Confessions of a (wannabe) superhero

“I hate when people back home act like I’m a superhero,” my friend confides in me a few years back.  “I’m just a regular person.  My life here is different, but it’s not necessarily harder than theirs.”

                

She gestures to the fresh fruit smoothie she’s holding, the tasteful décor of the café, the quietly humming air conditioner.  “I mean, look at this place.  We could be in my hometown right now.”

I hesitantly nod agreement.  But…  But what?  My mind wanders to experiences that haven’t been part of her three months here.  Hot season.  Late-night bleary-eyed grading marathons.  The Great Shrew Invasion of 2010.  Incessant goodbyes.  Maybe she’s still in the honeymoon phase.  Surely life would be easier in America.  

But…  I’m not sure I can justify claiming hero status.  How many of the “hardships” of my life are any different than if I’d taken a job at a private school in Florida?  How do these challenges stack up against Seasonal Affective Disorder, or the standardized testing pressure of No Child Left Behind, or foreclosures?  What about the perks I get here: $1 moto repairs; a house helper who cooks my dinners and scrubs my toilet; a close-knit Christian community at school; free delivery from dozens of tasty, cheap restaurants?  

She’s right, I finally admit to myself.  I guess I'm not a superhero.  My life is not an epic tale of vanquishing evil.  But the truth is, part of me likes the superhero reputation.  Part of me thinks that’s the reason I’m here. 

The superhero image is dangerously possible.  Things that soon become mundane here still sound mysterious to people who have never visited, and I’m exposed to a lot of tough situations that (unlike some foreigners and many Cambodians) I don’t actually have to experience firsthand.  There are a half dozen brothels on my way to the grocery store.  Freedom of speech doesn’t really exist for Cambodians.  Nearly 1/3 of Cambodians died during the genocide in the 1970s.  I can toss out facts like those and make Cambodia sound like this wasteland that only my extraordinary courage and strength have enabled me to survive.  “Wow, I could never do that,” some people say.  “You are so brave.”  Though I try to seem humble, I kind of love hearing that.

Yet in many ways, Phnom Penh is a pretty cushy city for foreigners.  Take the foreign foods available here: besides my favorite French treats, I can buy ultra-American foods like Betty Crocker cake mixes, canned cranberry jelly, and Old El Paso salsa less than a mile from home.  You’d have to hunt high and low for those in most of Europe.  My classroom has great air conditioning, wifi, and (since January) even its own LCD projector.  Rent is a fraction of the American rates.  I’ve vacationed in four other countries with savings from my "meager" salary.

Most days, my life looks kind of like this: wake up, go to school, come home, eat, work, go to bed.  Most days, I don’t speak that much Khmer.  I don’t stand up for the victims of trafficking or land-grabbing.  I don’t talk with the many poor people I drive past, or even with my next-door neighbors.  I live in this artificial bubble where it’s not weird to eat yogurt for breakfast, where people think $8 (not $1) is a great price for a haircut, where people get my sarcasm.  In many ways, my life hasn't changed that much from when I lived in America.

That can be painful to admit.  I’m a missionary.  Aren't they supposed to be extreme?  In high school, I thought my address overseas would be “The Front Lines,” not “Near the Prime Minister’s Nephew.”  If I assume my life is harder and more heroic than in the US, then I feel like I’ve earned the right to complain about certain aspects of it.  I can hold onto my pride and my sense of superiority.  But the more I talk with people who (unlike me) have done adult life in the US, the less I’m able to justify this way of thinking.  Isn’t the grass always greener, and doesn’t everyone have hidden struggles?  In fact, while I know some foreigners who face monumental challenges here, a few friends even say coming to Cambodia was a relief compared to the load they carried in the US.  My life is different than it would be in America, sure, but “difficult” comes in all shapes and sizes.  So maybe I haven’t earned any special right or status.

That's why I was a bit apprehensive when my parents, and later my sister, came to visit.  What would they think of my house here, where my four roommates and I share as much floor space as my childhood home?  Would they judge me for how often I eat out?  

As it turns out, they were awesomely supportive as usual, and they didn’t criticize my choices.  But sure enough, when I asked my sister what had surprised her during her time here, she replied, “Your life seems kind of normal.”  Maybe I’m just a person.  Maybe I need a Superhero far more than anyone needs me.

I’m glad my family has the inside scoop.  I’m glad they know to take my whining with a grain of salt.  And so I want to let you blog readers in as well, as a safeguard against my urge to impress you and feign invulnerability.  Ready?  

I am not a superhero.  

I am an ordinary twenty-something getting used to life after college.  Yes, life in Cambodia features a different set of challenges.  Sometimes I brag about those challenges.  Sometimes I feel defeated by them.  But sometimes, just sometimes, I realize they're all tangled up with the amazing blessings that make up a life I'll never deserve.