Learning Religion
Saturday morning we sprawl out in Elaine’s queen size bed, half making conversation, half dozing off into that space between awakening and sleep. Her alarm sings an overly cheerful, “good morning,” and we climb out of bed. We dress and scurry downstairs at the sound of honking. P’Yu is here.
I don’t completely know what to expect for today. Between the language barrier and the whole being in another country thing, that’s become the norm. But today especially, I’m visiting Elaine’s city of Sawankalok, Thailand, so there is no familiarity, besides the lack familiarity, to rely on.
P’Yu stands in front of her blue pick up truck with her daughter, Indy. P’Yu wears a traditional Thai skirt and her hair is pinned up. Indy bounces around in a bright pink Barbie dress with pigtails. Indy stands for Independence, Elaine has told me. P’Yu embodies an inspiring kind of independence.
She has been paying for her education since she was an M4 student. She left Indy’s father when she was unhappy. She has traveled to the United States twice. She knows Thai, Isan, English, Spanish, and a bit of Japanese. She has her Masters degree, and is now an English teacher in Sawankalok. In short, P’Yu’s strength and intelligence is remarkable.
We climb into the back of the truck — Elaine sits in the front and I sit in the backseat with Indy. The wind rushes through the open windows, blowing my blonde tendrils in different directions. I try to brush them out of my face by tucking them behind my ears. But nature is stronger, and I give let them go freely in front of my eyes.
P’Yu is an easy person with whom to converse. She tells us that her village is different from Sawankalok, and most of the residents have never seen farangs before. As far as I know, I am the only farang living in Si Satchanali, so that doesn’t faze me. Also, she relays, most of the people in her village speak Isan, a distinctly different dialect from the central Thai spoken in Sukhothai.
I was just starting to understand basic Thai, and you’re going to throw another whole dialect at me, P’Yu? Great.
Along the way, we pull over to the side of the road for a quick wat stop (temple run). The wat we go to is quite empty, and big banana leaves rustle against cement. P’Yu leads us up a set of stairs aligned with what appears a cross between serpent and dragon.
At the top there is a golden figure, and we remove our shoes. Following a series of photos, P’Yu kneels before the figure. Indy sits beside her. P’Yu folds Indy’s hands into a prayer. Indy follows along with half the words that her mother says. It is clear that this ritual has been practiced and will continue to be practiced until Indy fully understands. While faith may be innate, religion is learned here.
On our way back to the car, P’Yu encourages us to stop and visit the monk in one of the buildings next to where the car is parked. We enter the cool room and wai appropriately. The monk speaks quickly, so I cannot grasp most of what he is saying in Thai. But Elaine and I come to understand that he is giving us blessed bracelets he has prayed over that no harm will come to us. I am honored, but also confused. I spent childhood being told every Sunday in Church that material objects cannot provide you with protection, and here is another religion telling me the exact opposite.
I slip the pink beads around my wrist and feel both protected and accepted. Apparently, it is easy enough to leave my religious upbringing.
We drive to P’Yu’s hometown. Her family and several students from the local school are sitting in the shade. Her mother offers us kanome wrapped in banana leaves. It is one of the most delicious things I’ve ever put in my mouth. I say that about most things I eat here. Then we’re off to the next thing — a kateen, which I understand to be a celebration related to monks being at a wat for a given period of time. We pile into the truck.
“They will sit in the back,” P’Yu says. Elaine and I start to protest, but P’Yu tells us, “they are used to the sun. Your skin is not.” I look down at my pale pink arm skin, embarrassed at its weakness. Neither of us objects anymore; we know she is right. Elaine and I get into the interior of the truck.
At the kateen we are greeted with surprise by the men hosting the event. P’Yu, P’Yu’s family, Elaine, and I give small donations to the kateen, and everyone is happy because no farang has ever attended this town’s kateen, let alone donated. P’Yu gives a bill to Indy and folds her hands in front of her body into a wai. Indy willingly obeys.
We are gifted with electric ceiling lights so that we may be protected from darkness. I am impressed with the symbolism and practicality wrapped into this gift.
We continue to another wat. Throughout the day, I continue to see a connection between religion and money. Almost every religious space we go to has been funded by gifts of generous believers. Monks livelihood depends upon the money, food, and hospitality of others. Religion, something that inherently feels as though it should be self sustainable, actually consists of essential economic transactions. Faith may be free, but religion certainly is not.
This experience also highlights inequalities that the religious economy produces. Have a rich community able to donate a lot of money, they probably have a beautiful wat, or church — it is the same general idea.
On the car ride back to Elaine’s home, we continue to discuss religion.
“In your country people go to the doctor if they are feeling depressed, right? Here people go to the temple.” I cannot let that one slide without voicing my perspective. I tell her, “People in the United States often turn to religion too when they are feeling depressed. They also go to professionals trained for mental health too.” My best friend’s mother runs a Muslim Mental Health Conference in Michigan, and because of her work I feel motivated to expel the myth that mental health doctors are at odds with religion. I believe the two can complement one another.
I ask P’Yu who decides to become a monk.
“People who become monks and come to the temple are usually those that something bad has happened to,” she chuckles. “I guess you don’t come to the temple if everything is good.”
We pull over to a roadside restaurant and order lunch.
As we sit eating our rice and noodles, I ask P’Yu, “why did you want to become an English teacher?”
She tells me a story that she’s clearly told Elaine already.
“When I was seven years old there was a foreign man, and he asked me a question that I could not understand. I vowed to myself that I would learn his language and understand the next time a foreigner asked a question. So I learned English. Maybe you can inspire students the way that foreign man inspired me.”
I’m troubled by this response in a way I cannot quite put into words. But here’s an attempt. Maybe it makes me upset that this foreign man made no attempt to communicate in Thai. Given whenever I pull out my limited Thai people knit their eyebrows together, trying to understand the words through the thick cloud of American accent or stare at me shocked that I, a blonde haired, blue-eyed farang am even trying to speak Thai. Maybe the foreign many was trying to avoid those looks. Either way, this man inspired P’Yu to learn another language, and that’s what is important, right? I think so…
I want to be inspirational, truly I do. But I want to inspire my students because they see that it is possible to travel far from home. I want to inspire my students to learn because they see me learning Thai. I want my students to see that people that are different from them can be good.
P’Yu is the type of inspirational teacher that I want to be. The one who perseveres despite the odds. The one who can speak multiple languages. The one who proves that you can stay connected with your family while becoming a world traveler.
