Flatlined

Once upon a time in a far away land, I had a heart.  I wanted and thought it possible to be a Jesus, Mother Theresa, Gandhi, or JoAnne Crone – my town’s own local saint.  I wanted to help the poor and care for the sick.  I wanted to go off to some tropical island and nurse disease-ridden babies back to health.  Seinfeld seemed mean to me, and I would tear up at emotion-demanding commercials. I'd put a dollar in the plastic cup of the guy at the intersection if I had it – not important if it was for booze or not.  And, if a person cut me off in traffic, I would think up scenarios about that driver’s awfully bad day or his rushing home to a sick child so that I could refrain from shooting him the bird.  Treat others how you would want to be treated…

but I was never very good at actually doing that.

I realized, behind everyone else, that my personality aligned more with Grungetta's.  Plus, new lessons were learned and I started seeing a whole assortment of things in a new light.  That regular unwashed homeless man transformed through clearer lens into a rude, lazy, lying bum who I was sick and tired of him hitting me up daily for money when I was barely getting by myself – trying to figure out how to pay rent or keep the electricity on that month – and knowing he probably made more than me that day by begging.  I started to understand an individual’s and humanity’s need to keep the family fed and to have the basics (and also realizing that the definition for that was different for everyone).  Their motivation and the necessity of their actions became clearer to me - even if the way to get to those things maybe wasn't  the best for the “common good."  Things like the death penalty, abortion, war, big corporations and pharmaceutical companies became messy in my mind.  Nothing wanted to remain clean cut for me, and empathy stretched me too thin.  Life outside of the pre-college, parental haven of happiness introduced me to a much grayer world.  And with that, for better or worse, many of my kinder sensitivities found themselves dulled and left me with an irregular, muffled beat.

A few days ago, I noticed that I had added another silencing layer to what was left of my good-natured organ.

When I came to Cameroon, it was hard to see past the poverty.   I saw flies, filth, concrete and wooden houses unfit for living, few toilets, unaccompanied naked toddlers with running noses wobbling around places where no one should be walking shoeless, and lots of hungry people.  The need was overwhelming.  Poverty can be scary and bring feelings of uneasiness and make things uncomfortable - at least for me.  But slowly, I got past that.  A lot of what I thought before as unacceptable, bizarre, or simply new started becoming normal to me.  Not a bad thing, not a good thing – reserving a spot in that gray place.  I saw beautiful people, some particularly good food and neat traditions, and that life wasn’t so bad for a lot of people here.  And, I started thinking about all the not-so-great and wasteful habits of Americans and some of the possible personal changes I could make upon my return.  But, I also got used to some of the other more obnoxious constants - to the men at all the bars/places to buy alcohol (which greatly outnumber the Starbucks in Seattle) asking me to buy their beers or whiskey sachets, to the men I'd meet for two minutes in a car and want my contact for work collaborations but really only so they could later ask me to marry them, to the random passersbys asking me what I’m going to do for them, to people asking me if I can bring them to America or Europe, to the crazies and poorer Cameroonians asking for money or telling me they were hungry, to the culturally common but to me, annoying question of “what have you brought me?”  I created my automated responses – nope, nothing, or some simple (or a less-than-simple) fabrication.  Maybe a necessary numbing -- as there’s a certain fine-tuned Peace Corps Volunteer balancing act that must come into play when deciding where and with whom one can (and wants) to put their limited time and energy into doing our own self-assigned development work.  As a PCV, I can try and help teach something to serious knowledge-desiring individuals or groups and maybe help find resources, but otherwise this white lady’s got those annoying false pockets.  I’m not Jesus.  I don’t have all the answers (I have very few in fact - even if I like to pretend differently), there’s only a little that I can do to actually help, and there's a big possibility that I won't have a second coming -- disappointments and frustrations for both parties.

I just can’t help everyone.

The other morning as I was sitting on the stoops of a church reading Franny and Zooey and waiting for my class to start at the next-door school, a lady who was cleanly dressed and toting a small carry-on type bag came up to me and started mumbling something about a bigger town three hours north of us.  Not even because she was speaking French, I was having a difficult time understanding her.  She was talking about something medical and something about going to that town.  She never asked me for money but clearly she was in need of something.  Too absorbed in my book, knowing I only had about ten minutes before class started, and not wanting to give her my 2,500 CFA (around 5 USD and about a week’s worth of food) for travel money, I brushed her off and told her she should go and talk to the priest.  She headed that way and I soon left - making sure I was gone before she could return.  That night and several miles away from the church, I was walking back from my post-mate’s house where I had been eating some delicious homemade stomach-filling stew and drinking tasty(ish) boxed-wine.  On the steps of a closed office building, I spotted the same lady.   Her back was to me and she was sitting with her bag in her lap and her head was resting upon it - obviously with nowhere to go.  And… decidedly, I quietly tip-toed by so that she wouldn't hear or bother me.  A success.

But and rightfully so, I felt like a real nasty heartless p.o.s. after that.  Cameroonians don’t have the many accessible soup kitchens, shelters, unemployment, or disability that most Americans can at least rely on when times are really tough.  They must rely on family and friends when they need help – what happens if that doesn’t exist or it’s been exhausted?  I went back later to see if she was still around – for a meal or money for a ride.  She wasn’t. 

I had forgotten that not everyone’s out to take advantage of me.  I didn’t know her situation and it really shouldn't have mattered.  I can and should let my thick metal-plated guard down on occasion.  Sometimes people really could just use a break.  I've received plenty of them.  And, I need to try to keep that in mind a little more often.

I can’t help everyone, but I guess I could have helped that someone.