For My PC Parents

Whenever I learn that Peace Corps has had to withdraw from yet another country, I have a moment of despair.  I am sad for the volunteers, of course, who must leave not only the communities they have grown into but their work unfinished.  But mostly I’m sad to think of all the people who will not be helped because of something they are powerless to prevent.  Some act of aggression or greed, some political manipulation or decision made by a leader so far removed from their everyday lives sends ripples outward to affect even the unaware. When conditions become dangerous, I understand the need to remove volunteers to safety.  But when volunteers are targeted for aggression, because they are outsiders or just Americans, it is baffling to me.  It has happened all over the world to many groups, but that makes it no less incomprehensible that help is refused.

Perhaps it’s the name - Peace Corps.  Maybe “corps” implies an armed force bringing American ideas to some smaller nation. Perhaps they are considered a threat, with their high-and-mighty ideas of a better life. It’s hard to imagine how they could think that a single individual dropped into a small community could wrest control of their country from them, but then, I’m not in their shoes. I think of Peace Corps less as a group working FOR peace than as individuals coming IN peace.  They come, not to judge, discriminate, or take sides. They come to help.  They come to make a contribution, in the hope that it will, in some small way, help a person, a family, a community.

This is how I see Peace Corps volunteers. They’re not there to convert, though they may be religious.  They’re not there to spread democracy through the world, though they may believe in it.  They’re not there as Americans, though they may be very patriotic. They are just there as people wanting to contribute to the world’s people, to help in some way.  Even if they are there to bide their time while figuring out what to do with the rest of their lives, they are there.  Even if they are there because the economy is bad and there are no jobs for them, they are there.  They’re not waiting it out in a chalet in the Swiss Alps or a resort on the beach. They have not retired to a warm climate to play golf. They are not sitting around waiting for something to change, they are making a change. They have volunteered to be dropped into challenging places with cultures they’ve never experienced and languages they may never have heard.  And it may take months, and sometimes seem hopeless, but they find ways to help.  Small ways, big ways, simple ways, complicated ways.

They may help bring clean water, teach a class, build a business, give simple medical care, gather together children for activities. They offer skills and energy, a helping hand, a listening ear, comfort, companionship, understanding, caring.   They join communities, become part of new families, both gain and offer a new perspective on daily life, empower others and become empowered.  And they all teach.  Not just the ones in classrooms.  Their very presence teaches individuality, determination, resilience, self-respect.  Yes. This is what I can become with an education.  Yes.  Girls can do this, too.  Yes. It feels good to help others. Yes.  Even a small thing can make a difference.  Yes.  One person can change lives.

In turn, I think Peace Corps builds better citizens.  They cannot spend 27 months in another country, witness poverty and onerous conditions, and exit the same people they were.  They may gain confidence, humility, competence, ability.  But certainly, they gain a new view of the world, a different context in which to place countries other than their own.  And whatever new perspective the volunteers gain, it has to make them better citizens.  World citizens. 

I don’t think I’m being romantic or naive in my admiration for Peace Corps.  I’ve read many volunteer blogs since my daughter applied and served.  I’ve come to know the remarkable young people represented by this parent group.  Whenever I start to feel sad about the tragedies in the world or become cynical about the future, I have only to check back with them. They inspire me and give me hope.

Sing You Home

I’m coming to the end of the book I’m reading, and I just know it’s going to make me sad. I really want to know what happens, but I’ll read a chapter and walk away thinking, “I’m not going to like how this ends.” I’ve already cried twice while reading this book. It’s a wonderful story. I’m so invested. Too invested. I know better.

I used to read a lot of complicated, dramatic fiction. Science fiction that would stretch the imagination. Mysteries that would challenge deductive reasoning. Suspense that would get the blood racing. But then my parents got sick and died within six months of each other. My oldest sibling became a paranoid schizophrenic and made it nearly impossible to cope. Made it impossible for my sister and me to properly grieve our loss, to process the sudden changes in our lives. Life became unreal. Reality became too much. Reading became about escape. I became a reader of romances. Happy endings. Always a happy ending. Distracting, sometimes humorous, sexy, clever…and not risky. Everything would turn out all right in the end. I really needed the happy endings.

It’s been three years since my parents died. Nearly as long since we sold our childhood home. My sister and I circled the wagons, became closer, survived. The nightmares are only occasional now. But I’m still reading the romances. The genre has expanded to mysteries and suspense. I’m even reading a series of futuristic romantic mysteries. But no matter what happens during the story, I know my main characters will survive and be together. Happy endings. I still need happy endings.

I picked up my current book at work. As I was flipping through it, there was a conversation near the beginning between a mother and daughter. It made me laugh. Humor between an eccentric mother and her pregnant, forty-year-old daughter and why they weren't friends on Facebook. I thought it might be a fun book to read. Too late, I realized it was a story fraught with disappointment, sadness, intolerance. Too late, I realized that I cared about these people and needed to finish their story. Because there was love in this story, too.

I’m so close to the end. I want the happy ending for them, for me. But I know I’m not going to get it. And somehow, the story of these fictional people will leave a hole in my heart. The knowledge that their problems are real and torment real people in the real world will increase the heartache. I know I have to finish the book, complete the journey, let the sadness roll over me. I’m not sorry that I read the book. I got a great deal out of it. Magical words, heartwarming acts, informative debates, pictures of the way the world should be, but isn’t. All of that will stay with me, and I will be richer for it. Perhaps a fair trade for the tears.

I may never give up the romances with their guaranteed happy endings. There are some great writers out there that can speak to the heart without breaking it. But maybe it’s time to risk more. There are hearts a great deal more scarred than mine that do. If I can see this story through, perhaps I can do it again. Maybe it will become easier next time to let the reality in. At least once in a while. Maybe.