Monday, October 27, 2008

Anglicans

Well, it's been a busy ten days! On Oct. 17, here at our church, we had an ordination service for a young man whose family are members of this parish. He graduated from seminary a few years ago, and according to the system, served as an intern for a year or two, then was ordained as a deacon. After another two years' service, he was ready to be ordained priest. The whole town turned out the night before to butcher a pig and a cow and to cook the feast for all the visitors. Women don't help with butchering, luckily for me, I just helped peel vegetables, and wrap half-cooked rice in banana leaves to be steamed in little packets as a snack food for in-between meals. On the big day, the Bishop arrived early, and all the priests from nearby parishes. We served breakfast and lunch for the VIP's in our kitchen, while everybody else ate out in the yard. It was a lot of fun, but tiring, too.

Then there was a break on Saturday, then the usual three services on Sunday. On Tuesday, we went to Sagada for the funeral of one of the former Bishops of the church. He had been a special mentor of Dan's and was widely respected and known. Since it wasn't at our house, we just had to attend. He had been a leader of the whole Province of the Philippines, so all the serving and retired Bishops came for his funeral. With a lot of pomp and circumstance, his ashes were buried right beneath the altar of the Sagada church, as he had requested.

Thursday was the Consecration of a new Bishop. The Prime Bishop of the Episcopal Church in the Philippines plans to retire next year, so they elected a successor for him, who is now the Bishop of this diocese. So this diocese elected a new Diocesan Bishop at its last Convention, and he was consecrated by all the Bishops in another giant service, this one at the Cathedral in Bontoc. This service had a program afterwards with many presentations, including a song by the clergy spouses fellowship, of which yours truly is a member. We also danced to the traditional music provided by our spouses.

Not exhausted enough yet? Saturday was a wedding of the children of two priests, one of whom is a distant relative of Dan's. This time, only three Bishops were present, the others having gone home. Dan and I served as Sponsors, kind of like godparents at a baptism. You have to stand up and promise to support the young couple in their marriage. And then, surprise! Another feast!

So I have eaten an awful lot of boiled pork and boiled beef with fried noodles for the side dish this month! And danced and sung and worshiped more than usual, too. One of the perks of being married to a clergyman is that you get to attend more life cycle rituals than most people do. Especially when you don't know the people, it's a chance to reflect on life and life changes. I have also been reflecting on the differences between this tradition and the Congregational churches I was raised in. For somebody who had hardly ever heard of Bishops, I sure have a lot of them in my social circle now! And incense and wine in the communion, not to mention the use of about four different languages in all these services, depending on which part of the Bible is read, and which songs are chosen. I've decided that when it comes to ecumenicity, I'm a "grass is always greener" Christian. When I'm in a place like Nepal where worship services are very spontaneous, I'm in favor of more liturgical practice. Then when I come to a high church tradition like they have here, I'm all for spontaneity! Never satisfied, that's me.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Kathmandu

So there I was, a typical college student in Southern California. I was studying French and planning to spend my junior year in France in time-honored fashion. One day, I was idly reading over the external studies page in the college handbook and noted the paragraph about the program in Nepal. "Where's that?" I wondered to myself. I pulled out the atlas and found it. The capital city is Kathmandu.

Kathmandu! Where had I heard that name before? It held all the romance of travel and mystic lands. I knew I had to grab the chance to go there.

The study abroad program was carefully structured, with three weeks of language and culture learning first, then immersion in a host family, with language study continuing.

That first night in the home of my Hindu host family, a stone house with packed dirt floors and a mosquito net above my bed required all the sense of adventure I possessed. The whole idea of an American student living all alone with a Nepali family seemed crazy. They appeared welcoming, but also dubious about their first foreign student. My few words of Nepali seemed like thin ropes to throw over such a wide chasm. Luckily, words are not all we have for communication. The mother of the family wanted to show me everything and she took my by the hand and pulled me along. Outside and behind the house, she squatted down on the ground and I squatted beside her. She was talking all the time, and gesturing at the blank walls all around us. Suddenly my stomach contracted as I realized she was urinating on the ground. She was showing me the place for that!

So I began to learn what it means to be a participant observer, and the nitty-gritty of the romance of mystic lands. That was almost thirty years ago, and the children of that family are still close friends. I guess soon I will be grandma to their grandchildren!

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Becoming a World Citizen

So how do you get started in the global life? In my case, it all started with Guyana... No one in my family had ever heard of Guyana, or had any idea where in the world it might lie, but one day Dad came home from work and told us all he had applied for a job there. What exactly motivated him to quit a Federal Government job in San Francisco and accept a post with the World Health Organization in tropical South America, I am not quite sure. Adventure? Compassion for the poor? Boredom with the routine? A little of all three, I guess.

But for me, moving to Guyana at age 13 was the opening of a door on to the wide world.

My parents were determined that we would not live in an "expatriate ghetto" in Georgetown, the capital city. I and my two younger brothers were enrolled in local, English-medium schools, to sink or swim, each on our own. The change from a California suburban public school to St. Rose's Ursuline Convent School for Girls could hardly have been more total. The girls in my class were the daughters of business and professional families in the capital, and they had never imagined that their close-knit group might be augmented by so exotic a creature as an American. Catholic, Protestant, Hindu, Muslim, with ancestors from Europe, Africa and India, they knew all about diversity, but they didn't know much about Americans, except what they saw in the few movies they were allowed to watch.

They welcomed me. They reached out and gave me the help I needed to find my way around and adjust to my new environment. It never occurred to them to exclude a newcomer or foreigner, in fact, I think they were proud that their class had got me. They taught me to eat "puri" Indian fried bread with hot chili sauce for snack time. They guided me around the school's neat paths, lined with bougainvillea, to the chapel, the library, the science lab and the playground. They invited me to join the Girl Guides.

They taught me the single most important lesson about crossing cultures: It is possible. People do it all the time. And you can expect to receive a welcome on the other side. Moreover, it is possible to learn to see the world through the lens of another culture. It may be a difficult, painful, even scary journey, but it is a part of being human to be able to move outside of one's own walls, and knock at other gates.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

cross-cultural marriage

One of the most effective ways to learn a new language and culture is to marry a speaker, or member of it. I don't recommend serial polygamy myself, I would hope that using this particular method once or twice would be enough for any one language learner, but to each his or her own! Since marriage into a new culture will be one of the recurring topics of this blog, I'd better introduce Danny, my husband since 2003. He's a priest in the Episcopal Church of the Philippines, a part of the worldwide Anglican Communion, and he is also a member of the indigenous Igorot people of the mountains of Northern Philippines. Together, we have been learning amazing things about ourselves and our home cultures, as well as the mysterious life of our spouse. He's disgusted when I pet the cat and I'm insulted when he spits on the potted plants on our veranda. He says it's a waste of time to wring out the clothes while washing them, and I say he never rinses them enough. This problem, of course could be solved quite simply by getting a washing machine, or a maid, but we have been living a fairly nomadic life since marriage, and are trying not to collect too much baggage, or too many commitments.

After our first wedding anniversary, back in 2004, I wrote the following story:

We were discussing where to go and what to do to celebrate our first wedding anniversary. After some deliberation, we decided to go to a nearby resort where they have a swimming pool and just lounge around by the pool. On the big day, I got ready, and then began a long process of waiting around for him to prepare. First there was one thing, then another, and the day wore on. Finally we were in the car, and then suddenly he said “I just want to go for an acupuncture session”. Well, that takes more than an hour! I was exasperated, but still trying to make the anniversary go well, so I just said “ok”. It was five pm before he finally started up the car and said, “well, let’s head to the resort now.” My exasperation reached a boiling point and I said waspishly, “well, it’s too late to swim now, but I guess we can see the resort, anyway.” He turned an astonished face to me and said firmly “Swimming is night time!” I was too flabbergasted to reply, so he continued, with heavy sarcasm “whaddya wanna do, swim during the DAY, when the SUN is shining?”
Um, I guess not…
It was after six when we got there, and, sure enough, there were a few teenagers in the pool. It was February, and maybe 500 to 900 meters above sea level, and I was wishing I had brought a warm sweater.But there were picnic shelters all around the pool under the trees and I realized that in May, when it’s too sweltering hot to sleep here in the tropics, people might well spend the night eating and drinking and dipping in the pool. Why didn’t somebody tell me when I married a Filipino that I should have asked “What time of day do your people swim?” But there are so many things you never thought of to ask: Where do you get dressed after you take a bath? (the living room). What is a good breakfast food? (instant Ramen noodles). Who does which household chores? (men can wash and clean, but never do grocery shopping).

Monday, October 6, 2008

Curiosity

I guess I should begin by commenting a bit on the title and tag line. It's a quote from a poem that has been one of my favorites since high school. Beginning by suggesting that curiosity is unlikely to have killed the cat, it goes on to say that actually it is lack of curiosity that will kill us. The title is "Curiosity", maybe it can be found somewhere on the web, or you can look in your high school or college English Lit. textbook. It's a poem that's deeply meaningful to me, and, I think, to anybody who leaves behind the familiar to see what's over the next hill.

Curiosity has always been one of my main motivations for quitting an old (well-known) job and getting a new one in a new, preferably exotic location. Following the example of my parents, who brought us up to be world citizens in a wide variety of previously unvisited locales, I have spent a lot of my working life moving around.

Like the time I went to live in Manhattan. I had actually visited there once before, about eight years earlier, but only for a day or two. Then, in 1995, after seven years of life in the hills in rural Nepal, in a house on a hill top with no plumbing or electricity, I was offered a job in New York, New York. Talk about culture shock! The noise in New York is horrendous. That's the first thing I remember. Then there was missing my quiet hill top with the beautiful view of the river below. My apartment in Manhattan on the 12th floor had windows that were designed only to open from the bottom, and no more than about 5 or 6 inches. You couldn't put your head out the window to breathe even what air Manhattan has to offer. My job was in a windowless cubicle on the 16th floor of another building. Sitting on a crosstown bus, or in the featureless lunch room of the office, I would think about what I had left behind and find tears running down my face. New York, of course, doesn't care about that, but I do have to say that in the whole 15 months I lived there, nobody was ever rude to me. They didn't have enough interest in me to be rude, I guess.

I spent a lot of time not really knowing what was going on, and feeling like all the expertise I had gained in Nepal was lost and useless, but looking back, I do have to say that I learned a lot there, and have found that period of my life to be a source of strength. Wish it could be otherwise, but it's really true that struggle makes us stronger!

It is my hope that this blog will become a community where people share their own stories about crossing cultures, so please weigh in with your comments!