Packing!

My checked bag is packed! Now I'm going to go sit in the corner and hyperventilate a little.

Just So You Know...

Afri-Coat!

Afri-Candy!

Ameri-Cat.
Who's not invited? You're not invited.

A Sweet Sign

Growing up, I admired my mother’s mother. She was smart, funny, quirky, and always treated us kids like adults. I felt an affinity with her; she was someone I could be myself around. My memories of her are old and indistinct, but she glows in anecdotes. She refused to drive below five miles over the speed limit, so that no one would think that she was a slow old lady. She pulled my older sister into the basement to share a mug of Bailey’s with her. The last thing I did with her before she died was watch Reno 911, a terribly crass TV show about bumbling police officers. She loved it. There was a day when I was young that she and I went through an old trunk of hers, holding each memory in our hands, much as I am doing now. She always kept a tray of York peppermint patties on the table by her couch, and she handed them out to us like kisses, until we were stuffed with their sweetness. For years after she died I was unable, and unwilling, to eat these candies. 

My uncle is coming out soon. I am so excited; this is the relative whose Peace Corps adventure beget my own. I grew up hearing about his time in Nepal, and knew from a young age that I would follow in his footsteps. In a token of my admiration for him, I got him a small gift. And as a token of my own recent refusal to budget properly, part of that gift came from the dollar store. When I returned to my home and opened the bag, I found two peppermint patties at the bottom. I know I hadn’t bought them. I believe they are a gift, a reminder of my grandmothers continued presence in my life, regardless of what separates us. 

Sometimes things are difficult, and sometimes nothing works out quite right. But sometimes the universe gives us exactly what we need, exactly when we need it.

Address

"My Name" PCT
Peace Corps Ghana
P.O. Box 5796
Accra-North, Ghana
West Africa

Poop in a Hole

This is not mine, but it's pretty funny

The Beginning of Good Bye

I've officially told most of my young clients about leaving my work, and by extension them, for Peace Corps. I chose about ten that I am particularly close to (those that would notice my absence if I forgot to mention it), and took them aside. Beginning by explaining where Africa is, I told them I was leaving and going to work on making water cleaner for people there. Simpler tends to work better. If there were questions, I tried to be as open as possible, and finished by telling them that I love my work, and only something really big would pull me away from it.
The responses were a huge surprise. Clients I'd been fairly close to were fine with it, and one client particularly-one I'd almost not even worried about talking to- cried. The younger kids gave me side-hugs (a hug with the absolute least amount of body contact possible) and talked about their favorite memories with me. One client I'd been particularly excited about informing. She'd heard a coworker teasing me about the video "Poop in a Hole" (funny video), and been asking me for months when I was going to poop in a hole. This lead to more than one extremely awkward situation, when professional moments were interrupted with her checking to see whether I'd pooped in a hole lately. Her excitement was touching, and it was with more sadness and nostalgia than hopeful anticipation that I closed out my workday.
Leaving anything tends to lend rose colored glasses to it. People tend to fear change, and I am no different. Walking into any change, a job change, a housing change, starting a big project or saying goodbye, it's terrifying. We tend to hold on as much as we can, remembering the great things about our current situation, like our minds are making excuses for us to keep everything the same. Even the times that work has driven me crazy, the times I've wanted to quit, the moments when Peace Corps seemed far away and I almost did, they seem distant to me now. In this clarity, I know that my work has taught me countless things about patience, resilience (the kids and mine), and humor. I am excited to keep learning, but there will always be a place in my heart for the years I've spent there.

The Discomfort of Generosity; Or, How to say Thank You When You Really Really Mean It

It's been a challenge lately to manage the generosity of my fellows. People who I am close to have given to me for this trip, and I've found it difficult to accept. Perhaps it is an Americanism; everything that I've learned of Ghana suggests that giving, and graciously receiving, are a huge part of the culture. My friends give to me because they believe in what I am doing, but I feel almost as though I am pulling the wool over their eyes; don't they realize that this adventure is one of the most selfish things I've ever done?
Some things are easier to accept. I can welcome pneumonic tricks to remember the language, promises to remain friends, advice for international travel or cultural customs, and fold these like love notes into my pockets. It is the gifts of material, rather than sentimental, heft that are difficult. I respond to these like an ungrateful child; discomfort manifesting as a tepid thank you and brisk exit.
So, my generous cohort, my giving colleagues, my gracious friends and my wonderful family; Thank you. Thank you and thank you and thank you. It's only because of the strength I get from those I love that I am able to begin this experience. It's only with the love that I receive from you that I am able to set my sights high and know you are with me.
While I may not be able to properly express it in person, I am overwhelmed with your kindness.

New Years!

This past year has taught me so much. It has brought me friendships that I intend to keep forever, self knowledge, love, understanding, and even some challenges in order to hone my character. I hope that 2013 brings me a year as wonderful and fulfilling as 2012 has been.