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.

Inaugurating Christmas

I recently had a conversation with a Nica friend who asked me what the date was when we "inaugurate Christmas." I stared at him blankly. What do you mean?

Apparently it has leaked all the way to Nicaragua that we celebrate Christmas big. What he really wanted to know was at what point it is acceptable for us to start setting up decorations and get into the holiday spirit. I explained to him that while the stores are full of Christmas gear immediately after Halloween (and sometimes before) many families have the tradition of "inaugurating Christmas" around Thanksgiving. He exclaimed that we should have a party here to do the same.

This conversation made me really reflect on the past year. One year ago I was two weeks into site, just settling in to my host family and gearing up for the celebrations ahead. While in the U.S. we put our Christmas décor up for a month, I feel that it simply sits and we wait for the celebration of Christmas. Nicaraguans instead, spend the whole month of December celebrating. It is a month of graduations, as the school year ends and they celebrate preschool, sixth grade, and high school graduations. It is a month of birthdays, at least in my host family, which means at least a little cake every once in a while. It is a few days of celebrating the Virgin Mary in what they call "La Purissima" through prayer circles where they give out candy, fruit, and plastic kitchenware. It is Christmas Eve with dancing, music, and fireworks. It is New Year's Eve with more dancing, a doll made of old clothes that you set on fire, and more fireworks. To me, inaugurating Christmas means much more in Nicaragua than it does in Minnesota.

We are all looking forward to the end of the school year in the first week in December, teachers and students alike. This year has flown by faster than I ever imagined. Many people ask if I am ready to come home. I have completed one year, I have accomplished some of my goals, I have immersed myself in another community, and I have felt homesick for Minnesota. But I'm not done. Though the Peace Corps is criticized for throwing people into the job without much training, it is a learn as you go experience. Everyone is different and everyone handles the situations we face differently. I for one am happy to have another year to improve the projects that failed, to do better at my job in general, and to start the new projects that I never got going for one reason or another. Two years may feel like a long time in some moments, but in general, I feel that it is an adequate amount of time for us to really make a difference, to have a meaningful exchange with people, and to fulfill our goals, both personal and professional.

This is not to say that I'm not counting down the days until I can sit with hot chocolate making sugar cookies after playing broomball on the snowy lake. In 32 days I will be in shock once again to be home after 16 months away. I am ready to inaugurate Christmas in both cultures, the best of my both worlds.

Child Birth in an Unequal Society

I recently saw statistics showing the leading countries in gender equality. Surprisingly enough, Nicaragua appeared 6th on the list behind Iceland, Scandinavian countries, and Denmark. The U.S. came in as the 20th country on the list. Seeing this list I began to question gender equality in this country and in my own as well.

Here is the link to the Global Gender Gap realeased by the World Economic Forum:
http://mic.com/articles/102560/how-well-does-your-country-treat-women-check-this-interactive-map

What is clear to me about Nicaragua's supposed small gender equality gap is that this study looked closely at the situation in Managua. It cannot be denied that the Sandinista party has done well in appointing female leaders. These include important positions such as the National Police Chief along with many departmental and city chiefs, the national Minister of Education along with an entire institution led by women, and smaller positions filling the mayors' offices around the country. Women have been appointed and elected, they hold an important part in the politics of Nicaragua.

But let's talk about the gender gap in Nicaragua. How many women are actually working? This number drops significantly after a woman has children. How are women treated on a daily basis both in the workplace and in the home? Even a working woman is expected to complete all of the household chores outside of her work hours while the man simply needs to work his shift and return home at the hour that he pleases. Young girls are heard saying that they simply want to be mothers, and that does not mean in the future but that they are searching for a man when they are as young as 12 or 13 years hold. Women are expected to give a man a family, but the responsibilities will be solely theirs, with the exception of discipline in many cases. With many more logistical opportunities for men to continue their education (because young boys are not expected to help with housework or watching their siblings), this country does not deserve 6th place on that map.

I recently had the opportunity to visit an aunt in my host family who gave birth. My host mom (her sister-in-law) took her to the hospital and took care of her overnight. A group of family members (made up of mostly women except the driver) visited her that night in the hospital. We entered two by two into a room full of women, those who recently gave birth and those who were caring for the newborns and recent mothers. There was not a man in site. The baby was beautiful, perfectly calm and to my surprise, nameless! The dad was working outside of town and so she needed to wait to consult with him. I know very little about the birthing process in the U.S., but I do know that my own mother was angry with my father on the day of my birth for taking the bus and not having his car. I can't even imagine the father being absent at the birth of his own son or daughter. There were so many questions I had about this process both in the U.S. and in Nicaragua.

And so I have been informally interviewing people all week. As far as I know, three days have passed and the baby still does not have a name. Now I understand all of the confusions on birth certificates and formal documents of children in Nicaragua. Many children don't even know how to write their name correctly as it was put on their birth certificate. But many women have told me that that's just how it is in Nicaragua. Babies receive a name a few days after their birth perhaps because of lack of communication between the couple. (My thoughts are that I can't believe that 9 months aren't enough to resolve that, but who knows...) Women have also told me that although men were previously banned from the birthing room, they are now allowed in should they so choose. The woman may choose one person to accompany her in the birthing process, but men are still largely absent. It is a woman's process, I have been told. It is a tradition, whether the mother goes to the hospital or has her babies in her house, that she is surrounded by only female family members.

This to me feels like an ancient tradition. I feel enraged for these women that these men are so detached from their babies. As with many difficult subjects that I face in Nicaragua, I chose to discuss what I know as customary in the U.S. as well as what I will/would do in that situation. I have exclamed to almost any woman who will listen that whenever in the far off future I do have children, my partner will be right there by my bedside watching his baby be born. Having a child is not and never has been a process of one person. Why should any part of that process be left only to the woman?

The worst part of these situations that test my beliefs are hearing "that's just the way it is." I often get an affirmation that the way we do things in the U.S. would be nice, but that's not how it is in Nicaragua. Their reality is much different from mine and making them see that change is possible may be the biggest challenge I or anyone else will ever face.

The U.S. has a long way to go in closing the gender gap. I know there are too many cases of men detached from their children in our own country as well. Many women in the U.S. at least know that life does not have to be so unequal. Sometimes we view these statistics as fact without considering how people behind these numbers based on economics live. It is moments like these that make me thankful for the country that I come from and extremely distraught to know that many women will never know what even those possibilities of equality look like.

The "Other"

I’m nearly approaching my one year anniversary in site. Looking backwards the time has flown, and yet these past few months have been difficult for the entire group. What do we have to show after one year? What have we accomplished? What are we doing here? Are we really making a difference? Am I really integrated into my community? 

I have a great host family, a wonderful community of teachers, staff, and students who support me. Frequently people tell me that I have converted into a full Nica, I am no longer a gringa. But there is a harsh reality in the fact that I will always be different on some level, I will always be the “other.”

My neighborhood is my safe haven. People rarely stare me down anymore (unless they’re men making stupid comments or catcalls but even those include my name or “Profe”), I feel comfortable and greet people on the street because they all know that I am a teacher at the school. This has become my piece of Nicaragua where I fit. This town in general is my home, but outside of my neighborhood is less inviting as I do still get stares and recognize less faces. However, in general I feel that people know my role here and have become comfortable with seeing me around.

Then I enter into the rest of Nicaragua where I am simply seen as a dumb tourist with a lot of money. People stare me down expecting my Spanish to be poor and asking me for money in dollars. I am just like any other, despite the amount of work I have put into the schools here, despite my efforts to be culturally appropriate, despite how many customs and beliefs I have left behind in order to convert myself into a Nica. I feel like a Nica, but I will never be one. Even among my host family it is hard to deal with economic conversations. I may be another family member, but to them I’m that rich niece/sister/aunt who has had many opportunities in her life. This is true of my background, but when you’re paid a Nicaraguan salary it is difficult to live up to those expectations.

It often feels like a slap in the face. No matter how hard I try, I will never blend in. The consequences of that here are people looking at me like I carry around loads of money. Questions are never ending about where I come from and if I can speak in English, if my parents send me money and how perfect the U.S. must be. There are days when I think, I would just love to make a friend who didn’t make me feel like a new toy or an alien they never thought existed. I would like a genuine friend just because we like each other’s company.

And here’s where the complaining stops. It’s hard to be different. It’s hard to not be able to escape that fact. It’s hard to be the odd one out, the one that no one understands and has to answer 12,000 questions around every corner. But then I think, boo hoo to the white girl. I get this attention because of the privileged background that I carry. I get this attention because of my fair skin seen as beautiful; because of my birthplace and the opportunities that has given me in life. I am judged as the ideal person to be robbed because of the possessions I supposedly carry with me. For the first time in my life I am different in a town that I call home.

This is my first lived experience where I am beginning to understand what it means to be judged by the color of your skin. Of course I am judged in a completely different manner than my friends who are discriminated against in the U.S., but I now have a basic understanding of what that means. I am now annoyed by questions about my culture constantly being thrown at me, as I have heard from my friends back home. I never completely understood why some of my friends became so frustrated when people asked them if they grew up speaking another language or what kinds of foods their mom cooks. But it is because upon meeting someone we all just desperately want to be seen as humans, as equals. Those questions point out the differences instead of forming friendships through similarities. They make one feel like the “other.”

I am also very tired of being watched constantly. I am aware that I stand out, that people either think my skin is beautiful, are simply curious, or are wondering where I keep my money. But how does it feel to be watched because someone is afraid you may steal something from the store? How does it feel to be stared at because you’re a person of color dating a white person? How does it feel to grow up in an environment where you always stand out, a community that is 97% white for example? How does it feel to be a part of a college community that allows hate crimes to happen without much (if any) ramifications or acknowledgement of victims’ struggles?

We see the world in color. I have little hope that these issues will ever fully disappear. But it is good not only to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, but to have your own experience that helps you understand other’s perspectives. I certainly don’t have all of the answers, but I keep learning and I believe that is all that we can hope for. I believe that this will be the closest I will ever get to feeling the pain of my friends who have lived through racial discrimination in both big and small contexts. I will never be able to crawl out of this white skin or change my nationality, but I will keep learning and reflecting in order to live differently, in order to be a better person, friend, and teacher.

September 11th, 2014

Today started like any other day. I had my plan in my head, today was Thursday and I had a school event. As usual, the festivities started late.

I left my house even later than told just to account for Nica time. Apparently I still don’t have that concept down. Arriving at 6:30am, I met up with some teachers as we waited for the students to arrive on the street where we sat. Today was the day that the torch of Central America would proceed through town later to continue on its journey toward Costa Rica.

The torch passes every year starting its journey in Guatemala in the beginning of September. Traveling next through El Salvador and Honduras, it arrives at the northern border of Nicaragua on the Pan American highway. Because San Isidro is located on the Pan American, it is received by students on the highway and passes through town. Teachers wait with high school and older grades of elementary students who run a few blocks at a time passing through town. I waited with three fifth graders and one teacher on the corner for the torch to pass. Trying not to look at my watch, it became 7am, 7:30am, 8am… The students became antsy and the day got hotter. Finally at 8:30am, we heard the sirens of the police escort. As fast as the procession came around the corner they passed right by us without letting the students touch the torch. With disappointed students alongside, we strode to the park to wait for the welcoming event of the torch.

This is a pattern that has happened in other years apparently. Older students want to run the torch longer distances, everyone wants to touch it a little bit, and students literally fight to carry the torch and flags. Unfortunately, a beautiful moment celebrating the unity of Central America is ruined by selfish tendencies. The welcome was brief, with one folkloric dance, the band playing, and a short speech from the delegate in charge of schools. In a flash, all those hours of waiting were over.

I had to try to convince the teachers that this was a beautiful tradition. Imagining the equivalent in the U.S. is difficult. Crossing borders, sharing an identity, I got chills at the welcome event thinking that this same torch has passed through so many young hands. Although I was a bit disappointed at the lack of organization with the kids running the torch, it was a great experience to be a part of.

And then I remembered the date. Today was no normal Thursday. Today was September 11^th, 13 years after the attacks on the World Trade Centers, 3 years after I learned about the coup d’etat in Chile in which the U.S. played a significant role. Today was no normal Thursday.

I have mixed feelings about what I should be experiencing today. Nicaraguans are celebrating freedom, independence, and unity along with the countries of Central America. The U.S. is remembering the most significant terrorist attack on U.S. soil. Chileans are remembering those painful days under an oppressive dictator. Where do I fit in this day?

I have come to no conclusions, I have no answers. It is a day to reflect and I’ll leave it at that.

Reflections of 525,600 Minutes

Precisely one year ago I left my house on an adventure with so much mystery as to where I would spend the next two years. Though the goodbye with my parents was certainly tearful, I felt a strange sense of serenity as I boarded the plane. There was no breakdown, there were no second thoughts, and there were no regrets. I was ready to embark on this journey.  

That image of me at the airport now feels like a lifetime ago. Soon the new group will arrive with the same feelings of anxiousness, excitement, and curiosity as to what lays ahead of them. Once arriving in Nicaragua the sense of panic certainly set in for me. I had signed my life away for two years, could I actually do this?

I see the moments of this last year in snapshots. I was most fearful when we split up from the three day retreat to our new training host families. Training was filled with feelings of inadequacy and doubt, stress and anxiety. Time passed slowly as we waited for the two days a week that we got to be together with the big group. I have images of fighting with a three year old, watching old westerns with my host dad, eating cheesecake and getting wifi at a nearby café. All of these images bring bittersweet memories of training, what I would say was the most challenging and my least favorite part of service.

Then I came to my site visit. One of my favorite memories is during the first week when the power went out and my host family and I sat around chatting over candle light for hours. The first few weeks in site were full of excited children’s eyes as the new “gringa” came to town. I cannot even explain the elated feeling I had the first time I heard “Adios Profe!” in the street. This became MY community where I belong.

There were parties galore in December, making the month about food, dancing, and family. I slowly left behind my identity as “the gringa” and was converted into Morgan or Profe Morgan. I began my Environmental club and English classes that solidified my role as the profesora during the vacation. I ate a lot of enchiladas and other fried goodies, learning quickly that refusing food signifies extremely bad manners here.  

School started and once again I felt inadequate to fulfill this job. Work was slow to get to know my teachers and build trust in order to have an effective exchange in the classroom. I have learned around one hundred names of children of all ages. I am nearly toppled over by my third graders every day I enter the classroom and my fifth graders greet me with a “good morning” in English when I arrive. A moment I don’t remember is when I began to feel like this was my school, when I really felt like I could do this job, and when I converted into effectively fulfilling my teacher role. But somewhere along the way, that is exactly what happened.

I have been lucky enough to travel with family and friends. I will always remember the night that my grandmother did not leave the dance floor for more than five minutes. At 73 years old she learned to master salsa, cumbia, and other Nica steps. Even my dad barely had a rest that night. My two families got to unite and though it was exhausting to translate, I was so grateful that my Minnesota family got to see the real Nicaragua that I live in every day. As I have said before, I like to think of it as brushing my teeth under the stars instead of brushing my teeth next to the pig.

It has been a year of ups and downs and this rollercoaster ride has definitely thrown in some unexpected curves and dips. None of these feelings can be predicted as to when they will attack, but I have learned to take life as it comes. When you need to relax, there is a hammock. When you need to get out of site for a bit, there are other volunteers to meet you in the city. When you just need to hug a smiling baby, there are plenty around to play with. On any hard day I come home to Elizabeth screaming “Momo! Holaaaa!” and a giant hug (though I see that less and less as she is entering her terrible twos…). What more can one ask for?

Nicaraguans have taught me to enjoy the moments as they pass. 525,600 minutes have flown by, but I feel like I have taken advantage of each one to the best of my abilities. In my first week in country 27 months seemed daunting, impossible. 12 months in, I cannot believe I have made it this far already. I have changed immensely, I have grown in ways that have yet to be discovered, and I will only continue to be molded by this experience.

It is scary to think about where I will be a year from now, planning to go back to the U.S. Though those thoughts creep in, I will try to remain in a Nica context, living for today.  
 
 

Packing for Nicaragua

We have nearly reached one year in country and I cannot believe how time has flied. I was reflecting upon how much I’ve learned and the skills that I have gained while being here. One year ago I was stressing about what to pack and remember stressing over many decisions ahead of me. Here is some of the advice I would now give to others packing for PC Nicaragua:

• First and foremost: SHEETS. I stressed about whether or not to bring sheets for days up until the moment I left. Of course if you are a sheet freak and need your silk sheets, pack them. But they are common and easily available here, do not waste the space in your suitcase!
• A computer is absolutely necessary. Some of my friends have tablets, but with the reports that we do your life will be so much easier if you have your own actual computer. I use mine to Skype home, do our work reports, and write my blog.
• Bring as much underwear as you are lazy. You will most likely be hand washing your clothes on a washboard so the more underwear you have the less frequently you are forced to wash your clothes. That being said, I wash my clothes once a week because things will get dirty quickly.
• For girls, buy clothes that are of the see-through, non-stretchy material. (I do apologize for that description but cannot for the life of me remember what it’s called in English). Nicaraguans will tell you that clothes don’t stretch, you’re crazy etc, but every cotton shirt that I brought is too big and full of holes. That is not to say that I don’t love my t-shirts because they are very necessary for garden work.
• Yes, jeans are practical. Jeans are professional here and completely accepted. Shorts that go to your knees are acceptable in most sites that are not extremely small, but not for school. While skirts and dresses are nice for the heat (what I had in my head that I would be wearing all the time) jeans are much more practical for our job. Between biking everyday to school and garden projects, skirts are just not feasible to wear on a daily basis.
• Nicaraguans love to look good. I joined the Peace Corps so naturally I left all makeup except the basics at home, came with no hair products, and parted with my straightener. Turns out those were bad decisions. Women wear makeup to go out to any party and teachers even wear some makeup to school. Perfume or cologne is a must. Finally, heals are on every Nicaraguan teacher’s feet (though I find them crazy personally because they are standing to give class). 

While I do not feel ready to train the new group that will arrive in August, there are certain moments when I realize that I am capable of doing my job. I have learned a great deal about what works in a Nicaraguan classroom, how to deal with Nica teachers, and strategies to keep my garden alive. The skills I have obtained range from tying fresco baggies to hand-washing my clothes on a washboard to planning activities to assure that my 3^rd graders understand the science topics covered. Without knowing it, I have gained valuable knowledge that will serve me for the rest of my service and beyond. I am not ready to think about what I will do when I go home, but I am ready to share some of my skills with the new group that will arrive.

Land of the Ticos

Everyone boasts about Costa Rica. It is the developed country of Central America, it has made so many advances, and it has a booming tourism industry because of its beautiful landscape. All of these tidbits are true and I can attest to that. But just like many other stories, there is more than meets the eye to Costa Rica.

It was fun to visit after the national team made it further than they ever have in the World Cup. The country was full of pride and excitement. What a wonderful feeling and a beautiful thing to see.

Arriving in San Jose one can see what development has done in Costa Rica. The high rises, American restaurants, and modern city streets make you feel like you could be in any city in the world. Managua has a lot of catching up to do in terms of becoming a city with such draw. But luckily, I had a wonderful tour guide who showed me the real Costa Rica. I love to see other countries with nationals because it gives you a whole different perspective on the country. Gabriel, a friend I had met in college, gave me the history, geography, political, and social perspective on Costa Rica. Though he has traveled all over the world and has an interesting identity in terms of nationality, he is pure Tico at heart. He assured me that the whole country did not look like a small colony of the United States.

Sure enough, as we passed into the towns surrounding San Jose we began to see the similarities with Nicaragua. Though we saw a bigger proportion of nice houses, it reminded me a lot of my Nica home. We visited a volcano, seeing the view from above the city and got to see another friend I had met in college in the first day of being there.

Once we entered the region of the coast it was notable that we were in the rainforest. Again, you could clearly see the difference in infrastructure between the city and this region of Limón. My friend recounted the story of Costa Rica, explaining that the money put into development is largely focused on the Pacific side of the country while where he lives they have seen little improvements in terms of development. This includes the areas where tourists have what I would call “gringified” Costa Rica with the large resorts and American style of travel. On my part, I was happy to see the Atlantic coast partially untouched by the chains and big corporations.

We arrived in a small beach town and stayed at a cute hotel owned by a local couple. Close to the beach and restaurants with Caribbean food such as spicy chicken and rice and beans made with coconut, we were in the perfect spot to relax. We noted that most tourists who arrived on this coast are Europeans, an interesting commentary on the affect that Americans have had versus tourists from other parts of the world.

The rest of the trip was full of volcanos, cloud forests, ziplining, and hot springs. I always look at the tourist industry with a critical eye, knowing that the people truly gaining from our visits are not locals. How do you successfully create a tourist industry without crushing local opportunity? We justify our tourism interests in other countries by saying that it is creating jobs for many where there weren’t any. But does that make it right that a foreign investor is making a fortune using (and often abusing) the resources of another country while locals are making a fraction of that? What can we actually do to stop big resorts and promote small businesses in other countries when locals don’t have the money to make the initial investment?

Costa Rica gave me the sense that I was happy that Nicaragua remains largely “untouched” in many regions. I can’t help but feel guilty that it is “my people” who are changing the face of tourism in other countries, but what can I do? Boycott visiting other places? Look for only locally owned businesses? Will that actually affect anything?

I do not mean to say that I did not enjoy Costa Rica because of my analytical criticisms of tourism. Costa Rica is a beautiful country and like many places I have been it is enriched by people who make it a warm and welcoming place to be. To the surprise of Nicaraguans, I loved the gallo pinto with black beans instead of red and the rice made with coconut. Most of all I loved the “Pura Vida” lifestyle! Hang in the hammock and enjoy life.

 

Going up the volcano

Gabriel, wonderful tour guide and friend

A typical plate on the coast: Rice and beans (made with coconut), Caribbean chicken, fried plantains called maduros, and salad. Aka DELICIOUS!

Atlantic coast beach, too bad the weather wasn't cooperating.

Micky, Gabriel's dog who really wanted to come with us. It took a lot of effort to get him to come out of the bag.

Hot springs

Ziplining!

All the blood was rushing to my head

Hand painted carts and wooden crafts

The sun finally came out to say goodbye to us. Until next time San Jose!

 

Futbol Mania

I remember the hype about the World Cup in 2010. South Africa was put on the map for many and the games flew by quickly. Ask me which team won in 2010 and I couldn’t even tell you who was playing well that year.

Four years later, my perspective on the World Cup has changed dramatically. I now have paid attention to the protests, the negativity surrounding the money spent on one month of games, and how real people’s lives are affected. At the same time, I am in Nicaragua and nearly every house has the television turned to the soccer games all day long. I give my students updates on the important games and ask who they are cheering for. I have incorporated soccer review games including making the teams compete based upon who’s playing that day. To say that Nicaraguans are into the World Cup would be an understatement.

And like so many issues today, I know that in order for people all over the world to enjoy this month a government wastes millions of dollars when it should be investing in its own people. But being in Nicaragua, I cannot help but feel the adrenaline and be excited about the games alongside my friends and host family. Three to four games a day leaves everyone waiting to see who will be eliminated. The upsets have been incredible and even non-soccer fans here have been watching at least one game a day. It is soccer mania!

In my opinion, soccer is the one sport that can unite people from all over the world. What else has the ability to connect South Korea to Iran to the Ivory Coast to Mexico? Sure, there are government agencies, there is the U.N. and NGO’s and different ties that help countries exchange many aspects of life. But this is really connecting citizens, connecting the average person of Nicaragua with a person of Italy. They have something in common when Nicaraguans are cheering for Italy only to ensure that their rival Costa Rica doesn’t win.

I think back to my time in South Africa and the story of Invictus for those of you who have seen the movie. Nelson Mandela was an incredibly wise man to use rugby to unite his country in a strategic way. Of course it did not solve all of South Africa’s problems, but served to patch up at least a few wounds. To me it seems that soccer has an even greater capacity to create change, to unite, to convert differences into commonalities. But that cannot happen with Brazilians shut out of opportunities to watch the games within their own country. How can we use this sport played on the streets of nearly every country to foster equality instead of serving only the wealthy?

There is no immediate fix that I can see, but hopefully in the future we can avoid getting caught up in the hype without critically considering the advantages and disadvantages of such events.

Standing Room Only

If you know me really well you know that I am as far from a morning person as you can get. I spend mornings groaning, still half asleep, and wishing I could crawl back into bed instead of conversing with the world. With this same attitude I dragged myself to the bus stop at 6:30am to wait for a packed bus to the city.

Just my luck, I was not able to grab a seat on the bus today at the various stops where people got off. As I realized that my ride was about to be hot, packed, and I would not be able to nap, I tried to remain positive. Packed bus rides are simply a part of Nica culture. There is the man taking the money who is trying to squeeze between people to make his way through the bus, constantly telling people to move toward the middle of the bus no matter how many sardines are packed into that space already. There is the woman sitting in the seat that you are leaning over, as you stand silently apologizing that you are taking up any free space she had and bumping your leg against hers. There’s the man next to you who is just too close and sometimes looks over at you for way too long. Not to mention that it’s hot and stuffy with two and half hours to go on your feet. That gives you a vision, but the experience is unlike any other.

And yet I stood waiting for my feet to get tired, feeling as though I might faint because of the heat, thinking that for so many Nicaraguans this is just a reality. Cars are a luxury and rarely used for long journeys. Taxis are never used for long trips either. Buses, just normal school buses packed with people, are the most frequented form of transportation. My family members have expressed that they have even been on 10 hour rides standing the entire time. This is a reflection of how we come here to experience Nica life, but we really only get a small taste of what life is like.

I have often thought that the life we try to lead living like our Nica families as Peace Corps volunteers is in vain. There is no doubt that we learn about another culture, about ourselves, and about how much we can handle. It is a test. But eventually the test is over and we get to go home. This is the reality of an entire country as big as the state I live in. This is the second poorest country in Central America after Haiti. To say I enjoy and appreciate the rich culture and my Nica family and friends is an understatement. I can live two years eating Nica food, brushing my teeth on the patio with the chickens, and sweeping the dirt on the patio. But then I go home.

What I have learned is that you can take the girl out of Minnesota, out of U.S. culture, and out of the influence of consumerist culture. But you can’t take those influences away from me. I know that there are other opportunities out there. I know that there is another way of life. That makes this lifestyle even more difficult.

But through the ups and downs of this journey, we keep learning, changing, and missing home. Even if our experience is only a snapshot of life in Nicaragua, that snapshot will help me to understand my place in this world. My feet will be sore, I will feel uncomfortable for a while, and I will keep riding the bus when there’s standing room only.

Time to Celebrate

Happy Saint Isidro festival! Every town has their own festival (called Fiestas Patronales) of a saint at a different time of year. Based on the name, “San Isidro”, you can infer that our saint is also the name of the town. San Isidro is a farmer saint, a rural man who represents the farm lifestyle here. He is celebrated in May before the rains come so that they can pray for a prosperous rainy season and a good harvest. He passes around town to different houses and schools all week before May 15^th, being accompanied by processions and bands.

On Thursday morning we headed from my neighborhood where the procession started, following the trumpets and trombones slowly down the street. We made our way into town where people were waiting for the saint to pass and gradually melded into the processional crowd. I was greeted by students, parents, and teachers along the way, reminding me that I do know a good amount of people here, I have become part of this community.

We arrived at the church grounds where under the shade of a giant tree mass was to take place. There were pews and plastic chairs, as well as people standing in every corner. A live band was playing music before the service, creating a tranquil atmosphere of celebration. For me it was a time of reflection on how we celebrate. I continue to be amazed at what a strong sense of community this country has. In times of difficulty or in times of celebration, everyone is always there.

It just so happens that this town festival happens right around my birthday so naturally it was a weekend of celebrating. I invited more people than ever before at my birthday party, and that was just in the family! My host mom and another family member cooked all the food, we all helped make and decorate the cakes, and there was so much dancing. I was also serenaded with a guitar their version of “Happy Birthday” and various ranchera songs. I had many people tell me that even though I was far from my family, they wanted me to know that they were my Nica family. Needless to say, I felt very special on my 23^rd birthday.

There is nothing like being in the moment and feeling this community, but here are some pictures to give an idea of what these celebrations are like:

 

Procession to celebrate the patron saint

Cake decorating

Serving the food

 Being serenaded

 

Amigas

Teachers