I Loved Him

I loved him. Did he know? I should have loved him more. I could have loved him more. Why did this happen?

Over and over, these are the thoughts that plagued my mind and pierced my heart as I fell limp onto the cold, tiled floor. My body shook with unspeakable grief. Cries of heartache flowed endlessly from my lips, as if stifling the sorrow would cause my soul to shatter. An unknown and unwelcome voice seemed to constantly remind me of the painful knowledge that he was gone forever.

Ernib Lemari, fourteen years old, hung himself on February 28, 2009. After a night of trying to revive his unconscious body, he died on March 1st. Fourteen years of life.

Ernib Lemari, my student.

Another high school teacher came to my bedroom. She sat down with me on the floor. We looked at one another with our tear-streaked faces. I saw my own sadness and sense of emptiness mirrored in her eyes and I said, “So this is what it feels like—death.” I’d never experienced it before, not on this personal level, and I learned that the human body was not created to feel this way. We were not built to bear such grief. The full realization of this hit me later that evening when I pulled away from another SM holding me in comfort. “I can’t cry anymore,” I said quietly. He asked if I had cried all my tears out. In truth I replied, “No, my eyes hurt too much.” I felt physical pain from the hours of anguish. My head ached, my jaw was sore from clenching in despair, I felt as if a heavy weight was pressing in around my swollen eyes, and I was exhausted. My body simply couldn’t take any more.

Suicide is too common here in the Marshall Islands. I’d heard stories, I knew the statistics. The kids feel there’s no future for them. They live on a tiny speck in the middle of the ocean and can’t see past the thirty-two miles that make up Majuro.
I knew I couldn’t change what had happened, but I couldn’t help asking myself the “what if’s.” What if on Friday, the day before he hung himself, I had reached out to him? What if I’d paid just a little more attention? I never expected this. I never expected to leave my year as a student missionary with this ache, this whole, in my heart. They didn’t teach us how to deal with this in our preparation classes. This wasn’t mentioned in orientation.

Ernib is gone. I still feel that pang constantly—when I stare out into the ocean, when I feel the sea breeze caress my face, when I hear the joy in distant laughter, when I feel the cool, damp earth beneath my bare feet, when I see and experience life happening—I know that Ernib is not here anymore, that he can no longer enjoy these simple pleasures.

I cannot bring him back. No “what if’s” will change anything. Tomorrow I have to go back to school. Tomorrow I have to step into my classroom and stand before my shattered students. Tomorrow I have to see Ernib’s empty seat and I have to find strength where I feel I have none. These are the things I will do tomorrow.
And because of Ernib, tomorrow I will make certain every one of my students knows how much I care. They will know I love them beyond definition. They will know I am here. I will not let the day pass without assuring them they have a future. And with all that is in me, I will do what I can to make sure there are no more like Ernib.

Ernib with best friends, Miyoshi and Cathy

Sabbath on the Islands

Church in Delap doesn’t quite sit with me. It’s like a predictable montage, if such a thing exists. These fragments and elements are taken from different views on how church is supposed to be, then put together to create a sort of formality they call worship. Sermons are given, often word for word, by slides on a projector. I have hymns memorized. I wear skirts past my knees because heaven forbid anyone see that bony part of my leg. I sit, I stand, I kneel when they tell me. And I bring paper and a pen, so I can draw--but they frown at me. I go--Wednesday, Friday, and twice on Saturday--because I must. “It’s part of my service as a student missionary.”

Yesterday I did not go to church. But I did experience Sabbath. Travis, Carrie, Scott, John, and I grabbed breakfast, packed our bags, and headed out. We were off campus by 8:30, and with packs on our backs, we started walking toward the edge of our atoll. Before we hit the water, Carrie and I freed ourselves from the skirts we had over our shorts, slipped on our water shoes, and treaded the first stretch of knee-deep water to get to the next island.

We did this for six hours and eleven islands--picking up shells, talking, climbing trees, forging paths, and laughing all the while. Our last stop was a lovely, little, unoccupied island with a small, but beautiful wooden house, lawn chairs, open gazebo, and a dock where we settled to eat lunch. Scott noticed some gray clouds coming our way, and we realized that with the speed of wind, it’d soon rain on us. And it did, a rather cold and hard-hitting shower. We huddled under the shelter of canoes until the rain passed, and then decided it’d be best to start our trek back.

Walking back over the coral and through water held less laughter and excitement as the bottoms of our feet and exhausted muscles fought against us. But as we were in-between islands, I told our group that for the first time in a long time, I enjoyed my Sabbath.

God is seen in more than a building filled with pews. He can be found where you earnestly seek Him. And just as much, he can be hidden behind a forced routine and set of rules. We sometimes lose sight of God, and focus on us, on Adventism, on doing it right and looking good, rather than sharing and experiencing Him in, what seems to us, an unconventional way, but perhaps in a way others see Him best.

Stopping at our first island

Wading through the water

Travis, me, and Carrie (probably playing "I have never...")

Huddling under the canoes

Starfish :)

Wish List

A lot of people ask me what I would like them to send me. Honestly, I feel funny asking for stuff, but getting packages does make me happy. And this way, I can refer people to this list next time they ask again, perhaps in frustration because I haven't yet told them.

So if you reeeaally love me that much . . .

Laundry soap in little baggies.
Goldfish crackers!!!
Games/cards (we Sms can get rather bored at times)
Latex gloves
Goggles (a sweet, seven-year-old broke mine)
Books
Audrey Hepburn DVDs (I always feel happy after watching one of her movies. Always)
Oven mits
Paper (my high schoolers go through my stacks fast)
Jelly
Chalk
Splenda (addict)
Red pens
Air Freshener/spray (my students get sweaty)
Instant tea
Flip flops
Copy paper (I’ve been printing tests and quizzes on lined paper)
A Nalgene bottle
Gum
Clear nail polish
Tupperware
Pictures (I miss everybody so much, and I'm unhappy that I didn't bring any photos with me)

P.O. Box I (letter "i") - SDA Mission
Majuro, Marhsall Islands, 96960

English Teaching (for lack of a creative title)

A friend mentioned my slack in blog posts. I didn’t feel guilty until I realized I had people who thought I was still teaching second grade. My bad.

About five or so weeks ago, I was asked to take over high school English; a long story--one I don’t have the energy to get into, but as of today, I have been teaching sixty-three high school students for one month.

I’m now sitting in my new(ish) classroom. Notes on the American Romanticism period are scribbled across my chalkboard, and I’m hoping my Juniors study for their quiz tomorrow. I like it here. The other day, Carrie said to me, “I can tell you’re happier these days.”
I believe I am.

I’m surprised at how quickly I’ve fallen into the drawl of this high school routine. I was too intimidated to apply for English when I chose my positions early in the year. A few students are my age, and some are even older--no lie. Thankfully, that hasn’t affected my work, or their cooperation in learning. Maybe because they don’t know.

I do miss my little second graders. They still visit me on occasion. I hear them running up the steps to the high school hall after school, screaming, “Miss Julie!!” Miss Julie is their new teacher, and I’ve stopped responding to that name. I think I may sometimes glare when they call me that. Dillon told me yesterday, “I’m scared to call you Miss Julie now, because I don’t want you to be mad.” I might have to rethink my response to the accidental and automatic mix-up of our names.

And though I miss the little people, I’ve grown surprisingly attached to my new students. Very much. They give me my good days. I thought I’d have a hard time leaving my second grade students at the end of the school year. I had no idea. In chapel, as I watched some of my sophomore boys sing up front, the last thing I wanted to think about was having to leave them. I didn’t know one could care for non-family/friends this much. I smiled this week when Nikko told me he wanted to call me Sister. Though he’s younger, he does look after me. He and Keja. They would not fit so easily into my suitcase like Aana. I may have to come up with something else.
As the days go by, I fall more in love with English (I officially decided that, had I lived in the 1800s, I would have asked Washington Irving to marry me), and more in love with my students (I’ve turned down only three proposals so far). I would say life is good right now.

Keja & Nikko (Miyoshi)

What my boys do when I give them time to study for their quiz

"Freshladiez"

Keja

Mailon, Bokie, & Tyo

Sophomore boys

My ESL students

Lonely People

Last night I visited with the stars. We met at the old playground and listened to music as I stared at their unfamiliar constellations. My back felt the cool, damp wood with each breath of sea breeze I took. “Hello stars,” I whispered into the night air. Palm branches swayed to the rhythm of my song as the clouds passed between us like ghosts lit by moonlight. It was then I realized I envied their stationary brightness. Stars are simply stars. They glow. I, on the other hand, feel far from any sort of “simply.”

I’ve now listened to “Eleanor Rigby/Julia” a minimum of eight times straight. I have yet to fully comprehend what Father McKenzie’s deal is, or why Julia is featured in the song title, but I feel sorry for Eleanor Rigby. I wish I could have been her friend. Then I would have been at her funeral. And about the lonely people--I know where they come from. I’m one of them.

Everyone is lonely for something, or someone. We’re in constant search of fulfillment, a cause to fight for, a purpose--for our own needs as well as others, as if to say, “I belong in this place.” Rob Bell said, “Some people are looking for a fight because they aren’t in one.” I don’t want to be like that. I want to stand for and love things for what they mean to me, truly. As cliché as this may sound, I’ve had a need to “find myself” for a long while now. I want to have an opinion without being influenced by someone else. I want to write without worrying what other people will think. I want to live outside connections and past relationships. I wish to live my life, not for the sake of anyone, not to impress other people who are lonely themselves, not by competition, but for me and for my God. I need to let go.

So this is me as simply as I can be, fully Jaimie Nicole Myaing, no outside influences: I’ve decided I like to paint. You may not call me a painter, but I like it, so I will do it. I also like to draw. I have a sketchbook and the paper doesn’t judge me. I danced under the moon tonight. My skirt made like a flower as I twirled. Dancing has always been freeing for me. Poetry. I am in love with it and will someday create a book that will be home to my poems. I have, as of a few months ago, cared quite a bit for the earth. We should take care of it. Not as a fad to “live green,” but seriously. Speaking of earth, I love to explore its vast lands and discover its many cultures. Traveling is beyond one of the best things I’ve experienced. They say I should be into politics--I’m not. I may be the furthest thing from a musician, but I am more and more a lover of music. I hold pride in my heritage and wish and pray for peace in Burma, as well as peace for all the lonely people in our very lonely nation. I fancy the idea of someday joining the Peace Corps. As of yet, I have no idea what my next step in life is and as of yet, I’m very okay with that.

These are the things I care about, the things I love, and the things I hope for. I am a poet, a painter, a dancer, lover of music, caretaker and traveler of earth, in waiting of peace.

So where do the lonely people, like you and me, belong? We belong here--continually searching for good, in pursuit of peace, in constant practice of love, as proclaimed individuals, hopefully without a need to impress.

Letting Go.

Tidbits of Majuro

What we wish we could wear in public, we wear to bed. These items of clothing took up valuable space in our suitcases. They will be worn.

I am thankful to be in Delap where we get a breeze that blows away mosquitoes and relieves us from heat. Within ten minutes of being in Laura, the other side of Majuro, I had a bagillionkatillion bug bites. Yes, that became a real number after my experience.

Cockroaches definitely do fly and geckos are my new best friend as they eat these pesky flying devils.

Baby Gecko

________________________________________________

I have the craziest, quirkiest, funniest, most laughable, entertaining, palest girl on Majuro for a roommate. We make the fun. And sometimes unintentionally match.

_______________________________________________

Fresh coconuts don’t taste as good as “coconut” flavored things. Nor do they smell as nice. And they’re not as easily cracked open in real life as they are in movies.
If not for their use as key hideaways and the closest things to pets I can keep, they’d be an all-around disappointment.

Meet Mushoo and Monessa Chung

_____________________________________________

Out of all the guys on Majuro, I am most attracted to Pete, and I don’t think he wants me. Sad day.

Pete

__________________________________________

The sunsets are beautiful here. The sunrises would be just as beautiful if they weren’t at 6:00 am.

______________________________________________

Tape on glasses makes you a nerd in America. In Majuro, this is a very “in” thing to do. Especially when it’s pink duct tape.

___________________________________________

When swimming with flippers minus “booties,” do not hesitate to loosen the too-tight strap around heels. Failure to do so will result in much pain.

____________________________________________

During our days off, we spend way too much time at the resort using the internet, drinking way too much iced tea, adding way too much Splenda.




Today’s count: six hours, nine glasses, eighteen Splendas. And still counting.

Pants Party

We wear skirts. All the time. On occasion, we do dresses. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I’m a happy dress-wearin’ girl. But the fact that I now sigh in frustration having to put on a skirt/dress every morning means it is time for a pants party. And that is exactly what the girls did last night.
Pants, shorts, tanks, non-Jesus music, “Friends” episodes, junk food, dancing--we did everything we’re not supposed to. I had such fun. We decided this would be a monthly occurrence, because I believe girls can only take being so girly so much. Even yours truly.