Hallothanksmas

The first major US holiday since my departure has come and gone, and I thought you all might be interested to hear how I spent my Thanksgiving here in Pohnpei.

The day started like any other Thursday, nothing special. I told my family it was Thanksgiving at breakfast, and they all wished me a Happy Thanksgiving, but that was just about it. But I arrived at school to discover that the Governor had decreed that all schools take a half day to honor the celebration of Thanksgiving. This initially struck me as odd until I remembered this island’s love for time off of work; then it all made perfect sense.

So as we were all discussing the holiday during recess, I learned that many of my colleagues didn’t actually know what Thanksgiving celebrated. So we sat around in the office and I told them the story of Thanksgiving. It was sort of a strange experience, teaching a group of adults something that is so deeply ingrained into the people of my own culture. Then I told them a few stories of my own family and our Thanksgiving traditions, explained the Macy’s parade, and the American pride associated with the day of gluttony and thankfulness. They were all very entertained.

Then after recess, all of the classes began planning for…Christmas. Seriously. We had this time carved out for weeks. I found it endlessly amusing that it fell on Thanksgiving. (Let me remind you that there is no such thing as separation of church and state here, and the island is essentially 100% Christian, so Christmas is celebrated enthusiastically in the schools.) Here on Pohnpei, every school does Christmas the same way: Secret Santa. They don’t call it that, but that’s what it is. All the students’ names are written on pieces of paper, and everyone draws a name. Then on a designated day, the class has a big party where everyone brings food and their gifts. I chose to celebrate with the eighth grade class, so I drew names with them and prepared a sign-up list for food. All of this took almost the entire class period, save for 10 minutes before dismissal. My co-teacher Waltin and I looked at each other with momentary panic in our eyes, unsure of how to fill the time. But after only a brief pause, Waltin announced that everyone should take out a sheet of paper and draw a picture of Christmas for the remainder of the period. Absolutely zero educational value, but a perfect assignment, nonetheless. I loved walking around looking at all the pictures! It put me in such a jolly Christmas spirit…on Thanksgiving.

Then at lunch, we all left for the day—Happy Thanksgiving!  At home, I decided I wanted to do something to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family, so before we all ate, I went across the street to a little store (attached to a home) and bought four cold soda cans for us to share. The treat had exactly the right effect: everyone came together, ate, drank, and laughed. And even though I only got about two sips of soda, it was worth it to see the smiles on my family members’ faces. It was the closest thing to Thanksgiving that I could have hoped for.  As one of my nieces was gulping some grape soda, she smiled and said, “Happy Halloween, Christy!” I give her points for at least choosing a holiday during the right season.

Then that evening, the kids were still pumped up from the Christmas planning at school, so they convinced my Nohno and Pahpa that it was a good day to begin hanging Christmas lights. I know, I was just as surprised as you are. So I sat in there in the imwios  (thatched-roofed hut), watching some of the older boys drape multi-colored Christmas lights and helping my younger cousins make Halloween masks out of cardboard we’d found. On Thanksgiving.

And even though it was the strangest Thanksgiving I ever had, it was definitely a day in which I felt very thankful. Thankful for the opportunity to be here in this incredibly beautiful place and live with these amazing people that I’ve somehow earned the right to call my family. This is an experience for which I will be eternally thankful.

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, because my Hallothanksmas was wonderful.

--Christy

Budget

There’s a game that the children love to play in my village that has become a daily exasperation, so I thought I’d share it with you all. The game is called “budget”, yes the English word, but no it has no relevance to the game (I couldn’t explain to you why, the world may never know). The game is very simple: anytime someone says “ehng” (yes) anyone is free to yell “Budget!” and then is entitled to some article from the victim (a bracelet, some of the food they’re eating, their pencil, etc.). The game extends to nonverbal forms of affirmation as well, such as nodding your head, giving a thumbs up, or raising your eyebrows (the Pohnpeian version of the head-nod, which unfortunately for me has become second-nature and completely involuntary at this point).  Let’s just say, I get “budget”-ed a lot. And as you might imagine, it can get a little annoying.

The way to win at the game is to ask your victim questions that you already know they will say ‘yes’ to (or at least you’re hoping they will say ‘yes’ to) and attempt to catch them off guard. And let me tell you, you must always be on guard. The way to avoid being “budget”-ed is to cleverly avoid saying ‘yes’, either by lying,  by restating their question as a statement (Are you hungry? I’m hungry.), or by elaborating on their question (Are you hot? I’m always hot./ I’m very hot./ You know I’m hot.)

The children never tire of this game. Ever. From the moment I wake up, to the moment I go to sleep, I am constantly on the defensive for Budget attacks. I’m usually safe if I’m in a group with no children below high school age, as the kids tend to grow out of it. But evidently sometimes age makes no difference, as I’ve even been ambushed by fellow teachers and some of my adult cousins. I think the adults are worse, actually. I’m never expecting it, so their attacks are usually met with a look of total shock, my mouth agape. They love that. So basically, the Budget madness never ends.

 It got so serious that I was forced to instate and post a new rule in every classroom I teach in (which is all of them), “This classroom is a Budget-free zone” (it reminded me of the Human vs. Zombie games at USF and the placards in the Marshall Center), but the kids rarely observe my request. It becomes a bit distracting, to say the least, when a child asks for clarification on an assignment, to which I respond with an eyebrow raise, and the child shouts, “budget!” and the entire class erupts in laughter. This is pretty much a daily (if not hourly) occurrence.

So eventually, I just caved. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?  Plus, my students absolutely go nuts when I “budget” one of them in class. They love it. However, it is widely understood that I do not participate in the taking of items, and they know that in turn, if they “budget” me, they will receive nothing. They seem okay with it. The kids simply enjoy they look of defeat and utter shame on my face when they are able to get me, which is essentially every time they try.

But on the bright side, it turns out Budget is actually a great way to practice Pohnpeian.  I’m constantly forced to think of new and creative ways to answer questions, and I am always thinking up ways to trick kids into saying ‘yes’. Plus, I have to pay very close attention. All of these factors point to more success and a greater command of the language. So I can’t hate it too much. Well, yes, I can still hate it. And I do.

As with any game, some kids are better at Budget than others. I prey on the weak. The young ones, usually. The older kids almost always outsmart me, so I need to occasional self-esteem boost. My biggest adversary is my 10 year old nephew Tristan. He is Budget King. One day, he got me so bad, so many times in a row that I was literally wailing on the floor and my Nohno was in tears hysterically laughing at me. He finally came over, patted me on the back and said sincerely, “Mahk, mahk.  Kapwang mahtang Budget?” (I’m sorry. Are you tired of playing Budget?) To which I answered with a tired “Ehng.” He then yelled “BUDGET!” in my face and proudly strutted away. My Nohno just about fell out of her chair she was laughing so hard.

I have to admit, the kid is good.

Intelligence

Time for some doom and gloom. Get comfy.

Let me start this post by reminding my readers of the disclaimer at the right side of my blog. The views expressed on this site are solely my own, and do not reflect the views or opinions of the Peace Corps or of the United States Government. There, I said it.

There is something that has been weighing heavily on my heart since I got here, and I think it’s time I shared it with all of you. It is a sickening feeling that America’s presence here is irreversibly damaging (and in some ways, completely destroying) the culture of the people.

I know that’s an extreme thing to say, but stick with me. Yes, in many ways the US has helped the people of Micronesia. We’ve financially supported their urban development, building of infrastructure, “improving” schools (that is a subject for a whole other post, and probably not one suitable for online publication), and assisted in creating numerous opportunities for the people to be successful. But the question that boils deep within me, that keeps me awake some nights when I think about my family members and what will come of them in the future, is whose definition of ‘success’ are we using?

Most people in America would argue that in order to be successful you need to either be very good at something (say music, sculpting, or playing football), or you need to be well-educated and intelligent. And for most people, unless they are born with some inherent talent, chose option two. They go to college, get a nice job, and live on—successful.

But there’s a catch. Let me set the stage for you.

Imagine that you live on a tiny island, that for most of its existence was completely secluded and cut-off from the world. An island so small that often times it is simply left off of maps (a fact that infuriates me). Now imagine you speak a language that until Anglo missionaries came to your island and wished to create a bible, was purely an oral dialect.

Now imagine that you go to school and are forced to learn a completely different language, one much more complex than your own, in order to survive. There are no textbooks in your native tongue. This unfortunate fact is due to two things: first, your island is too small and without the proper resources to produce such a text, and second, your language does not have the words with which to fill the books. Yes, there are numbers in your language for counting, but they are very complex and would make computation near  impossible, let alone the fact that there are no words to describe the sometimes complicated operations of mathematics. Scientific words about the body, or health, or the world around you? Don’t exist (except of course, words pertaining to oceans and ocean life—that they have!). There are flimsy and tattered spiral-bound social studies books filled with culture and history of your island, but you will probably never learn about the world beyond—its people, cultures, geography, and history—because, you guessed it, there are no words to describe foreign things. So instead, you have hand-me-down books, generously given from America to use in the classroom, which is all well and good if you can read and understand English.

So now the task is: learn English. Seems simple enough, if you have a good teacher. But now imagine that you don’t actually need any kind of certification or training to be a teacher. To some, teaching is just a job, and a good one at that. It has excellent job security, good hours, lots of breaks and days off, and a steady paycheck.  Your teachers are simply doing the best they can. After all, they are a product of the same school system you now attend. They happen to be part of the lucky few who were able to learn English and graduate from high school. Most of the also attended the college on your island, which was established less than 20 years ago, but very few of them attained a four-year degree, and even less have a degree in Education or Teaching. There are some with degrees and training and passion for their jobs, but they are vastly outnumbered.  (Recently, at a ceremony in which Teacher of the Year was awarded to a teacher at every school on the island, several schools’ teacher was selected purely based on who had the least absences.)

Now imagine that your parents, aunts, and uncles did not finish high school. They feel intimidated by your teachers, so they rarely venture to school for PTA meetings, and they have little knowledge of what you are doing in the classroom. When you get home, nobody takes an interest in what you learned that day, nor do they inquire about homework, so you don’t do it. Besides, you’re too busy playing with your friends outside or helping around the house with chores and cooking.

Let’s stop for a minute and consider the purpose of school. Some say it’s to acquire knowledge. Sure, okay, but why? In the US there are several ways in which knowledge acquired in the classroom can be applied to daily life, but the information students learn here at school has almost zero real-world applications for them. Nobody needs to know how to find the circumference of a circle when their main concern is ensuring they help their father catch enough fish this week to feed their family.

So then we look to the less-attractive, but no less true purpose of school: to get a good job. That would be true, if there were good jobs to find, or if you even want one of them. Most people in my village, for example, run small stores or fish for a living, and it suits them just fine. The kind of jobs necessary to be successful by the Western standpoint exist only in government here—a rich elite that most of the people here have little interest in. So that leaves one option: to get a good job you must leave the island and go to Guam, Hawaii, or mainland America in search of employment. Fine. But here’s another problem: a one-way ticket to America costs roughly $2,000. So, the harsh reality for most people is they will probably never be able to leave. And if they can leave, they can likely never come back.

So now we’re back at why go to school? If the purpose of school is to get a good job, but you know that most likely can’t ever get that good job, then why even bother with school at all? Well, because it’s the law. Just like in America, students are required to be in school until they are 18, at which case they are free to drop out. Unfortunately, due to arbitrary starting ages for schooling, sometimes 18 rolls around while you’re only in 7^th grade (as was the case for one of my students just recently). So you drop out before ever reaching high school, but at least you learned a little something before then, right? Not necessarily. It is common practice to never ever fail or retain a student based on academic performance (they can, however, be retained for poor attendance—so take a student who hates school and routinely skips class and make him repeat a grade, that’ll definitely make him want to come to school). Regardless of what students earn or achieve in the classroom, they are promoted onto the next grade.  So imagine you’re one of these students. You know you essentially just have to show up. You don’t even need to turn in a single assignment all year, and you’ll still pass. So would you put forth effort? I probably wouldn’t.  So you just stick it out until you’re 18, and then you’re free.

This is your school environment.

So what do you do as an American teacher sent here to help? There are definitely kids who try hard, who want to learn, and who are largely successful in the classroom. But they are few and far between. And those are actually the students I worry about most. Will all their hard work have been completely in vain? Will it ever pay off for them? I hope so with all my heart. And how do you motivate the other students to want to learn? Lots of students get labeled “slow” or “stupid” (the concept of being politically correct is completely lost here), but I would argue that is not true, they’ve just learned to be lazy because no one ever asked for more from them.  And the more I hear professionals essentially disregard certain students because they are “not smart”, the more I started thinking about intelligence.

So the first question is what is intelligence? I’d say it’s some inherent aptitude that manifests itself in different ways for different people. I would also argue that there are no unintelligent people, but that some people’s intelligence is more conventional and therefore more apparent than others’. In my own culture, an intelligent person might be a scholar or professor, a computer programmer, an entrepreneur, an inventive architect, a trusted doctor, a gifted novelist, a head-strong political mind, a tactful lawyer, or a talented song-writer. Now, if we remove all Anglo influences here, these life-paths I’ve just described simply do not exist. So I realize I have to think about intelligence differently when it comes to the people here.

Intelligence is my Pahpa, knowing exactly the right time to go fishing to make the best catch. He rises abruptly from his sleep and rushes off, returning with an enormous bounty. Intelligence is also my Pahpa, able to create an entire house out of only what he finds in the jungle. Intelligence is one of my sixth grade students who knows exactly where the best ground is to plant yams so you can reap the best harvest. Intelligence is one of my colleagues, who can explain with passion and excitement every detail and delicate nuance of his culture. Intelligence is my Nohno, who knows which plants can help with any imaginable bodily ailment, and how often they should be eaten, drank, or applied (I can attest to this first-hand). These amazing skills and understanding are what make these people here who they are. They are intelligent, without a doubt. But unfortunately, their intelligence is not the kind you can measure on a test.

So what’s left? To be thought of as intelligent, you must be good at school. So, based on the situation described earlier, the sad truth here is that “intelligent” is synonymous with “can speak English”. And I don’t know about you, but that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

What message are we sending the youth here? That their culture, their language, their country, their lives are not good enough? That instead they should abandon all that they know, understand, and love, and embrace a new language and culture in order that they can attain this “success” that is imposed on them? Has anyone stopped to ask the people here what they want? Because it seems to me that my family, most of which are uneducated and unemployed are actually quite successful. They are happy, healthy, and have the love and support of their family. And isn’t that what we all really want anyway?

This is a very complicated issue, and I’ve only just barely touched the tip of the iceberg. But my point is, something is off-balance here. And the truth is there is no one person or entity to blame. It’s not big, bad America taking over poor, helpless Micronesia. The two countries are united in a unique and complex symbiotic relationship, and a tremendous amount of good has come of it. And yet there is something terribly wrong.

 And it is a bigger problem that just trying to identify intelligence. That is merely an example of the greater issue: trying unsuccessfully to meld two cultures. The differences between my home culture and the culture here are huge, and in some ways utterly incompatible. So the ultimate result is that one culture will eventually overcome the other. That is my fear.

 And the victor is already evident.

Laundry (and Rain), Rats, Holidays, and Church: A Collection of Stories

Hello to all! I am able to post again today because I am in town seeing off one of the two remaining volunteers from the group before me (M77’s), Cori Jo. She has been a joy to get to know, however briefly, and I wish her all the best in whatever life has in store for her next. It’s sort of funny because Cori was friends with the previous volunteer who lived with my family, Mollie (she was an M76), and she often came over to visit. So my family sent me off to the airport baring their well-wishes too. In fact, they probably knew Cori better (and defintely longer) than I did. She will most definitely be missed. Now it’s just the seven of us M78’s and one remaining M77, Janelle, who extended until May. We all feel so fortunate that Janelle is sticking around, because she provides us with endless wisdom and support, as well as her shining personality.

All is well here in Pohnpei. Not much has changed since my last post, except that the wonderful Bacon family sent me a bulging care package of school supplies! THANK YOU! The teachers snatched up the pencils like vultures, as pencils are so hard to come by, and that item alone was enough to make my school eternally grateful. But the other supplies, specifically the index cards, sharpies, and yarn, helped me to create an awesome review game/skit adventure for my 7^th graders. They LOVED it.

The most recent story that we read was Yertle the Turtle, and I thought of my father every day when as we read it, as I can remember countless nights growing up when he read Dr. Seuss books to my sister and I. His specialty was “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish”, and I’m sure as he reads this he will begin to recite to himself the first few pages by memory. (“This one has a little star, this one drives a little car, Say what a lot of fish there are!”)

Anyway, there is not a lot to report here. But I do have a few amusing stories to regale you with; hope you enjoy!

_______

Laundry (and Rain)

I have been very fortunate, both in my home in town and here in my village, to have a washing machine at my disposal. Don’t get too excited, though. These are not washing machines like we are accustomed to in America. It is a top-load machine, consisting of two cylindrical compartments, one large and one small. The first you fill with water, your clothes, and soap, then turn a dial and the cylinder gently shakes. Afterwards you can flip another dial, and the water drains out. In town, my family would then fill it up again for a rinse cycle, but here we remove the clothes and rinse them ourselves in some kind of bucket. Then the clothes are slowly fed into the smaller cylinder, which spins and shakes violently, removing excess water, at which point the damp clothes are ready to be hung to continue drying. The two machines, the one I used in town and the one I use here, are almost identical, except for the fact that the one in town worked and this one frequently does not.

Yesterday was one such day. I woke up to a beautiful sunny day after several of pure rain, and in a world where laundry hangs outside to dry, a sunny day means it’s time to wash your clothes. (You can’t afford to let a sunny day pass you by, because tomorrow it might rain all day—this is a lesson I learned very early.) So I lug my bin outside, only to discover the machine was missing. My uncle explained that it was broken and that he was fixing it (By the way, he is incredible with tools. Just last week he made a new fan out of discarded parts from various deceased machines.). So I could either wait until tomorrow, as he said, which really means next week sometime, or I could wash my clothes by hand. I opted to be hardcore. This is the Peace Corps, after all.

Washing clothes by hand consists of sitting on something—I chose an upturned bucket—and scrubbing and pounding your clothes against the cement in soapy water. It was awesome. The process was long and arduous, but ironically, I think my clothes were actually much cleaner than they would have been from swishing around in the soapy water in the machine. I washed about five skirts, seven or eight shirts, two bras, and about ten pairs of underwear. It took me two hours, and the whole time, my Nohno kept walking by and smiling and laughing at me. I told her “kaperen” (it’s fun) and that made her laugh even harder.

Now, a side note, adding to the list of reasons why being a woman here is difficult is the fact that women only wear skirts (another example is being routinely completely disrespected in my classrooms because of my gender). So all the manual labor is done while also attempting to be dainty. During training, one of the staff actually took time to show us how to get up and down off the floor in a skirt, and the exercise seemed excessive and somewhat childish, but now I completely understand the necessity. But I am proud to say I now have the skills necessary to lay or sit in almost any position in my skirt without revealing anything unladylike. It all involved careful folding and tucking of the skirt that at first required careful trial and error, but eventually comes as second nature. Most important to this story, I am able to squat over a bucket for two hours completely covered. I was very impressed with myself. I think this is yet another skill I’m acquiring that will do absolutely no good for me when I return to America. Oh well.

So I finished my laundry, all of which I washed by hand, on the ground, in my skirt, and I was feeling pretty happy with myself. I then wrung all my clothes out the best I could I stood up to go hang them up. And I kid you not, in that very instant, the heavens opened up and it began to downpour. And in true Pohnpei fashion, the rain lasted the entire day, so my clothes sat wet in my basket in my room.

Now, try not to judge me, but in my life now the word “clean” has taken on a whole different meaning. “Clean” can mean a lot of things, and for clothes specifically, “clean” comes in a broad spectrum, with varying levels and categories of clean. For example, it would be absurd to wear a skirt or shirt only once before washing it, so one of my categories is “have worn only once”, then “have worn two or three times” (this level is close to washing, but not quite—again, don’t judge). But ultimately it all comes down to smell. If when pulling on a t-shirt or a skirt, I can smell the stink, that is the time I surrender and toss it in my laundry basket (Wow, I sound like a teenage boy with a messy room).

So imagine my remorse at the thought of my clothes smelling of mildew by the time I was able to hang them up to dry. I would have to wash them all over again, by hand, on the ground, in my skirt. Not okay. But God smiled down upon me, and miraculously, I was able to hang them up the next day, which was only partially sunny (I had to run out and grab my clothes twice and then re-hang them), and they are now nice and fresh. Well, I don’t know if I could say fresh. They do sort of smell funky. But only a little. They’re “clean”. Don’t judge me.

But the whole experience, as does every day here in Micronesia, taught me a lot about what things I used to take for granted. Take my last apartment, for example. We had a really nice washer and dryer right in the apartment. I need only walk through the kitchen and then I could wash and dry my clothes with ease and without really thinking much about it. As I’m sure most of you do too, I’d just toss my clothes in, add some soap, turn a few dials, and then walk away. When the buzzer went off I’d come back and move them to the dryer, turn a few more dials and again walk away, only to return when my clothes were warm, dry, and fluffy. All of this happens, probably in the course of 90 minutes, regardless of the time of day or weather. Amazing.

-------

Rats

As the title indicates, this story is a little on the gross side, so feel free to skip it (Mom).

Let me start by talking about cats here in Pohnpei. Unlike my unusual family in town that kept a dog and a cat as pet, it seems the vast majority of people here only keep cats as pets. Dogs are kept solely for eating purposes, a fact I learned the hard way one day (I don’t really want to talk about it, except to say I cried for about 3 hours). Anyway, we have a cat in my family named Mimi. Unlike the dogs, Mimi is never beaten, routinely fed with quality food scraps, is allowed to walk into the house or kitchen, and she is often petted and played with by the children and adults alike. And as an added bonus, Mimi patrols the area and eats small creatures such as lizards, small frogs, and bugs. Mimi especially enjoys my bedroom, and I frequently come home to find her asleep on my floor or on my chair. Up until today, Mimi and I were friends.

Today I was taking a nap on my bed when I heard Mimi run into my room then jet under my bed. This is not uncommon, so I paid no heed. Then I heard the strangest sound, and I thought maybe Mimi was sick or hurt, so I hung over the side of the bed and lifted my bed skirt (yes, I have a bed skirt!) to investigate, and there’s Mimi in the corner, with a giant squirming rat in her mouth.

Naturally, I screamed and ran out of my room. At any given moment, there are usually a dozen people at my house, any of which would have be eligible to help me with my current situation, but of course, on this day when I ran from the house there was absolutely no one to be found. Unbelievable.

So, I start hurrying down the road to find someone, which I do, my nephew Tristan (age 10) and I practically drag him to the house. By this time the rat has freed himself and has drug himself across my room and is hiding under a small table, but Mimi had him cornered. While I hid outside the house, Tristan went in and fought off Mimi, grabbed the rat, took it outside, and killed it. But of course, not before showing it to me—like any good little brother—while I screamed like a little girl.

With the immediate crisis averted, the question plaguing my mind was where the rat came from. Did Mimi find the rat under my bed and attempt to kill it on my behalf? (If this is true, then I’m horrified that there was a rat inside, but grateful to the cat.) Or did she capture the rat outside and bring it into my room, one of her favorite spots, to play with eat? (If this is true than I am furious and no longer speaking to the cat.)

Those were the questions I was contemplating about an hour later while I sat with Nohno and Pahpa outside the house, and Mimi herself answered them for me. To my utter horror, we saw Mimi dash across the ground with yet another rat in her mouth, sprint into the house, and head straight for my open bedroom. Of course.

Now, my Pahpa is a very quiet, slow-moving, docile man, but he jumped up and pounded into the house so fast that it startled me more than watching Mimi take another rat into my room. We could hear him thudding around for a few minutes, then he came out, laughing, holding Mimi by the scruff in one hand, and the rat (very much alive) by the tail in the other.

So mystery solved: Mimi sucks. And this is officially the end of my friendship with the cat. An unfortunate side-effect is that now I am keeping my door closed, for fear of a second encore. So like now, for example, as I sit in my room typing this, I feel very closed off from my family. But it’s a price I’m willing to pay to not have another rat in my bedroom. Yuck! Kay, I hope this is making you even more excited to come visit me!

But the plus side (if you can call it that) is that now I know the word for “rat” in Pohnpeian (kitik) and there’s another embarrassing story my family can recount time and again to visitors. Score! I‘m glad I never cease to amuse them.

--------

Holidays

As a product of a culture that is super laid-back and always eager and willing to take a rest, there are an incredible amount of state and national holidays that result in days off from school. They call these “rahn en komoal” or “days of rest”, and every month has at least one. This month in particular, has three. The names of these holidays are always things like Pohnpei Independence Day, Pohnpei Constitution Day, etc. But when I ask a Pohnpeian what these holidays celebrate, they just shrug. No idea. All they know is there is no school.

The result is that pretty much every week has at least one day with no school. I’m coming to understand that a “normal week” does not and will not exist. In addition, we have a huge amount of arbitrary half days for various (unnecessary) reasons that also spot the weeks. So basically, I’m never working. This week in particular, we had Friday off and the following Monday, so a four-day weekend. This is my life. Pohnkahke douluh (super lazy).

Typically on the days leading up to a rahn en komoal I am grumpy and annoyed. But my continued frustration with the lack of commitment to school and the mentality that school is not that important and therefore can be routinely missed quickly melts away when I get the day off. It’s true. Everyone loves a day off. I usually do absolutely nothing. I’ve read mountains of books. Last week on my rahn en komoal, I went up to my family’s other house, near the water, and I just lay on the cement, starring out the open door at the ocean. For hours. Literally. Life’s tough.

-----

Church

Going to church is one of my favorite things to do here in my village. The word for church is sarawi, and the word for Sunday is Rahn Sarawi (the day of church). Clearly, church is a big deal here. Everyone cleans themselves up and gets dressed up nicely, fixes their hair, cleans their shoes, and gives true meaning to the phrase “Sunday best”. In fact, church is the only place you’ll ever see anyone wear closed-toed shoes, typically tennis shoes (but occasionally dress shoes). The men’s feet are never in sandals. The women wear earrings and flowers in their hair and some even wear makeup. Every man and boy is in a collared shirt and every woman and girl is in a dress.

If you only ever saw my community while they were in church, you’d never know that at home the kids don’t wear shoes, or that they run around naked, with dirt smudging their happy faces. You’d never know that the women are usually clad in old tattered skirts, and their skin moist with the sweat of work and their hair lay haphazardly bundled on top of their heads. You’d never know that the men are covered in dirt from outdoor labor, smelling of fish and earth. You’d just see a bunch of clean-cut, smiling church-goers. But the instant everyone gets home, and I mean the instant, everyone disperses and immediately changes their clothes back into their normal wear. It’s the funniest thing to witness.

How you look for church is such a big deal, that most people (at least in my family) have designated “church clothes” that get stored away in a special, safe place during the week. Often times each person has just one or two shirt or dress that they wear to church, and they just alternate which they wear. Early on in my time here, it became clear to me that I was not living up to their standards with my Sunday appearance. But Pohnpeians are very indirect, so they would never outright tell me I looked bad. It started small, with cousins and sisters offering to let me wear their dress to church (which is code for ‘your dress is kind of ugly’). Then they began to offer to do my hair for me, even after I had spent several minutes doing it myself (aka ‘your hair looks bad’). One Sunday my cousin offered to clean my sandals for me before we left for church (‘your shoes are nasty’). And finally, one of my cousins asked me if I had nice earrings (which really means, ‘you look tacky’).  I only brought simple silver studs from home, as I did not anticipate needing to dress up. So I took the hint and bought a pair of cheap pearl studs in town the next time I went in, and the first time I wore them everyone kept telling me how beautiful I looked. I think now I’ve mastered the Pohnpeian church look.

So that’s one reason I love to go to church—I love to see everyone all dressed up. It shows a whole different side of my family, friends, and neighbors that I don’t get to see on a daily basis. In fact, this past Sunday, my Nohno made it to church for the first time since I’ve lived here (she has been sick), and I was so elated to see her all done up. She looked beautiful.

Another reason is because I get to practice Pohnpeian. Everyone stands around and talks before and after church, and people are always eager to come shake my hand and talk to me. I love the practice. And sometimes I just like to sit with a group of women and listen to them while they talk. Just hearing Pohnpeian helps. And the service itself, of course entirely in Pohnpeian, is an exciting experience. It feels like a treasure hunt. I wait for a word or phrase that I understand, and it makes me so happy to feel like I’ve understood something. I always bring my Bible, so that when a verse is quoted, I can (after asking someone to translate the name of the book into English) locate it in my Bible, read it in English, and then have a context from which to try and decipher meaning from the sermon. Sometimes it even works.

And the last, and probably the best thing about church is singing. Pohnpeian music is beautiful to listen to. And since I can read Pohnpeian like a pro (don’t ask me to tell you what it means, though!), I can follow along in the song book, which makes everyone ecstatic. And as I learn more and more Pohnpeian, I can read along in the song and sometimes even understand certain phrases. I love it. We sing about four songs as a church body in every service, and the choir gets up and sings one, too. This is my favorite part, because I get to just sit and listen. It’s wonderful. I’m excited for Christmas, as there is a rumor that many of their Christmas songs are in English. Stay tuned!

----------

I’ll leave you with two of my very favorite Pohnpeian words. In a language that’s incredibly simple, I find it amusing when a word exists to describe something for which there is no direct translation in English. Usually it’s the other way around, that it takes a mouthful of words in Pohnpeian to describe an English word. So I find joy in the Pohnpeian words that are not easily explained in English.

1.       Mese mwonge- literally “food face”, but it is an adjective used to describe a person who wants to eat everything they see, or someone who always eats whatever is put in front of them or whatever is nearby, especially people who want to eat what someone else is eating. I love mese mwonge! We usually use it to describe my cousin Marla, because she’s pregnant and super-duper mese mwonge. But also the baby, Ray, is mese mwonge, as most babies are. It’s one of those idiomatic phrases that I love knowing because it really amuses people when I say it. I am always met with explosive laughter and excitement whenever I can find an appropriate situation to use it. I’m definitely bringing this one back to the States.

2.       Inginsoi- this word is so Pohnpei and also so mehn wai (American). It’s an adjective to describe someone who gives up easily at a task because they do not have the proper tool. That might sound random if you don’t understand Pohnpeians. Let me give you some examples. My nephew Hayden frequently declares that he cannot go to school because he can’t find his uniform shirt or because his shoes are dirty. Inginsoi. If someone refuses to eat without a spoon. Inginsoi. If someone discards a knife because the handle broke. Inginsoi. Not wanting to sleep on the floor. Inginsoi. My little cousin Disha complains when she has to walk across the road to the store in the rain. Inginsoi. Failure to start a fire, simply because you’re out of matches. Inginsoi. It captures so beautifully equally the utter lethargy of Pohnpeians and yet their extreme craftiness, and also the spoiled weakness of Americans. (Pretty much all mehn wai are inginsoi.) Such a wonderful word.

I hope everyone is healthy and happy in America-land! Thanks for reading!

--Christy