Sunday, October 10, 2010

Quarterlife Crisis?

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”
–Maya Angelou


“So, tell me a story about Zambia…”
As soon as I hear the beginning words of this phrase from a well-meaning stranger, interested loved one, or polite acquaintance, I try to turn the cringe in my mind to a smile on my face as I dodge what I know in reality is a decent and courteous request. If my sister happens to be by my side, I dodge the question off on her since she might be able to default to the captivating tale we shared together of “Muzungus Rafting the Great Zambezi.” Anything so that I don’t have to explain the intricacies of the life I lead a mere six months ago that now seems as ephemeral as a dream. I know it should be easy to tell a story, however… I find it the opposite. Why? Maybe I’m simply lazy. Perhaps I’m worried that summing up a story from Zambia into a mere minute’s account isn’t enough to do my experience justice. Or maybe, something I consider last but avert thoughts from quickly, I actually miss Zambia and me not talking about it is a way of ignoring this feeling.

In addition to story requests, a voice in my mind keeps urging me to write down some of my feelings and experiences about readjusting back to life in the States, and in a States-like way I am quickly distracted by some other activity until that voice comes back again as a whisper. I have been putting this blog entry off for too long and I think it’s too important for me not to process some of my thoughts, feelings and experiences into words, so here I go. (Disclaimer: I’ve recently been told that blogs are supposed to be short. Oops? Next entry? And for now I’ll just try and share the most important snippets).

I’ll mislead you by starting at the very beginning. I arrived at George Bush Intercontinental Airport on April 23, 2010 after 3 international flights, the latter being close to 16 hours long. I was dazed from jetlag and culture shock. After landing, I spent close to a half hour in the restroom freshening up and emerged to find a slithering customs line that I swear was as long as a football field. I realized as soon as I joined in that the people I was waiting with were not the same from my flight. Everyone was in shorts and straw hats. Everyone was complaining that their flight from Cancun had arrived too late. Everyone was in a hurry. There was an overwhelming amount of white people and an underwhelming amount of diversity. And yes, I repeat this was the customs line of an international airport. Part of me wondered if I knew what I was getting myself into with this whole returning back to America business. And then, a few folds back in line, I spotted a girl I would guess to be around the age of four years old with chin-length jet black hair and almond shaped eyes carrying a backpack that fit her perfectly. She was holding hands with a middle aged woman who shared none of her physical characteristics. The girl peered up at the woman, who returned the glance with a huge, genuine smile and a compassionate, “you are doing a wonderful job, honey!” And with that simple observation I smiled my first smile since getting back home.

Since then, my return to the States has been easier than many other returned Peace Corps volunteers told me it was going to be. By saying this, I mean that I actually don’t freak out when I walk down the cheese aisle of the grocery store. I mean that I feel normal enough to laugh hysterically rather than over analyze our society when my sister facebooks me a link to a company that makes hoodies and tank tops for cats. I mean that I am fortunate enough to have loved ones who “get” me and give me the patience, love and understanding I need even if they don’t necessarily “get” Zambia.

But I still would never describe my return as easy. Among other things, the job market was a tough adjustment to get used to. And after recently conquering that obstacle, I have been forced to surmount the challenge of adjusting to a structured 40 hour-work week and face the reality of what being an adult actually entails. Frequently I have wondered if I am undergoing a quarterlife crisis.

But I’d rather put all that aside. Instead, I’ll sum up the most challenging aspects of my return in three distinct parts. The first, I would like to call the icibotolo (eee- chee- bow- tow- low) syndrome. The symptoms of this are summed up as me never failing to think of the children running around on the Mulomo family compound whenever I am forced to dispose of any sort of mildly recyclable material, such as a plastic bottle or tin can. Sometimes I even catch myself thinking, “oh the ‘iwes’ are really going to find a creative way to play with this one.” And then I stop, realize where I am, and figure out where the nearest recycle bin is.

A second routine thought process I’ve had in the last six months is one which I will title the WWPT habit. What Would Paxina Think. In the year 2010, I have flown on at least 19 different airplanes (to be fair this includes layovers and plane changes). What would Paxina think? Not only what would she think if she actually knew this, but what would she think if she could have been seated in the seat right next to me on just one of those plane rides? What would she think of the loud roar of the jet engine, the intricate designs of the earth viewed from the clouds above, or the way the plane feels like it is never going to slow down once it makes contact with the tarmac after reaching its destination? What would she think about that? What would she think if she was with me in that spa I had the luxury of spending an afternoon at last weekend? What would she think of getting naked and climbing under a sheet in order for a stranger to rub their hands over her skin? Would she think it was nice? What would she think if she knew that the cost of getting naked and climbing under a sheet in order for a stranger to rub their hands over her skin costs more money than she might see in an entire year? What would she think if she were in my mother’s house right now with me, seated by my side as I type this all out on this foreign object of letter and number squares, tapping sounds, and bright colored light? What would she think of all this fancy furniture in the living room and glass dishware in the kitchen cabinets? What would she think if she found out I have gone six months without eating nshima? I really miss the sounds of the mealy meal dripping and kerplunking into the soft boiling pot of water resting on the open air fire as Paxina gently stirred it around and around until she found the rhythm that would turn into the thick mush of nshima. Who would have thought I would end up missing the sound of a Zambian food more than the taste?

I am rambling. Furthermore, my thoughts were just interrupted by me feeling a need to remind any who might be confused reading this that Paxina was my best friend in Zambia. Our friendship was the most simple I have ever had and I keep her tucked away in a special corner of my heart.

Back on track to the final noteworthy adjustment to coming home. This one does not necessarily manifest as one of my thought patterns, rather something I would describe more as an unconscious awareness. Life is too normal here in the U.S.A. I feel myself falling deeper and deeper into mundane tasks and routines and start to feel like I’m losing myself and a feeling of being fully alive. I have watched way too many episodes of Grey’s Anatomy recently. Today I made mac and cheese and did not savor every single bite. I got into my car yesterday and did not appreciate the comfort or ease of the ride. I have not a clue the next time I’ll need to have my passport ready to go. In the mornings I wake up to the humdrum motors of cars on the road rather than chickens squawking, birds chirping and children laughing right outside my window.

But I have recently undergone an epiphany in my mind which I would like to share. I have realized that allowing life to be normal here in the U.S. is a choice. Deciding to let it become normal is something easy to do, therefore it is something essential to watch for. If I am not careful, I will miss the tiny adventures being offered to me each day. Adventures like savoring the smell of winter wafting in with the breeze yesterday afternoon. Just because I don’t have to brush my teeth outside every night doesn’t mean that I can’t take time to notice whether or not the moon is full or half, waxing or waning.

Additionally, if I don’t take initiative to make things I want to happen actually happen, then chances are likely more of the mid-level adventures available to me will pass me by. So I try and take chances, big and small, and take risks right here in Colorado. I think this is something I didn’t quite understand before leaving for Zambia.

One final shred of my recent enlightenment to share. I knew that life in Zambia was going to be challenging. Therefore, I tried my hardest to stay mentally fit every single day in my own way in order to still be able to enjoy the journey along the way. (Did I really just unintentionally rhyme three times?) Anyway, the point I'm trying to get at is...why not be as ambitious with life here at home?

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