On to the next adventure

I emailed my resume in before going to bed Tuesday night. I got a reply Thursday night. Not only did I get the job, but they wanted me to join the crew on Monday…in Ohio. Friday I went shopping and packed, Saturday I ate lunch with the family and headed out with Meowthew as my only companion.  Saturday night was spent in a hotel in Kentucky and I was here in St. Clairsville, Ohio, by Sunday night.

The weekend drive

Driving alone can be relaxing. It being the weekend, I’m totally avoiding rush hour traffic. And I don’t have to exit this highway for another hour at least. I go between Owl City, a Vans Warped Tour Compilation cd, and local country stations. After all, I don’t have to worry about anyone else’s musical preference. Except for Meowthew's. But he likes pretty much whatever I like. 

These highways have been surrounded by trees pretty much the whole way since Arkansas. And as I travel between states, I feel like I’m traveling between seasons.  The forests in Arkansas were still dressed in a lush summer green. But as I make my way further north, the trees fade into a lighter shade of green, splotched with soft yellows and oranges and little spurts of deep red. Enjoying the view but knowing that it comes in exchange for seeing the colors change in the Ozarks, I drink it in as I go.

Monday, Sept 29th

As we all stand in a circle in a Rural King parking lot, awaiting orders so we can hop in the van and get to work, I sit and chat with my crew. There is only one other woman, but she’s cool, and none of the guys are creepy. This looks promising so far.

After a little bit of navigation trouble and “is this really a road or someone’s driveway??” We find the area we are supposed to survey today.

Basically, before putting in a pipeline, the pipeline people are required to make sure they aren’t about to tear up any burials or other culturally significant sites. Thus, they hire private firms, which hire archaeology and anthropology majors like me as archaeological technicians. And then we comb miles and miles of land for possible sites.

We find our bearings and spread out in a straight line. We use our compasses to make sure that we are walking straight and in the same direction. Then we walk, scanning the ground for artifacts.   Every 15 meters, we each dig a small whole and run the dirt through a small screen made of a wooden frame and metal mesh, checking for artifacts.

My first couple of holes are completely sterile. The next would-be hole, fifteen meters away, is on a steep slope. Erosion will have taken anything that was once here, so I move along. Pretty soon we are all in the woods on the side of a hill. The slope and vegetation means digging here is a no-go. But we head single file through the clearest trail we can make to check out the rest of the area…each person carrying his or her own shovel and screen. 

At the bottom of the slope is a dry creek bed. While crossing it, I slip on a rock. I catch myself on my screen, but a bit of the cut edge of the metal mesh is sticking out from under the wooden frame and scrapes my arm up a bit. Battle wounds already! I’ll have to get a back pack I can clip the screen onto, as many of the others have done.

After all, this is only the beginning.

My Sakartvelo

It’s been a few weeks since I left Georgia. Or Sakartvelo, as they call it in their own language. It’s been relaxing to be home. But before more time passes, I wanted to write a little something to capture some of my experiences from and feelings about Georgia.

~~~~~            

My Sakartvelo is mountains in every direction, with rivers running through them, and quiet villages stretching along their sides and in their valleys. But my Sakartvelo is also trash along riverbanks and lakeshores and roadsides and fields and everywhere else outside of a trash bin.

My Sakartvelo is maneuvering through muddy roads on the way to school while exchanging smiles and greetings with neighbors. And my Sakartvelo is walking back hand in hand with one of my girls until a student (or myself) starts a wrestling match or battle, and we’re forced to disperse and gather sticks or berries or whatever ammunition is available nearby.

My Sakartvelo is being emotionally exhausted with the realization that my personal mental health and happiness require human interaction-not simply speaking or being spoken too, but being understood and understanding others. And yet, my Sakartvelo is all the strength that develops through hardship, and the increased appreciation of a uniquely human gift that is so often taken for granted.

My Sakartvelo is ready acceptance into a home away from home, complete with little siblings to both annoy and enamor me. But my Sakartvelo is also the frustration of being subject to the rules and protection of a traditional family in an extremely male-dominant society.

My Sakartvelo is a dozen smiles at once, between little ears that don’t know how to listen on little bodies that don’t know how to sit still…but are at least drawing me pictures or offering me candies while ignoring me. Yes, my Sakartvelo is affection freely given. And, in a culture where teachers are friends and neighbors instead of strangers to be feared, my Sakartvelo is the freedom to return that affection with hugs and kisses and arms around shoulders.  

My Sakartvelo is not being able to make the difference I want to make. It’s a broken education system that I don’t have the power to fix or work around. But my Sakartvelo is the confirmation, through hours of trying anyway, and of day dreaming about what I would do if I could, that education truly is important to me. This is a priority that will demand my attention many times more in my life.

My Sakartvelo is countless beautiful churches. And yet my Sakartvelo is countless empty crosses, always with the right hand…starting at a head that is empty of Christ’s words, then to somewhere between the ribs, then to the right shoulder, and then finally to the left; reaching twice over a heart that is empty of his love.

My Sakartvelo is the flattery of being a novelty because of my nationality, but my Sakartvelo is also the danger of that novelty when combined with Hollywood stereotypes of loose women and the entitlement of men who see filling their sexual appetites as a natural right and necessity.

~~~~~

Really, in the end, I love Georgia. Maybe I hate her. But I love her too. I think many TLG veterans would agree with me that to love Georgia is to let her slap you in the face whenever she feels like, and then still hold her hand. I’m not sure if she’s easy to fall in love with or I just fall in love easily. Maybe a bit of both. My feelings for her are not unlike those I had for my ex-boyfriend from when I was 18. He was horrible to me. He made me miserable. And yet I still loved him. Even worse, I thought I could fix him. That we could become better together.

Having said that…there is some difference. Because honestly, there is a lot more potential for change in Georgia than there ever was in my ex. It may not come to fruition in my lifetime, but revolution is already in the works.

So love, I shall <3

I'm feelin' 22...

July 3^rd, 2014

 

12:00am

It’s midnight here in Bulgaria, and I’m watching the video for Taylor Swift’s “22.” I’m not a huge fan, but the video is cute, and it is midnight on my birthday, so I post it to my wall just for kicks before I go to sleep. After all, it’s kind of fun to have a theme song for the next year of my life.

And it really feels alright. Having another birthday. I mean, I’m old enough to not like getting older, and sometimes it’s a scary thought….the fact that one day I won’t be young anymore. Youth has always maintained a place in my identity. But the last string of birthdays has made me feel a little more “legit” each year. A little more of an adult whom other adults have to take a little more seriously.

9:00am

I’m sitting alone at Sozopol’s popular Jack Bar, treating myself to a yummy kiwi shake before meeting Phillip at “work.” He is a cool guy. He graduated from UALR a few years ahead of me, but I only know him because my professors had me interview him for an assignment in my Senior Seminar class. Over Skype, he had told me about his research with skeletons from a Byzantine cemetery here in Bulgaria. I had asked him a few months ago if I might be able to come help out while in “the area,” since Georgia is just across the Black Sea. He said he would welcome the help…so here I am. Doing osteoarchaeology at a gorgeous beach resort.

I offer a prayer of thanks and linger on how lucky I am.

But no….it’s not luck. I’m here because I chose to be here.

 

11:00am

I’m cleaning dirt out of the eye socket of a Byzantine skull in the abandoned Soviet naval base that Phillip is using as his storehouse and lab. The place is huge. It’s a shame that they stripped it of anything useful and left it to rot. But as long as you wear shoes thick enough to protect you from shards of broken glass, it’s a pretty cool place to work in.

Or maybe it just makes me feel like a little bit of a bad-ass.

 

 

12:30pm

I grab a burger from a street stand for only a couple of Bulgarian Lev and find a wall to sit on, overlooking the beach.

My mind wanders again to how great it is to be here. And no, it isn’t pure luck. I mean yeah, there are the basic parameters set in place by my general life situation. Being born in a first world country, having parents who care, etc. But still….this isn’t luck. There’s something more to it.

Because no one told me to go to Georgia. I chose Georgia. And no one told me to volunteer in Bulgaria while I was at it. I chose this. I did the communication, the preparation, and the implementation. For quite possibly the first time in my life, I feel like I’m in a situation that I alone put myself into. It wasn’t because anyone else wanted me to. It wasn’t anyone else’s idea. I’m here because of me.

And it feels good to know that. Because this is my adult self that I’m merging into…that I’m somewhat constructing. These years are the beginning of the rest of my life, to be cliché about it. And to know that I am capable of making it a life that I want it to be….well, 22 doesn’t feel so bad so far.

ARAOM from My Last Week of School

A Random Assortment of Moments from My Last Week of School

 

*

Summer didn’t wait for school to finish. The sun is warm enough to keep the roads from being giant mud puddles even right after a rain, but not so hot that you can’t handle being outside. Cherrie trees are everywhere in the village. One stands right outside of school and has just gotten ripe. I watch out the window while boys climb it, picking off whole branches and sending them down. They like to give cherries to the teachers. We all eat them…even those who yelled at the boys for going up the tree in the first place. 

*

My co-teacher must add up attendance totals before the end of the week, and, being a Georgian teacher, chooses to do so during class time. She tells me I can take the 3^rd grade class outside and play ball. Well, I didn’t know I needed to prepare a lesson, and it is the last week of school, so why not?

When we go outside, we have no ball to play with. A couple of older kids who know a bit of English are outside and help me explain freeze tag to the younger kids, and for a while we play a massive game of it, big kids (including myself) chasing little kids. After that gets old, I try to organize the kids for a game of Duck Duck Goose. Chaos ensues. Most of them aren’t listening and the couple of them who are really aren’t understanding my instructions. By the time I’m trying to think of another game, the third graders have fractured into a number of groups engaging in mini wrestling matches. I give up, sit down, and watch until the bell rings.

*

Second and third classes are outside playing Georgian dodge ball for their sports period. I have a break this period, so I join them.

In Georgian dodge ball, only one team is dodging at a time. The other divides in two and stands on both sides, throwing a ball back and forth at the group in the middle. If you get hit, you’re out. If you catch the ball, someone who got out comes back in. The kids are excited to see me and beg me to play. The weather feels great and I won’t get to hang out with them much longer, so I can’t really say no.

Between their constant begging me to come back into the pit every time they catch the ball and my own lack of athletic ability, I repeatedly experience the excruciating embarrassment of being pelted by an 8-year-old. But I’m also experiencing their affection and happiness. And these are all the things that color my world. It’s in times like these that I know I’m living a life I want to live.

*

 By Thursday, my co has done all her counting, and doesn’t come to school. I don’t really mind at this point…classes have been a bit of a joke this week anyway, and I don’t have to hold them without her. So instead I hang out with the 8^th and 9^th class and everyone else who is attending their “show.” It’s fun little event that all the other teachers show up for, so I guess no one is having class today at all. The two grades form two teams and compete in song/poetry performance, eating spaghetti with no hands, etc. A lot of other students are there to watch as well. I joke and dance with some of my high schoolers while we wait for it to start. I’m thankful for the chance to just enjoy them one last time. I soak in every smile I catch.

*

On Friday, my friend Mariah comes to visit. I’ve decided not to return next semester, but she has agreed to transfer to Khovle when she returns in September. After my host mom gives us lunch she comes to school with me. Most of the students aren’t there. Most of the teachers aren’t even there. But myself and a couple of girls from 7^th class are still determined to carry out plans of surprising a couple of the older boys with a water attack. Mariah agrees to be the camera girl.

It doesn’t take the boys long to figure out what is going on. Especially when I show up with five empty plastic bottles. The surprise attack turns into an all-out war.

The boys got in more attacks. 17-18 year old boys have more strength than me, and I am willing to admit that. They didn’t have much difficulty commandeering our weaponry and using it against us. At one point we tried to escape by climbing a tree, which only ended up trapping us. But whoever won, ALL OF US got soaked, so I can’t say I’m dissatisfied with the outcome.

And besides, it was a fun way to end the day; the week; the semester.

 

 

Even if I come back in a year or two as I’m planning, the kids won’t be the same. They’ll be older, some will be graduated, etc. It’s a bittersweet thing…leaving something behind when you know you can’t ever really have it again. I’ll miss it, sure, but I’m thankful that it happened. I’m thankful I was a part of this community for the past few months of my life. I’m thankful that each of these children was a character in this chapter of my story. And I in theirs.

But the chapter is coming to an end. It’s time for a month or so of adventure in Europe, then a final week or two of Georgia, and then back to America.

Next stop: England.

No you can't.

Tuesday, May 17^th, 3:30pm

The sun is shining as I walk out of the schoolhouse with the half dozen students who stayed after class for English Club. The small mountains on both sides of our village are finally green and just begging to be explored. No one really wants to spend the evening at home, so we decide to go for a hike.

4:00 pm

By the time we are on the mountain behind my house, we’ve gathered a few more students and make quite a motley crew: myself, my little brother and sister, a girl from 7^th grade, a girl from 9^th grade and her brother from 8^th, the chemistry teacher’s son from 4^th grade, the 11^th grade boy she had just finished tutoring, and two other high school boys. One thing I love about these small villages is that all the kids hang out with all the kids. Sure, in the public school in my hometown a 15-year-old would be able to socialize with literally hundreds of other kids…but they would ALL be within an age range of a few years. There is something to be said for the sense of community at a school with not even 200 students in all grades 1-12.

As we are making our way to a 200-year-old bridge in between two hills, I get a call from the school director’s granddaughter. The girl is only 16 but practically home schooled herself into speaking English fluently, and I consider her a personal friend.

“Hey, I need to talk to you about English Day.”

Yes, English Day! It’s less than a week away now. I’ve convinced four of my TLG friends to come to my village on Saturday. I just need the director to open the school for me and for a couple of local teachers to come and help with discipline. We’ll do English workshops and games with the kids, complete with stickers and prizes. I’ve also been working with my English Club attendees through different levels in my Excellence in English Program, and while more foreigners are around would be the perfect time to present their award certificates.

“I’m really sorry, I don’t understand why, but now she says you can’t do it.”

What?

“She says the younger students can’t go because of the meningitis outbreak, and if you make it only for the older students, the younger students will try to come too…”

She knows as well as I do that these are excuses, not reasons.

“I’m sorry, I know you want to help us, but they don’t want the extra headache. You know how it is in the villages.” Yes. Unfortunately, I do. No good deed goes unappreciated.

After we say our goodbyes I catch up with the kids, who are hanging out around the bridge. If nothing else, at least I can enjoy hanging out with my students. One of the boys is sitting on it, a couple of other boys are walking on it.

Mets minda…I want to, too!

The phone rings and it’s my host mom, so I pass it off to my sister before trying to cross.

The kids freak out. The boys are literally holding me back. As I get free from one, another grabs my arm and another runs in front of the bridge to block me. “It’s very old, it’s dangerous!” they tell me.

“Come on, Levani was JUST on it.”

“Yeah, but he’s a boy.”

Oh. No. You. Didn’t.

During almost all of this, the girls are yelling for me to come back to them so my sister can relay the message from my host mother. Apparently it’s urgent, so I finally give up on the bridge. I’ll get back to that business in a second.

“What is it?” I ask, not masking my irritation.

“We must go.”

“What? Why?”

“It is only four girls and many boys.”

“But two of them are your brothers, one is a nine-year-old, and the others are our friends who our families know. So who is the problem??”

“Oh, I don’t know. But it is not good.”

Knowing I have no choice, I go with the girls, but not without fire in my step and a few choice words that they hopefully don’t know in English.

5:00pm

At the house, I use the little Georgian I know to ask the same questions of my host mother. “Is Levani a bad guy?” No, she doesn’t think so. “Is Giorgi a bad guy?” No, she doesn’t think so. So what is the problem?

“People speak maybe it’s boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Seriously? I can’t hang out with my students because people might spin the story for the best rumor material? I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m not even offended that they think I might crush on a high schooler. Most kids here graduate at 19, and I’m only 21. Between my only being a few years older than them and my outgoing personality, I’ve been aware from day one that I have to be conscientious about my interactions with them.

But for me, that meant not giving them uneven amounts of attention or being in a room alone with one. I had never considered how inappropriate it might be to go on a walk with them. And a mixed-gender group of younger children. In broad daylight.

No you can’t, because people are lazy and don’t care.

No you can’t, because you are a girl.

No you can’t, because people will talk shit.

It’s three stones for one bird, and this little American eagle is out for the count. I’m not used to being shot down like this. I feel tears coming. I don’t fight them.

It isn’t the first time I’ve cried this semester. And I doubt it will be the last.