Stupid Foreigner Diary 1
Thursday, 11 September 2008 Clay Burell 
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[I can't write about Gilgamesh right now. The funeral needs time to recede into the past before things here are stable enough for that type of writing. What I want to write about now is the weirdness of being an American abroad - a "stupid foreigner" - for the last 12 years. Don't worry, it's not bitter. It's funny to me, and an interesting window into the hazards of cross-cultural living.]
Don DeLillo wrote in some novel or other about how world travelers are, by the very nature of being an outsider bumbling through strange daily transactions the natives find normal, largely forgiven by the locals for being “stupid foreigners.” DeLillo’s term was different, and his paragraph about this reality was typically smart and droll, but I’ve forgotten his term and long since lost or sold the book. Personal libraries tend to lose weight when you have to pay for their transport from country to country. And since most fiction is always available (and who am I kidding? I won’t re-read most novels anyway), novels are the first to be tossed.
Anyway, I adopted the “stupid foreigner” nickname a couple of years ago here in Korea because DeLillo kept coming to mind every hour or two as I bumbled through one faux pas or another. Like the morning I took the elevator down to the parking garage for my daily drive to work, and discovered someone had parked behind my car and blocked me in, making me late to work. I honked, called out, got increasingly angry at the insensitive jerk who would do such a thing. Discovering the car was in neutral ten minutes later didn’t cool my temper. I pushed the car back a few meters, got in my car, and as I backed out, expressed my disapproval not by kicking a dent in the car or breaking a window, both of which crossed my mind, embarrassingly enough, but they would have crossed yours too (we’ve all got an Id) – but by instead resorting to a civilized revenge, in my book, which would only inconvenience the offender in rough proportionality to his/her offense of me.
I spat on the car several times, aiming particularly for the driver’s window and windshield. You’ve never seen a grown man spit with such passion.
When I arrived late to work, I saw the (Korean) business manager of the school, told him the story of the shocking offender and how angry I was, and he said: “No, that’s the Korean way. We don’t have enough parking here, so we leave our cars in neutral so people can push them out of the way.”
I wish my school would have told me that during orientation week for new hires. And if you’re Korean and drive a black four-door Sonata, I really am sorry. I try not to be an Ugly American, but it’s almost impossible to avoid being a Stupid Foreigner sometimes.
And I owe you a car wash.
End of stupid foreigner story one.
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No. 1 — September 11th, 2008 at 3:30 am
A post that reminds my of Twain’s Innocents Abroad. You obviously have much more insight into the bumbling tourists than Clemens, though. I think I should get out my copy and read it again.
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Clay Burell Reply:
September 15th, 2008 at 9:05 pm
William, it’s funny you mention the Twain book. It’s sitting on my shelf, unread, and I love that man. Maybe I should dust it off too. I remember reading a snippet from it from a travel book in Florence. Twain condescended to Florence’s River Arno, noting that it’s not a bad “little river,” as rivers go, but is a runt compared to the great Mississippi. Gotta love that.
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No. 2 — September 11th, 2008 at 8:53 am
Entertaining post. Thinking of Bill Murray in Lost in Translation with Scarlett Johansson. A film about emptiness and disconnect in a foreign country. You must feel that way sometimes.
Paul Cs last blog post..Anne Hathaway: Pretty Adorkable
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Clay Burell Reply:
September 15th, 2008 at 9:08 pm
Interesting, Paul. Maybe I do, I’m not sure. Having this space, Twitter, and other connections online to the west really changes the face of expat alienation for the better.
That is a nice movie, though.
And come to think of it, when I do have to mix with the locals – especially my in-laws, whom I love, but still… – there is a hint of what you describe.
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No. 3 — September 11th, 2008 at 9:06 am
Gilgamesh can wait.
Glad to hear your voice again–great story! We all do have an id, but in my travels, seems the American id is more, um, glorified here than in most parts of this orb.
Take care of your clan, as I know you will. My last post was an old piece about the last few weeks of my mother’s life. And I just realized why.
Strange how “strangers” online can influence one’s life, but I guess no stranger than dead strangers (such as Yeats) influencing me through paper from the grave.
Michael Doyles last blog post..Bee
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Clay Burell Reply:
September 15th, 2008 at 9:12 pm
Michael, I’ve been away at the in-laws for the last week – funeral, then Thanksgiving vacation – so I just got the chance to read your post. It’s so beautiful, as I said in the comment, I’ll just stop there. (After adding that the whole online influence thing is indeed a mind-blower.)
As for papers from the grave? I’ve long said most of my best friends were long dead before I ever lived. For me it’s Keats, Blake, Nietzsche (I’ve read his entire works carefully, and have my own interp of him, which I think is different from the hint you dropped of yours recently), and Wilde. And Homer. And the Gilgamesh poets, more and more.
Yeats has hit me at times, but I think I need to look at him more. Did Ellmann do a biography of him?
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No. 4 — September 12th, 2008 at 7:36 pm
So, it was YOU that clagged on my car window, Clay! Beware the flaming edgar!
My wife Shao Ping has taught me a selection of choice Mandarin phrases designed to express one’s frustration. I also learnt some colloquial Singaporean phrases from my colleagues and friends in Singapore.
One day on a bus in Singapore I utilised one of those rather colourful expressions after the bus driver sailed through a red light and nearly collected cross traffic. The expression intimated that the bus driver was fatherless. Everyone in the bus turned to look at me, shocked, that such an expletive had come from a meek and mild looking foreigner. I alighted at the next stop.
On another occasion I was waiting for a bus on Singapore’s Bukit Timah Road. It is a rather wealthy area of the city. I had been walking home from the city, where I had been hanging out at my wife’s workplace drinking with her boss, to our place in the suburbs when I decided the humidity was all too much that afternoon. It was time to take a bus. There was a reasonably elderly local also sitting at the bus stop. I was casually dressed.
Well, a bus turned up, and being a polite fellow I allowed the elderly gentlemen to hop on the bus before myself. On the second step of the crowded bus he stopped, turned around, and waving towards me in an agitated manner said in a mix of English and a local mix, “You rich ang moh (white man), you take taxi, not catch bus. Piss off. F*ck off!” He spat in my direction too.
I realise that some of the older generations in Singapore had been exploited by expats in the ‘colonial’ days so initially I adopted a diplomatic approach.
I was both surprised and amused at the same time. He was determined not to let me on the bus and the passengers on that side of the bus were watching with interest see how the ‘ang moh’ would react. The gentleman persisted and carried on.
I then thought to myself that I had been in Singapore for quite a few years, and I did want to catch that bus, and I was hot and sticky and, bugger it, I am now going to return fire with fire. I responded in a manner not unlike a local.
I let loose with a variety of colourful colloquial Singlish, Hokkien and Mandarin expressions that surprised him and amused the crowd on the bus. I utilised some elaborate hand and arm signals as well. This also generated some bemused looks in the bus windows. I love an audience.
He concluded his tirade in a mix of languages something to the effect, “You ride this bus, you might as well ride my cock!” I didn’t quite follow that but I waved on the driver as there is an endless supply of buses in Singapore.
As the bus pulled away the gentleman continued on with his hand signals through the window so I gave him the most elaborate ‘bird’ that I could muster and, in Mandarin, suggested he do something to himself that biologically is not actually possible, all the while with a smile on my face.
I felt quite a sense of achievement and also okay with that because, over the years, I had been spat at and abused by elderly locals from time to time. Perhaps I unwittingly resembled a horrible expatriate boss from a bygone era. I had met some arrogant and rude, dismissive expats in Singapore and it is no wonder that some are resented by the locals.
Cheers, John
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No. 5 — September 12th, 2008 at 8:06 pm
As an additional note to the above account… that feeling of ‘being okay’ with my response was because I was in some ways a ‘local myself’ with my colleagues even calling me the ‘Singaporean Australian’. It is hard to describe. Probably why I miss Singapore so much. I meshed with the place.
I had immersed myself in the local life, history, environment, and we lived locally, participated in local volunteer activities and ate and shopped locally. We did not live or hang out in the expatriate ‘ghettoes’ if you get my drift. I felt uncomfortable there.
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Clay Burell Reply:
September 15th, 2008 at 9:15 pm
I do get your drift. I avoid the expat places too. I left America to avoid that world, after all – though it’s becoming less and less possible.
And I understand your foreigner story too. Assholes deserve the occasional wipe, whether from local or foreigner. The guy was clearly racist (and yes, I too have dealt with the sympathy for anti-Anglo racism’s causes in Asia).
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No. 6 — September 14th, 2008 at 10:45 pm
Great story. A priest friend of mine began his vocation as a missionary in the jungles of south america. He was instructed by his mentor that upon entering the village to “eat” whatever is offered as to not offend the people.
On a Sunday evening the village organized a feast to honor the arrival of the new priest. He was given a place of honor and as each dish was brought to not offend his hosts he ate and ate.
More dishes kept coming and even though the priest was stuffed he continued to eat as to not offend.
The next day his mentor priest reported to him that he had greatly angered the entire village. Confused and saddened the young priest asked, “What had gone wrong?”. The mentor then informed the priest that the custom is for the priest to sample the dish then bless the food so it could be distributed to the entire the village. The young priest then realized he had consumed the entire supply of food for the celebration.
Charlie A. Roys last blog post..The Debate on Drug Testing
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Clay Burell Reply:
September 15th, 2008 at 9:17 pm
Hi Charlie,
a) I totally love that story. It still cracks me up as I type.
b) It anticipates a post I need to write about an experience I had at my mother-in-law’s funeral and, a few days later, grave-site.
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No. 7 — September 21st, 2008 at 3:15 pm
I can totally empathize with you. I travel to another country frequently. Not across the globe, but a simple 7 hour drive to Tampa, Fl, where my Korean mother lives. I am an American Korean. My mother is Korean, but I was raised by my American (white) father. I am the only one of my mother’s side of the family that does not speak Korean. I was raised as American as apple pie and my Sicillian grandpa’s spaghetti.
Imagine the discomfort of being in my aunt’s Korean restaurant…with friends of my mom’s and hers….being presented with a meal. With my outspoken, golden curled three year old daughter in tow, no less.
“Ew, Mama. That looks like dog poop. I don’t want to eat that!” (Okay, and yes, I agreed with her assessment of the intestines of some unnamed creature)
And the sypmathetic looks my mom recieves for having such an American daughter and granddaughter from those in the group who understood my daughter perfectly.
One woman asked, “How can you let her say that? Children eat what they are served!”
This began an arguement between my mother this other woman. Then between my mother and my daughter that ended only when I took my poor kid out for a hamburger….
a foreigner in “my” own land
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