Home in Vermont

So here I am; I’m home and everything is the same. Sitting in my dad’s remodeled living room and watching the snow fall, I must admit I feel rather relieved. The first breath of chilly Vermont air was, put simply, invigorating. My body is slowly coming back to life. My hair is softer, my skin fresher; the Indian grime is slowly coming out from under my fingernails and the deep-down phlegm is dislodging from my lungs so my voice is rising to its normal pitch.

The morning after I arrived home, I took a shower at my mom’s house and suddenly realized that I could relax my jaw. And I opened my mouth and took a big gulp of beautiful, clean water. After a week at home, I still experience a moment of hesitation before brushing my teeth. "Where’s my water bottle?" Coming home means appreciating routine.

Throughout our preparations for going abroad, the Fulbright crew was warned about the "re-culturation" process. They told us that many times reverse culture shock is actually worse. So I came home anticipating something, and I’m afraid I’m just too comfortable to experience it.

Jessie and Patrick always called me "unflappable," but sometimes I think this was a disadvantage. What I saw in India was shocking, particularly on a humanitarian and environmental level. But the problem is that when you live in a place, and must make it your home, you begin to accept everything . . . at least I do.

My reaction to new situations is to come to equilibrium as quickly as possible, accepting every new person and new problem at face value. This helped me live in my Indian community, but now I wonder if it really helped me analyze and critique it fully. For example, on the way to my bus stop, there was a large heap of garbage. It was separated from the road by a stone wall, but it towered above it. I always tried to cross the road before coming to this mountain of refuse, but I would always look over to see the garbage man who was usually found picking through the pile.

I was relating this scene to my family during Christmas Eve dinner, and they looked at me horrified. As I stared at their faces, I realized, to my chagrin, that it didn’t even occur to me that I should be disgusted. My dad blurted out, "I hope you got a picture of that!" And I, embarrassed, replied that I thought I had. But, to be honest, I must admit that I didn’t. It didn’t even occur to me when I lived there that this might be noteworthy. It was just normal. It was life. It was India.

But how could I accept such a grossly inhumane situation as "just life." What happened to me in India that this could be normal?

These thoughts come to me as I again settle into my life in the larger Rutland area. I’m really looking forward to diving back into my school system and digging my fingers into curriculum and NEASC and even grammar. I’ve got friends who are getting engaged, adopting babies, and becoming pregnant. I don’t want to be half a world away.

Although I’m home and the year is turning over, I think I’ll continue this blog a little longer. I’ve got some saved drafts that I want to finish about Hyderabad, and I’ll also be doing some more reflective pieces. So stay tuned, and happy new year everyone!