So Many Motions

Getting ahead of myself


Today, while taking my beloved dog-brother Beau for a walk, I finally had what I can honestly say is my first and truest feelings of loss and longing for Cambodia.

It started out as any typical walk with dog-brother Beau. It was dusk, and to me, it felt cool, almost chilly. And I thought to myself "Gee, I wonder if it still feels hot as balls to the other Minnesotans around here because I could sure use a sweater right now." I still have Cambodia in my blood because this "heat" everyone is experiencing is only the tip of the iceberg as far as Cambodian standards for heat go.
But back to my story.

Beau and I walked toward the Minnehaha Falls. I usually let him lead the way. I think he enjoys people making comments about how cute he is (or am I projecting here? Yeah, I love it when people tell him how cute he is.) We wandered toward the park, he did his business, and I dutifully picked up his business like any good older sister would do. On the way, I noticed a cardinal perched atop a tree along the creek. The sun-setting light glowed against the feathers of the cardinal making it shine such a brilliant red, so much so that I convinced myself for a second that maybe someone lost their brightly colored pet parrot. But no, it was only a cardinal but it sang its song sweetly and made me happy.

Then suddenly, with the falls misting in the background, I saw a familiar image across the chest of someone's t-shirt. To any other person, the simple graphic design might have looked like a few vertical squiggles on a shirt. But, I saw the elephants. Immediately, I stammered, and nearly tripped over my feet, to this woman that I am sorry for interrupting her, her friend, and her baby and asked her if she'd been to Cambodia. She said "yes, about a year and a half ago" and I continued to stammer to her that I served in Peace Corps there and got back about a year ago. She thanked me for my service and she said that she didn't think Peace Corps Volunteers received enough (or any...(well deserved)) recognition for their service. I said that I couldn't agree more. We serve our country as warriors of peace. We don't carry guns while walking through foreign lands.

I thanked her and we all carried on our separate and merry ways. Unfortunately, my initial feeling of happiness from the interaction was quickly overcome by sadness. And I couldn't pinpoint exactly why or where it was coming from at first. It took me a little bit of time...and a little bit of quiet crying while walking through happy picnicking groups of friends and families. Me, lowering my head so my hair partially covered my face so no one would accidentally see my tears or hear my soft sobs...

It's not weird for anyone to see a grown woman crying while walking her dog, is it?

Why so sad?


And then I understood what it was. I have subtly, or maybe not so subtly, been doing it for a little while now. It was that brief connection to the place I called home, be it bitterly or affectionately, for two years. For the most part nowadays, I am repressing my Cambodian life. The reason for this repression is because I lack an appropriate avenue to channel my Cambodian Life; the stories, the feelings, the frustrations, the suffering, and the love that all went along with living there. Sure, I can text or message my other Peace Corps friends but it's not always enough. Exactly how it was never enough to Skype or e-mail friends and family back home while I was in Cambodia. There needs to be a direct connection or it sometimes ends up falling kind of flat. Am I making sense?

It doesn't really matter if I am not making sense to anyone else. I get what I'm trying to say and I hope that maybe someone else out there can concur. Because I feel it all and I want other people to feel it all, too. You feelin' what I'm feelin'?

Either way, my not-so-subtle attempts to connect to Cambodia while being in America are weird and maybe even slightly offensive if I were a little bit more obvious about my mini-missions. I know, you're all like "What the hell are you talking about, Laura?"

Weeeeellll, let me tell you. I have, on more than one occasion, hovered around groups of people and families that have characteristics similar to those with Khmer ancestry in order to eavesdrop and find out whether they are truly Khmer......I always hope that someone will blurt out a couple of Khmer words. So then! Me! The awkward white girl standing nearby can awkwardly chime in? I don't really know how this would all pan out if it actually happened. In Cambodia, the novelty of the awkward white girl speaking Khmer kind of lost its allure after a while...when I could no longer understand the questions or possibly answered a question completely wrong and likely and unknowingly offended someone. So who knows how it would conclude if I intruded on a family outing of some unwitting strangers! Knowing me, and I know me pretty well, I will probably still try to attempt these mini-missions of mine. And why? Because I lack what most people would call "tact."

So...yeeeeahhhh, I know. Is that terrible? It's terrible. But I don't really care because a significant part of my life experience is being repressed and I'm finally starting to come to terms with this reality of mine. I have identified several ways that I can nourish this part of myself but as per my usual "style," I am procrastinating. The first step is acceptance. And I have accepted! And the proof is right here in this very blog post that I wrote after my walk with Beau. But not until after I ate straight from the carton of rocky road ice cream which is in my triathlon training plan. It says that "at least once a week, eat straight from the ice cream carton." And so, as I am training very seriously, and am obviously a staunch rule follower, I abide.
But really, I feel a lot better after writing this than I did once I put the ice cream away.

I miss Cambodia.

THERE!! I said it!!! Are you happy now?!

Yes, I am Laura. Thank you.
You're welcome, Laura.

Here! Have a baby! Be happy!
PHEW! That felt good to get off my chest.

Clouds.

Advice or something like it for the Future Ks of Peace Corps Cambodia or whoever feels like taking some free advice...or something like advice.


CLOUDS!!!!!


You guys,

There were times during my service when I allowed dark clouds to cover moments and interactions that could have been very very meaningful to myself and to others around me. Dark clouds, I know, cheesy and ominous, right? Whatever. Clouds are cool. I have allowed my anxiety (big dark cloud) and fear (another big dark cloud) to get in the way of having many rewarding moments during my service. That's not to say that I haven't had rewarding moments or a rewarding service. Because I have! I am, however, learning this late in the game and finally seeing things more clearly (I can see clearly now, the rain is gone....ehh? Ehh?...yeah. Okay.) I am finally letting go of a lot of my insecurities and frustrations (but don't get me wrong, quite a few insecurities and frustrations still exist. There are still days that I would like to peacefully punch people in the face...) I accumulated a lot of those (insecurities and frustrations) during my two years of service and I feel good finally letting go of some of them. Maybe this is because I know I'm going home really soon and feel happy about that but the fact that I am in Cambodia AND happy is a big deal. Being HAPPY in Cambodia is so much better than a lot of shit I've put myself through in this country. And that's not to say it will be smooth sailing until August 7th, but I think this will be my best months of my service because of my attitude. “Better late than never...” you say? Yes, I guess so. But maybe I can spare a small piece of advice to the future PCVs yet to come to Cambodia, the Kingdom of Wonder.

Some of this, these dark storm-boding clouds (hey it's raining right now!) is inevitable as a Peace Corps Volunteer. It's hard not to act strange and awkward in such a strange and awkward new environment. It's natural. So don't let it get to you; don't beat yourself up about it....to an extent. At some point, you have to just accept the strange and awkward environment. Endure the EXTREME discomfort. Feel misunderstood CONSTANTLY. Feel depressed OFTEN. Feel isolated, alone ALL THE TIME. Just let it happen. It's part of the experience. And if you let that happen, maybe from there, you will eventually let go and let yourself be accepted and loved within your community. It is MORE than possible in Cambodia. It is....INEVITABLE. (I love that word. For better or worse. It's gonna happen so you better be ready. The Khmer people will love you.)


I mean, how could you deny a face like this?


Like any relationship, it can't be completely perfect. And my relationship with Cambodia has been far from perfect. How do you expect to grow as a person if you want or expect things to stay stagnant? And isn't stagnant kinda a nasty word? Do you really want that word describing your relationship with anyone or anything? I don't. Eew. I think of dirty-nearly-dried-up pools of water, filled with pee and garbage juices (sick right?) Stagnant is not pretty in any way, shape, or form so why would you want a relationship of yours to become stagnant? Well I, for one, think that is what I was battling a lot during my service. I couldn't seem to have a solid good day. Or so I thought and dramatized in my mind. It would start out bad and just keep getting worse. Or it would start out great and then just plummet to the ground at 100kph. There were many times when I would ask myself or other volunteers “Why can't there ever be a HAPPY MEDIUM in Cambodia?” It felt impossible to me. You were either not pooping or you were pooping way too much (like seriously WAY too much. Like how is this humanly possible too much.) It was either raining too much or not enough (usually it's not enough.) For some reason, I wanted to live a more stagnant life in Cambodia because that would have been easier to handle, easier to understand, and easier to accept. But something important that I realized was how one good day, out of 30 bad days in Cambodia was SO WORTH IT. The good days in Cambodia are hilarious, awesome, and rewarding. So suck up that stagnant water and just let it happen! Ick! Ish! No spit it out. That's disgusting. Just enjoy the good days and possibly more will follow. Like, for example, you're sitting in your room with your fan blowing in your face and you see a mosquito floating around; the little bastard. And you go for him and BAM!!! You kill that em-effer in the first shot!!! Best day ever had.

And to be completely honest, I became APATHETIC, also a nasty word, during my Peace Corps Service. And I am embarrassed because of it. I let my fear and anxiety get the best of me during a great big chunk of my service and I'm seeing now, with less than 3 months left, how regrettable that decision was. It was not an immediately conscious decision on my part to isolate myself, but either way, it happened and I feel a great amount of regret because of it. But I continue to ask myself, what is the point of the emotion REGRET? Really? I'd like to know. I would like a knowledgeable and respected human being to explain to me a good reason for the emotion “regret” to exist because I can't necessarily think of a good reason off the top of my head. Any biological benefit to it?...But I digress, as usual.


91 year old Yay that doesn't wanna hear you piss and moan.


Along with my new found happiness (on more days than not) in Cambodia, I have also realized that I need to NOT BEAT MYSELF UP about how some of my service went. It happened already so I am learning to let go and focus on the now. Focusing on the NOW is something I've always had a hard time doing. I like to rehash things that have happened in the past but it's not healthy or productive. I need to just see what I did and know that I should act differently in the future. Rehashing shit ain't worth it. Unless it's leftover hashbrowns that you are refrying for lunch or something. I will allow that.

I am finally allowing myself to see the little things that I have contributed to my community. I have always cared much more about relationships in my life than my successes in work or school. When I didn't do well on a test, I would shrug and say “well, I didn't really study for this so I guess that's what I get.” But if I said something to a friend that upset them, I wouldn't be able to let it go. It would sit in my brain and circle around and around and around with worry. Now, I am seeing the relationships I've developed in my community and that is what I think truly matters. And I don't give a rats back-end how anyone else feels about that. My pig ladies, my noodle lady, my coffee lady, my nail and hair lady and her kids, the moto-taxi guys, the staff at the health center, my host family and their employees, the people that wave to me on my runs, the lady across from the high school, the guy that fixed my flat that one time, the bus lady...and I could go on. It is pretty cool to think that a little village in the middle of Cambodia is my second home and that people will remember me and talk about me once I'm good and gone. I hope most of it is good stuff.


And after a hard day, you might see something like this.



There was one day I was on a run and the Beyonce song “I Was Here” came on. It's NOT a good running song AT ALL but she was talking about making her mark on the world and making a difference in at least one person's life and that's all that mattered to her. That would be proof enough that she was here on this Earth. Or at least that's the way I understand the song. Anyway, regardless of the song's lack of runnability, it got me excited and inspired because I think I have accomplished what Beyonce was singing about. Even if I made a difference with only a handful of people or even just one person here, it was totally worth all the ups and downs that I endured during my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I guess I'm a little proud of myself.

In conclusion, let those clouds come and go during your service. Being there is the most important part. And clouds oftentimes bring monsoons in Cambodia and that means it's not going to be hot as balls outside...at least temporarily. Those clouds are gonna come whether you like it or not so you might as well just enjoy some sugary ice coffee at the market and get teased by the moto-taxi guys.


My moto-taxi guy friends drinking coffee.

a sense of place

My senior year of college I took an art course titled Topics. By the name itself you wouldn't think much of it but it was a coveted course and many enthusiastic art majors yearned to take it in their final year of overpriced highfalutin private liberal arts education. The draw of this course is that it is a precursor to your final senior art project in which your art is displayed in the pristine galleries of St Olaf College's famous Dittmann Art Center – a state of the art art facility with one of the best and fanciest ventilation systems you'll find in the nation. Topics is basically a semester long course to either test-drive an idea you have for your final senior show or to do something completely wacky and maybe piss off some people in the process. Or maybe I was the only one that wanted to piss some people off but I felt like it was my right, okay?


A Canoe in the Gallery, normal normal


An added mystery about Topics is just that; the topic. And the professor holds all the power to decide what the year's Topic will be (every year is a new topic.) John Saurer was one of my favorite professors up until that point because he liked my drawings and prints. (I mean, who could blame him? I'm like the most amazing artist ever in the world, amen.) He had a goofy demeanor and manner of speech. One thing he said all the time which I often repeat...to myself...is “Isn't that nice?” and he'd say it as he was carefully pointing at someone's interesting drawing. His curly mop and intense eyes only added to the effect. He is the quintessential “Art Teacher.” However I could say that about every single one of my art professors. There was the dreamy art professor that every girl (and boy) looked at all googily-eyed while he explained power tool safety in sculpture class, there was the turtleneck-sandals-with-black-socks-wearing professor that loved everything ever in the world especially if it vibrated with bright colors, and there was an art history professor that spoke with a such a slow droning robotic like voice that it put you right back to sleep during your 8AM class (I mean, come on! And the lights were always dimmed for the powerpoint presentation. This was before I knew how to drink coffee...)


The one and only Professor John Saurer



Prof J. Saurer, St. Colin Weaver, and Dreamy Prof Irve Dell


And back to the point. I had high hopes for the topic. We all did. We were all anxious to know the topic and create mind-blowing art that so perfectly expressed the topic through our own eyes that we'd simultaneously start a brand new groundbreaking art movement in the process. Because isn't that what every art major wants?

And then Professor John Saurer stands in front of the chalk board and slowly writes:

A....


Sense...



...of.....




…....Place.

Okay, I'm sorry but, what the feck? I was not impressed. My friend Loocis and I were not impressed (but we were kinda the misfits of the already misfit ridden art major scene.) I guess I never really took a lot of time to think about “a sense of place” or “my sense of place” in the world, in life, in the universe.

I do, however, have an extreme passion and love for the best place ever: the great city of Minneapolis. I have a strong sense of Minneapolis Patriotism. Does that count for “a sense of place”? For a while I made a point of saying I was from Minneapolis “proper” because there are many imposters out there claiming to be from “The Twin Cities.” But the problem here is that when some smear says they are from “The Twin Cities” they usually mean they are from some crumby eyesore of a suburb like Hopkins or even worse, Minnetonka. If you would, please, take a moment to think about what the word “twin” means you'd remember that it is something containing or consisting of two matching or corresponding parts. TWO. Not two plus 20 inferior, sidewalk-less parts. So let's just stick to “The Twin Cities” representing the two cities only, Minneapolis and St Paul.
And I'm done with my rant.
Maybe.


A sense of place can be good...


I was feeling awfully snarky my senior year of college and my response to the topic, A Sense of Place, was that I transcend place. I'm so just fancy, aren't I? I don't have a single place. I don't need a single place. I don't get attached. I just ride on. And I depicted my transcendence with detailed drawings of bicycle parts and my trademark doodles intertwined together. Aaaaand a ridiculous bike sculpture that was thrown away, probably by the groundskeeper when he tired of mowing around the awkward “art” piece in the lawn. John Sauer thought the drawings were “nice” but had a hard time grasping my interpretation of A Sense of Place.

Pah! Typical! Adults never understand. My artist's statement was a direct jab at him and a pretty vulgar one at that.
I mentioned my hyena pseudo-penis, if that says anything...


Ridiculous bike sculpture buried in the snow.

the bicycle drawings.


I've grownup a leeettle bit since that attempt at rebellion.And I've been away from home for almost 2 years now. What being away from home for this long has taught me is that I DO have a place. I have a great sense of place and it's home.
Minneapolis.
My parent's house.
In the perfect South Minneapolis neighborhood right on the Minnehaha Parkway.
Home is beckoning me. Home is haunting me in my dreams. When I have idle moments during the day (let's be honest, the whole day is a big idle moment) I imagine my neighborhood. Very particular parts of my neighborhood that for some reason stick out more than others. The hill along the creek that nestles all the geese and ducks. The parkway in my front yard. The bridge that my friend Annie and I climbed on like a jungle gym all summer long when we were still wearing matching pink overalls. I imagine taking my dog Beau for walks all the time. I imagine swimming at the little beach on Lake Nokomis, trying to re-re-teach myself to swim. Walking by the Mississippi River where the Minnehaha Creek spews out into it, the water disconcertingly foamy. Running down the path toward Lake Hiawatha; no feral dogs to worry about.

the creek and ducks.



Mr. Beau takes a walk!

You guys, I'm really excited to go home. I never realized how important home was to me until I left it completely.


The Minnehaha Falls.




Minnehaha and Hiawatha, I presume.

what time is it?

It wasn't a normal fitful night of sleep. Surprisingly, my body wasn't hot enough to induce an infernal rage, a sleepy-heavy-eyed infernal lazy rage. (I like this term “Lazy Rage.” I will now use it on the regular.) It wasn't the heat that kept me awake. And thankfully, it wasn't seasonal allergies encasing my entire throat with the most irritating itch, so itchy it wakes me up from deep sleep, and a lazy rage comes over me and I take a pink pill with a few gulps of water and pass out again. It wasn't the awful seasonal allergies that kept me awake. It was seasonal diarrhea.

I was up, like clockwork, once every hour through the night hustling back and forth from my room to the toilet. I am currently cursed with a long-lasting bout of diarrhea. (Oh, did I mention this blog post is packed full of too much information? Oh, yeah, it is. Sorry I didn't warn you earlier.) On the bright side, this is a fairly tolerable case of diarrhea to stomach (see what I did there?) because in-between the hourly water closet trips, I don't feel like I'm dying inside. I don't feel like my internal organs are slowly melting away....or better yet being eaten alive by a colony of foreign bacteria like termites demolishing your cherished cabin by the lake. It's not like that.

This is what my insides look like


This morning, the alarm clock on my PC issued Samsung cellphone rudely interrupted the last bit of solid sleep I had the fortune of retrieving during my schizo night poop/sleep schedule. I thought my cellphone and I were close enough that he would consider the state I was in and give me that last hour to sleep. You think you know someone....
I played my cards as I'm accustomed to and ignored that alarm until, of course, it was time to poop again. Curiously, it was still pretty dark out at 6AM but my thoughts slowly faded into more sleep; my body behaved until I really had to get out of bed. I startled myself out of that final slumber, read my phone clock with a grumble of disappointment – 7:18AM already? Really? Gosh dangit.

I don't like being behind schedule regardless of how my insides are feeling. I like relaxing mornings where I can take my time. Rushing is the worst. But I accepted my reality and finally left my house at 7:35AM. But hey, it appears that everyone else is running a little behind schedule and I take comfort in this. “You're okay, Laura” I told myself, “your coffee lady isn't even set up yet...now that is weird.” Eh, maybe everyone was up late (late as in 9PM) drinking last night just like me? Is it another holiday? I can never keep track/don't bother keeping track. My favorite breakfast lady was setting up very slowly so I settled for the lesser noodles. I smiled at all the old people eating noodles along with me. “I love old Khmer people” I thought to myself.

Noodles were successfully slurped into my precarious belly and I momentarily feared that the diarrhea I battled all night long would hit me again and I'd risk pooping my pants while walking to the health center. ON-WARD-LAURA!!! I stopped at my coffee spot and looked at my clock again – 7:55AM, no time to sit and enjoy the mediocre ice coffee. I told my coffee lady I'd take my coffee in a bag because it was almost 8AM. And this surprised her “Whoa! Leuun! (fast)”

My ever loyal and lovely coffee lady


But some guy quietly sipping his coffee at the coffee spot claimed that it was only 7:09AM. His fancy smartphone said so. Outright, I told him his phone was wrong. My coffee lady loyally took my side. Smartphone man asked a gentleman eating Khmer noodles in the stall next door what time his watch said and HIS clock was wrong too!

. . .

“What the eff is going on here? Is it Cambodian daylight savings day or some shit? A weird Khmer holiday where time makes no sense? It's possible with so many holidays in such a small country... Either way, I took my bag of coffee and went along my merry way. I ran into one of my friends that I drank Ganzberg German premium beer(please click on that link to experience the greatness of Ganzberg Beer) with last night. He said “sabaii! (happy!)” we shared a laugh and carried on in opposite directions. Hey! No hints of pants-pooping yet! Everything's coming up Laurax!

The kids at the primary school were collecting water from the pond with small bottles. A gaggle of girls followed the leader out onto a log to fetch their water. I never have my camera when I really need it.

I turned into the driveway of the health center and found it all locked up still. What the....? Oh well. I'ma do my thang anyway and I go about my morning routine of preparing the cooler with vaccinations and settle into my book. ...Curiosity peaked again and I decided to text my friend Margaret:

I flirted with Margaret AFTER this first text message, duh.



[What time is it?
It seems as though
everyone was up late
drinking last night.
This one guys phone
said it was only 710...]


Margaret responds:

[My phone says 718]


I looked at my phone and it read 8:09AM...uuhhhhhh wut?


FLASH!


And then it all came back to me. I was drinking with my friends last night (employees of my host family...friends by association) and during my second trip to the bathroom, pre-diarrhea escapades, I accidentally dropped my phone in the “bawee” (k'bawee? I've never really bothered to figure out how to say the word correctly) which is the bucket we use to awkwardly wash our bums while using the squattie potty. Immediately I snatched my fully-immersed phone, miraculously still working, from the water. I opened it up to check its insides and told my friends what I did. One of the guys took it and quickly dried if off with the air pump thingy. When we put the phone back together, I remember thinking to my self “Self, remember to set the clock correctly later.” And in the meantime I made an extremely rough estimate on the time and punched it in.

However, in my hazy Ganzberg state of mind, I did not remember to remember. And in turn, I basically called other people liars for having the wrong time. It couldn't possibly be MY phone that was the issue. But you know what? The night of diarrhea and my bizaaro morning of confusion was all worth it for the fun night I had that caused the problem (and my denseness) in the first place.

Yesterday my host mom was worried about me and my ongoing bathroom problem. She heard rumors that some random person went to a wedding, ate wedding food, then later had a stomach ache, followed by a head ache which was then followed by death. Since my host mom didn't want me to die, God bless her, she had me stay home to eat partially developed duck fetuses, various fried meats, and drink beer with 4 of her employees rather than go with the family to grandma's house to eat. I thought this was an interesting decision on her part but I allowed it.

Ganzberg, the more I drink the better I feel. Another amazing Ganzberg beer commercial to watch!


Her employees (friends by association) followed her strict orders that I eat all 4 duck fetuses and the various fried meats. I refused to eat all of it and asked them to help me. I ate only 2 duck fetuses. And we drank an unquantifiable (unquantifiable by me) number of Ganzberg German Premium beers. We told jokes, sang to each other (I dazzled them with Shakira and Beyonce hits), and I taught them American drinking phrases like “break the seal.” I also translated Khmer drinking phrases into English for them. “DRINK ALL!” It was this night of debauchery that I learned that I am older than every one of my drinking buddies, one of which I have historically called “boo” meaning uncle.

We ended the night with arm wrestling. I did not win.

According to German beer expert Bernd Kirsch, Ganzberg exacerbates diarrhea.

BOOK REPORT #2

Dudes,

Do you ever get introduced to a book, read the first page, and thereupon tear through the pages like it's a bar of fancy chocolate? (mmmmmm...fancy chocolate...)

I've been on a nonfiction kick for the last couple of weeks. For some reason, the idea of reading about fictional characters right now is a big turn off for me. I've got enough stuff going on in my life and rattling around in my head right now that's stranger than fiction. Why should I invest more precious brain juices on those characters? Why not suck up some real earth knowledges? Yes.....earthly earth knowledge sounds delicious right about now.

So anyway, back to the books. I had a makeshift two-person book club going for a month or so, which has since dismantled (story of my life right now. Everything's falling apart!!!! Me, dramatic?) For our second book in our book club, I chose the The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. He writes primarily about food (which (reading about food) can be detrimental to the mental health of any Peace Corps Volunteer, by the way.) Another book of his that I read years ago was The Botany of Desire, in which he explores the beneficial relationship (co-dependent?) between humans and four specific plants: apples, tulips, marijuana, and potatoes.

You like food? READ THIS!


What I loved about The Omnivore's Dilemma was Pollan's personal experience throughout his journey into the world of different food industries and food-life philosophies. The first part goes into the dark, dingy depths of the corn industry of America. Man, I love corn. But in a very different way than you'd expect. The only way I really like to eat corn is raw (DON'T KNOCK IT TILL YOU TRY IT!) But what I really REALLY love about corn is it's history in America and how it grows. I had a cornucopia of corn knowledge prior to reading this book due to one of my favorite people in the Universe, Jeffry Nistler.

This is Jeff rocking not one but TWO man-purses (the top one MIGHT be a camera bag...)


Jeff is, among many other talents, a farmer and I was lucky enough to work for him for 8 years (hopefully he'll take me back when I'm an unemployed returned peace corps volunteer.) I was a farm hand; especially skilled at hoeing and transplanting melons. Jeff's specialty is sweet corn in the summertime, pumpkins and squash (among other curious gourds) in the fall-time, trees in the wintertime, and exploring Peru in the dead of wintertime. He also builds bikes!

Not sure who is enlightening who here: Jeff on the left. That other guy with the cane is awesome.


And so it was Jeff who instilled me with a great many nuggets of corn facts. This is why I am now proud to call myself a corn snob. But the corn that Jeff grows is different than the corn Pollan highlights in the first part of his book. He attempts to follow corn from a farm in Iowa to one of the many places it could be taken throughout America - from feedlots (or CAFOs: Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations) in Kansas all the way to a McDonald's in Marin County California. Basically, this corn that Pollan is talking about is feeding most Americans unknowingly. Example: a McDonald's chicken nugget (mmmmmm chicken nuggets) has 38 ingredients, 13 of which are differently processed versions of corn. (mmmmmmmm...?)

After he tears the industrialized food industry a new one, he moves on to the "ORGANIC" food industry. And this part just makes me giddy because organic food truly is an industry which is completely contradictory of what the Organic food people are constantly preaching. I understand what organic food is attempting to say and do but how they end up doing it is not by definition organic. There are just TOO many people in America trying to be organic at the same time. So get off your high horse. You're not better than everyone else if you eat organic sausages or granola cereal. And then there's thing thing called "Beyond Organic" which is really what Organic wishes it could be. Just read the damn book and you'll know what I'm talking about.

The last meal Pollan explores is that of a hunter-gatherer which was by far my favorite of his adventures. He killed a wild boar in California which was one of his first experiences hunting. He went morel mushroom hunting with a bunch of weird dudes in a forest. He usufruct some cherries to make a dessert. Can I go back to America and live as a hunter-gatherer? Do I know anyone that knows how to identify mushrooms? If so, please speak up! Teach me your ways.

If you care at all about what you eat (where it comes from and how it is what it is) you should read The Omnivore's Dilemma. But don't take my word for it!!! #READING RAINBOW.

QUIET: Hard thing to come by in Cambodia.


On to the next one, on the the next one: before I let my mind slip into complete malaise, I zapped my next book into motion on my fancy little nook e-reader thingy (thanks mom and dad.) Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain (my new best friend.) My friend and old co-worker Elliott (Read about him here!) gave me his copy when he finished it last year but I didn't have enough time to read it before flying away on an aeroplane to Cambodia. So I downloaded a copy from the mighty interwebs (completely legally; bought and paid for.)

"Restorative Niche": my bedroom in a South Minneapolis basement.


I couldn't put this book down and the best part was, I didn't want to leave my room or my other secret reading nook while reading it. I needed to be alone! I was learning about myself and needed to pay close attention. If you've been an avid "Laurax Doodles in Khmer" reader then you'd know that I've struggled a bit with the "Who Am I?" question, feel guilt-ridden when I hermit myself too much, and feel too much pressure in the spotlight at times. In certain chapters I felt like I was reading about myself!

The book is about 300 pages and I highlighted it 92 different times (awesome feature of the nook)! Here are some highlighted highlights:

• "cross the street to avoid making aimless chitchat with random acquaintances"
• "many introverts are prone from earliest childhood to strong guilt feelings; we also know that we all tend to project our own reactions on to others" (whoa...)
• "people who tend to [suppress their negative emotions] regularly, might start to see the world in a more negative light." (ruh-roh!)
• "self-monitors are highly skilled at modifying their behavior to the social demands of a situation." (hello, pseudo-extrovert Laurax.)
• "taking shelter in bathrooms is a surprisingly common phenomenon, as you probably know if you're an introvert." (I love bathroom hideaways. Stalls are a great place to cry.)
• "we can stretch our personalities, but only up to a point."
• "introverts often feel as if they express themselves better in writing that in conversation." (blogging!)

This book helped me realize that I am not totally whacked out. That maybe the things I do are more normal than I thought they were. It also made me realize why I oftentimes feel completely overwhelmed in my village. Like I've said before, PCVs are "on duty" the moment they walk out of their bedroom and that can be draining when it's every single day, especially for someone with introverted tendencies. There aren't many "restorative niches" or quiet places to re-energize. I think, with confirmation from this book, there are many people that struggle to understand who they truly are. We try to put ourselves in to boxes; extrovert-introvert, outgoing-reserved, etc etc, but we don't have to be one or the other and we really can't be. It's just not possible. I've spent a lot of my life trying to be what people want me to be. One thing that makes me happier than anything is to make other people happy; but my misstep here was not taking care of myself first. I didn't recognize when I needed to disappear and find my "restorative niche" so I too could be happy.

One of my "Restorative Niches": My desk back home. Cluttered and yet so peaceful. Look! I'm on Facebook. Lolz.


You don't have to be introverted to read Quiet. If anything, it just makes you think about what makes you happiest and how knowing that can lead you to a life where you are truer to yourself. Or as Shakespeare once said (according to the book) "To thine own self be true."

Another "Restorative Niche": solo walks in Minneapolis


My current mission(book): Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void by Mary Roach. This lady is HI-Larious. Laughing out loud over here. I also read Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach. I want to be this lady's friend also.

Packing for Mars: puking in zero-gravity and shit. Good stuff.


Read on, friends. READ. To infinity and beyond.

Time Slip

Last week, I was sitting around with the nurses at the health center and my favorite nurse, Chinda, asked me how much longer till I go back to America. This is a question I get asked, without fail, EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. And I think to myself "Geez, do ya'll want me get outta your country or what?!" Hopefully that is NOT the case. Most likely it is not. It's actually a pretty obvious question to ask an extremely out-of-place foreigner, especially when they've already been living in your village for over a year.

Anyway, I informed Chinda and the nurses that I have about 9 to 10 months left in Cambodia. And when I said this to Chinda in particular, I felt a pinch of sadness. When randoms ask me that question (EVERY day, remember) I just brush it off. But surprisingly, I have really come to love the staff at the health center. There are days, yesterday for example, when they push ALL of my buttons; when they'd rather sit and "nyay layng"(loosely: chit-chat) rather than take care of the patients that are patiently (ha...) waiting to get helped. Or when they can't give me a straight answer; "Do we have this vaccination or not? This woman has been waiting a while to get it..." The question is received with blank stares...And I am the one who has to inform the woman that we don't have the vaccination and I have NO idea when we're going to get it.

So, there are days when I feel like no progress is being made and I'm just banging my head on the freshly painted wall (thanks to me!!) of the health center. But then there are good days. Days when I walk around with a smile on my face and babies to squeeze. On those happy days, I think about how soon I will be leaving Cambodia. And how it feels maybe a little too soon.

But I'm not going to lie, I can't wait to go home. Home - America - feels like a far off distant land of wonder to me now. It feels so far away and so obscure. A nurse trainee asked me last week to compare Cambodia and America and I was at a complete loss of words. One reason is because I can only speak so much awesome Khmer. The other reason was because I almost couldn't remember what is so different about America compared to Cambodia. It was a strange moment for me.

One good day can make up for a month of bad days in Cambodia. October was a very long month for me...it went by as slow as molasses. And the good day didn't come until October 31st when I got to help with Measles vaccinations at a primary school in my community. I woke up that morning in a bad mood because none of the staff informed me of a plan the day before so I assumed I wouldn't be helping with vaccinations. Nonetheless, I put on my shiny new blue polo with the vaccination logo and went about my morning routine. I arrived at the health center early and several nurses from neighboring health centers were putting together the vaccination kits. They all stared at me with wonder, of course, and didn't ask me if I wanted to help (of course.) I could have put myself out there and asked them if they needed help but my mood was getting in my way.

Vaccination doctor, Loak Gru Koy, on the left. He's awesome.


Our vaccination doctor arrived late, typical, picked up his kit, and just as he was about to zoom away I said I wanted to go. And off we went. Thank goodness I stopped being such a crabby-patty because I had such a great time helping. We vaccinated 170 little kids. My job was to keep count (which I'm not sure I did such a thorough job...) And after we finished up we went to M'layk (a lake surrounded by mountains) sat in hammocks, ate a roasted chicken and felt happy about life. The mountains, trees, and sky shined a little brighter after all of that.

Little ones reaching out to their friend that is crying after her shot


Now, I am trying to remind myself that I don't have much time left here so I have to appreciate everything...or most things.

after each child received their shot, they dipped their finger in ink to prove they got their vaccination already.


I love that all I have to do is walk across the street to the market to eat my favorite breakfast every morning. And that it only cost me about 40 cents! I love drinking ice coffee with the moto and taxi drivers. I like to think I've become sort of an honorary member of their crew when we sit together every morning.

M'layk at its best.


I love that I walk in-between grazing cows to get to work everyday. I love having afternoons to myself - I have possibly watched more TV here than I have in my whole life! I love running through rice paddies and watching the sun set behind the mountains every night. I love that when I'm running, people ask me if I'm tired and my go-to response is always "Aut jeh hot dtay!" which means that I don't know how to be tired. I say this even when I am truly tired but I guess I'm trying to convince myself otherwise. I love that after I eat dinner with my family, all four of our cats jump on the dinner table and have a fancy feast of our leftovers. Is this something that ever happened to me in America? No way jose!

STOP! Hammock time!!!!


So what I'm really trying to say, I guess, is that I appreciate you, Cambodia. You piss me off sometimes but I don't know what I'd do without you. You will forever have a special place in my heart.

And here's a shout out to Team Takeo!!!

Peer Pressure Party

fyi: the photos in today's blogpost will not make sense


Today we're going to take a trip in my time machine (the 3rd time machine I've made in my life (thankyaverymuch!)) that I made out of a cardboard box, sidewalk chalk, and bobby pins. Don't worry, we're only going back in time by 3 weeks. I know 3 weeks isn't an impressive amount of time to travel forwards or backwards but a lot can happen in 3 weeks. Either way, all I really want to do is tell you about a party attended.

Like I said a couple of blogposts back, my friend Srey Lish was awarded a visa to the U.S.of A. and she left on the 26th of September, 2013. But before she left, she invited me to her going away party. She told me it started at 5PM on a Saturday night. This was already going to be an issue for me. It takes me between 15 to 20 minutes to bike to her house depending on how much sweat I want to release upon arrival. And since this was a "party" I was unsure of the dress code. Most of the "parties" I attend in Cambodia are funerals or old people celebrations. Those types of "parties" or better yet ceremonies, require me to wear a Sampot, which is a traditional Khmer skirt that is usually made of 2 inch thick silk that feels like it's been heavily starched to assure that a woman is in no way comfortable.

So I debated for a good 30 minutes about what to wear which is a usual predicament for many female-type-characters preparing to go to any event. Some how I decided to go in-between formal and casual. Semi-formal? No. It was more like casual Friday; high wasted, bell bottom jeans (yeah, I know) and my 2 inch thick polyester flow-y long sleeve 70s flower power shirt (No really? Yes.) that I found at an estate sale. Perfect choice, Laura. No one will understand what kind of statement you're trying to make with that one. I was trying to channel Goldie Hawn or Olivia Newton-John and I think I pulled it off quite nicely. ALSO, KEEP IN MIND, that I had to wear this while biking and foolishly thought the polyester shirt was flow-y enough to reduce the sweat. I don't know why I do things.

Hey look! A toucan! I drew this!


Back to the issue of time. I did not want to arrive at the party right at 5PM because, like, come on, who shows up to a party right at the start? Am I right? I am right. But the biggest issue being - "Hello my name is Laura, I am 27 years old, I am an American, and I am a volunteer and have to be home before dark." Good thing the sun sets by 6PM every day of the year here. So I accepted the fact that I would bike to the party, arrive by 5:30PM, eat some unknown meat, hug my friend goodbye, and promptly leave by 6PM............

I don't know how I thought I'd get away with that plan. When I got to the party, there was a good crowd already festivising and my friend sat me at a table full of her friends, all young Khmer guys of course, which was bound to be awkward. They mostly avoided contact with me as much as possible which is expected. But then the rice made its rounds and we had something to occupy ourselves with for a while. Srey Lish kindly had one of her best friends sit next to me and she was so sweet to me. I felt more at ease with her sitting with me at the boy table.

I made a quick analysis of the food spread out over the table: weird Khmer salad thing - I can eat that. YUM; pig skin and ears atop a bed of green tomatoes - dog food; unidentified meat - don't touch. I asked my new friend to the left of me what the unidentified meat was and the music was a little too loud for me to completely understand what she said...but I think she said "dog." And that was the moment when I came to the conclusion that it is very unfortunately, regrettably likely and possible that I have consumed dog meat without even knowing it at some point in my 18+ months in Cambodia. I told my new friend that I didn't know how to eat dog meat.

This dog is screaming in absolute horror!


Beer began to make it's way around the table and I was happy for the dog meat interruption. And BEER! I can count on 3 fingers the number of times I have drank beer out in my community. Many women do not drink in Cambodia. Traditionally it is not "sopeeup" or proper for women to drink. However, it is becoming more acceptable at parties especially among younger women. And as a barang (foreigner) I tend to transcend some cultural and traditional gender roles. In general, it's best to simply respect those traditions and saddle up with the other women or for me, it's more likely the children's table. But this party was different! It was indeed party time.

Soam srah beer Angkor muy kampong.


Oh but oops, it's 6PM. My pumpkin carriage awaits me.

I told Srey Lish it was time for me to go but she then preceded to beg me to stay and dance. She told me someone could drive me home later so I wouldn't have to bike home in the dark. She also offered me to stay the night but I've never been a fan of staying in strange beds in homes I'm not familiar with. (Or even homes I am familiar with - just ask one of my BFFs Xin. I think I slept over at her condo once but woke up as early as possible to go back to my bed.) And so the inevitable happened. I stayed at the party past my government issued curfew.

The table was placed in the middle of the dance floor and that was my cue to be one of the first and especially awkward people to dance. Let me tell you, Khmer people think I can dance. That should be a TV show. And you know what? I indulge them. I busted out all my latest and greatest moves. This time it was some of my more "modern" dance styles stemming from the LODAC collection. One thing that I appreciate about Khmer dancing is all the Khmer men dancing shamelessly and with great abandon. It's like dancing in Jerry Seinfeld's bizarro world. Albeit once the men get one too many beers in their systems it's overbearing and obnoxious - they can't take a hint!

And like a truly obedient rainy season, it began pouring. But instead of running for cover under the tent, we just kept dancing. I pulled my belled bottoms up to my knees as the red mud began to form under our feet. We circled around the table one thousand more times; slipping and sliding in the mud. This was the most fun I'd had in the village for a long while.

But the party didn't stop there. The moment I sat down to rest back at the boys table, I was challenged to a dual. A drinking dual. I "joll gaio-ed" (cheers!) with the boys table for a solid couple of beers and was invited to join "the mens" table. The mens table consisted of my friend Srey Lish's dad, the health center director who I helped get a new latrine, and a number of teachers from the high school. They meant business. When you fill your glass with beer, you don't drink at your own pace - YOU DRINK ALL. And I am not a gulper. I don't know how to chug drinks. But Srey Lish's dad was putting me up to the challenge and approving of my smallest accomplishments. And we're talking beer consumption here. I drank until I thought I would burst. And even a little more. Srey Lish said "wonderful" and hugged me for my great achievement.

the full toucan.


It came to the point where if I stayed any longer, I might explode from all the beers "chugged" and I lucked out because one of my host uncles was at the party. He is one of the nicest uncles. We made the perfect non-verbal exchange - I looked at him, he pointed toward home, and I nodded. He drove me home right then and there! Woooo! Free! I mean, I had tons of fun but there was no way I'd make it out alive had I stayed. And I don't know if you've ever tried talking to someone in a foreign language while being significantly inebriated but it's.....embarrassing. I could just hear myself slurring Khmer nonsense and cringing in my head but I couldn't stop my mouth from moving.

And so that was the party. And Peer pressure in Cambodia.

The full toucan. IN LIVING COLOR!

MOTIVATION. CONTROL. FOUND.

triangulatic.


Control. Something I never thought very hard about before joining Peace Corps. Probably because I had it. I lived where I wanted to live, I ate what I wanted to eat, I did what I wanted to do with very little struggle.

PCVs give up a lot to serve. We leave our friends and family back at home. Some of us leave our "cushy" American jobs with clear assignments and parameters. We leave acceptable health care and our own generally good health behind. We leave pizza delivery. We leave what is known and comfortable. We almost literally get thrown to the wolves (I'm sure some PCVs are placed near wolf dens. I wish I were....) CONTROL. We've lost control.

I have had trillions upon trillions (exaggeration) of conversations with fellow PCV friends about our disappointments and our frustrations with our service as Peace Corps Volunteers. It tends to be an ongoing conversation for many of us. Is Peace Corps what we expected it to be? What did we expect it to be even? Sometimes it's easy to lose sight of what MOTIVATED us to SERVE.

I think I found it again.

We K6s just completed our Mid-Service-Training which I now realize is a big accomplishment. Our Country Director told us (paraphrasing) that the volunteers that went home early will never know what we now know and what we gained from sticking it out. The most impactful session during our training for me was appropriately titled "Motivations of Service." It was a candid conversation with all the Community Health volunteers and our Deputy of training. We listed out our original motivations of serving in Peace Corps which segued into our frustrations once in Peace Corps. It was a much needed therapeutic conversation.

The most harmonious take away from the conversation was that "the impact of volunteers is NOT quantitative." We can go ahead and collect our data on how many moms were educated on the importance of exclusive breastfeeding or how many kids were taught how to properly wash their hands but what about the interactions that can't necessarily be tallied in a small composition book?

this is how I track how many babies i weigh. And how many mangoes i eat. equally important.


Just a few months ago, I started helping a lovely young lady named Tum Srey Lish. Srey Lish is a bubbly, friendly, funny, and kind girl. She instantly became my friend. Her name was pulled up on the US Embassy lottery to be awarded an American visa. Srey Lish wanted to improve her English and we found each other through another volunteer. When I first started meeting with her she was not sure when or even IF she would go to America. She was waiting on a phone call from the Embassy to call her in for an interview. She ended up waiting several months for that phone call.

My friend Srey Lish


In the meantime, I met with Srey Lish two times a week for 2-3 hours. Sometimes I prepared information about America like common idioms and popular sayings, she filled out a job application, we talked about interview skills, and read from the book "Half the Sky." But mostly we just talked about life.

While I was in Phnom Penh, Srey Lish called me to inform me that the Embassy finally called her and was giving her the long-awaited visa! I was, of course, extremely happy for her. But sad for me. I finally made a great friend...but she will soon be leaving me. She is actually leaving this coming Thursday. Look out America! That girl is going to do big things. Regardless of how I feel now that she's leaving, I am so grateful for the time I had with her. I think she helped me more than I helped her. I am so proud of her and excited for this big step in her life. And we WILL reunite in America.

Srey Lish & I sporting our high-fash sunglasses (mine are chanel...)


What I'm realizing now is that the personal relationships that I'm creating while here are far more meaningful than weighing babies. While I do want to SAVE ALL THE BABIES, I am hilariously far from doing that and I can't beat myself up about not doing enough baby saving. Finally accepting this, the fact that my impact - my work - won't be AS big as I originally imagined it being has given me peace of mind. I don't have that much control here but I can control the way I feel about my service. I can control my day to day actions and interactions to make small-scale changes and/or differences. And I feel good about this.

Also, regular exercise does wonders! -> I'd like to give a shout out to Jillian Michaels for shredding me. Her bad jokes really keep me going. What's one thing I have complete control over? EXERCISE. Get off your ass and bike-run-jump-dance!!!

I made a card for my host mama - this photo is pixelated!!!!noooo!!!!!


I wrote it in Khmer!!!!! (Thanks tutor!!!)



I love you all my friends!

Stigma

My journey to Cambodia was a painful one and I'm not talking about the 25 hour flight, the layovers, or the fear of checked baggage being lost. I'm talking about the painstakingly long application process I underwent to become a volunteer.

My first attempt at the Peace Corps application was the summer of 2008 after I graduated from St Olaf, because isn't Peace Corps the obvious next step in life? That's at least what I initially had my heart set on. I didn't get very far in the application; I encountered a page that I was not expecting - The Student Loan page. It was at that moment that I knew I wasn't ready yet. I didn't quite have a grasp on the depth of my loan debt yet and I wanted to push that as far back into my head as possible. The amount of student loan debt that I racked up over just four years was just like the "Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come" from A Christmas Carol. I imagine a dark, caped figure with scary long and wrinkly fingers pointing into a grave...and the grave represents said debt.

And so my summer following the grandeur of graduation was not turning out as awesome as I'd hoped. My new job as a hostess at the Green Mill for a measly 10 hours a week was no match for the debt mess I got myself into. If I was lucky, I was called out to the farm (Nistler Farms, that is. Like it on Facebook) to hoe, water melons (huh, I was literally watering millions of melons), and transplant. You know, the usual farm-type stuff. The little work I had would not sustain me once the loans kicked in.

OASIS IN A DRY SEASON


Along with financial woes, I was having difficulties adjusting to other post-college related issues - i.e. moving back in with the parents and working at a cheesy restaurant (don't get me wrong, I love me some Green Mill now but at the time...it was difficult.) This was not ideal for me. I was in a pretty low place. I cried constantly, fought with my mom a lot, and felt slightly hopeless about my future.

It was at this point that I decided to try anti-depressants. And please pay attention to the fact that I decided to try anti-depressants. I was not diagnosed with anything and I was not told by any medical professionals that I needed to be on any sort of medication. It was my choice. 100% voluntary. And I must say that taking a 5 question survey about very generic feelings with a "never - rarely - occasionally - always" scale is not a good determinant of any mental illness.

Having struggled with bouts of depression, or what I'd like to call "situational depression", many times throughout my life, I thought it was time to try a medical remedy. My usual remedy in the past was to just deal with it and thought it was a fine solution. I've never been very keen on taking medicine because I like to be tough and I dislike the unknown world of potential side effects. And as it turned out, the side effects of the anti-depressants definitely outweighed the benefits. After about a 5 month trial of Citalopram, I decided it wasn't the right remedy for me. And maybe actually the drugs did work their magic because I was reminded that simply taking care of myself might do the trick. I got back into running after an unusually long hiatus and I started eating better.

Not much longer after my change in lifestyle, I got a real adult job! Full time with health insurance, vacation days, and other cool adult things! It's amazing what patience and persistence can bring. As painful as that time was for me, it's now just a distant memory and I'm proud of myself for getting through it without too much drama.

Fast forward about a year later, I was feeling real crappy about myself and couldn't figure out why. I decided to utilize my adulty benefits by trying out free counseling sessions with a licensed psychologist. I had one session with a nice lady that wrote out her notes on flip chart paper (foreshadowing into Pre-service training? I think so.) She helped me realize one thing that I will never forget - for one, I am smart. For most of my life I was convinced that being "smart" meant you were good at math, science, and analyzing feminist theory texts (I can/want to do none of those things.) She pointed out that I am smart particularly in the realm of art, creativity, etc, which a lot of people can't comprehend. I can see and create what others cannot. Just like others can solve difficult equations or understand organic chemistry and I really care not to go there. Hurt me brain don't want to.

PAIN?


During the next session with the nice lady, I was in a completely different mindset - happy and clear headed. Why? Because the day after our first session, the toxic relationship that I was in at the time - ended! So, I told the nice lady that a third session would not be necessary because I figured out the root of my problem and was feeling light again.

And so, the summer of 2010, two years after my first attempt at the Peace Corps application, I gave another stab at it and finished it. The initial application included a quick health history questionnaire in which I figured it would be best to be as honest as possible. So sue me for trying to do the right thing! Little did I know that this would bite me in the ass later.

I turned in my initial application, along with my awesome recommendations, and received an official nomination in November 2010. It was a nice Birthday present. But this was not the end. No-siree-bob. It. was. not. The. End. My. Friend.

Along with the 500 pages (I'm exaggerating only a little) worth of medical evaluation forms, I was expected to dig up additional information regarding my mental health status. I totally understand why. Peace Corps is not a small deal. It's a big deal. It's a two+ year commitment in a foreign country with crazy circumstances and very little resources, and most likely very few or zero mental health resources. Peace Corps needs to assure that a volunteer will be in their most healthy state of mind before accepting them. Peace Corps wants their volunteers to succeed and serve their full two+ years of service. Of course, duh!

just a nice view from my home in cambodia


I jumped through so many hoops that my brain was like over-sauteed vegetables (mmmm...over-sauteed vegetables...) I passed my dental evaluation with flying colors. That gave me false hope. Finally, my medical forms were all turned in around April 2011. I was getting antsy. It can take 3 or more months to go through a single applicants medical forms. Summer hit again and I was still waiting until I received a letter in the mail from PC. It was a request for MORE medical information. Are you kidding me? I can't handle this. Is there no end to this? No. There is not. I acted...probably not as quickly as I should have but this is because I did not want to go to the doctor again. Seriously, before my PC application, I hardly ever went to the doctor. Then all of a sudden it was almost every three months. Not fun and very expensive, even with adulty health insurance.

I finally had everything in by July and was able to enjoy the rest of my summer training for my very first triathlon. I was in the best shape I'd ever been in. I was also high on life (me? impossible.) I was happier than I had even been. Now, if I could just get that damn invitation from Peace Corps. This was becoming an intense waiting game and all of my friends and family were getting anxious with me. This was especially stressful because I received an e-mail from PC stating that there was IMPORTANT MAIL sent to me. WHY ON EARTH DIDN'T YOU JUST TELL ME THIS IMPORTANT INFORMATION IN THIS E-MAIL?!?!?! So I went back in forth in my head "It's a good letter"...."no......it's a bad letter..." "No...it's a good letter." Good. Bad. Good. Bad. I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!

Then one sunny September day, as my mom and I were shopping in Target (oh, how I miss thee - sweet Target) I received a text from one of my roomies, Sean, saying that I had something in the mail from PC. HOLY SHIT! This is it. My mom was NOT driving fast enough to get home. I felt almost sick to my stomach. Maybe someone else should open the letter. I ran into my house and with three of the sweetest roommates (Sean, Ben, and Krish) and my mom waiting in anticipation I opened...a bad letter.

I was medically deferred to ensure my mental stability for 6 more months.

My spirit was crushed. For the longest time, I feared that other red flags within my health forms would be an issue but I didn't expect my mental health to be the issue because I was happy! Don't they see that? Okay, no they don't. BUT THEY SHOULD!

Six months. Six months. Six. Months. I kept counting the number of months left out on my hands. Those six months felt like an eternity. Especially when I kept focusing on how long it felt.

SERENIY WHEN?


At some point in my waiting, something clicked in my head. In order to really prove to Peace Corps that I am "mentally stable" I need to be active, to be productive with this time that they gave me. I contacted the volunteer coordinator at St Joseph's Home for Children which was only about 6 blocks from my house. I wanted to volunteer there for forever and this was probably the best time to get my butt over there. I was approved as a volunteer in the Emergency shelter which was a revolving door of kids ranging in age from 0-18. Volunteering here was one of the most challenging experiences I'd ever had but it was also the most eye-opening. So much so that I am considering social services/child services as a potential future career.

Soon, I took the deferment period as a gift. It was my chance to work with the amazing children and staff at St Joe's. It gave me time to think about what I really wanted with my Peace Corps experience and in my life. Granted, I was still very frustrated with the additional paperwork I had to complete in order to appease the Peace Corps medical staff. In order to fulfill the expectations of the deferment, I was to meet with a licensed psychologist for 2-3 sessions and have this medical professional that did not now me at all fill out paperwork about me. Even the psychologist I met with thought it was a ridiculous situation. Nonetheless, it was filled out and turned in a month before the end of my deferment period.

And the waiting game continued.

Incidentally, because I was deferred, some of my medical tests were now "out of date" and PC wanted fresh ones. So I peed in a cup again, sacrificed more red blood cells, and faxed more confidential paperwork over to Washington DC. I was chronically checking my application status on the Peace Corps website. And I was doing so secretly at work since only a couple people were aware of my situation.

April was nearly over and my patience was growing thinner and thinner. I got together with my dear friend Nicole Novak (whom I mentioned in a previous post) and we talked about my situation. She made a really good point about mental illness being stigmatized in America. In one way, I was being penalized for seeking help. Instead of going to the doctor and trying anti-depressants, or talking to a counselor, I very well could have just drank myself into oblivion or took up heroin. Those, too, are coping mechanisms but they are not the healthy methods for dealing with any level of depression. Seeking help is not a bad thing. It takes a lot of courage and shows strength.

The next day I was feeling energized and motivated so I called the PC medical office to check my medical status. Coincidentally, the lovely nurse I was talking to said "Laura Olson, yes, I just finished looking through your file and you've been medically cleared." I could've cried right there.

The next day, I was e-mailed from the placement office and everything started falling into place so quickly, it was incredible. After all this waiting, it took a mere 5 days to find out I was going to Cambodia in July.

And now I'm here, 7 months in country and 5 months at site. There are times when I'm sitting in a crowded bus with people yelling into their cellphones in Khmer and babies crying, staring out the window at the rice paddies and I am simply amazed that I'm finally here. That I made it. My dream of being a Peace Corps volunteer that I had since I was a wee little second grader was now reality 20 years later. The reality is, without a doubt, full of obstacles every single day but it was absolutely worth the wait.

COW MOUNTAIN PALMS


I wanted to write this blog post for many reasons. But the number one reason is for all the Peace Corps applicants out there that are encountering the same roadblocks that I received. When I opened the letter about my medical deferment, I wanted nothing more than to find hope that I still had a chance. That it was all just part of the Peace Corps protocol and eventually I would get what I wanted. I googled so many different combinations of "Peace + Corps + medical + deferment + mental + health + invitation" in hopes of finding someone else that went through the same experience and received an invitation in the end. And so, my hope is that this blog post will give other applicants hope and strength. Seriously, do not give up. Everything about the medical paperwork sucks and can be one of the most stressful and tedious things you ever have to do, but your persistence will pull you through. If you are truly committed to serving in the Peace Corps and giving your best effort to help another nation, you can make it through a pile of bureaucratic paperwork.

PEACE CORPS IS CALLING...HOW FAR WILL YOU GO?