Heat, but at least it's dry. More often than not that's the first line some new coworker or community member lets fall from their mouth once I tell them I'm from Portland.
This week has consisted mostly of a series of small talk; pleasant get-to-know-you's and nice gestures. The community here in Globe has greeted me with open arms and are instilling in me a sense of purpose, which will be necessary to carry out an effective year of service in Americorps. When I'm introduced in meetings or community events, I receive an all-around applause. From store clerks to theatre performers to gardeners, people are genuinely interested in The New Girl in Town. And, oh, everybody knows.
My new little abode-next to a former family-owned gun shop and home to a herd of curious javalinas, overlooking the mountains of the Sonoran Desert. My landlord led me in on Monday evening, offering a basket of fresh fruit and a caramel sundae from Dairy Queen, both of which I graciously accepted. As we sat at my new desk and she traced the rental agreements with her fake pink nails, I drifted off and gazed around at the living room, eyeing out wall and shelf space and little crevices for the modest items I managed to fit into my suitcase, wondering how I would transform this 600 square-foot, three room space into a home.
In a couple of hours I managed to do just that. After essentially two years of traveling, I'm becoming well-versed at this. I slipped the pillowcases out of their plastic wrapping, propped up friends' paintings on shelf space and pasted Zambian chitenges over the concrete, white walls with blue putty. I dusted off the side porch, essentially three planks of splintered wood leading to the garbage and recycling, bound by a wire fence. Coasting back over the freshly-carpeted living room with bare feet, I hung my clothes in my giant walk-in closet. While unpacking the same pictures, the same paintings, and the same worn-out clothes in a new place, I hoped the old would fit in with the new. I understood from experience that I'd need to learn to adapt. Quickly.
The first step: To become acquainted with the town's layout. Tuesday afternoon I packed my camera and headed to the old town, trying to color in an outlined map in my head with shops and parks and sidewalks suited for biking. As I walked down the main stretch, my initial glance at a telephone pole that in Portland would have offered me a sigh of relief at the sight of a concert advertisement was replaced with a gnawing stomach pain, realizing that for the next year I'll be glancing at missing persons ads--the kind in the old days you'd find on the back of a milk carton. The giant, silver apple logo has not yet taken over mom&pop microwave and stereo repair shops. Propped up next to a bar posting the sign "No firearms allowed" is a gun shop. This is middle America. This is the ol' Wild West.
I have never experienced culture shock like I have here. Maybe it hits so close to home because I identify with these people in a way I never could abroad. These are the people I am supposed to identify with under the creed of our nation's name and constitution. These are the people who hold political clout over the fate of my future, and the people with whom I have to collaborate and therefore try and understand. I am not just freewheelin' anymore. There's a stake here.
I realized the nature of my fate during training when my new acquaintances at Americorps training from small-town Texas repeatedly joked around that "a town ain't a real town 'till WalMart comes around". But this is why I came. I constantly read in newspapers, hear the prejudices about these rural towns spoken by their liberal counterparts and conjure up my own opinions, and I want to see, experience and learn for myself. I want to learn the good qualities from both sides of my fellow countrymen in an attempt to eradicate the wall that keeps us all in gridlock. I want to lay concrete on my views of America.
Food. There's a concept we all seem to understand. No matter what background; religion, political affiliation or otherwise, we all agree: Organic farming is the wave of the future. Big-buck companies spreading GMO's are to be questioned, and the large-scale, monocultural, industrialized farming techniques serve as a large disadvantage to the well-being and fertility of our nation's land and its citizens. I'm looking forward to furthering my knowledge of organic gardening, and I'm especially inspired to improve and make sustainable the Farmers' Market here that was started by an Americorps volunteer two years ago.
I feel at peace arriving in Globe. As alien as my surroundings may seem, I know that soon I'll come to regard this place as home. What once constituted my world view will again be lifted, and my initial aversion to the splintered planks of wood that buffer the fall from my back door will soon offer a sense of comfort and belonging that comes with laying down roots, even if those roots only grow for a year. Even if those roots are a far cry from all I've ever known.
My branches are growing crooked. But this time, they're growing crooked toward the sun.
I have no choice but to jump right in.
This week has consisted mostly of a series of small talk; pleasant get-to-know-you's and nice gestures. The community here in Globe has greeted me with open arms and are instilling in me a sense of purpose, which will be necessary to carry out an effective year of service in Americorps. When I'm introduced in meetings or community events, I receive an all-around applause. From store clerks to theatre performers to gardeners, people are genuinely interested in The New Girl in Town. And, oh, everybody knows.
My new little abode-next to a former family-owned gun shop and home to a herd of curious javalinas, overlooking the mountains of the Sonoran Desert. My landlord led me in on Monday evening, offering a basket of fresh fruit and a caramel sundae from Dairy Queen, both of which I graciously accepted. As we sat at my new desk and she traced the rental agreements with her fake pink nails, I drifted off and gazed around at the living room, eyeing out wall and shelf space and little crevices for the modest items I managed to fit into my suitcase, wondering how I would transform this 600 square-foot, three room space into a home.
In a couple of hours I managed to do just that. After essentially two years of traveling, I'm becoming well-versed at this. I slipped the pillowcases out of their plastic wrapping, propped up friends' paintings on shelf space and pasted Zambian chitenges over the concrete, white walls with blue putty. I dusted off the side porch, essentially three planks of splintered wood leading to the garbage and recycling, bound by a wire fence. Coasting back over the freshly-carpeted living room with bare feet, I hung my clothes in my giant walk-in closet. While unpacking the same pictures, the same paintings, and the same worn-out clothes in a new place, I hoped the old would fit in with the new. I understood from experience that I'd need to learn to adapt. Quickly.
The first step: To become acquainted with the town's layout. Tuesday afternoon I packed my camera and headed to the old town, trying to color in an outlined map in my head with shops and parks and sidewalks suited for biking. As I walked down the main stretch, my initial glance at a telephone pole that in Portland would have offered me a sigh of relief at the sight of a concert advertisement was replaced with a gnawing stomach pain, realizing that for the next year I'll be glancing at missing persons ads--the kind in the old days you'd find on the back of a milk carton. The giant, silver apple logo has not yet taken over mom&pop microwave and stereo repair shops. Propped up next to a bar posting the sign "No firearms allowed" is a gun shop. This is middle America. This is the ol' Wild West.
Downtown Globe
Downtown Globe
Downtown Globe
I realized the nature of my fate during training when my new acquaintances at Americorps training from small-town Texas repeatedly joked around that "a town ain't a real town 'till WalMart comes around". But this is why I came. I constantly read in newspapers, hear the prejudices about these rural towns spoken by their liberal counterparts and conjure up my own opinions, and I want to see, experience and learn for myself. I want to learn the good qualities from both sides of my fellow countrymen in an attempt to eradicate the wall that keeps us all in gridlock. I want to lay concrete on my views of America.
Food. There's a concept we all seem to understand. No matter what background; religion, political affiliation or otherwise, we all agree: Organic farming is the wave of the future. Big-buck companies spreading GMO's are to be questioned, and the large-scale, monocultural, industrialized farming techniques serve as a large disadvantage to the well-being and fertility of our nation's land and its citizens. I'm looking forward to furthering my knowledge of organic gardening, and I'm especially inspired to improve and make sustainable the Farmers' Market here that was started by an Americorps volunteer two years ago.
I feel at peace arriving in Globe. As alien as my surroundings may seem, I know that soon I'll come to regard this place as home. What once constituted my world view will again be lifted, and my initial aversion to the splintered planks of wood that buffer the fall from my back door will soon offer a sense of comfort and belonging that comes with laying down roots, even if those roots only grow for a year. Even if those roots are a far cry from all I've ever known.
My branches are growing crooked. But this time, they're growing crooked toward the sun.
I have no choice but to jump right in.
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