I was 12 when I went overseas for the first time. Our family friends lived in Costa Rica and my parents gave me the adventure of a lifetime, sending me all by myself tostay with them for 6 1/2 weeks during my summer vacation. That trip opened my eyes to the wonders of the world and the amazing people that live in it.
(A woman walking with her son in Guatemala.)
Since then, I have traveled to many different places—32 countries and 42 US States to be precise. I have celebrated other cultures and learned about many unique and amazing traditions. I am grateful for the various threads that weave the great, beautiful, rich, and diverse tapestry of our world.
(Dia de Los Muertos [Day of the Dead] in Guatemala.)
I am grateful for all of the colorful customs and countrysides. I am especially appreciative to have explored far past my little corner of the world—from Asia to Argentina to England.
(On the Black Sea in Ukraine.)
But, even more than that, I am grateful for parents that taught me to look for the similarities in people, to love our differences, and to appreciate everything I have discovered in my journeys.
(People at the fish market in Ukraine.)
Right now, my parents are living in Guatemala, where my dad has taken a job. My parents in law are living in Ukraine, where they are serving a church service mission. We appreciate them sharing their cultural experiences with us each week. You are keeping our eyes opened!
One of my favorite trips ever was to Thailand. T-Daddy and I went out on the China Sea about 3 hours from the shore of Phuket on a sea canoeing excursion. Two people and a guide went in each inflatable canoe. Timed just right for low tide, we left the boat, got into our canoes, and headed into a cave.
The entrance was barely visible the water was so near the cave's top. To make it through such a tight squeeze, the guide had to let some air out of the canoe and we had to lay flat to avoid scraping the skin off of our noses on the rocks. It was amazingly frightening. Once inside, the cave opened up into a great expanse, but we stayed flat on our backs so we could look up on the ceiling to see the cave's inhabitants—bats! We also had to keep our mouths shut in case they should poop and it should hit the... well, not the fan, if you know what I mean! And, the only way we could see the sleepy little guys was by shining a large flashlight in their direction.
While the Thailand's landscape, food, massages, sites, and elephant ride are all worth mentioning, nothing was more unique or unforgettable than this experience—seeing snoozing little bats.
Want to teach your kids about bats without the gory details. Visit Kids Off the Couch for a terrific idea that incorporates books, movies, and activities for hands-on and exciting learning.
August marked the 20th anniversary of my return from foreign assignment—to Argentina, that is, as a foreign exchange student. People often ask me: "If your child wanted to be a foreign-exchange student, would you let him?" Not knowing right off, I decided to make a pros and cons list from the views of a 17-year-old North American girl in Argentina.
PRO: Had my very first credit card. I bought, count them, 11 bathing suits. They were sooooo much cheaper than in the States. I was able to buy so many clothes with all the money I saved J.
CON: Lots of screaming from the padres, threatening to cut me off financially. These were during weekly $3-a-minute phone calls. Oh! The torture! Certainly, they had never experienced such heat and such savings.
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PRO: Went on my very first girl's vacation.
CON: I planned it all myself without a travel agency and without knowing hardly any Spanish. Don't you just have to get on a bus and head in the general direction of the beach? Let's all say it together: "Glad you are still alive, Ms. Thinks-She's-Totally-Invincible!"
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PRO: So many guys liked me! Wow! Who knew? I may as well have been Bella the way all the guys were trying to, well…
CON: Mom forgot to tell me about how the only movies South American teens saw—at least in those days—were about American ho bags. NICE!
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PRO: I had hot, running water in my house.
CON: Twenty-five cockroaches accompanied me during my first shower. ewwwwwwwww! They still haunt my dreams to this day.
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PRO: I lived on a turkey farm for a week in the middle of the Rain Forest. How is this a PRO, you ask. This short-lived experience helped me go undefeated many times during college at the game Three Truths and a Lie. People always thought this story was my lie.
CON: The Rotary Club in Argentina wasn't at all organized. They didn't have my host families lined up ahead of time, which they totally lied about. I was supposed to have stayed with the same family all year, which considering the cockroaches wasn't too much of a disappointment. But, a Turkey Farm in the middle of nowhere with no kids and really no one I could talk to or learn Spanish from? Are you kidding me? I would have died out there. Talk about bugs!
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PRO: I learned about a truly phenomenal culture and met some dear friends.
CON: Seeing them again has proven much more difficult than I had thought. And, I miss them.
So, would I let my children go on a foreign exchange? What would you do?
You know when you are putting together a puzzle and the pieces don’t seem to fit? It can be so frustrating! You force them. You rearrange them. You go for the obvious all to no avail. Then suddenly, the parts groove and pictures start to appear, making sense of the odd-shaped pieces. It’s a beautiful sensation, making the effort so worthwhile.
This describes a recent trip I took with my sisters—four very different women, spanning twenty years in age—38, 34, 28, 18. From religious and political beliefs and fashion sense to education and motherhood responsibilities and desires, we are as different as like-colored puzzle pieces with only their color—and in our case, our last name—to bring us together. But, what better than a sister’s vacation to bridge the age gaps and build some common bonds? And better yet, three days without kids or spouses, an agenda, or internet access. Nothing, as it turns out!
We laughed our way to and from Arizona (sorry for any of you who may have been on our flights). We lounged by the pool. We visited relatives. We ate at Ned’s Krazy Subs twice and had Mexican food three times. We went to the movies. We went to a dinner theatre. We cried at Grandma’s grave. We went down memory lane in the old hood. We took a picture in front of our favorite pomegranate tree. We got pedicures. We ate frozen yoghurt at the same place we used to go to after school more than 20 years ago. Yep! It is still open. We stayed up until 2 a.m. talking and slept in until noon. We got ready in the same bathroom. We took more than 500 pictures and studied them on the flight home to see in what ways we looked alike and different. We were sad to say goodbye.
Growing up and even into my adulthood, I felt so lucky for my wonderful friends. Whenever I found a kindred spirit, I considered myself the most fortunate of all people. But, my Sisterhood of the Traveling Pant—ies made me realize and appreciate the strength in sisterhood and where my real fortune lies.
This one is for Serious Sunday. Is there such a thing? If not normally, today there is. Truth? This is long. Candor? This is for me. What is it? This is a journal entry—my stream-of-consciousness thoughts I still ponder nearly a year later as I try and figure out a very important topic to me: How do I teach culture to my children while trying, but not truly understanding differences myself? Feel free to read it. Feel free to comment. Please don’t misjudge my honesty as I work through it.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Dear Travel Journal:
I jumped off my vanilla Salt Lake City flight to Detriot, boarded flight 5573 to JFK, and entered another world with people from diverse backgrounds and cultures, speaking foreign languages. I looked forward and saw an Indian baby wrap her fingers around her mother’s finger, instinctively of course. I watched one woman, head covered in a modern mauve scarf, smile to another woman with a stylish chocolate head covering. A million words of understanding transferred between smiles. It was a silent language foreign to me, yet intriguing at the same time. Questions spring to mind but go unanswered.
An African American guy sits in 4A, sporting an intricate corn-row weave and is seated next to the modern head-covered woman. Observing the two side by side, I am astutely aware of how significant hair and head coverings are in politics, style, cultural traditions, religion, and storytelling. Storytelling? Because everyone has a story and tells it in their own ways—starting at the tips of their heads. Without the ability to speak to each other, how do we tell and understand our stories?
The Mary Englebright quote “Bloom where you are planted” both inspires and confines me. It releases me, empowers me, gives me ideas, and at the same time reminds me of entering a small opening to a bat cave while sea canoeing in Thailand—a claustrophobic, apprehensive moment that nearly shaved the skin right off the top of my nose. Restrictive. I could follow Englebright’s urge and create the most amazing cultural-awareness program in white city USA where I live. Bring the world to us, right? I could introduce a culture in my home on regular intervals by learning and preparing new recipes and such. I could, along with my children, visit exhibits. I could travel and bring back information and trinkets and candy of course. But, how do you bring a culture into your own living room—bring back the actual experiences that forever make you see life differently? How do you teach your kids culture?
How do you communicate the experience of visiting a guinea-pig raising family who lived in a shed inside the gates of a used-car parts lot in Ecuador? Did I mention the dirt floors they slept on or the one room they cooked and ate and slept and reproduced in? We worshipped together every Sunday, where differences didn’t matter. They let us into their lives, and I walked away with friendships and something even more precious, perspective.
What about the “clean” river dividing Bangkok? The stark contrast of our dinner cruise with its exotic fruit and superficial conversation with Thai life around us. Children bathing in the water, squealing in delight, as their moms washed dishes next to them and their grandmothers on the other side collected leaves for their basket-weaving livelihood, making possible the family’s meager existence. Their eyes: Deep, dark, seemingly knowing, but utterly, almost blissfully, ignorant. All living in the shadows of lavishly adorned temples and gold-plated Buddhas.
Or, what about the commute to and from work in Frankfurt, Germany? Eating vegetables and fruit bought at the train station or at corner markets. Running into stores from the rain to be totally avoided—ignored really—by shop girls. No fight over customers to increase their commission. Not wrong, just different. Looking in their eyes time and again to see the distrust and anger of a nation so torn apart and beaten that nothing makes much sense anymore—even more than 60 years later. Realizing that I just don’t understand—not the distrust, not the anger, and not the claim that Americans are too superficial when we are just open. Is being an extrovert so wrong? Again, not wrong, just different.
When I look at my own road to forgiveness and my lack of understanding in my own situation with one family and to me, a horrific experience of betrayal, and contrast that with the Germans’ horror of a past, I realize I just can’t compare my story to a whole people crushed by their very leader, betrayed by not one neighbor, but by possibly and very likely every single person they came in contact with—all for a chance to trade you for power or food or clothes or sleep or faulty ideals. How do I make sense of my own path to forgiveness when I put the two experiences side by side? Yet, mine is real. It is my story. That said then, how do I not become untrusting—so bruised that all potential friends get pushed aside? How do I keep a Western country, small city, trusting perspective after feelings of betrayal—however significant in world history? What can I learn from the survivors? What can their forgiveness, their ability to move on and rebuild teach me?
Out of my thoughts and back on the plane, a Jewish mother and son sit across the aisle from me—asleep, mouths open. My immediate neighbor—Middle Eastern—quickly changes seats with them to oblige a son’s request to sit next to his mother—even though he doesn’t like aisle seats, as he confessed to me after the switch. Behind my neighbors and across the aisle sits a hip Japanese boy next to a balding, white haired, seemingly upper-middleclass man. Both are wearing button-down shirts, one striped, the other checked. Mary Kay is our, I’d like to say Mid-Western flight attendant, although she sounds Southern. The woman with the maroon head scarf exudes confidence. The Jewish mother seems at once totally dependent and yet strict—the type where you play by her rules. The lineage does pass through her, you know? She carefully opens her peanuts. She talks to her son with such respect, calculated and calm. Babies cry. They don’t notice differences—not in themselves, not in the passengers. They tell their own stories: “I’m hungry. I am wet. I have gas. I am dependent on you and you aren’t meeting my needs. Waaaaa!” What is everyone else sharing?
Every passenger sits upright on his or her best behavior. All of the skeletons in our closets are behind closed doors. All of our story books are tightly closed, not revealing the tales we would spin or share if we felt we could—if we knew we wouldn’t be judged or hated for the candor. This fact keeps me guessing.
The tall, lanky, late 40-ish Texan in the 38-30-sized Levis in front of me may be going on a business trip, leaving a wife he adores, meals he is used to, and is so afraid of flying that the word search occupying his every move is the only thing that can keep his mind off the inevitable crash. On the other hand, he may be trying to get his mind off the minutes until he reaches his mistress. Now, he’s French, not Texan, even though his Levi’s are still the same size.
The question I ask myself is: Can I ever get a straight story? A first impression is what?—only an impression, right? Will my own lens through which I view the world so obstruct my view that it keeps me from seeing or accepting the truth of people’s stories? Does my own perspective that I sometimes mistake for knowledge bind me to subscribing to commonly believed stereotypes even though I put myself above them? I mean look at what I’ve written so far? French men aren’t the only ones that have affairs. Texans, I am sure, do fine in that department as well. Jewish sons don’t always respect their mothers, and Middle-Eastern—are they really from the Middle East?—women wearing head scarves may be anything but confident. The smile that passed between the two may be a sorrowful understanding of their plight: “Bloom where you are planted,” right? It may be a thousand other things. It may be nothing at all but a polite, yet silent greeting that I just read into and stereotyped.
So… I am off to a wedding in NYC. Solo. The only Mormon girl with my story that no one will know the real meaning of. Or. Know. Period. Does she live a Big Love lifestyle? How can she have so much fun and not drink? Why isn’t she weird—she seems so normal? Just another story book, closed no matter how open. We never know, do we? So… Back to my original question: How do I teach culture—void of stereotypes—to my children when I am trying, but do not truly understand it myself?
This gossiping gal dishes out the delights and the dysfunction of motherhood, chitting and chatting about everything from love to marriage to the baby carriage and beyond. Cozy up for some candid conversation about life's lemons as well as the lemonade. This is one journey that is both sweet and sour, baby! Hope you'll join me for the ride.
(Picture of me, my sisters, my son, and my neice)
(On the Black Sea in Ukraine.)
(People at the fish market in Ukraine.)
(Kite flying festival in Guatemala.)
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