A Day in the Life

img_3664Last Sunday I had the treat of being able to talk on the phone with my mom, my two cousins, and my aunt. As I settled into the one corner of my house that gets enough service to call America, my younger cousin Shayelagh answered the phone with a bright, “Tell us about your life!” My response was “I wake up and poop in a hole, boil my drinking water, sweep my concrete floors…” It’s hard for me to know what to say when I have my eyes closed, imagining myself in their cozy living room in front of a wood stove, laying on the comfortable couch, surrounded by the love of my family. In those moments when I’m on the phone with home, I struggle to remain positive because I miss the comforts of America so much.

I write all of this not to dwell on what I’m missing, but because today I’ve had a great day. Not that everyday isn’t great- I am thoroughly enjoying my Peace Corps experience, and after a year in country have figured out how to be happy with my new pace of life and content in my village. I am grateful for my situation. But today was a really great day, and so I would like to use it as an example of what my Peace Corps life is actually like.

7:00 AM- I wake up naturally to the sound of rain sprinkling on the tin roof. Through the crack in my curtain I can see it’s foggy and drizzling outside, so I decide to pull the blankets up over my shoulders and let myself sleep until 8.

7:30 AM- I can’t fall back asleep, so I get out of bed (carefully so as not to disturb the princess I sleep with every night…AKA my cat), walk into the main room of my house, grab my broom and give each of the 3 rooms a quick sweep. I then fill up my water bottle with some water that has been filtering overnight, and put on a pot of new water to boil for today’s supply of drinking water. I need to do laundry, but it doesn’t look like the sun is going to come out, so I won’t be able to. I check the tubs I’ve laid out to see how much water I have collected from the rain during the night, as my spigot is broken and the collected water will be all I have for the day. I see I have 3 full buckets, enough to wash dishes, boil drinking water, mop my floor (with my hands of course), and even take a bath later!

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8 AM: Morning workout

9 AM: I boil water for tea and make some oats. I turn on my computer and sit down with the itemized budget my Village Executive Officer (similar to a mayor or town clerk) has written out for the grant I am writing to build girls’ bathrooms at the school. I fill out the excel sheets and organize the paper work.

11 AM: I wash dishes, sweep and mop my house, reorganize my bedroom, fold laundry, etc.

12 PM: I scrub some potatoes, cut them, and begin boiling them. Unfortunately you can’t buy a small amount of potatoes in my banking town, you have to buy them by huge bucketfuls. Consequently, I have been eating mashed potatoes for the past week at least two times per day. Today might have been the last day for a while.

12:45 PM: I lay down for a nap. It’s a rough life, I know.

1:30 PM: I wake up and get ready for my meeting with my counterpart, Neema, and the Village Executive Officer. As previously mentioned, I am writing a grant to build bathrooms for the girls at the primary school. Many girls are currently missing 4 days- 1 week of school because they have started their periods and the bathrooms have no doors, are next to the boys’ bathrooms, do not have water inside, and are unsanitary (literally a hole in the  middle of a dirt floor). The girls skip school because they do not have privacy to keep themselves clean when menstruating, and are falling behind in their studies. Part of Peace Corps’ grant policy is that the village has to contribute at least 25% of the project cost, this way it makes them responsible for the project as well as shows that Peace Corps’ development approach isn’t to just hand over money; we work together to create change. So, today’s meeting is about what the village will be contributing in the construction of these bathrooms.

The walk to the village office takes me about 20 minutes. I walk on tiny dirt paths through cornfields, past mud and brick homes, I share the path with many children who are excited to talk with me, and I pass pigs and goats grazing on the sides of the path. When I arrive at the office, I am 10 minutes late (early by Tanzanian standards) but my counterpart had feared I wasn’t coming because “Americans are always on time.”

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3 PM: I return back to my house. I eat some almonds and read a few pages of a book.

4 PM: I leave my house and meet my 2 counterparts at the primary school to begin “Maua Mazuri” class. We are currently working with 6th grade girls, aged 12 & 13, to teach them life skills through the use of art. Today we are focusing on dealing with emotions by practicing dance. The girls have never been exposed to dance forms aside from the line-type dance moves Tanzanians do at church. These dance moves are hilarious and don’t have too much variation, but Tanzanians do them well. If you ever want to experience second-hand awkwardness, you should watch a Tanzanian gospel music video.

We begin the class by doing a dance warm-up to a Beyonce song. Within seconds the girls are in giggles, all smiles as we dance together. This is the first time in class they are really coming out of their shells. We then gather around to watch videos of various dance forms around the world: ballet, latin, cheer, tap, East African, and even musical theater. The girls are wide-eyed. They cannot believe what they are seeing. They especially loved the tap dancing because it made them laugh, and they liked the ballet and cheer as well. They told me they had never seen dance like that before, and asked if I could get more dance videos.

They then were instructed to choreograph their own dances based on an emotion they were given. The four emotions were happiness, anger, love, and sadness. They all did the same step dances you might see in church, but they changed their faces based on the emotions they were given, which I found incredibly hilarious and cute. Critical thinking and creativity are skills we are raised with in the United States. We are taught to be unique and creative as early as Pre-School, and even our toys (think: Linkin Logs, Legos, Puzzles, etc.) teach us how to construct, build, and think critically about things. These skills do not exist here. So Tanzanians are taught in school to copy what the teacher does, to memorize answers for a test, and to not necessarily ask why something is the way it is. This is something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, and has been frustrating to me. However, I am so happy to be doing a project utilizing the arts and teaching creativity, even if it is sometimes a painful process. I couldn’t be frustrated watching these dances, though, even though they were not creative to this culture, because the girls were just too cute. And they really did put all of their effort into turning the few dance moves they knew into dance moves showcasing their given emotion.

We had a dance circle to end class. As you might expect, the girls did whatever dance move I did. But, we had a lot of fun, and it means a lot to be silly with girls who rarely get to see adult teachers acting funny with them. I was so happy that they finally let loose. I foresee more fun and valuable moments in our class together.

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6 PM: I return home, make dinner, heat some water for a bucket bath, and call some friends from home.

9 PM: I draw and write on some flip charts in preparation for Sunday’s Grassroot Soccer class. On Sunday we will be utilizing soccer to talk about the differences in sex and gender with grade 7 girls.

10 PM: I am finishing this blog post, and think I’m going to get into bed. Tomorrow I’ll travel to town where I can get internet and upload this blog. The bus comes at 6:30 AM, so I will have to be up a little earlier than normal. I’m so excited to be able to eat meat and yogurt, which I can’t get in my village, and replenish my diet for the next week or two.

This is one of my better days in Mambegu, a day in my Peace Corps life

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I Am Woman

Last week rapist Brock Turner was released from jail for good behavior. A man who raped an unconscious 23 year old woman, and then shamed her for over a year in a legal battle, causing her entire personal life to be investigated, and ruined her life forever, was released on account of good behavior. A man who decided to put himself where he never had permission to go, inside of a woman who did not know him, while she was unconscious, was released from jail for good behavior.

As I sat in Mbeya, Tanzania and read the news, I felt my chest tighten. I do not know this woman, I am not even in America, yet I felt physically ill. I felt so outraged I was scared if I talked about it to my friends I might have a screaming outburst.

As a woman, my mind has always been focused on gender. I have worked extensively in the field of women’s and girls’ empowerment, and I know I will for the rest of my life. I have always been hyper-aware of the fact that I am a woman because I have needed to be. Because that is a loaded statement.

I am woman.

Do you know what that means? It means everything and it means nothing.

It means that at 5 years old, my father sat me on the couch and taught me that if a man ever puts his hand on my knee, or anywhere farther up, and I don’t want him to, I am supposed to hit his hand away as hard as I can and say “no.” It means that as a young man with a daughter, my father already knew I would need some sort of protection out in the world, for the rest of my life. And I’m sure he knew that sometimes saying “no” isn’t enough to stop a man from doing whatever he wants with me. But as a father, that was his best chance at protecting me, because I am woman.

It means that at 12 years old in middle school, the boys made fun of me for dressing so conservatively, for liking my horses more than I liked them, and for praying to a God I believed so deeply in. They made me feel worthless because at 12, I wasn’t sexy enough, I wasn’t appealing enough, and holy shit wasn’t it so hilarious that I had never kissed a boy and didn’t even want to?  What kind of 12 year old girl doesn’t know what masturbation is? What kind of 12 year old girl doesn’t wear mascara? Are you even a woman? And when I started wearing more revealing clothes, when I started caring about makeup, when I started caring a little more about boys because I was sick of the other girls having something to talk about and I was always left out of the conversation, I was shamed because now I was a slut. Now I was too revealing. Now I was easy. I WAS 12 YEARS OLD. I was woman.

It means that at 17 years old I am headed to my high school’s Halloween party. I bought a last minute costume at Target and the only one I could find in the junior’s section was some sort of gothic fairy dress with wings. I got dressed up with my boyfriend of four years and was so excited for the night. As I stepped into my heels, and was about to leave his house, his grandmother comes into the living room, sees me, and says “What are you dressed as? A slut?” Even though my boyfriend, in his “humorous” costume, was actually showing more skin than me. But I am woman.

It means that at 21 years old, I am traveling alone from Burundi to Johannesburg, South Africa. My friends are supposed to pick me up at the airport, but after 6 hours of waiting, I pick up my phone that has 2% battery to find out that they are at a rugby game and cannot come to get me. I need to take a taxi in Johannesburg and it is almost dark. An incessant taxi driver gives me a good price and even lets me use his phone to call my other friend whose house I will go to that night. As I get in the car, it becomes apparent that he does not know where he’s going and I become concerned. I am tired after almost 12 hours of travel, and as he locks the car doors, I realize I’ve made a mistake. As he drives, he begins rubbing my thighs and telling me he’s been praying to God for an American wife. The more I move his hand and say “No,” as my amazing father taught me almost 20 years before, the angrier he gets and the more I begin fearing for my life. As we go 70 miles per hour down the freeway, I begin to wonder if I would die if I jumped out of the car. He is still rubbing me. I look at my phone beeping and saying 1%. I wonder if I should call my friend who is waiting for me, or call my mom and brother to say goodbye. I call my friend, and keep her on the line as long as possible so that he knows someone is waiting for me. As we near her street, he takes a turn down a dark alley. I see a woman coming towards the taxi and claim it’s my friend. As I shove money at him and go to walk away, he pushes me up against the car and forces his lips against mine, hand tight against the back of my head. Instinctively, my hand punches him in the throat and I walk towards the woman as I hear him gasp behind me. He circles us in his car four times before finally leaving, like a predator who can’t let his prey escape. I was lucky to make it out of that situation. I was lucky because I am woman.

It means that at 22 in the Dominican Republic, I go out dancing with my two friends on the beach just a few minutes away from my apartment. As I dance around laughing and having an amazing night, a man from Las Vegas introduces himself to me. Excited to meet someone who speaks English, I chat with him. He offers to buy me a drink so I accept. After a bit of time, he continually tries to steer me away from my friends, and I continually refuse. I feel guilty that he bought me a drink yet I won’t dance with him, because I am woman, so I try to give the drink back to him, yet he refuses. I explain I have a boyfriend, and he forcefully asks if my male friend is my boyfriend, to which I say “no.” I explain I just don’t want to dance with him. This answer clearly won’t suffice because I am woman. He grabs my shoulders, looks me in the eyes, and says “I will pay you $8,000 to come home with me tonight.” After my drink goes in his face and I am screaming in a fit of hysterics, he raises his hand at me and screams in my ear “CUNT!” I begin crying, because I am woman. I am hurt, because I am woman. I feel guilty, because I am woman. And my friend tells me I should be flattered because he thought I was worth so much. When I tell my boyfriend at the time, in tears, unable to process what had happened, he says “Well what did you expect dancing at 2 AM in that little dress?” I don’t know what I expected, because I am woman.

It means that I am 24. I am at a training for animal husbandry in Tanzania. I am here for professional development. I am here to better my service to the Tanzanian people. At an afternoon snack break, a fellow volunteer’s counterpart says to me “ladies first.” “Thank you!” I say, and move in line ahead of him. I feel him press himself in back of me. I inch forward towards my best friend who is in front of me. Again, he steps forward and presses the entirety of his body ahead of me. I shuffle forward. Again, he presses himself into me. I can feel all of him. I cringe. I feel disgusting. I’m not hungry anymore. I move out of line, and all I can do is tell my friend about how skeezy that old man was. That’s all I can do. Because I am woman.

It means that my male friends often get to speak up for me. It means that I have to just ignore the cat calls on the street, no matter what continent I’m on. It means that I have to run with only one ear bud in, because I need to be able to hear if a man approaches me from behind. It means I don’t go anywhere by myself after dark. It means that I need to wear clothes that accentuate my features, but are not too scandalous. It means that I have to take up less space than the man beside me on the bus. It means that I need to have a good reason for not giving a man my phone number because “I don’t want you to contact me” isn’t good enough. It means that when I’m out at the club dancing, I can expect that a man will come up behind me and begin grinding with me before I’ve seen his face or know his name, when all I want to do is dance on my own. It means that if a man hits on me, and it makes me feel disgusted and small, I still feel guilty because I know it would upset my boyfriend, even though I played no part in it. It means that liking craft beer and whiskey can tell a man all he needs to know about me, based on his own opinions. It means that I sleep with a machete under my bed just in case. It means that while working on a farm, a male coworker tells me it’s better when I wear a hat because I look more modest, my blonde hair is just too flashy for a farm. It means that it’s impressive that I can talk about politics, but I can’t know too much or else it might intimidate the male I’m speaking to. It means that when I speak up about social justice issues I am ranting, but a male doing the same is advocating. It means I am woman.

In a recent conversation with my dad, he told me not to become a man hater. I am not, nor do I plan on ever becoming one. There are so many incredible men in my life, such as my brother, who is one of the best people I’ve ever met on this earth, my boyfriend, all of my amazing male friends, both home, abroad, and in Tanzania, my countless male role-models and teachers, and of course my dad. I could never be a man hater because we need men. We need good men to be able to look at women and say “I will never understand what you go through on a daily basis, but I am your ally. How can I support you in ending (white heterosexual) male privilege and empowering all women?”  We need men to help us raise sons who will never lay a hand on a woman without her consent, who will never disrespect women because of their gender, and who will be future allies on the road to empowerment. We need men to look at their friends and say “I noticed that how you just treated that woman is not ok. I cannot support your actions.” We need men who are good hearted, open minded, and supportive. Those men exist. We all know them. But we need them to really understand why it is so easy to be upset about gender inequality. I am not a man hater. I would never tell a female friend to be a man hater. But if she said to me, “I hate men” I could not blame her either.

As I read the news about rapist Brock Turner, and my chest tightened, I wondered “Why? Why do I feel so strongly about this? Why do I want to scream right now?” I know it’s because I could’ve been the woman he raped. And I know it’s because if I ever were raped, the first question I would be asked is “What were you wearing?” I know that, because I am woman.

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Photo Credit: “Dear Brock Turner” Photo Series by Yana Mazurkevich