Preface: I wrote a rough draft of the following to mark half a year while still in Zambia.
I miss washing my sheets in a machine and the feeling of a night sleeping in a dryer-sheet smelling, fluffy-clean bed. I miss going to a grocery store, walking through the aisles and picking between four different granolas. I miss pulling on pants instead of dresses and skirts, and wearing clothes that match my mood and personality. I miss going to a restaurant and having someone else cook me a delicious meal. I miss hot showers and having a fully charged phone. I miss pumping gas and driving miles. I miss all those things and much more. Those things that I miss aren’t hard though. What is hard is watching kids struggle at home and at school. Watching families hang their lives on seeds in the ground. Watching teachers walk with long bamboo sticks in their hands. Watching sickness change the eyes of someone you know, These are much harder things. You don’t expect it. I mean, you do, of course you do. But when you sign up to serve in something like the Peace Corps you spend your time trying to mentally prepare yourself for the challenges of no electricity or running water. No amenities or comfortable routines. You pack your bags full of energy bars, your favorite leggings, extra skincare products, and a plentitude of solar panels and batteries. You prepare for the worst, physically. You’re going to get sick - be weak for days. You’re going to eat the same foods day in and day out. You’re going to have to bike kilometers and depend on strangers and public transport that’s unreliable. You try and prepare yourself. You don’t try and prepare yourself about others. I have it so easy here. I live in a big house, just me. With relatively minimal insect infestations, tall walls, two secure locked doors, a cat who stays by me, and kids who are always willing to help me if I ask them. Living isn’t the hard part, is what I’m trying to say. People from home ask me about my challenges, how my water situation is, if I feel healthy or not, etc. Those are things that are important, but they are not the things that keep me up at night or have me feeling like my hair is falling out because of them. I worry if I’m wasting resources. If my position in this village is a useful one or not. I can easily see myself not making a difference. Being a teacher under this country’s education system is awful. It is. It’s plain awful. However, it’s something I get to do for two years only. I don’t know what it feels like for the Zambian teachers, who for them, this is their life. They have to deal with this broken system for an indeterminate amount of time. Knowing that, I can’t judge how they choose to respond. (Even though in the heat of the moment, I do, judge them something awful.) It’s my job to show up as much as I can for my kids and be there so maybe another teacher or adult will decide not to hurt them because of my presence. To show my kids that learning can be joyful. Making a difference is a phrase that I’ve always found pretentious and a tad vapid. Saying you’ve made a difference - well, how do you know? I’ve decided not to strive to make a difference. Instead, I only want to bear witness to others making a difference in their own lives. And encourage them anyway I can. I’ve decided to dance and sing, run and play with my kids. To work harder than I’ve ever worked, for them. To not worry too much about myself. Instead, devote that energy, the energy of preparing for the day-to-day, to writing feminist quotes on my house, blasting Zam-pop, reading aloud to my neighbors, and smiling. What I don’t want to miss, is this moment.
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Author's note:Hi, I'm Helen. Welcome to Lifted ~ I write to lift myself up. Archives
March 2021
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