tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29058726864911677312024-03-05T14:35:02.174-08:00Kansas or Oz?Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-64232179330405862712014-05-14T07:28:00.001-07:002014-05-19T09:22:48.627-07:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">As I scroll through job listings, there's an overarching theme: What I've accomplished so far<a href="http://rpcvcallme.tumblr.com/post/45882093091/when-someone-tells-me-it-should-be-easy-to-get-a-job" target="_blank"> <i><b>isn't good enough</b></i></a> to obtain a job that is dynamic and interesting.</span><br />
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If I were to judge based solely on lists of candidate requirements and qualifications, it would seem as if I am only qualified for internships and volunteer opportunities. Which is weird, because I have indeed already bartered interesting/fulfilling labor for money before in my lifetime. Having been on the employer side of the table, I understand that this gauntlet of traits would yield the perfect canvass on which a business could paint an individual and organizational wealth of successes. I also understand, however, that the list is a bit of a pipedream for would-be employers. Why, then, is it so hard for me to vault over the bullet point that eyes me suspiciously saying, "Really? You think your combined education and experience can compensate for your refusal to attend grad school?"</div>
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Shut up, Qualifications List, I don't want to be in debt 'til I die!</div>
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"Master's degree required" is one example of many spiny, sneaky add-ons that somehow always appear AT THE TAIL END of a job posting. Ability to organize and maintain multi-user databases - check. Proven clear and effective communication with wide variety of community and corporate sponsors - check! Efficient election of priorities in dynamic work environment and field locations - OMG that's me, check! check! check! Master's degree in international underwater basket weaving required - oh yay! I'm so excited, I....wait. What?!?</div>
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That's okay, just leave the most critically important, labor intensive, financially burdensome, niche qualification until the very end, after I've gotten my hopes up. After that it's a short minute to decide whether or not I may possess commensurate experience that may still be relevant. Here's how that goes:</div>
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Have I ever once woven a basket while submerged in water?</div>
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No.</div>
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Oh...well. That's it then.</div>
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The weird thing is, to stick to the theme, I am an underwater basket weaver. Sometimes I think too highly of myself, but then I look at my resume and am reminded that yes - I have done some weird and varied stuff in my lifetime. My experience is niche, one of a kind, and, well...Millenial. All these experiences were supposed to make me all that and a bag of chips to a future employer, and I bought into it. However, I neglected to invest those experiences into hard skills like data management, project analysis, information systems, etc.</div>
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Did I think I was going to be the next Jane Austen?!</div>
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Without a technically-leaning skill set (forgive me, but I'm so far removed from anything quantitative and data-driven that I scarce know the right language to use when speaking of it) and without a Master's degree in the "soft" skills that I possess...well. What are the options?</div>
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I don't know. I am exploring. I'm on a yellow brick road to the wonderful city of OZ. I keep meeting all these people who are also sort of disillusioned, directionless, and what a pack of rare birds we make! We've heard about what lies ahead of us, and we're pretty excited - Oz sounds great! Everyone gets their own place to live, has access to everything they need like healthy food supply and medical services, schools. The city is bustling and people live well. If we make it there, we'll be lucky enough to live comfortably and will no longer have to live face-to-face with the magician behind the curtain that's been stringing us along. Right?</div>
Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-22255535299413882412012-11-22T19:45:00.003-08:002012-11-22T19:45:48.963-08:00Why I love Black Friday (mistakenly?)One time, I headed out to the King of Prussia Mall at 4:00 in the morning on Black Friday. Why? First off, I was nineteen and a total, naive idiot. Also, Victoria's Secret had advertised a free goodie bag to the first 100 customers. Like, a real bag, filled with lip glosses and moisturizers and who knows what else? It was a secret. Turns out that Victoria's secret was some travel sized hand lotion and a zillionth of an ounce of perfume. The bag was cheaply made and had Heidi Klum's face on it...not really inconspicuous, which is sort of my style. However! To be considered one of the first 100 customers, I did purchase a sweet pair of striped flannel pajamas that I still wear to this day.<br />
<br />
While the bag has now fallen apart, the free gifts scraped clean from their plastic prisons, and the pajamas washed and dried so many times that they are several inches too short for me, the memories remain. Yes, I had great joy going shopping that morning at the butt crack of dawn. By myself. Fighting hordes of people who actually had a "gotta get this" list. Finding parking at K.O.P. and hiking it in the cold a.m. to find out exactly which entrances we could be herded into and at what time.<br />
<br />
No - what really sticks out to me from that day is that I would be damned before I ever did it again.<br />
<br />
But what can one do? Time and tide wait for no man, and I can't magic the world from Thursday to Saturday. So this year, I attack this darkest of days from the opposite side of what feels like battle lines that have been drawn. This year, I work in retail. It's not the first time...I've worked at the thrift store before on Black Friday, but at the kid's store. It wasn't terribly crazy. I also worked at Nordstrom for Black Friday and that was effing nuts. A few espressos and thirteen hours of commissioned pay later, I was really feeling the Christmas spirit.<br />
<br />
And now, I'm girding my loins for Black Friday at the thrift store flagship. I hope it's going to be wild. I dreamt all day today of moving furniture out the door all day. I fantasized about a totally empty store come Monday (when I would get a break from selling people stuff long enough to hop online and take advantage of Cyber Monday). I've psyched myself up for a long day of yelling, getting yelled at, and having a blast as customers dissect my store searching for what we have that was exactly what they wanted.<br />
<br />
I...am tired. And I've made myself a little sick throughout the years of this mad dash toward Christmas. Twenty four, and I find myself jaded about the holiday season. It's usually easy for me to slip into a cutting, sanctimonious view of the commercial Christmas. First, because it runs in my family - we love a good Jesus-centric holiday. Second, because I'm enough of a hipster to revile those overstimulated, holiday lemmings that jump off the cliff of sane behavior into the abyss of material Christmastime. But this is different. This year, I scoff not, if only because I am an exhausted little cog in this machine and too tired to muster even a passing snigger for consumers.<br />
<br />
Here is a New Year's resolution a little early. It's not really relevant past Christmas, but...whatever. Anyway, here it is: I'm not picking a side anymore. I'm not going to adopt a consumer attitude or a sales attitude at Christmas. Both of them make me want to pass out at the end of the day. I'm going to buy stuff when I need to buy stuff. I'm going to sell stuff to people who want to buy stuff. But there's no sense in thirteen hour days. There's no respite in focusing on numbers and countdowns and percentages. And there's absolutely no comfort in spending time and money by myself.<br />
<br />
You know what I need? A vacation. Mmmm....yes, maybe to some tropical paradise. I'd even settle for a city in some chilly mountains and then a 16 hour bus ride to another city, this time next to a canal. Oh wait! I'm doing that! That's right, ladies and gentleman, I am going on vacation and skipping ONE WHOLE WEEK of the lead up to Christmas. I'll be in Costa Rica and then traveling with awesome friends to Panama City to run in a relay team for the Panama City Marathon. I will return on December 6th, hopefully with some cool stories, a calmer attitude toward the holidays, and if I'm lucky...a little sunburn.Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-88380872678390093372012-10-27T20:56:00.001-07:002012-10-27T20:56:08.531-07:00I think this poses a complete double standardI'm trying to work through my thoughts when it comes to "women's issues" in this election season. This is what I think, it's totally up for discussion and I may very well change my opinion in the next hour.<br />
<br />
We arrive at a cusp. Is America a nation in which women have control of their own reproductive systems or is it not? What it comes down to is that the female reproductive anatomy is solely under the jurisdiction of each individual female. I mean, I'm allowed to say, "No," right? That's a rhetorical question - of COURSE I'm allowed to say no. If I say no and a man acts contrary to my express desire NOT to share my anatomy (it's a much less icky way of saying "have sex"), it's rape. And rape? Never okay and very illegal.<br />
<br />
If I'm supposed to say, "No" with any sort of authority, then it stands to reason that I also have a right to say, "Yes" with the same authority. Yes to contraceptives, yes to HPV vaccines, yes to abortion, etc. If what I have belongs only to me - not just in the abstract, ephemeral sense through which I also own an iPod, but truly a part of my physical being - then the power to say yes or no are inextricably wound together.<br />
<br />
I understand that to clear this all up, we have to vote on it. Let's vote on it in a way that will forever remove it from public debate - mostly because I don't want my body to be up for grabs by the American electorate ever again. Pro Life and Pro Choice are both moral positions that people should adopt extra-politically. The health and care of my body should be something for which the government provides protection, but always as I exercise my own good personal judgment.<br />
<br />
All this to say - half a right is a hollow right.Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-55313426447326970252012-10-08T16:55:00.000-07:002012-10-08T16:55:08.668-07:00All of the names have been changed.
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“My name is Molly Reichert,
R-E-I-C-H-E-R-T,” she told us, and the nurse. You could get drunk
from just being near her uneven breathing, that's what the nurse told
me once she was out of the room. But I was too young and too naive
to recognize that, despite semi-debaucherous teen years. Throughout
my Senior year of high school and the following summer, mine was the
disobedience of sneaking small amounts of alcohol out of my dad's liquor shelf. Half-filling water bottles with gin and vodka so that my thievery might go unnoticed were I to run into my father as I
passed through the kitchen, I would run from where he kept the
bottles in the basement to my bedroom closet. I would nervously store my
nabbed goods until there was a bonfire at a friend's house or a road trip to the beach.</div>
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I thought I was very rebellious. It
turned out boys had a respect for girls who could drink hard liquor,
or at least found us more interesting. I fancied myself dangerous,
the delinquent you'd never expect, the one who could get away with it
for that very reason. It seemed like Molly had never gotten away
with anything, no matter how far or hard she ran.</div>
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She's originally from Wyoming. Came to
New York City for God knows why. I'm still not sure why we were
designed to meet, but I know that it changed me and that I've always
been curious if it changed her, too, no matter how insignificantly.
This is how it was.</div>
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The Spring of my Junior year in
college, I decided to join a mission team to New York City. There
were several teams of people sacrificing their Spring Break to
do good works in various locations on the East Coast. It seemed to
me to be an okay way to meet people, albeit a slightly awkward one.
Step one: go to a large meeting. Step two: get assigned to a small
group of people with whom you have avoided eye contact for three
years. Step three: share a small van, a small dorm area, one week,
and intense group dynamics with these people. My group was five
freshmen and two or three upperclassmen, including myself. We took
advantage of the planned get-to-know-you pre-trip meetings and bonded
accordingly. Even more so on the trip up to the city in a fifteen
passenger van that (eep!) our eighteen year-old team leader drove. And the
final bonding stage occurred when we got to our host organization and
shared the living space and mealtimes with what we considered to be
evangelical fundamentalist crackpots from another college. In
reality, I'm sure they were very nice people. To us, they were the
antithesis of our liberal Christian college mentality and as a group
we found endless ways to ridicule their close minded attitudes
regarding philosophy, science, and society.</div>
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My teammates and I spent our days going
to various non-profits in the city and volunteering. Cleaning,
cooking, serving food, experiencing, learning, opening up to each
other and the people we worked with. In the afternoons we went to
the projects and volunteered with kids in an after-school program
that was grim - except for the kids themselves. Contrary to my expectations, I liked the kids.
They came from a lot of different ethnic backgrounds and at their
age, they were unconscious conduits of culture to their peers. And
to me as well. I loved being among the
children, I think because it was so wholly different than my suburban
elementary education. So many different cultures in one place, in
the middle of the city that's at the center of the whole world...it
was overwhelming and awesome and so evident in these kids. I missed
the last afternoon, though, and I hope they didn't think it was
because I suddenly didn't want to be there. I had just suddenly met
Molly.</div>
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</div>
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On this last morning, we were at the
last soup kitchen and it ended up having the most interesting people
behind the serving line. The theory was to have people seated and to
serve them on trays, attempting more restaurant-style than
poverty-style. I got behind it wholeheartedly, it suited my holistic
notions of feeding a person emotionally, not just physically. It was
a crazy few hours with a few rotations of guests and I had a lot of
fun shouting and being shouted at, moving fast and for goodness'
sake, <i>no one gets extra crackers for their soup!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
When it was all over, we took photos with the staff, everyone
wearing hairnets and staticky, white plastic aprons. We wiped down
tables, flipped them, knocked in their legs and then stacked chairs,
too. At the end of it all, as we were preparing to leave, there was
a small knot of people off to one side, guests and staff, around a
girl.</span></div>
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</div>
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How old was she? I
ask myself that now. I think I've perhaps reached her age. She
couldn't have been more than her late twenties, I think, but could
you really tell once drugs had leeched the love of her own self from
her skin? She was hunched over, sitting cross legged on the floor
and the people standing above her offering her words of
encouragement, pats on the back, and nervous glances at one another.
A few members of my team and I walked over with some trepidation. It
seemed like she was not in a good place. She kept saying, “They
took my baby. He took my baby.” She started crying, sobbing, and
the words became a wail. “He took my babyyyyy! What am I supposed
to do? What am I supposed to do?”</div>
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</div>
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This was beyond a
group of college kids. She was in an altered state, to put it
delicately. We, too, looked at each other nervously. It was time to get
going. To my lasting shame, I did not decide to reach out to Molly
in that moment of our departure. It was a freshmen, Liz, who
approached her and knelt to hug her. She pulled away, patted her
back, and looked at me helplessly. So I did what felt natural, a way
to end the scene and show solidarity not with Molly, but with Liz and
her brave compassion. I went and hugged Molly, too, murmuring,
“It'll be okay.”</div>
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</div>
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It wasn't true. It
wasn't going to be okay. I couldn't promise that. I was thus
totally startled when Molly responded and wrapped her arms around me.
She started crying harder and clung to me like she had been drowning
and someone had thrown her a lifeline, me. So I did what was
natural, again, and held her tighter. Molly has long, big wavy
blondish-brown hair and it smelled terrible, but I buried my face in
it and stroked her hair and tried to say comforting things. I tried
not to cry, but failed. Her distress in that moment became my
own and the melding of spirit was total.
</div>
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</div>
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I was confused and
scared, I didn't know what to do to make things right for Molly. We
were at a church and she wanted to smoke, so we went outside and I
sat with her while she smoked. Eventually, Liz and our team leader
came outside. A decision had to be made about who was going where
this afternoon. Liz said she wanted to stay with Molly and I said I
did, too. Our team leader said he would stay with us since the
others knew how to navigate to the after school program in the projects by themselves. Molly
wanted to use the phone, so we got her some change for a payphone.
Molly needed clean clothes, so we got her some from the church's
clothing donation bins and Liz and I helped her change in a bathroom.
Molly said she wanted to meet with the pastor, so we met with the
pastor and we prayed over her. She was shaking. Withdrawal or the
Holy Spirit or both or neither. She said she wanted to be clean, to
be sober, to get her baby back. The three of us kids and Molly and
the Pastor got in a van and he dropped us off at the nearest
hospital.</div>
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</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My name is Molly
Reichert, R-E-I-C-H-E-R-T.” The four of us had been hours in the
emergency room, waiting for a bed for Molly. The nurse was not one
to bet money on starry-eyed college dreamers who were going to fix
the world, starting with our friend, here. Molly would stray outside
for a smoke until our team leader hid her cigarettes. She would get
distraught, paranoid, angry, teary, heart-wrenchingly sad, and sorry.
Once she was in a hospital gown and had an IV drip, she quieted down
and even slept some. She woke up and demanded food, so we got her a
sandwich. She slept some more. Five hours after I met Molly, I was
talking with a security guard at the hospital. “She's here now,”
he said, “and as long as she's checked in here, she's not getting
out past me.” It had ended for us, then. Weary, we got on the
subway back to our host organization in the Bronx. The guard had
given us an out, and we took it.
</div>
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</div>
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I haven't been out,
though. “...Molly Reichert, R-E-I-C-H-E-R-T.” In the last four
years I've Googled her name a few times, comma, Wyoming. She shows
up back in Wyoming local newspapers, in and out of county jails. I
don't know how she got back there, but I can't help but feel
relieved. The vibrancy and resiliency of the children in the
after-school program is juxtaposed with a maelstrom of urban poverty
and cycles that don't break. Maybe Wyoming isn't a good place to
be for Molly, but I know there was something absolutely dark in the
city that was swallowing her whole.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Molly
was the first woman in trouble that I met randomly. Since then, I
met Aliyah in the airport and Katherine through work. All three have
a common “him”, a shadowy man who has caused serious damage. And all three seem paralyzed, unable or unwilling to make a move to help themselves. As
a Peace Corps Volunteer, I've met women in developing nations who are
second class citizens and somehow, when people say, “It's
cultural,” it almost becomes okay. There's a numbing effect in
numbers. When millions of women are treated as little more than vacuums for abuse and wombs to fill with children, when men assert
that might is right, when women </span><i>accept that they do not
belong unto themselves</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, it is a
mistaken opinion that this is acceptable - regardless of how
commonplace these sentiments may be.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Similarly, and to no less
detriment, there are women in the developed world who are drawn into
these unhealthy standards of existence. It is subsidized by a modern
culture that yet has deep roots in class distinctions between men and
women. While it may not reach the overt, epidemic proportions of the
developing world, the answer to this problem remains the same: It is
imperative that women be educated to take ownership of themselves.
It is a necessity that we create a world that allows this education
to have a practical expression. That is my fervent desire for Molly,
that, “He took my baby,” will one day become, “I have a family
that cherishes me and whom I cherish.” That Aliyah's bruises, the
ones deeper than her skin, will heal when she says, “That's not
love.” That Katherine will experience self-nurturing, a certainty
of her own completeness</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> that renders a discerning choice of a worthy life partner.</span></div>
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<br />
</div>
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I have no idea how
to do it. But I'll spend a lifetime trying to.</div>
Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-48815310329057452562012-10-05T17:31:00.001-07:002012-10-05T17:31:05.992-07:00
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ok, let's talk about Nervous Nikki and
the Chill Pills. I think Nicole will kill me once she sees that I'm
calling attention to this thing we've got going on, so...these may be my last words.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sometimes I think that I'm not a very
interesting person. When I think about it objectively, I know that's
not true. I've been a lot of places, have a lot to share. But you
know...when the highlight of my week is finishing a 500 piece jigsaw
puzzle and going to my Zumba class (in the same night! It was
<i>awesome</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!), I start to feel
like my hobbies are a little lackluster. But then, I'll get a call
or a text from Nicole. “When are you free this week?” I'm weary
and droopy-eyed by the time I make it to her house to play, and I
usually leave around 9:00 so that I can finish up chores in the
apartment before bedtime. But for the hour and a half that Nicole,
Kylie, Dylan, and I are in the back room of the addition on Nicole's
house, I feel like I'm in a cocoon. I'm sitting uncomfortably close
to people who know me uncomfortably well...which is, you know, oddly
comforting. And while it's sometimes awkward to accommodate the
different styles and energies and moods and thought processes of four
distinct personalities, I think it's what makes it ultimately so much
fun. It's the same cohesive hodge-podge that's evident in the music
when you hear it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
music is fun to play, creative, lyrical. And however much I like the
music, I love hanging out with the people I play it with. Long live
the band that makes my week (and months and years) anything but lackluster.</span></div>
Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-46614202419381483012012-10-02T18:24:00.001-07:002012-10-02T18:24:17.484-07:00Real optimistic, y'all :)
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Earlier tonight I was perusing a copy
of <i>Time</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> that my mom gave to
me after she was finished reading it. I was originally most
interested in the cover article when I opened up the magazine, but
ended up skimming it. I skimmed a lot of the magazine, except for
the piece about the covert filming of the Romney dinner party (I
think that video is the most shocking, unforgiving and explosive
indictment of Mitt Romney in this election. It's fascinating). But
the page that I stared at the longest, spent the most time mulling
over and processing, was an advertisement for the Peace Corps. All
Peace Corps ads I've seen are brilliantly concise, never spending
much effort trying to convince or to sell. They simply are, and they
express something about Peace Corps service that is above words. So
it's no surprise that this ad struck such a chord with me, turning on
a light over desires and hopes, regrets and memories that I usually
relegate to the darkness.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">For
dreamers who do.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">As I
was sitting comfortably in my apartment, I started to feel a little
of that hopelessness which seems to be engendered by my contemporary
20-somethings: What am I </span><i>doing? </i><span style="font-style: normal;">What
am I doing here, with my life, with him/her, at this job, tonight,
next week, etc. And maybe the most anxiety-inducing, </span><i>Why</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
am I doing this? The ad's efficient invitation to dream, to </span><i>do,
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">it gave me pause because I
haven't effectively processed these questions since I came home. Two
years ago during the application process, I asked myself over and
over, “Why am I doing Peace Corps?” The answer was always
because I was capable and I could help people. But after a huge
turning point in my adult life (quitting Peace Corps), I didn't
reassess and I didn't form new dreams. Returning home and working
has at times felt like a blind, zombie-like romp through the
beginning of my real adulthood. I never stopped to ask myself, Why?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've questioned my
commitment to the thrift store occasionally, and you know what?
That's good. It's always good to strengthen commitments, to
entertain doubts and then smash them with the convictions borne of
experience. Working at the thrift store is enticing in that it's a
non-profit that seeks sustainability in my community, both socially
and environmentally. Incidentally, that's my go-to rhetoric when I
feel drained by this not very exciting life of working nine to five.
Which, as per my previous comments about feeling like a zombie, is
perhaps more often than I'd like.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This ad made me
aware of two things. The first, I can't join Peace Corps again. No
matter how much I've learned about myself since coming home, no
matter how much I think I could do it if I had the perspective I have
now, I can't re-join. Which gave birth to this second, belligerent
idea: My dreams don't have to be at all different than they were.
Living in the suburbs of Philly doesn't mean that I have to alter my
desires to be as banal as the housing developments that surround me.
And here we go with the punchy, idealistic optismism that y'all love
about me - Dammit, I will help people! I will be an effective leader
and inspire people! I will use my life experiences to walk with
people and be a friend and a mentor. I will change and be changed
for the better...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">...in
Collegeville. Tonight I feel like I've had this revelation that just
because the thrift store isn't new doesn't mean it can't be my new
dream. Wait, did that sentence have some confusing negatives in it?
Yes, so let me re-phrase. The dreams that I've had for myself since
graduating college are not exclusive to far-off places and new,
exciting adventures. That was the original framework in which I
imagined them, but that framework has evolved. And while I usually
feel pretty good about working at the thrift store, tonight (and
tomorrow, but probably only after my coffee) I feel </span><i>awesome</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
because I know that I'm already in a place that is perfect to realize
my dreams. If anything, I feel like such a dummy that I've been
waiting for the next new thing to present itself. Since January,
I've been telling myself that I only have to put in a few years at
the thrift store, stockpiling personal stability (read: cash) before
moving on to the totally awesome, wonderful, life-changing
opportunity. But it's not the experience that's the dream, it's the
dreamer that brings the vision and then </span><i>does </i><span style="font-style: normal;">that's
so great.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
All of that to say
that tomorrow is my new opportunity for dreaming and doing. I was a
dreamer, and I was invited to “do”. The dreaming doesn't stop
because I left Peace Corps. And tomorrow the “do” has a lot more
conviction behind it. I'm so excited for my Peace Corps friends who
are still working in their sites and I just want to give them great
big hugs or something for continuing to dream when they are
confronted with harsh realities and unfavorable working conditions.
To anyone, not just volunteers, who feels like they've been blockaded
or frustrated in their efforts to bring a dream to fruition. I know
I'm entering the realm of rambling, now, but I think about this quote
from Star Wars (which is possibly not motivating if you interpret it
from a fatalistic point of view). Yoda says, “Do or do not, there
is no try.” Like the Peace Corps ad, Yoda's not wasting words
trying to convince you that you can, if you try hard enough. Do or
do not. But you know what? Do.</div>
Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-58444111188750562402012-09-14T08:14:00.004-07:002012-09-14T08:14:58.595-07:00A Bottle of Wine and Some Politics
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We have a presidential election coming
up soon. That's a no-brainer. As a former student of Politics, with
a B.A. to prove it, I often feel like I'm not contributing much to
the political discourse around me. I'm just not that interested in
discussing who, if elected, will be the catalyst for Armageddon and
why. I spent enough time studying the discipline of politics to know
that my disgust for rhetoric is not a good enough reason to remove
myself from the conversation completely. If I don't like rhetoric
and ignorant opinions, I could always seek to educate others from a
neutral perspective - perhaps teach a better definition of terms or
take it upon myself to better illuminate the debate in creative ways
for others.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Instead, I'm like, “Nah. Eff it.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why? Because despite knowing that my
vote really DOES count and, ergo, the votes of others, my personal
conviction is that it's none of my business to get into other
people's business (which, just to get this out of the way, is also
the root of my political dispositions). People want to make ignorant
statements? I'd rather just keep quiet. People want to get agitated
and fret over the political affiliations of their coworkers and
neighbors? That's stress I'd rather not have, but to each his/her
own. I quote him a lot, but my Dad has been known to say, “It's
better to have your mouth shut and people think you a fool, than to
open your mouth and confirm their suspicions.” This nugget of a
proverb has started to roll around in my mind, finally replacing <i>Call
Me, Maybe </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(thank you, Jesus).
And I'm sure that the closer we get to that fateful day in November,
I'll think on it more and more frequently.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's cool to have
political opinions. More than cool - it's completely desirable.
Voting is not just a symbolic nod to grand ideas such as Democracy
and Freedom, it's a concrete expression of rights. A behavior with
real consequences, too, so I'm happy when people respect it and take
it seriously. So, possession of opinions = awesome. I would also
agree that not just to possess, but also to communicate them to
others is a right. But just like all rights we exercise, it's always
good to double check that it's appropriate. I may own and discharge
a firearm, for example. But even within the framwork of legal
actions regarding firearms, there is a lot of area for personal
discretion. Taking it down a notch, is it appropriate to try and get
people to register to vote for X party in the workplace? At lunch
time? It's certainly legal. But my sandwich-starved neanderthal
brain either can't or doesn't want to handle that much at lunchtime.
I would really have liked a half hour of peace and quiet instead of
polarized squawking. Noooooot appropriate.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By the way, this is
the part of the blog that you're like, “Ohhhh, someone interrupted
her lunch and THAT'S why she's so up in arms about this. Yikes, what
an idiot to get in between Lily and her sandwich.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Unless
you work on the campaign trail, for a PAC, for a college politics
department, for whatever entity that entails a legitimate daily
discussion of the election, </span><i>just don't talk about it
between 9 am and 5 pm</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. If
you're passionate about it, set up a booth in front of the grocery
store. It works well for the Girl Scouts. Or get it out of your
system at a rally, an online forum, a blog (!), or the dinner table.
You could also realize that no one cares more about your opinion than
yourself (a good lesson for in between elections as well, albeit a
hypocritical one for a blogger to give).</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In general, ask
yourself: Would I open up a bottle of wine and drink it here? In
front of these people? This publicly? At this time of day?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If the answer is
no, then you shouldn't be talking politics, either. It'll make you
look just as dumb and isolated and people will pity your lack of self
control.</div>
Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-33108592206945891172012-09-02T08:19:00.000-07:002012-09-02T08:19:42.209-07:00prayer
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This past week, a question was posed to
me as part of a group. “How often have you prayed for your plans
to succeed? And how often have they failed?” I nodded my head and
smiled sagely. I do indeed know what it is like for my plans to
fail. As usual, when the topic of failure is breached I think about
Costa Rica. But about as soon as I started to nod, I stopped.
Because I realized that while the mention of failure struck a chord,
prayer did not. I did not consult God more than a handful of times
toward the end of my service in Costa Rica. And even those times
were just to say both ignorantly and oh-so-humanly, “God, you can't
want me to be miserable, right? That cannot be what this experience
is about.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I feel like it's time to bail (as
an example of a particular type of decision that requires lots of
reflection), I consider my options and consequences. If I choose to
leave a place or situation, the decision is made and no matter what I
think about it later, I remind myself that I must have had good
reasons because I considered it carefully. Not even just Costa Rica
- there was the semester I took off from college, the decision to go
to Ecuador, every time I've broken up with a guy. A combination of
pride and trust in my own common sense inures me to much second
guessing and prolonged, tormented agonizing over pros and cons. I
tend to make decisions quickly, convinced of my own knowledge of
myself.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In that process, I have forgotten all
about the God that will one day tell me all the secrets about myself
that I've never known. The God that sees the whole plan, not just
the part I feel stuck on, the plan that may be currently falling
apart in my competent (but, after all, only human) hands. The God
that perceives more keenly than anyone how conflicted I still am by
my decision to leave Costa Rica.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What can I expect, when this God that I
believe is essential to living, is adamantly refused entry to certain
parts of my life?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The most frustrating thing about this
is that I am still - STILL - able to rationalize avoiding God when a
big decision comes around. Why should I have to consult my maker
anyway? Haven't I been raised by reasonable people? Haven't they
taught me how to behave in ways and make jugdments that keep me safe?
And wasn't that all done based on what the Bible says and what we
heard in church and their own conversations with God? Aren't the
overwhelming gut instincts of, “This is not right, I should leave,”
heaven sent? And it's not like I never pray, I pray all the time for
patience and understanding and love. I just won't pray once I've
made up my mind, and what would be the point of praying once I have
my answer, anyway? Maybe it's <i>good</i> to take it upon myself to
figure it out (even if I mess it up) because it means I haven't
shifted the responsability of a making a decision to someone else,
I'm not using God as a crutch or a cop-out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think my issues with pride are pretty
evident. If you know me, you knew that before reading this blog
entry. I like to do things and I like to do them well. I like to
succeed in areas that others perhaps do not. I take special <i>pride</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
in a lifetime of being told that I'm special, believing it, and then
going and doing spectacular and special things. And I love getting
the recognition I recieve for doing those often independent
endeavors. This is all to say that to submit my will and the the
outcome of a life changing decision to God is very difficult. It's
easy to listen to friends and say to myself, “Yeah, ok. But
they're not me.” It's even easier to listen to my parents and
think, “You guys have NEVER been in this situation. Ever.” How
far up the chain of loving relationships does that extend?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Well,
God has the perfect answers and they're not often the ones that are
easy to execute. So while I listen to my friend's advice because
it's why I enjoy socially, and while I listen to my parents because
it's what I should do practically, there's nothing ultimate or
perfect that necessitates right and possibly painful action. Not
saying that I take it easy on myself all the time or that God's will
is always terrifying, but, you know...it could be this time around.
And then I'd have to share the credit, more than just a simple, “I
thank God for the opportunity He gave me.” I'd have to switch it
to, “I thank God for guiding me through this opportunity and
providing me with the counsel that made this such a success. I never
could have done it on my own.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think that's why
I (incorrectly) think, “Well, God, you've equipped me in the past
to deal with this new situation. Don't worry, I've got this one.
But thanks for the offer.” I'm not perfect and I take a weird sort
of savage pride in that, too - it's what makes me human and real.
But this human has realized that in making real decisions, there is a
perfect solution if I am humble enough to reach out to the One who
has already laid my path and take His counsel seriously.</div>
Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-9705136320810887782012-08-12T11:09:00.002-07:002012-08-12T11:09:45.002-07:00Love me some August.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's been awhile, huh? Sorry about
that. There's been a lot going on and thus I plead the endemic North
American excuse: I've been busy. At least I can say that my time has
been happily spent doing two very valuable things: being with people
and moving into a place of my own.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lately there's been an influx of people
and events into my social equation and it's WONDERFUL. After
returning from Costa Rica in May, I began “training” for my first
5k as an adult (I had unnatural amounts of energy when I was nine
years old and ran my first 5k. I don't think it counts, really).
Not just a 5k, either, but the Color Run. I try never to get carried
away with creating expectations, but I ran with it on this one (pun
intended!) and got pretty pumped imagining my glorious run/dance
through the streets of Philadelphia as cheering Color Run volunteers
showered me with clouds of vibrant, exuberant happiness. Er...I
mean, paint. Clouds of powdered paint. I think I was jazz-running
in my mind, lightly leaping and spinning, much like how Christopher
Starr navigates obstacles both mountainous and urban.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In my imaginings, I did not picture
22,000 other
joggers/walkers/strollers/teenagers/photo-takers/lollygaggers. Nor
did I envision what heat waves look like rolling off pavement dyed
pink and purple by paint. Didn't register ahead of time that
breathing in powdered paint would trigger moderate coughing and some
really colorful boogers. HOWEVER! Despite the unexpected hitches in
the glorious dream-to-reality rainbow hooplah that was the Color Run,
it was a blast. There was music at every kilometer mark to
facilitate my grooving through the paint zones. The uber energetic
5k began and ended at the Philadelphia Art Museum, the route being a
great scenic tour along Martin Luther King Boulevard and the river.
And finally, the people I went with were much fun to run alongside.
Or stare at with disbelief as they sprinted away into the multitude
without a trace (What the heck, Joe!). Everything said and done, I'm
still running, inspired by the Color run to train for a zombie attack
10k in October. And I will definitely do Color Run next year. So
proud of my tee shirt and I love seeing people around town in theirs.
I've exchanged quite a few high fives with complete strangers, just
because I spot them and say, “Hey! You did Color Run? Me too!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ahhh, what else...oh yeah! Since I got
home Nevous Nikki and the Chill Pills played a show at Steel City
Coffe House. I went to the beach with my parents. Dad had surgery
(and is okay). I started working at the Collegeville location of my
thrift store. Went rock climbing, lavender picking, wine tasting,
tea-gardening, berry-picking...and learned that I like olives (the
green kind...I still won't try the black ones. Baby steps!). I
entertained old friends and roommates, went up to New York City for
the weekend to sightsee with my favorite Dane, started to get really
into Zumba at the gym.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And in the midst of it all, I moved
out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yes, ladies and gentlemen...six months
behind schedule, I found an apartment to rent and moved out of my
parent's house. I wonder sometimes how it's going to all work out -
paying the rent and eating, primarily. More than anything I'm
nervous that my living-alone-now skillset will never improve and I'll
be eating homemade bagel pizzas three years from now. But then I
think about the billions of people who have done this successfully
before me and the billions in the future who will follow their lead.
I think I can make this a successful endeavor and evolve my
living-alone-now diet to boot.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You want a description of my apartment
then, huh? Well, a picture is worth a thousand words.
Unfortunately, I'm not sure where my camera is, so buckle up! This
is going to be a long paragraph. It's on the third floor of a house
that's been broken into four apartments. So I live in an attic,
sloped ceilings and all. I walk up two flights of stairs, open a
door, some more stairs, then I'm in my living room/kitchen. It's a
good amount of space, with a living area, bathroom, kitchen, a small
bedroom and a large bedroom. Right now it is painted some pretty
funky colors, but I'm working on it. Thus far I have opted out of
hooking up the T.V. or getting a wireless hot spot (or
something-or-other...thingy). Which means I'm reading a lot more
(but totally on the grid, with my nook, which tempers the lack of
other technologies). I can't say I've relaxed too much in my
apartment yet. I've either been out and about or cleaning. In a few
weeks though, when everything is the way I want it, you are
officially invited to come over to an open house to see it.
Actually, ESPECIALLY if you are reading this blog. Alllll four of
you can come over.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are repairs that need to be made
to the apartment and there are people who would say it's the
landlord's responsability. But here's the deal. I trust my landlord
completely - she's someone I've worked with for a long time. She is
also charging me very little for this apartment given its location
and the space. I think she's open to me making the changes to it I
want to make (baby steps, again...I got permission to paint and we'll
see where I can take it from there). So honestly, it's a good time
for me to learn how to caulk a tub. Or knock out hornets nests. Or
learn what deodorizers I can use in the summer when it's too hot to
have windows open for ventilation. Or how to use CLR or buy the
right drip pans for a stove range. This is a huge opportunity to
learn, in short. I don't think I'd trade this chance to live in an
anesthetized apartment complex. “It's got something,” my friend
Dylan said. And it's true. This apartment is...well, whatever. I
won't wax emotional. It's a cool place to live.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So that's the excuse for not writing.
But without a T.V. and without internet, I'm basically back to the
downtime occupations that I had in Costa Rica. Which consisted
mainly of, if I remember correctly, writing blog posts.</div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-91097390636293743932012-05-14T19:16:00.001-07:002012-05-14T19:16:12.054-07:00UPDATEThere was just free yoga at the hostel I'm staying in.<br />
Hella. Yes.Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-5641027889538416542012-05-14T14:50:00.000-07:002012-05-14T14:50:16.582-07:00Back in Costa RicaI'm back in Costa Rica on vacation for the next week so really, how can I resist the opportunity to post a blog? To be sure, the thrift store is never boring, but it's also a little difficult to speak candidly about every day experiences. I haven't given much thought as to why that differs from my Peace Corps experience. Certainly, I spoke of the organization and very real people and it wasn't always pleasant. But for some reason, blogging about much of what's interesting (good and bad) within the thrift store seems innately more taboo. I'll have to think about that some more.<br />
<br />
Whatever the case may be, I'm back in country for the next few days and thought it would be appropriate to post again. A very present theme in my blog has been nails and nail art, so I should definitely include the fact that as I write I am recieving a pedicure. It's the bomb diggity, a little station with a swivel desk and a laptop and, below, some warm water jets massaging my feet. Yup. And because I'm so in tune with the computer and not my feet, I do believe my pain tolerance is a bit higher. So this is pretty sweet.<br />
<br />
The last few days I was able to meet up with some good friends in their sites. Adriana and Biiftu were already in San Jose and the three of us met up with Aaron to head down to the "dirty south" of the country.<br />
<br />
Ah! Ah! Threshold for pain is NOT HIGHER.<br />
<br />
Ok. So we went to the so-called dirty south and had a great time. Three volunteers all in a row in the "Filas"...Fila Pinar, Fila Guinea, and Fila Mendes. It was awesome to see a part of the country I had not seen before, and one so verdant. Compared to brittle Guanacaste, this part of Costa Rica looked like it had more water than it knew what to do with. Except...that's kind of a lie. All three of the Filas were without water, a situation that Darien, our first volunteer host, was aware of. For this reason, the first night of our trip was going to be spent at Jessie's site, since her host family has a water tank - one that was left open and dripping and was, consequentially, out of water when we got there.<br />
<br />
Not a problem, though. We're troopers and so girl's night went without a hitch. The following day we met up with Aaron (remember him? He did a guest blog, it was very good) and that night there was dancing, wine, and spaghetti at Darien's house ftw.<br />
<br />
Stinky but happy, we were on the bus the next day to come into San Jose.<br />
<br />
So far my time in San Jose reconnecting with my friends has been great. They are headed to mid-service training for the next three days, and all of them had tales to relate from their sites. I'm so proud of them. Someone described it as, "Sometimes I think, 'Oh my God, I only have a year left, it's so little time," and sometimes I think, 'Oh holy crap, there's still a year left.'" Either way you slice it, a year is indeed a good chunk of time and I have total faith that they'll keep being effective and sincere volunteers. If y'all are reading, caps off to you guys!<br />
<br />
So now that they're heading to their remote training facility (sounds positively <em>mysterious</em>, doesn't it?) I've got some time on my hands. And what have I done with it? Well, you already know where I'm writing from. Just previous to this, I was at the tattoo parlor where I got the first half of my new piece inked in January. I talked with the guy and now we're ready to finish it all up on Friday at 10am. So. Pumped. I think after this I'll go see a movie and get some ice cream. At some point I need to go to the grocery store...no real rush though, which is superbly relaxing.<br />
Tomorrow I head to Guanacaste to see my host family. My oldest host sister had another baby, Luna Fiorela and I CANNOT wait to see her and hold her. This is Genesis's little sister and I am overjoyed that I'll get to see Genesis as well. My host ----<br />
<br />
Ah! Threshold for tickling also not any higher for being distracted.<br />
<br />
My host mom is probably the person I am most excited to see. To give her a hug and wish her a happy Mother's Day is my greatest desire right now.<br />
<br />
After I get back and tatted, it'll be time to hang out with my friends again on the opposite end of their mid-service training and in the first few days of their second year as Peace Corps Volunteers. This is the plan, but as always, "The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men gang aft agley..." The "gang aft agley" is what makes for good stories anyway (like water shortages that result in baby wipe baths and cemented hair braids), so we'll see what happens and I'll keep you updated!<br />
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Chau desde Costa Rica!Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-10625405461351438972012-03-26T19:53:00.000-07:002012-03-26T19:53:35.368-07:00I may have an obsession with really trashy nail art. Right now I'm super excited about mid-April. A trip to the West coast to see my sister and a wedding a week later are the two perfect excuses to splurge on some nutso nails. I'm thinking hot pink and black zebra stripes...maybe some glitter or rhinestones. The wildest thing they can offer me, really, is what I will ask for.<br />
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Nothing too crazy at the thrift store, lately. I've fallen into a rhythm with work and play. Every other weekend I have both Saturdays and Sundays off from work which has allowed me to reconnect with a lot of friends who live anywhere from 1 to 6 hours away. The weekends that I do work, I stay at home and have begun a few projects. They resemble stereotypical projects that Peace Corps volunteers do at site, there's no way to deny it, haha. One of them is an herb garden so that I can make my own tea, and the other is a compost heap to help out with the tea garden. It's like what they say happens when a limb is amputated and the person gets phantom pains, only not painful. I just have phantom projects, heh.<br />
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But that sounds like I believe that where I am or what I'm doing is counterfeit, which is not the truth! Peace Corps just really expanded what I think I'm capable of, so my motivation to do things is through the roof. Suddenly, uprooting a massive bush, churning up some dirt, and relocating some bulbs without really knowing ahead of time whether I'm doing it right...well, it doesn't sound overwhelming anymore so I just do it. Did it. And if it doesn't work? Weeeell, try and try again. It's a good feeling.<br />
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Also a good feeling, and expanding on earlier comments, travel is in my immediate future! I'm going to visit my sister in Northern California in three weeks. Then a little road trip to State College for a wedding. Then a week in Costa Rica on starting May 12th! This weekend I visited with a friend who was house sitting for a family currently on vacation in France. It gave me the pit-of-my-stomach feeling that I needed to GO somewhere and I'm excited that I'll get to indulge it.<br />
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Hey, in closing I just want to take a minute to thank everyone who is giving me positive feedback about the blog. Most of you have commented on the expression and humor in my writing and how you've been surprised and entertained. Thank you thank you thank you! I know it's not perfectly written, but I am over the moon that you enjoy the end product nonetheless. It's a lot easier to trust the compliments that come from sources other than my mother :)Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-59798016707421136482012-03-05T20:42:00.001-08:002012-03-05T20:43:12.472-08:00Laughing isn't always my gut reaction......but it was today, so I'll take it! The customer base at the thrift store is indescribable by conventional verbiage, so I considered taking it to the next level and using Lil Wayne's so very accurate "cray". I did a little research, though, and a reliable source set me straight. What I thought would be an appropriate indictment of insanity actually turned out to be the following:<br />
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“The origin of the term 'Cray' from the 'N***** In Paris' single is actually not a shortened form of 'crazy', nor is it 'cray'. It’s actually 'Kray', in reference to the schizophrenic twins Ronald and Reginald Kray, crime lords of London in the 50’s and 60’s."<br />
-Urbandictionary.com<br />
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So there's that. However, I must say that if I were to discover that two dodgy customers with faces similar to each other turned out to be THE Kray brothers having escaped the grasp of English justice in order that they may reach a comfortable old age in Spring City...well. I wouldn't be surprised. I've seen weirder walk through those automatic sliding doors. And so we're back to square one, describing the customer base..."That shit Kray."<br />
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As an illustration, my new favorite customer anecdote came to pass today. It begins with me at the register, keeping an eye on an old guy who is agitatedly shuffling his way up to the front. Do I know ahead of time that something entertaining is about to happen? Yes. But not even in my wildest imaginings could I have fabricated a dialogue so unexpected.<br />
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"Excuse me, miss. If I cook my eggs in this pan, they will stick, yes?"<br />
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"I think so, sir. Unless you use oil or the no-stick sp - "<br />
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"Ah, of course I know to use the oil. I have a can of that spray stuff."<br />
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"Well, then! That should do it. Are you all ready to be checked out?"<br />
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<i>As he eyes me warily</i>, "Hey. You have a husband? Do you have a lot of kids?"<br />
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<i>I can see where this is going</i>. "Nope, no sir. I am unburdened by such attachments. But I reeeeally like eggs."<br />
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"Hah!" <i>He looks around at the other customers in the vecinity. </i>"Unreliable!" <i>Pointing at me</i>. "Unreliable!" <i>Shuffles away.</i><br />
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"Yup. Youuuu got it. Don't trust me to talk about cooking eggs..."<br />
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Annnnnd I get back to putting a price on the stuff I was working on before that exchange, only I think I got the hiccups from trying so hard not to laugh out loud. He ended up buying the pan (I decided to change my main selling point from no-stick spray to the fact that kitchenwares are half off this week), but I can't help but think he's going to try and return it with some nasty black burnt eggs inside it. The conversation will begin with me citing store policy (all sales are final) and quickly devolve into reminding him that he had labeled me himself as an "unreliable" source of knowledge on whether or not eggs would stick in this pan PREVIOUS to the purchase and had, in fact, decided to buy the probably-sticky-pan anyway.<br />
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As much as I would appreciate people treating us less like a yard sale, the bottom line is that I will get to know our customers better than any random cashier at a store with seventeen different checkout lanes. A lot of times I think, <i>How much of this is done for attention?</i> How much of it is Kray, pure and diagnosable psychosis? That's usually a thought I have when people are still shopping five minutes after close. But there are awesome customers, too. Some customers say or do things that are kind and show integrity. Good eggs and Kray eggs in this world. Getting to know them and helping them out as best I can is all I can do. Seriously, I don't think I'm good for much else ere I become a wife and mother, and certainly not any good for cooking eggs ;)Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-29577031790731228782012-02-29T20:21:00.002-08:002012-02-29T20:21:51.210-08:00It's been a while, huh?Hey y'all. It's been quite a few weeks since my last post, which is disturbing to me, at least. I'd been posting a new blog at least once a week, more if there was interesting stuff to report. Considering the last few weeks have been exceptionally interesting for me, I'm finally taking time out to write what I need to write.<br />
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The transition to life back in the United States is not as difficult as I had imagined. I've had moments where, looking down the sidewalk of a prefabricated town-style shopping center that's too young to have all the stores open, I contemplate when I waded through the river that runs through Las Pozas just to talk to neighbors. Or a coworker asks me to take the trash out to the dumpster, saying, "You're a grown-ass woman, I'm sure you've seen worse than that." And I start to think about the trash pit at the high school in Río Celeste. Yeah, actually. I have.<br />
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Despite these weird moments when I slip out of the U.S. and back into what kind of seems like a choose-your-own-adventure alternate reality (if you choose to neuter your dog, turn to page 84), staying busy has made it easy to not feel...well...much of anything. Sadly, this is what my home culture does best. But fortunately, I've got a game plan and this kind of bizarre "work so I'm too tired to think about it" strategy is finally coming to a close. Three jobs is no fun, no matter how fun each job is individually. Learning about restaurants was interesting, but not worthwhile - it turns out I get uncomfortable when people at work show me the marijuana they have floating around in their pockets. After a brief struggle with my conscience, I decided against taking a teller position at a bank and have committed to working full time as assistant manager at the thrift store. Working at the thrift store non-profit continues to give me a sense of purpose and allows me to contribute to something that has an impact on our local and global community. And translating for the company that my brother-in-law works for on the side is great because I get to utilize the skills I've developed in Spanish, pretty much on my own schedule.<br />
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So working at the thrift store with some Spanish stuff on the side ain't too shabby. And as life calms down a little, I do find myself reflecting more on Costa Rica instead of blanking out to maintain that insane adaptation/survival mode. Introspection is not always pleasant. Actually, like 80% not pleasant. But it's coming at a good time - having to figure out the ratio of success to failure regarding my almost-year in Peace Corps is a life lesson in itself.<br />
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So that's work. And a little bit of what's going on behind the scenes. It's incredibly difficult to feel like I'm writing about anything important or interesting now that I don't have crazy things to relate from warmer climes, but believe me when I say I'm trying my damndest to come up with some good stuff. This is probably going to turn into a blog about thrift and social issues in our local communities. But I hope it's never as boring as that sounds, haha! In the mean time, thanks for following my blog and being intrested enough to take time to read it :)Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-76605513516571655232011-12-27T21:32:00.000-08:002011-12-27T21:32:15.556-08:00Lilyyyyy...you got some 'splainin' to do...<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I'm going to E.T. So, what does that mean? I'm going to early terminate my service in the Peace Corps. I've had a lot of people ask, ''Are you at peace with your decision?'' The answer is that although I am 100% positive that this is what I have to do, in no way does it sit well with me. So no. There's nothing peaceful about this. After a quick description (hand to God, it is the nutshell version) of why I'm choosing to come home early, I'll expand on exactly why it's so difficult. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Community members, particularly the community members that should be most interested in working with me given the position they have in town, simply aren't all that interested. I've exhausted my creativity in trying to capture their attention. When I can get a moment to propose, suggest and offer, it usually devolves into a discussion of why it's not possible and trash talking other community members. It started off as discouraging and has changed into being debilitating. And now they have begun to trash talk me, claiming that I'm never around and I'm not sociable.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The time that I do have the attention of the VIPs that I should be working with is when they want me to make it rain infrastructural development and grant money. And that's not the role that I imagined for myself nor one that I should be playing. I have no doubt that Peace Corps adequately prepared my site. But the expectations such as those previously mentioned are just the tip of the iceberg. I feel like I'm being pulled in a million directions and all of these paths end at the creation of some monster project. I have a work plan that fits well into the goals of my program and although I'm giving it 100%, that seems not to be enough for most people.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And while we're on the subject of expectations, the ones that I have mentioned are the clearly expressed expectations. There's also a whole host of tacit expectations that I don't know I haven't met until people-tell-people-to-tell-me that I haven't met them. Or until something goes wrong and I'm asked why I didn't make the photocopies or Didn't you look into that yet? or Why weren't you there? or...well...etc.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I would like to take a second to say that my position is defensible, but that I don't particularly feel beholden to go into the nitty gritty of it on my blog. It typed it out and it sounds whiny, however true it may be. So I deleted it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Finally, and perhaps the most overwhelming of this whole thing...no one in my community is nice to each other. Whenever I meet with people to sit down and plan something, all I hear is ''So-and-so NEVER helps, she just sits back and waits until the last minute to claim credit.'' Or, ''He never participates.'' Or ''These people don't understand what it is to work hard to achieve something.'' (P.S. that last one is BULLSHIT because if you can live in rural Costa Rica you're working hard in some way or another.) Some of these statements have been directed at host family members of mine which is wearying. But regardless of who they're directed at, I try to play devil's advocate. I've tried personal appeals, ''When you talk about people like that, it makes me sad.'' I've also said, ''Well of course she don't want to help when you talk about her like that.'' I've pleaded to give people second chances, involve them anyway and see what happens! Nothing. And to put it simply, it just gets me down. In a community of 338 people who have nothing nice to say about each other (even in the middle of an activity specifically designed to extract just that) I can't keep being the only person with positive things to say.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Move on and work with other people, you say? Within the community, I've reached out to other organizations and individuals and while I haven't been completely rejected, there is a certain, ''Yeah...I guess...'' that isn't encouraging and of course no firm commitments to work together. Topping it all off, the local branch of the agency that is supposed to be my program's counterpart is not interested in building a working relationship with me. I've called more times than I can count and sat outside the office for days in a row waiting for the rep who works inside to come into work. Nada.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I also had a massive grasshopper land on my hand earlier and just a few second ago on my face. It certainly doesn't help.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Now I can move onto why it's difficult. My host mom, my goddaughter and my boyfriend. The other volunteers. The stigma of early terminating. Giving up totally without trying another site. Not having a clear direction to go in once I get back to the U.S. You, my blog readers. All those high schoolers I just talked to over break. The Peace Corps - all the time and resources they put into training and sustaining me. My dog. My own sense of duty. How angry I am at myself for not meeting my own high standards and expectations. The fear that I will become a total fuck-up. Fear about a lot of other things, too.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My friend today, the first one that I called to tell about my early termination said two things that were perfect. He said, ''Lily, it's not like it's World War II. The Nazis don't win if you go home. You don't have to get your leg blown off and then like, stay with your brothers in battle.'' He also said, ''Only a fool plays the bad hand they've been dealt. Sometimes the smart thing to do is to fold.''</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Lily out.</div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-83216050560959797312011-12-22T12:34:00.001-08:002011-12-22T12:37:32.673-08:00Get my nails did...<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I love my salon. Peace Corps peeps, you may think I'm taking about the town hall. Nope, I'm talking about the hair and nail place in Santa Cruz. I stopped in there one day because it was so hot outside and I thought, ''Oh my. They probably have air conditioning, I'll just ask to sit down for a minute.'' I sat down and then was promptly asked, ''What are you here for?'' I looked down at my nails and since then, haven't looked back.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There's two sisters who do nails at this place. They're Colombian and, ergo, complete firecrackers. Zulma and Yamileth don't seem like they'd work well together because they are both such strong personalities. But they have a grand old time from what I've seen. If I say I'm in no rush, it can be three hours of chit chatting, yelling, eating and consulting with other customers before my nails are done and I love every minute of it. Yesterday, for example, I went in and asked for a manicure and a pedicure. Usually, Zulma does my nails while Yamileth works on my feet but yesterday it was all Zulma. She asked about how things were, if I'd seen the other volunteer that sometimes comes in. Another customer commented on my Spanish and so we started talking. Yamileth asked how my boyfriend was and I returned the inquiry. And on and on.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Apart from the social aspect that I enjoy, these ladies are pure artists. I asked for a ''<i>tema navideña''</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> or a Christmas theme and I got it - I have super ornate poinsettias on my nails right now. I'll post a picture below and please remember to be culturally sensitive when if you choose to comment to me about them.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">The only downside is that perhaps these nails are not meant for the countryside. My sister said last night during a Skype conversation about my nails, ''How do those fare when you're digging latrines?'' I said, ''If I find out that I have to dig a latrine tomorrow, I'll be pissed.'' Well, it wasn't latrine digging but I did volunteer to help my host mom shuck her corn crop that came in yesterday. Only enough to make about 50 tamales, but I was halfway through the first ear when I thought, ''This is my latrine.'' Luckily there was no harm done, but I'm also not about to volunteer to shuck any more corn before the Christmas parties die down. I always get mad props from the ladies in town when I show off these gems.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">And if you're curious about how hardcore a Peace Corps volunteer with manicured nails can be, please refer to a previous blog from this month.<br />
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Blogger be weird and for the last week or so has not uploaded photos correctly. Oops...I'll post them to my Facebook instead. </div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-42058586557381629242011-12-22T12:33:00.000-08:002011-12-22T12:33:29.499-08:00Oops...this is from Dec 17<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tonight I went to a <i>posada</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, an series of events organized by the church for the kids in town to celebrate the advent season. This is the first one that I've been to, but not the first one our town has had. I was missing out, haha. I went over early to help out the mom who was hosting it and hung out with the other parents and kids as they arrived. I held a baby that I've been meaning to hold for awhile. That's a long story, but basically I think his mom doesn't like me too much - UNTIL! I hold her baby for twenty minutes and give her a break while she watches him smile at me like an itty bitty angel. Score.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">There were other great things about the </span><i>posada</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Apart from candle lighting (and, um, some hair lighting...sheesh) and gazing upon the creche and the Christmas tree, all the little kids also wrote out on a paper star a wish for their families at Christmas. After hanging them, my host sister asked, ''So after all of these </span><i>posadas</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, what do you think the meaning of Christmas is?'' And it was an adult who answered somewhere in the middle of all the answers that said, ''Giving to others who are less fortunate.''</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Bam. I made my application to Peace Corps and came to Costa Rica on an invitation to serve in a community that is decidedly struggling with resources. My commitment to serve is fed by several streams of thought. The primary reason to serve is that I grew up not lacking anything and I think that now it's my duty to try and provide similar opportunities for people who do not have them. My cup overfloweth, so where can I direct the excess?</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I don't think I have to say it, but I will - I was so profoundly touched by what this woman said that I have to tell other people about it now. This isn't some kid who was thoughtlessly repeating what s/he's heard on TV. It wasn't even a community member who has a lot to give compared to her neighbors. I think that's why it impacted me so much. Someone who has a reason to be jaded and feel like opportunity has passed her by instead feels grateful for what she has and <i>further</i>, wants to reach out to those with less. Combined with her demeanor and her actions, I know that this isn't some sudden only-because-it's-Christmas sentiment, too.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I dunno. You read about people like this, usually in a chain email or someone's blog or in a book of saints. It was impressive. </div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-11961986091224021122011-12-18T21:34:00.000-08:002011-12-18T21:34:35.241-08:00TOPETOPETOPE<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Oh jeez - to even BEGIN to talk about today makes me far more exhausted than I already am. Luckily, I really like talking and writing stuff down. I'm tempted to leave this for tomorrow and maybe I'll still refine this before I post, but I have to get all this good stuff down.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Today, I rode in a <i>tope</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Right, which in past blogs I've mistakenly called a ''horse parade''. It was so much more than just tromping along a dirt road to get to some random place for a dance. My first clue that this was something far more serious was the discussion about my wardrobe in the last two days. I was perfectly content to wear a nice tee shirt, skinny jeans, hiking boots and my Stetson. That wasn't going to fly. I was told that I absolutely had to wear a long sleeve (or at least 3/4 length) plaid shirt. Also, I wasn't allowed to wear hiking boots, we'd find someone my size who could lend me riding boots. That ended up being my uncle and as worried as he was that they were old and ugly, I said, ''No worries, I need all the help I can get to look legitimate. I'll leave no doubt that I'm not from 'round here when I demonstrate my horsemanship.'' My host mom lent me a size small Talbot´s petite, plaid, red button up. Which is why, if you've checked my Facebook, you see that I wore a shirt underneath and tied the plaid shirt up under my boobs. To top it all off, the thing that I could not leave the house without was my Stetson. I did gain some </span><i>vaquera</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (cowgirl) points for owning my own hat, even if it is a different style than is used locally. I walked out of my house and met whistles and shouts from near all my family members. Once I was on the horse, it was over, I won the medal for crowd pleasing today. I didn't know so many people in my family had cameras and cell phones until they were all taking pictures of me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Only, I ruined it - a neighbor asked, ''What's in the bag?'' because indeed, I did carry a rather large tote bag. I replied, ''It's the change of clothes for the dance tonight in case I don't make it back in time to change here.'' Laughter. ''</span><i>Ay, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Lily...''</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Right. So. It was also no secret that my host cousin procured me the slowest moving mare within 20 miles of town. That was on purpose because I asked him pretty please to get me a horse that wouldn't kill me. What I didn't count on was that this horse would like...refuse to move. I found out later that it was partially my fault (when handled correctly it will actually move a lot faster. A </span><i>lot</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> faster). But to get it out the family yard and into the street I and the other riders had to do some coaxing. Eventually we got on our way and after stopping for awhile in a neighbor's farm to pick up more riders, I left Las Pozas for the San Lázaro </span><i>tope</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> with six gen-yoo-ine cowboys. Lord help me.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">We followed a pretty wide path from the side of this farm all the way to the corral where the social part of the </span><i>tope</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was being held - this is what I didn't account for in my ponderings of what the day would be like. I figured there'd be a horse parade that would roll through my town and we'd just join it until we arrived in San Lázaro. No sir. We got to the corral and I paid $20 bucks (</span><i>jue...!)</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to get a fabric plaque with a number on it pinned to my back. I also got one meal card and four drink cards to redeem at my choosing. I started to get nervous - my friends who just ran the marathon in Panama had numbers on their bodies. Professional sports players wear numbers. Bull riders wear numbers. Lily does not wear numbers. I panicked silently for two minutes before I asked my cousin, ''So...um, what do these numbers mean? They're not expecting me to compete in anything, right?'' But nope - thank God that the numbers were just a part of a raffle that would be held later on. It's an odd use of number pinning, but whatevs. I was safe.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">We got to the corral around 1:00 pm. Starting at 1:30, the organizers (the Cemetery Committee of San Lázaro...funny, because I'm pretty sure in a town named Saint Lazarus there'd be decreased demand for such a committee) handed out plates of food to all the riders every half hour. I was also getting my drink on. Unfortunately, because of the drink, I soon had to find a bathroom. I thought my options would be slim, but I was not expecting a corrugated tin shed with a slightly elevated cement ring in the middle. And, because I know y'all love it when I talk about bathrooms, I can tell you I would prefer it any day to some bathrooms I have seen in Ecuador. Just as a comparison. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">But also in my big bag of fresh clothes, I had hand sanitizer. After that I hung around with the riders for a bit more and then all of a sudden it was time to go - the big truck with speakers on it was announcing our departure and playing some typical folk music and so everybody mounted up and got going in a big group. I'd say there were no less than 50 people on horses.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">We didn't just keep going until San Lázaro - there was a stop at a bar that was like, open bar for the riders...I had blanched at paying $20 to enter this thing but I made out like a bandit in that deal. Twenty minutes there and we continued as a group to give a turn around the main plaza in town and end up at the town hall. This was the </span><i>tope</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'s reception and there was still more drink (although to my disappointment, no more fried/grilled meat and tortillas like there was in the corral). There they did the raffle and two of the people in my group won some prizes. They were prizes that were fitting to the occasion - a new line of rope to one and a bottle of Old Parr to the other. After that there was some music and dancing. But mostly I just sat around for two hours while men my father's age told me, ''Your eyes are so pretty in the sunlight! But don't worry, I'm a happy married man! Come on, let's dance.'' After two hours, that gets as old as they are. I was kind of missing girl-company this whole day, too. It's okay when you're on the horse and you've got all these daydreams about how bad ass you look to distract you. When you're sitting in a bar just hanging out and trying to follow a conversation about furniture building in Spanish...meh. I was a little tired of that.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I said to one of my friends, ''I think I'm heading home...I can just go the way we came, right?'' And he said, ''Noooo, you can't go alone, it's way too dangerous, two of us will go with you now.'' So that was okay and we started heading back. Like every other event that takes place ''now'', it was more than forty five minutes before we got past the bar we had previously stopped at during the </span><i>tope.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> In their defense, there were some finals being played today between two national teams in soccer. And to my everlasting delight, when we stopped at this bar there were people lined up outside the windows to see the game on the T.V. inside. They were shoulder to shoulder and moving all around each other, drinking beer and yelling at the players. And they were </span><i>still on their horses</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Not just a line of people packed tightly together, but their horses as well. That was great.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">We finally head out - I'm tired because I'd been out dancing the night before and because I'd had some stuff to drink early in the afternoon. I'm also a little bored by the plodding, stolid pace of my mare. I'd been motivating her all day with kind words of praise when she did something well and also occasionally smacking her rear with a </span><i>tajona, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">a small leather whip. When we're back on the highway headed back to Las Pozas I told my cousin, ''I don't want you guys to spend all night taking me back and then you have to turn around. You're losing too much time. Tell me what to do to make Rosa run.'' I was instructed to bring the reins up closer to her ears, give it some slack and crack the </span><i>tajona</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. So I did.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I wish...hmm...I wish I could encapsulate the absolute terror I felt into one easy punchy sentence. But I can't. It wasn't just being afraid, it was also surprise that the mare could move. I mean, </span><i>move</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. She went from racing turtles (and losing) to hauling ass in less than a second. My cousin and his friend started galloping, too and the three of us were bolting down the highway towards my town. Rosa started to slow a little bit so I just made the noises that I'd heard all day and she started moving faster. My hat flew off and when the cord caught my hat ended up somewhere around my shoulder. I'm pretty sure I was laughing maniacally. And, to top it all off, there were still people at the convenience store in my town, sitting outside and chatting. So they saw the three of us blow through and I heard more shouts and whistles as I pulled up the reins and led a trotting Rosa into the family yard. Great bookends for the day.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Speaking of ends - I thought I was being all cool and becoming a </span><i>vaquera</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> throughout this experience, especially the last ten minutes. My rear has other ideas. I have two cheeks yelling at me in tandem, demanding, ''What was that nonsense about, huh?! Look at me now!'' I was already thinking about the next time that I'd like to ride a horse, but I'm going to have to wait at least a few days to recuperate.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And that's that. </span><i>Tope</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> over. Althouuuuuughhhh....there's always the </span><i>tope</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in Santa Cruz in January. Over 1,000 horses and riders enter. And that's far enough away for Mom to send me my checkered shirt and riding boots from home (erm, yes...the ones I've never used in 10 years will now become my preferred footwear).</span></div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-23998277918499667322011-12-17T07:17:00.000-08:002011-12-17T07:17:51.426-08:00Despite the potential for Christmas to suck away from all of you...it's actually okay.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tonight I went to a <i>posada</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, a series of events organized by the church for the kids in town to celebrate the advent season. This is the first one that I've been to, but not the first one our town has had. I was missing out, haha. I went over early to help out the mom who was hosting it and hung out with the other parents and kids as they arrived. I held a baby that I've been meaning to hold for awhile. That's a long story, but basically I think his mom doesn't like me too much - UNTIL! I hold her baby for twenty minutes and give her a break while she watches him smile at me like an itty bitty angel. Score.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">There were other great things about the </span><i>posada</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Apart from candle lighting (and, um, some hair lighting...sheesh) and gazing upon the creche and the Christmas tree, all the little kids also wrote out on a paper star a wish for their families at Christmas. After hanging them, my host sister asked, ''So after all of these </span><i>posadas</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, what do you think the meaning of Christmas is?'' And it was an adult who answered somewhere in the middle of all the answers that said, ''Giving to others who are less fortunate.''</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Bam. I made my application to Peace Corps and came to Costa Rica on an invitation to serve in a community that is decidedly struggling with resources. My commitment to serve is fed by several streams of thought. The primary reason to serve is that I grew up not lacking anything and I think that now it's my duty to try and provide similar opportunities for people who do not have them. My cup overfloweth, so where can I direct the excess?</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I don't think I have to say it, but I will - I was so profoundly touched by what this woman said that I have to tell other people about it now. This isn't some kid who was thoughtlessly repeating what s/he's heard on TV. It wasn't even a community member who has a lot to give compared to her neighbors. I think that's why it impacted me so much. Someone who has a reason to be jaded and feel like opportunity has passed her by instead feels grateful for what she has and <i>further</i>, wants to reach out to those with less. Combined with her demeanor and her actions, I know that this isn't some sudden only-because-it's-Christmas sentiment, too.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I dunno. You read about people like this, usually in a chain email or someone's blog or in a book of saints. It was impressive.</div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-54681251582235561842011-12-16T18:41:00.000-08:002011-12-16T18:42:35.321-08:00Quick one today, folks...This is the picture of a nativity scene that was at a Christmas party I went to...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvm-OZDZnRmXQF1EbU_Yf3UcxsYZVNE8ilZpbeY9HWFzgOsMJ3BGXVrNYy-kHdkLenrgSm2zvdDUxrasMApMJ-unspgMnmAviYG9vdx_PvlrvO8MTIE8oOS0LgNXyx_QgSyqaLWC4Qx78y/s1600/DSCF0191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvm-OZDZnRmXQF1EbU_Yf3UcxsYZVNE8ilZpbeY9HWFzgOsMJ3BGXVrNYy-kHdkLenrgSm2zvdDUxrasMApMJ-unspgMnmAviYG9vdx_PvlrvO8MTIE8oOS0LgNXyx_QgSyqaLWC4Qx78y/s640/DSCF0191.JPG" width="475" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Awwww, that's nice, right? One of the more elaborate nativity scenes I've seen in Costa Rica, actually. And my oh my, but people get really into them here. Well...then I noticed something...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ4OL8CF22a5KS-PV9W3mGQukYEJ3z1ysXyfvA70b69wY6Yy7n7PdQ7-Xy0_WpvqMFF9d7WtaCnXd4Lxdw4LIcdiUjGruue7LT7kfAaR8tnzQx2QeOgTj-UfFxf4m-5kyM0E0MhCjrhr3Y/s1600/DSCF0192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ4OL8CF22a5KS-PV9W3mGQukYEJ3z1ysXyfvA70b69wY6Yy7n7PdQ7-Xy0_WpvqMFF9d7WtaCnXd4Lxdw4LIcdiUjGruue7LT7kfAaR8tnzQx2QeOgTj-UfFxf4m-5kyM0E0MhCjrhr3Y/s400/DSCF0192.JPG" width="297" /> </a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Gold, frankincense, myrrh and...wait...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, if I'm being honest, if I were a hen, I'd want those digs, too.</div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-88422813816032415712011-12-13T10:50:00.000-08:002011-12-13T10:50:17.537-08:00More corn and more pig fat, please.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I'll do my side note first: I decided to tackle homosexuality in my community diagnostic. The document is almost complete (how long have I been saying that?) but I felt like I needed to include something about the homophobic sentiment in my region. Not to say that I come from a culture that is the model of acceptance. I emailed one of my bosses asking if this was okay. I got the go ahead to approach the subject carefully and now I'm doing my best to skate on thin ice. To blunt, too offensive and I risk turning people off to working with me. Too passive or bland means I'm not accomplishing anything.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In other news, December is the month of celebrations and parties in Costa Rica. And the weather could not be better to find oneself outside at a fairground. Mom and Dad - forget about January 2013. December is THE month to be here. In San José this past weekend there was the Festival of Lights. The name is misleading, it's not about Chanukah. Insteadn the Festival of Lights in Costa Rica is a huuuuge parade with tons of floats, costumes and bands. From what I saw, it's like a cross between the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and the Philadelphia Mummers' New Year's Day Parade. My favorite part was the parade anthem sung by a woman who would have been X-ed out of America's Got Talent with unmatched speed. It went thus: ''<i>Festival de la Luz! Festival de la Luz! Festival de la Luz, Festival de la Luz, Festival de la Luz!</i>'' And so on.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There's also big town parties locally. Just a week ago, I came back from vacation in the United States to catch the tail end of the festival in Santa Bárbara. Got back on a 5:00 pm bus, showered and got changed and was out the house with my host sister by 6:30 walking to where our ride would pick us up to go. I don't know why, but after vacation in the U.S. I feel like I've got a new perspective - enjoy, guilt free, when fun things are happening. And continue to do my best when it comes to work. And not worry if I'm doing enough to merit having a good time. Although that is certainly a difficult attitude to maintain.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Speaking of good times, they continue this next weekend. There's a <i>tope</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, or a horse parade that'll go to the next town over from mine in the direction of Nicoya. I'm not sure where it starts, but my cousin just told me that he's going to find me a horse to ride and we'll join it from my town. WOOP! My only regret is that I did not pack my cowboy boots when I came back from vacation. What footwear, indeed, is appropriate for a gringa non-horsewoman who wants to appear legit? I'll probably end up wearing my ballet flat Crocs. They're a safe bet and a good deal sexier than my sneakers. Yikes. I just called my Crocs sexy. I have been in the </span><i>campo</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> a long time. Anyway, expect a ton of photos from that. I'm going to feel like a monster bad ass.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">There's also </span><i>posadas</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> all over my town. The best I can figure, a </span><i>posada</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is like caroling, but instead of going house to house in one night, kids and their parents go to one house on a different night during the week. The kids hang ornaments cut from paper (by yours truly) on a tree, everyone sings </span><i>villancicos </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(carols) and there's refreshments. I haven't been to one yet for one reason or another, but that's on my list of things to do this week, for sure.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And the fooooooood...oh my GOD the food this time of year is nuts. There's tamales which are okay - when the piece of pork in the middle isn't all fat, I looooove me some tamale. I'm also eating things made of corn that I didn't yet know existed. There's at least two more types of ''juice'' made from corn. And because everything is a celebration, there's a ton of </span><i>chicheme</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. </span><i>Chicheme</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is like...unfermented chicha. Which doesn't help if you don't know what chicha is...dang. How do I explain? My host mom takes fresh corn and grinds it up. Then, it's collated so that only a certain part remains. Then it's put into a huge pot over a fire and cooked with a lot of water and a LOT of cane sugar. I think there's something else...maybe cinnamon? Whatever it is, it tastes delicious. If it weren't for the texture, I'd drink it all day. But because the texture is close to that of...erm...liquidy chunky silicon, maybe? I just can't do it.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">There's also </span><i>chicharrones</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I think they're fried pork rinds. I can't tell you for sure, because I never would have eaten pork rinds in the U.S. So I honestly don't know if they're the same thing. But </span><i>chicharrones</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> are pig fat fried in more fat and they're the best goddam food on the planet. Again, I never would have chosen to eat these in the U.S. But it's like carte blanche in Costa Rica for food. Yum. The little crispy pieces are served on a bed of shredded cabbage with fresh salsa on the side. A little lime wedge to squeeze on top of the </span><i>chicharrones</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> makes the plate complete. It's a typical Nicaraguan plate when it's all pulled together like that and it's called </span><i>viguerón.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> It's probably the only thing that Costa Ricans will admit they like about Nicaragua.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Hmmm, what else? Not much. Family, good. Boyfriend, good. Dog, slobbery and dumb. I took a really sweet picture of Doky that I'll post below. Also, I swear that sometime I'll get a picture of me and the BF together.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLdnj7qsQcuUSpQge0NebnoqenWFiEAwoGv5ra_5US8HiDdOpctYE8OfurVrZ-N7ExHCYQ9WdTDWOfGnyVW4jDFYaY6YSRARpQ6cy6UBEUJfkHlGdU4XAeW9tZhRE1cOOKjs11tn3-KLD/s1600/DSCF0055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLdnj7qsQcuUSpQge0NebnoqenWFiEAwoGv5ra_5US8HiDdOpctYE8OfurVrZ-N7ExHCYQ9WdTDWOfGnyVW4jDFYaY6YSRARpQ6cy6UBEUJfkHlGdU4XAeW9tZhRE1cOOKjs11tn3-KLD/s400/DSCF0055.JPG" width="400" /></a>Look at that dumb little face. Oh my, he's so cute.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmV3Grcd1C7BLlQUsKb_IgMbojyse5vINrmBex4gF9cOhvREWzPQfZjAuCkPfjBPdGjUVBwg8DW4UHgNDy7vdXfzUHoohlIfJVbBMJlX_n2OV83WT_AHwbmsRws40lsoF5h4Pt_UaWPiG/s1600/P1000991.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmV3Grcd1C7BLlQUsKb_IgMbojyse5vINrmBex4gF9cOhvREWzPQfZjAuCkPfjBPdGjUVBwg8DW4UHgNDy7vdXfzUHoohlIfJVbBMJlX_n2OV83WT_AHwbmsRws40lsoF5h4Pt_UaWPiG/s400/P1000991.JPG" width="300" /></a>Oh, also...today I saw a chicken jump up on a shallow metal bowl, but it only landed on the edge and it was empty. So it flipped over on the chicken and the chicken started running around with it on top. But all you could see was this upside down metal bowl moving across the ground. I almost peed myself.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">Not this same chicken.</div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-5010470526294799772011-12-13T10:34:00.000-08:002011-12-13T10:34:48.998-08:00Ooops! The following is something I meant to post before I came back to the United States.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Laissez les bons temps roulez.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I remember that from a tee shirt that my sister had from Mardi Gras or one of the other numerous holidays that she spent festivitying in Nawlins. It always struck me as sounding so exotic. I used to repeat it over and over again, hoping I sounded authentic and not knowing what it meant.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Well, let the good times roll. I'm en route to the United States and having a pretty good time relaxing. It's different than relaxing in site or having a day where I don't do anything but still stay in Las Pozas. In site, I'm still technically ''on call'' whenever a situation may arise. Out of site and on a legitimate, official vacation there's literally nothin' I can do if it's 9:00 pm and someone needs me to type a letter for the mayor that they need to turn in <i>tomorrow</i>. For example.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So! Really enjoying the time that I'm spending right now in San José. I got here yesterday and I am staying with my boyfriend's sister's family. My boyfriend has begun work in a call center in San José and is living with his sister (be reeeeally nice to the person on the other end of the line when your AT&T network coverage stops working on your iPhone 4). His sister is awesome and so is her husband and their kids. I usually feel like I can't relax in other people's homes when I'm spending the night and I thought I would be more like that with the family of someone really important to me. But since I got here I've only felt like...totally and completely part of the family. Except at meal times when I'm told to relax and not do anything but hey. That's not so bad.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Where am I going from here? Well this afternoon there's <i>cafecito</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> with a Spanish teacher that I had during training. After that we'll probably mosey on back to the house. Tomorrow at midday I go to Liberia and that's where my flight leaves from on Monday afternoon. Liberia's a big town to be in alone, but mom-in-the-states has agreed to call to keep my mind of my travel anxieties. Although...she might not be the best person for that. Upon finding out that I was going to be staying alone in a hotel in Liberia she blurted out, ''Well, do you know how to get out in case of a fire?!''</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">...What? I mean, yeah, I guess, you...it involves opening doors and running, right? Anyway, then a conversation ensued which was longer than it needed to be (more than 5 seconds) about how the plane could crash and there's only so many things I have control over - hotel fires and falling from the sky being two things that I cannot, indeed, control.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">That was Thursday night, before I came to San José. Around 6 pm. And after I hung up the phone I looked around my house and thought, ''Okay. I'm packed.'' I was mistaken. A stream of family members came by in pairs and threes to bring me small ceramic turtles, other ceramic pieces that they had in their homes, carved artisan </span><i>guacales</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (huuuuge tree seeds), bags of coffee and even homemade bread. All of these are ''for your mother'' or ''for your aunt because she sent that dress for the baby.''</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">These are the same people that for the past two weeks I've been thinking, ''I just don't know what to do. I am exhausted, tired of trying to be creative and I don't want to see people anymore unless they're ready to actually DO SOMETHING for their community.'' The past two weeks I've found myself questioning my commitment, becoming frustrated easily with the smallest tasks and generally writing off my community as a town that doesn't care about me or what I have to say - so why should I care about the people in it? Crying a lot, calling home and wondering if going home on vacation is a good idea or not...would I come back? And if I'm wondering if I am coming back, then isn't that a sign that I shouldn't? I was absolutely destroying my mood and my mind with this line of thoughts.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And then, people showed up at my house with stuff for my mom. Like, Las Pozas isn't nearly as poor as some regions in Africa. That's a given. But there's still not a whole lot to spare. And the readiness to part with something that's belonged to their family for a long time to send it, with love, to the United States, or to grab a bag of coffee off their shelf...that makes all of my self-centered pushy work oriented crap disappear. Like a puff of smoke. I felt like I exhaled and let all of it go in the moment that people stopped by to say goodbye and to give me a blessing for my trip. ''</span><i>Que Dios me la guarde y que me la protege.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'' That God should guard her and keep her safe for me.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">And now I just think...oh my God, there is not a thing I wouldn't do to show how much I love them in return.</div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-80841449931285170042011-12-07T21:39:00.000-08:002011-12-07T21:39:05.998-08:00With determined singularity, I seek open doors.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The last few minutes were kind of interesting. For me at least.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My host mom had a new bed frame made and it was delivered today to my porch because my porch is bigger. The day passes, I'm blogging and getting worked up over things that I should really let go, attn: the previous blog post (''Never attribute to malice that which can be attributed to ignorance'' - Dad). I eat dinner around 10pm and after saying goodnight I meander back to my house and realize the bed frame is still on my porch. So I pulled it into the house and went over to tell my host mom not to freak when she sees it's not there in the morning.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I didn't understand at first why no one was noticing my knock on the door, my ''ULPEEEEE!'' and my eye where the keyhole used to be. I went around to the back door and knocked and the door opened. The bathroom is right there and the first thing I see when I walk in is my youngest host sister banging on the doorknob with her fist...twisting, pounding and muttering. She turned to me and said, ''Se le trancó a la Amarilis.'' Which means the door knob is stuck and my older, pregnant host sister is locked inside the <i>baño</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Never fear! This is why God invented the multi-tool! Erm...yeah. I run over to my house to get my multi-tool, delighted to be able to offer some sort of assistance and prove that I'm prepared to live in rural Costa Rica (I've heard that in rural Honduras people walk in and out of bathrooms all the time...scoff). I run back over to the house, I even have my mini maglite and oh man...we just start figuring things out.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">But pretty soon, the maglite stops working - dangit! I knew those batteries weren't fresh! Also, I realize that the holes I was seeing in the knob are not fit for a philips-head or a flathead scredriver. That, combined with the realization that I don't want to risk hurting the knife part of my favorite Christmas present ever meant that the multi-tool was now decommissioned. I got permission to try and bang down the door after Amarilis had positioned herself as far away from the door as possible. I'm no Schwarzenegger, but I'm the biggest lady in this house for sure. But alas, to no avail. All that body building for nothing.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">At this point I thought it was appropriate to say, ''Maybe we just pass her a pillow and call it a night?'' They're very nice people, so they laughed.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">So then we get a hammer and the name of the game is to beat the living daylights out of the door knob, trying to make it fall off the door. Somewhere in here I ask, ''What about the hinges on the other side? If I passed you my multi-tool, could you take the screws out?'' </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">''Ay, Lily...no.''</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">What other tools do we have in the kitchen to accomplish this task? Shirley, my younger host sister, decided to break out the butcher's knife. So now she's hacking away at the door frame near the bolt, trying to make a hole for the...tah dah! Screwdrivers that we found! My host mom hands me a screwdriver and so I shoved it in the hole and started to work it up and down (oh snap! Anyone?! Anyone?!) for a good five minutes. I'm seeing more and more daylight and feeling worse and worse for the damage that has been wreaked on my host mom's house this evening. But finally...</span><i>click</i><span style="font-style: normal;">...I push the door open inwards and there's my very pregnant sister chilling out. I told her I wasn't serious about the pillow thing and then started to go back to my house.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Smacked my forehead, turned around and told </span><i>mamá</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> about where her bed was. That was what I came to do, after all. Then said goodnight and walked to my house. But you know, my puppy is a tricky one. I didn't feed him until late tonight, I buffeted him a few times when he was chewing on my jeans today. And he was just waiting for a little revenge, I suppose.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Doky closed the door behind me when I left with my multi-tool and flashlight. My keys were inside the house. So for the second time in an evening I thought, ''Hmmm...how can I break into here?'' And always desperate to prove that I can do something ''</span><i>A lo tico'' </i><span style="font-style: normal;">or, ''In Costa Rican style'' I decided to use the broom on the porch to unlock my door from the window. Normally, I would have just taken out the glass panes and climbed in - but I do this a lot and my host mom always manages to put the panes back in before I remember to. I really hate making extra work for her. So I tried the broom technique that my sister does.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">There's a ton of broken glass on my front porch now. I used the same broom that broke it to sweep it into one pile that I'll deal with when there's sunlight. And everyone heard it crash. And my multi-tool can't do a damn thing to fix it.</span></div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-75294929268097493242011-12-07T20:51:00.000-08:002011-12-07T20:51:09.332-08:00Would you like some corn with your corn?This post has nothing to do with the corn upon corn upon corn that is currently my diet. The harvest is in. But that's not what I want to talk about right now. <div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Many volunteers have confirmed my suspicions that I was right to feel injured when some people at home (thank God no one I'm close to) insinuated that Peace Corps in Costa Rica is less hardcore than Peace Corps in other, lesser developed nations. To this I have many things to say that have been stewing in my mind for much longer than the last two weeks. Below, I shall set that opinion straight and will end up paraphrasing many a good volunteer and friend.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Do I have running water? Yes. Okaaaay, you got meeee, I can stay clean in Costa Rica. Of course, cold water from a tube - that cuts out now and again with no warning, but usually once I'm shampooed - doesn't jive with the imagery that ''Posh Corps'' brings to mind, does it? Potable water is icing on the cake and y'all already know what I say to that - less time suffering from some horrible tropical intestinal disease means more time for community integration and project planning.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Peace Corps Goal Two and Three right there, baby. Cultural exchange.</i></span> </div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir5uyhTBOc8dHuEdXcqfVAgONTKEjYZ6_A1szkx5P5kVrN_VTBUBMyAJwYosTtOkuVb0_zGHFscIBBVK2FRuJzlUZJJ-056nHgadYcZyZXUsvwNBeVBrLwgVrtcrYTaVAKWwp-ejA200df/s1600/amasando2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir5uyhTBOc8dHuEdXcqfVAgONTKEjYZ6_A1szkx5P5kVrN_VTBUBMyAJwYosTtOkuVb0_zGHFscIBBVK2FRuJzlUZJJ-056nHgadYcZyZXUsvwNBeVBrLwgVrtcrYTaVAKWwp-ejA200df/s320/amasando2.JPG" width="320" /></a>Infrastructure...well where do we begin with this one? I totally have a highway that runs through my town. There's a bus that passes every morning for San José and except for Sundays I can go to Santa Cruz or Nicoya any time I want. Both are cities with plenty of resources and both about an hour away. The highway isn't paved, but who cares? I have access. Wayyyy more access than most other volunteers in Costa Rica. But you know what access brings - expectations. I live in a community of 300 people, 90% of whom are not employed gainfully and they see <i>every time they go into town</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> a life with resources that they want. I'm not saying that everyone's ready to move to the city just to have a supermarket on the corner. But my community members are aware of what's ''wrong'' with our community in light of other communities that are nearby. They feel far behind a standard that's been set. There is ONE person that they lay this all on - me. I'm the development worker, after all. </span><i>Can't you just get us computers for the school and a grant to finish building the town hall? You can get money for these projects from Peace Corps, why haven't you done that yet</i><span style="font-style: normal;">? Building human capacity and human resources within my town is extremely difficult when physical resources and development are visibly and notably absent compared to other, accessible towns. Mucho. Pressure. All the time.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">And language. Yeah, Spanish is probably easier than learning a non-romantic language. And Costa Rica only has one national language. Compare this to, say, South Africa with eleven national languages (</span>Afrikaans, English, Ndebele, Northern Sotho, Sotho, Swazi, Tswana, Tsonga, Venda, Xhosa and Zulu...thank you Wikipedia). But it's still taken me 7+ years of speaking and study <i>before</i> I got to Costa Rica to not struggle with every interaction I have in Spanish. And there are volunteers who didn't speak a lick of Spanish before arrival who are expected to do the same job that I am. So if the assessment of Costa Rica's push over-ness as a Peace Corps country is based on that, then shove it.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I don't eat crocs or goats or insects. Just inoffensive rice and beans. Three times a day. For two years. And you know what? I learned to love it. Which makes me more hardcore than any of the the people who eat weird shit and hate it.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And - as one of my friends put it so brilliantly - I picked Costa Rica just about the same that other volunteers picked South Africa (to be consistent). Which is to say, <i>not at all</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I was ready to go anywhere, told Peace Corps that I'd do any work they thought I'd be suited for. For awhile, it was looking like Kazakhstan. Then I heard I'd be a rural community development volunteer and wouldn't you know that The Gambia has that program. But nope, I opened my invitation to serve and it said Costa Rica. Who in the hell was I to argue? ''Hi, sorry, but can you please place me in a country that friends and family can </span><i>never</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> visit because travel is cost prohibitive or the political climate is a little too hot?'' </span><i>Not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> a phone call I was going to make.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>I don't have a photo of myself performing the First Goal of transferring technical skills, </i></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>because my <b>camera</b> was<b> stolen</b> from me in an <b>armed assault </b>in San José.</i></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>But believe me that these are people who, like me, get their First Goal ON. </i></span></span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiM9z2optME9xlFx1ikCPTk08IU5dacdymQv6lknB3yRsU64LJRqLlB3oVGCJdzBRvG1HRRutAnhPnrO2yaQFivTHygXfEuH26BXqv9_H5xSWGCF3cAdXNYDmEnJfu6KkVw_u10CFipAyv/s1600/P1000959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiM9z2optME9xlFx1ikCPTk08IU5dacdymQv6lknB3yRsU64LJRqLlB3oVGCJdzBRvG1HRRutAnhPnrO2yaQFivTHygXfEuH26BXqv9_H5xSWGCF3cAdXNYDmEnJfu6KkVw_u10CFipAyv/s320/P1000959.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">I, too, thought I was not having an ''authentic'' Peace Corps experience in the beginning. But then after a while I said, ''Eff that noise. I am fulfilling goals one, two and three of Peace Corps just fine in Costa Rica.'' If Peace Corps was about taking a crap in a hole outside and bucket baths then I'd be ashamed to call myself a Peace Corps volunteer. But it's not. It's teaching people how to act for themselves in a positive way that achieves sustainable change. And earning their respect by caring about them while you do it. I'm sure volunteers in South Africa are volunteers by that standard.</span></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">As am I.</span></div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905872686491167731.post-44111238080896714952011-12-07T18:40:00.000-08:002011-12-07T19:01:52.963-08:00If I want to ask ''Where to begin?'' I must first answer ''Where am I?''I hope my title is an original...I think I sound quite clever.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I don't really look into things like I should before I commit to them. I may have explained this before in my blog, but it bears repeating before a discussion of my vacation in the United States. I hope I can avoid sounding like a complete dope but I'll tell anybody that what I knew about Peace Corps before coming to Costa Rica was GROSSLY inadequate. I had performed far below the average amount of research that my fellow volunteers had done before getting on the plane. I read the pre-departure information and I was interested, but you know...I figured there'd be more time to read later and it would probably be more pertinent once I had started training. I knew enough to answer people's questions but not much apart from that.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And I do stuff like this on purpose. The seemingly nonchalant commitment that I made to Peace Corps is far from casual, but also one example of many that appear this way. Because whenever I'm about to experience a drastic change or go somewhere new or what have you, I really don't like to be all that informed. It makes me anxious to have all these bunny trails in my brain spiraling off into more and more specific situations, circumstances and problems that may occur. Nope - I like a straight path and a map that I can consult when there's an obstacle. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Upon my return, my goddaughter Genesis looks like a spaz. But hey, I look good!</i></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Q8rjcIlvr2iQ3XMziLW_5GBgezHAKUHb30BtprMcS9elsgaiUS0nUkbhmo_6AeqU2sZGZPbW9syQxWcqmBe6e0lc8BietqFn3uRQbRHTHrYHAG-qdAXF9W6jqvkcBd-tBMVGnzBA1C9h/s1600/DSCF0027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Q8rjcIlvr2iQ3XMziLW_5GBgezHAKUHb30BtprMcS9elsgaiUS0nUkbhmo_6AeqU2sZGZPbW9syQxWcqmBe6e0lc8BietqFn3uRQbRHTHrYHAG-qdAXF9W6jqvkcBd-tBMVGnzBA1C9h/s320/DSCF0027.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
Well. That's pretty much what I did with my vacation, too. I know that volunteers love to share about what it was like going home. All things weird and wonderful about being home. I'm about to do it myself. But I really was not interested in anybody's previous experience. I don't know how typical my vacation was in comparison to other volunteers. All this to say, of course, that I'm just going to blurt out a lot of stuff in the following paragraphs and then wonder, in retrospect, if all the other volunteers go through this. If I go home again, I'd say this could function as my map.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">First - I did not have time to do anything because I did everything. I wish I'd spent so much more time with the individuals that I saw. But I guess if I spent the amount of time that I wanted to with each person, I'd never be on a plane back to Costa Rica. Conflicting interests.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Second - How weird is it that in a large shopping mall they don't expect you to walk from the Staples to the Wegmans? When did a quarter mile become too long of a distance to walk? Why did the sidewalks end in strange places? Why did I have to cross behind a store and through the dock area to get where I was going?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Third - Of all the foods I planned to eat, two weeks was only good to get 10% of them in my belly. I did not have one peanut butter and jelly, no cheese curls, zero bagels and cream cheese, zip vegetable beef stew...and pickles only on the last night. No barbeque. But I don't want to sound ungrateful for Thanksgiving, y'all. I did get sweet potatoes and all sorts of crazy cheeses and red beet eggs.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fourth - I <i>did </i>drink about 110% of what I thought I would. Yuengling, wine, Jack, Malibu, long islands, peach long islands, Magner's, flavored vodkas, etc...infrequent and unpredictable shots of Costa Rican moonshine offered by men who think I'll get drunk on just the one was getting old.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fifth - I knew where <i>everything</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was in my house. Mom said get a plastic bag out for the bread. I went right to the drawer. I asked Dad where the stapler was. He said Mom moved it over a drawer. Boom. Papers stapled<span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Sixth - I left Costa Rica on a bad note. Long story short, the honeymoon's over and I'm confronting real problems in my community that I'm not sure I can solve. So of course, I left the United States on a bad note because I didn't want to come back. Sobbing to my mom on my parent's bed about how toxic community relations are is not the way I'd like to remember my last night in the States. But it's what went down.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: courtesy Joe O'Brien who does not know I am using it here. Erm. Oops.</span></i></span><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwcfwE8s5JuXfzupkRmEQqvF8JOZGWk7j2uqpQR8LGKbvTGJZiezqLCaHTjgJZNnhJh2H_WoQEGDRA-QctP8wwv_KeBxUHyvcTKMUdwXp9bTiRXCEfYTAeYQe2e7e57X03K6GslyxKobW/s1600/IMG_8969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwcfwE8s5JuXfzupkRmEQqvF8JOZGWk7j2uqpQR8LGKbvTGJZiezqLCaHTjgJZNnhJh2H_WoQEGDRA-QctP8wwv_KeBxUHyvcTKMUdwXp9bTiRXCEfYTAeYQe2e7e57X03K6GslyxKobW/s320/IMG_8969.JPG" width="320" /></a>Seventh - Getting back to my community didn't dismiss the concerns that I have, but it made me realize how at home I am in Costa Rica. And so I was happy to be back. I had felt <i>kind of</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> out of place in Costa Rica. I felt </span><i>really</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> out of place in the United States (with some exceptions, all of them friends and family). So coming back to Costa Rica I've definitely thought to myself, ''Well. You're no Latina. And you're definitely not from anywhere rural. But being a fake rural Latina comes more naturally now than navigating the outlet mall. So welcome home.''</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Seven's lucky, right? I'll leave it at that for now. Let me just say, though...I had so much fun at home and I got back to my community totally exhausted from seeing great people and I really loved seeing every person from the U.S. who is reading this blog now. Thank you so much for your support and your well wishing and your promises to come visit. ALSO check out <a href="https://www.facebook.com/nervousnikkisound" target="_blank">Nervous Nikki and the Chill Pills.</a></span></div>Lilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08920441287185644861noreply@blogger.com2