Lost, at a loss for words, and losing my mind

This is not, I repeat, more to myself than anyone, an introspective blog. While undoubtedly I am changing, reflecting and growing, these events happen calmly with no need of comment or pubic airing. However, I do feel the need to admit, before the following, that I have quite a few faults. One of these faults is the tendency to make snide or sarcastic remarks, especially when I feel that a comment was unnecessary or stupid. Today, as usual, without thinking, I snipped at an eleven-year-old girl who screamed:
“Where are you coming from, gringa?”
I replied: “Gringa isn’t my name.”
Then she asked, “What’s your name?”
To this I said, “You should have asked that first,” and kept walking.

This incident stuck in my head only because of what followed: Perhaps 30 meters down the street, I saw a little boy (could have been a save the children card—7 years old, cute as a button, barefoot with dirt on his face), face down in the grass, crying. I ran to help him, assuming that he had fallen. However, when I asked him what had happened, he replied that his mom had hit him. Upon further questioning, some back stroking, and the input of a neighbor (first entirely in incomprehensible quechwa), I learned that his mom hit him this time because he wanted to go play, and only hits him when she gets annoyed or frustrated. I am only sarcastic when I get annoyed or frustrated (or when I’m with people who will appreciate it, which is pretty rare) and I had just blown off some little girl for no reason. Hitting a tiny boy is far more serious, of course, and it terrifies me to think that for the caprices of his mother, this boy is in physical danger.
How did I react? Inside, I felt sick. Outside, I commented to the neighbor, scratched his back and saw that he sat up and stopped crying, and did nothing. I didn’t storm off to yell at his mother, certainly an undereducated young woman who grew up being hit or even share the incident with my colleagues with the local NGO that specializes in child health and protection (In fact, this NGO gave a workshop to parents in the neighborhood not even two weeks ago about how to prevent child abuse and alternative discipline methods. I would be fascinated to know if this mother attended).
Instead of action, I am sharing, and reflecting and trying to figure out where the impulse to hit a child can come from. While I am far from conclusions, there is a reason I started with one of my own faults. Meanness and shortness are violence, as well. The same impatience and irritation that drive me to snippy remarks (and more often, muttered curses in English) probably cause this mother to physically abuse her son. There are different degrees, of course, but I believe that the type of violence depends on norms and environment. Perhaps I would also hit children had I been raised in a household where that was commonplace. A wise friend once proposed the idea of trying to spend a day without any type of violence; I have not yet succeeded and fear, at times, that it would not be possible. I am, of course, already trying to think of strategies, as a good public health professional, to prevent child abuse and educate the parents, but I suspect that the root of the problem is more in the everyday violence of which many of us are guilty. That, despite countless New Year’s or Solstice resolutions, I don’t know how to begin to change.

On this eighth day, of the second month, of the two-thousand and tenth year since the birth of our lord, I convene this meeting, between my esteemed person and all of you, honorable readers, in the locale of the internet, with the purpose of reflecting and reaching an opinion on the Peruvian practices of bureaucracy.
Among my many other newly needed skills, I am learning how to write something called a “libro de actos” which is an official and vital notebook which every Peruvian organization (from government to sports clubs) uses to keep minutes, records and documentation of their every move. To help one of the health promoters look for funding for her organic gardening process, I am learning how to write a libro de actos (no one will take you seriously without one). The essence I think is just to take minutes, in the most pretentious and stuffy language possible, and then to reach agreements at the end, and have all participants sign (name, John Hancock, national identity number, and, if one has any sort of clout at all, stamp. I have a stamp.). However, despite my liberal arts education, I don’t think my bs has quite reached the elegance necessary for the libro de actos, and I feel it necessary to practice.
The libro de actos is just one example of the many Peruvian societal rules that I find bewildering and hilarious. Of course, I’m sure the US has many strange rules (now slightly separated I have started noticing some, for instance, we do not usually call people fatty (gordita) or skinny (flaquita) as an affectionate nickname for fear of offense), but since everything here is new to me, I notice them all the more. Peruvians love to talk, to make speeches, and love to turn the most casual public speaking opportunity into a chance for eloquence. An example: “First, I would like to wish all of you, ladies and gentleman, the young lady from Peace Corps, a very good afternoon and thank you for the opportunity to speak…” this would end with the speaker answering a simple question on my radio show. I cannot speak in the same tone without wanting to burst into laughter, so I usually avoid speech-giving, but don’t be surprised if I come back wordier and more formal.
Another tradition, which is not quite so foreign, is the giving and eating of meat on formal occasions. In the past few days, I have had an upclose look at the difficulty that can provide for a family that general eats meat less than once a week (not because they value vegetarianism but for availability). Last August, my host parents got married (after two children and fourteen years of living together; weddings here are more about when you have the money for a party rather than when you begin your life together), and, for the wedding, my host dad’s uncle gave 20 guinea pigs. Next Monday, there is a party at the uncles house, and my mom has to return the favor and give 20 guinea pigs. We had about 6 at the house, and, to find the rest, my host mom has spent the past couple days walking all over town asking neighbors to sell, and then carrying the little critters in her market bag back to her house. One week to go and we are still 5 short.
Last night, I was honored (and slightly repulsed) by my mom’s offer to slaughter one of these owed animals for my birthday today. When I refused, she offered Cuchimario (our pig), our chicken and, finally, our cat (the most tempting, not because of the culinary possibilities but rather because our cat is a shameless thief and has broken into several food items in my room). We settled on a more veggie-friendly lunch of lentils, but the kindness of the offer, especially after knowing a bit more about the importance of it, makes me feel more welcomed and loved than ever. After lunch Edita told me that she would have happily cooked me guinea pig if I had wanted.
As usual, I feel unable to offer any sort of analysis of what these traditions mean or come from. The meat, of course, is related to the fact that meat is special here; it isn’t a place where you can buy a hamburger for a dollar. A guinea pig is not a casual purchase but a member of the household that has been fed for months, nicknamed, checked for lice and fretted over. Shows of affection are different here and I sometimes still feel over my head when it comes to how to behave, but I could get into giving guinea pig. In fact, as a still avid vegetarian, I may offer to buy my parents one for our next fiesta.
To finish this honored meeting of interested parties, our agreements and promises.
Agreements:
1. To one day try guinea pig.
2. To learn how to bullshit like a pro (and by that I mean a for reals professional, with a fancy stamp that cost 20 soles)
3. To spend two years trying to figure things here out

Now imagine all signing a blank page, or, in the case of our illiterate quechwa grandmas and grandpas, fingerprinting in blue ink. Welcome to your first Peruvian meeting.

Pobrecitos

One of the sources of my resistance to blogging was the sort of look-at-me factor inherent in the practice. To write regularly and publicly, one needs a focus, and too often that is personal life. There is also the look-at-this-issue blogging, which I also try to avoid, preferring to stick to a straightforward report of what I learn and experience in such a foreign situation. Playing the sympathy, poor-little-children card too often distracts from content and the larger factors at play creating the poverty and littleness of the children (quite literally; if a child is malnourished before age 2, he will never reach his full genetic growth potential). However, as you might have suspected, some problems here are so salient and the only reaction is“poor little children.” Consider that an open invitation to take the following with plenty of salt.
This week I began classes of “vacaciones utiles,” useful vacations (or, essentially, summer camp), in the elementary school in one of my communities. My original idea was to have classes 2 hours a day for a group of children 9-12, focusing on health activities, as well as craft projects and reading. Last Monday I staged my matriculation and was overwhelmed by persuasive mothers, swearing that their 6 year old was quite advanced and capable of reading anything (and if he misbehaves, just hit him). I’m a sucker and ended up with a matriculation list of 40 students, from 6 to 15 years old. The first day I walked to the school with apprehension and was pleasantly surprised to have only 18 present, which seemed perfect. Less perfect was the fact that the school director, with the key to the front gate, did not arrive until 10:15 (my class was from 8-10). We had class in the street, in front of the school, with several curious onlookers.
Now, ending the week, I have a steady group of around 25 (youngest a 5 year old who just holds my hand whenever possible, oldest a 15 year old who claims to help teach but actually just chats with her friends), a key to the front gate and a slightly better idea of what I’m doing. The most effective punishment is to threaten to send children home and I am constantly asked to extend class until 1 pm, as it is during the school year. The alternatives to studying are generally working in the fields alongside parents or doing nothing. Children do play, but, when I ask children what they are doing, will do later, or did over the weekend, the inevitable answer is “nothing.” They have few toys (only what is given at the yearly Christmas hand-outs), and have mostly never been taught games or activities by their parents. Creativity, as far as I can tell, is unknown. Today in class we made illustrated books (a piece of printer paper folded twice, as if making a card), and the most common thing I heard was “I don’t know how to draw.” On the other hand, when I brought in coloring book pages, stupid drawings of teeth and toothbrushes, kids were delighted.
Anecdotes are inadequate to express the simple, stark reality: these children are in a completely different situation than any American schoolchild who I have met. There is no such thing as buying the 64 box of crayons in August, anticipating a year of scholarly achievement. The idea of reading for fun is unknown (partially because of lack of material (I have yet to see even a newspaper in site) and partially because of difficulty.) On of my sweetest students refused to read a sentence aloud yesterday because she didn’t know how; she is 10 years old. Inventing and creating seems foreign, at least to the classroom. Yesterday’s homework was to invent an ending to a story we’d read, and either draw or write it. Most of the students arrived with a drawing of a character, copied out of a book, with no description of what happened or nothing at all. While I desperately want to introduce skits, I fear the blank stares sure to come.
By listing these facts I don’t want to portray my students harshly. Probably every student in the classroom would know what to do when faced with a runaway donkey; when I saw one in the street the other day I leapt to one side and hid. Skills that are part of their daily reality—how to light fires, plant potatoes, pick chili pepper, calm bulls—are totally foreign to American students. The romantic view of this lifestyle would say: these children know what they need to know and are suited to their environment. Sadly, globalization ups the ante. More and more, young people from my site move to Lima for work. Many houses have t.v.s, all have radios, and the generation in school now will have contact with the outside world constantly. Soon, internet will arrive in the elementary school. This is a wonderful opportunity for the students, but I wonder how they will take advantage of it. This is not only a matter of lost opportunity; even if these students do not benefit from globalization, it will affect them. They will see advertisements, eat processed foods, feel the effects of gasoline price rises and climate changes. Will they have the tools to address these issues? My 20-something students are bright, kind, funny, active and mostly well-behaved. After 4 days I look forward to class tomorrow, and for the next 5 weeks. This doesn’t stop me from worrying, though, and, ineffectively, thinking “poor little children.”

Segundo de calabaza con papas sancochadas

Here’s a funny thing: I love to read food blogs. It’s a habit that started sometime around when Alex and I began exploring vegan cooking and I wanted to look for recipes. Of course, it became a growing addiction that expanded to include several meat-eating traditional blogs as well as alternative, liberal vegan/vegetarian/raw food ones. The funny thing is that this addiction continues now. When my internet signal is strong, after, of course, checking emails from friends and family, I fly to check google reader and see what new recipes have been posted. Rarely is there a recipe that is feasible in rural Peru; I have yet to read any recipe in which all the ingredients are available. I laugh aloud as I read recipes calling for tofu, nonfat plain yogurt, or even something as seemingly simple as bittersweet chocolate.
Some days, I am frustrated and silently curse the well-meaning authors of these blogs. Why wouldn’t they take the needs and desires of a poor Peace Corps volunteer in mind when writing their recipes? For example, a useful post would cover a topic such as: what to do when all your neighbors gift you giant sacks of potatoes (and you are secretly sick of the tuber, after eating it, boiled, at every meal these same kind neighbors invite you to)? I considered this topic as I dragged home my third such gift, a heavy sackload, in a week. How do you make a potato no longer a potato? Moreover, how does one person eat this many potatoes? I’m leaning towards some sort of rosti/latke type dish, to be shared with my family, of course.
Of course, secretly I admire blog authors—even in my darkest moments, when I’ve returned from a lunch of boiled potatoes and rice, and read some recipe for roasted vegetable lazagne or enchiladas and want to hit the author who innocently called for Anaheim pepper or ricotta cheese. Therefore, this week, I will thrill you all with my own food blog entry.
Early this week, a friend invited me to come cook lunch at her house today. As people here cook with wood, this meant arriving around 9 am. We washed and peeled potatoes, to be boiled whole and put water on to boil for masamorra de trigo—basically whole wheat porridge. The star dish, though, was made of a vegetable called “calabaza” which is similar to zuchinni, only a bit sweeter and juicier. It is sautéd with garlic and then, chunks of queso fresco, a local cheese that has sort of a sour taste are added. We topped off this plate with a boiled egg and lettuce salad. The cheese, egg and salad additions to the usual Peruvian standards (potato, masamorra) made it one of the most balanced meals I’ve been served. Of course, the absolute highlight was, once we had served lunch and I complemented my friend’s cooking she replied, yes, it’s tasty, but it needs a bit of MSG (a common condiment). My unhealthy, American contribution was a batch of gingersnap (ish—I had to improvise on the molasses front and because the icing was a bit melty, they became sandwiches) cookies which I explained with the somewhat true story that Americans spend the weeks around Christmas and New Years giving each other cookies.
For dinner we headed into another cross-cultural wonderland: I made a Mexican-flavored beet-bean stew, my mom made pachamanca, and I suggested the blend would be delicious (she, my sister and brother were the only ones in the family to try it, but still)
Deep insights? That I think I need to learn to love potatoes (if it can be done without a from-birth ingraining) and that sweets can win almost anyone over (my host family destroyed the gingersnap sandwiches before we even served dinner).

I am struggling to find an accurate and appropriate way to describe my Christmas. It was easily my worst Christmas ever, but that’s hardly fair with the basis for comparison. I’ve always spent the holiday in comfort, at home, with my family (who I not only love but also get along with well and share interests with), opening presents and eating delicious food (usually a menu which my mom and I planned with all of my diet quirks and cooking curiosities in mind). None of these comforts were possible here, something I realized going into the holiday. My new Peruvian family was kind and made efforts to please me, and my own disappointments came from me, not from any outward threat.
On Christmas Eve, the rain came late. At 5 pm it was still sunny and beautiful when I set out with my host mom and dad to my grandmother’s house (carrying a bag of goodies, including 2 live guinea pigs). It’s about a 20 minute walk away, in neighboring village (along one of my favorite running routes). Once arrived, we joined in the general dinner preparations (mostly I sat awkwardly, but did try to help whenever I could figure out what was going on): cutting up a freshly killed chicken, boiling water, scrubbing potatoes, peeling garlic and sat and chatted for several hours as my host aunt (only 18 so more like a cousin) took charge of the preparations for “pachamanca a la olla.” Pachamanca is traditional prepared in the ground, cooked with heated rocks, and is a blend of meat, potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn and sauce. It’s delicious. This time it was with chicken, a garlic cilantro sauce, and cooked “a la olla” or, in a pot. Cooking here requires a lot of patience, as woodstoves heat much more slowly, and (not unlike many Thanksgivings I remember at home) the food was done later than expected, around 9 pm.
Normally, I am snug in my sleeping bag at 9 pm, sometimes already asleep, so I was fading fast. Also, my stomach has been a bit strange lately (I suspect I might be harbouring some parasites), and I was ready for some rest. However, there was no refusing an enourmous bowl of pachamanca with a heaping side of rice. By the time I finished my last mouthful of potato, I felt more full than the time I tried to beat the Dot Roll record at CJL, with general quesiness to boot. Then came the Peruvian Christmas tradition of chocolatada (chocolaty, cinnamony, sugary, hot milk, which is actually delicious) and paneton (terrible, enormous, packaged fruitcake. Though there is some debate over whether all paneton is terrible (which I maintain) or if you spring for the 20 soles one (about $7) it is more delicious).
After this round of festive treats, I was exhausted and it was pouring rain outside. We decided to stay at our grandmother’s house and my sister and aunt/cousin ran off to find a mattress and prepare a room for me. With the best of intentions, they showed me to a room with a door to the outside of the house, with dirt floor, dirt walls, beamed ceiling and a straw mattress, heaped with blankets. They left me, first kindly asking if I would be scared sleeping alone (I lied and said no). Even though I had been on the brink of sleep in the kitchen, I suddenly found myself at a loss. I was fully dressed, long underwear, filthy jeans, two shirts, a sweater, a jacket and a knit hat (courtesy of my ever talented oldest sister) and had no book to read or other entertainment to distract me from my surroundings. However, I unlaced my boots, took off my jacket for a pillow, sent a last minute wish to Santa Claus (to never eat potatoes again. Don’t be surprised to find out that the jolly old elf did not oblige me), and was asleep almost instantly. The first time I woke up I had to set out to the bathroom; unfortunately, I had no idea where this was, as the night before my sister and I had just gone in the fields. Despite my best intentions as a health volunteer, after a cursory glance through the downpour by the light of my cellphone, I squatted and fertilized a nearby cornfield. Later I awoke from a nightmare in which guinea pigs (raised in almost every household here for meat) began to creep out of the walls in my room until they covered every surface.
The next morning I awoke with a strange stomach and a lost sensation, but soon recovered my presence of mind and made the resolution to go on my favorite walk as soon as I could get away. The sky put that thought to rest: it was grey and still raining (an almost unheard of phenomenon in the mornings). I didn’t miss stockings or presents too terribly, but, as I sat at a table, understanding one word in ten of the conversation, I was ready to be done with Peruvian Christmas. Santa, in the form of my generous hosts, brought me a bowl of boiled potatoes and rice. The highlight of breakfast was when one of my site mates gave me a call and I could flee the table for a few minutes and speak English.
In the plaza of Musho, there was an all-day, evolving celebration, starting with a mass and procession, and eventually ending up as a drunken fete, complete with two live huayno bands. When I stopped by the party, my host mom and a couple of women I know pulled me into their dancing circle, which was fun. Unfortunately, this was also their drinking circle, which I was not ok with (Peruvian drinking circles involve sharing one cup and one bottle, passing from one to the next. In site, I plan to be a teetotaler, strange as it is). It was strange; women I knew slightly were falling over on top of me and it was only 6 pm. Early, I made my excuses and ended my first Peruvian Christmas in my room, over a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of herbal tea. Later, from the comfort of my bed, I heard my host parents bring the party back to our house, in the room next to mine (evidenced now by our living room smelling like a frat house).
Unfortuately, I am not sure that this challenge has taught me any important life lesson or expanded my cultural horizons much. I don’t have much endurance for Peruvian parties (at least not with my present stomach issues; I also left one early last night) and appreciate my actual host family’s house much more than I thought. The holiday also lead me to cherish my site mates (we had a boxing day lunch and hang out yesterday) and appreciate, yet again, the ease I have in contacting home from site. Still, I am happy to be here, trying to this, but I am even happier that Christmas is over. Happy New Year.

Peace Corps-- the grinch who stole development work

During training, one of our many frustrating, seemingly useless sessions was a round robin looking at different approaches to development work. We spent an afternoon discussing religious based work, government aid agencies, different NGOs, and, of course, the perspective of Peace Corps and our goal sustainable development (we stay for 2 years but by the time we leave have trained/inspired enough people that development continues in the community). In Musho, the effects of development present themselves in tangible ways for analysis: fleece sweatsuits that say “World Vision” that are gifted to every child once a year, improved cooking stoves with small plaques that say “Visión Mundial and Cuerpo de Paz,” and, in this merry season, groups of people who come to town, host a “chocolatada” (giving out of hot chocolate) and give presents to all the children. This last item frustrates, and then confuses me, more than any other. First, what grinch would begrudge some malnourished, undereducated, adorable kid his one (or several depending on the NGOs in the area) Christmas gift? Should theories or warm-fuzzies lead our work in the field?
The give-aways that happen here in Ancash are, on a personal level, hard to look down upon. From a theoretical stand point, I reflect and decide, over and over, that improved cooking stove projects that involve gifting the stove itself are not sustainable and have created a culture of hand-outs and dependence in the area. However, last week I sat in a friend’s (as much as a friend as I have in site) kitchen, teaching her daughter bits and pieces of English, I cringed every time I glanced into the corner at their current stove: three rocks supporting a battered pot (I think during Camp Juliette Low cookouts we sometimes built more complex cooking fires). I could easily afford a stove for my friend and I know it would benefit her and her family. Furthermore, I gave gifts of charity donations to my American family members this year; I could have just as easily donated, on behalf of my family, a few stoves in the community.
Still, I often run into people who remind me how impractical and foolish this is. In my region, many communities are dependent on hand-outs. There has been a high level of foreign aid present since the 1970’s (after an earthquake that killed 40,000). In my community, people stop me on the street daily to ask me, what projects are you going to do, or, when will you start giving support? At first I cheerfully explained that I am working on a diagnostic, coordinating with the health post in educational activities and working in the elementary school for the first three months, and will make a long-term plan after that. Soon, though, I learned that both “projects” and “support” are code for free things. My community is hardworking, deserving and poor. The free things they get are usually excellent and helpful for their health—latrines so they don’t contaminate their food by going to the bathroom in the fields, cooking stoves so they don’t hunch over and breathe in smoke, sinks so their children wash their hands more often. However, 40 years of receiving presents (from fleece jackets to stoves) has only taught people to ask for presents, not to prioritize their spending, engage in healthy behaviors, or even make project plans to propose to NGOs. People are taught, from an early age, that if they show up at enough meetings, they won’t go home empty handed. For some families, this is their only option to have any fleece jackets or home improvements. Others have dvd players and huge parties yet cook over three rocks and use a disgusting latrine.
Six months into my service, I can apply for grants to do cooking stove or latrine projects, but I am reluctant to continue this system of rewards and want to look for a new way to develop in this community. My mind is nowhere near made up. For the price of a pair of GAP jeans, I could buy my friend an improved cooking stove. Not doing so seems horribly selfish to me no matter the seeming strength of my theoretical position. My dream is to enable Brito and other women in the community—to teach them how, by devoting a small portion of their farm to vegetables and beans, they can better nourish their children; to show them how to have small businesses or look for loans to finance projects like sinks, latrines or stoves; and that it would cost nothing but benefit infinitely for them to take their three year old out of the manta on their back and play with her for part of every day. These fluttering indefinite ideals might not remain with women for the walk home from workshop or the afternoon after the home visit, yet a stove would be a force for health for years. Any advice would be appreciated, though I doubt I’ll be able to settle this debate during my two years, and only cut short my musings in this post because I know I could continue for pages.
Merry Christmas.

¿Solita estás andando?

One of my fellow Ancash volunteers brought up an excellent point: how will two years of somewhat solitude and changed circumstances affect our personalities and lifestyles afterwards (and during, even)? I have the same conversations in site over and over, usually focused on rain (yes, I think it will rain later, but it doesn’t bother me too much) and whether I am acostumbrando (yes, little by little, I need to learn quechwa), where I’m from (USA, it’s different there), and whether I’ll marry a Peruvian (no; in fact yesterday, quite without meaning to, I lied and said I had a fiancé in the states. Oops. Of course, this was in answer to a drunken man’s question, “Two years? What if I fall in love with you? I’m single, you know.”). Day to day chats and jokes are rare, and I wonder if my natural shy and sometimes reticent attitude (at least in parties or crowds) will only develop further or whether I will compensate by chatting garrulously whenever possible. Only time will tell.
There are so many little incidents or adventures that I want to relate to people, and, when I try sharing them with my family, realize that what is hilarious to me is often incomprehensible to them. One of these areas is cooking. This morning, as a pre-teaching elevensies, I made a plantain (mashed with salt and cayenne) and tomato sandwich on toasted wheat-ish bread(I’m unsure; a woman gifted me a bag of bread the other day with the explanation that it was “from Yungay and I should try it”. It was amazing, but I have a feeling that the culinary perfection will be lost should I try to explain it to my family tonight when we sit down to a dinner of soup (on their part; my goal is to make a lentils-based shephard’s pie. I received another gift, a sack of potatoes, yesterday)
This is more curiosity than worry that drives me to ask these questions. I am confident that I will have support and affection during the next couple years, some from afar, and some from my new community and neighbors, albeit in occasionally strange or disagreeable forms (heaping mounds of potatoes and rice, yelling out gringa as I run past)
More than anything, I’d like to think that I will gain from my new social challenges. I’ve been writing this note little by little, over a week, and each day seem to discover an exception to my non-socializing norm. The other day I had settled down to read War and Peace (thank you, JC) in a beautiful, secluded glade on a hillside, when a quechwa woman, toting an absurd amount of firewood, appeared from nowhere. We chat a little, and I’m ready to say goodbye, when she insists on inviting me to her home. I help her carry firewood down the hillside, and then we sat talking and joking for 20 minutes or so.
People here describe themselves as caring and affectionate and, for the most part, I find that to be true. It would be unimaginable to have a snack or bite to eat without inviting a companion and equally strange to pass an acquaintance (or stranger) without stopping and chatting, no matter how rushed one is. Little by little, I’m learning, not only my quechwa phrases (I’ve been making flashcards and have enlisted a 13 year old as my professor), but how to use them, to make people smile, and to enjoy the small social life I have (while still embracing the ample solitude).