22 Months is All I've Got

They say through every difficult experience you learn. I have definitely learned to stay away from sheet metal in the dark, among other things.

Two years ago today I left for Nicaragua. I embarked on a journey that has forever changed my life. I now have a whole new family, wonderful friends both American and Nicaraguan, and a new outlook on so many aspects of life. But I was robbed of my final months.

I have been healing slowly, trying my best to remain positive about the progress that I have made. But recovery is hard. They don't tell you that before they wheel you into surgery. They don't tell you how it will affect your mental state when you are unable to do virtually all of the activities you love during a Minnesota summer. They don't tell you that when you finally feel free and start to move again it will be the most painful part of the process. They don't tell you that insurance will throw in road blocks and speed bumps around every corner. They just tell you it will all work out.

And it will. I am so thankful to have had a place to come home to and a support system to care for me. Don't get me wrong, I am very lucky.

But two years ago I signed up for 27 months and never thought twice about that commitment. If I do something, I do it wholeheartedly and until it's finished. I never thought that I would finish my service early. I even left my house on that stressful day in May telling my host family that I would be back and refusing to say goodbye. I was determined.

And then life happened. I have seen the slow progress, I have followed the regiments. But it is simply not the best decision for my recovery to go back to Nicaragua. I need my foot and appreciate that fact now more than ever, so I cannot jeopardize that by pushing too hard too fast.

It breaks my heart to not follow through with my commitment to my community, my host family, Peace Corps, and myself. But sometimes, you just have to follow your instincts and do what is best for you, even if it's not what your heart wants. I was robbed of 5 months full of hard work, celebrations, and closure. But at some point, you just have to move on.

What I have really learned in this hard time is how much the relationships I have built actually mean. My "Nica 62" Peace Corps family has continued to make me feel like a part of the group, even if I'm not physically present. Peace Corps staff has expressed nothing but support and love during this entire process. And my Nicaraguan host family still remains in close contact with me, ensuring that I am healthy as well as telling me how much I am missed. I now have a home in two places.

For so long I did not want to think it was real. I didn't want to make the decision to stay or to go back, but now I know that it is time to move on and do what is best for me. I will be taking a job as a legal assistant in Minneapolis starting in September. Here's to the next step, carrying all of my love and memories of Nicaragua with me as I go.

"You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place."

Two Feet

These past few weeks have given me a new appreciation for something we all take for granted: two working feet. Many have shared experiences of a broken leg or time in a cast, but I thought I would share how my perspective has changed during this time.

There are many facets to this injury. Something I cannot escape from is a thought of what I would've done had I been Nicaraguan. I had the opportunity to easily seek medical attention from the best doctors within the country, then be flown out to the U.S. But what does a tendon repair look like for a Nicaraguan citizen?

In every aspect of my life privilege creeps in. This is a prime example of the privilege I had as a U.S. citizen and government worker. I know that my Nicaraguan counterparts would have maybe suffered through pain their whole lives, without resolving the issue. Or maybe they would have had countless surgeries, without any real fix. Or maybe this injury would have costed them the ability to walk on two feet, having to use a crutch to get around, being labeled a cripple in a country that has little to no handicapped accessible buildings. I know this because my original diagnosis from a Nicaraguan doctor in the health center was that my foot was completely fine when it was clearly not.

But I am an American. I work for a government agency that covers my healthcare costs. And I have access to a healthcare system in which the doctors have studied for more than 10 years in order to give quality care, in comparison to the 3-4 years of study Nicaraguan doctors have. I am privileged in this world.

However, that is not the only thing that makes me privileged. I have spent time in a wheelchair and considerable time on crutches. The loss of two walking feet has taken a toll on my physical and mental health. When you can't do something as simple as carry a glass of water, it becomes difficult to preserve a level of independence.

While in a wheelchair I felt even more helpless. First of all, everyone looks above you. It is literally degrading to be invisible because you are stuck at a different eye level than everyone else. During the hours that I spent in a wheelchair, I felt helpless, forgotten, and frustrated that the only way to make people pay attention to me would be to make noise.

So I got better at moving about on my own. I improved at wheeling my own chair. But there's a funny thing about a wheelchair, you still can't open your own door or step off of a curb. Even that little sliver of independence is limited. I depended on someone else to get me from point A to point B mostly, because I knew there would be some obstacle in my way.

And I have started to judge people based upon if they help me or not. Some cannot be bothered to open a door or pick something up off the ground that fell from your hands. I struggle to do the basics, like stand supported on my crutches while cooking or walking up the stairs. Of course there are others who offer their help in any situation. But even that can sometimes be frustrating because no matter how much people say they're sorry about what happened to you, it doesn't change what happened. The world is frustrating place when you cannot take control of your own situation.

Yet once again I have privilege. I have crutches, I can get out of my chair if I need to whereas some cannot. And my situation is (hopefully) only temporary. It is recovery, not my whole life. In these past few weeks I have felt frustration, anger, self-pity, and sadness. I try to laugh instead of cry, but the truth is that it's not an easy situation to be in.

I guess the point of these thoughts is that the next time I see someone in a wheelchair or on crutches, I will not pity them as it will not make their situation any better. I will look them in the eyes and see them instead of looking above. And I will be as helpful as I can because the world we live in is not friendly to those who cannot stand on their own two feet.

Med-Evac

There are so many Peace Corps abbreviations, terms, rules, and protocol to follow. Who knew that what was supposed to be a small cut could turn into something so big?

For those of you who are wondering what in the world happened to me, I wish I had an exciting story. I've wanted to tell people it was a machete that cut my foot while working in the garden or an iron rod while working on a stove project. I wish I had a story that had to do with a pig or a mishap with a herd of cows crossing the road. Unfortunately, the background story is not so exciting.

In Nicaragua, many of the houses are built with zinc metal sheets on the roof. At the house, there were many sheets of this metal outside in the patio because a family member is building his house. Contrary to instructions, the construction workers had not put the slabs up high on the roof nor did they cover the sharp ends with cardboard. They were simply laying on top of some concrete blocks, about 6 inches off the ground.

So, one dark night about two weeks ago, Morgan showed up. I did know that they were there, but was running around trying to make invitations for a baby shower. In my hurry, I walked out the door quickly and instead of passing through the narrow path between the car and the roof pieces I walked straight into the metal slabs, cutting the top of my foot on the sharp edge.

I was stitched up at the health center and reassured that none of the tendons had been cut. However, a week later my foot was still swollen and I was unable to walk on it. After seeing a specialist, it was determined that I had indeed cut multiple tendons and needed surgery. Within a few hours I went from having a cut to being shipped off to the U.S. for surgery.

What a whirlwind! Luckily, Peace Corps takes care of us. However, I was prepared for a vacation in the states to celebrate my sister's wedding, not for surgery and a month of recuperation. I packed my suitcase in 20 minutes, grabbed my passport, and headed back to Managua to await my flight. No goodbyes, no time to make sure I had what I needed, no time to process the reverse culture shock.

Now I have about a month at home, hoping and wishing that I recover quickly so that I can finish up the short time I have left in Nicaragua. To some, it may seem simple. Just be done, why not? I've already served 22 months in Nicaragua, accomplished many goals, and changed a great deal. But 22 months is not what I signed up for. 22 months does not give me the time to finish up the projects and trainings I had left on my list of goals. 22 months does not give me the same feeling of accomplishment of finishing my service with the other 39 people who started it with me. 22 months does not give me the full year with my students to watch them grow and change. 22 months and a sudden departure did not give me the time to say goodbye to the many people I have gotten to know and love over the course of my time in Nicaragua. 22 months just doesn't cut it.

You never know when something might happen and it may be the worst timing in the world. But all there is to do when it does is keep your head up, smile, and hope for the best. That is what I plan to do as I hope to be cleared to go back to Nicaragua to finish what I started.

Friendly Catcalling

Can there ever be such a thing? I have sadly become accustomed to the whistles, creepy voices saying “Adioooooooos” and men and boys who are way too old or too young checking me out. I don’t get angry every day, I don’t answer, I now just go about my business and hope it doesn’t get to me enough to interrupt my day.

But then I traveled to the east coast of Nicaragua. I was impacted by the new languages that surrounded me (including English creole), the new foods, the water on all sides, and coconut trees everywhere. Toto, we were not in Nicaragua anymore (even though we still were)!

So it shouldn't have been such a surprise to me that even the catcalls were different. But still I was caught off guard by men sitting by the street yelling, “Goodbye,” “Have a lovely day,” “Good morning,” etc. I had learned how to put on what I call my “bitch face” in my everyday life because the men in the streets of my town are creepy, rude, and obnoxious. But what do you do when someone gives you a friendly greeting in the street? He is still probably hinting at how beautiful you are, how much he loves your looks, etc, yet it’s much harder to put up the same shield in that context. We questioned whether or not to respond and how to deal with the nice comments. Time after time while we walked around the city of Bluefields we were taken aback by men wishing us well on the streets.

It’s a very subtle difference between the east and west coasts of Nicaragua, maybe one that not all would pick up on, yet it changed my days. I know that the coastal men are just as machista as the mainland, but their approach to wooing a woman was so different. I simply appreciated the fact that I didn’t feel quite as angry, hateful, and frustrated. On the contrary, the street salutations often made me smile, something that a mainstream Nicaraguan catcall very rarely does.

Apart from the friendly catcalls, Bluefields and Pearl Lagoon are beautiful. White sand beaches, water everywhere, lush green plants, GRASS surrounding the houses, and delicious baked goods. We mostly spent our days relaxing at the beach or in town, though the travel was extensive so we felt worn out by so many boat rides and a long bus ride. I realized as I relaxed by the water, took the small boats from one town to the next, and soaked it all in that I need to live near water. I was soothed and refreshed, just as I feel when I take the time to watch the sunset on my dock back in Minnesota.

One challenge we faced was a constant uncertainty of what language to speak to the locals. Most people speak at least broken Spanish, but English creole is their first language in Pearl Lagoon. In Bluefields it was a guess as to which one to speak because about half of the population is mixed with Spanish blood and half African descendants from English slave ships, along with the indigenous populations.

Additionally, it was interesting to contrast some of the cultural and historical differences between the two coasts. The east coast is much less Sandinista and more efficiently abides by a traditional governing body. There are indigenous populations, a mixed (Spanish with indigenous) population, African descendants from the English slave ships, and a population of African descendants who first settled on St. Vincent after a shipwreck and then were displaced along the east coast of Central America. I was fascinated by the stark contrast between the heavy Latino culture on the west coast versus the Caribbean feel on the east coast.

Many of us volunteers pondered whether or not we would have been a good fit for the coast. Now, after understanding Nicaraguan culture on a deep level, working hard on my Spanish skills, and enjoying the Latino life, I would like to be able to spend time on the coast. However, I wouldn’t trade my Nicaraguan experience for anything.

Two different worlds, two different perspectives. My only conclusion for now is that I would take a “Have a nice day lady!” any day over a whistle from a 14 year old boy. 

Two Years

It turns out we do become experts!

Ok, so expert is a bit of an exaggeration, but it does feel good to have entered this school year with a better handle on how the year would go. Many asked me at the end of my first year if I wished the experience was over at that point. I contemplated, reflecting over the hardest part of my service between the one year mark in country and when I had completed one year in my service. It is true, there were a lot of bumps and bruises, many difficulties in various aspects of life: physical, emotional, and professional. But my answer was always the same: I am grateful to have another year to improve what I can about my job.

Now I understand even more about how important this second year is in terms of service. We began the school year in February and although I started over in some sense by choosing almost all new teachers to work with, I had a much better idea of how to explain my job, how to enter into the classroom, and what would work in terms of my classroom role. I certainly am no expert, but I feel much more prepared. Though many days I do feel like I’m still figuring it out, I have felt more equipped to respond to newer volunteers’ questions of advice.

The tough part is that this experience of two years makes me very critical not only of aid, but of shorter term volunteer work. I spent the first three months in site simply absorbing the culture around me, getting to know the school system, observing and quietly noting important aspects of the society in which I now live. The work came later and as I have said, many failures and learning experiences filled my first year of service. In my second year there will be failure, but maybe not quite as big. There will be challenges, but I may be better prepared to navigate those situations. There will be frustrations, but I hopefully now know what to spend my time worrying about and what to give up on. Being a part of this process has made me see how development work or any foreign work really cannot be done on a short term scale.

This is certainly not to say that short term volunteers have not made a positive impact in the work that they have done. I am simply grateful to have a chance to do it all again, to start my second year with experience under my belt and feeling more prepared.

For now, I am living day by day, planning my work over the next 7 months. For those who wonder what my next steps are, you will just have to wait a bit longer. This second year has given me the opportunity to complete many new projects and I need to fulfill my work to the best of my abilities before thinking about what my next moves are back in the U.S. Two months into the school year I am very optimistic about my work this year. Happy 2015!

Strawberry Delight

Nothing like a day of shopping to put some spunk back in my step. But for anyone who knows me, shopping is not exactly my favorite pastime. With my sister's wedding approaching, I was forced to hit the streets of Esteli, a nearby city, to search for a dress.

I did not give up early (as I often get discouraged) and my friend and I continued to walk in and out of stores on a deep hunt. The advantage we had was looking for certain colors. In a matter of two hours we had walked through the entire business area of the city and were left wondering where to go next.

Then, we saw them! Strawberries. Yes, Nicaragua has mangoes and pineapple, guayaba and passion fruit. Us Peace Corps volunteers anticipate each fruit season like a kid waiting for Santa Claus. However, when you have not eaten a strawberry for over a year and a half, that level of excitement grows. Apples, they're around. Pears I ate when I was at home. Biting into that strawberry was for me as if all of my worries suddenly dissipated and all I felt was happiness.

As my friend and I sat on a step eating strawberries, I felt like a child again. I realized that one of the advantages of dedicating two years of your life to this lifestyle is that very little things can make a huge difference in one's day. Maybe it also speaks to how much of an emotional roller coaster this experience is, one moment happy about something so minuscule as liquid hand soap, and the next angry at the man hissing at you on the street. Luckily, it is not only strawberries that make me smile...

Things that make me ridiculously happy:
-Liquid hand soap
-Washing my clothes in a washing machine
-A hot shower
-Strawberries
-Real ice cream
-A good latte
-Elizabeth's daily hugs and kisses
-Green beans at the market (50 cents)!!
-A head of green and purple lettuce (again 50 CENTS!)
-Laughing with my friends while walking aimlessly around the city
-Sitting on a stoop and having NO ONE look at me
-Red headed Nicaraguans
-My students greeting me with "Good morning teacher"
-A beer after a long week of work
-Air conditioning
-A comfortable bed
-Dancing to Latin music (without creepy men bothering me)
-Responding to catcalls with something clever/telling men off

And I could keep going...

I know this experience has helped me to identify the little things in life that make each day great, but I hope to continually identify these aspects of my life, no matter where I live. It's the little things in life that keep us going, the little things that keep me smiling.

Another Morgan!

I arrived at home the other day to find multiple children saying, “There’s another Morgan at the basketball court!” “She’s tall just like you!” The gringos came to town.

I become surprised every time I hear of gringos in town simply because it doesn’t happen very often. These days, it doesn’t really matter what they are handing out, I feel very critical of their reasons for being here. Nicaraguans, like anyone else, love free stuff. Ask any “poor” college student and they would tell you that it doesn’t matter what free food or free material was offered, they would attend. I understand the desire for free stuff.

But what does that mean in terms of aid? I used to fill bags of food for Feed My Starving Children, packing rice enriched with soy and other dehydrated foods to be sent to developing countries around the world. Now, I live on the receiving end of this donation and will be eating the same food that a volunteer packed on the day my family decides to cook it.

Here come the gringos with free food and shoes to give out. People are excited to receive whatever this may be. But is this all we can do?

I am certainly not saying that Peace Corps as an organization is perfect nor that we work under a perfect development model. I, too, have been caught in moments where I have wanted to simply do something for my community instead of teaching someone how to do it for the sake of efficiency and quality. But how far does that go? We can continue to give materials and aid, at times to corrupt governments who do not spread the wealth or at times it does reach those in need. But will that solve a suffering economy?

The bus rolls up in San Isidro full of gringos with a smile who dance and give out packages of food. Food that will not even be enough to feed families for even one day. We are not solving issues of development here, and maybe we’re not pretending to. Maybe it’s just fine that all we want to do is alleviate some suffering.

What I do know is that my perspective has changed greatly since coming to Nicaragua. In December I was able to return home to enjoy a wonderful Christmas with my family and friends. I have so many opportunities, so much privilege, and so much to be thankful for. Most of all, I’m grateful for the lessons I have learned in Nicaragua, the skills I have gained, and the moments I will remember for my entire life that I have spent with my Nicaraguan family and friends. But to be honest, I'm happy to be the only "Morgan" in town again.