Bad Volunteer HOME

EXCERPTS
Foreword
Floundering In Truk Lagoon
The Dinner Party

Outline

About the Author

Music From Micronesia

CONTACT INFO:
Mary Flannery
309 Fourth Street, SE #2
Washington, DC 20003
202.546.0536 (home)
202.270.3696 (cell)
MaryLFlannery@hotmail.com

Yellowcat Productions Website

EXCERPTS
from The Bad Volunteer

a book by Mary Flannery

SPAZ ATTACK

It rained today. This means the drought is postponed at least a week--until the water starts eking out of the tanks drop by drop again. In true Trukese fashion, when there is plenty, they use it all up. They blithely and luxuriously wash their clothes with tank water, instead of the dirty well water. I wish they'd save the tank supply for drinking only. I dare not suggest it though. They'd only take me for more of a crazy miser than they do already.

I am definitely a miser by their standards--trying to save a little money for Indonesia and the expenses of the outside world should I ever find myself there again. They don't understand why I don't blow it all on VCR gasoline and Ice Plant fish. And I'm crazy because they drove me that way. I feel like I'm squeezed into a slide under a microscope. I've shrunk myself down, and am wriggling like a maniac. All sound is squished by the glass, muffled by the sea.

I sit blankly, eye wandering, letting my environment drift into blur, since I can't seem to bother putting it in focus. I feel so damn listless and barely able to grip this cheap pen. I'm down to ten students, and on the verge of absolutely losing it with the ones that remain. They have not a grain of respect for me.

My new resolve--to love them all and allow for each one's stories and sins and shortcomings--backfired. It was inspired by Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov. Some old dying monk spouts his last words about loving life, the earth, and all its creatures. How we should take responsibility not just for our own sins, but everyone else's as well. It's one big boat we're in.

So I made it my new resolution. But coming out of the blue like that, all of a sudden, it's not so easy to maintain. Especially since I consider I have never been able to love anyone or anything in my entire life. This, says Dostoevsky, is hell in and of itself. Living an earthly life without being able to love.

So there I was all set in my new approach, and Wednesday morning I kept thinking I mustn't let the repulsive behavior of these students get to me, got to love got to love. The next thing I know I've slammed Erene's hand in my desk drawer in a fit of ill temper. Cool boy...Love these kids...Here, look see I've brought my guitar let's smile and sing "Lord of the Dance." Then all those eighth graders who persist on haunting and taunting me are all of a sudden sticking their faces up against the chicken wire windows, streaming in through the door, talking about the coconut stain on the front of my dress like it was blood. "Kendall did it," I hear one of them say. As soon as I get two of them out the door, five more come in.

Finally I decide to go find the principal. Of course he's not in his office. So I storm across the schoolyard to the radio hut, with Erene et al right on my heels. Erene steps on my flip-flop causing me to walk out of it, gotta backtrack and fetch it, tell her to go back to the classroom. Now my voice is shaking. "She's mad! She's mad!" they call to one another right behind me and practically in my ear.

By the time I got to Eruo I was broken. "Why aren't these eighth graders in class?" I cried. He rushed out, oh my hero, and I completely broke down. I had no idea it was coming until Erene stepped on my flip-flop, but boy did it come. I've never had such an uncontrollable twitching of the face. I went totally spastic and was frankly wondering if I would ever regain control. Oh we Peace Corps volunteers, what we give in the name of development. Here, take this white aging basketcase.

In a recent letter, my mother suggested that I speak to some advisory personnel about my situation here. That made me laugh a little. I don't believe Domingko has ever seen this island; there is no Peace Corps official who has ANY idea what goes on out here. It's just me and the yams and the fishermen and the kids. And The Herr and The Frau, who will soon be moving to Moen.

My teaching time is now down to less than three hours a day--8:45 to 11:30--with recess and all manner of time waste thrown in. I feel pretty useless. So what IS the point? There are three more months 'til year's end. Then three months of vacation. Then maybe a fresh start, a new perspective, something in the way of a secondary project, and I can get through a second year.

On the other hand, I'm so lazy I can't really see myself embarking on a secondary project. I've never even said so much as hello to the new Magistrate. I'm still not sure which one he is, although he has been pointed out to me more than once. Thing is, I don't care either. I just want to crawl into my secret annex and listen to jazz and read.