Hey all,
On Wednesday of this week I received an email of rejection from Dom, the direction of GVI Phoenix. I will not be returning to GVI to work as a project manager, as I had so wanted to do. It is a possibility in the future, he said, but right now I am not quite ready for management.
I like to think I have taken the rejection in stride, but I know it has affted me deeply, and I have been showing my disappointment in the classroom and around the kids. I need to constantly remind myself that I am still here to teach and the rest of my time here, no matter how short, needs to be dedicated to serving them, teaching them, and, above all, loving them. They have become everything and more to me. I cannot bear the thought of never seeing them again, but I have to come to terms with the fact that I never may.
What hurts the most is knowing that I have so much to offer. I know, inside of me, that I could do a better job than anyone else can.
I will push through. I will keep going. I will never stop. My life is for these kids. Maybe, in the future, not these exact kids, but they have touched me in a way that no one else has, provided me with a perspective that I would have otherwise been without.
I believe, and I know, that our fingerprints never disappear from the lives that we touch. They may diminish,they may fade, they may be forgotten, but they never disappear. Our experiences, our past, is held within, is our talisman for all those we have touched and who have touched us. These kids, these simple children with nothing and no one, have left their profound mark on me, and I them. And we are both better for it. They have prepared me to live the life that I know I must, and I have given them love and happiness and hope. Hope.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
A New Beginning
Hey all,
First off, my apologies—I know many of you have anxiously been awaiting this next blog post. Also, I have been quite unreachable to many of you as of late. Fortunately, I have not been silent for so long because there is nothing to say, rather there is so much to say that I do not know how I can possibly express it all in a simple blog post.
The day of my last blog post Jenna, the girl I have been seeing since for a while now, finally left Illinois to come join me in Nicaragua. She arrived in Agosoto C. Sandino International airport a little after noon on the fourth of July. Stephen King once said “that the most important things are the hardest to say because words diminish them.” This was one of those moments. I cannot hope to describe the feeling that surfaced in my gut when I saw Jenna wander into the baggage claim, looking around desperately for me. Needless to say, we have spent the last few weeks getting to know each other again. And what a few weeks they have been.
The next day, the fifth of August, the newest GVI school opened up in Chiriza, Nicaragua. Chiriza is breathtakingly beautiful. The community is settled high in the mountains, so high that you feel as if you can reach up into the shy and grab a little piece of cloud for yourself. The children are beautiful. Living so high in the mountains has given them a lighter complexion and it is not surprising to see kids running around with blonde hair and colored eyes. The houses are much like La Thompson—run down shanties with wooden walls, tin roofs, and nor floor. Gang activity is not uncommon in Chiriza. During construction, in broad daylight, two groups of people formed wielding machetes, with a look of bloodlust in their eyes. Thankfully, the gang war was fought through thrown rocks and not machetes, this time.
As Aaron rolled up to the school in a rusted old white pickup (the white rapidly giving way to other, more interesting colors), carrying the first plastic seats and tables, pencils and paper, whiteboard and markers than many of the kids have ever seen, much less used, he was met with applause from afar. As he approached the applause grew louder. Hundreds of people had met under the provisional school in Chiriza, formed with wooden posts, a tin ceiling, and no floor or walls. By the time Aaron pulled up the applause was thundering. He says it was one of the single best moments of his life.
On a rare serious note from me, this is what GVI does and I hope to do—provide hope for those who have never had cause to hope. For the past three weeks Aaron, myself, and all of the GVI volunteers have been working around the clock to ensure this projects success. I have taken over as manager of the old project, while Aaron is supervising Chiriza, and our work load has tripled.
In the first few days of Chiriza’s existence, over two hundred students flooded the half built school. We have had to sit three people on top of tables, two people in little plastic chairs, and have had two kids sharing a single notebook, but you will not find a frown anywhere in Chiriza. The excitement, the hope, is palpable.
This is why Jenna and I have decided to cancel our travels and stay with GVI for an additional three weeks. We owe it to these children to continue to dedicate every available moment we have to them. Their education is their liberation and we have been and will continue to be a part of that. I have also made it clear to Dom, the director of GVI that I want to return, as a manager of a project. We have been talking about it, and if it works out, I will start working for GVI in June of 2011, for about 6,000 dollars a year.
I will write again as soon as possible with more about the past few weeks. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you all.
--Patrick
First off, my apologies—I know many of you have anxiously been awaiting this next blog post. Also, I have been quite unreachable to many of you as of late. Fortunately, I have not been silent for so long because there is nothing to say, rather there is so much to say that I do not know how I can possibly express it all in a simple blog post.
The day of my last blog post Jenna, the girl I have been seeing since for a while now, finally left Illinois to come join me in Nicaragua. She arrived in Agosoto C. Sandino International airport a little after noon on the fourth of July. Stephen King once said “that the most important things are the hardest to say because words diminish them.” This was one of those moments. I cannot hope to describe the feeling that surfaced in my gut when I saw Jenna wander into the baggage claim, looking around desperately for me. Needless to say, we have spent the last few weeks getting to know each other again. And what a few weeks they have been.
The next day, the fifth of August, the newest GVI school opened up in Chiriza, Nicaragua. Chiriza is breathtakingly beautiful. The community is settled high in the mountains, so high that you feel as if you can reach up into the shy and grab a little piece of cloud for yourself. The children are beautiful. Living so high in the mountains has given them a lighter complexion and it is not surprising to see kids running around with blonde hair and colored eyes. The houses are much like La Thompson—run down shanties with wooden walls, tin roofs, and nor floor. Gang activity is not uncommon in Chiriza. During construction, in broad daylight, two groups of people formed wielding machetes, with a look of bloodlust in their eyes. Thankfully, the gang war was fought through thrown rocks and not machetes, this time.
As Aaron rolled up to the school in a rusted old white pickup (the white rapidly giving way to other, more interesting colors), carrying the first plastic seats and tables, pencils and paper, whiteboard and markers than many of the kids have ever seen, much less used, he was met with applause from afar. As he approached the applause grew louder. Hundreds of people had met under the provisional school in Chiriza, formed with wooden posts, a tin ceiling, and no floor or walls. By the time Aaron pulled up the applause was thundering. He says it was one of the single best moments of his life.
On a rare serious note from me, this is what GVI does and I hope to do—provide hope for those who have never had cause to hope. For the past three weeks Aaron, myself, and all of the GVI volunteers have been working around the clock to ensure this projects success. I have taken over as manager of the old project, while Aaron is supervising Chiriza, and our work load has tripled.
In the first few days of Chiriza’s existence, over two hundred students flooded the half built school. We have had to sit three people on top of tables, two people in little plastic chairs, and have had two kids sharing a single notebook, but you will not find a frown anywhere in Chiriza. The excitement, the hope, is palpable.
This is why Jenna and I have decided to cancel our travels and stay with GVI for an additional three weeks. We owe it to these children to continue to dedicate every available moment we have to them. Their education is their liberation and we have been and will continue to be a part of that. I have also made it clear to Dom, the director of GVI that I want to return, as a manager of a project. We have been talking about it, and if it works out, I will start working for GVI in June of 2011, for about 6,000 dollars a year.
I will write again as soon as possible with more about the past few weeks. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you all.
--Patrick
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Read Jenna´s Blog Too!
Lately, Jenna has had more time to blog than me. Here is a link to her page if you are interested. www.outreachmissions.blogspot.com
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Rodent, Senior Gato, and The Scorpion Slayer
Last Sunday I came home from Managua after a day of chick flicks and fast food, my guilty pleasures. The bus ride was long, and upon returning home I immediately sought sustenance. I immediately felt something amiss, but could not quite put my finger on exactly what it happened to be. Then, I noticed... A small chew hole in the bottom of my bread bag.
What animal could possibly have the nerve to eat my, Patrick, the slayer of scorpions, bread. They must know that retaliation will be swift and decisive…
I spent the next few hours seeking the culprit, looking for the typical signs, droppings, bread crumbs, whatever may be left behind. However, the vermin proved elusive, even to my supreme investigative skills.
He then had the nerve to present himself to my roommate, Aaron. I recognize mockery when I see it. The vermin, now identified, and code named, as only “the rodent,” had the nerve to show himself in my house. I may have been able to give him a fair trial, had he not been so audacious, but now the verdict was in, only death would be sufficient.
Once again, I set out on my mission, now my obsession, to find “the rodent,” what I can only liken to a Russian KGB super-spy. Again, he proved elusive. Whenever he was trained, he was trained well.
Then, in his most audacious move yet, he skittered across our camp grill, one of our holiest of locations. This is the camp grill that cooks all of the GVI staff food, providing sustenance to its leaders. “The rodent” had not only infiltrated our organization, but now was trying to cut off our supply lines, weaken the leadership, and overthrow us all. This could not stand.
I ran down the hall to the secret nook where we hold our special weaponry, the Remington Clean-Sweeper, the best constructed of all broom weaponry. I slowly stalked the KGB agent, looking around the stove, under the refrigerator, and in the cabinets, anywhere that his hideout could possibly be.
As I stalked my prey, he was stalking me, and attacked. Well, not so much attacked, as ran on his four little legs down the hallway into the garage, where a plethora of hiding places lay.
GVI has no car, so uses the garage only for storage. Boxes are piled high, to the ceiling in some places. I, however, would not be put off of my task. I ripped boxes from the pile, threw them to the other side of the room, and dug deeper and deeper into the pile. I was unsure of what language “The Rodent” spoke, so I yelled to him in both English and Spanish, and I got pretty colorful, he had defiled my bread, tried to cut off supply lines to GVI, and bring down the organization, he was fucking with me.
I located the little shit below the lowest box, in the farthest corner, of the garage. I made my move with the Clear-Sweeper, and barely missed “The Rodent.” He flew behind an old, discarded, and stained mattress. I proceeded to stomp on the mattress, indiscriminately. I would kill him, regardless of the cost.
I lifted the mattress. Imagine my surprise when there was no squashed super-spy. Damn, he’s good. I stalked around the garage, looking for him. I looked suspiciously toward the garage door, and wacked it with the business end of the Clean-Sweeper. He scampered out, attempted an escape, but I cut him off, back to the door he went. I had him now. An easy kill. Just then, a feeling of mercy rose up in my chest and I battled it, but in the end I proved not to be able to deliver the kill shot. I pounded the garage door opener and “The Rodent” escaped into the night. Had I know what was to come, I would have ended his life there.
The next night, I ventured into the bathroom. Just to sit on my throne and do my business, maybe a little reading. Just as my pants were about to hit the floor, “The Rodent” attacked from behind the toilet. Now you can cut of my supplies, you can try and infiltrate my organization, but there are certain ethical guidelines that one must follow—you simply do not attack someone in “the sanctuary.” The bathroom is home base, neutral ground, where you are most vulnerable, where you are farthest from your weaponry. “The Rodent” knew he could not beat GVI playing fair, he needed to catch me with my pants down, literally.
We battled in these close quarters, the advantage his, due to his small size, superior spy training, and greater speed. He injured me, good. Upon trying to pick him up in a half-cut-milk-jug that I use to clean my shower, I rose too quickly and opened a three inch, crescent shaped gash in my left shoulder. I was numb to the pain, fueled by rage. I scooped him into the milk jug, his small size proving to be his downfall.
I walked to the front door, and, despite his unwarranted attack on hallowed ground, was, for the second time, going to give him his life back. Twice I held his life in my hands, and twice I had let him live. I tossed him from the milk jug, and into the street. He met the bricks hard, and was momentarily stunned, unaware of Senior Gato, the white tabby ally of GVI waiting in the wings. Senior Gato flew from an unknowing location and snatched “The Rodent” in his jaws.
And so ended the life of “The Rodent.” Good riddance. I am scarred for life due to his breaking of the rules of war.
What animal could possibly have the nerve to eat my, Patrick, the slayer of scorpions, bread. They must know that retaliation will be swift and decisive…
I spent the next few hours seeking the culprit, looking for the typical signs, droppings, bread crumbs, whatever may be left behind. However, the vermin proved elusive, even to my supreme investigative skills.
He then had the nerve to present himself to my roommate, Aaron. I recognize mockery when I see it. The vermin, now identified, and code named, as only “the rodent,” had the nerve to show himself in my house. I may have been able to give him a fair trial, had he not been so audacious, but now the verdict was in, only death would be sufficient.
Once again, I set out on my mission, now my obsession, to find “the rodent,” what I can only liken to a Russian KGB super-spy. Again, he proved elusive. Whenever he was trained, he was trained well.
Then, in his most audacious move yet, he skittered across our camp grill, one of our holiest of locations. This is the camp grill that cooks all of the GVI staff food, providing sustenance to its leaders. “The rodent” had not only infiltrated our organization, but now was trying to cut off our supply lines, weaken the leadership, and overthrow us all. This could not stand.
I ran down the hall to the secret nook where we hold our special weaponry, the Remington Clean-Sweeper, the best constructed of all broom weaponry. I slowly stalked the KGB agent, looking around the stove, under the refrigerator, and in the cabinets, anywhere that his hideout could possibly be.
As I stalked my prey, he was stalking me, and attacked. Well, not so much attacked, as ran on his four little legs down the hallway into the garage, where a plethora of hiding places lay.
GVI has no car, so uses the garage only for storage. Boxes are piled high, to the ceiling in some places. I, however, would not be put off of my task. I ripped boxes from the pile, threw them to the other side of the room, and dug deeper and deeper into the pile. I was unsure of what language “The Rodent” spoke, so I yelled to him in both English and Spanish, and I got pretty colorful, he had defiled my bread, tried to cut off supply lines to GVI, and bring down the organization, he was fucking with me.
I located the little shit below the lowest box, in the farthest corner, of the garage. I made my move with the Clear-Sweeper, and barely missed “The Rodent.” He flew behind an old, discarded, and stained mattress. I proceeded to stomp on the mattress, indiscriminately. I would kill him, regardless of the cost.
I lifted the mattress. Imagine my surprise when there was no squashed super-spy. Damn, he’s good. I stalked around the garage, looking for him. I looked suspiciously toward the garage door, and wacked it with the business end of the Clean-Sweeper. He scampered out, attempted an escape, but I cut him off, back to the door he went. I had him now. An easy kill. Just then, a feeling of mercy rose up in my chest and I battled it, but in the end I proved not to be able to deliver the kill shot. I pounded the garage door opener and “The Rodent” escaped into the night. Had I know what was to come, I would have ended his life there.
The next night, I ventured into the bathroom. Just to sit on my throne and do my business, maybe a little reading. Just as my pants were about to hit the floor, “The Rodent” attacked from behind the toilet. Now you can cut of my supplies, you can try and infiltrate my organization, but there are certain ethical guidelines that one must follow—you simply do not attack someone in “the sanctuary.” The bathroom is home base, neutral ground, where you are most vulnerable, where you are farthest from your weaponry. “The Rodent” knew he could not beat GVI playing fair, he needed to catch me with my pants down, literally.
We battled in these close quarters, the advantage his, due to his small size, superior spy training, and greater speed. He injured me, good. Upon trying to pick him up in a half-cut-milk-jug that I use to clean my shower, I rose too quickly and opened a three inch, crescent shaped gash in my left shoulder. I was numb to the pain, fueled by rage. I scooped him into the milk jug, his small size proving to be his downfall.
I walked to the front door, and, despite his unwarranted attack on hallowed ground, was, for the second time, going to give him his life back. Twice I held his life in my hands, and twice I had let him live. I tossed him from the milk jug, and into the street. He met the bricks hard, and was momentarily stunned, unaware of Senior Gato, the white tabby ally of GVI waiting in the wings. Senior Gato flew from an unknowing location and snatched “The Rodent” in his jaws.
And so ended the life of “The Rodent.” Good riddance. I am scarred for life due to his breaking of the rules of war.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Ministry of Education
On Friday I attended the monthly Ministry of Education Meeting with Karla. Karla claims that it is good for GVI to show its presence among the so called leaders of the Ministry of Education. I, personally, found the exercise futile.
The Government cancels school for the day (the Government has a certain affinity for finding reasons to cancel school in Nicaragua, they invent the most creative holidays), and all of the teachers in all of the preschools, in all of the departments, gather in their respective schools to hear the monthly speech given by the publicity arm of the Sandinistas. This month, the speeches were about prenatal care, and how to handle an infant in their first few months of life. And I quote “an infant begins to realize the world in their first months—hot and cold, blue and red. Then they will begin to make their first sounds.” As if we didn’t know. Why, in a meeting of preschool teachers, would anyone talk about prenatal care and care of three month olds? Your guess is certainly as good as mine.
I think everyone realizes how utterly useless these meetings are. People show up late and don’t exactly wear their Sunday best. In some cases, the tranny hookers in San Jose were better dressed. Of course, the tranny hookers are better paid—the Nicaraguan preschool teacher is paid 500 Córdobas every three months. This is US$25 per three months or US$100 per year—just US$.27 per day. Many of these women are young, early twenties in most cases. How are they to begin their lives on US$.27 per day? And for those women who are out of their twenties? For those women that already have families? Living is an impossibility.
I met a most remarkable women in the meeting—Marcia. Marcia is the paternal grandmother of three children. I did not ascertain what happened to her son, but Marcia did tell me that her daughter in law ran out on the children, when the youngest was just two years old, leaving them to fate. Luckily, Marcia’s heart is larger than her daughter in law’s disregard and she brought the children into her house, to be raised as her own.
Marcia now supports a third grader, second grader, and first grader on her US$100 per year. She is unmarried and she goes it alone.
The people I meet here never cease to amaze. The common resilience to hate and disregard astounds me. The ability to surmount inescapable odds captivates me. The people here have such a desire to live. And in many cases, although they do not have much, I think they live better than we do.
The Government cancels school for the day (the Government has a certain affinity for finding reasons to cancel school in Nicaragua, they invent the most creative holidays), and all of the teachers in all of the preschools, in all of the departments, gather in their respective schools to hear the monthly speech given by the publicity arm of the Sandinistas. This month, the speeches were about prenatal care, and how to handle an infant in their first few months of life. And I quote “an infant begins to realize the world in their first months—hot and cold, blue and red. Then they will begin to make their first sounds.” As if we didn’t know. Why, in a meeting of preschool teachers, would anyone talk about prenatal care and care of three month olds? Your guess is certainly as good as mine.
I think everyone realizes how utterly useless these meetings are. People show up late and don’t exactly wear their Sunday best. In some cases, the tranny hookers in San Jose were better dressed. Of course, the tranny hookers are better paid—the Nicaraguan preschool teacher is paid 500 Córdobas every three months. This is US$25 per three months or US$100 per year—just US$.27 per day. Many of these women are young, early twenties in most cases. How are they to begin their lives on US$.27 per day? And for those women who are out of their twenties? For those women that already have families? Living is an impossibility.
I met a most remarkable women in the meeting—Marcia. Marcia is the paternal grandmother of three children. I did not ascertain what happened to her son, but Marcia did tell me that her daughter in law ran out on the children, when the youngest was just two years old, leaving them to fate. Luckily, Marcia’s heart is larger than her daughter in law’s disregard and she brought the children into her house, to be raised as her own.
Marcia now supports a third grader, second grader, and first grader on her US$100 per year. She is unmarried and she goes it alone.
The people I meet here never cease to amaze. The common resilience to hate and disregard astounds me. The ability to surmount inescapable odds captivates me. The people here have such a desire to live. And in many cases, although they do not have much, I think they live better than we do.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
In the Classroom and the Community
I haven't shown many pictures to you all yet so I figured I would do some uploading today...
Dengue and the USA
Dengue…
I have the unrivaled ability to succumb to whatever affliction is, at the time, making its rounds through Central America… Due to the large influx of tropical storms as of late, Dengue Fever has broken out in Nicaragua with a force, specifically in la Thompson, the community in which I work. And, but of course, I was the member of GVI who contracted the fever first.
It began with a dull ache behind the eyes last Sunday, and an endless feeling of exhaustion. It was difficult to make it through the entire day at school while still functioning. Then, in a rapid acceleration, the full effects of the fever hit me on Wednesday. I was sitting in Café Luz, my typical internet hotspot, a felt a wave of nausea sweep through my body. I already had not been feeling well. I took this new development as a sign to get home, or at least near one of the porcelain gods.
From five o’clock in the evening Wednesday until one o’clock in the morning Thursday (from what Aaron tells me, everything has blurred together for me) my body jerked with convulsions, expelled vomit—exorcist style, and could not seem to decide whether it was hot or cold. When my body saw fit to give me a break at any point during that hellish night, I lay shivering, covered in my own sweat, on the bathroom floor. Finally, mercifully, sleep overcame me.
Sleep, however, was only a momentary reprieve. The fever returned with a vengeance the next morning, turning my rear end into what I can only describe as the fountain at the entrance of Navy Pier. I never took a temperature, but heat was radiating off my body. You could hold your hand six inches away from my skin and still be scorched.
Everyone in GVI was trying to be really helpful. Aaron was a saint, buying me water, and checking to see if I was breathing at appropriate intervals throughout the night. However, he made a serious mistake, he allowed Karla our community-coordinating-mother-figure-who-thinks-she-always-knows-best come over and attend to me during their lunch break on Thursday. In tow, she brought soup (and I really hate her soup) and a syringe filled with “anti-nausea’ medication. Now, for those of you who know me well, you know I am only afraid of two things—scorpions and needles. I will jump off the cliffs of Acapulco with the resident cliff drivers, I will launch myself out of a plane flying 30,000 feet in the air, I will scuba dive until the depths threaten to crush me and the darkness encompasses me, but I will not let anyone come near me with a needle without a fight.
In my semi-conscious state I think I told Karla (and if I didn’t tell her, I definitely thought it) you must be on crack if you think your sticking that in my ass. Even through the fever and the muscle pains and the hallucinations, I still had the sense to not let a non-licensed health professional anywhere near my precious ass with that bringer-of-death. I would rather suffer the fever and the nausea.
She tried to hold me down, and in my weakened state, almost succeeded in injecting me. I fought her off, kicked her out of my room, and locked the door, not to be disturbed again.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. My fever broke late Thursday and, although the muscle pains have persisted, I feel better. No more frantic dashes to the washroom, no more praying before the porcelain god, and, thank god, no more needles.
…the USA
Last Saturday, the US played their first group play match against England. I was in a state of turmoil. Usually, I root for England in the World Cup. I feel that I identify more with the European, and English, perspective on politics and life. For those of you that know me, you know I am rather critical of the United States and United States policy. In fact, I had all but written off the United States. I was ready to apply to Grad Schools abroad and have been busy planning for a life led in another country, probably working with an organization much like this one.
However, something curious happened during the game. England scored in the first three minutes. I should have felt enthralled, vindicated. The evil United States who monopolizes everything, from global sports to global economics to global politics cannot have this one thing, they cannot have the World Cup. However, I did not feel vindicated. I was sad, sad that my country was losing. Then, when the United States scored to level the game I cheered.
Then, this last Friday, the United States played their second group play World Cup match against Slovenia. At half time the United States was down 2-0—a deficit that no team in World Cup history has overcome in group play. The United States battled back to a 2-2 score and again scored in the last minutes of the game. With a score of 3-2 and a win in their sites, the US was set to make history. However, a whistle blew, a foul was called. For what is unclear. The US was stripped of their final goal and the game ended in a tie. I wished a slow death upon the referee. How could he do this to my country?
It is amazing, this new found patriotism. I would never have said my country before. I have indentified myself less and less as an American as the years have gone on. I have contended that it is not where you are born that dictates who you are, but your attitudes and your ethics. I still believe that. However, there is something to be said about the undeniable bond that an individual shares with their country. It is where they spend their life, where their family is, where their attitudes and ethics are born. In your country, you will always have a home. In another country, no matter the circumstances, you will always be an outsider. In your country you can be comfortable in your own skin.
I will never give up my travels. I will never stop trying to help those in other countries, those countries which my country has deliberately oppressed. There are evil people in the United States, both in the government and walking the streets. However, I believe that for every evil person there is a good. And if we mobilize the good through the power of a just idea, it might benefit not only the people in other countries which the US government has oppressed, but those who have been oppressed at home. I guess I am saying that I haven’t given up just yet.
Amazing the profound effect sporting events can have upon the viewer…
I have the unrivaled ability to succumb to whatever affliction is, at the time, making its rounds through Central America… Due to the large influx of tropical storms as of late, Dengue Fever has broken out in Nicaragua with a force, specifically in la Thompson, the community in which I work. And, but of course, I was the member of GVI who contracted the fever first.
It began with a dull ache behind the eyes last Sunday, and an endless feeling of exhaustion. It was difficult to make it through the entire day at school while still functioning. Then, in a rapid acceleration, the full effects of the fever hit me on Wednesday. I was sitting in Café Luz, my typical internet hotspot, a felt a wave of nausea sweep through my body. I already had not been feeling well. I took this new development as a sign to get home, or at least near one of the porcelain gods.
From five o’clock in the evening Wednesday until one o’clock in the morning Thursday (from what Aaron tells me, everything has blurred together for me) my body jerked with convulsions, expelled vomit—exorcist style, and could not seem to decide whether it was hot or cold. When my body saw fit to give me a break at any point during that hellish night, I lay shivering, covered in my own sweat, on the bathroom floor. Finally, mercifully, sleep overcame me.
Sleep, however, was only a momentary reprieve. The fever returned with a vengeance the next morning, turning my rear end into what I can only describe as the fountain at the entrance of Navy Pier. I never took a temperature, but heat was radiating off my body. You could hold your hand six inches away from my skin and still be scorched.
Everyone in GVI was trying to be really helpful. Aaron was a saint, buying me water, and checking to see if I was breathing at appropriate intervals throughout the night. However, he made a serious mistake, he allowed Karla our community-coordinating-mother-figure-who-thinks-she-always-knows-best come over and attend to me during their lunch break on Thursday. In tow, she brought soup (and I really hate her soup) and a syringe filled with “anti-nausea’ medication. Now, for those of you who know me well, you know I am only afraid of two things—scorpions and needles. I will jump off the cliffs of Acapulco with the resident cliff drivers, I will launch myself out of a plane flying 30,000 feet in the air, I will scuba dive until the depths threaten to crush me and the darkness encompasses me, but I will not let anyone come near me with a needle without a fight.
In my semi-conscious state I think I told Karla (and if I didn’t tell her, I definitely thought it) you must be on crack if you think your sticking that in my ass. Even through the fever and the muscle pains and the hallucinations, I still had the sense to not let a non-licensed health professional anywhere near my precious ass with that bringer-of-death. I would rather suffer the fever and the nausea.
She tried to hold me down, and in my weakened state, almost succeeded in injecting me. I fought her off, kicked her out of my room, and locked the door, not to be disturbed again.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. My fever broke late Thursday and, although the muscle pains have persisted, I feel better. No more frantic dashes to the washroom, no more praying before the porcelain god, and, thank god, no more needles.
…the USA
Last Saturday, the US played their first group play match against England. I was in a state of turmoil. Usually, I root for England in the World Cup. I feel that I identify more with the European, and English, perspective on politics and life. For those of you that know me, you know I am rather critical of the United States and United States policy. In fact, I had all but written off the United States. I was ready to apply to Grad Schools abroad and have been busy planning for a life led in another country, probably working with an organization much like this one.
However, something curious happened during the game. England scored in the first three minutes. I should have felt enthralled, vindicated. The evil United States who monopolizes everything, from global sports to global economics to global politics cannot have this one thing, they cannot have the World Cup. However, I did not feel vindicated. I was sad, sad that my country was losing. Then, when the United States scored to level the game I cheered.
Then, this last Friday, the United States played their second group play World Cup match against Slovenia. At half time the United States was down 2-0—a deficit that no team in World Cup history has overcome in group play. The United States battled back to a 2-2 score and again scored in the last minutes of the game. With a score of 3-2 and a win in their sites, the US was set to make history. However, a whistle blew, a foul was called. For what is unclear. The US was stripped of their final goal and the game ended in a tie. I wished a slow death upon the referee. How could he do this to my country?
It is amazing, this new found patriotism. I would never have said my country before. I have indentified myself less and less as an American as the years have gone on. I have contended that it is not where you are born that dictates who you are, but your attitudes and your ethics. I still believe that. However, there is something to be said about the undeniable bond that an individual shares with their country. It is where they spend their life, where their family is, where their attitudes and ethics are born. In your country, you will always have a home. In another country, no matter the circumstances, you will always be an outsider. In your country you can be comfortable in your own skin.
I will never give up my travels. I will never stop trying to help those in other countries, those countries which my country has deliberately oppressed. There are evil people in the United States, both in the government and walking the streets. However, I believe that for every evil person there is a good. And if we mobilize the good through the power of a just idea, it might benefit not only the people in other countries which the US government has oppressed, but those who have been oppressed at home. I guess I am saying that I haven’t given up just yet.
Amazing the profound effect sporting events can have upon the viewer…
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