“Dama” 19 December 2015

“Note to self: Never play dama with a math teacher!”  - Journal/Text Message by Me

I’ve been here long enough to know better then to assume the way I grew up with something is the way it is everywhere else in the world. I stand corrected one more time. In order to make sure others’ do not fall into the same assumption, I’m going to explain how something I thought was standard-- isn’t, how my view is changing, and what mathematicians have to do with any of it.

As a kid on rainy Oregon days, middle school staff would sometimes have to make the decision to have indoor recess. Often this involved having the lunch duty people divide themselves between the gym and the neighboring multipurpose room. Sometimes teachers would have to open up games in the classroom for recesses not associated with lunch time. One of the common games to play was checkers. The red and black board was quickly set up and black would always go first (“Smoke before fire” as the saying goes). While Thomas could always win with chess, I was amazing at checkers. I don’t remember who taught me the rules, but I learned them quickly. Sometimes we would start with three rows and other times two, it all depended on who was playing when.

Checkers. If I had reliable internet I would look up the history of this game.  Instead all I have is my computer’s dictionary that states “check·ers (n)a board game played by two people, each using 12 pieces (checkers). The object is to jump over the opponent’s pieces and remove them from the board. (takes a singular verb) (Encarta® World English Dictionary © 1999 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. Developed for Microsoft by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.) and the dictionary app which adds “1. a small, usually red or black disk of plastic or wood, used in playing checkers; 2. Also called, British, droughts; 3, a checkered pattern; 4. A person or thing that checks.” Neither which are very insightful as to the origin of the game, why red and black are the usual colors, and why the rules are established as such. If any of you have time, I’d love to know what you find out about it.

Here in Tigray, Ethiopia “checkers” is called “dama.” The board used is drawn on the back of a piece of cardboard or an old piece of wood. Occasionally I’ve seen chess boards being used, but in Selekleka faded cardboard sketched out with a ruler and colored in with a black marker is what we use. When asking the hostess of the tea house for the board she will come with a stack of various bottle tops. One person sets up their three rows with the labels showing and the other turns theirs up-side-down making unmatched caps not matter at all. The winner of the game before goes or you can flip a coin. Play starts; however, there are some differences in rules that must be observed and planned for.

1. If you can jump you have to.

 1b. If you don’t jump your opponent takes your piece.

2. You can jump backwards without being “kinged.”

3. Once “kinged” you can jump anywhere along that line. So if there is four blank spaces between you and opponent you can still jump them without penalty.

Overall it looks the same, same board, same number of pieces, same objective. However, once one sits down and watches the differences start to come to the surface. The first time I played (a week or so ago) I was given lots of advice and reminders about the rules. Tonight I played against Tesfay, a math teacher. Unlike other math, Amharic, or physics, teachers that I played against before (and pulled out some wins) strategy was clearly Tesfay’s strength. The best I could do was tie once and lose the other four games. My trouble is in the first rule partnered with the second. By pulling your opponent to jump one of yours you can sometimes open up options to jump 2 or 3 of theirs. You can also jump forward and backwards so you have to be aware how your opponent’s tiles move in a different way.

I tried to play checkers on my iPad afterwards and was quickly flummoxed by the different rules. Something I was once a champion at (we did have competitions in Middle School), I’m now baffled in two different sets of rules. What I do know, is that learning and correcting assumptions is one of the best lessons that Peace Corps has taught me. Things I’ve known for so long are being challenged. I’m seeing things in a new way both about life and myself. By rereading journals I can see how far I’ve come as a teacher and person, but also acknowledge that I still have a lot of learning left to do. I hope my assumptions continue to be challenged and refined. 

Fading 48 13 December 2015

When I met the large group of 70 volunteers in DC in July 2013,I was excited and nervous to be thrown into such a dynamic group. We came from all US time-zones, religions, skin tones, and all other dynamics that make America so diverse. It was fun to meet all of the other volunteers. Some friendships were made deep and fast, others remained cordial and acquaintance-like, others took time to foster and grow.

Last weekend a friend texted me that he would be leaving Peace Corps to head back Stateside. On Friday he called me before flying out to say goodbye. My group is in its 17^th month of being in country and next weekend will have our 15^th month anniversary of swearing in. With him leaving, we are down to 48.

31.4% of the volunteers who I was clustered with in those hot, non-windowed rooms in DC have boarded planes and headed back stateside. While reasons and circumstances vary for all (some chose to go and some had to leave for medical reasons), it can be surprising to think about a 1/3 of the people are gone.

Why is this? For friends who see Facebook statuses only, everything seems to be great here. We post pictures of smiling children, fun student work, and random laughable moments. During breaks we are able to travel to places that people in retirement go to. We’re in the land of coffee, camels and injera. We eat strange delicious food, while occasionally battling power outages.

There is something you need to know about Peace Corps volunteers: we censor everything. Yes, there are moments that are wonderful that prompt status to get 50+ likes; however, they are not all the time. We don’t post about the guys who ask us to go home with them, obnoxious moments of students pulling on hair, corruption of schools encouraging us to change students’ grades, students falling asleep in class, verbal harassment and more. But let’s be honest, who really posts everything--like hanging laundry on Facebook?

I know I’ve posted similar blogs to this one, but the reminder is still present as it was back then. Life is hard, messy, and a struggle. It’s also full of joy, happiness and peace. For 22 of my friends, the struggles here were just too great for too long. The rest of us have 8-9 months to continue to find a balance between the two. Months that will have us missing American holidays, family, special occasions, and lack of plumbing and electricity. However, it will be in these final months that we solidify the end of our service through other memorable events.

Merry Christmas!

2015 has come and is almost done.

Being off American soil has been fun,

But now it’s time to pause the holiday tidings,

To look back to acknowledge God’s many blessings.

Ethiopian Christmas started the new year[1],

But there was no snow, candy canes, or carols here.

Instead I got tans and burns in the Tigray heat.

Staying hydrated with no water was a big feat[2].

Classes were full of grammar, vocab and questions,

Though school was cancelled for saints’ days and elections[3].

Students thought pen-palling to the States was the best.

At the end of the year most passed their English test.

Mom and Dad came here to tour around with me.

There are so many churches and castles to see.

Then to Tanzania for friends and safari.

After goodbyes, leading trainings kept me busy.

A new school year with new students is underway,

With 200 plus students to teach every day.

This next year will hold highs, lows and surprises.

It’s key to find God’s blessings through disguises.

---

[1] January 6 to follow Orthodox Christian calendar

[2] Went 5 months without clean water in town. 2.5 months with no water and 2.5 months will unusable greasy and salty water

[3] Too many saint days to mention. Elections were in May.

Just One of The Crew 7 December 2015

I follow the teal stream heading out of town. Students are serious as they head towards their first mid-exams of the school year, but they are still able to joke. I wonder if they are relieved to not have to carry exercise books to school today. Three male, 9th grade students wait to walk for me. They seek assurance that the English test on Wednesday (potentially Thursday) isn’t too hard. We joke around before Meles, a math teacher, suddenly materializes behind us and we separate into teachers and students.

The paved walk to school is beautiful and relaxed as we cover all sorts of topics from universities to traveling to Tigrigna. “Cali-po-lo-tus” is what locals call the eucalyptus trees lining the walk, a left over from the brief Italian occupation. An older man starts talking around me to Meles asking what I am doing here and why? While I understand, I let Meles explain that I am a volunteer English teacher at the school. The man keeps talking, and I finally laugh and explain myself to him, which shocks him that I know Tigrigna.

Once we get to school the grade 10 students are flooding out of the gates as the 9^th grade ones wait to go in and start their exams. To prevent cheating between shifts of students, this week tests and shifts are segregated by grade. Many call out my name and ask me how I am. I catch up with many and try to find my former students to check how they are feeling about exams, before heading to the staff lounge.

Just as the outside of the school is busy, the staff lounge is a loud buzz. Teachers I haven’t seen in a while are excited to see me again. Others make the weekend break seem like a month has separated us. While I’m not needed to proctor any of the tests, I still come to help, and hang with my buddies. I’ve barely put away my bag when Gebre Selassie, a brilliant history teacher who is also completely blind, asks if I would please help him grade a section of his grade 10 exams. I quickly get my red pen and start marking. Once finished I go into the main office to hang with Letish, the secretary, and Meles while making copies for the next day’s exams. Teklay, one of the Vice Directors, comes in after we are finished and whisks me to the small café on campus. It’s part of the budget to give all teachers tea and fuul, a hot breakfast dish, while working. We share two as they come off hot right after each other.

There are still exams going on so I pull out some dry erase makers and page protected paper for Winner, the three year old shadow, and myself to color on. Soon exams are done and all teachers and students make the walk back to town for a Christening… at least the party part of the celebrations. In the swarms of students there are also a large group of teachers meandering back on the dirt paths to the celebration.

Walking into the tarp covered area single filed with the other teachers I realize how common and accepted this has become. When I first went to events with teachers, mostly male, I was spotted out as being the foreingi. Now, people know my name and recognize that I just one of the crew of teachers that goes everywhere. Sitting on the familiar green benches propped on small sawhorses between Meles and Hagos, a Geography teacher, I couldn’t help but smile. There were other people in the small area; however, they were mixed between the 40 some teachers and staff from Hakfen Secondary School. Mesfin, an English teacher, made sure I got plenty of hilbet, shiro, and silsi when the pots were passed around. Meles made sure that I understood that the new dish was called “timitimo” and had it spelt correctly on my hand in fidel. I didn’t even have to deny a sewa cup as everyone knows I don’t drink. Instead Hagos made sure I got some water instead.

Even though I eat slower, we had all finished before the music started going. There is an American song that’s titled “Why Don’t We Just Dance?” Ethiopians never ask this question. They just do. As soon as the music comes they start to sway and will even shoulder dance in their seats before enough of them get up and join. I used to be intimated or scared. Now, I waited long enough for Kadra to finish her plate before joining the circle of teachers dancing.

After a couple more songs we stated to bail in shifts of teachers, similar to the ones we had come in. Teklay and I got away from a group of about 7 (including Gebre Selassie, Meles, Hagos and others), and headed to find some tea. We all ended up going to the same place and joked that Selekleka isn’t a very large town. After asking what a piece of cardboard with bottle tops was, Teklay and Meles taught me how to play Ethiopian checkers called Dama. One person played labels down and the other had them showing. The rules are different and too complicated to explain here, but I was still able to beat Meles before losing to Teklay. Mulaw, a Health and Physical Education teacher, and Haile came over to really show me that I have years to catch on. Jemal, a new Tigrigna teacher, showed me how to rock it with doing three jump turns. We sat till it was getting chilly and I walked home before it got too cold and dark.

Familiarity and comfort ability are two things that I love most about my life here. People genuinely care about me when they see me, yet we are all able to joke in a mix of languages. They no longer question when I start to write Tigrigna on my left hand, but make sure that I spelt it correctly. We can laugh about the craziness of each other’s languages while not laughing at the person attempting the unfamiliar one. We can sit for an hour to watch others play checkers and randomly chitchat.

Last year I was often forgotten when it came to social functions. Either someone wouldn’t tell me it was going on, or tell me we were all going. That’s rare these days. I’m asked a head of time, multiple times, that I will be somewhere for something. It’s this inclusion that I treasure. While eating, Meles mentioned that none of the 6 new teachers we have had come. I pointed out that it is hard to feel wanted and part of a group when one is new. Other teachers agreed, though many don’t remember that as they’ve been in Selekleka for at least three years.

This whole week is designated to mid-exams. Three each day for four days to cover the 11 subjects and have a day to hand back exams. I’m not required to go to school tomorrow as I’m not proctoring, English isn’t till Wednesday and there is no program going on. However, I will. I’ll go to see my friends smile, ask how they are doing, help in any way I can, and walk the half hour back with. Besides, Letish promised to paint my nails tomorrow and I can’t pass up her hugs!

Sweet Patience Friday 04 December 2015

This morning I got called into have coffee with Teklay, one of my vice directors. I didn’t have to be asked twice (especially as I had a sore throat). As the coffee was being made I realized that the silver bowl holding sugar had black spots in it. For the first round, my friend Merahawit carefully got only sugar, but I joked with Teklay that ants are just “added protein.”

However, there were also students coming and going and only Merahawit to cover the small place. So I quickly took the bowl of sugar and a spoon to scoop out the ants (some alive, many dead) from the sugar while we all chit-chatted about the meanings of names, loving Ethiopia, missing friends, and how some of the other teachers can be annoying. It took awhile, but eventually I had all the ants out and still had enough time to get my teaching aids prepared before my 2^nd period afternoon class.

While I was sorting out tiny ants not much larger then the grains of sugar, I realized I didn’t feel rushed or annoyed. I didn’t see the task ahead of me as mundane, boring, pointless or unworthy of my time. It needed to be done. Ethiopians love their sugary tea. Sugar is expensive and keeps going in and out of availability. I had the time on a comfy stool to sit and sort, so why shouldn’t I do it?

I can remember plenty of times in the past that I passed something up because I didn’t want to be bored. “It could be done by someone else,” I’d argue myself over before walking onto something seemingly more entertaining. I’d mutter about having to sit still doing anything when being up and about is clearly why my legs work.

Americans, at least the ones I know and who I was, love clocks. They love making each second count for something. There is a schedule that has to be maintained and filled constantly. They’ll have breaks, but maybe only for the length of a t.v. show, if they can sit still that long. Going and doing are key verbs to define a day/life. If there are ways to save time, like instant dinners, computing on phone, or headsets, people tend to lean that way.

Ethiopians are relaxed. This can be annoying, but only if the American standard is being the scale to grade them. If not, it’s…relaxing. I can do a task and not worry about what will come after. I knew I had class in 9B at 1:26 pm, but nothing before that was required. I could sort a bowl of sugar to make it useable again. 

In “Bugs Life” the ants are blue and purple. In “Antz” they are brown. Today they were little specks in the sugar, but they were my reminder to have patience and just relax in whatever task is before me.

Times Fly 01 December 2015

It’s a routine in my classes to start by writing the dates on the board. First I write the one students are accustomed to in the Ethiopian Calendar (today is 21/03/08 EC), and then my own. It’s a simple thing to expose the students to differences around the world, but also recognize that a day is a day no matter what you call it. Today I had to pause before writing 01/12/15, as my mind had to work overtime to believe that this was true.

How is it already December? The final month of my year off of American soil?! My final month of being 24?! Didn’t I just start school and call my parents for their birthdays?

I’ve been told multiple times by reliable people that the second half of anything often flies by quicker than the first half. At this point, I totally agree! It still seems so recent that my parents visited me. I haven’t had time to feel bad about missing the holiday season. Classes are running smoother with lessons already planned out and routines in place. Life is flying by.

It’s also being propelled as questions about post Peace Corps life become more and more common from friends here and back home. When I joined Peace Corps it was all I could think of doing. I had been telling people since 4^th grade that I was going to teach abroad. I didn’t have a plan for what to do once I finally did that. Honestly, I still don’t.

I don’t have anything finalized. I’m looking into coming back to my beloved green Pacific Northwest; however, teaching jobs for the 2016-2017 school year haven’t been posted yet (or at least I don’t have internet access to check for it). Some friends want to continue teaching/working abroad, but I need to come home for a spell before packing bags anywhere. This is the last month of the year I had everything planned out. The next year is full of uncertainty and unknowns. All I know is I’m resting in the trust of God to lead me where He needs me to go to do what He needs me to do.

Many people when they get close to an end, start counting down. Counting down to Christmas. Count down to the final buzzer. I’m sure there are some PCVs counting down the days till they fly to Addis Ababa for their final medical and closing paperwork. I’m not one of those.

I’m still making each day count. Counting up all the blessings. All the kids that I twirl in a day. All the laughs my students bring me. All the moments with teacher buddies when we both teach each other something new. Counting up all the times I get called by name in other towns. All the times someone calls me by name and not “forengi.” All the times someone praises my feeble Tigrigna and rejoices when I try to learn more.

However, it’s a balancing act. Part of me misses America and eagerly awaits the day when I can take a hot shower, eat bell peppers, and text vigorously to friends and family. Part of me wants to put it off to enjoy more invitations to peoples’ houses, relish coffee ceremonies and fresh injera, twirl kids without a care, and teach my large, energetic classes of brown eyed students. Time has put a part of my heart in both places.

On the way home from school today, we passed a dead sheep. One of the teachers I was with mentioned that there is nothing certain in life. The others agreed. Life is full of uncertainties. What’s important is to not worry, dread, or become anxious to fill that uncertainty with one’s own desires and wishes. But rather, enjoy wherever one is (even if that’s on a path with a dead sheep), try to see God’s blessings in it, and trust that He will take care of the uncertainty.

Papier-Mâché Messes November 28, 2015

Slime glistens over fingernails as it is squished off strips of paper slowly being pulled through. Music plays as the mind drifts. The cool soaked paper slowly covers the yellow neon balloon. Occasionally flour chunks will need to be rubbed out or a trailing dropped scooped up.  The sun outside in the picture book blue sky promises to help once the coat is finished.

This messy, easy craft has always been one of my favorites. I remember making a life size coyote in 3^rd grade and classic piñatas through various Spanish classes. There was a time Kara and I made a giant globe with a section cut away to show the layers of the earth.  We’d started with an old, giant umbrella that barely fit the doors at the school in 8^th grade. My junior or senior year of high school, I made the Alps for a project on Switzerland that were two feet long  It’s amazing what can be done with a little flour, water, paper and time.

I don’t think I did anything papier-mâché like in college. So, it’s been at least five years, half a decade, before I joined Peace Corps that I got all messy for some fun. However, since being here I’ve made multiple piñatas: a mosquito, soccer ball, traditional one, pumpkin, turkey and am starting an Ethiopian flag colored one for a friend.

When I first made the mosquito piñata, I didn’t really know what I was doing. My compound family was shocked and confused at what two balloons and some floured water could do. While the students loved it when I shook it and explained that there was candy inside, they didn’t mind being blindfolded for it. However, forgetting about how to hang a piñata was a lesson I would learn.

The soccer ball and traditional pinata were for camp this summer. The session had girls and boys talk about struggles and challenges that they encounter in their lives. Early marriage, harassment, sexual assault, and bullying were all mentioned and wrote on the black and white squares. After talking about how to overcome these challenges, we went out and had students take turns smashing their challenges. The other piñata was broken by hand and randomly used to hand out treats on the final day. An Ethiopian friend’s young son turned it into a hat!

A jack-o-lantern pumpkin was a surprise for an extra program at an orphanage. However, it had to be redecorated when it was brought to my attention that playing with food in a country dealing with drought and potential famine, isn’t a good lesson to teach. The kids loved it, even though it didn’t break until it was stabbed! I learned that I really have to count how many coats I put on a piñata.

And finally this week, there was an odd chicken like piñata being created in my compound. Trying to explain that a turkey is like a giant chicken for an American holiday was hard enough to explain without going into details. The looks I got on the bus ride and meandering though towns was also a shock that this is a very foreign thing. The insides though were stuffed with care package goodies to be shared with friends after a day of trainings.

As the wet goo slides through my fingers on this new one, I can’t help but smile. My compound is used to balloons drying out in the afternoon sun. I’m better at hanging and making them. It took time and patience, but I did learn.

In some ways these piñatas illustrate some great points about life as a PCV. For starters, it’s messy. There is dirt and dust everywhere. We have to dive in with both hands if we want our time to matter. We could stay in our rooms watching t.v., but where would the point be in that? Sometimes people don’t understand what we are doing, even if it seems like an easy things to do. This ranges from our pace of walk, to asking repeatedly for schedules, to making teaching aids daily. Eventually people come to the realization that what we do is fun, interesting, harmless, and inventive, but that takes time and patience.

I’m sure there will be more piñatas in my remaining time as a PCV. I’m not sure what they will be or if I will have any for Cinco de Mayo, but what I do know, is I’m still enjoying seeing the joy on peoples’ faces when they crack it open to some unexpected treats. 

Harsh? 25 November 2015

harsh (adj)

1.      difficult to live in or endure because very uncomfortable or inhospitable conditions

2.      severely scrutinizing, critical, and rigid in manner

3.      extremely exacting to the point of being punitive

4.      jarring or unpleasant to the senses

Encarta® World English Dictionary © 1999 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. Developed for Microsoft by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.

Recently, teacher friends have been asking me about the “harsh” conditions of Selekleka. Questions about the “air condition” (weather) are common, but recently many are convinced that it is harsh. When I inquire into their thinking they tell me it is because the mornings are so cold and the afternoons are very hot. This is true. I put on a sweater before going to school and can often see my breath most of the way there. However, by 9 my teacher coat is enough warmth and by 10 I’m too warm.

Extreme cold and hot could be considered “uncomfortable” or “inhospitable;” however, Selekleka doesn’t deal with extremes. But that’s where I realize my thinking differs from many of my friends. Extreme cold for me entails inches of ice on the road while blinding snow is swirling around and having to walk to class wrapped in scarves and jackets. Thank you Pacific Northwest for giving me tastes of this every year.

While I may dislike the cold mornings here, I relish in the fact that I can walk to school everyday without having to worry about chains on tires. Rains may make some paths muddy earlier in the school year, but there is a paved road to walk on if needed. The weather really isn’t harsh.

Besides the weather, this adjective paints the perfect picture of the opposite living conditions of Selekleka. The people here are very hospitable. They take the time to listen to my faltering Tigrigna and offer to buy me tea whenever I walk past a tea house. I’ve become a part of the community where parents are comfortable letting me twirl their kids, students are comfortable coming up and talking to me outside of class (not a common behavior), and kids are comfortable leaping off the 2 foot raised sidewalks to be caught by me.

While I continuously scrutinize myself, friends here remind me that that’s not what life is about. I’m told “Don’t worry,” “Just do you,” and other encouragements that remind me that I’m not in a place where severe scrutiny is common. In fact everything is flexible, relaxed, leisurely. There are things one has to do, of course, but even those are not fixed and rigid in when or how they need to be done. Nothing is done or required in an exact way. It is not like America when time and clocks are adhered to like gods.

Besides the cold in the morning and the sunburning heat in the afternoon, my senses are at peace here. Evening walks through the light breeze as the birds and frogs call out are relaxing. My eyes dart around from color and smiles and friends wherever I go. The food may not have great variety, but it’s always fresh, hot and comforting. I’ve even uped my spicy tolerance so more food doesn’t qualify as “unpleasant” or “harsh” any more. Sure, I still have to meander around cow, donkey and camel droppings wherever I go, but that’s just one smell in a mix of millions that make Selekleka home.

Yes, life can be difficult and unpleasant here. But, it’s not harsh. It’s tolerable, nice, comfortable, even hospitable.

Making Words Count 17 November 2015

 Recently while I was waiting for a bus to fill, I stumbled upon an old text message conversation. When my Dad came to visit me this summer, he left me his old iphone to use for music on buses and runs. Besides the throw back music I haven’t listened to in ages, it also had text 723 conversations between the two of us ranges from July 14, 2013 to June 25, 2014. The 11 months before Peace Corps adventure happened.

Scrolling through the hundreds of texts I started to notice patterns. In the time frame I mentioned 11 states that I was in with only 9 flights, though I traveled through 4 time zones. There were 55 movie quotes and 4 “who am I?” game references, and 3 sporting events updates. I sent him three interview updates, one of which was for the Peace Corps. We both sent pictures of fresh baked bread and complaints about driving in snow.

My Dad and I have always been close. He is the man I admire most and one of the many that I wish I could call/text every day that I am here. He taught me so many lessons about respect, love, relationships and perseverance through many lessons. Too many lessons to put in this one blog adequately, but one of the lessons he taught me is to value words.

There is a time and place for shallow, mediocre conversations. To ask about a sports’ team season or about the record breaking weather. But there also needs to be time for the in-depth, hard to wrestle questions often kept inside. The questions of beliefs, morals, and obligations. There is a time to tell jokes and a time to be serious. Knowing context helps one know what to say when.

55 movie quotes seems like a lot between a father and daughter. 50 of them were sent in one day from the same movie. Why? That was the day my brother and I, who were driving across the country, approached and played on the Field of Dreams in Iowa. While the old Kevin Costner film may be foreign to non-baseball fans, it’s one that has brought the Sexton 5 together every baseball season.  Thomas and I got to play on the field. The quotes mean more than just a fun banter between father and kids (for the record Thomas did text many of them as I was driving.) They show part of the complex, familiar connection between us.

There are also texts that I sent when I got lost in Eastern Oregon due to bad GPS skills, traveling over state borders, building anxiety of interviews, and growing great anticipation for reconnections over Christmas break. Texts show my own uncertainty, but my unfaltering trust in my Dad. He responded with better directions, hotel reservations in multiple states, encouragement and equal (if not greater) expectant joy. 

I still text and talk about all of these things with people who are within cell phone service. I quote Disney quotes with friends, vent off frustrations, send  \messages #peacecorpslife  that only few will truly understand, and  updates when I’ve successfully reached destination despite any transportation hurdles. Even though I can’t text my Dad about these things, I’ve realized it is important to text talk:  To let others in on your day, To be honest with what you are feeling, To be genuine with advice and honest with criticism.  To make each text messages with 120 characters for 35 birr cent count.

While it may be harder for many of you to believe, I have gotten quieter since being in Peace Corps. I have been told to speak louder on multiple conversations. I’ve had American and Ethiopian friends ask me if I’m okay because I didn’t talk much for hours. Part of this is due to the fact that Tigrigna is still a hard battle to understand for me. Part of it is due to not being as informed of pop culture as my fellow peers. However, the real reason, is I’ve finally started to grasp the other side of the importance of words coin.

I once asked my Dad about how visiting people who are sick in the hospital goes. He told me simply that he just listens to what the person has to say. To give advice, he often just rewards what the person says and tells it back to them. He not only taught me to give words meaning when I say them, but also to give other’s words meaning by listening to them. Really listening.

That’s what I’ve been working on here. To listen to people. To listen to my students when they voice struggles. To listen to my teachers and understand where they are coming from before jumping to conclusions. To listen to my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers joys and struggles so they know they aren’t alone. It’s through listening that I’ve learned more about others, cultures and myself then articulation.

Words. We say and use hundred every day for variant degrees of importance. But it’s been through coming into a culture where I can barely talk  to realize that there is a time to talk. To put in one’s two cents, to play “devil’s advocate,” to share a part of one’s self. To ask questions to understand better. There is also a time to listen. To hold off speaking to hear another. A time to hear what the words are trying to get to in order to really understand the other person. So, be careful with words. Use them when you need to. Hold off when someone else needs the chance to speak. And value what can happen through words.

In America Only 2 November 2015

There are many things I love about America. It resides under the bold stars and strips with a firm stand for independence. Coasts reach from sea to sea with forests, fields and deserts mixed in the middle. Food is associated with all holidays from apple pie to candy corn. There are big cities and small hometowns. Country, pop, rock, and everything in-between can be found on the radio. However, being away from the Land of the Brave has awaken me to some things America does differently than the rest  of world; things that are just kind of strange.

If I were to buy anything at market or bulk items at a suk, I have to have either “hanti  or ferki kilo.” Everything is by the kilo instead of the pound. Everywhere else in the world uses this system for measuring. Same for when one weighs a person. This can be a perk when people ask me (awkwardly on my side) how much I weigh and I honestly don’t know; however, it makes me ponder why America decided to go with something else. Something ( a pound) that translates into 2.204622 kilograms, so it’s not perfect to work between the two.

I haven’t grown since high school. As it listed next to my basketball jersey number, I am 5 foot 9 inches. However, only in America does that mean anything. Feet and inches don’t relate to the rest of the world. Instead the metric system kicks in with meters and centimeters. This changes me to answering the “How tall are you?” question with “1.75.” One inch is equal to 2.54 centimeters proving again that America’s system is odd, unique and incompatible.

Meters also come into play when people ask me how far one place is from another. Instead of using miles (which take a randomly even 5,280 feet each), things around here are measured in kilometers. Instead of saying distance I ask people to tell me how long it takes to walk or bus there to get a  more understandable estimate of distance. I know it takes me about 30 minutes to walk the 2.7 kilometers to school. I know it takes about a half hour to go to Shire which is 35 kilometers away. Bus systems tend to charge about 10 birr per half hour of travel time so I also know what to expect to pay to get places.

Today is warm with a light breeze. Thankfully I don’t have a thermometer to tell me the temperature, but if I paid attention to the weather reports on the news blaring in the staff lounge I still wouldn’t know the temperature anyways. Growing up I knew that if it was 70, I could play with water, 80 meant swimming was a fair game, and 90 meant extra sunscreen. Those all being in Fahrenheit of course. Here temperature is calculated through Celsius making 21 the new 69.8.

But of all the things that I don’t understand anymore about America is Day Light Savings, which went into effect yet again yesterday. Instead of being 10 hours away from my immediate family I am now 11 hours. While there are other countries around the world that do this I still question: Why!? What is the logic to be completely crazy and throw everyone off? (FYI Arizona doesn’t change and I think they’re on to something.)

Other countries have red, white and blue flags. Other countries have beaches and high mountains. Other countries make delicious food to celebrate important days. Other countries have variety in their music choices. But we’re the stubborn, rebels who have pounds, inches, feet, Fahrenheit and take part in Day Light Savings. God bless America…and all the others who put up with our silliness.

The Unexpected 30 October 2015

“The only thing to expect is the unexpected.” – Jimi (PCV Friend)

Part of me wants to cry. Another part is rolling her eyes. I should have learned this lesson before. Oh so many things so many times, but instead I am just shocked and surprised like a naïve new comer. I’m bound to learn one of these days…I just wish it wasn’t today…right now.

For those of you who don’t know October 30^th holds more for my family then just final touches on costumes and carving pumpkins. It’s Mom’s birthday. A day where we do carve pumpkins but also fit time for Mom. While this could be tricky with sports’ schedules in high school, as far as I know, Whitworth’s Fall Break usually falls this weekend so we’ve been home in time to celebrate. It’s a day to look forward too. It also means that I get to save up the phone birr and call Mom after a week of a whole lot and finally get to vent. (FYI: Dad’s birthday was a week and a half ago and we chatted up plenty.)

I tried to bide my time hanging with friends and doing odd things until 6:30pm my time (8:30am her time) finally rolled around. We’d barely said hello and asked what our plans were for the weekend when the power went out. I tried to warn her that this means network will go out to, but before I could the network cut out. 2 minutes and 10 seconds after we’d connected. I should have expected the unexpected network fail.

From the last paragraph to this one the network came back on and I got to talk to Mom for about 44 minutes. While the power didn’t come back, the network did. This week the network has been out for 3-13 hours. You never know what to expect. So, I guess expecting the unexpected is a safer bet.

Today has been a day of unexpected curve balls. This morning I woke up at 12:30, 1:30 and 4:30 to deluge rain even though it’s been dryer than a desert for the last month. While giving a short Unit I test, I found out that many of my students were unfamiliar with a matching format for a test. They could do multiple choice, but struggled to understand matching (even though we had done it during class). While on break a fellow English teacher and a History teacher told me they wanted to help with English Day activities, even though there was no incentive last year. They want to start doing debates with students and even with teachers. Heading out of campus, I was told that there is no school next week. Turns out the rains signal the week of harvest before other “spring showers” come. So, even though we started two-three weeks late and mid exams are suppose to be in three weeks, schedule is messed up again. Unexpectancies of life.

Part of me wants to get frustrated. I was just getting into the flow of things. I had just figured out where mid-exams were and how to finish 3 units until then. I want a routine. I don’t want to waste my last year by wasting times. But then I realize that is pretty self-centered. Instead, I get to learn more about another culture that is so heavily agricultural and religious that the school system is bound to that. Instead new ideas by new teachers are brought up for ideas. Instead I get to light a candle and watch its golden glow bounce around the shadows of the room.

I like to be in control. Maybe it’s a side effect of being an American where control and time are heavily valued or just being an older sister. (Maybe a combination. ;) ) Whatever the reason, it’s the unexpectancies that keep life real, moving, going. The random conversations that leave me smiling. The lyrics to a song that suddenly make more sense. So, instead of complaining about frustrations, I’m going to look to find God’s gift. I’ll find joy in my comfort zone and routine expectations being poked, prodded and broken.

P.S. I don’t know if it will copy into the blog, but just so you know I wrote this blog with “cracked” font. Who would have expected that to even be a thing, but it seems fitting.

Why I couldn’t commit a crime. (AKA Why integration is important) 28 October 2015

I am dedicated to crime shows. I’m not really sure where or when this obsession first took hold, but it has fostered throughout the years. In middle school I’d watch San Fran’s private detective with Obsessive Complusive Disorders in  “Monk” when parents had to go to Young Life. In high school my brothers and I would stay up for the dynamic pineapple loving duo of Shawn and Gus in Santa Barbara based “Psych.” I’ve seen the classic “Miss Marple” and Sherlock Homes that BBC does and the most recent Sherlocks. During the summers at college I would watch “Murdoch” with Grandma and “Mysteries at the Museum” with Grandpa. I’ve seen the high school based “Veronica Mars, ” the chemically altered in “Beauty and the Beast,” and the anthropologically tied “Bones.” Now, thanks to my amazing Peace Corps buddies, I’m hooked on “Castle” and “Elementary.”

My friends and I laughed awhile ago, about all the lessons crime shows teach us. For example, don’t threaten, just take action. More people are killed on TV because they threatened to go to the cops then those that actually called out bad people. Other lessons include: don’t run from cops, avoid cameras, don’t leave angry voicemails, don’t go into debt, deposit and withdraw money in small amounts over a large period of time, and call for an ambulance if there was an accident so you aren’t charged with murder. A bunch of random lessons I hope none of us have to deal with.

So what does all of this have to do with Peace Corps? Unlike embassies, we don’t have diplomatic immunity (like consulates). If something happens…well, Peace Corps would try to get us out, but it might be awhile. So…getting closer to my point.

If you were to teleport into Selekleka right now, all you would have to do is ask 3 people where I am and at least one of them could tell you. Ask the kids and your odds of finding me improve. People know where I am pretty much all the time. My name is shouted wherever and whenever I leave my room or compound. I have found my sitemates by just standing still at market and hearing kids yell for them! People come up and tell me they saw me or my sitemates like it is something odd. (“Really? I was walking out of town towards the school?!”) This could be said for many volunteers. We are “on” all the time whenever we leave our houses. People are watching us whether we know it or not. We always have alibis.

These alibis though aren’t just strangers. They are students, colleagues, friends: an extension of our family away from home. One, if not the best part, of my job is becoming integrated into the community that I live in. It’s actually part of my trimester reporting form to tell Peace Corps how I’m integrating into the community. I see it as part of my job to learn the language, become familiar with people, build relationships and really live in the community I’m a part of.

In big city America, I walked around in a cloak of invisibility. I didn’t notice anyone, and didn’t try to draw attention to myself. I could name my neighbors in the dorm, one in my theme house (Whitworth’s Presidential Family), but none the year after college. I couldn’t tell you who I bought groceries from, or the person who brought the mail. Here? Community is family. You know everyone and they know you.

A couple weeks ago I went to a suk after a walk when a friend called me over. She had oranges and I thought they sounded great. Plus we haven’t had much fruit besides bananas in a while. However, I hadn’t brought my wallet. I had left it in my bag from school. I tried to explain that I didn’t have money. She smiled and told me to come back later with the money.  She knew me enough to trust me. Where in America could you do that?

To be honest though, sometimes  I want that invisibility back. I just want to go for a walk and not have thirty people call out to me. I want to come to my house and just be. But then I see a kid smile or have a great moment with another person and I remember that invisibility just puts up a barrier. Life is meant to be lived with people that care, love and know you. And to figure out how to be patient when annoyed, joyful when homesick, and calm when anger wants to come out.

The two things every mystery show suspect has to consider, besides alibis, are motive and opportunity. I don’t have the time to plan and execute a plan for a crime. Instead I plan out lessons, clubs, other programs and time for myself and friends. Most days I take a nap so that I can keep going. Besides, as mentioned before, I’m watched all the time so I don’t have an opportunity without someone seeing me. As to motive sure, people annoy and frustrate me, but that’s shouldn’t be a basis for a crime. The people I see are my friends and fellow humans. I’ve never been hurt by them in ways that I couldn’t rise above. My motive for being a Peace Corps volunteer and loving the opportunities this job opens is a greater driving force in my life.

I may love crime shows, but I could never commit a crime. I’m too well integrated into a community of love to have a)motive  or b) opportunity. Instead, I have more alibis then could fit in any interrogation room, but that all have special niches in my heart. Besides, orange is not my color!

What’s in my bag? 25 October 2015

Before I left from the States, I made sure that I had two important bags. One being a yellow JansSport backpack that originally was my Mom’s and, the other, a colorful side -- bright and fun. Between the two of them I figured I could go anywhere and take everything with me. It’s been well over a year since my Grandma sewed in a zipper to my colorful bag and I headed off on this adventure. 15.5 months since it was beautiful and good to go. Months to collect chalk and dust on the inside and outside. The colors were muted by dirt. So, today I decided to wash it.

Before letting it soak, I had to empty it out. While taking out random odds and ends I realized that my life could be summed up in the contents of my bag:

4 used phone cards: Disconnecting from unlimited text and call contracts I’ve adapted to the system of phone cards. These green strips of cereal box cardstock range from 5-100 birr though I usually buy 25 ones. I’ve learned that each text is 35 cents, Facebook is much cheaper (especially after 9pm) and a call to the States is about 9 birr per minute. Buying these are a perfect way to break 100 birr notes that banks hand out.

     I’m a people person. I love being connected with people. Texts, calls and messages are important to me. While some people budget, I don’t when it comes to communications. Sure, I only call home when someone has a birthday or I can call with wifi instead, but I try to connect often. 

Assorted sizes of chalk: While I don’t intentionally put chalk into my bags, somehow it always finds a way to get in. It falls out when I bring my lab coat home to wash. After a year of teaching the bottom is pretty much caked in chalk.

I am a teacher and it infiltrates every part of my life. Chalk lines on my hands have kids bringing me water after class to wash with. It’s a hard job, but I love it. I love trying to figure out new ways to use a chalkboard to be clear and concise without being overwhelming. While use of chalk and chalkboard space may not be a great job skill to post from Peace Corps, it does remind me to be thankful for all the resources that I do come across.

Hand sanitizer: Peace Corps Volunteers joke that our immune systems are going to be made of steel by the time we finish service, and it’s only a slight exaggeration. We shake hands with everyone multiple times. Everything is done with the hands. It’s important that they stay clean and we stay healthy.

I don’t go anywhere without hand santizer. I have small bottles of it in every bag and it’s on the water filter right inside my door. However, I am in no way a germ-o-phobe. Instead I embrace the dirt and grim. I shake hands with kids, push donkeys aside at market, and brush off a kid’s tears when he falls running. I live life unafraid of the mess, but am prepared to take care of it afterwards.

Plastic container of band-aids and meds:  I’m a klutz. I cut my fingers weekly. I trip on small rocks. I get bruised against a blackboard. While usually these don’t end in blood or pain, I’m one who thinks ahead. I bring band-aids for myself and others in case something happens. I have ibuprophen when the headaches come.

Assorted pens: Part of having to wash hands often is the fact that I often use my skin as scratch paper. While my parents tried to derail this habit when I was a kid, it’s stuck. English, Tigrigna, and random numbers are often littered over my left hand in mine or others’ handwriting. I’m a visual learner. I don’t learn unless I see it or at least write it down. Unlike many the Ethiopian culture where many assume that if you heard it once you have it memorized, I have to constantly practice and work at language and absorbing new material. Writing it down helps. (There were also random pieces of paper in the bag too that are marked with things I don’t even know when I wrote down.)

Toilet Paper: In the states you could pop into a store without actually buying anything and find bathrooms stocked with toilet paper. Here Western toilets are rare and toilet paper holders even rarer. One learns pretty quickly to always have toilet paper wherever you go.

Some things are always in my bag that I would take with me even in the states. Money, water bottle, keys and phone are always checked before leaving a place. Unlike the States I don’t have to have a driver’s license as there isn’t any enforcement looking for it.  Occasionally they’ll be a book, binder or lesson plan, but that’s with a purpose.

But my purpose at this moment . . . wash this bag.