rithya (ritt-tee--ya)

October 24

I have a certain pride issue that feels insulted when anyone thinks I could be anything but good and okay. I am fine and strong and everyone loves me. I have no problems, no struggles, and I bend over backwards to please them all. And yet I stand incredibly sensitive in a country with no tact, no skill or familiarity in diplomacy or civility. Where I don’t know if I’m to yell at someone or just stand there wounded, in a country where I don’t know what to think of myself, because I have no idea what anyone else might think of me (until arriving upon today’s epiphany that I just can’t and don’t care, and that I have plenty of people back at home, and even in Cambodia, who love me for exactly who I am and that’s more than enough). My first graders love me, I know this; they keep me alive and warm-blooded and sane (the love goes both ways). Yet as much as 30 students can change your life (and already have), the rest of the world is there to pound on you, and the devil knows your weaknesses and can use them in the most unlikely places. Other faculty, the whole education system, middle school students, parents, the fact that an arse (pardon my lame euphemism) in the higher elementary kicked Sotha so hard he was sobbing and couldn’t breathe; he comes into my classroom most breaks and after school, muttering Khmer phrases with dirty looks on his face, a bitter moment in this blurry experience of being lost in translation, a situation that is becoming increasingly difficult to just ignore.

Female teachers in their forties, come to me, and say, in front of students in all grades of either sex, that they like or dislike my breasts, that they notice what type of bra I wear because of the way they sag or don’t sag, and that when I sit up straight, they look nice and full, and when I slouch down I look like an old man. Awkward, intrusive statements are no big deal, and I feel picked apart from people from any age, and for the first time, just wish my youth would wither away and no one would care at all how I looked or how far my stomach sticks out or what kind of shoes I wear. Surprised and confused about how materialistic people seem to be in this country, with burning trash on most roadsides, naked and poor children on every street corner. Maybe it's a good distraction, or ignorance (or more like denial) is bliss. I guess I understand, but sometimes I wish I didn't.

A student in my 8th grade prayed that all the good students could go to heaven and the rest would go to hell, and after he said Amen and there was a roar of laughter, I first felt furious at their disrespect, which soon turned to disillusionment in the way in which we are teaching or showing Christianity in the mission field, or anywhere really. Everyone wants to go to heaven and no one wants to die. I read once from an Aaron Weiss interview in Relevant Magazine that the Christianity he had witnessed seemed to be so entirely focused on the afterlife (you will be rewarded in heaven, vengeance is mine, saith the Lord) But what about the life I'm living right now? Is fear really the heart of love? This blog took an entirely different turn, but I’ll suffice it to say that life is not easy, nor is it fair, and while some say life is short, it could be the longest thing we’ll ever do, and maybe I want to make mine count.