March 1975
Christmas
The plane I took from San Francisco to Manila lasted 22 hrs. I received packages in March that had been airmailed three and a half months earlier. The green paper Christmas tree served our St. Patrick’s Day celebration. The many Christmas packages included three cakes in cans—fruitcake, pineapple nut, and chocolate chip. I received a recipe for peanut butter cookies which I proceeded to make for my friends. A packet of Christmas letters included one from an older couple that sat across the Greyhound bus aisle from Reno to Albany. We’d become friends and shared fruit and pastries. Another card was addressed to “Marilyn the pretty girl”. It was from a little boy at camp, one of the biggest trouble makers at a camp for 9 – 14 year old troubled youth. My past life brought joy into my nipa hut.
Weekend of 3/1/75 and 3/2/75 –
A Cockfight and a Dance
Saturday I typed the last of my proposal for the Municipal Nutrition Council then strolled to the beach for a swim. Finding some privacy made it easier for me to smile later. On Sunday I walked 18 kilometers to Patnongan for fiesta. Locals thought I was crazy, but I was entertained by friendly conversations with multiple people who’d join me briefly as I passed by their nipa home or barrio. I enjoyed the long stretches of dirt road through pristine tropical terrain unmarred by telephone poles or traffic.
Many men spend carefree Sundays at the cockfights, gambling with what little money they have. Everyone said “girls can’t go”. So I was compelled to do so once. The mayor of Patnongen (a very nice man, they say he’d be governor if he hadn’t opposed martial law) invited me, so I saw my first cock fight. There were people from several provinces present, including many mayors and local dignitaries, but as the only woman, my presence was announced. It seemed acceptable for me to be there, perhaps because I was a foreigner, or because I was the mayor’s guest. I was warmly welcomed and sensed no implication of scandal. I watched the betting, crowd interactions, and nuances of social drama. The blood and killing of the birds seemed very tangential. I’m not even sure I watched it as I stood in the crowd with many taller men. Today there is more awareness of animal cruelty. I wonder if that has spread to the Philippines? In 1975 it was not even mentioned, though it was understood that girls and women thought these events were somehow uncivil or even barbaric, so there must have been some recognition that “mom would not approve”; you know, that corner of your brain that says “this is wrong”. On the other hand, perhaps it was only the drinking and betting that was disapproved; the cockfighting may have been tangential for the mothers too. The excitement centered on hopes that the underdog (bird) would win. When all was over, the loser was eaten for dinner. After a short while I was simply bored and left. I’d connected with local people in new ways. I think my participation indicated that I did not think of myself above it all, standing separate and judging. I’m not sure how true that was, but perception helps. Time will tell. Barriers are breaking down and I’m beginning to meet people outside the immediate family. Along with the male volunteers, we all drank beer, had good conversations with locals, and went to the dance. I danced with several mayors. (Hamtik’s young mayor is quite handsome.) I had a good time.
Week of 3/3/75 –
Agony and Ecstasy
And so the days come and go—one moment needing a friend from my own culture, the next moment needing to be alone; one day finding inspiration in solitary reflection, the next finding I’ve gained a bit from laughing, drinking, and dancing with people I don’t know and don’t quite understand; last week excited about my work, this week wanting only to sit in my room and read. For two days my time was usurped by reading The Agony and the Ecstasy, spending only a couple of hours here, a couple of hours there, at my job. I haven’t wanted to play games or exercise. The reading captivates me, like an unfinished task. I suppose it all balances out in the end. I have two years for my work, and the same two years for adapting to a new and different culture. One week working hard (last week—working through holidays and Saturday), the next week with moments and hours just smiling and blending into culture.
Still, I’ve worked hard on improving my language skills, and on Friday, I led the first meeting of Bugasong’s Municipal Nutrition Committee. I put a lot of time and thought into the proposal, the visual aids, and the presentation. I thought it went well and could lead to meaningful work. Dra. seems only to notice and be complimentary of my visual aids; she wants me to make clinic posters right away. So it goes. I do my best and laugh at what else has to be.
Looking back 40 years from the vantage point of seasoned leadership, two higher degrees, and a boatload of experiences, I realize how creative this work was. I had no models to follow. I’d had no project-related school work or practicum but had been schooled through multiple choice exams and laboratory work. Even our Peace Corps training had focussed on the content of health information, like building toilets and promoting breastfeeding, but not on the aspects of working with people, building cross-cultural collaborations, or dealing with governmental rules and regulations. We were basically told to make things better in the town’s health care practice. Each of us had to figure out what that meant. We were so unprepared and naive. In my case, I believe that worked in my favor.
___________________________
Amidst the focus on work and acculturation, I encounter life’s personal triumphs and tragedies. Last week I read a book called P.S. Your Cat Is Dead. Weird title, strange book. This week, mysteriously, my cat is dead. She was the cutest little thing and we had developed a fine rapport. The dog chased her under the table, caught her, whipped her, and broke her neck. She stayed alive for half an hour. I held her the whole time. Her body was limp and warm; looked just like she did when alive. She responded for the first few minutes; then no more. Her eyes were glassy and wouldn’t close. She had one spastic fit, and then was unaware, I think. I doubt that she knew I was there, but I couldn’t put her down until I was sure she was dead. Afterwards, I escaped and went in to San Jose for ice cream and to visit a friend.
P.S. My Cat Is Dead
I held its body, limp
withering by the minute
sudden spastic fit—
then no longer aware
still warm,
staring eyes open,
contouring to my arms
looking alive
heart beating
reaction gone.
My mind rambles on in pictures
so small,
so vital,
so broken
how quickly the indescribable force
flows out with strength enough
to lay barren
my mind.
Voices tremble to speak
but I’m too new in this culture
to be comforted.
I could not comprehend,
I could not cry,
I could not be angry.
___________________________
Eclipse
I’ve caught myself distressed
counting empty tampax boxes,
shampoo bottles
brought from home
for these two years
in some strange climate zone
and culture
crossing off calendar days
saving pesos for spending
in anticipated travel
away from a place where
I refuse to belong
until just now
the nausea and weariness
of my spirit
encompassed by lethargy
mistakenly lets a smile slip
remembering a December lunar eclipse
lying at 2 a.m.
looking upward from grass
still wet of tropical rains
amazed at the splendor
I’d never have seen
behind Seattle’s clouds
pitying friends and lovers
left behind
gazing up at bamboo and nipa
naked beneath my mosquito net
I feverishly attempt
to jot down something
of my renewed enthusiasm
hoping that tomorrow
when I waken to oppressive heat
there’ll be reason to smile
to release myself
knowing that this release
may frighteningly make
the world I left behind
strange and new
when I return
Week of 3/9/75
Seeking Inspiration
I dreamed last night of meeting Cal and Dave and Andy. It was my first day back in the states and we were making climbing plans. The plans I make here are so much less tangible. I keep on working, organizing for something I’m not sure will ever take place. I’m not always sure I care.
Climbing
Calendar picture
mountain goat
climbing rocks
where I often long to be
where I felt exhilaration
memories built
only yesterday.
I was the wanderer
the rock-climber.
Will I ever be again?
Can this ocean lined with palm trees
ever come to mean the same
I have found a new visceral, physical outlet. I’ve begun to feel as secure swimming as walking on land. I feel momentarily merged with the sea—viewing the sun’s rays from under water. I feel bold and strong and able in a new way.
Swimming
Greenish blue and rolling
in every direction
my face feels soft
like putty
my shoulders stronger
than on land
my body buoyant
aware
of spiraling bubbles
sun rays beneath the surface.
I go to bed frustrated, I’m not communicating well with the Dra.; she’s not understanding what I’m trying to do. I don’t want to be understood intellectually, but by my passion and excitement. I want to communicate hope. Can inspiration occur here? I don’t want all my deeper, most meaningful conversations to be limited to times in the city or at conferences with other volunteers. I’ve been feeling the need for a companion to share with. A lover, or a best friend. To talk beneath the surface.
Plateaus
Nighttime dreaming blends with day
Contentment cements bricks of frustrations
Hopes and realities oppose each other
Moods and thoughts refuse to define themselves
or appear as enlightenments.
Bob and I waited lethargically all morning for Dave. I’ve been reading. Passed time. At the Benison Peace Corps beach house men worked. I read and breathed vibrations of working carpenters and staring, giggling children. Relaxed and comfortable. Then taking a swim. Being part of the slow pace. Not caring what relationship there is between time and action.
Dangling
Dangling somewhere ahead
of defined experience
and insignificant profundities
so lonely, no one could fill the gap
I imagine each night
dream scenes of sharpest focus
morph to verbalizations
blurred beyond recognition
yesterday’s patterns fit as clothes
left from pre-puberty years
vivid color and sharp sensations
dulled in memory
as sunshine after a storm
will this time of wandering now
in and out of nebulous moods
belong to some frame
of a dynamic growth curve
or is it mediocrity
luring to stagnation
Time just passes by; reading, writing, shuffling, perspiring and hoping there’ll be mangos at the next meal. That’s my reality, along with day dreams of my next vacation or letters for me at the post office. How strange it will be to stay two years and then to leave.
Calendar Musings
Flipping past calendar pages
no closer to understanding
what time is
or isn’t,
where I’ve been
or am going
if at all;
capturing moods
revelations
as they occur.
knowing less perhaps
than when the year began.
365 days away
from friends I’ll never know again
wondering what it all matters
and foolishly
where I’ll be
in 365 more
treading this month
toward love and sharing
next month I’ll run
from commitment
forever in circles
and opposite directions.
Rolling in the sand
with some warm body
that matters as much
as the thoughts that took me
as I slept alone last night
and tomorrow night
there’s a date on the calendar
does it matter
Week of March 17-23, 1975
Socializing. Or Not.
On Monday I hiked about ten kilometers crossing twelve rivers to the mountain barrio of Panalcagan with my fellow workers. Unlike the Cascades, the “mountains” are “rolling hills” and the “rivers” are “streams”. It was not particularly difficult, contrary to the expectations set by my local colleagues. We hiked to the village to attend elementary school graduation, a big affair for most mountain people who cannot afford to send their children to high school. Staying overnight with constant social activity was difficult. I enjoyed the children but was bored by adult conversations. I wanted to go home. I cringe at expectations to engage in chit chat for extended periods with no personal time. I couldn’t stand it in the states; I hate it worse here.
During early Peace Corps training we were told that one third of our time would involve the assigned job; the remaining two thirds would be devoted to cultural exchange—split evenly between sharing cultural understanding about the US and learning the Philippine culture. I believe that this was meant to comfort us when and if we were slow to accomplish or or quick to fail at our “job”, which many do. I think I’m doing better with the actual job than the two thirds cultural exchange. I avoid people as much as I communicate. Educated townsfolk know English but can’t understand me when I talk about non-trivial things. I engage in no conversations about matters of the mind—emotional struggles, philosophy or inspiration. I miss that. One might expect theological discussions in a religious society, but the religious activity is highly conventional. Those who are so bold as to seek meaning in something other than Catholicism, remind me of traditional Sunday school students who spout back all the “right” answers. With further discussion, it seems they don’t have a grasp on what they said. Last week the priest mentioned this. He is limited to communicating deeper meaning through conventional practices. I don’t see how the European priests live here so long.
Hiking back from the mountains on Tuesday felt great, but I was soon struck by a lack of motivation to finish my time here. Eventually I overcame the lethargy, perhaps heat induced, did some work and wrote letters. The desire to leave diminished, but on Wednesday I needed to be alone, so I headed to San Jose, ostensibly to run errands. I walked 18 kilometers to the next town before catching a jeepney. It took 3½ hrs. Filipinos don’t typically walk far in the hot sun, but I wanted the exercise and alone time. Everyone thinks I’m weird to walk, go places alone, swim, and read so much.
In San Jose I met a young priest (a brother actually) who teaches at the college in San Jose (I believe he was the archdiocese mechanic). He gave me a ride home on his motorcycle and invited me to come on a fishing trip and go swimming this week-end. He lived in Florida a long time but is Dutch or German I think. (He was actually from Pennsylvania originally but had an unusual accent after many years working with European priests in the Philippines.) He’s down to earth, says “shit” and speaks like my friends. He’s wants to be friends with the Peace Corps volunteers. Our ex-pat community is growing. There are two more PCV’s assigned in San Jose (seven total in our province). One is about 55 with a Filipina wife. They have a big home where we can gather. We’re also getting to know the four Dutch workers (they don’t like to be called volunteers because they get paid.)
Back in Bugasong on Thursday and Friday, I read, exercised, went swimming, and carried on fine superficial conversations. In short I passed the time most comfortably, nevertheless, the essential question remains: Do I belong here, and if not, where else could I possibly belong?
Reading Crime & Punishment I was struck by a quote from Svidrigailov a day before he committed suicide…”I am ready to admit that a decent man ought to put up with being bored, but yet…” And as Eric once said to me “nothing is boring except yourself”. Where do I go from there? I realized that is what all the volunteers are fighting—not be bored in this different culture, in a slower-paced society, without the conversations we hunger for, alone. On Saturday I did a little clinic work and went to San Jose because I was bored. In the end, I turned around and returned to Bugasong. I talked a bit with Inday and the hours somehow passed. On Sunday I began reading In Cold Blood only stopping to speak with Inday a few times. I’m hot and care for nothing more than lying in bed reading. The book completely swept me into another world. I felt moved and cried because of the death of the 17 yr. old and her boyfriend’s reaction, being transported back in time to Eric’s death. Lived it; then went to sleep, continuing in dreams.
Book Escapes
I am happiest
living in my mind,
vicariously existing
on the pages
and memories
brought to mind
by literature?
Could it be possible
I don’t want to be here?
Would I rather travel
on jeepneys and busses
or from book to book
than live peacefully
in the barrio?
Is it easier
to be discovering new places
than to know one place well?
Am I drawn to new
exciting things
or away from reality
and frustration?
At this time, perhaps to avoid boredom, I got a little mischievous. I decided to play an April Fools prank on my sister and wrote her a horrible letter for April Fools Day, which she unfortunately took seriously. My apologies Cherry. Excerpts from the letter:
Dear Cherry,
…I’ll be getting married next month… We’ve even agreed to combine our last names—though we haven’t looked in to the legal aspect of that here in the Philippines. My new name is going to me AnderJohn. His last name is Anderson—so we decided to just drop both the sons. It would have been John-Ander (so that kids of ours wouldn’t be stuck at the beginning of the alphabet in school) but we didn’t like the sound of it…His name is Oliver… We’d sorta gotten to depend on each other to talk when we got frustrated. Then I got frustrated….in fact, I got pregnant—pills and all. (maybe the pills I got here in the country had past expiration date like those vitamins on T.V.)…Oliver and I decided we wanted the kid—and each other. So I didn’t go for my “abortion” consultation in D.C. We’re pretty sure of ourselves—and I’m happy about it all…Peace Corps insists that we be reassigned after the wedding—to a new town. A short term pregnancy just wouldn’t look good…it’ll be a small and simple wedding. We’ve decided to have everybody wear jeans and P.C. tee-shirts and flip flops…he even writes poetry. Here is one of my favorites:
Seriously days float by innumerable,
unnoticed filled with tasks of work
and plans we think we can control
quickly passing over foolishness
that has the quality to make us happy
we should Celebrate April Fools!
Surely, Surely you jest,
Marilyn
The letter was mailed to arrive around April Fools Day. I thought Cherry would know it was a joke from the poem and the sign off. But just in case she didn’t get it, I wrote a second letter that I mailed on the same day. But they came weeks apart and she thought it was real. Ooops. Here are excerpts from the letter mailed the same day:
Dear Cherry,
Have you recovered from the shock of the last letter?, or did this one arrive first? I don’t suppose you believed it for a minute anyway. Maybe I’ll name my next cat Oliver. It’s a cute name, don’t you think?….
Week of March 24, 1975
Passing TIme
A current fascination of mine is the million and one ways in which time slips away noticed or not—happy or depressed the same. On Monday the time passed. I needed to work, but hardly felt like doing anything except lying and reading. So I finished In Cold Blood. It brought back more intense memories of Eric; I cried again and wrote some poetry, or rather questions. I wonder if my 4½ yr. old obsession should be a vague recollection now. Loss and grief, death and finality can be long in healing. On Tuesday and Wednesday the time passed more productively working all day on visual aids, classes, and tying up loose ends on a project. There were letters from home, and arrival of photos I’d taken. Got a letter from Joe in Mindanao, which makes me happy by his sensitivity to how I might be feeling and his easy going attitude. He’s a character I can’t wait to see, and dance together next month. By Thursday I’d read another book, From Out Magdala, a book given to me by the priest. It’s the type I would have loved as an innocent, romantically religious 12 or 13 year old. Nevertheless, however chauvinistic and biased, the pureness of the implied belief and it’s naïve simplicity fascinated me. And once again I pass time.
Time
If only for a short while
time has no division
yesterday and today—
somehow a piece
of the same fragment
no longer frantically wondering
when some new mood
might overtake my mind
I passed the weekend with volunteers Toni, Crain, James, Mike, Tom, and Dave. We spent Good Friday at the beach in Belison playing cards, swimming, loafing, eating, drinking rum. Dave and Mike Z. and I gave each other Baguio oil (food oil) massages. On Saturday I woke oily and early and went for a good long swim alone. Crain and I went to San Jose for ice cream, then we all went to camp overnight on Nogas Island, so named because they found no gas on the island. It’s a tiny island with coral reefs and only one man, a lighthouse keeper. Everyone was cranky and I wanted to be alone and quiet and transported to mellower camping with friends in Yosemite. On Easter Sunday I snorkled a long time. It’s peaceful here, but we ourselves are bitchy to each other. It was a disappointment to look around and observe multiple self contained entities, each acting strangely and posting barriers and defenses; no one being simply present and open to see each other as I once perceived us. I cried. James and I had a good talk about it. He sensed it too. We feel it’s temporary and due to everyone’s frustration and accompanying lack of natural self confidence in this still quite new culture and environment. On Monday I returned to Bugasong with James, Crain, Toni, and Mike Z. for lunch. Am feeling much rapport again with James, as we were in Manila.
The intensity of adjusting to and being alone in Bugasong is finally beginning to diminish. Maybe simplicity, my forever “goal”, if I have one, can be learned here, when I pass these frustrations.
Friends
Loving friends and strangers
both joyously intense
sharing, laughing, crying
but disappointments
somehow harder
with friends
those people
who are part of ourselves
friends
occasionally repulsing me
with smallest bitchiness
as I often react
to my own personality
toughestjobyoulleverlove 