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| My Team! |
I spend lots of time and energy trying to fit into this
culture so I can pass as a local and slip in between the crowds, get on my way
and continue unseen and unbothered. I bobble my head every time I answer a
question or address a person. My sentences always end on a high note. My dupata
hangs lightly over my shoulders doubling as both a cover and a mouth guard. I
glue my left hand to my side so as to never mistakenly use it. I even haggle
for one to two coins as if I was fighting for a fortune.
But still there are times when, no matter how hard I try to
conceal it, my American ways burst forth as if mocking my pathetic attempt at
assimilation.
There are sadly many examples of this, like when randomly
the backstreet boys pop into my head and I start doing the running man in
the middle of the market. Or when I cut off the auto driver because I am
leaning into his rearview mirror trying to fix my French Braids.
But there is one example that outdoes the rest. When all I can do is laugh and succumb to the inevitable fate of any expat …
the idea that, at the end of the day, I will always be a silly American girl
crying on the dirt floor trying to figure out how the dang lock works.
It was late on a Saturday night; I had been working weekends
trying to get caught up on the small task of learning the entire South Asian
political system. But alas I was done for the day because my brain had stopped
working, my emotions had run dry and I was craving chocolate (the ladies know
what that means.) So I shut down my computer, turned off all the lights and
went to lock the door. Simple task? Think again. This is South Asia; nothing is
simple.
So I start with the first key. It works. I move down the
door to the bottom lock ... it takes awhile but it finally turns and locks.
Then I reach up and pull down the large metal crate that covers every window
and every door of the entire city. All it requires you to do is stick the key in
the padlock, turn left, undo the lock, fit it through the crate and relock.
Fast-forward 20 minutes (Not exaggerating. I checked the
clock.) There I am sitting on the floor, shaking and rattling the padlock with
all my might, yelling at the freaking door to freaking close with my feet up
against the crate as leverage against the demon possessed padlock.
My white leggings have yielded their dignity to the muggy
and ambiguously procreating cement floor. A mom walks by and protectively
covers her children while moving past the crazy white woman as fast as she can.
And of course my overactive tear ducts let loose and my face quickly becomes
the cleanest part of my body.
Finally I give myself over to the embarrassing task of
calling one of the guy interns to come help me lock up the office. That was a
fun conversation. I never thought I had an issue with pride until mid-October
2012.
About 5 minutes later I notice a different gold lock out of
the corner of my eye hanging innocently on the door to my left. I get up, wipe
off the tears and put the key I was given into the lock.
It opens.
The end. I am silly white girl from America. Nothing I can
do about it.
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