ONE DREAM AT A TIME

What's really going on

2012-02-17T01:54:00.003-08:00

Take a look at these photos below. Now I encourage you to get a full hearty laugh because on some real talk-they are probably nail on the head for all volunteers-including me!

I thought I would take a little time to clarify, because thus far in my service it's become severely difficult to explain exactly what I do without submitting to the fact that in layman terms: I'm an English teacher. Now for the record I am here to focus on sustainable community development. Shaping and re-shaping the minds of the young people who will inherit Azerbaijan. It's my duty to merely plant a thought or idea in their head, train them, see if it sticks, and pray that 10 years later-my work was wise and not wisdumb.

Anyhow let's go through the photo one by one:

WHAT MY FRIENDS THINK I DO: They think I go to school standard 8am-4pm, M-F to teach English grammar/speaking/reading. Correction: I go to school from 2:00pm-3:30 M-Thurs to watch films, play vocabulary word games, and learn the lyrics to "All of The Lights" by Rihanna & Kanye West.
What I want to do: Sit in a circle to talk about what they think their future will look like, what they want to be when they grow up, and how are they going to get there. What they want to do: Practice saying Hello my name is, I was born on, where are you from and why are you here and leave after 40 minutes to go to their 'real' English lesson.

WHAT MY PARENTS THINK I DO: They think I am out shaking hands,kissing babies, fluently securing a taxi ride with my newly mastered Azeri & Russian, reading Cyrillic, building relationships.
Correction: I run from the old women yelling " aye qiz", walk very fast through the park to get to my school, shuffle as quickly as I can through the bazaar and lower my head when the postman announces my arrival at the post office.

What I want to do: Smile and wave without that being misunderstood as flirting, shake hands to both the men and the women, respond without frazzling azeri or russian and be on a xanim named basis (i.e. Malaika Xanim= Miss Malaika).

WHAT THE GOVERNMENT THINKS I DO: Is exactly what I'm doing.
Correction: What the government thinks I am doing is exactly what I am doing including saying the disclaimer after all of my opinions and avoiding all discussions about 9/11.

WHAT THE LOCALS THINK I DO: They think I work at the oil company here, probably from Canada or Nigeria. They think I am the English teacher . They think I am my site-mate Carrie (don't ask me why but I can see how they could get us confused-ya know with her being white and auburn and me being brown and auburn). They think I'm rich with my kindle and my ipod. They think I speak Russian.
Correction: I don't work for the oil company and never knew there was one until someone mentioned it. I am NOT an english teacher (i just haven't gotten a grip on what this culture/country wants me to do exactly so I find myself simply teaching english). I taught the kids the word 'jive' because one day it will be necessary to say 'jive'. I'm not Carrie-but she's my idol. Rich is all relative in my opinion. I WILL speak Azerbaijani & Russian but for right now I just shake my head and bang my hand against it to let people know that it's empty.

WHAT I THOUGHT I WOULD DO: Talk about what the future of Azerbaijan will look like and how can I help them get there.

WHAT I REALLY DO: Talk to myself about what the future of Malaika will look like if I keep eating this bread.

The truth of the matter is, the changes are small but lasting. For every action there is a reaction {yes I hate that this one particular man announces me when I arrive at the post office, but I'm guessing it's synonymous to Cheers episodes and that's a good thing.} My language is coming along and I'm getting it on both ends. Although I can't respond much in azeri or russian, I do know when someone is asking me an important question like my name or where I'm from. So I give myself that much credit-the ability to decipher, decode, and half-way understand. Ok so maybe I'm not talking to the kids about what they want to be when they grow up, well not in the way I initially envisioned, but I did make somewhat of an impression.Not only am I the English teacher, but I am also the English teacher that shamelessly runs. And perhaps I'm not sharing enough about American culture as I should be: ya know, cooking tacos, pda, and all that jazz. But I do get to be me: singing to myself, breaking out the 'soldier boy tellem' in a cayxana, and hi five the kids when they master some phrase. But what is really going is: I am averse to change trying to change a culture who is averse to change that is trying to change me. And for the record-that last picture is incorrect. I do not get to take a bath out of a plastic tube. I've upgraded to the stew pot #poshcorps!

by the way: If you don't know what the Soldia boy tellem is please watch it here "everday i'm shufflin" has nothing on this!:

Now's It's Valentines Day,

2012-02-13T12:30:00.000-08:00

And all I want to do is show some extreme love to the people who have shown me nothing but unconditional love. I have a heap to say about being far away from home-being away from people who i desperately wish I could hug and kiss. Being in a relationship and can't do the jelly roll. Can't send my mom flowers and take my sisters out to dinner. Can't double date with my cousin. Can't surprise my dad with lunch.

well..yea. It sucks!

anyway..enjoy my little video tribute to them...te amo.

29 days of Black History: Part ii. Esperanza Spalding

2012-02-12T11:58:00.000-08:00

Part two of 29 days of Black History will be dedicated to Esperanza Spalding.

Esperanza Spalding

She's a dope bassist hailing from Portland, Oregon. A gifted vocalist and musician, who taught herself violin at the age of 5, has managed to string souls from President Barack Obama to audience members at the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize Ceremony. She makes Black History month because I love how she reincarnates the image of African Americans playing instruments. Esperanza's debut single for 2012 is titled "Black Gold".

Source

29 days of Black History: Part i. Steve Biko

2012-02-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

Back stateside, many people are celebrating Black History Month. A month that honors heros, sheros, game changers and the like for their tireless and often graceful contribution to American Culture. Some would go as far to argue that there would be no American Culture without Black Culture but I'm not promoting a debate. I'm sure you have heard of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. but just like the slave trade wasn't the beginning of African American existence, Dr. King isn't the beginning of self-awareness, activism,eloquence or education. So part one of my mini-dedication to celebrate the many shades of greatness goes to :

Steve Bantu Biko

Steve Bantu Biko. Photo Courtesy of Here

He is the man who coined "Black is Beautiful". Once a medical student, turned founder of the Black Consciousness Movement, Biko is credited for being a champion in the Anti-Apartheid revolution in South Africa. He stretched the philosophy of "I think therefore I am" by planting it in the minds of blacks that one must rid themselves of believing that they are inferior to another race. Hence the slogan Black is Beautiful, an attempt and turning point within the anti-apartheid resistance. This changed the way African Americans saw themselves after many years of being depicted and brainwashed to believe that they are sub-par human. A son of the Eastern Cape, South Africa, Steve Biko died at the hands of police brutality in September of 1977. He was only 32 years young.

Please take a look at this clip where Biko discusses removing racial divide and hierarchy.

Source: Source 1 Source 2

Bucket Bath Bourgeois

2012-01-17T10:47:00.000-08:00

You guessed it! This post is going to be about my bucket bath experiences. I honestly bath about once or twice a week. Why? Because Azerbaijan is the king of water conservation. I mean the next leader in the industry. Why have running water every day when you can save water and have it every OTHER day. Or here is a better one: Why have water every other day when you can just easily have water once a week. I'm telling you!!! You don't know what you're missing. All you androids that have to have a bath every single day are just abusing the situation. Being all soft with your daily baths. WHO NEEDS A BATH? YOU..MR. SOFTEE! soft ass!

You know you don't need to take a bath every day! SOFT ASS!

I had this conversation with myself on my way to the kitchen to heat up a pot holding about a gallon or two of water just enough to baptize myself with. Initially I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing. I remember first arriving and finding out that the shower didn't work in addition to that we got water every other day. I asked my host sister exactly how did we take a bath. She said " fill this pot, and then use that smaller pot and just pour water over yourself." I was like " okay! dig it!" The first time I did it, I ran out of water. My right arm all soapy and my left arm glistening clean. The second time I did it I was dunking my wash clothe in the pot and rinsing dirty soapy water back onto my self. The third time, and this is the charmer here, I got all soapy and just poured the entire pot of water on my front side forgetting my backside. Then my site-mate went away for the holiday and I got the key to her apartment to take as many showers as I wanted (every other day that is).

But I knew I needed to master the bucket bath as much as I mastered the squat toilet. Therefore I googled a couple of videos and learned a couple of tricks.

1. the water in the pot is for rinsing only.-Don't double dip-
2. Wash what's most likely to get funky first
3. Get in and get out before you have a WHY THE HECK AM I DOING THIS moment.

I treat my bucket baths like glorious body libations. I use Dove and spray myself with the latest perfume concoction from Bath and Body Works or creme from Lush when finished. I don't harbor on the fact that I'm not being hit with hard drops from a 'choose your mood' shower nozzle. I'm fine. I get the job done and don't skip a beat. These are the cards that I've been dealt and I'm going to play this hand like I got a full set-even if I don't. I bet you're curious as to how I wash my hair---HA HA HA! WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW. Let's just say I've got 99 problems but my hair ain't one. OW!

How I deal with being Black in Azerbaijan: THE TAO

2012-01-03T02:50:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: This post is going to be a rather dry read as I drop a little bit of knowledge that may put you to sleep. Feel free to exit at anytime.

From the moment I received my invitation until now, I have not lived a single day where the color of my skin wasn't at the forefront of discussion. I remember the placement officer telling me that Peace Corps wanted to expand the presence of more minorities in Eastern Europe. Then I got my invitation and cried my eyes out. I remember arriving to Baku, Azerbaijan attending orientation after orientation with other Americans, and some of the hotel staff inquired about where I was from or if I was indeed African.

I can testify to the fact that I have been called Nigger, Obama, Chocolate, Qara Qara (complete with giggles), Carib, Republiska Dominica, Cameroon, Booga Booga Booga (this is a sound effect not so much a name) and last but not least Africa. I've responded in different ways. Sometimes I pull out my phone and pretend I'm talking to someone so that people hear that I speak English (this is called going into imperialist mode). Sometimes I turn around and in plain Azerbaijani say Qara?! Bəli amma Mən Amerikalyəm (Black?! Yes, but I am American) (this is called pity for ignorance mode). On a few occasions I scurry off somewhere to cry, internalizing the name calling/finger pointing/gawking/giggling succumbing to feel rather inadequate (this is called breakdown mode).

Yet more often than not I do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because it happens so frequently that crying, or speaking to my imaginary friend in English on the phone, or having a 'teachable' moment just isn't worth the energy in many cases.

Mastering yourself is true power ~The Tao

I know part of my job is to share American culture with Azerbaijani's and vice versa. I think when I walk down the street, I am sharing my American culture. Yes I am indeed black. I have a complicated history that dates back to the slave trade which is how I got to America in the first place. Europeans have destroyed any direct link to my ancestry which by almost any standard is on par with one of the greatest tragedies on earth. That's not even up for argument. You'll have to swallow that pill my friend. I will never be able to tell my grandchildren exactly what part of Africa they are connected to and I believe that's why I experience angst.

Azerbaijanis want to place me on a map. They so desperately want to figure out from where did I come. Yes, they understand that I am American but before that where? Sadly I cannot tell them. I'm sure many people cannot tell them ( I think of volunteers that have been adopted). So should I go through an entire schpill about the slave trade? Maybe but then I don't want to further any other mis-education because African culture definitely did not start with the slave trade. There was something else that happened before slavery that I'm more akin to.

When Azerbaijani's come up to me with all that courageous university English and say " You're from Cameroon right?" I blink a couple of times, swallow that plum pit in my throat and say " uhm, yea! Yea! I'm from Cameroon." And then I give a nod to all Cameroons when they say " You're studying in our University-here in Baku? Right?!" " No, no, I already have an education. Thank you. Sagol!"

The master has no mind of her own. She works with the mind of the people.~ The Tao

I really submit to these situations no matter how hurtful or childish they seem. I know that the culture is young and fighting stagnation. I know I am an interesting specimen never before seen in real life to many people which is why I get the reaction that I get. All I have to do is simply be my brown self. I don't have to tout around some American flag or speak English or explain much of anything to anyone. I can just show up, stand still and that's when it happens. The wheels will start turning in peoples minds. They will be moved to point, they will be moved to make nonsensical comments, they will be moved to inquire and I will have to do nothing but show up. They will go tell their neighbors, their wives, their cats and dogs, they will run to the grocery stores and all the Xanims (THE MISSES) will flood out into the streets to see me. They will be moved and all I have to do is just show up. I don't have to break out in song or dance, dribble a basketball, rap, wear my hair curly or straight, wreck my neck-none of that. I just have to show up. The skin that I'm in is moving people. They wont forget me and when I'm gone they will wonder. They will be tickled to say to themselves and their friends "See, Azerbaijan has black people. I saw one just the other day."

The Tao never does anything, yet through it all things are done~ The Tao

Albeit it's not all hurtful or rude or obnoxious. There are occasions where

being black has welcomed a cool effect (only naturally right). Azeris

will find any way to relate to you, either by saying they have a cousin the

same skin tone as me and they think it's qesheng or that they love Akon.

I will pass men on the street and you'd think they were having a heart attack,

the way they hold their hands to their chest only able to utter 'Oh My God'.

I think they should leave the chest attack to Red Foxx.

It's one of the greatest compliments a girl can receive. I was never able to do that in

the states. I mean I got my fair share of glances but I could never stop traffic.

Here-I STOP TRAFFIC and I don't have to doll  myself up in order to do it.

I don't have to wear not one ounce of lipstick, show a line of cleavage, wear heels

as high as a kite or drown my eyes in liner. I'm still qesheng (absolutely deliciously beautiful).

The mark of a moderate man is freedom from his own ideas~The Tao

Finally the racism I've experienced here goes back to a very pure truth: occupation, isolation, poor information and recycled memorization. It's complicated. I'm in a world where the people are walking the line of independence but they are not truly free. Nothing is truly free. Even the earth belongs in an orbit. But I am an agent (and merely an agent) of change. I believe in the Tao (along with other instruments of wisdom) and I do the best I can by following it. Because I strive to embody the Tao, I am a replica of it hence encouraging, through my actions or lack there of, other people to follow the Tao as well. Azerbaijanis too follow the Tao. They just don't know it-yet.

Let the Tao be present in your country and your country will be an example to other countries~The Tao.

Hello New Year!!?? Why didn't you call me before arriving?

2012-01-02T11:13:00.000-08:00

2012 arrived and I wasn't even prepared. I just woke up and BAM..I'm in January. I mean didn't I just land in the airport in Philadelphia while myself and fellow PCV Annie scrambled for a taxi shuttle like..yesterday? What is happening with father time? Is there a fire? What's the rush for?

IF YOU'LL EXCUSE ME BUT I JUST GOT HERE!

Those are the anxieties that I'm feeling: the beginning of the end. Well the holidays have come and gone with Christmas being permanently fond and New Years being unforgettable (there is emphasis on unforgettable. Tell me-when was the last time you saw a straight line and a crooked line tongue fight?) and I'm super glad to have gotten it over with. But now what? Conversation Clubs? Sleep? Super Duper Summer Camp? I guess I could. After checking in with other volunteers about their progress at site, it seems to me that I'm suppose to be doing conversations clubs. Conversation Clubs: gather together 5 or 6 students, play some games, open up their minds, practice a little English, practice a little Azerbaijani, answer some strange questions and get home in time for çay (tea).

Because I'm placed at a school, I've offered my time Monday's through Thursdays at 2pm for an hour and some change starting this month. I'm going to hang around and wait for students to show up. Keep your fingers and toes crossed. I'm too shy to stand on a corner and pass out flyers marketing experiments club or movie club or beginners English club
I think I'm just amazed at how fast everything is going and it makes me slightly nervous as the nights turn into days. I know I have so much time ahead of me, but my mind is whizzing around my possible future. I try to block out thoughts about which country I want to settle in, what to do with my house, how that foreign service exam seems so daunting to take AGAIN and if I want to entertain graduate school. But I can't help it. I'm already shopping for my future life. I saw a sofa I wanted from Cost Plus World Market.

STOP IT!

That's what I want to tell the internal/eternal clock. Time won't be waiting for me. It will just click on and on until I submit to it's clack groove. I can beg but will be ignored. It's 2012 and that's final! Next thing you'll know I'll be saying-WAIT A MINUTE! WASN'T I JUST BRINGING IN THE NEW YEAR WITH A BAILEYS IN ONE HAND BLOWING CONFETTI OUT OF MY EARS TELLING SOME AZERIS THAT THEY ARE ALL OLMAZ?

Ahh-Happy New Year (Yeni Iliniz Mubarek). You know I want nothing but good for you, and you, and ESPECIALLY YOU!

I turned 30

2011-12-26T10:57:00.000-08:00

And officially joined another club.

Christmas is in your mind!

2011-12-24T15:47:00.000-08:00

It's my first essential holiday away from home (Thanksgiving wasn't much of a big deal) and I'm approaching it from the perspective of wishing I was at home, but content with myself that I'm not. I got an invitation from other Peace Corps Volunteers who will be celebrating Christmas in a location about 2 hours or so away from me in an area called Massali but I declined, instead accepting an invitation from my host family. Now keep in mind, Azerbaijan technically is a Muslim country and the celebration of Christmas is not on their 'to do' list. So for my host family to ask me to have Christmas with them was a real step in the direction of : "We know you are away from your family and we will do what we can to make this holiday as normal for you as possible." I think I really appreciated that and opted not to spend Christmas with other Americans.

However it is feeling very "holidayish" here in Sirvan with Christmas Trees and Santa Clauses--oops..I'm sorry I didn't explain something.

Ok-Azerbaijan is a muslim country #FACT. Azerbaijan was also occupied (or insert whatever politically correct word you'd like) by Russia. With that, Russians brought their traditions and their language and whatever #FACT. As far as holidays are concerned, Azerbaijan inherited and eventually signed onto celebrating the new year (yeni il) with Russian Christmassy themes. So in my house there is indeed a Christmas Tree (aka YULKA, the Russian word). On the street, men are starting to dress up like Santa Clause (Chaka Khan Baba or Babam Shockem or Rock'em Sock'em Bababem...ahh screw it) and huge Christmas trees are being hauled in from God knows where. It's all very festive and misleading to the average American such as myself. But Azerbaijan does not celebrate Christmas. #FACT.

So the hubbub and eggnog is really about celebrating the New Year. And for me, it's about tricking my senses into thinking it's one holiday when it really isn't. Hence my coping mechanism has been to ignore it. Super hard to do when your host mom wants you to give her the recipe for apple pie, Christmas cookies, and whatever else I'd normally eat on the 25th of December. I wanted to say, well..that's not how we celebrate Christmas. We celebrate it by camping out at Best Buy at 3am, each of us equipped with a few hundred bucks to our name and figuring out which of us knows how to spend it properly. Whoever saves the most money is the winner! Then we go home, eat a bowl of cereal and watch A Christmas Story over and over until my mom orders us to take the greens off the stove or the stuffing out of the oven. How's that for sharing American culture?

Greens. YUM!

I too stare at Jim Henson Muppets

Christmas diorama

In any event it is Christmas here in Şirvandom and I've greeted it with a smile. My host siblings and I did a Christmas diorama and watched Charlie Brown Christmas. That was followed up by How the Grinch Stole Christmas and Muppets Take Manhattan for good measure. I'm saving a Christmas Story for my own personal pleasure because some things you just can't share, like nostalgic feelings. Do I miss home? Like a hand misses it's thumb, I do. I'm not use to this. I'm very close to my family and distance is no consolation prize.Skype can only do so much. Christmas cookies and apple pie can only do so much. You can't beat the feeling of being home for the holiday. However myself and Shaft Babam ( you know..Santy Clause) have a bigger gift to give and I've only got 2 years to do it sugar plum! I do have one wish: please ask God to take away this tire that is forming in my midsection. I just don't have the courage or the clothing to gain any more weight. Curse you delicious fresh bread without plastic and colored twisty ties and no preservatives unnecessarily making your way from the basket to my mouth with every single meal!

Banka you very much

2011-12-16T11:50:00.000-08:00

I picked up someone’s nasty little germ, causing me to lose sleep and shutting down my natural breathing passage through my nose. I left work early on Thursday with a terrible headache and wanted to blame it on the Birthday song that the 2^nd graders sung for me at a decibel somewhere close to ear ache. Huge powerful voices belting from itsy bitsy spider sized bodies. I came home, climbed into bed with my work clothes and tried to turn down the soup my host mother made for me. Let me note that when I came to Shirvan, I instantly went vegetarian. No chicken and no fish either. The kids find this hilarious and even at the mere age of 12 they are ‘’worried’’. But my point is, this has not put a damper on my host mom's ability to feed me. She just whips up some potatoes, black eyed peas (hello somebody), carrots and seasoning while I float into the kitchen at the aroma with my mouth all ready to eat. Tangent moment: We cooked lentil soup to the sounds of Drake. It was very comforting indeed.

Anyhow I am without a doubt in my mind under the weather (my host dad is learning this phrase). I tossed and turned and drooled on myelf. I took my temperature and it read 101.2. Konul (my host mom) kept coming in with her serenity and just looked exasperated. "What can I do?" she said. "Nothing. I'm just going to sleep. May I have some water?" with that gross eggy face of mine I uttered these words.

Day 2,I'm leaving a soaked dent in my sleeping bag with my mind buzzing that I need to get to the Irex. I need to show my face so that people in the community know who I am. I need to meet with these University girls to whom I promised I would attend their lexicon class with. I need, I need, I need to get myself back in the bed before I lose it on Konul's carpet. And that's what I did. More sleeping, another bowl of soup and a second temperature reading. Still hoovering around 101, I decide to take an Ibuprofen. Konul decides that I should lay on my stomach while she performs 'banka'. Am I getting this correct? ??Banka?? Is it going to hurt? Is it going to make me feel better? She doesn't promise me anything but says it's worth a try. I refuse. I've seen those disguisting pictures of peoples backs and body parts looking deformed all sucked up in those glass jars.

Konul comes back an hour or so later to ask me again. I give in because I know she has a need to show me that she really does care and seeing me sloth around in my own sweat and drool is just not going to fly with her. Laid on my stomach she places these plastic tubes on my back and starts to suck my skin through. I'm breathing because it's not exactly pain free. She gives me 10minutes and comes back. Now I must coverup which I will go back to do right after this post. Do you remember those commercials selling these pads that you put on the bottom of your feet and all the toxins would come out that way? LOL Alternative medicine, I am bewildered. The little tubes are off and I'm still a bit sick but atleast I can say that what LA'rs have done for $1000 at the spa, I got for free with a TLC warranty.

Editors note: this process is called cupping, but Konul does not call it that. She said and what i heard was Banka and that's what I am going to stick to. Also, I have a picture of this, but I'm showing a bit more skin than allowable. If you'd like to see it, please send me an email.

Love at First Site!

2011-12-16T10:54:00.000-08:00

Swearing in is over and I was swiftly escorted away to my second host family. Myself and my sitemate Liz arrived to Şirvan (pronounced Shirvan, formally Əli Bayram) safe and sound. Of course this did not go without acts of deliberate kindness. The driver insisted on making a stop at the fruit stand on the highway to give us 4 bags per person of fruit. 1 bag of apples, 1 bag of Quince (or like an apple and maybe* a pear got it crackin and produced a Quince), 1 bag of pomegranates and finally 1 bag of Heyva that looks like a tomato but soft, delicate, and bruises easily .
We spent the hour long drive communicating in AzeriEnglish. I learned the driver lost his wife in a car accident. I learned that he may or may no be a single father to daughters and I learned that money doesn't mean anything to him (as he profusely turned down the 60 manat me and Liz insisted on paying him). He brought us down in a BMW and I proposed he drive slowly for the sake of savoring the moment.

No sooner after we pulled through the "Welcome to Şirvan" arch, my host father met us. This is how I knew things would be different. We lugged all of my baggage to the 3rd floor of the apartment and I got to meet my second host family. My host mom Konul, a short powerhouse figure who values education. She speaks Azerbaijani, Russian and English-never the twain shall meet. My host father's name is Hafiz, a poppa bear type with smile lines around his eyes. He too speaks Azerbaijani, Russian and English. Then I have two siblings: Fidan & Nijat. Fidan who is 12, is a tall, clever, and ambitious girl. Concerned about her future in life way sooner than I ever was. Nijat is a squeaky little mouse and weighing not much more than that. This is a stark contrast from what I experienced in Training.

It's quiet for one. I would have gone on thinking that all Azerbaijanis shout and scream and tramp through the house. Maybe that's true but in this house it's all about the art of silence.

I have 2 additional sitemates-Carrie and Jarrett. Want to hear something funny? My parents and I skyped Carrie before I came to Azerbaijan. Talk about there being no such thing as coincidences. She's so much fun as any classically trained artist would be. A breath of fresh air if I can put it plainly. Jarrett is equally as fascinating. He's a deliberate mathematician, easy to get along with-easy to be around.

Now lets talk about the school I work with. It goes from 1st to 11th form (that's 1st grade to 11th grade) and there is no separation. The school is huge might I add, composing of 3 or 4 floors.
The children can be a bit overwhelming and I suppose it's only natural-ya know..with me being a celebrity and all. I jest. It's hard. I haven't found my 'child groove'. I just stare at them trying to figure out what to say and how to meet them where they are. It's not that I forgot what being a child was like, for anyone who knows me knows I hardly act my own age, but it takes me a minute to warm up to them. Some people have a knack for being around kids. I have a knack for avoiding them at all costs. My first week at the school was a huge overdose of noise, poking, reaching to speak to me. I shuddered-wanting to find a place to hide. I tried to smile and be warm but that just seemed to make things worse. I did a round of classroom observation and that was a rude awakening. Not really prepared for the entire class to stand up upon entering and corporal punishment is alive and thriving. I talked to my mother about this and she questioned: "What's the crime rate there?" I said " Practically zero mom." She responded " Well then! There you go. An ounce of discipline..." We know the rest. The Director at the school had an assembly to introduce me and said something to the effect of-Malaika is our guest, treat her as one or you will have to deal with me. Yaxsi?

If you're getting from this that I'm happy and adjusting then you've read correctly. It was my first successful week and I'm already daydreaming about science fairs and dioramas. Somebody stop me!

Finally-A Real Peace Corps Volunteer

2011-12-10T02:46:00.000-08:00

U.S. Ambassador Bryza, Dept Minister of Ed, Deputy Minister of Youth & Sport, Dept Minister of Economic Development

Jeanette & Annette-Official PCVS

Myself & David

Andrew singing both American & Azerbaijani National Anthem

Taking the Oath to serve

Ambassador Bryza, Press

Peace Corps Volunteer Stephen, Eric, William, Andrew & Annie

The Friendship Flag between America & Azerbaijan

Peace Corps Volunteer Marcia

I am honored to become a Peace Corps Volunteer, Azerbaijan Group 9

Almost Finally!

2011-12-08T03:39:00.001-08:00

I’m up at that odd reflective hour better known as 3 am. This has not been the first time I’ve woken up at this hour-feeling like God is summoning me to address some physiological issue (let’s say it’s a full bladder). I’m coming to the end of pre-service training which means that in 24hours from now I will be sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer. I’ve not had much time to reflect on what this training meant to me other than the fact that it was difficult. I never felt so much internal pressure in my life that tended to manifest itself in me turning into a reclusive, hyper-sensitive, overly contemplative person. There are shots of memory where people warn me along the way that the hardest part of the service was the training. It was the learning of a completely new language, bursting your idealism bubble, cozying up with cynics, disturbing your bowel movements, laughing to keep from crying and blinking to make sure you are still in fact human and not some sideshow.

Well I am human-batteries not included. I really want to be proud of myself that I kept the flying off the handle behavior to a single hand minimum. I want to pat myself on the back when someone asked me if I was okay and I smiled at them saying yes instead of being honest. I wish I had done this a bit more gracefully, tactfully, and responsibly. I wish I found a compartment for the brain chatter or a box I could whisper all my discontents into. I don’t like negative energy. It makes me (and has made me) sick-literally. This training process seemed to bring out some of the best and worst in people. You really find out who is who and while I don’t want to leave it that way, it’s hard not to.

I am very happy that this training is over. I never felt like I could attach myself to something-instead living out of my suitcase like a vagabond. I had a hard time getting comfortable. Something many of us struggled with as we redefined ourselves in this country as representatives from the United States. I am glad to get to my site to which I have learned there is a whole new energy. A brand new perspective from people who’ve got a decent grip of where they are and who they are. I just have my fingers crossed that I am a bit hastier towards making friendships instead of shying away for fear of ridicule and misunderstandings. I’m counting on resurrecting my own voice with conscience not to offend someone or annoy someone or hurt someone. I hope I have more courage and self confidence than what I’ve displayed. I hope I can find some sort of peace. The kind of peace that is so strong it will quiet the calls of 3am, silence any self-deprecating voice, disband/unarm foes with foul interests, shut up the Hello Hello Hello, hang a ‘do not disturb ‘sign on my aura, and stay with me like my shadow-permanent.

Just as sure as you are reading this blog,I know God is listening.

Only In Azerbaijan

2011-11-27T00:13:00.000-08:00

I had lost my phone twice. The first time I lost my pone, I was getting off a bus and saw a small puppy that appeared to be caught in a bar. Being the super-shero that I am, I thought it was a bright idea to rescue it. Somewhere between exiting the bus and the puppy, my phone disappeared. The second time I lost my phone, I was headed to the Beloved Burgerland to use their Beloved Free wifi & eat their Beloved French Fries. Upon getting off the bus, I checked my pockets for my phone and it was gone. So was the bus for that matter. I stood on the side of the street contemplating how in the world I could lose my phone once again! Shaking my head in utter frustration I just started to cry. In between catching my breath I was suddenly surrounded by concerned older men who were turning and twisting their heads trying to figure out what happened to me. I babbled broken Azerbaijani explaining that I had lost my telephone using the words/phrases: TELEFONE AVTOBUSLA(the phone is with the bus), BILMIREM YENNI (I don’t know the number because it’s new), TELEFONE DOVLET( this is a government phone and I really need it), BILMIREM, BILMIREM (I’m crying because I can’t explain myself in your language and it’s really a shame because I’ve been here for 3 months but can’t put together a coherent sentence). I’m huffing and puffing and blowing houses down and these super kind men tell me that it will be okay-they will get the police. THE POLICE??? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO PLEASE DON’T CALL THE POLICE (I heard the word police and protested). Well I’m drawing a crowd now: COME ONE, COME ALL! Step right up! Step right up!-Brown girl crying a river. She’s rambling and stuttering. It’ll only cost you 25 cents to see her! If it’s one thing Azerbaijani’s don’t like to see its people overly expressing their emotions. Drives them wild. Everything must be done with grace and discretion in public. Again I wasn’t solely crying because I lost my phone. I was also crying because I couldn’t explain myself. Nothing was coming together in my head. I was mixing up Spanish words for Azerbaijani words and English words with English words, ultimately drawing complete blanks.

No sooner after that, 2 university kids walked up and introduced themselves in English. They assisted me in catching the same bus and explained to the driver that I had lost my phone. That driver called another bus driver to ask him to search for my phone on his bus. The same 2 kids walked me home, because at this point it was getting late and no longer worth the trouble, and explained to my host mom what happened.

Now the Universe (please insert God here) was truly on my side. I mean there are several things that happen in Azerbaijan that would never happen in America. If you lose your phone in America-you’re out of luck homie. You just strut right over to your nearest phone store and toss over 883 more dollars; then another $25 a month for insurance and leave it on the nightstand. In Azerbaijan, if you lose your ANYTHING and 1 person knows about it, then please believe the news will travel faster than a speeding bullet. While I was looking for my phone, my phone was looking for me. My Guy had been calling my number and some man was answering. They couldn’t talk to each other let alone comprehend one another, but something about concern and urgency translated. That same man called a familiar and common Azerbaijani name in my phone to inform him that he was in possession of a phone that belonged to someone, just not sure who. That man that he called, was super important-so Super Important called my host mom to tell my host mom that my phone had been found and would be returned to me the next day. CHALLENGE: IF YOU CAN THINK OF ANY OTHER PLACE IN THE WORLD WHERE SOMETHING LIKE THAT WOULD EVER HAPPEN-LET ME KNOW. IF NOT-TAKE A LOOK AT THIS PRETTY DEAD BIRD I SAW ON MY WALK HOME.

3rd World WHAAAAAAAT????????

2011-11-20T02:06:00.000-08:00

Lights,

Camera

Action

A university

Oh yea..H&M STORES, MCDONALD'S, WOMEN SMOKING IN PUBLIC, SIDEWALKS, TAXIS, ELEVATORS, COFFEE, WIFI HOT SPOTS, THE HYATT HOTEL, BEGGARS, -YOU KNOW..STUFF THAT MAKES A PLACE "MODERN".

Enjoy the pictures. It was the best I could do without drawing even more attention to myself. Outside of having a claustrophobic anxiety attack on the train which caused a raucous, I had a pretty chill ass time.

Wicked Grave Site

I'd say this is a good description of what it's like here.

DISCOTECA

ONE DREAM AT A TIME: The one and only CounterPart Conference

2011-11-20T01:39:00.001-08:00

ONE DREAM AT A TIME: The one and only CounterPart Conference: After Peace Corps volunteers get placed at their site, Peace Corps hosts a counterpart conference. Essentially it's the first stage in relat...

The one and only CounterPart Conference

2011-11-20T01:39:00.000-08:00

After Peace Corps volunteers get placed at their site, Peace Corps hosts a counterpart conference. Essentially it's the first stage in relationship building, finding out about your organization, and exchange some ideas on what to expect/look forward to. There were roughly 20 of us being hosted by the super chic (by Saray's standards) hotel called Neapol. This place was NIIIICCEEEEE in comparison to where I stayed during orientation week. Such a gem of a hotel that would utterly go undiscovered because of the highway leading up to it which just blows!

Anyhow members and directors of organizations got a chance to meet it's future volunteers for the first time. Some organization had never had a Peace Corps volunteers and others weren't new to the game. It was a day we had all been anticipating because this is the gateway to some insight into who you will be working with. The counterpart is like the liaison between you and the rest of Azerbaijan. In a culture where word of mouth is the preferred mode of communication you can quite literally find out all you need to know about your site just by talking to your counterpart. If you are successful with this relationship then a whole other world will open to you. Not only about your site, but important people in the community, where to shop, where to eat, how to find the best people to carry out a project, and AND..when the time comes-independent housing. Since we will be going into new host families, the counterpart will help you navigate that as well. But then there is a small small possibility that the counterpart will only be there in the physical and not in spirit. Just showing their face and leaving you to fend for yourself.

Anyhow, everyone got to meet this special person and it was like watching people on blind dates. Some had instant chemistry, chatting up a storm, smiling, connecting. A few looked like they were struggling, stale air filling up the space between them. I thought it was quite interesting.

I found 1 reason to smile-PACKAGES

I did not have a counterpart. Mine didn't come. Oh well( in the words of my Program Manager)---I got packages though: THANK YOU MOM/DAD and KIMBIE!

Malaika 1, Bloody Chicken 0

2011-11-17T03:31:00.000-08:00

As in any household there are bound to be disagreements. And the honeymoon period between me and my host family is quickly approaching an end. I would call this three month period similar to dating. Once 90 days are up-you know whether you want to move forward or not. I’m ready to move on. I would say that it does offer some comfort knowing that I’m going to a different family for another 3-4 month dancing duel. This evening my host mom tried to convince me that the chicken with blood oozing out of it was in fact good. I shook my head in dissention-stabbed my fork in a drum leg (right..i only eat white meat but I left that behind when I signed up for the peace corps) and bubbles of blood burst out. Now I don’t mean gushing-I simply mean it rose to the surface as I put my fork in the meat. One of the biggest hurdles for many volunteers is being in control of their own food. If nothing else, when your day is organized from sun up to sun down, the only thing left for a trainee/volunteer to feel like they can manage is what they put in their mouth. But with language skills being low and reserving your adamant rejection for another time in service-even the comforting power over food is swiftly yanked. I’m not as big on Azerbaijani cuisine as some of the other trainees. I can appreciate it, but don’t wake up eager to eat it. There is also the hurdle of not eating red meat which is practically a staple in this cultures diet (as with almost any culture I know). So my host family was kind enough to provide me with chicken and I thank them for it. However (this is a BIG BIG HOWEVER) I will not eat chicken that is uncooked. Now I rarely utter 2 words when I notice my host mom’s dirty black finger tips picking up food and placing it on my plate. I eat it with a smile. I don’t blink twice when I watch her rinse off forks fresh from any one’s mouth in the sink of lukewarm water with no soap, carelessly throwing it in the drawer. (Side note: when she leaves, I rush and wash it with dish liquid and a clean sponge I hid in my room). I throw caution to the wind when I eat her Borish/Borsch or whatever it’s called, soup as she swears up the wall that it doesn’t have meat in it. All the while-every other bite I’m spitting out chewed beef or lamb or cat (there are so many cats here, I wouldn’t be surprised) into my napkin; swallowing all potential grudges for blatantly lying to me. So when she tried to make me eat bloody chicken, raising her voice ever so slightly, because to her, I’m an unreal movie and she just has to have sound effects, I simply got up from the table and walked back into my room. I left her there with the chicken that she campaigned as good and sat on my bed counting the many times I had been a little too nice. A little too passive. There was one time she walked in on me while I was using the bathroom to ask me if I wanted tea. There was another time she burst in my room when I was getting dressed to press me about whether I wanted to have a piece of bread or not (yes, bread is so sacred that it is even placed higher than the naked holy temple). There was another time she was talking so fast that she burped out her sentence. An excuse me did not follow. I went after that burp, stopped it and asked if it had seen ‘excuse me’. The burp told me, that it had never heard of such a thing as an ‘excuse me’. I’ve watched her cough all over food. I’ve watched her come out of the bathroom hands unwashed. These things-these things that cause strep throat, colds, flu like symptoms, stress, earaches, the runs, weight loss, and salmonella related deaths are not to be taken likely. The bloody chicken was the last straw for me and I could have cared less that she raised her voice full of defense, illogical defense at that. I wasn’t trying to hurt her feelings but I look at it this way, I’d rather her be sad and offended for one night versus me being grossly, unforgettably sick all because this one time I wasn’t the all too appeasing reformed American. For dinner I had a Kashi granola bar and some tea. After this post I am heading to bed satisfied.

The Emmy's?! I MEAN Site Announcements

2011-11-10T23:09:00.000-08:00

Well that’s how it felt. It felt like I was at a small award ceremony where some people got Emmy’s and others just got a consolation prize. What did I get? Yet to be determined honestly. I’m going to a place called Shirvan which is supposedly 1.5 or 2 hours outside of Baku, the capital. It’s a town area with oil and gas fields and 7km above sea level. The population is about 80,000-which is big enough to not matter, but small enough to sense that you belong. I’ve read that Shirvan is dry flat land and I can get spinach year round. I honestly couldn’t tell you much more than that. We were all gathered in a classroom when Peace Corps explained the difficult process it was for them to play ‘matchmaker’ when it came to placing volunteers. Then there was a drum roll to which one by one or 2 by 2, people shot up to a huge Azerbaijani map and pinned their photos on their destined location. When it came to me, I could barely hear. There was so much high-fivin’ and yippeeing going on that I almost missed where I was going. What I didn’t hear was where I thought I said I wanted to go and that place was Mingechevir. I wasn’t going to Mingechevir but someone else was which left me feeling a bit inadequate. Especially when my hope bubble burst upon hearing prior to this that a volunteer in Mingechevir was highly unlikely. Speaking of bubble’s bursting, I wasn’t the only one that felt a little deflated. You could see it through all the many fake smiles that people were clapping their hands and cheering for show and show only. As the hour winded down, it became apparent that quite a few people were truly upset. I saw a couple of red eyes and one trainee declared that she wanted to quit. I on the other hand had mixed feelings-feelings that I would not make clear to anyone except to say that I was happy, you know-that good old saving face deal. But underneath, I was a bit disappointed. I thought back to my site interview and replayed what I had said trying to match up what was given to me. I asked to be placed to work with college aged youth, but was assigned to a middle school? I could have sworn I said that human rights was the underlying reason as to why I was here. I haven’t figured out the link between that and a library. And finally, I asked to be placed in a larger city-to which maybe that is the case, but maybe not. Many side conversations were conducted in this manner. I tried not to listen or participate. I consoled a volunteer who was downright mad; sensing that Peace Corps had essentially punished her by sending her to a particular region that she adamantly said she did not want to be in. I grabbed her hand and told her that it may be so much better than what she’s thinking. I encouraged her to wait until she got there before she jumped to any final conclusions. I explained that she has so much experience (which she does! She’s worked for a Poet Laureate for Christ sakes!), and she may be a standout volunteer as opposed to someone else who is likely to be sucked up and drowned out by a larger location. Maybe her site was for the strong only and that in itself was a compliment. She can set her own bar, create her own standards and if need be, get away to visit me. Hell-I’m only 1.5 hours away from Baku. I was holding her hand, but really talking to myself. I’m still talking to myself. Perhaps when I am done mumbling, I will go back and read the agreement I made with the Peace Corps. Then get to my site and read it again, just in case…

I leave for Shirvan on December 9^th and this is where I will spend the next two years of my life.

There is one lesson I learned, don’t let everyone and their mother know your plans. Keep some things to yourself. Peace Corps is teaching me how to be vague.

Super Day to Receive

2011-11-10T23:01:00.000-08:00

This is my HAPPY FACE w/Eye Twinkle!

On November 9th I got my first package.. Now I wouldn’t normally dedicate a mini blog to such things but this is my first package. I was utterly elated. During Hub Day ( a Hub Day is when all the trainees/volunteers get together to have forums about expectations, health protocol, safety, etc) , I went out to get lunch-lentil soup w/lemon and rice. Arriving back, satisfied and content, someone called to alert me that there was a big box with my name on it. It was from My Guy! I would divulge the contents of this package-but you’d probably end up with a cavity if I told you. But check out the smile on my face (brought to you by Twizzlers and Rice Krispy Treats)

I’m really blessed. Not because someone sent me something that I wanted -but because God sent someone to me that I needed. Just thought I’d put out there a note of appreciation.

Can you see in the dark?

2011-11-10T22:48:00.001-08:00

The weather has been downright lousy lately. With all the rain, the mud, cold and wind has left me somewhere in zone miserable. Yet of course, every moment is an opportunity to acknowledge your frustration and shift your mood into a more happier space. Last night the electricity went out which doubled my pain because I had just escaped muddy snow and temperatures that I’m not use to—well in a while that is. So after language class I rushed home desperately wanting to get into my sleeping bag which is underneath the bigger browner monster-er sleeping bag issued by the Peace Corps. My host family’s home is mostly electric. They do have gas, but don’t seem to turn it on unless it’s a frozen emergency. I deal. I wear extra socks and say to myself-winter will be short, winter will be short. It was maybe 6pm when my mind and I agreed that we would sleep through the night. I mean I’m not really tired but if I can sleep through the evening then I’ll make it to a brand new day. My brain reneged and I woke up at 11something or so. Electricity still out, room still feeling like somebody’s worst nightmare of Alaska and I’m still convincing myself that this is what I agreed to do. I figured I could either sit here watching my breath fog up my glasses or I could get blood to my toes by walking around. My host mom was up as any other neurotic Azerbaijani woman and she proposed that this was the hour to eat plov and have tea. I obliged. She allowed me to heat up my own plov, which is rare by the way, and the evening seemingly turned from THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE to a dinner by candlelight. I had my first real conversation with my host parents. Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’ve never spoken to them but these days any free time I’ve had has been dedicated to homework and sleep. I was sitting at one end of a small table, eating some savory mixture of rice, apricots, raisins and chicken when I took time to say: Men getmek istemirem. This literally means “I don’t want to go”. My host mom, who was directly at the other end of the table, raised her head and said “ Burda yackshi? Ah sagol sagol!” Basically she was asking me if I liked where I was staying and I had admitted begrudgingly that yea-I actually did. My host father was standing over me eating a pomegranate of a different color when he decided to ask if I thought they, as host parents, where good or bad (yackshi or pish). I laughed. I wanted to say “Well your wife rattles me a bit with her switching from Russian to Azerbaijani and back; and I find your smoking a gross habit. Do you think I could take a break from tea? By the way-how come I never see the grandmother? Are you guys hiding me from her? Oh and I know you don’t like it, but I do wash the dishes. Why? Because I don’t think your wife is washing the dishes. Sorry if you find this disrespectful, but I find diarrhea disrespectful.” Instead, I simply nodded my head and said “beli! Yackshi”! Everyone got comfortable and they both started asking me questions. I was getting hit from the north : Did you attend a University? What do your parents do? How old are your parents? Hit from the south: Do you like Azerbaijan? Are you going to get married? What did you get your degree in? Hit from the west: You really like pomegranates don’t you? Why did you buy dish washing liquid? How old are you? Finally hit from the east: It’s cold here huh? Do you want to live somewhere else? Azerbaijani’s are nice. Don’t you agree? Why don’t you eat some more plov?!

Of course all of this is being done in a completely different language. I don’t want to say I understand because what I’m really doing is listening to the words, watching their hand gestures and making up the English version in my head. To which I think I’m answering appropriately. Now I was able to get across to them that my real mom is also just as fussy and although I got my degree in business, I did not work at a bank and I am in fact 29 and not 23 like some initially assume (they fessed up after I told them my birthday). Then they both asked me what did I think of some of the neighbors. I mean-what was my honest impression of them. Let me advise you that where I live, it’s not abnormal to find the entire family tree on the same street/block. In fact the neighbors are my ‘host aunt/uncle’ and two doors down from them is a ‘great uncle’ on my host mother’s side. But there is one particular woman who isn’t exactly a part of the family by blood but she’s still somebody’s –SOMEBODY. My limited interaction with her had been interesting. When she first saw me, she called me Malaika Geshang or Pretty Malaika. The next time I saw her she wanted to know if I thought if she was black like me. And finally the next time I saw her she was hanging out on her steps asking me where I’ve been and where I was going. Time after time of being around her, I never felt good. I avoid her as much as possible even though she’s been nothing but pleasant to me. It’s just one of those red flag feelings. Anyway, they pressed to ask me what I thought of the people in the neighborhood (none of whom I truly know). Now this question could have been a set up but since I have one month here, I saw no harm in being candid. I confirmed once again that I thought they were splendiferous! Couldn’t confirm much about the aunt or uncle but figured they must be kind and I thought the grandmother was a piece of cake. I looked at my host mom and made a shape of the heart with my hand, pointing to my eyes and giving her the thumbs up. I was telling her-in my limited Azerbaijani-that I knew she has a good heart and so does her husband. Then I said some for people, I couldn’t see their heart so I didn’t know. Then there are some people who do not have a good heart and this person is the woman who is family not by blood. In the middle of explaining this my host father yelled out “ DUZDU Malaika!” meaning “ Exactly Malaika.” He looked to his wife and mouthed something that seemed like he was saying” see I told you so! That woman is not good and even a foreigner can see that.” Just the way his hands fluttered and the confident look he gave as if he now had a supporting witness to what he had been trying to convince my host mom of for years. Then he looked at me, waving his arms in the atmosphere, pointing out the fact that we were sitting in basically darkness but somehow, somehow I can still see. And that’s how this journey has been. Often there are misunderstandings, much confusion, and every once in a while-a spot on best guess.

Peace Corps Site Interview: Up in the Air

2011-10-30T00:57:00.000-07:00

I recently had my site placement interview. For me and probably many other trainees, this is awfully a big deal. If things got real 30 days or so ago, they got very real today. Peace Corps underlying theme-whether they say this or not-has been to have NO EXPECTATIONS. Before I came to this country, it was difficult for me to fathom or fantasize what it would be like. I tried to look at pictures via trip adviser and check out blogs but nothing felt consistent. One part of the country seemed upbeat, live, lit up with action. Another part appeared like farmland. When I got here, everything was in phase two of three. Big posters and billboards up saying to the rest of the world: A Brand Spankin’ new Azerbaijan is on it’s way-so get ready! And that’s literally what is happening around me. Construction this, facelift that. Broken pathways to make new pathways. Electricity going out on bad days and hot water on good days. Yet nothing is promised and this peace corps life-especially in a developing country is basically up in the air.

So my placement interview went something like this: 1. What are your skills Malaika? Me: Well, capacity building, goal oriented, budgeting, grant writing, yea-all of that right there. 2. Are you comfortable teaching English? Me: yup! 3. Do you prefer a big developed organization or a small community development organization? Me: I want to play with the big boys! I already did that project development/execution stuff. 4. Do you want to be very busy or have a lot of downtime trying to figure out what to do? Me: I want to be a busy bee please. 5. How comfortable are you in a village? Me(twist my mouth, raise eyebrows) UH, I’m not a village person. I’m autonomous and for safety concerns, I’d rather not have everyone and their mother know what time I go to sleep and what time I wake up. 6. What are your fears? Me: Not making a single impact and that outhouse. 7. What rayon or region would you like to go to? Me: Mingechevir with a cherry on top. If that’s not available-send me to Shemkir, if that’s not available-I’ll go to Balaken-but it’s LAST ON MY LIST. I’M NOT A COLD WEATHER PERSON. Besides, they speak a little more Russian than I’m ready for. 8. What else is important to you? Me: I’d like to be in a clean place and not be hampered by an excessively ignorant environment. If I can work with young adults that would be great. I’d like to see what generation “Y “has up its sleeve for this country. I’ll consider working with Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) as a side project, but I’m gravitating towards human rights and university kids. That’s how it went folks.

Essentially this site placement interview means nothing. All I can do is say where I want to go and Peace Corps will do its best (or not do its best) to place me where they think I’ll be somewhat happy yet effective for the next two years. Now let’s be honest. I did sign up for 2 years of ‘development’ work. This isn’t a holiday. This isn’t working for the embassy. I must be willing to suffer some hardships. But it’s Azerbaijan. It’s post soviet and pre-European. If I can choose whether I want an outhouse or a western toilet, then I see no harm in that-especially if it’s made available. If I can get to a big organization, then why not ask for it. There are some trainees (who I deeply admire) that believe they aren’t suffering enough. Yes—this feelings also exists. They want the whole camping experience and missing a bath for say 15 days or so. They want to get through the winter on potatoes and water or crap in a hole in the ground and wonder if their waste will melt or stew (perhaps they don’t care about this either). I, am not so fond of these certain things. Just being here is enough for me. Learning the language is enough for me. Being a post-modern African American female in a secular, Muslim , somewhat soviet country with near 0 diversity is enough for me. I don’t need any additional hardships. Give me tissue, hot water 3 days a week, and a chance to blow dry my hair without blowing up the neighborhood and I’ll be content. Everyone joined Peace Corps for some very specific reasons. Mine are mostly strategic and God is on my side because I did get placed here. But I don’t need to walk away with tales of how I had to finish building my bedroom stone by stone and slept on a grass mat. And for those who do, more power to them. But if that is my story (because I did agree to the hardship requirement) then so be it. SO BE IT!! (this is me convincing my stubborn self that whatever doesn’t kill you, will only make you stronger) ??RIGHT??

To Barda, To Barda

2011-10-23T02:06:00.000-07:00

Peace Corps sends all trainees on a "site visit" to visit a volunteer and check out another part of the country. Also to give us a little break on language and sometimes suffocating schedule. I was sent to Barda which is basically south of the capital. I was curious as to why I was being sent there, and learned that since my background is mostly in refugee work, I was encouraged to inquire on the situation of internally displaced persons. Click here, if you're truly interested The other main purpose was for me to get a decent idea of what a peace corps volunteer actually does at his/her site.
I was beyond glad to go. Did I say beyond glad?? I mean if GLAD was on a line and it was at point 8, then I was off somewhere at point 36. I had to get away from the language cluster because we were working each others nerves like nails on a chalk board. I had to get away from my host mom bombarding me with her service. I love her-but I found it very unnecessary for her to interrupt my bathroom time just to find out if I wanted chai tea and if I was sleepy. I had to get away and like I said: I was beyond Glad.

The 5 hour bus ride to Barda wasn't bad at all. I sat in the front and held a woman's baby 1/3 of the way. I kept quiet and rocked to my itunes. Then I landed in Barda to meet Megan from Wisconsin. Megan is 23/24 with a concerning motherly type of soul. I ate her pancakes, used her outhouse of sorts, slept in her comfy bed and sucked up loads of wifi in order to skype til my little heart was content. Over the course of 4 days I watched her conduct English conversation clubs, ate free dinner with people in her community (this also included fried chicken which I didn't realize I missed until I had some and the all famous Plov), and heard all the interesting conspiracies about this little land of fire. I also had stomach cramps. It was like Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. When night fell, I was miserable. My stomach was unraveling and I sweated in 30 degree weather. I tossed and turned and tried really hard not to go to the bathroom. On the 4th day I couldn't take it. I had to poop in a hole.
It wasn't solid either.

I finally got a 'down' day after it was apparent that I wasn't feeling up to par and I contemplated whether I wanted to go to Barda or not. Let me try to explain Barda for you (this requires you to use your imagination): it's a town. It's a clean flat town that feels like a fortress. There is wall after wall after wall blocking the view of the houses behind them. The government building are pristine tan blocks of concrete and the roads are paved. Not so many flies as I've experienced in other places. The outsides of mostly everything looks awesome, but on the inside-it's crumbling. That's what I'm learning about this country-it's the outside that must appear attractive, but it's the inside that needs a lot of tlc. Anyhow, Megan works in one of these crumbling schools to which I must pass through the kitchen of an internally displaced family who have made this school their home. Then I go into this big bright room and that's where the magic happens: CONVERSATION CLUBS. 7th graders who want to learn or improve their English attend these conversation clubs and young professional women who want a better income come to learn or improve their English also attend. Megan is the instrument that facilitates this impact. I was equally inspired and both disheartened. Upon seeing the situation with the squatting family and doing a bit of research, I decided that perhaps this site visit did exactly what it was suppose to do-show me that I could best use my talents elsewhere. Barda is nice, but it's not for me. I think most trainees felt that way about their site visit and others loved where they went. I wish I could've said the same.
Well I'm back 'home' in the land of Saray and my stomach is back on track (or trying to be). My host mom returned to her usual antic of offering me bread, tea, grapes, pears and tea. I slept peacefully through the night and even took a guiltless shower. I also had a dream: I was in Whole Foods pushing a cart full of cookies and olive oil. I had a cheeseburger in my left hand and the baker said " would you like me to make you a strawberry shortcake from scratch? It'll only be 2 seconds." Ahhhh...home I miss you so!

Toy to the World

2011-10-11T03:29:00.000-07:00

The mark of a Peace Corps Trainee induction (depending onwho you ask) are 1. Guesting: visiting multiple persons’ homes in yourcommunity to overeat and 2. Attending a wedding or namely a TOY. I have accomplished one of the two. I may havenot mentioned this, but my host father plays the bongos in a wedding band andhe is constantly playing for weddings. I was just waiting for the day to comewhen I was invited to attend and today was my lucky day. My host mom Yagutinformed me that after my language class, I would be going to a wedding at 6. Ithought: OH YIPPY! MORE STARING! THIS TIME I’LL BE IN STILETTOES. I gotdressed, got the once over from my host mom who gave me the a.ok and off wewent. The lobby was full of people all of whom rubbernecked in unison once Iwalked in. But I’m getting better at avoiding eye contact and leveling off thepiercing stares. This was honestly a really happy time. The band was great, thefinger twirling was a little difficult but I took a stab at it, and the foodwas endless. I snapped some shots that unfortunately don’t do this wedding anyjustice let alone the bride, however it does confirm that my host mom is a bitJazzy. Go Yagut!


Yagut in the black

Honorable Mentions

2011-10-11T03:13:00.000-07:00

I have to find any valid or invalid reason to smile. If Itook in all the elements of what I’ve seen in this country thus far, I may aswell commit myself to taking a Prozac. I mean it pains me to see cows runningthrough trash, dusty unpaved roads that women risk breaking their necks to walkin high heels on, monotonous culture and the desolate remains post-sovietoccupation. But I suppose that if all I could do was find the ugly insomething, then all I shall feel is ugly. So I compiled a few things that put asmile on my face as well as my heart.

1. The stray dog that I call Carinhosa! This dogmakes me feel special. It’s almost like it’s waiting on only me and when itsees me it literally doles out generous amounts of “I yove you! Where yave youbeen? Do you yave chicken?” To which I fishthrough my bag to give her all but one of the chicken thighs I’m suppose to eatfor lunch. This dog makes me happy and Ilook for her as much as I think she’s looking for me.

2. Sunday phone calls from the one person that hasbeen holding me down since daylight savings. I look forward to them wholeheartedly because the conversations make the distance seem like right aroundthe corner. It’s great after you’ve been misunderstood all week to finally talkto someone whom you’re in total harmony with. After that Sunday phone call, I’musually doing a real dirty James Brown (in my mind) because I know he’s doing areal dirty James Brown.

3. The old man in the street that I pass on my wayto the internet café. He’s scruffy and could very possibly be some one’s drunkuncle but to me he’s the master of the neighborhood. Giving me the thumbs up asI respond correctly to his “Nejesen? (howare you?)”

4. The candy store directly across from my school.This candy store has those huge suckers that are the size of the world and thenever-ending pinwheel lollipops that were definitely popular in the 20’s butare the culprit of so many missing, rotten teeth in this community. But thekicker is that it sells Sugar Bear rice puffs! A log of a bag that reminds meof my childhood when all I would ever eat was Sugar Bear cereal, careful todrink the milk that tasted like honey last. I enthusiastically buy a bag for 10qepik, eating it carelessly and turning the bottom up so I can get the crumbs.I don’t even care that my mouth is crystallized afterwards.

5. The 15 minutes I steal in order to press my hairwith a real live hot comb and not freak anyone out. I do this about once ortwice a week when my host mom leaves mealone to eat dinner. She rushes out to her other home and I throw that hot combon the stove. Open the window to let out the smell of burnt crispy hair, run itthrough the roughest parts, turn off the stove and promise the middle sectionof my head that I’ll get to it on Thursday. No sooner after that my host mombursts in to check on me-“Yack She!? (yougood?)”. She doesn’t notice a thing. ;-)

6. Watching Family Guy, The Simpsons, Futurama andsome other new but equally as low humorous cartoon. I’m not even phased that all these shows arein Russian. I listen really hard for the undertones of English. If I’m lucky anepisode that I’ve already seen will show and it won’t matter what they’resaying-I already know the words.

7. The people in my neighborhood who finally say Salam (hello) to me first-like I’m one of them. FINALLY!

Bitchin' Kitchin'

2011-10-04T23:02:00.000-07:00

Under Construction: SARAY

I don't know what this is!

A good sidewalk..and we still walk in the street

After being in Azerbaijan for the last 48 hours or so,things are starting to finally settle in my head. I was feeling a combination of jet lag,culture shock, fright, and a bit of envy for all the other volunteers that had seeminglyadjusted themselves quite well.

Azerbaijan is a country that has to warm up to you. Thepeople are very suspicious and inquisitive. This requires for many Americans(such as myself) to put lids on our forward/abrupt personalities. For women this is amplified because genderroles and separation between the sexes are purely black and white. Women are tobe at home cleaning the house and men are to be out working. The two worldsdon’t collide nor interact much outside of work or in law abiding relationships. This is also a culture that stares and I’msuper sensitive to it because I’m traveling in a pack. The kicker however is itis suggested that women do not speak to men they do not know nor look them inthe eye. The feeling of being stared down or looked at for long periods of timewithout the option or comfort to respond and/or address this behavior is verypuzzling to me. There is a Peace Corps volunteer named Josh who has been in thecountry for a year. He is apart of the group called an AZ8 (AZERBAIJAN GROUP8). Josh insists that in this culture staring is actually very rude and as anAmerican female volunteer we are entitled to point out this negative behaviorand let them know it makes us feel uncomfortable. To which Azerbaijani’s whoare training us say the same thing. Azerbaijani’s do not like to make otherpeople feel bad.

I knew I would be stared at. I’m something of an AbominableSnowman in this country in a way that they aren’t very sure how I can look‘black’ but be American. Asian volunteers suffer from the same thing.Unfortunately, Asian volunteers are typecast as Chinese illegal’s, sellingblack market products.

So to say I’m not having a hard time is a smallunderstatement. There are so many things I anticipated without expecting it. Ianticipated being stared at. I didn’t expect a particular Azerbaijani to ask afellow peace corps trainee of mine if I was African or American. I anticipatedjet lag and major adjustment to time (there is a 9 hour time difference fromthe East Coast). I didn’t expect to wake up frequently in the middle of thenight seemingly no longer interested in sleep. I anticipated to casually yetoften speak about my adjustments and how I’m feeling off the grid at themoment, but I didn’t expect for so many volunteers to feel the exact same waythat I do (both black and white, married or single, and all othersubcategories). With that being said let me add that I do feel a bit of envy(please don’t counter at this point. Just give me the space to say it candidly).I do feel a bit of envy of the othervolunteers who have done some extensive traveling whether it be from studyingabroad to country hopping for leisure, to consulting foreign businesses. I maybe presumptuous, but many of the volunteers-I’m gathering are not having suchan initial trial period of wacky emotions. They are more than comfortableeating the food that has been exposed to the little feces infested legs offlies who are extremely rude and disrespectful in this country. I mean theselittle flies are just landing on anything in sight and I haven’t spotted anyoneremotely moved by this. Until it was time for Health Education Overview and thedoctor brought up illness/diseases born out of unsanitary conditions. When shementioned flies carrying germs and the food we eat must be protected from theselittle creatures, it was me that said: WHY ISN’T ANYONE AT THE HOTEL PLACINGPLASTIC OVER THE FOOD THEY SERVE US? WHY ARE YOU WARNING US ABOUT THE FLIESNOW, WHEN THE FOOD WE’VE BEEN EATING FOR THE LAST 2 DAYS HAVE HAD NOTHING BUTFLIES ON IT. DON’T YOU THINK YOU SHOULD TALK TO HOTEL STAFF? It was a load offmy back to finally say this, but I was amazed that this didn’t seem to botheranyone else but me. I had a stomach ache on Sunday and was not interested infood. Today (Monday), the hotel now presents its spread covered in plastic. I got a second dose of that ‘isolated’ feelingwhen I participated in a discussion on why we were placed in the programs wewere placed in. Luckily I find many people to agree with me-but you know howthere is always that one or 2 person that makes you question yourself and howyou feel. I’m nervous about youthdevelopment and how that will translate into a future career. I almost feel like(without even having 1 day on the job) that I should be placed in a differentprogram. Some volunteers have no experience, or have just graduated and feelvery overwhelmed by their job placement. When I shared this with people, itfelt good to be on one accord of confusion and ultimately coming to theconsensus of: there’s a reason for everything-roll with it! However there werea couple of volunteers who felt I was looking at many things and approachingmany things the wrong way. And because I’m super introspective and conscious ofmyself at this juncture of my service-I was left feeling like ‘maybe I don’twant to be here as much as I think I do’ and ‘this is not the time nor the place to complain when all I have todo is go home-make room for someone who is a little more “sure” than I am’.

In sum, and I will say this as often as I think it’spertinent, I had NO expectations. I had plenty of anticipations but not solidexpectations. I was open to the road that could lead me to the left or to theright. Am I amongst people who I can share my experiences (both external,internal) with? Maybe. I would like tothink so, but maybe not. I’m learning along the way. Very perceptive I am, sobe prepared to hear me splash my feelings about with a tablespoon of fairness.

My Host Family + Pictures

2011-10-04T22:49:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my host family house~!

Kitchen with washer

Bedroom

The living room

Yup..the hole in the ground I agreed to use

Hallway

My bed

This is the little garden I walk through to get to my door

Of course they have cats!

So each of us got a host family which is the integral partof learning/practicing our language as well as integrating into the communityfor the first 3 months. I stay in an area called Saray which location wise ismaybe an hour from the capital-Baku. Let’s say Saray is like a town..not somuch a village. Part of the roads are paved and others are just dirt and trash.It’s half and half. There are a lot of stray dogs and cats and some mild attemptsat garbage pickup. Ok neither here nor there, back to my host family. So I wasplaced with a family that does not have children (THANK YOU GOD!-I’LL EXPLAINLATER) and they have the main house and a guest house which is completelyre-done. My host mom’s name is Yagut. She is an English teacher that doesn’tspeak English. She also goes back and forth between Azerbaijani and Russianwhich is very confusing. Her husbands name is Hamdil who is a musician. I guessthis is true because his snoring beats any big band horn section. ( I need tosay this for my own humor-not yours). When I first got here I was very nervous.I had no idea what to expect. It was like SURPRISE-HERE’S YOUR NEW ‘FAMILY’ andthe anxiety of that alone is overwhelming. I was super scared but remainedintact up until the point I bumped my head exiting the main house of my hostmom. The tears just came. Mostly because I was experiencing culture shock andbecause I miss home so much. And the remainder part of that is because hittingmy head really did hurt to the point of warranting tears. Where I stay is in asmall house behind their main house. I have my own kitchen, bathroom, bedroomwith lock/key and television. Soundsgreat right? HA! They live in this house too! Matter of fact when I get homefrom Language Classes, the father is usually sitting on the couch watchingRussian news (he’s probably pooped from all that music he’s been playing) andthe mother is not too far behind to come cook for me. They do not have anychildren, but they do have a cat or 2. Now I’m not really partial toAzerbaijani kids just yet. I have to warm up to them as much as I have to warmup to my parents. They are very silly,happy, and curious. It just adds an extra layer of unnecessary while I’m tryingto adjust. After I’ve been gawked at (Azerbaijan is the land of the gawking),pointed at, laughed/giggled at (which I’m not sure if that’s a good or badthing yet)-then the last thing I want is to come back home and get barraged bychildren who encompass all these behaviors in one single dose. So I was spared. My pct(peace corps trainee)next door unfortunately has not been. I’m definitely stressing a simple family for my next host family (yup..iget 2). Overall however, and this isthe most important thing, I really do like them. My host mom is not new tohosting Peace Corps volunteers and it’s just comforting to know that she givesand respects my privacy as well as the many emotions I’m experiencing. Also forthe record-you may be wondering how I can tell the difference between when myhost mom speaks Russian and Azerbaijani to me. When I was crying-she waved herhands and said words that ended in ‘ski’. I knew she was saying something tothe effect of: OUCH! THAT MUST’VE HURT. IT’S OKAY-CALM DOWN, CALM DOWN! Oh and she has 2 gold teeth, which is a signof wealth. Oh, Oh and she wears really bright pink lipstick. So that’s my hostfamily. Enjoy the pictures of my place. I’ll be staying here until December.

We Are Here We Are Here We Are Here!

2011-09-25T10:28:00.000-07:00

I have finally arrived to Baku, Azerbaijan. We landed atabout 7pm to the Heydar Aliyev airport. It was really hot and humid and not atall what I anticipated. I figure that it being September, at the least I’d bewearing long sleeves. I was wrong. Itwas hot, dark, and smelled of construction. They say this country willcelebrate it’s 20 years independencethis October. I think signs should beplaced up every 15 miles or so stating:THIS COUNTRY IS STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION. SORRY FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE. Speaking of-I have not experienced aninconvenience yet. The starring is definitely happening, but it’s notuncomfortable. The flies can be reallydisrespectful but not an inconvenience. After customs, having to say my name 3 times to 2 different people, andcollecting my luggage amidst a sea of volunteer luggage, I was greeted at the gatewith light applause and cheers from the Peace Corps Azerbaijan staff. Theysnapped a picture of me, made me sign my name and wait around in this lobbyarea. I was just taking it all in.Looking at ads, trying to make language interpretations, checking out howeveryone dresses and looking for a cool spot because this heat is unfair.

We traveled to our hotel called the Bavarius-Don’t look itup. It’s off the map. I’m in a section 20 minutes away from the airport in anarea called Mardakah. Because it wasnight time I didn’t get any good pictures (I’ll make up for that) but I’ddescribe it as dry, arid, a bit dessert like. The architecture is more of afortress. It has a very middle east feel as opposed to Europe. Not many treesand road development is spotty. Thehotel itself is nice and very basic. We aren’t staying in a traditional hotellike some expected. It’s more like mini apartments without a kitchen.

I have 2 roommates: Liz from LA and Carissa from…uhm..Ican’t remember. Liz is an older volunteer with spicy red hair. She’s direct andmatter of fact but very cool. Carissa is kind and Midwestern or southern type:Bright eyed and genuine.

Tomorrow {which is Sunday for me} we do our first round oforientation and Pre-Service Training (PST) and first day of shots. I couldshoot myself simply because I just got a booster shot last year but forgot tobring my yellow card to show proof. I hate getting shots and everyone knows it.

Oh well. I’m here-alive hanging out in the space ofquestionable existence. Feeling like this is unreal-but it is so real. Wideawake and hungry but need to rest so I can adjust to the time difference. I’msorry if the pictures aren’t very descript. I was just shooting anything Icould without looking like a weirdo + 5.

Let's Talk about Staging

2011-09-23T13:08:00.000-07:00

Why does saying goodbye have to feel so bad? I wish we could switch our emotions around..or pick a feeling off a wheel of feelings when it comes to saying something we don't really want to say. I mean, all i want to do is spin a wheel and pick an inappropriate response like confetti dropping and whistles goes off whenever I have to say goodbye to someone. I hated say goodbye to my other half Kim and my favorite guy Thomas. I hated saying goodbye to my parents who were beyond sad (my fathers voice cracked-so this is how I know..and my mom had an ugly Oprah cry-so this is how I know).

Anyway-let's talk about staging. Staging in Peace Corps is a mashup between meeting fellow trainees, getting some logistics down, running through skits and scenarios, and honing in on some really important goals/mission of Peace Corps. I met the first fellow volunteer name Annie while in Atlanta. I was sitting on the floor, looking for my head when this tall blond kneels by me and says : ARE YOU GOING TO STAGING IN PHILADELPHIA? I was like..HEY..YEA! HOW DID YOU FIGURE I WAS JOINING THE PEACE CORPS? WAS IT MY KNOCKOFF GUCCI GLASSES??

Let's fast forward to staging. I did a quick model change into some business casual attire and ran to join the session. The room was filled with all sorts of people. Young (not much younger than say 23 or so) Old (we are talking about 50's, grandparents, retirement age) black (dreds and weave) Asian (one was born in a refugee camp) maybe or maybe not gay, half male/ half female, young married and old married, LA born and bred with striking red hair and well traveled east coasters. I got a chance to meet some of them in person, seeing as though I figured out who many of them were via facebook. It's funny the perceptions we have about people but let's just say most of them lived up to their pictures. Do I fit in? For the most part yes. I don't feel too old and I don't feel too young. I'm not too black and I'm not too 'hopped the fence' <~interpret that how you like.

We stayed in training for roughly 5 hours and then got some paint the town red money. Now my family and boyfriend came to staging (which is not the norm, but neither am I) so I spent my last precious singular hours with them. It was the best thing I could have done. While everyone was boarding a bus to shuttle over to JFK, I got hugs. While everyone was loading their luggage and remember eachothers names-i got hugs and awesome pictures. While everyone was had butterflies, sitting in their seats waiting on YOURS TRULY, i got powerful prayer.

I kissed all of them farewell and stamped the final vision of their faces onto my heart. The shuttle ride to jfk was nothing but trainees asking each other questions and mini chats. I participated in some and opted out of others. Listening first, responding later. JFK--WAS A DISORGANIZED JUMBLE OF LUGGAGE, MESS AND %$#$@q@$!

Now I'm sitting at JFK waiting to board a plane to Baku Azerbaijan. We have a layover in Turkey and it's feeling even more real than when i was sitting at the Hartsfield airport, even more real than when I was getting oriented in Philadelphia, even more real than when I got my passport...

My life in a suitcase

2011-09-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

My life in a suitcase comprises of the following

luggage from the goodwill! HELLO!

Jillycat on my luggage. she doesn't want me to leave

3 trousers
3 pairs of jeans
7 conservative tank tops
3 sweaters
8 long sleeve shirts
2 pairs of knee length shorts
1 skirt
3 dresses (1 for traveling to places where vamp is welcome)
25 pairs of underwear
13 pairs of socks
2 bathing suits (1-two piece and 1 whole piece)
3 belts
3 pairs of stockings
2 waist length pea coats
2 sweat shirts
2 sweat pants
1 pair of leggings
2 pj's (family friendly and not so family friendly/summer worthy and winter worthy)
1 pair of hiking tennis shoes
1 pair of flip flops
1 pair of loafers and 1 pair flats
1 pair of heels (for any super professional moments)
face wash
wax strips
make up
4 washcloths, 2 towels
1 pack of body wipes
2 fragrance sprays, 2 cream perfumes, 2 blocks of soap
72 things of pads with the fly away wings
toothbrush/toothpaste 2 months worth
2 bottles of sunblock
pack tissues
hot comb, flat iron, blow dryer
2 bottles of conditioner, 1 bottle of shampoo
2 bottles of contact solutions
flashlight
2 big ass bottles of mouthwash
floss
dayquil/nyquil
hair ties
voltage converter and international plug outlets
of course all the media stuff: laptop, kindle, ipods, false eyelashes * << HEEYY??? HOW'D THAT GET IN THERE?
and to top it all off...my cat keeps jumping in the bag.

SERVANT SNOB

2011-09-08T01:15:00.000-07:00

I really hate that some of my posts seem negative and uninspiring. I have plenty of funny bones, but they fail to come out of the closet when it's time for me to write a post. It's 3am and I'd love to be sleeping if it weren't for all the quiet burning tear drops.

In a former post I talked about how I had picked up a menial (emphasis on menial) job as a waitress just to get me through the month of September. What I didn't tell you was that it was my first time being a server and the person that trained me was born out of her mothers anus. Her name is Maxine and she wears a poodle coif on top of her head. I'm serious about the name and the poodle coif. This is not fictional. Was she born out of her mothers anus?-maybe not, but she is definitely an asshole. Maxine trained me and because I was so 'green' to serving, I found myself asking too many questions, stuttering over answers and messing up. Part of the problem was in fact mine: I don't like being told what to do and I had NEVER served before.

It's a capricorn thing, but I'm stubborn as a mule who found shade in a desert. So when I was paired to be 'trained' by Maxine, all it felt like was being bossed around and micro-managed. Here I am, a naturally autonomous person, working in an environment that was so easy-you caught people reading the New York Times instead of rolling silverware, who turned into and thus treated like a bumbling simpleton. This chick breathed down my neck faithfully for 4 days making sure that I got water and not straws, asked if customers wanted rare, well, or medium, and knew the beers, whiskeys, house reds and whites. After all of that my nerves were shot and I was none the wiser about being a 'server'.

But Life is the greatest teacher and I kicked into high gear when I was set free from training mode into serving mode. I put my big girl pants on to get my first table of lucky number 5. I miss ordered their food, ran late food, overcharged, undercharged and scrambled. They were so pissed that they 'told' on me and not in secret either. Not in some discretionary type of way-just blatantly- WE GOT A DUD WAITRESS AND WE ARE NOT HAPPY-TAKE THIS COFFEE OFF OUR BILL! The manager was happy to do so but with me-no grace period whatsoever. Then it happened again. Half the acting crew of Lost and Vampire Diaries sat in my section and they wanted naked-salt/pepper olive oil only food. They came in with their LA hats and urban outfitters leggings and vests ordering drinks and wanting separate tabs. These kids made my night however, filling my esteem pot with extra money after I had felt so emotionally depleted hours before. Telling me that I had done a great job for my first time (at this point I felt it was wise to give a disclaimer) and cheering for me like I was apart of the gang. I went home that night feeling humiliated yet humbled.

When my coworkers asked me how I had done-I steered clear from telling them how much I made (I actually made quite a bit) instead informed them that I had been thrown to the wolves and barely survived. Obviously I had survived because I was back for more.

What I wasn't back for was Maxine and her too close for my tastes style of working with people. Apparently that grateful monday she had nothing else better to do with her life, except to come into the restaurant and give them back the money they paid her and watch me as I got my sideshow circus on. She asked me "HOW WAS MONDAY NIGHT? I SAW THAT YOU HAD THE CELEBRITY TABLE?" i said " OH..I GOT MY ASS KICKED! I WASN'T EXPECTING IT BUT IT TURNED OUT TO BE ALRIGHT." I said this statement in motion of walking away from her because I wasn't in the mood to be the butt of her jokes even though I was shamelessly self-deprecating. The second general manager who caught wind of my hectic evening wanted to talk to me about it. So the office chat included something to the effect of not wanting to let me go, and could I try out the Barrista position and he had heard I was overwhelmed. I in turn confessed that he had heard correct, no I'm not interested, and no you don't have to let me go-I quit, no hard feelings.

So today I quit. He asked me if I was down to work the next couple of days and I obliged not wanting to ruin the relationship but then I checked the schedule and saw the Devil was working the same Sunday as me. I rushed back to his office and in my grown woman's voice but toddlers bruised ego-told him to annex me for Sunday and walked out. Ripple effect, he came out and 'cut' me. Now for those of you not familiar with this term-it basically means "SCRAM". And guess who was on my heels telling me what to do on my way out of the door-yup..the poodle. She wanted my receipts, my closeout receipts, my book that held my tips, and after giving her all of that, in turn she gave me the "you can leave now." Pick your mouth up-old girl gave me 'permission' to leave.

So why was I soaking my pillow and losing sleep? Because I'm sensitive and have the skin of an eggshell. Because I don't like to fail and I don't like to be underestimated. Because I wanted to make a little bit of money. Because I wanted a chance to acquire a new skill. Because I wanted to say GET OFF MY DAMN BACK and couldn't find the nerve or courage. Because I had nothing else better to do but get caught up in some silly meaningless moment.
And the funny part about it, and this is no offense to anyone in the food/hospitality industry, the job was really beneath me and I shouldn't have taken it so seriously in the first place. I mean if you want to make a career out of serving food-knock yourself out. I honestly have bigger fish to fry and that's the real mackerel!