AsiaLIFE

Will bumbles his way through a Khmerican Birthday Party.

If you see a house in the United States with a pile of shoes by the front door, a row of cars with Angkor Wat flags parked on the street and pulsing Khmer pop music leaking out the windows, you have found a Cambodian- American’s birthday party.

As someone from a culture where every event in a person’s life — from the baby shower to the post-funeral dinner at Olive Garden — is scheduled with Prussian precision, ruthless formality and invitation-only seating, Cambodian parties seem a bit haphazard. In America, failure to observe every tradition, respond enthusiastically to every positive wish and document every gift with prompt, gushing thank you notes almost certainly will incite hostility, feuds and letters to advice columnists.

But for Cambodians in the U.S., every party is an open invitation. The details filter through networks of friends and classmates uninterrupted by RSVPs or guest-plus-one invitations. Apparently there’s little worry anyone would want to crash a Khmer-language karaoke party. Despite the rising popularity of the band Dengue Fever, few Americans seem interested in trying to sing in the style of Sinn Sisamouth or Ros Sereysothea.

Finding the party isn’t the problem, but finding out who is the recipient of all the inebriated birthday wishes can be. There is little about a Cambodian birthday party that indicates the age of the honoured survivor – the drunken revelry for a first birthday is indistinguishable from the drunken revelry for someone’s 60th. And with songs like “Roam Vong Soksan” playing at volume that makes it impossible to discreetly quiz other party-goers or even shout, it can be difficult to identify who is our generous host.

At American parties, this would all be included in the official program, somewhere between the schedule (e.g. 1-1.30 pm: Watch clown. 1.30 pm: Queue for cupcakes. 1.35 pm Receive cupcakes.) and the list of caterers and florists.

Asking my wife isn’t so helpful. There are people she has known for years as either “bong,” “om,” or “ming.”

Once I resorted to interrogating the kids. Asking a pre-teen what his mother’s name only resulted in a response of, “Mommy, duh,” followed by a look that made it clear he thought I was the dumbest person in the world. Repeating the question in Khmer produced a look of shock — but that wasn’t particularly helpful.

Often being the token white guy at these kinds of parties and unable to find any useful information about who’s house or party it was, I resort to my default of being ridiculously polite. Putting my hands together, bowing and offering a polite greeting in Khmer always impresses and opens up conversation, if a stereo system that costs as much as a pagoda doesn’t prevent it.

So very many of the conversations revolve around how people long to go back to Cambodia — or how there is nothing that could ever convince them to return. Occasionally, Cambodians who have been living in the United States for decades pump me for information on moving back: the cost of living, the security situation, what restaurants serve up the best cheeseburgers.

But for all the talk of politics, history and immigration law, I’m always a little embarrassed to ask whose house I’m at. I guess I’ll just assume it’s bong’s house.

Will Koenig lives in Oregon with his wife, son and an wide array of Curious George paraphernalia. All of it kind of scary.