractive”? I’m working, one day at a time, to lead by example in accepting ourselves the way God made us – hair, eyes, chin, and all.

Being a TCK means...

Well, it means being a Third Culture Kid. What’s that? Traditionally, it’s when your parents are from one country, but you grow up temporarily in another country, planning to return to your parents’ country at some point. Therefore, two countries’ cultures strongly influence your childhood and identity.

But it can become much more complicated: I’ve known Cambodian children raised by adoptive American parents in Cambodia, Koreans who have lived in three or four countries but never spent more than a month in Korea, and even a friend in college whose parents were German and Filipino, but who grew up in Hong Kong, Brazil, and America.

To some extent, every one of my students is a Third Culture Kid, because a Cambodian attending an American school with international classmates sees the world differently than his or her Cambodian peers. TCKs have unique strengths and challenges. If you’re one of my students, here’s how being a TCK might affect you:

-The grandma that raised you for five years is in a coma in another country; you’re staying home alone with your cousins while your parents visit her.

-You want to tell your mom about Jesus, but even though you’ve studied Khmer in school and always speak it at home, you don’t know the formal language required to talk about God and royalty. When you try to use more everyday language, it doesn’t make sense to her.

-You know two or three other languages as well or better than your “native” language.

-You’re Cambodian and have never been to Korea, but you know how to write your friends notes in Korean.

-One of your Khmer friends suddenly starts staring at your face. “I’ve never really looked at an African nose before,” she tells you. You’re biracial American.

-You have to miss your senior trip for a “visa run” – a trip to the border to renew your visa.

-Your Filipino peers have started college this year, since they finish high school in grade 10. You’re just now returning to the Philippines, missing the last two years of school with your Logos friends, struggling to regain academic Tagalog after seven years away, and a grade behind your Filipino peers.

-You're Korean, Singaporian, or Malaysian, living in Cambodia, but you get nostalgic for the Dominican Republic, America, Pakistan, or Vietnam more often than for your "native" country.

-Your parents live in a town with no international school, so you’ve been living on your own with your siblings for years to attend Logos. When the school gives your parents an ultimatum – find you a host family or withdraw you from school – they send you to New Zealand to live with Koreans that you’ve barely met. After a year, you’re back at school again, living with a Filipino friend and his family.

-You’re considering college in three different countries, and you can’t agree with your parents on your preferred country. Their applications, expenses, and environments are all completely different. Scholarships determine everything. One year from now, you have no idea what your life will look like.

-Many of your closest friends live in other countries, some in countries you’ve never been to. 

-Spending years in Honduran public schools, surrounded by Latino classmates and friends, means your attitude toward time is diametrically opposed to the attitude of your Korean parents.

-You get – or have– to decide which culture’s definition of success you’ll judge yourself by.

-You get in trouble when you visit relatives because you keep accidentally offending them.

-Your parents are divorced, and one parent lives in a country you haven't been to in over five years.

-You feel to some extent like you belong in neither your host nor your passport country/countries, but are only truly at home among foreigners.

-You have no idea where you’ll live when you grow up.

Raindrops keep falling on my...bed?

The leaky roof/dripping ceiling is nothing new, but it’s always landed on my floor near the bed. Thankfully it's just the edge of the bed now, not quite touching my mattress. Good thing the bed is too big for my mattress, so there are a few inches of bare frame! I'm hoping the leaky area doesn't expand much more, and that the landlords will fix the roof again once rainy season is over. Last time, the repairs kept the water out for several months, if not a year.

In related news, my tile floor is very slick, despite the bucket catching 80% of the water and the towel sopping up another 10%. Maybe I should add more towels before I break my leg and wipe out on a wet spot. I love rainy season...but it does make things interesting.

I'd be a fool, though, to complain about my mostly-dry room and very-dry house. While Phnom Penh has had its share of rain, Cambodian provinces have experienced the worst flooding in ten years, and the puddles on my floor are...pardon my pun...a drop in the bucket. Several of my Khmer friends visited relatives out in the provinces during the Pchum Benh holiday two weeks ago. "How was it?" I asked Thavy, my Khmer-English conversation partner and colleague at Logos.

"Great, I loved it!" she replied. "Well, it was a little complicated. One time we woke up all wet in the middle of the night because the water had risen to our beds. [In traditional Khmer houses, you sleep on a platform underneath the house, which is on stilts.] And we had to keep throwing snakes out of the house. They're only a foot long, but they're poisonous enough to kill you if you don't get treatment within 24 hours."

"What was great about all that?"

"I got to go swimming a lot since the water was up to my shoulders! [Gross - what's IN that water?!] And we went fishing without even leaving our house. Traveling around everywhere in a boat was fun too."

Over 150 have died this month due to the flooding. 170,000 families were displaced as of Monday, and the destroyed rice crops throughout the country are raising concerns about food shortages in the coming months. A rice paddy is ruined if it's submerged for more than ten days. So many Cambodians are subsistence farmers whose food, even in a good year, barely lasts until the next harvest. If you lose your rice crop, you watch your family starve.

I read an article today that in typical fashion, the Cambodian government has been dragging its feet. It's promised relief funds - I think $250 million? - but hasn't explained HOW it plans to allocate them. And NGOs, eager to respond to those affected, are frustrated that it won't share information about which families have been overlooked by aid thus far. They want a coordinated strategy, which the Disaster Management Committee is in charge of, but this committee sent only a low-ranking official to a recent meeting with key NGOs. (I think my details are mostly correct, but I can't find the article online to verify.) The flooding started in August - it's not an issue of lacking time to plan.

Basically, the government doesn't care (surprise!), and its pledged funds will likely never see displaced families. NGOs are left addressing the disaster piecemeal. I'm proud of three former students - Tia, Krumm, and Veassna - for mobilizing Logos to collect funds to help one small village, about an hour from here. It may be another illustration of "drop in the bucket," but it's better than sitting by and listening to the drips from my ceiling.

My late-night grocery run

I walk in from church at 6:30 PM. Was I really there for three whole hours? I'm kicking myself - I knew I needed groceries, but I never left the house between jogging this morning and going to church. Usually I walk there since it's not far, but my jogging route this morning took a different direction. Now it's late, I don't have breakfast food for this week, and I need ingredients for the birthday cake I want to make for myself. (Turtle cake, a Cooper tradition spanning three generations.)

"Where's the moto key? I'm going out to get groceries," I tell Sarah.

"Now? It's late!"

"Yeah, now. I'll be OK." This isn't normal for me. Usually, once I return from school around five, I'm in for the night. Occasionally, like last night, we take a group trip downtown for dinner, but those times are few - maybe every two months. Being out after dark, even as early as seven, just doesn't happen much here.

Outside, it's been completely dark for an hour. I climb onto my trusty moto, pleased to see that the landlords' dog is near their door and far from the gate. Maybe, just maybe, I can get the moto out without him escaping again. I crack open the gate...scoot the moto forward quietly...slip down the kickstand...

Too late. He's come bounding through before I can dismount and latch the gate.

"Khla! Mao, Khla!" We don't really know the dog's name. I thought they told me "Khla," which sounds like the Khmer word that makes nouns plural. But Michaela avows their little girl told her "Clark." That'd make sense - the little girl and her dad are fluent in English. And their last puppy, the one they sent to the farm because he wandered outside the gate one time too many, was named Scotty after the American Idol winner. Most Khmer people don't pronounce final consonants, so it's hard to tell the difference between "Khla" and "Clark." Or could it be "Claw?"

"Mao! Khla, mao!" Does he know any Khmer? Is "mao" the right word, or do dogs get the more formal version "mok"? Maybe I'd know this if they'd ever tried to train their dog. We've never heard them speak to him...their discipline consists of kicking him and hitting him with a stick, or else ignoring him. No wonder he runs outside the gate - he's never even been walked.

We'd be more upset with them if that weren't completely typical for Cambodians with dogs. I make a face at my across-the-street neighbors, who are sitting on their curb waiting for just such an occasion. Laughing at the white girls trying to catch the dog again is pretty good entertainment. What would they do - just leave him? Hit him so he'll learn his lesson? They've never offered any advice or help, just sympathetic grins.

I grab his collar and try to coax or drag him, but it's not happening. At probably 80 pounds and resembling a black lab mix, he's pretty good at resisting. He rolls over and tries to get me to scratch his belly. Seriously? Can't this wait for inside the gate, or better yet, after my grocery trip?

Finally, exasperated, I close the gate with him still sniffing through the trash on the street. The landlords are away, so I can't let them know he's out. At least the street is deserted so he can't easily get hit. Please, Lord, don't let me be responsible for a major incident.

I drive the two blocks to the mom-and-pop grocery store, peeling my eyes for unlit vehicles. Khmer tradition says that ghosts follow vehicles with lights after dark; cars always use headlights, but young guys on motos don't always bother, and bicycles rarely have lights. I've forgotten how jumpy I get here, driving in the dark. There's little traffic until I hit the major road that the store is on - crossing it is always a challenge.

Inside the store, I quickly find what I need, except the cake mix I need for turtle cake. I feel silly buying a mix - I usually prefer cakes from scratch - but it's the one recipe I like that calls for one, and today I'm not up to the hassle of finding an equivalent recipe that still works. "Samto bong, mien 'cake mix'?" I ask a young employee, carefully pronouncing the foreign word. She stares blankly at me. Come to think of it, though they carry a few imported treats like spaghetti sauce and Nutella, I can't recall ever seeing cake mixes here. I don't know the word for "mix," and "cake" doesn't have a separate word from "bread." "It's OK," I reassure her in Khmer, "maybe you not have here. It's OK." She begins repeating "kay meek" to the other four employees standing around, one of whom leads me to pancake mix. I'm impressed how close he got. "Yes, similar, but cake sweeter and bigger than pancake. Maybe you not have."

The cashier rings up my other purchases and I walk out behind a Korean couple and their darling toddler girl, the only other customers at the moment. Is it worth it to try the other local grocery store with foreign foods? I suppose. I really want to make this cake tomorrow.

I dodge the luxury SUVs and drive an uneventful few blocks to the new Thai Huot grocery store. I heard rumors the last two years that it was coming, but was shocked when it actually opened, practically next to Logos' old campus. My neighborhood has become so much more developed since I've arrived: both these stores are new, as well as the bank and several upscale cafes. The markets are still cheaper, but it's such a novelty to be able to buy chocolate within walking distance, especially after 5 when market vendors pack up.

One of the three guards drags two other motos apart, creating a parking space for me in the tiny area designated for motos. He hands me a ticket and staples a matching one to my right handlebar. I soon choose my cake mix - a Malaysian brand, 70 cents cheaper than Betty Crocker! - and head out again. One guard takes my ticket while another thoughtfully pulls my moto back out for me. I drive straight down this road toward my house, even though I hate this road after dark. Did you know red-light districts are actually marked by red lights? The street to the other grocery store has a sketchy snooker lounge, but nothing as blatant as this line of red-light rowhouses. The moto driver in front of me stares to his left, where girls in short shorts sit just outside their buildings. Somewhere on the right is the former Asian Hope boys' house - they moved to get away from all these not-so-stellar neighbors, and their house too succombed to the industry. "My house is now a brothel?!" I've heard these students bemoan. That's just messed up.

I turn right onto a road that's bustling during the day with small businesses, but now is completely dark. I guess these business owners don't actually live at the same place, like most similar shops? I've never paid attention. A quick left, and to my relief, there is Khla, jumping on the gate and clamoring to be let in.

"Ready to come back inside? Me too! It's late."

Worlds Apart

Every weekday this month, when not in school, I've been at the girls' house associated with Logos. Their guardians are in the US for the month, so several of us teachers are stepping in to supervise, though the girls don't need much help. They're four orphans...well, kind of...who live in an orphanage...well, kind of. Really, they're teenage girls with unique personalities, but who have faced some common challenges.

These girls are definitely Third Culture Kids, like most of my students. That means their identity is not fully based in any one culture. For them, the story is more dramatic and even painful than for many. The American family who first started the group home and Logos School established an English-only policy for all 30-odd children, forcing them to replace their Khmer language. The older children, who have since graduated and moved on, retained enough Khmer to still be fluent today. The youngest ones, who came as toddlers, had never learned much Khmer to begin with. Even now, after several years of Khmer-language study in school and around Cambodia, their mannerisms and accent in Khmer label them as outsiders.

"I grew up overnight in sixth grade," one told me, reflecting on her maturity for her age. "Really? Which night was that?" I teased her, taking her comment as metaphorical. Oh, THAT night. The night she found out that Mom and Dad - those original guardians - were never coming back from their brief furlough in the US. There are many layers to the hurt they've experienced, but most of the girls have shared some stories about life with those guardians - the ecstasy of belonging to a new family, the joyfully chaotic Christmas dinners, the struggle to move on afterwards. After that couple left in 2005, the girls experienced a succession of guardians coming and going, none Cambodian, each with a new set of expectations.

Finally, last fall, a Khmer-American couple committed to these girls until the youngest girl moves out - about 5 years total. Though Jeff is American, he's fluent in Khmer, and he and Vanny have spent the better part of the last 19 years here as missionaries. For the first time in six years, the girls have someone to call "Mom and Dad" again, and they truly seem to feel like a family. Jeff and Vanny understand the girls' American-style upbringing and preferences, but have done wonders in helping the girls feel Cambodian for the first time. I love hearing the girls joke in Khmer and seeing the progress they've made in just a year in learning Khmer worship music, cooking, etc.

Still, it's a process for the girls to feel at home outside a Third Culture environment like Logos. Their neighborhood, just down the street from Logos, feels like the province. Chickens and cows roam in front of traditional wooden homes on stilts, underneath which families squat on mats to eat. Though one girl - quite the athlete - was invited to play volleyball in a nearby vacant lot, she said no, knowing that good Khmer girls aren't supposed to be athletic and mix with an all-guys crowd. "They all think I'm gay or lesbian," she told me. She's gorgeous and likes cute clothes, but is equally comfortable in baggy T-shirts and long shorts. It's far more appropriate for guys to be effeminate than for girls to seem masculine, so I'm not surprised the neighbor guys are confused.

Another told me, "I usually like going on walks, but not around here. The neighbors always think I'm Filipino or Khmer-American." I'm not sure if there's a Khmer equivalent of a block party or potluck, but I think the girls haven't yet found a way to build positive connections with neighbors.

I came along to their Khmer-language church one day - they normally attend Khmer and English-speaking churches back to back. With few available seats left, I ended up sitting apart from them, next to a woman in red flowered pajamas. She asked who I was, and I pointed to the girls, saying I was their teacher. "Oh! Do you know (girl's name)?" she asked me, brightening. "That's my daughter!" I thought she meant it figuratively - lots of people are honorary aunties, etc. But indeed, I learned that she was this girl's birth mom! I had known that two other girls were in contact with their moms in the province, but hadn't realized that any of them had family in Phnom Penh, or that this girl knew any of her relatives. This girl told me about some of the difficulties that led her mom to give her up, but I still wonder what kind of "what-ifs" both mom and daughter have dealt with. Today they're working on their relationship, but there is much that isolates them from one another.

Their story reflects the bizarre culture around orphanages. Many poor families believe their children are better off in orphanages, especially Western-run ones. Though orphanages are a dime a dozen, a very low percentage of Cambodian children in orphanages have lost both parents. Today, Asian Hope and other organizations are recognizing the folly in unnecessarily removing children from their families, and have committed to addressing families' needs in more constructive ways.

As we drove off from church, I tried to find a sensitive way to ask the girls how they felt about growing up away from their families. It was a casual conversation, so I'm sure there's a lot they didn't say. But I didn't sense much bitterness from them, unlike one of the boys, who says he was robbed of his native language and culture. Instead, it was almost like they couldn't imagine themselves growing up purely Khmer. These girls love Celtic music, Korean dramas, and Filipino karaoke. They dream of attending college in Uganda, India, Thailand, and the States. For better or for worse - or maybe both? - they're global nomads.

Reasons to smile – Cambodia edition

More and more Cambodian songs that I really enjoy.

A very cool rainy season: no fan needed at night all week?!

Being able to print 16 largeish pictures of France for under $3.

The sight of an elephant in traffic at least four times this summer in four different locations.

The kind owners of a roadside stand who let me take a poncho (urgently needed) though I’d left my wallet at home.

Funny miscommunications, like trying to ask for the artificial flower section, but instead being brought a flowered pillow.

The receptionist at the Khmer language tutoring center whose warm smile, patience, and sweet questions always make me feel special.

Reading Kevin Henkes books with little girls who now love him just as much as I do. (Notably “Chrysanthemum,” if you were wondering, though “Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse” has also caught on.)

Celebrating the marriage of a woman who’s given some of the best years of her life to serving orphaned Cambodian girls.

Getting into an extensive French conversation with the man selling me vegetables, who spent years in Paris.

Standing outside a gate at night with the Khmer teachers, laughing, chattering, and waiting for someone to arrive with a key, only to realize we’d been swarming the gate to the wrong house the last ten minutes.

Teaching a community Bible study and then having a young girl share as her prayer request that “God make Teacher Chelsea prettier.”

Samedi’s delectable homemade treats: a soursop smoothie and coconut macaroons in my first 24 hours at her house!

Book three head

Khmer is my third foreign language, but my first with no relation to English. I’ve found it helpful to seize hold of patterns and trends in the way the Khmer language is organized. So I’ll let you in on a few of them. The Khmer language features...

-Differences in word order. Adjectives follow the nouns they describe, and question words often come at the end. “Why do you have a blue book?” would turn into “[Uncle/little sister/etc.] have book blue why?”

-Simpler verbs and nouns. In Khmer, there’s no need for articles (ex. a/the/some), verb conjugation, verb tenses, or plural noun forms. It’s correct to say, “He go Vietnam yesterday” or “She have friend many.” Extra words like “yesterday” and “many” clarify meaning, or you can add more general words like “past” or “plural.” But you’d never alter the verb or noun itself, as English does (ex. go => went, friend => friends).

-Lots of compound words. A daughter is “child girl,” a driver is “person drive car,” a fridge is “container ice,” milk is “water from cow,” lime is “orange cat,” a bath towel is “towel stomach cow.” Hey, I didn’t say they were 100% logical to foreigners! It really does make it easier, though, because they often build on one another, so you can multiply your vocabulary quickly.

-Lots of nasal sounds. “Nasal” means the air is coming through your nose, not your mouth. Picture a stereotypical French laugh or the first syllable in “français.” That’s how Khmer often sounds – probably the majority of their vowels are nasal. I tell my students this helps them learn French, also a frequently nasal language.

-Lots of French loan words for things they imported. “Robe” (dress), “café” (coffee), “freins” (brakes), “valise” (suitcase). All of these are pronounced with a Khmer accent, meaning they don’t pronounce final consonants: valise => vali. I love loan words.

-Classifiers for many nouns. Someone wouldn’t say, “I have two children.” Instead, they’d say, “I have child two person.” I’ve only learned a few of the maybe 20 classifiers, but so far my favorite is “head” (kbahl) to classify books, cattle, horses, buffalo, and enemy soldiers. “I have book three head.”

-Lots and lots of vowels. English has 5 or 6, which make a total of maybe 20 sounds. Khmer has 35, making a total of over 50 sounds. 23 vowels are dependent, meaning they have to be placed with a consonant that determines the sound they make. Each vowel has a certain position in relation to the consonant: it can go to the left, right, top, or bottom, or a combination of all those. I haven’t learned any of the 12 independent vowels yet. It’s not quite as bad as I’m making it sound: for me, knowing the meaning of what I’m reading is much harder than deciphering the sounds. And I’m very thankful that it’s mostly phonetic: even English breaks the spelling rules far more often. Still, it’s relatively slow going. The good news is, it really has helped my pronunciation to better understand these vowels.

-Different registers, depending on formality. I’ve only studied one, for speaking with “normal” people. But if I wanted to talk with a monk, or the king, or an animal, I’d need a whole different set of verbs. I think there are six.

-Complicated terms of address. Khmer has a word for “you,” but it’s rarely used. Instead, like in many Asian languages, you mostly address people according to their age in relation to yours: auntie for a woman younger than your mom, grandpa for a man older than your dad, younger brother, niece, etc. This means it’s important to judge people’s age correctly and quickly, and it’s not rude to ask how old someone is, if you’re actually having a conversation with them. But with quick exchanges, like at the market, sometimes I misjudge them at first. Also, sometimes it’s more complicated: I can call a girl “bong” (older sibling), but if I say it to a guy, I have to include his name or it’ll sound like we’re a couple. That’s why if you don’t know a guy’s name (ex. a motodup driver), you usually just call him “uncle.” I’ve probably even said “uncle” to guys younger than me. If it’s a very close friend or loved one, sometimes you call them “myself.” I still wonder how that works: if you want to say “I love you,” how do they know you don't mean“I love myself?”

Language study

I’ve devoted the month of July to studying Khmer, and while I haven’t been fully immersed, it’s still been immensely helpful. My listening skills have skyrocketed, I’ve never learned vocab so quickly in my life, and I’m gaining a sense of how to phrase things. Sadly, a month is really quite short, and soon I’ll be back to working 60+ hours a week, exclusively in English. Still, I’m hoping to maintain this level and continue slowly adding to it this coming year.

I have several strategies for working on Khmer. One is formal lessons. Every weekday morning, I go downtown to a language school for one-on-one tutoring. I love this school because they’re great at making me practice what I’ve learned. My tutor brings in baskets of plastic fruit for me to describe, makes me pretend to be buying or selling clothing, and asks me to tell stories about someone brushing their teeth or rowing a boat. It’s all in Khmer, except an occasional English definition. Even when I leave the tutoring session, the cleaners and receptionists seem genuinely interested in chatting. They ask why I brought my backpack today, what I miss about America, how I scraped my knees. It’s a very warm environment, and they’ve helped me so much. If only I could continue there once school starts!

After that, I often practice with Khmer speakers at Logos school or with people in my neighborhood. Since I’m new to this neighborhood, it still takes a lot of energy and courage for me to start a conversation. But if I’m buying vegetables or a phone card, they usually ask me how long I’ve been in Cambodia, and I ask them about their family or which province they’re from. It’s exciting when I can turn it into a longer conversation, even if that’s not always the case.

I love the elementary teaching assistants (TAs) at my school, but I never see them during school because they have a different schedule. During summer school, though, the kids leave by lunchtime and I can sit and eat with the TAs as long as we want. They love teasing me in Khmer, and I can get bits and pieces of their conversations with one another. The office staff has also been super-helpful in practicing with me...they’re all so sweet.

When I get home, sometimes I sit in on Chrismoon and Elizabeth’s writing lesson. They’re ahead of me, but not by too much, since they’re only 7 and 8 and attending school mostly in English. Lessons involve Sovannary chanting the equivalent of “C-A-T spells cat!” and us repeating it. Later, to review, they have to read it on their own or spell words she dictates, but I can’t quite keep up with that part yet since I don’t know the whole alphabet. My lessons with her this spring focused mainly on the alphabet, but this summer I’ve abandoned that to focus on speaking and listening. I figure the more vocab I know, the more I’ll be able to understand what I’m reading. Writing helps with pronunciation, but beyond that, it’s not terribly useful here – only for some store signs, newspapers, karaoke lyrics, and hymnals. There are few books printed in Khmer, and even most food labels are printed in other languages.

Dinner is the main time Sovannary’s family is together and speaking Khmer, though there are snatches of conversation at other times. Traditionally, Cambodians don’t talk while eating. (This is true of Koreans and probably other Asian cultures too.) However, Sovannary’s family is pretty lax about this, and with 2 little girls, there’s lots of, “Hurry up and eat your rice!” or negotiating about the quantity of vegetables to be eaten and whether they can add extra fish/hot dog to make it taste better. (Elizabeth is obsessed with hot dogs! She put on a 10-minute puppet show that was essentially an ode to hot dogs, although Cambodian hot dogs are far sketchier than their US counterparts.)

After dinner, Sovannary often takes time to help me practice speaking, or we just have conversations in English. She’s a deep thinker: her questions for me include, “How does the US deal with population control?” and “Which country do you think has the worst pollution worldwide?” That makes her an anomaly in Cambodia. Though our conversations aren’t always in Khmer, I’ve still learned a lot about Khmer culture from them, and I really appreciate our chats.

Caution: flying rocks

Last night, several former Logos students came over for dinner. One, Chenda, recently returned from a 6-month Discipleship Training Program in Europe. While there, her oldest sister passed away, and Chenda’s been struggling to process her sister’s death since returning to Cambodia. (It was an electrical accident that killed her sister: some live wires were left touching her metal front door. What a terrible, needless tragedy.) Her sister’s oldest daughter is about to take the national exam to graduate high school, which carries a lot of prestige. So Chenda’s offered to accompany her niece to the exam and wait there until she’s finished.

“It’s a lot of pressure,” Chenda told us.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they all want so much to pass, even though you can go on to college if you fail it. So it’s expected that whoever accompanies the student will help them with the answers.”

“How? Are you sitting next to them in the room?”

“No, but people write down the answers, tie them to rocks, and throw them through the windows.”

“How do you know if the answers are for you? And isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

“Yeah, sometimes people don’t aim well, and students are hit in the head. And I guess students just share the answers.”

“And the teachers don’t care?”

“Well, there are so many students that each teacher has to walk around patrolling several classrooms. So you throw the rocks when they’re not in your relative’s classroom.”

Chenda’s trying to figure out how to tell her niece that she can’t help her cheat. The other two Cambodian students concurred: one is in a Cambodian university now, where students in her class always suck up to her to get help with homework, if not exams. The other has received phone calls from her friends who are in the middle of university exams, asking for help with an English translation. They’ve heard stories of students sneaking into school the night before to remove the glass from the few classrooms that have glass windows. (Most just have a metal lattice pattern.)

It reminds me of a story I heard from an Australian professor working here to mentor postgraduate students in education. She said one of them, the dean of education at his university, came to her one day looking upset.

“I need your help! Last week, I saw a student in tears. She had her exam for my class the next day, and she’d failed it once already. She was so anxious about failing again, and I felt really bad for her.”

“So why do you need my help?”

“Well, I ultimately gave her the answer sheet, but told her to write some down wrong on purpose so that her cheating wouldn’t be too obvious.”

“What!? And now you’re coming to me because you feel guilty or something?”

“No, because my boss noticed the vast improvement in her score and several others’ scores. She told me to meet with her about what happened, and the meeting is this afternoon! What should I do? I could lose my job over this!”

“Well, you might need to be honest and admit your mistake. I hope things work out for you!”

A few days later, she saw him again and asked how the meeting had gone.

He beamed. “She brought the dean of each college to the meeting, and asked us very sternly, ‘Do you know anything about students cheating?’ We all shook our heads solemnly, and she said, ‘Good!’ and told us we could go.”

Shortly after I arrived in Cambodia, there were articles in the paper about the crackdown on cheating in national high school exams. Previously, for maybe a dollar or two, students could buy answer sheets just outside the school. The crackdown didn’t forbid those vendors, but it meant that teachers were expected to confiscate any answer sheets they found. The rate of students who passed dropped that year from the overwhelming majority to a small minority.

I don’t know if the rock-throwing has started since then, or if it’s older. But one thing is clear: Logos’ commitment to academic integrity is pretty exceptional in Cambodia. Corruption extends far beyond the government.

Joining the family

This month I’m doing a homestay to learn more about Khmer language and culture. It makes me sad that I've lived here for 2 years and yet so rarely left a “foreigner bubble." So I'm excited to be venturing a bit deeper this month.

In past homestays, I knew nothing of the city, less of the culture, and MUCH more of the language, so I never needed English. This one is a study in contrasts to those: I’m living with a close friend, Sovannary, and her family, while still paying rent a couple miles away where I usually live.

This doesn't exactly qualify as language immersion. My Khmer is still limited enough that it’s nice to switch into English some of the time, which they’re well able to do, since she and her daughters are fluent. This is the "chicken" way of doing it: if I were serious about maximizing learning, I'd have moved in with strangers in the province who spoke no English and weren't at all westernized. However, this was much easier to arrange on my own, and it's comfortable enough that I can still enjoy my summer and hopefully not start school exhausted. Still, I’m learning a lot about Khmer vocab, alphabet, and culture. More soon on my progress, but first, let me introduce you:


Sovannary: Formerly the owner of a restaurant where I frequently ate last year, she’s the first Khmer person I became close to. If you remember my trip to an orphanage in the province, she’s also the one who took me to visit there. She’s quite the go-getter. A teaching assistant at another international school, she first learned English by cooking for the Americans who started Logos and the orphanage associated with it. She’s very curious about the world and seizes every opportunity to learn, despite having little formal education. She told me, “I get in trouble because I speak my mind too much,” and I can see what she means. She exhausts herself on behalf of her girls, fighting to get them good nutrition and a solid education...not easy, even with great scholarships for them at the school where she works. She’s been an invaluable help in my adjustment to Khmer culture the last two years, and now, a great Khmer language teacher for me.

Her husband, Nara: I'm comfortable around him but always a bit nervous about talking to him. I forgot his name while in the US, and was too embarrassed to ask! They told me to call him by his first name (not normal in Khmer) but I just called him “Uncle” when I have to, since “older brother” is reserved for your husband. Anyhow, he’s very reticent: he probably says 10 words a day to me. However, he’s very laid back, and can always make Sovannary and the girls laugh. He’s a softy who spent weeks weaving a giant jump rope out of hundreds of rubber bands for the girls to play with. He caters food for the school’s lunches and loves playing Solitaire in his free time. He’s the only one who never speaks English to me, although he knows a bit.

L to R: Elizabeth, Chrismoon

Their girls: Chrismoon, age 8, and Elizabeth, age 7. (She’s named after an American friend who did a lot for Sovannary.) They almost act like twins: they’re inseparable, love dressing alike, and amazingly never get on each other’s nerves. They spend probably an hour a day in fits of giggles, mostly at potty humor or at tricks they’ve played on me. Chrismoon is quieter and more obedient; Elizabeth is very bright, but is a total ham who’d rather goof around or charm her way out of finishing her rice or doing her math pages. Sadly for me, they don’t like speaking Khmer with me (too impatient and too good at English), but lucky for me, I learn a lot when they talk with their parents. I spend lots of time with the girls helping them read books in English, or playing games like chess or badminton in the living room, or being victimized by their mimicking and pranking.

L to R: Chrismoon, Elizabeth

Translation of a sample quote from Elizabeth the comedian:
Elizabeth: I'm from Colorado, just like [1st grade teacher] Miss Tanya!
Sovannary: No, I'm Cambodian and you're my daughter, so you're Cambodian too.
Elizabeth: No, I'm not! Mommy had me in Colorado and she brought me back to Cambodia in a tuk-tuk!

The Girls

There are thousands of them. They pack the streets, propelling other passersby in their direction, irritating moto drivers who need to squeeze between them. Their hair is pulled back; they wear no make-up; their plaid shirts or neon T-shirts (or both) create unity across a cacophony of colors. Sometimes a whole block is filled with girls wearing the same headscarf in vibrant turquoise, purple, yellow, pink. Other times everyone is gone, and the deserted streets are hushed.

When I walk among them, every one of them looks at me.

Some give a quick glance, others do a double take, and still others a prolonged gaze of bewilderment. A few smile shyly, which I shyly return. One girl next to me poked her friend and pointed. That friend poked another girl, who poked another, about six total. Never in my life have I felt so completely conspicuous.

I was expecting this, actually. I’m staying with my Cambodian friend Sovannary this summer to study the Khmer language, and I knew she lived near several factories: I’d seen the crowds while driving there for Khmer lessons every Saturday. I figured I’d attract much more attention on foot than I had on my moto, and I wanted to get it over with. So the first few days, just before my flight to the US, I went walking (or jogging, when space permitted) every morning. I didn’t have a chance of blending in, and not just due to my fair skin and light hair. It’s my way of walking (especially during aerobic workouts), my loose exercise T-shirt and knee-length shorts, the fact that I have a good 4 inches on most of them, and more.

The factory girls make up a clear majority in this neighborhood, if not 90% of the population. So if I go out while they’re working (mostly around 7 to 5, minus a lunch break and plus overtime for some), the streets are empty and more conducive to jogging/driving/not being trampled. But since my Khmer tutoring is downtown at 7:30 AM every weekday, I’ll likely continue exercising earlier, when they’re out and about. I’m hoping once they get used to the white girl in the neighborhood, the fuss will die down a bit.

To be honest, I’m as fascinated by them as they are by me. I quizzed Sovannary to make sure my ideas on them were accurate. She confirmed the following: It’s mostly garment factories in this area, as are most factories in Cambodia, producing clothing for Gap, Abercrombie, Hollister, and other prominent brands. Owners are typically foreign – including several Logos students’ parents – and pay substantial bribes to import materials and export the finished products. Besides those lucky government officials, and maybe taxes, Cambodia profits little from one of its main industries.

The rules are simple: males need not apply, nor anyone under 18 or over 30. Housing is available nearby, packing workers in with six or more per smallish room. The girls are nearly all from the province, since the pay is low: about $50 per month. At 40 hours a week, that works out to about $0.28 per hour. (As a comparison, my house helper earns over double that for working half the hours.) Overtime until as late as 11 PM is a way to earn more...if you never want to see daylight. They spend little, sending most back to their families.

“What about all the poor people from Phnom Penh?” I asked Sovannary. “Don’t any of them want factory jobs?” “A few, but most aren’t that desperate,” Sovannary replied, visibly indignant about factory workers' plight and the government’s apathy. Everyone knows most Cambodian provinces face extreme poverty.

Go to the province, she told me. You’ll see hardly any young women left there because there are no jobs. It’s tearing apart families and hurting the culture of the villages. Some girls, lonely and joyless, fall for the young guys who hang around the factories, buying them gifts until the girls are convinced it’s true love. They’re dumped as soon as they get pregnant, and face extreme rejection if they return to the province as a single mom. Some die in botched abortions or commit suicide.

And these are the lucky ones, who aren’t promised a job and then sold into brothels! There are a lot of Cambodian girls that would be much better off in a factory than in their current line of work.

I remember in high school, reading about companies like Nike defending their low wages. They make a valid point that they’re not forcing people to take these jobs, and that workers flock to the factories because pay is superior to other opportunities workers would have. But what if the workers see no alternatives? Does that make it acceptable to pay below a living wage, and to break up millions of families countrywide by insisting on “young women only”? (Unemployment is a huge problem among Cambodian males.)

It just seems like a lousy excuse from huge corporations that could feasibly pay better and consider employees’ needs. They’re exploiting how corrupt Cambodia’s government is and how little economic opportunity is available here. In my mind, it’s kind of like taking a child into foster care and saying, “Well, at least I abuse her less than her birth parents.” That’s not exactly taking the high ground.

These aren’t new observations. Elizabeth Gaskell’s “North and South”...Victor Hugo’s “Les Misérables”...Alan Paton’s “Cry, the Beloved Country”...many acclaimed pieces of literature have decried poor conditions for factory workers and the resulting harm to society. Haven’t we learned anything? Is offshoring just a way to hush Westerners’ protests: “out of sight, out of mind”?

The Industrial Revolution is long over, but a bleak tenement lifestyle is far from history for my new neighbors.

On normalcy

People keep asking me if it's hard to be back in PA. I appreciate their thoughtfulness in asking. Last summer, being back meant thinking hard about who I was and where I fit in, and sometimes that was painful. This year's been far easier. Culture shock has come mainly in small flashes of insecurity: feeling baffled by an iPhone, trying to get the parking meter to work, forgetting that Rendell isn't governor anymore, not knowing what Marcellus Shale is. Reminders that though I slip back into it so easily, this isn't usually my life anymore. I'm a bit out of practice.

One of my first days back, I saw a TV show about girls buying expensive wedding gowns, and I had to walk away - their extravagance made me want to cry, not laugh. That show, "Say Yes to the Dress," illustrates one of the main cultural differences that strikes me when I'm home. So much of TV, magazine, and movie content focuses on rich people: movie stars, athletes, fictional rich people in sitcoms, real Americans spending thousands on home remodeling or new wardrobes. And isn't that the whole point of advertising: making you want/need stuff you don't have yet?

I think these media are part of what enables so many Americans to say, "I'm not rich. I'm normal." It's easy to think, people in my neighborhood live about like I do, and people on TV have far more lavish lifestyles. I play that game, too: Okay, my family lives well, but we'd never buy THAT brand of car. And if we ever had a vacation house, it sure wouldn't look like THIS one. We're still at least semi-normal.

Of course, we know that many people in America and worldwide are less affluent than we are. And we're not heartless: we feel bad for those people. Those poor people. If only they could be normal like we are. Thank God that He gave me what I deserve and need, and didn't make me suffer like them. Because "suffering" must be the word that describes "not having any cars," or "doing your laundry by hand," or "sharing a room with multiple relatives," or "having no use for a bank account." Even if all of those seemed normal to our great-grandparents.

Still, though we're not suffering like them, we barely have enough. That's why my sister's fellow nurses complain about their $50,000 salary. That's why US Christians can only afford to give away 2% of their salary. I'm thankful that I haven't heard much of this attitude from people I know - that many seem more in tune with reality - but it pervades so many aspects of US culture.

I don't want to be insensitive. My dad was laid off two years ago, and we had it easier than many others unemployed in our community. I realize that even in middle-class America, economic stresses can mount quickly, to levels far beyond what I've ever known. Still, the belief that we need and deserve all we have seems so ludicrous in light of my experiences in Cambodia. There, I can never forget how rich I am. I was told early on, "You bought a plane ticket here. That alone makes you rich to most Cambodians, regardless of your spending habits here."

All the examples I listed above of "suffering" describe some of my Khmer friends teaching at Logos, who are solidly middle-class by Cambodian standards. Not only that, but they describe billions of people around the world. A paper on my family's fridge describes a "village of 100:"

If you reduced the world's population to 100 people...
1 would have a college education.
7 would have Internet access.
50 would be malnourished.

Still think you're normal?

I'm still trying to figure out how to respond to knowing I'm ridiculously rich compared with most of the world. But here's the no-brainer: be grateful! We can marvel at the fact that, out of the entire world, God put us into the tiny fraction that has abundantly more than we need. Thank God for your flush toilet, for your clean drinking water, for your mattress, for your multiple pairs of shoes. Think before you buy stuff: Is this as necessary as I thought it was? Or is it a privilege I don't mind foregoing?

And look for chances to learn about "normal" people, instead of just the ones who are rolling in even more dough than you.

Reasons to smile: PA edition

Hugs from people who love me a lot. Many hugs.

Making ice cream cake with my sister.

Peaches, cherries, blueberries, strawberries.

My mom's cooking...all of it. (Can you tell I've been eating quite a bit?)

Hearing, "I've been reading your stories, thinking of you, praying for you." Over and over.

Cheap books from Amazon to take back with me.
Free books from the library, hopefully not to take back with me.
Time for reading books.

Going on walks without sweating.

Phone conversations where nobody has to repeat themselves.

Numerous causes to be proud of my younger brothers.

Moss.

Hair that cooperates.

Uncrowded streets and peaceful roads.

The most beautiful barn I've ever seen.

Remember-whens.

Icy-cold waterfalls.

Being reminded how much of my goofiness I owe to my family.

Silence.

Cold nights and warm blankets.

My favorite old sweaters.

A park located on a lake, not a highway median.

Conversations with my family that don't involve the words, "Nope, the sound's gone now..."

My dog.

Blending in.

Stories to tell - and hear - of God's goodness and faithfulness.

Piling up the jars

I should be grading finals right now. Report cards are due tomorrow, and I have tons to do before they'll be ready. All week, really, I planned to focus on grading and other urgent tasks.

But students' family issues don't always wait for opportune moments, and this week has had more than its share. In the past seven days, these family concerns have taken up more of my brain energy than essays or multiple choice ever could:

-A student finding out they'd be sent to their passport country, to live with a relative they barely know, in just nine days. Their preschool-aged sibling is coming too.

-A first-grade student whose parents don't care that this student is being held back, again. They can't be bothered to come to special needs meetings, or to help with homework. They let the student down for the umpteenth time yesterday when they promised to come to the first-grade Penguin Party, and then didn't show. (The mom doesn't work, FYI.)

-A high school student not that far from that first-grader, still craving their parents' attention while the parents are stressing out fulfilling missionary obligations. All those broken promises still hurt.

-A student trying to end an unhealthy relationship, but being pressured by both families to stay in it and pretend everything is OK.

-A student who has to deceive one parent in order to stay in contact with the other, and yet feels much closer to the latter.

-A student who's an elated brand-new Christian, and yet afraid their parents will find out. "Last time I mentioned Christianity to them, they moved me to another school for a year. What do I do?"

-A student asking to move back with their parents and not being allowed to, even though they're not in trouble.

All of them are well-fed, have access to health care, and will probably never drop out to become a street vendor. They've never faced a death in their immediate family; most have never been abused. Compared to most Cambodians, they live in total luxury. Some of their parents are being selfish, but others are truly trying to do what's right. Sometimes I feel guilty for letting their concerns get to me.

But you know what? If I'm allowed to care about how to get exams graded, I sure can care about their pain. Because it's real and it's intense, even if it's not the most anguishing on an objective scale. And if I'm going to let myself love my students, empathizing is not even a choice.

Here's the other thing: entering their pain lets me see God so clearly. It forces me to rely on Him when personally, I haven't gone through any significant hardships. Taking on bigger concerns than my own shows me that God is bigger than I thought. And better.

I've seen God do so much for students this year. It makes me almost excited to have new things to bring before Him. I feel like the widow whom Elijah told to collect empty jars from neighbors so there'd be more room for the oil that poured out from her tiny container. That's where I am now, piling up the jars and waiting expectantly for grace to start brimming over.

Photos from "Joseph"

Well done, everyone! It was so fun to watch! Congratulations to all involved.

Momentous Memoirs #4

My World Lit students wrote memoirs, inspired by Amy Tan's novel The Joy Luck Club. Each wrote one story about an adult influencing them, and one story about a key moment in that adult's life. I'm posting excerpts from a few of my favorites.

“When I was a child, Superman was my hero. I would wait all day in front of the television to watch Justice League on Cartoon Network. Whenever Superman appeared, my breath would stop because of his awe-inspiring appearance. Whenever I saw him flying around, shooting laser beams that came out of his eyes and fighting off the bad guys with his super-speed and strength, I would feel my heart wildly pumping boiling blood throughout my body. Superman’s mere presence stunned me.

As a child, I thought that Superman had no equals, but if I’d had to choose a person who was more “super” than Superman, I would have confidently said “mom” without giving a second thought. She possessed a superpower that even Superman did not have. Her cooking abilities were beyond the measure of human abilities. Believe it or not, not only did she cook good-tasting foods, but also her foods were good-looking, good-smelling, and even good-sounding. She was the strongest woman I knew. Whenever we went to the grocery store, she would have no trouble lifting up and carrying all the plastic bags of fruits and vegetables that I did not even attempt to make budge. She would ceaselessly work all day and would never get sick. To me, Mom was indestructible, just like Superman.

However, the earth-shattering reality struck me when I was nine years old. I awoke to my mom’s loud and sorrowful cry...”

Momentous Memoirs #3

My World Lit students wrote memoirs, inspired by Amy Tan's novel The Joy Luck Club. Each wrote one story about an adult influencing them, and one story about a key moment in that adult's life. I'm posting excerpts from a few of my favorites.

This student is describing her first-ever trip from her Cambodian province to the capitol, Phnom Penh. It ended unexpectedly for her.

“Ten days passed, and Mom told me that it was time for her to return to the province. I was excited, but there was a strange look on her face. She then walked into the room and packed all her clothes, not mine. I stood by the door observing her every movement. I anticipated something was going to happen, yet I tried not to guess. Mom beckoned me to enter the room. I sat down beside her and stared at her anxiously.

‘Umm...[Name], we have decided that you’re going to stay here with this family,' Mom said softly. ‘I believe that it is best for you, especially since you can go to school more easily.’ Tears streamed down from my eyes. I hoped this was not real. No, not real, but a dream. I wanted to say something, yet whenever I opened my mouth, I felt as if a hard lump stuck in my throat. Only a sobbing sound came out. The humidity in the room seemed to radically increase. My palms and fingers became damp, and I thought this burden was too heavy for me. How could I ever handle it?

After a whole night of tears and restlessness, the morning came. I held tightly to Mom’s arms. ‘Mom, take me with you,’ I pleaded with tears. ‘I don’t want to stay here! I want to go home!’ Mom acted as if she did not hear and turned her face away. I knew she was crying and did not want me to see it. She climbed on a motodop with her back to me. When the driver started his engine, I cried louder and louder. [...] I was running behind the moto, when all of a sudden I felt two strong arms grab me from behind. My uncle would not let go of my hands. Mom went out of sight, making my body feel like an empty container.”