Help fight homesickness
Since last November I have sent care packages, one a month, to a random soldier or marine who is serving overseas, and not until recently have I realized the similarity in my situation more than 15 years ago and that of many of our overseas troops.
When I was 25 I spent six weeks in Guatemala attending language school. I was homesick—from the first day, when I spent the night in a grimy little room—at a boarding house? a hostel? somebody’s home? I never did know. I just stayed where my transporters dropped me, trusting that they’d collect me the next morning for the trip further west.
They did. Later that second day we arrived in the dirty town of Quetzaltenango and I met my host family. I was shown to my room, which was better than where I’d stayed the previous night, but it was so different from what I was used to.
Most homes in Latin America are built around a courtyard. My room had two doors: one led to a holding area for the propane tank used to heat water, which further led to the bathroom, and the other door led to the courtyard, through which I had to walk to get to anywhere besides the bathroom.
The mostly concrete courtyard had a tree growing here, green stuffs sprouting there, a dog lying in the sun, chickens pecking all around, cats up to mischief, an iguana seemingly content in his box and a parrot swinging on a bike tire hung by the kitchen window.
Still, I was homesick. I wrote postcards, two or three a week, to Mom, to Dad and stepmom, to aunts and uncles, to grandparents, to friends. I was trying to stay connected. However, the Guatemalan mail service was corrupt and nothing sent from the States got through to me. Nothing for six weeks. It was 1995, before cell phones and e-mail became popular.
I socialized and traveled around the country on weekends with other students at my language school. Yet, still, I was homesick.
At the start of my third week, a man from Virginia arrived at the school. He was twice my age, yet we got along great and hung out together all the time we weren’t in school. He was there only two weeks, left after my fifth, and after that I was just miserable.
I had traveled to Guatemala on a one-way ticket. My original plan was to spend 17 weeks there, then travel to Brazil to volunteer in a rain forest. The weekend after my new friend left, I thought, "There's nothing to say I can't go home." So I flew back to the States a week later.
These days I send toothbrushes, shampoo, cans of soup, and energy bars to our troops. My husband thinks the appropriate military branch is likely supplying what they need so questions my supportive efforts. My step-mom said, “It’s probably not what’s sent; it’s just that someone thought enough to reach out.”
When I heard that, I was transported back to Guatemala, lying on my flea-ridden bed (I closed both doors to my room in the mornings, but when I’d come home, they’d be swung wide and a cat [with fleas] would be lying at the foot of my bed.), writing my postcards home, wishing for some kind of contact. A postcard, a care package, a scribbled note. Just to know that someone at home was thinking of me would have eased or even erased my pain for a little bit. It would have meant so much, to know that someone was thinking of me.
Please do what you can to support our troops. Find where to send at www.AnySoldier.com.
When I was 25 I spent six weeks in Guatemala attending language school. I was homesick—from the first day, when I spent the night in a grimy little room—at a boarding house? a hostel? somebody’s home? I never did know. I just stayed where my transporters dropped me, trusting that they’d collect me the next morning for the trip further west.
They did. Later that second day we arrived in the dirty town of Quetzaltenango and I met my host family. I was shown to my room, which was better than where I’d stayed the previous night, but it was so different from what I was used to.
Most homes in Latin America are built around a courtyard. My room had two doors: one led to a holding area for the propane tank used to heat water, which further led to the bathroom, and the other door led to the courtyard, through which I had to walk to get to anywhere besides the bathroom.
The mostly concrete courtyard had a tree growing here, green stuffs sprouting there, a dog lying in the sun, chickens pecking all around, cats up to mischief, an iguana seemingly content in his box and a parrot swinging on a bike tire hung by the kitchen window.
Still, I was homesick. I wrote postcards, two or three a week, to Mom, to Dad and stepmom, to aunts and uncles, to grandparents, to friends. I was trying to stay connected. However, the Guatemalan mail service was corrupt and nothing sent from the States got through to me. Nothing for six weeks. It was 1995, before cell phones and e-mail became popular.
I socialized and traveled around the country on weekends with other students at my language school. Yet, still, I was homesick.
At the start of my third week, a man from Virginia arrived at the school. He was twice my age, yet we got along great and hung out together all the time we weren’t in school. He was there only two weeks, left after my fifth, and after that I was just miserable.
I had traveled to Guatemala on a one-way ticket. My original plan was to spend 17 weeks there, then travel to Brazil to volunteer in a rain forest. The weekend after my new friend left, I thought, "There's nothing to say I can't go home." So I flew back to the States a week later.
These days I send toothbrushes, shampoo, cans of soup, and energy bars to our troops. My husband thinks the appropriate military branch is likely supplying what they need so questions my supportive efforts. My step-mom said, “It’s probably not what’s sent; it’s just that someone thought enough to reach out.”
When I heard that, I was transported back to Guatemala, lying on my flea-ridden bed (I closed both doors to my room in the mornings, but when I’d come home, they’d be swung wide and a cat [with fleas] would be lying at the foot of my bed.), writing my postcards home, wishing for some kind of contact. A postcard, a care package, a scribbled note. Just to know that someone at home was thinking of me would have eased or even erased my pain for a little bit. It would have meant so much, to know that someone was thinking of me.
Please do what you can to support our troops. Find where to send at www.AnySoldier.com.
posted by Elizabeth Evans Fryer | 11:25 AM
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