Que Padre!

Que padre! = How cool!

The city of Monterrey, Mexico celebrated Father's Day with a free festival in the downtown center. I'm here on loan (temporary duty) from Juarez (more on that another time) and spent a nice mid-day observing how Mexico spends this muy macho, muy padre day. It starts like any Sunday in Latin America... with the cathedral. Very pretty, but naturally that's not where the action is. It's across the street in the plaza. Come take a look:

Unlike the Mother's Day celebration in my Juarez neighborhood, this celebration was distinctly masculine.

Meet the height requirement? You can join the Fuerza Civil and get kitted out with all this gear like this guy. Or this one:

Stroll a bit further into the heart of things and you'll find the feats of strength, like the use-the-sledgehammer-and-ring-the-bell machine, or el toro bronco, also known as easy methods of public humiliation. But not for this guy:

Once you've worked up a good appetite, it's time for some carne asada provided free and prepared on one of the dozens of grills all fired up at once:

Plate in hand, it's time to enjoy the entertainment. Why it's thumping music and dancing scantily-clad girls, of course!

Finally, what dudely event is complete without some vehicular muscle?

The crowd of men (example above) was truly enjoying themselves, but this IS Father's Day after all, so let's not forget the point of the day. It's to celebrate fatherhood, which is impossible without the kids, and there were plenty on hand who certainly weren't left out of the fun:

(Playing IN the fountain? What?! We weren't allowed to do that. Man, I grew up in the wrong country.)

And within the celebration was also blooming the possibility of future fathers:

Que Padre!

The EFM Work Situation: Post Two

The following are two different views on what it's like to be an Eligible Family Member (EFM) with experience in two posts and one extended FSI training stint. I've edited my husband's words only a teenie bit, but I wanted to present them semi-raw so you all could hear his voice, instead of translated through my thoughts. For more views on the subject, look to the list on the lower right for other EFM blogs. 

She says:
One of the most challenging parts of a life in the Foreign Service is considering what the lives of your children/spouse/partner/pets will be like. My husband and I came into this new chapter of our lives each 100% on board with the idea of living abroad and moving every two to three years. It has been something we've always wanted, so there was no convincing or pleading with him i.e. "Guess what honey, I just joined the Foreign Service and that means that you'll be moving to..."  

However, even given this nicely-set stage, the road has been far more difficult for him, and therefore us, than expected. It started with a five-month separation as I trained to be an OMS in Washington before Post #1. His eventual arrival was followed by six months of frustrating unemployment as he applied for every job he qualified for at the Embassy, to no avail. (If you'd like, you can read about this time in my first posting on the subject here, and the second posting here.) As an experienced high school teacher, he was able to tutor American children from the Embassy community after school, which was good work, but certainly not full time. Finally, with a one-month intensive training program under his belt, he found work teaching English to executives in Bogota. He had steady work, although again not full time, a sense of an independent life with new friends outside of our Embassy community, and he got to know more about Colombian life from his students. Well paying? Not really, but that wasn't the point. Unfortunately, he was just settling into his routine when we got the call to return to FSI for my A-100 course. 

During the six months I was at FSI, he was able to take the basic Consular course ("ConGen") for six weeks, plus a Mexican border area studies course for one week and a smattering of day-long family-member classes. He decided not to pursue the offer of a long-time substitute teacher position at the local school district in exchange for the potential long-term benefits of having the ConGen credential, which is good for five years. 

We've now been in Juarez for four months, and I'm very happy to report that he has found work at the Consulate after three months of frustrating and seemingly senseless bureaucracy. Three months may sound like a short time to wait for a good, full-time job, but please don't forget that he hadn't been working since we left Bogota last July. So really the waiting was ten months and was further compounded by the still-fresh memory of what the seven months of applying, interviewing, waiting, waiting some more, and finally being disappointed felt like. Yes, his gamble of turning down the paying work in Virginia paid off in that he is capitalizing on the ConGen investment now, but that was truly a gamble. His job within the Consular section is interesting, he's learning things he never knew before and will soon be cashing a regular paycheck. Our sections are far enough apart that we don't bump into each other at work all day, and he's learning things I don't know about, which can make for more interesting dinner conversation. 

In looking ahead to Post #3, which I'm always doing even though we're only 12.5% of the way through this current tour, he's already saying that he doesn't know if he can stomach another six plus months at FSI without work. Learning a new language will take at least that long, so either we stick with English or Spanish-speaking posts, therefore really limiting our horizons, or I risk the negative effects of a severely bored and under-utilized spouse pacing an Oakwood apartment for months on end (something the cats are voting for - they like the company). And what if our next post requires learning a one-country language, like Greek, or Azeri, or Finnish? With few sections offered for these "boutique" languages, spouses often have a hard time getting a space-available-basis seat in class and therefore have to head to post with zero or little language ability to their new country. Or, if he were to be offered language training, he'd have weigh being employed temporarily in Virginia (if possible) with the benefits of being able to speak whichever language. 

In any compromise such as this, there are going to be things that turn out less-than-ideal, and people who have to sacrifice. Having a family means making sure that the sacrifice isn't always on their side. My day dreams of serving one post in each of our bureaus and living in wintry lands, deserty lands, tropical islands, bustling metropolises and places that nobody has heard of - all in my Consular cone - will probably not come to fruition. That's just part of the package of having a family in the Foreign Service. 

One of my coworkers, whose wife lives in the US and continues her career while he serves in Mexico, told me that once he gets his next bid list, he plans to cross off all the posts where the timing won't work for his transfer schedule and then send the list to her to pick her favorites. I think he's onto something in making that plan, and offering the proverbial "trailing spouse" some of control over this life is a wise choice. 

We're hoping that the warnings of our more-experienced FS friends are true: that the first posts are the hardest for spouses as they try to gain work experience and training that will grease the wheels for further jobs. We look forward to having two paychecks again, and for him to feel more of an equal part of this equation. 

My recommendation to anyone still on the outside and considering coming in is to please consider all these things before thinking about dragging a perfectly nice spouse/partner/family off into this life, as it really only gets more, not less, complicated. Complicated does not necessarily mean "worse," just not as straightforward and simple as perhaps your life now/previous life. I'm confident that in the end, when the day-to-day frustrations and gripes have faded, like the memories of how much you love eating hot dogs and then riding the county fair roller coaster, we'll say it was all worth it. Then we'll drag out another photo album and bore you with more stories of places and faces all over the world...

He says:

I would add that while you (the FSO) arrive at a new post and start working on day one, it seems typical that a spouse, even if there is a job opening just fortuitously waiting for them, still has to spend the weeks or months applying, interviewing, and waiting for the local HR to give them the go-ahead.  

I would also say that the lucky spouses have something truly independent and/or telework related. We have friends whose spouses are continuing their work editing magazines, translating documents, and selling high-end bicycle parts. And I often reflect even now on how I would probably be enjoying the roving-around lifestyle more if I felt more connected to the local culture, e.g. working on the local economy, which is actively, if not passively, discouraged and discouraging.  And how (even though you don't tolerate me saying) that as an EFM you are never really "in the club" among the consulate/embassy FSOs and the whole FS culture.  Hence the popularity of our lunchtime "bored meetings" with the other unemployed EF-Men while you all were at work. The Family Liaison Office and Community Liaison Office (CLO) and everyone tries to help as they can and be hail-fellow-well-met, but when the rubber meets the road, EFMs are looked over.  I think that's a holdover from the Julia Child days of planning cocktail parties for the husbands and important guests.

I think it's good for EFMs to have a long list of "well, I could...."

I could teach English: few jobs at low pay

OK, I could volunteer at local charities and missions: but not in the city's danger zones - you know, where most the charities are.

OK, I could take the separate maintenance allowance and live and work in El Paso: why even be in the FS?

OK, I can just keep house and explore: and go broke and clinically depressed

OK, I can just focus on raising the kids....oh wait, ours are already in college.

I'm happy to have the job because I need the money and mental distraction, but I can't say I'm overjoyed at getting secretary-butt doing 40 hours a week of data-entry. It bugs me to think I am losing what little Spanish I had, and looking at the prospect of learning about my surroundings only through happy hours and CLO events.  Waah-waah--I guess what I'm saying is that it really takes an effort, not just for EFMs but for all, to work at reaching out and making some memories outside the consulate and knowing people besides the other Americans.

Bottom line is that it's easier with lowered expectations, putting pride and careers aside, and just doing whatever, wherever.  Another bottom line is that it seems that 8 out of 10 EFMs have hard-luck stories, but that they are all very different hard luck stories.  It's different for everyone depending on their background, their expectations, their character, and then how lucky they get.

What kind of hors d'oeuvres would you like for your friends tonight, honey?

Got Quejas?

Quejas = Complaints

There's something I find very funny about Ciudad Juarez. All the local buses have painted on their rear doors: Quejas? And a phone number. It's something like, "How's my driving?"  But I prefer the Mexican version because it acknowledges the obvious motive for someone to jot down the number in traffic, and doesn't try to fool the reader/fellow driver into believing that some people might be calling to say, "That driver was being so cautious; he didn't cut me off once!" It just says, if ya' don't like what you see - here you go - call the number; we're ready.

But I have a different take on it. I think this number should be used to complain about, oh, just about anything one feels like. They should staff the phone line with sympathetic operators who will just listen, agree, and say meaningless things like, "I know, I know! But what can ya' do about it?" or, "Mmm hmm, no kidding, I agree!" 

If you'll allow me, I'd like to get on that line for a bit, because I think I could come up with a few local quejas myself. So, Mr. 616-45-19, here's what I'd say:

• Ay this desert climate! Days after arriving into the high Chihuahuan desert my fingertips began to wrinkle and haven't unfolded since. Have you ever gotten Super-Glue on your fingertips by accident and for a while you can't feel anything right? Yeah, that's what it's like all the time for me. And yes, I use lotion. I use Norwegian Sailor hand cream. I use Working Hands stuff that only diesel mechanics need. I slather my hands in bag balm every night before turning off the light. (Naw, cat hair doesn't stick to bag balm...). NOTHING HELPS. My hands re-plump slightly overnight, but as soon as they feel this dang desert dryness and hard water in the morning, it's Prune City all over again.
• Which brings me to the hard water. Water should not leave stains on surfaces, it's water after all, right? It's supposed to CLEAN things, not mark them. White high-tide lines mark all our sinks, shower doors, stainless steel stove top and tub tiles. And have you seen my flat, dull, dried-out hair? My god! And it makes some salty tea! Geez.
• Can I talk about the roads now? I mean the actual surface of the roads, not the drivers or city layout. The combination of constant sun and high temps, lack of rain, dust, motor oil and tire rubber has burnished the Juarez streets to a high sheen akin to glazing a ceramic tile. Because of this shiny smooth surface, the car tires squeal at every move. Going from 20 to 6 mph to carefully turn into your driveway? SQUEEEAAALLLL!  Making a U-turn at 12 mph? That'll sound like a bank robber getaway car, for sure. And it's not only the sound, it's also the glare that comes up off the streets, obliterating any lane lines. For some reason, the El Paso streets don't squeak and shine like this. There must be some secret ingredient in the paving materials here that cause even the softest of new tennis shoes to squeak-squeak-squeak as one walks down the road. 
• Spiders and roaches and scorpions - Oh My!  So far, we haven't seen a scorpion in the house or yard yet (sound of hearty knocking on wooden dinner table in background), but pretty much all of our coworkers have. One, in fact, took a picture of the nastiest, scariest looking thing.  This isn't his actual picture, but it looked just like this. Yeah, it was dark black and looked like it could surely could drop a cow with a single sting. Actually, my coworker later learned that this was the harmless type that ate other bad bugs in the yard, but my goodness, would you have waited around to find out if it were friend or foe? Not me. 

• Did I mention we also have black widow spiders and big ole' roaches here? I've only seen the latter so far, a half-dozen of the buggers have wandered into our kitchen from outside, but we've been warned about the former. I refer to our garden shed as the Benevolent Home for Spiders and Scorpions and don't open the shed without first banging on the door and loudly announcing my presence. It's only a matter of time...

• The wind! Dust storms wind winds of 50 mph regularly blow through the region during the springtime. After the events in Oklahoma and Texas one could hardly call this a true queja, right? But I'm going to anyway. The fine dust and sand is picked up in a hot wind and blasted against man, beast, home and car radiator. What's the best way to remove paint from a house? A sandblaster, of course! So that's what is happening to our door frames and window trims on a continual basis. But what about applying that sandblasting effect to softer things, like skin and eyes? Mmm hmm, you got it. The first two months here found me in the ophthalmologist's office more than once for various eye problems due to this dusty, furnace-like wind. 

Okay, it's time to get off the Quejas bus and back to reality. Thank you for listening; I feel much better.

Family Time

I've mentioned before that I've done very "American" things here in Juarez that I never did while living in the US (going to Wal-Mart, for example). To that list, I can add that the neighborhood where we live now is far closer to the suburban American stereotype (even from the 50s!) than any place I've lived before. The streets are wide, rollerblading-smooth and in the evenings, lit by attractive wrought-iron lampposts. There are three small parks, the largest of which happens to be in front of our house. Last weekend, this park was the site for the annual Kid's and Mother's Day neighborhood fiesta. We'd seen the signs posted for the 70s and 80s-themed dance that was going to happen at 8pm, but we didn't notice that the whole shindig was to start at noon.

The inflatable bouncy castle and wading pool being set up tipped us off. From then came the face-painting station, the frozen-fruit treat vendor and the nice teenager with his horse giving rides around the block to the kids. By afternoon, I couldn't resist and was out meeting neighbors and enjoying the scene. One of my co-workers was there with her family and as she introduced me to every single family within view, it became clear just how close this community is. Soon the tug-of-war games began: fathers vs sons (the fathers won), mothers vs daughters, boys vs. girls (the girls won) etc... At one point, when the young men were losing to their larger, stronger fathers, the teenage boy on his horse grabbed the end of the rope, wrapped it around his saddle horn and tried to bring it home with the strength of his horse, but it just made his saddle slip to the side and the dads won anyway. During each bout, the families cheered and yelled from the sidelines and I laughed like a 10 year old. After enough hands were blistered and people were dragged across the grass, the heavy rope was then used for double-Dutch jump rope, with all hands jumping in again. When was the last time you saw grown adults, some (inexplicably) in costumes playing jump rope? An entire day devoted to just hanging out with the family and doing things that kids like - it was so nice to see. Nobody was checking cell phones; there weren't sullen teenagers sulking in corners with their headphones on; everyone was involved and enthusiastic. 

Neighborhood party: Juarez-style

After sunset, the dance floor (previously the volleyball and basketball court) came to life with the hired DJ and lights, and the mothers retreated home to change into their best 70s and 80s gear. The fathers, one of whom owns a butcher shop nearby, started up a kettle drum of chopped meat "al pastor" (seasoned pork) and the food began to arrive in waves. The fixins' table held the obligatory salsas, chopped onions and cilantro, reams of tortillas, and another table was covered in pies and cakes and dispensing coolers full of fruity drinks for the kids, with chests of beer for the adults nearby. 

A neighbor came around to each woman present and gave her a yellow silk flower corsage for her dress, as now the focus went from being Kid's to Mother's Day. Yes, a week early, but probably because the families are away this weekend and wouldn't have been around to take part. In fact, Mother's Day is such a big deal here that we got Friday off work! Even after dark, the kids still played in the bouncy castle, and there's always a handful of pruny kids shivering in the pool way past dark. 

Tim and I chatted with a good group of neighbors, hearing about their jobs and receiving offers to visit various maquilas (factories, the main industry here) where they work. They were a variety of professions, from professors to engineers to lawyers, and in a recent shift in Mexican culture, the mothers are more commonly working now than in decades past. Most spoke English better than we spoke Spanish, and all were extremely welcoming to their city and neighborhood. Even with both parents working, the strength of the family was incredibly evident. One mother told me about a weekly meeting the community has called "jovenes con valores" (youth with values) where a different parent each week gives a talk about a different value. This would be the kind of topic one would hear in a Sunday school classroom, but this is without the religious setting.  

It's normal for young Mexicans to live at home through their college years (we saw this in Colombia, too), and nobody would make the "L" on the forehead of a 28 year old still living with his or her parents. (Side note: I think that is the most striking cultural difference I hear in my daily interviews. Most young adults live at home until they are married, and depending on their economic status - sometimes even afterwards.) 

We stayed, chatting, watching, laughing and listening to too-loud music until nearly midnight. I went to bed straight away, but I heard that the music lasted for many more hours. I was so happy to have taken part in this afternoon and gotten such a view into family life here. Now I just have to remember even a portion of the names and faces we met and continue getting to know people here to deepen our understanding and appreciation of our new environment. I think we're off to a good start. 

Nos Toca

Hours after writing my last post, still enjoying a quiet Sunday at home, the phone rang. It was my supervisor to tell me that as part of the consulate's phone tree, he needed to let me know that one of our FSN (foreign service national) staff had been killed the night before. He said his name and noted that he worked in the Facilities Maintenance Department. He had been attending a kid's birthday party in his neighborhood when two trucks of men armed with long guns burst into the party and killed three men, wounding a fourth. He said his name was Victor Ochoa, and I recognized it instantly.

You see, just two weeks ago our garage door broke and Victor came out to repair it. It was 4:50 on a Friday evening, but he came out knowing that a broken garage door represents a security risk. The following Monday, he spent the whole day not just fixing the door, but completely reworking it so that it hung correctly, the springs were adjusted as they should have been and it would be good as new. That entire day, my husband chatted with him as Victor meticulously worked. They knew each other already, as it was Victor who came out a few weeks prior to repair the gas leak we'd been smelling. That time it was the clothes drier, and two previous attempts by other workmen had been unsuccessful at stopping the worrisome odor. We were so impressed with his work that I wrote an e-mail to his supervisor, asking for the full name of the nice guy who had done such great work, you know, the one who wears the cotton "Gilligan" hat? I wanted to write him a formal thank-you note, and include the head of his section. It was something I'd been formulating in my head, trying to get the right way to say it in Spanish. I figured I'd ask one of my Mexican colleagues to look it over before I sent it out; it was something I was going to get to... yesterday. 

Victor had worked for the Consulate for 15 years, since he was 23 years old. That last night, he was with his family at a neighbor's house for a kid's birthday party. Children's parties here aren't just for cake and presents and going home at 2 pm. They often last into the evening or night as the adult family members are invited, too. It was just after 10 pm when the men burst into the house with their guns, demanding to see a man who wasn't in the room. When Victor stood up to plead with the men to leave, that this was a family party with kids present, they shot him to death. His daughter had been pleading with him, "Papi, no, get down!" The next man in the room stood up to do the same, to ask why they'd done that, could they please just leave? Tragically, he met the same fate.

Why did a little girl know that it wasn't right to stand up to men with guns? What has she already seen or known of in her young life to know that? When there is so much violence in our world, it is so easy to come up with reasons why what happened to someone else won't be our personal reality. It won't happen to me because I'm not a drug dealer or cartel member. I'm not a guerrilla overthrowing the government. I'm not in the wrong neighborhood at two in the morning. I'm not in a crowded popular movie theater. I'm not in my kindergarten class. I'm not delivering books to children in the countryside. I'm not watching a world-renown athletic event. I'm not with my friends and family, quietly enjoying the evening. 

Where IS safe?

Today I walked back to work from lunch, passing through an area of the Consulate grounds where the maintenance guys often take their lunches together with an impromptu game of soccer in the parking lot. On Fridays, sometimes they have the grill going. It seems like such a great team, and I think to myself, "What a super place to work and what camaraderie they have. With all the violence and danger this region has seen, these guys are here working hard and then safely having a lunchtime game, some laughs, some carne asada and then back to work in a stable, secure environment." It makes me smile each time I see them out there.

They weren't there today, or yesterday. Instead, I found a few of them signing the condolences book that had been set up in the Consulate lobby on a table full of framed photos of Victor and his coworkers, a fragrant vase of lilies beside the book. I tried to sign that book three times, and each time I'd start to read what these callous-handed men had written to their friend, and the tears prevented me from seeing the lines in the book clearly. On my third try I was able to get out a few words and a signature, but nothing will compare with the sentiments on the pages before. 

During the morning I'm busy with interviews, distracted with the facts and faces in front of me. It's so easy to do that, and I think it's necessary and unavoidable. Hours go by and I don't think of what just happened, or what his family might be going through. But then just as suddenly, I remember, and think of his little daughter who witnessed what no child should, and I feel sick. Sick that humanity could so easily waste a life, a life full of friends, family, childhood memories, fears, hopes, talents, weaknesses. Each person we've lost recently, from Boston to Afghanistan to Juarez was full of all these things. Sometimes it's just too much to let ourselves feel as much as we could for each loss. But once in a while, one of these stories and faces is allowed in, allowed to sink into that place so real that we can put ourselves in the shoes of those left behind who were closest. Whether it's an eight year old boy in a crowd, a 25 year old American woman in Afghanistan, or a Mexican father of four who happened to be a whiz at fixing things - it's just not right that they shouldn't be here with us anymore. 

And I don't know what to do about that. 

Regarding the title:
Nos toca = it's our turn
But literally, it could also translate to "it touches us."
In this case, both are true. 

Around the World in One Week

Subtitle: Cultural Exchanges

Last weekend my husband and I decided to go to the local Alliance Francaise here in Juarez for their movie night. This is something we did in Bogota, too, and as he still likes to keep up with his French, plus we thought it would be a nice habit to get into here. We found the small private house that had been turned into a school/French center in a nice middle-class type neighborhood not too very far away from where we live. The "theater" probably used to be their living room, now with a screen, projector and about two dozen folding chairs. Two by two, others arrived until the room was at max capacity and the movie began. It was a French comedy (yes, with Gerard Depardieu - I think it's the law) with Spanish subtitles that was actually pretty good. Better, as we were able to follow along with about 92% with the subtitles. I was surprised that Juarez, who has experienced such hard times, would have an Alliance Francaise, but voila, there it was and we had a nice evening and will certainly go again. 

After the show, we headed out for dinner at a Chinese restaurant down the road. The entire staff was Mexican, but the waiter told us that the owners and cooks were Chinese and the restaurant had been around for about 30 years, and it certainly looked as if it'd been quite the place when it was new. The walls and ceilings were paneled with no-expense-spared scenes from the old country and tiled Chinese motifs. Gilded dragons and Buddhas were showcased in the corners and a large plasma screen displayed a view of some modern Chinese city at night. Even having lived in places with big Chinatowns (San Francisco, NY), this place was still probably the largest and most ornately decorated restaurant I'd been to. I ordered a combination lo mein, and was only slightly disappointed when it arrived as spaghetti stir-fried with meat and veg. Ah, it was close, and the ambiance made up for what the authenticity of ingredients lacked. 

Then last night, we headed north for a night out of dinner and a concert. After eating at a Mongolian grill, we went into the heart of old-town El Paso to find the super-funky old theater that now is the Tricky Falls club, with Bowie Feathers lounge/restaurant upstairs. The venue's logo is a cat face with whiskers, and it seems the owner named both places after his/her two cats. What's not to love, right? The opening act, which we hadn't been expecting, was a surprisingly good Brazilian carnival/samba percussion group complete with about eight capoeira performers (what would you call them?) You know, that Brazilian martial arts stuff that involves all sorts of gymnastic dance moves where they mock fighting moves without hitting or kicking each other? Their headstands, cart-wheels, jumps and kicks were well-choreographed and super impressive, as was the samba lady in full-feathered carnival headpiece and beaded hip-kerchief that she worked very hard to shimmy and shake to the relentless drums and whistles. I was amazed at the performers' strength, stamina, grace and willingness to go barefoot and full-body contact on the drink-spilled, undoubtedly sticky, and certainly-not-recently-mopped floor for so long. But hey, they were all about their craft.

The headliner was a Malian singer named Fatoumata Diawara. She came onstage in a black leather Gaultier-like bustier, fringy colored miniskirt, bright blue lipstick and slinging a red electric guitar. Starting off tamely, she grew more and more enthusiastic when little by little people got to their feet to dance in front of the small stage (mostly the capoeira group, still barefoot), which was good because the over-50 NPR-listening crowd was pretty thick in the theater, and few of us were up and movin' it it like she wanted us to. By the middle of the show, Fatoumata was also dancing, sometimes as if in a frenzied trance, wildly swinging the shells that tied off her braided hair and reminding everyone that "love is the answer to peace for her brothers in Africa." She was a very impressive singer, and backed by an equally talented band from France, the Congo and Cote d'Ivoire who wailed out their original-blues rhythms. We're still wondering how this performer got booked into such a funky old venue in sleepy downtown El Paso, TX, but we're glad she did. 

So, in one week, we were able to visit five distant and distinct cultures, each of which where at least one of my A-100 classmates is now living: France, China, Mongolia, Brazil and Mali. Not bad for not even leaving our familiar, dusty borderland. 

Old Challenges, New Locations

The Department of State has a very clever hiring process, and I've talked about this before, but I want to mention it again. To become a Foreign Service Officer, one does not have to have a particular college degree, work background, language skills or even overseas experience. BUT, one most somehow, from whatever source, possess certain personality traits and skills that can then be applied to an enormous variety of situations. That is to say, they want raw material, not necessarily pre-made and packaged employees. (This, naturally, is my take on the whole hiring process and not the official word, but I don't think I'd ruffle too many feathers by stating that.)

In my A-100 class I was surrounded by classmates with graduate degrees in public policy, international relations or public diplomacy. You couldn't swing a cat (NOT THAT WE EVER WOULD!) without hitting a former lawyer or Harvard Kennedy School of Government grad. But this kind of education is not required, and that's what I love; that's what I've been figuring out little by little.

To illustrate my point, let me offer a few examples. I've now been a Consular Officer for just over two months, not too long, right? But in my daily work, I've already put to good use a great variety of former careers (or just part-time jobs), none of which required mortgage-sized student loans to achieve:

• As a professional horsewoman, I had to hop onto unfamiliar horses all the time, especially when competing in collegiate equestrian events where we drew a horse's name out of a hat (literally!) and simply mounted up and rode that horse into competition minutes later.  Now, as a Consular Officer, the applicants come to our windows totally blind. Meaning, we have exactly zero time to review their case before their bright shiny faces are at the window, staring at us as we read through their applications. Will it be a convicted felon? A student from a third country? A retired farmer from a tiny town? Someone who has been caught and deported multiple times? We review their cases, formulate questions and make important decisions as they watch. Just like at the horse show: I have to figure out what I've got as I'm already in it, keep my focus and do the best I can. Will I get bucked off? Will the horse bolt for the jumps or will I have to kick and kick to get him going? I make my best decision and then the next person is in front of me. Like riding a jump course, it's over one obstacle and then eyes-up and ahead to the next turn, the next obstacle, doing your best to judge if it's a scary vertical, an easy cross-bar or a technical water jump - you can't dwell on what you just did, you just focus on the next, and the next and the next.

• Although I don't yet work in American Citizen Services, I am aware of what the work involves and I'm certain that my years as a civilian in the police department will directly apply. People will come to my window or call me on the duty phone in need of things like new passports, in distress after crimes or accidents, off their medications, or just to ask basic questions. They'll have to tell me things that are embarrassing and personal and I'll have to give news that can be devastating. I'll have to follow laws and procedures and know who can hear what information and what has to be kept private - exactly as anyone in any police department across the country does. (In fact, I really think any police employee would make a great Consular Officer because of the similarity of the work! Really - think about it!) I'm grateful every single day for this experience. Planning on lying to me? Bring it on - I won't take it personally! Having a hard time with your spouse/child/parent? No worries, I'll listen patiently and not judge. Confused by complicated regulations? Hey no worries, let me explain it... again. (This stuff is gold, Jerry, gold!*)

• Got 800 applicants to interview today and they're all starting to line up in the waiting room? Sure reminds me of all those mornings at ski school in Colorado when the families would pile into the ticket office to buy their lift tickets and ski lesson packages. Nobody wanted to wait in our office wearing all that ski gear, their precious vacation hours ticking away as they waited their turn at the window. We worked hard and fast as a team and the feeling of pushing ourselves without breaks to get it all done on time was exhilarating.

• Don't understand what someone's trying to tell you, but you know it's important? So you find one way, then another, then repeat, then use your hands, then watch them use their hands until finally, both of you laugh and say something like, "Oh, okay, I get it!" That was daily fare when I was backpacking in Greece, Mozambique, or even just in France and needed to find a hostel, a bus stop, something to eat or book a berth on a ferry. Yes, I did have all that fine language training at FSI and passed that fancy test, but I never learned how to say, "I embroider dresses," "I work on an assembly line making Christmas ornaments," "I'm a forklift operator," "I own a pawn shop," or "I'm a meter-maid." But that's the stuff we hear everyday and need to figure out, one way or another, and being shy or too proud to keep asking isn't the way.

• VIP visitors coming to town and you've volunteered to be a site or control officer to keep the visit running smoothly, all details worked out so that the visitors can make the most of their time and not have to worry about bags, rooms, transportation, where the next meeting is or how to make their cell phone work in wherever-country? That's where all that time you spent bartending at resort hotels, waiting for that one guest to finally leave the bar and go to their own darn room so you can clean up and go to bed comes in handy. Being able to just make it smooth, make it seem easy and let them feel welcome while inside you're just waiting until it's "wheels up!" is crucial.

In short, every life experience is like a spice that can be put into your pot and simmered, sometimes for decades, until sooner or later you find yourself drawing upon those little flavors you've picked up from here and there. I'm finding that being a FSO has been the best culmination of a lifetime of training. I'm sure that Harvard, Princeton and Georgetown do a great job preparing future FSOs, but I like the route I took and am glad that the Department of State was willing to take a chance on such a checkered, errr colorful, past.

*if you don't know what this means, you haven't spent enough hours watching Seinfeld re-runs, which is also something I recommend.