The árbolita gordita

It never fails. I’m walking down the roads of my quiet Huancavelica town when all the sudden I’m greeted by one of the neighbors: “Heeeeey, Lyndsey! Lookin’ good! I can tell you’re really fitting in around here!”

Why thank you! Tell me, is it because after months of toil I speak Spanish like a guru? Is it because I can dance huaino like the best of them? Maybe it’s because I ate that sheep intestine soup like a native and even asked for seconds?

“Yea, look how gordita you are! You sure must be comfortable here with all that weight you’ve put on!”

Welcome to my life. Every. Single. Day.

Within the first week in Peru, I was introduced to that verbal brazenness that is so integral to Peruvian culture. In America, we tend to tiptoe around certain topics, trying with all our might to be sensitive and “politically correct.” Although we are often labeled for being direct in our conversations, Americans will jump through extraordinary linguistic hoops in order to avoid even the smallest possibility of offending someone (“What?! Of course that dress doesn’t make your butt look big. But have you considered this one over here? Now this one would make you look like a bombshell…”). That just doesn’t seem to exist here. Sometimes the frank dialog that often finds its way into my conversations with Peruvians can be immensely funny and useful (“Don’t believe anything he says. He’s a terrible mayor.”), to mind-numbingly dull (“It’s raining. The sky is overcast. There sure is a lot of mud!”), to, at least from my perspective, offensive (“Hey, chinita, you’re fat!”). On a good day, it takes every ounce of strength to remember that I’m interpreting these words from the lenses of American culture. The words are hurtful because I insert an extra meaning taken from my own experiences and background; the hurt does not lie in the speaker’s intent. So, when someone yells, “¡Hola, gordita! ¡Ven acá!” I instead choose to hear:

“Hey there, girl-I-feel-so-comfortable-with-and-like-so-much-that-I’m-going-to-use-this-cute-diminuitive-nickname-to-call-you-by! Come over here so we can talk and be best friends!”

On a bad day, though, it just sounds like this:

“Hey, fat ass, get over here!”

It doesn’t help that I come from a culture that has an incredibly shallow, two-dimensional definition of beauty. In American society, both men and women have an image of what a perfect body is. We’re absolutely bombarded with it. Through creative uses of Photoshop and the power of the media, we’re constantly presented with the impossible gold standard of beauty: that slim, toned, Barbie doll body that, literally, embodies success. What did you say? You’re body doesn’t look even remotely like that? Well then! Better go out and buy that gym membership, subject yourself to a completely unhealthy weight-loss program, and start measuring your self-worth by the size of your jeans because you just GOTTA HAVE IT! I used to see it all the time: women standing in line at the local café clad head to toe in overly-tight Nike sports wear, even though they hadn’t so much as jogged out their front door, swapping juice cleanse plans and beauty tips given in the latest Hollywood magazine. Clicking their perfectly manicured nails on the counter to signal their impatience for caffeine, they’d go on and on and on about themselves, too narcissistic and vanity-driven to give a hoot about the poor barista slaving away on their extra light, extra hot, no foam sugar-free soy latte. In their drive for perfection, they’d completely renounced all the glorious little imperfections that make humanity so beautiful.

It’s not within Peace Corps’ nature to attract people like these to be volunteers. We’re made of different material. We’re tough, strong, adventurous people who are beautiful by a different standard. However, we come from a culture where narcissism and depreciation are part of the every day norm. It’s ingrained, and even when we’re in a foreign country we still hold ourselves up to that American ideal. Worse still, we PCVs can be highly envious, comparative creatures. We compare our work, we compare our likability, and we compare our bodies. Worse still, we compare in an extremely self-depreciating manner. Often times during regional meetings, I will witness volunteers engage in body bashing; sometimes I even engage in it myself.

“Oh my God, I have gotten so fat since coming to Peru. Just look at how big my thighs are.”

“You’re thighs are big? Just look at mine. If yours are big, mine are huge!”

Sound familiar? According to the New York Times, this kind of body-denigrating dialog is called “fat talk” and is seen as a norm in American conversation. Unfortunately, it’s also a custom for PCVs. When we look in the mirror or talk to each other, we often times play a vicious game of comparison and focus on what we’d like to change; rarely do we ever focus on our strengths and see them as beautiful. Examine the following conversation:

PCV #1: “Oh my God, I have gotten so fat since coming to Peru. Just look at how big my thighs are.”

PCV #2: “You’re thighs are big? Just look at mine. If yours are big, mine are huge!”

PCV #3: “Really? I think your legs look just fine. I happen to think my own legs are quite stunning.”

Who’s going to be honest and admit that if you were PCV #1 or #2 in that conversation, you’d immediately think PCV #3 was a sniveling, smug asshole? I would. And isn’t that sad? It is more acceptable and comforting for us to depreciate ourselves. Being positive and empowering runs the risk of you being judged, ostracized, and disliked.

I know that our culture pressures us to have a body that resembles a skinny twig. I know that we PCVs aren’t immune to that. I also know we have this nasty habit of basing our ideas of success and worth on how we’re doing compared to the PCV next to us. I also know that Peruvians’ tendency to remark frankly on our bodies can, at least in our minds, make things even worse. We’re told by our home, our peers, and even ourselves that we need to be a twig and that those extra pounds we gain due to stress, different diets and lifestyles, or just by enjoying life is a mark of failure. But here’s the thing – why the hell would you want to be a twig, anyway?

Twigs are fragile little cast-offs. They are shed, stepped on, forgotten, and incredibly fragile. No one notices a twig, and few find them beautiful. They’re too distracted by the immense tree towering over them. Trees soak up everything life has to throw at them. They reach their limbs into the sun and bathe in its light and they plunge their roots deep, deep into the soil to grab hold of the richness that lies below. They’re firmly tied to the ground, yet they never stop reaching upward. They know how to bend, even to the point of breaking, and weather a storm. Even still, nine times out of ten when the storm passes they’re still standing. They change with the seasons, yet what makes them truly beautiful and unique never disappears. They provide comfort to those around them – a literal breath of fresh air, shade for escaping the heat, and innumerable crooks and crannies ideal for making a home or just for playing.

Twigs are those shallow, frail people who don’t find joy in their imperfections, who don’t cultivate their inner strength, and can only see worth when they’re better than others and striving towards an impossibly fake ideal. Trees are just the opposite.

Narcissism is the antithesis of why we become PCVs. Joining the Peace Corps is not about building strength, showing off, and wearing it like a fashion statement. It’s about finding that strength you never new existed, cultivating it into an unstoppable force, and measuring yourself against yourself every single day. We join the Peace Corps to feel good and to do good, not to look good. I am a PCV because I am not, nor shall I ever be a twig.

I’m going to be one hell of a tree, and so are you.