Almost like unwrapping a Christmas present, I admired the presentation, but was eager to get to the content. The file folder contained so much information; too much material for a quick scan. On top of all the paperwork, however, was a letter. Closed with a hand-written signature from my Placement Officer, and a personal note of congratulations, I was welcomed to Peace Corps South Africa.
Overwhelmed with curiosity, I plunged into the rest of the material for more details. And as I read my upcoming responsibilities, should I accept, I could not help but feel honored. Honored to have been chosen out of so many qualified applicants to assist with, and be a part of, an incredible learning process. My duties as a Resource Specialist for the Schools and Community Resource Project will allow me to not only instruct learners directly, but to guide and mentor those already dedicated to the cause. To serve in this capacity, finding creative ways to bring out the best in those already serving, with little to no resources, is an unbelievable opportunity for which I am truly grateful.
In addition to working inside the classroom environment, I have been charged with bridging the gap between the schools and their communities, as well as assisting out-of-school youth with life-skills development. These duties are bound to be as equally challenging as the assignments mentioned above, but I am just as equally excited about contributing as needed.
South Africa’s history is rich with hatred and segregation; there is much healing that needs to be done. Yet this task is not something that can be forced, only supported. And even in that support, there is likely to be resistance…on many levels. With that understanding, I cannot learn enough. Even though I read and read, I am not sure I could ever possibly “know” as an outsider. But, maybe, a lot of respect, patience, and a sincere effort to “know” and understand will be enough to make a positive impact where welcomed.
When I made the phone call to accept my invitation, and was then informed of my official placement in the program, I hung up the telephone engulfed in a bubble of gratitude. I truly do believe this is a life-changing experience; the good, the bad, and the ugly. I am thankful to the Peace Corps for giving me a chance to serve. I am grateful to the citizens of the United States for providing the means for this program to exist. And I am thankful to the countries around the world who have invited the Peace Corps onto their soil.
While I cannot possibly predict the journey I will begin on July 21, I hope to execute it with intelligence, class, and professionalism. So that regardless of hardships and disappointments, I will make the people of the United States proud to call me their own. This same hope extends, also, to the people for which I will be serving. Their stories, I believe, are just as important as our own, if not more so, and deserve to be shared and appreciated….for, if nothing else, a better understanding in the mission of world peace and friendship.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Halfway There
Do I wear it? Do I not? As the car headed towards the start line, I knew I needed to make a decision soon. Although the raindrops splashed steadily on the windshield, I looked up at the sky with hopes of seeing blue in the distance. My expert meteorology skills---also known as, a blanket of grey equals storm---revealed otherwise. So when the car came to a complete stop, I grabbed my baseball cap and headed straight for the start-line porta-potties.
Less than ten days prior, I purposely reviewed the weather forecast before signing up for the half-marathon. Late registration comes with a lovely appreciation gift disguised as a more expensive entry fee, so I was trying to justify the expense with blue skies and sunshine. And much to my delight, the content of the forecast revealed just that. With the memories of Hurricane Ike aftermath still fresh in my memory bank, I was looking forward to a different race-day experience. But, alas, Rachelle + race = rain.
Normally, when listening to the national anthem, I clasp my hands together in front of my body and hold a more formal, upright position facing in the appropriate direction. But this morning, as the voice saluting our great nation echoed down the corral of thousands…and the fog lifted just enough from the St. Louis Arch to reveal its monumental status…and the words of Woodrow Wilson etched so perfectly on the exterior of a building energized my civic pride, I rose my hand to my heart and welled up with emotion. For in that moment, I felt so fortunate to be able to celebrate the awesomeness of human will in the heart of my hometown…in the spirit of greatness; for each participant has a story.
Leading up to the race, I had done very little training. In fact, upon registration, I had actually not planned on running. My intention on this day was to “wun”; a word I like to think I invented to mean walk, sometimes run….or to run in a way that looks like walking to others, but very much feels like running to the participant. But when those around me started moving their Asics to the rhythm of achievement, I could not help but absorb the influence.
The snail’s pace I so much enjoy allowed me to admire and appreciate the known landmarks of our Gateway to the West. The route took us past the Cardinals stadium, the Anheuser-Busch brewery---which was surrounded by a wonderful beer stench I happily acknowledged out loud…probably not to the amusement I had assumed of those around me---a Clydesdale horse taking shelter from the rain under a restrictive canopy, the Soulard Farmer’s Market, and other beautifully designed buildings. At this point, each step I took---much to my surprise---was effortless.
Somewhere between mile seven and eight, my attention started moving from the admiration of my surroundings to the agitating pain in my right knee. Gone for so long, but never forgotten, the pain I had experienced before wanted to make a comeback. Trying to ignore it only made it worse. Then came the battle of reason: “Rachelle, stop trying to run; you were not even planning on running in the first place!”…”Rachelle, you’ve come this far…you were not even planning on running…you can finish it out.”….”Damn you, knee; I was doing well, and thoroughly enjoying myself!”
After several walk breaks to ease the pain, an experiment with apple-cinnamon Goo, and a hilarious encounter with a highly motivating runner, the last mile marker made itself visible. I threw back the water handed to me at the last hydration station, embraced the pain, and vowed not to stop again until I reached the finish line. Their words were so positive; so confident. “You’re almost there! Just after the hill, you’re done!” Wrong. As I reached the top of the hill, I found my desire to see the stopping point increase with each step. Doing some major motivating self-talk, I continued to shuffle my hobbling-self past the energized, wet, crowd. As the finish-line came into view, all I wanted to do was reach it…and pass a few people on the way. With carabiner in hand (yes…I ran with the carabiner that holds my keys because I “train” holding my keys; not porta-potty friendly) and a smile on my face, I reached the end with strength. And, just like that, I completed my first hurricane-free half-marathon.
Less than ten days prior, I purposely reviewed the weather forecast before signing up for the half-marathon. Late registration comes with a lovely appreciation gift disguised as a more expensive entry fee, so I was trying to justify the expense with blue skies and sunshine. And much to my delight, the content of the forecast revealed just that. With the memories of Hurricane Ike aftermath still fresh in my memory bank, I was looking forward to a different race-day experience. But, alas, Rachelle + race = rain.
Normally, when listening to the national anthem, I clasp my hands together in front of my body and hold a more formal, upright position facing in the appropriate direction. But this morning, as the voice saluting our great nation echoed down the corral of thousands…and the fog lifted just enough from the St. Louis Arch to reveal its monumental status…and the words of Woodrow Wilson etched so perfectly on the exterior of a building energized my civic pride, I rose my hand to my heart and welled up with emotion. For in that moment, I felt so fortunate to be able to celebrate the awesomeness of human will in the heart of my hometown…in the spirit of greatness; for each participant has a story.
Leading up to the race, I had done very little training. In fact, upon registration, I had actually not planned on running. My intention on this day was to “wun”; a word I like to think I invented to mean walk, sometimes run….or to run in a way that looks like walking to others, but very much feels like running to the participant. But when those around me started moving their Asics to the rhythm of achievement, I could not help but absorb the influence.
The snail’s pace I so much enjoy allowed me to admire and appreciate the known landmarks of our Gateway to the West. The route took us past the Cardinals stadium, the Anheuser-Busch brewery---which was surrounded by a wonderful beer stench I happily acknowledged out loud…probably not to the amusement I had assumed of those around me---a Clydesdale horse taking shelter from the rain under a restrictive canopy, the Soulard Farmer’s Market, and other beautifully designed buildings. At this point, each step I took---much to my surprise---was effortless.
Somewhere between mile seven and eight, my attention started moving from the admiration of my surroundings to the agitating pain in my right knee. Gone for so long, but never forgotten, the pain I had experienced before wanted to make a comeback. Trying to ignore it only made it worse. Then came the battle of reason: “Rachelle, stop trying to run; you were not even planning on running in the first place!”…”Rachelle, you’ve come this far…you were not even planning on running…you can finish it out.”….”Damn you, knee; I was doing well, and thoroughly enjoying myself!”
After several walk breaks to ease the pain, an experiment with apple-cinnamon Goo, and a hilarious encounter with a highly motivating runner, the last mile marker made itself visible. I threw back the water handed to me at the last hydration station, embraced the pain, and vowed not to stop again until I reached the finish line. Their words were so positive; so confident. “You’re almost there! Just after the hill, you’re done!” Wrong. As I reached the top of the hill, I found my desire to see the stopping point increase with each step. Doing some major motivating self-talk, I continued to shuffle my hobbling-self past the energized, wet, crowd. As the finish-line came into view, all I wanted to do was reach it…and pass a few people on the way. With carabiner in hand (yes…I ran with the carabiner that holds my keys because I “train” holding my keys; not porta-potty friendly) and a smile on my face, I reached the end with strength. And, just like that, I completed my first hurricane-free half-marathon.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Exhale
When I refreshed my email, my eyes casually glanced at the new text in bold. Peace Corps: Application Status Update. I leaned in closer to the screen as the words, “Oh my God,” slipped quietly from my lips. After double-clicking on the new arrival, the email then linked me to My (Peace Corps) Toolkit where the update would be revealed.
The second my eyes caught glimpse of the word, “Congratulations,” I let out a squeal of joy. And, as quick as I expressed my relief verbally, I was up out of my chair to share the moment. Before my hilarious attempt at a mediocre toe-touch, which must have been stored somewhere in the high-school memory bank as an accurate reaction in celebration, I hugged a couple co-workers with delight.
My level of excitement surprised me a bit. As I felt my heart beating through my chest, I knew I had actually become concerned that this opportunity I had been working towards for a year may not become a reality. Having already said goodbye to one of the student organizations for which I served, and preparing to end my affiliation with another later that evening, the news could not have come at a better time. I was starting to wonder if I would possibly regret leaving my students.
Almost as sudden as I had abandoned my computer and seated position, I moved back towards the screen. Did I read that right? Doubt grabbed a hold of me for just a moment as I re-read the statement, “Congratulations! You have been invited to become a Peace Corps Volunteer.” Lost in relief, I reached for my cellular phone and made the only phone call I would make. Even at eight in the morning, my parents shared my excitement.
That moment of knowing, it seems, was all I needed. With my employer preparing to hire for my position, and my students beginning to seek guidance elsewhere, I was eager to make strides forward in my journey. The location, assignment, and departure details for my Peace Corps service have yet to be revealed. However, I find that I am content with whatever those may be. And while those are soon to be exposed, I also find that I am still enjoying the present….instead of focusing on tomorrow…because there is so much beauty in today. I honestly don’t want to miss a minute of it.
The second my eyes caught glimpse of the word, “Congratulations,” I let out a squeal of joy. And, as quick as I expressed my relief verbally, I was up out of my chair to share the moment. Before my hilarious attempt at a mediocre toe-touch, which must have been stored somewhere in the high-school memory bank as an accurate reaction in celebration, I hugged a couple co-workers with delight.
My level of excitement surprised me a bit. As I felt my heart beating through my chest, I knew I had actually become concerned that this opportunity I had been working towards for a year may not become a reality. Having already said goodbye to one of the student organizations for which I served, and preparing to end my affiliation with another later that evening, the news could not have come at a better time. I was starting to wonder if I would possibly regret leaving my students.
Almost as sudden as I had abandoned my computer and seated position, I moved back towards the screen. Did I read that right? Doubt grabbed a hold of me for just a moment as I re-read the statement, “Congratulations! You have been invited to become a Peace Corps Volunteer.” Lost in relief, I reached for my cellular phone and made the only phone call I would make. Even at eight in the morning, my parents shared my excitement.
That moment of knowing, it seems, was all I needed. With my employer preparing to hire for my position, and my students beginning to seek guidance elsewhere, I was eager to make strides forward in my journey. The location, assignment, and departure details for my Peace Corps service have yet to be revealed. However, I find that I am content with whatever those may be. And while those are soon to be exposed, I also find that I am still enjoying the present….instead of focusing on tomorrow…because there is so much beauty in today. I honestly don’t want to miss a minute of it.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Road Warrior
I stared at the radar map, hoping to see nothing. Instead, I found myself referencing the snow accumulation key, trying to convince myself that a few inches wouldn’t be enough of a concern to cancel the spontaneous adventure. The blizzard warnings, however, made enough of an impact to postpone departure twenty-four hours. By then, surely, the roads would be ready for Rachelle.
Twenty-four hours came and went, and I was on my way to New Mexico. Weather.com informed me that I might face a “wintery mix” between Tulsa and Oklahoma City, but that prediction seemed harmless compared to the previous day’s blizzard. In addition, blue skies and sunshine were forecasted for Texas. So, naturally, I envisioned windows down and sunglasses by late afternoon.
Lost in a sea of white, my windshield wipers were beginning to cease their full range of motion due to the accumulation of precipitation on the windshield itself. Following closely behind a large semi-truck, taking advantage of its snow-cleared tracks, I rolled down the window with hopes of removing some of the packed “wintery mix” from my front shield of glass. As chunks of slush poured into my car and onto my lap, I laughed at my failure to predict this action. Going twenty miles an hour, all I could do was hope that the truck in front of me didn’t exit off the highway before the roads started clearing.
At the last toll booth in Oklahoma, the snow had already begun to clear. This booth was one of two not manned on the main route headed west, and required the same dollar as before. I retrieved four quarters out of my quarter holder specifically created for the state of Oklahoma, also known as a film canister, and threw them in the plastic receptor. And, I waited patiently for the red light to turn green, giving me clearance to continue forward. No green light. Immediately, the following went through my head: I paid, I don’t want to pay again…I need those quarters for the return trip, maybe the machine is broken, I’m not trying to scam the system, I hate Oklahoma’s toll roads, I just want out of this state, no one’s around, I’m going. Then the alarm sounded. Three feet out of the gate and I put on the brakes. I looked up, to the right, to the left, and actually waited for the armed troopers I thought might be hiding somewhere to come arrest me. The words, “But I paid…really!” were already starting to form from my lips. When I realized no one was coming, and I decided that a ticket was likely in the mail, I proceeded on to Texas with some laughter and some ease.
When I opened the car door with camera and ink pen in hand, I had no idea that the next few minutes would find me hopping from dry patch to dry patch throughout the mud field hosting ten Cadillacs buried in the ground. Earlier in the year, during my first road trip out west, I had made a special stop at this very place in Amarillo—the Cadillac Graveyard—to leave my mark as expected. Hoping to find my name still visible on the graffiti-covered vehicles, I instead found mud covered shoes and unreachable cars due to the melting snow from the blizzard the day before. This, coupled with the random television reporter who decided to join me once I was headed towards the cars, hastened my abandonment of the quest and my desire to reach my pit-stop for the night.
As I pulled into the driveway in Clovis, New Mexico, I couldn’t help but admire the moment. For this was the driveway of the stranger I had met during my last journey out west. Since then, we have become friends, and I can’t help but treasure the beauty of the situation. Doors really are always opening around us; sometimes, it seems, we are just blind to the opportunities.
The next few days produced beautiful scenery in two National Parks, and interest in uncovering governmental secrecy of extraterrestrial findings. Carlsbad Caverns left me wanting more with sold-out cave tours and grounded bad flights, but gave me an incredible experience nonetheless. And, despite the eighty-mile-an-hour winds that forced me to stack rocks on the corners of my tent—tricked my mind into imagining creepy experiences outside my tent—and prevented me from summiting the highest point in Texas, Guadalupe Mountains National Park gave me memorable conversations with strangers and rangers, hikes, and a visitor center to charge my cellular phone. Roswell, too, rose to the occasion with alien art, twinkly lights and enough UFO paraphernalia to summon even the most stubborn spacecraft.
But the true beauty of this trip wasn’t found underground, in the mountains, or in the weather balloon myths. It was found on the journey home. As I crossed into the state of Missouri from the land of tolls, I melted into a sincere appreciation for my surroundings. Hills and color never looked so inviting; trees conjured up a joy so intense I surprised myself. Even the Bible verse billboards, staggered with Adult Video store advertisements, made me happy. And when I drove onto the college campus that night for my student organization meeting, I found myself wanting to pause in the happiness…the happiness I have right in front of me…in Missouri…working for a college…working with young minds full of hope and passion. While I think most of this reaction was a result of my future departure and all the emotions associated with it, it definitely triggered an awareness I hope to embrace these next few months.
Twenty-four hours came and went, and I was on my way to New Mexico. Weather.com informed me that I might face a “wintery mix” between Tulsa and Oklahoma City, but that prediction seemed harmless compared to the previous day’s blizzard. In addition, blue skies and sunshine were forecasted for Texas. So, naturally, I envisioned windows down and sunglasses by late afternoon.
Lost in a sea of white, my windshield wipers were beginning to cease their full range of motion due to the accumulation of precipitation on the windshield itself. Following closely behind a large semi-truck, taking advantage of its snow-cleared tracks, I rolled down the window with hopes of removing some of the packed “wintery mix” from my front shield of glass. As chunks of slush poured into my car and onto my lap, I laughed at my failure to predict this action. Going twenty miles an hour, all I could do was hope that the truck in front of me didn’t exit off the highway before the roads started clearing.
At the last toll booth in Oklahoma, the snow had already begun to clear. This booth was one of two not manned on the main route headed west, and required the same dollar as before. I retrieved four quarters out of my quarter holder specifically created for the state of Oklahoma, also known as a film canister, and threw them in the plastic receptor. And, I waited patiently for the red light to turn green, giving me clearance to continue forward. No green light. Immediately, the following went through my head: I paid, I don’t want to pay again…I need those quarters for the return trip, maybe the machine is broken, I’m not trying to scam the system, I hate Oklahoma’s toll roads, I just want out of this state, no one’s around, I’m going. Then the alarm sounded. Three feet out of the gate and I put on the brakes. I looked up, to the right, to the left, and actually waited for the armed troopers I thought might be hiding somewhere to come arrest me. The words, “But I paid…really!” were already starting to form from my lips. When I realized no one was coming, and I decided that a ticket was likely in the mail, I proceeded on to Texas with some laughter and some ease.
When I opened the car door with camera and ink pen in hand, I had no idea that the next few minutes would find me hopping from dry patch to dry patch throughout the mud field hosting ten Cadillacs buried in the ground. Earlier in the year, during my first road trip out west, I had made a special stop at this very place in Amarillo—the Cadillac Graveyard—to leave my mark as expected. Hoping to find my name still visible on the graffiti-covered vehicles, I instead found mud covered shoes and unreachable cars due to the melting snow from the blizzard the day before. This, coupled with the random television reporter who decided to join me once I was headed towards the cars, hastened my abandonment of the quest and my desire to reach my pit-stop for the night.
As I pulled into the driveway in Clovis, New Mexico, I couldn’t help but admire the moment. For this was the driveway of the stranger I had met during my last journey out west. Since then, we have become friends, and I can’t help but treasure the beauty of the situation. Doors really are always opening around us; sometimes, it seems, we are just blind to the opportunities.
The next few days produced beautiful scenery in two National Parks, and interest in uncovering governmental secrecy of extraterrestrial findings. Carlsbad Caverns left me wanting more with sold-out cave tours and grounded bad flights, but gave me an incredible experience nonetheless. And, despite the eighty-mile-an-hour winds that forced me to stack rocks on the corners of my tent—tricked my mind into imagining creepy experiences outside my tent—and prevented me from summiting the highest point in Texas, Guadalupe Mountains National Park gave me memorable conversations with strangers and rangers, hikes, and a visitor center to charge my cellular phone. Roswell, too, rose to the occasion with alien art, twinkly lights and enough UFO paraphernalia to summon even the most stubborn spacecraft.
But the true beauty of this trip wasn’t found underground, in the mountains, or in the weather balloon myths. It was found on the journey home. As I crossed into the state of Missouri from the land of tolls, I melted into a sincere appreciation for my surroundings. Hills and color never looked so inviting; trees conjured up a joy so intense I surprised myself. Even the Bible verse billboards, staggered with Adult Video store advertisements, made me happy. And when I drove onto the college campus that night for my student organization meeting, I found myself wanting to pause in the happiness…the happiness I have right in front of me…in Missouri…working for a college…working with young minds full of hope and passion. While I think most of this reaction was a result of my future departure and all the emotions associated with it, it definitely triggered an awareness I hope to embrace these next few months.
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