With great despair, I must say that my routine has changed. The rice and pork that I consumed daily has halted, the daily use of Bisayan is nonexistent, the unexpected and spontaneous weekends are suspended, and the hectic walks and rides to work, which were quickly becoming a comfort, are no more. Yet, one thing has remained constant. My consumption of oatmeal.
My consumption of oatmeal has become the one constant between my time in the Philippines and my time here in the US. In the Philippines, I would grab the Barbie mug, wipe off a couple ants, rip open the Quaker Instant Oats package and stir in the kettle water. Then, I would use my spoon as a knife to roughly slice up a sweet saging and quickly consume the mugs-worth of oatmeal in two minutes flat.
On the opposite side of the world, my morning starts differently. I begrudgingly scoop the rolled oats into my bowl, pop it into the microwave for a few minutes, and cut up the available apple or strawberries. I sit down at the TV for a few minutes, and nibble on the mushy oats, with my departure time for camp quickly approaching. Often, the remaining oats are eaten quickly in my car before camp, after they've become a cold glop.
My new routine is massively different. Almost without choice, but also understanding it is probably best for my mental health and financials, I have taken a job at a local camp as a nature teacher. My daily duties have gone from racking my brain on ways to create a coastal resource management plan in a growing Filipino city to shouting "Don't eat the grass!" to a hundred six to eight year olds each day. As Dylan said to me the other day, this was definitely not in my 2023 bingo card.
While my true feelings and struggles are reserved mostly for my close friends and supporters in this moment, I will say that the transition has not been easy. Truthfully, it has been the hardest thing I've ever gone through in my life. There is no one I can speak to that understands my situation, not my fellow volunteers, or my best friends from home, or the Peace Corps staff. Something so sudden, and shocking, and heartbreaking creates a very isolating feeling, no matter the support.
But, as I write this, I understand that I need to rewire my brain about what my future will entail, so here are some stories of the camp I'm currently working at. The camp I work at is comprised of almost a thousand kids, with my sector being split into 25 or so groups of 15-18 kids in each. This camp teaches the kids the "essentials" as society deems them; days are full of cooking lessons, as well as classes in science, nature (my teaching specialty), music, art, computers, dance, and swimming of course.
My first couple of weeks of teaching has made me realize I do not want to teach children again. Sorry kids. The dozen or so other teachers have all had their turns of asking me "where did you teach before this?" or "how long have you been teaching?" as if I do not come into camp looking and feeling like a 23 year old toddler each day. I quietly respond to them that I have never taught before, waiting for the inevitably dreadful follow-up questions.
The kids however, see right through me. One girl asked me today how old I was and when I responded with "how old do you think I am?" she shrugged her shoulders and said "17?" innocently. Makes sense. But, while I get flashbacks of my 'evil' first grade teacher as I yell "Eyes up here boys!" or "No outside time if we don't listen up" every five minutes, it's balanced by the softness of the sweet little girls holding my hand when we walk to the pond or the dinosaur obsessed little boys.
The scream-filled, ketchup scented cafeteria we eat our burgers, hot dogs, and chicken nuggets in has brought me a recent revelation of some drastic differences we unknowingly develop as we age. As I walk through the cafeteria, exhausted from the first three classes and unconsciously holding an active RBF, I hear echos of "Hi Ms. Jacqui!" and see genuine smiles on these kid's faces. I can't say if it's my brief time spent living in NYC, or my fear of interacting with creepy men in the Philippines, but when walking through a crowd of people, even with acquaintances, I don't expect to receive many genuine hellos. As we become oldies, we become hardened, or maybe its that we lose the energy to do these hellos, or maybe even just the fact that we think we'll be embarrassed if one person says 'hi' without the proper cues or eye contact that many of us require socially.
Rant aside, I am currently in my oatmeal era. I feel like a literal bowl of oatmeal. My brain, and heart, and stomach, feel like gloop. When I am hot and maybe a little unstable, I could spill all over the place or burn you, possibly translating to the human emotions of crying when a single memory pops into my head or being extremely angry with my situation. If I am feeling cold and numb, I become one coagulated mass of gelatinous oats, hard to break, not wanting to open up, and numb to any outside emotions. The glimmers of distraction or happiness in my days comes in the form of the rogue strawberry or blueberry in my oats.
While I preached "everything happens for a reason" to Thea, or Michael, or Grace back in college, and had endless giggles with Ashton and Carley about how everything will always work out, it has been hard to believe these sayings recently. With a life that I have enjoyed planning for the past 8 years, so satisfied and confident in my choices, it's been...nauseating to say the least to change those plans and potentially the people in them. But, despite all the change, at least I'll have my oatmeal.
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