My mother's face filled the screen as we Skyped yesterday. Her short black curls have gained several inches since I hugged her goodbye at the airport last year and now they grazed her shoulders. She wore the same square black-framed glasses that perched on the bridge of her nose and no makeup. But she looked great, as always.
"So, how is life over there?" she asked, adding, "Now that you've been in the States for over a year, is there anything you would change about your experience, any regrets about going there?"
That was a a pretty philosophical question coming from my mother, who usually showers me with advice on building a healthy relationship with God and with my food.
"Life is good," I replied after a moment. "I've learned so much here, and no, I have no regrets. None at all."
That's the truth.
***
All that certainly framed my idea of this grand country, but none of them were my original perspectives.
I think in order to form a real perspective of a place, one has to truly experience it on his or her own.
Before I came, some of my friends who were already studying in the States advised me not to hold my hopes too high, because it would only lead to disappointment. I frowned, wondering what that really meant. I promised myself I wouldn't have high expectations of my campus or the people and the culture, but it was hard not to. On the plane ride here, I couldn't prevent little nuggets of excitement from rousing my anticipation of the place.
How could I ignore the warm rush of excitement as I stepped onto the smooth white floor of Chicago O'Hare's international airport? I'd always longed to visit America, and now I was finally here. Years of waiting and wishful thinking had finally earned me a dream opportunity to study in the States. From here, I would board my next plane to Arkansas, which would be my home for the next 2 years.
The first few days in America were fun because I lived with Rob and Dina, my first American family. They were great hosts and took me around Little Rock, the capital of Arkansas. I sampled various Southern meals, which were mostly deep fried or heavily salted. The portions were way bigger than I was accustomed to, but I didn't mind. I learned the art of boxing leftovers of my platter home, which meant packing the rest of the unfinished food into a styrofoam box, and then having it for another meal.
They also brought me to Walmart to get my groceries and necessities for dorm life, because I would be moving into my dorm in a few days. Walmart welcomed me with its high ceilings, cream-colored tiled floors and wide selection of goods. I fell in love with the store right away. Where else could you get a huge box of cereal for $2? Or a stack of 4 plastic plates for $1?
When I moved into my dorm for the first time, I hugged Rob and Dina farewell and carried my belongings into the wide lobby of Baridon Hall, the dorm I was going to be living in for the next two semesters. I'd signed up for dorm life because I wanted to experience it. Despite several negative comments about dorm life, I was eager to form my own perceptions of it.
So, I moved into my unit (it was called a suite, but not the grand penthouse suite its name invokes, unfortunately) which consisted of a plain living room with a couple of dull brown sofas, a shared bathroom with two sinks and a toilet and a shower cube, and two bedrooms. There were supposed to be 4 of us living in the suite, so that meant I was going to have a roommate. I was so nervous about meeting her. I'd never had a roommate and a huge part of me wondered if we were going to get along.
That night, I unpacked my bags and filled my wooden drawers with all the clothes I'd brought, stacked a small corner of the sink with the few toiletries I had, and dressed the naked mattress with the yellow and brown bedspread my mother had forced me to take along from Malaysia.
Taken the first night I moved in
I had arrived a week before the actual move-in day, so 3/4 of the dorm was empty apart from the RAs and a couple of students who'd moved in early, like myself. I was all alone in my suite, and for the first time in my life, I felt completely alone and maybe even a little terrified of the silence.
I lay on the spongy mattress which would be my bed for the next 9 months or so, and stared solemnly at the low ceiling. I wondered how many other people had slept on this mattress, and what activities had taken place on this mattress. And then I immediately cringed. Okay, maybe I don't want to know.
Even though I'd covered every inch of the mattress with the cheerful bed spread, which my mother washed at home before I folded it into my suitcase, there was nothing homey about this bed, and definitely nothing cheerful about this place. That was the moment nostalgia decided to launch its delayed attack.
I longed for someone to talk to, but there was no internet for me to send emails on my iPhone, and the only phone I had was a little phone I'd purchased from Walmart, which only consisted of a $20 credit. It was to substitute the remaining weeks before I signed up with AT&T. But for now, I couldn't text or call internationally, and I had to preserve my credit (aka minutes over here) because my credit would be deducted each time I received a call or text. Things just worked so differently here.
Suddenly I craved for the comfort of my home. I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself back in my bed, surrounded by the aquamarine walls of my little bedroom and the mixture of floral and fruity scents from my perfume collection on the shelf near my bed.
I tried to imagine my brother, surfing the internet across the room like he always did, and then my mom's cooking wafting through the slit beneath the door. I saw my entire family sitting at our dining table, eating breakfast together. It would be morning in Malaysia now. I could see our apartment, the one I grew up in, and the truth sank in, deeper than before. Like a knife, it stabbed into the pit of my stomach, until I started sobbing into my pillow.
I was over 9,500 miles from everything and everyone I cared about. They were just too far away. How was I supposed to get through the next few days without being able to talk to them? It was a horrible feeling, being trapped in a foreign place with no life support, apart from Rob and Dina who lived 45 minutes away, and God. I was forced to adapt quickly.
As the days went by, that awful feeling of homesick only worsened. I missed my mother's cooking. I wasn't thrilled about the greasy pizzas they served at the cafeteria, or that weird creamy goo they called "broccoli cheese soup." Back home, these were things I'd avoid at all cost. But here, they were daily supplements. People ate french fries for breakfast if they wanted to. They drank coke like water. They substituted their dinners for microwaved pasta and Doritos. All this exposition astonished me.
My ability to communicate in English was a bonus, because it made everything way easier. The Southern accent still sounded foreign to my ears. It was so rich, just like the gravy they covered their biscuits with. People seemed surprised that I could speak good English. They seemed to have a perceived notion that international students struggle with English. I thought it was unfair to assume that all international students didn't speak English.
And then, the actual move-in day arrived. I was thrilled to meet my roommate. I could only hope she felt the same way. She turned out to be everything I'd prayed she wouldn't be. Not only was she sort of an anti-social, she was extremely messy, unhygienic and also a twisted person down to the core. She stole some of my tops and pretended she didn't know about them. She even stole two of my underwear (I didn't ask her about this because it was just awkward and really, really gross) and she fabricated facts against me, putting me in danger with the housing committee.
I could only question God why he'd allowed my first roommate experience to be a horrible one. But it turned out to be a real challenge to keep my Christian values in check. Maybe it was a test, after all. I didn't blow up in her face, nor did I steal her tops and flaunt them around the room beneath a black jacket. It took so much strength to grit my teeth and stay calm, and to ignore the wreck of a roommate I had. She hogged the living room with her clothes strewn all over the place, while she sprawled lazily on the couch, all 5'10 of her, and lived off Coke and fast food while watching the Jersey Shore religiously.
When she finally moved out, I actually lifted my head to the ceiling and thanked God. The moment she left, the atmosphere in our suite shifted. It was as though someone had drawn the blinds and allowed fresh sunlight in. My other suitemates seemed happier, less grouchy. There wasn't tension in the suite anymore. They made use of the two desks in the living room, which once served as my roommate's TV table and her junk table (it was always covered in half-eaten bags of chips, stale soft drinks and her homework.) and transformed them into study desks for themselves.
When classes started, I noticed that college life here differed greatly from the Malaysian college life I'd been used to. Each lecture was usually kept to a minimum of 50 minutes, and professors greatly encouraged student participation. Even the quiet students had opinions to offer. I just shrank back in my seat and hoped nobody would notice that I hadn't spoken a word, because I never knew what to say. I was afraid of speaking out in classes, in offering opinions on a particular topic they were discussing. Maybe it was because I never had to speak out in classes all my life. I was comfortable just going for classes, sitting silently through lectures, taking notes and leaving when the period was over.
But here, not only was your voice encouraged, it also mattered. My heart used to beat so wildly in my chest whenever I was required to speak. It wouldn't have been so bad if it was just me and my professor, but with 25 other classmates listening to your little voice on that little opinion you had? Suddenly I was pressured to say something smart. Or at least something that sounded smart. But with every eye focused on me and every ear trained on my words, I would blush and sometimes, go blank.
And then there was the whole part of making friends, which of course mattered significantly to my college experience. I've always been pretty shy, but when I got here, I forced myself to ignite conversations with strangers. That boy who sat behind me in class, or the girl who was standing in line in front of me for a sandwich. Over here, it didn't seem like a strange thing to do. People talked to strangers like it was something they did everyday, and strangers responded casually, like they'd done this a million times before.
I'd be walking to class and the people walking the opposite direction would smile at me and sometimes mutter, "Hey, how's it going?"
Instinctively, I'd smile back and reply, "Great, and you?"
"I'm good," they'd say. "Have a nice day."
"You too." And we'd carry on walking.
Who was that? I don't know. Just another friendly college student. I thought about how people in Malaysia rarely smiled at strangers on the street, unless they were trying to hit on them. And it definitely wasn't natural to say, "Hi, how are you?" to a stranger back home. It didn't matter where you were, but you basically avoided talking to strangers unless you were trying to make a new friend. It wasn't a law, but it certainly felt like a social conduct. Being too friendly in Malaysia might cross the ethical boundaries and make people wary of you.
I made some really wonderful, cherishable friends as the semester progressed. They broadened my view of the culture and the country and helped me to perceive most Americans as friendly and warm. I've heard people in the north are a little more uptight, but I think it varies on location. In Arkansas, people are extra nice. While I understand this varies among the individuals, I've noticed the Southern culture has an influence on its people, and courtesy is often a rule of thumb here.
Almost every American that I talked to seemed to have some kind of humor at the back of his or her tongue. Be it sarcastic humor or slapstick humor, humor is a natural slang in daily conversations. Sarcasm is another common one too. My friend, Taylor, is full of sarcasm.
One time I was sitting in her living room and hadn't bothered to turn the light on because I could read the text on my phone perfectly fine. She walked in, flicked the light switch and calmly said, "We do have electricity, you know."
Another time, I overheard my housemate talking to her friend about Star Wars. My housemate is a HUGE fan of Star Wars - she even has Star Wars cookie cutters. Her friend asked, "What is Star Wars?" to which my housemate replied, "It's a punch on the nose if you're not careful."
I was working on a paper and hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but their voices echoed through the thin plaster walls of our apartment and I couldn't help it; I laughed.
There's something about this laidback Southern culture that puts me at ease. I know this isn't my home, but I like it here. I figured that since I've come such a long way from home, I'm already out of my comfort zone. Might as well just embrace it and live it to the fullest.
I've grown to enjoy microwaved meals. In fact, I think my new best friend in the house is the microwave. I don't think I could live in a house without a microwave. I also learned that broccoli cheese soup isn't as gross as it sounds, but it's very rich and creamy... not to mention, it goes straight to the thighs, so I try to hold back from having it often. I've started speaking up more often in classes. I'm not the most talkative person in my classes, but I do contribute my opinions voluntarily a couple of times during each lecture, and I don't blush or lose my train of thought when I speak in front of everyone.
I've also learned to embrace the unknown.
I used to be terrified of the future because I couldn't see it. I needed to see it. I needed to have a clue about where I was going, just so I could prepare myself. But growing up, my future has always been a vortex of mystery. Over the past few months, I tried to ignore the urge to know everything, and just tried to be content with the unknown, knowing that all this will be revealed in time. And trusting God to prepare me for the journey ahead.
Going back to what my friends said about having little expectations when approaching a new adventure, I understand where they were coming from. I really think it's impossible to quell the desires of anticipation. Expectations provide a sense of hope. While it's not encouraged to have NO expectations at all, it's also unhealthy to have exceedingly high expectations. We all know that the higher you aim, the harder you fall. It's the blatant truth.
But it's alright to have realistic expectations and to keep an open mind. Understand that sometimes, things happen for various reasons beyond our comprehension. Sometimes, the people or the place may fail you. Nothing is ever going to be quite as easy as you hoped it would be. So when reality comes smashing in, all those expectations you were cradling now start crashing to the floor. It's hard to wrap our minds around things we can never control, things we know we have very limited influence on. But really, it's the realism of everything that nurses us back together. Accepting the harsh reality, as hard as it may be for some of us, eventually leads to a clearer understanding of a place, or culture. And whenever someone lets you down, it's wrong to perceive that everyone else of that culture will.
I think America sparks the hope that dreams do come true. Opportunities linger everywhere, just waiting to be accepted. Plus, it's hard not to be overwhelmed by the vastness of this country, where road trips are a common and enjoyed form of traveling, and each state varies from the other in personality and flavor.
So, having an open mind really helps. It keeps your sanity in check. It makes you embrace a new culture and to experience the full richness of it.
***
I look back at the 20-year-old I was when I first arrived in the realms of America, and I think of how circumstances have changed me. Sometimes, I still lie awake in my bed and stare at the ceiling and think of my home and everyone else who matter to me, tucked somewhere far away I can't reach. I miss them terribly. I see them everywhere; in the beautiful flowers blossoming across campus, in the clear blue skies on sunny days, in that stray ray of afternoon sunlight. I see them in all things beautiful. I wish they were here, so they could see how beautiful spring is.
Then I think of the sacrifices my parents made, which puts me at where I am today. And in the stillness of the night, I silently vow that I will strive to work my hardest, to try my best, and to embrace every bit of this journey I've been blessed to endure.
This is a platform that welcomes growth. I've stepped on it, uncertain of the rest, but only certain of one thing: I'm here to face my fears, to accomplish things I never thought I was capable of doing.
Why exactly is this so important to me?
My family gave me one of the greatest gifts that I ride on today - their faith in me.
Now it's my turn to ensure their faith is worth it, and that time will make them proud of me.
No comments:
Post a Comment