I left for China one year ago today and I returned home exactly one week ago. I spent just shy of a year there and left just over a year early. As my last, perhaps overly dramatic, post might have indicated, I ET'd. Despite having completed a full 2-year service in Romania, it's still considered an Early Termination when a transfer or extendee leaves early. Oh well. This will most likely be my last post here at thepickupsticks, but will certainly not be the end of my blogging life. I'll start a new blog in the near future to help me get through grad school and the post-PC life I lead and if you're at all interested in reading it, just send me an email (found in my profile) and I'll pass along the address. Don't be shy.
When people ask me about my site and why I left, I've found that it is very difficult to explain exactly what went on there. So many tiny details and a few big issues led to my decision. A volunteer currently serving in Romania is thinking about transferring to China and asked me for my thoughts about it, and here's what I wrote to him.
"...So let me explain a little bit about why I left. One of the hardest things for me to adjust to was the difference in the way the program was managed. I'm not sure how Sheila manages volunteers as a CD because I left about three months after she arrived, but the CD prior to her was Ken Goodson and he was an amazing CD and friend to me and just about all of the volunteers. Under him, the program focused mainly (at least in my opinion) on keeping the volunteers happy because they knew that happy volunteers meant productive, dedicated volunteers.
In China, it feels much more like the program's goal is to keep the schools and the government pleased and satisfied and will sacrifice the volunteers' experience and happiness in order to do so. In some ways, the program has its hands tied there because of the delicate nature of the relationship between the US and China. We basically have to do whatever China asks us to, where in most other PC countries, the US makes the decisions. Because of this, concerns and questions brought up (to the staff by volunteers) are generally shot down and there is little room for discussion. Only when I told them that I was planning to ET did I feel supported, which is not how it should work. Of course, this is all just from my experience. There are plenty of volunteers there who are quite happy, but the volunteers who are unhappy have no one on staff to talk to or receive support from other than the PCMO, who even then has to go through a rather generic protocol in an attempt to address issues.
Issues with the staff may not have come up for me if it weren't for my site - the real source of my unhappiness and ET. There's a major change happening in the college system in China. Most of the colleges and universities want to expand, but can't afford to do so at their current campus, so they're moving the entire university to brand new facilities. In many aspects, this is a good thing - more room for students, new equipment, better facilities, but it sucks for volunteers because the locations of these new campuses are often very remote and far from the original campus and city center, leading to a lack of community, an amplified sense of isolation and making all three goals of the PC unnecessarily difficult to fulfill.
Another surprise to me was getting placed at a three year, third tier vocational school where the majority of students are training to become automobile mechanics and have very low-level English and very little interest in improving it. (China's program is generally advertised as a future-English-teacher training program.) Turns out, luckily, that I love teaching and enjoyed that challenge, but having students who aren't academically driven or motivated to learn English, and therefore not interested in spending any time outside of the classroom with me, made that brooding sense of isolation and pointlessness even more intense. Combining that with the location of the school led to a depressed volunteer. I'm sure, though, that there are volunteers out there who could handle that situation admirably.
In short, my whole situation just didn't work for me. I'm pretty sure that if I had been placed at just about any of the other sites, I would have been ok. But who knows, it's pointless to ponder that. I loved teaching, but I needed more, as I think all volunteers do. We want a community to wander around in, where we can find people with whom to interact and make close friendships. We want students with whom we can bond and make connections, and none of that happened in the first year, so I left, especially after having such a great experience in Romania..."
So that's the heart of my ET, plus a multitude of other more minor issues. I am not attempting to dissuade anyone from joining the Peace Corps or going to China or transferring there, just wanted to be honest with my experiences. The Peace Corps can be an amazing experience; it was for me my first time around, I now realize. But 1/3rd of volunteers do ET and I now understand more completely why.
And, after a week of being home, there isn't a bone in my body that regrets leaving. I've seen more blue sky and sun in the past week than I did over the entire past year. I've spent time with friends and family and, though I feel a bit out of sorts a good deal of the time, the overbearing emotion is happiness, which feels wonderful after so many months of down. I don't regret transferring, it showed me that I do love teaching, but I don't regret leaving, either. Not a bit.
Here's to happiness. May we all be strong enough to find our own.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Things Change
Remember this. Remember the disappointment. Remember the hard work and the tears and the longing for home, none of which was softened by friendship or even acceptance. Remember the dull-minded greed that took all of your effort to keep at bay, followed by the emotionless and dry-eyed goodbyes. Remember the anger and the foul words you never thought you’d say, screamed to yourself in an empty room or muttered under your breath after another idiotic hello. Remember the look in your students’ eyes every single time you tried to teach them something heavier than yet another silly game. Remember all of the one sided conversations and the struggle to think of more questions and the pure lack of curiosity, interest or concern. Remember all the stupid photographs that you never consented to, all of the pointing, all of the heads turning, all of the god-damned hellos. Don’t forget this. Don’t regret your decision. You’re miserable here. Every day. Nearly every hour. Never regret this. You’re going home. You’re going to hug your mom and pet your dog. You’re going to play with your little brothers and go back to school and live a better life. You’re going to feel happy again. I know the good memories and the kind people will eventually push the nasty ones out, and you will probably regret this decision some day, but don’t. Please don’t. Everybody deserves happiness, even you. Everybody has the right to leave a situation that makes them feel awful. You’re moving on to something bigger and better and healthier, don’t let the venom of regret poison a second of it. It’s time to let it go. Remember this.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Dear Diary
I saw a foreigner for the first time today. My friend Lee said he saw one two weeks ago buying peanut butter, coffee and toilet paper at Wal Mart. Perhaps we saw the same foreigner. She was sitting on the bus headed towards the city center. The bus was packed, but she had a seat and was staring aimlessly out, ears plugged up with headphones and I imagine she was listening to Country Roads or My Heart Will Go On. Those are good songs. Or maybe she was listening to Chinese music. I wonder if she likes Chinese music. I could tell even from a distance that her eyes were not brown. I have only ever seen brown eyes. There are a few movies with actors who have blue or green eyes, but the color doesn’t show up very well in movies. I’ve always been curious what eyes of a different color would look like. Her eyes were definitely not brown. I think they were blue. It made me very nervous to see someone with blue eyes and blonde hair, someone who so clearly is foreign. I felt like I should say something to her, welcome her to our beautiful country, but I could not gather the courage. My neighbor nudged me with his elbow and said “look, a foreigner” and a few others in the crowd murmured their surprise. Foreigners do not come here to our Kong Gang, and they do not ride our buses. Her eyes looked sad, but that is not likely. Maybe it is normal for foreigners to look sad. And tired. I bet people are very friendly to her and always welcome her. We are a friendly people, so it is not likely that she is sad. Foreigners just look sad. And tired. But I bet she is happy. Just before her bus pulled away from the curb, her eyes flashed suddenly to mine. Oh, the thrill and fear of those bright blue foreign eyes piercing right into my own! I have never before felt such unease. When our eyes met, she cocked her eyebrow in a way I am unfamiliar with. I wonder what it meant, that eyebrow raise. But before I could analyze her expression more, the bus, with its sole foreign passenger, was gone. If I ever see her again, I will gather my courage and invite her to hot pot. I wonder if she likes hot pot. It will be difficult for her, though, having to use chopsticks and all. I hope I see her again and I hope I can be brave enough to speak to her.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Waiting for Mr. Right
I’m waiting for Mr. Right to give me an answer. It’s difficult because he often takes more than 30 seconds to gather his thoughts, but it’s always worth the pause. The other students know what he is capable of and have therefore stopped talking, not wanting to miss a word. Every time I call on Mr. Right, which I try to keep balanced with the other students, the entire class effortlessly falls still and silent, all eyes on the performer as he clears his throat and thinks. Finally, after a few false starts, the words come out. Everyone in the class, myself included, laughs. He, satisfied with his work, leans back in his chair and coyly smiles, knowing he got the answer wrong. Mr. Right’s wrong answers are always better than the right ones. Sometimes it’s hard to stop laughing and continue with class. What else could you expect from a student who gave himself the English name Mr. Right.
Forgive Me
Forgive me, but it gets old. I love Peace Corps, I do. I really love what it stands for – helping underserved communities, spreading cultural understanding, learning about the world, making friends, on and on, but sometimes, it just gets old. Sometimes it treats you like a five year-old kid who can’t make decisions, who has no experience, who can’t be trusted, whose opinions are silly little nothings. Sometimes, it feels like your freedom to do what you want to do, to be who you want to be, has been stolen away, tucked into a filing cabinet, where it will be kept under lock and key for the next 27+ months. It takes away living options. It takes away apartment hunting. It takes away decision-making and negotiating and discussion topics and pride and friends, and then it tells you to take this one situation, this one situation in this one city at this one school, of all the possibilities and places and people, take this one situation, no matter how poor of a match, and live with it. Deal with it. Take it like a man. Take one for the team. And if you don’t like it and don’t make it beautiful and shiny and meaningful, your problem. Your loss. Maybe you really are not cut out for this wildebeest of an adventure called Peace Corps. Maybe you don’t deserve to be here. Maybe you should just shut up or get out because there are thousands of hands typing away at their aspiration statements at this very moment, dreaming of mud huts and straw hats and all that nonsense I once dreamt about. We’ll gladly fly you home and replace you with one of them, regardless of their dreams, regardless of your thoughts. Just say the word, just show one little sign of weakness, and gears shall start turning. And, if you have any questions, comments or concerns, keep them to yourself. They don’t matter, anyways.
Forgive me, please, it’s just gotten old. I love Peace Corps, I do. I’m learning and gaining experience and living a life that I’d never have back home, but, you know, it just gets old sometimes. Forgive me. I’ve always believed in honesty and the occasional rant and perhaps I’m experiencing the 3rd year blues.
Forgive me, please, it’s just gotten old. I love Peace Corps, I do. I’m learning and gaining experience and living a life that I’d never have back home, but, you know, it just gets old sometimes. Forgive me. I’ve always believed in honesty and the occasional rant and perhaps I’m experiencing the 3rd year blues.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Happy Birthday to TJ
Luckily, enough good things happen in this world that all the horrible stuff doesn’t have a chance of dominating everything. On February 27th 2004, little Tanner Joseph, more commonly known as TJ or Teej, was born. My little brother. He got out to a real shaky start, being born three months premature. There were days when we weren’t sure he’d make it. I remember going to the neonatal intensive care unit at Saint Mary’s hospital and visiting him with my step-mom, my dad and my sister. We’d have to scrub our arms up to our elbows with soap before we were allowed to enter to help eliminate the chance of germs affecting the fragile little bundles within.
Once inside, for the first few weeks, I could only look at TJ through the clear plastic walls of his incubator. My dad and step-mom were allowed to carefully hold his two-pound self once in a while, but the rest of us would have to wait until he was more stable. Honestly, I was afraid I would somehow hurt him if I were to touch him, so I was relieved by the rule.
Back then, he looked more like a little alien than a baby, especially when he wore his eye-protecting glasses and the flashing bracelets that monitored various bodily things. Tubes and wires were running in and out of everywhere. The one normal baby-like thing in there with him was a tiny blue hat, which fit loosely over his head and always seemed a bit crooked. I’m glad they put that hat on him, just to remind him that he was indeed a baby. A baby who would grow and get strong and would one day get to wear such hats while bouncing and giggling on his father’s knee, as all babies do. Not to be in a plastic box, wired to a machine for eternity.
TJ had to stay in that hospital room, in an incubator, for three months, up until the day he was supposed to be born. Even after that, he had hurtles to jump that other kids get to obliviously stride through. His digestive system took time to fully develop and for a while he was fed through a tube. He slowly graduated to eating real food, but not much of it. It took a long time for TJ to learn how to like food and he has always been underweight. Currently, however, he and his voracious appetite are doing their best to make up for lost eating time. His lungs were behind as well and he still suffers from asthma-like attacks today, but they’re getting less common.
The list of complications he faced, and may face for the rest of his life, goes on, but for the most part he is a very healthy, very happy kid. And he’s smart. And witty. And all the wonderful things a little kid can be. He might always be a hair shorter than the rest of the class, but he can tell fart jokes in a manner that makes his 30 year old sister, who hates fart jokes, laugh. Laugh hard.
Whenever I think about TJ’s first three months of life, and how uncertain things were and how strange he looked and how scared I was to touch him, I go numb. Of course, there’s no real way to describe it. He used to pester me non-stop to push him in his swing and I 99.9% of the time caved; he’ll talk to me for an hour on skype, though half of which is just him making faces at himself or making fart sounds; I once traced his hands with a pen and paper at least 50 times over because he liked it so much; he likes to race me around the house on his bicycle, even if it’s raining out; he helped me bake cookies this summer even though there was the opportunity for playing games on the Wii. Whenever I’m there, he’s around. Wanting to play or looking for help or needing to show me something. Making me feel like a big sister who’s loved and who loves. I can’t wait to be there in person for his birthday, some day down the line.
The second semester starts tomorrow. Wish me luck!
Once inside, for the first few weeks, I could only look at TJ through the clear plastic walls of his incubator. My dad and step-mom were allowed to carefully hold his two-pound self once in a while, but the rest of us would have to wait until he was more stable. Honestly, I was afraid I would somehow hurt him if I were to touch him, so I was relieved by the rule.
Back then, he looked more like a little alien than a baby, especially when he wore his eye-protecting glasses and the flashing bracelets that monitored various bodily things. Tubes and wires were running in and out of everywhere. The one normal baby-like thing in there with him was a tiny blue hat, which fit loosely over his head and always seemed a bit crooked. I’m glad they put that hat on him, just to remind him that he was indeed a baby. A baby who would grow and get strong and would one day get to wear such hats while bouncing and giggling on his father’s knee, as all babies do. Not to be in a plastic box, wired to a machine for eternity.
TJ had to stay in that hospital room, in an incubator, for three months, up until the day he was supposed to be born. Even after that, he had hurtles to jump that other kids get to obliviously stride through. His digestive system took time to fully develop and for a while he was fed through a tube. He slowly graduated to eating real food, but not much of it. It took a long time for TJ to learn how to like food and he has always been underweight. Currently, however, he and his voracious appetite are doing their best to make up for lost eating time. His lungs were behind as well and he still suffers from asthma-like attacks today, but they’re getting less common.
The list of complications he faced, and may face for the rest of his life, goes on, but for the most part he is a very healthy, very happy kid. And he’s smart. And witty. And all the wonderful things a little kid can be. He might always be a hair shorter than the rest of the class, but he can tell fart jokes in a manner that makes his 30 year old sister, who hates fart jokes, laugh. Laugh hard.
Whenever I think about TJ’s first three months of life, and how uncertain things were and how strange he looked and how scared I was to touch him, I go numb. Of course, there’s no real way to describe it. He used to pester me non-stop to push him in his swing and I 99.9% of the time caved; he’ll talk to me for an hour on skype, though half of which is just him making faces at himself or making fart sounds; I once traced his hands with a pen and paper at least 50 times over because he liked it so much; he likes to race me around the house on his bicycle, even if it’s raining out; he helped me bake cookies this summer even though there was the opportunity for playing games on the Wii. Whenever I’m there, he’s around. Wanting to play or looking for help or needing to show me something. Making me feel like a big sister who’s loved and who loves. I can’t wait to be there in person for his birthday, some day down the line.
The second semester starts tomorrow. Wish me luck!
Friday, February 25, 2011
Cannon
Of course, my internet went out the day following my previous post, dashing my hopes of charming the masses with a few bloggy tales before leaving Chongqing for a month. And by “the masses” I mean the kindhearted three who still take the time to stop by here no matter how bad I get at updating. Thanks for sticking around. And my internet is still out, but I won’t let that hold me back. I can do this old school style in Word and then upload whenever I’m reconnected.
Too much has happened over the past 30 days. It’ll be impossible to package it up into a tidy little post, so I’ll just ramble a bit. First off, I attended a ten-day language training at Sichuan Normal University in Chengdu, the city where our pre-service training was held. Those ten days were long and tiring, but totally worth it. Unlike Romanian, there are plenty of materials, resources and classes available to help foreigners learn Chinese. And Peace Corps even reimburses a decent chunk of the bill. I’m just barely beginning to feel like I might be able to semi-learn this language, tones and all, which is a nice feeling. The characters still terrify me, though, but I’m hoping to start cracking that code this semester.
After the ten-day training, I dove straight into our ten-day PC in-service training, which now feels like a blur. It was great to see everyone, but we were so busy and preoccupied and tired the whole time that it was hard to really enjoy each other’s company. I’m planning to travel more this semester, so hopefully I’ll get to see my closest friends again soon, but it’s too bad they’re the ones placed the farthest away. After staying with a friend for a couple of days in Chongqing following IST, I am finally back home and, needless to say, still exhausted. I can’t count the hours of sleep I missed out on, but luckily I have this week to regroup and rest and get ready for classes to start on the 28th. I’ll be teaching the same students, but it’ll be American Culture instead of Oral English, so it’ll be nice to have a new topic and some content to work with.
And I’m typing this feeling like I’m avoiding what needs to be typed about and feeling too falsely cheery…typing is how I deal with things, so deal with things I shall. On the first day of IST, February 8th, a little before 11am, our country director took the microphone to make an announcement. Her expression paralyzed the audience. She told us that the body of a US citizen had been found in a hotel in Thailand. She said that the body had been confirmed as a volunteer, as one of our own. She said that it was Cannon. There were no signs of violence and it appeared that his heart had stopped beating, she told us. The heart of a 6 foot 5, fit, 26 year old man had simply stopped beating.
Cannon had been at my training site, Chengdu University, and his host family lived not too far from mine, so we often ended up in the same group of 5 or 6 people who walked to class together. In all honesty, he intimidated me at first. He was tall, sported a multitude of tattoos, smoked tirelessly, spoke with a Bronx accent and wore less than appealing sweat-soaked white t-shirts and basketball shorts. But there was something in his demeanor that sparked intrigue. It only took five minutes of talking to him for the intimidation to melt away and a deluge of questions, curiosity and respect to take its place. I always liked Cannon’s presence and always wanted to talk to him more, but didn’t want to annoy him or appear to be too curious about his life.
He was the kind of person who spoke like he had failed English 101, yet had graduated summa cum laude from Boston University with a dual degree in finance and international management, something that even his closest friends here didn’t know about until reading it in his obituary. He was the kind of person who may or may not have been in a gang in his younger years, yet knew everything about Improv Everywhere and may or may not have participated on a few occasions. Although his tattoos peeped out from under his sleeves, he was an excellent teacher dedicated to and beloved by his students. He was the kind of person who appeared bored and uninterested, yet laughed at the cheesiest of jokes, even some of my own, to my surprise.
He broke down so many of the stereotypes people often have, yet he was completely oblivious to the good he was doing. Some people are capable of changing the way others view the world just be being themselves and to me, Cannon was one of those people. One of the diamonds in the rough, full of surprises. I thought so all along, just never felt the need nor had the courage to tell him. And it would have been a pretty weird thing to say to somebody I really didn’t know all that well.
Although Cannon and I, along with 15 or so other volunteers, were placed in the same city (Chongqing), I didn’t see much of him after pre-service training. He tended to avoid big groups and parties, for which I can’t blame him. I think the last time I saw him was just before Halloween. A group had gotten together for dinner and I remember chatting with him about classes and about how spicy the food was. We shared a moment over our mutual love of cauliflower. He laughed and smiled and I remember wishing I could think of more things to talk to him about that weren’t so lame.
Last Thursday evening, around 5:30pm, we held a candle lighting memorial for Cannon. The country director, his program manager, and three of his closest friends told a few stories about him, interspersed with tears and laughs, but of course mostly tears. We all shared a moment of candlelit silence to think of his family, reflect on the time we had with him, and focus on the little welt of loss stirring in all of our chests. Afterwards, a pretty little notebook was passed around for everyone to write their memories of Cannon in to send back to his family. His closest friends later added a few pictures and their own stories. His family, whoever they are, must be in an agony that I can’t even begin to imagine.
We all still have so many questions - how did it happen, why was he there, who was he with, was he happy, on and on – questions that will most likely never be answered, but all you can do is hope that he’s happy, drifting on a bright patch of cloud somewhere out there, keeping a caring eye out for all of us.
I feel like I should add, for anyone with a friend or family member in or considering the Peace Corps, the death of a volunteer is very rare and obviously devastating for the program and the volunteers and staff members who knew that person. For the three years I have been in the PC, eight out of approximately 7,500 current volunteers have lost their lives while serving. Peace Corps does all that it can, through safety training, medical care and volunteer support, to prevent harm to its volunteers, but it can’t eliminate all risk from service.
Too much has happened over the past 30 days. It’ll be impossible to package it up into a tidy little post, so I’ll just ramble a bit. First off, I attended a ten-day language training at Sichuan Normal University in Chengdu, the city where our pre-service training was held. Those ten days were long and tiring, but totally worth it. Unlike Romanian, there are plenty of materials, resources and classes available to help foreigners learn Chinese. And Peace Corps even reimburses a decent chunk of the bill. I’m just barely beginning to feel like I might be able to semi-learn this language, tones and all, which is a nice feeling. The characters still terrify me, though, but I’m hoping to start cracking that code this semester.
After the ten-day training, I dove straight into our ten-day PC in-service training, which now feels like a blur. It was great to see everyone, but we were so busy and preoccupied and tired the whole time that it was hard to really enjoy each other’s company. I’m planning to travel more this semester, so hopefully I’ll get to see my closest friends again soon, but it’s too bad they’re the ones placed the farthest away. After staying with a friend for a couple of days in Chongqing following IST, I am finally back home and, needless to say, still exhausted. I can’t count the hours of sleep I missed out on, but luckily I have this week to regroup and rest and get ready for classes to start on the 28th. I’ll be teaching the same students, but it’ll be American Culture instead of Oral English, so it’ll be nice to have a new topic and some content to work with.
And I’m typing this feeling like I’m avoiding what needs to be typed about and feeling too falsely cheery…typing is how I deal with things, so deal with things I shall. On the first day of IST, February 8th, a little before 11am, our country director took the microphone to make an announcement. Her expression paralyzed the audience. She told us that the body of a US citizen had been found in a hotel in Thailand. She said that the body had been confirmed as a volunteer, as one of our own. She said that it was Cannon. There were no signs of violence and it appeared that his heart had stopped beating, she told us. The heart of a 6 foot 5, fit, 26 year old man had simply stopped beating.
Cannon had been at my training site, Chengdu University, and his host family lived not too far from mine, so we often ended up in the same group of 5 or 6 people who walked to class together. In all honesty, he intimidated me at first. He was tall, sported a multitude of tattoos, smoked tirelessly, spoke with a Bronx accent and wore less than appealing sweat-soaked white t-shirts and basketball shorts. But there was something in his demeanor that sparked intrigue. It only took five minutes of talking to him for the intimidation to melt away and a deluge of questions, curiosity and respect to take its place. I always liked Cannon’s presence and always wanted to talk to him more, but didn’t want to annoy him or appear to be too curious about his life.
He was the kind of person who spoke like he had failed English 101, yet had graduated summa cum laude from Boston University with a dual degree in finance and international management, something that even his closest friends here didn’t know about until reading it in his obituary. He was the kind of person who may or may not have been in a gang in his younger years, yet knew everything about Improv Everywhere and may or may not have participated on a few occasions. Although his tattoos peeped out from under his sleeves, he was an excellent teacher dedicated to and beloved by his students. He was the kind of person who appeared bored and uninterested, yet laughed at the cheesiest of jokes, even some of my own, to my surprise.
He broke down so many of the stereotypes people often have, yet he was completely oblivious to the good he was doing. Some people are capable of changing the way others view the world just be being themselves and to me, Cannon was one of those people. One of the diamonds in the rough, full of surprises. I thought so all along, just never felt the need nor had the courage to tell him. And it would have been a pretty weird thing to say to somebody I really didn’t know all that well.
Although Cannon and I, along with 15 or so other volunteers, were placed in the same city (Chongqing), I didn’t see much of him after pre-service training. He tended to avoid big groups and parties, for which I can’t blame him. I think the last time I saw him was just before Halloween. A group had gotten together for dinner and I remember chatting with him about classes and about how spicy the food was. We shared a moment over our mutual love of cauliflower. He laughed and smiled and I remember wishing I could think of more things to talk to him about that weren’t so lame.
Last Thursday evening, around 5:30pm, we held a candle lighting memorial for Cannon. The country director, his program manager, and three of his closest friends told a few stories about him, interspersed with tears and laughs, but of course mostly tears. We all shared a moment of candlelit silence to think of his family, reflect on the time we had with him, and focus on the little welt of loss stirring in all of our chests. Afterwards, a pretty little notebook was passed around for everyone to write their memories of Cannon in to send back to his family. His closest friends later added a few pictures and their own stories. His family, whoever they are, must be in an agony that I can’t even begin to imagine.
We all still have so many questions - how did it happen, why was he there, who was he with, was he happy, on and on – questions that will most likely never be answered, but all you can do is hope that he’s happy, drifting on a bright patch of cloud somewhere out there, keeping a caring eye out for all of us.
I feel like I should add, for anyone with a friend or family member in or considering the Peace Corps, the death of a volunteer is very rare and obviously devastating for the program and the volunteers and staff members who knew that person. For the three years I have been in the PC, eight out of approximately 7,500 current volunteers have lost their lives while serving. Peace Corps does all that it can, through safety training, medical care and volunteer support, to prevent harm to its volunteers, but it can’t eliminate all risk from service.
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