Dear Twos,
Living abroad is a strange twister and twirler of emotions. Before I left the US I was confronted with many questions, some voiced by others, some that glared at me like headlights on the road ahead. The only one of these questions that fell (and still falls) into both of these categories, however, is why? Why am I doing this, why am I leaving, why not stay in the US? When asked this out loud I always answered “why not?” to diffuse the question. Of course, I rationed, this is the opportunity of a lifetime, one that anybody in their right mind would gladly take if they only had the chance. But, of course, I know that isn’t precisely true. When I have confronted myself on this issue my thoughts on the matter sound a lot less confident than my voice does. The truth is I don’t really know, it was just something I had to do.
When I lived in Spain a few years back I had a brief discussion on a similar matter with a friend of mine. At some point in the conversation she said to me, “Y’know, on some level, all of us, every ex-pat from any country, we’re all running from something.”
I don’t know if this is true, but it does, to a certain extent, make sense to me. Living abroad is the closest thing someone like me can come to feeling like a husband who loves his wife dearly, and yet somehow finds himself with a mistress half his age. Your home culture is so comfortable, so honest and understandable you can not help but love it dearly, and yet there is something so fresh and seductive about someone else’s culture that you can easily forget the comfort you once felt at home. This was true for me in Barcelona and it is equally true here in Saigon. Every time I eat a meal, slalom around the human feces on the street, learn a new word in Vietnamese, or marvel at how I can spend a night drinking with friends and wake up in the morning only five dollars poorer, I feel a twinge of terror, some slight sorrow, but above all a certain leash of guilt that I am not in New England, watching the temperature drop and the leaves get ready to turn. Somehow my brain knows what should be happening, and I dream of wandering through the woods with my dog, eating turkey with my family, and bitching about the Sox. And just as I feel I can not bear it any longer someone takes me to a restaurant where they put a mini grill on the table and hand me a bag full of live shrimp, then proceed to teach me how to cook the shrimp on the grill while they are still alive, redefining my understanding of “fresh” for the rest of my life. Yesterday someone took me to a restaurant that specializes in food from central Vietnam. It was here that I learned to like spicy food for the first time, I could never have done that in the comfort of my own home.
But I’m also different than most of the ex-pats here, and perhaps anywhere. When my friend said that we are all running from something what she meant by that was that we all had a reason to leave, something that, in one way or another drove us out. When I was 18 it was the fear of ignorance. I had grown up in the definition of “sheltered community,” and I knew that I was ignorant of the diversity I would be facing in the rest of the world, so I decided to meet it head on. I made my first none-white friend when I was 18, in Spain. Of the ex-pats that I’ve met here the same is true, whether they share it or not you can see they no longer feel the same love for their home they may once have felt. And the thing to remember is that home cultures, like wives, do not just simply fade into the night, if you want to separate you have to divorce. Divorce, whether of culture or of lover, is never a simple or slight decision, and there is almost always something that drives you to it. The difference for me, however, is that there is nothing that drives me away from my home on that level anymore. Saigon is fun, it is fresh, it is seductive, but at some point (not yet) the motel rooms will no longer satisfy me, and I will go home to my family, my friends, my life.
But of course, for those of us who stay, it is not quite so simple as to say they were driven away, there also must be a reason to stay. That is an easier thing to identify here. In both China and Vietnam, foreigners, specifically white men, are rock stars. People in Vietnam see lighter skin as a sign of affluence. If you have a tan it means you’ve been working in the fields, i.e. a poor country bumpkin, if you have no tan, you are rich enough to stay inside all day, for this reason you walk outside and see women covering themselves from head to toe. It’ll be ninety degrees and humid and these women will be wearing hats, masks, gloves that go over the elbow, long-sleeve shirts and pants, all because they don’t want any sun to touch their skin. This stigma bodes well for white people, I have had more compliments on my skin here in Vietnam than the sum of my entire life prior to arrival in Asia.
Plus, the modern history of white men in Asia is far better now than it once was. In the original days white men in other countries were missionaries and imperial colonists, i.e. men looking to conquer everything in and out of sight. Luckily for Asians, we were not able to fully accomplish either one, and at some point we (white men) were kicked out of Asia for anywhere from 10 to 50 years (depending on the country in question). Once these countries finally reopened their doors to white men, and especially in the case of China and Vietnam, we returned to Asia with open arms and fists full of cash. Missionaries and colonists were replaced with businessmen and backpackers.
So, what does this mean for the white men in Vietnam? When we left America how did people see us? In America white men, and especially WASPs (like me), are rich (though not always), pompous, and uncool, we can’t jump, can’t dance, can’t make love and have no idea how to talk to women. In addition, we have conquered, converted, enslaved, oppressed, tortured, raped, killed, and ethnically cleansed everyone else. Not a very good way to start a conversation, is it? But in Vietnam. In Vietnam we are rich, we are good looking (yes, universally) and we are exotic. Every country has its list of questions it asks foreigners first. In Vietnam, to white men, the first questions out of everyone’s mouth is not, “Do you have a girlfriend?” it’s “Do you have a girlfriend, yet?”
But it’s not all roses for single white guys in Vietnam. Well, okay, it’s mostly roses for single white guys in Vietnam, but there is a common complaint. The complaint is that in Vietnam there are three types of girls, there are formal prostitutes (sex for cash, straight trade), there are, as I call them, informal prostitutes (they’ll be your “girlfriend” so long as the “gift” supply doesn’t run out), and there are nice girls that want to get married (now). How guys react to this depends on the guy, some of the guys don’t mind spending their money on women (in either form), whereas others don’t mind throwing around the “L” word (no, not “lesbian”) for a while and then turning their phone off as soon as the parents enter the picture. The problem for me and others like me is that some of us aren’t really into either of those things, but we are, however, a severe minority. Which is why I’m faced with people now who, after explaining that I’ve been here for two months, don’t believe me when I admit that I don’t have a girlfriend yet.
In any case, that’s life here so far. As usual, I apologize to those of you who did not get a response to your e-mails, and as always, I do still love getting them, so please don’t stop. I hope this finds you all healthy and happy. Until next time…
Love,
Living abroad is a strange twister and twirler of emotions. Before I left the US I was confronted with many questions, some voiced by others, some that glared at me like headlights on the road ahead. The only one of these questions that fell (and still falls) into both of these categories, however, is why? Why am I doing this, why am I leaving, why not stay in the US? When asked this out loud I always answered “why not?” to diffuse the question. Of course, I rationed, this is the opportunity of a lifetime, one that anybody in their right mind would gladly take if they only had the chance. But, of course, I know that isn’t precisely true. When I have confronted myself on this issue my thoughts on the matter sound a lot less confident than my voice does. The truth is I don’t really know, it was just something I had to do.
When I lived in Spain a few years back I had a brief discussion on a similar matter with a friend of mine. At some point in the conversation she said to me, “Y’know, on some level, all of us, every ex-pat from any country, we’re all running from something.”
I don’t know if this is true, but it does, to a certain extent, make sense to me. Living abroad is the closest thing someone like me can come to feeling like a husband who loves his wife dearly, and yet somehow finds himself with a mistress half his age. Your home culture is so comfortable, so honest and understandable you can not help but love it dearly, and yet there is something so fresh and seductive about someone else’s culture that you can easily forget the comfort you once felt at home. This was true for me in Barcelona and it is equally true here in Saigon. Every time I eat a meal, slalom around the human feces on the street, learn a new word in Vietnamese, or marvel at how I can spend a night drinking with friends and wake up in the morning only five dollars poorer, I feel a twinge of terror, some slight sorrow, but above all a certain leash of guilt that I am not in New England, watching the temperature drop and the leaves get ready to turn. Somehow my brain knows what should be happening, and I dream of wandering through the woods with my dog, eating turkey with my family, and bitching about the Sox. And just as I feel I can not bear it any longer someone takes me to a restaurant where they put a mini grill on the table and hand me a bag full of live shrimp, then proceed to teach me how to cook the shrimp on the grill while they are still alive, redefining my understanding of “fresh” for the rest of my life. Yesterday someone took me to a restaurant that specializes in food from central Vietnam. It was here that I learned to like spicy food for the first time, I could never have done that in the comfort of my own home.
But I’m also different than most of the ex-pats here, and perhaps anywhere. When my friend said that we are all running from something what she meant by that was that we all had a reason to leave, something that, in one way or another drove us out. When I was 18 it was the fear of ignorance. I had grown up in the definition of “sheltered community,” and I knew that I was ignorant of the diversity I would be facing in the rest of the world, so I decided to meet it head on. I made my first none-white friend when I was 18, in Spain. Of the ex-pats that I’ve met here the same is true, whether they share it or not you can see they no longer feel the same love for their home they may once have felt. And the thing to remember is that home cultures, like wives, do not just simply fade into the night, if you want to separate you have to divorce. Divorce, whether of culture or of lover, is never a simple or slight decision, and there is almost always something that drives you to it. The difference for me, however, is that there is nothing that drives me away from my home on that level anymore. Saigon is fun, it is fresh, it is seductive, but at some point (not yet) the motel rooms will no longer satisfy me, and I will go home to my family, my friends, my life.
But of course, for those of us who stay, it is not quite so simple as to say they were driven away, there also must be a reason to stay. That is an easier thing to identify here. In both China and Vietnam, foreigners, specifically white men, are rock stars. People in Vietnam see lighter skin as a sign of affluence. If you have a tan it means you’ve been working in the fields, i.e. a poor country bumpkin, if you have no tan, you are rich enough to stay inside all day, for this reason you walk outside and see women covering themselves from head to toe. It’ll be ninety degrees and humid and these women will be wearing hats, masks, gloves that go over the elbow, long-sleeve shirts and pants, all because they don’t want any sun to touch their skin. This stigma bodes well for white people, I have had more compliments on my skin here in Vietnam than the sum of my entire life prior to arrival in Asia.
Plus, the modern history of white men in Asia is far better now than it once was. In the original days white men in other countries were missionaries and imperial colonists, i.e. men looking to conquer everything in and out of sight. Luckily for Asians, we were not able to fully accomplish either one, and at some point we (white men) were kicked out of Asia for anywhere from 10 to 50 years (depending on the country in question). Once these countries finally reopened their doors to white men, and especially in the case of China and Vietnam, we returned to Asia with open arms and fists full of cash. Missionaries and colonists were replaced with businessmen and backpackers.
So, what does this mean for the white men in Vietnam? When we left America how did people see us? In America white men, and especially WASPs (like me), are rich (though not always), pompous, and uncool, we can’t jump, can’t dance, can’t make love and have no idea how to talk to women. In addition, we have conquered, converted, enslaved, oppressed, tortured, raped, killed, and ethnically cleansed everyone else. Not a very good way to start a conversation, is it? But in Vietnam. In Vietnam we are rich, we are good looking (yes, universally) and we are exotic. Every country has its list of questions it asks foreigners first. In Vietnam, to white men, the first questions out of everyone’s mouth is not, “Do you have a girlfriend?” it’s “Do you have a girlfriend, yet?”
But it’s not all roses for single white guys in Vietnam. Well, okay, it’s mostly roses for single white guys in Vietnam, but there is a common complaint. The complaint is that in Vietnam there are three types of girls, there are formal prostitutes (sex for cash, straight trade), there are, as I call them, informal prostitutes (they’ll be your “girlfriend” so long as the “gift” supply doesn’t run out), and there are nice girls that want to get married (now). How guys react to this depends on the guy, some of the guys don’t mind spending their money on women (in either form), whereas others don’t mind throwing around the “L” word (no, not “lesbian”) for a while and then turning their phone off as soon as the parents enter the picture. The problem for me and others like me is that some of us aren’t really into either of those things, but we are, however, a severe minority. Which is why I’m faced with people now who, after explaining that I’ve been here for two months, don’t believe me when I admit that I don’t have a girlfriend yet.
In any case, that’s life here so far. As usual, I apologize to those of you who did not get a response to your e-mails, and as always, I do still love getting them, so please don’t stop. I hope this finds you all healthy and happy. Until next time…
Love,
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