Can I join?

In my second year in Pohnpei, I have grown to love language acquisition thus expanding my opportunities at interactions with Pohnpeians in my host family, at school, and all around the island. While formal training hasn't worked out, I pick up phrases and vocabulary from those patient enough to teach me.

I have noticed and enjoyed certain phrases and idioms that don't translate exactly right between English and Pohnpeian. They are small subtleties that can be confusing and entertaining at the same time.

One that has helped me out in my excursions into traditional culture is "I kak ieang." The immature boy inside of me can't help but laugh at the second word "kak" and it's similar pronunciation to a dirty word in English. My students never say "Can I go with you?" or "Can I go swimming with you?" Instead, they ask "Can i join?" (I kak ieang?) and "Can I join swimming" (I kak ieang bambap?)

Last year, I was only able to make it to my host family's home in Kitti a hand full of times. The one hour drive and busy weekend schedules made it seem impossible. I have been much more determined this year and have even resorted to hitchhiking my way out there in the absence of a car.


My visits last year were very simple. My family would insist immediately that I eat immediately upon my arrival. Eating is often viewed as a workout in this culture due to the amount of food consumed, so it was always suggested that I rest or nap while my host brothers and cousins went to do local work. A simple recap would be:
1. Eat
2. Rest
3. Sit in the local house and drink sakau
4. Eat
5. Sleep
My routine didn't stray too far from those things. After a while, I started feeling down right useless. Junior and Raymus would return from the jungle after gathering coconut and sakau covered in mud and sweat as I rested. I made it a priority to try and break down this idea that local work is for locals and rest is for menwai (foreigners)

I did so with the simple aforementioned phrase: "I kak ieang?" Suprisingly, I was answered with a strong "KAK!" (YOU CAN!)

I started waking up at the sound of machetes being sharpened in hopes of yielding my own 4 foot blade during weekend chores. Sure enough, I started venturing into the jungle swinging my machete at anything and everything green. I even cut down some plants I wasn't supposed and was playfully laughed at. Blisters formed here and there and I even nicked myself a few times, but I began to feel like I was finally living in solidarity with my family, the Anthons.

After I started making myself more visible in the community, I would no longer hear calls of "Philip," but rather "Nahnsou en Pohnte." There is still a traditional hierarchy of local kings (nahnmwarkis), chiefs (soumas) and lower titles. My host father, Sother, is never referred to by his Christian name. Instead, everyone bows their heads as they walk onto his land and softly say "Kaselehlie maing, Soulik." He is the chief of our small village, Soun Kroun, and is honored as such.

Late last year, Soulik's mother passed away and was given the traditional three-day long funeral (mehla). During these three days, members of the village honor the deceased and her family by offering fruits of the land: fish, yam, breadfruit, sakau and pig. To say it is an ordeal would be an understatement. The family of the deceased spends countless hours preparing food and drink for anyone who comes to the funeral. Those who attend more than likely spent the last two or three days harvesting and preparing the foods and animals they would bring with them.

During these ceremonies, prayers are read, songs are sung and the community dynamic is strengthened. It was during these days that I was given my title (which is sometimes rare for a foreigner to recieve). The sakau plants that are offered to the chief are then pounded, squeezed and distributed among the Pohnpeians who have the highest titles. I sat idly by listening and witnessing a ceremony like none I have ever seen. A few coconut cups of sakau were passed into my eager hands and I eased into simple conversations with those who knew English. It was then when Soulik stood up and called for "Nahnsou en Pohnte" to come to the front of the local house to receive his official drink of sakau. I was oblivious to what it all meant and thus sat in my respective place, knees folded. It was then that my promise brother, Raymus, elbowed me in the ribs and said, "Philip, that's you!"

My time trimming banana trees and husking coconuts had put some muscle back on my thinning figure, but more importantly, it landed me with a village title. These titles don't really translate to English but they do hold meaning. They are simple rankings; my title literally means "Worker on a Leaf" but it really establishes my rank and where I stay in Kitti.

Early this year, my family stressed how important it was for me to come out during early September for the Kamadipw en Wahu (Celebration of Respect) for the nahnmwarki of Kitti. I wasn't exactly sure why, but I planned my schedule accordingly. Immediately after my Saturday Catechism class, I drove like a madman through the winding roads of Pohnpei to see what all of the hype was about. I think I was a still a mile away from the Kamadipw when I heard primal screams and local music flooding the air. My neighbor flagged me down and walked me up to a scene I only thought I would see on a late night National Geographic program. The celebration was in full swing. Inside a 40' by 15' local house, high titled Pohnpeians were sitting peacefully adorned with mwarmwars (flower headdress). At the front of the nahs, choas ensued. Micronesians are a traditionally reserved and pacific people, but that was the not the case that day.

The purpose of this ritual is similar to the Pohnpeian funeral. It is a presentation of the year's harvest to the king of the entire municipality. Elaborate presentations of slaughtered pigs and 200 lb. yam are hoisted on sore shoulders and offered as a sign of respect and pride. It is a time to celebrate the resilient preservation of culture that lives on in a Westernized island. I caught the bug and turned to Raymus once again with a simple "I kak ieang?" He grinned and said, "Take off your shirt and follow me."

Any man who enters the nahs (local house) must remove his shirt. It goes without saying that my milky skin stood out among the earth-toned complexion of the locals surrounding me. I had made it just in time for the crucial sakau presentation. Each village, including Soun Kroun," had a table-sized basalt rock ready. In the chaos, someone shoved a pounding stone in my hand and nodded in approval at my presence around the rock. A man at the front of the nahs calmed the music and yelling to near silence and then exclaimed "SUKASUK!" (POUND!)

I was startled as arms began to slam their stones onto the sakau root awaiting their blows. My intimidation caused a brief hesitation before I started hitting my own side of the plant. It was nothing less than a display of pure manhood. After the root is sufficiently "suk"ed, there is an orchestra of rocks pounding the bare basalt rock in rhythmic patterns. It reminded of the sometimes dissonant scores by the Chronos Quartet (featured in Darren Arronofsky's Requiem for a Dream) The pounding rocks were like short, violent strikes of a bow on the violin strings over and over and over. My village didn't seem to mind the offbeat pattern I was adding to our rock. The tinging ceased and the local keyboard and music from Daniel rocked the house once again. After a few sips of sakau, I found my dancing and found myself swaying and moving my arms to synthesized melody. My family said I was a great dancer, but I'll let you be the judge (check out the skinny white guy at 3:18 in the video below)



The air smelled of bitter pounded earth and the sweat of the exhausted pounders. Words were not spoken because they were inaudible in the shadow of the Peavey speakers. It was dancing in its most raw form - an expression of utter joy and ecstasy. And man did the Pohnpeians love to see this skinny white boy following suit. My host dad pulled me aside and said slowly, "You represented me and our village with your dancing, and you did well." It was a pat on the back that doesn't happen often in my ministry here.

Only two weeks later, I was at another Kamadipw but on a much smaller scale. Each village has to offer a Kamadipw en Kousapw (Celebration of the Village) to their village chief, which happens to be my host dad, in the center of the photo below.


This time I would know almost everyone in the nahs and feel as though I were in my own neighborhood party. It was then when things got a little hairy.

The first order of business if you are preparing an offering for the chief is the pig. Pohnpeians empty their pockets for weekly pig feed to raise anywhere from 1-15 pigs at their household. It is a necessity for any well-respected male on this island. My host brother Junior told me that I would join him in offering a 300 lb. pig to Soulik that morning. He didn't tell me that I would be the butcher as well.

You may feel like you are flipping through a chapter of Golding's Lord of the Flies for the next bit. Pigs are tied to long tree trunks and carried on the shoulders of workers to the nahs were it is killed and prepared. The first step is burning the hair off the skin in the local stove known as an "uhmw." Scorching hot rocks are spread to a flat layer and pigs are dragged across the surface. Nose plugs are advisable. I can safely say that when I arrived in Pohnpei over a year ago, I didn't have the gusto to do what I did next.

My host brother grabbed the legs of the recently seared pig and spread them to expose its belly. I grabbed my machete and exposed of the pig's lukewarm innards. (NOTE: Sorry for the details) I straightened my back with crimson red covering my forearms and noticed the horrified look of some brand new Peace Corps volunteers. They cupped their hands over their mouths at the sight of the rather savage display. They asked with some serious emphasis, "How long have you been here?"


The pigs were then cooked through and the offering could begin. Junior and I and two of my neighbors hoisted the swine onto our shoulders and walked toward the awaiting crowd. As a sign of accomplishment, the men shout a high-pitched "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" as they rush the pig to the chief, resting calmly with his legs crossed one over the other. When I let my gutteral screech loose, mouths dropped and eyes widened. Here I was, in it.


My close friend Regson handed me a machete as the pigs were placed on the cold concrete of the nahs. The pigs are sliced into 14 specific pieces that the chief then offers to his family and village. I have never manhandled livestock before, and I don't intend to ever again.


Regson looked over and smiled saying, "Man, you're turning into one of us. Now we just need to find you a wife." I wasn't sure about his first point, but I was definitely in agreement with his second.

It has become an ongoing joke in my village that I need to find a local wife. A woman receives a title based on her husbands, so my future wife will become "Nahnammen en Pohnte."

Without fail, I can always hear from a distance. "Nahnsou! Where is Nahnammen? My answer never changes or fails to earn a chuckle: "I don't know, but I think I'll find her today."

My time has changed from mundane naps to becoming a solid part of my village of Soun Kroun. I feel as though I am stretching myself more than I have ever done, and I am earning a perspective that is unattainable in the American bubble that surrounds my permanent residence in Kolonia. It is a strange thing that you have to seek out the real Pohnpei when your plane lands on this tiny isle. It won't find you. A simple "I kak ieang?" may be all it takes.

Same country, different island altogether

As the stresses of graduation began to ease in late May, I started mentally preparing for the first time I would leave my humble island in one year. My island fever was quickly relieved as we flew over the blues of the lagoon about one hour to Truk International Airport. One might guess that the proximity of these islands would result in similar languages and cultures between Pohnpei and Chuuk. During my time on Pohnpei, I had heard that this wasn't the case. I heard horror stories of Filipino darts, drunkenness and THE ROAD. I finally got to draw my own conclusions on my neighboring island.

The summer started with the annual Re-Orientation/Dis-Orientation for all volunteers in Micronesia. Some old and new faces greeted us through the glass wall at the airport. We took a bus ride through "downtown" Weno and I realized that I was exactly where I was one year ago ... a brand new island with brand new language, culture, and people.

The drive to Saramen Chuuk Academy took longer than expected due to the never ending mudslide we had to drive through. When people ask about the road in Chuuk, the clever response is always, "What road?" It was an eternal pothole around the entire island.

Re-O/Dis-O is a bittersweet rejuvenation for the mind, body and soul. It is a time for processing, a time to recharge and a time for goodbyes. We spent a week on the picturesque island of Pisar close to the edge of the Chuuk lagoon. This island, no larger than a football pitch, is surreal. The name of the island translates to "changing sand" because it is forever changing. Each time you visit Pisar, there are new nooks and crannies as well as sand bars that seemed to have disappeared into the blues of the Pacific. This idea of transformation fit the bill for what we attempted to do inside ourselves throughout the week.

I ate well, slept well and was finally able to understand the issues that had been fluttering around in my mind throughout the year. The main one was simple - What is the role of a JV in Micronesia? I couldn't find where the line was drawn for what JVs could or should do in the challenging situations that arose at my work site. Are we expected to whistle blowers or simply stick to our classrooms and lead by example? As I sat facing a magenta sunset over Tonowas island, the answer that I discovered was that it would take more time to fully understand; that I am here to observe and learn and take every lesson I can from these islands. The time for judgment and action was not then and may never be. Two years seemed like a large window of opportunity to effect change on these islands. I'm was starting to feel like it wasn't large enough.


The highlights of the trip came in casual conversation. Stories were shared of embarrassing cross-cultural moments, classroom slip-ups, the good, the bad and the ugly. It was in discussing the ugly that we were able to recognize the beautiful in our work here.


Late in the week, I sat down on a narrow porch for the last time with my community: Jo, Sam, and Luke. There were so many things to say to each other and so many ways to say it. I was and am still thankful for Jo's compassion and generosity, Samantha's endurance and sisterly love, and Luke's wisdom and support. It is humbling and a bit strange to hear what roles you played for each community mate. Later came celebratory cigars and reminiscing under a star-filled sky as we all wondered "What's next?"


For me, next was a 3-month stint as an eighth and seventh-grade summer school teacher at St. Cecilia school on the main island of Chuuk, Weno. Each and every morning, I drove dozens of kids from our apartment up to the school with Caroline riding shotgun. My first month was one of the hardest I had in Micronesia. The education system was hurting in Chuuk, and St. Cecilia was feeling the pain as well. The physical structure and daily operations at the school were distressed and I wanted to do my best to leave it better than I had found it. One thing that I became known for at Pohnpei Catholic School was discipline. Luckily, I had packed that in my carry-on and brought it to St. Cecilia. Caroline and I arranged morning assembly, created the schedule and tried to bring order to the students who just couldn't stay in their seats.

During the first week, we were without a principal and operating as best as we could when we were visited by 25 students from the College of Micronesia. They had arranged to sit in on our classes and learn teaching techniques, but no one at school had any knowledge of the arrangements. My initial thoughts were to cancel and move on with the day. And then I realized that a great opportunity had just been served on a silver platter. I had spent the last week complaining about how hard it was to improve the education system in Micronesia and now I had 25 eager Chuukese students who wanted my help. It was a wonderful feeling to work with rather than for these local teachers for the two weeks that they joined us.


We reviewed lesson planning techniques, classroom management and assessment strategies. One student gave a speech at a closing party about his time working with the staff and students that I will never forget. Joyful was his name and he shared what a powerful experience it was to receive a mwaramar (flower necklace) from his first students. He was deeply touched and that was evident in his speech.

From their, the days became very scheduled. We passed the lagoon to the West in the morning and gazed at it from the East in the afternoon. I fell in love with my students and the way they pronounced my name.
"Good morning Mr. Pinip!"
"How are you Mr. Pinip?"
"Mr. Pinip, I know the answer!"
(There is no l for Chuukese inside the lagoon, so it sounds more like an n.)

My most meaningful experiences happened on other small islands inside the lagoon - Eot and Udot. I was able to see the pure generosity and care of the Chuukese families that welcomed us to their islands and their homes. The dusty roads and dangerous nights of Weno just didn't compare to the utopia that seemed to exist on these even tinier islands.

One of the staple foods in Micronesia and especially Chuuk is breadfruit. They even bury it underground to preserve it when it's not in season. They prepare it very differently from the breadfruit I had eaten in Pohnpei. In Chuuk, they pounded it into loaves known as kon. This pounding of breadfruit is traditionally men's work and a very important process for their culture.

The first step is harvesting the breadfruit. I felt like I was in a tropical Frogger game as I dodged back and forth to avoid the falling green edibles. Our leaders who called themselves "Rambo" and "Jet Li" were entertaining and warm with their back and forth antics. They even taught Tyler, Caroline and I how to pound the breadfruit after it was skinned and cooked at very high temperatures.



It was the most tiring work I have done on the islands, and that includes managing a classroom full of eighth graders. Just across a small pass from Udot is a tiny island known as Eot. It was there that I got to try my hand at spear fishing with Peace Corps John (Diehl) a few weekends later.

Other weekends, our community stayed in the dark nights of Weno reading books by candlelight or annoying each other with ridiculous questions.

After my adventures with breadfruit and spears, I realized that my place was in front of a chalkboard. And I was beginning to miss my chalkboard in the brick building of Pohnpei Catholic School. It was the first time I felt like PNI was home and that I couldn't wait to get back to my life, friends and new community there. I whispered a sincere "kinisou chapur" (thank you very much) through the Plexiglas window as the Continental plane lifted off the disappearing runway. I left confused by the negative sentiments some people have for Chuuk. It has its problems just like the other islands in the Pacific but it has a radiance that overpowers its struggles. The simple beauty in the Chuukese men, women and children I met and the warmth I felt from my coworkers and temporary families made it hard to leave. I was still in the same country but it felt like a different island altogether.

Educating Myself

Four quarters, two semesters, one year as an educator in a "developing" nation. I have oftentimes discussed with fellow Jesuit Volunteers how difficult and seemingly impossible it would be to describe your experience as a teacher in Micronesia on a resume in two simple lines. What a lot of it comes down to is unlearning preconceived notions of the American teacher's role in Oceania. On a subconscious level, I was hoping to ride into town with my American education and bachelor's degree and address the issues that are affecting public and private schools in Pohnpei (and Micronesia for that reason) in detrimental ways.

Obviously, I am not the first volunteer teacher in these islands and will not be the last. That fact in itself is the thing that has been surfacing lately in my melon. What does my presence mean for the local inhabitants of these islands? Am I deepening an already strong dependency on American aid or am I enabling the education system to become more structured and independent. Unfortunately, I know that it is a combination of both.

There are three volunteer organizations that I am in close contact with in Pohnpei: World Teach, Peace Corps and Jesuit Volunteers Corp. There are also some independent volunteers who work at the College of Micronesia and other public schools on the island. Recently, the new United States Ambassador in Pohnpei, Peter Prahar, invited the World Teach and Jesuit volunteers over to his residence in Pohnpei to discuss the state of education in Micronesia and spark dialogue that might yield constructive criticisms and ideas.

It was interesting to hear the experience of public school teachers versus that of teachers who work for the Catholic mission. Myself and my community mate Samantha were the only ones at the dinner that belonged to the latter group. The idea of this post is not to point fingers at any single institution or person, but to share both my positive and less positive cross cultural experiences in the Pacific.

When I came to Pohnpei almost one year ago, I never thought I would become so invested and interested in the education system or reform. My love was for visual journalism, not the classroom. My school year ended one month ago and I have had some time to reflect on why I have such strong feeling towards my new profession. It was very obvious; yet, I almost missed it in the daily grind.

My responsibility to Pohnpei Catholic School and my students is the most powerful thing I have ever had in my life. I have worked many mundane, yet respectable jobs in my life. Never have I had the opportunity to have such an impact on people, on kids, on my island. I have heard many twenty-something blowhards explain how a top-down, governmental approach to education reform is the only way to make a difference. While that is one way, I favor another. Creative lesson plans, challenging research assignments, public health awareness, spiritual retreats, cultural celebration, promoting volunteers service - The teachers at my school helped me introduce all of these powerful things to eighth grade students in hopes of forming respectful, hardworking, and intelligent high school students. At 23 years old, I am much happier working on the ground floor rather than passing legislation at the top.

While I found my job empowering and awarding most days, there are so many underlying problems in public and private education in the FSM that began to surface throughout the year. These were both personal things that I experienced at my school and stories I heard from other teachers around the island. As the ambassador prompted us with questions, tales of failing teacher attendance, corporal punishment, sexual harassment, misused funds, missing resources and lacking discipline were shared by many different teachers. The shadow that all of these things fall under is the lack of accountability within the family structures that dominate the islands.

This nepotism, or favoritism shown to relatives, within the education system is causing stagnation on many levels. Put simply, these islands are small, really small. Everybody seems to be related to everyone in some way. These familial relations are beautiful to experience at celebrations, rituals and households. But on school grounds, they aren't as positive. Missing teachers aren't confronted by their relatives with administration positions. Students aren't reprimanded for infractions because it is such a cultural no-no to offend anyone. But it isn't the fault of one person. Many teachers on this island are yearning for progressive movement, but taking a stand could mean alienation from the group.

And these realities are not new. There have been numerous management plans and reform strategies for public schools in the past that have fallen short because of this sociological roadblock.
All of these things bring me to one burning question - Should Jesuit Volunteers and other foreign volunteers be doing something about it? One element of my job here is to incorporate Catholic Social Teaching into my experience in Pohnpei. CST calls us to See, Judge and Act throughout our time in Micronesia and later on the future.

The things I have mentioned above are what I have personally SEEN. Many times, these sights have left me feeling helpless, hopeless and worthless as a foreign volunteer. The next step would be to JUDGE what should be done, and ACT appropriately to work towards a desired improvement.

I spent the last week on an island in the Chuuk lagoon known as Pisar participating in a retreat led by our Program Coordinators for Jesuit Volunteers. It was there that I came to a comforting realization. I AM TWENTY THREE YEARS OLD. The best thing I can do is educated myself by simply seeing. I am still very new to this island and to education in general. In a linear sense of time, I am still very naive to the systems here. My ministry here is not to buck the system and blow whistles. It would be more beneficial for me and for my school to save my judgments and actions for a later time in my life. Especially since those judgments and actions are probably misguided and not exactly thorough.

I seem to have gotten lost in all of this social analysis and forgot that just one month ago, I had the proudest moment of life. I watched 18 students from Pohnpei and Chuuk walk down the aisle at Our Lady of Mercy Church and receive well earned diplomas. The pride came from knowing that they learned, grew and matured in significant ways at my school. They did their homework, they raised their hands and they tried so damn hard. They will go on to be successful students and successful people. These students are being educated and I just feel blessed to be a part of it.

Dressed in their shiny white and blue uniforms, my students belted out a rendition of "We Are the World" on a cramped stage in front of proud parents and friends. As the sun poured in through the windows, powerful words floated through the church.



"We are the world, we are the children, we are the ones who make a brighter day, so let's start giving. There's a choice making, we saving our own lives. It's true we make a better day, just you and me."


So I'll end with a big thank you, kalahngan en kupuromwail, to my students and staff at Pohnpei Catholic School. You have taught me so much in only year and I hope I did the same for you.

Freelance

In my four-member community in Pohnpei, we frequently use dinner time, community nights and anytime for that matter to engage in discussion that usually turns quickly into a debate. One such debate topic that has been comical addresses the validity of a freelance professional.

For example, not to long ago there was a freelance writer working on some pieces in Pohnpei that we had some short interactions with. Whenever I hear "freelance writer," I chuckle a little bit. In the journalism program at the University of Misssouri, if you said you were a freelance writer, most people understood that to mean unemployed.

One of my community mates, Luke T. Lavin, hates the adjective and thinks it is has no purpose. So, when I announced my career as a freelance designer for Fr. Francis Hezel at Micronesian Seminar, the debate swelled up again.

While I love my students and my classroom, I quickly found that my passion for design did not dwindle after graduating from MU. After I got my feet settled, I started mentioning the skill set I brought to Pohnpei as a journalist and designer and I got some quick feedback.

People need designers in the Pacific. I just wish I could devote more time and energy into it.

One opportunity that presented itself was to do some volunteer (freelance) designing at an NGO that focuses on Micronesian history and development. I have mentioned the organization, Micronesian Seminar, in some previous posts. I usually interact with the director, Fr. Francis Hezel, at Sunday Mass, Tuesday spirituality night or weekly basketball.

Fr. Hezel is well published and currently writes scholarly articles in a series called "Micronesian Counsellor." The Counsellors were designed heavily with clipart and needed an update. So I stepped in with my go to font family, Franklin Gothic, and got to work. The goal was to set up an easily editable framework on the Microsoft Publisher program. Small tweaks to column size, photo treatment, pull quotes had a big effect on the final product. The last three issues covered topics that were great for design and really applicable to my personal experiences here in Micronesia. The topics were: The Path to Heaven, Swimming with the Tide - Small Business Development in the Pacific, and Education Reform for the Islands. (note: I will upload these covers when I get back to Pohnpei in August)

Last year, I was designing 1A, Sports and Weekend Editions for the Columbia Missourian as well as features and covers for Vox, an entertainment magazine. I absolutely loved it but I felt called to try something completely different for 2 years. It seems that even in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on a tiny island, I have found my way back to a G4 and the Adobe Creative Suite.

My favorite project for Micronesian Seminar was for a public health awareness campaign. In Micronesia, there is a large concern for diabetes due to exposure to western foods. Kool-Aid and Ramen (dry, mixed) is the favorite for many of my students and is downright terrible for you. One issue for people with diabetes is foot care, especially on an island where shoes just don't make sense to people.

So the project was this...
1. Three brochures detailing ways to take care of your feet (in English, Pohnpeian, and Chuukese)
2. One 24" by 36" poster (the instructions were to do whatever would grab peoples' attention)

The brochures went fairly quickly and I am happy with their utility and ease of navigation. The poster was much more challenging and took many thumbnails and drafts (Yes, Jan and Joy, I'm still drawing first!)

The idea that was approved was a text treatment creating a footprint out of the slogan "Take care of your feet, especially if you have diabetes." We used some simple blues and a touch of white to draw attention to the tagline. I think was able to grab people's attention very well. One thing I didn't know was that these posters would be sent to Hawaii, Guam and the other states within the FSM to be displayed in medical facilities. I don't think my old Missourian designs got that kind of readership.


I don't know if my career path will lead me back to full-time designing. Deep down, I hope it does. But until then, I am happy to consider myself freelance.

Peneinei

"Don't forget what you've learned
All you give is returned
And if life seems absurd
What you need is some laughter
And a season to sleep
And a place to get clean."
~Bright Eyes, "Cleanse Song"

Something amazing happens when you travel to a country half way around the world, especially when that country reciprocally sends people to the exact place that you came from. There is a growing number of volunteer teachers, professors, medical practitioners, etc. on there way to Micronesia. Conversely, Micronesians (Pohnpeians especially) have been booking e-tickets and searching for seat 27-C aboard Continental flights to the good ole U.S. of A. The amazing thing that happens is a simple act of reaching out. There are families that welcome you with open arms and open doors as if you were the Lost Son returning after losing everything.

It seems to be an episode of "Trading Places" or more appropriately "Life Swap." The humorous thing is that many locals here cannot comprehend why in the world you would actually want to live in Pohnpei. Their thought is that America is still the hunting ground for manifest destiny. That may be, but I am looking for mine about six degrees north of the Equator.

I spent close to a week in an Wone, which is located in Kitti, an outer municipality of Pohnpei. Usually, I stay in a small apartment in "downtown Pohnpei." This melting pot of Philipino, American, Australian, Fijian, Chuukese, Kosraean, Yapese, and many other nationalities is known as KOLONIA. Kolonia is a very beautiful place. There is internet that allows me to contact my family and put blogs on this site. There is air conditioning in some buildings that gives my sweat glands a rest. There are also good doctors that prescribe high doses of antibiotics to counteract the many boils I have encountered. Most importantly, there is a very strong Church and local community that supports my efforts as a teacher and a lay person at the Our Lady fo Mercy Church. For these reasons, Kolonia is comfortable. And I thank God everyday for this comfort.

Comfort is a deceiving thing. It can often times leave you stagnant, relying on the familiar. In these cases, one is not challenged and can miss opportunities to learn. I have found these opportunities not to far from Kolonia. I have found a second home amidst my confusion on this island. The best place about a home is family.

The Pohnpeian word from family is "peneinei." (pronounced panaynay) That should explain the title of this post. I have many different support systems on this island. On most days, I feel very fortunate to be able to turn to my three roommates for advice, knowledge of Pohnpei, or a simple conversation. On other days, I turn to the Jesuits. They are a unique family structure as it is. A structure that have really formed the island that I inhabit. Their knowledge of Micronesia and the Catholic faith have been great resources and aides in my time here. However, there is something to be said for family. Family was the hardest thing I have ever had to leave. I have been blessed by bi-weekly skyping, countless emails and unending support. I go to sleep at night content with the knowledge that I have an amazing family to return to at the end of my service.

But, that end of service is still over a year away. Through the planning of Fr. Cav and the second-year JVIs, I have found an amazing local support system: my peneinei. The immediate family consists of Sother, Veronika, Vangelene, Evangelene, Ivangelene, Junior and K-Con. The spelling may be off, but Pohnpeian names are tricky like that. I was blessed to spend my Easter with all of them.

Wone (the village where my family lives) is hard to explain. It is a place of retreat, it is a place of confusion, it is a place to experience, it is the Pohnpei I dreamed of before I came to this island. In a lot of ways, it is my sanity. It is my place to go when live seems absurd. And there is plenty of that in my ministry here.

I have been blessed by a home away from home.

I spent a lot of time during March reviewing the Stations of the Cross with my 6th grade Religion class. I admit that our pamphlets cannot compare to the tradition in Wone. I joined more than one hundred other Pohnpeians on the street of Wone for a walking Stations of the Cross. We headed out Friday afternoon to start the trek. Luckily, one of my friends on island was there with his camera. Thanks for the photos Dana.



Pohnpeian harmonies and vocals filled the air as the sun reminded me how close it was to Micronesia. My palm joined that of my youngest host brother K-Con. I felt a sense of belonging that is hard to find when you are one of two white people in the village.


Good Friday Mass was followed by a "mehla" (funeral) for a neighboring infant who passed away. Sother, my host father, invited me to join him. "Different" cannot begin to describe the process for Pohnpeian funerals. For starters, they last 4 days. On the different days, family members and friends bring pigs, sakau, yam and some other items to represent their compassion and respect for local tradition.

I think it safe to say that I am an outgoing person. Throw me in the middle of a group of people that I don't know, and I "work the crowd." Not here. Not in Pohnpei. Especially not in Wone.

There has been a forced transition from outspoken to reserved. This transition has happened because of a simple but definite language barrier. And I think I like it. I sit for minutes, sometimes hours, at the nahs, a local meeting place for ceremonies, without talking to anyone. Yes, there are genuine head nods and big smiles. But, my language skills here are limited to discussions about work and if I am hungry or thirsty. It has almost become a nice break, a nice time to just sit and watch something unfold that I have never known. I wish it happened more often. Sometimes you just need to learn how to be quiet. That's just one of things my family has enabled me to learn.

The other things are very tangible: cutting grass, fishing, drinking sakau, cooking. I don't care how many hours I spent behind a Lawnboy in my mother's backyard, I was ill-prepared for local grass cutting. Instead of an engine driven blade under the lawnmower, the blade is a 14-inch machete swung at the base of indigenous plants. I was proud to be the swinger.

Unfortunately, I am not a very talented machetist (I made that one up). After every 10 swings, I would usually sink my machete into a rock. This create a symphony of swish, swish, swish, swish, DING, swish, swish, swish, swish, DING. Of course, the rest of the Pohnpeian men made comments I couldn't understand that they got some good laughs out of.

Later, that day, it was off to fishing off the island of Penio. Net fishing to be exact. Something, once again, I have no experience with. I sat my happy self in the boat just getting a sunburn. The same sunburn that led to the nickname "Pink Panther" at school. But at least I had a good excuse. Peneinei is hard to come by.

Out of Retirement

I remember seven months back, when I was packing for my journey into the Pacific. It was a challenge to only bring the essential things I thought I would need in Micronesia. Teaching materials, sunblock, antibiotics were first into my pack. Sandals were next. I was told those were the only "shoes" you need in Pohnpei. Then my size 10 Copa Mundial cleats caught the corner of my eye. I thought I probably wouldn't use them during my two-year tenure here, but I threw them in anyway. Shortly after coming to this little island, I found the International F.C. and the Pohnpei Premiere League. After 7 years of retirement from soccer in the U.S., I find myself back on the pitch in a place where soccer is in its developmental stages.

While the "organized" part of this organized league can be frustrating at times, I feel both honored and lucky to support soccer in a foreign country. My initial involvement in the league probably came from selfish reasons. I was searching for something familiar in a very unfamiliar place. I didn't know Micronesia, but I certainly knew soccer. I am very surprised to see how my knowledge of soccer has brought me closer and closer to the island, and the people on it.

During my short run in the Premiere League, relationships formed quickly and strongly with the Pohnpeian/Sri Lankan/Fijian/Australian players I was playing with. A lack of youth and a lack of attendance landed the International F.C. with a 4th place overall finish. I was happy to see the Island Pitbulls take down the Seventh Day Adventist boys in the final. Very happy (no offense SDA). Their mohawked captain, Dilshan Senarathgoda, approached me about practicing with some of the better players from the league. His demeanor didn't match his hair style. In a very calm, cool way, he simply asked, "Hey, Phil right? Some of the guys are getting together and practicing this week. You should come out." I did. And, it has been a happily-ever-after story since then. Well, if you don't count the shin splints, ankle sprains and tweaked knees. The pitch in Pohnpei is far from perfect, but it has been the best way for me to interact with locals my age.

After a few practices, I found out there was a more serious purpose to these Monday, Wednesday, Friday kick-abouts. These boys were trying to pick up an ugly legacy left by a former Pohnpei team and turn it into a new and improved Pohnpei State Soccer team. Coach Paul Watson is the head of this machine and has quite a task in front of him.

I have lived and worked on this small island for the last seven months. One of the first "cultural" things I learned is that the terms on time or schedule have lost all meaning. Thirty minutes late to a soccer match is still considered "on time" for most of the players out here. Now, imagine trying to get an entire squad to the field and ready to warm up at 5:30, three times a week! Not only is it frustrating, but it hinders the progression that Watson wants to see in his squad. Progression that started slow, but has rapidly gained momentum.

Wikipedia describes the team as such: "They mainly play international matches in Micronesia Games: in both editions they finished at the last place. They are yet to register a win, and some call the team the weakest football team in the world.

In June 2009 it was announced that English coaches Paul Watson and Matthew Conrad would be working with Pohnpei football legend Charles Musana to re-launch the Pohnpei State team and address the current absence of a Federated States of Micronesia side.

After a series of meetings between soccer chiefs on Pohnpei and FSM Olympic Committee head Jim Tobin, a new soccer task force including Peter Konings and Charles Musana was established charged with the task of rejuvenating football on the island.

The new coaching team of Paul Watson, Yafeth Konings, Dilshan Senarathgoda and Matthew Conrad are the youngest in the history of international football.

In August and September 2009, Pohnpei staged the Liberation Day Games Cup - its first official, organized club competition in many years. After the tournament's success, the Pohnpei Premier League was scheduled for October 2009."

With all that said, it has been an honor and a blessing for me to join the movement, experiment...whatever you want to label it. Just practicing with the guys is a means of catharsis after a long day in the classroom. Especially considering the personalities of the players:

It is a strange combination of humility, Betel nut, martial arts, swearing, friendship, inappropriate gestures, break dancing, kepit (local word for teasing), hard work, absenteeism (as I mentioned above). Through it all, I am impressed with the dedication. The one that has affected me the most (besides kepit) is the across-the-board acceptance. When I am on the field, I am obviously menwhi (foreigner). But the way the guys have welcomed me into their game and sometimes even their personal lives makes me feel like menpohnpei (from Pohnpei). This acceptance has even affected my life off the field. There have been many times when I share food, drink (sometimes too much) and conversation with the players and their families.

After a couple of months of practice and nights out on the town, Paul and Dilshan invited me to put on a blue jersey and take a permanent spot on the Pohnpei State team as a left midfielder. My immediate thought was "heck yes!" But keeping with Ignation tradition and JVI ideals, I needed to discern whether it would affect my ministry, my work and/or my community. Not only that, I had to think about the implications of a foreign volunteer (aka ME) representing an island nation.

I will be representing a state that I have only known for 8 months. I begin thinking about the JVI idea of "social justice" and how that would relate to my spot on the starting roster. But, it seems a bit too deep for this instance. The issue of "fairness" is what it came down to. Rodrigo, Micah, Bob, Robert: some of these players may be riding the bench for 45 minutes while I muscle my way down the left side of the field. The invitation to join the team was surprising and legitimate. Yes, I have spent as many hours on the pitch as each player. But, if we were to tally how many hours we have all spent in the Equatorial Pacific, I would certainly fall short. The deciding factor for me was this: Opportunity. By playing with this team, many things open up. My interaction with the community, my stress level dropping, my chance to teach something I have practiced for years (World History isn't one of those things), not to mention - my students think it is pretty "cool". The pros heavily outweigh the cons, and that's good enough for me.

I discerned, and I am very comfortable with my decision. In July, I'll be lacing up my boots and dawning the Pacific-blue jersey of the Pohnpei State Soccer team. I just hope that I can bring something to my teammates. Drills, experience, moves....maybe. Positivity, encouragement, mentoring...I certainly hope so. Conversely, I can't even begin to count the number of things I have learned and will learn from my teammates.

Ordinary Time

If you were to ask any of the women I've dated in my past, they can tell you that I am not the type of guy that celebrates anniversaries. Well, here I am at my 6-month anniversary of being a Jesuit Volunteer in the Equatorial Pacific, and I stuck with my old tradition. Samantha and I exchanged a simple "Hey, happy 6-month anniversary" over a hot bowl of oatmeal. It was nothing extraordinary. It seems as though my life has linked with the liturgical calendar. I have found myself smack dab in the middle of ordinary time.

Before I go into that, I want to share some of the not-so-ordinary holiday celebrations I experienced in December. As many of you know, holidays away from home are tough. I think they can be even harder when "away" equates to 7500 miles. However, I tried not to dwell on the American traditions I was missing this year, but be fully present in the Pohnpeian traditions I was invited to take part in.

There was nothing Pohnpeian about my Christmas Eve. Hilarious, yes....Pohnpeian, no. One of my Caucasian friends and fellow church-goer on island, Bob, invited us to his house for karaoke. Instead of listening to Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole like I'm sure my parents were, Bob and the rest of the Jesuit Volunteers were belting out Journey and the BeeGees. I even made the mistake of selecting "Drop it like its Hot" by Snoop Dogg (note: not Christmas friendly). I don't think the world is ready for a "Snoop Doggy Dogg Christmas" album.

The next morning, we headed out to Senator Aurelio Joab's house for a Christmas Day celebration and feast. My traditional Christmas celebration in the states always consistent of a nice brunch with bacon, eggs and the works. It was similar at the senator's house, with a little twist.

Our "bacon" was 6 live pigs. And yes, they "prepared" those pigs approximately 6 feet from where we were sitting. I have never in my life heard screams as ear-piercing as those I heard that morning. Hitchcock's slasher films don't even come close.

The best gift I got on that Christmas Day was the gift of true relaxation. I had just spent the last month working day after day to prepare for finals practice, practice for the Christmas program and keep up with my 8th grade classroom. I needed some R&R. So on December 25, 2009, I sat in a chair for seven hours straight and did not move. SEVEN HOURS. I talked with some members of the Joab family, listened to the sound of sakau being pounded and watched some well-prepared line dancing. I needed every second of it. We were even offered a leg of the pigs that had just been slaughtered. The amazing hospitality I was shown made me feel a little closer to home.

January came too soon, and it was back to teaching. The JVI administration warned us that we would go through a "honeymoon" phase during the first few months of volunteering in a new, beautiful place. Luckily, this feeling of euphoria lasted about six months for me. But like most things, my experiences here began to normalize. I entered ordinary time. The giant coconut and breadfruit trees I used to gawk at on the way to school had become ordinary. The smell of pigs and burning trash that used to sting my nostrils had become ordinary. All of these foreign things that before left my jaw dropped and eyes open had become ordinary. I think my culture "shock" was culture "normalization." (see photo below)


As I look back over my professional career, I can identify my Achilles' heel pretty easily. It is a fear of the mundane. In my 5 years in the working world, I have worked as a moving man, book factory sorter, pool boy, retail salesman, maintenance man, newspaper designer, cook, bouncer (don't laugh too hard), teacher's assistant and finally...8th grade teacher. I think my ridiculous list of previous employment comes from my burning desire to experience the unknown. A desire to never be flatfooted in my search for new ideas and new people.

After about one month, I felt very flatfooted. I was worried that I might be getting unsatisfied with my position. I was worried that I would get bored like I did while cleaning pool filters and selling Billabong t-shirts. I was worried that I would have to grind it out each day for the next year and a half. I was quickly pulled out this state of worry by a sage who happens to live across the hallway from my room. In more or less words, my community mate reminded me that "You just have to recognize what makes you happy here and stick closely to those things." A simple idea, I know. But an idea that I have struggled with many times.

I started coming out of this funk by simply recognizing the beauty in my day-to-day. It dawned on me - I am a teacher. How more unpredictable and interesting could things get....? I walk to work everyday and have no idea what my students might say, what lessons they might love and what things I might learn from them. There are so many variables and intricacies in my life here that I just wasn't recognizing. I'm guessing that was the same case in my old jobs in the states.

So while my days here are starting to become "ordinary," that would be the case anywhere I go. Hell, I can't remain footloose my entire life. Therefore, it is important to recognize the significance in the insignificant. (I know, how cheesy is that)

Let me give you some examples from Pohnpei Catholic School:

• From 8:00-8:30 a.m. every morning, I sit on the bench outside the resource room and get to know the younger students who come to sit next to me: One student, DeShawn, is convinced that I am in the CIA. I, of course, never correct him. Another student, Eureka, has been trying to teach me about the islands inside the Chuuk lagoon. Each and every one of the second graders is amazed at the amount of leg hair I have. These are the things that make me appreciate each day.
• From 8:45-3:30 p.m. every day, I venture into the realms of Literature, Language, World History, Spelling and Catholic Catechism. My students are finally getting used to the way I teach, and I am closing in on the way they learn. We had a coffe house-style poetry reading last week in which I challenged my students to use creativity in their presentations. I said they could use music, posters and even cool lighting. In which case my student, Nile, responded, "We don't have any lighting in this room." I couldn't help but bust out laughing at the absurd truth in his response. Our classroom has no functioning lights. I have been amazed lately at how my students are maturing and learning at a rate I never thought possible. In order to more fully explain the term "alligator" in my spelling class, I acted like a baby antelope at the water's edge getting attacked by "a large reptile with powerful jaws and sharp teeth." Nobody missed that one on the quiz.
  

Outside of PCS:

• Pohnpei State Soccer Team: There is an untapped resource here in Pohnpei: talented soccer players. Everyday, a group of about 15 Pohnpeian boys and men meet at the same field to practice shooting drills, scrimage and and train. Most days, you might notice a skinny, very white American running with them and trying his best to impart his knowledge of the game. That American is yours truly. Fortunately for me, the players have welcomed me and treated me as a fellow player. They have even been teaching me the language. As you can guess, language on the field isn't always "proper," but its important nonetheless. Two of the players has even welcomed me to their house to meet their family and drink sakau en pohnpei. I never would have thought soccer would have been my ticket for becoming inculturated on this island, but that's exactly what is has become.
• Community: I was about to go on a long list of things for this topic...but, you know when you tell a story and get all the way end only to explain "Well, I guess you had to be there." I feel like the idiocracies that transpire between my community mates and I would fit into this category. (see photo below)

• The interactions with the international community at Our Lady of Mercy Church have also been very rewarding. Currently, I am working with Tim Smit (former JVI) and Luke Lavin (current JVI) to teach this year's Confirmation class. We have 14 students that are really enjoyable to work with. Through this process, a lot of my own beliefs and thoughts about the Catholic Church have been "confirmed" in a positive way.
  

It is through teaching that we really start to know things.

Kasehlelie,

Mr. Philip