The Khon Thai Family

    I’ve spoken before about Westerners forever being outsiders in Thailand. If you are not ‘khon Thai’ you can forget ever losing the farang (or worse) label. This annoys me to a certain degree. Not because I think I should be accepted here after a mere seven months but because I think this attitude encourages rampant xenophobia at best and overt racism at worst. All this being said, the bond of ‘khon Thai’ is beautifully strong. People speak to strangers as siblings, very literally using terms of sibling endearment which are built right into the language, and Thai children receive parental love from bus attendants, street vendors, and passerbys. The most beautiful examples of the kindred bond of ‘khon Thais’ that I have witnessed happen on the skytrain. The scenario runs like this:
    A BTS officer, clad in a skin-tight and intimidating uniform, gently leads a blind man up the stairs and into a train queue. The officer allows the man, a stranger, to wrap his arm around his waist and lean into his chest for support on the trek up the stairs. As the officer leaves the man in line he pats his hands tenderly and offers a parting ‘chok dee’, ‘goodluck’ in Thai. As the train whizzes to a stop a business man reaches out to the blind mans forearm, calling him ‘Nong’ or ‘little brother’. This business man, clad in an expensive suit and designer shoes, guides the blind man onto a sardine-packed train using his own body to make enough standing room for them both. Once they are both safely aboard, he grabs the man’s hand and lifts it to the handhold above wrapping his own hand around his to ensure his grip. If you were to witness their conversation from afar you would think they were old friends. Instead, they are talking about simple things; the weather, their destinations, their children. The train comes to a halt and there is a mass exodus at a popular stop. Suddenly, the car is barely packed. A seated young woman sees the blind man and immediately stands... tapping his elbow lightly and working in tandem with the business man to ensure that the man’s sight stick doesn’t get tangled in the mid-car support poles. Once seated, the blind man offers thanks and smiles widely. At the next stop both the businessman and the young woman depart saying brief goodbyes to the seated man. We come to my stop, Saphan Khwai. The blind man stands himself up and takes barely a step before a new BTS officer glides onto the train and takes his arm. The first officer must have walkie-talkied forward and alerted the officers at this station of the man’s needs and car number. The train doors stay open longer than usual to ensure that the man is safely departed. I watch as this officer, much like the first, allows the man to wrap his arms around him on their descent down the stairs. They are chattering away like old comrades.
    I’ve seen such a scenario happen on three separate occasions and it never ceases to re-instill my faith in humanity. In a city of 12 million people, it is nothing short of a miracle that a disabled person is catered to and cared for with such compassion. I’m not sure it would happen anywhere else in the world. As much as I hate the exclusivity of the ‘khon Thai’ clan, I am in awe of their ability to drop judgement, fear, and ego to help one of their family members in need. I hope that in this small but world changing way, I will someday be ‘khon Thai’ too. 

Turning 23

   Two days after my folks arrived, I celebrated a most perfect birthday. 
   Turning 23 has all sort of whimsical connotations in my mind. My current situation speaks to the luck of this life-year and I know that the coming months will only make this more obvious. I’ll be wrapping up a year living abroad, returning to my dream of a graduate program, creating a new home for myself in Alabama, and returning to the company of my love. On an introspective level, I feel much more comfortable and assured of myself than I ever have. There is no question as to my path: I know what I want and I know I have the ability to get there. I might not have every, itsy-bitsy component of my journey plotted out but I trust my instincts and my sensibilities to do what needs to be done. I am past the vanity and insecurities of my teenage-dom, am over the OCD nervosa of my college years, and am utterly content. I recognize that I still have an immense amount to learn on a personal and professional level but I also accept myself for who I am at this very moment. I know that graduate school will be taxing but I am confident that I will be able to balance my workload with the people and activities that bring me joy. Only good things lay ahead in my 23rd year and, if my good fortune ends, I’m prepared to deal with any sorrow which might come my way.
   I rang in this new year with my wonderful parents. Still jet-lagged and fresh off the plane, they tolerated my insistence on a traditional Bhuddhist birthday blessing at a local temple and then whisked me downtown to treat me to an incredible Sunday Brunch at the Royal Orchid Sheraton on the Chao Phraya River. This was no ordinary brunch.... freshly made to order smoothies were free-flowing, a woodfire pizza oven doled out deliciousness, raw oysters were endless, dim sum overflowed out of steam baskets, thai delicacies sat next to western classics, and the dessert bar was a room all to itself. To say I entered food-induced bliss would be obvious. The waitstaff even constructed a star-bedecked, chocolate-covered, Thai kanome encircled, and candle topped torte and sang the Thai Happy Birthday song to me. I would have NEVER treated myself to such an indulgence but it was so much fun to enjoy one of the famous Sunday Brunch locales that Bangkok is famous for. 
    After loosening our pants and taking a brief rest, we headed to RedSky, my favorite skybar, to celebrate over cocktails with my Mercer compadres. I was surrounded by 12 people whom I adored while looking over a city with which I have fallen in love... pure, nostalgic bliss. 
    We later dined on a chocolate extreme Dairy Queen (thank you, Globalization!) cake and watched a full, blood moon rise. Life at 23 started off so sweetly. 

It Never Gets Easier

     I’m the type of person who gets misty eyed watching Folgers commercials. I’ve cried audibly while sitting in a movie theatre. I get teary eyed at the most mundane and simple of things. It’s a little silly but I’ve always tried to spin it as a positive.... At least I am not some cut-throat, jaded, coldhearted person who is desensitized to situations where one should be upset. Right?  I understand that I probably shouldn’t be so moved by a 30second video hawking coffee but I’m okay with shedding a tear when I witness injustice, suffering or heartbreak on the big screen or in the real world. 
     Now, put this in context in Bangkok. On any given day, I walk by people, their faces muddied with street filth, their clothes in tatters, who are begging for change. Sometimes it is a woman swaddling a baby. Sometimes it is an armless person, holding the change cup between their teeth. Sometimes it is a blind person, a speaker/boombox strung around their neck, microphone in hand who is shuffling down a bustling sidewalk singing for tips. On the train it might be a man on a roller cart, pulling himself down the aisle, his legs missing just below his hips. The other night it was man missing all his limbs, about my age, who had one of the most beautiful smiles I have ever seen. I am not exaggerating when I say these people are everywhere. I counted them once on a random morning on my commute to work. 9. 9 people in various states of poverty, disability, and despair. 9 people in my tiny sliver of the city that I tread in 20 minutes to get to work. I can only imagine how many there are in total.
     This whole story is complicated by the half-knowledge that many of these people are being exploited by underground gang that puts them on the street to beg in exchange for a guarantee of meager daily food and a place to sleep that is not a sidewalk. It is well known that many of the woman with babies may not actually be mothers but are just using the child as a pawn to garner more money. Every written word of advice states to avoid giving to these people because, by doing so, you ‘buy in’ to and perpetuate the cycle of their exploitation. It is the biggest catch-22, no-win situation. 
     To say it is heart wrenching would be an injustice. In my first weeks, I had to wear my sunglasses to hide brimming eyes when I passed these people. I would find myself clumsily drying my cheeks several times a day. I made a promise to myself that I would not give them money but, if particularly upset, I would buy a bit of street food for them. I told myself that as time went by it would get easier. 
     It hasn’t and, 6 months in, I realize it won’t. I’ve managed to train myself to look at them less. I’ve found a route to work that involves a different bus stop and an unnecessary street crossing to limit my commute encounters to 2 or 3. But, if I make the mistake of even thinking about their plight for a millisecond, I cry. 
    And, really, I’m happy I do. I hope I never become immune to human suffering. It seems that so many of humanity’s problems would be solved if more people acted with humanity. Now, if only I could turn these tears into a solution... 

Reflections: Stuff, Stuff, and More Stuff

I’ve been living in Bangkok for 3 months now. It’s time for some introspection:
      I left a lot behind when I moved here. I’m not talking people, I am talking stuff. I packed away an embarrassing amount of clothing, shoes, kitchenware, home decor, dry pantry items, toiletries, and other stuff. So much stuff. And, really, I had it easy. There is a house full of more stuff like couches, rugs, wall hangings, artwork, (more) kitchenwares, and stuff that I don’t even remember is there that Brian, a close friend, was kind enough not to want removed when he moved in. It makes me a little queasy even thinking about going back to all that stuff. Whatever possessed me to acquire it in the first place? 
     Well, as many of you know, I am a sucker for a bargain. Even more of a sucker for the word ‘free’. So, the vast majority (90+%) of my clothes were purchased at low-cost consignment and second-hand shops and the greater majority of my non-clothing items were acquired as hand-me-downs, gifts, or from the distribution of my late grandmother’s estate. So, in some ways, I can breathe a sigh of relief.... at least I didn’t spend an unfathomable amount of money on all that stuff. 
      But, still. What is a 22 year old woman doing with so much freaking stuff? Its not like I need it to be happy. I’ve proven that. I am perfectly content with the stuff I have in my possession right now... and all of it fits into two bags and a backpack. (And 12 lbs of it is the freaking blender I hauled halfway around the world) Even still, the amount of stuff I have here borders on too much. Case in point: I have to do laundry about once a month. Not even kidding. ONCE A MONTH. And, when I do, there are still clean things in my closet. How ludicrous is that? Positively insane.
     I like to think of myself of the kind of person who is immune from the capitalistic, ‘buy! buy! buy!’ and ‘more things=more happiness’ mantra that I often rail against and yet, here I sit, my mass of stuff, spanning the Pacific ocean, haunting me. Its a little discouraging. In some ways I would love for it to all disappear.... If, in 8 months, I get back and the 60 pounds of clothes that I vacuum bagged aren’t there to greet me, I might just breathe a gigantic sigh of relief. But I know that the easy route isn’t the answer. (And, realistically, living in a mono-climate sort of place greatly simplifies one’s wardrobe.) Once I get back to the States I will need my peacoat, my corduroys, and my scarves. Furthermore, banishing that stuff potentially sends it to the landfill and if that stuff is being unproductive in my possession, it certainly won’t be doing any good in the trash heap. (For the record, I did donate close to 70lbs worth of clothing to the Macon CrisisLine before I left. At the time I thought that was pretty nifty, now I realize I could do that again and still be left with plenty)
     I’d love to be one of those people who lives in a shipping container and can simplify their life to the point of numbering the items they own from 1-100. I’ll also be the first to admit that it will never happen for me. I, like my mother, build wunder-cabinets (a very, very Dutch practice) out of our homes. We turn them into psuedo-art/history/science/nature/family museums. Anyone who visited my house in Macon has already witnessed this. My mantels were shrines that honored anything and everything I found delightful in the world. I built cairns out of rocks on my fireplace to imbibe peace and I displayed art that I cherished to remind me of people/places/experiences that I loved. I don’t want to lose any of that. That isn’t the kind of ‘stuff’ I am talking about. I am talking about the slowly amassed, non-sentimental, utterly pointless things: Clothes, junk-mail, tupperware, knick-knacks, paper, magazines, etc etc etc. Needless to say, I will say that I will be making a conscious effort to reduce the amount this nonsensical stuff in a few key ways:
1.   I’ll be going through the masses of stuff I left behind and re-evaluating what I use it for and how my life would change without it.
2.    I won’t be getting more stuff just for the sake of satisfying a momentary longing for it. I didn’t think I did this to begin with; I am one of those people that mulls over big purchases for an achingly long time BUT I clearly need to do some more mulling, especially in the clothing department... even when I find a rad shirt at Goodwill for $0.10 that would work perfectly for Halloween 2023. Nope, not going to play that game anymore.
3.    I will resist my genetic disposition to be a pack-rat. I come from a long line of them and, frankly, I don’t want my grandchildren wading through cabinets containing an army’s worth of meticulously cleaned, re-used and stored ziplocks, tupperware, and take-out containers after I kick the re-used, meticulously-clean, bought-for-a-bargain, old-Dutch bucket...(Both my grandmother’s were guilty of this). So far, genetics are winning. I can do better than that.


Further 3-month anniversary reflections on the horizon...