"All that he really knew was that if he stayed here he would soon be the property of a lot of things that buzzed and snorted and hissed, that gave off fumes and stenches. In six months he would be the owner of a large pink, trained ulcer, a blood pressure of algebraic dimensions, a myopia this side of blindness, and nightmares as deep as oceans and infested with improbable lengths of dream intestines through which he must violently force his way each night."
-Ray Bradbury, The Illustrated Man
When I came across this quote, it seemed particularly relevant to me. I certainly don't have such an extreme view of my worldly possessions, but my experiences have made me reevaluate their worth to me.
During my Peace Corps service I had a lot. I had luggage and couch cushions that stank of cat urine; I had books eaten by termites before I ever got around to reading them to my kids; I had cheap utensils and plates and kitchen supplies and hangers and closet organizers. But I didn't have too much, which made it very easy to leave my house with only one large hiking backpack on my back and a small backpack across my chest. What was nice about my time in Panama was not feeling burdened by my possessions.
In my last days, when I had towels and kitchen utensils and appliances and clothes I wanted to get rid of, all I had to do was go walking down the street offering things. (Quick aside: Peace Corps discouraged us from doing that, since it would set a bad precedent to potential future volunteers of giving things instead of selling them. Did I care? Meh.) People were more than willing to accept; some even felt flattered that I had remembered them during my last days in country. Although I did accumulate some trash that went off to be burned far from my sight, I didn't waste too much. I cooked for one, and when I had leftovers, the cat, my host mother's dog, the neighbor’s chickens, or any other creature was more than willing to help me avoid waste.
I was living somewhat of a minimalist lifestyle the whole time, mainly because I knew that at some point I would have to pick up and leave. I could take stock of everything within a few minutes.
So I came back to the States with that same mentality. I got home and have spent the last year trying to clear things out, not to make space for new things, but simply to make space, to unburden myself. And burdened I was: years of old college papers and textbooks, skeins of cheap acrylic yarn I would never use, clothes that no longer fit, old relics I felt odd throwing away, but didn't have anywhere else to put, and much more. I lived more or less comfortably in Panama with a fraction of the things I have at home, so why was any of that still hanging around?
I read up on becoming minimalist, and came across a phrase that I really enjoyed: don't de-clutter, de-own. So I set out to get rid of things, and by doing so, realized that they had little worth. I sought to remove not only the item, but the mental block that led me to believe I needed it in the first place.
It was easy to get rid of things that were old, worthless, ruined, etc. Goodbye clothes destroyed by the Panamanian wash cycle. Goodbye golf clubs I haven't used in nearly a decade. As I worked at downsizing, I found that a feeling even more satisfying than organizing things into a plastic storage container was getting to the point that I could empty one out and set it aside, vowing not to refill it again. Many possessions caused no anxiety and went off to the Salvation Army without hesitation. More difficult was parting with things that had nothing inherently wrong with them, but were, nevertheless, things that had to go. Why? Because I wasn't using them, wearing them, reading them, whatever.
I had to downsize, and as I did it, I felt better and better. It was cathartic to rid myself of certain things like, for example, old aprons my brother and I had to wear as part of the uniform for caddying. I haven't caddied since I was maybe fourteen or fifteen. Why keep that stuff? Only because it conveniently hid in a plastic tub. Why was it cathartic? Because I absolutely hated caddying. I read through old warm fuzzies from Dicks and Janes, and relived some of those memories. Then I threw away the tiny notes, sheet music, and other things from those days. I reviewed the Chinese I hadn't looked at in years, reminding myself of the great progress I made in a language completely outside of my realm of knowledge. Now, I am uploading digital copies and can recycle the textbooks.
I learned that Best Buy accepts old CDs, DVDs, controllers, remotes, and cords for recycling. That was very nice. I filled our home recycling over and over with papers, even an old newspaper from 9/11. Every time I took boxes and bags to Salvation Army or St. Vincent de Paul, I felt great. Honestly, it wasn't because I knew someone else might get use out of it, which could very well happen, but because I could feel lighter, like the gravity brought on by my worldly possessions was getting lighter.
Ridding myself of books was tough. My love of reading manifests in my collection of books. I spent years buying and collecting books, a fair number of which I have actually read. I was proud to be able to look at my bookshelf and say I'd read 50, 60, 70% of all those books, a fair amount of which are in Spanish, thank you very much. Don Quijote in the original language? Life accomplishment: check.
It got to the point, however, where they wouldn’t all fit on my bookcase. I had to really ask myself: Am I actually going to read these books again and again? When the answer was no, I would give the book away. If the answer was anything but a resounding yes, I was resigned to giving it away. Even now I'm trying to read through what I've never read so I can shave down the collection more than I have already done. I'm rediscovering the wonderful resource that is the library. And shoot, I'm not about to reach the limit on the Kindle anytime soon.
What's hardest is to look around and not automatically do it with the rest of the family. I would clean the house out top to bottom of everything we don't use regularly... if I could. But I realize it's not my decision to make. My mom fears that if she leaves me alone in the house, it'll be empty when she gets back. Mom is coming around though. My enthusiasm is infectious, and now she wants to clean out closets. After his stuff, we can get around to hers…
I have friends who, when I tell them I’m “going minimalist,” think that minimalism is code for living with nothing at all. It isn't. While I did pile (and continue to pile) loads upon loads for goodwill or garbage, it doesn't mean I want nothing. I want what I keep to have value. I want what I keep to be of actual use to me, to not fall apart, to fit properly, etc. So I got rid of a lot of things that didn't fit that criteria.
I still have nice things, though. As my first celebratory “back in ‘Merica” purchase, I threw down for a pair of Ray Bans. To me, this means I need to a) wear them regularly, b) keep them safe in the case, and c) keep them clean, all to make the purchase worth it. Hey, me, remember that fancy D-SLR camera you bought years ago and have barely used? Well, now I’m going to improve my photography skills and start using that bad boy. I must treat everything as an investment. I should only buy it if it is worth taking care of, and keeping for a while.
I think this is my way of looking toward the future. By decreasing the number of things still at the house I grew up in, the place I have lived almost my entire life, I can free myself and be ready for the next step of my journey, whatever and wherever it is.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
The Post Peace Corps Essays: One Year Later
In my last post I claimed I wasn’t going to disappear, that I’d be around to tell you about my adventures in South America and beyond. I failed to do that, and then went an entire year without posting. I'll try to catch you up on everything, without boring you too much.
I finished my service on February 28th, 2014. After that I traveled with a friend around Colombia and Ecuador. I returned to the States on April 18th, 2014, fresh off a 25th birthday celebrated with some friends, some strangers, some blue-footed boobies, and a whole lot of homesickness. After two years away from home and the comfort of America, I was so ready to be back.
My two options were typical ones: a job or grad school. I couldn't do the latter immediately because, unlike my smart Peace Corps friends who took the GRE and applied before they left Panama, I focused on the short term, worrying about some camps instead of my goodbyes in country and my plans after I got back. I thought I would look into jobs through the government and use my noncompetitive eligibility afforded to me as a result of my service. (I could explain it to you, but I'm still iffy on it myself. I guess it's just some kind of fast track that makes it easier for Uncle Sam to hire people in my position.)
So right when I got back, I searched for work. Immediately I felt like I was in the same position my friends and classmates had been in, and felt two years behind because I had gone abroad. I thought my skills and experience from Peace Corps would shoot me to the top of every candidate list. Now I'm not saying that my service didn't help, only that I also had to work to get a job...a job wouldn't simply jump out and find me. Something I didn't realize at first.
Job hunting was not fun, especially without a good sense of what I wanted to do. I've likely told everyone I've talked to the same thing: I know exactly what I'm good at and what appeals to me. I just don't know how to find a career that fits all that criteria. So I flirted with various tracks, applied to a lot of jobs, and heard back from only a fraction of those. The worst part of the process was hearing nothing back from dozens of places. I wasn't sure if they'd received my application, if it had gotten "lost in the mail" so to speak, or if they just didn't care enough to even tell me they'd received my carefully crafted resume and cover letter.
Fast-forward through the next few months, since it involves mostly mundane things, like job hunting, Bikram yoga, and debates with my dad about everything under the sun. I joined a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer group, received some great advice from a mentor, and served as a mentor to other potential volunteers. I went to D.C. in June and saw Peace Corps friends. There I attended a job fair geared toward those with noncompetitive eligibility, volunteers from Peace Corps and Americorps and such. I put on a fancy suit and did my dance, but to no avail. More job searching. Auditioning for community musicals. Nothing on either front. In August I went to San Francisco and saw high school, college, and Peace Corps friends. Man, let me tell you: I would gladly live in either DC or SF, but I'd prefer not to be broke, and it seems like nearly everyone there my age is struggling.
By the end of August, I had three job prospects come together for me. One was a Peace Corps Response position, a ten-month gig in Colombia working at an at-risk youth center. Another was working in Ann Arbor at a bilingual preschool. The last, and most promising, was working at a residential facility for Central American immigrant teens. It was all work that resembles to my Peace Corps experience. After doing something that I loved, something that meant so much to me, I told myself that my work had to matter somehow.
What happened next made me question my whole thought process.
Like I said, the last job prospect was the most promising, and also the most convenient. I would be interacting with a population similar to that with which I had already worked. It would allow me to continue living at home with little to no expenses and simply bank everything I made. It had to be the best, right?
So I talked myself out of the others. After seeing how the preschool worked, I realized I wasn't equipped to handle kids that young, kids I couldn't engage with the same way I had the students in every other experience. I was nervous about taking the Colombia position because it happened so fast. I applied and was offered the position within a month or two. Considering how long it took Peace Corps to process me last time, the speed of the process with Response kind of freaked me out. And of course, I was wary of leaving home again so quickly after getting back. I was still in my return embrace of America, feeling the warmth of her ample bosom.
So I chose the shelter job in Farmington Hills. I was hired. Training began in early September. We were poised and ready to receive kids on September 19th, a Friday. I was set to work a midnight shift 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. I would have done so, but my boss called and said I didn't have to go in. There were no kids yet. Saturday rolled around and the same thing happened. The boss called and said I didn't need to go in. No kids. When he called later and said there would be a meeting on Tuesday with the president of the organization, I started to worry. Tuesday came. Along with the president came the head of the HR department. Uh oh.
What it boils down to is this: the government decided to postpone the program. As our organization has a federal grant in order to do the work we're doing, Uncle Sam holds all the purse strings and therefore all the power. It was decided for some unknown dubious reason that although we had been told to set up, hire staff, and prepare the space to receive as many as 24 youth, our services were no longer required. I could speculate about how the timing of our indefinite postponement coincided with the midterm elections, and claim that there was some political motivation, but I can't be sure. They discussed severance and a potential position within the organization elsewhere. And the glimmer of hope that the program might start up again after the new year started.
I got a month's worth of severance for never having worked a day, which was nice, I guess. Obviously, I would have preferred working.
So after turning down a sick post in Colombia for something closer to home, fate dropped a bomb. I was back at square one: twenty-five, living at home, no job, no plan.
October was a dark month for me. I questioned my decision to stay in Michigan instead of peacing out for the Response position. I even briefly regretted not taking the preschool position, even though it did not appeal to me in the least. I just wanted to leave home. I was ready. So ready.
I felt the same pressure from back in 2011 as a clever graduate who had to move back home with his parents. I was suffering the same fate as other Millennials, this time without a hefty prospect like "life-changing international service" in my future. Life was wide open for me, and I had to choose something, anything.
I didn't know what to do. So I made one compromise. And then another.
I'm guessing most of my friends and acquaintances don't know I worked as a seasonal package handler for UPS, or that I was a substitute teacher for a few months. I wasn't too forthcoming with that information because I was ashamed. Ashamed that I had to settle. Ashamed that a "real" job had not materialized for me by then. Ashamed that, after doing something as amazing and worthy of countless anecdotes as Peace Corps, my answer to the final question when catching up with friends and family ("So what are you doing now?") was always, "Umm, living at home and floundering."
Frankly, I was pissed. What was tough was seeing other people doing better, some from the same situation as me, who had found their way first. Volunteers from my group were working or in grad school in San Francisco or Washington, D.C. or Chicago, adjusting to a new life. Many friends from college and beyond had stable jobs, lived on their own, and were functioning adults. Even my brother, who had lost his job around the time I got back, got a new job and moved out of the house and into a place with his girlfriend.
So I took a job with people who hadn't gotten a degree, or who hadn't gone to Michigan, or who hadn't done Peace Corps, but were on the same pay level as me. I had to check all that ego, that tendency to self-aggrandize (that, ladies and gentlemen, is the Michigan Difference!) at the door.
Each job was a chance to make money. Each day was a chance to prove myself. Instead of thinking that I had already distinguished myself from the pack by being young and college-educated and well- traveled, I set myself apart in other ways. By being punctual. By being persistent. By being zealous and innovative. I was never late. When UPS mistook me taking a day off as me saying I never wanted to work again, I pushed until they put me back on the schedule. After a day subbing at a new school, I made a point to introduce myself to all the Spanish teachers and leave them my contact info. And as I knew from my mom's guidance, I was always super nice to the secretaries. I worked every day, even in assignments I didn't want, because at that point, being idle was no longer an option. For something like subbing, you've got to build connections and have people work for you. Slowly, as I worked in schools and met people, I had teachers putting my name in and requesting me. Slowly, things improved.
In late November, I auditioned for another musical. Spring Awakening. This one was meant to be, because I got a really great part. I could gush for an entire post about that experience, but in this context, let me say that it was the turning point. It brought me out of a deep frustration. I was finally able to do something I love, and got recognition for my hard work.
During the rehearsal process, I went from unemployed to temporary UPS guy to substitute teacher. Then, toward the end of the run of the show, I finally heard back from the shelter job, and learned that they had gotten the green light and would start again in March. It was so symbolic: the show was about the struggles of growing up and new beginnings. Just like it did during Avenue Q before I left for Peace Corps, this show hit so close to home. I summoned tears for 11 shows (not including rehearsals) from genuine emotion, but learning that months of sacrifice and compromise had finally paid off really set me over the edge into legit waterworks.
Of course, a year later, I can look back and say that I learned something. I can affirm my mom's insistent prayer-like sentiment that it wasn't meant to be in September, and that something good would work out for me, because it had to. It did, I suppose. But this is certainly not it for me. I don't plan to work in my childhood home long term. Even if I moved out of the house. Doing that would force me to drive further to work, which is something I would like to avoid. High on my priority list is living close to where I work. But it's working. I'm working. I'm making money. I'm less stressed. For now.
Work brings its own challenges. Perhaps later I'll describe those challenges. I'll finish by saying that I made it a year back home. This was one challenge. Many others have presented themselves, challenges where I have come face to face with cultural differences of my own country, my own people, and the new me, the new sensibility I bring with me having lived abroad and served internationally for two years. I still have my feet on the ground, my eyes to the sky. These are my Post Peace Corps Essays, and I hope you will join me on the journey.
I finished my service on February 28th, 2014. After that I traveled with a friend around Colombia and Ecuador. I returned to the States on April 18th, 2014, fresh off a 25th birthday celebrated with some friends, some strangers, some blue-footed boobies, and a whole lot of homesickness. After two years away from home and the comfort of America, I was so ready to be back.
My two options were typical ones: a job or grad school. I couldn't do the latter immediately because, unlike my smart Peace Corps friends who took the GRE and applied before they left Panama, I focused on the short term, worrying about some camps instead of my goodbyes in country and my plans after I got back. I thought I would look into jobs through the government and use my noncompetitive eligibility afforded to me as a result of my service. (I could explain it to you, but I'm still iffy on it myself. I guess it's just some kind of fast track that makes it easier for Uncle Sam to hire people in my position.)
So right when I got back, I searched for work. Immediately I felt like I was in the same position my friends and classmates had been in, and felt two years behind because I had gone abroad. I thought my skills and experience from Peace Corps would shoot me to the top of every candidate list. Now I'm not saying that my service didn't help, only that I also had to work to get a job...a job wouldn't simply jump out and find me. Something I didn't realize at first.
Job hunting was not fun, especially without a good sense of what I wanted to do. I've likely told everyone I've talked to the same thing: I know exactly what I'm good at and what appeals to me. I just don't know how to find a career that fits all that criteria. So I flirted with various tracks, applied to a lot of jobs, and heard back from only a fraction of those. The worst part of the process was hearing nothing back from dozens of places. I wasn't sure if they'd received my application, if it had gotten "lost in the mail" so to speak, or if they just didn't care enough to even tell me they'd received my carefully crafted resume and cover letter.
Fast-forward through the next few months, since it involves mostly mundane things, like job hunting, Bikram yoga, and debates with my dad about everything under the sun. I joined a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer group, received some great advice from a mentor, and served as a mentor to other potential volunteers. I went to D.C. in June and saw Peace Corps friends. There I attended a job fair geared toward those with noncompetitive eligibility, volunteers from Peace Corps and Americorps and such. I put on a fancy suit and did my dance, but to no avail. More job searching. Auditioning for community musicals. Nothing on either front. In August I went to San Francisco and saw high school, college, and Peace Corps friends. Man, let me tell you: I would gladly live in either DC or SF, but I'd prefer not to be broke, and it seems like nearly everyone there my age is struggling.
By the end of August, I had three job prospects come together for me. One was a Peace Corps Response position, a ten-month gig in Colombia working at an at-risk youth center. Another was working in Ann Arbor at a bilingual preschool. The last, and most promising, was working at a residential facility for Central American immigrant teens. It was all work that resembles to my Peace Corps experience. After doing something that I loved, something that meant so much to me, I told myself that my work had to matter somehow.
What happened next made me question my whole thought process.
Like I said, the last job prospect was the most promising, and also the most convenient. I would be interacting with a population similar to that with which I had already worked. It would allow me to continue living at home with little to no expenses and simply bank everything I made. It had to be the best, right?
So I talked myself out of the others. After seeing how the preschool worked, I realized I wasn't equipped to handle kids that young, kids I couldn't engage with the same way I had the students in every other experience. I was nervous about taking the Colombia position because it happened so fast. I applied and was offered the position within a month or two. Considering how long it took Peace Corps to process me last time, the speed of the process with Response kind of freaked me out. And of course, I was wary of leaving home again so quickly after getting back. I was still in my return embrace of America, feeling the warmth of her ample bosom.
So I chose the shelter job in Farmington Hills. I was hired. Training began in early September. We were poised and ready to receive kids on September 19th, a Friday. I was set to work a midnight shift 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. I would have done so, but my boss called and said I didn't have to go in. There were no kids yet. Saturday rolled around and the same thing happened. The boss called and said I didn't need to go in. No kids. When he called later and said there would be a meeting on Tuesday with the president of the organization, I started to worry. Tuesday came. Along with the president came the head of the HR department. Uh oh.
What it boils down to is this: the government decided to postpone the program. As our organization has a federal grant in order to do the work we're doing, Uncle Sam holds all the purse strings and therefore all the power. It was decided for some unknown dubious reason that although we had been told to set up, hire staff, and prepare the space to receive as many as 24 youth, our services were no longer required. I could speculate about how the timing of our indefinite postponement coincided with the midterm elections, and claim that there was some political motivation, but I can't be sure. They discussed severance and a potential position within the organization elsewhere. And the glimmer of hope that the program might start up again after the new year started.
I got a month's worth of severance for never having worked a day, which was nice, I guess. Obviously, I would have preferred working.
So after turning down a sick post in Colombia for something closer to home, fate dropped a bomb. I was back at square one: twenty-five, living at home, no job, no plan.
October was a dark month for me. I questioned my decision to stay in Michigan instead of peacing out for the Response position. I even briefly regretted not taking the preschool position, even though it did not appeal to me in the least. I just wanted to leave home. I was ready. So ready.
I felt the same pressure from back in 2011 as a clever graduate who had to move back home with his parents. I was suffering the same fate as other Millennials, this time without a hefty prospect like "life-changing international service" in my future. Life was wide open for me, and I had to choose something, anything.
I didn't know what to do. So I made one compromise. And then another.
I'm guessing most of my friends and acquaintances don't know I worked as a seasonal package handler for UPS, or that I was a substitute teacher for a few months. I wasn't too forthcoming with that information because I was ashamed. Ashamed that I had to settle. Ashamed that a "real" job had not materialized for me by then. Ashamed that, after doing something as amazing and worthy of countless anecdotes as Peace Corps, my answer to the final question when catching up with friends and family ("So what are you doing now?") was always, "Umm, living at home and floundering."
Frankly, I was pissed. What was tough was seeing other people doing better, some from the same situation as me, who had found their way first. Volunteers from my group were working or in grad school in San Francisco or Washington, D.C. or Chicago, adjusting to a new life. Many friends from college and beyond had stable jobs, lived on their own, and were functioning adults. Even my brother, who had lost his job around the time I got back, got a new job and moved out of the house and into a place with his girlfriend.
So I took a job with people who hadn't gotten a degree, or who hadn't gone to Michigan, or who hadn't done Peace Corps, but were on the same pay level as me. I had to check all that ego, that tendency to self-aggrandize (that, ladies and gentlemen, is the Michigan Difference!) at the door.
Each job was a chance to make money. Each day was a chance to prove myself. Instead of thinking that I had already distinguished myself from the pack by being young and college-educated and well- traveled, I set myself apart in other ways. By being punctual. By being persistent. By being zealous and innovative. I was never late. When UPS mistook me taking a day off as me saying I never wanted to work again, I pushed until they put me back on the schedule. After a day subbing at a new school, I made a point to introduce myself to all the Spanish teachers and leave them my contact info. And as I knew from my mom's guidance, I was always super nice to the secretaries. I worked every day, even in assignments I didn't want, because at that point, being idle was no longer an option. For something like subbing, you've got to build connections and have people work for you. Slowly, as I worked in schools and met people, I had teachers putting my name in and requesting me. Slowly, things improved.
In late November, I auditioned for another musical. Spring Awakening. This one was meant to be, because I got a really great part. I could gush for an entire post about that experience, but in this context, let me say that it was the turning point. It brought me out of a deep frustration. I was finally able to do something I love, and got recognition for my hard work.
During the rehearsal process, I went from unemployed to temporary UPS guy to substitute teacher. Then, toward the end of the run of the show, I finally heard back from the shelter job, and learned that they had gotten the green light and would start again in March. It was so symbolic: the show was about the struggles of growing up and new beginnings. Just like it did during Avenue Q before I left for Peace Corps, this show hit so close to home. I summoned tears for 11 shows (not including rehearsals) from genuine emotion, but learning that months of sacrifice and compromise had finally paid off really set me over the edge into legit waterworks.
Of course, a year later, I can look back and say that I learned something. I can affirm my mom's insistent prayer-like sentiment that it wasn't meant to be in September, and that something good would work out for me, because it had to. It did, I suppose. But this is certainly not it for me. I don't plan to work in my childhood home long term. Even if I moved out of the house. Doing that would force me to drive further to work, which is something I would like to avoid. High on my priority list is living close to where I work. But it's working. I'm working. I'm making money. I'm less stressed. For now.
Work brings its own challenges. Perhaps later I'll describe those challenges. I'll finish by saying that I made it a year back home. This was one challenge. Many others have presented themselves, challenges where I have come face to face with cultural differences of my own country, my own people, and the new me, the new sensibility I bring with me having lived abroad and served internationally for two years. I still have my feet on the ground, my eyes to the sky. These are my Post Peace Corps Essays, and I hope you will join me on the journey.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Close of Service (COS)
I write to you now as a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (or RPCV) and, although I’m not “returned” just yet, not back in the United States, it is an official term meaning that I am finished with my service. Done.
I spent the last days in my community preparing to leave, emptying out my house and saying goodbyes. Last Friday I went to school and gave back some items that the school had lent me for my house. A good amount of the teachers weren’t there, but the present ones were having an early lunch. They invited me to join them for fried fish. During lunch they said a few nice words and gave me a few parting gifts. My last day was Sunday, Feb. 23rd, when I left my community with nothing but two bags, a large hiking backpack and a normal school backpack. My host mother had been preparing a friend and me meals, since I had given away all my leftover food, refrigerator, and electric stove. As breakfast was finishing up and I was going to check on the truck out, I asked her if she would give me the honor of taking a picture with her. She refused, saying it would make her too sad. She started to cry, which of course made me cry as well.
It was the first of many tearful goodbyes.
Volunteers spend their last week of service preparing for Close of Service, or COS. It’s a ton of running around, getting blood drawn and getting last minute prescriptions and turning in grant forms and filling out lots of paperwork. There were certainly moments where I cursed the organization and bureaucracy in general for making the process so difficult. In the end, though, everything worked out. When one of the staff members who reviews our checklist to ensure everything has been done said I was finished, she congratulated me as many others had done. I felt so incredibly light, like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
I made it. Despite all the times I wanted to give up and go home, I made it through. I persevered. And I’m so glad I did.
Volunteers spread out between a few different hotels and hostels, but we do our best to maximize the amount of time we spend together. Last night we all went out and had a great time, taking over a bar and playing our own music from a volunteer’s iPod. The end of the night, as has happened throughout these past few days, brought with it inevitable goodbyes. These are people with whom I have struggled and triumphed. They are my best friends because we shared so much together, far beyond just two years of service. It’s hard to think about, but it’s going to be a while before I see some of them. I refuse to believe I will never see them again, because it’s too depressing to think about.
I commemorated the end of my service with a haircut. Catherine, one of my best volunteer friends, had talked about taking me to a roadside barber to get my hair cut Panamanian style. Faux hawks are popular, and a lot of young men get them done with all kinds of extra decoration on the sides of their head, stripes and stars and other crazy designs. After politely refusing or brushing it off I relented and went with her yesterday to do it. It was a great choice. I’ve never gotten so many compliments. Looks so ridiculous, yet so great.
This will not likely be my last post on this blog, but it certainly is as a Peace Corps volunteer. We'll have to see what comes next. For now, it'a bit of travel. See you all in Colombia and Ecuador!
I spent the last days in my community preparing to leave, emptying out my house and saying goodbyes. Last Friday I went to school and gave back some items that the school had lent me for my house. A good amount of the teachers weren’t there, but the present ones were having an early lunch. They invited me to join them for fried fish. During lunch they said a few nice words and gave me a few parting gifts. My last day was Sunday, Feb. 23rd, when I left my community with nothing but two bags, a large hiking backpack and a normal school backpack. My host mother had been preparing a friend and me meals, since I had given away all my leftover food, refrigerator, and electric stove. As breakfast was finishing up and I was going to check on the truck out, I asked her if she would give me the honor of taking a picture with her. She refused, saying it would make her too sad. She started to cry, which of course made me cry as well.
It was the first of many tearful goodbyes.
Volunteers spend their last week of service preparing for Close of Service, or COS. It’s a ton of running around, getting blood drawn and getting last minute prescriptions and turning in grant forms and filling out lots of paperwork. There were certainly moments where I cursed the organization and bureaucracy in general for making the process so difficult. In the end, though, everything worked out. When one of the staff members who reviews our checklist to ensure everything has been done said I was finished, she congratulated me as many others had done. I felt so incredibly light, like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
I made it. Despite all the times I wanted to give up and go home, I made it through. I persevered. And I’m so glad I did.
Volunteers spread out between a few different hotels and hostels, but we do our best to maximize the amount of time we spend together. Last night we all went out and had a great time, taking over a bar and playing our own music from a volunteer’s iPod. The end of the night, as has happened throughout these past few days, brought with it inevitable goodbyes. These are people with whom I have struggled and triumphed. They are my best friends because we shared so much together, far beyond just two years of service. It’s hard to think about, but it’s going to be a while before I see some of them. I refuse to believe I will never see them again, because it’s too depressing to think about.
I commemorated the end of my service with a haircut. Catherine, one of my best volunteer friends, had talked about taking me to a roadside barber to get my hair cut Panamanian style. Faux hawks are popular, and a lot of young men get them done with all kinds of extra decoration on the sides of their head, stripes and stars and other crazy designs. After politely refusing or brushing it off I relented and went with her yesterday to do it. It was a great choice. I’ve never gotten so many compliments. Looks so ridiculous, yet so great.
This will not likely be my last post on this blog, but it certainly is as a Peace Corps volunteer. We'll have to see what comes next. For now, it'a bit of travel. See you all in Colombia and Ecuador!
Sunday, February 9, 2014
An Open Letter to All Volunteers
This is an article I wrote for the volunteer quarterly newsletter. Some of the frustration stems from having fellow volunteers try to make me feel like my service wasn't as relevant as theirs for reasons I was unable to control. I hope you enjoy it.
Dear everyone,
Service in the Peace Corps involves enduring hardships; it's one of the core expectations. It's important, though, to keep in mind that hardship comes in many forms. For some our main hardship is lifestyle, adjusting to different, usually lower, standards of living. For others our main hardship is work, difficulty collaborating with counterparts. Often it's a combination of the two.
However, no one outright chooses his or her own site. We are placed in our site and are expected to work. We put forth our best effort based on where the office has placed us. For some reason among volunteers, placement in a more developed site is grounds for light ridicule. Volunteers somewhere in the world coined the term Posh Corps, as if to suggest that a particular place could be something other than a 'real' Peace Corps site. This mindset is simply displaced anger at the reality of our own life onto the reality of another, at those who live in what some might consider an "easier" site.
The last La Vaina had a feature with this quote: "I took hot showers in site...I COS'ed on July 26th, but the guilt still persists." Why should taking hot showers by boiling our water be a luxury in which we're not allowed to partake? If a volunteer wants to warm up water for himself, no one should tell him he can or should not. Why is having electricity and Internet access worthy of scorn? We all live differently based on our sites, and even within that range of sites each volunteer can choose to live his or her own way. Sometimes we wash our clothes in the river or by hand, other times in a neighbor's washing machine or our own, and yet other times we treat ourselves to full service laundry at the nearest provincial capital. We all know better than to draw attention to ourselves by living extravagantly, but a hot shower or some peanut butter does not constitute extravagance.
The real problem is not that this mentality of martyrdom exists, but rather that we all preserve it. By making jokes, we become complicit in perpetuating that fallacy. It is preposterous and downright unhealthy to place suffering on a pedestal, to suggest that living isolated and never leaving the most remote site with limited access, having no cell phone or Internet service, eating little to no food, having little to no amenities, and engaging in absolutely no indulgences is somehow a more "real" Peace Corps experience than any other.
We are all real Peace Corps volunteers. We all earn our humble living stipend. By American standards we are paupers, but by local standards we are much closer to kings. We can choose to do with our money and our resources what we will. There is no reason to feel guilty about that. Volunteers give their time and their treasures. We struggle no matter where we live, how we live, or where and how we work on a daily basis. EH, SAS, CEC, and TE (note the implied ranking of sector from most difficult to least difficult site placement), we all face challenges.
To suggest that one volunteer is more legit than another only serves to perpetuate a stereotype that our lives in country are pitiable. It paints a picture of abject poverty and misery. It suggests that, in order to truly experience Peace Corps, we have to starve ourselves on a strictly rice and plantain diet, isolate ourselves by never leaving site, and not shower for days at a time. When in Rome, right? Wrong. The reason some of our community members live a certain way is because it is all they know, often all they can afford. Instead of humbling us, forcing that lifestyle only gives us a twisted reason to brag. Furthermore, this mindset distances us from our host country nationals. It erroneously assumes that all people who live a certain way fit into a certain category: sad, poor people. Yet, we all know better than to think people in our sites are depressed. What can happen is this: we return after our service and tell tales of our lifestyle, of how we lived two years like a poor campesino. Instead, we should be telling tales of that poor campesino's work ethic, bravery, or kindness. We potentially marginalize the same people we are supposed to serve. Our service is meant to help build a bridge between nations and remind us that we are all one people.
A lauded rendering of a difficult life does not change it in any way. Drawing comparisons to those who live differently, construed as better, and scolding them for doing so, is only an underhanded way of complaining about one’s own situation. We can only grow as volunteers when we stop complaining. Service in Peace Corps is not, nor has it ever been, a pissing contest over whose life is hardest. Remember that it's not the amount of hardship that matters, but how we choose to react to that hardship that defines our service.
Dear everyone,
Service in the Peace Corps involves enduring hardships; it's one of the core expectations. It's important, though, to keep in mind that hardship comes in many forms. For some our main hardship is lifestyle, adjusting to different, usually lower, standards of living. For others our main hardship is work, difficulty collaborating with counterparts. Often it's a combination of the two.
However, no one outright chooses his or her own site. We are placed in our site and are expected to work. We put forth our best effort based on where the office has placed us. For some reason among volunteers, placement in a more developed site is grounds for light ridicule. Volunteers somewhere in the world coined the term Posh Corps, as if to suggest that a particular place could be something other than a 'real' Peace Corps site. This mindset is simply displaced anger at the reality of our own life onto the reality of another, at those who live in what some might consider an "easier" site.
The last La Vaina had a feature with this quote: "I took hot showers in site...I COS'ed on July 26th, but the guilt still persists." Why should taking hot showers by boiling our water be a luxury in which we're not allowed to partake? If a volunteer wants to warm up water for himself, no one should tell him he can or should not. Why is having electricity and Internet access worthy of scorn? We all live differently based on our sites, and even within that range of sites each volunteer can choose to live his or her own way. Sometimes we wash our clothes in the river or by hand, other times in a neighbor's washing machine or our own, and yet other times we treat ourselves to full service laundry at the nearest provincial capital. We all know better than to draw attention to ourselves by living extravagantly, but a hot shower or some peanut butter does not constitute extravagance.
The real problem is not that this mentality of martyrdom exists, but rather that we all preserve it. By making jokes, we become complicit in perpetuating that fallacy. It is preposterous and downright unhealthy to place suffering on a pedestal, to suggest that living isolated and never leaving the most remote site with limited access, having no cell phone or Internet service, eating little to no food, having little to no amenities, and engaging in absolutely no indulgences is somehow a more "real" Peace Corps experience than any other.
We are all real Peace Corps volunteers. We all earn our humble living stipend. By American standards we are paupers, but by local standards we are much closer to kings. We can choose to do with our money and our resources what we will. There is no reason to feel guilty about that. Volunteers give their time and their treasures. We struggle no matter where we live, how we live, or where and how we work on a daily basis. EH, SAS, CEC, and TE (note the implied ranking of sector from most difficult to least difficult site placement), we all face challenges.
To suggest that one volunteer is more legit than another only serves to perpetuate a stereotype that our lives in country are pitiable. It paints a picture of abject poverty and misery. It suggests that, in order to truly experience Peace Corps, we have to starve ourselves on a strictly rice and plantain diet, isolate ourselves by never leaving site, and not shower for days at a time. When in Rome, right? Wrong. The reason some of our community members live a certain way is because it is all they know, often all they can afford. Instead of humbling us, forcing that lifestyle only gives us a twisted reason to brag. Furthermore, this mindset distances us from our host country nationals. It erroneously assumes that all people who live a certain way fit into a certain category: sad, poor people. Yet, we all know better than to think people in our sites are depressed. What can happen is this: we return after our service and tell tales of our lifestyle, of how we lived two years like a poor campesino. Instead, we should be telling tales of that poor campesino's work ethic, bravery, or kindness. We potentially marginalize the same people we are supposed to serve. Our service is meant to help build a bridge between nations and remind us that we are all one people.
A lauded rendering of a difficult life does not change it in any way. Drawing comparisons to those who live differently, construed as better, and scolding them for doing so, is only an underhanded way of complaining about one’s own situation. We can only grow as volunteers when we stop complaining. Service in Peace Corps is not, nor has it ever been, a pissing contest over whose life is hardest. Remember that it's not the amount of hardship that matters, but how we choose to react to that hardship that defines our service.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Winding down
My inevitable departure is becoming realer with every passing moment. As of today I am three weeks away from my COS (or Close of Service) date: February 28th. At this point I am scrambling, trying to finish up last-minute projects and emptying a house I will be leaving in two weeks.
The main project, the giant camp (or two camps, technically) is over now, but I still have to close out the grants, which the office placed partially under my supervision. It means a responsibility hanging over my head before I go. Then from there I will be assisting with another training, and then giving seminars to teachers during their preliminary planning week before school starts. That last one is during my last week in site. I feel like I should be in my community, saying my goodbyes and explaining my departure, much like I had to explain my arrival (and purpose) when I first arrived. And, honestly, I would like to check out, much like I was able to do in high school and college: peacefully reflect on my experience as I coasted to the finish line. I have no such luck this time. It's funny...I say I thrive under a bit of stress, and then I complain about it. Sounds like business as usual.
Here a few pictures from the first camp back in mid-January:
Every morning we started the day with a bit of exercise. I got a bit off the rhythm here.
During the sexual health portion of the camp we taught and then practiced the proper use of a condom. Then we let the kids have some fun by blowing up their condoms to see just how much they can stretch.
Here I am, leading a call and response stepping activity to grab their interest on the first day.
The other task on my list is clearing out my house. Actually, I have slowly been clearing out my house for the past few months. I go through my belongings every now and then and make a pile of what I think I don't need or use, and then I throw it all into a bag that ends up on the street corner to be burned another day. (That guilt will likely be the reason why I will work so hard to recycle and compost later in life.)
Perspective about your house changes so drastically in only two short years. At the beginning of our service we go from host families to living on our own. In that moment we try to fill our temporary, foreign, bare houses with things, but what we're really trying to do is fill them with significance, markers that it is our true home, even if only for two years. Then we get to the point I'm at and want to purge. I want to try and give things away to ensure they'll get some good use after I'm gone, but I have no qualms about throwing anything away. I just want a clean break and be able to leave without anything pending back here.
Also, much like I did when I was leaving the States, I keep adding "last" to everything I do: Last Regional Meeting, Last GAD Camp, the Last Time I See So-and-so. Everyone talks about bittersweet. On any given day I usually feel only one of the two. Right now it feels sweet. I am quite ready to go back home to a life without so much backward thinking. Tomorrow could be different, though.
How funny that way back when I was just starting two years seemed like so long. Now that it's over, it doesn't seem like enough time. It's a common sentiment among volunteers. For a twisted reason I actually am trying to hold on to a few negative memories, the ones that frustrate me the most. I know for a fact that time will wipe them away and I will look back on this with rose-colored glasses of nostalgia. In my opinion I have to remember a few of the sad stories to remind me that it was real, that it wasn't rainbows and butterflies for two years. I also will use that frustration as an indicator of my own direction in life. If I don't when people do certain things to me, then I should avoid doing it to others. Hopefully I can learn from all the bad things that happened, and not just all the great things I describe in such detail here.
Hopefully I will continue to blog after I finish Peace Corps service, when I go traveling with one of my best Peace Corps friends, and beyond. Don't worry, though. No matter what, I'll be sure to sign off with style.
The main project, the giant camp (or two camps, technically) is over now, but I still have to close out the grants, which the office placed partially under my supervision. It means a responsibility hanging over my head before I go. Then from there I will be assisting with another training, and then giving seminars to teachers during their preliminary planning week before school starts. That last one is during my last week in site. I feel like I should be in my community, saying my goodbyes and explaining my departure, much like I had to explain my arrival (and purpose) when I first arrived. And, honestly, I would like to check out, much like I was able to do in high school and college: peacefully reflect on my experience as I coasted to the finish line. I have no such luck this time. It's funny...I say I thrive under a bit of stress, and then I complain about it. Sounds like business as usual.
Here a few pictures from the first camp back in mid-January:
Every morning we started the day with a bit of exercise. I got a bit off the rhythm here.
During the sexual health portion of the camp we taught and then practiced the proper use of a condom. Then we let the kids have some fun by blowing up their condoms to see just how much they can stretch.
Here I am, leading a call and response stepping activity to grab their interest on the first day.
The other task on my list is clearing out my house. Actually, I have slowly been clearing out my house for the past few months. I go through my belongings every now and then and make a pile of what I think I don't need or use, and then I throw it all into a bag that ends up on the street corner to be burned another day. (That guilt will likely be the reason why I will work so hard to recycle and compost later in life.)
Perspective about your house changes so drastically in only two short years. At the beginning of our service we go from host families to living on our own. In that moment we try to fill our temporary, foreign, bare houses with things, but what we're really trying to do is fill them with significance, markers that it is our true home, even if only for two years. Then we get to the point I'm at and want to purge. I want to try and give things away to ensure they'll get some good use after I'm gone, but I have no qualms about throwing anything away. I just want a clean break and be able to leave without anything pending back here.
Also, much like I did when I was leaving the States, I keep adding "last" to everything I do: Last Regional Meeting, Last GAD Camp, the Last Time I See So-and-so. Everyone talks about bittersweet. On any given day I usually feel only one of the two. Right now it feels sweet. I am quite ready to go back home to a life without so much backward thinking. Tomorrow could be different, though.
How funny that way back when I was just starting two years seemed like so long. Now that it's over, it doesn't seem like enough time. It's a common sentiment among volunteers. For a twisted reason I actually am trying to hold on to a few negative memories, the ones that frustrate me the most. I know for a fact that time will wipe them away and I will look back on this with rose-colored glasses of nostalgia. In my opinion I have to remember a few of the sad stories to remind me that it was real, that it wasn't rainbows and butterflies for two years. I also will use that frustration as an indicator of my own direction in life. If I don't when people do certain things to me, then I should avoid doing it to others. Hopefully I can learn from all the bad things that happened, and not just all the great things I describe in such detail here.
Hopefully I will continue to blog after I finish Peace Corps service, when I go traveling with one of my best Peace Corps friends, and beyond. Don't worry, though. No matter what, I'll be sure to sign off with style.
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