paneling from inside their desks and tearing it into neat strips to be used, during class time, openly and unapologetically, as toy swords. When I asked or yelled for quiet, the well-intentioned little girls in the front row took this to mean that I wanted them to scream that dreadful Marshallese syllable, a nasalized aaaaaaaaaaa that sounded like the Coneheadsâ call of alarm or a pig being slaughtered and that could go on for nearly as long, all of which was intended to shut the other children up but was in fact far louder and more horrible than what it was trying to stop. When I did achieve quiet for a short spell, it could be shattered at any moment by a baseball landing on the corrugated tin roof, making a sound akin to a bombing raid.
Outside the classroom (directly outside, for maximum irritation), children who had been released from their hour-long class period a few dozen minutes early enacted the following endless drama, using the same nightmarish vocalization as my students:
Â
CHILD 1:
Aaaaaa . [Angry accusation.]
CHILD 2:
Aaaaaa . [Resentful defense and recrimination.]
CHILD 1:
Aaaaaa . [Restatement of the original position, more stridently.]
CHILD 2:
Aaaaaa . [Restatement of the defense and recrimination.]
Â
On Ujae, this was engaged in more or less constantly for oneâs entire childhood, near as I could tell.
The noise was a rusty chainsaw on my skull, until one day it got worse. An afternoon dip in the lagoon earned me a double ear infection right as I came down with the inevitable exotic flu. (â Ribelle bellyâ was the name for the intestinal counterpart to this expat-exclusive plague.) Between noise and disease, I was fairly certain my head would actually explode. For me, getting sick on this island always combined the fear of death with the hope of being medevacked back to civilization.
It was also an opportunity to explore the exciting world of outer island health care. The Marshallese government had built a sturdy three-room health dispensary in the center of the village. You didnât need an appointment to walk in. Maybe that was because the door had been removed and the windows smashed. The clinic was also admirably well stocked. I could tell because all of the brand-new syringes, pills, vials, and pamphlets were plainly visible in heaps on the floor.
The health dispensary had been abandoned.
The medic used a small room in her house instead. That was where I showed up next with my distressed ears. I tried to communicate to her that my head felt like it was about twice its normal size, and that this couldnât possibly be a good thing. She had to peer into the mysterious depths of my ears with a penlight in order to make the diagnosis. Unfortunately, the batteries in said penlight were dead, and she couldnât replace them because there were no others on the island. I had to wait a week until the plane arrived with medical supplies.
Batteries in hand, the medic was able to examine my ears. She confirmed that yes, the searing pain hadnât been psychosomatic. She gave me eardrops, which worked almost immediately. I forgave the lack of batteries, the belated diagnosis, the abandoned health dispensary, the wasted supplies. I was healed.
But the other teachers still hadnât arrived on the boat, and I had become desperately impatient. âWhen are the other teachers coming?â I asked Robella every day.
âAny day now,â she always said.
For two weeks, they had been coming âany day now.â Perhaps Robella knew exactly when they were coming. Perhaps she didnât. Either way, her Marshallese duty was clear: donât tell me the truthâtell me what I want to hear. I soon learned that in this country âyesâ meant âmaybe,â âmaybeâ meant âno,â and ânoâ meant âhell no.â
When the ship at last plowed into view one sunny afternoon, I was not just relieved but awestruck. In this world
Outside the classroom (directly outside, for maximum irritation), children who had been released from their hour-long class period a few dozen minutes early enacted the following endless drama, using the same nightmarish vocalization as my students:
Â
CHILD 1:
Aaaaaa . [Angry accusation.]
CHILD 2:
Aaaaaa . [Resentful defense and recrimination.]
CHILD 1:
Aaaaaa . [Restatement of the original position, more stridently.]
CHILD 2:
Aaaaaa . [Restatement of the defense and recrimination.]
Â
On Ujae, this was engaged in more or less constantly for oneâs entire childhood, near as I could tell.
The noise was a rusty chainsaw on my skull, until one day it got worse. An afternoon dip in the lagoon earned me a double ear infection right as I came down with the inevitable exotic flu. (â Ribelle bellyâ was the name for the intestinal counterpart to this expat-exclusive plague.) Between noise and disease, I was fairly certain my head would actually explode. For me, getting sick on this island always combined the fear of death with the hope of being medevacked back to civilization.
It was also an opportunity to explore the exciting world of outer island health care. The Marshallese government had built a sturdy three-room health dispensary in the center of the village. You didnât need an appointment to walk in. Maybe that was because the door had been removed and the windows smashed. The clinic was also admirably well stocked. I could tell because all of the brand-new syringes, pills, vials, and pamphlets were plainly visible in heaps on the floor.
The health dispensary had been abandoned.
The medic used a small room in her house instead. That was where I showed up next with my distressed ears. I tried to communicate to her that my head felt like it was about twice its normal size, and that this couldnât possibly be a good thing. She had to peer into the mysterious depths of my ears with a penlight in order to make the diagnosis. Unfortunately, the batteries in said penlight were dead, and she couldnât replace them because there were no others on the island. I had to wait a week until the plane arrived with medical supplies.
Batteries in hand, the medic was able to examine my ears. She confirmed that yes, the searing pain hadnât been psychosomatic. She gave me eardrops, which worked almost immediately. I forgave the lack of batteries, the belated diagnosis, the abandoned health dispensary, the wasted supplies. I was healed.
But the other teachers still hadnât arrived on the boat, and I had become desperately impatient. âWhen are the other teachers coming?â I asked Robella every day.
âAny day now,â she always said.
For two weeks, they had been coming âany day now.â Perhaps Robella knew exactly when they were coming. Perhaps she didnât. Either way, her Marshallese duty was clear: donât tell me the truthâtell me what I want to hear. I soon learned that in this country âyesâ meant âmaybe,â âmaybeâ meant âno,â and ânoâ meant âhell no.â
When the ship at last plowed into view one sunny afternoon, I was not just relieved but awestruck. In this world
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