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That American

A moment to be ashamed of

By Megan ChadseyPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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A good friend once said to me that there is one surefire way to tell that you have become an adult. You look back at the things you have done as a child and teen, and you cringe. These are the memories that your mind shies away from. The things that you would do anything to take back.

The incidents that you bury as far into your mind as you can.

If that were the case then I would have become an adult in the instant that this incident happened. To this day my stomach heaves and I bury the memory whenever it pops up. It is horrifying to realize I became a stereotype, and not in a good way.

It as the summer after my sophomore year at high school. Ours was the first group in the area to go on a trip with World Challenge Expeditions, which take high school student to different countries all over the world. For us it was a trip to Thailand, one that we had been working toward for two years. This trip felt so important as it happened. I still think it is one of the things to shape who I am today.

There were nine of us, teens ranging from sixteen to eighteen. This trip was not only the farthest we had ever gone, but it was the most involved we had ever been in a school trip. We raised the money, we planned the itinerary, and we would arrange transportation in country. It was the most adult we had ever felt.

Two weeks into the trip we were in a small town in the North whose name escapes me. We were headed toward a resort on the Burmese border where we would spend a week volunteering. In this small town we were to meet our ride the resort at the 7/11 in town. The problem was, we had been dropped off with no 7/11 in sight.

With the arrogance of teenagers we had come to this country with only a basic knowledge of the language. I suppose we had assumed that everywhere we would go we would find at least one person who spoke English.

There were eleven of us, nine teenagers aged sixteen to eighteen and the two chaperones sent with us, arguing about how to find this pickup location. That is when I saw him.

This man was older, probably a beggar on the side of the road. I see this man and decide that he can provide us with the information we seek. I stride forward, on Mission, before the others could register what I was doing. I spoke, very clearly, in English; a language this man likely did not speak. I asked where the 7/11 was, as he stares at me without comprehension. Then I try halting, broken Thai. All the while using my hands to flash the number’s 7 and 11 at him. As if that could possibly help.

Still he stares without knowing what was going on. One of the others in my group pulls me away, telling me to leave the man alone. The rest are staring at me, the sheer gall of my actions freezing them. In the time that I have been making a fool of myself they have determined where they would need to go for the pickup point.

Every time that memory surface, choppy with how far I have buried it, my soul curls in shame. My adult self jolts away from the memory like it burns. In that moment I became That American, and it is all too easy to understand why we have such a poor reputation as tourists.

Embarrassment
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