Arriving in Ukraine from Nepal was perhaps my greatest culture shock yet. Our persistently white skin, despite the persistent equatorial sun, had afforded us celebrity status… until that hour. Hungry and tired from the long plane ride, my teammates and I stumbled into (what we’ve always considered) a haven for the hungry and tired: McDonald’s.
But stepping into that blast of air conditioning and loud music, we quickly realized our false assumption. The decor was ultramodern and unnaturally clean; there was even a cafe area separate from the normal restaurant. It was like we’d walked through a weird culture-time machine that turned McDonald’s into the place to show off your designer jeans, sparkly shoes, skin-tight shirts, and copious amounts of hair gel.
These people looked like models and
they
were
judging
us.
Fortunately, I didn’t pay too much attention to their stares at the time. I couldn’t. I was about to eat beef for the first time in 2 months. They could have all tripped over their gorgeous heels for all I cared.
A few weeks later, I had a similar, yet much more personal moment of culture shock. My teammates and I were in the Bucharest metro, on our way to Pitesti for the month. We stumbled onto the train, trying not to knock anyone over with our packs that are somehow still so heavy. Once the metro was in motion, a woman leaned towards us and asked,
“Where are you from?”
Amber answered, “Oh, we’re from America.”
The woman and her friend laughed. “We know. Which part of America?”
In that little moment, a memory tugged at me:
On a different metro, in a different city, three years prior. But in that situation, I was the knowing local.
Sort of.
I wasn’t nearly as nice. In the clear memory that flashed through my mind, I was in Paris and on my way to meet a friend. A few tourists stumbled into the metro, armed with lumpy backpacks, matching tennis shoes, and one of those big, colorful maps of the city. I’m pretty sure they were looking for a McDonald’s. They turned the map over and over, expressing confusion in loud American English. I said nothing. I remained stoic and unhelpful.
At that point in time, I called southeastern France home, and though I didn’t live in Paris, I knew it pretty well. But instead of assisting my countrymen in the metro that day, I did what the locals did: I feigned annoyance and ignored them. Well, it wasn’t even “feigning,” I was annoyed. How dare they be so… American?
France had the vines of her elegant culture wrapped tightly around my heart and mind that year. Unfortunately, I had let her elitism snake in along with it. I walked her cities in heels every day without missing a step. I wore colorful scarves in the summer heat. I ordered the right wine with the right food. I wore black all the time. I chatted easily with local commuters on the trains. And whenever they happened to ask, “Vous etes Lyonnaise?” I would smile and say, “Non, je suis Americaine.” Their surprise at my nationality always made me swell with pride.
And if my public school D.A.R.E programs hadn’t done their job, I probably would have done it all with a cigarette in hand.
It was just that important for me to belong. And I did it well. I was confused for a local almost daily, and nothing made me happier. That was the basis of my self-confidence. That told me I was good enough. I considered it my greatest strength: I could learn well enough to adapt perfectly.
Fast forward, back to that moment just weeks ago in Bucharest. Again, I found myself commuting around a foreign culture. But this time I wasn’t in skinny jeans and heels… I was in cut-off K-State sweatpants, worn-out Tevas, and Tiffany Berkowitz’s old, pink, pit-stained Beatles t-shirt. My teammates were similarly dressed. It didn’t even take our loud laughter as we fell over each other’s frame packs; the women in that metro car had known just by looking at me that I was American. Three years ago, that would have horrified me.
But three weeks ago, I embraced it. I greeted her and proclaimed, “I’m from Kansas!”
The contrast in those two moments in time is so telling. Why did I strive so hard to fool the people around me? To make them think I was something I wasn’t? To hide one of the most foundational parts of who I am?
I didn’t make it through the first week of the World Race before Tiffany called me out. Long before she gave me that ratty Beatles tee, she said, “It’s not adapting. it’s people-pleasing.”
Ouch. She was right.
All of that effort I put into presenting myself in a “better” light was not a strength. It was my biggest insecurity. I was hiding in fear of judgment. I believed who I could become was much more lovable than who I am. The kicker there is in the verb tenses: who I could become will always be a future conditional. Who I am is always present.
And that, I believe, may be the single biggest lesson I have ever learned in my life: that I am loved NOW, for who I am TODAY. All of the striving, the impression management, the crippling questions of identity in context, they all fade away in light of that.
I know who created me. I know He loves me. I know He doesn’t change. And I’m done changing myself for anyone but Him.
God has burned away a lot of things in me this year. That Parisienne pride was one of those things. In truth, that pride had very little to do with the French, and everything to do with me. When those women in the Bucharest metro pegged me for what I was–American–my judgement alarm didn’t even go off. Some of my French tendencies will never go away: I still love pairing wine & food, and scarves are just fun to wear. And if I were to meet those same tourists today, I’d do what all of my French friends did for me: smile and help.
But if I feel like going for a McFlurry in my pajamas… let freedom ring, y’all.
-Katie
October 2007. I think this was before all that sophistication set in…
