Ever since I can remember, I have been an emotional person—always wearing my heart on my sleeve. A great example of this is in fifth grade, when I cried hysterically at the end of the school day because I was sad about leaving my friends and teachers for Christmas break. I can recall several times in middle school and—even more embarrassingly—high school, when I cried in front of other people out of frustration about a grade, family matters, or for being the recipient of someone else’s harsh rhetoric. I often caught flack for being so sensitive, which is why starting in college I made a concerted effort to subdue my overtly passionate demeanor. I wouldn’t say that I felt comfortable crying in front of other people before I left for Christmas break in fifth grade, or after finding out my Honors Geometry final exam score (those were tears of pure joy); I just simply wasn’t able to contain my emotions. I hated thinking about what other people thought about me for crying. Maybe it is understandable for crying after getting picked on in middle school, but to react the same way well into high school? I wasn’t proud of it. More recently, people who I am close to have accused me at times of being rather calloused or critical. I consider those characteristics to be direct results of my efforts to be less sensitive, which is why I understand exactly what people mean when they make those accusations. While I often acknowledged my tendency of coming across as judgmental or disdainful towards my close friends and family, I was never determined to improve upon that part of myself. As I prepared for Peace Corps Service, I considered those twenty-seven months of service as an opportunity to work on finding the perfect balance between expressing and hiding my emotions. At schools in the United States, you might find a fifth grade boy crying about leaving for Christmas break, or a boy crying over a grade in math class in high school (a completely separate math grade incident), but you are less likely to see that in any Indonesian schools. In fact, it would be hard to find that in many public places in Indonesia, because, compared to the United States, Indonesian culture is especially conservative when it comes to expressing emotions. This is exemplified in the interactions between children and their parents, students and teachers, or simply strangers interacting with one another in public. I would make the assumption, considering my own host family, that many Indonesians would have been confused to see myself crying in front of others in middle and high school. Perhaps they would have thought that I was making a fool of myself. Even at age twenty-four, I’m sure to have been distraught at times that would be considered questionable for an Indonesian citizen of the same age to do the same. A public display of emotion, such as one of the circumstances I described above, might be interpreted very differently here in Indonesia. My time here in Indonesia will provide ample opportunities for me to further observe, and reflect, on the culture’s sensitivity to emotion. The last days of Pre-Service Training provided a tough—yet effective—environment for me to observe, and put this newfound balance between expressing and suppressing emotions to the test, all in the context of Indonesian culture. May 22nd had finally arrived—swear in day. I would finally lose my “Trainee” title and join the ranks of Peace Corps Volunteers around the world. I completed my Indonesian and Javanese language classes, practicum teaching, and countless other homework assignments. I was ready to go. The swear-in ceremony equated to any graduation ceremony that I have attended, very boring and too long. I did, however, add to the length of the swear-in ceremony. I had the opportunity to give a speech during the ceremony. In Bahasa Indonesia, I spoke about my time during Pre-Service Training and how my thinking has evolved over the course of the previous ten weeks. I wore a batik shirt made from fabric that matched the other seven PCTs who lived in my village. Peace Corps Trainees were scattered among seven different villages during PST, and each village wore matching fabric (If you haven’t picked up on it by now, matching is a big thing here in Indonesia). All of our host families attended the ceremony, along with Indonesian government and American Consulate officials, practicum teachers, and Peace Corps Staff. The Volunteers placed in West Java were scheduled to depart for the train station from the Peace Corps office at 5pm that same day, which meant that there wasn’t much time to say goodbye. The East Java Volunteers wouldn’t leave Kediri until Wednesday morning. We saw the West Java Volunteers off Monday evening and then had a night to celebrate our induction as Peace Corps Volunteers. Tuesday, May 23rd, the Volunteers destined for East Java attended a conference with their respective principals and English teachers at Bukit Daun, the hotel where we stayed for the first week of Pre-Service Training. During the conference, the Volunteers worked with their school partners to establish plans for the first week, month, and semester of moving to permanent site. Peace Corps Staff introduced various scenarios and then asked the Volunteers and their school partners to discuss how they would handle them. Quite often, friction may arise unintentionally because of cultural misunderstanding. That is why the Peace Corps Staff repeatedly stressed to maintain open, direct dialogue in order to quickly resolve those misconstructions. After the conference ended, it was time for me to say goodbye to the Peace Corps Staff and my fellow East Java Volunteers. We would all leave for our sites early the next morning, which meant this was the last time we would see each other for an extended period of time. Since I would be heading off without the comfort of American friends the next morning, this farewell was far more challenging than saying goodbye to the West Java Volunteers on Monday. After saying goodbye, and hugging every last person, I walked back to my family’s house. I was in too deep a state of reflection, and slightly too emotional, to head straight home. I did not want to arrive home noticeably sad, worrying that those emotions might be susceptible to misinterpretation by my host family. I chose to weave up and down the Kediri streets to catch one last glimpse of my neighborhood of the past ten weeks. I agonized over the last meal with my host family. Saying goodbye to them, I predicted, would be very difficult. I thought that I had mustered enough emotional strength during my extended walk by the time I arrived at home. It would turn out that I was correct in thinking that saying goodbye would be extremely difficult. Thinking I was emotionally strong enough to handle the last night with my host family, however, quickly proved to be incorrect. I arrived home expecting to have a quiet night with my host parents and two host siblings. I climbed the steps to the front porch to see that the furniture had been removed from the house and rugs were laid across the floor—similar to when my family hosted Haul. In addition to the four members of my immediate host family, there were also uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, and grandparents all waiting for me to come home. Evidently, my last dinner in Kediri would be with the entire host family. The number of people overwhelmed me; the last thing I wanted to do was put on a happy face in front of everybody while I was feeling down. The kids greeted me by hugging my legs as I walked into the house. The nieces wore matching shirts and shorts—something that they like to do on special occasions. I shook hands and exchanged smiles with all of the family members. My mom insisted that I eat, and she called in the reinforcements of her mom, grandma, and sisters to ensure that I couldn’t refuse her request. I sat down on the rugs in the living room and ate my food while the women returned to the kitchen. I later realized that this was just my first dinner; the actual meal wasn’t ready yet. Aza talked and asked me questions as I ate my food. The more questions she asked, the sadder I became at the thought of having to leave her. My eyes swelled, and the occasional tear streamed down my cheek. My nose was running considerably. Noticing these things, my dad asked if I was sick. I attributed my tears to the spicy food. Just when I thought I had successfully navigated that emotional obstacle in Aza, the call to prayer—an antagonizing yet unforgettable recollection of my time during Pre-Service Training—blared through the neighborhood and I knew that I was about to break down. This would be the last evening that I would listen to the call to prayer from the comforts of this house. I quickly set my food down and ran into my room to compose myself, closing the door behind me. Fortunately, the family seemed to believe that I was just having issues handling the spiciness. I waited in my room for a few minutes, hoping to get rid of any last tears. It turns out, however, that there would be many more tears throughout the course of the evening. Once I regained my composure, I returned to the living room to finish my food. I spoke with the grandparents about my plans for the next two years: teaching English, promoting cross-cultural exchange, and exploring Indonesia. Having provided this information dozens of times, these were the exact conversations I was hoping to avoid when I first saw the large amount of people waiting for me at the house. However, it turns out that I didn’t mind going over the information again because their intrigue was so sincere. I thought about how much the dialogues between us have evolved since my first days in Kediri; I originally could only say “hello” and “how are you?” but now I was talking about promoting cross-cultural exchange. It’s amazing how much one can learn in a mere ten weeks! I finished my “first dinner” and remained seated to enjoy the company of my host grandparents. Pak Miswan and Safa handed me a gift—a blue and white collared dress shirt. Then Safa showed me two matching shirts—one for Pak Miswan and one for him—that they would wear tonight too. I felt the tears coming again, and I looked for an escape route to hide my emotional relapse. Fortunately, the mandi was the perfect excuse for me to abruptly leave the room. If I was going to wear my new shirt, then of course I needed to bathe first! While dashing to the mandi, I passed the kitchen where my host mom and relatives were preparing a feast. They pushed me along to the mandi so that I would be ready in tandem with the food. I stood in the mandi and let the tears flow, silently weeping while simultaneously dumping buckets of cold water over my head. (Now, this particular part of the story makes me laugh; it’s something that I couldn’t imagine happening to me again outside the arena of serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer.) Although many people were feverishly working right outside the mandi room door, this bath would be the least conspicuous spot in the house for me to let it all out. I emerged from the mandi fresh, seemingly happy, and wearing a matching shirt with Pak Miswan and Safa. Before my mom served the food, I was instructed to gather with everyone else on the rugs in the front of the house. The community leaders joined the family and we all sat down in unison. One of the community leaders began a prayer, and the rest of my family joined with him. My brother informed me that, just like during Haul when everyone prays for the person who has passed away, every person in the room was praying for my safety, well-being, and success as I set out on my new adventure. Since everyone’s eyes were closed, I watched each person for a moment. I felt the same emotional energy as the Hauls I attended, but I was overcome by the idea that, this time, the energy was knowingly directed towards me. The prayer ended, and so did my temporary emotional composure. I rushed to my room to ‘blow my nose’ and to salvage whatever poise I had left. I figured that by now, my family would realize that something other than the spicy food was bothering me; and most likely, they would misconstrue my tears for disappointment. This meant that, however reluctantly, I needed to explain that I am so happy with this going away party and I am so grateful for everything they have done for me. This required vocabulary that my current repertoire did not contain, which meant that I needed my dictionary. After searching my room, I realized that the dictionary was already packed in the duffel bag that was in the living room with the family. I did not want to invest time pouring through pages of my dictionary—with tears running down my face—while my entire host family watched. I concluded that I had no choice but to persevere through the melancholy and don a big smile for the rest of the night. I returned to the living room ready for second dinner, but my mom brought out a cake from the kitchen instead. Cake before dinner; sounds good to me! Written on the cake was, “Semoga sukses selalu,” or “may you always have success.” The community leader led another prayer to bless our food. I cut the cake and passed out slices. The leftover slices went to the neighbors sitting outside of their houses, watching the goodbye celebration. Despite my sincere appreciation for the cake, and the sweet message on top, it did not trigger an emotional collapse. For the mean time, my feelings were in check. It turns out that I would refrain from again bursting into tears—in front of everyone else, at least—for the remainder of the evening. My mom thoughtfully made my favorite food for second dinner. Everyone else enjoyed it too, which made me happy. After everyone had eaten, it was time to say my goodbyes to the extended family. The uncles, aunts, and grandparents repeatedly said, “don’t forget about us” as they left the house. I assured each of them that I would see them the next time I visit Kediri. I was able to spend a solid hour alone with my immediate host family: Bapak Miswan, Ibu Ira, Safa, and Aza. My three-year-old sister Aza kept calling me “Pak Addison,” which is the equivalent to “Mister Addison.” I assured her that she didn’t need to call me that, but my host mom told me that I heard Aza incorrectly. She was actually saying “Kakak Addison,” which means “older brother Addison.” That realization prompted the tears that came after I retreated to my room for my last night’s sleep in Kediri. To my surprise, or maybe to no surprise at all, the entire family was back at the house the following morning to see me off. We all ate breakfast and talked, waiting for Pak Nurhasyim (my school principal) and Mas Wendi (Metallica enthusiast and Resident Evil devotee) to arrive with the car. I took my house and bedroom keys off of my carabineer and handed them to my host parents. Outwardly saddened by this, my host dad assured me that I was welcome to stay here whenever I want in the future. It might be Safa’s room now, but they will give it right back to me! “This is your home too,” he said. That sentence consisted of vocabulary that I learned during my first or second week of language class, but the sentiment I construed from those words could constitute its own blog post. Pak Nurhasyim and Mas Wendi arrived, and my dad helped me put my bags into the car. My host parents insisted that my school administrators rest at the house for a little while before driving to my permanent site, but they abstained, saying that they were on a tight schedule. Everything was packed and ready to go; all I had to do was give my final goodbyes to my family. While I gave my host dad a handshake and exchanged some last few words, my eyes watered to a level unparalleled to ever before. Saying goodbye to Ibu Ira, with Aza fast asleep in her arms, was the most difficult. Due to my limited vocabulary, I didn’t know the words to properly thank her. Choked up, I slowly said “terima kasih banyak,” hoping that the deliberate pace would further emphasize my profound sincerity in saying a simple “thank you very much.” Her eyes swelled, and I knew she was about to cry. In America, this would have been the perfect time to give a big hug; but that type of physical contact between members of the opposite sex is frowned upon in Indonesia. I turned away, crying as I hopped into the car, and waved briefly as we pulled away. Just like my host dad, Pak Nurhasyim asked if I was sick. I explained that I was really sad to say goodbye to the host family, but I reassured him that I was also very excited to begin my new adventure at my school. The frequent shallow breaths from crying, intertwined with my infrequent boughs of laughter in disbelief of that sad goodbye, must have caused my Pak Nurhasyim and Mas Wendi concern for my mental stability. I don’t blame them; the only other time I recall crying and laughing at the same time was when I had my wisdom teeth removed and I was still under the influence of some heavy sedatives (speaking of my tendencies to be visibly emotional, that one is a story for the books). Pak Nurhasyim said that they would make sure I have opportunities to visit my host family in Kediri, which livened my spirits. It took me about fifteen minutes in the car to completely regain my composure. During those fifteen minutes, I reflected upon the peaks and valleys of emotions I experienced throughout the previous 72 hours. I was psychologically navigating Indonesia; the country’s cultural norms encourage people to conceal their emotions, but here I was, more emotional than any one time I can remember in my recent past, struggling to adhere to those customs. Processing those emotions, and attempting to control them in front of others, might have been one of my most difficult tasks during Pre-Service Training. But during that car ride, I ultimately concluded that those emotions come from a place of happiness, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat. Fortunately, this is just the first three months of my adventure; I literally just became a Peace Corps Volunteer two days ago. I reminded myself that crying isn’t the only way of expressing one’s emotions. I think that my disproportionate levels of positivity and energy are examples of where my emotions also reign free; that behavior just represents emotions on the opposite end of the spectrum. That made me ask myself, when I think about trying to control my “emotions,” what do I mean by that? Does that mean I need to exert more control over my excitement or positivity, too? I am enlivened by even the slightest reference to Wisconsin; hearing about my friends and family members’ accomplishments leave me feeling invigorated. Do I really want to subdue those reactions, considering it’s my manner of expressing genuine sincerity? Absolutely not. Maybe I’ve been worried with how I react emotionally in particular circumstances because I’ve always been too concerned what others think of me during those situations. When I was in fifth grade, I shouldn’t have been embarrassed to be so sad about leaving for Christmas break. If anything, my dismay for leaving for break was a sign of appreciation for the teachers and students at the school. Perhaps, during my first visit back to Kediri to see my host family, I will tell them the story about my emotional ride during their going away party. It would be worth explaining America’s cultural acceptance of expressing oneself emotionally to my host family so that I don’t have to act inauthentic in the future. That farewell marked a life changing moment, one that I had been mentally preparing for since applying to the Peace Corps. I was heading off to permanent site on my own, where my new school, host family, a month of fasting for Ramadan, and lots of time for self-contemplation are awaiting my arrival. I know that plenty more is in store for this passionate guy. Shout-Outs:
SO to the Language Facilitator who helped me edit and rehearse my speech. SO to my counterpart from practicum school. You helped me become a better teacher. HSO to the Peace Corps Staff for working so hard. The Language Facilitators gave me the confidence to integrate into my new community. The Community Liaisons made sure everything during training went smoothly. You all worked harder and longer than any of the Trainees. HSO to my host family for making me feel at home. Even though I am really far away from my native country, your generosity helped me forget just how far that distance really is. SO to the ID9s and ID10s who have supported me for almost a year from today. You helped me prepare for my journey, provided important information during PST, and gave me the encouragement to succeed at permanent site. HSO to my fellow ID11s. I admire your strengths, weaknesses, assurances, and fears. I am motivated to work hard during my service in order to make you all proud. HMFSO to my sister for graduating last week! An additional SO goes to my brother for successfully completing his second year of college. Way to go you guys! HSO to my cousin for being accepted to medical school! I am incredibly proud of you.
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I woke up to my alarm at 5am on Monday, May 1, 2017, which was an hour after the call to prayer began. I drank some water, stretched on the front porch, and set out on my morning run as the morning call to prayer continued to sound throughout the neighborhood. Unfortunately, my running habit dropped off after the first month of Pre-Service Training. I was motivated to run that morning because I thought it would be the answer to the woes of my previous ten days. Between a sore throat and an intermittent fever, it has taken much more of a concerted effort to maintain a positive attitude as of late. May 10th marks two months since I left my beloved state of Wisconsin, which provided additional motivation for the morning run. I can't hop off the band wagon for an entire month! Just five minutes into my run I passed two cows pulling a farmer on his cart. We exchanged pleasantries as I passed and continued on my way. That interaction helped push any negativity out of my head, and I was able to focus on how to tackle the last three weeks of Pre-Service Training. The run gave me time to listen to the songs I put into an exercise playlist: Kelly’s Clarkson’s “What Doesn’t Kill You,” Kanye West’s “Champion,” and of course, Beyonce’s “Crazy In Love” provided motivation for the weak, pitiful run. I focused on my blog, and what I wanted to write about next. Two things influenced my decision for this blog post: first, ten not so pleasant sick days; and second, I had two incredible experiences with my host family. Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” started to play, and I kicked my run it into high gear. By the end of the song I knew the topic and title for this blog post. Visiting Blitar: Hanging above the entrance to the family room at my host’s family home, you can see a large portrait of Sukarno—Indonesia’s liberator, first President, and national hero. Since I believe that learning a country’s past is important to understanding its present, I wanted to learn more about the man immediately after finding out about my placement in Indonesia. The portrait hanging in my PST host family’s house is not unique; I have seen a similar portrait in every house that I have visited. I want to compare him to an important American figure for your reference, but I can’t think of an adequate comparison. I asked my host family many questions about Sukarno and Indonesia’s proclamation of independence from the Netherlands on August 17, 1945. I can read books and articles about the country’s fight for independence, but it’s far more fascinating to hear from my parents and their parents. Indonesians exude so much passion when discussing their country, and that’s something I genuinely appreciate. Fortunately, my host family’s attention to detail is just as impressive as their patriotism; they noticed my curiosity for their country’s history and its founder. That laid the groundwork for my first Indonesian family adventure. My Ibu and Bapak asked me to be ready to leave the house by 7am on Sunday, April 23, 2017. They were excited to take me to Blitar, the city in East Java where Sukarno past away and was buried. Due to the fact that the most important person in the history of Indonesia died and was laid to rest in that city, the people erected a museum in his honor and a memorial at his tomb. We would visit both of those sites that day. I asked my host parents what would be appropriate for me to wear and they assured me that shorts and a t-shirt would be just fine. Bapak Miswan suggested that I bring my sunglasses too. I was under the impression that we were borrowing a family member’s car for the outing, since my host parents only own two scooters. I turned out to be mostly correct. The car arrived, and I headed out of the house with Bapak Miswan, Ibu Ira, Safa, and Aza. To my surprise, there were already six people in the car—my host mother’s parents, sister, and three nieces were already packed into the SUV waiting in front of the house. My host father would be the driver for the day, and the front passenger seat was waiting for me. I insisted that grandma or grandpa sit in the front, and that I could squeeze into the back with everyone else, but they all persisted. I rode shotgun, wearing my sunglasses, while nine people fit into the backbench and trunk. Everyone was happy. Excited for me to see Sukarno’s final resting place, each family member filled me in during some point of the drive on information about the former President. Everyone took turns wearing my sunglasses as they presented their Sukarno facts. We listened to music and had a blast during the two-hour drive. We parked the car and made our way to the museum. Along the ten-minute walk to the entrance, multiple people asked me to take a picture with them. I could tell that I was no longer in a city with fifty-five other Peace Corps Trainees because I felt an abnormal amount of stares. Our large group entered the museum and scattered among the various exhibits. Bapak Miswan chose to stay close by my side and he explained every single piece of information. He clearly was very excited for me to learn about his national hero. My host siblings and their cousins ran around the museum while the women tried to corral them, but Bapak Miswan wanted me to take all the time I deemed necessary. I was interested in the Sukarno portraits, and I enjoyed posing in front of those paintings. The other museum visitors seemed more interested in the white foreigner walking around the galleries, and took pictures of me instead. I enjoyed the exhibit that had pictures of Sukarno meeting with various world leaders: Yugoslavia’s Josip Tito, China’s Mao Zedong, and Richard Nixon. I took special interest in a photograph of Sukarno and John F. Kennedy. The two men are sitting in the back of an open-top convertible at Andrews Air Force Base in the United States. I found that picture so extraordinary because it depicted two men whose diplomatic efforts led to me serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Indonesia. John F. Kennedy founded the Peace Corps just two months after swearing into office. President Sukarno diligently fought to declare Indonesia a free and independent nation; and later, he allowed the Peace Corps to begin an educational program in the country. This particular photo was taken in April 1961; just one month after JFK established the Peace Corps and the first Volunteers departed for service. I do not know the primary purpose for the Indonesian President’s visit to the United States, but I am confident that the conversations between the two politicians have had lasting impressions on the Peace Corps program in my host country. After all, the Peace Corps reminds me on a daily basis that sustainable change doesn’t happen over night. Maybe I am an indirect outcome of their conversations? I plan on thinking that that’s the case. When I finished observing the different exhibits, Bapak Miswan and I left the air conditioning to find the rest of the family outside. We proceeded next door to see Sukarno’s burial site. We walked up a half flight of stairs to a large platform. The roof of the cabana that covered the entire platform slanted down until it was equal to my line of sight. We walked (I ducked under the roof’s edge) inwards to the crowd that gathered in a large circle. We joined everyone else by sitting cross-legged on the floor. A large, beautifully polished boulder with the name “Sukarno” marked the head of the former President’s grave. Hundreds of people prayed and chanted around his tomb. Many people brought flower petals to scatter on top of Sukarno’s gravesite. It was a powerful, beautiful sight. Paying close attention to the intense energy under that cabana, I refrained from taking any pictures or standing at any point. I did not want the sole foreigner to detract any attention from such a profoundly spiritual experience. I remained crossed-legged and watched each member of my family—children included—take turns dropping flower petals on the grave. My grandpa sat with many other men his age very close to the President’s grave, praying the entire time. Every now and then he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. I thought about how he was alive when Sukarno was president. He was a young adult when Sukarno’s time as President ended in 1967. How great is it that he grew up following the liberator of his nation? That’s comparable to growing up while George Washington was President—incredible. I felt as if I could have sat underneath that cabana for the entire day. After visiting President Sukarno’s grave, we headed back to the car to eat lunch and made our way home. The car didn’t have air condition, but the breeze felt nice so I rode shotgun with the window down. When it started to rain, and then poor, I went to roll up the window; but the handle broke, leaving me vulnerable to the elements. When we got back to the house, I got out of the car to find one entire side of my body completely drenched. My family thought it was hilarious so I’m glad they could end their day on a positive note. Haul: I woke up and got ready for class per usual that next morning. Before I left the house my Ibu asked me if I would be tired when I return from class. Sensing that she had a follow up question, I completely hid the fact that I am exhausted at the end of the day and assured her that I would be available for whatever she wanted to do. She spoke quickly, noticing that I already had one foot out the door. I did not understand anything other than the Indonesian word for “celebration”. I told her I was excited for this celebration with the family and I would see her that evening. I returned home from class and found Bapak Miswan out of the front porch, laying rugs across the floor. I hopped off my bike and went up the steps to join him. I noticed that the furniture had been moved out onto the porch from inside the house too. My Bapak told me that I needed to mandi (shower) and change clothes. I headed inside to follow his instructions. While walking to the back of the house to bathe I walked through the kitchen, where there were half a dozen women frantically moving about. Ibu Ira rushed me to get going. I quickly showered and dressed into the clothes my host parents laid out for me. I joined my Bapak out on the porch, hoping to get some answers that would explain the curious situation in which I found myself. Still oblivious to what “celebration” I was about to witness I began asking questions. “Is this a wedding?” I asked. Bapak Miswan replied “No.” Is this an anniversary?” Again, my Bapak said “No.” I wasn’t getting much information from him so I pressed further. “Is this a birthday party?” My Bapak looked at me and said “No.” Finally, he told me that there would be a “Haul” at our house that night. I jumped up, ran to my room to grab my dictionary, and found that I was about to attend my first annual celebration of someone’s death. I immediately equated Haul to a funeral, which didn’t exactly imply “celebration” in my mind. I asked another question: “Are people happy at this celebration?” My Bapak smiled and said, “Ya!” I knew I was going to attend a joyous death anniversary celebration. More specifically, I learned that we were going to celebrate the life of my host mother’s grandpa. The furniture had been cleared; the rugs were laid in the living room and on the front porch. I was standing on the porch with my Bapak when a group of five men approached. They shook our hands and went into the living room to sit cross-legged on the floor. Bapak Miswan and I followed the men into the house and sat against the wall directly opposite of the main entrance. With my Bapak sitting directly to my left, and my Kakek (grandpa) sitting to my right, I watched as more and more men came through the front entrance of the house. Every single one of them entered the house barefoot and shook hands with every person—including me—sitting on the floor. Eventually we sat knee to knee around the entire room; however, more men continued flooding in the house. They began to sit in rows right in the middle of the room. I watched a line form outside the house as people waited to get their chance to shake everyone’s hand. Once nearly forty men were seated inside the living room, the porch began to fill up. I tried counting how many people were there in total once everyone was settled and seated, but there were far too many for me to count. There were husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons—ages varying from teenagers to the elderly. Every one of them wore a traditional batik shirt and a Peci, which is a traditional Muslim hat. Behind my left shoulder was the set of doors that led to the kitchen. I could hear the women—mothers, sisters, aunts, and daughters—cooking and preparing dinner. The only female that came out into the living room was my host sister Aza, who was delighted to see me. She wore a cute yellow dress and a matching Hijab; the first time I have ever seen her wear one. I saw my brother Safa peeking through the kitchen door, and he waved at me when we made eye contact for a brief second. I suppose he is still too young to sit in on these grown-up activities. One man spoke, but I did not understand a single word that he said. He spoke for only a few minutes before gesturing to the gentleman sitting on his left. The second man held a piece of paper and recited what seemed like verses from the Koran. He began to pray and the rest of the men joined him. The praying and chanting continued for about thirty minutes. The majority of men prayed with their eyes closed, which gave me ample opportunities to look around the room and people watch. Occasionally I noticed some of the younger boys looking at me during prayer. I was sitting right next to the kitchen doors in plain view of everyone at the ceremony. I rotated between looking around the room and staring down at my hands. The last thing I wanted to do was disrespect anyone during this sensitive time. Once prayers ended, the man who led the prayer gestured to a third person. His incredibly fast speech likened this man to an auctioneer. Everyone in the room joined him in one last verse. When that ended, the kitchen doors flew open and bowls of food came pouring out. The women didn’t dare to step outside of the kitchen, so they passed the bowls to the men sitting closest to the doors, which were my Bapak and myself. I passed the bowls of food down, and continued to do so until everyone had their meal. The chicken rice soup was delicious. My Ibu poked her head in the kitchen door window to see if I was enjoying the meal. I mouthed the words “very delicious” in Bahasa Indonesia and gave her a thumbs-up. She flashed a quick smile and then turned back into the kitchen. Everyone finished their food, stacked their bowls together and passed them back towards the kitchen doors, where eager hands reached out to grab them. The last of the bowls were returned to the kitchen. Many of the men lit cigarettes and quietly talked with one another. The kitchen doors flew open again and boxes of desserts were passed down for every person sitting on the floor. I assumed that we would eat the pastries there, but nobody opened their box. When it was clear that everyone had his own desserts, one gentleman led a quick prayer and everyone got up to leave. I had completed my first Haul. The last three weeks of PST: The family trip to Blitar and the Haul preceded the beginning of the end of Pre-Service Training. The last three weeks of PST are going to be rather challenging. To kick off the three weeks, each Trainee had a language proficiency interview with a Peace Corps staff member to evaluate my level. The staff concluded that several of us had reached an appropriate language level necessary for permanent site, and moved us to start learning our secondary language. Monday, May 1st was my first day learning Javanese. Since Bahasa Jawa is the most commonly spoken language at my permanent site, Peace Corps wants me to learn the language basics for a smoother transition into the new community. Now instead of learning Bahasa Indonesia in English, my language classes consist of learning Bahasa Jawa in Bahasa Indonesia. After seven weeks of workshops, the Peace Corps staff wants to put all of that erudition into practice. During the week of May 1st through May 5th, known as Model School Week, PCTs are assigned a classroom of students and must teach a 90-minute lesson each day. Each day, we are required to teach while focusing on one of the five language competencies: listening, reading, writing, speaking, and grammar. Peace Corps staff members rotate around the different schools and observe individual PCTs to gage his or her aptitudes and weaknesses in the classroom. However, we do not know what language competencies, or what material to introduce for the lesson, until 90 minutes prior to the beginning of our class. That means we are forced to develop a lesson plan, and organize a class learning objective, under a time constraint. As a volunteer with little to no experience teaching in a classroom, the time constraint introduces a considerable level of stress into my afternoon. The Peace Corps puts me in this position because it is very likely that I will find myself in similar situations while teaching at my permanent site. The Peace Corps wants me to have the ability to produce a lesson at a moment’s notice with the use of minimal resources. If I feel frustrated during the 90-minute period leading up to my class, I remind myself that it is important to develop spontaneity and flexibility in the classroom. If I can master that, then my work as a Peace Corps Volunteer will go much more swimmingly. On Monday we focused on reading, and the students practiced introductions. I asked students to use target phrases that I wrote on the board to write personal introductions. Many of the introductions included sentences such as, “I am from Kediri, Indonesia,” or “I have one brother and one sister,” and “I am twelve years old.” They were instructed NOT to include their name in their written introductions. Once everyone had written his or her introductions, I asked them to crumple the paper into a ball. They threw the paper balls at each other—mimicking a snowball fight—for thirty seconds. When time was up each student collected a new paper ball, presumably a different student’s introduction. Students took turns reading the new introductions and then guessed which student originally wrote it. This gave students an opportunity to practice reading while simultaneously getting to know the classmates they would spend time with for the rest of the week. I did not know how advanced my class would be, so I wanted my first class to be relatively easy. That way I could use the 90 minutes to assess the students’ skills and interests for the remaining four classes. I wasn’t surprised to learn that—just like kids anywhere else in the world—all of my students like to eat food. I created a speaking lesson, which required students to describe and state opinions about different foods. Students helped me create lists on the whiteboard of their favorite foods and descriptive words (adjectives) to describe food. Students took turns saying their opinions aloud. One student stated, “In my opinion, pizza is crunchy.” If students agreed with that opinion, then they walked to the right side of the classroom. The students who disagreed with that opinion would walk to the left side of the room. I asked students on both sides of the classroom to explain why they agreed or disagreed. The lesson appeared to be a success! After Model School Week, PSTs move on to Practicum, when I will head to a local middle school and work as an English teacher for the last two weeks of PST. During those two weeks, I will teach English classes, work with counterparts (English teachers at the school), and meet with students outside of class. These two weeks replicate the work that I will do while I am alone at my permanent site. The Peace Corps wants me to go through a two-week simulation so that I feel more prepared once I am all by myself. Despite the heavy work load at the end of PST, I am happy that Peace Corps is taking the necessary steps for me to be effective when I move to my permanent site. I feel less uneasy about teaching at my permanent site thanks to Model School Week, and I hope that my two-week practicum will continue to improve my confidence. I also think about the things I have thoroughly enjoyed during my time in Kediri: my host family, seeing fellow PCTs on a daily basis, and working with Peace Corps staff. As much as I look forward to the end of PST and escaping this chaotic schedule, all of those people will be far away when I move to my permanent site. I plan on enjoying as many moments with those people as possible. I make sure to play cards with my host brother Safa on a daily basis. I watch my host sister’s favorite cartoon every morning during breakfast; fascinated with my blondeness, she likes to twist my leg and arm hair as we watch TV. I spend time during the week studying at the Peace Corps office. I try to check in with staff members and see how they are doing. They work harder than we do, and that means they are that much more exhausted. Lastly, I make sure to spend time with other Trainees on the weekends. I won’t find myself in the company of other American friends very often during these next two years. It’s important to spend time with them while we still live in the same neighborhoods! I won’t have many opportunities to enjoy my Kediri morning run route either. I suppose I will have to find an equally beautiful path at my new site. The Monday run, it turns out, didn’t help as I was hoping. I struggled Monday and the following day as well. My fever reached 102 degrees Tuesday, and regardless of the 80-degree weather that night, I went to bed shivering as if the temperature was significantly lower. The mandi that night was especially rough; the chilly water felt as though it was burning my hot skin when I dumped it on my head. Despite all of the advice from the Peace Corps Medical Office during PST, I did not call and talk to a staff doctor. I figured that I will be off on my own the next time I am sick so I better learn how to deal with illnesses. We’ll see if I do the same thing next time I am not feeling well. I’m happy that the fever has subsided and today I feel as good as new. Due to the amount of work I foresee in the near future, my next blog post will likely come after I move to my permanent site. Just because I might be too busy to write a blog post these next three weeks does not mean that I am too busy to hear from my friends and family! Please send me life updates! It’s always nice to hear how other people are doing. Those of you that have already reached out to me—thank you! Shout-Outs:
SO to President John F. Kennedy for founding the Peace Corps. What a guy! SO to President Sukarno for liberating this country from imperialist tyranny. Long live Indonesia! HSO to International Diplomacy. I wouldn’t be a PCV in Indonesia without it! SO to all of the PCTs who participated in Saturday’s karaoke party. It was much needed! SO to the people of France for curbing this global wave of populism. French identity is stronger with a globalized society. |
AddisonHometown: La Crosse, WI Archives
May 2019
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