Complete honesty, I've been struggling lately. There's no particular reason it seems, but getting out of bed in the morning to head to school has been hard. The kids are great. My counterpart is great. I have a pleasant work environment, but the days still seem to drag on and I feel anything but motivated.
I'm muscling through. I force myself to think positive. I created a feel good playlist to listen to on the way to work in an effort to make my brain more optimistic. I put everything I can into finding reasons to smile and being present in the moment. It feels as if I'm white-knuckling through each day. Like when you're physically exhausted but you give one last push of effort that uses everything you've got and you usually end up hurting yourself. That's how I feel mentally. I know it's temporary, and I'm doing all I can to keep pushing though.
It's hard to put a positive tilt to this feeling. I miss my culture to a level that I didn't think was possible. America, in all its messiness and broken pieces, is where I want to be. I miss trivial things like grabbing what I want off the shelf at the grocery store instead of asking for it, each category of items at a different counter with a different clerk. I miss brewing coffee in the morning, a routine I've improvised, but still isn't the same. I miss putting my clothes in a dryer and not having to wait a week for them to drip. I miss meeting up with friends at a bar or restaurant, being casually social without a big event or massive dinner being prepared. I miss running day-to-day errands even without the added difficulty of conducting them in a foreign language. There's nothing wrong with the way these things are in Armenia. I just miss how they are at home. Here's the positive spin. I'm a lot more grateful that I have those things to go home to.
Most of all right now, I miss warmth. I'm wearing 3 pairs of pants, 3 pairs of socks, 3 shirts, gloves, a wool hat, and a huge heavy winter coat throughout the school day. Still. Cold. I feel like a marshmallow with all the layers and still want to add more. In the mornings, I struggle to force myself out of my sleeping bag and then again out of my bedroom, the only heated room in my house. Showers are an act of will as I shiver under the hottest water I can manage and defrost until I force myself to move before my very limited hot water runs out. It's not that it's too much colder than the US, it's just the pervasiveness of the cold. Cold at home. Cold at work. Cold everywhere. Last year it didn't seem to bother me as much, but two years in a row and all I can say is Armenians are tough.
Twenty-seven months is a long time. It's a long time to be missing friends, family, and even simple comforts. I feel like that kid in the car asking, "Are we there yet?" every five minutes, impatient for it to be true. At month 22, I am ready to come home, but I still have things to do here. So I'm sticking it out, and I think it's okay that for right now, that's just hard. If anyone has any suggestions, bits of happiness, or some love to share, I'll take it. If not, maybe those at home could take a minute to appreciate the creature comforts that us Americans get to enjoy. I know everything isn't all peaches and cream there either, but there are plenty of little things that are.
Anyway, like I said, there's nothing actually wrong going on. I have awesome work projects (more to come on that), fantastic students, and an amazing counterpart. Maybe it's the cold, or maybe I've just been away for too long, but I'm still in this funk. I'm hoping soon the realization that I'm leaving Armenia and the things I will miss here will start to kick in, and I'll begin to fully appreciate each day again. Until then, warm sleeping bags, kitten cuddles, and the good moments in between will have to do.
Stay warm everyone.
Emily
Sunday, January 13, 2019
Friday, November 30, 2018
When Two Worlds Collide
I've been avoiding writing this blog post. It's caused me to get even further behind on my intended blogging, so it's time to rip off the band-aid and get it done.
After I got back from my trip, and I readjusted a bit, it was time for school to start. The first day of school here is always on September 1st. This year that landed on a Saturday, so I woke up early, got dressed up, and headed to my first Saturday school day ever. (School on Saturdays is actually not uncommon here. The Armenian school system uses it often to make up for missed days due to holidays or other cancellations.) Generally, I wouldn't have gone to a Saturday school day, but this was First Bell - a celebration of knowledge and learning that signifies the beginning of the school term.
First Bell was the first big milestone that I experienced last year and again this year. Which made it the first big experience to compare from year 1 to year 2. What a difference a year makes.
This year was drastically different. For starters, I dressed like myself. When i came to Armenia, I bought a whole new wardrobe, one that was much more feminine than I was used to. Over the last year, as clothes have worn out and I've lost weight, I've slowly replaced my feminine clothes with things that are more my style. When I started making those changes, I got some strange looks, but most people didn't say anything so I figured it was all good. The one comment I do remember getting was made to another volunteer. "Emily likes to wear boyish clothes doesn't she? They suit her." That was enough permission for me, and as I switched over the rest of my wardrobe, I was surprised at the compliments I received about how much better the clothes I was comfortable in looked on me. So, this was my first day of school outfit.
I was amazed at the response. My counterpart actually asked our homeroom class in Armenian "How nice does Miss Emily look today?" The students applauded and cheered. I turned a whole new shade of red of course, but I really appreciated the sentiment. Something that probably would have super ostracized me last year, was totally okay this year because my community knew me enough to accept me as I was (plus I really do look better in masculine clothes).
So I got to school for First Bell and the school courtyard was already packed. Last year I remember looking frantically for my counterpart, awkwardly being stared at and slightly avoided in the crowd, the strangeness of being a foreigner in a culture I didn't quite get, overwhelming. This year, the students enthusiastically greeted me. I didn't see my counterpart right away, so I stood around with the other teachers, just chatting before things got started. I comfortably took a seat next to some of the other teachers, feeling no anxiety about what I should do. I was just another teacher, and a part of the community I was surrounded by. In soviet times, it was standard for students to wear black and white to school every day. On special occasions, many families still carry over the tradition.
The first thing on the agenda was an introduction from some 9th graders (the highest grade in our school), and a short show by our newest additions, the tiny kindergartners. As the new kindergartners began to dance and give their little speeches, I took pictures with the rest of the teachers and parents because I no longer felt like an outsider. I ooh'ed and aah'ed over how cute the newest students were and clapped for and smiled encouragingly at the more nervous students who were trying to remember their lines.
As the school director stood up to make her speech, welcoming the new students and the returning ones, acknowledging the pride our school has in their students, their teachers, and their community, and celebrating the importance of knowledge and learning, I followed the majority of what she was saying. I noticed nuance in the way she addressed the school that differed from the norm. I understood not only what was being said, but also much more (though still not all) of the larger context in which she was saying it.
The students made more speeches, sang, danced, recited poetry, the oldest students (9th graders) often taking the lead and running the show. The older students led the newest students to their classroom, each one taking the tiny hand of the youngest additions to our school. It was an example of mentorship and responsibility that can rarely be found in our schools. I got wrapped up in the ceremony of it all, and found myself also feeling a sense of pride in the school I've been calling my work home for the last year and a half.
This year felt drastically different, an experience I am fortunate to have as many Peace Corps Volunteers find dishearteningly similar struggles in year 2. I am lucky to have the school and counterpart assignment that I do. I have been given an opportunity to work with a site placement that genuinely wants me there, respects my opinion, and employs my skills. That's an experience many volunteers don't find, through no fault of their own. Don't get me wrong, there were still many things I didn't personally like about the school system - the occasionally exorbitant celebrations, the seemingly unwarranted formality and posturing for the sake of hierarchy, and especially the discipline system and shame culture of the school. The difference now was I knew more of the big picture, and I could see how some of these things were bound by the society, politics, history, and culture in which they existed. I could see the subtleties of how some people were trying to make changes, and the small victories that were occurring. Most of all, I felt like part of the team working to address these things, instead of just a foreigner looking in, condemning what was different from my own experience.
All in all, First Bell marked the beginning of a promising year, and I was happy to be starting school again. My world here was good. My world back home had other ideas.
Back in May, I had reconnected with two friends, Katie and Melissa, who were friends of mine from college and grad school, and had gotten married while I was away. The way they were able to sympathize with me, support me, and distract me from the hard days quickly became invaluable. From May until September, their love and friendship was a constant comfort and daily reassurance. Then, on September 3rd, Melissa died suddenly. There were no warning signs, she hadn't been sick to anyone's knowledge. She was just gone. Her heart had given out. I was messaging with Katie while it was happening, and even though I wasn't physically there, it's an experience I would never wish on anyone.
There's a lot I'm still processing about this. Dearly missing a friend who had become part of my daily routine. Regret at all the time missed before reconnecting. Anger, frustration, and mostly shock that someone so young can just be gone. Watching Katie be in so much pain and not being able to be there in all the ways I wanted and needed to be. Missing out on the opportunities to grieve properly. A lot of feelings about the fleetingness of life. Wondering how many of my loved ones I was going to lose while being on this side of the world and missing time with them. An almost crippling fear of losing more people close to me. Then later... Guilt at not being as engaged here because I was hurting so much from the events and pain there. Wanting to leave because of the aforementioned fears. Questions about priorities and the effectiveness of anything I do here, and if it was/is worth it. Becoming a vital support to someone so important to me, while being on the other side of the world. Having my needs and obligations here constantly collide with the needs and wants I still have back home and with the people back home.
I stopped sleeping. I only ate when Lauren came over from her village and told me to eat or made me something. I was distracted when I went to work and would randomly burst into tears throughout the day. My counterpart sent me home from school, more than once.
One thing I do want to note is the complete and unqualified sympathy that I received from Armenians. When Mane sent me home from school, it was without judgement or frustration. It was out of genuine care. Whenever I told someone here what had happened, their response was immediate compassion. Often responding with the Armenian phrases for grief of "I hurt for you" and "patience" because time is the only thing that really helps grief. In fact, the Armenian response to grief is, in my experience, so much more compassionate, kind, and genuine. It is one that recognizes the length and severity of grief. Armenians hold memorials for loved ones for up to a whole week after death, then again at a month, and another at a year. Sometimes adding even more celebrations or memorials at other intervals or occasions. During these times, people miss work. They miss responsibilities and obligations, and it's understood and accepted. There's no definitive timeline. I've watched my host Tatik (Armenian grandmother) burst into tears at the mention of her husband's name, who died 5 years ago. There was no shame in it. The whole family stopped, remembered him, recalled his importance to them, and shared a moment of pain... and that was okay. As I've been watching the responses people have to Katie, who lost her wife, the person who was her partner in everything she did, I have often been less than impressed. Our culture tends to take more of the view of "life goes on", which often translates to a "time to get past it" mentality. It's something this experience has shown me as problematic. It's something I would much rather take the Armenian response to any day. What is more essential to humanity than death? Why doesn't that bring out our most humane treatment and responses? We get so wrapped up in work, productivity, life moving forward, that we push away the pain and put our own ideas of "proper timing" on losses that shake our entire worlds.
I'm getting preachy, so I'll move on, but this is something I feel strongly about. This is a part of my experience here that will shape who I am as a person.
The weeks following Melissa's death were impossible. All of these questions and feelings were constantly circling, the lack of sleep and food not helping. I spent an hour on the phone with a member of Peace Corps staff, discussing whether or not this was the last straw for me, debating on just being done and going home. The Peace Corps doctors were concerned too, consistently checking in on my physical and mental health. Among staff, my home emergencies had kind of become notorious. Losing three people close to me now, a terrifyingly close call with my dad, a brother on the heart transplant list. All volunteers have struggles at home, but most don't go through so much at home during their 2 years. Everyone has a breaking point.
Through lots of discussions and hearing many different points of view, I decided to find a way to get home for a visit. I requested funds from the meager readjustment allowance Volunteers earn throughout their service that they receive when they get home. Headquarters approving the request was the sign I needed to know that this was what was best for me.
I didn't tell many people I was going to be home. I knew I needed the time to process all of my feelings, grieve Melissa, for once in the past year and 8 months be physically there for someone I loved going through so much pain, and get my head in the place it needed to be to come back and productively finish my service.
I saw my immediate family and one friend and spent time helping Katie with her grief while processing my own. It hurt a little to be so close to so many people I love and miss and not see them, and I'm sorry for anyone who felt slighted or sad. It would have been overwhelming to see all the people I care about in such a short time, and I'm not sure I would have chosen to come back to Armenia if I had. I did what I needed to do.
I am back now. I am back and engaged and doing my job here. There are still feelings of grief, sadness, the need to support people back home, and conflict about where I need to be. I'm doing the best I can to balance those while making the most out of the time I have left in Armenia. I'm writing a grant with my school to set up a resource center for our students (we just got approved!). I'm leaning into relationships with other PCV's and Armenians who I'm going to really miss at the end of this. I'm intentionally taking care of myself and those around me, doing the best I can with where I am at. I'm working on getting back that excitement I felt during First Bell for this school year that's already been so different from last year.
My Peace Corps "Person", Lauren, recently went home. (Another thing I'm working to process.) She didn't necessarily want to, but it was what was right for her. I'm still here, I'm determined, and I'm hoping it's what is right for me.
Համբերություն, (hamberootyun; patience)
Էմիլի
After I got back from my trip, and I readjusted a bit, it was time for school to start. The first day of school here is always on September 1st. This year that landed on a Saturday, so I woke up early, got dressed up, and headed to my first Saturday school day ever. (School on Saturdays is actually not uncommon here. The Armenian school system uses it often to make up for missed days due to holidays or other cancellations.) Generally, I wouldn't have gone to a Saturday school day, but this was First Bell - a celebration of knowledge and learning that signifies the beginning of the school term.
First Bell was the first big milestone that I experienced last year and again this year. Which made it the first big experience to compare from year 1 to year 2. What a difference a year makes.
This year was drastically different. For starters, I dressed like myself. When i came to Armenia, I bought a whole new wardrobe, one that was much more feminine than I was used to. Over the last year, as clothes have worn out and I've lost weight, I've slowly replaced my feminine clothes with things that are more my style. When I started making those changes, I got some strange looks, but most people didn't say anything so I figured it was all good. The one comment I do remember getting was made to another volunteer. "Emily likes to wear boyish clothes doesn't she? They suit her." That was enough permission for me, and as I switched over the rest of my wardrobe, I was surprised at the compliments I received about how much better the clothes I was comfortable in looked on me. So, this was my first day of school outfit.
So I got to school for First Bell and the school courtyard was already packed. Last year I remember looking frantically for my counterpart, awkwardly being stared at and slightly avoided in the crowd, the strangeness of being a foreigner in a culture I didn't quite get, overwhelming. This year, the students enthusiastically greeted me. I didn't see my counterpart right away, so I stood around with the other teachers, just chatting before things got started. I comfortably took a seat next to some of the other teachers, feeling no anxiety about what I should do. I was just another teacher, and a part of the community I was surrounded by. In soviet times, it was standard for students to wear black and white to school every day. On special occasions, many families still carry over the tradition.
The first thing on the agenda was an introduction from some 9th graders (the highest grade in our school), and a short show by our newest additions, the tiny kindergartners. As the new kindergartners began to dance and give their little speeches, I took pictures with the rest of the teachers and parents because I no longer felt like an outsider. I ooh'ed and aah'ed over how cute the newest students were and clapped for and smiled encouragingly at the more nervous students who were trying to remember their lines.
As the school director stood up to make her speech, welcoming the new students and the returning ones, acknowledging the pride our school has in their students, their teachers, and their community, and celebrating the importance of knowledge and learning, I followed the majority of what she was saying. I noticed nuance in the way she addressed the school that differed from the norm. I understood not only what was being said, but also much more (though still not all) of the larger context in which she was saying it.
The students made more speeches, sang, danced, recited poetry, the oldest students (9th graders) often taking the lead and running the show. The older students led the newest students to their classroom, each one taking the tiny hand of the youngest additions to our school. It was an example of mentorship and responsibility that can rarely be found in our schools. I got wrapped up in the ceremony of it all, and found myself also feeling a sense of pride in the school I've been calling my work home for the last year and a half.
This year felt drastically different, an experience I am fortunate to have as many Peace Corps Volunteers find dishearteningly similar struggles in year 2. I am lucky to have the school and counterpart assignment that I do. I have been given an opportunity to work with a site placement that genuinely wants me there, respects my opinion, and employs my skills. That's an experience many volunteers don't find, through no fault of their own. Don't get me wrong, there were still many things I didn't personally like about the school system - the occasionally exorbitant celebrations, the seemingly unwarranted formality and posturing for the sake of hierarchy, and especially the discipline system and shame culture of the school. The difference now was I knew more of the big picture, and I could see how some of these things were bound by the society, politics, history, and culture in which they existed. I could see the subtleties of how some people were trying to make changes, and the small victories that were occurring. Most of all, I felt like part of the team working to address these things, instead of just a foreigner looking in, condemning what was different from my own experience.
All in all, First Bell marked the beginning of a promising year, and I was happy to be starting school again. My world here was good. My world back home had other ideas.
Back in May, I had reconnected with two friends, Katie and Melissa, who were friends of mine from college and grad school, and had gotten married while I was away. The way they were able to sympathize with me, support me, and distract me from the hard days quickly became invaluable. From May until September, their love and friendship was a constant comfort and daily reassurance. Then, on September 3rd, Melissa died suddenly. There were no warning signs, she hadn't been sick to anyone's knowledge. She was just gone. Her heart had given out. I was messaging with Katie while it was happening, and even though I wasn't physically there, it's an experience I would never wish on anyone.
There's a lot I'm still processing about this. Dearly missing a friend who had become part of my daily routine. Regret at all the time missed before reconnecting. Anger, frustration, and mostly shock that someone so young can just be gone. Watching Katie be in so much pain and not being able to be there in all the ways I wanted and needed to be. Missing out on the opportunities to grieve properly. A lot of feelings about the fleetingness of life. Wondering how many of my loved ones I was going to lose while being on this side of the world and missing time with them. An almost crippling fear of losing more people close to me. Then later... Guilt at not being as engaged here because I was hurting so much from the events and pain there. Wanting to leave because of the aforementioned fears. Questions about priorities and the effectiveness of anything I do here, and if it was/is worth it. Becoming a vital support to someone so important to me, while being on the other side of the world. Having my needs and obligations here constantly collide with the needs and wants I still have back home and with the people back home.
I stopped sleeping. I only ate when Lauren came over from her village and told me to eat or made me something. I was distracted when I went to work and would randomly burst into tears throughout the day. My counterpart sent me home from school, more than once.
One thing I do want to note is the complete and unqualified sympathy that I received from Armenians. When Mane sent me home from school, it was without judgement or frustration. It was out of genuine care. Whenever I told someone here what had happened, their response was immediate compassion. Often responding with the Armenian phrases for grief of "I hurt for you" and "patience" because time is the only thing that really helps grief. In fact, the Armenian response to grief is, in my experience, so much more compassionate, kind, and genuine. It is one that recognizes the length and severity of grief. Armenians hold memorials for loved ones for up to a whole week after death, then again at a month, and another at a year. Sometimes adding even more celebrations or memorials at other intervals or occasions. During these times, people miss work. They miss responsibilities and obligations, and it's understood and accepted. There's no definitive timeline. I've watched my host Tatik (Armenian grandmother) burst into tears at the mention of her husband's name, who died 5 years ago. There was no shame in it. The whole family stopped, remembered him, recalled his importance to them, and shared a moment of pain... and that was okay. As I've been watching the responses people have to Katie, who lost her wife, the person who was her partner in everything she did, I have often been less than impressed. Our culture tends to take more of the view of "life goes on", which often translates to a "time to get past it" mentality. It's something this experience has shown me as problematic. It's something I would much rather take the Armenian response to any day. What is more essential to humanity than death? Why doesn't that bring out our most humane treatment and responses? We get so wrapped up in work, productivity, life moving forward, that we push away the pain and put our own ideas of "proper timing" on losses that shake our entire worlds.
I'm getting preachy, so I'll move on, but this is something I feel strongly about. This is a part of my experience here that will shape who I am as a person.
The weeks following Melissa's death were impossible. All of these questions and feelings were constantly circling, the lack of sleep and food not helping. I spent an hour on the phone with a member of Peace Corps staff, discussing whether or not this was the last straw for me, debating on just being done and going home. The Peace Corps doctors were concerned too, consistently checking in on my physical and mental health. Among staff, my home emergencies had kind of become notorious. Losing three people close to me now, a terrifyingly close call with my dad, a brother on the heart transplant list. All volunteers have struggles at home, but most don't go through so much at home during their 2 years. Everyone has a breaking point.
Through lots of discussions and hearing many different points of view, I decided to find a way to get home for a visit. I requested funds from the meager readjustment allowance Volunteers earn throughout their service that they receive when they get home. Headquarters approving the request was the sign I needed to know that this was what was best for me.
I didn't tell many people I was going to be home. I knew I needed the time to process all of my feelings, grieve Melissa, for once in the past year and 8 months be physically there for someone I loved going through so much pain, and get my head in the place it needed to be to come back and productively finish my service.
I saw my immediate family and one friend and spent time helping Katie with her grief while processing my own. It hurt a little to be so close to so many people I love and miss and not see them, and I'm sorry for anyone who felt slighted or sad. It would have been overwhelming to see all the people I care about in such a short time, and I'm not sure I would have chosen to come back to Armenia if I had. I did what I needed to do.
I am back now. I am back and engaged and doing my job here. There are still feelings of grief, sadness, the need to support people back home, and conflict about where I need to be. I'm doing the best I can to balance those while making the most out of the time I have left in Armenia. I'm writing a grant with my school to set up a resource center for our students (we just got approved!). I'm leaning into relationships with other PCV's and Armenians who I'm going to really miss at the end of this. I'm intentionally taking care of myself and those around me, doing the best I can with where I am at. I'm working on getting back that excitement I felt during First Bell for this school year that's already been so different from last year.
My Peace Corps "Person", Lauren, recently went home. (Another thing I'm working to process.) She didn't necessarily want to, but it was what was right for her. I'm still here, I'm determined, and I'm hoping it's what is right for me.
Համբերություն, (hamberootyun; patience)
Էմիլի
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