Culture Shockless
Culture shock would be one thing. If, returning to the US from Ukraine I was aghast at the culture of America, if it was startling and new and in that way energizing, I would have been alright. But it wasn't.
What I went through when I entered my first American supermarket in two months was culture staleness, culture moldiness. It was the same old smell. And though it may have reeked a bit more for lack of daily ingestion, it was anything but shocking and energizing: it was draining. It was the old stain on the carpet after vacation in paradise. It was the alarm clock screaming you out of a magical dream. Or, better yet, it was the bird flying free over the trees, only to find himself back in the same old cage at the end of the day.
It was far from shocking. It was discouraging.
The purpose that I lived for and shared with so many in Ukraine I found lacking in the eyes of my countrymen. The fervor and passion that lit and animated every day of my mission, and that welled within me upon my return found no outlet in the routine comfort of American life. And worst, the camaraderie that developed between myself and my Ukrainian brothers and sisters, with many of whom I could communicate only through inflections and gestures, set an expectation far above what my brothers in the states could meet, though we've been speaking the same language for years.
So it's not that American culture shocked me, it's that I tasted something far better, and so that mold that I know so well, that despite its quality I once considered my only nourishment, I now swallow with a cringe of disgust and regret.
However, that is slowly fading. Tastes are hard to retain in memory, even when they are of life itself. Slowly the mold begins to smell normal. The remembrance of the refreshing life of the servant fades into a comfortable dream and indistinct longing.
BUT I WON'T LOSE IT! I will not, in five years, find myself gorging on those spoiled loaves that America serves so readily, feeding them to my family by disgusting truckloads, laughing about the foolish dream that I once had of something better. No. I will find purpose and community and passion. I will go to it, or import it, or search out the recipe itself and make it in my own home, and introduce my friends to it, and give them a nourishment and an energy that they won't soon forget either.
I will survive America, one way or another.
What I went through when I entered my first American supermarket in two months was culture staleness, culture moldiness. It was the same old smell. And though it may have reeked a bit more for lack of daily ingestion, it was anything but shocking and energizing: it was draining. It was the old stain on the carpet after vacation in paradise. It was the alarm clock screaming you out of a magical dream. Or, better yet, it was the bird flying free over the trees, only to find himself back in the same old cage at the end of the day.
It was far from shocking. It was discouraging.
The purpose that I lived for and shared with so many in Ukraine I found lacking in the eyes of my countrymen. The fervor and passion that lit and animated every day of my mission, and that welled within me upon my return found no outlet in the routine comfort of American life. And worst, the camaraderie that developed between myself and my Ukrainian brothers and sisters, with many of whom I could communicate only through inflections and gestures, set an expectation far above what my brothers in the states could meet, though we've been speaking the same language for years.
So it's not that American culture shocked me, it's that I tasted something far better, and so that mold that I know so well, that despite its quality I once considered my only nourishment, I now swallow with a cringe of disgust and regret.
However, that is slowly fading. Tastes are hard to retain in memory, even when they are of life itself. Slowly the mold begins to smell normal. The remembrance of the refreshing life of the servant fades into a comfortable dream and indistinct longing.
BUT I WON'T LOSE IT! I will not, in five years, find myself gorging on those spoiled loaves that America serves so readily, feeding them to my family by disgusting truckloads, laughing about the foolish dream that I once had of something better. No. I will find purpose and community and passion. I will go to it, or import it, or search out the recipe itself and make it in my own home, and introduce my friends to it, and give them a nourishment and an energy that they won't soon forget either.
I will survive America, one way or another.
posted by James at 01:44
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