Thoughts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope you enjoyed these nuggets of my experiences.

--Christy

Rita

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you to all who have offered support and condolences.

Stay well,

Christy

Chuuk



Elani, Isela, me, and Melody on Weno.




The road around Romanum.




Romanum



Me, Isela, Melody, and Alex.



Romanum



Me and Melody swimming.

Romanum

Alex, Gretchen, Melody, me, Isela, and Mariel on my last morning in Chuuk.

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

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

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

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

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

The boys back with our classroom's Christmas tree.

The cake I made for my class's party.

Christmas skirt!



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



Some of the eighth grade boys at our Christmas party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish you all a very happy holiday season!

--Christy

Turkey Tails (A Thanksgiving Story)

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

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

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

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

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

--Christy

Shit Happens

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

“Tricker Treat!”



Some finsihed products from our Halloween mask-making extravaganza!



Ray making his Halloween face.



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




My new Halloween skirt!



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