YOCOSCO

This week marked a major milestone in our service…the Close of Service, or COS conference. It was a week of reflection, gratitude and tears (those were mostly mine) that served to remind me just how far my cohort has come together, just how much we’ve accomplished by still being here. We had the opportunity to thank one another, to thank staff, and to think about where we’ve been and consider these next few months.

I recently found a reflection I’d written when I got to my first village. For some reason, I never posted. In the piece, I talk about how challenging a major life change can be. I describe a method Rachel and I shared for coping. How we tried to sit with the discomfort that came from being in a new culture, a new place, a new way of life.

Sometimes, life comes full circle. The emotions that I describe in this old piece, will soon be resonant again. I wanted to share it now, because it’s incredible to think of where I was, where we all were, just a short while ago. How similar some of those feelings are now.

This past week, in an effort to stop being weepy, we tried being funny. We played COS Bingo (a board of inside jokes with things that would inevitably happen at a conference–the nurse talks about sex, we run out of coffee, I pull a sweet potato out of my backpack), invented lists of superlatives for one another (I was voted “most likely to invent a condiment based fad diet,”) and cheered the profound rallying cry, “YOCOSCO!”

You Only C.O.S. Conference Once.

And yes, it’s silly, but it’s true. I’ll only get these last few months of my service right now. I’m entering another period of big change, but I know it can be a beautiful one, and I know it will absolutely end in greater strength, love, and humility.

And now, for the time warp. Back to October, 2014:

Reflecting on the past couple of weeks, I think it’s important to say, and to remember that Peace Corps is a major life change. This occurred to me, most spectacularly this morning at breakfast, while watching a turtle be cooked over the kitchen fire.

Though I’ve helped to skin a wild rabbit, gutted fish, and become remarkably adapt at killing scorpions with my fire extinguisher something about the turtle got to me today, and I had to leave the kitchen, under some silly excuse like, “my laundry is done!” so that my host family wouldn’t see me get upset.

It’s one thing to not eat meat here, it would be entirely another to show remorse or concern for an animal intended to be eaten.

And that’s hard. I come from a culture where, though my beliefs are sometimes questioned, they are not so far from the mainstream as to be unheard of. Many people would balk at a live boil of a creature. I think today reminded me that there are many things that are different, and it’s ok to say that adjusting to some of those things is hard.

Last week my cell phone was stolen, and while this isn’t a huge deal, because I don’t have much service to speak of, generally, it still feels a little funny to be without a means of communication.

My laundry excuse…laundry is done very differently here, and sometimes, while I shiver into a pair of wet underwear that I’ve inexpertly rinsed free of powdered soap, I let myself miss the spin cycle. Just for a moment. I let myself miss the spin cycle.

I went to visit my friend Rachel in the next village this morning; I rode there on the back of a pick-up truck, then biked home over a very hilly 5-mile terrain and we talked this through.

It’s ok that everything is different…in fact, it’s better than ok. The sense of displacement and difference, occasional ill footing is probably one of the greatest blessings of this experience. Sometimes I’m sitting in a crowded room and no one is speaking to me, no one is speaking a language I understand, sometimes there’s a turtle in a pot, and maybe I feel sad, grossed-out, unmoored.

But it’s just for a minute; maybe an hour. Learning how to sit with that feeling, move past it, and be ok, brings this sense of settlement, of contentment, of being ok with myself and the situation, just as it is.

Still, there is something self-forgiving and humbling in remembering that this is a major life change. Sometimes that means I need to eat more peanut butter than I might normally, watch a lot of television shows on my computer, look at pictures of Wallaby and cry for a little while.

Fortunately, in the grand scheme of things, this is a powerful change, and a beautiful one. And thankfully, for me, it’s one that will end in greater learning, hopefully a greater humility, and not in the inside of a cooking pot. May you rest in peace, little turtle.

I still get several months more of this incredible chapter of my life.

I’m not done yet.

How lucky is that?

Team Tilapia

Sometimes, the universe presents you with an opportunity to become more than you thought you could be.
Sometimes, this is an opportunity to spend time with a child or forgive someone who has wronged you.
Sometimes, it is a chance for a fresh start, a new beginning.

Sometimes it is less profound.

Sometimes the universe gives you a chance to become an expert in tilapia  farming.

This week marked a new and exciting chapter in the series of projects known as “Molly Does Things She Has No Business Doing.”

On Wednesday, after months of coordination and phone tag, I proudly welcomed a Belizean staff member from Central Farm, the leading tilapia farming and research site in Belize, and his colleague, the Taiwanese Tilapia Expert, to Golden Stream. My new best friend Jun, a 29-year-old Japanese JICA volunteer (Japan’s Peace Corps) came along too, because he has “always wanted to learn how to grow tilapia!”

That makes one of us, buddy.

I knew the day was going to be great from the get go, because of a conversation I’d had the night before with one of my farmers, the chairman of the tilapia cooperative.

He informed me that he might be late to the meeting because he had to weigh a cow in the morning.

“Pardon?”

“I am selling a cow, and I need to weigh it before our meeting.”

“How long is that gonna take?” I kind of needed the chairman present at this most sacred of tilapia events.

“Well Ms. Molly-Apple (this is my pet name in the village), I will catch the cow, but we have to put it in the truck. And if the cow does not want to get in the truck, it could take a long time. So really, it depends on the mood of the cow.”

The most successful projects hinge on the emotional stability of cows.

I needn’t have worried. The next morning, with our colleagues from Central Farm due to arrive at 10:30, Jun arrived promptly at 8. We shared tea and talked for a long time (using charade type hand gestures to guide us through my paucity of Japanese) about his previous volunteer work as a garbage collector near the Egyptian pyramids.

My real life is too good to make up.

When the men from Central Farm arrived, we drove down to the river, crossed the road and climbed under the fence and discovered that the chairman had not yet left for the weigh station! Apparently the truck hadn’t shown up, which was our gain, but probably the cow’s loss.

Whatever, it worked out.

The gentlemen from Central Farm showed us how to test the oxygenation of the pond, the pH, and water quality with simple tests that involved the Peace Corps volunteer submerging her forearm and various other body parts into the water. We learned about the different types of tilapia-red, grey, and black. Grey and black grow faster but if you raise the red kind you can tell people that they’re snapper!

(Just to be clear, no one from Central Farm actually condoned this practice.)

We tested soil quality by drilling into the earth with a manual digger. The men let Jun and I pretend to turn it for a photo. We both lacked the upper body strength to actually help.
The best quality soil for a pond has a clay content of 30-40%. The lay-fish-farmer may test this by balling up a bit of the dirt, and letting it drop to the ground from shoulder height. If the clay ball breaks, the soil is too poor, but if it holds together, you’re good to go!

Jun and I pelted clay balls at each other until the Expert told us we had tested the soil enough.

From there, we went on a walking tour of everyone’s farm. The men from Central Farm gave recommendations and we came up with a list of next steps that were mostly along the lines of “Ms. Molly has more work to do.”

Our Central Farm friends promised to keep in touch and Jun and I made plans to meet to discuss my hopes to hit his bosses up for tank funding.

My favorite lesson of the day, was “if you don’t have any water, probably it will be hard for the tilapia to survive.”

Not impossible, just difficult.

Another good lesson was that sometimes, the things you don’t expect to say yes to, turn into the best things of all.

So maybe becoming a tilapia goddess is actually kinda profound.

Still waiting to feel similarly about latrines…

(if you would like to contribute to the village latrine project, please visit http://www.row.org/donate/ and put “golden stream latrine project, Belize,” in the subject line. Just an FYI, this is not a Peace Corps project…it is sponsored by the village.)

Tire Tales

Community projects usually start when I say “yes,” to a proposal that I am poorly equipped to help lead or manage. A sociology degree really helps you understand the people you work with. It doesn’t do so much to guide you when you’re trying to figure out how to jam tires together.

My work partners at the primary school and I recently completed a tire playground. We started brainstorming in September…and finished the end of January. Here’s a photo gallery of the journey from junkyard to schoolyard.

September 2015: I email a local construction organization and asked them if they had extra tires. They did.

Community partner, Julio, kindly offers me a ride.

This is just a good picture of me.

Jungle Crossfit. Loading tires into a pick-up.

When we get the tires back to the school, we let the kids unload them. This is good leadership through delegation.

Rolling the tires behind the library…

where they will sit and collect rainwater…

for the next 5 months. Hey. Projects take time.

Go time! My work partner suggests that we wash the tires. I offer to take pictures.

We position the tires at the playground site.

Then they took the drill away.

The PTA Chairman came to pose for a picture.

Digging holes. This is another job that is great for delegating!

We used bolts and screws to attach the tires together.

These are turtle eyes. Squint.

The finished turtle! See it? No? Neither did anyone else…

Team photo! Ms. Lavern, my work partner, is saying “Don’t make any rude hand signs!”

Hanging out.

Men down. Good thing it’s close the ground.

Take 2.

Sign of a successful playground–will they play on it? We passed with flying colors.

This was posed.

Post paint. (See it now??)

The finished playground. I was covered in oil paint for 2 weeks.

Healthy Hearts

To combat the end of December lethargy that strikes many villages come the holiday season, my CHW, ix Teul and I decided to plan a mini-health fair for the community.

We did not theme it seasonally. In retrospect, “Healthy Heart Day,” would have been better suited for February, but maybe we can do something Christmas-Hannukah-Kwanza themed around Valentines.

We have a lot of goals, here in Golden Stream.

With 2 weeks notice, ix Teul and I managed to secure the gracious participation of community partner Hillside Clinic, as well as the talents of PCVL Jason and PCVs Loan and Tiffany. Our team set, ix Teul and I prepared a game called “Sick Heart, Healthy Heart,” (I need help naming things, guys) and a mock up of several toilet paper tube blood vessels with different amounts of play doh plaque filling their interiors. I used my stethoscope to let the kids listen to my heart and explain how the heart pumps blood throughout the body. Also, let’s be real, the stethoscope made me look cool.

The medical students from Hillside checked blood pressure. Tiffany prepared a fantastic exercise game with her CHW Juanita and Juanita’s son Elvis. Loan made all the children fall in love with her by teaching them about the structure of the heart and painting little hearts on their hands with face paint. Jason made sure everything smoothly.

We had bananas and star fruit for prizes and listened to holiday music that no one could hear over the laughing and talking. Some of the women were reluctant to participate at first, but soon with a little encouragement in my hilarious Mopan, Q’eqchi and Spanish (yes, we speak all 3 in the village!) they were soon playing games and asking questions.

While I was explaining hypertension with my toilet paper tubes, one woman asked me how she could make her arteries healthier.

I explained some of the foods she could eat, some foods to avoid and that exercise would help.

“We could have an exercise group here, if you wanted.”

All the women laughed at me, and then, after looking around sheepishly at each other said, “yes, well, maybe we could do that.”

Then they handed me the newest baby born in the village.

“A’an wank aabelom. Junmai hab.”

“This is your husband. (Wait) 20 years.”

Apropos for our December heart day.

Abstract Art

Apologies for the prolonged hiatus, mom. (Who actually did call to tell me that I needed to blog more regularly…) It has been several intense months in the village, followed by several mellow-to-the-point-of-comatose weeks as we lead up to Christmas.

( “what do you do for Christmas, Murphy?”

“We drink coke and go to church for a couple hours longer.”

Ah.)

So we’ve baked tortillas, swum to the river, read Harry Potter, and got in some painting.

This isn’t a bad job. 

The World Map project is a Peace Corps staple…volunteers all over the world have created world maps in schools, community centers, and public walls. My work partner and I, a teacher at the school, decided to complete our map as part of a larger environmental project we’ve been working on with the kids. The project, several months in the making, will eventually include our tire playground, a hanging seed starter bed made from plastic bottles (follow up bonus blog about dumpster diving for said bottles at the local high school…) and the world map mural modified from the Peace Corps template to incorporate an environmental theme. 

I was fortunate enough to connect with an organization that let us use their leftover paint from a previous mural. We picked a design, a wall, and other teachers helpfully donated their most rambunctious and disruptive youth to help with the project.

We used the grid method, which required painstaking measurements and line drawing in pencil on the chosen wall. We had the privilege of redrawing these lines every morning after the rain, bird droppings, and mud were smeared across it each evening. Once we finally had the lines set, we numbered the grid and divided it into blocks…the Peace Corps publishes the template with countries articulated within the blocked grids. Theoretically, the next part is easy…find the right number box and draw the right line inside. 

Everything is easy in theory.

As self appointed, “checker,” I heard myself repeatedly making such modulated comments as “I love how creative India is! Maybe we could check what the paper says?” or, “hey, just wondering, what happened to the Sinai Peninsula?” and “wow, I’m from Michigan and I’ve never seen a map representation like this one!”

Apologies to my people.

At some point, I decided that accuracy was secondary. The boys chosen to work with us turned out to be exceptionally talented at grid work and painting…their extra energy in the classroom, competencies poorly suited for desk work translated into enthusiasm, persistence, and pride in mapmaking, if not attention to detail.

This was their mural and they loved it, so it didn’t really matter that it wasn’t perfect.

In fact, even as a recovering perfectionist, 

I like it better this way.

(The population of absent Indonesia may disagree, but perhaps they could go live on the newly discovered island off the coast of North Carolina.)

   
   

Village Halloweening

I love Halloween. I wasn’t the biggest fan as a child; while I loved dressing up pretentiously as the heroines of various adult novels I hadn’t read, I wasn’t super into the hitting up strangers for packaged products. I’ve never been a huge candy eater, and I resented the disruption in the school week that resulted from a day spent coloring bat shaped stencils. (Type A, even at 7).
Since college, however, as my real siblings (and roommates) can attest, I am mad enthusiastic about anything that involves dressing up, elaborate games, and optional dance parties.

(Dance party is never optional).
“I don’t want to touch the grapes, Molly….”

“They’re eyeballs, Sam!”

“I really don’t wanna touch eyeballs!”
With only my blemished party planning record to recommend me, (that and a pirated copy of Monster Mash) I set about on a grand mission to fulfill the second goal of Peace Corps.
Traumatize your host siblings with a weird American holiday.
Just kidding. Second goal is to share American culture. Other than expounding on the joys of The Great Mouse Detective and Sandra Boyton children’s music (they love Snuggle Puppy!) I’ve been pretty neglectful of this goal.

I started by trying to explain Halloween.
“Ok, so, at Halloween, you dress up and you go around to everyone’s house and they give you candy! You go to a door, knock on it, and say trick or treat!”
“Chicker-cheat?”
“No, no, trick OR treat, like I could trick you OR give you a candy, but I won’t trick you cause no one does that.”
I beamed. They looked confused.
“Why would people give us candy?”
This was a good point. I decided to leave explaining up to the professionals. We’d just reached chapter 10, Halloween, in the Philosopher’s Stone, so I left the details to JK Rowling. Didn’t really work.
“What’s a troll?”

I tried again, this time with info pasted from a history channel webpage.
The Druids were a tough sell, so we watched The Berenstein Bears Trick or Treat and Arthur’s Halloween.
Still somewhat confused, lessons of PBS morality lost on them, the kids embraced the concepts of cake, candy, and me dancing, so the show was scheduled for this past Sunday. I will be using a personal night for the real Halloween and that’s not American subculture I need to share with the host sibs. That and Maria will be gone to her new village by then, and we needed to make sure she didn’t miss any of the tremendous educational opportunity afforded by my slapstick Halloween.
We started the day with church and then proceeded to cake making and decorating.
Frosting is expensive and I’m cheap, so we decorated our fiesta party chip cake with dulce de leche. I didn’t really remember how to make dulce de leche, so we threw a can of condensed milk into a pot of boiling water and hoped for the best. I’m also pretty sure I mucked up the cooling time because when I drove a knife into the can, post boil, a long stream of hot milk flew out of the top and into my hair. I think they were only second degree scalp burns, so that’s good. We used an orange and a corn tortilla for decoration.

This is called “being resourceful.”
Since pumpkins are notoriously incorrect here (see post from October 2014) Jack o’ lanterns were accomplished by cutting faces into my empty boxes of All Bran, and applying crayon liberally. I made some ghosts out of construction paper and taped them to the several doors we would be using for trick or treating; 2 side doors of the house and 1 window would be our set.
Costume wise: Alvaro was a ghost. Murphy was a graduate. The girls were Q’eqchi children. Which is clever, because they’re actually Mopan.
I used my orange sweatshirt ($1 at the market!) as foundation for my age appropriate and dare I admit, rather risqué, costume.
The great pumpkin. Of Charlie Brown fame.
A knit cap with leaves and stem and crocheted vine completed the fetching ensemble.
(Who says you can’t adjust baby hat patterns to fit adults?!)
Finally, we were ready. We lit the All Bran lanterns, cued the music, and the kids positioned themselves outside door number 1.
At their knock, I heaped handfuls of plastic-y Guatemalan candy and whole wheat crackers into their fists, then hurried over to the window to be ready for their subsequent knock.
We repeated this procedure several times until I’d run out of candy, and then we stared rather balefully at each other, a deep anti-climactic-cism in the air.
“And now we eat cake?”
And now we eat cake.
This, dear children, is my culture.
You are welcome.

Land of the Free, by the Carib Sea

September 21 is Belizean Independence Day, and it is celebrated, much like American Independence, with carousing, merriment and barbecue. Pop shots replace fireworks but the colors (red, white, and blue) remain the same. Since Independence Day in Belize takes place during the school year, primary schools celebrate by choosing a Standard VI queen…several young women compete to raise money and be chosen as representative of their community. It’s like picking a prom queen but your popularity and worth are measured at a younger age, and monetarily, not just in votes!
(Guess who wasn’t prom queen…

I peaked at age 10, in my starring role as Straight Edge Student in the 5th grade DARE play. Some of us shine bright and burn out young…)
Anyway.
The queen is crowned, and placed on a float that parades through the community, following a ceremony with many speeches, lackluster preschool presentations, and flag waving. 
Then everyone eats caldo (old village) or chocolate chip cookies (new village).
Yesterday was the big day. I arrived early to pretend to be somewhat useful in helping the queen and her runner-up ladies in waiting get ready. 

It was a lot like getting ready for someone else’s prom. It was unlike getting ready for my own prom in that there was no weeping, no dramatic pulling out of hairdos, or scandalization of mothers by daughters insisting on wearing bright red Converse with their thrift store dress. (I stand by the shoes, mom, and the ponytail). The teachers bustled around, tying sashes, fixing crowns, and spritzing very intense cologne. I tried to stay out of the way, by blowing up balloons, and yelling at children who tried to enter the queen’s dressing room aka library aka refrigerator storage space.
 I am good at yelling. 
My fashion advice was occasionally elicited and then roundly dismissed. There was lots of giggling, lipstick application and complaining and fussing over high heels. In short, it was the type of female bonding I am poorly equipped for, but occasionally try to feign awareness and appreciation of, and end up, at best, an awkward interloper in pigtails and Keens. 
The dressing procedure took maybe 2 hours. Actually, it took 2 whole hours. 

The final preparation was a benediction of glitter that the Standard VI teacher sprinkled over all the girls, in a motion vaguely reminiscent of a priest blessing with holy water.
Would I like some glitter?
It seemed sac-religious to refuse. 
I had the noble responsibility of sheparding the queens out of the library when it was their turn to be honored. Then I stood with the parents in a fire ant nest to watch the ceremony until it was time to load up into the trailer and journey through the village in patriotic splendor. 
Sweaty, fire-ant blistered, and glittering like a runner up queen.
Proud to be a temporary Belizean. 

   
    
 

To my sisters

My family composition in village 1 and village 2 has been remarkably similar. Two older girls, separated by a year in their late teens, followed by a welter of younger boys who seem, forgive me, to do a lot of soccer playing and torturing of dogs (I love them all, I do). This duplication of birth order has offered me an opportunity to do some reflecting on siblings and note some parallels between my first village and this one, between my Belize life and real life.

One evening in the old village, I watched the oldest sister, Alma, sentenced to give the baby a bath, dissolve into a torrent of hysterical screams and threats, so reminiscent of my own past behavior when caring for younger siblings that I rather had a sense of déjà vu. When the baby still refused to comply with Alma’s wishes , reasonable ones, I, fellow oldest child thought, to be quiet and stand still, she huffed out of the bathing hut and demanded that her younger sister finish the task.

Huh. Been there.

While Alma and I sat together in the hammock, Norma succeeded in calming the baby down, dressing her and brushing her hair. There was no more yelling. The whole affair proceeded smoothly and with a great deal of patience from Norma and sulking from Alma…the latter’s behavior I found highly sympathetic, and quite reasonable.

Similarly, this past weekend, during the engagement, my newest middle sister showed her grit; holding down the fort while Maria and I hid out for 30 minutes in my room, exhausted by the weight of hosting, and in Maria’s case, getting engaged.

I won’t say, partly in interest of self preservation, partly in truth, that older sisters have it easy. We have to do things first; we’re often asked to stand on the front line and act as bulldog. We carry a burden of perfectionism and shoulder expectation and responsibility as though we carry the weight of the world. But though we try hard, though we are passionate advocates and driven task masters (to a fault) we don’t give enough credit to our younger counterparts who are often able to do all we do and more. Usually with a greater degree of softness and fewer angry tears. Of course, I honor and identify with these oldest sisters. I get them, because I am them. But over a year of watching sibling and family dynamics, I’ve come to realize that while I’m (obviously) a useful (and humble) family asset, I can’t hold a candle to the middle women. While Maria and I hid out, tired and drained, Jen kept on, serving drinks and smiling at in laws until we were ready to cope again.

Which brings me to another sister, one of my forever sisters, who not only is the preferred bath giver in my normal life, but also, like the middle sisters I’ve come to love in Belize, is the glue that holds my forever family together.

This has been made all the more evident in the past few months.

Kate has carried me. She has done it with compassion, grace, and tremendous love. She has lived with me through one of the most difficult experiences of my life, walked with me during Medevac, witnessed and counseled me through a breakup, a rebound, weight loss, weight gain, a bad hair cut, MERSA scare, go lean crunch packing disaster and Bravo addiction to boot.
She asked nothing of me, yet was constantly available when I needed to cry, have a FaceTime dance party, assess the suitability of an outfit, or required encouragement to leave the Washington DC street corner where I’d been stricken with a migraine and make it 10 blocks to Whole Foods to buy pita chips and instant mashed potatoes.

She bought me the Little Mermaid soundtrack. And I’m not sure why she did this, but I’ll admit.

I’m grateful.

She is my cheerleader, rational processor, and role model. She tells me when I’m wrong and lets me know when my judgement is right.
She correctly assesses the suitability of suitors, months before I do. She comforts the children I’ve induced to tears and mediates conflicts and softens grudges between me (23) and Sam (9). She is, like middle sisters everywhere, a peace maker, a hard worker, a bearer of others’ sorrows and troubles, a carrier of secrets and worries. She makes the lives of those around her lighter.

She’s had the same hard 4 months I have, and she deserves recognition, love, and all my gratitude, all my thanks for being with me through it.
I am back in Belize today because of her. I’m back in one piece because she is in my life.

I owe you Kate-Bug.

Here’s to middle sisters. To Norma and Jen for caring for Alma, Maria, and me. For making and putting out literal fires. For the “good snake, bad snake game.”

Here’s to Isa, Mimi, and Josie, who are hysterical, gutsy, compassionate, and make me want to be a better human. For ensuring that I find my way back home. For making hugs travel through a telephone.

Here’s to my sister, to my best friend, Kate.

Blessings on you, warrior women.

Prior Engagements

The night I arrived at site, I dropped my belongings in my room, was treated to a tour of the yard (star fruit! Mangos! Mariapples!) and then led to the kitchen and presented with a basket of tortillas.While I chewed, awkwardly trying to get my bearings and recall enough Mopan to thank my new host mom, my new brother, Edmundo, pulled up a stool beside me.

“You are here on a very special night. It is time for a Mayan engagement.”
I choked on my tortilla as I watched a pick up truck pull up outside the house; man, woman, and teenage boy walking toward us.

“Pardon?”

He nodded seriously.
“It is time for you to see your engagement.”
After some clarification, I confirmed that it was 17-year-old Maria, not myself, who was about to be wed. That evening marked the three of four formal meetings her parents had with his parents to discuss his assets, her’s, details of their home life, jobs, quality of tortilla making, church going, and proclivity to drink. Maria would not be present at these meetings but would later talk the offer over with her parents and decide whether to accept or reject the offer. The fourth meeting will be a celebration for the two immediate families…a meet and greet with lots of caldo. The party, this coming Saturday, is when they will set a date for the wedding and then I will have to legitimately confront the fact that Maria, whom I already love, will be leaving us to start a new life somewhere else. 
Her soon to be betrothed, the young man in question, comes from a village a solid distance away…While baking tortillas the other day, I asked Maria how they’d met.

“I don’t know. I think he saw me sing on a church trip and then I just got a text one day, and it was him saying they were going to engage me.”
I looked at her, incredulity causing me to lose control of my tortilla. I accidentally flung the whole thing onto the floor.

“Why,” she asked “how do you (Americans) get engaged?”

And then I started to explain…

“Well…typically we try out a lot of people first, and then sometimes we get engaged, but a lot of people don’t, and sometimes you can be with someone for a long time and they get bored and they break it off. And we don’t usually tell our parents about someone unless we think it’s serious…” I rambled for a long time until Maria’s expression was similarly incredulous to mine. 
I thought about Snap-chat sexting and Tinder and friends with benefits. I thought about long games, hookups, “he’s just not that into you,” and Cosmopolitan magazine’s tips for summer flings versus tips for trapping men into saying they’re your boyfriend.
“Huh. Yeah, I guess our way is kinda weird.”
Here’s the thing:

I wish she could go to high school. I wish I felt like she had more of a choice. I wish she wasn’t 17 and I wish I couldn’t imagine her whole life, playing out in a movie in my mind. I wish her fiancé was better looking and didn’t wear a mesh dew rag. I wish her mother in law smiled more.

Selfishly, I wish she wasn’t moving to another village. I wish could stay right here, with me.
But I don’t think I have any soapbox to stand on when it comes to cultural ideas about relationships.
I mean, Tinder.
Just imagine explaining Tinder to a Mayan teenager.
I’ll give you a second.
…
Right? Right?

See what I mean?
Maybe, when it comes to the wide gulf that sometimes separates cultures, the best we can do is just listen to one another. 

An Open Letter to the Creators of UNO

Bless You. No, really. Thank you to the moon and back for providing such an incredible, succinct, family integration tool in such a small, easily explainable package. Everyone gets matching. Everyone can handle colors and numbers. It’s genius.

Thank you, dear makers of UNO, for facilitating the possibility to arrive at the doorstep of a willing family, one not of your culture, not of your language (nor of the indigenous language you’ve been speaking for the past year) and be able to be laughing and semi-communicating with said-family in a matter of minutes. I owe it to you, UNO.

It sounds ridiculous to say this, but honestly? I think part of the reason we’re so far along together in this process, this new family synthesizing, is due, in part to Disney movies, a bit to a 500 piece puzzle, a little to generalized silliness and the novelty of a “gringa,” who really is surprisingly good at making tortillas, but largely to UNO. You don’t need to speak Mopan or English to play UNO. You can easily ascertain which of your new siblings is a cheater, and which ones can be bought off or made into potential allies.

UNO can teach you what everyone’s laugh sounds like.

So thanks. Thanks for making UNO.

Most of all, thanks for making hugs possible on day 2. Thanks for providing a forum for the words “goodnight sister.”

Thank you, so, so much, for opening the door to a squeeze from a new sibling and the declaration “I love you, I mean I like you, well, really I love you.”

That was pretty cool. And maybe we can both take a little bit of credit for that. Part awesome host family. Part resilient PCV. Part UNO.

It takes a village.

I think I like this new one.