by Aynura Erejepbaeva '28
I have been trying to write something for weeks, but I end up hating everything I write because they cannot “perfectly” convey what I wanted to say. My thoughts are all over the place, and I do not know where to begin or what I should share. I am unsure of what is "appropriate." I want to have the poetess Sylvia Plath’s voice, but my voice is not coming out well. I feel inferior, as my writing voice is less captivating compared to Plath’s smoothness. I want to write about my first term of studies at Dartmouth, a couple of weeks I spent daydreaming of back home, or going to Pine Park to sit and think for hours, but as soon as I start, everything feels overwhelming. Maybe my vocabulary is not good enough to express what I really mean, or maybe it is my thoughts that are the problem. I just want to get them out and see where they take me.
I am a proud first-generation low-income international student from rural Karakalpakstan, an autonomous country within Uzbekistan, Central Asia. Make sure to read my country twice, because it is not Pakistan or Afghanistan. I feel the need to share my experiences of coming from such a place to a liberal arts school like Dartmouth. I often feel that I can understand people and situations more deeply by having this unique background myself. Having had Zoroastrianism, then the introduction of Islam followed by the Soviet Union, my nation has faced a lot of changes in beliefs, and I brought them with me to Dartmouth.
I was so open-minded when I was filling out the housing application back in June: Welcome to cats and dogs? Check. Do you want to have a roommate? Check. A few months later, I was assigned a roommate and “blitzed” her by email: So and so, I am Aynura from Karakalpakstan. We chatted for a while, and I invited her to my online blog on Telegram, where I shared a piece of my thoughts and observations. She would not comment, but I knew she was reading them. Then, something happened, and she texted me saying that she would live in another house — all of a sudden. It was quite shocking for me. Should I be happy that I am now alone in a one-room double? Or, should I interpret this news as her not liking me? I was confused. What I had prepared for her arrival — a small traditional gift I made and brought from home, lists of places she could visit in my country, and many other things I thought would make me a unique roommate — has now vanished.
Later, I got an email from Residential Life that I might have a roommate if someone wants to make a change. It should not work that way. I should know that person for a while before living with them. The email said my room is the only one on the whole campus that hosts one person, despite being a one-room double. Well, do people abandon me because I am different? This made me think that maybe I was not within the American standards.
I have been thinking about whether I am going through the five stages of cultural adaptation in psychology: honeymoon, culture shock, irritability, adjustment, and acceptance stages. I think for me, each stage has occurred but in a different order.
I have been thinking about whether I am going through the five stages of cultural adaptation in psychology: honeymoon, culture shock, irritability, adjustment, and acceptance stages. I think for me, each stage has occurred but in a different order. The first thing I realized coming to the U.S. is how much one could struggle with a foreign language they thought they knew well enough. Whenever I am talking to people, I am saying, "Can you hand me that thing?” or "We can go that direction (pointing my fingers)." English, being my fourth language, has encircled me in every way: speaking, reading, writing, thinking, and surviving in it every day. Perhaps, it is a bit harder for me, as I had all my education in the Karakalpak language in my country. Despite struggling each day with a new language and culture, I catch myself feeling proud inside that I am still surviving in a new continent and country. With Americans, I am more or less speaking their language and communicating with them; I am reading the same materials as them; I am going through the same pace as them. All of that takes so much bravery and courage.
Being from Karakalpakstan has put me in existential straits, since most people do not know about it. I have been lecturing about where it is located and what autonomous means to every single random person. My name adds to the experience. It is hard to pronounce my name, and harder to pronounce my surname: Erejepbaeva. Instead of giving shortcuts, I challenge people to give their best in pronouncing it correctly. The thing is, it is hard to translate between cultures. Now I need to schedule when I should call my family with a ten-hour time difference. When I call them, there are some things I hide and keep as a secret, because they should not know, or are better off not knowing. And there are some things I cannot explain to my friends from the U.S., because they cannot really relate to me. They have never been in my shoes or experienced my circumstances.
I am stuck between two completely different cultures: one that values family and bonds and the other that prioritizes freedom and individualism. The latter is often the reason I feel lonely. I find it quite relatable from Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care, a book written by Dr. Benjamin Spock. “In the United States … very few children are raised to believe that their principal destiny is to serve their family, their country, or their God [as in the practice in some countries]. Generally, children [in the United States] are given the feeling that they can set their own aims and occupation in life, according to their inclinations. We are raising them to be rugged individuals … ”[1]. In my country, students are obliged to come to the school 20 minutes earlier to sing the national anthem with their right hands on their chest, along with teachers and a principal, in public schools on every Friday. Most colleges, too, still require students to wear a mix of black and white uniforms. It is reasonable then that I find it quite absurd when I see American peers walking into the classroom with pajamas and other colorful clothes.
At schools and universities in my country, it is seen as a sign of respect and morality to always greet elderly, and especially school authorities. It is so weird to me when I see some Americans walking into the class, seeing the professor, and never uttering a single word, but they just go straight and sit down. Why do we always format greetings in emails (fake formality) if we do not greet each other in person? It is absurd. In the U.S., compared to where I came from, “information that is rational, logical, objective, and verifiable is valued. You have to provide reasons [for what you say and write]. Almost everything you say in your paper should be backed up.”[2] As a person who was previously very much exposed to poetry and literature, it is demanding. I could express my feelings in essays I wrote at high school. I could have my opinions, whose author was not academic but “an emerging scholar,” which was myself. However, I feel this is considered invalid here. What is harder, seeking knowledge is not a shared experience. It seems studying here is “competing with each other, not cooperating.” You can see the example in classes, where professors assign final grades “on the curve,” meaning that they award only a small, predetermined number of high grades to the students who perform best in the class. When the instructor grades on the curve, the students in the class are in fact competing with each other to get one of the limited number of high grades.[3] The fact that on Canvas, I can see where I stand academically by seeing my grade on a scale of “low-median-high” demotivates me at times. In schools in Karakalpakstan, the grading system is based on individual performance and I had never heard of curving before coming here.
Since I live in Cohen, which is close to Occom Pond, I walk there often to rest. When I first did that, I was walking on the sidewalk closer to the houses, and my American friend “warned” me that I better walk on the asphalt. In his words, I am supposed to abide by Dartmouth's property, not put even a foot on other people’s land. That sounded very wild to me. People could even pick apples in front of my house in my country, but here I cannot even walk on someone’s land? “Americans’ attitudes about privacy can be difficult for foreigners to understand. Americans’ houses, yards, and even their offices seem open and inviting, yet, in Americans’ minds, there are boundaries that other people are simply not supposed to cross. When such boundaries are crossed, the Americans’ bodies will visibly stiffen and their manner will become cool and aloof.”[4] When I measure things from my own customs here, I feel hesitant as I might be crossing their standards of common sense and boundaries.
I usually look serious and am brutally honest about how I feel. The reverse of Americans. They are often nice or act nice, making me feel like a complainer. I do not really interact with the neighboring girls on my floor. They are nice people, however. When I see them, I say hi but without much facial expression. And that is rude, but what should I do if I come from a culture where seriousness is taken seriously? I try to fake niceness, but I fail. I do not know what to talk about with them. I know I might sound like I internalize everything and take everything personally. However, since I am an international student and an “outsider,” I tend to internalize everything that happens between others and me, and I make quick judgments that certain things are happening because of me and that I need to try harder to “fit in.”
Whenever I pass the ice cream section in Foco, I see many Americans eating different flavors of ice cream. Moreover, they wear shirts and T-shirts, while I am usually freezing. How do they develop such resistance to cold, I wonder. People get amazed when they google the summer temperatures in Karakalpakstan — 104°F. “How can you bear such hot weather? I would die,” they say. I wonder again how Americans have such resistance to cold, eating ice cream and wearing shirts and T-shirts, while I have a cold. The same way you drink a cup of water filled with ice, we drink hot chai in the middle of July in Karakalpakstan.
Some of my peers complain about Dartmouth’s rural location. The term "rural" in the context of Hanover is nothing compared to my rural town in Karakalpakstan. My experience as a Karakalpak and as a member of the class of ’28 from Karakalpakstan is what has shaped who I am today. Being familiar with the rural area allows me to appreciate nature more than those around me. I have come to appreciate the little things Hanover offers as “natural” gifts, like witnessing the change of seasons — each with its own unique scene — and the calming environment that you can turn to whenever you feel down. This limitless access to nature is a luxury, a privilege that I have earned by being a student here. While walking across campus, I feel a bit of pride and gratitude for coming here and that it is in my hands to change my narrative, my family’s narrative, and the narrative of my next generation for the better. I am attending the same institution that rich kids, kids of alumni, and all others attend. We are more or less in one boat. But sometimes, it feels so overwhelming; it is my responsibility, and thoughts like “I can’t fail my classes” haunt me to death. If I ever happen to hang out with friends for a bit longer, something inside me reminds me that I better study to “get ahead of others.”
Studying at Dartmouth has its own culture. Sometimes, I feel that I am here because of the diversity I represent on campus and in statistics. That is partially true. You might call it imposter syndrome or what not, but it is incredibly easy to lose confidence in your knowledge because everyone seems to be smarter than you. However, two weeks of New Student Orientation; going to the woods with strangers and staying in a cabin with them during the First Year Trips; or the fact that I felt at my highest body temperature close to the bonfire on the Homecoming Day — all of these are now sweet memories. What amazes me, though, is the fact that Hanover would be boring without Dartmouth. Indeed, the whole town idealizes Dartmouth, part of the “Ivy League hype.” As a local here, you would not have the chance to meet a student from Zimbabwe or Karakalpakstan without the influence of Dartmouth, right? But those locals never talk to me, either because I look Russian or like an “outsider.”
Whenever I buy something here, I feel extremely bad about my money. Whether at CVS or other stores, I convert dollars to Uzbek som in my mind and feel frustrated about each price. For the price of just three snacks, my elder sister can buy a nice dress at home. That is why, I opt not to buy anything to eat. I remember I have everything I need for healthy nutrition at Foco with my “unlimited Ivy Meal Plan.”
In addition to excelling academically in the fourth language and adapting to the culture, I hate that I should be worried about finding a job and paying for scholarship taxes. Moreover, as a person on the F-1 visa status, I cannot work outside of campus. How unfortunate is that? My education here is not the same as that of my American peers; I have to put in double effort to thrive. I need to adapt to new clues and customs, in addition to being financially independent, and it takes a deliberate effort.
It is ironic, as international students, how we put so much effort into going abroad, excited to leave home, then only to find ourselves missing friends, national food, and the life we left behind. On Spotify, now I actively listen to Uzbek, Karakalpak, Kazakh and Russian songs that I used to find cringe. I am a sum of this Spotify playlist. Topics range from patriotism, family, love to friendships. I have the longing to come back home and also be grateful for being at such a place with full financial aid. When I was strolling through the different dorms on Sept. 4th, Move-In Day, it all felt too poignant. It was hard to see my American peers moving in with their parents, saying lots of goodbyes, and their parents having lunch at the Commons. What I am sharing now might be a bit of jealousy, but I felt like I was separated from my parents on a new continent, all alone. I felt like a pioneer, and being a pioneer takes courage.
One of the most frustrating things about studying abroad is dealing with emergency contacts. I have to list one on a lot of forms, and while I do not mind putting my dad’s or mother’s info, they are in Karakalpakstan. I end up using a phone number from Karakalpakstan and a name that is hard for Americans to pronounce. For that number to even be used, someone at my school would have to look me up, find my contact info, figure out how to dial an international number, and then try to communicate with my family, who would probably be asleep because of the time difference. Unfortunately, my parents don’t speak English. By the time school manages all of that, who knows what might have already happened to me. So, these are not really “emergency contacts”; they are more like “people to notify if something goes wrong” contacts. A real emergency contact is someone you can put on speed dial, someone who will pick up immediately, will not be asleep, and understands where you are and what is happening. Most international students, especially freshmen, do not have anyone like that. I always wonder what other students do because my phone’s “emergency contact” section is just blank. After a year or two, you might make some friends, but then you have to ask them if you can put them as your emergency contact. And how do you even ask that? Like, “Hey, we’ve been friends for a while now, can I use you as my emergency contact?” It feels awkward, like you are using them, and what if they say no? I get it, though. Being someone’s emergency contact is a big deal—it means you are willing to step up if something serious happens, and not everyone is ready to do that after just a year of friendship. I hope no one ever ends up in a situation where we need to call an emergency contact.
A real emergency contact is someone you can put on speed dial, someone who will pick up immediately, will not be asleep, and understands where you are and what is happening. Most international students, especially freshmen, do not have anyone like that.
Sometimes I yearn for long conversations and talks. I am not saying people here do not talk for long hours; it is about topics that matter most. Yes, I cannot count how many times I say, “Hi, Hello, How’s it going?” to people here, but they are often because of cultural customs, and I feel superficiality when they do the same. What they often talk about is what kind of event or party is going to be tonight, boyfriend or girlfriend challenges, or how much they are struggling to balance academics and social life. While there is nothing wrong with discussing those, I feel like they are less important. I need “real” talk about life and philosophy, about cultures and personal narratives. I sometimes feel that maybe those peers have not seen real struggles like scarcity of water, food, or income in their families. What it means to wait yet another month to buy a new pair of shoes because this month Papa earned a bit less. What it means to bring water from far destinations to home. What it means to take care of chickens and sheep. I cannot, by any means, compare my past suffering to theirs. Just because I experienced something does not mean they should have, too.
Whenever I call my parents, I often notice that they are getting older, even though it is not obvious every day. They are becoming more vulnerable to cold and weather, complaining about backaches more often, and their eyesight is not as good as it used to be. Each day unveils new lines marked upon their faces, whispers of wisdom from years lived. It is about the passage of time, and I am not that ready yet. With the absence of everything about home, I feel extremely lonely here. Even people in my classes make conversations in line with academic matters and that is tough luck. After a team presentation is over, my former “teammates” only say hi to me when they see me. Biking on the Green to drill sessions in the early mornings, I wonder if someone would notice at all if I disappeared. I have close friends, or I think they are close to me, that would notice my absence. However, would they regret it if I deliberately decided to disappear from the school? To what extent my presence on campus and in their lives is valuable? Apart from my international student status?
I sense that my assumptions about some cultures have changed, too. For example, I used to think East Asians are the “best” representatives of Asia, and many Westerners generalize all Asians based on them. The other day, I talked to a guy from Japan, thinking he must be the most disciplined, self-strict, and “kind of shy” person, but God permits he is not. He said he has a roommate, which causes problems because if he starts seeing someone he cannot invite the girl to sleep over in his room. My jaw dropped. After he asked me why I don’t go to parties. I said I do not like parties, and he wondered why because he thought they are part of the college experience. I have never been this shocked. I assume I represent an “Asian” identity well: I wake up as early as 5 a.m., look quite reserved from the outside, eat veggies and salad, try to bike and work out to be in shape, and do all things that idealize the “Asian” identity.
I learned that I should be conscious when making assumptions, or I should not make assumptions at all, or I should not tell my assumptions directly. There was a welcoming event organized by OPAL for Asian students, and I went there. As you can guess, there was certainly food or snacks for each event. I read each label carefully and got vegan food in hand. Then, I saw a friend, whom I met just several days ago and whom I thought must be Indian, eating beef in the corner. I thought he did not know he was eating beef, and I approached him and spoke in sorrow, “Why are you eating beef? Don’t you worship cows in your religion?” He was confused for a second and said, “I’m Christian, and I can eat beef.” I was confused too, and I went on saying, “Are you not from India?” He was like, “No! I’m from Sri Lanka and we can eat beef.” It was the worst discrimination on my part, and that friend still makes a joke of me because of this incident. My pure soul was to inform him that, in case he was Indian, he should be careful about what he was eating.
College is about growth. I mean in every possible way; it extends beyond intellectualism.
College is about growth. I mean in every possible way; it extends beyond intellectualism. Living in residential housing, I have come to terms with “bearing” things that really annoy me. There is a person, I am not sure which floor, whose alarm clock is loud and rings for about an hour every day. I wonder why that person puts the alarm clock in the first place if they are never willing to turn it off. It literally rings for an hour. Or, when I am using the bathroom, I realize somebody never flushes the toilet. It is disgusting, but I came to translate it as maybe that person does not want to waste water? Or, the fact that my floor neighbors talk loudly, especially when I am studying. I wonder if they do not know that the walls are as thin as paper, and you can literally hear every single word. I also learned that if I use a tray in the dining hall, this is an indication that I am “an inexperienced freshman” in the eyes of upperclassmen. I was sort of “warned” about that twice, but I do not really care about it because, for me, it is just “поднос” that serves a role to ease your meal transition.
I am very much convinced that I will always stay as Karakalpak, regardless of how much time I spend in the U.S. or in American culture. When I said that most of my childhood consisted of Soviet Union cartoons and that I liked them because of how morally good their influence was on me, my American friends laughed that I might be supporting Marxist ideas and propaganda.
As I come towards the end of my first term, I realize I cannot live my life mindlessly; attend drills, go to class, eat, chat, sleep, and repeat the process again. I should not be living like this. I should be pausing in between, and observe my thoughts and feelings. What is happening? What am I doing? Why am I here? Those are really important questions. I used to live with a mindful self since my town was very rural and not many things going on, I could have time to think. Now I have everything in the world and world’s free time, but paradoxically there’s not much space and time to think. I used to live with a big mission everyday, I used to read a lot and study for the sake of it. Now my only concern has become grades and percentages; I wake up to complete assignments and go to sleep with this. While doing assignments is definitely a must thing, it is not big, it is not fulfilling. I should live with a bigger mission; bigger than grades and peer pressure. I want to be an active recipient of rich experiences. I should be like a spider, making a web — a web of connections and friendships.
I should be like a spider, making a web — a web of connections and friendships.
Riding my bike around the campus and between classes, I am constantly reminded that I am such a free person here and now. I am not kept track of what I should be doing and supposed to do from my parents; I can structure my days and weeks; I can choose what to commit to in extracurriculars — all whose protagonist is me. I ponder how much self-centered I can be again, as I am now at Dartmouth. I ponder how much differently I will look at the structures, policies and customs of my home country when I return in summer.
“People gradually become more objective in judging their home countries and lose their objectivity toward the communities they are living in.”[5] My essay perhaps has been a collection of acknowledgements on my feelings, rather than suppressing them. By writing about my experiences at Dartmouth as an international [minor] student, I wanted to try to be objective, so writing helped me step aside. The first term has been successful; I don’t mean grades, but people I met and the journey of understanding myself in a new place. I catch myself feeling grateful that some people exist in my life and make my human experience a sweet one.
Citations
[1] Althen, Gary, Amanda R Doran, and Susan J Szmania, American Ways : A Guide for Foreigners in the United States, 2nd ed., (Yarmouth: Intercultural Press, 2003).
[2] Gary Althen, Amanda R. Doran, and Susan J. Szmania, American Ways, 236.
[3] Gary Althen, Amanda R. Doran, and Susan J. Szmania, American Ways, 238.
[4] Gary Althen, Amanda R. Doran, and Susan J. Szmania, American Ways, 14.
[5] Andrew Garrod, and Jay Davis, Crossing Customs : International Students Write on U.S. College Life and Culture, (New York: Falmer Press, 1999).
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