The medium of the internet is a new and slightly disconcerting way for PCV’s to communicate across international borders. It appears that over the course of training I have had one of the more active blogs as far as updates are concerned and several other trainees have informed that various members of their families follow me. This didn’t strike me as odd until today, when I was told (through the grapevine) that another trainees father had been reading my blog and called me a “tough lady,” causing me to review all my posts looking for evidence of that trait. Toughness. In my gut reaction to the word I told a few other trainees that I didn’t think it described me and got a result I wasn’t expecting. It seemed the only one shocked, was me. Over the course of the time that we’ve been here many trainees have become privy to the fact that my family suffered several deaths in the time frame immediately leading up to my departure for Africa, and that I was actually at a funeral a few days before staging in Philadelphia. It seems that reality has earned me a reputation for being “tough” or at the very least people weren’t surprised when the word was applied to me. I suppose I chose to take it as a compliment. However, I have had more than my fair share of mental breakdowns in just these 3 months. The whole thing got me thinking about the word “tough” because I’m not sure anyone whose ever met me would use it to describe my personality. So maybe tough isn’t the attribute in question, maybe its trust or stoicism or stupidity. Maybe we all came here to run away, or prove a point, or work for what we believed in and most likely all of us stay and survive and succeed due to the inherent stubbornness or perseverance or stupidity inherent in our personalities. Maybe you have to be crazy to fly off to Africa while your family is dealing with so much loss, but maybe you have to be “tough” to stay. There have certainly been moments in this whole thing where I have felt anything but tough. There were moments when I cried because I couldn’t eat dinner before 9, or go to sleep at a reasonable hour or wash when I wanted, or because the boy I liked was no longer interested in me. These low moments would have been reprehensible in America, but maybe in context they were just a side effect of life in Rwanda. There were also times when I cried because a lot of people I care about died this year and I’m not there, or because this whole country suffered a similar tragedy and no one talks about. I’ve cried because life isn’t fair, and nowhere reminds you of that quite like Africa or a year like my family has had, and lastly I’ve cried because I’m tired and overworked and overstressed. Like a small child I’ve cried simply because in that moment there is nothing I need more than a nap and a juice box. Today, however, on our last day of training – an emotionally charged and trying day by any standards - I got a gift I didn’t expect. Through the magic of the internet I learned that a man I’ve never met, and probably never will meet, thinks that I am tough simply from the words I release to the world wide web. This misplaced adjective did more for my reflections on the world today than I can truly convey. So maybe, its true, after all we are our own worst critics. Maybe I am a tough lady. And Maybe I am not. Either way, tomorrow I leave this place ready to face Rwanda on my own. Truthfully, I am sure there will be more tears in my future, but maybe that doesn’t change the status of my “toughness” as much as I think.
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