...because I won't be writing here anymore. I'm moving to a less-pretentious blog site which will focus on college life at PSU. Archives will remain active for historical purposes, but the main thrust of the blog will be carried at http://bwstate.blogspot.com.
...surpassing even the SHC in the sheer awkwardness of dancing:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=ksw2UqTyhhc&feature=user
Laugh? Cry?
It’s shocking how much of a difference having a real campus can make on your study life. In
[A dull roar of small children screaming in Spanish]
Me: “Umm, mamá….Could I venture that Juliancito might be having a birthday party?”
Host mother: “Sí…”
Me: “…and that it might be happening right now?”
Host mother: “Claro...”
Me: “….and that he might have invited every six-year-old he knows?
Host mother: “Por supuesto!...”
Me: “…and all of our extended family?”
Host mother: “Claro, Chris. No te dijieron?”
Me: “Umm….if by tell you mean allow to discover by the ruinous hordes that just showed up on our doorstep…”
After literally hours of searching, I eventually found the only café open in
All of which means that
What’s cool:
1. Tranquility. Librarian-enforced quiet policy 24/7. A dull murmur of thoughts and whispers lets you know that other people are still alive.
2. Access to the Internet and printing. ~20 computers located within sight of the study tables.
3. The caffeine buzz. McKinnon’s Café is right next door and is open on weeknights ‘till 10. It’s more expensive than other subsidized cafés, but it’s hard to beat the convenience.
4. International. It’s a magnet for international grad students and provides periodicals and television in hundreds of different languages. Even if you can’t speak a foreign language, hearing new melodies of speech (especially whispers) is a beautiful experience.
5. Great hours. Open 24 hours on Sunday and until midnight the rest of the week. People are there all the time, too, so you don’t feel like you’re the only poor soul studying on a Friday night.
6. Sack-out spots. A quiet, dark corner of the room contains about a dozen chairs and half-dozen students getting a head start on their beauty rest. Great for a 15-minute refresher.
What’s lame:
All in all, it’s a great place, and filled with no third-grade fiends of chaos. I think I like Penn State.
...I'm now back into writing for the Schreyer Honors College blog at Penn State. I'll be trying to post at least weekly, with topics relevant to prospective SHC students. If you're an SHC student who would like to write a guest entry for prospectives, please let me know: http://engage.shc.psu.edu/students/
Culture shock can be powerful, and not only across international boundaries. For me, this summer has been a provocative time of learning about the world of scientific research. Simply put, this environment is so unlike anything else I had experienced, and I've got to say, I kinda like it.
How do you define the world of academic research? And, in particular, scientific investigation? In many ways, the world of science is not unlike that of a foreign culture. It has its own language, at times so specific that it can render outsiders spellbound by the sheer number of words they can't understand. However, like many languages, it is a close cousin of another tongue, in this case, the vernacular. Although I've learned enough jargon to impress the family, I'm still wondering when lab meetings are going to start making sense: the whole talk of passages, proteomics and the daunting array of acronyms like hES or htph2 are enough to make my head spin. In many ways, being in Chile was excellent training for working on my project here. Like in Santiago, where I couldn't let any unknown vocabulary pass unquestioned, I've been forced back to a child-like sense of curiosity. Without a compelling mission to understand everything that's being said, I would be dead in the water.
Beyond the trivialities of the language, the culture of research is also defined by a dogged sense of professionalism. This means that most of what I've written above and will proceed to write would be rather frowned upon if I were to express it in the lab. While self-criticism and admittance of imperfection are vital to a scientific character, internal thoughts, as acidic as they may be, are rarely verbalized. Professional relationships dictate suppression of emotion and personal involvement, an even constancy which I've come to love and hate. Once again, this has echoes in my time in the big city, where I learned to wear the 'Santiago mask' as a cultural defense mechanism against pickpockets and opportunists. And so it is the lab, where the even-keeled character is a cultural code. In some ways, this a refreshing relaxation from the tension of everyday life: I am concerned, but only professionally. I obsess, but only for a good reason. In spite of the comfort of emotional isolation , it has become difficult transitioning back to everyday life. I don't think I'll be able to get carried away by a movie or share the same joys with siblings as before. I'm professionally disinterested. Period. (Professionalism is not the unique domain of science. Many careers, from engineering to medicine, require a similar masked outlook on life. Take the doctors' weekly M&Ms, for example)
Although a degree of professionalism mutes human drama, it does not make humans less human. Worsened by cuts in funding, jockeying for resources - both human and physical - can be a brutal struggle. People meant to be colleagues turn out to be competitors, if not outright enemies, leaving the silly naive undergrads stuck in the middle. (We, like soldiers of war, have a mandate to fight, but no personal motivation. We're like the hippies of the 60s, only with different kinds of drugs).
[Another interesting aspect of laboratory culture is the wonderful myth that we've created in popular culture. Apparently, the common perception is that scientists are geniuses who have moments of brilliance along with their morning coffee. Part of this illusion stems, Wizard of Oz-style, from our sheer isolation from the rest of society. Things seem more mysterious from a distance. And part of it, I imagine, is that it's rather convenient to have people think that your work unfathomably complex and incredible, even when you're just waiting for pipette tips to arrive. ;D]
As the time rolls once since returning to the United States, I've been surprised by some aspects of the adjustment process. It's not necessarily the scale of the adjustment, because in reality, the culture shock in the States has been fairly minimal. In general, I've slipped right into the U.S. routine; this perhaps due to the fact of starting in a biochem lab almost as soon as getting off the airplane. However, it's precisely because of this seeming familiarity that certain things jump out at me. Activities that are seemingly normal, that I've done a thousand times since returning, suddenly take on a new meaning the 1,001st time. Like today, putting away the dishes after lunch and being struck by compulsive longing/revulsion for the maid-assisted life of Chile. I don't know why this particular repetition was important; I certainly have cleared the table many times after Chile without thinking twice about it, but for some reason, this time brought back strong memories of life a few months ago.
Other changes are undetectable until I've been put in an uncommon situation. Like this weekend at the beach, finding myself on the point of yelling at the hotel manager after a 'mistake' booked our family for two rooms instead of one (Fortunately, my dad pulled me out of that one before I actually got going). Or my general reaction to traveling through the United States: what I would have noted previously as isolated observations of places now is converted instantly into metaphors for 'cultural values.' The free-spirited shag dancing on the Yorktown beach, the pervasive Southern tweaking of speech, the general openness of the rangers at Back Bay Wildlife Reserve; everything that before would have been separate was classified as evidence of 'the warmness and lack of pretentiousness of Virginia/Southern culture.' Likewise in Lancaster, when a dinner with friends was converted internally in a lesson on the joyful, community-centered Mennonite culture. I'm not sure what to make of this newly-ingrained instinct. On one hand, it's not a bad tool for classifying and getting a better understanding of the regionalisms of the United States. Nevertheless, this reaction necessarily obscures the effect of individual variation. Not everyone you meet is a good representation of their cultural background and you can go very wrong in assuming so.
So I guess I've been kind of taken aback by these recently-uncovered changes at a time when I thought the cultural adjustment phase was just about finished. I don't know what to think.
To be 'black'?
To be 'Asian'?
Racial identity and stereotyping is one of the most interesting and controversial aspects of studying and traveling abroad, an unavoidable issue in societies where one's physical appearance makes it impossible to be confused for a native. While in Chile, I received a fair share of 'white-guy' stereotyping, from the cute (flight attendants greeting me in Spanish rather than English) to the deadly-serious (white Americans are enslavers and destroyers of native culture). On the flip side, I'm sure I've born a fair share of racial prejudices, if not consciously, then unintentionally and subconsciously (try an Implicit Association Test on race if you think you're immune).
Still, I must admit that I am somewhat confused about the question of racial and cultural identity, especially as it relates to personal and public policy. My friend Kenny Hiser (who has been interning in the Phillipines) just posted some thought-provoking questions based on his recent experiences:
Some of you may have heard me tell a story about one time, two years ago while I was helping run a vacation Bible school on the sidewalks of North Philly. At one point towards the end of the week a little black girl, no more than 8 years old said something to me to the effect of, “man, all white people are stupid.” I was a little shocked at her boldness, so I asked “what about me? am I stupid?” “No.” “But I am white.” “No, you’re not, you black,” she replied. Laughing I pointed to my skin “Look at me! I’m white.” “No,” she said emphatically, “you hang out with black people. You black.”I don't really have any hard and fast answers to his questions. But I think a prerequisite to understanding this issue is distinguishing between concepts of race and culture. Although the concept of 'races' is by definition an artificial construct, you could approximate that idea by talking about 'race' as your specific genetic inheritance, that biological component of your ancestry. In contrast, your culture is the way people live around you, including, first and foremost, your parents and family. Culture is the way you show the influence of society and closest companions, race is the outward manifestation of your chromosomes.
This episode was echoed two Sundays ago during church. Ate Jeomi (really wish I knew how to spell her name), the Korean FH staff, was sitting on one side of Ate Chill, my boss, and I on the other so that Chill could translate for us. They were chatting a little during breaks in the service, and at one point, Ate Jeomi leaned over to me. “You’re not like other white people. It’s more like you’re Asian.” The words of this 40-something, Korean woman echoed in memory back to the streets of Philly.
...Ate Jeomi's comment still gives me pause. What does it mean that I'm white? What does it mean that you are what color and culture you are? What does it mean that everyone in this internet cafe other than me is Filipino? What does it mean that a little black girl was quite confident that I was black or that a Korean woman thinks that I don't act like other Americans?...
