Music Is Culture

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Before leaving for Paraguay a friend who’s had some experience working abroad told me that I’d miss things I didn’t even like when I was in the States.

I was doubtful.

She was right.

For me, the thing is music. During my first few months I missed rap music. I had fewer than 20 rap songs in my music library before Paraguay. That’s changed, but I still wouldn’t call rap my jam. My longing for rap foreshadowed my realization that music is a huge part of my identity, which I wasn’t aware of before the music I’m used to wasn’t the norm anymore. I didn’t think much about music in the States. Ask my sister. She was not impressed to discover that after 4 years of college and then some I added maybe 30 songs to my iTunes from when I set it up at the end of high school until I hurried to get more music to bring to Paraguay.

In Paraguay, the most common music listened to is: bachata piru, polka, and cumbia. Also, some younger people and people who think they’re hip listen to raggeaton and a random selection of US pop songs. If you dig deeper, you’ll find that my generation and younger also listen to a lot of romantic music, Latin pop might be the genre, and some US rock. There’s also a Bob Marley following.

To put it another way, the diversity of music listened to in the US is not reflected in Paraguay. I’m sure you can find people listening to just about any group somewhere in Paraguay, but the simple fact is that what’s blasting at 4 o’clock in the morning or 7 p.m. on Sundays is bachata piru, polka, or cumbia.

For me, music is something you listen to while doing something else—unless you are playing an instrument or singing. I have playlists for cooking and cleaning, for writing, for lesson planning, and for exercising. Each activity requires a different mix of music and depending on how I feel that day I might need a new list. I can’t listen to the same song on repeat and there are very few songs that I’d like to hear more than once a day. Also, I like to have times of silence.

In Paraguay, listening to music is an activity. So much so, that people will say, “let’s listen to music.” They will then turn their stereos up way louder than I would, sit down, and proceed to listen to music. They might drink terere while listening to the music. There is one variation on this. For some Paraguayans, music is something you listen to from the moment you get up until the moment you go to bed. What this means is that you have loud music from the crack of dawn, Paraguayans get amazingly early every day, until bedtime.

I never thought music would be where I feel the most conflict integrating in Paraguay, but it is. I didn’t realize how music influenced my mood. Nor would I have thought that listening to bachata piru, polka, and cumbia would make me feel more out of place than the stares I get when I walk down the street sticking out like a sore thumb because of my clothes, the way I walk, my skin color, and the fact that I’m walking alone.

Is there a solution? I swap music with Paraguay youth who like American music. Maybe I’ll bring them and their friends further to the “dark side”…also known as US rock, pop, rap, R&B, and alternative. I put on a smile when I have to listen to cumbia all day and then go home and put on some Martin Sexton, Paul Simon, or Bruce Springsteen—not just because I like them, but because they are classics from my childhood. After I listen to a few of my songs I’m ready to go out again, I might even turn off my music and listen to my neighbors’ music for a while.

Real Fear: Heat

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The other day it was over a 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and it’s only spring. On that day the water worked intermittently during the hottest hours of the day, but I still managed 3 showers. The power went out several times during the night. I dread the day when the water doesn’t work all day and it’s hot (I refuse to imagine a long power outage)—so far I’ve only survived those variables independently, but the inevitability that I will encounter both together one day is nerve-wracking.

My little house, as I like to affectionately call it, does not have AC. All I’ve got is a floor fan, which I move around the room with me like it’s my shadow.

My community gets a 5 o’clock shadow—as in, anywhere I want to walk before 5 p.m. has no shade, just beating sunrays. The school doesn’t have AC. They have ceiling fans, but not all the fans work and even when they do work it’s still bloody hot for an old New Englander like me.

The health post is an oasis. There is one room in the health post that has AC. I foresee spending many summer hours in that one somewhat dark room where the walls are lined with baby alimentation posters, medical record folders (paper ones), and whatever medications we have.

Don’t worry! There is a comical side to this whole heat debacle. While I’m dripping sweat like a glass of ice water on a summer’s day, my Paraguay comrades are sitting drinking terere. There’s not a drop of sweat on their faces and their clothes are still perfectly pristine. “Haku” they say when they see me, which means “hot” in Guaraní. I always respond “haku” enthusiastically and comment how I miss the snow. Reflecting, I’m starting to think they say it not because they think it’s particularly hot but because I look like I’m boiling. It’s a good indirect way to say, “You look terrible, are you okay?”

Send Me Good Mojo

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The only concrete project I have due to my boss is a community study, which is jargon for saying a report on what health and sanitation challenges there are in my site as well as what services are already in place to help resolve those challenges. (Hint: Leading challenges in my site are high blood pressure, diabetes, and being overweight. We have a health post and some community commissions as well as a school.)

I find the study interesting, except there’s just one part that I really don’t want to do: a census. I have to go to the homes of 50 families and ask them 6-pages of questions about their family’s health.

If you could send me some good mojo from now until November 17, when it’s due, to get me through the census that would be great, because here’s how I see it:

“The time has come,” the Peace Corps said,

“To talk of many things

Of censuses—of cold-call visits—and interviews

Of conversations where you must pull strings

And why the community needs a volunteer

And whether your project ideas have wings

 

“But wait a bit,” the Volunteer cried,

“Before we have our chat;

For some of us have a great fear,

And much verguenza to do all that!”

“No hurry!” said the Peace Corps

The Volunteer thanked them where they sat.

 

“A community study,” the Peace Corps said,

“Is what we chiefly need;

Projects and flexibility besides

Are very good indeed—

Now if you’re ready, Volunteer dear,

We can proceed.”

 

“But not all at once!” the Volunteer cried,

Turning a little blue.

“After such determination, that would be

A dismal thing to do!”

“The study is due,” the Peace Corps said.

“November seventeenth for review.

 

“Or you won’t get vacation approved

And that wouldn’t be very nice!”

The health sector said nothing but

“You can do it, but don’t roll the dice

I wish you wouldn’t procrastinate–

Or I’ll have to read it twice!”

 

“It seems a shame,” the Peace Corps said,

“To play the volunteers such a trick,

After we’ve brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!”

The health sector said nothing but

“Don’t let too much time tick!”

 

“I weep for you,” the Peace Corps said:

“I deeply sympathize.”

Followed by quotes about service and development

Of the cliché size,

Holding their performance review

As though it were a prize.

 

“O Volunteer,” said the health sector,

“You’ve had a pleasant run!

Shall you be turning in your census now?”

But answer came there none—

And this was scarcely odd, because

The Volunteer preferred any project to the assigned one.

Birthday Shout Out

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I had a birthday recently. Some people have life-crises at New Year’s when they think about what they’ve accomplished, what they haven’t done, what they want to change…well, I have birthday crises. I couldn’t care less about January 1, but when my October birthday comes around I have “so many feelings.”

I wasn’t sure how my birthday contemplativeness was going to manifest itself in Paraguay. The answer: I felt completely loved and supported and empowered.

I got supportive, funny, and loving messages via email, Facebook, and Twitter from family and friends back home. My sister created a digital birthday card that she emailed, tweeted, and made her Facebook cover photo. My family sent me care packages with copious amounts of chocolate and green tea (and other wonderful things that have made my life markedly better)—I did NOT use restraint during my consumption of said chocolate.

Other volunteers and Paraguayan friends sent me thoughtful birthday messages. Two of my closest friends is site ambushed me with an unexpected birthday present the day after my birthday—I’m still smiling.

The women at my health post hosted a birthday lunch. I made chocolate cake with dulce de leche as frosting. They made two kinds, yes two, of salad and a savory pie made of leafy greens, onions, and eggs. We also had sausage and Coke Cola—staples in Paraguay.

The Saturday after my birthday, I had my morning English class sing happy birthday to me—English practice, right? I didn’t tell the students I worked with on the day of my birthday that it was my birthday, but got happy birthday wishes for almost a week afterward when they did find out.

It was the birthday I always dreamed of—tranquilopa.

Don’t Suffer, Fix It

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You don’t need to come all the way to Paraguay to find little inconveniences in life. Maybe the sink drips. Maybe the door squeaks. Maybe the table rocks. Whatever it is, it works but it could be better. It wouldn’t be hard to mend but instead you let yourself deal with these little things for months, for years… What exactly keeps you from fixing them? What keeps you from making them better or eliminating them all together? Why would you deal with small annoyances rather than resolve them?

You don’t know how to fix them?

You’re lazy?

You’re too shy to ask for help?

You tell yourself that it’s only going to be for a little while?

I’ve come to ask myself these questions. I’m not lazy and I know how do fix most basic things in my house. But, still I don’t. Paraguay adds a level of complexity because I don’t always know where to get the materials I need to fix something, but that’s not an excuse.

I had an epiphany recently—why let myself suffer if I can fix the problem? Thinking about my current situation, I’m going to live in my house two years. That’s not a petty amount of time.

I find the scenario of inaction interesting. I can come all the way to Paraguay to try to help people improve their lives. But, somehow, I overlook the necessities in my own home—I should be able to fix my wardrobe knob, refresh the concrete in my bathroom, and build/get enough shelving.

My new motto: “Don’t suffer, fix it.”

Check back in a couple months to see if I’m living my motto or just blowing smoke.

The Classroom

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When I say I’m teaching in the school here’s what it means. The class is filled with 20-30 students. There aren’t desks for everyone, and if it’s the first class of the day some students inevitably have to wonder off in search of a chair. The chairs have seen better days—they’re covered in graffiti, their desk arm is broken, they’re a little crooked.

The classroom door won’t stay closed, so if I want to reduce distractions I have to prop a chair against it. All classrooms have chalkboards—they don’t always have erasers, so sometimes I use a broom. My school has a projector, but I haven’t worked up the courage to try it yet, mostly because I worry its setup will take half the class period. Between transitions in the school and holidays and any number of activities that get in the way of learning time I don’t want to lose time—it’s a useless obsession of mine to attempt to have no wasted time in my class, but it’s one of those unachievable goals I strive for anyway.

There’s always a group of students in the back who hardly (or won’t) participate. In the younger grades those students do their homework for the next class, and in the older grades those students listen to music, send texts, and crack jokes. There’s usually one student who wants to help, one students who simply disappears, one student who looks utterly confused, one student who looks on the verge of sleeping, and one student who looks vaguely interested. The rest of the class falls into those categories too.

Before Paraguay, I’ve heard it argued that teaching is a gift or that teaching is something you learn. From my time in the classroom I’ve come to a hybrid conclusion. The mechanics of teaching well is something you learn—through a somewhat painful process—and the ability to find the nugget that makes any subject interesting is a gift.

Each class I teach I think is better than the last. I haven’t got the teaching thing down flawlessly, but I have plenty of time to get there. I’m getting better because I’m seeing first hand what my students like and dislike. I’m also uncovering my own limitations. Language is a problem, so I’m learning what kinds of things I can explain and which ones are just beyond me right now. Not a class passes without me wondering if and how much better the class would be if I was fluent in the language.

I don’t see any value in fighting my students. My desire is to find a way where my interest in the topic of the class is contagious. I’m getting closer. The students are starting to get used to me—I wouldn’t say that familiarity is translating to greater respect but it is crumbling some of the barriers they put up between us when I first entered their classes. I keep telling myself that I have next year. I focus on listening to them. I want to know what makes them tick. I want to know what drives them. I reflect on every class and think about what worked and what didn’t work. I’m reading about classroom management. I ask other volunteers about their teaching experiences.

Looking back, I’m mystified how my high school teachers were motivated to enter their classrooms day-in and day-out for years. There is a wonderful energy that emanates from the youth in my school, but it doesn’t always make up for the hours of preparation and grading. I keep telling myself that I never know how I’m impacting my students. I like to think that something I talk about will stick, will make a lasting impression, will have a positive impact. But, I’ll never know.

Home

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My little house on top of the hill, my community, has become my home. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but it’s happened.

I know because when I leave site I wonder what’s going on in my community. I worry that my house will be infested with mold or bugs, so far I’ve been lucky, when I get back. When I’m sleeping somewhere else, I think about my own bed with its silly mosquito net that is too small. I miss my milk over a banana, peanuts, and chia seeds breakfast. I miss my own yerba and my music.

I’ve known for a long time before Paraguay that I can endure almost anything as long as I have a home base in which I feel safe and happy. My apartment, with its brick-red walls and high, cobwebby ceiling is just that base. Maps, postcards, quotes, and to-do lists are plastered on the walls. Tons of empty bottles, leftover from a previous volunteer, clutter the corners of my one-room home. Nothing but furniture legs touch the constantly damp cement floor—even my shoes have raised resting places.

I have my normal walking route, my favorite house-front store, and the families I like to visit most. I have my places of work, and at least most of the youth in the community know who I am—I like to think their parents know too.

I have my free-time activities; I finished drafting a novel the other day. I have the same feeling that my work is never done and I could be doing more—just like the over-achiever in me felt in the States. I’m getting better at sitting and just drinking terere.

I have to pinch myself to believe it, but this little nook of Paraguay, a place I almost didn’t know existed less than a year ago, is my home.

A Selfish Sadness

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Two volunteers from my group left Paraguay recently to return to the States—one might come back, but until then we’re down two (plus the two who already left). Those who left filled a specific niche in my group of volunteers that will remain empty until we all finish our service.

Peace Corps has turnover just like any job, so these departures from my group may seem routine. But, they don’t feel that way to me, one of those left behind.

I know when volunteers leave it’s because they are moving onto something better for them. I also know that those of us staying in Paraguay have good reason to carry on proudly. Despite this knowledge, it’s a confidence shaker each time someone decides to go.

When volunteers leave early, I find myself asking if I still believe in what I’m doing. I find myself wondering if Peace Corps is truly what I want. I feel a selfish sadness—selfish because I question whether their absence will impact my ability to finish my own 27 months. It’s a selfish sadness because I know they are returning to the States where they have their family, their friends from before, and their mother culture while I’m staying in Paraguay where I have none of those things.

As one might imagine, the sting of losing a group member fades with time. However, with these two recent cases a doubt as to whether or not the circumstances of the departure could have been avoided lingers. This doubt has come to faintly tint my view of the Peace Corps. The departures are a reminder of how I am facing many of the challenges of life in Paraguay alone. My feeling of aloneness led to loneliness. The loneliness will pass, but I don’t think the semiconscious feeling of aloneness will.

Revelations 1000s of Miles From Home

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I’m still shedding illusions I had when I was a child. I don’t know if it’s something I’ll grow out of or if I’ll always have realizations about things that went over my head when I was growing up. But, either way, there’s something enlightening about uncovering a greater truth beneath things I thought I understood. And, it’s downright fun to bring things into my consciousness that were once lost somewhere in the recesses of my senses.

My most recent realization about my childhood: James Bond, yep 007, was a huge part of my upbringing. I never knew that until I had the opportunity to watch every James Bond movie, starting with the one from 1962—don’t ask how I fit all those movies into my schedule. I should say this is particularly surprising because movies were a small part of my youth and my parents’ still don’t have TV.

I knew my mother had the soundtracks to the James Bond movies, I think through the 80s or 90s. But, little did I know how often those songs were played. As I watched the 007 movies in my Paraguayan home, some for first time and others for a second or a third time, snapshots of my childhood came back. Mom cooking. Mom painting. Mom cleaning. Images of the kitchens of the various places we’ve lived. A mental picture of the patterned rug that seemed to always be there faded into my mind as I watched one movie introduction.

I never know when a revelation like this is going to pop up. One of my all-time favorites is, in college, when I finally realized why my father had once told me his favorite thing to do was sleep. When he told me that I was still in early grade school. I thought he was crazy—during that time in my life I could not be outside or run around enough. But, it only took one semester with a full class schedule, extracurricular activities, and two or three jobs for me to understand why sleeping is one of the greatest things in life.

Paraguayans often ask me if I miss home. They often wonder why I’m so far away from my family. I try to explain that I’m used to it because I left my parents’ houses when I was 18. I think some Paraguayans understand and others don’t. What I don’t have the language skills to explain is that I don’t actively miss my family. Not because I don’t love them, but because they are always with me. I was raised to do my own thing, but I still hear my sister telling me I’m going to get skin cancer when I leave the house without sunblock. I still hear my stepmother’s advice on how to know if I actually love someone when a good-looking guy crosses my path. When I’m not sure if I should go for it, an image of my stepfather talking to complete strangers and getting their life stories helps me take the leap.

Making This Real Life

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When I’m speaking with other volunteers it’s easy to use phrases like “In real life…” or “If I were in the States…” to describe what I would do or think if I were living normally. With these phrases I infer that my time in Paraguay isn’t real life or that while I am in Paraguay I’m not who I really am.

Two years is a long time to take a break from “real life.” With this in mind, logical questions are: What makes Peace Corps life feel like it’s not part of my real life? And, how do I go about making Peace Corps part of my real life?

The first question is easy to answer. I left everything I had in the State to move to a country that has fewer resources and amenities. In addition, in my case, the life I had before the Peace Corps has ceased to exist forever. I gave up some freedoms by coming here and every day I’m fighting to navigate a culture that’s new to me. Further, I have to commutate my thoughts using a language I don’t use to think—things get lost in translation all the time.

Okay, so if that is what makes life in Paraguay feel unreal, how do I make it real? I started by changing my rhetoric and remembering that the things that were important in the US are still very relevant here. I tried to stop using phrases like, “In the States…” I also looked to incorporate the things that made me happy in the US into my life in Paraguay.

A huge breakthrough in my life in Paraguay was being invited to go to zumba classes with two Paraguayan friends, women my age, in my community. We have zumba class 3 times a week. A Paraguayan dance teacher teaches the class. It’s not a zumba you’ll find in the States—we dance mostly to cumbia and reggaeton—but it’s something I would love to do anywhere I live. There’s more to making life real, but zumba sure is a wonderful start.