Culture Shock--Revised

Korean flight attendants hold employment of prestige in their culture. With glossy black hair, flawless crimson lipstick smiles, and sharp turquoise suits, they give off the brisk aura of a CEO--or perhaps some type of royalty. In their sovereignty, with gracious voices and meek requests, they prove the greatest among all shall be a servant. But we left behind the Korean attendants fourteen hours ago.

As my husband and I exit the doors of our plane, the heat waves of Georgia, USA, seethe outside the windows of our terminal. My ears only recently started perceiving sounds again after the pressure pop from descending, and they find the clamor hailing us to this country unsettling. A throng of weary travelers mob the lone uniformed worker in sight, asking, pulling, and competing for assistance. The worker lifts her hands. “I can’t help y’all.” Her answer rebuffs half the crowd, but some others and I persist with a measure of desperation—we have a transferring flight to catch. Obtaining vague directions, my husband and I eventually discover the line appearing to lead to customs. Another uniformed worker, equally as brash as the first, waves people from our line into various other lines. Only one couple, a Korean man and woman, now stand between us and the next level of lines. One tier to go. My momentary thought of progression gets paused as the Korean travelers in front of us, politely and in broken English, deliver a query to the worker. She glances at their paperwork. Without reading the papers, she lifts her eyes back to the Koreans and sighs, “Pih Kline, Pee Pow.”

Startled, the Koreans nod with uncertainty. They continue to stand in place.

I nudge my husband. “They don’t understand her.” He smiles, bearing marks of sympathy, having arrived in the US only a few years prior with minimal English on tongue.

“Pick a line, people,” he whispers, imitating the worker’s deep Southern accent.

When she notices the Koreans have not moved, the member of staff repeats her original demand. This time she raises her voice, but otherwise the words fly from her mouth in the same unintelligible manner as before. Hesitating, the Korean man takes a few steps away from the yelling, toward a new set of diverging lines. Seeing his walking go unchecked, his partner joins him and the two of them hurry to a line marked “immigration.” I helplessly wonder if it is the line they need.

I also find myself wondering if immigration is what I need. Marrying a man whose face and family belong to China gives me pause to consider the language and culture I want for our children someday. We have more options than most. These Southern workers did not choose their manners and accent, while the Koreans now attempt to alter theirs—but all three are currently a product of their country of origin, worlds away from each other.

My husband becomes separated from me when another worker directs us to diverging customs booths. Shrugging as we part, I continue forward and hand my declaration form to the agent on duty. He narrows his eyes at me.
“How long was your trip?"
Was it ten days or fourteen?
"Why did you travel there? How long have you been married? Where is your husband from? Why isn’t he with you now?” I flush, stammering over my answers, and in my nervousness give abundantly more information than is necessary: “Our anniversary, because we were married, and visiting family, plus also vacationing, because school starts tomorrow for us—we go to BYU, in Utah, and that is where we are going now…and my husband is with me…” I trail off as I notice the agent’s attention no longer needs my stuttering. He is staring at the booth next to us, and my eyes follow his line of vision.

“Yes, that’s him.” I see my husband backing away from his customs booth as the agent there gestures toward me. Apparently my husband and I should declare as one unit. Of course, the paperwork states it right here. I finish prattling to the agent at my booth, but he ignores me while he scrutinizes my husband’s green card. When finally allowed to pass, my husband and I laugh together, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and shaking heads: nope, no Korean attendants here.

We find our luggage and join another queue, not seeing the Korean couple in that line—but trusting their absence means they have moved ahead in their journey. I realize with some measure of surprise that culture shock at entering my own country feels more intense than the feelings produced by my time spent in Asia. Again I reflect, wondering what I want for our future children, but I feel at least one certainty; they will have more options than most.

Iceland (revised)

Cold, bleak, dreary.
Your once wooded valleys are bare.
Your earth is naked barring clumps of brown moss.
Here and there, stones are piled one on another-
A remnant, a memorial of some event or person no longer extant.
Your geysers reek sulfur, the falls are no Niagara, but –

Blue lagoon.

Mud mask, faint smell, natural warmth tickles the nose and invites
Curiosity. Wonder. Simplicity in childlike awe:
Blue and clouds – your water is sky mixed together.
Mineral deposits smooth the bottom of your white-encrusted floor.
Mascara circles and the perfect spot –

Secluded.

Cold on the bottom, and in the divots of the rocks.
Warmth in the middle, and from above.
The sun warms my face as I feel.
I feel, after all of my searching, to have found myself -

Grounded.

Heterogenous. Redefined after layer upon layer of revision. Complete.
A calculated van Eyck masterpiece, finished by a one hair brush.
Detailed, textured, vibrantly depicted in earth's palette.
Healed and no longer apologetic when married to you –

Bloo Lonió.

A Mackeral of a Memory (Revised)

Bzzzz! The humming of the straps holding the canoe battles the sound of the tires over mountain road and wins out. My roommate and I top the last rise and begin descending into the valley holding the lucid water of Fish Lake, anticipating a peaceful weekend with water, fish, and canoe. The aspens cover the west side of the valley, possibly the most massive organism I have ever seen, sharing a huge root network supporting thousands of trees. I keep watching them, looking at their quaking leaves like millions of green coins suspended on bony fingers. I climbed the same skeletal trees in the front yard of my childhood home. They are much smaller now that I have grown. A bump brings me back from my reverie and we soon stop to find a camping spot. The fish are biting, we're told by the campsite manager, so we grab the canoe off the car and head down to the lake. So heavy on our shoulders down the path to the shore, the canoe skims lightly over the darkening surface of the water as we shove off. Strong strokes bring us across the deepening waters to the other side of the lake, where hide the Mackinaw, they say, and a few fishermen still troll that shore in their boats. Some carry the huge lake trout on chains caught and left dangling in the water beside the boats. Excited, we begin to fish. We bait our hooks, cast, and wait. I reel in, cast, and wait. The sunset disappears. I reel in, cast, and wait again. Stars prick the shadowed globe above us, and we return our poles, untried, to the canoe and set paddles again to the water. The moon remains hidden and everything but the lights on the bank is black. Tonight the fish will rest, but tomorrow…

Culture Shock

Korean flight attendants hold employment of prestige in their culture. With glossy black hair, flawless crimson lipstick smiles, and sharp turquoise suits, they give off the brisk aura of a CEO--or perhaps some type of royalty. In their sovereignty, with gracious voices and meek requests, they attest the greatest among all shall be a servant. But we left behind the Korean attendants fourteen hours ago.

As my husband and I exit the doors of our plane, the heat waves of Georgia, USA, seethe outside the windows of our terminal. My ears only recently started perceiving sounds again after the pressure pop from descending, and they find the clamor hailing us to this country unsettling. A throng of weary travelers mob the lone uniformed worker in sight, asking, pulling, and competing for her assistance. The worker lifts her hands. “I can’t help y’all.” Her answer rebuffs half the crowd, but some others and I persist with a measure of desperation—we have a transferring flight to catch. Obtaining vague directions, my husband and I eventually discover the line appearing to lead to customs. Another uniformed worker, equally as brash as the first, waves people from our line into various other lines. Only one couple, a Korean man and woman, now stand between us and the next level of lines. One tier to go. My momentary thought of progression gets paused as the Korean travelers in front of us, politely and in broken English, deliver a query to the worker. She glances at their paperwork. Without reading the papers, she lifts her eyes back to the Koreans and sighs.
“Pick a line, people.”
Startled, the Koreans nod uncertainly. They continue to stand in place.
I nudge my husband. “They don’t understand her.” He smiles.
“Pick a line, people,” he whispers, imitating her deep Southern accent with good-natured humor.
When she notices the Koreans have not moved, the worker repeats her original demand. This time she raises her voice, but otherwise the words fly from her mouth in the same unintelligible manner as before. Hesitating, the Korean man takes a few steps away from the yelling, toward a new set of diverging lines. Seeing his walking go unchecked, his partner joins him and the two of them hurry to a line marked “immigration.” I helplessly wonder if it is the line they need.
My husband becomes separated from me when another worker directs us to diverging customs booths. Shrugging as we part, I continue forward and hand my declaration form to the agent on duty. He narrows his eyes at me.
“How long was your trip?" Was it ten days or fourteen?
"Why did you travel there? How long have you been married? Where is your husband from? Why isn’t he with you now?” I flush, stammering over my answers, and in my nervousness give abundantly more information than is necessary: “Our anniversary, because we were married a year ago, and visiting family, plus also vacationing, because school starts tomorrow for us—we go to BYU, in Utah, and that is where we are going now…and my husband is with me…” I trail off as I notice the agent’s attention no longer needs me. He is staring at the booth next to us, and my eyes follow his line of vision.

“My husband is over there.” I see my husband backing away from his customs booth as the agent there gestures toward me. Apparently my husband and I should declare as one unit. Of course, the paperwork states it right here. I keep prattling to the agent but he ignores me as he scrutinizes my husband’s green card. When the agent finally lets us pass, my husband and I laugh together, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and shaking heads: nope, no Korean attendants here. We find our luggage and join another queue.

Beautiful Mary (Revised)

I sat in my uncomfortable seat, watching as she made her laborious trek over to the piano. I was sitting in the very front row, thanks to the cute boy next to me, and I sat up a little straighter as she eased herself down onto the creaky piano bench. “Here we go,” I thought during the silence that stretched out before she began. Then, slowly, beautifully, her fingers caressed the keys, blending the familiar tunes of “Come Thou Fount” and “Come, Come Ye Saints.” As the medley continued, I surrendered to the peace and comfort that were washing over me. As I felt the spirit fill me, I developed a deep love for Mary, this autistic musician.

On the way home from church, Jason turned to me and asked if I’d like to help him make a treat for Mary (as a token of appreciation). Delighted at the prospect, we gathered ingredients (borrowing some from neighbors, as one must do on the Sabbath) and cheerfully baked a Texas Sheet Cake. We decorated the top with a smile of oreos, and set off to deliver our prize.

We entered Mary’s living room, presenting her with the cake and a shower of compliments. As soon as she started talking, however, I could tell that something was wrong. I asked her if she was doing ok. She told us, through her running nose and tears, that she had been feeling terribly sick, but that she’d just had a blessing. She thanked us for the cake and assured us that there was nothing we could do for her. We told again how beautiful her piano piece had been and that it truly helped us to feel the spirit.

At that point, Beautiful Mary proceeded to tell us that she loved those two pieces of music and that they always moved her deeply. She continued and bore her testimony to us in a beautifully simple manner, pleading with us to try and understand the magnitude of our Heavenly Father’s love for us. “God loves you so much. More than the whole world. People know that, but they don’t know. More than the whole world…” We assured her that her song had conveyed that message, and thanked her once again for sharing with us. We hugged her goodbye and made her promise to let us know if there was anything we could do to help.

As we walked down the stairs, Jason and I were silent. After a moment, Jason’s gentle voice expressed the awe and love we both felt for her… love for a girl with faith so unwavering and so pure that it inspires all who are blessed with her presence.

Reflections from 9-11(revised)

It began as most other school days did. My mind was still shaking off the effects of a 5am family scripture study as I calmly waited for my neighborhood friends to pull in the driveway to take me to school. I sat down on the couch and turned on the news, as I always did when I had 5 minutes to kill. The television screen burst to life with the scene of two towers. The commentators’ voices and words were lost as my brain labored to understand the pictures I was seeing. One stood resolute while the other was victimized by an enormous amount of smoke billowing out the side, suffocating the upper half of the building. I looked down to the white-on-red text at the bottom of the screen. “AIRLINE CRASHES INTO WORLD TRADE CENTER.” What’s the World Trade Center? I ask. “And who’s stupid enough to crash into it?” The uneasy feeling in my stomach led me to believe that this was something more than an accident…HONK! Out of the corner of my eye I see the sea-green 95 Honda Accord pull into my driveway. I jumped up from my couch, turned off the TV and rushed outside to tell my friends the news.

As I opened the rear door I’m buffeted by the loud sub-woofered lyrics of “Never made it as a wise man…!” They were familiar, probably because I’d heard them every single day for the past month, as our driver Matt declared it our ‘Drive-to-school song.’ Nicole, my friend from across the street greets me as I sit down next to her. “Hey guys did you hear about the plane crashing into the World Trade Center?” I questioned. Matt shakes his head negatively while Nicole answers with a “No. What happened?” “I’m not exactly sure.” The answer seemed to completely kill any further curiosity from my friends as we made our routine ride to my high school.

As I made my way to my first class I stop to ask different friends if they’d heard anything about the crash. No one had. So I made my way to class and sat down, instantly turning to my classmates to ask, “Did you guys hear…” Most of the time, however, their wide smiles and laugher were a giveaway that they hadn’t. More often than not I was answered with, “What is the World Trade Center?” I was completely dumbfounded! The public school system has failed us! How could everyone be so happy when such a tragedy like that is going on as we speak? People are dying! I stopped and thought about that for a second. I guess it is hard to have sad feelings for something that ten seconds before you did not even know existed, much less mourn. I looked around my classroom in suburban Layton, Utah and realized that no one probably even knows anyone in New York City, and only a few had even seen the Twin Towers outside of postcards or the internet. I had to admit that I felt very little self-guilt for enjoying my day when I know that there are little children dying of AIDS in Africa. Ignorance, or at least unfamiliarity, is bliss.

Unfamiliarity was soon to going to be changed with an all too comfortable intimacy, as our second period class was interrupted with a loud beep beep beep of the intercom. “Dear students and faculty,” my principal began. “We regretfully announce that some extremely unfortunate events have occurred this morning in New York City and Pennsylvania…” I don’t remember the rest. We spent the rest of the day watching TV’s in our classrooms. The only break from the news coverage was taken in my history class, where Mr. Seiter, my Episcopalian… “and be sure and remember that!” teacher, had us all take out a piece of paper to record the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of that day. Mine was filled with questions of my happenings that morning and the questions of an uncertain future. Did this mean war? Will there be a draft? Our world will be forever changed.

And so it was, not so much as from good to bad, but I came to see it more as the world maturing. Our nation maturing. Just as a teenager in their first year of college is swiftly awakened to the reality of a bigger world, so were we as Americans. There are problems in the world, and those who see themselves as leaders cannot turn a blind eye to them. We must be part of a solution. Not just for our well-being but everyone who calls this world home.