At a training in August, we were discussing the harassment that occasionally happens when you're a foreigner in a strange country, and one of the Volunteers who had come in my intake said, "When it comes down to fight or flight, flight is always gonna be the better option, because you don't want to be that Peace Corps Volunteer who doesn't really have the peace part down." We laughed, but it was true.
And it's true in a lot of ways. Most of us joined the Peace Corps, I think, because somewhere in our core (no pun intended) we believe in the basic tenets of the organization: that countries are friends when their citizens are friends. That we have a responsibility, indeed, a privilege, to share our skills in working not only for a better country and a better financial future but also for a better world. That the roots of war and hatred might flourish in soil rife with poverty and misunderstanding, and that by nourishing the soil with something a bit different we might grow a better future for ourselves and others.
And all that sounds lofty and noble and idealistic, which is great in the big picture. Not so easy in the small picture.
Because believe it or not, even the most dedicated, most effective Peace Corps Volunteers are not surrounded, Cinderella and Snow-White style, by a flock of doves. I get just as cranky here as I do anywhere else. When--while painting a map of the world, no less--my teenage brother dipped a paintbrush still dripping with orange paint straight into the tin of bright blue, I called him out in not such nice terms, including an English profanity, followed up by, "Musi mano!"--"No brain in your head!" He said nothing, but walked away. When he came back, I pulled him aside and apologized for embarrassing him in front of his friends; luckily, we have a close relationship and he knows that (a) overall, I adore him and (b) it was pretty dumb to contaminate the paint. I wish I could say it was a one-time loss of control, but when a young girl--one of the few with enough interest/curiousity/self-esteem/all of the above to come and participate in the project--was painting Antarctica, I didn't watch closely enough. It seemed simple enough--another pupil had covered the pencil outline in white paint; she merely needed to fill in the continent with more white. Unfortunately, she painted above the line. With the white paint that was, already, not enough to provide adequate coverage for the real Antarctica, below the line. I was not thrilled, and she learned that quite quickly.
Sometimes there's not even a real explanation for where my little flashes of temper come out. One of my teen brothers loves to come and sit outside my house in the evenings while I go about my routine. Sometimes we chat in Mambwe or English; sometimes he asks questions. Most of the time--I think he's in the midst of an adolescent identity crisis of sorts--he just likes to sit silently. While this is a cultural thing that is disarming at first, I don't mind. In general, I enjoy his company and go about my business, granting him leave to sit or go, to talk or to remain in his thoughts. One day, however, things were not going right. Lots of little things, so minor I don't even remember them: I may have burned a finger or dropped some things; I know that I tipped over my water filter while trying to fill it, etc. etc. Nothing serious. But one thing too many happened, and I said, "You know, it's a little frustrating having you just watch me while I stumble all over everything." Walking back in the house, I added, "Just go away!" and threw my cutting board into my hallway. Then I went into my room, collected myself, and came back out. I'm not sure that Davie understood every word I said in my American English, but he got the meaning; he had, indeed, gone away. I felt bad. I wasn't mad at him; I was just mad, as we all are sometimes, and it was awkward to have a witness to that. So I pulled myself together and joined his family, as usual, at supper a while later, hoping that my new attitude would show him I wasn't angry any longer. When he didn't come visit for a few days, I spoke with him directly, apologizing for losing my temper and letting him know it had nothing to do with him personally.
But that was a few months ago, and I still get less-than-cheery on a fairly frequent basis. When teachers don't show up, when the teaching and learning aids in our first gtade classroom are pulled down for Grade 9 exams (it's a rule you can't have any kind of poster or aid in the classroom during these all-important high school qualifying exams) the week we're trying to review with our still-not-literate first-graders, when my kitten knocks over a lit candle into my lap while I'm trying to read, when someone who doesn't even know my name asks me why I can't donate money or "find a sponsor" in the U.S. to fund whatever project s/he has in mind...I am less than peaceful. I am not a model of friendship and cooperation. I'm cranky and snippety and sometimes downright mean. Which, of course, is not really the point of Peace Corps. But at the same time--this isn't a poster. It's not a slogan, it's not a soundbite. This is my life, and I'm here for two years, interacting with a lot of other people right smack dab in the middle of their lives. I might really believe in all the goals of Peace Corps--but I'm still figuring out my own stuff, too. Peace begins inside. There's a wonderful quote: "Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart." (Unknown) I guess no matter how much we believe in it, we can't create peace outside of ourselves unless we can find it within ourselves.
I love my community. And despite the noise, trouble, and hard work I might find here, it's a pretty good place to work on the calm in my heart. Once I find it, I'll work on those doves.
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