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.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
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.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
new picture site
I just linked the Peace Corps picture site to this blog, if anyone is interested in looking at more pictures from Chuuk. It's titled Suzi's pictures. Suzi, Rachel and Michael are the peace corps volunteers here in Chuuk that arrived shortly after Jessie and I. We have all become good friends and our communities support one another very much. Suzi, Rachel and Michael work on outer islands of Chuuk, but also spend a lot of time on Weno. You can find me in some of these pictures.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
making payroll
We are two weeks into the beginning of the school year here in Chuuk. St. Cecilia is doing well. The school has a new coat of paint that the faculty and other volunteers worked to apply during planning sessions and Saturdays. It’s a small change but really makes a big difference. This year I am teaching 7th and 8th grade English, I am also the homeroom teacher for one 8th grade section. I am in the classroom 5 periods a day and am running the school library as well. Other changes are the two new volunteers working with me at the school, Lachlan, an Australian volunteer, and Suzi, a Peace Corps volunteer. They are both only temporary, they won’t be with us for the full year, but the opportunity to collaborate is great. It has been helpful to brainstorm with these two and problem solve for our many classroom challenges.
This week we had a staff meeting with the business manager of the school to discuss the financial situation of St. Cecilia. Chuuk has been affected by the economic slowdown, higher food and gas prices, as well. The school is down from last years’ enrollment of 350 to 260 students this year. Tuition is $35 a month, which can be a lot for most families. Also, there are still many outstanding tuition payments from previous years that the school has yet to receive.
The repercussions of this will affect the staff payroll directly. I sat with my co-workers as they were all told that the school will not be able to pay them their full salaries this semester. In years previous the faculty went without pay for many months as well. The school is working on tuition collection but they are already predicting a lot of financial hardship for the year. We made it through last year with grants from Australian aid banks, but that won’t be sustainable for the school.
It was strange to hear this news having been in Chuuk and with this faculty for over one year. Looking around I could feel that all of the teachers were thinking about the families they are supporting on their salary. I know these teachers well now and I know their families. I can imagine the kind of hardship they will face without getting paid. I felt out of place in that room with the financial security I have- if the school cant pay my stipend JVI will, so I don’t ever need to worry about it. But for the rest of the Chuukese teachers that is not so.
There are many ways in which we as a staff are optimistic for this school year. We are a dedicated group. I know some of the teachers will stick it out without pay for the betterment of their students. We will see if finances improve as the year continues.
This week we had a staff meeting with the business manager of the school to discuss the financial situation of St. Cecilia. Chuuk has been affected by the economic slowdown, higher food and gas prices, as well. The school is down from last years’ enrollment of 350 to 260 students this year. Tuition is $35 a month, which can be a lot for most families. Also, there are still many outstanding tuition payments from previous years that the school has yet to receive.
The repercussions of this will affect the staff payroll directly. I sat with my co-workers as they were all told that the school will not be able to pay them their full salaries this semester. In years previous the faculty went without pay for many months as well. The school is working on tuition collection but they are already predicting a lot of financial hardship for the year. We made it through last year with grants from Australian aid banks, but that won’t be sustainable for the school.
It was strange to hear this news having been in Chuuk and with this faculty for over one year. Looking around I could feel that all of the teachers were thinking about the families they are supporting on their salary. I know these teachers well now and I know their families. I can imagine the kind of hardship they will face without getting paid. I felt out of place in that room with the financial security I have- if the school cant pay my stipend JVI will, so I don’t ever need to worry about it. But for the rest of the Chuukese teachers that is not so.
There are many ways in which we as a staff are optimistic for this school year. We are a dedicated group. I know some of the teachers will stick it out without pay for the betterment of their students. We will see if finances improve as the year continues.
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