Red Pen Days

I have tried several times over the past few days to write a blog post. I get part way through typing my thoughts and decide to finish it the following day. Then when the next day roles around, how I felt about the certain situation I was recounting the day before I find boring or my feelings have changed.

I have never considered myself to be a particularly moody person but on the contrary a rather even keel, emotionally stable human being; however, when I was chatting with one of my friends from grad school on Skype this past week I was sharing with her how frequently I find myself floating on cloud nine one day and the next the most miserable human being. For example: on Wednesday night I received a SMS (text msg) from the girl I share my office with, Clara, informing me that she would be out of the office the remainder of the week. In the SMS, Clara scolded me for signing some documents in red pen, which implied that I was angry with the recipient of the documents. Immediately I was infuriated! Now that might seem silly to you but let me explain. First, I simply grabbed the pen that was closest to me without knowing there were any cultural implications attached to my proceeding action. Second, Clara and the document recipient were both there watching me make this horrific mistake and didn’t tell me in person prior to or after committing my offense. Thirdly, I had to sign the document twice! Therefore, they had two opportunities to educate me. And forth, why supply the office with red pens if we shouldn’t use them? (I know this point is a bit extreme) So in the midst of processing my incensed emotions, I was thinking ‘it is a good thing you aren’t going to be in the office the rest of the week’ even though I realize it is not her who came up with what seems to me a ridiculous cultural innuendo.

It is not so much the fact that Clara scolded me or the hint of disappointment I may experience in not utilizing my red pen in the future that ignited such a negative feeling in my being but rather the exhaustion that comes with living in and learning a new culture. It is easy in moments like this to justify my feelings with such self-sacrificing thoughts as -- I have after all come to a new country forsaking my own in an effort to serve; all day every day I am maximizing my senses and readjusting my cultural perceptions to match those I live with and work by day in and day out; and I am learning so you can’t expect me to know everything about Malagasy culture in two months what you have known for thirty years. In instances like this my western culture collides with my present culture in wishing that someone would just tell me directly and not in Malagasy passivity like SMS’s. And in the midst of my mental tantrum I selfishly question if those I labor with every day are trying just as hard as I in understanding each other’s culture?

Thankfully tomorrow always breaks and I am back to cracking jokes with my co-workers, pausing for a moment to realize actually how far I have come culturally. I am sure my red pen days aren't over; however, I hope that next time I will be quicker to offer grace to those around me as well as myself in what can sometimes be a very taxing learning curve.

People Watching and Learning

Sometimes there are people who you have never met and who probably don’t even know who you are but still find a way of impacting your life. I personally enjoy people watching, especially in a different country because that helps me to learn about my surroundings and the people in it. There are a few people I have been watching since I have been here in Madagascar: a shop owner, a man in a wheelchair and two garbage pickers.

Right across the street and up the road there is a little wooden shack that sells basic necessities. This store isn’t really any different than the hundred others littered by the roadside. They all sell the same products: soap, matches, fried, unhygienic delicacies, laundry detergent, cell phone credit, and other common items. I think the only way they make money is due to loyal customers or random people passing through town who don’t have a favorite merchant. I have become a regular at the shop up the road. The lady who owns it is quite young, probably not much older than myself. She always has a baby in her arms or strapped to her back. Last time I was there it was early in the morning and I noticed that behind the counter were a few mattresses, which looked like they were recently vacated in order to start the days business. I paused for a moment imagining living inside an 8X4 foot space day and night. In a brief moment I switched from imagining my life as her own when the shop owner readily greeted me with a smile and we conducted business with a mixture of English, Malagasy, and French.

In the evenings, when I retreat to my apartment, it is interesting to watch people outside my balcony. On several occasions I have seen this handicapped gentleman in a wheelchair. To the right of my balcony there is a hill that he is frequently pushing himself up. I am not sure where he is going, but he isn’t alone. Each time I see him in the evenings he is transporting a baby. The baby sits on his lap and is strapped in with a seat belt like mechanism. The baby seems quite content going for a ride and unaware of the danger involved in such activity. There are no sidewalks in Madagascar. Everyone and everything: cows, 18-wheelers, push-push (man pulled carts), vehicles, motorbikes, pedestrians, ox-carts, and handicapped men in wheelchairs with babies use the same space - the road. So last night when I was watching this duo ride past my window clouded by exhaust from a tractor-trailer, I was touched by this man’s perseverance and pure delight with his mini passenger.

When I play basketball in the mornings, if I am not lucky enough to get a ride to the court, it is about a 15min walk. Upon entering the other side of town, there is a overflowing dumpster littering the surrounding area. I often witness the same scene at this place, two women picking through garbage. They look like they could be mother and daughter, but it is hard to tell. They are shoeless and wear the same dirty clothes every day, skin covered in dust and who knows what else. They start at the west end of town and pick their way to this side. Seeing them is a blatant reminder how unfair this world is and the unequal distribution of wealth. Every time I see them I question why I born an American with opportunities, education, and means to be successful. Why wasn’t I born a citizen of this world who survives on less than a dollar a day? How frequently do I waste food, spend money on something I don’t need, or have this poisonous mentality something is ‘mine?’ I do not know any of these people: I do not know their names, their age, where they come from, what their dreams are. But I do know me. And I know that I am blessed and with that comes a responsibility to not accept the injustice I am faced with every time I look out my window but to be an active participant in merging my life and access to resources with the shop owner, the handicapped man, and the garbage pickers.

Eat, Pray, Love

(This is another blog of personal reflection. Sorry no exciting, gory, or wild tales told this time.)

The past few weeks I have been finding myself in a very interesting position. I can honestly say that I have had a sense of peace and contentment that I have never known before. It is hard to describe -- I have this feeling inside that this moment is special and one to be relished and not changed. On the other hand, I have been confronting my dissatisfaction with my internship. I love my co-workers, I support the organization and and this project, however, I do not find myself contributing in the ways I would like. The language barrier is a continual challenge in my being involved professionally and I have to try not to criticize and question why this was not determined prior to my arrival. And then I remember all the pieces that had to fit together in order for me to come here and am reminded that I might not know the answers to my questions immediately, but perhaps after time has passed.

When talking to my sister a few weeks ago she mentioned that maybe this time here in Madagascar is my 'Eat, Pray, Love' experience, for those of you familiar with the recent movie staring Julia Roberts based on the true story of Elizabeth Gilbert who went on a personal journey for one year to Italy (Eat), India (Pray), and Bali (Love). I was quick to assure her that I won't be 'eat-ing' in Madagascar. My experience has been quite the opposite from Elizabeth Gilbert's -- Malagasy food promotes fasting or balimia opposed to Italy's invitation for gluttony. This was strongly confirmed after spending the night writhing on the bathroom floor earlier this week. In addition, I am not so sure I will find 'love' in Madagascar; short, tooth-less Malagasy men aren't really my type and I haven't come across any Brazilian heart-throbs that Elizabeth was fortunate enough to encounter in Bali. Regardless, my sister's idea has stuck with me even though I did not come to Madagascar on a personal quest to find myself, recover from some tragic loss in life, or in search of life-long answers. I did come here, however, first to complete my master's degree which is all apart of the bigger purpose -- to continue living out a life I have felt called to and to participate in a world the majority lives.

My 'eating,' 'praying,' and 'loving,' might look a bit different than Elizabeth Gilbert's did but that does not change what I might ultimately learn in the process and take away in the end. My eating will look more like a six month cleanse rather than indulging in pasta and pastries; my praying will be spent on the rooftop under a canopy of stars rather than in an Indian ashram; and I will love the "least of these" and have already recognize that they are not 'least' but rather very great, humble, beautiful people instead of falling in love with a less-than-eligible bachelor. I do not think you need to go to Italy, India, Bali, or even Madagascar to have an 'Eat, Pray, Love' experience, whatever that means to you. But since I am here, separated from my comfort zone, denied American pleasures (which I am still figuring out if they are real pleasures), and surrounded by the noisy-silence, I mine-as-well fully take advantage of this time and place and all that it has to offer in all areas of my life, not just academically/professionally. So even though I face frustrations and sometimes wonder why on earth am I here, I am reminded by special people in my life to accept the experience for what it is and if I do that, I will know the peace that I have now and will come away enriched.