Following in their Footsteps

It’s hard to think of people outside their relationships to us. I usually think of my parents as, well … my parents, for example. Their identity for me has always been clear and consistent. My father is a self-made success; an accomplishment that could only be diminished by his intense devotion to our family, hilarious tendency to “get lost in the 50s,” and Jack Burns-esque protection of his little girl. I don’t think he will ever cease to be my hero. My mother, on the other hand, describes herself as “her kids’ mom.” For me, that’s all the important memories of birthday cupcakes shaped like ice cream cones, homemade Halloween costumes, college care-packages and endless hours of sharing the secrets that pass between a mother and her daughter. But my parents weren’t always parents. They have traveled, loved, lost, and lived beyond my wildest dreams. I am compelled to think about these “other” lives because I feel like I’m following their footsteps down a path I didn’t know existed until I found myself on it.

Of course I knew my mother worked with the Federal Disaster Assistance Administration when she was younger. And of course I knew my father risked his life in the name of our freedom during the Vietnam War. But until I found myself sitting in South East Asia like my father once did, searching my soul for the compassion my mother had, I didn’t truly understand what they had accomplished. Like everything else, it’s difficult to see the depth of an accomplishment without knowing the struggle behind it.

The last two weeks, I’ve been skipping between my surprisingly Westernized host family in Pursat, and the luxury of Phnom Penh. It’s easy to forget how hard life is here when you’re eating hot apple pie with ice cream at Free Bird. While I was away, I let my guard down and slipped back into the comfort of my American identity. When I returned to Tuk Phos, however, I felt like I was literally slapped by reality. But then, it’s hard to face reality in a society where the most educated people in my parents’ generation were slaughtered, leaving the country bankrupt of its brightest minds, and only now capable of beginning to rebuild a sense of confidence.

It doesn’t help that yet another one of us has decided to go home this week. Again, it was someone who I feel like I’ve known forever and that I can’t imagine this place without. When I listened to Katie tell me why she decided to go home, I heard myself in her. I remember saying those things to my parents when I was in Paris. Granted, I also remember them telling me that after everything we went through to get me there, there was no way I was coming home (and thank God they did – but no need to say I told you so, right?). Culture shock. I’ve been there. In truth, I’m probably there now. You arrive and everything is new and exciting, bright and interesting. But then as the weeks wear on, and the identity you’ve spent 20-some odd years cultivating is suddenly forced to adapt, the heart of your being begins to rebel.

Every trainee is dealing with culture shock differently. Some people bottle their feelings, some people lay them on the table. I’d like to think I’m doing it better this time around than I did before, but there are moments when exhaustion and anxiety seem to be just outside my door. I know why I came here though. I know how hard I worked to get here. I know that two years of my life can change someone else’s lifetime. Maybe more importantly, I also know I am my parents’ child. I have my father’s strength. I can face the harsh conditions here and give up the comforts I grew too accustom to in the States because he did it before me. He stood up for what was good despite the sun and the rain, and despite everything he gave up for that sense of hope. And when it’s my heart that’s weak, I feel my mother inside me, stretching her hands forward beside mine to offer our hearts in hopes of easing someone else’s pain. I want to do the good that they’ve done.

The highs in the Peace Corps are some of the highest you can have, leaving room to fall into a staggering low if you’re not careful. They say it’s riding them both that make you feel alive – and you can’t help but feel alive here. Everything is wonderful and terrifying at the same time.

When I woke up this morning, it was a cool 76 degrees with a strong wind that reminded me of those last days of summer before fall. I closed my eyes and pretended that I was home … maybe taking Xena for a walk with dad, or starting the first day of class at Hamilton. It’s funny how something like the way the wind blows can take you somewhere else entirely. I felt so far away and yet, so close to home at the same time. This feeling made me think of something my mother wrote in her most recent letter:

“You meet people, they come into your life, and then you never see them again, but they always bring a smile to your face when you think about them. Throughout your lives, I’m sure you’ll realize that, and what I think you should do is keep a small box and keep all those great memories in there. If you are feeling down, go and open the lid, look inside and pull out a smile!”

In these two months, I’ve put many new memories into my box along with the old standards I come back to again and again. It isn’t always easy to be here, but I am never without that box.