Most of my blog posts are about my emotions, people I interact with, and basically everything other than my work. So, what am I working on?
Truth be told, I’m not satisfied with where I am because of who I am. Peace Corps has taught me that I am much more introverted than I ever imagined, and I have to work hard to step outside of myself and make the necessary contacts to be successful. I hate networking. I feel like a lioness on the prowl, seeing whose life and resources can be beneficial for me. Can’t we be friends first? But networking is a part of getting your job done here, and the most successful volunteers are those that make connections and rub the right elbows.
Where I have made good connections, I am making process. I spend a lot of time with the teachers at my school. I’ve learned that the key to being comfortable and being effective is working one-on-one. If I spend a lot of time with a teacher, get to know her kids, drink some tea with her, and in the general flow of conversation make a suggestion for her class, she feels less threatened, less judged, and is overall more receptive. In this manner, I got the preschool and first grade teachers to teach their kids the vowels, and improve daily teeth-brushing activities in the classroom. I’ve also convinced them to integrate a daily activity with numbers where the kids are exposed to the abstract and concrete forms. That might not sound amazing to my Stateside readers, but trust me, it’s a mighty feat here.
In first grade, I haven’t had much success with the teacher. He has, however, agreed to let me work one-on-one with some struggling students (he has a million reasons why they aren’t his responsibility). 5/7 are making progress that I feel comfortable with! I believe the other two require a certification that I don’t possess, but to compensate I am developing a greater sense of patience, flexibility, and humor.
I’m teaching two fitness classes. This season, we are focusing on dance as a way of getting fit. We are exploring different dance forms from throughout the world including pop, jazz, traditional Arabian and traditional Japanese, ballet, and hip-hop. I have experience in some of these areas but I owe a lot to the internet. My advanced class is my pride and joy; those girls have my heart! (And when they misbehave, it’s heartbreaking!)
As for side projects (ha! so far they are the most time consuming), two schools have identified the need for an additional classroom. One of those schools would also like a playground. One would also like a water tank to supply constant running water. So my goals are: two classrooms, a playground, and a water tank. In the States that could be done in less than three months. Here, the paperwork alone may take three months. I’m willing to put in the effort. Not because I think the playground is a necessity (I can identify other things that I think are more important) but because the community sees “things” as a sign of progress, and if I don’t deliver “things” they are less likely to appreciate my service here. Forget that their kids are learning to read. They want something they can see! Whatever. I can do both, God willing.
As a side-side project (ha! ha!) I am working with two other volunteers to create a series on Afro-Paraguayan history. Ignorance is fierce in Paraguay. I’d compare it to 1950s US without the Jim Crow but with all of the misconceptions, racism, classism, and stereotyping one could stomach. The volunteers and I hope to compile resources and present our findings in the town of Emboscada, which has a high concentration of Afro-Paraguayans. It’s basically going to cover how black folks got to Paraguay in the first place, for what purpose, the end of slavery, and then a bit on the Afro-Paraguayan community today and visions for the future. It’s a big undertaking since resources are few and far between, but that will just make it all the more rewarding when it’s done.
Well, that is the work swing of things. Apparently, EEE is no more. We are now Education and Youth Development (EYD) so my work outlook may be changing. Vamos a ver...
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Idiosyncrasies...
I’ve received quite a few emails regarding my living conditions in Paraguay. People are baffled by the idiosyncrasies, the clashes of modernity and—how shall I say?—the rustic charm of a developing nation. Hopefully, I can clear the confusion.
WHY IS THE PEACE CORPS IN PARAGUAY?
Let’s start with the basics. Why am I here? In theory, my job description includes aiding rural teachers by introducing interactive teaching methods using didactic materials, songs and games. Many rural schools lack these basic activities. The root of the problem (perhaps) was the dictatorship, in which teachers were appointed jobs based on social politics. Teaching had nothing to do with liking children, education, or a sense of social responsibility. It was just a source of income. Fast-forward 20 years after the fall of the dictatorship and that mindset lingers in some teachers and principals—they simply don’t want to teach. On the other hand, you have those that do want to teach but received poor training in how to make education fun. They were trained to believe that teaching meant writing notes on the chalkboard and having all the kids copy. That’s it. Time for tea! I’m here to introduce new ideas to willing recipients. I also work as a tutor for kids that the system has failed. And, I also help w/ community projects.
My secondary job is to improve the general livelihood of youth. This part is quite flexible. It includes job skills training, health and fitness, arts and crafts, social skills, and anything else a child might need to become a productive member of society. I enjoy this part the most because I believe that children can only learn when they aren’t sick, stressed-out, or otherwise unhealthy. I’ve started teaching dance (read: fitness) and health classes. In dance class, I throw in the basics of health, as well as geography and social studies. For example, I choreographed a dance to Shakira’s “Waka Waka” after the World Cup. Before teaching the dance, I did a mini presentation on South African history, geography, and social politics. In my health class, we cover hydration, exercise, and a balanced diet. To make class more interesting, we prepare healthy snacks together and play games dealing with health and food choices. For American kids, my ideas aren’t extraordinary. For kids in my site, my ideas are new and interesting because, for the most part, they have been copying off of the board for years.
HOW DOES PARAGUAY’S UNIQUE POSITION AFFECT MY JOB?
How do I do what I do? My site makes my job interesting. My town, and much of Paraguay, is a brain shattering clash between developing nation and 21 century. I have access to a decent amount of resources but still face economic, social, and logistical hardships. Let’s explore that before I continue:
Weirdness is ubiquitous. For example, a Mercedes Benz must share the road with an ox cart in the capital city of Asuncion. My town just received running water 8 years ago. Many people have cell phones and wireless internet but use outhouses and wash clothes by hand. I believe that the strangeness in the leaps of advancement is caused by political corruption and poor infrastructure. (Mind you, they go hand in hand.) For example, a new politician has no issues pocketing every penny that he receives. As a result, he’s driving a Benz while is neighbor strives to survive selling beans out of the back of an ox cart. Because money doesn’t go where it should, infrastructure is lacking. Water and power shortages are a daily occurrence, assuming that your town has been equipped with those amenities at all. Cell phones and wireless internet are popular because they require minimal government involvement. I’m sure that I said that wrong...for example, there aren’t power lines running to everyone’s houses to supply them with landlines, but some rich dude paid to have a Personal tower erected one town over, so everyone who can afford the one-time-purchase of a cell phone and/or modem has access to wireless communication.
How does this relate to my job? I brought my computer from the States and a wireless modem here, so I can chat with my sister while researching South African history. But to print my notes I’d need to wait at least an hour for a shoddy, Cold War era public bus to take me to the next town, and then wait another hour or more for it to bring me back. It’s only a 15 minute trip but it isn’t pedestrian friendly. Anything revolving paper (printing, books) costs an arm and your first born child because they’re luxuries. I have easy access to electronics stores where I can buy speakers for my iPod; then I can play my iPod during dance class where children are dancing barefoot and battling intestinal worms. I can do my job rather easily but the “rustic charms” of a developing nation are always present.
So when people see that I’ve changed my Facebook status they assume that I’m living somewhere comparable to the US and that I’m on a 2 year vacation. I’m not. Even with my fancy modern bathroom I might end up taking bucket baths when the water goes out. I have to go outside to use the “kitchen” sink. Everything shuts down when it rains because the dirt roads flood. I can IM my family but it takes 4 hours or more to load a YouTube video. I have Ramon noodles and instant coffee but neither does me any good when I can’t heat water during a power outage. (I nipped that in the bud by buying a gas stove, but you get my drift.) Disclaimer: I am not complaining. I am by no means the most disadvantaged PC volunteer.
Socially, there are many blurred lines as well. I can’t tell where I stand. Women in my town do not live alone. They do not travel alone. Most of the time, they do not sleep alone because they should be scared to do so. I’ve met more than one woman in her 20s who still chooses to share a bed with a sibling (when hubby isn’t around) because she’s scared to be alone. Women are usually married by age 20 at the latest, and working on their second or third kid by 25. In my town, women rarely drink in public. (Less than 10 years ago, women did not drink at all.) Girls as old as 18 still need permission to be out after dusk. They rarely get that permission. Public male and female interaction is limited. If you have a male friend over—even if you’re just sitting outside playing cards—he is instantly your boyfriend. And you’re likely screwing him since he visits you.
With all that said, there are a few single mothers in my site, a few women that are in college or university, one girl with a tattoo and labret piercing, a few that drink in public, and a few that have good male friends. Amazingly, these girls don’t have miserable reputations. I’m not sure what any of that means for me, though. I am a 24-year-old unmarried woman who has traveled alone, is living alone, drinks alcohol on occasion and is accustomed to having male friends that I don’t sleep with. Where do I fit into the groove of things?
There are upsides to the oddness of Paraguay. During one of my interactive model lessons in pre-K, we talked about colors and then took a field trip to a student’s grandparent’s house. To explore the colors we learned about, we picked orange oranges straight off of brown and green trees. We petted black and white cows, and chased red, white, and brown chickens. Then we went back to class and made pictures of what we encountered that day using printing paper and Faber Castell markers. Most American kids can’t explore colors in such diverse ways.
And in the midst of it all, I have the EPP kidnapping and killing people in the north, drug trafficking on the Bolivian and Brazilian borders, crazies who take public transit only to cut off girl’s ponytails and sell the hair...and families who keep their doors and windows unlocked all day long.
So if you’re still confused by my job functions and living conditions, you should be. God knows I am.
WHY IS THE PEACE CORPS IN PARAGUAY?
Let’s start with the basics. Why am I here? In theory, my job description includes aiding rural teachers by introducing interactive teaching methods using didactic materials, songs and games. Many rural schools lack these basic activities. The root of the problem (perhaps) was the dictatorship, in which teachers were appointed jobs based on social politics. Teaching had nothing to do with liking children, education, or a sense of social responsibility. It was just a source of income. Fast-forward 20 years after the fall of the dictatorship and that mindset lingers in some teachers and principals—they simply don’t want to teach. On the other hand, you have those that do want to teach but received poor training in how to make education fun. They were trained to believe that teaching meant writing notes on the chalkboard and having all the kids copy. That’s it. Time for tea! I’m here to introduce new ideas to willing recipients. I also work as a tutor for kids that the system has failed. And, I also help w/ community projects.
My secondary job is to improve the general livelihood of youth. This part is quite flexible. It includes job skills training, health and fitness, arts and crafts, social skills, and anything else a child might need to become a productive member of society. I enjoy this part the most because I believe that children can only learn when they aren’t sick, stressed-out, or otherwise unhealthy. I’ve started teaching dance (read: fitness) and health classes. In dance class, I throw in the basics of health, as well as geography and social studies. For example, I choreographed a dance to Shakira’s “Waka Waka” after the World Cup. Before teaching the dance, I did a mini presentation on South African history, geography, and social politics. In my health class, we cover hydration, exercise, and a balanced diet. To make class more interesting, we prepare healthy snacks together and play games dealing with health and food choices. For American kids, my ideas aren’t extraordinary. For kids in my site, my ideas are new and interesting because, for the most part, they have been copying off of the board for years.
HOW DOES PARAGUAY’S UNIQUE POSITION AFFECT MY JOB?
How do I do what I do? My site makes my job interesting. My town, and much of Paraguay, is a brain shattering clash between developing nation and 21 century. I have access to a decent amount of resources but still face economic, social, and logistical hardships. Let’s explore that before I continue:
Weirdness is ubiquitous. For example, a Mercedes Benz must share the road with an ox cart in the capital city of Asuncion. My town just received running water 8 years ago. Many people have cell phones and wireless internet but use outhouses and wash clothes by hand. I believe that the strangeness in the leaps of advancement is caused by political corruption and poor infrastructure. (Mind you, they go hand in hand.) For example, a new politician has no issues pocketing every penny that he receives. As a result, he’s driving a Benz while is neighbor strives to survive selling beans out of the back of an ox cart. Because money doesn’t go where it should, infrastructure is lacking. Water and power shortages are a daily occurrence, assuming that your town has been equipped with those amenities at all. Cell phones and wireless internet are popular because they require minimal government involvement. I’m sure that I said that wrong...for example, there aren’t power lines running to everyone’s houses to supply them with landlines, but some rich dude paid to have a Personal tower erected one town over, so everyone who can afford the one-time-purchase of a cell phone and/or modem has access to wireless communication.
How does this relate to my job? I brought my computer from the States and a wireless modem here, so I can chat with my sister while researching South African history. But to print my notes I’d need to wait at least an hour for a shoddy, Cold War era public bus to take me to the next town, and then wait another hour or more for it to bring me back. It’s only a 15 minute trip but it isn’t pedestrian friendly. Anything revolving paper (printing, books) costs an arm and your first born child because they’re luxuries. I have easy access to electronics stores where I can buy speakers for my iPod; then I can play my iPod during dance class where children are dancing barefoot and battling intestinal worms. I can do my job rather easily but the “rustic charms” of a developing nation are always present.
So when people see that I’ve changed my Facebook status they assume that I’m living somewhere comparable to the US and that I’m on a 2 year vacation. I’m not. Even with my fancy modern bathroom I might end up taking bucket baths when the water goes out. I have to go outside to use the “kitchen” sink. Everything shuts down when it rains because the dirt roads flood. I can IM my family but it takes 4 hours or more to load a YouTube video. I have Ramon noodles and instant coffee but neither does me any good when I can’t heat water during a power outage. (I nipped that in the bud by buying a gas stove, but you get my drift.) Disclaimer: I am not complaining. I am by no means the most disadvantaged PC volunteer.
Socially, there are many blurred lines as well. I can’t tell where I stand. Women in my town do not live alone. They do not travel alone. Most of the time, they do not sleep alone because they should be scared to do so. I’ve met more than one woman in her 20s who still chooses to share a bed with a sibling (when hubby isn’t around) because she’s scared to be alone. Women are usually married by age 20 at the latest, and working on their second or third kid by 25. In my town, women rarely drink in public. (Less than 10 years ago, women did not drink at all.) Girls as old as 18 still need permission to be out after dusk. They rarely get that permission. Public male and female interaction is limited. If you have a male friend over—even if you’re just sitting outside playing cards—he is instantly your boyfriend. And you’re likely screwing him since he visits you.
With all that said, there are a few single mothers in my site, a few women that are in college or university, one girl with a tattoo and labret piercing, a few that drink in public, and a few that have good male friends. Amazingly, these girls don’t have miserable reputations. I’m not sure what any of that means for me, though. I am a 24-year-old unmarried woman who has traveled alone, is living alone, drinks alcohol on occasion and is accustomed to having male friends that I don’t sleep with. Where do I fit into the groove of things?
There are upsides to the oddness of Paraguay. During one of my interactive model lessons in pre-K, we talked about colors and then took a field trip to a student’s grandparent’s house. To explore the colors we learned about, we picked orange oranges straight off of brown and green trees. We petted black and white cows, and chased red, white, and brown chickens. Then we went back to class and made pictures of what we encountered that day using printing paper and Faber Castell markers. Most American kids can’t explore colors in such diverse ways.
And in the midst of it all, I have the EPP kidnapping and killing people in the north, drug trafficking on the Bolivian and Brazilian borders, crazies who take public transit only to cut off girl’s ponytails and sell the hair...and families who keep their doors and windows unlocked all day long.
So if you’re still confused by my job functions and living conditions, you should be. God knows I am.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
When Someone Dies, Life Stops
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.
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.
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!
Monday, May 31, 2010
I Thought I Was Being Superficial, Then I Realized I Was Being Progressive
This session is all about housing, food, and why I don’t need to change my American perspective just this once...
Let me begin by saying that my sister and brother-in-law (along with every other member of my family) has done an excellent job spoiling—I mean, loving—me. For this reason, I have come to have rather high expectations in life. I came into the Peace Corps expecting physical and emotional hardship, all the while knowing in the back of my mind that the good times would certainly outweigh the bad and that I would have an exceptionally wonderful service simply because I’m me.
This is not entirely untrue. During training, I was one of the few trainees who encountered no problems with my host family. I had privacy, good food, encouragement, and a sense of inclusion in the family. Now as a volunteer, while not in the ideal situation, I still have come across a loving family that has offered me a full access to their home, their hearts, and their time.
I expected this wonderfulness to continue without hindrance. As I searched for more permanent housing, my host sister mentioned this beautiful 2 story house up the street. It is fabulous by rural Paraguayan standards and pleased my American sense of material elegance: it had a large kitchen with a gas stove (yay!), an unnecessarily large bathroom with the best water heating system available in the country, three bedrooms, and an attic that could be converted to make the perfect dance and arts studio. Of course, I wanted this house.
The owner, currently in Argentina, wanted me to pay $400USD. I laughed out loud because A.) I’m not paying USD for anything here B.) “volunteer” means I have no money, US or otherwise. Trying not to insult her, I explained that I “can’t” pay in USD. Then she asked for $450g, which is more reasonable (and well under $400USD) and I said I’d consider her offer. After conferring with other volunteers I concluded that I would only afford that house if I ate instant noodles for two years and never left my site. The other volunteer in my area is only paying $200g for her house, which is smaller but is still very nice. My counter offer was $300g. She didn’t budge. My max was $350g and she still didn’t budge. She politely thanked me for my interest and hung up the phone.
Are you kidding?
Aside from being upset that she was throwing off my success-groove, I was saddened by this woman’s apparent lack of business savvy. Our town is VERY small. I am the only new person to arrive in three years. She simply isn’t going to have any other offers on that house! She would rather have no income and have the house overrun by spiders than to have an additional $300g in her account each month (only $150g less than she expected). What nonsense!
So I’m still with my great host family, but sleeping in an old corner store. This is less than fabulous, but I have to remember that I am in the Peace Corps. Not the chuchi-super-fancy-house Corps, not the Desperate-House-Wives-of-Atlanta-Corps, but the I’m-dedicating-two-years-of-my-life-to-help-others-and-better-myself Corps. That might mean not having a two story house, which is fine.
Did I mention that a lot of my fellow volunteers and living in wooden shacks, sharing a room with three or more children, fetching questionable well water, and using wood burning stoves? Yeah. I won’t complain about my situation. But that’s just it. I have lived so well it is difficult for me not to expect more. It’s not a matter of deserving more, or needing more, or even being dissatisfied with less. It is simply that I am accustomed to more, and part of my Peace Corps journey seems to be lowering my expectations in life...right?
That is counter intuitive to me. No part of my upbringing supports that expectations should be lowered. If anything, expectations should be raised and precedents exceeded.
The standard of living should be raised. Why not? Why not have a community with clean running water, and secure and comfortable housing that uses sustainable resources? Isn’t that why we have Rural Economic Development and Rural Health and Sanitation departments in the Peace Corps? We aren’t preaching the gospel of superficiality and capitalism so much as trying to make people’s lives easier. There is nothing easy about hand washing clothes in filthy river water or chopping down every damn tree in town just to cook dinner.
So basically, I’m not changing my standards. I’m content with what I have but will continue to aim for more/
Let’s take Paraguayan food for example. Grab an animal, cook it in grease, and add some mandioca (like potatoes with nothing on them). Dinner is done! Everyday. I won’t settle for that. So what did I do? I made tofu fried rice for my family, using the healthiest veggie oil I could find, a crap-load of veggies, and tofu instead of animals. Before that I made whole wheat pasta with eggplant and tomatoes, and before that I made veggie omelets. They loved it all! Three days this week my family ate healthier because I didn’t settle for, “Well, at least they have food.” If you’re going to eat, why not eat food that actually benefits your body?
If you’re going to live, live well.
Agree?
Let me begin by saying that my sister and brother-in-law (along with every other member of my family) has done an excellent job spoiling—I mean, loving—me. For this reason, I have come to have rather high expectations in life. I came into the Peace Corps expecting physical and emotional hardship, all the while knowing in the back of my mind that the good times would certainly outweigh the bad and that I would have an exceptionally wonderful service simply because I’m me.
This is not entirely untrue. During training, I was one of the few trainees who encountered no problems with my host family. I had privacy, good food, encouragement, and a sense of inclusion in the family. Now as a volunteer, while not in the ideal situation, I still have come across a loving family that has offered me a full access to their home, their hearts, and their time.
I expected this wonderfulness to continue without hindrance. As I searched for more permanent housing, my host sister mentioned this beautiful 2 story house up the street. It is fabulous by rural Paraguayan standards and pleased my American sense of material elegance: it had a large kitchen with a gas stove (yay!), an unnecessarily large bathroom with the best water heating system available in the country, three bedrooms, and an attic that could be converted to make the perfect dance and arts studio. Of course, I wanted this house.
The owner, currently in Argentina, wanted me to pay $400USD. I laughed out loud because A.) I’m not paying USD for anything here B.) “volunteer” means I have no money, US or otherwise. Trying not to insult her, I explained that I “can’t” pay in USD. Then she asked for $450g, which is more reasonable (and well under $400USD) and I said I’d consider her offer. After conferring with other volunteers I concluded that I would only afford that house if I ate instant noodles for two years and never left my site. The other volunteer in my area is only paying $200g for her house, which is smaller but is still very nice. My counter offer was $300g. She didn’t budge. My max was $350g and she still didn’t budge. She politely thanked me for my interest and hung up the phone.
Are you kidding?
Aside from being upset that she was throwing off my success-groove, I was saddened by this woman’s apparent lack of business savvy. Our town is VERY small. I am the only new person to arrive in three years. She simply isn’t going to have any other offers on that house! She would rather have no income and have the house overrun by spiders than to have an additional $300g in her account each month (only $150g less than she expected). What nonsense!
So I’m still with my great host family, but sleeping in an old corner store. This is less than fabulous, but I have to remember that I am in the Peace Corps. Not the chuchi-super-fancy-house Corps, not the Desperate-House-Wives-of-Atlanta-Corps, but the I’m-dedicating-two-years-of-my-life-to-help-others-and-better-myself Corps. That might mean not having a two story house, which is fine.
Did I mention that a lot of my fellow volunteers and living in wooden shacks, sharing a room with three or more children, fetching questionable well water, and using wood burning stoves? Yeah. I won’t complain about my situation. But that’s just it. I have lived so well it is difficult for me not to expect more. It’s not a matter of deserving more, or needing more, or even being dissatisfied with less. It is simply that I am accustomed to more, and part of my Peace Corps journey seems to be lowering my expectations in life...right?
That is counter intuitive to me. No part of my upbringing supports that expectations should be lowered. If anything, expectations should be raised and precedents exceeded.
The standard of living should be raised. Why not? Why not have a community with clean running water, and secure and comfortable housing that uses sustainable resources? Isn’t that why we have Rural Economic Development and Rural Health and Sanitation departments in the Peace Corps? We aren’t preaching the gospel of superficiality and capitalism so much as trying to make people’s lives easier. There is nothing easy about hand washing clothes in filthy river water or chopping down every damn tree in town just to cook dinner.
So basically, I’m not changing my standards. I’m content with what I have but will continue to aim for more/
Let’s take Paraguayan food for example. Grab an animal, cook it in grease, and add some mandioca (like potatoes with nothing on them). Dinner is done! Everyday. I won’t settle for that. So what did I do? I made tofu fried rice for my family, using the healthiest veggie oil I could find, a crap-load of veggies, and tofu instead of animals. Before that I made whole wheat pasta with eggplant and tomatoes, and before that I made veggie omelets. They loved it all! Three days this week my family ate healthier because I didn’t settle for, “Well, at least they have food.” If you’re going to eat, why not eat food that actually benefits your body?
If you’re going to live, live well.
Agree?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
I'm Officially a Volunteer!
SWEARING-IN WEEKEND
So you bust your butt for about three months in preparation to become a volunteer. You would think that they swearing-in process would be monumental, right? The event didn’t live up to the hype. Fortunately, the events before and after swearing-in were sufficient.
The week before swearing-in is the infamous talent show. It’s a free for all, open for no-talent, true talent, and anything in between. The education group decided to create a mixture; the guys mocked our health charlas and created a rap about sevo’i and ghiardia. I, along with my chicas, choreographed a backup dance. I must admit that I am very proud of our efforts. The lyrics were actually GOOD and the choreography was fun and energetic. (During our first rehearsal I wore the Michael Jackson’s Thriller T-Shirt my brother gave me, which helped me channel the late King of Pop.) We presented at the talent show amidst cheers and applause. Then we won :o) It might seem silly, but it was one of the best moments that I’ve had in training because everyone worked together and had a great time in the process.
Later that week we packed all our crap and heading into Asuncion for the official ceremony.
I swore in as an official volunteer on April 30. The ceremony was at the U.S. Embassy, which reminds me more of a botanical garden than an office building. The grounds are impeccably maintained with tropical foliage, and even a little waterfall.
The ceremony itself wasn’t groundbreaking, and after three months of emotionally draining training I expected more of a catharsis. But alas. The ambassador gave a speech—which, based on the amount of “ums” and its painfully apparent lack of organization, was improvised—followed by a volunteer’s speech. Then we ate cake. After that we all sort of looked at each other and tried to figure what we should do as official volunteers.
AFTER PARTY
I’ve got to be honest. Most of us made some really bad decisions as official volunteers. Yes, swear-in weekend is all about partying it up in the big city before venturing out to our prospective sites. Unfortunately, that tradition comes with a price. The price is having a bunch of drunken, loud, horny volunteers storming the city like we own it. There was more than one occasion when I was really ashamed of our behavior, and I questioned why such behavior is tolerated by the Powers That Be of the Peace Corps (and yes, they know exactly what’s going on). Fortunately, I did find my niche throughout the weekend. I got to spend time with people that I didn’t often see during training.
Being who I am, one of the highlights of the swear-in weekend was the food. Most of my friends ate cheap so they could spend money on beer. Not being much of a beer drinker, I took advantage of every night to eat at a great restaurant and selecting exactly what I wanted. It was marvelous. The food itself wasn’t “exotic” but it was good. The best dishes were from a Mexican restaurant (Hacienda de las Palomas) and Korean (I’m clueless of the name, because the sign was written in Korean, but it is on Avenida Peru near Mercado 4).
In Georgia, my siblings and I ate Mexican or Tex-Mex at least twice a week. Having gone without for three months is unfathomable. I nearly cried with joy when my friends and I approached the restaurant. We walked into the quintessential setting of warm hues and faux antique finishes. I welcomed the familiar aromas and salivated as I scanned the menu. I wanted everything--but first, a Tequila Sunrise. There was so much laughter and picture taking, it was like prom-night dinner. I ordered shrimp fajitas (because I hadn’t had shrimp in three months, which is also unfathomable) and savored every drop. There wasn’t cheese, which threw me off, but I easy ordered some along with some tasty guacamole.
In Georgia, we also had Japanese at least once a week. My friends weren’t down for Japanese food (claiming that there could be no good sushi in a landlocked country) so the closest I could get was Korean. I had never eaten Korean food before, and was really excited when my friend proposed going to the ever-shady Mercado 4 and trying out a restaurant. The free appetizers were a meal in themselves, and I was glad to try traditional favorites like kimchi. There was also spicy calamari and a vegetable soup with tofu. We were rolled out of the restaurant.
Other personal highlights include dancing until 5am, more than my fair share of coffee at a sidewalk café, and growing closer to my fellow volunteers in the process. Regardless of some of our behavior, I know that G-32 will have some kick-butt volunteers and I’m excited about the work that we will do here.
FIRST DAYS AT SITE
We can’t do great things if we can’t get to our freakin’ sites. For some of us, just getting to our new homes on Tuesday was a pain. Some roads flooded, trapping volunteers between Asuncion and unknown towns on the way to their sites. Others had buses that only left twice a day to take them to sites hours away—don’t be late or you’re stuck waiting 24 hours or more for your next ride.
For me, I arrived without much of a problem, only to find that I didn’t have place to stay. The teacher who was going to rent her house to rented it out to someone else at the last minute. And by last minute I mean she didn’t even tell me until I called her that morning. Anyway, the current volunteer in my site was able to find a place for me to stay and everything worked out. Likely for the best. I slept in a community center for the first two nights (NOT glamorous) before moving in with the family next door. Now I am sleeping in an old store (also NOT glamorous, but this is the Peace Corps). The plus side, which outweighs all, is that I am staying with an amazingly awesome family.
Wednesday, the current volunteer and I went to the neighboring pueblo of Santani (San Estanislao). It’s pretty perfect. There is a great grocery store that has a few American favorites, a mini Mercado 4 that is infinitely less shady but just as inexpensive, and a café with wi-fi. I think I’m set. This is the Peace Corps but I never claimed to be campo material.
Tomorrow I’m going to drag myself out of my comfort zone and head to the schools. I plan to start simple, working only with preschool and kindergarten for 4 hours, 3 days a week. I also want to pull kids out the classes that are really behind and work with them one on one in the area of writing/reading. The great thing about it all is that I can work at my own pace as long as I communicate my plans well to the teachers. As I grow more comfortable with my language abilities, I can increase my hours and work with more grades.
Prayers are welcomed. Wish me luck. Positive vibes are needed. Whatever your sense of peace, send it my way :o)
So you bust your butt for about three months in preparation to become a volunteer. You would think that they swearing-in process would be monumental, right? The event didn’t live up to the hype. Fortunately, the events before and after swearing-in were sufficient.
The week before swearing-in is the infamous talent show. It’s a free for all, open for no-talent, true talent, and anything in between. The education group decided to create a mixture; the guys mocked our health charlas and created a rap about sevo’i and ghiardia. I, along with my chicas, choreographed a backup dance. I must admit that I am very proud of our efforts. The lyrics were actually GOOD and the choreography was fun and energetic. (During our first rehearsal I wore the Michael Jackson’s Thriller T-Shirt my brother gave me, which helped me channel the late King of Pop.) We presented at the talent show amidst cheers and applause. Then we won :o) It might seem silly, but it was one of the best moments that I’ve had in training because everyone worked together and had a great time in the process.
Later that week we packed all our crap and heading into Asuncion for the official ceremony.
I swore in as an official volunteer on April 30. The ceremony was at the U.S. Embassy, which reminds me more of a botanical garden than an office building. The grounds are impeccably maintained with tropical foliage, and even a little waterfall.
The ceremony itself wasn’t groundbreaking, and after three months of emotionally draining training I expected more of a catharsis. But alas. The ambassador gave a speech—which, based on the amount of “ums” and its painfully apparent lack of organization, was improvised—followed by a volunteer’s speech. Then we ate cake. After that we all sort of looked at each other and tried to figure what we should do as official volunteers.
AFTER PARTY
I’ve got to be honest. Most of us made some really bad decisions as official volunteers. Yes, swear-in weekend is all about partying it up in the big city before venturing out to our prospective sites. Unfortunately, that tradition comes with a price. The price is having a bunch of drunken, loud, horny volunteers storming the city like we own it. There was more than one occasion when I was really ashamed of our behavior, and I questioned why such behavior is tolerated by the Powers That Be of the Peace Corps (and yes, they know exactly what’s going on). Fortunately, I did find my niche throughout the weekend. I got to spend time with people that I didn’t often see during training.
Being who I am, one of the highlights of the swear-in weekend was the food. Most of my friends ate cheap so they could spend money on beer. Not being much of a beer drinker, I took advantage of every night to eat at a great restaurant and selecting exactly what I wanted. It was marvelous. The food itself wasn’t “exotic” but it was good. The best dishes were from a Mexican restaurant (Hacienda de las Palomas) and Korean (I’m clueless of the name, because the sign was written in Korean, but it is on Avenida Peru near Mercado 4).
In Georgia, my siblings and I ate Mexican or Tex-Mex at least twice a week. Having gone without for three months is unfathomable. I nearly cried with joy when my friends and I approached the restaurant. We walked into the quintessential setting of warm hues and faux antique finishes. I welcomed the familiar aromas and salivated as I scanned the menu. I wanted everything--but first, a Tequila Sunrise. There was so much laughter and picture taking, it was like prom-night dinner. I ordered shrimp fajitas (because I hadn’t had shrimp in three months, which is also unfathomable) and savored every drop. There wasn’t cheese, which threw me off, but I easy ordered some along with some tasty guacamole.
In Georgia, we also had Japanese at least once a week. My friends weren’t down for Japanese food (claiming that there could be no good sushi in a landlocked country) so the closest I could get was Korean. I had never eaten Korean food before, and was really excited when my friend proposed going to the ever-shady Mercado 4 and trying out a restaurant. The free appetizers were a meal in themselves, and I was glad to try traditional favorites like kimchi. There was also spicy calamari and a vegetable soup with tofu. We were rolled out of the restaurant.
Other personal highlights include dancing until 5am, more than my fair share of coffee at a sidewalk café, and growing closer to my fellow volunteers in the process. Regardless of some of our behavior, I know that G-32 will have some kick-butt volunteers and I’m excited about the work that we will do here.
FIRST DAYS AT SITE
We can’t do great things if we can’t get to our freakin’ sites. For some of us, just getting to our new homes on Tuesday was a pain. Some roads flooded, trapping volunteers between Asuncion and unknown towns on the way to their sites. Others had buses that only left twice a day to take them to sites hours away—don’t be late or you’re stuck waiting 24 hours or more for your next ride.
For me, I arrived without much of a problem, only to find that I didn’t have place to stay. The teacher who was going to rent her house to rented it out to someone else at the last minute. And by last minute I mean she didn’t even tell me until I called her that morning. Anyway, the current volunteer in my site was able to find a place for me to stay and everything worked out. Likely for the best. I slept in a community center for the first two nights (NOT glamorous) before moving in with the family next door. Now I am sleeping in an old store (also NOT glamorous, but this is the Peace Corps). The plus side, which outweighs all, is that I am staying with an amazingly awesome family.
Wednesday, the current volunteer and I went to the neighboring pueblo of Santani (San Estanislao). It’s pretty perfect. There is a great grocery store that has a few American favorites, a mini Mercado 4 that is infinitely less shady but just as inexpensive, and a café with wi-fi. I think I’m set. This is the Peace Corps but I never claimed to be campo material.
Tomorrow I’m going to drag myself out of my comfort zone and head to the schools. I plan to start simple, working only with preschool and kindergarten for 4 hours, 3 days a week. I also want to pull kids out the classes that are really behind and work with them one on one in the area of writing/reading. The great thing about it all is that I can work at my own pace as long as I communicate my plans well to the teachers. As I grow more comfortable with my language abilities, I can increase my hours and work with more grades.
Prayers are welcomed. Wish me luck. Positive vibes are needed. Whatever your sense of peace, send it my way :o)
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Prejudice, Semana Santa, and Other Happenings
Today someone called me ugly to my face. It was in Spanish with a Guarani accent but it was unmistakably “feo.” Now, my initial response was to be a smart ass, then I remembered that I was a guest in their home and that I’d likely screw up my wit with a language error anyway, so I left it alone. My second response was to seethe, but that only lasted a moment before a realized that I had nothing to seethe about. The man who called me ugly was about 70, toothless, dirty and with chicken poop on his feet, and apparently couldn’t take care of himself as he was mooching off of his sister’s and niece’s meager income. Could I really let this guy offend me?
I could, but that would be silly.
Fortunately, this episode did get me thinking about my reaction to racially-charged events in Paraguay. I’ve had quite a few. People here are going to say mean things about me, likely as they did behind my back in the States. Prejudice is everywhere. Racism exists in many places. In some cases, people used prejudices as a way to affirm their own identities (e.g. the US Klan). They have a sense of why they believe what they believe and what they hope to accomplish through it. Oddly, there are others who don’t know why they dislike what they dislike. In the case of the aforementioned Paraguayan (and much of the globe?) I don’t think he understand that his concept of beauty has origins in colonialism: pale skinned invaders tell the locals that they are less than, treat locals as if they are less than, and then propagate the settler’s sense of beauty and value. The Paraguayan was clearly the descendant of the Guarani; he has features that early Spanish values would have deemed, “feo.” Those values still rear their ugly heads on television, magazines, advertisements...and he laps them up, so much so that he regurgitates them without thinking. Did he realize that by those antiquated values he, his nieces, his sister and brother-in-law are all feo? Did he fail to notice that their skin is darker than the actors on TV, and their hair is thicker and curlier than the lady posing in the detergent ad? In short, he wasn’t marginalized, poor and dirty because he the descendant of a Spanish aristocrat.
In short, he is too clueless for me to take his opinion too seriously.
Even if he was better educated, it wouldn’t change much. The bottom line is that a racist person won’t like me regardless. It has nothing to do with my moral standing or work ethic or sense of family or anything else that I value. They dislike what they dislike and it has nothing to do with me personally. Asi es!
Now, that doesn’t make hearing verbal vomit any less appealing. It does influence how I react the next time a guy on a motorcycle drives by and calls me a nigger. Seething won’t help. Reacting definitely won’t help. Understanding why and moving on with my life helps. It’s worth blogging about, but not worth carrying on my shoulders for long.
Perhaps I should insert some disclaimer about not all Paraguayans being prejudice but 1.) any of my family and friends reading this already know that 2.) I can’t guarantee that it’s true. What I can say for certain is that I’ve met at least 8 wonderful Paraguayans whose company I enjoy. I made chipa with 3 of them today. Chipa is a type of bread made from mandioca (aka cardboard in stick form, like a potato), cheese, corn, and sometimes onions. During Semana Santa (Holy Week) Paraguayans fast for two or three days, eating nothing but chipa. This sounded miserable at first, but fresh baked chipa is pretty freakin’ awesome. What’s more awesome is making it! The dough is soft and holds forms well, like play-dough, so it’s perfect for making funny shapes. I made a violin, a piano, drums, and a couple geometric shapes with funky designs in the middle. It felt good to play with dough and use some of my creative talents that have lain dormant for two months. My host mom said I was guapa (hard working) and my host sister and I had a great time laughing at designs. She’s a little dirty: she made a pair of breasts, a penis (which she remolded into a flute before baking) and a paddle to spank her son with. It was all great fun.
Afterwards I sat on the curb and watched the neighborhood kids play soccer. There is one girl, Daisy, who is quite good and very competitive. It makes me sad that there isn’t a professional women’s team for her to aspire to. I tried to tell her that if she wanted, maybe she could play for the US. She seemed confused.
We get 5 days off for Semana Santa, which sounds like boringness waiting to happen, so my friends and I have already planned a trip to Asuncion for the weekend. We will spend three days with our family—soaking up the culture of Terere and watching grass grow—and then go to the city for two days and remember what its like to be over stimulated and gluttonous. I like extremes.
I could, but that would be silly.
Fortunately, this episode did get me thinking about my reaction to racially-charged events in Paraguay. I’ve had quite a few. People here are going to say mean things about me, likely as they did behind my back in the States. Prejudice is everywhere. Racism exists in many places. In some cases, people used prejudices as a way to affirm their own identities (e.g. the US Klan). They have a sense of why they believe what they believe and what they hope to accomplish through it. Oddly, there are others who don’t know why they dislike what they dislike. In the case of the aforementioned Paraguayan (and much of the globe?) I don’t think he understand that his concept of beauty has origins in colonialism: pale skinned invaders tell the locals that they are less than, treat locals as if they are less than, and then propagate the settler’s sense of beauty and value. The Paraguayan was clearly the descendant of the Guarani; he has features that early Spanish values would have deemed, “feo.” Those values still rear their ugly heads on television, magazines, advertisements...and he laps them up, so much so that he regurgitates them without thinking. Did he realize that by those antiquated values he, his nieces, his sister and brother-in-law are all feo? Did he fail to notice that their skin is darker than the actors on TV, and their hair is thicker and curlier than the lady posing in the detergent ad? In short, he wasn’t marginalized, poor and dirty because he the descendant of a Spanish aristocrat.
In short, he is too clueless for me to take his opinion too seriously.
Even if he was better educated, it wouldn’t change much. The bottom line is that a racist person won’t like me regardless. It has nothing to do with my moral standing or work ethic or sense of family or anything else that I value. They dislike what they dislike and it has nothing to do with me personally. Asi es!
Now, that doesn’t make hearing verbal vomit any less appealing. It does influence how I react the next time a guy on a motorcycle drives by and calls me a nigger. Seething won’t help. Reacting definitely won’t help. Understanding why and moving on with my life helps. It’s worth blogging about, but not worth carrying on my shoulders for long.
Perhaps I should insert some disclaimer about not all Paraguayans being prejudice but 1.) any of my family and friends reading this already know that 2.) I can’t guarantee that it’s true. What I can say for certain is that I’ve met at least 8 wonderful Paraguayans whose company I enjoy. I made chipa with 3 of them today. Chipa is a type of bread made from mandioca (aka cardboard in stick form, like a potato), cheese, corn, and sometimes onions. During Semana Santa (Holy Week) Paraguayans fast for two or three days, eating nothing but chipa. This sounded miserable at first, but fresh baked chipa is pretty freakin’ awesome. What’s more awesome is making it! The dough is soft and holds forms well, like play-dough, so it’s perfect for making funny shapes. I made a violin, a piano, drums, and a couple geometric shapes with funky designs in the middle. It felt good to play with dough and use some of my creative talents that have lain dormant for two months. My host mom said I was guapa (hard working) and my host sister and I had a great time laughing at designs. She’s a little dirty: she made a pair of breasts, a penis (which she remolded into a flute before baking) and a paddle to spank her son with. It was all great fun.
Afterwards I sat on the curb and watched the neighborhood kids play soccer. There is one girl, Daisy, who is quite good and very competitive. It makes me sad that there isn’t a professional women’s team for her to aspire to. I tried to tell her that if she wanted, maybe she could play for the US. She seemed confused.
We get 5 days off for Semana Santa, which sounds like boringness waiting to happen, so my friends and I have already planned a trip to Asuncion for the weekend. We will spend three days with our family—soaking up the culture of Terere and watching grass grow—and then go to the city for two days and remember what its like to be over stimulated and gluttonous. I like extremes.
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