Everywhere they go...

I've refrained from posting on this blog most of the negative aspects of being here at the Rift Valley Children's Village--the rats living in the poorly constructed (or conceived) ceilings and the presents they leave on our beds, floors, and tables; the guaranteed hookworm; the likelihood of contracting cerebral malaria (the most dangerous kind) being so extremely high that it's as casually talked about as stomach aches; the thief, who now, is gone--mostly because I didn't want to worry any friends or loved ones back home who may be reading this, and partly because I wanted to exercise some amount of tact in how I represent my experience at an NGO that depends on outside support. It's not that I wanted to mislead future volunteers or prospective donors who may rely to some extent on the honesty of my input; there are just some facts of a different life--any different life, anywhere--that sound a lot more daunting in cold, written word than they do in tales told. But I guess on some level, I wanted to protect, at least on my blog, this place from my occasional bitterness.

That said, the environment here has become so caustic in the past couple of days that I feel no need to protect a place that has been the backdrop for such considerable discomfort to me.

The last couple of days have been rougher on me than I can take. It has nothing to do with the kids. I grow closer to them as each day passes. Even three weeks in, the mistakes and misbehaviours of kids in our house now affect me as disappointment birthed from excited expectations on a personal level rather than inconvenience from just some group of kids not doing what I've told them to do. When I see little Natalie in Play Group identifying the colour blue (something she didn't do 7 or 10 days ago) or proactively telling me that she needs to use the bathroom, I get so full of delight I could (and usually do) kiss her. Every day, I experience genuine joy and, sometimes, sadness, and they're both in their ways beautiful.

It's not about the staff. The staff members for the most part are professional, compassionate people who fall on an appropriate section of the involvement-with-volunteers spectrum, with a couple too close or too distant for my liking.  Veronica, the person in charge of the micro-financing, is a very down-to-earth, moxie-steeped individual who seems to be the only person here who can both take and dish out zingers without it causing a full-body bruise and therefore is seemingly the only person here who understands the sense of humour Bill and I share. There are others with virtue here, but that's not what this entry is about.

My problem is with, at the moment, most of the other volunteers. A couple of people left on Sunday--a rather unpopular pair--and for the most part, many of those left over had a feeling of relief, as though everything was going to be fine from here on out. Not so. Most folks who know me are aware that I, for some crazy reason, am passionate about women's rights. I know. Total waste of what could be time well-spent trimming my waistline down to a chubby 31", but what can I say? I'm stubborn. So, when the inevitable, beer-laden political generalizations became the conversation over dinner one minute after I sat down at the table, I had to pipe in in defense of President Obama on the issue. The not unpopular dissatisfied liberal question, "what has he done so far?" spilled onto the table and I replied with an excited "He gave women the right to take legal action against employers who pay them less than their male counterparts based on their gender. That's awesome!" because to me, that's a really big deal.

There was an immediate "Oh, well I didn't hear about that..." but within a short moment, the individual asked why that should matter to him.

I was shocked. I think it showed. He continued, as if compromising, "well for my wife, I guess it would, but seriously..."

"Your wife? What about your sisters? Your friends? Half of the population?" The conversation had shifted from Obama's acts to questioning the significance of this act in particular.

"WHO THE FUCK CARES?!" yelled--yelled--the other male volunteer in the room with arms outstretched and head rolled back to the ceiling shortly after this exchange. He had already established that this was not an issue of importance to him a couple of weeks ago when, in response to mentioning the Lilly Ledbetter/Fair Pay Act, he said "That's not what we should be doing in a failing economy." He attempted to deny that quote to Bill, I'm told, but then retracted his protest when being adequately reminded. Yes. It is okay for women to be paid 30% less than men for the same jobs because it helps business during a recession. When the HMO and home loan demon-worshipers who got America into the recession hand that 30% directly back to women, I'll start caring about business a little more, but in no way is it logical that a group of people be paid less than any other based on body part.

I wonder if there were no legal repercussions for paying Black men and women less than their White counterparts and that's what was ended the first day Obama was in office, how different this conversation would be each time I had it. America's not the type of country that would pay people different wages based on race; that's appalling, right? But with gender, well, that's alright. It's always been the case to me that men can speak freely of women's bodies, behaviours, and short-comings openly and in public, in front of any sort of mixed company, with little consequence--that's at least two-thirds of all the professional stand-up comedy I've ever heard--but take that same prejudice over those women and apply them to, say, the African American community, and it's taboo. It's the same arbitrary judgment: worth based on body. It's just somehow okay.

But I digress. After the "Who the fuck cares?!"/"Why should that be important to me?!" eruption began, I became startled. I was hurt. I was being told, only slightly indirectly, that my human rights weren't important to these two. Oh I'm sure it's not me--oh no; of course not--but generally, just the entire population of people like me. Much less personal. It was heartbreaking, so I just left the Volunteer House and walked outside to a spot where I could just sit down and think for a little bit. I wasn't going to stay there and listen to two alcohol-soaked, 20-something-year-old, non-working class, ethnic-majority males recite to me the very song and dance I thought I was getting away from by coming here. I was sure to close the door gently, but I'm not so confident that the false memory of my storming out hasn't been adopted.

That's a very popular perspective, and it's always disappointing (though not surprising) to hear it. That's not what got to me. I'm used to that. I am oh, so used to that. What got to me was the fact that I had just walked outside to get away from a very painful conversation but soon realized that here, in the Rift Valley Children's Village, there's no way to actually get away from such conflict. At least in Jersey, I can go to my room and do whatever I want: sleep, write, paint, pick up my guitar, just be alone. Here, there is no avenue to even a moment that kind of secluded tranquility necessary for my recovery from being told my wages don't matter. I'm an only child; being alone with my thoughts has always been the setting for my quickly regaining composure. While outside, I realized that I will never have that here. I can't spend a day away from the volunteer who favours business over equality without it impacting my work here. There's no giving each other space, and while attempting to give myself space, I know that others are gathering in the wake to discuss my overreactions or what have you. Bill came to me outside, and soon after, one of the former Volunteer Coordinators who came back to visit for a few weeks, joined us. We sat there, listening to my shaky breath and discussing in agreement the crushing atmosphere in the Volunteer House. So far, they are the only two who have at least expressed that I wasn't wrong to endorse the defense of my and other women's rights, or leave when the disagreement became almost immediately too hurtful. Actually, they were the only two who even bothered to ask if I was okay.

So that was last night. Today, I was sick. Bill and I typically experience nasal congestion when in our rooms and invariably wake up with more phlegm than we feel comfortable, but today I was fatigued, clammy, and feverish, and damn-near fainted on my way to the primary school this afternoon (and yes, Mom, I am going to the clinic tomorrow). I spent most of the morning in bed and didn't interact with anyone much while I was out, but neither did anyone with me. I anticipated a good amount of negativity today in the wake of last night's confrontation, but as the day went on, it became more noticeable that people just weren't talking to me. People who weren't even there last night. With the exception of the "Who the fuck cares?!" volunteer who said hello to me at the beginning of dinner in a way that I honestly couldn't identify as friendly or mocking, no one spoke to me. What really bothered me, though, what engendered a greater level of anger, was the fact that every time Bill added something to the table's discussion over dinner, the conversation would stop until someone brought up a new topic moments later. Every time! What was that?! As we got up from dinner to make ourselves some tea and head back to our house, the table was quiet with the exception of whispers or very soft conversation, which I am not insinuating was about us, but as soon as I closed the door behind us, we could hear the lively conversations that were typical of the Volunteer House grow. That was painful. Individuals I thought we were fine with acted as though we weren't even there. One girl who has always said "excuse me" or cheerily explained her movements if she navigated around me for something was silent as she reached over my cups to get some hot water. There's a definite us and them feeling that I was not anticipating to be so steep, and the fact that Bill has had a side chosen for him, one at complete odds with everyone else in the volunteer crew, not only pissed me off, but was fuel for a 90-minute sobbing session I had immediately upon reaching our house. It doesn't bother him as much, as he's of the opinion that if anyone is subscribing to such short-sighted views at this point, they deserve whatever distance the put between themselves and what was or could be his good friendship. It bothers him more, he says, that I'm seemingly being shunned for my opinion, even though I left the conversation within moments of it becoming ugly so as not to perpetuate what was already too much.

I had to write this because sitting on the bed, crying into my hands as Bill tried to be strong and comforting for me for over an hour wasn't cathartic. I don't understand what happened. I had an opinion, my feelings got hurt, and instead of escalating the situation by engaging an already raucous pair/group, I left, and now everyone else seems like such great friends, to the exclusion of even Bill. It's an enforced alienation and I feel like I'm being penalized for having an opinion; like I'm being shunned for being the person I've worked so hard to become.

Part of me feels the need to apologize to the Fund or whatever for this bad press, but it's part of my story, and, according to more than a couple of people who have been here for an extended period (LT-Volunteers and Staff alike), it's the reality of the Long-Term Volunteering experience: interpersonal bullshit, drama, and the occasional alienation of someone.