Christmas Day

Christmas Day was spent with my church family, which is basically anyone who is hanging the parish at the time. In this case it was the regulars who I spend my Sunday afternoons with and about 60 strangers. Jessica and I had decided to hold a free dinner open to anyone (the way churches in the States have dinners for the homeless) despite not being sure if there was a need for it as we were told even the worst off people around here spend holidays with their families. However, we spent the weeks leading up to Christmas handing out invitations to friends, the elderly, vendors, along with alcoholics and children on the streets who seemed neglected.

As Padre promised to cook for the dinner, I wanted a lot of people to show up since I didn`t want his efforts to go to waste. At the same time, I didn`t want to people to show up because they would mean they had nowhere else to go.

I spent Christmas morning cutting fruit for dessert and then arrived just before it was time to start serving the meal of corn tostadas, beans and chicken. I was so busy handing out food that I didn`t have time to think about where all the people where coming from. As it turned out, Father had announced the meals at the morning masses, but really it didn`t matter if the people were needy from the streets or just liked the idea of eating in Church.

The rest of the day was pretty similar to how I would spend Christmas in the United States. I washed a lot of dishes, attended Mass and participated in a few toasts. Jessica and I opened the presents from our families that we had been hiding from each other for the past few months and ate lots of chocolate.

Normally, I try to be somewhat reflective in this blog, but since it`s holiday season I`m going to give myself some time off. All the best in the New Year to everyone!

Christmas Eve

I spent many of my childhood Saturdays in my neighbor Deana's house watching TV in her parents' bedroom. The bed was soft and big, the room cream-colored, and it felt special to eat potato chips between the sheets, look at her mother Fran's clothes and spritz on her perfume. It was almost like being home except without the burdens of being at home (i.e, parents and chores) and since her parents had to work, we felt grown-up being on our own. Mostly, I was comfortable and welcome there and looking back, that's what made it special since it really wasn't so different from my own house.

Twenty years later, Deana and I found ourselves sharing a queen-sized bed again. I was visiting my sister in San Francisco and Deana drove up from Los Angeles to spend the weekend with us. This time we became children again as tagged along with my niece to story hour and her playdate, gossiped about boys and were treated to meals by my sister and her husband. Talking on the phone with Fran, Deana said how relaxed she felt there and her mother replied ''that's because you are with family.''

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Last week was my first Christmas away from my family and one of the girls from the parish, Martha, invited us to spend Christmas Eve with her family. I was a little nervous as to how I'd fit in with everyone because of the language thing and lifestyle differences, but early Wednesday morning, Martha, Jessica and I took bus, metro and van to a small town outside of Mexico City, but still in Mexico state.

The town was similar to Santa Fe in that it was filled with run-down buildings but it felt much more isolated as it lacked busy roads and contained more roosters. The three of us trekked up to Martha's home where her Mother was waiting along with Martha's teen-aged brother Arturo and niece Brenda. Immediately, she asked us what we wanted to eat and all of the 'kids' set out to buy groceries. Brenda alternated between holding my and Jess's hands as we bought street food, eggs and freshly-squeezed juice, and looked at the store with the parrot in it.

Though the family lives the way many people in Santa Fe lives--without things like heat, a living room, toilets that flush on their own and carpets --I was somewhat surprised by their poverty because Martha is always well-dressed and put-together. What they lacked materially they made up for in kindness as Jessica and I were sent to the parents' room to watch TV and sleep while they others set about preparing for dinner.

After our maps, the kids made another trek to a Wal-Mart like store filled with late Christmas shoppers. Martha quizzed us all on our favorite foods and what we wanted as presents, her little brother made jokes and gamely pushed the shopping cart and I bought Brenda a small music box that she liked listening to. Later on, when I gave it to her, she insisted that she couldn't keep it, and I was finally able to convince her that it was for her and her mother to share.

We went to 9:00 Mass--along with the whole town, it seemed. For some reason, many people brought baby dolls representing the baby Jesus as some sort of walk with them was supposed to take place. However, an hour I felt suffocated from standing surrounded by people and stepped out to get water. Brenda happened to be feeling sick as well and was outside with Martha, and Martha ordered me, Christian and Brenda to go home.

So I found myself spending Christmas Eve in a parents' bedroom with a little girl, just like I was a child again. The kids showed me their English books, I practiced the language with Christian and Brenda told me ''te quieres mucho.'' At 11:30, when everyone else came home, we had a meal of pozole (traditional soup made with corn and chicken) and ponche, though Martha made vegetables for me.

The whole day was simple and relaxing, but special because we were easily accepted by everybody and they didn't need to change their lifestyles for us. Thousands of miles away from home, I found neighbors again, ones who felt like family.

So this is Christmas...

Like many people in the United States, I correlate the beginning of the holiday season with the appearance of Santa Claus at Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Here in Santa Fe, I knew that the holidays were upon us at the parish, the Sunday before Thanksgiving, when I saw a live turkey being brought to a pen. Jessica and I were planning a Thanksgiving dinner and Padre Salvador had promised to provide the main course. What we didn't realize is that it would be brought to us live.

The turkey was named Conche, meaning shell, and during his last days he was allowed to roam about and was played with by parish members. Lupita made a plea for his life, Guillito got a kick out of showing him a big, sharp knife, and David gleefully told me and gestured that soon Conche would be slaughtered.

The day before Thanksgiving, Padre Salvador took him aside and told him it was time to fulfill his life's duty. Conche bowed his head, and then Father blessed him and slit his throat. After Padre cleaned him, Jessica spent the day stuffing, sewing and cooking him.

As a vegetarian, I wanted no part in all of it, so I mostly avoided the church that week. Everything I have reported is second-hand (or third-hand) as it was told and translated to me by Jessica. Despite its squeamy start, Thanksgiving Day turned out to be much more pleasant. A few girlfriends came over and helped Jessica and me cook a meal for about thirty people.

It seemed daunting that so many people were to show up in our small house but it was manageable as guests brought dishes and came in intervals. Our party begin at 6:00 and by 8:00, only about fifteen people had showed up, and I thought that would be it. As it turned out, twenty-five more people would show up throughout the night, and I spent much of the evening hurrying to prepare food dishes, trying to salvage meat from a poorly carved turkey and rounding up utensils and plates. Like at Halloween, celebrating Thanksgiving abroad made me feel ultra-American, as usually my own Turkey Day feasts are much more mellow.

Of course in the United States, come 10:00 the living room furniture isn't pushed aside for a congo line, salsa dancing and line dancing as it was for our party. Guests at the house included parish staff members, Javier and his friends and members of Jess's Bible study class. The latest to arrive was Padre, with a priest friend, and they were the among the last to leave as they sipped tequila and watche the dancing. While the setting and the guest list was quite different from parties I have been to in the United States, I was privy to certain romantic entaglements regarding people at the church and Javier's friends, and seeing those who paired up and those who looked on jealously made me feel as if I was back attending a house party in States.

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The next morning brought a radical change of scenery as my sister Cathy had invited me to spend a long weekend in Ixtapa at a beach resort. I took off early in the morning (leaving Jessica quite a mess to clean up) in order to go to the airport. I was somewhat nervous while waiting for my flight, as it was my first time doing something big without the aide of a Spanish speaker. I managed to catch the flight, which in only 45 minutes brought me away from chilly Santa Fe and into a tropical setting.

I met up with my sister and her family and friends at the tiny airport and we were shuttled to Club Med. The dilapidated buildings leading up to the resort reminded me of Santa Fe, while the resort was located on the edge of the beach and elaborately decorated. Meals there are all-you-can-eat, there are several open bars and friendly staff members talk with guests all day (in English!), encouraging to participate in activities such as volleyball, yoga and archery.

I felt a little conflicted before going as I am in Mexico to serve and learn from the poor, who don't have the option of going to a resort. However, a break from everything in Santa Fe was definitely rejuvenating and it helped me to reconnect with the world again by being around so many people that I could talk too.

Most importantly, I was able to see my family, particularly my niece Josie. She is speaking much more than when I saw her a few months ago and definitely likes things her way. While my instincts were to hold her and pick her up, the way I would with children at work, she likes to either be with her parents, play with her friend Taj, or follow around ''big girls'' around the age of seven. While I hate that I probably won't be able to see her much for the next two days, I am reminding myself that she won't really remember me not being around and I can use technology to stay abreast of what's happening with her.

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I returned to MexicoCity rested and relaxed, ready for the holiday season now upon everyone. The First Sunday of Advent took place while I was gone, and that meant that lights were hung and street vendors had begun selling Christmas decorations and ponche, a fruit punch made with sugar cane.

Jessica and I decided to buy a Christmas tree so Julio, one of the parish staff members, took us to the biggest market in Mexico City which has additionally been turned into a Christmas market. Mexican markets are always a chaotic experience with vendors shouting prices and offering samples and people hurrying about trying to find the best deals. Since this mercado is the city's biggest, the experience was particularly overwhelming as it must of covered two square miles of land was mobbed with people.

I mostly just tried to keep up with Julio and Jessica as they bartered to buy lights and other decorations. Frustratingly, we managed to find a Christmas tree (Christmas trees aren't hard to get in Mexico, but we wanted a small, potted one to keep all year round) but decided it was too big to carry on the metro.

Jessica had warned me that to be careful because the market is in a dangerous area of town. It wasn't until fruit seller noticed a tear in my big, black bag that I really took her seriously. Apparently, without me noticing it, someone used a razor blade to slash my bag. If it wasn't for the fact that my wallet had been on the other side of my bag, it would have been easily been stolen. It was disconcerting how close someone had a weapon to me, without me even noticing it.

Overall, the Christmas market was exhausting and kind of scary. Though it may be much cheaper to buy goods there, the overall hassle wasn't worth the price savings and I hope that was my last trip there.

Still, Jess and I wanted a tree. During a Christmas brunch in San Angel that we were invited too held by the Associates of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word, we asked if anyone knew of any places to buy a tree in the tony suburb. Two women we had only met that day ended up driving us around to several spots and walking with us on our hunt. We ended up finding a small, potted, lemony-smelling yellowish pine tree that we brought hom by taxi, which we strrung with lights and decorated with ornaments. The kindness showed to us by almost strangers made up for the bad experience at the market.

A few days later, at the Saturday market up the street from our house, we noticed a man selling several trees that looked like ours, and one much bigger and greener for only two dollars more than the one we bought. Jess bemoaned our lives, but I told her to be happy with arbolita (little tree) and he has been bringing us lots of joy.

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Christmas isn't the only reason that things have felt festive around here. December 12 was the Feast of the Virgen of Guadalupe, a day commemorating the Virgin Mary's appearance to Juan Diego in 1531.

While I associate the Virgin with peace, her holiday brought chaos to the city. Fireworks were everywhere during the days leading up to and on her feast day and I was irritated by the constant noise and nervous for the children setting them off in the streets. Additionally, cars started honking during random intervals, somehow in her honor, and I felt like the Grinch of Guadalupe as the sounds made me wish I was a missionary in some remote place without automobiles.

For two days, I couldn't go anywhere without running into a Mass. On Thursday night, I attended an outdoor Mass along with Jess's Bible class at a roadside shrine to the Virgin. Then, I joined a 30-minute procession during which a statue of the Virgin was carried along while being stopped at random Mary shrines in the street. After we returned to the original spot, men and women took turns running beneath the Virgin's veil while a mariachi band played and the family hosting the event passed out tamales (cornmeal served in husks, spicy or sweet) and ponche.

At work the next day, a group of 12 year-old students visited. From what I could gather, they were all in a beauty class and wanted to comb the hair of, dress and paint the nails of the girls. When they finished, I was struggling to suggest activities to do with the residents, who the students eyed nervously, when Sister told me to begin taking everyone outside for Mass. At a shrine to Mary I had passed the previous night, the nuns, staff members and older residents gathered for a Church service in the Virgin's honor. Again, it wasn't too relaxing as I worried about faulty brakes on the wheelchairs and one women was so upset by fireworks that she started screaming uncontrollably. Overall, the resident enjoyed the experience (and tamales at the end) and the home was filled with visiting students, which brought a lot of good energy to the grounds.

My final Mass was at a chapel on a hill, which our friend Royal brought us to on Friday night. The church was named for the Virgen and is located on about an hour away from Santa Fe on a big hill from which you can see the lights of Mexico City. The church was built over the last few decades and its modernness reminded me of home, as most churches around here are in Renaissance style.

A salsa band played behind the church after Mass and different booths sold tamales, corn, hamburgers, and liquor. The main feature of the evening was the fact that a castle was to be lit on the fire.

Though I was confused when I heard this, it turns out the the castle was a tower-like barbed wire structure on which their were wire models of a things like a star, moon, and a rooster. Fireworks were set off , over our heads, causing different items on the tower to be lit. Finally, the top of the tower was brightened, and it was, of course, the Virgin Mary. Aside from the fireworks being a violation of American safety codes, it was a fun evening that finally made me appreciate the Feast Day.

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The warm weather makes it hard for me to believe that Christmas is actually coming, and while I appreciate the sun, being away for the holidays is definitely making me homesick. I miss different places where I have lived--sometimes the warm air will remind of California and make me long to be there for the season with my sister. I also miss the snow and shopping malls of Pittsburgh, but mostly I'll walk by Christmas decorations and think of Washington, DC and wish I could be there to see the White House tree, attend parties with my friends and (thinking ahead) be there for the excitement of Inauguration. I am trying to remind myself to stay in the moment here and enjoy all the parties and different festivities, because some day Santa Fe will be one of the cities I find myself missing.

Sick Day

Today was a miserable day. I woke up with light cold symptoms, but felt worn-out and exhausted. I decided to sleep in an hour before heading to work.

After managing to get out of bed, I pulled on my last remaining pair of clean pants and then went down to the kitchen and spilled coffee all over them. I changed into less-dirty clothes, and scared myself by looking in the mirror and seeing a round puffy face, small squinty eyes, and limp stringy hair. When I tried to put my contacts in, my eyes stung so much that I had to give up. I decided that it just wasn't meant for me to go into work that day, and I went downstairs with a blanket and Spanish book.

I spent the day the puttering around, studying Spanish and doing errands. I cooked, went to the bank and did laundry. Still, I felt lonely and sick and also guilty for skipping out of work. In the past, I've managed to make it into the office with worse symptoms, so I asked myself if I truly didn't go in because I lacked the physical and emotional energy, or if the lack of a boss and deadlines was keeping me away.

All my feelings were ingredients ripe for creating depression. To counter them, I thought back to magazine articles I've read giving advice on how to snap out of a bad mood. As I recalled them, I also thought of excuses not to utilize them.

-- Call a friend -Here I don't really have any that I can carry a true conversation with.
--Go for a walk-It's smoggy and dangerous out.
--Exercise--I feel to sick to move.
--Volunteer--This one makes the guilt over not going into work come back.
--Prayer--Well.....One of the reasons that I chose this program is that a want to grow in faith. And there's a chapel in my house. Or rather, I live in a chapel, as the house used to be part of a larger church that was torn down except for the chapel that now has a my house attached to it.

In any event, there's no excuse not to pray so I spent about twenty minutes talking to God with statues of Jesus and Mary next to me, while pedestrians on the street walked past, making the sign of the cross and putting coins in the donation box.

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It makes things a bit better, but I also have to him admit that I'm dwelling on a fight I had with my ex-boyfriend. He wanted to come visit but I thought it might blur the lines of the friendship we're trying to maintain. Feeling lonely, I'm regretting the decision, and I miss the days when we were friends living in the same country and I could call him up when in a bad mood.

There are lots of reasons why things didn't work out between us, but I start listing all the things about me that make me a bad girlfriend. I skirt around from job to job, I like to go out drinking, I'm flaky and get times, directions and addresses mixed up. Mostly, I think of his biggest issue with me--that I'm not driven or passionate.

Family members and co-workers have said the same thing about me--that I have potential but need to find something to be wrapped up in. I wonder if they're right, and that's why I am sitting alone and sad. Surely, if I were really passionate about helping others, then I wouldn't let the sniffles hold me back from going to those in need. So, I decide to compile a list of things that I want (besides clean clothes and hot water) hoping it will spark a passion:

I want to go to the beaches of Greece, the villages of my ancestors in Ireland and to temples in India. I want to work on a kibbutz in Israel and teach English in a prison in America and write about my experiences. I want to go to graduate school and adopt children. I want to be in love and have someone I can always talk to. I want to learn Spanish and French. I want to feel closer to God.

It's not hard to come up with things , but I am waiting for one thing on my wish list to strike me so deeply that I am willing to pursue it all costs because it will bring me happiness. I realize that though I'm very concerned with figuring out what I want, the question I should be asking is, ''God, what do you want from me?''

This is what I hear:

I want you to love people. I want you to be happy. I want you to give of yourself. I want you to feel bad when you need to. I want you to love me. I want you to forgive yourself.

I can't criticize passion, because it's been responsible for great works of art and literature, vital innovations and political systems. But it has also led to war and murder and can cause people to neglect relationships. I think that what God is telling me is that if I wasn't born with an obsessive desire to achieve something, that's it's okay and I shouldn't try to force it. It's enough to love Him and others and when I fail to do that, he wants forgive myself.

We'll see how much better I get.

Listening to Mom

Despite the fact that I´ve never gone very far career-wise, I`ve done lots of things that look good on my resume. I graduated from one of the most prestigious universities in the country (particularly true if your definition of prestigious is expensive), I interned on Capitol Hill and I`ve worked at think tanks. During my last job I learned all kinds of things about computers, even though technology scares me. All of these things were supposed to be stepping stones or learning experiences for me to climb up the corporate ladder.

This morning while volunteering, I changed bedsheets while playing peek-a-boo with a bed-ridden women by throwing a blanket over her face. I put pigtails in the girls` hair and then took them on walks. I can`t say that many of my past work and school experiences have been too useful for what I do at the Sisters` house. Instead, lessons learned from my mom when I was less than ten years old, are what I fall back on while I work.

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Even if you don`t clean your room, you should always take the time to make your bed because it gives a sense of order to things, my mother has advised me repeatedly. When I was little, my favorite day of the week was the day I discovered my mother had placed fresh sheets on my bed. Having a tidy, cozy place to sleep made me feel better when I was alone at nights.

Now, it`s a little tedious for me to change a roomful of beds every two days at work. Though I´m generally not a very detail-oriented person, I take the time to tuck in sheets carefully and fold them crisply, because the girls spend so much of their time in their beds and I want them to feel welcomed into them.

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I had long, knotty hair hair when I was little that I hated having combed. My mother and sister did it lovingly, letting me watch TV while it was done and hugging me afterward.

The girls at work pull away and sometimes scratch me as I fix their hair. I know they don`t like being groomed and I know it has to be done anyway, so I am as gentle as possible and play with them when it`s over.

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One warm Spring day when I was nine, I was in a sullen mood as my mother took my sister, my grandmother and me to the mall. (I think I was upset because I wasn´t allowed to sit in the front seat.) My mother took me aside and told me to act pleasant for my grandmother`s sake and to say things like ``Look at the pretty flowers and, ``It`s such a nice day outside today.``

At the time, I thought it was ridiculous, though I repeated those statements to my grandmother stiffly. Now, I realize how much any sort of kind words or greetings mean to people who are infirmed. That`s why I play Peek-a-boo with girls in bed and make dolls dance in front of them. Since my Spanish vocabulary is limited, I find myself repeating ¨hola, hola, hola¨ and ¨yum, yum, yum¨ just to make the girls laugh.

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During a grumpy Summer, I spent most of my time in front of the TV alone. My mother recognized that I needed exercise and fresh air and forced me to go out for a walk with her, even though I complained the whole time.

There`s a 20-year old, skinny girl at work who can walk, but resists most of my attempts to get her out of her chair. Today I pulled her up and held her hands as she moved forward on stiff, fawn-like legs. At one point I had to lug her off the ground after she fell and refused to get up. It was awkward, but any sort of movement is vital when you barely get any at all.

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My grandmother had Altimizer`s Disease, and towards the end of her life, my mother used to say how she liked to see her enjoy her food because it was really the only pleasure she had left. I think of this today because it takes me almost an hour to feed Diana, a 25 year-old girl who chews her food slowly and lets it fall back on her plate after it enters her mouth. Of course, I`m not really sure if she even wants the plate of rice and chicken, but I keep at it anyway since she needs it and is maybe trying to savour it.

It gives me time to reflect on what I am doing, and how it differs from the corporate world. I have to admit that the qualities that I possess that make me capable of volunteering--patience and an ability to go with the flow--haven`t helped me be successful at some past jobs because they go hand-in-hand with me not having a sense of urgency about things and being disorganized.

I am worrying about my future and how ít`s going to be when I have job that requires me to contribute to the economy again, when Paulina - one of the three year-old twins who has been taken outside to play- comes in and sits on my lap while I continue feeding Diana.

Then a nun who is not quite so patient comes along and takes the plate of food away from me saying that Diana needs to hurry up and eat. After a few attempts to put food in Diana`s mouth, the nun gives up and one of the regular volunteers--a matronly, short, plump woman who wears purple eyeshadow and likes to lead grace--comes over and gives Diana baby food. Another nun walks over and chastises Diana for eating baby food when such good food is available.

I hold and carry Paulina for a while and then bring her upstairs to where the babies sleep. I stay past visiting hours and when I am supposed to go, and read to Vickie and let the twin girls fight for a place on my lap. I am tired and hungry and want to leave, but I stay because I recognize the importance of what mothers teach little girls and I worry about those who don`t have them.

Beautiful Girls

I attended a friends' office party in a sports bar in Los Angeles a few months before coming here. Naturally, someone asked me what I did for a living, and I said that I planned to do volunteer work abroad and then return to the United States and study social work. The man then asked me what particular aspect of social work it is that I want to focus on.

''I'm not sure yet,'' I shrugged. ''I just want to help people.''

The guy-- in his mid-30's and in the television entertainment industry--laughed and said ''Come on. That's not a plan. That's a Miss America contestant response.''

I got the feeling that he was chiding me, that he was implying that though I might be pretty and sweet, I lack depth. His assessment didn't bother me, because throughout my adolescence I was awkward, solemn and studious. Now, when people make allusions to me being beautiful (but frivolous because of that), I'm somewhat proud because I think I've come a long way for people to think I could have fit in with the cheerleaders in high school.

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Here in Santa Fe, there are so many people that need help that I don't have to worry about finding a cause--things just come up. On Saturday, I go with Sr. Angelita to visit some of her neighbors in need.

Sr. Angelita is a busy, busy nun. As a doctor who specializes in nutrition, she sees patients in her home at all hours of the night. Angelita also works in a school, but sells fruit and used goods in her downtime to raise money for her work. I have a lot of respect for all she does, but I often feel nervous around her because she acts as if she is judging how much Jessica and I do. She quizzes us about our schedules and tisks and makes faces when we talk about the getaway day trips we take.

However, she greets me kindly when I go to her house on Saturday afternoon. Despite her being stricken by a severe cold and headache, we still go ahead with the visiting. The first stop is at the home of a woman with a severely handicapped daughter.

I am first surprised by the house because of its brand-new wooden door, but then shocked by how nice it is inside. There are wooden floors, as well as beautiful dining and sofa sets that look like they have come from a J.C. Penney's catalog, and a home entertainment system. Most houses or single-room dwellings in Santa Fe contain only simple, second-hand furniture, if any.

We go upstairs to greet the Jaquelina, a 22-year old woman who sits on a bed in a room full of dolls. Though she can talk, it is difficult for her to be understood, and she can barely walk. I try to entertain her with a toy while Angelita talks to the mother. From what I understand of the conversation, Angelita presses the mother to take Jaquelina to the hospital for rehabilitation and says that the daughter is too thin and needs to eat and exercise more. A schedule is worked out whereby I will bring the girl on walks one day a week, and Angelita and a relative will take turns as well.

Angelita and I chat with the girl while the mother is out of the room, and Angelita tells her that she is beautiful. I think that that could be true, but what good does it do her with her stuck in her room the way she is?

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When we go on to the next stop, there is a ill-kept women sitting in front of the house sniffing paint-thinner. Angelita introduces her as Lupita. When I go to shake her hand, I jump when one of the four dogs surrounding her nips at the bag of my leg, but Angelita and Lupita assure me that the dogs don't bite.

I sit on the ground to talk to Lupita, who, while sniffing paint, asks me where I am from and how old I am. I learn that she is 38, nine years older than me. I am able to understand when she tells me that I am beautiful, but Angelita has to translate that Lupita tells me that I am beautiful, she is ugly and that she loves me. I try to comfort her by rubbing her legs, but she says ''Que bonita'' and pulls away from me.

Angelita tells Lupita that she is beautiful, and then says to me that when Lupita was well, she really was beautiful. I can tell that that though she may be skinny, disheveled, dirty and wild-eyed now, if she were to comb her hair, use moisturizer, and eat vegetables and fish for a month, she would regain her looks.

Like me, Lupita has brown hair and brown eyes and we are about the same height. I wonder if she looks at me and sees herself almost a decade ago. I know that she can't have been using for the past nine years, because she surely would be dead by now.

I'm reminded of another conversation I had in a bar five years ago, a trendy spot in D.C. that has an hour wait to get in. My girlfriends and I were chatting with a group of guys who wanted to move on to another spot. I hurried to finish my drink before going, but one man stopped me and said ''Don't worry about it. I'll buy you another when we get to the next place. Beautiful girls don't chug beer.''

While I'm with Lupita, I can't help but think that beautiful girls don't sit in the dirt surrounded by filthy dogs that are covered in fleas, breathing in the scent of paint-thinner.

We leave Luipita to visit her mother, Doña Mari. She lives in a one-room dwelling that contains two beds and a tattered sofa. Two teen aged boys lie on one bed watching a tiny television. They sort through papers, while Angelita asks about food they need. I actually don't pay too much attention and instead look for open wounds on my leg, but fortunately find none.

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Back at the nuns' house, I attend a nutrition session for a twelve-year old girl who is tall, round in the face and on the verge of becoming quite large. Angelita lectures her on how many calories to eat, portion control, the need for exercise and how she should drink nothing but water. The girl, who is wearing tight jeans and a snug pink jacket, smiles and then goes on her way to a fiesta. Angelita tells me that the mother of the girl is very overweight and she is worried about the girl becoming so as well.

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Our next stop is to visit another Doña Mari, an elderly lady who lives next store to Angelita that Jessica and I visit on our own very often. Dona Mari is sweet, nurturing and grandmotherly. At her house, Angelita tells me we can eat if she wants because Doña Mari always has food around. I know this to be true, but am surprised that Angelita suggests it since there is always food in her place as well. Hungry, I agree to eat and Angelita scrambles eggs for me as Doña Mari cooks chicken and vegetable soup for her. As we eat, Doña Mari runs around bringing us sugar and coffee, and constantly offers us more fruit, cookies and drinks. Doña Mari tells me I am welcome in the house anytime, that I can spend the night if I want. Angelita sounds terrible but the soup seems to make her feel good and I realize that despite her toughness and ability to take control, there are times when she too needs to be taken care of and fussed over.

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Doña Mari's is our last stop of the day, and after leaving Angelita at her house, I see Lupita sitting on the corner. I greet her again and not knowing what to say, I tell her that tomorrow I am going to church. I am not trying to push religion on her, but I think it would be a good place for her because everyone is so welcoming, and maybe Father would know of how to help her. Right away, she shakes her head.

''Do you want soda?'' she asks me, offering me a partially crushed can of Coke.

I tell her no, and neither of us say anything until she breaks the silence by asking me ''Quiere?''. It's the formal way of saying what do you want?

I want to cry. I want her to ask for something of me--my coat, a hug, money, food. I want to be able to give her something so that I can be angelic and helpful instead of pretty but useless. I want to know how she ended up this way. I want to know that if I didn't get lots of attention when I went to fancy bars to in the United States, that I wouldn't have ended up on the streets like Lupita.

I realize she just wants to be alone with her dogs and paint thinner. I feel awful as I tell her nothing, say good-bye and walk away.

Playing Dress-Up

I was in New York City interviewing for an editorial position at a prom planning website (affiliated with a wedding registry site), last year at this time. Despite the fact that I wore shiny lip gloss and put together a snappy book of writing samples, I think they saw through me and realized I had spent my own prom night alone, and just wouldn`t fit in around the office. Had I received that job, right now I would be in Manhattan dressed in a cute skirt, working in a chic office and writing about how to be stylish and land a dream date. Instead, I live on the outskirts of Mexico City and wear sweatpants to a workplace where most of my co-workers are celibate and women dress in white sari habits or worn, hand-me-down clothing. I realize that the job would not have suited me, but I still wonder if I could of hacked it as a party-scene reporter. For this blog posting, I am going to try to be one as I present the details of the wedding I attended with Jessica and Javier on Friday night, for one of their college friends.

Preperation

When packing for Mexico, Jessica and I both chose cargo pants over evening wear, so we struggle to find clothing suitable for the wedding. We both end up wearing black (a wedding faux pas as it symbolizes mourning). Each of us add color to our outfits with the scarves we had received as gifts from an associate (another faux pas, wearing matching clothing if you are over the age of ten).

Additionally, I didn`t pack dress shoes since I thought I could get by with sandals. I`ve since learned that it gets cold at night, so I go to buy new shoes. The shoplady looks at me blankly when I request a size eight and half, as the size system is different here. She brings me the largest shoe size possible, but it is still too small, as are several other styles. Feeling like an ugly stepsister as I struggle to make my feet fit, I wind up in boots.

The Ceremony

Outside the church, the bride, Monica, is greeting guests. She is small and beautiful and wears a form-fitting white gown decorated with royal purple trim. Her dark hair is teased and pulled back and her ears are decorated with handmade, white and purple, beaded and feathered earrings. The groom, David, is there looking dashing as well, but as any six year-old girl who owns one Ken doll for every 15 Barbie dolls knows, no one really cares what the men are wearing.

The ceremony takes place at St. Francisco`s Cathedral, which is elaborately and elegantly decorated with Renaissance-style murals and statues. Both the bride and groom walk down the aisle with their father and mother, followed by everyone attending the wedding. Mass seems pretty typical of other Catholic wedding services that I have attended, except that at one point, loose ropes tie the bride and groom together to signify their bond. Additionally, the groom gives the bride coins to show he will provide and she will take care of him.

The Reception

We drive an hour and a half away to the reception hall, a large room with square tables seating 12 on both sides of the dance floor. On a second floor alcove above the dance floor, the band plays. David and Monica wait in the car for everyone to arrive before they make their entrance. As soon as they walk in, they have their first dance to `You are so Beautiful to Me.` Beer and soda are served while guests dance to salsa and ranchero music.

Food

Dinner is not served until 12:30 in the morning. First course is cheese soup, next is creamed apples and the main dish is chicken with carrot salad. All of it is brought out by a tuxedoed waitstaff, who earlier had performed a sort of choreographed line-dance to start festivities.

Antics

When all single ladies are called to the dance floor, I think it is to catch the bouquet. Instead, the bride and groom stand on chairs across from each other, with David holding onto the end of Monica`s veil. Their fathers and a few men stand beside the chairs, holding onto their bodies. The women grasp hands and begin running around and under the veil. Intermittently, they knock themselves into the men surrounding Monica.

I soon realize that the goal is to bring Monica down. I am terrified and clutch Jessica`s hand and try not to injure any small girls. Monica stays standing and then tosses her bouquet. The same events occur for David, only with men who are able to bring him down and carry him around the room. He throws the garter belt, and the recipients of the tosses are offered to the crowd as dance partners.

Dancing

The band mostly plays salsa and I do my best to keep up with seasoned partners. However, I am completely lost when it comes to line-dancing. I think of something only Americans in the South and Western know how to do, but almost everyone at the wedding is adept at it. I let Javier and our tablemate Hewe guide me along to country songs that grow increasingly faster until everyone is exhausted.

Sweets and Treats

After dinner, a bottle of tequila is distributed to each table and the bride and groom are toasted while `Bittersweet Symphony` plays. They cut the cake and the crowd cheers them by chanting ``Chick-a-dee-chick-a-dee-boom-bam``

Happy Ending

We leave at 2:45 in the morning, even though the dancing is still going strong. I am in bed around 4:00. Though I am not be writing about the life of parties, there is still plenty of celebrating to do where I am now.

New Girl

The most handicapped child at the Home of Peace and Joy (where I volunteer) is also the child who is easiest to ignore. Hi name is Jésus Antonio, he is seven years old and his underdeveloped limbs are twisted toward each. He can´t talk or walk and he spends most of day in a crib with a feeding tube attached to him. While the other children are so small and cute that you gravitate toward them, or they are able to verbally demand attention, there is nothing compelling about Jésus except his helplessness.

I hold Jésus when we are in the playroom and is crying but I feel guilty because I don´t often go out of my way to be around him. Once, when I was the only person who noticed his dirty diaper, I tried to change him, but it was so complicated because of the tube and his size that a worker had to take over. For a few days afterwards, I felt depressed about the state of his life. Jésus makes me so uncomfortable and sad that I am able to get caught up in the needs of other children and forget about him.

On the whole, I have come to enjoy working with the children. At times, I am physically and emotionally exhausted by their demands and I get very frustrated by some of the policies in effect at the home. Still, after a few days away , I look forward seeing everyone again. I can count on certain things like taking camera photos with Vickie, holding newborn babies, and laughing at the toddler twins´ attempts to be picked up. (If I am carrying a child besides them, they will lead me toward an empty crib or highchair, gesturing me to put that child aside.) So, when I arrived at the home on Monday I felt disappointed when Sister told me I should start dividing my time between the children and the ¨girls,¨ and she sent me downstairs to work with the older group.

The ¨girls¨are a group of 12 women spanning in ages from 18 to 40, who are severely disabled. Most are wheelchair-bound and can´t speak. While some can walk, a few are even more deformed than Jésus. They spend their days sitting, drooling and occasionally babbling, wailing and laughing. Because they can´t keep their heads straight, their hair is styled in pigtails in order to keep it out of their faces. It is ironic to see grown women wearing multiple brightly- coloured and cartoonishly-decorated ponytail holders in their hair because it´s a look associated with little girls who are able to run around happily.

When I started working with the girls, I felt the same sort of uncertainty as to what to do with them as with the children because in either case they aren´t activities planned for them. It´s easier to know what to do the children because they always need something, while the ¨girls¨ can´t communicate. Additionally, the severity of their problems made me adverse toward reaching out to them in the same manner that I feel about Jésus.

I´ve been working with the ¨girls¨ for three days, and in the mornings I help comb their hair and push their wheelchairs into the sun. Then, I take them on walks and while some of them laugh and giggle while being pushed, it can be very tedious. Since I have been missing the gym, I´ve toward wheelchair walks into my personal work-out as I push and pull the chairs, spin them in circles and run while pushing.

Still, my mind tends to drift and I get somewhat philosophical. I wonder if it´s worth it for them to live lives where they get so little joy and if I am wasting my time by putting so much in to being with them. I try to think of how their lives could be better, but I don´t think even think an abundance of money or people around them could make a huge difference. I also contemplate how God got things so wrong and a world exists where this is the way people live. But then, I have to look at myself and ask why I feel an aversion to those who are most despondent and why I would feel more comfortable without them in the world.

It´s actually too much to think about and I´ve come to the conclusion that I am here to serve, they are the neediest, and therefore I´ll be with them. I understand why the Missionaries of Charity- who devote their lives to helping the neediest- spend so much time in prayer. They need to focus on Jesus and believe a better life exists for the sick, otherwise sadness would overwhelm them.

There are good things about being with the girls. I spend more time in the sunshine and I´ve found that the staff is much friendlier than those who work with the children. Additionally, I am able to read them books (the children don´t have the attention span for it) and even get them to repeat a few words for me. They giggle when I make faces at them and move their stiff limbs.

While I endlessly circled the grounds yesterday pushing wheelchairs, I realized that God is challenging me to give attention to those that I want to ignore. Breaking up my time between both groups should be good for me, and I am looking forward to having another group to look forward to seeing.

Día de Muertos

After a long trip home to Pittsburgh two years ago for Easter vacation, my dad picked me up from the airport, eager to spend time with me. I thought we might go out to eat or that he´d bring me to the house to see my mother, but instead we made a trip to a flower store to pick up carnations which we then took to my grandmother´s gravestone. After saying a prayer there, we proceeded to walk through the cold, damp grounds and visit several other deceased relatives. The detour really wasn´t too surprising to me as oftentimes when we are in the car together, my Dad decides that a visit to the cemetery is in order. While most people in the United States prefer not to think about the dead, he goes out of his way for them, as he cantors at the funerals of strangers, loves to attend wakes, and of course, visits the cemetery several times each year.

This past weekend, I learned that my Dad would fit in here in Mexico, as the country celebrated Day of the Dead, the holiday in which it is said that it is easier for souls to come visit the living. Here, people put out offerings for their relatives such as bread, flowers, cigarettes and candy. For the past few weeks, the bakeries have been serving pan de muertes (sugary bread) and skull figurines are sold in shops. The holiday is based on indigenous traditions, but coincides with Catholic holy days honoring the deceased--All Saint´s Day and All Soul´s Day.

Jessica and I began Saturday with a trip to a graveyard to see the festivities. Outside the pantheon, vendors were selling flowers and food for double the normal price. Inside, families cleaned headstones, mariachi bands were playing at the foot of them, and there were floral displays everywhere. In Mexico City, coffins are on top of the ground and sometimes they are inside elaborate little rooms that also contain carpets, photos and statues.

Not having our own relatives to honor, we felt slightly out of place and didn´t stay for too long. That night we went to the parish, were a large paper cross had been placed on the grounds and topped with sawdust. Surprisingly, there were not too many people attending Mass, but apparently many people were traveling to visit relatives. We spent the night passing out candy to costumed children (Mexico has adopted that Halloween tradition for the Day of the Dead.) While I was warming up in the kitchen, chit-chatting with Father and Guilloto as we munched on pumpkin seeds, a friend called to invite Jess and I to the Zocalo (the city square) to see the offerings that different sections of the city had prepared.

Jessica asked Father his opinion about whether it would be worth it to stay up so late to see the offerings, since we had been planning on going anyway the following day. Sweetly, he misunderstood her and thought she was asking for permission, and said that since the two of us would be going together and picked up and driven home, it was okay. With his blessing, off we went with Ricardo (Javier´s brother), his friend Julio and Martha, who volunteers at the parish.

It was better that we ended up going at night because it added to the spooky ambiance of the displays of offerings. There was a bus of skeletons to honor dead people who died in traffic accidents, as well as various displays of food and flowers, and skeletons of children at play. People dressed in cloaks and white masks ran around having their picture taken (for a price we learned) and vendors sold corn, cotton candy and chips. After touring the city square, we ate at a crowded diner where various costumed persons came in and out, and waitresses sold bread of the dead by the trayful.

The next day was another busy day at church as the Day of the Dead is celebrated both November 1 and 2. (For children and adults.) Again, we passed out more candy and at the end of theday, we had a ceremony in which the cross was dismantled. Unfortunately, as far as I know, none of my relatives paid me a visit. However, the Day of the Dead definitely made me appreciate the living who helped us celebrate the holiday. It also made me feel a little less homesick for people at home, because the holiday showed that no matter where someone is or how often you get to talk to them, you can always feel close to them.

Tricks and Treats

Before coming to Mexico, the last time I had either carved a pumpkin or passed out candy to trick-or-treaters was at least ten years ago. The last two years, I felt too tired from work to even go out for Halloween. This past Friday night though, I found myself elbow-deep in pumpkin guts and surrounded by party revelers after spending my Halloween afternoon distributing treats to children. Being in a foreign country as turned me into more of an American as I feel more inclined to celebrate the holidays and traditions of the United States.

My feeling of otherness began the Thursday before Halloween when I went to run errands in preparation for the holiday. First stop was the marketplace where I bought small toys, plastic pumpkins and whole-wheat cookies that I later passed out to the kids at work. I had a feeling that I was being overcharged for certain things, but language prevented me from bargaining with the vendors. In a sort of reverse colonialism (the white people who originally came to the Americas sold the natives cheap trinkets in exchange for their land,) Jessica confirmed that I had in fact been ripped off.

No matter, I had the wine that I had bought for the parish party we were to throw to console myself with. Going to the liquor store was an adventure as the shop attendants were eager to show off there English skills to me. (You can´t actually enter a liquor store around here because they are behind bars, so I had to stand on the street to place an order.) Disturbingly, there was a drunk guy drinking in front of the licqour store spoke enough English to ask me where I was from, my age, and exchange swear words with the attendants. After I completed the transaction, he followed me a little away from the store before deciding not to stray to far from the liquor. His behavior didn´t really bother me, but the fact that he could speak better English intoxicated than I can speak Spanish is troubling.

Next stop was the fruit market where Jessica and I bought pumpkins. It took us a while to track down gourds suitable for carving, as most of the calabezas around here are green and oddly shaped. However, we found orange-ish pumpkins that cost five pesos per kilo from a pleasant man who spoke English. We later realized that we had paid 120 pesos for 18 kilos of pumpkins, and that once again we had taken advantage of, having been disarmed by the man´s friendly chatter that caused us not to pay attention to the scale. Apparently, the Halloween spirit has yet to permeate Mexico.

Except for at the parish, where everyone had been excited all week for the party. Father cooked pasta with salmon (because he knows I like fish) and served red wine (goes without saying). Jessica and I successfully cut and gutted our pumpkins and the whole table took a turn carving them. I roasted the seeds, and I felt a little bit more at home because I was allowed to do the dishes. (There in no dishwasher at the parish and typically when I try to wash dishes I am shewed away. My former roommates would be shocked to see how I often I plead with the church ladies to be allowed to clean up.)

After our pumpkins were lit, Jessica and I returned back to the casa were we wrote the names of our relatives next to the offering she had prepared for Día de los Muertos , the November 1 and 2 holiday whereby the non-living supposedly pay their relatives a visit. The next day, as I roamed the streets tired and worn from the night before, I wasn´t sure if the stares I got were because I am an American, or if people were mistaking me for a a visiting soul.

The Way I See

Friday night, I was supposed to go salsa dancing with Jess, Javier and some other friends, but my right eye suddenly turned sore and bloodshot. Afraid that smoke and bright lights would make the situation worse and inflicted with a headache, I stayed home alone while everyone else went out. Though I may not always be living like those in poverty here, I definitely feel a kinship with the sick.

Despite plenty of rest, I am still not feeling much better the next day, but I make it out of the house to attend a luncheon for a Bishop held at a small convent. (The nuns are sweet, but they parish is more exciting.) So afterward, we stop next door at the parish. Jessica recounts her night out with the Soledad and Lupita, the mother and daughter we are friends, with who collect money and distribute toilet people as people enter the restrooms. I sit by somewhat grumpily as my eye hurts and I am hungry since I didn't eat any of the carnivorous lunch. Intermittently, chicken feet (the cheapest form of meat) are fed to the dogs the dozen or so dogs that hang around outside the parish. I shoo them away from licking my legs, as well as brushing off the parish worker who keeps greeting me in an attempt to get more hugs.

When Guillito- the church's natural healer who lives in a small cottage in front of the church-greets us, I ask him to examine my eye. He peers into it and tugs at and then determines that I have an infection and need eye drops to have it cured. Miraculously, Soledad pulls the needed drops out of her purse and applies them in my eye, after which Guillito holds my head back, so that the drops will take effect. He gives Jess and I shoulder rubs and then we all go separate ways. Generously, Soledad gives me the drops to keep.

Jess and I need to talk to Father Salvador and we catch him wandering out of the parish house, wearing red and white robes, on his way to say Mass. After discussing financial issues with him, he asks if we had a good time last night. Jessica explains that she did, but that I couldn't go out anywhere because of my eyes, but says Guillito recommended drops.

Father says that I could use the leaves of a plant that is growing in a pot in the courtyard as a cure.

He picks a leaf off the vine and then decides "No, it's probably better to go with Guillito's advice.'' Then, he pops the leaf into his mouth and walks off, and I wonder just how bad of shape my eyes are in.

Back to School--Missionary Month

Two years after graduating from college, I found myself unemployed, living with my parents and trying to figure out the Next Step. Since I didn't have any friends left in my hometown, my mother suggested that I attend a session of Theology on Tap--a program where young Catholics meet up to discuss religious issues over beer.

This was out of character for my mother as she generally tries to dissuade me from visiting establishments where alcohol is served. And, while she attends church regularly, she generally doesn't go to Church discussions. Knowing her, I deduced that she had a Next Step for me in mind that involved me meeting a nice Catholic boy, getting married and giving her lots of grandchildren.

It wasn't out of concern for my love life that I agreed to go. I went because I was somewhat interested in exploring my faith and very interested in exploring a bar. My mother dropped me off at a local chain pub with twenty dollars, and there I sipped on vodka and cranberry juice while listening to a priest discuss his life as a missionary in Peru and the need for more volunteers.

The idea of missionary work was intriguing to me, but it seemed impractical. It was too far away, I didn't want to put off starting my real life, and most of all, surely you had to be supereligious and holier-than-though to do such a thing.


While speaking with Father about getting involved, he seemed to understand my concerns about whether I would fit in as a missionary.

Glancing at my short skirt and heavy eye-makeup, he gently said ''There are all kinds of people who serve as missionaries. Even people who look like you.''

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Of course, it wasn't until three years after this event that I became a missionary. I related that story to various students in last week as part of Missionary Month. Jessica and I visited the nuns' school in Mexico and shared our take on missionary life with various high-school and middle-school-students.

At first, I was hesitant to be a speaker for Mission Month. I've only been at this for two months and I have yet to feel like I am making a great impact. Most of the time, I feel like I am simply a human playground, as my body spends its days being jumped on, tugged, spit on, hugging and lifting children.

However, Jessica and I created a presentation on what it means to be a missionary for a presentation in which we tried to dispel myths about the lifestyle. This is some of what we covered:

--Missionaries don't have to be priests or nuns. Additionally, missionaries don't have to be Catholic or particularly religious, but those in Catholic missionary programs should adhere to values of the Catholic faith in terms of having a respect for human life and wanting social change.

--Missionaries don't go around preaching. One of the reasons I was hesitant about being a missionary was that I imagined I would have to stand on a street corner passing out pamphlets or knock on doors in order to take people to church. While sharing God's love and gifts is important to me, being a missionary is not about proselytizing, but rather being with people, trying to understand them, and attending to both their physical and spiritual needs.

--Anyone can be a missionary. It's not necessary to go to a foreign country in order to be one, since you can give of yourself to others no matter where you are. Simply by turning of the TV and listening to a family member, or visiting a lonely neighbor, you are doing missionary work.

--Missionaries are everywhere. For this, we showed some photos of fellow members of our mission orientation that we had heisted off the Internet. Mary and Clare from Ireland are now in Texas where they tutor homeless women and their families, but they have explored the culture of the state by meeting old cowboys and visiting the rodeo. Nicole is leading a more stereotypical missionary life as she works as housemother for a simple boarding school in Guatemala where there is no electricity or running water. Julie, Courtney and Jane are all in Peru. Julie and Courtney are working in a hospice while Jane is serving as a reporter and drawing light to social issues that are being neglected.

--Missionaries can be any age. I didn't become a missionary until years after thinking it was too late for me to consider it. Additionally there are middle-aged missionaries in our program, and in Texas, we met an 83 year-old nun just back from doing mission work.

As I spoke, I became a believer in what I saying. I may only be doing small things right now, but as missionaries are composed of people from various faiths, classes, ethnicities and centuries, I am part of something big.

It remains to be seen how much of an effect we had on the students. Their level of interested varied as some students seemed bored and talked during the presentation, while others eagerly shared their own missionary experiences, giggled at our pictures and questioned us about music, money and boyfriends. I am not excepting anyone to become a missionary right away based on our talk. I hope that ten or so years from now, one of the girls wearing a tight sweatshirt and fistful of bracelets over her old-fashioned Catholic schoolgirl dress, might be looking for fulfillment in her life and feel called to do mission work.

As for my mother, she may not have ended up with me and grandchildren nearby, but she was excited by my decision to go and said that she wished she could come along. Yesterday, a package from her arrived full of goodies along with books that she bought for the children I work with. By supporting me, and showing love for those children, she is serving as missisonary.

Cadena de Amor

The last time I saw my grandmother, her tiny, frail body was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and machines. I was eight years old and my family was visiting her after Mass on a warm Autumn day. Before entering the sterile room, I was happily joking around with my sister, but as soon as I saw her and heard her heavy, labored breathing, I got quiet and uncomfortable.

My dad spoke to her about family news and world events as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He pushed me forward to greet her, and as soon as he did, my grandmother grabbed me with one of her bony hands. When I tried to pull away, she tightened up her grip on my hand, and I was surprised that someone so weak could summon up so much strength. I held her hand until a coughing spell forced us apart and we all had to leave the room.

My grandmother had emphysema for as long as I can remember, so it is hard for me to think of her in her prime. Holding her hand is one thing I will never forget and it sticks with me because it compels me to keep reaching out to the sick and the needy, even if it is in a small way and it makes me feel awkward.

I do recollect visiting my grandmother in her apartment, where she always seemed to be saying the Rosary. Even when she was wheelchair-bound and wearing a robe, she grasped a set of Rosary beads and said the devotion made up of sets of one Lord's Prayer, ten Hail Marys, and reflections on the Mysteries of the Rosary. Every time I hold a pair of Rosary beads, I feel that connection we had when I held her hands almost 20 years ago.

So, when a group of church members invites the three of us to attend a Living Rosary at a stadium on Saturday, I feel excited, though I do not know much about the devotion, and even Jessica isn't sure what exactly a Living Rosary will entail. Like other participants, we dress in red, and board a bus with about 60 other people and go into the city for the event.

We enter the Blue Cross Stadium around 5:00 and spend about an hour waiting for the event to begin. While we wait, a mariachi band plays, chips and popcorn are passed about, and the wave goes around the stadium several times. About 10,000 people are there, comprised of different groups of churches who have been told to wear specific colors. People unfold and display giant cloths containing the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

The event begins and the whole stadium chants Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Between sets, various Mysteries of the Rosary (events in the lives of Jesus Christ and Mary) are acted out. Trying to figure out what Bible passages the mysteries come from is like putting together a jigsaw puzzle to me, as I have to piece together what I know of the New Testament and Spanish. I hear "Isabel" and see two women hugging and deduce it is Mary's visit to Elizabeth during their pregnancies. When a group of angels surround Mary, Joseph and a donkey (acted out by a group of people dressed in white holding white umbrellas over them,) and then a baby comes up, I am pretty sure I am seeing Jesus' birth. My favorite part is when a group of white doves are released during the Ascension of Jesus.

Despite being a little unclear as to what is going on, it is moving to see so many people praying to Mary. I imagine that like me, many attendees have seen older relatives participating in the devotion, and that increases their love of the Rosary. Additionally, as Mary is a compassionate figure that Catholics look to for comfort and try to emulate (both my mother and all my aunts were named after her), I think that when people honor Mary, they also remember other Catholic women in their lives.

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The other reason that the Virgin Mary is so popular among Mexicans is because an apparition of her appeared here during the 16th century. An indigenous man named Juan Diego saw her as a young native figure, and she asked for a church to be built in her honor. The bishop at the time asked for a miraculous sign to prove it was really her. Juan Diego returned to the mountain and she gave him a group of roses, despite the fact it was winter time. Additionally, her image appeared on his cloak, and to this day that image has survived, even though it should have worn out by now.

I saw Mexico's love for the Virgin of Guadalupe on Thursday, when Padre Salvador took us to the campus of the Basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe. The site is comprised of over a half-dozen churches, chapels and baptismal spots. I had never before seen so many religious buildings in one contained place.

First we visited the new Basilica, a huge, round modern structure that contains seats for 10,000 people. The cloak with the image of the Virgin hangs above the altar, and on the floor beneath it, visitors ride on a conveyor belt to view it. After several trips to view it, we left the Basilica, but Padre ran into a priest friend who invited us to go up on the altar and view it. Upon hearing this, Lupita (a friend accompanying whose nickname is short for Guadalupe) became teary-eyed and she held her hand to her heart. We took an elevator to the top floor of the church and we where brought to the altar where we sat, in groups of three, and saw an up-close vision of the cloak.

We also went inside the small church originally built for the Virgin where Juan Diego lived. The first Basilica, a castle-like structure that took over 100 years to build during the 16th, 16th and 18th centuries, is sinking and falling apart. Additionally, we climbed up a huge, peaceful hill containing waterfalls and statues of the Virgin and children in order to visit another church built in her honor.

It is touching to think that reporting of sightings from a simple man such as Juan Diego could have inspired a site that is one of the most visited Catholic pilgrimages in the world. While I enjoyed sharing the experience with Padre and the other girls, the churches blurred together a bit. When I think of Mary, I will continue to think of holding my Grandmother's hand, and I believe it was the link we share extends to the children here that I spend my days hugging.

The Ups and Downs of Mission Life

As a foreigner in Mexico, I always feel like I am leading a life out of my control, and the addition of cold medications and a fever last week heightened that sensation. My illness kept me quarantined from work and made me feel like a puppet, being pulled in these directions:

Down, face-flat, backside-exposed, with a nun hovering over me while holding a syringe. After a quick check-up, Sr. Angelita diagnosed me as having a throat and ear infection and determined that penicillin would be the best course of treatment. The situation made me nervous, because everything Sr. told me was through translation and I couldn´t get all of the information I would have liked. Additionally, at the time we weren´t actually sure of Sister´s credentials as a doctor, as the term is sometimes self-imposed here. (Since then, we´ve learned she has a medical degree.) Feeling awful, I made a few calls to the States and my family confirmed that there would be no harm in taking penicillin. Except to my dignity, as Angelita injected penicillin into rear everyday for a week, meaning that I´ve been exposed to a woman I don´t know that well but who sees me on a daily basis.

Up, on the dance floor, during a church party for Guillito´s birthday party that is laden with family, mole (a complex salsa that contains 23 ingredients) and tequila. Guillito is Father Salvador´s 76 year-old helper who is a cook, natural healer, chain-smoker and everybody´s grandfather, as he always offers hugs, handshakes and kind words spoken in a growly voice.Since the three of us are among the few family members there,I feel a bit out of place, and while making small talk with a nephew about his fondness for Vegas, gambling and cockfights, Guillito calls me toward him. I think he wants to introduce me to a family member, but instead he grabs me and starts salsa dancing. I am not big on dancing, but I go along with it because it´s his birthday. Then relatives and parish staff members start cutting in, gesturing that they can outdance Guillito. As I am spun about and my picture is taken with various partners, I realize that as a young, white woman in a Mexican parish basement, I am somewhat of a novelty act. My presence is similar to a Budweiser Girl walking into a sleepy, neighborhood bar in the United States. Though helping old men regain their youth isn´t exactly the mission I came for, raising my cultural awareness is important, so I master a few more steps of salsa.

To the side of the metro I am pushed, during a Saturday shopping excursion with Sr. Angelita. Originally, I was supposed to help Sr. start a nutrition club, but when the first meeting feel through, she invited me to go to the city with her to buy medical supplies....8:00 in the morning. Sister Angelita is no nonense, so during the busride to the metro station she pulls out an English-Spanish dictionary and we attempt to teach each other our respective languages. Once on the metro, the vehicle is so crowded that all we can do on it is try to hold on and stay standing. In the city, Sr. decides she´d like to take me to a museum that has yet to open. We spend an hour waiting in a nearby church (she behaves like a nun while I fall asleep) and then return to the museum. She then finds out it´s only free on Sundays, not Saturdays, and decides not to go. I spend the rest of the morning following her in an out of medical shops. She purchases a scale while I try to master parts of the body in Spanish using posters and I have my blood pressure taken three times as I help her pick out a reader. (It´s low.)

Up, to a chapel on the hill. Deacon Felipe invites us to a mass for four girls who have become lectors, and after a bus ride and steep upward walk, we attend the service taking place a small white building containing plastic chairs, a stereo, and a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe garbed in glittering green and red robes. Wearing white t-shits and black track pants, the girls smile throughout the ceremony and I do my best to stay awake.

Afterward, Deacon Felipe brings us to the church to eat. In the kitchen are people who make up a sort of parish family--single woman away living on their own or separated from their family, developmentally handicapped young men who work at the parish, clergy members and Guillito. Though the women are always friendly as they cook in the kitchen, and the boys eagerly chat with us, I never quite feel like I belong there. The people who have found a home their are among those who are most looked over by society and I am glad they have a place where they feel comfortable and have companionship. However, whether it´s a language or lifestyle barrier, or the fact that there always offering me food that contains meat and dairy, I have difficulty spending too much time there, so it´s an early Friday night.

Now, it´s back to work and while I appreciated the break, I missed being with the kids. Sickness has made me appreciate my health and the fact that I can now choose where to go each day and I feel like things are looking up.

p.s. Up, up and away I cast my ballot. Since I am voting absentee, I had to send it out early. Go Obama!!

Home/Sick

¨I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home,¨I kept repeating to myself after waking up in the middle of last night with chills, nasuea and stomach painss. I had already spent that day in bed due to a bad cold and cramps and I couldn´t tell if the new symptoms were due to that ailment or if something new is upon me.

I laid in bed for about an hour, as it felt too cold to get up, yet I knew I needed to get pills, water and more blankets. I was finally able to stumble out of bed to take care of myself, and once I returned, I alternated between chills and hot flashes for the rest of the night.

I have lived in many places, but no matter where I am, being sick makes me want to go (home) home It makes me want to snuggle up in my childhood bed with Baby-Sitter´s Club books, eat sweets that my dad knows better than to have bought me, and have my mom check in on me every half an hour and kiss my forehead.

Here, I am very far away from all that, and being sick makes me angry because I think that it is just not fair. In addition to all my other problems-living in a house with an unfinished roof where something breaks everyday, frustration with not being able to understand Spanish, my sadness over the situation of the people where who live where I volunteer-why do I have to be sick on top of it?

Being sorry for myself like this makes me feel like a fair-weather missionary. In Texas, when I anticipated facing problems like this, I was all about prayer, God and living up to my calling to help me get through stress. Here, while in a bad state, what I focus on is how much I miss the United States, what medicine to take and boosting the scores I play on my cell phone when I can´t sleep.

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So, I think of the good parts of being sick. Being ill is a way of taking you mind off the rest of your problems, focus only on yourself and wander around in sweats. I kind of enjoy the light-headedness I experience because it makes me feel as if I am in a dreamy alternate reality. Particularly when I amble around with these sorts of things happening around me:

--There is a priest upstairs doing manual labor on our roof. Father Salvador began working on our house himself due to the slow progress that the actual handymen were making. With him at the house, things suddenly get done. It´s funny to me that a person in a position that I associate with shiny robes and gold chalices is upstairs, Jesus-like, doing carpentry, but it´s appreciated.

--Our actual roofer has become a big help on repair work after experiencing a spiritual awakening that resulted from him drukenly falling off our roof two weeks ago. Despite being chastised by Father, two days later he was caught by the police in public with open liqor, on his way to work on our house. The police took him to Father and tried to solicit a bribe from him to prevent the roofer from going to jail, but Father said ¨take him,¨ in hopes the roofer would learn a lesson. After two days behind bars, he made a vow to clean up his act, starting by promising in front of God not to touch alchol for six months, and since then he has appeared to be in much better shape.

--Julio, a parish worker, is at our stove cracking open tamarinds in order to turn them into a juice. Sr. Angelita said that they would be a natural cure for Jackie, who is also sick. While he works, I nibble at the bitter, yet sweet fruit, curious as to its´taste and hoping it will work on me.

--Jessica, the only unafflicted roommate, runs around like an angelic version of Martha Stewart. She searches the market for foods that are supposed to act as medicine, such as cactus and guava. She also helps the men with various home repair tasks such as polishing a silver candle for our chapel and washing the hair on the statue of Jesus.

I think back various other times in my life when I have been sick and away from home and I have had people watching out for me. Tamar, my freshman-year roommate, made a big fuss over the cold I got my first semester and called me her ¨poor little sickie-face.¨ After painful dental work, Sumithrin picked me up and took me out for Greek tapas. When I was under the weather in California, my sister Cathy bought me over a dozen bottles of Vitamin Water, and when I when I was sick in Chinatown, my roommate Dan kept me stocked in egg drop soup.

I was lucky to have those people helping me out in rought times and this experience makes me appreciate them more. I know someday I´ll look back and miss the times Jessica, Jackie and the parish staff were there for me. My grandmother used to quote from the Bible, saying ¨This too shall pass,¨and I realize that I´ll soon recover. I will be stronger for it, and have more patience and compassion for those who only want someone to kiss them on their foreheads.

Four Fiestas and a Funeral

It´s the weekend of both my birthday and Mexican Independence Day, and sparks are flying. Not due to candles or fireworks, but because work is being done on our house and a man is upstairs operating heavy machinery. We have been living in a house without a roof, and for three weeks, tarps and vinyl panels have provided temporary protection. Over the past week, two men have been coming at random times to build something more stable.

Because the floor of the second story of the house is made of criss-crossed iron bars, sparks are able to reach the first floor while we sitting eating breakfast. We feel a bit annoyed that the men came in the morning on a Sunday, especially since on weekdays they had been arriving during the afternoons. However, we are glad things are getting done, and we gamely dodge flying flames as we clean up after eggs and joke about the situation.

Then, the handyman yells and falls from the roof, flat on his face and onto our second floor, with a vinyl slab atop of him. It takes me a moment to comprehend what has just happen. Jessica runs upstairs and I think about running to the parish for help, except I that I know I can´t communicate with anybody there. I yell at Jackie to call Sister Angelita, who is a doctor, and Jessica calls the parish and yells at me to bring up the bottle of tequila that the girls had given me for my birthday the day before.

Tequila is applied to the man´s wounds and he regains consciousness. We bring him downstairs where he has a shot while we clean the big gashes on his face. He is extremely incoherent. I feel helpless as we only have to two places to call in emergencies (the Sisters´home and the parish) and the Sisters are away and the parish is slow in reacting. We had been told that the police and ambulance drivers are corrupt and it´s best to avoid dealing with them.

The injured handyman stands up and decides he is in okay enough shape to leave. Though we don´t want him to go anywhere, his partner insists on leading him away. A few minutes later, Guillto, an older man who lives with the priests and helps them, shows up. Guillto is short, stout, always relaxed and jovial and is usually smoking a cigarette. While I generally find him charming and grandfatherly-like, I am upset by how lightly he takes the situation as he laughs at the man´s clumsiness and then cleans up some of the tools the men left behind.

It´s been quite a morning, and the day hasn´t even started yet. We had been told to go to one o´clock Mass and as ready ourselves and then walk to the parish, what sounds like gunshots keep going off. Though we know it´s only firecrackers for the holiday, the noise adds to the tension of the situation.

Mass is crowded, so we stand in the back along with other latecomers. After the service, Father leads a march that involves carrying flowers, chanting prayers and walking down a sleep, slippery hill and planting a giant cross, walking across a bridge and planting another one, and then walking up a hill and planting a third cross. I still don´t really know what it was all about, except that it had something to do with the anniversary of the death of the person who founded Santa Fe and it was meant to draw light to the fact that the grounds where he lived should be open to the public. Jackie and Jessica are still too shaken to really listen, yet alone translate.

After the walk, everyone goes to the Parish hall for soup. Jackie and I sit in the corner of the kitchen while teen-age girls rush around pulling out dishes and preparing ingredients. Though I´m trying to de-stress, I have a minor argument of sorts with one of the mentally handicapped boys who works at the parish and is trying to prepare coffee. I have to pull tap water out of his hands to stop him from adding it to the beverage but since I can´t explain why I´m doing this, (it´s toxic when unboiled) I feel rude.

While everyone eats there soup, (except for me because I´m a vegetarian) Jackie and I decide it´s been one of the weirdest days of our lives and we are ready to leave and visit an elderly neighbor who always brings us peace. However, we get called to the dining room where I am presented with a cake as a room full of women sing to me for my birthday (which was yesterday.)

It´s lovely, except the deacon tries convince to get me to take a bite out of the cake and he won´t listen as Jessica explains that I don´t eat dairy. I finally take a small nibble of icing from a spoon that a lady shoves in my face and then I cut the cake. I attempt to chat for a while, until the only people left in the room are me, the deacon, Jackie and a few ladies.

The deacon (who treats himself to more than a day of rest on Sundays) is in high spirits and leads the women in traditional Mexican folk songs. He tells Jackie and I to sing songs from the United States and then attempts to attempt to sing them himself. He chants ¨chica-chica boom-boom¨ while unbuttoning his shirt and shaking his hips and getting the other ladies to imitate him.

Jackie looks at me with wide eyes and says that we need to go--except we get called into the kitchen where the parish staff has congregated. Glasses of tequila and beer are passed around, which are sorely needed after the day we have had. When we finally get back to the casa--at eight o´clock--we sleep well.

The next day, the injured handyman comes back to continue working on our roof.


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Of course, that wasn´t the only celebration to take place over the weekend. Sister Angelita invited us to the funeral of one her patients on Friday night. As bodies aren´t embalmed here, the funeral took place a day after her passing. We arrived to the deceased women´s two-room house at a little before 10:00 p.m., when the funeral was supposed to start. The casket was laid out and the house was overflowing with so many people that many sat on streets. Coffee and pastries were passed around while we waited for Father. Though Sister was concerned by his tardiness and tried to call him once it reached 10:30, he finally arrived us if nothing happened and then said Mass. It seemed pretty similar to American services as some people were deeply in mourning, others seemed bored, and the children played amongst themselves after being shushed.

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Saturday was my birthday and the girls and I went into to town to see the the Metropolitan Cathedral, an elaborate church in the center of the city. Though the Spaniards began building over 400 years ago, it took several centuries to complete and it is composed of many architecture styles and chapels. After a tour, we went out to a popular Mexican chain called Sanborn´s for dinner and then meandered about looking at vendors selling crafts, artwork, jewelry and food. When it started raining, we took sanctuary in an open church and got to view portions of a wedding. At night, Javier and his friends paid us a visit and we all stayed up late drinking tequila and eating imitation pork rinds topped with guacamole.

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On Monday, we went to have dinner with Parish staff members in honor of Mexican Independence Day which always begins on September 15th and honors Father Hidalgo´s cries for independence from Spain in 1810. The affair was much more low-key than Sunday´s affair and we went home before midnight after a dinner of beans, tortillas and beef and some salsa dancing. However, our neighbors were up all night dancing, and the music coming through our open roof made it hard to sleep. While normally the precarious situation of our roof would bother me, I was too grateful for our handyman´s recuperation to be too upset, and I happily drifted in and out of sleep as sounds of mariuchi serenaded me.

In the Name of the Father

I´ve always felt somewhat uncomfortable around priests, starting with when I was seven years old and made my first Rite of Reconciliation. I was a little girl, sent into a room alone to make a confession to a priest who towered over me and weighed at least 250 pounds. Though he was kind and I was given donuts that evening, the idea of the sacrament brought me a lot of stress. For years afterward, my parents said how awful they felt sending their youngest daughter into such a foreboding situation. I still get nervous about Confession and anticipate being condemned as a bad person. As my only personal contact with priests has been during Confession, and I associate them with the act, it makes sense that I feel awkward around them.

I must also confess (haha) that the other reason I feel weird around priests speaks to both personal vanity and a lack of self-esteem. I experience social anxiety (a fear that others will react negatively toward me) and I often find new people intimidating, particularly those in positions of authority. However, I realize that I am a pretty, young woman with the ability to charm, and I´ve come to see that older men generally enjoy talking with me. This means if I have a job interview or if am waiting at a restaurant alone, I will feel much more comfortable if the interviewer waiter is a man. I rely on my sexuality to bring me a certain amount of power. Despite the fact that priests are older men, I don´t have this as a tool I am uncertain how to act around them and I fear they are judging me.

So when the parish priest, Father Salvador, decides to take Jessica, Jackie and I to see the pyramids of Teotihuacan, I am both excited and nervous. I want to see the historical, archaeological site that was a city during the time of Christ, but I am nervous about a two-hour car ride with a priest. However, in past dealings with Father, he has been extremely kind and he has personally come to attend to items in need of repair in our house. Everyone has great admiration for the things that he has done for the parish of 30,000 people and there are always lines outside his office to speak to him. His reputation, and the fact that I have an excuse not to talk to him, makes me feel better about the situation.

What´s interesting about Father is that while he has accomplished a lot within the parish, I have determined that he is probably a 9 (peacemaker) on the Enneagram scale. While he is very easy to get along with, his mind seems to wander and he has trouble staying on one topic of conversation. He often seems to be in his world, which is the case after Mass on Wednesday morning as the three of us missionaries wait in a borrowed van for a woman for another woman who will be joining us. While other parish workers chat nearby, Father stands alone looking around with wide eyes. Once, a nun said that 9s are mystics, meaning that they talk to God. I wouldn´t be surprised that if this is the case with Father and if he is too distracted by supernatural creatures that only he sees to deal with matters of this world.

After Lupita arrives, we make a trek out of the Mexico City to Teotihuacan. The site is in a park that holds the remains of a city that before Columbus was largest in the Americas,. Now it´s a world of dusty streets, relics, huge pyramids and remnants of apartment complexes decorated with carvings of snakes and pumas. We walk along at the Avenue of the Dead, the main street of the Teothiuhuacan that was over 2.5 km long. Once, humans on their way to be sacrificed are thought to have been paraded down this street, but now it´s full of vendors selling jewelry, blankets and other trinkets. They are quite aggressive, and saying ¨No entiendo,¨is not enough to keep them away, I also have to pretend not to speak English.

We proceed to embark on a steep climb up both the Pyramid of the Moon and the Pyramid of the Sun. The Pyramid of the Sun is 233.5 feet high and the largest in the world. We have to take rests between flights and as I huff and puff, I am glad for all the times I used to walk up the DC escalators, because it has been practice for this trip. Once we reach the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, we have a breathtaking view of other pyramids, villages, mountains, and we are surrounded by butterflies, and happy tourists speaking all different languages. The altitude is so high that I am dizzy when I initially stand up.

After lunch, a climb to another pyramid and a stop in a museum (with Father taking candid photographs all the while), Father decides it´s time for beer. He takes us to the coolest restaurant I have ever been in-or rather under, because it is literally inside of a cave. Father orders a cerveza and though the other girls stick with lemonade, I remember something that my own dad taught me which is that generally people don´t like to have a drink alone. I have a Corona and in the same way that being surrounded by babies made me miss my mother, relaxing with a beer makes me long for my dad. I know he would get a kick out of the situation-- we are beneath the earth in a restaurant where the floor is dirt and the waiters wear suits, bright, checkered yellow and orange tablecloths line the tables, a mariachi band is serenading a nearby table, and a squirrel runs around our feet.

Father is very jovial and he tells a story of the trying saying Mass in English in England and having a parishioner think he speaking in Latin. When the mariachi band tries to play music in front of his, he says we are too busy playing the rosary. When I offer to contribute money for the bill, he says he doesn´t need my wallet, just a handkerchief to cry into.

The has been wonderful, not just because it was a sunny break from Santa Fe, but because I have gotten to know Father as a fun person and not a shadowy figure in the confessional box or pulpit. In fact, he us a big Saturday night planned for us girls-he is going to come over and hang a statue of Jesus in the chapel attached to our house and lead us in prayers. We´ve already dusted off our Bibles and stocked up on beer.

Baby Talk

"Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be." ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 22, spoken by the character Holden Caulfield.



In this quote from The Catcher in the Rye, the angst-ridden teen hero of J.D. Salinger´s novel explains what he would do if he could do whatever he wants. Basically, he would like to leave behind the stresses of school, girls, and family life and relax in a field where he would catch children at play.



Over the past week and a half, while I´ve been volunteering with children through the Missionaries of Charity, this quote has come to mind. When holding a baby, I´ll think I´m practically living out Holden Caulfield´s dream as I have few responsibilities, duties or expectations other than to watch out for the child in my arms.



It´s a sweet thought, but then I´ll get jarred out of the moment in a manner such as this--I´m sitting on the floor holding a baby because my back hurts too much for me to stand any longer. Vickie is next to me, playing with my hair, and she pulls out my ponytail holder and stuffs it into her mouth. When I turn to wrestle it back, a girl on the other side of me grabs at my chest and tickles me beneath my armpits. Meanwhile, two twin girls stand at my feet and swat at each other as they battle to sit on my legs. I start scolding them all in English and get frustrated when I realize that they can´t understand me. I am really fed up and just want to leave, and then realize I´m in a room full of crying children who don´t have the option to leave, and I feel incredibly guilty.



It´s been a complicated week. I can´t say that I love being at the home, as I get fed up with the kids and feel left out by not being able to communicate with the adults. Though I often can´t wait too leave (which I do twice a day as the home is closed to volunteers mid-afternoon,) I prolong going as much as it means putting down the baby I´m holding and causing her to bawl. It breaks my heart every time. I miss the kids while away from them, yet often don´t want to be there.

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Weeks ago in training, one of the speakers said that there would be times in mission when we would feel overwhelmed by the misery around us. To cope, she said we should find beauty in the people around us. Like Holen Caulfield, I´ve had the chance to observe people around me and these are some of those who I have encountered:

Paulina and Carmelita are two-year old twin girls with boy haircuts and sad, droopy eyes who make endless appeals for affection. As soon as an anyone enters a room, they cling to that person´s legs until someone scoops them up. Paulina in particular loves to be bounced on my legs and lifted high in the hair. The girls posses no boundaries but have endless curiosity, meaning that the poke at other babies, hit each other in an attempt for attention and pull on the pigtails of visiting children. Around them, I know to put my purse in high places, button the pockets of my pants and seal open containers of cream. Despite the fact that they are trouble makers, I feel for them deeply because they are so eager and and so accepting of love from any source.

Vickie is a six year-old with legs turned inward so that mostly has to walk with her hands. She has no mental handicap and she´s a great help to me. When babies are fussing while being changed, she´ll tell me the particular item or clothing that girl wants. If I ask her the Spanish word for something, she´ll repeat it until I pronounce it right. She spends her mornings with crutches on her legs as she practices walking and she is immune to other children who tug at her and pull her hair.

Rosalita and Billy are two girls who go to kindergarten during the day. Rosalita has a speech impediment and Billy is a little person. When the other babies go down for naps during the day, they stay up dancing along with the older girls. The other day, when I was trying to make funny faces, Billy cracked me up by asking ¨tu popo¨?¨while my face was scrunched like a raisin. Rosalita is particularly sweet, when one of the babies I put down was crying, she stood at the head of the crib and pattied Iris´s head.

Despite the fighting that the girls do and the abandonment that they have experienced, they do watch out for each other, and the older girls are very caring toward the babies. My hope is that the girls mentally capable of making it out of the home will always be like sisters to each other, and will someday be able to look back at the situation they made it through together and feel an incredible bond.

Of course, there is another community of sisters at the home--the nuns make up the order. They all wear simple, sari-like blue and white habits underneath large, green and white checkered aprons and they hail from different places around the world.

Sister Estralla looks anywhere from 30 to 50 to me, and she wears thick glasses and speaks English with a strong Indian accent. She oversees the nursery and comes in and out to make sure everything is running smoothly. She´s always busy doing something, and while the only time she´s ever had for me is to deposit a child into my lap, she shows great love for the kids. Despite her seriousness, she coos at the babies. The twins leave the arms of others to run to her and the highlight of the day another girl cries if Sister is late to take her to afternoon Mass.

While many of the nuns are rather solemn and quiet while attending to duties, Sister Maria is always smiling and she makes it a point to greet me. She is in her early 20´s and she wears black sneakers under her sari and she´ll dance to music playing as she walks out of the room. Once I overheard her listingg reasons why she needed to leave her shirts 10 minutes early to prepare for class (she had to wash her hands, take off her apron, meet up with someone) and she reminded me of a young girl trying to get out of chores. I think of her as the littlestister of the order, providing comic relief and being molded by the older nuns.

¨I am Kate, but here they call me Katerina,¨ a nun from Massachusetts said to me. Sister Katrina has long hair and a round, pale face, and looks and speaks as I imagine a pilgrim would. When she told me where she was from, it took me a few minutes to register that someone who was born a few years before me, a few states above me, could end up choosing a permanent lifestyle so different from my own and act as if she hails from a different time.

In addition to the nuns, many volunteers come in and out of the home, ranging from high-schoolers who must do volunteer work to graduate to retired grandmothers who have made a second career out of visiting the home. Yesterday, one of the older ladies instructed me on how to old a tiny, sick baby so that she would breathe better while I fed her a bottle. A half-hour later, a group of teenage boys in suits were hovering around the crib of a crying toddler and I told them it would be okay pick her up. ¨But how do we hold a baby?¨one asked, and I demonstrated a technique that I have been honing for less than two weeks.

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Like Holden Caulfield, I have always longed for a peaceful life. During a career crisis years ago, my best friend asked me what I would do if I were to win the lottery and money was no object. My answer was supposed to determine what sort of job I should pursue but I didn´t find the question helpful. I said that I would´t do anything and just spend my time traveling and and doing volunteer work. Now, it occurs to me that I am doing exactly what I wanted to be (albeit in solidarity with the poor and very limited funds) and I have to remind myself what I blessing that is. Despite everything else going on around me, I am going to savour those moments when I feel as if I have caught a child in my arms, and hold onto them.