Lose Your Self

There is something exhilarating, illuminating, and even liberating about leaving all that you’ve ever known behind. Going off the map, getting away from the spheres of influence that have been shaping your identity up to the present, you discover and develop new sides of yourself. You begin feeling profoundly closer to humanity while learning to live like another person. But as you become more in touch with the rest of the world, you may find yourself drifting away from, well, yourself.

Initially, I was very eager to integrate into Nepali culture. During pre-service training, I asked my language and cultural facilitator dozens of questions to help me assimilate. I bought traditional Nepali clothing; I ate weird Nepali dishes; I drank tea whenever offered; at one point, I even tried to grow a Nepali mustache (because all the cool Nepalis are doing it). I tried to be mindful of my every move and action. As a stranger in a strange land, I tiptoed around to avoid upsetting the equilibrium of a conservative culture.

Over time, a few things happened. First, I realized that it’s impossible to be culturally appropriate all the time. Hell, in America I committed taboos all the time. Then, I discovered that I didn’t always want to blend in. How could show Nepalis what Americans are like while trying to act like a Nepali all the time? I’d be a worse than a wet noodle—I’d be a walking contradiction. Also, I take issue with a number of aspects of Nepali culture—attitudes toward Dalits, women, alcohol, marriage, etc. As if these first two realizations weren’t enough, eventually I came to terms with the fact that in trying to conform to Nepali culture, I was playing a role rather than being myself.

This pretending-to-be-someone-you’re-not manifests itself in everyday interactions. In any country they serve, Peace Corps volunteers get pretty accustomed to being asked the same questions over and over. With Nepali strangers, the interview usually includes the following questions:

• Where are you from? Which do you like, America or Nepal?
• How long have you been here? How long will you be here?
• What work are you doing here?
• Will you teach English?
• Will you take me/my family/my baby back with you to America?
• What do Americans eat? Which do you like, American or Nepali food?
• Are you married? Will you marry a Nepali? Which do you like, American or Nepali girls?
• Etc.

For a while, I answered these questions gladly and diplomatically. But repetition gets tedious. Over time, the dialogue grew so monotonous that I could sit through a conversation without paying attention, giving responses as automatically as if reading a script. I became a broken record, only, because the audience was different with each playing, nobody noticed. Like Bill Murray’s character in Groundhog Day, I’ve responded by making my responses more and more absurd with each repetition. Now, when people ask me if I can take them back to America, I tell them I think I have room for them in my bag, or that I’m allowed to take my wife back with me. So far, only one guy has expressed interest in that. Another volunteer, when asked where he’s going (another standard question, although when Nepalis ask it, they literally just inquire “whither?”), has begun responding with “your mom’s house.” I’m not quite there yet, but then he’s been here a year longer than me.

When the truth is offensive, the culturally appropriate answer ends up being a lie. For example, many people are curious as to whether Americans eat beef. Hindus revere cows; in Nepal, killing a cow is punishable with jail time. I used to dodge the question or minimize Americans’ beef-eating habits, but the reality is that that most Americans consume cow several times a week. That’s just the way it is. Our cultures are different, and Nepalis should be aware of that.

Those are largely superficial examples, but many of the compromises run deeper. You conform the way you talk, look, and act to meet peoples’ expectations and preferences. As the singular outsider in a fairly pushy society, the peer pressure can be tremendous. You do things you don’t want to in order to avoid offending others. When you’re under the constant heat of another culture’s magnifying glass, you start acting more like a character than a real person. And soon you start to feel like you’re losing your self.

Some of the time you catch yourself in moments of personal dissociation: participating unfazed in conversations in which your female companions are completely ignored; taking it for granted that women do all the household work; listening politely as your friend brands Dalits as irresponsible and lazy; standing idly by as your sister-in-law beats your nephew because he wouldn’t eat his snack. But most of the time you’re unconscious of the fact that you’ve habituated to things that were once shocking, upsetting, and unfair—that culture you’ve been absorbing molded you into a new person adapted to the environment in which you’re living.

But it’s a temporary acclimatization, not a permanent evolution. It just takes a little time away from village to return to stasis, to remember who you are. Because no matter how much you may feel like a Nepali, a single glance in the mirror is a reminder that you’re not. And even though Nepalis might not understand who you are, they know you’re not one of them. From the laptop to the quick-dry t-shirt, the bank account balance to the college degree—the evidence that you’re an outsider is everywhere. You may need to compromise some of your behaviors in order to assimilate, but you need to draw the line somewhere to ensure your self-preservation.

So, to remind yourself and those around you of your self-sovereignty, you rebel a little bit. Despite the reproaches of your family, you grow out your hair and beard because you feel like it. You don’t clean your room because let’s face it—you’re just not very neat. You enjoy the occasional drink without worrying what people might think. You stop apologizing for being the way you are, because you can’t very well be anyone else.