Fidgeting nervously, I stared at the cashier's screen. Pleading silently, the big question ran through my mind: If the bill goes beyond 20 dollars, what'll have to go? The shower pouf or nail clipper?

"I'm paying by credit card," I said.

Like every other Wal-Mart employee, she had on the dark blue jacket with a smiley face and How May I Help You? emblazoned on the back. This and the ability to smile and chirp "Hello, how are you?" while packing away your stuff into plastic bags (which also had smiley faces, and a message to recycle, by the way).

"I like your accent. Where is it from?" These words had had me flusteredly flattered many times over. This was mostly because I knew what would follow after.

"It's from Malaysia. In Southeast Asia. Next to Singapore." Usually this would have them nodding slowly, but she still had her brows furled.

"Do you know where China is? Well, if you went down all the way you would eventually reach Malaysia," I explained. Now she was smiling, which I assumed was in acknowledgment.

Where is Malaysia?

Now let me begin by stating that this occurred in rural Maine, where I have spent the past year and a half in college. As you can probably imagine, it isn't quite a metropolis, and many of the residents had lost their jobs after Hathaway's and LL Bean closed down their factories and shipped off their production to some country in Asia. Unless that country was China, nobody
could expect them to have even heard of us.

Once I attended a film screening near Boston and met this lovely elderly couple who asked about "the dictator that ruled your country for a long time... Suharto." At least they didn't think we were in North Africa (my theory is that Malaysia and Tunisia can be easily confused for each other or assumed to be neighbours).

Back to the Wal-Mart incident, my strongest response to questions on this so-called accent of mine is that of being a failure. Yes, it may sound petty but I really do feel inadequate when a local can sense the difference in my speech when in any given location.

This is why I got a friend to bargain for that batik robe in Pasar Payang, Terengganu, on my behalf. And also why I consciously change the way I speak to sound more "American" when in college, for communication's sake. Say "cut-out" and you wouldn't be understood, so "cud-out" it has to be. The same goes for "rubbish bin"; if you don't want to be laughed at say "trash can."

When people find out that you are a foreigner, their attitudes begin to change around you. They become more compassionate and sensitive to what you may or may not be in on given your background. Many a time it has been assumed that for some reason I would be more excited to hear detailed explanations about Saturday Night Live or the electoral college system or the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry over dinner than your average American.

To them, your opinion also becomes more valuable. In the run-up to the last presidential elections, there were many occasions where I had to say not only my, but the whole Third World, and sometimes the Muslim, population's two cents' worth on why Bush had to be booted out of office.

Ms Popularity

And then there are the little anecdotes you can share with friends, those little nuggets of information that only you know of from your first-hand experience as a foreign student. I personally enjoy sharing my tales from the consulate during the visa application process.

It is always a pleasure to be the audience captivator by sharing wisdom on how the visa application fee more than doubled after September 11 (word has it that this is because now each applicant's profile has to be checked and cleared at the CIA headquarters before getting the go-ahead), and the type of questions male applicants have to answer (Have you in the past X number of years been involved in producing chemical or biological weapons? Answer: Why yes, how funny of you to ask! Here's my portfolio).

Perhaps more than learning about the culture and lifestyle of your host country, the best thing about studying abroad is the view you get of home. I find that by stepping out of my own country and being detached physically from it, my emotional attachment has been strengthened, for better or for worse.

I got to traipsing around in a batik sarong and T-shirt and furiously surfing the Net on how to make wayang kulit (shadow) puppets. When asked during casual conversations to explain the political situation at home, those personal biases and weighted terms so often used to describe our political parties and collective challenges as a nation were miraculously discarded.

However, I remain selective in the aspects of Malaysian "culture" that I choose to celebrate abroad. Momentarily forgetting those mini-sermons from Pendidikan Agama Islam classes in school, I got to know, indeed became very close friends with, a Jewish girl from Tel Aviv. She rolled over with laughter at seeing the page on my passport saying that I was not able to pay her a visit at home, and begged me to give her a copy of it to show friends back home.

Maybe it's the relief of not having judging eyes watching your every move, or the comfort of knowing that any decision you make is yours and nobody else's, but there is that something about being away from home that changes you immensely. You lose your bearings and have to constantly defend all that you
learnt and was taught to believe from young, and along the way your explanation just doesn't seem to make sense, least of all to you.

Back home for a break, I left all my batik sarongs behind except for a faded one to wear around the house. At family steamboat and barbecue gatherings, I don't share stories about my plan to open a Malaysian restaurant in Tel Aviv someday; it just doesn't seem appropriate. But I'm doing fine; I can bash Bush without offending anyone. Oh, and I say lah a whole lot more.

POSTCARDS is an occasional column written by you, on anything and everything under the sun. Send in your essays to dina@malaysiakini.com.