Glory Ho

Recently, I learned the difference between immersion and inclusion. Two common terms most often heard in debate between policy wonks, cultural communication consultants or education administrators. Question being, what is the best strategy for us to live a conflict-free, harmonious life together on the same planet?

On their alliterated little faces, these words are pretty simple. Nothing all that thesaurus-arian about them. But what’s fascinating is that they’re pitted against one another.

Immersion is immersing one’s self in their surroundings. And though you might group “immersion” as a word that belongs to solely mutli-cultural scenarios (likely reminding you of the best way to learn a language), I assure you, it’s everywhere. Because this new environment could be anything from a room to a region. Immersion occurs when a typically non-smoking person enters a bar and lights a cigarette. . ..when a native Spanish speaker enters your store and asks you a question in English. . .when a disabled person acquires a skill that typically belongs to able-bodied people, which then allows him or her to contribute to society. . .

Inclusion is a bit trickier, requires more work and is less frequent. Inclusion means an changing one’s surroundings (often by a second party) to accommodate their needs. Lets take another look at the above examples: When a typically non-smoking person enters a bar and finds a non-smoking section, this is inclusion. The bar is making an effort to include the non-smoker in their establishment . When a native Spanish speaker enters a store, there’s a Spanish-speaking person working there to accommodate her language, this is inclusion. When a disabled person, through employment opportunities created for individuals with disabilities, is given a job, this is inclusion.*

The question is, what am I doing here? Further, what should I be doing here? Do I immerse or should I demand to be included? Should I change to fit Bulgaria or try and change Bulgaria to fit me? Without even realizing it, I pay both sides of this debate every day.

Inner Monologue for Immersion: Shouldn’t I adapt to fit in? What if no one likes my ideas and they think I’m dissing Bulgaria? I don’t want to be known as the arrogant American. I’m supposed to keep an open mind, right? Who am I to say my solution is best? And I don’t want to seem unpleasant or unwilling to accept their culture. Shouldn’t I speak Bulgarian. That’s their language. When in Rome. . .right?

Inner Monologue for Inclusion: But wait, aren’t I here to make changes? To shake things up? It’s counterproductive to mimic their behavior if I’m really here to transfer skills and introduce new ideas, right?. By changing their world to accommodate me, they understand a new perspective. Furthermore, shouldn’t I speak English to improve their English, so they can accommodate English-speaking people better? (Okay, perhaps this last one is wishful thinking).

So you can see my dilemma. The answer, of course, is to weave these concept together in a beautiful culture-blended afghan. Blech. If only it were that easy.

You see, I have this weird tendency toward immersion. Everyone has it to an extent, but mine is a little haywire. It’s why I begin speaking with an English accent around Brits, why fast-talkers exhaust me (I’m attempting to double their speed) and why I probably smile less now than I did in America. But let’s be clear, I’m not changing my personality. I’m simply going a few miles past mirroring, the practically culture term that rides on the armchairs of therapists everywhere. And I’m convinced this enhances communication. When not exaggerated, it’s a form of comfort. But the down side to my imitation is that I more often blend, with no awkward, life-vested skier bobbing in my boats wake, representing the change. By fitting in too much, I abandon my own culture and become more Bulgarian. And while this is a benefit of Peace Corps, (learning to adapt and experiment with different cultuers to enhance personal growth) this is not a pillar of Peace Corps. As a volunteer, my mission is to transfer skills and represent the United States.

Perhaps I’m leaning too highly on immersion and need to force the inclusion issue a bit more. This means being a leader. This means exiting my comfort zone and really putting it out there, regardless of their response.

Thank you for listening.

*Please keep in mind that there are a variety of definitions for these words. Each depend heavily on context.

It may be time to consider how television, while still plentiful in most AMerican households, has some competition. TV, perhaps, the most groundbreaking invention of our parents generation, (we get to watch Jackie Gleason while we eat!) is slowly being replaced by the computer. Soon, if not already, antyhign the television can do, well, my laptop will be doing better.

And this is a good thing. When the box debuted, all at once, people felt connected to the world. The TV was their friend, delivering news that broke their heart, music that helped define them and comedy that let their family laugh together—even in the worst of times. And maybe I sound a bit like a Wonder Years episode, but that was a damn good show. TV preserves our memories, allowing the best ones to float to life’s surface. And even twenty years later, it delivered the same pre-packaged, nutritionally balanced comfort to my own generation. But my fondness for television (not movies) is on the decline. While Tivo allows us to choose our shows more carefully (much less channel surfing) and HBO provides us with thought-provoking programs, there are more half-hour slots where that stupid, noisy thing simply sends us in a downward spiral toward complete sedation. Conclusion: Television, even for the active among us, is still a master at the art of time-suckage. For me, most of it (excluding sports, news and learning channels) is a lot like macaroni and cheese. Cheap, unhealthy and comforting; something best consumed when a) there’s nothing else to do b) you’re hungover or c) life hasn’t been so kind. And over the years, I believe TV has been reduced to a farcical comfort for the baby boomer generation, anyway. When I hear it, always a little too loudly, blaring from a middle-aged person’s living room, it sounds like a voice screaming for attention. While these empty-nesters use it for news, entertainment, weather, etc, often, no one is watching. No one is listening. They turn it on. They leave it on. They like it on. For some, it stops the scary sound of silence. For others, it fills up the awkwardness. For many, it’s just what they’re used to. Everyone has their reasons, some more plausible than others, but I’m telling you, there are better methods.

Last November, we became those weird people who don’t have a television. Or rather, people who don’t watch television. Because we have one. It’s just in the closet. On occasion, when I crave a mindless activity, I do miss the old movies on TBS. Nothing really beats my seventy fifth viewing of Stand By Me, Pretty Woman or Shawshank Redemption. We occasionally yearn for Six Feet Under, Seinfeld reruns and C-SPAN, too. But we can always download them or buy the DVD. OKay, this is an easier experiment when there are only four English channels, but still. Now, rather than turn on the tube when we come in the door, we turn up the the RealPlayer. And that background music is precious. The notes fall through the slats in our subconscious, allowing us to listen, but converse without competition. It’s liberating. It makes us move. It makes us happy. And it’s at that point when we grab the laptop. We head to Wikipedia, the free, online, public-created encyclopedia. From Alison Krauss to Iron and Wine, Billie Holliday to Beck, Dylan to Madonna, on any given night, we might learn how jazz influenced funk or who led the bluegrass movement. And that brings me to our soft addiction. My husband and I love being online. More than eating, more than sleeping, maybe more than each other. And we’re online a lot. So much, that now, in our piss-poor Peace Corps circumstance with no wireless network, we take turns, rationing two hour slots so we can plan our schedule effectively. (I’ll be off by 7 when you get home, you get it from 7 – 9 while I cook dinner, then I get it back while you wash the dishes). What do we do? In a word: email. While awake, I’d say I check it about every 10 or 15 minutes. If I take a bathroom break, I check when I return. If I was eating dinner, I check it when I’m finished. It’s a little out of control.

But we’re also online for everything else. Tonight we ate leftover beets from a new Armenian restaurant so I googled “Why are beets good for you?”. When there’s a word I don’t know in the Economist, I look it up online. When I’m planning to travel, I check train schedules and shop for flights. When I’m heading to a meeting, I get a map. When I want to talk to a friend, I see if she’s on Instant Messenger. When I’m looking for the best moisturizer with SPF30, I do a search. If I need to transfer euros to dollars, I go to the currency converter. When I want to know the weather tomorrow, I look online. When I need to download a Peace Corps document, I go to the Yahoo Group. When Michael wants to read about Iraq, every hours, he goes to bbc.com. It’s endless. And unfortunately, like television, the Internet can make hours pass like minutes. So while we can run from the technological breakthrough of the yester-decade, and the last generation might use television as a crutch, there’s no hiding from our own dependency. But at least we’ve evolved, right? While online activity is not physically engaging, it’s noiseless, interactive and brims with exponentially more, if sometimes debatable educational content. The Internet connects us with real people and real events, rather than actors, characters and storylines. We can now reach further into the universe than ever before on infinite levels of communication, opportunity and most of all, choice. Legendary journalist Edward R. Murrow said the television “can teach, it can illuminate; yes, and it can even inspire, but it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise it is merely wires and lights in a box.” I suppose the same could be said of the Internet. With this intangible gift, my generation has just been handed a very powerful remote control. How we use our new informer is up to us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check my email.

Yes. What you heard is true. I will be coming out with a book called Why America is So Damn Great. I have three words for you. Gutters & Drain Pipes. We have them in the U.S. I don’t know the particular engineering, but I know we have them. They catch the water coming down off the roof and redirect this rain into a handy, rooflined gutter, which then deposits the water, well, somewhere other than where people walk. I know you don’t usually notice these, but please, next time you walk along the street, beneath an awning or under a bridge, or avoid a puddle that is surely smaller than the snowchunks, drips and mini showers I now dodge on a block by block basis, be grateful.

It’s a wet, wet world in Bulgaria.

And I know, I know, this is not complete misery. It’s a very small thing. But it’s just an example of how small things make a big difference.

And it’s what’s on my mind, okay?

On my wrist, there is a bracelet made of red and white yarn. On my pea-coat’s lapelle, you’ll find colorful soft ribbon, braided into a AIDS like loop and fastened with a sparkly safety pin. Michael’s brown corduroy palto boasts two tiny, but fuzzy pom-poms, one red, one white, connected by a string. He, too, has a woven bracelet. These are called Martenitsas and in Bulgaria, they are a symbol of health, prosperity and happiness for the coming year. Each year on March 1st, Baba Marta day, Bulgarian’s exchange these often homemade trinkets, wearing them until they spot a stork, the first sign of spring. They then place their martenitsas on a blossoming tree.

This tradition is a big deal. During Februrary there are quite possibly more Martentisas than people in this country. Traditzia even opened an extra day the week of March 1st and everyone and their postman is suddenly either a martenitsa-maker or a martenitsa broker. Makeshift rain tents, crates with pop-up displays, white posterboard walls of these stringed things in every design imaginable line even the less-traveled lanes of Sofia. Like a college-name sweatshirt that began selling in only school colors, but has suddenly exploded with plaids, pastels and middle-aged-women-wardrobe inspired appliqué, Martenitsas are no longer just red and white, but include various models with silver, stars, sparkles and feathers, pipe cleaners, pearls, leather, loops, bells and bows; As big as a wreath or as small as a ring, they decorate the forearms and denim collars of every demographic. And the more maretenitsas, well, the more popular one might even be.

But where did it come from? That depends who you believe. I’ve heard about war heroes and wives tales–nearly a dozen. But because I don’t have my “grandfather’s version” as an old standby, I find myself at an open bar–with the liberty to decide which crazy cocktail of stories I might string together and most of all, which tales tickle my own personal search for symbolism.

Martenitsas are undoubtedly worn in honor of Baba Marta, which translates to Grandmother March. In Bulgarian, words have a female or male gender association. This categorization is very important and not always so instinctive, in fact, often chauvinistic, but the word for March is the only “month” word that’s female. Legend yarns that there was once a woman named Marta with 11 brothers (poor soul) and they grew up in a wine-producing region. However, while Marta preserved her wine, lest the vines did not yield some seasons, her brothers became noisily inebriated many nights, drinking away their wine. Marta eventually became worried that one day, when their wine was gone, they might steal from her own stash. But when she went to lock it up, she discovered that it was already gone. At first, she raged like a mad woman. But then, seeing the error of her ways, she softened, reasoning that one should always share their wine, especially with members of their own family. Like Marta, then, who often changes her mind, March is an unpredictable month. One day it snows and the next it’s quite pleasant. Bulgarians reason that this is because of Baba Marta. They wear this maretenitsa to ward off the mischevious Baba Marta and beckon the merry Baba Marta, sending her a message of spring, health and prosperity.
Why red and white? According to pagan values, red is a symbol of blood, conception and life, while white is a pagan symbol of virginity and purity. Together they symbolize women and the awakening of new life every spring.

Just a little bit of trivia about Bulgaria. . .

Hello readers! Thanks for visiting.

Did you know? Our own PCV Boudreaux was recently featured in a very hot, artsy and fashionable Bulgarian magazine called Intro. Full page photo and interview! It’s pretty cool.

My apologies about the lack of blogs right now. I’m working on three different ones, so stay tuned. In the meantime, check out www.sofiaecho.com, the English newspaper here in Bulgaria. Just do a search for my name in the box and you’ll find my articles–one about Traditzia and one about Habitat (must plug my orgs!) for International Women’s Day (March 8th) and three Expat of the Week pieces.

Of course, everything is really much more impressive in print–my husband’s photo especially, but this is all you get for now!

Ciao-Ciao
Andrea