“$3.65” the cashier said. I reached into my wallet, searching wistfully for the exact change for my chai latte. I placed all the coins I could find into my right hand as I reached towards the man behind the counter. As my arm outstretched, my left hand instinctively floated gently onto my right arm, staying there until the man had taken my change. A movement probably unnoticeable to the cashier or the other bystanders, but it was something that held much deeper meaning for me.
When I arrived in Myanmar, I did my best to learn about the local culture–the language, the people, the little quirks. One thing we picked up on quite early was this gesture. I watched as people purchasing a beer would hand their money over in this manner, reaching out with one arm while the other one bent at the elbow, forming a square shape between their arms and their chest. When a woman dropped some bags of chips, a friendly passerby retrieved them for her, handing them over in this same manner. We soon learned that this was a gesture of politeness, a matter of respect. A simple movement that signified the kindness between strangers.
My friends and I, in an attempt to meld into our new community, tried to copy their movements. I would often forget when handing over money for my lemon cookies and toothpaste at one of the many convenience stores but would remember when receiving the change as the Myanmar local would reach out in this manner. Over time, this became so natural that when paying for my groceries or reaching for my drink over a bar counter, not touching my left hand to my right arm felt wrong.
Eventually, other small kindnesses like this slowly infiltrated my life. Saying thank you (or che-zuh-ti-bah-de in Burmese) wouldn’t come out of my mouth without also slightly bowing my head, the local doing the same in return. On the public bus to work, women sitting in the few available seats would offer to hold the bags or purses of the standing passengers. After many bus rides witnessing this, I, without a second thought, surprised myself by offering this same curtesy to a mother who boarded the bus with her fresh groceries and her child (who was obviously caught off guard by the fact that someone with a large brunette bun and ridiculous octagonal sunglasses was on their daily bus route).
The way I ate meals even began to change after just a few weeks in Myanmar. Sitting on tiny plastic stools, squished into one long table with my fellow teachers at work, people unpacked their lunch containers and piled them in the center of the table. In my three months working at a local school in Yangon, there wasn’t a single day where I wasn’t offered a piece of someone else lunch. My coworkers, quickly learning that I didn’t eat meat, offered me every bit of vegetables or shrimp they could scour from the table. When I’d go out to dinner with my friends after work, we began to copy this practice as well, passing our dishes around the table and ordering smaller plates to share, eventually reaching our chopsticks across the table without even questioning if we could steal a taste from someone’s plate.
Since returning home, I don’t nod respectfully every time I say thank you. I don’t offer to hold someones purse on the bus because I’m pretty sure they would think I was trying to steal their shit. I don’t reach across the table to steal a bite of an acquaintances mashed potatoes since I doubt I would be invited out to dinner again after that. While these customs became natural to me and something I truly adored about Myanmar culture, they aren’t all things that translate into life back stateside. But as I paid for my Starbucks chai latte, I caught myself moving my left hand to my right arm, unknowingly referencing my life in Asia.
When I purchase deodorant from Walgreens or lend a pencil to a coworker or hand the bill to a waitress, I am reminded not only of this life I used to live but of the kindness of the Myanmar people and of all the moments I briefly connected with the locals. I am transported back, even if just for a moment, to these little joys of travel, to the sweaty, sunny, and dusty daily life in Yangon. I’m not going to let this habit fade as I have the rest. I’ll continue my western, daily life in Chicago, but with one outstretched arm, and the other bent gently atop the other.