Under A Watchful Eye

Participating in cultural tasks and island chores has been one of the most rewarding and frustrating experiences of my service. I take pride about my ability to integrate into the culture and live the same lifestyle as the locals. I have forced myself into their circles of work and insisted on being involved in tasks that are never required of me. Getting involved in the daily work of the men is not as easy as you might imagine. I have never been required to help pound breadfruit, I have never been told to cut the crass, I have never been asked to carry loads from the dock, I have never been invited to go fishing. But I do all these things all the time.

            Doing these things has brought me limitless praise and acknowledgements from the community. They always call me aat en Chuuk (Chuukese boy), because of my knowledge in local tasks. The men respect me, the little boys look up to me, and the women giggle when I pass by. My happiness as a volunteer and my acceptance into the community and family has been pushed along because of my involvement in these tasks.

            Although my life has been enriched by these actions and my reputation has grown, I have still not broken through the barrier of differences that they place upon me. I am still watched cautiously by many worried eyes every time I take a step. My family still treats me like a child and never wants me to do anything but sit around and eat. I can do most of the tasks as well or better than many of the locals, but everybody steal acts like I am a little baby.

            I wield a machete almost every single day while I am chopping things, cutting things, or just participating in some type of work. Nonetheless, every single time I pick up a machete somebody grimaces and tells me, “You are going to cut yourself”. This warning is coming from the same people who allow their 3-year-old girls to run down the road with knives in both hands.

            I pound breadfruit almost every single week, but nonetheless every single time that I sit down with the pounding rock someone guffaws with surprise and says, “you know how to pound breadfruit!” If I hammer a nail into a piece of wood, a pair of shocked onlookers will exclaim, “wow, you can do that!”. When I pick up a bag to carry it from the dock to my house, a flurry of voices will demand me to “put down the bag and let a man carry it”. If I open a can of tuna and plop it into a frying pan, my sisters will laugh in excitement and yell, “are you sure you know how to cook”. Every time I tie the knot on the rope for our boat, somebody comes and inspects it. I always do it correct, but they still check every single time. At least four times a day somebody will tell me (not ask) that I am tired.

I know that these overprotective precautions and constant warnings are based on good intentions, but its still infuriating. My family and community are just trying to be hospitable. They want to pamper me and make me a fat, lazy, and dependent slouch. It is their way of treating me like a guest and taking the best care of me that they can. The problem is that I hate being treated like that. I don’t like to be put on a pedestal and treated special when I don’t deserve it. I want to be like everybody else. In my point of view, the negative outcomes of embarrassment and infantile treatment far outweigh the relaxation and chubbiness of being treated like a baby.