Thursday, July 10, 2014

The Beginning of the End

So the time has finally come. I am about to complete my two years of service in the Peace Corps. Even though I know my mom would beg to differ, the time has truly flown past for me. I find it almost unbelievable that I am now 24 years old; it feels like yesterday that I graduated from college and got on that plane.

Many people have and will be asking me “So how was Peace Corps?”, and right now I’m finding that question difficult to answer. I think I need more space and more time between me and Pohnpei for me to judge the situation clearly. These past two years have been the most challenging experience of my life, both physically and emotionally. I feel I am much stronger because of it, but I’m not sure yet what else I have gained from my time here in service.

I faced so many obstacles along the way, countless frustrations, and endless illness. I had a good local friend die, a family member and a friend back home as well. I experienced many failures and mistakes, and often felt isolated and alone. I think I will need more time to process everything before I can call this “the toughest job you’ll ever love” (Peace Corps’ favorite catch phrase).

But even so, a part of me is sad to leave. Despite all the hardships, I do care deeply about many of the people I’ve met here. My family has been an endless source of help and support, and I will truly miss them. Several of my students and co-teachers impacted me in ways they will never know. And not to mention the American friends I’ve made that supported me through it all, both Peace Corps Volunteers and Jesuit Volunteers. Those young men and women are incredible and I am proud to call them my friends. So getting on that plane next week will definitely be bittersweet.

Already I feel like I’m living in a surreal reality. My room is becoming more and more empty, as I begin packing, throwing away things, and donating others. I just had the goodbye party at my school yesterday, and my family and I are planning something special for this weekend, my last weekend. So many lasts. I’m trying frantically to get everything in that I want to do before I leave, acknowledging that some of my bucket list will just never get done.

So as Friday draws near, I’m trying my best to soak up all that I can. Even with all the frustrations that came with my service, I will never again have this unique experience and that in it itself is worth appreciating.

Thank you to everyone who helped and supported me along the way. I honestly couldn’t have done it without you.

I’ll see you all on the other side!

Stay well,

--Christy

An Open Letter to Family and Friends in America

Dear Friends,

In just over a week I will begin my 37 hour journey home, and I am very excited to see you again and catch up on the past two years. But before I do, I’d like to let you all in on a little secret: I am terrified to go back to America.

In America there are lots of people, big buildings, fast cars, and giant shopping malls. All of these things and many more, cause me a lot of anxiety when I think about returning home. Please be patient with me when I get overwhelmed. Please don’t laugh at me when I begin to hyperventilate in the middle of a Target or while gaping at the produce selection in Publix. Please just hold my hand and remind me to breathe.

Please acknowledge that I have become accustomed to a certain way of life and culture very different from our own. Please tell me when I do something socially unacceptable. Notice I said “when” and not “if”, because let’s face it, this will absolutely happen. Please alert me to my poor fashion choices.

Please remember that I have been living very far away in a remote location. Please humor me when I fail to understand a pop-culture reference or when I am clueless about current events. Be prepared to catch me up on two years’ worth of life.

Please recognize that I lived for two years in a tropical environment without air-conditioning. Please accept the fact that I will find 80 degrees freezing. Please don’t just me when I curl up in a blanket in the middle of August.

Please understand that I’ve lived in a virtually technology-less realm. Please allow me to be utterly mesmerized by your cell phone, computer, tablet, tv, car, or whatever. Please do not trust me not to break your aforementioned items. I have no idea how to use them. Please teach me how.

Now that you know what amount of crazy expect (high levels), I look forward to seeing you all soon!

--Christy

105 Books I Read in Peace Corps

105 Books I Read in Peace Corps

A while back my Peace Corps post received an adorable letter from an elementary student in Massachusetts asking the Volunteers various questions, among which laid this gem: “Do you ever have time to read?” When this was read aloud to the room, everyone chuckled. Do I have time to read? Son, that is just about all that I do. You’d be surprised how much you can read in a world without tv or internet.

So, for your viewing pleasure, I’ve compiled a list of the books I read during my service. Several of the titles are books I have read before, but simply re-read while here. Others are books I was assigned to read in school but never did. Many of the books are ones I’ve always wanted to read by never had the time. Some are titles I’d never heard of, but picked up on a whim. The genres are varied, but many authors repeat. I even read three complete series, though only two consecutively.

I took a little liberty with including the last title, as I am currently reading it, but anticipate its completion prior to my departure next week. Also, if you’re feeling lazy, I’ve whittled the list down to my favorite 10 titles, and that shorter list can be found first.

After you’ve perused the lists, feel free to ask me to review any of the books. Lord knows I’m full of opinions. Enjoy!

Top 10 List (in no particular order):

  1. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
  2. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
  3. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (Ken Kesey)
  4. The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland on a Ship of Her Own Making (Catherynne M. Valente)
  5. The Time Travelor’s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
  6. Columbine (Dave Cullen)
  7. The Bean Trees (Barbara Kingsolver)
  8. The Shack (William P. Young)
  9. The Scarlet Pimpernel (Baroness Orczy)
  10. Island of the Colorblind (Oliver Sacks)

Complete Book List (June 2012- July 2014)

  1. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Robert Luis Stevenson)
  2. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
  3. Bossypants (Tina Fey)
  4. Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children (Ransom Riggs)
  5. Jurassic Park (Michael Crichton)
  6. The Time Machine (H.G. Wells)
  7. Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness (Alexandra Fuller)
  8. The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (Catherynne M. Valente)
  9. The Lover’s Dictionary (David Levithan)
  10. A Long Way Down (Nick Hornby)
  11. Devil In the White City (Erik Larson)
  12. My Horizontal Life: A Collect of One-Night Stands (Chelsea Handler)
  13. Lost in Shangri-La: A True Story of Survival, Adventure, and the Most Incredible Rescue Mission of WWII (Mitchell Zuckoff)
  14. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (Ken Kesey)
  15. Heaven’s For Real (Todd Burpo)
  16. Bridge to Terrabithia (Katherine Patterson)
  17. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
  18. The Art of Racing in the Rain (Garth Stein)
  19. Drown (Junot Diaz)
  20. Outliers (Malcom Gladwell)
  21. Hoot (Carl Hiaasen)
  22. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
  23. 32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny: Life Lessons from Teaching (Phillip Done)
  24. Next (Michael Critchon)
  25. To Sir, With Love (E.R. Braithwaite)
  26. The Reader (Bernard Schlink)
  27. The Time Traveler’s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
  28. Holes (Louis Sachar)
  29. The Thirteenth Tale (Diane Setterfield)
  30. Silver Linings Playbook (Matthew Quick)
  31. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
  32. A Wrinkle in Time (Madeline L’Engle)
  33. My Korean Deli: Risking It All For a Convenience Store (Ben Ryder Howe)
  34. Annie Freeman’s Fabulous Traveling Funeral (Kris Radish)
  35. The Island of the Colorblind (Oliver Sacks)
  36. The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency (Alexander McCall Smith)
  37. Wrong About Japan (Peter Carey)
  38. The Sex Lives of Cannibals (J. Maarten Troost)
  39. The Runaway Jury (John Grisham)
  40. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (J.K. Rowling)
  41. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (J.K. Rowling)
  42. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (J.K. Rowling)
  43. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (J.K. Rowling)
  44. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (J.K. Rowling)
  45. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (J.K. Rowling)
  46. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (J.K. Rowling)
  47. The Devil Wears Prada (Lauren Weiberger)
  48. Tears of the Giraffe (Alexander McCall Smith)
  49. Columbine (Dave Cullen)
  50. The Unheard: A Memoir of Deafness and Africa (Josh Swiller)
  51. Ape House (Sara Gruen)
  52. The Bean Trees (Barbara Kingsolver)
  53. Theodore Boone: The Abduction (John Grisham)
  54. We the Animals (Justin Torres)
  55. 11/22/63 (Stephen King)
  56. The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through the Madness Industry (Jon Ronson)
  57. The Lightning Thief (Rick Riordan)
  58. The Sea of Monsters (Rick Riordan)
  59. The Titan’s Curse (Rick Riordan)
  60. The Battle of the Labyrinth (Rick Riordan)
  61. The Last Olympian (Rick Riordan)
  62. Surviving Paradise (Peter Rudiak-Gould)
  63. A is for Alibi (Sue Grafton)
  64. The Freedom Writers’ Diary (Erin Gruwell and the Freedom Writers)
  65. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
  66. Pigs in Heaven (Barbara Kingsolver)
  67. Along Came a Spider (James Patterson)
  68. Good in Bed (Jennifer Weiner)
  69. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
  70. The Shack (William P. Young)
  71. Orange is the New Black (Piper Kerman)
  72. Kiss the Girls (James Patterson)
  73. Wild (Cheryl Srayed)
  74. The Scarlet Pimpernel (Baroness Orczy)
  75. The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There (Cathrynne M. Valente)
  76. David and Goliath (Malcolm Gladwell)
  77. Ferenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury)
  78. Into Thin Air (Jon Karakauer)
  79. The Secret Garden (Franes Hodgson Burnett)
  80. Forrest Gump (Winston Groom)
  81. Romeo and Juliet (William Shakespeare)
  82. A Star Called Henry (Roddy Doyle)
  83. Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? And Other Concerns (Mindy Kaling)
  84. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
  85. A Walk in the Woods (Bill Bryson)
  86. Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore (Robin Sloan)
  87. The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern)
  88. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
  89. Little Bee (Chris Cleave)
  90. Island of the Sequined Love Nun (Christopher Moore)
  91. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
  92. 1984 (George Orwell)
  93. 12 Years a Slave (Solomon Northup)
  94. The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
  95. The Zookeeper’s Wife (Diane Ackerman)
  96. Teacher Man (Frank McCourt)
  97. The Girl Who Soared Over Fairyland and Cut the Moon in Two (Catherynne M. Valente)
  98. The Winner Stands Alone (Paulo Coelho)
  99. A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier (Ishmael Beah)
  100. Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (David Sedaris)
  101. I Am the Messenger (Markus Zusak)
  102. Sun Flower and the Secret Fan (Lisa See)
  103. The Book Thief (Markus Zusak)
  104. Ship Breaker (Paola Bacigalupi)
  105. Love Medicine (Louise Erdrich)

So many of the books above were wonderful to read; my top 10 list was a very difficult decision. And as excited as I am to go home, I realize I will no longer have enough time to read as much as I’ve become accustomed. But regardless, I see a library card in my future.

Happy reading!

--Christy

Monday, June 09, 2014

Ice Cream

Friday was a day of celebration. It marked my two years in Peace Corps and my sitemate Matt’s one year. It was also one of the not so rare occurrences when we were the only two people left at school. I often feel like the hardest working person on staff, but it’s even more glaring on days like this. Less than an hour after school got out, the campus was empty, save for Matt and I hanging out in the office, grading papers, making copies, and generally enjoying our pocket of America.

After we finished our work for the day, Matt and I were locking up the school when he casually mentioned that he might have some ice cream when he got home. Casually. Dumbfounded, I stuttered a question along the lines of “Wha….?” As it turns out, the store Matt’s family runs at his house regularly stocks ice cream, and somehow this was the first I’d heard of it. Blasphemy.

My family also runs a store, though slightly smaller than the one at Matt’s house. I rarely, if ever, go to the store at Matt’s house because I feel like I’m cheating on my family’s store if I do. But for icecream? I can put my morals aside for ice cream.

I don’t know if I can accurately portray to you all at home in America the gravity of the situation. Ice cream was to be had, in my village. Not in town. In my village. And not soupy ice cream that was bought in town and transported the 45 minutes to my village. Cold, fresh ice cream. Opportunities like this cannot be passed up.

To my delight, the ice cream was not vanilla or plain chocolate or even strawberry, as I most commonly see, but Rocky Road. Rocking freaking Road. This was a big deal, people.

I bought Matt and I each a cone with scoops bigger than my fist, and basked in the immeasurable joy that is ice cream.

The walk from Matt’s house to my house is roughly seven minutes, and as I began my leisurely stroll down the path, licking the luscious Rocky Road that was dripping down my hand (despite the fact that it was cool and drizzly outside), I suddenly realized that I had roughly five minutes of walk-time left to devour all evidence of my ice cream bliss.

It was imperative that my family not know that I had ice cream for two reasons: one, I didn’t want to share, and two, my family believes that I don’t eat ice cream.

Let me explain myself. When living in a foreign country with unusual food, you’re often faced with situations in which you have to gracefully turn down questionable dishes. Early on in my service, I was given something made with milk that seemed less than fresh. I told my family I’m allergic to milk, which is technically true, I am lactose intolerant. But I rarely let that stand in my way. Yes, I drink soy milk, but other than that, I can down a pizza or a cheese burger and finish it off with a milkshake, no problem. Occasionally I take lactaid pills, but usually I just suffer the consequences.

But rather than explain all that and have to admit that I didn’t want to eat the food being given me, I just said that milk makes me very sick. This was not a big deal until my family figured out that milk is in ice cream. Whenever we have ice cream at my house, which is not all that often (maybe five or six times in the past two years), I always abstain. I sit sadly, with longing in my eyes and watch the kids drink their ice cream soup. To eat ice cream would be to admit that I not so much lied, but embellished the truth. And so, I remained ice cream free. The misery enveloped me.

So, back on the path with the ice cream that could convict me, I abruptly stopped savoring and began furiously eating, pushing through the brain freeze. As I rounded the final bend and came across my favorite cousin Disha playing in the mud, I shoved the last bit of cone in my mouth and tried to muster a smile while keeping my mouth completely shut. She giggled and I thought I was in the clear. Mission accomplished. But as it turns out, I forgot one crucial detail.

“Owomwen sokoled!” she squeeled. (There’s chocolate on your face!)

Busted.

Enjoy your ice cream!


--Christy

Friday, May 02, 2014

COS (Close of Service)

Unbelievable as it may seem, I just attended my Close of Service (COS) conference in Chuuk. All of the remaining members of my team, sixteen in total scattered across the FSM and Palau, came together to conclude and celebrate our service.

It was so great to see these wonderful people and pick up as if no time had passed at all. Most of my teammates I had not seen since our Mid-Service Training (MST) almost a year ago, but it made no difference. United by similar struggles and hardships, we were all able to instantly commiserate while rejoicing in the small successes. I am frequently impressed by my teammates, and this was no exception. Many of them have built palpable relationships with their communities and accomplished so much in almost two years. I feel honored to be considered their teammate.

We spent four days in training, with sessions ranging from Peace Corps health benefits post-service to the struggles of reintegrating into our home cultures. During breaks we went kayaking in the ocean, or swam, or just sat around visiting (my personal favorite). It was nice to catch up with everyone and hear all about their plans for the future, whether it be grad school, weddings, jobs, travel, or no plans at all, everyone had exciting things to share.

The last night, after we received our official Peace Corps certificates, we decided to vote on and award superlatives. I was voted “Best Poop Story” (obviously), and “Most Improved”. My friend Natalie had suggested this particular superlative with “most changed” in mind, but I think “improved” captures it better. I am a completely different person now than I was in June 2012 when I started this journey, almost unrecognizably so.

The most obvious changes are roughly forty pounds of weight loss, delicious mermaid hair, countless pock marks covering my legs from the relentless mosquitoes, and a little toenail fungus. But the more important changes are those that cannot be seen. There are expected things, like a new worldview or appreciation for the simple life. The most drastic changes are those I had not expected.

In Peace Corps you have a lot of down time. And I mean A LOT. This results in plenty of time to sit around and think. Anything you were able to avoid confronting about yourself while living in America absolutely cannot be avoided here. You will have to deal with your issues. This process of having nothing but yourself and your thoughts to occupy yourself with can be excruciating at times, but in the end it is worth it. I have never before felt this in touch with myself, who I am, what I want in life. I have never experienced such a strong sense of identity, and if I gain nothing else from my Peace Corps service, it will have been enough.

I want to thank all members of Micronesia78 for being such a wonderful source of support and laughter these past two years, I wish you all the best of luck in whatever life has in store for you next.

--Christy

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Local Medicine, Funeral Customs, and English Lessons

Local Medicine

In addition to being an accomplished and well-known fisherman, my Pahpa is also a respected local doctor. People come from all over the island to get treatment from him, including some Filipinos and Americans, as well as visitors from other island states. I always find the non-Pohnpeians the most interesting to observe, as my Pahpa speaks approximately five English words (three of which are descriptors for different kinds of tuna) and most non-Pohnpeians don’t speak Pohnpeian. On rare occasion, I serve as a crude translator, but most of the time these patients come with a bilingual friend.

The most notable such occurrence was about a month ago when a woman from Kosrae (another state in the FSM) came with her young grandson and their Pohnpeian friend. The boy (the patient), spoke only Kosraean and spoke to his grandmother alone. She then translated into English and spoke to her Pohnpeian friend, who in turn translated into Pohnpeian for my Pahpa. It was a lengthy and tedious process, but very cool nonetheless, observing languages unify. [This reminds me a little of a time last year that I was able to speak with a Japanese volunteer for several minutes using Pohnpeian, as neither of us spoke each other’s language. Pretty awesome.]

Over my almost two years living here, I have taken my share of local medicines. They are all 100% natural and made from pounding, boiling, or drying out various local plants. I figure there’s no harm in trying them and there’s a few that I now swear by. There’s a root that I chew to relieve the symptoms of a UTI, a slimy green liquid that gets smeared on my head in times of headache, and my personal favorite: a cough syrup made from boiling red hibiscus flowers. It definitely works and has a taste remarkably close to Robitussin. Most of the medicines taste earthy, but a few, like a brown hazy liquid to treat diarrhea taken shot-style are very bitter and require banana chasers.

My current ailment is a result of taking too much of that diarrhea medicine. Boy, does it work. Now, in attempts to reverse the effects, I have been prescribed a large bottle of bright green liquid. The best I can tell it’s some kind of fiber cleanse, because well, it tastes like grass. In Pohnpei, talk of bowel movements (or in my current situation, lack thereof) is completely acceptable in any social setting. Word has spread quickly of my predicament, and people are constantly checking up on me to ask humorously if I’ve “given birth” yet. You’ll excuse me if I fail to join in the hilarity.

Funeral Customs

A tragedy has hit my extended local family. My Pahpa’s older brother, residing in Guam, was recently killed in a car accident. My Pahpa has been dispatched to attend the funeral proceedings in Guam, but in the days preceding his departure, my family received many calls from relatives in Guam giving updates.

When I first arrived in Pohnpei, many cultural differences struck me immediately, but the most poignant differences are those surrounding funerals. I have come to almost accept it all as normal now, but initially I met the traditions with incredulity. I have now been able to relive the reverse of my experience through the disbelief of my family members in hearing about the funeral plans.

“He’ll be buried in a big field alongside strangers?!”

“A family member isn’t going to dig the hole?!”

“People can’t spend the night with the body the night before burial?!”

“You have to PAY to put him in the dirt?!”

According to Pohnpeian custom, family members are buried at their surviving family’s homes, with their graves ominously present directly next to houses. All males in the immediate family are expected to help dig the hole and lower the body into it. The night before a person is buried, it is expected that the women in the family will prepare the body of the deceased and then sleep alongside it all night long. And aside from the cost of cement to seal the grave, all of these customs are completely free. You can imagine my family’s complete surprise and disgust at the heresy being performed in Guam this coming week.

English Lessons

As you well know by now, my favorite Pohnpeian is a small boy named Ray. He will be three in July and I love him more than I’ve ever loved a child before. My heart will literally break when I have to leave him.

His mom, my sister in law Mary, is the ECE (Early Childhood Education) teacher at my school (an equivalent to kindergarten in the US), and has started him early learning everything from numbers and letters to names of body parts. Ray is incredibly smart, and it makes me sad that I won’t be able to see him flourish in school.

In addition to his Pohnpeian lessons from his mom, I’ve been teaching him little English phrases (his favorite being “Yuck!”). I also tried for a long time to teach Ray to say “I love you”, but due to different phonemes it comes out more like “I lup ooh.” Our lessons usually consist of me saying “I love you” over and over and Ray repeating back, “I lup ooh” with a huge grin. I had tried to explain to him the meaning, but I don’t think he fully grasps the idea of multiple languages.

A few weeks ago, after a particularly stressful day of school (what day isn’t?!), I trudged home, desperate for a mental and emotional break from the insanity of my life as an unappreciated teacher. As I came down the road and into view, Ray came running across the grass to me, as he is accustomed to doing. But this time, as he approached, instead of telling me to catch him (he likes to jump into my arms and then “fly” around in circles), he simply hugged me around the legs and proclaimed for the first time unprompted, “I lup ooh.”

And then my little heart exploded with joy.

So there you have it, even when life as a Peace Corps Volunteer sucks (which is most of the time), there are still little moments that give us that small shot of happiness to keep us going. God, I’m going to miss that boy.

Stay well

--Christy

Monday, March 17, 2014

The Changing Face of Poverty

I think when we, as Americans, picture “poverty” in our minds it’s some small child with brown skin, with tiny fragile limbs and distended stomach, walking naked through rubble and trash, open sores covering their skin, and flies swarming all around them. And sometimes poverty looks like that. But sometimes poverty looks much, much differently.

This is something I’ve come to understand in my almost two years of Peace Corps service. Now, keep in mind, my perspective comes only from my experience here, on my island of Pohnpei in the country of FSM. I can’t speak for all corners of the world where poverty persists, nor can I speak much about the corners of our own country where children still go hungry. But this is what I’ve come to know.

I live in a place where most people in my peer group have a cell phone or mp3 player, or both. Some people even have laptops or tablets. Almost everyone has a facebook account. Families enjoy watching movies together, and for a short time there was even an xbox at my house. When children write about who they want to be when they grow up, they say things like Lebron James or Miley Cyrus (news travels slowly out here). Teens can recite lyrics from American pop songs and they care about if they have the cool hat or shoes.

I also live somewhere where many people don’t have access to clean water. A place where children run barefoot in the dirt road, half-clothed or in some cases naked. A place where people lack the basic sanitation and nutrition to lead long and healthy lives. A place where people cook on fires and eat outside. Where animals roam freely and people are too closely confined. A place where adults and children alike wear old, battered, torn clothes for lack of other options. A place where open sores are often infected and leave permanent marks on the skin. A place where most adults never finished eighth grade and many cannot read or write.

This is poverty.

But what’s more disturbing about this is that the country I live in, FSM has been receiving quite a large chunk of financial aid from the US by way of The Compact of Free Association since 1982. So, one would assume that conditions would be improving. Roads would be built, potable water would be available to all, and health care would be on the rise. But I can tell you, it’s not. Instead, what FSM has to show for their “friendship” with America is imported goods. Cheap, low quality, salty and sugary foods are pouring in at an alarming rate, and technology is permeating even way out into rural jungle communities.

As a result, FSM now has a diabetes rate of about 30% (according to a 2008 study by the WHO, the number has likely risen since), and in a country of roughly only 100,000 people, that is a HUGE amount. The majority of the population has or is at risk for heart disease, high blood pressure, obesity, and a large number of other health concerns. And meanwhile, they STILL don’t have clean drinking water. Something doesn’t make sense here.

The next logical question is, then why is the US spending money on this country, if not to help its people improve their quality of life? I believe that question has two answers, one is monetary reasons (if the people buy the stuff, why not sell it?) and the other is military (the FSM makes a nice little foothold in the Pacific, and by 2008 it had lost five times more soldiers in combat per capita than the United States).

Hm. Weird.

The way I see it, money and goods are a way to pacify the country into letting the US have military access. It’s that simple. But at what cost? The FSM is now wholly and entirely dependent on foreign aid with little hope to become self-sufficient. Possibly ever. But I suppose with a total population of only 100,000, it’s easy for most people not to care about the long-term effects of political actions.

So in the meantime, I can sit on a slab of concrete under a thatched roof in the middle of the jungle, next to half-naked children with dirty fingernails eating rice and canned SPAM with our fingers and watching Spiderman on their new flat screen TV, and everything is okay. Right?

This is the new face of poverty. And I don’t know how to make it better.

--Christy

Friday, February 28, 2014

Thoughts

At the beginning of my service, I used a journal. The practice lasted about three months. What can I say? I have a short attention span. Instead, I started doing “thoughts” pages with just bulleted tidbits from my brain. Recently, I was re-reading some of these gems, and thought I’d share a few with you. Enjoy!

~I scrubbed my floor with vinegar to keep the ants away and now my room smells oddly appetizing. (12/6/12)

~The “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” mentality is toxic in a culture of chronic laziness in the workplace. (12/6/12)

~I used a towel that hasn’t been washed in over a month. When did I become that guy? (12/6/12)

~I tend to choose a location to poop based on how many critters I expect to find there. (12/6/12)

~I literally can’t remember the last time I used a fork. (1/14/13)

~Rice stuck to the bottom of your foot is absolutely the worst thing imaginable. (1/14/13)

~It’s a sad day when canned meat becomes exciting. (1/14/13)

~I’ve never been more challenged to behave maturely than when I try to have a serious conversation with a man with no teeth. (1/14/13)

~If we were fully staffed at school for an entire week I think the world might actually implode. (1/14/13)

~I stepped in pee today and was completely unfazed. This may be a bad sign. (1/15/13)

~Is it too much to ask for my food to come without fur? (1/15/13)

~I think it is very telling that I second-guessed the identity of a child because he was wearing clothes. I literally didn’t recognize him. (1/15/13)

~Doing laundry is impossible when days alternate having power or water. (3/8/13)

~Watching TV in a hotel room is what I imagine shooting up drugs is like. (3/8/13)

~Just ate SHARK for breakfast. The real breakfast of champions. (4/21/13)

~“Are you full?” and “Are you finished eating?” are two entirely different questions. (4/24/13)

~Is it possible to both be a good teacher and hate children? (5/20/13)

~The only road kill I ever see are frogs, rats, or crabs. I’m not sure why, but I find this very amusing. (6/9/13)

~You know it’s hot when a 10 second rain shower makes every feasible surface steam. (7/18/13)

~There is a definite moment when you no longer need a spoon to eat peanut butter out of a jar. (7/24/13)

~Being a Peace Corps Volunteer is a lot like being an animal at the zoo—people constantly stare at you and yell strange things while you attempt to go about your business. (7/24/13)

~It may be time to call it quits when a cockroach crawls on your face while you’re attempting to swallow some pig fat. (7/29/13)

~Reading one book in one day is impressive. Reading four books in four days is just sad. (7/29/13)

~The children have only two volumes: screaming and asleep. Adults have three: screaming, asleep, and inaudible mumble. (8/26/13)

~Wearing a white shirt is like wearing a sign that says, “I’m an idiot.” (9/12/13)

~I’m not sure if I’m too young or too old to be living with so many children, but something doesn’t seem quite fair here. (10/23/13)

~I can’t remember the first time I decided that toilet paper was unnecessary, but I think that fact in itself is more terrifying than the act alone. (10/23/13)

~You don’t know real fear until an enormous pig comes barreling out from the jungle right as you walk by. (12/17/13)

~I just witnessed someone use a crow bar to separate frozen fish chunks. There is no more I need to say about that. (1/15/14)

~I can recall no stranger sensation than that of having a small insect trapped in my ear. (1/29/14)

~I am sometimes alarmed by how quickly I can devour a candy bar. (2/2/14)

~The good news is that bugs float, so they’re easy to pick out of soup and coffee. (2/22/14)

I hope you enjoyed these nuggets of my experiences.

--Christy

Rita

This has by far been my worst month of Peace Corps service. I tried to find a way to make a blog post on another topic, but I couldn’t. This needed to be said.

On February 14th, my dear friend Rita died from complications of a stroke. She was the 3rd grade teacher at my school, and a true light in my life. Even on her bad days she could always make me laugh, and I miss her beyond words.

One of my best friends back home sent me a slew of holiday-themed fabrics that I’ve been using to make skirts. So on February 14th I woke up early, donned my fabulous new Valentine’s Day skirt, and left for school to prepare for some holiday-themed lessons. About ten minutes before the bell was due to ring, a student burst into my room and announced, “Rita died.” I’ve never received such bad news so bluntly before, but my first reaction was to assume it was my student’s idea of a joke. I scolded him for his poor taste and returned to my preparations. Timidly, he urged me to go to the office, so I did, unwilling to accept he hadn’t been joking.

When I walked in, the women were holding back tears and I knew it was real. In this culture, it is not acceptable to show emotion. Crying in public is an incredibly embarrassing thing. So the sight of wet eyes made my breath catch. I didn’t even have to ask, I locked eyes with my sister-in-law Mary, and I had my confirmation.

I’ve always wondered how I would handle tragedy at school, whether I’d be able to stay in control and focused long enough to get the job done. It turns out I can. I didn’t let myself linger on the thought too long, Rita is dead. Instead, I went to my classroom, collected all my things, rounded up my students so they could get the backpacks they’d stashed in there earlier, then locked everything up and returned to the office for further instruction. School would be cancelled. The students would have to go home. The staff needed to go to the funeral.

As we sat around in the office, calling the appropriate authorities (the principal had gone to town for a meeting and was yet unaware of the situation), we saw the ambulance drive past en route to Rita’s house, followed by Lisa (the 4th grade teacher and Rita’s sister) in her car. We watched silently as it passed. Here, ambulances double as hearses. So if it wasn’t real before, that sight made it so.

We made the announcement to the students, and then I began my walk home to prepare for the funeral. On my ten-minute trek home I could no longer push it aside, and I began to hysterically cry, much to the utter horror of the students I was walking alongside. Everyone was whispering, “Christy sengseng.” (Christy’s crying)

I got home and changed out of my festive Valentine’s skirt; it no longer seemed appropriate, and went with my Pahpa, sister, aunt, and cousin to Rita’s house. Funerals in Pohnpei are a big deal. Most last four or more days, not including the viewing day, and they begin immediately after someone dies. So, less than an hour after seeing the ambulance pass, we were on our way to pay our respects.

At a funeral on viewing day, all the men stay outside the house doing manly things like building structures for the guests and ultimately the burial site (Pohnpeians bury their loved ones in their yards, which is just as disturbing as it sounds). The women go inside to sit with the body and wail. Yes, wail. As I said, showing emotion is not particularly appropriate in this culture, with one exception: wailing at funerals. Women let all their emotions out in a terrifying explosion, and then it’s over. As I walked up the steps to her house, I could already hear it. I wasn’t ready.

As I was walking into the house, I saw Rita’s 23 year old daughter Sylvia preparing some food in the kitchen, visibly upset, and I let my American show. I completely threw all my knowledge of Pohnpeian customs aside, and I left my procession line to go give her a hug. We stood there for a while, just crying together. She whispered in my ear, “Thank you for coming.” And I said, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Rita lived in my village, so after leaving Sylvia I sat in that small room surrounded by my family and neighbors, women I know very well, and I was completely shattered by their emotion. It was way more than I could handle. Screaming, shouting, thrashing against the floor. It was unbearable. I found a spot hear Rita’s feet and just stared at her, unmoving, laying on white satin sheets, with a ring of white flowers in her hair. She looked beautiful. One of my favorite students from last year had made a rose out of paper and had attached a note, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Rita. I love you.” The rose lay on Rita’s chest.

Rita was always a big jokester. She loved to tease and play tricks. As I sat there, with tears streaming down, grabbing the hand of the woman sitting next to me, a part of me was still waiting for her to sit up and laugh that hearty cackle when she knew she got away with something. But she didn’t. It was devastating.

After I’d had all I could handle, I went to find Sylvia. We sat together for a while and talked everything over. Rita and her family are surprisingly westernized, and it showed in my conversation with Sylvia. We were able to actually talk about our sadness, rather than ignore it as is the custom here. We laughed about Rita’s many shenanigans, and wept over her loss. “She’s going to miss teasing you,” Sylvia said. And I’m going to miss being teased.

I didn’t attend any of the other days of the funeral. I couldn’t go back. I received some negative feedback from some members of my community for the decision, but it’s what I needed to do. Rita would have understood. I went and paid my respects and that was all I could give. I was literally empty from all the sadness pouring out from me. I needed to stay away.

But the weekend passed and Monday came, and I had to go to work. If I thought the funeral was painful, going to school was agonizing. Every aspect of my day made me think of Rita. My lesson plan form was Rita’s special creation, only Rita, Lisa, and I use it. She’s the teacher who was in charge of ringing the bell (which involves sending a student with a lead pipe to go whack an empty oxygen tank hanging from a tree). I can see her desk from my classroom, and often watched her sit there during the morning while her students did assignments. During breaks I always found myself searching out Rita to sit and chat with, to gossip or complain or just laugh. In the afternoons, when I was finished teaching, I’d sit in the office (which is right next to Rita’s room) and listen to her teaching through the wall as I graded papers.

Her absence was excruciating. And worse, it was past the time when crying was okay. So when a sudden thought caused me to burst into tears during my lessons, students starred on incredulously. Some even laughed, a typical Pohnpeian response to an uncomfortable situation. This was my hell for that first week. My friend was dead, and my students were gawking. It was terrible.

But towards the end of the week I had a talk with one of my favorite members of Peace Corps staff, and was inspired to not worry about Pohnpeian customs and do what feels right to me, like I had with Sylvia at the funeral. So I began talking about Rita, to anyone who would listen. I told the other female teachers, my sister, and my Nohno how sad I was, how much I missed her. We reminisced about our favorite memories. And it helped. I got people talking, discussing their grief. It has been both shocking and comforting. I’ve been pushing these people to step outside their cultural norms to help me to be okay. It didn’t feel right to ignore her death.

Rita was a wonderful person, and I will never be able to forget her. I’ve gotten to a point that I can talk about her without crying, which feels like an enormous victory. But I feel like I will carry the weight of my sadness for a long time. When someone that important to you dies, it’s hard not to.

When the idea of being a Peace Corps Volunteer is pitched to you by a recruiter in some office, they always talk about the strong bonds you will form with local people, the friendships you with create that will last a lifetime. What they don’t prepare you for is the possibility that you could make that meaningful connection and then have it taken from you prematurely. Rita changed my Peace Corps service for the better, and I will never be the same.

Thank you to all who have offered support and condolences.

Stay well,

Christy

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Chuuk


Elani, Isela, me, and Melody on Weno.


The road around Romanum.


Romanum

Me, Isela, Melody, and Alex.


Romanum

Me and Melody swimming.

Romanum

Alex, Gretchen, Melody, me, Isela, and Mariel on my last morning in Chuuk.
The Federated States of Micronesia (FSM) is comprised of four states: Kosrae, Pohnpei, Yap, and Chuuk. I live on Pohnpei, the capital (and largest at ) island state. The Peace Corps also currently has Volunteers on Kosrae and Chuuk. Over the “winter” break, I chose to visit some of those Volunteers in Chuuk (pronounced “Chook”) for an eight-day vacation. We joke here on Pohnpei that we choose to take a break from our small island by escaping to even smaller islands, which is definitely true. It’s funny how that works out. One Volunteer’s fishbowl is another Volunteer’s vacation.
The main island of Chuuk is Weno. This island has the airport, stores, hotels, restaurants, cars, and electricity. I spent the first four days of my trip there, visiting with one of my friends Elana and her host family. Weno is like the “town” of Chuuk, but being there for even four days helped me to understand why my friends stationed there are always overwhelmed by Pohnpei when they return.
The town here in Pohnpei, called Kolonia, is by no means large but it has become very large by my perception in the year and a half I’ve lived here. The cars move at what I can estimate is about 20 mph in town, with speeds sometimes reaching 30 or 35mph in the more rural areas. That is the scope of my “fast”. In Chuuk, however, the roads are in less order, and therefore drivers chug along at probably 15 mph, tops. Yet, my friends jump back in fear as a car comes “speeding” by. Funny how we can become accustomed to things.
The shops are fewer and less flashy than those found in Pohnpei, but you can still find all that you need. There are much less restaurants, maybe five, but they do have an incredible ice cream shop which I made a point to investigate. The locations with air conditioning are even more sparse than in Pohnpei, making their existence even more cherished.
The interesting thing I got to experience, was the novelty of living so close to town. Here in Pohnpei, town is at least 45 minutes away, so “quick trips” don’t exist. When I was staying on Weno, meals consisted of exotic ingredients such as canned vegetables and peanut butter, things that are hard to find out in the villages here in Pohnpei. I gobbled up the food with embarrassing enthusiasm.
Aside from size and proximity to stores, I didn’t find much different between Weno, Chuuk and Pohnpei. There are some subtle cultural differences, but largely the island lifestyle remains constant. The biggest difference, of course was the language. In Pohnpei we speak Pohnpeian, and in Chuuk they speak Chuukese, so I was at a complete loss for words. I learned only how to say “hello” and “thank you”. Amusingly enough, the word for “thank you” in Chuukese is the exact same word in Pohnpeian for the word “naked”. That definitely made me laugh.
At the end of my vacation: part one, I boarded a small motor boat bound for an island about 45 minutes from Weno. My companions were Isela and Alex (new but wonderful Volunteers that I met during this trip), Melody from my group (my hostess), a Chuukese woman, our boat operator, and a boat boy. Oh, and piles of our luggage and goods purchased in “town”. About 20 minutes into our trip the engine died (Melody’s words were “That’s not good.”), leaving us stranded in open ocean on rocking waves. After about an hour of spinning, bobbing, and drifting, we were rescued by several other motor boats who answered our distress calls (thank God there was cell reception!). Everything turned out okay, and I can now cross “puking violently over the side of a motorboat while waves splash relentlessly into your face” off my bucket list. I had to scrub paint chips off of my hands and arms from how desperately I was clinging to the sides of that little boat. And that was after taking seasickness medicine. I can only imagine what would have happened otherwise. Yikes.
Despite the less than pleasant start to my vacation: part two, I had a wonderful time. I was staying on an island called Romanum in an area known as FiChuuk. With a land mass of about 0.28 square miles, it takes only about 30 minutes to walk around it completely. Despite its compactness, the terrain varied between rocks, sand, swampy marsh, and jungle. The beaches were beautiful white sand, which was an exciting change as Pohnpei is a mangrove island without sand. There are no roads, cars, or electricity on Romanum, and the quaintness was refreshing. They have gas-powered generators that run for a small portion of the night, maybe 7pm-12am. Otherwise it was utter and complete darkness during the night, which was only scary when I had to find my way to the bathroom.
We spent three days lounging around, swimming, and eating a notably large amount of junk food. It was perfection. On our last day on Romanum we even took a trip to an even smaller island only about 15 minutes away by motorboat. This island took only about 8 minutes to walk around and was 100% sandy paradise. It was such a nice break. On my island, I live so deep in the jungle that it is easy to forget I’m even on an island at all. In Chuuk, and on Romanum specifically, the ocean was visible at almost all times, and if you couldn’t see it, you could definitely hear it. The views were breathtaking. No camera can accurately capture the different hues of intense blue that is the South Pacific. It was exactly what you picture as tropical paradise.
On the last day of my Chuuk vacation, we got back on a (different) motorboat for our return trip to Weno. The trip was mercifully uneventful. We met up with a few other Volunteers and all went in together at one of the nicest hotels on the island, frequented by diving fanatics. It was Melody’s birthday, and I celebrated by treating myself to an expensive dinner. I had the most glorious steak and shrimp and person could ever imagine (I do acknowledge that perhaps my judgment is clouded by almost two years of fish and rice). It was almost a religious experience. Then we all enjoyed some cherry cheesecake in honor of the birthday girl, took hot showers, and slept in air-conditioning. Granted, I was freezing cold the entire night and slept horribly, as is the custom whenever I am in air-conditioning, but it was worth it to not be hot for a few precious hours.
I then said goodbye to all my friends, most of whom I’ll be seeing in just four months at our Close of Service (COS) Conference, boarded my plane and headed home after a wonderfully perfect vacation. It’s hard to believe I’m finally in the home stretch. As my mom says, it’s now the “correct year”, meaning the year I come home: 2014. And I feel very fortunate that I was able to kick off the “correct year” in beautiful Chuuk, surrounded by friends and laughter.
I hope everyone at home at a wonderful New Year, and that 2014 brings you and your family happiness.
Enjoy some photos from my trip: