October 15, 2010
I only got to have one conversation with Stephanie Chance. It happened at the demyst party in Dosso, her second week of training. It wasn’t a particularly significant conversation; and, now I think of it, I’m not sure she would even remember my being at the party. Shy as I am sometimes, I hung back, participating only passively in the banter.
Nevertheless, I liked Stephanie immediately. First of all, she was tall, and I always feel a kinship with other tall ladies. As a female, every ½ inch over 5’9” either emboldens your personality or becomes a burden on your self-image. (Women are supposed to be petite, right?) Stephanie had clearly found the self-confidence needed to carry herself well. She was poised and happy. She seemed like fun too. She had been dancing, and so her hair—undone by her exuberance—floated around her head. Best of all, she had been wearing a cone-shaped party hat; only sassy, fun-loving ladies dare don cone-shaped party hats.
I had no idea this one mundane moment would later gather so much significance, and so did not take the time to remember it properly. What we talked about is foggy, but I know (among other things) we talked about dating. Peace Corps Niger is 80% female. Needless to say, such a small dating pool can breed intense competition among friends, and thus a tricky love life. I told her to focus on herself and her service, not boys, wishing I could take my own advice. She smiled. Dating trouble: the great unite-er of women.
I’m sure I talked to her several other times before she returned to Hamdallaye, perhaps while choosing the music or serving her pancakes. I may have even hugged her before she got on the bus back to Niamey. I know I saw her several other times, during site announcements and swear-in. But…I’m really not sure…the mind is so self-obsessed; details always fall through the cracks.
The point is, as this was my one clear memory of Stephanie, I would be a liar if I claimed she was my dear friend, or even more than an acquaintance. She may not have even been able to tell you my name. Our story is this: I met her several times and liked her. As such, I felt like a bit of a fraud when I found myself grieving so deeply at her passing. I tried to reel in my pain, since it seemed my grief (which poured fourth so liberally) could somehow cheapen that of her dearest friends who laughed and cried with her for decades.
I think this feeling is shared among many of my fellow volunteers.
No matter if we deny it, our pain is real…and I find myself asking why I should grieve so much for someone I knew so little. After casual deliberation, this is the conclusion I have come to: Stephanie and I were not friends (we never got the chance to develop a friendship), but we were members of the same family—a family of volunteers, united by common ambitions, then shipwrecked on the other side of the world.
In Niger, we are perpetual outsiders. As residents of our communities, we may make good friends with host country nationals, but as Americans, we will never be able to fully blend with the indigenous landscape. After a year here, I have come to see that Peace Corps volunteers working in the same country are citizens of a rare community, members of the same family, children of the same dreams. We are alone on this island called Niger, but we are alone together.
Stephanie was a part of my family, and no matter how estranged or unknown, we always mourn the death of family.
On a deeper level, (not to go all psychobabble on you all) it’s clear (in this mess) I am also grieving my own mortality. How could I not? I find so much of myself in her. She was: young, tall, sassy, educated, fun loving, a rare breed of person who is willing to live in a mud hut for two years, and…a lover of cone-shaped hats. This scares me. Death is scary. After all, what solace can we find in our own vitality when a healthy, vivacious 26-year-old can meet her end so unexpectedly?
I have often remarked to myself how much closer Death feels since coming to Niger. After having attended the funerals of so many villagers, often people who I know well, Death morphed from a nebulas possibility to a peril that lurks in the business of everyday. I can gauge the gravity of an illness simply by looking at a person. I can most often say if a newborn will survive its first weeks. I know the strange qualities a dead body possesses, how they are frighteningly familiar, yet somehow dulled and blurry around the edges.
Yet, even after having met death so many times in the past year, I see now that I still felt exempt from the many fates that befell my Nigerien friends. It seemed my American-ness could put of death. I am affluent. I am special. I have a team of doctors waiting for me in Niamey.
Obviously to some degree being rich does insolate a person from hazard. For example, the Peace Corps furnishes me with a treated mosquito net, an unending malaria prophylaxis, and enough bug spray for an elephant. Even then, if I did develop the symptoms of malaria, the Peace Corps has the drugs to treat me, cars to drive me to the clinic in Niamey, and even money enough to fly me back to America until I’m well…but in that critical moment…we will all face Death with helpless equality.
The funny thing is, throughout my 24 years on Earth, I have developed a pretty solid faith in the immortality of the soul; but this faith has brought me surprising little solace in the face of this tragedy. For me, Death has never been more tangible.
So, acknowledging how tender and short our tenure may be, the next leap of the mind seems painfully obvious… In light of what’s happened and my reaction to it, how can I not ask myself this question: Am I living a meaningful and fulfilling life? Also, what would I change? It reminds me of this poem:
If I had my life to live over,
I'd dare to make more mistakes next time.
I'd relax, I would limber up.
I would be sillier than I have been this trip.
I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances.
I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers.
I would eat more ice cream and less beans.
I would perhaps have more actual troubles,
but I'd have fewer imaginary ones.
You see, I'm one of those people who lived sensibly and sanely,
hour after hour, day after day.
Oh, I've had my moments,
and if I had to do it over again,
I'd have more of them.
In fact, I'd try to have nothing else.
Just moments, one after another,
instead of living so many years ahead of each day.
I've been one of those persons who never goes anywhere
without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat and a parachute.
If I had to do it again,
I would travel lighter than I have.
If I had my life to live over,
I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall.
I would go to more dances.
I would ride more merry-go-rounds.
I would pick more daisies.
Stephanie, I did not know you well, but I will think of you often and send you light and love across the many folds of the Universe. I hope you are well and at peace. May Allah ease the pain of those who love you so dearly. May Allah show us each other.
