Every day is a new Beginning

As I sit in my house that I will reside in for the next two years, my thoughts race to reminiscing all the days that led up to my graduation from PST. I felt like it’s all gone by so fast, yet I will never forget my father's words telling me, “Don’t count down the days, because you’ll always be looking to get out instead of staying and being where you are.” [This of course was all in Korean]. It’s always when you’re looking back that you realize that time seems slow at the time, but it doesn’t mean it’s not going. Shoutout to Papa Oe for making me feel those pearls of wisdom.

I was warned that I might not have running water, that I might have to poop in a bucket, that I might have to sift through some leftovers of Peace Corps hand me downs, and more importantly that I’d be arriving during the hottest part of summer. I’ll even be honest… the night before I left Moleps, I had a panic attack. I had thoughts doubting my Setswana abilities, my facilitating and organizing abilities, my capacity to socialize and build relationships without the comfort of English, my unwritten schedule, my undeveloped projects, and my fear of not being good enough. (This is where Mama Mo comes to the rescue). She heard me rustling around and leaving my room to go to the toilet and to brush my teeth, because honestly I didn’t know what to do with myself and couldn’t handle tossing and turning anymore. She called to me and I came running, seeking for solace and comfort, which she completely provided by letting me be a child and sleep in the bed next to her. Again let me repeat, moms are the best.

Then the day came for me to travel to my new hometown. It was a long day of travel, waiting, unexpected injuries (not mine but of a fellow rider), and little leg room. And then several hours later, I was home. I was in Hukuntsi. I didn’t know what to do first or how to unpack… But the best part of my moving in process was coming across this wonderfully touching note left by the Bots 15 volunteer I am replacing. She wrote, “Hi! I hope you have a wonderful 2 years here! Every day is a new beginning. Enjoy the sunsets! <3 Corinne*”.

If you’ve been following my blog, one of my entries is about no more last of anythings, but first of somethings. Just another small sign that things will work out, and that things happen for a reason. I have lots of uncertainties, but I am going to repeat a fellow volunteer’s words, “I could be back in the States… But I’d be bored.” Life is an adventure and I’m ready to practice what I preach. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for this experience and I’m diving in.

Cheers to new beginnings ya’ll.  

Moms are the Best

Post site-visit has been more and more Setswana in the mornings, followed by celebrating Botswana’s 50^th independence with an amazing potluck thrown by one of my fellow volunteers, and more sessions on administrative policies, design and facilitation of projects/programs, a PCV discussion panel, a PCV resources fair, and an amazing party that we threw in honor of our host families.

So I’m going to tell a side story, because I love telling them. Jacob, my host brother from another mother, came as one of my guests along with Mama Modisenyane (I have a whole section I want to dedicate to this angel). Now Jacob and I bonded over music. He loves Fetty Wap, Tupac, Rihanna, the occasional Taylor Swift pop song, the Weekend, and etc. I was told by Bibi the very first day I came home that Jacob is an extremely shy kid, he won’t talk much, and he will keep me at a distance. I told her, “Bibi I have magical powers. I will get him to talk to me and he and I will be friends don’t worry.” Sounds a bit creepy actually now that I recall what I said by verbatim, but I knew I wanted a close-knit bond with my family, and he was family. I would like to attribute the spark of our friendship to Fetty’s “Come my way”. Thanks Fetty. Fast forward to the party. My cohort all got together and wrote letters to our host families. We had to walk down the main aisle to receive and give our letters to our host family representatives in front of the whole group. As Jacob received my letter of praise that we all wrote dedicated to our host families to read, we both proceeded to pound and dab as I oodled down the line. (Oodling is what I call the Botswana cheer that women do when celebrating or providing support). People were complimenting me left and right about how cool my brother was, and how endearing our bond seemed. My heart was beaming. Also that day I was proud to bring honor to my family by volunteering to say the prayer, Our Father “Thapelo ya Morena” in Setswana. My mama and brother hopefully enjoyed it, they know I was practicing relentlessly to get the gs to sound like hs and rhythm of the prayer down just right. And at the end, I looked straight into Mama’s eyes and she was overjoyed. I can’t stress how important that moment was, to bring honor to someone who is so faithful and loving. More on Mama Mo later on.

From the party, I presented a final project with my fabulous partners (fellow volunteers in my sector) on a demonstration of facilitating a support group for adolescent females on sex/the female condom. I basically dressed up and talked as a female condom for the whole session while singing “Let’s talk about sex”. It was pretty edutaining. In all seriousness teen pregnancy does impact the HIV/AIDS epidemic, and is a huge issue in keeping girls in school in most of the communities in Botswana.

Fast forward to getting medical supplies on the very last day of PST, hours later then our schedule had anticipated (welcome to Peace Corps where things don’t exactly happen according to plan). Then graduation day arrived. Swearing an oath and allegiance to peace and having honorable speakers, such as, the Kgosi (chief) of Molepolole, the incoming country director, the Ambassador of the United States, the National Coordinator of the National AIDS Coordinating Agency, the Honorable Minister of Basic Education, and the Council Chair were only a few of the highlights. I walked across the stage accepting my pin, shaking hands with all of the honorable speakers trying to find words and process the actual reality of it all. It wasn’t until I was shaking Monica Smith’s (our programming director) hands, and she asked me how I felt that I honestly responded, “I feel like this is a dream I’m about to wake up from. It’s been 6 years that I’ve waited for this to happen, and the day is here.”

After hours of taking photos and losing my Mama in the crowd, I headed home with a feeling of shame and guilt for forgetting to honor my Mama by taking photos with her. I came home and apologized to her a thousand times, to which this angel of mine said, “Nana why are you ashamed? You need to celebrate with your group, and I will just slow you down. We are together now and I am glad you are my daughter.” *Cue crying*.

So this goes out to my Mama, Dineo Modisenyane. I didn’t meet Mama my first day in Molepolole. She had an elective knee replacement procedure, and it was the day of my matching ceremony (the day we were placed with our host families). On this day this amazing woman calls me to greet me and apologize for not being there in person. Like who is this saintly woman?! 4 weeks later Mama has been transported from Johannesburg to Gabarone, and says she will be coming home in a few days. It was a Thursday she decided to surprise the whole family and come with her other son (Yusef* a wonderful Indian who Mama sponsored after he was scammed by a business deal that went wrong leaving him in debt and homeless till he met Mama). 

Mama Mo was not in good shape, she was struggling to sleep with the pain and swelling in her knee, and for the first few days she was vomiting and had no appetite. Regardless she would tell me what I want for breakfast and make sure it was packed, she would make sure I had gotten dished for dinner, and she would ask me to say good morning to her every day. Then she began to walk. She was starting to heal, and begin activities that she did so regularly (washing dishes, ironing clothes, and etc.) From day 1 when we met, Mama told me that regardless of the skin that I am in and where I come from that I am her daughter. That we are all children of God, and we should love one another. Whether we’re black, brown, white, yellow, or blue or whatever. I can affirm that she has treated me as such. Even though day in and day out I would be mentally and emotionally exhausted from sessions, I would still make time to have tea or sit out in the beautiful starry night sky with Mama and talk about our faith, our experiences, our journeys from different parts of the world. I believe in God’s purpose and things happening for a reason, and this season with Mama I know God sent an angel on Earth to watch over me, feed me, house me, and love me for the time I have spent in a brand new foreign place. She made me Motswana, and for that I love her so. I know my Oma’s prayers are being answered about my protection and guidance, because I was placed in the hands of my other Mama Mo. 

Moms are the best, no matter where you go.

Fear in Numbers

In our cohort, an amazing volunteer facilitated a creative performance with the assistance of other volunteers, to inspire members to act, sing, or perform however their heart desires on the theme of Fear itself. This would be called Bua, which means speak in Setswana. I decided to write a piece on my fears and the anticipated/observed fears of our cohort during our PST and perform my slam poetry [channel Lauryn Hill vibes]

Fear in Numbers

Fear, F-E-A-R, a 4 letter word that transforms itself into our worst nightmares

Giving us terrors.

Entrapping us, enclosing us, enveloping us,

To make us believe we have no leave.

It can take on many faces. What is it you see?

Do you see the phrases of Setswana swimming in your mind when you close your eyes

Only to open them to the disapproval stares of Batswana glaring back.

The moment you hear the words,

I’m sorry you didn’t make it through, Sincerely, Peace Corps.

Brring Brring, Hello. Why yes this is me. No, no, no it can’t be I just saw her a month ago.

No it’s fine. Yeah I understand. But I pretend, and smile, and keep saying “Dumela”.

As I karate chop and roundhouse kick through all the naivety and ignorance,

Closeted by Bruce Lee films and Made in China everythings

that continue to drive the “Asian” stereotype.

Hear me *I am a Korean person (in Korean)*

Three words that terrify me.

I love you. Hm do you? I remember when I heard these lies before,

when he tried before, and then we said goodbye before.

And our love remembered by the photographs and places of the past

That seemed so vast, and the memories to last.

To escape, let us be free. How? How can we be free,

When my brothas shoot my brothas, based on the skin we are in.

And my people fight to love and be loved with no love.

For those lost loves, let us bow our heads in silence and respect.

So here am I 1. What can I do? What can I say?

What does it matter anyway?

Thought jumbled, words all fumbled.

Stop. Just stop. Breathe.

Fear is in here, and it’s not always clear.

But hear me, courage is near.

Remember the words of Mary Anne Radmacher.

Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day

Saying “I will try again tomorrow.”

Bibi-1, Fear-0.