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.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
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.''
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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.''
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
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.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
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!!
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!!
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