Tuesday was different. There was a situation, and things happened. I’m not going to say what happened. It was bad. I was shocked, and I acted out on that shock. And then I cried. But then that evening, I had dinner with my landlords, and it was fun times. We laughed a lot.

Wednesday I was nervous about the events of the previous day, not really knowing what I should do, if anything.

Thursday was like medicine. My students were on the ball during English. My students sang like angels during creative performance. When I listen to them sing their songs about Imana (God), it feels like I can see something about life that was elusive before. When I listen to the boys act like rock stars, rockin’ out their best dance moves, I can’t hold the laughs in…the classroom erupts.

Friday was travelin’. I came to Kigali for a PSN meeting. Fun times happened afterward.

Saturday is happenin’. I taught judges for the fourth time. I’m eating lunch at Shokola, and I’m contemplating a chocolate cupcake to-go.

When I was nine years old, my cousin Kate got married. She was 21, the oldest grandchild of my father’s parents, and for her wedding gift from them, she requested a quilt. By that time, just about all of the grandchildren had been born. In total, we are 21, born into five families. My grandmother, then, decided to make a quilt that Christmas for every single one of her grandchildren. I remember the excitement and busyness in their sitting room as each grandchild was given a pillowcase, in which a folded quilt was stuffed. Each mother surrounded their children to look at which colors, which fabrics, which designs were used on each child’s quilt. Mine was white and a floral print of purples, blues, and greens. I remember holding it, receiving compliments about it, and thinking, “This will be on my bed forever.”

My paternal Grandmother isn’t the only seamstress in the family. My mother is as well. When she was in high school, it was still required that each girl take sewing class and each boy take shop. The big sewing project was to make a dress, and it was very common that the girls would wear the dresses after finishing. She has voiced the opinion that because such classes aren’t required anymore, we may lose the art of sewing. (Luckily, I was able to take an extracurricular sewing class my senior year, sewing a tshirt quilt, baby quilts, purses, making repairs on pants, and fitting tshirts.) Each September (or October…I don’t really remember when), my mother would take us to Joann Fabrics, where we’d sit at a table, surrounded by Halloween Costume design books and we’d pick out our Halloween Costume. After picking our costumes out, we’d walk around, finding the fabric. Over the course of a month, my mother made our Halloween Costumes. During our childhood, my siblings and I were 1950s girls wearing poodle skirts, scarecrows, princesses, the 7-Up Dot, Ninja Turtles, and other things that I forget. When I went trick-or-treating with my Girl Scout troop, I was asked where my parents bought my Halloween costume. I was confused by their use of “bought,” and so I said my mom bought the fabric at Joann Fabrics. They were shocked because my mom made the costume, and I was shocked that not all kids got homemade Halloween Costumes. Even in the fifth grade when I had a speech project, to dress up and act as Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Woman, my mother was determined that I have a fancy shawl, and so she made it for me, silky white and red, that I wore over a plain dress. My teacher was incredibly impressed, not for my speech because I had the tendency to nervously touch my hair, but because I was among the students accurately dressed in character.

When I was in middle school, I began an affinity for socks. It started because I had an affinity for monkeys, and I bought/received socks with monkeys on them. And then the idea grew larger to include striped socks, knee high socks, striped knee high toe socks, fuzzy striped socks, polka dot socks (which I just called polka), and argyle socks. These patterns led to my 8^th grade social studies & gym teacher to call me “Socks,” which was especially helpful when I was up to bat at softball. I felt like a weird rock star. Since I’ve been in middle school, I’ve never owned or worn a pair of socks that were completely white.

The craziness on my feet led to craziness in my wardrobe, slowly by slowly. I like sweater vests, jackets, scarves, dresses, and all things pattern, floral, and slightly obnoxious. During my freshman year, I bought a polka blue jacket, which I paired with a stripy grey shirt and an argyle sweater vest. I probably looked insane, but where I didn’t match solids and patterns, I always matched color schemes. (I realize as I get older, I can’t really get away with this anymore, so during my American vaca, my friend Lisa [who is a clothing styling master, developed from her watching What Not to Wear through high school] helped me pick out a mad hot teal (solid!) dress…but it has TEXTURE!)

And so, when I came to Rwanda, fabric was the first thing I saw that I became attached to. It was familiar even though it looked so different from the paisley prints I grew up adoring. Driving from Kigali to Kamonyi (our training site), I was nervous and excited about staying with a host family, and so I looked out the window and took mental notes of what women were wearing as they walked down the street. Mostly t-shirts and fabric wrapped around like a skirt. I later learned that to wear fabric like that, it’s called igitenge, the same word for fabric. Most fabric here is full of color with crazy swirls and flowers. Some are more “geometric,” with lines running vertically, flowers running down them like vines, but most of the fabrics look insane when you first see them. One adjective to describe them is “loud.” Over the course of my time here, it has become a very strange coping mechanism for me, looking at and buying fabric. The fabrics I buy tend to be a little more sane and relaxed then the all-out SWIRL AND FLOWER craziness, but my eyes have gotten used to the fabric and have learned to like it, so I have bought a few fabrics that are insane, and when I see them in America, I’ll probably think, “I liked this?!” Well, yes, I do.

A few of my fellow PCVs have said that when they imagine me hanging out in my village, they see me sprawled out, lying on mounds of fabric in my house. I’m not going to encourage or deny this statement. I have no guilt in buying so much fabric because I figure you can always use it to sew something. I’ll be using the majority of it to sew quilts, pillowcases, and perhaps a few curtains. I buy fabric in two main places: my village and from Josephine, a shopkeeper at Kimironko Market in Kigali. I’ve learned from them what types of fabric there are. Typically, fabric printed in Tanzania is more geometric with bright, complementary colors, and fabric from Congo has large flowers with lots of different colors, maybe seven colors in one print. Fabric from Nigeria is usually of a smaller print with lots of color (the colors are usually a little more subtle as opposed to obnoxious), usually a floral. The only fabric printed in Rwanda I’ve encountered is a kind of tie-dye/batik. It’s monochromatic with a simple shape design or an animal. Here are pictures of the fabrics I’ve bought (if it’s a picture of a dress, I plan on cutting it up to use the fabric):

Pretty. Pretty. Pretty.

I digress.

At some point during training, a member of Peace Corps Rwanda staff asked me and my then-fellow-trainees (now my fellow volunteers) a very important question: Why are you still here?

Being a Peace Corps Volunteer isn’t easy. It’s not easy to live in a place where your cultural norms are thrown out the window. For me, it’s important to write down, to remember, to emphasize the moments when I feel at peace with where I am, when I have a moment of clarity, of pure joy, of Peace Corps Postcard worthiness.

You can read about why I am here in my “about me” section, but to know why I am still here, continue reading.

I am still here because at my school…

• I have a really great time in the Teachers Room with my co-workers every day. We joke and play music and discuss the news. And then…we go to teach.
• the girls rocked it at the volleyball and soccer tournaments, winning both against the “rival” school.
• my students (new ones for me this year) have willpower.
• my students from last year have my heart.

I am still here because in my community…

• I feel like I’ve accomplished my purpose here, in setting Francine up with Operation Smile.
• EVERYONE knew about my sister giving birth to a girl and EVERYONE congratulated me.
• I’m having a good time getting to know Domitilla, a teacher at the boarding school.
• the chapatti at Jen’s is legendary, so legendary that if it is still cooking at her house, people will wait 20 minutes for it instead of digging into amandazi, the less stoic member of the milk tea accompaniment options of the bread variety.

I am still here because professionally…

• I’m enjoying the chance I have teaching Judges and police officers once a month.
• I’ll probably get a baller job in America when I’m finished.
• I’ll probably get into the Grad School program I want when that time comes.

I am still here because personally…

• I’m ballsier.
• I have a better idea of what I want in my life and where I want to live it, and I’m willing to take that plunge.
• I have a better understanding of people.
• my family has a better understanding of why I am here, and [I think] they respect me for it.
• I’ve gained a much better appreciation for the sacrifices a person makes for their children, for the place I came from, and for the food that place has.
• my patience level rises exponentially by the day.
• I’m not quite ready to say goodbye to my village celebrity status…haha.

I am still here because my fellow volunteers…

• are some of the most strong, level-headed people I’ve met, though we have our crazy moments.
• remind me every day to remember the good moments.
• have gone through some crazy circumstances and illnesses. Many have gone home. I want to make sure I live up the time I still have left here for those who didn’t get the chance to finish their service.

I am still here because here in Rwanda…

• life always reminds me how lucky I am.
• there are good people.
• there is always a mama waving at you from the side of the road as you moto by. You just have to smile and wave first. And that moto ride gives you the freedom to feel ALIVE.
• people want to improve and to seek understanding from the world.
• I don’t feel finished yet.

This last weekend, I attended a Peer Support Network (PSN) meeting as the GAD’s PSN liaison. During the meeting, we discussed many things, including Myers-Briggs personality types, and how our types can affect our service. I am an ISFJ, meaning I’m super organized (and I could become OCD…no surprise there) and I need reassurance and attention from people in order to feel like my work is appreciated. We’re sensitive to criticism. My personality type is very good at keeping up with people, sending letters, and memorizing dates, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. At the meeting, we also discussed how helpless situations affect PCVs. The discussions we had got me thinking about my service. I thought about my personality, my situation at site, and the difficulties I’ve had living in Rwanda.

Hate develops from fear, an intense feeling, and people avoid fear by doing everything possible to make that fear disappear. People get defensive and create reasons why something shouldn’t be so. PCVs are challenged. The challenges we face bring to light many of our faults that we wish could remain hidden. We see qualities in ourselves that scare us, qualities that make us question not only who we are, but also make us wonder if we are good people.

PCVs have hate. We bitch about Peace Corps, each other, our situation, missing America, our illnesses, expats who bitch about braving a cold shower (when we have them every day), our school, and people that piss us off for whatever reason. I have hate. I’m embarrassed and ashamed of the hates I have. Before joining Peace Corps, I would have never openly said that I hate “most” of an entire group of people, for that would be prejudice, but it’s true that I hate most Rwandan Men.

WHOA. Yeah. STRONG LANGUAGE, SARAH. WHERE did THAT come from?

Well, I’ll tell you.

It is very difficult to be a young unmarried professional female American in Rwanda. Some bits of the culture are similar to that of America in the 1940s or 1950s, when it was not expected for most people, especially not females, to finish high school AND college, when it was expected to be married at a young age, and when anyone straying from that pattern was a misunderstood eccentric, not living by God’s plan, without spouse and children.

Because I am a young unmarried professional female American living in Rwanda, many Rwandans think the following about me: still a girl instead of a woman, not wise, not knowing, looking for a husband, intelligent but ignorant, rich, a prostitute, fat, incapable, foolish, and lesser than my male equivalent. Every day that I live here, I try to break these misconceptions by doing good work and by living on my own as a very capable adult.

A very important aspect of being a PCV is to assimilate (Peace Corps prefers the term “integrate”) yourself to the culture in which you’re living. By doing this, you gain two very important things from your community: trust and respect. And so, I take a lot of care in making sure my outward appearance (i.e. dress, manner of behavior) is Rwandan Appropriate. I do not show my shoulders most days. I hardly wear pants. All my skirts and dresses end below my knees. When I hug a man, which is infrequent, I do so whilst sticking my bum as far away from him as possible. I never drink alcohol in my village. No man (besides some Peace Corps staff, my headmaster and landlord) has ever entered my home. I cook all my food, I clean my own house and my clothes and dishes. Basically, I teach and try to challenge the assumptions of who I am every day by becoming Umwali (Rwandan Lady). Peace Corps taught us about the different cat calls and pick up lines men use. And so, when I drink a mug of hot milk tea, I rub my upper lip with my hand instead of licking the milk off with my tongue. I avoid shaking hands with men I do not know well because if he decides to rub my palm while shaking my hand, well, he’s asking me to bed. And it’s gotten to the point that I completely avoid talking with most Rwandan Men, because when a person asks a person of the opposite sex “to visit” (which is common), they’re asking for sex.

Before I begin the male bashing, I want you to remember that I said “most” Rwandan Men. There are several Rwandan Men whom I have respect for and consider my brothers. These men defend me, work with me, know about my family, teach me, and go out of their ways to help me: Peace Corps staff, my Kinyarwanda teacher from training, my landlord, Jen’s nephew (who helps her at the shop), many of the Muslims in my village, my 6 male co-workers at the secondary school, a handful of teachers at the primary school, and my headmaster.

Now here, below, I have some stories to share with you. Given what you now know about Rwandan culture and how I am within my village, you can maybe somehow take a glimpse into my hate and the frustrations I have with most Rwandan Men.

*******************

I’m in my village for the first time, for my site visit.

There is a school meeting because I am there. The headmaster is introducing me to all the teachers. After the meeting is finished, many of them shake my hand.

One of them rubs my palm.

I act like I don’t understand, asking my headmaster the meaning of it and I demonstrate on my own hand. He doesn’t tell me the truth – he and other teachers say it has no meaning, but they take that teacher aside and give him a verbal beating.

One of the teachers I eventually become close to assures me that it will never happen again.

*******************

I’m sitting in the café with Jen. We’re talking about the weather or about what we did the last weekend. She and I often sit in silence because we’ve reached that point in our friendship – we don’t need words to be with each other.

A teacher friend of mine enters the café. I greet him, and he sits next to me.

A young man enters. He doesn’t greet Jen. He sits down and says, “Amata. Amandazi.” (Milk. Donut).

He’s slouching, and doesn’t say thank you when Jen serves him.

I don’t know this young man. To be honest, I’ve probably seen him before, but I don’t remember him.

He knows me. He begins to talk to me. First it’s innocent – he asks me how I am. He knows a little English, so he’s trying to show off.

My teacher friend tells me this young man is a teacher at a different school.

This young man doesn’t tell me his name, but after a long pause, he says, “Let us go somewhere to talk.”

I speak in Kinyarwanda, so Jen knows what I’m saying. I say, “We are talking here.”

“Yes, yes,” he says. “But let us go somewhere else. I want to visit you.”

“Sinshake gusura wowe,” I say. (I don’t want to visit you) “We are here now, talking. If you want to talk, I think you have questions for me. What are your questions?”

He laughs. “I haven’t questions.”

“You’re lying.”

My co-worker looks uncomfortable.

“I no lie! I want to visit you only.”

Maybe someone else in the café, listening, is laughing.

I become angry. “You look at me. You see I have white skin. You think I have bad culture, but I try to be Unwali. I am a teacher. You want me to visit you. NO! I do not know you. I do not know your name because you have bad culture. And you – you do not know me. I do not visit you! And now, I do not want to talk with you.”

“I sorry! I sorry!”

“No! We are finished.”

Thankfully, I have finished my food. I pay Jen, who begins to yell at him. I don’t know what she’s saying. I leave with my co-worker.

I feel exhausted emotionally. I am angry. My co-worker can see that.

“That man,” he says, “That man hasn’t respect.”

*******************

“HELLO MY SISTER!” a man says as he passes me on the street during the evening. “You want a taxi?”

“Basaza bangje bari muri Amerika.” (My brothers are in America.)

*******************

I’m at school, visiting the Primary Teachers outside their teacher’s room. My fellow teachers have a coop. Each participating teacher puts 2000 RWF (about $3.40) into the coop’s fund each month. Members of the community and teachers can receive a loan from the coop.

There is a man who greets me and my counterpart, Mwami. Mwami began the coop. This man, I am told, is a teacher from another school. He wants a loan from the coop, but he hasn’t informed them why he wants the loan. The teachers have just discussed and decided that you must be a member of the coop to receive a loan. The coop is new, so they still have these discussions, deciding how the coop will function.

This man stands beside Mwami and me, but we are sitting. The man introduces himself to me, and begins to discuss the possible loan with Mwami, even though Mwami has already informed him of the decision made by the coop. He is disappointed. He brings his attention back to me.

“Ufite umugabo?” he asks. (Do you have a husband?)

“Oya,” I say. (No.)

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want one. I want to work.”

“But you must find a husband! Do you want me?” His grin is disgusting. He looks at me up and down as if I am everything he wants but also nothing at all. He could do as he likes and receive no punishment.

I imagine punching him in my mind. Over and over again.

“No, I don’t want you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want a husband. And because you haven’t patience. You do not listen to Mwami.”

He laughs. Mwami laughs and says that I am clever.

The man continues to laugh, and then he says, “But you are so pretty.”

And then he touches my leg. In front of Mwami, perhaps my best friend in my village. I go crazy.

“YOU TOUCH ME! NO! I DO NOT LOVE YOU, I DO NOT WANT YOU, YOU DO NOT TOUCH ME. SHUT UP AND GO AWAY.”

He laughs. He apologizes.

I say he has bad culture, and I don’t want to talk with him. He disrespected me.

He says he didn’t disrespect me.

I say that he did because he touched my leg.

He denies that he touched my leg.

I look at him like the piece of shit that he is. I say, “You touched my leg after I said that I do not want you. You disrespected me in front of Mwami.”

Finally, he walks away.

I look at Mwami and say, “That man is bad. I do not like him.”

“Yes,” he says. “He has the bad culture.”

Several months later, we are at The Day of Teachers Ceremony. The teachers of all schools in our sector are together, drinking Fanta and watching our students dance like cows. Some teachers are receiving awards. The final award is for The Best Teacher in our sector.

The recipient is the man who touched my leg.

I grimace.

After the ceremony, the man sees me, walks towards me, and tries to lean in for a hug. I look at him and only say, “No.”

I see Mwami and say, “Remember that man who touched my leg? He tried to hug me!”

Mwami says, “He does not understand his bad culture. Kwihangane.” (Be patient.)

*******************

I am on a bike, after having visited my student Francine. I am enjoying the slight wind in the air, through my hair. I’m enjoying the view. I look to my right and see three male students from the boarding school in my village.

One smiles upon seeing me.

He kisses the air in an exaggerated show of nastiness at me.

I scream, “YOU DO BAD THING.”

I am angry at myself for not having good enough Kinyarwanda to say something worse at him more quickly, so under my breath, I tell him to F*** off.

I return my gaze to the maize growing.

*******************

I am at the café. A teacher friend, female, who is also friends with Jen is there. She very affectionately calls me UMWALI Sarah.

A man enters. He doesn’t know me. He says, “MUZUNGU,” (White person.) as if he’s a news anchor, all-important, all-knowing, but as usual in Rwanda, just informing every one of the obvious.

I don’t wanna give my speech. I don’t have the energy for it again.

The teacher says, “She is not MUZUNGU. She is my UMWALI Sarah.”

“Does she have a husband?”

“Really?” I think. “That’s your first thought?”

“No,” I say. “And I don’t want you.”

Jen and my teacher friend crack up laughing.

*******************

I need airtime for my phone. I go to the Kiosk on the street in my village. I ask for two cards.

The shopkeeper says, “Mwiriwe, Sarah!” (Good afternoon, Sarah!)

I greet him back. “Amakuru?” I ask. (How are you?)

“Ni meza! When will we go to America together?”

He hands me the airtime, and I pay.

“We won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m American, and I don’t want to go there with you.”

“But I love you!”

“You don’t love me.”

“I LOVE YOU.”

“You don’t know me. I talk to you because you have airtime only.”

I walk away.

This happened approximately 100 times last year, every time I bought airtime. Now, I try to buy all my airtime in Kigali.

*******************

I’m walking up the hill, through the marketplace, from my house to the main road. I’m either going to visit Jen at her shop or to school.

“Sallllllllllah, amakurrrru?” (Sarah, how are you?) a young man says. He has a big smile on his face, looking me up and down. He says something about what I’m wearing.

I say nothing, or I grunt something unintelligible, which is like to say, “Ni meza.” (I’m fine).

*******************

I’m on small bus. A man’s arm is resting on my leg. I use two fingers to pick up his arm and put it in his lap.

I say, “You do not touch my leg.”

*******************

I am in a small shop, buying fake margarine and honey. The honey doesn’t have a price sticker on it. I ask the shopkeeper how much the honey is in Kinyarwanda.

The man standing next to me says, “You know Kinyarwanda?”

I continue with the shopkeeper because she’s told me the price, “Noneho, ni 3300?” (And so, it is 3300 – about $5.50?).

She says yes. I look at the man, “Yego, ngerageza.” (Yes, I try.)

“I have a younger brother,” he says, smiling big. He’s alluding to me dating or marrying his brother. I decide to be a smart aleck.

“I have brothers too,” I say, while exiting the shop, as he tries to continue the conversation.

*******************

It’s difficult seeing men, sitting outside and drinking alcohol instead of working. They excuse it by saying, “We’re discussing,” but what they’re really doing is nothing while their wives are farming in the hot fields with babies on their backs.

Because they are men, they have license to go home and beat their wives and children. They have the title of “Umugabo,” which means husband or person who can do many things, but they haven’t done much to deserve that title.

*******************

I’m sitting outside Jen’s shop, talking about the rain. A Muslim comes over to greet us. His friend is trying to sell a Bible written in English. We tell him we’re not interested.

The Muslim says, “You’re Sarah, right?”

I confirm.

He looks at Jen and says, “She’s stopped greeting men.”

“Nibyo,” I say. (That’s right!).

He looks at me for a moment. He says, “I understand. Many Rwandan Men have bad culture.”

A man says this about his peers.

I am satisfied that he understands. I take this as a sign of respect.

*******************

Over the last 18.5 months, since I’ve arrived in Rwanda, the sexual innuendos and habits of many Rwandan Men have taken a toll on me. At first, I thought I could do nothing to escape it. And slowly, my anger grew into hate.

In the past, in emails and blog posts, I’ve alluded to my being “hardened.” This – my communication with men in Rwanda – has done the hardening. Before I came here, if a person hurt me in any way, I would usually just take it. I didn’t know how to constructively deal with bullying, teasing, or verbal abuse. I would just take it. I would sit there and pretend it was passing through me, but some of it stuck. Later on, I’d think of smart comebacks, but of course, those weren’t good anymore. The moment had passed. Even though my Kinyarwanda is pathetic, I try my best to say what I mean when I need to say it. In some instances, when I spoke with men, I became overly dramatic and erratic, but I did it because I had to communicate what I was feeling or else no one would understand my culture and what I stood for. If I let a man touch my leg and say nothing, what would other people in my community think about me? I’m sure that story spread around my community quickly because there were students around, so everyone knows that Sarah will FREAK OUT if you are a man and you touch her leg. That’s what I wanted them to think. In some ways, I wanted men to be scared of me, scared of my verbal assaults on their character. But mostly, I wanted to feel heard. And if that meant me spewing a slew of insults at someone if I had an inkling they were after something, well, then, that’s what I did. And if I could only become hardened after experiencing sexual harassment on a daily basis, well, then, that’s what God sent in my direction.

When I returned from America (December vaca), I decided to stop talking with Rwandan men. I stopped greeting them. When they greet me, I act like I don’t hear them.

This could come off as arrogance, but I continue to greet women and all children with a big smile. I greet my friends who are Rwandan Men.

My choice to not talk to them was a difficult one to make, but at some point I realized I cannot change what these guys think of me. I could, over and over, give them a big speech about who I am and how they have bad culture. They would laugh or feign being apologetic. Their friends would laugh, like they always do. They would plead their innocence, and that I misunderstood. I would walk away angry. Again. And so, I decided to not talk with them.

I expected a conservative culture when I moved to Rwanda. I expected women to be seen as “less” than men in the social hierarchy. I did not expect, though, how blatant (yet cunning and secretive) the sexual harassment would be or how often I would experience it. And so, because of my effort in becoming Umwali, I feel disrespected, mistreated, and victimized by those Rwandan Men who chose to ignore that effort. I want to feel like I’m doing a good job as a PCV, and because of my personality type, I want so much for people in my community to think well of me. It hurts me emotionally, then, when men see me and publically hit on me, especially in front of my closest friends. It’s as if everything Umwali about me doesn’t exist and has never been noticed.

You could say that my new behavior is passive, but I like to think that every time I ignore a cat call or act like I don’t hear them, I show them that they are so beneath me that they’re not even worth words.

My one hour moto ride between the main road and my village begins with a rush. The feeling of the wind, the sun, the unprotected adventure is seductive. I always complain about the price and the time, but the risk of it, the feeling while experiencing it…I just can’t get enough.

We’re on the dirt road, the same road to Akagera National Park, and on this road, people are used to foreigners. They barely look at me as we drive by on the well-maintained, rock-free road. The path is approaching: The path that signifies the beginning of rough terrain. We turn on this path, about 3 feet wide – wide enough for us on the moto and one person to stand off on the side without being hit. The path isn’t level. The moto driver has to balance his weight perfectly, so we don’t slide into the crack. We enter a dilapidated village. They stop and look, shock for both the moto going through and who’s on it. Once, a child reached out to touch me, my skin, our differences. There’s a fork in the road and we go right, up a steady hill that becomes rocky. And bumpy. For the first time, I reach behind myself for the support handle. My left arm is still holding my bag. I’m balanced, but sometimes the bumps we go over make me bounce. With each bounce, I try to land centered. When my bag is especially heavy, it weighs me down, though my bum becomes numb more quickly.

With this steady hill comes more villages. Houses. People sitting and visiting, watching time pass. There are banana trees, mango trees, and many times, a person biking by with plantains strapped down with tire rope. 10 minutes pass, and we reach the curve. The curve, where the road slightly widens (a car could fit). I look back to see the fields we just saw. Again, we reach a fork, and we go right. This road is more manageable. If we went to the left, we’d end up in Rwinkwavu, where there’s a hospital, a restaurant to stop in on your way out of Akagera, and off the main road: a dilapidated village. The houses haven’t doors. The houses are made of mud, and concrete hasn’t yet been provided as siding. People sit and stare and…wait, and I wonder what happened there 19 years ago. But we turned right. It’s a straightaway: we go fast, past the nice houses and their fancy paint jobs, we go past the house that reminds me of TGI Fridays décor and the family that has a dog, and then we reach a steady hill. It’s late afternoon, the schools have been let out for the day, and we’re approaching students. We can’t go quickly because of the hill, so it’s as if they’re walking with us. I smile at them, greet them, and they laugh and smile. These teenage girls get very excited by my Kinyarwanda, and as we begin to go quick, they start to RUN, run with us! They are running, and I have my visor up to continue to smile and laugh with them. I feel like my life has paused, this image of these girls laughing and smiling with me is engrained in my memory. I know as it’s happening that in the future I will close my eyes and remember these girls and remember how in this moment, my life became a movie, and it’s difficult to believe how perfect it is. With one last shake of a hand, we’re off, and gone, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again.

We reach yet another fork, and we turn left, down a rocky road. We go slow. It rained this morning, so the rocks are slick, not having yet enough time to bake in the sun and become rough again. The driver and I both put our visors up and talk. About the scenery, and how beautiful it is. About the farmer over there, taking a break by the pineapple pods. About how I’m single and his friend is looking for a wife, but ihangane (be patient) because I don’t want a husband. We talk about the students and how they love me (baradakunda) and how I love them too.

We reach a village that is impossible to pronounce but maybe it is something like CHA-RU-BAR-E. Everyone pronounces it differently. Anyway, it’s a village that’s big, similar in size to my village. They know me here because when I take the bus out of my village, the bus stops and people look and I tell them my name. I see the men who stand and wait for something to happen. They greet me, saying my name. I appreciate this because they say my name instead of the alternative (MUZUNGU – white person). If we go right (toward Kibungo), we would end up in a village where they call me Chinese person, and I haven’t figured out why. (The ride between Kibungo and my village includes my favorite path: the path is so narrow and rich and green that you feel like you’re in a cave of banana trees.) I don’t correct them because they’re drunk and unreasonable. But we don’t go right; instead, we go cock-eyed straight. It’s another straight away but after a few minutes we reach the hills. I grab the support handle, and I am tense. I know I will have callouses. For 10 minutes, we go uphill – there are very short breaks of level land. The prize at the end of the hills is the view.

The view of my home: The lakes. This view tells me I am close – we go steadily downhill, weaving between houses and plantain trees. We turn right, we turn right again and reach the welcome sign to my sector (equivalent of county). Again, the people begin to recognize me. My students walking on the side of the road greet me. I put my visor up to smile at people as they walk by. I greet the men at the bakery and teachers whose homes I pass. I motion for the moto driver to turn left in front of the market so he can take me home. The drunks are sitting and sipping their banana beer – they exuberantly say my name and I reply as I always do: “Amahoro.” (Peace.). I am now in front of my compound – I get off the moto with my numb bum as the village kids run toward me, saying, “SALAH! SALAH!” I hug them, fist pump’em, and pay my driver.

I am covered in dirt. My pants need washing. My hands and feet, having been peeking out of my jacket and pants, are brown, caked in dirt. I greet everyone in my compound, unpack, and shower. The ride has exhausted me, but I close my eyes and smile.

I finished this necklace. It took 4 days or so from start to finish. It’s my favorite by far of all the necklaces I made. I love teal and purple, so yeah, it’s teal and purple fab.

I have a new headmaster. His English is awesome. He has some great ideas, including creating a library (with books and the 728 One Laptop per Child computers we just got) and me teaching English to teachers once a week or so.

Operation Smile is coming to Kigali later this month. I hopin’ and prayin’ and wishin’ that I can send one of my fave students to get a life changing surgery (they do surgeries on cleft lips). She’s a really sweet girl, and she deserves to feel as beautiful as she already is. If this is the one thing that may not have happened without me, my service of 27 months is worth it! Her parents, my headmaster, her, and I are going to have a meeting early next week to talk about the possibility.

I arrived at my village last Sunday from visiting a friend and having an Eastern GLOW meeting. I got off the moto, and was immediately whisked away to an old lady’s funeral. Apparently, she had passed the day before from heart problems. I don’t know if I know her because people just called her “old lady,” but I heard she sold tomatoes at the market. The funeral consisted of the whole village hanging out outside her house, talking, and me trying to understand what was happening. Thankfully, some of my co-workers were there, so they informed me. And then I taught them about funerals in America. She was buried in her yard, with concrete on top of the casket. They marked a cross in the concrete before it dried.

I STARTED TEACHING WEDNESDAY! AND MY STUDENTS ASK QUESTIONS!

This last July, as you know, I helped work GLOW camp. Every afternoon, myself and another PCV, also named Sarah, facilitated the afternoon activity of Jewelry Making. Sarah has been making jewelry for a long while, and the whole experience inspired me to get back in the game. I have a lot of free time, so why not make jewelry to fill it? I asked my parents to send me beads and some supplies in a care package, and they went above and beyond! I brought back some more beads from America when I visited, and so I’ve been a craftin’ lady. Here are some pictures of what I’ve made:

“We must act, knowing that our work will be imperfect. We must act, knowing that today’s victories will be only partial, and that it will be up to those who stand here in four years, and forty years, and four hundred years hence to advance the timeless spirit once conferred to us in a spare Philadelphia hall.”

-Obama’s second inaugural address

These words, I think, ring very true for PCVs around the world. Many times people in our host country see us, and because of the color of our skin, they ask us for money. Or they teach their child to ask us for money. It’s annoying, but it’s understandable. Annoying because we’re here to work and to live with the people. Understandable because so many charities come and go, giving things. Things, only. Not conversation. Not relationships. They give things. So people see us and think that we are here to give things too.

Just today, I was at the market. There are many ladies who use an oil to wash and shine Rwandan women’s hair. I usually greet them, one carrying a baby on her back. There is a crowd, listening to our conversation. She asks me for food for her baby. Her baby could only be like 2 months old. I don’t know how to say “to breastfeed” in Kinyarwanda, so I say, “Your baby has food because your baby has you.” She laughs. Again, she asks me for food for her baby. I walk away. There are 2 dozen people watching. If I give her a fruit, I have to give her and all the people around me a fruit every week. I can’t do that. That’s not my job.

I teach English to my students, and I hope that they take the lessons as opportunity to move forward. I greet the market children, including the one with a twisted foot, and I hope that he understands he’s every bit a child as the others. Rwanda isn’t very accommodating to those with disabilities. Most I see in the bus parks, begging for money.

And every day that I do my job, I know that my effort won’t always be seen. I know that my lessons won’t always be understood. I know that my students don’t have the time to complete their homework because they have to fetch water, clean their homes, and cook for their families. I do my work out of hope. Hope that maybe, somehow, I’m making a difference.

I know that there are a lot of debates going on in America about gun control, gay marriage, debt ceilings, global warming, and tax increases. A lot of people chose the extremes of these arguments, saying things like, “I’m going to move to Canada if…,” “The world as we know it will end if…,” and “If…it will not be the America we know and love.” A lot of things can happen and change to improve America, though we all have our own ideas of what those things are, but I hope you from America reading know that you are very lucky to be who you are and to be living where you are. You have freedoms and access to opportunities of which many of my students can only dream.

Once I landed at O’Hare in Chicago, my traveling was just beginning. I traveled all over America, 4 states in all (Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, and Idaho). I slept on my own comfy mattress, couches, blow up mattresses, plane seats, and guest room mattresses, all provided by my many hostesses. Here’s a shout out to you all: my sister Erin and her husband Jason, Karissa, Kirstie, Uncle Max and Aunt Patty, Lisa, Dale and Karen Andrews, and of course my own parents. There were also some friends who went wayyy outta their way to see me for just a few hours, so thanks to both Amys, Kathleen, and Laura.

All in all, I spent my time visiting almost every single relative I have, all of my closest friends, working Goal 3 (giving talks at THN, Collins, and the GV), and EATING. I ate quite a bit, to the extent that, on Christmas Eve when I proclaimed at 8 PM that I thought I was full (I had been eating since I woke), the entire room hushed and people exclaimed, “REALLY?! NOW you’re full?!” and then 30 minutes later, I ate a cupcake. I gained 15 pounds in America, which is slightly obnoxious, but I have no shame or regrets. I lost 20 pounds in Rwanda this last year, so I knew I’d lose it again, what with the diet I have.

My favorite moments weren’t really about what I was doing, but rather, who I was doing it with. I went shopping, I ate at restaurants, I went to a concert, I went to a Pacer game, I traveled, but all with my sister, my friends and family, my younger brother, to see my older brother as a new father, and to meet my new nephew. I felt like the whole month was full of greetings and then, the inevitable goodbye. Also, just being in America was nice – walking the streets of Chicago, no one cared about me. I wasn’t something to be looked at, so it was nice just being one of a hundred on a city block. The convenience that exists in America is AWESOME. I bought delicious microwavable meals at Trader Joes and then, after a few minutes in a microwave I was eating it. I could count on the electricity always working and shower water being hot. That’s so cool. So damn cool. It was nice going into a clothing shop, knowing that each item was new and soft and in many stores, of good quality. I touched a lot of fabric, adored a lot of scarves.

Most of my time in America was happy, but there were some moments where I was like, “Really, America?! REALLY?!” The first being Sandy Hook – obvious, for all of America was shocked and spent weeks in mourning, our flag at half-staff. I got interested, but tried not to get too engrossed in the conversations about mental illness and gun control that covered news programs. Speaking of news, 24/7 news programs are overwhelming. They’re exhausting. TV in general is exhausting. I spent two days watching TV, being lazy, and quite frankly, I couldn’t take it anymore. The Target Christmas commercial freaked me out so much that I had to switch channels when it came up. Something that REALLY freaked me out was seeing cheerleaders, some as young as 7 or 8 walking around a mall, decked out in makeup and in outfits that should only pass for swimsuits. The Rwandan in me came out as I thought, “These girls look like prostitutes.” I was reassured that the thought wasn’t that insane, as my girlfriends also felt uncomfortable seeing the young girls dressed like that. These thoughts make me feel like a hypocrite, as a feminist (Women should be able to wear what they want! Express yourself!), but I think there is truth in saying that if you want your daughter to be smart, funny, cute, and clever, you have your parental priorities mixed up when dressing her up like a lap dancer. The last things that shocked me were slightly funny: everyone seemed to have an iPad – I saw them all over airports and in coffee shops. And new coke machines. The ones that you use a touch screen to indicate which beverage you want and then it comes out. INSANE. SERIOUSLY. I stood in front of that machine for like 30 seconds at Noodles in Chicago, amazed.

So now I’m back in Rwanda. I was nervous about coming back because, to be completely honest, I didn’t really miss Rwanda much while I was in America. I was very absorbed in what I was doing, which was being with the people that are most important to me and eating everything in sight. I had a short freak out, which may have been jetlag induced, one of my first days back in country, but I think I’m doing okay now.

Since arriving, I had my Mid-Service Medical Exam and Mid-Service Conference in Musanze. I am back in my village now, having been greeted by children on the road as I was moto-ing in, co-workers, students, compound mates, my chapatti makin’ friend, Jen, and a multitude of people at my market who remembered my name.

I’m looking forward to the new year, the final 10 months of my service, and now I share with you my goals for year 2:

1)      Teach 20 hours/week of English

2)      Start GLOW club

3)      Encourage a male teacher to start BE club

4)      Send students to Kigali Marathon, GLOW and BE Camps

5)      Work GLOW camp

6)      Send ICT teacher to a Tech Training

7)      Teach Judges

8)      Give sexual harassment, diversity, and queer issues training to Ed 4 (IST) and Ed 5 (PST)

9)      Encourage collaboration between different PCV groups and programming ideas, by way of GAD

10)   Send cards home for birthdays

11)   Meditate

12)   Exercise

13)   Cook a meal for compound once a month

14)   Make beautiful jewelry

15)   Write ‘Why I am still here’ lists

16)   Spend more time at school

17)   Plan awesome Close of Service trip with Ella and Jen

18)   Write in journal

19)   Design quilt

20)   DO: Akagare, Gisenyi, Gorillas, Climb Volcano, Visit more PCVs, Host Dad