Sometime in August...
I think I´ve seen myself before, years ago. I saw her while I was in training, lost, unable to speak, curious, overly camping-style dressed, full of questions. And I saw this girl across the room, and I heard her joking in Guarani, mixing in Spanish words to her English as if they were a part of her family, while to me they were still strangers I was trying to get to know. She had a confidence I had left in the United States. She looked comfortable in the strangest country I´d been in.
I feel like I was that girl today. I went to the training center to teach the trainees how to make ao po´i. I got a warm welcome from the trainers, I knew the coordinator and sat off to the side of the group, as if with the actors in a play. I even made the language trainers laugh. Those trainers who had seen me come in with the Spanish of a Paraguayan 18-month old. I told them that if I didn´t get the job I applied for in Paraguay, I was going to run around Bolivia "opapeve che plata", (until my money runs out). They laughed and laughed. Two years ago I was the butt of undecipherable jokes in Guarani. Now I´m telling them.
Other things have happened that seem like they should happen on my last week in town, as if they would be written into the last scene of a movie. Some people who listen to my Guarani podcast were really complimentary, which is nice. Plus Angelic bought me these earrings that only Paraguayan women wear. I feel initiated.
It occurred to me. "I did it." I was a Peace Corps volunteer. Done. Check. "I've always wanted to do that" became a careful "I´m thinking about doing that" which became "I think I'm going to do that" to " I'm going to do that" to "I'm doing this" to "I did it."
Where do you go from here? We wandered out of here as the longtime jailed wander out on parole day. Were you trapped, or were you freer in there than you are on the outside? Some went home and just laid down on their parent's couches. Some are traveling aimlessly until money runs out. Some are extending in Paraguay. Then there´s me.
=========================================================
Some time later in August...
You spend these two years changing and growing, becoming more Paraguayan. Integrating. By the time you've lived here two years, the culture has taken hold. You catch yourself in the mirror, bra straps hanging out, legs unshaven, wearing spandex shorts, and get some sense that you used to find these things offensive, yet you can't muster the feeling like before.
You see something, a green pepper, but the sound in your mind, the one that wants to come out of your mouth, is locote. When you have to do something, you want to say you'll do it si or si. When shit goes wrong, you just want to say Asi es la vida, and to say that same thing to your mother, you can't think of the words. This is the way it is for two years. Then you get on a tube with wings, and you wake up, and no one knows what Asi es la vida means, and furthermore, they think you're kind of an asshole if it slips out.
You aren't from Paraguay, and suddenly, you're aren't from America, either. We can't go back, and we don't know how to go forward.
All Peace Corps Volunteers leave the country with vouchers to see a psychologist.
I'm still in Paraguay. After the Life Plan Implosion and my unexpected not extending, the world shook under my feet, and I just needed to sit down a second. I realized that my culture is this tiny cult: Peace Corps Paraguay volunteers past their two year service. The ones who call delicious food heterei. The girls who know what it's like to have dated a Paraguayan. Those who know what it's like to fall out the other end of the Peace Corps machine and not know exactly what they've been made into.
I spent two years outside my culture, and now I don't know where to find a new one. I'm in this tiny twilight zone, ephemeral in both space and time, so I decided to give myself a minute to breath in it. I rented the apartment of a volunteer on home leave for a month. A month to sit still and say, "Ok, what the hell am I doing?"
I arrive at the Peace Corps office every day just in time for terere. The guard at the front makes sure to tell the others that I'm an EX-volunteer, and I get a red pass instead of yellow. I sit in the office with the coordinators, waiting for someone to suggest that perhaps it's inappropriate that I'm still there, but no one has, yet, instead support me and tell me everything's going to be ok. I prepare the terere, to earn my keep. They make fun of my red pass, and I pretend to sob, instead of really sobbing, which I save for later. Volunteers come in on their trips to the city, and they say, "So...what are you doing?" I have a variety of witty answers that I rotate. The most accurate being, "I have no idea."
I'm just another unemployed person. Suddenly I feel thrust into the world that I saw through the plexiglass of my protective Peace Corps container. My insurance, my paycheck, my plan. Paraguayans live in a scarier world, a world Americans know better, these days, where work is scarce and life is uncertain. I open 92 internet tabs of possible job leads. One involves wearing a costume on the side of the road and waving in customers. I close it with a shudder. I work on my computer until my head hurts from eyestrain.
People complain about their service, their sites, and I want to grab their little faces like Billy Madison grabbed that elementary schooler, and I want to shake them and say "Stay. Stay as long as you can."
I’ll move on, I will. Just give me a minute to focus my eyes, to remember English for Asi es la vida. I think it's something like, "That's the way life goes."
Friday, August 13, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
The end
Long story short: I decided not to extend.
So as of Friday, I'm not a volunteer anymore. I have no home. I have no job. I have no responsibility. I have no keys. Not one.
I'm in a hotel room, and I can barely move for everything that's around, as my friends pack up to go to Bolivia. My friends. My community. It's now like a town where everyone's packing up and moving out, as if there was a nuclear contamination. I'm sitting here, writing up my resume and a cover letter, trying to stay in Paraguay as a trainer, just for 4 months, just to have a little warning sign that my life is about to decompose before it decomposes, like it is now, suddenly. More like imploding.
I have whatever I could carry from my house, which technically is more than I can carry. Seven bags in all. I could ship stuff home, but I don't know where that is exactly. I don't know what country I'll be in next week.
"We're not Peace Corps volunteers," we kept saying outloud last night, when the conversation died down enough to have a thought. It's over.
Although I wish I didn't have to leave like this, hustled, I have to look at how the service itself was. It's over, and all the drama falls away, like water from rocks. That chick who gossiped about me, I don't really care. Those talks that didn't work out, I can barely remember. But the times remain. All the memories. We really did this.
It was amazing. Amazing.
What if I had chickened out? It would have been the worst mistake of my life, and I would have never even known it.
So as of Friday, I'm not a volunteer anymore. I have no home. I have no job. I have no responsibility. I have no keys. Not one.
I'm in a hotel room, and I can barely move for everything that's around, as my friends pack up to go to Bolivia. My friends. My community. It's now like a town where everyone's packing up and moving out, as if there was a nuclear contamination. I'm sitting here, writing up my resume and a cover letter, trying to stay in Paraguay as a trainer, just for 4 months, just to have a little warning sign that my life is about to decompose before it decomposes, like it is now, suddenly. More like imploding.
I have whatever I could carry from my house, which technically is more than I can carry. Seven bags in all. I could ship stuff home, but I don't know where that is exactly. I don't know what country I'll be in next week.
"We're not Peace Corps volunteers," we kept saying outloud last night, when the conversation died down enough to have a thought. It's over.
Although I wish I didn't have to leave like this, hustled, I have to look at how the service itself was. It's over, and all the drama falls away, like water from rocks. That chick who gossiped about me, I don't really care. Those talks that didn't work out, I can barely remember. But the times remain. All the memories. We really did this.
It was amazing. Amazing.
What if I had chickened out? It would have been the worst mistake of my life, and I would have never even known it.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Hello from the Twilight Zone
It's really just Bolivia. 3:35 a.m. I'm in the airport.
Here's what's going on: My official Peace Corps time is up. I'm staying longer, of course, but almost everyone arrived with, the PC equivalent of my high school class, will be leaving on August 6. It's the opposite of moving away, but to the same effect.
Due to the timing of a family vacation, I decided to take a trip home and them come right back for our close-of-service ceremony. But some of them will already be gone. In Peace Corps, you have two lives: You're in-site life and your capital, hanging with the other volunteers life. I'm losing half of my life in Paraguay. (Although I have made new friends in other groups, of course. But no friendships are as battle-hardened as those that were formed during training.)
All that is adding to my Twilight Zone effect, but also, there's this nervousness about this trip that I've never felt for a flight before. I realized flying is the opposite of living in Paraguay. Paraguay is show up when you want, there's plenty of space, there's no forms you have to have in hand. With a flight you have to get there early, cram in, having your passport, your boarding pass, your customs slip. It's a word you hear a lot from Peace Corps volunteers having contact with the American world again after two years: overwhelming.
I forgot to fill out the official form for my vacation and had to rush to the PC office to write it out at 4:40 p.m. It was supposed to be approved 10 days in advance. The people at the airport tried to tell me I had to pay the $135 visa just to pass through the Bolivian airport. No no, I said. I'm waiting until the 5:30 a.m. boarding of my bottom-dollar frankenstein flight. My eyes and nose are burning from the altitude of Bolivia, at more than 13,000 feet. I'll be in a box with wings all day, trying to sleep. Then I just want to fall into the arms of my best friend in Miami, and let her take me away to another place were tranquility rules: Key West.
Here's what's going on: My official Peace Corps time is up. I'm staying longer, of course, but almost everyone arrived with, the PC equivalent of my high school class, will be leaving on August 6. It's the opposite of moving away, but to the same effect.
Due to the timing of a family vacation, I decided to take a trip home and them come right back for our close-of-service ceremony. But some of them will already be gone. In Peace Corps, you have two lives: You're in-site life and your capital, hanging with the other volunteers life. I'm losing half of my life in Paraguay. (Although I have made new friends in other groups, of course. But no friendships are as battle-hardened as those that were formed during training.)
All that is adding to my Twilight Zone effect, but also, there's this nervousness about this trip that I've never felt for a flight before. I realized flying is the opposite of living in Paraguay. Paraguay is show up when you want, there's plenty of space, there's no forms you have to have in hand. With a flight you have to get there early, cram in, having your passport, your boarding pass, your customs slip. It's a word you hear a lot from Peace Corps volunteers having contact with the American world again after two years: overwhelming.
I forgot to fill out the official form for my vacation and had to rush to the PC office to write it out at 4:40 p.m. It was supposed to be approved 10 days in advance. The people at the airport tried to tell me I had to pay the $135 visa just to pass through the Bolivian airport. No no, I said. I'm waiting until the 5:30 a.m. boarding of my bottom-dollar frankenstein flight. My eyes and nose are burning from the altitude of Bolivia, at more than 13,000 feet. I'll be in a box with wings all day, trying to sleep. Then I just want to fall into the arms of my best friend in Miami, and let her take me away to another place were tranquility rules: Key West.
Monday, June 28, 2010
See, I'm fine.
Angelic has put proof on her blog that I sometimes smile. Click here to see. (Family: I'm ok! Stop worrying.)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin;
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
--Robert W Service
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin;
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
--Robert W Service
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin;
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
--Robert W Service
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin;
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
--Robert W Service
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Trip Home
I'm taking a trip home in July, and when I come back I'll have just 9 months left. It's costing, well, a lot. But it feels something like necessary.
I've changed in Paraguay. As much as we like to think we are strong enough to be who we are, no matter what, the truth is we are where we are, we are the people we're with, we are others' reactions to us. In most cases, without realizing it, we become who our environments tell us we are.
People treat you just a smidgen less than human, or more than a smidgen. You can only laugh it off for so long. You think you're still laughing it off, until you realize you've become introverted. You want to stay home. You want to be with the few people who treat you, fully, as if you're another person. You don't want to be among the stares, anymore. You don't want to hear their voices, talking to you in the same voice as you would a child, then repeating your responses loudly and have a jolly round of laughter, minus you.
I've grown tired of it. I don't want to be out, listening to someone else's music, speaking someone else's language, sitting there, unintroduced. When I do go, I usually just sit there, the only one not laughing at the jokes said in speedy Guaraní, hanging on to Oscar's arm, and I want to sleep before it's even 11.
There are six Paraguayans who treat me like I'm a real-live human being. They make it alright. Other than that, I am the joke. I am that girl. Unless I'm in my house, alone, which has become my preferred spot. I didn't used to be like this.
The old me comes out over Skype, talking to my sister, my mom, my old friends. I have a distant memory of being the funny one. Of course I've provided a lot of laughs for Paraguayans, but there's that crucial "laughing at" versus the "laughing with" component.
In a way, I'm going home to visit my old self, seen through the faces of the people who are glad to see me. I'm a true friend there. I'm a sister. I'm a daughter. I'm an aunt. I can leave the foreign kid behind, go home and, for 22 days, be myself again.
I've changed in Paraguay. As much as we like to think we are strong enough to be who we are, no matter what, the truth is we are where we are, we are the people we're with, we are others' reactions to us. In most cases, without realizing it, we become who our environments tell us we are.
People treat you just a smidgen less than human, or more than a smidgen. You can only laugh it off for so long. You think you're still laughing it off, until you realize you've become introverted. You want to stay home. You want to be with the few people who treat you, fully, as if you're another person. You don't want to be among the stares, anymore. You don't want to hear their voices, talking to you in the same voice as you would a child, then repeating your responses loudly and have a jolly round of laughter, minus you.
I've grown tired of it. I don't want to be out, listening to someone else's music, speaking someone else's language, sitting there, unintroduced. When I do go, I usually just sit there, the only one not laughing at the jokes said in speedy Guaraní, hanging on to Oscar's arm, and I want to sleep before it's even 11.
There are six Paraguayans who treat me like I'm a real-live human being. They make it alright. Other than that, I am the joke. I am that girl. Unless I'm in my house, alone, which has become my preferred spot. I didn't used to be like this.
The old me comes out over Skype, talking to my sister, my mom, my old friends. I have a distant memory of being the funny one. Of course I've provided a lot of laughs for Paraguayans, but there's that crucial "laughing at" versus the "laughing with" component.
In a way, I'm going home to visit my old self, seen through the faces of the people who are glad to see me. I'm a true friend there. I'm a sister. I'm a daughter. I'm an aunt. I can leave the foreign kid behind, go home and, for 22 days, be myself again.
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Web Page!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Crash and Burn and Smile
It's safe to say the web site presentation was set off to be a crash and burn, so I can't say I'm surprised. I'm so used to them by now, I just let it happen.
The day we picked to have it was today, the birthday of Yataity. There would be a festival in the plaza. Who of our socias would want to leave a festival to come to a talk about a web site? But The Boss could not be convinced. Although there was no reason not to do it next week, she was set on this week.
It was supposed to be a tranquilo gathering. But then The Boss heard that the governor was going to come through. Hell ensued. We could not just serve the governor (and his flock) coke out of plastic cups. We needed glass cups, blah blah, etc. She was worried that we needed food for all of them, plus for everyone we invited, should they ALL show up. This is about as likely as a tsunami hitting the co-op. This was my event and it was making life tough on the girls who worked in the co-op. Not good.
Nameless Peace Corps Higher Up was going to come, adding some prestige to the event, and bring the projector so that we could project the computer screen on the wall for all to see. Mariela and I worked on a PowerPoint of what the internet is and why our web page is important. We did three practice runs. Everything was set.
8:30 I arrive for the 11 a.m. meeting. I'm surprised to see that everyone is there, hustling. Making sandwiches, putting up decorations. I'm nn a common situation: I want to help, but I don't know what to do and worried about just getting in the way. I printed the business cards we needed and added last touch-ups to the PowerPoint. I began chatting with Mariela and one of the girls yelled at me, "It's already time and we need to get the sodas here now! Where are they?" Woah. It was my job to order the sodas, and I asked them to come at 10. We still had 2 1/2 hours. What's the big deal?
I found out later that The Boss had been calling people since 7 a.m., yelling at them to get over to the co-op, do this and that. She had injected anxiety into everyone.
At about 10 we were asked to go to the plaza. I wanted to stay, but I went. There was the governor. The Boss announced that we would be showcasing our web page. I left.
10:40: I call the Peace Corps Higher Up, and he's lost, but he'll get here soon. At 11 a.m., just Mariela and I are in the room for the presentation. This is normal.
Then come in The Boss, pulling by the arm important people. The Priest and the Mayor's people. All coming toward me. No projector.
I ask The Boss to say a few words, which she's more than happy to do, about all the work she's done for the co-op all her life. She introduces me, says I have 2 years in Paraguay, and although she still can't really understand what I say, they should all try to understand me.
I step over my ego on the way to the computer. We use just the computer screen to give the PowerPoint. He'll be here any second. I talk about why the internet is important, all the things Mariela and I have practiced, until The Boss stands up and tugs my arm and says, "That's great. Just show us the web page." She also says, "Why didn't you tell me your Peace Corps Higher Up wasn't going to be here, we could have just used my son's projector." Why didn't you say your son had a projector?
I begin talking about the web page, and just then, the Higher Up walks in, but nothing is in his hands. "And the projector?" is the first thing I say. He puts his hand to his forehead. He'd forgotten.
During the next 15 minutes I went down flaming. Is it the two years in disaster-prone Paraguay, or a study of spirituality based on accepting what is? Whatever it was, there was a calmness about my crash. The internet worked as slow as a snail, or not at all, please try again, in front of a squinting crowd. Sputtering sentence fragments, saying "cosa" (thing) when I wanted to say "window", "cursor" or "screen." I remained fairly calm. The words formed in my mind: Crash and Burn. I could feel the redness in my face, the physical reaction to humiliation, as natural to a Peace Corps Volunteer's bodily functions as sneezing.
The parade started outside, and to my relief, they all left. The subject of all this preparation and anxiety had passed in 15 awkward minutes where little was accomplished. The parade went by (at least there was a fat kid on a pony) and they ate a small portion of the food we'd painstakingly set out. I talked to the Higher Up, who was red in the face and couldn't stop apologizing. Was I just so used to things going horribly wrong? The governor and his flock never showed at the co-op.
A reporter from ABC Color did come by. The least curious reporter in the world. Mariela and I provided him with facts. "Our web page will be the first in inner Paraguay to accept credit cards." "Uh-huh," he said, perusing the snacks. "We won a grant from Peace Corps for 10 million Guaranies." "Hmm," bite of empanada. He took a picture of me at the computer.
That was the answer, Jeopardy players. And what was the question?
"What's it like to be a Peace Corps Volunteer?"
The day we picked to have it was today, the birthday of Yataity. There would be a festival in the plaza. Who of our socias would want to leave a festival to come to a talk about a web site? But The Boss could not be convinced. Although there was no reason not to do it next week, she was set on this week.
It was supposed to be a tranquilo gathering. But then The Boss heard that the governor was going to come through. Hell ensued. We could not just serve the governor (and his flock) coke out of plastic cups. We needed glass cups, blah blah, etc. She was worried that we needed food for all of them, plus for everyone we invited, should they ALL show up. This is about as likely as a tsunami hitting the co-op. This was my event and it was making life tough on the girls who worked in the co-op. Not good.
Nameless Peace Corps Higher Up was going to come, adding some prestige to the event, and bring the projector so that we could project the computer screen on the wall for all to see. Mariela and I worked on a PowerPoint of what the internet is and why our web page is important. We did three practice runs. Everything was set.
8:30 I arrive for the 11 a.m. meeting. I'm surprised to see that everyone is there, hustling. Making sandwiches, putting up decorations. I'm nn a common situation: I want to help, but I don't know what to do and worried about just getting in the way. I printed the business cards we needed and added last touch-ups to the PowerPoint. I began chatting with Mariela and one of the girls yelled at me, "It's already time and we need to get the sodas here now! Where are they?" Woah. It was my job to order the sodas, and I asked them to come at 10. We still had 2 1/2 hours. What's the big deal?
I found out later that The Boss had been calling people since 7 a.m., yelling at them to get over to the co-op, do this and that. She had injected anxiety into everyone.
At about 10 we were asked to go to the plaza. I wanted to stay, but I went. There was the governor. The Boss announced that we would be showcasing our web page. I left.
10:40: I call the Peace Corps Higher Up, and he's lost, but he'll get here soon. At 11 a.m., just Mariela and I are in the room for the presentation. This is normal.
Then come in The Boss, pulling by the arm important people. The Priest and the Mayor's people. All coming toward me. No projector.
I ask The Boss to say a few words, which she's more than happy to do, about all the work she's done for the co-op all her life. She introduces me, says I have 2 years in Paraguay, and although she still can't really understand what I say, they should all try to understand me.
I step over my ego on the way to the computer. We use just the computer screen to give the PowerPoint. He'll be here any second. I talk about why the internet is important, all the things Mariela and I have practiced, until The Boss stands up and tugs my arm and says, "That's great. Just show us the web page." She also says, "Why didn't you tell me your Peace Corps Higher Up wasn't going to be here, we could have just used my son's projector." Why didn't you say your son had a projector?
I begin talking about the web page, and just then, the Higher Up walks in, but nothing is in his hands. "And the projector?" is the first thing I say. He puts his hand to his forehead. He'd forgotten.
During the next 15 minutes I went down flaming. Is it the two years in disaster-prone Paraguay, or a study of spirituality based on accepting what is? Whatever it was, there was a calmness about my crash. The internet worked as slow as a snail, or not at all, please try again, in front of a squinting crowd. Sputtering sentence fragments, saying "cosa" (thing) when I wanted to say "window", "cursor" or "screen." I remained fairly calm. The words formed in my mind: Crash and Burn. I could feel the redness in my face, the physical reaction to humiliation, as natural to a Peace Corps Volunteer's bodily functions as sneezing.
The parade started outside, and to my relief, they all left. The subject of all this preparation and anxiety had passed in 15 awkward minutes where little was accomplished. The parade went by (at least there was a fat kid on a pony) and they ate a small portion of the food we'd painstakingly set out. I talked to the Higher Up, who was red in the face and couldn't stop apologizing. Was I just so used to things going horribly wrong? The governor and his flock never showed at the co-op.
A reporter from ABC Color did come by. The least curious reporter in the world. Mariela and I provided him with facts. "Our web page will be the first in inner Paraguay to accept credit cards." "Uh-huh," he said, perusing the snacks. "We won a grant from Peace Corps for 10 million Guaranies." "Hmm," bite of empanada. He took a picture of me at the computer.
That was the answer, Jeopardy players. And what was the question?
"What's it like to be a Peace Corps Volunteer?"
Saturday, May 22, 2010
What's wrong with this picture?
Before, I would have said nothing was wrong with this picture. I found it in my Apple dictionary, looking for synonyms for beef. Here's beef. Now tell me, what's wrong with this picture?
What's wrong is exactly what Oscar said when he walked up behind me. "It doesn't show the feet," he said. Or the tail. Or the head. It's American beef, the prime cuts. But it's left out all the parts that I can tell you are certainly considered beef, considered food, down here. This photo should be reclassified, under A, for American Beef.
What's wrong is exactly what Oscar said when he walked up behind me. "It doesn't show the feet," he said. Or the tail. Or the head. It's American beef, the prime cuts. But it's left out all the parts that I can tell you are certainly considered beef, considered food, down here. This photo should be reclassified, under A, for American Beef.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Doors that Close
I was looking through these Fulbright Scholar things, maybe you’ve heard of them -- and I saw the word Finland. It made me smile.
I had Finland on the mind when I was 13 years old. Somehow I’d gotten my hands on this exchange program brochure. Without the knowledge of my parents, I applied to one of the only ones that didn’t cost thousands of dollars and was a scholarship, to Finland. What did I know about Finland? Nothing. I just wanted to go, somewhere.
I can still remember how important it felt. The careful filling out of all the forms with the nice pen. The wanting. I got down to the finalist, and my mom, who now knew her daughter wanted to spend the summer across the Atlantic, drove me hours away for the interview. I’d never before been so nervous as I was, sitting at the head of all those people who got to decide if I went or not. I did get one laugh out of them, so I thought there was hope.
Then a thin little envelope arrived, that relieved my parents greatly. I didn’t get it.
It seems so funny now, but I was so crushed by that that I literally thought I’d missed my chance. I didn’t even look, really, for other opportunities. It reminds me of this quote:
“When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.”
-Alexander Graham Bell
I was blind to everything else. In my dramatic 13-year-old mind, Finland was it, like a boy who had dumped me who'd I swore I'd never get over. Luckily I didn’t stay that way, and I couldn’t really tell you what snapped me out of it. But here I am, putting Peace Corps Volunteer on my resume, looking at this program I used to think was just for people who were smarter than me. From now on I'll try to turn away faster from those doors that close.
I had Finland on the mind when I was 13 years old. Somehow I’d gotten my hands on this exchange program brochure. Without the knowledge of my parents, I applied to one of the only ones that didn’t cost thousands of dollars and was a scholarship, to Finland. What did I know about Finland? Nothing. I just wanted to go, somewhere.
I can still remember how important it felt. The careful filling out of all the forms with the nice pen. The wanting. I got down to the finalist, and my mom, who now knew her daughter wanted to spend the summer across the Atlantic, drove me hours away for the interview. I’d never before been so nervous as I was, sitting at the head of all those people who got to decide if I went or not. I did get one laugh out of them, so I thought there was hope.
Then a thin little envelope arrived, that relieved my parents greatly. I didn’t get it.
It seems so funny now, but I was so crushed by that that I literally thought I’d missed my chance. I didn’t even look, really, for other opportunities. It reminds me of this quote:
“When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.”
-Alexander Graham Bell
I was blind to everything else. In my dramatic 13-year-old mind, Finland was it, like a boy who had dumped me who'd I swore I'd never get over. Luckily I didn’t stay that way, and I couldn’t really tell you what snapped me out of it. But here I am, putting Peace Corps Volunteer on my resume, looking at this program I used to think was just for people who were smarter than me. From now on I'll try to turn away faster from those doors that close.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Chicken Sex
Chicken sex comes darting out across the yard. Your eye will be caught, whether you like it or not. A chicken making a run for it, head forward and legs crisscrossing exactly like they draw in the cartoons. A rooster behind, gaining on her.
Uh oh, that chicken’s gonna get it.
Few get away, flapping their wings, bobbing their heads as they walk away as if to say, “That’s what I thought, mister.”
But for most of them, the chase only lasts but a few moments until the rooster is upon them. Without even a “Hello, good day to you,” he hops on and bites the back of her neck to hang on. Then it’s just a shake of some feathers and a flap of the wings. He hops off, and wanders off clucking as if she were just yesterday’s bucket of thighs, leaving her to face the judging eyes of the rest of the farm animals. Tisk tisk tisk.
So ladies, if you’re ever thinking about hanging out with a rooster, I’m telling you: Don’t do it.
Click here for disturbing footage:
Uh oh, that chicken’s gonna get it.
Few get away, flapping their wings, bobbing their heads as they walk away as if to say, “That’s what I thought, mister.”
But for most of them, the chase only lasts but a few moments until the rooster is upon them. Without even a “Hello, good day to you,” he hops on and bites the back of her neck to hang on. Then it’s just a shake of some feathers and a flap of the wings. He hops off, and wanders off clucking as if she were just yesterday’s bucket of thighs, leaving her to face the judging eyes of the rest of the farm animals. Tisk tisk tisk.
So ladies, if you’re ever thinking about hanging out with a rooster, I’m telling you: Don’t do it.
Click here for disturbing footage:
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Ñandu Guazu! (aka Tarantula!)
So yesterday morning we're just outside in front of the house, and I look over and see something I've only ever before seen in a movie, a giant tarantula, only it's walking in real life, my real life, black and hairy but cruising across the walkway three feet from me as if it were just another chicken.OSCAR!!!!
Oscar brings a pitcher.
They kind of think I'm crazy because I'm so hyped up and freaked out. They've all, as children, fished tarantulas out of their holes with gum on a string and played with them.
Pali, my host dad, just comes out and says, quietly, "Oh yeah, that's a tarantula." like it's a cricket or something.
Then he just picked up the pitcher and I'm squealing that he's crazy.
Once it was dead, Oscar put this fork tong under its fangs to show them off. Tramtizing! But we all survived. At least it wasn't in my house. That's what happened to Sasha!Monday, May 3, 2010
Why I'm Staying Longer
Monday morning. 8:30, alarm clock goes off. I hear rain. I turn off the alarm clock. I go back to sleep until 10:30.
So maybe today is a good day to explain why I'm extending my service. I have asked for, and received, an extension until June of 2011. Nine extra months, a full 3 years of Paraguay fun times.
I think about how hard it was, that first year. How much I didn't know. All the confusion and frustration. Living in Paraguay is just so much better now. I'm good at it.
I know now, for example:
Then there's the general benefits of Peace Corps:
But the good outweighs the bad. I'm happy down here. Life is balanced, something it is not in the United States. This is the best thing I've ever done in my whole life. I took a big risk and it paid off. I think, then, that I'll stick around a little while longer.
So maybe today is a good day to explain why I'm extending my service. I have asked for, and received, an extension until June of 2011. Nine extra months, a full 3 years of Paraguay fun times.
I think about how hard it was, that first year. How much I didn't know. All the confusion and frustration. Living in Paraguay is just so much better now. I'm good at it.
I know now, for example:
- Which buses will enter my site and which will leave me 2 km. away, on the routa.
- That when I ask for vegetables at the store, I have to ask by kilo and not by number, so I don't ask for 2 anymore and get a look like I'm crazy.
- That when someone says, "And Oscar (or whoever)" They mean "Where's Oscar?"
- When someone asks me if I know how to eat something, they just mean, Do I like it?
- When someone says, Moogui reju that means "Where are you coming from?" (and a growing number of other Guarani phrases.)
- You have to wash your bombilla every time, unless you want a mouthful of ants
Then there's the general benefits of Peace Corps:
- I work whenever I feel like it
- I do whatever I want to do
- My podcast is kickin' ass
- My Guarani is finally coming around
- I love Yataity
- I have a pony
- I don't have to work when it's raining
- I get my lunch cooked for me every day
- I get asado every Sunday
- There's also this boy next door...
- And, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I finally have a home. Isn't that weird? All the way down here?
But the good outweighs the bad. I'm happy down here. Life is balanced, something it is not in the United States. This is the best thing I've ever done in my whole life. I took a big risk and it paid off. I think, then, that I'll stick around a little while longer.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Missing My Invisible Stuff
Not only do we Americans have a lot of stuff, we have a lot of stuff around our stuff. Invisible stuff that other people can’t understand, and that I miss.
For example, those ladies shirts that criss-cross on top over the chest, and then have a horizontal seam underneath. This whole criss-cross top area is like a boob nest. That horizontal seam, that’s the bottom of the boob nest. Here, they have no respect for it. None. It goes straight across the boobs. It looks like the boobs are falling out of the boob nest.
And don’t even get me started on bra straps. I want to buy a mega phone so I can yell: "That's a strapless dress honey! You need to find its friend, Mr. Strapless Bra."
No respect.
I say no respect, but respect for what, our made up rules? It's just that those rules are so ingrained in us, evolutionarily stuck in our brains as fact, that you just can't help but be appalled when people do not have respect for the things you were taught to have respect for.
For instance. Dinner Time. It's dinner time. Set the table, forks on the left, knife (facing in) on the right. Turn off the tv. Turn off your cell phone. Wash your hands. Sit down. Wait for everyone before you start eating. Ask to be excused from the table. Don't tell the person who cooked how not delicious the food is. (This last rule was never taught, nearly implied.)
In Paraguay, it's the opposite. Every one of those things.
Movie time. Turn off the lights, Get your snacks ready. Don't answer your cell phone. Don't be in the other room and yell, "Just start it without me." It's movie time.
No movie time in Paraguay.
Same thing with class time. Can’t you see we’re having class?
There's also unspoken invisible image that we value in America. I see this especially with clothes. An old lady wearing a Quiksilver shirt. No, you don't understand. That is not only to clothe you, it's to tell the world you are young and a surfer/skater type and are cool. You cannot wear that shirt, silly old lady.
And there’s this other, somehow from nowhere, fad where people are wearing those GAP t-shirts that were popular 10 years ago in the United States. They’re trying to be American with shirts that say GAP Authentic, but anyone authentically American is just kind of left confused by the sight.
Lastly, I miss my invisible stuff of tradition, wrapped around our food, for example. When my Paraguayan boyfriend puts ketchup on the indian food I just made. Part of the anger that rises in me is a Joy-Luck-Club-mother-esque indignation that anyone would alter the food I just slaved over. But the other side is an outrage on the part of culinary tradition. Chefs everywhere who join me in a common cry: You don't put ketchup on indian food. And the’re with me on the fried rice too. You don't put ketchup on fried rice!
Today I made tuna casserole. It's expensive. A can of mushroom soup from the American aisle in the special Asuncion grocery store. Two cans of tuna, also pricey here. The time, the effort, and I go next door, and they're cooking cuts of beef, even though I said I would cook. They're cooking it, as usual, in an oily bath of oregano and cumin and salt salt salt. Just in case, they say.
Then at the table, they scoop out the the tuna casserole, which came out really well. And then, they scoop out the oily bathwater of the beef, and pour it all over. And they place a big chunk of meat, right on there. And I say no, no thank you. To their surprise, I'll eat it like this.
Some of my invisible things I’ve been able to let go. I’ll let some bra straps hang out. I’ll put my elbows on the table. But I will not put beef on tuna casserole. That, my countrymen, I promise you.
For example, those ladies shirts that criss-cross on top over the chest, and then have a horizontal seam underneath. This whole criss-cross top area is like a boob nest. That horizontal seam, that’s the bottom of the boob nest. Here, they have no respect for it. None. It goes straight across the boobs. It looks like the boobs are falling out of the boob nest.
And don’t even get me started on bra straps. I want to buy a mega phone so I can yell: "That's a strapless dress honey! You need to find its friend, Mr. Strapless Bra."
No respect.
I say no respect, but respect for what, our made up rules? It's just that those rules are so ingrained in us, evolutionarily stuck in our brains as fact, that you just can't help but be appalled when people do not have respect for the things you were taught to have respect for.
For instance. Dinner Time. It's dinner time. Set the table, forks on the left, knife (facing in) on the right. Turn off the tv. Turn off your cell phone. Wash your hands. Sit down. Wait for everyone before you start eating. Ask to be excused from the table. Don't tell the person who cooked how not delicious the food is. (This last rule was never taught, nearly implied.)
In Paraguay, it's the opposite. Every one of those things.
Movie time. Turn off the lights, Get your snacks ready. Don't answer your cell phone. Don't be in the other room and yell, "Just start it without me." It's movie time.
No movie time in Paraguay.
Same thing with class time. Can’t you see we’re having class?
There's also unspoken invisible image that we value in America. I see this especially with clothes. An old lady wearing a Quiksilver shirt. No, you don't understand. That is not only to clothe you, it's to tell the world you are young and a surfer/skater type and are cool. You cannot wear that shirt, silly old lady.
And there’s this other, somehow from nowhere, fad where people are wearing those GAP t-shirts that were popular 10 years ago in the United States. They’re trying to be American with shirts that say GAP Authentic, but anyone authentically American is just kind of left confused by the sight.
Lastly, I miss my invisible stuff of tradition, wrapped around our food, for example. When my Paraguayan boyfriend puts ketchup on the indian food I just made. Part of the anger that rises in me is a Joy-Luck-Club-mother-esque indignation that anyone would alter the food I just slaved over. But the other side is an outrage on the part of culinary tradition. Chefs everywhere who join me in a common cry: You don't put ketchup on indian food. And the’re with me on the fried rice too. You don't put ketchup on fried rice!
Today I made tuna casserole. It's expensive. A can of mushroom soup from the American aisle in the special Asuncion grocery store. Two cans of tuna, also pricey here. The time, the effort, and I go next door, and they're cooking cuts of beef, even though I said I would cook. They're cooking it, as usual, in an oily bath of oregano and cumin and salt salt salt. Just in case, they say.
Then at the table, they scoop out the the tuna casserole, which came out really well. And then, they scoop out the oily bathwater of the beef, and pour it all over. And they place a big chunk of meat, right on there. And I say no, no thank you. To their surprise, I'll eat it like this.
Some of my invisible things I’ve been able to let go. I’ll let some bra straps hang out. I’ll put my elbows on the table. But I will not put beef on tuna casserole. That, my countrymen, I promise you.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Fun Fall Times Outdoors
Howdy! The sun is shining on a nice breeze, it's finally cooling off, and instead of being cooped up in my air-conditioned cell, we've been outside enjoying the fall. Here are some pictures.
Taking the horse for a spin
Mateo rockin' it as he does
Campo sky
Sasha's turn
Giving pony rides to the little children.
Making Gyros Happen
I got this idea to make gyros, and Oscar knows a guy, so we had a lamb killed on a farm across the routa and in the campo town of Potrero. Instead of sending O-town on the moto, we made a trip of it on Bigote and bikes.
Leaving the paved streets of The Yat
The Road to Potrero
Vanessa riding a horse for the first time.
We stopped to take some pictures
Vane and me
The nice lady and her half of a lamb.
The gyros came out delicious and the host fam loved them!
Following the carefully placed signs, we headed to Salto Cristal.
In the campo of La Colmena
Oscar and sugar cane
We went in a car. I love a car! It's my dream to one day have one.
This is Oscar's buddy from the big city.
The climb down is steep and scary!
Oscar carrying the heavy stuff.
The falls are worth the climb.
The Partridge Traps
This started when Oscar brought his slingshot out to the campo, and he got hooked on trying to kill these partridges that are all over. We did some Googling, and next thing you know...
In the backyard earning our Boy Scout Badges
Just eat that corn little bird, I dare you.
Looking for a good spot
And now, we wait.
Cactus, or, in spanish, tuna.
I feel like everyone's staring at me
Takin' some t-ray along
Cow
I have a dream...
Little cow at the pond
Smoke from a far-off fire
Back Home
Memories of my childhood fort-building give me an idea
while washing my sheets, then I turn around for one second and...
Mateo & Sasha's Visit
Taking the horse for a spin
Mateo rockin' it as he does
Campo sky
Sasha's turn
Giving pony rides to the little children.Making Gyros Happen
I got this idea to make gyros, and Oscar knows a guy, so we had a lamb killed on a farm across the routa and in the campo town of Potrero. Instead of sending O-town on the moto, we made a trip of it on Bigote and bikes.
Leaving the paved streets of The Yat
The Road to Potrero
Vanessa riding a horse for the first time.
We stopped to take some pictures
Vane and me
The nice lady and her half of a lamb.The gyros came out delicious and the host fam loved them!
Salto Cristal
Following the carefully placed signs, we headed to Salto Cristal.
In the campo of La Colmena
Oscar and sugar cane
We went in a car. I love a car! It's my dream to one day have one.This is Oscar's buddy from the big city.
The climb down is steep and scary!
Oscar carrying the heavy stuff.
The falls are worth the climb.The Partridge Traps
This started when Oscar brought his slingshot out to the campo, and he got hooked on trying to kill these partridges that are all over. We did some Googling, and next thing you know...
In the backyard earning our Boy Scout Badges
Just eat that corn little bird, I dare you.
Looking for a good spot
And now, we wait.More views of the campo
Cactus, or, in spanish, tuna.
I feel like everyone's staring at me
Takin' some t-ray along
Cow
I have a dream...
Little cow at the pond
Smoke from a far-off fireBack Home
Memories of my childhood fort-building give me an ideawhile washing my sheets, then I turn around for one second and...
Monday, April 12, 2010
Can I watch a damn movie already?
Let me tell you what that's like, just two people, one from the U.S., one from Paraguay, trying to sit down and watch a damn movie already.Movies in Paraguay come from various places. Most Peace Corps volunteers carry their external hard drives to every Asuncion weekend, clicking and dragging from their friends' computers the movies their friends back home saw months ago, or seasons of The Office, Lost, True Blood or 30 Rock. I don't have a hard drive, so my computer, stuffed like 100 gigabytes of sitcoms in a 50-gigabyte bag, is constantly warning me that if I cram anything else into it, it will explode.
Sometimes we pass around DVDs, left in each others' lockers at the office or passed around at meetings. These are usually just the C-grade ones people are willing to pass on.
C-grade is good, I'll take C-grade. On television there's strictly D-grade. When my host sister asks if I've seen Miss Congeniality 2, I try not to act too offended when I say no. And I don't correct her when she says, "Oh, it's so awesome."
There's also a usual D-grade level on these DVDs Oscar brings, up to five movies on one DVD in a poor man's ziplock, with a cover printed on some computer, probably in Ciudad del Este, with the images of 5 normal DVD covers on one. They might be a collection of Jackie Chan movies, , bad Argentinian comedies, gory horrors of varying quality, whatever. I can now claim that yes, I have seen American Pie 6. Oscar's only seen an orginal disk once, in my house. He opened it like it was a treasure box lighting up his face and said, "Ooh, original." Those others, making us Americans look like idiots, are $100 worth of DVDs, one on disk and available at your local street corner for 10 mil (2$).
You put that disk in your computer and there could be anything. We once started "2012" and it began with a shot that looked like someone's volcano vinegar/baking soda experiment. Even if it is the movie you wanted, there could be Spanish with Russian subtitles, or Portuguese, especially with all the movies taped in the Brazilian theaters. I always hope for spoken English and Spanish subtitles.
I also hope it's a DVD rip, and not taped in the theater. When's it's taped in the theater, the sound comes out like you're trapped in a box and the movie is from 1942. Oscar and I were just watching Night at the Museum, and some subtitle came on that was on the real screen in the movie theater, only in the tilted camera, it just dove diagonally off screen, cut off into black. Sometimes people will cough, laugh, or their shadows get up to go pee. On my friend's copy of the New Moon movie, girls in the theater squeal at the part where Jacob takes off his shirt.
So many times we put the disk in, and it just doesn't work at all, or it's in a language that neither of us understand. Sometimes, there are just subtitles, in the doodles of Russian. Or, worse, there are too many choices. Audio in both English and Spanish, subtitles in both English and Spanish. So then, who gets to listen, and who has to read? To me, it is an injustice to take a film that was recorded in my language, change it over to Spanish that doesn't go along with mouth movements, and have the English words written on the bottom. But that's just me. Oscar does not share that opinion. We recently had a little bilingual lovers' spat over the fact that I didn't want to watch Avatar, again, in poor theater-taped quality, in Portuguese, which only understands, and only partly.
There are a hundred web sites to download subtitles, should I find something that otherwise works but doesn't have them. So you Google the movie and "subtitles" and "spanish" and you dig around on slow internet, and then you find them, and then you wait, in the dark because you thought you were about to watch a movie, for them to download. Not perfect, but it made possible the sharing of my love of The Office with Oscar.
Sometimes the subtitles don't work and Oscar makes me translate the whole time, which, for the record, is The Worst. Sometimes the subtitles work, but the movie talks and then the subtitles come on 5 seconds later. You have to play with the delay until you get it just right. We watched one movie where we had to pause it every 10 minutes and set the subtitles back. They kept moving too fast, like they were on a different treadmill. When Inglourious Bastards turned out to have two discs, I figured out how to make the subtitles roll over by setting the delay forward to 4374. Worked like a charm.
Photo: me with a pirate dvd of 5 movies, including 2012, New Moon and, yes, a movie called American Poop.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Our New Catalog!
Hello All! So I finally finished the catalog for the coop! If you click on the images you´ll be whisked away to a bigger view.
In other good news, we just got a big order (100 shirts) from a woman in Argentina who saw the little web page I made. Suddenly I´m working hard for the money over here. Everyone is. No more drinking terere and making ao po´i. We´ve been getting lots of e-mails, actually, just from the other blogspot page I made. And checking e-mail, making up price lists, organizing the embroideries and making up codes and names for them. I´ve been plopping these huge tablecloths on top of the scanner to put there patterns into digital form.
A history of Ao Po´i and information on the cooperative. 
Clothes and patterns for the ladies. 
Clothes and patterns for the menfolk. And ao po´i ties too!
Things for the household, including and ao po´i toilet paper holder!
Tableclothes, their patterns and borders in crochet or the locally made lace.
Information on special orders and our price list.
All the pretty colors
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
How I am Who I am
Life with my dad
Only a month after they called me out of class to tell me that my dad had been in an accident -- and that he didn’t make it -- I realized I’d started to forget little things about him. I wrote my journal then that soon it would be six months, a year, then 10 years, and my father would be reduced to a just a feeling I’d miss having.
It’s been 10 years since March 23, 2000, and I’m trying to feel that feeling I miss having. I’m thinking about how a father like that, and his death, just like that, put me on the road that led me to Peace Corps.
I’ll start, as I always do when I talk about him, with the fact that he was 6’6”, 300 linebacker pounds set on legs of a bear. People knew him, as Big Pete, not just for his size, but for the way he could make the world change when he walked in a room. I became Yetter-Yets or Little Dee, names of which neither had a logical origin. My mother was Mother Machree. My brother was Captain and my sister Whamos. The floor became a stage where he would whistle and sing while getting ready for work, twirling two black work socks in unison like propellers as he danced back and forth as if he were auditioning for The Drifters. We laughed until the sports came on the news and he said, “SportsCenter, nobody speak,” in a stern voice that maybe other fathers used for real, but only made us giggle.
Sunday morning pancakes were a performance as well. He would would flip each one high, punctuating each throw with noises like a football team -- “Hup, hub, hibby, hup!” -- Even at his size he could flip one under his leg like a baton twirler. He’d set my plate down in front of me and say, “Here you are Little Dee,” and then fill up my glass of milk. I’d look up at him and smile that smile that said, “Aren’t you going to cut them for me?” And he would.
I was the youngest and remember being told at the dinner table, in that voice you use when instructing children, that once I turned 12, I would have to cut my own pancakes. The birthday came and went, and for all the time that I had a father, he cut my pancakes, buttered my toast, tied my shoelaces and even tucked me in at night. Needing to make a joke of it as I got older, he’d dramatically pat the covers, sitting on my bed and doing this silly little giggle that, yes, I can still hear. As he left, he would look back and, one hand on the light switch, say, “Good night, Little Dee,” in a voice that’s like a star, growing dimmer when I try to look right at it.
I try to picture his face now. I remember his skin was smooth and cool, darker than the rest of ours. He’d let me cuddle while we watched tv, perhaps Law & Order or whatever else he’d deemed The Family Show. He’d guess what would happen and then hold up a finger and say, “Prediction!” in a high-pitched voice, and later, if he turned out to be right, it’d be followed by, “Brilliance!” If a sex scene started, he’d say, “Trouble Brewin’,” and cover my eyes.
There were those few times where my dad could take me to school. For him probably a small chore, for me precious alone time. Sometimes my best friend was in the car with me, in his brown towncar he called The Hoopty. There was this one corner with a collection of restaurants, bars and a Burger King. As we approached the corner with the deciding turn lane, we’d beg, “Please can we stop for breakfast? Please?” “Please Mr. P,” my best friend would say. “Not today girls,” he’d say in his fake stern voice. Then, at the last minute, he’d sigh and put on his blinker and say “I’m too good to you.” And he’d pull into the drive-thru to get us french toast sticks, or take us to the little café where he knew the owner, of course, to get us strawberry creamcheese croissants and himself a coffee. I’d lean on his side as the cash register rang and put out my hand and my best smile and he’d put the change right there every time.
It’s a cloud of confetti, all the moments, hard to get a look at just one. There are just the stories I’ve told over and over.
I tell people about the time our L.L. Bean-ish cousins were visiting, and we went to Adventure Island Waterpark. Dad put all of us in one of those big round tubes at the top of a huge waterslide. He went to get in then, and the attendent said, “No sir, that’s too many!” But my dad just said, “Hup, too late!”, then jumped in and shoved off. We soared off the slide’s bumps in a way that was clearly meant to be avoided by the set weight limit. My cousins went whooping back to their parents, saying, “You would not believe what Uncle Peter did!”
And Oh, yes, The ostrich. Another theme park. Drive-through safari. Of course, there were practically more DO NOT ROLL YOUR WINDOWS DOWN signs than there were animals. “Pass me a cookie,” he said to my mother. An ostrich was walking up to the car. To our amazement, he rolled down the window and passed the cookie to the bird, who pecked at his hand too fast. He jerked his hand back in the car, the bird followed into the car, to bite the cookie and my dad’s hand.
He taught me to drive, on I-275, yelling “Malfunciton Junction! People die out there!” while I tried to keep my eyes on the road. Driving over the bridge on 60, I’d be getting passed, my eye on my speed. And he’s sigh and say, “Step on the foot speeder, Yetter.”
On road trips, either up North or to the grocery store, we were nothing short of secret agents on a mission. “Road Warriors!” he’d call. He’d take my stuffed animals and act like they were driving, even bending down their little padded paws to flick off other drivers.
He was always breaking rules, social or otherwise. When I felt bad once because I was the only one in a group who’d never been to a real play, he made me feel better by saying, “Eh, that crap’s too artsy fartsy for me.”
I still think about that, any time I’m on the verge of taking life or myself too seriously. It’s in the same mental drawer as the time we went to Aragatos Restaurant and he told us he’d be ordering the Who Flung Poo.
When I got him alone for a few minutes, he would call me, again in the dramatic voice, “Paulette Perhach, cub reporter for the daily planet.” Because I’d joined the yearbook. Or he’d sing, “I love you, you love me, we’re as happy as two birds in a tree.” Or he’d say I had too much make up on and follow it up with, “You’re naturally beautiful,” again, in a joking, high-pitched voice.
When I was in elementary school I taught him one of those hand-smacking games little girls play at recess. Even until I was 17, he would stop me passing in the hallway, clap his hands together and dramatically say, “Ready?” He’d put his left to my right, his right to my left with a look of intense concentration. We’d play faster and faster until we were just smacking at each other and we’d laughed and he’d hug me and say, “Ya crazy cracker.”
My father never fully made that transition in to the father figure who pretended he never used a cuss word or got out of line himself. Many of his fatherly sayings included a word that would have gotten me in trouble had I repeated it in school. These included, with “stuff” filling in for a word I’d have to bleep: “If I need any stuff from you, I’ll squeeze your head.” “That looks like ten pounds of stuff in a 5-pound bag.” And, “If you throw enough stuff against the wall, some of it’s bound to stick.” This last one was repeated to me posthumously on his behalf by my mother years later as advice on meeting Mr. Right.
His finger was pulled upon request numerous times throughout my childhood, setting off the predictable physical reaction. If you’re face was burned, bruised, swollen or anything of the like, he couldn’t resist but ask if your face hurt, just so you could say yes, and he could say, “It’s killin’ me.” If you were excited go anywhere, he would talk about how just saw on the news that that very spot had just burned down. When my sister was about to leave to join the Marines, Parris Island was, according to him, a pile of ash.
In recollecting these scraps, I get that feeling. That feeling I miss having. There’s one memory where it’s strongest. We were walking through a department store and I started twirling a lazy susan of silver charms. There were flowers and hearts. He saw me looking and, like I hoped he would, he asked me if I wanted one. Out of all those beautiful trinkets, the one that caught my eye was a solid little piggy. He saw my choice and laughed this laugh, this “I don’t get you sometimes, but I love you anyway” laugh. Maybe that’s it. Of all the people in the world who laugh at you, that there’s one who’s always laughing with you. You can be as weird as you are.
On Valentine’s Day when I was 17, he got me this big card that had a bunny on the front. It said, “You know what I like?” Then I opened it up and it was a pop-up of three hearts that said Y-O-U, strung between the now popping open arms of the bunny. Under it he’d written, Little Dee, Will you be my Valentine? Love, Dad. I laughed and said, like a teenager, “Did mom pick this out for you?” He said, “No, why?” He had no idea how adorable he was. He hugged me and even at 17 I felt like a little girl wrapped in an entire world made up of him, and it was a world sweet and loving where even a trip to the grocery store is an adventure and all my little quirks made me just the much more perfect, the way I am.
Then he died, that next month.
There was so little left. A few clothes. So few pictures. So few notes with his all-caps writing I loved. Just, that’s it.
In ways I’m sure he wanted to, and in one big way he would have never wanted to, my dad taught me about freedom. In moments when other people would have been tense, wrapped up in whatever task they were doing, my father was relaxed, playing, with the freedom to choose his mood and to make life into the experience it was. He showed me freedom to reject the rules of people who wield whistles, or who tell me who I should be or what I should have done. In dying, he showed me how quickly all that we build up can turn to dust and just blow away. How little it all matters in the end. The only thing that matters is now. It’s the kind of attitude that might make someone say, “Screw it, I’m joining the Peace Corps.”
My dad’s gone, but his spirit is so present in my family. My little nephew, named Peter for my dad, has picked up, through osmosis, some of the habits of a grandpa he never knew. When he gets an answer right, he sticks up his index finger and says, “Brilliance!” in that high-pitched voice my dad used to use. We still yell “One down!” when someone drops a plate, just like he used to. He is scattered about us like his ashes in the sea, in our jokes, the mischievous turn of a grin, or any time I turn life into the silly game I know it can be.
It’s been 10 years since March 23, 2000, and I’m trying to feel that feeling I miss having. I’m thinking about how a father like that, and his death, just like that, put me on the road that led me to Peace Corps.
I’ll start, as I always do when I talk about him, with the fact that he was 6’6”, 300 linebacker pounds set on legs of a bear. People knew him, as Big Pete, not just for his size, but for the way he could make the world change when he walked in a room. I became Yetter-Yets or Little Dee, names of which neither had a logical origin. My mother was Mother Machree. My brother was Captain and my sister Whamos. The floor became a stage where he would whistle and sing while getting ready for work, twirling two black work socks in unison like propellers as he danced back and forth as if he were auditioning for The Drifters. We laughed until the sports came on the news and he said, “SportsCenter, nobody speak,” in a stern voice that maybe other fathers used for real, but only made us giggle.
Sunday morning pancakes were a performance as well. He would would flip each one high, punctuating each throw with noises like a football team -- “Hup, hub, hibby, hup!” -- Even at his size he could flip one under his leg like a baton twirler. He’d set my plate down in front of me and say, “Here you are Little Dee,” and then fill up my glass of milk. I’d look up at him and smile that smile that said, “Aren’t you going to cut them for me?” And he would.
I was the youngest and remember being told at the dinner table, in that voice you use when instructing children, that once I turned 12, I would have to cut my own pancakes. The birthday came and went, and for all the time that I had a father, he cut my pancakes, buttered my toast, tied my shoelaces and even tucked me in at night. Needing to make a joke of it as I got older, he’d dramatically pat the covers, sitting on my bed and doing this silly little giggle that, yes, I can still hear. As he left, he would look back and, one hand on the light switch, say, “Good night, Little Dee,” in a voice that’s like a star, growing dimmer when I try to look right at it.
I try to picture his face now. I remember his skin was smooth and cool, darker than the rest of ours. He’d let me cuddle while we watched tv, perhaps Law & Order or whatever else he’d deemed The Family Show. He’d guess what would happen and then hold up a finger and say, “Prediction!” in a high-pitched voice, and later, if he turned out to be right, it’d be followed by, “Brilliance!” If a sex scene started, he’d say, “Trouble Brewin’,” and cover my eyes.
There were those few times where my dad could take me to school. For him probably a small chore, for me precious alone time. Sometimes my best friend was in the car with me, in his brown towncar he called The Hoopty. There was this one corner with a collection of restaurants, bars and a Burger King. As we approached the corner with the deciding turn lane, we’d beg, “Please can we stop for breakfast? Please?” “Please Mr. P,” my best friend would say. “Not today girls,” he’d say in his fake stern voice. Then, at the last minute, he’d sigh and put on his blinker and say “I’m too good to you.” And he’d pull into the drive-thru to get us french toast sticks, or take us to the little café where he knew the owner, of course, to get us strawberry creamcheese croissants and himself a coffee. I’d lean on his side as the cash register rang and put out my hand and my best smile and he’d put the change right there every time.
It’s a cloud of confetti, all the moments, hard to get a look at just one. There are just the stories I’ve told over and over.
I tell people about the time our L.L. Bean-ish cousins were visiting, and we went to Adventure Island Waterpark. Dad put all of us in one of those big round tubes at the top of a huge waterslide. He went to get in then, and the attendent said, “No sir, that’s too many!” But my dad just said, “Hup, too late!”, then jumped in and shoved off. We soared off the slide’s bumps in a way that was clearly meant to be avoided by the set weight limit. My cousins went whooping back to their parents, saying, “You would not believe what Uncle Peter did!”
And Oh, yes, The ostrich. Another theme park. Drive-through safari. Of course, there were practically more DO NOT ROLL YOUR WINDOWS DOWN signs than there were animals. “Pass me a cookie,” he said to my mother. An ostrich was walking up to the car. To our amazement, he rolled down the window and passed the cookie to the bird, who pecked at his hand too fast. He jerked his hand back in the car, the bird followed into the car, to bite the cookie and my dad’s hand.
He taught me to drive, on I-275, yelling “Malfunciton Junction! People die out there!” while I tried to keep my eyes on the road. Driving over the bridge on 60, I’d be getting passed, my eye on my speed. And he’s sigh and say, “Step on the foot speeder, Yetter.”
On road trips, either up North or to the grocery store, we were nothing short of secret agents on a mission. “Road Warriors!” he’d call. He’d take my stuffed animals and act like they were driving, even bending down their little padded paws to flick off other drivers.
He was always breaking rules, social or otherwise. When I felt bad once because I was the only one in a group who’d never been to a real play, he made me feel better by saying, “Eh, that crap’s too artsy fartsy for me.”
I still think about that, any time I’m on the verge of taking life or myself too seriously. It’s in the same mental drawer as the time we went to Aragatos Restaurant and he told us he’d be ordering the Who Flung Poo.
When I got him alone for a few minutes, he would call me, again in the dramatic voice, “Paulette Perhach, cub reporter for the daily planet.” Because I’d joined the yearbook. Or he’d sing, “I love you, you love me, we’re as happy as two birds in a tree.” Or he’d say I had too much make up on and follow it up with, “You’re naturally beautiful,” again, in a joking, high-pitched voice.
When I was in elementary school I taught him one of those hand-smacking games little girls play at recess. Even until I was 17, he would stop me passing in the hallway, clap his hands together and dramatically say, “Ready?” He’d put his left to my right, his right to my left with a look of intense concentration. We’d play faster and faster until we were just smacking at each other and we’d laughed and he’d hug me and say, “Ya crazy cracker.”
My father never fully made that transition in to the father figure who pretended he never used a cuss word or got out of line himself. Many of his fatherly sayings included a word that would have gotten me in trouble had I repeated it in school. These included, with “stuff” filling in for a word I’d have to bleep: “If I need any stuff from you, I’ll squeeze your head.” “That looks like ten pounds of stuff in a 5-pound bag.” And, “If you throw enough stuff against the wall, some of it’s bound to stick.” This last one was repeated to me posthumously on his behalf by my mother years later as advice on meeting Mr. Right.
His finger was pulled upon request numerous times throughout my childhood, setting off the predictable physical reaction. If you’re face was burned, bruised, swollen or anything of the like, he couldn’t resist but ask if your face hurt, just so you could say yes, and he could say, “It’s killin’ me.” If you were excited go anywhere, he would talk about how just saw on the news that that very spot had just burned down. When my sister was about to leave to join the Marines, Parris Island was, according to him, a pile of ash.
In recollecting these scraps, I get that feeling. That feeling I miss having. There’s one memory where it’s strongest. We were walking through a department store and I started twirling a lazy susan of silver charms. There were flowers and hearts. He saw me looking and, like I hoped he would, he asked me if I wanted one. Out of all those beautiful trinkets, the one that caught my eye was a solid little piggy. He saw my choice and laughed this laugh, this “I don’t get you sometimes, but I love you anyway” laugh. Maybe that’s it. Of all the people in the world who laugh at you, that there’s one who’s always laughing with you. You can be as weird as you are.
On Valentine’s Day when I was 17, he got me this big card that had a bunny on the front. It said, “You know what I like?” Then I opened it up and it was a pop-up of three hearts that said Y-O-U, strung between the now popping open arms of the bunny. Under it he’d written, Little Dee, Will you be my Valentine? Love, Dad. I laughed and said, like a teenager, “Did mom pick this out for you?” He said, “No, why?” He had no idea how adorable he was. He hugged me and even at 17 I felt like a little girl wrapped in an entire world made up of him, and it was a world sweet and loving where even a trip to the grocery store is an adventure and all my little quirks made me just the much more perfect, the way I am.
Then he died, that next month.
There was so little left. A few clothes. So few pictures. So few notes with his all-caps writing I loved. Just, that’s it.
In ways I’m sure he wanted to, and in one big way he would have never wanted to, my dad taught me about freedom. In moments when other people would have been tense, wrapped up in whatever task they were doing, my father was relaxed, playing, with the freedom to choose his mood and to make life into the experience it was. He showed me freedom to reject the rules of people who wield whistles, or who tell me who I should be or what I should have done. In dying, he showed me how quickly all that we build up can turn to dust and just blow away. How little it all matters in the end. The only thing that matters is now. It’s the kind of attitude that might make someone say, “Screw it, I’m joining the Peace Corps.”
My dad’s gone, but his spirit is so present in my family. My little nephew, named Peter for my dad, has picked up, through osmosis, some of the habits of a grandpa he never knew. When he gets an answer right, he sticks up his index finger and says, “Brilliance!” in that high-pitched voice my dad used to use. We still yell “One down!” when someone drops a plate, just like he used to. He is scattered about us like his ashes in the sea, in our jokes, the mischievous turn of a grin, or any time I turn life into the silly game I know it can be.
My dad, Peter Perhach
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