Cambodia. It's tropical, it's beautiful, and it's not next to Hungary. What's not to love about it? Aside from its corrupt government and a solidified impoverished economy, the beautiful rainy days would often flood the streets and people's homes. You could imagine my disdain when I had to leave. No, really. I was devastated.
I didn’t know what to expect when my family and I traveled the 8,500 miles across the world to Arizona. My mom told me everything would be different there: the language, the food, the weather, and the people. That’s fairly predictable; even for a three year old. I tried my best to prepare for it. During the flight, my parents taught me English words and phrases. Dad’s sister, my aunt, had briefed him about American customs months prior to our departure. You say “excuse me” when you need to — in most cases — politely interrupt someone for something. That was easy. Back home, we just yell at each other. If someone was yelling just 5 decibels over you, you have to make it even and go 6, 8, or maybe 20 decibels louder. Of all the several, adaptable American customs I learned, I never quite understood why they wore their shoes inside their house. It’s okay, Americans; the floor isn’t lava. Despite all the instructions and teaching, nothing could have prepared me for this:
“Cambodian? I thought you were Asian.”
Or this:
“What’s a Buddhism?”
I’ll admit, it was third grade; we were all still learning our decimals and fractions, and geography wasn’t big in the curriculum. Name pronunciation wasn’t either I suppose, because while the thought of saying Tchaikovsky nearly gave me a stroke, my peers had trouble saying Narin. Nair-in. It’s not Nar-in. If it’s not Narn, then you can bet your money it’s not Narnia either.
Being Khmer
Anna Narin
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