Case of Anxiousness

The sun was setting as I settled in to watch “Harry Potter” on my computer, winding down from a day of training, followed by my daily run. Lying underneath my mosquito net I heard my phone ringing over the sound of wizardry entering my ear drums via headphones.

When I receive calls from the United States the number never registers, it always says Unknown. But for the most part it is a safe bet to say the Unknown is my mother.

“Guess what?” she says.

I hope she isn’t about to toy with me; I hope her excitement is about my project and not something else, I think to myself, selfishly.

“I just searched your project online to text you update on how much is left to be raised and a notice came up saying the project is fully funded.”

Now I was sitting up, looking out the window at the fading sunlight and I just couldn’t believe it. Just last Friday there was $7,000 left to be raised. Surely this was not true, and when it turned out to be so, I just couldn’t believe I had actually done it. Well, I correct myself, that we had actually done it, because I certainly wasn’t working alone. I couldn’t believe that a little over $14,000 had been raised in a five month period.

The next few days after confirming the project was funded and telling people in my village the news, something other than total joy and happiness started creeping into my psyche. Anxiety …

I had been so focused on raising the money that it never occurred to me how I would feel when I actually started implementing the project. Oh god, I thought, people have entrusted me with $14,000!

I am as responsible as they come, and perhaps that is why I started worrying. I just knew I didn’t want to let anyone down. This project has to be completed as clear-cut and quickly as possible.

In a way it was like the fundraising process all over again—the stories and tales of volunteers biting off more than they could chew, and leaving without funding their project. Only this time, other voices came to mind—“I knew a volunteer whose school tried pocketing the money” and “You know you wouldn’t get it completed before six months.”

My brother made an astute observation during a Super Bowl a couple years back. One of the teams playing had gone the whole season undefeated, and for that reason many fans were not rooting for them. He said, “Why do people not want others to have success?”

It is a pattern I have noticed recently, this indirect, or in some cases direct way of putting out into the world that things just won’t work out. I fall into the trap from time to time, like the first two months of fundraising when I let the thought of failure remain a constant figure in the back of my mind.

Back then it was my own faith and that of my family that guided me through the negativity. Fortunately now it is my director, the accountant, and the contractor who give me confidence. They are all very competent and serious individuals, who only want what is best for the school. Like me they take full responsibility for the project, and while I and all of those who donated essentially did not want to let the school and village of Matéri down, these people here don’t want to let all of those who donated, and myself down.

Case of Anxiousness

The sun was setting as I settled in to watch “Harry Potter” on my computer, winding down from a day of training, followed by my daily run. Lying underneath my mosquito net I heard my phone ringing over the sound of wizardry entering my ear drums via headphones.

When I receive calls from the United States the number never registers, it always says Unknown. But for the most part it is a safe bet to say the Unknown is my mother.

“Guess what?” she says.

I hope she isn’t about to toy with me; I hope her excitement is about my project and not something else, I think to myself, selfishly.

“I just searched your project online to text you update on how much is left to be raised and a notice came up saying the project is fully funded.”

Now I was sitting up, looking out the window at the fading sunlight and I just couldn’t believe it. Just last Friday there was $7,000 left to be raised. Surely this was not true, and when it turned out to be so, I just couldn’t believe I had actually done it. Well, I correct myself, that we had actually done it, because I certainly wasn’t working alone. I couldn’t believe that a little over $14,000 had been raised in a five month period.

The next few days after confirming the project was funded and telling people in my village the news, something other than total joy and happiness started creeping into my psyche. Anxiety …

I had been so focused on raising the money that it never occurred to me how I would feel when I actually started implementing the project. Oh god, I thought, people have entrusted me with $14,000!

I am as responsible as they come, and perhaps that is why I started worrying. I just knew I didn’t want to let anyone down. This project has to be completed as clear-cut and quickly as possible.

In a way it was like the fundraising process all over again—the stories and tales of volunteers biting off more than they could chew, and leaving without funding their project. Only this time, other voices came to mind—“I knew a volunteer whose school tried pocketing the money” and “You know you wouldn’t get it completed before six months.”

My brother made an astute observation during a Super Bowl a couple years back. One of the teams playing had gone the whole season undefeated, and for that reason many fans were not rooting for them. He said, “Why do people not want others to have success?”

It is a pattern I have noticed recently, this indirect, or in some cases direct way of putting out into the world that things just won’t work out. I fall into the trap from time to time, like the first two months of fundraising when I let the thought of failure remain a constant figure in the back of my mind.

Back then it was my own faith and that of my family that guided me through the negativity. Fortunately now it is my director, the accountant, and the contractor who give me confidence. They are all very competent and serious individuals, who only want what is best for the school. Like me they take full responsibility for the project, and while I and all of those who donated essentially did not want to let the school and village of Matéri down, these people here don’t want to let all of those who donated, and myself down.

Rare Moments

I know before I tell this story it may be a bore in comparison to lions and waterfalls, but it is one of those stories that you can relate to because it is life in its simplest form.

One of my favorite moments in life was when I was maybe 12 or 13. My family was going to Chincoteague for the day. We did not take week long beach vacations in my family growing up, and while my mother I think believes this is why I find the need to travel now—to make up for lost time—I don’t think I’d want my childhood to be any different. Instead my family on occasion went to the beach for the day, occasionally camping somewhere overnight. So as we were driving to Chincoteague we were listening to Bob Marley’s Greatest Hits. And my favorite song, Buffalo Soldier came on, and me and my brothers sang the whole song together, with the windows down and the warm air blowing on our face. We all laughed afterward and it is a moment I have never forgotten. And try as I might with other songs, I have never been able to recapture that moment in quite the same way ever again.

Two nights ago as I sat with my sister playing cards, Presca was near by. I don’t normally call Presca my sister, and really calling her anything but her name would not be appropriate. Presca is not related to the family, and she has a cool if not slightly dangerous spirit. She knows enough to know she should be more apprehensive, but she is immature enough to not really try. She sings to herself, and has a giggle that is menacing to say the least. She doesn’t speak much French even though she goes to school everyday, where they speak French. She talks back sometimes and in general she acts like the definition of a crazy person.

So we are playing card, when my sister tells me to look at Presca. She is holding a tiny mirror that broke off god-knows-who’s moto, and has a razor in her hand. She is shaving her head. Now the girls her all have to keep their heads shaved for school, so this isn’t the crazy part of it. The crazy part is the razor. As I look closer and the light hits it right you can see she has cut her scalp. I cringe and I am worried for her. She could really hurt herself. When she sees my horrow, she of course laughs and keeps going. When my aunt comes in the concession she runs away. Like I said she knows enough sometimes to be worried of her actions. She returns and half her head is bald, and the parts that are shaved have chunks of hair attached. Finally a friend of the family comes in and rescues her.

Twenty minutes later, after applying medicine to her cuts, which give her white spots on her head, I still can’t help but laugh at Presca. Then Presca decides to take to mocking me when I yell at Beaugard. She assumes that hitting all animals is the best way to discipline, so my yelling no at Beaugard is of great amusement. Her impression is actually quite good, and I can’t help but laugh. All of us laugh, and I eventually take to mimicking Presca, who then mimics me making fun of her.

Like I said, I know this story isn’t amusing from an outsider, but it was one of those rare moments, like singing “Buffalo Soldier,” in the car with my brothers that could never be repeated. It is a moment that capsizes on the familiarity and bond you have with a group of people.