when stuff matters: worthwhile materialism

Moving, especially internationally, has always been a time that we shed many of our belongings, whether because we have a limited shipping allowance, are moving to a furnished residence, or because I am so sick of all the clutter and take advantage of the opportunity to simplify.  This last move all three of those reasons forced drastic cuts to our accumulated family stuff- all the furniture went, as did ¾ of the books, many of the clothes, toys and bedding. 

We donated some to good causes, sold some at a yard sale, sent some to the dump. The hardest to give up were my kitchen tools, the main instruments of my creative expression for the past four and a half years. My favorite ones I gave to good friends who are using them still. Friends and their children are also sleeping in beds that we passed on to them at that move and the one before it, beds that we had acquired from friends in Bangladesh and Vietnam.  I love to think about this chain of things that are more than just inanimate objects, that help us stay connected and in each other’s consciousness, even when we are far apart and rarely in touch.

The emptier our house became, the more I felt liberated, freed from material possessions.  I started fantasizing about tiny minimalist houses or how nice it would be to have no house at all, just live out of the car and camp. At some point I realized that it had become a kind of destructive rampage and I should consult some friends before I threw away all my old journals and photos.  In the end the camping equipment, photo albums, art, bicycles, and a sewing machine stayed in a storage locker in San Francisco, 500 lbs of clothes, instruments, art supplies and books were crated up and loaded onto a ship bound for the Middle East, and what was left was loaded into our minivan for our drive across the country.

I know the whole point of them coming and packing it up was so I could have it again later, but I also had a friend once whose husband worked for Maersk and heard about how many of those containers are swept off the ships each year. Ever since then I have let go of my attachment to everything in that shipment the instant it’s wrapped and boxed, and don’t truly believe that I will see it again until the truck pulls up outside my new home.  And, despite that complete letting go, there are not many moments that match seeing your possessions again after months away from them.  No matter that I had felt so relieved to have them gone- having them again always had me blessing the foresight that I had known these particular things would help my new house really feel like home.

to my friends who want to live abroad

I have wonderful friends who have expressed their desire to live abroad for a spell with their kids, immerse in other cultures, try new foods, learn new languages, make new friends. 

First, I think this plan of yours is awesome. And so much more welcome to hear than “you are so brave to be doing that with your kids,” which really means, “I would never subject my kids to the stress and trauma of having to adapt to a new culture.”

Second, I thought I’d tell you about how I don’t think any of us fully realized how many of our social values we’d have to shelve or re-work in order to function day-to-day in a different country or culture. I don’t mean “reconsider your decision.” I mean keep this in mind and think about the limits of how much you are willing to change your own behavior and how much conflict between you and your host culture you are willing to live with.  Of course all this varies from country to country, culture to culture.

Depending on where you go, you may have to deal with being part of a class system that will feel uncomfortable at times, possibly all the time. Friends who are concerned with issues of equity and privilege may find them much less subtle than they did in the US.  It can be hard acknowledging that you will have privileges that you wouldn’t in your home country. Here, and in many places I have lived, the color of your skin, gender, national origin, and size/make of your car make a huge difference in how you are treated. This is certainly the case in the US as well, but can be much more obvious and socially acceptable in some other countries, with less opportunity to speak out about inequality due to dominant culture or your desire to keep your visa and stay out of jail.  More about this here and here and most recently, here.

There’s also unfamiliar and unwelcome etiquette: The other day I walked up to a door in the kids’ school, opened it, and attempted to wave the man behind me through. I have no idea where he is from but it obviously would have been a mortal wound to his ego to have walked through that door that I was holding. So I went first. Then there is “ma’am.” I know some people are quite offended by ma’am, but in some countries (and much of the Southern USA, thank you, ma’am) you would have to get used to it.  Ma’am is the mildest version.  The manager of our compound here inserts “madam” into every sentence he says to me.  Our driver in Dhaka also used madam, and paired it with a slight bow.  There’s no one way to deal with it- you can live with it and go ahead and call them by their first names like most everyone else does, you can try to insist they use your first name also, you can call them sir and madam as well.

I have found that one of the most challenging parts of being in a new place is adjusting my sense of my own freedom of expression and freedom of movement, with both of those seeming more limited by social influences than anything else. Of course there are so many other things to take into account –so much that you need to learn as you go along, because no one person’s advice or even a whole shelf of travel books can replace just stepping out, paying attention, and starting conversations with the people around you.