Full Circle: The Adventure Ends

(Note: This post is my story of starting and ending a career in the Foreign Service and comes at a time when nearly 3000 (former) employees are living firsthand their own adventure-ending stories - nearly half not by choice. Given this was my third career, I came in older than most of my cohort. Therefore, I qualified for the minimum retirement age plus ten service years retirement program (MRA+10). This option was a relative luxury in comparison to other younger or newer employees who simply were fired mid-career. I elected retirement for many reasons I'll detail in a later post, but one reason was the hope that by removing myself from the rolls, I might save a spot for someone who didn't have another option. Please don't take the rosy tone of this reflection on my career as evidence that I am okay in any way shape or form with the manner in which the new powers-that-be carried out the RIF process. Behind these words, written only to highlight the motivations that brought me and my husband to start our Foreign Service story, is a healthy stream of obscenities about how we were treated and publicly portrayed in these final months. But more on that later. With that, here's my story:)

It was November 11, 2002 and I was waiting for my flight from Nairobi to Port Louis, Mauritius. Seven months into a solo trek around the world and frankly, I was bone tired, but also excited to be continuing east. 

Given this, you're led to believe that I'd actually BEEN to Nairobi. While technically correct as there I was in the airport, the truth was that just a few days before I was set to leave Tanzania for Kenya, I chickened out of visiting the city itself. Nairobi was meant to be my final stop on the African continent after backpacking my way up the southern and eastern edge from Cape Town, through South Africa, Lesotho, Swaziland, Mozambique, Malawi, and Tanzania. This stretch of travel had been the most challenging thus far, but also the most rewarding. While I was gaining comfort in the daily rhythms of life, a little voice in my head was beginning to question the odds of my good luck continuing. So after nearly three months with only one illness, two minor thefts, and many, many scary (but survivable) modes of transportation, I lost the nerve for another risk - one nicknamed "Nairobbery" at that - and instead took a bus directly from Arusha, Tanzania to the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. 

There I sat, drowning my wimping out shame in some refrigerated beverage while soaking up a few hours of efficient air conditioning in the terminal before my flight. After months with rarely either of those two, this felt like a luxury. Seated near me was a family of four: two parents and two young children, a girl and a boy of maybe five and seven years old. I watched them for a bit, imagining their story. They sat quietly, even the kids, but looked anxious and tired and I guessed this was their first time in an airport. My curiosity got the best of me and I started a conversation with the father, the only one among them who spoke any English. They were Sudanese and headed to Winnipeg, Manitoba. Seated near them, but not engaged in our chat, waited a Canadian woman with a folder of paperwork in the crook of one arm. Their refugee minder, I learned. The father told me of their resettlement plans, how they were going to stay in Winnipeg for a short time and then hopefully move somewhere less... cold. They wore flimsy winter jackets against the airport's A/C that I predicted would barely suffice inside the Winnipeg airport in November, much less once they stepped out through the automatic doors and into their new country. The father told me his children were born in the refugee camp in Kenya and knew no other life. Our conversation quickly ran out of vocabulary and so I wished them well and let them be. 

As my wait continued, I kept thinking about the family and how their lives were about to change. How the children would be educated in Canada, would soon be fluent in English, would know four seasons, rocky mountains, Tim Hortons, hockey. I then observed their minder and imagined what her job was like. Was she accompanying them the whole way, or just getting them onto the plane?  How involved was she personally in their case and did she know their names without looking at their paperwork? What happened in their family history to bring them to that camp to begin with? Did she imagine for them what I had imagined? I knew right then I wanted a job like hers. Something where I could merge my insatiable curiosity about lives I haven't lived and my ingrained drive to make things better for others. I just didn't know what that could be.

In 2011, I would find out. 

But first, in May 2009, my husband stumbled upon an ad in the Seattle Times for a State Department recruiting fair coming to town. Hmmm... let's check it out, we decided. Since we'd met, we'd shared a long term goal of finding some type of life or job that would let us live overseas. I wanted to be someone like the refugee minder I'd observed in the Nairobi airport, and he pictured a life like he experienced as a Peace Corps volunteer in the Central African Republic. I'd heard of the State Department, absorbing the name as one does via the news running in the background. I knew we had embassies and ambassadors and helped American travelers... and that's about it. Let's just say that U.S. history and government was my first period class in high school and the information absorption rate was not great. But during the course of the recruitment fair, composed of a panel of speakers from across all Foreign Service career tracks and an impressive buffet spread, I instantly decided that this would be my path. My husband didn't see himself in any of the jobs described, but thought the life sounded pretty cool and encouraged me to go for it. 

On the car ride home, poring over the Foreign Service Officer Test (FSOT) prep booklet they handed out, I decided to take the test in October and started making my study plan. At age 43, even if I had paid attention in high school twenty-something years earlier, I certainly hadn't remembered anything I'd learned about government, history, economics, or international treaties -- just about every subject on the study list. But I stuck to every point in that prep booklet and to my study plan and damned if I didn't pass the FSOT that October.  

And then I passed it the following October for the second time, as my initial application was not strong enough to move forward in the assessment process. Or, as I like to remember it, I received the "you suck" letter and had to start again from scratch. But I wasn't bitter; I just kept studying. Meanwhile, for the heck of it, I also applied to be Foreign Service Office Management Specialist (OMS) as it closely aligned with the work I was doing. 

In March 2011, I was sworn in as an OMS and our Foreign Service adventure began. Giddy with first day excitement, I took a photo of myself with my little flip phone in the Harry S. Truman building women's room mirror in my best suit, newly-minted Department badge in hand. I'd made it. I was proud, my husband was proud, and my mother was over the moon. Three weeks later, our class had our flag day. First stop: Bogota, Colombia!

Incredibly humbled to be included as part of this whole big place. 

Flag Day #1 with some of my FS specialist cohort. 

Skip forward to July 2012, I was sworn in once again. The second application and FSOT had born fruit and I was invited to attend the A-100 orientation as a consular officer this time. Our Foreign Service adventure would take a turn, but would continue. Six weeks later at our second flag day, we learned the next stop would be Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. 

Flag Day #2, now with my (upside down) Consular Affairs pin proudly on my lapel. 

The hundreds of posts on this blog have detailed what happened next, the following 13 years of this career and our lives, inexorably entwined. But on March 8 of this year, I decided it was time for another chapter and filed my retirement paperwork. There is still ink in the pen, blank pages to fill, and that insatiable curiosity for another life not yet lived running strong in my veins. So now it's time to see what's around that next corner. I am forever grateful to the Department for deciding twice that I had the stuff to represent our country overseas. 

My last assignment brought me full circle, back to the Foreign Service Institute's Orientation Division where we all start. I leave the Department with the names, faces, backstories, career hopes, and personal dreams of hundreds of new colleagues still fresh in my mind as I got to know them during the first leg of their own journeys. The Department is in good hands with these folks as our base and I will be cheering each of them on from the bleachers. I wish them all the adventures, insights, friendships, puzzles to work through, smells, tastes, sounds, crazy-looking birds, scary driving, and professional frustrations and triumphs that I know are coming their way as they came ours. There's no stronger feeling of being alive than having to rely on all your senses to figure "it" out afresh every few years, and these good people are up to the task. 

I also leave with detailed memories of the incredible people - both local staff and Americans - I worked alongside over the years. Funny, sharp, full of ideas, full of insight, often full of themselves - you all set a high bar for me to aspire to reach. You taught me immeasurably about diplomacy and consular work, about writing, about leadership, about inclusivity, and about generosity. Perhaps unbeknownst to you, you each mentored me in different ways as I observed and absorbed.  

Thank you all for reading, for humoring me in listening to my stories, for being interested in the career, the life, the people, and the places.  It's been worth it. 

Once again at the Departures terminal and heading out on the next adventure. 

Finding an Oasis in the Megamart

Just a 12 minute walk from our apartment, 25 minutes if I take the bike path winding through the forest, past the wetlands and along the creek, is Megamart, the Latino "supermercado del pueblo" serving the most international community I've ever lived in. Some mornings I head up there shortly after they open at 7:00 am while the air is still somewhat fresh and the day is still full of possibilities. Sometimes I actually need something, maybe a few bell peppers or a bunch of cilantro for a recipe, but just as often I go simply to return to a world I left behind and still miss. 

Today was delivery day and the crew was busy unloading pallets from the large truck parked alongside the market. There doesn't seem to be much of a warehouse at the back of the store, so all stock is brought into the market and non-perishables are stacked out of reach on high shelves lining each aisle. A young man, Guatemalan if I had to guess, balances near the top of a ladder up close to the ceiling. His coworker on the floor grabs a box from a stack and tosses it up where ladder guy snatches it, pivots, and stacks it in unspoken, perfect synchronization. I pause to watch and try not to disturb their rhythm. It helps that the market, as every supermercado I've ever shopped in, is playing Latin music at clear volume. Not that whispery instrumental version of decades-old hits heard in other grocery stores, this is a mix of cumbia, ranchera, bachata, merengue, and boleros pouring out their hearts for lost love. The music sets the mood and beat not only for the shoppers, but also for the stockers moving the boxes in a choreographed bucket line from parking lot to shelves. Employees call out in Spanish, getting their work done while laughing and teasing each other. I wish I could catch more of it, but they speak too fast for me and my ear has gotten rusty over the two years in Virginia. The store has more staff than customers at this hour and they're free to let loose a bit. It's infectious and I find myself smiling and moving to the music. I stroll through aisles of familiar brands of caldo de pollo or res, a wall of Badia brand spices, packets of horchata mix, and jewel-colored bottles of Fabuloso whose heavy perfumy scents bring me immediately back to living in Colombia, Mexico, and El Salvador. 

At the pastry case, I stop to consider a flaky pineapple-filled turnover. Or maybe a pan dulce with brown or pink sugar frosting? These can be lovely when freshly baked but also disappointingly dry shortly thereafter. I resist temptation and move on. I'm balancing two mangos and a nectarine in the crook of one arm and a pack of six mini-flans in the other. A passing staff member hands me a basket with a smile, reading my mind. 

I didn't need much today, just the fruit for breakfast. The flan was an impulse buy, as often happens. I head to the register and greet the young woman checker with a buenos dias. I'm pleased when she responds in Spanish, asking me if I need a bag. 

"Necesita bolsa?"

"No gracias, ya tengo una" I respond and hand her my reusable bag. 

It feels good to be back in this environment with the energy, laughter, music, and a smile from a stranger. It's in contrast with the homogenous chain stores where I do the bulk of my shopping, ringing up and bagging my own purchases without a word to anyone, using our loyalty points to reduce the prices. But I recognize that being in Megamart is just a happy oasis and doesn't tell the whole story. At the register I read a sign taped to a small cardboard box next to the machine where I tap my credit card. It's a request in Spanish for donations for a young man with no insurance who was just diagnosed with kidney disease. I look at the photocopied picture of him waving from his hospital bed and fold a dollar into the slot on the top of the box. There's always a box like this at the register. Each week, a different box it seems. Sometimes the plea is to help repatriate the body of someone back to their family in a village in Honduras or El Salvador. The handwritten stories spell out the realities behind the smiles of the lives of the other shoppers. They speak to - and of - an audience who understands these difficulties and has an engrained sense of helping their community. Beside me in the front corner of the store, a few customers wait their turn to send money home at the MoneyGram window. A young woman wipes out a glass case that later she'll fill with freshly made grab-and-go $5 lunches. Three types of pupusas to choose from with curtido and salsa, tamales wrapped in banana leaves, and sometimes, hot yuca fries. Perfect to take to a job site where lunch will be eaten balanced on a knee while sitting (hopefully) under a shade tree or in an air-conditioned work truck. 

I thank the checker, wish her "que le vaya bien," and leave the store. The heat is already starting to radiate off the paved parking lot, making me squint and pull my sunglasses out of my bag for the walk home. Back in my apartment, out of habit I turn on a news broadcast. Trade and tariff wars, ceasefires made then broken, alliances realigned, numbers of migrants rounded up, deportations to countries nowhere near home. I sigh in resignation as it all comes back.

(Note: Normally, I use my own photographs in this blog. These images, however, I found online from a Columbia Pike documentary project. It didn't feel right or like even a slightly good idea to go into the Megamart as the only non-Hispanic person and photograph the store and its customers.)

Ponies, Boats, and Islands: Authentic Eastern Virginia

Nothing to me is more intriguing than exploring subcultures, the niche societies that actively maintain their history and traditional ways of life or livelihoods across generations, if not centuries. Those communities resisting the tidal surge of modern influence that drowns or dilutes to the brink of non-existence the original flavor and substance of culture. The more we homogenize our food, radio, media, music, and architecture, making each experience blandly predictable via franchises and "strip-mauled" towns, the more I find myself wanting to go back to the well spring, not the theme restaurant, but the authentic place.  

Perhaps this appreciation for the genuine comes from spending the majority of my life in movement, with shallow roots that have let me untether from terra firma and roll somewhere else, to be someone else, to experience something new. Fortunately, not everyone is so chameleon or we would have already lost the regional dialects, art, craft and music traditions, professions, trades, and food and cooking styles that give texture and interest to our collective "American" patchwork culture. Thankfully, there are folks who do stick around, continuing to grow where planted, maintaining their local food, traditions, and funny names for things. Frankly, I want to experience them all. 

So motivated, my husband and I have been exploring close to our current Northern Virginia base and have found a lot of local flavor. Some of these spots are certainly not secrets, but are still worthy of highlighting for unique aspects of their environment, culture, or customs. I'd like to highlight two:

Chincoteague and Assateague Islands

Those who know me will only be surprised that it took me many decades to finally visit the feral ponies of Assateague Island, MD/VA and the island town of Chincoteague, VA. Assateague Island National Seashore is a long, narrow barrier island spanning two states, Maryland to the north and Virginia to the south. Composed primarily of marshes and long stretches of sandy beaches with just enough altitude and dirt to support forests, the island is home to the horses and ponies made famous in the classic children's book "Misty of Chincoteague" and the follow-on books "Stormy, Misty's Foal," "Sea Star: Orphan of Chincoteague," and "Misty's Twilight" which I savored one birthday gift at a time as a girl. While the feral ponies aren't indigenous to the island and their exact provenance is somewhat debated, history puts them in the area for 350 years, which in my book is long enough to be considered "local" - even by Virginia standards.  

We drove just over three hours from northern Virginia through DC, traversing Maryland and Delaware before popping back into Maryland and crossing the bridge onto the northern side of the national park. (Phew, that's a lot of state lines!) My husband proudly showed his lifetime senior national park pass at the entrance booth and under partly sunny but threatening skies, we headed down the paved road that is the northern spine on the Maryland side. Within minutes we came across a small band of ponies grazing on either side of the road. The horses have free range on the island reserve, so graphic caution signs abound, warning visitors to keep 40 feet away to avoid being charged, bitten, or kicked and that "a fed horse is a dead horse" - so no treats, no matter how amazing the photo could turn out. Keeping them feral (they're strictly speaking not "wild" or indigenous) is key to keeping them alive. We met this small band grazing on the marsh grasses as up-close-and-personal as my zoom lens would allow: 

 

Given our early pony spotting success, we naively assumed this would be our experience the next day as well. But evening was closing in and with plans to stay in Chincoteague that night, nearly an hour away, we crossed back to the mainland and drove south to our hotel. Chincoteague is also an island, sitting just off a long peninsula of eastern Virginia attached only to Maryland at the top. We crossed a long, low bridge over Chincoteague Bay to reach the island, a horizon of tourism infrastructure dotting the cliffs in the distance. The historic town makes no secret of its famous equine residents, nor its long stretches of beaches and nature watching accessible by (yet another) bridge over to Assateague. The town feels like it can't make up its mind between being a nature lover's paradise or a beach destination for folks who might really rather be a bit further north in Ocean City, MD having shots and going "Wooooo!" Beach themed and color-schemed condos and motels lined the two main streets alongside taco trucks, seafood restaurants, and artsy collectibles shops. We pulled into our motel and scrounged for an open restaurant on a shoulder-season Tuesday night. We found a little Italian place with a sassy waitress, then called it a night.

The next day we awoke to a drip, drip, drip from the ceiling onto the bed from the overnight rain penetrating the motel's log cabin construction. We moved the ice bucket into place and peeked through the curtains to find the town utterly socked in and a steady rain falling. With an entire day planned to visit this side of Assateague Island for pony and bird spotting, we were disappointed but undeterred by the wet. As the saying goes, "There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing." With raincoats and umbrellas, we headed for the park again. Besides the rain, we also faced a fierce headwind blowing unobstructed off the open Atlantic. The clever ponies had clearly taken refuge deep out of sight in the island forest and we were left with the visitor center, watching the seagulls navigate in the driving rain on the long spit of beach, and walking out to the red-and-white striped lighthouse in a break between the showers. All of which were amusing - but they weren't ponies. We resisted visiting the Museum of Chincoteague Island in town, mostly because I understood that both the original Misty and her foal Stormy had been preserved via taxidermy and were on display. I just... couldn't, and so didn't. Later when my husband took advantage of the wet weather for a nap, I found a very cozy library and spent a few hours skimming books I would neither be able to buy nor check out. 

I ducked into a colorful store featuring art, jewelry, home decor etc. from dozens of local artists. While exploring the collections, the chatty owner filled me in on local horse lore. Featured prominently in many photographs was a gorgeous liver chestnut stallion with Fabio-like long flaxen (blonde) mane, tail, and forelock hanging down over his eyes and his wide, white blaze. Looking like a central casting Hollywood hottie, I learned that "Surfer's Riptide" was the darling of Assateague and a direct descendent of the original Misty. So striking was Riptide's coloring and physique, that this year Breyer, the biggest name in model horses, created a model of the 17 year old stallion. His sire "Surfer Dude", perfectly named given his shaggy flaxen mane and forelock flirtatiously covering one blue eye, was an island legend that lived wild until his death at age 22. Coloring the story, the shopkeeper told me there was a nemesis stallion that picked fights with Riptide and had to be moved to a different herd on the Maryland side of the island (divided by a fence at the state line) to keep the two alpha males from injuring or killing each other. I can't verify this bit of gossip, but it makes for a great Sharks and Jets plotline.

This July, however, marks the 100th anniversary of the island's famous pony penning event, where designated mounted "saltwater cowboys" push the Virginia-side herd off Assateague to swim across the channel to Chincoteague and be herded through the streets to the town's auction grounds. The Virginia-side herd is managed very differently from the Maryland-side herd, and is under the care and control of the Chincoteague Volunteer Fire Company. The Maryland ponies, in contrast, are managed by the National Park Service and don't participate in the pony penning, swim, or auction event. The annual late-July auction acts to keep the herd at a manageable size for both the fire company's care and for the land resources the ponies occupy (with a herd maximum of 150 individuals). It is also a critical fund raiser for the volunteer fire company. The annual crop of foals, ready to be weaned at four to six months old, are identified for auction as either "buy-backs" or truly for sale to new ownership. The buy-backs, usually fewer than a dozen each year, are pure fund raisers with the high bidder getting naming rights and then re-donating the foal back to live on the Assateague reserve and perpetuate the herd. The pony swim event itself attracts tens of thousands of spectators from around the United States and internationally, lining the streets to watch the horses and foals swim from Assateague to Chincoteague and then work their way through the streets to the auction site at the town's carnival grounds. 

The rain finally stopped by late afternoon and just before dinner we scooted back across to Assateague Island with the hopes of one final pony spotting. And just as the forest opened to the broad, marshy horizon, we encountered a mixed band of about 20 mares, foals, and at least one stallion. The foals tucked their tiny tails to their rumps, chilly in their dripping coats, while grazing besides their dams. Visiting in rainy late May, while missing the excitement of the pony swim, we also avoided the throngs and enjoyed the ponies and birds in their serene surroundings instead.

Doing what horses do best: grazing, swishing flies, and hanging with the herd

In From the Rain - Chincoteague Island Library

Tangier Island - Into the Chesapeake!

The next morning, we drove just under an hour southwest across the far eastern spit of Virginia to the unfortunately-named, but lovely nonetheless, Chesapeake Bay town of Onancock.  Our sassy, potty-mouthed waitress from the Italian restaurant in Chincoteague seemed the right one to discretely ask, "Ummm, how do we pronounce this town?" She laughed and told us the correct pronunciation was O-NAN-cock, which we practiced saying so we would put the emphasis on the correct syllable. We wanted to get it right, as we'd be catching the Onancock-Tangier Island ferry at 10:00 the next morning and spending all day out in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay in what we'd understood was a VERY conservative, traditional community. We found the ferry, the Joyce Marie II with captain aboard, tied up at the small marina and paid him cash for two round-trip tickets back in time to his hometown, Tangier Island, VA.  

First, let me adjust the definition of the word "ferry" for you a bit. It's just a nice little fishing boat. And captain, he's just the guy who owns the boat. But he was as authentic as I'd imagined since first hearing about the island community, its disappearing "waterman" way of life, and their distinct dialect, preserved over hundreds of years by isolation and pride. The juxtaposition of such a well-preserved culture with the literal degradation of the island itself is cruelly ironic. Both are hanging on against rising water levels that sweep away chunks of the flat, marshy island each year, and the diminishing crab stocks that threaten the economic lifeblood of the residents. But binding the community is a rock-solid Methodist faith buoyed by a history of hundreds of years of surviving just barely above the water's edge, an hour's boat ride in either direction from more solid ground. The population continues to dwindle as young people move away from the waterman's crabbing/oystering life, many taking jobs on barges and tugboats in other states and leaving behind the elders to keep the community together.  

Onancock-Tangier Island Ferry, at your service. 

Tangier skyline a watery mirage

Watermen's crab shacks

Crab pots

After about 50 minutes of heading west to the middle of Chesapeake Bay, our captain pointed out what seemed like a watery mirage on the horizon; it was Tangier Island coming into view. Civilization where it seemed civilization had no business being. 

At the hour mark, we pulled into the marina lined on either side by long docks topped by crab shacks reaching into the Bay. Unlike arriving on other islands we've visited, whether volcanic, granite, or limestone, Tangier doesn't rise abruptly from deep water. Its ridges gently protrude up from the sandy Bay floor to just break the surface; the ferry's depth finder indicated only 10 feet of water beneath us. Our fellow passengers were two Verizon technicians making their weekly visit, a physical therapist doing the same, and an older woman returning home from visiting the mainland; we were the only tourists. We thanked the captain for a pleasant, smooth ride and agreed to see him at 3:30 for the return trip to Onancock. 

Immediately after stepping off the dock and onto the island, we were greeted by a young man in full Tangier accent touting tours of the island from his 6-seater golf cart. Just $7 a pop, and while we appreciated his offer, we preferred the independence to walk through the lanes at our own pace. Maybe later, we promised. 

The driest thing on the island seemed to be the alcohol sales prohibition, and after yesterday's heavy rain, the front yards of the houses lining the main street ranged from soggy to submerged. Cars were scarce, and those present were brought over years ago (the early 2000's Ford Ranger pickup a clear favorite for its rust-resistance, we were told) and sported Tangier Island resident stickers instead of state license plates. Like our would-be guide, everyone else zipped up and down the few roads in 4x4 buggies, golf carts, or bicycles. Many houses had raised wooden platforms with ramps to park their rides above the tideline, making me wonder how first floors of the houses fared.  

After getting our bearings, our first stop was the Tangier History Museum where a welcoming and knowledgeable woman greeted us from the counter in front of a small gift corner. All the crafts and treats were locally made, she proudly pointed out. Although tempted by one of the handmade lap blankets, I settled for a pot of blueberry-strawberry jam and some postcards. The museum was small, but well-organized and the space packed with exhibits. We spent just about an hour there, but easily could have spent more. Mostly a collection of local artifacts and clippings, the themed exhibits illustrated the island's history since about 1608: The waterman's livelihood whose crabbing and oystering has supported this insular community; their unique dialect; the evolving role of Tangier women over time; and how islanders have adapted time and again to losing land to storms, hurricanes, rising water levels, and soil erosion, among many other themes. The images of local photographer Cameron Evans were on display and chronicled island life and wildlife throughout the seasons. 

More than the words and phrases, it's also the accent that makes this dialect so unique. 

From the museum, we headed south down the main "ridge" of higher ground that supports a long, paved road lined on both sides by lovely houses. Some clearly Victorian era, others more modern, some abandoned, some for sale, others impeccably maintained, and others overgrown - all stages of life and death of a community were on display. And I mean "death" literally as small cemeteries, their burial plots above ground in cement vaults, dotted many front yards. Memorialized on the headstones were the islanders' names showing little variation; the most prominent among them Crockett, Dise, Thomas, Pruitt, Parks, Charnock, and Shores. Seeing these names repeated across all aspects of the island, I was reminded of the Assateague Island ponies, the lineage of each herd member carefully recorded. The records showed sire and dam names repeating throughout the pedigrees. I saw the parallel between the ponies and the Tangier Island families, each successfully adapting to their austere, non-native islands over hundreds of years; growing deep roots from sturdy root stock in both cases. 

 

The community was founded with a devout Methodist faith. 

With the school year just ending, signs decorating the main street congratulated in name and photo the single Tangier Combined School (grades K-12) high school graduate. The school has six teachers handling all grades and although small, according to local press, the students in grades 8-12 still celebrated the end of the school year with a prom. 

Island industry, historically reliant on crabbing and oystering, has diversified to support tourism, too. Many of the well-maintained Victorian homes are now inns and a quick AirBnB search showed no fewer than eight properties offering lodging and promoting a quiet stay of enjoying fresh crab, kayaking through marshes, birdwatching, or just sipping lemonade on porch swings at sunset.

 

Turning west off Main Ridge Rd, the primary commercial road with the marina, gift shops, museum, church, school, and restaurants, we crossed a small bridge over the marsh and creek that divided the island lengthwise and found the aptly-named West Ridge Road. We followed signs along a sandy track towards the public beach, a narrow stretch of soft sand and dune grasses. We sat a while and recognized just how small we were on this precarious slip of land in the middle of the Bay. We could have continued along the shoreline to the east on a long sandbar that ends in a hook like a miniature Cape Cod. Here is where the island gradually blends, like a watercolor, into Chesapeake Bay, finally disappearing under the water's surface.

Creek and marshes that perforate the island between its ridges of firmer land.

The public beach on what feels like an ocean shore.

Hungry by mid-day, we turned back to the main road and found Lorraine's Seafood Restaurant, recommended to us by both our ferry captain and the woman in the museum. She insisted we couldn't visit Tangier without eating something crabby for lunch, and Lorraine's would be the place to find it. Although we'd been the only tourists on the once-daily Onancock ferry run, we found the restaurant hopping busy at lunch, every table full and the restaurant staff running. Observing the other patrons, I didn't get the impression they were all locals and wondered where these folks had come from. We learned about a larger ferry making (seasonal) daily runs from Crisfield, MD and an even larger day-cruise boat from Reedville, VA. The day trippers would keep the restaurants, golf cart tours, and gift shops busy with a smaller percentage of tourists staying overnight. As we'd promised, my husband ordered their popular softshell crab sandwich and I tried the crabcake sandwich. I grabbed the hot sauce from another table to kick up the flavor a bit, but everyone else seemed to be raving about the local specialties.  

By 3:15 we headed back to the dock to meet our return ferry. Onboard again were the Verizon technicians, the physical therapist, plus three women returning home to Richmond. They'd stayed a few nights at the Bella Vista Cottage and were delivered in a golf cart to the ferry dock by their host, hugging the women goodbye as if they were old friends. Their first trip to the island too, the three recounted exploring all the town offered by day and savoring quiet sunsets on the large rear porch of the cottage, overlooking the Chesapeake Bay by evening. We pulled away from the dock and motored east towards Onancock, watching the island fade against the horizon. 

That day on Tangier Island, we entered an Americana time capsule built on a bedrock of Methodist faith, determination, and hard work. Drying laundry flapped in breezy backyards, cats lazed in sunny spots, coexisting with hens and chicks pecking in the grass of front yards, and American flags waved from porches. From this angle, it was all too easy to deny the ubiquitous modern world noise that assaults our senses and to retreat to a place and time that emphasizes a quiet, simple life. But running undeniably in the background is the existential threat facing the island. Residents are desperate for federal funding and Army Corps of Engineers efforts to construct living barriers and seawalls to protect it from further degradation; however, estimates put the projects into the $250-350 million range. Conservative to its core, I wondered about the future of the community where conservative values don't currently align with environmental preservation.  

The "politically incorrect" credo proudly on display.

Perhaps they are relying on a higher power for final salvation.

Many, Many Flag Days: A Year in Foreign Service Orientation

 Two hundred and thirty new State Department employees sit uncomfortably close together in a large auditorium. They're assembled in three large blocks of chairs, separated by two aisles leading to a low stage in front of the room. Seated behind them, also snug in rows of chairs, are two guests for each new hire. In total, that's nearly 700 people dressed in graduation-level formality. It's August in northern Virginia and some are cooling themselves with American flag-themed paper fans as the auditorium's A/C strains to keep the room habitable. Or it's February and all arrived in heavy coats and winter shoes. Or for the fortunate, it's May or October and they're comfortable. Either way, the invited spouses, siblings, parents, children, and friends wouldn't miss witnessing this day when new Foreign Service professionals have their misty horizons, full of possibilities, dreams, and what-ifs, come into undeniably clear focus. By extension for many of the guests, their own lives are about to take the same turn. Seated or standing along the edges of the auditorium are Orientation staff - people like me who have been shepherding the students over the past five weeks through the rigorous Foreign Service Orientation course. Also lining the walls are the students' Career Development Officers (CDOs) who have acted as agents for the class members. Over the first ten days of Orientation, the CDOs met with their clients as they took on the task of aligning available assignments and Department staffing priorities, with career wish lists, must-haves, and red lines. 

Today, Flag Day, all will be revealed. 

Photo grabbed from a FS professional's blog (thank you) written in 2010. We still use these flag holders 14 years later and lemme tell you it's a LOT harder to keep them from spilling onto the floor than one would imagine. 

After a Department official and the selected class speaker deliver their remarks and step down from the podium, the main event begins. The announcer, someone with the unenviable job of reading out over 200 assignments in clear, measured voice, enunciating Ouagadougou, Podgorica and Antananarivo as easily as Toronto, adjusts the microphone and begins. The auditorium falls silent save for a baby's squawk from the back of the room - it's okay, it's a family affair. The students, some with ears pricked towards the speaker and eyes focused forward, some dropping their gaze to their laps to blur their surroundings or perhaps brace for impact, wait for their names to be called. The country flags, city names, and job titles are projected one by one onto a huge screen at the front of the auditorium. One Orientation staff member stands at a lectern to the side of the stage, controlling the painstakingly created presentation. With a steady, but undoubtedly cramping index finger, they advance the presentation in synch with the announcements, four clicks per assignment, 920 clicks total.

A flag appears on the screen - some easier to recognize than others - and a mixture of oohs and ahhs rises from the audience. 

Tirana, Albania

Human Resources Officer

(Name)

A student from somewhere in the middle row jumps to their feet and makes their way to the center aisle, stepping across seated colleagues, usually smiling, but just as often blank-faced as their bodies react with movement before their brains process the meaning of it all. They arrive at the front of the auditorium where they receive the tiny flag of their assigned country or U.S. state, shake hands, pause only a beat for the official photographer, and then make their way to the back of the auditorium past staff lining the walls, accepting hugs, high-fives, congratulations, or just smiles and claps. Sometimes the CDOs get passing thank yous and little flag waves from those assigned to "high bid" (favorite) postings, but more often the students cruise by, just trying to remember where they're supposed to walk. Behind their dazed looks their minds are reconfiguring their lives as they knew them just minutes before. Some turn the wrong way in the auditorium, and with a quick but gentle hand on a shoulder, Orientation staff redirect them to the right track. At the back of the auditorium they pose for more photos with their class mentors in front of a formal backdrop of U.S. and State Department flags. The class mentors, senior Department officers, are excited to be at this culminating event after having shared their time, personal and professional greatest hits, and career guidance with the class over the preceding weeks. The adrenaline subsiding, they then return one by one to their seats to cheer on their classmates. 

Some consider Flag Day to be Foreign Service hazing given the high stakes and potential for public expressions of joy, disappointment, or shock - both positive and negative - in front of over 600 people. To others, Flag Days are career highlights. Either way, even years or decades later, everyone can tell a Flag Day story, whether it was theirs or another's.  

For me, each Flag Day refuels my enthusiasm for my work. The ceremonies water my internal daisy, its petals drooping and leaves wilted by the minutiae, deadlines, bureaucracy, and continual decision making and second-guessing to get things just-right that occupy my days. There are times when all I want to be responsible for is myself; my schedule driven purely by personal inspiration, the results judged only by me. Thirteen years into this career with retirement teasing me from the horizon, these times of wishing I could just go weed a pea patch all day are hitting me with increasing frequency. 

But then I turn my focus back to those students in that auditorium. I rewind the film a bit more to the start of my time working in Orientation. A montage of faces and names scrolls across the screen in my mind, a year's worth of new colleagues and friends. Beyond the visual, I also hear their voices and replay snippets of personal stories: their motivations and aspirations for this career and their earnest questions and commentary about the road ahead we all shared in the classroom. More than just watering my daisy, the time spent absorbing our newest colleagues' energy, enthusiasm, capability, and genuine optimism for this career revives that flower so that each morning I can once again stuff my lunch bag, tea thermos, laptop (and charger!), and spiral-bound to-do lists into a few shoulder bags and head out the door to face another day. After all, I've got my own bidding and assignment season coming soon and with it the inevitable spinning of the giant wheel of possibilities. Feeling animated, I conclude that heck, one more overseas tour will be exciting, just think of the adventures we'll have and stories we'll tell. I step outside; the mornings are still fresh; the birds singing their little hearts out in the trees and the magnolias so scented I'm certain I've walked into the wake of a perfumed woman. It's a beautiful day.

Uprooted: Culture Shock in One's Own Country

 It didn't take much time working in our garden for me to declare that no seed falls on infertile soil in El Salvador. New sprouts popped through the dirt before I'd even hung up the rake, potting soil came with stowaways confidently sprouting by the time I cut open the bag, and a thin layer of dust on the patio was encouragement enough for something to take root and unfurl a few leaves before we unceremoniously plucked it out. 

This shouldn't have been a surprise; it's a tropical, agreeable climate with an ample supply of both water and sunshine. Seeing a sapling pushing undeterred through a crack in the pavement or a retaining wall never ceased to make me smile. Beyond the environmental factors, however, Salvadorans themselves are naturally open and welcoming, their easy smiles and relaxed manners inviting you to not hurry on, but sit and enjoy a moment. The warmth of the climate and people simply encourages everything to grow roots, to persevere despite difficulty, to live and to thrive. So we did. We let our own roots grow, establishing a home, friendships, favorite places, and learning not just the roads, but also the way. 

Therefore it felt all the more brusque when our tour ended and it was our turn to be yanked from the soil. This was our ninth move in 12 years, yet it was by far the most difficult. It seems we'd become rootbound.

Initially, I was really looking forward to returning to the United States. I longed for the comfort of the familiar, for cultural fluency, familial proximity, for not being the foreigner, for being able to express myself with clarity, nuance, even humor, instead of blunt basics. Plus, we'd have changing seasons, plants we'd know the names of, and driving habits that wouldn't make us shout. But with just two weeks back on U.S. soil, I'm finding the transition to be less of an easy slide into comfortable slippers and more like I got off at the wrong bus stop and am standing on the corner wondering where in the hell am I?

While in the past four years we had a few family visits and a one-month home leave to the U.S., in retrospect I see that was enough to merely notice the cultural shifts without having to adapt to them. The pandemic exponentially accelerated what might have been normal, evolutionary changes, leaving me and my husband running to catch up. Whereas the pandemic's lasting effects on El Salvador seemed only to be that restaurants plastic-wrapped meals before carrying them from the kitchen to the table, it feels like American culture is still bent on reducing human interaction and keeping people in the "comfort of their own home." What were initially pandemic-era necessities have stuck around as the new normal way of life. Businesses tout being contact-less, door-to-door delivery, no-cash, easy peasey. Malls and office buildings are nearly empty as everyone shops online; grocery stores are mostly self-checkout; and medical appointments are increasingly virtual. All this requires more technology and less humanity. "There's an app for that" does not warm our hearts but instead makes us grind our teeth as we create yet another account, user name and password, only to be rewarded with promises that all the data sharing will make our lives so much easier. 

The other night we were having Vietnamese Pho for dinner at a nearby restaurant and because I simply can't resist, I started a conversation with the Vietnamese waitress. The place wasn't too busy and she was quite chatty, and so within about 10 minutes we'd learned quite a lot about her and her immigration journey, which was really interesting. While she was recounting her story, I saw a handful of individual customers come into the restaurant, pick up their to-go orders, pay the cashier, and leave without so much as a glance around the restaurant.

Convenient? I suppose, but is that the only value we have these days? By staying isolated in self-controlled environments we are missing out on the happenstance interactions with people, animals, and even the weather that give our daily lives color, interest, depth, and a better understanding of the other beings around us. Is this really the most fertile environment for life? 

Waiting for the bus the other day, no doubt grousing about this unfamiliar world we'd found ourselves in, my husband wisely concluded, "We just have to consider this a transition to a new culture, as we've done before. We have to figure out from scratch how to adapt." He's right, because so far it feels like an inhospitable climate that doesn't want us to grow roots, but instead just wants to extract our resources and leave us wilted and yellow. 

To weather these changes, I need to soak up the parts of this American life that still fuel me, to fertilize my own roots, if you will. I can do this by having analog interactions with others to remind me of their humanity and not just their other-ness. I can do this by getting away from the sterile, paved-over environment and into the trees, along the water's edge, and out to broad horizons. There is nothing more soul-affirming than sitting on a precipice overlooking a valley and being face-to-face with what is tangible, grand, and inspiring. Something that has - and will - outlast the things of man.

Now that's the type of soil I can grow in.