It’s hard to believe that I’ve been here for six months. It seems like yesterday that I was quitting my job at home and preparing my life for two years in an unfamiliar country. I’ve written about the transition, the ups and downs, the culture clash, and the difficulties; and those are all important parts of this journey. The growing pains, transition tears, and settling-in awkwardness were all necessary parts of this experience.
But lately, another feeling is pervasive through all of those moments. There’s this sense of calm, a contentment about being right where I am that I just can’t seem to shake. It’s a feeling of being loved by my people and loving them back. Despite language and cultural barriers, I feel this community’s love so vividly though our interactions.
So, here are some new ways I’ve been told “I love you”:
“Pii Waaan!” My nickname is yelled by a small boy across a courtyard, slurred and incomplete. His white shirt is already stained from playing in the dirt and I’m sure his hands are the same, but I pick him up and hug him fiercely when he runs to me. I love you too, buddy.
I am full, but I feel like I should finish my rice (I’ve been playfully scolded a few times for not doing so). Just as I’m finishing off my rice with a few final scrapes of my plate, a teacher hands me a piece of grilled chicken. “Gai” he explains, to clarify that he has given me chicken – in case I was confused. It’s nice of him, but I’m so full. I eat the chicken. Thanks for showing you care, Kru.
Kids storm me when I show up at school after Wai Kru Day (teacher appreciation day). I’m not technically a teacher, so I wasn’t part of the ceremony that morning. So, instead, about twenty kids get down on their hands and knees in the middle of the school courtyard to show me respect. Tears fill my eyes and I laugh. I love you guys, too.
My landlord’s wife shows up at my door with sticky rice and geng keyo wan – the green curry that she knows I love. She also knows it’s Tuesday and I’m eating at my house, and she knows for sure that I can’t cook either of those things. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Don’t run along the street” my supervisor instructs me. “Run around the Tessaban, there you will be safe.” Everything she does is to keep me safe, and I’m thankful for her concern. I run around the Tessaban a few times, but eventually return to running along the street. I’m using the runs to integrate into my community, something I can’t do if nobody can see me. I’m trying to show that I love being here by doing my job well. I hope she can tell.
My three-year-old host brother wraps his small arms around my thigh, and then slides down to sit on my foot. I walk around with him on the top of my foot, like my dad used to do with me, while he squeals with laughter. We do this every time he sees me – except for that one time when he was naked. That time, we played a game where Pii Naam Wan runs away from the naked child and PoohPah tries to catch her. He squealed with laughter then, too.
It takes me nearly twice as long to go to my Monday market than I had imagined it would. I only buy a few fruits and vegetables, but I stop every few feet to greet someone else from my community. A teacher, a student, the vendors at the market. Someone stops me to say the few words of English that they know, and they move on before I have a chance to answer. I love that they’re trying, literally, to speak my language. I love being known. I love that people are excited to see me. I learn more names, every day.
After a particularly rough week, my landlord organizes a ceremony to oust the bad spirits and bring a new spirit of health, wealth, and happiness. Everyone comes and spends their lunch hour wishing me well. I feel like part of their family.
My coworkers are starting to bring things for lunch that they want me to try. In the beginning, they cared for me by making sure there was something I could eat, at least one non-spicy dish per day. Now, they’ve noticed what I like to eat and are making dishes at home so that I will get the chance to try it. They’re proud of their food, and I feel so loved by them. I introduced them as my friends when Peace Corps visited.
After an incident where Peace Corps’ Safety and Security Officer was involved, multiple worried faces asked me if I was going to stay. It was a joy to watch relief flood their expressions when I told them I am here for the long haul. Though I never considered going home, I love that they want me here.
My Kanom BarBin (a coconut dessert that is literally straight from heaven) guy at the market gives me an extra piece. Every. Time. Speaking my love language: dessert. He makes me feel so welcomed.
I wipe the sweat from my eyebrow mid-run, knowing it will sting if I let the droplet make it to my eye. My morning runs are equal parts miserable and lovely; I continue to put one foot in front of each other, feeling each breath in the slowly growing side-ache. Still, I smile and wave at everyone I pass, and without fail everyone smiles and waves back at me. I am told later by someone I meet at the market that I ran past her house that morning. I think I detected pride in her voice.
“What did you eat with your rice?” a co-worker asks as I pass him on the stairs. I relay the contents of my American breakfast, and he seems confused that I ate yogurt with my rice. It’s still absurd to people here that I don’t eat rice for breakfast – but I know the question is just to check-in and make conversation. They’re showing they care by making sure I got something to eat this morning. Even if it wasn’t rice.
My host sister sits next to me on the couch and plays her game on her phone. After a little while, her head drops onto my shoulder. She’s not particularly emotive, but I know she loves me. I love her, too.
No one actually says “I love you”, but I don't expect them to. Instead, I feel their love through all the little things – things that add up to mean “I love you”, whether they say it or not.
I hope they feel the same love from me. Because I love them, too.
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