When I met the other 51 Peace Corps trainees that joined me on the trip from Detroit to Bangkok, I kept thinking, we’re all so different, and yet the same. I kept thinking about the tedious application process. You HAVE to have a type-A personality to get through it, at least to some extent. Anti-planners would never make it to the final cut. There are too many lists to be made, too many t’s cross and i’s to dot… I suspect an application process of this kind is intended to weed out those live-in-the-moment hippies that often apply.
Throughout the ten weeks of training, I listened to several of my peers ask questions that would not be relevant for months to come. I watched as they scribbled everything down, taking notes to study for potential projects or situations one might face in the future. Some of us even had spread sheets mapping out expectations for the next two years of our lives. Perhaps this was just what the Peace Corps was looking for… But it’s more likely that we were all desperately attempting to maintain some shred of control in a world of which we had none.
Due to said control issues, most Peace Corps volunteers have at least a couple solid emotional break-downs during service, especially in the beginning. Many experience their break-downs in the midst of training, a grueling process for even the toughest of the tough. Others feel the heat during those first few weeks at site, after all the volunteers separate from one another to begin their work.
Being the kind of girl that can embrace a good cry, I waited for my time to come. However, training-time saw no tears on my behalf. Not for lack of trying, of course. And even after my counterpart (an assigned co-worker from the government office) turned out to be a creep, I kept my wits about me. During nights, I would find myself behind closed doors, indulging the sanctity of privacy, thinking contrived terrible thoughts, just hoping to get my inevitable break-down over with. Despite those efforts, my eyes remained dry.
Weeks after my arrival at site, when one might expect to feel settled, I gave up on therapeutic tears. It was time to get serious about my service, time to make my mark on the world, put on the charm, and shake some hands. An opportunity to do just that came about in the form of a welcoming ceremony - in my honor. Hundreds of people gathered to meet the foreigner who would be working in their villages. Those in attendance included the mayor, several highly-respected monks, elders, government officials, and countless slimy men eager to meet the alleged ‘su-wai’ (beautiful) American girl. So I turned on the happy face and spoke in Thai for several hours. I ate everything they offered me, listened intently to conversations I didn’t understand, and offered respectful bows to anything with two thumbs.
An obnoxious neighbor from my village encouraged me to get on the stage and dance for everyone. (Don’t worry, Grandma Jo. They didn’t want to see skin. They just wanted to see me attempt traditional Thai moves, moves of which I do not have.) I told the insistent neighbor ‘mai ao!’ (I don’t want to) several times. Unfortunately, Thai people have a hard time taking no for an answer. So she summoned my creepy counterpart to help her force me on the stage. And he did. As I stood up there, I looked out into the crowd. All eyes were on me, impatiently waiting to see the American put on a show. I could feel my blood boiling. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them, “I’m not your puppet! Take me seriously, dammit!” But I didn’t know how to say it in Thai, so I burst into tears instead. I ran off the stage and dodged the open arms awaiting me at the bottom of the stairs. I fled the scene and found a safe haven in the parking lot, or so I thought. They found me. They swarmed me. I told them, in perfect Thai, “I need alone time!” But ‘alone time’ is a foreign concept in Thailand. So they smothered me instead of giving me the space I needed. Three to four different sets of hands dabbed my face with dirty napkins and at least six adamant voices shouted at me in the local dialect, attempting to be heard despite the loud music.
So let’s re-cap… I ran off the stage in tears at my welcoming ceremony, with hundreds of people watching.
The moral of the story? No matter how much of a perfect little planner you may think yourself to be, plans WILL fall through. You can’t schedule your break-downs. They happen at the most inopportune moments. Of all the valuable information to flow between my ears throughout the last three months, nothing compares to the moment when a volunteer learns that control over one’s own life, one’s schedule, one’s emotions… It’s all gone. You can kiss it goodbye. My life is at the mercy of Thailand now, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
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