Old Folks Say It Best: Tips for Staying Sunny in the Pacific Northwest

1) Whiten Your Teeth
with the great and astounding abundance of good red wines, great coffee and coffee shops, dark beers and beets beets beets, a good thing to remember is: brush brush brush... then whiten.
2) Add Some Color to That Quinoa
the almost grossly glorious are the greens, yellows and varieties of reds one can find at their local supermarche as well as at the famously fantastic Farmers' Market in downtown Olympia.
3) Rise and Shine, Skip the Worm
waking up early in this glorious state of Washington affords you much more than extra sunshine: it gives you a valid excuse to drink fantastic coffee All Day Long, a reason to walk the dogs in the mist and start both of your days off with the right foot soaked and the left brain smiling, it allows you to watch as seals swim past on their daily route to the schools awaiting the chase and, most importantly, you get to watch as swallows dive and play and toussel one another in loving reaches and teasing swooshes.
4) Adages Add Up
its important, when living in such lush greens and heavy greys and dark deep blues, to remember that it is solely your responsibility to keep your chin up, even if its consequently dripping rain all down your shirt. with those heavy, rain laden clouds, comes the duty to smile that (bright white, see above) smile and remember to look past the torrential downpour that is upon you and look to the silver lining ; to remember that very shortly after you've decided to take in the lush beauty, and accept that nature is nature and will undoubtedly rain whether you like it or not, that the rainbows, those glorious, goodness-inspiring, warmth-proving rays of life are going to be in your face and no matter how dreary the day was or how dreary you are being, those belts of joy will reach you, dry you off and stretch that smile right across those pearly whites of yours.



I feel like myself again, happy, free, capable, in love, with Ryan, with life, with everything. Its good to be back and be a stranger not to myself, my friends or my family, but to a whole new society, a new type, a new neighborhood. Because, as many of you know, I'm only a stranger for a short period of time. Before you know it, I'll be hosting neighborhood parties, serving bowls at the food bank and making friends with bus drivers.

Away we go!

Zoe Schalit, 1996 to 2010

Good Bye to You, Zoe

The best and worst part of being a dog owner is making the decision, towards the end, to be the best dog owner, the best companion, the best friend you can be. That decision comes with consequence but only you feel the aftermath, for she will be sleeping soundly, comfortably, easily for the rest of whatever existence she has.

We’ve had Zoe now for 15 years. She came to us as a 6 week old fluff ball of goodness. She slept in the nook of my neck until she got too big; she worked by my dad’s side, worked harder and smarter than any other dog we’ve seen; she was an instant celebrity when she visited me in Austin and once we moved to Salida, we were front page material as soon as we arrived.
Last March she lost the use of her back legs after years of accidents and consequential rehabilitation. She made her way around like a seal out of water until July, then, when I came home, with all of my issues, all of my tears, all of my regrets and the heartache that they caused in my life (namely the end of my engagement to Ryan O’Brien), she was there, needing my help, offering her assistance as only a dog can. I’d lay on the floor with her and cry, weep, sleep, and she’d just lick my tears and put her head on my shoulder. We got her a set of back wheels, not unlike a doggie wheelchair, and we set off everyday for two walks, one in the morning and one at night. With determination and massive consumption of dog treats, she mastered the wheels, she mastered trails and hills and pot holes like a cyclist. She goes up and down wheelchair ramps without direction, as if they were literally made just for her. She plowed through snow and made her way into the grand Arkansas River many a time to cool off.
Without her in my life upon my rocky return from Mali, without someone needing me, truly giving me a purpose, a reason to get out of bed, to get down stairs, to get outside by 6am every morning, I truly don’t know if I would be here. If a dog can do anything, it’s to give you purpose, to give you reason and legitimacy and absolute unconditional love. We have reached Zoe’s last leg (no pun intended) and this week, on a good day, we’re going to put her down, after 15 years of loyalty, friendship, companionship and absolute love.

It is my duty and my honor to help her find that simple sleep that will relieve her of all of her physical woes. It is my duty and my honor to be the best friend to her that she has been to me. To lay with her on the table while she drifts off is not only my worst fear but my biggest honor. She deserves peace and comfort and it is her time now.

I will always love this dog, Zoe. To my parents and brother and friends and family and all of those dedicated to the cause of Zoe, the goodness in her face, the sweetness in her step, thank you for your unequivocal dedication and support through this.

family ties (post dated 3 May 2010)

written 3 May 2010:
i've spent the last week with my half brother, his lovely wife and their two fantastic boys on the pacific central florida coast. the original purpose of this visit was to have him fix my jaw that had been rearranged during the altercation in africa. the reality of this visit became startlingly clear within minutes of seeing the boys, Storm and Max: to aliven that lovely knot called the family tie.

we grew up with different circumstances, different stories, different aspirations, different decades but with similar genes and similar knowledge of a few things: forgiveness, empathy, love and compassion. my brother and i, we've got a lot going for us. we're both good looking, we're both generous and friendly. we both love family, even and almost especially when they are crazy. and we both speak our minds, regardless of the crowd or audience and rarely falter in speach. and today as he left for work and i sat in his lovely house, on the water, listening to the sounds of the boys waking up and the coffee brewing, i was brought to steamy eyes knowing that he really does love me. even though he doesn't have to.

a while back our dentist diagnosed and prescribed me with some very serious dental work that would almost certainly need to be followed up with very serious (especially to a24 year old) plastic surgery, leaving me breathless and sobbing after each visit. he wasn't wrong, he just wasn't right. for a second opinion we called my brother. within 3 minutes of explaination, he interrupted me, invited me to florida, said i can have you fixed in 30 minutes, with a tan to boot.

thus here i am, a working jaw, a fantastic starter tan and a new and well founded knowldege of my brother, the power of goodness, his infaliable wife, Maria, and what true love can look like. its been inspiring, encouraging and has allowed the cullmunation of what was the worst year of my life to be somewhat anticlimatic... just how i had hoped it would be.

while visiting with him and his family in Florida, i received news that i had gotten a creative writing job in Washington state and would be leaving for it at the end of May. this was very welcomed news and couldn't have been better timing. with the surgery behind me, the pain in the past, and this being the final installment of my long road to recovery i knew that this job, this creative, fast paced, career starting job was a perfect fit at a perfect time.

curt gave me more in that trip than i could have ever received in the years we grew up apart. i thank him, his lovely family and our dad for the chance to get to know him, to have the good fortune of being indebtted to him and the knowledge that he and i can be sibligns of differnt sorts and be very happy knowing it.

its been a big year

today, 14 april 2010, was the last day of my TB treatment. which extends to be the last day of my tremors, my dizzy spells, my liver malfunctions, my skin breaking and bleeding without provocations, my eyes not functioning properly, my body kicking my brains in the ass, my hair dissipating, my body rejecting foods and hunger, my insane weight loss, my depression... or at least we hope.
in two weeks i'll have a surgery to correct the damage done a year and a month ago to my jaw. in three weeks i'll be home free. healing. wheeling. sunning. funning.

a year and a month ago i got engaged to an amazing man, the keeper of my heart, the boy who completed my soul. we had a happy, long and lovely engagement.

sadly, that ended, along with our relationship and parenthood (for me) two months ago now. tragically, triumphantly, we're trying, seperately, to piece together our lives. things have come through and fallen apart, as i can no longer speak for Ryan O'brien, its just been a big year. Fisher's mother made her mark, tragic and learned, Fisher made his mark, precious and lovely and Ryan, my darling Ryan, made his mark which will always keep a special place in my heart. i got the shit kicked out of me, weeks later i got engaged, weeks later i visited my parents in Normandy, then TB, then malaria, then home. a home that i felt distant from and an accessory to.

for the first 3 months i slept in a tent in my back yard. every night that i wasn't curled into Ryan i was snuggled into normalcy, walls translating winds, ground moving bits at a time, life always moving around your sleeping head. the TB treatment kicked my ass. hospitilzations insued. as well as complete nervous breakdowns. the TB and the PTSD (from the attack) coexisted in this crazy little world, i'd get shakes but not knowing if it was from the meds or the anxiety/depression issues. i'd sleep for 20 hours not knowing if it was from the meds or the anxiety/depression issues. i'd loose more weight not knowing if it was from the meds or the anxiety/depression issues.
i kept my head up, though. my head above water. barely, but nonetheless. unfortunately, Ryan and i as a unit couldn't and in mid February we, amicably and with everyone's best interest in mind, parted ways.

easier said than done. small towns don't suddenly enlargen for the sake of the broken hearted. they don't expand or expound. instead, they shrink and become bulbous with rumors and insanities.

i miss Ryan. i miss Fisher. but most importantly, right now, i miss Sydney. i'm on the right track, met some very good folks, been kicked around while down by those who'd take advantage of the advantageless, seen some beautiful people with beautiful stories and have consequently decided to leave this tiny Salida and salida my way up to the pacific northwest.

please don't ask me why, ask me when... that will force me to answer and then i'll know too.

for those of you who read this, i'm ready. i'm moving. i'm up and at'em. i've been down, believe me, but its time to be up, to be me again. i miss me. i think you might, too.

i'll keep in touch and keep you posted.


thanks for always reading the whole thing, for always trusting the truth and knowing i'm going big or going home.

yours,
sydney

trying patience on for size

things in this glorious state of colorado are going well. zoe, my 14 year old recently handicapped dog, is moving along with her wheels better and better each week. the TB treatment is well underway, with hiccups here and there, like loosing layer upon layer of skin on my hands and sudden shakes down the left side, and is, according to medical professionals, going well. (ha)
the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder treatment is going well, a bit more sage than i expected but feels good. i'm working hard to change the mindset of my experience, less focus on the bus and the bad men and more on the babies and the good memories, the suffocating stars at night, the feel of breezes and the coolness of water, even warm water, on unbelievably hot skin. the way a good book makes your brain function better and a bad book makes your life seem smarter. the way good news travels fast over the sun baked sand and the way bad news is sad but always with Allah in mind.

i miss my life there but am trying to figure out exactly what it is that i miss: it isn't the heat, the destruction, the poverty, the insults, the food or the lack of sanitation. it is the smell of Dabi's skin, the beauty of dusk and dawn, the clouds that take your mind so far from reality that you realize you've just walked off the path and into a trash pile, the relief we volunteers would get when talking to another on the phone, the joy of the ride from village into kita and the fact that i would have to busy myself for hours before i could call ryan at a reasonable hour. that being 6am.

i miss my friends, malian and beautiful, gross and hilarious, hardworking and unquestioning, loving and difficult.

i'm happy to be home, to be undergoing treatment for ugly crimes and for a healthier outlook on life. its nice to see my dog in the morning, to see my parents over coffee, to be with ryan and fisher in the mountains now frosted with fresh and early snows, to be able to call Megan in Segou and laugh and know that friendships made are friendships kept, to know that soon i'll be better and happier and healthier and with that i'll be me again.

thank you all for the support you've given and shared and lived.

it feels to me that this is worthy of its length, worthy of your time, worth a lot to me

The last six weeks have been beyond turbulent and triumphant. Things in Mali went sour fast and I didn’t even get the chance or have the time to fully understand it all, much less explain it.
I went to Bamako in early July for a psychological evaluation at the Peace Corps clinic. It was administered over the phone so that I would be able to speak with a professional in D.C. It was concluded that due to the events that I will explain in the following paragraphs, my service needed to be suspended for a Medical Separation from the Peace Corps. Later, during my Close of Service routine medical examination, we discovered that I had contracted Tuberculosis and had severe dental issues that needed immediate attention.

I am now living in Salida, Colorado, with my finace, Ryan, his son, Fisher, my dog, Zoe and, of course, my wonderful and loving parents, Bob and Mohanta.

This all came at a time in Mali when the rains had begun and cool breezes turned to wild winds then to dry gusts then to downpour. An anti-police riot broke out in our quite regional capitol of Kita, ending in military take over of the city and the disarmament of many civilians and the suspension of many police. It was a sad scene riding a public bus into the city, seen through my weepy eyes - the news of my departure had been officiated and was scheduled for 48 hours later. The scene was this: the charred shells of cars still hot and smoldering, the shattered glass and shotgun shells littering the streets, the blackened window spaces and abandoned official buildings, the glaring blue reflectivity of the heavily armed military men, patrolling the emptied streets. The cool breezes swept gusts of dust and mold and burnt flakes of long-since inappropriately-imposed French bureaucratic paperwork up into whirlwinds; later drowned and disembodied into muck by night flooding rains. An eerie quiet swept the streets that were normally bustling with children herders and flocks of guinea fowl flittering. The clicks of armored heels were the most distinct sound to a city normally bustling with noise to the extreme that it rendered your cell phone useless unless atop a building.
This was my last view of the regional capitol, my second home in Mali, Kita; a very sad view.

The events that led to my psychological evaluation were traumatic and violent yet dismissed inappropriately by the Peace Corps official in charge of Safety and Security.
The story is a bit disarming and is very unique to my situation and in no way reflects the people of Mali as a whole; I want to make it very clear that my time in Mali was generally happy and when it wasn’t it was very often due to circumstances in which I dug myself too deep or put too much pressure on… not to mention the fact that the love of my life was waiting, patiently, in Salida, Colorado, as were my loving and supportive parents.
They only recently heard this story.

On an afternoon bus from the capitol city, Bamako, to my regional capital, Kita, in early March of 2009, I found myself 4 hours delayed due to faulty tires. My two choices were to either sleep on the side of the highway with 40 strangers and no food or water or to go with a passing bachee (bush taxi) that was headed to Kita. I took the latter once I recognized the bachee driver to be one of the four drivers that drove my road to village on a monthly basis. I explained to him, as the sun was becoming dimmer and the darkness began to fill the peripheral and the poorly lit cabin of the bachee looked very inviting, that I was without any money or phone credit but would happily pay him, extra even, the following morning, since he would be driving me to Mourgoula anyways. He agreed and seeing as how we were only about 60 miles from Kita so I took the chance and have since regretted it dearly.

I boarded the bus without windows and only a sliding door (not unlike a minivan) and sat in the front row, just behind the driver’s seat, against the wall. The man sitting next to me spoke English well and as a good American citizen and representative of the United States Peace Corps I entertained his obvious dedication to learning and spoke with him a bit. I, of course, did the Bambara greetings as I boarded but obviously didn’t fit or sound the part of a local so he struck up a conversation anyway. We chatted for about 10 minutes until I finally told him that I’d like to nap a while, that I’d had a long day of travel, and he said Ok. In the time that we had spoken I discovered that he was Nigerian and knew exactly what other Peace Corps Volunteers lived in the Kita region, down to the placement of their respective huts in their respective villages and even where they worked. It was odd and alarming so I tried, with some sternness, to distance myself from him in this situation.
I ended up falling asleep for a bit, the unevenness of the roads and the lack of shocks became comforting as I drifted into a nap; when I woke, we were parked at a small village, the driver and door-guy along with anyone previously on the bus, were gone. I had assumed that they were all praying, everyone but the Nigerian. As I woke and became more alert I realized that he, the Nigerian, had me pinned against the wall of the bus with his large combat boot heels grinding into my right thigh. I then realized that the pain was on my left side and was caused by a large bolt, part of the door, that was being pinned into my thigh. I asked him to move and he kicked me hard. My left leg was cut by this move and so I kept my mouth shut and my eyes outside, hoping to see a familiar face. Then he spoke to me in a much angrier and more agitated voice, “I could fuck you and no one would ever know about it.”
My heart stopped. Then pounded. My ears hurt and I froze, holding tears in and trying to remind myself to breathe.
The front door opened, the driver and the door-guy got in, without saying a word, and we drove on at a much slower pace than before, the final 20 miles to Kita. The Nigerian kept kicking me, threatening to rape me, laughing and speaking in French to the driver, who I soon realized was very drunk, as was his assistant. I felt trapped and was trapped, still, by his combat boots. My left leg was now numb and my right was bleeding, too.

We arrived at the police check stop, where I discovered them to be drunk as well, and passed through without verification of the number of people riding in the bus. I called Liza, who I knew to be at the staging house (the Volunteers’ house in the city) and told her that if I wasn’t home in 5 minutes to send Konte, our beloved house guard and friend, to the bus stop to look for me and to then call Peace Corps. I was terrified, hungry and bleeding; it was 10pm at this point and I was a mess. This Nigerian knew where I lived, where Jackie, Liza, Ryan and Joelle lived. I knew he was trouble and he was the only thing I was thinking of when I jumped out of the bus’ window (remember, there is no glass in these busses or transports so it was more of a wiggle than anything), and took off down the dark, dirt path that lead to the mayor’s office, that led to the road that led to the staging house.
I ran, hard and heavy, for about 15 feet when I suddenly found myself on the ground, with laughter ringing in my ears. My backpack had been stripped from my shoulders by the (now drunk) bus driver who was laughing and spitting harder than the crowd that was sitting, laughing, enjoying me on the ground. I got up and demanded that he return it (as much as one can demand something in a language like Bambara when I’d only been in the country for 7 months at the time). He laughed again and pushed me back.
Rage.
I lunged for him, punching him with my right fist, against his left cheek. Merely shocking this man of 6’ 3”; the laughter was mean now, mean and loud. He took me by the shoulders and threw me into the bus. I hit my head and once again found myself on the filth riddled ground of the bus stop; his foot came into my ribs and left me with a white spell of air-less-ness. Once I got up I demanded my bag back, now with a slightly bloody nose and far less hope, the laughter from the crowd roared and mocked, snickered and spit.
Before I knew it, my bag was on the ground and Konte was on the man. (Konte is our, the PCVs, best friend in Kita and house guard, he would and will and does anything for us) Wailing him with fists and then, only then when two grown and built men were fighting each other, did the crowd step in to help settle the dispute.
The driver wanted the 1500cfa (the equivalent of $3), I wanted my bag and my dignity, and Konte wanted me home and clean. We called the owner of the bus, who showed up at his leisure, as he did everything else in his life, and laughed off the entire situation.
That, like so many things in Mali, was that. It had been joked to a choking point and considered settled and under the bridge.

I reported the incident the next morning, after sleeping closer to Liza than I ever had before, and the response I received from the Peace Corps official to whom I had been, as had everyone else, told to report such incidents to, was: Sydney, you should know better than to talk to Nigerians.
My response was, of course: You are all Black. Are you kidding me?

That, too, was dropped. And with his disinterest in my near-rape and assault came my silence. I assumed he would report it to the Peace Corps Medical Officers, or at least to my boss, or maybe would mention it to the Country Director, but nothing came of it. Nothing but a phone call and a trip to Liza’s village to tell me that he had: begged that I be forgiven of my cultural insensitivity. (that being me punching the driver in the face).

After that I withdrew from the Peace Corps as an entity of safety or care. Only later, after seeing my parents in Normandy, France, for a week did I realize the extent of my depression. My anxiety had taken my sleep from me; it had morphed my otherwise healthy lifestyle there into a mess of constipation bouts lasting 14 days at a time, followed by 5 day weight losses of 12lbs; my attitude and happiness had nearly diminished. Unless I was in Mourgoula, with Madou and Dabi, Wurdia and Safiatu, I was aggressive, on edge and unhappy.
Embarrassed and unable to tell my family and friends in America, I confided in Megan Pilli, Christina Wood and Liza Clark, who all gave me support and love like only friends in fucked up situations can.

Throughout May and June, I continued to physically deteriorate. I would loose and gain substantial amounts of weight with fevers and colds; I contracted a severe respiratory infection and finally, after weeping on the phone to a PCMO about (please don’t judge me on this, it was very embarrassing and nearly sent me into fits) an incident where I stood in the bathroom in Kita, brushing my teeth, flossing and was suddenly flushed with heat and without even feeling it, had defecated myself. I had an anxiety attack which led to the physiological evaluation in which I was diagnosed as suffering from Adjustment Disorder. Bullshit.



The whole mess of it all, truly the worst experience, was leaving Mourgoula, my home and village of one year. Peace Corps sent me out with a grumpy driver and I asked Konte to come to help me explain the situation to the village, especially my host family.
It was a dreary day, and had luckily rained that morning, so most people were in town.
The Village Chief cried.
My host family wept.
Dabi was so shocked and obviously did not understand. He was clutched to a weeping Wurdia who could not bring herself to look at me.
Brahima begged me to stay, said he’d go to Cote d’Ivoire or Ghana to fetch me medication.
I had to move out a years worth of life in 40 minutes, with the crowd growing and the tears welling. I wept and walked form one hut to another. I was not able to say goodbye to Safiatu or Kassoum. Madou cried but hustled me into the car before I made any more of a culturally inappropriate scene by hugging Wurdia. He was protecting their memory of me; he was protecting himself.
It was terribly unfair.

Then I had to say goodbye to Konte. He said that men shouldn’t cry, that he’d never seen a chief cry, that he hated to cry.
He teared up and looked away as he sat on the new bench I gave him as the sky continued to fall.

The rain drizzled as I watched the town come back to life, only two days after the riot most businesses still had not opened, most children did not go to play, most people mourned the losses and the unfortunate powers that the police have and mis-use. I wept for days.

I still weep.

I miss Dabi and Wurdia. I miss the smells of the rains, the terror that the toads incited in me, I miss the beauty of the flowers and the flurry of the women’s words.
I miss Mali.




When I tell this story, I always get asked : Why did you stay after the attacks?
I always say: I wanted to leave on a good note. Then when good things would happen I would think, well, that’s not good enough.

The Country Director was alerted of the severity of my situations, those being the assaults, and the poor judgment used when I had reported it. He was in full support of Peace Corps Washington’s decision to Medically Separate me on the grounds of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and, after giving me a firm and proud handshake, he offered me my Peace Corps pin.

Again, I cried.

The work that was done, that was planned, and that was invisible except to the soul, I am proud to say I had a hand in. Sometimes, my blistered hands and cut feet were enough to help me sleep. Other times the discussions that arouse were enough to keep me up, to keep me writing and thinking and are to be acknowledged as truly cross cultural.
My time in Mali was cut short by two horrific acts of violence that could have been worse and that I’m grateful ended as they did. Bruised ribs and bruised ego are two things that I can, have and will recover from.

We are all dealing with my sudden reappearance and my saddened state, but we are all we still and it’s the togetherness that is helping.

Maintaining a sense of self during my experience as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Mali was difficult; maintaining or regaining that old self in my current state feels impossible, but it is not impossible and in fact is inevitable and is helped and led by family and friends, loved ones and readers.

It will come. My surgeries will heal, my head and heart will go back to normal, Post Traumatic will turn to Once Traumatic and will slowly become a lesson and an anecdote and a good self-defense story rather than a crushing and drowning sense of self.

Since I've been back in Colorado I've been seeing Psychologist in Denver who works with adventuresome cases, like mine. I have been officially diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; it is a terrible and sad thing to have gone through but worse are the moments when I relive it, when I see it again, when I hear in other's voices the passionlessness I heard over the phone the morning after. Little triggers send me into a weeping state; grocery isles are terrifying; Zoe is my best comfort; I am not the same.
But I'm trying, working at getting back my old self, and I know it will come.

The imperfections of life make everything perfect and livable.
The lessons make it life. Don’t lose the lesson in loss.