Today was the “gravedigging”, which in Jamaica is both a verb and noun. It is where they dig the grave, and apparently its quite the social event.

I didn’t go.

Some of you are probably appalled. What a marvelous opportunity for integration, you think, how could you pass this up?

Well, I’ve been in the midst of this death thing since I got to Claremont. I’ve literally listened to the man die for 18 hours. My house has been full of strangers for the past week and a half walking into my room unannounced, touching me, asking me inappropriate questions, keeping me up when all I want to do is sleep.
There are cases of booze and soft drinks lining the hallway, the oven is full of cakes and puddings, and the stove top is covered with huge pots and pans. Endless trays of sandwiches and cups of soup are passed around. There is enough overproof rum punch in my house to give a rugby team alcohol poisoning. And quite honestly, I’m sick of the whole business.

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I have to be “on” the minute I leave my house. Not only do I have to represent myself in the right light by the manner in which I dress, who I talk to, where I go shopping, ect, but my supervisor and the Peace Corps and the entire country of the United States as well.
I don’t have to tell you that it’s stressful.

So when I come home at night, I need to be able to turn off. I need my space. I don’t want to look at anybody, talk to anybody, worry about what I’m wearing or if someone has used all my toilet paper. When I go to sleep, I don’t want to listen to progressively drunker old men slamming down dominos. I especially don’t want to be touched.

The kids cling to me. It’s hard to separate from them without looking like an ogre, but not only do I not really like kids that much, I especially don’t want to be followed around for hours with “Miss Taylor this and Miss Taylor that” being shouted from three different voices in my ear. As someone who really dosn’t like to be touched, four pairs of hot and sweaty arms hanging off me makes me want to scream. There’s fighting, literally shoving and hitting over who gets to claim me for 5 minutes, and I’m always the one who ends up with juice all over her just-washed clothes.

No, thank you. I will take my sweet potato pudding and go to my room after making the obligatory rounds.

It’s hard to convey how immensely frustrating this all is. I am very, very private person. I rarely invite my closest friends over to my home back in the states, and here, I value my ability to shut out the world (well, just Jamaica) but closing my door. It’s the equivilant of “home” or “safety” in a game of tag. I’m off duty, off limits, and out of bounds. It’s marvelous.

However, we are all supposed to be “integrating”. This is supposed to be an exciting time! I get to be a part of an important cultural event! Hooray! So it becomes even more stressful, since I feel like I’m expected to be loving it, but really, it just makes me more miserable because I end up feeling guilty.

In the light of all this, coming home, as I did last night, to close to 100 people in my yard, understandably makes me panic. The thing soon finish, I know, but it’s been over a week already and I’m just so sleep deprived and stressed. I am in the middle of a situation that I actively tried to avoid, and I am dreading the funeral on Saturday. Standing within 100 yards of a religious institution makes me break out in hives (I’m itchy alot in Jamaica), and to top it all off, I’ll be recovering from the Nine Night, which is the celebration held the night before a funeral.

So no, I didn’t go to the gravedigging. The house is empty for the first time in weeks- no belching, no crying children, no heated arguments over which bedspread belongs in which room. For once I don’t feel like screaming. And I’m not sorry.