The Body Language

“Me?” She pointed her perfectly painted nailed finger to her right cheek, poking her powdered face softly, making a small indent. Her nail was so close to her eye, I flinched, thinking she would poke her eye. Then I realized she was pointing to herself in question.
As I sat in that fancy café in Tokyo, my mind wandered away from whatever she was saying. I thought on the fact that I had seen this gesture in Taiwan as well. As an American, I was used to people placing their hands on their chests, pointing to their hearts to refer to themselves. I was terribly thrown off when I noticed Asians pointed to their eyes, their faces, seemingly their brains, to indicate their selves. It shocked me because consciously I had braced myself for the harsh wall of a different language to crash into my face. I had mentally prepared myself for the bizarre new culture to rush around me. Though I knew it would feel like a different planet, I reassured myself that it was still inhabited by my species. Though we are vastly different, I thought everyone throws up their hands in anger, everyone shrugs in indifference, everyone sighs longingly.

No. Body language is something learned. We chuckle at little children when they stomp off angrily, when they smile coyly, and when they cuddle lovingly. We muse at them but these are gestures of meaning they were shown. Body language is an unconscious language we all speak, one that speaks before and after our formal languages. I assumed that this was a universal language. Now I’ve learned just as all cultures have syntax, all cultures also have their own bodily of phrases, exclamations and statements.

Sri Lankans wobble their heads, it seems, in acquiescence – “OK I agree”, or “I will do what you ask” their heads seem to say. Italians put their fingers together at the tips and smack the air as a physical exclamation point. The Japanese bow deeply, the Koreans a little less deeply and it’s even less obvious in the Chinese and Taiwanese, but it is there. It seems to be a silent thank you, a wordless movement of appreciation.

As I sat in the cafe in Tokyo, watching the repetitive fluid bowing of the saleswomen in the mall corridors, my mind lulled to deeper thoughts. Do our worldviews inform our bodily movement? Or are these gestures simply a product of our tradition, unconscious, and meaningless, remnants of our heritages, similar to having the same laugh as our father or the same fidget as our mother? By placing my hand on my heart to say,” I”, do I show I believe my center and my soul is found in my feelings, my emotions and my heart? Do my Asian friends believe their being is in their brain, their intelligence and their thoughts? When we indicate “I” in different ways are we challenging each other as to where the soul is really found?
By bowing, do the Japanese show they believe it is more important to put themselves second, while the firm American handshake and look in the eye shows I think of myself on equal standing as any given person?
Whatever I believe I enjoy learning these new body languages. I like being startled into using my limbs in a different way to convey different meaning. When in Sri Lanka a woman holds my hand as we walk, when in Japan a person bows deeply to me, when in Taiwan a student points to his face to question if it’s his turn next. I like to think of the countless examples of this very gesture they themselves have seen over and over to make it a normal movement for them.

I like to learn how very important these movements are. I like to think of how essential it is to everyday living. I could learn every word in their language but until I move in their body language I will never communicate
with them fully.

My Imagination Game

I think it’s natural to try to grab onto anything that is familiar when you are drowning in “foreignness”. Even in a place like Taiwan, where the West has not yet reached with its greasy fingers, I still find myself looking for America. When traveling, we try and find what is recognizable and relatable. It’s ironic because we came with the hope to see new things, but we are more pleased when we find things that remind us of home.
Is it because we realize newness did not taste as sweet as we expected? Is it out of relief that the world is not so strange and different as we thought? Whatever the reason, I found myself searching for home in my first weeks in Taiwan. “Oh that looks just like the Lincoln Memorial”.,”This tastes a little like cheese!”, “I think that we have that brand at home”.
I have slowly realized the danger in this habit. I will never settle in if I am constantly looking for, dwelling on, and living in the “America” I found. I am living in this imaginary middle nation I created. America changes while I’m away, and the Taiwan version of America isn’t the same. I need to be fully present here. As Mumford & Sons sing, “I will learn to love the skies I’m under.”

To force my mind to do just that, I have developed an imagination game. I imagine what it would have been like to grow up in Taiwan. I dream what each family member would have been like if they had been born and raised in Taiwan. My mom is particularly fun to imagine.
As I ride the bus, I push aside the American similarities my eyes are constantly scanning the streets for, and as I look at the cooks on the street, I imagine my mom there.
She would have surely opened a food stand. She loves to cook, and I could just see her wearing one of those bright red bandanas around her brown hair as the steam from the noodles wafted around her head. I know she’d work as hard as those women I see. She’d make dumplings at lightening speed on a rickety table on the street next to her food stand. Her fingers would fly as she stuffed each dumpling with meat and vegetables and folded the dough over expertly. I can see her working late at night, even though she hates staying up late, squatting on the street at 10 PM, furiously scrubbing giant pots and pouring out the soapy water in big splashes onto the black pavement. She’d not ask her kids to help her with the pile of dishes from the day’s customers. She’d find the strength to work alone, knowing her children were studying hard in the apartment above.
When she was younger she would have had a toddler or two balanced on a stool next to her food stand. The little one would be reading to her or reciting something, while my mom would be making tofu or soup. Ever the queen of multitasking, she’d catch every mistake, while flawlessly serving a stream of customers.
I snap out of my reverie when a scooter loudly motors passed my view of the food carts. My mom, frugal being her middle name, would definitely have had an old scooter. During the day, I imagine, you could see her zipping around with two children balanced precariously on the back and another squished between her and the handle bars.
My mom has been more than an impressive American homemaker and provider. She has created a safe and healthy home to grow up in, but I imagine she would have been just as strong, protective, godly and wise if she had been a Taiwanese mother.

Femininity

 

What produces “femininity” in culture? Is it man’s desire? Is it the weather? Is it history? Is it religion? Or is it women’s desire? Do women like pretty dresses and so that is what is feminine? Or do men like beautiful dresses, and thus women wear them? I don’t know the answers. But I do know that femininity changes from one culture to another, and that fascinates me.
I have met many women from different cultures around the world. Out of all these cultures, Russian women, in particular, have left a stark impression on me. They are strong, not physically, but emotionally. They tell you their opinions without flinching. They often are somber and stoic, but when they laugh, it is out loud and unrestrained. Was it from bearing the cold, or surviving the wars, or poverty, that gave these women such strength? Or is it simply that Russian men prefer strong women, and thus the women, wanting to be wanted, have put on strength?
Asian women, on the other hand, simply baffle me. I am not talking about Chinese women. The Chinese women remind me of the Russians, strong and stoic, perhaps a product of their political system. I am talking about Asian women from Korea, Taiwan, Japan, and the other various Asian islands. They exist in stark contrast to the Russian women. When they laugh it is a high pitch “teeter”. Their hands cover their mouths when smiling and laughing, as to not be too aggressive. They dress in “cutesy” colors, logos and cuts. When I’m walking the streets of Taipei, I am often startled when I see a teen and only then see her face is the face of a middle aged woman.
Where does this definition of femininity come from? Did Asian men tout there machismo so much that they crushed these women into subservient characters? Were the men so insecure that they needed women to be weak to fortify their manliness? Maybe these are actually strong women, hiding behind a façade of inability. Or did the chicken come before the egg? Is “woman” synonymous with “damsel in distress” in Asian men’s minds, and thus that has become attractive to them? I don’t know about Asia and Europe. I just moved into the cultural neighborhood in a sense.
But I do know black women. I know white people have beaten down black men with years of oppression and dehumanizing behavior. I’ve read the stories, seen the movies, and met the veterans. I know that men can only be called “boys” for so long before they start to believe it for themselves. They forgot they were men. So weak men produced strong women. It is human nature’s see-saw. Somebody had to feed the babies, educate the children, and run the country. So whether it was in the Congo, the Bahamas or Detroit, the black women stood up. They became strong.
So here’s my wondering: if the weak black man produced a strong woman, does the over-powering Asian man produce a demure and coy woman? And then I begin to wonder which is right? I find my truth from the Bible, but there I find all kinds of men and women. So here I sit wondering and wondering. Where does femininity come from?