US, US, baby

Four weeks and just one night out (the pizza was actually take out). I’m a recluse. I know.

I actually have a lot of work I’m trying to finish up right now. Not overwhelming. But close.

But that’s not the only reason. I’ve been trying my hardest to think of how best to explain the discomfort I often have in social situations in this country.

The explanation came this week.

The other volunteer here, a German 19-year-old, had made a friend the night the two of us went to the bar. He invited us back to the bar this week. We both passed. So the next night he invited us to a party. I passed. She went.

When she came back, she was amazed at the conversations she heard. It was an all-white party, and of course they started talking about race relations in the country. The subject of whites and blacks living in the same areas came up. They tried to explain to her why it just didn’t make sense to them. “I mean it’s like, think about the wild. Different animals don’t drink from the same watering hole. It’s just not natural.”

Yeah. And the girl STILL hung out with them again the next night.

The whole group didn’t fit in the home’s van, so some of us elected to walk back to the home after the prison visit. A kilometer or so into the walk, the van pulled back around and stopped right next to me. “Jayna, you have to come back to the office and take care of something,” said the home’s supervisor. As there’s very little we volunteers “have” to do, I immediately got a bit apprehensive. “There’s three men at the office who need to speak with you,” he told me as I closed the passenger door.

“Maybe they’re your friends? They pulled up in a white truck,” he said, trying to give me more clues. Now I was starting to get really confused. I didn’t know anyone else in the town other than the people who work at the home/office. The only other people I’d talked to were the cashiers at the grocery store. Who in the heck could be waiting for me?

When we stopped in front of the office, there was the aforementioned white truck. And three Chinese guys standing on the porch. “Nee how,” one said. Although I know he was saying “hello,” in Chinese, I still responded in English. No need to get the guy confused with my ability to speak the language. He still started speaking to me in Chinese. I responded in English that I didn’t understand.

“But you are from China…”

“No, I’m from the US.”

Blank stare. Confused look. “Where?”

“I’m American.”

“Ah…but your family.”

“No. My family is American.”

Head nod. “I own business here, and I don’t speak good English. Need someone to translate Chinese to English. You help?”

“I don’t speak Chinese. Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“But your father. He is Chinese.”

“No. My father is German.”

At that statement, there was a moment of understanding on his face. So I said “sorry” one more time and walked away. I came back into the office to the curious questions of the office staff. In the middle of explaining, old boy walks into the room asking, “So you’ll help?” Uh…no.

The really creepy thing is I have no idea who this guy is. Nor do I know how he knows where I stay/work. The only way is if he sat around and watched me one day. I get the willies just thinking about it.

I was in downtown Johannesburg (granted not the “safest” place in South Africa) this afternoon and looking around for the shared taxi I needed to get back to the town I’m staying in. I thought I knew where I was going, but apparently not.

And, well, I knew I stuck out there (this was my second time through the area today and I’d only seen two non-black folk…and one actually turned out to be an albino black man) but didn’t think too much of it.

Until, waiting to cross the street, I heard someone yell, “Hey, you!” from behind me and grab my left arm. OK, I’m used to verbal harassment, but people here really don’t touch strangers…so before I even looked, I knew this guy was trouble.

“Give me your mobile, or I’ll take your bag.”

“I don’t have a mobile.”

“Don’t make me take that bag of yours. Just give me your mobile and you can keep the bag.”

“Really, I don’t have one.”

“Just give me your phone. I know you have one.”

“Really. I don’t have a phone on me. I’m not from this country. Why would I have a mobile?”

“Don’t make me take your bag. Just give me…”

And I stepped onto the street and opened the door of a shared taxi waiting to make a turn. I had no idea where it was going, but clearly that was OK at the time. It was a good choice…the driver (and two fellow passengers) helped me find what I needed and didn’t even charge me anything.

As I sat in the proper taxi, I couldn’t help but think how ridiculous of me it was to not feel scared during the run-in in the city. I mean, I was practically (and may have actually been, knowing me) laughing at the guy and his friend who’d tried to corner me in. But seriously. I didn’t have a phone. And I had only about 20 rand (less than $3) on me. I felt little danger without a weapon shoved in my back. But then I remembered the South African man whose friend’s friend was just killed when he was hit over the head for not having money when he was held up. Yeah…the thought-ridden ride home more disturbing than the actual (failed) mugging.

Yet…I’m OK. All’s well. I’m back “home” safe and sound. And blogging about the past.

To the naked eye, Cape Town probably looks like a cosmopolitan African city where whites and blacks get along well and go to the same places. Like a Norman Rockwell for inter-racial living. But…well, I’ll just say I have to think it’s not the most tolerant or integrated place in the world.

Sure, there are plenty of inter-racial couples and such…but look down the street and you’ll see that in general the whites still hang out with the whites, the blacks with the blacks, and the Indians with the Indians. Openly gay people still get yelled at by the religious right. Blanket statements such as “The Jews in South Africa are all rich” are thrown out and easily accepted in conversations.

And the Asian-American girl gets asked, “You’re Jayna? You don’t look like you’re American,” from the hostel receptionist. And she gets put in a dorm room with the only three other Asians (who were all also traveling separately) at the whole multi-room hostel. And every day when she walks down the street, locals — blacks and whites — would yell behind her “chong chee chong chong” and laugh at their mimicry of Asian languages.

I grew up an Asian in rural Missouri. To say I’ve learned to deal with racists and racist comments is a bit of an understatement. Eighteen years of living in small town Midwest kind of made me prepared to brush off all sorts of racism. That’s not to say it doesn’t affect me or make me angry or upset me. But you know, I learned about racism by the time I’d reached school, and so I estimate I’ve been dealing with racists for about 22 years now. Still, though, sometimes the calm, cool (OK, cold, some might say) exterior I throw up to racism comes tumbling down, and a torrent is unleashed.

That’s what happened yesterday.

I was ambling about the markets buying some fresh veggies. Getting some corn, I was approached by a rather tipsy fellow requesting that I give him money “to buy a drink.” Although I appreciated his honesty, I a) don’t give money to beggars who can clearly take care of themselves and b) had barely enough cash to buy the corn I’d just had packed. I told him “no.” He asked again. “No,” I replied again. “Fuckin’ Chinese!” He yells at me. “I’m not even Chinese.” I snottily retort. “Japanese…whatever,” he barks over his shoulder as he stumbles off.

Back at the guesthouse, I unload my veggies and laughingly relate the story to my new friends who live/work there. Like I said, I can deal with racists…usually. But as I related my story in one room, I groaned as I turned the corner to the kitchen and was confronted by a nosy fellow who’d been eavesdropping.

See, this guy, well, remember “Fat Bastard” (”Get in my belly!”) from the Austin Powers movies? This guy basically acts and looks like him but with a white beard and a South African accent as opposed to a red beard and Irish accent.

After being introduced to me (and being told I was American) he had waddled up behind me and breathlessly and proudly stated in my ear, “I was in China one winter.”

OK…if you don’t know me, let’s just say invading my personal space is not a great way to start off a friendship. Nor is telling me stories about yourself in China, thinking I will be impressed because I’m Asian. Seriously. I mean, when I go back to the US, am I going to walk up to the first black person I see and say, “I was just in South Africa”? Or do I walk up to a white person and say, “I went to Australia”?

But FB’s comments didn’t stop there. No. And I say “comments” because we never have had a conversation. Our interactions always involved me walking into a room and him immediately starting with…”You should go to the Chinese restaurant across the street.” or “I went to the Oriental part of the city today.” or some other Chinese/Oriental shit he decided to spit out that day.

So yesterday…after clearly eavesdropping, he asks me to repeat my story as I pull out the avocado, tomato, and onion for my guacamole.

And out starts the torrent.

“Some idiot just yelled at me…but he was just stupid…especially because he thinks all Asians are Chinese,” I say glaring at the guy. Only partially annoyed at the drunk guy from earlier, my comment was just a way to tie in the day’s incident with the ridiculous days of comments from the FB sitting in the chair now. But he didn’t let up. He decided to try to prove to me why I was actually from China. I then asked (OK, asked is a bit mild of a description…especially as I had a cutting knife in my hand at this point and was gesturing quite vividly) if it’s appropriate to group all Africans as from Nigeria. Or if it seems normal to walk up to a white person and start talking about England. And if his little theory is so true, then we all came from the same ancestors way back anyway. “Well…your parents or your grandparents or their grandparents were from China,” he smugly tries to tell me. “Actually, no. My family is German. My family is from Germany. My great grandparents…they’re German. I’m adopted,” I practically screamed in his face.

At this point he sits down and says, “Oh…so you’re one of THOSE adopted o…” Trying to dice my onions at this point, I spin around, and angrily spit, “No. I’m not one of THOSE. I’m a human being. A freaking human being. And I really don’t want to talk to you right now. I’ve been dealing with racist comments today and…” FB interrupts me and says, “He wasn’t being racist…” Um…excuse me? When did “Fuckin’ [insert (perceived) racial group here]” not become racist? “I’m sorry,” I say in my completely unsarcastic voice. “YOU don’t really get to tell me when someone is being racist toward me,” I glaringly scream with my knife gesturing into the air. Silence filled the room. Even my friend who’d come in to see me make the guac stayed silent. FB sat there for another five or so minutes without saying a thing. And hasn’t since.

Geez. Glad to know that ignorance is all across the world.

I have been having a total blond-girl-in-Asia complex in Delhi and Agra. And I don’t really know how to cope.

See, this is really the first time on this trip where I’ve felt like people were staring at me. OK. “felt” is a poor choice of words. Because people ARE staring at me. A lot.

Before I left North East, I’d bought the traditional Assamese dress, which looks a lot like a saree but is easier to wear (because it’s two pieces) and is something I can take apart to wear back home. I’d had two Assamese women train me in putting it on, so I knew I’d be wearing it properly.

So on the day I went to visit Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, I figured I’d wear it, you know, hoping to blend in. Well, you know, that didn’t happen so much.

At first I thought the recent pickpocketing had just made me paranoid about people staring at me. But, then, at the first tour stop, a woman sitting on a bench, yells at me, “Hey, babe, lookin’ good!” Hmmm…weird. So maybe they ARE staring at me.

Then at the Taj, I could feel more people staring…men and women. At the entrance, I heard the kids behind me whispering in Hindi but realized they were talking about me when I caught the word mekhla (the word for the skirt of the dress I was wearing). Later, a wife and husband, both dressed in traditional Indian clothes, stopped me, and tell me, “You look wonderful in the saree…keep it up!” People staring and commenting on my dress played itself out over and over throughout the day.

I tried to ignore it, but I’d made four friends on the bus ride, a Sri Lankan-Canadian couple and two Indian guys, and one of the Indian guys — without knowing my paranoia — kept pointing out who was staring at me. He’d keep saying, “all the women are looking at you right now” or “they’re staring again.” Um, yeah, so it wasn’t just in my head.

Fast forward to the next day. I just wore jeans, an Indian shirt and my coat (which I hardly took off the whole day). Thinking it was the full-on Indian dress that drew the attention, I figured I’d be OK.

Wrong. The stares continued. And, of course there were the rude men making comments as I walked by; but I’d been to dance clubs in the states…and I’m sure what I’m hearing here is just the Hindi version of the obnoxious stuff I heard back home. I mean, I can handle the lewd, “Hey, baby,” comments and obscene gestures. But the stares??? And pictures? One English-speaking Indian couple stopped and asked me for a picture with them as did a group of high school boys. And those were just the ones who asked. I noticed a few others snapping away as I’d walk past.

I thought this was only supposed to happen to the white chicks. I mean, I’d been giving my supposed-to-be-visiting roommate the advice to dye her hair so as not to draw attention to herself. But the blonde American solo 20-something female traveler drew less attention than I in Delhi.

Instead, I’m the freak show here. There’s plenty of blondes around, and Koreans are EVERYWHERE (I even saw another wearing a saree at the Taj Mahal), and I just want them to go stare at them.

I know I should be flattered. People are clearly not doing it out of harm. And from the (non-”Hey, baby!”) comments that I’ve understood, they’re looking at me in a positive way. But I guess I realize that although I always want to be the girl who walks into a room and makes everyone stop and stare, I’m not. I’m way too self-conscious to handle it. Because there’s this little voice in the back of my head that says, “They’re thinking ’she’s too fat to wear that’ or ’she’s too skinny’ or ‘who does she think she is?’ or ’she looks like a total prostitute.’” So instead of being flattered, I freeze up and my mind starts thinking of all my flaws and how I want to hide every piece of me.

Yeah…who knew being in Mainland India would make me have this self-realization of how uncomfortable I am with my body and flattery? I sure as heck didn’t. Uh, so yeah, thanks, India. Now I’m just obscenely aware of another one of my relationship issues.

Wow. I really wish my friend Megan would have been here these last few days, like we’d planned. Not only would I have a pal to chat with, but I could totally blame her for the people staring and taking pictures and have spared myself this awful introspection.

Maybe I should become a true rock star and pick up a mind-altering drug habit to forget about it.

Laying down to forget about the starers and quite succeeding at looking frumpy

My total papparazzi shot

Me and my (adorable) papparazzi photog…who I spent a good chunk of the day chatting with…but didn’t get his name, of course

Thanks to my friend Nikki, I learned how to use chopsticks in 10th grade. I wouldn’t say I mastered the skill. But I could eat with them when I had to.

That’s what China was…a had to. And after two and a half months of using pretty much only chopsticks, I’m pretty darn comfortable with them; I also realize that there are some dishes that are just EASIER to eat with my two little wooden (or stainless steel) friends.

However, here in Chiang Mai, almost any time I order in English I’m presented my dish with a fork and spoon in tow, and I have to request the chopsticks. It’s kind of weird. Even my Asian-American exterior doesn’t convince the servers to bring me chopsticks…

My sister and I visited the welfare agency that worked with the American adoption agency through which we came to the US. Now the Korean agency has an in-house hospital where babies are cared for until they reach a month and then are placed in their adoptive homes or a foster home.

This full-head-of-hair baby was sporting a onesie that I believe all the others were wearing as well…a little “Disney Babies” one. He/she was SO cute wearing the little American cartoon characters!

All throughout the agency was evidence of our two countries’ ties through children…from the volunteers in the nursery helping care for the babies to the photos of adoptive children when in foster care and later when in their adopted American homes. (But just so you know the agency does try to place them with Korean families first, so only about half are sent to the US or Australia)

I’ve been a little stunned that there have been a few people here who’ve automatically started talking to me in English. One restaurant greeter later told me it’s because he doesn’t speak Korean, but as for the others…I’ve wondered why. Is it because they’ve heard me speak to someone else? Do my clothes give it away? Or do Americans have a certain walk?

Yesterday’s McDonald’s cashier may have given me the answer. “When I saw your eye makeup, I knew you weren’t from here,” she told me. “It looks different than what girls here wear.” She wasn’t being catty, just conversational. Still, I wondered if my MAC eyeshadows branded me a foreigner (or worse, a hussy). I mean, I had noticed that girls and women here rarely wear eye makeup, and for that reason, I’d been keeping my greens and blues to a minimum.

The color of choice yesterday was light purple. I don’t know the name of it because the sticker came off the bottom of the container. I think I’ll start calling it not-Korean purple.

(and here’s what my makeup looked like yesterday)

I don’t know what I expected from South Korea. OK, actually I do. I expected everyone to be annoyed at me, an obvious Korean, and frustrated that I didn’t speak the language. I expected to be a freak of nature. And I expected for them to not understand that I grew up in the US.

My expectations stemmed from stories I’d heard from other visitors to South Korea and what I experienced in China. But my expectations were wrong. Very wrong. I’ve not been singled out here in Seoul. A few people are curious, but many here just assume I’m Korean and was born in the US to parents who didn’t find it necessary to teach me the language. They accept that I’m American, are happy when I try to use Korean, but don’t badger me with personal questions.

But it’s not just me that they don’t poke and prod at like circus freaks. It’s all Americans. They don’t gape and gasp at overweight ones nor do they whisper about African Americans. They’ve been exposed to so many Americans through the military families here and the girls of America’s Next Top Model that they realize we’re the melting pot we claim to be.

This was exemplified in my visit to the War Memorial Museum yesterday. The museum had information about all the UN troops who fought in the Korean War. In one room, the Koreans have put up statistics, dates, and a uniformed soldier mannequin for each country largely represented. The US’ soldier was an African-American. I looked around at the other countries, and most were represented by the country’s majority race. But I found it incredibly intriguing that the Koreans seem to have realized that not all Americans are white…something I find many other countries struggle with understanding about us.