‘Third World’ Country Living is Not What You Think It Is
I recently showcased a couple of childhood photos onto a school-funded Asian-American Club facebook page, per instruction for celebrating the Lunar New Year. And just a few days ago, I got this flood of notifications from random fellow students and associates, all white, vying for tales on what it’s like living in a ‘third-world’ country and struggling valiantly within tropical poverty.
And I just. No. What these people saw were a dirty, undereducated brown child living in a dirt hut, sitting on rickety wooden furniture, eating cheap food and wearing single-digit cent clothing. In reality, that was so far from the truth.
From age birth to eight, I lived with my parents in inner-land Taiwan, which didn’t have a lot of international traffic or influence. So yes, my home nearly lacked any glass windows, and yes, all our furniture was cheap, hand-crafted wood. Yes, we lacked an air conditioner or dishwasher or laundry machine or a color TV. Yes, we were surrounded by dirt and wildlife, and yes our food was cheap.
But you know what else we had? Free healthcare and higher education. Very easy access to healthy, cooked food and lots of fresh groceries. I was getting endless top of the line, high quality eyeglasses paid completely by insurance because that’s just how good it was over there. Here’s the thing; we used brooms made out of straw and driftwood because that’s just what the local markets sold. The cornerstore didn’t have plastic acrylic brooms and swiffer sweepers because they just didn’t import them, and therefore we didn’t buy them.
What we had wasn’t technically any worse or lower quality than what you’d find in Target or Walmart. A hand-made straw broom works just as well, and cost around the same. Instead of Tupperware, we hung up our meat in the open air. Instead of canvas bags, we carried our stuff in straw or hemp handbaskets. Instead of buying skinless chicken thighs that were vacuum-wrapped in plastic, we bought freshly-slaughtered chickens and cooked everything, boiling the unlaid eggs that looked like yellow orbs held together by a translucent string.
We didn’t do these things because we were dirty brown slanty eyed savages squatting in the dirt and we couldn’t afford better. We did it because that’s just what our life was surrounded by. Our money was spent on these things because that’s what was available. Our cooking books didn’t call for carefully refrigerating our leftovers, do we didn’t consider doing so. Our windows didn’t have glass because it was always hot, and our floors we either dirt or tile because of the constant rains, flooding, and it was easier to clean.
You just look at these images and see some Americanized interpretation of what it means to be a ‘poor third-worlder’, and you completely undermine everything about my life and what I want to express. You impose an image onto me. Maybe my family was indeed poor, but it wasn’t because we used straw brooms and shelled our rice ourselves. These things were just our lives.
But you know what? I am poor now. I, a first-generation immigrant living in the American midwest, never have more than 200$ in my bank at a time. I have to heavily ration my food, medical needs, and living expenses to the letter, and it’s a daily struggle. I have a job at my college during the day, work a desk job at night, do freelance art services and online commissions, and also am the occasional other half of a sex worker’s cam modeling videos. And I am very much impoverished.
Back when I lived in a windowless unit with no tv or air conditioning and used wooden tools and furniture, I was much better off than what I am today. Your definition of ‘poor’ and ‘impoverished’ is very much off the mark, and it’s because of whiteness.
