When I was in kindergarten I was put in time out for singing too loud. I still attest to this day that I had in fact diminished my volume when the teacher asked and was wrongly punished. I felt this injustice as a five year old. My reaction: to cry. I cried the rest of the day at school, on the bus ride home, on the walk back home, under the dining room table.
In third grade I decided to call a teacher a bitch. Unfortunately I have always had a habit of speaking too loudly and at the same time not paying attention to my surroundings. The teacher heard me say this and punished me swiftly. I admit now looking back that it was a very cruel thing for me to say. I deserved the punishment. Of course I hate being in trouble though. My reaction: to cry.
On more than one occasion through out elementary school and middle school I would receive a poor grade. Now to me this met anything less than an A. Once I earned the highest grade in the whole class on an assignment most people failed. It was a B-. My reaction: to cry.
As a sophomore in high school I was fu**ing up royally during a volleyball match and my coach rightfully took me out of the game. I was so mad with myself and knowing she was equally disappointed made me even more upset. I went to the end of the bench and cried. At the sight of this, needless to say, I sat the rest of the game. My reaction: to cry more.
In college I received a C- on a paper. I think that was the first C I had every received on any paper in college. I was a junior. I went to see the teacher and figure out what I did wrong. She ripped each sentence to shreds. My reaction: to cry. Don’t worry she didn’t change my grade and she ended up being one of my favorite professors.
When I worked at National Geographic I was under a great deal of stress, as I was finishing up school at the same time. I wrote something and of course it wasn’t perfect. I blame shear exhaustion and maybe an unhealthy habit to be perfect, but as my boss sat and edited it, as she would anything I wrote I could feel it coming. I cried.
Two days ago the vet came over. Beaugarde was not any better. He was worse. I hadn’t slept very much and I knew I was leaving on Friday for a week. Not that my neighbors aren’t capable of taking care of my dog. I know Beaugarde gets slightly sad when I am gone. He shows his discontent by being disobedient when I get back. At the same time I questioned whether my neighbors would really want to hold Beaugarde up to go to the bathroom or heat up water and create a make shift warm compress for his legs.
The vet is just as puzzled as I am. He says he will think about it and then come back tomorrow. Then he says if he doesn’t get better after that I can just give him away and get a new dog. He might as well have just picked the dog off and hand him over to the meat venders, because that is what would happen. Here they kill dogs and eat them, and surely Beaugarde is no exception. My reaction to all this: to cry.
Unfortunately, in all these years, while I know it is not in my best interest to cry over such silly things I have gotten away with it. But I guess it is someone’s idea of a good joke that I am now living in a country, where it is totally UNACCEPTABLE to cry, especially over a dog—again dogs are food to many people here.
I try to hide in my house so no one knows I am crying, but at the vets insistence on just getting a new dog, one that is better, I can’t help myself.
My Maman comes to lecture me about crying. Saying I need to have courage and that everyone gets sick and that Beaugarde will get better. Il faut avoir patience. Then she says she is mad at me for crying is she is going to leave if I don’t stop. This of course makes me worse; I hate for people I care about to be mad at me. My reaction: to cry.
I take a bucket-shower and come into my room where Beaugarde is sitting. I lie next to him and cry some more. I want to get it all out before I show my face to Benin again. As I cry, Beaugarde crawls over to me the best he can and starts licking my face. He has been getting better ever since.
Friday, February 19, 2010
My Dog is Sick: Part I
My house is on pause. I imagine this is what the home of someone whose husband is dying slowly of lung cancer and is laid up in a hospital looks like. I have floors that need to be cleaned, dust looms over everything—even sheets of paper need to be wiped down—and the floors are stained. It’s like I am waiting, like the woman with her husband, for the decision to finally come down so I can finally clean up and deal with the reality of it all. Of course there is always a glimmer of hope, represented in the ability to bring myself to wash the dishes.
It is as I have finished washing off a plastic plate in the green plastic basin and proceeding to clean it off once more in the clean water I have set aside in a clear bucket that I hear cries. I know he must be moving again, but leave the plate half submerged in water to make sure it is just that he has moved again, and not that he has gotten up, bumped into something and hurt himself.
I know I am like my mother—I say that with not the least bit of shame—and I did not need the separation of the Atlantic Ocean to discover this. However, this separation has led to a series of events that has shed new light, perhaps a small one to people with actual children, on what it’s like to be a mother.
It turns out Beaugarde did just shift again, but I feel it is my fault. He had fallen asleep under the illusion I was lying next to him, which originally had been the case. I had tried to fall asleep, having finished two books today in my dutiful stand-guard, and started a third. Restless though, I decided maybe I’d feel better if I bucket-showered and clean up the dishes.
Beaugarde start acting “strange” a week ago. I have been calling my mother on any inkling he might be sick. It is funny I worry more about the things that can happen to Beaugarde by living in Africa than I have ever considered for myself. I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong exactly.
“His eyes are bugging out,” I said.
“What you mean?”
“Like a cartoon character.”
Since Beaugarde was little he has laid out on the ground in refusal when going on walks. He was doing this same thing, but he was doing it just when we’d walk from my house to my neighbors. Then on Friday it became clear. Beaugarde could not see well, it progressed quickly. He is now blind.
“Il ne voi pas,” I say to my neighbors.
“Il ne voi pas?” They don’t believe me, so I have to show them how he stumbles around into things as evidence of his malady.
I call the vet when I get home from school. He administers an antibiotic. He tells me to put some stuff in his eyes and suggests maybe he ate something outside—I have not let Beaugarde roam the village in three weeks; I have seen everything he has eaten. He did not charge me for the shot; I thought maybe he knows my dog might not make it or maybe he just doesn’t have the slightest idea what to do and is taking a stab in the dark. Beaugarde does not get better. His stomach started convulsing and he did not sleep at all Friday night; neither did I. During the day it is drawn to my attention that he can’t walk very well and not just because he can’t see. He reminds me of a cat my parents had briefly, called Chance. He couldn’t use his back legs, they just dragged behind him. Beaugarde isn’t dragging his feet, but he is tumbling a lot and when he falls it is always with a slight whine and he looks around knowing how vulnerable he has become.
Today is Sunday. He received another shot today and they think he is getting better. I am not so sure. I am hopeful because he still is wagging his tail, but I feel so sorry for him. He is so helpless. I have to pick him up and take him to go to the bathroom. I set him down in his usual spot and he tries to pee and falls down. He stays lying down until I pick him up so he stops pissing on himself. I can’t help but laugh a little. It is less funny though that he is afraid to go poop. I can tell he needs to because he is crying a little. He knows he can’t hold himself up to do the deed, so I hold him up myself.
It is as I have finished washing off a plastic plate in the green plastic basin and proceeding to clean it off once more in the clean water I have set aside in a clear bucket that I hear cries. I know he must be moving again, but leave the plate half submerged in water to make sure it is just that he has moved again, and not that he has gotten up, bumped into something and hurt himself.
I know I am like my mother—I say that with not the least bit of shame—and I did not need the separation of the Atlantic Ocean to discover this. However, this separation has led to a series of events that has shed new light, perhaps a small one to people with actual children, on what it’s like to be a mother.
It turns out Beaugarde did just shift again, but I feel it is my fault. He had fallen asleep under the illusion I was lying next to him, which originally had been the case. I had tried to fall asleep, having finished two books today in my dutiful stand-guard, and started a third. Restless though, I decided maybe I’d feel better if I bucket-showered and clean up the dishes.
Beaugarde start acting “strange” a week ago. I have been calling my mother on any inkling he might be sick. It is funny I worry more about the things that can happen to Beaugarde by living in Africa than I have ever considered for myself. I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong exactly.
“His eyes are bugging out,” I said.
“What you mean?”
“Like a cartoon character.”
Since Beaugarde was little he has laid out on the ground in refusal when going on walks. He was doing this same thing, but he was doing it just when we’d walk from my house to my neighbors. Then on Friday it became clear. Beaugarde could not see well, it progressed quickly. He is now blind.
“Il ne voi pas,” I say to my neighbors.
“Il ne voi pas?” They don’t believe me, so I have to show them how he stumbles around into things as evidence of his malady.
I call the vet when I get home from school. He administers an antibiotic. He tells me to put some stuff in his eyes and suggests maybe he ate something outside—I have not let Beaugarde roam the village in three weeks; I have seen everything he has eaten. He did not charge me for the shot; I thought maybe he knows my dog might not make it or maybe he just doesn’t have the slightest idea what to do and is taking a stab in the dark. Beaugarde does not get better. His stomach started convulsing and he did not sleep at all Friday night; neither did I. During the day it is drawn to my attention that he can’t walk very well and not just because he can’t see. He reminds me of a cat my parents had briefly, called Chance. He couldn’t use his back legs, they just dragged behind him. Beaugarde isn’t dragging his feet, but he is tumbling a lot and when he falls it is always with a slight whine and he looks around knowing how vulnerable he has become.
Today is Sunday. He received another shot today and they think he is getting better. I am not so sure. I am hopeful because he still is wagging his tail, but I feel so sorry for him. He is so helpless. I have to pick him up and take him to go to the bathroom. I set him down in his usual spot and he tries to pee and falls down. He stays lying down until I pick him up so he stops pissing on himself. I can’t help but laugh a little. It is less funny though that he is afraid to go poop. I can tell he needs to because he is crying a little. He knows he can’t hold himself up to do the deed, so I hold him up myself.
Mix V – Premier Mix of 2010
Baby (Eat a Critter, Feel Its Wrath) by The Blow
Mango Pickle Down River by M.I.A.
Closer by Kings of Leon
C’mere by Interpol
1,2,3 Goodbye by Elvis Perkins
John Henry by U.S. Royalty
Blossom by Ryan Adams
Track 09 by Flying Machines
Heart in a Cage by Chris Thile
Cold Water by Damien Rice
Not Over Yet by Kevin Devine
How’s Forever Been Baby by Elvis Perkins
Mango Pickle Down River by M.I.A.
Closer by Kings of Leon
C’mere by Interpol
1,2,3 Goodbye by Elvis Perkins
John Henry by U.S. Royalty
Blossom by Ryan Adams
Track 09 by Flying Machines
Heart in a Cage by Chris Thile
Cold Water by Damien Rice
Not Over Yet by Kevin Devine
How’s Forever Been Baby by Elvis Perkins
Monday, February 8, 2010
My Moment of Serenity
It is Tuesday at 7 p.m. I am hiding out in my bedroom, sitting on the floor—its funny I used to panic about having furniture and now that I have it I prefer the floor. The fan is blowing on my face, and next to me is reminiscence of my moment of serenity—a Coca-Cola and an empty wrapper that once held vanilla cookies with chocolate cream filling.
I used to never drink sodas. The only time you saw me with a Coke for that matter was if it was accompanied by Captain, Jack, or Malibu. I used to not even care if my drinks were cold or warm. I actually didn’t really like super cold drinks. Now I think I very well may turn into my college roommate who would pile her glass full of ice—maybe in another life she lived in Africa. I have constant cravings for cold drinks and drink more sodas than ever before and now I know how Fanta stays in business.
I never had a sweet tooth. I was always more a bread and potato chips kind of snacker. Everything here is like a carbohydrate, and salt and piment are the soul ingredients for flavor along with Maggi cubes, which are like bouyon cubes you use in soup. Last week though, at 10 p.m. one night, I sat on the floor licking the wrapper of a giant hershey’s bar. The bar had melted in transit, so I cut a small hole and sucked the chocolate out like it was one of those yogurt on the go things you can buy in the States. I had planned on saving the chocolate to make cookies, but couldn’t control myself.
So here I am six months into service and my moment of serenity is a soda and a small package of heavenly sweetness. I can not discern where these “Cream 4 Fun” cookies are manufactured. The box has English on it, but the cookies are labeled biscuits, which is the French word for cookie. Then the name of the company is Dukes, which sounds like some company in the Deep South, but the Web site name has India in it. I’d say these cookies are just as confused about things as I am.
And why am I hiding while I do this? Well because the cookies were expensive—by expensive I mean they are the equivalent of a dollar—and last time I bought them I didn’t get many because I shared them all. As for the Coke, normally when I buy a cold drink I get something for my Maman, but I wanted to sit and indulge myself. The fan, well that was just added for effect.
I used to never drink sodas. The only time you saw me with a Coke for that matter was if it was accompanied by Captain, Jack, or Malibu. I used to not even care if my drinks were cold or warm. I actually didn’t really like super cold drinks. Now I think I very well may turn into my college roommate who would pile her glass full of ice—maybe in another life she lived in Africa. I have constant cravings for cold drinks and drink more sodas than ever before and now I know how Fanta stays in business.
I never had a sweet tooth. I was always more a bread and potato chips kind of snacker. Everything here is like a carbohydrate, and salt and piment are the soul ingredients for flavor along with Maggi cubes, which are like bouyon cubes you use in soup. Last week though, at 10 p.m. one night, I sat on the floor licking the wrapper of a giant hershey’s bar. The bar had melted in transit, so I cut a small hole and sucked the chocolate out like it was one of those yogurt on the go things you can buy in the States. I had planned on saving the chocolate to make cookies, but couldn’t control myself.
So here I am six months into service and my moment of serenity is a soda and a small package of heavenly sweetness. I can not discern where these “Cream 4 Fun” cookies are manufactured. The box has English on it, but the cookies are labeled biscuits, which is the French word for cookie. Then the name of the company is Dukes, which sounds like some company in the Deep South, but the Web site name has India in it. I’d say these cookies are just as confused about things as I am.
And why am I hiding while I do this? Well because the cookies were expensive—by expensive I mean they are the equivalent of a dollar—and last time I bought them I didn’t get many because I shared them all. As for the Coke, normally when I buy a cold drink I get something for my Maman, but I wanted to sit and indulge myself. The fan, well that was just added for effect.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Dream a Little Dream
“Every volunteer comes into service and wants to do a building project,” another volunteer said. I was asking her about her experience with a construction project. The thing is when I joined Peace Corps, I wasn’t thinking about doing such a project. My dreams were on a smaller scale, starting a volleyball team, or writing a community newsletter.
Venturing into the world of PCPP (Peace Corps Partnership Program) only started when at a training session in November we were advised on the importance on doing things the community needed, not just what we think they wanted. “Each school has a development plan,” our assistant program country director told us, “So see what the school’s needs are first.”
My school’s director handed me a piece of paper with eight things listed—this was their development plan. I looked over the list and was disappointed. Most of the needs listed were not something that could be done easily. At the top of the list was “classrooms.”
I knew classroom space was an issue, as I have had to chase classes out my room many times, but didn’t realize just how short our school was on space: 33 classes, most with at least 70 students, one with nearly 100, and only 22 classrooms. It is a big enough obstacle students can’t stay for entire class periods because there isn’t electricity, or they can’t read the board because of its poor condition or from sun glare, or there aren’t enough books, if any at all.
It wasn’t until I was pedaling my bike home the day I received the development plan that I thought maybe I could help build a school building. I informed my director of my interest and gave him the responsibility of putting together a budget. I also ask that the school try to contribute 35%, not just the 25% that Peace Corps requires.
“Here is the budget,” says my director handing over a neatly typed document, detailed with amounts and prices. It is all in French. I can’t even remember how much I should pay for tomatoes at market, let alone the cost of a school building. I relied on my Maman to give me some insight. “C’est trop cher,” she said, “That is too expensive.”
My heart sank, not because I was worried I couldn’t raise the money, but because I had trusted my director to give me a good pricing on the project. Instead of getting mad at the idea that perhaps my director was taking advantage of the situation, I opened up my French-English dictionary and set to decoding the budget and blueprint.
Things have to be handled correctly here in Benin, or an opportunity will be lost to do something great. Respect is important and remaining calm equally so. I was nervous, but confident in my ability to discuss the budget with my director. I had calculated a price I thought was more reasonable, and would help the community meet my pre-conceived goal of 35%. I knew I couldn’t be pushy.
“Is it possible to negotiate the price down,” I said in a quiet, calm tone.
“Of course.”
“I want to do it for 10,000,000 CFA,” I aimed lower than what I actually wanted, which was closer to 11,000,000 CFA, “with the school still giving 4,000,000 CFA.”
“We can just make it two classrooms,” my director started in. I remained calm. I knew from my translation of blueprints there was no reason to jump to changing the project so quickly.
“Je voudrais faire le batiment avec trois salle,” I said, I would like to make a building with three classrooms.
He wasn’t budging on the issue, but he wasn’t being ornery either. I kept on.
“We can make it more simple; no terrace and make the windows different, have one blackboard, instead of two in each classroom.”
The director finally resolved to call the contractor; it was the only way to get a real answer—maybe my director has a hard time remember the prices of tomatoes at market too. The director didn’t give the contractor a price, just asked how low the price could go.
I knew when my director’s eyes lit up that we had received a better price. I was glad I had not given in easily.
“That is what we wanted.”
“10,500,000” he said, after hanging up the phone.
“Je suis contente. Je suis contente.” I am happy. I am happy.
Wednesday night was a major victory for me, but really only I could understand just how major it was. I was able to talk with my director, as a female, and negotiate my preconceived desire price, all in French. I did not compromise my reputation in my village, and furthermore I knew that when I asked for help from my family and friends back home, I wouldn’t be compromising my reputation with them either.
Venturing into the world of PCPP (Peace Corps Partnership Program) only started when at a training session in November we were advised on the importance on doing things the community needed, not just what we think they wanted. “Each school has a development plan,” our assistant program country director told us, “So see what the school’s needs are first.”
My school’s director handed me a piece of paper with eight things listed—this was their development plan. I looked over the list and was disappointed. Most of the needs listed were not something that could be done easily. At the top of the list was “classrooms.”
I knew classroom space was an issue, as I have had to chase classes out my room many times, but didn’t realize just how short our school was on space: 33 classes, most with at least 70 students, one with nearly 100, and only 22 classrooms. It is a big enough obstacle students can’t stay for entire class periods because there isn’t electricity, or they can’t read the board because of its poor condition or from sun glare, or there aren’t enough books, if any at all.
It wasn’t until I was pedaling my bike home the day I received the development plan that I thought maybe I could help build a school building. I informed my director of my interest and gave him the responsibility of putting together a budget. I also ask that the school try to contribute 35%, not just the 25% that Peace Corps requires.
“Here is the budget,” says my director handing over a neatly typed document, detailed with amounts and prices. It is all in French. I can’t even remember how much I should pay for tomatoes at market, let alone the cost of a school building. I relied on my Maman to give me some insight. “C’est trop cher,” she said, “That is too expensive.”
My heart sank, not because I was worried I couldn’t raise the money, but because I had trusted my director to give me a good pricing on the project. Instead of getting mad at the idea that perhaps my director was taking advantage of the situation, I opened up my French-English dictionary and set to decoding the budget and blueprint.
Things have to be handled correctly here in Benin, or an opportunity will be lost to do something great. Respect is important and remaining calm equally so. I was nervous, but confident in my ability to discuss the budget with my director. I had calculated a price I thought was more reasonable, and would help the community meet my pre-conceived goal of 35%. I knew I couldn’t be pushy.
“Is it possible to negotiate the price down,” I said in a quiet, calm tone.
“Of course.”
“I want to do it for 10,000,000 CFA,” I aimed lower than what I actually wanted, which was closer to 11,000,000 CFA, “with the school still giving 4,000,000 CFA.”
“We can just make it two classrooms,” my director started in. I remained calm. I knew from my translation of blueprints there was no reason to jump to changing the project so quickly.
“Je voudrais faire le batiment avec trois salle,” I said, I would like to make a building with three classrooms.
He wasn’t budging on the issue, but he wasn’t being ornery either. I kept on.
“We can make it more simple; no terrace and make the windows different, have one blackboard, instead of two in each classroom.”
The director finally resolved to call the contractor; it was the only way to get a real answer—maybe my director has a hard time remember the prices of tomatoes at market too. The director didn’t give the contractor a price, just asked how low the price could go.
I knew when my director’s eyes lit up that we had received a better price. I was glad I had not given in easily.
“That is what we wanted.”
“10,500,000” he said, after hanging up the phone.
“Je suis contente. Je suis contente.” I am happy. I am happy.
Wednesday night was a major victory for me, but really only I could understand just how major it was. I was able to talk with my director, as a female, and negotiate my preconceived desire price, all in French. I did not compromise my reputation in my village, and furthermore I knew that when I asked for help from my family and friends back home, I wouldn’t be compromising my reputation with them either.
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