Historias de Veintisiete

Stephanie — Thu, 06 Jun 2013 15:29:50 +0000

Well. Here we are. Living with my parents. Chris looking for jobs every day. Me… doing nothing every day. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I sign a Master Promissory Note so I can ask for more not-free-money from the government in order to study. I watch TV. I eat.

Last night we tried to call everyone in 27 (ok, everyone who we wanted to talk to… but that was at least 5 phone calls) and none of the calls went through. I don’t know if we weren’t using the calling card right or what happened, but what happened after that was I almost cried.

A couple nights ago, as I was laying in bed really trying to sleep but not doing a very good job, I thought up a really great blog. It was worded well, interesting, all the things a good blog should be. But I’m pretty tired right now (that sleeping thing is getting trickier for some reason), so you’ll have to be content with this mess.

At least I still have my 1820 (mil-ocho-cientos-veinte) coffee. But when that 5 kilo bag runs out, I might lose it… and the bag is already half empty…

Dear Everyone I Care About

Stephanie — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 23:00:46 +0000

I like to write. I do it a lot.

But lately, every time I sit down to my journal, a letter, this blog… I find myself, ten minutes later, staring into space having written nothing. I get lost in thoughts of possible futures and the recent past. I can’t commit to paper thoughts and ideas I have, partly because they are constantly changing and partly because some of them seem so permanent it scares me.

Last week, my host brother caught me in this state, pen to paper but eyes to the brown hills behind our house. “Where are you right now,” he asked me, “Costa Rica or the US?” I stared at him a minute, then answered, “Both places. Strange, huh? The mind is weird.” He agreed, “The brain is strong. You could be walking through the door of your house there, you could go to your bed or the fridge. You could go wherever you want, and five minutes later be back here.” I nodded. “Yeah, it’s weird. But it’s good,” I told him. He nodded back, “It’s good, but it will also bring you sadness.”

Everything here that makes me smile immediately makes me sad, because the smile is so genuine and its cause soon to vanish. “Live in the moment.” “Here and now.” Normally that is what I do. But for some reason it is much more difficult these days.

And yes, I am excited to go home. To see my family and my friends. To meet the nieces and nephews who were born since I’ve been here.

But I am going to be much different when I return. Please know that. And I know you will all be different, too. Two years is a long time. Please be patient with me. I will be in mourning of a sort. Please don’t judge me for peppering my speech with spanish. When I mention, for the 1000th time, that “In the Peace Corps we…” or that “In Costa Rica they…” please try not to roll your eyes. I promise I will not always suffer melancholy. My excitement upon seeing you will be real. But so, too, will be my ache for the people I have grown to love here, for the way of life I am now accustomed to. Alejandro’s smile, Sonieé’s sass, thunderous rain on a tin roof, the tranquility of a bus ride in the dark evening as a cool breeze pours through the window and the full moon illuminates the hills and lowlands of home.

Let’s be patient with each other. Let’s ask each other questions and tell each other stories. Let’s get to know each other again.

Let’s not rush it.

Stephanie — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 20:36:35 +0000

I just looked at the calendar and was literally shocked to see that today is the TWENTY SECOND OF MARCH.

It’s not like I have been in a coma. I even spent a good amount of time staring at a giant calendar last week. But for some reason seeing only one week left of March caused something to click in my brain. This is how it happened.

“What is today’s date?” I asked myself.
open dashboard calendar
“Oh it’s THE TWENTY SECOND OF MARCH¡?!?¡?!¿#M¿?#”

And after that my brain shuffled through all the things I have planned between now and May 11 and damn near exploded.

I need to apply for scholarships like woah. I also don’t have internet at my house anymore, which complicates that particular chore.

I need to write goodbye letters to all my favorite Tic@s. I need to plan and then have a going away party. I need to visit PCV friends whose sites I haven’t yet seen. I need to cancel my visits to PCV friends’ sites so that I can spend more time in my own site because I want to be there as much as possible before I leave.

I also need to get these stitches taken out of my jaw. (oh yeah, got a mole removed. that happened). And I need to plan the entirety of my summer so that I am ready to go to London in September. (oh yeah, I got into University of London SOAS. that happened).

And that’s just the stuff off the top of my head. I’m certain I’ve got many more things written down somewhere.

And so, Mach 22nd, you have succeeded in surprising and terrifying me. But to you and all the days to come I say:
Bring it on.

Stephanie — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 03:38:27 +0000

Camp has ended, the volunteers have said their tearful goodbyes to the tearful children and life has returned to normal, where I normally feel like I haven’t done anything of benefit for this town. Until one night little Noe is here and he is coloring and I leave to teach english class and when I return he holds up a picture he drew. The picture is a tree and in it he has written all the names of the volunteers who were here for camp, and he asks me to write my name and Chris’s name in the center of the tree, and then he writes his name and then he holds the tree up and says

“My family tree”

with so much pride and happiness that I feel myself overflowing with the same emotions, and when he sets the picture down and runs off to play I realize that maybe there have been some benefits after all.

Stephanie — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 14:47:25 +0000

He’s going to remember this.

He is six years old. We are three extranjeros. One of us is playing the guitar, two of us are singing. He is playing the bucket with his drumsticks, following the guitarist’s strum pattern. His eyes are fixed on the guitar, his lips parted slightly to reveal his missing front tooth and his concentration. He looks at me occasionally and we share a smile. The easiest smile. There is no pretense, only joy.

Soon he loses interest, as all six year olds do.

But he’s going to remember this.

And so am I.

Faces

Stephanie — Sun, 16 Dec 2012 04:26:12 +0000

The face of a culture is wrinkled, it seems; skin taut around cheekbones and loose at the neck, eyes shining with knowledge and brow creased with constancy. Lips parted, teeth yellowed, vanishing language falling from the tongue. Vanishing language, vanishing culture. Unless its face becomes smooth, becomes soft fresh skin over heavy cheeks and eyes shining with curiosity. Brow bent in observation, lips curved to a smile, teeth small and white and new, vanishing language revived on the tongue.

Raconteur

Stephanie — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 04:10:36 +0000

As the old woman sat speaking her stories into the recorder, her fingers worked tufts of pink fluff off the red blanket on which she sat. The story swelling with emotion, she raised her arm for effect and the tufts fell from her fingers. They floated down around her, some landing on her yellow dress, and were left to lie where they fell. Her legs, outstretched in front of her, crossed and uncrossed themselves rhythmically as she spoke, and every so often she would punctuate her story by patting the knee of her grown daughter who was seated next to her.

Stephanie — Sun, 04 Nov 2012 23:49:36 +0000

The parakeet hopped from the girl’s hand to the table. The girl continued braiding a piece of her ponytail and sat down to share her breakfast with the bird, who had taken his place standing next to her plate. Her grandmother, seated next to her, looked at the bird and the girl and began to comment disdainfully.

A few minutes later, grandma was called to the corn grinder and the girl sat alone at the table, her parakeet perched on the back of a chair. As she ate, a chicken wandered in from outside and hopped onto the table. The girl laughed as the chicken sat on the edge looking confused, then she shooed it away unceremoniously and finished her breakfast.

Stephanie — Sat, 03 Nov 2012 02:10:16 +0000

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Stephanie — Tue, 16 Oct 2012 02:41:14 +0000

Something happened to me in the past few years. It was gradual, slow and unexpected. I think it started in college but didn’t really take hold until a year or so ago. That’s when I really became a feminist, when “feminist” stopped being a dirty word for me. It’s taken me 25 years of life as a female to realize what I am, and what I am is oppressed and fierce.

Oppressed, yes. As long as my appearance matters more than my skills , and as long as “educated” people make statements about “legitimate rape” and young men think rape is funny, we are oppressed.

Fierce, yes. I will not hold back when confronted with blatant (or latent) misogyny. I will shatter your concept of gender roles and question your fear of sexuality. I will not vote for Romney.

I don’t let loose my ferocity solely for myself. I do so for all the women who are still coming to see the truth of our situation. Who haven’t yet realized that, as they pity women in other countries, we have not come so far in ours. For women who are stuck in jobs with unequal pay and have no other empowering voice in their lives. I will be fierce for them until they can be fierce for themselves.

I am not cute. Small, yes, but do not be deceived. I carry the might of an entire gender and we are far stronger than you think.