Should've been a Mime...

Either we've come upon new lives as mimes...or we could beat the pants of anyone in charades now...but collectively, we've got the gift of making motions and having the other party correctly guess our meaning...

...most of the time...

Language. Language is our friend. We think precious little of it once we can communicate with those around us or when our little darlings can finally efficiently communicate their thoughts, wants and desires to us without our engaging in the 20 questions guessing game for meaning.

How we've taken language for granted.

Then there is this matter of "identity" based upon our communicative skills. The author, as a former talk show host, theatre rat and salesperson; has always had the framework of communication as key to her identity.

Yet we've come to The New Place and so far, can only communicate, on our best mime/broken dialect days...like 18 month old babies.

When we ride in the taxi...the interviewer in me wants to know everything about this other person...this new life story. Or at least have the opportunity to engage in the cerebral game of question/answer and nuance interpretation of meaning...that would be awesome!

But no...we all have to settle for the simple, repeated phrases that we've mastered regarding navigation to our desired location, what country we're from and that we have a mind-boggling 7 children!

The frustration with this limited, inadequate conversation is building.

I want to know where the driver is from. I'd like to hear if he has children and how old they are. And his parents...are they living nearby?

But all I can do is grunt and nod in agreement to the common phrases he gives me. And helplessly say that I don't understand all the other color commentary he offers me.

Without the outlet of this Blog, perhaps the author would be imploding? The belief, whether real or imagined, that there are some of you out there who read this Blog and understand not only my basic communication of data but the deeper meanings within...keeps me feeling like half of my former self.

Daddy, on the other hand, continues to be happier than I've ever known him. Of course he faces the occasional frustration with lack of control issues. But he seems to roll with the freedom that he doesn't have to communicate with someone he doesn't want to. He also seems to be free from some of the old cultural pressures to make conversation and "say the right thing" to people he didn't previously know. For years I wanted him to show everyone his magnificent wit, precise comedic timing and his penchant for observation and commentary. Since he was the funniest, most interesting person I'd ever known, I wanted everyone to know that about him.

Yet he is one person to the passerby and new acquaintance and still quite another person once he really trusts and invests in you.

This freedom from communication with the passerby and new acquaintance has surprised me many times in our first 6 months here. Countless times as we've crammed into a taxi and have traveled a short distance, out of the blue Daddy will begin to belt out some song. Occasionally the song is one he's writing extemporaneously, other times some favorite spiritual songs, old pop tunes or "rounds" that he invites the rest of the family to join in with him.

This is a delightful by-product of the communication inadequacies that we experience.

As we leave today for the train ride to Hong Kong and then our trip to Bangkok tomorrow night, we were in a rush to get some details addressed...namely...haircuts.

The author has up to this point, scorned the frightening prospect of going to a salon and permitting someone to cut on her hair without the benefit of concise communication. Daddy however, would have had to start pinning up his hair had he not faced this fear some months ago.

I digress...

So, we set out, separately, yet on the same day to hair salons.

I, with great trepidation, select the salon near the shopping center we frequent. It's a new place with dozens of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and countless "artistic types" with totally mod hairstyles and funky attitudes sauntering around like brooding artists.

First up is the unbelievable head massage/hair wash. (Really, those of you with the trade of hair maintenance...should pay attention to this fantastic feature here at The New Place.) I was taken to a row of chairs/tables set up like a furiously busy orthodontists office...some 10 stations in all. I was asked to lie back after putting the towel around my neck. The bowl looked similar to the many I've been scoured in before...but this time...your head DOES NOT hang down uncomfortably. There's a headrest in the middle of the bowl where your head/neck relax during the head massage and warm water wash. (This was definitely worth the price of admission.) Only occasionally was I asked to lift my head into the washer's hand for a thorough cleaning/massaging of the rest of the back of my head.

Then I was taken to the chair.

I engaged in my mime/charades...basic local dialect to communicate my desires to the stylist/brooding artist.

After some time...a protracted one at that...we reached an agreement. Myself having no real idea if the communication had been effective and whether or not I was going to go home only after finding a new hat.

The haircut was strange (they sit down behind you to clip your hair, no one stands to style) and often I was nervous. I felt it important to stop the stylist/brooding artist a few times to reinforce items like: on which side I part my hair and the desired length after the shears had passed through.

I emerged...victorious yet unsatisfied. It was the first time in my life that I'd sat silently through a hair cut.

I was satisfied with the haircut and #9 also named Le Le gave me his card and recommended that I return to see him in 1 month...or it could have been 1 year...not clear on some of the details.

I met Daddy at home. Immediately we admired each other's new cuts. The day went on.

Some two hours later Daddy emerged from the bathroom where he had evidently been taking stock of his new "'do"...he said..."he cut my hair wrong! he parted my hair on the wrong side! I think I have a uni-cut...only one way to part this hair and it's on the WRONG side!"

After some intense visual inspection, I deemed that he was correct. He had been scalped on what should have been the "long" side and had been left too generous an amount of hair on the part side.

We chuckled. He took some scissors to the hair to remedy his predicament.

Later I thought...

Daddy enjoyed the freedom of sitting in the chair, not needing to force conversation and thought it unimportant to mime his way to an understanding of the correct side to part his hair.

I on the other hand had avoided getting my hair shorn for fear of not being able to communicate my desires. Furthermore, I had frustrated #9, Le Le, Stylist/brooding artist, with numerous attempts to direct his shears. And, had felt unsatisfied when I left for I knew nothing about #9, Le Le, stylist/brooding artist...how old was he? How long had he been doing hair? And, was I the first foreigner he'd ever had in the chair?

Communication in a new culture.

I am resolved to get a tutor and to begin intensive language study upon our return from the Spring Festival Trip. Daddy certainly will as well...but perhaps with less enthusiasm?

Both of our identities alternately frustrated and freed.

Opposites attract. :)