"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard"- Winnie The Pooh.
With expected tears and a lot of deep breaths I left my home of the past 2 years this morning. My life in Adwa might have had many difficult moments, but I learned so much about myself and the world, and I'm ever grateful for the service I had, the people I met, and the place I came to call my own <3
The above quote came up on my Facebook “On This Day” a year ago. I had packed my bags absolutely full to the brims (and over the weight limit, I found out at the airport), I had eaten my last meals at my favorite restaurants in town, I had a coffee ceremony prepared for me by a student, I had celebrated a major Tigray holiday the day before with lots of food, family, pictures, and gifts, and I had said goodbye to one of my land ladies the day before when she left for Addis.
A year ago- I woke up to a completely empty room, besides the furniture my land family had lent me. I woke up before the sun, to get a bajaj to take me to a van, to take me to the airport where I would spend a couple of days in Addis before leaving the country. Leaving Ethiopia was difficult, but my connection to the country didn’t come in the capitol, it came from my town. Leaving that and those people who were my family was the hardest thing.
When I left Albuquerque, New Mexico and my blood family at the airport 2 years prior it was more difficult than words can express, but I knew I would still connect with them. I knew I would see them in a year or two. I knew that their worlds would stay about the same.
Leaving Adwa was different. I didn’t know when I would see them again, I didn’t know if they would be able to stay safe and if their lives would change. And I didn’t know whether I would be able to connect with them. I had an easier time leaving than some of my fellow G11 group members. Because of political turmoil they were evacuated from their sites, and couldn’t return to say goodbye. Saying goodbye was hard, but I got my proper goodbyes. Many of them didn’t.
I bawled when I hugged my compound family goodbye. I held back tears on every step of the plane ride back to Addis. I became more stable as I spent my last days with my Peace Corps friends laughing and drinking (oops). But then leaving the country I felt both extreme joy and sadness. Joy to see my family again and eat all the food, sadness to be leaving this place I called home for 2 years.
Having been home a year I am still trying to figure out where I belong and what I should be doing. My other friends have gotten promotions, moved, gotten married, and had babies. That’s what seems to be acceptable in someone’s 20’s. Not to say that’s not bad. My friends are all very happy. That life just isn’t for me.
When I say I did Peace Corps, everyone gets really excited to find out where I was and what I did, but that’s about as far as the conversations go. Maybe I can get a funny comment in there or a silly story, before their eyes start to glaze over. That’s what all my fellow Returned Peace Corps Volunteers face.
In the few years when we return, we are all faced with how to talk about our experience and service without boring the person listening, or without getting too emotional. We are faced with how to talk about everything we did in a line or two of a resume, and try to tie what we faced/how we dealt/how that would help us be effective in a job, in a cover letter.
This is difficult. Working abroad for any length of time is difficult. Coming back is harder. Readjusting and finding your place is harder.
Getting Facebook “On This Day” notifications, when it says “3 years ago, 2 years ago, a year ago” and it shows your status about a frustrating day, or a love-filled day, breaks my heart. When it shows a smiling or silly face selfie photo, or when it pops up with an old blog that you were really proud of. These are my difficult moments.
I miss the sense of community, the sense of calm, the sense of love. I miss 3-hour long coffee ceremonies every day, or playing soccer with random kids in my neighborhood, or a waitress knowing your breakfast order, or going to the same woman in market for veggies every week, for a land lady who feeds you food when the power goes out, of my students who drew me pictures to bring back to America, and the post office guys who stopped me on the street to tell me I had mail.
Whenever I miss that I want to get on a plane and fly back. But then I remember that not everything was sunshine and roses. That I had plenty of harassment, plenty of annoyances, plenty of down and out moments, that I wanted to come back here.
So- what’s all this rambling about? That the grass is always greener on the other side. Do I want to go back to visit, yes I do. Do I want to go back to live? Not necessarily. Adjusting back is extremely difficult—that’s been established by everyone who has ever lived abroad. It’s hard to find things in common with people you were close to before, it’s hard to find joy in things you did before, and you have a new sense of what’s really difficult and what’s trivial.
But I have to remind myself, that no matter what—my time in Ethiopia was worth it. The people are forever engrained in my heart. I made friendships with other Peace Corps Volunteers and Ethiopians. That will never change, even when I’m having a difficult time here. And that even if I can’t connect with the people I did before, I found a new group of people which I can talk to and commiserate with about our lives before, or lives there, and how to deal with being back.
As I have said again and again. Thank you. Yikanyalay. Yikanylay to Adwa. To my students, my Nigste Saba teachers, my counterpart, my land family, the kids that knew my name and would fist bump me, the waitresses that knew my order, the post office guys, and everyone who made me feel at home. Bizu, bizu, yikanyalay! <3
With expected tears and a lot of deep breaths I left my home of the past 2 years this morning. My life in Adwa might have had many difficult moments, but I learned so much about myself and the world, and I'm ever grateful for the service I had, the people I met, and the place I came to call my own <3
The above quote came up on my Facebook “On This Day” a year ago. I had packed my bags absolutely full to the brims (and over the weight limit, I found out at the airport), I had eaten my last meals at my favorite restaurants in town, I had a coffee ceremony prepared for me by a student, I had celebrated a major Tigray holiday the day before with lots of food, family, pictures, and gifts, and I had said goodbye to one of my land ladies the day before when she left for Addis.
A year ago- I woke up to a completely empty room, besides the furniture my land family had lent me. I woke up before the sun, to get a bajaj to take me to a van, to take me to the airport where I would spend a couple of days in Addis before leaving the country. Leaving Ethiopia was difficult, but my connection to the country didn’t come in the capitol, it came from my town. Leaving that and those people who were my family was the hardest thing.
When I left Albuquerque, New Mexico and my blood family at the airport 2 years prior it was more difficult than words can express, but I knew I would still connect with them. I knew I would see them in a year or two. I knew that their worlds would stay about the same.
Leaving Adwa was different. I didn’t know when I would see them again, I didn’t know if they would be able to stay safe and if their lives would change. And I didn’t know whether I would be able to connect with them. I had an easier time leaving than some of my fellow G11 group members. Because of political turmoil they were evacuated from their sites, and couldn’t return to say goodbye. Saying goodbye was hard, but I got my proper goodbyes. Many of them didn’t.
I bawled when I hugged my compound family goodbye. I held back tears on every step of the plane ride back to Addis. I became more stable as I spent my last days with my Peace Corps friends laughing and drinking (oops). But then leaving the country I felt both extreme joy and sadness. Joy to see my family again and eat all the food, sadness to be leaving this place I called home for 2 years.
Having been home a year I am still trying to figure out where I belong and what I should be doing. My other friends have gotten promotions, moved, gotten married, and had babies. That’s what seems to be acceptable in someone’s 20’s. Not to say that’s not bad. My friends are all very happy. That life just isn’t for me.
When I say I did Peace Corps, everyone gets really excited to find out where I was and what I did, but that’s about as far as the conversations go. Maybe I can get a funny comment in there or a silly story, before their eyes start to glaze over. That’s what all my fellow Returned Peace Corps Volunteers face.
In the few years when we return, we are all faced with how to talk about our experience and service without boring the person listening, or without getting too emotional. We are faced with how to talk about everything we did in a line or two of a resume, and try to tie what we faced/how we dealt/how that would help us be effective in a job, in a cover letter.
This is difficult. Working abroad for any length of time is difficult. Coming back is harder. Readjusting and finding your place is harder.
Getting Facebook “On This Day” notifications, when it says “3 years ago, 2 years ago, a year ago” and it shows your status about a frustrating day, or a love-filled day, breaks my heart. When it shows a smiling or silly face selfie photo, or when it pops up with an old blog that you were really proud of. These are my difficult moments.
I miss the sense of community, the sense of calm, the sense of love. I miss 3-hour long coffee ceremonies every day, or playing soccer with random kids in my neighborhood, or a waitress knowing your breakfast order, or going to the same woman in market for veggies every week, for a land lady who feeds you food when the power goes out, of my students who drew me pictures to bring back to America, and the post office guys who stopped me on the street to tell me I had mail.
Whenever I miss that I want to get on a plane and fly back. But then I remember that not everything was sunshine and roses. That I had plenty of harassment, plenty of annoyances, plenty of down and out moments, that I wanted to come back here.
So- what’s all this rambling about? That the grass is always greener on the other side. Do I want to go back to visit, yes I do. Do I want to go back to live? Not necessarily. Adjusting back is extremely difficult—that’s been established by everyone who has ever lived abroad. It’s hard to find things in common with people you were close to before, it’s hard to find joy in things you did before, and you have a new sense of what’s really difficult and what’s trivial.
But I have to remind myself, that no matter what—my time in Ethiopia was worth it. The people are forever engrained in my heart. I made friendships with other Peace Corps Volunteers and Ethiopians. That will never change, even when I’m having a difficult time here. And that even if I can’t connect with the people I did before, I found a new group of people which I can talk to and commiserate with about our lives before, or lives there, and how to deal with being back.
As I have said again and again. Thank you. Yikanyalay. Yikanylay to Adwa. To my students, my Nigste Saba teachers, my counterpart, my land family, the kids that knew my name and would fist bump me, the waitresses that knew my order, the post office guys, and everyone who made me feel at home. Bizu, bizu, yikanyalay! <3
