Eureka!

Alternate titles for this post include:

"S-W-P Family Dynamics" and "Pre-Pre-Service Training."

For starters, in case I haven't mentioned this before:

We had our In-Service Training (IST) at the beginning of December, and it was the first time our training group was all together since swearing in and going to our sites.

So during IST, everyone's really excited to talk about their sites, and see each other, and talk about their sites, and eat non-village food, and talk about their sites.

In one of our training sessions - I think it was Medical: "Resiliency and Coping Strategies" - we were talking about some of the daily things that wear us down. For some people, it's when Burkinabe shout "Nasara" as they walk by; for others, it's the constant low-level sexual harassment; for some, it's fighting requests for outright money or goods (which is so not what peace corps is about, and way beyond the means of any one volunteer).

There were many others, and I can understand aspects of all of them - because it is tough, and these little (and some, not so little) things can really grate on you after a while.

But there was one that, when I heard it, made me think, "Yeah, I understand why that would be frustrating...but wait...I understand the frustration, and I think I experience that situation too, but why doesn't it bother me the way it bothers that person?"

And here's what it was: this person is often at neighbors houses, but not long after being there, conversation returns to local lang (i.e., not French).  So the frustration is this: in some cases, the volunteer is outright invited to this house, and yet, within minutes of arrival, is not able to share in the conversation.

So this frustration (and my confusion over not really experiencing the actual frustration aspect of it) is kind of simmering in my consciousness for a while. I come back from IST to realize just how often I don't understand the conversation around me. Then again, maybe that's not completely accurate...I don't understand all the words (or even most of them), but I can understand the body language and a few words here and there -- enough to tell that the conversation likely has little to do with me.

And all the while, I'm wondering, why doesn't this bother me?? They know I don't know Mooré.

This leads me to my preliminary hypothesis (which I now believe is only a small piece of the puzzle): it doesn't bother me because some part of me knows that it's my own damn fault I don't understand Mooré yet.

I've had plenty of time to learn, but I've been filling that time with other things.

I know there are people willing to teach me, I just haven't found those people yet.

(Teach me in a more formal setting, that is; everyone is eager to try and teach me fifty new words at random moments, like when I'm washing my clothes or trying to buy vegetables or just don't have a piece of paper to write down any of these very strange combinations of sounds that they're telling me are words.)

So my musings had led me to a perfectly logical explanation, and I filed that issue away - or so I thought. Fast forward a week or so, and I'm talking to the fam on the phone (in the morning, their time) and my stepdad is on his way to an early meeting so he starts his goodbyes.

Now, my parents have always worked together - sometimes peripherally, lately less so.

I'm the youngest, and the "middle-est" (as my mom likes to call her) often worked through summers in her college town. So apart from holidays, I was the only kid regularly around the house since sophomore year of high school.

That translates to quite a few dinners and morning coffees where it was just the three of us - and a fair amount of shop talk. I never really noticed it much at the time; it'd usually just be a reminder as someone was leaving, or a three minute conversation amidst the many others.

Obviously it never bothered me, because hello, they're both right there and one of them thought of something the other needed to know - is it really necessary for them to make a note to discuss it later, just because I'm there? Of course not.

SO back to present day:

Johnny is walking out the door and mom goes, "oh wait, Johnny, you're meeting with X, right? Can you tell him blah blah blah? Yeah and don't forget blah! Okay thanks!"

The whole exchange takes maybe thirty seconds, and I've got the lizards to entertain me, so I hardly even notice it. But it must have sparked a memory for my mom because then she continues, "Sorry Chlo! It's just like you're here!" (Insert her own cackle here)

And then we keep chatting per usual...

It's not until another afternoon, when I'm drinking dolo at my neighbors' house with about ten random people, that I realize that it's happening again - people are speaking Mooré all around me - and once again, it didn't bother me; in fact, I hardly noticed it. But then I remember what my mom said - "It's just like you're here!"

EUREKA!!!!!!

That's it!!! It doesn't bother me, NOT because of some great awareness that I have about my own role in the situation, but because my whole LIFE has been training for this scenario!

So with that, I think it's clear that I owe a big thank you to my parents:

Thanks Mom and Dad, and thanks Mom and Johnny, for starting my pre-pre-service training early, and making this aspect of life in Burkina a little less difficult.

Also for all that other stuff, like raising me and supporting me and such. ;)