Reentry
The Comfort Zone
As I type this essay, I am sitting in my luxurious black leather office chair in my three story, 1795 square foot town home in Dublin Village. Right behind me is my full size bed; I can see the puddles of water left over from my hot shower glistening on the tiled floor of my personal bathroom. The quality furniture that came with this house sits around me; my stomach is full of food prepared in my large kitchen with wood floors and granite countertops. The laptop I am using cost approximately $1000; this is 10 months pay for the Salvadoran workers with whom I spent every day this summer. My room and bathroom combined are just a little smaller than the houses I visited after every consulta, where upwards of four people lived, slept, and cooked. I feel the air conditioning blowing on my face—what a contrast this is to the humid, muggy, air of the Salvadoran summer. I saw a spider in my bathroom this morning and it startled me; how interesting that this is now the exception rather than the rule. I do wonder what my Salvadoran friends would say
if they saw where I live.
My very good friend Rosalba walks more than 40 kilometers every day, traveling at least 4 hours daily to work and back so she can spend time with her two children every night. Her accompañada, the father of her two children, was a student at the best law school in all of El Salvador; they lived in the most prosperous area of the capital city. Four years ago, he disappeared. The police discovered his jeep and his friend shot in the front seat, but they never recovered his body. It is assumed that he was a victim of random gang violence. This, however, left Rosalba with no means of support. Since, as is common among Salvadoran low-income women, she does not have a high school degree, she works as poorly paid health promoter while attending school in order to support her mother and her two children who live in rural village. The issue with this though, is that Rosalba does exactly the same job as the doctors and nurses on our medical team, if not more, yet barely scraps by financially. Although she often did not have enough money to eat, she was so generous towards me with the little she had. Her story is common, but it made me realize how lucky I am to have the privileges and the financial and personal security that I do. I do not want to know how she would feel if she saw with what excess I live here. It’s not just—she is so much more deserving than I, but I do not know how this power differential could change. I don’t know what I could do about it.
What bothers me, though, is how comfortable I am living with all this excess and with all these things that I do not actually need. In El Salvador, I never attained a comfort zone. This was due to many factors, two being the fact that we moved cities every five days, and that for my first 6 weeks there I had no real work to do. Upon my return to the US, I was so glad to finally be in my comfort zone. I would feel so much better about my reaction to El Salvador if I was uncomfortable with how I live. To tell the truth, it relieved me to return to the States and sleep in a bed without bedbugs. I feel safe walking outside at night, and am glad that bats don’t circle my head every time I sit in our common space using the Internet. Here, I live in an air-conditioned house and can take long hot showers whenever I like without worrying about wasting water (at least until my water bill comes in). I now have a full closet of clothes whereas before my entire eight week wardrobe fit into half of my carry on suitcase. It’s nice to be comfortable.
That blind feeling of comfort, though, is exactly the problem. I know that I am compartmentalizing my experience in order to fully live my comfort zone. I never talk about El Salvador because there’s no one else here who can relate exactly to my summer. I know that I’ve changed, but I can feel myself reverting back to my old life without being conscious of the transformation. I don’t know how I have changed, and how the privilege to be in rural El Savador this summer affected me. It’s too easy to forget, especially once one is again living their normal life. For example, the fact that the teeth of almost every kid I saw were rotting out of their mouth would absolutely horrify me if I saw it right now. There, though, it’s just a fact of life and I think that I have left that fact there. It hasn’t crossed over with me to the United States.
Since my return to the United States, I have become more conscious of the privilege I have, but have also begun to question the role that I played in El Salvador. My ISSLP experience benefited me alone. While I learned and shared with the El Salvadorans I worked with, I do wonder what the purpose was in sending me to El Salvador. Knowing that my summer cost upwards of $2500, it makes me wonder how truly valuable is that investment in my personal development, especially in terms of the good that money could do for my friends from this summer.
I do miss the reality of El Salvador. Although I love my comfort zone, I miss the simplicity of life there. I miss realizing how little I can live with, and I miss spending all day every day outside working with the people. I relished seeing the jungle right outside my window, driving across dirt roads through rural villages every day, getting to know Salvadorans from all levels of society, and experiencing their hospitality.
I still question what my time in El Salvador gave me. I am comfortable here in the United States. While I am a little uncomfortable with my awareness of how much other people lack and because of this, I am much more willing to give it up and to live in a different fashion, this doesn’t bother me to my core. It would be nice to tell myself that I’ve transformed internally by always having that nagging sense of “This isn’t right” coloring the life of luxury that I live, but that’s not the truth. This year, however, I’m finally at home.
As I type this essay, I am sitting in my luxurious black leather office chair in my three story, 1795 square foot town home in Dublin Village. Right behind me is my full size bed; I can see the puddles of water left over from my hot shower glistening on the tiled floor of my personal bathroom. The quality furniture that came with this house sits around me; my stomach is full of food prepared in my large kitchen with wood floors and granite countertops. The laptop I am using cost approximately $1000; this is 10 months pay for the Salvadoran workers with whom I spent every day this summer. My room and bathroom combined are just a little smaller than the houses I visited after every consulta, where upwards of four people lived, slept, and cooked. I feel the air conditioning blowing on my face—what a contrast this is to the humid, muggy, air of the Salvadoran summer. I saw a spider in my bathroom this morning and it startled me; how interesting that this is now the exception rather than the rule. I do wonder what my Salvadoran friends would say
if they saw where I live.
My very good friend Rosalba walks more than 40 kilometers every day, traveling at least 4 hours daily to work and back so she can spend time with her two children every night. Her accompañada, the father of her two children, was a student at the best law school in all of El Salvador; they lived in the most prosperous area of the capital city. Four years ago, he disappeared. The police discovered his jeep and his friend shot in the front seat, but they never recovered his body. It is assumed that he was a victim of random gang violence. This, however, left Rosalba with no means of support. Since, as is common among Salvadoran low-income women, she does not have a high school degree, she works as poorly paid health promoter while attending school in order to support her mother and her two children who live in rural village. The issue with this though, is that Rosalba does exactly the same job as the doctors and nurses on our medical team, if not more, yet barely scraps by financially. Although she often did not have enough money to eat, she was so generous towards me with the little she had. Her story is common, but it made me realize how lucky I am to have the privileges and the financial and personal security that I do. I do not want to know how she would feel if she saw with what excess I live here. It’s not just—she is so much more deserving than I, but I do not know how this power differential could change. I don’t know what I could do about it.
What bothers me, though, is how comfortable I am living with all this excess and with all these things that I do not actually need. In El Salvador, I never attained a comfort zone. This was due to many factors, two being the fact that we moved cities every five days, and that for my first 6 weeks there I had no real work to do. Upon my return to the US, I was so glad to finally be in my comfort zone. I would feel so much better about my reaction to El Salvador if I was uncomfortable with how I live. To tell the truth, it relieved me to return to the States and sleep in a bed without bedbugs. I feel safe walking outside at night, and am glad that bats don’t circle my head every time I sit in our common space using the Internet. Here, I live in an air-conditioned house and can take long hot showers whenever I like without worrying about wasting water (at least until my water bill comes in). I now have a full closet of clothes whereas before my entire eight week wardrobe fit into half of my carry on suitcase. It’s nice to be comfortable.
That blind feeling of comfort, though, is exactly the problem. I know that I am compartmentalizing my experience in order to fully live my comfort zone. I never talk about El Salvador because there’s no one else here who can relate exactly to my summer. I know that I’ve changed, but I can feel myself reverting back to my old life without being conscious of the transformation. I don’t know how I have changed, and how the privilege to be in rural El Savador this summer affected me. It’s too easy to forget, especially once one is again living their normal life. For example, the fact that the teeth of almost every kid I saw were rotting out of their mouth would absolutely horrify me if I saw it right now. There, though, it’s just a fact of life and I think that I have left that fact there. It hasn’t crossed over with me to the United States.
Since my return to the United States, I have become more conscious of the privilege I have, but have also begun to question the role that I played in El Salvador. My ISSLP experience benefited me alone. While I learned and shared with the El Salvadorans I worked with, I do wonder what the purpose was in sending me to El Salvador. Knowing that my summer cost upwards of $2500, it makes me wonder how truly valuable is that investment in my personal development, especially in terms of the good that money could do for my friends from this summer.
I do miss the reality of El Salvador. Although I love my comfort zone, I miss the simplicity of life there. I miss realizing how little I can live with, and I miss spending all day every day outside working with the people. I relished seeing the jungle right outside my window, driving across dirt roads through rural villages every day, getting to know Salvadorans from all levels of society, and experiencing their hospitality.
I still question what my time in El Salvador gave me. I am comfortable here in the United States. While I am a little uncomfortable with my awareness of how much other people lack and because of this, I am much more willing to give it up and to live in a different fashion, this doesn’t bother me to my core. It would be nice to tell myself that I’ve transformed internally by always having that nagging sense of “This isn’t right” coloring the life of luxury that I live, but that’s not the truth. This year, however, I’m finally at home.