I'm writing this post with one eye swollen shut. Right now, my google search history is a 3am, caveman-like plea for "help eye hurt." I woke up again two hours later looking like the Cyclops of Phnom Penh. Current self-diagnosis: stye.
I slithered into the kitchen this morning, sunglasses on and avoiding eye contact like someone hungover and guilty for their drunken mistakes. Not this time, ladies. I'm tragically sober - just self-conscious that my eye looks like the close-up of Jabba the Hutt's chin flaps. (Follow for more relatable content #girlpower)!
Sitting on the floor of the kitchen is the cook that prepares lunch for the dorm (Harpswell girls make breakfast and dinner). I think she and I have a nice rapport. Neither of us speaks the other's language, so "nice rapport" means that she hasn't taken her ready opportunity to poison me if she wanted.
When she saw my eye, she immediately started going off in Khmer. A first-year rushed out of the room and came back in with some black thread. The cook tied the thread around both of my middle fingers. She sealed these rings with three knots each. As she snipped the thread, I thought of the Fates in Greek mythology; those old crones used the same motion to cut the thread of human life and determine someone's moment of death. Not that I'm superstitious or anything.
Another girl translated and explained that according to the cook, this black-thread-remedy will make my eye return to normal in a few days.
My new bling seems to assert my place in the Harpswell community. I'm surrounded by caring women. Or maybe they just wanted to get me and my affliction out of the kitchen ASAP.
While the cook's gesture healed me in a way Web MD never could, I still looked into a little Western medicine and started putting hot compresses on the swelling. Our dorm's housemother saw me and dragged a student to translate her concerns. Because my eye is an effect of "heat from inside" me, she insisted that the hot towel was a mistake. The housemother started pointing at my chin too for further proof. I turned to the Harpswell girl and asked, "How do you tell her that it's just acne?" (Again, #girlpower #empowerment #justacne). She shook her head to tell me it's not just the pimples (you know, the kind that are SUPPOSED to go AWAY after PUBERTY) but also symptoms of my "heat from inside." I pretended to put away my makeshift remedy of balled-up-toilet-paper-dipped-in-boiled-water. Behind her back, I've decided to keep my faith in "Wiki How To Get Rid of Your Icky, Nasty Stye" over the wisdom of my compassionate housemother. Cultural resiliency is in the eye of the beholder.
The cultural differences in remedies only heighten my awareness of the level care in our dorm. Time for a metaphor: my stye has blocked my peripherals, but allowed me to see my inclusion into Harpswell. #symbolism.
This theme of community leads into my next post, where I'll talk about the core curriculum of civic engagement.
