Failure

I never even got to sit on a beach in the Dominican Republic.

The day the plane landed in Santo Domingo, 3 weeks ago Wednesday, seeing the teal patches of ocean was an exhilarating site that left me nearly breathless. The ceremonial “touchdown” of plane wheels to tarmac felt like a symbolic moment that sears its way into you long-term memory banks.

I looked out the window with such hope and optimism. Nothing could possibly be cooler than this view of an ocean that couldn’t possibly be real, this realization that a new adventure was officially beginning, and this belief that the work I was about to commit to was work that mattered a whole lot.

Wednesday I boarded a plane that took me back to the United States. I looked out on those crystal clear waters and felt a sudden stab of something – was it slight disappointment? – and then I left the DR behind. I arrived back home, greeted by my sister, and then we prepared for the funeral of my lovely grandmother. Though, as the story of “here and now” unfolds, I hope you’ll see that her funeral wasn’t the reason for my departure, but most certainly confirmation that timing is one of the most serious indicators of whether or not you belong in one place or another.

The crazy thing about life is the importance of timing. We blame everything on “bad timing” but praise those moments that seem to be proof of “the best timing ever.” What if both of these instances feel the same?

How did I get here, in this moment, with whispers of “failure” in my ear, and memories of a quickly fading teal-patched ocean?

Well, let me tell you the stories I haven’t told quite yet about possibly the shortest Peace Corps experience EVER.

WEEK ONE

As my host mother led me around the house, speaking quick Spanish and making quick gestures, I felt the first pang of something I couldn’t name. Of course, the Aries in me named that pang “culture shock,” and I don’t think that was a misnomer.

I was shocked. Shocked by how little Spanish I understood. Shocked by how the walls didn’t reach the ceiling. Shocked by the huge tanks of water on the back porch. Shocked by the few words I understood – “Solo tenemos agua en Sabado y Martes.”

We only have water (AKA running water) on Saturday and Tuesday.

In my bedroom, as she attempted to convey some unknown sentiment, my eyes began to mist up. She stopped what she was saying and asked what was wrong. I already knew I was going to struggle, because even answering this tiny question felt like an insurmountable hurdle.

Her husband came in and placed a couple nails on the wall for my mosquito net, and then they left me to my own devices. I slowly unpacked, trying to make sense of this new reality. Their 2 year old son kept me company, and I gave him some coloring pencils to use. I was impressed with his ability to name colors in English, and it felt nice to understand someone…even if that someone was a 2 year old who kept yelling “mira” excitedly, with the hopes that I would look at an item I myself packed.

That night before going to bed, I gazed up at the tin roof above my head and noticed the shadows dance across, illuminated by the street lamp close to my window. The “bulloso” Dominican neighborhood wasn’t preparing for bed like I was. Their music was blaring, and men greeted each other warmly and loudly in the streets.

Although I was already feeling a decent amount of uncertainty…that was normal. I just moved from my home, to a place I’d never been, to do a job I didn’t quite understand. It would all feel better in the morning.

“Buenas Noches,” I yelled to my host parents, receiving a pleasant “Buen Noche, Helen,” as their Telenovela played on.

WEEK TWO

You know what? Bucket bathing is not as bad as it sounds. I had these moments in the shower where I would compete with my previous shower. One day particularly, I only used HALF of the big bucket of water. (Granted, I didn’t wash my hair that day, but it still felt like a victory).

This week was an important week, as we got divided into our leveled Spanish classes. I was in the very lowest class, and while this fact did not surprise me, I couldn’t help but feel a little shame. I am used to being in upper level classes, and the fact that I was feeling like a tiny goldfish in the Pacific Ocean was something I was struggling with daily.

We had an exciting day in Santo Domingo, that started with a blaring sun and ended with a monsoon. We learned how to use “public transport” in the DR, and it was as loud and confusing as I imagined. I finally mastered the magic phrase: “Deja me aqui,” which guaranteed we would be dropped wherever the Guagua (AKA bus) was at that moment. The phrase didn’t guarantee anything other than being dropped. How people knew what monuments and buildings indicated was an absolute mystery to me. After being crammed onto a bus for over an hour meant the second I heard the magic words, I was sprinting off the Guagua into the blaring sun.

Zona Colonial was lovely, and the brick and cobblestone streets were beautiful to behold, though slightly more treacherous in the downpouring rain. We saw the oldest Cathedral in the Americas (though don’t quote me on anything you read here because, as we already established, my Spanish left much to be desired), an Amber Museum, and a few other historical sites around the old city.

As we returned to Pantoja on the Guagua, I felt excited to get back to my host family’s house – I brought them chocolate from the city. Since I still was very inadequate at basic communication, I was realizing food was a universal language I could use to my advantage. I was excited to give them the candy, and my friends helped me figure out what to say. (Although, when I said the rehearsed line, my friends apparently chose the wrong verb, because my sister corrected me anyways).

Everything was feeling better, and I had a feeling the next week would bring even more good things, as we were preparing for our first solo journey in country when we would meet a volunteer in the field. I knew I was only going about an hour away, and I couldn’t wait to experience the “campo” life, away from the crazy motoconchos and loud colmados. I was excited to experience the lush greenery the island had to offer, and was eager to see how volunteers actually lived post-training.

“Buena Noche,” I sang on my way to my room.

“Buen Noche, Helen,” came the musical response from mi familia.

WEEK THREE

I asked 3 random women on the street where the bus station was. I also made the mistake of asking a young man the way, and immediately he thought that meant I wanted to marry him.

Really, though. It was a rookie mistake for this “rubia.”

Finally, a sweet woman literally escorted me to the bus stop, where I was directed to take the bus on the right side. I asked several people if it was going to “Las Mercedes,” and all eagerly nodded. I began praying I didn’t get lost, but then added a caveat onto my prayer that if I got lost, let it please be a white sand beach, Lord.

I didn’t get lost, and I didn’t end up on a white sand beach. To the dismay of the bus driver and the bus passengers, they dropped this gringa off in the most random little “town” on the side of the road. I then walked half an hour to meet up with my volunteer. She warmly greeted me, and I already knew we would get along. We were laughing like old friends by the time we made it to her house.

(A plug here about K. She is hilarious and friendly, and absolutely no part of her visit made me want to leave the DR. Just to clarify).

Her neighbors came over one by one to both greet her AND see what other Americana she had with her. As usual, I didn’t understand everything, but made an attempt to show people I was happy to meet them. After dinner, one neighbor in particular stands out in my mind – she had the kind of disposition people seek out when they need a spirit lift. She immediately asked about my family, and I then was struck with a conundrum: she asked how many grandparents I had.

I laughed, and then tried to figure out how to explain to this woman in incredibly broken Spanish that I was blessed with 6 grandparents. Her eyes widened, and after clumsily tripping over one and two word phrases, K. helped translate more. She understood and laughed loudly, her body rippling with the sudden excitement of understanding. She was speaking quickly, but somewhere mentioned that I was very lucky. I didn’t disagree, of course. (This single interaction with the neighbor had a huge impact on me, and although I’ll continue with the brief summary of my visit, something inside my head clicked into place this evening).

The next day we visited a market, a Texaco for yummy American treats, and her school where I witnessed high schoolers…well…being high schoolers. I’ll leave it at that. Saturday we hitchhiked with a nice French man, and we walked for 2 hours in nature to get to a nice pool. We met up with several other volunteers, and just took it easy. Later, we headed north to a town where we had some pizza (#blessed), and then dance bachata for several hours. I learned that night that I am many things, but I’m not a dancer. I am grateful to the three old Dominican men who tried to help, but I’m afraid it was a pretty extreme failure.

THE DECISION

Speaking of failure…

After the fun weekend in Monte Plata, I came to the decision that I needed to resign. For those of you who have known me for any significant amount of time, that fact might have startled you.

I don’t quit, and I have a hard time saying “no” to anyone or anything. In fact, my first year of teaching was so hectic because the word “no” had become synonymous with a crime in my mind. If I said “no,” I was weak.

As a 22 and 23 and 24 year old, I believed failure was defined as goals or dreams not coming to fruition, Until this experience, I truly believed that admitting a job wasn’t the right fit made you less admirable, cowardly, and even sometimes, unlovable.

And then I moved with three huge ass bags to the Dominican Republic for a 27 month commitment that honestly didn’t make much sense once I began learning more about the job I would be doing.

Since I’ve been back (basically 48 hours), the most popular question is some form of “what happened?” The honest answer is “nothing.” Nothing bad happened. No part of the experience surprised me – it was just as sweaty, exciting, and nerve-wracking as I was expecting.

The conversation with the volunteer’s neighbor really made me think about the people I left at home – specifically my grandparents. I wasn’t crazy about the level of flexibility within my Peace Corps Role. I need 50 hours of work a week to feel helpful. Not 25. I wasn’t crazy about my role as a white person with very little Spanish abilities, teaching young children a language I didn’t know. I wasn’t crazy about feeling like my level of influence in the DR might not rationalize a two year stint away from home.

Home.

My theory of meaningful influence and positive change has definitely evolved since my 13 year old dream of Peace Corps work. I still believe in the work and importance of the organization, and still believe that humanitarian work shouldn’t stop at a country border. I think if we are truly human, we should try to reach out to help when we are asked – whether that be in our own backyard or in a very different place from home.

I believe the work I was privileged enough to do in Inez, and the work I plan to take on in the future, is where I find hope and meaning and purpose. If you had told 18 year-old-me that I didn’t have to move to a desert in Nigeria to find meaning, I would have laughed sarcastically. Tell the 25 year-old-me I can help at home and witness an exciting ripple of service and awareness outward from Appalachia, and I tend to agree, a soft smile on my face.

This morning, the Pennsylvania mountains were enveloped in a fog that felt heavier than fog-draped mornings normally feel for me. My week started out with a decision that felt like failure, and ended with a funeral for my beautiful grandmother. When I told my Peace Corp director on Monday morning about my excitement to get home to my 6 living grandparents (remember that conversation with the sweet Dominican woman?), I had no idea the significance of that statement on that day. Not even 6 hours later, I only had 5 living grandparents to get home to, and hardly any breath in my lungs.

I needed to get home, and my grandmother’s sudden passing felt like the saddest sort of confirmation in my life. Her passing seemed to be one of those examples of “bad timing”…but also felt like “good timing.” I am lucky I made the decision when I did, or I might have missed the opportunity to say goodbye.

When I arrived in Pennsylvania, I was happy to learn she had heard of my decision to come home prior to her passing. I hope she was proud of me, and I hope those final moments were peaceful for her.

My grandmother was soft-spoken and kind. You might not know it by looking at her thin and frail frame, but put a couple of beers in front of her, and within the hour she would be cackling with my grandfather and swatting him away as he sang loudly to her, or tried to get her to dance. My fondest and earliest memory of her involves going through her jewelry box while she decorated my neck and hands and wrists with costume jewelry, laughing in her easy way. Her soft voice on the phone was always calming, and the way she would say “hi, honey,” made me feel warm in a way that only a grandmother can.

My only sadness stems from the fact that I realized on the plane home that I didn’t know her nearly as well as I would have liked to know her. I don’t know her favorite color, and I don’t know what her favorite hobby was when she was my age. I don’t know why she and her sisters used to fight, and I couldn’t tell you her favorite meal. I wonder why she fell in love with my grandpa, and I wonder why I never asked.

As I looked around the church, however, I felt a strange peace because I saw people who did know the answer to those questions and more. I heard my grandfather discuss their private conversations about their imminent deaths, and it didn’t seem to scare my grandmother at all. She was a faithful woman who I know is even now shyly avoiding the attention she never seemed to want too much of. She didn’t want a viewing, and that makes a lot of sense.

Today, as I took one last look at her white casket, I couldn’t help but feel happiness even in grief. She was the type of woman who could always put a positive spin on any situation. I imagined what she might tell me about the shortest Peace Corps story of all time, and it would probably go something like this:

There is a very specific kind of bravery involved in admitting when you shouldn’t be in the place you find yourself. You had to come home to find the true destiny God has for you, and this is just one of those stepping stones. You are going to be okay, sweetie, and I’m proud that you knew when to try something else. You didn’t fail. You’ll be okay, honey.

Rest easy, Mamaw. I’ll make sure Papaw still sings Karaoke every once in awhile, and anytime I drink ginger ale, I’ll think of you.