Ponderings of the culturally curious

I'm not sure why, but culture has long fascinated me. My earliest (or at least, most significant) memories related to cultural curiosity: Playing at a friend's house (on several occasions) when I was 9 or 10 years old. My friend Annette and her family were Puerto Rican. Though Annette spoke English, her family members spoke in thick Spanish accents. As I didn't know Spanish, I heard words but had no idea what they were saying to each other. I was curious to know. Were they saying anything they wanted in front of me knowing I wouldn't have a clue what they were saying? Or was it much more mundane conversation than I conjured up in my imagination? All I knew is that I wanted to decipher their foreign language, which in my mind was a barrier to my understanding. Yet it was also fun for me, as I found myself watching their body language for clues on what they might be saying to each other...or at least how they were saying it. I guess you could say this sparked the beginning of my curiosity to learn, to explore, to understand people from different cultural backgrounds. Sometimes I even wish I were of a different race or from a different culture....to wear different clothes, to have different colored skin and hair, to speak another language, to eat different foods, to have different values, rituals, traditions. Even a different daily routine. There's nothing all that fascinating about being a white woman from the US, at least culturally speaking...

This past week I've been thinking alot about culture and how much different one's life could be submerged in one culture versus another. A repressive culture. A liberating and open-minded culture. An oppressive or dangerous culture. A misogynist culture. A culture of violence. A culture of capitalism. A culture off the grid. So many alternate identities we'd have. Are we any less strong, brave, free-spirited, open-minded, or obedient in each different cultural environment?

If I were living in the Middle East amidst 'the morality police' that punishes women for things like revealing their ankles, would I submit to obedience out of fear or would I be bold and subversive no matter the cost? And at the same time, am I making biased negative or positive assumptions about culture due to inaccurate knowledge? I'm thirsty for knowledge. I thought my mind was wide open before, but I'm realizing how little I know even for someone who is probably more educated and well-read than the average American. Truly humbling and oddly refreshing to realize there are mysteries in life which I may never be aware or be able to grasp in understanding. Keeps life always juicy and 'new' in a way.

Iran and Palestine have been at the forefront of my mind as far as a few clients I work with that are from those regions, as this is the first time I have worked with anyone from the culture of the Middle East. Listening to their experiences and the impact of culture on their experiences has been eye opening, as well as inspiring. I find myself having feelings all across the board for them....sadness, anger, compassion, admiration, inspiration, and hopefulness.

 Interestingly, I also watched a movie this week called "Circumstance'  (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1684628/) that examines issues of cultural influence. The film takes place in Tehran and centers on the forbidden love of two teenage girls that struggle between being true to themselves amidst an oppressive misogynistic culture. We can say we would do this, that, or the other "If I were in that situation....," but how do we know what we would truly do? If only there were alternate realities/universes to find out. Then again, that would ruin the juicy mystery...

Mystery of the grumpy, frumpy neighbor

I find myself incredibly creeped out this morning by a recent incident that happened (and is still going on), though I don't know why it's creeping me out.

Tuesday morning I happened to set my alarm to get up earlier than I normally do so that I could get to work at hour earlier. When I got out of the shower, I could hear a ruckus in the hallway outside the door to my apartment. Given that it was 5:45am, I wondered what was going on. I thought maybe there was a drunk or homeless person that somehow got in the building, roaming around and talking to himself (you live in a big city like Chicago or Seattle long enough and it's easy for these scenarios to instantly pop into your mind as possibilities). I wasn't sure if I should go out there to assess the situation, so I put my ear to the door. I could hear a man talking on a cell phone talking about the stats on a woman's blood pressure. A few minutes pass. I look through the peephole of my door and see a group of people guiding my neighbor (across the hall) out of her apartment on a stretcher. One of the EMT guys asked her a question and she responded. She looked awake. I'm guessing she had a heart attack.

Now, I'm not one of "those people" that gets in everyone's business. I know how it feels to be on the receiving end and generally am respectful of not gawking when someone has been hurt,etc. So why is this person different and leaving me creeped out in the aftermath?

I have only had one interaction with this woman in the whole time I've lived in my apartment building, so uneventful that I can't even remember the details. It might have been my the mailboxes, though more likely we shared an elevator ride together one morning or night. All I remember about my limited interaction with this woman was that she appeared to be in her 60's. I attempted to be friendly with her, offering a smile or a kind greeting. She seemed very closed off though and didn't acknowledge me at all, a grumpy and frumpy looking woman. From what I could tell, she lived alone. I don't think I ever saw her go in or out of her apartment either. Very strange.

The past few days as I have noticed the apartment door has been open at times, including right now. A little while ago I could hear the sound of paper bags being filled. Two older men who appeared in their 60's walked by carrying a few bags. As I sit and type this now I hear boxes being taped up. The neighbor isn't there. I find myself looking at her mailbox here and there, looking for signs of whether she has moved or died. Her name is still on the mailbox at this point. I even Googled her name, trying to find an obituary for her (I haven't found anything yet).

I have this bizarre yearning to know what happened. I think what creeps me out the most is that she was an old woman who lived alone. Of course, I have no knowledge of this woman's life. Maybe she was loved by many and just happened to have lived alone. Or maybe she had some health condition that requires her to move into a nursing home or assisted living...or live with family members. She didn't appear feeble or that old looking to me when I saw her though. I am pretty sure she died. What freaks me out is that I keep thinking, what if that is me someday?

Granted, I highly doubt I will become a grumpy and frumpy old lady....but what if she was lonely and had no one in her life that gave her a quality life, one of meaning and happiness, and that's what made her appear a grumpy, unpleasant woman who lived in a studio apartment?

One thing I've always been afraid of (even more so with each passing year) is being found dead in an apartment while living alone. Who would know I'm dead? How long would it take for people to notice that I'm gone? What's funny is that I'm not afraid of death itself, only in how my death is discovered by others and how it affects or doesn't affect them. I guess it doesn't matter if my body isn't found for days since I'm obviously dead, but the thought disturbs me...as does the thought of the possibility of not having lived the fullest life I wanted to live during the time I was alive.

In undergrad college, I took a psychology class (Studies in Death and Dying) that had me visit a funeral museum as well as have me write my own obituary as part of the assignments for the class. At the time, I was about 20 years old and wrote about the cause of death being hit by a drunk driver. If I were to write it now, I have a feeling I would write a more realistic way of dying.....like choking to death (literally) on my dinner because I lived alone and there was no one there to help/save me (which reminds me of one particular "Six Feet Under" episode).

Living alone truly freaks me out sometimes. So does my imagination....