tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12566437615340756392024-03-06T16:46:45.537+11:00The Adventure I Call My LifeA Peace Corps Journey in MicronesiaChristy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-57551528393731616712014-07-10T09:13:00.001+11:002014-07-10T09:13:59.956+11:00The Beginning of the End<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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). </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Thank you to everyone who helped and supported me along the way. I honestly couldn’t have done it without you.</p>
<p>I’ll see you all on the other side!</p>
<p>Stay well,</p>
<p>--Christy</p>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-84589351916938935762014-07-10T08:24:00.000+11:002014-07-10T08:24:16.796+11:00An Open Letter to Family and Friends in America<p>Dear Friends,</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Now that you know what amount of crazy expect (high levels), I look forward to seeing you all soon!</p>
<p>--Christy</p>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-498421767542006682014-07-10T08:21:00.000+11:002014-07-10T08:21:06.817+11:00105 Books I Read in Peace Corps105 Books I Read in Peace Corps
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>Top 10 List (in no particular order):</p>
<ol>
<li>The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)</li>
<li>A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)</li>
<li>One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (Ken Kesey)</li>
<li>The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland on a Ship of Her Own Making (Catherynne M. Valente)</li>
<li>The Time Travelor’s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)</li>
<li>Columbine (Dave Cullen)</li>
<li>The Bean Trees (Barbara Kingsolver)</li>
<li>The Shack (William P. Young)</li>
<li>The Scarlet Pimpernel (Baroness Orczy)</li>
<li>Island of the Colorblind (Oliver Sacks)</li>
</ol>
<p>Complete Book List (June 2012- July 2014)</p>
<ol>
<li>The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Robert Luis Stevenson)</li>
<li>The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)</li>
<li>Bossypants (Tina Fey) </li>
<li>Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children (Ransom Riggs)</li>
<li>Jurassic Park (Michael Crichton)</li>
<li>The Time Machine (H.G. Wells)</li>
<li>Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness (Alexandra Fuller)</li>
<li>The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (Catherynne M. Valente)</li>
<li>The Lover’s Dictionary (David Levithan)</li>
<li>A Long Way Down (Nick Hornby) </li>
<li>Devil In the White City (Erik Larson) </li>
<li>My Horizontal Life: A Collect of One-Night Stands (Chelsea Handler) </li>
<li>Lost in Shangri-La: A True Story of Survival, Adventure, and the Most Incredible Rescue Mission of WWII (Mitchell Zuckoff) </li>
<li>One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (Ken Kesey) </li>
<li>Heaven’s For Real (Todd Burpo) </li>
<li>Bridge to Terrabithia (Katherine Patterson) </li>
<li>To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee) </li>
<li>The Art of Racing in the Rain (Garth Stein) </li>
<li>Drown (Junot Diaz) </li>
<li>Outliers (Malcom Gladwell) </li>
<li>Hoot (Carl Hiaasen) </li>
<li>The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)</li>
<li>32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny: Life Lessons from Teaching (Phillip Done) </li>
<li>Next (Michael Critchon) </li>
<li>To Sir, With Love (E.R. Braithwaite) </li>
<li>The Reader (Bernard Schlink) </li>
<li>The Time Traveler’s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)</li>
<li>Holes (Louis Sachar) </li>
<li>The Thirteenth Tale (Diane Setterfield) </li>
<li>Silver Linings Playbook (Matthew Quick)</li>
<li>Life of Pi (Yann Martel) </li>
<li>A Wrinkle in Time (Madeline L’Engle)</li>
<li>My Korean Deli: Risking It All For a Convenience Store (Ben Ryder Howe)</li>
<li>Annie Freeman’s Fabulous Traveling Funeral (Kris Radish) </li>
<li>The Island of the Colorblind (Oliver Sacks) </li>
<li>The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency (Alexander McCall Smith) </li>
<li>Wrong About Japan (Peter Carey) </li>
<li>The Sex Lives of Cannibals (J. Maarten Troost) </li>
<li>The Runaway Jury (John Grisham) </li>
<li>Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (J.K. Rowling)</li>
<li> Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (J.K. Rowling)</li>
<li>Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (J.K. Rowling) </li>
<li>Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (J.K. Rowling)</li>
<li> Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (J.K. Rowling)</li>
<li>Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (J.K. Rowling) </li>
<li>Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (J.K. Rowling) </li>
<li>The Devil Wears Prada (Lauren Weiberger) </li>
<li>Tears of the Giraffe (Alexander McCall Smith) </li>
<li>Columbine (Dave Cullen) </li>
<li>The Unheard: A Memoir of Deafness and Africa (Josh Swiller) </li>
<li>Ape House (Sara Gruen)</li>
<li>The Bean Trees (Barbara Kingsolver) </li>
<li>Theodore Boone: The Abduction (John Grisham) </li>
<li>We the Animals (Justin Torres) </li>
<li>11/22/63 (Stephen King) </li>
<li>The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through the Madness Industry (Jon Ronson) </li>
<li>The Lightning Thief (Rick Riordan)</li>
<li>The Sea of Monsters (Rick Riordan)</li>
<li>The Titan’s Curse (Rick Riordan)</li>
<li>The Battle of the Labyrinth (Rick Riordan)</li>
<li>The Last Olympian (Rick Riordan) </li>
<li>Surviving Paradise (Peter Rudiak-Gould) </li>
<li>A is for Alibi (Sue Grafton) </li>
<li>The Freedom Writers’ Diary (Erin Gruwell and the Freedom Writers) </li>
<li>Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card) </li>
<li>Pigs in Heaven (Barbara Kingsolver)</li>
<li>Along Came a Spider (James Patterson) </li>
<li>Good in Bed (Jennifer Weiner) </li>
<li>A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving) </li>
<li>The Shack (William P. Young)</li>
<li>Orange is the New Black (Piper Kerman)</li>
<li>Kiss the Girls (James Patterson)</li>
<li>Wild (Cheryl Srayed)</li>
<li>The Scarlet Pimpernel (Baroness Orczy)</li>
<li>The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There (Cathrynne M. Valente)</li>
<li>David and Goliath (Malcolm Gladwell)</li>
<li>Ferenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury)</li>
<li>Into Thin Air (Jon Karakauer)</li>
<li>The Secret Garden (Franes Hodgson Burnett)</li>
<li>Forrest Gump (Winston Groom)</li>
<li>Romeo and Juliet (William Shakespeare)</li>
<li>A Star Called Henry (Roddy Doyle)</li>
<li>Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? And Other Concerns (Mindy Kaling)</li>
<li>The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)</li>
<li>A Walk in the Woods (Bill Bryson)</li>
<li>Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore (Robin Sloan)</li>
<li>The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern)</li>
<li>The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)</li>
<li>Little Bee (Chris Cleave)</li>
<li>Island of the Sequined Love Nun (Christopher Moore)</li>
<li>Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)</li>
<li>1984 (George Orwell)</li>
<li>12 Years a Slave (Solomon Northup)</li>
<li>The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)</li>
<li>The Zookeeper’s Wife (Diane Ackerman)</li>
<li>Teacher Man (Frank McCourt)</li>
<li>The Girl Who Soared Over Fairyland and Cut the Moon in Two (Catherynne M. Valente)</li>
<li>The Winner Stands Alone (Paulo Coelho)</li>
<li>A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier (Ishmael Beah)</li>
<li>Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (David Sedaris)</li>
<li>I Am the Messenger (Markus Zusak)</li>
<li>Sun Flower and the Secret Fan (Lisa See)</li>
<li>The Book Thief (Markus Zusak)</li>
<li>Ship Breaker (Paola Bacigalupi)</li>
<li>Love Medicine (Louise Erdrich)</li>
</ol>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Happy reading! </p>
<p>--Christy </p>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-27270839194610123242014-06-09T14:39:00.002+11:002014-06-09T14:39:55.437+11:00Ice Cream
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>I bought Matt and I each a cone with scoops bigger than my fist, and basked in the immeasurable joy that is ice cream. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>“Owomwen sokoled!” she squeeled. (There’s chocolate on your face!)</p>
<p>Busted.</p>
<p>Enjoy your ice cream!</p>
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--Christy<br />
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Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-40277750339316992112014-05-02T22:40:00.002+11:002014-05-02T22:44:08.854+11:00COS (Close of Service)<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>--Christy</p>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-67827068858406439232014-04-30T12:16:00.000+11:002014-04-30T12:16:01.678+11:00Local Medicine, Funeral Customs, and English Lessons<p>Local Medicine</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.] </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p.>
<p>Funeral Customs</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p><i>“He’ll be buried in a big field alongside strangers?!”</i></p>
<p>“A family member isn’t going to dig the hole?!”</p>
<p>“People can’t spend the night with the body the night before burial?!”</p>
<p>“You have to PAY to put him in the dirt?!” </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>English Lessons</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>And then my little heart exploded with joy. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Stay well</p>
<p> --Christy</p>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-30000333488194689142014-03-17T11:09:00.002+11:002014-03-17T15:39:14.514+11:00The Changing Face of Poverty<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>This is poverty.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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). </p>
<p>Hm. Weird.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>This is the new face of poverty. And I don’t know how to make it better.</p>
<p>--Christy</p>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-4108102513017367342014-02-28T08:31:00.001+11:002014-02-28T08:31:37.768+11:00Thoughts<p>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!</p>
<p>~I scrubbed my floor with vinegar to keep the ants away and now my room smells oddly appetizing. (12/6/12)</p>
<p>~The “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” mentality is toxic in a culture of chronic laziness in the workplace. (12/6/12)</p>
<p>~I used a towel that hasn’t been washed in over a month. When did I become that guy? (12/6/12)</p>
<p>~I tend to choose a location to poop based on how many critters I expect to find there. (12/6/12)</p>
<p>~I literally can’t remember the last time I used a fork. (1/14/13)</p>
<p>~Rice stuck to the bottom of your foot is absolutely the worst thing imaginable. (1/14/13)</p>
<p>~It’s a sad day when canned meat becomes exciting. (1/14/13)</p>
<p>~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)</p>
<p>~If we were fully staffed at school for an entire week I think the world might actually implode. (1/14/13)</p>
<p>~I stepped in pee today and was completely unfazed. This may be a bad sign. (1/15/13)</p>
<p>~Is it too much to ask for my food to come without fur? (1/15/13)</p>
<p>~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)</p>
<p>~Doing laundry is impossible when days alternate having power or water. (3/8/13)</p>
<p>~Watching TV in a hotel room is what I imagine shooting up drugs is like. (3/8/13)</p>
<p>~Just ate SHARK for breakfast. The real breakfast of champions. (4/21/13)</p>
<p>~“Are you full?” and “Are you finished eating?” are two entirely different questions. (4/24/13)</p>
<p>~Is it possible to both be a good teacher and hate children? (5/20/13)</p>
<p>~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)</p>
<p>~You know it’s hot when a 10 second rain shower makes every feasible surface steam. (7/18/13)</p>
<p>~There is a definite moment when you no longer need a spoon to eat peanut butter out of a jar. (7/24/13)</p>
<p>~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)</p>
<p>~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)</p>
<p>~Reading one book in one day is impressive. Reading four books in four days is just sad. (7/29/13)</p>
<p>~The children have only two volumes: screaming and asleep. Adults have three: screaming, asleep, and inaudible mumble. (8/26/13)</p>
<p>~Wearing a white shirt is like wearing a sign that says, “I’m an idiot.” (9/12/13)</p>
<p>~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)</p>
<p>~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)</p>
<p>~You don’t know real fear until an enormous pig comes barreling out from the jungle right as you walk by. (12/17/13)</p>
<p>~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)</p>
<p>~I can recall no stranger sensation than that of having a small insect trapped in my ear. (1/29/14)</p>
<p>~I am sometimes alarmed by how quickly I can devour a candy bar. (2/2/14)</p>
<p>~The good news is that bugs float, so they’re easy to pick out of soup and coffee. (2/22/14)</p>
<p>I hope you enjoyed these nuggets of my experiences. </p>
<p>--Christy</p>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-91170619894769603682014-02-28T08:26:00.002+11:002014-02-28T08:26:36.125+11:00Rita<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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)</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.” </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Thank you to all who have offered support and condolences.</p>
<p>Stay well,</p>
<p>Christy</p>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-46770146052262021502014-01-11T10:26:00.001+11:002014-01-11T10:26:38.143+11:00Chuuk
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elani, Isela, me, and Melody on Weno.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The road around Romanum.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Romanum</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Isela, Melody, and Alex.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Romanum</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Melody swimming.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Romanum</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alex, Gretchen, Melody, me, Isela, and Mariel on my last morning in Chuuk.</td></tr>
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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. <br />
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. <br />
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.<br />
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. <br />
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. <br />
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”. <i>That </i>definitely made me laugh. <br />
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. <br />
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.<br />
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. <br />
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. <br />
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. <br />
I hope everyone at home at a wonderful New Year, and that 2014 brings you and your family happiness. <br />
Enjoy some photos from my trip: Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-72806995401180486912013-12-21T09:12:00.002+11:002013-12-21T10:17:46.464+11:00Buttons, Cake, and Talking Books: Three Keys to a Merry Christmas<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs_gLmnYngItXnzB8fSgX_p-9vweMg9dOZQE41AXwFvCrYTbTmvG70zYqS2KpcV0kmc2kllYB_SCEjt79fSQ9ExPhYLEjB6iUMz91sfus9b3LmfCyRoWAqaJ7aSRbm2-irwNKkOkubcEc/s1600/DSCF2568.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_610850="null" gua="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs_gLmnYngItXnzB8fSgX_p-9vweMg9dOZQE41AXwFvCrYTbTmvG70zYqS2KpcV0kmc2kllYB_SCEjt79fSQ9ExPhYLEjB6iUMz91sfus9b3LmfCyRoWAqaJ7aSRbm2-irwNKkOkubcEc/s320/DSCF2568.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGcQ-2KWWMbdOuRHvGpC87TL63q6qN3HFt9TrwhP55tZS8F1KhKkLEH-CRBFu-ggn7IFfB8mtFwFmBhsHG819-D4Ufo9RIVGIPFl3WBapoBCr3F2HnyX_eqxtppRydh8ajb5OWITVceg0/s1600/DSCF2571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_610850="null" gua="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGcQ-2KWWMbdOuRHvGpC87TL63q6qN3HFt9TrwhP55tZS8F1KhKkLEH-CRBFu-ggn7IFfB8mtFwFmBhsHG819-D4Ufo9RIVGIPFl3WBapoBCr3F2HnyX_eqxtppRydh8ajb5OWITVceg0/s320/DSCF2571.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of my students listening to my dad read "The Night Before Christmas" for about the one-millionth time.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-w01XwTrazsqQMxO9vPe8IjIfmsavVZxsSKBBpY0D4Zsp4D5DMGDJ1_pr9ElxlBux3MMkbRHjbCil1-qTkbuSN-psbnaojfDmSnL-Ic02UZVcf57DCZsiGuSiWS7Ir5usdhnUKOcF-4/s1600/DSCF2575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_610850="null" gua="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-w01XwTrazsqQMxO9vPe8IjIfmsavVZxsSKBBpY0D4Zsp4D5DMGDJ1_pr9ElxlBux3MMkbRHjbCil1-qTkbuSN-psbnaojfDmSnL-Ic02UZVcf57DCZsiGuSiWS7Ir5usdhnUKOcF-4/s320/DSCF2575.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My niece Anyan and I on classroom decorating day. I promise she does love me.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvcEhvDQdTtGkwBNDk3hAiUlsB_igRgaegqwcdh9YKxunkW6a_k44HtJWoOJ_X-9iO7kkzmZW7AXvjgmIkqRdO3RWXMNo0tna8qs2oahG4vduqbf-bqTHtH_hdJ4CQqK7TsfEA0m9K78c/s1600/DSCF2576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_610850="null" gua="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvcEhvDQdTtGkwBNDk3hAiUlsB_igRgaegqwcdh9YKxunkW6a_k44HtJWoOJ_X-9iO7kkzmZW7AXvjgmIkqRdO3RWXMNo0tna8qs2oahG4vduqbf-bqTHtH_hdJ4CQqK7TsfEA0m9K78c/s320/DSCF2576.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys back with our classroom's Christmas tree.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkbKa2ZDvg5CC_l3wvXCihvWSZ_K2drIhYyJQAGtsriysU1f8Mc2IK8F91piEmVl2UGiXNVOkRtOql_1ORZa6tffnPuVPOA6zf-Gb6oOMQlNKJZ1CbsBN8qG1Qs2qZw2IAzMr2NUVIAA/s1600/DSCF2579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_610850="null" gua="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkbKa2ZDvg5CC_l3wvXCihvWSZ_K2drIhYyJQAGtsriysU1f8Mc2IK8F91piEmVl2UGiXNVOkRtOql_1ORZa6tffnPuVPOA6zf-Gb6oOMQlNKJZ1CbsBN8qG1Qs2qZw2IAzMr2NUVIAA/s320/DSCF2579.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cake I made for my class's party.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiohvvymBi5hwEUgxp3Lcsiz7n7b5_5_SU04QaIaeKpOT33p3IcykkULcGZmnfzFdVM3BReoNloIDJhNE9St3WTQM4F9N6AkRPIFbjHsZeJ1UccIpZKFkOqE7N4kbOwri0Mz2yRLvudrpA/s1600/DSCF2585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_610850="null" gua="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiohvvymBi5hwEUgxp3Lcsiz7n7b5_5_SU04QaIaeKpOT33p3IcykkULcGZmnfzFdVM3BReoNloIDJhNE9St3WTQM4F9N6AkRPIFbjHsZeJ1UccIpZKFkOqE7N4kbOwri0Mz2yRLvudrpA/s320/DSCF2585.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas skirt!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oxAxkOVSeqDJq7P8eC1QMs7c34JNQdYRWCQAA1-lp4c3C2pXVtwM21o7LzwZEM7gZ-tuhxNhl6vkI-7HF7dNm7n-Jv129_xU3PhfAH1Urb5YhfjKTbI9_Tuu9_T9sdbsUD0UnpyLyG4/s1600/DSCF2586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_610850="null" gua="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oxAxkOVSeqDJq7P8eC1QMs7c34JNQdYRWCQAA1-lp4c3C2pXVtwM21o7LzwZEM7gZ-tuhxNhl6vkI-7HF7dNm7n-Jv129_xU3PhfAH1Urb5YhfjKTbI9_Tuu9_T9sdbsUD0UnpyLyG4/s320/DSCF2586.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The seven eighth grade girls and me at our Christmas party. I love them very much!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJi8mLkFVMOf927zteiY9NV9RE3vGuxVf6SWaYRIDPxMi7y-CzTR9HopEjVD47-_jo7_K4bL_Asi9BzYSFB0I3IdNzCUF_BdddQPF1GpzVY9DA1PE9gR1VCkR1i1Ov-lc5x-iSrncL-Jg/s1600/DSCF2589.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_lm_610850="null" gua="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJi8mLkFVMOf927zteiY9NV9RE3vGuxVf6SWaYRIDPxMi7y-CzTR9HopEjVD47-_jo7_K4bL_Asi9BzYSFB0I3IdNzCUF_BdddQPF1GpzVY9DA1PE9gR1VCkR1i1Ov-lc5x-iSrncL-Jg/s320/DSCF2589.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the eighth grade boys at our Christmas party. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My co-teacher Hickperson, his wife, and me at our Christmas party. I'm wearing the skirt they gave me for Christmas.</td></tr>
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<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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, <i>No really, I’m the one who sewed on your button, I promise.</i> </p>
<p>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 <i>helped</i> 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.</p>
<p>You may be wondering, <i>How does Christy bake a cake without an oven?</i> 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 <i>that</i> was a showstopper.</p>
<p>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 <i>The Night Before Christmas</i> 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.</p>
<p>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 <i>such</i> 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. <i>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?</i> 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 <i>mahnamahn</i>—magic. Christmas is full on magic, right?</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>I wish you all a very happy holiday season!</p>
--Christy Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-90099180633383674362013-12-17T13:18:00.006+11:002013-12-17T13:18:56.729+11:00Turkey Tails (A Thanksgiving Story)<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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--ChristyChristy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-89899591226523909082013-11-15T14:28:00.002+11:002013-11-15T14:28:34.922+11:00Shit HappensI’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 Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-77101717635490764442013-11-07T11:26:00.000+11:002013-11-07T11:33:50.650+11:00“Tricker Treat!”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some finsihed products from our Halloween mask-making extravaganza!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ray making his Halloween face.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My jack-o-lantern made from a file folder. It was a BIG hit.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My new Halloween skirt!</td></tr>
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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 Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-40945857095491528592013-09-10T15:00:00.000+11:002013-09-10T15:00:28.375+11:00Choose Your Own PathSummer 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
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-69217926316447933092013-07-26T08:45:00.002+11:002013-07-26T08:45:34.314+11:00The Rollercoaster<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> see it coming. One former PCV said that Peace Corps makes us all temporarily bipolar. I might agree with that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today was a prime example of such a bipolar episode, so I feel inclined to share it with you all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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<sup>th</sup> and 8<sup>th</sup> grade students together and paint a giant world map<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hate</i> the project. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">slowly</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> go according to plan in the Peace Corps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then, </i>in that very instant—and I wish I was kidding—it began to pour rain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what the hell am I doing here</i>? And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why do I put up with all this crap?</i> 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 <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>meter</u></i></b> stick! I grumbled to myself and then stomped home, practically kicking every stone I passed on my way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nobody</i> 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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then it was time to begin preparing for a big celebration: a 1<sup>st</sup> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no clue</i> how we’re related) Samiah just turned 1, so cake was definitely in order. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Usually, I am not included in cooking tasks because everyone assumes I am incompetent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here’s the birthday girl, Samiah, enjoying her ice cream:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I love these people</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eventually</i>. It’s not worth getting so upset over. I found sanity through chocolate cake (is there any other way?). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stay well,</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christy</span></div>
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Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-20745929833754157762013-07-20T08:19:00.003+11:002013-07-20T08:19:49.122+11:00The Fourth of July<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not sure why, but this July 4<sup>th</sup> 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<sup>th</sup> 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, there may not be fireworks or lakes here, but there is a US Embassy and there is most definitely free food. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last year, as a Trainee and having only been in Pohnpei for about a month, I remember the 4<sup>th</sup> 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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On my (long) taxi ride home, I was feeling somewhat disappointed that my 4<sup>th</sup> 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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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<sup>th</sup> 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<sup>th</sup> 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<sup>th</sup> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">three</i> pineapples. With a big grin he told me they were for me, to celebrate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could have cried. The pineapple was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> good. I just don’t think you understand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I then happily munched my fruit (juice dripping shamelessly all over my chin) and contemplated my 4<sup>th</sup> 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<sup>th</sup> 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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And after dinner (and my wonderful, beautiful pineapple)</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> 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<sup>th</sup> of July helped cure a bought of homesickness, this year the 4<sup>th</sup> of July helped me to see that I am home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hope everyone had a wonderful 4<sup>th</sup> of July with their friends and family, wherever they may be. I know I did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stay well,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christy</span></div>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-15979388690990358372013-07-20T08:19:00.001+11:002013-07-20T08:19:05.391+11:00A Whole New Kind of Tourist<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">overwhelming.</i> I knew the trip would be overwhelming when I bought the plane ticket, but I had no real grasp of just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i> overwhelming it would be, nor did I anticipate which things I would find overwhelming.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lights</i>. 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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here are a few of my favorite photos from the trip. Enjoy!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A wonderful garden of irises we found at one of the temples on our first day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Buddha at Kamkura</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sushi</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The summo wrestlers!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All three of us outside of the last shrine of our trip.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">--Christy</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
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Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-28737107613645987622013-06-09T15:12:00.001+11:002013-06-09T15:13:58.768+11:00MST<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And although we all live in unique and different communities, we all had similar joys and struggles that we could connect with. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But we spent the week in sessions that enabled us to share successes, swap ideas, and create action plans for the coming year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thanks to everyone who helped and supported me in my first year of Peace Corps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stay well,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christy</span></div>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-25472457198030836052013-06-03T01:38:00.001+11:002013-06-09T15:16:28.060+11:00Ahi Pahpa<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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And I’m totally okay with that. <br />
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--Christy</div>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-55224843847360083442013-06-03T01:08:00.003+11:002013-06-03T01:08:41.723+11:00The Real Me<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> real life. I am not asleep or lying
in a coma somewhere imagining all this (at least I hope I’m not)—this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> 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 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> me? Is there even an answer to that
question? I think the deeper question here is:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are you the person you are while surrounded
by the comforts of home or are you what’s left when everything is stripped away</i>?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just</i> 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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How’s that for the “real me”?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just some thoughts. Stay well over there in the “real
world”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
--Christy</div>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-84564625260346699222013-05-31T08:48:00.001+11:002013-05-31T08:48:43.831+11:00Camp GLOW<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">GLOW</st1:placename></st1:place> (Girls Leading Our World) is a worldwide Peace Corps initiative designed to educate and empower girls living in predominately male-oriented societies. Our <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">GLOW</st1:placename></st1:place> here on Pohnpei took place just last week for three days and two nights with 110 8<sup>th</sup> grade girls from all over the island. Yes, it was chaotic, and yes plenty went horribly and completely wrong, but yes indeed the girls had fun and accidently learned a lot. I think we can officially call it a success.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Preparing for and facilitating this camp made me realize how lucky we are in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> to have such a comfort level with discussing issues such as puberty, hygiene, teen pregnancy, and STDs. Here, that is far from the case. For most girls, the first time they learn about menstruation is the first time they get their periods. And even then, the explanation from their mothers (if the girl even has the courage to ask) is simply that it happens once a month. No details. This is due in part to the fact that discussing menstruation is a social taboo, but also because it is likely that the mothers themselves honestly do not understand it themselves (probably because their mothers never told them…). It makes the awkward talks given to 5<sup>th</sup> graders around the nation as they put condoms on bananas not seem so unnecessary. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I drew a picture of a uterus and ovaries (an artistic masterpiece, I might add), and we taught the girls about what is happening in their bodies. (We were going to have it translated, but couldn't because there literally are no words in Pohnpeian for the female sex organs, because there is just no scientific understanding of those body parts). We had speakers come in and teach the girls about STD’s and the importance of safe sex. We had sobering discussions about rape and sexual assault. We demonstrated, amidst generous laughter, proper personal hygiene. And we answered countless questions about pregnancy. These girls are full of questions and concerns, but never before had a venue in which to comfortably and safely articulate them. It was humbling to realize that I personally had a huge hand in these girls’ personal education. I also taught them the chicken dance, so obviously I made a giant impact. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And woven in between the teaching, the girls just got to be kids. They swam, played games and sports, made bracelets, and completed team building activities. There was even a dance competition and party that was met with huge enthusiasm. And six exhausted Peace Corps Volunteers and six exhausted but equally amazing local women who volunteered to help happily boarded the buses when it was time to go home. (I slept roughly 14 hours the following night.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I am happy to say I survived my first <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">GLOW</st1:placename></st1:place>, with roughly one thousands mosquito bites to show for it. And despite late busses, no-show presenters, pouring rain, cooking fiascos, and several acts of delinquency, the Camp was largely a success. My teammates and I learned a lot, and we are confident that next year’s <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">GLOW</st1:placename></st1:place> will be even better. </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here are the girls that I brought from my school and I after we got our camp shirts:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmeqV20Ob8vrWqlZQ6EVXQwwidiiEP5ShqQr1H2fYNTl0pQ9zp_IXIWTEG8T4hsVG-VwBVOxLY6yAjQTWcLrF_SYCgrfFmM3eHNJaZh8lRbXze1T75PPgvFiEaPYKC2s1t6KOV7YILQ8/s1600/DSCF1830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmeqV20Ob8vrWqlZQ6EVXQwwidiiEP5ShqQr1H2fYNTl0pQ9zp_IXIWTEG8T4hsVG-VwBVOxLY6yAjQTWcLrF_SYCgrfFmM3eHNJaZh8lRbXze1T75PPgvFiEaPYKC2s1t6KOV7YILQ8/s320/DSCF1830.JPG" width="320" yya="true" /></a></div>
</span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stay well,<br />Christy</span></div>
</div>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-20732112611960252212013-05-13T14:26:00.003+11:002013-05-13T14:26:25.248+11:00A Lull in Enthusiasm<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello out there. I know it’s been a long time since my last post, and the reason is simple: I didn’t feel like writing. The last few months have been difficult and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I suppose there comes a time in each Peace Corps Volunteer’s service when it all finally catches up with them. The fun, excitement, novelty, and sense of adventure are no longer enough to cover the overwhelming feelings of loneliness and dissatisfaction. I have finally come to that point, just weeks before my one year anniversary of arriving here in Pohnpei. This is just one of those many emotional obstacles I will have to overcome during my service. But to be frank, it sucks. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But thank God for my fellow Volunteers, because no one can understand the frustrations and misery associated with PCV life better than, well a PCV. I have relished in the chance to unload some of my unhappiness on my friends who have received it sympathetically and have had plenty of their own to dish out. As isolating as it is to live in the rural jungle almost an hour from town and internet and hot water, it’s nice to know that my fellow PCV’s are also within reach. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And just as most of my teacher friends back home, I am beyond ecstatic that school is almost over. For us it ends on May 22 and it couldn’t come a day sooner. The normal stresses and frustrations associated with teaching are amplified here as they are forced together with a culture that doesn’t view education with the same importance that America does. I frequently feel like I am fighting a losing battle that no amount of donated books or pencils can ever solve. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m hopeful that this summer will lead to a recharge of my patience and will to live. Plus, there’s a lot to look forward to this summer:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-My Mid-Service Training takes place in early June, and all of my remaining teammates who are currently spread across the Pacific will come back here to Pohnpei for a week. I’m excited beyond words to lay eyes on all of them after a year of separation. I foresee much celebrating and commiserating<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in our futures.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-The new Volunteers arrive at the end of our training week to begin their Pre-Service Training rituals. I think it will be nice to have some fresh blood up in here and some new smiling, eager faces to brighten up the mood. Plus, it gives me the opportunity to feel useful and knowledgeable, which isn’t bad for massaging my ego. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-My best friend on the island, Mia Neidhardt (check out her blog at</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <a href="http://miapeacecorps.blogspot.com/">http://miapeacecorps.blogspot.com/</a> </span>) and I are heading to Japan in mid-June for one week of well-deserved and desperately needed vacation. Mia has a friend who is living in Japan working as a teacher and has graciously allowed us to crash on her floor. The culture shock should be pretty extreme, but it will be a welcomed changed after having spent a year on a secluded developing nation adrift in the Pacific. Wish us luck!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">- I have a summer project at my school in the works involving reading (The Magic Tree House series by Mary Pope Osborne), learning about the places around the world that are visited in the stories, and then painting a giant world map wall mural. I’m still waiting for grant funding to come through, but I’m excited to do something with some of my students that they may actually enjoy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So that’s it. A very real update of how things are going in my little speck of the world. Thanks to all who continue to send me letters and encouragement. Especially my parents, my aunt Janet, </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">my wonderful godparents Carole and Fred, and my two best friends James and Rachel. Your love is felt in abundance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stay well,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christy</span></div>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-58395780096439713442013-03-19T10:33:00.002+11:002013-03-19T10:33:08.638+11:00Chickens<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and as only life in a slow-paced developing country can induce, I’ve been thinking a lot about chickens. I know, my life sounds thrilling.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At first I began thinking about animals in general here and how Americans would be horrified and shocked that Pohnpeians eat dog, for example. I was sharing this thought with a fellow Volunteer, Ben, who then pointed out that Pohnpeians would be horrified and shocked by the way we treat some animals in America. His examples covered all the horrors of the food industry in America and the mistreatment of cows, pigs, chickens, and the like while they await their ultimate end. These are all things we are vaguely aware of as Americans, but most of us try to ignore those facts as we happily munch our cheeseburgers and chicken nuggets. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I continued to ponder this comparison, I couldn’t help but focus on the chickens. Many times in the past, I have been driving beside a giant chicken truck on the highway, with far too many chickens jammed into hundreds of tiny cages and it always made me sad. Those sort of conditions (for any animal) prompted the new-age term “free-range”. And as I was sitting around here in my village thinking, I suddenly realized that I live among truly <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">free-range chickens</b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not sure what free-range means in the context of America, but here, free-range literally means <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">free range</i>. Chickens roam around constantly. There are no fences or pens, and even though some of your chickens may be wandering around in the jungle or perhaps walking across the road (I am still trying to come up with the perfect Pohnpei-inspired punch line to that joke!), everyone knows those are your chickens, and stealing or mistreatment of those chickens is considered particularly heinous. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chickens are pretty much allowed to do anything they want. I am constantly chasing chickens out of the house or the office at school (did you know chickens can fly in through windows? I didn’t) or fishing chicks out of small spaces they managed to wiggle into and they couldn’t get out of, and cleaning up the chicken poop they leave behind. When I’m eating food (again, everything is outside), I’m not only on the lookout for dog and cat food-thieves, but also chickens. They’ll jump up and snatch food right off your plate or out of your hands if you’re not paying attention. And they peck at your feet if you’ve dropped a piece of rice, which believe me, does not feel good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Have you ever taken a nap and woken up with a chicken looking you in the face? I have.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And whoever came up with this idea that roosters only crow at dawn obviously never lived with any. Roosters crow whenever they damn well please, beginning usually around 4 am (<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">hours</b> before dawn). Now that is fun, let me tell you. My (American) family always finds it amusing that they can hear roosters in the background when we speak on the phone. But it ceased to be amusing around day two. And hens make a lot of noise too, did you know that? Constant noise. Squawking, clucking, noise. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is one fun thing about the chicken noises, though. Evidently, there is a distinct sound that a hen makes while it lays an egg. I am learning (failing miserably) to recognize it. Regardless of what is going on, when the egg-sound is heard, children are always dispatched to recover the eggs. And remember, these are free-range chickens, so that entails following the sound into the jungle, around heaps of old metal or tires or trash and finding the egg. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack, except it’s an egg, in the jungle. I usually give up and just watch the kids find the eggs. Whatever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But in addition to the ways in which chickens are annoying, they’re also kind of fascinating. Again, this may be the result of a lack of stimuli in my life, but I truly find the chickens interesting. Anatomically, I love observing the amazing dexterity of their specially-shaped feet, with the three main toes and the one small toe in back, and their ability to jump, balance, and grasp branches efficiently. And chicken necks. Have you ever really looked at a chicken’s neck? The neck is surprisingly long and can bend in an almost unnatural way in every direction, good to fixing out-of-place feathers, or snatching bread out of an unsuspecting American’s hand. And some of the roosters are just beautiful. Their colors and the patterns on their feathers are simply gorgeous. My favorite rooster (and I say favorite referring to its coloring only; all the roosters are on my hit list for waking me up every morning) is partially black. His black tail feathers glisten in the sun and shine green, blue, and purple. It’s incredible. But yes, I know it’s just a chicken.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The most amusing chicken activity that occurs is watching the chickens interact with the puppy (whom my family named Kujo, though they have no knowledge of the movie or the character-implications of the name). The chickens quickly discovered that, like most dogs on the island, Kujo’s fur is teeming with bugs, and they have taken to picking out those tasty morsels while Kujo naps in the sunshine. Initially, the pecking woke up the pup and startled him (as one would imagine the appropriate reaction to be), but ultimately he was able to ignore it and sleep peacefully. It seems like a win for both parties. And to express his sincere gratitude, Kujo has begun chasing the chickens. His favorite game is to grab the hens by their tail feathers until they let out a terrified cluck and then he finds another hen to torment. At first I worried about the chickens’ safety, but then I watched one of the hens whip around and peck at Kujo, so now I think they’re a pretty good match.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the Pohnpeian language, the way to describe illegible handwriting is to say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">menginpeh duete malek sensenser pohn pwel, </i>or writing like a chicken scratches the dirt. Sounds familiar? Chicken scratch. How funny is that? Some idiomatic phrases are more global than I thought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And probably my favorite chicken-related Pohnpeianism, is the name of a mountain on the opposite side of the island from where I live. The name is Pwise En Malek, and it refers to the shape of the mountain itself. The translation? Chicken poop. Wonderful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ll leave you with this story : the other day—and I kid you not, this is completely true—I came into my dark, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">closed</i> bedroom, only to discover a small chicken nestled on my pillow. I turned on the light and the chicken simply lifted its head and gave me a look that I could only interpret as annoyance. As if I was interrupting its well-deserved nap. After a bit of a starring contest, I calmly picked up the chicken (with surprisingly little protest from the drowsy bird) and chucked it (somewhat violently) outside. It then seemed like a good time to change the sheets on my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may never solve this chicken mystery. And somehow that’s okay with me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So there it is—the workings of my brain as I live amongst many, many chickens. Hope you enjoyed it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stay well,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christy</span></div>
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Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256643761534075639.post-85727841433916381982013-03-19T10:32:00.004+11:002013-03-19T10:32:41.785+11:00The Five Senses of my Peace Corps Life<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These are the things I experience daily:</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sight<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I see an endless canopy of green, lush trees, gently swaying in the breeze. I see bright and colorful flowers. I see chickens, so many chickens. I see smoke, rising up into the sky from a cooking or trash fire. I see orange dirt, finely coating every surface and me. I see lizards, of ever size and color, traversing walls, ceilings, and trees. I see the smiling faces of my family and students. I see the ocean, sparkling, green, and infinite. I see rain, collecting in messy puddles all around me. I see happy children laughing and splashing in those puddles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sound<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hear the faint rustling of trees when the wind blows. I hear screaming, laughing children. I hear roosters, Lord do I hear roosters, all the time roosters. I hear the unmistakable sound of each family car as it approaches on the road. I hear the crunching of leaves as children and livestock wander through the jungle. I hear yelling voices (most communication is done via yelling). I hear my brothers’ music, constantly playing the same few songs on repeat. I hear the hum of electric fans. I hear the stone-on-stone sound of my Pahpa mixing local medicines. I hear metallic work-sounds of my uncle repairing something. I hear the chatter of my sister’s sewing machine, as she busily creates skirt after skirt to sell in town. I hear laughter, always laughter. I hear the (not so soft) lullabies sung to the new baby. I hear my almost 2 year old nephew as he attempts to speak. I hear the many sounds of pigs. I hear the bubbling of the water tank just outside my bedroom. I hear the soothing patter of rain on the rooftop. </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Smell<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I smell smoke, soot, and dust. I smell mildew. I smell the stomach-churning scent of pig, chicken, dog, cat, and human waste. I smell oil, as food is being fried. I smell the comforting fragrance of my laundry soap. I smell body-odor. I smell the pungent odor of the local medicinal concoctions. I smell the cleansing scent of rain. I smell the familiar scent of my Dove deodorant and bar soap, as it both comforts and taunts me (haha—you’re not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> clean!). I smell motor oil and gas. I smell soup cooking over the fire. I smell freshly cut grass. I smell the relaxing scent of my Nohno’s massage oils. I smell the stinging (yet welcomed) scent of bleach after I’ve cleaned the bathroom. And even with all of this, I even some times inhale deeply the scent of pure, fresh air. </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taste<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I taste rice, which has somehow become less bland as time goes on. I taste gallon after gallon of life-sustaining water. I taste fish of all varieties prepared in countless ways. I taste gum sent from home, which I hoard and ration like gold. I taste fruits of many varieties, most of which I have never tasted before, none of which are sweet. I taste the earthy grit of local medicines when I am inevitably sick. I taste refreshing coconut water on a hot day (every day).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I taste and I savor the occasional treat of (melted) chocolate. </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Touch<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I feel hot. I feel sweaty. I feel discouraged. I feel sick. I feel bored. I feel frustrated. I feel grimy. I feel like I might die if I eat one more bite of fish. I feel lazy. I feel trapped. Sometimes I feel mad. I feel like an alien. I feel like an idiot. I feel sticky. I feel stress like I have never felt before. I feel the constant itch of ant and mosquito bites. I feel the familiar tickle of a bug crawling across my skin. I feel the pure pleasure of letting raindrops land on my face on a hot day (every day). I feel immense pride and joy when a student surprises me. I feel immeasurable love being poured out from my family. I feel independent. I feel inspired. I feel empowered. I feel hopeful. I feel resourceful. I feel accomplished. And even through the ups and downs, I feel happy.</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">--Christy</span></div>
Christy Brinkworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681122431085928027noreply@blogger.com0