The next two weeks…

I'll be volunteering in India. And I don't think I'm right for the job.

This wasn’t my plan. I’m going to tell you this upfront.

It’s not that I don’t want to volunteer. It’s not that I don’t think that this is a worthy cause or an amazing organization. Because I do. And it is.

It’s that I don’t think I am the right volunteer for this project.

It’s not you, it’s me.

When Jaime picked it, because his friend had participated before, I said OK. Because it is a good cause, because I do want to do some good in this world, because I didn’t want to find something else to do or be alone in India for two weeks.

So we left early on Friday to teach local children in Setrawa, India.

Now, I’d rather clean toilets than teach children. It’s not anything against the kids. I love kids. In theory. But I’m not used to them. I don’t know how to interact with them. And teaching anyone anything makes me nervous. School of any sort makes me nervous.

I was the girl who never volunteered to go to the blackboard. Who was always too scared to raise her hand in class. Who got low participation marks in every subject.

It’s not you, it’s me.

As soon as Jaime and I arrived we were thrown into things: coming to the school in the middle of the “butterfly” class for untouchables who had never before attended school.

The children were lovely and attentive and eager. They were simultaneously thrilled to be learning, to be showing off their skills and fascinated by the two new Westerners present.

But when we sat down in a circle for share time – sharing our favorite colors, animals, fruits – I panicked because, when put on the spot, I can never come up with answers to things. Yes, even things as simple as “My favorite fruit is…”

And when the students were practicing their capital letters I had no idea how to explain to a girl that she’d mixed up the placement of W and X. Or that there is more to the alphabet after H.

How am I supposed to teach a child anything?

It’s not you, it’s me.

After class, Jaime and I were introduced to the local woman we’d be staying with and toured our new home.

We were set up with two cots in a room that almost looks to be the kitchen. There’s a thick concrete counter, there are boxes of water jugs, tea cups, metal canisters.

They showed us the squat toilet, explaining that we’d have to keep our toilet paper in a plastic bag and then burn it all at the end of our stay.

The English woman who was showing us around kept asking if we were OK with everything. And we were. Honest. I really don’t care where I sleep or where I pee as long as I feel welcome and secure. And I felt both right away with this woman and her family.

But later that night, when the family and friends – a seemingly endless amount of people – wanted to constantly ask us questions, when I had to continue to lie that Jaime was my brother (I’m really wondering if anyone possibly believes that), when I couldn’t go into my room without a knock from another child wanting to see what I was doing, when I just wanted a moment alone, a moment of peace, I was just overwhelmed.

It’s not you, it’s me.

In the afternoon we visited another village. One full of children who had no education and who were not used to seeing westerners. The children spent the entire time jumping in front of my camera, pulling my arm, patting my butt. I felt claustrophobic and violated and when I got into the jeep heading home I couldn’t hold back my tears.

It’s not you, it’s me.

We arrived back at the school towards the end of the afternoon class. These were children who were in school and came to learn more after. They are aged 5 to 15 and are of all different levels.

I wandered between the class’s sub-sections, observing, not quite sure what to do with myself, with them. I looked at the whiteboard and wasn’t even sure I could answer any of the questions.

It’s not you, it’s me.

These next two weeks are going to be hard for me. I know that. It will be a test of will, patience, intelligence. None of which are qualities I think I have. And my introverted personality does not lend well to constantly being around curious children. Or curious adults.

Jaime and I have already discussed the option that I could leave early if I’m not feeling comfortable. I do not have to stay. And it’s an option that I’m already weighing. But, at the same time, I’m still not used to India. It’s still not a place I feel OK in. So my other option is to take a bus back, by myself, and what, stay in a room doing nothing for a week? So, I don’t know.

I don’t feel at all comfortable in this situation, I’m just not good with kids or good at teaching. But I also know that it’s not about me, it’s about them. These kids who are being given a chance. And so I’m going to try, though I don’t know how long I’ll be able to last, or how useful I can possibly be…