Identity

For the past couple of months, I have been involved with a photography group comprised of expats and locals that get together and offer critiques, advice, and other insights related to the art of photography. Today was the 6th meeting, and one of the members gave a presentation showing off photos of his pediatric surgical journey in Nigeria, as well as nearly all 50 states. After seeing the great United States through the lens of this professional photographer, I began to miss America more than I have yet. The photos even tugged at the group leader's heartstrings, who expressed he doesn't miss America often. The images of desert landscapes and sunsets reminded me of a land where I felt like I belonged.

You can view his US presentation here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRtKBqMQVB0

Many things have changed since I first landed in Cambodia, but there is one thing that will never change; and that is the scarlet letter I feel plastered on my chest; except in this case it is "F" for foreigner, or "O" for outsider, or "B" for barang. As a white American male, I have never truly experienced discrimination. And I must say, it can be extremely frustrating to put it lightly. Weird looks, the feeling that everyone around me is making fun of me for whatever reason, and "special" prices have become the new norm.

There was one instance in which I took a few of my students to the gym, and they all paid ahead of me. $0.50 each. I got up to pay, and the price somehow jumped up to $1. All because of the color of my skin. I'm not saying $0.50 is a big deal, it's not, but it's the principle. While experiences such as this frustrate the absolute fucking hell out of me, they have shown me something that I honestly could not see in America. People think they understand it, but until it happens to you, you don't.

The longer I stay in Cambodia, the longer my hair reaches. I told some friends back home that I would grow it out, so I don't see it getting shorter anytime soon. My long hair has given me something to think about though, and that is identity.

As my hair grows longer, I've been able to see how it looks "naturally." Is this how I was meant to look? Do people see me differently than if I had short hair? Do these perceptions people have of me change the way "I" act? If so, do I even have a choice in what I do? Am I even in control? These are the questions that I ponder as I look in the mirror and slowly see myself becoming a different person. It is surreal to see yourself transform in a meaningful way right before your very eyes.

My hair is not the only way I've been measuring the time I've spent in Cambodia. Time doesn't have to be measured by a ticking clock, hourglass, or the cliche "_____ days to home" scrawled on a white board. Rent bills, toothpaste tubes, flosser bags, books, peanut butter jars stacking up on the kitchen counter, gummy vitamins; these are all metrics which measure the length of time I've been in Cambodia. When I'm done with my first bottle of gummy vitamins, I'll have been here 115 days. And it's almost empty!!