Home

Nothing extremely new happened this past week, but I believe it is up to me to entertain you and bring you along on this journey of mine, so I have condensed my week into bits and pieces you can more easily digest. It was composed of love and grief, new friendships and old, creativity to boredom, and apathy and dread. My emotions began to scare me, and the sudden settlement I had briefly experienced vanished. I was to continue here for months, and I couldn't fathom how that could be. I slowly loathed everything and wanted nothing more than to go home.

***

I'd entered my job at the SDSS with the promise of cake. It was the final day of the month and, therefore, everyone's birthday had they been born in the month that was ending. I was excited, mainly because cake is cake, and throughout my few weeks here consuming more salt in a day than I would in a week at home, I craved sugar merely to balance it all out. It is unhealthy, but as previously spoken upon, their healthy ranges are far from similar to the west's, but I digress. I'd headed to be with the kids, hoping to teach them, or at any rate sit with them, because I believed that was what I was in Nepal to do. That was my job. It never originally dawned on me that I was volunteering for The Jhilko Project not mainly working with the kids, so I was formally asked by Rajuna to figure out a project on how to better teach the kids phonics. She would show me examples on her laptop as I huddled as close as I could—which, granted, was quite far as her wheelchair took up most of the desk space—and we noted a dozen short videos on the arts and crafts of juvenile phonics teachings. I was never so grateful in that moment for social media to have returned since my imagination has a habit of escaping me. I used the imagination of another and followed, not step by step, a short video of a finished product that Rajuna sent me. I needed to be creative. I needed to enhance my carpenter skills lent to me by my father. I was on the floor contemplating my existence yet calming myself at the same time. For almost five hours I struggled on the floor of a tiny room completing this masterpiece of a cardboard teaching tool while the other volunteer, the newer university student, obviously here for nothing more than college credit, taught the kids. She spoke minimal English and mostly taught in Nepali so they could better understand. I felt jealousy towards her. She doesn't try to avoid me, but there are times I have a sense she thinks me an outcast, or at least believes she does the job better. How could she? She called one girl the wrong name at least five times consecutively. They all seem happier with me, less talkative of course, but I see them watching what I'm doing, longing to help because at least I allow them to help. 

It was then lunch where almost everyone who worked at SDSS was given a spot at the table to watch the six people in front be sung to, play with sparklers, and just be celebrated. I sat in utter loss at what was happening, what they were singing (it came to my knowledge later that they were worship songs the main speaker would request), but nonetheless, it was choral and beautiful. Not only did everyone sing or clap, but everyone was engulfed by this celebration, and this felt to be the true nature of birthdays. Not the greed or overconsumption that comes with gifts and decorations, but to be seen and celebrated for who you are, where you are, and how you got there by people close to you. It felt happy, which seems to be such a difficult feeling to live in. Later on, I sat with Bijata to eat the cake (barely a sliver, but cake is cake nonetheless) as she spoke to an old friend who came for a visit. Her name was Megan; she was white and much older, but had lived in Nepal with her husband (also not Nepali) for 25 years as a professional therapist for the disabled. I first glanced at her in the hallway, speaking Nepali with some of the women, and I did not have much of a taste for her. I thought she tried too hard; however, perhaps I was uncomfortable with the situation and jealous due to how well she seemed to fit in. We spoke on politics and the weather, jobs and new SDSS projects, and my disdain towards her ceased. She knew what she was speaking of, and she was passionate about it. She was also British, which provoked the belief of her being more professional because I am stereotypical. The rest of the day panned out the way it normally would—finished the job, returned home to the kids, we played whatever for a couple of hours, and I finally ended it by hiding up in my room. I continuously mention "hiding" as though I do not believe the time I give myself is right. I do believe it is right; however, I question whether I leave at the correct time based on the puppy dog eyes I receive daily as I say "good night, guys."

Wednesday was the false government's national day of mourning for the many human beings doomed to injustice and perishing because of it. There was no work, and most shops remained closed for the day, yet the road was as busy as ever. Bijata, Bischestaa, and I were on our way to Bischestaa's parent-teacher conference, which allows the kids a day off from school regardless. I was invited by Bijata, for which I only later realized was for emotional support after the loss of her husband and the voyage of her sister. It is wise to note that Bischestaa and her older brother are or have been enrolled at a Christian multilingual language school; therefore, less than five percent of the staff and students there are Nepali. There were more Americans there than I liked to count, and I chose to deduce this by the lack of the Canadian flag next to the UK, Nepali, and American flags and the fact that the principal (who, for whatever reason, could not fathom why I, of all people, was at this school or why I was surrounded by Nepalis—this was the reaction of many) could only name one person from Canada after a minute's pause. I felt odd there, felt like I stood out more than I do on the streets filled with less than one percent of my race. I felt watched as though there was something I was to know among these people who looked like me. I felt a keen sense of inequality between races as though, even in a country that harbors minimal people of my race, this school, where they overthrew the darker-skinned population, held their "superiority" over others' heads.

I immediately wanted to leave. Not only this, but the manipulative tactics elementary school teachers use on children (and supposedly parents) brought me to a place in my childhood I had no desire to return to. Her main teachers, Ms. Duncan and another lady who failed to introduce herself to me memorably, had printed out a sheet of paper and had made Bischestaa fill out her own papers and evaluations and made her read it all out in front of her mother and me. I was floored, first at her confidence in doing so (when I was younger in the position of reading in front of my parents, I became flustered and nervous about everything they could say that wouldn't feel positive in my childish mind) and second of all at the fact these teachers chose to do this instead of speaking of her at their own accord, solely, instead of after her 15-minute reading. They wanted to prove "look what I have taught your child!" without the conceitedness of it all. Bijata was all for it, I myself uncomforted by it but did begin thoroughly looking at these pages Bischestaa was reading from and wondering "is it more or less inconsiderate to put 'mom and dad' on a sheet a child needs to read, especially if that child does not have a parent or has a poor relationship with one." I found it harder and harder at seventeen to do anything requiring the necessity of my parents, for they would always make it plural. Parents. Mom and dad. This begged yet another question: should we give in to the abnormal and find a more inclusive and comfortable way of writing these? Or does that make the ultimacy too apparent for small children? Bischestaa would always hesitate in front of the word dad and replace it with "Ainsley didi" (sister Ainsley) and I felt loved in that moment and honored to be mentioned in the absence of her father...and also a touch like Bijata's husband. Not that I would be complaining. We later met her gym teachers and music teacher who tried to warp Bischestaa's mind into wanting to do the musical she was so desperately against by saying things like "I won't hold it against you," "it's not my choice, it is up to you but everyone will be so upset by you not showing up." Again with the use of manipulation of children to receive what we want. When was this normalized? And why?

We drove back to the DRC later on to decorate the study room for the end-of-the-month birthdays that were supposed to be celebrated yesterday. Ironic how celebrations were held during the national day of mourning. It was sweet the way so many of the kids wanted to pitch in with the balloon decorating and the whiteboard writing/coloring. We celebrated the birthdays of Bijata's brother-in-law and niece along with little Suhanna, who understood nothing of what was going on. They were prayed for, they were spoken about, and they were sung to countless times, and finally, the cake was cut and eaten. Throughout the whole thing, I was there next to Suhanna's best friend (whose hair I was braiding), and the birthday girl looked between us as though we were her only support. I was grateful for this, for I struggled for so long to befriend her, to at least win a smile in my direction. And that is exactly what I got. I love you, little buddy. We were cooked a home-cooked lunch, which was delicious but mildly spicy, and I say this because that is how I found it and had so much pride in myself when the Nepali beside me was complaining about the spice. I felt I was adapting, even though I couldn't feel my tongue.

Thursday, I began my day with Bijata, feeling she could confide in me. I was given a backstory on the male friend she has, who's nearer to my age than hers and who has an addiction problem. She witnessed the damage it caused and felt helpless towards it. Yet, she confided that this relationship was one-way, existing only for his selfish purposes like the need for money, and was quite toxic overall. I tried to advise, but it became excruciating to take in. I thought too much of my father. Too much of how we all struggle. Too much of whether or not I was lucky to go through traumatic events as a "goody-two-shoes" and underage.

I returned to the Jhilko Project and was once again overlooked for my teaching abilities, which, to be utterly fair, I do complain about having to do time and time again, and was asked to create another phonics board because they have a lot of kids. I felt a touch like I was unwanted there and needed to be occupied quickly in order not to interrupt them or whatever the case. This, I believe, was the beginning of my rising anxiety throughout the next three days. So, I gathered my supplies and was off to the cafeteria to build another board. Sophia, one of the sweetest creatures to walk into my path of life, entered asking if I needed help. I was against the idea at first, for I was in the mood to work independently and feared I would come across as too bossy, as I fear with any project. However, I decided to allow her since she would do nothing more than sit around and ponder the world, occasionally asking if it wanted tea. I'd rather be seen as bossy than heartless, anyway. So we worked on it, and the teamwork led to us cutting five hours off of what was a five-hour project. Sophia was the kindest, trying to help in any way possible (I found it difficult to tell her when she wasn't actually helping) and struggled to make conversation. I struggled with that as well, so we worked in blissful yet friendly and mutual silence. I taught her the word perfect after my overuse of it, and she replaced me on that front when I chose to stop saying it. During the process, I felt like my father a touch, with the knowing exactly what to do with these tools around these people who knew not what to do, and gaining an audience I never asked for.

I got home and was struck with the overwhelming feeling of not wanting to do anything, which I found odd and brushed off as Suhanna chose me to replace her aforementioned friend who had gone home a few hours prior. We played for what felt like five minutes, until I was invited to play chess against one of the older boys. I really did not want to; however, I gave in when I told myself that that was the reason I was here. Not for me, but for the kids. I lost (as I usually do against him) and told him I was not feeling good and that I would battle him tomorrow, instead of our usual three games. I felt guilty leaving Suhanna on her own, but was sure she would manage with her "older brothers." I concluded at the end of this night that I was not paying as much attention to myself as I should be during these few years, and my introverted self needed to escape.

Friday, very little happened. It was the annual budget assembly for the SDSS, which ended in a large luncheon, so my kids (those that were left) came as well. I was invited by Bijata to wear the traditional attire of women in Nepal and, as much as I wanted to, I declined due to the "ooh's" and "ahh's" I'd receive from people, and it felt, in full honesty, culturally inappropriate. I was never one of those people who chose to dress opposite their culture, but if that is what made them happy to try, who am I to judge? It was a lot of sitting, with Ipsha being my friend and translator as she confirmed what I believed was happening, running to get my cookies and playing word games on her phone with me. After she'd left, I was stranded with a couple of the young boys whom I tried to teach Crossy Roads. When that did not work, we played some other games. After lunch, Ipsha purchased me a felt dog along with her felt cat and jewelry, all of which was handmade at the SDSS. I followed her like a lost puppy, my anxiety increasing with every passing minute for reasons I did not understand. I ran into Suhanna alone with tears in her eyes, and I tried to ask her questions. Unfortunately, the only English word she knows is "No," so the conversation never escalated. So we played peek-a-boo. I found her smile. Bijata was given news after telling me to wait for her to take me home that she needed to head to the hospital for a young girl at the SDSS to check for breast cancer. I guessed much more of my anxiety sprawled from the last word, allowing my body to overreact. I was once again struck with the feeling of not wanting to be with the kids, especially since it was like I was home, and I was the only woman standing (not including ama). I talked to Santa, who wouldn't leave me be for most of the night, and headed up an hour earlier than normal.

Saturday taught me a lot about myself, about traveling and moving, and about boundaries. I awoke later since it was my day off and I was not forced to head to church. The people here were quite lenient. It was Santa and I at home for three hours. I was grateful for the dishes I did and his "help" (not really, but he tried) and we sat outside playing Uno, then stacking the cards into a house, then staring at the cards, him trying to spark conversation, me completely yet quietly opposed to it. I yawned frequently due to what I have self-diagnosed as chronic fatigue and he would constantly ask if I was tired and why. It was all day that same question. "Why?" How do you answer the most difficult question when the language barrier is so great it outmeasures the reef in Australia? Finally, the churchgoers had returned and I had never been so grateful to see Bischetaa, not only for her personality which made her unique seeing as how very few of these kids seemed to show theirs, but for her English. I could not continue repeating myself and trying to reword my phrases in order for this child to comprehend me.

I took a nap closer to noon—which was not really a nap, but a break. A pause. I needed to mentally re-stimulate myself, yet woke up so much angrier. There was something wrong. I headed downstairs anyhow and stupidly made the mistake of peeking my head into their study room to see who was there and what they were up to, and Santa noticed me. I left, quite obviously being followed by him, and was asked to play Uno even though he explicitly tells me, every single time, that he hates it. We moved on to badminton, and I could hardly contain my negative emotions, which were outweighing the positive at that point. I didn't want to play Uno, or chess, or badminton anymore. I didn't want to struggle with conversations with them anymore. I didn't want to be watched when I was eating anymore. I wanted to isolate myself, lay in my bed, scream maybe. But that isn't why I am here. I have been told my honeymoon phase is over, and this is the beginning of culture shock—hiding, depressive episodes, the works. Why was I here? I hated myself. Perhaps I missed all of the kids, being able to go downstairs and share my energy with everyone instead of letting the same amount out on only one person.

My entire day consisted of being followed, being apologized to when there was no reason for it, being asked why I'm sad, the question why and the overbearing weight and annoyance that came with Santa consistently joking that he was going home when he wasn't. You could tell how much it hurt him.

I struggled with boundaries. I struggled with telling these kids "no" because I did not want to harm them nor make them feel ignored. That is not my job here, and much less is that my intention. I spoke to Bijata about it, and she told me I was there to be there, not there to be with them. I continue to find it hard to convince myself of that. But I am here to learn, and this is a part of my journey. This is my home for the time being, and this is where my life is supposed to change. It does not feel as though it has for the better anymore, but perhaps, looking closer into these feelings, happiness will come.

Slowly, but surely.