Scott William King

Truth be told, I know very little about the life of Anthony Bourdain. I’ve seen a few episodes of his television series Parts Unknown, but that’s about it. As many of you have seen or heard, his name made headlines earlier this month after his tragic passing. In the days following his death, I read every article I could find that might shed some light on a man who lived an incredibly inspiring life. I learned about a world-renown chef and an award-winning author. I learned about a man who lead the life many only dream of having: traveling the world and sharing meals with people across the globe.

During my readings, I came across many of his famous quotes on travel, cooking, and life. His zest for life and international traveling was founded in his love for food. During his travels, he had a no-holds-barred approach, eating anything and everything that was culturally-relevant to whatever country he was in.

But in what I found, I think he was on to something bigger than just the meals he was sharing. It’s something that I think I’m just now beginning to understand myself…

* * *

“Hey King!” A voice calls from outside.

“Oh, there you are. Come on in,” I say, stepping outside and unlocking the gate to my apartment.

South, a friend of mine who works at the school, steps out of his shoes and follows me into the apartment. We head straight past the dining table to the back of the kitchen, where several pieces of salt fish and corn fish are sitting in a pot of boiling water. In the sink a few green figs were peeled and soaking in a bowl of water.

“I had the fish soaking overnight like you’re supposed to. It’s been boiling in the water there for about ten minutes now. I just got started on peeling the green figs.”

“Okay. Have a seat there and find the football game. I’ll take it from here,” he says, intuitively picking up a knife and expertly peeling the green figs.

I sat down and pulled up on my laptop the World Cup match of the afternoon: Germany vs. Sweden. By the time I turned back around, South had all the green figs were peeled.

“How many people are going to come through?” South asks.

“I’m not sure. I told some other Volunteers about it and I was going to send out messages to some others once we had it going.”

“We should get more green figs. Maybe some more dasheen and yam, too. We want enough food if people come through, but if not then you have plenty left over for tomorrow and the next day.”

“Okay that’s a good idea. I’ll run next door and get some.”

While he got started on peeling the plantains, I ran over to the market next door where I purchased a few more green figs, dasheen, and yams from the pleasant ladies conversing behind their respective vending stalls.

When I returned I handed them all to South, who inspects one of the dasheen.

“Oh, this one isn’t dasheen. It’s tania.”

“Really? How can you tell the difference?”

He begins explaining the difference between the two similar ground provisions, identifiable by the texture of the skin, color, and size. Although dasheen is preferential, the tania can still serve the purpose so he begins washing and peeling both of them anyway.

Meanwhile I turn to the freezer, pulling out a bottle of rum and some juice.

“How about some drinks?”

“Yeah, man.”

After fixing up some drinks and preparing the provisions, it was time to return to the salt fish. Turning off the burner, South picks up the pot of boiling water and pours the fish into a strainer.

“You don’t want oven pads or anything?” I ask, dumbfounded that he grabbed the pot of boiling water with his bare hands.

“Nah, man,” he smiles. “My hands are used to the heat.”

“You kidding? I’d be crying if I did that,” I reply as we break into a laugh.

He then proceeds to tell me about his time working on a ship, traveling throughout the Caribbean islands for work. It was then, during his travels to the likes of Trinidad, St. Lucia, St. Kitts and Nevis, Barbuda, and Antigua, that he handled hot items so frequently it doesn’t affect him anymore.

Having lived on St. Lucia for seven weeks myself, we began sharing our opinions on the island and how it differs from Grenada. We talked about the similarities between the two as well.

Pulling the fish from the strainer, he presses the meat through and drops the flaky pieces into a dish, careful to remove all the minuscule, hard-to-see bones.

“You want to make sure you get all the bones out,” he says. “You don’t know what your friends may like, so best to make sure you get them all out. There’s a lot of them in there.”

“I see. You know, I like the salt fish but I don’t think I’ve had the corn fish before.”

“No? It’s nice. Here try a piece,” he says, handing me a piece of the corn fish.

“Hmm, that’s actually pretty good,” I say, getting my first taste of the corn fish.

Next step was the dumplings, used to complement the provisions. Pouring the flour in a large mixing bowl with increments of water, I began kneading it into dough. When the dough was ready, it was time to roll the dumplings.

South reaches in, pulling off a wad of dough. Then rolling it back and forth in his hands, the wad took on a smooth, soft, elongated shape. I pulled off a wad of my own, rolling it in my palms as it quickly thinned out and broke into two.

“No, no, here,” he says, taking the dough from my hands. “Hold it in your fingers like this,” he carefully rolls another dumpling in his fingers before mashing it back together and handing it back to me to try.

Placing it in my fingers just as he showed, I rubbed the dough in my fingers as if I were starting a primitive fire with sticks and stones. I was careful to make sure the dough stayed between my fingertips. As I did this, the dough quickly formed into the elongated shape of a dumpling. The hypothetical light bulb had gone off in my head.

“Oh! I got it now,” I say.

He nods approvingly and I place it into a pot alongside the other provisions. Looking back at my computer, I saw the score of the football match was now tied.

“Hey! Germany just scored,” I pointed to the screen.

“What?! Eh, boy,” South says, looking over as we watch a replay of the scoring point.

World Cup fever is alive and well right now in Grenada.

A short while later the salt fish and provision was ready. Grabbing my phone, I sent a few text messages to some local friends.

Honestly, I wasn’t really sure if anyone would come. I had never hosted a cook-up before. Salt fish and provision is a popular Caribbean dish and hosting a cook-up is a prominent tradition in the West Indies. The idea for me to host one originated with just me and South, cooking-up to celebrate my birthday that weekend. But when you have all this food, it’d be ridiculous not to share.

So I sent out the word about the cook-up with no real expectations. I was hoping people would come through. But like South told me earlier, if no one did it wouldn’t really matter, for then we’d have a full meal to ourselves and then some for the next couple days. That’s just how a cook-up is done here.

We set everything out in various pots, bowls, and serving dishes on the counter. South then skillfully dishes up a plate and walks it over to my upstairs neighbor, as is custom between the two old friends.

Then after a short while came Rohan, a local friend with whom I often play pool with at Mansa’s bar up the road. He was also watching the football match back in his home before he came over to join us. We pulled up the highlights and talked about the exciting finish to the match, which ended with Germany’s late goal in stoppage time to steal a 2-1 victory.

Excited about having someone to serve, I quickly dished up a plate and handed it to Rohan. The reggae sounds of Tarrus Riley, a local artist who I’ve really come to enjoy, plays on the speakers from my computer. The topic of reggae comes to the surface and we begin discussing the different artists we listen to. Rohan and I talk about how we went to the Beres Hammond concert together back on Mother’s Day. South mentions his personal favorite being Eric Donaldson, who just performed in Grenada recently. One thing we all agreed on, however, was that the Jamaican reggae artists are simply born with a gift.

“Hey King! Outside man!” Two voices call.

I hustle outside to open the gate for Akim and St. Paul, two teachers at my rival school St. John’s Anglican, who I also play basketball with on Sunday evenings. They just returned to Gouyave from the hospital, where Akim just had surgery. His right arm was now in a cast and sling, having broken it while we were playing basketball the night before at the island-wide Teachers’ Sports event up in the parish of St. Patrick. I hadn’t seen him since we carried him off the court and into a car to be rushed off to the hospital. He was still in some pain but was in otherwise good spirits.

They took a seat on my beat-in couch and I served them a dish. We updated them on the football matches of the day, which they hadn’t been able to follow. They couldn’t stay long, however, as it was time for them to return back home.

Then comes Junior, a short, athletic man with a broad smile. He’s a popular face in town, everyone recognizing him as the “Moko Jumbie” (a traditional stilts dancer popular at cultural events). A friend of South’s, I introduce myself and serve him a dish, which he sits down to enjoy. I ask him about how he does it, dancing on those stilts all day long. He laughs and explains he’s done it all his life and offered to teach me how sometime. I agreed to take him up on the offer, so I guess we’ll see how that goes.

“Hello!” A bubbly, cheery voice calls as Sarah, the PCV from my neighboring community of Grand Roy, enters my apartment.

“Happy Birthday!” She says, handing me a small bag.

Inside were two gifts: a stone from Palmiste Beach, the halfway point between our communities, and a calabash bowl. Each was hand-painted, the stone with the Peace Corps logo and the inside of the calabash bowl with various designs in Grenadian national colors. A heartfelt gift, it’s a testament of her artistic ability and the bond between Peace Corps Volunteers. There is something to be said about having “government-assigned friends” in a foreign country. She, as well as Riley, the other EC 88 Peace Corps Volunteer on Grenada, are on the last leg of their Peace Corps journeys as they COS (Close of Service) and return to the States in late July. Consequently, we’re trying to make the most of their remaining time here.

I dish up a plate for her and she joins in the conversation. South is taken by the calabash bowl, impressed by the work she did and wondering if he can get one made for himself.

Then comes Byron, one of the first guys I really got to know here. We cross paths often, shooting pool by Mansa’s and playing basketball down in the park. He takes a seat at the table and I hand him a dish.

“Hey, J!” I call out through my kitchen window, seeing one of my students sitting on the veranda of his apartment, the one behind my house.

He walks up to the window and peers through, looking between the curtains.

“Go tell your mother I cooked up some salt fish and provision and come get some.”

He nods and runs back inside his home.

A short while later Roseanne and J show up at my door, taking a break from their preparations to return to St. Vincent later this week. Having first moved to Grenada back in January, they have lived in my apartment complex for the past six months. I have gotten to know them pretty well, having J in my class and eating out with them at Fish Friday. We’ve even done some cook-ups together as well, as Roseanne was the first to show me the ropes to making salt fish and provision, in addition to the callaloo soup. We were supposed to make a Sunday lunch together, but unfortunately, we’ve run out of time.

Then came Marsha, the preschool teacher at my school. It’s with her I’ve attended all the past island-wide events celebrating Teachers’ Month this June, such as the Teachers’ Quiz, the Teachers’ Cook-up at Bathway Beach, a Secondary School Night Cruise, and Teachers’ Sports. If there’s a social event going on for the teachers, she’s the one to talk to. A prominent figure at the school, her classroom is the place to be after school lets out for the day. With the chairs and couches inside my apartment filled up, she takes a seat outside on the rail of my veranda.

“Hey Scott!” John, the PCV from Concord, calls as he enters the room. Having seen him that morning, we catch up on the rest of the day, while he mixes himself a drink and joins Marsha out on my veranda.

The day had turned to night and the salt fish and provision was running low. Drinks, much like the conversation, kept flowing. I took a step back, taking a breath and surveying my apartment before me. Inside and outside were numerous people I am proud to call friends. It was a steady mix of Volunteers, local friends, co-workers, and neighbors. I’ve met them all through different means, but they all made the effort to come through for the cook-up. The chatter was constant, multiple conversations occurring simultaneously, a pleasant chorus to the ear.

Flashbacks from home came crossing through my mind. As the youngest of six children, the front door at my house was essentially a revolving door. Growing up we often did not even lock the door, for someone was always home or passing through. Friends never had to knock, either, just walking in as if it were their own home. My dorm rooms throughout college and the house I had my senior year were much the same way, people always coming and going. That to me, gives me the feeling of home.

I always took pride in that. I always took pride in that people can feel comfortable in my home, that they know they can invite themselves over and simply be themselves. Someone else feeling at home, in your own home, to me is one of the highest compliments one can receive.

I’ve held gatherings for the other PCVs at my place before, but this was the first opportunity where I got to invite both locals and Volunteers over. Each individual that came to the cook-up had been woven into my life at various points. I’ve formed friendships with each and every one of them. Some of them have just entered into my life, others have been and will be around for awhile yet, while others only a short time more. Each one had a different story to share, but somehow we all ended up in the same place that particular evening.

But I digress, for it’s time to return to the moral of the story.

* * *

I think [Bourdain] was on to something bigger than just the meals he was sharing. It’s something that I think I’m just now beginning to understand myself…

Having lived in the Caribbean for over a year now, it is evident that hosting a “cook-up” is a common way for people to get together here. If you think about it, no matter where you go or what you do, everyone has to eat. Cooking and eating are essential to life. So hosting communal meals not only nourishes our stomachs, they nourish our souls. They are a breeding ground for companionship. Cook-ups are a reason to gather and interact with your neighbors and friends. It’s a way of meeting people and getting to know who they are and what they’re all about. Although it’s the food that brings everyone to the table, it’s the conversation that brings the cook-up to life. It’s in the conversation where you learn about someone’s past, an individual’s talents, opinions in shared interests, and find common ground through intercultural exchange.

But it’s all because of what brings everyone together: the meal.

Just look at it from the perspective of my afternoon cook-up with my friend, South. Throughout the day and night people from my community came and went. I was reunited with old friends and introduced to new ones. Some of those friends will soon be leaving Grenada, and time will tell if or when I’ll see them again. Others I’ll see again, likely at another cook-up. But that’s the way life is, people come and go. But it’s the memories that we’ll share, the memories like the time we all gathered for a cook-up, that will last forever.

But don’t take my word for it. Take Bourdain’s:

“Meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that were charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best meals, occur in a context that frequently has very little to do with the food itself.”  

Like I said, I think I’m just now understanding what Bourdain seemed to have figured out long ago:

That when it comes to a cook-up, it’s about way more than just a meal.

Cheers!

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Note: As many of you have learned, Anthony Bourdain’s cause of death was determined to be a suicide. To those who knew him, it was an unexpected event.

To anyone reading this that is struggling with depression or other mental health issues, know that you are loved and that you are not alone. Mental health is a very real and very serious issue. It’s time we break the stigma. The (American) Suicide Prevention Hotline is listed below:

1-800-273-8255

“Mr. King!” A light-hearted, cheery voice calls in from outside my window.

“Ya!” I call back, leaving my open laptop on the table and slipping on a pair of flip-flops.

Stumbling out my front door, I walk toward the gate and turn the lock open. No one is out there, just the side of the market in front of me, a car parked off to the right and a dumpster down the road to the left on an otherwise empty street. But I’ve seen this trick before.

“All right, J. Where are you now?”

“Ahh!” a boy jumps out from behind a pillar, hands forward with a menacing grin.

“Almost got me that time,” I laugh, offering a fist bump as he steps inside the gate.

“Sir, lewwego fishing,” he says, hopping up on the banister of my veranda, legs dangling.

“You want to go fishing now? It’s going to be dark soon.”

“Yeah, down by the jetty.”

“I’m not sure I can,” I reply, thinking about the numerous online tabs of graduate schools and job-search websites left open on my laptop.

“Why not?” J questions, almost baffled at the thought I could possibly have something more important to do.

I lean back on the banister next to him, mulling over the thought in my head. On one hand, I didn’t have any real obligations this evening, as due to the upcoming Corpus Christi holiday we didn’t have school the following day. I was also looking forward to a night in, not doing a whole lot and begin exploring some post-Peace Corps opportunities.

On the other hand, awhile back I had promised J I would go fishing with him and had yet to fulfill that promise. So the more I thought about it, the more I suppose this was as good of a time as any.

“You have everything we need?” I ask.

“Yeah! I just have to run home to get my bait-catcher,” he says, his eyes lighting up.

“Okay, then run home and get it and we’ll go,” I agree.

“Yes!” He hops down. “Oh, but sir. Can you call my mother?”

“What?”

“My mother. Can you ask her if it’s okay I go to the jetty?”

“Uhm..sure.”

I go back inside and come back out with my phone and hand it to J, who dials his mother’s number and then hands it back to me.

Ring…Ring…

“Hi, good afternoon,” a pleasant, female voice answers.

“Good afternoon. This is Scott King, the Peace Corps at the RC. I have J here by me and was wondering if I can take him down to the jetty to go fishing.”

J watches intently.

“Oh, okay. You’ll be with him?” she asks.

“Yes. And I can have him home at a certain time if you like. Is there a certain time you would like me to bring him back home?”

“Well his bed time is 8:00, so have him home by then.”

“All right, I’ll see to that. Thank you and have a nice night.”

“Same to you.”

Click. 

“What’d she say?” J asks anxiously.

“She said it’s okay. I just have to have you home by 8.”

“What time is it now?”

“6:30. So if we go one time then we’ll have an hour down by the jetty. Quickly run home and get your things and we can go.”

J runs out of the gate and takes off down the road. I slip back inside and switch into a fresh set of clothes. Sitting back down on the couch, I then wait for the impending cheery voice to call: “Mr. King!”

A few minutes pass by…

I check the clock, J doesn’t live too far down the road, so it shouldn’t take him all that long…

“Mr. King!”

“Ahh, there it is,” I laugh.

I step outside and lock up my apartment, joining J on the street. I turn around to lock the gate to the complex. The sun had already set as we begin walking down the street. We turn the corner onto the main road, a typical Gouyave scene unfolding before us. Various people are hanging out on the sidewalks on either side of the road. Some are standing, leaning up on the buildings, others are sitting on crates or on the sidewalk. Cars and buses fly past, honking their horns in a friendly manner and dodging the vehicles parked on the side of the road. A few ladies sit out in front of the market, looking to sell their fruits and vegetables to anyone passing by. Up ahead at the junction, half a dozen men stand idly leaning against their cars waiting for someone in need of a taxi service.

“J! Come!” A lady calls from across the street.

J takes off across the road, taking in his hands a bag of mangoes that the lady gave him.

“You got some mangoes there?” I ask.

“Yeah, they’re from me auntie. You want one?”

“Sure, but in a little while.”

“Sir, can you hold this for me until we get there?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

We cross the street and continue our walk to The Lance, the part of Gouyave across the newly-built bridge. J, with a blue jersey and bathing suit, walks proudly as he swings the bucket in his hand with each stride. Inside the bucket were a couple of plastic water bottles, each with a fishing line wrapped tightly around it. Half a dozen small hooks are tied to the line, the only creases in the otherwise tightly-wrapped lines around the bottles.

“You know why I had you talk to my mother?” J asks, hopping back and forth from the sidewalk to the street.

“Why is that?”

“Because she would have said no if I asked her. But I knew she’d say yes if you asked,” he grins.

“Oh, really?”

I let out a little laugh and shake my head, remembering what it was like to use any leverage you can to try and stay out later than your parents would otherwise let you.

“You have any plans for the holiday tomorrow?” I ask him.

“My father is going to take me through the bush,” he responds enthusiastically.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, we are going to hike up through Clozier and hunt for manicou.”

“That’ll be fun.”

A white and green-painted gas station comes up on our right; it’s the only one in town. Buses and cars whip in and out, being serviced by a staffer who pumps the gas for them like they did in the olden days. We cross the street and come across a shop that sells arts, crafts, and spices. The owner locks up the red, green, and yellow-painted gate in front of the shop as he closes up for the night. Walking past the shop, we reach the apron of the bridge as the road rises up steeply before running the flat of the bridge across to the other side. Stepping up to the sidewalk at the flat of the bridge and looking directly to my left, a single palm tree stretches to the sky over a rock-strewn stream that eases seamlessly into the bleak Caribbean Sea. Looking ahead now, the rugged, green mountains off to our right overlook the homes, bars, and shops of The Lance as it finally spills into view. Fast-paced soca music pounds earth-shakingly from speakers somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic heartbeat of this part of town.

By the time we passed all the homes, shops, and bars lining the road in The Lance, the Fish Market finally came into view. Turning left onto the drive of the Fish Market, we walk toward the jetty, a concrete pier stretching out into the water. Looking to my right into the Fish Market as we pass, most of the stalls inside are now vacant, vendors having cleared out for the night. The aroma of salt water and fish fills my nostrils, as if its scent was plastered into the walls of the market itself. A single man in the back hoses down a stall as he cleans it, the water trickling along the floor before running down a drain.

Walking past the Fish Market and onto the concrete jetty, we continue to the end as we’re welcomed in by various docked fishing boats tethered to the light fixtures and concrete stoops on either side of the jetty. A group of men are standing on the end, looking out into the water and casting their lines. Some of them sit on the side, legs dangling off the edge with a Carib in one hand and a cigarette in another. Others stand with their poles in their hand, looking for a late-evening catch. J drops his bucket and gets right to work, eagerly unwinding the tangled fishing line from the bottles. Stepping up to the edge, he twirls the six-hook bait-catcher like a lasso and casts it out into the water. The water has taken on a blue gray color, reflective of the somber color of the sky from the quickly fading daylight. He almost immediately begins reeling the line back in, enticing a fish to bite at his moving bait-catcher.

The sound of waves quietly lapping against the side of the jetty and the incessant calls of the hungry seagulls complement the scene around me. Looking back over my left shoulder, a small beachhead runs along the coast of The Lance with several boats rocking quietly, anchored out off-shore in the waves. Lights began to speckle the mountainside behind us as the homes and buildings began turning on their lights, the night falling fast.

J winds the line all the way back around the bottle and casts the line out again. On about the third try, he felt a tug of resistance. He bubbles with excitement as he rapidly pulls in a small fish roughly the length of my pinky. Unhooking it and tossing it onto the concrete, he casts out another line before taking the fish and placing it in his bucket. After another couple of tries he was having no more luck, so he decided to move to another spot off the left-hand side of the jetty, where several small boats were docked.

Another boy, a year or two older than J, was also fishing at the same spot. This boy had two plastic bottles, which he took turns casting out a line before leaving the bottle propped against the concrete curb of the jetty while he pulled the other line in. J steps up next to him and throws out a line of his own. I peer over the edge, looking into the water below to see what could be down there. Looking past the ropes that held the boats to the jetty, the water was somewhat clear under the streetlights of the jetty, enabling me to see the shadows of fish scurrying across the sandy sea-floor. Just then a quick movement and a sudden splash suddenly caught my attention off to the right. I wasn’t the only one who saw or heard something either, as in a moment all the men on the jetty came rushing to the scene. A fish had caught the other boy’s line and pulled the resting bottle over the curb and into the water!

Some of the men drop on their stomachs, reaching down to try and catch hold of the bottle or the line. But the fish had already taken off with it. One of the men cast out a line of his own to catch the boy’s, which was now pulling away around the end of the jetty and out into the sea. After a few tense, anticipatory minutes, the other men were somehow able to pull in the boy’s escaped prize. They returned it to him, but not before laughing at the whole ordeal and ribbing him for nearly letting one get away. Personally, I was just baffled the fish was strong enough to be able to pull the bottle over the curb and into the water.

After the excitement settled down, J continued building his catch count. Climbing down the stairs on the side of the jetty to be directly next to the boats, he would cast his line out into the water and reel it in. Once getting a catch, he would eagerly pull it in and toss the line over his shoulder to the top of the jetty before running back up the stairs to unhook the fish and start the process all over again. He got his second fish, then his third, then his fourth. A few older men, some having come from a day out on the water or just having reached home from work in town, began taking their places on the side of the jetty. They began casting out lines of their own or simply watched J and the other boy work their lines.

At one point, J’s line got tangled with the other boy’s and they needed help untangling it. Some teenage boys on the other side came over and began helping them, mumbling under their breath and shaking their heads that such a mess was made of the lines. J ran back to the bag of mangoes he received from his auntie on the way over and handed a mango to each of them, in gratitude for their help.

At this point I checked the time on the clock, 7:45 p.m. It was almost time for J to be home. He was too busy to notice, thrilled by his handful of catches. I began to feel a pit of indecision in my stomach, not wanting to be the buzzkill that sends J home but fully-knowing that I made a promise to his mother to have him home at 8:00. I walk along the top of the jetty and crouch down so I was just over his shoulder.

“Hey, J. It’s about time we go home, it’s almost 8:00,” I tell him, out of earshot of the others.

He nods but doesn’t say anything, not wanting to go home just yet. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t ready to go home just yet either. But then again, Momma’s rules are Momma’s rules. I step back and allow him to push it another couple of minutes.

“Eh, eh! There goes a ray,” a man in a worn-down, beige-colored t-shirt with a black backpack and gray stubble on his chin says, pointing down toward the water.

“There’s a sting ray?” I ask, looking out over the edge. “I didn’t know they were out in these waters.”

“Yeah man,” he responds. “But it pass now, keep an eye out it might come back. It went by just under that boat there.”

I kept a cautious eye on the water, secretly hoping to catch my first sight at a sting ray down here. But it was to no avail.

Then with about five minutes to bed time, knowing we were already going to be late, I leaned over to J again.

“Okay J, it’s 8:00. I already let you stay past the time. It’s time to go,” I say, using a little white lie to trigger him to finish up.

“Okay, sir. Just one more,” he responds tossing out another line.

He pulls it in empty and reluctantly climbs back up to the jetty to gather his things. Wrapping up his bottle and line and putting them in the bucket with the four fish he caught, he was finally ready to go home. Bidding the guys gathered at the jetty a good night, we turn and head back home. We walk back through The Lance, now come to life in the night as locals share drinks on the side of the road, inside and in front of the rum shops. The music is still pounding and the vehicles with their bright headlights blind us as they bustle past. We cross back over the bridge and through the main part of Gouyave, walking past the market as well as my apartment and all the way to the rock shoreline just beyond town. Climbing on top of the large rocks, I turn on a flashlight as J pulls out a knife and begins scraping off the scales of his fish. He then cuts open the belly, pulling out the organs as if he were in a sophomore level biology class, explaining to me the proper way to clean a fish.

“Sir, you want one to take with you?” J asks, holding out one of the fish.

“I’m good for now, thanks J. Maybe next time.”

I wouldn’t be opposed to taking the fish, if only I knew what to do with it. One of these days I’ll learn how to prepare a fish freshly caught from the water, it’s on my list of things to learn before my time here is up. But this just wasn’t the time.

Upon returning back to my apartment, I began preparing my own dinner. While the seasoned chicken was roasting in the oven, I pulled out my laptop to continue exploring the opportunities for me post-Peace Corps. I know it’s early to start looking, but curiosity has begun to get the best of me. My motivation quickly subsided, however, as I settled in and my mind drifted elsewhere.

When I first came down to the Caribbean with the Peace Corps, I was eager for this experience to be the launching point of my adult life. On one hand, part of my reasoning in coming down here was that I did not know what I wanted to do for a living and this was a means of buying time to figure that out. Having reached this point a little over a year into my service, I do have a better idea of what I want to do. But I am still not certain, and have a-ways to go in figuring it out.

But then fishing with J reminded me of something that is important, but often neglected. His excitement at the prospect of going fishing reminded me of why so many of us are envious of children. After all, each one of us at some point feels the nostalgia to return to the days of little to no responsibilities, ample free time, and an ambition to explore and rebelliously push the limits of staying up past bed time. It’s easy to become overwhelmed, distracted with the responsibilities and obligations of adulthood and forget to take the time to enjoy the simple pleasures in life, like going fishing with a bottle and a line.

Our time on Earth, like my time here in the Caribbean, is fleeting. After all, just this past month I finally reached my one-year anniversary of being in the Caribbean. At this time next year, I’ll be preparing to return home for good. The prospect of finally returning home excites me, which is why I’ve already begun exploring post-Peace Corps options. That being said, I am also not nearly ready to close this chapter of my life, having truly come to feel at home and hit my stride here in the town of Gouyave. I’m simply having too much fun.

But fact of the matter is, as important as it is to fulfill the responsibilities and obligations of adulthood, it’s just as important that we never lose the passion for fun that all children have. Between my after-school tutoring, weekly Peace Corps Skype meetings with other Volunteers and staff, creating and editing news segments, and household chores such as cooking, cleaning, and laundry, my adult responsibilities have lead me to sometimes pass on the opportunities for simple childhood activities. Due to how overwhelming these obligations can seem, it’s easy for me to use them as an excuse to pass on the times J and other local kids ask me to play cricket, football, or to go fishing.

But when I do find myself back in the United States, sitting at home, at work, or at school (or wherever I may end up), I can already envision myself reflecting on my days in Grenada. The memories that already stand out in my mind are often the times I’ve spent involving myself in activities with the local kids.

A Monday evening I swam into the river to retrieve my frisbee a child accidentally threw a bit too far.

A Tuesday afternoon playing cricket with J in the green space in front of my veranda with a cut-out piece of plywood, tennis ball, and chair, before being told by my landlord not to play there in concern of a window being broken. (An unlikely possibility given the circumstances, but we’ve since kept it to the park).

A Wednesday evening taking turns as the goal-keeper and shooting for goals in a rotation with the other kids at the park.

A Thursday lunch playing cricket with my third-grade students, who get excited at the prospect of “outing,” or “hitting a six,” off their teacher.

A Friday morning racing first-graders across the courtyard of the school between classes.

A Saturday morning spent showing some local children how to run receiving routes with the American football at the park.

It’s these times, the times that I get to be a kid again, that I’m sure I’ll most likely miss.

Coming here right after graduating college, I was excited at the prospect of launching the start of my adult life. But as I have become engulfed in the responsibilities that adulthood brings, I have realized how much I am going to miss what it was like to be a kid. So in this sense, although I am still launching the start of my adult life down here, that doesn’t mean I have to give up the passion for excitement in simple activities that is inherent in children.

Going fishing with J that night reminded me of that.

Whether we’re 12 or 24, 46 or 64, 78 or 93, we are always at the launching point of our own adult lives.

At any given point, we still have the rest of our life to live.

But sometimes we need that reminder that at the end of the day, we are all really just a child at heart.

Cheers!

 

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It all started last week when one of my students, who I’ll refer to as “D,” performed the live reading at my school. Each day after lunch, my school does what we call “live reading,” where a student from an assigned grade goes before a microphone and reads a story for the whole school to hear. For the students who read particularly well, it’s an exciting opportunity for them to broadcast their reading skills to their fellow classmates. For the students who struggle with reading, it’s an opportunity to strengthen their reading skills while encouraging their progress. Needless to say, over the course of the year, some students get to do the live reading more often than others.

D was not one of these students.

When I first assessed him back in September, he could only identify twelve letters in the alphabet. He was a third grader, already held back one year and therefore a year older than his other classmates. More often than not, he was the student that was acting out during class. However, it didn’t take long for me to realize that his disruption of class was rooted in the fact that he struggled doing the work assigned to him. He was struggling with the assigned work because of the secret he kept, the secret that he couldn’t read. Consequently, he would distract his classmates and disrupt the class so that no one else would find out about his secret.

From the beginning of the year, my pull-out tutoring sessions with him were always one-on-one, unlike the others whom I have in balanced pairs. Throughout the first and second terms of the school year, my sessions with D got to be frustrating at times. He often lacked the motivation to try the activity at hand as he would rather watch what was happening outside the windows. Consequently, I often had to close the windows to force him to focus. I was never happy about doing this either, because of the stifling Caribbean heat and all. But if closing the windows got him to focus, then that’s how it was going to be. Over the course of the year, some sessions went better than others. Any session that I felt he came away with some sort of progress, I felt was some sort of victory, no matter how little it was.

Not realizing it at the time, the concept of what I’ve come to call, “Little Victories,” had begun to develop.

During our first meeting of the third term, I put before him a sentence progression sheet I had found on Pinterest. For those unfamiliar with the idea of a sentence progression, it goes a little like this:

The 

The boy 

The boy runs 

The boy runs fast 

The boy runs fast and 

The boy runs fast and jumps 

The boy runs fast and jumps high. 

In these sentence progressions, the student cannot move on to the next line until successfully reading the one before it. The constant repetition, therefore, drills into the mind of the student sight words while building de-coding and fluency skills. This goes without mentioning the feeling of accomplishment a student feels when completing a full sentence independently. I have used it with all my most struggling students and each one has responded well to the exercise. Sentence progressions have easily become my favorite activity.

The day I did the first sentence progression with D was a day I’ll never forget. He struggled through most of the words, but began de-coding his CVC words (consonant-vowel-consonant words), relatively well. Consequently, as he read I often covered a few letters of the larger words with my thumb so he could de-code three letters at a time until the word clicked in his mind. Upon de-coding a word correctly, his eyes lit up with surprise and a wide grin spread across his face. He proudly read and re-read each of the phrases until his first sentence was complete.

“Yes, D!” I exclaimed, reaching for a high-five he excitedly returned.

Now if you recall a previous post, The One That Says “Play,” I described a tutoring session with a seventh-grade boy, “K.” You might recall from that post that I ended a positive pull-out session with K by telling him I was proud of him. He had responded particularly well to each of our sessions ever since then.

So remembering this, I told D, “Hey, you did well today. I’m proud of you.”

Whereas K had sheepishly looked at the floor when I told him, D responded to this by beaming with pride. With that response, you would have thought it was the first time he was ever told that.

But ever since that day, something about him was different. His motivation finally began to surface. During our pull-out sessions, the smiles and high-fives continued while the windows remained open (the latter of which I’ve been particularly grateful). In class, his disruptions began to subside. Instead of pestering the other students to mask his inability to read, he began calling on me for guidance. Instead of getting in fights during break time and lunch, he was found in the classroom completing the work he hadn’t finished yet.

“D, you want to go for break now? We can finish this later,” I suggested to him one day, seeing if he’d take the opportunity to leave his work and go out to play.

“No sir, let’s finish it now,” he replied.

“That’s what I like to hear D,”  I said, clapping him on the back.

I couldn’t help but smile.

As the third term came along, our class had begun taking advantage of our new Grenada Schools Incorporated (GSI) library. During our designated library time, students have the opportunity to check out a book to read for the week. Discreetly, so his other classmates wouldn’t see, I would hand-select a book at a lower level for D to try and read. Now our pull-out sessions included him reading his library books to me.

Due to this near 180-degree change in him over the course of this term, I make sure to end each session with an, “I’m proud of you.”

The positivity is contagious.

A week ago Monday, our pull-out session ended on a strong note. So I pitched an idea to him:

“What do you think about doing a live reading this week?” I asked.

“Yeah!” his eyes lit up with excitement.

“All right, I’ll talk to Ms. about it,” I smiled.

I could see the mix of emotions flash in his eyes: the surprise, the excitement, the nervousness. He hadn’t done one before.

My counterpart, having also witnessed the improvements D has made this term, immediately supported the idea of having him do the live reading. So last Wednesday during lunch, I sat down with D in our classroom to prepare him for the live reading with his book from the GSI library. Repetition for him was key. The book was six or so pages long with a single sentence on each page, each one starting similarly to the last. The first page was the most challenging for him. But once he got past that one, it was smooth sailing from there. I tried not to put too much pressure on him, but my will for him to succeed was almost too hard to contain. I tried my best to seal my lips shut and allow him time to build his confidence in reading the story on his own. It was getting hard to focus, however, as lunch time is an environment of chaos, students constantly running about and screaming.

Students began running in and out of the classroom, playing, laughing, complaining.

It was all stressing me out, and I wasn’t even the one doing the live reading.

But I tried my best to keep them quiet and out of the classroom, knowing D needed to focus.

They were just kids being kids, I understand that, but they also didn’t understand the immensity of what it would mean for D to successfully do the live reading on his own.

Despite the chaos, D made a few successful runs through the book and the bell rang.

It was time for the live reading.

“You ready?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“All right, let’s go.”

We got up from our seats and turned left down the corridor, down the stairs, and across the courtyard to the staff room. Upon reaching the staff room, where the mic and sound system was set up, D took a seat. A surprised look pops across the physical education teacher’s face, who was in the room.

“D, you’re doing the live reading today?” He asked with a surprised smile.

D nods proudly.

“Go get it man,” he says to D, reaching out for a fist-bump.

I took a step back and out of the way, not wanting to disrupt the process as my counterpart got D ready for the live reading. I needed to remove myself, as it’s important for him to gain the confidence to read without me over his shoulder. My counterpart picked up the mic and introduced him to the school over the loud speakers.

It was showtime.

I stood in the back, nervous as all hell, but breathing deeply to keep my nerves cool. I held my hands together behind my back in a wide-legged stance, head down, praying he would read well.

My counterpart asked him to recite the title of the story, which he flawlessly read.

Now for that challenging first page.

He paused, hesitating. He stalled in silence, drawing a blank and not knowing what to say. The mic was out in front of him, silently beckoning him to begin.

Lifting my head, I bit my lip and anxiously waited.

And waited…

And waited…

When I couldn’t wait any longer, I stepped forward to whisper in his ear to help him get the ball rolling. But just as I leaned over his back shoulder, about to whisper in his ear, my counterpart murmured the first word to him.

The light bulb had clicked. He said the word to himself, repeated it into the mic, and the ball got rolling. He read the first page. Then the second. I stepped back, gratefully retreating to the back of the room and internally relieved the guidance came from my counterpart and not me. He fumbled at times through the rest of the story, but read it smoothly for the most part. But unless you had the book in front of you, you wouldn’t have known the difference. Upon finishing the story, the book was closed and my counterpart asked him a few questions about the story.

He answered them all.

“Thank you, D, for your lovely live reading,” my counterpart announced into the mic. “Now the rest of you can continue with your silent reading time.”

Click.

The mic was switched off and the few teachers and staff in the room erupted in applause. It wasn’t much of a secret to them of D’s academic ability. Just then my principal suddenly burst into the room.

“D! Well done, well done boy!” He commended, holding a notebook and some fresh pencils in his hands. “I am here to give to you the Principal’s Award for Most Improved Student! Congratulations!”

He handed the notebook and pencils to D and eagerly shook his hand. D took the items and sheepishly smiled, unsure of how to respond. Let’s just say that when the principal ever had to speak with him, it was usually not for his achievements. I stepped up, giving him a fist-bump and a pat on the shoulder as my counterpart and I began walking him back up to our second-floor classroom. He excitedly strides ahead of us, as we in our own excited, hushed voices discussed our thoughts on his big performance.

Then D turned to enter our classroom…

As he did so, his classmates erupted into a raucous applause.

Beaming with pride, he reveled in his moment; it was a moment made possible by his little victories each day over the past term.

After all, he’s the one that made the changes. He’s the one that began sacrificing his break and lunch time to finish his school work. He’s the one that asked to read his library book for me. He’s the one that instead of disrupting his classmates, began focusing on completing the assignment on his own.

All his little victories had finally translated into a major win, a win that that was his and his alone.

* * *

As a teacher, it’s not uncommon for your roles to reverse as there’s many things you learn from your students. But what happened with D was not only something that I learned from, it was something that inspired me.

After witnessing D’s little victories each day come to fruition in a major win, I have come to look for the little victories in my own life. For if D can attain all those little victories each day and translate them into a major win, then why can’t I?

So over the course of the past week, I made it my mission to take note of the little victories in my life. They came in a variety of ways, as they were a variety of victories. Therefore, I would like to now share a few of my little victories this past week with you. In the same way D inspired me, I hope his story can inspire you to do the same. So here they are:

On Saturday, it was watching an Indians-Astros baseball game on my laptop alongside a local friend in my apartment. An avid cricket fan, he had always wanted to understand the very-similar game of baseball but never had anyone to explain it to him. I was ecstatic to fill that role, having already learned cricket and wanting to return the favor. This victory was one for cross-cultural exchange.

On Sunday, it was spending an afternoon at my host family’s house. During a hearty lunch, we discussed our plans for a future Sunday lunch together when my actual parents will be visiting Grenada in August. Afterwards, we all coincidentally fell asleep on the couches and napped while The Longest Yard played on the television. The victory here is again for cross-cultural exchange, as well as for the blessing that it is for me to have a family environment here, one in which I can be comfortable enough to pass out during a movie, in my home away from home.

On Monday, it was the opportunity to experience the annual church harvest in Gouyave. Tents were set up all along the street for vendors to sell everything from toys, raffles, games, drinks, eats, and desserts. It seemed as though everyone and their mother came out to show support, a truly exciting community event. I saw my students, my teachers, my teammates from the basketball court, my host family, and other members I see frequently in the community. This fund-raising event was a victory for Gouyave and the church community that has welcomed me in.

On Tuesday, after a long day at school, it was watching a mild sunset while standing in the receding tide on the small beachhead in Gouyave. A small boat of fisherman pulled in their nets, their silhouettes set against the backdrop of a setting orange sun. One of the men on the boat waved to me and I waved back. From the distance I couldn’t tell who it was, but it didn’t matter. That gesture alone was a victory, one for social integration and the warm receptiveness of the Grenadian people.

On Wednesday, it was catching up with the other-island VACs (Volunteer Advisory Council, to which I was nominated and elected in February to represent the Grenada PCVs). During our Google Hangout meeting, we set forth a draft for a Hand-Over Notes package to be passed on from the outgoing EC88s to the incoming EC90s this summer. This was a victory for the mission of Peace Corps in the Eastern Caribbean, as now with the Hand-Over Notes, the progress implemented by the 88s can continue as the 90s come in to take their place.

On Thursday, it was my students eagerly waiting in line to take turns reading their library books for me during their break time. It drew a crowd, as each student was not only reading for me, but for all the other students following along over their shoulder. One even began reading (and did an impressive job I might add), the book I’ve been recently reading myself, The Broker by John Grisham. This one was a victory for my students and the joy of reading.

On Friday, it was my Creative Writing Club meeting during the chaos of extra-curricular activities. Nine of my students showed up, including one that has been skipping often as of late. Many of them excitedly responded to the prompt of the day: “What would you do if you were the last person on Earth?” They had some wild ideas, the one that had been skipping actually had one of the better responses. This victory was one for student imagination and creativity.

Then last night, I went out to The Lance (the part of Gouyave across the river), to watch the Cavs game. Upon running into some friends at a small bar there, everyone passionately discussed the game as it went on. Many argued their predictions for the rest of the NBA Playoffs, a hot topic here. During all this hoopla going on around me, I noticed a quiet man slip inside. Making eye contact, he pointed to my shirt and then to the TV, taking note that I was from Cleveland given the t-shirt I was wearing. He then pointed to his askew, purple LA Lakers hat on his head, signifying his team of choice. Just then, he pointed to his ears and shook his head. He was deaf. So I placed my hand on my chest, tapped my index and middle fingers together and spelled “S-c-o-t-t.” The man’s eyes lit up with surprise as he excitedly signed back an introduction of his own (Marko, I believe?). We laughed as I asked him to slow down and explained I only knew a little bit of sign language. He asked what I was doing here. I told him I was teaching at the RC School up the road. He apparently works in construction, spelling “B-u-i-l-d-e-r” for me. Who knew taking an ASL class my freshman year of college would pay off. This was yet another victory for cross-cultural exchange and personally, my favorite little victory of the week.

Having searched and found the little victories of each day over the course of this past week, I can look back and feel good about all that was accomplished.

Now that I’m taking note of them, my days have become that much brighter, that much more meaningful. It’s also a fun way to pass the time, honestly.

And thanks to D, I will continue to look for these little victories each and every day.

What “Major Win” all these little victories will amount to for me, personally, is still to be determined. But as long as they make the world a better place, I take comfort in the fact that they’re not only a victory for me…

They’re a victory for us all.

And to think coming here, I was supposed to be the teacher.

Thanks, D.

Cheers!

 

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Picture this:

You’re sitting in your living room and all the lights are out. A storm is raging in the night outside. Rain is pounding heavily on the roof while on the window pane, droplets nonchalantly race down the glass. The trees are swaying, surrendering to the storm’s strong gusts of wind. A crack of lightning brightens the room momentarily, followed by a distant rumbling of thunder. The storm has knocked the power out in the area. Candles you’ve lit flicker ominously around the room. All is silent, besides the angry storm that is. When a storm of this nature rages through, knocking out all the power on every block in its path, sometimes there isn’t a whole lot you can do.

Getting up from the sofa you’ve been sitting in, you walk over to a dusty, old cabinet in the corner of the room. You grab the handle, opening the door gently. A series of photo albums lay askew inside, stowed away safely in various-colored binders. In the corner of the cabinet, next to all the binders, is a gray stereo. It’s tall, but slim. You reach in and grab it by the handle that runs across the top. Pulling out the stereo, you sink back into your spot on the sofa.

The stereo now sits on the coffee table in front of you. Its speakers, two round black discs, look back at you like beady, expectant eyes. A small, square compartment sits between the speakers; it’s a cassette player. You punch a button and it pops open. Finding a cassette and slipping it inside, the door snaps shut. Back in these days, when the power was out and a storm was raging, sometimes a battery-powered stereo was all you needed to pass the time.

In front of you, along the top of the stereo, are a series of buttons each with its own symbol.

The sideways triangle is the Play button.

Two sideways triangles pointing to the right is Skip.

Two sideways triangles pointing the left, Rewind.

Two vertical lines mean Pause.

The block square means Stop.

You sit back, contemplating if what you’re doing to pass the time is in your best interest, mentally. But what other way could you?

So as another rumble of thunder echoes from the heavens. You punch the button that says Play…

* * *

It’s a quiet Caribbean night. The thunder is gone, having been replaced by the resonating murmur of the crickets as they begin to wake from their diurnal slumber to sing their nighttime choruses. The lightning has been replaced by the humming industrial park lights above you. Instead of sitting on your sofa, you’re on a white, wooden bench. You’re on a basketball court; one with wooden backboards, black iron rims, freshly painted lines, and cracks in the surface of the concrete.

You’ve joined a basketball team for the island-wide knockout tournament in your community. You pull out a pair of basketball shoes, already worn-down in just three months’ time. They were brand new when you brought them back with you from the States just a few months prior. But the nightly practices for the past month have put a number on them, as holes have opened up underneath each big toe, nearly exposing them entirely. You laugh with your teammates about it, poking your finger through the holes. Your shoes are just another victim of the concrete court, notorious for “eating shoes.”

But your shoes weren’t the only ones banged up. You glance down at the abrasion on your right knee that hasn’t quite healed yet, having skinned it in a fall during practice a few weeks ago. Getting up from the bench, you run through a simple routine of calisthenics, just something to begin to get the body loose before the team stretches together. You place your hands on a concrete wall, rotating your right ankle in various patterns. In another practice two weeks’ prior, you re-aggravated an old injury when you sprained it contesting for a rebound, coming down on another player’s foot. You ignored it when it happened and played on, your pride getting the best of you. Due to that, you had to return to an old-school remedy of icing and small exercises. You even threw in a taste of the new-school: drinking a glass of water with a teaspoon of turmeric powder to ease the inflammation (a local remedy). A soft, worn-down Ace brace now supports it underneath your black, mid-calf sock. Realistically, the brace probably doesn’t help much, but you figure it’s better than nothing.

You jog out to join your other teammates shooting at the far end of the court. Various members of the community have begun to trickle in. Some set up chairs outside the fencing, others take their seats on a fallen telephone pole. A couple stray dogs run to and from the field behind the court.

Looking to your right, you notice the silhouette of a palm tree peering over the concrete wall. Behind its leaves, however, it looked as if God had spilled buckets of pink, purple, and orange paint across the sky. It was nothing short of majestic.

As time went on the night took over, laying a thick black blanket across the sky. We began a series of team warm-ups, complete with lay-ups and shooting drills. You size up the competition on the other side of the court, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. This was to be your first competitive basketball game in years. Your heart begins racing with adrenaline, pumping alongside the soca music now blasting from the DJ’s tent. A whistle blows, signaling us to return to our benches. It was time to start.

Skip

You’re on the right wing of the court. Byron, the point guard, dribbles the ball past the half-court line and into the teeth of a pressing defense. He flips the ball over the top to Kitty, our tall and lanky center, who gathered himself at the high post of the key. The defense collapses fast on him. Seeing an opening on the block, you dart toward the basket and connect eyes with him, as he’s immediately swarmed. He dishes the ball right into your hands. Everything seemed to freeze, as you were wide open on the block with the ball in hand. You put the ball off the backboard and it falls in for an easy two points.

We’re back on defense now. Due to an injury to one of your teammates, you’ve moved from the top of the 2-3 zone defense to the bottom right block. The man in your zone is twice your size. It was no secret that you were at a mismatch here. But you’re up to the challenge. Their point guard lofts the ball up across the zone toward the basket in a half-shot, half-pass manner. You hold your breath, realizing your man is reaching for glory at the end of an alley-oop pass and you were to be the poster child of that dunk. You jump in to contest it and he fumbles with the high pass, coming down with the ball. When he gathers himself, he’s beside the basket. He knows you’re behind him, but jumps to put in a lay-up, boldly thinking you didn’t really have a chance at blocking him anyway.

What he didn’t know, however, was your entire youth was spent playing basketball in the paint. In that time, you’ve learned a thing or two about blocking shots. Back then you were bigger than everyone else so it was easy, but now you’ve learned different strategies to make up for the height you now lack. The ball comes up over his head and you time your jump with him, slapping your left hand hard on the ball. It pins on the backboard and you remain airborne, as if lifted with the shot (given your size and having what’s called “white boy hops,” you’re still figuring out how that happened). The ball bounces off the board and falls back into the hands of the shooter, as you both land on the ground. A thrill rushes through you as the crowd reacts to the unexpected white-boy’s block. He gathers himself and jumps again, determined to put the ball in the hoop this time. You jump again to contest, excited with the last block and determined to embarrass him again. This time, however, instead of blocking the ball, you got his elbow and a whistle blows.

You slap your hands together in frustration at the missed opportunity for a second block, as instead you were called for a foul. But then one of your teammates comes up, bumping into your chest.

“Nice block, King!”

“Good trouble!” Another says, reaching out for a high-five.

You find consolation in that, being reminded of the first block before the foul. After all, it’s not every day a white boy gets a block against the backboard on this court.

By the final buzzer, you and your teammates were run to exhaustion, coated in glistening sweat. Despite the loss, you guys walked out with your heads held high. It was a hard-fought game, but unfortunately the other team came away with it in the end.

You had picked up a couple more scrapes and bruises in the game. You’re reminded that diving for a loose ball isn’t exactly a good idea on a concrete court, particularly when a 6″4′ beast of a man is going for it too and you’re bounced off of him like a pinball. But the ‘battle scars’ don’t matter much to you. You were just happy to have experienced playing in a competitive basketball game again.

At this point in your service, joining this team was one of the best decisions you made. The practices got you out of the house and exercising regularly. You returned to the suicide runs, shooting and ball-handling drills, and full-court scrimmages. You were re-acquainted with the frustration of seemingly having no free time, having to give up your time and energy every night to practice. Your commitment to the team changed how you spent your spare time, at that. Therefore, you were making better decisions about taking care of yourself and your body. You began making a more conscious effort to cook and eat better.

But like the end of every season, all good things must come to an end.

Skip

You’re standing in a clearing on the top of a hill. The ground is covered in dead grass and fallen leaves. Two large wooden poles protrude from each corner of the clearing. The poles are the only remnants left of the fort that used to stand on the top of this hill, overlooking the town of Gouyave. The cannon that used to be posted here you’re told now sits inside the secondary school down the hill. Past the green foliage surrounding the summit, music echoes from the town. It’s Easter Sunday and celebrations are taking place across Gouyave.

Your two host brothers take turns throwing small kites into the air, trying to catch a passing breeze. Their children, two girls and a boy between them, run around aimlessly as their wives sit and watch. It’s a picture-perfect family scene.

There’s a serenity to it all. An overcast sky of bluish-gray clouds float above the sea in the distance. The setting sun casts an orange glow beneath them. The Sea was calm yet pale, matching the placid sky. The air was still, outside of the distant music that is. The children giggled as they ran in circles until my host brothers, finally having raised a kite up, gathered them in to fly it.

It’s moments like these you’re grateful to have a host family with whom to spend a holiday. Being in a strong family environment helps ease the feeling that comes from the constant reminder that you’re over 2,000 miles away from yours. Seeing your host brothers interact with their wives and kids makes you envision a similar life of your own in the future. A life in which the holidays are once again spent with the people you love most.

Skip

It’s Easter Monday. Due to the holiday, buses aren’t running. This means the last sliver of hope you had in catching the ferry to Carriacou with some other Volunteers just went out the window.

So you go up the road a-ways to the house of some guys you’ve gotten to know. They have a PlayStation, one in which you can play NBA 2k17. Let’s be honest here, playing 2k was not something you think you’d be able to do when you signed up for the Peace Corps. But you spend a hot afternoon sitting on a couch, sweating in the stifling heat and taking turns playing the game. They make up a pot of mannish waters, a local soup containing various parts of goat cooked with herbs, spices, and vegetables. They hand you a serving. It’s not exactly appealing, but you dig in anyway. At this point, you’ve become accustomed to eating things in which you’re better off not knowing what it is until after you ate it. When you finish, they tease you for hardly touching the best parts (the goat, that is). You laugh, shrugging to acknowledge the fact that at least you tried.

You go with them down into The Lance, the part of Gouyave across the river. You step over a construction rope and cross the new bridge that is currently being built over the river. The structure and foundation have already been built, as all that needs to be done now is the surface of the pavement.

The road in The Lance spills out before you as you come off the bridge. Small, colored homes are intermingled among the shops and bars on either side of the road. Various people sit on the street corners, verandas, and shop stoops. A white tent is set up on the corner of a junction. Music booms from the stacked speakers, shaking not only the ground below your feet, but your ear drums as well. A group of girls stand in a circle on the corner of the junction, taking turns dancing in front of and with each other. A drunk man stumbles back and forth, dancing in the middle of the street. He’s swaying and twirling with the music while somehow managing to avoid the occasional passing vehicle (or was it the other way around?). Other patrons are set up around the tent, standing on the side of the road, or sitting on empty crates with beers in hand. It’s holiday time in the Caribbean.

Pause 

* * *

Snapping back into the present, you sit back, sinking into your sofa. Your chest rises and falls with a heaving sigh. The rain is still falling and the power is still out. The thought of where this storm came from or how it came to be puzzles you. It was as if it came out of nowhere just to knock out the lights and leave you in the dark. You’re not sure what to do, or even can do. You go back to trying to pass the time, turning back to the stereo…

Play

* * *

You’re riding in the back right corner of a bus, weaving up and down the hills outside of Grenville. The seats next to you have emptied out. You’re relieved because of this, as this means no one will have to move so you can climb out at your stop. You keep one eye out the window, looking for any familiar marker but still not sure if you’ll know it to see it. The conductor, a young man with a flat-brimmed Miami Heat hat cocked to the side, turns around and gives you a look as if to say, “Where you going?”

“The school junction,” you say to him confidently.

He looks to the woman beside him, puzzled. She shrugs, not knowing what I mean by that, either.

“By the school,” you explain. “St. Mary’s RC.”

“Oh, we pass already,” he nods, finally understanding. “We drop you back.”

“That’s fine,” you shrug passively, conceding to the fact that you missed your stop.

After dropping, you walk down the road to PCV Katelyn’s house. A cool breeze blows past, providing the natural air conditioning that comes with living in the mountains. Houses line either side of the road, giving it a suburban community-type of feeling. The air is quiet and tranquil. The green mountains loom in the distance. When you arrive at her home, Katelyn gets up from her veranda to greet you.

“So…I went all the way to Paraclete,” you smile slyly, explaining why it took you so long to get there.

“I figured you did,” she laughs.

The rest of the day and night was spent in the company of friends, both PCV and local, that passed through to give Katelyn’s mother, who had been visiting for the holiday, a proper Grenadian send-off.

Skip

You’re wading into the refreshingly cool and transparent waters of Grand Anse Beach. Soft waves roll past, crashing behind you onto the shore. Off to your right, the lush green coast is speckled with vibrantly colored houses leading the way to the town of St. George’s. Mountains rise up behind the town, looking over the capital city like a big brother in the schoolyard. A blue haze seems to hover over the mountains, a humble reminder of the jaw-dropping beauty that this tropical island has.

You dive under the surface. The cool water soothes your body, hot from the sweltering sun. You turn your shoulders as you come up to the surface and begin floating on your back. Then letting your feet fall to the ground, you look back at the shore in front of you. Resorts line the coast as vacationers are passed out on beach chairs with books in their laps. Palm trees run along the coast behind the beachhead. You turn around, taking in the vast, empty expanse of the turquoise waters before you.

It’s a picturesque panoramic view, like a calendar photo you would find in the month of July. People dream all their lives of visiting places like this and here you are, living that dream. You should be relishing in this moment, in this environment. But something is off. You don’t quite feel like yourself, haven’t really for the past couple of days come to think of it. It doesn’t feel right, like something is missing…

Skip

You’re back at the basketball court in Gouyave. Only this time instead of being on the inside playing, you’re on the outside watching. You stand on the hillside along many of the friends you’ve made in the past year.

Wait, did you just say past year? Yeah, it’s almost been that long. You’re still trying to wrap your head around reaching your 11th month of service.

To your right is the guys you went out with the other night in The Lance, then there’s Mansa, after him is your neighbor Roseanne and one of your students. To your left is some of the guys from your own basketball team, guys you can now call friends. It seems everyone in the community has come out to watch The Sparklers (Gouyave’s primary basketball team and traditionally the best team on the island, who we scrimmaged many times to prepare for the tournament) as they play in their semi-final match.

Skip

You’re lying in bed with a pit in your stomach, staring at a framed photograph. It was given to you as a gift by a close friend from home. In it, a dozen graduates dressed in black cap and gowns smile broadly arm-in-arm. They had just reached the pinnacle of their undergraduate studies at Capital University. Four years ago they were complete strangers. But now, they were practically family. Your very own, “Capfam.” It’s hard to believe that at this time last year, you all lived across the street from each other.

Just the week prior, someone had asked you what item you were the most grateful to have brought down with you. They probably anticipated an answer of something practical like a tablet, adapter, or computer.

Nope, none of the above.

It was this photo, along with another one of your family that you brought down, that gives you comfort when you’re down. They are the gentle reminder of the people you left behind and the support and love they provide you on a daily basis. It may not come regularly in verbal or written form, but that’s no matter, you can still feel it. There’s solace in knowing one day you’ll return to them.

Sometimes, however, that’s what makes being here all the more difficult. Periodically, the homesickness becomes almost unbearable, to the point you find yourself sitting alone in your room, crying as you stare at a photograph. It’s times like these you realize how long two years really is. You wipe away a tear. Sometimes, you just want your service to be over.

Skip

It’s the first day back at school. You’re not as prepared as you should be, so you’re standing behind your desk desperately digging through your box of school supplies. You feel a presence that someone has just entered the stage area where you conduct your pull-out sessions. You look up to find a student of yours cautiously peering in.

The student, who we’ll call “K,” is a 14-year-old seventh grader at the school. At the start of the previous term, you were asked by your principal to include him in your tutoring schedule. Upon initial assessment, he could identify only six letters in the alphabet. Over the course of the last term you’ve worked your way down the alphabet with him, building vocabulary and reading CVC (consonant-vowel-consonant) words along the way.

“Afternoon, sir. We going to work today?” He asks you, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Uhmm,” you hesitate.

Your priority at school is your third graders. You usually work with K on Thursday afternoons, as that’s when your third-graders have Physical Education. But you have his lessons already planned out through the rest of the alphabet. His attendance isn’t regular, either, so you have to take advantage of every opportunity you get with him. You already admitted you weren’t prepared to pull-out any of your third-graders today, so you decide to run with it.

“Actually, yeah. Go ahead and take a seat right there” you respond.

You sit down and get to work. He was doing well the past couple times you worked with him. You decide to push the pace and tackle four letters today: M, N, O, and P. After a quick review of the letter shapes and sounds. You move to the chalkboard, where all the real learning happens.

“You remember your alphabet, right?” I say, as he nods (As it turns out, K was always able to recite the alphabet verbally, but lacks letter recognition).

“Good. Then put it on the board like you’ve done before, up to the letter P this time,” you toss him a piece of chalk, which he catches.

He gets to work writing his capital and common letters on the board. He makes it to Ff when he pauses and says, “Sir, I forget.”

“Nope,” you respond cheerfully but curtly, “You’re not allowed. Saying ‘I forget’ means you’re giving up. How about you think of a question to ask me so I can help you.”

Together we work out how to draw a proper Gg.

We sit in our respective chairs, staring at the CVC words you scrawled on the chalkboard as he forcibly sounds them out. You encourage him to take his time, reminding him that there is no rush or outside pressure. Occasionally, he scans the alphabet across the top of the board, reciting his alphabet to decipher the name of an unfamiliar letter and try to determine its correlating sound. His decoding and fluency has gotten stronger, but he still forcibly strings the sounds of each letter together until the word finally clicks. But now he’s getting to the point where he’s reading words successfully on his second or third try.

“That’s it!” You exclaim as he reads the word map aloud. “You’re crushing this, K! And not only that, allow me to let you in on a little secret: Have you noticed some of these words have letters in them that we haven’t even covered yet?”

A look of surprise pops on his face, as he eagerly scans the alphabet and the words on the board to see if what you told him was true.

“I noticed you already knew some of these other letters, so I’ve been slipping them in there and you haven’t missed a beat. I think you’re ready for a sentence.”

“A sentence?”

“Yes, a sentence. It’s a series of words put together that says something. You want to try one?”

“Okay.”

On the board you write: The dog bit the cat.

The was a challenge for him but you help him through it. He read dog easily, before he struggled but successfully decoded bit. He then finished repeating the before finally sounding out the word cat.

“Give me a bounce!” You laugh, reaching out for a fist bump. He returns it proudly, yet with a look of disbelief.

You write another sentence on the board. As you do this, he buries his head in his hands.

“Sir, my head is hurting,” he says.

“Your head is hurting?” You laugh. “Good! That means you’re learning. But you know how when you’re training for a sport you have to keep going even though you’re tired? Well this has to work the same way, as you’re working out your brain right now. You’ve been doing amazing so far. Let’s try two more and we’ll call it a day. Think you can handle two more?”

He nods.

You write two more simple sentences on the board. They challenged him, but he overcame each word to read the sentences without any of my assistance. After the last one, he turns his head to the side, away from you.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to read,” he says turning back to you and wiping a tear from his eye.

Your heart breaks. It’s the first time he’s said something like this. Tears of your own start welling up inside. You hold them back, but damn you’re proud of him.

“You know, I’m happy to hear that,” you say. “And you are reading. You read all of this without any of my help!”

He smiles.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the day.

“You’re doing well, K. Keep it up. But if you want to read, it’s important that you be at school every day. Last term there were days where I could have met with you, but you weren’t here. If you want to continue making progress, you need to make sure you’re here. Especially on Thursdays, as that’s when I have the whole afternoon reserved just for you.”

He agrees. You hope he follows through on his word, as attendance was still a problem last term.

“Nice work today, K.”

“Thanks,” he replies as he gets up from his chair, turning to leave the room.

“Hey.”

He stops and looks back at you. “I’m proud of you, K.”

A smirk creeps across his face. Putting his head back down, he turns and walks out of the door.

Stop

* * *

You sit up, not sure exactly what just happened. You wipe a tear from your eye. Standing up to look outside, you find that the storm has passed. Just then various beeps ring through the house as it comes back to life, the power returning.

* * *

For the past two weeks, I have been on break for the Easter holiday. It was an eventful two weeks, in which I once again removed myself from this blog in order to just try and experience what I could. The last break from school I had was a four-week break at Christmastime, in which I spent traveling across three countries and reuniting with family and friends, new and old. This one was a little bit different.

Due to obligations, I had to remain in my community for most of it, which I’m happy to have done. However, I did jump at the first opportunity to escape and do anything that remotely felt like a vacation. I took my own personal tour of Grenada, visiting the other Volunteers and seeing their communities. I re-visited some of my favorite spots around the island. However, over the course of those two weeks, something just felt off.

It felt like something was missing. It’s something you can mindlessly pass over when caught up in the day-to-day obligations of the work week. I felt like I should be enjoying all of my free time, but the something that was missing just kept pressing itself in the back of my mind. I tried distracting myself from it with the same people, places, and activities that lead me to fall in love with this country in the first place. So I continued passing the time, but the figurative storm still raged outside. I think it all came to a head on that final night, when after wiping the tears from my eyes, I was still staring at the framed photograph I brought from home.

Yep, you guessed it. That something that was missing was home. It was my friends. It was my family. It was the fact that I was not able to spend the Easter holiday with them that was weighing on my mind all this time. It just took me awhile to realize it.

So while this storm of homesickness swirled around my head I just kept pressing Skip, trying to pass the time with the stories on the figurative stereo. Honestly, deep down I think I was just trying to distract myself from acknowledging what was truly affecting me.

On the surface, everything operated as normal and I acted as such. I didn’t want anyone to know I was feeling this way. Even now, I have mixed feelings writing about my homesickness. After all, I am living on an island in the Caribbean and I know there’s many people out there that would dream of an opportunity like this. They tell me how lucky I am to experience life down here; and truly, I am. But whenever I’m told that, I can’t help but think how lucky they are to be able to spend their free time during the holidays with their friends and family at home.

I guess the old saying rings true that, “We all want what we ain’t got.”

But then it wasn’t until I was back in school last week that everything fell back into place. In working with K and seeing the advancements he’s made, I was reminded of why I’m here. I was reminded of why I’ve given up that free time and holidays with family in order to do this. Witnessing the breakthrough that K made in our first session of the new term, it made all the mixed feelings wash away. It re-motivated me and inspired me to continue doing what I can to get my students, who I have come to know and love, reading and writing. Sure, I’m over 2,000 miles away from home. Yes, I miss my friends and family immensely. But never was I as proud as the moment K was reading his first sentences.

My mother recently told me that by coming here I had put my life on hold, pressing the Pause button, so to speak. So while a passing storm of homesickness swirled around me, I kept pressing Skip in hopes of fast-forwarding to the day where I actually could go home. But now that I’m back at school, I have re-discovered why I pressed the Pause button to begin with.

Time is moving right along and I’ll be home before I know it. When I do come home, I know I will miss these days spent as a school teacher in the Caribbean. I love what I’m doing here and who I’m becoming because of it. But that’s not to say there aren’t days that I wish it were already over. I dream of the day I’ll be able hop in a car and drive home for a holiday dinner. Now, if only there were a way of having both: a love of a foreign experience with an ability to come home whenever you want.

In the meantime, I’m learning to leave the Skip button alone. After all, what’s playing is life as a Peace Corps Volunteer. It’s a life with a lot of exhilarating highs and some pretty challenging lows.

But I guess that’s why they call Peace Corps, “The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love.”

Sometimes you need a reminder that the only button that needs pressing, is the one that says: Play.

Cheers!

 

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