Ya bumper in trouble, gyal

The past few weeks since my last entry have probably been the most interesting couple of weeks in my life. That's one thing about being a Peace Corps Volunteer in Vincy, there's always something to do, something to see or something to drink. All three make for a very interesting day.

Regular classes have ended and my summer classes have started. For the beginning of the summer I am taking it slow with two classes of remedial reading a week. As the summer progresses I will begin my volleyball classes and camps. I have been very fortunate to receive some donations from local sponsors and a very generous donation of balls from my old high school coach, Joe Camp. Funding continues to be a problem, but honestly, when isn't it? I don't think I've spent a day in St. Vincent without worrying about money. This better pay off, either in a life lesson or some good karma.

Problems with my knee still seem to surface every once in a while, but as my beach partner kept reiterating, it could be worse. That seems to be a reoccurring theme for my Peace Corps experience...'it could be worse.'

Carnival provided a breath of fresh air as I danced behind trucks blasting Soca music. Vincy's say nothing is wrong during Carnival and this proved to be true. Nothing mattered. Financial problems, work problems, your home life. Carnival is a time to let loose and forget about this year's problems. And I did.

The day after Carnival my house was broken into again while I was sleeping. They didn't take anything, but my vulnerability scared me. The Peace Corps is in the process of replacing my door and making my house safer. Gut checks for me used to be when you're serving the ball during the opposing team's game point. This is a gut check on a completely different level. But, it could be worse.

It has almost been a year since I left the states. And I'm almost 24. Sometimes it shocks me how much I've changed. And other times it shocks me how much I haven't. Lines have been clearly drawn, then blurred. Friends have let me down and picked me up. I've wanted to quit and live here forever all in the same day. But one thing that has remained stagnent is the importance of the family we were born with and the family we choose. I have built a beautiful family here, but desperately miss my family back home. And depend on both.

'Freedom is the equal opportunity to succeed. But it is also the equal opportunity to fail.'

Brendan now you've got to come, she's where I get my smile from.

When I tell people I just recently tore my ACL for the fourth time, they have a pretty predictable reaction. Probably pretty similar to the one you're having if you're reading this for the first time. I've had people call me crazy, stubborn, passionate. Resilient, dedicated, stupid. Although my heart can't seem to settle on one of their assumptions. Questions about my intentions and the source of my motivation always leave me wondering myself.

And for a long time I had no answer for their questions, or my own. Maybe I did it because it was how I was raised, it was all I knew. I'm a Thomson and we don't give up. I can tell you stories that parallel mine about almost every member of my family. From Winston Churchill quotes to scenes from Rudy, my life has been immersed in the notion that to quit is to fail.

I could recite hundreds of cliches to explain my actions, but none seem to fit with me or my situation.

But only now do I see the whole picture; only now do I fully understand what is behind my desire to keep going, to never give up. And it has nothing to do with a quote. In fact it is quite simple: it's worth it.

The pain, the rehab, the crutches all pale in comparison to the experience the sport has given me. Without volleyball, I would have never been to Europe or California. I would have never won a National Championship. I would have never gone to the University of Tampa or represented my country in a National Competition. I would have never met the people I consider family. And I probably would have never joined the Peace Corps.

So I return a dropped jaw with a smile, because I know. I know the benefits I have reaped through this long process. And I know that if I was given a chance to play again, I would take it without question.

Off I go. Where I fall is where I land.

For my sister:

I know you’ve been to Africa before, but this time will be different. You’re staying for three months. This isn’t a vacation and you will not be a tourist. Things will change, you will change.

But don’t be scared of the changes. Your core will still be there in the end.

The American ideals and values you have been instilled with will be challenged daily. Lose some of them. They’re shit anyways.

Don’t be afraid to cry. Just don’t cry in front of any of the locals. No matter how much you explain to them, they will never understand.

Don’t worry if you lose your faith. It will come back again.

Try to see the beauty in everything. It may be impossible, but trying is the most important part.

Nurture your relationships with your fellow missionaries. They will be the only ones who understand what you went through.

You will see and experience things that no one back home can understand. Don’t fault them for this.

Wear bug spray.

Work as much as you can with children. They are the most impressionable and your impact on them is far greater than you think.

Don’t compromise who you are just to fit in. Ever.

Find a beach when there‘s a full moon.

Video tape everything.

Don’t drink the local rum..every day. It’s homemade and ridiculously strong.

Take diarrhea medicine as soon as your stomach starts to feel even a little weird.

If there‘s one thing Americans need, it is a broader sense of right and wrong. Just because they do something different, doesn’t make them wrong. Keep this in mind when you’re trying to convert witch doctors :)

Take a piece of home with you. Whether it be a picture, a stuffed animal or a song. You’ll want to feel home from time to time.

Your weight will fluctuate from week to week. Don't stress about it, because it will be the least of your worries.

Hug people a lot this last week you’re home. You have no idea how much you will miss getting a real hug from people that love you.

Take a journal.

And always, always remember how much you are loved and missed.

I try my best, and you do. And all you want is something you can move to.

Because of recent donations, we were able to add two more programs in the areas of Sandy Bay and North Union. Your donations are greatly appreciated and put to good use :)

If you are interested in donating, you can email me or send checks to:

Neely Thomson

US Peace Corps

Cyrus Street

New Montrose

St. Vincent, WI

'We need more people speaking out. This country is not overrun with rebels and free thinkers. It's overrun with sheep and conformists.' --Bill Maher

They call me Mr. Boombastic

It's the rainy season. Never before has rain meant so much. It means I will get free tomatoes from my neighbors. It means cockroaches will be forever present in my kitchen. It means lettuce will be cheaper. It means I won't have to go to school some days. But, most importantly it means that my garden will start to grow.

Thanks to some very nice friends of my mom, I was able to plant broccoli, cabbage, marigolds, tomatoes and cilantro in my yard...all with the help of a local of course. I mean, come on, me instinctively knowing how to plant a garden, not gonna happen. But it's day 4 and nothing has died yet. Nothing has actually grown either, but that's a glass half empty way to look at it.

This morning it started to pour during break time, so I had a couple minutes to myself before students would rush into my classroom. And I got to thinking about all the various and controversial teaching methods I use. Most, of which, would disappoint anyone with a teaching degree and probably most without one.

How I became in charge of the whole remedial reading department at my primary school is beyond me. My classroom management skills are sub par and my knowledge of teaching strategies is even worse.

Case in point: I spit gum at a student once because she wouldn't stop talking.

I also give my students a 10 second countdown to return from using the restroom. This strategy prevents any hand washing or toilet paper use. But, hey, I get on with my lesson. This is probably the reason I get a virus every other Tuesday.

When a kid starts to complain about homework or my strict 10 second rule, I start fake crying. The crying gets louder until the kid stops complaining.

If someone tattles, I mock them.

We have dance offs and hand slapping competitions. Farting contests and animal noise impressions. And I have yet to end a class without playing hangman, where, of course, I always win.

And every once in a while I'll catch myself in the middle of one of these and wonder what the American Board of Education would have to say about this. And then I realize that thankfully they will never have to know.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you and miss you everyday.

Now, we must all fear evil men. But there is another kind of evil which we must fear most, and that is the indifference of good men.--Boondock Saints

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