Rain

Note: This blog entry is about liquid precipitation, not the star of “Ninja Assassin”.

It’s really wet here. Kolonia town, where I live and work, gets just under 200 inches of rain annually, but the mountain peaks at the interior of the island receive an estimated 400. However, since many people have never heard of our islands, Pohnpei often and unjustly does not make the top ten lists of “wettest places on earth.” Having lived for a year and a half in one of those places, I think about rain a lot.

Each morning, I spend a few moments deciding whether it will rain during my walk to school. I consider hooded jackets, umbrellas, sometimes ponchos. If it’s already pouring when I am ready to leave the house, I might wear a skirt that is different than the one I plan to wear for the day, knowing that when I get to school, the lower half of my body will be drenched, and I will need to look at least somewhat presentable for my students.

At school, I live in constant fear of the rain. Each time I’m about to leave a classroom, I peer at the sky and wonder if it will burst open and blow liters of rain through the open windows while I’m gone; I usually close them when I leave to be safe. Each time I walk from my classroom to the main building to use the bathroom, I walk as fast as I can in case it starts pouring while I’m there, thus preventing me from walking back to the classroom in time for my next class. Sometimes, in the middle of a lesson, a crazy storm will wreak havoc in my classroom. The windows will slam suddenly shut, any loose papers on the students’ desk will waltz around the room together, and the door will slam. The rain will be so loud that no matter how well I project my voice, my students – bodies leaned forward, head turned slightly to position one ear in my direction, faces scrunched up in that familiar way that means, “I have no idea what you are saying” – cannot make out a single word of my lesson. I laugh helplessly and sink into my chair, and they sit back and grin, silently (and sometimes quite loudly) thanking God for this gift that has caused their teacher to be quiet for a few glorious minutes.

The walk home from school isn’t so much of a concern – if I end up soaking wet, which is often, I will just change once I walk in the door, and hang my clothes up to dry. Late at night, I sometimes postpone my bedtime in hopes of a heavy rain – there’s nothing like drifting to sleep, cool and dry in my bed, as the rain falls, angry on the tin roof. (Thanks for getting stuck in my head every time, Edwin McCain.)

In my seventeen months of intensive meteorological ponderings, I’ve been able to discern the direction from which the storms blow in, and even how strong a storm will be. I used to marvel at the ability of our groundskeeper, Immanuel, to show up at school in the morning and say, “it will rain all day today”, and go home, but now I, too, can determine these days – the difference being that I am not exempt from my job in the event of poor weather.

Despite my revelations, I am usually overly confident in my abilities to dodge raindrops, and, discovering that I am not a duck, often find myself immobilized by the rain. I will have been on my way to the post office, or from the container store where I bought a mid-day, off-brand cherry cola. The rain will be light at first, refreshing even, but then -things change. I can hear the heavier rain coming, ominous, before I feel it on my skin. I'm never quite certain where the sound is coming from – behind me or before me, depending on how the storm is blowing in, or sometimes directly above me, as one standing beneath an overturned bucket would hear the water splashing against itself as it descends… the sound of impending liquid doom. The only certainty in my mind is that I need to find cover. NOW.

There will be an awning, a large tree, or, in the worst of cases, a very small tree that is not keeping me dry at all. Whether successful or in vain, I will cower under these objects and curse the rain, curse the heavens that sent it, curse my stupidity and lack of umbrella, curse my skin for not being made of duck feathers. It is during these times that I think about rain the most. More specifically, I think about the differences between the Pohnpeian reaction to rain, and my own.

When I was trying to pack for my two years here, I was told by someone who had lived on the islands that, considering the amount of annual rainfall, utilizing an umbrella would make me the "island idiot." I decided to risk my dignity and pack a small yet fashionable, collapsible, purple umbrella. Upon arrival on the island, I discovered that there were enough white folk (who, really, do so many things other than umbrella usage that make us island idiots), as well as a number of Filipinos and others, who use umbrellas that it would be relatively safe to do the same.

My handy umbrella gets a lot of use, but as I mentioned, sometimes an umbrella just isn’t enough, especially when the winds are strong. But why, I wondered in those first days on Pohnpei, did I seem to be the only one that arrived at my destination soaked? How do Pohnpeians navigate the rains when they’re not even using umbrellas? How are they staying dry? It didn’t take me long to discover their strategy – and what a simple strategy it is: find a dry spot and don’t move. It’s essentially what I had been doing under my awnings and trees, but I failed to mention that my American impatience and anxiety usually had me conceding to the skies within minutes – at the first sign it was letting up, or sometimes even before then. I had places to be! Things to do! Classes to teach! Documents to author! And so, my attitude had to be, “whatever – I’ll just get wet.” I would go lunging into the falling water, my mind cursing my legs’ decision.

When I find myself stuck in the rain here, car-less and with long distances to walk for the first time in my life, those words run through my head every time: “whatever – I’ll just get wet.” I discovered that Pohnpeians have the same attitude, but with the opposite result: “whatever – I’ll just stay here and miss whatever I was on my way to do.” Rain presents a great opportunity to pause, sometimes for an hour or more, under that awning or tree. There are many options for occupying oneself during this long pause. I’ve watched people hum or sing to themselves and sway back and forth, chew betelnut, laugh at the white people dodging the puddles, or strike up a conversation with other waiters – sometimes a full conversation, sometimes just: “Uhdahn kotou rahnwet!” (“It’s really raining today!”) Another option is to run through the rain like a child, laughing so hard that crying is inevitable. Waiting under my awning just yesterday, two grown Pohnpeian men ran past me in a laughing fit, running and splashing in the puddles. One following the other, the man in the lead ducked behind a car while the other man wasn't looking, circled the car, and ended up running behind the other man, switching their order. This sent them into absolute hysterics. I don’t know where they were going, if anywhere, but I wanted to join them. The one thing Pohnpeians don’t do during the rain is look worried, angry, or upset in any way – which white people have decided is an absolute requirement for getting stuck in the rain.

There’s a reason for the sour looks; the Western perspective of rain is universally negative. We are acclimatized to adages that reinforce this outlook. Children sing in desperation, “Rain, rain, go away! Come again some other day!” Dolly Parton imparts her wisdom upon us that “if you want the rainbow, you have to put up with the rain,” and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow reminds us that “into each life, some rain must fall.” The gist of these sayings is that rain, though unavoidable and unpleasant, will soon be gone from us, and in the meantime, we can take comfort in the fellowship of the whole world in that we all experience some rain. In this way, rain is sort of like one’s mother-in-law.

Even the language I’ve used here to describe rain is largely negative – “poor weather,” “impending liquid doom.” Rain ruins things, as Barbara Streisand’s number from “Funny Girl” regarding her parade can attest. Just for fun, I typed “rain ruins” into a Google search, and came up with 165,000 results, mostly news reports of the various world events that have apparently been devastated by something so simple as drops of water. Rain ruins T20 opening ceremony, rain ruins racing at Coffs club, rain ruins Portuguese test session, rain ruins West Indies’ chance, and rain ruins Wednesday’s activities. An especially somber news report is simply entitled, “Rain Ruins Day.” In the United States and elsewhere, the phrase that must be uttered before any major event is: “let’s just pray it doesn’t rain.” Even when the rain is not busy ruining things, Igor from Young Frankenstein soundly expresses our Western style of optimism: “It could be worse. It could be raining.” And, without fail, the rain begins to fall.

But between being upset and anxious during those hard rains, I’ve been passively observing for the past seventeen months. My conclusion: I haven’t seen a single Micronesian upset about the rain. I guess they’ve had a lot more rain to get used to than many others around the world, but I find their attitude calming and inspiring. “Whatever.” My attitude was "whatever," too, but I didn't mean it. I'm usually pretty upset about the general outcome - which is to say, me, soaking wet - of the battles between me and the rain. (The current score: Samantha, 2; Rain, 393.) I’m not saying rain doesn’t ruin things. Aside from important events, heavy rains can ruin roads, infrastructure, plants, clothes, and womens’ hairstyles. It keeps us from appointments, helps us get into terrible accidents, and makes dogs smell horrible. But instead of getting upset about rain and, symbolically, the many other misfortunes that come our way in life, what if we adopted a different attitude?

Langston Hughes had a different attitude about rain. “Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.”

No impending liquid doom there.

 There’s a loose translation of “whatever” into Pohnpeian – “sohte lipilipil.” It literally means “not choosy/selective,” but is used more casually to mean, “it doesn’t matter” when faced with a choice or unpleasant life situation. It’s the Pohnpeian attitude to most of the “rain” – literal and figurative – that visits us all. It is what it is - no point in getting upset. Just wait it out - this, too, shall pass. Whatever.

I Have Parasites - from the acclaimed author of "I Have Fleas" and other short stories

When Philip and I set foot on Pohnpeian soil almost a year and a half ago, our veteran community mates started us off right by frequently discussing their need to get “de-wormed.” Phil and I would exchange confused looks, clear our throats, and ask tenderly, “Do you mean to say that there are worms in your bodies?” They would laugh and respond, “Probably not," our anxious minds soothed. We learned, however, that, to be safe, it truly is suggested that one living in the tropics get “de-wormed” every three to six months.

When I say worms, I'm not exaggerating - they look just like the worms that flop around in the sidewalk cracks after a rain. These worms in particular are classified as parasites – disease-causing organisms that live on or in an animal or human and derive their nourishment from their host. Lice, fleas, and many bacteria and viruses are examples of parasites that live ON humans; parasitic worms live IN humans. The eggs of these worms contaminate food (including the questionable meats I have consumed), water (including the tap water I sometimes drink), animals (including the pigs that used to live outside my bedroom window and the roosters that peck around my feet on campus), and frequently used, but less frequently cleaned, objects like toilet seats and door handles.

Well, those months flew, really. Before we knew it, we’d been here for over a year – fifteen months to be exact – and found ourselves as the veteran community mates. Having, so we thought, escaped the worms for the duration of our time here, we followed in the footsteps of our JV predecessors and made a pretty good joke out of the whole “de-worming” thing for our first-year community mates. When something went inexplicably awry in our bodies, Phil or I would nudge one another and remark casually, “…probably the worms!”

Well, it’s all fun and games until someone finds out they have worms, isn’t it? One fateful night, in conversation with some ex-pat friends, I learned of some side effects of these parasites, and made the connection between these side effects and the realities of my own body. I have been (thankfully) very healthy since my last bout of boils this summer, but had been feeling incredibly tired all the time, especially since the beginning of the new school year. I tried to regulate my lifestyle with sleep, diet, and exercise, and then resorted to extraordinary amounts of caffeine. Yet I still found myself, not just exhausted, but falling asleep - on my desk grading papers after school, once during class, and every day at lunch, when I curled up in a ball behind my desk and passed out. More recently, too, I had been having some inexplicable abdominal pain. The conversation was enough for me. I was off to get myself de-wormed.

I quickly acquired the six-pill, three-day treatment of a drug called Mebendazole, and was skeptical. The pills are some of the smallest I’d ever seen – about the size of a Claritin – and look very unimpressive. How, I wondered, can these tiny white specks expel worms from my body?

While I waited to see if the medicine would kick in, I found myself on WebMD (a dangerous, dangerous place) and other sites seeking more information about how I could find out whether or not I did have worms. Most reported that having a stool sample taken would be necessary to know for sure. I wasn’t sure if my healthcare would cover a “just out of curiosity” stool sample. I also found some things that I wish I hadn’t – for example, that these eggs lodge themselves in the intestine, hatch, grow up to twenty feet long, and multiply well into the hundreds. There are roundworms, hookworms, pinworms, whipworms, and tapeworms. It started sounding like a bad musical after a while, so nauseating that my skepticism grew and multiplied along with my hypothetical worms, and I decided that I didn’t have worms. Not me.

My skepticism of Mebendazole was unwarranted. I discovered, courtesy of WebMD (whose slogan should either be, "fostering fear and anxiety for just about anyone with Internet access" or "making the lives hypochondriacs even worse"), that Mebendazole, despite its size, is incredibly effective, keeping the worm from absorbing sugar, causing loss of energy and death of the worm. I also discovered that wiser, more sensible ex-pats really do get de-wormed every three to six months.

My skepticism of my hypothetical worms was unwarranted, too, and I’ll just say that I didn’t need a stool sample to help me figure it out. Mebendazole forgot to add a “Surgeon General’s Warning for the Weak-Stomached: Do NOT look in the toilet bowl while on this medication. You’ll thank us later.” It goes without saying that if I hadn’t joked about it for fifteen months and de-wormed myself in a timely manner, I wouldn’t have almost passed out when I did look in the toilet bowl.

As a teacher, I’m tempted to force myself to write on the blackboard 100 times: “Intestinal worms are a serious matter. Intestinal worms are a serious matter.”

Math is FUN!

Sometimes, teaching math is so boring, I have to do something to amuse myself. I have discovered that the “Bonus Item” is the best way to accomplish this without losing my credibility as both an adult and a teacher. The “Bonus Item” appears at the end of an otherwise orthodox, boring exam. Aside from amusing me, benefits of the “Bonus Item” include: keeping students distracted who are finished with their test and may be tempted to distract others; allowing students who are very clever but not so good at, or interested in, math to earn a point or two on an exam they may have otherwise failed; and giving students the impression, albeit false, that Math is FUN!

Bonus Item Example #1: (from freshman Algebra)

Q: “What pneumonic device can you come up with (other than ‘Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally’) to remember the order of operations?”
A: “Please Excuse My Dear Augustine Sue LOL!”   [Augustine Sue is the former principal of Pohnpei Catholic School, where about half of the freshmen went to elementary school. His initials are unfortunate as far as this test is concerned.]

A: “Pohnpeians Eat Many Donuts…for example… Augustine Sue HAHA”

A: “Please Eat My Dog, Augustine Sue"   [I’m not sure if Augustine Sue is the name of the dog, or if he’s requesting that Augustine Sue eat his dog. Either way, there’s no laughter following this one – he wasn’t kidding.]

A: “Pohnpeians, Everytime, Make Delicious Apple Sauce"   [This is not true, judging by the time my mom sent it in a care package and I brought some to school. The other teachers asked, ‘Dahkot men?’ (‘What is that?’) ‘Applesauce,’ I answered. Receiving questioning looks, I tried again: ‘Apel...en waii...sukusuk?’ (‘Apple...of the foreigner (as opposed to local apple)...pounded?’) ‘Weioh...’ they said, understanding.]

A: “Pohnpeians Eat Mangoes Daily At Sundown”

A: “Planet Earth Moves Directly Across (the) Sun”   [I’m no science teacher, but that sounds like a stretch of the truth...]

A: “Please Enjoy My Daily Announcements, Sir!”

A: “Please Educate My Daughter And Son”

A: “Pig Executioners Mostly Don’t Act Sorry”  [An animal lover! An answer of my own heart. I wonder if so many pigs would be slaughtered if the people doing the slaughtering knew they were being called “executioners”...]

A: “Paul Executed Mom’s Dog At (the) Substation”  [Why? Why, Paul? And where exactly is there a substation on Pohnpei??]


Bonus Item #2: (from sophomore Geometry)

Q: “As we learned, a conjecture is an educated guess based on observation. Make 5 observations and conjectures about any subject.”

A: “Ms. Cocco doesn’t wear makeup and doesn’t have pierced ears. Therefore, Ms. Cocco must have brothers and not sisters.” [It’s true!]

A: “Ms. Cocco has slowtes [editor’s note: she means “slouches”]. Therefore, Ms. Cocco must have back problem.”

A: “Ms. Cocco doesn’t always shave her legs. Therefore, Ms. Cocco doesn’t like to shave her legs.” [Long skirts, come on! The students weren’t supposed to notice!]

A: “Ms. Cocco wears local skirts all the time. Therefore, Ms. Cocco wishes she is a Ponapean."

A: “Ms. Cocco looks old. Therefore, she’s about 25.”

A: “Ms. Coco always matches. Therefore, she’s had good style.” [THREE C's!]

A: “Ms. Cocco is light-skinned. Therefore, she is a Australian.”

A: “Ms. Cocco has great calves. Therefore, she hikes a lot and teaches aerobic class.” [A brown-noser extraordinaire.]

A: “Ms. Cocco talks about her dog all the time. Therefore, she must love dogs.”

A: “Ms. Cocco doesn’t know how to teach biology.” [There was no reason given for this. I’m not sure what to think, but I’m glad it says “biology” instead of “geometry”.]

A: “I don’t understand this, therefore this is hard. I am bored, therefore this is boring.” [He may not have intended to answer this correctly, but he’ll get full bonus credit for this answer!]

A: “Ms. Cocco is always wearing a cross on her neck. Therefore, she’s atheist. LOL”

A: “Ms. Cocco walks everywhere, therefore she is poor.” [These answers are making me poor in spirit…]

A: “Ms. Cocco teaches barefoot sometimes. Therefore, sometimes she loses her slippers.”

A: “Ms. Cocco taught us a cheerleading move last year to remember how to multiply binomials. Therefore, Ms. Cocco has a second job as a professional cheerleader.”

A: “Ms. Cocco speaks some Pohnpeian words. Therefore, maybe she’s tricking us and actually knows a lot of Pohnpeian and understands everything we say about her!!!!!!”

A: “Ms. Cocco is wearing a polo shirt today. Therefore, she’s kind of a nerd.”

A: “I didn’t fall asleep in this class yet this year. Therefore, Geometry is better than Algebra.” [Orrrrr…. Ms. Cocco is a great teacher?]

A: “Our Lady of Mercy Catholic High School has the word Catholic in the name. Therefore, it is not a school for Jewish or Islam people.”


Two successful Bonus Items; I am thoroughly amused.

A Long Overdue Post

The end of my first year as a teacher was a blur. May was busy and complicated; Luke and Jo were preparing to leave the island for good (or for a while, at least), Philip and I were dreaming of vacation in Chuuk, finals were advancing upon us, students were restless, and we were all ready for the month to end. For me, things were complicated further with the almost-daily practice of graduation songs with the graduating seniors. Having a decent voice and a connection with the girls put me in charge of this task.

I brought in my iPod and all of the CDs in our house and let them go through all of it for a few days. They were particularly taken with "Wide Open Spaces" by the Dixie Chicks, but we decided it was too hard to sing. We finally settled on "In My Life" by the Beatles, and two other songs we wrote together. I wrote the lyrics for "Time to Say Goodbye" (I knew that "Introduction to Poetry" course from college would pay off someday) and a senior wrote its melody, and another song, "With You" was thrown in at the last minute, its origin completely unknown to me. We procured a keyboard, and a hidden talent of keyboard playing was revealed in one of the seniors, and we went to work. They decided to change the melody to "In My Life," which was almost upsetting for me, as it's one of my favorite songs, but I reminded myself that this was their graduation, not mine. We practiced, practiced some more, changed some things, then practiced more. We practiced sitting, practiced standing, practiced lying on the floor when we got tired, and doubled over with laughter when someone came in too early. I loved every minute, exhausting as it was. Pohnpeian women love to sing, I discovered, and they love to sing the same songs over and over!

The time finally came for Baccalaureate mass, followed a few days later by Graduation. Both ceremonies were beautiful and fun, and the girls looked perfect in the baby pink gowns and caps they picked out themselves. I teared up when they were handed their diplomas and Bibles, and watched each of their families honor them with mwaramwars, flower and shell leis.

As I watched them, I reminded myself that in a few months they would all be headed on to pursue higher education at the College of Micronesia. We had spent the entire year preparing for the mathematics section of the College of Micronesia Entrance Test, as I breathed down their necks, assigned copious amounts of homework, and reminded them daily that their futures were on the line. In January, all of their hard work paid off as every one of them tested into the National campus, where the quality of education is higher. In two or thee years, they will receive associates degrees, and then decide whether they want to leave the island to pursue bachelors' or higher education degrees.

The senior class, I'm told, started out with 29 girls, and five graduated on Tuesday, May 25th. From what I've come to learn about their lives from themselves and others, they have each overcome unique and great obstacles in their education paths. One, graduating at age 17, has a five-year-old son.

I am immensely proud of them.

"The Death of the V-Neck" and other pointless stories by Samantha Cocco

The Death of the V-Neck

Micronesia boasts a very strange type of window in most buildings and homes. These windows are made of smaller plates of glass called louvers; each louver is, on average, 3" x 24" (the math teacher in me would like to remind you that that is a surface area of 72 square inches), depending on the size of the window. Sets of 5-10 louvers are connected on a metal frame that has a small handle positioned so that, when pulled down, the entire set of louvers opens. Push up, and all of the louvers close. I don't know where one can buy louvers, but everyone seems to have them, including my school. I've only seen a handful of buildings with actually panes of glass as windows.

The thing about these louvers is, when you close them at the end of each day, if you push a little harder on the handle, it locks the louvers into place, and the handle snaps into place flush with the edge of the window. Behind this handle is just enough space for a gecko to lurk during the night and on through the morning.

A favorite game of mine (read: the most dreaded part of every day on this island) is one I call, "Where's Gecko?" (you guessed it - inspired by the infamous Waldo). Every morning when I unlock my classroom and push the door ajar, I can sense it: the geckos are waiting. They've been waiting all night, hiding behind the louver handles, chirping their absurd little noises, that high-pitched cackle that I know would be translated, if gecko chirps could be understood, as, Where should we hide tomorrow morning? Did you see the look on her face today?

The room has been warmed by the morning sun, and, having had no air flow, the stuffy heat is unbearable. I have to open some louvers. The students will be here any minute. My eyes scan the room and I wonder, will they be hiding behind the same handles as yesterday? Will they have switched up their game, knowing I'll be expecting them hidden within the top louvers on the right side of the room? Do geckos have higher brain functioning? I'm dripping with sweat, partially from the heat, partially from fear. They have no higher brain functioning, I decide. They could be anywhere. I have to open the louvers. I push the door open further and start towards the first handle.

It's not that I have a phobia of geckos. My mom has a phobia of snakes, and if she knew tiny green and black snakes were slithering behind those handles, she would be paralyzed with fear, too. For me, the thing to understand is, it's not the sight of geckos that strikes fear in my heart. It's the fact that sometimes, they are not only behind the handles, but hanging onto the back of the handles, and the force of pulling on that handle, the sudden unlocking, sends geckos flying -- right at my face.

Once, a gecko flung off of the handle and whizzed past my ear. I heard it chirping for dear life as it flew past my head. I, of course, thought it would land on me, and did a song and dance of shrieking "GET IT OFF ME!" and jumping around the room for a few moments. That was the day we had a new sophomore student that had arrived early and was sitting in the back of the classroom. The look of terror on her face at the sight of her psychotic new teacher left me wondering if she would be back for a second day.

This past week one morning, I arrived about 40 minutes before homeroom began, giving myself ample time to work up the courage to open all of the louvers. There are 36 handles to pull down; it's a large classroom. It was Friday and I was feeling good about finishing up a second week. A current of fear ran through my heart, but I pushed it away. Not today, geckos! I started for the first handle, the bottom louvers on the right side of the room. All clear. I continued along the perimeter of the room, whistling to myself. Keep in mind that, some days, there turns out not to be any geckos at all, and I feel pretty silly for opening all of the louvers so cautiously. This must be one of those days!

I arrive at the 11th set of louvers: top louvers, with a handle at about eye-level for me. I'm absent-mindedly looking out of the window I've just opened, beaneath the 11th set, watching students walk towards the building. Still whistling. Unbeknownst to me, all the while... a gecko had been silently lurking. Not only lurking, but clinging -- to the handle of the 11th set of louvers. With the force of the handle unlocking, he flies off of his handle (literally), and in mid-air, spots a safe, new, dark home to aim for -- down my v-neck shirt. He slides in perfectly, not even bouncing off of my breastbone first -- a swish, you might say, if he were a basketball instead of a gecko. I would have much preferred a basketball.

My reaction? Let's leave it at the fact that the juniors should be very thankful they had not yet shown up for homeroom, for the sake of immense trauma. It took only a few moments for the gecko to realize he was unwelcome, and scurry down my shirt onto the floor, where I maniacally stamped his life to an end. May he rest in peace.

I won't be wearing v-necks to school for a while, I've decided.


Not So Goofy

You may remember a blog entry in February that mentioned how I'd be spending Valentine's Day with a new man who had entered my life: a tiny, struggling, doorstep puppy named Goofy. He arrived at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic High School one dark, cold February night (it had dropped below 80 degrees) in a soiled cardboard box, whining pathetically and in bad shape. I found him in the morning and fell in love with him immediately, but resigned to the fact that I couldn't keep a dog on a volunteer's stipend, that he was not my dog, and that the treatment of dogs is different here on Pohnpei than it is where I come from.

Fortunately for us both, the woman who rents the campus apartment where he was left decided to keep him and raise him as a watchdog for our school and her apartment, as both see a high number of break-ins along with the rest of the Catholic mission. I was elated, and even more so when she asked me to care for him for the first month while she was off-island. Just a puppy, he couldn't stay outside all night, so for that whole month he was in my care last Spring, I locked him in her bathroom when I left for the night - and cleaned up a growing puppy's night's worth of presents each morning. But I loved him no less - Goofy (named by our principal, Sr. Maria, another of his admirers) was young enough to be trained not to be so territorial and mean as most other dogs are here, and further, to show me as much affection as I desired.

We fed him real dog food, not bones and ramen like most other Micronesian dogs get, and he grew much faster and more normally than other dogs. I continued to be very affectionate and playful with him, and he with me. My Micronesian students and coworkers laughed at my baby-talk and told me they were going to eat him, but I'd been missing my Shih-Tzu at home in Ohio, Teddy, so much, I didn't care. I knew they wouldn't really eat him, and he was the only thing to make me smile on some very homesick days.

By the time I returned home from Chuuk in June, he was sleeping outside each night and seemed to have grown even more in the three weeks I was away, looking like a full-grown dog, though he couldn't have been more than a year. He was so happy to see me, so I tried not to be bothered by his horrible stench that had accumulated from never taking a single bath in his life. I noticed he was venturing off-campus much more during the day, and wondered where he could be going until he started coming home with scratches and cuts, and once, a very broken leg. I knew they were the result of fights with other dogs, and realized suddenly that my babying and affection had ruined him. He couldn't survive in Pohnpei.

I wanted to send him home, but I didn't think my mom would be too pleased with me. I wanted to take him into our house, but realized that we four humans hardly fit in there, much less a large, stinky dog. I resigned to the fact, again, that dogs live differently here on Pohnpei than what I'm used to. Other dogs would continue to fight him, even, as I witnessed, venturing onto our campus to find him and pick a fight. I became so sad everytime I watched him try to befriend other dogs, only to be chased away or beat up by the territorial beasts. I described him to my friends and family back home as similar to Buddy the Elf, played expertly by Will Ferrell in "Elf": tragically friendly, unable to understand the meanness of this world.

In July, walking to school on our usual route one morning, three dogs were playing at a store close to our schools when one broke from the pack and made a beeline toward us. I began to reach down for a rock, but then realized - That's Goofy! He has made friends! Two friends! Two dogs were being raised by a Filipino family living above the store, with kids that go to the Catholic elementary school across the street, and they were raised the same way Goofy was, with affection and real dog food. He jumped on me, then ran back to play some more. The two of them are good-looking dogs, not mangy and straggly like other dogs here, and they played very nicely with him. I was so happy. I thought, maybe I did ruin him, and maybe he'll never be a real Pohnpeian dog, and other dogs will still seek him out to pick on him, but at least now he has a couple of friends to help watch his back and treat him well.

Goofy, with his unconditional love and pleasant disposition, continued to keep me good company during long hours put in at school over the summer, and as we advanced into the school year and students began to flood in, he bounced around, tail wagging furiously, to greet the returning students. They marveled over how big he had gotten and threatened to eat him, just like always, but patted his head when I wasn't looking, and I saw the slightest glimmers of affection in their eyes. After school and at lunch, I saw some students playing gently with him and chasing him around. I knew then that a mean, territorial dog wouldn't do well at our school with so many teenagers, and thought, maybe I didn't ruin him. Maybe he's just the right dog for our school! But I still felt sad that he wasn't tough enough to really protect anyone, or himself, when it came down to it. I spent half of my after-school hours fending off other dogs when they lurked around campus looking for him.

This past Friday, I was working late in the computer lab long after school had ended. Goofy was sleeping just outside the doors to the lab, ever close by my side. Sr. Maria was locking up the other buildings when suddenly I saw my docile, bumbling little friend stand up quickly, ears sharp and pointed, tail straight, staring in the direction of the building Sr. Maria was locking. I called his name, trying to calm him, but it seemed he didn't hear me. He didn't move a muscle, but began to growl and bare his teeth. I'd never seen him do such a thing.

I stepped behind him and looked in the direction upon which he was focused, and saw a man walking towards Sr. Maria. She turned around and listened to what he was saying, which I couldn't make out. Suddenly, Goofy made a beeline for the man, barking furiously. The man turned around and backed towards the building, clearly scared. I ran towards them, calling his name and trying to make him leave the man alone. When I reached them, I swatted him and said to the man, "Kupwuromahk, maing," (I'm sorry, Sir), but he began backing away from the dog, who was still barking and snapping at him. I went to swat him again, but Sr. Maria grabbed my arm and said in her Basque accent, "No, let him. That is a drunk man harassing me. I think he is the one who tried to break in the other night." Our timid little dog, whose instincts I thought I had ruined, snapped and barked at the man until he left the campus, following him all the way out of the Catholic mission.

The next night, a Saturday, I was working in the lab all day, walked over to 5pm English mass, and came back to continue work on a project I've been focusing on - putting together a school library. I was there well past dark, being cautious by locking the doors and locking Goofy in the room with me, feeling more confident in his abilities for protection. I had the lights turned off, because the termites were swarming, so the only light in the room was the dim blue coming from the computer screen. With the doors locked and lights off, anyone outside the room would not have known anyone was inside. I hadn't heard anything at all outside when suddenly Goofy had the same reaction he had had the evening before - sharp ears, sharp tail, eyes piercing through the darkness. He went to the locked doors and stuck his nose in between them, blowing air out of his nose furiously. I got up from my computer, peered outside, and quietly unlocked the doors. He shoved through them, and stood outside for a moment in the same stance before taking off in the direction of the kitchen. Frightened, I quickly locked the doors again and listened through the darkness. He began barking and snapping and I heard a man yell, "SET!" (the Pohnpeian equivalent of "Sh**!"), and take off through the bushes behind the kitchen. I didn't see Goofy again for the rest of the night, but I have a feeling he was busy patrolling, or hunting down that man.

I can't say for sure that the drunk man had any intention of harming Sr. Maria, or that the man who ran through the bushes was trying to break into the kitchen, or do anything to our campus at all for that matter. But some sort of instinct kicked in for Goofy, and he transformed into a wild, territorial beast, out to protect me, Sr. Maria, our school, or all of the above, from anyone who seemed threatening in the least. Not so "goofy" anymore.

Bumbling, loveable, licking-my-toes Goofy by day; sharp, instinctual, territorial watchdog by night. Maybe I didn't ruin him after all.

Rascals in Paradise

For our mid-service retreat (Re-Orientation), we spent five days on a small, uninhabited island on the reef of Chuuk lagoon. A couple of definitions: by "uninhabited," I mean, Population: 2 (two men whose family owns the island, who live there occasionally and upkeep the island); and by "small," I mean, there is no point on the island from which you cannot see the ocean from all four sides. During our 1 1/2 hour boat ride to get there, one of the second-year volunteers who had been there the year before looked at me and asked, "Are you ready for total island paradise?" I smiled, but thought, Don't I live on an island paradise every day in Pohnpei?

I discovered that I had underestimated Pisar. As we advanced upon it, our boat reduced its speed to accomodate for the shallower waters, and my community mate Luke motioned and said, "That's it." I followed his gaze to see an island of tall green foliage in the middle, surrounded by beaches of white sand, which is nonexistant on the main islands of Pohnpei and Chuuk. One tall, renegade palm tree perched on the edge of the white sand, separating itself from the other hues of green and leaning out over the edge of the water, its huge trunk curved into the shape of a negative exponential fuction (just reminding you all that I'm still a nerdy math teacher).

The water became shallow enough that we had to anchor our boat about 70 feet from the shore and taxi in by an even smaller speedboat. Pisar met us in traditional island fashion, with a tremendous storm that poured fresh, cool water on us as soon as we finished unloading our belongings and the food and drinking water that would sustain us for five days.

From my journal that first night:
How is it possible, I asked God tonight, my eyes fixed on the night sky. How is it possible that there is so much beauty in the world that I've yet to discover? My eyes stayed glued to the stars for a long time tonight, as though I'd never seen it before. I suppose I haven't - I've seen the same sky, but not like this. Almost a year ago, Chris [Kerr, a Campus Minister and friend from John Carroll, who had been on Pohnpei for a summer in '99] had written in a farewell card, "Pohnpei is God's planetarium." I passed on this comment to my community mates as we discovered that he was right on certain, cloudless nights on Pohnpei, when the sky was clear and the island dark enough to see so many stars - easily twice the amount I've ever seen at one time before in my life. I wish he could see Pisar. I wish everyone I know could see Pisar. Even as I write this, every time I look up, I become fixated again for a few moments, as though I've discovered yet another of the God's secrets, a new freckle on the incredible face that belongs to nature.

Pisar was awe-striking for me for many reasons. It provided for me a "retreat" in the truest sense of the word. I was able to retreat from all technologies, even down to lights at night other than the moon and stars, and even retreat from myself - my worries and doubts about the year ahead, and musings about the year I had just finished. My head was clear, the world made perfect sense, and there was a peace within me that I've certainly felt before, but never for five consecutive days. That peace compounded upon itself and engulfed me, allowing me to leave the island still wrapped in its warmth (or coolness - additional warmth on top of the heat and humidity of this island doesn't sound particularly comforting!), refreshed and ready to start a second year. The therapeutic effects of the natural world.

I think the sound, or lack thereof, of Pisar was most striking. One day I lay back on the sand, put my journal aside, and listened. I heard:
The wind making music with the palm fronds
A small bird, very close, or maybe far off, carried to me by the wind
The ocean, far off, crashing loudly on the reef
The ocean, close, washing on the shore a few feet away
Someone's soft footprints in the sand
That's it. I lay there for about an hour, concentrating very hard on sounds and nothing else, and could only pick out five sounds. Tell me where else in the world that's possible.

Also from my journal, on the last day:
For five consecutive days, I've worn no shoes on my feet. The island boasts many wonders, one being a walking distance from one end to the next of one minute and 26 seconds, at a leisurely pace. A constant ocean breeze wraps around me, a breeze to trump all other breezes I've felt in my life.

Snorkeling, I wonder at the Pacific in a thousand hues of blue, hiding magnificent coral, big and small, round or jagged, orange, brick red, pure white, cream, brown, and tan. Schools of fish take no notice of the big, awkward, human-shaped fish that has just moved into their neighborhood, and they swim, around, beneath, and over me. Tiny aqua blue fish, orange clown fish (none had a defective fin - I checked - thus, Nemo must be elsewhere), big blue starfish, skinny long fish, and tiny electric fish that form a huddle around me - all are luckier than the flat black fish that got barbequed for dinner last night. Sand in places I didn't know sand could find its way into, sand that will demand some serious scrubbing, is currently working its way between the inner and outer layers of my shorts. I have no keys with me, because there is not a single keyhole on this island. There are no precautions to take before heading otu to the ocean, which is a few feet away from where I sleep, to snorkel for three hours - no bed to make, no lights to turn out, no money to run out of.

I feel that I no longer look like the pale American I was when I arrived to Pisar, the place of healing. My feet are softer and callous-free, my toenails bleached white by the coral sand. My skin is tanned a light bronze by the sun, and my hair is thick with salt water and salty ocean air. What of tomorrow? My hair will wash clean, my tan will fade, and my feet will harden and be dirty once again, but what of the rest of me? What part of me will refuse to leave this place?

On the boat ride home, we were welcomed back to the troubled Micronesia we have all come to know as the men operating our boat threw our carefully collected, tightly tied, black trash bags into the water as we sped along. The tide was high, and water splashed up into the boat from all sides, soaking us. The honeymoon was over, but I stared at Pisar until it disappeared below the horizon.

As we approached the main island of Chuuk, a dolphin appeared from nowhere and accompanied our boat for only a few minutes, pleasing us with tricks and jumps, before disappearing as suddenly as he had come.

Rock

(A poem about a hike that has given me strength, clarity, and peace in the past year)

Climbing, always climbing, trying to reach, trying to grasp, trying to conquer, trying to perfect.

The long walk to the base, black pavement, blinding sun, dogs chasing, hot, dry, dry heat, sunburned shoulders, no shade, cars whizzing around corners, angry sun, hot, hot.

The stairs, Nature's Stairmaster, winding, slipping, steep, steeper, wet rocks that never see the sun, spiders and their invisible webs, the bats' cries from their deep caves, humid, dark, only patches of sunlight, harder to breathe, quads burning, lungs burning, contacts burning, sweat dripping, wet, wet.

The rock, the sudden wind, the climb, the challege, the view, my God, the view, the adrenaline, the fear, the slipping grip, the focus, the determination, the muscles rippling, my arms failing, the elusive footholds, no more pain, no more fear, can't feel the pain, gotta get to the top, the top.

The top, the wind, the peace, the waves that crash upon the reef, that white foam, the toy boats, the airstrip, the entire airstrip, the pineapple bushes ripping ankles open, the scuttling crabs, the drop, my God, the drop, the fear and wonder, anxiety and awe, the wind, the view, my God, that view, the birds that soar, the view, the view.

Mother Mary, come to me..

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary, come to me;
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be…

During the last meeting of the ten-week preparation process for this tomorrow’s Confirmation, I and the other confirmants were asked to formulate a response to the simple query: “Confirmation is over; now what?” In other words, how do we expect our lives as confirmed Catholics to be any different than life before? This question is especially vital for me, as I’m not only confirming my existing commitment to the Christian faith, but also officially changing my denominational affiliation – from Lutheran to Catholic. My reasons are many, but not altogether revolutionary. I’ve been discussing joining the Catholic Church for some time, and hoped for an easy transition. Recent conversations, however, have encouraged my suspicions that I’ll have a lot of work to do when I get home to set minds at ease about my decision.

I don’t mean to sound like I didn’t see it coming. To my best knowledge, my entire extended family on my mom’s side (five children, eleven grandchildren, and three great grandchildren) have been baptized and raised in the same Lutheran church, in the small town of Petersburg, Ohio. During the recitation of the Apostle’s Creed, in place of the line that reads, “I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church,” an unnamed member of my family says loudly and clearly, “…one holy CHRISTIAN and apostolic church…” This practice goes unshared by the rest of my family, but I’m not certain that some of them necessarily disagree, based on some of their reactions to my conversion.

This work of explaining my faith is work I feel prepared and glad to do – after all, what would be the point of joining a Church whose practices and beliefs I am unable to explain and support? Confidence in my ability to represent the Catholic faith was one of my primary answers to the posed question.

The strength of the reactions I have received has been surprising; some have been very encouraging, others frustrating, while still others that have left me with questions of my own. More often than not, the reactions are expressed innocently, in true Peter Griffin (“You know what really grinds my gears?”) or Andy Rooney (“And here’s ANOTHER thing that makes me angry!”) fashion. The most common grievance, at least among my family and friends: “…and why are they so obsessed with Mary?”

Among all of the disparities between Catholics and Protestants, from the hierarchy of the church to transubstantiation, interpretations of Scripture, and the sacrament of reconciliation, the Church’s perspective on Christ’s mother Mary has proven to be a hot button issue. I’ve heard some ridiculous claims, including that the Church honors Mary more than her son. Though I suppose it may seem that way to some, as James Martin puts it, “so intricately woven is she into the tapestry of [Catholic] religious culture,” I think a deeper understanding of Roman-Catholic Mariology reveals that an appreciation of Mary actually gives way to a deeper understanding of Christ.

My understanding of Mary has always been one of absolute awe – imagining myself at her young age to be suddenly pregnant, forced to flee to another country, and handed the responsibility of raising a child in very difficult and dangerous circumstances. Her unshakable faith, amplified by her immense strength and courage, make her a woman to be admired – even BEFORE weighing the more mysterious and difficult-to-fathom aspects of Christ’s Immaculate Conception (which my mind of reason still struggles to digest).

The story of the Annunciation – when the angel Gabriel reveals Christ’s conception to Mary – further demonstrates her amazing faith. As the Gospel of Luke tells us, she is at first terrified. It is in her terror, her bewilderment, her questions of ‘How can this be?’ that I find myself most comforted. Who hasn’t questioned the events of our lives, chalking them up to the ‘will of God’ and thus asking, exasperated, ‘Why me?!’ Mary’s response is wonderfully and refreshingly human. Her eventual response inspires me further: “Let it be with me according to your word.”

Additionally, the feminist in me holds Mary in great esteem for the unique role that Mary, as a woman, played in Christ’s mission. Mary did something no man could do. You go, girl! I’m touched by the roles played by Veronica and Mary Magdelene during the Passion and Resurrection for the same essential reason. A mentor and friend of mine from John Carroll, Paula, has a wonderful piece of art hanging in her office, depicting a group of women at the foot of the cross with the simple caption: “It was the women who stayed.” During my long hours in her office during retreat planning, I would find myself staring intently at the piece, certain that that caption meant something significant for my own life.

Thus, despite all of the criticism of the Church’s often not-so-subtle commentary on the role of women, which is an existing grievance of mine as well, I find their dedication to and portrayal of the humble, trusting Mary as surprisingly empowering, and one that, as a woman myself, helps me feel closer to Christ. To me, this is the essence of intercession.

Intercession refers to, at least in the Christian use of the word, mediation between oneself and Christ through an intermediary, usually a recognized saint, including Mary and the apostles. In my experience, especially recently, the purpose of and philosophy underlying intercession is the most misunderstood aspect of Catholicism. As many friends and family have expressed, why go through someone like Mary when you can go straight to the source of the answer of your prayers, Jesus? Half-jokingly, I’ve heard it said, “When I go to a doctor, I don’t want to talk to his mother.”

However, that’s not what we say about our pastors. When Protestants talk with their pastor, she is often asked to pray for them. She does not, in turn, put her hands up and back away, defensively declaring, “Don’t talk to me! Just pray to Jesus!” Pastors, priests, and anyone else to whom we look for guidance and prayers, have great compassion and indeed, intercede for us. They pray for us and want to assist us in our relationships with Christ. Their true desire should be to bring their congregants closer to Christ. This is no way diminishes Christ’s role as “the source”.

I feel myself increasingly drawn to Mary through my experience in Pohnpei, surprisingly having nothing to do with my decision to become confirmed. Working at Our Lady of Mercy (I’ll give you one guess who the lady is!) Catholic High School has surrounded me not only with images of Mary (enormous posters in each classroom with the caption, “Our Lady of Mercy, Pray for Us”) but with three strong and devoted women (the Mercedarian Missionaries of Berriz sisters who run my school) who emulate the faith I hope to have for my own life – the unwavering faith of Mary. The distinctly Catholic “Hail Mary” has become for me a great source of comfort, especially on some sleepless nights when I lie awake, fingering the gorgeous white rosary I was either given or took without asking from my mother – I can’t quite remember which. My deep and unexpected connection to Mary, I suspect, has a lot to do with my maturing relationship with my own mother, aunts, and grandmother, the sources of unconditional love in my life. That relationship, I am pleasantly surprised to say, I think has grown even deeper in the past eight months despite the 7000 miles between us.

I’ll never claim to have all the answers on Catholicism – I’ll leave that to Richard McBrien, author of the incredibly comprehensive (and longer than the Bible and War & Peace combined) Catholicism. But as I slowly and clumsily weave the tapestry of my own faith discoveries, I can promise to share.

A Sense of Pohnpei

A compilation of our favorite and least favorite ways to make "sense" of our life here in Pohnpei, using our eyes, ears, noses, tongues, and fingers (our senses... get it..?)

FAVORITE SIGHTS: puppies (for Sam only, and sometimes Philip); plumeria flowers scattered all over the streets; tucked in PCS uniform shirts (a favorite of Philip, the tucked in shirt Nazi); Sr. Maria running (usually after chickens on campus, or to ring the bell on time); clean chalkboards; a full coffee pot in the morning; Tim Smit dancing with an umbrella; yellow "You've Got a Package" slips in our mailbox; the silhouette of Sokehs Rock at sunset from the Jesuit house porch; fresh vegetables or fruit on island; the girl who works at the DVD rental place (Philip's gal); shirtless men pounding sakau (Sam and Jo only, though they suspect Philip and Luke like it, too); the MicSem vehicle pulling up to our house (signifying it's time to go play basketball with Tim and Fr. Fran); flamboyant traffic cops who dance around with whistles and white gloves at Pohnpei rush hour; finished report cards; a big stack of graded papers; clean house (mostly Sam); poorly translated Chinese and Filipino products; LOST.

LEAST FAVORITE SIGHTS: the early morning bare breasts of elderly local women; white "You've Got a Package, But It Has Been Torn or Damaged" slips in our mailbox; the impossibly tiny size of Philip's closet-bedroom; "This page cannot be displayed" (because the Internet is down or power is out); "103" on the oral thermometer (for Luke, while we were compiling this list); swastika tattoos (not because Pohnpeians are neo-Nazis - they don't quite understand the significance); the formation of a new boil on one's body; ants, spiders, cockroaches, rats, mice, centipedes, and fleas; people who pretend to be possessed (Sam's least favorite sight EVER); obviously drunk guys who are about to hit on you (for Sam and Jo, but also Luke and Philip occasionally); and dead fish (for Sam).


FAVORITE SMELLS: a fresh pot of coffee in the morning; caramelized onions (which Sam incorporates into just about every meal she makes); coconut oil (good for absolutely everything); our respective bottles of body wash sent by family and friends; candles; sakau; barbecued chicken; Tide detergent (which we just recently discovered after months of using cheap, sickeningly sweet smelling Filipino detergent); the smell after a rain; fresh cut grass.

LEAST FAVORITE SMELLS: the Pohnpei Catholic School bathroom; the trash dump off of the causeway where we walk and jog; the pigs; our dogs when it hasn't rained in a while; mildew on our pillows and in the walls; burning trash; running shoes that never quite dry completely; yoga mats; wet clothes after they have accidentally sat in a backpack for over a week; stinky breadfruit; lunch Tupperware that has accidentally sat in a school bag for over a week; under our sink, for some reason; our garbage can, even when it's just been washed and is empty.


FAVORITE SOUNDS: country, 90's, and other white people music playing at the grocery store or the occasional house; the Lagoonese pronunciation of Philip's name (Pinip); Philip's closed-mouth laugh; anything Immanuel or Angelbert says; the final bell at school; Pohnpeian singing at church; the early morning greetings of "pwong mwahu guy"; the voice of the man on the Pohnpei Cinemas hotline telling us about this month's movie selections; the little noises Skype makes when it's trying to reach our family members; silence; "oh, nan!"; Tim playing CatchPhrase or LikeWise; a heavy rain; Luke's imitations of just about everybody.

LEAST FAVORITE SOUNDS: the OLMCHS prison bell; Jo's watch that beeps every hour; our neighbors singing and laughing all night long (Chuukese people don't sleep); honking for no good reason; a student talking without raising their hand, or raising their hand and asking unnecessary questions; "eeyy, serepein masamwahu!" ("heyyy, pretty girl!") from some drunk guy or group of guys; screaming babies; puppies (for everyone but Sam); "IA WASA MET?!" ("What place is this?!", the lovely greeting yelled into the phone line when someone calls the wrong number and reaches our house); the "h" sound pronounced at the beginnings of words that start with vowels ("Come and HHH-eat this food I just took out of the HHH-oven"); the lack of "h" sound pronounced at the beginnings of words that start with an "h" ("I, ow are you?"); "It's hot" (the most common and incredibly ironic complaint of our students); the drunk Chuukese yell - IIIEEEEEIEIIEEE! - in the middle of the night.


FAVORITE TASTES: uht pirain (fried banana); the first cup of sakau; sashimi; coffee; pounded breadfruit; betelnut with our Yapese friends; kapopo (beer after sakau); Shasta Cherry Cola (delicious off-brand favorite soda of Sam and Philip); turkey tail (Luke only); Phil's Phlapjacks on Saturday mornings; turtle; dog (everyone but Sam); B-52's (drink from the Village); the cheese that Tim sometimes brings over (we don't make enough money to buy cheese).

LEAST FAVORITE TASTES: fish (for Sam); stale betelnut; rice; 8 straight months of HHH-oatmeal; antibiotics; sakau that comes back up; spaghetti (which we eat about once a week - living on a budget can be hard).


FAVORITE FEELINGS: the cool side of the pillow; hugs at International Mass; the wind catching your skirt, and the way local skirts move on your legs in general (for Luke and Philip); cold showers; diving into the ocean; being cold; wearing a skirt around the house pulled up like a strapless dress (incredibly cool and comfortable); hammocks on your back; the ocean breeze; opening a letter from home; Luke's ponytail (for Luke only - no one else feels his ponytail); new facial hair (for Philip) (Luke: "You mean finally hitting puberty?"); carpet (only one or two homes have carpet on island - it's the little things you miss...); clean feet (a rarity); lacing up cleats and hitting the soccer field (for Philip); the post-run stretch; yoga; air-con.

LEAST FAVORITE FEELINGS: wet clothes and skirts after getting caught in the rain; the rain blowing in from all sides, rendering an umbrella useless; gouch rash (Luke and Philip); bugs crawling on arms and legs, or worse, trapped in your bra or underwear; flea and mosquito bites; sweaty underwear wedgies; sweating while sleeping; sleeping on the wood floor of a nahs; fouls by Br. Bert in a basketball game; sunburn; drunk handshakes that last way too long, and limp handshakes that you can't get out of fast enough; peeing the bed (it's happened); peeing your pants (also happened).

"I have fleas" and other short stories by Samantha Cocco

(read: Various tales that I can’t summon the creative energies to tie together with a common theme)

“I have fleas”

Why, you may ask, have these incredibly fast, impossible-to-kill, skin-nibbling little creatures recently inhabited my ankles and feet? While some may subsequently assume that my personal hygiene has severely diminished since my arrival to Pohnpei, I can assure you that my cleanliness of self, if anything, has actually improved. It had to, really, due to all of the sweating I find myself doing.

It’s not a question of personal hygiene, then, but rather, a question of how much I love puppies. The answer is, a lot. I love puppies so much that I can’t stop playing with the ones our dog Princess delivered a few weeks ago, though they’re not altogether too healthy and, clearly, riddled with fleas that are transferring onto my lower legs daily. This problem wouldn’t be so terrible in itself, but is compounded by the misfortune of my (undiagnosed and highly exaggerated) disorder known as dermatillomania, also known as compulsive skin picking. I have a very difficult time keeping myself from scratching at skin irritations, and picking at the scabs when they develop. I have little tolerance for mosquito bites, and flea bites have proved to be (roughly) one hundred times itchier than those from mosquitoes. Thus, I have been scratching like hell, and have opened up a number of the bites, which will likely soon become infected.

The simple and obvious solution to my problem is to not touch the puppies until they are big enough to keep the fleas off of themselves. But it’s not just puppy love (pun intended) between me, Teddy Bear (named after my dog at home), and Black Beauty (named after my favorite horse story when I was little). Our love story began one morning when Black Beauty, still in the process of figuring out how hind legs work, army-crawled her way to the backyard, right outside my window (a distance of about 25 feet – quite a trek for a puppy on only front legs, which I think must have taken her all night), where she whimpered until I came out to play with her. Things got more serious the other night when I spotted Teddy Bear, fast asleep (or so I thought) on his side in the driveway, and crouched down to pet him. But before I could touch him, he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye, and his tiny brown body began convulsing with excitement. Once he got on his feet, he turned around six complete, clumsy times before burrowing into my feet and running around some more.
My point is this: if you saw these puppies, you’d have fleas, too. I am not ashamed.


“Four means you will die”
A few entries earlier, I discussed my tendency to ‘jinx’ myself – as soon as I boast, “well, at least (insert undesirable situation) hasn’t happened yet!” lo and behold, the situation occurs. I clearly haven’t learned my lesson about boasting, because a few weeks ago, I made two claims that I would take back if I could.

The first, in response to a story about being chased by dogs: “You know, dogs never chase me. I think they know that I won’t hurt them, so there’s no need to defend themselves against me.” The very next day, on my way to school, a dog who watches me walk by every single morning and afternoon, and is additionally the laziest thing I’ve ever seen, came after me, completely unprovoked. Even then, I boasted to myself, “Well, he was upset about something. It had nothing to do with me.” But a few nights later, on my way home at dusk, three dogs who live next door saw me on my way down the street, and decided to pick on me, barking and running towards me. I tried to hush them with “Shhh!” and “Shay!”, to which most dogs here usually quiet down, but they just got angrier. I ignored them, but as I tried to pass them, one actually bared his teeth and advanced toward me. Luckily, a rock came hurling at the dog’s head, courtesy of a man across the street, and all three scurried off. I thanked the man, but I don’t know if I can forgive the dogs.

Additionally, around the same time, I said, thoughtfully – no boasting intended this time – “You know, I haven’t actually seen one centipede (which are poisonous, can grow to over a foot long, and are highly feared by everyone) in all the months I’ve been here. How strange!” Well, two weeks ago, I saw, screamed at, and killed my first centipede… and then my second, four hours later. I asked our maintenance worker and resident Pohnpeian guru, Immanuel, if this was an omen of my impending death. Straight-faced, he told me, “No. Four means you will die.” The color must have drained from my face, because a moment later, he laughed a big, hearty laugh, and didn’t stop for a full minute.

The moral of the story? No one is immune to street dogs and poisonous centipedes. Also, don’t boast.

Valentine's Day Poetry

I'm celebrating my Valentine's Day by reading and grading a spattering of Japanese haikus, written by the sophomore World History class of Our Lady of Mercy. I'm laughing too hard not to share.

Some of them just wrote the first thing that came to mind:

I am so hungry;
My stomach is so empty;
I'm gonna faint soon.

Local foods are good.
People of Pohnpei love them,
because they are free.

We like to hang out,
but we have to go to school.
We're late already!

When I have homework,
I get excited for it,
and I try my best.


Some of them misunderstood, and just wrote vocabulary words and (somewhat confused) facts from our lesson, and may need to work on their coherency of thought:

Civilization.
The world began so long ago.
Evaporation.

In the Middle Age,
many Japanese was bad.
But many food then.


Some of them really grasped the original purpose of haikus, and praised nature in their poetry:

As the sun comes up,
It gives the world a new day
that shines up my way.


The wind blows at night;
It blows fresh, cool air on me.
I can feel the wind.


Some dug a little deeper:

I have remix blood.
I live in criminal town;
It's called Koyotai.

Love me like a rose,
and break me like a mirror,
But, still - I'll love you.


And one really won my heart (despite the blatant brown-nosing), especially on Valentine's Day:

I love Ms. Cocco.
We are best friends forever,
me and Ms. Cocco.

Culture Shock: A Lived Experience

Mental health experts have identified a cycle of emotions undergone by ex-patriots – those who spend the first part of their lives in one part of the world, and, for whatever reason, decide to reside in a different part of the world for an extended period of time. This cycle, somewhat dramatically, goes by the name “culture shock.”

Literature on the infamous cycle lists some trendy subtitles to organize the phases of the cycle. According to their taxonomy, during the first few weeks, ex-patriots experience a Honeymoon phase, during which most aspects of the new culture are met with feelings of romanticism and exoticism. There is a sense of fascination and a desire to please all locals encountered, as well as daily discoveries that bring great excitement. After some time has passed, usually 3-6 months, the individual will begin to regard the new culture with increasing anxiety, frustration, even offense. The language barrier becomes more formidable, and excitement turns to disappointment. This stage is known as Culture Shock, or Negotiation. But, after some time, between 6 and 12 months, Reintegration or Adjustment occurs, as one grows accustomed to the new culture and develops routines, conditioning oneself to know what to expect in situations. The new culture is neither romanticized nor dreaded; things feel more “normal”.

The experts have done a knock-out job with their nomenclature, so much so that you’ll hear ambitious young international volunteers walk around their new environments in the first few months proclaiming, “I really am honeymooning!” And on a bad day, you’ll hear murmurs of, “This is definitely culture shock.” But claiming culture shock on a difficult day in a new environment is like claiming clinical depression anytime you feel the slightest hint of sadness.

In addition to their classifications, the experts have created a cozy recipe of distinct time frames for all ex-patriots to follow, promising the desired product, reintegration, in the end. Are you honeymooning? Well, enjoy it while it lasts, because it’s already Month Two, and give it thirty more days until you’ll be knocked down a few rungs. Experiencing culture shock? No worries, you’re in month 7! In 5 months or less, you’ll be home free! Hang in there!

I know my cynicism is somewhat misdirected, and my close friends with psychology degrees may have some words for me upon reading this. The creators of culture shock are only trying to help folks who undergo an abundance of emotions when thrown into a new environment. But I do wonder if these types of analyses go misinterpreted by those to whom they most aptly apply, as in the aforementioned examples.

So what is culture shock? Do you know if you’re in it? Will we only realize it years from now, when our hindsight is 20/20?

In my experience thus far, to use the experts’ taxonomy, “culture shock” can happen on Monday, and you can go back to “honeymooning” on Tuesday. On Wednesday, “reintegration” occurs, but on Thursday, you’re “honeymooning” again. Then on Friday, lo and behold, “culture shock” sets in again. My point? Time frames are irrelevant.

As for how it feels, I’m not sure I agree with the use of “anxiety” in most of the literature. It’s more numbing than the images conjured up by the word “anxiety”. It’s a weariness. All the ways in which you were previously enamored with this new culture, this new people, this new language, have become jaded. It’s the feeling of no longer wanting to make an effort – of wanting your interactions with the people around you to be seamless, uncomplicated, and, if it’s not so much to ask, not so emotionally and intellectually arduous. If it were a physical manifestation, it would be on the verge of tears, or even screaming at the top of one’s lungs. It’s a frustration, an exhaustion, the source of which you can’t quite determine, but it’s there, hovering like a cloud blocking the sun.

It’s the little things.

It’s the belittlement you feel when spoken to in the local language by someone you know is fully capable of speaking English. When you give a helpless look, they laugh without translating what they have said, and you feel as though they’re making a less-than-gentle joke of your inability to speak their language.

It’s the exasperation you feel when you pass by someone you know, by face at least, someone who would normally smile in that charming way people here used to do, but today they give a hurried glance before looking away. Though this happens every day where you’re originally from, it is especially hurtful here, and you wonder if all the smiles before were ever genuine at all.

It’s the fatigue you feel when, out of guilt and obligation, you take on another project somewhere in your life, not because you want to but simply because no one else volunteers, and the heroic pride you used to have in your ability to multitask is replaced with feelings of betrayal – don’t they know how much you have on your plate? Can’t someone else do this one thing?

It’s the bewilderment you feel when you treat yourself to one of the only restaurants on this island, where you spend an hour and a half waiting for your food, and finally threaten to leave, only to be given, instead of an apology, the suggestion that you should still pay for your meal. What happened to “the customer is always right”? Can I speak to your customer service representative?

It’s the exasperation you feel when you spend every minute of your free time one day calling three different numbers and being put on hold eight times before finally reaching a representative of the bank. Read that again - I said the bank, as in the institution with hundreds of thousands of dollars entrusted in its hands. You think to yourself, this would never happen at home.

Such petty problems! But not for you. You have been socialized differently, with grand notions of common courtesy, customer service, professionalism, manners, competitive spirit, and specific social norms. And here you are, at age 22, being asked to relearn every bit of it. To witness. To be affected objectively, superficially, when you can’t imagine anything more personal.

So what is culture shock? It’s all these emotions, all these questions, and so much more, and simply nowhere to put them all – no one to talk with who you feel would adequately understand your position; no flat-rate box in which to pack them and ship them back home; no shelf upon which to place them until your contract here is up. They’re here, right now, and they’ve nowhere to go. And so, they reside exactly where they originated – in your spirit – and that spirit comes to feel heavier and heavier.

Forget about them for a few days, sure, maybe even a week, and call it honeymooning. But they’ll return. And you won’t be “shocked”, not in the least. You’ll have come to expect them, and perhaps have set up elaborate defense systems against them. But they’ll work their way in, and you’ll just have to learn to cope. And when you figure out how, I supposed you could call it reintegration.

On Nahlap

We spent the weekend following Christmas on retreat on Nahlap, just off of the main island of Pohnpei, cooked over a fire, slept in a local nahs and hammocks, and got some much needed rest and relaxation. I wrote this in my journal, the first part during our first few hours there, and the second part the next morning. I figured there would be no better way to share the experience than by this:

12.26.09, 4:00pm - Away from the roosters, dogs, pigs, children, neighbors, and cars of Mabusi, I realize the peace of the islands that I've been missing - the soft sound of my own footsteps, the gentle fingertips of wind on my face and its roar in my ears, the sun's warm hands on my back, the soft waves I'd forgotten my hair can take when not overcome by humidity. I've just spent the last two hours doing absolutely nothing: first, sitting in 5-inch deep water watching all sizes and colors of fish swim around and under my legs; then, reclining in a ripped hammock barely big enough for my whole body, allowing the sun and wind to take turns washing over me. I sang softly to myself, knowing no one else is anywhere close to being in earshot, dozed for a few minutes at atime, and finally settled on writing - something I've failed to do for a while now (my college roommates who bought me the journal I'm writing in will not be happy to read this). To be honest, I have forgotten at times in the past five months where I am. Kolonia, especially Mabusi (our neighborhood), can feel so similar to the States - that is, until we're interrupted by a sudden island power outage, or don't see eggs or vegetables for weeks at a time, or catch sight of a six year old with a machete. But here on Nahlap, I remember very clearly where I am, and I'm not sure how to feel other than extremely blessed.

12.27.09, 6:00 am - I don't think I've ever known a peace like what I'm feeling this morning. For the first time since I've had this terrible sinus infection, I am thankful for it - because, as it has every morning for the past week and a half, the congestion woke me before dawn, demanding to be worked out of my chest and nasal passages. This morning, however, as I left our nahs for fear of waking the others with my cough, and settled into a hammock instead, I said a prayer of gratitude for the beautiful, full sun rising over the Pacific that my congestion had woken me to see. The dim grey light was just beginning to wash over the island as I settled in, and soon, I was able to begin to make out the gentle waves bashing against the shores that matched the sounds they had been making. I saw the main island looming powerfully in the distance. The fish began to pop their heads above the water's glassy surface, and the hungry birds began planning for breakfast. Small ripples of waves, still dark in the dim light of dawn, made their way ominously toward me, and larger waves crashed at the reef further out, ever elusive as to where exactly they begin and end. As the sun peeked its head over the horizon - first his eyes, then a hint of nose, and finally his mouth and chin - the clouds blew in on both sides to cover him completely, erasing any trace of his short visit. I looked around and saw no one else, and knew, without a doubt, I was the only person in the world to have seen that sun at that exact moment. My face smiling and my chest cleared, I laymy head back in the hammock's sweet cradle and allowed the wind to rock me back to sleep.

Trying to pose elegantly for Philip, but I sort of ended up looking like a beached whale.

Photo courtesy of Philip Michael Prouhet

I'll be boil-free for Christmas.. you can count on me..

You read that title right - for the first time since the end of September, I am boil-free! I am neither recovering from a boil, nor watching a new one grow, nor wondering if it's time to start antibiotics. I'm also recovered from the sinus infection I had for the past two weeks. I'm aware that I may have just placed a terrible curse on myself, and will wake up tomorrow morning on my death bed, but, hey - it's the holidays, and it's a time to celebrate. My right leg is a sight (where all six boils were). My fellow teacher, Russell, jokes that I'm creating a map of Micronesia with my boil scars.. we're still waiting for Palau to form.

So much has happened since I last wrote, I'm not sure where to begin. I'll say one thing about the last five weeks - Pohnpeians know how to do holidays. Let me start with the end of our first semester at OLM.

Classes wrapped up in a whirlwind, accented for me by daily dance practice with the sophomore girls in preparation for our Christmas program. When I first agreed to learn the dance with them and they squealed with delight, I thought for sure I'd be learning a beautiful hula-inspired, traditional Pohnpeian dance, complete with grass skirts and mwarmwars.

Laughing and sweating trying to learn the steps.

Turns out, it was more of a hip-hop step dance to some sort of strange country song. Either way, we had a blast running into one another, and the girls had fun yelling directions in Pohnpeian, then realizing the American teacher didn't understand, and switching to English.

Trying to keep up with the girls. Note the tongue sticking out in concentration!

I love the relationship I'm forming with all of my students, but especially my sophomore girls, who I have for homeroom, two classes, and after school cleaning duty. Even those who wanted little to nothing to do with me at first, I have figured out how to work a smile out of. The language barrier is our biggest struggle, no doubt. I know some of the students really struggle. But we're working on it... every day.

Showing off our style.

Our Christmas program was highlighted by a number of great performances by the students and my debut as Sam-ta Claus. I was decked out in full Santa attire - suit, belt, hat, and beard - and was officially the hottest I have ever been in Pohnpei. I may have actually suffered heat stroke. After the program, the teachers, staff, principal, and friends gathered for our Christmas lunch feast, which was wonderful. All of the tensions of the past semester eased for the afternoon, and we simply laughed, enjoyed one another's company, and stuffed ourselves with delicious local and non-local foods.

With our Christmas vacation officially begun, the four of us at the JV house discussed how it didn't really feel like Christmas - with the tropical weather, lack of powdery white stuff on the ground, being away from home, not having a Christmas tree. And then, as though she heard us, the island produced a number of factors that put a little Christmas cheer in our hearts. One of the roadside drive-up stores (called 'containers') that sell beer, Ramen, Spam, and soda, somehow got their hands on a bunch of Santa hats and sold them for 25 cents. Before we could buy any, they were sold out, and people began sporting them everywhere - even on 90 degree days! There's nothing that screams 'Christmas in Pohnpei' than a pick-up truck rolling by you blasting an island version of a Christmas tune, the back filled with a handful of shirtless men wearing Santa hats and yelling 'Merry Christmas, serepein (girl)!'

On the main road (there's only one), many of the businesses gradually put up Christmas lights, and some of them really didn't look half-bad. Our landlord even surprised us that week with blue icicle lights on our front gate. And every once in a while, between Chris Brown, the Mamma Mia soundtrack, and the Dixie Chicks, our Chuukese neighbors put on a Christmas CD that blasts through our windows beginning around 7:00 in the morning.

And alas, in an act of sheer boredom when I was home alone on Friday afternoon, I made a Christmas tree out of wire hangers, electrical tape, and green construction paper. It doesn't look half bad! I found everything else in our house that is Christmas-themed (much of it sent out by one Allyson Holsinger), or just red for that matter, placed it strategically under and around the tree, and taped all of our Christmas cards on the wall, constructing a bit of a Christmas shrine next to our bookshelf. When Philip got home, we made a star and placed it on top. My community mates were a little disturbed at how much time I put into the whole undertaking, but I like to think they're also delighted. With all that - who needs snow?

On Christmas morning, we made a big breakfast of eggs, briefly caroled over to our landlords' to exchange gifts, and had our own gift exchange at our house in our pajamas. We got dressed, and headed to church for a beautiful Christmas Day Mass, the church adorned with palm leaves and flowers, and every pew packed with familiar faces. After church, we headed off the Joab home, where we were invited to celebrate the day with a fellow teacher, Aurelia, and her family. An interesting part of the day was the gender division that occurred - although, I suppose it wasn't that unlike my own family. The women were in the kitchen and the nahs at the back of the house preparing the taro, fruits, and salads for the meal, and the men... well, the men were busy slaughtering six pigs. I guess that part is somewhat unlike my own family; I've never seen my uncles and cousins kill six pigs, remove their organs, and cook them on an uhmw, or local outdoor oven. Though I shielded my eyes from actually seeing any of the slaughtering, the noise made by the pigs was enough to send me running to the bathroom. Not surprisingly, I was a vegetarian for the rest of the day. The men also had the role of pounding sakau on two separate stones. I could sit around and watch men pound sakau forever, I decided. I wish I could adequately describe the process and atmosphere, but it's honestly an experience that is beyond words.

Though being away from my family this holiday season was difficult for many reasons, I feel truly blessed to have been able to experience Christmas en Pohnpei.