A Mango for the Road

I guess I’ve been putting this off for awhile now. It hasn’t been for any particular reason, I just haven’t felt much up to writing these past couple months.

Not too long ago, I posted on here about the conflicting emotions and feelings of Closure, especially as it pertained to the conclusion of my Peace Corps service. At the time of writing it, I still had several weeks remaining. The conflicting feelings continued throughout my final weeks, but I felt that spending time writing about it would just take away from my simply experiencing it.

So I put it off.  

For those that don’t already know, I am officially back in the States. I arrived in Cleveland about three weeks ago, coincidentally awaiting my parents alongside Pro Bowl defensive tackle Myles Garrett, of the Cleveland Browns (cue internal fan-girl scream here). 

In the little time that I’ve been home, a lot of people naturally have asked me how it feels to be back. My answer, I’m pretty sure, has varied from person-to-person and question-to-question.  

It’s been a relief. 

It’s been a joy. 

It’s been bittersweet. 

At times, it’s been overwhelming.  

Part of me wants to say I’ve felt out of place since returning, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Home is home. How can you ever feel out of place with the people that have shaped you into who you are? 

In a sense it feels as though nothing has changed; however, it also seems that everything has changed.  

Flashing back a few weeks ago, when Closure was written, I wasn’t exactly in the healthiest state of mind. I was stressed and emotionally drained. The idea of closing my service and returning home seemed daunting to me, which I suppose is only natural when you’ve committed yourself to something as drastic and immense as serving in the Peace Corps. I grew accustomed to my life down there and the way things were. Then recognizing the fact that it’s within human nature to be resistant to change, it’s no wonder that I found the idea of returning stateside to be intimidating.

Nevertheless, in early June I had a trick up my sleeve. My cousin Joey was to get married on Saturday, June 22, 2019. Since the day I left for the Eastern Caribbean over two years ago, I have missed three family weddings and a number of other reunions and gatherings. Now, I signed up for the Peace Corps knowing that would likely be the case, that it was just a part of the sacrifice I had to make. It doesn’t, however, make it any easier when you see the pictures and hear the stories after the weddings and gatherings pass without you. 

Additionally, seeing all those surprise homecoming videos of military personnel and their families, it can be fun to imagine what it would be like to pull off something like that. Thus, an idea was born. I had to pull a few strings and tell a white lie or two, but with the help of my cousin Joey and brothers Tom and Greg, a loose plan was put in place and I booked a flight for Houston, the destination for the wedding.  

I was a bit nervous, but also curious as to what it would be like. Sure, I was returning to the States and spending time with family, but this time it would be different. This brief weekend hiatus was essentially going to function as a preview of my transition to come, a glimpse into my life post-service. I didn’t really tell anyone in my community I was leaving, fearing that they would misconstrue that it meant I was leaving for good. So in a sense, I literally “snuck away” on a plane bound for Houston. 

The next thing I knew, I was crouching below the dashboard of my brother Greg’s rental car, popping up at the airport arrival pick-up just as my unsuspecting mother approached the car. Needless to say, we got her pretty good.

After the initial surprise, the secret of my presence was unveiled as the rest of my family arrived over the course of the day. Everything carried on per usual from there, with drinks at the hotel bar, dinner at a nearby restaurant, and even a late-night trip to downtown Houston. The next day, the wedding day, was as picture-perfect and as beautiful of a wedding as you could imagine.  

Being there for it all was not only what I had wanted, it was exactly what I needed. I came away from that wedding feeling revitalized and re-energized. Sometimes it takes a weekend escape with your family to get you back on your feet. I realized that I needed them, Just as much and if not more, than they needed me. I feel it’s true what they say about family: at the end of the day, they are all have.

I’m glad I have mine. 

Meanwhile after returning back to school, things were still moving fast. I was in the midst of running the after-school Techno-Reading Program for the struggling K-3 readers at the school. Funded through an Early Learners’ Program grant, myself and a few counterpart teachers orchestrated literacy lessons using the ten tablets the school received through the grant. It was challenging at times, as the Wifi connection at my school was not always consistent nor reliable. However, we fulfilled the obligations of the grant the best we could and the the tablets helped generate an excited interest in the students’ reading.

Particularly for my third graders, the final weeks of school meant not only end-of-year exams, but post-assessments for the seventeen of them in my pull-out tutoring program. Overall, I am satisfied with the progress many of them have made this year. Out of the seventeen students I was working with, thirteen of them improved in their reading by at least one grade level. More specifically, eight of those improved students are now reading at the grade three level.  

Presently with that in mind, a few people have asked me, considering all is said and done: “Was it worth it? Do you feel you have made a difference?” 

To that my answer is simple: Yes. 

These past two years were an absolute challenge for me. I got to see, experience, and explore a number of incredible things and I met some amazingly inspiring individuals along the way. But what truly makes all the sacrifices and challenges of the past two years’ worth it is knowing that a number of students are now reading at a better level. It’s students like K, whose story I referenced in a previous post. When I first assessed K’s reading ability at the start of the year, he was reading at a pre-school level as a third grader. 

But over the course of the year, he took a genuine interest in his reading. Instead of playing outside with the other students during break time or lunch, on his own initiative he chose to settle into his desk with a book and practice reading. His newfound passion for reading paid dividends at the end of the year when he completed the post-assessment reading at the third-grade level.

Yes, you read that correctly.  

In just one academic year, K jumped four reading grade levels.

An additional example would be another one of my students, B, who I taught in my first year and was retained for a second year at grade three due to his literacy struggles. A quiet and shy student, he largely kept to himself. He didn’t register much substantive progress in my first year with him, where he started and finished at a pre-k reading level. But by the end of my second year working with him, he was not only reading at a grade three level and promoted to grade four, he became a regular and active participant in class discussions.  

So was it worth it? 


Seventy-five percent of the students I worked with in the pull-out tutoring program registered improvement. For the four students who didn’t, I can still walk away with the knowledge that although they didn’t improve by reading level, they have a better understanding of the alphabet and de-coding strategies than when I began working with them. In short, I leave knowing they are in better shape now than when I had found them. 

I devoted a lot of time and effort to the students, staff, and teachers of St. Peter’s RC School. So when the final day of school arrived, my principal and a man I admire greatly, Mr. George, asked me to speak a few words to the school, I became nervous. Truthfully, public speaking was never really an issue for me. I typically don’t mind making presentations or speaking in front of large audiences. 

But this time it was different. 

This time my heart was pounding against my chest. Standing in front of the three hundred plus students, faculty, and families of the school, I shared my message with them, at times using a notecard to guide me along. I expressed thanks to the appropriate individuals who supported me and my efforts and without whom, these aforementioned accomplishments would not have been possible. I conveyed how important ambition and literacy is in a young student’s life, as well as my confidence in the opportunities that exist because of the RC teaching staff’s capabilities. Then ultimately the real nerve-racking part, it was also the last time I was to address them all, my time to say goodbye.

Later on, after an all-school field trip around the island and the students having all departed for the summer holiday, we had our end-of-the-year teachers’ social. With plenty of drinks, food, karaoke, and dancing to go around, it was the most fun I had in a long time. The faculty and staff of the RC School from day one welcomed me in as one of their own. It was a joy to be able to celebrate and share in their company one last time. That final night with them is one I’ll always cherish.

With my obligations at the school complete, I had two weeks remaining before I was set to return home. As with the nature of summer, the other Volunteers had a variety of plans varying from vacations, to camps being organized and trainings to be prepared for. Consequently, our first weekend off was going to be the last gathering of most of us together. Spending the day bathing in the Sea, playing dominoes, and dancing around a bonfire at night, I couldn’t have thought of a better conclusion with the government-issued friends that became my family.

The following morning, I set out with Volunteers John Lyness, Deb Campelia, and Katie Riley, and two of John’s friends on a five-day sailing trip to celebrate the close of our service. The week that followed was arguably one of the best and most surreal of my life. We sailed up the western coast of Grenada to the islands of Carriacou, Union, and even going as far as the Tobago Cays in the Grenadine Island chain. We snorkeled frequently along the way at the Underwater Sculpture Park in Dragon Bay, the reefs off the coast of Carriacou, and alongside loggerhead sea turtles and sting rays in the Cays.  

There’s something to be said of the freedom a sailing trip entails. It was the first time I’ve ever done anything of the sort and it was nothing short of liberating. The warm sea breeze pushing the sails forward, cruising along a passage of deep blue and turquoise waters, small islands forming a gauntlet on either side of you with a horizon stretching as far as the eye can see, it was the true embodiment of freedom. Most nights I spent sleeping in the open-air cockpit, rocking gently to sleep with the distant chorus of the on-shore crickets and the looming shadows of the adjacent islands. Beside the silhouetted camel-back peaks of Union Island, I couldn’t stop peeking over the side just to see if it was real, in a “pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming” type of way. It was the ultimate escape.

By the time we returned to Grenada, a set of storms began rolling in. Despite what at the time became unpredictable weather, I did my best to experience Grenada’s beauty one last time. This included more days spent on Grand Anse and BBC beaches and an afternoon hike to Seven Sisters Waterfalls. On these trips I was accompanied by a number of the other Volunteers, witnessing fiery sunsets, climbing up rushing waterfalls, bar-hopping in my community of Gouyave, accomplishing my final bucket-list goal of renting a paddleboard, and cruising down the western coastline in the bed of a pick-up truck.

But while all this might sound amazing, those last few days were still challenging for me. With the objectives of my service having been accomplished and my plans for graduate school already organized, I was at a sort of crossroads.  

I had to begin saying farewells to all the people I befriended during my two years in Gouyave. When I would explain that my contract was up and I was leaving for home, I’d receive surprised responses of: “It’s been two years already?” and “You’ll be coming back right?” This became an incredibly difficult undertaking, to the point that I didn’t even want to tell people I was leaving. I was almost ashamed to be leaving, having the opportunity to return to the United States, whereas they were all to remain there in Grenada. 

It’s really just kind of hard to explain. You become so ingrained into a community, into a culture, into a way of life that you almost forget you have a vastly different life back home. But these people, they take you in and recognize you as one of their own. They invested as much into me as I had into them, and consequently it feels unfair that once I leave, they’ll have to start the process all over again with another new Volunteer. Meanwhile I return back home to embark on another exciting opportunity that awaits me.  

Serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer was exhausting. They say it’s a twenty-four hour job, as you always have to consider your reputation and the things you represent; for not only are your representing yourself, but your family, friends, government, and country as a whole. It’s like living in a fish bowl, one where everyone can see what you’re doing whether you like it or not and judge your actions as representative of your home.

I did the best I could going out to social gatherings, festivals, bars, street parties, basketball games, and cook-ups even when I wasn’t feeling up to it. There were nights where all I wanted to do was stay home, lay in bed, and read a book or watch a game. But when you want to represent the best your country has to offer and integrate to cultivate these international relationships, those sacrifices had to be made.

I often joked that living in the ever-active Gouyave, known as Grenada’s “City That Never Sleeps,” was a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing because there was always something to do, a reason to get out of the house and have a place to be. Yet, it was also a curse for the very same reason. These people welcomed me with wide-open arms and warm smiles each and every day. They welcomed me into their hearts and into their homes. They invited me to cook-ups, lunches, church services, sporting events, and road marches. Over time these social events developed from something that I had to do, to something that I wanted to do.

In other words, I became one of them.  

I reached a point where I hardly felt like an outsider. In fact, I no longer felt like I stood out from anybody else at all. Students, friends, colleagues, and passer-bys on the road frequently called out, “Mr. King!” “King!” or “Scott!” with a honk of a car horn and a wave, just as they would with anyone else.  

All this considered, as difficult as it was to announce my impending departure, I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye. It would have been unfair to just vanish into thin air. So I continued on, sprinting to the finish.

Yet having two weeks to do this, the whole process became lengthy and drawn-out, like slowly peeling back an old Band-Aid. I became anxious, just wanting to rip this Band-Aid off once and for all so I can begin the healing process.  

But time, as it always does, eventually came to pass and I finally found my way back home. Three weeks have passed now, during which I’ve been running the necessary errands for school, visiting friends and family, catching up on all the Cleveland experiences I’ve been missing, as well as sitting on the couch and simply existing. I went to the zoo with my niece and nephews, met friends for drinks, attended Indians games, watched my oldest nephew’s baseball game, and played with my seven-month old niece in Columbus. It was an opportunity for me to catch up on all that I had been missing, an opportunity I made sure not to take for granted.

For my first couple days back, I admit I was reluctant to leave the house. Stepping out into the world seemed overwhelming, with the world flying by as I simply meandered on in slow-motion, feeling hardly able to keep up. But much in the same way as my early days in Gouyave, I forced myself out to begin the re-integration process. I soon discovered, though, I could only take so much at one time.

A little while back I heard a story about a Volunteer someone knew that served in Morocco. It was said that upon returning to the States, he locked himself in his room for a month. A friend of mine who served in Costa Rica confided in me that it took him three to four months after returning to begin feeling back to normal here. In their shoes today, I can now I understand why; although I won’t go to the extreme of locking myself in a room, I understand why one would be so inclined. At times I’ve wanted nothing more than to close myself out from the world. I’ve been feeling almost numb, not sure what to do with myself. Although I’ve been savoring the peace and quiet, the downtime spent with family and going out again with old friends, I still don’t entirely feel like my old self.

I’ve found myself craving isolation. After all, it was in the downtime I had alone in Grenada that I would truly feel at ease and relax. Time to myself had become a necessity for me to re-charge my batteries and become ready to face the world.  

Admittedly and uncharacteristically, in all this stagnant transition, at times I’d become irritated and frustrated with what should have been minor inconveniences. I can’t really explain why certain things would trouble me so much, but I guess it’s all part of the decompressing process, “growing pains,” so to speak.  

For two years, I’ve been living another life. All of a sudden, I’m expected to cut ties and move on and this is proving harder than I thought. The frustrating part is I still can’t really pinpoint an exact explanation as to why I’m feeling this way, despite the obvious answer that things just aren’t the way they were before.  

Home is different. I’ve witnessed first-hand how technology here has advanced in my absence, I’ve heard the stories from the social gatherings and experiences I’ve missed, I’ve now seen the physical growth of my nieces and nephews from babies into toddlers and toddlers into children since I’ve been gone.

Yet in reality, I can’t expect things to remain the same forever. As I mentioned earlier, it’s simply human nature to be resistant to change; but change can also mean progress. For as much as everything has changed at home, I can feel the changes within me as well. I’m not that green, unpolished recent college grad I was when I left. I’m a better and more holistic individual than I once was, and this experience has played a major role in that development.

This experience has changed my outlook on life. I’m able to relate and empathize with different people and perspectives that I wasn’t fully capable of doing before. The other ways in which I’ve changed I’m still understanding, a process that I recognize will take days, weeks, and maybe even years.  

I’m happy to be home. I’ve enjoyed having these past couple weeks to essentially catch my breath and hit the re-set button, to spend time with people I love. The time at home still has felt all too brief, the good-byes just as difficult, but I’m ready for the next set of challenges and experiences that await me out in Reno, Nevada as I embark on getting my Masters degree in Journalism. The starting point of this new journey begins this weekend, as I will be making the four-day solo road trip across the heart of the continental United States to get there.

Although the drive out there will be slow and monotonous, I can’t wait to start. The trip will give me time to continue decompressing the past two years. It will be a cleansing process, with a fresh start in a new place when I arrive in Reno.

Yet although the whole idea is to hit the re-set button and start fresh, I will continue contemplating my experience in Grenada and all that it has taught me. Grenada, the people, and the memories I created there is something I’ll always have with me; it’s become a part of me.  

The first post I ever wrote at the beginning of this journey I had titled “There’s No Graceful Way to Eat a Mango.” I find the mango analogy fitting, as glorious as this experience was, at times it wasn’t always graceful.

But in closing this post, and consequently the storyline of my service, I’ll return again to the mango analogy.  

One of my numerous goodbyes over the past couple weeks was to Stephanie Pena, a fellow PCV. After saying goodbye and turning to step out of the door, I heard her ask: “You want a mango for the road?” 

I paused, hesitating as I contemplated her question.  

“You know what? I think I will,” I replied, turning back and accepting the mango. 

Then stepping out into the early Caribbean sunlight, I tossed the mango up and down in my hand as I began strolling down the road, a smirk across my face.  

Despite all the mixed emotions, feelings, and questions swirling about my life right now, deep down I know everything will turn out all right and the way they’re supposed to. It’s just going to take some time.

This experience, ultimately, is just a mango I’ll be taking for the road. 


Day 1: Sailing up the western coast of Grenada to Mango Bay with a stop at the Underwater Sculpture Park
Day 2: Sailing from Grenada to its satellite island Carriacou
Day 3: Sailing from Carriacou to Union Island in the Grenadine chain of St. Vincent
Day 4: Sailing from Union Island to snorkel with sea turtles in the Tobago Cays and a return trip to Carriacou
Day 5: Snorkeling at Sandy Island off the coast of Carriacou and sailing back to mainland Grenada
Day 6: Snorkeling the reef at Mango Bay and the return to port in True Blue, Grenada

Run Wid It

“Music, at its essence, is what gives us memories. And the longer a song has existed in our lives, the more memories we have of it.” -Stevie Wonder

Music can be a funny thing. Some songs you fall in love with immediately, others require listening to a few times before it becomes a favorite. Others you may even hate to hear, but it will nevertheless get stuck in your head for the rest of the day. People love to share and proclaim their favorite artists or genres, while others are resistant to explore anything different or new in favor of their well-accustomed classics.

Before coming down here, I had no concept as to what the genre of soca music was. However, I also remember being eager to listen to and experience authentic reggae music, beyond the universal love the world has for Bob Marley. In short, I wasn’t very well-versed in a broad range of music, so I was looking forward to the opportunity to experience what else was out there.

Despite that fresh outlook, an unexpected development in my time here has been the number of live shows and concerts I’ve attended. Just last weekend, I attended the Grenada Music Festival with a few PCVs and local friends. A three-night event, I attended the “Reggae Night” to see Busy Signal, Maxi Priest, and Ky-Mani Marley (son of Bob Marley). I’ve fallen in love with live music since being down here. I guess that shouldn’t come as a surprise, given that music and dance are essentially the foundations of Caribbean culture. Caribbean music, whether its Trinidadian soca, Jamaican reggae, or everything in between, has become one of the things I will miss most when this chapter of my life is complete in a few short weeks.

But the beautiful thing about music, much like any art form, is that it stays with you for the rest of your life. Every time you listen to a particular song, you can seemingly become transported to another place in time. When a song is played, you’ll commonly feel the same emotions or re-live certain memories that whether consciously or not, you’ve associated to the particular rhythm, lyric, or song you’re hearing. This especially holds true after seeing your favorite songs performed live at a concert with friends.

Additionally, what one person takes away from a song might be entirely different than another. As a result, a particular song can take on innumerable narratives, countless memories, and infinite meanings. This aspect of music, and art as a whole, is simply beautiful. It’s something that just can’t be taken away from you once its already been experienced.

Consequently, to have lived and shared my experience for two years in the Eastern Caribbean and to not include music, would be a great injustice. Therefore, what follows is a soundtrack I’ve dubbed “Run Wid It.” These are ten of my favorite songs from both the soca and reggae genres, and from my favorite regional Caribbean artists. Each song title is hyper-linked, so you can take a listen for yourself as I share with you my personal takes on each song and the memories I associate with them. Unfortunately, I had to narrow down my list as much as I could, so I did leave off some great songs. But I also wanted to share with you the breadth and authenticity of what Caribbean music has to offer. For those interested, I’ve created a few extensive playlists on my brother’s Spotify, which you can find hyper-linked at the bottom of this page. Otherwise, please feel free to reach out if you would like to hear more or let me know which ones you liked best. Enjoy!

I Know Love- Chronixx 

Chronixx is hands-down my favorite Caribbean artist. In November of my first year here, he performed in Grenada promoting his then-newly released album Chronology. To this day, not attending that concert is my biggest regret. At the time I just didn’t know him or his music, but after he came and went his music just popped across the island (and I learned my lesson for not going). You couldn’t step outside or get on a bus without hearing one his tracks. The same held true on the island of St. Vincent, where I visited a month later with a few Volunteers in December of 2017. As I later discovered for myself, from top to bottom his Chronology album is incredible. For anyone looking to test the waters of modern reggae, I suggest starting with Chronixx. Although his biggest hits are Smile Jamaica, Skankin’ Sweet, and I Can, the bonus track of I Know Love was my favorite from the get-go (other personal favorites being Majesty and Legend). But with I Know Love‘s sunny, easy-going vibes, what’s there not to love? 

Soul Provider- Romain Virgo 

One of the first major hits in my time here, Romain Virgo’s passionate vocals on this track never cease to impress me. A very soulful and heartful song, it’s no wonder why it caught on the way it did. This was one of my first introductions into modern reggae and for me, it’s an instant classic.

Rockaway- Beres Hammond 

When I hear the name Beres Hammond, my first thought is of Julie, my St. Lucian host mother. During one of my first days in St. Lucia, I went out to lunch with her and a friend. At the shop, reggae music was playing on the speakers and when I heard a song that struck me, I had to ask, “Who is this?” She quickly answered that it was her favorite artist, Beres Hammond. The fondly reminiscent tune of Rockaway was the song that first piqued my interest in old-school reggae. I was fortunate to see Beres perform live at a Mother’s Day concert in May of 2018 here in Grenada with some local friends. 

House of Exile- Lucky Dube 

The distinct and recognizable voice of Lucky Dube, the late South African reggae artist, brings to mind the many nights I’ve spent shooting pool at “D Banana Bar,” otherwise known as Mansa’s, in my community of Gouyave. One of the trailblazers for reggae music in the days before Bob Marley’s prime, Lucky Dube was the guy. Although I enjoy many of his songs, this one seems to me the most fitting of his signature reggae style. 

Wanna Be Loved- Buju Banton 

Up until a few months ago, I had no idea who Buju Banton even was. Flyers and billboards one day seemingly sprung up all around the island promoting his “Long Walk to Freedom” tour that came to Grenada last month. His upcoming show became the talk of the island. Tickets were pretty expensive, particularly by EC concert standards. Yet, I was given a very strong and influential recommendation by Wes Moses, our former Director of Programming and Training in PCEC and who now runs a guest house on the island of Dominica. He had just gone to the show there and explained that, “this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.” Coming from someone like Wes, who has lived in the Caribbean for much of his life, it was a recommendation I couldn’t ignore. The show didn’t disappoint either, as Buju performed continuously and emphatically for hours on-stage before concluding with a 4th of July-esque firework display. Before and during the show, Wanna Be Loved was hands-down my favorite.  


Now that we’ve slowed things down with some old-school reggae, it’s time we pick things back up with some feel-good, fast-paced soca. I heard Dash perform this song at the “Dingy Concert” that takes place at a southern point of Grenada every few months. Essentially, Dash and his band performed on a tugboat rigged as a stage and we, the audience, got to take in the show from adjacent dingies and barges floating out on the water. It was a lively performance by a well-known and proudly Grenadian artist. I really enjoy this music video as well, given that it was filmed in various locations across Grenada and includes a number of cultural elements. Not to mention, how many times do you have the opportunity to experience a concert out on the waters of the Caribbean Sea?

Hookin’ Me- Farmer Nappy 

Last February, I spontaneously decided to attend an Independence Day fete at what’s known locally as “The Cowpen.” There, several artists performed their recently released tracks before leaving for the upcoming Carnival in Trinidad. The upbeat soca rhythm counters the somewhat realist lyrics of a man being kicked out of the house despite still being madly in love. I had first recognized the lyrics while playing cricket with a few of the local children; when a passing vehicle blasting the song went by, they randomly and excitedly proclaimed: “And she paaacckked up me clotthhess, in a gar-bage bag!” When Farmer Nappy performed at the Cowpen it was right as the sun began rising, which if you know how concerts and fetes go here, there’s a huge lift in energy as everyone is literally and metaphorically brought back to life with the rising sun (due to concerts and fetes quite literally rocking all night long until late in the morning).

So Long Nadia Batson 

Set to the same soca rhythm as Hookin’ Me, this song often follows immediately after it when played by local DJs. I love this song primarily for its lyrics: “So long I ain’t see yuh, gimme a wine nuh,” which is a fitting description of a Caribbean reunion with old friends at any fete. Another particular line I love from this song is, “I thought yuh hiding, I thought yuh went foreign.” Anytime I would travel to St. Lucia for a conference or to America for the Christmas holiday, upon my return countless people in my community would say, “I thought you gon’ back,” assuming that my time must’ve been up and I returned home to America, otherwise they would’ve seen me as often as they typically do.

Get In Your Section- Lil Natty and Thunda 

Now for a shift from groovy soca to the more Carnival-driven power soca. SpiceMas 2018 saw Lil Natty and Thunda repeat as Soca Monarchs (winning in 2017 when I first arrived with their previous hit Top Striker), this time it was their song Get In Your Section that was the crowned tune of Grenada. During this performance at the Soca Monarch Competition and throughout the subsequent parades in the streets, everyone eagerly moved in unison back and forth as they “Got in their Section.” It’s lyrics are proudly Grenadian as they state: “Foreigners from all over, come down to Grenada. Yes they likin’ the Jab Jab, they likin’ the SpiceMas.” Every time I hear this song, I am reminded of the high times SpiceMas 2018 was, as I celebrated and jumped Carnival with my brother, a few visiting friends, and fellow Volunteers. 

Run Wid It- Mr. Killa 

This one might take some getting used to, but believe me, this is a hit. Released just at the onset of Trinidad Carnival last spring, this song absolutely exploded across the Caribbean. Hailing from my community of Gouyave (and having met him before), Mr. Killa is a cultural icon in Grenada. This song quickly became controversial, however, for if you pay attention to the lyrics a man by the name of “Mr. Rum,” encourages those to “Pick up something and run wid it.” At various events when this song was played, I have seen everything from guard rails, gas tanks, goal posts, tents, and even other people picked up and carried away. During the International Soca Monarch Competition in Trinidad, Mr. Killa became the first non-Trinidadian to win the event with this song. There was a big watch party in the local park in my community during the competition, which once the results were announced, you would have thought Gouyave just won the Super Bowl. Many people equated the win as equivalent to Kirani James (who I’ve also met, as he’s from Gouyave as well), to winning the 400m gold medal in the 2012 London Olympics. As it turned out, it was another night I ended up being out and celebrating in the streets with local friends until the sun came back up in the sky.

Although you may not have memories to attach to these particular songs, I hope these songs (and music videos) can give you a window through which you can begin to experience what life is like in the Caribbean. As Stevie Wonder expressed, music and memories go hand-in-hand; so I’ll certainly be taking these songs, with many others, and “Run Wid It” with me to share at home. One thing for sure is that these songs, much like the memories associated with them, will never get old.

Even if I do.


Reggae Playlist: (Dreadlocks & Daydreams)

Groovy Soca Playlist: (Lime N Wine)

Power Soca Playlist: (Trouble in D Morning)


I know what I’m looking for, but right now I just don’t know how or even where to begin. 

Last week I traveled back to St. Lucia for my cohort’s Close of Service (COS) Conference, which came and went like a passing breeze. It was a challenging week emotionally, as one PCV described the atmosphere as akin to, “that feeling you get right before a break up.” 

I found that expression to be an accurate one, as this conference was to be the last time that we as a cohort were going to be together in one place. Nearly two years ago to the day, we all met as strangers at a hotel in Miami. After seven weeks together in the rural St. Lucian community of Desruisseaux, we became friends as we fumbled our way through this new and exotic world. We were then dispersed across a wide range of communities spanning four Eastern Caribbean islands, bound in a mission to improve primary literacy rates across the EC.  

Alone in our respective communities, each one of us assimilated. Individually yet collectively, we found our niche, our purpose, our identity. The first year came and went as we gained the necessary experience to be passed on to the incoming group of Volunteers the following summer. Shortly after the second year began, our Mid-Service Training (MST) in St. Lucia was upon us in a blink of an eye. We were all reunited for the first time since our Island Reveal Day, which at that point was over a year and a half ago. Sure enough, during our MST everything had picked up just as we had left it. After long days of training sessions and presentations, we spent late nights playing games and music, swapping stories, and sharing drinks. The week of MST finished nearly as quickly as it had started, and we were back in our communities for the next seven months until our COS conference.  

The very same COS conference that I just returned from. 

COS had always seemed like it was forever off in the distance, a mirage in the desert.  

COS seemed like a dream. 

That is, until it became a reality. 

The conference itself came at an appropriate time for me. The weeks leading up to it had been challenging, to say the least. Lately, it’s been a never-ending roller coaster of emotions as I grapple with the anticipation of finally returning home; but not without the heart-breaking realization that I am going to have to close this chapter of my life, with all the people that have played such an integral role in it, for good. I was feeling a bit burnt out, so to speak, and consequently I was ready for a little escape to St. Lucia to spend time with the people I started this incredible journey with. 

Myself and fellow Grenada PCVs Katie Riley and John Lyness flew in a weekend early for the conference. We booked an Air BnB with some of the Lucian PCVs in the beautiful coastal town of Soufriere, St. Lucia. Nestled beside the awe-inspiring landmark of the Piton Mountains, there was no shortage of things to do. We explored the local beaches and restaurants. We hiked to Sapphire Waterfall, snorkeled the reefs at Anse Mamin Beach, and stayed out late on the veranda under Petit Piton’s looming silhouette against a luminous backdrop of clouds and stars.  

When the conference finally began, we underwent the many medical exams and paperwork that come with closing out Peace Corps service. The conference provided ample time for each of us to reflect on our experience. We were given the logistics on how to book our return flights home. We were provided with guidance on things such as resume writing, interview skills, graduate school, financial planning, and our Non-Competitive Eligibility for federal positions as they relate to our service. Then at last, we received our certificates of completion that were signed by our beloved former Country Director Mary Kate Lowndes and the respective Prime Ministers of our host countries.  

Outside of the numerous training sessions, we made the most of our time together. Whether that meant dinner at the Marina, hanging out by the pool, hiking to Mt. Primard, late night walks to Reduit Beach, or watching Aristocats at the outdoor television beside the bar, there was always something going on.  

Like the PCEC staff always said from the start, we truly were “an active group.” 

But here’s the thing about experiencing something like a Close of Service Conference. The whole purpose of the conference was to, well, “close out” our service. Yet, it’s this very concept that I continue to wrestle with each and every day as my time here winds down. The idea that you can just close an experience as profound and intense as the Peace Corps as simply as the closing of a door, is just impractical.  

Myself, along with the twenty-four remaining PCVs in our cohort, have just devoted two years of our lives to our designated communities. As inevitable as time itself, you become attached to certain people and places.  

For those that might recall, last summer I went to St. Lucia to participate in the Volunteer Advisory Council meeting (as I served as Grenada’s island representative for a year during my tenure), as well as helped facilitate the training sessions for the newly-arrived group of Trainees at that time. While I was there, I made a brief stop at the PCEC Headquarters in Rodney Bay and happened to cross paths with a second-year PCV who was preparing to return home the next week.  

I couldn’t help but ask him, “How’s it feel?” 

“You know, it’s kinda strange,” he replied. “You devote two years of your life to a certain place and then somehow you’re just supposed to up and leave.” 

At the time I responded with a light-hearted laugh. But now that I’m in his shoes, a year later, I understand exactly what he meant.  

And to be frank, it’s devastating.  

Everything about my life down here has been intense. One thing I’ve come to love about the Caribbean is how unfiltered and unapologetic it is. What you see is what you get, plain and simple. Having moved down here on my own, I was forced to not only experience the community and culture for what it is, but I’ve had to confront and expose myself for who I am. You learn a lot about yourself in isolation within a foreign world. I’ve discovered what I love, I’ve discovered what I don’t. I know what I’m comfortable with and with what I’m not. I’ve come to understand myself in a way that I’m not sure I ever would have if I hadn’t come down here.  

All in all, I’ve had some pretty incredible highs. But I’ve also had some pretty devastating lows.  

Yet one of the most critical things I’ve learned down here is not to shy away from my emotions during these times. Early on in my service, I came across a copy of Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. Many of you have probably read it at one point or another. If you haven’t, you should.  

It’s a story about a man named Morrie, diagnosed and dying of ALS, otherwise known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. His outlook on life, love, and happiness, when confronted with his imminent and inevitable death is admirable. The story itself provides ample guidelines on how to live a fulfilling and enriching life. At this point I’d like to bring in a quote from that book: 

“If you hold back on the emotions–if you don’t allow yourself to go all the way through them–you can never get to being detached, you’re too busy being afraid. You’re afraid of the pain, you’re afraid of the grief. You’re afraid of the vulnerability that loving entails. But by throwing yourself into these emotions, by allowing yourself to dive in, all the way, over your head even, you experience them fully and completely.” 

I’ve taken this advice to heart and rather than bury my emotions, particularly during stressful and difficult times here, to instead simply experience them. The handful of times during my first year that I was experiencing homesickness, I simply just allowed myself to be homesick. Due to that, I now have a full understanding of what it means and how it feels to be sad, lonely, or depressed. Out of that I’ve developed healthy coping mechanisms, despite still having some coping mechanisms that maybe aren’t so healthy. Either way, I have grown from that experience and can use it to my advantage as I come across other emotionally-challenging times that are bound to come my way. 

Times like preparing to leave a place that I have completely and utterly fallen in love with. Times like saying goodbye to people who sometimes understand you more than you even understand yourself. Friendships formed abroad are unique. They are whole, unfiltered, and intimate. In this case, saying goodbye is almost like saying goodbye to a part of yourself.  

So when it was finally time to say goodbye to the PCVs and staff that have undergone this intense, life-changing experience with me, I thought I was prepared.  

I was wrong.  

I tried keeping a level-head, freezing my emotions until I could release them in isolation. Instead I focused on savoring the moment, which is something I don’t regret. However, looking back now I feel like the whole Close of Service experience was, honestly, a little bit frustrating. At the time, I couldn’t quite pin what it was that made it frustrating. But now I think the frustration was borne in the fact that I was searching for something that was not yet meant to be mine: 


I’m ready for home. At the same time, deep down I’m still not sure I’m yet ready to leave. Serving in the Peace Corps has been an absolute dream. It has been everything I could’ve imagined and more. I’ve loved every minute, every up, and even every down.  

Although I may not be ready to leave, I have come to accept the fact that I may never be. But that’s also the thing I’m coming to understand about closure. 

Closure is not just something you can will into existence.  

Closure is not something you can just pull out on a whim. 

Closure comes not when you demand it to, but only when you’re truly ready.

Closure requires time. 

So as I wrap up my last few weeks on-island and transition back to life in the States, it’s going to take time for me to gather my bearings. They say that re-adjusting to life back home is more difficult than adjusting to life in your host country. Honestly, I have no idea what to expect. 

But I need to trust that all in due time, closure will come.  

There will be times where I’ll struggle, where I won’t necessarily “be okay.” 

Nevertheless, I’ve learned to be comfortable with that through my experience down here. Sometimes, it’s okay to not be okay. The times when all you can and should do is simply experience your emotions for what their worth, that’s when we are truly confronting life for what it is. 

That’s also precisely what I’ve loved about this whole thing. The intensity with which I’ve lived down here is something I hope never to lose. Part of me almost wishes these goodbyes weren’t so difficult. In reality, though, I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

When it was time to say goodbye, I stood in the lobby of the hotel. Setting my backpack aside, I turned to PCVs Suzanna Swanson and Madeleine Humm. As I hugged each of them goodbye, my stomach bottomed out. My head started spinning, dizzied by the flurry of heartfelt farewells to people with whom I’ve become attached and comfortable. 

“Take care of yourself now, okay?” Was the only thing I could muster past the lump in my throat, choking back the tears.  

Then picking up my backpack, I turned and walked out the sliding resort doors and didn’t look back. The tears were pressing against the floodgates as I approached PCVs Emily Combs and Jamelyn Ebelacker, who were waiting outside the bus scheduled to take the St. Vincent and Grenada PCVs back to the airport. Another round of hugs, another round of choking back tears, only now not very successfully.  

Wiping the tears away from my eyes, I stepped onto the bus and took a seat by the back-corner window. The bus pulled out onto the road and away from the resort. 

I didn’t look back. 

I didn’t look back because in my mind I already have a lasting vision of St. Lucia — and it’s beautiful. 

St. Lucia, because of the people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had, will always hold a special place in my heart. Any time I’ll hear that name or see that flag, I will have nothing but fond memories to recall. Thinking about it now, I can’t help but smile. 

I might be a little closer to getting that much-desired closure. But I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that I won’t have it for quite some time. If saying goodbye to St. Lucia was that difficult, there’s no telling what’ll happen when I have to say goodbye to Grenada. 

But I’ll cross that bridge all in due time. I just have to be patient and let the closure find its way to me. 

In closing, there’s just one last thing I’d like to share. Our Director of Programming and Training in PCEC, Patrick Triano, closed out our conference with a quote that really hit home for me: 

Goodbyes are not forever,

Goodbyes are not the end,

It simply means 

I’ll miss you 

Until we meet again.  

EC 89, I will miss each and every one of you. Thank you for being a part of my journey here in the Eastern Caribbean. My life will never be the same because of this experience and each of your roles in it. It was an absolute honor to be considered in the company of some of the most amazing people I will ever meet. I wish each one of you all the best in all your future endeavors and I sincerely hope we cross paths again. 

Until then, I’ll miss you all. 



I guess you could say that I have “peaked” here in Grenada. 

Last weekend, I hiked to the summit of Mt. St. Catherine, the highest point in Grenada at roughly 2,750 feet above sea level.  

Yet, in reality there’s more to it than that.  

This week we returned to school from the two-week Easter vacation, meaning that the final stretch of my Peace Corps service has arrived. This has me feeling a wide range of mixed emotions.  

Before I go any further, I should explain how I reached this moment of complexity.  

The second term of the academic year closed out with a Hiking Day at my school. It was a day in which several of the classes hiked from Gouyave to what’s known locally as “The Dig,” a nearby lake up in the mountains. It was an ambitious hike, particularly for the younger students. This manifested itself in the “jockeys” (piggy-back rides) I gave a few of the students at various points along the way. However, it was a pleasantly active day and although I was exhausted by the time we got back to the school, the students with their endless energy went on to play football for the remainder of the school day.  

This hiking day was followed by our end-of-term Teacher’s Social at BBC Beach. As per St. Peter’s RC School tradition, the teachers organized a cook-up to celebrate the end of the term and the imminent Easter holiday. Much of the day was spent playing cricket on the beach, a game that I’ve truly developed an appreciation for in my time here. Other activities of the day included dominoes, Rummy, and bathing in the sea. At one point, one of my colleagues even captured an iguana to proudly show off before a group of entertained tourists. With all that, my vacation was off and running.  

The following day Suzanna Swanson (PCV St. Lucia), my first visitor of the break, arrived. The weekend was spent exploring Ft. George, my community of Gouyave, and hiking to the Concord Waterfalls and Black Bay Beach with PCV John Lyness. The most ambitious of our adventures came on a later day, when we not only hiked to the fifth of the Seven Sisters Waterfalls but also were able to visit the Royal Mt. Carmel Waterfalls, in due thanks to an incredibly friendly Danish man we hitch-hiked with. That same afternoon in the nearby town of Grenville, we were able to spend some time with PCVs Katie Riley, Katelyn Earnest, Sydney Roth, and the assortment of visitors each of them had before making the long trek of buses back to Gouyave.  

Then joining us on our Grenadian adventures was another St. Lucia PCV, Madeleine Humm. Directly from the airport we stopped at the West Indies Brewing Co., one of the only places to find craft beer on the island. After which, we spent the rest of the afternoon on Grand Anse Beach with PCVs Katie, Katleyn, Paige Simianer, Renea Perry, Amanda Cady, and others. While out in the water and equipped with an ever-scarce pair of goggles, we discovered numerous starfish of various sizes on the sea floor intermixed with the urchins and coral.  

The next item on our itinerary was the infamous “Welcome Stone,” on the northern coast of Grenada. From this overlook the islands of Union, Carriacou, and Petit Martinique can be seen on the far-left, distant horizon. In front of us lay Levera Beach and the uninhabited keys of Sugar Loaf, Green, and Sandy Islands. To the right of the overlook was Bathway Beach, along the eastern coastline that leads all the way back to the town of Grenville. Due South of us, Mt. St. Catherine’s clouded peak loomed ominously.  

After a brief stop at the Diamond Chocolate Factory in Victoria, we finally made our way back to Gouyave. Grabbing an order of fish and chips from Kelly’s HotSpot, we went up the road for drinks by Mansa. Halfway through the week and our around-the-island adventures was already nearing its end.  

But the adventures didn’t stop there. After a brief stop at Grand Etang National Reserve to see Grenada’s Mona monkeys, we joined a few other PCVs to spend the holiday weekend at an Air BnB near Grand Anse. A quaint little home tucked into a hillside community, we spent the night playing cards and celebrating the mini-PC, cross-island reunion.  

Good Friday was honestly one of the bigger highlights of the break. PCV Lili Gradilla and a local friend from her community organized a joint birthday cruise. Gathered for the celebration were Lili’s parents, local friends and counselors from last year’s Camp GLOW, members of Lili’s tight-knit community of Paraclete, and various PCVs.  

The cruise took us out to the Underwater Sculpture Park, where we had the opportunity to explore the world-famous reefs and sunken statues in Dragon Bay. Then sailing back across the southeastern coast we anchored out in BBC Beach to continue the birthday festivities. By the time the sun had set, we graciously caught a bus home. That is before it broke down, as soon we found ourselves pushing the bus off to the side of the road and out of the way of traffic. Consequently, we quickly hopped into a nearby pick-up truck and hitched a ride back home. 

Over the course of the weekend Suzanna and Maddie both caught their flights back to St. Lucia, as I returned back to Gouyave for the Easter holiday. True to the nature of Grenada’s “City that Never Sleeps,” an Easter Regatta was taking place on Easter Sunday and Monday. Therefore, my days were spent ‘liming’ alongside Mr. Ferguson, a fellow teacher, and a few other local men cooking-up a fish pot and watching the sailboats from a tarp-sheltered beach camp.  

The regatta was an eventful one, complete with a greasy pole competition, swimming races, football matches, and tug-of-war contests. To top off this lively weekend was getting an opportunity to sail on one of the boats in the regatta. Cheered on by a few of my students from the shore while I was taken out to sea by one of the sailors and a teenage-girl in training, I did my best to stay out of the way and ensure the boat didn’t tip over on my account. It was incredibly liberating being out on the water like that and the view of Gouyave from the sea is one I’ll certainly cherish. 

The following day, I joined PCVs Amanda, Paige, Renae, Briana Peterson, and Rachel Dean out to the V-23 Concert. It was a birthday celebration for one of Grenada’s acclaimed groovy soca artisits, Vaughn. The show featured performances by 23 soca artisits including Farmer Nappy, Lil Natty and Thunda, Mr. Killa, and a gold-suit bedazzled Vaughn himself.  

With another beach day on Grand Anse intertwined with a few days of laying low at home and in the community, I then went on the aforementioned hike to Mt. St. Catherine with the Institute Hikers, checking off the final item on my Grenadian bucket list.  

Now that the break is over, it’s back to the regularly scheduled programming of my Peace Corps service. I have ten weeks remaining of school, anticipating a return home shortly thereafter. It seems surreal that I’ve reached this point in my service already. Although it certainly has flown by, it is definitely beginning to feel like I’ve been here for a long time.

Admittedly, I almost feel like I’m running on empty. In my 23 months going on 24, I’ve poured everything I have into my Peace Corps service. I’ve integrated and served as a productive member of the community. I’ve explored just about all there is to see on this beautiful Isle of Spice, showcasing it to visiting friends and family alike on several occasions. I’ve experienced the culture, the lifestyle, formed friendships, and created memories that will all last a lifetime. 

In short, I feel like I’ve wrung this towel dry. 

But just as every mountain has its peak, the journey is not complete when you reach the top. 

There’s still the return trip home.

Consequently, I’m going to enjoy riding this one out. 


These Glory Days

Rubbing soft sleep from my eyes 

A bright light takes to the sky,

An emerging sun on the horizon 

Burning, glaring 

like a lighthouse beacon.

Declares the dawning of a new day 

Parents bathe while children play, 

Splashing around in the crashing waves;

Family memories, 

we secretly crave.

Silhouettes of the off-shore isles  

Loom silently,  

holding court to our trials. 

Remote destinations to be ever chased, 

A location where

Office daydreams take place. 

Leaning back in the soft sand

Beside, a friendly beach hound.

Salty air on an ocean breeze

Inhaling deeply,

This moment of ease.

The hourglass turns and the tide pulls away

For much of the morning, you were content to stay.


Now the sun, in this scene of serenity

Time, too

In its evanescent brevity.

Bounding off the deep sea breakers

In this fisherman’s boat,

Rings the laughter

Of friends,

As the view of the island

Changes its lens.

Coasting in on water so clear

Seemingly drifting across thin air.

Reaching that once distant

isle destination,

Office daydream; now manifestation.

Palm trees lean out over water transparent

Another day, in a life


Conch shells lie under the reef

Tempting to be taken

By a nautical thief.

Across the sea an island overshadowed

By stormy clouds, yet somehow,


The crystal clear waters beckon to swim,


Like the call of ancient Sirens.

Diving in the water so chill

For a brief moment,

Heart held still.

Surfacing, surveying,

The tropical haze

With a deep sigh, as if to say,

“I’m just not ready to leave,

These glory days.”

This is the first poem that I’ve ever written and published myself. During my undergraduate studies, I experimented a little bit with poetry but never stuck with it. In an effort to switch things up and continue trying new things, I felt poetry would be a proper avenue to express a spontaneous weekend adventure I just recently had.

After spending a night camping in a hammock by the beach with some fellow PCVs, I was able to witness my first Caribbean sunrise. The remainder of the morning I spent reading, bathing, and relaxing on the beach with only a friendly stray dog to accompany me. That afternoon, I was fortunate enough take a trip to Sandy Island, an uninhabited isle just off the northern coast of Grenada with a few other PCV friends.

It’s times like these I often have to “pinch myself,” to make sure it’s all real (which, I checked, it is). But these spontaneous weekend adventures are some of the things that I’m truly going to cherish when all is said and done.

This poem is my attempt at capturing not only that weekend experience, but the feelings that come with it. This narrative poem is written in free verse, as although it’s made up of a number of rhyming couplets, it doesn’t follow a set rhyme scheme or pattern. It might help to use a dictionary, as I learned and used some new words myself this time around.

I hope you enjoyed it and thanks again for following along.


Unbridled and Free

I lean back on the steel screen fencing of the market, watching as vehicles cruise past on the road. Throngs of people bustle throughout the cloud of barbeque smoke billowing from a grill over the street. Some of them are running errands, others waiting on a bus or chatting with a friend, leaving the rest of us to simply watch as the world goes by. The rhythmic pounding of soca music vibrates from the windows of a vehicle parked against the sidewalk. There’s an energy in the air, the type of atmosphere you feel when you know something exciting is about to happen.

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, a vehicle turns into the side-street before the market that leads to my apartment. Excusing myself from a conversation, I walk back to my apartment around the corner, where the vehicle had parked next to my gate. The passenger seat door opens as Zack Valletta, an old friend from high school, steps out. With his arms outstretched victoriously, it was smiles around as we were reunited again. 

“Welcome to the tropics,” I laugh.  

After dropping his things in my guest room, we walk back onto the road. There I introduce him to a few of the people gathered around and “making a lime.” Just like that, this whirlwind of a week was off and running.  

After a few beers by the road we hopped in a vehicle with Ocean and Cocoa Tea, two local friends of mine we ran into at the street-side barbeque. A short drive later we’re parked on the jetty in The Lance, on the far side of Gouyave. When Zack had mentioned his hearing about the fish in Gouyave, true to Grenadian hospitality, it was in that moment that showing him the jetty and fish market became objective number one.  

Fishermen, pedestrians, and children line the edges of the concrete jetty that juts out into the sea. Small, colored fishing boats subtly bob with the rise and fall of the Caribbean Sea, tethered to the concrete posts. A few kids toss fishing lines into the water, peering over the edge before reeling in their hooks with a plastic bottle. Looking back, small houses decorate the hillsides like ornaments on a tree. Gray clouds threaten rain as they pass over the coastal town from the inland mountains and out to the Sea.

The clouds stretch all the way to the horizon, the sun fading into the haze. Although now hidden, the sun’s effects were still present as minutes after its disappearance, the sky began coming to life. At first comes the purple over the mountains, providing an unusual backdrop to the ominous gray clouds lingering over Gouyave. Out over the water, however, the backdrop of color transitions seamlessly as the purple fades to blue, orange, yellow, and even green. The surface of the water reflects that array of color, each transition identifiable by a definitive line, quibbling in the water. Anchored out on the water were a few fishing boats and even a yacht or two, lights blinking periodically, marking their presence in the darkening evening sky.

“Come,” Ocean beckons, in his distinct, raspy voice. “Let’s show you some of the fish in the market.” 

Leaving the jetty and stepping into the fish market, a man stands beside a large fish being gutted on a countertop. The pungent aroma of fish fills the market, a stifling reminder to anyone inside where they are. After a brief introduction, a fisherman proudly shows us his largest catch of the day, a nearly four-foot yellowfin tuna. It was the largest catch I’ve seen before, despite admittedly not spending a whole lot of time fishing or even at the fish market. The man proceeds to explain the cleaning process the fishermen undertake in order to get their catches ready for market-sale. 

A visit to the fish market being accomplished, we hop back in the vehicle and drive to a nearby bar, next to the newly-built bridge that now joins The Lance with the other, “Downstreet” part of Gouyave. The four of us pull chairs around a small square table, as a round of Stag and Carib beers are placed on it. The conversation shifts to football, to which Zack asserts he is an avid Arsenal fan. Cocoa Tea, a former FIFA referee and the only licensed FIFA official in Grenada, shares his input and experience in the global game. Having officiated matches in various countries across the world, it was amazing as he described the atmospheres of the different stadiums: from RFK Stadium in Washington D.C. all the way to Cutbert Peters Park here in Gouyave.

The conversation soon wraps up, as Cocoa Tea leaves to return home to his family. We part ways with Ocean, after setting plans to meet again. Then it was off to the Fish Friday street festival and a stop by Mansa’s. After all, it was a Friday in Gouyave.

The next day was spent visiting the Seven Sisters Waterfalls. Hosting a visitor from home serves as good of an excuse as any to visit the refreshingly cold, clear waters in the center of the natural rainforest. The scene never ceases to the blow me away, seeing the water crash over the double-decker falls engulfed in a lush forest, its pools sparkling a shimmering green in the penetrating sunlight.  

After returning back to Gouyave, the rest of the evening was spent awaiting the celebrative arrival of Mr. Killa, a Gouyave native and the first foreign winner of the International Soca Monarch Competition in Trinidad, with his hot hit “Run Wid It” (aside: the night he won the ISM, and the consequential celebration in the streets, is a whole other story in and of itself. Mr. Killa’s victory puts him on par with 2012 Olympic Gold Medalist and Gouyave native, Kirani James). Hundreds of people turned out at the park to see Killa and the other Grenadian soca artists perform and celebrate the historical victory.

Consequently, due to the nature of Zack’s first two days on the island, a lazy Sunday was in order. 

But not too lazy. 

Late on Sunday afternoon, after watching an Arsenal match on my laptop, we made our way to the park. The sun once again hides behind a floating blanket of clouds. The grass on the field is a faded green. The dusty brown dirt is breaching through the patches of grass; a poignant reminder that the island is still very much in the midst of the dry season.

A bright orange Ultimate frisbee disk is flung back and forth between us. Plucking it from the air in stride, Zack flings it back to me. Catching it in front of my eyes, I turn to the three children flying a kite a few feet away. A small boy was looking up curiously, his plastic-bag-kite falling to the ground in front of him.  

“You wanna try?” I ask, as he nods quietly.

Flinging the frisbee softly towards him, he drops his stick of thread and slaps his hands together, fumbling with the frisbee before it bounces to the ground.  

“Oh! You almost had it!” I laugh. 

The boy picks up the disk, tossing it toward Zack almost naturally, who catches it with ease. 

“Hey! That’s a pretty good throw there,” Zack responds, as an accomplished, excited smile cracks across the boy’s face.  

The older boy and girl that were with him leave the kite on the ground and walk over to join. In short time, a friendly game of catch unfolds, as the frisbee is tossed around between the five of us.

On the far side of the field, a few men are gathering on the grass. They stand in a circle, kicking a football back and forth between them, the newcomers tying their cleats on the ground. Slipping away from the frisbee game, I make my way toward them. 

“Got room for two more?” I ask Ronnie, a local friend from the basketball court.

“Yeah, man,” he smiles. “Come join.” 

Leaving the frisbee with the kids, Zack and I ease our way into the pick-up football match that was starting. Jogging to the far end of the field back-ended by the river, I take up a defensive position. After all the Sunday nights on the basketball court here, I hadn’t delved much into the pick-up football scene. I knew a few names and faces, but otherwise it was yet another step into unchartered territory. Consequently, it took a few possessions just to figure out who was on my team and who was not.  

After a few possessions, the goalkeeper on the opposite side of the field lines up the ball in front of him. Running up to it with a boot, the ball is launched in my direction.  

“This is my chance for a header!” the thought races in my mind as I run back, following the trajectory of the ball.

The ball sails easily through the air, looming larger as it reaches to me. Planting my feet and jumping from the ground, I strain my neck out for the ball and…


Nothing but air. 

The ball passes over my head, landing at the feet of an attacker behind me with a free shot at the small-cage goal. My heart stops, time seemingly slowing down as his foot connects with the ball sending it…wide of the net. With a heavy sigh of relief, my heart resumes beating. 

“Must get it,” a teammate encourages me. “Must get it.” 

Just your daily reminder that white men can’t jump, I suppose.  

A few possessions later the ball is passed to Zack, who is on the other team. He glances up, surveying the field and striking the ball with the outside of his foot. The ball bends around a defender to one of his teammates, a murmur of surprise rumbling across the field as the players realize that at least one of the white boys can play.

The ball is passed across the field to Ronnie, who I immediately break to defend on the sideline. He dances quickly with the ball, as I break down my momentum toward him. Following his movements best I could, I matched him stride for stride, step-back for step-back.

“Eh, Eh!” A voice calls. “White boy is fast!”  

Encouraged by the comment, I stick with him as he turns in toward the center of the field, kicking the ball through a web of running bodies to a teammate. Ricocheting off his teammate, one of my teammates intercepts the ball, weaving it back through the midfield. A defender crashes on him quickly, jarring the ball loose from his possession and bouncing it my way. Keeping another teammate of mine in the corner of my eye, I stop the ball under my foot and pass it toward him to continue the counterattack.

Following the rush downfield, I crash toward the weak side of the goal as a shot rebounds off a defender’s foot. Adrenaline pumps fast through my veins as I see the ball bounce once again toward me. With full momentum going forward, I strike the ball with my inner right foot toward the goal, taking my shot. But to no avail, the goalie bats it away.

“Ahh, that was my chance at glory!” I smirk to Zack, who was laughing as he ran past. 

At one point in the match, the ball was inadvertently launched off the field and into the river behind one of the goals. Jogging over to the edge of the riverbank and peering down several feet, the ball was drifting under the bridge and out to the Sea. As a few players scrambled to retrieve it, I turn back towards the field. The players still on the field were sprawled out across the grass in various positions, taking advantage of the moment’s rest. Looking up, the clouded sky was cast with that familiar, bright purple color. Forested mountains loomed in the distance, palm trees protruding from the blanket of trees, silhouetted against the darkening sky. Behind me, the surface of the Sea’s distant horizon seemed to be brimming over the top of the concrete wall, reflecting the sky’s radiant color.

I shake my head in subtle disbelief, goosebumps raising down my arms. Who would have thought I’d ever be in a position like this? 

A pick-up football match on an open field. 

A backdrop of rugged, green mountains. 

A soft, running river adjacent to the field streaming into the Sea and completing an awe-inspiring panoramic view. 

These are the scenes that I hope never to forget.  

The following morning, it was time for school. Currently a school teacher back in Cleveland, Zack has plans to teach abroad next year. With these plans in motion and having observed the British school system when he studied abroad in London, he was excited to attend school with me. My principal, counterpart, staff, and students didn’t mind him tagging along. In fact, they welcomed “Mr. Zack,” in typical Caribbean fashion, bringing him forward in front of the whole school assembly for a proper introduction and warm applause.  

Our Language Arts lessons for the day covered writing friendly letters. My counterpart and I divided the class into group-tables based on their skill levels, with assignments catering for the differentiated abilities in the class. My counterpart, Ms. Pierre, centered her attention on the “focus group” of the day, (that day being the table with the struggling readers). Meanwhile, I directed my attention to the other three tables. Much to the students’ excitement and satisfaction, Mr. Zack was even able to lend a helping hand, guiding some of the students along in their work.

After lunch, he observed my pull-out lessons with the struggling readers, during which we covered compound words. Using whiteboards, markers, pencils, and a worksheet, I ran them through simple exercises combining small words together to make compound words.  

“I love what you guys are doing,” Zack told me and my counterpart, the afternoon bell having rung and the students scattering in different directions for the day. “That’s textbook for differentiated learning. I have to do the exact same thing myself back home.”

“Any tips or suggestions on what more we can do?” Ms. Pierre asks, always seeking fresh insight and ideas for the classroom.  

An educational conversation ensues, as we share in the common themes and struggles of our classrooms. A conversation, honestly, that applies to just about any primary school across the globe. 

How can we best engage our students’ differentiated learning? 

Whether resources are strong or slim, one thing is for certain: creativity is the lifeline of education.

For the rest of the week, Zack was on his own. After adjusting to the bus system in the few days he was here, he set out on a search for all the sights and sounds of Grenada. He ventured to two waterfalls, two beaches, an underwater sculpture park, a chocolate factory, a national forest, and explored the confines of an old military fort and agricultural processing plant. He soaked up the history, the culture, and the way things are in the Caribbean. He laughed at the bar, shot pool, rode buses, conversed with locals, visited the markets, enjoyed the beaches, and hiked the waterfalls.

“Where’s Mr. Zack?” the students and teachers alike would ask me during those days he was away.  

“He’s seeing the island,” I responded once, after being asked by a fellow teacher. 

“He’s taking the busses on his own?” the teacher replied, a look of surprise in his eyes.  

“Yeah, I think he got a good feel for them this weekend.” 

“Oh-ho! He’s out with the Grenadians, boy,” he laughs, shaking his head.

I spent the remainder of my week attending to my obligations at school, including conducting the third “Story Night at the R.C.” My counterpart for the event, Teacher Rita, and I decided to switch things up a bit. Earlier in the week, Zack shared with me an online resource: www.storylineonline.net. It’s a website with short video logs of various celebrities reading their favorite childhood stories, a goldmine of opportunity for an event like Story Night. We decided to utilize the website for Story Night, watching a reading of Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, a cute story about a Donkey that accidentally turns himself into a rock with magic pebble. For the follow-up activity, the families and students created their own “alternate endings,” coming up with all sorts of outrageous scenarios that one might imagine would come from a donkey finding a magic pebble.

Between school and Zack’s solo island adventures, the rest of the week flew by, as we filled in the down-time in the evenings playing dominoes, cards, and shooting pool at the bar. 

All in all, I must say, it was amazing watching Zack’s experience unfold right before my eyes.  

It was almost like re-living my first few weeks on-island, a time where I was still figuring out my way in this new, exciting, foreign world. I made plenty of mistakes, the same mistakes Zack was “almost” making. But that all comes with being caught up in the free, unbridled spirit of excitement that comes with living abroad. It amazes me how seamlessly he was able to sit-in on the authentic, roller-coaster experience of Peace Corps all jam-packed into one week.

However, it is this experience: one where I can live so freely, so vividly, so exotically, yet purely authentically, that I’ve come to cherish. My mind has been on this a lot lately, particularly with how open my lifestyle has been here. This recent perspective comes with special consideration, especially now as I look towards the future.

This summer, after closing my Peace Corps service in August, I will continue my studies at the University of Nevada-Reno. There I will serve as a Peace Corps Coverdell Fellow, a partnership the University and Peace Corps have only just recently made. All things considered, although still far from home in Cleveland, I firmly believe that this is the right destination for me at this point and time in my life. I will be earning my Master’s degree in Media Innovation, exploring techniques and strategies and the relationship between storytelling and digital media. I’m excited for what’s to come in my time there.

However, while things are moving fast in that direction, my eyes are still on the clock. Thankfully, I still have a few months to go. Looking back on my second year, it’s been nothing but an enlightening experience thus far. I’m impressed each day with the astounding progress my students have made in their reading already. I’m enjoying how the Volunteers on-island are coming together, founded in a common mission of improving literacy rates across the country. I’m savoring the cultural explosions that seemingly occur almost every weekend. I’m relishing in the opportunity to explore every nook and cranny, waterfall, beach, forest, and town on this island and foster new friendships along the way. 

It’s these experiences, in all their intensity, that I wish could last forever.

Experiences like Zack’s final day, sun-soaked and spent on the white sands of Grand Anse beach. We had a Volunteer Advisory Council meeting in town, (a position from which I’ve recently been retired and succeeded by PCV Paige Simianer), so what better way to make of a meeting in town than by spending the rest of it on the beach after? Immersed in the international crowd that comes from a life with Peace Corps Volunteers, there was a diverse mix of PCVs, locals, and ex-pats passing through over the course of the day.

In the evening, Zack and I found ourselves in an intense game of paddle ball. Invigorated, we teamed up against PCV Brianna Kennedy and her friend from Lebanon, who we had just met that day. As the sun glowed into the hillside coast stretching on the horizon, we jumped, dove, spun, and leapt through the sand. The games were spirited and exciting, so much so that it wasn’t long before it drew the attention of a few local children who wanted to join.

It was one of the most enjoyable days I’ve had in a long time. 

Zack’s visit reminded me how unique this time in my life is. 

A time where each day is a new adventure to be had, a new story to be written. 

A time so intense, so vibrant that the only way to absorb it is by experiencing it the way Zack did: unbridled and free.

Unbridled and free. 

That’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it?


Marching On

7:21 a.m.

My phone alarm’s muffled ring comes from somewhere buried under the sheets. In that momentary burst of energy that comes from a sudden arousal from sleep, I dig through the bed sheets, tossing pillows aside and hitting the snooze button almost immediately. 

The alarm now silent, I exhale softly. Rolling back over, I close my eyes and doze off for just a few more minutes as the bustling street sounds of pedestrians, school children, traffic, and the incessant early morning crows of what seems like a thousand roosters echoing outside my window.  

I was never much for the snooze button. For much of my life, I had always set my alarm for the last possible moment to ensure the longest duration of uninterrupted sleep. But in my apartment here, just about everything outside my window interrupts my sleep anyway. Consequently, I’ve come to relish in the powers of the snooze button.  

After finally climbing out of bed, I prepare a quick breakfast. Chopping up tomatoes, onions, and peppers, I throw them in a frying pan as I scramble some eggs that I purchased from the market. Served with a dash of the local hot pepper sauce, it’s just the kickstart meal I need for the school day ahead.  Locking my door, I step out onto the road and begin my walk to school.

8:30 a.m.

Walking in through the gate at the compound of the school, the bell rings as screaming and laughing children dash in every direction to their respective classrooms. After greeting my principal, Mr. George, I slip off into the stage area behind a pull-out chalkboard wall. Taking a seat, I check the log book I keep of my lessons. Looking through my supplies box, I ensure that I have all the materials for that afternoon’s pull-outs. I pick up my bag and step back outside.  

My shades dim the hot, early morning sun as I hug the walls of the corridor, staying within the shade it provides. Without much shade cover in my five-minute walking commute through the streets of Gouyave, I’m already sweatier than I care to admit. 

Climbing up the stairs to the second floor and turning a corner, I step into my classroom with a soft knock on the door.  

“Good morning,” I say. 

“Good morning, sir,” my counterpart, Ms. Pierre, responds as she looks up from behind her desk. 

I’m welcomed by a chorus of “Good morning, sir!” or “Good morning, Mr. King!” from the students, who reach out for my hand or wrap me in a hug as I walk to my small desk in the back of the room. 

9:00 a.m.

This is the time our first Language Arts lesson of the day typically begins. The Language Tree textbook, workbook, and their exercise notebooks are the foundational materials of all our lessons. Looking around the room, various posters and charts my counterpart made out of colorful bristle board decorate the front and back of the room. A soft breeze rolls through from the forested trees outside the windows, partially blocked by a large, immovable bookcase. Adjacent to my desk is the “Activity Corner,” a small table on top of which are hand-drawn alphabet memory cards, magnetic letters, dry erase boards, and beginning blend and vowel team sample sheets sealed in plastic wrap. The Activity Corner has been a recent endeavor of my counterpart and mine to liven up the classroom. The kids have finally started buying into it, too.  

“Sir, can I lend the cards?” 

It’s a question I’m often asked now during any downtime in class. It began at the beginning of this school year, when on a stack of notecards I hand-drew letters of the alphabet and created poorly-drawn pictures corresponding with each letter sound (i.e. Aa, apple). I used the notecards in a few pull-out lessons for some of my students in the beginning of the year, those who needed further instruction in letter recognition and sounds. With the cards we’d play a “memory game,” flipping them over and trying to match the letters with their example sounds to win the game. One day I brought it back with me into the classroom and it’s been a hit ever since. 

My counterpart calls the attention of the students as the lesson is about to begin. Standing up, I take my place beside her desk along the windows. Leaning back against the shutters, the breeze from the river outside rolls in with a soothing relief. I follow along as my counterpart introduces the lesson.  

Our working relationship in the classroom often works in a “One Teach, One Assist” fashion. Ms. Pierre often takes the lead in the first lesson of the day, during which I provide support from the side. Once the instructional part of the lesson is completed, the students have time to work on their in-class assignments. During this time, we circulate around the room to provide support and further explanation for the students, particularly guiding the ones we know tend to struggle.

10:00 a.m. 

The bell rings, concluding the first part of the morning. The students scramble from their seats, running outside for their break time. The laughs, shouts, and cries of students reverberate endlessly outside, the prototypical sounds of the schoolyard. If a student lingers back to finish their work and needs guidance, I’ll stay alongside them until they finish. Otherwise, I return to my desk in the back of the room and pull out whatever book I’m reading. 

I’ve made it a resolution to read more books this year, an alternative to wasting time scrolling aimlessly through the apps on my phone. I’m on my fifth book and counting now, filling little gaps of time in my day to escape to wherever each novel might take me.  

Students often come and go, curiously stopping by to ask me what I’m reading, see what I’m doing, or show me something they created.  

10:25 a.m. 

The bell rings again as the students rush back into the classroom, sweaty and riled up from their time playing outside. It takes a few minutes for them to calm down, their excitement bubbling over as they drink water from their plastic bottles and finish their snacks.  

It’s time for the classes to switch, as we have two grade three classes in my school. The first lesson is typically a shorter version of the second lesson, but since the schedule alternates each day, the lesson time balances out over the course of the week.  

My counterpart and I try to bring technology into the classroom, whether it be through the school’s Smart TV, my laptop, or Ms. Pierre’s Bluetooth speaker, and a downloaded song or video. It’s important we have everything downloaded, as the Wi-Fi connection is not always reliable in our part of the school compound. The way we use the technology varies, whether it be a song about similes, a dance routine with verbs, or a simple phonics lesson video for the students to watch. We’ve come to incorporate it as much as we can, as it engages our students’ interest much better than the standard style of, “chalk and talk.” 

In the second class, I typically take the reigns of introducing the lesson while my counterpart provides support. After a Literacy Workshop hosted by Peace Corps for the Volunteers and their counterparts, our chemistry in the classroom has blossomed. As it turns out, our styles of running a classroom are very much in-sync. We feed off each other and aren’t afraid of asking each other questions, while addressing the needs and concerns of the classroom together. 

After conducting the lesson at hand we’ll assign the class work of the day, typically a couple sentence or story problems out of the Language Tree textbook. Walking over to one of the students that typically struggles, I crouch beside him. 

“How are we doing?” I ask. “You understand what you have to do?” 

“Yes, sir,” the boy smiles. 

“Sir!” another boy raises his hand, catching my attention. “I don’t understand.” 

I take my place beside the next student, tactfully helping him along in a way that he still finds the answer himself. It’s a delicate process, as I don’t want him to have to rely on me entirely for each answer. After all, there will come a day where I won’t be there to help him. Consequently, I encourage him to sound out and read the sentence problems on his own, before asking the necessary questions to guide his understanding.

“Okay, now try the next one on your own,” I say with a pat on the shoulder, standing up and looking around the room. 

Another student has her hand raised, so I move over to her and begin the process all over again. It’s in these little opportunities during their school work I try to reinforce the lessons from my pull-out sessions. It’s also a time for me to see how well they’re understanding the material and progressing in their school work. If they struggle with a particular word or phrase, I begin a call-and-response process for them to remember what to do: 

“What happens when we have a ‘Silent e?’” 

“The vowel says its name!” 

 “And what happens when two vowels go walking?” 

“The first one does the talking!” 

“What do the letters s and h say together?” 

“Shhhhh,” they respond with a finger to their lips. 

As I work around one end of the room, my counterpart is working her way around the other. This continues for the remainder of the class time. 

12:00 p.m.  

Again the bell rings, the students breathing a collective sigh of relief as everyone in the school begins assembling outside for prayer. After prayer, the students scatter in all directions. Some run to the kitchen for their lunch, others straight for the footballs or cricket bats and wickets. The principal gets on the microphone and repeats that morning’s announcements over the laughs, calls, and cries of the playing school children. 

I reach into my backpack and pull out a book and walk to the staff room. In the staff room, a few teachers are gathered around the table and eating their lunches. I join them there, having either what the school provided for lunch or something I brought from home. I try and make the most of that hour off at lunch, taking part in conversation with the other teachers or reading my book, sometimes both.  

1:00 p.m. 

After the bell rings again, the students freeze momentarily before scrambling in a frenzy back to their classrooms. I walk back up to my classroom, gathering my backpack and going downstairs to my designated area by the stage. The students recognize what I’m doing, gesturing and calling after me in hopes that this time it might be their turn to, “get a try.” 

I smile and pass it off with a simple shrug and a “maybe,” “we’ll see,” or “I’ll let you know.” 

I never knew how to navigate that conversation with them. I don’t want them to know that the students I pull-out for lessons downstairs are the struggling readers. As far as they’re concerned, I might as well be choosing them at random and the same ones I always take are just supremely lucky. For as long as possible, I try to keep it that way so none of my students would be teased because of it. The other students can be jealous at times because the ones I do take often come back with tales of the games they’ve played and large stickers proudly displayed on their uniform.  

1:05 p.m. 

Downstairs, I organize the stage for the lesson. I join two desks together with two chairs for the students, and one for me on the other side. While I do this, a student’s voice nervously comes over the loudspeaker, prompted by a teacher. It’s the “live-reading” that takes place immediately after lunch every day. A grade is assigned to it each week, an opportunity of showcasing students’ reading capabilities in front of the school. 

When the third grade is assigned for the live reading, my counterpart and I try and to give an opportunity for students who haven’t done it before. Coincidentally, these are typically the students I work with in my pull-out sessions. You may recall my experience with one student last year, in my post Little Victories.

A few weeks ago, in thanks to live reading I’ve had a similar experience that I had with the student mentioned in that post from last year. During our live reading week, we had three students who had never done it before read to the school: T, S, and A. T was the first one from that group of improving readers to go. He had struggled through most of the first semester, seemingly lacking motivation. Yet since the start of the second term, he’s been improving in his efforts. Due to this, I believed he was ready and could really benefit from the live reading experience.

“Hey, T,” I said to him one morning. “How would you like to do the live reading today?” 

“Yeah!” His eyes glimmered with a mix of surprise and excitement. 

I picked out an excerpt from a short story from one of the larger books in our classroom library. After practicing the reading and rehearsing some of the tougher words, he was ready. 

“Can I go tell my mother?” he asks. 

“Is she here?”  

He points through the window across the school compound, where I recognized his mother talking to his older sister outside of another classroom. 

“Go ahead.” 

Moving over to another student, I kept him in the corner of my eye as he approached his mother across the way. After a brief exchange, his mother immediately fixed his collar and pulled out a comb, running it through his hair. A smile cracked across my face, although the live reading would be done hidden away with the sound system in the staff room, he was going to look the part.  

The live reading with T went well, as my counterpart worked alongside him for it. In the weeks that followed, T began staying inside during break time and lunch time. Unprompted and independently, he was delving into that large book I had given him, reading his live reading story start to finish and reading new ones. Ever since his live reading that day, his motivation in the classroom has taken off and it has shown in the progress of his work. I used to have to monitor him regularly on in-class assignments. Now, he’s bringing his completed work to me on his own like the rest of the class. That right there, is why an opportunity like live reading is so important for a young student. 

On the weeks the other grades conduct live reading, I simply prepare for my pull-out lesson during that time. I review my log book again, a record of which students I met with last and what we covered, how it went, and what they’re ready for next. After determining a plan, I’ll wander the school compound, looking to connect to the Wi-Fi to load a literacy video, or set up a literacy game for them to play.

1:20 p.m. 

When the live reading is finished, I walk back upstairs to the classroom. On the way, I pass the fourth grade classes that are typically lined up outside, about to exchange rooms for the afternoon. These are my students from last year, whom I don’t have much direct involvement with anymore. They welcome me with calls of “Sir!” and outstretched fists. I reach out to give each one a “bounce,” knowing what’s coming.  

“Jellyfish!” one girl laughs, pulling her hand away at the last minute, moving it like a jellyfish. 

“Snail!” another student ducks under my fist-bump with his hand and two outstretched fingers. 

A next one fakes me out with a dab. 

“Wave!” another boy exclaims as he waves his hand over my outstretched fist.

“Squirrel!” One boy, with a broad grin says as he chases his hand up my shoulder.  

“Aha! Good one!” I laugh.  

I can’t help but smile at that one. Last year, a scene was made when one of the boys faked me out on a fist-bump in front of the class. In turn, I took that opportunity to teach them a few creative ways to pull the same trick. When I first mentioned the squirrel maneuver, they had all looked at me with confused, dumbfounded faces. Then it hit me. 

There aren’t squirrels here. They’ve probably never seen a squirrel before in their life.

So I looked up a few photos of squirrels online and explained to them what they were and how they move. Since that day, let’s just say the squirrel has become a fan-favorite.  

Moving past the fourth graders, I step into the doorway of one of the third-grade classrooms. With a soft tap on the door and confirming with the teacher (sometimes my counterpart, other times the other third grade teacher) that the students aren’t taking an exam and are available to come with me, their hands shoot up in the air as all eyes light up with eager anticipation. I call out the names of the students I want, as they celebrate victoriously between themselves and hustle out of the classroom while the rest sigh dejectedly. Giving them a bounce as they step out into the corridor, they take off in a sprint downstairs to the stage. They know the drill.  

Downstairs, I conduct my pull-out lessons. They largely focus on phonics, ranging from the magic e, bossy r, vowel teams, and everything in between. With one or two of them that struggle the most, we’re still working on CVC words (consonant-vowel-consonant words, i.e. cat, dog). Based on their reading levels and personalities, I’ve paired most of them with another like-minded student. A few others I take individually, as they benefit more from the personalized attention. Admittedly, most of the activities I use with them comes from Pinterest, an unlikely but honestly well-equipped source of materials, ideas, and resources for phonics lessons. For those that are paired, I use games in which they compete against each other. They love the opportunity to challenge each other and come out victorious.

When the lesson is completed, typically after about twenty minutes, I dismiss them back to the classroom as they run off. I record in my notebook who I had and what we did before returning upstairs. After selecting another set of students, the whole process begins again. On most days, I’m able to conduct three separate pull-out sessions in a single afternoon. 

2:30 p.m. 

The bell rings a final time, a conclusion to the school day. I pack together my things and close up the stage, returning back upstairs to my classroom. I sit down with my counterpart as we discuss the events of the day, review our students’ work, and discuss our lesson plans for the next day. When this is done, we close up the classroom before heading home.  

Some afternoons I’ll linger on the campus, hanging out with a few teachers in the pre-school, chatting with the caretaker, or playing cricket with a few of the older students that have stayed back after school to play.  

“Sir! I’m gonna hit a six off you!” one student exclaims (a six being the cricket equivalent of hitting a homerun in baseball). 

“Oh, you think so?” I smile back, tossing the tennis ball up and down in my hands. “I’ll show you a six.” 

With a soft step I bowl the ball to the boy, who hits into an out, the ball having been caught by another student playing the field. The boy hands me the bat as I give him the ball. I take the bat and stand in front of the wickets. 

“Sir, this isn’t baseball!” another laughs after seeing how I was holding the bat. 

I just smiled. Although cricket is somewhat different than baseball, they’re more alike than they are different. Not to mention that before I came down here, I did play a year and a half of collegiate baseball; they were about to find that out. The boy runs forward with a start, flailing his arms as he releases the ball toward me. The ball veers down to my feet, just in front of me. I throw my hands out, the flat side of the bat connecting with the ball as I lift it into the air. Powering through, the ball launches over the roof of the school to the carpark on the other side. 

“Now, that’s how you hit a six!” I laugh as after a momentary shock, the boys chase after the ball.   

“Mr. King!” my principal appears, gesturing for the ball as the boys return a moment later. 

The boys toss him the ball excitedly, anxious to see what will happen. My principal grasps it strategically in his hands as I take my stance in front of the wickets, honing my vision on the ball in his hand. He runs forward and arms flailing, releases the ball toward me. I start my swing, following the trajectory of the ball into the ground as I look to play it off its bounce. Then just as it strikes the ground, the ball takes off in a tailspin and slips under the flat front of my bat and strikes the wickets behind me.  

The kids roar with laughter and excitement, as I grin sheepishly and begrudgingly congratulate my principal on the out.  

What goes around comes around. 

4:15 p.m.  

I typically arrive home around this time. Immediately undressing into something comfortable, I down a cold glass of water and take some time to cool off in front of my fan. After collecting myself, I set out on the tasks I have in mind for the day. This varies greatly from day to day, week to week. Sometimes I spend the afternoon reading, other times writing, sometimes running errands, hand-washing my laundry, cleaning my apartment, or picking up groceries in the market down the road.  

4:45 p.m. 

Honk! Honk! Honk! 

A very distinct horn sounds above all the traffic on the road as a small white van cruises to a stop. Happy Time Bakery is painted in bold red letters across the door, which slides open as pedestrians flock toward it, including me.  

“Ehh, Scott!” The driver smiles broadly, wearing a dark t-shirt and a flat-brimmed cap. 

“Kelly! How you doing, man?” I ask him. 

“Good, man. Good.” 

I reach inside and pull out two of the cheese rolls, my absolute favorite item from the bread truck. I slip a few dollar coins into his hand and head back to my apartment, waving to a few students waiting for a bus on the side of the road. Sometimes, catching the bread truck is quite literally the highlight of my day. 

6:00 p.m. 

I pull the chicken out of a bowl of water, where it’s been thawing and soaking with freshly-squeezed limes, a tip I picked up from a neighbor. Taking out a knife and cutting board, I chop up tyme and cilantro and throw them into another bowl with the chicken. Shaking various spices and pepper sauce on the chicken, I mix them all round so the contents are spread evenly across it. I put them on a pan and slide them into my gas stove oven.  

Walking out to my verandah, I peek at the sky for a glow in the clouds. If the sky is taking color, I walk down the road to the Sea. Stopping and chatting with community members I see along the way, I pause on the seaside rock-line or the small beachhead to watch the sun fade below the cloudy horizon. Pedestrians and traffic go by, hardly paying mind to the colorful display overtaking the sky. A peaceful transition into the night, it’s just what I need to step back for a moment and appreciate where I am. Not to mention right now it’s cruise ship season and it’s pretty wild watching those “floating cities” drift by on the horizon.

7:35 p.m.

Digging through the vegetable drawer in my refrigerator, I set its contents on my counter: cabbage, onions, peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots. Coming fresh from Esther, the lady I purchase them from in the market next door every Saturday, I make myself a salad. After throwing some plantains on a frying pan with some jerk seasoning, I pull the chicken out of the oven.

On most nights this is my dinner: roast chicken, a tossed salad, and sometimes fried plantains or homemade bakes. It’s pretty lean, but it’s also pretty healthy. It took some time, admittedly, but I finally learned how to cook well for myself on my own. Occasionally, I’ll mix it up with a local dish of saltfish, tania log, or walk down the road for fish and chips if I’m feeling for eating out.  

8:30 p.m. 

Depending on the time of year, I’ll watch a game from home; whether that be the Cleveland Indians, Columbus Blue Jackets, or my cousin’s basketball team at Mississippi College. I have pretty reliable Internet connection at home and can find most games using Reddit. Growing up, there always seemed to be a game on the television in the evenings, so in that sense it’s my way of maintaining that connection to home.  

Other nights, I’ll continue reading or writing. Other times I’ll edit photos or videos for various projects I might have going on. Sometimes I’ll connect with friends or family from home via FaceTime.  

Some nights, I’ll walk up the road to Mansa’s. There I’ll watch whatever game or movie is on the television while intermittently shooting a few games of pool with the guys there.

10:00 p.m. 

I settle back into bed, reading to wind my day down to a close. My eyes start getting heavy, despite the resonating sounds of the crickets, the distant crashing of the waves of the Sea, the dogs barking endlessly in the night, or the occasional voice of a passerby or vehicle, I fall asleep. 

7:21 a.m. 

My phone alarm’s muffled ring comes from somewhere buried under the sheets. In that momentary burst of energy that comes from a sudden arousal from sleep, I dig through the bed sheets, tossing pillows aside and hitting the snooze button almost immediately…

The days are flying by. 

Time is marching on.


Note: Below are a few photos from the second “Story Night” I hosted at my school last week. We also had a recent all-Volunteer gathering to celebrate, thank, and properly send-off our Peace Corps Eastern Caribbean Country Director, Mary Kate Lowndes, who will be taking another position with the Peace Corps in Washington D.C. Enjoy!

“Always the Same; Yet Ever Different”

“A feeling generated by the mystery of water; water that seems alive, always rushing past yet never going, always the same yet ever different.” 

* * *

My time at home began with a long, quiet plane ride from Grenada to Miami. The gentle whirring of the plane’s engines provided a monotonous comfort. There’s always been something about long, solo trips that have given me the peace of mind to relax and reflect; not only on where I’m going physically, but holistically. So I gaze out of the small plane window, peeking at the stars above and the clouds below. Inside, different emotions were churning: excitement, nervousness, relief, curiosity. Outside of a brief, six-day stint the year before, I had spent the past year and a half down in the Caribbean, living over 2,000 miles from home. The time I never thought would come was finally here, yet it didn’t feel like it was supposed to be. Questions raced through my mind. 

“What was it going to be like?” 

“Would I feel a reverse culture shock?” 

“Will I be able to see everyone?” 

“How will I feel when I have to return?” 

Just then the bright, blue monitor on the headrest in front of me caught my eye. A small plane was pictured crawling on a trajectory from Grenada to Miami. According to the screen, we were flying directly over the Bahamas. I leaned over to the window and took another peek. 

The clouds below had dissipated, leaving an endless expanse of hazy blue sea. On a closer look, however, a sprawling dark mass seemed to have been splashed upon the surface. A childish excitement coursed through my veins as I glanced from the monitor back to the window and determined that the dark mass was, in fact, one of the numerous islands that make up the Bahamas.  

A short while later the small plane on the screen penetrated the border of Florida. Again looking out the window, the hazy blue sea was gone, replaced instead by a sea of blinking, flashing, colorful lights of the greater Miami neighborhoods. A true testament to the vibrancy of the holiday season, I may not have seen anything so welcoming.  

Reality began to sink in: I was going home.  

After landing, clearing customs, and a quick change over to a connecting flight, I boarded another plane headed for Charlotte.  

Another hour later I was stepping out of the Charlotte airport, a small SUV sitting idle in front of a departure gate. A small, blonde figure was standing outside the open driver’s door and looking back. 

“Hello!” I call with a smile. 

“Oh, Scott!” the figure turns around, my Aunt Colleen.  

After a warm embrace, we climb into the car and she drives me back to her home where I was to briefly stay the night, as my final connecting flight to Cleveland was slotted for early the next morning. We only had a few hours together, but we made the most of it by staying up late into the night and early into the morning, sharing stories over a serving of homemade buffalo chicken dip. We laughed about the rescue mission just a year ago, when she and my cousins picked me up after I was stranded in the Miami airport after missing my return connecting flight to Grenada. By the time we turned in for the night, we awoke only an hour later to return to the airport. After all, this was one connecting flight I couldn’t afford to miss.  

The plane that morning took off into a burning morning sky, orange and pink colors streaking across as if cracked from an egg. Ascending over the brown foothills and mountains of Appalachia, I leaned my head back and nodded off to sleep. 

The subtle commotion of the preparation for landing roused me awake. Passengers strapped on their seatbelts as the flight attendants made one last pass down the aisle. Looking out the window, the coastline of a faded blue Lake Erie appeared in the distance. A few skyscrapers protruded from the dormant-brown landscape below and stuck out into the mid-morning sky. The downtown skyline was complete with stadiums, bridges, buildings, and roads where cars and people alike crawled like ants around a hill. Excitement began bubbling up inside as I looked on with a child-like awe at the bird’s eye view of downtown Cleveland. 

Collecting my things, disembarking, and walking out of another departure gate, a green Subaru pulls in front of me. It was my mother, arriving nothing short of perfect timing. And just like that, I was home.

Just like that, my life in Grenada seemed like an off-distant dream. 

A lot of people asked me, “How is it being back?” 

“It’s really nice, honestly,” I would reply, oftentimes with a joke about cold weather (which was actually pretty mild considering typical Cleveland winter weather).

But it really was nice, something about the word nice just seemed to fit. I finally had time to catch up with a lot of people I hadn’t seen in a long time. For many of them, things have changed since we had last met. It was nice for me to see the trajectory with which everyone is taking their lives. Some are taking on new jobs, others are getting engaged, a few are even getting houses. Some are in transition, finishing school, or still figuring out what they’ll do next. But everyone is getting along, moving at their own pace.  

It was kind of numbing at times, witnessing your home life as if it were a movie. All the same characters are there, all existing within a certain setting. Yet each time I’ve come back, although they’re largely the same, their stories are always changing, always different.  More importantly, though, was that this was a time for me to catch up on all the things I’ve been missing for the past year and a half. It was a night out in Cleveland, reuniting with old high school friends and a gathering of old, familiar faces. It was riding around the country roads (and momentarily getting lost), in rural Ohio with a friend. It was sitting on a sofa, eating takeout pizza and watching Netflix with an old roommate in Columbus. It was meeting up with an old friend for lunch, a new one for coffee. It was laughing over a game of What Do You Meme? and watching a football game on a friend’s TV.