It's time to make the donuts!

Time is a human concept, thus, it makes sense that it is a cultural norm.  Human beings are social animals, wanting to belong to a group.  We learn behaviors from our elders and pass them along to our youth.  We are who we are because we learned it from someone.  Our mother, father, aunt, uncle, cousin, neighbor, or friend did something a certain way, and we liked it.  Thus, we followed their habits, and we became a unified culture. 

I consider Americans to be rather punctual people, valuing appointments, schedules, and arriving on time.  However, I do think that most Americans accept a 5-10 minute window of error; a few minutes to allow for traffic, weather, or spilling coffee on your suit as you're walking out the door.  On a social level, as long as there isn't a dinner reservation pending, most Americans will arrive to a gathering at their leisure (within reason).  If I schedule a party at 8, I expect most guests to show up by 9.  We call it, "fashionably late."

In Chile, they had a system called "tiempo chileno."  Although this did not apply to working situations, it was very common in social settings.  Someone will invite you to a party, and if you show up on time, you might catch them in their robe and slippers, sporting sponge curlers in their hair.  When they scheduled the party for 8, they had absolutely no expectation of guests arriving before 9, and all of the guests understood these intentions, as well.  Except, perhaps, the goofy gringo who arrived on time, trying to make a good impression.

Koreans, on the other hand, are the most punctual people I've met in my life.  On-time in Korean means 10 minutes early.  It is very difficult for a "oi-gook-in" like myself to comply with this social norm.  I prefer to enjoy the nightlife and sleep in.  I guess, when you can't beat 'em, join 'em... or rather, when in Korea, do as the Koreans do.  I might not be in Korea, but it sure feels like it sometimes when I am within the walls of this little suburban business complex.

I learned many things while I was abroad, but one of the most astounding realizations to me was that I had a culture.  I always thought that Americans were void of culture.  We are a melting pot, after all, comprised of people from all over the world, with the freedom to be and do whatever we want.  But that's just it.  That is our culture.  We are a culture of individualism.  We want our own car so we can drive wherever we want.  We want to live alone and do things our own way.  It's not uncommon for someone to have lunch by themselves or have a drink alone at the bar.  We're independent, and sometimes we're late, because we don't think about the community as a whole.  We think about me, myself, and I.

And since we're talking about making the donuts, I'd like to mention that I find it rather humorous how quickly foreign cultures adapt to the fast food culture of America.  Korean America runs on Dunkin', as well as Mickey D's and Five Guys Burgers and Fries.  I guess culture is alive and changing, as well.  It evolves just like we do, although I think it's a fat chance they'll ever be late when it's time to make the donuts!

A bilingual American

Ever since I learned that the Earth was round, I have been fascinated by languages, cultures, and the way people live and communicate around the world.  I remember enjoying Sesame Street, not only for Oscar the Grouch's trashy tunes, but for the Spanish word of the day.  I can still remember the sound of the voice saying "Salida... SAH-LEE-DAH" as two stick figures found their way to the door.  Thanks to Plaza Sésamo, if I ever found myself ablaze in a Tijuana cantina at the age of 5, I could find the emergency exit and shout for "agua"...

Aside from my extreme language immersion experience with Sesame Street, I grew up in a pretty white, middle-class neighborhood, went to Catholic school with other white Irish and Italian American kids, and played manhunt with my three brothers in the backyard.  It was a pretty peaceful life, but I had little exposure to foreign culture aside from occasional trips to visit my Aunt Cyndy in Baltimore, where we would order the pu-pu platter at her favorite Chinese restaurant and see the NutCracker ballet.  Despite my sheltered upbringing, or perhaps because of it, I always had a yearning to discover more about the world and its peoples.

I'm not really sure how it happened, but at some point in the following years, I just started speaking Spanish.  Not only could I find the exit and ask for a drink of water, but I could ask you for your views on same-sex marriage and gun control.  It just clicked into place one day and started making sense.  Language is always a work in progress, and I am still learning something new every day.  It's a very difficult dilemma for a perfectionist like myself, because it is an ongoing process that will never be complete or perfect.  Learning a second language has taught me to accept imperfection and to understand that I won't always understand everything.

I feel like a very rare breed of American.  In fact, as I was traveling through the Atacama Desert in northern Chile, a Frenchman heard me speaking Spanish (beautifully, I might add) to another traveler, and commented, "A bilingual American?  Isn't that a surprise!" as if it were an impossible concept to grasp.  Maybe he wasn't too far off the mark.  I think many Americans would love to learn a second language, but it's not easy.  We are privileged to speak the so-called modern day lingua franca, but we thus suffer in our opportunities to learn a second language and truly understand another culture.  Learning Spanish was a struggle.  Mexico isn't so close to Pennsylvania.  I had to spend a lot of money and time taking intensive language classes.  Then I spent even more money traveling to Latin America several times, eventually landing in a rural Chilean village, a place deep enough into the mountains that no one spoke English.  The difficulties associated with that experience were numerous.  There were cold showers, dirt roads, and intestines on my dinner plate.

I was inspired to write this blog after taking a job working with immigrants.  I'm not talking about migrant workers or bus boys.  My colleagues are mostly Korean immigrants plus one Brazilian and one Colombian, and they are all courageously learning my mother language.  I know how hard it is to learn a second language, and I know that many Americans can be unforgiving to those who are trying.  I admire my co-workers for their bravery, and I would like to use this space to talk about my own experience with language, travel, and culture, as well as my thoughts and observations of my brave comrades and anyone else who dares to "speak the English."