I wrote to a friend who read my blog. I explained that the average person reading it might think I am a heartless, pessimistic, valueless individual if they do not know my sense of humor. However, I am quite the opposite. Here comes a sappy post. If it will make you upset because you like the blunt, horrifying Jen, please kindly go F*** yourself. (Only jokes.)
Last night I threw 3 of my students into a cab and saw them home so they would not have to walk in the dark and the rain. Today I will go to my student’s basketball tournament and there will probably only be a few parents there. The bottom line is, when comparing American and Bhutanese culture, Bhutanese culture is much more family driven in terms of caring for elders, supporting each other financially, and spending time with extended family, but in some ways, it is less child centered than American culture. No judgments just differences.
This morning, as I drank the coffee my mother sent me and prayed for it to get my rice filled system moving, I got a phone call from a group of party animals. My biological parents and some of my parents who have known me since my childhood were laughing and having a good time on the other line.
To be totally cliché, the conversation brought me back to my roots. Between the emails and phone calls I get from non-biological parents, I feel grateful and energized. I have gotta thank Mike and Kath for having cool friends. You know who you are.
It is a nice feeling to know that when you bring your boyfriend to a family function, you have many fathers willing to put in the rigor of asking the bf if he has ever been to jail, asking him how he treats women, and judging him on how well he throws back a shot of nice tequila. (As if Mike Adams weren’t enough.)
I have enough mothers who I could call any time of the day or night to ask for advice. In fact, when the sixth grade girls ask me questions, I wish I could give them the number of one of my many mothers who would do a far better job reassuring them that teenage years are tough as hell, but they will survive.
I have enough siblings to awkwardly ask my father what the sleeping arrangements are when there is a male visitor staying at the Adams residence.
Later today, I cleaned my little kitchen, pulling a few flies out of the standing water in the bottom of the sink. (I promise it wasn’t that dirty moms and dads! The flies are just everywhere. Wink Wink) As I struggled to light the little stove, I threw an F Bomb and wished one of my parents was there to glare at me or better yet wash my mouth out with the horrifying, florescent green dish soap next to me. I threw my fried eggs and a carrot onto my plate and then laughed at the phallic position they landed in. My maturity makes my parents proud, I thought to myself. I felt sappy, nostalgic, and better than content. Name Same Sim Gaye!
Kedinche la. (Kedinche= Thank You, la= with respect)