I know, I know, I am not supposed to even mention homesickness. It has become a four letter word in my vocabulary. One that I am supposed to guard myself against but it has gotten to the point where if I failed to mention it, I would be doing a grave injustice to the whole Peace Corps experience and my attempt to share it. Homesickness is a study in contradictions. There are moments when I would give my right arm to go back to Blacksburg, Virginia and enjoy a sunny day on the Lefty's patio, surrounded by my friends, family and sweet dog, Murphy. After a short trip to the luxuries of Target, I would lace up my boots and hike to the top of a mountain. Lord, it would be a good day. On the other hand, despite not having to give up an arm, it is also a dream to spend the afternoon swimming in the ocean with new friends, dancing the night away with my newly discovered hips or looking up DaBrat videos while I eat spoonfuls of peanut butter with my closest companion here. You see, you can manage to be overwhelmed with joy while still being torn at the heart. I think this means that I am one lucky girl.
I find this paradox keenly felt when I eat soup. Now, I already know what you are thinking, "You eat soup there?! Isn't it 90 degrees everyday?" Yes, it is hot here but soup is a staple. The school makes soup so good on Thursdays that I have already begun the emotional preparation for the summer when I will have to live without it for eight weeks. I also enjoyed my fair share of soup while I was in the states. Chili, broccoli cheddar, Hokie House's frozen concoctions; I loved them all. As I was eating a cup of Callalou(green sort of like spinach) soup (no spoon, just cup) this past Saturday it got me to thinking. I was trying to navigate the green minefield; looking out for delightful dumplings and wondering what part of the goat had landed in my cup. Then I remembered a nice hearty bowl of chicken noodle where there were no questions about what part of the meat I was eating and spoons were readily accessible. Sure, I missed the chicken noodle but I was plum happy in the earthy, mystery flavors of the Callalou. Somewhere between the noodles and the goat lies the truth of this experience. You must adjust, you have to learn to love the Callalou to the point where you are buying bags of it but you don't ever forget how to mix eggs and flour to just the right consistency so that you have the most heart-mending bowl of chicken noodle. There will be days when you want the new stuff and others when you just want the old familiar but most of the time, I find myself trying to strike a balance and adding homemade noodles to the pot of Callalou.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Just call me Whirlpool
GE, Hoover and Swiffer have nothing on me these days. I have become a cleaning machine. Honestly, there is not another option here. The expectation in St. Vincent is that a person takes care of their things. "Taking care" doesn't just imply putting away your shoes; taking care is washing your broom after you use it and mopping your front porch. In all fairness, cleaning is really not within the job description of a Peace Corps volunteer but integration is. For me, part of integration has been keeping up with all of the housework. All around me, my neighbors are tidying up. I can hear Elvia, who lives a few doors down, scrubbing her "yard" with bleach and a scrub brush at 5am. Fitzroy, the 20 year old who lives behind me, cleans up after his dogs and sweeps his porch before I have time to ingest breakfast.
As my forearms burned this morning from the 6am laundry, I realized that I love to be my own wash, rinse and spin cycle. There is something so rewarding in seeing a full line of clothes, blowing in the breeze, and knowing that it is your own elbow grease that put them there. "I have to do my laundry" has a whole new meaning and unfortunately it does not include catching up on "The Mentalist" while I patiently wait for the washing machine to finish its work. I was called "Vincy" recently when I decided that the moss growing in my water run off path had to go. Recently, I've come close to slipping to my death as I try to make my way around the house in the dark. The water flows out of the house via an open drainage system and it is a breeding ground for slick moss. This is not my new favorite chore-- it is gross! Best yet, I found a pair of underwear that must have slipped down the pipe when I did laundry last week. I am sure my neighbors don't lose their knickers but what can I say, I am new to all this!
For me, there are simple moments when I realize how different my life has become. I am sure that when tourist drive through the town of Layou, they see the clapboard houses, mis-matched paint and the grime that seems to cover everything. I used to see it too. These days, as I walk to school, I see the lines of laundry that took hours to clean. I see Elvia scrubbing a pair of 2 year old rubber flip flops until they shine. Porches are scrubbed, clothing ironed and floors swept. All serving as a reminder that we must be grateful for the things we have whether it is a vacuum or our bare hands.
As my forearms burned this morning from the 6am laundry, I realized that I love to be my own wash, rinse and spin cycle. There is something so rewarding in seeing a full line of clothes, blowing in the breeze, and knowing that it is your own elbow grease that put them there. "I have to do my laundry" has a whole new meaning and unfortunately it does not include catching up on "The Mentalist" while I patiently wait for the washing machine to finish its work. I was called "Vincy" recently when I decided that the moss growing in my water run off path had to go. Recently, I've come close to slipping to my death as I try to make my way around the house in the dark. The water flows out of the house via an open drainage system and it is a breeding ground for slick moss. This is not my new favorite chore-- it is gross! Best yet, I found a pair of underwear that must have slipped down the pipe when I did laundry last week. I am sure my neighbors don't lose their knickers but what can I say, I am new to all this!
For me, there are simple moments when I realize how different my life has become. I am sure that when tourist drive through the town of Layou, they see the clapboard houses, mis-matched paint and the grime that seems to cover everything. I used to see it too. These days, as I walk to school, I see the lines of laundry that took hours to clean. I see Elvia scrubbing a pair of 2 year old rubber flip flops until they shine. Porches are scrubbed, clothing ironed and floors swept. All serving as a reminder that we must be grateful for the things we have whether it is a vacuum or our bare hands.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Thousands of Tiny Miracles
Mike Greenberg once said, "Life is a series of thousands of tiny miracles."
Today, at the Layou Government School, I came across one of those tiny miracles. I have been working with a group of fourth grade students who barely know their alphabet. I decided to use a specific teaching method with them during the final two terms of the school year. The approach is extremely remedial and actually designed for the overachieving parents of the world that want their 4 year old to learn how to read. The good news is that whether a child is 4 or 10, the program works. This morning, the fourth grade teacher came to me and said that the children had been excited and involved in class all morning. "Even Cathilda!" she exclaimed, Cathilda being one of the students who barely speaks and is not responsive to lessons. To my surprise, I walked into my classroom during lunch and saw Zita, another of my fourth grade students, reviewing the lesson from yesterday with one of the younger students. Miracle! was all that I could think! Maybe it is teaching or maybe it is Peace Corps but whatever it is, I am learning that the most important thing you can do for a child is to believe in them. Once they know someone is there to cheer them on, they will be able to move mountains (and read!).
Today, at the Layou Government School, I came across one of those tiny miracles. I have been working with a group of fourth grade students who barely know their alphabet. I decided to use a specific teaching method with them during the final two terms of the school year. The approach is extremely remedial and actually designed for the overachieving parents of the world that want their 4 year old to learn how to read. The good news is that whether a child is 4 or 10, the program works. This morning, the fourth grade teacher came to me and said that the children had been excited and involved in class all morning. "Even Cathilda!" she exclaimed, Cathilda being one of the students who barely speaks and is not responsive to lessons. To my surprise, I walked into my classroom during lunch and saw Zita, another of my fourth grade students, reviewing the lesson from yesterday with one of the younger students. Miracle! was all that I could think! Maybe it is teaching or maybe it is Peace Corps but whatever it is, I am learning that the most important thing you can do for a child is to believe in them. Once they know someone is there to cheer them on, they will be able to move mountains (and read!).
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