You are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Kamu cantik, cantik, dari hatimu!

-Cherrybelle, Indonesian girl band

It's heartbreaking more often than not that many Indonesians think that being white is the most beautiful thing ever, because there are so many beautiful people here. For some proof, see these shots below, some of my favorite so far from Indonesia. 

Ellie, Nurul and I enjoying ice cream. And being embarrassed that we were all wearing purple to a wedding. 

Fahri (host bro) playing ping pong

Iqbal (host bro) sporting a farmer's hat, not to mention looking so ASIAN!

Iqbal and his girlfriend, Rosi. Check out that height difference!

Sari, my best neighbor friend, who screams, "MISS SARAH!!!" runs at me, and hugs my legs whenever I pass!  While I  usually grit my teeth and bear everyone asking where I am going, I look forward to passing Sari!

The Asian squat. 

Riza (co-worker) looking very legit as a basketball player.

This angkot driver just, you know, trimming his facial hair while waiting for customers.

Tammy, fellow PCV, enjoying the hotel's complimentary tea and donuts, and looking sophisticated as ever! 

Misbah, aka "Mis," too! (host cousin)

A host relative of some sort, cracking up about us trying to play a traditional Javanese racing game. 

6 months of transformation

“You are always on the verge of doing the hardest thing of your life.”

- Julie, a close PC friend (later, I learned this was actually a Ben Folds quote!)

I signed up for Peace Corps desiring to be stretched. Broken. Transformed. Rebuilt. I am truly grateful for the challenges I faced in high school (social drama and academic challenges) and then the challenges Carleton presented (faith, academics, social spats, racial realizations). These hardships (albeit white, middle class problems, if I am to be honest) shaped me and grew me in ways I never imagined.

One reason I desired to work with the Peace Corps was to be transformed again. So far, my time in Indonesia has not been a disappointment. The process of acceptance to Peace Corps was a challenge in itself. Why was I doing this? To go back to Africa? Or to serve where I was called? In December 2011, I seriously doubted that I would accept a Peace Corps position if it was not in West Africa. Yet here I am in Indonesia.

Anyways, that brings me to Julie’s (Ben's) quote above. We are always on the verge of doing the hardest thing we’ve ever done. Because even if I accomplish something that was really hard in August 2012 and the next hardest thing isn’t until December 2014, I’m still on the verge of that time, albeit a 2-year long verge! While some would argue that they’d rather not be on the verge of the hardest thing they’ve ever done, they’d just like to live in peace, I’d argue that this is the life I want to live. I want to lead a life of heartbreak and growth. To live that life, one must be constantly challenged and reshaped. This is what I was made for, to constantly seek a better life for myself and those around me. I was made to be transformed through my faith. I was made to trust that the good choices I make and even the mistakes that teach me are watched over by God, who is revealing to me more and more of who I was made to be.

Another volunteer said that he is ready to be broken during his service here. While we can currently only romanticize what this brokenness will be like (severe cultural isolation, experiencing racial profiling for the first time, a loss of faith, depression), 21 months from now when I return home I hope I’ll be able to concretely explain how I’m different. How I’ve been broken and rebuilt by my Maker, as Abby says!

Here are some of the ways I see changes in myself already, 6 months into my service:

RICE

My first legit sandwich in 5 months...SO GOOD! Also, this picture was taken to show my host mom, who doesn't know what a sandwich is. 

While I ate rice in the US maybe once or twice a week (max), I eat a lot of rice here...and rarely the tasty sandwich above. End of story. 

VALUES LITERALLY THROWN OUT THE WINDOW

(I literally throw my plastic bottles out the kitchen window into the garbage!)

The first and only recycling I have seen in Indonesia,  just last Sunday on a college campus. 

Values that seemed essential to one’s lifestyle in one setting can change based on circumstance. I have been an avid recycler since about 7^th grade. Bottles and paper are not recycled here, they are burned along with all the other trash. In the US I wouldn’t dream of throwing away even a post-it note sized piece of paper, but here, all my recyclables go into the trash.

PERCEPTIONS OF DEVELOPING COUNTRIES

My very comfortable, very Western room.

I am unlearning the idea (an idea shaped by American news channels) that developing countries are places only of poverty and discomfort. This realization began in Senegal and Togo when I stayed with well-off families. There are rich Indonesians (such as my host family) who live very much like Westerners (or a cross-breed of Indonesian-Western!) and want for not. I am processing how their role in developing their country is different from, the same as, and intertwined with my role in helping the development process as an outsider. 

DRESS

My school uniform, which grazes my toes!

Swimming in a shirt and shorts, no little suit to be seen...which is actually a relief for me, considering those extra pound around the middle thanks to the fried, sugary food of Indonesia! 

I dress very differently. In the US, a pair of shorts and a tank top were a staple in the summer. Here, I wouldn’t dream of leaving the house in a tank top, and showing my knees would result in me feeling very uncomfortable. While at first I was frustrated by this and sought opportunities to show a little leg (I like my calf muscles!), now I am much more comfortable wearing a long skirt.

Some of my skirts I do not want to wear to school because they are about an inch above my ankle and that is shorter than other women’s skirts. I feel like everyone is judging my skirt. It’s technically long enough but it’s the wrong style. Skirts should graze your toes!

NATURE

A sunset at the end of my road

I am learning to better appreciate the beauty of the world around me. 

FOOD PREP AND PRESERVATION DOES NOT SHOCK ME ANYMORE

Here's some food at a warung that was cooked in the morning and will basically sit around all day until someone buys it, complete with flies chilling on it...

Food preparation and sanitation is very different here. I remember being shocked the first time that I saw that Iyamide's family didn't keep eggs in the fridge in Senegal. There was also a moment of, "The eggs I eat at home have white shells..." before remembering oh yeah, for some weird, unknown reason we dye them white... Anyways, while my family has a fridge here, it is rarely used for food that is already cooked. It just sits out on the table, waiting to be eaten. I have totally seen my ibu (host mom) take rice that has ants in it, pick them out, and proceed to eat the rice. Fruit that has bugs eating at it for hours while it sits out on the table? Swat those flies away and let's serve that fruit to the guests that just came. NBD.


PEOPLE WORRY ABOUT VERY DIFFERENT THINGS

This is my host mom, a stay-at-home mom who does her best to contribute to her family and community.

It amazes me the worries my host mom has. What seems so trivial to me is a huge problem to her. She could not sleep one night last month because I told her I wanted to bike home alone from church at 7 PM when it is dark. She spent the whole night in a restless sleep trying to figure out how to compromise (she wanted me to be driven to and from church whenever I wanted to go, but that's a huge burden on my host brothers every week). Last week brought another sleepless night when I tried to explain to her that I have to give her half my money each month for food. She was shy to accept it and spent all night trying to figure out how she could still cook for me without taking my money.

To worry about these things seems so ridiculous to me, but I have grown to respect her for these worries. She wants me safe (the biking worry), she wants to be fair with my food money, keep me healthy and happy. She feels a personal responsibility for my comfort and health while I am in her family.

BEING CHRISTIAN IN A SEA OF ISLAM

Wearing a hijab brings much delight to those around me, but only unwanted attention and discomfort to me.

While there have been situations in which I have chosen to wear a hijab (to the mosque twice and to 3 prayer services), these times have always brought me anxiety. People love it when I wear a hijab;  it shows respect to their religion and I think they are fascinated to see a white lady wearing a headscarf. Although I am all about respecting religions and cultures, I am not comfortable wearing a jilbab. For one, I look like a frog. Next, when I wear it, people say I should wear it all the time. And then I try to explain that I am not comfortable. I am not Muslim and I do not want to wear a symbolically Muslim thing just to fit in or for the local style. If I am going to wear it it's for spiritual reasons. Since I don't have those spiritual motivations, I don't want to wear one, thank you. Finally, wearing a jilbab reminds me of the freedom I have as a Christian. I don't have to wear a headscarf,  my religion is written in my heart and manifest through my actions. I am not arguing that women only wear a headscarf as a symbol of being Muslim, they wear it for many reasons, but it is undeniable that it has become a Muslim symbol.


HUMILITY AND THE IMAGE OF JESUS

Above me is a picture of an Islamic leader, not a prophet

 I see the picture of this man every day when I walk down the stairs at my house, so when I saw it again in a friend's living room, I asked if that was a picture of a Muslim prophet (obviously one other than Muhammad, as you cannot depict him). The response was a strong, "No, of course not! None of the Muslim prophets have pictures, nor should you try to depict them." I said that was very interesting, seeing as Christians have most of the same prophets but we are allowed to depict them. I pointed out we have a lot of pictures of Jesus (albeit the most common photo, a white-skinned, blue-eyed Jesus, is inaccurate!) The woman (pictured above) responded that obviously the pictures were not really pictures of the prophets, with a tone that said that I was somewhere between wrong and very silly to think so. While I was upset at this lash out against my religion's freedom to have pictures of whomever we wanted, I had to bite my tongue.

Since then, I have had a chance to reflect on how my actions that day were lacking in humility. I immediately wrote her off as the ignorant one when she said there were not allowed to be depictions of the prophets. Yet here I was, the shallow one for wanting to be right, right, right all the time. And right about what? What Abraham and Jesus looked like? News flash, Sarah, there weren't pictures of them. We don't really know exactly what they looked like. And my religion usually depicts them inaccurately based on race and nationality when we do depict them.

Even more importantly, this taught me a big lesson. Why does it matter what Jesus looked like? Isn't it more important that I understand what he said and did? I don't need to know what he looked like, but I do need to learn his teachings to life a better life. So maybe the Muslims got it right, don't get hung up on depicting the prophet, focus on following the prophet's teachings!

 A DEEPER UNDERSTANDING OF WHY I AM CHRISTIAN

It's not every day that you see a church next to a mosque...

Conversations with my host mom and sister about Islam have left me glad I am a Christian. While I love learning about Islam to better understand it, I grow more confident that Christianity is right for me and brings me peace and freedom. Muslims belief after death God will review all the bad and good things you did and then decide where you are destined to go for eternity. My host mom and sister live with a certain degree of fear that they must be good Muslims or God will punish them. I do not live in fear of my destiny. In my understanding of Christianity, I accept that I am going to make mistakes, but that God has my back. I don't have to do anything to be saved because Jesus paid for my sins already. While at times I felt guilty of this "free pass" in light of the Muslims around me are perhaps freaking out about their salvation, I realize that my pass is not entirely free. I only definitely get it if I try to live in thanks and gratitude for what was given to me. If I try to take advantage of always being forgiven and end up doing crazy things, then I am not really trying to follow God's plan for me and therefore don't get the free pass. Does that make sense? I'm still working through this...!

                                               **************************

And finally, perhaps the most important thing I have come to learn after being here for 6 months is this: I have realized that living abroad for the rest of my life is not for me. I miss my culture and my lifestyle in the US. I am happy to be here and want to be here for two years, but after that, my heart lies in the US!

Going to Church, or, 4 km of stress and very un-Christian thoughts

5:21 PM: Okay, I gotta get going! Gotta eat fast!

5:22 PM: Forgot my bike lamps to get back home, for gosh sakes. Gotta walk the 3 feet back to my room to get them. Annoying. (Really, Sarah, three feet? And you are complaining? What has the reluctance of Indonesians to walk anywhere done to you?!)

5:31 PM: I am going to be late! I gotta get outta here!

5:32 PM: I successfully made it down my street without one person asking me, “Mau ke mana?” (“Where are you going?”) It is a miracle.

5:35 PM: Jeesh, sometimes I wish that I wasn’t (usually) so culturally sensitive, or I’d rip this sweater off. Or maybe I shouldn’t have worn this tank top that requires me to wear a sweater while biking in the upper 70-degree heat, only to end up super sweaty at church. What an idiot.

**on the super bumpy road**

5:39 PM: Maybe this road doesn’t bug people here, but couldn’t my rich host dad just cough up a little money to fix this darn road??

5:41 PM: I am ready to take this sweater off. I have no shame it tying it around my shoulders like a grandma. (Sorry, Grandma and G-mo!) I could just take it off…ohhhh, can you imagine, a bule (foreigner, most commonly used for white person, I think…) wearing a tank top, riding a bike alone, and wearing a helmet!? It’d be too much for Indonesians to take.

5:41 PM 30 seconds: It’s happening, I’m taking the sweater off….shoot, can’t yet, someone is driving past me, gotta wait.

5:42 PM: Hallejuah the sweater is off!

**I pass the village that I pass at least once a week, and I swear the same teenager that always says it says it again as I pass, “Bule!” **

5:44 PM: In response to that, I want to yell, “Why don’t you go….” oh man, Sarah, when did you start stooping to this?!

5:47 PM: Okay, it’s gotta happen. I’m stopping here at this corner to turn on my blinky read light and attach it to my back. I don’t want these crazy drivers to hit me because they can’t see me. I feel like an idiot but I’ll be even madder when I’m dead cause I didn’t wear a blinky light for personal pride reasons.

**A pick-up truck passes by me and a man is literally hanging out the window staring at me. I resist the urge not to flick him off, because I am too classy for that, but to hold up three fingers and yell, “Read between the lines, buddy!” But I just barely resist that urge.**

5:50 PM: OH SH*T! Forget the fact that people are passing on their motorcycles less than a foot from me. That bat just flew way too close to me. You can do this, you are brave.

**I see my shadow and realize what I look like.**

An unfortunate photo from Carleton freshman year at Mall of America in which my facial expressions are the same as always,  awkward. But the importance of this photo is that the dress was like Batwoman, crucial to this story at present. 

5:51 PM: Oh my gosh, no wonder the bats are coming at me. My sweater is billowing in the wind like a cape. The bats think I am batwoman.

Trying to eat Iyamide. Batwoman/vampire...

**I try to tuck the sleeves of my sweater into my shirt so there is no cape-billowing.**

5:52 PM: Well that is not gonna work. Okay, this is happening, I am a bule riding a bike, wearing a helmet and a blinky light, and now it looks like I am trying to wear a cape. I look crazy. I am crazy. I chose to live in Indonesia for two years. (I may have said that last part out loud while biking…) You know what, people are already staring at me, let’s give ‘em a show. Yes, I am a bule biking with a helmet, blinky red light and cape. You got a problem with that?! This is who I am, a crazy person! Hmm, maybe I should be careful with being crazy though, or people will believe all white people are like this, and that’s not fair to the normal white people. Oh crap, I’m wearing my cross necklace! I just put this on for the first time in this village, because I am going to church. What if people see it and think that all Christians are crazy! SHOOT!

Can you say crazy bule??

5:55 PM: This is really how I’m going to die, trying to see what time it is while biking. Forget people texting, trying to dig through one’s bag while biking in Indonesia is just as dangerous. It is 5:55 PM, SHOOT! I am gonna be late to church!!! And sweaty. Gosh.

5:59 PM: Gotta turn, best to just not look back. Indonesians don’t look anyways. I am just gonna straight up turn right now. Good thing I’m wearing this blinky light.

**”Hello mister!”

6:00 PM: FOR GOSH SAKES, I JUST WANT TO GET TO CHURCH IN PEACE! Do you have to call me Mister, you annoying person? You know what, I’m gonna blog about this. I am going to write what it’s like to ride your bike to church once a week in Indonesia. 4 km of high stress. I will have to be honest and write about all the bad things I was thinking about saying to people as they passed me and stared or cat-called. And then I will comment on the irony that I am going to church. Every week I bike to church, think really mean thoughts, and then try to go pray it off. Is that a bad thing!?

6:03 PM: Oh gosh, this is really it. The main road, where death is always ready to welcome me. I am gonna inch up behind this ibu (woman) and cross when she crosses. I am also going to position myself on the side of her farther from oncoming traffic, so if someone gets hit it’s her. Oh man, that is a terrible thing to think. But I’m still doing it. This is so dangerous. She is going, oh man, here we go. Don’t look at the other side of the road yet, because like always there is probably a huge truck barreling (literally, like 50 miles an hour) down the road at me, ready to give a warning honk. Just focus on getting to the middle, where of course there is no median. And then just start going with the flow of traffic, risk a glance behind me, and make a mad dash for the other side of the road.

6:04 PM: Thank GOD for this blinky light, or a car would probably hit me. I can’t believe I’m still alive. I think this every time I cross this road. But I still have 30 meters to go.

**quick prayer**

6:06: PM: I can’t believe it, I made it again. I really, truly, don’t know how I am still alive after crossing this road. Praise the Lord!

In other, totally unrelated news...

  

Happy Labor Day! For Labor Day I made lumpur, a traditional Javanese cake, and then made icing on it,  just like all the time in college! Except, as Sam knows oh-too-well, I can't make Mom's easiest-icing-recipe-ever to save my life. Always too grainy or runny or...in this case, the powdered sugar itself wasn't fine enough, leading to a gritty-on-your-teeth sensation. I didn't eat this cupcake-esque Labor Day treat, but I did give it to my neighbors as a thank you for all they've done for me! One of them was confused and thought I was going home to the US and this was my goodbye present to them...

Going to Candi Brahu, the ancient (and very recently renovated or more likely rebuilt... yay tourism!) Mojopahit Temple like 1 km from my house. Attracts international tourists, cool! The building in the backround is not the temple, for gosh sakes! 

...This is the temple! And those are the slew of neighbor kids that invited me to come with them. Those are the same neighbor kids I never want to bike with again because they are too interested in me, asking questions, touching me, pulling my arms. No thank you, not a fan of little kids in quantities of more than...oh, like 2. 

Badminton extracurriculars! I have to admit that I was a little snobby as I attended this, thinking about how in the US our guys play basketball and football, and here these Indonesian guys are playing sorta soft-core badminton...and then I saw Pak Habib and an alumnus play and man, were they amazing. I couldn't play with them, not fast enough! Even though I have more respect for badminton players now, I still couldn't help but think about the strength it takes to play tennis or football...

The gym uniforms, complete with jilbab (hijab!) Very confusing, these jilbabs are, because half of the girls weren't wearing them during badminton. I get very confused between my host family women (that do not leave the house without their head covered) and people who just walk around without one at random times. I forget that it's a choice about how much to wear or not to wear it...

Mosque-opening ceremony at my school!

The mosque is clearly not done (they have yet to cover the bricks with another layer of cement,  put in the windows, doors, floors...) but by Allah (God), we are gonna open that mosque today! 

All important things come with food...food that is eaten with unwashed hands, no spoon. Or, if given a bowl to wash with, water. Just water. No soap. Welcome to Indonesia. 

Teaching at a former PCV's school in Mojoagung. It has become clear that Miss Sarah's punishment song will be "I'm a Little Teapot." Complete with dancing. 

YES!

Just to show you how important I am, I have a microphone! Oh, and I am an honest person, so this picture was added for you to observe the copious amounts of sweat on my face and my greasy hair. Awesome. 

The following pictures are from the day that I went on a bike ride and felt super Peace Corps-y! Why? Because I popped in my ipod to drown out anyone yelling anything at me, slathered myself in sunscreen to the questioning of my host family for the 10th time "What is that?" and set off for 2 hours of uninterrupted peace. This is the super Peace Corps-y part...I felt like my tires didn't have enough air, so I stopped to ask a random warung owner (small restaurant, basically a shack on the side of the road) if he had a bike pump. Not only did he fill my tires right up, we chatted and he gave me free potentially strawberry flavored tea. 

Being spontaneous? Check.

Looking fabulous with my shades and goofy grin? Check.

Talking to strangers? Check. 

Taking a drink from a strange man? Check. 

The Paddies. What is up!

I have decided to get back at people taking pictures of me or cat-calling at me, I will now and then take opportunities to try to make other people uncomfortable. Unfortunately, it is hard to be sneaky as a white lady on a bike, so I broke down and asked these teenage sheep herders (complete with a big shepard-staff there in the background boy's hand) if I could take a picture of them. Again, feeling pretty Peace Corps-y!

My new buddy. Don't ask me his name, I never remember names. Though the best name in Indonesia so far is "Bagus" for the men, which literally means "good" or "awesome!" and "Putri" for the girls...which means "girl." 

Paddy and the corn! Just like the Mid-West with the corn! 

My sweet ride! Complete with bell. 

So this is what it feels like to be a minority

Warning: this is a cathartic post, lots of negative energy. Please read this knowing full well that I am aware of my incredibly negative reactions in some of these simple situations in which people meant no harm, but sometimes you just need to vent and feel. I know that I chose to be here, I know that I am living in a culture of people who mean well. Still, I'm human and I need to have my own reactions for a minute before I think more deeply. These are those initial reactions...

Right now I could be content not talking to anyone again for at least 2 days.

Upon my return home and after running to my room with no more than a “hello” to my family (you give them any more opportunity than that and you are sucked in what literally could be an hour long conversation with my host mom), I logged on to get a bit of sanity from the outside world. Thankfully, a fellow PCV posted this article on microaggressions. Exactly what I needed to read!

Ah, an educated explanation of the headache-inducing, boiling anger I am feeling!! God provides in mysterious ways, and here is the answer to my need: being reminded of the phenomenon ‘microaggressions’ to put a name to my pain.

Here's the most important quotes from the article:  

"Microagressions, particularly those of a racialized nature, are, according to Dr. Derald Wing Sue in Psychology Today (Oct. 5, 2010), "the brief and everyday slights, insults, indignities, and denigrating messages sent to (visible minorities) by well-intentioned (members of an ethnic majority in a society) who are unaware of the hidden messages being communicated."  This is my life every day in Indonesia.

Now let's consider microaggression's effects. Dr. Sue's research suggests that subtle "microinsults and microinvalidations are potentially more harmful (than overt, conscious acts of racism) because of their invisibility, which puts (visible minorities) in a psychological bind." Definitely invisible to the Indonesians who are always asking me questions. I’m gonna be honest, I console myself by reminding myself that I am highly educated and need to remain calm, I am the first white person who has ever lived here. They are only curious and trying to be friendly. But still...

For example, indicate that you dislike being treated this way and the aggressor will be confused; after all, the latter meant no harm, so therefore the NJ must just be overly "sensitive" — and therefore also "troublesome" to deal with. Resistance is not futile; it is in fact counterproductive. Oh woe to we who are microaggressed, for we cannot explain to the aggressor their faults. It truly consoles not to try to explain. Yesterday I told my host sister I was having trouble being patient with people who called me “bule! (foreigner!) or mister." She said, “Sarah, you must be patient.” I told her easier said than done. She just said again, "Be patient." Okay, come to my country and live in my world for a day, please. You will see that my friends and family do not stare at people who are different and try to touch them and the list goes on...Try walking in my shoes for one day and see how UNGODLY hard it is to be in a culture that can’t possibly understand how different this collective, everyone-knows-everyone’s-business, never-alone-for-a-moment culture is from my culture.

Yet do nothing and research suggests that "aggressees" become psychologically drained over time by having to constantly question the validity of their position and devote energy to dealing with this normalized (and after a while, predictable) "othering" that nobody else (except — shudder — the alienated NJ barflies) seems to understand." I could not dream of putting this better myself. I’m the only one is this entire community who understands me because no one from here has ever been in a similar situation.

Today's microaggressions that have left me willing to not see another person for at least 2 days:

1. "Mister Sarah!" Repeated 10 times by a little girl. I don't care if you are only 5 years old, you were told multiple times it’s Miss. It’s one word, d@mn it, get it right.
2. Same little girl takes a picture of me without asking. At least I didn’t swat her hand away this time and say, “If you don’t ask that it’s not polite” like I did to a kid 2 months ago.
3. Cat calls from boys at my school, “Hello Miss Sarah. How are you? I love you!” And then when I turn around to ask a question, they can’t answer. You have learned English for 10 years and really? All you can mockingly say is, “I love you?”
4. A teacher at my school: “What are you eating for lunch?”

Me:  “Rice.”

Teacher: “You can eat rice?”

My desired answer: “No, I’m just faking it, I actually cut a whole in the bottom of my lunch box…of course I can eat rice. I’ve been living in this country for 5 months, for the love of God. My body is the body of a human being. My body can eat rice. Duh.”

My real response? “Yes.”

5.     While my friend is riding on the back of my bike: “Sarah, I don’t think those kids saw me when we passed.” Yes, that’s right, because I’m so freakin’ huge, as everyone loves to say in this country. So huge that your mini, perfect little body couldn’t be seen behind the giant. Thank you for reminding me that I’m a head taller than everyone. As if I’ve forgotten.

6.     “Sarah, be careful!” When crossing the street, with no cars in sight. I know that you care about me, but I’m 23 years old, you do NOT have to hold my arm when I cross the street.

7.     “You are so beautiful. You are white.” Oh jeeze, I’m white? What?! I must have forgotten. It’s not like everyone (outside of my community) stares at me and yells, “Bule! (foreigner!)” every time they see me. Thank you for making me feel objectified, lady. I just love being reminded of all the white people who colonized the world and made you believe only white is beautiful.

8.     Touch my arm hair or squeeze my apparently fattest-arm-you’ve-ever-seen one more time, neighbor girl, and I think I’m gonna kill someone.

9.     “Sarah, you are tired?”

Desired response: “No, I’m not tired. I just want to get off this freakin’ porch and away from this conversation in a language I don’t understand, after working (no exaggeration) 9 hours today, not taking a nap, and biking here while you came on a motorcycle and will go home on a motorcyle. Not to mention I invited you to by a soda with me, and instead your entire family came and I had to sit at your relatives’ house for 45 minutes -quite unwillingly- while your mom talked about how she was gonna take these pills to become more beautiful.”  

Actual response: “Yes.”

Sometimes it’s easier to lie.