Daily Gratitude

Once upon a time a friend and I used to send each other our daily gratitude lists.  A list that would have anywhere from 3-7 items on it and would sometimes be as basic as clean water and air or as complex as a peaceful resolution to a serious problem. It was a good way to start the day…being in a state of gratitude before leaving the house.  Because sometimes life happens, life can be a bitch.

Today is Thanksgiving Day in the US and for the second time in a decade I find myself outside the US for this distinctly American holiday. I find myself feeling more grateful than I have in quite some time, thanks to the last few months living in Madagascar and its inevitable way it shifted the way in which I experience the world.

Why am I so full of gratitude lately?

I am thankful for my education. 

Lord knows I have enough of it and sometimes it was a struggle to get and pay for, but never, not even once, did not think that I couldn’t finish high school or go to college. Or get a graduate degree… I may have been/be on the most circuitous path ever, butdropping out of school because I’m female has never crossed my mind.

I was a latchkey kid, got myself up and fixed my own breakfast from about 8 years onward, and caught the school bus until I could drive, but these ‘struggles’ are nothing compared to what many students in Madagascar face. Many students walk up to six kilometers [which was about the distance from my house to my elementary and high school] every morning to get to school, some without shoes in the scorching hot sand. Some struggle to concentrate, because their growling stomachs compete for their mental attention. They sit snug as bug next to their classmates — three, sometimes four to a wooden desk — in the hot classroom of up to 80 students. They rely one notebook and one pen with zero additional educational materials. Kids return home, make dinner for their families, sell food at the market, and take care of their younger siblings. And repeat it all, the next day.

Living in a place where so many students stop attending school after primary school… primary school! reminds me how much of a gift my education is. I am lucky for the teachers that challenged me and the resources made available to me, and while I can’t name every teacher I’ve ever had, I do remember some of the more special ones and am thankful for them on a regular basis.

I am thankful for the kindness in my life.

This experience has taught me to put trust in compassion, when feeling unsure and lost. Compassion reminds me that I do belong as surely as I was lost. Kindness appears in so many forms here — I see it in the greetings on my way to school, in my students’ smiles, in the gifts in forms of sweet potatoes and corn-on-the-cob that arrive at my door, in the safety I feel each day, in the jokes I share with my neighbors, in the teamwork between my community and me, and in others’ gratitude.

I am thankful for life’s challenges and the values instilled by overcoming them.

It’s the hurdles I had to jump in the past that make me the driven, independent person that I am happy to be today. If it weren’t for the bumps along the way, I would not have had the opportunity to grow in ways that I did and continue to do.

People in my community face challenges far more difficult than challenges I have faced and ever will face. Their resilience, perseverance and unwavering hospitality in these times of difficulty, is admirable.

I am thankful for learning more about myself.

As noble as “saving the world” sounds, a majority of my Peace Corps experience has been a heroic adventure of self-discovery. I have found the beauty in stepping outside of my comfort zone and saying “yes” to self-growth opportunities. I practice patience, continue to learn the value of making mistakes and appreciate the importance of laughing at myself. I am becoming more sensitive to what makes me happy, and what makes me sad, and making decisions based on those observations. Self-respect starts with making decisions with your happiness (among other things, of course) in mind.

I am so grateful that my time here has allowed me to grow in these ways.

 

I am thankful for the family I have been welcomed into in Madagascar. 

Longo raike tikañe is a commonly used phrase I hear while living among the Antandroy people, meaning “We are one family.” That sentiment fuels the selflessness and hospitality I experience each day. Living here, I have realized that family is more of a feeling than it is mother, father, sister, brother. I am grateful for the feeling of family that I have felt from the day I arrived in this village.

The culture here relies on solidarity — everyone helps each other out. While almost everyone in my village knows me by name, “Market Day” brings many people from neighboring towns into our village to sell for the day. On those days, I may hear an occasional shout of Vazaha! “Foreigner!” and some fingers pointed my way. Most of the time, I choose to ignore the “v word” and continue on my way. As I head home, I hear a gentle voice telling them, “Her name is Vola. She lives here. She is Antandroy.”

Such a simple gesture, but it makes me smile every time.

I am thankful for the kindness in my life.

This experience has taught me to put trust in compassion, when feeling unsure and lost. Compassion reminds me that I do belong as surely as I was lost. Kindness appears in so many forms here — I see it in the greetings on my way to school, in my students’ smiles, in the gifts in forms of sweet potatoes and corn-on-the-cob that arrive at my door, in the safety I feel each day, in the jokes I share with my neighbors, in the teamwork between my community and me, and in others’ gratitude.

I am thankful for life’s challenges and the values instilled by overcoming them.

It’s the hurdles I had to jump in the past that make me the driven, independent person that I am happy to be today. If it weren’t for the bumps along the way, I would not have had the opportunity to grow in ways that I did and continue to do.

People in my community face challenges far more difficult than challenges I have faced and ever will face. Their resilience, perseverance and unwavering hospitality in these times of difficulty, is admirable.

I am thankful for learning more about myself.

As noble as “saving the world” sounds, a majority of my Peace Corps experience has been a heroic adventure of self-discovery. I have found the beauty in stepping outside of my comfort zone and saying “yes” to self-growth opportunities. I have practiced patience, continue to learn the value of making mistakes and appreciate the importance of laughing at myself. I am becoming more sensitive to what makes me happy, and what makes me sad, and making decisions based on those observations. Self-respect starts with making decisions with your happiness (among other things, of course) in mind.

I am so grateful that my time here has allowed me to grow in these ways.

I am thankful for a gained perspective on the world and its people.

I often think to myself how lucky I am to be experiencing the world through a different lens while I spend each day immersed in a community on the other side of the world. With each culture brings unique values and it has been enlightening and refreshing to experience Malagasy values — such as hospitality, family, solidarity and conversation — and see how they take precedence over things that are often obsessed over in the American world, such as technology, material items, money and work. Life here has changed my perspective on my personal values and I am grateful for the lifelong lesson my neighbors has taught me.

Here’s what my first Thanksgiving in Madagascar looked like: “My Thanksgiving started at 5 a.m. with the sound of roosters. I made some last minutes changes to my lesson and left my house at 6:30. I stopped for some kafe and mofo (coffee and bread) on my way to school and at 7, I began my lesson about American food and being thankful. After four classes, teaching 280 students how to draw hand-turkies, I headed home, hoping to take a quick nap. It wasn’t before long that I heard a knocking on my door. Outside my door were half-a-dozen students with big smiles and two eggs. Mesmerized by my gas stove (they only use charcoal fires to cook), they wanted me to teach them how to cook using gas. I was hesitant at first (I really wanted to take a nap), but soon we were cooking the eggs and some popcorn, too. It was a student’s birthday so I taught them how to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in English. They insisted we sing it four times. They wore smiley face stickers on their heads (they had never seen stickers before and decided their foreheads were a good place to put them) and the birthday boy blew out a candle held up by an empty glass Sprite bottle.

This year is an atypical Thanksgiving to say the least, but a happy one for sure. I won’t be eating turkey or pecan pie with my family tonight. But I will be sharing good times with people that mean a lot to me. And I think that’s what Thanksgiving is all about.”

Happy Turkey Day from Madagascar!

Don’t call me vazaha

Warning:  Derogatory ethnic terms used so don’t go getting offended.

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Back when I worked in the hospitals, occasionally some misguided soul would yell out ‘hey, respiratory,’ as I walked by, and I’d continue to walk on by.  And then the misguided soul would continue ‘hey, I’m talking to you’, and I’d feigned innocence, and be like ‘oh you’re talking to me? I had no idea.’ and the conversation would continue with ‘I’ll called your name’ and here’s where I’d get all passive-aggressive aggressive and say  ‘No, you yelled ‘respiratory.’  That’s not my name; it’s my job title.  You want me, you yell my name.  It’s Michelle, in case you don’t know. I don’t answer to respiratory.’ Most people only did that once, and the ones who did it more than once were assholes.

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Something similar happens in Madagascar every.damn.day and it irks me to no end.

In Madagascar, white people are not common.  And should you happen to be white, it’s assumed that you are French both because France was the motherland  — the former colonial power, and most foreigners who visit Madagascar are, in fact, French.  When I lived in Mexico, people though I was from Spain. And when I lived in Moscow, people thought I was English.   And when I traveled throughout South America, it was back to being from Spain.  And let’s be honest, even in America no one ever really thinks I’m from South Carolina upon first meeting me.  So, it’s not that people not knowing where I’m from that’s bothersome, it’s not that someone is essentially calling me ‘white foreigner’ bothers me, it’s the fact that no one calls me by my name or even a local version of my name that bothers me. In Madagascar, it’s ‘hey look at what that vazaha is doing’ and it’s essentially like saying ‘hey, look at that nigger [or wetback or chinc or whatever other ethnic derogatory term one can come up with].’ It’s not as if they don’t know that calling someone ‘vazaha’ is being offensive because Every.Single.Volunteer.Ever has told them some form of ‘hey that’s not nice’.

So, the greeting that most people give a white person is “bonjour vazaha”. Or, they call out to you “eh! Vazaha!”  And I just keep on walking. Some PCVs think the term “vazaha” is insulting, and to some it is–because it means that everyone is being grouped together with all other white foreigners simply based on our skin color.  I really don’t care that they are calling me white, pink, or purple.  For  me, it’s the simple thing that if I take the time and effort to learn their name, they should do the same.  After all, there are many more Malagasy people in town for me to learn their names; and I am the only white person in town so learning Michelle or Micaela or even Mischa as some call me should not be that hard.

PCVs work hard to integrate in the local communities, and so being called ‘vazaha’ means that people don’t understand what I’m doing here and why I’m different. I am always reminding people that I’m not a tourist and I’m here to help. After all, if I were a ‘vazaha’ like they usually see, why would I be studying Malagasy? I wouldn’t be; I’d be paying someone to fetch my water, do my laundry, and shop for and cook for me.

The goal for PCVs in Madagascar is to be considered “Malagasy fotsy” (white Malagasy), so getting called vazaha is like a slap in the face. There are days when I feel like I’ve make so much progress, where I have good conversations with the people in my neighborhood (who know and use my name), and then there are days that I’ll ride my bike to work and a kid who I’ve introduced myself to 3 times already will shout “bonjour vazaha!” at me. Seriously? And you know what I do, I keep on going because how many times do I need to tell you that a) I’m not French (nor do I speak it) and b) I speak Malagasy?

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The thing is, I know that, for kids here, it’s hard to wrap their heads around the fact that there could even be a ‘vazaha’ who isn’t French. To many of them, it’s ingrained in their heads from an early age that any time you see a white person, they are a vazaha, and you say to them “bonjour vazaha”. [As a side note they also seem to pick up the phrase “Donne-moi de l’argent” fairly young, too, because I get that a lot. Did someone tell them that demanding money impolitely in French and holding out their hand actually works? And sometimes, just to fuck with them because I’m wired like that, I’ll speak to them in Spanish or German or Spanish-Russian and they’ll stare at me like I have three heads, and I’ll go on about my business ignoring them because as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not French nor do I speak it.]

I’ve seen, on multiple occasions, mothers teaching their babies the word “vazaha” by pointing at me. Depending on my mood that day, I’ll kindly inform them that no, my name is not “vazaha”, it’s Michelle, or I’ll roll my eyes and walk away. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve ignored a kid saying ‘bonjour vazaha.’ These days I get especially frustrated by it because even though my town is big, you’d think word would have spread somewhat that the white woman who rides around on a bike wearing a funny helmet, and who shops in the market every day and fetches her own water is American and in fact does not speak a lick of French.

As much as it bothers me to be called ‘vahaza’, I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on what life is like here for Asian- and African-American volunteers. To start, for many Malagasy people it’s unfathomable that someone could be American but not look white. African-Americans often get the assumption that they’re Malagasy (which can be a good thing), but when they say they’re American, people still ask “no, but where are you from?” The fact that you could be dark-skinned but be from America is hard for a lot of people to wrap their head around here. It’s also similar for Asian-American volunteers, who are unfortunately subject to the type of comments [you have slant-y eyes] that would be considered horribly rude and offensive back at home, but here are just simple commentary– not meant as an insult, just an observation. So volunteers who are American but not Caucasian have a different set of challenges to overcome.

So, the ‘vazaha’ issue is something that will continue to be a challenge for me much like ignorant co-workers calling me ‘hey respiratory’. I hope that more people in my town will get to know me, I will cease to be much less of a novelty, but I know that I’ll never stop getting called ‘vazaha’. Some days it affects me more than others, but hopefully I will be able to  turn some of these situations into ‘teaching opportunities’– opportunities to teach people about what I am doing here, why health matters, why washing hands is important, why checking babies’ weight is a big deal, and how I’m different. And, that my name is Michelle, not ‘vazaha’.

Things I miss about the USA

Happy Labor Day. These random holidays like Labor Day and 4th of July and Memorial Day has never really meant too much to me. Working in health care, days like these are really just regular days. There’s no such thing as ‘holidays’, or at least not in the traditional sense where I’d get the same days off as everyone else and get do things like hang out at the lake with friends or enjoy cook-outs for the holiday. So in that sense joining the Peace Corps has been interesting. At one point or another I’ve celebrated every American holiday outside America, and some countries’ holidays inside that country. But nothing can replace celebrating the holiday in its original form… And while I’ve only been gone from the US, there are still things I miss.  This post is from my previous travel blog from when I spent 16 months traveling around South America (with some updates from what I’m missing now…Some things change; some never will…like my love for good pizza).

• Pizza  Pizza is probably my favorite food on the planet.  Back home, I probably ate pizza 3-4 times a month.  Not always the same kind or from the same place, but pizza (and a salad when I’m feeling healthy) has been a staple in my diet since the early years and I don’t suspect it leaving any time soon. I did find pizza goodness in Buenos Aires and Mendoza; however most of South America and all of Madagascar has been a huge disappointment in terms of pizza.  Bad crust, bad sauce, strange ingredients.  I can’t wait to hit up Barley’s Taproom or Sidewall’s or the Mellow Mushroom for some good pizza with olives, feta cheese, spinach, and tomatoes.

One of my Peace Corps goals is to make a pizza…a delicious pizza like the one pictured below.

• Watching American sports. I am a huge sports junkie and I miss meeting up with friends to watch March Madness, college bowl games, or stressing over Tennessee football. Fall is always the hardest because college football in nearly a religion in the south, and I am a follower of the sacred University of Tennessee. Watching my favorite teams at odd hours via slow internet streams just didn’t cut it, and while going to sporting events where I am is a small comfort, I am never going to follow Mexican bullfighting, Venezuelan baseball, Peruvian football, Madagascar judo, or Buenos Aires polo when I am at home.  [Although I happily watched Super Bowl XLV live.]

I am grateful that I was in a country that was a soccer loving one and in the same time zones as some of the world cup matches.  Before joining the Peace Corps, I had hoped to score tickets to World Cup|Russia, but watching the games in this tiny corner of the world where soccer rules, is great for international bonding.

•  Food variety. If I ever eat white rice again, it will be too soon. Seriously, that seemed to be the hallmark of almost every single meal I’ve eaten over the last year. I wasn’t a big fan to begin with, but having it on the plate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner got old. Fast!

  One of the staples of Madagascar cuisine is–you guessed it–white rice.  It’s no wonder I never eat this in America.

While I appreciate the seafood as a option in my diet, I could do without the fish being served with the head still attached, and honestly, the blob of white rice adds nothing to the meal.

• Free, non-carbonated water in restaurants. Again, this should be self-explanatory. Plenty of places offered free snacks, but free water? Not a chance.
• Public transportation. Even though back home I do not live in an area with good public transportation, I like going to places where it’s accessible and easy to use.  MARTA in Atlanta has gotten me where I needed to be on more than one occasion.  Subways in Rome, New York, London, Moscow and Buenos Aires are amazing.  If I didn’t live in a rural area, I’d be all about using light rail (like Seattle’s metro link that whisks me to and from the airport to the center of town without issue) or whatever was available.  Motor bike taxis, bicycle taxis, mini buses, cars nearly falling apart, and cabs—not so much to my liking.

Bogota’s TransMileno is surprisingly efficient, and while crowded at times, it is a much better option than loading up a minibus to maximum capacity +1 and having people yell ‘stop’ when they want to get off the bus.

• Knowing where to find things. Again, yes, you can buy just about everything you need on the road even in tiny remote villages in the middle of nowhere.  But finding those things can be a challenge. In most of the places I visited (and Madagascar is no exception), daily essentials were spread out among many smaller stores and it took me days (or weeks) to figure out where to go for what I needed.

OH, how I love Target. I spent part of my last visit to Seattle walking around this three story gem located right in the middle of the city. They had everything…

• Not paying to use the toilet.  Or even finding a toilet when needed. I think this one is self-explanatory.  Fun fact:  did you know that, according to The Guardian, Madagascar is the 4th worst place in the world to find a toilet, and there is a World Toilet Day (it is November 19th if you’re curious), dedicated to keeping everyone’s shit corralled so that fecal contamination of the water supply as well as diseases transmitted via the fecal-oral route are diminished.

  Another Peace Corps’ goal:  to make myself a luxurious toilet where my knees don’t creak every time I must use it or in emergency             situations, shit does not splash on my shoes/feet.

•  Respect for people’s time. Even though I am not a scheduler by nature, I do appreciate time.  At home, when someone says “let’s meet at 8:00,” they generally mean “let’s meet at 8:00.” If they are running late, they will call or text you to let you know. We have a basic appreciation for people’s time and not wasting it. Such was not the case while I was traveling. Nothing seemed to start on time and someone saying they would meet you at 8:00 meant hopefully they would be there by 9:00 – likely with no contact whatsoever to indicate they may be late. When we were planning anything that include non-Americans  we always gave a fake time. 7:00 meant 8:00 or so. Indeed, most people didn’t arrive until closer to 8:30. I think this just reflects a more laid back attitude, but as someone who hates waiting around for no good reason, I will take the American way every day.

German trains and s-bahns are always so punctual. If I lived in Germany, I’d never be late anywhere.

 I have found a general lack of respect for time in nearly every corner of the globe…except Germany and Switzerland…oh how I love that  place; they are so punctual.

•  American men. I know many women love over foreign men.  Heck, I have even dated foreign men [One abroad, one who had moved to USA], but overwhelmingly, the foreign men I have met [mostly Italians and Hispanics] are overbearing, controlling, condescending, and overprotective.  I do not like being yelled at or whistled to in the street.  I do not like being asked if I ‘want to fuck’ because those are the only English words they know.  For me, that machismo attitude is such a turn off!  Give me a good old American guy who can see a woman as his equal and appreciate her independence. A guy that smells clean, wears cologne sparingly, and bathes regularly. A guy who wears baseball hats and khakis rather than skinny jeans, and who is at least my height (5’9).  If he has green eyes and curly hair, well, I’m a smitten kitten.

• Free wi-fi:  Wi-fi is slowly making its way down south, but it is not always free, nor is it always reliable.  It brings me back to the Ethernet cords I had in college. Or dial-up.  Both make me appreciate how prevalent wi-fi is in the USA. [and Canada and Europe].  2018 hasn’t brought many upgrades to the poorer corners of the world.

 

Fixer-Upper

There were a few things going in that I knew I at least wanted to try at my new home.  Among them:  a raised garden, a rain barrel, a rain chain, a fabulous bed, and a Michelle-proof kitchen.  I pinned some things before I left, brought  a few supplies I thought might be difficulty to aquire (caulk, a spigot, mesh, paracord, nails, zip lines, wire, and hooks), and brought some of my favorite home decor items (a pair of brown, Middle Eastern inspired sheer curtains that I got on clearance over 10 years ago and a pair of off-white curtains with stars on them that I made in college, a throw pillow some friends bought me a while back that says ‘never grow up’, some photos of my favorite places, my SC drink coasters, a SC flag, a University of Tennessee flag)

Wanderlist + Goals

I have a serious addiction. Or I should say addictions.  One is to adventure; another is to travel.  They are not mutually esclusive to each other. A person does not have to travel to have an adventure, and all travel is not adventurous. It’s one of the reasons I joined the peace corps.

Africa is HUGE. HUGE. And trying to see it all would take months if not years of full time travel, and while I will be in the Peace Corps for 27 months, I do have an actual job to do and restrictions about travel. I’m further restricted by the fact that I’m on an island; a rather large island but an island nonetheless. I’ve tried to narrow down the list to a slightly more manageable list but even at that, I know full well that it’s an impossible task….unless I use that post-service time to travel. HMMMM

Madagascar:

Zanzibar:

Lesotho:

• Katse Dam
• Camp and climb Thaba Mokhele
• Hike to the bottom of Maletsunyane Falls
• Backpack the North Drakensberg Traverse
• Hike to Lesotho’s Highest Peak: Thabana Ntlenyana (11,ooo+ feet above sea level)

South Africa:

• Cape Town
• Kruger Safari Park

Other countries:

• Victoria Falls (Zambia/Zimbabwe)
• Saint Helena (Island Napoleon was exiled to)
• Fish River Canyon (Namibia)
• Caprivi Strip (Namibia)
• Bazaruto Archipelago (Mozambique)
• Okavango Delta (Botswana)
• Sossusvlei Dunes (Namibia)
• Makgadikgadi Pan (Botswana)
• Summit Mount Mulanje (Malawi)

Not tied to a specific country

• See all the big five safari animals…especially lions
• Swim in the Indian Ocean

Before I go

One month to go

I’ve been trying for a month to write a halfway decent blog post. It’s four weeks until I go, you see, and in theory, I should have something heartfelt and sincere to say. Perhaps a few final thoughts I care to leave behind? A legacy? A farewell?

But I don’t.

I have very little that I care to say out loud. I, alone, am privy to my thoughts, as they are rapidly changing and I can’t seem to keep up. I’m nervous. I’m scared. Excited and thrilled. In many ways, this is everything I’ve always wanted. And in many others, it’s nothing I ever expected.

Of course, I’m saying this now, before I’ve even begun. What will I say when I am two weeks into training? How will I feel? Will I be as self-assured as I imagine I will be? Or will I be as the other PCV’s (Peace Corps Volunteer) say; wondering what on earth possessed me to do such a thing?

How can I, now, at this very moment, possibly make a statement? There is so much I don’t know. How am I to predict how I’ll feel in the coming weeks and months, when I can’t even get a firm grasp on how I feel right now? My mind is a chaotic whirl. I’m busy preparing for my departure, anticipating my arrival, and trying to juggle work and spending time with friends in between. Everything has been moving so fast, and in these next final weeks, they’ll only continue to speed up.

When I return, it’s go time. I have shopping lists and to-do lists that are miles long and will have less than three weeks to get everything done. There will hardly be time to think, and before I know it, it will be March 11^th.

3/11.

D-Day.

My world will likely be flipped upside down in ways that I never saw coming. I’ll say goodbye to my home, my friends, and my family. I’ll give up the creature comforts that I knowingly take for granted. I’ll bid farewell to a community for whom my appreciation came unexpectedly.

But these are the thoughts running through my head. Every time I get in my car and drive around the city. When I am in a store looking for something I need for Jamaica. When I sit in my room and look at the walls that have seen and heard so much. It’s been my room for my entire life. It’s filled with me, in the forms of little trinkets and knick-knacks. At night, with Lucy and Christopher curled at my feet, I stare at my ceiling  and convince myself to stay calm…

…Because I wanted this. I wanted the uncertainty. I wanted the fear. I wanted the unknown. Last summer, I decided I was ready to give up what I know in exchange for the adventure of a lifetime. The world is mine and my future belongs to me. The Peace Corps will test me, push me to my limits, and force me to rise above. I will grow and I will change. I will not be the same person I was when I started, but I look forward to meeting her in the end.

Bring it on.

Tick Tock

Today is my best friend’s birthday, and we had dinner together tonight talking about my upcoming plans. The immediate [I leave in two weeks], the intermediate [I want to go to NP school when I get back], and the distant [I’d like to get married someday].  There aren’t many people in the world I can talk to about anything, but he is one of them, and probably the human I’ll miss most while I’m gone.

Let’s Get Real

I’m on an emotional roller coaster and I couldn’t get off even if I tried. I’m up, I’m down; I’m sure of myself, and I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking.

Basically, I’m freaking out.

14 days to departure. T- 2 weeks and counting. Holy sh…..

Tick-tock.

I’m scared out of my mind. Of what, I couldn’t tell you, but that’s probably contributing to my fear. I don’t know what’s in store for me when I get to wherever it is I am going. I don’t know who I’m going to meet, or what my living conditions will be like. An idea, sure, but every situation is circumstantial.

I’m nervous about not doing well. I spent a lot of time thinking, how hard could it possibly be, despite how many times I’ve read or heard about the “hardships” a PCV faces. Now, in the wake of my sudden apprehension, I worry I was being too cocky.

What the actual fuck am I doing!?

I go from feeling on top of the world to having a feeling in the pit of my stomach. I walk around with confidence, proud of myself and this accomplishment, and then I hug a friend goodbye and I feel the ground crumbling beneath my feet. In the span of a moment, I could easily begin with “I got this sh**.” to “Oh my god what the hell is wrong with me?” My perception and my feelings are constantly changing. I keep finding new things to be excited about, and new things I’m terrified to be leaving behind.

Let me say this now, so you don’t misunderstand: I’M NOT GIVING UP.

The Peace Corps was not a decision I made lightly. In truth, the idea began brewing my mind during my mind many, many years ago. It started as a way to see the world. It began to transform into a desire to meet new people and experience new cultures. Then it ignited into a passion for helping others.

Tick-tock.

In September 2016, I bit the bullet and submitted an application. I didn’t think I’d get in. I was convinced I wasn’t good enough to be accepted into such a prestigious group. And now it’s 14 days to departure.

I can do this. I know I can. I’ve taught myself that I can do anything I put my mind to. I wanted this, and so I went out and got it. Later tonight, ask me how I feel, and I bet you’ll get a different answer.

Tick-tock.

Lucy is in one foster home; Christopher in another.  It was a much better situation than sending them to their deaths at the pound.  I won’t see them again for over two years.  What is that in cat years?  I wasn’t there for their kittenhood, but I’ve had those crazy animals for three and a half years.  They love me, and I them. We’ve been if 4 different houses together, and now they are on their 5th.  Without each other.  But with people who will love them just as much as I do, or at least that’s the plan.

See? Up and down. I’ve got this sh**, but really, what the actual fuck am I doing?

14 days.

Tick-tock.

Life is short. Go now.

Life is surreal sometimes, and we never know what might happen. It’s been six years since I witnessed my friend get run over by a car right in front of her house just a few hours before I left to travel New England in the fall.  It was October 2011, and yet it feels like yesterday.

Tonight [or more accurately last night since it is now well past 3a] I saw a friend of mine get hit by a car. She was pronounced dead about an hour after after it happened.  To be fair, we weren’t best friends, but we did have a fair amount of classes together at Clemson, and I have studied at her house quite a bit so not only did I know her, I knew her husband and kids too.  Tricia was a non-trad student–like me, but she was tons more outgoing that I will ever be.  Tricia had one goal for her education–and that was to become a physician.  She didn’t waiver.  She didn’t have any doubts.  She knew that she would go to Clemson, then go to medical school, and then be an Emergency Department physician.  I was always impressed by that.  I always have doubts of whether I should go to medical school or not, whether I should go to nursing school or not–what exactly my career path should be.  I have doubts about whether to get married or not.  Tricia married Warren right out of high school, and never thought twice about it.   I question constantly whether I ever want to get married, and sometimes whether I even want to be in a relationship.

Is it harder to be here one minute and gone the next?  Or is it harder to suffer for  awhile and then just pass into the next beyond?  Tricia was older than me, but not by that much, and the way she died was a freak accident.. One minute she was here, and then JUST LIKE THAT, she was gone–hit by a car while trying to help a neighbor’s dog who had been hit by a different car.  I know the details; I have worked in an ER.  This wasn’t the first time I have had brain tissue on my hands, but it was the first time I’ve held brains of a friend.  She wasn’t alone when she died; she had the love of her life beside her.

I stopped by her house after work to drop off MCAT books.  I was planning to stay only a few minutes;  I’m leaving for vacation later today.  But Tricia wanted to show me her new kitchen, so I went in and looked around.  It was nice.  I was there when there was a knock on the door.  I was there when Tricia put on her shoes to go look at the injured dog.  I was there when Warren went to the neighbor’s house to tell them their dog had been hit by a car.  I was standing in their driveway when I heard the car’s engine rev up.  I was still standing  there when I heard a thud.  The rest of what happened was in slow motion.

The car kept going. I ran to Tricia. Warren screamed. She was still alive when I got to her but her head was split open.  I tried to stop the bleeding.  Eventually an ambulance came.  Warren went with her.  I went home…blood [and brains] still on my hands and scrubs.

When you see someone you know have their life snuffed out in front of you, it leaves a permanent mark. Because sometimes people have an affect on your life….even if you aren’t particularly aware of it at the time.

So…to Tricia…you are in a better place.  I know you wanted to be here to live your dream of becoming a physician, of seeing your daughter go to prom and graduate high school…to see your son graduate from Clemson…to grow old with your husband.  Your family will miss you.  Your friends will miss you, but you have inspired many people to follow their dreams.  I am one of those people.  Rest in peace, Tricia, my friend.

Some links:

http://www.independentmail.com/news/2011/oct/01/woman-killed-car-driver-charged/  from the local Anderson paper

http://www.wyff4.com/news/29359594/detail.html  from the local TV station

from her husband’s Facebook page October 1, 2011:

As I look around the house tonight, I see her in everything that surrounds me. The way she painted the walls, the decorations, the smells and my two awesome kids that have her personality. I miss her so very much.
Here is the story, the other night we were just sitting watching tv and catching up with a friend, when we here a knock at the front door. It is a lady that asks if our dog is out because someone just hit one. I get my shoes on and so does Tricia. Sure enough the neighbors’ dog has been hit and is lying in the ditch, dying. I go to check the neighbors’ door, but no one is home. I turn around and head back to the dog, by the time I get half way across the lawn, I hear a motor revving and then a thump. Someone has just hit my darling Tricia. I run to her and cradle her in my arms, all the while screaming for help and for someone to call an ambulance. In my eyes she is still as beautiful as the day I meet her. I tell her I love her and I am here for her. I think she can hear me so I continue to tell her to hang on and I love her. The ambulance takes her to the hospital where she passes away. Life will never be the same.

The 24 year old girl who hit her is arrested for felony DUI and Manslaughter, but is already out on bail of $10,000 tonight.

We’ve all heard the saying “Life is short.” And, sometimes, it is.

But life is also unpredictable.

Even though we all probably have dreams and goals and plans for our lives, there are certain things we have no control over.

Our lives could be going along on right on track, only to be shattered by something we could never have seen coming.

A tornado that rips through a neighborhood. A flood that devastates a city.  And these are just the unpredictable things nature can bring about. There are also accidents, health problems, financial woes…

Life is too fleeting and changeable to take for granted.

I know where I would like my life to be headed in the coming months and years. But there are no guarantees that things will go as planned. In fact, more likely than not, nothing will go as planned.

How often do we hear others say, “Oh, I’ll travel when I retire,” “I’ll travel when the kids are grown,” “I’ll travel when the house is paid off”? I hear these excuses all the time. But you know what happens? Age. And stress. And, well, life.

Life happens, and by the time you retire and your kids are grown and your house is paid off, you might have bad knees and weak lungs and you simply can’t visit all those places you dreamed about in your youth.

How sad. I don’t want to end up like that, holding on to youthful travel dreams that will never be reality.  

So I travel now, in whatever way and to whatever place I can. I scrimp and I save and I make it happen. I volunteer.  I get grants. I grasp at every opportunity and unique adventure. 

I travel with reckless abandon — often to the detriment of my wallet, but to the benefit of my soul.

Is this wise? Probably not, especially if you’re a long-term traveler. But, for someone like me who tends to take shorter trips to distant places, I attack travel with a no-holds-barred attitude.

Unique experiences–If I think they are worth it, then I will not hesitate to shell out for them . Sure, I’d like to think I’ll be back to Ireland or Italy or Argentina someday. But what if I never make it back? 

These days you can’t climb Chichen Itza like you could the first time I went there.

 

I don’t want to have any regrets in my life, and this includes travel regrets.

I know not everyone shares this philosophy, though. Many travelers stick to a strict budget so they can travel for as long as possible. Others simply don’t want to pay for anything beyond the necessities.

Why would you come literally halfway around the world to hoard your money?  Would you go to China and not visit the Great Wall because it costs money? Would you go to Italy and skip visiting the Vatican because it requires an admission ticket?

There are so many worthwhile experiences to be had in the world — and yes, many of them require money. But it’s my travel philosophy that you shouldn’t deny yourself any of these experiences just because they come with a price-tag.

If you are privileged enough to be able to afford to travel, then you should attack it with curiosity and vigor and a sense of adventure. And to hell with the bank account.

So travel now. Make memories. And enjoy your life.  Because you never know if a car will mow you down in front of your house.

At the end of the day, I’d rather die with a million memories than a million dollars.

Money won’t comfort me on my deathbed, but knowing that I lived a full and fulfilling life might.

Whatever your dreams are, follow them… because you never know what might happen…

Happy Birthday USA

I am not the most patriotic person around.  I don’t know where all my ancestors hail from.  I know there’s some Cherokee [the original Americans], Irish, English, Scottish, and possibly German…What I do know is that my ancestors come from South Carolina, North Carolina, and Tennessee from as far back as the early 1800’s.  In spite of all that or maybe because of it, I do love history…Western Civ and US History were always my favorite subject in school, and I love stumbling up hidden historical markers and visiting well known historical sites whenever I am out ant about.  This is more of a Happy Birthday USA post than anything else, and with that I’ll leave you some of my favorite photos of historical sites.

First up: Washington DC

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//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.jsWashington DC, as the US capital, is one of the most historic spots in America. There’s something photogenic at every turn.

Moving on to the West Coast

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Moving out to the west coast, it one of the more iconic bridges in the world…the Golden Gate Bridge painted in its infamous International Orange colour.

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HELLO Las Vegas

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One of the best natural features in the USA–The wonder that is the Grand Canyon

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and beautiful mountains

South Carolina State Parks | Jones Gap State Park

Well, that was unexpected

‘Oh thank God, I made it’ was my first thought when I reached the top of Rainbow Falls at Jones Gap State Park two hours after I started.  To be fair, I stopped a lot, took a lot of snaps, and played with all the friendly puppies that crossed my path.

It isn’t the highest peak in South Carolina nor the most strenuous, but with 1200 ft elevation gain over a fairly short distance, it was hard enough.  Especially with humidity in the 90% range and temps in the upper 80’s.  I checked the weather forecast before I left and with only a 15% chance of rain, I threw a lightweight rain jacket in my backpack, packed myself a decent, trail-worthy lunch, filled up my Camelback with water and set off.

And that was the last time my day went according to plan.  The main road to Jones Gap was washed out resulting in a 30-ish minute detour.  There was a yellow jacket advisory [which I should have paid more attention to].  The sky was overcast, but not threatening, and so I was off.  I hiked through rock beds.  I criss-crossed streams.  I crossed bridges. I navigated tree roots. I walked across a narrow board.  I went through boulders.

Not 5 stinkin’ minutes after I reached my glorious summit, I heard a low rumble.  At first, I ignored it.  After all, I had a lunch of a deluxe turkey sandwich, trail mix, granola, grapes, and water to enjoy. I heard the low rumble again; this time is was just a little bit louder. I looked up.

And then I started to curse…loudly. As in F-bombs flying The last thing a novice/intermediate hiker wants is to be stuck on the top of a mountain when a thunderstorm comes rolling in. The very last thing I wanted was to get struck by lightening. Rain I could deal with; thunder and lightening, not so much. Not even two bites into my sandwich, I had to pack up. I barely broke into my granola, and I didn’t even get to eat one little grape! I was pissed at Mother Nature, but I didn’t want to inspire her wrath. As if I needed prodding, the low rumble rumbled again…this time a lot louder. I packed up my sandwich, pulled out my rain shell, and set off back down the trail I’d just made my way up. I hadn’t even rested good, yet! I practically ran down the trail, or at least as safely as I could manage, considering the rocks and roots. I didn’t even get to enjoy the small waterfalls that appeared sporadically on the trail.

Trouble…just ahead

About 1/3 of the way down, I hit trouble. Raindrops so big and hard they stung as they hit my exposed skin. I also inadvertently disturbed a yellow jacket nest. I never saw it, but my God, they saw me. A small army flew after me, and at least a couple managed to find their way under my clothes. And that’s when the real fun began. Off came the backpack. Off came the rain shell.  And off came my t-shirt. The bees were still swarming. Off came my shorts. Luckily I was near one of the many creek crossings, and general safety and common sense be damned, I jumped into the creek. It was a part where there was a small plunge waterfall and a shallow pool. I screamed like a little girl getting her ponytail pulled on the playground. The water was icy cold. Icy may be a tiny bit of exaggeration, but 55 degrees still feels like the frozen tundra. Sports bra, socks, hiking boots were all that I had on as I submerged my head! and body! in this shallow pool. Might I remind you, it is 1) still pouring 2) thundering and lightening and 3) I’m still about 1.5 miles or so from my car.

Bees stung me 5 times; once on the neck, once on the leg, and 3 times higher up the leg in a slightly more delicate area.

After drowning the bees and freezing my ass off in the water, I resumed my descent still faster than I’m comfortable with because now, as a soaking wet thing, being struck by lightening was still a very real possibility. I successfully navigated the boulders, the steep decline, and the roots. My God, the roots. They always seem to be out to get me. I have a fear of falling. This is a real fear, not just one that COULD happen.  I HAVE actually broken bones while trail raining:  two to be exact [a wrist and an ankle], sprained an ankle multiple times, required stitches, and have cut, scraped, and bruised myself way  too much.

But I keep coming back. Because there is beauty in nature. I find answers to the questions of the universe when I am in nature.  There is peace in nature. Even when Mother Nature shows her ass and reminds us mortals who’s boss, a day in the woods is better than a day cooped up in a building any day.