Old unpublished posts on returning to the States

I understand why I didn't post the following entries. I was afraid of offending people. These entries are deep and emotional. I use my journal writing to heal, help understand a situation, and share with others.

It has taken me years to come to grips with leaving Zambia. Yet, I still feel something is missing in my life. I am searching for it. I hope I find it. 

Another unpublished post I feel worthy of publishing. Written May 2016.

I completed my service on April 21st and left the African continent two days later for home. I feel funny calling it [the U.S.] home. My village was my home.

Since my return, I have been busy visiting friends and reacquainting myself with the place I've lived for most of my life. As a result, I feel like a tourist in my home town as if I'm seeing everything for the first time.

I visited a roller skating rink a few days ago with a friend who dance-skates. I went with the intent to watch the people demonstrate their skills to organ music. After observing for a while, I put on a pair of skates and skated around the rink several times; I didn't fall and enjoyed it immensely. I think I have found a new pastime.

Anyway, I was introduced to several people who learned I returned from my Peace Corps service. Finally, a woman welcomed me and said, "well, now you're back to real life."

Real life. What does that mean exactly? I've been pondering this question ever since. I could have stayed in Zambia. Would that have been a fake life?

Roller skating, vacations, paying bills, running the rat race, working nine to five...That's real?

Maybe for some, but for me, my life, no matter what I do, is real. Every experience a person has makes an impact on decisions from thereon. As a result, I view the world differently. I think of myself differently now. I am not the same person as the one before I served in Peace Corps.

I lived an experience that only I know intimately. I left the friends I had made in Zambia who watched me evolve into who I am now. They are the ones who know me. And I was happy there. Really happy. I still have that happiness, but I need to learn how to make it continue. I know that may sound funny, but I've learned that people in our lives help confirm our identities. So I need to rebuild my identity to accommodate my new life here. I will still hold on to my Zambian mindset. 

I am happy to see my old friends again and catch up on what I missed. They are pleased to see me and learn about my experiences. But, believe it or not, our bonds need to be renewed. It's a part of the transition of beginning a new life. 

 

This post was written on June 6, 2016.

I've been back in the States for two months now and feel motivated to move forward.
What a delight to come back during the full-fledged presidential race, with only five months left until the BIG DAY! Am I excited? Well, I will explain how I feel about this...

I rarely watched television while being away for two years. The only news source I relied on was Facebook news streams from NPR-like sources and my friends' comments on the goings-on back home. I maybe caught a glimpse of Trump two times on the television. That was enough for me, really, and to come home and have his name mentioned several times per day and his blabbering monologue continuing on and on; I realized this is a freakin' joke that has gone too far.

So, I came back home with the idea people would want to know all about my service. I spent two years living in a remote village in Africa - no electricity or indoor plumbing. I expected to be bombarded with questions about my life abroad, only to find few who are actually interested enough to ask specific questions about my service.

I want to let you know that I was at celebrity status in my village, living in Zambia with primarily black people. I would walk down the street hearing my name called out by children and sometimes adults, with them expecting a greeting or wave from me. My friends always welcomed me warmly, even if I had just seen them before. The presence of friends was always a gift. Friendship was not superficial in any way.

I came back from a place where I could strike up a conversation with just about anyone while walking down the street, even complete strangers, and sometimes make connections for future projects or friends who will be friends for life. I would also learn a lot from others. Women, children, men... It didn't matter who I spoke with. I would learn something new about the world I lived in.

Here is an example of striking up a conversation with just anyone: I was in Livingstone for Christmas vacation, visiting Victoria Falls with some friends. I debated whether to leave early the next day because my money was running short.

As I was hiking up a trail from the bottom of the falls, I passed a man. He and I talked about being fit enough to hike fast up the hill we were climbing. Eventually, I asked him where he was from. He was from the Copperbelt and getting ready to leave for home the next day. He had a car. I wondered if I could come along to forgo taking the dreaded crowded bus ride that takes 12 hours and ride in a comfortable car with great conversation. It worked out. Just randomly speaking with a stranger would make the most significant difference in my life at times, usually in a positive way. If fact, I take back calling people I don't know in Zambia strangers. We aren't strangers; we are people who are open to being friends with one another. The word stranger has a negative connotation to it. There is nothing negative about people you don't know in Zambia.

Here in America, I have to go back to keeping to myself and regarding most people as strangers. I have struck up conversations with a few and learned many things from those people, something I would never know otherwise, and I made a friend. But, of course, I would never get a ride with a person I just met that way. It is different here. Very different. 

Drafted 11/20/2018.

Two years I've been back. It's been a rough two years. Readjusting back to the place I called home most of my life may sound strange to those who have never left. It's true, as we were told by the trainers, the most challenging part of Peace Corps service is going back...I hesitate to add 'home' to the end of that sentence.

What makes returning hard?

The culture change: wasteful, lacking simplicity and community, but what about showers and all of the conveniences? I had gained 30 pounds in three months.

I see things differently. Where I came from, there wasn't gun violence; people didn't watch television.

No one to tell my stories to. No one understands.

I am more sensitive to veterans and their difficulties when they come home. There is a belief among Americans that America is the BEST PLACE IN THE WORLD!!!!!! Is this place really home? What makes a place home? The people who care about you? The people who listen? Americans think they do all this, but they don't.

My kids are grown, I lost my best friend...my value for survival is diminished. No husband.

I'm not looking to start a family.

I'm still trying to figure this out. I'm only speaking for myself. I see others who served with me; they seem to be doing well since they returned. I'm sure not all of them, though, are doing well. I just feel different. I'm another person. I need to get to know this other person I've become.

A couple of months before leaving my village in Zambia, I felt I should stay. My gut told me I should stay. But I resisted. I told myself I would go home and see how I felt, and then if I thought I needed to come back, I will. Well, I need to go back. I need to go back more than ever.

After waiting 30 years to go and live in Africa, why would I think it would be OK to come back? Why did I think that? I didn't give it any thought. Then, finally, two years were spent making a new home in a new place...and I thought I could come back to the States with no problem.

I remember the first night back, I had a dream of my village. I saw the children. When I woke, I had a sob fest. I can't remember ever sobbing before. I've cried but not sobbed. Sobbing is different.

From then on, I struggled to get used to everything. It took a while to get used to or tolerate going to the supermarket. I never watch television. I can't stand it anymore. I feel like I'm in the spotlight. It's funny because that's how I felt when I first went to Zambia. And I really was in the spotlight. Everyone watched and stared at me. But, I got used to it in Zambia. Over time people got used to me, though; they knew I was still there. I'm not stared at here, but I don't feel like I belong. I feel like I stand out. But no one notices. No one notices I'm even here.

The Final Post

Since completing my Peace Corps service in May 2016, I took some time to learn which direction I wanted to take my life. 

I have to add that I am grateful to have experienced living in another country. Joining Peace Corps and living with an indigenous community was one of my life ambitions. I am thankful for the friends I made during my service. They were patient with me as I navigated the intricacies of living in a country full of culture and tradition. I am proud of myself for consistently documenting my experiences in this blog while challenged with an undependable electricity source.

Second Visit to Zambia, January 2022

River Rapids and Impala

I booked my stay at Mutanda Nature Lodge, situated between Solwezi town and my village. I rented a car and planned a visit to my village at the end of my stay. I visited one-on-one with some of my close friends I had worked with during my service. I wanted to get a feel for coming back in the future. My visitors and I sat on the porch of my roomy, one-bedroom lodge accompanied by the sound of the river rapids that border the property. Impala grazed in the tall grass down the hill from my lodge. They are residents, not wild. A fence keeps them within the compound. 

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A much-needed reunion with my host family and counterpart,
Eliack, Brenda, and their children, and Harrison.

Driving to my village.

Mushrooms for sale!

My first stop was Harrison's new carpentry workshop.

 

Woodworking machinery waiting for electricity hook-up to the shop.
All wood products are solely made with hand tools like the door below.

Obligatory visit with Chief Mumena. 

The hut I lived in during my service now has electricity!

Kids!!!

Mumena Women's Ministries

Before my trip to Zambia, I asked for a donation from the Somers Rotary Club for Mumena Women's Ministries. Mumena Women's Ministries is a group of women who pool resources, such as cooking oil, flour, toiletries, and food, to donate to people in need in the village. Orphans, the elderly, and people suffering from illness are the recipients. There is no safety net in Zambia, no food stamps, or social programs. My host mother, Brenda, founded this group. The next step for the group is to register as an NGO. Below is a film clip of me presenting Somers Rotary Club's donation. Thank you, Brenda, for filming. #Zambia #womenNGO

Differences

I rummaged through my drafts and found this one worthy of publishing. It was written in 2016.

Throwing out food

Second week of service: I couldn't finish my oatmeal one morning. So I threw it in the rubbish pit, a six by six-foot hole in the ground. My host family's children ran by me and jumped in the pit with spoons as I walked away. They ate the rest of my oatmeal.
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Mid-service: I shared popcorn with the kids and dumped the crumbs from the bottom of the basket onto the ground. The children flocked over the crumbs and to picked the ground clean.
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Second year of service: A cake I baked burned on the bottom of a pan. I didn't want to eat it, so I scraped the charred-like brick and placed it in a bowl. A few lucky kids outside my hut devoured the treat I gave them.

Crying in front of Zambian villagers

My host brother had died a few days prior when I was visiting a friend's family. They were aware of the death, but they became uncomfortable when they saw me cry about it. When I left the family, my friend explained that hiding emotions are part of their culture. Crying like I had is not acceptable, but they understood I come from another country and accepted my behavior. So I learned to hold my emotions in.

Showing anger in Zambian culture is not acceptable. The only times I've seen Zambians show anger was by drunkards or by a mistreated child.
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I spoke with a farmer one day, and he told me how his neighbor's oxen destroyed his entire maize crop. Maize grown by villagers is their food for the year. I asked what happens now that his maize crop is gone and what will his neighbor do to replace it. He replied that he was not angry with his neighbor. There is nothing anyone can do, and he is still friends with his neighbor. No hard feelings. No anger. Not wanting to get revenge or reparations.

Complaining

I brought my tendency to complain from the States, like: Ugh, this weather is terrible, or Ugh, no one came to my meeting. The friends I'd share my frustrations with would listen to me with wide eyes, stay silent, then change the subject when I was done ranting. I eventually stopped complaining in the village.

I learned I lived with people who accept what is given to them. I am certain situations frustrate them, but they don't show it. They are under control.

As far as complaining, their 'complaining' comes in discussion on improving a situation. There really is no complaining. It is liberating to be free from doing this ridiculous behavior.
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Turning down privileges because I'm white...

I stood in an ATM line for close to an hour. I had eight people in front of me when a police officer carrying an old Ak-47 wandered over to help make the line more orderly (there were around 30 of us waiting). He looked at me while holding his gun and told me to go to the front of the line. Everyone looked at me. I stood there silently thinking of the right thing to do when the policeman again ordered me to go to the front. Finally, I reluctantly moved to the front of the line to use the ATM.
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I arrived at a ceremony that had close to a thousand people attending. I noticed a group of white people sitting in front of the dance platform. Zambian culture is generous and honors guests regardless of color. I refused to sit up there with them. While looking at the group of whites, I realized I was not a guest anymore. I am a Zambian.

Privacy

There is no privacy in a Zambian village. Period.

Early on, living in my village, I came down with a cold, so I stayed inside my hut. The second day shut inside, I heard my neighbor calling my name. I ignored her; she knew I was sick and figured she would leave, assuming I was asleep. While lying there peacefully on my bed, I was startled by my neighbor calling me just outside my window behind my bed; she was looking inside right at me. I got up and met her outside to encourage her to leave. Unfortunately, she didn't speak English, and I was too flustered to explain to her in her language to leave me alone.

Later I spoke with her husband and told him what she had done. He was surprised by my concern because he explained in his culture when someone is sick, they are visited and given food. I explained that we are left alone unless we give the OK for a visit. Both of us learned the differences of this part of the culture...privacy and the lack-there-of.
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When I finished bathing in my bathing shelter, I exited donned in a towel with wet hair carrying my clothes tightly against my chest to ensure my towel wouldn't fall off. I paraded in front of an audience of the neighborhood kids sitting in front of my hut. It was silent as I walked past toward my hut. As I opened the door to walk in, the kids burst into laughter. I smiled to myself and was glad to give them a laugh. #Zambia #Peacecorps

Unpublished photos. No captions. Have a question or comment on one? Let me know. Enjoy! #Zambia #peacecorpszambia #peacecorps