A Rose by Any Other Name…

Shakespeare. I can honestly say I hadn’t thought of the old guy in tights since my senior year of High School when we were reading Romeo and Juliet. And even then the only thing I remember is a lot of funny talking and saying one thing and meaning another. I think it might have actually been during Mr. Lang’s class that I realized I would never, and I mean never, be any good at this literary thing. In math, when you say 2+2=4 that’s what you mean, it’s great no metaphors, no similes, none of this fancy stuff, just a problem waiting to be solved. But as much as I love my math, I’ve come to realize that, unfortunately, life’s got a whole lot more symbolism hiding around corners than equations. Damn you Shakespeare. So if you’re wondering where the heck I’m going with this, just hold your horses and give me a little while longer to set this up. Like I said, I ain’t no good (yes I did that intentionally) at this literary stuff.

Recently I got sick, very sick. And it wasn’t the usually Peace Corps gastrointestinal issues—though for the first time in my service I was actually hopping that it was. I had a fever, a really high fever. No coughing. No sneezing. No congestion. No rash. No GI distress. No nothing. Just a nice and high fever that occasionally would decide to turn into a lack of fever and leave me trembling and cold. I thought it had to be whatever was going around my town until I realized that everyone else who had a fever was also a human snot container. I took a deep breath in and then blew it all out through my nose…nope. Clean. It wasn’t the same cold that was going around. I gave it 2 days to go away on itself. I slept, a lot. The second day I actually slept for 18 hours that day. I had no appetite. I had to remind myself to eat, I’d start eating a sandwich and lose all interest in eating 2 bites in. While my dog loved this trend—more sandwiches for him-- that’s when I knew I had to be sicker than even I was letting on.

I decided to call out doctors. I somehow dragged myself out of bed to walk to the public phone. My head was throbbing, my arms felt as though they weighed 20lbs each, and according to everyone that I passed I was as “red as a cooked shrimp.” After talking to the doctors we were still clueless as to what I might have. The only plausible cause would have been my recent trip to Tumbes…and I didn’t like the sound of that. To fill in the people not associating Tumbes with Mosquitoes like us Peru-Peace Corps volunteers: Tumbes has a Ton of mosquitoes, and therefore dengue and malaria. So as I said, I didn’t like the sound of either of those. We decided to feel it out for another day, see if the fever went down with Tylenol, and go to Chiclayo if it got any worse. I was to call the doctors in the morning and let them know if I was better or worse.

I woke up the next day in a puddle of my own sweat, a fever of 103, and a throbbing headache. I did some math and realized that the phone doesn’t open until 9, the bus to Chiclayo leaves at 8…I had a decision to make without the doctor’s advice. If I waited to talk to them, I’d be stuck and sick in my site for 2 more days until the next bus out of town if I got worse. Then I thought a little more and realized I couldn’t really get much worse and still be moving…so I packed up some stuff and went to wait at the bus stop. I hadn’t reserved a seat, so I was just hoping that I looked as bad as I felt and that would get me out of Nanchoc and into Chiclayo.

It worked. The second the bus stopped the bus driver, usually a rather unobservant man (which his 2 accidents should attest too…and should make me weary to take his bus, but it’s the only option) said, “Wow gringa, you look horrible.” I wish I had some smart comeback for that, but the sheer act of moving was taking up all of my thinking power. I asked if there was room on the bus, and they gave me the front seat. Now, If I had know that all I needed to do to get the best seat on this bus, where we are usually packed in like sardines, was to be this sick…well I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t be sick more often. Not only did I get the good seat, they KICKED someone out of said seat so I could have it. I would have been more impressed if I didn’t feel like poo.

The bus ride was horrible. It’s a hot bus ride even without the fever this time of year. I felt even worse on the bus than I did in my bed in Nanchoc. The whole trip went by in a blur, and the next thing I knew we were at the bus stop and I was sweating buckets in the seat. I got up to climb over the seat (yeah that’s how we get out of the front seat) and…yep, those of you who know me probably would have seen this coming… I fainted. I managed to play it off unbeknownst to me, no one saw me starting to get up, and so no one noticed me faint. The guy who works on the bus shook me awake and helped me off the bus. They got me a cab and I made it to my hotel. I was then sent to the Chiclayo doctor, a medical office located (thankfully) 3 blocks from my hotel. I gave tubes of blood, swabs, poo and pee samples, and waited for the results. They didn’t have the Dengue test, so we were just going to rule everything else out and see.

I felt worse the first day I was in Chiclayo, but then started feeling a little better the next day. I called to get my test results, and of course they didn’t have them. My doctor tried to speed up the process…but it was no use, I had to stay until I heard what I had. The next few days passed much like the days in site; I spent way too much time in bed and was hot flashing like a 50 year old woman. The only improvements: cable TV and internet. But with each day I started feeling better, so that was a good sign right?

Finally we got some results back, all my blood work seemed to be normal, and it just said I had a virus. We had figured so much while I was in site, I was a little mad that I had given that much blood and that’s the only information we got out of it…not cool. I waited around some more, and the rest of the tests came back normal, just a virus. So I was told that I “either have dengue or a virus that wants’ to be dengue when it grows up.” Not exactly the good news I was hoping for. Dengue has no treatment other than sleeping and resting, and the mystery virus has nothing better. So, my means of getting better were nothing but what I’ve been doing…fun?

I decided I can sleep with the best of them at site, so I got on the next bus to site and headed home. I slept a lot better in my own bed, and it was nice being with my friends at site again. It had gotten a little lonely sitting in the hotel room all day. When people asked me what I had, I just translated what the doctors had told me. Then for some reason, Shakespeare’s “a rose by any other name would smell just a sweet” line came up in my head. Except I heard “a virus by any other name will suck just as much."

Random Collection of Stories too Short to be Their Own Blog

YAY I Won! …Now What?

I recently held a raffle for a blender. I was in dire need of raising money so that I could buy paint for a mural project. After running through the ideas of different fundraising ideas, the raffle seemed to require the least amount of work. Well turns out it was more work that I had originally expected. It’s harder than one might think to sell a S./1 raffle ticket during a town party, apparently S./1 can buy you a lot of candy for a whining kid. But after a long day I sold all 200 tickets, leaving me with a S./140 profit for paint! Score. We held the raffle and a woman who lives in a caserio without electricity won. Hmm, well yay she won…but now what’s she supposed to do? I think she only helped me out and bought a ticket because I’d be using the paint with her kids. She said not to worry, they’re supposed to be getting electricity by the end of the year (no matter that’s what they said last year as well…)

So a week and a half later I got a knock on my door. I was early in the morning, around 6am and Dona Julia wasn’t in town, so I wasn’t expecting any visitors. I opened the door and it was Jose, the son of the woman who won the raffle. “Good morning Yeni,” he said with a grin, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” I couldn’t think of a reason why not so I asked what the favor was. He pulled the blender out of a bag along with 5 bananas and a can of milk. “Can I use your electricity to make our juice?” Oh it was just too cute so I said “of course” and brought him and his supplies into the kitchen. We blended up the bananas and milk and then realized a fatal flaw in his planning. He’d biked the 20 minutes to blend his juice and forgot a leak proof container. After thinking for a few minutes I let him borrow a Tupperware of mine and he left with a big smile and his goods in a bag. An hour later he was back at the door with my washed Tupperware and a thank you message from his mother. It was just too cute.




Copy Cat

There is a girl in the 5th grade of Primary school who thinks I’m the coolest thing since sliced bread…and believe me, sliced bread is still a pretty big deal here in Peru. Her name’s Jenny (go figure) and she lives in one of our caserios on the other side of the river. Since her parents are somewhat worthless and her older sisters have long since left the house (well, the town for that matter) she has very little options for a female role model. Now normally I would have hoped a teacher, a neighbor, or another kid in the neighborhood could take this role model position off my hands—but the teachers are only there to receive their pay checks and could care less about teaching, all of her female neighbors never finished primary school, and the older kids hate school. So I guess I’m better than those options right?

Jenny’s always been slightly different from the other girls according to the teachers, she’s “weird” because she likes to play soccer with the boys instead of volleyball with the girls and she actually seems to enjoy math and science portions of her class (however lacking they might be at this school). So basically she was a girl after my own heart before I even met her, soccer playing math geek sounded very familiar to me being the math major tomboy that I am. So I invited her to my math tutoring class on Tuesdays, it’s usually for the kids who are behind in their classes from 1st to 4th grades but I figured I could find something harder for her to do. She’s now finished with her 5th grade math text (a whole 3 months before the school year ends) and has moved on to the 6th grade text.

This past week she showed up at tutoring sporting a Camo Fox Racing hat. Now I will say that this hat is most defiantly of the black market variety, but still, this girl had to have put in some hard hours looking for a camo hat in Peru. I’ve only ever seen mine and one in the airport when the NCSU students came through town. She walked in the door with a grin, trying to hold back her excitement to tell me about her new purchase, but finally gave in and busted out a “Look what I found this weekend in Chiclayo!” while smiling ear to ear. She made a point to show me that they even were the same type of camo—Yes people she made sure she didn’t get the army camo, she got the woodland camo print because that’s what’s on my hat…now that’s hard core.

Needless to say, I’m impressed even if it doesn’t impress ya’ll.

Ok, Stop Drooling Now

It’s a normal trip on the late bus Sunday night heading to Chiclayo. The bus is rather empty, I have an entire seat bench to myself. It’s amazing. My hiking bag full of clothes and work stuff for a meeting in Tumbes is perched on the bench beside me, I’m listening to my iPod and eating my baggie of dinner my host mom sent me with (a potato and tuna) just basking in the seat all to myself. It’s rare to have that much space on public transportation, let along transportation from my site…

I should have known it wouldn’t last. We pull into Oyotun, the city closest to Nanchoc, all of a 30 minute drive. We were met by the Peruvian National Police with very large weapons (They pack heat during parties), they checked our identifications and then we were on our way to the plaza to pick up more people. Next thing I know we’ve managed to squeeze at least 15 other passengers on this bus, putting the head count well above the maximum capacity (or so I thought) of 25. My bag has now been moved to my lap, there is a drunk guy who REEKES of bad Peruvian beer squishing me against the window. We are still trying to figure out how we’re going to fit all of these people on the bus. Kids are sitting on towels on the floor between the aisles, there are 4 grown men sitting 2 and 2 (2 in the laps of the other 2) in the front seat with the driver-- which has left the driver’s wife and 1 year 8 month old daughter seat less. Since my seat was the first one by the door, to accommodate the long gringa legs that I have, of course I was the most likely to be chosen to hold Angie (the baby). Not to mention that I’m the only one in the front of the bus within handing distance that Angie knows. So now I have the hiking bag in my lap, a baby against my chest, a drunk half asleep/squishing me into the window, and 3 drunks sitting in the doorway, one using my knee as an armrest. I shouldn’t have jinxed the empty bus by being happy.

So 1 hour later everyone that is touching me is now drooling…on me. Now I’m ok with a baby drooling on me, especially when it’s a cute baby, but the grown adults, not so cool. The cutest part of this story, other than Angie of course, is that everyone assumed that she was my child. Angie’s mother is very light skinned and has light hair, thusly the baby has a very gringa-like features—which lead to such confusion. So after a long while, long enough for me to completely loose all feeling in BOTH my arms, Angie begins to cry. Then all the women on the bus get really confused as to why I start looking around the bus. Then I explain that the baby that is in fact in my arms is not mine, and if they can see the driver’s wife behind the wall of drunks to get her attention (yeah it’s that loud on my bus that you can’t hear the baby cry). Next thing I know I’d trying to figure out how to lift Angie without dropping her, due to my arms being asleep. After a few seconds of contemplation, finally I manage to lift her over the wall of drooling drunks and into the safety of her mom’s arm and she stops crying.

Now if I could have only gotten the drunk off my shoulder and the other one off my shoe the bus trip would have almost returned to normal. But then 30 minutes later Angie is back in my arms as her mom is collecting money from all of the passengers. And I got a 50% discount for my babysitting duties. All and all, not too bad of a bus ride into town…I could do without the drunks if it happens again.

This is Angie:

The Year in Review

First day of Peace Corps: Sept. 10, 2008

First day in Peru: Sept. 12, 2008

First day of official service: Nov. 28, 2008

First day in site: Dec. 1, 2008

Cell phones lost: NONE! Dern, I just jinxed myself didn’t I?

Books read: 6 finished, 3 started (one’s in Spanish). And for a non-reader that’s a lot.

Favorite book read: I Was Told There’d Be Cake, Sloane Crossley, best book ever for the non-reader

Most days gone without showering: 6, 4 days of the Inca Trail + transportation strikes + spending a night in a train station + arriving in Cusco at 3am and being too tired to shower. Yeah I smelled

Guilty pleasure: eating chocolate and watching Grey’s Anatomy

Favorite Peruvian Culture: “Invitar”ing people to food. Whatever you are eating, you always share (invite) with everyone around you. Eats up a bag of cookies really fast, but makes you feel great afterwards.

Debit cards lost: 1, but it totally doesn’t count, the machine ate it. Not my fault.

Worst habit acquired: putting too much sugar in my hot drinks (tea, chocolate) I’m working on that.

Best thing received in the mail: It’s a tie between 205 toothbrushes from my high school for a project and anything and everything chocolate that arrives.

Why you love your site: The people have amazingly beautiful hearts who have genuinely accepted me into their community and I am honestly sad that a whole year has passed this fast.

The best compliment you’ve received in Peru: “Look, it’s a girl from Argentina! They’re so tall in Argentina!” Yeah, when I don’t talk they think I’m Argentinean and not American. Beat that.

Favorite Peruvian Dish: Aji de Gallina. Yummy spicy chicken goodness.

Most terrifying creature found in your room: a scorpion! Then there was the snake, rat, and the neighbor’s crazy cat.

First place you go in your capital city: Plaza Vea (Peruvian walmart if you will)

First person you call on your cell phone: it rotates between Erica L., Robyn,Sarah Walker, or Kate. I’d die in this country without them.

First person you Skype: Mom and Dad

Most useful item brought with you: My hiking bag

Most useless: All that business casual wear. WTF Peace Corps?

Question you are asked daily: “Why are you so red?” and “te enseñas?” (are you used to it here yet?)

Funniest thing said by a Peruvian child: “dude, you have a TON of mosquito bites,” in reference the pimples the Peace Corps issued sunscreen gives me. I hate you NoAd
Weirdest Health Problem: oh, just the usual day long bathroom hugging experiences and some gastritis.

Projects Started: 7

Projects still working on: 3, what can I say? My town’s real big on starting projects…just not on finishing them. Which helps explain the half constructed bathroom at the school…

Worst over-generalization about the United States made by a Peruvian: They think we only eat canned and microwaveable food, and I’m not talking about convenient canned veggies or the occasional popcorn, they think meals come in cans ready to serve...that just sounds un-tasty and freeze dried.

Favorite pastime in site: playing soccer with the little boys showing them that girls can do anything they can do…and better (let’s ignore the fact that I’m like 10 years older than most of them, I’m a gimp. That evens the playing field)

Favorite past time in the city: finding any movie on cable in English and eating yogurt (we don’t have dairy products in my site) with cereal…yes I’m a dork

Most important self-realization made: I’m way stronger than I thought I was
Best quality learned: The ability to laugh at myself when I completely mess up—be it saying a word wrong or falling flat on my face, I’ve done both more times than I care to admit.

Best purchase in Peru: market bags, amazing woven colorful plastic wonders, no trip to the market could be completed without them. Oh and a yoga mat I use as much for yoga as for taking naps on really hot days when the bed is just not an option.

Coolest thing learned: You can actually grow a tomato in a 3Lt Pepsi bottle hanging upside down just like in the info-mercials, ‘cept I’m not paying $19.99 for some pretty container.

Places visited: Lima (duh), Piura, Cusco and surrounding areas, Machu Picchu, Sipan, and it’s now apparent I need to do more traveling. That’s a sad list.

Favorite place in site: On the trail to Palto (one of my caserios) there is an overlook of the entire valley from a water tank. A sunset at that tank is breathtaking. The hike to get there ain’t half bad either.

Favorite place in Peru: The 3rd night of the Inca Trail. The campsite is above the cloud line so you can watch the sun set below you and see every single star in the Milky Way at night.

Peace Corps in one word, go: Liable.

One thing you’ll never get used to: that it’s perfectly normal to cut in line here…except when in line to buy soccer tickets.

People at site stare the hardest when: I eat raw veggies. They call me the bunny rabbit.

Greatest lengths taken for cell phone reception: one cloudy day my cell phone still didn’t have reception from the rock I usually stand on 1.5 hours from my site, so I climbed up higher (biiiiig mistake) and almost died when a snake (the poisonous kind) scared the begeezes out of me. Never again.

Your site’s Favorite American dish: Pancakes and carrot cake. Not together…but that’s a good idea.

Strangest thing eaten: a soup made from goat guts and brain/skull boiled to death and served with corn. Or possibly the internal part melody served with veggies (liver, lungs, heart, intestines, so on)…strange.

Why we live half way around the world for nest to no pay for 2 years with crap bathrooms: To see that one little kid with the black teeth start brushing them every day because he wants to have teeth that are white like the gringa.

What we can (hardly) wait to return to in the USA: Toilets that I can flush the toilet paper in, Pork BBQ with VINAGER sauce—none of that tomato mess, my bed, my family and my dog, a sandwich loaded down with peanut butter because I no longer have to ration it out, huge salads, being average height again, playing field hockey and lacrosse, sandwiches (yes I meant to say that twice), and last but certainly not least: hearing English every day.


Photo best ofs:

Favorite moment captured:


Wraps-Peru-up-in-one-photo Photo:


Coolest picture taken:


Cutest kid:


Project that rocked: facebook2.jpg


“Oh my God Peace Corps” moment:


Best dancing Photo: (a tie) DSC_0315.2




Favorite place for a sunset:


WTF moment:



Cutest back-story:


Half-way through the marathon of service, here’s to one more awesome year!

Eh, What’s Up Doc?

7:45pm on a Wednesday night. There’s an endless list of things that I could be doing. I could be eating dinner with some friends. I could be watching the stars/planes fly by to Lima. I could be cursing the neighbor’s rooster for being so dumb he’s crowing at night. I could be helping with an emergency at the health post (there’s been a lot of them recently). I could even be writing a literary masterpiece (ok that last bit was a WAY over exaggeration). Oh but the actual action is just so lame, I’m not even sure if I want to write it. Because in me publishing this on the internet my inner dorkiness will take over my outer dorkiness and label me an official dork. And I’m just not sure if I’m willing to go official with my dork status.

OK, before I get carried away and spill the beans let me give some background to explain the action that got me to where I am now. Yes, this is a last ditch effort to save the dork label, so bear with me.

I was reading “I Was Told There’d Be Cake, “by Sloane Crosley (what could be quite possibly my greatest find at the Peace Corps’ Library), it’s a conjunction of semi-non-related essays revealing the author’s rather abnormally-normal life. But one line stuck with me after completing the book in a record time for me (the non-reader) of 1 day (it was really a 4 hour bus ride and a 2 hour hide in my room and read session). “Chastise your inner 12 year old, who is only supposed to rear her head in the face of kittens and swing sets.”

Now, why would I go and do such as thing as chastise my inner 12 year old? However bad my actual life was at 12 years old (I shudder to think, Middle School was NOT good to me) I don’t think that should keep me from digressing to that mind state every-now-and-again. That being said I’m not all for busting out my supply of who knows how many Beany Babies that are in the attic back at the house and playing with them—I am however a-OK for going through and separating the 4 I want to keep from the others and giving those away to the needy. Some 12 year old needs a stuffed animal damnit! Nor am I willing to take out those rollerblades from the garage and start using them, I will admit using them for a Halloween costume my senior year of college, that being said: rollerblades and NC State’s all brick campus on Hillsborough Hike night—not one of our smartest ideas.

But life at 12 was just that much easier. Now I never would have thought I would be in Peru, reading (of all things), and wishing once again to be 12. Ok, not really be 12. I was a klutzy kid with glasses and pimples at 12. But the mindset I could go back to just to visit for a while; back when our greatest worry was the answer to Mr. Lucas’s history homework, or if it would rain and cancel the soccer game that day. Not have to worry about things like money, jobs, laundry (I was a spoiled 12 year old, my mommy did my laundry, you’re jealous I know), relationships (or lack thereof), or if your boss hates you.

That being said, being in the Peace Corps is strangely stressful. You’d think a job volunteering wouldn’t be that bad as far as the stress level’s concerned. I mean I made it through a good 4 years of college and I can honestly say I never resorted to the stress reliving activity that I did tonight. And I was studying Math! That’s a stressful course load. If you don’t believe me track down my study buddies Morgan, Grace, Thomas, and Kenny—just don’t talk to Steamboat, nothing stresses him. Stress and the Peace Corps just go hand in hand, it (in addition to starches, hello a mountain full of rice anyone?) is one of the reasons we all gain the “Peace Corps Pooch” as it’s been called. It’s the volunteer equivalent of the “freshman fifteen.”

But yes, tonight, I resorted to a new low for stress relief. I still can’t quite believe I’m about to say it…well where to start? From the beginning I guess. Well. I lied to my host mom, I told her that I had a headache and didn’t feel like eating dinner. Peace Corps code for “I just really don’t feel like talking Spanish tonight.” Then I locked myself in my room and opened my Rubbermaid-like container that holds all my “gringo food” and got out the beef jerky and chocolate. Now normally that’d be the de-stresser of the night. Beef Jerky and chocolate are 2 of the best things to de-stress. All I was missing was a Mountain Dew (God I sound like way more of a hick than I am…a fatty at that). But seeing as how there was no Mountain Dew inside my box of all things American, I resorted to the next best thing I had…

Are you ready for it? Yes, people. I started watching Looney Tunes. I had brought the DVD set that my mom gave me for Christmas one year (yes, I am an adult I swear) to Peru figuring that it’s just as good dubbed over in Spanish. Turns out, Looney Tunes is not as universal as one might think—the majority of the people I show it here to don’t like it; which brings me back to why I was watching it alone in my room…or so I tell myself. After completing the Bugs Bunny Disc 1 along with a little under a half a bar (big bar) of dark chocolate (thanks again Mrs. Brown!) and 4 big pieces of beef jerky (God I need to start running again) I realized what I had done.

Now feeling like I was an official dork, I realized how freaking tired I was. After I closed the window of the movie I looked at the clock in the bottom corner of my computer screen. Yep, it was only 7:45pm. Yes, not only had I spent who knows how long watching Bugs Bunny and eating junk food, I was also ready for bed at 7:45. My God. I was 12 years old again. At 12 I’m about 85% sure (my memory’s not the best of my Middle School years, like a normal person I try and forget it) that my bedtime was at 9:00pm, 9:30 on a weekend. Wow, so not only was I acting like a 12 year old tonight, I was acting like a 12 year old with the bedtime of a 5 year old, or that of a 75 year old…which ever.

So after feeling the compelling need to write to all of the readers of my blog, however few you might be, and share my moment of shame. My moment of letting the inner dork outshine my outer dork, I guess it’s time to actually go to bed. I figure I didn’t fight the inner 12 year old feeling. I probably shouldn’t try to hold off the tired feeling for too long either. Besides, if I stay awake I might eat more chocolate, and that would not be good for future de-stresser nights. And it’s like 8:30 now. That’s bumped me up to a 10 year old bedtime right?

Picture blog

Tooth Brushing Campaign Pictures:

Salute Your Shorts

Schwartz. It’s a hard last name to pronounce correctly. I vaguely remember learning in a German class that it is actually spelled and pronounced wrong and should be the German word for black. Who knows. All I know is that for approximately 18 years of my life (Aka all the years I spent in school and college) I’ve been called Jennifer Shorts. I was unaware of how hard it is for the average American to say Schwartz. I don’t remember ever having difficulty with it, but I guess I need to ask my parents to get the real answer for that…because I honestly don’t remember learning my last name. I remember how freaking hard it was for me to remember to spell Elizabeth. Looking back on it I can’t for the life of me see why…but I always wanted to write Elezebeth. Guess I liked the letter e a lot.

I remember there was one classmate of mine, who I hate only for this one act because otherwise she is an amazing person. But she said to me one day “Hey there Jenny Salute your Shorts.” Not sure if anyone remembers that tv program that came on Nick, Salute your Shorts, it was about a summer camp and the kids that lived there. I don’t remember anything else, just the impact of the day that she said that phrase. Since then, I’ve been called “Jenny Salute your Shorts” at least 2,000 times in my life. It’s always irritated me. I never really cared if it’s that much easier to say Shorts than Schwartz. I learned to say all the Jewish, Spanish, Czech, and African last names of some of my friends…why’s mine so hard? Akin, I’ll say yours was especially hard.

But how ever hard it is for an English speaker (a Germanic language) to say my German last name—it is SO much harder for a Spanish speaker to even attempt it. But recently every one of my students has started an unofficial competition to see who can, in fact, say my name correctly. So just try to get the mental image of Spanish speakers trying to say my name.
Eswitz
Esctich
Eswwwwwatz
Eswwwwiwwwthcs

Oh the list just keeps going on, but usually there is a face made with each pronunciation. At first they pause to think, then they build up the courage to start with an S, well really an Es because an S is never alone in Spanish, and then as they try to take over the next syllable inevitably they raise an eyebrow or shut an eye as they round 3rd base and try to take on the final syllable the Z sound. It’s an ordeal that they just try over and over again, each time I repeat it the way it should be and they try once again in vain.

Then finally one day, I did the unthinkable…I can’t to this moment even believe that I did it. I told them to say it Shorts. Not just because it’s like WAY easier to say, but because it’s a word that they actually know. Even in Spanish, Shorts is Shorts. So apparently I have made myself Jenny Shorts once again…and I spent all of college being so happy that I got rid of the Shorts. But it seems to be working. Shorts in Spanish sounds scarily similar to Schwartz with the accent. Go figure.

So call me Jenny Salute you Shorts for a little while longer. It’s just easier.