An Asian American in Myanmar
The clanging of spatula against wok, churning out delectably greasy, fried snacks at the corner. Trishaws whistling at me to gtfo of their way. I traded fluorescent lights in a cubicle for stray dogs and monsoon season.
In Yangon, I am mostly viewed as an expat, a Westerner. I walk down Yawmingyi Street toward one of the wifi cafés, just another expat who will purchase an iced latte and plop her bum in Easy Cafe for the next 8 hours. I could be from America… or Canada, France, China.
Every expat in Yangon wants to know, “Where are you from, why are you here, how long are you here?” Depending on the expat, my answer varies from the United States, to New York City, to the most specific: New Jersey. That would be my birthplace and permanent residence, but I haven’t felt “at home” there for years. Why am I here? All of my doubts about moving to Myanmar disappeared as I touched down in Yangon exactly one month ago. After 3 years of waxing poetic about moving abroad, I finally made the leap. As the plane touched down, my heart was aflutter. I was beaming. Finally, Myanmar. Not Hong Kong, Shanghai, or Tokyo. This ain’t no eat-pray-love trip, this is me living outside of my comfort zone.
So here is my usual response to Yangonites:
“I’m from New York! I worked in corporate for 3 years, and decided I needed something different. I applied to grad schools and fellowships, got into Columbia Journalism School and a social innovation program at School of Visual Arts, but I wanted to live in Myanmar. So here I am! I’m on a fellowship, and I’m going to be teaching in Inle Lake at the vocational school. I’m also a freelancer. I’ll be here for at least a year.”
Ugh, I disgust myself. This unwavering ambition, seeking validation by listing my accomplishments. A typical, confused mid-20’s millennial with 7 “projects” and no real purpose or direction. Yet, I’m convinced that my background in business combined with my love of social impact (and writing, and other such creative activities) will eventually turn into something that I can vaguely describe as a “career.”
Yangon welcomed me with open arms, perhaps because I approached it with an open mind and heart. Note to self: positivity begets positivity. My curiosity allowed me to meet some of the most inspiring, funny, (com)passionate individuals, all living in Myanmar for a reason.
Outside of Yangon, in places like Hpa An or Bago, an Asian American expat is met with just as much curiosity as confusion. I should be used to this by now, but it still catches me off guard how unfamiliar people can be with foreigners who look like me. I could be Burmese, but soon after I stumble over a few phrases and then “Bama zaka neh neh pyaw deh” (I speak a little Burmese), they start the guessing game: “Japan? Korea?” I rarely get Chinese, which would be most accurate. Vietnamese and Filipino when I’m looking particularly tan. They ask me where I’m from, and I say, “Amer-ika!” Often, this is met with delighted smiles and a handshake. Other times, they still look confused and don’t have the English capacity to explain they think I’m from Asia. As I walk away, mystery lingers in the air.
All my life, I have dealt with conflicting issues of race. My earliest memory was in kindergarten, when a classmate asked, “What are you?” and I replied, “American.” At an early age, my mom instructed me this was the correct answer. Inevitably, the prompting: “Fine, but where are your parents from?” followed by an eye-roll and a sigh. I didn’t know. At 5 years old, I didn’t know how to explain that my parents were immigrants from 2 different nations in Asia and met in New Jersey. That my dad was born in Burma, but wasn’t Burmese. I wouldn’t know how to explain this for years.
Flash forward to college, when I am the only Asian student in Introduction to Poetry. My professor Juda Bennett likes me because I participate a lot and make “bold life choices.” He tells me about his time living on a hippie commune in the Midwest. Encourages me to apply for the Peace Corps, says he regrets not doing it himself. “It’s too late for me now.” Says I’m the saving grace for a state college like TCNJ. Okay, cool, but don’t live vicariously through me. (As it is, I’m easily swayed by the prospect of adventure.)
I start working in New York City at L’Oreal. I like it some days, but mostly feel tortured by the routine and purposelessness. After failed attempts to accept invitations for the Peace Corps to Madagascar and Benin, I began setting my sights on the west coast and Asia. I become very obsessed with Asian and Asian American writers…Peter Hessler, Eddie Huang, Haruki Murakami, Celese Ng. Could I be a writer?
It took a long time to get to Asia. After my year at L’Oreal, I backpacked in China, Japan, and Myanmar. I came back. Worked more. Landed at America’s oldest clothing retailer, Brooks Brothers. Disliked it even more than L’Oreal. Commenced applying to many fellowships (Fulbright, Schwarzman, etc.) in Asia and jobs in California. My parents refused to believe I would leave the NY-NJ bubble. Being an only child only made this decision tougher, but I was determined.
Now, I’m here. And I’m incredibly happy. I face race and gender issues daily, and witness how Myanmar deals with these issues, read about how America is dealing with these issues. I’m letting things happen, challenging what *time* means to me, amazed at how quickly it can pass… it seems to match the rapid progress happening in Yangon. So here’s to dirty feet and mosquito bites. To teach, to learn — in Burmese, there’s only one word that means both teaching and learning. Well, I’m learning. That’s for damn sure.
