I recently took a trip State-side to my home turf of New Mexico for a family reunion. Albuquerque, New Mexico is no metropolis and its little airport with only a few international flights to a few tourist attractions in Mexico is testament to this. Thus a passenger attempting to fly from Costa Rica to Albuquerque must make a connecting flight; the most plausible is the hub of the southwest- Houston.
Flying out of Liberia, Guanacaste and into Houston was relatively painless. I followed the herd of freshly bronzed American citizens returning from their week or two on the beach in some sunny country south of the American border. Many carried a few kids in tow, equally tanned and enrobed in brightly colored Hawaiian-type attire and often accessorized with “local” or native-looking jewelry that was probably made in China. When my turn finally came to step up to a window, I smiled brightly and handed over my passport. The immigration officer did not return my enthusiasm, glancing at my passport and then staring at me slightly over the allotted amount of time to not be considered creepy. But I guess whatever he saw was acceptable and he waved me through with hardly a question asked. From there it was cake transferring from Houston to Albuquerque and exiting the plane into surprisingly hot and dry desert air. My skin instantly missed Costa Rica. But I was home sweet home and despite my fears of having a mini reverse culture shock, at the end of my stay I was ready to come “home” to Costa Rica.
This is when my travel experience got interesting. No, don´t get too excited, I wasn’t frisked, interrogated, or tortured. More accurately I was given a new idea to chew on, debate, and broadcast. It happened in Houston; Don´t mess with Texas right? I made my easy hour and half trip from Albuquerque to Houston and then had a substantial layover of four hours in the giant beast of Houston International. Within an hour and half of flight departure I settled into a black leatherback chair in front of my American Airlines gate and filled myself in on the latest fashion, makeup, exercise and sex tips Cosmo had to offer (once an addiction, always an addiction). Shortly, all passengers of my flight were called up to the gate desk for a passport check of some sort. I shuffled my way into line behind about 20 or so others destined for Liberia, Costa Rica, my attention completely absorbed by Cosmo´s Confession stories. I only slightly remember overhearing the attendants at the front desk cheerily asking passengers for their passports and acquiring as to when they would be returning home. These were normal questions for normal vacationers, so I thought nothing of it. My turn came though and bright-eyed, big-haired Texan American Airlines attendant smiled widely at me, the American flag pin on her lapel sparkling as much as her brilliantly white teeth when she asked me in her Texas drawl, “ And when will you be comin´ home from your vacation in Costa Rica darlin´?” as she scanned my passport. I stumbled slightly over my words having thought she had already seen the giant paper stuck onto the front of my passport that clearly stated “Peace Corps Volunteer”. “Um, well, I´m a Peace Corps volunteer.” She stared at me blankly, the Texas smile never budging from her well-painted features. I began mentally preparing my speech to delve into the motto, purpose and work of a PC volunteer and the reason I wouldn´t have a return flight to the US scheduled. “So when´s your trip home honey?” she asked again, beginning to sound impatient. This time I was prepared and I filled her in on the three minute Peace Corps in a nut shell overview. By this time the smile had faded and she scanned my passport more intently as I showed her where Peace Corps volunteer was printed in a back page. She swiftly turned with the passport to a colleague a few steps behind her and I watched them begin vigorously whispering over the document, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. Then in one motion they both swung toward me with large, fake customer service-type smiles plastered on their faces. “Mam you have to have a return reservation for an international flight,” boomed the deep, manly voice of the new American Airlines representative. By this time I was getting impatient and heard the impatient sighs of my fellow passengers waiting in the line behind me. “Look, I won´t have a flight back to the States until at least June of 2011. I am a Peace Corps volunteer in a rural community in Guanacaste, Costa Rica. I have a visa to live in Costa Rica for two years during my service. The documentation is right here in front of you.” They both held pensive expressions, maybe trying to decide if I was some sort of international terrorist. Finally the man said, “We´ve never had a Peace Corps volunteer before.” I seriously doubted that, but whatever. “Oh,” I said, trying to conjure some more patience and a friendly attitude, “well we are volunteers for two years in another country that has specifically requested the presence of American volunteers for development help. There are volunteers in many countries around the world working to help organize, motivate and sustain the people and projects in their communities. I am working in a small Costa Rican village teaching English, hosting youth groups, motivating women´s activism, and working with community groups to fund infrastructural projects. My close of service date is in June of 2011.” I closed my statement with a satisfied smile, proud of my little speech and hoping they could see the sincerity in my words and expression. Their reaction was neither disbelief nor comprehension. Even more disappointing than non-acceptance, they both looked at me as if I was a cute little girl, with a bunch of imaginary friends and idealistic fantasies. “Well isn´t that nice dear,” the woman said as both their expressions softened and they looked down at me from their boosted position behind the desk. The man pulled my airline ticket out from the passport and gave it a scribble, verifying that I had been checked and approved. They handed me back the documents and I walked slowly back to the waiting area. Although I was happy to not be holding up the line anymore, or to be in some interrogation room, I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth.
About half an hour later boarding time was nearly upon us and I heard the microphone crackle to life as Big Hair Texan cheerily welcomed all passengers of American Airlines Flight such and such to begin boarding for Liberia, Costa Rica. She then proceeded with, “I would first like to invite all active US military to priority board. We would like to thank you for serving our country, defending our nation and volunteering to make America a safer, better place. Please step forward to priority board.” I may have lost some of the exact words of the statement, but assure you the sentiment and message has not been exaggerated. After a few minutes no military persons approached the desk, forcing Big Hair to begin first class boarding. I sat in my leatherback American Airlines seat waiting for my normal coach seating assignment to be called and feeling profoundly amused, but in a satirical way. I had spent a good ten minutes talking to this woman and her colleague about Peace Corps, what it is, how I am a current volunteer, and how what I do represents America, serves America, and aspired to betterment. And yet, it seems to me these people, and surely many more, look at Peace Corps as something unnecessary, something that makes no difference at all, something that´s maybe even ridiculous and wasteful, especially while we are at war (oh I´m sorry, “conflict” or whatever they call it now). Don´t get me wrong, I support our fricking troops. My heart goes out to those fighting for what they´ve been commanded to fight for, sometimes losing their lives in the process. This does not by any means signify my support of war, but you better believe I support those who risk their lives to fight for the idea of America, however they see it.
What is sad to me is that so many Americans have decided that violence, weapons and bombs are the only way to get things done, and so we put that type of action above anything else. We see any other type of volunteerism, action, and movement as wasteful, inefficient, and idealistic. Where did this sentiment come from? This idea that change is made with bullets and bombs, and anything else is just a waste? I know I don´t have a tough life here in Quebrada Grande, Guanacaste. I´m spoiled rotten in jungle paradise and won´t deny it to anyone. But there are PC volunteers out there- even in other parts of Costa Rica- who have given up a lot to follow a dream of making change one small step at a time. Some PC volunteers in the world have no running water or electricity. Some live hours away from clinics. Some have limited or no transportation out of where the live. Some live in below-poverty conditions. Some have only limited communication with family and friends. We all made the choice to serve our country, leave our homes, our families, the familiar comforts of life. We did it for personal reasons and we did it because we believe we can make a difference. We may not be dodging bullets, and for some, maybe that´s what it takes to earn respect as a servant of your country. But I don´t think so.
I am disappointed in the desk attendants at American Airlines in Houston Texas and in others who, even after being educated about what Peace Corps is, don´t respect it as something worthy of recognition. I am disappointed that more people can´t see that change through violence and destruction is usually not change at all. I am disappointed that some people can´t see Peace Corps as anything more than idealism, wasted time and a liberal political agenda. I am disappointed PC volunteers are often not treated with the respect we deserve as people who have made the choice to volunteer 2 years of our lives to the challenge of changing our world through non-violent means. I can vouch first hand, as can so many other volunteers I´m sure, that our work throughout the world proves that change can be made without bullets, conflict and violence; even if it is just through one person, group, or community at a time.
