I've just gotten back from Malaysia and, due to the ridiculous number of assignments I have to do and obligatory events I have to attend in the next few days, I am being forced to allocate my time in ways that aren't really ideal. Therefore, I'm posting my blog I wrote for class discussion this week. Though this is definitely one of our more relaxed assignments, I haven't really done this double-posting thing thus far because I don't like censoring myself for my teacher and the program donors (not that I do a great job) and I really don't enjoy having to stretch the story to tie it back into the insanely abstract readings we have done for class. Plus, I always feel like I have to put a tacky little bow on these kinds of things but now that I think of it, maybe I don't and maybe that's just a personal shortcoming. But regardless, I thought this was one of the less-obstructed entries and I don't want to have to miss out on writing about other neat things that are coming up. It doesn't even hint at the funniest or weirdest parts of the trip but I suppose I can't give away all my stories just yet. So like always, hope it doesn't smell too funny. In case it does, I'll post some cool pictures below tomorrow to compensate. Oh, and just as a brief preface: Malaysia is just north of Singapore and markedly larger in size and with many more natural resources. They are definitely still a developing country though, as opposed to their clean, modern neighbors. Singapore was actually part of Malaysia for about two years beginning in 1963, but there weren't quite enough square meters of land to contain the big egos and divergent policies of the head political leaders so come 1965, LKY was forced to take Singapore and break away from Malaysia once again to try to fend for themselves. When you consider that the two were actually one and the same less than fifty years ago and now Singapore is full of skyscrapers and science labs while Malaysia is full of monkeys, cows, trash, and shacks, the difference between the two becomes that much more incredible.
Anyway, with wishes of love and Air-Con for all of you,
Lacy
About three years ago as my family and I were sitting at the supper table, my brother told us about his English class earlier that morning, a story that was bound to be pretty interesting if the event managed to keep him awake at nine in the morning. He said the teacher had them form a circle outside, turned on Music by Madonna, and told them to start walking. Confused but passive, the group walked around for about 30 seconds when the teacher broke the confused mutterings with a loud whisper: “Listen!” Everyone was walking at the exact same beat; the group was marching.
I have a morbid keenness of messing up teachers’ little experiments like this, of being able to think (or appear to think) one step ahead, so I stored this little anecdote away for the next year when I would inevitably have the same kooky English teacher as did my brother. We never did do the activity, perhaps Mrs. Folger sensed its certain doom, but I know for sure that I would’ve fallen into the same trap had I not been warned. After that, I caught myself matching other’s footsteps in school, at the mall, even while racing. I’m no psychologist but I think there are some pretty obvious implications of this innocent high school stunt. People like to be comfortable, to know what is coming, to have some kind a sense of stability and belonging. We discussed in class the ‘national order of things,’ an idea that proposed that people were oftentimes collectively classified by maps, censuses, and museums. This idea of homogenizing, of boxing up and labeling a group of assumedly unique individuals, is crude to say the least, yet how can I declare it as such when even my own unconscious refuses to march offbeat? It’s no surprise then that stereotyping is something I struggle with; my brain functions in a fairly logical manner and I constantly taking for shortcuts and tangents in search of the most efficient way of completing whatever task. I watched the movie Up in the Air with George Clooney a few months ago and there was a scene in which my dear friend Mr. Clooney hopped behind an Asian in the security line at the airport because they “pack light, travel efficiently, and have a thing for slide-on shoes.” It’s nothing to be particularly proud of, but I could definitely relate with the approach.
This trip in general has challenged me to slow down a bit, to appreciate the complexities of human creations like culture and religion (**Disclaimer: the fact that I believe the rituals and rules of various religions are often susceptible to secular politics and sometimes plain, old human error or egos [hence the term ‘man-made’] doesn’t mean that I don’t have faith of my own). Still, the struggle continues and during our five-day trip to Malaysia, I found myself back in the habit. I formed an opinion of Malaysians rather brashly in the beginning, I think. Our reception to the Malaysian homestay was…interesting to say the least. The flash and glitter and agenda of the whole ordeal was unexpected and, in all honesty, made me quite uncomfortable. Later that night the daughter of our homestay family took Sam, Kavya, and I all out to the fairgrounds, a local hangout full of teenagers on holiday with open-air markets and a projection of the World Cup. The homestay daughter warned us that the boys there “are not used to…” and nodded toward us, assumedly referring to the fact that the majority of the Malay population is Muslim. After such a warm, if dramatic, welcome like the one we had this morning, I wasn’t really worried. Ten minutes later I was dying to get home. The stares and comments were blatant and every time I spoke to anyone outside our little group, I was laughed at. Kids ran up to me and would do some sort of performance only to scuttle back under a tent again to yet another round of laughter from the 'adults.' I’m not sure what was being said or what exactly was so amusing (though I have my suspicions), but it took its toll on me after a while and I felt so terribly embarrassed, even violated. As a consequence of these experiences coupled with a general lack of sleep and building frustration I had with other components of the trip, I was ready to leave.
It wasn’t until I got out for my run on Saturday morning that I had a change of heart. I rolled out of bed pissed off, sick of dressing ‘modestly’ when I apparently was going to be gaped at regardless of what I wore, so I ditched my long, thick men’s’ basketball shorts, threw on some racing shorts and a t-shirt, and went out for a run in a city where most women are all but completely covered. Childish rebellion is not flattering, I know, but I discovered something pretty amazing regardless. Irregular sidewalks that appeared and dissolved every ten seconds and a seemingly sporadic city layout led to my being hopelessly lost with only about 20 minutes of breathing room before I would miss my dear, sweet breakfast and another 30 would get me left behind all together (or at least scolded). I got up the courage to ask a few bellboys monitoring a hotel entrance for directions, pointing at the picture and address of the Hotel Rivera on my room card I had carried with me. Not only did they give me directions, but one of the men offered to ask off of work for 15 minutes to ride behind me on his moped in order to ensure I got back safely. I declined of course, but I was taken aback at his kindness to a kid who outwardly didn’t have the respect for his culture to at least wear some decent clothes. I took off in the opposite direction (told you I was lost) and headed for the hotel. I was a bit disoriented a few more times and stopped a couple more times to ask for help in getting my bearings and each time I was met with nothing but benevolence. One fellow even physically walked me out to the median of the road and pointed out the top of The Riviera. (**Disclaimer [is this even the right word for this? Whatever.]: All this running about and talking to strange men was reasonably safe as it we were in the middle of town and there were plenty of people about. So don't worry, Mom.)
I had a lot of thinking to do on the way home and I sat staring out the window for the first four or so hours just trying to untangle my thoughts. How could I be treated so offensively (or at least feel that way) one day and with such compassion the next? I suppose I could have charted it down for regional variations and moved on, but that wasn’t really a very satisfying conclusion. Then I thought back to my brother’s English class. Whenever we are thrown into a group, we as human beings tend to act a bit curiously. Whether it be singing crazily on a long bus ride to Disney songs or gawking at people who look differently, people tend to act abnormally when they are (sheltered?) in a big group. Perhaps this is connected with why we are so susceptible to the influence of government policies and advertisements and museums and even stereotypes on our self-identification; we feel as if it is proper, even natural, to do and be these things that are thrown at us. How could fifty million Elvis fans be wrong? Still, at the end of the day each of us is an individual – the embodiment of everything opposite of the static confinements of definition by census statistics or dated objects in a museum. Sure the homestay reception was a bit off, but the compassion shown toward Sam, Kavya, and I by our 'Abba' and 'Ma' was genuine. In the same light, the chasm between ‘them’ and ‘us’ was clear when we three encountered hundreds of stares in the late-night market, but when I spoke to a Malaysian to try to find my way back to the hotel on Saturday morning, I was just a kid who needed help getting home. There was truth in each of these experiences, absolutely, but only slivers of it.
And now I come full circle, realizing that my tendency toward ‘efficiency’ (in the nicest terms) is faulty and deceptive in so many ways when used under the wrong circumstances. It would be nice to be able to categorize everything; life would be a lot simpler and I would never have to take any test other than multiple-choice ever again. Ah! Still, a homogeneous depiction of culture is artificial and presents a false sense of confidence that is liable to bring one even further from the elusive Truth, whatever the heck is. During the orientation for this trip, we half-jokingly listed American culture as being composed of cell phones, McDonald's, boyfriends, shopping, and ponies. Though I am admittedly pretty fond of horses, my and most of my friends' personal values actually oppose most of these stereotypical American staples to some extent (or at least the idea of any of them as ‘necessities’). Still, I would never claim to be anything but American. These thoughts are a bit disjointed, I know, but I guess I’m trying to say that I am guilty of this ‘boxing up’ of culture based on majorities and masses rather than placing my focus on the individual lives and perspectives that ultimately make up the Malay culture (or any other culture for that matter). I am thankful I will have the opportunity to visit Malaysia again in a few weeks, and hopefully this time I can approach the experience armed with a bit more wisdom.
Anyway, with wishes of love and Air-Con for all of you,
Lacy
About three years ago as my family and I were sitting at the supper table, my brother told us about his English class earlier that morning, a story that was bound to be pretty interesting if the event managed to keep him awake at nine in the morning. He said the teacher had them form a circle outside, turned on Music by Madonna, and told them to start walking. Confused but passive, the group walked around for about 30 seconds when the teacher broke the confused mutterings with a loud whisper: “Listen!” Everyone was walking at the exact same beat; the group was marching.
I have a morbid keenness of messing up teachers’ little experiments like this, of being able to think (or appear to think) one step ahead, so I stored this little anecdote away for the next year when I would inevitably have the same kooky English teacher as did my brother. We never did do the activity, perhaps Mrs. Folger sensed its certain doom, but I know for sure that I would’ve fallen into the same trap had I not been warned. After that, I caught myself matching other’s footsteps in school, at the mall, even while racing. I’m no psychologist but I think there are some pretty obvious implications of this innocent high school stunt. People like to be comfortable, to know what is coming, to have some kind a sense of stability and belonging. We discussed in class the ‘national order of things,’ an idea that proposed that people were oftentimes collectively classified by maps, censuses, and museums. This idea of homogenizing, of boxing up and labeling a group of assumedly unique individuals, is crude to say the least, yet how can I declare it as such when even my own unconscious refuses to march offbeat? It’s no surprise then that stereotyping is something I struggle with; my brain functions in a fairly logical manner and I constantly taking for shortcuts and tangents in search of the most efficient way of completing whatever task. I watched the movie Up in the Air with George Clooney a few months ago and there was a scene in which my dear friend Mr. Clooney hopped behind an Asian in the security line at the airport because they “pack light, travel efficiently, and have a thing for slide-on shoes.” It’s nothing to be particularly proud of, but I could definitely relate with the approach.
This trip in general has challenged me to slow down a bit, to appreciate the complexities of human creations like culture and religion (**Disclaimer: the fact that I believe the rituals and rules of various religions are often susceptible to secular politics and sometimes plain, old human error or egos [hence the term ‘man-made’] doesn’t mean that I don’t have faith of my own). Still, the struggle continues and during our five-day trip to Malaysia, I found myself back in the habit. I formed an opinion of Malaysians rather brashly in the beginning, I think. Our reception to the Malaysian homestay was…interesting to say the least. The flash and glitter and agenda of the whole ordeal was unexpected and, in all honesty, made me quite uncomfortable. Later that night the daughter of our homestay family took Sam, Kavya, and I all out to the fairgrounds, a local hangout full of teenagers on holiday with open-air markets and a projection of the World Cup. The homestay daughter warned us that the boys there “are not used to…” and nodded toward us, assumedly referring to the fact that the majority of the Malay population is Muslim. After such a warm, if dramatic, welcome like the one we had this morning, I wasn’t really worried. Ten minutes later I was dying to get home. The stares and comments were blatant and every time I spoke to anyone outside our little group, I was laughed at. Kids ran up to me and would do some sort of performance only to scuttle back under a tent again to yet another round of laughter from the 'adults.' I’m not sure what was being said or what exactly was so amusing (though I have my suspicions), but it took its toll on me after a while and I felt so terribly embarrassed, even violated. As a consequence of these experiences coupled with a general lack of sleep and building frustration I had with other components of the trip, I was ready to leave.
It wasn’t until I got out for my run on Saturday morning that I had a change of heart. I rolled out of bed pissed off, sick of dressing ‘modestly’ when I apparently was going to be gaped at regardless of what I wore, so I ditched my long, thick men’s’ basketball shorts, threw on some racing shorts and a t-shirt, and went out for a run in a city where most women are all but completely covered. Childish rebellion is not flattering, I know, but I discovered something pretty amazing regardless. Irregular sidewalks that appeared and dissolved every ten seconds and a seemingly sporadic city layout led to my being hopelessly lost with only about 20 minutes of breathing room before I would miss my dear, sweet breakfast and another 30 would get me left behind all together (or at least scolded). I got up the courage to ask a few bellboys monitoring a hotel entrance for directions, pointing at the picture and address of the Hotel Rivera on my room card I had carried with me. Not only did they give me directions, but one of the men offered to ask off of work for 15 minutes to ride behind me on his moped in order to ensure I got back safely. I declined of course, but I was taken aback at his kindness to a kid who outwardly didn’t have the respect for his culture to at least wear some decent clothes. I took off in the opposite direction (told you I was lost) and headed for the hotel. I was a bit disoriented a few more times and stopped a couple more times to ask for help in getting my bearings and each time I was met with nothing but benevolence. One fellow even physically walked me out to the median of the road and pointed out the top of The Riviera. (**Disclaimer [is this even the right word for this? Whatever.]: All this running about and talking to strange men was reasonably safe as it we were in the middle of town and there were plenty of people about. So don't worry, Mom.)
I had a lot of thinking to do on the way home and I sat staring out the window for the first four or so hours just trying to untangle my thoughts. How could I be treated so offensively (or at least feel that way) one day and with such compassion the next? I suppose I could have charted it down for regional variations and moved on, but that wasn’t really a very satisfying conclusion. Then I thought back to my brother’s English class. Whenever we are thrown into a group, we as human beings tend to act a bit curiously. Whether it be singing crazily on a long bus ride to Disney songs or gawking at people who look differently, people tend to act abnormally when they are (sheltered?) in a big group. Perhaps this is connected with why we are so susceptible to the influence of government policies and advertisements and museums and even stereotypes on our self-identification; we feel as if it is proper, even natural, to do and be these things that are thrown at us. How could fifty million Elvis fans be wrong? Still, at the end of the day each of us is an individual – the embodiment of everything opposite of the static confinements of definition by census statistics or dated objects in a museum. Sure the homestay reception was a bit off, but the compassion shown toward Sam, Kavya, and I by our 'Abba' and 'Ma' was genuine. In the same light, the chasm between ‘them’ and ‘us’ was clear when we three encountered hundreds of stares in the late-night market, but when I spoke to a Malaysian to try to find my way back to the hotel on Saturday morning, I was just a kid who needed help getting home. There was truth in each of these experiences, absolutely, but only slivers of it.
And now I come full circle, realizing that my tendency toward ‘efficiency’ (in the nicest terms) is faulty and deceptive in so many ways when used under the wrong circumstances. It would be nice to be able to categorize everything; life would be a lot simpler and I would never have to take any test other than multiple-choice ever again. Ah! Still, a homogeneous depiction of culture is artificial and presents a false sense of confidence that is liable to bring one even further from the elusive Truth, whatever the heck is. During the orientation for this trip, we half-jokingly listed American culture as being composed of cell phones, McDonald's, boyfriends, shopping, and ponies. Though I am admittedly pretty fond of horses, my and most of my friends' personal values actually oppose most of these stereotypical American staples to some extent (or at least the idea of any of them as ‘necessities’). Still, I would never claim to be anything but American. These thoughts are a bit disjointed, I know, but I guess I’m trying to say that I am guilty of this ‘boxing up’ of culture based on majorities and masses rather than placing my focus on the individual lives and perspectives that ultimately make up the Malay culture (or any other culture for that matter). I am thankful I will have the opportunity to visit Malaysia again in a few weeks, and hopefully this time I can approach the experience armed with a bit more wisdom.
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