Social media has been a total game-changer for those of us
abroad. Facebook, instagram and the like provide the perfect platform to share
life across the distance. Birthdays, anniversaries, a beautiful garden or craft
project… With a click of a button our joy goes out to the world and we receive
the gift of being known. But it’s not
only the good we share. We let loose on the hard too. Social media has made it
easy for us to be vulnerable. The brevity of status updates means I don’t have
to look you in the eye or answer any questions or let you actually see my tear
streaks to let you all know that I’ve had a terrible, horrible, no good very
bad day.
Expats are particularly adept at online communication since
for most of us, this is THE WAY many of us communicate with our friends and
family back home. We use it to supply information, but also to solicit
responses. It’s a powerful tool, this sound-bite communication stuff, and truth
be told, most missionaries are masterful at milking their daily drama for all
its worth.
“I have a cold. In Africa. Colds in Africa are so much worse
than the colds in America. I don’t have a neti pot. I will likely suffer for
three days and not be able to save anyone’s life during this trying time. In
Africa. Life is so hard.”
“My kids are on their last box of imported Cheerios and re-enforcements
are not coming for another eight days. The sixteen other kinds of circular
cereal in this country obviously weren’t blessed by angels and my fragile, third-culture
kids have been asked to sacrifice so much. This is clearly a scheme of the
devil. Please pray for us.”
It’s possible I’m exaggerating a bit, but really now – I do
run in these circles and I see this blubbery, yet persuasive mess every day. Sometimes
I even author it myself! While many of the struggles shared are legit and
painful in any context, some of these “terrible” situations are just so run-of-the-mill-part-of-life,
that, upon reading, I fully expect to reach the comments and find a steady
stream of “suck it up buttercup”… But you know what? Time after time, the
comments section EATS IT UP. All the single tear drop emojies. Pity heaped upon
pity. Donations to fund the neti pot. People who haven’t prayed in a month are
all of a sudden hands to the heavens casting out the demon of deprivation and
praying for provision of Cheerios. I have no idea why some budding psychologist
hasn’t made a winning PhD thesis out of this crazy.
It would almost seem as if the folks back home have actually
bought into the myth that E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. in in the third world is harder. It’s
our own fault, really. When missionaries talk about their life in “the bush” or
“the jungle” or on “the islands” without clarifying that that is a geographic
marker and not a classification of hardship, we create a suggestive void to be
filled by nothing but imagination and worst-case scenarios.
Honestly, misperceptions flow our of our thumbs so easily.
When our Provincial grocery store burnt down I’m pretty sure I made it sound
like we would all starve to death. I appreciated the solace, at the time. Cheeeeeeese! How will I live without it!
But I never did tell you that a few weeks later they opened up a little outlet
and lo and behold, we haven’t wasted away. They are even stocking cheese. It’s
a selective game, and whether we mean to or not, we all play it.
Admittedly, for those of us overseas, our sharing is often
curated to achieve a certain response. This is something I’ve wrestled with a
lot. When I read or write posts about the traffic or the tropical diseases or
the long waits for absolutely everything, and people react with some variation
of “wow you’re amazing and I could never…” the conscientious objector perched on
my shoulder whispers, Is our life really
harder than theirs?
I’ve been sitting on this question, rolling it around in my
head… When I share (whine) about my Zambian problems, am I really any different
than my children who are honestly convinced that getting their hair washed is
some form of torture? Am I showing my immaturity by failing to balance my
problems against those facing truly dark situations?
To my dear friends in America, let me say this: my life is not harder than yours. How
dare I complain about the fact that my children have giardia when I have
friends in the states whose children are undergoing heart surgery. How dare I
complain about goats eating my begonias when I have friends who have to get in
the car and drive to find green space.
How dare I complain that there is no decent ice cream when I have an
unlimited supply of avocados for 30
cents a piece. Just. Shut. Up.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down all
attitudinal with my journal and instructed myself – COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS. YOU
HAVE NO REASON TO COMPLAIN.
I have the best life ever, actually.
The Zambian bush is the best place ever to raise children.
My kids get approximately 6 hours of outdoor nature play every day, all year
round. Eat your heart out, Charlotte Mason.
My work allows me to be creative, inspired, sacrificial,
inventive, risky and loving which is a character bundle that describes not a
single for-profit, 9-5, cubical ever. I am spoiled beyond reason.
I have zero debt and live in a house that is paid for and
drive cars that are paid for because home and auto loans aren’t a thing here
anyway. This is ridiculous luxury.
We can go on a legitimate African safari for the same price
our friends pay for a day at the zoo. We can travel to and hang out at one of
the seven wonders of the natural world for the same price our friends pay for a
day at the water park.
We can country-hop the way our American friends state-hop. You
zip down to Florida, we zip down to South Africa. Such is the nature of
regional transportation for us.
I have not seen snow or been cold for over 700 days and
counting. (And don’t tell me that some people like being cold. No one likes
being cold. People like getting warm after being cold, but that is not the same
thing.)
I have zero commute. I have survived the traffic in NY, LA
and DC and NO THANK YOU. I am blessed and highly favored that I walk a dirt
path to all my jobs and pass zero cars on the way.
I shave my legs approximately 3 times a year and strap on a
bra approximately never because Zambain women are not oppressed in these
Western ways and thank heavens Jeremy is basically Zambian and just lets me
live.
Mango season is a thing here and there are so many mangos
that they are rotting on the ground before they can all be eaten. Never will we
pay 2 for $5 at an American Safeway. That is heresy.
But here’s the thing:
I still struggle. A lot. I’ve spent a really long time
trying to process how, with full awareness of all this awesomeness (and so much
more), how I can still find life here to be hard more often than not.
What in the blazes is wrong with me? It’s like I have a
gratitude processing disorder or something.
I was actually starting to be really hard on my self until I
finally went on a mental health hunt to figure out why the impressive list of good
was not compensating for the modest list of bad.
And finally, it took having someone with special letters
after her name to explain it to me to stop feeling guilty about feeling the way
that I do.
When you move overseas, you take your First World
expectations with you. Slowly those expectations do melt away, but the memories
and habit of comparing and contrasting, do not. While I no longer **expect**
the clinic to have the medicine for my children on hand, the automatic recall
of, “but in the States, they would” can
often introduce a surprising angst over what feels like unnecessary pain.
The First World butting up against the Third creates dozens
of little moments each day in which we are keenly aware that it doesn’t have to be this way… and all
the mangos and warmth and creative inspiration of the village doesn’t blot out
these thoughts.
Two of our neighbor babies are in the hospital, slowly dying
under a heat lamp because the hospital does not do alternative feeding. (But if we were in America…)
We’re being hounded by the ZRA, RTSA, the ABCDEFG, choose an
acronym it doesn’t matter, we’re being hounded because we are white and these
offices want money. (But if we were in
America…)
My husband lost half a finger because the closest surgeon to
reattach it was 12 ours away and we were told it wasn’t worth it. (But if we were in America…)
My third born child sat in an institution for 400 days for
no other reason than because a few people were too busy to sign a paper. (But if we were in America…)
We have forfeited a bazillion kwacha (hyperbole) to every
shop in town because no one ever has change and pleasing the customer is not a
thing. (But if we were in America…)
It took a month to figure out that our kids had giardia
because the hospital held onto lab results only to report back to us that they
didn’t have the reagent. (But if we were
in America…)
And its not that these things are hard-er than any of the
trials that our friends in the US are facing. As much as I sometimes want it, I
don’t deserve that pity party. However, to be fair to my own emotions, I have
to admit that most of these things are hard-different – a byproduct of life as a
foreigner and the admission that, if we
were in America, these things would likely play out differently.
I’m willing to stick around a few more decades to find out
for sure, but I have a suspicion that no amount of integration or cultural
acquisition lets you turn off pre-recorded message in your brain that says,
“This dysfunction and/or different value system is causing unnecessary trauma…”
And having to process that recoding, day after day, makes the hard-different
a unique kind of burden.
I’m bothered by things that my neighbors don’t think twice
about because I have had a different set of experiences. Everything from how
families operate to customer service to health care has been colored from my
earliest upbringing. And realistically, most people around me carry on just
fine because they’ve never encountered a different reality.
It absolutely blows my mind that my daughter’s best friends
go to bed hungry two or three nights a week because their parents just didn’t
collect food for them. (But that’s the
way things are…)
It drives me bonkers that I have to debate with the post-master
to give me my mail just because it is addressed to Bethany and Jeremy Colvin. (But
that’s the way things are…)
I have to take actual deep breaths when life-saving drugs
are only provided on certain days and on certain times. (But that’s the way things are…)
My face gets hot when my paperwork is delayed because they
think I’ve falsified my age. “You can’t be that old, you don’t have enough
kids.” (But that’s the way things are…)
It kind of makes me want to quit every committee I’m on when
rules are made but never enforced and development shoots itself in the foot
over and over again… (But that’s the way
things are…)
And the balance must exist – to not whine and carry on about
it like a five year old, but to create space in my own head to recognize why it
all takes a few extra seconds to process and put all the junk away.
And sometimes, in those crucial few seconds, I grab my phone
and Mark Zuckerberg does his magic and brings you into my brain-space and it
comes out in the form of my life is
harder than yours… and for that, I am so sorry. I will continue to count my
blessings, as we all should. I SHALL REMEMBER THE MANGOS, FRIENDS. But the next
time I post a picture of a snake in my house – please know that I’m not
suggesting that the snake is hard-er than your frozen pipes or the flu
or cracked iphone screen. It’s just hard-different – for whatever that’s
worth.
