Raising Eyebrows in America

I always said, “I will never go home at any point during my service.  Well, unless someone is dying or something.  But otherwise, nope, I’ll never go home!”

Never say never.  I surprised myself and everyone at home when I decided to go home for Christmas.  Most of my Peace Corps friends were leaving Uganda for Christmas- Zanzibar, South Africa, England, Paris, etc.  I missed everyone at home.  I had the vacation days.  So, I booked a three-week trip back to California.

As I traveled back, I had a layover in London.  The perfect layover treat: Starbucks.  The line was at least 20 people long, but totally worth it.  I only got a hot cocoa so I could still sleep on my next flight.  Waiting at the end of line for my drink, the barista asked me, “Whipped cream?”  I responded yes.  “MISS, DO YOU WANT WHIPPED CREAM?!”  “Oh my god, yes please!” 

What the hell had happened?  I was stunned as I walked away.  Why did she yell at me?  It hit me about a minute later: I had only raised my eyebrows!  Many Ugandans express “yes” by raising their eyebrows, and maybe saying “mmmm.”  It was the first clue that coming home wouldn’t be so easy.

My first night home was my mom’s birthday.  Due to my 24 hours of traveling, we did an easy celebration of pizza at home with my brothers and Nathan.  As I savored my first piece of American pizza, I was completely overwhelmed by the rest of the table.  Everyone was talking so fast and so loud.  I also didn’t really understand what people were talking about.  I was definitely out of the pop reference loop, the football playoff lineups, the family gossip.  Everything.  I was forced to vote on Grant’s new puppy’s name.  Zoe, Sophie or Cami?!  Backup, when did Grant decide to get a puppy?!

My dad called Grant the next day.  “How’s Chelsea doing?”  Grant’s first response: “She talks so slow.”

Needless to say, social interactions were really difficult at home.  The best description of myself: painfully awkward.  I talked slow and used weird phrases, like constantly saying “Sure?” as a response.  All of my stories were about Peace Corps- as foreign to other people as the Gangnam style dance was to me.  I kept forgetting that everyone around me could understand me perfectly.  “Oh god, do you see how that girl is dressed?!”  SHHHHHHH…  Whenever I talked to someone, I never knew what to expect.  In Uganda, social situations are practically scripted.  It’s almost comforting because for the first few minutes, you know exactly how your conversation will go.  In America, people were all over the place.  I couldn’t figure out how I usually addressed someone.  In Uganda, you always have to say Sir or Madam.  When I asked an employee at the grocery store where I could find hot cocoa, I lingered wondering how to even start my question.

I was absolutely freezing the entire time I was home… in California.  During the day, it was mid 50s or 60s, and at night, it was in the 40s.  I know it makes me sound like a total baby, but my toes were numb at least 50% of the time.  I was wrapped in a blanket whenever it was somewhat appropriate.  I treasured the new Uggs my mom bought me- it was the only time my feet defrosted.  My body is completely adjusted to Uganda’s heat, humidity and sunshine.

In Uganda, the sun rises and sets at 7 pm, exactly.  Many PCVs talk about how much they miss seasons in America, but I think they forget how depressing winter sun really is.  I felt it immediately.  Why is the sun setting at 4:30 PM?!  The first week, I was falling asleep at 8 PM, about four hours after the sunset.  In Uganda, that would almost be 11 PM!  And I would want to sleep until 10 AM, although that’s pretty normal for me.  My body just couldn’t accept that there was limited sunshine.  I couldn’t get into the habit of planning for darkness that descended around 5 PM.  I finally realized that it was safe enough to run at night, so that helped me schedule.

SCHEDULING!  God, Americans like to have a plan.  Uganda has conditioned me to roll with the flow.  It’s completely acceptable to show up two hours late or to never show up at all.  Plans don’t need to made more than a few hours in advance anyway.  I always told myself that PCVs still follow American expectations when making plans with each other.  Well, we used to.  I was stressed by everyone asking me when we could hang out, see this movie, go out to dinner, etc. 

It was exacerbated by texting.  I would get texts, read them, then go back to whatever I was doing.  By the end of the first week, I thought my mom was going to strangle me.  “Why aren’t you responding me?!”  Oh, well, I was going to respond.  Texting in Uganda isn’t free- you are charged per text.  So, you usually don’t text back unless you have an answer.  Plus, I wasn’t as good texting on an iPhone as I was with T9 on my old Nokia.  Also, I was completely confused by this whole group texting.  The whole group could read my texts?!  Awesome.

Even as I’ve written this blog, I keep hearing a phrase I repeated constantly at home.  “Well, in Uganda…”  Someone finally pointed out that I was no longer in Uganda.  I became pretty frustrated with myself.  What is wrong with me?!  I am American, but I felt so uncomfortable, unnatural and just weird in my own freaking country.  Why was this so hard?

By the end of the three weeks, I did finally find my groove.  Nathan even said I got my fast talking back!  At my last dinner, John-Paul asked me if I was worried about going back to Uganda.  “Sure, I’m worried I’ll get hit by a car.”  (Not only to Ugandans drive on the side of the street, but they don’t believe that pedestrians have the right of way.  In fact, the entire system is upside down.  The rule of thumb- if something bigger than you is headed your way, better get the hell out the way!)

I know I didn’t really answer John-Paul’s real question.  He wanted to know if it was going to be hard for me to go back.  I kind of wanted to avoid it- for their sakes, not mine.  Yes, I was going to miss everyone, miss my greek yogurt, a working refrigerator and hot showers, but I wasn’t worried about coming back.  Maybe because I knew the end of my service was in sight, I could be really positive about coming back.  In fact, I was looking forward to the Ugandan sunshine, to catch up on Peace Corps gossip, to finishing up my projects, etc.

Physically, coming back wasn’t easy.  I missed my flight in London, had to sleep in the British Airways lounge in Dubai, arrived a day late and my bags got lost; however, when I reported my lost luggage, I was immediately comforted by the slow, predictable conversation.