Would You Rather

You’ve all played the game “Would You Rather,” right? It typically goes something like, “Would you rather use sandpaper as toilet paper OR use hot sauce as eye drops?” and you choose between two ridiculously horrible options. It’s a stupid game, but one I played some version of a lot when I visited the states last month for my brother’s wedding. My version of the game was mostly in my head and went something like this: “Would you rather be at home with the people you love OR be alone in Uganda doing what you feel like you need to be doing?” It’s a tough question. Living here and doing this work is one of those decisions, like all really important decisions, that you don’t just make once. You make it again and again.

Everything, absolutely everything about being home was shocking at first. The quiet streets. The overwhelming number of choices of delicious things to eat. The scenery that looked so brown and broad. But most shocking of all were my encounters with family and friends. I expected to be peppered with questions. “Hold on just a minute,” I imagined myself saying to the crowd of people vying for my attention, “she asked me first, you’ll get your turn in a minute.” The reality was that I heard the question, “So, is the Ebola outbreak near you?” about 10,000 times and that’s about it. (The answer, if you’re wondering, is no.) With very few exceptions, people just didn’t really ask about my life. It was strange, my friends, strange indeed.

The whole thing got me thinking about that gulf that inevitably grows between people when miles or years separate them. You run into an old high school friend and ask each other inane things about what you do for a living and where you are living now, and, truth be told, neither of you really care about the answers. That’s not to say that you don’t care about THEM, but where do you even begin? How do you ask the questions that matter to someone you haven’t spoken to in years? The whole thing feels forced, because, well, it IS forced, so oftentimes it’s easier to say nothing, to just duck behind the grocery store display and wait for him to pass.

The trouble with doing something like serving in the Peace Corps is that you NEED to talk about it. Desperately. It’s this monumentally huge life change. And all of us, even the quiet ones, need to talk about the big stuff. The stuff that alters the way we look at the world and the way we look at ourselves. And questions about Ebola, while topical, just aren’t going to cut it.

So, what’s to be done about this? I have no idea, but for me, this blog is a good place to start. I get to feel a little bit heard, even though no one may be listening. It’s kind of like yelling into a canyon. Even if no one is there to hear you, you hear your echo and it’s kind of comforting.

In the end, I decided again (as I knew I would) to come back to Uganda. Surprisingly, it genuinely feels like home here. I mean sure, the minute I set foot on Ugandan soil I turn into Charlie Brown’s friend Pig-Pen. But when given a choice of “Would you rather feel understood by others or better understand yourself?” I choose the latter.

Steph in Uganda

Steph in the U.S.