tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53426850658349256652024-03-06T06:52:06.795+03:00j/k!Jess in Kenya. || A lab instructing, PE teaching SMerf who gets to hang out with Jesus.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.comBlogger219125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-52559978622510551812012-06-22T02:39:00.000+03:002012-06-25T02:46:26.021+03:00Dear Student Missionary...<br />
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Dear Student Missionary,</div>
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<br /></div>
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You've returned. You've been called, you've gone, you've served, and now it's done. You've come back changed, whether you feel like it or not. Now you run through WalMart with the glee of a child at Christmas. Applesauce and peanut butter and ice cream and Taco Bell have never tasted so good. Toilet paper is exciting. Friends and family hail your return. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But you're back to real life. And perhaps, if you're like me, life's purpose eludes you. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Reverse culture shock is real. Trying to fit back in with the lifestyle that once was yours is hard to do. In fact, it's impossible. You can never fit back in exactly as you did before. Everyone tells you it's because you've changed, and they're right. </div>
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Please, learn a lesson from me: <b>You don't have to fit in</b>. You tried so hard to blend with your host country or state or school, spending months learning the nuances that determined visitors and foreigners from those who belonged. You found a niche and did your job there. But when you come home, don't do it again. Don't try to learn all the new habits and behaviors that make one a part of your home culture. Don't struggle to fit in.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I came home from my year away and tried so very hard to reacclimate. To become the epitome of perfect PT student, to engage with others as any 23 year old college student should, to wear my hair and my clothes and my makeup just so. To fit in with the crowd. To blend in where I've been placed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It's taken me a year to remember that I left a home culture that I didn't blend in with. I've never been "typical". I'm not an average American. I never was very good at being the cool kid. I don't often resonate with the characters portrayed in films and shows that are supposed to be just like me. I've never fit in… but it's never bothered me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I always enjoyed life. I enjoyed it until I decided that I should care what others think of me. That I should find out what the social norm was and adhere to it. To fit in. To become average. To do the things that others did, because that was how life was supposed to work. But in becoming average, I've lost things. I've lost the freedom to go crazy, to cast off inhibitions in favor of embracing propriety. The ability to express myself as I know how, trying instead to shove my thoughts and emotions into neat Rubbermaid organizers, labeling each with a narrow assortment of emoticons. I've lost highs and lows – dynamics. My life feels stationary. I don't feel like anything's moving; I don't dare believe I'm growing.</div>
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So, Student Missionary: Remember what you were <i>before</i> you left, too. Don't try to become someone you never were. Embrace who you became in your time as a missionary, but don't cast away the foundation that led to your transformation. Remember who you were, and allow that person to be influenced by the place and the people with whom you served, but never forget who you were to begin with. You've spent a lifetime shaping your character, a character that God bestowed upon you so that you'd be ready to answer the call; don't give it up.</div>
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Student missions gave you purpose – it gave you a place to live and a people to serve and a job to do. It became your life. When you come home, it's easy to lose that purpose. Remember who you were. Embrace your former role and let it be changed by what you did last year. </div>
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I am Jessica. I am a sister, a daughter, a classmate, a friend. I was a student missionary teacher. When I came home, I focused so intently on showing others how well I fit in that I lost sight of what makes me different, what makes me who I am. But now, I cast off every weight, pursuing a life beyond the cultural norm and living a crazy life for the One who set me apart from the beginning.</div>Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-39779403234767937242011-08-28T06:58:00.000+03:002011-08-28T06:58:12.600+03:00Moving ForwardIt's been a journey. I'm not sure exactly where it began, and I'm not sure precisely where it will end, but I've changed chapters. I can't post truly current events on this "jess in kenya!" blog, because well, Jess isn't in Kenya. But I still have stories. Plenty of stories. If you still like hearing stories - bedtime stories, happy stories, funny stories, sad stories - maybe you'll find some <a href="http://jessica-stotz.blogspot.com/">here</a>. Your responses and comments and simple act of keeping up with my stories makes me feel worthwhile and special. Thank you for your personal, diligent, and above-and-beyond support. <i>You</i> are missionaries. Brighten the corner where you are. <br />
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<i>May <span style="font-size: large;">God </span><br />
bless you<br />
keep you<br />
shine upon you<br />
be gracious to you<br />
smile upon you<br />
and give you<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">peace</span>.</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(<a href="http://jessica-stotz.blogspot.com/">Stotz Up!</a> blog</span>)Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-58379704068662502192011-08-25T01:06:00.001+03:002011-08-25T06:12:08.969+03:00PangaeaI miss Kenya every day. Some days, I miss it more. Like now. This week. This month. As I finish my second day of school, my students are tucked in their beds, sleeping in preparation for their third day. I won't be there. And to understate it, that's a real bummer. But when I miss Maxwell the most, I sit back with a bagel and strawberry cream cheese and smile at the dinner in the cafe I had with a good friend I hadn't seen for 16 months. And I think: I've missed things everywhere. I really hope - and faith is the substance of things hoped for - that Heaven is a sort of Pangaea for cultures and people and foods. I can hang out with Kemmy and Stacia and Kyle and Josh at the same time. They'll meet one another. We can share chapati and mashed potatoes and, well, something even <i>better</i> than Taco Bell (who can believe it?!?). And it will be very, very good.<br />
<br />
Heaven is a wonderful place.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-72724462476153719452011-08-21T18:02:00.018+03:002011-08-28T06:59:30.473+03:00The Re-EntrySigns flash the familiar names of familiar places... Bridgman... John Beers... Warren Dunes...<br />
My anxiety mounts. I'm nervous. I'm strapped into the ride, and can't extricate myself from its hurtle toward Berrien Springs, MI. The vehicle seems to be accelerating, faster and faster and faster; warp speed. My breathing grows shallower and more rapid. I feel hot and cold all at once. No escape. No turning back. I want to reach out and push on the dash with all my might, willing the car to a halt. Leaning back in my seat doesn't push it farther away. Collision: inevitable.<br />
<br />
I'm nervous. I'm anxious. I'm scared.<br />
<br />
If I were a jug of emotions, my eyeballs would be floating in fear.<br />
<br />
When the space shuttle comes plummeting back to Earth, are the astronauts excited about home, or anxious, fearful about the 3000ºF re-entry into the atmosphere? Maybe it's a little more enticing to remain in space, floating, with no particular goal or particular place. No gravity to hold them down, no weather to dampen their days.<br />
No trees. No summer breezes. No winter gales. No sunrises, sunsets, daytime or nighttime.<br />
<br />
I'm scared. I'm scared that my re-entry into the AUtmosphere will result in crash-and-burn. Or crash. Or burn. Tragedy. Disaster. Unknown. Unexpected. But I'm more scared of life in limbo.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-23442158736431409502011-08-02T01:04:00.002+03:002011-08-02T01:06:37.650+03:00Squeeze PlayBob Barker.<br />
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<a href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTZVw7Bn5d1AXJsps6iJ6Sm1nUUUT4PxaxbH-X7N6Sf1VZRHZ7r" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTZVw7Bn5d1AXJsps6iJ6Sm1nUUUT4PxaxbH-X7N6Sf1VZRHZ7r" /></a>One of the simplest, no glitz, no glam, down-to-earth names you might ever encounter, and one that readily brings vivid visions of prizes and bidding and dollar amounts and games.<br />
One of those games is simply known as "Squeeze Play". A glittering, enticing prize was given a showy advertisement by the personless voice of Rod Roddy and voiceless person of one of Barker's Beauties, then given a price with one too many digits. The contestant's job was to choose which number didn't belong, pluck it out, and allow the remaining digits to squeeze together to make the final price. Once that number was pulled out, there was no time to put it back; the beginning and ending numbers began to move toward each other with a whirring, wrenching, clicking impetus, threatening to crush anything placed in between. If the contestant's price matched the manufacturer's suggested retail price, they walked home (or drove home) with their prize. If not, <i>do-doot-do-do, wahhhhhh</i>; it was game over.<br />
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What happens to the number squeezed out? Are there, perhaps, jobless twos standing on street corners with cardboard signs: "You're my number one"? Or perhaps a zero placing a classified ad: "Willing to be part of your next paycheck"? Is the middle member forgotten by the numbers left on the squeezing block?<br />
<br />
2010-2011.<br />
Pluck!<br />
Squeeeeeeze.<br />
<br />
The tail ends of my life in the U.S. seem to be squeezing closer and closer together, squeezing out my life in Kenya. <br />
2010-2011 was an interruption. It didn't belong in the MSRP. The years before and after squeezed together and rested against each other with a resounding thump. I can't squeeze it back in. That's not where it belongs. But neither is it a set of numbers looking for an outdated kittens calendar to hide in.<br />
<br />
2010-2011 doesn't belong in the MSRP. I can't squeeze it back in. It doesn't fit. It stands alone. It belongs in my head, my heart, my hand, available as a ready reminder of the struggles and joys it held. <br />
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I don't think I'd want it any other way.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-70057728315547262352011-07-13T06:10:00.002+03:002011-07-20T00:40:32.634+03:00Update #36: The End of the World as I Know ItTo my family:<br />
<br />
I've arrived! Safe at home... Maybe. Considering I've not spent more than 4 nights in any bed since I arrived Stateside, I guess it's hard to say. Hugs and greetings and unbidden weeping at Wisconsin Campmeeting in Oxford; a few uneventful nights in my house in Frederic; an exploding tire, a southern-born trucker in steel-toed cowboy boots, a state trooper, and a hotel in the rural flats of central Illinois; pool parties and family in southern (heat- and humidity-stricken) Tennessee; more family and a soot-spewing water heater in the U.P.; and long, lazy days in a basement apartment in southern Wisconsin. Now you understand why it's taken me three weeks to let you all know that I've arrived safely in my home country. Of course, I never did inform you what method of transportation I'd be utilizing to make the transoceanic trek; some of you may be surprised at the thought that my steamer crossed the ocean so quickly. But, you know, volcanic ash in the atmosphere only affects air travel these days, not travel by sea. But airline food is quite a bit better than the stuff you find on those paddlewheels. <br />
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Life in the United States; WOW. Many things in Kenya didn't seem unusual until I returned to American soil. My first thought as our plane descended into O'Hare International airport? "What a nice, smooth parking lot!" I was intrigued by the smooth, neatly painted, pothole-wanting lot a few blocks from the runway. Thoughts that followed soon afterward? "Sooo many wazungu!" "That guy is speaking English...he doesn't even know Swahili..." "VENDING MACHINES!" <br />
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The line at customs went surprisingly quickly. Then again, the line itself moved; I didn't have to push my way to the front (the typical Kenyan way). I apprehensively handed the Customs & Border Patrol officer my customs forms, nervous about what sorts of reasons they'd provide that forced me to open up all my bags and wait in numerous unending lines. <br />
"Countries visited... Kenya and Egypt?? What are you, an arms dealer?" <br />
My eyes grew wide. I managed to stammer a half-baked stream of "uh"s and "um"s and "well"s until his eyes crinkled with mirth and he directed me toward the exit. <br />
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On the shuttle to Madison, I couldn't keep myself from staring out the window of the coach bus, gawking at anything from license plates - each car proudly exclaimed the state from which it hailed! - to water towers. We passed oaks, maples, aspens, and popples, but no acacias. We passed a spreading, green field, and I caught myself looking for wildebeest. I looked back toward the road, amazed at how organized and orderly Chicago traffic was, with everyone neatly tucked inside their white-dotted lines, lanes large enough to fit a car and a half. I laid my head back to nap, bracing myself for the inevitable jolt of a speedbump that never came. <br />
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My first visit to WalMart: what an experience. Just like a free trip to Disneyland! New, exciting purchases at every turn... Miracle Whip! Doritos! Oversized onions and tiny avocados! Grapes! All varieties of potatoes! An entire rack devoted solely to taco seasoning!!! My reactions of elation and exuberance were met by smirks and eye-rolling from my sisters. They just don't know how to have fun, I think.<br />
<br />
Then, we went to Taco Bell. <br />
Taco Bell. <br />
I was beside myself. I could hardly find time between giggling and drooling to find something on the menu to order. I'm quite convinced that Taco Bell became more beautiful and awe-inspiring and unbelievably delicious in the ten months I was away from it. By the time the delectable burrito/taco combo made its way to our table in the corner, I'd carefully laid out my 10 packets of hot sauce, two of each variety (including two new flavors that hadn't been available when I left). After the blessing, I ceremoniously applied first a squirt of this sauce, then that sauce, then a bite...<br />
You know the rest of the story. Unencompassed by mere words.<br />
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~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ <br />
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Wisconsin Campmeeting: 10 days of spiritual revival, enlightening meetings, and people Jessica knows or is related to. I'm convinced the seventh-person rule - everyone knows everyone else in the world through a series of seven people or less - is reduced to the 1.5-person rule at campmeeting. If I don't know someone, they likely know my father, or my grandfather, or my sister, or my grade school teacher's pet-sitter. It was a grand time, filled with hugs and smiles, even some relative strangers welcoming me back (I figure my article in the recently published Lake Union Herald had something to do with that). <br />
I was asked to present the Mission Spotlight for Sabbath School in the main pavilion, and had determined that nothing in the year past was worthy of a ten-minute presentation except that which I was most passionate about, so I chose to talk about my students. Oh, boy. The presentation went very well - though the picture slideshow I'd prepared didn't - until I uttered the word "students", which was inextricably intertwined with a large sob. I spent the next 7 minutes sniffling and apologizing and trying in vain to pull myself together. I don't particularly enjoy weeping in public, let alone on stage with hundreds of people watching and listening. Praise God, however, for turning a bumbling, sobbing, insignificant college kid into a blessing; I was more than encouraged by the handfuls of people who stopped me to share how the story impacted them. Tears, I suppose, are worth a thousand words. But I'm hoping mission reports in the future don't require the same face-reddening, eye-puffing sacrifice. Good grief.<br />
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Since then, mom and I have traveled thousands of miles, and I've felt more and more like a gypsy moving where'er the breeze takes her. I've never been more ready to ditch the suitcase and become a homebody. <br />
...For a few weeks, at least. ;)<br />
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I have a brightly beaded pipe cleaner that has spent more time on my wrist than off it these past three weeks. I'm not one for adornment - too much effort, it seems - so this bracelet is a little strange. It looks much like the bracelets clinging tightly to the tiny wrists of kindergartners in a small village on the border of Tanzania and Kenya. In fact, that's where I made it. And that's why I wear it. Just as the pipe cleaner is losing its black fuzziness, my Kenyan memories and experience seem to be fading, and I'm trying ever so desperately to hang on. If I let go, if I move on, it's as if I've given up on my past, as if I've refused to allow the people and experiences and trials of the past year to crack my rough exterior and affect the gooey, unexplored mush hidden inside; as if I never fell in love with Kenya. And I don't want that to be true. So I continue to carry the brightly colored, chunky plastic beads on my wrist, and the memories and faces of yesteryear on my heart.<br />
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I'm still seated in the theater. The silver screen is dark, and the lackluster interlude is crackling over the speakers. I'm waiting for the characters to flash upon the screen again; Cassie and Tyson, Inah and Brianna, Martial and Yafet, Derek and Yani. This movie was too good to end; it swept me up into it, becoming more than real life. The credits stop scrolling, the lights come up, and the ushers give me quizzical looks as they scoop up buckets of popcorn and sticky vat-sized cups of pop. The show's over, and I'm rushed to the exit. I must choose another plot and set of characters to join, for we all know that attempting a sequel is never as fulfilling as the original. But now, even in my plotless intermission, I have a story and a soundtrack that keep my mind occupied. I hear a Maasai chorus providing the background music for a scene of laughter with students and the Physics Phantom. A well-choreographed choir sings while I watch in a lab apron and goggles. My toe taps and my heart beats in unison with those a world away. Soon and very soon, we will sing those songs and laugh those laughs in a language known by all, with the One who carefully tucked the music and smiles away inside us. And it will be very, very good.<br />
<br />
Even so, come quickly Lord Jesus.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-7979760409769238802011-06-22T12:00:00.015+03:002011-07-23T05:21:04.160+03:00Journal EntryI've decided that everyone is inherently decent, and i'm going to be bold enough to test that theory.<br />
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I finally allowed myself (or maybe myself allowed I) to get excited when I boarded the flight to Chicago. I guess I was trying to play it safe? :)<br />
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I hear people in the line speaking of their African exploints, and see their shirts: "Stop F.G.M." and "Don't trade girls for cows; give them an education", then see them try to cut in front in line... I cringe and find myself quietly accusing them of doing a "feel-good" mission trip: "I'll go save Africa..."<br />
How wrong of me! What have I done that makes me any different? Am I becoming haughty simply because I had opportunity to live away from home longer? Have the differences we've made (or not made) really been measurably different?<br />
Nope.<br />
Stop your judging, Jessica Mae.<br />
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Even seeing the on/off ramps and gree highway signs make me a bit giddy.<br />
The lake! the lake!<br />
Look! Driver in the left side of the vehicle!<br />
<br />
...it's like gawking at a foreign country. :)Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-3225820551359849422011-06-21T12:00:00.016+03:002011-07-23T05:22:06.203+03:00Journal EntryGood Grief.<br />
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We're pulling away from the gate. I'm experiencing the buckled-into-the-ride, no-turning-back, do-not-pass-GO feeling. I've spent the whole day feeling my chest get tigher and tighter. No emotions, no organized thoughts; just anxiety. It's as if I've gone through the "grieving" process already, and I've finally come to terms with the fact that life's moving on, no matter what I do about it. <br />
I worry, though, that I haven't quite realized that I've said goodbye. I won't be seeing the Raymonds, or Charmaine, or Yuot, or Inah, or Joy, or Bob, or ... anything. It seems as though this is a short sojourn away from Kenya, yet I don't feel as though I'm returning, either. Perhaps I've gone through the worst of the missing stage; perhaps the next (first) 2 weeks will be the hardest. Maybe it's like drowning; near-drowning feels just as bad as actual drowing. The 2 weeks I've spent away from the rAymonds, etc. before is as bad as it gets. Perhaps.<br />
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The plane's wheels left the ground... my first thought? "And that's how it ended."<br />
No. It can't be over. No way. As if it never happened; back to life-before.<br />
When I land, it will be: "And that is how it resumed." I'm in limbo. Over the ocean, in no man's land. I suppose that's how I feel overall; in limbo. I'm just not sure how long this flight is, or its final destination, or even how long the layover is. Hmm.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-78926238707347942912011-06-21T00:13:00.007+03:002011-07-20T00:41:08.454+03:00Update #35: The Great Migration1.8 million.<br />
<br />
That's the estimated number of wildebeest that pack up their homely selves each year and trek hundreds of miles from Ngorongoro Crater of Tanzania, over the plains of the Serengeti, and to the plentiful waves of grass of the Masai Mara, Kenya. <br />
Sometime in May-June, these nearly innumerable implausibilities - yes, that really is the name for a group of gnus/wildebeest - simply turn tail south and start plodding north toward the equator. The way I figure it, there must be a wildebeest angel out there that gets to give each member of my favorite African species a little nudge and the migratory go-ahead nod. <br />
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The migration is a treacherous one; hundreds of kilometers over rugged, rocky terrain spotted with lions, cheetahs, leopards, hyenas, and crocodiles, finally culminating in the mass crossing of the swollen Mara River. Not every one makes it. Hundreds fall prey to heat, drought, hunger, age, weariness, trampling, and predators. It's not easy. It's not a joy ride. But it's necessary.<br />
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My angel's given me the nudge and the go-ahead nod. <br />
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The goodbyes have been bidden (most of them), the last trip to town has been made, the last curio shopping has been done. No more banana yellow Tata trucks belching their dark fumes as they slowly chug up the hills. No more speedbumps every ten feet. No more Citi Hoppa buses, nor matatus (hallelujah, praise Jesus!). No more baboons or warthogs in the ditch, or trying to sneak a peek into Nairobi National Park through the hedge from the road. No more looking away quickly whenever I spot a man standing on the side of the road, his back to the cars. No more waking up to 7am prep band, no more squeaky chairs in the cafeteria, no more snoopervision, no more lab planning or grading. No more tutoring, or Algebra over the phone; no more "Physics Phantom". No more "wewe!"s or "Ehhhh!"s or "Ay ay ay ay ay..."s or "Hhhhaaaahhhh!"s. No more dreaming of Taco Bell and Wendy's and Dr Pepper. No more shillings. No more purring cats in my lap while I type with one hand, nor Thursday night adventures to the East Central Africa Division headquarters. No more gym time, science building time, library time, computer lab time. No more party pooping at the Raymonds', no more string cheese with the girls. No more paper crafting with Xander. No more Tagalog lessons. No more raucous renditions of "Happy Birthday" in the cafeteria. No more Alvaro drinks or good-smelling fingers after Ethiopian food from Habesha's. No more sunsets over the Ngong Hills.<br />
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Farewell to my home. Farewell to my friends. Farewell to my family.<br />
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Hello to my home. Hello to my friends. Hello to my family.<br />
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I am not the one to judge whether what I have done here is important. <br />
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I am to know whether what here has done to me is important.<br />
It is.<br />
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I grew up in Africa. <br />
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Now it's time to grow up some more.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-14846744659502797582011-06-19T11:13:00.002+03:002011-07-20T00:44:19.107+03:00Check the Microwave<i>Have you looked in your microwave? You should look in your microwave. </i><br />
<br />
I woke up early to bid adieu to a few departing juniors. Note to readers: the junior class is in my top four favorite classes. Really really. However, in this group of a few departing juniors was an apartment raiding, chalkboard graffiti-ing, water bottle "thieving" girl who taught me Tagalog. I went to bed last night, dreading the goodbye this morning, but this morning was simply a sleepy hug and a few final words:<br />
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<i>You should look in your microwave.</i><br />
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Aren't goodbyes supposed to be full of deep, philosophical thoughts, or happy, unforgettable memories? I wasn't quite expecting microwaves. <br />
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When I got back to my apartment to check el microonda, I was only slightly surprised to find my sunglasses inside. The apartment raiding, water bottle thieving, sunglasses misplacing girl had struck again.<br />
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I think those final words were more fitting than anything else I'd dreamed up.<br />
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Bye Goose.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-11149026789100478502011-06-18T16:23:00.023+03:002011-07-20T00:46:01.088+03:00The final Sabbath. The sun's finally decided to come out, and with it, my white shorts and even whiter legs. Dale's guitar is joining the birds' songs on a warm afternoon.<br />
<br />
I've toted my camera about all day, just ready for... well, I don't know. It's the last Sabbath! There's got to be something to capture. The last something. The last story. The last song. The last giggle. The last random outburst.<br />
I'm bidding adieu to so many. Goodbyes are supposed to be an event; something final. Something that makes putting an ocean between us bearable. A quick and painless extraction from the web of relationships.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I've got my camera and journal ready, but I know I'm going to miss something.<br />
<br />
I'm going to miss nearly everything, in fact.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-78161266632799891562011-06-09T12:00:00.002+03:002011-07-23T05:09:38.671+03:00Journal EntryI'm still having an identity crisis. But I've learned something.<br />
<br />
Why am I here?<br />
People.<br />
Meeting people.<br />
Helping people.<br />
Serving people.<br />
People.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-177218935697769522011-06-08T12:00:00.007+03:002011-07-23T05:08:46.810+03:00Journal EntryWhat gives <em>me</em> the right to traipse into someone else's home with pomp and Land Rover circumstance, dump off goods that were bought with surplus, then drive off, feeling good about myself? What good am I doing, except for my level of feel-good? I feel guilty as we load up multiple tables in the dining hall with more clothing, toys, craft supplies, and medicines than I could shake a rungu at. How is this not selfish?Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-91225914803831436142011-06-08T00:46:00.001+03:002011-07-20T00:47:11.763+03:00HapproumentalgicGraduation. Oi.<br />
Talk about Jessica as an emotional wreck.<br />
Combine the arrival of three family members (whom I have not seen for 294 days); the departure of a couple dozen freshmen (whom I will likely not see again this side of heaven); some of the most difficult piano pieces I've ever attempted to learn (as I am a pianist for the weekend's programs); and the thought that the entire senior class will march into the church, grab faux black leather bound folders, and march out of my life forever... yep. Jessica Stotz = emotional basket case.<br />
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*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*<br />
<br />
The fam arrived on Wednesday night, and slept much of Thursday - which wasn't very exciting anyway - in an attempt to recover from jetlag. Friday was where the hecticism (not a word, but it fulfills its purpose) began. Marching rehearsals, cleaning, rounding up the family for meals, more rehearsals, a surprise birthday party, and a surprise departure of a senior. Up down up down up down. I was literally running across campus. Whew. <br />
<br />
Post-vespers was a treat, however. Tucked away in my family's half-dozen checked bags was a package worth its weight in gold: Fancy brand string cheese from the Burnett Dairy Co-op in Alpha, Wisconsin.<br />
<br />
*moment of silence*<br />
<br />
I opened up the package of squeaky, creamy white morsels and laid them out on a plate to share with the girls in the dorm. A few rolled their eyes at my repeated explanation of the cheese ("This is cheese from my home. Real cheese. World Championship cheese. This cheese was judged best in the world. Eat this cheese. This cheese will heal all ills. Alexander the Great asked for this cheese on his death bed. Michael Phelps eats this cheese before every competition. Behold the cheese."), but rave reviews popped up again and again, along with "Can I have another? Pleeeeeeease. Just one. This cheese is amazing!"<br />
<br />
If I've done nothing else in Kenya, I've introduced East Africans to the best cheese in the world. Yes. I do believe this is the first time Fancy brand cheese has been transported to Ongata Rongai, Kenya. I'll now be expecting a commission for every African sale.<br />
<br />
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*<br />
<br />
Then it was Sabbath. More family meal round-up, more piano pieces, more button-bursting pride looking at my senior friends in their teal and silver regalia, more emotions (mostly happy ones). A concert for the parents was planned for the afternoon, which posed a little bit of concern for Jessica Mae. Two freshmen members of the percussion section had chosen home-after-finals over school-after-finals, and had up and left the country: literally. I was now trying to run between the piano for choral pieces, my usual keyboard mallets, and other various percussion instruments - on the other side of the room, as it was - that I'd never played before. Various instruments included the triangle, crash cymbals, suspended cymbal, maracas, mark tree and wood block. All simple, I'm sure, but sight reading multiple scores of music and juggling multiple instruments while trying to figure out how to play the blasted things causes a wee bit of angst. However, a student who was in the band first semester came and helped out - unbeknownst to me - so when the concert actually started, I literally stood in the middle of the percussion section doing nothing. A four-minute song takes hours when one is forced to stand staring at the conductor, trying to look non-chalant as all the blood in her body floods her face. But hey, the red-faced girl now knows how to play the cymbals. If you're looking for a mediocre percussionist who has practice blushing on stage, call me up. I'm ready.<br />
<br />
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*<br />
<br />
Sunday morning came all too soon and all too cloudy. I hurried to get ready - after doing the family meal round-up, of course - to show up at the church early. Good thing I arrived at 9:30a for the commencement scheduled to begin at 10a. We didn't begin playing the prelude until 10:23 (and we played it twice before moving on to the processional). <br />
<br />
Pomp and Circumstance. I had a hard time focusing on my music rather than smiling at each senior as they marched past the piano. They each wore their smiles proudly and held their mortarboard capped heads high. After the opening announcements, prayer, song, etc., the senior officers presented gifts of appreciation to the faculty who especially impacted the senior class. I had no classes with seniors, so I enjoyed sitting back and watching other faculty receive their flowers and hugs... <br />
<br />
"Ms. Jessica, could you please stand." <br />
<br />
Oh, no. The dam in my nasolacrimal ducts (excuse my A&P nerdiness) is threatening to burst. To make matters more complicated, one of the seniors I've grown closest to - my "diva tutor", as a matter of fact - has been chosen to read the note of appreciation aloud. I've never seen her on the verge of tears, but she doesn't quite begin reading immediately; I suspect she has a lump in her throat very similar to the lump in mine. I blinked back tears as she read the very special note and made her way off the stage. We both put on our steely smiles and pretend nothing life-changing is happening as she gives me a small bunch of roses and a warm embrace. <br />
I thought faculty appreciation was rough... oh boy. Parent appreciation followed immediately after, and I believe the humidity of the room increased 6.2 points just because of the tears. I giggled softly to myself at the sight of nearly the whole of the senior class - all but 4 are girls - fanning their tear-stained cheeks with their programs and dabbing carefully at their eyes with tissue. <br />
<br />
I don't do well with goodbyes. <br />
<br />
The graduate hug line was rushed, seniors were dispersed with their families, and I was grasping desperately for tangible goodbyes that made parting okay. Goodbyes that cut the ties between us without regret, without discomfort; no strings attached. Goodbyes that made me believe I'd see my students in the cafeteria again tomorrow, just like always. Goodbyes that were "See you soon!" instead of "I'll see you... maybe." Goodbyes that made me happy instead of sad. <br />
<br />
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*<br />
<br />
Happroumentalgic.<br />
Happy, proud, sentimental, and nostalgic. <br />
A smattering of flavors on a bittersweet graduation Sunda(e).Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-33990122480839437732011-06-05T12:05:00.006+03:002011-07-23T05:07:12.933+03:00Journal EntryI know who I am by the way I act.<br />
I act the way I act according to the people around me.<br />
The people around me just graduated and left.<br />
I'm feeling a bit lost.<br />
I'm feeling a bit less "myself".<br />
I'm feeling quite uncertain about my future.<br />
<br />
Will I be smiling?<br />
<br />
<br />
Why is the grass always greener on the other side of the ocean???Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-79182987175409789362011-06-05T12:00:00.007+03:002011-07-23T05:03:25.982+03:00Journal EntryAnd so it was over.<br />
I'm no longer a teacher.<br />
They've graduated.<br />
The campus is nearly empty (there's still one class here).<br />
<br />
I'll walk into breakfast tomorrow and I won't see the faces I normall see. I may never see their faces on Earth again.<br />
<br />
Goodbyes never seem to do their job.<br />
They never make parting okay.<br />
It's never enough.<br />
<br />
Things will never be the same.<br />
Even if I see these students again, the relationship dynamic will have changed.<br />
<br />
I hate change.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-81230194685442594642011-06-02T17:21:00.001+03:002011-07-20T00:47:40.634+03:00TransitionI just ate 4 pieces of Cadbury chocolate and a handful of Skittles. Why? I'm nervous.<br />
<br />
My parent and sister have arrived!!! Hooray hoorah yippee.<br />
<br />
Yet...<br />
This signifies the end of "normal". It's irrevocable, un-doable, unrewindable. The transition stage has begun. Now everything that is the usual, the familiar, the routine, will begin to fall away in pieces. My job has changed, my interaction with students and faculty has changed, and so I must change.<br />
<br />
I hate change.<br />
<br />
I've just begun reading <i>The Art of Coming Home</i> by Craig Storti. All of my fears and apprehensions regarding coming home are corroborated in this book. I suppose I'm glad to know them ahead of time. <br />
Adjustment.<br />
Readjustment.<br />
Discomfort.<br />
<br />
Ugh.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-17622027762188634062011-05-31T10:21:00.001+03:002011-07-20T00:49:25.562+03:00Tuesday Morning<i>30 seconds 'til worship, ladies!</i><br />
<br />
I stirred a little. Morning already? <br />
The last regular morning dorm worship. <br />
<br />
The low, soothing sound of singing wafted from the dorm chapel, mingling with the songs of birds.<br />
<i>In moments like these, I sing out a song... singing I love You, Lord...</i><br />
A rogue soprano broke off from the melody and sang a part 1/3 above the rest.<br />
<i>Jesus loves me, this I know...</i><br />
<br />
The next time I'll hear something so wonderful is in heaven.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-6571761293739211362011-05-30T17:16:00.004+03:002011-07-20T00:49:51.966+03:00A Drop in the BucketI'm preparing to move halfway around the world.<br />
<br />
It's big (gargantuan, monstrous) changes like this that make me take one step back and look at life as it is. To look at more than the day to day, more than the petty worries of today, and shift my focus to the wide-eyed uncertainty of the future.<br />
<br />
I don't like thinking about life. It scares me.<br />
It's easier to remain blissfully ignorant, to be caught up in the present.<br />
<br />
Now, though, I'm forced to consider myself in the grand scheme of things, in a circle much broader than the one I'm comfortable with, to think of myself in an eternal capacity. I cannot comprehend it, so it scares me. A lot.<br />
I am a small grain of sand in a huge sand dune. As much as I like to think that I'm important (Water!), I'm quite insignificant (a drop in the bucket).<br />
<br />
Hmm.<br />
<br />
Hello, introspection.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-73429891987672235532011-05-30T16:36:00.006+03:002011-07-20T00:50:42.271+03:00El Ultimo DiaIt's the last night. The last night of school year 2010-2011, Maxwell Adventist Academy. Tomorrow, students will take their last battery of final exams, and a few will finish packing their things (you should see the dorm now; Olympic hurdlers struggle to get through the hallways) and leave campus for the last time as freshmen. Sophomores and juniors will dream of going home, but are stuck here for IGCSE testing throughout the month of June. Seniors will scream and dance in the hallways for the last time. There will be hugs and laughter and joyful singing. I, however, have got so many conflicting feelings popcorning in my skull that I could sell blamo-sized buckets and offer refills, and still have some left over. <br />
<br />
I love these kids. <br />
<br />
I've spent more time signing yearbooks this week than eating (THAT'S noteworthy, let me tell you). I told myself I wouldn't read any of the notes in my yearbook until after grad, but I cracked today and read one... then two... then all of them. I feel special. Very special. Many, upon a trip to the Dark Continent, say they've left a piece of their heart in Africa. I've left a piece of my heart with each student. From random hi-fives and hugs ("embrace me!") in the cafeteria to rolling their eyes at me after another random moment in the dorm lobby, these kids more than tolerate me; they make me feel welcome. They make me feel at home.<br />
That's why it's so hard to leave.<br />
<br />
A recurring note I've written in countless yearbooks? "I'll see you when we get <u><i>There</i></u>...".<br />
I pray I will. Every one.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-25134904264941266272011-05-28T17:13:00.005+03:002011-07-20T00:51:08.723+03:00I'm perturbed. I'm a bit angry, too. Arrrrrgh.<br />
Cultural differences really do get my goat.<br />
<br />
A simple misunderstanding left my SM friend upset, and she told me so.<br />
That made me upset.<br />
<br />
I'm ready to be around people who understand me...<br />
<br />
but will I encounter more of the same miscommunications at home?<br />
Am I glorifying home as a paradise it is not?<br />
Am I hoping for Happily Ever After (Wisconsin ed.), when I know it can't be real, I know it's too good to be true?<br />
<br />
Yeah. I am.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-66568139355045992512011-05-27T17:11:00.002+03:002011-06-02T17:37:34.372+03:00Organizing the ClutterNone of this has happened to me before. I don't know how to catalog all of these feelings and emotions and experiences and memories. I have to make new folders and labels; I have to reorganize, to go through everything again and re-sort.<br />
<br />
I don't particularly enjoy reorganizing.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sheesh.<br />
No one's left yet and I already miss them.<br />
<br />
A LOT.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-87303868328038189392011-05-27T17:09:00.008+03:002011-06-02T17:37:07.716+03:00Checked BaggageIf only I could pack Kenya into a suitcase! Students, scenery, animals, weather, friends, memories; take them all with me. As it stands now, I don't want to leave. I know I'll miss it terribly. Today was a wonderful day, full of reminders of how special these students are to me, and how special they make me feel.<br />
<br />
One quote from an expatriate-returned-home Japanese businessman: "My advice about going home? Don't."<br />
<br />
Boy.<br />
<br />
That's how I'm feeling. A fellow returning SM said it too: "I'm not ready to return to the old routine."<br />
<br />
It's going to be awkward. It's going to be weird.<br />
It's going to be worth it?Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-58550743902573594322011-05-26T17:06:00.001+03:002011-06-02T17:27:18.543+03:00EcipicerpI feel as though I'm poised at the edge of yet another precipice - perhaps even the same one. This time, however, I' not at the top, looking over the edge toward the unknown - I'm standing at the bottom, looking at the summit that seems beyond grasp. This time, instead of facing my fears and trusting the Rope for my rappel, instead of leaping over the cliff, I'm facing a climb. I've seen this cliff face before, but not from this angle. This time, I'm going up. Less unknown (fewer fears?), but more effort. It's going to be a climb. I'm going to sweat. I might get a little bruised. But the view from the top will be worth it.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5342685065834925665.post-45092680490957535682011-05-26T12:00:00.002+03:002011-07-23T05:00:55.201+03:00Journal EntryI still long to belong.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18296047820096217675noreply@blogger.com0