Sex and Bitterness

Before I actually start writing my next blog posting I would like to say something: I know that I should be writing about my experiences in Mali and what happened with this kid this one day, and how I am changing the world and how I am changing and all that kinda shit. Well, not today. Maybe one of the other nearly 800 days I will be living here and being a PCV, today I am writing about sex and being bitter (which really has not a lot to do with Mali but at least it’s fun to hear me bitch).

16 – 05 -2011:

Alas! This blog posting is about sex. So if you don’t like sex (I question our friendship), don’t like me talking about sex, or feel uncomfortable in any way concerning sex and or me, please cease reading and tune in next time.

Sex, our mommies and daddies never wanted to have the discussion with us. Yet, on the verge of our youths, 12 years old, erupting with zits and questioning why blood was coming out of that area (or for you gentleman, why that thing down there was suddenly standing up! --- Or well, im told. I don’t have a penis so I couldn’t tell you how going through puberty was as a boy), we looked for our parents for that answer. For many parents, mine included, they decided to defer that specific convo to the special employers of the public, or private, school district. Unless, you had the special opportunity to have a parent that was a teacher, them that said parent got the grown up responsibility about teaching said child about how babies were born. Undeniably, the concept of the birds and the bees would come up, maybe with an interlude of “planting and watering the seed”, which from a child’s perspective, I will tell you, either will leave said child confused or obsessed with gardening.

Now, in my household we never had the discussion and my parents left it up to my teacher to tell me what sex was and how NOT to get preggos. I must confess, I don’t eve know if I was listening to the whole sex part of my schooling, I was more concerned with the boobage part. “Where are my boobies?” I would wonder to myself. My mother, on the other hand, was not worried. “Don’t’ worry” she would tell me, “You’re going to have boobs like your aunt”. Lets just say, she was exceptionally wrong. For the most part of my life so far, I have had to declare war on boobies and lean on Victoria Secrets as my only confidant in the darkest of times. See, Victoria Secrets has this great thing called padding. My mother never liked this idea, she always said I was being decisive. Our conversations would go something like this:
- “Sweetheart, when you take home a gentleman [and yes, this ACTUALLY happened, like really conversation] and he takes off your bra, he is going to be greatly disappointed”
- “Mom, number one, the padding is only to lure the guy in and two, if he doesn’t like my boobs the way they are, as members of the tiny titty committee, well FUCK HIM”

…I would like to put it on the record that I have never had a complain, that I know of, against my tiny titties.

Back to what I was saying, when I was learning about sex, I was more concerned with my boobs than actually having sex. To be honest, I was kinda grossed out by the whole thing and about talking about sex, and until recently I am still not completely comfortable about talking about it with my mother. Aunt? Yes, best friends? Yes, acquaintances? Yes, sister? yes, but mother? Well the way I look at it is that she pushed me out of her vagina, im not comfortable telling her what I’m pushing in mine.

Back to my topic, sex . . . sex in Mali . . . and sex in the PC.

Sex in Mali is like talking about sex in front of your parents, its awkward and uncomfortable, but in reality your parents would probably give you tips rather than send you to your room for being rude. I mean who really cares about what you favorite position is, other than your significant other and or best friends, because bifs are always in the know. Well in Mali, people don’t talk about sex. They don’t acknowledge the elephant in the room that is the mammoth bulging prego 17 year old, who is about to push a 7 pound human being out of her vagina (which is probably why pre-natal consultations are such a hot-bottom issue right now). Anyways, people don’t talk about sex, or at least personal sex. Since I’ve only been here for 4 months and my language still sucks, I can’t really understand full conversations or secret conversations at that. I’ve heard that the teenagers here not only talk about sex in code – who doesn’t, but they get it on like possessed rabbits on a mission to bread more than the year before, leaping out in to the middle of brusse, while their parents believe they are talking long walks on a path with their childhood bif talking about ponies and rainbows and catfish. Other than the random not so random child resulting in these long walks, reproductive sex is never discussed. Here is an example conversation that I mastered up in my head:

- Hello kind sir, how are you?
- I’m fine, how are you?
- I’m fine. And your family? Your children? Your dog? Horse? Sheep? Goats? Second wife? Cousin second removed called your sister? oh yeah, here’s some peace bitch
- Yes, peace only
- By the way, going along with our casual made up conversation, I had the best sex last night! Like totally! It was missionary position, very enjoyable, simple, I suspect we should be having our 11 child arrive in around 9 months.
- Oh that is wonderful!

Yeah, no, that would NEVER HAPPEN.

Sex in Mali is never discussed. Which bring me to the topic of sex and the Peace Corps. As a woman in the PC, we are told sometimes we should make up a spouse. If not, given the fact that some of us are in our twenties, never married and haven’t birthed children, people here think we’re old maids.

“What!!!! You don’t have 5 CHILDREN?!?!?!?!?! BUT YOU’RE 23!!!!!!! We need to get you a ce (husband) and pregos sisan sisan (right now).”

So this topic might be awkward for some, but for me, usually all of my conversations with Malians are awkward so I just shrug it off and go home. anyways, since sex and sex are like forbidden publically here, so is touching, kissing or anything to do with affection. Which is were the problem arrises with sex and being a PCV. Sometimes dammit, we want a little cuddle, maybe a smotch, maybe a rough get it in sesh, maybe some non-commital touching or maybe, JUST MAYBE we want some freaking affection!!!!!!! You see where im coming from? (of course you don’t, unless you’re another PCV where right now you’re being like, um duh). Well I would like to leave you with a conversation I had with another PCV.

Friend: “Next care package request: vibrator. Holy shit, every other guys starting to look good to me”

Me: “no shit Sherlock, ps did I tell you im pathetic?”

Me to my mother via text: “Vibrator, in next care package. A NECESSITY. No judgment”

Friend to me: “It’s me, my dirty thoughts, my hut . . . im bound to force a Malian up against a wall and demand we get it on . . . sooner rather than later”

Moral of my story or this blog posting:

Young ladies, if you’re coming to the PCV, bring a vibrator. If not, you will, inevitably, end up having another awkward conversation with said package sender about 1) long lasting batteries 2) Pure Romance package deals 3) RUSH SHIPPING.




17 – 05 – 2011:

So as I sit here waiting for the horse cart to take me to market, I’ve come to the very important decision that will most definitely change the course of my life forever, making me not only fat, but miserable and alone . . . I’m bitter. Let me explain

1) This fucking morning. Y’all know I don’t wake up early, aka 4:30. If any of you know me at all, you would say I probably sleep more than anyone you know. So, I value my sleep. I value my sleep and made up dreams about hot tall blond haired men touching and making out with me. I value my sleep. So don’t fucking tell me I need to be ready to go at 7:30 when 7:30 really means 9. I mean, for realsy, is it really necessary to wake me up from my beauty slumber one and a half hours early? NO. FUCK. . . . Bitter.
2) Last night I was playing solitaire by myself. Lets play a game, how many things can you do by yourself to keep yourself occupied? Exercise? Done (need to do more though). Play solitaire? Done and usually lose. Sudoku? MASTERED, or at least up to the medium level. Play with myself? Yep done that and mastered that too (sorry, im being a boy, all I think about is sex, this is terrible). I can also talk to myself, sometimes it is even quite enthralling!
Mind: you need to take a shower
Hannah: I just took a shower
Mind: But you smell, like really bad
Hannah: Who cares! It's not like there is anyone here who I want to impress
Mind: I CARE, you smell and I don’t want to smell you anymore. GO SHOWER!
Hannah: NO! YOU go shower if you want to that bad
Mind: BITCH, I AM YOU so if I shower you also have to shower
Hannah: HA I win. No shower till 5
Mind: You’re such a ho.

Anyways, back to playing solitaire with myself. I am minding my own business when a little boy, I think he might be my little brother, but I don’t know all kids look the same, comes to my compound. Here’s how the conversation goes (in Bambara but the sake of you all non-Bambara folk I have translated it)
Me: Good evening
Boy: Good evening, how are you?
Me: im good, and you? Peace
Boy: Yes, peace only

. . . . . . . . long awkward pause

Me: so . . . what are you doing?
Boy: Food, are you going to eat?
Me: oh thanks, but I am full
Boy: but are you going to eat?
Me: um I’m full, I am not eating
Boy: are you doing to eat!?!?!?!
Me: . . . no
Boy: Eat, eat, nom, nom (gesturing with his hands in an eating motion) are you doing to eat?!?!?!
Me: No! I’m full! I am not eating!
Boy: . . . you don’t understand
Me: Yes I understand
Boy: no you don’t
Me: Yes I do
Boy: no
Me: yes
Boy: no!!!
Me: Ok ok, I understand, I am not going to eat, im full
Boy: you’re full?
Me: (fuck shit damn hobag) yes, I’m full
Boy: oh . . . bye!

I’m bitter. I’m a bitter terrible human being who talks to herself. I mean seriously! Im even listening to a song titled “fuck you” --- thanks Lily Allen. I love being bitter, it is so much fun!

The end.

No seriously that was the end. Yeah, not really inventive eh?

Monkey Time

I have come to the conclusion that I am a monkey. Not some of that evolution crap, but actually a monkey. Now all of you out there probs think I am crazy, out of my mind, lost for goo (which is not a far off statement). When I say I’m a monkey I mean a creature that we, as humans, study behind glass, study about and talk about in introduction to evolutionary biology classes. So lets try to imagine and use our brains and transform ourselves to be at a zoo (ironically I actually really miss the zoo, the cotton candy, the green grass, my mom ☹). When animals live at Zoo’s, the zoo keepers try and make their environment similar to their “natural environments”. Lets say, we’re a monkey (ME) and I’m from Africa. The zookeepers and designers try and create a space for me to live with trees, dirt and other biological species that are native to my homeland (Africa). They give exhibits names such as “Nocturnal” exhibit (which by the way is the BEST exhibit at the Seattle Zoo), “Tropics”, the “Rainforest”. They assume that decorating the décor in the characteristic stereotypes of such places, the animals will feel more at home. Now, due to my automatic metamorphosis into a monkey, I say that’s bull crap. Yes, they give me a house, with a roof and 3 windows and 2 doors. Yes, they give me my own compound and my own porch, yes they give me a bathroom….Well, no they give me a place to GO to the bathroom, and yet I do not feel at home. I have foreign bugs forcibly inhabiting my living environment (without my permission), the sun is way to bloody hot, and the smell is completely off. Along with that, when I am with my other monkey friends, we talk in our native language (to some this may sound like an odd array of clicking) and most definitely talk about how we are NOT at home. Anyways, so me, a money, is living in a zoo, a foreign place they have put me to teach and “be examined”

(In conjunction with my above statement I would like to clarify. The second and third goal of the PC is to, simply put it, learn about another culture and simultaneously displaying American ethics, ideals and ethos to said culture. We can be said to be cultural ambassadors. Learning from our new family, but showing that culture who Americans are)

On to the food in the zoo, the zookeepers feed me what they think I want to eat. They give me utensils to use, and let me eat out of my own bowl (which really makes me just feel more lonely than I already am). In reality, im like, really? You think im going to eat that? And no, just because you put one piece of green leafy thing and then cooked it for 6 hours does not mean it has nutrients. So what do I do? I say im full and go home and eat the sticks and twigs I brought from home, ameriki style (thanks mom!!!).

Now at the Zoo, the surroundings and food are only a small part of what I live through every day, really it’s the people, the kids, the countless small smelly dirty kids who annoy me….who really annoy me. I mean, think about it, if you were in a cage and kids kept on screaming your name for hours on end and tapping, no pounding on the glass, you would get a little annoyed too, right? Anyways, the purpose of a zoo is to alloy people to see something new, to learn something new about a different culture, even if that may between species. When this cultural exchange happens, what results is STARING! Everyone stares. It’s like I’m an alien and I’ve come to the planet and BOOM, I’m the biggest attraction since sliced bread, King Kong, the royal wedding.

(Disclaimer, this notion has nothing to do with any Malian. Malian culture is one fulfilled with community and family. A single white woman is not only a phenomenon, but it does not make sense to Malians that I like to live alone and be alone. This is part of this cultural exchange we, as PCVs, partake in).

On with my ranting, you have all been to the zoo. You know when you are looking at a monkey, lion or any animal, and it is sleeping and then slowly lifts its head, gives you a death stare and then lowers it? Well, I do this every day. Its like, I know I’m interesting and all, but im sleeping and you keep on calling my name, yelling my name, can’t you tell im sleeping? So I look up and say “lots of profanities” and then lower my head and go back to sleep. Furthermore, all the kids are staring and smacking their lips makes me, even more, want to pretend I’m sleeping so I don’t have to watch you stare at me awkwardly! On top of that, when the zookeepers realize that I CAN wash myself and I CAN cook, its like the greatest discovery since the moon (sorry NASA, I gotcha passed).

In conclusion, I’m not a total bitch and would like to add a couple of thoughts and feelings since my transformation into a monkey. When kids (and adults at that) go to the zoo, they never mean to be mean or annoying, they are just curious. When I am at home, I love to go the zoo, so I am just as guilty as anyone. They’re curious and most times just want to learn your story, what you’re about. This is human nature, I tell myself and most importantly this is how it feels to be different.

In high school, or at any time, no one wants to be so different that people stare, point and talk. Yes I am 6 foot and quite large, but I have never been so different that people stare at me like this, I’ve never wanted to stay in my house all day just so I don’t have to feel so different, so bad, so wrong. Feeling this, knowing how this feels like, I think, is good. I’ve never been on the other side of the fence before, and now that I am, I am so thankful and grateful for who I am, for who I have grown up to be. I have never felt so much in the minority; I feel uncomfortable in every way. Learning how to deal with that, while keeping my own identity and personality and mainly learning what its like being different, is paramount to what I am doing here and in teaching me the lessons that will, hopefully, make me a better person. The PC is hard not just because we have moved away from our families, friends and culture. It is not just hard because we don’t know the language and are not familiar with the environment. The PC is hard also because, for some of us, it is the first time we have ever felt so different that we are uncomfortable at all times in the day, we don’t know how to act and feel by being in this new group, and that is why its hard. Why most of us talk to ourselves during the day (seriously, we do ALL THE TIME), telling ourselves we can do this, telling ourselves we are strong and confident and smart enough to embark on this journey.