A few people asked me if I experienced culture shock at all coming back into America. I definitely felt it when I arrived at the Dallas (DFW) airport and received a jolt of reality from being able to (really for the first time) understand how much wealth there is in the United States. The primary comparison that lead me to this realization was the condition of the Montego Bay Airport (MBJ) to the brand spanking new DFW. Now, MBJ had undergone some recent renovations and is noticeably nicer and more modern than what it was a few years ago. As an airport, it functions just fine. The ticket/security/customs/immigration lines can get a little ridiculous, being badgered by countless bag carriers and taxi drivers to use their service can get a little annoying, the A/C doesn’t exactly keep the place at room temperature on a regular basis, the employees (though some are very nice) can be very short/unfriendly with Americans and be very difficult to understand (with little sympathy for the fact that we speak and hear more slowly than them), and the whole place seems to run on “island time” quite often, but all in all the airport gets the job done and I have no material issues with it whatsoever. After leaving from MBJ, however, and arriving in the sparkling DFW international arrivals area, I experienced the most razor-sharp contrast I have observed between the two cultures to this point.
After getting off the plane, I followed the signs to immigration. I walked into an absolutely beautiful immigration center, with probably 40-some booths all decked out in clean glass and aluminum, the floors were spotlessly clean and shiny, a series of huge panes of glass with different Americans’ pictures rendered on them high above the booths, crisp, cool air without a hint of sticky humidity, and 40-inch flat-screen HDTVs every 30-feet or so (just in case you wanted to watch without having to stand still) playing close-ups different Americans saying, “Welcome to America!” in different languages on a loop over and over. I walk right up to the area of open booths, as my mind was prepared to play a game of “Pick the Shortest Line,” only to laugh out loud when I see that each line is only about 3 or 4 people deep. After an excruciating 45-second wait, I walk up to the immigration agent, who is dressed in his sharp, professional uniform, hand him my passport, he checks it, swipes it, hands it back, and says, (in clear English) “Welcome home.” As I arrive at the baggage claim, I scan my brain to try and figured out what I skipped in order to get this far after only minutes after stepping off the plane.
Waiting for my ride at the terminal, I found a seat in front of another flat-screen playing CNN, while watching the cars pick people up. Probably four out of every five cars was a 2005 model or newer. When I show the kids here a picture of my ’99 Ford Contour with the windshield smashed in and the hood all bent up (the hood flew up and smashed the windshield a few years ago. If I haven’t told you the story, you should ask me about it sometime), their first reaction isn’t always to laugh. Instead, it is quite often signed, “You have a CAR?! Wow!” as a majority of their parents do not. Not that all of them live in poverty here in Jamaica, but if you have enough money to buy your very own car, you are doing pretty darn well for yourself. And if you are buying something 2005 or newer, then, you are in-fact a very wealthy individual (especially if the paint is the same color all the way around!).
At some point during my eye-opening re-entry into the wealthiest country that has ever existed, my mind diverted from the realization of the absurdly lucrative economic vitality of our country to the fact that with the simple flash of my 3x5-inch authentic U.S. passport, I strolled right in unquestioned. The unbelievable fortune of being born a U.S. citizen is an idea that I, initially and continually, struggle with. Perhaps I would feel differently if I had joined the armed forces. Maybe if I would have put my life in real danger for this country, I would feel that I have earned the right to carry around this go-wherever-I-darn-well-please 3x5-inch document that billions of people around the world would give everything to have. Maybe if I took a bullet in my shoulder, I would have no qualm with the fact that I have had enough education and resources available to me, that I could have done whatever profession I wished… and still can. Now, I’m not saying that I haven’t worked hard to earn my diploma, my degree, my professional licence and I’m not saying that I haven’t been driven to become educated, to develop myself and my abilities, to earn a living and contribute (at least a little) to society in the States, but the fact remains that all I have done to earn the unlimited opportunity of being a legal U.S. citizen is successfully navigate out from my momma’s belly while being on American soil with my heartbeat in-tact (although that was actually a close call, as I was actually born 6-weeks early).
This train of thought, juxtaposed against the information that some of the Jamaicans I have met here have unsuccessfully tried to (some on multiple occasions) simply visit the United States, while many more dream of going there some day, definitely amplifies my struggles with the unearned advantage of being born a Yankee. Every time I direct this train of thought into the station (good metaphor, eh?), I can only come to the conclusion to try and realistically do what I can to help who I can, wherever I am. My only chance for peace of mind is to accept that there are inequalities in this world that I will never understand and that my role is not to figure everything out, but try and make the most of the opportunities given to me, both justly and unjustly.
Sorry that commentary got a bit heavy, but it was something I had thought about a lot and I am grateful that I finally had a chance to get it down on paper, er…uh, blaper? On a lighter note, we have been losing power intermittently since I got back two weeks ago. My head lamp has come up huge a few times now. Last trip, however, it did not come up so huge, as it got turned on inside my backpack, drinking every bit of juice out of all three brand-new AAA batteries, effectively turning my newly purchased head lamp into a paper-weight (with elastic headband!) before ever being used once in Jamaica.
Last week when the power was out, I (using my freshly-batteried head lamp) rummaged through my apartment here at night to find some candles to take to the team staying here in the dorms across campus so they could have some light. After locating and lighting two candles, I headed out of my apartment and toward the dorms. Walking past some of the teaching staff seated on the porch on my way down to the field, I quickly explained what I was doing and bid them good evening. Since I was low on matches, I did not take any with me on my way to the dorm.
About 60 yards (of probably 250) into my walk to the dorm, I started to notice a weather phenomena that I somehow failed to anticipate before walking across a huge open field with candles; wind. A sharp gust flickered and the killed the candle in my left hand. I quickly maneuvered the other candle to re-light the left candle. After successful re-ignition, the right one went out. Knowing that this act wouldn’t keep flames lit all the way to the dorm (especially since my walked had slowed to a side shuffle as I attempted to protect my fragile flames from the wind), I reached into my stash of emergency birthday candles I intended to give the team for when the big candles went out. I found that by lighting a birthday candle, dripping its wax on top of one of the big candles, and then jamming the bottom into the fresh wax, I could stand up multiple, burning candles on each big candle and minimize my risk of having to walk all the way back up to my apartment to get the matches.
Now that my walk has come to a complete halt with complete focus on lighting, setting up, and maintaining candles, I can hear some of the staff on the balcony laughing at my efforts (and rightfully so, as it was probably pretty funny to watch). So as I am standing up these birthday candles, I reason that if I can tilt multiple candles into each other, they achieve a stronger flame. So, after minutes of intensely focused effort (a much longer amount of time than it would have taken me to go get the matches), I successfully have three birthday candles on each side titled into each other and all my candles are lit and ready for the long, windy journey. Immediately after this success, I hear one of the staff on the balcony exclaim, “Hallelujah!” in acknowledgement of my hard-earned victory. As I turned to thank her, I realized that the power had come back on and they were already inside watching television. I said, “Dodge Ram it!”, blew out my candles, went back up to my apartment, and snuggled up with Excel 2007: Power Programming with VBA, before going to bed.
Though the candle story is my only purely humorous story I have to share since coming back, I have one other story and train of thought I think may inspire some laughter.
There was time at some point before I came here that I thought I would never spank my children. At one point, I reasoned that spanking was only what parents did when they were too lazy to talk out a problem, too frustrated use logic, or too tired to be patient and merciful. I still believe that spanking should only be used as a last resort of communicating a lesson, but I now have a more robust understanding for how quickly all other communication tools can become exhausted, and for how often other methods of teaching can become utterly ineffective.
I think this revelation falls on the heels of the fact that it has been a long time since I had lived around toddlers to any extent. My youngest sister is 16 now after all, and acts like a mature 12-year-old, well beyond the age of a toddler. My approximately 10-year void without any exposure to toddlers has given me the false impression that all ages of children posses the reasoning ability, moral understanding, and capacity for guilt, compassion, and selflessness, that high-schoolers have. Hence, I have forgotten that to successfully coexist with and help develop younger children, the methods of communication sometimes need to be a bit more… primitive. Spending copious amounts of time around the younger deaf children here at the school and the hearing children of deaf adults at the village has afforded me ample experience to see examples of this “primitive” communication play out beautifully.
In this discussion of striking children, I would like to point out that I was spanked quite regularly as a child. And I will admit that while long ago, my dad’s NFL-sized hand inspired tears as it repeatedly smacked my bare bottom, I can say that my punishment was always deserved, as I had a knack for disobeying him. I will also point out, however, that I was usually spanked for making everybody laugh at the dinner table; an offense that I vow will go unpunished in my future household. Take that, Dad. I say this only to illustrate that I don’t believe striking children whom you love, under fair circumstances, produces any negative effects.
On to my short story. A little boy named Dante is one of the youngest and most adorable kids here at the school. He is 6 years old, has a head that is too big for his body, big ole’ eyes and lips, and a constant look of wonder and excitement on his face. He is so much fun to be around. I love the kid. I absolutely do.
All that being said, Dante, like all 6-year-olds, can be a little punk and a swindler, too. When the Hope College team came and brought soccer shoes for all of the kids, I caught Dante repeatedly trying to get another pair of shoes, even though he was one the the first to receive his. He would go up to team member after team member with that I’m-about-to-cry look on his face and then give the sign for “shoes.” Then, the team member would come up to me and be like, “Hey Gunnar. Ummm, I really don’t think Dante got any shoes yet… Is there any way we can let him in the team room so I can help him pick out a pair?” And everytime I would have to shut down operation Greedy Shoes and sign to him, “Stop. No. You already got shoes. Other students have not yet gotten shoes.” He would always know exactly what was up, flail his arms in frusteration, and run away looking for a new victim.
Last week, during one of the evenings, I found Dante repeatedly stealing and throwing other students’ hackey-sacks that the team had brought for the kids. I politely asked him to stop once, and then sternly asked him to stop a second time when he did not heed my first request. After the second time, I saw no change in his behavior, and sought to ask him one more time. Seeing my approach, he proceeded to run away and back into the team room and took another hackey-sack and threw it, though I had asked him not to. I knew what had to be done. And I was a little bit excited to do it, as I had a hunch that my parents always got a secret enjoyment from striking me.
With the help of a team member, I finally apprehended the smiling and giggling little boy, grabbed him by his left wrist, and smacked him with considerable force on the back of left hand. The always giggling, unfocused, trouble-making Dante went stone-faced and met me completely eye to eye like I had just told him his dog had died. He didn’t cry, he didn’t run for one of the teachers, he didn’t struggle or fall on the floor, he just stopped and I had his undivided attention. I then reiterrated, “Stop. You stop getting the balls [hacky-sacks] and throwing them. Understand?” He signed that he understood and that he was sorry and then I let him go. For Dante, I think maybe the fact that I had my serious face on was just a powerful to him as the physical pain from having his hand slapped. As he and the other kids know, I’m just not a very serious person. I routinely will push, poke, prod, headlock, mock wrestle, or mock box every boy here on a daily basis.
Much to my dismay, it didn’t feel all that good to hit Dante. I love more then anything to see kids smiling and laughing, but just not at the expense of other kids or me walking around campus picking up hacky-sacks. I thought that maybe the victory of getting my message across so clearly would feel good, but my first physical disciplining of a (non-sibling) child didn’t really feel good at all. The next day, the team remarked on how well-behaved Dante was that entire evening after I struck him (in comparison to other nights). Perhaps Dante’s good behavior had nothing to do with getting punished, but I think the reality is that the smack was simply effective.
This experience opened my eyes to the fact that maybe some parents don’t enjoy hitting their children, even though they know it is what is best for civil coexistence and the development of the young human. And for those parents, I feel remorse for what they must do. I will retain the opinion, however, that my dad LOVED to spank us, almost as much as he loves watching Westerns. And he loves himself some Westerns. My dad will retain his statement, “I don’t ever remember spanking you guys. Nope. I don’t think it ever happened.” After informing him that countless crystal-clear eyewitness (and buttwitness) accounts from five sepereate fully-sane adults disagree with that statement, I chalk his memory up to enjoying it so much, that he forget it even happened. I can only hope that my future children get through their primitive stage quickly, or else I may have to outsource spankings to someone who enjoys it more (keep your phone on, Dad).
My first two weeks back on the island have been pretty slow as far as the work being done around the MoBay school here. Since we have had any teams come to work on the school, I have mostly been working on odds and ends maintence projects.
I have spent about 4 days weed-wipping, which isn’t my absolute favorite activity, but can be fun when you get in a rhythm. My main issue with weed-wipping is wasps. Have I mentioned I hate wasps? Wasps and bees. And hornets for that matter. I think I hate wasps the most though, because you can’t hear them and they think they’re better than me because they can fly. They say that, “Wasps are more afraid of you than you are of them,” but that just not true. On two separate occations I have watched a wasp taunt me in mid-flight while I was on my back in the grass, with my hands clasped together, pleading for my life. The only thing that has keep me from getting stung on this island where wasps outnumber people 1,500 to 1 (Did you know that 75% of statistics are made up on the spot?) is my contast, twitchy heightened paranoia of wasps. That, along with my agreement with the wasp mafia kingpin Tony Stingeretti to give him half of my summer wages as long as no wasps sting me (the sucker doesn’t know I’m a volunteer. Haha, stupid wasp). I never let my guard down, though. I jumped out of my couch here just a minute ago, no worries though, it was just the tag of my shirt again.
When I was weed wipping the other day though, I really did accidently send some debris in to an area that must have had a wasps nest near the ground under a bush, because I first noticed one, then I noticed about 25, and then I was running away. As I stopped running 30 yards away, I checked to make sure that I was still alive, that my skin was intact, and that the wasps hadn’t followed me. I was safe. I looked back at the bush and there was the small swarm of wasps, all laughing their stingers off at me. I said, “Laugh it up, ya jerks. Yeah, that’s hilarious. Real funny, har, har, har.” I didn’t actually say those things out loud, but Mrs. Mitchell, one of the teachers here, watched this episode and emphatically advised me to lay down on the ground if wasps were chasing me. “We did this as kids. If you lay down the wasps will fly all around you and not sting you,” she advised. Mrs. Mitchell, if you are reading this, there is no way, in this life or the next, that I will ever try that idea. Thanks for trying to help, though.
The team that came and stayed the last couple weeks include some students/graduates who are studying/studied speech pathology from West Virgina, which I believe is not actually a state in and of itself, but refers to the western portion of Virginia, a bonefide member of the Union. During their time here, they helped the students develop their voicing ability, that is, their ability to speak words. As anyone who visits here will quickly realize, though the deaf cannot explicity communicate using their voices, they are quite aware voices and can be very, very loud. Some of the students who have limited hearing have been voicing for years and can say a great deal of words. Other students whether by shyness, choice, or ability rarely every use their voices or try to say words. During the last two weeks nearly every student here has had a chance to work with once of the young pathologists here. They first start going through the alphabet and try to get the kids basic sounds down. Once the kids are able to associate each letter with the sound well enough, then they move on to simple words. Watching them teach sounds makes you think a lot more about them and how we say all of our words effortlessly without thinking about them, since we have our hearing to self-correct us if a word comes out funny. Many sounds in the alphabet are very similar, only differing whether your voice makes a sound or is silent. For example the “s” and “z” sounds are the same, only “s” is voice off and “z” is voice on. Now please turn to the other person in the room and let them know there are no bees in the room. I appreciate it.
Along with all their hard work with the kids after school, the team also worked with a few other ministries in and near MoBay during the day. A few of the team members even helped me do some maintence work around campus. Some of the stuff was pretty gross, but they were tough, and did not hit me with their handbags, for which I was most grateful.
In fact, I got a feeling that the team kinda wanted to do some other work around campus, but they couldn’t muster up the strength… to ask me. It was like they had this huge burden they they just couldn’t quite push out. I told them to loosen up and relax, but it kept feeling like they had all this stuff inside… that they wanted to say and that was causing a lot of pressure and making things uncomfortable everywhere. You know what I mean? It was like there was all this buildup and anticipation for something that just wouldn’t… happen. You know? They even went for a walk around the dining room one day to see if that would help relax things, but I don’t really believe it worked, even though they said it did. Twice.
I don’t really realistically believe anyone is left reading at this point of the book (I’m on page 8 of the Word Doc I’m writing this in. Single spaced.), so I will leave you with this: The kids love Popeye. We watched Iron Man 2 on DVD four days after it came out (behold the power of bootlegging), but it didn’t get nearly the response that a few 1953 black and white popeye cartoons got. I told the team here I think Popeye should have a feature-length live-action film. I’m thinking Will Smith. Can you say “Automatic Summer Blockbuster?” Sounds like a cash register to me. Take it easy, mon!
Much Love.
This is a patch of land measuring 20 yards by 20 yards. The last team I worked with spent an entire week leveling out this patch of land using pick axes, hoes, rakes, blood, sweat and tears. They were animals. It was scary. Prior to the landscaping, this ground was covered with grass, very uneven and impossible to mow. In a few months, the grass will grow back and the area will be mowable and beautiful!
This sidewalk was poured with the Connecticut/St. Louis team that came my 21st week in Jamaica. Though it is only 60 feet worth of sidewalk, it took us all week to set up the forms and string, and then pouring took almost our entire last work day. It was a good work-out.
This is our concrete mixer, Old Yeller. I may or may not have accidentally dumped an entire load of concrete onto the ground below at one point, then yelled at the team to hurry up and quickly shovel all of the concrete off the ground and into wheel barrows to get it to our pouring site. In my defense, it was gravity's fault. I was a victim, not a perpetrator of the crime.
I made this concrete lid. Built the wooden form, cut and welded the rebar handles, ordered work team members to pour the the concrete in, then finally pulled it out of the form once it had dried. It's art. I'm an artist. No big whoop.
I also built these white boxes, which are used for loading rock and marl into the mixer. More art. Still no big whoop.
Our last week was a week of mucho painto. That's Spanish for a lot of paint. I'm also a linguist. Whatever. These are some of our empty paint buckets. This team painted until their arms fell off, at which point, they were unable to hit me with their handbags, for which I was most grateful.
The cement bag. The building block of Jamaica. With the help of these bags, I was molded into the best shape of my life over 6 months. Thank you C-Plus Carib Cement. My back will never be the same.
This is the sign above the front office at CCCD. Alison touched it up to give it some more flare. I gave her an "A", which of course stands for "Average." 
This is a picture of pretty clouds I tried to take through my screen in my room. So the camera focused on the screen, instead of the clouds, but I thought it still turned out pretty cool.
This was the tassel hanging from our bus driver's rearview mirror. I joked to Alison that you get the big tassel when you graduate from graduate school, then I laughed at my joke. Then said, "I'm pretty funny, huh?" to which she replied, "No."
This is the view looking down over the valley from the town of Spurtree. This picture truly can't do justice for how amazing of a view this was. Prior to getting to travel across the island, I never understood how vast the elevation differences were. Driving from Spurtree feels like you are smack in the middle of the West Virginia. It's crazy.
This is a day in the life of a Gunnar Jamaica t-shirt. This sweat would be after about 2 hours of work. Many days I changed shirts at lunch, just to drop the water weight absorbed in my first shirt. I would tell teams the only time I every felt completely clean in Jamaica was the half second before turning off the shower; every other moment I was sweating. I won't complain too much though; after all, I'd rather be sweating than shivering!
So we needed to dig a trench toward the vocational building from the waste pit for the sewage pipes to lie in. Using the pointed end of my trusty pick axe, I embarked upon this endeavor. So I swung away for about 30 minutes, took a quick water break, and then prepared to go back at it. After checking my angle, I took one beautiful swing to continue my trench and pulled my axe out to swing again, when I noticed water start to quickly fill up the trench I was digging. I panicked, and immediately ran and got Warren to fix my boo-boo. Glenford, who was standing right there, calmly went and turned that water main off (which I might have done if I had not gone into panic mode), then proceeded to make fun of me for running and getting Warren (whom Glenford joked was my dad) after I hit the pipe. After a good cry, I brushed off Glenford's taunting, Warren fixed the pipe within 40 minutes, and I finished digging the trench. How perfect did I pierce that pipe though? Keep in mind that pipe was 4 inches below the dirt and I could not see it at all and pierced it with a pick-axe (not exactly a scalpel, but I was surgical nonetheless).
This is at Glistening Waters, a place where micro-organisms in the water cause it to glow anytime a motion is made. Unfortunately, you can't catch any pictures of the water glowing, but this was my best attempt. I swam in the waters a few times. It's a lot of fun, and the muck 4 feet below the water feels like warm pudding between your toes...
This was a nice sunset picture I got on the way back from an Ocho Rios trip. Love those sunsets.
Me and a few of the boys on a work/school day. Notice my sweat-shirt. Beautiful, I know. I sure do miss those guys. Good friends, good friends.
This is Kolt's neck tan line after his week of work in the Jamaican sun. Didn't think black people could have red necks, did you? Kolt is also a big fan of country music, so you can go ahead and post country music videos on his Facebook wall when you get a chance.
Kolt, Chase and I at the Jamaican Bobsled Cafe, located on the Montego Bay "Hip Strip." It's a mega-tourist trap, so after we overpaid for our meals, we sat backwards in the bobsled just to show that we are not part of the system.
Broken glass bottles top all of the walls around the school. I've always thought they were quite poetic.
This lizard lived in my apartment with me. His name was Jeff. He was a pretty good roommate, I guess. Sometimes though, he would poop on the mirror and not clean it up, but who hasn't done that before, right?
Chase, Glenford, Kolt and I just chillin' at night after dinner. Good times, good times.
This was the picture I took of the cross at JDV the day of the March fire. (See previous post if you haven't read about it.)
This was the same cross a few weeks later. Pretty amazing how fast the grass grows back, eh?
The Campbell family. This family, along with the Huber family (not pictured, sorry Hubers!) were wonderful hosts at JDV. Pastor Damian went to college in Georgia, and his wife Felicia lived in the US from age 14 and then moved back to Jamaica after college. Their 3 kids are hearing (unlike their deaf parents) and absolutely adorable. Pheobe, Denae and Caleb were always willing to play with me whenever I was around.
A candid picture at the JDV worksite. This was either right before or after I broke a tooth off of the blade of the saw at the bottom of the picture. Ooooops. It was one of the many things that got destroyed by me as I tried to help out the ministry.
Sunset from my apartment balcony at the school. I do miss 'em. 
One last sunset at JDV with some pretty colors. Maybe one day I will get a camera capable of capturing a bit more than I am able now. Until then, everyone must suffer these...
