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.

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.