I had a conversation, shortly before the new year, with a couple of first year volunteers and some second year volunteers. (If you can believe that Benin slowly tears you down until you become a salty little nub of nerves and emotions, which I firmly do after almost eight months in this country, you can just imagine the incredible difference between a bunch of idealistic new kids with slightly jaded second years.) We were discussing new years resolutions, and it was decided that, on principle, we were exempt from New Years resolutions because our entire life is a New Years resolution. A New Day’s resolution, if you will. And it’s totally true, I’m constantly setting goals that I can constantly fail and feel bad about myself. It’s a shame spiral that I don’t recommend. (Although not unlike the New Years resolutions of Americans in America.)
January was a rough month for me. Partly because Peace Corps is hard. It’s hard in all the ways you anticipate: you miss birthdays and weddings and Christmas and people put pictures of macaroni and cheese and pie on facebook while you’re eating bouillie. (Bouillie is like a boiled, lumpy flour soup that tastes like glue. Not my favorite.) And then it’s hard in ways you didn’t even know existed: sick babies that will probably not make it to their first year; having no friends in village; being surrounded by bossy women who yell at you in languages you don’t understand; living up to the expectations of the Greatest Volunteer Ever (maybe it’s another volunteer, or maybe it’s just the idea of the GVE); being stared at, tugged on, followed by, and generally all around bothered by bratty, noisy, messy, nosy children; and so on in a million different directions with a million different results. That’s no to say that I don’t love it, some of the times most of the times. It’s hard, and hilarious, and ridiculous, and creates 78 million emotions on a daily basis. Sometimes on an hourly basis. Ask me how I feel about my peace corps experience in an hour and I’ll have a completely different response.
Like I said, January was tough for me. This is not the place for perfectionists to be perfectionists. This is the place for perfectionists to learn patience and humility and how to just... be. I guess. (There is probably a less new age-y zen way to say that but alas. I’m being up in this joint. Whatever.) And I am certainly not unique in that I am having to let go and let flow, to CTFO and wait until I get the hang of things. Some volunteers live in the thick of everything, and do all the things, and usually do them well, and know all the people. But in Angaradebou, it is just too small a world to do all the things. Instead I am slowly learning to accept how to be happy with some of the things. And how to just sit around an eat glue soup and hang out with children. How to be a gracious host, how to fling my doors open and greet the day (and everything an Angaradebou day contains), how to be a gracious guest. How to hold babies and eat weird meats without making a face. How to not look bored when I'm sitting in the middle of a Fulani gossip session. And how to garden, been doing a lot of that lately. Lot of eggplant, lot of tomatoes.
So far February is looking up. February has actually been pretty great. And as far as resolutions go, I’ve given up on those. Although I did write a very forceful note to myself on my wall, right next to my pillow. To spare my parent’s good impression of me I will not repeat it here, but it’s a missive to get out of my house. And it’s signed “Love you :)” and surrounded by pink chalk hearts. And I think that sums up my February resolutions: get out of the house, go be good. And forgive yourself, and love yourself.
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