Vignette 4
Fitting in or NOT
I have struggled to fit into New Zealand life. For the first couple of years I felt desperate to find friends like I had in San Diego. They were my lifeline. My friends go all the way back to Kindergarten and know every inch of me. I can be sassy, and they can be sassy right back, without fear of rejection. Our collective sense of humor was nurtured within the same classrooms, beaches and drive-ins, and fairly representative of middle class California kids growing up in the 60s. As soon as I landed in New Zealand I wanted instant old friends; the kind that fit like a kid glove. This was obviously an unrealistic expectation, and set me up for a huge learning opportunity. What a giant “ha ha,” to look back on it now and actually call this painful rite of passage an opportunity. In the beginning, trying to make friends in New Zealand felt like two different species not comprehending the language of the other.
The American way of life runs deep. We carry it with us as travelers; sometimes to our detriment. Demanding an American approach to customer service in a small restaurant in Mexico will always end up in bad species relations. It is also true that I can say something derogatory about the country that I come from, but don’t tolerate hearing it come from a non-American’s mouth. In fact, I would lay down a small bet in Vegas that even the most hardened of expat’s ire would rise listening to a Frenchman talk about rude Americans. It took five years of overhearing people on the ferry making comments about fat, loud, uninformed Americans before I realized that this must be the same kind of stuff that minorities endure throughout their lives. And don’tcha know, there are some aspects of a stereotype that may be valid from an anecdotal perspective. This realization was not lost on me, but actually helped me to unravel a bit of self righteousness about how much the U.S. has helped all the unappreciative countries of the world.
Trying to assimilate into life at the bottom end of Waiheke Island made me painfully aware of my Americaness. There were awkward moments when I needed a napkin when visiting neighbors in their homes. I haven’t experienced too many Kiwis offering a napkin with a meal. My neighbors might be offended to know that I privately try to locate where they keep their paper towels. There never seems to be any. Hmmmm I am sure they roll their eyes when they watch me use paper towels to clean up my kitchen counter. By Waiheke standards paper towels must seem like a needless extravagance. The same goes for store bought trashcan bags, Ziploc baggies and long hot showers. My take on paper towels is that they are one of life’s staples. And isn’t taking a long hot shower cheaper in the long run than going to a spa once a week? So you might guess that my copious use of the clothes dryer causes tongues to wag. Shar my friend down the road can wax lyrical for ten minutes on the smell of a sheet dried on the outside clothesline. Rita, next door, has a drying system rigged up on her deck that rotates in the breeze. She also has an alternate location in case of rain. I reject this as being too high maintenance.
Imagine having guests over for lunch, and while sitting out on our deck looking across to Ponui Island we see Smithy and Rita’s sensible underpants twirling around on the clothes line, dead center of our gorgeous view. Somehow this interrupts all attempts at creating an alluring atmosphere. The impatient American in me revolts at the thought of having to conform by drying my clothes in this fashion in order be accepted. I want my clothes dried when I want them dried damnit. I have no tolerance for rushing home to rescue my drying clothes from a rain squall. But as bossy and spoiled as I come across, it is only an act, because in reality, I shrink from letting my neighbors see all the wasteful things that I do. Will I have to spend the rest of my life hiding in the shame of what is viewed negatively as “oh so American,” and “oh so not Kiwi?” Or is this yet another attempt to try and to teach this old dog a new trick?
A Kiwi trait that I do admire and have tried to take on board is their penchant for recycling.
Mandatory for this trait however, is not throwing things away. Oh my God, that is hard for me to do. I actually get excited on Sundays because I know the trash is going away the next morning. We put out more rubbish bags than four of our neighbors combined. This is on the embarrassed but can’t seem to be improved upon list. A dyed in the wool Kiwi can find a million and one ways to re-use just about anything. Stu my next door neighbor has turned a bleach bottle into what he calls, “The Terminator.” This plastic bottle has fishing line, a hook and sinker attached to it. I have witnessed the ease with which the darn thing regularly catches good- sized snapper. As you would expect, he has also turned an old 1930’s clothes dryer into a very efficient fish smoker.
Smithy’s innovative use of recycled materials goes unmatched. He is my alter ego when it comes to the matter of using things again, rather than throwing them away.
Murphy, my neighbor on the other side deserves honorable mention here with his hot tub made from an old aluminum water tank that we were desperate to get rid of. He painted the tank forest green, dug a trench underneath the front end to act as a fire pit, and even hung a kerosene lantern from a nearby bush that gave off a mysterious glow after dark. The fire was stoked for several hours while William patiently stirred the water with a broken off kayak paddle. When he deemed the water hot enough, he placed an old white plastic chair down inside and climbed up a ladder for easy entry. One night he sat in his hot tub for too long and couldn’t get out of bed the next morning.
Another dead giveaway that I haven’t yet assimilated is the endless number of words and phrases that I’ve never heard before. Place an accent on an unfamiliar phrase and I am lost. It certainly builds a case for Kiwi’s and American’s being of different species. When my friend Jae up on the hill found out I was writing down these little vignettes she said, “hey mate don’t forget to tell about the time you read the headlines in the newspaper and seriously asked us if we knew a man named Jack Russell who was killed by a pit bull.” Shar pipes in, “remember how you always referred to the bush as the forest?” he he he. Back to Jae…”I got so grossed out with your description of biscuits and gravy.” (She imagined a chocolate chip cookie smothered in greasy chicken gravy.)
I have added new words and phrases to my repertois weekly, and have become accustom to hearing a Kiwi accent. I am not sure if you know this but they have no short e. All short e’s have been replaced by long e. Ten is teen and egg is eeg. How would you respond the first time you were asked, “How would you like your eeg?” When I learned a new phrase, I tried to sneak it into every conversation. Sometimes friends would try to correct me as if I was learning English as a second language. This happened a lot when I tried to use the phrase, “beauty, eh.” This is an Australian and New Zealand kind of phrase. “She’s a beauty, eh?” She could be referring to a truck, boat, or fish. I came up with my own usage of this phrase to describe perfect weather. I remark that it is “a beauty-eh day.” It rhythms, and incorporates the “eh,’ so what’s not to understand? Drives them crazy!
A teacher friend of mine in California calls everything a “dooley-whooper.” This word has weaseled its way into my vocabulary over the years. The reason that I use dooley-whooper, is because my word recall is declining at an alarming rate and it surely comes in handy. The other day when I was down at the boat shed with Shar, she turned and matter of factly asked me to hand her the “dooley-whooper.” It was a proud moment for me, and I tried not to make a big deal out of it, but it seemed as if two different species had crossed some huge barrier in communication. I picked up the hammer and replied, “Isn’t it a beauty-eh day?”
Neighbors get to know you and friendships build over time. In this instance, your true character is eventually revealed, and thus many more occasions when a faux pas is overlooked due to the affection that has been grown over time. The more difficult issues I have faced regarding fitting in to the New Zealand culture lie in murkier waters. There is a fundamental clash between an American and New Zealander’s style of communication, and that has been labeled the Tall Poppy Syndrome.
This is a definition of tall poppy syndrome from Wikipedia:
Tall Poppy Syndrome (TPS) is a pejorative term used in the United Kingdom, Australia, Canada and New Zealand to describe what is seen as a leveling social attitude. Someone is said to be a target of tall poppy syndrome when his or her assumption of a higher economic, social or political position is criticized as being presumptuous, attention seeking, or without merit. Alternatively, it is seen as a societal phenonmenon in which people of genuine merit are criticised or resented because their talents or achievements elevate them above or distinguish them from their peers.
In my opinion, American’s embrace being a tall poppy. We value speaking of our achievements to help us get ahead, and are chosen for a job by how confident we come across in an interview. This is what we teach our children in school: don’t be afraid to stand up and speak highly of your abilities. But promoting yourself is frowned upon by many people in New Zealand. It is condemned as boorish. Being considered a tall poppy can lead to unpopularity; the quiet underdog is seen in a more favorable light. Our son Brett has experienced the effects of tall poppy syndrome as a student in University. He loves to contribute to classroom discussions, but found that many New Zealand students don’t feel comfortable raising their hands to reveal themselves or their opinions.
To other students he came across as a big mouthed, show off American. The other students put their energy into putting him down for his American viewpoint rather than focusing on the topic being discussed. He became a target for the group to chop down to size.
So where do we draw the line? How much of our personality that has American written all over it, do we temper to fit in? My husband Scott says, “None.” I feel more sensitive to the Tall Poppy pronouncements, and say, “maybe some.” In the U.S. one state has different ways from the other. I venture a guess that someone from the Bronx might have a difficult time fitting into a small town in rural Oklahoma. The New Yorker may not be understood by the Okie and vice versa. Despite their difference in communication styles, these two Americans with remarkably different accents and method of oral delivery, still have the history of a nation in common.
We live far from New York and Oklahoma. It would be futile to try and have a discussion with a Kiwi about baseball teams, or relate to them about Christmas and Thanksgiving traditions of our childhood. Christmas takes place in summer here, and they really don’t know what Thanksgiving is about. I guess we have had to sadly give away some of our American traditions. The Christmas tree didn’t go up the second year. This holiday seemed more like the fourth of July, which made it hard to get into the spirit of decorating the house with cozy colored lights and a glowing fireplace. Leaving the sliding doors open with mosquito repellent close by is the order of the day during Christmas in this part of the world. After sharing this, I wonder why we choose to live here. It sounds like we miss our homeland more than we love living in this beautiful, unspoiled part of the world.
The cost of getting back into the system in the U.S. would be impossible at our age. Health care, car insurance, job security: we have all these things in New Zealand. We have our home by the sea and a small group of good friends who overlook, or maybe even enjoy our unique American ways. I am proud of my heritage and the values I learned growing up in the U.S. of A. I guess it all boils down to tolerance, respectfulness, and not taking ourselves too seriously; something that is in short supply in this day and age. Although being a Tall Poppy has kept the Ms. Congeniality award just out of reach, it has taught me about the importance of being myself rather than becoming a chameleon in order to fit in. “Hey, this old dog just might have learned a new trick.” “I guess it is high time I went up and made Scott some eegs for brekkie.”
Have a beauty-eh day!
