My morning started more or less like normal. It was rainy and cold, so I didn’t want to get out of bed. I managed to, however, and made myself some oatmeal and coffee, then sat around like a zombie until I mustered the motivation to plan my day. I decided to mount the screens for my windows (to keep out bugs), then box up the owners books and put mine on the shelf in their place.
My neighbors helped me with the screen for the windows. It started off with 15-year-old and I, but her mother (my friend) joined us soon afterward. I had wanted it to be a girls-only affair, but my friend insisted on getting her husband to help us, which meant that they spoke a lot of Guaraní and did everything while I only got to hand out nails. It took a few trips to the carpenter to get the measurements right (all of the windows are not the same size) and we were nailing, hammering, and finishing in no time.
During the process, the daughter asked if I heard what happened to our neighbor’s son. He had died in a motorcycle accident. My neighbor is an elementary school teacher. I have tereré with her three times a week, and her daughter is in my dance class. I didn’t think either connection made us close enough for me to go to the rezo (on average, a 9 day funeral event). I had continued working without a second thought. When my friend arrived a bit later, she asked me the same question. “Yes, [your daughter] told me what happened.” “Hmm,” she responded.
They invited me to lunch in their home. As we sat around digesting, my friend asked if I went to the church yesterday to visit my neighbor and her family. I replied, “No, I wasn’t invited.” “Hmm,” she responded. The subject changed to airplane rides and her daughter's “feo” boyfriend before returning to my neighbor. “You should come to the church with us. We are leaving at three,” my friend suggested. “Do I need to be invited?” I asked. She shook her head. “Just come.”
We didn’t go straight to the church. We went first to my neighbor’s house, where at least 100 people were gathered. Earlier in the day as we irreverently hammered at my windows, I hadn’t noticed that there was anything different. My neighbors always have people over, milling in and out of the house, pounding music until the rafters shutter. The only difference today was that it was quiet. There was no music. Everything had stopped. Everyone just stood around. I should have known something was wrong. There was no music...
My friend ushered me into the house and asked of Sonia’s whereabouts. I was surprise to hear that she might be in the kitchen cooking. Then I wasn’t so surprised. She likely needed the distraction. Blanca was going to take me back to the kitchen when I insisted that we wait; if Sonia needed some time alone, I wasn’t going to interrupt her solace in the only room of the house without a million people standing around. We waited.
The atmosphere was difficult to read. Everyone dressed differently, from jeans and tennis shoes to what I considered proper funeral attire. Some people were laughing and chatting just one room away from those whom were mourning in abrupt bursts. Sometimes people changed simply by walking through a doorway: one neighbor was bawling in one room, crossed the threshold of another room and greeted a friend with a smile. She burst into tears again soon after and I wasn’t sure what to do or think. Were the smiles an attempt to lighten the mood or were there mourners in Paraguayan funerals like those in ancient Israel?
I greeted other professors with a half smile and the expected kisses. Then I stood around with my friend and waited. Vehicles had arrived to carry the casket to the church. The rest of us would walk. Much time passed between the arrival of the vehicle and our departure, in which everyone waited and watched more that I thought appropriate. At one point, the deceased’s sister/my dance student erupted into a fit of tears that even made me cry. She collapsed into a chair and was instantly surrounded by her friends who petted her hair, dried her tears, and hugged her. Their response made my heart melt—then it froze. I noticed that everyone else in the room was just staring at the sobbing girl with the most detached expressions on their faces. No one downcast their eyes. No one cried with her. They just stared.
A fellow volunteer once warned me about the seemingly cold way that many view death here. They literally view death, straight in the eyes, without a blink. In American culture, staring is rude. I think it is even ruder at a time like a funeral. I didn’t know the deceased's sister as well as anyone else in that room, and yet I was bawling and wanting to scoop her up into the biggest embrace possible. How could they sit and gawk at her like that?
The iciness in my heart subsided when we all began to walk to the church. The crowd grew as we passed through town. People slipped in and out of doorways like ghosts, kissing my neighbor’s cheeks and returning into the darkness. Others joined the procession in silence. By the time we reached the church I would estimate that ¾ of the town was with us, standing outside, inside, waiting, watching.
I cried uncontrollably during the church service. The deceased was a 22-year-old cowboy. Fellow cowboys placed his riding jacket over his casket. Little details like that make me weak. All of the youth sat in one area of the church and sang for him. In addition to the traditional hymns, they learned two songs that they sang at the end of the service. The entire congregation cried then. I don’t know if they wrote the songs or if they were covers, but the youth sang with such sincerity that it didn’t matter. At one point, my English-speaking friend(who until then had been buzzing around trying to ensure that every aspect of the service was in order) silently began to cry amidst her yawns. She likely hadn’t slept much with so much planning to do. I put my arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder for a moment. I felt like I needed to be there, maybe even that I was there just to hold her for those few moments when no one else would. I didn’t feel so much like an outsider looking in.
That sentiment gripped me more as we walked from the church to the cemetery. I was intentionally lagging behind when my friend wrapped her arm in mine. “Walk with us,” she said. “Us” included the deceased's mother, my friend, and three other teachers. They wanted me to walk with them. I was a teacher, too. I was a friend. They wanted me to walk with them to the cemetery. I hadn’t realized that I was intentionally being included. To them, sharing tereré three times a week and teaching their children meant that I was part of the community. I wasn’t just the outsider. I was a teacher, supporting another teacher in one of her darkest hours.
I felt the gravity of every step. We walked in silence, our eyes on the ground, our arms interlinked. Hundreds of others walked with us, trudging through the mud, silently praying to fend off the rain. My friend broke the silence, whispering, “It’s hard to walk one of our own to the cemetery and leave him there.” I started to cry again. It really was his final resting place; I hadn’t thought much about that expression until then. The entire community marched on.
At the cemetery, all of the youth and family members had one last chance to say their goodbyes. When they lowered the casket into the ground, the emotions erupted again, and then everything was quiet. Everything stopped again, but only for a moment. Slowly, people made the journey back to their homes. No one talked much. The hum of motorcycles made the most noise.
I now know why my mother doesn’t like funerals. They’re emotionally draining whether you’re close to the deceased or not. Maybe she and I are just too empathetic. Either way, I returned home exhausted. I knew that I had to write what I was experiencing in order to release it. I didn’t feel much better afterward, but at least I felt that my head was back on my shoulders. I also had some positive points to meditate on: I had been included, taken into a community as someone else left it. I want nothing more now than to give back a fraction of what has been given to me.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The Least Fun Rollercoast Ever
If anyone ever tells you that the Peace Corps is an emotional rollercoaster, they aren’t lying.
Just this week I’ve gone from loving my job to wanting to book a ticket home. There are little annoyances, like almost getting ripped off at a hotel, that irritate me on a daily basis. Then there are bigger issues that nearly push me over the edge. For example, I got kicked out of a host family’s house simply because one of the kids didn’t like me—and by kid I mean a 20 year old male, living with his mom, with no job. He moved out of the house and refused to move back in until “the stranger” was gone. It didn’t matter that his parents and three sisters are the ones that invited me. Apparently they didn’t “consult” him first. Regardless of the family dynamic and how I feel about it, the end result was that I was kicked out, potentially with nowhere to go. Fortunately, my former host family took me back in but the damage was done. The neighborhood was abuzz with gossip and everyone I met wanted to get involved in some way, though generally in no way that I considered helpful.
Realizing that you’re at the mercy of completely strangers is daunting. Being slapped with the reminder that not everyone has your best interest in mind is disheartening.
Then there are the great times. Just the other day I had a successful tutoring session. A boy who didn’t know the alphabet when we started now can identify all of the letters and is beginning to write them by dictation. He can also spell his name and sound out individual syllables. I’m SO proud of his hard work! I am relieved to see that I am having some sort of impact here.
I am also conducting a winter arts camp. For the older grades there are dance classes, and for the younger kids there are arts and crafts. My high school dancers are doing an outstanding job. They remind me of how much I love to dance; they also remind me that I need to be a good role model at all times: I showed up to class one day in my baggy, hunter green cargo pants—made of parachute material--that I’ve had since at least 8th grade. (They remind me of Aaliyah’s pants in the “Are You That Somebody” video.) After class the next day, two mothers asked me where I purchased the pants because their daughters wanted some exactly the same. The subsequent classes, a few girls showed up in baggy pants with pockets. I had to keep myself from laughing throughout class. I’m really excited to start seasonal classes with them later in the year.
Thank God, I’ve had success with some teachers, too. The jardin teacher has been super helpful with my winter camp. I’ve gotten to know her and her family very well. The preschool teacher has also made some suggestions for early childhood stimulation classes that will help prepare kids for jardin and preschool. In the upper ranks, the vice principal really liked my proposal for health classes with 3rd and 5th grade. She is supporting my efforts by helping me proofread and edit the syllabi. Other than not speaking Guarani, I have no complaints about work.
But just when things get good, you’re reminded that you aren’t at home. Perhaps that’s what makes service so tough. If I hated every minute of it, I could go back home to my family, friends, pets, my BED, AC/Heating, sushi, REAL coffee, my jacked up car which is still better than public buses here, and everything else about the US that I miss. If I adored every minute, I’d always know I was in the right place for this point in my life. Switching back and forth just makes my brain and heart tired.
WHAT'S BEHIND DOOR NUMBER 3?
After getting ousted from the host family’s house, I feverishly began my search for a place of my own. Some of my original options still stood, so I contacted an owner and arranged to move in within two days. On a rainy Friday evening I bought some goodies (a stove, mattress, dresser), moved in my junk and started the three day long cleaning process: sweeping the community of cobwebs and spider webs from the vaulted ceilings, as well as killing their creators; cleaning more of the same from all of the furniture; bleaching the bathroom; sweeping and scrubbing the beautiful tile floors; and unpacking.
On day three, the rain recommenced. I looked forward to sleeping in, reading and writing, and taking a long hot shower. What I got was rain in my living room and part of my kitchen. Before, I thought we had tracked the water. Now I could see it falling from the ceiling. Since the floors are tiled it wasn’t a terribly huge deal but I would’ve liked to have known about the leaks before moving in. The owner said he’d have it fixed Tuesday or Wednesday. The days have come and gone. The roof still leaks.
It’s raining again. A variety of cookware decorates my floors. Even with the leaks, I’m still really happy about the house. It’s the perfect size for me, and it has a lot of security features that I wanted. The location is close to the school, my friends, and the main roads leading in and out of town. Once the ceiling is fixed I won’t have a complaint in the world about this house. The next step will be painting and replacing the shutters if money allows :o)
CHA-CHING
Let’s talk about money. You will not starve on the Peace Corps living allowance. Depending on your site and how often you eat with neighbors, you can live quite reasonably. The strange thing is that, as it becomes the norm to have certain amenities (a fridge, for example), the Peace Corps budget hasn’t increased to accommodate modernization in more developed areas. Volunteers then have an awkward decision to make: they can live below the means of the rest of the community; they can use money from the States to live at the means of the community, thus diminishing money that should be used to readjust to our lives back home after service; or they can save every penny possible, live as a recluse, and finally buy a fridge two months before it’s time to leave for home. Peace Corps sees the problem and is actively working the fix it, but current volunteers are left wondering why some people are living posh while other are just making it month to month.
I certainly didn’t have enough to buy everything I wanted for the house with my Move-In Allowance. With that said, I’m not sleeping on the floor, either. It’s the Peace Corps. I didn’t expect to have a fridge, washer, dryer, and stove when I signed up. I was thinking mud hut and a hole out back to piss in. I am pleasantly surprised to have electricity and running water. I’m stupefied that I have wireless internet connection. Fellow volunteers in other countries ARE sleeping on the floor. They DON’T have running water, electricity, and wireless internet and at the end of the day I have no room to complain. Inconveniences are expected. Luxuries are appreciated. And service must go on either way.
My first somewhat necessary renovation is the fix the roof. My first not-necessary-but-desired renovation will be to replace the shutters. On cold rainy said like today I may as well be sleeping outside with as drafty as the house feels. Then I’m going to save up to buy a washing machine. It’s not what you’re imagining by any means, but it does get the job done better than my bare hands. Third on the list, I plan to save up for some paint. The interior walls are jacked and the house would look a lot merrier with a fresh coat of high quality color. To me, it’s a worthwhile investment. Lastly, I might add a sink in the kitchen (surprise, there isn’t one). I’m currently using the bathroom sink just for water, and washing dishes outside or in the shower.
Things are ended on the up-and-up. I’m still here, still planning cool stuff for my community in the future and still optimistic about this whole save-the-world-and-change-yourself gig. Suerte!
Just this week I’ve gone from loving my job to wanting to book a ticket home. There are little annoyances, like almost getting ripped off at a hotel, that irritate me on a daily basis. Then there are bigger issues that nearly push me over the edge. For example, I got kicked out of a host family’s house simply because one of the kids didn’t like me—and by kid I mean a 20 year old male, living with his mom, with no job. He moved out of the house and refused to move back in until “the stranger” was gone. It didn’t matter that his parents and three sisters are the ones that invited me. Apparently they didn’t “consult” him first. Regardless of the family dynamic and how I feel about it, the end result was that I was kicked out, potentially with nowhere to go. Fortunately, my former host family took me back in but the damage was done. The neighborhood was abuzz with gossip and everyone I met wanted to get involved in some way, though generally in no way that I considered helpful.
Realizing that you’re at the mercy of completely strangers is daunting. Being slapped with the reminder that not everyone has your best interest in mind is disheartening.
Then there are the great times. Just the other day I had a successful tutoring session. A boy who didn’t know the alphabet when we started now can identify all of the letters and is beginning to write them by dictation. He can also spell his name and sound out individual syllables. I’m SO proud of his hard work! I am relieved to see that I am having some sort of impact here.
I am also conducting a winter arts camp. For the older grades there are dance classes, and for the younger kids there are arts and crafts. My high school dancers are doing an outstanding job. They remind me of how much I love to dance; they also remind me that I need to be a good role model at all times: I showed up to class one day in my baggy, hunter green cargo pants—made of parachute material--that I’ve had since at least 8th grade. (They remind me of Aaliyah’s pants in the “Are You That Somebody” video.) After class the next day, two mothers asked me where I purchased the pants because their daughters wanted some exactly the same. The subsequent classes, a few girls showed up in baggy pants with pockets. I had to keep myself from laughing throughout class. I’m really excited to start seasonal classes with them later in the year.
Thank God, I’ve had success with some teachers, too. The jardin teacher has been super helpful with my winter camp. I’ve gotten to know her and her family very well. The preschool teacher has also made some suggestions for early childhood stimulation classes that will help prepare kids for jardin and preschool. In the upper ranks, the vice principal really liked my proposal for health classes with 3rd and 5th grade. She is supporting my efforts by helping me proofread and edit the syllabi. Other than not speaking Guarani, I have no complaints about work.
But just when things get good, you’re reminded that you aren’t at home. Perhaps that’s what makes service so tough. If I hated every minute of it, I could go back home to my family, friends, pets, my BED, AC/Heating, sushi, REAL coffee, my jacked up car which is still better than public buses here, and everything else about the US that I miss. If I adored every minute, I’d always know I was in the right place for this point in my life. Switching back and forth just makes my brain and heart tired.
WHAT'S BEHIND DOOR NUMBER 3?
After getting ousted from the host family’s house, I feverishly began my search for a place of my own. Some of my original options still stood, so I contacted an owner and arranged to move in within two days. On a rainy Friday evening I bought some goodies (a stove, mattress, dresser), moved in my junk and started the three day long cleaning process: sweeping the community of cobwebs and spider webs from the vaulted ceilings, as well as killing their creators; cleaning more of the same from all of the furniture; bleaching the bathroom; sweeping and scrubbing the beautiful tile floors; and unpacking.
On day three, the rain recommenced. I looked forward to sleeping in, reading and writing, and taking a long hot shower. What I got was rain in my living room and part of my kitchen. Before, I thought we had tracked the water. Now I could see it falling from the ceiling. Since the floors are tiled it wasn’t a terribly huge deal but I would’ve liked to have known about the leaks before moving in. The owner said he’d have it fixed Tuesday or Wednesday. The days have come and gone. The roof still leaks.
It’s raining again. A variety of cookware decorates my floors. Even with the leaks, I’m still really happy about the house. It’s the perfect size for me, and it has a lot of security features that I wanted. The location is close to the school, my friends, and the main roads leading in and out of town. Once the ceiling is fixed I won’t have a complaint in the world about this house. The next step will be painting and replacing the shutters if money allows :o)
CHA-CHING
Let’s talk about money. You will not starve on the Peace Corps living allowance. Depending on your site and how often you eat with neighbors, you can live quite reasonably. The strange thing is that, as it becomes the norm to have certain amenities (a fridge, for example), the Peace Corps budget hasn’t increased to accommodate modernization in more developed areas. Volunteers then have an awkward decision to make: they can live below the means of the rest of the community; they can use money from the States to live at the means of the community, thus diminishing money that should be used to readjust to our lives back home after service; or they can save every penny possible, live as a recluse, and finally buy a fridge two months before it’s time to leave for home. Peace Corps sees the problem and is actively working the fix it, but current volunteers are left wondering why some people are living posh while other are just making it month to month.
I certainly didn’t have enough to buy everything I wanted for the house with my Move-In Allowance. With that said, I’m not sleeping on the floor, either. It’s the Peace Corps. I didn’t expect to have a fridge, washer, dryer, and stove when I signed up. I was thinking mud hut and a hole out back to piss in. I am pleasantly surprised to have electricity and running water. I’m stupefied that I have wireless internet connection. Fellow volunteers in other countries ARE sleeping on the floor. They DON’T have running water, electricity, and wireless internet and at the end of the day I have no room to complain. Inconveniences are expected. Luxuries are appreciated. And service must go on either way.
My first somewhat necessary renovation is the fix the roof. My first not-necessary-but-desired renovation will be to replace the shutters. On cold rainy said like today I may as well be sleeping outside with as drafty as the house feels. Then I’m going to save up to buy a washing machine. It’s not what you’re imagining by any means, but it does get the job done better than my bare hands. Third on the list, I plan to save up for some paint. The interior walls are jacked and the house would look a lot merrier with a fresh coat of high quality color. To me, it’s a worthwhile investment. Lastly, I might add a sink in the kitchen (surprise, there isn’t one). I’m currently using the bathroom sink just for water, and washing dishes outside or in the shower.
Things are ended on the up-and-up. I’m still here, still planning cool stuff for my community in the future and still optimistic about this whole save-the-world-and-change-yourself gig. Suerte!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)