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.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
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...”
“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.”
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.”
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