"I kehlail"

I have no idea where November has gone. It came and went, and it never even said hello. Did I say time was flying before? Well, someone just hit the turbo button, because in two days it will be December, and in a month, we'll be celebrating Christmas and New Year's Day.

Speaking of holidays – many of you have asked timidly what Thanksgiving (a word we tried to translate into "rahn kalahngan-kihdo" and were laughed at... and rightfully so) in Pohnpei “looked like” for us this year. I smile to myself when I hear this, because, as I have so often since I arrived on Pohnpei, can hear all of your unasked questions jam-packed into this one simple, innocent question. I can hear so clearly the things we really want to ask the girl who’s living on an island in the South Pacific: “What did you eat – raw fish and bananas? How were the people dressed – in loincloths? Have they ever even HEARD of turkey?” Well, the raw truth be told (brace yourselves)… we sat just outside of our house with our landlords Eugene and Lynn and their families. On chairs. We ate turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and apple pie. We sat around well into the night, watched kids run circles around us, laughed, and enjoyed reminiscent conversation about our families. Surprised? So were we, to be honest. But, we are coming to realize, very quickly, that Pohnpei is simply… not so different. Truly, the only parts of the evening that felt "Pohnpeian" were indulging in sakau after dinner and listening to the beautiful Pohnpeian language being spoken all around us.

I have never loved a language the way I love Pohnpeian. Sometimes it sounds so strange, I burst out laughing. But most of the time when I hear it, a huge smile spreads across my face and I am enamored, as though a newborn was just placed in my arms. I try to pick up as much as I can, but it has proved difficult, especially in Kolonia, where most people speak decent English and half of them don't know any Pohnpeian (they are from Yap, Chuuk, the Phillipines, or outer islands). But when I do hear snippets of it, that same smile creeps onto my face as I listen intently, trying to pick out any phrases or words that I know.

There has come to be no better cure for a difficult day than to be met with the warmth, humor, respect, and kindness that comes with every word of the language. Every day, one or all of the following encounters with this gorgeous language bring that same big smile to my face, no matter how tired, homesick, or down I may be.

As soon as we step out of our front door in the morning, the man who lives across the street might be perched on the hood of his car, ready to greet us with a cheerful "pwong mwahu!" (which means 'good night' - he's gently making fun of Philip, who, during our first week here, groggily greeted him in Pohnpeian one morning with ‘good night’ instead of ‘good morning’ – and he won’t let Philip live it down).

I’ll walk a little further down the street to see my favorite kids on island, who run as fast as their little legs can carry them until they reach our arms. I pick up the littlest one and give her a kiss, and as soon as I set her down, the next is ready for a hug, and the next, and the next. One usually scrunches her face in the general direction toward our school (the Pohnpeian method for gesturing direction) and asks, “Ke pahn kohla doadoahk?” (‘You are going to work?’), to which I raise my eyebrows, meaning 'yes', and they all excitedly respond, “SEE YOU LATER!” (which I think Philip and I might have taught them).

Further along my way to work will be my neighbors - men, women, and children perched on their porches and windowsills, mending a shirt, sweeping a threshold, or trying to convince their little brothers and sisters, daughters and sons to get dressed for school. All, it seems, are just waiting for me to walk by so we can exchange the morning greeting of “menseng mwahu,” which rolls off our tongues and ends on a mysterious note, as if we and only we know a very special secret. Even if nothing is said, we do a little dance number that is understood to mean, 'hello' - exchange a warm smile, raise our eyebrows, and dip our heads ever so slightly. The smiles I receive here are so unlike the quick, pursed-lips, let’s-just-get-this-out-of-the-way-and-go-our-separate-ways smiles of the States to which I am so accustomed. Not these smiles. These smiles are warm, soft, lingering, and intentional. They seem to say, “it is genuinely a pleasure to see you.”

At school, I often hear my students slip Pohnpeian words into what is supposed to be an environment of only English language. In fact, I can predict their use of Pohnpeian words fairly accurately – all I need to do is announce the homework assignment for the night, and I’m guaranteed to be met with a handful of exclamations: an exasperated “Ohsa!”, a tired “Ohtier…”, or a snippy “Ohiei.” The first is an expression of general disgust, the second is an expression of exhaustion, and the third is an expression of annoyance. I am honored to disgust, exhaust, and annoy my students all at once.

It's lunchtime, and all of the teachers take out whatever we have brought – rice, canned tuna, soup, fruits, sandwiches, packaged snacks – lay it all out on the floor to share, and chat with one another. Everyone begins in English for the benefit of Luke and me, but gradually, the English melds into Pohnpeian, and Luke and I just sit back and soak it in. I’ve never felt left out, but rather privileged to be in the presence of the great laughter and camaraderie of my coworkers.

At the end of the day, I make my journey home, and it looks strikingly similar to my journey to school, except backwards. I exchange greetings with my neighbors all along my short route – usually “Lehlie” (‘Hi’) in which the ‘e’ has a ‘eh’ sound and the first syllable is drawn out, again making it linger, warmly and intentionally. I reach the house of my favorite kids, and the very same process will repeat itself, except this time they will ask, “Ke kohsang doadoahk?” (‘You are coming from work?’), to which I will again raise my eyebrows, and they will grin and yell, “SEE YOU!” Every once in a while they’ll rope me into a game of tag, racing, or hide and seek, but usually they can see that I’m tired. The man on the hood of his car will switch up his game, greeting me with a “menseng mwahu”, though he can plainly see it is evening, and I’ll arrive at our gate, where Princess and Shark, our dogs, anxiously await the arrival of just about anyone.

Holding true to the nature of their warm language, I have found myself with a number of ‘moms and grandmas away from home’ – kind, smiling women who always greet me with a tasty treat or a genuine interest in how I am doing. One woman is the caretaker of Eugene and Lynn’s granddaughter, and another is the housekeeper and cook at the Jesuit House, Nihni.

One day a while ago, I was particularly down - missing home, hard times at school, not feeling well - and I walked over to the Jesuit House in the middle of the day to refill my water bottle. I walked in, and Nihni, who always has a cookie, recipe, or piece of banana bread for me, saw that I was down. She asked suspiciously, "Samantha, ia iromw?" (How are you?). I was armed with a pleasant lie of 'fine, thank you, how are you?', but to the surprise of us both, the same thing happened that happens whenever my mom asks me that simple question on a hard day - my pleasant lie got caught in my throat and my eyes filled with tears, my body ready to take all of my emotional stress, turn it into liquid, and let it flow out of me. Embarassed, I wiped my eyes and responded truthfully, "Soh mwahu, Nihni. I uhdahn pwang." (Not good, Nihni. I'm very tired/worn-down.)

Nihni shook her head, and told me that in Pohnpeian, when someone is asked how they are doing, they never respond with "not good" or "bad". Sometimes they will say, "I mwahu" (I'm good), but more often, they say, "I kehlail" (I'm strong). I had heard people say this many times, but I thought it was just another way to say, "I'm doing well." But Ninhi told me that they are different: (I'm paraphrasing, of course) "Sometimes we are mwahu (good) and sometimes we are not, but no matter what, it is important that we are always kehlail (strong)."

Few passing comments ring in my ears and imprint my heart like Nihni's did that day, but now, when I am asked "Samantha, how are you?" and am tempted to unload my terrible day or mood on some poor inquiring soul, I sigh, smile, and try to respond, "I am strong."

Happy Thanksgiving to my wonderful friends and family -- stay strong :)