Culture as Identity
I have traveled through many different countries and many different cultures. But, as an adult,
I have not lived in a culture different from my own for any extended period of
time. Granted, the culture of Seattle is not the same as the culture of New York
City. Nor is the culture of Los Angeles the same as that found in Maine.
Despite the fact that each of the places I have lived is made up of many
cultures, I was always comfortable making my way in them as a privileged white
person who knew how to get what I needed, spoke the language, understood the
unsaid. I fitted in. I never had to find my way. I was one of the majority who
established the culture of my country, my community. I never knew what it means
to suddenly be set down in that culture as a stranger, an immigrant, an alien. I
now live in a place in which I am a minority and must find my way in a
different culture.
Some may argue that
Yap is not all that different. The Americans came here in 1944 as invaders, the
most recent in a long line of invaders. We established the government and the
court system; instituted American currency and installed 110 volt power lines and
telecommunication services; brought young men and women to live among the
islanders as Peace Corps’ cross-cultural ambassadors; taught English and sent
missionaries and priests to convert the islanders from their traditional
beliefs; built small hotels that attract tourists from America, Germany, China and
Japan. Many islanders went to college in the United States. Some stayed on
there for better jobs, sending money home as so many immigrants do. Some
married Americans and straddled both worlds.
As I walk around
Colonia, the main municipality where I live, I am constantly reminded that I am
an outsider, a minority. Colonia, indeed the entire island, is made up of
villages. I live in the village of Nimor in the
municipality of Weloy in which the town of Colonia sits. There are no street
addresses. Everyone knows everyone else and which village they are from. Most
are related through lineage or marriage. Family and community are all
important. I was asked this week where my family lives. I replied that I do not
have any family other than a few cousins who are scattered around the United
States. “My friends are my family,” I said. The questioner, a young woman,
looked confused at first, and then sad. “Oh,” she said, “I hope you find
friends here who become your family.” I thanked her and said I was fortunate
that I had already. “That is good,” she replied.
Being in the
minority begins with the color of my skin and hair; the way I dress; my speech
patterns and temperament; my body language and facial expressions; my gestures
and even the shoes I wear and things I own. My point of reference is often
puzzling to the people with whom I work. The way I talk and things I say are
considered blunt, something that is discouraged in this place where one must
keep an even keel for fear of upsetting the status quo.
I was walking down
the road on my way to work awhile back and saw a man approaching from the
opposite direction. As we passed each other, he said, “Goodbye” as I said
“Hello.” Startled to not receive a “hello” in return, I learned later from an
American friend that “goodbye” is used when you do not have time to stop and
chat. If you have time to exchange pleasantries, “hello” is the acceptable
greeting. It is still odd to me to say “goodbye” when I pass people on the
road. I have taken to acknowledging people, stranger and acquaintance alike,
with a quick and acceptable nod of the head instead. I get a sharp nod in
return as we pass each other going to our separate destinations.
It is considered
impolite to look at a person as you speak to them. Casting your eyes to the
side, looking at the person only briefly as you talk, is the polite way of
interacting. As Americans, we are taught to look the person in the eye when
talking with them. If you agree with someone, you raise your eyebrows slightly
rather than saying “yes” or nodding in agreement. And if the other person takes
time to answer you, do not push them to respond. They are “searching the
basket,” thinking carefully about their answer. “Searching the basket” refers
to the handmade woven purses carried by every Yapese man and woman. Filled with
green betel nuts, leaf wrappers and a small bottle of powdered lime, they use
the time it takes to prepare the betel to think about their answer. I have not
taken up betel chewing, but I am learning to be patient as I wait for the
conversation to continue over the conference table. Not an easy task for a New
Yorker!
Last night, I asked
my dinner companions how they experience being a minority in this remote
island. One is an Australian woman in her 40s who is a volunteer at the
Environmental Protection Agency, the other is a young American man in his
mid-20s who is the principal of the Catholic high school. Karen has been here
for six months out of a total commitment of 18 months; Michael for more than
three years with a personal commitment to stay for several years. Karen has
felt it difficult to fit in at her office. She feels left out and ignored by
some of her colleagues. We talked about why this might happen; how volunteers
from Australia and the U.S. cycle through with no intention of staying. But we
agreed that it goes beyond that. The culture is not open. People are friendly
but reserved; some may say they appear rude or cold. Michael has invited his
neighbors into his home but he has never been invited to theirs. He said he
never would be, nor would we ever be invited to someone’s home. He once asked
bluntly if he could go out with some of the men when they go spearfishing. They
expressed surprise that he would want to go with them. “Why would you want to
do that!” they said, astonished that it would be of any interest to him. He has
yet to go with them.
We cannot ever
expect to fully understand and experience another culture. We can only watch
and listen and try to adopt some of the superficial ways of being and thinking
that we observe. Michael told us of his recent trip back home for the holidays.
He realized that he no longer felt comfortable in the culture in which he was
raised. He has changed; he is now somewhere in between, neither here nor there. I will probably never experience that type of
profound change, but I am changed by the experience of living here as a
resident.
A few months ago as I
was walking down the road toward Letty’s hair salon and clothing shop to get my
first haircut in Yap, I was concentrating on what I would tell Letty about my
styling preferences. I suddenly felt at peace. I realized that I was
at home in this town. I was comfortable in this strange land.
I was beginning to know people and many now knew me. I knew how to get around and where to get what I needed. From
that moment I was not merely a tourist stopping momentarily in between the two
weekly flights in and out. I was settling in even though I am of another place and culture.
If you are
interested in learning more about Yap, its history and people, I suggest the
following books:
- Remaking Micronesia: Discourses over Development in a Pacific Territory 1944-1982 by David Hanlon
- Micronesian Blues by Bryan Vila & Cynthia Morris
More are listed
here: http://habele.blogspot.com/2007/03/10-great-books-about-micronesia.html
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