Work Ethic

I don't work hard, I think, but I do work long hours. Since I can remember, people have commented on my "work ethic" occasionally piling on with the epithet "workaholic." I have written around this topic before (Balance Schmalance), alluding to the odd and curious relationship we have with work and leisure. Evidently we admire people who work hard, but maybe not too hard. But as I have said, I don't work hard.
I have seen work all my life. I have seen refugees toil for next to nothing (and it isn't a very nice metaphor btw) and I have sat and worked with billionaires. In between, I have worked with everyone else I suppose, and there isn't much to the construct I don't understand. I have gone to bed physically and mentally beat from my endeavors, filthy and pristine, well compensated and broke. I started working early, and have had very few gaps in employment these past forty years. I suppose I have had more than fifty jobs, and I excelled at all but a handful. I cannot remember the last time I dreaded the job I woke up to each morning, but I have disliked some of the people that inhabited the environments I worked in. Work is, has been, and will be the primary activity in my life.
My typical work week now has me at the office from 8:30am until 9pm Monday through Thursday, 8am until 5 or 6pm Friday, and eight or ten hours over the weekend. I should emphasize that I am not stooped over a drill press during that time, standing at a cash register, waiting tables, digging ditches, nor am I engaged in a thousand other more demanding occupations. My days are remarkably diverse and efficacious, and most importantly, I direct most of the activities (the assignment and deportment of) I am involved in. I work long hours, I do not work hard.
I think of Mr. Vassel when people comment on my working regime and I smile. I think of hundreds of merchants and laborers in Dar es Salaam, Montego Bay, Sanaa, London, Kampala, Kigali, Irbid, Hebron, and here in Palos Hills, Illinois. People toiling away for equivalent hours for far less, with half the hope or reward I take for granted each and every day. I smile when I invoke Mr. Vassel, and any notions of self-righteousness or industry indignity evaporate instantly in a small cloud of irony and self-deprecation.
Mr. Vassel ran a small family grocery store across from my rented house in Jamaica, on the edge of the worst slum in Montego Bay. It was a very small building that held an impossibly diverse range of products on old wooden shelves. He was a large, gentle man who was in his seventies when I met him. He and his wife had run the store for more than fifty years, and it was a local institution that held the fragile sinews of the community together when the world around it was deteriorating. He was the mayor of the "pen", the slum that slid down into a long and dirty gully. The store stood up on the apex of that horizon, at the end of the sardonically named Lovers Lane. Fittingly, Mr. Vassel and his wife looked after it all with kindness and love.
Sam Vassel married his bride young and shortly thereafter went off to Panama for seven years to work on the recently completed Panama Canal. He toiled there under terrible conditions in order to come back and purchase the store and eventually, his family's legacy. He and his wife were in that store more than 12 hours a day six days a week for half a century or more, providing credit, settling arguments, passing on good news and dampening bad, and educating those of us who would listen. I loved climbing the stars up to the store, and often invented errands or tastes to do so. He gave me advice about my chickens, she gave me her grandmother's recipes, and I often just sat around for ten or twenty minutes listening to the congenial patois as other customers drifted through for salt cod, tomato paste, and a patient and wise ear.
Jamaicans, who know a few things about labor and leisure, never brought up a balance criticism about the Vassels, they never even conceived it. And those two lovely people didn't have to work those hours for all those decades for financial reasons. They did so because that was their job, to hold up an overlooked community with their collective hands. There are no hands on these peoples clocks btw, no 5pm whistles or overtime pay. Maybe there are just too many other people who don't understand what work can be, and that is a bit saddening.
I work a lot simply because the tasks I have adopted cannot be done in any sort of minimalistic contract with my employer or myself. I work a lot because my brain doesn't shut down, and it is better to keep it employed in challenging and productive ventures (this is why retirement scares the heck out of me - me and my thoughts alone all day!). I work a lot because I find myself in the the intriguing company of people who need me and who inspire and who help me. There is no other habitat like this in my universe. I work a lot in the slim hope that I too will make a legacy in my "store" like those two wonderful people who sold me groceries for two years at the edge of the world in a place where hopes and dreams had no business being bartered in.

* In my ongoing love/hate relationship with the internet, I just did a quick search for Mr. Vassel and found this. I cannot tell you how broad my smile is, or how light my heart seems as I think about my friend!
http://www.governorgeneralsawardsjamaica.com/st_james.php?subaction=showfull&id=1182287197&archive=&start_from=&ucat=15&
 

Keisha - Learning a New Language

I met Keisha one day while roaming around the countryside south of Montego Bay, north of Savannah La Mar on my motorcycle. I was visiting potential class sites for the literacy program, JAMAL - the Jamaican Movement for the Advancement of Literacy. I stopped by the house of a colleague, Mrs. Lightbody, who helped me when I visited the local rural schools. Mrs. Lightbody was a delight to work with, and I always looked forward to stopping by her place to chat. Her husband was a farmer, and they lived on the edge of their terraced farm. I had spent a day with him earlier, working out in the fields, learning how to graft lemon trees, eating boiled dumplings, conversing in patois. It was a fabulous day, and very poignant. I watched these Black men working their own land, where their not too distant ancestors had been slaves. I saw the lessons of their fathers in their hands as they expertly grafted the trees, working long and steadily throughout the day, free men. But on this day, I would meet another of her relatives, an amazing young woman named Keisha.
When I pulled up to Mrs. Lightbody's house, I noticed her standing on the balcony with a small child tucked shyly behind her skirt, peaking out curiously at the large helmeted man climbing off his motorcycle. I should mention that I loved Mrs. Lightbody's balcony that wrapped around the modest house, pulling the structure into the hillside. It was a nice day, and I was smiling as I pulled my helmet off knowing I would spend a good part of my afternoon sitting there, working on site plans with my hostess. As I bounded up the steps, I could see that tiny face peering from behind her aunt, wondering who this big white guy was. It was at least an hour before I saw her full figure - she exercised a perfect pivot with me on one side and her aunt between us. Eventually, she emerged and darted behind a chair, her eyes never leaving me. Keisha was a very beautiful girl with long braided hair, a simple clean dress, and a sad soft smile. Mrs. Lightbody apologized telling me the girl was deaf and dumb, and that she didn't interact much with strangers, or with much of her family for that matter.
Predictably, my secondary task for the day was to try to draw Keisha out and interact with her, my first being the literacy business at hand. As we talked and outlined site plans for several schools, I tried everything I knew to get Keisha to come out in plain view. After a bit, I noticed that she was no longer looking at me, but at my yellow helmet. I slowly pushed it closer to the edge of the table, near her chair fortress. When it got close enough, she gave her aunt a quick glance, who did not convey any prohibition, and she grabbed the helmet with both hands and ducked back to her safe place. I heard a strange sound that I knew was kin to a giggle, but oddly muted and flat. With all her might, she hoisted the helmet up and pulled it quickly down over her head and all those braids. Once she had it properly placed, she promptly walked around the chair, into open space, and right up to me. She was smiling broadly, and I wondered how all those teeth could fit into the opening of the helmet. When she got up beside me, I instinctively tapped the top of the helmet. She squealed. When I tapped the helmet again, she would bring her hands up and repeat the gesture, laughing and squirming. I increased the complexity of my thumping, using both hands. She matched anything I could conjure, pestering me over the course of several hours to continue the game. Mrs. Lightbody was delighted and noted that she had never seen Keisha behave like that, not even with family. I did manage to get some work done, often writing with my right hand, drumming with my left. When lunch came, Keisha refused to eat, caring not to remove her crown.
I knew it would be difficult when I had to leave. Keisha was not giving the helmet up without a fight, and I could raise no more than a half-hearted attempt to reclaim it. Eventually tough, Mrs. Lightbody gave her a stern but loving stare, and Keisha slowly pulled it off. She placed it on the table and promptly raced back to her chair. As I climbed back on my motorcycle, I did see a little hand waving goodbye, just cresting the top of the chair. On the way back to town, it struck me why the helmet had the effect it did - Keisha could "hear" with it on. For several hours that day, maybe for the first time, she heard another human being, even if it was just vibrations posing as language.
I didn't see Mrs. Lightbody for several weeks after that lovely day when two lonely people from different worlds chatted eloquently through polycarbonate and plastic. When I did see Mrs. Lightbody next, she was visiting the office for supplies. She came in and greeted me with even more enthusiasm than was her custom. Before I could ask how Keisha was, she informed me that every time a motorcycle came into view, Keisha would start running to the porch symbolically patting her head. When she realized it wasn't me, or that the owner was not stopping she would retreat back inside with a disappointed frown. I changed my plans for the day and took Mrs. Lightbody home on my motorcycle. Keisha met us halfway up the drive, wildly tapping the air around her head. I stayed a few hours to renew our conversation, and had a bittersweet departure knowing I probably wouldn't be able to return before I was to head home to the States permanently. Keisha gave up the helmet without much fight, and my leg got a beautiful hug.
On my way home, I had plenty of time to concoct a good story about how I had lost my spare helmet.

Orphans

I look at this picture sometimes when I am feeling sorry for myself. This is a group of little girls living in a Muslim orphanage about an hour east of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. I spent a very nice afternoon there a few years ago while working with a American philanthropist who was helping poor schools throughout East Africa and Asia. I was doing a site visit, checking on the school that had received educational resources through the foundation and was afforded a tour. I stopped here in their dorm room for about twenty minutes. The young ladies introduced themselves, and then sang me three songs: one in English, one in Swahili, and one in Arabic at my request (translated - We love you Allah). It was hard to leave, but one of them walked me to the gate, holding my hand making sure I found my way back to the Landrover. I think of her and her friends often, not only in my pitiful moods.
All in all, I lived and worked with and in orphanages for more than five years of my life, and I have visited scores more. A funny thing happens when you visit an orphanage, you leave feeling better than you entered. They who have so little can do that for you. However, there is always a hangover.
I don't know if you have ever been in a refugee camp or an orphanage in the third world, but they are far from attractive places. They are stark and bare, often smell of urine and worse things, and are as far away from the comfort you would afford yourself as you could possibly imagine. And as unfriendly as the concrete walls,thread-worn linen, and tattered mattresses can be, the lack of a mother's arms, a father's stern, soft strength makes the place worse than dead, worse than a nightmare populated with cruelties - a place where life ceases or never even begins. Yet these children survive, and become testaments to all that is good and holy in the human spirit, at a terrible, terrible cost. I have been "blessed" with this lesson over and over again, and I loathe the fact I forget it, no matter how temporarily.
I stumbled on my first job in an orphanage in Jamaica as a Peace Corps Volunteer. My primary assignment didn't work out so I was sent to Montego Bay to find something. After talking to several service agencies, I learned about a boy's home on the edge of town, inhabiting an old tourist hotel overlooking the airport. I have chronicled my fortuitous job interview elsewhere, and I did end up working there for a year as the full-time teacher, and another year as a PE instructor and occasional field trip supervisor. I don't remember what I taught them or where I took them, but I remember their faces twenty five years later, and am saddled with the loss that I didn't hug or hold them as I should have. No one did, the matrons were decent women, but were overworked and underpaid, and struggled with their own survival issues. The occasional slap or spanking, or knuckle sandwich provided by an older peer were what passed for physical intimacy at the Fairmont Boy's Home. The boys were friendly and good-natured, but I knew there was a toll for this deficit of love. And in two years, I saw some beautiful smiles fade gradually, and I could do nothing to resurrect that bit of their humanity, nothing.
After a year's sabbatical back in the states, I returned to the Peace Corps and spent two years living and working in an Eritrean refugee camp on the shores of the Red Sea in Yemen. In training, I learned of the camp and did everything I could, lobbying to be assigned in the nearby village of Khawkha. It was in the Tihama, the narrow coastal region of North Yemen: hot, harsh, and humid. The Ministry of Education balked at first, not wanting to send any westerners into that climate, least of all to a small village with poor electric and other basic services. Though, with the help of a few wonderful Peace Corp Yemeni staff, we eventually secured permission and I was off to one of the hottest, remote places in the Arabian gulf.
The refugees were Muslims from the southern tip of Eritrea, a small minority of Afar speaking tribes. I helped another volunteer build a school in the camp, and was allowed to move into one of the small shacks previously occupied by the camp doctor (another story - see "Where There is no Doctor"). I stayed there the first year, and lived in an eight foot by eight foot tent the second year. I had the benefit of a year's reflection on my first experience in Jamaica, and was resolved to do things differently on this trip. I did do things differently, had a wonderful and heartbreaking time, contracted malaria three times, and left the camp with jaundiced eyes and a mild case of hepatitis.
I knew from the beginning that hygiene was going to be a problem. There was no running water in the camp, no toilet paper, not even a bathroom facility - there were trees a half-mile away in the day time, and a sandy, rocky plain next door at night. The kids played all day in dirt, and as there was no washroom let alone the sign admonishing us to wash our hands afterwards, things were sometimes messy. When the children came into my shack each night to hear music or play with my long (then brown) hair, I knew what was on their hands, knew where they had been. I played with them, taught them, laughed with them, cried sometimes, and gave more of myself to these children than anyone previously in my life. We sang songs at night, drawing pictures in the sand, and they all learned how to spell M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i in the dirt (I had a fairly stunted musical repertoire). They laughed until they cried when I showed them how to jump rope in my Tihama skirt, and they astounded me with their patience as they shared the few pieces of chalk I could spirit away from the village school. I made the girls earrings from seashells and a generous donation of components from a sweet young woman at the Claire's Boutique in South Bend, Indiana who thought I was cute (another story).
I know I was a queer spectacle for the adults who were pretty much split down the middle in their regard for me. Half thought I was crazy but kind, the other half despised me for breaching the established distance of adulthood. I didn't care, I was determined to make sure that these children had access to me, and that I learned to hug and love in the process. It was a good lesson for me, and I wish I could have retained it better, longer. There are times I wonder if I have made my own daughters half-orphans at least, doing a much worse job loving them than those children a lifetime ago, but I am working on it now. As for the kids in the camp, I try not to think of their faces now at night, for the warm smile produced is inevitably defeated by the cold cruel prospect of their eventual fate.
I travelled thousands of miles to find my concept of dignity in the desert dirt. These people, orphans, children and parents, showed me what was human - having been stripped of most everything the rest of us regard and lust after. Their simple sense of truth, endless compassion, and ability to face each day with strength and humor taught me what is valuable. I sorrows me that this wealth is assailed daily by neglect, disease, and apathy in thousands of such places every day, even today. How many children still face the day without a hug, without a smile, without a pair of pardoning arms to forgive or fix anything? Too many for me to feel very good for too long.
I still work with refugees and orphans, largely through teacher training initiatives. I don't often get into camps, and I never get to jump rope or spell funny sounding state names in the dirt anymore. But there is a legacy - I work a lot on the concept of student engagement, helping teachers help students find their voices. I talk a great deal about praise and acknowledgment, much more than classroom management and discipline. I know the difference these teachers can have with a kind word, a gentle pat on a shoulder. I try to do the same for them, these wonderful professionals who labor day in and day out in these places I find so dehumanizing, giving their students and children love and hope in the guise of a simple education. I envy them, and wish my five years had been fifty.

Pranks

I don't sit around planning pranks. Occasionally, they just sort of come to me. More often than not they fail, but some work out gloriously. Here are four pranks I have pulled over the past thirty years that have been fun and/or ironic.






"Friend" "Four"
While in Yemen, the Peace Corps headquarters in the capital arranged a one-year check-in conference for my group. We came from all over the country to the western sea port of Hodeidah for three days of sessions and bonding. We stayed at the Al Borg hotel, a very nice spot with good food (I was particularly fond of the lentil soup). It was a high rise hotel near downtown and not far from the beaches, a great place to get together. We roomed together in two's and three's. We all arrived a day early, and we were soon planning a pick up football game on the mud flats outside of town. As we were moving from room to room to gather recruits, I stopped by Steve and Eric's room to see if they wanted to play. Eric was 6'7" tall and a former semi-pro basketball player, quite an athlete. Steve was a world travelling laid-back zen master poet, sort of. I am still not sure what Steve is. Anyway, Eric agreed and Steve declined. Steve went into the bathroom and Eric and I devised a quick little gag (I should mention that Eric was a gentle giant, a very large hippie). I was quite surprised Eric went along with it actually. We moved an end table up against the door of the bathroom. The idea was that after we left, Steve would have to struggle to get out of the bathroom. We didn't bargain on two things however; 1)the end table was too heavy for Steve to move, and 2) Steve's really poor command of Arabic. He ended up locked in the bathroom for 4 hours.
After a few minutes struggling with the door and yelling, Steve realized we had left and no one inside the hotel would hear him. He managed to pry open the very small bathroom window and get his head out. The window faced the back alley, and there wasn't much foot traffic. The only people who passed by were local Yemeni with no English. When Steve first noticed a passerby, it hit him that he didn't know how convey his situation in Arabic. He realized he hadn't learned the word for "help" or the words for "fourth floor." He thought for as second and bellowed "Sadiq, arba." This is Arabic for "Friend, Four." Unfortunately, Steve had to repeat this appeal to about 20 quizzical sojourners before one thought to go inside and complain about the odd American yelling unintelligible things from a small window. We felt very bad that he spent his day in there, but he was a good sport. By the time we returned six hours later, Steve had been freed, and he had learned the Arabic world for help.
"Your Mini-Bar Bill Sir"
It was at another conference/reunion in Yemen, that I got to pull my next prank. Once again, it was a crime of opportunity. We were staying in a much fancier hotel, the Taj in Sanaa. Again we were assigned roommates, and there was a great deal of shuffling as various volunteers bargained to switch rooms for more "romantic clusterings." A group of us were about to head out and play basketball. We had quite a collection of athletes in that Peace Corps group: 1 college basketball player, 2 college football players, 1 college high jumper, and 1 college soccer player. We were always outside playing something from our early days in training to the sporadic reunions years after we left Yemen. The best athlete by far was Greg, a former starting linebacker for UCLA. Greg was a tough California surf dude. He was also smart - an English major. Greg was fun loving, and usually up for anything. With all that going for him, he had one fatal, exploitable flaw - he was a bit cheap to say it mildly. We were all gathered in the lobby by the bar waiting for Greg to come down to join us. We sat on comfortable benches facing the front desk. I sat there, bored and a bit irritated from waiting when a terrible idea came to me. I walked over to the house phone and called Greg's room. Now I will not try to emulate here the really horrible Indian accent I employed (the hotel was owned and operated by Indians), but it must have been convincing. I identified myself as Rajid at the front desk, and I proceeded to tell "Mr. Bolin" about all the missing items from his mini-fridge and that he needed to rectify the situation before I left my shift. Greg argued with me earnestly, then accepted my invitation to come downstairs to settle the matter discretely. I walked back to the group, got their attention and said, "wait three minutes and watch what happens at the front desk." True to form, Greg appeared shortly thereafter and made a beeline for the front desk from the elevator. We had front row seats. We couldn't hear him, but we could see him gesticulating from behind, and we could also see the sincere yet confused faces of the front desk staff. Greg flailed his arms about for a minute or so, then caught on something wasn't right. All of a sudden, he spun around to see ten of his peers rolling around on the lobby floor. I did go over and offer my apologies to the staff later who did not seem to understand the humor in the event. Sadly, Greg passed away four years later. Right after finishing his MBA, getting a job on Wall Street, and becoming engaged, Greg was struck by a car that had lost control on a California curve while he was bicycling.
"Tasmanian Devils"
When I was in college, I lived in a doubly abysmal place - it was a fraternity with a group of football players: every mother's nightmare! It was pretty raucous there, and we all learned how to patch drywall. Alcohol, testosterone, and suspect intellects do not a good party make. Periodically, someone would introduce a foreign element into the environment that would have devastating effects. For some reason, one resident thought it would be fun to bring a cattle prod to the house. Five fights and $1000 in damages later, it was discarded. Then there was the dartgun. I won't go into that. Not everyone in the house was big and rowdy, but most learned how to defend themselves. One such reluctant warrior was Mark who stood 5'8 and weighed 130 lbs soaking wet. I don't know how we started a feud, but it quickly escalated to a war. I personally think Mark overcompensated due to his slight stature, and that he was the more unreasonable combatant....
I remember noticing that things were getting more serious about halfway through the feud. I had broken into his room and put Icy Hot in his underwear. I got the salve from football practice, but it took me three days to find the rubber gloves - I wasn't going into his drawers drawers unprotected. A few days later I opened my door to find I no longer owned sheets, pillows, or bedcovers. I thought I had smelled something burning in the back when I came in that day.
It was an unwritten law that you could not discuss or confront your adversary about these issues, you simply continued until one capitulated. I had underestimated Mark. I waited until Mark went home for a long weekend, then rigged a small bucket of all ready turning milk to dump on his head when he walked through his door. I wasn't home when he tripped the trap, but I smelled that awful stench for a week. I was on my toes constantly after that day, expecting the inevitable retaliation. It didn't come for awhile, so I thought I had prevailed. At least until I heard the upstairs smoke detector going off. I was downstairs in a meeting when the alarm sounded. We all rushed upstairs to see a gentle plum of smoke coming out from under my door. I rushed through the doorway to find a large barbecue grill sitting in the middle of the room. On it sat my prize possession, a stuffed Tasmanian Devil doll engulfed in flames. I tried to rescue it and burned my hands. When the chaos subsided,I realized that I admired and feared Mark now, but the feud had gone public and I had to make a statement. I had lost a friendly devil and gained a malevolent one. I waited three weeks.
Mark had some weaknesses - he had a prissy young girlfriend and two very conservative evangelical parents. I waited for the confluence to occur then I struck. Actually, I sort of created the illusion of the confluence, but that is a technicality. Mark's girlfriend would often spend the night, and they went to elaborate lengths to conceal the fact, although we all knew. Once every few months, Mark's parents would come to the house and he would make us clean up and leave when they arrived. As I mentioned, he had two nice weaknesses.
I waited until his girlfriend spent the night on a Saturday. I woke up at about 5:30am and I unfolded my simple, brutal retort. I made a very lovely pattern of thumbtacks outside his door, took out the hallway light bulb, and banged on his door. I did my best to muffle my voice and declared "Mark, your parents are here, they are downstairs." I waited a few seconds to take in the commotion inside the room (I actually think he knocked her out of bed) before I rushed back to my room. I jumped in bed and counted to ten. When I got to seven, I heard his door open, heard him hopping and grunting, then heard him crash to the floor. A few seconds later came the haunting bellow - "Morschesssssssssssssssss." The feud ended there that morning as I gentley pulled out a dozen or so tacks from all over his body with my pliers.
"Johnny, June, and Me"
When I was working in Jamaica, I often volunteered on weekends at the SOS Children's Village outside of town (Montego Bay). I helped them start up a Boy Scout program, and arranged some local camping trips. It was a lot of fun. One day, as we were hiking out into the hills, we came across a very nice house. I asked one of the teachers who was with us who owned the house. He looked at me with surprise and said, "Why Johnny Cash of course." Evidently, Johnny Cash had purchased the house and was often in residence. He and his wife June also supported the Children's Village. I thought that was very neat, and mentioned it to the school director when we returned. He cheerily told me what great people the Cash's were, and that he would introduce me to them the next time they came to Jamaica. Very neat indeed.
Sometime later, I mentioned to a fellow volunteer that I might get to meet Johnny Cash and she got very excited. She lived nearby and was often over visiting. It turned out that Johnny was her favorite musical artist. I was pleased with her reaction and vowed to let her know if I ever got the chance to meet him so I could possibly include her. That was mid-March. A few weeks later, that magnanimous sentiment turned a bit more perverse.
It was the 1st of April when I decided to exploit her love of all things Cash. I was living in an apartment complex, and I had friends several floors below who had a phone I occasionally used. This was well before cell phones, and as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I could not afford my own landline. My friend, the fan, was over with some other volunteers, and we were cooking a joint meal. I had made arrangements with my phone friends a few hours earlier to help me orchestrate a very simple plan. On cue, one of them came upstairs to see me to tell me that Johnny Cash was on the phone for me. I looked up, my hands wrist deep in some concoction and I casually asked his biggest fan in the room if she could take my call. She went nuts, screaming for directions to the apartment. My phone friend left (he went and hid down the hall) and I sent her down to take a message. My phone friend's wife was in the apartment, had locked the door, and had turned on their very loud shower. When my surrogate got to the apartment, she knocked several times, tried the handle, then heard the shower. Evidently she pounded and screamed (witnessed by the subsequent neighbourly complaints) and soon came running back upstairs. She burst in the room, out of breath, and I heard something to the effect of "Door, Locked, Johnny, Shower, Help."
I looked up from my culinary task and calmly said "Imagine that, Johnny Cash calling me on the first of April." She nodded and began to rant again, pretty much the same chorus. I repeated my statement twice before everyone else in the room had suffered too much and were crying with laughter. She still didn't get it, she thought they were laughing because she couldn't answer an actual call from the legend. Finally, I asked what day it was. She told me Tuesday, I said "no, what is the date?" Then it dawned on her. Her face was already red, then it turned very pale as she slumped in a chair. She looked up, called me a bastard, then smiled and asked me what was for dinner.
Almost a month to the day later, I got a call from the Children's Village telling me Mr. Cash and his wife were in town and I could meet them that afternoon if I hurried. Ironically, my friend was out of town, and I rushed over. I met the Cash's and they invited me and the senior staff to lunch. It was a great time, but I could never get my friend to believe that I had met them. I had forgotten my camera in the rush, and she simply believed I was sadistically piling on the torture.
Years later, I would come into my living room to see my three-year old daughter sitting in the middle of the room listening to the stereo. As I rounded the corner, I heard her sing perfectly, "I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die." I vowed never to deceive her about anything "Cash."

Why do Americans Love Oral Sex so Much?

Not the picture you were expecting? Be patient. During my second year as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Jamaica, I was issued a motorcycle and began doing outreach on the western side of the island as a Field Officer for the national literacy agency. I set up new classes, did training, and visited existing sites. It was a lot of fun, and I got back to many remote places few tourists ever saw. I visited each site often, and developed a rapport with the teachers and students. Two nights a week, I would be off in the middle of nowhere working with literacy classes. As time passed, I began to get involved with various community development issues that related to our literacy curriculum. We learned how to boil water effectively, worked on parenting skills, discussed domestic abuse and many other issues. I didn't know it at the time, but someone in town (Montego Bay) was watching my progress carefully. It was another Peace Corps Volunteer who was working with the Jamaican Cancer society
She performed free PAP smears for women at a local clinic, and had a hard time getting women from the rural areas to come down to the city. She told me that many of the women believed that they would have IUDs secretly implanted or that they would even be sterilized by the nurses as a clandestine birth control program. She was very frustrated, as cervical cancer has a very high cure rate if detected early. When she first told me I could help her, I thought she was nuts. She worked on me for awhile, and I guess I came around.
Her proposal sounded far more simple than it ended up being: She would give me some of the "tools" she used to do a PAP smear and I would take those out to the classes, let the women see and touch them, answer some basic questions about the procedure, and exploit my good relationship for the good of womankind. As usual, my hubris was delighted and I agreed with little thought (terrible to have a disease you can't even spell!).
I visited her office and she gave me a crash course in basic PAP test 101. She showed me the speculum, the swab, the slides, all the instruments she used. Of course I did not get to see an actual procedure, but I got the idea. The phrase "visualize the cervix" stuck with me, even though I really didn't want it to. She loaded everything in a five gallon bucket and off I went. I had no idea I would shortly enter the whimsical world of "my mouth has just overloaded my rear end."
I went back to a small community about ten miles south of Montego Bay named Horse Guard. It was a comfortable place for me, I had been there many times, and we had done some successful community development activities. The pastor from a local church always helped out, and he was comfortable with the subject for the evening: he was excited at the prospect of encouraging the women to get into town for health screening. As a matter of fact, he recruited a larger than average audience, and I was actually a bit nervous when it finally hit me what I was about to attempt. The pastor introduced me and I walked to the front of the room with my props.
I began by talking about disease prevention and general health. I then told them about the Cancer Society office and the nice nurse waiting for them. I reached into the bucket and told them I had a surprise - as I pulled out the speculum they just stared at me, they had no idea what it was. Now I would challenge anyone at that point to describe the instrument and its use in front of a large group, mostly women. When it dawned on them what I was driving at, there was a slow rising giggle that turned into a wave of laughter, as only Jamaican women humiliating a white boy can. They had a great time that must have lasted several minutes. I waited patiently until the pastor came forward and muffled the chaos. I don't think the redness in my face helped matters at all.
Eventually, we covered the material, and the women had a lot of good questions. They came forward, touched the speculum and swab, even waving them at each other good naturedly. I thought I had survived the ordeal until the pastor suggested we discuss birth control methods. He knew I was acquainted with the Billings Method, and he thought the women were comfortable enough to discuss more sensitive issues. I did a quick overview of the method, and listed several other options. The pastor then asked them what methods they practiced. I was astonished at their candor and at the "creativity" of their beliefs. I don't remember everything, but I do remember one woman telling us how she kept a large wash basin half full of water and vinegar at the foot of the bed. When her husband "finished his work", she would jump off of the bed and sit in the basin for twenty minutes. Several other women indicated that they did something similar.
We talked for quite awhile and they asked a lot of questions about fertility and ways to get pregnant, or to insure the birth of a boy or girl. I was steadily getting my feet back under me when a very small, young woman in the back who had said nothing to that point blurted out "why do Americans love oral sex so much?" I was dumbfounded. I didn't know what to say, and that same tide of laughter rose and crested again. It was a good time to quit. I called the pastor back to the front of the room and he thanked me and the women gave me a very warm applause. I packed up and was about to leave when my curiosity got the best of me. I caught the young woman on her way out of the room and asked her why she asked me the question. She thought she was in trouble, but I assured her it was fine. She was very shy, and told me she couldn't tell me but she could show me why she asked. Normally I would not have touched that with a ten-foot pole, but she seemed so genuine, so sincere. I told her ok and she asked me to wait in the room for a few minutes. I said I would wait and stayed behind and chatted with the pastor who was delighted with the way the evening went. He told me it was good that they had laughed and were able to ask their questions and discuss their beliefs without being ridiculed. I felt a bit better (but fully resolved to quit the birth control business).
About twenty minutes later, the woman returned with a small bag. She handed it to me, blushing. I took the bag and glanced at the pastor. He smiled and I reached down into the bag to reveal its contents. It was an American porn magazine she told me her boyfriend had brought home. I gently put it back in the bag and begged her not to judge all Americans on that magazine. I explained that the magazine was not typical, and that Americans were probably not much different than Jamaicans when it came to those things. She smiled, turned and walked out. It was a poignant, awkward bit of cultural exchange.
The community of Horse Guard continued its literacy and community development classes, and I made a few more appearances, but on carefully selected topics. No one teased me again or reminded me of the evening, and I realized just how honest and authentic those people were. I envied them.
I was told that several of the women eventually came down for PAP smears, and the nurse was very pleased. I was happy that my embarrassment yielded some positive results. Never again have I or will I be floored by a question by a student though............

Daughters of a Crimson Dusk

After my first year working for JAMAL (The Jamaican Movement for the Advancement of Literacy) in Montego Bay, we moved our office across town. The new space was larger, but was in terrible shape. I am not sure why, but we had to vacate the old offices with little notice, and classes needed to continue. The director and I, along with three other staff worked around the clock for three days to get the place ready for our students. We cleaned, patched, and painted. It was tiring, but a lot of fun. Mr. Drummond, the director, was a wonderful man who never lost his composure and always had a cheerful demeanor. We were worn out, but proud and our students appreciated the new classrooms.
I had been teaching a group of students for most of the year, and we had a great relationship. They were from different walks of life, but had bonded well. My favorite of this favorite group was Mr. Cowell, a sky juice vendor. Sky juice was shaved ice flavored with syrup. Sky juice carts (made famous by Cool Runnings) were home made sleds on wheels that carried a large block of ice and bottles of various syrups. The operator would shave some ice off the large block, put it in small plastic bag, then pour the syrup over it. This bag of cold refreshment came with a small straw. Mr. Cowell pushed one of these contraptions cheerfully ten hours a day, six days a week. He had cut his working hours down in order to attend early evening classes. He learned slowly, but was very eager and worked very hard. When I saw him in the day around town, he always made a big production, introducing me to his customers and "comping" me a sky juice. I didn't really care for the mixture, it was far too sweet, but I loved the interaction and ritual.
When we moved to the new office, we slowly gained more students. We had more space and a more visible location. I had a large desk in a corner of the first floor with a filing cabinet - my first official office space. We had a small cook stove in the backroom and Kingsley, our custodian, would make lunch everyday. We ate casava, dumplings, sweet potatoes, and greens. Morale was very high. It was a very dynamic time, and I was thrilled to be part of it all.
During the day, I worked out in the rural areas setting up and supporting classes. On two nights each week, I taught a class in the classroom above my office, where Mr. Cowell and his classmates made me laugh and love the fact that I was a teacher. Things were going so well, I should have known there would be an inevitable problem, not yet understanding how pessimistic karma really is. The problem came three weeks or so after the move, and I was totally unprepared for it (I guess that is what makes it a problem). I was teaching late one evening when three women knocked on the door asking to be admitted to the classroom. I was excited - three new students! As they entered, I felt a chill in the room and I saw the other students stiffen. The three women proceeded to the back of the room where they sat quietly and waited for my instruction. The other students shot furtive glances at each other, but said nothing. I dove back into the past tense or whatever lesson I was working on, hoping that the atmosphere would soften, and that I would figure out what the heck had just happened. The chill remained, but the explanation came at break time. When most of the class had gone downstairs for water, Mr. Cowell and a few of the other regular students stayed behind. The did not address the issue directly, but it was clear something was on their minds. After a minute or so I just looked at them and said "what?" Mr. Cowell stammered, paused, and blurted out that the new students were not proper women. The others just nodded solemnly. My three new students were prostitutes.
At first, I was somewhat indignant that such a thing mattered to these students. Who were they, who were we to judge anyone? I was really at a loss. I tried to remain patient as an ultimatum was constructed. By the end of the break, I was informed that the entire class would walk out if the new students were allowed to return. My instinct was to call their bluff and to take the higher ethical ground. But I owed these students more than that, more than my desultory liberality. Desperate to buy time, I told Mr. Cowell to tell the other students that we would end class early, and that I would address the issue before we next met again. I called the three women in on the pretext that I needed to do a registration for them. I really did not know what to do.
As we chatted and as I took their information, a plan slowly developed. I told them that since they were new, they would be behind the other students. Therefore, I would teach them separately for awhile, immediately after the scheduled class. They were deferential, and in hindsight, I suppose they were hurt. In any case, I had time to help them and to figure out a way to get them back into the regular class. In the end, it almost worked out, and I learned more about human dignity than I had expected.
The ladies and I met steadily for almost two months before one disappeared. In that time they worked hard at their lessons, and taught me about some very harsh realities in the pursuit of simple existence. As they grew more comfortable with me, they shared more about their lives and their occupation. I never asked, but I think they wanted me to know they weren't bad people. On one evening, the oldest of the group (perhaps 30) told me she did the work she did in hopes of purchasing a mattress for her three children. Their father had moved to Racine, Wisconsin and would be sending for them any day, at least that was the dream she half held for more than ten years. At one point early on, I realized I had seen one of them near the bars on several occasions, but she had been dressed much differently, even her presence had changed in the classroom. She told me she had seen me as well, as had the other two. I did notice that I never saw the three of them "working" again, as I suspected they began to avoid the few places I went out to.
Back in the original classroom, I had been fairly icy with the students. I felt bad for them, but I had not completely forgiven them. The three women always waited outside until the other students had left the classroom completely, and I could tell Mr. Cowell and some of the other students were curious about the second class. Our class never regained the ambiance it once had, but we attended to our business and the students learned. I still got my sticky sweet sky juice, and Mr. Cowell plodded along as earnestly as ever. At the end of the second month, after I had lost one of the three women, I was resolved to bring the other two back to the larger class. I sat down one evening with the original group and told them flatly of my intention. They muttered and made small protests. I explained that the two students had worked very hard, and that they deserved to be in a proper classroom. I went on to say that I was growing very weary of teaching a double class. Perhaps it was the latter appeal that moved some of them. When the following week arrived, most of the students returned, a few did not. The two women quietly sat in the back, and we continued to do our work into the next year. The class was never the same, we laughed far less often, but we all learned. I settled for tolerance when I was aiming at acceptance.
I don't think the women changed their profession while I was there, and I know the two groups never really interacted, but I was grateful for the peace we finally settled on. Mr. Cowell and I remained friends, and I had the hope that the seeds we sowed eventually spawned simple and honest dreams. I cling to that hope every time I step into a classroom anywhere.

On Another Jamaican Mountaintop

Never thought I would write about this, really only told the story when I was drunk, and it has been more than seventeen years since I last took a drink. I think about it most days, but it doesn't haunt me like it used to. It happened twenty four years ago on a lonely mountaintop in the cockpit country of Jamaica, south of Montego Bay. It began and ended in a few minutes, and I never knew what happened to the baby or her mother. I never dared return.
It was in my second year as a Peace Corp Volunteer doing literacy work on the western side of the island. I had complained a lot and persuaded a local Rotarian to help me secure a motorcycle from PC headquarters (our director was a big Rotarian, in many ways). PC did not look favorably on my assignment, as literacy work was not popular with the government at that time. But through persistence and some help, I got a nice new Honda 250 dirt bike - perfect for traipsing around the Jamaican countryside.
As in any proper myth, there was a steep price to pay for this political victory. This new motorcycle had a small glitch - the back tire would go flat every few days. I ordered new tubes, tried to get the rim fixed, everything to no avail. I learned how to remove the back tire and fix the flat in a matter of minutes, and resolved myself to my fate. Sisyphus would have been proud - I fixed that flat three times a week for a year!
Once I got the motorcycle, my work as a Field Agent truly took off. I visited remote schools, did trainings, and eventually established new classes in places few westerners had ever been. It was in one small community (about six shacks actually), that I encountered the worst experience of my life. I was on a mountain just above Horseguard, looking for a small church that had expressed interest in the program. There were no signs, and few landmarks to guide me. I stopped once to ask a older gentleman for directions. He pointed a worn hand in the direction I was travelling and said "gwan up so pas tree duppies." Now I knew the direct translation - Go on up past the three ghosts. The ghost part confused me. I smiled and thanked him and took off. About four miles up the road I saw a small house with three gravestones in the yard - the ghosts. To the north of the house was a tall slope and I could see a steeple just bobbing ahead of the crest. I put the bike in low gear and climbed a seldom used path up and over the top. There were a few shacks scattered about and one small but meticulously cared for church. I drove up towards the church when I saw a woman emerge from a shack with a small bundle in her arms. I thought she might help me find the pastor. I was wrong.
At first, the woman didn't seemed panicked. I think she was confused. She approached me and held out the swaddled bundle speaking an urgent patois (the Jamaican language) so thick I could barely understand her. In the next few minutes that seemed like a decade, I came to understand that she had mistaken me for a doctor that sometimes had made visits to the area. She kept thrusting the bundle at me, and I kept trying to understand. At one point she slowed down and I got her to unwrap the baby. It was barely breathing, and I could tell it was very sick. I then tried to get her to get on the bike with me to go down to town to a hospital. She did not understand and somewhere at sometime in that linguistic struggle, the baby gave up. She looked down at the child, who was now in my arms, and she began to sob violently. At that point, a few other folks had walked up and they gently took the baby from my hands, and guided the woman and her dead child back in to the shack. As quickly as that it was over, I was alone on that mountaintop staring at my useless hands. I turned slowly and got on my motorcycle and made my way back down the mountain. I went home, laid down on my bed and begged God to let me cry. He did not. Later, I learned to cry when I drank.

On a Jamaican Mountaintop

I don't know when I first realized I wanted to join the Peace Corps, and i don't know why -the desire just seems to have always been there. When I finished my bachelor's degree I applied, not knowing it could be a year-long process. While the application was pending, I decided to go to graduate school and was accepted at Oklahoma State University in Ancient Mediterranean Civilizations. I spent a year learning Latin and Greek, and reading some really old books. It was fascinating, but the interaction between my professors really turned me off. They fought, and lived what I thought were pretty insulated lives. I knew then that I wouldn't be a professor, I couldn't live the rest of my life that narrowly.
After a year, my Peace Corps invitation arrived - I was headed to Jamaica. I was not thrilled at all, many of my friends had been there, and I wanted to head out across the world. Despite my reluctance, I accepted the offer to teach Educational Psychology at a teachers college in Montego Bay. The thought of teaching at a college was interesting, so I steadily grew more excited about the assignment.
After two weeks of training in Kingston, I was told that the teachers college had closed. The Peace Corps officials would look for a new assignment for me while I finished my training. After five more weeks, nothing had materialized. I went in to see my supervisor, and he suggested I take a bus up to Montego Bay, look around and see what I could find. I jumped at the chance. The next morning I headed off in a bus to Mo Bay. I found a really nice cheap hotel and made my way around the town. It wasn't very big, but it was very friendly. I spent a good part of the day explaining I wasn't a tourist and asking for various educational institutions. Later in the afternoon, I drifted down a backstreet and saw a very colorful sign that said JAMAL - The Jamaican Movement for the Advancement of Literacy. I walked into the building and up a long stairway where I met the most engaging man in Jamaica, at least I thought so. His name was Errol Drummond, and he supervised the literacy programs on the western side of the island. I explained my situation, and he suggested I might like to visit an adult literacy class that evening. We made arrangements to meet later and I headed off to freshen up at my hotel.
Later, near sundown, I returned to the office to find him waiting with another man in a Landrover. I climbed in and he told me it would take a few minutes to get to the class. An hour later, we were deep in the cockpit country of Western Jamaica. The ride was bumpy and rough, but we had fun talking, and I learned a lot about the literacy work there. Finally, we began driving up a very steep hillside and he told me the class was at the top of the ridge. As we crested the summit, I saw a very dilapidated shack in the distance. It seemed to be leaning to the right precariously, and I could see light from the inside pouring out between the rough-hewn planks. We pulled up near the building and he and I got out. As we approached the doorway, he nodded and had me go in first. When I stepped in, I was alarmed - the room was full of Jamaicans. They were crammed around desks, a few sat in the rafters, and they were all staring at me. The desks were pushed almost up to the blackboard (the front wall painted black) and I barely had room to edge my way to the other side. I got to the wall, turned around and pressed myself to the wall, there was literally room for nothing else. I expected my host to come in and to teach the class. He didn't emerge right away and I nervously turned and looked into what seemed to be a sea of dark faces. I nodded hello, and about a million teeth became visible as they smiled and greeted me in the dimly lit room. The light by the way came from a few hurricane lamps tacked crookedly to the walls. After about thirty seconds (or three hours, if you had asked me then), a piece of chalk came flying in from the darkness outside and a remote voice said "Teach them something, I will be back in a few hours."
Stunned, I stepped up to the board and began writing words. I decided we would review verbs: Run, Leave, Flee, Vacate, Bolt, Escape, etc. They didn't get the connection, and after a few minutes I settled down. The following few hours flew by and I had a wonderful time. We laughed, I answered questions, we talked about Jamaica and the USA. They wrote everything down in their little workbooks (at least what their language abilities allowed)very neatly, and I waited patiently as they did so. I discovered in that first evening with these students what four years of my own schooling in teaching education had failed to accomplish - I knew I was a teacher, and I knew what I would be doing the rest of my life, with passion and love. I became a teacher that evening.
I spent the next year teaching adult literacy classes in the evening while teaching at an orphanage in the day. The second year I stopped teaching full time at the orphanage (they had found a Jamaican teacher which was appropriate), so I increased my role at the literacy agency. I became a field officer, travelling around the western side of the island setting up and supporting literacy classes. It was the best year of my life. I didn't go to Jamaica to teach adult literacy, but I left Jamaica with a lifelong passion.

"Peace Corps Moments"

I served as a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) twice - Jamaica 1985-1987 and Yemen 1988-1990, and I worked as an Associate Peace Corps Director (APCD) in Tanzania from 1999-2000. I don't remember when I first decided to join the Peace Corps, just seemed like I was destined to do it. I had a fantastic, brutal, fun, traumatizing, enlightening, depressing, life-changing, and incredible time. I was not a model volunteer, I made a lot of mistakes, and I had some successes. Like many experiences in my life, I rationalized my errors by my contributions, as if they were necessarily related (e.g., I made this big mistake, felt bad about it, worked twice as hard for three months to make up for it, etc.). To make matters worse, the wonderful people I worked with in those countries were very forgiving and willing to focus on the good things I did, making it easier for me to fail. I know I made a positive impact in all three places, and I know I made mistakes. But I am less inclined to weigh them together anymore, wishing instead that I could learn to avoid the errors, knowing that I could and should.

I had an idealized notion of the Peace Corps when I went in, and twenty-five years later, I still do. I met some incredible people during my tours - fellow volunteers, PC staff, host country nationals, etc. During those six years, I had many of what I call "Peace Corps Moments", those instances when the world was perfect, and I connected spiritually with the mission and people involved. There is no drug than can match it (good thing too, or this blog would be about other types of issues :) Here, in no particular order, are several of those moments that I will always treasure:

Jamaica - "Rapping in the Rain" While waking home from the orphanage I worked at, it began to rain as it often does in Montego Bay, by the buckets. There was no shelter, and I just pressed on. I soon caught up to a group of school boys who were drenched and enjoying themselves as they ambled home as well. One looked up at me and began to sing a song by Yellow Man I think. It was most likely the only song that kid knew that I was familiar with. He was shocked when I sang the second line with him. They all burst into laughter, and we walked the next mile or so together singing in the rain, soaked to the skin.

Yemen - "All's Well That Ends Well..." I was walking from the Eritrean refugee camp I lived in towards the local village. I noticed a group of Eritrean women circled around something speaking in an excited and nervous manner. They were lovely women, thin, dressed in colorful, flowing batiks. Huddled there in the desert landscape, it was if Seurat met Remington, had a few drinks, and worked together in perfect juxtaposition. I wish I could paint.... I walked over and discovered that they were standing around an abandoned well. At the bottom of the well, maybe eight feet down, were several burlap bags. These women had very little, and those bags had great value and utility for them. They were trying to reach down with sticks to no avail. I greeted them, looked down into the well and told them I could help. To their horror, I began to ease myself down into the well, feet on both sides of the well walls. I inched down until I reached the bottom. I braced myself and began to throw the bags up and out. I was very pleased with myself at that moment, as I was heroically saving the day. I should have realized that that sort of self aggrandizing sentiment is usually followed by a very humbling reality check, for me at least. As I reached down to grab the final bag, I heard a sickening cracking sound. Two thoughts crashed instantly into my head: What kind of well in the desert is only eight feet deep, and why didn't I just go into the village and buy a dozen burlap bags for a few dollars. As the false bottom of the the well began to give way I grabbed the bag and jumped up. I was able to hold myself against the wall, but climbing up was difficult. The women were frantic and began reaching down to save me, the hero. One grabbed my arm, but at about ninety pounds, began to slide in. The others grabbed her and began tugging. It must have been very comical to anyone watching. I knew I was in no real danger, but the look of desperation and determination on their faces was incredibly moving. They hauled me and the bag out of the well and we all collapsed in a heap. I raised my head, looked at them, smiled and said "no problem" in Arabic. I have never seen a group of women laugh that long and that hard since - well, at least sober women.

Tanzania - "School's Out" I was doing a workshop for Peace Corps Volunteers and their Host Country Counterparts at a college campus in the middle of the country. I did several sessions throughout the day, and I was very aware how boring some of it was for the volunteers - I had been through this twice before as a volunteer myself. But the counterparts were fantastic, they were eager to learn and soaked up everything I had to offer. Typically though, they asked no questions during the sessions. In my final session of the day, I worked just with the counterparts and had a great time. I had brought a few dozen assorted textbooks along, and handed them out during the session as rewards and incentives. It was as if I had dispersed treasure. That evening after dinner, the volunteers congregated and drifted off towards a makeshift disco. I stayed behind in the cafeteria talking to a few of the counterparts. Slowly, the others came over asking questions about things they had read in their books (most of the books were about education, and I was familiar with the content). They were very excited and before I knew it, there were at least twenty of them sitting in a circle discussing the concepts. I slowly moved out of the center of the circle and the discussion raged on. Men and women alike were talking, debating, and laughing as only a group of dedicated, caring professionals can. I interjected here and there, but they carried most of the evening's work. When I did think to look at my watch, it was 2am. We had outlasted the disco! I have found these experiences to be very humbling. They were simple, authentic moments with great people.