French and German and I go waaay back. I had my first French lessons in 3rd grade, when I was still half-homeschooling. I remember struggling to pronounce the date each day: the 1990s were not a good time to start learning! ("1994" alone is 8 syllables.) German started at birth, with my mom trying to alternate between English and German days. It worked great for a year or two, especially since we spent 9 months in Germany before I turned 2. After that, my German was reduced to foods, colors, and random phrases like "straight ahead." Anyhow, by 10th grade, I was in level 3 in both languages, and continued to level 5 by graduation.
I always felt enthusiastic about learning languages in general, as opposed to French and German in particular. In fact, while I felt an affinity for all things German due to my family's connections there, I was apathetic toward France for years. I enrolled at Penn State in the education program for both languages, not intending to spend my life as a French teacher, but supposing that proficiency in three languages would serve me well wherever I went after graduation. I wanted to teach SOMEthing (maybe ESL?) and I was good at those. My decision seemed pragmatic, not passionate.
What changed my mind was my semester in France in 2007. Once France became a real place in my mind, not just the site of castles and cafes and catwalks, I found an affection for it. Finally, French people weren't the little cartoons in my textbooks - they were my host family and classmates and conversation partners. What helped most of all was how different we were: that I had to struggle to relate to them, rather than them being "just like me" but in another language. That struggle helped me define my identity in a deeper way.
Now I finally have a chance to fulfill a dream I've had since college: to learn Cambodia's Khmer language. (Albeit very slowly...new teachers are busy!) I thought I'd be content to throw myself into it and abandon further pursuit of French and German. Instead, I find myself wistful when I hear snippets at the grocery store, fumbling in my head to find words to initiate a conversation. Speakers are abundant in this city full of NGOs, but I'm rarely in their part of town with time to kill, and I don't know any personally. Thus, the Bible and an occasional DVD or online article are now my main sources of foreign-language sustenance. Better than nothing, but I'm missing the conversation component.
In French class last week, I realized I'd forgotten some common everyday words, like closet and pillow - words I never needed in college courses. At the French Cultural Center bookstore, I made mistakes in my chat with the cashier that I've successfully avoided for years. I was rusty, to say the least. I know I'm forgetting German much faster: even after years of study, it's still "use it or lose it." At this point, I could still easily regain fluency if I spent a month immersed in either, but that part of my knowledge is being buried deeper and deeper. I thought I was OK with not using it. I never realized losing my adopted languages would feel like losing part of myself.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Lilies of the field
I've never been very concerned with fashion, let alone gifted at it. I wore 80% pastels until middle school. In college, I decided I was fine with wearing "somewhat ugly" clothes if they were free and comfortable. I still like a hand-me-down sweater I got at age 11. There have always been clothes I liked and clothes I didn't like, but shopping was no fun and neither was parting with clothes that had seen better days.
That's one reason I was nervous before going to France, where fashion is about both self-expression and self-respect. To French minds, my solid-colored shirts with plain necklines and no accessories communicated, "I don't deserve to be noticed." My wardrobe didn't change dramatically when I was there, though I became a bit more adventurous. But I grew to appreciate a bit more their philosophy: that if you care about yourself, you don't wear sweatpants to run errands, and that dramatic earrings can be more about savoring life than about striving to win a beauty contest.
In terms of fashion, Cambodia and I are a good fit. Unlike wealthier Asian capitols (Hong Kong/Seoul/Tokyo), many people here can't afford to obsess about fashion. Conditions also aren't conducive to keeping clothes in top quality. My washing machine is a huge blessing (most Cambodians hand-wash their clothes) but it also wears clothes out much faster than in the US. Many of the clothes I brought are now stretched out, pockmarked, stained with sweat, and/or dyed pink from the red skirt I got at the market last year. On a similar note, my hair is almost never down due to the heat and humidity.
This bothers me much less than a few other teachers, who are used to looking put together, especially for work. At the same time, I am expected to dress professionally at school. Though the administrators aren't too strict - I wore Old Navy flip-flops all spring after my other shoes had all broken - I don't want to look much worse than my students, who wear uniforms that they generally keep in good condition. Fashion doesn't just communicate self-respect; it also can communicate respect for others. Dressing nicely for school is one way to show that I care about my students and that I take my job seriously.
As I live here longer without frequent trips home, more of my clothes are wearing out, and I'm still learning how to replace them. The mall's expensive and stores don't encourage trying things on. Tailors are gifted at copying clothing, and it's a great way to support local business - but it IS more expensive, and the fabric available is limited. Some markets have small stalls with used clothing, which I haven't explored yet. I love thrift shops in the US, but here they seem a bit more daunting. One market has cheap factory rejects, many of which are small and/or teenybopperish, but some of which are great. Jeans and shoes might be nearly impossible here: I'm half a foot taller than the average girl. I'm set on clothes for a while, but eventually I'll need to brave the world of shopping, Cambodia-style.
At the moment, I have two main categories of clothes: teaching clothes, and jogging clothes (along with ratty/stained former teacher clothes). If I want to look kind of nice (ex. church), I wear teacher clothes. If I don't care (ex. Saturdays at home), I wear jogging clothes. Because every time I wear my old gross clothing is one MORE time I'll be able to wear my nice clothing later on.
But in which contexts am I supposed to care how I look? Downtown, clothing is mostly a status symbol. Rich Cambodians dress up to run errands; poor Cambodians wear pajama-style outfits or work clothes or whatever they have. My roommate Megan and I agree that we see clothes largely as a social norm. I'm happy wearing nearly any type of clothing that is considered acceptable in the culture where I live. (Thus, the pajamas and crazy T-shirts ubiquitous here seem more and more appealing to me.) But I'm still working on figuring things out. If I want to live cheaply and simply, does it seem insulting to a restaurant owner when I walk in wearing stained capris and I can clearly afford something better? If most of my students are upper-class and have cute clothing, should I wear a more casual "teacher shirt" or can I get away with an old wrinkled T-shirt? For now, I guess I'll stick with what I have, and do my best to dress acceptably. But if you see a tall blonde girl in Phnom Penh wearing new floral pajamas, you can guess her name.
That's one reason I was nervous before going to France, where fashion is about both self-expression and self-respect. To French minds, my solid-colored shirts with plain necklines and no accessories communicated, "I don't deserve to be noticed." My wardrobe didn't change dramatically when I was there, though I became a bit more adventurous. But I grew to appreciate a bit more their philosophy: that if you care about yourself, you don't wear sweatpants to run errands, and that dramatic earrings can be more about savoring life than about striving to win a beauty contest.
In terms of fashion, Cambodia and I are a good fit. Unlike wealthier Asian capitols (Hong Kong/Seoul/Tokyo), many people here can't afford to obsess about fashion. Conditions also aren't conducive to keeping clothes in top quality. My washing machine is a huge blessing (most Cambodians hand-wash their clothes) but it also wears clothes out much faster than in the US. Many of the clothes I brought are now stretched out, pockmarked, stained with sweat, and/or dyed pink from the red skirt I got at the market last year. On a similar note, my hair is almost never down due to the heat and humidity.
This bothers me much less than a few other teachers, who are used to looking put together, especially for work. At the same time, I am expected to dress professionally at school. Though the administrators aren't too strict - I wore Old Navy flip-flops all spring after my other shoes had all broken - I don't want to look much worse than my students, who wear uniforms that they generally keep in good condition. Fashion doesn't just communicate self-respect; it also can communicate respect for others. Dressing nicely for school is one way to show that I care about my students and that I take my job seriously.
As I live here longer without frequent trips home, more of my clothes are wearing out, and I'm still learning how to replace them. The mall's expensive and stores don't encourage trying things on. Tailors are gifted at copying clothing, and it's a great way to support local business - but it IS more expensive, and the fabric available is limited. Some markets have small stalls with used clothing, which I haven't explored yet. I love thrift shops in the US, but here they seem a bit more daunting. One market has cheap factory rejects, many of which are small and/or teenybopperish, but some of which are great. Jeans and shoes might be nearly impossible here: I'm half a foot taller than the average girl. I'm set on clothes for a while, but eventually I'll need to brave the world of shopping, Cambodia-style.
At the moment, I have two main categories of clothes: teaching clothes, and jogging clothes (along with ratty/stained former teacher clothes). If I want to look kind of nice (ex. church), I wear teacher clothes. If I don't care (ex. Saturdays at home), I wear jogging clothes. Because every time I wear my old gross clothing is one MORE time I'll be able to wear my nice clothing later on.
But in which contexts am I supposed to care how I look? Downtown, clothing is mostly a status symbol. Rich Cambodians dress up to run errands; poor Cambodians wear pajama-style outfits or work clothes or whatever they have. My roommate Megan and I agree that we see clothes largely as a social norm. I'm happy wearing nearly any type of clothing that is considered acceptable in the culture where I live. (Thus, the pajamas and crazy T-shirts ubiquitous here seem more and more appealing to me.) But I'm still working on figuring things out. If I want to live cheaply and simply, does it seem insulting to a restaurant owner when I walk in wearing stained capris and I can clearly afford something better? If most of my students are upper-class and have cute clothing, should I wear a more casual "teacher shirt" or can I get away with an old wrinkled T-shirt? For now, I guess I'll stick with what I have, and do my best to dress acceptably. But if you see a tall blonde girl in Phnom Penh wearing new floral pajamas, you can guess her name.
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