Drastically Open To Interpretation

My life is developing a distinct flavor, a composition of varied elements that constitute my current scenario. It's like:

Wide open concrete classrooms beneath whirling fans bickering with the humid heat—

coating lush green plants and frequent calls to prayer (each of the many mosques is equipped with a loud speaker blasting Arabic voice melody coaxing the faithful to their duty), while women weave like fluorescent butterflies in their bright, floral baju kurungs—

around motorcycles and mangy feral cats with their faces lost in fish remains,

under air studded with formal greetings (“Good morning, Miss”) and wrapped up in shy, but naughty giggles—



periodically pounded by violent rain and wrapped up in soft pervasive gossip, all slathered atop an endless foundation of rice. The mixture must be eaten with the right hand only, while the infamous dirty left one wraps around some mango juice, a coconut shake, or an iced Nescafe.

Each morning I wake up into this reality around 7am, which is far too early for me, yet all the students and general community have been up praying and laughing since 5:30am or so. I shake the twisted dreams out of my hair and coax myself into another day.

Sometimes I feel like a old but special couch

Sometimes when I’m walking around this school dressed in strange hot silky neon gowns that conceal the vast majority of my being, I wonder what exactly I am doing here. Sometimes it even happens in the middle of class: I’m explaining the difference between “bored” and “boring”—often students write statements like: “Watching too much TV makes me boring” (which is true but not their intention), and I realize where I am and I don’t know what I’m doing here. ‘Here’ meaning in this school of course, but that question of purpose is one of those that seeps, leaks, spreads until you are wondering what your purpose is exactly on this planet of earth. Then you notice the whole class is still staring at you and you continue on with teaching, but the question remains, festering beneath thin skin.

What is going on?

Everyone else seems pretty clear about their purpose—religion really helps with that one. Islam IS a way of life. I think they say that about all religions, but praying at least five times a day really brings the point home. Islam permeates conversations, food, calendars, minds, until it is absolutely inseparable from life. While I’m learning a lot about the religion, I’m also deeply aware that all my knowledge arrives through the filter of Malay culture, specifically Terengganu where I live (which is entirely different from the rest of the more diverse and liberal states). Across the world, the multiple interpretations of Islam are astounding. I just read this article about Saudi Arabia in the New York Times, which blew my tiny mind. There, the genders exist in entirely separate universes, not allowed to see or speak to each other unless married, related, or breastfed by the same woman (really interesting practice called “milk kinship”).

It makes Malaysia seem like a wildly liberal place.

What is your favourite thing about yourself?....My humps?

However, it all exists on the same spectrum—different interpretations of the same text. In Saudi Arabia, music is widely considered to be Haram (forbidden/sinful), while here the only problem instruments are those with strings (yet, several of my students play the guitar).

Playing Hotel California

Members of the opposite sex are allowed to speak to each other (unlike Saudi Arabia), just not loudly and they probably shouldn’t sing publicly. This is posing major problems in the Talent Show I am supposed to be planning. Still, students seem to bend the rules, as many of my students are dating (which I think means talking occasionally and texting frantically). I recently got a letter that peppered me with the usual questions: “Are you happy here? How many siblings do you have?” And then it shocked me with: “What do you think about Playgirl?” I was pretty sure this student wasn’t referring to the pornographic magazine, so I played it safe and requested a definition. The response: “A playgirl is someone who texts many boys at the same time.” Oh.

Oh, I see...

Interestingly, my religion doesn’t come up much, as it seems to be largely assumed. The other day, for instance, a teacher leaned over and asked: “Protestant or Catholic?” How to describe my unique blend of pagantaoistnaturegoddessworshipfaith spirituality that is constantly evolving? “Catholic,” I said. It is certainly the religion I am closest to, the only services I’ve ever attended, and the faith that my grandparents follow. It’s not such a far-fetched truth…until I face further questioning. “So, you go to Church every Sunday?”, a student asked me. I looked at her, unable to lie, or to explain to someone who goes to the mosque 35 times every week, that I go to church maybe once a year. I said “No…I’m a bad Catholic.” And that’s the final statement I suppose, until I revise it. I must revise it, actually, because I think that might be why I am here, but it’s exhausting, frustrating, and frightening to define myself in this setting.

Some of the rules of Islam

Not just my religion, but most aspects of myself. How to be me is a delicate question in a culture where I’m stripped of most of what defines me, and much of that is considered weird at best, and Haram at worst. Add in the language barrier, my restrictions as a teacher,

my chameleon-like tendencies,

This is a gecko, but you get the point

and the pre-existing assumptions about Americans that have been projected on to me, and I think I just lost my identity.

Where's Waldo?

I’ve decided to combat this in a variety of ways.
First, and foremost, I am actively trying to be quirky, weird, silly, and strange. Everyday, I laugh a lot, and make funnyfaces. I make crazy noises during mural club and sing invented songs in the classroom. It is working well, I feel like I’m having real human interactions. Because everyone, deep down, knows how to play and it is good for the soul and transcends the limitations of the rational mind.

Finally got to wear the marching band hat.

Secondly, I am weaving genuine honesty into what I share with the students. This is a fragile practice.

Finally, I’m initiating political and interesting conversations with those around me. This is a bit shady, because students aren’t supposed to discuss politics, but I feel it is too essential to avoid. Israel is a particularly sensitive issue, along with the Iraq War. Students are generally surprised to hear that I do not like Bush, and shocked that I say negative things about my government. “Love your country, criticize the government,” I told them. Prior to this, my only political conversation occurred during my first week in the country with a random man standing on the sidewalk.
“Where are you from?” he asked me.
“America.”
“I don’t like Bush,” was his reply. “Oh, me neither.” I agreed, thinking we were having a break-through moment.
“But, I love Osama bin Laden,” he added.
“Oh. He is not our president.” I said, for lack of a better comment. I then decided the interaction was over and turned to go.
“You know who else I like?” the man asked. I didn’t know if I wanted to know. “Nicholas Cage,” he said. “He makes my face smile.” And for some reason, I felt a whole lot better.

Updates:

A road trip occurred recently, which allowed me to drive on the left side of the road, run over a traffic cone (a life-long dream of mine), and visit Penang.

A dog...must be in Penang

Penang is ridiculously good, particularly because of its delicious diversity. I racked up several life high-lights on the trip, including witnessing a beauty contest and attending a world music festival which featured a 78 year-old Mexican dancing and playing the fiddle.

Additionally, we freed birds that are maybe trained to be captives. Is it supporting bird captivity to pay for its release?

I'm holding the baby bird and another one molds on a museum wall

According to economics, certainly: no one would put them in cages if it wasn’t a profitable activity.

Don't feed the birds and this is a beach at night

But what about that starfish story…(Man walks down the beach, littered with thousands of beached and dying starfish, and sees a boy throwing them back in, one by one. The man asks the boy: “What are you doing? You can’t possibly make a difference.” The boy throws another back into the sea and replies, “Sure made a difference to that one.”)

This boy is not throwing starfish back into the sea

I like to think my bird will appreciate its freedom, plus I supposedly get a life full of blessings from the act.

The RESPECT mural progresses.

The students really enjoy face painting and general silliness, which adds complex dimensions to the process.

It’s a delicate balance: fostering joy and creativity, while still encouraging paint to coat the wall in an attractive and meaningful fashion.

I want to push and challenge the students, yet trust them to paint what they need to see. Its difficult to wade through these mundane inane insanely clique symbols to find real meanings.

Sometimes I get down. Recently I texted a friend: “I just want everyone to love art and the environment and if not to just sit in a corner and cry.” I like this because it is open to interpretation whether I want the non-art lover to cry, or if that is my 2nd most powerful desire. That’s the beauty and the danger of art, religion, and text messages: they are drastically open to interpretation. The same furtile soil breeds love and fear, peace and war and a multitude of shades in between.