Inches on the Reel-to-Reel

Five years ago I may have put up a fight. No, actually, probably not. I was more irrationally idealistic back then, but even I had my limits. I was censored back then about as much as I am now. Working at eCivis, I had to write up summaries that captured the essence of different grand programs, and the monotony of the job would often lead to a game where I’d see how many hidden puns I could sneak by Quality Control. I guess it wasn’t very surprising when they’d cut stuff out back then, and I guess in that sense today was unexpectedly expected as well.

I suppose I should have been more nervous when I handed the first draft of the magazine to my pule today, but mostly I was excited and proud. It’s not the best high school yearbook ever by any means, but it’s been a cumbersome project, and the simple fact that I have a working draft to hand in feels like an accomplishment. But somewhere along the way, I began to enjoy working on the magazine, and I willfully took ownership of the whole thing. So when, after seeing the second page, my pule grimaced a little, and then quickly reached for a pen to cross out one of the pictures, I wasn’t sure how to react.

As I said, I’ve been censored before. Hell, the blog itself has been censored on many occasions. For the most part, I’m willing to acquiesce to anyone who’s got a beef with what I publish here. I’ve never laid claim to journalistic integrity in this space, and if people want certain details redacted, I’ll chop away.

But it does hurt my artistic soul a little. Journalistic integrity might be too lofty a principle, but there is something to be said for experiencing something the way it was originally intended. Once you start contorting around details, it stops feeling organic. That sense of pride and ownership slips away a little.

I took a film class at USC where a guest speaker talked about being on the set of a film and how if he makes only 2 small concessions a day on a 30-day shoot, by the end, he’s compromised 60 times. At that point, is the finished project anywhere close to his vision?

But the yearbook is not my opus. Nor is the blog. If a few photographs need to be cut, it’s not the end of the world. And really, who am I to force my American aesthetic wit down the throats of an unsuspecting foreign audience?

So I’ll cut the pictures of Manila grabbing his crotch and the one of Luuao sleeping in my class. I’ll allow the blog to my artistic outlet this time....

...until someone asks for the photos to be taken down.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Delilah, Sunula, and Angelina. Goofballs.

Nellie sweeping.

Sam and Esther dropped by today to bring me lunch on behalf of their friends who read the blog in New Zealand and Hawai'i. Thank you, blog readers, wherever you are!

Lunch was delicious. Salad with avocado and egg. Custard dessert. It was quite a surprise. Thanks again. I'm speechless.

Shades of Gray

When my high school chemistry teacher Mr. Johnson gave tests, a couple days beforehand he’d hand out an exact replica of the test, except with different numbers. The idea was we’d figure out how to do the problems and then demonstrate literally the exact same skills once the numbers changed. I assume there were students in my class who thrived because of this practice, but I absolutely hated it. And now I’m doing the same thing in getting my year 13s ready for their big practical exam, and I have mixed feelings.

For whatever reason, the Pacific Secondary School Certificate committee sends the standardized exam 2 weeks ahead of time. This morning my secretary showed up to my classroom holding a CD that contained the big test my year 13s have to take August 18. I think the idea the two weeks give a teacher due time to familiarize herself with all of the test materials. It also presents the teacher with some unethical temptations.

Within Samoa, this used to be the practice for the year 12s as well. The rumor I heard is the computer instructor at Samoa College handed out the exam to his students a week early, and a few of them brought it to their tutor looking for guidance. It turns out their tutor worked for the Ministry of Education, and he was the one that actually wrote the test. It was all kinds of bad.

I have no intention of distributing the exam to my students days before they have to take it; ethically that’s pretty black-and-white. But if I switch the numbers á la Mr. Johnson, does that make it okay? Hard to say.

As with any standardized exam, the PSSC practical tests students on their ability to take a test at least as much as it tests their actual knowledge of the subject matter. This is especially true for my weak English speakers. I certainly feel obligated to review the practical’s instructions with them before they’re in the exam hot seat. But where do I draw the line between preparing them for the specific type of exam and spoon-feeding them answers?

For one, I don’t plan on asking the exact same questions with different numbers. I think I can mimic the tone of a test question beyond simply changing the numbers. I’m less concerned with the kids answering questions by rote memory than I am with having them be comfortable with the method of testing, the format of the question, the way they fill in their answer.

After all, this is a practical exam, not a written one, and maneuvering through a computer program is a skill you practice, not something you study. I see benefit in having my students literally go through the motions involved in answering questions for the PSSC.

In the end, the whole argument is moot because the PSSC committee publishes tests from previous years, and there’s little variation from year to year anyway.

So we’ve got 2 weeks to practice now. They’ll be ready.

I hope you’re well.

Blinded by the Light

Senior year of high school, I wrote a play for my school’s annual one-act festival. Until that point, my only interaction with my high school’s drama program was when I acted in another one-act play at the festival the year before. Given my lack of face time with the drama department, it seems like it should have been more difficult to be entrusted with writing and directing my own play. And when I approached the drama teacher, I hadn’t written a single word. But I remember I asked him quite directly, “If I write a one-act, can I direct it?” That was all it took.

I was given the affirmative immediately, and I still look back and wonder why it was so easy. On one hand, I can’t imagine most other students had any interest in writing and directing a play; it’s possible that most anyone who asked would have been given the green light. Then again, I think by that point in my high school career, the drama teacher knew me by reputation, and by nature of being a senior I probably approached with an assuring nonchalant confidence, and that was enough.

I bring this up because I feel like I’m at that same point right now. My level of comfort and confidence in Samoa makes me feel like I have a certain level of control in my destiny here. After nearly 2 years of learning the ropes, I feel like I could saunter up to someone in charge, request permission for some personal pet project, and receive that person’s blessing.

I’m not being literal. I have no pet project in mind, and receiving permission for something would depend on what it was and who I asked and how I asked. Blah blah blah.

My point is I’m at the point in my Peace Corps experience where I feel comfortable and empowered and tuned into The Way Things Work. Jen and Tommy’s plane gets delayed, Digicel service is awful lately, the cat can’t seem to use the litter box, I’ve got a computer in the lab that emits a high-pitched shriek when I turn it on, Blakey needs a Tahitian leaf belt, and I desperately need to do laundry. Last August these issues were much more perplexing—a year later they’re a lot less trying.

And just like senior year of high school, I’ve reached this cool confidence just as it’s time to go. Isn’t that the way it always seems to work? The party’s at its most fun just before the lights go up and it’s time to leave.

And there’s a certain amount of dread in leaving this newfound comfort zone. I like where I’m at, and I’m not so keen going back to life in America, which from this vantage point seems a little chaotic.

Standing and eating/drinking? Stores open on Sunday? Closed-toe shoes? Heathens.

It’s funny, but it’s true. I’m comfortable here, and I’ve still got time left. The light at the end of the tunnel seems like a nice idea, but light can be blinding and disorienting—like coming out of the movies after a matinee showing. That sunlight takes some adjustment.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below of last Thursday's soccer match (taken by Chris 81).

AJ.

Joey 81.

That's me doing "robot arms" in the middle of the photo. The guy in yellow on the right is the CEO of TradePac. I took his photo the day before the match while visiting my school's sponsors with my pule.

Back and Forth

The race went as everyone had expected. Joey 81 finished in the top 3, Dan and AJ duked it out for second-place Peace Corps, Phil and I felt the burn. We arrived at the starting line yesterday morning shivering and pumped, and an hour-give-or-take-twenty-minutes later we were filling ourselves with niu and one-upping each other with how much we hated life with all of our aches and pains. There were no surprises.

In a way, that’s become our creed. Group 81 has been here nearly 20 months and we no longer raise an eyebrow to the ups and downs and the rolling with the punches. When the government made Monday (tomorrow) a holiday, we raised eyebrows in ambivalence not in protest. When two older ladies pummeled each other in the grandstand of last Thursday’s boxing matches, we stood in awe not in shock. When 4 mosquito bites showed up on my ankles after I turned out the lights last night, I cursed in regret not in disbelief.

To say Samoa is no longer new and interesting would be short-sighted; but the sting of surprise has worn off. We’ve come to expect the unexpected. No longer do any of these throw a stick in the spokes of my day.

Conversely, the yen for all things American has been blunted. The rich flavor of Mexican food, the steadfast wink of a hi-speed Internet connection, the satisfying whirr of downshifting has been dulled by drought. I don’t feel the gaping absence of my old life.

But wait. I also feel the complete opposite of everything I’ve just said.

I can’t wait to return to American with all of her mistakes and marvels. I feel the beckoning of the open road, the call of the spinach salad, the distant ringtone of the iPhone. After spending the past month-and-a-half with Americans who live in America, it’s almost too much to forget about the thrill of waking up fresh and rested rather than hot and sweaty. The In-N-Out Burger is so close I can smell it, if only for a moment, before I remember where I am.

Whereas Samoa’s unpredictability was once cheeky and charming, it is now outlandish and obnoxious. I find myself challenging the taxi-driver who tries to cut me off during my run, preemptively shutting down the vendor who tries to sell me matches while I eat, rolling my eyes at the children who shout “Bye-bye!” from the shop window.

I don’t feel particularly callous, only worn out. With 6 months left, I am beginning to see the end, and I feel my patience growing short.

Over the next 6 months I anticipate these contradictions will grow, creating anxiety and stress, and then will slowly begin to fade into inevitable ambivalent truths. Samoa will never be perfect, America won’t be the Eden I remember it to be, and the only thing true will be the memories of both.

Or neither.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Arriving at the starting line.

The team before the race.

The Peace Corps squad after. Right to left: Joey 80, Phil, Kyle (who overtook me in the final straightaway, and beat me by 30 seconds), Lily 82, Joey 81, Rachel, Dan, AJ, me.

Am I Spongeworthy?

The packing list the Peace Corps sends future volunteers is 4 pages long, single-spaced. It goes through the necessities and the optional items and suggests helpful reminders. In my opinion, the most peculiar item is where it specifically calls out there are no dried apricots in Samoa, and if you’re someone who really likes dried apricots, you should bring your own healthy supply. As strange as that bullet is, the wisdom of that “healthy supply” part is applicable across the board. There are certain things you can’t buy here, so it’s good to bring a bunch.

The packing list goes into more detail of the “healthy supply” rule when discussing underwear. It suggests volunteers bring extra pairs of underwear sealed in a Zip-loc bag, and then after a year, once the volunteer’s underwear has effectively disintegrated in Samoa’s hellishly humid climate, s/he can open the Zip-loc bag and bask in the firm embrace of preserved elastic.

I followed this advice. I sealed a bunch of underwear in a large freezer-sized Zip-loc bag. I have an extra pair of glasses (thick-rimmed, of course) encased in plastic, and I have an assortment of other random supplies (e.g. dish sponges) still in shrink wrap.

But now that I’ve arrived at mid-service, now that I’m looking at less than a year left in Samoa, part of me is hesitant to open any of these things. My reasons are twofold: I think I enjoy looking forward to opening the new things more than I will enjoy actually opening them, and I’m hesitant to start working without a backup. Let’s look at these one by one.

The current glasses I wear are a little decrepit. The effect of 17 months of Samoan humidity, occasionally wearing them while I climb a waterfall or lounge in the water on the beach, has been substantial. The anti-reflective coding has been slowly flaking off so if the light hits them just right, you can see splotches of light where the holes are. I have a brand new pair that would allow pristine, untainted sight—for a while. Soon enough, they’d start to wilt and crack, and then I’d have 4 or 5 months left with 2 pairs of crappy glasses.

I can’t wait to open those new glasses, but the charm of opening them would wear off and then I’d have no new glasses to look forward to. It’s similar to the slight tinge of sadness I feel every year on Christmas. You spend so much time waiting for it, and then it’s never quite what you expect once you get there. I can have Christmas whenever I decide to open those new glasses, but isn’t it fun to wait?

And then there’s the second issue. When Phil and Koa visited for a teacher meeting back in mid-February, they were appalled by my kitchen sponge. It was frail, and if you watched certain dishes, little sponge-bits would flake off and swim around the sink before going down the drain. It was flimsy and tired. Now, as I said, I had a fresh sponge wrapped in shrink wrap in my house, waiting to be called up to the majors. But I liked having him there. Now that I’ve opened the sponge, I’m working without a net. This a Scotch-Brite No Scratch Multi Purpose sponge. And when it goes, what will I have left?

Please note this isn’t an indirect way of begging you to send me sponges. I can buy a cheap sponge here that will do the job fine. And even if you sent one, I’d probably just keep it in the packaging until it’s time to move out and then I’ll feel bad. I won’t ever be sponge-less, but I like knowing there’s a back-up.

I guess the situation is comparable to the same calculus one usually does when preparing to go on vacation or a long trip. Should you buy a gallon of milk if you’re leaving in 5 days? Should you buy a half gallon? Maybe you can forego cereal and just have pop tarts for breakfast, and then you won’t have to buy any milk at all.

It’s like that. Except my big trip is 9 months away.

I hope you’re well. Happy Birthday, Erin! Pictures will be uploaded late tonight or sometime tomorrow morning.

My glasses. It's a little difficult to see the anti-reflective blotches. They look like little circles on the lenses.

More pictures from yesterday's rugby exhibition game.

The sideline.

The scrum (?).

11.1 student (and Fausaga native) Esau was a sideline judge. Linesman? Flagperson?

Going Down?

It’s a rare day in Samoa when I get to ride an elevator. In fact since I arrived, I’ve only been on two: the one in the American embassy, and the one in the John Williams building. I took the latter this morning to get up to the sixth floor for our Head-of-Department meeting. The elevator there is enough of a rarity that up until last year there was an attendant to guide people in pushing the buttons. At one point there were welcome mats in front of the elevator doors, and I’ve witnessed people inappropriately use the “open door” and “close door” buttons.

In any case, a weird thing happened when I stepped on this morning. For some reason I was immediately reminded of the elevator in San Francisco’s Westfield mall; the one in the Eastern end, on the bottom floor you enter from behind the Thai place in the food court. I’m not clear on why this elevator came to mind. I’ve certainly taken other elevators far more in my life. In fact, that mall didn’t open until a year after I moved to San Francisco. But it came to mind vividly, it brought on a warm, fond feeling, and that fondness almost immediately darkened to longing.

Emotionally I was caught off guard, and the elevator’s been on my mind all day.

Riding the Westfield elevator is a generic experience one could have in almost any public building. It’s certainly a nice elevator—spacious, clean, and well lit. It’s not too slow, and it’s got big placards that light up as you pass each floor. But on the whole, it’s unremarkable.

I have fond memories of the mall. It was a casual-but-slightly-fancy place to meet people for dinner. After I got laid off, I’d go up to the atrium on the 8th floor during the day, where I’d sit and read Newsweek. But nothing particularly noteworthy happened there—I don’t even have a slightly funny story to tell about the place.

My longing has nothing to do with place or sentimentality. I think I just miss my state of mind.

I wouldn’t call it carefree. During the period I rode that elevator, I had a corporate job, was laid off, desperately searched for a job, and eventually joined the Peace Corps. It was a strange, stressful time. But I wouldn’t call my state of mind strained or anxious either. After all, isn’t the point of reading Newsweek in an atrium or picking up Vietnamese takeout at Out the Door to relieve stress?

It was a place I’d go to relax and unwind, which is exactly what I’ve been lacking in Samoa recently. With the ever-changing school schedule and feeling cooped up in my house and missing out on crucial sleep during last Friday’s tsunami evacuation and feeling the general malaise of mid-service, I would love to ride the Westfield elevator. If I were in The States, it’s exactly what I’d do.

I guess you could call it homesickness, but I think it’s a little more nuanced. Sure, with our close of service slowly coming into focus, memories like today’s whet the feeling of going home. I imagine the pull of such memories will become stronger as the year progresses. But since the longing isn’t really one for a particular place, I think I just need to find the Samoan equivalent.

Which, incidentally, is not the elevator at the John Williams building.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Koa brought out his day-planner during today's meeting. Phil in the foreground.

The Virgin Mary from above.

Koa and JICA volunteer Summer hung out at my house last night.

The Gap

I rented a video today. Okay, technically a friend of mine rented 3 videos which allowed her to get a fourth for the same price and she allowed me to choose it and take home. So I rented “Up,” the most recent Pixar movie. The movie was fantastic and enchanting and actually lived up to all the hype I heard when it came out 6 months ago. But I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt for renting a movie. As Ryan tole me when he heard my assignment was teaching computers in Samoa, “This is not the Peace Corps JFK imagined.”

I realize it’s a little absurd for me to confess my guilt bout exploiting the more developed facets of Apia by signing on to the Internet from my house and blogging about it, but I maintain my life here is still pretty sparse. True, we’ve got laptops and iPods and cell phones and other modern amenitities, but we also live among geckos and strange bugs and unreliable and intermittent plumbing and trash burning and cold showers and dirty feet that cannot be cleaned no matter how hard we scrub.

Other volunteers piss and moan about how those of us living in Apia live the easy life. I can make arguments about how that’s a gross generalization and how we all face different problems, but the cold hard truth is that life in Apia is easier than life in the more rural kua of Upolu and most of rural Savai’i. The discrepancy in the lifestyles of city volunteers and country volunteers seems to be one small facet in a much bigger overarching struggle in Samoa between urbanization and westernization versus tradition and preserving the ways of the past.

I had originally planned to trek out to the training village this weekend to visit the family, but when the Rotoract Amazing Race was canceled, I changed my plans. The contrast between these two places is stark—the south side and the north side, the modest and the affluent, those who spend Saturday collecting taro at the plantation and those who can afford more leisure pastimes.

Although it’s not just an Apia-versus-everyone-else kind of deal. This problem seems to exist in the village at a micro level. Volunteers who teach computers in rural villages struggle to find a balance between helping their village secure a foothold in technology and not alienating the ways of the past. Hell, even at my school I feel like my classroom’s air conditioning is controversial. I sometimes feel a little too comfortable in my cool glass tower while other teachers toil in the heat.

I don’t bring this up to point fingers or assign blame, and I have absolutely no solutions or suggestions for alleviating the discrepancy. It’s an ongoing struggle and it’s not going to be solved any time soon. But we deal with it every day on a micro and macro basis, and it inevitably affects everyone’s Peace Corps experience in Samoa. And mostly I think we all walk that balanced line pretty well.

But I still feel a twinge of guilt when I rent a movie.

I hope you’re well. No pictures today.

The View from Here

A month or two ago, my friend Chris sent me a text message letting me know he’d purchased a Snuggy with the Weezer logo. When I responded by asking just what in the hell is a Snuggy, he let told me it was clear that I hadn’t been to America in a long time. It’s been a little over a year since I was in The States, and I admit certain concepts and ways of life are becoming foggy; things that used to be taken for granted are now only a vague memory.

I just watched a vignette from the “Mad Men” DVD special features in which an expert quotes the following fact: The typical American is exposed to approximately 3,000 advertisements every single day. I think whether or not I’m living in America, that statistic is mindboggling, and though I believe it and I vaguely remember what that felt like—the billboards, the bus stop posters, the placard at the back of the shopping cart, the radio commercials, the DVR interstitials, the email, the many facets of online—but it’s still difficult to fathom from this perspective.

Before I left and since I’ve arrived, I’ve been asked many times why I joined the Peace Corps. In fact, the Peace Corps asks each of us to write an essay about this particular subject before we arrive in country. One thing I like to talk about when answering this question is 3-D movies. When you go to a 3-D movie, you get a special pair of glasses so that one eye sees one thing, and the other eye sees the same thing, but slightly different. When your brain resolves the two perspectives, it yields a much richer multi-dimensional image. And just the same, I think there’s something to be gained from seeing the world through the American lens in combination with the Samoan lens. And now that I’ve had time to adapt to the Samoan lifestyle, the differences between the two lenses are becoming more stark.

It’s somewhat common for people to ask what I miss most about The States. At this point, my stock answer is that my perception of America has become almost dreamlike. In my mind, America has become so mythical that yearning for In-N-Out Burger is tantamount to yearning to ride a unicorn. It’s just not something I think about often because it’s anachronistic nearly to the point of fantasy.

But the advertising thing is weird for two reasons:

• I spent a year and a half working in Internet advertising; and
  
• As Mad Men points out several times, “Advertising is at its best when you don’t realize it’s there.

The first is weird because I was intimately involved in the advertising industry for a while there. Two of my roommates were too, and we used to sit around the TV and use all the buzzwords and have obnoxiously in-depth discussions about TV ads and such. Watching Mad Men, I remember my time at CNET and working with advertising agencies, and I see many differences, but there are also an overwhelming amount of similarities.

The second bullet above makes me feel naïve about my self-evaluation of my advertising intake here in Samoa. I feel like there must be days in which I’m exposed to an extremely low number of advertisements. I have no TV, I don’t listen t the radio, my internet connectivity is limited, I rarely ride in cars, I don’t read any periodicals. I’m sure I’m exposed to more advertising than I realize, but it still seems awfully difficult for Madison Avenue to reach me here.

And so the idea of 3,000 ads a day makes my brain hurt.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

The kids brought by panipopo this evening.

Crossing the Line

Near the beginning of training, our Medical Officer Teuila showed us a graph somewhat similar to the one at left. I can’t find the actual one she showed us, and mine is a terrible reproduction, but it captures the essence of what I took away from hers. According to my ears, the overarching point was the Peace Corps is an emotional rollercoaster that has ridiculous ups and downs at the beginning, but which evolve and become more elongated as time goes on. And any time you cross the x-axis, your chances of going home early become higher. At Volunteers en Masse events, we often recall this chart and talk about how accurate it was.

Teuila’s chart also had a more specific timeline. There are specific moments in the life cycle of a volunteer when most cross the line: the first couple weeks of training, after 1 month, after 3 months, after 6 months, after 12 months, and after 24 months (I’m reciting all this from memory, so take it with a grain of salt.). And as group 81 has passed each of these milestones, we’ve noticed the collective mood swings.

I bring this up because this morning I made arrangements to hang out with two people, one midday and the second for dinner, who are having particularly difficult times crossing the x-axis at their respective points. The back-to-back scheduling was a coincidence, but I worried a little about what this one-two punch would do to my psyche.

The first was a fellow member of Group 81. My group just hit our one-year mark, and most of us should be crossing the x-axis in the next couple months. We’re at the point when a lot of factors are coming to a head: our first year of school is coming to a close, many volunteers are going home for Christmas, stuff is starting to feel re-hashed, the excitement of new things has dwindled. Though we’re just about halfway through service, there’s a feeling of culmination in the air right now sort of like the kicking a field goal right before halftime, or bringing down the house just before the end of Act 1. And people are getting antsy about coming back after intermission.

Conversation went as well as can be expected.

Dinner tonight was with an outgoing member of Group 82. I’d say the first 4 months of the Peace Corps are the most difficult, as is demonstrated in the frequent ups and downs in the graph. The days are so long, and going to bed with the satisfaction of getting through the day is erased the next morning when facing another day is daunting. There’s adjusting to the new place and the new climate and a new set of friends. Then adjusting to the host village. Then adjusting to training and having your hand held. And when you’re finally adjusted to all that, you’re kicked out of training and there’s a whole new round of re-adjustment at your permanent site. All feelings are tentative, and the ups and downs and loop-the-loops can be nauseating. It’s not uncommon for people to want off the ride.

Once again, conversation went as well as can be expected.

The encouraging thing was the two conversations forced me to assess my own situation, and it seems like I’m doing okay. I like my job, I like my site, I like Samoa. There’s a constant feeling that any state of mind in the Peace Corps is temporary and tentative and that line-crossing can come any time, but today things were good.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.















Jordan and Briony laughing at Lynn's faleoloa.
















Luke McGrath and his posters advertising Punjas Breakfast Crackers are all over Samoa.  Dude isn't listed in Wikipedia nor on the first page of "Luke McGrath" hits on Google.  He is wearing goggles in the picture and by googling "Luke McGrath" AND swimming, I found out Luke McGrath is a reasonably talented ocean swimmer from Fiji.

Mission and Diplomacy

I didn’t teach this morning, but a bunch of the year 13 history students cajoled me into opening the computer lab so they could work on their Interval Assessments. I have been in massive sleep debt, so I was hesitant to give up a Saturday morning, but they looked at me with puppy dog eyes, and I couldn’t say no. So this morning I trudged over to the lab at 9:00 to open the door. I was under the impression I was going to let them in and they’d work and I’d sit around bored for a couple hours. I even brought a book. But it turned out they wanted me to edit their papers.

I found it strange when they told me they were all writing papers on the same topic, the 1830 arrival of the London Missionary Society in Samoa, but I shrugged it off. All 3 of the kids I worked with today are native Samoan speakers, but the assignment required a 1500-word essay in English. The entire assignment was in English, in fact. So many of the changes were pretty elementary; non-agreeing tenses, missing plurals, strange words that don’t exist in the English Language. At one point I was confused by use of the word “task, ” and it turned out they were using it as a contraction for the words “to ask”.

So I was moving through Mira’s paper pretty fast when I came to this sentence:

I had also understand the way that Samoa still late have an independent state that is, because theirs no Christians beliefs, but when Malietoa Vainu’upo accepted it in Samoa was go through the right way of life, and try to accept the nationalistic of others.

At first, I had no idea what she was trying to communicate, and after talking to her a little bit and reading it over a lot, I think she was trying to say that Samoa’s policy of the separation of church and state allows for a free-thinking country that accepts cultural and religious differences that exist within its peoples. So I tried to re-write the sentence, but I kept getting stuck on the “try to accept the nationalistic of others” phrase.

Mira calls over Site who typed Mira’s handwritten essay. Site reads my sentence over and looks at me like I’m an idiot. I half expected this. I wasn’t sure if there was an articulated separation of church and state in Samoa; I figured there might be—much evidence suggests the opposite—but what can I say? I grew up in society that still grapples with the difficulties of separation of church and state and the oppressiveness of any breach therein.

Site explains what the original sentence meant. Essentially, it said, “Thank goodness Malietoa let the missionaries in because up until then Samoa was a heathen place. Also, it was only when Samoa adopted Christianity that it became mature enough for it to be an independent state.”

Wowa.

My brain went to work improving the English and making the grammar work while my soul had a little cry. I didn’t come here to impart my beliefs or my progressive upbringing on moldable Samoan youth, and re-formatting essays this morning was by no means a teaching moment for a lesson on cultural heritage and pride and the questionable morality of 19th-century religious imperialism. So I shut up and helped Mira put her report together.

But I can’t help feeling weird about the whole thing.

I hope you’re enjoying your 4th of July, America. Pictures below.
















Phil's school made an impromptu banner out of a fala.
















Head massage at the record-keeping table.
















Rain at lunch time. It's difficult to tell from this picture, but the track is completely flooded.
















The guy dancing near the bars in the center bottom right was making the Congregational Senior College kids go crazy. Phil is also in this picture wearing blue in the bottom left.

On Burning Out, Fading Away, and the Death of Michael Jackson

Afterschool Thursday, I told Mira and Filifili that Michael Jackson died, and after reacting to the news, Mira asked, “What time did this happen?” I thought about giving my answer in Pacific Daylight Time, and then I considered Samoa time, but then I shrugged and said, “During Interval.” We all chuckled. Black humour, but humour nonetheless. But the more I think about it, the more appropriate it is that he died in the middle of the day here because I feel a little in the middle about his death.

Where were you when you heard Heath Ledger died? How about when Ray Charles died? I know exactly where I was when I heard about Ledger: I was working at my desk at CNET when Carmen called out, “Heath Ledger died.” There was an online frenzy. I probably sent an instant message to 20 people. The time between when his body was found and the time word spread to my buddy list was maybe an hour.

I don’t remember how I learned that Ray Charles died. The media fanfare was different back in March 2005 with Facebook just budding and Twitter non-existent or the wide use of text messaging in the United States, but there wasn’t much immediate fanfare anyway. As much as it was news, it wasn’t completely unexpected. Charles was old. News of Charles’s death didn’t oblige the immediacy or intensity of Ledger’s.

In my generation’s first real brush with celebrity death, a passage in Kurt Cobain’s suicide note read, “It is better to burn out than to fade away.” Perhaps this logic explains why Ledger’s death was a media event and Charles’s was quieter and less urgent: Ledger’s star was still burning bright while Charles’s fame had cooled. Though Charles was only 58 when he died, his passing made sense; he got older and he died. Ledger’s death was an anomaly; it was senseless.

And that’s where I think Kurt Cobain is wrong. Perhaps it is amazing to watch a star burn out, but it doesn’t compute. Other than the tragedy of the celebrity lifestyle, there’s nothing to be gained from Ledger’s death. On the other hand, I remember feeling devastated by Charles’s death. His music has a lively glow that endures so well it seems impermeable to aging and death. Charles’s death can’t be blamed on accident or a rock and roll lifestyle; Charles died of complications from old age. That’s a lot more ominous; it’s something none of us can avoid. Perhaps fading away is less shocking, but on some level it is far more menacing.

So did Michael Jackson burn out, or did he fade away? I think he did both.

Media standards point toward burn out. Even in Samoa, I received text messages from Luisa and my sister before and after the news was official. And as soon as I read the first text, I immediately needed to tell someone. Since Digicel has a promotion right now I had 30 free text messages, and I texted half of Peace Corps Samoa with the news. Within 10 minutes of the man’s death in Los Angeles, the news was relayed to rural Savai’i.

Jackson’s death was captivating and awful. He was only 50 years old; by no means an old man. He’d been so hard on his body over the years, and it took its toll. He died young. His death was senseless.

And though his star has certainly faded, its brightness was still shocking. On Thursday afternoon, I had a couple minutes left when I was done with my less in 9.1, so I asked the class if they knew who Michael Jackson was. Despite the kids only being 13 years old, and even though they live in developing country, all of them knew who he was. They were familiar enough with him that when I asked if they knew he had died, they all looked at me like I was crazy. He wasn’t some obscure figure; they knew him well enough that they knew he was still relevant and almost certainly alive. So they shook their heads. I had to clarify that he actually died that day. And when they finally understood, they were shocked.

But it’s undeniable that Jackson’s star had faded. With the scandals and the plastic surgery and the Jesus Juice, things had gotten weird. “Thriller” came out 26 years ago. The man was weathered by life.

So what does that mean that he burned out and faded away? I think in some ways it brings things to a new level. It is wholly deserving of a media event, of specials on TV and radio, of seemingly unending coverage on VH1 (although I’m told VH1 coverage has been minimal). Even on the big radio station here in Samoa, Magik 98.1, they’ve been playing all kinds of MJ tributes. And why not? There’s a lot to make sense of. He had aged, but he was still a star. Still a big star. A big star who had aged. Pretty ominous.

And yet I can’t help feeling ambivalent. The intensity of the media fanfare didn’t have the Heath Ledger intensity because with all of Jackson’s strange health issues, it wasn’t entirely surprising. And I don’t know that his fade away is as menacing as Charles’s; he essentially burned out in the early 1990s, and his life since then has been completely outside my reality.

The man was iconic, and I respect that people are in mourning. But I can't help feeling a little ambivalent. If anything, I feel like we've all been in some kind of mourning over Michael Jackson for a long time.

In any case, I hope you’re not forgetting the Jackson 5 LPs. Pictures below.
















Briony and Erin 78. Erin 78 is finished with her service. She leaves Monday. This and the pictures below were taken at her goodbye dinner last night.
















Rosie, Sara, Cale, Casey.
















Cale and Christian.
















Casey, Kate, Koa, Erin, Sara.

The Thin Green Line

Conan O’Brien went to Ireland sometime around my senior year of high school. He made a George Kennedy joke, chose a red-headed child who loosely resembled him as his successor, and sang John Denver songs in a bar and people sang along. In addition to all that, there was a moment when he stopped some people on the street and asked their last name, which turned out to be O’Malley. The he observed, “You’re the O’Malleys, and my last name is O’Brien, so I think that means we’re related somewhere down the line, right?” They shrugged in agreement. So he hugged each of them warmly, and then finally asked, “Can I borrow some money?” I’m a little worried that my relationship with my host family is slowly evolving into a less exaggerated (and less cynical) version of this scenario.

Don’t get me wrong; my host family has been incredibly generous since I arrived at their house back in October. When I visit, they cook me meals, make sure my sleeping accommodations are comfortable, and when I was feverish back in November they kept a close eye on me. I had a wonderful time with them at Christmas, and when my parents visited last month, they rolled out the red carpet. They welcome me with open arms, and I definitely feel like I can call them up out of the blue to invite myself over.

In return, I try and do what I can. I make it a point to bring food whenever I come over; usually a can of corned beef or some mackerel and almost always some fruit. And if I can help it, I’ll try and bring something for Akanese. When my parents came, we upped the ante on gifts since it was a special occasion and all. The point is for it to be a friendly gesture, and the food hopefully alleviates any burden I cause by staying there overnight.

Then in April, Asolima drove me back to Apia after Leme’s birthday, and casually asked if she could borrow $10. She asked so casually and earnestly I was willing to lend her the $10 without thinking about it. I knew I’d probably never see the money again, but it was an innocent, out of the blue request.

Fast forward to today when Asolima told me she couldn’t sleep last night because she’s so worried about Akanese’s Term 2 school fees: they’re due on Monday, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to pay.

Part of me has no problem with this. The school fees are only $20. It’s a very small amount, and it’s going toward Akanese’s education. It’s as worthy a cause as any, and with all the generosity they’ve shown me, how great that I have the opportunity to reflect some of that good will back toward them.

On the other hand, I’m a little uncomfortable with fulfilling the roll of rich Uncle Palagi M. Moneybags. My Peace Corps salary is intended to be on par with the average Samoan wage, so it’s not like I have lots of cash to throw around. My stipend is meant to pay for food and a movie or two per month; I’m almost literally working for peanuts. But beyond that, I’m simply uncomfortable with money entering into our equation.

The bottom line is what kind of precedent am I setting, and how will this affect the dynamic between my host family and me? I realize that it’s a collectivist society, and that in building my relationship with my family, I have indirectly pledged to share with them. They look out for me, and I look out for them. And it’s not like money between family is unheard of in Samoa; in fact, Mele occasionally will call her children who live overseas to ask for help in paying a fa’alavelave (a debt one is obligated to pay when something happens in a friend or family member’s life that interferes with normal activity; e.g. wedding, funeral, canoe lost at sea, etc.).

I’ve not experienced this dynamic in my family, and so I feel some trepidation.

In any case, I hope you’re well. Pictures below.





















Asolima playing Bingo with me last night. I wasn't asked to pitch in for Bingo, but I won $15 on the first round, which Asolima used to pay for subsequent rounds.





















Akanese swinging upside down.
















Keleme in the car.
















Keleme again.
















Akanese showing off the FisherPrice Magnedoodle-like thing that Mom got for her.
















Tuese, unaware of the guy holding pineapples behind her.
















I will never be fully accepted into the village. The youth cleaned the church hall this morning, and though I did very little work, they made me sit on a bench while all of the other youth sat on the floor. I was served a glass when everybody else got a mug. And even the older man who was sitting next to me was served his crackers on cardboard while I got a real plate. I'd prefer not to have this.
















This was taken was taken with the camera on timer. I had intended to be looking at the camera when it took the picture, but I really like the way it came out.

Sub Culture

Note: I was unable to post this blog on Monday because the door to the satellite Peace Corps office in Savai’i was locked from the inside. Apologies for the inconvenience.

At dinner tonight, some locals put on a tableau of Samoan culture featuring dancing, drumming, singing, fire dance, and an ’ava ceremony. A film crew was on hand to videotape the show and the audience reaction as part of a promotional video highlighting Samoa’s many tourist attractions. The show moved at a frenetic pace, often using the yelling and chee-hooing of traditional Samoan dance to keep the audience on edge.

But as we moved through a bare-bones ’ava ceremony, taupos wearing attire far more attractive and form-fitting than the traditional fine mats, and an overweight palagi being pulled out of the crowd to try his hand at the Manaia dance, things started to feel a little wrong. Cultural presentations are great, and I’m all for celebrating one’s heritage, but at some point it becomes sheer selling out, and it was unclear where we were on that spectrum tonight.

I admit, training in the host village totally has me on my high horse. While it’s not one of the Peace Corps’s articulated goals, part of the cultural immersion of the 11 weeks of training was to give us an understanding of Samoan culture that dug deeper than a simple, cursory knowledge. Though in some circles the Peace Corps has a reputation for being a 2-year vacation, living with a Samoan family and participating in cultural events and even hanging out with my students gives a more studied perception of the culture. And as much as PCVs are strangers in a strange land, after a month or two, we are barely tourists.

So tonight was a change in mindset. I feel like I’ve been walking on egg shells the past 7 months, trying to show as much reverence as possible. I’ve sat cross-legged through hour-plus ’ava ceremonies, curbed habits perceived as disrespectful, attended 6 weeks of Culture Day practice; I’ve treated culture with utmost respect because, if nothing else, my perceived reverence affects the way staff, students, and other Samoans think of me. So it’s off-putting to be in an environment where dance and culture are treated light-heartedly and as being slightly inconsequential.

But maybe I’m just a culture snob now. Maybe I’m not giving the Samoan dancers or the palagi audience enough credit. Maybe the point really was to celebrate Samoan culture in a way that is most easily accessible to visitors who are respectfully trying to enjoy their vacation. And maybe the free market via Samoa’s budding tourism industry can do more good for the Samoan quality of life than the Peace Corps at this point.

Maybe.

My parents enjoyed the show. During the ’ava portion, my dad was one of the people in audience picked out to receive ava, and I think it was a rush for him to be put on the spot; a rush in addition to the mildly euphoric affects of the ’ava itself. He also took video of the dancing with his digital camera, and he replayed parts of it back in the hotel room later this evening, saying, “That is just amazing.” So it sucks my parents missed culture day, but I guess tonight’s show was the next best thing.

Kinda.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.
















My dad and I in front of the Baha'i temple on Upolu.
















On Savai'i.





















Geckos in the light fixtures.
















My mom unknowingly booked the 3 of us in the Honeymoon Suite. Awkward.