A little while back a friend told me about an absolutely pointless but amazing tumblr called “Am I Beyonce Yet?” The title kind of sums up the entire blog, which documents the user waking up every morning and affirming that she isn’t Queen Bey…yet. Before this goes any further let’s both lean in closer to each other and confess that we all have had days where we wish we were living Beyonce’s life and not our own. Personally, I tend to pine for a Freaky Friday switch with Bey on bad hair days, when I watch that moment in her “Drunk in Love” video when she does that freaking awesome arm and hip twirl to ankle kick dancey thing, or that one time I foolishly thought I could pull off naming my future offspring colors. Beyonce, to use her own word, is flawless. The great appeal is that while her celebrity makes her someone to talk about, recently it seems everything she does isn’t just fodder for gossip magazines, it’s actual news. I’m referring to her knocking multiple socks off at Obama’s Inauguration Address a few years back, her restructuring of the music industry through her unannounced new album, and her not so subtle stance on feminism. Yeah, it would be cool to strut in Beyonce’s shoes but for most of us all we can do is dream on. Except–and let’s just suspend reality for a moment–what if you did, as the tumblr hoped, woke up one day as Beyonce?
I didn’t exactly fall asleep and wake up as a femme tour de force. For me, it took a little longer than that. Precisely, it took a move across the world, a thirteen hour time difference and a job in the Peace Corps to transform me into a diva. I have been living at my permanent site here in Indonesia for almost three months now, and I have to say, it is like no life experience I have ever encountered previously. I could wax poetic on the conglomerate of religion and culture here, my first few experiences slaughtering small animals, the incredible people I am surrounded by, or the suffocating heat. And I will at some point, certainly. These wonderful, frustrating, fantastic, sob inducing experiences are very fresh, staccato like nudges in my mind that I live on the edge of my comfort zone every single day here. The more constant, daily reminder of this is that I’m kind of a small town celebrity, and what I do and say isn’t just something to flip through in the market produce line. I’m real news too.
The first indicator of my newfound fame was the slip n’ slide sized banner with my face on it at my new school. The second was the ceremony that followed. This shindig was complete with a heartfelt, karaoke edition of Josh Groban’s “You Raise Me Up” sung by my teaching counterpart, as well as the final parting of the crowds to reveal my new host family. I in turn, felt obligated to speak/sing the requested ballad “I’m Yours” to show my appreciation for such a turn out. And people were losing their minds.
I kind of anticipated making a few waves moving here. It’s to be expected when someone so strange and foreign just kind of pops up without warning. The town is gonna talk. For many of my neighbors and community members, I am the first bule (foreigner, white person) they have ever met. The range of emotion people feel when seeing or meeting me for the first time is extreme. Children will generally cry, or freak out and then cry. I was recently mistaken by an elderly woman for a ghost. In general, everyone is speechless at first, and then they sort of shake themselves out of shock to ask me five things: where am I going, what is my religion, what is my marital status, can I eat rice, and am I happy here. I have become a pro at these mini press conferences (Beyonce would be proud). The initial excitement over my arrival I understand, but I didn’t believe my fifteen minutes of fame would, or even could have lasted this long.
It is a strange feeling to be celebrated for being a bule. I didn’t win any competition, I am not a world class athlete or performer. I have not organized a protest against a corrupt government, nor taken a bullet standing up for my beliefs. Heck, I didn’t even make a sex tape (looking at you Kim Kardashian…not like that would be allowed in Indo anyway). But celebrated I am. I have received a constant barrage of social invitations to festivals, parades, soccer games and ceremonies. Who knew I would join the Peace Corps and become a quasi socialite? With all the showering of praise and appreciative comments from my fellow community members it is easy to get caught up in the glamour of it all. As I have learned though, it is dangerous to start buying into your own hype, mainly because you start to believe it. I am all for a healthy self esteem, but crossing that line by accepting everyone singing your praises as a fact rather than opinion is exactly what Carly Simon was crooning about too. And there are so many moments where my vanity must be checked at the door here. Because although my community wants to make everything about me, it is my job to make everything about them. I am here, quite simply, for everyone else. Easy to say on the internet, but an oh so hard thing to put into practice.
Being the shameless student and goody two shoes that I am I have put into action all the habits and suggestions Peace Corps recommended during training. Maybe I was hoping I would get a gold star for my efforts. I have thrown myself into participating in community events, and saying yes to activities that I know will make me uncomfortable and put me outside my comfort zone. I visit my neighbors and fellow teachers in their homes. I have lost count of how many fish heads I have eaten to make the Ibus happy.
For all that I put into my community and for all I have already been given in return, I am still on the outside looking in. It can be exhausting explaining day in and day out what I am about. I am an American, yes. I am a white female, yes. I like to run on my own but that doesn’t necessarily make me “very, very, very brave”. I know how to wash my clothes by hand. No, I do not like bakso. No, I cannot marry your son. Yes, I love Indonesia. I have become my own walking, talking Wikipedia stat page, an open book for everyone to read and analyze. It is not an easy thing to do, always affirming for others who I am, especially when I myself am still trying to figure that out. It can be lonely in the spotlight. Beyonce might as well have been singing “if you were a bule I think that you’d understand”…
The upside to all this unwarranted attention is twofold: First, I have uncovered vast reserves of patience I never knew I had. The second is all the free fruit swag. To the people of Indonesia: a sincere thank you to all of you who bring me baskets of my favorite fruits and then sit and watch me eat it every week. You make my life more delicious.
Not even the tastiest mango though can turn my more difficult moments sweet. There have been times–and here I have to be honest–where I wish I was someplace else. Mainly, back stateside. Because life in a culture you grew up in and know so well is so easy! Nobody questions what you eat, wear, or do. I do not need to convince you that I am not sad just because I am sitting by myself reading a book. I do not need to give a speech every time I participate in a social activity. But to have these difficult conversations has tended to bring about a much deeper satisfaction, something I didn’t experience in America. In short, the tough stuff has (so far) brought me the greatest joy in the long run.
This is where the patience comes in. A few days ago, I found myself sitting in a stranger’s house in a room full of people speaking Javanese (a language I do not, probably will not ever understand). I wasn’t sure what was going on, and I had no idea when it would be over. A few months ago this would have made me mad. I would have been frustrated that this seemingly endless afternoon was pointless as I couldn’t understand what was being said. I would have been irked because people kept pointing at me and sneaking photos of me on their cell phones. I would have thought that I had better, more productive things I could be doing. That was me three months ago. The me now is completely unperturbed. I sat there for four hours chatting while hardly understanding what was being said. I ate a handful of homemade coconut candies to make the host happy. It was a very pleasant afternoon.
What I have recognized as of late is this, and it seems so obvious but still: the only thing you can control is your attitude. This is such a bland thing to say. It’s the kind of generic phrase one might find on Pinterest set against a photograph of a sunset or something equally dumb. It is a universal truth I would have written off three months ago as being overused and cliche. Not so now.
Patience, it seems, is the source through which I can carry myself with grace through the Peace Corps. It is what helps me keep my cool when people follow me on their motorbikes yelling “hey mister” and it is why I’m okay explaining why I’m not married over and over again. Patience has helped me stop caring so much about the little grievances and refocus on the big picture. I could be aggravated that there are teachers at my school who want to bust my chops for not teaching as many hours as the others (Peace Corps rules, sorry). Instead I choose to appreciate the teachers who are passionate about their students’ education and all my amazing kids who are so excited to learn.
My new found fame comes with a lot of responsibility in terms of sharing a small piece of my old world with this new one. It’s hard. It is hard to break open your heart and let everyone in, even when you don’t think you can, or want to give anymore of yourself to the experience at hand. The great George Saunders once wrote that we must live our lives “so open that it hurts, world without end, amen” and that truly is what I must do here. All it takes is all I’ve got to have a good day in the Peace Corps. And when I am absolutely depleted well, that’s what the Oreos sequestered in my room are for. I’ve grown up a lot these past few months, and my skin has gotten thicker. I’ve adopted a potentially annoying zen attitude of “que sera sera”. The secret is to be patient and give it all you’ve got. I’m happier living my life this way, because when it’s good here, it’s great. Maybe that’s Beyonce’s secret too. She just does it in a leotard.
* I apologize for not posting in a while, I didn’t have consistent enough Internet for an update! I miss you all very much. Do me a favor and eat a bagel for me. Appreciate that hot shower. Hug all the loved ones who are physically in your vicinity right and know that I am sending my love to you all across the ocean.
rootsandfernweh 