Remember

I’ve been back in the states for three months now, and my how things have changed.

For starters, what’s with everyone wearing Adidas? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m here for it, but it’s everywhere. And the palm tree fad? Let’s just say, I’m happy to have been on a tropical island the last few years because my Insta is on point. Also, it’s back in style to be PC –which I love. I want to thank God and Donald Trump for this glorious change. And some of this new music that’s coming out? I mean, most of it is depressing as hell, but it’s 100 emoji. I think I’m starting to get the hang of things, but it was a rocky transition.

My first day back, I remember sitting in the back of my grandparents car looking at all of the lights from houses and buildings on the drive home. It’s not that Comoros never had lights, but there were just so many on that ride. And street lamps, too. I flashbacked to a taxi ride I had only a few weeks before. A man was discussing America and religion and politics with me, and I remember worrying if I said the wrong thing he would hurt me.

I’m sure he wouldn’t have –Comoros tends to be very peaceful. But the last month of my time there was a time of political unrest –a violent protest broke right outside of my bedroom window. And only a few weeks before that, my good friend and fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, Bernice Heiderman, died of an unknown illness. Needless to say, death was on my mind.

We got to my grandparent’s house, and immediately were greeted by my grandma’s dog, Murphy. It had been nearly a year since I touched a dog last –they are haram, so none of my Comoran friends had one. Murphy’s wiry hair curled over my fingers as I combed them across his back.

Even though it was already 1am, I threw my clothing into the washer. I hadn’t had clean clothes in months because I’d gotten too lazy to hand wash them, and I felt uncomfortable paying $1 for my host sister to do it for me. Without a washboard, you have to use the palms of your hands to scrub clothes, and after so long, it really hurts. Not to mention lifting heavy wet cloth and squeezing the water out in a repetitive process that often took several hours.

So, my clothes were really dirty. We had to wash everything twice because, during the first wash, the water had turned black from all of the dirt and sweat and grime. And then I took a warm bath –the first I’d had in ages. And I put on fresh clean clothes and jumped into a bed with fresh, clean sheets. I remember taking deep breaths linen air, and rubbing the soft fabric against my skin.

It took a few weeks to set up counseling –the reason Peace Corps sent me home early– and I used those weeks trying to reacclimate to the United States. My twin and I went shopping for clothes at thrift stores, trying to replace the clothing that wasn’t worth saving. I remembered that I loved shopping for clothes, and was ready to regain some of my fashion sense.

And we ate donuts –a delicacy I had been craving since arriving in Comoros. But I found they were a little too sweet for my new tastes.

Every so often, too many people would be talking around me in a language I actually understood, and I needed some time to relearn ignoring words that weren’t directed at me. So, I would take a lot of walks alone.

The March Missouri weather was cold against my skin, but I reveled in it. I reminded my body of heavy jackets and breezes that chilled through them. I’d see squirrels running by, or the occasional deer. And so many hawks and crows. There was not a single bat. Not even one tropical bird. And no body of water as far as the eye could see. And part of me broke at this realization. And the other part of me felt at home.

When it finally did come time to talk to the counselor, and after some opening conversations, we talked about Bea. About how she died suddenly and completely out of the blue. How she and I hung out the week before, and she taught me how to fix my broken shoes that I still haven’t throw away despite buying replacements for them. How we all loved her dearly, and there was no good reason for her death –it just happened.

I talked about how we didn’t want to talk to strangers on the Comoran streets about the article they read in the paper that was secretly propaganda to get citizens to take their flu shots; about how I’d have to drive by her house every time I went to the capital, and every time on the way home, too; about my newfound anxiety that kept me from driving myself (which, if you know me, is a big deal –I love driving).

I don’t know how much counseling actually helped me. I mean, most of the things we discussed involving grief I’d already had an understanding of. Though, it was nice to be able to talk to someone about these things. As wonderful as my family is, they get very uncomfortable when talking about death and grief. I was alone at home, so I compartmentalized.

When my granny would ask why I was crying at a happy commercial on T.V., I’d just respond with a simple “I don’t know,” and not about the fact that I was thinking about Bea and her inability to do the things in the commercial. Or I’d be listening to podcast about the man whose wife was sucked out of the airplane window –he’d say the hardest part was telling his family, and I flashed back to the moment I told my family, and how much harder it would be if they’d actually known Bea.

I was sitting on my bed. The mosquito net was rolled up even though it was late at night. Zach, one of my best friends in Comoros, called me and asked if I was okay. I told him I was, and asked the same because I heard his voice crack. He told me I needed to call other Zack, the Peace Corps representative who was in charge of calling volunteers on my island to inform them of the news of Bea’s death.

I remember all I could say to Zack was “okay,” and to Zach, “I can’t believe it.” I called my parents –it took a few tries to get ahold of them– and they told me to get to a hotel and take a hot shower and try to sleep. I called Emily, my best friend, and asked if she would join me –she did. And then I climbed the hill to my host mother’s house, and told her I had something I needed to discuss in private.

Another woman from the village was helping cook in the unfinished kitchen. They were on the ground, frying breadfruit over a fire. My host mother could tell something was wrong, so she did as I asked, and informed her friend to stay there. In my broken Shingazidja, I asked her if she remembered Bea. She did. I told her what happened. I remember she let out a harsh breath and said, elongated, “masikini,” which means “I’m so sorry for you,” and she fell into a chair and cried. And I cried, too. Deep cries. Ugly cries.

She asked me what happened, and I said I didn’t know. Bea was just sick and she died. My mother and I embraced, and I told her I was leaving Sima, my village, to be with other Peace Corps volunteers –another jab into mom’s heart. I didn’t want to leave her, but I needed to leave Sima. I called my host brother and asked him to pick me up and take me to the capital. He did without hesitation. And I stayed in a hotel with friends for about three weeks.

We had Bea’s memorial service in her village, Salimani. And we planted a tree for her at her school –something she was hoping to do before she left. We all cried together, got angry together, laughed at stupid stories. It was a lot. Too much. Not enough.

And then I went home to Sima. And on the first day I returned to teaching, a violent protest broke out. I was sitting on my bed eating my lunch and watching shows from my hard drive. I heard noises outside, so I went to see what was happening. Some of my friends and neighbors were outside yelling at each other. I though it was a dispute about work or family. It turns out, they were yelling about what needed to be done to stop the Gendarmerie (Army meets SWAT) from getting into the town.

My roommate, Rona, ran toward everyone and started barking orders, including one at me to close the window. I did what he said. Then, through the glass, I watched as he pulled out a machete and a group of my neighbors started throwing rocks down the mountain at a truck carrying armed soldiers. I immediately called the Peace Corps and told them what was happening. They said to stay inside and lock all of my doors –I did.

But my curiosity got the best of me. I looked out the window and watched as the guards started beating my neighbors, including Rona. In fact, they knocked Rona out, and tossed (literally threw) him into the back of their truck. Eventually, they drove out of sight, and I snuck over to my host grandmother’s house behind me. There, Bea’s old headmaster, who happened to be visiting Sima, told me what was happening –the protest. We hugged, and she told me not to worry. But I couldn’t stop thinking about my roommate and the rest of my family.

I remember I ran another house away, and found my mom and grandmother, pacing and silent. I asked her if she was okay. She said she was, but she didn’t know where Fukridine (her middle son) and Houssine (her youngest) were. I gave her my phone to try and call them. After some time, my brother, Houssine came out of the forest behind the house, and snuck inside. My host mother told him to hide in the attic, and told me to forget he was there.

Soon, we heard rapid gunfire and a bomb or two –small sounding bombs, an attempt to scare, not kill. Mom asked if I could give her phone credit so she could call Fukridine, and we discovered he was among the fighting. Before I knew it, the Peace Corps had a car there to pick me up. I hugged and kissed my host mother goodbye and I was taken to a hotel for safe keeping.

On the drive down, there were stumps and rocks haphazardly tossed on the side of the road –a sign of barriers torn down. at one point, an entire tree had been cut down to block the Gendarmerie. It, obviously, failed. By the end of the day, I discovered Fukridine was in hiding in a village in the south, and Rona was in prison.

In Comoros, when someone is in prison, they are supposed to be fed by their family members. Since I was the only one in the capital (where the prison was), I was the family member expected to do it. So, I brought Rona a sandwich and drink. The next day, he escaped from prison and went into hiding somewhere in the north.

Peace Corps recommended I talk to a therapist. They provided me with one over the phone, and she recommended I return to the U.S. to treat my newly developed acute anxiety. Which, a 42 hour plane ride later, brought me to my American grandparents’ car in their city of lights. And which brought me here, to a Starbucks several months later.

I still cry all the time at stupid things. Whenever I head to Chicago (my city and the one Bea was going to show me her favorite places), I cry. Sometimes, while I am at work at Walmart, I get angry that I have to work for such little pay, and I remember that that would be a life changing opportunity for some of my family in Comoros. Or the song I played over and over again in the hotel after Bea died comes on, and I become silent. Or nothing happens and I cry anyway.

I can drive again. I even like it again. And I smile a lot because why not? And I look into the eyes of a stranger and remember that they are an entity looking back at me. I wonder what choices had brought them to that moment where we met. And then I give them their change, tell them to have a good day, and move onto the next customer.

I cry when I learn about the despairs of others, and I try not to tell them mine. And when I do tell them about mine, I don’t have the words.

Rainy Season: Scene One

Misted fog fading the mango trees, green, into the layered gray sky,

you hear applause, distant, from the drip-drop dripping of rain falling snow

slow and tricked into trickling full the cistern below the front porch.

 

You wear your flannel, the sleeves rolled, because it holds back the (relative) cold

(your skin forgot warm needs no coat, and couldn’t remember cool fall sweaters

folded twice at the wrist like your jeans at the ankle).

 

The road’s a river —black pavement of controlled current’s gravity,

and God knows it flows. It flows, and kids that giggle at a dip in the road

know (they call to heaven for more water).

Skin Deep: A year in review

June 2016.

I remember leaving my room, looking around to lock it in my memory. The giant, three-paneled, black and white senior portfolio project from Alex A hanging behind my bed as the headboard; the deco wooden end-table with orange glass tiles on the top that I bought with Nora Y three summers ago at a Marengo consignment shop; the carefully placed collection of world trinkets on a desk near the window —including a wooden giraffe with it’s leg cracked up the side that my dad bought me from Uganda when I was in elementary school; stacks of books organized by preference rather than genre or title; a large jar with the insignia of my favorite brewery in Indianapolis that used to contain a signature blonde ale; the collection of scarves bought over a period of four years starting with the black and gray Ethiopian one I bought my brother (he’d left it at home by accident, so I kept it) and ending with the fluffy blanket-scarf I’d bought on a road trip to Ohio with Marcelo V.

I closed my door and clunked down the stairs, towing my carry-on. My mom’s blonde hair hadn’t been fixed yet, and she was in the bathroom blow-drying it. My dad was probably in there, too, showering or something. I looked through my baggage again to make sure everything was in place, and checked my iPhone for the time. There was still half an hour. I sat down on the living room couch and memorized the front room. A portion was dedicated simply to letting light into the room, with windows extending the entire expanse, covered by off-white drapes. Outside, the lovely houses, with dark-green lawns, were waking up, and every so often a car would pass by quietly. I stood and went into the kitchen to get some water, pouring it from the Keurig filter into an oversized plastic cup.

“Hi Luker,” dad said, entering the kitchen.

“Are you guys almost ready?” I asked, getting anxious.

“Well, duh!” Dad made a face at me, rolling his head and twisting his finger near his temple.

I laughed, “you’re so weird,” and left the room to put my bags in the covered porch near the carport. Dad followed me and put the bags into the trunk. When we’d finished, mom was coming out the door, ready to go. She was calling my twin sister:

“Logan! Come on, we’re about to leave!”

Dad went inside, calling in a silly voice, “Moe-Moe, come downstairs, your brother is leaving for two years!”

Then Moe emerged, her hair a complete tangled mess, and her face twisted inward as though she hadn’t seen light until the moment she stepped outside. She had a blanket draped around her. We walked toward each-other.

“Bye,” she said, only.

“Bye Moeny.” I gave her a bigger hug than she generally likes, and left to go sit in the car. She watched on the front stoop until we’d fully gone. And then we were at the airport, and I got on a plane, and I met 19 amazing people in Washington D.C. And all of us flew to Comoros, Africa the next day, and most of us stayed in Comoros for a full year. We taught English, we learned Shikomori, we grew close, and we grew apart. I met my Comoran families, one from Mvouni and one from Sima. And I met my sister, Mousna, named after the prophet Moussa (or Moses). And we made so much food together, and laughed together, and cried together too many times. And a year passed. And I grew.

June 2017.

This morning I woke up behind a mosquito net, cuddling my beloved cat, Oskar Daniel. I’d been dreaming of a distant world where everyone I loved was together and watching the new Wonder Woman movie. After a bit of a forced happy ending, I finally sit up and look around my room. Concrete walls painted over white, except for one section where I have penciled in a design. On another wall is a collection of 40-or-so pictures of home and friends. And on my door is taped drawings from Logan’s students or some kids from my neighborhood. Oskar and I yawn and do our routine morning stretch. He then circles around the foot of my bed, closing his eyes again to sleep. I step out of the netting and roll it up, so my bed is open to the room. As soon as I open my door, Oskar jumps out of bed and goes to patrol the house for mice and insects. I cross the hall (also my kitchen) to the bathroom and get ready for the day. It’s similar to America: I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, fix my hair. The biggest difference is the lack of running water. I use a plastic bottle cut at the top as a cup to fill with water from my giant bathroom bucket. I use it to do everything from wash dishes to flush the toilet to bathe. One of these days I’ll remember to cut a second bottle for the toilet, but bottles are out of my budget and bad for the environment.

When I finish, I pour coffee from my cold-press (a glass bottle that used to hold juice) and open my front door, so I can sit on the covered porch. To my left is the concrete wall of my house. It’s covered in scuff marks including some near the roof that make no sense as to how they got there. In front of me are several fruit trees, my school, and the distant ocean cut just below eye-level by the sky. To my right is my mango tree, some banana trees, and the skeleton of a car that’s since been used to hold clippings from when my neighbor gardens. Oskar loves to lie in that car among the grass and branches. He gets so dirty. I live near the main road, so cars pass pretty consistently all day. Cars are much louder here than in America. Nearly every car I have encountered needs a new muffler or something. Sometimes this stresses me out —it’s too loud to think. But today I thought ahead and brought headphones, so I could listen to music.

In the twelve months that I left the United States of America, so much has happened. I was going to list them out, but I’d need to bring politics into the list, and I know I can’t do that without losing readers. I hate how partisan we are these days. It’s extremists versus extremists, both completely unable to consider the opinion of the other without dismissing the ideas as either “fake” or “illogical.” In all honesty, I’m not sure I made the right choice in coming to Comoros over supporting America. We are such an unstable nation right now, ready to break in half. But then I hear the rhetoric of “America First,” and know I am doing the right thing. We can’t live in this global world pretending America is our only concern. Everyone is so distracted with their day-to-day that they forget that there is a day-to-day in Comoros, too. And in France. And China. And Sweden. And everywhere else in the world. And some people, myself included, now have to approach the world apologetically. I have lost credibility simply by being American, and now I’m not coming from a place of progress, but regress.

Everything that I loved about America, everything that truly made America great, is fading. We are no longer celebrating our differences. Instead of approaching difference as positive, we approach it as dividing. White people are all ignorant racists, and people of color are any large number of things including the newly emerged “privileged” (which makes no sense). Christians are all bigots and Muslims are all terrorists. Democrats are all elitist conformers and Republicans are all ignorant sheep.

We are no longer pushing forward in political policy, but are rather regressing into a theist government like exists here in Comoros: policies are increasingly based after one set of religious values rather than built to encompass a wide range of beliefs.

We are no longer considered a total democracy, but rather a flawed one (which, granted, would have happened regardless of who was elected). So one of our strongest held mantras, “Land of the Free” isn’t completely true anymore —and honestly, may have never been true to begin with.

Essentially, I’ve been having an existential crisis for the last few months —a crisis long overdue that I’m honored to experience because it’s written about by many of the greats. I’ve come to recognize that nothing really matters, and that life is made up of events in which we project our own meaning —actually coined as the term “existentialism,” which is fun. It’s not that I agree with the philosophy of existentialism as a whole, but rather my mind is reconciling certain truths through the filter of existentialism (in that my choices make the path my life ends up using, and I need to live as my authentic self —which is one I create myself— whilst believing in the possibly paradoxical idea of making meaning and recognizing that there is no meaning unless I make it). And all of this is happening under a second, post-modern filter in which I recognize everything is subjective, and my believing this one truth is simply a product of my subjectivity in the world, and that this may not be the truth for others, and may not even be my future truth. And may not even be true.

I used to be a hardcore romantic, thinking everything that happens in life happens for a reason. I don’t know if I’m broken, or simply disillusioned, but I don’t think that way anymore. I can’t get over the fact that everything is random and nothing really matters and life is a chain of infinite possibilities. And one of those possibilities led me to write this, and there isn’t a “why.” I mean, there might be, but I’m not in a place to believe that there is. And that “why” is something I won’t be able to figure out except in retrospect, anyway. That’s why I haven’t been writing much. And now it’s been a year of this, and I can’t say I’m in a much different place than I was before.

Don’t get me wrong, I have been learning. I understand my birth country and my host country better now. That is for certain. I’ve been given a chance to look at America from a distance, and it’s interesting to see events unfold from an environment that isn’t affected by these events. I have also come to learn about the culture of Comoros and the traditions and values upheld here by not only my host family, but most Comoran nationals. And there have been two striking similarities I’d like to share with you all.

The first is that following Islam is so similar to following Christianity. Everything that is haram or sinful excluding animals and food is vice versa sinful or haram. In both religions, the same God is being worshiped, the same rules are being followed, and the same “Jesus Freak” mentality is glorified except about God rather than Jesus (or Issa). I’ve heard songs that sound exactly like Christian songs I’ve heard in America with the word “God” changed to “Allah.” I’ve seen Christian movies from my childhood dubbed in Shikomori to tell stories from the Koran (my favorite to watch was the one of Youssouf or Joseph). And yet, as soon as Islam is mentioned in Christian circles, there is trouble. And Christianity, though not considered evil, is taboo here, too. It’s so odd to look at this phenomenon objectively. I’ve had so many flashbacks to my Christian childhood while talking to people here, and yet all anyone seems to recognize are the extremists in the news. Not my devout host mother who tells me Koranic stories that I already know because they are the same in the Bible. And not my Muslim director who is working closely with me on my library project —being funded by a Christian church. Why do people think Islam is so evil when, from my year of experience here, it seems nearly identical to my Christian experience?

The second similarity between Comoros and America I’d like to share is the amount of love I’ve received from my host family. I am a son or brother. I don’t “feel” like one. I’m not “treated” like one. I am one. Mousna and I have a similar rapport as Logan and I (and also share the same birthday, coincidentally). My Comoran mother and I laugh and sing together just like my American mother and I do. I’m blessed to have met such amazing people who have shown me something I was hoping with all of my heart: that difference really IS skin deep. That’s one to add to my list of “things I’ve learned in Comoros.”

All Caught Up

I know it’s been awhile since I’ve written something. I don’t know what has been keeping me away —not really anyway. I mean, I haven’t had a laptop for a few months, so that certainly hasn’t been helping, but I know that’s not the reason I’ve avoided writing to you all. I’m not unhappy, really. I have made some great friends here, and I took an amazing, relaxing New Year’s vacation. But today, I sat myself down and figured it’s about time I wrote. Even if it isn’t well written, the people in my life whom I love and who love me deserve to know what’s been going on in my life. So, here it is. Here is what has been going on:

November

The majority of November I spent expecting to go home afterward. My classes had been canceled too many times, due to riots or strikes, to find myself significant; I’d lost purpose. A few weeks before, I’d had a falling out with one of my closest friends (literally: by distance), and things withered from there. “Why am I even here?” I often asked myself.

Unfortunately, “why” abounds with disillusionment, and “Why” became my question.

Granted, I don’t think you should ever stop asking “why.” It’s likely one of the best things you can ask because it broadens your perspective more than the other question words.

Take some of the most provocative questions, and change the question word to “why:” “What is the meaning of life,” becomes, “Why is the meaning of life” (grammatically problematic, but a compelling question (or a fascinating answer to the question)); “How am I alive,” becomes, “Why am I alive,” which I find much more interesting and purposeful. See, I can’t change the fact that I’ve been. And, though it’s interesting to speculate creation, I can’t change how I’ve been either. But knowing why I am gives me reason to be who I am, changes how I am, and shows me what I am here for.

Still, these questions aren’t easily answered. And depression makes the answers darker than they probably are. And loneliness makes the answers less meaningful than they really are. And laziness makes the answers irrelevant.

It took a long conversation with my parents to pull me out of my slump. Especially when my dad said, “Look, Luke: you made a commitment to stay two years, so you have to do it.” And, of course, he was right. And with the support of my mom and dad, I realized that my purpose isn’t handed to me, but it’s fought for. So I fought for it. Thus the library project was born.

December

December was a dichotomy of laziness and days where I worked non-stop from dawn to dusk. I’d have sprints of energy every so often where I’d make strides on the library project. In one week I’d signed up volunteer cleaners from the student body, found the cost estimates, gained the support of various community members and COTR members, got a promise from the school director to write a heartfelt letter to donors, and drafted and got approval of sketches of the library renovation. Then, the next week, I learned that Peace Corps Washington requires all projects, even ones self funded, to be approved. I had to fill out pages of documents and put verbal discussions into written explanations for the “why” of the project. The project stalled, and, like it often happens when someone working twice as hard as they should sits down, I became inert.

Besides, the person in charge of signing off on the project was on vacation in America, so even if I finished everything in a timely manner, I’d not be able to gain approval before she returned in January. I was stuck. I was angry for working so hard and not seeing that work reciprocated by others. I needed a break, so I took one. As a Christmas present, my parents (and grandparents) paid for me to go to a beautiful sister island and stay in a nice hotel. I was there for a week and could write (and probably will write) a blog post on it. And, for the first time in six months, I let myself forget responsibilities and just relax.

January

We spent the first minutes of the new year swimming in the Indian Ocean. It was low tide, and the shoreline didn’t meet water for 100 meters, and the water remained knee deep for another 100. Still, we took to the dark ocean and lay back in the shallow water, eyes at the stars. I waved my hands to face them upward. Water muffled my ears, and tiny lights caught my peripheral vision. I sat up with bits of blue and green moving to the sway of my body: bioluminescent plankton.

Five friends and two British visitors we’d met that night joined me, and we talked about the ocean, and culture, and each-other. And, after an hour or so, we went to bed. No fights, no stress, no mess. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t stressed out to find someone to kiss (though a friend and I did have a playful peck as per tradition). I wasn’t thinking of the past year or the next one. Just us, the ocean, and the tiny, lit-up, life-breathing (literally) plankton.

The next day I met Edna (number 306) and her other giant sea turtle buddy, Dottie. They were laying hundreds of eggs like troopers in hopes that one would survive all of the predators. And for the next three days after that, I locked myself in my air-conditioned room with semi-consistent electricity, running water, and sheets I didn’t have to wash myself (by hand). I watched a dozen movies, napped a lot, and took some much needed alone time. Alone. With no obligations to talk to anyone. It was amazing, and I truly felt rejuvenated and ready to get back to work.

So, that’s where I am now. Well, not right now, but this week anyway. Teaching kids, and actually enjoying it for the first time in awhile. And you’re officially caught up. I promise I’ll give more details in later posts, and I’ll do my best to write more often, too. It’s just hard to write when your mind isn’t in the right place, and it’s easy to blame headspace for keeping me from doing something that should be second nature to me by now.

A Few Lists of Things

Four square walls of concrete encase four rectangular walls of mosquito netting, all day surrounding the four limbs that protrude from my center. I could have extended my day from this bed inside of a room, but my limbs aren’t listening to my center because my mind keeps telling them it’s safer inside. Of course it’s safer inside, but it’s also much less interesting. And certainly less productive –well, perhaps less productive. I couldn’t claim staying within the confines and courtyards of one’s home has never produced productive productions. Emily Dickenson, for example, stayed behind four (or so) walls, and she is now one of the most influential poets of all time. Staying inside all day is a way of perfecting the poignant loneliness of poetic prose (or practicing pneumonic plethora).

Plus (ok, I’m done with the “p”s now), I have gotten a lot done. I took a bucket shower (once), mopped the floors (twice), and played candy crush (twenty-three times –I can’t get past level 40). I also wrote a few lists about the things I have learned, am learning, and hope to learn on my adventure here in Comoros. The actual lists are actually much longer than what I have here, but these are some of the things I think are most important:

Things I’ve learned:

1. How to contort a live tuna into dead chunks of flesh to cook, consume, and eventually digest.
2. The ocean is an extension of the sky; sometimes it feels like the only way off this island is to sprout wings.
3. “Adventure” means exciting homesickness.
4. My homemade mac ‘n cheese is delicious anywhere.
5. A smile is cross-cultural and generally reciprocated.
6. How to accidentally make friends (generally with lots of smiling).
7. The ocean is an extension of the sky; on rainy days (when the two blues of ocean and sky become one shade of bluish-gray), the boats appear airborne like Captain Hook’s ship.
8. How to say “hello” eight different ways, using four different languages, with five different meanings specific to the relationship and number of those involved.
9. Language is limiting –sometimes to a single country, to a handful of friends, to my wrong-colored, skin-covered sentience.
10. An honest smile is always an honest smile and is always comforting, even if it sometimes has less teeth than expected, or is seen only through the eye-slits of a burka.

Things I’m learning:

1. How to say more than just “hello” in two different languages, with intention to become fluent in at least one.
2. Any place that isn’t home is a somewhere without those you already love, but maybe a somewhere with those you will come to love (and maybe that isn’t a good enough reason to go).
3. What to do when a single rat becomes a rat problem, and your solution –though adorable—has fleas.
4. Who my friends really are, not just the ones wanting to use me for English (or marriage, or free food, or status).
5. The ocean is an extension of the sky; swimming in it feels like flying, but heavier and with less breathing.
6. A smile is cross-cultural and generally reciprocated, but it isn’t the answer to everything you don’t understand (sometimes you have to use other facial contortions).
7. How to cook (I thought I already knew this, but nope).

Things I hope to learn:

1. How to refrain from sarcastic comments after my roommate asks “are you home?” as though my shouting “hello” upon his entering was insufficient acknowledgement that our time and space have indeed met.
2. “Adventure” means understanding.
3. The ocean is an extension of the sky; it’s much easier to shoot for.
4. How to tan without people shouting at me for being in the sun (“you’ll turn black,” they say. “That’s the point,” I reply).
5. How to show people that skin is beautiful no matter its pigment.
6. If skin color really is skin deep, or if it is stitched into a history that I perpetuate by mistake.
7. The ocean is not an extension of the sky; it is not the limit.

Maybe now I’ll organize the four woven baskets I’m using as a dresser. Or I could wash my sheets that are covered in wax from when a candle fell from the glass ashtray, nearly starting a fire, and certainly creating a difficult to clean mess. But it’s already 3pm, and in only a few hours the sun will turn the sky-blue to pink, and orange, and yellow, and purple. Eventually both the sky-blue and ocean-blue turn to one shade of black. Like during storms, the ships’ lights fly at night.

I always stare up at space while walking from my host mother’s house to the one I share with her son. The stars melt into each other this far removed from electricity. in the southern hemisphere, the Milky Way scars across the sky, lifeblood of galaxies oozing into the black void. I read once that space is the ultimate black because it reflects no light at all, whereas most man-made black is just a dark hue. It’s pretty cool that a shade that colors most of the known universe is one hardest to recreate. And that that shade is a representation of not what we see, but what we do not. And we all don’t see (and have never seen) the same thing together.

Depending on how you think about it, that can be awesome, or pretty ordinary. We all also don’t see wind together, or fairies, or ourselves. I don’t see the moon at the same time the people that collectively make up my home see it, but I do see their sunlight reflected off of it. Their day literally lights up my night.

But tonight is a new moon. I miss you.

(Also, my kitten may have given me fleas. Send help.)

 

Reflections on Waiting

<Written July 19, 2016>

I’m sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair, trying to keep my mind occupied. If I let it wander too much, I know I’m going to start hyperventilating about the class I taught today. It’s not that the lesson was not well-received. In fact, I think every student learned something. From that standpoint, it was a successful day. But my lens won’t allow me to see the positive, because the negative is affecting too much of my present and future.

I received my site placement yesterday. I’m stationed in Dzahani II (of three in the Itsandra area) –a small town of 968-or-so people. My classroom is made up of over 200 students, of which many are likely from the surrounding villages. Across the street from the school is my future house. I will share it with my cultural counterpart who has yet to give me his name. We both have free use of the living room, but I get my own bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. In fact, the Peace Corps renovated the house for me, so my bathroom will be brand new (I’m looking forward to that pristine porcelain toilet).

In my village I’m told there is a disorganized library. I have a hard time keeping myself from fantasizing about it. I know it is likely a dingy room with a handful of books, but it is a quiet place set aside specifically for the purpose of reading. I can’t help but imagine myself setting up the system of borrowing books, and reading at the front desk for hours while checking books in and out. As this culture is extremely personable, having time in the community that doesn’t involve talking (and often joking about my accent) is a rare find.

Of course, I won’t jump into anything. The expectations of the community might be too great at first (clubs, clubs, clubs). I also want to get to know the village before I take over one of their public spaces –it’s simply not my place unless I’m wanted. I just need to wait.

Wait.

I have spent my entire life waiting for stuff to happen. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been in a place where the wait is completely over –at least for big things (I graduated college and had to wait to start Peace Corps. I am in the Peace Corps but have to wait to start service. And so on). But, I suppose thinking about the small things is better. For example, I have been waiting all day to go to the café in Moroni. Instead of thinking about waiting for the next phase of peace corps training, I can think about how I am almost at where I want to be: sitting in a café, eating a chocolate croissant with espresso and a spoonful of sugar.

1/27

I’m doing okay. Yes, just okay, as though contentment is inferior to other emotions. I’m not swarmed with moments of joy gnatting at my ear, and I never let the raincloud over my head grow large enough to storm. I just let be what wants to be, as long as it leaves me be, too.

 

As Comoros is 98% Muslim (locals would argue 100% of true Comorians are Muslim), the entire country has been participating in Ramadan since we arrived. During this month-long holiday, people who are Islamic fast while the sun is up –from dawn until dusk. Along with abstaining from food, the fast includes no drinking water and even no chewing gum (which I thought was superfluous before I learned that many Comorians don’t even drink their own spit during the daytime).

 

One overly patriotic Comorian woman from our host village, Mvouni, extended the fast beyond Islam to everyone on the island. She argues –literally—that fasting is a sort of respect: you fast because everyone else has to fast, too. I didn’t buy into that logic, which made the woman a little angry once when she confronted me and a few other PCT’s on the way to buy phone credit (we decided to play dumb, and pretend we didn’t understand what she was saying. It ended with shared laughter, so I’d call that a successful encounter).

 

But Ramadan has ended. It’s been just over a month since we arrived. A month of being asked if I was fasting every day by a stranger who would always scold me when I said “no.” A month since I’ve had a warm bath. A month since I’ve used a toilet that always works. A month since I’ve watched TV (quite the stretch for me), or seen my twin sister’s face in real time (I’ve been lucky enough to FaceTime my new baby nephew with wifi from the HQ office). A month since I’ve had a complete night sleep uninterrupted by morning prayer (or those freaking roosters…or cats, oddly enough).

 

I miss a lot of things from home, I’m not learning the local language as quickly as I wanted to, and I’ve been a little sick for the last few days. But I also have a family that treats me like their own after only three short weeks, and I’ve found identity with my group of trainees.

 

I’m still lost in the hedge maze of “why peace corps,” but I know the answer is waiting to be found somewhere toward the center. And I know there, too, hides another piece of me (As my Peace Corps wife and writing buddy, Nora, would quote: “All wonders you seek are within yourself” –Sir Thomas Browne).

Running Low

Today, it’s really cold at 70 degrees. A month ago, I’d have added to the eye rolls: “70 degrees isn’t cold! -20 is cold!” But now, I’m shivering in my desk chair and staring at a video of a fireplace that’s playing on Emily’s (my colleague) laptop as if staring at it will make me warm. Even the coffee I made (a luxury I’ve had since I arrived in Comoros, though my supplies are dwindling) is cold now. I sip at it and let the taste fool my tongue for a moment before recognizing this taste associated with warmth is not as it should be. That nothing, really, is as it should be (except, perhaps, culture shock).

 

Every morning, I wake up to the sound of roosters. Even this isn’t as I’ve imagined. My family never owned chickens, though I’ve had plenty of experience with them in the kitchen (deboning a chicken is one of my favorite tasks). I’d bought into the “cock-a-doodle-doo” of the cartoons and children’s books dictated in my childhood: as the sun starts to lighten the day, papa rooster rises from his slumber and shouts a “good morning” to the earth. Let’s end this unnecessary lie –waking up to roosters is like waking up to a forest fire. My first “morning” –it was 4am—I jolted up in bed and crawled out of my mosquito netting toward the window. I don’t know what I was expecting to see. Hundreds of children getting spanked at once? Maybe there really was a fire, and the town was crying in empathy of their neighbor. There wasn’t a stir outside. The sun barely lit the horizon, but I could see enough to know that everything was alright. Then, a few houses away, I saw a rooster on a flat cement roof, peacocking toward the roof’s edge.

 

I groaned, crawled through the mosquito net to my bed, and tucked it under the mattress. As my ears started to ignore the ongoing shrill of roosters and the cinema of my mind started a malaria prophylaxis-inspired dream, a loudspeaker pointed directly at my window began to praise Allah loud enough so he could hear from heaven.

 

I guess I’ve gotten used to the roosters and prayers now. I wake up at 6:30am, begging my alarm for more hours –minutes even. When I manage to pull myself out of bed, slide into semi-dirty clothes, and work up the energy to get water from the cistern to brush my teeth, I’ve worked my brain back into a Comorian normalcy:

 

“Quazi, mama,” I tell my host mother who sits on a plastic lawn chair in a cement kitchen. In the morning, she is always sewing golden thread patterns onto black cloth.

“Mbona. (In Shingadzidja:) Did you wake up?”

I struggle to find the right words: “I woke up. I’m cooking coffee.” Not the best grammar, but she understands my point and nods. And I prepare coffee using the last of my beans from home.

Nightly Routine

Right now I am sitting in a “numba ya toli” –metal house—on the bed of my host brother Fadel. A neighborhood friend Nasser (the “r” is always rolled) is by me, working on his English and reading everything I write (without understanding). It’s a daily routine –we sit in bed after sharing Iftar (dinner that breaks the fast of Ramadan), and Nasser practices English with me as Fadel (and sometimes other boys) watches music videos. I like this simple routine. It can be really boring at times (in which case I say, “Tsi lemewa. Mgamuendo nalale. Lala unono” and go to bed).

People tend to talk at me, and I tend to not understand a word of the Shingadzidja language (I nod my head and smile a lot). But it’s fun to watch everyone interact with each other. When I arrived here, I expected conversation to be similar to home –that people would always act like they do in the rooms of American families. Maybe they would share jokes, gossip about the townspeople, and talk about pop culture or relationships. From my limited understanding of the language, all of that exists, but we also just talk about life.

(In Shingadzidja or French) “What did you do today?” “Where were you this morning?” “What were you doing at Vulo Vulo?” “No Shingareze (English), speak Shingadzidja!” “Did you buy anything?” “Did you hear the news about the UK succeeding from the EU?” “My neighbor said she heard from her brother who had a friend that was the manager of a waitress at Hotel Moroni that you had pizza at the hotel. Was it good?” (I’m not exaggerating, by the way. News even as simple as what I had for lunch seems to pass through the whole island within an hour).

Sometimes, it feels like I’m being interrogated. Why should they care about what I’m doing, or how I liked the pizza someone thought was interesting enough to mention? But, at the same time, it’s kind of sweet that they care so much. Maybe, since it is an island country there isn’t enough to do –caring for people passes the time. But I like to think it is more than that. People here really care. It’s suffocating for sure, but a kind of suffocating that I could bear for the next few years.

Answer All My Calls

I thought I’d sing a song for you guys (I haven’t finished with the lyrics, but here is what I have so far). Let me know what you think!

 

VERSE ONE:

It’s been so long since I heard you call.

And not because I haven’t tried –believe me I have.

And when I hear from you, you say you don’t know what to do –what am I to take?

And then you claim abuse, but I’m just trying not to feel used.

 

CHORUS:

Answer all my calls I’m trying to fix all my struggles for who I’ll be.

Hold me close I’m trying to find who I’ve been for who I’ll be.

Kiss my lips I’m trying to kiss all I can for who I’ll be.

Hold me close I’m trying to love all I should for you and me.

 

VERSE TWO:

You wrote me back today.

It’s hard to know if it’s real because it’s gonna fade.

And when you say you miss us because we were so in love –it feels fake.

And then you say goodbye, but I’m spinning from your lies.