This week my 8th grade students were asked to write a response to this question: If you were speaking at your graduation on May 21st, what would you say to your teachers, classmates, and family? Here is the response from one of my more colorful male students:
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I would first say thanks to God for helping me, that now I’m graduated. I believe he help me through kintergarden to 8th grade. Thanks from my heart to my family, that the pain of their back helped me to stand here. My special thanks to all my teachers and friends, who helped me, teach me, and be there for me. Sorry for the hard times I gave you, but I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. Everyday I come to school, I wonder if I would even graduate! Well thank you God! It is important to look to our past, to once again gain or feel the experiences that we faced. Day by day is an adventure to. Set out to discover that something waiting for. Now I use it. Always will. Don’t be sad my fellow graduates, because this is the day we’ve been hoping to get to it. We will need what we learned in this school. It is true because we are journeying to another milestone. I wish that one day we will make history, that Chuukese were the first to step on Saturn.”
My students will be graduating in three weeks. Tomorrow is their last day of classes.
I tell them that I am graduating with them.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
"Fiin Chuuk" - Chuukese Woman
In addition to my teaching job at St. Cecilia, this year I have also been fortunate to work with the Chuuk Women’s Council. The CWC is an umbrella organization of all of the women’s groups in the state of Chuuk. It has about 400 members and seeks to promote female leadership, organize and mobilize women on health issues, environmentalism, and small business endeavors. I was introduced to Kiki, the president of the organization, in the beginning of this school year and ever since I have been coming back to meet with the women, learn about what they are doing, and help out any way that I can. This usually takes the form of writing grant proposals, which I have absolutely no experience in. It has been a learn-by-doing process for sure. Even through I do the physical typing for our proposals, all the ideas and projects come from the women. Usually my meetings with Kiki involve me sitting at a computer and her dictating her ideas while looking over my shoulder and correcting my spelling. This work has finally been the partnership with the local community that I was hoping for in coming to Micronesia. Using something that I know how to do- speak English and use a computer- to provide some sort of conduit for the women I work with to put into practice their own ideas and agendas. It provides a welcome break from teaching, where I am always asked to be in a leadership position, enforcing the type of education I received as an American, which does not always match up here. Working with the Women’s Council I can be a partner, not strictly a leader.
Kiki is exceptionally motivated and has great ideas that will assist the development of Chuuk, especially with regard to the role of women. Through our work, Kiki and I have developed what has become a very important relationship for me. She relates to me in a mothering way. Her own three children are around my age. She makes sure I eat and always drives me home without my having to ask for a ride. Over meals we talk about her own life growing up in Chuuk. Her mother, who just passed away this January, was a nurse and also the founder of the CWC. When my mother and brother arrived last month to visit me, she and her husband invited us all out for a meal with them.
Our most recent project proposal has been the most exciting and stimulating for me thus far. We are currently creating a project that will confront gender-based violence in the forms of domestic and sexual violence on Weno. These forms of violence are believed to be pervasive throughout the state of Chuuk. Part of the project will include administering a survey to families regarding their experience of violence, so that we might have more concrete evidence. I have been meeting with the leaders of the CWC this week to discuss our course of action; listening to their discussions fascinates me.
This past Monday night I found myself in the midst of a lively conversation with the four leaders of the CWC, regarding the violence that disproportionately affects women here, and what the Women’s Council can do to confront the issue. At one point as they are all talking and interrupting one another, I behind my computer recording, Kiki stops the conversation and looks at me and says, “Cait-leen, what is domestic violence?” To me this demonstrated exactly what the project now seeks to deal with- a lack of a social definition of what constitutes domestic violence and sexual assault. The women’s council members know that there is violence in the homes of many, some even say most here. What to call this violence, how to challenge it, and recognizing it as an infringement of human rights is what we are now working on.
Here is what I have learned after doing some research and participating in meetings on this topic. One research organization in one study reports that at least half of Micronesian women are hit buy there husbands. When talking to a priest who has been living and working in Micronesia for decades, he informed me that he has witnessed a number of brutal killings of wives by their husbands over the past years. Legally, sexual assault and physical assault are condoned between husband and wife. The actual wording of the law defines assault as occurring between non-married persons. Raping your wife is not a crime. Age of consent for sexual activity in Chuuk state is 13 years old. This, for example, makes it within the law for a 40 year old to have sexual relations with a 14 year old child.
In this project the women hope to primarily focus on education, to inform the public on what constitutes sexual harassment and other acts within the spectrum of abuse. No health curriculum exists in the majority of the schools and many consider sex completely taboo to speak about in public, especially in front of both boys and girls together. Therefore we see the education aspect as essential. Simultaneously the women’s council hopes to train its own members to act as advocates for women who have experienced violence and support them in seeking medical treatment and going through the legal process. The project also intends on creating new legislation to strengthen current law regarding sexual and domestic violence.
This plan exists now as just a proposal to the UN in hopes that they fund it. My role requires synthesizing all of the information we have gathered and the plans of the council into a succinct proposal. Sitting in these meetings I have realized that this is where I want to be, and these are the issues I want to focus on. I feel grateful to have the opportunity to put to use skills of my own, to work in partnership, and to confront discrimination against women.
Kiki is exceptionally motivated and has great ideas that will assist the development of Chuuk, especially with regard to the role of women. Through our work, Kiki and I have developed what has become a very important relationship for me. She relates to me in a mothering way. Her own three children are around my age. She makes sure I eat and always drives me home without my having to ask for a ride. Over meals we talk about her own life growing up in Chuuk. Her mother, who just passed away this January, was a nurse and also the founder of the CWC. When my mother and brother arrived last month to visit me, she and her husband invited us all out for a meal with them.
Our most recent project proposal has been the most exciting and stimulating for me thus far. We are currently creating a project that will confront gender-based violence in the forms of domestic and sexual violence on Weno. These forms of violence are believed to be pervasive throughout the state of Chuuk. Part of the project will include administering a survey to families regarding their experience of violence, so that we might have more concrete evidence. I have been meeting with the leaders of the CWC this week to discuss our course of action; listening to their discussions fascinates me.
This past Monday night I found myself in the midst of a lively conversation with the four leaders of the CWC, regarding the violence that disproportionately affects women here, and what the Women’s Council can do to confront the issue. At one point as they are all talking and interrupting one another, I behind my computer recording, Kiki stops the conversation and looks at me and says, “Cait-leen, what is domestic violence?” To me this demonstrated exactly what the project now seeks to deal with- a lack of a social definition of what constitutes domestic violence and sexual assault. The women’s council members know that there is violence in the homes of many, some even say most here. What to call this violence, how to challenge it, and recognizing it as an infringement of human rights is what we are now working on.
Here is what I have learned after doing some research and participating in meetings on this topic. One research organization in one study reports that at least half of Micronesian women are hit buy there husbands. When talking to a priest who has been living and working in Micronesia for decades, he informed me that he has witnessed a number of brutal killings of wives by their husbands over the past years. Legally, sexual assault and physical assault are condoned between husband and wife. The actual wording of the law defines assault as occurring between non-married persons. Raping your wife is not a crime. Age of consent for sexual activity in Chuuk state is 13 years old. This, for example, makes it within the law for a 40 year old to have sexual relations with a 14 year old child.
In this project the women hope to primarily focus on education, to inform the public on what constitutes sexual harassment and other acts within the spectrum of abuse. No health curriculum exists in the majority of the schools and many consider sex completely taboo to speak about in public, especially in front of both boys and girls together. Therefore we see the education aspect as essential. Simultaneously the women’s council hopes to train its own members to act as advocates for women who have experienced violence and support them in seeking medical treatment and going through the legal process. The project also intends on creating new legislation to strengthen current law regarding sexual and domestic violence.
This plan exists now as just a proposal to the UN in hopes that they fund it. My role requires synthesizing all of the information we have gathered and the plans of the council into a succinct proposal. Sitting in these meetings I have realized that this is where I want to be, and these are the issues I want to focus on. I feel grateful to have the opportunity to put to use skills of my own, to work in partnership, and to confront discrimination against women.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
running in a skirt
St. Cecilia had its track and field days this week. Two days of too much sun and a lot of small children running. It’s always an exciting time for the students. The staff and students divide up the school into 4 color teams: red, yellow, blue, and green, and compete against each other in sprinting, relays, tug o war, etc.
For me, track and field brings to light some experiences in Chuuk that, after being here so long, now seem like I grew up with them. For example:
1-At sporting events mothers of participants often dance outrageously in front of the crowd to express support or approval for their kids. This is often cheered on by the team.
2-All children run barefoot.
3-Girls run in skirts, sometimes two skirts, with shorts underneath.
4-Adults wear long sleeves in tropical weather, use towels, pieces of fabric, and cardboard to shield them from the intense sun.
5-Everyone and everything is covered in mud. No one complains.
Track and Field included all these things for us this year and it felt familiar. So did the expectation for me and all women to constantly wear a skirt. Chuukese women are always expected to wear skirts- sleeping, swimming, running, cleaning- it all happens in a skirt. For me, this expectation physically represents a more pervasive limited mobility of women here.
I wear a skirt every day. I can wear shorts inside my apartment but if I am going outside, even if it is only to the store, I put a skirt on. Last year for track and field I remember asking the some Chuukese faculty if I could wear shorts. “Oh yes, Cait-leen, you can wear them under your skirt.”
So again this year for track and field I anticipated my skirt over shorts wardrobe. When it came time for the staff relay I joined by co-workers, kicked off my sandals, and ran barefoot in a skirt with the rest of them.
For me, track and field brings to light some experiences in Chuuk that, after being here so long, now seem like I grew up with them. For example:
1-At sporting events mothers of participants often dance outrageously in front of the crowd to express support or approval for their kids. This is often cheered on by the team.
2-All children run barefoot.
3-Girls run in skirts, sometimes two skirts, with shorts underneath.
4-Adults wear long sleeves in tropical weather, use towels, pieces of fabric, and cardboard to shield them from the intense sun.
5-Everyone and everything is covered in mud. No one complains.
Track and Field included all these things for us this year and it felt familiar. So did the expectation for me and all women to constantly wear a skirt. Chuukese women are always expected to wear skirts- sleeping, swimming, running, cleaning- it all happens in a skirt. For me, this expectation physically represents a more pervasive limited mobility of women here.
I wear a skirt every day. I can wear shorts inside my apartment but if I am going outside, even if it is only to the store, I put a skirt on. Last year for track and field I remember asking the some Chuukese faculty if I could wear shorts. “Oh yes, Cait-leen, you can wear them under your skirt.”
So again this year for track and field I anticipated my skirt over shorts wardrobe. When it came time for the staff relay I joined by co-workers, kicked off my sandals, and ran barefoot in a skirt with the rest of them.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Going Blue in Chuuk
Having lived in Micronesia for the past year and a half, experiencing the U.S. elections has proved to be quite a contrast to what it would have been like had I been living at home. Following the news always requires creativity. We are always behind. Chuuk does not get any television stations, so I have never heard Obama or Biden’s voice. It took months to discover that Palin pronounces her name Pay-lin, not Pah-lin. Occasionally we receive news magazines and get to reading them at least a month after they have been published. Usually I get my information relayed through other volunteers who devote precious internet time to news websites. Conversations among the volunteers often address politics and social issues, however, we’re so far removed from the U.S. and so invested in the occurrences on our small island that often our efforts to stay on top of the news seem laughable.
In October I found myself on a reef island no bigger than the White House itself. Lounging in the turquoise water, separated by miles of water from land that has electricity or any means of accessing the rest of the world, my roommates discuss Obama and McCain. We check with each other if we have received our absentee ballots yet, and plan to visit the post office soon. We are in the most isolated place I have ever been in the world, yet we long to be connected, informed.
In November, we contact friends and family to route a mode of communication in order to get the Election Day news as fast as possible. Fifteen hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time, I awaited the election results a full day after the election. From our calculations we expected that the message would get to Chuuk by about 3pm on November 5th. Jessie and Matt kept the phone lines open in case we got a call, and conserved laptop battery so we could check online even if there was no electricity.
We plan that Jessie will call me at work as soon as they find out who won. But by 2:50pm I am at work at St. Cecilia, about to go into my next class and so anxious that I call home just in case they’ve gotten the news. I use the only phone line we have at St. Cecilia and call our apartment. It’s Jessie, she’s yelling and laughing and thrilled with our country’s decision. I deliver my own excitement back, screeching into the phone. I walk outside the office bursting to share the news when I am hit with the realization that I am in a place with no other Americans. No one else will share my interest or enthusiasm. A very lonely and alienated feeling crept into my conscience as I realized just how far away I was from my home on a day America made history.
Still, I excitedly explained to my co-teachers sitting on the rickety benches outside the office that my country had elected a new leader. Some had heard of Obama, some had not. For the next hours to come all I focused on was the commute home and meeting my fellow volunteers to revel in the news. I am greeted at Saramen by Chuukese high school students shaking my hand and offering congratulations. Jessie and Matt had evidently been keeping their students informed of the day’s progress as well. Jessie has hung a huge white sheet from the second floor balcony that read, “President Obama Waiioooo,” a Chuukese exclamation. In our apartment, Peace Corps volunteers and JVs poured in, as an impromptu celebration began. We know that we are far away, but we are aware that something exceptional has occurred.
That evening, after we had gotten the election news, we did not have electricity on Weno. Yet 15 or so Americas sat in our apartment by lantern-light sharing new expectations and hope. We gathered together, sitting on the floor to listen to our friend Alex read Obama’s acceptance speech aloud, which we had used much of our dial-up internet time to download. As our fellow volunteer read Obama’s words, we listened, gripped with utmost attentiveness. We sang and danced for the rest of the night.
Having witnessed an election year from abroad I have been afforded a very different perspective on the American presidency. Through spending significant time outside my home country I have observed how much the U.S. affects the international community through its decisions. The privilege of voting in this election further drives my belief in the necessity of understanding the world outside of America. On election night in Chuuk many of us wished we could be back home celebrating on American pavement. But I was grateful to watch the world from here.
In October I found myself on a reef island no bigger than the White House itself. Lounging in the turquoise water, separated by miles of water from land that has electricity or any means of accessing the rest of the world, my roommates discuss Obama and McCain. We check with each other if we have received our absentee ballots yet, and plan to visit the post office soon. We are in the most isolated place I have ever been in the world, yet we long to be connected, informed.
In November, we contact friends and family to route a mode of communication in order to get the Election Day news as fast as possible. Fifteen hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time, I awaited the election results a full day after the election. From our calculations we expected that the message would get to Chuuk by about 3pm on November 5th. Jessie and Matt kept the phone lines open in case we got a call, and conserved laptop battery so we could check online even if there was no electricity.
We plan that Jessie will call me at work as soon as they find out who won. But by 2:50pm I am at work at St. Cecilia, about to go into my next class and so anxious that I call home just in case they’ve gotten the news. I use the only phone line we have at St. Cecilia and call our apartment. It’s Jessie, she’s yelling and laughing and thrilled with our country’s decision. I deliver my own excitement back, screeching into the phone. I walk outside the office bursting to share the news when I am hit with the realization that I am in a place with no other Americans. No one else will share my interest or enthusiasm. A very lonely and alienated feeling crept into my conscience as I realized just how far away I was from my home on a day America made history.
Still, I excitedly explained to my co-teachers sitting on the rickety benches outside the office that my country had elected a new leader. Some had heard of Obama, some had not. For the next hours to come all I focused on was the commute home and meeting my fellow volunteers to revel in the news. I am greeted at Saramen by Chuukese high school students shaking my hand and offering congratulations. Jessie and Matt had evidently been keeping their students informed of the day’s progress as well. Jessie has hung a huge white sheet from the second floor balcony that read, “President Obama Waiioooo,” a Chuukese exclamation. In our apartment, Peace Corps volunteers and JVs poured in, as an impromptu celebration began. We know that we are far away, but we are aware that something exceptional has occurred.
That evening, after we had gotten the election news, we did not have electricity on Weno. Yet 15 or so Americas sat in our apartment by lantern-light sharing new expectations and hope. We gathered together, sitting on the floor to listen to our friend Alex read Obama’s acceptance speech aloud, which we had used much of our dial-up internet time to download. As our fellow volunteer read Obama’s words, we listened, gripped with utmost attentiveness. We sang and danced for the rest of the night.
Having witnessed an election year from abroad I have been afforded a very different perspective on the American presidency. Through spending significant time outside my home country I have observed how much the U.S. affects the international community through its decisions. The privilege of voting in this election further drives my belief in the necessity of understanding the world outside of America. On election night in Chuuk many of us wished we could be back home celebrating on American pavement. But I was grateful to watch the world from here.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Tidal Wave Day
Last Wednesday was a regular day at St. Cecilia School. The only part of the day that would have been out of the ordinary was my plan to leave work after lunch in order to make it to the bank downtown with Jessie to take out money for the JVs. I had made it to my 5th period English class with the seventh graders just before lunch when Kaspar, our principal, gets on the megaphone outside, leading all of my students to abruptly disregard my teaching and run to the windows to look survey the scene. Kaspar announces that he has just received urgent information about a tidal wave headed to Chuuk, scheduled to hit the lagoon at 2 pm. It was then 12:30. The police officers had been riding around the road in order to announce this with megaphones from the back of their truck. We were to dismiss and evacuate the campus. No students were allowed to walk down to the road, which is on lower ground and right next to the ocean, until their parents arrived to get them.
Immediately after the completion of the principal’s announcement, the school erupted into panic. I quickly ran next door to talk to Sr. Sophie in 6th grade to confirm what I had heard. Lachlan, who was teaching on the other side of my room, and I tried our best to control and calm our 7th graders. I tried to relay the message of the expected protocol, and ask them to calmly pack up their bags, but was acknowledged by very few of the frantic kids. It was clear that I actually had very little control over what was now happening in the classroom. Students began running in all directions, yelling, “We’re gonna die!”
I myself was at first completely skeptical. A tidal wave? Really? I thought we were protected from tidal waves by the reef. My apartment can’t be more than 200 yards from the ocean, will it survive? If a tidal wave hits, will the bank still be open?
I sat down on the concrete in front of the office and watched the students dart in every which way. Nai Nai, one of my 1st grade friends, was jumping up and down yelling, “Upwe no tukken, upwe no tukken!” (I will swim!) I spoke with our principal who was sitting on a bench outside the office, and asked what he knew. He seemed nervous and helpless but confident in conveying the announcement he had heard himself. A big concern was the ability of the government to disseminate the information quickly enough. We only have one phone at St. Cecilia so most kids weren’t able to call home, plus many families don’t have phones in their houses. Soon enough though, parents began to come for their kids, walking up the hill to be greeted by squinting and then sprinting sons and daughters who were anxious to get home.
As school started to clear out, teachers began to head home as well. Carlos, a 5th grade teacher and father of 2 of my students, offered to drive me downtown with his kids. I jumped at the chance, grateful to get out of the chaos and hopeful to still make it to the bank, potentially avoiding a lethal tidal wave as well. Carlos, Berson, Brilliant and I pile in Carlos’ low to the ground car, which bottoms out on the deeper pot holes in the road. I feel relief as we drive until the car comes to a gradual stop on the causeway. I am unsure of what is happening. Carlos turns the key in the ignition, nothing. Again he turns it, nothing. “No gas,” he tells me in English. Carlos quickly hops out of the car and onto a passing truck in order to get to the nearest gas station about 15 minutes away. I offer to stay in the car with the kids until he comes back.
It takes a minute for my thoughts to catch up to me. It is 1:15. I am stranded on the causeway, a very narrow human-made road surrounded by water on both sides; and a tidal wave is coming in my direction. This is where my own panic sets in. My nerves overcome my own skepticism and worry takes over. I guess if a tidal wave takes out this 12 square mile island, I won’t need to go to the bank anyway. I give up on the bank and become concerned with my own survival. What if Carlos doesn’t get back in time? Berson and Brilliant get restless. I try and talk to them but they speak an outer island language, not the Chuukese I am learning, so we can barely communicate. I think about leaving them there and hopping on a truck to make it home in time, but I wont leave these kids here. I get out of the car and start pacing. I see trucks pass with kids on the back heading away from school. I wonder what is happening at Saramen, where I live and where Jessie and Matt teach. Have they evacuated? Are they scared?
What if I die here? Is this seriously happening?
I recognize faces of drivers and children as they crawl past in their cars going 10 mph, the fastest you can drive with the conditions of the road. I look up to see the Saramen school truck. It’s the Saramen principal, Wayne, coming to get his kids from St. Cecilia. He greets me as he drives with a confused smile, wondering what I am doing on the side of the road with random children, but I speak first. “What’s happening at Saramen?” He says, “We sent the kids home, you know it’s just a drill, right?”
A drill. It’s just a drill. “Hey Wayne, does that mean the bank is still open?” He laughs as he nods and drives away. How could the state of Chuuk have a natural disaster drill without informing teachers and administrators? How did no one know? I start to calm down. I convince myself I was never that worried in the first place. Berson, Brilliant and I watch for Carlos on the backs of oncoming trucks. He arrives holding one gallon of gas in a plastic water container. We fill the tank and continue our journey home.
I make it home just before 2. If it hadn’t been a drill I would have only narrowly made it to the safety of my apartment. I walk in bursting to tell the story of my afternoon and am greeted by JV’s, peace corps volunteers, and JOCV volunteers all celebrating the afternoon off. Jessie springs up when I come in and we run to the bank, talking excitedly as we go. We withdraw our cash, feeling relieved that we will be able to eat a nice dinner and pay for our weekend trip to another island. We decide to commemorate tidal wave day with ice cream cones from the store, not unlike hot chocolate on a snow day.
Immediately after the completion of the principal’s announcement, the school erupted into panic. I quickly ran next door to talk to Sr. Sophie in 6th grade to confirm what I had heard. Lachlan, who was teaching on the other side of my room, and I tried our best to control and calm our 7th graders. I tried to relay the message of the expected protocol, and ask them to calmly pack up their bags, but was acknowledged by very few of the frantic kids. It was clear that I actually had very little control over what was now happening in the classroom. Students began running in all directions, yelling, “We’re gonna die!”
I myself was at first completely skeptical. A tidal wave? Really? I thought we were protected from tidal waves by the reef. My apartment can’t be more than 200 yards from the ocean, will it survive? If a tidal wave hits, will the bank still be open?
I sat down on the concrete in front of the office and watched the students dart in every which way. Nai Nai, one of my 1st grade friends, was jumping up and down yelling, “Upwe no tukken, upwe no tukken!” (I will swim!) I spoke with our principal who was sitting on a bench outside the office, and asked what he knew. He seemed nervous and helpless but confident in conveying the announcement he had heard himself. A big concern was the ability of the government to disseminate the information quickly enough. We only have one phone at St. Cecilia so most kids weren’t able to call home, plus many families don’t have phones in their houses. Soon enough though, parents began to come for their kids, walking up the hill to be greeted by squinting and then sprinting sons and daughters who were anxious to get home.
As school started to clear out, teachers began to head home as well. Carlos, a 5th grade teacher and father of 2 of my students, offered to drive me downtown with his kids. I jumped at the chance, grateful to get out of the chaos and hopeful to still make it to the bank, potentially avoiding a lethal tidal wave as well. Carlos, Berson, Brilliant and I pile in Carlos’ low to the ground car, which bottoms out on the deeper pot holes in the road. I feel relief as we drive until the car comes to a gradual stop on the causeway. I am unsure of what is happening. Carlos turns the key in the ignition, nothing. Again he turns it, nothing. “No gas,” he tells me in English. Carlos quickly hops out of the car and onto a passing truck in order to get to the nearest gas station about 15 minutes away. I offer to stay in the car with the kids until he comes back.
It takes a minute for my thoughts to catch up to me. It is 1:15. I am stranded on the causeway, a very narrow human-made road surrounded by water on both sides; and a tidal wave is coming in my direction. This is where my own panic sets in. My nerves overcome my own skepticism and worry takes over. I guess if a tidal wave takes out this 12 square mile island, I won’t need to go to the bank anyway. I give up on the bank and become concerned with my own survival. What if Carlos doesn’t get back in time? Berson and Brilliant get restless. I try and talk to them but they speak an outer island language, not the Chuukese I am learning, so we can barely communicate. I think about leaving them there and hopping on a truck to make it home in time, but I wont leave these kids here. I get out of the car and start pacing. I see trucks pass with kids on the back heading away from school. I wonder what is happening at Saramen, where I live and where Jessie and Matt teach. Have they evacuated? Are they scared?
What if I die here? Is this seriously happening?
I recognize faces of drivers and children as they crawl past in their cars going 10 mph, the fastest you can drive with the conditions of the road. I look up to see the Saramen school truck. It’s the Saramen principal, Wayne, coming to get his kids from St. Cecilia. He greets me as he drives with a confused smile, wondering what I am doing on the side of the road with random children, but I speak first. “What’s happening at Saramen?” He says, “We sent the kids home, you know it’s just a drill, right?”
A drill. It’s just a drill. “Hey Wayne, does that mean the bank is still open?” He laughs as he nods and drives away. How could the state of Chuuk have a natural disaster drill without informing teachers and administrators? How did no one know? I start to calm down. I convince myself I was never that worried in the first place. Berson, Brilliant and I watch for Carlos on the backs of oncoming trucks. He arrives holding one gallon of gas in a plastic water container. We fill the tank and continue our journey home.
I make it home just before 2. If it hadn’t been a drill I would have only narrowly made it to the safety of my apartment. I walk in bursting to tell the story of my afternoon and am greeted by JV’s, peace corps volunteers, and JOCV volunteers all celebrating the afternoon off. Jessie springs up when I come in and we run to the bank, talking excitedly as we go. We withdraw our cash, feeling relieved that we will be able to eat a nice dinner and pay for our weekend trip to another island. We decide to commemorate tidal wave day with ice cream cones from the store, not unlike hot chocolate on a snow day.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
laundromat
Going to the laundromat on my island is always a time that i re-evaluate how much i have incorporated Chuukese culture into my own life, and which aspects of Chuuk i have not chosen to hold on to. Being in a laundromat in it of itself is not exactly abiding by traditional ways islanders wash their clothes. Normally the women would hand wash with rain water, but here on our more modern island with ocasional electricity all the women congregate at the laundromat.
For the most part, only women do the laundry in a family. I join them about once a week in the afternoon after work. I always enjoy the feeling of female community there. I know the women recognise me and sense that im not a tourist from my Chuukese skirts. On a crowded day, I enter and sit on the bench waiting to be called on. This is a part of my laundry routine that reflects how i have adapted. In general in Chuuk i feel very taken care of by the larger community. There is less of a social requirement to be self sufficient, and I find myself relying on others more. In my experience here, if you are hungry someone will offer you food, if you are tired you will be offered a place to rest, and if you are sick someone will accompany you. In the laundromat, i dont need to worry about any sort of line or order or claiming a machine. The women just notice me when i come in and offer me a machine when one is free. If it is a very long line and the wait goes past sunset, I know i can count on an offer to be driven home so i dont have to walk after dark.
Doing laundry offers the opportunity to talk to the women around me, and to practice my Chuukese. We chat about our common experience on the island, the lack of electricity, the road, the rain, my job as a teacher. Sometimes I find myself in long conversations, regularaly I meet a relative of a student. Other days I am so tired from my work day that i just lay down on the bench and take a nap- public napping: also very Chuukese.
With a visit to the laundromat always comes a consideration of Chuukese gender roles. It always intrigues me to go with one of the male volunteers. The only time Chuukese men enter is to carry the huge bins of clothes out to the truck, or to bring in an entire extended family's pile of laundry to their female relative who may be there all day. Since it is the woman's role to clean the clothes, I often feel when i sit next to Matt or another American male that the women look at me and think, "Why aren't you doing your brother's laundry?" Or maybe they are happy to see a male doing their own laundry. I dont think I will ever adjust so much as to believe that I should be doing the male JV's laundry.
My wait at the laundromat always provides time to process, in the presence of my Chuukese neighbors. When my clothes are clean I bring them home wet to hang on the clothes line in our apartment. They always take a long time to dry in the humidity, reminding me again of my unique position in the world.
For the most part, only women do the laundry in a family. I join them about once a week in the afternoon after work. I always enjoy the feeling of female community there. I know the women recognise me and sense that im not a tourist from my Chuukese skirts. On a crowded day, I enter and sit on the bench waiting to be called on. This is a part of my laundry routine that reflects how i have adapted. In general in Chuuk i feel very taken care of by the larger community. There is less of a social requirement to be self sufficient, and I find myself relying on others more. In my experience here, if you are hungry someone will offer you food, if you are tired you will be offered a place to rest, and if you are sick someone will accompany you. In the laundromat, i dont need to worry about any sort of line or order or claiming a machine. The women just notice me when i come in and offer me a machine when one is free. If it is a very long line and the wait goes past sunset, I know i can count on an offer to be driven home so i dont have to walk after dark.
Doing laundry offers the opportunity to talk to the women around me, and to practice my Chuukese. We chat about our common experience on the island, the lack of electricity, the road, the rain, my job as a teacher. Sometimes I find myself in long conversations, regularaly I meet a relative of a student. Other days I am so tired from my work day that i just lay down on the bench and take a nap- public napping: also very Chuukese.
With a visit to the laundromat always comes a consideration of Chuukese gender roles. It always intrigues me to go with one of the male volunteers. The only time Chuukese men enter is to carry the huge bins of clothes out to the truck, or to bring in an entire extended family's pile of laundry to their female relative who may be there all day. Since it is the woman's role to clean the clothes, I often feel when i sit next to Matt or another American male that the women look at me and think, "Why aren't you doing your brother's laundry?" Or maybe they are happy to see a male doing their own laundry. I dont think I will ever adjust so much as to believe that I should be doing the male JV's laundry.
My wait at the laundromat always provides time to process, in the presence of my Chuukese neighbors. When my clothes are clean I bring them home wet to hang on the clothes line in our apartment. They always take a long time to dry in the humidity, reminding me again of my unique position in the world.
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