I’m writing this from Nashville, having just completed my usual 16 hours of driving + 4 hours of sleeping at a rest stop to get here from Ithaca. I’ll be here until tomorrow, then in Memphis until September 7, when I fly to Marseille. At some point I really must take a shower.
Some days are just too full of motion and emotion for one to properly sit down and write about it in the midst of everything. That’s what the last three weeks have been like. For now, suffice it to say that I’m happier than I think I’ve ever been, I miss Ithaca and the people there tremendously, I’m much more settled about leaving for France than I was three weeks ago, and it’s taken a lot of work to get to this point. Details will come in later essays.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Friday, August 18, 2006
upcoming conference on splitting the bill...
Other mathematicians have the same experience all the time, I’m sure. Going out to dinner with a group of friends, time comes for the check to get divided, someone says, “Hey, Josh is a mathematician. Why don’t we get him to divide the bill?”
This picture (following a nice dinner at a conference I attended) is my answer to that question:
Seriously, my answer is generally, “You do realize that the time it takes to split the bill doubles with each mathematician present?” Some like to say it’s because we haven’t worked with numbers for so long that we’ve forgotten how. I think—although that statement may be true—in this case it’s more due to our proclivity to solve optimization problems. We want to figure out how to take exactly the cash everyone’s contributed to the pile and give everyone the proper change from what’s available. This holds even—perhaps especially—when one person has contributed a $10 and three $1 bills, while everyone else only had $20s. It is invariably the non-mathematician at the table who says, “Why don’t we just ask them to make change from the twenties?” Because that solution is not elegant, we want to reply. Elegance is paramount. Just give us a few more minutes and we’ll work out how to handle this…
This picture (following a nice dinner at a conference I attended) is my answer to that question:
Seriously, my answer is generally, “You do realize that the time it takes to split the bill doubles with each mathematician present?” Some like to say it’s because we haven’t worked with numbers for so long that we’ve forgotten how. I think—although that statement may be true—in this case it’s more due to our proclivity to solve optimization problems. We want to figure out how to take exactly the cash everyone’s contributed to the pile and give everyone the proper change from what’s available. This holds even—perhaps especially—when one person has contributed a $10 and three $1 bills, while everyone else only had $20s. It is invariably the non-mathematician at the table who says, “Why don’t we just ask them to make change from the twenties?” Because that solution is not elegant, we want to reply. Elegance is paramount. Just give us a few more minutes and we’ll work out how to handle this…
vive le visa
Sarah and I went to NYC on Wednesday to get our students visas from the French consulate. I’ll cut to the chase and say that the trip went about as smoothly as possible. However, the events leading up to the trip didn’t quite go that way, and the excursion itself was interesting, so I’ll also fill in the details.
A few weeks ago, Dr. Hubbard was making a trip to the consulate to get visas for himself and his wife. He offered very kindly to take the applications and materials for mine and Sarah’s, as well. So we made the necessary trips to the graduate school office, the health office, Donna Smith (our wonderful graduate field coordinator), our committee members, a couple of photography places, and the French consulate website to gather all the required forms, letters of enrollment and guaranteed support, and identification in the way of passport copies and photos. This part of the process was remarkably painless. So we collected everything and placed in it manila envelopes for Dr. Hubbard to take with him.
He was taking the 4:50 a.m. bus to NYC to get to a late morning appointment. So we did’t see him until the next day. Despite the long day of travel, he still came into work the following day. I saw him walking past as I was eating lunch outside. He came over, and his greeting was the single word: “Failure.”
He had achieved a visa for himself. He had apparently even gotten the officials to look at Sarah’s and my paperwork, because one of each of our photos were stapled in the appropriate place on the form, which we certainly hadn’t done. At some point, however, he was told we would have to come in person to apply for our visas. (This seems particularly peculiar since our trip to India last January only required us to mail in our applications.)
Okay, so we’d hit our first snag. Next snag: navigating the consulate website. They close themselves off quite effectively from outside contact. You cannot speak with anyone over the phone to ask questions or to make a reservation. You cannot even speak to anyone at the consulate in person to make a reservation. All reservations have to be made online. Even the phone information essentially runs you through a choose-your-own-adventure that always leads to instructions to look at the website for the information you want.
Now, to some extent this is understandable. If I were working at a visa application center, I would probably enjoy my job more if I knew every person coming into the office had already been through something of a screening process with the online application. And I imagine such an office would get bombarded by innumerable questions to grate one’s teeth if one accepted casual phone calls. In fact, once we got into the office, the people working there were friendly and courteous.
The website, especially the portion for making an application, was not well-designed or easily understood, however. Sarah and I flipped back and forth from page to back, reading about time-slots and calanders and how to make an appointment for multiple people, and basically crossing our fingers the whole time that we wouldn’t fail this essential step of getting into the consulate. We did all the checking and double-checking we could, and finally convinced ourselves that we had, in fact, made an appointment for two people at 11:45 on the morning of August 16. That was two or three weeks out from the day we made the appointment, so we spent the next fortnight waiting and nervously anticipating our uncertain foray into French bureaucracy.
Then came Wednesday. After a fair amount of discussion whether it would be better to drive, giving ourselves extra flexibility and possible saving some money, or to take the bus, saving ourselves the headaches of driving in Manhattan and at least one of us having to focus for the entire ten hours of the trip, we decided to take the bus. It turned out to be the right choice, as parking on Manhattan was even more expensive than I had thought it would be, and the trip was expensive enough that I at least really couldn’t have afforded a night out on the town before or after the consulate run.
It’s not nearly as interesting to tell when things go smoothly, so I’ll run through the rest of the day quickly. We also took the 4:50 a.m. bus, arrived on time at the Port Authority at 9:50. A couple of subway trains took us within six blocks or so of the consulate, which is just next to Central Park. We made it much more than the requested ten minutes before our appointment. Once in, we did have to stand in line for a while, but not more than 45 minutes or an hour. We had taken enough care in assembling our materials that there were no difficult questions to deal with; it was definitely handy that we brought extra photocopies of everything. We were handed a receipt and told to come back between three and four to get our passports and visas.
We spent most of the next couple of hours sitting on a hill in Central Park, watching kids play and dogs walk around an artificial pond. It was a pleasant afternoon. I particularly enjoyed lying back, looking at the different shades of leaves above varying with the amound of sunlight that reached them. We bought pita sandwiches at a corner stand for lunch. Not the most exciting things to do in New York, but we weren’t really going for excitement. There’s enough of that around Ithaca nowadays.
Once we arrived back at the consulate at 3:00, our names were called almost immediately. So we took our visas, sans problèmes, and headed back to the Port Authority via the subway again. We were back in Ithaca by 9:30 p.m. Not a bad day at all, except for the ten hours of bus ride. We even got to sleep through some of that, and watched both the sunrise and the sunset.
The departure approaches…
A few weeks ago, Dr. Hubbard was making a trip to the consulate to get visas for himself and his wife. He offered very kindly to take the applications and materials for mine and Sarah’s, as well. So we made the necessary trips to the graduate school office, the health office, Donna Smith (our wonderful graduate field coordinator), our committee members, a couple of photography places, and the French consulate website to gather all the required forms, letters of enrollment and guaranteed support, and identification in the way of passport copies and photos. This part of the process was remarkably painless. So we collected everything and placed in it manila envelopes for Dr. Hubbard to take with him.
He was taking the 4:50 a.m. bus to NYC to get to a late morning appointment. So we did’t see him until the next day. Despite the long day of travel, he still came into work the following day. I saw him walking past as I was eating lunch outside. He came over, and his greeting was the single word: “Failure.”
He had achieved a visa for himself. He had apparently even gotten the officials to look at Sarah’s and my paperwork, because one of each of our photos were stapled in the appropriate place on the form, which we certainly hadn’t done. At some point, however, he was told we would have to come in person to apply for our visas. (This seems particularly peculiar since our trip to India last January only required us to mail in our applications.)
Okay, so we’d hit our first snag. Next snag: navigating the consulate website. They close themselves off quite effectively from outside contact. You cannot speak with anyone over the phone to ask questions or to make a reservation. You cannot even speak to anyone at the consulate in person to make a reservation. All reservations have to be made online. Even the phone information essentially runs you through a choose-your-own-adventure that always leads to instructions to look at the website for the information you want.
Now, to some extent this is understandable. If I were working at a visa application center, I would probably enjoy my job more if I knew every person coming into the office had already been through something of a screening process with the online application. And I imagine such an office would get bombarded by innumerable questions to grate one’s teeth if one accepted casual phone calls. In fact, once we got into the office, the people working there were friendly and courteous.
The website, especially the portion for making an application, was not well-designed or easily understood, however. Sarah and I flipped back and forth from page to back, reading about time-slots and calanders and how to make an appointment for multiple people, and basically crossing our fingers the whole time that we wouldn’t fail this essential step of getting into the consulate. We did all the checking and double-checking we could, and finally convinced ourselves that we had, in fact, made an appointment for two people at 11:45 on the morning of August 16. That was two or three weeks out from the day we made the appointment, so we spent the next fortnight waiting and nervously anticipating our uncertain foray into French bureaucracy.
Then came Wednesday. After a fair amount of discussion whether it would be better to drive, giving ourselves extra flexibility and possible saving some money, or to take the bus, saving ourselves the headaches of driving in Manhattan and at least one of us having to focus for the entire ten hours of the trip, we decided to take the bus. It turned out to be the right choice, as parking on Manhattan was even more expensive than I had thought it would be, and the trip was expensive enough that I at least really couldn’t have afforded a night out on the town before or after the consulate run.
It’s not nearly as interesting to tell when things go smoothly, so I’ll run through the rest of the day quickly. We also took the 4:50 a.m. bus, arrived on time at the Port Authority at 9:50. A couple of subway trains took us within six blocks or so of the consulate, which is just next to Central Park. We made it much more than the requested ten minutes before our appointment. Once in, we did have to stand in line for a while, but not more than 45 minutes or an hour. We had taken enough care in assembling our materials that there were no difficult questions to deal with; it was definitely handy that we brought extra photocopies of everything. We were handed a receipt and told to come back between three and four to get our passports and visas.
We spent most of the next couple of hours sitting on a hill in Central Park, watching kids play and dogs walk around an artificial pond. It was a pleasant afternoon. I particularly enjoyed lying back, looking at the different shades of leaves above varying with the amound of sunlight that reached them. We bought pita sandwiches at a corner stand for lunch. Not the most exciting things to do in New York, but we weren’t really going for excitement. There’s enough of that around Ithaca nowadays.
Once we arrived back at the consulate at 3:00, our names were called almost immediately. So we took our visas, sans problèmes, and headed back to the Port Authority via the subway again. We were back in Ithaca by 9:30 p.m. Not a bad day at all, except for the ten hours of bus ride. We even got to sleep through some of that, and watched both the sunrise and the sunset.
The departure approaches…
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
a short story
I went to the Lost Dog Café last night, across from the Ithaca Commons. I was by myself. I brought Waiting for Godot, because I’ve been wanting to read it for a while and it came up in a conversation recently.
After I ordered, I got up to wash my hands. When I returned, the lady from the couple sitting next to me leaned over and said, “I was beginning to wonder if you were doing performance art. You know, just leaving and never coming back, with Waiting for Godot and a solitary glass of wine sitting there at your place.”
Things to love about Ithaca: people will talk to you in restaurants. And they’ll find it entirely plausible that you might be a performance artist. Because who isn’t, in Ithaca?
After I ordered, I got up to wash my hands. When I returned, the lady from the couple sitting next to me leaned over and said, “I was beginning to wonder if you were doing performance art. You know, just leaving and never coming back, with Waiting for Godot and a solitary glass of wine sitting there at your place.”
Things to love about Ithaca: people will talk to you in restaurants. And they’ll find it entirely plausible that you might be a performance artist. Because who isn’t, in Ithaca?
Saturday, August 05, 2006
politics on my daily commute
At the corner of Warren and Hanshaw in Ithaca, Robert Rich posts signs on the fence outside his house. Many of them pose questions: “Can a secretive government be an honest one?” “Is ‘Stay the course’ a plan or a prayer?” “Is it even conceivable that we oppose a ceasefire?” Rich bills himself as The Sine Man, and recently began adding the address of his blog to the signs.
The bus route I take to school each day passes by this intersection. I have seen that the signs have been subjected to various kinds of vandalism. Very occasionally they are broken; more often terse, dogmatic replies are spraypainted over the original messages. I have wanted to take pictures of these vandalised signs, perhaps title the photos “Dialogue”, which of course is very rarely what they evoke.
If you check out Rich’s blog, you’ll see that he also has a link to an opposing viewpoint: The Anti-Sine Man. Both of these websites present their perspectives carefully, and I think they provide fruitful occasions for discussion.
I am not a political person, by which I mean I do not find politics inherently interesting. More often, frankly, I find the behavior of those embroiled in politics appalling. But I have previously acknowledged the importance of politics, when well carried-out, so I provide these links for those who may know better than I how to work to improve the situations under discussion, and for myself so that I may continue to stay aware.
Two more blogs on Middle East politics I’d like to mention. The first is Informed Comment, by Juan Cole. This blog is of particular interest in academe, because Cole is a professor of history and one of the (apparently growing) number of academics who use blogging to have direct influence outside of their own fields, perhaps even a bit of fame in the culture at large. The Chronicle of Higher Education recently (in the July 28 issue) had an article on this general trend and Cole’s case in particular. He was recently turned down for a faculty position at Yale, despite the recommendations of two departments, and speculation ensued as to whether his blog was part of the reason for the rejection. In any case, I have not had time to examine much of his writing, but from a cursory reading the title of the blog seems well-chosen. Lots of references, lots of well-reasoned commentary.
If you prefer more spleen in your political discourse, you may want to check out the satirical Olive Ream. Again, I have not had time to read much of this, but it is a forum for those who would like to use wit to comment on world events. The author also appears well-informed on the relevant news and issues. Don’t expect the same kind of clean language as the other blogs have, if that sort of thing concerns you. I am intrigued by how political humor (e.g., Doonesbury) can treat topics both substantial and trivial in a way that resonates with those “in the know”, educates those who are more ignorant (that’s usually where I fall), and generally amuses both camps.
The bus route I take to school each day passes by this intersection. I have seen that the signs have been subjected to various kinds of vandalism. Very occasionally they are broken; more often terse, dogmatic replies are spraypainted over the original messages. I have wanted to take pictures of these vandalised signs, perhaps title the photos “Dialogue”, which of course is very rarely what they evoke.
If you check out Rich’s blog, you’ll see that he also has a link to an opposing viewpoint: The Anti-Sine Man. Both of these websites present their perspectives carefully, and I think they provide fruitful occasions for discussion.
I am not a political person, by which I mean I do not find politics inherently interesting. More often, frankly, I find the behavior of those embroiled in politics appalling. But I have previously acknowledged the importance of politics, when well carried-out, so I provide these links for those who may know better than I how to work to improve the situations under discussion, and for myself so that I may continue to stay aware.
Two more blogs on Middle East politics I’d like to mention. The first is Informed Comment, by Juan Cole. This blog is of particular interest in academe, because Cole is a professor of history and one of the (apparently growing) number of academics who use blogging to have direct influence outside of their own fields, perhaps even a bit of fame in the culture at large. The Chronicle of Higher Education recently (in the July 28 issue) had an article on this general trend and Cole’s case in particular. He was recently turned down for a faculty position at Yale, despite the recommendations of two departments, and speculation ensued as to whether his blog was part of the reason for the rejection. In any case, I have not had time to examine much of his writing, but from a cursory reading the title of the blog seems well-chosen. Lots of references, lots of well-reasoned commentary.
If you prefer more spleen in your political discourse, you may want to check out the satirical Olive Ream. Again, I have not had time to read much of this, but it is a forum for those who would like to use wit to comment on world events. The author also appears well-informed on the relevant news and issues. Don’t expect the same kind of clean language as the other blogs have, if that sort of thing concerns you. I am intrigued by how political humor (e.g., Doonesbury) can treat topics both substantial and trivial in a way that resonates with those “in the know”, educates those who are more ignorant (that’s usually where I fall), and generally amuses both camps.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
an unsent letter
While moving, it is inevitable that one will unearth old letters. I sought this one out among my boxes. It is probably the last letter I wrote during my Peace Corps service. I never sent it, not because it’s too personal, but because I talked with the addressee about these things at other times.
I’ve lived in this apartment in Ithaca for three years now. That’s the longest I’ve lived anywhere since I left high school 11 years ago. The next longest time I’ve lived in the same place was two years in a hut. So while the story of this letter may better parallel my time next spring when I’ll be preparing to come back to the States again, I feel the same challenges of uprooting now as I did then.
*******
Kérouané
26 May 2002
It really is almost over now. I COS in just over three weeks (COS means “close of service”, but here it’s been turned into a verb.) I’m done teaching, done grading, and have only to turn in grades. The laboratory isn’t completely put together yet, but it’s organized and we’re just waiting to get bookshelves built this week to take everything out and make sure it all works. More than anything nowadays, I’m saying goodbye.
This morning, for example, I asked to say a few words to the congregation. (It’s Trinity Sunday today.) Actually, I had asked last week to do it this week, and when I arrived and the catechist wasn’t there, I thought I would have to wait. Apparently he left a note to the celebrant, because during the announcements he called on me. So I went up and rather nervously read out what I had written. I of course thanked them for the welcome they had given me. I also responded to something they have said to me frequently—that is, being the first (or at least a rare case) among all the ex-patriots [sic—I know how to spell this word now] to come through Kérouané, to present myself to the Christian community as a fellow believer. I said that, in fact, it is I who should thank God for the presence of a community where I could worship with fellow believers. For me, church is neither an obligation nor a duty, but a joy, and moreover I need the presence of God. (At least some things haven’t changed in two years.) Then I said what God had added to the gift of His presence at church: the chance to know the people and the cultures of those who attend there. Christians are more often than not from the forest, and here in this Maninka/Konianké dominated area, I would have had little opportunity to know of Kissi, Toma, or Kpelle traditions. I closed by talking to the youth, several of whom are my students. I said that God has given them great responsibility, but also a special place in His heart. I read 1 Timothy 4:12, saying that it is a passage often given to youth in our country.
Sery, the father of the family with whom I live, says it hurts him to hear how soon I’m leaving. I only have in fact at most two weeks here before COS, and after COS I’m coming back for a week. Then, toward the beginning of July, I’ll leave the country to travel a bit before meeting my parents in Spain. (I won’t be able to send this letter to you until I’m in Conakry for COS, so I’ll probably be out of Guinea by the time you read it.)
Annie is leaving the country after me, but leaving Kérouané before. She’s traveling right now, in the Fouta and then to Conakry to pick up a visiting friend. She should be back mid-week with her friend, and we’ll be together for a few days. I think the last time I’ll see her this side of the Atlantic is on June 8, at a party in Kankan. I hadn’t realized how little time we had left as sitemates until the day before she left for this trip. That night we took a couple of hours and talked about what we’ve observed and learned, and to thank each other for support and friendship throughout our service. I know I wrote last year that I didn’t feel particularly close to Annie; now I do. We’re extraordinarily different people, yet we’ve come to appreciate who we both are, and to realize that we even represent different American subcultures. I told her she is one of the oddest people I’ve ever known, and she reciprocated. :-)
How much has changed? How much have I changed? I’ve long said that people don’t, in fact, change; rather that they become more or less themselves. So am I more or less myself now? Two years in Africa has certainly touched me more than three weeks in Martinique or a week in France. If I haven’t changed, I think some of my values and views on international affairs have. I have seen more of the inequality in the world, and I have seen more of the causes that keep it in place. I know a bit about how complex the issue of, say, education is, and I have a greater respect for those whose goal is to make it universally available. Personally, I have become more self-motivated, self-confident, and self-aware. I know the value of clear expectations and good presentation, because I have seen what those things can accomplish. Conversely, I have a greater appreciation for the value of honesty, because I have seen what falsity can erode and destroy. I suppose it is inevitable for such changes to occur during such a service, and it is often said that the greatest benefit Peace Corps gives is not to the people served, but to the Volunteers who serve.
Back to my first question: how much has changed? I can say at least this: in a corner of a library, in a school in a corner of West Africa, there are now boxes holding wonders to enliven a student’s imagination. But such wonders have always lay around them and have gone unused and unnoticed because they aren’t taught to observe properly. I hope the same fate doesn’t come to the so-called laboratory. After that, there are a handful of students, perhaps four or five, who have gained confidence in themselves, and perhaps enjoyed discovering a few things along the way. It’s small, but it’s a start. That’s all a Volunteer can do: make starts.
There’s a group of African children who sing an English folk song (in a very African manner) and dance around to it. There are scattered residents of Kérouané who can say they’ve seen the mountains of the moon and the Hunter drawn in the sky. There are ladies in the market who have had an American client, for a time. There is a father who has seen corners of the world that truly few Americans have seen. Things have changed. Some things are eternal, but other things change, and those that change never seem to do so fast enough.
And I have little idea of what’s changed at home (for, here at the end, the States are becoming “home” again). I expect that it’s changed more than I expect. It would have done so anyway, even without the events of the last year. [I meant Sept. 11.]
We will have things to talk about when I return, will we not? I promise next time we are together not to run around trying to catch all the sights and sounds. With the universe to be found in a grain of sand, I will want to again know the wondrous variety to be found in you. I have just reread the letter you sent me from November―March. I hate that my time here makes you feel that our friendship has weakened. Then again, perhaps it is a bit true. I still forbid you to make yourself difficult to find before I come back.
You wrote that your plans haven’t changed. I, too, have a direction [graduate school], though its location is undetermined, and I do not know if the direction itself will remain unchanged. Wherever I am, even here, you are close in my thoughts and heart.
*******
I never signed the letter. I think I could never quite figure out how to close it.
It’s good to remember that I’ve been through leaving before. That I've dealt with the changes in relationships that come with time apart, even though they may be painful. That I left somewhere feeling I’d made a difference. I suspect if I were to carefully consider my time here in Ithaca so far, I would find I had some small influences, and those would make it easier to leave to do something else.
Some of you may find the above letter interesting as a summary of my time in Africa. For me, its present purpose is to help me reflect on times of transition so that I feel better prepared to go to Marseille.
I’ve lived in this apartment in Ithaca for three years now. That’s the longest I’ve lived anywhere since I left high school 11 years ago. The next longest time I’ve lived in the same place was two years in a hut. So while the story of this letter may better parallel my time next spring when I’ll be preparing to come back to the States again, I feel the same challenges of uprooting now as I did then.
*******
Kérouané
26 May 2002
It really is almost over now. I COS in just over three weeks (COS means “close of service”, but here it’s been turned into a verb.) I’m done teaching, done grading, and have only to turn in grades. The laboratory isn’t completely put together yet, but it’s organized and we’re just waiting to get bookshelves built this week to take everything out and make sure it all works. More than anything nowadays, I’m saying goodbye.
This morning, for example, I asked to say a few words to the congregation. (It’s Trinity Sunday today.) Actually, I had asked last week to do it this week, and when I arrived and the catechist wasn’t there, I thought I would have to wait. Apparently he left a note to the celebrant, because during the announcements he called on me. So I went up and rather nervously read out what I had written. I of course thanked them for the welcome they had given me. I also responded to something they have said to me frequently—that is, being the first (or at least a rare case) among all the ex-patriots [sic—I know how to spell this word now] to come through Kérouané, to present myself to the Christian community as a fellow believer. I said that, in fact, it is I who should thank God for the presence of a community where I could worship with fellow believers. For me, church is neither an obligation nor a duty, but a joy, and moreover I need the presence of God. (At least some things haven’t changed in two years.) Then I said what God had added to the gift of His presence at church: the chance to know the people and the cultures of those who attend there. Christians are more often than not from the forest, and here in this Maninka/Konianké dominated area, I would have had little opportunity to know of Kissi, Toma, or Kpelle traditions. I closed by talking to the youth, several of whom are my students. I said that God has given them great responsibility, but also a special place in His heart. I read 1 Timothy 4:12, saying that it is a passage often given to youth in our country.
Sery, the father of the family with whom I live, says it hurts him to hear how soon I’m leaving. I only have in fact at most two weeks here before COS, and after COS I’m coming back for a week. Then, toward the beginning of July, I’ll leave the country to travel a bit before meeting my parents in Spain. (I won’t be able to send this letter to you until I’m in Conakry for COS, so I’ll probably be out of Guinea by the time you read it.)
Annie is leaving the country after me, but leaving Kérouané before. She’s traveling right now, in the Fouta and then to Conakry to pick up a visiting friend. She should be back mid-week with her friend, and we’ll be together for a few days. I think the last time I’ll see her this side of the Atlantic is on June 8, at a party in Kankan. I hadn’t realized how little time we had left as sitemates until the day before she left for this trip. That night we took a couple of hours and talked about what we’ve observed and learned, and to thank each other for support and friendship throughout our service. I know I wrote last year that I didn’t feel particularly close to Annie; now I do. We’re extraordinarily different people, yet we’ve come to appreciate who we both are, and to realize that we even represent different American subcultures. I told her she is one of the oddest people I’ve ever known, and she reciprocated. :-)
How much has changed? How much have I changed? I’ve long said that people don’t, in fact, change; rather that they become more or less themselves. So am I more or less myself now? Two years in Africa has certainly touched me more than three weeks in Martinique or a week in France. If I haven’t changed, I think some of my values and views on international affairs have. I have seen more of the inequality in the world, and I have seen more of the causes that keep it in place. I know a bit about how complex the issue of, say, education is, and I have a greater respect for those whose goal is to make it universally available. Personally, I have become more self-motivated, self-confident, and self-aware. I know the value of clear expectations and good presentation, because I have seen what those things can accomplish. Conversely, I have a greater appreciation for the value of honesty, because I have seen what falsity can erode and destroy. I suppose it is inevitable for such changes to occur during such a service, and it is often said that the greatest benefit Peace Corps gives is not to the people served, but to the Volunteers who serve.
Back to my first question: how much has changed? I can say at least this: in a corner of a library, in a school in a corner of West Africa, there are now boxes holding wonders to enliven a student’s imagination. But such wonders have always lay around them and have gone unused and unnoticed because they aren’t taught to observe properly. I hope the same fate doesn’t come to the so-called laboratory. After that, there are a handful of students, perhaps four or five, who have gained confidence in themselves, and perhaps enjoyed discovering a few things along the way. It’s small, but it’s a start. That’s all a Volunteer can do: make starts.
There’s a group of African children who sing an English folk song (in a very African manner) and dance around to it. There are scattered residents of Kérouané who can say they’ve seen the mountains of the moon and the Hunter drawn in the sky. There are ladies in the market who have had an American client, for a time. There is a father who has seen corners of the world that truly few Americans have seen. Things have changed. Some things are eternal, but other things change, and those that change never seem to do so fast enough.
And I have little idea of what’s changed at home (for, here at the end, the States are becoming “home” again). I expect that it’s changed more than I expect. It would have done so anyway, even without the events of the last year. [I meant Sept. 11.]
We will have things to talk about when I return, will we not? I promise next time we are together not to run around trying to catch all the sights and sounds. With the universe to be found in a grain of sand, I will want to again know the wondrous variety to be found in you. I have just reread the letter you sent me from November―March. I hate that my time here makes you feel that our friendship has weakened. Then again, perhaps it is a bit true. I still forbid you to make yourself difficult to find before I come back.
You wrote that your plans haven’t changed. I, too, have a direction [graduate school], though its location is undetermined, and I do not know if the direction itself will remain unchanged. Wherever I am, even here, you are close in my thoughts and heart.
*******
I never signed the letter. I think I could never quite figure out how to close it.
It’s good to remember that I’ve been through leaving before. That I've dealt with the changes in relationships that come with time apart, even though they may be painful. That I left somewhere feeling I’d made a difference. I suspect if I were to carefully consider my time here in Ithaca so far, I would find I had some small influences, and those would make it easier to leave to do something else.
Some of you may find the above letter interesting as a summary of my time in Africa. For me, its present purpose is to help me reflect on times of transition so that I feel better prepared to go to Marseille.
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