The foreigner

A few months ago I read a book for one of my college courses on political theory. The book was called "The Foreigner" by Nahid Rachid. It was about a woman who was born in Iran, travelled to the United States to study, stayed there for a career, then travelled back to Iran to visit her family who she had not seen since she left for college. The main point of the book is in her forgotten connectedness to her homeland- in it's culture, traditions, even language. She returns to Iran to find that she cannot reconnect with her country because she has cut too many ties with it. She has gone to an American university, got an American job and even married an American man who cannot understand her longing. So, she is in limbo. Without a home or place. For the class I was taking, this point concurred with another book we had been studying, Alexander de Tocqueville's "Democracy In America". For those who have not read this book (though I very much recommend it- in fact, every American should read it as a prerequisite for being a citizen), Tocqueville argues that the American people are restless because they have no connections with a history, a culture, traditions or even language in some cases. They are a melting pot with no cohesion. So, Americans are always searching for something, though they don't exactly know what. Much like this woman in "The Foreigner", they tend to find themselves in limbo, without a past to call their own. They try to make their own but never fully succeed, such as houses are easily sold and branches of families are easily cut-off and forgotten; a circumstance that is more difficult for aristocratic societies. Americans simply don't connect as other peoples do. That is what Tocqueville says, and Rachid concurs. Currently, I am discovering the same theory as I encounter a different race of people. Tradition, culture, history and language adhere the Koreans together much like their gluey rice- they may all look and taste the same, but together they make an outstanding staple to the world dish. However, as I am not a grain of rice- simple to blend and digest, I am stuck being the bit of unbaked dough I flew over as. In other words, I am simply in limbo- still- wishing I could become the grain of rice, wishing I could have something to stick to! The Americans of Tocqueville's theory, and the Iranian-American of Rachid's novel are now reflected in me as I walk down the street. I cannot assimilate because I cannot connect, I cannot blend because I am not a grain of rice, however much I wish I could be, I am not a Korean. This may seem a bit obvious for those who are surrounded by people they love and have known for years- as they are in their element, they are in some familiar form of culture, language and history to call their own. I am, however, finding it difficult to remember my own past as I hit wave after wave of the same hills of rice grains. Everyone starts to look the same, and I am overwhelmed by it. I start to think that I should be Korean, or try to. I try to find some connections- learn the language, the history, the culture, make friends- but I fail and lose a bit more of my strength. I cannot connect, because I am an outsider, a fly on the wall. I have to succumb to my outcasted status and embrace limbo, an island made up of books, a computer and my imagination.
For the past two weeks it has been fine. Delightful in fact. I love my school and fellow teachers. The kids are amazing and always bring a smile to my face as they are adorable! I even enjoy the food, and have taken to eating rice and seaweed as a staple for every meal. Yet, with all of my loves and positivity I cannot help but feel a bit of wariness as each day passes. I cannot fully explain why, but I feel it has its base in my lack of tradition and history to call my own. I could go so far as to say that I am self-conscious about it. For instance, as my co-teacher describes and dictates her countries best qualities, I have nothing to add about America except that we don't have whatever it is she is describing. I realize that we have freedom, liberty, justice, a wonderful President (finally) and great cheese; I can't retort with a fantastic history or folk tales, a different language or unique culture. Perhaps I'm blind, and don't see the greatness of American culture; but I feel as if it's always growing larger than itself. When there's a good thing, we have to one-up it. And that culture is spreading. It's spreading to this great nation, as I'm sure it's doing to others. The youth is absorbing the American obsession with individuality and trashing their history and traditions. I'll leave this problem for another blog, but I'll just say that it makes me sad. I wish I could absorb a little of the Korean history and language while they toss it along with yesterday's paper. Perhaps I'm not interpreting them correctly. Perhaps they've got a copy of Korean history stored next to their "Confessions of a Shopaholic". Perhaps I can someday explain them proper lighting. And, perhaps, I can take a bit of them home with me, and break out of my 'foreigner' status. I can learn more Korean, read more history, and get my hair dyed. Perhaps. Of course, perhaps I have no idea what I'm talking about and am full of shit on a Saturday night, drinking a glass of wine I cannot pronounce, in a place I can only describe as my personal island- it's comfy, familiar but I cannot call it home. I am, and must not forget, I am a foreigner.