For many people, April 20th has a certain connotation: the date is synonymous with the consumption of cannabis. Thanks to this counterculture holiday, a vast cross-sector of our society are afforded an annual excuse to spend the entire day solely devoted to getting stoned. Even beyond that, every day at 4:19 pm, scores of college students and young professionals ask if you've "got a minute" to light up and get high. No matter your personal beliefs about marijuana, there's no denying the long-standing association of 4/20 with giddiness and euphoria.
But for me, April 20th holds a much different meaning, and has for the past eleven years. It marks the anniversary of the night I was raped. Unfortunately, the date of such an event happens to fall upon an oft-mentioned holiday of sorts, and one that is usually brought up with a cheeky smirk.
Mentioning the date of a traumatic life event can be troubling enough for any of us. The anniversary of a parent's death, for example, might prompt us to pour over old photos, solemnly visit a tombstone or write in a well-worn journal. Every year the pain returns, that old, brilliant ache, and what we choose to do with it ultimately shapes and defines our lives.
As such, April 20th's meaning has evolved over time for me. Initially, it simply marked a seemingly insurmountable feat: I had survived. After that, I went through a number of years where 4/20 was spent vacillating between two extremes, either completely numbing myself or languishing in a hyper-emotional state of remembrance. And finally, in more recent years, I came to see 4/20 as an opportunity, not to be mired down with sadness or heaviness, but to consciously and with grace, make the day about the resiliency of the human spirit. To even celebrate myself, as cliche as that may seem.
It was quite a subtle joy then that one year ago today, by sheer happenstance, April 20th became the day I officially completed my Peace Corps service.
But what does that even mean anyway- for someone to "complete Peace Corps service?" The phrase makes it sound so pretty and perfect, like closing the cellar door or unlacing your shoes. It is none of those things. It is messy, confusing, scary, exciting, heartbreaking, absurd. It is squeezing your best friend's hand in the dark one last time, under stars and mango trees, and turning away silently, without words, because there are none. It is a final trip to the water pump, and children still staring in awe. It is the last cup of coffee in the smoky seaside shack, and the final soft conversation with your big, beautiful mama, the one who fed you day after day for years.
April 20th is being so excited to leave, to begin, to see all the loved ones again, and then not knowing how. It is not being here, not being there.
Last year on this date, I longed to write about how April 20th had come to mean something much more empowering and expansive than it ever had over the past decade. Instead, I found myself so wrapped up in the experience of leaving, so overwhelmed by the process, that I struggled to articulate myself in any manner. Not only that, but after more than two years in Madagascar, my English was not so good.
Here's an excerpt from my journal, written on one of the last nights in my village, which illustrates where my mind was at and how impeccable my writing skills had become:
"Looks to be threatening rain. And my sandal's broken. And last night was so strange. After Sophia came over, we tried to get happy but as she said, a fety [party] bye-bye cannot make someone happy."
The past few weeks leading up to April 20, 2013 have been spent re-visiting the life I left behind in Madagascar: closely examining photos, ruminating over old blog posts, watching videos of sorely-missed loved ones, listening repeatedly to my favorite Malagasy music, reading journal entries written in broken scribble, even speaking Malagasy to myself or to anyone that will listen.
With all the memories has come a renewed sense of the things I gained from my life there: quiet, equanimity, slowing down for the sake of slowing down. I am grateful that April 20th now means these things to me, and so much more.
But for me, April 20th holds a much different meaning, and has for the past eleven years. It marks the anniversary of the night I was raped. Unfortunately, the date of such an event happens to fall upon an oft-mentioned holiday of sorts, and one that is usually brought up with a cheeky smirk.
Mentioning the date of a traumatic life event can be troubling enough for any of us. The anniversary of a parent's death, for example, might prompt us to pour over old photos, solemnly visit a tombstone or write in a well-worn journal. Every year the pain returns, that old, brilliant ache, and what we choose to do with it ultimately shapes and defines our lives.
As such, April 20th's meaning has evolved over time for me. Initially, it simply marked a seemingly insurmountable feat: I had survived. After that, I went through a number of years where 4/20 was spent vacillating between two extremes, either completely numbing myself or languishing in a hyper-emotional state of remembrance. And finally, in more recent years, I came to see 4/20 as an opportunity, not to be mired down with sadness or heaviness, but to consciously and with grace, make the day about the resiliency of the human spirit. To even celebrate myself, as cliche as that may seem.
It was quite a subtle joy then that one year ago today, by sheer happenstance, April 20th became the day I officially completed my Peace Corps service.
But what does that even mean anyway- for someone to "complete Peace Corps service?" The phrase makes it sound so pretty and perfect, like closing the cellar door or unlacing your shoes. It is none of those things. It is messy, confusing, scary, exciting, heartbreaking, absurd. It is squeezing your best friend's hand in the dark one last time, under stars and mango trees, and turning away silently, without words, because there are none. It is a final trip to the water pump, and children still staring in awe. It is the last cup of coffee in the smoky seaside shack, and the final soft conversation with your big, beautiful mama, the one who fed you day after day for years.
April 20th is being so excited to leave, to begin, to see all the loved ones again, and then not knowing how. It is not being here, not being there.
Last year on this date, I longed to write about how April 20th had come to mean something much more empowering and expansive than it ever had over the past decade. Instead, I found myself so wrapped up in the experience of leaving, so overwhelmed by the process, that I struggled to articulate myself in any manner. Not only that, but after more than two years in Madagascar, my English was not so good.
Here's an excerpt from my journal, written on one of the last nights in my village, which illustrates where my mind was at and how impeccable my writing skills had become:
"Looks to be threatening rain. And my sandal's broken. And last night was so strange. After Sophia came over, we tried to get happy but as she said, a fety [party] bye-bye cannot make someone happy."
The past few weeks leading up to April 20, 2013 have been spent re-visiting the life I left behind in Madagascar: closely examining photos, ruminating over old blog posts, watching videos of sorely-missed loved ones, listening repeatedly to my favorite Malagasy music, reading journal entries written in broken scribble, even speaking Malagasy to myself or to anyone that will listen.
With all the memories has come a renewed sense of the things I gained from my life there: quiet, equanimity, slowing down for the sake of slowing down. I am grateful that April 20th now means these things to me, and so much more.
