I have so much to say but I'm not sure I could put it into words that would successfully complete the journey from my mushy brain to my shaky finger tips. I wasn't planning on ever having a "Part 2." I planned on an 11 day vacation in the 9th month of my service. Instead, I left my home for about 8 weeks. Home? What's home?
“You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.”
― Miriam Adeney
June 14, 2018
I'm sitting in the airport. The same one I sat in almost one year ago to leave the first time, but it couldn’t feel more different now. I have people, whole families that love me on both sides of the planet. I have two bedrooms, thousands of miles apart. I am welcomed at countless dinner tables and patio chairs, yet I couldn’t feel more lost or, most of all, homeless. So I'm back on a plane to search for a feeling and chase a dream. It is a wonderful yet painful experience to have a heart so full yet stretched so, so thin, 8,671 miles to be exact.
So, 8 weeks is a long time to be home… or be away from home…? It’s a long time to be so unsure of and have no control over what comes next. Limbo, as I like to refer to it. With Peace Corps as the facilitator, I've spent many, many months of the past few years in limbo. And the answer to most questions during those times is, "I don't know." Not "I don't know," because I don’t want to tell you, but because I truly don’t know. I don’t know when I'm leaving. I don’t know if I'm staying. I don’t know what I'm hoping for either. That is one real thing I've learned. When Peace Corps used the word, "flexible," years ago, I can say now that I had absolutely no knowledge of what that word actually means. To be flexible with coming or going, and staying or leaving, in regards to home…. And to know and understand that hoping worrying for either end is, to be frank, useless. To reach a place in your mind where either and any option will be okay for you. On small scales this is simpler; having flexible eating habits, for example comes more easily. Sure, I won't be happy about eating my 536th bowl of rice this year but hey, I'm flexible. This is the definition of flexibility I expected when I signed my name in the little box 2 years ago.
The universe throws you for loops, and through hoops, under falling rocks, and over oceans. "It doesn’t get any easier along the way, it just gets different." I had been looking forward to my April vacation to the US for about 8 months. At the beginning of September, not even 2 months into my service, my nephew Camden Jorge was born and it broke my heart to miss out. I was determined to visit home the first chance I had so I could meet this gentle bundle of joy before he took his first steps. And my niece too; we had countdowns and plans far in advance to bake a cake and have a sleepover. I had 11 days home and every moment was precious. That was the plan. 11 days, 1 family party, 1 sleepover, a trip to Boston, and a lot of pizza and buffalo chicken. I had been dreaming about the damn buffalo chicken… I got to have it many, many more times than I had expected, because instead of a short 11 days, I was home for 8 weeks: 2 weeks of vacation and 6 weeks of medical evacuation….
August 17, 2018
To cut to the point: I was knocked to the ground and stepped on by an elephant. Yup, you read correctly, an elephant. I was traveling alone to a sanctuary and reservation in Modulkiri, a province in northeast Cambodia, for what I hoped would be a peaceful and adventurous retreat before I went back to the states. There were 9, lucky for me, very kind helpful people on our tour and we had just taken a crazy ride in the back of a pick-up into the jungle and met the first two elephants of the five we would see that day. My fear and apprehension in the face of the gentle beasts had worn off in time to meet Lucky, a 72 year old female who likes to live alone across the river from the others. I was the last one to join the tour group when we found her thanks to a young woman dressed more for a picturesque summer pool party than a trek in the Cambodian jungle. Needless to say, she had a little trouble keeping up in her Forever 21 flip-flops and I was stuck behind her for the walk. By the time I arrived, Mr. Tree, the guide and owner of the sanctuary, had already finished his introduction to Lucky, which apparently was very important to hear as this elephant is especially particular about how she is fed. I asked a young French woman who I had spoken with earlier to take a few pictures as I fed Lucky.
We were in a tight space surrounded by tall grass; the 9 of us just fitting into the nooks and crannies of the paths created by the elephants and their trainers. I stood about a foot from Lucky as I fed her and touched her truck. In the next moment, she turned towards me and rammed the strongest part of her against my chest and neck. My head whipped backwards and I fell to the ground away from her but my lower extremities were still in her reach. The knock to the ground scared me but didn’t hurt just yet. It was the excruciating pain I immediately felt in my right foot. As I shot up, pushing the branches of the bush I fell into out of my way, my thoughts were racing and I expected a bag of bones for a foot. Luckily, (no pun intended) my foot was still in the shape of a foot. From what I could see, my first and fourth toenails had bent all the way back, and my third toe was unmistakably dislocated. I have never had any broken bones before but some sort of instinct kicked in and I fixed what I could; maybe thinking it would help the pain subside. I pushed my toenails back down and popped my dislocated toe back into place. I cringe thinking about it now, even after telling the story hundreds of times. Mr. Tree sat down in front of me and asked if I was okay. "This has happened to four girls before you," he said. Searching for some comic relief, I responded, "Oh, you don’t put that on your website do you?" He didn’t think the comment was so funny. I could tell from his wide-eyed worried face, probably thinking what would happen if I was the next review on TripAdvisor. I winced as he tried to pull all my toes into the right place, just like you do when you might be trying to crack your knuckles. I had to get up and out of the bush and get to some place of comfort. An older Canadian man traveling with his wife helped me to a small clearing. I grabbed my makeshift med kit, which I would later learn, didn’t contain even half of what I needed to care for an actual injury, from my backpack and popped three Peace Corps issued Ibuprofens. My fellow tourists gave me clean wipes, elevated my foot with their backpacks, and sat by me while I processed the trauma. The Canadian woman sat by me and rubbed my shoulders, breathed with me, and talked me through my fits of sobbing, laughing, and complete and utter disbelief. "What the actual fuck?!" I kept repeating. “How could this happen? How did I just get attacked by an elephant?” I didn’t know it then but, for the next two months family, friends, and strangers would try to answer these hypothetical questions with such wise words, “Well, at least it’s a good story.” I can’t count how many times I’ve heard that one. I sat on a log and waited for a truck from in town to deliver the stretcher I would involuntarily be carried out of the jungle on. Usually, when I'm hurt, I try to act tough, I don’t ask for help, I hold back the tears and carry on. This time, I wanted to do all those things but absolutely could not. I tried to walk and crumbled in the pain and as we sat and waited the adrenaline and shock wore off and the pain only got worse. So, four Khmer men lifted me up and I was dubbed, "Queen of the Jungle."
We returned to the lodge perched above the jungle and the girl I had asked to take my picture helped tape my toes and as the rest of the tourists continued on with the planned excursions for the day, I sat looking out at the Cambodian canopy skyline all afternoon ruminating over my recent trauma and convincing myself the injury wasn't that bad. At least I had a great view. They don’t do anything for broken toes anyway, right? (wrong) In addition to a hammock for the night, the tour provides a traditional Khmer dinner and rice wine too. I didn’t want to miss out on any of it. I waited till the next morning, said good bye to my helpful, kind fellow adventurers, climbed up a big hill to reach the tuk-tuk and returned to the lodge in town. Cutting my peaceful adventure a few days short, I called PC explained the story and was delivered to the hospital in Phnom Penh, a 6 hour long car ride.
The doctors in Phnom Penh showed me my X-rays and the breaks, gave me a huge ugly boot, and 3 prescriptions. I couldn’t process how real my injury was, even if it was just broken toes. I would be spending my much treasured time at home in a big boot and on anti-biotics. I was devastated and, aside from the amazing PC Medical Officer, alone in Phnom Penh. I didn’t even tell my family at home. I didn’t want them to worry about me traveling home. And I mostly didn’t want to have to tell my story again and again before I had even processed it myself. I spent the next 3 days in a hotel room ordering delivery, binging netflix, soaking my swollen purple foot in ice cold water, and crying. It sounds dramatic, I know. It could have been much worse, I know.
I tried to mentally prepare myself for the next 25 hours of traveling, which is something I would, in a normal state, enjoy. Traveling alone gives me a sense of independence and maturity. I like to explore airports, drink bloody marys at whatever time I damn well please, and if I'm in the right mood, talk to some strangers. I had even considered leaving the airport during my layover in Dubai. But this time, I was dreading it; dressed like a bum with swollen, "I've been crying for days," eyes, lugging around bags much too heavy for broken toes, and stuck in a bulky plastic boot. I didn't want a bloody mary, I wanted a hug and my bed. I had to ask for bulkhead seating so I could elevate my foot during the flight and get up and walk often to avoid blood clots. I didn’t think about how hard this might be on a full 16 hour flight from Dubai to Boston sitting in a window seat next to a very nice, but very sleepy, couple.
So, I went home for vacation, arrived at the airport with a great story for the family and then did all the things as planned. I finally met my nephew, I had a sleepover with my niece, ate food I had been craving with the people I missed, and on the 8th day home had one little party so I could see my whole family before heading back. I saw a podiatrist the day after to make sure everything was healing correctly. It was healing... but nowhere close to where it needed to be for my main form of transportation to be a bicycle. The doctor said, "Your big toe is in 5 pieces...there is no way you are going back in 3 days. I'll see you in 3 weeks.” My jaw dropped, I hadn't expected this at all. When I was in Cambodia PC had already seen the x-rays and ruled I'd be just fine to come back. Turns out the expert podiatrist thought differently. I called PC. I’d be home for 6 more weeks.
An extended vacation, you say? Oh! How wonderful! More time to spend with family and friends, more buffalo chicken and quality beer, maybe even a beach day? Great point. The thing is, my partner planned to leave for Cambodia the following week. In the most romantic and wild gesture, he quit his jobs, tied up loose ends and we planned spend the next 3 months in the same country figuring out if we could make it work after spending the last year on opposite sides of the world trying to move on and failing at it quite miserably. It was a crazy thing to even think about. I had left for Cambodia almost a year ago and now he would be coming too; for us. We had been planning this for months now and we were so close, but the universe doesn’t care about your plans! So now, with flights booked already, he would leave for Cambodia and I'd be home. And we would be on opposite sides of the world, yet again all because of this elephant ironically named, Lucky. If I believed in signs like I say I do… I think this was one for the books. The universe with all its magic and power was pulling us apart once again. Writing this now, 4 months later, I still can't believe it all happened. I'm not sure Hollywood or even the infamous Lifetime could write this story.
Before I was assigned medical evacuation status, I thought of it quite romantically; that'd be nice… six weeks home. I could use an extended vacation from bucket showers and rice. And it was nice. It was great to have so much extra, unexpected time with family and friends. I was home for mother’s day and my brother’s college graduation (peek my big ugly boot in the pic). I even fit in a beach day. But I really didn’t expect all the mental and emotional challenges that come along with living in such a state of limbo for 6 weeks, in which I had no control of the outcome. Did I want to return to PC? Yes. Was I completely sure of that answer? No. But was I ready to quit? Hell no. Was it even in my hands? Nope. If I wasn’t healed in 6 weeks, I would be "medically separated," essentially ending my service unless I wanted to apply to return at a later date. If my foot didn’t heal correctly, I would need surgery, which would most definitely exceed my six week limit. The podiatrist explained where he would stick the three metal pins in my big toe if the 5 puzzle pieces weren't agreeing with each other. I can’t count how many times or how many people, relatives, friends, old bar customers, and strangers, I told my story to. But I can say that my answer to their follow up questions was usually, "I don’t know." I had no clue when I was going back. I had no clue even if I was going back. And while I tried to swim in this state of uncertain limbo, I felt that I really didn’t have a place at "home" anymore. My friends were busy with jobs, boyfriends, and moving on with new cars and apartments. And although time with my family was great, many times my mind reminded me that this is what I was missing out on as I struggled to teach English and drink a gallon of water a day to make up for all the sweating on the other side of the world. It had been years since I first decided I wanted to join PC, and I was facing the decision again, and it was harder than ever before. I didn’t expect anyone's life to stop while I went on my big adventure, but I also didn’t expect to feel so lost and out of place when I returned. I loved eating chips and salsa on my couch alone, it was something I had been looking forward to, but I never expected to feel so lonely doing it. Yoga had become my saving grace throughout the past year of ups and downs and with 3 broken toes I couldn't even do that. And other activities I would have found peace in, hiking mountains, dancing, walking through parks, were all impossible for me. I felt the universe was giving me a big middle finger. Self-pity, I know, but that’s how I felt. I had waited almost a year to spend time with my partner again and he was traveling Thailand and Myanmar while I sunk into the couch. For a few weeks I really had no idea how to deal with all of these emotions. They say you are never alone but had this ever happened to anyone else in the history of the world? This crazy, unbelievable story of mine truly started to weigh me down. And having to tell it over and over again only to get the same advice or laughs or looks from each and every person was draining. All of my plans were crumbling in front of me and I had no control over what would happen next.
A long six weeks and several doctor appointments and x-rays later, I received medical clearance just in time. Leaving the second time was much harder than the first. The excitement of the unknown was lost and I knew I was going back to a challenge, one that I wasn’t even sure I wanted to take on again. After three long flights and two treacherous and stressful layovers, one of which if I hadn't been flying the same airline, I would have missed my next flight, I arrived in Phnom Penh close to midnight on June 17th. Two of my closest friends here surprised me at the hotel with a bouquet of freshly picked flowers and a few beers. We stayed up late catching up on the balcony overlooking the city. And just like that, I was back. It is months later now and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. Just last week someone said, "So happy you came back." I had heard that so many times since I returned. This time, I finally replied, "Me too," without the guilt of lying. I am happy I came back. It was a strange transition. It still is. I returned towards the end of the school year with energy and motivation dying down on the parts of both students and teachers. I hadn’t spoken any Khmer in 8 weeks. I felt, and still feel, such a loss of fluency, and more emotionally, a loss of belonging. I went home to America and didn’t belong there. I came back to Cambodia and didn’t belong here either. It was a tough and painful and at times still is, but all in all, home is where you make it; it just takes a lot of effort and time.
My partner was here for my first five weeks back; we spent our weekends together as planned, finally on the same side of the planet and in the same country. It was wonderful. We visited some of the most beautiful spots in Cambodia. My family here, in addition to welcoming me back after 8 weeks, also made him feel at home as well. It was heartwarming to witness my two worlds meeting. He left at the beginning of August. School vacation began at the same time and now I'm left with a crazy amount of free time which I'm hoping to fill with productive and fulfilling activities. I’ve been getting back into yoga, reading some good books, and prepping some eager 12th graders for their exam. All in all, I guess I’m pretty lucky to be here considering I was attacked by a 6,000 pound beast. So begins part 2 of my service. I am left with the task of jumpstarting my heart and mind to be fully here; committed and happy.
In my free time at the health center, I help fold gauze with the midwives. Sometimes I listen to music or listen to the conversations around me. The white noise and meditative folding of gauze is where I settle my mind and find peace. Who would have thought. Mediation can be found in all forms. #pck11 #peacecorps #peacecorpscambodia #howiseepc
"The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others." The shirt says it all. #alphaphiomega #peacecorps #peacecorpscambodia #howiseepc #pck11
I haven't written in a while, not even a personal journal entry. Lots of noteworthy things have happened, things I probably should have written about so years from now when my time here is remembered as a short but remarkable chunk of time, I can recall the moments that made it so.
School started a month and a half ago and after two weeks of observing, I've now been teaching for one month. One of the most essential goals of Peace Corps is to create sustainable change. As a teacher, this not only means knowing your shit so you can successfully teach English including grammar, phonics, word use, vocabulary, comprehension, etc. but also passing skills like lesson planning and classroom management on to teachers that will be here much longer than my meager two years. In Cambodia, PC English Teachers work with Khmer English teachers, counterparts,, to ensure that this goal is reached; therefore, I am always working together with another teacher. This both eases and increases the challenges of teaching. There are many, many times where I don't have the Khmer vocabulary to explain English grammar or vocabulary. I also am completely and utterly unaware of the ins and outs of a Khmer classroom or school happenings. For these reasons, its great to have someone to have my back and work with me. However, there are just as many times during which I disagree with how my counterpart chooses to execute a lesson. And in some cases its difficult to coerce a counterpart into lesson planning, setting goals for students, and deviating from the confusing textbook which is, more often than not, far beyond students level of fluency. And even more frustrating is that, when the curriculum is followed, students are attempting to memorize words such as demand or develop when they have not even learned how to ask, "What is that?" or, "Where is the bathroom?" This is indicative of the styles and practices of the traditional classroom, not only here in Cambodia, but everywhere. The practice of the teacher at the front, the only one with a voice and the students in rows, with their pens, eyes, and ears. So lies the answer to the question, "Why did my student get an A on the National Exam in English but can hardly speak?" See, these kids can memorize till they are blue in the face, and many of them can name English grammar terms and rattle structure I've never though twice about. However, with most of them, their ability to speak is at a stand still after the initial, "Hello, What is your name? Where are you going." So when I stand in front of a class as they drill their vocabulary and copy the grammar forms into their notebook which, upon completion, is immediately closed and shoved into their desks or back packs, I try to hold back my sighs. For as a new second language learner, I understand the only way to learn and remember how to speak is to practice speaking, but also as a new comer to my community, school, and classroom, my ability to make change to the style of rote memorization is limited to sneaking in a question and answer series or a word map to warm up at the beginning of class. I tread slowly up stream. Against the afore mentioned traditional classroom setting which allows no space or time for student discussion or conversation, the Khmer classroom standard and climate of rote memorization, student shyness and inexperience with having a voice of their own in the classroom, some teachers unwillingness to lesson plan or deviate from the textbook, and of course underneath it all, the gender thing. So, as a tread I'll move around a pebble or two. I'll make little changes along the way and maybe one day my teachers won't be so apprehensive to let the students speak and the students will find confidence in their voices.
While I'm on the subject, I'll attempt to give you a little insight into the world of a Khmer school. My high school is made up of 5 long school house buildings each containing 5 or 6 large classrooms which house 40-60 students all day, one office, and a building called the library, but currently not used in our traditional sense of the word, "library." There's dozens of food stalls on opposite ends of a large court yard in the middle of the parallel classroom buildings which are a pale, sun bleached light yellow. Maybe like the walls of a non-gendered nursery. School runs from 7-11 and 1-5. Students go home for lunch, sometimes traveling 12k on a bicycle. Many of the girls are responsible for cooking for their families during this 2 hour break. A rusty inside rim of a tire hangs from a tree with a small wrench resting on it, this wonderful upcycle serves as the school bell and it is rung, or hit with the wrench rather, every hour signifying the beginning of the 2 hour blocked class, the beginning and end of the 15 minute mid class break and the end of a block. The students wear uniforms. With white or light blue button up shirts, the girls wear navy blue, black or gray skirts, and the boys, pants of the same color. The crisp uniform is coupled with a red and white cloth name tag pinned to their shirts. The teachers dress to impress; the men in freshly pressed button downs and slacks and the women in long Khmer skirts called sampots and pretty, delicate blouses. The students stay in one class and it’s the teachers that come and go. The students are responsible for keeping their classroom clean and tidy. They stand upon the arrival and entrance of the teacher. If you're not there before the teacher, you're late but there's not much consequence to this regardless. I asked my counterpart what I should do when a student is very late, he said "You could make them stand on one foot and sing a song.” I think I'll pass... In my short experience, students rarely are asked to hand things in. They have monthly exams which for all 12 subjects, seem to fall in the same week. In addition to the 6-8 hours they study per day, as assigned and required by the school, students often attend private lessons for about 25 cents an hour before and after school held by teachers who are looking to supplement their small income. I've met 12th graders who study from 6 am to 8pm with a two hour lunch break to travel the 12k on a pothole filled road home.
My school has 2,000 students so the energy is grand. And its even better now that, one month in, instead of just staring like I have 10 green heads, the students shout, "Hello Teacher!" Which lends it self to my 5 month reflection... Today is Saturday and I've been sitting in a hammock for the better part of the afternoon. This morning I met some 10th graders at school that want to practice English and later a few 12th graders will come over my house to do the same. Today marks 5 months in Cambodia so I will force myself to be reflective and ask the question my uncle always asks and I always dread for some reason, "What's been your biggest take away?" Two months of brutal training sprinkled with emotional and physical pain, new and wonderful friends, families, and homes, a roller coaster of feelings: emptiness and fullness, power and helplessness, over and underwhelmed, confidence, fear and doubt. I've never been away from home for longer than 3 or 4 months and even then, I was a 3 hour plane ride away. Now, I'm here on my maiden voyage and have yet to hit a fatal iceberg. (Please excuse the dramatic titanic reference.) I have to say, I'm pretty proud of myself... finally. I didn’t realize until I got here that this was a sacrifice, it was always just a big adventure far off in the distance. And until now, I accepted other people’s praise but brushed it off as unnecessary. I didn't really understand how and why they could be so proud... I just got on a plane and now I'm here and I wake up every day and do the thing. But now I'm here. 5 months in. I live with an incredible family of three that has shown me more care and patience that I could ever ask for. I taught my little sister and brother to make friendship bracelets and we sat all afternoon and each made one. Just the other night after dinner I told them I did ballet for 15 years and we ended up practicing P-k turns and first and second place around bowls of rice. We visited Kep, a province just south of here, ate grilled stingray, and collected shells on the beach. I speak freakin' (broken) Khmer when I could hardly get passed "Hola" in Spanish class. I teach 4-6 hours Monday through Friday at a high school in rural Cambodia and wear a traditional Khmer skirt to work each day. Students ask me when I have free time and for my phone number so they can practice their English. I've had moments of destiny at so many turns to reassure me that I am on the right path. I met a Cambodian-American deportee from Rhode Island, I found a Veteran Peace Corps Language Teacher hidden in the mountains. I am now a part of a family in which I have found so many similarities with my own. My bongsrij face timed with my mom in the US and they shared tears as their love for me and each other stretched across deep oceans. Every day is a challenge. The act of participating in the world that I am in and attempting to reach my goals as a PCV are challenges. But it’s also a challenge to find motivation to actually participate in this world to begin with, which is probably what I struggle with the most. It is all too easy to sit in my hammock all day. My house is a safe space. I do not have to struggle to understand a stranger's Khmer or work with a stubborn teacher. It’s easy to bury my head in a book for hours and pretend I'm not in bumfuck Cambodia. But I'm not too hard on myself. It’s a process. Everything is a process; long, short, big, and small. I could fight it or I could try push it along at a faster pace. Or I could enjoy it for what it is.
Thanks for making me the happiest Auntie for the past 11 months ❤️ He now has 8 🦷 and can crawl. Watching him grow everyday is nature at it’s best. His emotions are pure. His needs are unapologetic. He always reminds me to take it easy, be present, and play. #khmer #cambodia #kep #peacecorpscambodia #howiseepc #pck11 #peacecorps #cutebaby (at Kep, Cambodia) https://www.instagram.com/p/B1lqhQ_jgYB/?igshid=7p9ubk6pd7k0
