Christy Learns an Amusing Word
There is one thing you need to be aware of: people are constantly talking about me, in Pohnpeian, right in front of me. Every day. Even though it’s technically in my presence, the reality is it’s behind my back, because other than my name, I pretty much I have no idea what they’re saying. Usually I just smile and shrug, and everyone erupts in laughter. Occasionally one of my siblings takes pity and translates for me, but only sometimes.
The other afternoon I was hanging out with my younger cousins and nephews (all of which are also my students), and we were just goofing around, being silly. One of the older boys, Hayden, decided to start climbing a tree, and several of the other children started yelling at him, something that I assumed was “get down” or the like, but then I also kept hearing my name. As previously stated, this is not uncommon, but this time I was very confused, because the phrase they used was “Ke pahn Christy”, which I actually understand. It’s one of my go-to phrases. “Ke pahn ______” means. “You are going to _______”, so in this context, specifically, “You are going to Christy.”
Naturally, I gave them my confused face, and used several of my other go-to phrases to express that I have no idea what’s going on. I repeated the phrase as a question, “Hayden pahn Christy?” and that seemed to clear it up for them. Of course, per usual, all the children began laughing hysterically. Through pantomiming (this is how I do my best communicating) I was able to deduce that they were saying that Hayden was going to fall. I was still hopelessly confused as to how my name played into this, but had no choice but to wait for one of my English-speaking siblings to come to my rescue.
We all tromped off together in a crowd to find my cousin Marla, who immediately bursts into laughter upon hearing the story. She explained that the word was “kirisdi”, and it is a verb that means to slip and fall down. “Kiris” means to slip, and “di” implies the falling down part. Now, there are some things you need to understand. First, people in Pohnpei have a very hard time pronouncing my name. There is no phoneme that makes the “Cr” sound to start my name in their language, so to make things easier, people usually insert an “uh” to aid in pronunciation, essentially “Cuh-risty”. Also, there is no hard “t” in Pohnpeian, only a “dt” blend, represented by a “d” (fun fact: Pohnpeians do use “t” in their alphabet, but it makes a “ch” sound). There is also no “C” in Pohnpeian, only a “K”. Basically, what this all boils down to, is that the difference in pronunciation between my name in the local accent, and the pronunciation of “kirisdi”, to fall down, is largely indistinguishable. Pohnpeians can hear the difference, but I, sadly, cannot.
So now the family joke is “Christy pahn kirisdi.” “Christy is going to slip and fall.”
I guess, if there had to be a Pohnpeian word that sounds exactly like my name, I’m glad it’s one that brings such joy to others.
Christy Looses a Shoe
This story requires a lot of context. First, everyone in FSM wears flip flops all the time (and they call them “slippers” in English, don’t ask me why). There is not a single occasion in which flip flops are not appropriate. Second, no one wears shoes inside buildings, so outside every door you’ll find a pile of flip flops, waiting for their owners to return outside (this comes in handy when I want to know if a specific persons is inside, I just look for their shoes). Third, this is a very communal society. What’s mine is yours. It largely makes no difference who’s shoes they are (That phrase doesn’t even really make sense here—who’s shoes are those? The answer is everybody’s!) , you are always permitted to put on any pair and go about your business. My family, however, is very respectful of my belongings, and they never attempt to use my shoes (my hope is that one day they will, it will mark a day of cultural integration). But, I foiled their attempts to be polite when I purchased a new pair of shoes in town the other week. You can pretty much find sandals of any kind in town, but I wanted to buy one of the numerous styles that have little “Pohnpei” logos on them. They are typically the cheapest, and the kind most people have, so I thought my family and students would appreciate me wearing shoes just like theirs. Well, as it turns out, another pair of the exact same sandal and of similar size exists at my home, shared by several of my brother/cousins.
Needless to say, we routinely run into trouble. My brother/cousins frequently put my shoes on and I have to ask for them back in order to exit the house (they are always extremely apologetic) or, my personal favorite, I do not call attention to my missing sandals, but instead perch myself somewhere out of the way and wait. Typically two boys will walk past each other and realize they are wearing the same shoes, then frantically compare the two pairs to determine which pair is mine (newer with less wear, but not any less dirty as clean shoes are impossible here), and then quickly put my shoes back where they found them, looking around to see if I’ve noticed. I always feign oblivion, but I secretly enjoy watching the events unfold.
I never have any problems at school, because students and teachers wear their shoes in the classroom (I’m still not sure why), so my shoes are only left outside of the office whenever I am planning or relaxing during recess. But typically students do not enter the office, so the only shoes outside are adults’, and there has never been an issue with accidental (or purposeful) shoe theft.
Well, never say never, because one day last week, at the end of the day, after all the students and most of the teachers have left, I go to leave the office (after having been inside for several hours planning), and find only one of my shoes outside. Next to it is a sandal of the exact same type, but probably two sizes smaller, obviously one from a child’s pair. The remaining teachers thoroughly enjoyed my predicament, and laughed as they watched me hobble off, my left foot hanging out the back of my shoe.
I got home and explained the situation to my family, who, like my coworkers, thought it was hilarious. I told them I would just hunt down the culprit the next day at school. Surely, I thought, the child must be tripping over my much larger shoe, and would also be eager to switch back. They seemed empathetic, but doubtful that I’d be able to figure out who it was. My school is roughly 250 students, and I too had thought about the daunting task of locating my shoe.
[This is irrelevant to the progression of my story, but worth sharing nonetheless. After I spoke with my family I went inside to use the bathroom and whatnot, and when I came back out and went to put my shoes on, I discovered that my tiny shoe had been replaced, with a left shoe of the appropriate size, but much more worn down than my right shoe. I immediately knew what had happened and ran off to find my cousin Ernie, who—just as I suspected—was wearing the child’s shoe, his heel dragging in the dirt. This just goes to show you how sweet my family is. As evidence that he does in fact understand English (despite the fact that he refuses to speak to me in English), he responded to my rant to Marla by sacrificing one of the shoes from the boys’ pair. I thanked him, but made him switch me back.]
The next day, the day of reckoning, I set off to school early, hoping to be able to survey the school yard a bit before school actually began. En route, I joined up with a few of my younger cousins, and even before I caught up with them (Pohnpeians walk very slow!), I could tell that I had found my shoe thief. My cousin Ivan, was visibly struggling, tripping every few steps. But he continued on merrily, seemingly oblivious.
[Now, let me tell you about Ivan. He is one of my favorite children here. He’s hard to explain, but Ivan pretty much reminds me of a man trapped in a kid’s body. Regardless of what is going on, he always greets me with a respectful bow and a handshake (as is customary), and sits calmly beside me to join in whatever conversation is underway. All of his mannerisms, the way he holds himself as he walks, the way he offers to help anyone and everyone around, is so beyond his years. Ivan is 11, and absolutely none of his peers behave in this way. As a result, the rest of the kids call him “bus oangoang”, which is a particularly hurtful insult that sadly enough has an equal counterpart in English. It literally means “yellow bus”, but is the equivalent to calling someone “short bus” in English. In Pohnpei, students with special needs are transported in yellow vans (Pohnpeians calls them “busses”), whereas in America we use just shorter school busses. So, my darling Ivan is the family “bus oangoang”, despite my routine scolding of the other children.]
When I get up to the boys, Ivan of course, greets me and shakes my hand, smiling warmly, but I just shout “Ivan!” and point to his feet. He seems very confused, so in my best Pohnpeian, I manage “Ahi zohrrie”, “My shoe.” He shakes his head, not understanding. So I just say, “Give me that!” and take off my (his) left shoe and kick at his foot until he relinquishes my sandal. Once we swapped his face lit up. He sort of wiggled around in his shoe, pleased with how it fit, smiled, said, “Oh”, and continued walking. Apparently, despite what I had imagined, he had no idea that he had the wrong shoe.
So mystery solved. My coworkers exploded with laughter when I told them it was Ivan. He has a similar reputation at school as at home, and unfortunately, our sandal confusion has done nothing to make a case in his favor. Thinking back to his face when he realized what had happened; I couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle as well.
I have now decided to use a bit of nail polish to distinguish my sandals from others. I think it’s best to avoid this kind of thing in the future. For all of our sakes.
I’ve been saying from the start that the scenery just seems unreal here. So impossibly beautiful and captivating that I just can’t accept it. Well, I’ve recently come to learn that the ocean, mountains, and jungle, don’t hold a candle to the stars.
When I lived in town, there were just too many lights and buildings (you would laugh if you knew what I was describing as “too many” lights or buildings) to see the stars. When I got to my village I was awed by the stars, shinning brighter than I had ever seen before in America. I’d often spend a few minutes after dinner standing in front of the house, looking up. But evidently I didn’t know the half of it.
A few evenings ago, I went on a car ride with two of my cousins (to go pick up some fish from a distant relative and deliver it to another distant relative, naturally), about 30 minutes each way. I realize now that multiple things contributed to the utter amazement that enveloped me. First, I had never traveled outside of my village at night, except for short distances. Second, I now understand that even though there are very few lights in my village, it still makes a difference when it comes to star-visibility. And third, in my village and the surrounding area, where the thick canopy of trees rises up on both sides of the road, only a small portion of the night sky is ever visible at one time. Often times, I cannot locate the moon because it is hidden behind trees.
Well, about halfway through our journey, we rounded a corner and emerged onto a portion of road in a much more rural area. To my right was thick, dark jungle, and to my left, was a mountain ledge, presumably with an incredible view of the ocean. But when we turned in that bend, I let slip the only words my mouth could produce, “Holy shit.”
Before me was an immense, vast expanse of just, glory. As far as I could see in every direction were insanely beautiful, bright, incredible stars. Constellations took form in record number, and I was literally speechless with amazement. My cousin Marla practically yelled, “What? What’s wrong?” and I could only manage, “The stars.” She giggled, and humored me while I hung out the window gaping for the remainder of our trip.
The experience reminded me of when I got glasses for the first time. Many people can relate to the utter amazement of walking out and seeing, for the first time, that trees have leaves. It’s not that you didn’t know trees have leaves; you just sort of assumed that the large green blob was the leaves. It wasn’t until I could finally see clearly that I even knew what I was missing.
To describe the scene as beautiful, or breathtaking, or even awe-inspiring, doesn’t even seem to cover it. And what’s funny about it, is I had no idea stars could even be that beautiful. These aren’t different stars here in Micronesia. These are the same stars I’ve looked up at my whole life, but it took me a journey across the globe to truly see them.
It was truly amazing.
For now,
Christy
"These aren’t different stars here in Micronesia. These are the same stars I’ve looked up at my whole life, but it took me a journey across the globe to truly see them.'
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