Since I booked my trip in August (through my parents’ generous sponsorship), the thought of going back to the United States for Christmas shimmered in the wintry distance. I would say it was a “much-deserved” vacation but this experience has called the word ‘deserve’ in for questioning. There are volunteers that haven’t and won’t be going home before they finish service (2 years) which makes me wonder if I could hack it for two years without leaving. But, rare is the day that goes by that I think “I did all I could today.” It always feels like there is more that I could be doing including how far I can and should push myself. Should I go home for Christmas? I could wait it out. I didn’t go home last Christmas, why not decorate myself in tamales for one holiday more? So I won’t say my trip was much-deserved, but it was much anticipated.
TBH (to be honest) I wasn’t thinking of any of that when I left for Christmas; I was just really, truly grateful for that ticket home, the ticket that unlocked creature comforts like central heating, Iced Caramel Macchiatos, a car with an automatic transmission (!) at my disposal, hot showers, a sofa, a refrigerator and endless amounts of cheese within reach. And all of those things were pretty rad. But the trip, like everything in Peace Corps, was cause for reflection.
It should go without saying that my family is more important than cheese and automatic transmissions. They made my visit truly special. Rare is the family that rallies around their Peace Corps Volunteer in the name of whatever appeals to their stomach, comforts and entertainment. So: I give it up to the Saxons and Sherwoods for loving and caring for me, in the big and small ways, and opening their doors to my wandering spirit and weary body (I’m 31 but I survived a month of ongoing diarrhea. I threw out THAT “eco” water filter). But thankfully, I always have my family to come home to. However, while I am especially grateful for my family this Christmas, I always try to reflect on my gratitude for them every Christmas. But this is the first Christmas I would also be in a state of bliss and gratitude for the conveniences, comforts and sameness I had left behind over a year before.
Let’s get into it: I have so many wonderful things to share, so let’s get the bad one out of the way: Fort Lauderdale Airport. Never again. Except for the next time I have to fly through there. No, no thanks. It was the 20th of December, what did I expect? I did not expect the customs line in Fort Lauderdale or how annoying it would be to hear “Three lines tres líneas three lines tres líneas” spoken by an old white dude not even attempting a Spanish accent. Did you know that you can’t take out your cell phone while you wait in line to go through customs? Well one dude forgot and the lady had to ask him to delete the picture on his phone and pocket it. Here was my warm homecoming: Florida. My state of birth and one of my least favorite places, well, ever. I was instantly greeted by what I had forgotten about my country since the last time I visited: plastic surgery. José, a former volunteer who used to live in my same site, was further back in the customs line. We seemed to travel through zip codes as we snaked through this nonstimulating line to heaven from building to stanchion to bi-lingual airport staff controlling the flow of traffic as tactfully as a camioneta driver on LSD.
But when my Dad and sister so enthusiastically picked me up from the Atlanta airport at almost midnight with an entire pizza waiting for me in the backseat, I did not complain as I ate pizza and remembered what a long, quiet highway looks like. My sister even spent the night with me at my parents’ house even though she’s a married woman now, because I am a lucky bitch (I say that word with all respect to people who are offended by cursing).
(Long) before December, I compiled a punch-list of luxuries I had missed: the movie theatre, the ROSS-TJMaxx-Marshalls trifecta, Willy’s Mexicana Grill (the food here in Guatemala is nothing like Tex-Mex, nor should it be), homemade meals that I dreamed about and artisan beer. Artisan. Beer. Organically, somehow, I was able to sip in these comforts over the 10 days and visit my friends without feeling overstimulated or tired. I hate that I prioritized friends in between the comforts, but I truly did. I was like: “Hot showers. Then I will see Cate. And then I will buy a Dunkin’ Donuts Iced Caramel Macchiato on the way to see Heather. And on the way back I will buy another caramel macchiato.” And that’s how it went.
My rule of thumb was: Nothing draining. If the only way I could see a friend was to drive in rush-hour across several zip codes, I skipped it. I think that’s how I prevented myself from going crazy, I just did what sounded good.
I spent one leisurely afternoon in ROSS Dress for Less and walked up and down the aisles, passing the same aisles, touching the same pillows, and staring at unnecessary merchandise under the triumphant bright lights and aisles of white shelves. I went back and forth over my mental shopping list: who should I bring what in my sweet little pueblo? Another day I unleashed a purchase massacre at the Dollar Tree. Did you know that everything there costs one dollar?!? Like, everything?
Prior to this one, I’ve spent a lot of holidays measuring my life to find it insipid, disappointing, sad. I dreaded talking about myself at coffee. “So, how are you?” meant unzipping the perspective of adulthood for reflection and unfolding the ongoing identity tug-of-war that raged in the relentless malaise of my 20s. Obviously I enjoy talking about myself, don’t get me wrong, but I suppose I haven’t always relished the conversational source material of an office job, commutes or what-I-just-learned-in-therapy. Christmas, for better or for worse, is something of a mile-marker for self-reflection. For a number of years, I was inured with the results.
But this trip home was very different. I was surprised on the second day in the US to find myself connected to some spiritual underground wiring to happiness. I didn’t feel like sleeping in! In fact, I wanted to get up around 8 or 9 (that’s early for me) and get the day going. But it wasn’t the proximity to hot showers or cheese, as gorgeous as that was, these 15 months outside of the US had taught me to recognize new things I hadn’t yet lived to understand, to rely on people in ways I didn’t expect and to sit in vulnerability.
When I was home, I felt a burgeoning sense of purpose, this surprising feeling of plantedness as if I had worked in a garden all year and little buds had sprouted when I wasn’t looking. It was the strangest feeling because, maybe for the first time ever, I had material to talk about that I liked hearing myself say! All the recognizable faces on my daily walks to work, dependable laughter of my abuelita and attentive curiosity of the Santa Clareños had laid some special foundation in my spirit. As a result of this meaningful experience, I didn’t groan at the thought of meeting up for coffee when it comes to the “about me” portion of the date. Gosh darnit, I had accumulated a year of crazy, weird, unpredictable, gorgeous and hilarious moments. Yes I wasn’t getting paid hardly pennies to the US dollar, but the wealth of experience had nourished a part of me I didn’t know needed nourishing until I realized how I had grown.
On the other side of this feeling was another surprising one: tension. I was back in a world of coordinating schedules with 4 other family members, without cell phone reception (A Guatemalan cell-phone carrier does not an international signal give) and the familiar communication styles, frustrations and challenges that comes with being in a family. It occurred to me that I had to consider other people. I’ve lived an unfettered, portable life now for a lot of years and even though I wasn’t being bitten alive by fleas, I had to consider more than myself. And I don’t care if your family is the Robinsons, Cleavers or lo que sea, this can be hard. I can’t furnish a complete diagram of the psychological nuances of family, but I know that they exist. Instead of listening to my inner-voice guide myself through packed camioneta rides in Guatemala and focusing straight ahead so as not to get carsick, my mind was flexing the muscle of ‘family member’ again. Not to mention, I had to rely on my family to fund my visit which isn’t always a great feeling, even though I know they were willing to support me. I’m 31 and I’m asking my dad for his credit card? Ix kamik, hombre… And here Santa Clara thinks I’m money bags simply because I come from the US but digress I do.
On another note, I signed on to Tinder a few times just to go fish. I realized how easy it was to start conversations with people. No one asked me “Where are you from?” as the first stop after hello. I didn’t have to contextualize myself like I have to do in Guatemala. I didn’t have my guard-up against machismo, even if it is an illusion rather than a reality with certain men. It was like, I could be a part of myself that I can’t be in Guatemala. I could flirt, even if it was through text message.
And, I missed my host family in Guatemala a lot. The first few days in the country, I called them every day. I didn’t want them to worry that I wasn’t coming back, or that I was happy to be gone. My host sister’s voice comforted me: I needed to make her laugh to feel like the day was complete. I put together a 1,000 piece puzzle as my host grandmother picked individual rotten kernels from each stalk of maize: a puzzle for levity and corn out of necessity.
I think that being in the middle of service was a wonderful time to visit home. It made me happy and grateful for the comforts of home but nostalgic for Guatemala, my current address. When I was getting ready to go to the States, I fantasized over some calm, peaceful luxurious place. And when I was in the States, I was thinking of the peaceful fire in the kitchen in Santa Clara. I joined the Peace Corps because I couldn’t stay home, but in turn I stumbled into two places I call home and a certain gratitude for both.
It was a beautiful time to pause. It wasn’t time to be sad about leaving Guatemala, nor enough time left in service to dread my return to pueblo life. It was a perfect moment in time to be grateful, happy and hopeful. Santa Clara didn’t have to be so good to me, my family didn’t have to be so generous, my health didn’t have to hold up this year and some months, my heart didn’t have to be so full. But thankfully it was. And thankfully I have one more year to understand more about what this experience might become.
XOXO
