Brynn Barineau

Tag: expat life

  • Why are you here?

    “Why are you here?” I probably posed that question 20 times over the course of my teacher training. Asking a person to explain her existence may seem a bit forward for a first meeting but among expats it’s typically asked as a follow up question to visa status. “So, why are you here?”

    In this context “here” is understood to be Brazil and answers ranged from the romantic to the idealistic. While our individuals stories differed, whether South African, Irish, or New Zealander, all of us attending the training were united by the designation “native English speaker” plus the fact we had chosen to take up residency amongst non-English speakers. And this was more than enough to make for two weeks of great conversations, lasting friendships and several explanations of cricket.

    Jump to four days after the last training session and I’m suddenly posing the same question to myself, “Why am I here?” I was seated amongst a few bleached blonde teenagers in letter jackets and puffy-haired, middle-aged women in college football sweatshirts at a Chinese restaurant in a strip mall. The day before I had listened to my grandfather calmly discuss Obama’s intention to make the US a socialist state. While shopping, I’d overheard a conversation as a man fervently hoped the US “drops some nukes” on Iran, item one on the worst Christmas wish list ever.

    Then I was deciding between lemon or kung pao chicken while the children at the next table called for “Mama.” I felt as if I was observing a scene without taking part in it, like Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present, only instead of quotable, crippled children there were text-messaging Republicans.

    So, why was I having Chinese at a strip mall surrounded by people I would probably never have great conversations or lasting friendships with? Because I frickin’ love Chinese food. Because I can understand every southern-accented word spoken and I can identify which college claims which animal among the alligators, tigers, and bulldogs featured on sweatshirts.

    I’m here because we drove to the shopping center in five minutes on a four lane divided highway. A divided highway! It’s how angels travel around heaven.

    I’m here because I can mentally roll out a blue print of this strip mall and know that starting at the far end, my printer ink is at Staples and my reasonably priced jeans are at Gap. I bought my camera battery at the store next door to the Chinese restaurant with the wonderful egg drop soup. My salon is further down and three doors down from the grocery store. I know that while the grocery store’s bananas will taste like wax, it carries all the peanut butter I could eat in a lifetime.

    I’m here because at the far end of the parking lot there is a Target and a Borders both of which I can wander through blindfolded. I know without doubt that every suburbanite wants a coffee from the Starbucks inside Target but not a single one of them will walk across the parking lot to get one. They will get in their cars and drive alongside the paved sidewalk to a closer parking space.

    I’m here because I know this place and I know these people. This is where I became the person who moved to Brazil and became a registered Democrat. Clearly this place is not as soul crushing as I like to paint it. The truth is I share a lot with my fellow Chinese food patrons, from a love of a separate and clearly marked returns counter to a fanatical observation of traffic laws.

    At Christmas a person wants to feel at home and this is my home. I moved to Brazil but my family and my culture is here. That’s why I’m here among people I understand and who would agree that cricket is a ridiculous attempt at a sport.

  • Getting the Brazilian Work Card: Gateway to Legal Employment

    Getting the Brazilian Work Card: Gateway to Legal Employment

    Well, it’s official. As of today, I’m legally employable.You might be thinking, didn’t that happen when you applied for residency? Well, not totally. A residency card alone is not enough for legal employment in Brazil. For that, you need a Work Card, or a Carteira de Trabalho.

    I’ve been eligible for a work card since I became a resident of Brazil but haven’t bothered to apply for one because I never signed an employment contract. (I was, uh, doing a lot of volunteer work in Rio.) Now that I’ve been hired as a regular teacher, it’s time to join the Brazilian labor force. As a responsible worker, I’ve been learning about the work card and all the rights it guarantees.

    The work card is issued to all people employed via contract in Brazil, which I’ve learned is not everyone. For example, my husband doesn’t have a work card because his job with the government is regulated by statutes. If you were the owner of a business you wouldn’t need a card but your employees would. The purpose of the work card is to prevent exploitation, particularly of low income and domestic workers. It’s something that happens all too frequently in Brazil.

    To be clear, the work card should not be confused with the Brazilian equivalent of a Social Security Number. That’s called a CPF and I already have one of those as well. (I’m just a driver’s license shy of collecting the whole Brazilian Bureaucracy series!)

    So, what rights am I entitled to with my carteira?

    I am guaranteed one month paid vacation, an additional “13 month” salary, and in the event of pregnancy 4 months of paid maternity leave. Oh, and the company is legally required to take me back after the maternity leave. Woohoo!

    Hand me a red shirt and tell me where the parade is because I’m all about the workers right here. Sure, these policies are crippling to small businesses. It’s certainly possible that requiring four months maternity leave might prevent businesses from ever a 20 something person with a functioning uterus. And why the hell is anyone guaranteed a right to something that doesn’t even exist, like a 13th month? I don’t know. And as the beneficiary of all these rights, I’m not going to start a debate on them.

    I’m just going to plan where I’ll spend my month paid vacation and my 13th month’s paycheck. Maybe I’ll fly to Brasilia and ask for an 8th day of the week I can get paid for.

    Marcar com estrela

    CompartilharCompartilhar com observação
  • Expat Masochists

    Expat Masochists

    The word “expatriate” derives from the Medieval Latin expatriatus, which means to have left one’s own country. It was and, according to Webster’s, still is a synonym of banished.

    If you google the word expatriate you can find literally millions of proud expatriates. Personally, I wonder about a group of people so happy about banishment they ask for it and promote it via themed cookbooks. It just proves what I’ve always known. We expats have some masochistic tendencies.

    Ok, not all us. There are lots of expats who didn’t have a choice. I’m talking about those of us who volunteered for banishment. We applied for the job, or requested the assignment, or married the handsome foreigner. Knowing full well we’d be giving up unappreciated comforts like being able to count change by touch and recognizing the people featured on it. Many of us even gave up our voice by moving into a language we can’t speak.

    We tell people the rewards of the new job/marriage/opportunity-for-world-improvement will more than outweigh the costs of self-imposed banishment but the mere fact that we have a price at which we are willing to leave our home sets us apart from, I believe, the vast majority of people in the world.

    There are literally millions of people who would rather live in a tent for decades than give up their home and rebuild somewhere else. Certainly, relocating across the world requires resources many people don’t have but war torn and failing states are populated by successful professionals (I’m thinking of several personal friends here) who could find jobs in countries without an inflation rate over 1,000%. But they stay. Why? Because they are home. They will not give up their family, their culture, their home for any price.

    Whereas many expats look at the really lustrous hair this man could pass to his offspring (or the higher salary, whatever motivates you), weigh it against living in a country with street signs in a different alphabet, and our response is “Sign me up!” I’m willing to bet if polled, the general consensus of the world would be that we are some crazy mofos.

    And I think they’d be right. We’re not certifiable but part of us definitely wanted the hardship. We revel in the fact that our daily lives would reduce lesser people (or ourselves if we haven’t gotten enough sleep) to tears and pleasure in our own pain is the definition of masochism.

    Fortunately, it’s a growing pain. We know it won’t last forever and surviving it, building a life like the one we left behind, makes us worthier people. Worthy of what? Well, I’d accept revered silence whenever I speak during holiday meals with my family.

    After all, why did we struggle to build a life in a different culture if not to become wiser, more open-minded people with all the best stories? All the struggling had to be for something. I mean, I’m not a masochist.

  • Dear Rio, It’s not you. It’s me.

    Dear Rio, It’s not you. It’s me.

    Dear Rio,

    I don’t really know where to start. It’s not easy to write this. I guess let me first say that you will always have a special place in my heart. The fours years we spent together were some of the happiest and most challenging years of my life. The sunny day strolls around Lagoa. Sipping coconut water next to the beach. We had some wonderful times together.

    It’s not you. It’s me. Well, no. It really is you. I mean, you do have some serious issues. Let’s be honest

    It’s both of us. We both know things weren’t perfect. In the end we’re not compatible. Even during the happy times there was always tension just below the surface.

    You are a blast. The definition of fun loving. Up for a dance party or round of beers every night of the week. And you do like the people. Always inviting more and more, until I can’t hear myself think. With you it’s always the more the merrier. Now, I’m not complaining. It’s who you are. But it’s not who I am.

    You don’t need me. With your amazing looks and fun loving spirit you will always have a string of lovers. Rio, you are truly breathtaking. A sight to behold. But I’m looking for more than just a pretty landscape. It’s what inside that counts with me.

    I know you have a violent side. You never showed it to me and for that I am thankful, but I’ve seen what you can do to others. I have to think about the future and I don’t want to raise kids in that kind of environment.

    Also (we’ve always been honest with each other so I have to tell you) you’re letting yourself go in some areas. All the pollution: air, water and noise. The crumbling sidewalks and potholes. The perpetual traffic jam. You’re not two centuries old anymore. For your own sake, and for those who love you, it’s time to start maintaining yourself.

    Now comes the hardest part. You deserve the truth and you deserve to hear it from me. The thing is, I’ve started seeing someone else. We’ve only been together about two months but, well, I think it was love at first sight. Her name is Vitoria and she’s everything I’m looking for.

    It has nothing to do with you. I need to stop denying who I truly am. The truth is, I love it both ways. I enjoy the activities and culture of urban life and the security and quiet of small town living. Vitoria, she gives me what I need.

    Yes, she’s younger but that’s not the reason. I’ve never been as outgoing as you. I like quiet and tranquility. I like to sit on my balcony and hear nothing but the birds. I want to walk down the street without feeling rushed and tense.

    She also makes me feel special. You can’t deny you’ve got a thing for foreigners. You just keep bringing more and more home. Did you honestly think you could keep thousands of expatriates a secret from me? For you, I’m just one of many.

    But for Vitoria, I’m special. She reminds how unique and therefore highly employable I am. Everyone wants to feel appreciated. Everyone wants to be one of a kind and for Vitoria, I am.

    I’ll end with goodbye and thank you. Thank you for the good times. Thank you for helping me learn what it is I’m looking for. I’ll think of you every time I’m nearly run over by a bus.

    Beijos,
    Brynn

  • Expat Milestones: First Job Interview

    Expat Milestones: First Job Interview

    I’m bragging a little today. You see, in the life of an expat there are some standard milestones. At least standard for an English speaking expat who moves to a non-English speaking country with no previous knowledge of the language. For example…

    -There’s the first time you order a pizza over the phone in your new language.

    -The first time you notice and can yell at the taxi driver for taking you on the longer “tourist” route.

    -The first time you understand enough to genuinely enjoy a film in your second language.

    Last week I hit a new one: first successful job interview in your second language.

    On Wednesday, I received the official offer to teach here in Vitoria. I had been waiting to hear back and a particularly frustrating night of Portuguese had given me a sinking feeling that I had blown the interview.

    I didn’t know going into the interview that it would be in Portuguese. I had already been through one interview with the high school coordinator. We spoke in English. All emails had been in English. I was applying to teach in English. I was reasonably expecting more English.

    When I walked in for the second interview with the principal, as we exchanged greetings the high school coordinator said, “Vamos falar em português, tá bom?” We’re going to speak in Portuguese, ok?

    Had I known the interview would be in Portuguese, I might have abandoned the entire project. I do not have very good Portuguese. It’s not false modesty. It’s speaking only English at home and having only American friends in Rio. The Portuguese I have acquired has been in spite of a pathological fear of sounding like an idiot, so the announcement that I would be interviewed by the principal in Portuguese caused a shot of adrenaline urging me to flee out the door.

    As I sat down in front of her desk, I told myself, “Just keep talking. If you start thinking too hard you’ll realize all the mistakes you’re making. Then you’ll feel embarrassed, followed by panic, and you’ll end up either tongue-tied or crying.”

    So I smiled, kept my arms at my sides to hide the giant sweat stains appearing, and I kept talking. At the end of the interview the principal complemented my fluency.

    Now, I’m the newest teacher at my school and I have to say I’m pretty proud of myself. Not only did I interview in Portuguese but I got the job without any help. I researched and found the school on my own. I sent an email asking if there were opportunities for someone with my background. I sent my resume and had two interviews. I didn’t use my husband’s contacts or drop a single name. I got the job entirely on my own.

    The only downside is that I just found out American expats still have to pay US taxes. Damn.

  • Bad Portuguese & Worse First Impression

    Bad Portuguese & Worse First Impression

    In my life, I’ve experienced very few things as disheartening as being unable to show another person who I am. Only slightly less frustrating is to still, after four years in Brazil, find myself looking like someone who has never had a single Portuguese class.

    Last Saturday, my husband and I went out with a group of his friends from work. The evening started with me mistiming the elevators doors and slamming my shoulder into them mere seconds after introductions were made. It was a pretty accurate omen of how the evening would go.

    At first, my Portuguese was just fine. When we arrived the bar was empty and the conversation involved one other couple. Then the bar began filling up. With each new couple that joined our group the conversation got busier and the background noise got louder. Soon I was trying to follow a conversation about John Marshall through waiters, drink orders, greetings and a BeeGees concert DVD with special guest Celine Dion.

    My lack of context for most of the conversation didn’t help. I’m not a lawyer. Almost everyone in the group was either a lawyer, judge or court staff, hence the discussion about John Marshall. I’m also not a parent on the verge of middle age or regular novella watcher.

    By 12:30am I was fighting the effects of two drinks, a day at the beach, and three hours of intensive Portuguese. The band was playing now and all conversation had to be shouted. I had ended up on the very end of the table, amongst the men, quietly eating peanuts without the energy to even pretend I could hear the conversation, let alone understand it.

    Finally to round off the shy, boring persona I was cultivating, when my husband got up to use the bathroom I put head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Yup, I went to sleep among 12 of my husband’s colleagues at a crowded bar. About 1:30, when someone finally asked if I wanted to sit in the middle of the group near the conversation, I told my husband I was ready to go.

    The evening was both frustrating and bizarre. The few questions that were directed at me were nothing more than a blend of sounds. The amount of noise and the English lyrics being blasted through the speaker made me deaf to Portuguese. My Portuguese is still not strong enough to fill in missed words of syllables. I have to hear everything perfectly. With all the noise I could recognize some sounds but not enough of them to hear words. The result was that I just heard people making noises in my direction. It was an odd feeling.

    In the end, after running into a door, not talking for two hours, falling asleep at the table and asking to leave after the first set, I’m pretty sure I set a new standard for worst first impression ever.

  • My Peculiar Professional Niche: Helping Brazilian Students Study Abroad

    My Peculiar Professional Niche: Helping Brazilian Students Study Abroad

    Last Friday, Veja.com, posted an article on the growing number of Brazilian students attending college abroad. I found the article from a link posted by one of my former students, who just happens to be featured in the article. Flavia, is one of the 24,000 Brazilians, who attended college abroad in 2009. She’s studying economics at Harvard. I like to think I played a very small part in getting her there.

    My peculiar niche in the great market of Rio de Janeiro was teaching Brazilians how to write the personal statement for college applications. I also taught Kaplan SAT prep classes through FK Partners, but it was the essay workshop that I loved most.

    The Fulbright/Education USA office in Rio was kind enough (desperate enough) to let me develop a workshop despite the fact I had very little experience teaching kids. I also had real doubt as to whether or not I could spend time with a room of full of teenagers and not resort to physical violence at some point. I did not like high schoolers when I was one, I was pretty sure they hadn’t improved in 8 years.

    Well, 8 years changed something because I LOVE working with teenagers. At this age they’re just starting to figure out who they are as individual people, with their own opinions and dreams. Even at their most self-absorbed moments, I find them fresh and amusing. (Of course, I’m teaching kids who are trying to attend college. The true hooligans don’t sign up for my class.)

    Flavia was in my very first workshop. I told the kids they were my guinea pigs (a metaphor I then had to explain) and they were great. Respectful of me and supportive of each other. That support turned out to be a critical element.

    It turns out a workshop on personal statements really does get personal. In two weeks, I knew what achievement my students were most proud of, what they were afraid of and their most important memories. Forget therapy. If you want to know the inner most thoughts of a group of teenagers, have them write a personal statement.

    I also love the cultural elements that come into play. You might not know, but probably are not surprised to learn, that writing about yourself in first person is a very American thing. While my students definitely struggle with prepositions, they are completely thrown by the first person. I have been told time and again that Brazilian students never write in first person.

    And this whole, “what event in your past has most shaped who you are today” self-reflective stuff. “American universities really want to know about what I learned from my mom?” “Why does my opinion matter? I’m not anyone important.”

    Can you imagine an American teenager asking why people would care about his opinion?! It’s pretty much assumed by all American teens that their opinion is in fact the only one that matters. And that’s what I love about the workshop. I get to see how a different culture interprets something so ubiquitous to my American perception. The College Application Essay.

    Unfortunately, I won’t be giving any essay workshops this fall. Our move to Vitoria has made that impossible. But I am pursuing some options that I hope will allow me to keep working with teenagers and hopefully, send a couple more Brazilians Flavia’s way.

  • Culture Shock Causes 3 Year Loss in Productivity

    Culture Shock Causes 3 Year Loss in Productivity

    I had to update my resume last week for the first time in several years.  I was filling in dates and noticed a nearly three year gap between jobs.   Thanks to some nonspecific start dates, on the resume it looks like only a two year gap, but I know the truth.  I didn’t do anything for three years. At least not anything that could be put on a resume.

    “September 2006 – October 2009: Learning new language, new marriage, new culture and trying to avoid plunging into serious depression,” does not count as legitimate work experience.

    It’s not just the lack of formal employment that struck me.  I had a blog that whole time, yet I almost never wrote in it.  I didn’t need any Portuguese or work permit to write.  What’s my excuse?  Why did I do nothing for the better part of three years?

    I think I finally have an answer. I was mentally incapacitated.  I’m not kidding. Over the last three year, I was physically unable to produce quality thought or work during that time because my brain’s limbic system had taken control from my cerebral cortex due to the constant stress I was under from culture shock.

    I came across an article written for teachers of creative writing.  It explained from a neurological standpoint how stress inhibits creativity.  Human brains are typically divided into 3 systems: the brain stem which keeps your heart beating, the limbic system which provides emotion to input like “be happy,” or “get ready to kick some ass,” and the cerebral cortex which handles most of the problem solving, creative thinking that defines being human.

    When a person is relaxed the cerebral cortex is in control.  Creative thinking comes easily.  People are able to consider options, weigh consequences, and make a rational decision.

    Unfortunately, the cerebral cortex is not always in control.  The last time someone cut you off and your face flushed and you imagined running the jerk off the road?  That would be your limbic system.  When the idiot cut you off, the driver was perceived as a threat, and your limbic system triggered your fight or flight response.

    With the limbic system in control it’s physically impossible for someone to be at her creative best. Rational thought?  Not possible either.  Focusing on solving a problem?  Nope.  Self-motivation?  Sorry, not handled by the limbic system. But long naps, crying, cursing, and slamming doors are all things the limbic system does very well.

    That last list of behaviors are pretty common manifestations of culture shock. To people who’ve never lived abroad culture shock might sound, I don’t know, obvious.  “Gosh, living in a new country is difficult.” And something so obvious must surely be avoidable.  “Maybe if you just did the prep work and had the right attitude, you’d be a local in no time.  Just like Julia Roberts in that movie with the pasta and elephants.”  Right?

    God, I wish.  As far as prep work goes, I studied culture shock.  I worked with international students going through the process.  I have a freakin degree in cross-cultural communication.  And how did I handle moving to Brazil?  Well, I have the first three seasons of Grey’s Anatomy and Sex and the City memorized. Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

    It does not matter how much advance research you do, everyone goes through culture shock.  What we call culture shock is the brain creating a new operating system for the new environment.  Your brain has been trained to operate in a specific environment.  In your own culture your brain knows what meaning to attach to symbols and behaviors.  It can anticipate reactions.  It can predict a chain of events.  Different cultures have different cues, and thus require a new operating system.

    Culture Shock has physical symptoms.  Headaches, stomach pains, an unfortunate variety of digestion problems,   physical exhaustion, all are a result of the enormous 24 hours a day, 7 days a week workload your brain is handling.  The brain is frantically creating new connections and pathways to understand the new culture.

    This constant work, combined with the fear from not understanding the words or behaviors of people around you puts serious stress on your body.  And what happens to our brains when we’re stressed?  The limbic system takes over.  Limbic system inhibits creativity and problem solving.

    And so, due to the stress of culture shock I was physically incapable of producing my best quality, or any, work from 2006 – 2009.  That’s my story. I’m sticking to it and honestly I don’t have a better explanation for my sudden change in behavior.

    Beginning last October, after not writing for 3 years, new blog topics started popping into my head daily. I’ve been writing regularly since February and enjoying it. I have the energy and desire to go jogging.  I can’t remember the last time my previously moody stomach complained.  It feels like I found myself.  It took three years but I think my limbic system finally surrendered control.

    Hello, cerebral cortex. It’s so nice to be working together again.  Can you help me update my resume?

  • Mad Expat Skills

    Mad Expat Skills

    Expats develop a unique skill set over many years of international travel.  For example, at airport security, I can strip off shoes, jacket, and watch: move my computer from backpack to plastic bin: get three bins worth of personal items, a backpack and myself through the metal detectors (without setting anything off) all in under 20 seconds.

    A well choreographed routine for security lines is something expats share with all frequent travelers. A week ago, I realized a skill exclusive to the frequent international traveler.

    At any moment, I can drop what I’m doing and be at the airport completely packed to leave the country in an hour. From zero to transcontinental in under an hour. How is that for an awesome, albeit totally unmarketable, skill?

    I remember the very first time I traveled outside of the US.  I was going to spend three weeks in the British Isles with a high school exchange program and I spent at least three days packing.  Lists were made, checked, rechecked and amended.

    Every single family member participated in the preparation and packing for this trip.  My grandmother told me to roll my dresses instead of folding them in order to avoid wrinkles.  My Mom bought me detergent tablets for washing clothes and a string for hanging them to dry in the bathroom.  My Dad made sure I had extra batteries for my camera.

    I have streamlined things considerably since that first trip abroad.

    Today, I have a set of strict rules when it comes to my luggage.  First, I must be able to lift my own suitcase and carry it up and down stairs.  I will not be dependent on others to move my own luggage. Second, if you haven’t had to sit on your suitcase to close it, then it’s not full.  Third, thongs are the go to underwear because you can pack a month’s worth inside of a shoe.  And finally, hoodie sweatshirts can cushion anything from computer printers to brass lamps.

    When I pack it happens in a logical and well established order.  Underwear, bras, socks, pajamas, bottoms (casual, dressy), tops (casual, semi-dressy, dressy), workout attire, one dress, shoes (1 comfy, 1 cute, 1 dressy pairs), and finally accessories (jewelry, belts).  Then I pack my carry-on with my laptop, iPod, book, snacks, plastic baggy with hand sanitizer and chapstick, and of course passport and wallet.  I pack my toiletries last because I take a quick shower and brush my teeth right before I head to the airport.  (I assume the other passengers appreciate this habit.)

    I can go through this entire routine, including the shower, and be in a taxi on my way to the airport in an hour or less. I believe most expats have an equally impressive travel prep routine.  We never have to search for our passports and we always have some cash in a variety of currencies in the house.  If I ever need to flee a country, I’m confident I’ll make it out and still be well packed for any occasion, be it casual, formal or sporty.