The Mystique of the "Unfulfilled Idealist"

"Sit down, go ahead and make yourself at home," my Peace Corps recruiter smiled, waving me to a comfy soft swivel chair. She was older, perhaps early 60s, and had an incredible flare of energy surrounding her. The purple streaks she had dyed at the sides of her otherwise silvery temples matched her dangling purple earrings. "My women in Morocco made them for me," she said, catching my glance. My women? I thought with quick irritation. WHO do YOU own exactly? I tried to brush away this offhanded remark.The room was bright, filled with warm August Seattle sunshine, yet it was sparsely furnished except for the table and chairs. A huge map of the world settled itself perfectly on the wall behind my recruiter's left shoulder. Just in case I forget what I'm getting myself into, I thought dryly. It's only the whole world in front of me.

I applied for the Peace Corps July 1st, in the middle of the organization's 50th anniversary of service abroad. As I sat in that swivel chair two months later, waiting for my recruiter to begin asking questions my mind was swirling, mainly from a desire - an absolutely compelling, consuming desire - to share what I've seen, heard, witnessed, and learned over the last few years and to prove that I was ready for whatever task the Peace Corps could throw at me. I had worked hard for this moment. I had dreamed of joining the Peace Corps since junior high, and with sudden stark clarity, I realized that this interview was "it." This could be the beginning of the next chapter in my life. A little jolt of excitement shot through me and I resurfaced from my thoughts, tearing my eyes away from the map and back to my recruiter's silvery-purple hair.

The questions were rapid and successive, ranging from "Why do you want to be a Peace Corps volunteer?" to specific questions about my skills and various qualifications and how I can contribute to the Peace Corps mission. Because of my experience teaching/tutoring primarily English at both the middle school and collegiate level, we quickly affirmed that I would be most competitive in the final selection process as an English teacher. That gave me the opportunity talk about how I've worked with students with a variety of learning styles in the past, and how my aspirations as a Peace Corps volunteer stem from wanting to use the privilege and means that I possess to provide the tools and resources necessary to enable people around the world to empower themselves.

Considering my immersion in racial justice and post-colonialism studies throughout the last year however, I couldn't help but wonder before walking into the Seattle recruitment office: could the Peace Corps be considered a form of neocolonialism? As volunteers are we fostering good will and earning the trust of communities for the right reasons? Is the organization as idealistic as its founder, John F. Kennedy intended? Are the "good works" volunteers pursue directed by local, organic actors and only supported by skilled American volunteers?  There's nothing more destructive than creating relationships of dependency that continue to ingrain inequities rather than foster autonomy. And while I didn't necessarily say this as bluntly during my interview (although I hinted heavily) I think that Peace Corps service, if conducted without a consciousness of patronizing behaviors, can actually do more harm than good. Anytime you have a Westerner (especially a white, blond, blue-eyed woman like me - an incredibly stereotypical image), coming into a generally impoverished community that may or may not have colonialism in its recent history, it can potentially send the same message that was sent for decades or even centuries before: we're here to "save" you because you need help, and we know best.

Speaking only from my own experiences, such a script - of perceived cultural inferiority when compared to the grandeur of the West, especially the United States - seems to have become overwhelmingly adopted and internalized by "othered" peoples. This remains incredibly disturbing, especially because when I travel, I become a personal embodiment of everything America represents. Hence, I find it problematic placing myself in a position of power in which I would be heralded as an "outsider" coming in to "fix" a community's problems in only 27 months.

I struggled with this for many months, trying to decide which direction to go. When I showed up to the interview, I wanted to hold conviction in whatever decision I had made. But it made me wrestle with some ideological demons.

In the end, I decided that it was precisely because of my doubts to serve that I must go. And don't mistake me: I don't doubt my ability to adapt and thrive in any environment in which the Peace Corps places me. I understand the highs and lows of culture shock, believe me! Rather, I came to realize that the doubts about my role and authority within the community I would serve give me the very consciousness and awareness necessary to be an effective and respectful Peace Corps volunteer. I'm sure there are mistakes made, by everyone. But overall, I have something to contribute to the world, to help make the world a little bit better of a place. Acting with humility and respect, I intend to help someone help themselves.

Of course, I'm sure I'm so completely naive, not having entered service or even basic orientation and training yet. This may be just a bunch of idealistic, romantic regurgitations from a liberal arts student hell-bent on creating something good and beautiful in a world that people love to hate so much.

But then, my recruiter's departing words come back to me, with a swish of those purple earrings: "We're always looking for the unfulfilled idealist - someone who actively envisions how the world ought to be."

If that's the case, then I can guarantee that you've found just the right woman for the job, ma'am.

Finals Week.

Because I have a lot on my mind and I'm too tired to write anything worthy of being read by anyone...this sums it all up anyways.

Thanks xkcd for helping me procrastinate (http://xkcd.com/137)

Acts of Listening

I had an ephiphany today.  At 8am.

It was inspired by a tiny blurb on the "Positivity" feed I wake up to every morning. This morning's post was a quote from Rachel Naomi Remen - a doctor who's battled Crohn's disease for the past 48 years, and worked to reform the medicine into a holistic practice.

She said:
"The most basic and powerful way to connect to another person is to listen. Just listen. Perhaps the most important thing we ever give each other is our attention...A loving silence often has far more power to heal and to connect than the most well-intentioned words." 

I sat back sleepily for a moment and thought about this, my space heater whirring as I spun slowly in the chair at my desk. Am I a good listener? "Of course!" I thought. It's something that I make a conscious effort to do everyday...and it's like people just know that I'm a sponge for their purging. People have shared things with me before - secrets, both joyous and tragic - that I've felt surprised yet honored to be entrusted with.  But is this sense of trust fostered because I'm a good listener? Have I ever responded to someone's confessions, dreams, or desires with loving silence? What even is "loving silence"? Couldn't that get horribly construed somehow? Misunderstood as indifference?

Sighing, my internal volleying unresolved, I got up and sprawled myself across my bed, propping myself up with a pillow, and grabbing my book. I'll admit that with all the reading I'm required to do I've resorted to speed reading, aka skimming the text looking for key words and thematic elements that are good class discussion starters or paper topics. It's become a key survival skill in college.

That being said, as I began reading Animal's People by Indra Sinha, I realized this wasn't a book I wanted to rush through - that as I passed the 30 page mark, then 55, then 80 in the span of about two hours, my painfully slow progression through the novel gave me more time to understand the deeper meanings of the lesson the author was trying to teach. I highlighted things, I underlined my favorite passages, I even laughed at the subtle humor that I would have normally missed had I flown through the words without looking for their soul. It's been so long since I've slowed down to actually listen to a narrator's story. It frightens me how good I've gotten at hunting out the linguistic cues, the kernals of contradiction, and the forumulaic mechanisms that give novels structure. But that's not what reading is about.

The act of reading is in fact an act of listening. When you take the time to hear out the narrator through to the end, there becomes less of an urge to interject in ways that cause you to alienate yourself from the whole literary experience. Perhaps, to listen with "loving silence" then is to pause long enough to attempt understanding on ones own accord. Because we, as readers, cannot confront authors directly, we must learn to listen with such "loving silence," or risk gutting the very books that attempt to reveal the most complex parts of our humanity.

The Freezing Inferno (& other stories)

I may not live in Garrison Kellior's Minnesotan paradise of Lake Woebegone, but I'm wearing my fleece lined spandex under my jeans, along with three shirts, a fleece hoodie, scarf and a pea coat (like Randy in A Christmas Story, "I can't put my arms down!") Andddd, it gets worse. I hate to admit it, but Heidi and I camped out in front of the oven a few days ago, turning the dial to 500 degrees and putting our faces and hands on the edge of the open door, smiling contentedly. The scalding waves of heat felt heavenly, well, because it's cold here at the Inferno (pardon the pun...or don't).  

Oregon State Capitol, Salem OR - As viewed from Ford Hall

That being said, it's the last week of classes before finals and campus is alive with the caffeinated buzz of Willamette students writing essays and studying for exams. It's hard to believe that this semester is almost over! Only a few essays and a presentation stand in between me and my winter break. Next semester will bring thesis... and (gulp!) graduation. But as always, I'm taking it a day at a time. And frankly, I'm always excited about new horizons. 

Thankfully, the cold weather has brought us some beautiful skies that are so striking and clear, that the world feel infinite, bleeding into the universe like the new bra that turns everything in your washing machine bright pink. The orange, crimson, and gold leaves were blown away in the last storm, leaving the trees starkly naked. All the leaf blower fanatics had a party the next day, sparking their obnoxious machines to life and blowing leaves in one direction only to have a light wind scatter them again. I feel like Sisyphus would have a laugh if he could observe one of my neighbors, who did leaf duty everyday for nearly two weeks. Unfortunately, getting "rid" of the leaves in his yard meant blowing them all under Heidi's suburban, which we didn't discover until Thanksgiving (and who goes to complain to their neighbors during Thanksgiving? exactly.) In any case, all we need now is a blizzard to envelop campus, to soften the ever-clutching grip of academics on students' brains and bodies. I know I'd appreciate a good snow ball fight. Oh, and don't forget making makeshift sleds out of Goudy trays... :D

Morning fog, looking across the Quad toward the Clocktower - from Eaton Hall

This week Willamette held its 15th Annual Star Tree Lighting Ceremony, which is easily my favorite Bearcat tradition (not including the annual Prospie Day body-painted streaker run in the spring). I missed it last year during my time abroad and almost missed it AGAIN this year because of some conflicting schedule issues. But, I made things work, and was able to nibble on cookies, listen to the choir sing carols, and join the countdown until the five huge sequoias, the tallest on ANY university campus in the United States, were lit up with twinkling color. I then had to run back to Smith Auditorium to play in the Christmas concert which we put on for free for the Salem community. While  "The 12 BeBots of Christmas" weren't featured this year, Grant still donned one of his traditional "ugly sweaters" to conduct the band, and a flute octet played an arrangement of "All I Want for Christmas (Is You)." The band of course played Anderson's Sleigh Ride, and finished the concert with an audience sing-a-long carol piece.

The Star Trees - from the Quad

After the concert I met up with Peter, and we ended up justifying a dinner at Adam's BBQ! Whenever I eat there, I never fail to smear half of what I order on my hands and face. Yet, between mouthfuls of pulled pork and fried cornbread (hey, we're rowers lol) and later snuggling up and watching Love Actually together,  it was wonderful to put aside the hustle and bustle of life for the evening for good food, good conversation, and lots of laughs. Oftentimes, life is twice as fun when you get to share it with someone.

That hustle and bustle however cannot wait forever. I have to start working tonight on the final essays due over the next few days. But at least I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. After all, it's only the end of the beginning. There's so much more to come :)