¨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.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
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.
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.
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.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
A Sprinkling of Salsa
On the bus on the way to meet up with Javier, (a friend of Jessica´s from when she studied abroad in Mexico who has invited us to a bar!) Jessica tells us about him. Javier is very kind and generous and also lots of fun--once they made all types of salsa and spent a whole night going around and sampling it.
At least that´s what I deduce Jessica is saying. She is speaking Spanish for my benefit as I told her it´s hard for me to learn because many people talk to me in English. However, I can´t understand her story but I catch the word ¨salsa¨ and she moves her hands around. Since she loves to cook, I figure the story is condiment related. As it turns out, she was explaining that Javier likes to dance salsa, and is a great partner because he´ll grab you and throw you around and you don´t have to know how to dance.
Upon meeting Javier, everything she says seems true as he is tall and thin and looks as if he could easily glide around the dance floor. He tells us that he is inviting us out, which confuses me as I think ¨Of course you´ invited us, that´s why we are here.¨ However, he was using an expression to explain that all bar covers and drinks would be his treat.
Once Javier´s friend Hidalgo and Jess´s old roommate Maddie arrive, we pile into Javier´s big, blue van to go to a place called the Beer Hall, where another of his friends will be playing in a band. Javier says that he would have taken us in the Corvette he just bought from America, but it would have been to small for everyone to fit. The differences in his cars speak to the ways in which his personality seems to duel with itself. Javier teaches religion in a school, volunteers in an orphanage, and earns much of his income by selling beer to small shops. He wants to go to Rome to get a Master´s in Religion, and he might have been a priest except for the fact that he loves girls and wants to get married and have 30 children.
Both he and Hidalgo are very gentlemanly in a way uncommon to most men in the United States. As we make our way to the bar, they open and close our doors, walk on the part of the sidewalk closest to oncoming cars and wait for us to step up on sidewalks or enter a building before they do the same.
Anyone who has ever been in a bar that primarily sells beer can imagine what the Beer Hall is like--it´s small, crowded and dark and waitresses wearing tight, red polo shirts serve fried food and popcorn. While the band is between sets, huge, giant television screens play 80´s music videos. When I catch myself humming along to Madonna´s ¨Material Girl,¨ I remember that I am in Mexico to take a stand against materialism and feel a little unmissionary-like being at a bar. However, breaks from Santa Fe are important, as is having friends under 30 who haven´t taken vows.
Not that it´s easy making friends with the guys--I can barely understand them as it is, but the loud noise makes it impossible to make small talk. Once the band starts, everyone gives up on communicating. They play some sort of heavy metal with a good, but loud beat, but and no one can tell if they are singing in English or Spanish. Javier says that it´s not really his scene, but he´s there to support his friend and afterward we will go somewhere better.
We end up at the Mambo Lounge, a huge venue containing palm trees, where waiters wear long white sleeves. After a round of mojitos, we head out to the big, wooden dance floor, which is an interactive experienxce as lights flash and day glow sticks are thrown from the stage. After some pop music, a band arrives and begins playing ranchero and merangue music, to the delight of Javier, Hidalgo and everyone else, because this means it´s time for salsa.
I´ve taken tango (which is similar to salsa) lessons twice and I found it diffiuclt as I lack rhythm and a sense of direction. When it comes to salsa, I repeat the same strategy I utilized in tango which is to follow my partner and look into his eyes, which works as Javier and Hidalgo are experts at the dance. It also helps to smile a lot and wave my hair around and soon I am trying all sorts of complicated twiests and turns. One of the boy dancers on stage-a kid wearing tight, white jeans and ripped white T-shirt who I assume is at least 18-tugs at me shirtsleeve and winks, and I start to feel as if I am assimilating.
After a lot of dancing, we take a break, except for Jackie, who is stuck on the dance floor. My 22-year old, fresh from college roommate has been scooped up by a 30-something man who promises to take her on a motorcycle ride. We rescue her and then have a final dance to Hawaiin music, complete with fire explosions, hula dancers and lauis.
The night ends at four in the morning and everyone (except me) eats hot dogs topped with guacomole and hot peppers from a street vendor. We are to spend the night at Javier´s and he stops to get milk for our breakfast and then inflates the air mattresses he has gotten for us to sleep on. He is a champ, because he has to get up at 6:30 in the morning for work, and before we all head to bed, he says we should all meet up again soon.
Exhausted, I fall asleep almost immediately My first night on the town has been exhilerating and while it didn´t help me imporve my Spanish, I learned something about the language of salsa, which seems to be just as useful in fitting in and getting a taste of the culture.
At least that´s what I deduce Jessica is saying. She is speaking Spanish for my benefit as I told her it´s hard for me to learn because many people talk to me in English. However, I can´t understand her story but I catch the word ¨salsa¨ and she moves her hands around. Since she loves to cook, I figure the story is condiment related. As it turns out, she was explaining that Javier likes to dance salsa, and is a great partner because he´ll grab you and throw you around and you don´t have to know how to dance.
Upon meeting Javier, everything she says seems true as he is tall and thin and looks as if he could easily glide around the dance floor. He tells us that he is inviting us out, which confuses me as I think ¨Of course you´ invited us, that´s why we are here.¨ However, he was using an expression to explain that all bar covers and drinks would be his treat.
Once Javier´s friend Hidalgo and Jess´s old roommate Maddie arrive, we pile into Javier´s big, blue van to go to a place called the Beer Hall, where another of his friends will be playing in a band. Javier says that he would have taken us in the Corvette he just bought from America, but it would have been to small for everyone to fit. The differences in his cars speak to the ways in which his personality seems to duel with itself. Javier teaches religion in a school, volunteers in an orphanage, and earns much of his income by selling beer to small shops. He wants to go to Rome to get a Master´s in Religion, and he might have been a priest except for the fact that he loves girls and wants to get married and have 30 children.
Both he and Hidalgo are very gentlemanly in a way uncommon to most men in the United States. As we make our way to the bar, they open and close our doors, walk on the part of the sidewalk closest to oncoming cars and wait for us to step up on sidewalks or enter a building before they do the same.
Anyone who has ever been in a bar that primarily sells beer can imagine what the Beer Hall is like--it´s small, crowded and dark and waitresses wearing tight, red polo shirts serve fried food and popcorn. While the band is between sets, huge, giant television screens play 80´s music videos. When I catch myself humming along to Madonna´s ¨Material Girl,¨ I remember that I am in Mexico to take a stand against materialism and feel a little unmissionary-like being at a bar. However, breaks from Santa Fe are important, as is having friends under 30 who haven´t taken vows.
Not that it´s easy making friends with the guys--I can barely understand them as it is, but the loud noise makes it impossible to make small talk. Once the band starts, everyone gives up on communicating. They play some sort of heavy metal with a good, but loud beat, but and no one can tell if they are singing in English or Spanish. Javier says that it´s not really his scene, but he´s there to support his friend and afterward we will go somewhere better.
We end up at the Mambo Lounge, a huge venue containing palm trees, where waiters wear long white sleeves. After a round of mojitos, we head out to the big, wooden dance floor, which is an interactive experienxce as lights flash and day glow sticks are thrown from the stage. After some pop music, a band arrives and begins playing ranchero and merangue music, to the delight of Javier, Hidalgo and everyone else, because this means it´s time for salsa.
I´ve taken tango (which is similar to salsa) lessons twice and I found it diffiuclt as I lack rhythm and a sense of direction. When it comes to salsa, I repeat the same strategy I utilized in tango which is to follow my partner and look into his eyes, which works as Javier and Hidalgo are experts at the dance. It also helps to smile a lot and wave my hair around and soon I am trying all sorts of complicated twiests and turns. One of the boy dancers on stage-a kid wearing tight, white jeans and ripped white T-shirt who I assume is at least 18-tugs at me shirtsleeve and winks, and I start to feel as if I am assimilating.
After a lot of dancing, we take a break, except for Jackie, who is stuck on the dance floor. My 22-year old, fresh from college roommate has been scooped up by a 30-something man who promises to take her on a motorcycle ride. We rescue her and then have a final dance to Hawaiin music, complete with fire explosions, hula dancers and lauis.
The night ends at four in the morning and everyone (except me) eats hot dogs topped with guacomole and hot peppers from a street vendor. We are to spend the night at Javier´s and he stops to get milk for our breakfast and then inflates the air mattresses he has gotten for us to sleep on. He is a champ, because he has to get up at 6:30 in the morning for work, and before we all head to bed, he says we should all meet up again soon.
Exhausted, I fall asleep almost immediately My first night on the town has been exhilerating and while it didn´t help me imporve my Spanish, I learned something about the language of salsa, which seems to be just as useful in fitting in and getting a taste of the culture.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Mothers and Sisters
"To touch another person is to feel the touch of God,"
This quote is imposed over a photo of Mother Theresa clutching a baby, in the House of Peace and Joy where I started working at today. It brought me comfort because I saw it after realizing that despite a college degree and loads of volunteer experience, the most I could do for the people I was working with was to touch them.
I arrived at the house (for the elderly and diabled) run by the Missionaries of Charity at eight in the morning. The first Sister I saw said I should work with the babies, and she led me upstairs to a room full of young girls and boys with all sorts of birth defects. Immediately, one little girl ran to me and jumped into my arms. My heart went out to her because because she is two, about the same age as my niece Josie. Though Josie loves people, I have never seen my niece open up to strangers in the way that this little girl did with me. I do not know if she was hungry
for attention, or if she understands that any new person will be caring, but she clung to me for most of the day.
The nuns began the day with the prayers and they said one in English for my benefit. I was not introduced to the group and there was no sort of training process. Though the workers, nuns and volunteers are friendly, they did not go out of there way to welcome volunteers. Jessica has visited the home several times before, and she told me to expect this because the workers are so focused on the people they help that they can not take time for others. Also, they are used to many volunteers coming in and out. I tried as much as I could to speak Spanish with the other volunteers, but felt frustrated by my inability to communicate. All the nuns know English though (their order was started by Mother Theresa in India and the sisters come from all over) and that made things easier.
After prayers, I was taken into a bathing room and asked to dress and change the babies. I have always been a little comfortable around babies because I am afraid of breaking them somehow. The situation made me regret all the times my sister wanted to show me how to change Josies" diapers and I avoided doing it because I was clueless as to what to do. I felt like I was playing tug-of-war as I tried to pull legs into diapers, and involved in a wrestling match as I put squirming limbs into clothes.
Once everyone was dressed, I went into a playroom filled with babies, toys, and a few workers.I had been given no direction as to what to do and I lacked the Spanish to talk to the workers. However, a few of the kids jumped on me for hugs and while that felt back-breaking, what really hurt was seeing the kids who did not moved and just laid there alone and quiet. I was not sure what to do because if I had been with Josie I would have read her stories or tried to teach her new words. In this case, I could not speak the language and many of the kids will probably never be able to understand any language as it is. I remembered reading how important touch is in humans, so I just went around hugging and holding babies. That was when I saw the photo of Mother Theresa on the wall which said touching humans it to feel the touch of God.
There were many times throughout the day when I felt overwhelmed, uncertain and just uncomfortable. I really wanted to cry out for my mother to come in and take care of everything. In the same way that she has been able to tend to Josie even though she raised her last baby 25 years ago, I know that she would have been able to easily change diapers, coax food into mouths stop kids from biting each other, and come up with games to play.
The longing I felt for my mother though, made me feel for the babies even more, because they are abandoned and orphaned and though they have that same desire for a mom to look after them, it will never be fufilled. As I ambivalent on the possibilty of having children of my own, I always assumed that I do not posess a maternal instinct. However, I realized that I do have one and it is something different than what I thought. Loads of women have raised babies without anyone showing them what to do. As a female, I must have that same inate ability to care for the very young. That thought gave me more confidence throughout the day, and it is something that I need to bear in mind as I work. Though being surrounded by babies is far from the life I was living a year ago, when I was consumed with happy hours and office politics and living in a city that kept children regulated to suburbs, I am coming closer to touching God.
This quote is imposed over a photo of Mother Theresa clutching a baby, in the House of Peace and Joy where I started working at today. It brought me comfort because I saw it after realizing that despite a college degree and loads of volunteer experience, the most I could do for the people I was working with was to touch them.
I arrived at the house (for the elderly and diabled) run by the Missionaries of Charity at eight in the morning. The first Sister I saw said I should work with the babies, and she led me upstairs to a room full of young girls and boys with all sorts of birth defects. Immediately, one little girl ran to me and jumped into my arms. My heart went out to her because because she is two, about the same age as my niece Josie. Though Josie loves people, I have never seen my niece open up to strangers in the way that this little girl did with me. I do not know if she was hungry
for attention, or if she understands that any new person will be caring, but she clung to me for most of the day.
The nuns began the day with the prayers and they said one in English for my benefit. I was not introduced to the group and there was no sort of training process. Though the workers, nuns and volunteers are friendly, they did not go out of there way to welcome volunteers. Jessica has visited the home several times before, and she told me to expect this because the workers are so focused on the people they help that they can not take time for others. Also, they are used to many volunteers coming in and out. I tried as much as I could to speak Spanish with the other volunteers, but felt frustrated by my inability to communicate. All the nuns know English though (their order was started by Mother Theresa in India and the sisters come from all over) and that made things easier.
After prayers, I was taken into a bathing room and asked to dress and change the babies. I have always been a little comfortable around babies because I am afraid of breaking them somehow. The situation made me regret all the times my sister wanted to show me how to change Josies" diapers and I avoided doing it because I was clueless as to what to do. I felt like I was playing tug-of-war as I tried to pull legs into diapers, and involved in a wrestling match as I put squirming limbs into clothes.
Once everyone was dressed, I went into a playroom filled with babies, toys, and a few workers.I had been given no direction as to what to do and I lacked the Spanish to talk to the workers. However, a few of the kids jumped on me for hugs and while that felt back-breaking, what really hurt was seeing the kids who did not moved and just laid there alone and quiet. I was not sure what to do because if I had been with Josie I would have read her stories or tried to teach her new words. In this case, I could not speak the language and many of the kids will probably never be able to understand any language as it is. I remembered reading how important touch is in humans, so I just went around hugging and holding babies. That was when I saw the photo of Mother Theresa on the wall which said touching humans it to feel the touch of God.
There were many times throughout the day when I felt overwhelmed, uncertain and just uncomfortable. I really wanted to cry out for my mother to come in and take care of everything. In the same way that she has been able to tend to Josie even though she raised her last baby 25 years ago, I know that she would have been able to easily change diapers, coax food into mouths stop kids from biting each other, and come up with games to play.
The longing I felt for my mother though, made me feel for the babies even more, because they are abandoned and orphaned and though they have that same desire for a mom to look after them, it will never be fufilled. As I ambivalent on the possibilty of having children of my own, I always assumed that I do not posess a maternal instinct. However, I realized that I do have one and it is something different than what I thought. Loads of women have raised babies without anyone showing them what to do. As a female, I must have that same inate ability to care for the very young. That thought gave me more confidence throughout the day, and it is something that I need to bear in mind as I work. Though being surrounded by babies is far from the life I was living a year ago, when I was consumed with happy hours and office politics and living in a city that kept children regulated to suburbs, I am coming closer to touching God.
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