The Field

I'm frozen in my thoughts while sitting in my car in the parking lot. I am considering a few square acres of asphalt and concrete. The little painted lines show us where to park, I suppose, to maximize parking space. Someone's small stroke of genius so many years ago.  


Ah, the land of Los Angeles where most have a car, few carpool, everyone complains about traffic and parking lots become hunting grounds while tempers flare and hand gestures are the preferred way to communicate. Concrete trails lead to bistro tables and an eatery, a furniture store, the proverbial nail salon and everything in between.


Although I see life before this oversized strip mall, others likely only see a few stores where one can easily pick up an over-priced cup of Starbucks Coffee or an imagined healthy Jamba Juice which is laden with hundreds of hidden calories. And, we wonder why we are broke and overweight. It’s all too easy. When did life change into a mecca of inconvenient convenience?


Knowing this is the final resting place of my four little friends, I ponder yesteryear and imagine the parking lot as it was: a dirt field with tumble weeds that will eventually be blown down our street through the fenceless neighborhoods which meet Hawthorne Boulevard. 


Just beyond the field, a few tumbleweeds are collected by mom and then, using silver spray paint and a few decorations, they are transformed into snowmen, Los Angeles style. I can smell the odor of trash burning in our backyard incinerator while the neighbors are hanging sweet smelling laundry. I feel the sense of innocent security enjoyed during the 1950s which pours into our nestled neighborhood of cookie cutter houses.


We lived in a typical tract house built after the war and during the baby boom. It was a small three bedroom, two bath house with a washing machine in the garage. Dad had a large family room built onto the back of the house. The large old brick fireplace with a thick wooden mantel held our Christmas Stockings.  A fresh tree was placed near the sliding glass door and the smell of pine needles permeated the air. 


When I’m in the area, I pass by the house. It is completely different and doubled in size now. I only recognize it because I remember the address. I wonder what life would have been like if we had stayed there and not moved to Thousand Oaks. Would my parents have been happier together?


Mom stayed home while dad worked. Every house in the neighborhood had children. One family had twelve children and ate dinner outside on a picnic table, but most families had a more manageable two or three children. There was always something to do because there were so many of us in the neighborhood. Baseball games, bike riding and tetherball were favorite pastimes. The dads would join us in neighborhood Kite Flying contests. I remember these days as carefree and family centered.


The homes were built close together. My friend Sally lived down the street and Linda lived next door her. Their bathroom windows were close and their secret call was “OllieOllieOx” in a high pitched singing voice. Hours were spent giggling and chatting on both sides of the two windows with bathroom doors securely locked. I was part of the not-so-secret meetings during sleep-overs.  Years later Linda took her life.


Mother warned me about the dangers of the vast amount of untouched land surrounding our little neighborhood. I clearly remember the little girl on the news who had fallen into the abandoned well. She lived in another state but this tragedy was national news.  Mom said there could be an abandoned well in this field as well. I heeded her warning and only went there once when there was a purpose. I went with her and she held my hand. I was likely only five or six years old and remember the sadness I felt that day. If I had listened to her about another warning we wouldn’t be out in this dangerous field carrying a shoe box, a cross and a shovel. At least that’s how I felt at the time.


Just two weeks before we headed out to that field, I went into the garage with mom to help her with the laundry. Actually, more than likely it was to ‘watch’ her do the laundry. We heard some squeaking noises coming from a corner inside the garage and upon investigation, hidden from view, were four kittens. The mother was noticeably absent. 


 I was a magnet to the kittens and mom had to drag me away from them. “Leave them alone, Karen. Don’t handle them too much or they will die.” But I couldn’t help myself and didn’t want to believe that they would die because I loved them. I picked them up to play with them at every available opportunity. The kittens sucked on a cloth soaked in formula that mom gave them.


But, they were too small and weak to live. One by one the kittens died; all on the same day. Mom went into the house and brought back a shoebox. I helped her carefully placed each kitten into the box. We set out to bury them in the dangerous and frightening field. I wasn’t afraid because mom was there with me. I was sad, partly because the kittens were gone, but mostly because I thought that I was the cause of their deaths.


It was a few years later when the field was plowed and asphalt was laid. The little wooden cross mom and I constructed for the burial site had likely withered away by then. Block wall fences were built and the incinerators and cloths lines disappeared. I was nearly eleven when my new sister was born. Less than two years later the house was deemed too small and unfit for our growing family. It was time to move on. The ‘For Sale’ sign appeared and within a short time we moved to Thousand Oaks, a small town, but emerging community with new fields to explore.

Post-Peace Corps Adjustment

I plugged my IPod into the USP Port, turned up the music and allowed my thoughts to drift as I drove my car up the mountain.  I thought about the cabin my parents had in Big Bear when I was young.  Every weekend was spent there and I had a circle of friends and social activities on the mountain as well as at our home in Thousand Oaks.  There were lots of dates, dances, hikes and snow fights.  There are plenty of good childhood memories of the time we spent as a family at that cabin.

The scent of pine and the sounds of singing Blue Jay's bring me back to a time of innocence.  It was as a result of those memories that I purchased a small house on the mountain several years ago.  I had been working in a corporate job and the peace the mountains brought to my life was a welcome relaxation from the stress and long hours.

I sat on the deck enjoying the view of the city, a view I didn't know existed until 2007.  So many homes were lost in the fire that year.  Every home beneath mine and several homes located on my own street were burned to the ground.  It was after that fire that I discovered the small benefit to the terrible destruction on the mountain that year. I feel fortunate that my little get-away house was spared.

I made a cup of hot tea, put on some music and regained my place on the wood deck outside my living room. The air was crisp and I wrapped a fleece blanket around my arms.  It was quiet as I thought about my life before Peace Corps and contemplated new options as I move forward.

I will teach a college course beginning in January.  I can volunteer, possibly teach a Junior Achievement class.  I plan to visit friends, one of which I haven't seen in twenty years.  In October, I may go to Boston or possibly meet my sister in Washington DC.  Whatever turn my life takes, this is the first time since I was in my late twenties that I have five months without structured obligations and commitments. I find it more difficult to not work than to work.  I have no idea how to do life without a calendar. God help me and those around me.

My thoughts turned to my granddaughter.

Tap, tap, tap. She wears her pink leggings underneath her pink tap dancing outfit. Ava’s long brown hair hair flows past her waist and she is wearing a beautiful pink flower pinning her hair out of her eyes. Of course, pink is her favorite color and anything princess is her favorite thing.

There is a tray of cookies at the preschool reception desk. Theresa and I each help ourselves to one. My finger is firmly attached to Ava's little hand as we make our way to her classroom to find that there is no tap this morning. Theresa quickly undresses her.  In record time she is transformed from a tap dancing princess and into her chicken outfit complete with the construction paper hat she made earlier in the week. Today is Circus Day at the pre-school and Ava’s class will be doing the chicken dance.

I look around the room at the tubs full of toys and the stack of cots, each with a child’s name on it. Each child has a cubby and a box with their name on it for their personal things and an extra set of clothes. There is a bathroom where everything is scaled for a four year old. The playground has lots of colorful equipment and there are tiles with hand prints and children’s names on the outside walls. It is a very happy place.

I watch each classroom of children enter the playground in a parade procession; there are concessionaires carrying popcorn, elephants, lions, dogs and of course, Ava’s class of chickens. 

Each classroom performs to music and then jugglers perform, one on a unicycle. Finally, there is a faire with games, face painting, snacks, prizes and fun.

Last month the school hired a mobile aquarium to come to the school so the children could touch and learn about sea life. They have programs during the holiday season and other special activities various times during the year. There is so much abundance at the school that it gave me pause to reflect on the after school program in Saint Lucia. It’s not that either program is better than the other, or that there is judgment about abundance or the lack there of. It’s just that the contrast is . . . well, so noticeable.

The next week, Ava once again put her tap shoes and her tutu on and was ready for her lesson.  She and several other girls tapped their shoes on wooden boards and kept time to music.

A couple days later, Brendan says, "Do you want to go to Disneyland? We have a Season Pass."

There are other things that fill her time; pool parties, a trip to the lake, birthday parties and quiet nights with her mom, dad and uncles who help her with puzzles and read countless books with her.

I think about the children of MoPo Village often.  Children in the United States may have more resources and access to diverse activities.  But does this make them happier in their lifetime?  Since my return, I have found myself worrying about a screen that needs to be replaced, paying for my retirement years and wondering if I should move to a better neighborhood.  I don't remember worrying about trivial stuff like this during the last two years.

We were warned during our Close of Service Conference that our stories would only hold the attention of our friends and family for a very brief few minutes.  We were warned that we might see things differently.  No one wants to spend hours traveling down someone else's memory lane, including me.  It does leave me wondering how I might fit in . . . especially when I face an empty calendar for the next five months.

Before I left, I was concerned that I was living my life within a small twenty square mile radius and thus, I was wasting valuable time in my life.  So for two years, I lived in another and very different twenty square mile radius.  I have seen children who are hungry.  I've also seen children unable to attend school because they have no uniforms or shoes.  I have seen children become magnets to books because they are scarce on the island. I have seen children respond to new ideas and I've seen their behavior change.  I have seen children who were believed to be unteachable, learn to read.  I have seen children entertain themselves with little resources and handmade toys. I have learned how to create teaching resources and activities without a budget.  I have taught adults teaming and negotiating concepts and seen the 'aha' come alive.  The past two years has been my big 'aha' moment.

I have lived a simple life - yes, for two years I used public transportation.  I lived in a village where people brought me fruits or roasted corn or even a tea bag as a gift.  I went to work in the same two or three outfits every single week.   No one said anything about it as they did the same.  I lived in an apartment with buckets in the showers and kitchen because the pipes are dry due to a drought. I took countless cold showers.  I lived in a village where people took care of one another, although as with any small community they also fought together.

After a few days of relaxation, I packed up my things and drove my car down the mountain and back to the bustling city of Los Angeles.  I thought about all I have learned in the past two years...certainly more than I could ever possibly hope to give to the people in my village, my Saint Lucia friends and the children of MoPo.

It is with excitement and anticipation, some trepidation and reluctance, and some guilt over my culture's glutenous behavior that I reenter my old life.  But I am entering this life with a new attitude and understanding about another small piece of the world.  Now, I need to get to the business of figuring out how to fill my empty calendar, but first I think I will take a nap.

My Experience: A Retrospective-Part II

THINGS I WILL MISS

In the beginning, I often questioned my decision to become a Peace Corps Volunteer and then slowly things fell into place. When that happened life took over. I am goal oriented and my work was always aimed at the finish line – sustainability. I would think about going home, but it was only during my last couple of days that reality hit. Two years seems like a long time but they went as quickly as Champaign glasses clink in the celebration.

Although, I do not miss trying to catch a bus at the worst part of the day to get to MOPO, I miss the ride with locals.  I miss walking down the path to Patience Combined School. I miss hearing the goats complain while chomping on the grass at the soccer field. I miss seeing the children pass by in their little uniforms while I walk into the school.

I miss the Saint Lucia weather. I miss sitting on my bed listening to a soft rain and hearing the wind whip through the village. At times the wind became so strong that it howled and reminded me of Edgar Allen Poe, whose poetry I read and reread as a kid. When the rain stopped and the windows were opened, the breeze circulated like a giant fan throughout the house.

Janyn's Second Visit

Tracy

I will miss visits from my family and being their tour guide.  I will miss watching my them fall in love with this island in a very special way.

Kevin and Jay

I won’t miss, “Hey white lady”. I’m not sure why people think that’s an appropriate greeting. I’d never say…well, never mind. I never would say it.

I miss the simplicity of life here on the island. Priorities are different here. They value family, church and celebrations in ways I haven't experienced in the United States. They work to live, not something I knew much about when I arrived.

I don’t miss Saint Lucia television commercials as well as Joey the Weatherman and his stupid parrot Bob. I don’t miss the cell phone carrier, LIME, trying to sell their company by offering contests with prizes that will enable you to “party like a rock star”. It’s no wonder I stopped watching television during these past two years. I can’t think of anything else I won’t miss.

I made a note on my journal toward the end of May on a Saturday night:  'The church is rocking. The funeral service began in the late afternoon and continues through the evening.'  I will miss the sounds of the church bells, the people singing hymns and watching the people who are dressed in their finest clothes walking down my street towards and going to the church.

Living in a small village where everyone knows everyone's business was amazing.  I am grateful I was part Micoud and MoPo Village.

Bank on Learning

I remember when my oldest son was just approaching his teenage years. He came into the house one evening, excited and loud, declaring his love for the perfect food. He made a declaration of truth, “they fill you up, they are cheap and they taste good!” I’m glad he grew out of that because, although he made valid points in his argument, donuts aren’t exactly nutritious.

The growing stash of Pringles Cans in various sizes under my sink provides constant pangs of guilt. I already filled the mostly empty cupboard once. I gathered them up and took them to the after-school program. I was confident they would find a myriad of uses for the wonderful cast-away and ever-growing collection of cylindrical containers.

But alas, my collection grows. The only other thing occupying space within this cupboard is an extension cord which I must use when I need electricity to my washing machine. It’s annoying when I open the door to remove the cord. The containers spill over onto the floor and throughout the shelf. I must bend down and neatly arrange them, pushing them backward and hoping that when I return the cord to its rightful shelf space, the cans will not behave in the same manner and cause me more grief. What’s a Pringle Loving Girl to do? Surely, I shouldn’t give up my love of these crunchy salty delights! The Pringles cans are just one part of the story so let us move forward.

I’m teaching a Grade One Junior Achievement class. This is my first effort teaching this grade. I was excited when the teacher asked me if I would do it…that is until I looked through the kit. I previously taught Grade Three and found it a challenge because this American company made no cultural considerations in the curriculum. They used donuts for an exercise when many of my children had never eaten a donut. They gave me a cassette to play music when I had nothing to play it with. It became quickly apparent that Grade One is no different.

But first, let me be fair. These problems have been brought to the attention of Junior Achievement Worldwide and they have pledged to improve the worldwide portion of the program. It is a great program. I was in Junior Achievement in high school so many years ago and learned a great deal from it. But, like the Pringles Cans, this is just one point in the story and so again, let us move forward.

The focus of this course is to learn about acquisition. In other words, how to trade, barter and buy the things we need and want and how to save money to obtain things beyond our immediate reach. The kit contains stickers of coins and posters with blown up pictures of money. So, what’s the problem? Saint Lucia doesn’t use American Dollars; they use Eastern Caribbean Dollars. So once again, I must get creative.

When my niece taught the class she pasted American change side by side with Eastern Caribbean change so that the children could see the comparison. This was a good exercise because tourism is a growing industry in Saint Lucia. It is likely that they may see American dollars at some point in their life.

The instructions for this class were to read a story about a little girl who earns and saves money to buy a present for her friend. Then the children are given a sheet with four choices of presents they would like to buy. They are to choose one and put American coin stickers beside the item to pay for it. I quickly see this will make absolutely no sense to these little six year old children.

So, you may be asking at this point: What do Pringles and Junior Achievement have in common? Is she totally isolated in her village on a remote island and she just babbles on about nothing?

I looked at the material and made an executive decision to chuck it. After all, I’m the executive in this Junior Achievement class. And then it came to me . . . the vision. Suddenly 23 Pringles Cans would have a new home and my power cord could once again claim the space in my cupboard that it had enjoyed for so long before I discovered this new tasty food.

Yup, time to make 23 banks…and better yet, I’d just found a use for all those coins that I don’t use (reference my post, “Money”, March 2009). I knew I was in for the fight of my life and had to prepare like a prize fighter. I was determined to win the battle to deliver an effective class. Alright, I admit there may be a possibility that I'm being a little dramatic here.

I measured and cut paper. I glued smaller pieces of colored paper onto the white paper. The children will decorate the paper before taping their artwork to the Pringles Cans. I separated all the coins I’ve collected in the last year and divided them into the cans. I even went to the local credit union to get some quarters, adding two to each can. I made my own can. Look at this talent! Am I amazing or what?

The next day, I was armed with the Junior Achievement storybook and twenty three cans, each filled with coins. I walked down my stairs and through my village streets, the cans loudly clinking, the loud sounds ringing in my ears and drawing the attention of each passerby. I boarded the bus and finally made my way to the MoPo.

I showed the children my bank and asked, “would you like to make one of these today?” Of course they all declared with excitement, “Yes, Miss”. I pulled out several coins and put them on a nearby desk next to my can.

The story for this week is about a little girl who works for money which she saves to buy a birthday present for her friend. I read the story to the children. Each time the little girl in the story earned money, I would take coins from the pile and toss them into the can. They made a loud noise, capturing the children’s attention.

After reading them the story I gave each child a Pringles Can complete with about a dollar in change. I asked them to take the money and find all the one cent coins, two cent coins, five cent coins and so on. I asked them to identify each coin.

I told them because they had worked so hard in the Junior Achievement class, they would be able to keep the coins. One little boy whispered in my ear, “I have money!” I responded, “yes, you do”.

The teacher looked my way while the children were coloring and decorating the paper that would cover each can. She said, “where did you get all these cans”. I responded, “easy, I eat a lot of Pringles”. Although I’m sure there was some dietary judgment on her part, she did flash a friendly smile.

I passed by the desk of a little girl, Jilli, who slipped me a homemade card. After the class, I looked at what she had given me. Two princesses with crowns, the printed words “Junior Achievement” and inside the card read, “I love you Miss”.

The teacher kept all the things they had made during Junior Achievement. They would bring them home during the last week of school. On the final day I was there, the teacher pointed to their banks and told me the children were bringing in change they collect and are rapidly filling up their banks.

Brenda

Flexibility and leaving expectations behind are two things that Peace Corps stresses. Previously, I worked for years for a globalized company and then taught college courses in a minority community college where students came from far corners of the world. I have traveled, read and studied other cultures. Still, I was surprised at the cultural norms that dictated how people viewed me as a volunteer and Peace Corps as an organization. Hence, the words 'flexibility and expectations' continue to add meaning.

Looking back on the last twenty-three months, time was swift. I can recall the musty smell of the hotel conference room we left in Miami after our two-day staging. Small, but memorable, complimentary comments made by hotel staff about Peace Corps Volunteers were gratefully accepted.

It doesn’t seem long ago that I was standing in Miami International Airport with my allotted eighty pounds of luggage, looking around at the other thirty-nine people that would land with me in the Eastern Caribbean island of Saint Lucia.

I remember almost each step I took off the airplane and onto Saint Lucia’s soil in the heat of the day and asking myself “what have I done?” Within a few minutes we were in the parking lot talking with the volunteers who were excited to meet us. Finally, we slowly took cover from the rain inside the bus that would take us to the Pastoral Center for our orientation. I remember thinking “this is so right for me”. After a few days we were sent 'home' with our host families, training began and seven weeks later we were sworn in as Peace Corps Volunteers.

I have worked with two IPPs (Institutional Point Person which means the person with which a volunteer is assigned) and most clearly remember my first meeting with Brenda. During my time on the island, I have discovered three characteristics that both the IPP and volunteer must have to achieve success.

1. The IPP and PCV are in it for the right reasons. Both are respected leaders in the community and there is a willing following. The people working along side the IPP and Peace Corps Volunteer are motivated and committed - or at least have the potential to be motivated and committed.
2. Leave expectations behind and practice flexibility. The PCV and IPP want to collaborate. Together the volunteer and IPP discover diverse ways to do new things, to motivate the people around them and to achieve success in their projects.
3. Relationships are important and built. Good listening skills, shared leadership, building off each others ideas and giving credit where it is due are just a few things that spawn great relationships.

Intellectually, this is easily understood but in practice when two people from two cultures come together it can be a challenge. If these characteristics are not present it's a waste of time.

For the most part, Peace Corps Volunteers don't have the answers, but we offer fresh perspective and add a new dimension of thinking diversity. Maximizing collaboration, sharing openly to discover new paths to success, and practicing good communication skills to create understanding, and yes, sometimes tolerance, can be found when an IPP and the Volunteer are chasing the same result: success.

I have had both successful and unsuccessful experience with IPPs. The most difficult thing for most people to accept is change, and change is not only important for the IPP, but also for the volunteer. The ability of the IPP and volunteer to work together to create meaningful work is dependent on these characteristics. Volunteers are here not just here to teach, but to learn.

The moment I met Brenda, we clicked. She is a collaborator. We are working on an after-school program together. This is a picture of Brenda and her son Lyle. I've been following her around for a couple of weeks to get a good picture of her. I was never successful so I went to her Facebook page and stole this photo.

I created a workshop a few months ago for the facilitators. During the workshop we talked about how our perceptions become reality. We discussed a child who was labeled as a “trouble-maker” and they were ready to dismiss him from the program. Although he is only ten, he has the label firmly fastened to his chest. He brought it with him to the program, he brings it with him to school and in the community.

Together we urged the facilitators of the program to give the boy another chance by changing their expectations of him, thereby allowing him to react in a positive manner. The boy has improved dramatically. After a vacation off-island, I returned to find a message waiting for me from Brenda. It appears his teachers are also marveling at the behavior progress he has shown. She said, “We are making a difference!”

Success is measured in small and sustainable change. Small change will eventually add up to big change, but not likely pointed at one person. I've concluded it is the team of volunteers, IPPs and the people living in the villages that, over time, achieve real lasting success. It starts with two people from two different cultures working together, being flexible, leaving expectations behind and moving together toward common goals and vision.

The End Nears

It was a strange day today. I know that I’m coming close to the end of my service, but today there was a lot of reality in the mix.


I heard the car pull up and opened my door. Brenda was walking up my steps. A big smile greeted me. We chatted for a few minutes until there was another knock. I opened the door and welcomed two Peace Corps staff, Sharmon and Elizabeth. Every few months they come by to see how things are going. But, this meeting was different. Rather than focusing on future projects, the focus was on past accomplishments.


We spoke about the work I am doing, about a previous Peace Corps Volunteer accomplishments, about my village and then the conversation turned. Sharmon asked, "Have you thought about what you will do when your service is completed?" Have I ever! I thought about that as I pressed the send button to start the Peace Corps application process over three years ago. Do I have an answer? ABSOLUTELY!….not.


I explained that I am very goal oriented. This is another chunk of my life and like everything else I've done, I want to understand the purpose of why I'm doing it. So here I was, talking about the subject that brought me here in the first place. As we spoke in nonsensical words, I silently thought, “I was a wife and a mother. I had a long and full career. I taught courses after I retired. I hoped that I could do something meaningful for a couple of years that would spark an idea about what I might do next. Now here I am almost two years later and I am no closer to the answer than I was when I was standing in the Los Angeles International Airport waving goodbye to my family.”


Later I opened an email from a university where I previously worked. In the past couple of months there’s been conversation around my return. Although we agreed that I would come back and teach, I was stunned when I read the sentence. The words cut through me, “We are preparing for your return. Please review the note below from main campus and if you need to make changes send us an email.” I’m not sure why those words stopped me cold, but it could be mounting reality.


After reading the email, I thought about my life. It’s exciting to come to the end of service, but it’s also bittersweet. I hear Brenda talk about future projects she will be doing and I will miss the interesting work. I helped Angelina write a proposal for a Peace Corps Response Volunteer and I wish I could tackle this assignment. I will miss the children in which I see amazing daily progress at the after-school program and I will miss creating and facilitating workshops for professionals around the island.


Later in the afternoon I walked down the long road to the highway to catch a bus to Mon Repos, a nearby village. Within minutes, a bus stopped to drop a passenger. (I should note that there are two bus routes that can take me to Mon Repos; one that goes all the way to Castries, and another that only goes as far as Mon Repos.)


The bus was full and I took the last seat. Almost in unison, every passenger on the bus said, “This bus doesn’t go to Castries”. I responded quickly, “I’m just going to MoPo.” There was laughter in the bus and a woman in the back said, “She said MoPo! She doesn’t say Mon Repos. She’s one of us!” I spent a few hours with the after-school program children and facilitators. I helped with homework and answered questions. I watched them learn to play tennis and do art projects.

When I returned to my village, it was dark. I called to the driver, "stopping at the junction", paid him $1.75EC, the equivalent of $.65. It is hot and people are sitting outside to feel the cool island breeze. I love walking through the village and always get out at the far end to extend my stroll. I wave to an old man who stands at the window of his darkened home watching the world pass by. I suppose life without electricity is normal in his world. I pass by the football (soccer) field and hear the children shouting “Miss Karen!” I walk by small shacks and wonder if the people who live in them are happy. I walk by several rum shops with various genres of load music drowning out the crickets and tree frogs. I see the occasional spirited game of Dominoes being played on a makeshift table.

I see roosters protecting their hens, dogs sleeping on the streets and goats chomping on weeds. I hear people sitting on the roadside say, “Karen, are you passing?” And, then I softly climb the stairs to my apartment trying to be careful not to bother Elizabeth and John, but know they are watching for my safe return.



I have had a lot of emotions while living here, but I rarely thought I would be sad to leave. I suppose I never let myself think about this reality. It isn’t that I didn’t want to stay. It’s that I knew this was a twenty-seven month assignment and that I would leave. It’s temporary. I knew this then and I know it now. The thing is that after two years, this village has become my home.

That Mother Thing

I am not a religious person, but I do believe. There have been six times in my life when I felt a presence that can only be described as God. When I saw each of my babies for the first time, I saw love. At the precise moment of birth I knew God was there. This accounts for three experiences. I will be silent about the other three for the moment. We’ll just leave it at the birth of my first child. That was the first time I had real proof that God exists.

The birth of my children was only the beginning of a love that doubles infinitely over time, and, as my love grows my protective instincts surge. Although I have no idea why, the mother swells inside me and never stops growing. No one told me about this before I had children. Although my children are now adults the mother thing continues to grow. I conclude it never will.

Often times while I’ve been here, I silently brainstorm long lists of every possibility of impending disaster. Mothers do this very well. Let me explain. My phone is silent. I check my email. Nothing. No one is trying to contact me. I haven’t heard from them in three days. There must be a reason because they have protected me from bad news in the past. This is my evidence that they are protecting me now. They protect me with their silence.

I’m sure someone is sick. Or maybe my granddaughter isn’t well. One of them has lost a job. There’s been an accident of some kind – I can invent lots of these in my head. I’m very creative. They’ve done this to me. I blame them. This is another part of the mother thing.

I can identify many things to worry about which sends me into never-ending and constant worry frenzy. This is an activity I practiced regularly at home and it is only magnified being so far away.

I watch television infrequently. In my spare time I read. I research. I journal. I contemplate my thoughts. And I worry.

I am not a Farmer

Yesterday I was on a bus in the bustling city of Castries. The cruise ships were docked in the harbor. At times, the ships are so big it looks like they are landlocked, docked in the city as if it were a drive-in museum. On most days there are at least two ships and many times there are more.

The streets were lined with vendors setting up to sell fruit to locals and souvenirs to tourists. In a short time, the Rum Shops will be open and serious games of Dominoes will be played on the sidewalks.

I maneuvered my way through the crowds with purpose and knowingness. I have found if I move swiftly there are less offers of taxi’s, people asking for money and others wanting to sell me a carved coconut shell made into a hanging bird. I was on my way to meet with friends at a favorite Chinese Restaurant. After some good conversation and food I was headed home.

As the bus neared the Castries Business District there was a sudden traffic jam. This was very unusual. My first thought was that there is a traffic accident. My last thought would have been that a mother hen was frantically herding her chicks to safety. With feathers flying she focused her attention on each of the five chicks herding them with skill. I could feel her panic. She knew the danger to herself, but like any mother she was focused on her chicks, not herself.

The cars, buses and trucks were stopped and drivers and passengers patiently waited while being entertained. I smiled as I realized this was just another Peace Corps moment to enjoy. It was a special moment to reflect on the difference between a city in Saint Lucia and a city in Los Angeles.

Upon arriving in Castries, I walked a few blocks and over the bridge to find the next bus that would take me back to my village. I was alone with my thoughts and thinking about the hen. One thought led to the next.

The first thing I must do is remind you that I am not a farmer and, thus, I’m not verse in farming technique and animal behavior. I don’t grow crops or raise pigs. There are only a few cows on the island and I most certainly have nothing to do with them. There are no roosters….wait, yes, there are roosters! Lots and lots of roosters.

There is a looming question which has entertained my mind since arriving in August 2008. It generally comes up around three o’clock in the morning. I’m awakened by sounds. No, it’s not the singing crickets or the tree frogs calling – I can sleep through their noise. It’s not the barking dogs – no, they are the ones who kept me up until midnight but now they are sleep. It’s not the slaughtering of pigs – that happens on Friday mornings after daybreak.

I’ve been asleep for three glorious silent hours and it’s a new breed expressing themselves. It starts with just one lone voice in the night and instantly everyone is communicating. Some are heard in the distance, but there is inevitably one intruder lurking under my window who weighs in on the conversation.

I’ve been wondering for sometime now: Why do roosters crow? The bottom line is that they are territorial. They crow to let others know where they are and to ensure they are spaced properly. A rooster’s purpose in life is to protect the flock from all threats at all costs including fighting to the death.

• Some roosters are quite docile and will sit in your lap, others will eat your kitten, puppy or small child.

• Very few roosters will get along without fighting and tearing each other up; others are highly aggressive.

• Their entire focus and purpose in life is to insure proliferation of the species

• A ratio of 10 hens to 1 rooster are needed to satisfy these creatures!

• A rooster will sacrifice himself to protect the flock.

Alright, so what you are likely saying at this point. Who cares? Well, read on. Crowing can start when there is a disturbance in the coop or when a car alarm sounds at night. A friendly neighbor simply switching on a porch light can cause every rooster’s crow in the village to sound a high alert.

As I wrote this piece, I kept thinking to myself: what is the purpose of telling people about this mundane phenomenon? Then it came to me…the message…the thing I want people to know in my village:

Will you please stop turning on your porch lights at three o’clock in the morning? I really need some sleep!

A Cup of Tea

PART II

Today is Sunday and I spent most of the day reading a book. The week has been filled with activity. Tomorrow my schedule is full and so guiltless rest is in order today. It is winter time in the Caribbean. The temperature has plummeted to 82 degrees. I hear people say, “I’m cold. I should have brought a sweater”.

As I was reading, I was chilled and put a little red blanket on my shoulders. My mind drifted and I thought about making a cup of hot tea to warm my insides.

I remember making a cup of hot tea each afternoon before I retired from my job. It was a nice break and a ritual that included shutting my door, kicking off my shoes, putting my feet on the desk, letting my answering machine pick up messages. I was alone holding the hot cup of tea with both hands while isolated from the chaos of the corporate world.

After I retired, I joined a gym and a spa. The spa was my reward for working out at the gym. After a couple of hours, I would drive to the spa, sign my name and was handed a key to a locker. After showering and putting on the robe and slippers that were found inside my locker, I would head over to the lounge area where there was a large pot of tea. I would pour myself a cup, sometimes adding honey, and curl up on the large oversized chair and be alone for a few minutes with my thoughts.

Tea is a source of relaxation, but I’ve never had the time before now to contemplate the details and value of the ritual. As I sit here sipping my tea, I realize that this is another one of those Peace Corps moments where there is no distraction to keep me from considering the steam coming from my small tea cup. It is decadent. It is comforting. It is relaxing. It soothes the soul. There is just something about a cup of hot tea. It doesn’t matter where I am. It is magical.

When I applied to Peace Corps, I never would have guessed that reflecting on small moments would add up to such a big benefit.

A Cup of Tea

PART I

Some volunteers work in the capital. They have structured 9-5 jobs and offices with computers and air conditioning. Others work in schools as counselors, teachers and coaches. Some live in small villages and work in more unstructured ways. Each of us in Saint Lucia is experiencing Peace Corps in a different way.

I live in a village and work in unstructured ways. This suits my work style well. Although English is technically the second language on the island, almost everyone speaks the language. I don’t have to learn another language to survive. I have electricity, running water, even hot water. Well, most of the times I have running water.

My son, Jay, was in Honduras. He lived in a remote village. He had no electricity or in-door plumbing. His floors were dirt. He taught sustainable farming methods such as terraced techniques and diversification. He can now read, write and speak Spanish fluently.

I have a friend, although I confess I have never met her in person, who is living in Romania. She is teaching in a climate where it gets extremely cold. She speaks Romanian. At times she can be seen riding on a donkey cart.

I have another friend, again one I’ve never met, who lived in Samoa. He lived in a rural village and, among other projects, focused on helping people with weight control and to learn about good nutrition.

Although each of us will have a different experience, there is one commonality I hear from almost all Peace Corps Volunteers. The pace is slower and it feels like time moves at a snails pace. The clock ticks but never tocks. There is simply more time.

The thing I’ve noticed is that I spend my extra time examining details. If someone asked me, “Are there any benefits of being a Peace Corps Volunteer besides the obvious?” I would unequivocally say, “Yes, I have time to reflect on moments rather than days or weeks”.

Teaching

The Peace Corps has three goals. The first is to help people in another country, the second is to promote a better understanding of Americans and the third goal is to promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

Teaching is a way to check off each goal in a clean sweep. I gained something valuable from the Peace Corps experience: I have become more aware of the United States focus on business education. My experience is that more often than not, courses are taught in narrowly focused specific subjects rather than focusing the subject matter in a global perspective with a systems view.

Although there is usually a chapter in a text about the global environment, international courses are more often separate subjects when they should be integrated. There may be an inference to globalization, but no real information or exercises to help students learn what that really means. There are specific internationally focused degrees, but why? If we are to compete in a global environment, we can't think in global silos, but many times we teach students to think in silos. It's arrogant.

When I was teaching a course in Management Strategy, the text had a section on generational values. When we talked about this subject in class, the students were trying to bucket themselves in the American generational values. There was no qualification that the material is only relevant to one area of the world. I was stymied.

Although Saint Lucia is a westernized nation and some of the values fit, they have their own history which created their unique culture and generational values. The next few weeks I had them research and put their own generations into buckets.

For the first time, they began to think about the diversity they would face if they were to work in an American company. And, they began to recognize how their own value system can collide in the workplace here on this island. That exercise taught me as much about Saint Lucia as it taught them about American values. It was rewarding.

I teach Junior Achievement in the primary schools and none of the material is geared towards a global environment, although they have many customers in many countries. They have an exercise in making paper donuts when many children don't know what a donut is. They have stickers with American currency when children here only know the Eastern Caribbean Dollar. There is an exercise to elect a mayor, one of which supports a facility to take care of stray pets; neither of these things makes sense to the children in my village. It’s baffling.

The opportunities I have had to teach in a foreign country have helped me grow. I hope the tools I have passed on to them will help them in the years to come. I know the knowledge, culture, information and rich interaction they have shared with me will impact me for years to come.

When I think of teaching and how it connects with the goals of Peace Corps, I think I can easily check all three boxes.

Jacks

I remember playing Jacks as a child. It was a matter of coordination. Sort of like rubbing your stomach and patting your head at the same time. The first time player usually finds it difficult, but once the rhythm is found, the game is easy.

It is an inexpensive game, easy to play; easy to transport. All I needed was a small rubber ball and a few jacks, a relatively cheap purchase at the local dime store. Dime stores, which sprang up in the late nineteenth century, slowly began disappearing in the 1960s.

My mom shopped at both Newberry’s and Woolworths, although Newberry’s was preferred. I went with her often, usually to buy patterns and cloth. She sewed many of our clothes and most of my doll clothes. The store had wood floors. When I close my eyes, I can hear the clomping of shoes and smell the scent of large bolts of material. I would wander through the store while my mother looked through huge books to choose a new Vogue Pattern.

I was usually allowed to buy some candy, a squirt gun or a small toy. I remember standing in line with my mother. She had thread, material and patterns in her hand. I had a small package of Jacks. Newberry’s and Woolworths both quietly gave way to the next generation; the discount store, Akron and Gemco which yielded to Walmart and Target.

Did you ever wonder about the origins of the game jacks? Neither did I. Well, that is until I saw a group of children in my village sitting on the ground with a pile of rocks. According to various sources on the internet Jacks is one of those games that children invented during ancient times and long before commercial toys were available. Rocks and bone fragments were used to play the game.

And, to think I’ve lived this long not knowing this little piece of trivia.

The Little Engine that Did

Amy is someone I have connected with though my blog. She is thinking about Peace Corps and has questions. She asks, “On the days that you don't like the Peace Corps, is there something in particular that bothers you; loneliness or something dysfunctional within the Peace Corps system?” It was an interesting question that I explored before answering.
“Why on earth did I undertake something like this?”

Training was most difficult. Living with a family, learning the public bus system, being handed my lunch by my host "mom", and given a Peace Corps allowance of $2 a day was humbling.

Adjusting to being away from my family was difficult. I was exhausted, physically and mentally. I had more difficult days than good days during these weeks.

There is something to be said for stubbornness. There is no way I would have thrown in the towel. It was my decision and I was committed. I was also convinced it would get better…and it did, as you will read.

For me, training was the most difficult period of adjustment - HANDS DOWN! But, we as a group, got through it - it's just part of the process. We went through an experience together and people are seen at their best and at their worst. Difficult situations present the opportunity for bonding.

"Can I make a difference?” Is this right for me?"

The first year I began an exploration to find my footing. At times I felt I wasn't doing enough. Other times, I felt crushed by the bureaucracy of the Peace Corps, something I hadn't considered when I applied to be a volunteer. I am living in a foreign country and adjusting and assimilating into a new life and it is difficult. Many times, I felt like I was pushing a long heavy rope up a steep ever-inclining dusty hill.

I was beginning to develop relationships with people on the island and was doing everything I could to explore and understand the values of Saint Lucian people. I was also beginning to see the politics within the organization. There was no definition, agreement or vision of the work they wanted. My primary assignment didn't work out, which happens.

I spent far more time during my first year with fellow-volunteers than I do now. There were times when I felt like I was wasting my time, getting older and wasn't doing what I came here to do.

At this time, and unknowingly, I started to make friends with people who would become my collaborators and friends, the ones I work with, count on and love. I continued up the steady incline pushing that rope during my first year.

It is here when I began to understand why Peace Corps preached “flexibility” ad nausea during the applicant and training stages to become a volunteer. The good days far outweighed the bad days. Flexibility and determination pulled me through it; that and using my past experience to create meaningful work when there is none.


"I am ready to get back to familiar surroundings."

I’m in my second year with a great assignment and working with wonderful people. I have plenty to do - more than I can do and must say "no" more often than "yes". Generally I’m living the dream I had envisioned. People are now pulling my long heavy rope for me. I am over the hill and being pulled to the finish line. There are times, however very rare, that I have a bad day.

During those times, I want to get into my car, turn on the air-conditioner, use my GPS to get to new places, visit my mountain home, go to a family Sunday dinner, see my granddaughter's Christmas play, go to the gym and spa, take my dog to the dog park, teach a college course or two, travel and generally enjoy the retirement I worked so damn hard to get.

It gets lonely in a small village, even though I've made friends and many times I have more people around than I'd like. At times I become lonely for people that share my history, culture, attitudes, values and beliefs.

Then something great happens - usually something really small and I’m pulled back onto my path.

“I want the best of both worlds.”

It is unthinkable to consider my last day with the children I am trying to help. I am sad to think of leaving the friends I have made, both Peace Corps and Saint Lucians. It is regretful that I will likely leave before really getting to know the newest group of Peace Corps Volunteers who just arrived on Valentines Day. It will be difficult to leave an environment where there is so much natural beauty. I want to pack all that up and take it home with me.

The good days WAY out-number the bad days! Actually I can't remember my last bad day, although I do hold my breath as I walk alongside the sewer in 85 degree heat.

Time is moving fast. I took the day off recently and met PC friends in the north. We had lunch on the beach and then went swimming in the Caribbean. What an amazing way to spend a few hours.

I have incredibly interesting work right now. I'm doing case studies on the after-school children, developing several full-day workshops, I tutor the children across the street, I give private lessons on Microsoft Office two days a week to a young woman who wants to learn how to use the computer. I teach Junior Achievement at the primary school.


Recently, I participated in a panel discussion for the new volunteers. One of the questions asked during the discussion was, “Would you do it again?” My answer is simple. My life is full and I am happy. When I reflect back at what I’ve done and how far I’ve come to get here, I have no regrets. I would do it all over again. Was it difficult? Absolutely. Is it worth it? Oh yes.


After the discussion, I was talking with a couple of the new volunteers and I compared the emotional process to the story of the “Little Engine that Could”.

My first year was spent with the mantra, “I think I can, I think I can” and then, the second year came and I’m speeding down the hill singing, “I knew I could, I knew I could”.

One of the things I love most about this blog is the people I have met because of it. I’m grateful Amy asked this question as it gave me time to pause and reflect on my answer.

Idle People

There are many idle people in my village; people with no jobs and nothing to do. They sit in the same place everyday. Some sit on one side of the street in the morning and when the afternoon sun shines in their face, they move to the other side of the street. They just sit on the pavement. Idle people.

This was once a thriving village. Fishing and banana farming were main sources of income. Before the two lane highway was constructed, people came from neighboring villages to shop. Today, the retail stores open occasionally and many do not open at all. The buses pass this village in favor of Vieux Fort, twenty minutes further down the road, but with more modern shops.

Natural disasters and export laws have depressed the banana industry. Fishermen use the same techniques that their fathers and grandfathers used. They manage to catch just enough to feed the village.

When times were good, many young adults aspired to build a living on the rich Saint Lucian soil. They called bananas "green gold". There was little connection between a formal education and farming.

My ten year old neighbor will be a fisherman like his father. He cannot understand why he needs to learn math and literacy. Today, many see farming as hard work with little reward.

There are no programs, that I'm aware of, to help farmers become businessmen. Many are illiterate and made vast fortunes when the industry was booming. No one helped them invest their money. No one explained the value of saving. There was little thought that an end would come to the banana growing boom.

I wonder what it’s like to be without a job and to be illiterate, to live in poverty and scrape by each day. I wonder what it's like when your child cannot attend school because there is no money to buy a uniform. Why do they accept this life rather than change it? Is it hopelessness or acceptance? Does it feel normal and right?

There are so many things that can be done, why not volunteer, if for no other reason than to find purpose? I wonder how it feels to survive; to be at the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. What is the world losing by allowing people to remain at the bottom of this theoretical pyramid?

I wonder what the world would look like if everyone had a purpose. What would it look like if resources were evenly spread; if everyone had enough and no one had too much. I wonder if we would have solved the unemployment problem, environmental issues, and endless wars if everyone had enough but not too much. I wonder how I would feel if I had no purpose.

"What kind of victory is it when someone is left defeated?" Ghandi