Do You Know What it Means….

Well, I am in a much better place than the last time I blogged. I finally heard from CRS, and I can honestly say that after all the anticipation and conflicted thinking about staying in New Orleans or going back abroad, it didn’t seem like much of a decision at all. Adding a week to the anticipation only solidified what I already knew…that I wanted to go back to Africa and continue to do this type of work. It was one of those heartthumpingoutofyourchest moments that just felt incredibly perfect. Yes, grad school was totally worth it. Here I go. I will be placed in Mwanza, Tanzania—on the southern tip of Lake Victoria, on the outskirts of Serengeti National Park, working on HIV programming, agriculture projects, and livelihoods. Yay me. My life for the next year…what I want. Hands down.

In saying this, though, comes the acceptance of the expat life. Again. I’m sure to some my lifestyle seems exciting and somewhat intense, and in some ways I guess it is. But we expats also sacrifice a lot to do what we do, by choice. We choose time and again to uproot, adapt, learn, adjust, and settle in. Over and over. It’s a gift to learn about a new culture, a new country, put your footprint on a new spot of the globe that just blows your mind when you step off the plane. The majestic beauty, the vastness, the simplicity, the kindness, the resilience. It’s enlightening, challenging, humbling and hopeful. It’s what keeps us coming back. But coupled with this comes insecurity, isolation, disconnection, and the day to day turbulence of working in a foreign land. I will never be Togolese, Ethiopian, Rwandan, or Nicaraguan. As much as I educate and assimilate and accept, I will always have white American privilege propping me up, making excuses, justifying whatever it is I do or don’t do. It’s a lot to manage. You build friendships, but many are out of necessity or convenience. You balance the desire to live like a local while appreciating the comforts afforded you because you ARE white and you ARE American. You learn how to function seeing your family once a year and supporting friendships over Skype, email and Facebook. You give up the familiar and sacrifice what you could have had if you stayed. Your New Orleans wrapping you in her arms and showering you with a culture that can’t be found many places. So, yes. We agree to the loneliness and solitude in order to fight a greater cause, contribute to something much larger than ourselves. We overextend ourselves professionally, work incredibly long hours, frustrate ourselves beyond belief, and it’s all for the sake of the project, the work…because if the work isn’t changing lives, what the hell is the sacrifice really for?

Now that I finally know, it’s hard to start closing the door on New Orleans. I wake up every morning determined to recognize and appreciate how magical of a place this city is. I envy the richness of her culture—the festivals, the food, the music, the attitudes, the family. There’s always something to do in a very spontaneous, organic, wonderfully New Orleans sorta way. It’s also timeless in a way that I think most people recognize if you have spent any amount of time here. The pressures of fitting into those pre-determined timelines ruling and robotically running most of America just simply don’t exist. Must be married by 28. Must buy first home by 30. Must have first child by 32. It’s a great place to feel freedom without judgment. Everybody moves to the beat of their own drum, trombone, or washboard. Which is why I feel so happy to have had this four months back down here…to enjoy and appreciate and thank the city for the time I’ve had here, and also to know that there is no question in my mind that I will once again call New Orleans home…in 3 years, 5 years, 10 years…she’ll be waiting for me with open arms...back to her tradition and soul that make New Orleans so special. And, yes. Time and time again, I do indeed know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Anxious Anita

It never fails. As much as we convince ourselves that we are becoming more comfortable with uncertainty, don’t trust ourselves to be consumed by anticipation, we inevitably fall into that age-old trap of being disappointed by the expectations of which we set for ourselves, and allow to govern and rule our day to day worlds. The topic of this week’s meltdown? The international fellowship I applied for months ago had stated at our final interview in February that we would hear an answer by April 5^th, yay or nay, by telephone. This date became a fixation for me in every aspect of my life…like I couldn’t even schedule my dog’s haircut without knowing—knowing whether I’d continue a life in New Orleans and settle down into a reasonably stable, gloriously fun and challenging existence in a city I adore, or continue down the path of international work that would likely bounce me around the globe for the next few years. And when I say fixated, that’s putting it lightly. I’ve compiled massively extensive lists in the NOLA vs. abroad column…just waiting for that magical day to say, phew. Now I can get Netflix. Or, I can finally call my lender, fix the chain on my bike, take Spanish classes, sell used books, buy that tee shirt I want. Oh, I really shouldn’t go to that museum until I’m sure I’m staying in New Orleans or not. Huh?

I went crazy. Literally. By Monday night, I had stared at the screen of my Blackberry so many times, I was seeing icons when I blinked. I sobbed hysterically at the kitchen table, drank a bottle of wine, and allowed myself to feel knock-down, drag out, horrible about myself. Rejection and doubt are a bad combo, particularly when the rejection hasn’t even been confirmed yet. And again, I became mad at myself, because instead of being “rational and understanding Aimee” who realizes that there were numerous and likely reasons why there was a delay in communication, I permitted myself (with reckless abandon) to go to the bad place. That horrid, unhealthy place where you hate everything, above all yourself, and curse the very mentality you pretended all this time you didn’t have. It manifests itself in ugly ways. Your road rage exponentially increases on the way to and from work. Road rage in NOLA is a bad idea, people. Nobody has insurance and everybody owns a gun. You eat Taco Bell for like the third time in a decade; you convince yourself it’s ok to go to bed at 8pm. You decide with definitive authority that you detest each and every one of your coworkers, the majority of your friends, and even tolerate a short fuse with that loyal, fluffy, geriatric poodle who has never wronged you in your life.

It’s bad, and it’s your fault. The power of your own thinking is extraordinary and totally bizarre. It’s your expectations that have brought you to this mental space that’s unraveling you more by the day, and what has honestly changed between this week and last? Really? Nada. It’s still the waiting game. It’s still the same day to day existence you were living last week, so why all the hysteria? Because we are our harshest critics, our worst enemies, and the expectations we create and intend for ourselves will never be surpassed by anyone else. So, fine. Lesson learned. Again. Breathe. Live presently. Exist calmly. The universe will unfold in due time, either on April 5^th or otherwise.