The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Today I attempt to say something of substance to you about Jamaica, while still remaining optimistic.  I usually spend my time here trying to keep friends and family up to date with the day to day happenings and I fail to really tell you anything of import about what I see and learn here.  If you follow me on this blog and facebook you see mostly pictures of me in my bathing suit with a turquoise sea back drop (which is why we here in PC Jamaica are regarded by our less fortunate colleagues in Mongolia, Niger, and the like as “Posh Corps”) but there’s much more to this tiny island nation that that.

I try to focus on “the good” as often as I remember to-mostly for my sanity.  If I don’t say it frequently enough, let me say now that the indescribable and truly inescapable beauty , the friendly, endlessly patient people with the always-kind-to-strangers attitude, and that “je ne sais quoi” Caribbean charm makes Jamaica a lovely place to have the cultural experience of a lifetime. 

As for “the bad”, I know I never leave you wondering.  I’m talking about the cockroaches, ice-cold showers and a general lack of first world amenities, as well as the awkwardness of constant declarations of love received from complete strangers, for example.  This is the petty stuff that gets to you when you’ve had a long day or you’re experiencing a hormonal surge.  These are the things you get over pretty quickly when you count backwards from ten. 

That’s not my main subject matter today.  Rather “the ugly” is what I have to relay to you this go around.  The ugly is the stuff that makes people who know Jamaica call it the land of contradictions.  It’s the stuff that when it catches you off guard can evoke an intense and potentially publicly embarrassing emotional response.  And, in my opinion, the ugly is often why I’m here in the first place.  Names and details have been omitted to protect the innocent, and well the not so innocent too.

Trauma: Sure people in the U.S. know trauma just the same, but consider first that children here are often emotionally cut off, so getting them to say what’s really on their mind is no easy task. A sixth grade student at my school once started and essay about “A day I will never forget” with the following sentence: “A day I will never forget is the day my mother got chopped.” Chopped, colloquially, refers to being cut with a machete at the hand of a foe.  While this all too common occurrence is often fatal, this child’s mother survived, but the family is tortured by the literal and figurative scars that are their constant reminder of the fragility of life.  Even my messed up tales from childhood don’t compare to that.

Desperation: In my tiny impoverished village, the unemployment rate is estimated at 30%.  I may grumble about not having enough fun money but I was recently snapped back to reality by a twelve year-old who was debating the importance of school with me and threatening to take up hustling when he said, “Miss, education cyan full mi (can’t fill my) belly today.” I had a hard time making a convincing argument against that especially knowing his caretaker had just asked me for the equivalent of US$5, that seemingly was the make or break difference in her large family’s weekend cuisine.

Intolerance: It is widely known that Jamaica is the most homophobic nation in the world.  I accepted this before I arrived and I bite my tongue when I hear homophobic slurs in the street, at school, church, and from people whom I consider to be friends.  If asked my stance, I say something benign that leads them to believe I’m indifferent on the issue, but I had a recent experience that chilled me to the core and likely revealed my true colors.  At a meeting for the local school teachers and principals to discuss last year’s Grade 4 Literacy and Numeracy Exam and Grade 6 Achievement Test scores, a pastor who was the main guest speaker (that’s right-remember there is no separation of church and state here) stated outright that he “would rather the children we are rearing today become rapists than homosexual.” That alone was not the most horrifying part.  The standing ovation was.  Coming from a group of fairly to very well educated people, this was a surprise to me even in this intolerant environment.  My instant reaction, aside from my jaw on the floor, was to think it absurd because one is illegal and the other is … oh wait I almost forgot that being convicted of a homosexual act is punishable by up to 10 years in prison here. I think this is what they were referring to when they said I may encounter cultural shock.

The literal ugly: Despite regular trash pick up that occurs in Browns Town (the town I shop in), there is a constant pile of garbage that is taller than me on the ground in the town's main transportation hub.While the general attitude of Jamaicans is to make the best with what you have, the state of the bus park really exemplifies the intense dichotomy on this matter. Example: you don’t have proper shoes for school- yours are all torn and held together with tape or pins but WHOA are those tattered shoes clean when you arrive at school!  Then why on earth is it acceptable to pile our trash in the most frequented section of town?  The only place people who are just passing through will actually see!  People who can’t help themselves: There are only a handful of schools geared towards special education in this country of roughly 3 million, so the majority of people who need special programs just go to regular school. They learn little and mostly just affect the experience of the other students as well as put undue strain on ill-equipped teachers.  These are the bulk of the children we Peace Corps Volunteers work with in the bush.  Sadly, they often come from a long line of people who suffered just the same fate. So when I sent home a carefully worded (with low vocabulary) Library card permission slip with my students I made sure to read it over with them first so they knew whose name went in which blank (parent/student) for their guarding to sign. I struggled to hide my reaction when a twelve year-old who reads at a Primer level (think head start) still brought it back with the names flip flopped and barely legible.  This coupled with the fact that this particular student didn’t improve his reading level one bit in a year of sessions with  me nearly brought me to tears.   

Just to end on a positive note, I would like to say that for every bad day like this, I estimate that I have at least two weeks of good days and, for the record, I only had two students (likely with undiagnosed disabilities) not improve their reading this year while all the others jumped one to three levels. That along with the love I get from these wonderful kids is what makes the job worth it all at the end of the day, despite the many challenges.