Sunset on the Manila Bay--Easter Sunday
Today is Easter Sunday.
I spent the last couple days in Manila entirely alone at my friend’s house. Matt left on Monday morning, so the loneliness is more palpable, my heart is more open and tender than it was before he got here. To pass the time, I’ve wandered around my section of Manila, watched a bunch of DVDs, written, read, and had a lot of different emotions.
Anyone who has spent a lot of time alone or lived abroad for an extended period of time (especially in a non-Western culture) knows this loneliness. It’s astonishing in some ways, exhausting, disturbing, and interesting—all at the same time. This place is so different from what I know. And there’s an exoticism about travel that makes that exciting at first—everything is new, interesting, bright and strange. Yet, the newness wears off at some point and you’re left with something very different from yourself, something you can’t entirely relate to, something you can only engage with so much and the rest of the time you can only observe. I will never be Filipino, obviously, and for that reason I’ll always be an outsider. I feel that often: Outside.
I’ve often read that the way we perceive the world outside us reflects what’s within. I have really come to understand this during my time here. In the last four days I have watched myself have a myriad of different experiences. Four days ago for example, I sat at the edge of the Manila Bay waterfront, on a wall. I watched a plastic bag—fully expanded—float about a foot under the sea water. It stayed there, suspended in the murky brown. I smelled the rot in the water—the stench from the polluted rivers that fed into the Bay. I felt the push of people around me, all strangers, and I clutched my purse to my ribs. I walked around and I saw young mothers with too many children, all proof of the overpopulation that cripples this country.
I saw the trash, I felt overwhelmed by the people selling me watches, the ten cabs that slowed down to pick me up as I crossed the streets within blocks of my home, the children grabbing at my shirt for money, the peddlers trying to sell me silver coins, the men that laughed and leered at me as I walked by. They told me that they loved me, that I’m beautiful. All they see is a white face, a traveler. That’s all I am to them—a ghost. Some days, that’s how I feel here—transparent, barely there. I feel angry at the government and the people for not taking care of themselves and that anger helps me feel more alive. Some days, I hate it here.
But then yesterday and today I felt different. When people beg, I smile; sometimes I give them something like the green mangoes I gave to two little girls yesterday because I didn’t need them as much as they did. It feels good to give in little ways. It doesn’t solve anything, I know that, but does that always matter? I start laughing when people ask me to buy something. “I don’t need a watch!” I say and laugh aloud. Or when they tell me I’m beautiful, I’ll say, “Thanks, so are you!” The murky ocean water now shimmers with the setting sunlight. I laugh at the playful young children and smile at their young mothers today. Today though I am a foot taller than almost everyone, I feel more a part of this place, just another person strolling down the waterfront.
Yet, this too will change. I know I’ll have other bad days. I think the difference is I realize I’m controlling it somehow, that my emotions cloud my experience. I try not to take it so seriously and see it for what it is. It’s me, reflected in a million different ways, seeing what I wish to see. And I know that. I may not be able to control it, but at least I know what it is.
Cities can shape you if you’re not careful. This can be a good thing—can create a sense of identity, while also helping you adapt the skills you need to survive. But it can also make you cold—there’s so much to take in, so many people, that you have to shut off parts of yourself so you’re not perpetually overwhelmed.
I think it started happening to me without my awareness, and that got dangerous. Every Filipino smile meant it wanted something; every man walking behind me at night might take my purse. Every tattered child would beg from me; every impoverished grandmother meant sad eyes and worn hands beseeching me for food. It’s exhausting, and if you’re not careful the poverty can make you cold, can make you shut down emotionally. On some level you have to do this—it’s too much at times. But it becomes a habit, a well established habit, and that coldness begins to breakdown compassion that’s necessary for a warm human heart.
It started happening to me, but I won’t let it. I can’t let myself feel as much as I often do—I feel too much. I am so sensitive and if I felt the wild injustice of all the poverty here, if I allowed myself to give all my money away to beggars it would accomplish nothing. I must keep myself in check. I hope I’ve found some kind of compromise that works—just enough openness to remember to see these people are human, that they are victims of a system, but that I can’t save them all. It’s tragic, but at least it lets me feel alive and open to this place without breaking my spirit. And that, in itself is a kind of resurrection.
I spent the last couple days in Manila entirely alone at my friend’s house. Matt left on Monday morning, so the loneliness is more palpable, my heart is more open and tender than it was before he got here. To pass the time, I’ve wandered around my section of Manila, watched a bunch of DVDs, written, read, and had a lot of different emotions.
Anyone who has spent a lot of time alone or lived abroad for an extended period of time (especially in a non-Western culture) knows this loneliness. It’s astonishing in some ways, exhausting, disturbing, and interesting—all at the same time. This place is so different from what I know. And there’s an exoticism about travel that makes that exciting at first—everything is new, interesting, bright and strange. Yet, the newness wears off at some point and you’re left with something very different from yourself, something you can’t entirely relate to, something you can only engage with so much and the rest of the time you can only observe. I will never be Filipino, obviously, and for that reason I’ll always be an outsider. I feel that often: Outside.
I’ve often read that the way we perceive the world outside us reflects what’s within. I have really come to understand this during my time here. In the last four days I have watched myself have a myriad of different experiences. Four days ago for example, I sat at the edge of the Manila Bay waterfront, on a wall. I watched a plastic bag—fully expanded—float about a foot under the sea water. It stayed there, suspended in the murky brown. I smelled the rot in the water—the stench from the polluted rivers that fed into the Bay. I felt the push of people around me, all strangers, and I clutched my purse to my ribs. I walked around and I saw young mothers with too many children, all proof of the overpopulation that cripples this country.
I saw the trash, I felt overwhelmed by the people selling me watches, the ten cabs that slowed down to pick me up as I crossed the streets within blocks of my home, the children grabbing at my shirt for money, the peddlers trying to sell me silver coins, the men that laughed and leered at me as I walked by. They told me that they loved me, that I’m beautiful. All they see is a white face, a traveler. That’s all I am to them—a ghost. Some days, that’s how I feel here—transparent, barely there. I feel angry at the government and the people for not taking care of themselves and that anger helps me feel more alive. Some days, I hate it here.
But then yesterday and today I felt different. When people beg, I smile; sometimes I give them something like the green mangoes I gave to two little girls yesterday because I didn’t need them as much as they did. It feels good to give in little ways. It doesn’t solve anything, I know that, but does that always matter? I start laughing when people ask me to buy something. “I don’t need a watch!” I say and laugh aloud. Or when they tell me I’m beautiful, I’ll say, “Thanks, so are you!” The murky ocean water now shimmers with the setting sunlight. I laugh at the playful young children and smile at their young mothers today. Today though I am a foot taller than almost everyone, I feel more a part of this place, just another person strolling down the waterfront.
Yet, this too will change. I know I’ll have other bad days. I think the difference is I realize I’m controlling it somehow, that my emotions cloud my experience. I try not to take it so seriously and see it for what it is. It’s me, reflected in a million different ways, seeing what I wish to see. And I know that. I may not be able to control it, but at least I know what it is.
Cities can shape you if you’re not careful. This can be a good thing—can create a sense of identity, while also helping you adapt the skills you need to survive. But it can also make you cold—there’s so much to take in, so many people, that you have to shut off parts of yourself so you’re not perpetually overwhelmed.
I think it started happening to me without my awareness, and that got dangerous. Every Filipino smile meant it wanted something; every man walking behind me at night might take my purse. Every tattered child would beg from me; every impoverished grandmother meant sad eyes and worn hands beseeching me for food. It’s exhausting, and if you’re not careful the poverty can make you cold, can make you shut down emotionally. On some level you have to do this—it’s too much at times. But it becomes a habit, a well established habit, and that coldness begins to breakdown compassion that’s necessary for a warm human heart.
It started happening to me, but I won’t let it. I can’t let myself feel as much as I often do—I feel too much. I am so sensitive and if I felt the wild injustice of all the poverty here, if I allowed myself to give all my money away to beggars it would accomplish nothing. I must keep myself in check. I hope I’ve found some kind of compromise that works—just enough openness to remember to see these people are human, that they are victims of a system, but that I can’t save them all. It’s tragic, but at least it lets me feel alive and open to this place without breaking my spirit. And that, in itself is a kind of resurrection.
No comments:
Post a Comment