Libraries and Books

I have an addiction.

   It's plagued me since childhood and I think it's time to tell the world that I can't stop and I can't give it up.  There have been enablers throughout the disease: my parents, my friends, even the occasional librarian.  At an early age my parents cut off financial support for my addiction but the encouragement did not wane.  Through the years it's been my route to friends and clubs, boring those who didn't share my interest and leading me to rare fellow addicts who, like me, cannot get enough of our high.  My affliction is this: I am addicted to the written word.

   My love affair with books began as soon as I  became literate, likely the reason I have such terrible eyesight.  I would read past bedtime under the covers with a flashlight (Sorry Mom, thought now I am sure you already knew) and by the third grade I was allowed to take out three books instead of the standard two from the school library.  Ah, books.  Just the thought of good literature puts a smile on my face and relaxation in my bones.  I am convinced that the human race is not doomed as long as my favorite authors circle the world in a cycle of publishing, lending, and pirating.  Even now, when I have confessed my sins of constant reading, sometimes to the neglect of homework or dinner, to share my passion of books makes me want to have a conversation instead of this one-sided blog - just to see what everyone is reading!

  And in honor of books, because everyone should have as much assess to the written word as possible, and also because the school director at my site asked me for some help, I have started a Library/Meeting Room Project to finish off my service (YAY!). 

   The project started as a library project.  After meeting with the school director he showed me a room with a pitiful stand of books that the students are able to read and asked if there was anything I could do.  There was.  As part of the project, we are remodeling a room at the school: adding tiles to the floor, paint to the walls, tables and bookshelves along with benches and tables, and then filling the whole place with BOOKS!
   The project also has a sporting aspect because some kids just aren't into books, but that doesn't mean they can't utilize the space! So instead of checking out books, students more interested in soccer can check out soccer balls and other equipment from the room and use it as well.  One of the coolest parts of this project (I think) is that the kids are going to have some input as to what reading material gets purchased for their library.  Because they are going to be the ones using it, so why shouldn't they determine what goes in it?!

To check out my status, see how awesome this project is, donate, or spread the word, check out the link below:

O but wait! The link is already disabled because the incredible Ancilla Sisters Domini have funded the whole project! A special thank you to the Sisters for being so generous, willing, and able to help some kids get some books.  An additional special thank you to Superdad for his help and support, and Ali Bickel who donated too many books for me to be able to bring back to Cambodia!

Let's get this project started!

And may you always have good reading material on hand (email me for suggestions)
xo-Amanda

Surface Assumptions

   Back home in the States, one of the most common questions I get (got?) was about my ethnicity.  Almost directly after asking for my name, I get asked a lot about my heritage.  Amused, I almost always ask the person to guess because I am interested in what other people think I look like (based solely on the fact that I get asked this question a lot).  Without fail, most people guess a combination of things and usually that combination includes an Asian guess.  Commonly included have been Japanese, Chinese, Filipina, and even Eskimo (they were serious).  After a lifetime of responses I have concluded that no one in America can tell the difference between Asians.  Just kidding. But seriously. 

   One of the best things about America (and there are ever so many), in my opinion, is the diversity. 

Earlier I had said that barang meant “foreigner.”  I was actually kind of wrong about that; directly translated, barang means “Frenchman,” but Khmer people use it as a general term for “Western-looking person.”  When people call me a barang, I say “No, I’m American,” because if I am going to be referred to as a foreigner with a nationality, it is going to be as the kind of nationality I have, thankyouverymuch. 

   When I first arrived in Cambodia I was so offended when people said this to me, and considered it extremely rude.  I think this is largely because something like this is entirely unacceptable in America (we call it “racism”).  But in a homogeneous society where everyone looks very similar (i.e. has the same stature, generally the same face shape, eye color, hair color, etc), it’s easy to spot “outsiders”: they are simply anyone who does not look like everyone else in the country.  Growing up in the States, no matter where you are from, though likely more so in cities, exposure to different types of cultures is inevitable, and along with those cultures comes diversity in faces, skin color, language, food, and other aspects of daily life.  Moving to Cambodia was a shock in the sense that instead of walking outside and encountering 7 different types of people in a 5 minute walk down the street to 4 different choices of food types, I encounter one culture, one food type, and one face type on a daily basis (what I wouldn’t do for some Mexican or Greek food right now, trust me.)

   In the beginning, when I didn’t speak a lot of Khmer, I couldn’t understand what was being said to me after the initial surprised look upon seeing my face.  Now I know that mostly what Khmer people say to me upon meeting me is moak doyk Khmer, or something like, “Khmer face.”  It happens All. The. Time. 

   It’s an interesting experience because not only am I not Khmer, I have no Asian ancestry that I know of, nor does anyone in my family ever get this kind of response (in America).  However, Khmer people think that I look Khmer or Chinese, and Thai people think I look Thai. This generally leaves me in an awkward place; I am not Khmer, and do not speak fluent, correct Khmer, but I am not wholly a barang (in Khmer eyes) because I have a nationals’ face but barang skin.  Sometimes though, I am mistaken for a Khmer person and often blend in.  I am quite literally stuck between two worlds.  

Let me recount some interesting (but not singular) instances:

   I was at Amber’s house in Kampong Chhnang working on the ANC Project, and I met her host mom who immediately commented on my Khmer-looking face (Shocker).  Later that day, during the evening meal, she gestured to my hands and told me I had Khmer hands because clearly I worked with them.  Then she gestured to Amber’s hands and told me her hands were American because clearly she did not work with them. 

   She made me laugh but she also revealed what she thought about Americans: mainly that we don’t work like Khmer people do.  Granted, manual labor has never been one of my after-school or summer jobs, and I don’t work over a stove all day (or ever) like a lot of Khmer women, but I like to think that I and my brethren work very hard.  Also, I wondered, what is it that we’re doing here? Vacationing?

   When Diana visited we were in Thailand for a few days and during the last day we went to see a golden Buddha.  While there, a Thai man commented to Diana and I that we had the same face (we get told that we look alike A LOT).  We nodded, as we generally do.  Then he proceeded to tell me that I had a Thai face.  

Really?  Did Diana? No.

How does that even work?

The same thing happened at my site.  When my host mom and grandmother met Diana they told me that we looked a lot alike but that I had a Khmer face and Diana did not.  Great, because that makes complete sense. 

   Having been asked a lot about my heritage in America, and having been told that I look Khmer and Thai and Chinese in this part of the world, I have come to realize that the questions are asked (or stated) with different intentions.  In America it’s more a curiosity; a question designed to pinpoint a facial feature, perhaps.  My ethnically ambiguous face doesn’t stand out in a place where diversity is the rule rather than the exception.  It’s interesting (beauty does that to people) but in the sense that it’s a small-talk conversation topic and not much more.  In Asia, Khmer people telling me that I look Chinese means something else entirely.  Khmer people telling me I look Khmer when they learn I am from America means something else as well.  It’s not simple curiosity here in a place where everyone has the same face; it means something.  And not being from here, I don’t exactly know what that something is. 

   On my toury ride from Kampong Chhnang, I met a Khmer lady who (Shocked again!) exclaimed immediately upon looking at my face that I had such a Khmer face.  I nodded and told her that I get that a lot.  She asked me where I was from and I responded that the States was my place of origin.  She paused before telling me that I didn’t look American, I looked Chinese and Khmer, more Chinese than Khmer though.  “No, I’m American,” I said to her, to which she responded, “Kom jooh” (I don’t believe you).   This was new.  I considered her for a moment before asking her what, exactly, did Americans look like?  In a voice that clearly confirmed my status as an imposter, she told me that first and foremost, Americans were beautiful.

I pretended not to be insulted.

   Then I filed that tidbit away in my memory for when someone back home had a pity party.  Now now, I could reason with them, a source in Cambodia has told me that you are beautiful, and other such stuff.

She went on to describe Reese Witherspoon and other such celebrities that may have descended from the Vikings, all of them with eyes as blue as the ocean and flowing golden hair – generally towering over the rest of the population with an impressive Thor-like build. 

   I was at first a little concerned.  When I imagine home, “home” being the United States of America, which I have traveled and lived in many different cities in different parts of the country, I never imagine one type of face or body type.  Usually a few different friends and family come to mind and with them, every different eye color, hair color, body type, skin color, language and religion I can possibly envision.  Americans have the reputation of huge egos and maybe getting fat, yeah yeah, but typical “blonde hair, blue eyes” was the best she could come up with?  How disappointing.  It was at that point that I realized just how much of a difference there is between “looks” at home and “looks” in Cambodia.  In America, “beauty” has a rather broad definition and is focused a lot on the body – the media and whatnot are forever commenting on “thin” this person “fit” and “healthy,” or “overweight” such and such.  In Cambodia, people comment a lot on faces.  There are the “fat” and “skinny” identifying words or whatever but people don’t really go on about my “fat” body; they love talking about my face. 

   During another random incident, I was in the health center of my village, sitting in the ANC room with some of the midwives when a woman came in and sat down next to me, speaking rapid Khmer to the staff.  They spoke for a few minutes, she left, came back, and sat back down.  After another minute or so, she looked at me, did a double take, and exclaimed, “Ah! Barang doych Koray!” or something of the sort, pointing out that I was a foreigner and then telling me that I looked Korean.  I told her I was American.  After that, the midwives studied me, trying to decide if I looked Korean or not.  I got a 50% “yes” on that question.

Well that was new too. -Ish.

   Flying from Phnom Penh to Beijing, I sat next to this adorable older Chinese couple.  They both had US passports, which I noticed – as did a lady who sat behind us.  This lady thought that they were my grandparents and probably that we were going to see my ancestral home or something.  I thought this was hilarious (I played along – have you learned nothing about me yet?).  Actually, (I talked to them a bit) they were US citizens, but had lived in a few different places around the world and spoke better Khmer than English.  We proceeded our conversation in Khmer and via my terrible Khmer, the grandmother taught me a few words in Mandarin - of which I remember exactly one.  That was pretty cool.  Anyway, the lady thought that I was their grandchild, of Chinese descent, whereas the couple knew I was not Chinese, and because I was speaking rather rapid English to the lady behind us, thought that I knew her instead.  What a tangled web we weave, am I right?

   On the flight from Shanghai to Beijing I sat next to two American ladies conversing in French.  Not thirty minutes into the flight, one of them turned to me and asked, “What’s ‘Mickey Mouse’ in Chinese?”

   At that moment I was suddenly hit with two simultaneous thoughts.  The first thought was an immediate worry that the face I see in the mirror (at least once a week) is not the face that the rest of the world sees, a notion which (despite endless inquiries about the ethnic ambiguity of my face throughout my life) had never occurred to me before.  The second thought was that “Mickey Mouse” in Mandarin was the sort of common knowledge that everyone should know-akin to knowing that Paris is the capital of France or that Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel-an example of something prime missing from my childhood education (and if this was the case, then what else had I missed; the story of Father Christmas in Swedish? the origins of the Easter Bunny?!).

“I don’t know” I said to her.

She didn’t even pause, “Is it *insert-Mandarin-sounding-word-here*?”

The look on my face was blanker than a Khmer person’s when I speak English. “I don’t know” I repeated. 

She gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me and turned back to her friend. 

   I have never met anyone in all of my travels who would not willingly translate a small word or phrase if they were asked and spoke both languages and was offended that she thought that I would not share information like that if I had known it.  What was I supposed to do? I really don’t know anything in Mandarin except for “hello” and thank you”, both of which I may or may not mispronounce unintentionally at every opportunity.  People aren’t just mean like that, and despite the fact that we were in China, she was surrounded by people from the tour group.  Not only that, I’m not Chinese.  Wonder of wonders that she should meet someone on an airplane surrounded by a tour group who, like her, doesn’t speak Mandarin. 

   It wasn’t until she gave me that look that it dawned on me that she thought there was Chinese in me and by default of my Chinese-looking face, I must speak Mandarin. 

   Thus the lessons.  What all of this has taught me is nothing about my looks and everything about assumptions.  People assume so many things based on my looks; that I’m Khmer, that I’m a Japanese/Eskimo combination, that I speak Mandarin.  It was funny in the beginning, and I play around with it when I get the chance, but mostly, when these things happen (and boy do they happen) I get a little twinge of homesickness, and I think of “home” the US, where I do get the question of my ancestry a lot.  It’s just curiosity though, and whoever asks it is asking with interest how my face was assembled – which backgrounds came together to make me.  The idea of questioning whether or not I am American is never even an idea. 

   The truth of it is that it doesn’t matter what my ethnicity is.  I had thought about owning up to it on this blog, but after composing a small paragraph, I read it over and thought to myself, who cares?  It’s not important.  You know what’s important? -Health messages that I attempt to pass on to my village, encouraging basic and continuing education, spreading knowledge of my own country to these people and their culture to my own.  The whole point of this blog post is that it boils down to two questions: Why does it matter if I look Khmer or if I don’t? Would my message mean less if I were Khmer? 

And I think that is a huge reason Peace Corps is important.  To spread the idea that the message, the knowledge, the learning is what is important, not the vehicle that is used to spread it. 

But if you ask me where I am from, I am still going to say “America,” and if you ask me about my heritage, I am still going to ask you to guess first.  After all, I might as well have some fun with my face, and get a story out of it. 

xo-Amanda