Buttons, Cake, and Talking Books: Three Keys to a Merry Christmas

Christmas tree sent by my wonderful mother. I set it all up and snuck it out of my room when no one was home. I was even able to convince the kids for a few minutes that Santa brought it.

Some of my students listening to my dad read "The Night Before Christmas" for about the one-millionth time.

My niece Anyan and I on classroom decorating day. I promise she does love me.

The boys back with our classroom's Christmas tree.

The cake I made for my class's party.

Christmas skirt!



The seven eighth grade girls and me at our Christmas party. I love them very much!



Some of the eighth grade boys at our Christmas party.

My co-teacher Hickperson, his wife, and me at our Christmas party. I'm wearing the skirt they gave me for Christmas.

In Pohnpei church is not separate from state, and there is practically zero religious diversity (one only has to ask to which denomination of Christianity you belong), which results in Christmas being celebrated in the schools. It is a big deal. Each classroom draws names for Secret Santa, divvies up dishes for a potluck, and all the students pitch in to decorate. Most families don’t celebrate Christmas outside of the school’s Christmas party, aside from attending church, so people go all out. But, because it’s Pohnpei, people wait to the absolute last second to go all out.

So, the night before the party, around 9 ‘o clock, my sister Ioren (our resident seamstress) was very, very busy. She had just begun my Christmas skirt (that she intended to start a week ago, and that she didn’t end up finishing until five minutes before I had to leave the next morning), her youngest son needed his new shirt for Christmas altered, and her oldest son’s Christmas pants were missing a button. She was in no shape to have so much on her plate, as she spent the whole day in town buying presents for her three children to take to school the next day for the exchange and was physically exhausted. So I decided to take it upon myself to complete one of her tasks: the button. Several of my shorts that I brought with me have additional buttons sewn into the inside, so I simply chose one that was a decent size, grabbed a needle and thread from my mini sewing kit, and plopped down with the shorts to make the minor repair. The whole world seemed to stop. Everyone was astounded. They all dropped what they were doing and gathered around to gawk.

I’m not sure if Pohnpeians just imagine that all Americans have maids, butlers, nannies, and personal chefs, but for some reason every time I do any form of menial labor it causes everyone to lose their minds. I had quite the audience for the ever-interesting act of sewing on a button, and when I returned the pants to my nephew Hayden he thought I was playing a trick on him, No really, I’m the one who sewed on your button, I promise.

The good news is that it doesn’t take much to gain my family’s approval. Like earlier that same day, when I made the cake I signed up to bring to the school the next day. I’ve helped make cake before, but no one had ever allowed me to do the work myself, so when people started to notice me by myself in the cooking house, they became very interested. As you know, baking a cake from a box is pretty much the simplest thing you can accomplish in the kitchen, all you have to do is dump the mix into a bowl with some oil, water, and a few eggs, and pop it in the oven. Presto! Cake! But you would have thought it was brain surgery the way my family was applauding my efforts.

You may be wondering, How does Christy bake a cake without an oven? Well, let me explain. We actually have an oven, like the kind you’d see in any average home in America. Okay, so maybe more like the kind you see on any average curb in America on trash day, because it’s horribly rusted and decrepit looking, and actually doesn’t function any longer. But it is still a metal box with a door that opens and closes, and that’s all that matters. We light a fire underneath, stick the cake or bread inside, and simply monitor it for an even bake. For this step in the process I enlisted my Pahpa, who is limitless with his desire to help me. Anyway, the cake was baked and iced, and I became a legend, especially because I chose to buy additional icing, dye it red using Kool-Aid, and pipe the words “Merry Christmas” onto the cake using a plastic bag. Now that was a showstopper.

And as if two moments of fame weren’t enough for one day, I had one more brush with celebrity for this day- before-school-Christmas. Last year, my dad sent me the best present I’ve ever received: a recordable book. As long as I can remember, my dad has recited The Night Before Christmas to my sister and me every Christmas Eve as we held the book and looked at the pictures. And even after we were grown and we complained relentlessly (okay, maybe just I complained, Kay is much nicer than me), he still loved to “read” it to us. So he recorded himself reading the poem to me and mailed it to me for my first Christmas away from home. If that’s not a Hallmark moment, I don’t know what is. But last year, every time I even looked at the book, I burst into tears out of homesickness. So, needless to say, I didn’t share the book with anyone.

But this year, I decided I was strong enough to bring it to school and let my dad read my 8th graders a story. It was such a big hit. No one had ever seen a recordable book, and they were completely dumbfounded. I had to “read” through the book many times before my students were satisfied. And even after that, they couldn’t stop talking about my “talking book”, so much so that when I got home from school, all the kids at my house were already briefed and eager to see this mysterious “talking book”. All the kids gathered around and my dad began to read. There were shrieks, screams, giggles, and silently dropped jaws. Unlike my 8th graders who simply thought it was cool to hear my dad’s voice, the kids were unable to comprehend the phenomenon and found it overwhelming. How is his voice inside? How does he know when you turn the page? Can I talk to your dad? Is it like a telephone? Does it run on batteries? HOW IS THIS HAPPENING? There was also some confusion as to if my dad was in fact Santa Clause. When I explained that he was not, they settled on the conclusion that he must be the other man illustrated in the pages (the poem’s speaker) and I didn’t have the strength left to correct them. It is very hard to explain these things in a language that doesn’t have the words “record” or “sensor”, etc. I finally settled on mahnamahn—magic. Christmas is full on magic, right?

So essentially, my family’s respect for me has increased exponentially through very little personal effort. Ah, the life of the lazy. I can get used to this set up.

The next day, school Christmas (which everyone just refers to as Christmas, despite my many attempts to explain that Christmas is still a week away), was a big hit too. Unlike the chaos of last year, my students simply came, ate, got their presents, and left. It was short and sweet. My co-teacher Hickperon’s wonderful wife, the girls, and I made up all the plates and delivered them all around the room, per cultural expectations, and we had such a good time joking around and getting icing all over ourselves (no one thought to bring a knife—okay, so maybe it was sort of my fault—so dishing out the cake was a little complicated). I got the honor of being “Santa Claus” and handing out all the presents, and while I was announcing a student’s name, Hickperson’s wife came up behind me and pulled a beautiful new skirt over my head so that I was wearing it like a poncho. All the kids laughed and clapped. She’s maybe the sweetest woman I’ve encountered here. The whole event lasted only about an hour, but it was small and nice and perfect. I even managed to get a few pictures. Can’t ask for much more.

So while everyone in America is rushing around trying to purchase the must-have gifts and make their Christmas experience perfect, I did virtually nothing and reaped the reward of a fabulous holiday. I hope you all can take this time to slow down and just enjoy being with your family and friends. Bake a cake, sew on a few buttons, and experience the magic of Christmas.

I wish you all a very happy holiday season!

--Christy

Turkey Tails (A Thanksgiving Story)

If you ever want to awe an amaze a group of 14 year old Pohnpeian students, introduce the hand turkey. I have never instantly gained so much respect and admiration as when I traced my hand on the chalkboard this past Thanksgiving and then added feet and a beak, turning it quickly into a turkey. My students were mesmerized. A timeless tradition, created and recreated year after year by millions of school-aged children in America had made me an instant hit. I tried explain the meaning of Thanksgiving, beyond that of pure gluttony, and to steer the activity toward being thankful, having students write one thing they were thankful for on each of their finger-feathers, but they weren’t having it. They all simply copied to generic example I’d put on the board and proceeded to create a dozen more hand turkeys. Piles and piles of hand turkeys that were remarkably lifelike, considering none of these children had ever seen a turkey in their lives.

 The next night, a former member of Peace Corps Staff named Emy invited me and my friend and fellow Volunteer Ben over for dinner, and as any Volunteer in their right mind would do, we graciously agreed. However, we had no idea what to expect as far as menu. After all it was the day after Thanksgiving, but this was Pohnpei, and surely the food spread would be of the Pohnpeian variety. Either way, it was a free meal and nice company, so we arranged our taxi and happily set off. We were very much mistaken. Yes, there was fried fish, and huge plates of rice, and even sushi, but there was also turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce (with cranberries in it, not the canned gelatin), pumpkin pie, and most importantly, there was wine. Wine! I hadn’t had wine since America! As soon as the foil was removed from the covered dishes, and their glory was revealed, Ben and my eyes met across the table, wide with a palpable glee. We ate like kings.

 Fortunately for us, the Pohnpeians in attendance weren’t particularly interested in the American food. In Pohnpei, for some unknown reason, eating turkey tail is very popular. It is typically served fried (shocking) and is essentially a giant fried wad of turkey fat that I find repulsive. It’s the only dish that I have explicitly told my family that I will not ever eat. So when all the kids at the dinner party heard “turkey”, they immediately imagined turkey tail, and were disappointed to find instead juicy slices of turkey breast. But their loss was our gain. We ate until we were full, then we ate some more. I laughed and drank wine into the night, overwhelmed by all that I had to be thankful for.

And so it came to be that my second (and last) Thanksgiving on Pohnpei was a huge success. I got to make hand turkeys and then eat turkey. There’s not much more a girl could ask for. I also got the chance to talk to my parents, sister, and aunt all at the same time as they enjoyed their Thanksgiving time together in the States. It was the perfect ending to a great weekend.

 I hope you all watched the Macy’ parade, ate delicious food, and had a great time being with your families on Thanksgiving this year. Next year I’ll be celebrating with you.

--Christy

Shit Happens

I’m going to level with you all; these past few months have been very difficult. I had a vision that my second year of service would just sort of fall into place. That all the time I put in last year being frustrated by differences in cultures (often incompatibilities with the job at hand) would mean something and that this year would just be easier. Hah. Yeah, right. So as you might imagine, realizing that I will have to be irritated every day for the rest of my time here (9 months, not that I’m counting) didn’t settle too well. People say that eventually the frustrations of Peace Corps no longer bother you; that you simply get over it and learn to be at peace with your situation. Well, anyone who knows me well knows that I am far too uptight for that nonsense. I intend to be pissed off every day until this is done. But something strange happened. Just yesterday there was a huge rainstorm in the morning, and I trudged through ankle-deep mud with a flimsy umbrella in order to make it to school on time. Not many other people did. When we rang the bell for school to start, only 3 of 12 teachers were present (ironically the man who lives the furthest from school, the only other teacher that walks, and me) and only about one-third of the student population. I’d like to tell you this doesn’t happen very often, but then I’d be lying. Ordinarily I’d be infuriated. But I peeked into my eighth grade classroom and quickly realized that my rotten apples that spoil the whole bunch were all absent. God smiled upon me that day. He saw what he made and that it was good. I had an exceptionally good day. It poured for most of the day (deafening on the tin roof of the school) and half my class was missing, but I just smiled. I didn’t have to put up with any shenanigans. It was blissful. I went home with a spring in my step (well, to be fair, I had to traverse the lethal mud again, but it’s an expression) and a new view of my life. Instead of getting upset by upsetting things, try to find the positive. My new motto. And just to prove He was listening, God put on a little dramatization for me later in the evening in order to hit the point home. And boy was it hit home. My favorite human being on this island is a two year old boy named Ray. He is my life and my love. He is also learning to potty-train. I have mastered assisting him in going number one, but he had not yet required my services with going number two. In a world without toilet paper, number two requires a bit of intimacy between the caretaker and child to achieve cleanliness. As such, Ray usually only goes to do his business with a select few older women. But that night, he came straight up to me and announced he needed to go poop. So, what’s a gal to do? Maybe because I’m a born mother, or maybe because I spent a summer changing diapers at a daycare, but I really didn’t find the set up too upsetting. I was happy to rinse his little bottom off after the deed was done, and even happier that he trusted me enough to have me do so. Here’s where things got a little complicated. Let’s just say that Ray misled me when he told me he was finished on the toilet, because whilst I had my hand in the danger zone it turned out he was not finished, and I got a handful. But, the most disturbing part was that I was completely unfazed. I simply rinsed off and continued my work until we were both clean and dry. It wasn’t until later, when I was recounting the story to my family (met with uproarious laughter, of course) that I realized how gross it was. The point I’m making is not that I’ve become a desensitized disgusting animal (though that might be true), but rather that I was so caught up in the hugeness of the moment that I didn’t let the mess get in my way. How many people can say they had such a close and intimate relationship with a small child from another country, who doesn’t speak your language, yet trusts you completely? Not many, I bet. So as we cuddled together later that night, Ray and I played and giggled, his misdeed fully forgiven. And as I reflected over my day and what I had learned, I just laughed out loud. Inspirational Mottos: Instead of getting upset by upsetting things, try to find the positive. I guess it’s like when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or more accurately, when a small child poops in your hand find a way to smile about it. I guess that’s a little less catchy. Hey, shit happens. --Christy

“Tricker Treat!”



Some finsihed products from our Halloween mask-making extravaganza!



Ray making his Halloween face.



My jack-o-lantern made from a file folder. It was a BIG hit.




My new Halloween skirt!



Last year, I didn’t do much to acknowledge American holidays, but this year I decided to change that, starting with Halloween. A big help was my dear friend Rachel who mailed me holiday-themed fabric so I could have my host-sister make festive skirts. Another noteworthy contributor was my wonderful mother, who sent an obscene amount of candy to share. So, on Halloween evening, while wearing my fabulous new skirt, I gathered up the smallest kids (grades 1-3) and had a little mask-making party. But first, to set the mood, I made a make-shift jack-o-lantern out of manila folders and a candle and set it up in the room before the kids came in, and shut off all the lights. The children freaked out. They LOVED it. I used manila file folders (cut in half), colored pencils, scissors, and yarn to help my family create their masterpieces. But as it turned out, the kids had absolutely no clue how to make a mask. And thus the party turned into a class. I sat with my usual partner in crime; the 2 year old named Ray, and made his mask as an example. Then the kids went to town. Word eventually spread and even the older boys decided to come give it a try. One of my cousins Villazone even managed to scare the crap out of me, much to his delight. But otherwise, they didn’t really want my help (typical teenage boys), but observing their enthusiasm from afar was enough. Then came the candy. In hindsight, I should have distributed the candy much earlier in the evening, because as I finally was falling asleep around 10pm, the kids were still running wild, screaming in the darkness outside. But I smiled, in spite of the fact that I had to wake up early the next morning, because my stomach was full of candy and the kids outside were having a blast. Earlier that evening I gave up on trying to explain that the phrase is “Trick or Treat” and that it’s actually a question. The kids were not to be bothered with such details on such an exciting night. Instead, I fell asleep listening to their voices echoing through the trees, “Tricker treat!” and “Happy Halloween Day!” Hope your Halloween Day was fun, too. Enjoy the photos! --Christy

Choose Your Own Path

Summer in the life of a teacher in Pohnpei is a very confusing thing. You are required to go to work every day throughout the whole summer, yet there is literally absolutely no work to be done. (That tends to happen sometimes when your job is to teach children and there are no children present.) The result is a scene that makes work ethic prone Americans, such as me, gawk speechless at the absurdity: the entire staff just sits around. And I really mean that. They just sit. Nothing else happens. At all. Ever. So, after a dramatic and stressful conclusion to the previous school year, this summer set-up left me little hope for a better second year. I spent the whole time miserably dreading the return of students and my own personal hell. (Just what you want from a teacher, right?) I was wholly convinced that things were going to continue to suck even worse than they did at the end of school in May. And believe me, things sucked bad in May. So when in the last week of summer, my favorite co-teacher Hickperson (yes that is his actual name) asked me if I wanted to go to his home one afternoon I was eager to oblige. First, let’s be clear, it was actually his wonderful wife who invited me, as it would be improper for him to ask me. That’s how I knew it was legit. She rode with him to school that day, just to ask me. How can you turn that down? The next day, I came to school ready for adventure. After we pretended to work for a while, Hickperson and I hopped in his car and headed home. By now I know all of his children (most attend the school at which we teach), and they were waiting anxiously for my arrival. I was immediately swept away by the band of children to go swim in the river, which was fine by me. We just splashed around and played in the cool crisp water, then perched ourselves on slick rocks while casually munching bananas. It was one of those things you picture when you go off to Peace Corps on a tropical island. Pure bliss. Then we returned to the house compound, changed clothes and began cooking dinner. The great thing about Hickperson’s family was that they did not treat me like a princess, the way my family does. They plopped me right down next to some women, gave me a machete (yes, a machete), and had me cutting up potatoes. Now let me tell you, that was an exercise in bravery. Against all odds, I came out unscathed and was then assigned to various other parts of the cooking preparation (not excluding the all-important taste-testing). Meanwhile I got to spend real quality time laughing and gossiping with Hickperson’s wife, sisters, cousins, nieces, and best of all, his adorable mother. Before dinner, it was Hickperson’s idea that we should play a game with the kids. It just so happened that the previous day the new Volunteer at my site Matt taught the teachers how to play “Ninja” (it’s a ice-breaker type game you play in a circle where people get to use ninja moves—essentially the greatest game ever), and so that is what we taught the group, and then what we played for the next hour nonstop. I was exhausted, but it was incredibly fun. Finally it was time to feast on the food we’d labored over, and a feast it was. When I was driven home hours later (by both Hickperson and his wife, per social requirements) I was almost in a coma I was so stuffed. I had such a great time I had almost forgotten how not excited I was for school to start in a few short days. But the time finally came, and I trudged into school, not at all ready to face the rude, bored, rowdy students I left in May, but they weren’t there. Instead I was met by hugs, high-fives, handshakes, and smiles all-around. Happy, eager faces, excited to get back to business. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was literal a night and day turnaround from their demeanors at the end of the year before. And when we started class I was met with the biggest surprise of all—they actually remembered English. Students were bouncing off the walls trying to answer questions, and their answers not only made sense, they were superb. After we read Walt Whitman’s “The Road Not Taken” (a poem I must have chosen for my English-learners in their first week back from summer in a bought of insanity), one of my eighth grade hooligans from last year raised his hand (a feat in itself) and said plainly, “So it’s saying we should choose our own path.” As if it was the simplest thing in the world. I just about fell on the floor. I fully expected to have to start over from scratch after my students spent a summer in the English-free environment of their homes, and I was not thrilled about essentially repeating my first year’s work. I either underestimated my students or my teaching abilities, or both. Either way, I was hugely mistaken. It is a relief so palpable that I felt its healing powers immediately. I did, in fact, accomplish something in the past year. Behind their sass and their seeming lack of interest, my students did actually care, did actually pay attention, and did actually learn something from me. Who would have thought? What a much-needed affirmation of not only my reason for being here, but my calling and purpose in life as an educator. (That may sound extreme, but when you’re on a tiny island with next to nothing to occupy yourself, you begin to equate disrespectful students with your own self-worth and abilities.) We’ve already begun building on what we covered last year and with some new tricks up our sleeves, including a killer classroom management rebuff that should help quell the shenanigans. There’s hope for us yet. Everyone always says the second year of Peace Corps is much better than the first, but I just didn’t believe them until now. So here’s to a new school year, full of new possibilities. And whenever I feel discouraged during this coming year, I’ll simply think back to the overwhelming, almost maternal pride I felt when that one student boldly stated, “Choose your own path.” Stay well. --Christy

The Rollercoaster

I know I’ve mentioned before that being a Volunteer in the Peace Corps is like a giant rollercoaster ride, with its incredible ups and downs. But that doesn’t really explain it clearly enough, at least not for me. I’m not talking about days or weeks in between the highs and lows, I’m talking hours or minutes. It happens that quickly and drastically and I never see it coming. One former PCV said that Peace Corps makes us all temporarily bipolar. I might agree with that.

Today was a prime example of such a bipolar episode, so I feel inclined to share it with you all.

First of all, you need a bit of backstory. I’ve (foolishly) undertaken what we call a “secondary project”, that is a project in addition to regular classroom instruction. I have decided to gather my rising 7^th and 8^th grade students together and paint a giant world map  wall mural on the outside of one of the school buildings. Cool, right? Wrong. It has been nothing but a thorn in my side since the minute I made the decision to begin. I’m sure it will all turn out wonderfully and the students will have a great time while also learning, blah blah blah, but right now I hate the project.

I know hate is a strong word, but the frustrations are limitless and debilitating. Between motivating and organizing local counterparts, acquiring funding and supplies, building a local scaffold (multiple times, by the way, due to some punks who thought it’s be cool to chop it up one night), and praying that the weather cooperates (I live on a tropical island…yeah right), things have—how should I put this?—progressed slowly.

Part of the preparative work that needs to get done before the students can start involves drawing a grid across the entire working area (4meters x 2meters—hah! Metric system). This sounds simple enough, but it is anything from simple. A step that should have taken 2-3 days has now dragged itself out for almost 3 freaking weeks. I won’t bore you with the laundry list of reasons why I am a failure, but let’s just say things never go according to plan in the Peace Corps.

Anyway, back to today. I was at school, slaving away (alone) on my Everest. I had promised the students it would be ready on Wednesday, and well, it wasn’t. Then I told them to come back on Friday and we’d start. Halfway through my work time today (Thursday) I did some mental calculations and determined that there was absolutely no way in hell I’d be done for Friday. So once again, I would let the kids down and even worse, prolong the god-forsaken process of drawing a huge grid on a brick wall. So I stood there on my wobbly local scaffold, sweaty, enveloped by mosquitos and flies, pencils stuck in my horribly messy hair, giant eraser between my teeth, meter stick in hand, and just started to cry. And then, in that very instant—and I wish I was kidding—it began to pour rain.

I let out some choice words, and just stood there brooding for a few minutes before dashing inside to escape the downpour. I started thinking, what the hell am I doing here? And why do I put up with all this crap? I began to imagine what my life would be like if I was back Stateside. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d be doing, but I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing on a damn scaffold in the pouring rain holding a meter stick! I grumbled to myself and then stomped home, practically kicking every stone I passed on my way.

Now, one of my only real stress-relief strategies that I can implement here is cleaning, so that is what I decided to do. I took one more look at my teetering tower of filthy clothes and the3 decision was made—I would do laundry. Easy enough? Not. Nothing is easy in my life. Pohnpei has been experiencing controlled blackouts for several weeks. I’m not exactly sure what that means, except that we don’t have power between the hours of 12-6pm. Everyday. So when I come home from school, there is no power with which to use the laundry machine. Now, this ordinarily wouldn’t be a problem, except that my family is going through a machine-only phase. All of the useable areas for hand-washing clothes are otherwise occupied or have been completely deconstructed (my living area is an object in motion and it is rarely the same from week to week).

Well, I was determined to beat my frustrations out and hence needed to find somewhere to wash my clothes by hand. And rather than allow others to do things for me (as they’d most definitely prefer), I took the task upon myself. I found a slab of concrete, dragged stuff around, scrubbed, rinsed, and somehow rigged up the water to flow into an old ice chest. Brilliance. I then spent the next two hours or so doing some good old fashioned manual labor. Nothing beats really working hard. And when you’re full of anger and despair, whacking your clothing repeatedly with a wooden paddle is extremely cathartic. Trust me. And somehow the planets all aligned and nobody came over to gawk. That is definitely a first. I did however, overhear several family members commenting on how impressed they were. My Nohno even joked to my sister that she is the American, because she likes to use the laundry machine, while I’m the Pohnpeian, because I wash my clothes by hand. It never hurts to hear your mom bragging about you.

And although I was exhausted and sore, when I finished my laundry, my mood had visibly lifted. So much so that the gang of children that typically drive me up a wall actually brought a huge smile to my face. They were being ninjas. Clearly. And let me tell you, if you’ve never watched a group of 4-8 year olds make “hiyah!” sounds and pretend to spin and kick each other stealthily, you’re missing out. I managed to get them to slow down long enough to capture this gem:

Then it was time to begin preparing for a big celebration: a 1^st birthday party. These are a really big deal here in Pohnpei (sadly, due to high infant-mortality rates), and my cousin (everyone is called a cousin, I actually have no clue how we’re related) Samiah just turned 1, so cake was definitely in order.

Usually, I am not included in cooking tasks because everyone assumes I am incompetent.  But today, for whatever reason, my sister Ioren plopped the supplies and the bowl in front of me and told me to make the cake. Just like that. So I did. All of the kids were simply dumbfounded. It may be narcissistic, but I don’t ever get tired of dazzling the Pohnpeian spectators to my life. And believe me, they were dazzled. Plus I got to spend some quality time with my sister, which is always a good thing.

The evening wore on and eventually we were ready to eat our cake and ice cream (essentially just milk at this point—remember the power has been out all day). [Wait. First you need to understand how we bake the cake. My Pahpa found a rusty  old broken oven, only God knows where, and he brought it home and stuck it in our fire pit. Now, we light a fire underneath, and presto—a working oven! You have my permission to be impressed.] As you might imagine, eating cake and ice cream is a BIG deal. All of the kids sing “happy birthday” (in English because interestingly enough, the practice of celebrating birthdays came from American influence, in fact there isn’t even a way to say “happy birthday” in Pohnpeian…just a fun fact!) and then line up from youngest to oldest and get their huge portions, which they eat with their hands and faces only, no spoons required.

Here’s the birthday girl, Samiah, enjoying her ice cream:

So there I was, surrounded by happy, sticky children, dripping with ice cream and joy, stuffing their faces with the cake that I made, and I just thought, I love these people.  And just like that, I made a complete turnaround. My day, which had begun in such misery, had ended on the highest of high notes. I almost laughed at myself, at how dramatic I can be. I mean it’s just a silly map. It will get done, eventually. It’s not worth getting so upset over. I found sanity through chocolate cake (is there any other way?).

So, there you have it; a small glimpse into the rollercoaster ride that is my Peace Corps experience. I have a feeling that if I can stomach the drops and just hold on tight, it will all be worth it in the end.

Stay well,

Christy

The Fourth of July

I’m not sure why, but this July 4^th was really important to me. Perhaps it’s because it was the first American holiday I celebrated here on Pohnpei last year, and I felt its celebration this year clearly marked the passage of time. Or perhaps because I have numerous fond 4^th of July memories from back home; from swimming in various swimming pools with assorted childhood friends to watching fireworks in every direction on top of the Magnolia parking garage at USF my senior year. I don’t know how to quite put into words why I enjoy the holiday so much, and to be honest I didn’t really realize I was so fond of it until I got here and suddenly found myself without it.  There’s just something about everyone all decked out in cheesy red, white, and blue outfits, eating hotdogs and cupcakes with red, white, and blue sprinkles, and gathering on little blankets by a lake somewhere to watch fireworks while listening to patriotic music at full blast. It’s magical.

Now, there may not be fireworks or lakes here, but there is a US Embassy and there is most definitely free food.

Last year, as a Trainee and having only been in Pohnpei for about a month, I remember the 4^th of July celebration at the Embassy as being comparably magical. I was so desperately homesick and was relieved to be surrounded by Americans and eating potato salad at tables with plastic red, white, and blue tablecloths. It was simple but it was precisely what I needed at the time.

This year I drew on that memory and waited for repeated perfection. But things are much different now. I didn’t arrive in a Peace Corps vehicle, chaperoned by members of Staff. I arrived by taxi, on my own schedule.  Early in fact, because I offered to help set up and get the face-painting and games station set up. As I entered the Embassy office and shook hands of men and women I’d met before, and received a gift of chalk from one man who has become a great friend of the Peace Corps Volunteers. They donned me with a wonderfully tacky American flag baseball cap, showed me my boxes and let me on my way. I was not a guest or a spectator as I was last year, but somehow included and involved in an event organized by the US Embassy.

I spent the majority of the event painting kids’ faces. I didn’t hear the speeches that encouraged me last year. I didn’t notice any of the patriotic background music that had once comforted me. I ate quickly. The food was decent, but I didn’t have a religious experience over the baked beans as I had last year. I spent some time visiting with the new Trainees, and then I just left, caught a taxi, and went home. That was it.

On my (long) taxi ride home, I was feeling somewhat disappointed that my 4^th of July wasn’t as life-altering as last year’s. I felt shorted in some way, like I had missed out on something wonderful. And as I contemplated this, I hit a whole new level of comfort. I fell asleep. I slept in a cramped taxi amongst other sleeping Pohnpeians strangers. I slept because I was exhausted, but also I slept because the taxi driver knew me and knew exactly where to take me and I wasn’t worried I’d end up somewhere strange. And sure enough, I got home safe and sound.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in kind of a funk. I just lay around at my house reading and feeling sorry for myself. But when dinner rolled around, that’s when the 4^th of July magic truly happened. I had spent the last few days explaining to my family (the best I could in my newly-acquired second language) what the 4^th of July celebrates and why it is so important to Americans and me in particular. I shared some stories and tried to give them a glimpse of what July 4^th is really like back home. They seemed marginally interested. (For example, when I got back home all of the kids wanted to know if I had eaten cake at the Embassy party.) But my Pahpa, who is terribly hard of hearing, knew very little of why I went into town today, only that it was for a special celebration.

Dinner was prepared by my Pahpa, so I got the Princess special—fish without the skin or bones, cut up into pieces with rice and soy sauce. He thinks I’m a child and he is correct. But the best part was dessert. I told my Pahpa probably eight months ago that I love pineapple. They grow here locally, but there are no trees near my house  with the fruit. He said he’s find me some, but partly out of difficulty of locating them, and partly out of plum forgetfulness, I had still not yet eaten local pineapple. Well, at dinner he produced not one but three pineapples. With a big grin he told me they were for me, to celebrate.

I could have cried. The pineapple was so good. I just don’t think you understand.

I then happily munched my fruit (juice dripping shamelessly all over my chin) and contemplated my 4^th of July. Last year I was in a completely different place that I am now, and therefore I took very different things away from the Embassy 4^th of July celebration. This year is distinctly different. I have a place here, a role, a family, a community. I thought I was going to gobble up the chance to be in that little bubble of America again. But the truth is I didn’t need to.

And after dinner (and my wonderful, beautiful pineapple) as I stood in the doorway of my house, watching the rain fall peacefully all around I couldn’t help but smile. Last year, the 4^th of July helped cure a bought of homesickness, this year the 4^th of July helped me to see that I am home.

I hope everyone had a wonderful 4^th of July with their friends and family, wherever they may be. I know I did.

Stay well,

Christy

A Whole New Kind of Tourist

I know this post is long overdue, put it took me a while to process my trip to Japan this past June with my fellow Peace Corps Volunteer Mia. I had an incredible week, saw a lot of interesting and beautiful things, ate great food, and just plain had some fun. That being said, the experience as a whole was, how can I put this lightly…overwhelming. I knew the trip would be overwhelming when I bought the plane ticket, but I had no real grasp of just how overwhelming it would be, nor did I anticipate which things I would find overwhelming.

 I suppose one gets used to their surroundings. After living here on Pohnpei for a year, I’ve come to expect a certain level of development—one that I’m completely comfortable with now (most of the time, that is). The first big shock of our trip was during our layover in the Guam airport. Like most airports, there are several little shops lining the main strip. What really got me, surprisingly, were the lights. Every store was incredibly bright, shelves were backlit, and some displays even seemed to have spotlights fixed on them. I just couldn’t handle it. We walked past the shops two or three times before feeling brave enough to enter, and even then we only stayed a few seconds before retreating back into the terminal. I live in a world of natural light. Daytime lighting is pretentious and unnecessary, and nighttime lighting is a single light bulb, or perhaps two. That’s it. The amount of lighting used in the airport was shocking and intimidating.

And if I thought lighting was scary, the second I entered the airport in Narita, Japan, I was utterly terrified. The sheer volume of people attempting to squeeze through walkways almost brought me to a standstill. Mia and I just gave each other wide-eyed looks and pressed on, desperately trying not to get separated or trampled. And then to add to my airport stress, our mode of transportation out was by train (which we managed to navigate thanks to the limitless kindness of Japanese people).  Now, my only transportation here in Pohnpei is my own two feet or a car going maybe 40 mph (if they’ve got a lead foot). When that train pulled away, I felt like a kid on their first roller coaster. I honestly thought I was going to puke or die, or both. I think I embarrassed Mia by making a loud comment to as much while violently gripping my seat.

But, we made it to our destination and into the guidance of Mia’s friend from college, Kassi. The rest of the week was jam-packed full of excursions. As it turns out, Mia is quite the planner, which is just as well, because I was so dumbstruck most of the time that I would not have been able to make a sound decision. We had a daily schedule, and Kassi helped us immensely by writing out instructions for our train trips each day. Figuring our way around was no small task, but again, our success can mostly (okay, wholly) be attributed to Mia. Fiercely determined to see all the things on her list, Mia dragged me all over Tokyo and more, fearlessly navigating the subway map and using her four or five Japanese phrases she taught herself. It was a whirlwind of sightseeing, but wonderful indeed.

The biggest takeaway from the trip for me was the genuine kindness I saw in almost every single Japanese person we encountered. Not one person seemed put out with our language deficiencies or our fumbling around with the foreign currency.  We were constantly met with a smile and gracious assistance, many times from people who themselves didn’t speak a lick of English. Although on more than one occasion, an English-speaker came out of the woodworks and just appeared at our sides in a moment of panic (usually in a train station) and helped us find our way. I will never forget how friendly and welcoming the Japanese people were.

As for things we saw, my favorites were the giant Buddha at Kamakura, along with other countless beautiful temples we wandered through in the surrounding areas, meeting actual summa wrestlers on the street, and eating delicious food. May favorite food was fresh sushi at a popular conveyor belt restaurant, where the food literally just constantly scoots by your table and you just graze as you see fit. Pure brilliance. One of the best days was when we went to Kassi’s school where she teaches and observed her kindergarten classes. It was such a cool experience to take a break from the tourist thing and just see Japanese people in their everyday routine. We even got a chance to play with the kids, and that was such a treat. It’s nice when games don’t need words and laughter comes in every language.

Although, I must admit that most of the trip is quite a blur. Mia took avid notes (that I will be copying from her one day), but I was just so overwhelmed for the majority of our stay that all I could do was take it all in. The busy, crowded streets, the sensory-overload of smells and sounds and lights at every turn, the enormously tall buildings, and the overarching technology that was involved in almost everything we did (I swear, even the toilets were smarter than me). It was all so foreign, but in more ways than one. I wasn’t just an American dealing with your average culture-shock. I was an America who just spent the previous year on a developing island nation. It was just plain insane.

I think our experience is illustrated well by our behavior on our first train, when we got a good view of everything. The train was packed, and we were trying not to embarrass ourselves by appearing too touristy, but we just couldn’t help it. One of us would spot something and try to nonverbally alert the other. We just kept excitedly nodding at things outside the windows as they zoomed by. And the funny thing is they weren’t anything particularly special. They were like cars, buildings, bridges, or trees. Big whoop. But it was exciting to us, the Pohnpeian-Americans, and that’s all that counts.

Here are a few of my favorite photos from the trip. Enjoy!

A wonderful garden of irises we found at one of the temples on our first day.

Buddha at Kamkura

Sushi

The summo wrestlers!

All three of us outside of the last shrine of our trip.

--Christy



MST

Well, it finally happened—all of the Peace Corps Volunteers from my team were together and had our week-long mid-service training (MST). It was so great to see all of my friends living in Kosrae, Chuuk, and Palau! And even though it has been a year since we’d seen each other, it was as if not a second had gone by. It was nice to catch up and swap stories about our first years at site. It was especially great to see how everyone has grown and adapted to their surroundings.  And although we all live in unique and different communities, we all had similar joys and struggles that we could connect with.

But we spent the week in sessions that enabled us to share successes, swap ideas, and create action plans for the coming year.  We even had a few Q&A sessions with staff members where we were truly able to voice our opinions and concerns. It was refreshing to be treated like an adult, but I suppose that after a year we’ve earned it. But my absolute favorite session was a team building activity in which my whole team was divided into three teams and combined with several staff members to compete. We had three tasks to complete as a team in a sort of relay: husking several coconuts, opening the coconuts with a machete, and then grating the coconuts using a local grating tool. Team members were assigned to tasks randomly, and I was given coconut husking (I rock at coconut husking, by the way).  It was especially funny to see which of the rest of my group clearly don’t do these tasks at their sites. There were some obvious “I have no clue what I’m doing” moments. But it was all in good fun and it was great to cheer on my teammates and to see the staff in a whole new light.

At the end of the week, it was time for all of my friends to return to their islands. But unlike last year, when I was quite sad to see them all go, this time saying goodbye was easy. I knew they were all happy and at home on their islands and that they were returning to someplace good. It even sparked a desire in me to go visit a few of them on their islands. Who knows where this year might take me.

Additionally, the new group of 19 trainees (M79s), just arrived and we were able to all spend 2 days together getting to know each other, both M78s and M79s. It was sort of surreal, to be honest, to put myself back in their shoes, one year ago. I have changed so much in a year, grown stronger, and realized so much about myself. It’s almost impossible to imagine myself as the excited and scared 22 year old who came here last June. But it was great to be able to offer advice and stories for information-hungry newcomers. Everyone in the new group seems wonderful, and I can’t wait to see what this crazy thing called Peace Corps has in store for them.

Thanks to everyone who helped and supported me in my first year of Peace Corps.

Stay well,

Christy

Ahi Pahpa

I’ve always known I have the best dad in the world. This is not a hard one to figure out. My dad Gary is a wonderful, smart, talented man who truly cares about the people around him. I am incredibly lucky to have him in my life, a fact even more evident with the great expanse of globe currently between us.

But evidently the universe didn’t think one incredible father was enough. Because I am here to tell you that not only to I have the best dad in the world, but I also have the best Pahpa in the world. Hands down.

Being with and getting to know my Pahpa Ioney (Yo-knee) has been one of my biggest joys. He is easily the kindest and most generous man I have met on this island. And he is so full of happiness and laughter that he is simply a delight to be around.

My Pahpa is also extremely intelligent. He may not have finished high school, but he can navigate his fishing boat in the black of night without any lights, using only the stars to guide him back through the treacherous reef and safely home (rumor has it he’s the only fisherman in the area with this particular skill). He can wander off into the jungle and return with plants to cure any number of ailments. He can construct beds, tables, chairs, and even houses in a matter of hours using crude tools and incredible craftsmanship. And he can fix literally anything around the compound (a leaky pipe or roof, a broken door handle, an old boat engine) while carrying a child on his shoulders and a smile on his lips. He is an amazing man.

My Nohno, my sister Ioren, and I joke that I am my Pahpa’s princess. He calls me “his girl”. He goes out of his way to do unsolicited nice things for me (like scaling one of the coconut trees to get me a drinking coconut on a hot afternoon), and I’ve already mentioned before about his tendency to overly prepare my food for me (cutting up large chunks of meat or removing bones). Initially the latter drove me nuts. I took it as a sign of disrespect or mistrust of my capabilities. But now I know better. That’s just my Pahpa, doing anything and everything he can for me because he cares about me. Now I simply smile and let him pour my drink for me because he thinks the kettle is too hot for me to handle. It’s his way to take care of me, and I am enormously grateful.

Communication with my Pahpa has been a goal I’ve been working toward since the beginning. He has the least English of anyone in my family (in a year I’ve heard him say exactly three things in English: “airport”, “one thousand”, and “yellow fin tuna”), and he also unfortunately is now almost completely deaf due to his career as a fisherman. (The repeated diving for years has taken a toll). But my Pahpa is infinitely patient with me, skilled at lip-reading, and is also a world-champion at charades.

Tonight, multiple elements of our relationship converged into one experience: crab for dinner. I’ve eaten fresh crab many times before (yum!), and of course my Pahpa always prepares the crab for me. He painstakingly cracks open the shell with his hands and squeezes all of the meat out onto a plate and then hands it to me with his wonderful, partially tooth-less smile. Not only do I adore this, but I really appreciate it because I have got absolutely no clue how to get the meat out of a crab shell. Well, tonight I decided that it was time I learned, so my Pahpa gladly took on the duty of teaching me.
Now, as part of their continued assistance in my language learning, my family members have come to know how to best explain things to me and which words to use to ensure I understand. But, since my Pahpa can’t actually hear any of the things we talk about, he has no knowledge of my vocabulary. So our crab lesson began with several strings of sentences that I completely didn’t understand. But, our trusty failsafe—charades—came through in a big way and I was eventually able to liberate some meat from the crab legs. All the while, my Nohno looked on and howled with laughter at my incompetence and my Pahpa giggled happily at my determination. It was a wonderful experience.

And as a reward for my success, my Pahap scooped a particularly colorful meat blob out of the main body cavity and excitedly plopped it on my plate and told me to try it. Here’s were communicating with my Pahpa is literally essential. What am I about to put in my mouth? I obviously don’t know all the Pohnpeian words for internal organs, so I began to panic and steal glances at my Nohno who was now overwhelmed by her laughter and completely unable to assist me. I Pahpa just continued to point to his own abdomen and enthusiastically insist that I eat it. In some alternate universe, I might have tried to politely refuse this mystery meat, but instead I did what you do when you get offered questionable food in the Peace Corps: I just ate it. And you know what? I was quite tasty. My Pahpa was literally giddy with happiness.

When I came here, I expected to become close to my family, to sincerely care for them and wish good things for their futures. But I guess I didn’t expect the deep, genuine love and admiration that I feel for my Pahpa. He has lived a life far different from my own and it is likely that we will never fully understand each other, but he is an incredible man and I am lucky to know him.

I think this, these personal connections are what Peace Corps is really about. We are here under the guise of working as teachers, but we’re really here to get covered in slimy crab meat with our Pahpas.

And I’m totally okay with that.

--Christy

The Real Me

As evidenced by my short thesis on chicken life several posts back, my day to day here leaves me with plenty (sometimes too much) time to think and reflect. And lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my perception of reality through the lens of this experience. I know, that sounds pretentious, but stick with me.

I constantly find myself prefacing statements with “in real life”, such as “In real life I enjoy spending time outside.” Or “In real life I love being a teacher”. But suddenly it dawned on me that this is real life. I am not asleep or lying in a coma somewhere imagining all this (at least I hope I’m not)—this is real. And I suppose it’s due to the fact that this life I lead now is not my normal or my permanent set-up that I tend  to separate it from reality. But that is a foolish premise, because what I see and do and experience every day is very much a part of my reality, and will surely continue to shape me as an individual for the foreseeable future. Just because my current surroundings are wildly different from those waiting for me stateside does not negate or diminish their importance or value. 

But that got me thinking more about these seemingly parallel universes that I am living in between. One in which a magic metal box rinses and washes my clothes for me while I casually flip channels, and another where I beat my clothing with a wooden paddle. Which leading lady is the real me? Is there even an answer to that question? I think the deeper question here is:  are you the person you are while surrounded by the comforts of home or are you what’s left when everything is stripped away?

That last question has been lurking in the back of my brain for weeks, and I’m still not sure what the answer is. I’d like to say it’s the latter—that we, as people amount to our core belief systems and elements of character that cannot be altered by a change of scenery. However, while I’ve been here in Pohnpei for the past year (holy hell, has it really been that long?), I’ve encountered situations and experienced emotions that I never have before in America. In some of those times I behaved in “Christy” ways, handling circumstances in similar ways that I might have in America. But other times I completely surprised myself (in both good and bad ways) by my reactions. For example, in some ways I have become very shy since coming here; more soft-spoken, hesitant to join groups of people or speak to strangers, and preferring to spend quiet time alone. But at other times I can be incredibly self-assured; speaking my mind to figures of authority, sticking to my convictions, and being frighteningly direct in confrontation. Both of these alter-egos are very different from the “me” I remember. So is this now the “real me” or the “me” that I left behind?

I sometimes joke with some of the other Volunteers that I’m not sure any of us would be friends in real life (again, “real life”) if it weren’t for Peace Corps. Partly because it is likely we would never have met otherwise, but also because we are just dramatically different as individuals. But here we get along and function well as friends. This concept fascinates me. Do we adjust our criteria for friendship here because there is such a scarcity of candidates? (Probably.) Or do we change and evolve (perhaps temporarily) into the friend each other needs? (Also a possibility.) 

So then I come to a moderately satisfying conclusion: we are simply not the same people now as we were at the beginning. This seems obvious; of course being a Peace Corps Volunteer changes you. If you come out of this unchanged, I don’t think you did it right. But the more interesting question is what happens when the person you’ve become in the Peace Corps collides with the person you left behind in America at the end of two years? Do you revert back to what’s comfortable and familiar (leading to the confirmation that the person you were is the “real you”)? Or do you continue on, a stranger in your own life (implying that you are in fact what’s left once you’ve lost it all)? Which is right? Neither? Both? 

Maybe there is no way to define “the real you”. Maybe it is constantly changing and evolving without our noticing. Maybe. Maybe the real me is this girl I’ve become. The girl who squashes cockroaches without even looking up from her computer (true story: that just happened approximately 10 minutes ago). Or who watches a pig slaughter without even the slightest grimace. Or who can play with children and not notice that they’re naked. Or who can have long conversations with respected men who also have no teeth and are in dire need of a shower and not think it is strange. Maybe. 

But maybe I want to go back to a cockroach-free world where people wear clothes, practice proper hygiene, and refrain from killing animals in their backyards. Maybe I don’t want to accept these things as reality. 

How’s that for the “real me”?

Just some thoughts. Stay well over there in the “real world”.

--Christy