On Being the Weirdo

About six months ago, I saw a white guy rollerblading. Sounds pretty ho-hum until you realize I was in an Asian city where being white isn’t so common, and no one rollerblades. Oh yeah, and the guy just happened to have one leg.

So, there’s a white guy out rollerblading in Asia with one leg. I’m not making this up. He had one roller blade on and was using two poles to steady himself as he zipped by down the street. It was…unusual. He stood out. A lot. It was hard not to stare down the street after him and wonder what on earth did he think he was doing rollerblading with one leg in a busy Asian city where even walking on the sidewalks can seem dangerous.

I never saw him again, but it was such an odd thing that I’ve thought of it again and again and wondered about that man’s story. I’ve even created stories for him in my head, some more realistic than others. But, I mean he’s got to have a good story, right? It’s not every day you see a person with one leg. Who rollerblades downs dangerous streets in Asia.

Anyway, I saw this guy for definitely less than 10 seconds as he passed through an intersection. And, here it is 6 months later and I’m still wondering about who on earth he is and what he was doing and why he was doing it.

Now, I’m finding out that I’m the weirdo who people remember.

Complete strangers ask to take pictures with us like they’ve never seen a white person (or white baby) before.

Whole crowded bus loads of people will stare out from their windows and watch me as I walk down the street with Mae.

People I have never even noticed before ask me where my baby is when I go anywhere without her.

Even if we have only ridden a particular bus one time, the “spare” (the guy who takes the money) will recognize us even though he works in a city of millions and has thousands of travelers a day.

Small children—and grown adults—literally point and stare at us unashamedly.

I realize that “white people” are an oddity here because whenever I do see another one in our neighborhood, I stare at them too. I run home and tell Daniel “I saw another white person today” like it’s the special news-worthy event that it is because it so rarely happens. (For the record, I have never seen another white baby).

Standing out and getting attention is just part of the new normal of living here. It is usually unwanted and nearly always a little annoying.

But, all of the attention does have me thinking about the impression I’m leaving to all the people who stare at me—even those who catch the less than 10 second glance.

It’s tempting to fantasize that someday—even someday far in the future—I won’t even be a weirdo here at all! I’ll speak the language so well, dress so well, eat so much local food, be so assimilated into local culture etc., etc., that people won’t even notice that I am different.

But, no matter how long we live here, in some ways, at least, I’ll always be a weirdo. I’ll always be white. I’ll always be from somewhere else. I can’t change those things. I’ll always be different.

I will always be weird. But,  the real question is “What kind of weirdo will I be?”

Will I be weird because I am a loud American? Will I be weird because I am “rich”? Will I be weird because I don’t understand the cultural rules? Will I be weird because of my selfish living amongst a poor people?

Or, will I be weird for the way I show His love to my neighbors? Will I be weird because others see the Spirit of God through my actions? Will I be weird because of the way I’ve worked to learn their language instead of expecting them to speak mine?

Will my weirdness draw others away from Him or draw others to Him?

For the people who catch only the 10 second glance and for the people who stare at me every day, I pray they all will see the light of Christ in me.

I will never be “normal” here, but I pray I will be weird in all the right ways.