Person from culture A -- um, let's call her Juliet, and we'll say she's American -- meets person from culture B -- this, of course, would be Romeo, and let's say Romeo is from the remote oceanic island nation of Ooaauu. Romeo's family has recently moved to the hustle and bustle of New York City, where Romeo finds a job in Rockefeller Center and meets Juliet out on the ice rink one morning. Romeo and Juliet become good friends and eventually fall madly in love, reciting poetic endearments to one another, and making plans to live happily ever after. The day comes when Romeo decides to take Juliet home to meet his parents, certain they'll be as happy as he is that he's found his one true love. Romeo and Juliet arrive at his parents' home, where an authentic Ooaauuian dinner awaits. The food is delicious, and at the end of the meal, Juliet turns to Romeo's mother and says, "everything was excellent. I enjoyed it very much!" At this point, Romeo's mother gasps in horror, springs up from the table and orders Juliet to leave her home. Bewildered, Juliet walks out of the house, as Romeo stands in the living room shaking his head in dismay. Their relationship comes to a crashing halt, and they never see each other again...At this point, the book would explain that some major cultural misstep had been made -- perhaps in Ooaauuian culture, a compliment after dinner is exactly the same as placing a horrifying curse on the entire household. Except Juliet, of course, had no idea she had done anything wrong. Yet every one of these anecdotes ended up the same way -- whether or not the cultural offender understood the nature of their offense, said offense was generally so great that it resulted in an immediate dissolution of whatever relationship had been formed. Best friends never spoke again... employees were fired... love was destroyed... It was a book full of cultural carnage.
Reading that book made me somewhat paranoid about placing myself in situations where I might not understand the culture. Generally, if this happens, I do nothing. Don't speak, don't move, try to remain invisible -- it really seems the only safe way to go, if I'm to believe everything I read in "Culture Clash: an Illustration of Multicultural Mutilation"... or whatever that book was called. No handshakes -- some cultures prefer not to touch. Be careful about colors -- different colors mean different things. Don't wear anything with a number on it. Better rethink the wisdom of a housewarming gift. Be careful what you do with your hands...
Here in the U.S., superstitious people think the number 13 is unlucky -- in Japan, the number four is considered unlucky. Here, we wear white for weddings and black for funerals. In many countries, white is actually the color of death. My friend Faisal says that red is the color brides wear in Pakistan, and red is considered the color of purity in India. If I'd worn red when I was married, whispers of scandal would've followed me down the aisle, and "purity" would've been
the last thing on anyone's mind. I'd have loved to have worn purple at my wedding, but purple is the color mourning widows wear in Thailand. Here, it's perfectly acceptable to bring flowers to a host or hostess of a party, whereas some other cultures believe that bringing flowers into a home is an omen of bad luck. A thumbs-up sign is a positive hand gesture in America, but in Australia and the Middle East, it's akin to flashing someone the middle finger. And I'm pretty sure the "OK" sign means the same sort of thing in Brazil -- there was a Brazilian girl in my cultural geography class, and our professor asked her what the "OK" sign meant in her home country. But she never actually answered, she just turned red and started to giggle. So I'm assuming it's not a gesture typically made in polite company in Brazil...One of the anecdotes I remember reading had to do with an object in someone's home -- a girl was visiting the home, and remarked on the beauty of a small statue or vase or knickknack of some sort, and the owner of the home insisted she take it. The girl refused, of course, saying she couldn't take such an object away from the family. The owner insisted again, and the girl said no-- she simply couldn't accept such a gift. Once again, the owner insisted she take it -- and this time, probably wanting to end the whole back-and-forth conversation, the girl said thank you, and accepted the object. However, this being the "Multicultural Mutilation" book, there was no happy ending to the story. The owner of the object was extremely offended that the girl actually TOOK the object. Because apparently the tradition was supposed to be that when someone admires an object in your home, you offer it to them (simply out of tradition) and they refuse -- not once, not twice, but three times. Now, my problem is, I can't remember which culture it is that practices this particular tradition. So if I'm ever in a home admiring an object and someone tells me to take it, I'll just have to make sure I refuse three times. And if, after the third time, it's still handed to me, I'll know I can hightail it out of there with the proffered booty, secure in the knowledge that I made no cultural social blunder.
What I find so fascinating about all of this is the way we're all interconnected, even in our differences. I guess I picture some kind of giant silver thread wending its way throughout the globe, turning and dipping and rising and twisting -- but connecting, nevertheless. The representations may be different, but the ideas are all the same -- good luck, bad luck, happiness, sadness, wishes, dreams, hopes. I remember when Faisal's father died, and I attended the funeral -- it was one of the first times I'd been any kind of witness to a cultural practice unlike my own. And at first, I have to admit, I may have been thinking something like "I'm an outsider here... maybe I don't belong..." But at one point, everyone who was in attendance placed a flower on the grave, until it looked as if dozens of flowers had spontaneously bloomed there -- and it was one of the most strangely beautiful things I'd ever seen. Flowers on graves, of course, aren't unique to any one particular culture -- and in that instant, those flowers became the silver thread. As I stared at those flowers, it was like seeing the enormity of the entire world compressed into a moment. Grief, sadness -- they were there, but so too were hope and friendship and vast amounts of love. I stopped wondering if I was an "outsider" and realized that I was nothing more than a human being, just like everyone else. Those few minutes were overwhelming in their significance -- and mesmerizing in their absolute simplicity -- and I've never been able to forget those flowers...
That silver thread makes a 25,000-mile journey around the world every day -- through lucky numbers and unlucky numbers... white dresses and red dresses... handshakes and bows and hugs... hand gestures and smiles... and flowers of every color imaginable. So my wish for you, Dave, is that your Mandarin lessons will go so well that you'll be able to understand, quite clearly, when Nancy's family chides you for your cultural blunders. And if you ever say how much you love the family car, and they offer it to you -- be sure to refuse THREE times. I'm serious -- this stuff could be the end of your relationship as you know it... :)
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