If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans

This term is off to a great start. I have finally caught up financially and have even managed to save a little. While visiting my parents in St. Lucia, I was able to really take some time to reevaluate my prorities and purpose here and have come up with a pretty solid work plan. I always like to write down what I 'plan' to do and see how much of it gets altered or changed by the time everything works its way out. However, despite my faith in an evolving work plan, I am very excited about my current outline.

One of my main focuses is the organization I started about two months ago, Vertical. The central idea behind Vertical is to fund and sustain volleyball programs and teams within the rural areas of St. Vincent. So far, we have started 4 programs in the areas of New Grounds, Langley Park, Georgetown and Dickson. We have helped fund a men's volleyball team out of Dickson. And hold a Saturday volleyball camp for primary school students every week.

When this all began, I only wanted to rely on local sponsors. But as things progress, I am now realizing how unrealistic that is. One thing I admire about Americans is our sense of volunteerism and charity. Whether the incentive is a good feeling in our chest or a tax break, we give. And somewhere in the last 20 years, this concept has been lost on Vincentians. I am very thankful to the scattered donations we have been recieving from local sponsors, they have kept us afloat thus far. But extra funds are necessary.

Funds are needed for transportation, food, volleyball shoes (you will notice in the pictures below how many children play barefoot), volleyball tournament fees, volleyball uniforms (jersey, tights and socks), volleyball net, volleyball ball basket and volleyballs.

If you are interested in donating, you can email me at neelythomson@gmail.com or send checks to :

Neely Thomson, US Peace Corps

Cyrus Street, New Montrose

Kingstown, Saint Vincent W.I.

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has. --Margaret Mead

When you're wrapped up in my arms, dancing to a reggae song.

I have had a little bit of an identity crisis lately. Using the word crisis is a little over dramatic. What I really mean is I just cried to my mom for an hour.. some crisis.

My mother always said, 'you are who you hang out with.' And for the past seven months I have been on the financial level of my friends, eaten their food, danced with them, worked with them, lived with them, loved them. But I could never shake the color of my skin. I tanned until I burned, used black people hair dye, talked like them, lived like them. But I could never get rid of the person I was and the evidence lay plastered on my skin. I was different and always would be.

This past week my friends from the States came to visit and I was placed in a completely different world. White people, money, sail boats, American music, American dancing. And as much as I wanted to fit in, I just couldn't shake the person I had become. My clothes didn't match up, I wasn't as affluent and whenever they would ask where I was from, I proudly exclaimed 'I'm not a tourist. I live here.' I was different from them and always would be.

So, as I lay in my bed completely defeated, feeling as if I didn't belong in either world, I realized that maybe we're not who we hang out with. Maybe sometimes we just are who we are.

There is more simplicity in the man who eats caviar on impulse than in the man who eats Grape Nuts on principle. --G.K. Chesterton

I believe

Gus Gus is a member of my running group. He was about 50 pounds overweight when we started running about two months ago. Since then he never lets me off the hook. Whether it's raining, 'cold' outside or getting dark, he's always calling at my gate asking to go running. He doesn't care if I'm hungover or tired or just don't feel like running. And since I met Gus Gus, I don't either.

He and I have been running six days a week (I give him Sunday off so he can go to church) for the past two months and he is the only student that hasn't missed a day. Most kids show up for 2 or 3 running sessions a week, but not Gus Gus.

We look ridiculous running together down the main highway in St. Vincent, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's short and noticeably overweight. I am tall and noticeably white. People yell and laugh at us. They shout 'fat man' and 'whitey' around every corner we turn. And finally one day I asked Gus Gus if it hurt his feelings when people called him 'fat man'. And, to my surprise, he said it did. He said it 'made his heart hurt', which in turn hurt mine. So whenever people shout 'run fat man run' at him, I have started saying 'shut up! he's not fat!' Every time I said this, Gus Gus would get the biggest smile on his face. And now, every time someone shouts 'run white girl run' he says 'shut up! she's not white!' We both run with big smiles on our faces now.

I have been wanting to write about Gus Gus for a while now. There's always that one thing that gets you up in the morning, the one thing that makes you keep going. Gus Gus is my thing. And today, I have never been happier or more willing to get out of bed. It was our two month mark. Two months ago I bought a scale and weighed Gus Gus and me. Two months ago Gus Gus was 200 pounds. Today Gus Gus is 182. Today Gus Gus tried on an old pair of jeans and they fit. Today Gus Gus walked taller than I have ever seen him. Today was a great day.

'The world is a fine place and worth fighting for'--Ernest Hemingway

We're gonna show this town how to kiss the stars

As I read through my blog posts, I realized I haven't really written much about my job or what I'm actually doing in St. Vincent. So, I will try and describe it the best way I can. Here it goes...



My job is amazingly challenging and funny and forever changing. My main assignment is remedial reading, which I do from 8-12 everyday. I teach 2nd, 3rd and 4th graders phonics and 5th graders comprehension. Then in the afternoons I teach volleyball and in two weeks I will also be teaching a film class. In the evenings I have a running group. I also do work for the AIDS Secretariat and Marion House in town.



However, I have to say that my favorite part of my job is working with my kids. They have become such a big part of my life it is almost embarrassing and I'm well aware that it is a little pathetic. One afternoon after I took my kids running, two of the boys came into my house for a drink of water. Before we started drinking, one of the boys said we had to cheers. The other boy shouted 'Yes! Let's cheers to being best friends!' And without hesitation, I held my water up in the air and clinked my glass against theirs while shouting 'Best friends forever!' with them. It wasn't until after they left that an embarrassing truth came to my attention: I am best friends with 8 year old boys. I looked around the room and saw their artwork covering every inch of white space on my walls. They fill up every weekend and spare minute I have. I talk to them on the phone more than I do people my own age. If my nose starts to look concave and I start referring to St. Vincent as NeverLand..please send someone to come get me.



Twice a week I have fifth graders for comprehension lessons. I handmade them journals (and by handmade I mean I stapled copy paper together..very creative) and have them write in them daily. One of the assignments was to write what you would do if you were Prime Minister. Here is exactly what one kid wrote:



If I was Prime Minister I will help pure people and sent money to Haiti. I will bult house for pure people. And send the People to America to get jop. And bult a library for People ho is interested. And I will bult a house for Neely.



I'm pretty sure building a house for me wouldn't be on any of my friends' agendas if they became President. I guess being best friends with eight year olds isn't so bad after all...



'I'm really going to miss you when you go back in 2012'- Gus Gus

All we can do is keep breathing

I made it. I made it through the hardest month of my life. I made it through a $17.00 bank statement, ice for dinner, no toilet paper and some very tough nights. I made it through rice for breakfast, skipping lunches and a broken foot. I made it. However, I would not have made it had it not been for certain people. And though they may never read this, I wanted to put it out there anyways.

Thank you..

to my mom. Thank you for your phone calls and text messages. Thank you for listening to me cry. Thank you for making me stop.

to my dad. Thank you for your wisdom and understanding. You forever increase my standards of what a man and father should be.

to my sister. Thank you for your faith. As much hell as I give you, your unwavering trust in the Lord makes me believe--even if it's just a little.

to Cassius. Thank you for the food, your support, finding money when there was none, your family, cleaning my house when I refused to get out of bed, making me get out of bed, laughing at my hysteria, hugging me when I cried. Thank you for everything.

to Sarah. Thank you for the money, the phone calls, the beach trips. Thank you for always listening and making me feel normal. But mostly, thank you for the tequila shots.

to Aunt Lori. Thank you for the package. It had impeccable timing and really made the last few weeks of the month tolerable.

to the Wittenbergs. Thank you for every package, nice facebook message and wall posts. You have no idea what they mean to me.

to Jessica. Thank you for never letting me forget how much I am loved.

to Dh. Thank you for never letting me forget what Jesus said. And of course, making fun of how gay this blog is. I laugh the loudest when I'm with you.

to the Lincolns. Thank you for an amazing Mexican feast and an even more amazing conversation afterwards. My perception of you is forever changed :)

to Sheena & Toussaint. Thank you for your generous portions of food. You constantly remind me of how bad of a cook I actually am.

to every Peace Corps volunteer. Thank you for the beers, laughter and understanding.

'Wake up naked, drinking coffee. Making plans to change the world, while the world is changing us. It was good, good love." DMB

I believe in a thing called love

This Christmas will undoubtedly go down as one of the most eventful Christmas's ever. I pulled all nighters, drank local rum, witnessed my dinner being killed, played Santa Clause, danced with strangers and celebrated with friends.

I was lucky enough to have a family take me in for the duration of the Christmas holiday, so I was really able to experience a full Vincy Christmas. And I'm proud to say I survived. It's safe to say that I love to party, especially for an occasion like Christmas. But the locals here even put my partying spirit to the test. They begin celebrating 9 mornings before Christmas, and by celebrating I mean they wake up at 3am and party through the night. I was able to attend three of these celebrations and that was plenty for me.

The day after Christmas is called Boxing Day. And a village just north of mine called Georgetown is well-known for it's unique fair. It is VERY important to dress in a brand new outfit--tags must be left on. So when I opened my mother's package for Christmas and saw new clothes, I was relieved. I would be a Vincy, if only for the day. So I arrived, tags and all, ready to dance. However, I'm me. And stories just don't end like that. While whining with some of my primary school kids (all with Guiness's in their hands), they started screaming and kicking this massive toad. I see the locals mistreating, or what I consider mistreating, animals all the time, so I wasn't shocked, but I wasn't just going to let this toad die on my watch. So I pick it up. HUGE MISTAKE. My kids faces turn white, then their mouths drop open. Some start crying, some start screaming. The music stops. And 2,000 people stop dancing to stare at me holding a toad. Then I hear my friend yelling from across the fair, pushing people out of the way. When he finally makes it to where I'm standing, he takes the toad and throws it over the fence. There seemed to be a sigh that resonated throughout the crowd. After my friend saw my confused face, he went on to explain that it was a 'jumbie,' which means ghost, and if I hold it long enough I will turn into a toad. Really? I asked (and still ask..). Yes, he replied. Apparently I was very lucky. I think the Peace Corps would definitely administratively separate me if I turned into a toad.

I have had a string of bad 'luck' lately. I put quotations around luck because I don't really believe in luck. I believe that things happen with a purpose, not randomly, and certainly not by luck. But the word just seems to fit in the sentence. A friend of the Peace Corps, and someone whom I trusted, broke into my house on Christmas Eve. He didn't steal anything valuable, but he mashed up my door and stole all my food and money--specifically my apples. You have no idea how expensive they are here. However, he did feed my dog. I love thoughtful criminals.

My attitude was grim. This was the second time my house had been broken into and I felt vulnerable and violated. I'm the only Peace Corps to get Dengue Fever in thirteen years, my house was continuously being broken into and money was being taken from me. I let a negative feeling swell up inside me about my community, myself and my purpose here. How was I going to make it financially this month? How can I stay somewhere that I don't feel is safe? What if I'm the problem..not the people who keep breaking in?

Then I saw the worst thing I've ever seen in my life. Me and some friends planned to spend New Years in Bequia, and I was supposed to catch a van at 8:30 New Years Eve morning. However, I was running late and as I was running down the gap to catch 'Big One', shouting at him to wait for me, I remembered that I didn't lock the gate. I told him to go ahead, that I would catch the next one. I caught the next van and headed into town. 'Big One' was just ahead of us the whole time and when we rounded the corner, I saw the tire blow. The van flipped several times throwing people out of the window. I heard screams and saw more blood than I had ever seen in my life. As we passed the van, there were dead bodies all along the road, a lot of them children, people screaming, and others seriously wounded. The van I was in went into hysteria. On a small island like this, it is very likely that they knew those people. On a small island like this, everyone is affected.

After the shock wore off and I made many phone calls, I learned that I knew no one in the van. There were no Peace Corps, no New Grounds community members, no New Grounds students. It seemed that my luck was changing.

Until I woke up New Years morning and saw that my overnight bag had been stolen. My life was in that bag--all of my money for the month, wallet, food, clothes, camera, phone...the list keeps going.

However, this time my reaction was much different. I won't be able to pay my rent this month. I won't have a phone until next month and my internet will be cut off soon. I won't have a camera or an excess of food. But I am healthy and alive. And the people I love are just a phone call away. Nothing else matters.

...And, I'm not a toad. That would really suck.

'Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly'-Leah Thomson

Open your eyes

Here is a video I did for the National AIDS Secretariat here in St. Vincent.