The Strange Stranger

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Strange

I am mute-- too shy to speak. 

My face and hair both odd in 

color and shape. I am strange 

to them and me. I am different.

And if I needed a reminder

of my strangeness,

they look deep into 

the follicles of my hair 

    as dark as theirs and as light 

    as brown sugar, 

the pores on my nose 

    as wide as theirs 

    but more geometric,

the curves of my lips 

    that speak of languages 

    that aren't theirs.

HI, MY NAME IS 

Strange Stranger.

If I weren't strange, what would I be?

The Chronicles of a Foreign National

Foreign: adj. coming or introduced from outside, strange and unfamiliar

Being different is great and all when you write it in a personal statement, but living as a person who is different is more than meeting a word or page count for an online application. Here, I am a stranger in every way. I don't speak Chinese. I don't know all the Taiwanese traditions. I am not Taiwanese. These three things are consistent reminders from locals and cohort members.

This is an obvious set of observations, and partly the reasons why I am here. I am here because I am different from the locals. It's supposed to be a true organic exchange of cultures and perspective, yet this is more like a cultural inspection of an individual's acclimation to a majority.

Compared to many stories of Black Americans in Asian countries, this is nothing more than a mere curiosity from the locals. Words that come up when I think of myself as a foreigner: out of place, alien, weird, different, unfamiliar, distant, odd, new, disconnected, unrelated, unnatural, interesting, uncommon, unusual, unknown, out of the ordinary, strange. I am a foreign body under a microscope; I am a specimen to be investigated. Under the lens of curiosity, I am something of interest to look at, or really, my hair is what piques interests. 

Elders observe how my hair comes out of my scalp so thick and curly. To me, it seems they are looking at the pores in my scalp like someone looking for dandruff flakes or a clue to the curl pattern. To them, I have good hair, beautiful hair; but I don't think my scalp can tell why my hair curls this way. I didn't expect compliments. It's not straight or black. But foreigners get a pass.

One day, I went down to the first floor to take a small break to write, found a bench to sit at that had a handrail big enough to write in my notebook, and I began writing about feeling strange and disconnected from the people, the island, and the culture. A student-- who I had not seen before-- at the elementary school ran down the hallway. I assume he saw me, came up to my face within one and a half inches away, peered at my nose, and asked, "Where are you from," in Chinese before running down the hallway again. I couldn't answer him even if I wanted to because I was shocked still. I froze. Why he was looking at my nose? He never met my eyes. How close he came up to me is how close I come up to my mirror to see if I have blackheads. He was a breath short of touching my face. I didn't even realize he had left until a teacher passed by after him.

Some locals find it fascinating that I teach because I'm young. Few find it fascinating that I teach English, but many find that me knowing French is the most amazing skill ever. People think French is a difficult language to learn and applaud me for learning it. I tell them that I learned it in high school and college. I taught a brief French culture lesson sharing French foods, the Eiffel Tower, and a few French words. I taught my classes "hello," "thank you," and "goodbye" in French: bonjour, merci, and au revoir. Knowing French doesn't change the fact that I don't know Chinese, but it's one of the facts that reminds me that I do know another language besides English. Not necessarily useful to talk to locals but useful to remember I am bilingual.

Oftentimes, I get reminded that I'm not Taiwanese. Well, I think we've discovered that I am in fact not a local but indeed a foreigner. I'm sure this word isn't new for those who tell me this lovely statement about my Black American self. In this case, it's not curiosity. It's a deliberate demonstration of I am the other-- always was and always will be. It's not a friendly statement to a stranger. It's a statement of difference as a separation tactic. For a tightknit culture that's a century and a little over a decade old, I, a newcomer, have nothing to contribute; rather, I am an interruption in their routine, a deviation in the data analysis of their biological research. I am out of place. I of most of the Americans on this island do not have features that can assimilate as easily as others. Others are told they aren't true Americans because of their Asian features, whereas I must be a true American, a true alien. But I get a pass. My otherness makes me something interesting.

Foreigners get a pass on skin color and language proficiency, I was told. The Asian beauty standards don't apply to me. I am still a "black" or "tan" person to them, but it's not a derogatory thing. Tan people on the island get called "black" or "tan" too. Although they know that they are locals. Not having proficiency in the language doesn't bother them as much as it bothers me. They'll continue to speak Chinese or speak short English phrases to communicate with me. Although foreigners get a pass, I wonder if it's because we're too different, too unfamiliar, too strange.

It seems everything I do is a unique experience for them. I'm American. I speak French. I have curly two-toned hair that's not from a perm. I like cinnamon rolls. I read a book or draw by the school pond. I eat their food and like it. I had a persimmon for the first time. It's a rare phenomenon like seeing the Northern lights.

The "stranger" on the island-- although more than two handfuls of strangers currently reside here-- is strange to the locals and the Americans. You would think that Americans who studied Chinese for years yet still sound as if they never studied would focus on their own language proficiency troubles, yet again, I am the topic of discussion-- the oh so interesting specimen they all want to observe for their own analyses. These are the people who love to share the sentiment that I don't know Chinese. If stating the obvious ever helped anyone past a Dora the Explorer episode, we would gather that it doesn't magically transform the obvious into something else. Dora's backpack doesn't have an elixir that could transform me into a native Taiwanese person who speaks fluent Mandarin. Where were these expectations for themselves? If micromanagement in the workplace was not enough, micromanagement in the social sphere came along to help. They're like nagging relatives at Thanksgiving dinner, asking questions about adjusting to the island, making friends, finding good restaurants, teaching at our schools, and blah blah blah. Most of them get on their soapboxes, alluding to their extravagant journeys around the world, their friends back home, and teaching at their schools; and I am there listening-- not by choice after the first monologue-- but asking active listening questions. If they go on and on about themselves, I can still be a specimen sitting under a microscope unwatched for about ten to twenty minutes. I would think small talk lasts for about a day to a week, not three or four months.

So, yes, I am the oddball. I would say one of the oddballs; but given the evidence above, there is one oddball in this context. From this recurring theme of foreignness and strangeness, I realized that there's still elements of culture shock in effect. Sarcasm is not a side effect of culture shock, but it should be classified as a by-product of being made into a science experiment everyday. I searched ways to alleviate the pressure of being a foreigner in another country, and the search engine thought I was a U. S. expat. Not even close. In the search, it shared that culture shock can last for months, even years. I don't have years to get rid of the island shock factor, and the jig about "How foreign is the foreigner?" is getting old. It makes a girl miss what she knows and not want to keep exploring a place. But I know it's a-okay to be different. Being different is what makes me interesting-- where I'm from, who I identify as, what I do. Being different is what makes the world go 'round. We're all different in some aspect, and difference isn't a negative thing. It can be a beautiful thing when used appropriately and not as a sign of "something's not quite like the others."

Even though being different is more acceptable on paper (in my opinion), living as a person who is different comes with challenges, but it's about thriving in that difference, adding a new experience for people, and exploring a place that is unfamiliar. Being different is not a statement of defiance but of mutual alliance and a relationship to cultural exchange. Yes, I am different, odd, strange, unfamiliar to this island, but that's the joy of exploration: it's a two-fold adventure of the strangeness of a place and yourself.