Overwhelm October 26th

It’s 6:30 AM and I am at my desk and on the computer.  I’ve certainly been up and productive by this time of day.  Actually, I am normally leaving for work by this time.  But today, Sunday morning, I’ve been driven here after nine straight hours of music blaring from my neighbor’s large speaker, pointed directly at my house.   My computer is the recipient of my release, the only place I can pour out my feelings.  The neighborhood children are gathered around my porch, calling out to me, banging on the metal grate.  I wonder, are their parents enjoying their morning at home without them?  There is nowhere to go, no way to escape the overwhelming sound, the people, the constant interaction.

Will this be my Peace Corps experience for the next two years? I am trying as hard as I can to find some peace of mind.

Yesterday, my teenage neighbor came to my door asking for shampoo.  She has never come to my door, or spoken to me, without asking for something.  I vow that today I will speak to her to explain my volunteer status, that I am not a commissary, that I cannot supply her, or the neighborhood, with toiletries, medicines and money.  It would be interesting to learn more about her life, to make a friend.  But now, it seems we are in an on-going tug of war, she asking, me denying.

Yesterday afternoon I had the smallest children in my living room to watch a movie.  Later, the older kids and teenagers asked to see the  same movie.  Although I had just sat down to write, I agreed to it.  One teenage girl, thinking I didn’t understand her, asked her friend why they weren’t getting cookies like the little ones.  I resented her sense of entitlement.  I resented giving up my time to write when I was so full of ideas and focus.  I resented them being in my house, invading my only shard of privacy.

Have my neighbors ever invited me to their homes?  Do they invite me to watch movies or join them in the evenings when they are out in their yard, around the fire, singing, dancing and laughing?  Have they ever offered to share a meal?  Yet, it is expected of me to do so.  I know that I am the foreigner, seen as the person with the wealth.  And, my predecessor was famous for making loans, giving money and baking for the neighborhood.  I, on the other hand, am the strange American that lives alone and keeps mostly to myself.  I do not give out money or make loans.  I do not bake cookies and cakes for the neighbors.   Preparing and cooking for myself is a challenge, and most days I go to bed hungry.  Yet, I am judged by what they think a white lady, a “Branca “should be and by the one or two they have known.

I try to stop my mind from rehearsing the next two years, scenes like this one continuing to play out.  I take deep breaths, trying to focus on today, this morning, right now.  And, for some reason, the music has suddenly stopped. I am left in blessed, blessed peace - for the moment.