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