It's Time pt. l

I think it's finally time for me to start writing about Thailand. More than writing: thinking. Reminiscing. Feeling.
I've been back home in Lancaster for almost six months, and for the most part, I've settled in.
Settled.
Everyone asks me that. "Are you settled?"
What does that mean, exactly? Moved back into my room? Yes. Met the new cat my parents adopted? Oh yes.
I've eaten all the food I desperately craved (avocados and salsa and mashed potatoes and strong coffee ) and I think my back is finally healing from a year of sleeping on the Worlds Shittiest Mattress.

When it was time for me to leave Thailand, I was incredibly ready to go home. It was a rough year. An adventurous, fascinating, beautiful one, but tough all the same. I was tired of looking different from everyone else; sick of the stares and language barrier and mosquitos and fried rice.

I wanted comfort. I wanted to be able to talk freely in my native tongue and not have to simplify my words and sentences. I wanted to drive my jeep instead of push my wobbly old bike around town. I wanted to be able to straighten my hair without it immediately frizzing, and wear makeup without instantly sweating it off. But most of all, I wanted to not be lonely anymore.
I was so ready to see my friends and family, not just on a screen, but actually feel their hugs and share a drink.

When I boarded the plane bound for JFK in New Dehli, I was so tired. I was exhausted down to my bones. It's a kind of weariness I can't really describe. I was not sad at all. When my parents met me at the arrival gate, I left without looking back.
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 I remember driving with my mom a few days after my return, and looking at awe at the stretches of lush lawns that passed by. "Everything is so...green," I said. Grass, in the sense of a lawn, does not exist in Thailand. Nor do the massive two and three story houses attached to these yards. Thai houses are almost always one story high. No stairs. I don't know why this is.

My first weeks back, through May and into June, were blissful. I had forgotten how easy life at home is. And I don't mean just my particular home; I mean America in general. It is clean. There are traffic laws and waiters who actually give good service. Despite what people think, life is good here.

I also noticed that I had just gotten "tougher" in a sense; or perhaps just less concerned about trivial things. I marveled at how easily grossed out and annoyed Americans (and most first world people) are. For instance: a friend and I needed to pee on a roadtrip, and had to use a port-a-potty on the side of the road. I hopped in and did my business without a thought, but she struggled to use it because of what she thought were completely disgusting conditions. Sure, it didn't smell great, but compared to the bathrooms I used when traveling in Thailand and India, it was practically a palace. When another friend shrieked after seeing a small cockroach, I laughed, remembering the massive ones that scuttled across my feet in Hua Hin. On another day, a family member scolded their dog for barking, and apologized profusely for its "bad behavior." "I've been chased by packs of growling street dogs," I said. "This is nothing."
          Simply put, there are few things that bother me anymore.

Yet, as my home comforts become the new norm, I feel strange.
I didn't think about Thailand very much when I first returned. I stuffed my momentos away. I didn't want to think about my students, or my favorite restaurant, or the smell of bug spray. But now, six months later, I can't stop. I want to think about that year. I need to.

But I guess that's for the next post.


Erin

For You

It's been almost a year since we met,
can you believe that?
A whole year since I sat at that dinner table, my skin still scorched and burning from the Thai sun.
A whole year since I looked up as you walked past me for the first time.

It was an entire year ago, but I remember. You didn't look at me. I think I stared at you.

You managed what few people do: you always surprised me. I underestimated you, I admit. I've found people to be easily categorized: jock, hippie traveler, ambitious rich kid. But you defied categorization. You liked sports and politics? You liked to drink and smoke and read feminist novels and write poetry?! You were an unending amount of seemingly opposite traits, neatly arranged into one extraordinary human.
To tell the truth, I still don't totally understand you. If we had more time, I would.

I was awed by how easy and perfect your life seemed. By how good you were at everything. I struggled to fit in; you found a way to charm every Thai person in seconds. Everything came naturally to you: sports, languages, teaching. My underlying competitive nature surfaced quickly: I knew I had to keep up with you.

Do you know how many times
I wished I could peer inside your brain,
or listen to your thoughts?
I cracked through your exterior once, I think.
At dinner. Do you remember?

So many people talk about themselves; there's no mystery left.
You talked, yes, but rarely about what really mattered to me. Rarely about the true you,
your fears and desires and dreams.
I felt silly pelting you with questions, but I had to know.
who are you, really?

I think I know. Maybe, some things.
I like the you that I know.

And you know me, and me writes, even if no one reads it. I write because it's the only way I can understand myself, and I can thank you.
Thank you
for making me laugh so, so much.
Thank you
for being a truly good friend to me when I was very alone.
Thank you
for making me happy where I was, and stop wishing I was somewhere else.

And thank you
for stopping while I pet the stray cats,
for not giving me shit about being vegan,
for always being the one to talk to the cab driver,
and for letting me be the real me.

Same

A few days ago, my sister and I went to church for the first time in a long, long while.
It smells the same. Like old books and bad coffee.
But it's different. More run-down. Attendance has declined, and it feels a bit neglected.
The nursery has been abandoned. It was once overrun with toys and smelled like crayons. Now it's used for general storage, and smells like nothing.
Aimee and I stood in this room together, looking around at its emptiness. We used to spend hours and hours playing there, avoiding the church services.

It's very quiet now.
"I dream about this place," Aimee said.
and that was the moment I realized
 my sister
and I
share the same dreams.

I've always suspected this. We are two parts of one whole. Twins of different ages and height, yet identical in mind, memories, and, it seems, dreams.

Books That Have Changed My Life

In Oprah Magazine (yes, my mom got me a subscription for Christmas because I'm actually elderly) there's a section where a celebrity picks a few books that have "changed their lives" or they just really, really like. After deliberating for a few days, here are my top picks. They're amazing. Read 'em.

1. The Awakening by Kate Chopin

 This book was assigned reading in my 12th grade Honors English class. I'm pretty sure I was the only person who actually enjoyed it. But I more than enjoy it: I worship it. Cherish it. It's like my book soulmate. It's a thin little thing; you can breeze through it in a few days. The story of Edna, a woman who realizes one day that she desires more from her life than what she's been given, is haunting. Heartbreaking. How many of us are brave enough to be our true selves, and turn away from the stifling expectations of society? It's a challenge to all those who feel like life is passing them by, and they aren't really living.

                            Favorite Quote: "Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no repression in  her glance of gesture. She reminded him of some beautiful, sleek animal waking up in the sun."

2. The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

Good books, really good books, are able to pluck you from your reality and drop you into a totally new one. I loved this novel from the first few words. When I read it, I feel like I am Lily, the 15-year old main character. Her narration is distinct; her humor is dry and her spirit unbreakable. This story is like the literary version of peach pie. It's warm and sweet and utterly perfect. Good for your soul. It's not a totally happy story, mind you: Lily obsesses over her mother's death, and lives with an abusive father. But even death and chaos are written in such a beautiful, relatable way. Lily is smart, wild, lonely, searching. When I feel this way, this book brings me comfort. When Lily finds redemption in a family of African-American beekeepers, I feel their redeeming love.   Plus, "Secret Life" makes beekeeping actually seem like the best job to have.

      Favorite Quote: "When it's time to die, go ahead and die, and when it's time to live, live. Don't sort-of-maybe live, but live like you're going all out, like you're not afraid."

3. House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

It's impossible to explain this book, which is one of the reasons it's insanely captivating. The other reason: it's scary as hell. 

I had to read this book during my senior year of college, and I was nervous. I mean, look at some of those pages! They are literally impossible to understand, and that's exactly what the author intended. To be totally honest, HOL messed with my head for a while. I had vivid dreams about it. It left me with an unsettled, creepy feeling. The basic plot summary is this: a man and his family move into a new house. All is fine until one day, a door appears in the house overnight. The family opens the door, only to discover.... nothing. There is nothing but black space and cool air inside. The next day, the door gets bigger. More doors appear inside the newly created hallway. However, the external size of the house never changes. Crazy, right? The man documents the attempts to discover what lies inside the depths of the house while noticing the disturbing effects the changes has on his family. 
   This novel is nothing like you'd expect. It defies categorization. The lines between fiction and reality are blurred (the publishing company is fake) which only make the story creepier. 
   This story is not for the faint of heart, nor the casual reader. It's a full time effort to understand what's happening inside the pages, and numerous communities exist online to share theories. If you are brave enough to try to read HOL, I promise it's worth it. 

           Favorite Quote: "I slid right to the edge. My legs were hanging over. And I could feel it too. I don't know how. There was no wind, no sound, no change of temperature. There was just this terrible emptiness reaching up for me."

4. Life of Pi by Yann Martel 

No book sums up my feelings toward religion like this book. On the surface, it's a story about a boy, Pi, who gets stranded in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with only a tiger for company. Pi is marvelous not only for his survival skills, but for his attitude towards religion. He practices Islam, Christianity, and Hinduism, though his Indian parents only endorse the last. It is this faith that keep him from giving up all hope while he is at sea. It helps him keep his sanity; it gives him a purpose and a reason for living. Pi does not get lost in the details in religion, which I think is the downfall of modern attitudes toward God. Like Pi, I believe in one higher Being, and different religions are all reflections of that one, all-knowing and all-loving God. Pi does his best to live a good life, content with not knowing all the exact details of life and religion. Plus, Pi is an avid nimal-lover and vegetarian. Soulmate!
   I read this book when I first arrived in Thailand, and I was feeling crushed by loneliness. I felt abandoned. Thailand seemed as big and as strange as the Pacific Ocean, and Pi's story gave me courage. I will always love it for that. 

  Favorite Quotes (I couldn't choose one!): 
--"Faith in God is  an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust, a free act of love- but sometimes it was so hard to love. Sometimes my heart was sinking so fast in anger, desolation, and weariness, I was afraid it would sink to the very bottom of the Pacific and I would not be able to lift it back up... [but] the blackness would stir and eventually go away, and God would remain, a shining point of light in my heart. I would go on loving."
      
--"All religions are true. I just want to love God."


5. Anthem by Ayn Rand

"Anthem" is another strange book. It's not a fun, airy novel you can read while you complete other tasks. It's not an easy read, but it's not long or laborious either. It's the unusual story of a future in which individually is extinct. The word "I" does not exist. When I first read this novel in 11th grade, I struggled with it simply because  I did not realize that whenever the main character says "we" he means "I". "They" means he/she, etc. Once you realize this, the book becomes immensely easier to read. I love how eerily detailed the story is: friendships are not allowed. Technology is dead. Sex is only allowed at "mating times" for procreation only. Characters have bizarre names, like Equality 7-2521. As you follow one man's quest to discover identity within this dystopian world, you'll realize how often you say "I" and how impossible it is to do without it. 


             Favorite Quote: "Know what you want in life and go after it. I worship individuals for their highest possibilities as individuals, and I loathe humanity, for it's failure to live up to these possibilities."

Summer Day

I found this poem today. I'm in love with it, all of it. So simple, but delicious. It's hard to describe how it makes me feel. 

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver

2 Weeks

It's bizarrely cool in Thapsakae today; my students showed up to school hilariously bundled up for the 70 degree weather. They sat shivering in their seats all day. "Teacha, cold!"I found it quite amusing.

It feels like autumn back at home, and autumn gives me weird *FeEliNgs* every year. I get antsy. Restless. It's probably residual anxiety from a lifetime of associating fall with a new school year, and I can't help but feel a mixture of melancholy and excitement for the inevitable change that's o'comin.
       And it is coming, soon. I've only got two weeks left in this town. This town that I have both cursed and cherished, 50/50. For instance, today I had to petal uphill on my rusty bike a mile to the market for my weekly vegetable run. My bike basket is small, and wobbling back home with my heavy load while my Thai neighbors laugh at me is NOT something that I will miss. Damn I miss my Jeep.
      And yet, as I was turning off the lights in my classroom today, I noticed something written on the whiteboard. "Love Teacher Erin!" it said. And love me they do. Everyday I am crushed under eager hugs followed by a chorus of "hello teacha!!" What amazes me especially is that these aren't "little" children. They're middle and high-school age. They don't love easily. I had to work for this affection. And so soon, I will be leaving it.

    Comparing my experience in Thailand has been sort of like running a half marathon. When I raced in 2013, I had never run more than seven miles at a time before. Suddenly I was faced with thirteen. I was underprepared, to say the least, to run such a distance. In the same way, I was totally native thinking I was ready to teach. I had a degree in English. I took the TEFL course. I'd been a camp counselor. But teaching children that don't speak your language is unlike anything I could have prepared myself for. It was completely trial by error. Just as the race, the first few miles and the first few months were rough. I was exhausted. Terrified by the time left in front of me.
        Somewhere around mile 8 and month 4, I kicked into autopilot. It's hard to pin down exactly when teaching became easier; my body just sort of took over and my mind finally quieted down. I began to really enjoy my students. Golly, they make me laugh. Especially when they're not trying. They are more innocent, somehow, than their Western counterpart. Perhaps it's because they have, and expect, less.

Right now, I'm on mile 12. I can see the finish line. I don't want to limp across it. I want to run across in the most cheesy, joyful, arms open way I can. I want to blow kisses to my adoring audience.

             My students and I finally "get" each other. I may not know exactly what they're saying, but do understand, somehow. It's amazing how easy it can be to communicate using minimal words.
    I hope my students know how much I adore them. Sure, I want to wring some necks on a daily basis, but at the end of the day, it's nothing but love.

Probably

oof. I feel this.