Last Flush of Youth

Today is the last day of my 20s, and it feels so…anticlimactic.

That might be the pandemic talking, even though lockdown in the UK is over (although I have qualms over this).

I know that I’m supposed to have all of these feelings about turning 30, and that they’re all meant to center on fear or anxiety or stress.  I’m meant to be a mess.

And I am a mess, but not because I’m on the precipice of what’s meant to be the best decade of adulthood—although I’m probably making that last bit up.  That’s just me as an individual.

The truth of the matter is, this year has been such a strange one—a clusterfuck if you will— and I just find the possibility that is being presented with aging to be much more exciting.  It’s like I’m about to start a new adventure, which seems so wild to me.  It’s wild because my twenties brought me so many adventures bordering on the mundane to the terrifying.

My thirties represent closing a chapter on grad school, taking a year off before the dreaded PhD years start (or maybe just never coming back to academia…I can still change my mind), maybe settling down in one location for longer than a year.  My thirties are just another reminder that I’m on my way to becoming the woman I was created to be, and as I continue on I can’t help but to look back at the gift that was my twenties.

What a train wreck…sometimes.  What a masterpiece, oh yes.

I distinctly remember entering my twenties expecting my life to be so different: the picket fence dream of committed companionship, 2.5 kids and a mortgage.  Thank God that didn’t happen.

My twenties taught me that committed companionship will happen with the right partner, not with someone I want to be right; children just aren’t my jam right now, and they might never be, and that’s okay; and mortgages mean permanence and root building and I have so valued my freedom.

Watching my friends build the lives they wanted while in their twenties made me realize the importance of dreaming different dreams and going down different paths.  Paths that offered a chance to commit to myself, my potential and my well-being.  Looking back through my social media footprint, I also learned the value of consistency.  Me being outspoken about issues that matter to me—particularly human rights, has been part of me this whole time.  I’ve just gotten so much more vocal.  Maybe my 30’s will teach me how to be elegant in my delivery.

My twenties also taught me to be firm and unapologetic about my boundaries.  Learning what those boundaries are has been an ever-changing experience, but I no longer do most things that I do not want to do.  Obviously, there are things that I do because I have to, there are things that I do because of the bigger picture, but there are things that I just don’t.  I’m still working on not feeling guilty for saying no, but I no longer offer excuses unless I want to.  It’s great.

I also realized that I am responsible for protecting my peace, and if that means cutting people off, so be it.  This is a lesson that the Black Lives Matter movement reminded me recently.  While the reminder was specific in that if you don’t believe in the importance of every Black person’s existence, then you can’t believe in the importance of me existing, and if that’s the case then I don’t need to focus any energy on you.  Simple as that.  That specificity moves beyond a difference of fundamental beliefs.  While I still think people come into your life for a reason, even if their presence is only felt for a season, but it’s okay to just let that shit go.  It might not come with a bridge burning (although that is okay, too), but it doesn’t do to dwell on relationships that you’ve simply outgrown.

Another thing that I learned, and I do have to give credit to my PC service for teaching it to me, is the importance of rest.  When I entered my twenties, I came in at a sprint hoping to catch up with my peers who hadn’t taken a year off from school, who hadn’t been diagnosed with sometimes debilitating depression, who maybe weren’t angry all of the time.  That sprint meant taking 18-21 credit hours each semester to double major in an area I thought I was no longer interested in, but a deviation would’ve put me further behind.  It meant working part-time on the other side of the glorious 757.  It meant taking volunteer roles and internships everywhere.  It meant working anywhere from 40 to 70 hours a week after I got my degree, while still trying to maintain a social life.  Moving to Armenia stripped away all of that “busy.”  I got to figure out what a rest actually looked like, and even though I absolutely failed at resting those first 6 months of me being there, I did learn.  For my well-being and because of all of the horrible things that did happen, I had to learn that rest and self-care wasn’t a regimented scheduling of manicures and pedicures and haircuts and massages.  But they were nights in doing things that actually brought me peace and filled me up.  They were glasses of wine with close friends, movie nights and pajamas, a book and a face mask.  Learning how to take care of myself (and my hair) have been some of the most influential parts of my twenties, and those lessons came because of my commitment to rest.

While all of the previous things mentioned have been great lessons that I will carry with me (although I reserve the right to change my mind), they haven’t been the only things I fully learned to appreciate.  My twenties taught me to fully find love within myself.  I think at the beginning I was waiting for Prince Eric to come and instill some sense of value and worthiness that I already intrinsically had. And because that’s what I thought I was supposed to have to feel whole and complete, there was a time I was willing to settle for the mediocre instead of waiting for the extraordinary.  But God.

Instead, I got to discover things about myself that I never would’ve known, like my preference for morning yoga or fondness for solo traveling.  And while I still appreciate a plan, sometimes the unexpected is better.  I was able to experience the possibility of being able to eat pasta twice a day, everyday and that running through a vineyard at dusk is much better than running on any pavement.  More deeply, I learned that my brokenness and the trauma that came with it is nothing to be ashamed of because the right person (or people) will love you anyway.

So, dear twenties, thank you for building me into this person who is constantly re-imagining, reinventing and rediscovering herself.

Thirties, you have rather large shoes to fill.

 

Other lessons from my twenties: a list

This list is not necessarily a practical list for living life, and comes from a position of immense privilege. 

• Every opportunity you get, go hunting with your dad.
• Your non-toxic family is more important than any other individual or group
• Eat the pasta
• Traveling is a privilege, so if you’re able to do so, adventure on!
• You won’t be everyone’s taste, so go ahead and say no to people who’ve already shown you their intentions that don’t align with yours.
• It is possible to eat ice cream whilst crying.
• Call your mom all the time.
• Don’t get a dog without first meeting that good boy or girl.
• Life is too short to eat shit food.
• Ask yourself, “Would a man apologize in this situation? If no, move on.”
• Shitting yourself isn’t as bad as it sounds.
• Get a therapist.
• Have sing-a-longs with your sister.
• Go hiking, drink the beer and come back down the mountain. You probably won’t die.
• Drink water, wear sunscreen and moisturize.
• Say no to things you know you don’t want to do, especially if it’s with people you don’t like very much.
• Be kind to your brothers.
• Contrary to popular belief, it is okay to quit.
• Order dessert first every once in a while.
• Advocate for yourself if you are able to. If you are not, it’s okay to ask someone else to help you.
• Write a love letter to yourself.
• Have older friends.
• Have younger friends.
• It’s okay to not know. It is not okay to not learn.
• If you’re going to insist on not having kids, be a good aunt.
• Don’t travel with all of your friends. Just meet them somewhere.
• Apologize when you’re wrong (unless you’re a Virgo, because you probably weren’t wrong).
• Be sincere when you apologize for hurting someone.
• Fuck boys aren’t always booty calls, sometimes they sit next to you in church.
• Pet all of the dogs, but if you can, get consent for the owners first.
• Take social media breaks often.
• If everyone has bought an equal amount of food and drinks, just split the check evenly.
• If they offer to check your carry on at the gate, do it! Especially if you have a connecting flight.
• Diversify your bookshelf.
• As long as they’re older than your brothers, it’s fine.
• Try local customs like topless sunbathing, you prude.
• Don’t feel pressured to not be a prude. Do you.
• People that maintain relationships despite distance are the real MVPs.
• Save when you can, but you can always make money (according to Babs).
• Take yourself out on a date. But if you’re in Florence, take yourself on an expensive date.
• If you really don’t want kids, double up on birth control methods
• Don’t get bangs.
• Love your natural hair (and learn to take care of those luscious curls).

A Protest in York: Observations of a perplexed American

I went to a protest on the 3^rd of June to stand in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement currently taking place back at home.  In the days leading up to the protest I had attended, I had been sharing resources and I had been taking part in conversations.  Having these conversations and sharing these resources was not a new activity for me.  I had been sharing articles, having conversations, and educating myself and others on how to be anti-racist for several years at this point.

It might be because I had continued to do what I had been doing, albeit at a more intense and frequent rate, that I just didn’t feel like I was doing enough.

Last time protests had taken place in the States, I was in Armenia where the only thing that I could do was help to get A.C.T. off the ground.  Now, I’m on the wrong continent, in the wrong city during a pandemic that is still very much present.  So, doing what I had been doing just didn’t seem enough, especially when I know people risking everything to protest in the U.S.  Donating to bail funds just didn’t seem enough either, mostly because as a student living on loans, I just don’t have that much money to give even though the rational part of me knows that every bit helps.

Then, it seemed like a miracle when someone shared a vigil event that would take place in York.  The protest was hosted by York Stand Up To Racism and Stand Up to Racism with the event details as follows:

Protests have rocked the US over the police killing of George Floyd. On Sunday night, over 2,000 people joined an online meeting in Britain with US activists from Minneapolis & New York, Diane Abbott MP, Claudia Webbe MP, justice campaigner Janet Alder, Bell Ribeiro-Addy MP, the National Education Union’s Daniel Kebede, Desmond Ziggy Mombeyarara (tasered by Manchester police), and Stand Up To Racism’s Weyman Bennett and Brian Richardson.

The meeting called for a day of action this Wednesday 3 June – involving socially distanced protests to show solidarity with those resisting racism in the US and against the policies that have led to massively disproportionate BAME deaths in the Covid19 pandemic in Britain.

Stand Up To Racism are calling for their groups to work with others to organise socially distanced events in every town and city – organised to make sure that the communities that we are fighting to defend are not endangered by the virus.

York Stand Up To Racism will be holding a socially distanced vigil in solidarity with all who want Justice for George Floyd and an end to police racism. Please come to tell Trump in the US and his disciple in the UK Boris Johnson: “No Justice, No Peace”.

*Please message this page if you would like to attend (this is so that we can plan for numbers and prepare a socially distanced space). Please also bring a face mask and hand sanitiser.*

#NoJusticeNoPeace #BlackLivesMatter

The vigil itself was nice.  Seeing people take a knee and be in solidarity with the events that happened in Minneapolis was a moving gesture.  However, the original point of the vigil didn’t just show solidarity with those resisting racism, but it was also to protest “against the policies that have led to massively disproportionate BAME deaths in the COVID-19 pandemic in Britain.”  Making that connection to British lives and British policies was important because I strongly believe that you can’t call on other countries to dismantle systemic racism without also calling out your own country to dismantle systemic racism.

Systemic racism is not just a U.S. issue, it’s a global issue.

Systemic racism is not just a U.S. issue, but it’s a British one as well.

Windrush.

Grenfell.

Jimmy Mubenga.

Rashan Charles.

Edson D Costa.

Sarah Reed.

Sheku Bayoh.

Of course, there are other names and other instances in which systemic racism has been an issue in the U.K., from the police force to the halls of academia, with normalization of racist name calling happening everywhere, including at primary schools.

I’m saying all of this, because the vigil I went to ended up turning into an impromptu march around the city, with a pause at the York Castle Museum steps, a climb up Clifford’s Tower for the fittest, and back to the Minster.  At these places, the purpose of the vigil seemed to get lost in the performative action of being in solidarity without actually understanding what that means.

The march wasn’t led by the organizers of the vigil, but just ended being something that happened, and it could’ve been great.  It could’ve been a moment for people to connect themselves with the racism that takes place in this country.  On the steps of York Castle Museum a moving moment of shouting “I can’t breathe” and “George Floyd” could’ve also highlighted the problems in this country.  Instead, it ended with a round of clapping.

Clapping for what?

That ended with a run up Clifford’s Tower, a building that was the place of a Jewish massacre, but again, a connection was not made.

More clapping happened.

When we got back to the Minster, someone read a list of names starting with George Floyd.  Many of the names read after that were American names; many of the things shouted reflected American protest problems: “No Rubber Bullets;” “Stop gassing us.”

Then it got really bizarre, albeit amusing, when someone picked up the mantle to shout “Trump hid in a bunker,” which led to a rousing chant of “Bunker Boy.”  It felt like a rally that was meant to be about anti-racism ended up being an anti-Trump protest, which I’m all for an anti-Trump protest and he is complicit in the racist acts that have taken place since his election, but Boris is also a known racist.

I wonder if the connection was not made because many of those who stayed were white.  Many of those shouting were white or white passing.  Not all, but many.  Which makes sense, since the North of England is lacking in the diversity that you might find in London.  Many are just now being introduced to anti-racist authors, but rather than looking at British authors who might have British examples, like Afua Hirsch or Reni Eddo-Lodge, they are reading authors like Angela Y. Davis or Michelle Alexander who offer very American examples.  And that’s not to say Davis or Alexander are irrelevant to the British experience, it is to stay, stop erasing the voices of those in the U.K. who have been doing anti-racist work for years to be in favor of far away and foreign voices as if the problem is somehow exclusive to the U.S.

It isn’t.

When I say do the work, it also means to do the work at home, too.

Lemon Trees

If I could be any tree, I would be a lemon tree.  They’re more practical than willow trees; they provide fruit that you can make really awesome things with—lemonade, lemon méringue pie, lemon drops, lemon cheesecake, sprite.  Lemons can soothe a sore throat, lighten your hair, and reinvigorate your skin.

I’d also be a lemon tree, because I’m sour as fuck.

Or I can be.

I definitely was during a good part of my service.

Before I went to Armenia and started my PC journey, I had all of these ideas of what I thought it was going to be like.  I thought I was going to make meaningful change, connect with people in my community in a way where I could help.  I thought I was going to make a difference.  I also thought that I would come out of the other side enlightened, brimming with stories and opportunities.

I do have stories: some are great and impart wisdom, some are funny, some are embarrassing, some are just great reminders of loving and being loved.  In some of those stories, I see where I made a difference.  I see whose lives I impacted, but I think the bigger take away is that I was impacted, too.

But, I was angry for a good part of my service.  Angry at people in my cohort, angry with people in my community, and angry at myself.  All for different reasons, but at the end of the day all of those reasons were linked.

I carried that anger with me, and it wasn’t until 6 months before my service ended that I let that anger go. 

All of it.

Well, most of it for sure. 

I stopped being angry at my community for not understanding that my purpose as a volunteer wasn’t to just write grants and get smart boards.  It was so that I could create sustainable resources and programs (and to teach, but I hated it), to connect and to represent the best parts of America—the land of democracy and opportunity.  I stopped being angry at the way the program was set up that kept me teaching in a formal classroom even when I wasn’t giving anything to it, or getting anything out of it.  I stopped being angry at the people that hurt me and that I felt hurt by.  I stopped being angry at myself for wasting two years, for allowing myself to get hurt, and for not rising above it.  I stopped being angry at myself for not being in love with teaching, for hurting other people during my service, for a whole manner of sins.

I just stopped being angry and I leaned into the rest of my service.

Don’t get me wrong, my anger did propel me into action.  It made me stay in Armenia even when I was ready to leave.  It aided in my resiliency, and kept me going even when I didn’t want to.  It empowered me to start clubs that centered on empowerment, to join in on things that I wanted to do despite whether anyone else wanted me to join in, or wanted to join me.  My anger kept me swinging so that I could get to a point where I didn’t need it to stay motivated.

And I did so many things throughout my service that are worth being proud of.  I am proud of my service, even though there were barriers, and hiccups, and winter.

I’ve said this before, and I will say it again, my service was mine. 

It was imperfect.

It was perfect. 

Before I realized this, I was set to start another service in Morocco.  I left Armenia thinking I could do it all over again.  That I owed it to myself to have a completely different kind of experience—one in which I could hit the reset button and start again.  But going to Morocco would’ve been a mistake…well, it would have been a mistake for the present.  I would’ve carried so much with me that Morocco didn’t deserve.  Not resentment, per se, but I would’ve tried to have it replace my service with Armenia.

And Armenia can’t be replaced.

Also, I needed time to sift through all of my feelings.  And damn, Armenia, you gave me a lot of feelings.

The week before I left, I had 2 pretty spectacular and very public break downs.  Neither of which I’m ashamed of, even though they left me feeling really surprised.  The first was during the Last Bell assembly, where we say goodbye to the seniors.  But it was also my Last Bell, too.

I did a speech.  In Armenian.  It was really good.

Which is way different than how my first speech went during my first First Bell—all I said was I’m happy to be here and good luck.  This time, I told my community how thankful I was for each of them.  They did welcome me, even when I didn’t always feel wanted.  They did love on me, even when I didn’t want their love.  I had a good director, but I had a really good counterpart, who dealt with me the best way she knew how.  She was more than a colleague, she became my friend.

And that’s when I had a very public cry.  But it was good.  Afterwards, people kept telling me how Armenian I was BECAUSE I was emotional. 

My second cry happened at the swearing in of the 26^th cohort.  I realized that for them, they were shiny and new.  They seemed so excited for the possibilities of everything they would be able to do for their communities (for themselves), and my time was over in trying to make an impact. 

I realized that I would need to go home, get a job, and continue my life.

And it scared me.

How do you go from having this type of experience to going back to ordinary?

I had a brief, very public cry, but I was lifted up by two really awesome women, who’ve found a way to continue giving back to Armenia in very tangible, life-changing ways.

Even though I’m still adjusting and sifting through my options, I find that I’m grateful.

I’m grateful for all of the late-night cyclical talks, the threats to leave, the cakes (so much cake).  I’m thankful for all of the times I skipped class, failed at projects I wanted to succeed, for all of the coffee and cups read.

I’m grateful for all of the tears, and the scars.  For the yoga and the movies and tea.  I’m thankful for my Robe, Dolma, and both my host families.  I’m thankful for the friends I made, the bridges burned that needed to be burned (on both sides), and all the desserts I learned to make.

AND ALL OF THE COWS, and memorable toilet experiences.

I’m thankful for this blog.  I don’t know what will become of The Brave Risk, but I hope it stays around for a little bit longer.  Thanks for being along for ride, and for hearing me, even when I didn’t want to be heard.

Now, on to the next adventure.

հաջողություն․

This is my last post as a Peace Corps Armenia Volunteer and it feels…anticlimactic.

Coming into this service, I had so many ideas of how this experience would shape me and the kind of impact that I would have on my community.  It turned out that those ideas were really more of expectations, and I came up short of that.

But, it would be a lie to say that I didn’t accomplish so many things.  It would be a lie to say that I didn’t do anything, even if there were times that it felt like that.  It would also be a lie to say that this experience didn’t impact me.

It did. 

This experience tested my resiliency, my nerve, and made me really think about the type of person I want to be.

I’m still sifting through all of my emotions about how I feel about leaving Surenavan and leaving Armenia.  I’m still sifting through my emotions about how I feel about my program and Peace Corps, and I’m sure in the coming months I will be able to articulate all of that.

But for now, I will leave it at հաջողություն․

DOS: Owning Your Service

I was working on my DOS the other day, and I felt really overwhelmed.  I thought back to a time during PST when we were forced to look at the DOS examples of two very exemplary volunteers.  At the time, I remember thinking that I could totally do all of the things these other volunteers had done, and then some.  Being the secret competitor that I am, I looked at their DOS statements as a challenge, rather than as an inspiration for what my service could look like.

In case you don’t know, a DOS is basically a summary of all of the things that you have done during your service—this means the projects you worked on and completed, the grants you wrote, and the opportunities you saw to make your community better.  Your DOS is a record that the Country Director and other members of staff can reference to when they talk about you to employers.  It is the thing that you put in your applications (especially for government jobs) that says, “look at me, I’m amazing.” 

But it isn’t the truth.  It’s not a lie, either.  It’s just a fragment of all of things that made your service what it was.

It doesn’t talk about the challenges you faced in your community.

It doesn’t say, “This is how I was resilient.  This is how I overcame.”

It definitely makes no mention of all of the traumatizing bathrooms incidents.

The DOS talks about all of the hours you taught (or didn’t teach) and all of the mandatory Peace Corps related conferences that you couldn’t get out of (and didn’t want to when it meant not going to school).  While the DOS really just focuses on all of the positive aspects of your service, it also ignores completely ordinary moments that made you stay. 

It doesn’t talk about your student in Fourth Form that always greets you with “What’s up?!” instead of “HELLO, HOW ARE YOU?”

It doesn’t even let you glimpse into all of the conversations that took place over coffee and cake.

It doesn’t allude to the cups you had read, or the moments when you actually understood what was going on.

In summation, your DOS isn’t your service.

And while my DOS definitely surpasses the DOS statements of those exemplary volunteers, it’s not a true reflection of what my service has been.  In my statement, you don’t see all of the clubs that failed to do anything more than start, or the times I had to walk out of class to keep myself sane.  It doesn’t show all of the deep conversations that took place with my CP over soup and tea.  It doesn’t even let you glimpse into moments that started off as uncomfortable, then morphed into something great.  It doesn’t even begin to cover all of the fears that were overcome, and all of the things I didn’t even know I was afraid of.  It definitely doesn’t talk about language.

While my DOS looks remarkably glossy compared to my actual service, and it definitely alludes to how ambitious and driven I really am, it doesn’t even come close to explaining how amazing, complicated, hard, overwhelming, ordinary, and extraordinary my service really has been to me.

It doesn’t even begin to explain that my service was mine.

Intermediate High

I had to take my final language assessment.

I was DREADING it.

If we can go back to PST (where the problems really began), we will remember that I was so excited about learning Armenian.  We can also remember that I was really hard on myself.  I felt like I had to get everything right away.  Not only did I have this pressure on myself, but my incredible host family also put this pressure on me.

The moment that I peaked in my language during PST was…embarrassing but TOTALLY needed.  Just as a reminder, Trainees get 4 hours of intensive language instruction from very capable Language and Cultural Facilitators (LCFs) 6 days a week.  On top of that, most Trainees live with host families where very little to no English is spoken (of course there are exceptions).  So, we were constantly immersed in language. 

Like my real family, my host family during PST was competitive, and they were constantly comparing and ranking the trainees in my community based on their language skills.  They talked to other villagers and got their input too.  Now, when you’re outside of that, then it all seems rather amusing.  But, while you’re in it, it’s actually really overwhelming.  One night, they wanted me to make this really difficult sound that I can’t differentiate from another really difficult sound.  Both sound like phlegm to me.  Every time I thought I was making the sound, I would get an impatient “tuh” and have to do it again.  The kids thought it was funny.  I thought it was cruel, even though I know that’s not what the intent was.  But I ended up walking out, that ended up with the WHOLE family following me and becoming really ashamed because they thought they offended me in some way that they didn’t understand.  I wasn’t offended, I was just so frustrated because I just couldn’t get it.  The whole fiasco ended up with uncontrollable tears, candy, and a walk around the village with my host family and a splotchy face and a snotty nose.

After that moment, my host family felt no need to maintain this intense pressure, and I felt no need to live up to their (or my own) expectations of language. 

AND THEN I WENT FOR MY SITE VISIT.

By the time of my site visit, I had expressed the fear of “what if my new host family doesn’t speak any English.”  My beautiful host mom and aunt looked at each other with a fleeting worrying look and said that they would.  They were sure of it.

Well, my host family here in Surenavan doesn’t speak English.  In fact, there are only 3 people in my community that I can have conversations in English with.  Of course, there are people who understand a couple of words and who have made attempts to engage with me in a combination of Armenian, Russian (I don’t speak that either), and the few English/French/German/Spanish words they may know.

After my site visit, I had my official Language Proficiency Index (LPI).  The LPI is a recorded interview where the interviewer asks you questions in Armenian, gives you a scenario to act out, and chats with you for 30 minutes.  The interviewer then provides notes on where you did well and what could be improved upon, and then you’re scored.  For PC Armenia, you have to come out of that first LPI with a Novice High at the very least.  You have to be able to form basic sentences.

I got nervous and completely forgot what “inchpes ek?” meant.  It’s the formal way to say “How are you?” People had stopped using that form with me, and I completely lost my cool. Needless to say, I came out of that LPI with an Intermediate Low, which further made me feel inadequate in my language ability.

To recap, I left PST feeling worse about language than I did going in.  And, it made going into my community with this arbitrary rating hanging over me seem impossible.

How could I possibly impact my school and community if I couldn’t even engage anyone in conversation?  I felt like a colonizer and a fraud; I didn’t want people to think that I was actively not trying to learn Armenian because I felt like English was the best language ever.

For the majority of my first year I didn’t have a tutor to work with, so I’ve had to take learning this language back into my own hands and make it work for me.  That’s looked like having coffee with other Armenians, watching television in Armenian with my Papik, pulling out the dictionary or google translate to look up words, reading newspapers, and copying down new words that I pick out of conversations.  It has meant asking my counterpart questions, interrupting conversations to ask what things mean, admitting not understanding something.

It has also really seen generosity play out in the part of people in my community.  It has meant store owners being patient with me as I look up words for things I don’t know (for the record, look up corn starch in Russian, and make sure there’s a Russian teacher around while you do this).  It has meant letting my younger students explain things to me without feeling embarrassed.  It has meant listening…a lot.

While I did manage to find a lovely tutor back in September, who I learned a lot from as far as why things are the way they are, most of my language learning has been forcing myself to lean into situations that are really uncomfortable.  It’s meant being confused (confusion is probably the true hallmark of my service), and asking for people to repeat themselves. 

It’s been being forgiving with myself—a lot. 

According to my third and final LPI score, I’m an Intermediate High.  But that means nothing to me.  I would say that my language is actually still…looking for opportunities to improve.  I’m not where I’d like to be, but I would say that learning this language has been rewarding and has made parts of my service richer for the struggle. 

Rather than giving up, or only seeking out English speakers, I have been given this really incredible experience to connect with other people within my community using the language that they call theirs. 

Grace

I do not at all understand the mystery of grace– only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us–Anne Lamott

I had this dress.

It was the perfect blue and orange and white maxi dress, with designs that very much were taken from another culture.  It had a ridiculous (and mostly useless) half-zip down the front of it.  There was a slit down the side of this dress—not long enough to be deemed “sexy,” but definitely functional in that I didn’t trip while walking (note to maxi buyers, the slit IS essential to your ability to walk).

I think about this dress from time to time, even though it’s no longer in my ownership.  This dress was cheap and honestly, a dime a dozen.  But it made me feel beautiful and me.

I only wore this dress once.  I wore it to a club that I’ve only gone into once, and all of the memories surrounding this dress brought so much shame.  It helped to change my own perception of what I thought I might deserve and from who.

It helped to define my service to me.

So, I gave the dress away.  Another girl fell in love with it, and felt that it was the perfect dress.  She even took pictures in this dress while on vacation.  She looked as happy as I think I may have looked when I bought that dress, even though the sight of it kind of makes me want to throw up.

Don’t worry, she knows what this dress symbolized for me.  But, it really was too good of a dress to throw away.

Maybe if the dress had been as basic as the outfit I was wearing during my second night of terror in Armenia, it would have been easier for me to let it go.  Instead, I kept it for almost a year, hidden away behind all of my other dresses (I really have too many clothes and I’m not entirely sure how).  Then, I gave it to someone who reflected my own brokenness—a part of me felt like both the dress and the girl deserved another chance at happiness.  At a more basic level, I was ready for the dress to be gone, but it wasn’t the dress’s fault so I couldn’t justify just throwing it away.

It’s just such a complicated thing, and for the people that are just unwilling or incapable of understanding this, it’s crazy.

It’s crazy that I wouldn’t throw it away.

It’s crazy that I gave it unceremoniously to someone else.

It’s crazy that I still think about this dress.

But here’s the lesson that I’ve taken away from this dress (and I’ve learned so many things—small and big—during my service here):

This dress is synonymous with grace for me.  If I can extend that grace to an inanimate object that has little to no intrinsic value, then I can extend it to living, breathing beings—I can extend it to those that have wronged me, I can extend it to those that aren’t even willing to come to terms with the parts they play in this ripple effect called life, I can extend it to those that I love, and I can extend it to myself.

Of course, all of this is easier said than done.  I still hold on to anger, and resentment, and letting the hurt go.  It’s a daily struggle, and it sucks.

And it sucks.

AND IT SUCKS.

But it is.

Overtime, that will go away.  Overtime, that has gone away.  Overtime, I have been able to look at myself and accept the woman in the mirror, for all of her faults, and insecurities, and mistakes.

A.C.T.

“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy” Martin Luther King Jr., “Strength to Love.”

 

There are things that I really hate talking about, things that make me uncomfortable, and that make me question the truths that I normally, so ardently believe.  Such truths that can shake me to my core include justice, equality, and simple human decency.

In the last year and seven months, I’ve been forced to come to the conclusion that there’s still so much work to be done.  I’m not naïve enough to just come to that conclusion, but I didn’t realize the magnitude of that work—particularly when it comes to race and diversity.  As I mentioned in Teachable Moments Part 1 and Teachable Moments Part 2, talking about race makes me uncomfortable.

In the states, I identify myself as a mixed woman.  I have to recognize both parts of me that make up the whole—the white side, and the black side; the English, and the American; the oppressor, and the oppressed.  They are both me.  In Armenia, I have to own my black side wholeheartedly, because it’s the first thing people in this homogenous nation see.  I have to fight back as best I can in the broken Armenian that I still struggle with that despite my appearance, I am American—I have to defend that American-ness, because to most of the people I meet, I cannot possibly be American.  I also have to fight back against the derogatory remarks, the exoticism that sometimes takes place over my blackness, or the ignorance that comes with just not knowing.

Some of that ignorance comes with people making derogatory comments, and then having those comments being defended because “they know not what they do.”  However, if you look at the history of the Soviet Union and how they viewed Black people in general, then you know that sentiment of ignorance cannot possibly be true in a post-Soviet country.  They know what they do, but they’ve never been challenged on their thoughts before.  They’ve never bothered to make the connection between their own oppression and the oppression of African Americans.

So, I’ve spent the last year and seven months trying to figure out how I can create opportunities to reconnect with my truth, and have a personal justice in a homogenous country.  Luckily for me, two powerful women of color saw the problem, and were confronted with more difficulties than I’ve been confronted in terms of race.  One of those women ended up going home—which is an undocumented trend for people of color who’ve served in Armenia, it’s not uncommon for us to go home, or face depression, or have our safety (mentally and physically) jeopardized.  Maya’s still here, and is the driving force of the project she’s included me in.

This project, African-Americans Changing Traditions (A.C.T.) is a two-fold initiative.  The first part is to be a support system for other African American Volunteers serving in Armenia, and the second part is to connect with HCNs to help educate them.  That second part has the hope that when a volunteer of color goes into their community, there is already a knowledge and expectation of what type of support they are going to need during their service from their community members, and what are some of the things that are acceptable and what isn’t.

By being part of A.C.T. and helping Maya build what will be an amazing volunteer-led, sustainable project, I am further placed in an uncomfortable seat.  We’re talking to organizations and trying to gain traction, and this year we’ve started our first of many discussion series with HCNs.

Granted, we’re working with a really amazing group of FLEX alum, who’ve had experiences in the United States.  Some have seen racism in the households and communities they were placed with, some were made aware of race while they were living in the U.S., all feel like this is an important subject, especially since being different in Armenia can be so challenging.  These FLEX alum are walking with us and learning, and challenging themselves, and are preparing to challenge the mindsets in their own communities, and I couldn’t be more excited to be in the foundation process.

I’m also excited to work with Maya in this—where she is confident in the barriers she is determined to break so that other Black volunteers don’t have to go through some of the situations we’ve gone through, I’m still trying to break out of the comfort zone.

I’ll get there, because I know that comfort and convenience is what’s holding me back in pursuing justice, and equality, and simple human decency.

Integrate to Wintegrate

At Staging, my cohort came up with a saying, “Integrate to Wintegrate.”  Granted, my cohort probably wasn’t the first to come up with this saying, and we probably won’t be the last, but we definitely felt clever. 

You see, it’s one of the goals of a Peace Corps Volunteer to integrate into his or her community of service.  We do this by learning the language and by developing relationships with our counterparts, organizations, host family, and community members.  However, there’s no real trick and no clear manual in place that makes it easier for volunteers to do that.  We’re told and reassured by other volunteers to learn the language, that makes it easier.  To have coffee with your counterparts all the time.  To be consistent.  And to learn names.

Honestly, I thought integrating was going to be so easy.  I don’t know why I thought this.  I find it difficult to learn languages because I can never remember vocabulary.  I find it hard to hang out all the time.  I also, don’t always have much to say (I mean, what am I supposed to say to “It’s hot”?).  However, I’m finding that integrating is much harder than it looks and doesn’t just happen overnight.

For a TEFL, I think we expect starting school and clubs to help that transition to belong to our communities, and in some ways that helps.  I’ve met so many parents who are less skeptical of my presence because my students have had good things to tell them about me.  Also, I’m finding that my students (especially my younger one’s) are much more generous with helping me to understand Armenian, making them much more patient with me as I stumble through sentences.  But me stumbling through my Armenian is also giving them confidence to stumble through English—and I think that in itself is great.

This time last year, if you had asked me to honestly answer the question “How well do you think you’re integrating,” I probably would’ve shrugged my shoulders.  I mean, I can point out members of my community and I can actually name a handful of students.  I can tell you some of the teachers who work in the school and where my director lives.  I could’ve also told you which khanuts have the freshest bread, and always have eggs. 

But other than that, I didn’t feel like I had any meaningful relationships with anyone else.  I was struggling to get to know my counterpart outside of the classroom and couldn’t figure out why our relationship wasn’t progressing in the way that I felt it was supposed to.  Sure, I got to know some of my students really well from club, but I never went to anyone else’s house my own age.  And I didn’t have that same relationship with my host family that I did with my host family from Mrgavan.  It was all very different and very difficult.

But now the story is different.  I have people around my community that I can go to for help, I have neighbors that makes sure to tell me when the water is on so my tank can get filled.  I have students that walk me home (which is fun some days).  I go to my counterpart’s house at least 3 times a week for dinner (sometimes less, depending on the circumstances), I go to coffee at other people’s houses and have meaningful conversations in my broken Armenian.  I have coffee with my Director at least 3 times a month.  These are real things that are happening, and it’s making being in my community that much easier. 

When things aren’t going the way I envisioned them going in my project, there are things happening that don’t necessarily make me feel like my time is being wasted.  There are other areas that I can pour myself into when I can’t do clubs or when I can’t work with my counterpart, and there are so many cups of coffee that need to be had.

While integrating into my community sometimes still feels like a work in progress, it doesn’t seem like a hopeless pursuit. 

See you later, Mema

I have been trying to think of the words that adequately describe the hurt my heart feels today, and there are just none.

But, to not say anything makes me feel like somehow my grandmother’s life and the impact that she had on me makes her insignificant, and she was anything but that.

She was a powerhouse, a force of nature.  She was bold and confident, and outspoken.  She had more sass and truth in her perfectly manicured pinky finger than I have in my whole being (which is certainly saying something).  She could walk into a room and automatically become its commander.  Now, the room that she commanded, the family that belonged to her is just there.

My grandmother, known to so many as Mema, was fighting a brave and hard fight with cancer.  She was diagnosed sometime in October—I don’t know, it seems like the timeline for everything was so sudden.  On Friday morning EST, my Mema’s battle came to a close.  

I’m still processing it.  I will still be processing how a seemingly immoveable force of nature could just be gone.  But to say that she lost, to say that we lost, is not indicative of who she was as a person, or of who we are as a family.  Giving up is not in our nature, and she exemplified that in this moment.

 

Betty “Mema” Easley Royal–she texted me this picture of herself as a student during my first year in Armenia.  We had just had a three hour phone conversation and this had somehow come up.

 

 

So, no, I’m not okay.  I am at a loss for what to do right now, but Mema would be so embarrassed if I had a public outburst like I want to right now.  That is not the way she would do things.  She would handle this time with grace, humility, and dignity.  She wouldn’t take this feeling as a weakness, but she’d use it to her advantage. 

Therefore, in that spirit, I will continue to move, to do the things that made her proud, to stand firm in my beliefs even if no one is standing with me, I will keep the faith.  I will be the force of nature that she taught us to be, even when it’s hard. 

I love and will always miss you, Mema.  But, it’s not good bye.  It’s see you later.