Host Families and Their Influence On Experiencing A Country

Host families. Arguably the most important people in shaping our experience here during both training and into our final sites. Requiring a level of patience unheard of in most people, our host families are very much in the running for sainthood (except that I'm not sure there actually are saints in Islam...). I'll fully admit I'm not an easy person to put up with, let alone live with back in the states, I'm sure it really helps when I'm in a foreign culture with zero language abilities.

But yet, my host family took me in as one of them. They put up with my responses of “yes” to questions like “when are you going to be home?,” or, better than that even, my blank stare, followed by an overly enthusiastic smile, nod, and walk away after being told something, in the hopes that it wasn’t too important. They cheered me on when I was so proud of the fact that I said “I want water” before I filled up my water bottle. They give me a hard time when I still can’t remember a word they’ve told me at least 50 times, then tell it to me, just once more. They do my laundry for me. They got so excited when my final site city comes on the news that they called everyone into the living room to watch with me, even if I couldn’t understand what the reporter is saying about my city. They take care of me when I’m so sick that I refuse to leave my bedroom. They double check my Arabic script homework and politely tell me I wrote my name as “Honika” instead of “Monika” and this is what an “H” is supposed to look like, and this is what an “M” is supposed to look like. But more than anything else, they take care of me when I’m at my most vulnerable.

The first day I arrived at my host family for Community Based Training, I was exhausted. It had been a long day of traveling from Rabat to Fes. Then attempting to go from Fes to our CBT site, ending up somewhere in Seffrou instead, and finally arriving in Bouderhem after dark, in the rain, carrying everything we own on our backs. We got dropped off at the Dar Chebab, then, as a group, we all walked to our host families together, stopping as we went through town as we hit each house. Knocking on the door of my host family and having the door open, it was, more than anything else, a feeling of “Here’s the American you ordered! Feed her three meals a day, bathe her once a week, and please return her in good condition at the end of March. She does not come with a manual, all sales are final.” My feeble attempts at simply stuttering “My… name…is… Monika” in a language foreign to me was overshadowed by the immediate swarm of hugs and kisses and all of my bags being taken from me and up to my room, while I was led to a couch by the TV, given a blanket and 2 pillows, then stared at for the rest of the night to make sure everything was perfect. If I moved at all, everyone jumped up to ask if I was going to bed or the bathroom or what I needed (all communicated through hand gestures and pointing, since I had no idea what they were saying). I just wanted to pee…

But 2 months later, saying goodbye to them only further proved to me how incredible they really are, and how much they really did care about me and want the best for me. As I packed my bags Friday evening with my host sister helping, my host mom walked into the room and asked: “When are you coming to visit?” If I knew how to say “Dude I haven’t even left yet” in Darija, I would have. But sadly, my new site is 8 hours south, and it’s not exactly and easy day trip to pop in for lunch with them. I explained to her that my parents in America were coming to visit in December, and they defiantly want to meet the people who took such good care of me, and we would be there then. She counted it out on her fingers, and informed me that was 9 months away, all with a very dissatisfied look on her face, waiting for my new answer to the question of visiting. I honestly do wish I had a better answer.

When I head to my final site on Thursday, I will, once again, be moving in with a host family. It’s a really strange feeling to know that I’m going to suddenly be moving into another family after getting so close to the first family. In many ways, it feels like I’m cheating on my first host family. But when it comes down to it, there really is no way for the new family to have the same impact on my life here in Morocco as the first family did. This time, I’ll be going in with enough language to communicate, and with more confidence to survive day to day life here. This family isn’t going to see my change and improvement like the last family did, and won’t be the ones to take me in when all I wanted to do was cry a little bit while wondering what the hell I got myself into this time. The connection all of us trainee’s make with our CBT host families is completely unique, and cannot be duplicated.

But that’s why we have host families in the first place. If it wasn’t for them, our experiences here in Morocco would be crucially different, and our task of integrating into a community would be vastly more difficult. We can be taught lessons on cultural norms and faux pas all day long, but it’s a host family that truly teaches us the culture of this beautiful country. By living with a family, we are given the amazingly unique chance to experience a countries culture from the inside. From behind the doors that normally hide what we shouldn’t be seeing. We learn how to interact on the most intimate levels with the people of our new home.

If we had spent all of training in a hotel, then immediately moved into our own apartments in final site, we would have missed out on a huge aspect of this culture. And when our job is to integrate into a community and work with the children of that community, it’s vital that you understand how to do that. To understand that having tea at someone’s house is just as much, if not more, important than teaching an English class in the Dar Chebab. And host families teach us that. Along with the knowledge that you’ll ruin the meal for everyone if you eat with your left hand, and that shoes should always always always come off before you walk on the carpet, and that you should not under any circumstance eat the meat in the meal until the head of the house has divided it up and given it to you. Without a host family, how would we know these things? Even being told them doesn’t teach you how to do them. It’s my host family that taught me these things.

I’ve been told that for many volunteers, the last people they say goodbye to when they Close of Service after two years is their CBT host families, and I can definantly see that being a possibility. I will forever have 2 mothers, 2 fathers, and 2 sisters. 1 set American, and 1 set Moroccan. 

On Jins, Moroccan Names, and the Threat of Evacuation

It's fair to say that during Community Based Training (CBT), I have no life of my own. I wake up at 7:45am Monday though Saturday, head to the Dar Chebab (youth center) at 8:30, have language class until 12 or 12:30, head home for lunch until I need to be back at the Dar Chebab at 2:00, at which point I either have another language class or a cultural lesson, then teach kids at the Dar Chebab from about 4-6pm, head home for dinner, study, and sleep. Without fail. Until I get sworn in as a full-fledged, official, scared-shitless volunteer on March 27th, this will continue to be my life. And even after that, I can't necessarily say things will go back to being "normal." Whatever that even means.

One of the most entertaining cultural session we've had up until this point, however, has been on Moroccan superstitions and jins. Jins can more or less be translated into 'genie', although in American culture genie often comes attached to a connotation of lamps and bottles and a big blue cloud of Robin Williams voice. In Morocco (actually, it's out of the Quran to be more precise), jins were the first inhabitants of Earth. The world is occupied by humans, jins, and angels, and like humans, jins can be good, bad, or neutral. As far as superstitions go, it is incredibly interesting to be an outsider in a culture and hear the superstitions that are believed and sometimes followed. Please read the list below with an open mind, as Moroccan culture is not yours to judge, nor is it mine to judge. Remember, American's have crazy superstitions too (break a mirror and get 7 years bad luck, don't walk under a ladder, knock on wood, black cats on Halloween, etc). While I plan on having much more extensive conversations on jins over the course of my time in Morocco, here is what I've gathered so far on jins as well as superstitions in Morocco (because, as my trainer stated, "Today we'll learn about superstitions and jins. Jins are not superstitions. Jins are real."):

• Jins: 
• You cannot pour water direction from the hot water tap down the drain, you must mix at least a drop of cold water with it, because the jins live in the drains. If you run straight hot water down the drain, you run the risk of the jin coming up and possessing your body. 
• Moroccans use salt in everything. Lots of salt. This was explained finally when we discussed jins, as jins cannot consume salt. Therefore, if you salt your food, the jins will not sit with you at your meal, and the salt will keep you safe from their presence. 
• It is believed that jins have the legs of a goat, but the rest of their body is a mystery and can be any of a variety of combinations. 
• If someone is laying on the floor and you step over them, they'll never grow. 
• If your right hand itches, it is a sign that in some form, money will be coming to you soon. Alternatively, if your left hand itches, you will be losing money somehow in the near future. The list of other left/right superstitions is quite extensive...
• If you hit a girl with a broomstick, she'll never get married. 
• At a wedding, if you drink from the same cup as the bride, or eat from the same plate, you will also get married soon (similar to throwing the bouquet at an American wedding). 

As for Moroccan names, many Peace Corps Volunteers find they are given a "Moroccan name" at some point during their service. This could be for a number of reasons. Maybe you just remind someone of a daughter or friend with a certain name. Maybe your real name has sounds in it that are not common in Darija and difficult to pronounce. Or, in my case, maybe a 3 year old doesn't quite understand the difference in American names and Moroccan names and said the closest sounding Moroccan name he could think of and pronounce. I write this blog currently under the new identity of Malika (not a bad name to be fair, since it translates to 'Queen' in Darija). So far, 3 of the 5 of us in my CBT have been given Moroccan names, although I still hold the pride that the most adorable 3 year old out there gave me mine, even if he has since switched to calling me Monika (this kid is going to be super confused by the time I leave Bouderhem). 

I asked my Moroccan trainer today about using my Moroccan name in a more permanent format, and the implications of doing so. I know other volunteers who introduce themselves to the kids at the Dar Chebab as their Moroccan names, but it is obviously a little strange to take the step to introducing yourself as a different name. I was also a little hesitant simply because my name translated into 'queen' and I didn't want to show up overconfident and cocky and introduce myself as the queen. On the other hand, I liked the idea of giving myself a little bit more anonymity to my students and being able to separate my work and personal life a little bit (and make it so you can't really find me on Facebook...). As my teacher explained to me though, by speaking Darija and introducing myself by a Moroccan name, I introduce myself as a member of the community, having integrated and accepted their culture, rather than being an American foreigner, seen as an outsider. By accepting Malika, I am accepting my new home and culture, and reaching out to my community to be accepted as one of them. By the end of the day today, our entire Dar Chebab knew me as Malika, so I guess step one is a go. 

The other really interesting part of being here in Morocco at this time in life is the insane politics always going on around us. I remember finding out that I was going to be in either Morocco or Jordan, and calling my mom wondering why I never thought to ask for this region before. It is by far the most exciting place in the world right now, with so many changes happening so fast. Unfortunantly, that doesn't always lead to good things. Between Libya, Syria, Egypt, and Mali, I'm definantly in a unique situation getting the chance to live in this region right now. 

Our CBT family

My CBT group has a fairly unique makeup as well in comparison to other training groups. It's made up of: me, the youngest of the total of 95 of us in our entire training staj, Richard, who is 23 from Colorado, Andrew, about to turn 40 from Minnesota, and Barb and Art, who are a retired married couple in their early 60's from Connecticut. Between the 5 of us we bring in some very different viewpoints, covering a few different generations, and essentially covering the viewpoints of the entire geography of the United States, minus the deep south. The last 3 days straight we have managed to end up in some sort of deep political discussion about American politics throughout the world and domestically. It has really added a new level to this experience here in Morocco. I'm finding the more time I spent away from my culture and running from my country, the more I connect myself to it and learn to understand it in ways I never could while I was back in the states. 

But back to the point of evacuation here. Richard and I were discussing one day on a bus ride from Fez to Seffrou what we thought was the potential of being evacuated out of Morocco by the Peace Corps while we are here. For this to happen, some event would have to take place to make Peace Corps feel like it was in the best interest of our safety to no longer remain in Morocco. We would be brought together and flown out to a big fancy hotel in either Paris or Turkey for up to a month while they decide if it's safe to return to Morocco, and sent back to the states or off to other Peace Corps assignments if it remains unsafe. After 9/11, all volunteers were evacuated out of Morocco, and we currently have 2 trainee's in our staj who re-enrolled after recently being evacuated after 10 months in country in Mali when fighting broke out there. 

In my own opinion, I think we have a 50/50 shot during our time here to be either evacuated, or at least consolidated as a precaution at some point during our service here. It's tough to predict though. Morocco is a fairly peaceful country stuck in the middle of an unstable region. However, there are still factions of Al Qaeda within Morocco, despite the Moroccan governments intense efforts to smother them. And with U.S. forces heading into Mali now as well, it adds a new possibility. Ultimately though, it's impossible to know. If anything, it will be an abrupt and traumatic change if evacuation does happen, and I debate on if I think I would join Peace Corps again after going through that process. I really don't know. But I do know that, as much as I joke about it, I still hold that I'm pretty sure I would find out that something happened in Morocco from my parents back home calling to make sure I'm safe after they saw something on the news before I'd find out I was being evacuated. Food for thought I suppose. 

Signing out, 

Malika

An Open Letter To My Mom

Dear Mom,

No matter what culture I experience, I’ve always found one thing universal: The love a mother has for their child. Although it may not seem that children are valued as much as in American culture in some places, I think it’s only just expressed differently. It may not always be apparent, going day to day with a seemingly cold relationship, little interaction or affection. Or maybe it will be apparent, in the laughing, the dinnertime conversation, or the assistance with homework. But no matter what, when in need, a mother is always there for their child, whether American, Kenyan, Moroccan, or any other culture.

I know sometimes (alright, honestly, most of the time) my aspirations and choices in life make you want to have a panic attack. In some ways, I’m sure you might have wished I would have simply graduated college and gotten a normal job and not decided to run rampant on the world. But I know at the end of every day, when I burrow under my 4 blankets and sleeping bag and can still see my breath, that you are proud of me. I know you and Dad both go to work each day with the latest of my updates to share with your friends.

But remember this as well: The first thing I did my first night with my Moroccan host family was to show them the pictures of my family back home. Without you and Dad to show me what hard work meant, to show me what the world has to offer, and to show me that my own potential never stops, I could never have had a chance to give you stories to tell. Never do I have a day that I do not at some point think, “Man… I wish mom were here to see this” or “Damn, what would dad think right now?” Whether you realize it or not, you travel with me through each and every one of my adventures, and I make sure to never lose sight of who made those adventures possible.

I remember, Mom, when you first went back to school to get your degree. You took a leap of faith and followed your dreams. While my 4^th grade self may not have really understood what was going on at the time, I’m so proud of you for what you’ve done. You taught me that it was never too late to do what you want to do with your life, and, if you work hard enough, anything is possible. You raised me to know that I could be whoever I wanted to be, and through thick or thin, you would stand by me. Even through my lowest lows and my greatest achievements, you were my rock. You were who I called at the end of the day. You were who I wanted to tell my stories too, and you were who I was most afraid to disappoint when I messed up.

The more I travel and the further I get from home, the more I realize how strong your love for me is. On those days when I had no motivation to do my Peace Corps application, and you kept nagging me about it, those were the days when you put your fears on the backburner so I could follow my dreams. I can’t begin to guess the number of times in the last month that you’ve wished me back home. The stress and worry you face everyday are because you loved me so much that you trusted me to follow my dreams. And in my times of doubt, you were the one that told me I could do it.

I can’t image being the mother of independent, pain-in-the-ass, obnoxious me. I would have a heart attack if I had to wait each day for the latest email or update that I’m alright. But you do it. Because you love me. Because of that, I do everything I can to make sure you always know that I’m okay. And when I’m maybe not okay, I still tell you I am, because just being able to tell you that will make me okay.

I love you so much, and you have given me everything in life.

Monika

How a McChicken Made Me Realize I'm In Morocco

The longer I’m here, the more I keep waiting for the ‘Ah-ha!’ moment. You know the moments. Those moments when you suddenly realize what you’ve always wanted is happening, or when you realize you’re doing something awesome, or with incredible people. Sometimes those moments hit, but honestly, sometimes you only think they’re coming, but they never hit. Today, my ‘ah-ha, I’m in Morocco’ moment came at the most unexpected moment; While I sat in McDonalds, of all places.

It’s an incredible surreal feeling to sit in a McDonalds in a foreign country. I have been told by many people that it is their habit to make sure they go to McDonalds every time they travel somewhere new, since it’s always just a little bit different depending on what country you’re in, and I have to say, this is now my new habit as well. So how did I decide that McDonalds was the best choice of all of the restaurants in Fes to have dinner at, you ask? Simple: We were incredibly lost, we had been walking for a couple hours by that point, we were hungry, and thought it was funny that we found McDonalds. Done and done.

To start, the McDonalds here is an upscale restaurant for Moroccans to go to. Converting the amount of Dirhams I paid for my McChicken, fries and drink, it was almost exactly the same amount as I’d pay in Dollars in America. Controlling for inflation and simple exchange rates though, that’s nowhere near the same price. I bought a half kilo of mandarin oranges and two candy bars today for a grand total of 8 Dirhams, my hotel room in Fes for one night was 82 Dirhams, and my McChicken, fries, and drink cost me 52 Dirhams. You see now the difference. I will also add that it was by far the fanciest McDonalds I’ve seen in my life.

As I sat there with two fellow Peace Corps Trainee’s, we discussed the differences between a Moroccan McDonalds and an American McDonalds, as well as simply the differences between an American meal and a Moroccan Meal. For one, it blew our minds that the Moroccan McDonalds was two floors, with a balcony seating and patio seating, while an American McDonalds obviously is not that. We realized as we looked around that going to McDonalds is a big deal here. It costs a lot of money, it’s a different kind of cuisine, and it’s something special. It was undoubtedly a special treat for us as well to get a little ‘taste’ of home. Our stomachs were suddenly quite confused as to why we suddenly weren’t inhaling an absurd amount of sugar and a stupid amount of bread with our meal. Dear stomach: I miss salt.

I mentioned earlier that people like to make sure they hit McDonalds everywhere they go so they get a ‘cultural experience.’ I understood it today as I saw a McFondue on the menu. No, I’m not making this up. I swear. The longer I am here in Morocco, the more I understand the true influence that France’s colonization has on Morocco, although I have not yet had enough language experience to truly understand the past of my new home. My friend Richard and I have a running joke that we are going to get tattoos on us in Arabic that says ‘We’re not French.’ The official language of Morocco is Darija, yet most official documents are still printed in French anyways. It’s an interesting thing to experience, since official documents are in French, school classes are taught in French, and any white person is spoken to in French (even if we insist of Darija). For the older generation of Moroccans, who do not understand French (and shouldn’t have to technically, since French is not an official language), receiving important documents in a language they do not understand is a painful reminder of their country’s past.

Let’s get back to the point though. What’s the most American thing out there? McDonalds. At the end of a difficult week of sorely missing home, McDonalds seems like the perfect solution of culture shock and homesickness. Of all things that have happened to me up till this point, it really did surprise me that it was McDonalds that would supply me with the ‘ah-ha’ moment I had been waiting for. It was the very surreal feeling to be the only American’s sitting in a McDonalds in North Africa, eating exactly the same food I’ve ordered back home many times, but feeling like I was spending a night on the town while I did so. Seeing Moroccan culture and an American icon mashed into a single entity is exactly what it took to have it all hit me.

My friends and I walked away from that meal laughing incredibly hard at the complete absurdity of our situation. We had spent all day traveling, we had taken a taxi to one location, and didn’t have enough language to explain where our hotel was to the return voyage taxi driver, ended up walking for 2 hours whilst very lost, stumbled upon a McDonalds, and ate our meals while an entire restaurant of Moroccans stared at us. Believe me when I continue to say everyday is an adventure here. 

What is Culture Shock in a technological age?

Admit it or not, our world is becoming more homogenous. The invention of the internet was essentially the beginning of the end for any sort of individualism, whether on a personal level, or a cultural level. There are critics out there who claim the invention of Facebook and the worldwide spread of internet access have minimized, if not eliminated, the idea of culture shock when traveling, and this is a bad thing. I’ll admit it, being able to access my email or my Facebook from 5000 miles away is a really nice feature. Peace Corps was founded in 1961, and those first volunteers are much braver than I’ll ever be. They were the one’s willing to step up and move across the world for two years, with no ability to communicate back home but snail mail. It’s a different age today. But is the internet really the cause of the loss or diminishment of culture shock?

I got home from the Dar Chebab yesterday to find my host sister watching Tom and Jerry on Nickelodeon, followed by Over The Hedge (in English, with Arabic subtitles). When I walked in today, Nickelodeon was on again, this time airing Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire (again, in English, with Arabic subtitles). I think this is the first clue that the internet is not to blame entirely for the loss of culture shock. I’m willing to admit, I got really excited when I saw those on, and eagerly sat down to watch with her. It was great to get a little taste of home like that.  When my host dad got home, he changed the channel to the news (in Arabic this time, obviously). The first commercial that came on, though, was one of those ‘text this number to get this ringtone’ thing, advertising Adele ringtones. The next was a “Gangam Style” ringtone.

Let’s keep in mind here that I’m currently in a village with a population we guess to be maybe 500 people, on a good day, up in the Atlas Mountains, in the middle of Morocco. It’d be one thing if I was in the capitol getting all of this, but even here, in the middle of nowhere, American culture has infiltrated everyday life. I could go a month without touching a computer or Facebook, and still my level of culture shock would be much lower than even 10 years ago. But how does the internet and Facebook play into this picture? My host sister has already asked if I have Facebook, and what my last name is so she can friend me. Over half of the world’s internet users have an account on the site. Obviously it plays a role here. Traveling has a new dimension to it these days, with my ability to now stay in touch with people I met in foreign lands, plus be able to move away from America for two years and still talk to my parents on a daily basis.

I think having the ability to communicate back home constantly hasn’t necessarily made it easier to be gone for so long, but instead it has just really changed what it looks like to be a Peace Corps Volunteer nowadays. 50 years ago, the first volunteers started in a country without any contact back home but unreliable mail systems. Their culture shock and loneliness was immediate and obvious. There were no familiar faces to fall back on, and they were forced to become independent fast, really fast. The internet has delayed that process and made it easy to hide when someone is struggling to adapt. Sometimes the volunteer themselves don’t even realize for awhile how much trouble they’re having, and it makes for a very different kind of struggle and loneliness than PCV’s coped with 50 years ago.

Instead of being hyperaware of how alone you are, and having nobody to fall back on like the first PCV’s were, today’s volunteers often seem to fall back on an illusion of support. Now, in no way do I mean this to say that all of you back home aren’t supporting me. You are, and I love you to the moon and back for it. What I mean by this is that you aren’t actually here with me, moving from one day to the next along side of me. While it often feels like there are so many people to turn to, the fact is, and I’m still in a village in the mountains of Morocco, learning to survive from one day to the next. The advice many current volunteers have given me is to make sure to fall back on my friends here in Morocco when I’m having a rough day, rather than calling back home. The other PCV’s here are going to be a better support and know what I’m going through, rather than making me feel even more disconnected after talking to someone so far away that really doesn’t know what’s going on here. If you rely on people back home, it can often mask the loneliness or struggles, when really, they aren’t the people who are actually available in the moment. I think the initial ability to stay in touch to people back home via the internet simply delays the feeling of loneliness that is necessary to work through in order to be a successful volunteer. But is this loneliness the same as culture shock? I would argue no.

Not to sound arrogant, but whether we like it or not, American culture is invading the world. Even the parts of our culture that we as American’s don’t enjoy, the rest of the world seems to eat up. If its dubbed as ‘American,’ that’s often enough for it to become the latest trend somewhere. Because of this fact, I would argue culture shock is affecting traveling American’s less and less, although travelers visiting America still face it head on. American culture can really be found anywhere you go, and we as travelers can choose to look at this as the loss of a ‘cultural experience,’ or the chance to really see how the world is evolving. Culture shock is really what you make it to be. Internet or not, Tom and Jerry or not, I will always still find things here that challenge me from day to day and show me a very different way of life.  

The biggest differences that cause culture shock now (and the main reason why I say visitors to America still face a heavy dose of culture shock), is interpersonal relations. The fact that in Morocco, men and women simply don’t interact, and certainly don’t have any physical contact, has been a really tough thing to adjust to. My training group has taken to behind closed doors hugs, since guys and girls can’t hug each other anywhere with Moroccan eye’s watching. But with the ability to get online or watch Harry Potter at the end of the day, I really only face the challenge of different personal relations here. On the other hand, picture a Moroccan coming to visit America. Not only do they need to face the intense change in personal interactions, there are no pieces of Moroccan culture floating around in America to be surprised by at the end of a rough day.

I think ultimately, however you spin it, culture shock and international travel are just simply changing. The world itself is changing, and we really have no other choices but simply to adapt. If I want to experience a new culture, it’s really up to me to put the effort in, and I think, to a point, that was just as true 50 years ago. Technology is changing on us, for better or for worse. Humans are still human though, and culture is what we make it to be. 

A Message From A Former Soviet Officer to A Future Expat

Disclaimer: I debated a lot on if I wanted to even post this story in the first place, as there is zero possibility that I can do this experience justice without placing you in the room for the situation. However, I think it’s important for me to at least attempt to pass this along, as it is the most striking lesson I have learned, and a valuable lesson for anyone in my opinion.

Let me introduce for you a man named Viktor. Viktor is one of the Peace Corps medical officers who have been here in Rabat during training, putting on various sessions and giving us all of our vaccinations. He has worked for Peace Corps for many years now, and fairly unanimously is one of our groups’ favorite people to have train us. A thick Russian accent and a brash sense of humor make him impossible to hate. The other day, at the end of a gruelingly boring session which covered medical paperwork and the details of our Peace Corps medical insurance, Viktor stepped up to address our training group.

He began by showing us a picture of his family, with two grown children in their twenties, one son, one daughter. He asked anyone in the room who was under the age of 34 to stand up, and proceeded to tell us he would be addressing us as if we were his children, because he views himself as a father figure to all of us. Immediately, the tone in the room became more serious, as we all sensed something very important was about to be said.

The next picture that he showed was a much younger version of him, many years ago, dressed in military fatigues. He began to tell us about his time that he served in Algeria as a medical officer in the Soviet Army. He showed us other pictures of him with Algerian soldiers that had amputated legs or other extensive injuries. He described this time in his life as one of the most meaningful experiences he ever had. He was given the opportunity to serve a country in which he was so very proud of, and the chance to work with and assist the natives of a country that his own was at war with. Viktor explained to us how we as a human race have evolved to a point where we have created incredible technology. Technology that can take us to great places in life. Technology that we have chosen to use to create the most brutal weapons we can imagine. We have created weapons designed to cause incapacitation, death, and years’ worth of complications for another human being to brutally face.

But Viktor did what he felt in his heart was right. He served his country as dutifully as he could, supplying medical assistance to both his own soldiers and to the injured Algerians that needed aid. Atrocities or no, the Soviet Union was his country, and he was so very proud of it. By this point in his presentation, I couldn’t help but be proud of his Soviet Union as well, if even just for Viktor. He also reminded us at this point, while the vibe of the room seemed to be a general sense of Soviet support, that his was the mid-1970’s. He was our enemy at the time.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering where I’m going with this, or where Viktor was going with this. Before I finish telling Viktor’s story, I need to explain something else. You may be wondering why, in the midst of his explanation on the atrocities of war, I suddenly felt pride for Viktor’s Soviet Russia. How many times in our lives have we been asked if, or stated that, we are proud to be American? I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the occasions, I’ll say that much. America has committed some of the worst atrocities the world has ever seen. Let’s just take the atomic bomb for one example. Undoubtedly a turning point in military technological history, and also undoubtedly a cause of much pride in country for many Americans, officially providing Japanese defeat in WWII. We all have found moments in our lives where we have extreme pride in our country, even in the face of great human destruction on the part of our own government. So why is this? Let’s go back to Viktor.

As he reached the moral of his story, the entire room barely dared to breathe, we were so engaged. Viktor explained to us why our jobs here in Morocco, and for Peace Corps volunteers around the world, are so important. We have the opportunity to represent our country to the world in the most human way possible. His service in Algeria was so meaningful to him, as he had the opportunity to interact with the people of a country he did not belong to, and provide extremely needed medical services. He was able to show himself in a human light to people who otherwise would not have known the Soviet’s beyond a stereotype of “terrible.” American’s around the world are stereotyped, whether loved or hated, and assumed to be many things by many different people. As a Peace Corps Trainee, and soon to be Volunteer, I have the opportunity to represent America in human form. Not as a Hollywood image or a stereotype, I am a living, breathing representation of America.

As Viktor stood in front of me in this specific moment, I tried to imagine him as my enemy. I couldn’t do it. From day 1, he was one of my favorite people at training. I could see in his heart as he told this story how deep his love for his Soviet Russia ran. We have been raised in America to hate the Soviet Union, and, in a lesser way, Russia as well. Undoubtedly though, during his time as an officer in the Soviet Army, he was the enemy of America. Let me try to get to my point though.

People travel for many reasons. One of my reasons, which I really don’t hide, is my distaste for America. I have spent years doing my best to distance myself from America, or wishing I could claim a different nationality. I accept that at some point I will be an expat. I may be working for the federal government currently, but I use it as a way to get outside of the country that, like it or not, is my home.

Viktor’s parting words to us was this: “Do not lose your country. I lost my country, and I cannot get it back. Do not lose your country from your heart.”As he put the microphone down, I’ve never heard 100 people applaud louder in my life, and somewhere from the back of the room came a: “WE LOVE YOU VIKTOR!!” which only made us cheer louder. At this specific moment, I had never been more proud in my life to be American. My country has provided me so many opportunities, and I have been given the gift of the very unique opportunity to represent my country as I feel it deserves to be shown to the people of the world. This is a bold undertaking, but the most important job anyone could possibly have. I learned from Viktor, a former Soviet military officer, enemy of America, to be proud of my America. 

The Mental Jump to Eating Meat For The First Time In 16 Months

When you travel, you’re always going to be crossing barriers. Those barriers could be physical, such as going through customs at the airport, getting into your hotel room for the first time (shut up, the maid had to help us), or simply walking from one neighborhood to the next within the city. Other barriers though, can be mental: gaining the nerve to buy something from a street vendor without any shared language, starting your first lesson in Arabic, or, as I’m about to explain, the mental step it takes to eat meat for the first time in 16 months.

                “You probably should have started working it into your diet again a little sooner…”

                That’s the statement I got from many people when I told them Morocco would be my first time consuming any form of meat in over a year. Many people that had been vegetarians, but like me, planned to eat meat in Morocco, had started a few weeks back in the States. Something with a little chicken broth here, a dish with a little pork in it there, slowly working up how much they ate. If you’ve eaten meat your entire life, it’s not really an issue. When you stop for awhile, though, your body kind of quits caring enough to remember how to digest it. So yeah, I probably should have worked my way into eating it, but the reason I chose not to was solely based in my reason to be vegetarian in the first place.

                I first decided to quit eating meat after my time spent in Kenya, and for the most part, it all boils down to a single afternoon I had in Kenya. There was a day when many of us had decided to stay back at the house for the afternoon rather than go to Ombogo. The women that worked in the kitchen had promised us they’d teach us to make some of our favorite dishes that day, and it seemed like something I wanted to partake in. About four of us spent all afternoon in the kitchen making Chipati (Kenyan tortillas) with the women, really enjoying our opportunity to learn something from them, talk with them, and overall just bond with them.

As we were rolling out all of the dough, one woman also brought into the kitchen a chicken that had just been freshly beheaded and feathered in the courtyard out back. Lacking space to help with the Chipati, I turned around and began to help the woman finish feathering, and begin gutting the chicken. While we were doing this she was pointing out all of the anatomy of the chicken, and telling me about the whole process of how this was going to become our dinner later that evening. As I’m eagerly taking in an unexpected experience and probably way too into gutting this chicken, she finally looks at me to ask a question.

“Have you never eaten chicken in America?” she asked, a little bewildered. “No, of course I have. We eat it quite often actually” I responded, fairly confused and caught off guard by the question.

“So how is it that you’ve eaten chicken, yet never prepared a chicken? How do you eat in America?”

That question is often the line that I cite when I explain to people why I decided to be vegetarian. Trying to explain to a woman in very rural Kenya that chickens are kept on massive farms and that the average person simply walks into a grocery store and buys a chicken that’s frozen and doesn’t actually look anything like a chicken anymore is a difficult task.

Fast forward back to Morocco now. I have zero issues with eating meat I a developing nation. The food is local, it’s fresh, it’s sustainable, and to be honest, it’s just delicious. My issue is with America’s creation of our food. We’re disconnected, unaware, and entirely incapable of feeding ourselves if someone else didn’t do 90% of the work for us. So if my issue is with America’s food system, I don’t really want to use my time in America to prepare for eating meat in another country. Rather, I’d prefer to hold to my reasons, and only eat it in developing nations.

Unfortunately, that lead me to not exactly feel top notch my first day in Morocco. A combination of a red-eye flight to get here, immediate training, and eating meat for the first time, it’s fair to say I wasn’t entirely healthy that first day. However, while I may still do my best during my time here to eat as little meat as possible, my first goal is not to offend. If my host family makes me a meal that has no vegetarian options, I damn well better be eating that meal, and I better be grateful for it. They are kind enough to take me in, help me learn the language, and teach me their culture, the least I can do is return some respect for the culture. And trust me, food is most certainly part of any culture. My personal choices are in no way more important than the respect I owe to my host family. It took a change in mindset to jump that boundary of eating meat again after so long, but in the end, it’s worth it. If I can handle a bit of a stomach ache in order to gain some repertoire with my host family, and show them the respect they deserve, consider it done.    

So You're Moving Away For Two Years......

Packing can be an accomplishment for any trip. Even if you're just going away for a week on the beach, it can still be hard to know what to bring and what to leave behind. If you add international travel to the equation, it gets a little more complicated. Especially if it's to the middle of nowhere in a developing nation, rather than a fancy beach resort in Mexico with all the amenities. Now, picture going somewhere for longer than a week. How about two and a half years? It's a headache to say the least.

Easily the one of the most daunting parts of my preparations for Peace Corps, packing and preparing to pack has consumed my life recently. Here is a complete list of what made the list of necessities, and some not so necessities.....

2 Pair jeans

3 Pair dress pants

3 Skirts (yes, I know... me in a skirt... it's horrifying.)

2 Pairs of shorts

1 Pair of sweat pants

5 T-shirts

2 Dress shirts

4 Long sleeve shirts

3 Polo's

1 Columbia rainshell

1 Fleece jacket

1 Zip-up sweater

1 Hoodie (Bellingham represent!) 

1 Set full-size bed sheets and pillowcase

9 Pair underwear

2 Bras

9 Pair socks

1 Box Ziplock freezer bags

1 Map of Europe

1 Map of Morocco

3 month supply feminine products

2 Boxes of Cliff Bars

2 Bandana's

1 Sowing kit

1 Box Hot-Hands hand warmers (Yes, Morocco is in Africa. No, it's not hot there.)

1 Razor + spare blades

1 Bar soap

1 Bottle shampoo/conditioner combination

1 Tube toothpaste

1 Toothbrush

1 Hairbrush

Various hairties and headbands

1 Tube deodorant

1 Tube sunblock

1 Pack sleeping pills (Jetlag is a bitch. Always remember that.)

1 Nikon Coolpix L120 camera + extra memory card

2 Scarves 

1 Beanie

2 Pairs mittens

1 Pair wool gloves

1 Kobalt multi-tool (Lowe's haunts me still...)

1 Mini-speaker (Best travel investment ever)

6 Books - various

2 Packs note cards

2 Packs colored pencils

1 Pack markers

1 Ace Bandage

1 Hard ankle brace

1 Pack sticky tack (for wall hangings)

1 Pair Keen Sandles (These things are indestructible) 

1 Pair Keen walking shoes

1 Pair hiking boots

1 Pair flip-flops

5 Journals

1 Money belt

Current Converter 

2 Microfiber towels

1 iPod

1 iPod computer cord + wall charger

1 Pair earbuds

1 Pair headphones

Bananagrams 

Uno

Plastic Frisbee

Cloth Frisbee

Hackiesack 

Reusable batteries + wall charger

1 Nalgene water bottle

1 Roll duct tape

1 External hard drive

1 Laptop + charger

1 Sleeping bag

1 Headlamp

1 Flashlight

1 Solar panel accessory charger

1 Waterproof money bag

1 Pocket dictionary

1 Pocket thesaurus 

1 Pack baby wipes

1 Bottle baby powder (helps greasy hair between showers)

8 Seattle postcards (gifts for host family and friends)

2 Calendars with pictures of the Northwest (again... gifts)

1 Backpacking backpack

1 Bookbag

1 Duffle bag

Now, I'm not allowed to have any bag weigh more than 50 pounds, I'm not allowed to have more than 2 checked bags, and I have to be able to carry all of this by myself, at one time. Challenge accepted...

The most organized I've been in years...

Everything laid out, ready to go

3 hours worth of paperwork to complete.

Mission accomplished!

Shoutout to Wendi for some hometown pride here!!

Washington love, through and through.

I got this.

Where is Home?

If someone told you to go home, where would you go? If someone asked you where home is, would your answer be different? The word "home" is an extremely fluid concept. To some, it's wherever you sleep at night, to others, it may be where you grew up, where you've spent the most time maybe. Some may not see a house as a home, but rather refer to a city as home, or maybe even a country.

This is my home, not for the building, but for the memories.

I invite you to consider this idea: Home is about experiences, not places.

In some ways, Bellingham is my home. It's the first place I ever lived alone; the city where my very first house is and always will be. It's where I earned my undergraduate degree, met professors, exchanged ideas, pulled (surprisingly) only a single all-nighter. In Bellingham I learned what bad roommates are, and I learned what great roommates are. I sprained my ankle 6 times in the 3 and a half years living in Bellingham, recovered from one broken heart, and suffered one concussion. I made best friends, and I lost best friends. A single fender bender, 3 calls to 911, and one major legal scare later, Bellingham has been host to some of the most defining points to my life. If I had stayed in Covington after high school, or gone to college in Seattle, or New York, or Alabama, I would be a different human being than I am today. So, more often than not, if someone asks me where home is, I'll tell them Bellingham, Washington.

Times like these made my college dorm home...

So what about all the times I've been at work in Bellingham, so excited to go "home" for the weekend? If Bellingham is home, why do I say I'm going home to Covington? Is one more home than the other? Not at all. They're home differently. Covington is my childhood. It's where my parents raised me, where I learned to drive, where I came out to my best friend. It takes credit for the first time I tied my shoes, all my years playing team sports, and the time I knocked my best friends teeth out playing chicken on a Big Wheel. It is every Christmas morning and Halloween night trick-or-treating of my life. As much as I can't stand Covington, it's always going to be home.

I owe my childhood to Covingon.
I'm the cute kid having her elbow bitten,
my sister is the one ready to punch the camera....

I love Bellingham, I less than love Covington, but I love who I grew to be in both places. Both will always be home. They will be the first two places in a never-ending list of "homes." Give me a month, and Morocco will forever be on my list of places I call home. And if I never came home from Morocco the rest of my life, and forty years from now somebody was to ask me where home was, Covington would still be a perfectly valid answer. Because physical location is forever evolving.

There's a Heraclitus quote that I've always loved: "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man." This is why the concept of home is about experience, not location. One hour from now, Covington will be a different place than it is right now. And one hour from now, I won't be the same person I am right now. We as a population, and as individuals, are always changing and evolving. But once you experience something, nothing can take that experience from you. Home is an ever-evolving compilation of experiences.

So if you want to find home, don't talk to a real estate agent and buy some house somewhere. Go for a walk. Experience your surroundings. Talk to your peers. Explore somewhere new. Make yourself a part of your community. Follow these steps, and only then, you will find a home.

How Do You Say Goodbye For 26 Months?

I'll be the first to admit I'm inept at goodbyes. They generally end with an awkward hug/high-five/fist bump confusion and a last minute "see you later!" Only for me to walk away suddenly feeling like an idiot knowing the chances of literally never seeing that person again in my life. So what is the proper formula for a goodbye? Or is there one? Have you ever actually met someone that's "good" at goodbyes?

As I enter my last month in the United States, saying goodbye is becoming a daily occurrence, often even hourly. Here's what I've learned: Don't make it more than it is, and don't ignore it. 

I often get a romanticized idea of goodbye's in my head. I picture myself climbing onto a wagon and taking off down the Oregon Trail, never to see the old homelands again. This idea of 'never seeing people again' takes over the irrational portion of my brain and blows it out of proportion. Don't do this.

Alright, maybe in the days of piracy and New World exploration, a goodbye was final. Once you left, that was it. But this is 2012. The Wright brothers have come and gone, Alexander Graham Bell gifted us the telephone, and Zuckerberg has enrolled half of the world's internet users. I'm not really falling off the grid here. At the most I'm simply tuning my Facebook posts down to once every few days from slower internet, and paying more for phone calls. The goodbye's are merely physical.

I think that is why I often forget I'm saying a goodbye, and where my odd "see you later!"'s come from. I know I'll still interact with these people, so what exactly is this 'last' connection with them, if not a goodbye? For some, it very well may actually be a "see you later!" Just... a very long later. Others, it may be the end of a face-to-face relationship, and the conversion to a simply online, networking based relationship. You follow each other, you catch up with each other once in awhile, use each other as resources for future life en devours.

But sadly, it is inevitable that some actually are goodbyes. Forever. We all hate to admit it, but sometimes, you just fall away from people. Without school, work, mutual friends, you just seem to... lose touch. It's not vindictive, it isn't even all that sad sometimes, it just happens. You don't really actually have anything to hold a friendship together, you're friends on Facebook but never even virtually interact, and even when you live two blocks apart, you still don't see each other without a big social gathering forcing your paths to cross. It's just how life works.

And this is why I say don't make it more than it is. Time will run it's course. Corny as it is, if you're meant to be friends, you'll stay friends. This is what I've learned while my time in America slowly dwindles. The people I never saw as huge parts of my life came out of nowhere and became my best friend's in a matter of weeks. And the people I thought were the center of my universe I often managed to simply not see. And sometimes that sucked. But sometimes, it just never crossed my mind until the opportunity to see them had already come and gone, and my only option for response was a shrug.

But how do you know who will fall in each category? How can I be sure that reaching out one last time to someone I haven't seen in awhile won't spark a friendship back up? Or that someone you see everyday now won't end up being impossible to stay in contact with? The simple answer is this: you don't.

So again I say, don't make your goodbye's more than they are, but don't ignore them. Make time to see people still. Don't worry, if you have to stay up all night to pack, it will be worth it. You can even try to have a friend come over while you work -- kills two birds with one stone. The last week straight I have gone out to dinner every night with a different person. Sometimes it's somebody that I also had lunch with last week. But sometimes, it's somebody that you haven't seen in over six months, although you've always intended to meet up at some point.

That is what's important. Reach out to people. Make sure you show people that they really mean a lot to you. Go out of your way for the people who have gone out of their way for you, but leave time available for people you rarely see to also realize they want to see you once more. If they've waited until the last possible moment and want to see you still, don't ignore them, but don't ignore yourself. Let them know that you're busy, but give them another option ("Wanna come chill with me while I sort clothes into a 'keep' or 'Value Village' pile?"). People will often say yes.

But always remember one thing: No matter what, tomorrow will still be show up. So don't stress it that much. Do what you can, and accept life's course when you run out of time. I'm still going to get on that plane January 13th, whether I saw everyone I wanted or not. Whether I bought the extra socks I needed or not. Whether I remembered to pack that mug I wanted to save or not. It's going to happen, and that's a glorious thing.

Why This Summer Was The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me

I've told people all my life to live for the moment. Stop accepting unhappiness now, just for the thought of things getting better later. Stop working a job you hate just so that you can have money for the future. Money is meant to be spent, not saved, right? What's the point of having a lot of money in the bank if you never spend it? It always seemed like such an odd concept to live a life unsatisfied, only for the hope that one day you'll get to do what you really want. Just go make your life what you want it to be.

Bellingham Bay, Summer 2012

So what do you do when you have no choice but to hurry up and wait? When you've followed the steps to your dreams, but your dream can't come true until January? What do you do when you're trying to put your life back on course after 6 months of wasted time doing less than nothing, and you want to be passionate about something, but you find yourself stuck in a strange waiting pattern?

It can be argued that I've been on summer vacation since March, which sounds great initially, and it is great... initially. But there comes a point when you want more in life than to work a shitty job, get off work, go downtown to party all night long, head home at 2am with great friends, watch Planet Earth all night, and do it all again the next day. But this summer was weird. It was a summer of life lessons, best friends, great memories, nights I can't remember, zero accomplishments, major steps backwards, and an extremely vague idea of where I wanted my life to be going.

"But what about Peace Corps?" you ask. Well sometimes, you just need to nearly lose it all in order to realize that you actually care about something. True, this was a dream I came up with back in 9th grade, with extravagant desires to travel anywhere that wasn't named Covington, but without the funds to do so. It seemed like the perfect solution; just let the government pay for me to travel. But six and a half years later, it's difficult to describe what my thoughts were on the matter. I don't mean to say that I didn't want to go... Rather, it just wasn't tangible enough to grasp. I was applying because everyone was telling me it was what I was supposed to be doing; I was doing my volunteering because that's what I was told I should be doing; I was telling people I was excited, because I felt like that's how I was expected to feel. By the time I graduated, I honestly couldn't tell if I was pursuing Peace Corps because I wanted to, or because it was just what everyone expected of me. Peace Corps was, at a minimum, at least 9 months away, and never seemed like something that would actually happen in the end. It wasn't tangible enough to live for.

So where did this all change? I went from living for everyone else to living for myself... but how? A series of poor life choices, bad luck on Friday the 13th, and a summer's worth of selfish living all crashed down into a single night of life changing realizations. By the next morning, I knew I wanted Peace Corps, but beyond that, I needed Peace Corps. I needed to feel like my life was headed somewhere important again, and by nearly losing Peace Corps, I suddenly realized where I would be without it. I would be exactly where I had been since I graduated, doing the same thing, every night, with the same people. That thought alone terrified me.

Rabat, Morocco 

That was the moment I started living my life for a reason again. It was a defining point in my life, and, short of my time spent in Kenya, it was the best thing that's ever happened to me. It's tough though, to put things back in place, point my life in the direction I wanted again, and feel like everything was falling into place so fast, only to fall back into a waiting period. I'm back here now, waiting not very patiently for January, and trying so hard to hold onto reality just long enough to catch that jet to Morocco.

This isn't to say that I haven't enjoyed what I've been doing, or who I've been with. On the contrary in fact, I've loved every minute of it. I've made some of the best friends of my life this summer, and had incredible experiences. But I forgot that they weren't the entirety of my existence. So, I suppose what I'm trying to say here is this: it's important to live in the moment, it is. But it's also important to remember that while you must take every opportunity, you also need to make sure you don't miss out on something more important just for that one crazy night right now.

The Motivations of a Movement

"Just talk about what your motivations are! It won't be too hard." This is the response a friend of mine gave me when I asked what I was supposed to be writing. She had approached me with a simple request. Would I be willing to write a guest piece for her blog about global citizenship that addresses my motivations and thoughts on joining the Peace Corps? Of course I agreed instantly. But it got me to thinking: What are my motivations? Why did I sign up to move overseas for 27 months to a remote location all by myself?

The moment anyone asks if I'm excited to go I instantly respond with a rapid "Yes! I couldn't be more pumped." But I guess the question that floats around the back of my mind is simply this: Is this my answer? Or is this the answer people want to hear? Why did I sit down back in December and hit submit on that application? It was seven years ago that 14 year old me came up with the idea to join Peace Corps, and the idea has spread like an infection within me ever since. But when push comes to shove, having that idea is much different than turning it into a reality. 

So why did I do it? Anyone who has watched me through the application process can attest that I haven't been ideally efficient in completing the process. It took over two months to simply finish and submit the application. Then when I found out I needed volunteer hours to qualify, I would be lying if I didn't admit the idea of an easy way out never crossed my mind. And to top the whole process off, my medical packet sat on the floor of my room for over three months, only to be submitted with 2 days to spare before disqualification. But here I am today, all forms submitted and signed, sick of Bellingham, waiting on my assignment, and ready to leave. But again I ask: How did I get here?

Almost a year ago to the day, I first started this blog. It was born out of an intense frustration and a lack of outlets for release, talking about my experiences in Kochia, Kenya, and how those experiences were changing my life on a day to day basis. It was raw, uncensored, and pissed people off. There's an old Chinese proverb that goes something like this: "You have to get off the mountain to see it." And that may have been the theme for that first post. It was easy for me to judge the people around me for living an American lifestyle when I was freshly back from an experience that showed the impacts our society truly has on the world. But as this year as moved forward, I've struggled with a raging internal battle between the American life I was raised in, and the knowledge I have that I don't want to be that way. If there's one thing this year has taught me though, its that old habits die hard.

I've had to learn to compromise with myself, and slowly change my habits. I've managed to not buy a single piece of new clothing for over a year now, I've been vegetarian for eleven months now, I sold my car to live more sustainable, and I stubbornly use a broken cell phone instead of buying a new one. I also bought a new laptop, work a retail job that promotes over-consumption, and don't always buy organic or local foods because I don't want to spend the money. Its the give and take of living an ethical American lifestyle. And its not easy. I ask myself what impact eating just one cheeseburger would have; I debate internally about if I can get away with buying that T-shirt I really like (it is just one new piece of clothing, right?); I some days wish I never sold my car (it would just be so convenient...). But what it comes down to is bigger than me.

And that's why I will leave in January for the Peace Corps. Because this is about something bigger than me. I'm not vegetarian because it's easy. I'm not living a sustainable life (as much as possible) because American society tells me to do so. And I'm not moving abroad all by myself for over 2 years because it seems like an exotic getaway. I do all of this because it's hard, and it's important. I do it because if I don't, who will? If I convinced myself that my actions don't matter, and so do 1,000 other people, nothing will ever improve. I'm moving abroad to push myself to find new limits and challenge my intellect and human nature. I am excited, but I'm also scared to hell and back. But in the end, I will come out stronger, more determined, and ready to fight like hell to make this world something worth leaving for my children. Those are my motivations. 

Are You Happier Than Nigeria?

What makes you happy? I'm sure you've been asked this before at some point. Maybe you even had a specific answer for it. But maybe you also struggled to answer it. Did you struggle because nothing makes you happy? Doubtful. The term happiness is so abstract that it is tough to decide what that means. Even if you know what makes you happy, why is it that it makes you happy? There's an old saying that money can't buy happiness. I'm sure you've heard it. But, if happiness can't be purchased, there is another question: What does happiness cost? I don't mean cost in currency, but it's actual affect. Is your happiness ever at the expense of someone else's happiness? Or is this conversation just going in circles now?

It is estimated that during the colonization of Africa, half of the native population of the continent perished. Picture that for a second. Half of a continent. They were imprisoned, put into slavery, beaten to death, or forced to work themselves to death. All while white men declared the land unpopulated and saw it as open to ownership. Ten million people, at least, perished in King Leopold II of Belgium's Congo alone. 10,000,000 people. That's seven zero's. And that was only during colonization, that does not include the number of people who have died because of the society that was left behind when the European powers pulled out and left the newly independent African nations in shambles. Leopold was so desperate to get his hand on land to colonize that he did not care what he had to do to get that land. He did not see the native Congolese people as human or having civilization. The fact, however, is that already in place were extensive societies and monarchies stretching across the continent, being ruled by Kings and having a successful societal structure in place. When Leopold died and it was discovered the extensive amount of wealth he had attained at the expensive of millions of native lives, people debated who should get that money. Leopold's daughters wanted their share, the Belgium government wanted their share, and Leopold's mistress wanted her share. Nobody ever stopped to consider that the money should go back into the Congo. Why is this? Why was it such an unheard of idea that the Congo had real people living in it, and deserved the profits from their resources and hard work? 

King Leopold believed that the only thing that could make him happy was to have a colony under his rule. He wanted power, recognition, and money. His happiness cost ten million lives, the destruction of societies, and created a system that is still highly impoverished to this day. His happiness was more important in his eyes than the happiness of anyone around him. While clearly this is an extreme case, I challenge you to ask yourself what your happiness costs. 

In America, it is often believed that you need things to be happy. You need the latest iPhone. You need the biggest house. You will not be happy unless you have these things. And while this may be true in the moment, is it really true in the long term? Will the newest iPhone still make you happy when there is a newer iPhone released? How long does that happiness last when you get that phone? I began thinking of this question after I watched a small child throw a tantrum at work because her mother would not buy her a Dora the Explorer book that she wanted. In the midst of her crying, she told her mom that she needed the book. It struck me that we teach these values to our children at such young ages. How is it that a 4 year old already has this idea that they need things to be happy? I guarantee that by the next morning, that girl probably didn't even remember the book, or that she "needed" it. So why was that the only thing that would have made her happy at the time?

Despite the old saying, it is a common belief that happiness follows money. If you have money, you can live a comfortable life, you can buy things you need, you can buy things you "need", you can vacation whenever you want, you can have the best car, you can have a huge house, anything. But do these things really bring happiness? If you do a quick Google search to find the happiest country in the world, most of the sites you get are based off of who has the highest per-capita GDP. Basically, who has the most money. Their descriptions of happiness and how they measure it are all about how money lets you buy things. However, I also found another measurement. The University of Michigan does a survey called the World Values Surveys. In these survey's, they ask people around the world various questions about happiness in order to determine happiness in a measurable form. When asked "Taking all things together, would you say you are: 1. Very happy, 2. Rather happy, 3. Not very happy, or 4. Not at all happy?" they found the country that was the most happy was Nigeria. An African nation that is ranked 175th in the world in per-capita GDP. Beyond this, the next 4 in line were all developing nations as well.

While I believe you can measure happiness many ways, I don't think it is possible to beat a simple personal opinion. Who know's better than you if you are happy? Nobody. So why is it that such a poor nation is so happy and American's aren't? During my time in Kenya, I found in myself that I was happier simply because there was less pressure. People aren't in such a rush to do things or buy things or surpass others. Developing nations often have a large emphasis on community and interpersonal relationships. Children are raised by the village, not by their parents, and there isn't the same fear of others that there is in America. We had a running joke while we were there about a concept called "African Time." We'd be told to meet somewhere at 2pm, and we would ask if that was in African Time or American Time. In American Time, we'd probably arrive at 1:45, and expect the event to start exactly at 2pm. In African Time, that probably meant that the event would start by maybe 5 or 6. Things move slower, and people are more concerned with the experience than the details. It is so liberating to not be tied down by a need to constantly check email or worry about if you are wearing the right thing or have the latest iPhone. There is a different sense of what is important in a place like Kenya or Nigeria. Happiness is about the people surrounding you, not the items surrounding you.

I want to challenge you to make a list of what makes you happy. Look at that list, and count how many of them are based on money or a need to fit in. Put each item on that list in the order of how long it makes you happy for. I find with myself, some of the most seemingly inconsiquential things are the items that make me the most happy for the longest amounts of time. I challenge you to find happiness in yourself, before you find happiness externally. If an iPhone makes you happy, is the source of happiness from that phone? Or is it from the societal image placed on you because you have that phone? Are the resources necessary for you to get a new phone every year and the lives put at risk to gather those resources worth the happiness you get from that phone? Was King Leopold's happiness as owner of a colony and the wealth from that colony worth the ten million people who perished in the process? If you had to give a yes or no answer, would you say that you are happy right here, right now?

Remind Yourself

“They say time changes things, but you have to actually change them yourself.” –Andy Warhol.

It’s funny how we justify things. It’s funny how events in our lives affect those justifications. It’s been awhile since I wrote my first blog. While I was back home in Covington, all I could think about were the places I wished I would rather be. Kenya. Bellingham. Not suburbia. Anywhere that had something to do that was unique to that place. Anywhere that I could function in society without a car. Anywhere that tree’s were more abundant than asphalt. Nature more than engineering. Truth more than fabrication. I just wanted to go somewhere that I felt my yelling and screaming about my frustrations would actually be understood, and, more importantly, joined in on.

Then I got my wish. I made it back to Bellingham. I’m moved into my very first house. I have great roommates. People don’t make fun of me for wanting to compost. My house is so broke that trying to be eco-friendly is simply a way to help ourselves survive. But I find it simply becomes a justification for old habits. I still drive to visit a friend on South Campus, because I don’t want to put the effort into walking from North Campus. But why? Ask yourself this. Why is it that we will drive somewhere that we can walk within a half hour? Why is our time so precious that we can’t even put the effort into bettering ourselves and the world we live in? Why is it that as soon as I’m finally back in a world that is likeminded as me, I use that as an excuse to do small acts of terror? I figure, it’s ok, it’s Bellingham. My Subaru will fit in with its rainbow sticker and kayak racks. Everyone else is hippy here. My small un-environmental acts somehow matter less here, because less people do them. But let’s analyze that statement. Just because less people in Bellingham drive, does that mean the emissions of my car produce less than they do in Covington? Why am I suddenly not critical of myself for these choices anymore? I get this idea that my hippy is back, and I’m more at peace back in Bellingham. But have my habits really changed? My challenge for everyone this time is to analyze your habits. What do you do? Why do you do it? Really think about it. Why. Why do you do what you do? Why do you drive short distances? Why do you choose to throw out a plastic bottle instead of walking 50 feet to a recycle bin? Why are these habits more acceptable in some places than they are in other places? Are these habits so necessary they cannot be changed for the better?

Sunset over Lake Victoria

But I stop and think. What changed? Why do I suddenly not get angry for these things? I find myself feeling more and more lost in life the further away Kenya gets in my mind. I try desperately to reach out and grasp what small pieces I can. I make chipati. I think about it constantly. I keep up on the Daily Nation. I lie in bed at night, and stare at the map of Kenya on my wall, retracing my path in my mind. I find myself consistently restless. I promised myself that when I got a job this year, I would make sure it was something applicable to my future. Give myself experience. Feel I was accomplishing something with my work. Reality? I’m likely days away from being back working at Lowe’s after dozens of unheard-from applications. I’m going back to work to sell people things they don’t need, with money they don’t have. I’m continuing to promote a world I don’t believe in. For what reason? Simple. Money. One more things I don’t promote. Something I don’t believe in living for. Life should be lived for passion and compassion. Not for the highest bidder.

It’s an interesting thing. Justification. Why are my poor actions always someway justified? They aren’t justified because I need to drive my car. They aren’t justified because I need to leave the lights on. They aren’t justified because I need to buy new things. I justify them because I am too lazy to put the effort into walking. I’m too lazy to get up and turn the lights off. I’m too lazy to try and live my life without the new products. A month ago I was tearing apart at the seams trying to get anyone who would listen to me to try and understand why these things are bad. Instead, the further away from Kenya I get, the more of a dream it becomes. The easier it becomes to just forget it all. Try and run from life for a little bit. Forget how important these things once were to me. Forget the faces of the children of Kochia suffering poverty because of these exact choices.

Natasha and Sarah, my reminders

So the question is this: How do you keep from forgetting? Maybe you aren’t trying to remember Kenya. Maybe you’re trying to remember that one person who changed your day from bad to good. Maybe you’re trying to remember why you’re in school. Maybe you’re trying to remember why you love someone. Maybe you just need a reminder. My map of Kenya that takes me back in time every day. Another great customer at work that can make you smile. A new class that re-sparks your passion. The laugh of the person you know you love. Life doesn’t come easy. You must work at it. You must put your own effort into reminding yourself why you move from day to day. You cannot let time do the work. Nothing will change in time’s hands. You must change what you need changed.

Flash back to my time in Covington. I was so ready to leave and get to Bellingham. Surround myself with like minds. But here is the ultimate question: does it do any good? Do I accomplish anything being in Bellingham, with people who all believe the same things I do? Or, as frustrating as it may be, is it a better use of myself to surround myself with people who don’t? Should I preach to a choir, or should I preach to those who don’t know? Bellingham is comfortable. But comfort accomplishes little. If I throw a rock into a waterfall, it won’t make a difference. But if I throw a rock into an unchanging pond, it’s going to ripple. I would argue a ripple is a better use of my resources than yelling what everyone already agrees with.