*** Disclaimer: The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps. ***

Two years ago Peace Corps dropped me off to the “li li li li li lis” of chanting gogos and host families as they danced their way up the aisle to meet their new host children. Two years ago I was plopped into the middle of rural (ish) Mpumalanga, introduced to a family, and left to (hopefully) become part of it. Two years later it’s clearer than ever that families are not determined by blood, language, skin color, or traditions. Continue reading “Closing a door” →

*** Disclaimer: The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps. ***

A day will come

When you will look at yourself

In the mirror and marvel at

How wonderful it is,

How exquisite it is,

To be completely devoid

Of the sadness

Of the loneliness

That once clung to your skin

Like salt to an open wound.

 You have grown so much

Because you have quietly realized

You aren’t just teardrops

You are an ocean.

• Nikita Gill

Continue reading “You are an Ocean” →

*** Disclaimer: The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps. ***

*Pictured above, a bakkie burnt by protesters in a nearby town

It starts off as no big deal. I wake on a Thursday morning, the birds chirp, the sun shines and it all feels a bit too Disney-esque. Not until I arrive at school do the first subtle hints of something amiss arise. Your principal’s office is closed and he and several other staff members are out. It comes in whispers and slowly grasped blurbs of Setswana, “he was detained by the protests”. They tell you that the national road will be blocked tomorrow; people have been looting stores, burning tires and cars…

It’s the start of a fearful roller coaster. I try following the situation through a haze of whatsapp messages and anxiety creeping up inside my head.

This past week a variety of protests broke out across the nation. There was a national bus strike, strikes against the Premier of the North West province, local service delivery protests, and now a national union strike. Given my unique location on the border of two provinces, I found myself sandwiched between two unrelated but increasingly escalating protests.

So not exactly the best feeling situation. By Monday, I found myself plotting a way out of my village (a gravel farm road to a southern exit point on the national road…) just in case it came to that. As low key as I try to keep myself, the stressful blur of mixed messages, multilingual communications, and the sight of smoke are not conducive to a healthy and relaxed state. Finding myself swirling down into an anxiety spiral, I collapsed into stress sleep, determined not to dwell.

But after confirmations that not only were the protests not set to end, but also that they would likely intensify as they coincided with a national strike action on Wednesday, Peace Corps decided to evacuate us.

From there it became a mad scramble of phone calls and whatsapps, throwing clothes into a duffel bag, hopping into a bakkie, and screeching southwards hopeful for a clear path.

And the minute I was out it was like a big weight lifted. I started laughing and chatting with my HOD, the giddiness of being safe overwhelming me like the crash of an ocean wave. I’m chilling in Kimberley at the moment with plans of heading to my favorite beachside paradise (Cape Town) tomorrow for a relaxed long weekend.

So everything’s sorted and it’s all good right? Well, that remains to be seen. With my region in such a state of turmoil at the moment, we’re playing a wait and see game to figure out when we can head back to the vill. So for now I guess I’ll just enjoy the showers, wifi, and beautiful fall weather.

*** Disclaimer: The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps. ***

Visiting PST, regardless of what point of service you’re in, is a complete trip. Returning to a space where trainees are incredibly eager to learn and get started, eager to please and do exactly as they believe Peace Corps expects of them, and unsure how to and to what extent they can set boundaries while maintaining cultural sensitivity can be exhausting and plain weird. But visiting PST while being in a cohort nearing COS and after 20 months of the roller coaster that is Peace Corps is surprisingly a bit of an emotional ride. When talking to PCTs, you’re pushed into a space of mentorship despite your own remaining confusion on how you have managed to push through the muck thus far. Trainees tend to accept the words eschewed from a volunteer’s mouth as gold, clinging to any taste of life beyond the PST bubble and causing volunteers to very carefully weigh the words uttered in their presence.

Beyond the opportunity to meet a set of new faces intent on embarking on this insane journey, a visit to PST forces introspection. You are instantly sucked into remembering your own mental space during training and all the ensuing shit you’ve persevered through to be standing here. What trainees don’t see when they meet visiting volunteers is the fights they’ve had to crawl their ways through, the bitter and depleting days when you stay up all night questioning even staying.

I’m not typically one to humble brag, but I recently had someone who knows the struggles of my service well tell me that “lesser people would not still be here”. It gave me pause. Has my service really been exceptionally challenging? The reality is that it has been hard as hell. It’s a goddamn miracle that I’m not only still kicking but that I have found the strength and resilience to grow into love and acceptance for my service.

Today I’m an emotional mess, not because I’m plagued by depression or anxiety but because I’m overcome with gratitude. If anything, my Peace Corps service has been a crash course in resilience, growth and vulnerability. As I begin to contemplate my last few months in country, I do so a completely different person from the girl who stepped off the plane on a freezing July day.

*** Disclaimer: The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps. ***

Before departing for Peace Corps service an RPCV friend gave me what is quite possibly some of the best advice I have ever received. He told me that successful volunteers have the capability of working in deep chaos, in situations with little to no direction. Undoubtedly, Peace Corps throws volunteers into some of the most unstructured and confusing work environments out there and it is the volunteer’s responsibility to identify their role, sometimes essentially creating their job on the spot.

The beauty of being an education volunteer is that our roles as teachers tend to be pretty clear. Last year I was assigned a set of classes to teach and provided a regular schedule with most of the chaos coming in the form of sorting out secondary projects and just navigating life. This year, however, has been an assortment of confusing moments.

At the start of the school year my school lacked a principal, vice principal, a 4^th and 5^th grade math teacher and a 1^st grade teacher. Simply put, it was a mess. So my initial plan to not teach at all and work on developing literacy skills and secondary projects quickly evaporated into thin air. I was tasked with co-teaching English in grades 4 and 7 in order to cover the shortage of teachers. As I anxiously began my prep work, I was pulled from grade 4 and told to solo teach grade 7 English. About a week into teaching grade 7 my school received a brand new principal and I was pulled out of English and asked to teach math in order to cover for the missing teacher. That goal disappeared in a heartbeat (I mean my Setswana is good but not math vocabulary good…).

If 19 months in country have taught me anything it’s that you have to stick up for yourself. As much as I strive to be as competent as possible and capable of doing a million things, I have to care for my mental and physical well-being and remember that the school has to be functional without me. So I sat down and talked to my principal, laid out my recommendations and promised my flexibility.

So one month into the school year my teaching plan is finally (mostly) sorted out. I’m officially co-teaching English in grade 4, and as exhausting as it is, it is truly thrilling to see the kids making connections and beginning to cope with my accent. Co-teaching enables us to provide more one-on-one and small group attention to learners and helps us to avoid the language barrier by ensuring the children hear English with opportunities for Setswana translations as needed. Co-teaching also allows me to work on Peace Corps’ goal of teacher development by assisting my colleague with her English skills and helping her develop more creative and student-centered lessons.

I have always considered myself as being relatively confident and comfortable speaking to figures of authority, but feeling comfortable enough to put myself first and to engage with my staff in a culturally competent manner took a year and a half of service. I guarantee you that a year ago I would have begged my counterpart to fight the battle for me (or at least with me) or that I would have muddled through the chaos, overstretched and frustrated.

It’s 2018. I’ve been a Peace Corps volunteer for 19 months. I’ve served through two Olympic games, two American presidents, two South African presidents, two birthdays, and now my third school year. My life is still chaos but now I know how to navigate that dynamic without driving myself crazy at the same time. My life is chaos but it’s a chaos I’ve come to thrive in.

*** Disclaimer: The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps. ***

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men (and women!) and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.” – Mark Twain

In July 2016, I walked into a stranger’s home, was hugged, given a Setswana name, and immediately welcomed into their family. This family lives in rural South Africa and has provided a home away from home for me and created a familial bond that I have never felt outside of my real family.

My host mama is brilliant, a hard-working nurse who lives alone most of the time, tending to her garden, cooking some of the best food I’ve ever eaten, and constantly upgrading her home. She speaks beautiful English, took in her sister’s child after she passed away, and ensured that all her children went to university in order to secure a bright future. She knows of a world outside the village, is often up to date on news before I even am aware, and firmly believes that everyone deserves to be treated with dignity.

I have two little host siblings who I adore, Botshelo and Onkgopotse. These two children, about to begin grades 1 and 2 respectively, give me the biggest hugs and smiles after being away for months at a time, ask me to read books and play soccer with them, and eagerly call for me as if I was really one of their own, “Sesi Reya, o kae?”

Add in Granny, who dances everywhere she goes and my host aunts who work incredibly hard and I can always find cooking a steaming vat of pap or scrubbing piles of messy kids’ clothing, and you begin to get a picture of my family.

Perhaps it’s because I have the privilege of traveling or maybe because I devour books at a ridiculous pace (111 since the start of service!), but my perception of the world is that it is a complex place full of differing customs, languages, and traditions and that each of those cultures is valid and worth understanding (and definitely not just because some U.S. American just said so).

Over the course of my service I have met hundreds of South Africans, been welcomed into three families, and learned from the children I’m supposed to be teaching. These people continue to welcome me into their lives, trust me with their kids, and provide me with love and strength. They seek to understand my country and my roots better, asking about traditional dances and marriage rituals, wondering about everything from the cost of bread in the U.S. to the role religion plays in schools and government to our proclivity for a sport ‘incorrectly’ dubbed football.

As I share and ask questions of my own, I can’t help thinking about all the seemingly well-meaning people back home who inquire about my trip to Africa, as if it weren’t 54 uniquely rich countries, or who automatically assume that everything I see must be devastating poverty. There’s good (well not good but understandable) reason for this, U.S. schools focus very little on geography beyond Western Europe, and colonial narratives widely spread throughout the states fail to elaborate on minority cultures in our own society let alone distinguishing the places people were forced out of, immigrated from, or continue to happily call home.

I hope to impress upon you that the little corner of South Africa that I call home has welcomed me in with open arms. They didn’t need the burden of a white looking girl who hates washing her laundry by hand and who often needs entire meetings repeated in English for her benefit. But they embrace me anyway, they acknowledge my broken Setswana and appreciate it for what it is, seek to understand my strange gymming habits, and graciously provide me with water when I inevitably manage to run out.

As a volunteer and a representative of my country, it hurts to see Host Country Nationals (HCNs) inquiring about derogatory remark. It’s exhausting and anxiety-inducing to navigate appropriate responses to their confusion and visible frustration. It’s heart breaking to know that these people who have unquestioningly invited me into not only their country, but their homes wonder if they might be extended the same courtesy in return.

                                                  Ke a le rata, lelapa la ka. Ke a go rata, Afrika Borwa.