more Peace Corps melancholy as we near the end

When we first joined the Peace Corps, they made us write a letter our future selves, to be given back to us at Midservice. I started the cleaning out of my apartment today (a huge undertaking after two years) when I found it.

Hello Future Self,

Right now I'm sitting in my bedroom in my host house in Ayora, feeling exhausted. I just completed my agriculture pre-test, and learned to do laundry (ripping my PJ pants in the process), and I can't believe that there are still eight more grueling weeks of training left. In fact, I can hardly believe that I've only been in Ecuador for 1.5 weeks. It feels like forever.

So here's the thing: I know that you remember this moment, poised at the beginning. I know that right now, as you read this, you are marveling that so much time has already passed. But for me, in the past, I know nothing about you. I don't' know if you are happy, sad, irritated, empty, complete, wishing to go home or wishing to stay, content or frustrated. All I have to say to you is: Have patience. Look how fast time moves, from now to you. We can't slow it down. Life passes blindingly fast. Smile. I don't know where you are, but I hope that you are still thankful.

I don't know what to expect from the coming months, except that I hope to work hard, not get too depressed, and maybe do some good. I want to write, a lot. I want to make compost, dig in the dirt, and relish the only time in my fast-moving life when I will get to be a farmer, when I will get to slow down.

I love you, you know, this future vision of me, working the land and speaking Spanish, skin darker than it is now, hair longer, mind more expanded. I love that you are still doing it, that you didn't give up. I love the dream of you. I am your biggest fan. You are, I believe, better than me. You have grown, of this I am sure. I am so proud of you just for trying, just for existing and being me. I cheer you on, across time. I root for you every day.

Don't forget that you have a duty to yourself, to me, to never give up, and never stop appreciating existence.

Love, Sarah

March 7, 2009



I started to cry, just a little. It's almost like I can feel her, in the past, fresh-faced and excited and hopeful, unaware of what the next two years would bring. She was so desperate to belong; she thought that this would be her great adventure; she wanted to change lives. She still had feeling in her thumb. She hadn't yet seen or lived in La Victoria, she hadn't yet witness true poverty. She hadn't learned to hate Ecuadorian music, or learned how to identify someone's region by their indigenous clothing, or how to haggle. She hadn't yet spent weeks trapped and alone. She hadn't met Old Adam, or New Adam, or Moderately Creepy Teacher, or Julie, or Katha, Natalia, Juan Carlos, Guillermina and Gustavo, Dr. Soria. She was dizzy with Ecuador, with its promise and potential. She loved it.

I didn't give up, yet I feel a little like I failed her. I feel cold and jaded now, angry, bitter, cynical. I never got to be a farmer, I never got to make a difference. If she could see me now, I think she would be sad, and disappointed. I would tell her, it's not my fault, I tried, I really did, and she would look at me with pity, maybe a bit of pride too, and say, well, at least you stayed.

And I did stay. Despite it all, I stuck it out. I stuck it out through loneliness and lack of work and knife attacks and improper medical care and amoebas and fear and irritation and dirty water and loud music and a bad counterpart and every fucking thing Ecuador could throw at me. I stuck it out. I stayed.

That is my Peace Corps accomplishment. Because I stayed, I got to have some amazing experiences. I got to travel a diverse country, swim in the Pacific ocean, raft in the Amazon jungle. I got to discover that my brother and I can co-exist for a month and not kill each other. I got to have my first fling. I got to sit barefoot on my roof with a box of wine and talk to a wonderful new friend for hours. I got to live in a place where it is always spring, next to an active volcano that rains down ash when it feels like it. I got to write more than I ever have, I found fandom, I found Show. I made new friends online, some that I now consider some of my best friends (you know who you are). I took night buses and learned Spanish and navigated a South American country all alone. I celebrated New Year's on the beach, birthdays in Rio Bamba and Quito, Thanksgiving with the Ambassador and in the deep jungle, the fourth of July with Americans and missionaries, Christmas taking long flights back home. I did it. I fucking did it.

I fucking did it.

Someone said to me the other day: "(Peace Corps) shouldn't be known as the toughest job you'll ever love. It's the toughest job you'll ever endure." Exactly. I endured it

I kicked Peace Corps' ass.

And now? Now is the end, finally, and that sweet, brave girl in the past can at least know that her hope wasn't entirely without merit. I didn't quit, and soon I can tuck this experience away in the back of my mind, where it will grow rosier with each passing month, until the sharp edges have been softened into something close to nostalgia and fondness.

Who knows, maybe I'll even cry when I leave this place. Just a little.