What Is Culture?

My understanding of culture has developed throughout my youth, being shaped by the places I have visited and the people I have met.  While many times I felt, especially when traveling internationally, that I was on the sidelines looking in, a tourist simply taking notes of what I saw instead of participating, I noticed that I always took something away from the world I had visited.  Whether it was the wave from a young Amish girl while biking through Amish Country in Pennsylvania or watching a young orphan enjoy my sunglasses in the Dominican Republic, I have become fascinated with the cultural scripts that shape communities, while still recognizing the similarities that create our connectedness as humans.

Culture, in my perspective, can only be loosely defined, its identity being made up of a number of different characteristics.  It can be what we see, smell, hear, touch or taste in a given place.  It can be the customs and traditions of a group of people that are engrained in the past or newly born in the present.   It can also be the thoughts and ideologies, hopes and fears, or questions and answers that a group has in common.

The looseness of this definition is what makes it both fascinating and timeless.  A culture’s ability to grow and change at it’s own pace adds to its uniqueness and is what makes each inherently different.  American culture, for instance, has been constantly remodeling itself since the day it was born, donning a new look every few years.  For others, such as the Mbuti pygmies in Africa, culture has remained very similar to how it did thousands of years ago.  Whether it changes rapidly or remains static, however, the true essence of a culture remains constant.

Perhaps the most fascinating is the effects of when two cultures merge.  Whether it is a forced encounter or a friendly greeting, this sharing of ideas, traditions and values, or acculturation, remains important for various reasons.  First, it causes us to widen our perspective of world and allows us to see our own background in a different light.  Second, it opens up a wealth of knowledge about people, places and things that cannot be gained from any textbook or movie.  Thirdly, and most importantly, it may teach us the importance of the act of acceptance and patience needed to interact with and understand those who are different from us.  The amount of time that these two cultures are exposed to one another and the means of interaction can tend to determine what and how much is shared, however, as I mentioned before, both parties are likely to take something valuable away.

As mentioned in the article “What Is Culture Anyway,” learning about another culture, as well as merging two different cultures together can be an exciting experience.  I look forward to continuing to gain new perspectives from my encounters with new cultures and recognizing the similarities and differences that make all of us truly unique.

Hello everybody,

As you all know, my ISP this past semester was Hmong culture and the Secret War in Laos. I chose this topic because of its relevance to my home in Rhode Island- there is a significant population of Hmong refugees that live in Providence. Before I left for the trip I met Hang Xiong, a Hmong man who works as a machinist at a small plastic manufacturing company in Bristol (my hometown). Hang shared with me his own history: he was born in an unnamed village in northern Laos, his father fought under Vang Pao in the United States’ secret army, his village was destroyed by a US bomb when he was five, and he spent the majority of his childhood fleeing from war. He eventually made it to a refugee camp in Thailand and, when he was nine years old, received sponsorship to move to the United States with his family.

Yesterday my mom and I went to Hang's Church in South Providence.

The Hmong Church of Providence was founded in the mid- eighties, when the majority of Hmong refugees came to the United States. It is unique in that it is one of the only Hmong Churches in Rhode Island that has full ownership of the property.

When I entered the church I was reminded of the old truism that “the most segregated hour of American life occurs on Sunday morning.” (President Obama brought his point up in his speech on race last March). My mom and I were the only non-Hmong present.

Our distinct foreignness didn’t seem to matter; nearly the entire congregation came over to our pew to welcome us. Even the priest introduced himself. There were old women wearing woven sarongs, teenage boys wearing suits, and little children running up and down the aisles. By 10:45 am the entire building was filled.

The pews were set up in a sort of semi-circle facing the altar. Behind the altar there was a traditional organ and in the foreground there was a (not so traditional) drum set, amplifiers, microphones and three electric guitars. Instead of a choir- they had a live band! The band- which consisted of four teenaged guys- started the mass with a song about God in English (which I suspect might have been for my mom and I) and then a song about God in Hmong. Afterwards they told us that the congregation found organ music boring and the electric guitars got more people to come to mass.

In the opening prayers, the priest publicly thanked my mom and me for visiting. After that, nearly the entire mass was in Hmong. They do this so that the “young people” won’t forget their language. Every once in a while, as the priest delivered his sermon, he would use one or two words in English. The words I recognized were “Gentile”, “Jew”, “Electric Chair”, “Haiti”, “South America”, and “foolishness.” (I’m guessing that perhaps these words don’t exist in Hmong language). I learned that “Yesux” means “Jesus” in Hmong.

When the mass ended, Hang pointed veterans of the secret war:

“You see that man in the gray suit- that’s Vang Pao’s cousin.”

I met Hang’s dad and his older brother- both fought in the secret war. Hang’s dad gave my mom and I each a big hug. He was wearing a leather jacket that had the US Air Corps wings on it. I met another man who has shrapnel in his right arm.

Before we left, the pastor thanked us for coming and invited us to come back again with the rest of my family. 

It’s been more than a month since the trip has ended I find myself compartmentalizing my experiences along the Mekong, neatly packaging them and setting them aside as I “move on” and prepare for college. In doing so, I fall into the dangerous thought pattern of “that was then and this now” and “that was there and this is here.” I saw yesterday how the secret war tangibly exists in present day life not just in Laos but also in the United States- the shrapnel in that man’s arm, or the US air emblem in Mr. Xiong’s jacket. The experience of going to Hmong church was meaningful because it reminded me that “there” and “here” are one and the same.

Mr.  Desert ducked down to stick his head into the Jeep, where, under precariously piled sleeping bags and backpacks, we were crammed.

“Everyone ready?” he asked, his bright blue eyes gleaming. “Adventure starts now.”

“Those are the best words in the English language,” said Joe.

Really, adventure began when we hugged our families goodbye that long-ago day in August, but this month really kicked it into overdrive. We barely had time to be sad when we said farewell to the Dragons’ India semester program kids in the beginning of the month, what with major weddings in both my and Andrew’s families, and preparations to be made for our upcoming trip to Rajasthan.

Our service placements have kept us busy this month. I’ve started going more frequently to the Guria’s center for children in the red light district in addition to doing office work, and will also soon begin teaching English Communication classes at a polytechnic school for women.  Joe is currently working on an online fundraising campaign, as well as the press releases for World Literacy of Canada’s (WLC) celebration of International Women’s Day in early March.  When he is not in the office, Joe continues to work at one of WLC’s afterschool programs where he teaches English.  Lizzie is still enjoying her work at the Kiran Center for differently abled youths.  She has learned how to make paper bags from her friends in Art & Design, who are working on a substantial order from abroad, and she is happy that many of her students are gaining confidence in their English skills.  They are looking forward to starting a novel with her in class this month, which will hopefully help them use what they’ve learned and encourage them to attend class more regularly. Chhaya, working at the Nirman school, managed to write, proctor, and grade her students’ final exams while dealing with bad computer connections, nonresponsive printers, Karate teachers who showed up on the wrong days, and the general mayhem of a classroom. She never wants to give tests ever again (at least until the end of next term).  This month Andrew has been working on a new renovation on an on-site school for Bal Ashram, an orphanage for boys.  In excess of 20 trucks have entered the ashram grounds to dump dirt in large mounds to be dispersed by Andrew and members of the Ashram staff.  He has become close with the other 16-18 year olds who he works with, and they often act as additional Hindi teachers. 

When our friends back in the states were heading home from their colleges for winter break, we went on our own Bridge Year India winter vacation, and headed south (east) to Rajasthan.

The first leg of our journey was spent in Jodhpur, where we visited the massive Mehrangarh Fort, built over five hundred years ago.  This fort, we would later decide, was everyone’s favorite of all the forts we visited on the trip.  From its colorful Phool Mahal (flower palace), which had been dedicated entirely to dancing girls and revelry, to the mirrored walls of the Sheesh Mahal,  the fort offered us a priceless view of what life was like in 15^th century India.

Our next stop was Jaisalmer, where we were offered more leather than most people see in their lifetimes.  Shouts of “real camel leather!” attracted some and deterred others in our group.  In the end, we came away from the markets with shoes, bags, wallets, and a hat that could have come straight out of Indiana Jones.  It was in Jaisalmer too where we met Mr. Desert, so-named because he had won the Jaisalmer Mr. Desert Competition four times in a row twenty years ago. His classic moustache and general all-around desert-y demeanor made him so successful, in fact, that they made him a judge, gave him the title Mr. Desert Emeritus, and banned him from competing in future competitions.  He now runs camel desert safaris, which he says he loves with all his heart.  We spent three days with him in the desert, futilely urging our camels (three of which were, ironically, named Rocket) to move faster than a leisurely stroll. At twilight, we’d climb the nearest sand dune and, sitting together, silently watch the sun sink into the horizon.

In Jaipur, the last stop of our seven-day trip, we visited city palace, where the history buffs among us were particularly enthralled by a large collection of knives, guns, and swords used in the 1700s. Genevieve, Chhaya, Lizzie, and I left the boys to go look for another fort while we visited the annual Jaipur Jewelry Show. The gems that surrounded us – seaweed strands of emerald and malachite, delicate sapphires, rich rubies and tiger eye – were at once highly beautiful and way out of my price range.

Near the end of our second month of full-time service, we celebrated Christmas and Hannukah with a major holiday party for all our Banarsi friends. We’d like to send a shout-out to Lizzie’s and Chhaya’s family for sending us the many holiday decorations which set the mood for our festive meal, especially the life-size plastic stick-on Christmas tree for our wall. It was so good that those of us who Skyped with our families in front of it were asked, “Is that real?”

With every passing holiday, times when one might normally feel lonely and sad to be so far from our families, it has become clear that our group has truly become a family.  I feel lucky to be a part of a group like ours. Whether we’re trying to deal with a distracted boss or a difficult-to-explain English principle, I’m always impressed with how supportive I’ve found the other India participants. And when we want to relax after a tough week of work, you can always find someone up for an adventure, whether there is a temple you want to explore, or a new alleyway in Godowlia that needs to be charted. One Saturday, for example, we wandered the area of the city where the Muslim weavers work, learning about their ancient art of weaving, dyeing, embroidery, and block printing. The next morning, after spending a late morning with our families, we got together a soccer ball, some picnic blankets, cups, a teapot left over from Andrew’s chai walla Halloween costume, and took a boat across to the other side of the Ganga for a tea party on the beach. 

On New Year’s Eve, standing on our rooftop and watching fireworks from all over the city, leaning our heads back to catch the blue moon’s lunar eclipse, I felt blessed to be sharing the moment with such a group of people.  New Year ’s Day, we left for Agra, and caught the Taj Mahal at sunrise.  This huge monument to love was breathtaking, and had an otherworldly quality. Walking toward it felt like walking toward Mount Olympus. We had to bundle up, though – Under Armour and warm woolen socks beneath saris, North Faces and crocheted hats over kurtas – because the weather has changed significantly recently.

You always hear about Indian summers  – and for good reason. A few months ago, we could barely move from how hot it was, and breakfast conversations were mostly traded horror stories of the electricity’s going out in the middle of the night and our feeling like we were slowly melting to death under a stagnant fan. But here’s something we certainly weren’t prepared for: Winter is cold. I can’t tell you how cold, because, as Virendra-ji said when I asked him the word for temperature, “You don’t need that word. No one will ever know the temperature. If you ask the temperature, they will say ‘tunda.’” Cold.  It is certainly cold.

It’s a cold that has our cook reduced to a shivering ball on the floor, hugging her knees under her shawl, rocking back and forth, and saying to no one in particular, “Tundaaaaaa.”

It’s a cold that has us questioning whether we really didn’t have room for that winter coat that was “recommended, but not required” on our packing list.

It’s a cold that has me wearing a shawl, a wool hat, wool socks, fingerless gloves, inside my sleeping bag as I type this update.

It’s a cold that was none of us had anticipated – but really, on this adventure of ours, the most exciting things are the totally unexpected.