My identity

     I am who I am, there’s never been any ambiguity about that, until now. When I was a kid in school I was Al or Alan. As I got older, I worked construction every summer and Christmas on Kwajalein in the late 70’s and early 80’s when I came home from college. The workforce was primarily from Hawaii, so I was haole boy. My boss, Chige Sakamoto seemed to revel in barking out, “Haole boy! Come!” I was the only haole around, everyone knew, it was just who I was. Haole boy.  When I lived on Kili Island in the Marshall Islands, I was ri belle to the kids, or to the youngest, simply belle (ri belle is Marshallese for white person or foreigner). The entire year I was there, every time kids who weren’t in school saw me, the would yell out, “Belle, belle, belle, belle, belle!” My retort was, “Majol, majol, majol, majol, majol!” (Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese!) But it was okay because that’s who I was/am. A ri belle. In Saipan? I was just another American. I remember sitting around with our Chamorro family one Friday evening and they were complaining about Americans on island and how they didn’t respect the local culture. I raised my eyebrows and looked around the group and someone suddenly said, “Oh, but not you guys. You’re okay.” Whew. That’s who I was/am. Another American. I’ve been in Vietnam for a few weeks and have been to some out of the way places where they’re not used to foreigners of any type showing up. The gasps are audible, people whisper and point and then shyly come up and either try to practice their English or ask for a photo with the foreign devil. I have no idea what they call me, but that’s what I am in Vietnam, just another foreign devil. A nice foreign devil, but still.
     But not here in Nha Trang. It’s a weird demographic. There are primarily local Vietnamese, Vietnamese tourists, Chinese and Russians. Russians. Lots and lots of Russians. From 1978 to 2002, Cam Ranh bay, a deep water port about 50 kilometers south of Nha Trang was leased to the USSR Navy. Russian military families migrated up to Nha Trang, which has a lovely, curving beach and started to create a Russian community there. There are now direct charter flights that disgorge even more Russians directly to Nha Trang.

Store for???

     Back to me. Al, Alan, Haole boy, ri belle, belle, just another American, Mr. Dragon (see last blog), foreign devil and now...I’m apparently Russian. I’m clearly not Vietnamese or Chinese. I stay in $25 - 30/night hotels, so I’m not taken for a ragged Western backpacker, clearly, I must be Russian.

Pretty sure they’re Russian

When I go into a store to buy something, they say, Spasibo (thank you). Da. Nyet. But this is what I say to let them know I’m not Russian: Я не голосовал за Трампа. Translation: I didn’t vote for Trump. Reclaiming my identity! Reclaiming my identity!