Glory Ho

I’ve got something in my pocket and it goes across my face.
I keep it very close to me in a most important place.
You’ll never ever guess it if you guessed a long long while.
So I’ll take it out and put it on, its my great big ___ _____

Anyone who knows this song and can complete the sentence, gets a. . .um. . .let’s see. . .what do I have of value that I can send to someone in the States. Oh that’s right, nothing! You’ll have to settle for a photo of yourself on our Web site.

But spinning off this old song, I was actually talking about my Apple Ipod, or rather, my Nano, (a word meaning incredibly small).

Ipods, Mp3 players are pretty common these days. If you’re living in Middle America, it’s likely the kids, gym-goers and the walkers who have white cords hanging from their ears, while on the streets of New York, Madrid or London, even suits move with an extra spring (or slide or badumbum) in their step.

We’re late adopters, Boudreaux and I. We don’t feel the need to rush out and be first with a camera phone, a DVD player or an MP3 Player. It’s cheaper to wait. Not only do you get the same thing for less, three years later, but once you do buy, the bugs have been eliminated and your friends are expert troubleshooters.

I was also resistant about this particular gadget, because I didn’t like how it might change my presentation. Instinctively open to seamstress/drycleaning/cobbler small talk and grocery commentary with strangers, as well as eager to appear available to those needing directions or a hand, I knew the Ipod would label me as unapproachable. Hell, that’s half the reason some people use it. Their Ipod is a mobile “Do Not Disturb” Sign, allowing them escape any chance of being targeted as someone who might give a damn. But that wasn’t me.

And, while we’re on the topic, I can’t help wonder what this is doing to society. Is it making everyone just a little bit colder? A little less likely to help? In a world that’s become increasing less private, where googling is a verb and you’ve probably been the target, are people subconsciously savoring the last bit of alone-time they’ve got left? Or, are they becoming more individualistic, taking charge of their own lives, and looking inward a bit more? Discovering what they’re really about? And is this a good or bad thing?

But I have an Ipod now. I got it mainly for running and traveling, but it’s leaked into other parts of my life. Sometimes I wear it on my half hour walk to work. And I like it. I really do. I am that person saying “Um, no, don’t even think about talking to me. I don’t want your flyer and I can’t hear you anyway.” Ha! I am the one unavailable to grab the door. I am the one who lives in my own head. At times I embrace the sound and at other moments, it adds to my chaos. But it does provide a contrast. Now, when I turn it off, I hear the leaves scratch the sidewalk a little louder. And that’s cool.

But there’s this other benefit, too. Drama queens, listen up. As I step onto the sidewalk, Dido begins her humming or Neko Case her steel guitar, and then the camera (the one in my head) pans in on me, my stride and my attitude. Then it slowly lifts to capture the Sofia block alive with the up-and-down of hats and bags and legs and boots (as if in the end of a movie—can’t you just see it?). I am slowly drown in the increasingly confusing crowd. I am the star of my own life and my good friends, who serenade me and me alone (I’m talking about Dido and Neko!) will be on the Life of Andrea soundtrack, soon to be available at Itunes.com. Do you see how fun this is? Not to mention that Bulgaria now seems like a music video to me. Far more interesting than before. I like my life.

Last Monday morning when I turned up for work, I found a small souvenir spoon, with “Transylvania” written on it, sitting on my desk. It was a small gift left for me from my colleague, Milena, who had just returned from Romania. It was a thoughtful gesture.

This particular gift left me uneasy, however. The little spoon bore the likeness of Transylvania’s most famous resident, Vlad Dracula. Everyone knows who fictional Count Dracula is. He is the immortal vampire who must drink human blood in order to remain devilishly un-dead. The fictional character inspired by the real Count Dracula is one of the most enduring villains of all time.

Considering this, it is remarkable that the real Dracula (I’ll all him Vlad) was vastly more evil than the fictional character he inspired. The story book Dracula merely punctured the throats of his victims, glugged down some blood, and slipped away into the night. It’s not polite behavior, but in relative terms, it’s no where near the top of the evil list. In fact, when you consider that Dracula must feed in order to remain immortal, it’s even possible to sympathize with the guy. What would you do?

On the other hand, the real Dracula, often know as Vlad “Tepes”, was one of the most merciless, cruel and demented tyrants the world has ever known. He was a clever sociopath who had the power to carry out his most violent fantasies on a large scale. The fact that his nickname, “Tepes”, means “The Impaler” gives you a clue to his temperament. This guy was so disgusting that I cannot bring myself to describe his deeds here. Suffice to say he took glee in causing the long, slow, agonizing death of thousands of people. He was Evil, Evil, Evil. If you must know more, read for yourself, although I DON’T recommend it:
http://www.donlinke.com/drakula/vlad.htm#Atrocities.

So the little spoon with Vlad’s face on it stared at me for most of the day, until I had the sense to turn it upside down. This wasn’t a superstitious gesture; I was irked that such a dreadful person had won his immortality. Furthermore, finding his face on something as trivial as a porcelain souvenir spoon left me the impression that Vlad had been forgiven.

When I thanked my colleague, Milena, for the small gift, I told her Vlad was a son-of-a-bitch. To my surprise, she disagreed. What I didn’t realize was that Dracula is a pseudo-hero in the Eastern Balkans because of his savage resistance against Ottoman domination in the 15th century. Even though he also tormented his own people, he was one of the last Balkan leaders to maintain some level of independence, before the Turks overwhelmed and occupied Central and Eastern Europe – an insult which the Bulgarians suffered for more than 500 years.

It occurred to me that Bulgarians and Romanians, paying homage Vlad Dracula is like Italians celebrating Columbus Day. Both men were excessively cruel, yet they both achieved lasting admiration for legitimate accomplishments. Conceding that I might be being hypocritical, I turned the spoon back over again, and took another look at Vlad Tepes Dracula. I took him home that evening to decide what to do with him.

Must our heroes be good people? The King of Pop Michael Jackson is totally dysfunctional. Famous pilot Charles Lindberg was a Nazi sympathizer. Actor and athlete OJ Simpson was a wonderful man, except for that one little incident.

Hmmmmm….

Without further hesitation, I put the porcelain spoon on the counter top, and smashed Vlad Tepes Dracula into tiny bits with a hammer.

Sorry Milena, but this guy’s a son-of-a-bitch.

I’ve always been what you might call a nationalist of sorts. I like rooting for the home team. I am a yeller, a jumper, a national anthem saluter. Little League Baseball, rugby matches in sub-zero temps, a dog competition at the Stock Show, it doesn’t make a difference. If it’s competition, I’m in. The dance of numbered shirts, a referee’s stripes and the comfort of my own jeans and sweatshirt mix as smoothly as brownie batter with just as sweet of a result. I have almost always, therefore, rooted for the American team, regardless of our current sport. My patriotism is an unquestionable certainty. I’m fond of Lee Greenwood. I have always been proud to be an American. Our work ethic, optimistic attitude, determination and patriotism seem unmatched compared with other countries I’ve visited. I feel you should be proud of yourself, your family and your accomplishments, too, despite their failings. Self-deprecation in moderation. I walk along a line that’s painted by a thoughtful mixture of pride and awareness. I’m eager to explore new continents and cultures, but I am always proud to be a straight-teethed, smiling, American.

Over the last five years, as the United States’ image has suffered, I’ve remained a loyal supporter. While I didn’t agree with every policy, and based on primarily women’s and minority issues, did not vote for our current president, I maintained a basic trust in our government’s foreign policy. I realized that while idealists serve a purpose to tip the boat and keep awareness high, their blinders were too much for me and their lack of perspective was illogical. While I fought for reproductive rights, rallied, phone-banked, fundraised and did my best to encourage positive policies for women’s health, I didn’t always choose to hang out with my Planned Parenthood cohorts. Their firm belief in whatever Michael Moore said inched me more and more toward the center. Too, I realized that debates where one simply confirms what ones already knows are seldom learning experiences. I chose to understand that the government, like me, like you, like companies, like organizations, makes mistakes. That no one was evil, but simply doing what they thought was best. And that change would come, as it always does. Our system guaranteed it. I strived to remember, as Winston Churchill said: “Democracy is the worst form of government except all those others that have been tried from time to time.”

I also refused to succumb to the cynicism that’s become so trendy today. Everyone has the right to not only have an opinion but to express it (thanks to our democracy, by the way), but throwing your own patriotism out with the trash isn’t respectable. As millions of people risk their life to work minimum wage in the land of the free, there are plenty of American complainers (none of them heading for the border) who don’t realize just how good we have it. It’s a little like football. Being a fair-weather fan is easy. Remaining a dissenting, and maybe disappointed, but patient supporter is hard. Ask any Buffallo Bills fan. And you can say, “but this is politics, not a stupid football game” and you’d be right, but give me a break, I’m not a political analyst, I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer. And don’t call football stupid.

But I have digressed. Quite a bit actually.

Being abroad during such a difficult time for America, even in a relatively forgettable country in the global scene, has introduced a new feeling. Po princip, most people either don’t care or don’t want to navigate a political conversation. We are rarely harassed about Iraq or Bush. We try to be tolerant and encourage cultural exchange. But it’s in the presence of non-American expats where I occasionally (I can only think of three times, so really, occasionally) feel a subtle chill. Nothing is said. In fact, it may be the split-second of silence that I notice. A spark of condescension from the French woman’s eyes, the flat response from a German, a glance downward from a Dane. A momentary, unspoken wave of sympathy and discomfort sails through the air, like a piece of paper. Or is it only indifference? Or the lack of response? I’m not sure. But it’s there.

Is it me? Am I self-conscious about America? Valid point, but no, that’s not it. It’s different now and there are reasons.

Perhaps this time as the underdog has been good for us as a country. Perhaps it has opened the eyes of arrogant Americans. The trouble with always being first is that you don’t notice those behind you, right?

But my pride and patriotism won’t let shame creep in. Even when Michael and I were advised by a fellow traveler to claim we were Canadian, if, say, we faced a dangerous Middle East situation during our upcoming world travel, we both knew that wasn’t an option for us (okay I considered it for a minute or two). We’ll simply have to trust that despite any misgivings or momentary silences, we’ll be viewed as individuals. Not representatives of a government.

It’s been said (by someone. . .) that Peace Corps volunteers often return to the United States more patriotic than when they left. Makes sense. After living in a developing country, people are typically more appreciative of the comforts and freedoms back home. I can say, a year in, we’re no exception. But in the midst of the current affairs, I’ve obviously gained another perspective, too. Perhaps the perfect medicine following the less-than-ideal diplomatic conditions we have created. And certainly, a wedge of humble pie, though difficult to swallow, is good for anyone’s system.

In the United States, compared with my European travels, it’s very apparent that we favor more conservative colors for our clothing. You’ll find more navy blue, more black and more khaki in our strip malls than in other developed Western countries. Ann Taylor and Banana Republic deliver solid colors to the masses. Our shirts shout fewer words, our pants less zippers and our necks less bric-a-brac-y beads. I’m talking about the clothes you might find on a person in America’s mid-size cities and suburbs. The pieces you’d pick off a rack at T. J. Max, Gap or Foleys. The usuals. Nothing off a runway. Because these are in fact what we trend toward the most. Our shoes? Boring as hell. Calm, soft-hued and undertoned. Men, specifically, have just a few choices for everyday shoe-wear in the U.S. and that’s unfortunate. It’s funny, too. As much as we don’t mind standing out, smiling at strangers, speaking loudly and causing a commotion with more humility than our friends from this continent, our clothing is just along for the ride. Subtle. Tasteful. Safe.

It seems a contradiction of sorts. But maybe this goes hand-in-hand with those Puritanical values we managed to inherit—the fact that marriages are much more common here than in say, Denmark, where so much of the population simply lives together, or the idea that our Christian-led coalition refuses to accept the idea of teenagers having sex and therefore pushes abstinence instead of condoms? Maybe in America, when it comes to clothing, we are less about self-expression and more about self-preservation. We let our mouths do the talking, and our cars (which we drive incessantly, compared with Europeans) do the showcasing so our green-striped sneakers (which is essentially Europe’s transportation) don’t need to. And here in Bulgaria, where the freedom to express you opinion and gather freely hasn’t been around that long, maybe they are looking for the outlets we take for granted.

Maybe we have too many rules. You don’t have to follow them, but unless you want the driving rain of judgment, scorn and gossip in your ears or behind your back, (not necessarily among friends, but definitely among professionals) you do. Which makes me wonder. . . . . .are we too judgmental? Just as we decide a neighborhood is dangerous or poor by noticing the peeling exterior, graffitti’d door or torn sidewalk, assuming the inside must be an even bigger disaster, perhaps we also dismiss people a little too early by tossing away their personality with their ugly plaid pants.

Did I tell you about the training? I attended an NGO training in late July as part of the Cross Border Network, which aims to strengthen ties between Romania and Bulgaria. We stayed in Silistra, a Bulgarian border town along the Danube River. It’s a forgettable place, with the unkempt monuments, stray dogs, scary bus stations and overgrown parks I’ve come to expect in this country. But there was the DruStar, a five-star (ha!) hotel on the Danube’s primitive banks, complete with pool, room service, leather lobby couches and framing flowerbeds. All week, we workshopped and led and facilitated and presented and exchanged and laughed and gave feedback. The time restored some of my faith in Eastern Europeans. I was meeting people who seemed to really care about their organizations; individuals who wanted to know more when I spoke. But instead of the training’s topics (public relations, lobbying and grantwriting) my lessons came through conversation and observation. I learned about cross-cultural mediation, facilitation when English is a second language and that while humor doesn’t always translate, when you’re just trying to express an idea, and you finally achieve your meaning, the breakthrough is enough to make you exhale with joy. I noticed that compared to the United States, there were more coffee breaks, less yelling and interrupting, but also less initiative. Instead of two Type A’s duking it out in a small group, finding a leader was the first challenge. (unless I was in the room-ha!). I learned that these young idealists were less likely to bitch and whine about rules, food or boring sessions. They were more accepting, more understanding. Too, when we attended a traditional Bulgarian dinner with a costumed show following the meal, (something I’d seen plenty of by now) the Bulgarians were proud. I could see it in their eyes. And that made me proud to be living here.

During this week, we had almost zero personal time, rooming together, eating together and forced into forging bonds and sharing experiences. Perhaps my biggest revelation came form the presence of a couple in wheelchairs. They weren’t even meant to attend, but came in place of another who cancelled. I couldn’t communicate much with them. They spoke no English, were terribly unenthusiastic about the seminar, and unwilling to engage. The woman looked so miserable and depressed, I could barely stand to look at her. They also had terrible body odor, perhaps caused by the difficulty of giving themselves a bath. But all week, I watched them enter a room where their eyes met everyone’s waist, use the elevator as we all pounded up the stairs, see them be carried on and off the bus, recognized their chairs as a source of constant perceived inconvenience to everyone around them. . .tried so hard, I admit, not to avoid their dinner table and tolerated their German “helper” (also my roommate) who complained about them continuously. . And as the week wore on, I became very, very, thankful for my legs. I came home thinking that I should run just because I could.

Recently, I ran into some Peace Corps volunteers traveling through Sofia and we took them to dinner that night. Ben and Melissa had served in Jordan, the lone Middle Eastern country still hosting volunteers. They were happy, outgoing, good listeners. From one extreme to another, Melissa’s blonde hair, blue eyes and ready smile must have made her a daily spectacle in Jordan. Ben’s Eritrean heritage and intimidating build, on the other hand, must have drawn a different kind of attention. And here they were together, having lived in a country where mixed gender visits were not allowed (even among volunteers) night traveling for women was prohibited, alcohol was simply not mentioned and married couples were taunted and accused of not actually being married. Perhaps only friends, likely more, these two had obviously been suppressing some feelings for the better part of two years. We were instantly jealous. Despite the fact that Ben expressed excitement over seeing Sofia’s trees, after coming from the lifeless outdoors of desert-ed Jordan, we were convinced that their grass had been greener. Funny how that cliché never really goes away. It’s the inverse now, of course. We wanted to suffer more! Bulgaria is so regular! So normal! But a muslim country! Now that sounds like fun, right? I know, I know, it’s ridiculous. But it’s what ran through our minds. And it appeared to be just the struggle we envisioned. Without tones of exaggeration or storytelling, they told us how happy they were to be free; to have a beer, to relax in public. How tough it was to not exercise in public for two years. How she was looking forward to smiling at people on the street again. How he didn’t’ know any Jordanian woman’s name until the last two months of his service. But that’s why Peace Corps is so great, right? Because no two volunteer’s experience is the same.

Ben and Melissa also mentioned how their second year was different. How they felt as if they started recognizing the similarities instead of dwelling on the differences. How you start to settle in—stop rejecting and start accepting. And I decided it was time that I did that, too. The last year has been amazing. There is definitely a tendency to get caught up in the negativity. One day, you have a legitimate annoyance and the next you self-righteously bitching about something that happens just as much in the U.S. as it does in Sofia. I’m tired of complaining and it’s about time. Here’s to a second year in the Peace Corps.