What does trash mean?” (Friday March 27, 2015)

        She sat on the broken chair next to the small metal gate: the only entrance in or out of school. I smiled and jokingly asked why she isn’t in class. She was late to my second period, but at least she showed up. Her string of Tigrigna is fast, harsh, disgusted. The director made her sit here when a boy ran off and someone had to watch the gate. (The guard was arrested the other day and they haven’t replaced him.) Her brown eyes are stone cold when she tells me she doesn’t want to be here.  I believe her.

       Another girl came. The first’s best friend but in a different one of my classes. We talked for a little bit, before they smiled, we exchanged “Salam ma-all-tees” (Peace for the Day), and I left the campus. The blue sky is a relief from the long day at school. I came for the entire first shift and the week hasn’t been easy. I am ready for a long, relaxing walk back to town. Then the first girl called out to me.

       I turn. Thinking she is just going to yell “Chow!” or something, I realize she is running to me.

       “What does ‘trash’ mean?” she asks seriously as she stops in front of me.

       “What?” I asked confused at the use of English and from the return from my daydreams.

       When she repeated the question she hesitated on the unfamiliar word, not sure if she is pronouncing it correctly. We’ve been together for 6 months. She knows sometimes it takes more than one try for either of us to understand each other, but repeating is okay.

       “Oh, uh,” I am confused, but continue, “It’s rubbish.”  Sometimes they know England’s English for a term so I often start there, but her tipped head in the like-that-is-any-better way. Looking around I lead to where some trash has blown against the school’s barbwire fence. “This is trash—it’s what we throw out.” I then give the analogy of a lollipop and how we eat the top and throw out the stick. (Side note: Lollipops are known as “lake-a-lake-as” and cost 50 Ethiopian cents or 2.5 pennies.)

       I know she understands when her face falls, but I’m not sure why. She yelled back to the other, using the Tigrigna word. The exchange a brief discussion. Disgust lined her voice. Anger tainted the response.

       I asked her where she heard this word. Thinking maybe it was in another subject class. Students often come up to me for random words after teachers assume they know the vocabulary. She looks at the ground. The strong, slightly stubborn individual I know isn’t there for a minute or two until she looks up at me again.

       “Teacher Solomon called me trash. He said I didn’t need to be at school.” She whispered in English as she searched my face.

       “No,” I say seriously moving to keep my eyes locked on hers. “No.” I gave her a hug that she came into gratefully. “You are not trash. You are good. You are smart. You are beautiful.” I translated as best I can and she nervously laughed.

       “Thank you.” She nodded into my shoulder.  “Salam maalltee, Teacher,” she showed a small smile before running back to her post.

       My blue day didn’t seem so cloud free anymore. The mud didn’t cross my mind. I walked in a daze over the rock and grass. I turned back and look at the school compound. Tiny speaks of teal uniforms move around. From here, I don’t know if it’s because of change of classes or students are skipping. What I do know is that there are other girls who probably don’t know what trash means or do . . . and  are thinking that is what they are.

       This week I’ve been harassed. A teacher I once considered a close friend has started to call me “forengi” (foreigner) for an unknown reason instead of my name. Daily I am reminded by someone young or old that my white skin and long dark hair is an anomaly. I hear the snickers and comments by teenage boys as I twirl kids or walk by, but don’t really understand. I’m not strong. I have buttons that get pushed to breaking points. But I am strong enough to know when I just need to reevaluate and reassess myself. I know how to put on a mask and smile in a crowd, when I just want to be alone. I can text friends simply asking for an encouragement without explanation and have a message within seconds (depending on network connection). Maybe that’s what I’ve gained from growing up: a tough shell to other’s words.

       But that tough shell gets pierced when those brown eyes fill up with doubt. And I see my own 15 year old self in them. The self that escaped into journals and books to avoid high school drama. The self that just wanted to be good enough for some appreciation. The self that was shy and wouldn’t talk during lunch with the upperclassmen her best friend decided to join.

       These two girls are a dynamic duo. Their energy, spirit, uniqueness has got me thinking weekly, “These girls would love Younglife camp!” They may be small, but they are full of 15 year-isms. The best part is: They aren’t the only ones. My female students are a varied treasure chest of jewels. There are those who are the first to raise their hands, those who only write out responses, and those who sleep through class. Girls that are the top of the class and those who are the bottom.  The smiles, jokes, handshakes, rolling eyes that I get from girls makes me crave a Girl’s Club (goal for next year). There are 1,043 of them at my school that I don’t have in class.

       Trash isn’t the only word I heard girls referred to today. Another teacher wanted me to talk to a student next to him who “has no brain,” is “stupid,” and “definitely has something wrong.” I’m not sure how her English is, but her comprehension was evident in her downcast, rejected stance and glance. When I commented that a majority of the students admitted into the campus after first period were females, the teacher next to me made a joke about domestic violence and that they are late because of chores. I didn’t laugh.

       How many other names are students getting labeled as which I don’t know or hear? How many understand and have that name pop up in their head when they start to think otherwise? Where else are labels and demeaning titles being hung like a crown of thorns on these princesses’ heads? Do they hear them as often as I hear the ones being called out to me? Who is telling them the truth?

       Words have power…no matter the language. Who speaks them gives them weight. Tone determines the mass of that weight. Repetition helps the weight stick.  Weight has consequences in terms of self-esteem, self-value, and confidence. It’s a matter of factors whether the consequences are positive or negative. Whether the power changes an individual for better or worse. What are your words really saying?

       Trash, according to the dictionary.com app, is either a noun or a verb. As a noun it is “1. anything worthless, useless, or discarded; rubbish 2.foolish or pointless ideas, talk, or writing; nonsense 3. a worthless or disreputable person 4. such persons collectively 5. literary or artistic material of poor or inferior quality 6. broken or torn bits, as twigs, splinters, rags or the like 7. something that is broken or lopped off from anything in preparing it for use 8. the refuse of sugar cane after juice has been expressed.” As a verb, it is “1. Slang to destroy, damage, or vandalize, as in anger or protest 2. to condemn, dismiss, or criticize as worthless. 3. to free from outer leaves of (a growing sugar cane plant) 4. to free from superfluous twigs or branches.” Are those the words you want your daughter, granddaughter, niece, mom or student to hear and believe as true? As a teacher, parent, friend, human do you want to be the reason someone feels broken, discarded, or worthless? What do you want to hear people say to you? I’m guessing all are craving the same thing.

       I have a new challenge for myself that I want to encourage others to take part in. Wherever you are in the world, fulfilling whatever occupation at any time of the day/night, give meaningful compliments. Tell the positive truth that you really want to them to know. People know when you lie so be honest. Repeatedly. Be blunt and say no to lies you see them starting to believe. Don’t just do it to the people you know, or those who are the best. Tell the person serving you coffee who might be having to pull an extra shift. Tell the person at church you don’t usually talk to who might be there just for the routine. Tell the girls. Tell the boys. Tell them definitions if you need to.

[Side note: Beyonce’s “Run the World (Girls),” Bruno Mars’ “Just the Way You Are,” One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful,” and the documentary “Girl Rising” are all great things to look into if you have great internet connection. They also make for great songs to play for English Day at school!]

Imagining Yogurt: Yuck? or Yum? (Alternative Title: 6 Months, 6 Lessons)

I just ate yogurt.

Reread that again to try to find the significance. 

I just ate yogurt.

Did you? In case you didn’t here you go again: I just ate yogurt.

Maybe some context will help. I am sitting in my 10 foot by 15 foot room, with only the little window above the door open, in the Northwest Tigray region of Ethiopia during hot season. It is also Lent. The one outlet goes to a power strip that has my computer charger, phone charger and single burner stove plugged in. Power is working, though water is out. 

So, what is so interesting to write a blog about eating yogurt? If you were in my classroom, I would pause and wait for some brave soul to answer. However, seeing as I don’t know who, when, where this blog is being read, I suppose I shall just have to explain and you can check your own understanding.

As I tell my students, the first thing to do is identify the words. “I” is the singular pronoun for one’s self. “Just” implies recently finished. “Ate” is the past tense of to eat or consume food. “Yogurt”…. Is it the extra fruity, bursting with sugar Danables’ or the thick, almost sour Greek yogurt? Here yogurt is not what you picture. Two days ago when a teacher gave me a gift, it was a liter of milk. After being divided into an old extra-crunchy peanut butter container and a Tupperware, it’s sat on my kitchen table for two days. It is what we refer to as yogurt. As one may add berries or honey to Greek yogurt, I add a little bit of salt to this. Strangely enough, it tastes remarkably like the offspring from Greek yogurt and cottage cheese parents.

When I showed my students American peanut butter their noses scrunched up in utter disgust. Did you do the same thing when hearing about Ethiopian yogurt? As of Friday 20 March 2015 I have been a sworn in Peace Corps Volunteer for 6 months. In these six months of Selekleka, I have been taught many lessons that I would have scrunched up my nose at if the context was different. However, what I am learning here is just as applicable in downtown Spokane, little ol’ Mill City, or wherever else God calls His children to serve. So, here are six lessons Selekleka is teaching me:

1. Faith Influences Life

Who picked up the details of the closed door and window even though it is hot season in the context above? Or the added detail that it’s Lent? Why are these important?

         For Lent Orthodox Christians are vegans as part of their fast.  No eggs, milk, meat. Nothing from animals. I wear a cross around my neck. People know that I am Christian. However, distinguishing the parts of the Christian body are like teaching Grey’s anatomy to a preschoolar – confusing, leading to confusion, not really worth the division. Last Saturday I was pulled away from going to get eggs by my students, as “those are only for the Muslims.” These are the same good-hearted girls who informed me on Friday, that licking fingers is a strictly non-Christian behavior. Religion is life.

         My impression of fasting in the States (and someone please comment below if I am way off base) is that it’s done by some religious people at certain times of the year. During college, my friends and I would give up something we craved or used a lot, to focus on God. (One year I gave up any drink besides water. Another was Facebook.) But that would be only a fraction of the fasting, that majority of Christians do here. Every Wednesday and Friday there is the fast of all animal products. Butchers close down. Not only do people not eat animal products during Lent, they also don’t eat until 9 o’clock in the morning. As my darling girls explained, it is so they focus on God all morning. While I notice the lack of energy in early morning classes, I am impressed at the dedication.

         The few times I have bought eggs on a fasting days, the sideways looks I got was slightly unnerving. I see how uncomfortable restaurant owners shift when a site mate asks for meat and they don’t have it. It might be different in bigger cities where you can go anywhere and people don’t know details about you, but I really don’t mind just going without for awhile. Sure, I would love to have meat (or pork which is against every religion here), but it has got me thinking about what I do to incorporate my faith into my life.

         I closed my window and doors because I didn’t want anyone in my compound seeing me. I’m not embarrassed as I recognize the difference in religious customs, but I don’t want to tempt them or create a barrier.  I didn’t buy the milk: it was given to me by a Muslim friend, who is completely free from the sideways glances of breaking the fast. I’m not saying that I completely agree with the rules of fasting nor do I follow the fast completely (nutella usually breaks this for me), but I am trying to find ways to spend more conscious time focusing on God.

2. Silver Linings in Mud Puddles

When I first applied to Peace Corps I rolled my eyes at their motto “the hardest job you’ll ever love.” How could you love something that is hard? Why would people swear an oath to hardship? Six months is more than enough time to realize how hard “hard” can be. It can break people, cause cravings for plane tickets home, and discourage those who stay. While I am here, I can’t think that thought without also realizing all the people that are no longer here.

Often when things start piling up, the aches start forming, the buttons reemerging to get pushed, and unexpected curve balls making one strike out, it often feels like swimming in a mud puddle. Completely dirty and not really making any progress. These kind of days are not confined within in third world country borders. I’m sure you have those days when you just need a Starbucks, maybe with an extra shot, or a nap. Hard days are part of life.  But as my friend Kelsey mentioned last week in a text “We are getting really good at finding the faint silver linings.”

         It’s the twirlings, saved candy canes in a cup of cocoa, a kid calling you by name, fresh hot injera, smell of sweet rain, a student’s smile, that pushes down the homesickness, unknown physical illness, frustrations, and general overwhelm-ness. It’s realizing that these hardships will end when the plane ticket comes in 18 months, having a fresh pot of tea when the water is being rationed, an early bed time when the power goes out and a child’s dark hand in yours forgetting all differences and barriers -- those rim the mud puddle in light and goodness.

         Statistically, all days cannot be hard. Eventually there will be a good one. It’s just finding ways to get through the bad that makes all the difference. It’s remembering the pure joy of stomping in puddles, instead of sinking in it.

3. Family goes beyond blood

         June 28, 2015: I woke up, ate some scrambled eggs and cinnamon rolls with grandparents, parents, Thomas and Heather, my college roommate. After hugging the youngest and oldest of that group, I got into a van for the longest car ride of my life, the hour or so to the Spokane Airport. I rushed through security so that I wouldn’t have to cry, but did later anyways. It was the day I said goodbye to those closest, dearest, and blood related family (Philip had his goodbye the night before) for 27 months (3 months training and 24 months of sworn in service). 27 months. More months than my age. 823 days without being a text away from those that always loved me. It’s no surprise that part of Peace Corps’ application asks how are you prepared to be gone for this long. You can’t be prepared for it.

         If you asked me what my landlady’s name is, I have no idea. I call her “Mama.” That is what she introduced herself as and what the community calls her. While walking back from one of my site mate’s house I had one child per finger, others grabbing onto my bag and shirt as we ran, skipped, laughed to my house. Walking home Wednesday, I had a cloister of grade 5 girls run after me to walk me home, calling me sister when they left. Wherever I go in town, people call out to me, inviting me to play foos ball, drink coffee or just hang out. I’m given a liter of milk, by someone who knows I am sick and need protein. This community is my family.

         Hospitality radiates from people here like heat off concrete. It’s addicting, overwhelming, wonderful. I really have no idea which kids belongs to whom and which ones are siblings as they play and being watched by everyone. They know how to care, look out for each other, and give without asking for anything in return. They welcome me in treating me like a sister, not as a foreign guest.

4. Students are Teachers, Teachers are Students

While recently Facebook skyping with a college friend (where just sound came through so it was more like a glorified free phone call), she asked me “So, tell me about your students?” My mind whirled as it tries to untangle thoughts that resemble a pile of spaghetti. My 210 big brown-eyed students fill my day whether or not I have them in class. They are there in the back of my mind as I am planning lessons, begging to start at the basic for anything and work up. They are there to walk to school with and expecting me to know all their grades off the top of my head at any given time. But most importantly, they are there. Teaching me, reminding me, pushing me to do better than I thought I ever could be.

         This week I realized my cluelessness. I assumed I knew everything. Sure I am morning shift so my first period class is low and by 6th period they are ready to go home and eat. However, walking with students I was reminded how little I do know. One of my top students, while walking with me to school, shared that he lives in Selekleka with his 10th grade brother, but that he misses his parents who live in a village he can only go see (sometimes) on the weekends if he can walk two hours one way to see them. Another student said good-bye to me after we walked the driveway into school with a smile. Moments before he confessed he has 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) to go till home. The next morning he was there before the gates opened. Students show pleasure in getting barely above a 50% (passing score) in something they’ve been expected to get worse in. They call out to me, even if I am with other teachers, to talk to. I’ve been invited to play volleyball with some and coffee with others. They quickly volunteer Tigrigna words when I need clarification and repeat it through smiles when I fail horribly.

         They are teaching me what patience is about and how to set goals despite what others tell them. They teach me how the school system has prepared or failed them and what I need to do to help them. I’ve been told only 25% of secondary students will go to preparatory, yet a higher percentage of my students tell me they are going to go to University.  They teach me to smile and keep coming to learn.  There are students that skip other classes, don’t speak English, but still show up to my class everyday.

         The other day a teacher and I were discussing students skipping classes and what the punishment should be. I asked him: “When you were a student did you skip classes?” he asked me to translate it or to write it down. I went for option #2. Still the grammar structure of the question threw him. Other teachers came over and discussed it. Finally the meaning was comprehended, and our conversation continued with a brief halftime. While walking to our  classes I responded to one of his questions with “Yep.” He laughed and asked what that meant and then if there were other variations of “yes” in the English language.

         While he is not an English teacher, he does have a very high proficiency for the language. He enjoys teaching me new Tigrigna words and phrases, but isn’t shy to speak up when he doesn’t know. He reminds me that teachers are always supposed to be learning too. Not just from their students, but about their own strengths and weaknesses. I love when I asked teachers what topic they are teaching today and they explain their whole lesson to me. While I only enjoyed Biology in high school (mostly because of the teacher and not the subject matter), going through it again has been so interesting and fun (same with history, math, PE, and English). There is so much to learn, why not learn it from people who are passionate about it?

         Teachers laugh at me when I walk home with students instead of paying 2 birr for a ride back to town in a three wheeled bajaj. They don’t realize that that is the time I learn the most. I learn which teachers are liked, what students’ ambitions are, and what a day looks like to them. Students know that I put on a white coat and have the respect of teacher. They don’t come up and talk to me at the staff lounge. They know that I am a teacher.

5. Normal is Relative

What did you see today? What did you do? Where did you go and how did you get there? Who did you interact with? What was the intention of the interaction?

         I saw camels, tan and white speckled sheep and chickens crossing the road. I used a hole in the ground for a toilet. I didn’t use silverware. I taught with a blackboard and used chalk that dried out my hands. I walked through cut teff fields, around corn, and over dried riverbeds to school in my Chaco shoes. I ate yogurt that some consider just to be spoiled milk. I crammed on a bus to get to Axum and then another to get to Adwa where the windows weren’t opened. I shook hands with more people than I know names. I waved and greeted people I see everyday. I ask about families and jobs. I hung out with people just to pass the time. I take malaria medicine. I walk on the left side of the road. I wear a skirt that hasn’t been able to be washed in weeks and I brush strands of hair that are coated in dust and rain water.

         Normal is relative. I am often asked to compare America and Ethiopia. What is better? What is strange? One student this week asked what animals I have eaten, and was shocked when I said that I’ve had rabbit and pig. It’s hard to imagine if all pig products were banned in America. That would take out a staple for many people. Or if dishwashers and washing machines weren’t able to work. Here though, it’s normal.

         As I’ve mentioned in other blogs, differences don’t make one thing better than the other. They are just different. The norms here are good. The norms in America are good. The norms in Singapore are good. I’ve learned not to judge while comparing. Not to jump to conclusions about something without finding out the story behind the custom. To take the time to ask why respectfully and really listen to the answer.

6. Safety Nets

         Have you heard Demi Lovato’s “Gift of a Friend”? Take a reading break, be thankful for your internet connection and youtube this! Don’t think of it as teen pop or anti-whatever-genre-you-like, just listen to the lyrics. “Sometimes you think you’ll be fine by yourself. Cuz a dream is a wish that you make all alone. It’s easy to feel like you don’t need help, but it’s harder to walk on your own.” I came to Peace Corps/Selekleka thinking that I had made this my life dream and I was going to do it on my own. You, whoever and wherever you are, are proving this wrong.

         “Do not be afraid” is written hundreds of times throughout the Bible, probably because people face fears all the time. Maybe not scared of the dark fears, but uncertainty, doubt, self-denial, lack of purpose, waste of time are all troubles that I have faced (and will continue to). While the Bible and God are my help, the letters, packages, facebook messages, random texts, running out of phone birr calls that reminds me I am surrounded by love even when I feel completely alone.

         “Someone who knows when you’re lost and you’re scared. There through the highs and the lows. Someone to count on. Someone who cares besides you where ever you go.” I thought this would apply to only to friends who have known me the longest. Time cannot dictate the depth of friendship. The people I have known for a not quite 9 months are still some of those who know when I am putting on fake “I’m fine” masks. They are there calling me to make sure I am okay, celebrating the highs, supporting me in the lows and everywhere in between. They share water so I can feel clean if for a brief moment.

         And there are those who have known me my whole life that never cease to amaze me with their support and encouragement in the brief Facebook messages and phone calls. There are those who came into my life pre-Peace Corps and remind me that I didn’t just leave their thoughts because I left their country. There are those I have never met in person, but still send me good wishes, and candy to start an international friendship.

         “And when your hope crashes down shattering all around you feel alone…. There’s no signs pointing you home. You’re not alone.” In the Hunger Games, President Snow has a brilliant one-line spark of genius when he states: “Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.” Above all, you give me hope. You remind me why I am doing what I am doing. That I am not alone, forgotten or being thrown out like last year’s fashion as you move on in your lives. You give me hope of tea/coffee dates, slumber parties, devouring delicious food that range from sour gummy worms to lasagna, apartment hunting, co-teaching, visiting, wa-hoo-ing off the end of dock, and so much more. Thank you. 

         It’s my friends and family that get me through every other lesson. They---you, are my safety net, my comfort, my inspiration to be better.  I want to be like you for my students, other friends, strangers to help spread a positive impression of humans (American or otherwise). 

I am a quarter of the way done with my Peace Corps Ethiopia adventure. 1/4 of the way on the journey learning about myself, others, and life. 1/4 through an oath I vowed to keep. 1/4 of what was once unknown. If I keep up the same rate I’ve only met 1/4 of the people I could meet, had 1/4 of the diarrhea, headaches, mosquito bites I will endure through this all and written 1/4 of my blogs that my dear mother posts for me. I don’t know what the next 3/4 much less the next 1/18 of this trip will hold, but I am completely done with my yogurt.

A Princess. Thursday, 19 March 2015

8:37 p.m.

Her head nestles under my chin, scratching ever so affectionately. Her fingers twirl the tattered tulle as the conversation flutters around her. She can’t contain the enormous yawn that causes her head to tip back into my left shoulder and her long lashed eyes to flutter. The rocking starts to become her own rhythm. She’s a princess.

When she entered the one room house by the back door, she was invisible. The older girls were playing games and doing homework. The teachers were talking rapidly in Tigrigna. She caught my eyes as if pleading to find a place to sit in the crowded room. She’d already been rejected to share a stool with a girl playing catch with me. I offered her my lap. She accepted with a smile.

With a scab on her nose from fighting a dragon earlier, her soft laughter crackled like pure happiness. She put her two small hands in two of my fingers to play catch and pass. When the soft, deflating ball bonked her in the head she giggled and looked at me, her eyes saying, “I don’t know what happened, but that was fun.” When the other girl left, she continued to study the ball and wanted to toss it to an invisible partner across the room. When I rubbed the ball on her dust-covered toes, she scrunched up her legs laughing. She stretched for the ball that I kept just out of reach, expectantly even when she had to tip backwards trusting in my arms to support her.

There are gaps in the seams of her faded pink dress. Damp and dirt run down trying to steal her beauty. A lone, surviving silver bedazzle hangs on by threads like the last jewel in a broken, cast-aside tiara. A wooden cross hangs around her neck on a thin black thread. Her heavenly father is a King. She is a princess.

Frances Hodgson Burnett captivates this beautifully in a passage from one of my favorite books. “I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags. Even if they aren’t pretty or smart or young. They’re still princesses. All of us. Didn’t your father ever tell you that? Didn’t he?”

The girl on my lap may never be told that she is a princess. She may never know that she is priceless, beautiful, and worthy of respect. She will probably spend her whole life in a culture that too often under appreciates, disrespects and ignores females of all ages. Her father may wish she was a boy. But that doesn’t change who she is. She is a princess.

I can only whisper encouragement to so many girls for them to grasp the truth of these words. Even if every female told every other female, there is something special and significant about a father, a male, truly respecting and standing up for the princesses. It’s the father putting the daughter on his lap and reading her a story. The boy who stops the jokes from his friends that may prevent him from being “cool” in their eyes, but “way cool” in hers.

Dirt, grim, circumstances may try to blot out the princess’s glory, but nothing can change her heart without her consent. Build that heart up strong and proud. Teach her to dream like Cinderella, Rapunzel and Arial, value character like Jasmine and Belle, make friends like Snow White, and work hard towards goals like Tatiana.

Never let her forget that she is a princess.

Things I Actually Did Learn in High School

         Freshmen year I had Greek/Latin roots and read and watched Romeo and Juliet. Sophomore year was full of scrapbooking, learning to love my German (exchange student) sister and playing swing for the JV and varsity basketball team. My junior year I took horticulture and joined FFA to compete in seemingly bizarre competitions, I dislocated my knee, and traveled to Europe. Senior year I chose AP English instead math, considered quitting a team for the first time in my life, was accepted into all 3 of the universities I applied to and was asked out (over Facebook) and denied the guy I'd had a crush on for six years. All four years I sat in the hallways at lunchtime with friends, wore toe socks and Crocs and rocked spirit days!

      So what does this have to do with the now? High school started nine school years ago. Since then I've changed attitude, appearance, and thoughts while learning so much more. Most of my high school teachers are no longer at the high school I graduated from. My high school has actually changed into a jr/sr high with 7th and 8th graders roaming the halls (my primary school has closed down, but that is another topic). So, why is it that today (4 years and 7 months after I graduated) lessons I learned in high school are coming to mind?

      Today I had permagarden training. The goal of this project is to assist mothers to provide two meals per day for their children at zero cost and minimum time management. Mekelle, the regional capital of Tigray, gets 1200- 1500 millimeters of rain per year. London gets 700. However, Mekelle gets all of it in two months, so there are also droughts throughout the year, unlike continuous lush, green, gray London. Permagarden is about utilizing the water that does come for the remainder of the year. I could tell you all about the process, but what's needed to know for the relevance of this blog is that today I spent lots of time in compost and soil.

      As my instructor held a clump of soil and added water, I had a major flashback to junior year when I joined FFA, had an entire horticulture class to myself, and did really well in soils' competition. This instructor did what my high school teacher did in a hole out by the t-ball field: squeeze the soil to see if it would stick together in order to determine the structure of the soil. He ground it up just like my friends and I did at the Oregon Gardens to see if it had silt or sand in it. Like horticulture class, we made and learned about compost that the soil needs.

      You know when something happens and you think, "Wow! That's really cool for them, but what about me?" That feeling borders between jealousy and self doubt. Freshmen year it came because my best friend was obviously better than me at English. Sophomore year it revolved around basketball. Others were getting tons of playing time and I was last post. I only got to play varsity if others were hurt or we were ahead by 30. Senior year it was being the only starter not to be mentioned in any newspaper at state for any of the three games. I learned that there is always someone better than me. But that is okay.

      I read about Peace Corps volunteers doing remarkable projects all over the world, yet I struggle to get support. I am compared constantly to my site mates on every topic from weight to language skills. Friends get to go home on travel and I have a job that keeps me grounded at site for the school year. On conversations about pop culture I am completely lost. Despite of the differences, I have to remember to focus on the positive. In high school it was focusing on algebraic skills or the ability to play with teammates of all levels and filling the need for defense even if it didn't make the papers (no one brags about how many block outs you do in a game). Here it is taking joy in the small victories, continuing speaking in Tigrigna, remembering moms thanking me for playing with their kids, being confident in quoting any Disney movie and being thankful for my own uniqueness-es.

      After winning state in basketball and taking the two week break between sports, I started my final season of softball with one other senior, a junior, a handful of sophomores and a mob of freshmen. While my basketball coaches were remarkable (I still admire them today), this softball coach was slightly sub-par. I had battled through the season before with her, but had been under the impression there would be a new coach. Turns out no one else really wanted to coach softball. While she had many "interesting" tactics, one of which was always focusing three years down the road. For this reason she made two freshmen captains, although the other upperclassmen and I had been playing every season our whole lives. For this and other disrespectful situations, I considered quitting softball. It's the second time in my whole life my mom told me I could quit something (first being piano when I chose basketball over piano one summer). I may have quit if not so many of the freshmen were my friends and asked me to stay. I stayed for them.

      Since coming there have been 15 members of my cohort who have quit Peace Corps Ethiopia either on their own accord or for medical reasons. I have dealt with harassment that doesn't happen to me in the states (nothing really bad has happened, but obnoxious harassment is still obnoxious). I've disagreed with site mates. Frustrations are a weekly occurrence with the school year getting shorter with holidays, but the workload is the same as the first semester which didn't have breaks. But I'm not going to quit. I didn't give up when I dislocated my knee junior year. I came back to finish that season okay, and the next season even stronger. I learned to work through differences with a wonderful individual who later became my sister my sophomore year. I didn't give up on softball, but stayed to play the most ridiculous season ever (I shifted positions regularly and we never won) with some fun girls. Days might be rough, but I'm not going to cop out.

      One week before high school ended and two weeks before graduation, I was asked out over Facebook by one of my closest guy friends. We'd both been accepted to Oregon schools, but I was pretty set on going out of state, so, although I'd had that middle school/high school crush thing on him forever, I held off saying yes. That was the one and only time I was asked out.

      I live in a society now where women are required to date and marry young. Most of the time they don't have much say on the matter. They are constantly asked for an escort wherever they go. They are belittled by men, young and old, about their looks and dreams. Many claim to ignore the harassment and irritation they encounter, but the harsh words plant seeds of doubts and change their smiles. A majority of girls don't get to go to secondary school, fewer to preparatory and even fewer to college. They are often seen for their bodies and not their hearts.

      Saying no at the time was hard and something I contemplated trying to reverse for a little while after the time. Although my friend would have treated me differently than the cultural stereotypes I am in now, I am glad that I said no. I saw plenty of high school relationships develop to some of my dearest friends. Some continued on long after and others crumbled. From them and the infamous Romeo and Juliet I learned to keep things all in perspective, have open conversations and not to just jump into a relationship, if a broken heart was probably going to happen.  I taught myself to save my heart, to not give up on my dreams for a guy (even a really great guy), and learn to value being is single. Sure, dating is great and I hope that is in my future, but I love talking to girls about being strong and doing what you want: Dreaming dreams is hard when people doubt, but working hard towards them starts with the dream; Standing up to the men who harass and letting them know it's not right; That there is option of doing more than dropping out of school to be a mom; That their heart doesn't belong to their fathers to dictate who they love, but to themselves to give to whomever they choose.

      I remember the majority of my high school subjects and who taught them. Although I would now probably fail a Mr. Miller AP Writing test on a book I read 5 years ago, and I’d still get completely confused with sine, cosine, and tangent, I would do much better in food prep. I guess there really is more than just subjects and facts taught during high school that aren't accounted for in a g.p.a number on a transcript sent to colleges. Time has passed. Life is not the same as high school, but the lesson learned then can still be applied long after the diploma holder is presented and the hat is tossed.