Semana Santa

I’ve been terrible about writing things down as they happen, so I’m going to try to remember what I did. 

I started out Semana Santa by meeting up with Thomas in Estelí so we could travel together instead of arriving separately to a city neither of us knew. I’m getting pretty familiar with the Matagalpa-to-Estelí trip and it’s not too bad compared to some of my other viajes, but it’s still a 5-hour trip I’d rather avoid for a while.

Anyway, the first leg of our journey was to the beach in León! After some slight drama (getting our alcohol temporarily confiscated) we arrived at the beach where some wonderful friends were waiting.

After the first night, Thomas and I woke up early to see a little sunrise.

Spent the day lounging in the shade because the sun at the beach was not very forgiving, and the water was a little rough.

At some point we climbed atop these rocks where Ashley, our photo goddess, captured our joy.

We caught a nice sunset, too.

Ashley took some pretty gross photos of me and Thomas.

The next morning we went to the city of León, where Thomas and I didn’t spend enough time to actually do anything touristy. Next time.

We traveled to our favorite place, the Laguna de Apoyo. Our training groups spent quite a bit of time drinking batidos and then going to the mirador to gaze at the laguna’s beauty. Naturally, for our first vacation, we had to go back.

We kayaked out into the laguna. We swam and sat in the sun and spent way too much money on food. We took almost no photos, except this on the morning we left.

I’d say this first vacation was a success!

So thankful for this adventure, and looking forward to many more.

I’m back in my training town

So I’m back in the town where I spent my first 3 months in Nicaragua. I’m doing a four-day Spanish class before I go back to my home in Matagalpa. I’ll probably write more about this weird feeling of being back, but for now I’m gonna be quick. 

Sometimes I feel like not much time has passed since I’ve been in Nicaragua. I sat down to eat lunch today, and Princesa, that tiny kitten who I loved during training, walked by me.

But she’s not a kitten anymore. She’s an actual CAT. I mentioned to my host mom how big Princesa had gotten, and then she dropped a bomb on me.


Begone, vile man!

The boys around the way holler at me when I’m walking down the street

Their machismo pride doesn’t break my stride—

It’s a compliment, so they say

The boys around the way holler at me every day but I don’t mind, oh no

If I’m in the mood, it will not be with some dude

Who is whistling ’cause he has nothing to say

Or who’s honking at me from his Chevrolet!

– “It Won’t Be Long Now,” In the Heights

One common struggle of living in Nicaragua is figuring out how to deal with unwanted attention. This comes in a variety of forms, but a lot of us—women especially—get a lot of unwanted (romantic, gross, lecherous) attention from men. Strangers, members of our host families, our students, other teachers, administrators, and the list goes on. Other female volunteers often share their experiences, and it is almost always met with a chorus of “I’m so sorry, that sucks” followed by “I have a similar story.”

I’m thankful to the ladies in my life who share their stories with me, because even though we’re all having slightly different experiences, we have all faced machismo, and we can try to support each other.

I want to be clear: This is not exclusively a Nicaraguan problem. Most of us have faced similar problems in the U.S. One time, a man insisted on talking to me as I’m tried to walk down the street, grabbed my arm, kissed me without my consent, and refused to leave until I walked into a museum that he didn’t have a ticket for. Every woman I know has dealt with guys who have felt entitled to our time, attention, or bodies. Guys who won’t listen to a simple “no.” “Nice guys” who just don’t understand why we don’t want to date them. This is not a Nicaraguan problem.

That said, I have had problems here in Nicaragua. Mostly, dudes just yell at me or try to get my attention as I walk down the street. It’s annoying, but it’s nothing I haven’t faced before, and it’s generally pretty easy to ignore.

I’ve had teachers in my school ask if I’m single, and when I said I had a boyfriend (even though I didn’t actually have one) one of them responded (in Spanish) that I must not love him, because women are as needy as baby cows on their mom’s tit.

Most recently, while I was sitting at the park (a place where I can usually enjoy peace and quiet and wifi) three guys crowded onto the bench with me. The following are messages I sent to Thomas at the time.

I appreciated his response:

There were endless empty benches, but these men chose to take over my space. I decided to keep my headphones in, not make eye contact, and wait them out. The guy closest to me (we were literally shoulder to shoulder) looked over my shoulder as I scrolled through photos and live-messaged Thomas what was happening.

Finally, one guy left.

A few minutes later, the second guy left.

Last, the guy who’d been reading over my shoulder accepted that I wasn’t going to acknowledge him and walked off, defeated.

And I stretched out on the bench in victory.

Not even a minute later, as I was still stretched out across the entire bench, a different guy came and sat on the edge of the bench, right in front of my feet. I moved my legs. Ceded territory.

*eye roll*

I thought that I could wait this guy out too, but he motioned for me to take out my headphones.

I took one out.

He started talking to me, and he asked for my phone number. I told him I didn’t have a phone number. He insisted. I put in a fake number. I told him I had to leave. He grabbed my hand tightly and wouldn’t let go. He told me how happy he was to have my number. I pulled away, left the park, and called Thomas as I walked home.

A couple days ago, the same guy noticed me again. I accidentally made eye contact, and he recognized me and sat down. He started asking me questions.

Where do I work? Oh, I’m a teacher. How much money do I make? Probably a lot. Do I have a boyfriend? Yeah, oh, well that doesn’t matter because you can still be with me. No? Because you have a boyfriend? But I have a farm! Look at my boots. They’re nice boots. I have a farm. I like you. Why don’t you want us to be together?

I stood up to leave, he grabbed my hand. I said had to go teach. I left the park. I called Thomas as I walked home.

It’s always so, so easy to assume you know what you would do if you were in a certain situation, but until it actually happens, you have no fucking clue. It’s easy to look back and say, “why didn’t you just walk away after you realized who he was the second time? Why did you answer any of his questions? Why did you make excuses for why you don’t want to be with him when a simple “no” should have been enough?

In the moment, it is very, very easy to freeze. Sometimes, your mind goes blank. Sometimes your Spanish vocabulary doesn’t include all the curse words you want to use. Besides, you have to keep living in this community with these people for two more years, and you’re trying to figure out the best way to manage that. Sometimes, as much as you wanna punch a guy in the face after he makes physical contact with you, you don’t, because you haven’t made friends with the policía yet.

I feel lucky that what I’ve faced here isn’t as bad as what some of my friends have faced. I’ve faced worse in the United States. I feel safe at home and in my schools. I feel safe in my community, but pissed that I sometimes have to leave the park when I’d rather stay there another hour.

For all the people who have dealt with (or are currently dealing with) shitty situations: I see you, and I’m here if you want to talk about it. You’re not alone.

To all the wonderful men in my life who listen to our stories, acknowledge your privilege, offer to be our fake boyfriends if/when we need it, and support us however you can: Thank you. You make trudging through this shit so much easier.

Sending lots of love to all of you.


Buñuelos were one of my first favorite Nicaraguan foods. I used to order them pretty regularly when my training group went out for drinks. But then I fell in love with tostones and batidos, and the buñuelos fell off my radar for five months.

Until today.

I was handed a cup full of fresh, homemade buñuelos and I swear they’re by far the best I’ve ever had. Hot. Crispy on the outside. Soft and doughy on the inside. Dripping in honey. I ate most of them before I thought to take a picture.

According to the child of the house, the family makes them every year on the first of March. I asked why and she said, “it’s the start of Easter.” That puzzled me because yes, today is technically the first day of Lent, but that date changes every year.

Regardless, they were delicious.

Getting back in the swing of things

I kind of fell off the blog wagon. The last month has been weird, and I haven’t been writing much for some reason. But I’m back! Here to give a quick update on what I’ve been up to.

The school year just started at the beginning of February, and I’ve spent the last few weeks observing, co-planning, and co-teaching with three teachers. I’m working in three different secondary schools, and it’s had its ups and downs. It’s been a great experience working with teachers who really want to share ideas, try new things in their classes, and improve their English proficiency. 

I’ve faced a few frustrations too. I don’t know my students yet, and they don’t have confianza with me, and sometimes that means that they don’t participate. One of our goals is to increase the use of English in our classes, but at this point, some students are frustrated even when the only English words I say in an hour are the vocabulary words I read off the board.

I just have to keep reminding myself that progress comes with time. We’re only a few weeks in, and I’ve only taught a few classes, and eventually things will start going more smoothly.

I also have to remind myself that some of my classes have been wonderful, and I’ve been able to build confianza with my counterparts and some of my students.

During games of hot cabbage (in which students pass a ball of paper around until the music/noise we make stops, and then the student holding the cabbage has to answer a question in English) students usually pass the cabbage as fast as they can because they don’t want to be called on to speak. But one girl in class last week held onto that cabbage the entire time because she wanted an opportunity to practice. I appreciated her so much in that moment, especially because other classes had felt like disasters start to finish. 

Yesterday while I was in the park using the wifi, a group of girls came up to me and started asking me questions (in Spanish) looking up music videos for me to watch, asking to see pictures of my family and the United States. I loved that they approached me outside of class and wanted to learn more about me.

  • “Do all people in the United States have eyes like yours?” (Nope.)
  • “Do you have kids?” (Nope.)
  • “Are you married?” (Nope.) “Why not?” (Lol I don’t know, partially because nobody has asked me yet?)
  • “How old are you?” (25) *horrified faces because I’m an old maid in their eyes*
  • “You don’t look like your sister!” (No, I don’t. She’s tall.) “She’s white!”

Every day here is a new adventure. I love this Peace Corps experience, and I’m so happy that I have the opportunity to serve in Nicaragua.

I’ll try to be better about updating you all on my life here. I just had an amazing weekend in Estelí for my friends’ birthdays, and *fingers crossed* I’ll find a way to put it into words.


Last Words

Written on February 1, 2016 (5 days after)

Sitting in my cubicle, crying at my desk because my coworkers left me a sweet card with lots of handwritten notes.

Thinking about last words.

I got to the house. I kissed his cheek. He kissed my cheek for the first time in weeks. Usually he was asleep or too tired to do it. But that night he did.

He was semi-comatose. He didn’t really speak directly to anyone else except to say “let me out of here.”

I told him I love him. I told him Jasmine loves him.

I sang him “All Along the Watchtower.”

Before I left, I said, “I’ll see you soon. I love you.” I kissed his cheek.” He said, “I love you.”

I said, “I love you, Dad. I’ll see you soon.”

And that was the last time I saw him alive.

Semi-comatose, and he managed to give me one last “I love you.”

Thank you, Daddy. Thank you for that. I think you knew that would be the last one. I think you found the strength to give it to me.

I said I’d see you tomorrow. I said I’d see you soon.

It didn’t happen the way I thought it would. If I’d known, I would have stayed all night. I would have flown Jasmine in on a $1,000 flight.

It’s okay though. I may not have seen you the way I thought I would, or the way I wanted to, but I do see you. I see you everywhere.

One year after

I’m forcing myself to write today. I don’t feel like I have a lot to say, but I’m gonna throw some stuff out here anyway.

Yesterday, I felt pretty gross. Emotionally, I felt surprisingly…okay. Physically, I started to feel nauseous. I threw up in my family’s bushes. I felt better. And then I continued to be sick for the rest of the day until I finally passed out. I couldn’t keep any food down, so I just prayed and prayed that I could keep all bodily fluids inside me until I got off the bus in Matagalpa the next day. 

(Right, did I mention that I’d made plans to come to Matagalpa so I didn’t have to sit alone with my sadness on the anniversary of Dad’s death? I wasn’t about to cancel those plans.)

When the nausea first hit, I wondered if I was having a physiological response to my grief. I hadn’t eaten anything weird, and the sickness just hit me out of nowhere. And then I started thinking about Dad.

I thought about sitting in the waiting room every day while he was getting radiation. How he started off feeling fine and then eventually got thinner and weaker and couldn’t keep his food down.

I remembered being thankful that the doctor cut his radiation treatments short, because watching his weight fall below mine, below Jasmine’s…it was painful for all of us.

So last night, as I was feverish and nauseous and losing my food in all the unglamorous ways, it helped me put some things in perspective. Dad was going through that for months and months. He hated it. 

And today, which had the potential to be emotional and horrible, I was just thankful that I didn’t shit my pants on the bus. Thankful that today wasn’t as bad as yesterday.

In the last year, I’ve had so much support from friends and family. I’m sitting here right now—on a day when I thought I might be an emotional wreck—and I’m surrounded by friends who care about me. 

Where was I this time last year? Sitting, surrounded by people who love me, prepared to drive to pick up Jasmine by myself because I felt like I needed to be alone with my grief. Stupid on so many levels, when I have so many people prepared to step up and take care of things for me. Luckily, Mom wasn’t about to let me be an idiot, and she drove me to St. Louis and let me play the Hamilton cast album the whole way.

In the past year, I’ve tried to be more open with friends and family. I think that’s one way that I’ve really changed. Last week, in anticipation of a total emotional breakdown, I told some friends that I was planning to take a day out of site. I wasn’t sure how I was gonna handle today, but I knew that I shouldn’t be alone. It’s very, very easy for me to isolate myself, and I’m trying not to do that.

Saying, “This day may be hard, and I’d appreciate if you could keep me company” is a significant step for me. It would be so easy to shut myself off with my grief and regret and pain, but sometimes you have to give people a chance to be there when you need them. 

Even if you can only bring yourself to share little bits and pieces of your story. If you need a stupid distraction, or a hug, or a text that says, “thinking of you today.”

So today, like all days, I’m missing Dad a helluva lot. I’m thinking of the laugh he gave me, his love of westerns, the way he was always barefoot inside. Most of all, I’m thinking of how he loved me unconditionally even when I took him for granted. How he forgave all my faults and saw me as my own talented, smart, beautiful person.

Today, I’m seeing the good things. Memories of Dad, love from people back home and here in Nicaragua. Today, I’m not angry, and I’m not distraught, and I’m not bitter.

Today, I’m thankful for the people who love me. I can feel it so strongly. It transcends time and space. I can feel it from people sitting in this room, and from people back in the U.S, and from Dad, through memory and stars and his voice that I still hear clearly.

I have nothing left to say, 


I love you.

There must be some kind of way out of here

Written on January 26, 2016 (the night before)

I don’t want to write much, so I’m gonna keep it short.

I went to see Dad, shook him awake (which I’m honestly shocked that I was able to do), gave him a kiss on the cheek, and he kissed my cheek. Lately he hasn’t really been able to do that so I was glad he did. He was mostly out of it while I was there, and Bev mentioned that the nurse said he’s in a semi-comatose state.

Every once in a while, he would wake up and be anxious or agitated. Really the only thing he said all night was “let me out of here.” Over and over and over. Every time he woke up, that’s what he said.

While he was sleeping, I sang him “All Along the Watchtower,” and God my voice is awful but I like to think that he could maybe hear it or that it kept him calm.

Before I left, I told him I’d be back to see him tomorrow, and I kissed him on the cheek and told him I love him.

And he said it back.

Currently sitting at Dad’s bedside

Written on January 16, 2016 (11 days before)

I’m sitting on the bedside toilet and holding his hand. I came in and he opened his eyes and I kissed his cheek.

Adding to the list of words he’s said that I’ve understood:

“Hey, baby.”


Once when I kissed his cheek and once when Bev said, “Jade is here.”

Anyway, he stuck his hand out of the blanket and Bev said, “I think he wants you to hold his hand,” and I did and he squeezed it pretty tight and damn I want to remember this moment.

I took a picture because even though I swore I didn’t want to document his frailty or illness, this doesn’t particularly feel like either. 

After a while, he woke up and was a little confused about what was going on. He’d say things like “we should probably get going” or “do we have to be out by the 16th?” He seemed pretty focused on moving/leaving the house/paying rent, but I tried to ease his worries and talk about other stuff.

I asked if he had a favorite Jimi Hendrix song (which he doesn’t.) I asked the same question when he was in the hospital 3 months ago and he didn’t have a favorite song then either, but I do think Jimi is probably his favorite artist.

I asked if he’d seen the news about the Flint water crisis, and told him that the governor allowed these people to be poisoned. Mostly I was just trying to fill the silence, and eventually he closed his eyes and seemed like he was going to fall back asleep, so I told him I was leaving, and I kissed his cheek and told him I love him.


Predestination is bullshit, but this feels real

Written on January 15, 2016 (12 days before)

Before I forget: I have a couple more clear, understandable Dad things.

“Be careful.”


I’m trying not to be sad all the time, but goddamn it, I am. Dad saying, “Be careful” just felt so…almost normal? That’s what he always says when we leave, and I appreciated that moment, but I get the feeling that he has to put out a lot of effort to do that. I don’t know.

The “sorry” though. God, I hate that sorry. Dad apologized to me after I threw one of his snotty/spitty tissues away, and just…fuck, I hate that he hates this. And I just want to be able to pretend that everything is normal, but it’s not fucking normal. This is so hard for me, and he knows it, but he has to know that I would throw away his nasty tissues and fix his cannula and help him drink water and fix his pillows and rub his neck and give him more blankets every day if he needed it. It’s not a burden for me to do those things. I want to be there. And I want him to know that I want to be there. I don’t want him to apologize to me for relying on me a couple hours a day.

This blog post probably makes no sense but I’m not going to read over it before I post.

In the past, I’ve kind of resented the fact that I’ve lived my whole life in Springfield. I hated myself for my many roads not taken. I didn’t go to NYU. I hardly applied to or considered any schools outside of Missouri. I went to grad school in Springfield. I got a job in Springfield.

For years and years and years—since before I started high school, for sure—I knew that I wanted to leave here. I always said I’d go to school out of state, or at the very least, a few hours away. I wanted to live in a big city…or really anywhere but here. So how did I end up here? Why did I end up here?

Initially, I think I stayed for a few reasons: It was the safe choice, I had good scholarships, and I wouldn’t have to leave whatever boy prospects I had going at the time. Later, I stayed for similar reasons. It made financial sense to stay, but I always had one foot out the door and my eyes on the horizon. When I started at the Honors College, I didn’t resent myself for staying quite so much. After all, I’d found my calling, and if I hadn’t taken these particular roads, I probably wouldn’t have found myself doing this particular thing that I loved. (Of course, I may have found a different passion, but whatever.)

Anyway, I had found something I loved, and I used it as a reason to let go of any regrets I had about going to school in my hometown (twice), near my boyfriend (twice). I was happy with where I ended up, but a big part of me still felt like I had sold myself short for years, and that I was doing far too few extraordinary things, or even just above average things. I didn’t want to live the life that most of my high school classmates were living. I still don’t.

That said, I’m glad I’m here. And I typically don’t believe in fate and serendipity, but right now I kind of need to believe that all of my possibly-shitty decisions have led to me being here for this. Because if at any point I had left Springfield, I’m positive I wouldn’t have come back. I’m glad I’m here. Somebody has to be here.

I don’t know, part of me almost feels like I was predestined to be the one who stayed. I can’t imagine what it would be like if Jaz was gone, and Michael was locked up, and I was in New York or something. As much as I hate this place, and as much as I want to get out, I will never regret being here with him.

Also, just an FYI for future me who looks back at this blog post and cries: When I leave, I always kiss Dad’s cheek and tell him I love him. And then he tells me he loves me. And then I tell him I love him again, just because I need him to know that I heard.

I swear I’m ending this post, but I just remembered something. The other day, when Steven was leaving, Steven said bye and kissed Dad’s head, but Dad didn’t seem super aware/awake. As Steven was walking out the door, Dad said (pretty clearly), “Thanks for stopping by,” but Steven was already half out the door and didn’t respond, because he didn’t hear him.

I never want that to happen when I’m leaving. I want to say I love you, and I want to acknowledge that I receive and appreciate his love, and I want to him to know that I know that he appreciates me. Right now, honestly, I think he needs to feel heard. He is seeking validation. I’m sure he fucking hates it when people are talking all around him, talking about him, but not talking to him. Not hearing what he’s saying.

Well, I may not hear what he’s saying most of the time, but I’m damn sure going to talk to him anyway. And I’m going to make sure he knows how much I love him.