Out of Our Ways

"The fair, strange face of the child looked over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with something unseen." -- D.H. Lawrence, The Rainbow

It is interesting to think of the things you never grow used to. Perhaps a more anthropological statement would be – it is interesting to think of the things you have the most difficulty growing used to. I thought of this while in the Taipei 101 mall the other day, standing in the middle of a hall of shining marble with twelve-foot photoshopped models slung in the windows of Gucci and a corner chunk of the second tallest building in the world a stone's throw away. Malls (especially such a fancy mall) never fail to make me feel irredeemably dirty. Young women my age grew up to adopt a "screw you!" kind of attitude... a "I'm beautiful because I'm real" attitude. I like to think these things sometimes, just as I like to feel elegant sometimes, but the problem I see with thinking this way is that it uses the same language as the one the mall uses - the language of beauty. And beyond that it doesn't really frame "beauty" in anything but reactionary terms. As far as I can tell those terms are simply too boring to care much about, except for the ways they infiltrate more interesting, complicated parts of us. More comforting to me, while I stood face to face with such cleanliness, was the thought that I would never grow used to malls. I looked around at the people, dressed differently, looking more or less "beautiful" or clean, and I figured that most of them probably felt the same way. And that made me feel even better.

I think it’s probably most difficult to recognize what you are completely used to. Without consciously unraveling our habits of mind, we tend to recognize them only if and when the unfamiliar disrupts or replaces them.

For instance, after twenty or so years of throwing used toilet paper into the toilet I physically memorized the gesture. I’m sure a neurologist could tell a cute anthropomorphic tale of how different chemicals and parts of my brain talk to one another in the tiny portion of a second before I throw the toilet paper in the toilet, but for all intents and purposes I throw the paper in there without thinking about it. I’m used to it. So used to it, in fact, upon arrival to Taiwan I threw used toilet paper into the toilet at least a dozen times even after learning that people throw it away in the garbage here. Over and over again I let my body think without me. Each time I messed up I flushed guiltily, made certain no incriminating evidence of the tissue (as it’s called here) resurfaced, and promised myself not to do it again. Well, I’m happy to say that after six weeks of living in Taipei I consistently get it right now. I am more than less used to this cultural phenomenon. So used to it, in fact, if I returned to the States tomorrow I might act all Taiwanese up in the bathroom.

I was just getting used to the sticky heat when the remnants of typhoons sweeping through much of South East Asia dumped some raucous weather on Taipei. For days it rained and Max and Sam and I holed up with Max's Gibson and Milan Kundera (who turned out to be a depressing companion…). Excited for a dreary change, we gratefully listened to the drumming of rain on the windows and stopped watering the orange tree. The rain finally stopped yesterday evening. Today the air felt cool and fresh. I walked all around the neighborhood seeking streets and lanes I’ve never ventured down before. I made a special stop to say “ni hao” to the beautiful young woman who sells watermelon drink on the corner of Ting Zhou. I want to be her friend. Back in the apartment I went up on the roof with a fold out table and chair, the french press, a pen, and a notebook. I started writing but soon stopped. I felt cold! I thought four winters in Maine had instilled in me a certain hardiness. I went back down to the fifth floor for a sweater, marveling at how changeable we all are.

I have no doubt that I am able to get used to living here – wet and hot and all. I’m also sure that out the window of my future home, the leaves on the trees are brown and red and so dry they scratch against each other when the wind moves through them. It is October, after all. I miss the autumn of Western New York, of Maine. I miss it because I choose to. In an email to Rachel I tried to articulate my memory of fall (or maybe it’s the memory of a general feeling?]… I’m at my old house playing outside with my brothers. It’s getting dark out and I feel cold and warm at once because we’re running around. The ground is cold and wet and everything smells like dirt and smoke. My mom calls us inside and without washing our hands we sit down to eat disgusting amounts of spaghetti. The house smells like sautéed onions, dust, and warmth, but I can still catch that dirt smell in my hair. Through the window panes it looks completely black outside and I can’t believe I was just out there playing. I’m happy to be inside though, and I feel safe and at peace knowing I can expect homework and bickering and a shower and a morning. I’ve loved fall always, but I haven’t had that exact feeling in a while. So I miss two things I guess – fall and being a kid. October is very different in Taipei at twenty-two, though the thought of morning still pacifies me. That is another habit of mind that I'd like to keep.

I’m getting used to the chicken feet and organs on display beneath a heat lamp at a corner vendor down the street. Even the smell I find less shocking lately.

I’m getting used to the daily crotch shot I get every time I step out of the apartment. The woman who owns the store next to the apartment building sits open-legged all day every day cackling and fanning herself. She’s very friendly (No, I’m not insinuating anything... ). She smiles and waves her fan at me sometimes. In fact, everything about our neighborhood becomes more and more familiar and more of a comfort to me. Every day I walk past the same stubby street dogs and dodge the same couches and chairs and bookshelves spilling over the sidewalk into the street. My neighbors nod hello and the children offer shy, twinkling smiles even with their mouths full of noodles. I’m happy to feel a little homecoming at the end of a day.

I’m getting used to the cluttered air I breath and the way it collects in my lungs and has me coughing every morning, but I know I don’t want to get used to that.

I’m getting used to separating paper from soft plastic from cans from bottles from compost from trash, which is something I’m happy to get used to. Living in Taiwan, we’re forced to deal with our waste. Walking around Taipei in the evening time you often hear an eerie whistling to the tune of fur elise. Then you smell it. Garbage. The garbage trucks play the eerie melody to announce their arrival in a neighborhood. On nearly every street they appear at a specific time every day but Wednesday and Sunday. On Xiamen, just steps away from our apartment, fur elise fills the air at 5:30. If we miss it, we can catch a pick-up up the street near the park at 8:30. If we miss that one, we can wander around like fools with stinky bags thrown over our shoulders and our ears pricked. It’s quite a thing to watch a whole neighborhood of people pouring out of their homes with blue bags in their hands. Once I unknowingly mixed Styrofoam with “soft plastics” and a woman near me put her hands right into my bag and helped me sort the Styrofoam out.

I’m getting used to kindness, which is probably both good and bad. I told my Co-Teacher I liked a ring she wore and she bought me one. She gave me a cracker to try and I liked it so she brings those crackers in to school often to share them with me. Writing these things down I’m reminded of what exceptional gestures of friendship they are and how sad it would be to start taking such things for granted, even as I experience such generosity in abundance as a foreigner in Taiwan.

Every day I tweak the repertoire of what I’m “used to.” Though old habits die hard (toilet paper) new ones are possibly born every day (toilet paper). And then there are some things your soul choses to refuse (malls in every time zone). Living in a place so significantly different from the places I’ve lived before, I’m forced to alter my habits of mind to function on a day to day basis. I think it’s important for me to think about this process of alteration as I am always a part of it here in Taiwan and wherever I go next. Beyond that, I must make decisions about how and why I do or don’t want to change my ever-changing habits of mind. Everything in Taiwan is a little too sweet until I get used to the sugar. My next question is -- how sweet do I want to be?

I think it’s probably most important to think of the things we’ve been used to for a long time, maybe our entire lives, and reach to determine how those habits of mind put us in touch with the world around us (or the part on the other side). Moments that disrupt and therefore bring attention to our habits of mind happen too infrequently, especially when we’re too comfortable, to be the sole inspiration for self-reflection. I think we have to go out of our ways sometimes.