Outsiders: Stories about feeling foreign

In this week’s episode, both of our storytellers share moments where they felt out of place and were very much foreigners in a strange land.

Part 1: When Christine Gentry moves across the country to California, she struggles to find community.

Christine Gentry joins BBQ on the list of good things to come out of Texas. She holds a Ph.D. in English Education from Columbia University and currently serves as a clinical assistant professor in the NYU Teacher Residency, where she directs the NYC Public Schools partnership and leads the data, assessment, and continuous improvement efforts of the program. In what little spare time she has, Christine performs in oral storytelling shows and produces/hosts shows and workshops for The Story Collider. Her writing has been published in English Journal, The English Record, and Printer's Devil Review magazines, and her oral stories have been featured on the TEDx stage, The Moth Radio Hour, and This American Life. She is also a Moth Mainstage performer and three-time Moth GrandSLAM champion.

Part 2: After moving to Beirut, Lebanon from the U.S., Mary Ann Perkins doesn’t understand why everyone keeps staring at her.

Mary Ann Perkins grew up in St. Louis County and then lived overseas–in Germany, Lebanon and Thailand–for most of the next two decades. While abroad she had two children, survived a war, left the Mormon church, completed two master’s degrees, got divorced and built a career as a United Nations editor. After returning to the United States in 2021, she founded a peer-support group for people who have lost their faith. The group meets Mondays at 7 p.m. at the Ethical Society of St. Louis. Mary Ann loves distance running, standup comedy, and poetry.

Episode Transcript

Part 1

So 2018, after 14 years of living on the East Coast, I left my friends, my family, my entire professional network to take this great job offer in Southern California. It was about 50 miles East of LA and I was like, “Oh, what's 50 miles? That's nothing.” Like, I had friends. I had friends in LA. I was like, “That's going to be nothing. Every weekend will be in LA.”

And I found this beautiful apartment. It was tucked in the corner of this overgrown spot in this old apartment complex, and I had a patio. I had a patio. The patio was guarded by these three beautiful, giant eucalyptus trees. They had this peeling bark. It was like brown and white and it would curl and fall. It was like living art.

And the weather, oh my God, after 14 winters on the East Coast, the weather was gorgeous. I would do night swims, and I would sit on that patio with my dog, and I would watch a spider the size of my thumbnail spin a web the size of my torso every night between my trees.

I was like, “Oh my God, I'm going to be so happy here.”

Of course, you already know because you were laughing, like 50 miles on Southern California highways is 90 minutes on the best day. It became very, very clear very, very quickly that it was not going to be sustainable for me to rely on Los Angeles for my social life.

So I was like, “No problem. I'm going to make all the friends.”

Christine Gentry shares her story at Hudson River Park - Pier 57 in New York, NY in March 2024. Photo by Arin Sang-Urai.

So I would take my dog on walks, and I would actively say hi and wave to everybody I saw, and, like, “Be my friend, be my friend.”

Southern Californians, y'all, oh my God. The range of reaction was either no reaction or it was an active negative reaction. Like, your existence is interrupting my existence. And it was so, so depressing.

It was around that time that I started noticing that this beautiful apartment complex that I loved so much was covered in dog shit. Just covered. No one was picking up after their dog.

And I noticed that the complex had all of these dog poop bag dispensaries but they were all empty. And I was like, “Well, that's the problem. These are just good people without dog poop bags.”

So I ordered a whole bunch of them in bulk and I went around to all the dispensaries and I filled every single one in the entire complex. The last one was the one closest to my unit.

I go upstairs with my dog and I'm so proud of myself about what a good citizen I was. I swear to God, I was in my apartment maybe 10 seconds and I hear this loud slap on my bedroom window.

I look out onto my patio and there is a pile of dog shit, because someone had been offended by my implying that they should pick up their dog shit and decided to throw the dog shit at my window.

That was it. I collapsed into the fetal position and just started crying. And my little dog, little poodle mutt, she came over and was licking the tears off of my face and I was like, "Baby girl, what did we do? Where have we moved? What have we done? How can I get us out of here?"

It was not too long after that that I came home one day and there were these hot pink X's spray painted on all three of my trees. And I've seen Fern Gully. I've seen it many times. I know what those X's mean, so I freaked out.

I went inside, I called the front office, I was like, “Please, somebody tell me what is going on with these hot pink X’s. You don’t understand. These trees are kind of like all I have.”

The person on the other end of the phone was like, “Oh, honey, don't you worry. They're marking trees on the property that need to be trimmed.” They're like, “The limbs are overhanging in the sidewalks and it's just a safety thing, so don't worry about it. That's all that is. Rest assured your trees won't get cut down.”

I was like, “Okay,” and I hung up, did not rest assured. I did not rest assured at all.

The very next morning I walked in person to the management office and I was like, "Need to talk about the hot pink X's. Like, what's going on? I just need someone to promise me the trees are safe."

And she goes, "Absolutely. Those trees are only getting trimmed. We promise."

Still didn't believe them.

I went home, I printed out on my printer in English and in Spanish like, “Only trim. Don't cut.” And taped them to all three of the trees over the hot pink X’s.

A few days later, a crew comes through. They trim the trees. I was like, okay. Okay, breathe, breathe. Took the signs down.

Sunday morning, a few days later, just farting around on my computer in pajamas – which, because I've never been grownup to actually purchase pajamas, let's be real it's a t‑shirt and underwear – and I hear the unmistakable sound of a chainsaw. I run to the window and there's a dude in goggles, halfway through one of my girls.

I rush out of the apartment like ass out, nipples out. I run, I put my body, my like half‑naked screaming body, “¡Alto, alto!” like between the tree and a running chainsaw.

The man freezes and I'm like, “Señor, no. Deja de cortarlo.” Like, “No, es un – mistake.”

And he was like, he doesn't say anything. He just runs. He runs away.

I turn around and I touch that space and she's gone. Regardless of what happens next, this tree is done and I just start crying.

At this point, the foreman is walking down the path to me and I'm a mess. And I was like, “Señor, señor, vivo aqui.”

He goes, “Lady, I speak English.”

I was like, "Okay, I'm really sorry, but you don't understand. These are my friends, and they're like the only friends I have."

He lets me blubber my way through the whole story, and then he says, "Okay. Why don't you put on some pants and you can go to the front office and talk to someone there, and I'll call my boss and we'll figure this out, okay?”

Y'all, when I tell you, I walked to that leasing office ready to set something on fire. I don't know if I've ever been more angry in my life.

And it's a Sunday, so there's one person working there and it's probably some poor little undergrad, right? She's like doing homework at the table and looks up when the bell rings and this ball of rage approaches her.

I was like, “I was promised. Like, what is happening to these trees? I was promised the X’s just meant trimming.”

She goes, “I just work here, like, part time. All I did was let them in. They had a work order.”

And I was like, “Call your boss!"

She was like, "Okay, okay.” I'm so far gone at this point.

She disappears into the back office and I just rage pace, just rage pace waiting for that phone call to end. And she comes out, she's clearly afraid of me.

She goes, "I'm really sorry, but the work order they showed me was accurate. This is work they have to do.”

I was like, “I still have one person, this foreman. He heard me out. Maybe I can change this. Maybe this is a mistake.”

I rush back to my apartment and as I'm approaching it, I see him get off the phone. I walk up to him and I already know. I can see it on his face.

And he goes, “I'm really sorry,” and his eyes were a little glassy. He's like, “I'm really sorry, but apparently they did a scan and the roots are interfering with pipes. We have to cut the trees down.”

I was like, “I can't be here for that, so can I get my dog and just go somewhere for a few hours?”

He's, “Absolutely. Of course.”

So we go to the dog park and, when I get back, there are just three stumps and they're just weeping sap. I just collapse on my knees in the mud and I put my hands on that sap and I cry so hard. And it was not just for the trees, of course. It was because as strong as I thought I was, I knew I couldn't live that far away from my roots.

Thank you.

Part 2

I grew up in the ‘80s and ‘90s with my brothers and sisters in the suburbs of St. Louis. My parents raised us on stories and my favorites were the ones they told about themselves.

My dad tells a story that took place when he was in a high school chemistry class. The lab assignment was simple. Use a Bunsen burner to heat a block of solid dichlorobenzene with a thermometer embedded in it and record the temperature every minute.

He followed the instructions and started recording his results. The temperature went up and up steadily until it got to 127 degrees where it plateaued. It didn't appear to be melting, so my dad thought something must be wrong with this thermometer.

He was a bright kid and he's gone on to have a prolific career in scientific research. And looking back on this experience, it was the one time when he thought maybe he should falsify his results.

Mary Ann Perkins shares her story at the Public Media Commons in St. Louis, MO in January 2024. Photo by Troy Anthony Swanson.

But he didn't. And there was nothing wrong with the thermometer. The dichlorobenzene had reached its melting point. He just couldn't see it yet. The point of the lab was to watch this phase change, but for my dad there was a greater lesson. Preconceived notions can cloud your thinking. Assumptions and expectations can get in the way.

And in my life, I saw how my expectations and assumptions got in the way a lot, especially when I was living overseas. I was married then, and we followed my husband's career to Beirut. There was a lot I didn't know about living in Beirut. I learned a lot while I was there.

There were things that I thought were familiar that really weren't. Things like stop lights and stop signs and one‑way signs and lane markings on the road. I thought I knew what those things meant. They didn't mean anything. You can just ignore them. Drive anyway you want your car. It is going to flow through the road like a molecule of water will flow through a river. Just cars do what they do.

I also didn't understand taxis. There was nothing about growing up in the suburbs that prepared me for taxis. I'd seen it in movies and, from that, I'd learned that it goes something like this. You stand facing traffic, you raise your arm and you hail a taxi. That's how that works.

Then when I lived in Bangkok, I learned that you face traffic and you don't put your hand up. Keep it down. Just hold it out from your body a little bit and that's how you hail a taxi.

In Beirut, the taxi hails you. By honking at you. It's a very noisy city.

Grocery stores and supermarkets, they looked about the same and they sold lots of products I recognized. I didn't think that going to the grocery store was a dress‑up event. But in Beirut, it certainly was. The women there, they looked amazing. Their nails and hair were done. Their makeup was flawless. The wardrobe was luxury. The first time I ever saw anyone in real life wearing real Chanel was in a Lebanese grocery store.

This rubbed off on me just a little bit. I mean, I still don't wear real Chanel, but I do get mani‑pedis and that started in Beirut. While we were living there, we had an apartment really close to the Mediterranean Sea. Pretty often, I'd walk the block or two from my apartment down to the Corniche. That's the boardwalk that curves along the seaside. It's the perfect place for running and walking.

Most mornings, I'd go down there and run a 5K. By midday, there'd be street vendors selling corn on the cob or roasted chestnuts. In the afternoon, families would be there with their kids on bicycles or scooters. In the evenings, people would gather there to visit with friends or to play some music. If someone had a drum and started playing, then people would start dancing.

I loved the Corniche, but sometimes I hated how I felt there. I knew I didn't belong, not on the Corniche or in Beirut. And I knew everyone else knew it too.

My day‑to‑day interactions with people confirmed this. For one thing, anywhere I went, no matter what, people stared at me. You can feel it when people are staring and it doesn't feel good. And for another thing, often, when I was out in the city, men I'd never met would yell at me in English, “Welcome to Lebanon. Good morning, sweetheart.”

Welcome to Lebanon? By this point, I'd been in Beirut for several years and I'd put a lot of effort into learning the ropes and blending in. I wanted to act right and talk right and dress right. Was it true that I was still so fresh off the boat?

Sometimes the stakes felt really high. There was quite a bit of street harassment in Beirut and that ranged from mildly irritating catcalls and propositioning to darker encounters with thieves and flashers. To me, staring and street harassment felt linked, and I thought maybe there's a message in that staring, and if I can figure it out, maybe I'll feel safer. Maybe I'll feel less like a target.

Now, to be honest, I knew this didn't add up. I'd been told, or I'd read somewhere, that in Beirut, staring isn't rude, but I had my doubts. I mean, how could that possibly be true? Here in the US, staring is so taboo that we try to never do it and we try to definitely never get caught doing it.

I didn't want to catch anyone staring at me. What could be more awkward? And if I did catch them, what would I see? Would I see shame or contempt or disgust? I didn't want to see that. So when I could tell someone was staring at me, I smoothed the situation over by ignoring it. Except I wasn't good at ignoring it and my fears started to really weigh on me. I could tell that my assumptions were clouding my thinking, and I wanted those assumptions, those clouds, to lift.

In high school chemistry, the thermometer readings checked my dad's assumptions, and I wanted something like that to check mine. I needed better information. I knew I'd never get it if I kept looking away.

So I came up with a plan. It was simple. I would run an experiment. When I felt someone staring at me, I would stare back. I didn't know if this was just a reckless provocation or the awkwardest plan ever, but it didn't matter. I couldn't think of what else to do.

I decided I'd run this experiment when I was out on the Corniche for my morning run. The Corniche really was the perfect place. First, it was always busy, so there would be lots of study subjects and I could stare at them as much as I wanted to. Second, the Corniche was wide open, so if my plan led to disaster, well, I'd already have a running start to make a speedy getaway.

So that's how it happened that at 6:00 AM, I arrived on the Corniche and I started running, and I tried it. To my surprise, there was no disaster. There were just people, all kinds of people. Men and women, young people, old people.

First up, there was this guy in a white tracksuit and a baseball cap. After him, there were these two women about the age of my mother with these beautiful coifed hair and enormous sunglasses. And after them, then there was an older gentleman and he looked like he might be an actuary or a notary. And then after him, like what looked like half a team of guys wearing matching soccer jerseys. They just kept coming and I just kept making eye contact with them.

Each time, I saw real people staring back at me as though I was a real person. I couldn't read their minds or anything, but I could tell you what I didn't see. I didn't see shame or contempt. I didn't see malice or judgment. For the first time, being stared at didn't feel threatening. I could see that it wasn't.

I kept at it as the days passed. Pretty soon, I recognized the regulars and I could see it in their faces that they recognized me too. Staring stopped feeling scary and it started to feel like something else. It started to feel like acknowledgement.

Staring back didn't save me from street harassment. I went looking for that connection, but I didn't find it. What I found was freedom from the assumptions that had clouded my thinking. I found freedom from the fears that had been weighing on me.

It's been a decade since my family left Beirut and sometimes those memories feel really far away. But what I learned there will stay with me for the rest of my life. Do whatever it takes to check your assumptions, even if it takes a reckless provocation or the awkwardest plan ever. You'll be glad you did. I'm sure you will be.