Fear Paralyzes

I’m afraid. And that scares me. Fear paralyzes. It makes us stay when we should go. It keeps us silent when we should speak. It keeps us running when we should stop.

This isn’t my usual state. Despite regular failures, I try to live fearlessly. But too often I let my fears cage me. Right now I fear not finding a job that I love, not finding someone to share my happiness with, not finding the right place to put down roots. That’s a lot of fear.

Luckily, at this point in my life, uncertainty is not a rarity. A quick look back provides a lot of perspective:

10 years ago (2007): I was in university and I didn’t know what I’d do with my degree (International Studies) after I finished.

5 years ago (2012): I was teaching in Colombia. I love teaching, but I wanted to do something different in the area of education. I just didn’t know what or how.

Now (2017): I’ve got the degrees and experience necessary to do the work that I’m passionate about. 

If this trend continues, in 5 years I’ll probably look back and wonder why I let myself worry or stress about the next step. Whatever it is, it will help me continue to grow. Between now and then I might have many relationships or I might have just one.  I may live in just one country or a half dozen.

There are a lot of things that we can’t control. But we can control how we live each day.

I want to be more kind, curious, knowledgeable and courageous each day. Wherever I am, whatever I’m doing, whoever I’m with – there’s nothing that can stop me from reaching those goals.

Fear paralyzes; hope strengthens.

My Memories, My Master's, My Idea

This blog consists of 3 parts:

My Memories: contains personal reflections about life

My Masters: describes the Master’s program that I'll be starting in the fall and what I hope to do after I graduate

My Idea: humbly proposes a solution to exploitative labor conditions around the world

Read the parts that you want to read; this is not required reading. :)

MY MEMORIES

My memories are stored in a folder on my desktop.  That thought crossed my mind and was almost gone before I realized how strange it was.  I have a folder that’s titled “Memories with M” and in it I keep pictures and conversations that I’ve saved and don’t want to forget.  My memory has been ‘externalized’ to my computer.  I know that with time my memory of those events, of those moments, will fade, and because now it’s all still too fresh, too poignant, I can’t stand the thought of losing those memories.  So I’ve stored them.  Whether I will review them later or not, time will tell.  But for now it’s comforting to know that I have them: that they are there, still real and still vivid and I can relive them when I want to. 

(Spoiler alert for SLAUGHTERHOUSE 5)

That reminds me of a book I read: Slaughterhouse 5.  Without giving away too much of the story, in this World War 2 book (based on real events), the aliens who abduct the principle character pity the human race because of our narrow perception of time: we only can experience the present.  For us humans, the past cannot be re-lived and the future cannot be experienced at will.  They describe this as if we were living life with a tube attached to our eyes that only allows us to see a small fraction of our lives at a time. The aliens in the book have a less linear timeline, and can experience any moment of their existence whenever they choose to.  How they manage to do anything is not quite clear.  For most of us, if we were able to step back (or step forward) into the happiest moments of our lives whenever we wanted to, it would hard not to spend all of our time there.  We have no choice but to continue forward, hoping that many wonderful moments are waiting to be discovered.

I’m continually amazed by how quickly memories can fade.  For 2 years I lived in a small village in the Tian Shan mountain range, in the middle of the largest land mass in the world.  My life consisted of going to school, teaching classes, making bread, serving tea, and walking around town visiting neighbors.  Nobody in my town had running water, our bathroom was a wooden box built over a deep hole and was 20 yards from the house.  The place where I bathed with the rest of the women in my community was on the other side of town.  In winter there was no salvation from the extreme cold reaching to negative 40degrees Fahrenheit.  It was an intense and very valuable experience, but when it ended it was as if a door closed to that world and that life disappeared.  When I left Kyrgyzstan, I traveled on to India for a few weeks, returned home for a couple of months, and then came to Colombia.  And I’ve been here since then (except for a 6-month excursion to Brazil).

This world exists completely separate from the world of Central Asia.  Everything is different: the climate, the language, the food, the clothes, the social norms, the gender roles, everything.  There are so many things about Colombia that I love, and so many that I hate.  Here is where I fell in love for the first time, where I experienced my first heart break, where I learned that life goes on, where I discovered that who I am is constantly changing.  Where I realized that experiences don’t define me (though they do shape who I am).  Some advice:

Don’t define yourself by your failures.  Don’t define yourself by your successes.  Define yourself by your friendships and by your kindnesses.

MY MASTER'S

This fall I’m going to begin a Master’s in International Education Policy.  According to the website, the program “is designed to develop students' capacity to think critically and systematically about educational inequality and educational reform, to analyze policy alternatives, and to evaluate policies and programs.”

Upon graduating my goal is to return to Colombia and work with community activists, nongovernmental organizations, and policy makers to reform education in order to provide Colombian youth with the analytical skills that they need, not just to make better lives for themselves, but to make a better country for all.  

MY IDEA:

Lately (all the time) people tell me “The problem is that there’s just not enough work for everyone.”  While that is generally accepted as a feature of today’s world, it actually makes no sense whatsoever.  How can lack of work be a bad thing?  Now we have machines that can plant, harvest, process, produce, fabricate, etc. most of the things that we need on a daily basis, reducing the physical labor that is needed.  We have computers to do much of our calculations, data processing, graphing, etc.  And so, now that technology can do so much for us, we have to do less.  The comment: “There’s just not work for everyone” should be met with applause!  Yay, less work for everyone!  But what we’re seeing is that many people get trapped working a lot while others are un-employed or under-employed.  Those who have jobs feel a constant pressure to work longer, harder, faster, better because if they don’t there are 10 people lined up who could replace them. 

So my solution is the 4-hour work day.*  Everyone would work 4 hours a day and be paid a living-wage for those hours.  The government would ensure that all of their basic needs are met (education, health, housing), and they would receive promotions/bonuses based on performance.  The better you work, the more you would earn.  Those 4 hours would be much more productive because people would be more energized and focused, and they would have more free-time to focus on other things outside of work.  The additional costs of employing twice the number of workers would be made up in reduced chief officer salaries.  In order for everyone to have basic living and working conditions, others would have to earn substantially less.  The top 5% could no longer enjoy the extreme wealth they currently have. 

We have the capability to produce everything we need without so many people subject to harsh, exploitative conditions.  It’s time to change the system.  All our “advancements” are not contributing to a higher quality of life.  It’s time to ask ourselves “why not?” and begin to demand that changes take place.  “There’s not enough work” should be a cause for celebration, not for preoccupation.  With a 4-hour work week, we would have more time to educate our children, explore, discover, invent, cure, entertain, create; the possibilities are endless!  But until we begin to question the assumptions that this system is based on, we will continue to belong to the most advanced slave plantation in history.

*I don’t know how feasible this really is, but surely there are better ways to organize labor than the current system. 

Expectations vs. Reality

I have better things to do.  I do.  If I’m going to be able to afford a master’s program in the states, I’ll need scholarships, so I should be applying for those.   But something has inspired a nostalgic feeling in me (maybe it’s the rain), and because I can’t shake it, I’ve decided to give it a voice, give it words. 

I’ve been living in Rio de Janeiro for almost 5 months now.  When I was counting the days until I could go back to Colombia, time went by painfully slowly.  Now time’s passing at a more mixed rate; at times it flies by and at times it almost stands still.  Like I said, it’s been almost 5 months...

Rio is not what I expected it would be.  (By the way, that’s true of every place that I’ve ever visited.)  There’s only so much you can imagine when you see pictures, watch movies, and read about a place.  Stereotypes, while almost always based on something real, never completely describe reality. 

Here are a few big surprises about Rio:

- Rio actually is more beautiful than in the pictures.  MUCH, MUCH more beautiful.  Oh yeah, and those mountains that you see in the background?  You can climb those any time you like and get a breath-taking view of the city.

- Rio can be REALLY COLD (12C in July) and it’s often cloudy and rainy during the winter months.

- Most Cariocas (people from Rio) don’t actually dance Samba (or anything else for that matter).  They appreciate music, but generally prefer to just listen while drinking lots of beer with friends

- Brazilians come in all shapes and colors, so even someone as white as me could be Brazilian (in fact most people assume that I am Brazilian until they hear my accent).

- Here the cat-calling is minimal during the day.  At night however, it’s normal (even for Brazilian girls) for a guy to try to kiss or grab you as you walk by.  (In Colombia cat-calling occurred constantly, but nobody ever tried to touch me)

- Brazilians hate to say “no.”  So they often just say “yes” and leave you to discover later that they really meant “no.”

- Brazilians can be simultaneously intensely proud and intensely critical of their country.

Those of you who travel know that everywhere you go is subject to comparison to everywhere you have been.  And because I’ve been in Colombia for the last 2 1/2 years, I often find myself comparing the two places.  While Rio has a lot of incredible things going for it, it is also missing a lot of things.  Zona Sul is filled with the noise of cars and people, but you don’t hear music in the streets.  Where are the picós?  Where are the people sitting outside and talking to their neighbors?  They don’t sell arepas anywhere and there aren’t any juice carts.  No zapote, no nispero.   And something else is missing too.  Maybe it's just my imagination, but I don’t see as many people smiling.  I don’t hear as much laughter.  And my heart aches for Colombia again…

By the way, I read about Colombia regularly: about the agrarian protests, the international festivals, and the peace-talks with the FARC.  When I read about the protests, I was proud of the Colombian people for standing up to the government.  In cities around the world, Colombians united to express their support for the farmers.  I saw a video on youtube of Colombians in front of the Eiffel tower holding up signs that read: “Dear Santos, Here in Paris, we know about the agrarian protests.”  The Colombians living here in Rio organized many events to declare their support of Colombian farmers and their outrage about the government’s response.  At work, in the morning before any teachers or students came, I read newspaper articles or watched youtube clips of the protests, and filled with pride, love, and concern, I let my tears fall onto the desktop. 

When I leave Rio, I will miss:

- the beaches

- the mountains

- the views

- the easiest job EVER

- beach volleyball on Mondays

- the sunset as seen from Arpoador

- the Carioca accent

- my foreign friends who have been discovering this amazing country with me

- my local friends who have been amazing companions on this journey

- the guy selling tea on the beach who always say “Mate!  Mate con limaoooo!”

- my hot shower  ;)

 (list to be continued…)

Situations

Situation 1: At the police station.  Surrounded by 5 male police officers.  Smiling mischievously, one of them asks me “Why do you look so scared?”  What I’m thinking, but not saying: “Colombia.  Police station.  Five guys with guns…” I just smile, and soon they're trying to entertain me by showing me fake $100 bills and explaining how fingerprinting works.

Situation 2: Walking down the street yesterday, I smelled pickles.  It happens in life that you can go a long time without smelling something familiar, and then one day, when you smell it again, it’s like waking up from a dream.  I had forgotten about pickles.  They had ceased to be part of my world until, just like that, they re-entered it.

Situation 3: It’s mango season.  Even here in the city, it’s noticeable.  In the park that I walk through on my way to work, the ground is now scattered with green mangos that are busted open and exposing their bright orange interiors.  It’s charming.  Until you consider that a mango falling from 40 feet above you could sting a little.

Situation 4: I woke up today to the sound of rain hitting my window.  That’s not easy for someone who comes from the rain capital of the world.  It sounded like pebbles shattering against the glass.  But the real surprise came when I went into the living room.  It was as if the apartment had been re-located to the base of a waterfall.  I felt like I was IN a river, consumed by the sound of the water around me.  There’s a saying here “Abril: mes de lluvias mil” (April is the month of a thousand showers).  Yeah, that’s an understatement.   But it was a magical moment.  Those moments don’t come very often.  Honestly, the last one that I can remember clearly happened about 7 years ago.  I had just pulled into the university parking lot, when it began to snow.  It was early and the sky was still completely dark.  I was the only one there.  And I just stood there, my face tilled up to the black sky, staring at the flakes as they emerged from the darkness above me.  They were big and fluttery and there was a silence that I felt inside and out. Even after 7 years, that moment, that memory, is still amazingly vivid in my mind.

History: A few days ago I saw a woman selling roses in the street.  It’s something that I’ve seen a dozen times here in Colombia, but something that always gives me a strange feeling.  Six years ago, after watching a Colombian movie called the Rose Seller, I decided that my place was in Colombia.  The movie is about a young girl who runs away from home and begins selling flowers in the street.  It’s a tragic story, not filmed with actors but with people who actually lived in the streets of Medellin.  Street children.  Drug addicts.  Gang members.  After watching the movie, I couldn’t stop thinking about Colombia.  While there are many places in the world were help is needed, few compare to Colombia in terms of constant and prolonged conflict and social struggles.  “There,” I decided, “is where I need to be.”  It was a long road to get here, but I made it somehow.  And now, when I see someone selling roses in the street…

Modernity: I’ve been here 15 months.  I have a nice apartment (which I share with 3 young professionals), I enjoy my work (4 hours a day, from 6am-11am with a 1 hour break), and I live in the land of eternal May.  The weather hovers between 65 and 85 degrees year round.  Currently, in the afternoon I volunteer teach English at a foundation in the northern part of town.  It’s the part of town I was told I should never go to.  Everyone told me that if I went there I would certainly be robbed, raped, and killed (not necessarily in that order).  While I may be trying to paint myself as a fearless adventurer, the reality is that I’ve become accustomed to hearing dark-predictions whenever I go into parts of town that belong to a lower economic sphere.  I’ve realized that those fears are often exaggerations.  And it helps that I never carry anything worth stealing.

Bucaramanga is a pleasant city.  Most of the neighborhoods are well organized, clean and full of apartment buildings of about 20 stories.  The northern part of town lies in a deep valley and looks like it belongs to another country.  There, the houses are cement block-houses that attach to one another and more streets are unpaved than paved.  I take a bus to get there and then catch a “pirate” back to the center of the city.  A “pirate” is an unofficial, unmarked taxi that you can recognize when the driver slows down in front of you and shouts “center!” through the open window.  In between arriving and leaving, I spend 3 hours with students in grades 6-11^th practicing dialogs, learning verbs, and trying to show them that they are capable of determining what their futures will be like.  After all, the neighborhood is called “esperanza.”  Hope.

Each time I go to the north, the same thoughts tickle my mind.  “What if I had been born here?  What would my life be like? What kind of person would I be? Would I have finished high school?  Would I have gotten pregnant at a young age? Would I have become a sad statistic or would I have found a way to make a good life for myself?”  I am so fortunate for the family that I have and the opportunities I’ve been given. Unbelievably fortunate.  And yet, so often, I am completely ungrateful.  I look at those around me, who are earning a lot, have nice things, don’t worry about expenses, and I think “That’s not fair.  I’d like to be able to live like that.”  Why is it always our tendency to look at those who have more and get jealous instead of looking at those who have less and being grateful? 

While I like it here in Bucaramanga, I don’t imagine myself here for much time.  Something just doesn’t fit.  And so I spend hours thinking about where I SHOULD be.  Something I’m beginning to realize (finally!) is this: WHERE I am, is less important than WHO I am.  In other words, wherever I am, I need to take advantage of the challenges and opportunities to grow.  Hopefully, I'll remember that tomorrow. 

Seattle, I miss you.

Cartagena, my heart is still there with you.

Bucaramanga, thanks for welcoming me here.

Goodbye Peace Corps

Where to begin?  This is always the hard part.  I only sit down to write in my blog once a month and I have to man-handle myself to keep me seated in my chair long enough to produce something.  And as those of you who have been following my blog this year can testify, that something is just about anything. 

This is probably (almost certainly) the last blog I will write as a Peace Corps volunteer.  Who knew when I joined Peace Corps in July of 2008 that it I’d still be serving in December of 2011, 3 ½ years later?  Peace Corps has been good to me.  My life in Kyrgyzstan was tough.  Really, really tough.  But I learned so much through my experience there that I otherwise may not have ever seen or understood.  Now Peace Corps has brought me to another continent, this time in my hemisphere, to teach me more about the world and about humanity. 

Everything has been different this second time around.  Instead of freezing winters huddled around coal-fed stoves, the tropic sun warms my skin and bleaches my hair.  Instead of visiting a public bathhouse (with all the women of my community) once every few weeks, I have a private bathroom and I shower daily.  Instead of travelling 2 hours to a neighboring city to use the internet, I have wifi in my house.  And instead of going months without access to fruit or vegetables, I buy the most delicious and exotic fruit from street venders and eat it wherever and whenever I like. 

But there are some similarities.  In both countries, divided by oceans, culture, climate, and religion, one similarity is that the education system is completely broken.  Students who don’t study, still pass to the next year.  The biggest lesson to be learned in school is that studying isn’t important, because no matter what everyone passes in the end.  While no teenager in the world wants to study, it’s their parents’ responsibility to make sure that they do it.  To make sure that they understand that one has responsibilities as well as rights.  That success requires effort and determination.  Without those lessons at home, the teacher’s work in the classroom multiplies 100 fold.  And if that teacher doesn’t have disciplinary support from the school’s principal and vice principal, the task nearly impossible. 

And just like in many places in the U.S., schools focus on preparing students for standardized tests and not for real life.  The teach them to memorize facts and quickly find key information in a text, but don’t teach them to be critical of the source of those “facts” or to analyze the information contained in the text to be able to apply it to real life situations and decisions.   Parents, family, friends, citizens, I appeal to you!  Education is the foundation of a healthy, rational, flexible, and industrious society. An investment in education (quality based) is the best investment we can make. 

Having stumbled into education, I continue in it as something I love and am passionate about.  I still haven’t decided where I’ll be working or living next year, but somewhere here in Colombia (si Dios quiere).  After two months of sending my resume to anyone and everyone, I received two job offers that are both very appealing for different reasons.  Before I got any job offers, I was having to serious think about a border-jump to get a new visa.  I was considering crossing the border into Venezuela, Panama or Ecuador so that upon re-entry I would be given a tourist visa that would give me more time to find work.  Thank God it now looks like that won’t be necessary. 

I have been very blessed to be able to live like I do.  I hope I never take it for granted. 

Goodbye Peace Corps.