Previously written on January 12, 2013.
I am not complaining.
Fact is, before coming into the Peace Corps, I poured over
Peace Corps blogs. And for you, the kid
that just submitted their application or maybe you, the one leaving for Nepal
next week, you have been well warned that this is tough. This post is for you.
Some would say I have gotten lucky with my site placement. I am in the North of Ghana where it is less
developed but I have a house with running water and electricity. My walls do not fall apart when it rains. I have a flush toilet. I have privacy. My neighbors speak English well. I go to a Christian church that where English
and Dagbani are spoken equally. I have
medical care close should I need it and transportation to Tamale, the fastest
growing city in the Sub Sahara. (Not that I
love Salsa, but Tamale has a huge Salsa community that meets every Friday
night, I hear it is really fun.)
That being said, I am not learning the language…not that I
try to. I have not been into the
villages for any decent amount of time.
I am not building the relationships I am supposed to be building in the
first three months. I am building
relationships, just not with the village people, it is more with the Southern
Ghanaian medical staff of the clinic.
I do have some success stories like a couple neighbor kids
who hang out on my porch. We speak in
Dagbani and they are finding me a puppy.
During training, you will see this image a lot.
We know the first few weeks and months are up and down. We know at the one year mark, there is a
serious slump.
And this is a slump.
And it sneaks up.
We all know as
Volunteers, we have way too much time to think.
Too much time to focus on the past, things you should not have said,
regrets, or people you have done wrong.
My thoughts as of late?
Why am I here? Yes it’s a good
set up, I consider myself lucky. But
honestly, why am I here? I can spit you
the answers I know they wanted to hear in the interview, and they are not
untrue. I want to help. I think I have a skill set to do so. I like agriculture and in studying it, Africa
was on the mind.
I did not want to go into the classroom. I did not want to buy a car, get a house and
start a family. Not yet. I itched to get out of Indiana, as much as I
love it and dream of returning. I am
happy with my decision. I am happy but
there is still a slump.
Today I went to visit the malnutrition clinic and saw my
first severely malnutritioned child. I
had to work not to cry. I had to work
hard. I have met Breann and Jerry, the British
missionaries who started the clinic years ago, they are visiting for a few
weeks. Jerry told me the story of the
newborn twins they first treated, these twins were reason the clinic was
started. As we speak those same children
race by us now four years old, happy playful children that shout “Bye-Bye-Oh!”
as we leave.
The new patient before me is three years old, he sits crying
under a tree. Because of the
malnutrition, he is very small and has lost a layer of skin on his legs; his
teeth are stained deep purple from a disinfectant applied to sores in his
mouth.
We made rounds at the hospital, walked through the school
yard and to the guest house where I am graciously served very good English Earl
Grey Tea. I see Jerry’s sports car
magazine laying on the coffee table. I
tell him of Dad’s cars and the newest project, a old Alfa. I think this is what gets me. It’s a combination of things. Jerry reminds me of a very good friend aged
about 40 years. As we talk, I wish Dad
was here to take part. I like talking to
Breanne about religion. We talk about
the state of Christianity today and Jerry tells of his Billy Graham
experiences. We drink cold Coke and more
tea. They tell me about their
children. At lulls in the conversation,
Jerry opens the magazine and shows me Alfas.
He tells me the difference in the Julia, and the Juliette. He shows me the Aston Martin James Bond drove
and tells me of his personal racing days and how fast he has gotten which
car. He speaks over my head about
engines but I nod, knowingly.
I call Dad on the way home.
He is driving to Clay City where he will meet my Papaw and a cousin to
watch a basketball game. Let me say
that hearing your parents happy, hopeful voice is the greatest, most tear
jerking thing. Like when I say hello to
Mom and for a second she cannot believe it is me and not one of my three
sisters and she says, “Lys?
ALYSSA?! Hi!” Dad says he is happy to hear from me and I
tell him about my day. Service goes bad
and I have to make dinner, so I give up on trying to call him back and this is
where it strikes. Today has been a good
day! So why can’t I keep from doubling
over in tears long enough to chop vegetables and put them in a pot for
dinner? You just have to let it happen
and accept that this is a slump, and you have to ride it through.
Except that I had a slump last night too.
Why am I here? I am
not doing anything. I am half way done
with a hammock made of water sachets, that it what I have to show for the last
4 weeks.
I do not want the things of home. Yes I dream of dairy products and coffee
houses. The fact of the matter is, I
could be home with my family making money that I could show people and prove to
them my success. See! See my worth?
It is right here in this figure I bring home each year. It is in my car and stocks. It is measured against everyone else, former
classmates, cousins, other people my age.
This is where I measure up to you and yours. This is who I am above and below on the tape
measure of success.
Sorry Purdue, for never writing back to tell you how much
money I will make this year as a new grad.
I just figured my 1,800 dollar salary might throw off your numbers.
I do not want to be home with Dad going to the
ballgame. I have been there, I have done
that and Lord willing I will do it again many more times in my life.
But I have slumps and I sob.
So the question is: What do I
need this experience to look like, for it to be worth my time and worth these slumps?
We have talked about what successful services will look
like. For some it is completing the two
years, for others it is complete integration into this culture. I used to say that my successful service was
strong, real relationships in the community, fluency in the language, learned
skills I can take home and lastly, physical proof that I had made a real,
positive and sustainable difference.
I guess the slump comes when you cannot see the worth of it
all. You have nothing to show and in the
mean time, the mice have eaten through the lid of your vegetable oil and your
hair has become one massive dreadlock.
It is going to be okay.
I know it is. I am going to watch
Downton Abbey and sleep. I will wake up
and go to church and be incredibly uncomfortable, a stiff white girls who stands
as people dance around me. But then
something will happen. I might go
deliver another baby, or maybe I go retrieve a dying child from the village and
bring them to the clinic. Most
likely? I will do my laundry, burn my
trash and make a plan for the week. A
plan that involves me getting into the community and finally working to
officially identify their wants and needs.
Better go bone up on that Dagbani.
