They call me 'Mommy': but I'm still an outsider.

THEY CALL ME "MOMMY." I was expecting Auntie or sayama (teacher), or maybe Daw Rhoda or Daw May Than Kyi, my Burmese name from when I lived and worked in the country as a young woman. But they choose Mommy. It is startling; I shrink. Why? Somehow it is an imperative--I feel I have to act like a mommy, take responsibility of all kinds. I feel like they've forced this on me; I don't want it. But I, a "rich" white American woman, have barged into their lives. And they've accepted me, taken me into their circle. Still, I resist the name, resent the assumption of such an intimate claim.

They are flower sellers I met in a local street market in Rangoon, Burma--four sisters ranging in age from 34 to 42, leaving home with great bundles of flowers on their heads at 4 o'clock every morning, seven days a week, to travel two hours by foot, by slow-slow train and finally by trishaw (a bicycle with two seats at the side) to a location near the small hotel where I am living for three months. They net $1 or $2 each on a regular day, up to $4 on a great day. Various-aged children often tag along; one sister was pregnant and now carries her newborn who sleeps in a large, flat basket among the flower buckets and crates. I am a short, white-haired, white woman from the United States, an organizer and researcher with no specific project in mind. I want to see if I can make some small contribution to this country which helped form my life when, as a recent college graduate, I stayed for three years without coming home, working in a local social center and teaching in a big, renowned high school. Burma's fledgling independence, after decades of colonial rule and a world war fought on its soil, fell to a military coup just eight months after I left in 1961, and has been controlled by a junta ever since. This is my first visit after 42 years.

Having raised and sold flowers in a small city farmers' market myself, I love the idea of spending early morning hours at an all-women flower sellers' booth less than a block from the house where I used to live all those years before. And what better surroundings to practice my halting Burmese? The women have their own reasons for letting me into their world, laughing at and with me as I learn to remove damaged petals from roses one by one, feeding me tiny cups of thick sweet coffee and large flat bread with boiled beans and garlic early in the morning, teaching me new words and old sayings--and they immediately see market advantages. I shine as their prize possession. They sell my presence; I am on display, sitting on a small stool behind them. I perform on demand: "How much for one pink rose? What's the name of this flower? Where do you come from? How old are you? Where do you stay? What is your room number? How much did you pay for those shoes?" They ask me so people can marvel that I understand and can respond in their language--and, of course, so customers will be attracted to their stall to buy flowers.

I understand our value to each other on these levels. I don't understand in deeper personal ways. I don't know what they want from our daily exchange. I don't understand their value to me beyond proving I can make my way in their place. I feel obliged to respond to their demands on me--also relieved and grateful to be allowed to go. I feel their eyes on my back as I walk away around 9 a.m. after two hours of sales, eating together, giving alms to the monks, chatting, laughing and being peed on by the baby. I sometimes turn after crossing the street to look back and usually someone waves, making me feel included, missed already and possessed still. Sometimes no one is looking and I feel outside, dismissed. Their lives pull in around them without me. I feel sad, separate, alone--and giddy with relief.

When I ask why they call me Mommy, one sister tells me her mother is dead; she likes me, I am lovable, she immediately thinks of me as Mommy. Far from being thrilled by what could be seen by a foreigner as an indicator of acceptance, I am troubled by my own response, the confusion I feel. It hits me as so personal--a test of my childlessness, a residual of those long-ago miscarriages, the abortion. And so political--Mommy seems to call me wholly inside their world. Though real, I know my experience barely gets past the surface. As an American "rich" white woman, I remain an outsider looking in.

Rhoda Linton teaches at the Union institute and University Graduate College and recently completed a Fulbright in Yangon (formerly Rangoon), the capital of Myanmar (formerly Burma).