Reverse culture shock

People ask me all the time when I’m moving back to the States. You see, it’s complicated. Never say never and all that… but I really don’t want to.

Recently I went back to the States for an extended visit. Four weeks I was there. I really wish I hadn’t stayed so long.

It’s getting weird up there these days.

DIVISION AT THE GATHERING

First, I went to my favorite place on earth: Grandfather Mountain, North Carolina. This has been my tenth year going to the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games (a gathering for people of Scottish descent), and I don’t go anywhere twice! I have friends from all over the country whom I only see for 1-2 weeks a year, but who have become incredibly important people to me. I always rave about the kind, giving, accepting micro-culture on what we all simply refer to as “the mountain.” In fact, I started a thread in the event’s public Facebook group to that effect and there are 54 heartwarming comments of the tribal camaraderie that the participants have experienced over the years. Stories of generosity, kindness, and true family spirit among strangers.

But this year, I saw so much cattiness and division. Exclusivity for exclusivity’s sake. Interpersonal drama. Bickering. It really did not reflect the mountain I knew.

Here’s the thing. Recently, the US has been having a talk about racism. Well, some people are talking about racism, and some people are saying there’s no need to talk about it because it’s over, and other people are saying that talking about racism just perpetuates racism so you shouldn’t talk about it.

Sigh.

Aside from some other reprehensible events that have led to a national discussion, right before my visit, there was a mass shooting in a black church by a very clear, very nasty white supremacist. This was in South Carolina. Very close to Tennessee and North Carolina, where I visited.

You see, white southerners perpetuate a myth about their ancestors because the Civil War is embarrassing as hell. They fought and killed for the right to slavery, one of the most universally disgusting things in the whole world. Not to mention they lost. So southerners believe it was about “states’ rights” or “freedom” or “overreach of the federal government” or what have you. But it was about slavery. Really about slavery. Click those links and have a nice read if you don’t believe me.

When I lived in the South, I occasionally got into arguments with well-meaning (?) white friends who loved to fly the flag of the Confederacy. In my opinion, no matter what the flag stood for (ahem—slavery/racism; please see links above) in the beginning, it now stands for racism because of how it came to be used. Not just during the Civil War but later, during Jim Crow, segregation, at lynchings and KKK terrorism events and white power rallies.

The swastika started out as a very different symbol, I’m told. A Buddhist symbol for peace or something. Would anyone with half a brain fly a swastika flag and argue that they did it for Buddhism these days? No. Because it means something else now.

All this has to do with my visit to the States, you ask? Bear with me.

On the mountain, every year there’s like three campsites with a rebel flag hanging. You see, people decorate their campsites with all kinds of flags. The 2 Scottish flags, American flags, military flags, state flags, jolly rogers, diver down flags (me), and more. Pretty much anything except the Union Jack. Because Scots and Brits… well, they’ve got a thing going on. A talk for another day.

I fly the Costa Rican flag too :)

This year, I stopped counting at 25 rebel flags.

People have actually started flying a symbol of racism in the wake of a very turbulent season for racism and culture.

And the weird thing wasn’t the “it’s my heritage, not hate” arguments I kept encountering at campfires. While frustrating and ignorant, those talks aren’t new.

It was the unwillingness to compromise.

In my Facebook thread asking for stories of the “feel of the mountain,” you see people talking about strangers giving them raincoats on rainy days, or offering hot food when they were hungry, or patching each other up when they fell and got hurt. You see 54 different stories of kindness and brotherly love.

But when a girl asked three of the “nicest guys on the mountain” to please take down their Confederate flag because she found it offensive, what did they do?

They put up a second Confederate flag.

These guys. They would do anything to be nice to someone. If I said pink hurt my eyes and one of them was wearing a pink shirt, I absolutely guarantee you any one of them would change his shirt to make me feel better so my eyes no longer hurt.

But the culture of nasty division and the need to stand proud and uncompromising is so strong now, these guys had a yelling argument that ended up resurfacing for days later. It was so sad.

Witnessing this from the sidelines (and if I’m honest, running away anytime the drama got close to me) was when I first started to feel reverse culture shock.

REVERSE CULTURE SHOCK

Reverse culture shock, experiencing culture shock when reentering your own culture after a period spent in a different culture, is a well-documented psychological phenomenon.

But let me be clear. When Costa Ricans ask me if I miss home, my answer is honest. “No,” I say.

Of course, then they ask, “¿Por qué?” Why?

Well, it’s complicated, I say. But the first reason I give is racism. Living in the South, I never felt comfortable. Ever. The very first meal at a public restaurant I had after moving from the North to the South was the very first time I encountered racism. I didn’t like it then, and I never started liking it.

I saw this divisiveness in other ways on the mountain, too. A potluck that invited everyone but 10 poor souls. A guy who worked super hard to host the group gathering on the last night but was somehow, for reasons completely unknown to me, snubbed at the last moment.

I thought to myself, “This is reverse culture shock.” I was just used to the generosity and openness of Tico culture. I was being hyper-sensitive. “Wipe it off, Jess,” I told myself. No big. I watched all of this but did not participate, did not meddle, did not engage, and did not say a word about any of it.

That’s not usually me. I’m all for having the tough conversation. But I figured my judgment was off a little, so I stayed quiet.

It was more fiery than just campfires

AGGRESSION

I got back to Tennessee and within 2 days I was done being there. Take what I saw on the mountain and multiply it a hundredfold.

The aggressive, no-compromise, angry culture was alive and well here. I was chatting with family and somehow we got on the metric system. I said something to the effect of, “It’s dumb how we still use the imperial system when even the ones who invented it, the Brits, switched to the metric system.” My brother piped in with, “Yeah, well, the Brits don’t get to carry their guns either.” His tone was downright hostile. Yes, this is my brother who does not know how to interact with me without being rude. But it was also his culture, informing him to take any and every opportunity, no matter how tenuous, to bring up a hot-button issue and initiate nasty fights about it.

Going out in town, more people proudly displayed the Confederate flag than didn’t. When they noticed you looking they often gunned their loud engines and did what can only be described as hollering.

“Wipe it off, Jess,” I told myself. “It’s reverse culture shock. You’re hyper-sensitive.”

TREATMENT OF CHILDREN

I witnessed two different occasions of child abuse within those two days. Not blatant beatings or anything, but a nasty man being a nasty man to a trembling child.

I remembered when I arrived in Costa Rica, I noticed how Ticos treat their children. As a rule, they’re bundled up, holding hands of mom or dad, clean, and paid attention to. In Tennessee, you often see kids whose noses haven’t been wiped for hours. Kids who aren’t wearing enough to stay warm. Kids who are ignored, and kids who are yelled at for small infractions.

Before you say it, yes, I know child abuse exists in Costa Rica. Boy, do I know. I worked at a daycare in the most dangerous barrio in all of San José. This facility deals with kids who are horrifically abused. One little boy is required to bring two pairs of pants because he was raped so brutally he doesn’t know when he has to go to the bathroom and frequently has accidents.

What I’m talking about is the normal accepted culture, not the outliers. In general, the kids on the street you see in Costa Rica, the ones who have parents with them, look better cared for than the same types of kids in Tennessee.

“Wipe it off, Jess,” I told myself. “It’s reverse culture shock. You’re hyper-sensitive.”

INTERPERSONAL DRAMA

And the friend politics. Oh my goodness, the friend politics. I’m not going to be very public with the details here, but let me just say it was weird. I mean, friend politics were a clear reason that helped me decide to move in the first place; I wasn't happy.

Of course it was gratifying to have people finally telling me stories of my ex being a total jerk to them all year. Vindicated much?

But there was so much weirdness about who hung out with whom, and who went to what social event, and who was dating whom, and… I felt cross-eyed. It raised my blood pressure to think about it. I didn’t want to have anything to do with it. So I stopped trying to hang out with all of them. I hung out with my mom.

“Wipe it off, Jess,” I told myself. “It’s reverse culture shock. If they want to see you, they will reach out and make it happen.”

CULTURE OF FEAR AND ANXIETY

And lastly, the culture of fear. I had forgotten how pervasive fear is in the culture up there. Not just fear of Isis and fear of ebola and fear of terrorists. The political, news media fear. That I had not forgotten.

No, I’m talking about the fear and anxiety that runs as an undercurrent in almost every conversation you have up there. The worry about what others think. The worry about the doctor’s appointment next Tuesday. The worry that so-and-so was rude to you on Sunday and what that means and whether you should say something about it or not.

As an example, I used to be pretty road ragey. Now I’m not. I don’t drive, and giving up that illusion of control helped me let go of the need to control the people on the road around me. They’re way worse here, trust me, but I care less.

My mom was driving and I noticed this constant anxious stream of words as she drove. “Oh dear, now that truck’s gotten in front of me and I have to slow down.” Or, “Of course he speeds up when I’m able to pass.” Or, “Please don’t turn yellow.” I responded to each one of these with aggressively peaceful comments like, “Well maybe he didn’t know how slow he was going until he saw you.” Or “Ah, it doesn’t matter if we’re one minute late.” She looked at me in amazement.

“It’s like you’re a different person,” she said. And she was 100% right.

But what’s really crazy is by the end of four weeks, I was driving her car and caught myself vomiting the exact same kinds of anxious, angry things at the drivers around me. “Oh, NOW you decide to get off the damn phone and drive?”

I clapped my hand to my mouth. Holy crap, I had to get out of there. It was getting on me!

TO CONCLUDE MY RAMBLINGS...

Some well-meaning (?) patriotic friends of mine will read this and conclude that I’m an America-hating terrorist sympathizer.

I’m not, but thanks for playing.

No culture is perfect. I’ve already blogged about the machismo culture in Costa Rica that drives me batty. (It still drives me crazy and may one day be the reason I leave.) And I’ll get to others soon as well, including the gross misuse of natural resources, water mismanagement, litter, and pesticide use.

The point is... well, there is no point, really. You're reading my thoughts because I process how I feel by writing it down.

I guess the point is that no culture is perfect. If you sit around and beat your chest insisting yours is the pinnacle of evolution, guess what?

You’ll stop evolving.

The States, and the South in particular, and Tennessee/Nashville even more specifically, has some issues. Things that rubbed me the wrong way. Things I hope they become aware of and try to improve. Things that CAN improve. It’s a collection of human beings who are, by definition, not perfect. So this blog may offend you. You may click the “unfollow” button or if we’re friends on Facebook, the “unfriend” button. It’s okay. No hard feelings.

I’m trained as a sociologist, so I can’t help but notice these things, and the psychology of reverse culture shock fascinates me. But here’s the thing.

I asked a few people, “Am I just noticing how bad some of this stuff is for the first time, because I’ve been away for so long?”

Everyone I asked said no. They’ve noticed the devolution, too. Some of this stuff has gotten worse.

I probably won’t be visiting again for a while. I’ll stay in my chosen, flawed little corner of the world and heck yeah, try to make it better too. Hopefully my old home is doing the same thing. I’ll be rooting for you.

Coming full circle

When I moved abroad over a year ago, I knew it was for keeps. I was deliberately changing my life. Over Thanksgiving, I went back to Tennessee to visit my old world for the first time. I am happy to report my mission has been a success.

Back in Tennessee, every person I ran into did a double-take upon catching sight of me. Although most of them have me on Facebook or Twitter or at least this blog, they couldn't believe this woman is the Jessie they knew. In a single glance, it is obvious I am very different. Most of them would say something along the lines of, “You look great!”

Some changes are superficial. I have lost 20 pounds. My hair is sun-bleached. My skin is toasted pancake-brown.

There are no words to say how great it was to cuddle these guys.

But other changes are both more subtle, and more powerful. I smile more. A lot more. I stand taller. I talk more freely, peppered with laughter. I am less reserved. I engage those who matter, and blithely ignore those who don’t. I don't react to negativity anymore. My energy is ALIVE. I have pulled a 180 in the best way.

Coming back to Tennessee made everything stand out for me. First, the darker comparisons:

The main reason I returned was to be a bridesmaid in the wedding of one of my dearest friends. I did catch myself slipping back into my old personality a couple times—somewhat peremptory and officious—when we needed to get everyone where they needed to be. I’m afraid I haven’t eradicated that side of me, although it’s the first time I’ve acted like that this year.

My little brother baited me, as always, spoiling for a fight. I pretended not to notice, and nothing happened. I used to react strongly to being treated that way, and end up in a nasty argument. Not so now. By the end, he was actually apologizing to me.

A girl who was supposed to be a good friend cut me off when I needed friendship the most, at the time I got divorced. I even reached out to her at the time, told her it hurt my feelings and I needed a friend, and she said she was “on a fence”—meaning had to choose between my ex and me. I worked very hard to ensure my friends weren’t put in that position, and she is the only one who felt the need to drop one of us, and she picked me to drop. Eventually she deleted me on Facebook. I’m no longer hurt by it, though I was for a long time, and when I saw her, I just kept my distance. I gave her the chance to make things right and she didn’t. But the beautiful thing is I did not then sink into depression and agonize over what I did wrong. She is not a good friend, so I’m well shot of her.

Speaking of my ex, he was at the wedding. We both pretended the other didn’t exist. He’s still with the girl he started dating before our divorce was even final. This doesn’t arouse jealousy or anger but rather pity, that he can’t be alone. He left his girlfriend of 7 years for me, so there is clearly a sad pattern here. He wears fake eyeglasses now, which was like a shining little gift to me. If I ever felt uncomfortable, which was only once, I simply said to myself, “Fake eyeglasses. FAKE eyeglasses!” I haven’t seen him since the divorce, and I wasn’t sure how I would feel seeing him. Thankfully the rage is gone, and the heartbreak too. I felt only bafflement that I could ever spend so much time in an emotionally abusive relationship with an unworthy man.

But otherwise, everything was highlighted for me in the limelight of positive change.

I attended a reunion of my KidLit writing group, and one of them (love you, Jamie) said, “JESSIE. I have never seen you write like THIS!”

I went to lunch with my former boss and mentor, and did a quick round around the old office, and you wouldn’t believe the reactions people had. Many of them hugged me. I was surprised at how many of them said they read this blog. (Hi, guys!)

I went to my favorite pub, McNamara’s, and something like 20 friends showed up to say hello. They played my favorite song, one that I feel was almost written about me called “Beeswing,” a Richard Thompson cover.

I danced like a loon with my little nephew in the aisles even though no one else was dancing. I used to be embarrassed about what a bad dancer I am. My ex once danced with me and 20 seconds into the song he said, “You’re really not good at this, are you?” Talk about hurt feelings! I never danced in public after that, until I moved to Costa Rica. Now, I am still a terrible dancer—I mean truly bad—but the difference is I do it anyway, with no shame or fear or embarrassment, just joy and abandon.

With most people, I was able to pick up right where we left off—sort of. I mean, I’m different for sure, and some of the things they talked about, I couldn’t truly relate to, and I know the feeling was mutual. But that wasn’t bad in any way. Just different. I sang Frank Turner’s “Four Simple Words” with one of my friends, bellowing it at the top of our lungs like old times. I had Greek gyros with another and we were able to talk together as if no time had passed. I went walking at Radnor Lake and the trails that used to get me a bit winded were easy-peasy, and the friends I hiked with and I laughed and chatted away.

It was absolutely amazing to see my mom. She and I are very close and used to hang out together almost every Sunday. I haven’t seen her in over a year other than Skype. She and I went walking back through her property through the fields and juniper woods, splashing through the creek and talking up a storm. We went to lunch, watched movies, cooked together, and thoroughly enjoyed her company. I’ve missed her a lot.

All summed up, going back to Tennessee for a week was good because it allowed me the ability to reflect. I’m so much better, so much happier than I was before. Sure, I still have plenty of flaws, and I’ll never ever be perfect. I still have lots of work to do in this journey of self-improvement. But I am glad at who I have become, where all this hard work has landed. Proud, even. This crazy step has been the best choice I could possibly make in my life.

And when my plane descended into Costa Rica beneath the cloud layer and San José appeared like a nest of golden fireflies in the velvety night, I was even gladder to be home. Because let’s face it. I didn’t “go home” for a week. I just visited the place where I used to live.

Costa Rica is my home.

Devil’s Backbone State Natural Area, Fall Hollow, Keg Springs, and Amber Falls

On October 23, 2010, we went hiking with friends at Devil’s Backbone State Natural Area near Hohenwald. It was an unseasonably hot day, with temperatures climbing to near 80 degrees, but the fall foliage was at near-peak for Tennessee autumn. The trail was covered with a thick layer of fallen leaves, so each step filled the air with loud crunching sounds. We took the 3-mile moderate loop and stopped to take pictures every thirty seconds or so. I quickly learned to cheat by using a photo filter on my camera to enhance the fall colors.

Once we finished the loop, we drove a couple miles to Fall Hollow, where we took the steep trail down about a quarter mile or so and enjoyed the small waterfalls.

Afterward, we felt hungry, so we drove into Hohenwald and ate at Junkyard Dog Steakhouse. I got the chicken parmesan, which was a disappointment; everyone else got steak and loved it.  

We then drove to Keg Springs Winery, where we encountered a black pony in the middle of the road, regarding us serenely. Desira and I got out of the car and shooed him back toward the pasture. When we got up to the winery building, we informed them that their pony was out, and they waved their hands nonchalantly. “He always stays out,” one woman drawled. “It’s fine.” This annoyed me. He could have been hit on the road.

We did a tasting; the wines were all decent. We bought a blackberry wine, a peach wine, and the Crusade, a semi-sweet red which, due to its Concord origins, reminded me of my favorite wine on the planet, the Highland Manor Sunset red table wine. We didn’t deign to stop and listen to the live bluegrass music out on the patio.

Now slightly buzzing from all the wine we’d tasted, we headed out to Amber Falls Winery. This place had an immediately classier feel. The tasting room was packed with people. We tried all the semi-drys and the sweets, and ended up purchasing the three-grape red Ruby Trillium, the dark rosé Cottage Rose, and the spicy red Piquant Rouge, which is a limited edition with flavors of pepper. We hung around while the entertainment on their patio played Celtic violin, but as it degenerated into bluegrass, we left.

Filled with wine and food, with three and a half miles of moderate to strenuous hiking behind us, everyone but the driver nodded off on the hour and a half drive back home.

Tennessee: Jeff’s Quarry

On July 25, 2010, we went scuba diving with the Parrot Island Divers at Jeff’s Quarry, a private property quarry in Christiana, Tennessee. It was a broiling day with a heat advisory (heat index well above 100 degrees) so a perfect day for diving.

We hadn’t been diving since Bonaire in March, so we were anxious to get into the water. We dove twice on a single tank of air. The thermocline was around 10-15 feet; however, I had slight congestion from allergies and experienced sharp head and ear pain if I dove past 10 feet anyway. Note to self: add Sudafed to dive kit.

However, I’m the one who rode a bike through the Valley of the Kings while throwing up, so I didn’t let a little headache get in my way!

The water was bright green and the visibility was less than 10 feet. But it felt like diving in bathwater and the fish were large and friendly, especially the bluegill sunfish. Between dives, we sat in the water and chatted with other divers and got sunburned.

It was a great day.