A Threatening Black Cloud Has Passed

Those in Peace Corps service often face what is called "Early Termination" (ET), which is to return home before the full 27 months of volunteer service. Sometimes, it is the result of some event at home which requires their return. Other times, it is the inability or unwillingness to continue service under varying degrees of difficult lifestyle or work. Almost none of us enter Peace Corps expecting to ET, and those who do return home early do so only after much struggling, I imagine.

A few weeks ago, for the first time, I seriously weighed the possibility of ETing. After two weeks of solitude (due to illness, cold weather, and only minimal social opportunities in my town), I returned finally to the classroom. As in the States, students are often unresponsive in class, and all but the most stoutly confident instructors stumble at the lack of any apparent appreciation students may have for them. I am not, to be sure, a stoutly confident instructor when it comes to my students' valuation of me. That, coupled with my feelings of intense isolation among my community, contributes to a recurring sensation that my service is not welcome. And, as the thinking goes, if my service is not welcome, then why am I here? In my case, the face of this uncertainty and isolation is the face of Early Termination.

The straws which didn't break the camel's back, but still managed to put it in critical condition: some species of cold virus, a week-long spring vacation, and a subsequent two-week absence from school. Being out of the classroom for two weeks set me up for a huge shock when I returned. It was during those first few hours that I found myself contemplating a plane ride home. As the day progressed, however, I slowly fell into an attitude of dull, subconscious resignation toward teaching. One thing I realized: I am not a high school teacher. I enjoy teaching English, but I have patience for neither adolescent attention spans, nor semi- and unmotivated students.

But the day progressed and improved. I had hit bottom, and if there is one thing that tends to happen when one hits bottom, it would be to bounce back. I floated through the remaining classes. The day prior had been 8 March, International Women's Day, and the fifth graders were following Monday classes with a short performance honoring their female teachers and beloved mothers. In need of a positive focus, I decided to sneak in to see and to hear the cheerful celebrations of these young students. This put the first smile on my face, thereby breaking the mood and opening the way for further bouncing back.

After the performance, several of the teachers (male and female) and I conducted ourselves to a local restaurant to further celebrate 8 March. Over pizza and some more traditionally Moldovan food, the teachers happily chattered about life and sang songs (which most of them mostly knew). And while I sat amidst their company, I could feel my spirits rising. The negative effects of social isolation are quickly dispelled, as it were.

The celebrations concluded with one of our fellow teachers inviting a small group of us to her house for tea and further conversation. In the seven months I had lived in the town, this was the first time I had personally been invited to any person's house for a social purpose. Despite a calm exterior, I was altogether elated. Even though my confidence in my Romanian does not yet permit me to participate in the discussion more than haphazardly, I am thrilled to be included in any socializing among my Moldovan colleagues and friends. At the end of the day, I was feeling great and ready to get on with being a volunteer. In fact, the rest of the week was among my best since I arrive in Moldova. I started several tutoring classes, recommitted myself to previously suspended clubs, and began to feel more secure in my place in the town, despite the isolation.

Hitting the bottom permitted me to reassess my personal goals in Moldova. It confirmed that I do not consider myself a teacher of public secondary education, by nature. But it also showed me that I can (even if only occasionally) feel very welcome by my community.

Laziness of the Sun

Just over a week until solstice, and the blinding, nearly-horizontal rays of the noon Sun impress upon me one simple and immutable fact: Seasonal Affective Disorder (cleverly and suggestively acronymized as "SAD") has an effect exponentially proportional to the degree of latitude. Having lived in the Pacific Northwest of the United States for most of my life means that I am no stranger to low-hanging winter Suns, but never before have I found myself appreciating the early stages of sunset at 12:15 in the afternoon.

I try not to rest on my laurels by blaming SAD for my occasional downturns of mood, a reasonable excuse though it may be. Whatever the causes, I find that the best remedy is usually a temporary change in scenery and a bout of wild smiling, if not outright laughter. In the past, I have transferred the darkened skies and cold air of winter into poetic meanderings of various tones, and thus converted my damp moods into semi-productive literary exercise. Recently, however, either I have found the Sun too low in the sky for safe literary transference, or I have simply lost touch with my muse. I have been forced to seek other forms of enlightening, such as wistful sketches of various architectural daydreams, or internal quasiemperical studies of the nature of various small pieces of the universe (exampli gratia: what in the world would cause all of the continents on Earth to ever be clustered, pangea-style?), or fleeting visits to places that are not my home-away-from-home.

I plan on taking a picture of the noon Sun at this, the highest latitude in which I have lived, on solstice. Part of this will be to record a Sun too lazy to climb to an appropriate height in the sky. Part of it, however, will be to mark the moment when I can start to justifiably look forward to new leaves on the trees, new blades of grass, warm and long days, and a general return of happiness to the Northern Hemisphere.

To that, I say, "Noroc!"