When we got off the plane from Los Angeles, the Tongan Peace Corps staff welcomed us with a garland and greeting that I couldn't even pronounce. Then they leaned in close, and instead of kissing our cheeks, took a big sniff.
We were told (after learning how to say ma-lo-e-le-lei quickly) that, in Tonga, greetings and farewells end with a sniff, not a kiss.
I spent a lot of time trying to figure out why this was (is it because Tongans want to check if you've bathed or if you've "mohe'uli"?), but eventually I just chalked it up to "the Tongan way".
On my last day in Vava'u, the school prepared a farewell for me. As at any Tongan feast, there were tearful speeches, gifts, and an abundance of food.
At the end of the ceremony, all the teachers stood and sang a hymn while I went around the circle saying good-bye. By the time I approached the third teacher, a good friend of mine, I was crying so hard my nose was dripping.
My cheek pressed against hers, I involuntarily gave a big sniff.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Why would you want to leave?
I almost quit the Peace Corps. I was at a bar in America, and had just finished my second vodka martini.
"Why would you want to leave this?" my friend said, gesturing to the elegant crowd sipping cocktails in mute gold lighting. "There won't be opera in Tonga, film festivals, wine tastings, restaurants...everything you love." She took another long pull on her gin and tonic. "I know you," she added.
That night, I wrote an email to the Peace Corps, telling them that I would not be accepting their invitation to serve in Tonga. Instead, I would be attending law school.
I never sent it.
Twenty seven months later, it's the last day of school in Vava'u. The students are bent over their English exam papers, and I'm watching to make sure no one cheats. They are so intent, so earnest, mouthing words to themselves, crossing out and rewriting over and over. At the beginning of the year, none of them would have attempted or cared to write a sentence, let alone finish a three hour exam. They didn't listen to me, perhaps because they couldn't even understand me. Then again, when I started at the school, I just saw a classroom of brown faces that all looked vaguely alike. I couldn't even pronounce their names.
Now, I know Amipeleaisi likes to shout out answers. Anamanu gets angry when she gets a question wrong. Makeleta is quiet, but her writing is imaginative and wild. Isileli likes to read with voices and make the class laugh. Atalangi loves romantic stories and smiles at all the girls. Tukulolo hit the other boys for their lunch money, but cried when I told him he was making me sad.
They know when I'm impatient to finish an assignment, when I've fought with another staff member, when I've received a text message from my boyfriend. They also know that the final exam is important to me, so now, they are inches away from their papers, answering every question.
I feel my chest getting tight. I look outside at the ocean, the coconut trees, and the pigs roaming on the athletic field. One of my students looks up and sees the tears in my eyes. She gives me a warm and sad smile. She knows what I'm thinking. She knows me.
"Why would you want to leave this?" my friend said, gesturing to the elegant crowd sipping cocktails in mute gold lighting. "There won't be opera in Tonga, film festivals, wine tastings, restaurants...everything you love." She took another long pull on her gin and tonic. "I know you," she added.
That night, I wrote an email to the Peace Corps, telling them that I would not be accepting their invitation to serve in Tonga. Instead, I would be attending law school.
I never sent it.
Twenty seven months later, it's the last day of school in Vava'u. The students are bent over their English exam papers, and I'm watching to make sure no one cheats. They are so intent, so earnest, mouthing words to themselves, crossing out and rewriting over and over. At the beginning of the year, none of them would have attempted or cared to write a sentence, let alone finish a three hour exam. They didn't listen to me, perhaps because they couldn't even understand me. Then again, when I started at the school, I just saw a classroom of brown faces that all looked vaguely alike. I couldn't even pronounce their names.
Now, I know Amipeleaisi likes to shout out answers. Anamanu gets angry when she gets a question wrong. Makeleta is quiet, but her writing is imaginative and wild. Isileli likes to read with voices and make the class laugh. Atalangi loves romantic stories and smiles at all the girls. Tukulolo hit the other boys for their lunch money, but cried when I told him he was making me sad.
They know when I'm impatient to finish an assignment, when I've fought with another staff member, when I've received a text message from my boyfriend. They also know that the final exam is important to me, so now, they are inches away from their papers, answering every question.
I feel my chest getting tight. I look outside at the ocean, the coconut trees, and the pigs roaming on the athletic field. One of my students looks up and sees the tears in my eyes. She gives me a warm and sad smile. She knows what I'm thinking. She knows me.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
A hard night
The night it happened, I slept in the hospital. Sleeping in hospitals is as nice as sleeping on airplanes, but this was even worse. After the nurses cleaned up the blood, we were shown to a wide room, empty except for six beds. Really, there were only five: one had no cot, just springs.
"Do you have sheets?" the nurse asked us in Tongan. I translated to my friend, which didn't make much sense since I already knew the answer. My friend, still shivering, just stared.
"No," I answered. Her neighbor, the one that drove us to the hospital, rushed off to bring sheets and fresh clothes for my friend. The two of us waited, sitting on sticky blue mattress that felt and looked like the upholstery of a cheap car. I contemplated what I thought was a coat-rack, then I realized the object was for holding an IV. It was the only medical instrument in the room.
We spent that night with the florescent tube on. I held her hand and tried to keep the rest of my body under a blanket. I think she was staring at the puddle of mold on the ceiling.
We spent the next night in my house. First, without her asking, I locked and chained the doors, then moved my furniture against each. I left the outdoor light on and locked my bedroom door as well. I had her sleep near the wall; I slept on the side closest to the door. In the middle of the night, I woke to her shaking me. "Jenny! Jenny!" I was awake in an instant. "I'm sorry, can you please go check the doors?" I got up, examined the house, and came back to bed. "It's safe," I told her. I rubbed her shoulder, on the side that wasn't hurt, until she fell back to sleep.
The nights got better. By the fifth night, she slept the entire time without crying out or fighting in her sleep.
Just to get away, we spent Saturday night at an island resort. A friend of hers from home flew up to join us, but we still shared a bed. The next day, I had to leave the resort: I had school on Monday. Even though I would see her back in town the next afternoon, my friend gave me two long hugs on the dock. As the boat pulled away, I started to cry.
Sunday night, the night I slept alone, was the hardest of them all.
"Do you have sheets?" the nurse asked us in Tongan. I translated to my friend, which didn't make much sense since I already knew the answer. My friend, still shivering, just stared.
"No," I answered. Her neighbor, the one that drove us to the hospital, rushed off to bring sheets and fresh clothes for my friend. The two of us waited, sitting on sticky blue mattress that felt and looked like the upholstery of a cheap car. I contemplated what I thought was a coat-rack, then I realized the object was for holding an IV. It was the only medical instrument in the room.
We spent that night with the florescent tube on. I held her hand and tried to keep the rest of my body under a blanket. I think she was staring at the puddle of mold on the ceiling.
We spent the next night in my house. First, without her asking, I locked and chained the doors, then moved my furniture against each. I left the outdoor light on and locked my bedroom door as well. I had her sleep near the wall; I slept on the side closest to the door. In the middle of the night, I woke to her shaking me. "Jenny! Jenny!" I was awake in an instant. "I'm sorry, can you please go check the doors?" I got up, examined the house, and came back to bed. "It's safe," I told her. I rubbed her shoulder, on the side that wasn't hurt, until she fell back to sleep.
The nights got better. By the fifth night, she slept the entire time without crying out or fighting in her sleep.
Just to get away, we spent Saturday night at an island resort. A friend of hers from home flew up to join us, but we still shared a bed. The next day, I had to leave the resort: I had school on Monday. Even though I would see her back in town the next afternoon, my friend gave me two long hugs on the dock. As the boat pulled away, I started to cry.
Sunday night, the night I slept alone, was the hardest of them all.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
If you can't beat 'em...
“Omai e inu.” Give the drink. Her brown claw flexed, reaching at the soda that I now instinctively clutched to my chest.
I had just spent my last pa’anga of the day on one soda and two ears of corn: my entire dinner. Unable to afford both, I had bought the soda in lieu of eggs, the luxury of a Dr. Pepper (the first I had seen in a year) too hard to resist. In my excitement, I had forgotten to immediately put my purchases in my back-pack. Thus, I had committed a very foolish error: in Tonga, don’t have anything visible if you aren’t willing to part with it.
Her hand, like a hideously overgrown toddler’s, continued to grab at nothing. I hesitated, my “culturally sensitive” angel battling against my “I’m American and this is mine” devil. I tried to evade the situation with humor: “I’m sick. I wouldn’t want you to catch a palangi disease.” The other Tongans from my village laughed, but the woman would not relent.
“You lie. Give me the drink.”
I tried a different approach. “Give me some change and I’ll go get you a drink.”
She pulled a Charlie Chaplin frown, displaying her hands palms out. “I’m poor. I’m not rich like you. You make lots of money. You buy it for me.”
I explained to her that I’m a volunteer, and thus, not paid.
“But you are a rich American,” she insisted. “Give me money.”
I really wanted to give her something else, but since my job description includes “spreading world peace”, I figured physical violence wouldn’t go over well back in Washington.
Defeated, I poured half of the drink into my water bottle and relinquished the rest of the can to her. She gulped it down, then threw the desiccated remains on the ground. She then eyed the thin plastic bag protecting my corn. Circumventing any irksome debate, she reached into the bag and snatched out an ear. She started to strip back the husk.
“You can’t it eat it yet; it hasn’t been boiled!” I protested. She continued to denude my corn, only stopping when the white flesh was exposed. She paused, then stuck it in her bag. “I’ll eat it tonight,” she shrugged.
I walked away with the little I had left: one ear of corn, half a Dr. Pepper, and a shred of composure. Turning down the road back home, a car stopped to ask if I needed a lift. I politely declined, seeing the car was already full. but the family insisted. They commenced to shift: some bags and groceries were thrown in the trunk, one child went to sit on its mother’s lap (where a baby was already nestled),while another child crouched between the two front seats. There it appeared: a seat for me. I squeezed in, thanking them profusely.
As we drove, we exchanged the usual pleasantries: where I lived, where I was from, how long I would be staying, and did I want to marry their son? Half an hour later, they dropped me off in front of my home. When I saw the car turn back the way it came, I was confused. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“Makave!” they replied.
Makave is a village two minutes outside of town.
The next day, I sat in my home, deep in thought. “Well!” I said aloud, throwing a shirt on over my tank-top. “As the saying goes…”
I went over to the woman’s house. She was sitting by a cooking fire, preparing dinner. “Mind if I join you?” I asked. She smiled, then set an extra plate for me.
I had just spent my last pa’anga of the day on one soda and two ears of corn: my entire dinner. Unable to afford both, I had bought the soda in lieu of eggs, the luxury of a Dr. Pepper (the first I had seen in a year) too hard to resist. In my excitement, I had forgotten to immediately put my purchases in my back-pack. Thus, I had committed a very foolish error: in Tonga, don’t have anything visible if you aren’t willing to part with it.
Her hand, like a hideously overgrown toddler’s, continued to grab at nothing. I hesitated, my “culturally sensitive” angel battling against my “I’m American and this is mine” devil. I tried to evade the situation with humor: “I’m sick. I wouldn’t want you to catch a palangi disease.” The other Tongans from my village laughed, but the woman would not relent.
“You lie. Give me the drink.”
I tried a different approach. “Give me some change and I’ll go get you a drink.”
She pulled a Charlie Chaplin frown, displaying her hands palms out. “I’m poor. I’m not rich like you. You make lots of money. You buy it for me.”
I explained to her that I’m a volunteer, and thus, not paid.
“But you are a rich American,” she insisted. “Give me money.”
I really wanted to give her something else, but since my job description includes “spreading world peace”, I figured physical violence wouldn’t go over well back in Washington.
Defeated, I poured half of the drink into my water bottle and relinquished the rest of the can to her. She gulped it down, then threw the desiccated remains on the ground. She then eyed the thin plastic bag protecting my corn. Circumventing any irksome debate, she reached into the bag and snatched out an ear. She started to strip back the husk.
“You can’t it eat it yet; it hasn’t been boiled!” I protested. She continued to denude my corn, only stopping when the white flesh was exposed. She paused, then stuck it in her bag. “I’ll eat it tonight,” she shrugged.
I walked away with the little I had left: one ear of corn, half a Dr. Pepper, and a shred of composure. Turning down the road back home, a car stopped to ask if I needed a lift. I politely declined, seeing the car was already full. but the family insisted. They commenced to shift: some bags and groceries were thrown in the trunk, one child went to sit on its mother’s lap (where a baby was already nestled),while another child crouched between the two front seats. There it appeared: a seat for me. I squeezed in, thanking them profusely.
As we drove, we exchanged the usual pleasantries: where I lived, where I was from, how long I would be staying, and did I want to marry their son? Half an hour later, they dropped me off in front of my home. When I saw the car turn back the way it came, I was confused. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“Makave!” they replied.
Makave is a village two minutes outside of town.
The next day, I sat in my home, deep in thought. “Well!” I said aloud, throwing a shirt on over my tank-top. “As the saying goes…”
I went over to the woman’s house. She was sitting by a cooking fire, preparing dinner. “Mind if I join you?” I asked. She smiled, then set an extra plate for me.
Monday, October 12, 2009
For Mrs. Guillard
Mrs. Guillard had been teaching French at South Central High for two months: it had taken half that time for her classes to become infamous.
“I got Mrs. Guillard!” a boy in my Study Hall grinned, looking at his schedule. “That fool don’t make you do shit!”
“Watch your language,” I commanded. The student apologized.
“And,” I interjected, “it’s not that she doesn’t “make you do shit”…you don’t do shit. Understand the difference?”
A few students snickered. The boy rushed to his own defense.
“No, Ms. Solove! Everyone plays cards and talks and she never says nothing!”
“She’s not a good teacher like you,” another student chirped. I raised my eyebrow.
“Yeah. You’re scary,” the boy complimented.
“Obviously not scary enough: do your homework. I know for a fact that you-” I pointed at the sycophant for emphasis, “have a test in my class next period. Study.”
She groaned. The boy, not ready to begin his school work, continued.
“The thing is she’s too nice! She gives cookies and stuff to us every week.”
I took the bait. “And this is what makes her a bad teacher?” I responded. “And just yesterday you were complaining how Mrs. Shapiro always yells at you, how she’s so mean. Then you have Mrs. Guillard, who is beyond kind, and instead of showing her respect, you treat her like dirt.”
The student looked down at his desk, admonished.
“But, Miss,” he muttered. “That’s just how it works around here.”
The principal sent Mrs. Guillard to me for lessons on classroom management. She sat across from me, wringing her small hands and shaking her head.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whimpered.
“Well, if you want to control your class, you need to make rules and enforce them. Mrs. Cataldo posts hers right next to the board.”
“Her classes are so good,” Mrs. Guillard mumbled in agreement. I ticked off some disciplinary tricks.
“If they are rude or lazy, hold detention after school. If they make a mess, make the entire class stay until it’s clean.”
She nodded.
“And don’t clean it yourself,” I added, noting her hunched shoulders. “Basically, you have to be strict.”
“I don’t understand!” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes. “I bring them pastries and they don’t even thank me! Last week one of them threw it on the floor and he even refused to pick it up!”
“Then why do you continue to do it? You should stop,” I advised.
Mrs. Guillard left the school by the next semester.
Years later, I’m watching the film Doubt. In it, Sister James, a sweet and innocent teacher, is scolded for being too nice to her students. The principal insists that she must be tough if she wants her class to behave. In the next scene, Sister James punishes a student for being noisy. “This is my class, boy, and you better not forget it!” she yells at him. The student, astonished, does indeed fall silent, but then he begins to cry. Sister James’s stern face collapses, and tears well in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I pause the film, blinking and staring at the ceiling.
The movie continues to follow the principal and priest, focusing on their struggle to choose and do what is right, just, and compassionate. At the end of the film, there’s a dedication. At first I’m surprised by it, considering the character played such a minor role, but then I understand.
“For Sister James” it reads.
“I got Mrs. Guillard!” a boy in my Study Hall grinned, looking at his schedule. “That fool don’t make you do shit!”
“Watch your language,” I commanded. The student apologized.
“And,” I interjected, “it’s not that she doesn’t “make you do shit”…you don’t do shit. Understand the difference?”
A few students snickered. The boy rushed to his own defense.
“No, Ms. Solove! Everyone plays cards and talks and she never says nothing!”
“She’s not a good teacher like you,” another student chirped. I raised my eyebrow.
“Yeah. You’re scary,” the boy complimented.
“Obviously not scary enough: do your homework. I know for a fact that you-” I pointed at the sycophant for emphasis, “have a test in my class next period. Study.”
She groaned. The boy, not ready to begin his school work, continued.
“The thing is she’s too nice! She gives cookies and stuff to us every week.”
I took the bait. “And this is what makes her a bad teacher?” I responded. “And just yesterday you were complaining how Mrs. Shapiro always yells at you, how she’s so mean. Then you have Mrs. Guillard, who is beyond kind, and instead of showing her respect, you treat her like dirt.”
The student looked down at his desk, admonished.
“But, Miss,” he muttered. “That’s just how it works around here.”
The principal sent Mrs. Guillard to me for lessons on classroom management. She sat across from me, wringing her small hands and shaking her head.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whimpered.
“Well, if you want to control your class, you need to make rules and enforce them. Mrs. Cataldo posts hers right next to the board.”
“Her classes are so good,” Mrs. Guillard mumbled in agreement. I ticked off some disciplinary tricks.
“If they are rude or lazy, hold detention after school. If they make a mess, make the entire class stay until it’s clean.”
She nodded.
“And don’t clean it yourself,” I added, noting her hunched shoulders. “Basically, you have to be strict.”
“I don’t understand!” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes. “I bring them pastries and they don’t even thank me! Last week one of them threw it on the floor and he even refused to pick it up!”
“Then why do you continue to do it? You should stop,” I advised.
Mrs. Guillard left the school by the next semester.
Years later, I’m watching the film Doubt. In it, Sister James, a sweet and innocent teacher, is scolded for being too nice to her students. The principal insists that she must be tough if she wants her class to behave. In the next scene, Sister James punishes a student for being noisy. “This is my class, boy, and you better not forget it!” she yells at him. The student, astonished, does indeed fall silent, but then he begins to cry. Sister James’s stern face collapses, and tears well in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I pause the film, blinking and staring at the ceiling.
The movie continues to follow the principal and priest, focusing on their struggle to choose and do what is right, just, and compassionate. At the end of the film, there’s a dedication. At first I’m surprised by it, considering the character played such a minor role, but then I understand.
“For Sister James” it reads.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Ten Minutes
I was running down the street, asking everyone I came across if they had phone credit. I had to call my family. I had to call my boyfriend. I had to reach home to tell everyone I loved them before it was too late.
Two minutes earlier, I had received a call from the Tonga Peace Corps Headquarters, telling me that a tsunami was coming and that it may or may not hit Vava’u within the hour. Stay away from the coast line and find high ground.
One hour. One hour. I have one hour. One hour.
I pounced on two men sitting outside the local shop. “A-tsunami-is-coming-do-you-have-any-phone-credit?” They raised an eyebrow, then both shook their head. “But Mima is coming back soon; she has credit.”
“Coming back when?”
They frowned at my very un-Tongan behavior, especially so early in the morning. “Why are you so afraid?” one asked. “A tsunami is coming!” I repeated. “What should we do? Where should we go?”
He regarded me. “You should make your soul strong,” he advised solemnly.
The other nodded down the road. “There she is.”
I sprinted towards the car.
“A tsunami is coming!” I called out to her. “Get the kindi kids together; we need to find high ground!” My co-teacher looked shocked for a second, then she smiled at my Chicken Little declaration. “No,” she reassured me. “No tsunamis come here. The people of Tonga are very religious. We pray every day.”
I dismissed this as quickly as she had dismissed me. “Do you have any phone credit? I have to call my family.” She said she had three dollars, which I immediately started begging her for. Out of generosity (and an effort to get rid of me), she transferred it over.
I called my father and told him to call me right back. Then, with the remaining credit, I called my boyfriend. As I left him a message, I wondered if I should tell him that I love him. What if he heard the message when it was too late and I never got the chance? I decided I would wait until the tsunami was definitely coming before I took that risk.
As I waited for either to call, I couldn’t stop shaking. I wondered why I had never asked for my friends’ numbers back home; I was nowhere near a computer and wouldn’t be able to reach them. The telephone’s ring cut through my thoughts.
“What’s going on?” Dad asked. I told him the news, which I had to repeat twice, since, in my panic, I had stopped making sense. “Wait,” he said firmly. “Hold on while I look it up.” When he got back on the phone, he told me that it was just a warning, that there was no tsunami yet, and that if one did form, it would probably hit Samoa,
I slumped against the wall. “Thank you,” I told him when I could breathe. “I love you.”
The rest of the morning, I taught at the kindi. As I sat with the children, I concentrated on coloring within the lines. I read my favorite book for story time. I helped build a sand castle.
Still, as I walked to town to meet with friends, I began to sob. I stepped into the bush where no one could see me crying. For the second time that day, I called my father.
“What’s wrong? You’re safe now.”
“I know. I know. It’s silly, but for ten minutes, I really thought I was going to die. I thought…” I broke off crying.
“Jenny. Listen to me. You need to take something away from this experience. What were you thinking about in those ten minutes? What did you regret? What did you wish you had said, but never did? Create something out of this, write something on your blog. This kind of experience can change your life.”
“I don’t know, Dad. I mean, it’s not like I had an actual near death experience. At most, I had an extreme cultural misunderstanding.”
“But you didn’t know that at the time. Think about it. I’ll be looking forward to reading your blog. I love you.”
As soon as I arrived in town, I wrote all my friends and family, telling them how much I loved them and how much they meant to me. There was just one person left.
I hesitated over the words, erasing “I love you” to retype “how much I care for you”: I didn’t need to tell him now. I could wait for him to say it first, wait for the right time, maybe over Christmas…
I erased again. I love you, I wrote. Taking a deep breath, I clicked send.
I once had a friend tell me that they liked my blog, but that I seemed to be absent from it, always commenting on what was around me, but never really putting myself in the writing. To be honest, I’m afraid to post this. What if it’s too intimate? What if the reader thinks it’s maudlin or histrionic? I should just wait, rewrite it later, put it in my diary…
But I learned an important lesson. I didn’t listen to it then, but I will now: make your soul strong. To me, this means never take those you love for granted and never live in fear. Love and live freely, without reservation, or you will regret it when it comes to the final hour.
It took me twenty five years and ten minutes to discover this.
Two minutes earlier, I had received a call from the Tonga Peace Corps Headquarters, telling me that a tsunami was coming and that it may or may not hit Vava’u within the hour. Stay away from the coast line and find high ground.
One hour. One hour. I have one hour. One hour.
I pounced on two men sitting outside the local shop. “A-tsunami-is-coming-do-you-have-any-phone-credit?” They raised an eyebrow, then both shook their head. “But Mima is coming back soon; she has credit.”
“Coming back when?”
They frowned at my very un-Tongan behavior, especially so early in the morning. “Why are you so afraid?” one asked. “A tsunami is coming!” I repeated. “What should we do? Where should we go?”
He regarded me. “You should make your soul strong,” he advised solemnly.
The other nodded down the road. “There she is.”
I sprinted towards the car.
“A tsunami is coming!” I called out to her. “Get the kindi kids together; we need to find high ground!” My co-teacher looked shocked for a second, then she smiled at my Chicken Little declaration. “No,” she reassured me. “No tsunamis come here. The people of Tonga are very religious. We pray every day.”
I dismissed this as quickly as she had dismissed me. “Do you have any phone credit? I have to call my family.” She said she had three dollars, which I immediately started begging her for. Out of generosity (and an effort to get rid of me), she transferred it over.
I called my father and told him to call me right back. Then, with the remaining credit, I called my boyfriend. As I left him a message, I wondered if I should tell him that I love him. What if he heard the message when it was too late and I never got the chance? I decided I would wait until the tsunami was definitely coming before I took that risk.
As I waited for either to call, I couldn’t stop shaking. I wondered why I had never asked for my friends’ numbers back home; I was nowhere near a computer and wouldn’t be able to reach them. The telephone’s ring cut through my thoughts.
“What’s going on?” Dad asked. I told him the news, which I had to repeat twice, since, in my panic, I had stopped making sense. “Wait,” he said firmly. “Hold on while I look it up.” When he got back on the phone, he told me that it was just a warning, that there was no tsunami yet, and that if one did form, it would probably hit Samoa,
I slumped against the wall. “Thank you,” I told him when I could breathe. “I love you.”
The rest of the morning, I taught at the kindi. As I sat with the children, I concentrated on coloring within the lines. I read my favorite book for story time. I helped build a sand castle.
Still, as I walked to town to meet with friends, I began to sob. I stepped into the bush where no one could see me crying. For the second time that day, I called my father.
“What’s wrong? You’re safe now.”
“I know. I know. It’s silly, but for ten minutes, I really thought I was going to die. I thought…” I broke off crying.
“Jenny. Listen to me. You need to take something away from this experience. What were you thinking about in those ten minutes? What did you regret? What did you wish you had said, but never did? Create something out of this, write something on your blog. This kind of experience can change your life.”
“I don’t know, Dad. I mean, it’s not like I had an actual near death experience. At most, I had an extreme cultural misunderstanding.”
“But you didn’t know that at the time. Think about it. I’ll be looking forward to reading your blog. I love you.”
As soon as I arrived in town, I wrote all my friends and family, telling them how much I loved them and how much they meant to me. There was just one person left.
I hesitated over the words, erasing “I love you” to retype “how much I care for you”: I didn’t need to tell him now. I could wait for him to say it first, wait for the right time, maybe over Christmas…
I erased again. I love you, I wrote. Taking a deep breath, I clicked send.
I once had a friend tell me that they liked my blog, but that I seemed to be absent from it, always commenting on what was around me, but never really putting myself in the writing. To be honest, I’m afraid to post this. What if it’s too intimate? What if the reader thinks it’s maudlin or histrionic? I should just wait, rewrite it later, put it in my diary…
But I learned an important lesson. I didn’t listen to it then, but I will now: make your soul strong. To me, this means never take those you love for granted and never live in fear. Love and live freely, without reservation, or you will regret it when it comes to the final hour.
It took me twenty five years and ten minutes to discover this.
Friday, September 11, 2009
A nice day
I was hungry, dirty, and poor. My one working faucet no longer held that title, my cooking gas had run out, my single electrical socket had blown, my headphones had broken, and I was in debt with no possible way of getting out any time soon. And it was still raining. The monsoon season had broken two weeks back, breaking my spirit and hygiene with it; unable to do laundry, I had resorted to wearing my underwear inside out.
A trash bag covering my head and back-pack, I stepped out of my door to hitch a ride to work. My landlord greeted me with a smile and a water bill. Even though it was only the equivalent of ten American dollars, tears welled in my eyes.
"Have a good day at work!" he called out to me as I started trudging down the road.
At the end of the school day, the sun finally made an appearance. The gray sky was back to its robin's egg blue, water dripped from greener plants, and children were screaming and running about barefoot. I passed two grinning kids jogging down the street, a kite flying behind them. They had made it by tying pieces of cord or rope together, which was then attached to a single trash bag floating at the end. They waved to me as they ran by, laughing and squealing at their invention.
What a nice day, I thought as I watched them go.
A trash bag covering my head and back-pack, I stepped out of my door to hitch a ride to work. My landlord greeted me with a smile and a water bill. Even though it was only the equivalent of ten American dollars, tears welled in my eyes.
"Have a good day at work!" he called out to me as I started trudging down the road.
At the end of the school day, the sun finally made an appearance. The gray sky was back to its robin's egg blue, water dripped from greener plants, and children were screaming and running about barefoot. I passed two grinning kids jogging down the street, a kite flying behind them. They had made it by tying pieces of cord or rope together, which was then attached to a single trash bag floating at the end. They waved to me as they ran by, laughing and squealing at their invention.
What a nice day, I thought as I watched them go.
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