“I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud, weird, and delicate as to stupefy the senses.”
- from the Life of Pi
Ajan Mai sits on a stone block, shirtless, devotedly working on wood carvings of the Buddha as I bike past his home in the afternoon. At night I head to school to call Caitlin and he is still there—a lone fluorescent light bulb his only source of light.
Across the street my eighty four year old neighbor’s bare breasts dangle like balloons filled with water as she peels papayas.
I see a kindergartner from my school, stick in hand, walking barefoot as she leads five emaciated
cows home. She smiles and waves.
A 5th grade student of mine is picking petals off a flower. She is reciting “he loves me, he loves me not” in a language I now understand.
I watch my Thai grandmother weave silk. It is meticulous work. After a while, she notices me observing her. She smiles her beautiful toothless smile and asks if I have eaten. Three minutes later she is serving me a fried egg and some sticky rice.
Some of the village boys approach me while I am reading by the ruins. They carry a chicken. They then proceed to throw the chicken as high as they can before chasing the frightened animal all over the place. Their laughter (not to mention the chickens panicked cackling) fills the temple. I can’t decide whether I am more amused by their game or by the fact that their playground happens to be one thousand year old temple ruins.
It’s 5:30 PM. I watch the monks as they feed the fish, their saffron robes in visual harmony with the colors reflected by the lake. The sky basks in a brilliant sunset.
It’s 6:30 AM. The women of my village are beautiful in their silk dresses. There is a peaceful deliberateness in their stride as they carry food baskets to the wat.
It’s 7:00 PM. I am in my room unwinding over a book and listening to music. I hear my Thai grandfather chanting. His room is right next to mine. He is meditating. I turn down my music and continue reading, mesmerized by the ancient language reverberating through my room.
It is 9:00 PM. I step outside my house to take out the trash. The entire village is asleep. All I hear is the sound of crickets.
It is 10:03 PM I hear my Thai grandfather wake up to use the bathroom. I hear his bed creak, his door slide open. I hear him pass gas.
I am attending the funeral of Ajan Wichits brother in law. We eat tom yum, steamed fish, fried pork and sticky rice under a tarpaulin tent. Everyone I know from the village is there. Ajan Wichit sits by me, his shoulders sagging. He says, in English, “I am tired”
My 5th grade girls start telling me their crushes. They all giggle and blush.
I see my student, Gon, walking alone along the lake. I form my right hand into a fist and bounce it atop my left palm. He does the same. We start playing paper-rock-scissors from across the lake. We take turns winning but he ultimately beats me. I shake my fists at him playfully and I can see him laughing. There is more oomph in his step as he walks home.
I help my friend Ej with his life skills camp. One of the activities entails us making a grid in the ground. The grid is set up in advance. The next day we come in early only to see that the kids have made up their own game using the grid. Their laughter can be heard from the meeting hall.
I hitch a ride from the main road down to my village. Along the way, we stop to pick up some offerings for the temple in another village. I see two teenage boys passed out on a hammock, 7 bottles of beer lying on the dirt floor. It is 3 PM.
It is the beginning of the school year. I am teaching my 5th grade class when I notice an extra child in my classroom. A tiny kindergartner is sharing a seat with her older sister, coloring in her coloring book. She attends my class everyday for a week, sharing her older sister’s seat and coloring while I teach about pronouns. No one seems to mind.
I sit by the lake. I see my neighbor teaching his grandson how to use the slingshot. The child is focused, exuding only silent determination as stone after stone disappears into the lake. My neighbor, the new grandfather, is basically squealing in delight.
I am in one of Bangkok’s overcrowded outdoor markets that cater mostly to foreigners. My friend haggles down the price for some bootlegged watches. The seller, getting visibly impatient as my friend decides which exact watch he wants, snaps at us and yells for us to leave his stall. It is one of the few times I’ve ever seen a Thai get upset.
I’m at the arrival terminal of the international airport in Bangkok. A Thai lady my age is waiting for her 45 year old Canadian boyfriend. She has been waiting in the airport longer than I have and all she has is a flight number. I try to teach her how to understand the arrival information on the screens but she has difficulty following all the times and info. In the course of our conversation, I realize that she is not sure whether she can distinguish him from the other white men coming out of the arrivals gates.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Living Quotations
As a person who appreciates quotations and poetry, I’ve been fortunate to meet people, who, in their own unique ways, have embodied some of my favorite quotations and poetry, bringing them out of the page into life. My friend Kristin for example, exemplifies Thoreau’s quotes of “living deliberately” and “sucking the marrow out of life.” A buddy, Ej, with his uncanny knack of turning otherwise ordinary trips into something extraordinary, gives life to Francis Quarles’, “The world’s an inn, and I am her guest.” Whitman’s song is shared by my friend Susan who is always “afoot and lighthearted” as she takes to the “open road.” The opening lines of Robert Service’s The Tramp bring me back to my dorm-room days with my college buddies:
Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God’s land together,/
And we sang the old, old earth-song for our youth was very sweet;
(Of course, when it comes to my college buddies, there has certainly been more than a few of them that have personified Henry Youngman’s quote: When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.)
Caitlin’s ability to light up a room with her laughter and bring out the best in people is an embodiment of William Saroyan’s “Seek goodness everywhere and when it is found bring it out of its hiding place” and several people I met during my work in the Catholic Institute for La Sallian Social Action (people like James, and Jaime, and Devin, and Casey) embodied Gandhi’s “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”
Recently, I’ve witnessed two people bring another favorite quote to life.
I’ve always admired these words from Martin Luther King Jr:
"If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well."
I admired the words for its poetry and romanticism but primarily for its message. It’s been a thrill to see it come to life in an extraordinarily ordinary way.
In an earlier blog, I mention my new found appreciation for running around my village lake. What I don’t mention is that on my way back to my home, I pass by a tiny house with a tiny garden. Everyday, there is this kid and his grandmother tending to the garden. I’ve certainly seen people water plants before but for some reason, I’m drawn to this kid and his grandmother and I always stop even for the briefest of moments to watch them at work. There is a consciousness to their actions, something special— not necessarily in the same way that listening to Beethoven’s 9th is special or reading one of Hamlet’s soliloquies or looking up at the paintings of the Sistine (or gazing at the David)—but special nonetheless…in its own simple way.
Perhaps its how the grandmother seems like an extension of the earth as she bends gently tending to the plants or how the kid dutifully fills his bucket with water from the lake across the street and carries it back to the plots or how the two of them, without talking, seem to communicate to the other what needs to be done or how, when juxtaposed against the sunset, their garden seems to blush in golden hues—a manifest illustration of nature’s tranquility.
Or perhaps it’s simply because in their heart of hearts, they were called to work in a garden.
And they do their work well.
Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God’s land together,/
And we sang the old, old earth-song for our youth was very sweet;
(Of course, when it comes to my college buddies, there has certainly been more than a few of them that have personified Henry Youngman’s quote: When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.)
Caitlin’s ability to light up a room with her laughter and bring out the best in people is an embodiment of William Saroyan’s “Seek goodness everywhere and when it is found bring it out of its hiding place” and several people I met during my work in the Catholic Institute for La Sallian Social Action (people like James, and Jaime, and Devin, and Casey) embodied Gandhi’s “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”
Recently, I’ve witnessed two people bring another favorite quote to life.
I’ve always admired these words from Martin Luther King Jr:
"If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well."
I admired the words for its poetry and romanticism but primarily for its message. It’s been a thrill to see it come to life in an extraordinarily ordinary way.
In an earlier blog, I mention my new found appreciation for running around my village lake. What I don’t mention is that on my way back to my home, I pass by a tiny house with a tiny garden. Everyday, there is this kid and his grandmother tending to the garden. I’ve certainly seen people water plants before but for some reason, I’m drawn to this kid and his grandmother and I always stop even for the briefest of moments to watch them at work. There is a consciousness to their actions, something special— not necessarily in the same way that listening to Beethoven’s 9th is special or reading one of Hamlet’s soliloquies or looking up at the paintings of the Sistine (or gazing at the David)—but special nonetheless…in its own simple way.
Perhaps its how the grandmother seems like an extension of the earth as she bends gently tending to the plants or how the kid dutifully fills his bucket with water from the lake across the street and carries it back to the plots or how the two of them, without talking, seem to communicate to the other what needs to be done or how, when juxtaposed against the sunset, their garden seems to blush in golden hues—a manifest illustration of nature’s tranquility.
Or perhaps it’s simply because in their heart of hearts, they were called to work in a garden.
And they do their work well.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
When My Mind is Full
When my mind is full
I often go for a walk
And walks take me far.
Often, it’s as if I go back in time
Where all is untouched by industry
‘Tis when I see the young monks at play
Their robes—brilliant saffron; sun kissed
And their laughter in harmony with the bird’s song.
Often it’s as if I walk into a glimpse of the future
Or at least what the world would look like
Should we learn to lay down our arms and biases.
Tis when I see the elder monks at peace
Their robes—a wise hue of brown; wind blown
And their presence in harmony with the wind’s song.
Often, it’s as if I walk into a more conscious present
where life is lived with full awareness.
Tis when I see the monks close to my age,
Their robes becoming; deliberate like the night
And their laughter in harmony with my own soul’s song.
When my mind is full
I often go for a walk
And walks take me far.
I often go for a walk
And walks take me far.
Often, it’s as if I go back in time
Where all is untouched by industry
‘Tis when I see the young monks at play
Their robes—brilliant saffron; sun kissed
And their laughter in harmony with the bird’s song.
Often it’s as if I walk into a glimpse of the future
Or at least what the world would look like
Should we learn to lay down our arms and biases.
Tis when I see the elder monks at peace
Their robes—a wise hue of brown; wind blown
And their presence in harmony with the wind’s song.
Often, it’s as if I walk into a more conscious present
where life is lived with full awareness.
Tis when I see the monks close to my age,
Their robes becoming; deliberate like the night
And their laughter in harmony with my own soul’s song.
When my mind is full
I often go for a walk
And walks take me far.
Those Ancient Khmers
I am running late for my train. The driver taking me to the train station, a bald, middle aged Thai man with long strands of white hair sprouting from a mole in his cheek and a gift for conversation, is excited to learn that I am from the Northeastern region of Thailand. He speaks enough English to engage in conversation about the old Khmer ruins widespread in my neck of the woods. We compare Phi mai and Phnom Rung; talk about the lesser known ruins like Ku Phra Kona and Ku Ka Sing; and he tells me about the beauty of Khao Phra Wihan. I don’t mind him talking as long as he keeps driving.
“Do you know how the Khmers built those temples in the mountains?” he asks me.
“I have no idea”.
He looks at me and gives me one of those smiles. “Well I do”.
And thus begins a rather tense 5 minutes
He starts telling me the story, his foot easing from the pedal as his excitement builds up.
“The ancient Khmer” he declares in rapid oratory “had clean hearts!”
“Clean hearts, got it” I say, nervously glancing at my watch
“They had no technology but their hearts were clean!”
His voice starts rising, his passion more evident, his pride swelling at the opportunity to impart his wisdom upon me. His feet leave the pedal completely. We are parked on the side of the street. His hands flailing wildly in the air like a symphonic maestro, his message being delivered with a fervor becoming of a minister:
“And they had faith! And so they had power! The big stones felt like chog to them!”
“Chog?” I ask, actually a bit captivated by the story (I had given up hope of making my train)
“Yes!” he screams as he begins writing things in an imaginary blackboard “like chog!”
“Oh, like chalk”
“Yes, like chog!”
“Got it”
He goes on, his tone rising, his vocabulary taking on a biblical quality:
“And because of faith, five men were like one and twenty men were like one and one was like many…and because it was for god, they worked with one mind and one clean heart”
I’m carefully working out the previous statement (how the hell is five like one and twenty like one?) when he suddenly turns to me and eyes me rather suspiciously.
“Do you think” he asks, quite guardedly “that they used elephants?”
“Well, I imagine they would have”
“No!” he screams as if I had uttered some blasphemy “They not use elephants!”
He attempts to clear my sacrilege
“The mountain was like this” he slants his right forearm at a steep angle to his thigh and uses the fingers of his left hand to show elephants attempting to climb the steep mountain
“Elephants” he says, as his left hand slides across his belly “could not walk up”
We sit there thoughtfully for what seems like quite a while. He giving me time to let everything sink in; me trying to work out what other options I might have if I were to miss the train.
“Okay, he says finally, as if snapping out of a trance “we go now”
.............................................................................................................
Post script: The train was blowing its horn as we pulled up to the station. If not for an ancient Khmer like burst of strength that I summoned from the depths of my clean heart (and a whole lot of adrenaline) I doubt my fully filled 85 liter backpack would have felt light as “chog” as I made the dash for my journey back to the Northeast.
“Do you know how the Khmers built those temples in the mountains?” he asks me.
“I have no idea”.
He looks at me and gives me one of those smiles. “Well I do”.
And thus begins a rather tense 5 minutes
He starts telling me the story, his foot easing from the pedal as his excitement builds up.
“The ancient Khmer” he declares in rapid oratory “had clean hearts!”
“Clean hearts, got it” I say, nervously glancing at my watch
“They had no technology but their hearts were clean!”
His voice starts rising, his passion more evident, his pride swelling at the opportunity to impart his wisdom upon me. His feet leave the pedal completely. We are parked on the side of the street. His hands flailing wildly in the air like a symphonic maestro, his message being delivered with a fervor becoming of a minister:
“And they had faith! And so they had power! The big stones felt like chog to them!”
“Chog?” I ask, actually a bit captivated by the story (I had given up hope of making my train)
“Yes!” he screams as he begins writing things in an imaginary blackboard “like chog!”
“Oh, like chalk”
“Yes, like chog!”
“Got it”
He goes on, his tone rising, his vocabulary taking on a biblical quality:
“And because of faith, five men were like one and twenty men were like one and one was like many…and because it was for god, they worked with one mind and one clean heart”
I’m carefully working out the previous statement (how the hell is five like one and twenty like one?) when he suddenly turns to me and eyes me rather suspiciously.
“Do you think” he asks, quite guardedly “that they used elephants?”
“Well, I imagine they would have”
“No!” he screams as if I had uttered some blasphemy “They not use elephants!”
He attempts to clear my sacrilege
“The mountain was like this” he slants his right forearm at a steep angle to his thigh and uses the fingers of his left hand to show elephants attempting to climb the steep mountain
“Elephants” he says, as his left hand slides across his belly “could not walk up”
We sit there thoughtfully for what seems like quite a while. He giving me time to let everything sink in; me trying to work out what other options I might have if I were to miss the train.
“Okay, he says finally, as if snapping out of a trance “we go now”
.............................................................................................................
Post script: The train was blowing its horn as we pulled up to the station. If not for an ancient Khmer like burst of strength that I summoned from the depths of my clean heart (and a whole lot of adrenaline) I doubt my fully filled 85 liter backpack would have felt light as “chog” as I made the dash for my journey back to the Northeast.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The Chase
So I’m packing my stuff when I hear some screaming behind me. I look back and these 5 kindergartners are running towards me, slapping my back pack, and then running away screaming and laughing. It goes on like this for about 3 minutes. They run closer trying to touch my bag then I turn around and make a scary face and they run away laughing and screaming. It was totally random but really funny as well. Of course once I took out my camera, they would stop to pose before they ran away. Anyways, after 10 minutes of this, I start heading out on my bike and what do you know, they chase me all the way home.
They then hung out outside my house for a while knocking on my door then running away screaming and giggling. I was tired and wanted some rest but I must admit, it was entertaining hearing them have fun outside. I did open the door suddenly one time with a big “boo!” and they almost knocked each other silly running away. Funny stuff. Oh, the life of volunteers.
Pictures from the chase. 
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Learning to Run
Everyday for the past 2 weeks, I’ve been running on a road meticulously strung about with cow dung. The road encircles a charming lake surrounded by coconut and banana trees, village houses—ranging from beautiful “western style” houses to more traditional Thai wooden ones atop stilts, and the local wat. Children, most of them students at my school, stop playing as I run 
by and yell “hello teacher!” or "Farang! Farang!” Every now and then one of them will run alongside me for a few meters before running back to screaming companions. Rice farmers, on their way back from the fields atop their rot kwai leks, little makeshift tractors that, when translated literally from the Thai, mean "little buffalo", wave and give me the thumbs up. The cow herders will slap their cows out of the way. Young highschool girls yell “I love you!” from the local goitiao stand while the young men of the village, chilling by their motorcycles will invite me to drink “whisky Thai” with them. Sometimes, I get to catch the monks—in their stunning saffron robes—hanging out by a rundown, wooden dock on an adjacent lake, feeding the fish.
by and yell “hello teacher!” or "Farang! Farang!” Every now and then one of them will run alongside me for a few meters before running back to screaming companions. Rice farmers, on their way back from the fields atop their rot kwai leks, little makeshift tractors that, when translated literally from the Thai, mean "little buffalo", wave and give me the thumbs up. The cow herders will slap their cows out of the way. Young highschool girls yell “I love you!” from the local goitiao stand while the young men of the village, chilling by their motorcycles will invite me to drink “whisky Thai” with them. Sometimes, I get to catch the monks—in their stunning saffron robes—hanging out by a rundown, wooden dock on an adjacent lake, feeding the fish.This has been my “running environment” for two weeks now and I’ve enjoyed it tremendously. The funny thing is, I’ve never been a runner. My father’s been into running for some time now; running is a source of quality bonding time for my girlfriend and her family; one of my best friends in college was so into running that during our semester abroad in Oxford, he invested in running shoes (at the cost of sacrificing some beers at the pubs). And yet, despite this inclination towards running from those closest to me, I never quite understood how they could enjoy what I considered to be a rather boring exercise—one I considered inferior to basketball or any other sport where running was merely a part of a greater whole.
Lately however, I’ve begun to understand why they run. It’s like meditating almost. I’ve found it to be a perfect opportunity to process everything that happened during the day (and as a Peace Corps Volunteer, there is certainly a lot to process…whether the day was eventful or not). The forty or so minutes I’ve run everyday have been therapeutic in so many levels. And they’ve made me appreciate my life here in a special way. Running around the lake everyday has allowed me to really take in the essence of my village surroundings. I get to hear the sounds, see the sights, smell the scents (thankfully there is more to smell than cow dung) and yet I don’t get tied down by any one thing in particular. I get to take it all and yet I get to keep on running and processing how vibrant everything is. Simply put, I feel so alive.
The benefits have been wonderful. Not only have I felt healthier, I’ve also found that I’ve slept so much better, felt more at peace, and I’ve actually made some good gains in my language learning (I’m seriously trying to learn how to read and write Thai) I do believe that running has helped center me. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that I exercise by a beautiful, vibrant lake and by the time I end, it’s usually sunset…and sunsets by my village’s lake are simply stunning.
I wouldn’t call myself a serious runner quite yet but I’m certainly enjoying running now more than in any other time of my life. And for now, that is fine with me.
I wouldn’t call myself a serious runner quite yet but I’m certainly enjoying running now more than in any other time of my life. And for now, that is fine with me.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
An Awesome Birthday
If anyone had told me a few years ago that my 24th birthday would be a 5 night affair, I would have laughed and said, “That would be awesome.”
If anyone had told me a few years ago that on my 24th birthday I would be surrounded by people I had just met but have become like family to me, I would have smiled and said, “That would be awesome.”
If anyone had told me a few years ago that part of my 24th birthday celebration would take place in a little village in rural Thailand and that rural village would in fact be my home, I would have thought the person telling me this crazy but I would have said “That would be awesome.”
Now, if anyone had told me a few years ago that my 24th birthday would be a 5 night celebration in a village in rural Thailand, surrounded by an amazing group of people, and would involve teaching English to 168 screaming Thai children, a whole lot of Karaoke, drinking with VIP’s of my village (and province) at 4 in the afternoon, walking around a beautiful lake, having grasshoppers while sitting around 1000 year old Khmer ruins, turning my home into the closest thing to a frat house this side of Thailand has ever seen, playing pusoy dos till the wee hours of the morning, hanging by a pool, having a generous serving of gelato for under 1 dollar, eating a sushi restaurant out of rice, getting sloshed and then dancing to music I do not understand while smoking a hookah…if anyone at all had told me a few years back that my 24th birthday would be celebrated this way…I would have shaken my head in disbelief, shrugged my shoulders as I thought this person insane, and let out a smirk…though underneath the head shaking, shoulder shrugging and the smirk would be the words “man, that sure would be awesome.”
Well, as I type this entry while dealing with a bad hangover, a dazed mind, very slow reflexes, an exhaustion I have not felt since my college days, a horrible sore throat, a room that smells worse than my horrible air freshener, and a very content smile, "alls I know" is this: my 24th birthday was AWESOME
To all of you that made my 24th birthday so special—Thank you. My house still reeks and my bathroom is horrendous but the sound of your collective laughter still echoes through the walls. And believe me when I say this: my little village will never be the same. Farang fever is running high. Already, I’ve had so many questions about the farangs that invaded Kin Kao Tung Nung Phamai and when you all will return. Their beds and pillows and blankets (as well as the beer, ice and peanuts), my neighbors have assured me, are ready for you to come back.
And to those who I was not fortunate enough to celebrate with (though I appreciate all the greetings you sent via phone, email, Friendster and Facebook)—here’s to 25!!! Cheers!
If anyone had told me a few years ago that on my 24th birthday I would be surrounded by people I had just met but have become like family to me, I would have smiled and said, “That would be awesome.”
If anyone had told me a few years ago that part of my 24th birthday celebration would take place in a little village in rural Thailand and that rural village would in fact be my home, I would have thought the person telling me this crazy but I would have said “That would be awesome.”
Now, if anyone had told me a few years ago that my 24th birthday would be a 5 night celebration in a village in rural Thailand, surrounded by an amazing group of people, and would involve teaching English to 168 screaming Thai children, a whole lot of Karaoke, drinking with VIP’s of my village (and province) at 4 in the afternoon, walking around a beautiful lake, having grasshoppers while sitting around 1000 year old Khmer ruins, turning my home into the closest thing to a frat house this side of Thailand has ever seen, playing pusoy dos till the wee hours of the morning, hanging by a pool, having a generous serving of gelato for under 1 dollar, eating a sushi restaurant out of rice, getting sloshed and then dancing to music I do not understand while smoking a hookah…if anyone at all had told me a few years back that my 24th birthday would be celebrated this way…I would have shaken my head in disbelief, shrugged my shoulders as I thought this person insane, and let out a smirk…though underneath the head shaking, shoulder shrugging and the smirk would be the words “man, that sure would be awesome.”
Well, as I type this entry while dealing with a bad hangover, a dazed mind, very slow reflexes, an exhaustion I have not felt since my college days, a horrible sore throat, a room that smells worse than my horrible air freshener, and a very content smile, "alls I know" is this: my 24th birthday was AWESOME
To all of you that made my 24th birthday so special—Thank you. My house still reeks and my bathroom is horrendous but the sound of your collective laughter still echoes through the walls. And believe me when I say this: my little village will never be the same. Farang fever is running high. Already, I’ve had so many questions about the farangs that invaded Kin Kao Tung Nung Phamai and when you all will return. Their beds and pillows and blankets (as well as the beer, ice and peanuts), my neighbors have assured me, are ready for you to come back.
And to those who I was not fortunate enough to celebrate with (though I appreciate all the greetings you sent via phone, email, Friendster and Facebook)—here’s to 25!!! Cheers!
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Voice of "Real"
'What is REAL?' asked the Rabbit one day, 'Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?'
'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you…’
'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'
'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become’
In the Velveteen Rabbit, the process of becoming real is a painful one: hair falls off, eyes drop out, joints are loosened and become shabby. Amidst the pain however, is something beautiful.
Two experiences this past weekend reminded me of the beauty (and the pain) associated with something “becoming real”. I attended an HIV/AIDS conference in Kamphaengphet, Thailand together with other Peace Corps Volunteers and our Thai counterparts. Dr. John Williams, the country director, opened the conference by sharing a story of a young child he had met many years earlier in Eastern Europe. The child, a 12 year old boy named Marios, was endowed with a spirit that revealed itself magnificently through twinkling eyes and an infectious smile. Marios was one of the top students in his school, was a talented artist who enjoyed water colors, and was such a joy to be around with. Marios was also HIV positive.
Despite his illness, Marios zest for life served as a constant reminder of how life should be lived and he had the gift for inspiring this very truth in the hearts of the people he met. Dr. John happened to be one of the lucky ones. Inspiration however, was not the only gift Dr. John received from Marios. At the end of their meeting, Marios gave Dr. John some of his paintings and his most prized possession—an easter egg painted for him by a friend, with his name inscribed in it. “Remember me” Marios told Dr. John.
Not too long after their meeting, Marious succumbed to the disease.
The story in itself was powerful but it was listening to Dr. John share the story and watching him read from a journal entry written after meeting Marios that struck me most. The way his hands shook while holding the paper; the love and sincerity he carried in his voice as he reread the words he wrote many years ago; the thoughtfulness with which he shared Marios story with our group made me realize that he was not just telling us a story but was, in a special way, sharing Mario’s easter egg with us. He was also fulfilling Marios’ request.
I did not get to ask him—though I suspect this to be true—that a big part of who Dr. John is today; his passion for his work; his outlook on the world—is largely due to a little child with sparkling eyes and an infectious smile and a spirit much larger than his frail body who taught Dr. John a special lesson—and a very real one at that—on the day they met.
The 2nd incident happened on the way home. It was hour 7 of my 12 hour bus ride back to site. I was jotting down thoughts on the power an experience can lend to a person’s voice when I got a call from my friend Tara. After catching up for a bit, I told her about Dr. John’s story and how it had struck me. Tara then told me her own story.
A few months earlier, a student of hers lost his mother to AIDS. The student, a 4th grade boy, was HIV positive himself. It was understood at the time of the mother’s death that the child was to live with his aunt. Somewhere along the way, responsibilities for the child were passed on to his grandmother who, at the time, was also taking care of another grandchild. Before the student could move in with his grandmother, the rest of the family entered the picture and saw to it that the student would not move in for fear that the disease would spread unto the other child and ultimately around the family. The child now lives alone in an empty house and while the grandfather comes every night to sleep in the house, he does so in another room. Given the strong communal culture of Thailand, especially in the rural villages—where families (even extended families) tend to all sleep together—the grandfather staying in a different room pretty much serves to show how ostracized this kid has become.
Tara told me how she cried as she found out more about the situation. Tara of course, like many people, was well aware of the stigma placed on people with HIV and AIDS around the world due to a lack of education about the disease on the part of communities. But, just as is the case with many people, until the issue becomes very real—until people see the ugliness of the stigma up close, affecting someone people actually know—the issue remains as just another sad issue. The very moment she learned about the situation, Tara told me, the issue suddenly became personal…and very real. “I just wanted to take the kid and make his life better” she said.
I have a strong feeling she will and I’ll explain why in a bit.
These 2 experiences stand out from a weekend that was full of inspiration and learning. I wrote these words just before Tara called me,
“we share a lot by giving facts…we perhaps share more by giving stories”
And
“It is when an issue becomes real to us that we acquire the voice to speak about it and touch more than just the mind…we also touch the heart”
This is exactly what happened this weekend. Dr. John and Tara were already involved in meaningful development work but the experiences they shared with me were the very experiences that put a human face on the issue and made it much more real to them. This is why I’m optimistic that Tara will do exactly what she said she wanted to do—make this kid’s life better. Knowing her, Tara will do great things in her village (in fact, she’s started developing a youth group in her community that will work with people affected by AIDS) but now, the importance of AIDS education is no longer just an issue for her. It is very real. The process of it becoming real was not pretty—in fact, it was a painful story—but I know the result will be an even more passionate commitment to educating people.
As for Dr. John, he keeps a picture of a little kid with huge eyes and a smile full of joy, grace and a hint of mischief on his desk—a great and very real source of inspiration for his important work.
These 2 stories remind me of why I love that particular section from the Velveteen Rabbit. They also makes me appreciate the position I am in as a volunteer where I get to experience—first hand—a way of life that not too many people from where I come from get to experience. I also appreciate being in the field with other volunteers—people I consider friends—who are also going through the same things and are able to share their stories with me. These stories are sometimes painful, often beautiful, and always real.
P.S. As I was writing this, I found myself getting super excited that Caitlin and I are doing similar work. As she lives longer in Uganda and I live longer in Thailand, I can only imagine how much we will both experience. I look forward to exchanging stories with her and listening as our voices, when speaking of issues about HIV/AIDS, poverty, gender and development become all the more powerful. I look forward to seeing how our experience in the Peace Corps helps us “become” and shapes us as individuals and as a couple.
'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you…’
'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'
'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become’
In the Velveteen Rabbit, the process of becoming real is a painful one: hair falls off, eyes drop out, joints are loosened and become shabby. Amidst the pain however, is something beautiful.
Two experiences this past weekend reminded me of the beauty (and the pain) associated with something “becoming real”. I attended an HIV/AIDS conference in Kamphaengphet, Thailand together with other Peace Corps Volunteers and our Thai counterparts. Dr. John Williams, the country director, opened the conference by sharing a story of a young child he had met many years earlier in Eastern Europe. The child, a 12 year old boy named Marios, was endowed with a spirit that revealed itself magnificently through twinkling eyes and an infectious smile. Marios was one of the top students in his school, was a talented artist who enjoyed water colors, and was such a joy to be around with. Marios was also HIV positive.
Despite his illness, Marios zest for life served as a constant reminder of how life should be lived and he had the gift for inspiring this very truth in the hearts of the people he met. Dr. John happened to be one of the lucky ones. Inspiration however, was not the only gift Dr. John received from Marios. At the end of their meeting, Marios gave Dr. John some of his paintings and his most prized possession—an easter egg painted for him by a friend, with his name inscribed in it. “Remember me” Marios told Dr. John.
Not too long after their meeting, Marious succumbed to the disease.
The story in itself was powerful but it was listening to Dr. John share the story and watching him read from a journal entry written after meeting Marios that struck me most. The way his hands shook while holding the paper; the love and sincerity he carried in his voice as he reread the words he wrote many years ago; the thoughtfulness with which he shared Marios story with our group made me realize that he was not just telling us a story but was, in a special way, sharing Mario’s easter egg with us. He was also fulfilling Marios’ request.
I did not get to ask him—though I suspect this to be true—that a big part of who Dr. John is today; his passion for his work; his outlook on the world—is largely due to a little child with sparkling eyes and an infectious smile and a spirit much larger than his frail body who taught Dr. John a special lesson—and a very real one at that—on the day they met.
The 2nd incident happened on the way home. It was hour 7 of my 12 hour bus ride back to site. I was jotting down thoughts on the power an experience can lend to a person’s voice when I got a call from my friend Tara. After catching up for a bit, I told her about Dr. John’s story and how it had struck me. Tara then told me her own story.
A few months earlier, a student of hers lost his mother to AIDS. The student, a 4th grade boy, was HIV positive himself. It was understood at the time of the mother’s death that the child was to live with his aunt. Somewhere along the way, responsibilities for the child were passed on to his grandmother who, at the time, was also taking care of another grandchild. Before the student could move in with his grandmother, the rest of the family entered the picture and saw to it that the student would not move in for fear that the disease would spread unto the other child and ultimately around the family. The child now lives alone in an empty house and while the grandfather comes every night to sleep in the house, he does so in another room. Given the strong communal culture of Thailand, especially in the rural villages—where families (even extended families) tend to all sleep together—the grandfather staying in a different room pretty much serves to show how ostracized this kid has become.
Tara told me how she cried as she found out more about the situation. Tara of course, like many people, was well aware of the stigma placed on people with HIV and AIDS around the world due to a lack of education about the disease on the part of communities. But, just as is the case with many people, until the issue becomes very real—until people see the ugliness of the stigma up close, affecting someone people actually know—the issue remains as just another sad issue. The very moment she learned about the situation, Tara told me, the issue suddenly became personal…and very real. “I just wanted to take the kid and make his life better” she said.
I have a strong feeling she will and I’ll explain why in a bit.
These 2 experiences stand out from a weekend that was full of inspiration and learning. I wrote these words just before Tara called me,
“we share a lot by giving facts…we perhaps share more by giving stories”
And
“It is when an issue becomes real to us that we acquire the voice to speak about it and touch more than just the mind…we also touch the heart”
This is exactly what happened this weekend. Dr. John and Tara were already involved in meaningful development work but the experiences they shared with me were the very experiences that put a human face on the issue and made it much more real to them. This is why I’m optimistic that Tara will do exactly what she said she wanted to do—make this kid’s life better. Knowing her, Tara will do great things in her village (in fact, she’s started developing a youth group in her community that will work with people affected by AIDS) but now, the importance of AIDS education is no longer just an issue for her. It is very real. The process of it becoming real was not pretty—in fact, it was a painful story—but I know the result will be an even more passionate commitment to educating people.
As for Dr. John, he keeps a picture of a little kid with huge eyes and a smile full of joy, grace and a hint of mischief on his desk—a great and very real source of inspiration for his important work.
These 2 stories remind me of why I love that particular section from the Velveteen Rabbit. They also makes me appreciate the position I am in as a volunteer where I get to experience—first hand—a way of life that not too many people from where I come from get to experience. I also appreciate being in the field with other volunteers—people I consider friends—who are also going through the same things and are able to share their stories with me. These stories are sometimes painful, often beautiful, and always real.
P.S. As I was writing this, I found myself getting super excited that Caitlin and I are doing similar work. As she lives longer in Uganda and I live longer in Thailand, I can only imagine how much we will both experience. I look forward to exchanging stories with her and listening as our voices, when speaking of issues about HIV/AIDS, poverty, gender and development become all the more powerful. I look forward to seeing how our experience in the Peace Corps helps us “become” and shapes us as individuals and as a couple.
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