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more difficult.

Like every middle class mother's son, I was brought up to believe in the American Dream. I was weaned on Horatio Alger. My mother schooled me that I could do anything that I put my mind to; achieve any goal with enough earnest effort. If I studied hard, I would get into a good university. If I applied myself in college, I could make it into graduate school, maybe study law and get into politics. Who knows, with a little luck and clean living, I might even become President of the United States.

This is the sort of nonsense that American mothers feed to their precocious youth like so many Wheaties "breakfasts of champions" to keep them out of trouble. I grew up setting goals and challenging my capabilities. I was brought up to strive for greatness. I longed to make a difference.
And so it was natural enough that I applied to join the Peace Corps while a senior in college a journalism/English major who had spent his whole life in the safe, suburban Midwest, dreaming of more. I wanted to write; knew that I could string together a coherent sentence, but felt equally sure that I didn't have anything new to say. I needed experience. I had to get out of Indiana. I longed for travel and adventure, so I sent off my application forms and waited.

After graduating from Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana, I moved back to my hometown of Indianapolis, where I sold cars for a while, edited a small Indianapolis pop culture magazine, and wrote songs for a rock & roll band. Finally, nearly 18 months after I mailed in the paperwork, I got a call inviting me to teach English as a Foreign Language to French- and Sango-speaking Central Africans.

Three jet rides and as many continents later, I found myself approaching Africa. As I sat in my seat on the aging Air Afrique DC-10 about to land in the CAR's capital city, Banqui, a liquid sickness sapped me. My stomach felt tight and I breathed out fast as the tires jerked hard on the steamy tarmac. Peering out of smudged plastic portals, I saw my first Central Africans: soldiers, not students.

Camouflaged in leopard-spotted desert fatigues, the soldiers stood legs astride at combat rest. Automatic weapons hung loosely, but eyes were sharp as they gripped the new arrivals with suspicion and menacing stares. Adventure was one thing, but as we came to a stop in what would be my home for the next two years, it occurred to me that I had gone too far.

I landed knowing virtually nothing more about the CAR than

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