Besides my dietary habits (no meat, no dairy) the thing that perplexes people most in Mexico is the fact that I do not have a boyfriend. Two of the most common questions that I am asked are Tienes novio? and Por que no tienes novio? (Do you have a boyfriend? Why don´t you have a boyfriend?) While there are plenty of chavos willing to fill the role, no one but me is bothered that I am at least five years older than most of them and I can´t fluently speak their language.
Apparently people have been praying for me, and lately I have been seeing enough of someone (Fernando) that I was invited to his end-of-the-year work party. As is common here, the party was preceded by mass, and it took place on one of the biggest celebration days of the year, the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (Mexico´s patron saint.)
So on Saturday, Fernando picked me up for the party. He arrived on time (something that is not to common here) and then we went to the parish to fetch the Deacon who was to say the service. Of course the Deacon wasn´t there and we waited outside while Fernando exchanged phone calls with a friend who was supposed to accompany the Deacon. In the interim, a nun from work passed by and waved. This made me a little nervous because upon seeing us together a few weeks prior at Mass, one of the nuns from work had commented ¨Be careful with the boys here. They seem nice at first but then they´ll beat you.¨ If having a date that took place in a church was cause for concern, I wasn´t sure how me being in a parked car with a guy would go over.
We were supposed to meet the Deacon at 3:30 and the service was to begin at 4:00 but it wasn´t until 5:00 that we tracked down the Deacon at a house where he had said a different service. As he had been working all day and the services are followed by fiestas, it appeared that he had been celebrating Mass and celebrating afterwards. On the car ride to the party, the Deacon chatted incessantly and quoted Bible passages and portions of Mass.
The service took place at Fernando´s workplace, which is a shop where theater sets are constructed. Everyone was wearing jeans and I felt overdressed in a skirt. More awkwardly, Fernando works for his familys´ business, so I found myself being introduced to a slew of relatives.
Though I was obviously the foreigner who didn´t belong, the Deacon decided to make sure it was evident. During one of the few parts of his homily I could decipher, he asked who wanted to be a missionary. I raised my hand, and the Deacon looked at me and said, ¨Si, Caro esta una missionara.¨ At a portion of his homily where immigrants were mentioned, he talked about how I had come from a different country.
After the service, a group of seven-year old girls gathered around me and stared. As a white girl in dress-up clothes, I suppose it was as if a giant Barbie had walked in for them to play with. While I tried to think back to what sort of conversations grown-ups had with me some twenty years ago, I noticed a group of older, male cousins staring at me as well but at least they kept their distance. Two people trying to ignore me were Fernando´s young second cousins who also happen to be my English students; I´m sure they were perplexed to see their teacher at a party.
Everyone ate and then Fernando and I took a much more subdued Deacon back to Santa Fe. While we were gone, pinatas were broken and when we returned, the girls immediately presented me with candy. I was introduced to more relatives, including an uncle who asked Fernando ¨Is this your girlfriend?¨
Since this was a conversation that we haven´t had, I tried to joke my way out of it by saying ¨I don´t speak much Spanish.¨ The uncle took me seriously, asked me a few more conversations and then said, ¨Pero estas aprendiendo. La guerrita esta aprendiendo.¨ (But you´re learning. The white girl is learning.)
More difficult was talking with Fernando´s father. He sat down next to me and after some basic chitchat about where I was from, he declared ¨And then next year, you´ll go back home and break my son´s heart.¨ He said this several times using hand gestures to make sure I understood.
Though I tried to tell him who knows what could happen in a year and that Fernando could break my heart, the father kept before asking me to dance. Then came salsa dancing with the uncle, who basically spun and threw me around the dance floor.
By the time the evening ended, the uncle and father were very spirited and they came with Fernando and me back to Santa Fe. The father kept repeating what he had told me earlier until I finally said. ¨Yes, that´s why I´m here, I´m going to break a new heart every month and then I´ll go back to America.¨ The uncle, who had been listing all the words he knew and English as well as the places he knew of in the United States, laughed and shouted comments about me that I couldn´t understand in which I was referred to as the guerrita.
Despite how uncomfortable it all may sound, anyone reading this who has attended one of my family reunions knows that Catholic ceremonies, tipsy uncles and a father with a faulty internal sensor are nothing out of the ordinary for me. Thus, other than whiplash sustained from the dance floor, meeting the family in Mexico felt pretty familiar.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Times Are A-Changing
At least here--Mexico still goes by the correct time change date, so least week we gained an hour. (Some things never change. I can never resist a chessy pun.)
Halloween is tomorrow and I am that remembering last year at this time, we had a big parish dinner and carved pumpkins. By that point I was starting to feel as if we had been here for a while and that I was at home so it`s kind of crazy to think that it has been a year since then.
I have started writing applications for graduate schools and the essay process has definitely made me realize that I feel a calling to study social work and I am excited to learn more about the field. However, thinking about next year makes me realize that I won`t be here and that I`m going to return to friends and family who have made big changes in their lives. It makes me sad to think about leaving behind the girls at the Missionaries of Charity as well as my friends at the parish, but there is also I lot I miss about the United States.
To come to terms with it all, I`m trying to live in the present so I`ll share a recent day. Last Sunday, Lisa and I went to a celebration at a chapel (Senor de Christo Negro) that is part of our parish. The celebration began at eight a.m. with fireworks we could hear from our house, but we didn`t walk down for the Mass until the afternoon. (Twice, actually, as I got confused by dos and doce when I was beig gtold what time to show up.) We arrived ten minutes before two o`clock Mass, which didn`t start until 2:45. While we waited, we watched salsa and kumba dancers perform beneath a makeshift pavilion that had been set up. There was a street fair type atmopshere as beer and tacos were sold and consumed in the streets, children played games, and people danced.
When Mass began, so did a downpour. Carmelita (a sweet church lady) insisted on giving Lisa and I an umbrella. During Padre`s sermon, water gushed off an awning and onto the crowd. Padre told the crowd that theymay not have been expecting a baptism, but they inadvertantly experienced one. While Padre was speaking at the end, one of his helpers, David, repeated everything he said and Padre just laughed and let him take over the microphone. After Mass, tables were set up and food was distributed and we sat with our friends from the parish. (As Lisa said, part of Padre`s posse.) Padre made sure to give Lisa and I vegetarian lunches and Gallo passed me sips of tequila from the special cups that he and Padre had been served.
There was nothing atypical about the day, but when I think about it, I appreciate the love I encountered, the sense of community, and the willingness of people not to take things so to seriously. It`s days like that I want to learn on and hold onto, no matter what my next step may be.
Halloween is tomorrow and I am that remembering last year at this time, we had a big parish dinner and carved pumpkins. By that point I was starting to feel as if we had been here for a while and that I was at home so it`s kind of crazy to think that it has been a year since then.
I have started writing applications for graduate schools and the essay process has definitely made me realize that I feel a calling to study social work and I am excited to learn more about the field. However, thinking about next year makes me realize that I won`t be here and that I`m going to return to friends and family who have made big changes in their lives. It makes me sad to think about leaving behind the girls at the Missionaries of Charity as well as my friends at the parish, but there is also I lot I miss about the United States.
To come to terms with it all, I`m trying to live in the present so I`ll share a recent day. Last Sunday, Lisa and I went to a celebration at a chapel (Senor de Christo Negro) that is part of our parish. The celebration began at eight a.m. with fireworks we could hear from our house, but we didn`t walk down for the Mass until the afternoon. (Twice, actually, as I got confused by dos and doce when I was beig gtold what time to show up.) We arrived ten minutes before two o`clock Mass, which didn`t start until 2:45. While we waited, we watched salsa and kumba dancers perform beneath a makeshift pavilion that had been set up. There was a street fair type atmopshere as beer and tacos were sold and consumed in the streets, children played games, and people danced.
When Mass began, so did a downpour. Carmelita (a sweet church lady) insisted on giving Lisa and I an umbrella. During Padre`s sermon, water gushed off an awning and onto the crowd. Padre told the crowd that theymay not have been expecting a baptism, but they inadvertantly experienced one. While Padre was speaking at the end, one of his helpers, David, repeated everything he said and Padre just laughed and let him take over the microphone. After Mass, tables were set up and food was distributed and we sat with our friends from the parish. (As Lisa said, part of Padre`s posse.) Padre made sure to give Lisa and I vegetarian lunches and Gallo passed me sips of tequila from the special cups that he and Padre had been served.
There was nothing atypical about the day, but when I think about it, I appreciate the love I encountered, the sense of community, and the willingness of people not to take things so to seriously. It`s days like that I want to learn on and hold onto, no matter what my next step may be.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Field Trip
Tuesdays at the convent, the Brothers of the Missionaries of Charity come with their residents to give and collect food. I was chatting with them a week ago when one of the nuns suggested that I go to their house sometime for a visit—the brothers also run a home from the handicapped, but only males live there.
``She can come back with right us now,`` the Brother said. ``She can take the bus home.``
That was a little too spur-of-the-moment for me, but Sister told him I could prepare and go the following week. So I got ready by asking Jessica to come along with me—of course because I love her company, but also because she is able to ask bus drivers directions more easily than I can.
The following week, I went to the convent and Jess said she would meet up with me soonafter. I met up with Brother Marcos who said both Jess and I could back with him and that they would be leaving in 15 minutes. As I fed Edith, I texted Jess and worried that she wouldn`t make it before it was time to leave
``Let`s go,`` Brother Marcos said to the residents with him, just as Jessica arrived. I thought it was perfect, that she had made it just in time. Instead, Brother Marcos had more food to pass out and more nuns to talk to. Jessica and I lingered by his van as three teenage boys with Down`s Syndrome hugged us, tugged at us, and one jumped on my back. We decided we were in for an adventure. As the Brother made more rounds, Sister Maria quizzed Jessica about the progress of her cathecism students. A half hour later, we set off.
In the car, Jess sat next to Israel who stuck his head out the window and yelled at pedistrians. Brother Marcos seemed unconcerned by this but Jess and I told him many times to settle down. I sat between two boys and listened to one tell me repeatedly that another nun had once come with them and sat in that very van. Everyone was entertained when I ducked my head behind the seat in front of many times as part of a game called ``Donde Estoy?`` (which I have honed my skills at playing over the past year.) Jess and I belted out a long rendition``If You`re Happy and You Know It.```
We drove out of Pueblo Santa Fe and the Commercial Center and into a small town called San Mateo. In the grounds of the Brothers` Home, the boys led us to a concrete area where there were about 40 handicapped men—some in wheelchairs, some laying on the ground, most walking about.
Immediately we were surrounded by men who put there arms around us and tugged us in different directions. In terms of sadness it wasn`t worse than visiting the convent but being around men made me a little nervous. At work, the women at the convent are mostly bedridden, but here we were surrounded by many grown men who could physically function but had undiscernable mental problems. Jess and I did our best to get over our worries about being there and tried to chat politely with everyone. No one really cared about what we were saying—our presence was enough.
During dinner time (apple stew, home-grown corn and donuts,) I mingled with various tables. The boys from the van-ride passed out food, one wheelchair-bound man fed another wheelchair-bound man ,and a young man could not stop climbing up on his chair. One man seemed desperate to communicate with me, but I could only vaguely understand that he was trying to say ``nino.`` Jess learned from Brother Marcos that visitors so rarely come that they don`t even have visiting . I asked him if we could do anything to help, and passed along to Jess the fact the he wanted us to collect and wash dishes.
As I stood at the sink, the man who had been trying ``nino.`` grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the kitchen and over to a wall of photos. He showed me a pictures of himself as a child and then the boys from the came over as well to point out their pictures. Then they pulled me outside to show me flowers, the statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the corn that they are growing, and the dog. We circled the grounds several times Jess and washed the dishes that I had offered to clean. As I prayed by Maria and accepted freshly-picked flowers, I began to feel at peace.
Back inside the house several men were watching TV and Jess and I saw the rooms of the men—like at the convent about 15 patients live in single beds in big rooms. The residents of the Brothers seemed more active than the residents of the Sisters and I liked that they are able to roam the grounds freely. The Brothers I met had a hip vibe to them—they were from India and wore jeans or athletic pants. One had bushy beard and they were all very laid-back.
There was a time I would have been much more uncomfortable in such a place. I`ve always thought of myself as someone who is patient and accepting of others but the visit definitely tested my limits. In the United States, I spent some time volunteering with mentally ill men and of course, over this past year I have been spending my days with discapacitated women. Many times I wondered what I was doing at those places and chastised myself for not making a huge difference in the lives of others. However, those experiences helped me prepare for being more open toward the residents of the Brothers. Most of the men struggled to speak, and as I have spent the past year doing the same thing (wondering how I got myself into such a position,) I felt a lot of compassion toward them. The day was a reminder to me that even when I am not sure why something is happening at the time, it can help prepare me for something far down the road.
``She can come back with right us now,`` the Brother said. ``She can take the bus home.``
That was a little too spur-of-the-moment for me, but Sister told him I could prepare and go the following week. So I got ready by asking Jessica to come along with me—of course because I love her company, but also because she is able to ask bus drivers directions more easily than I can.
The following week, I went to the convent and Jess said she would meet up with me soonafter. I met up with Brother Marcos who said both Jess and I could back with him and that they would be leaving in 15 minutes. As I fed Edith, I texted Jess and worried that she wouldn`t make it before it was time to leave
``Let`s go,`` Brother Marcos said to the residents with him, just as Jessica arrived. I thought it was perfect, that she had made it just in time. Instead, Brother Marcos had more food to pass out and more nuns to talk to. Jessica and I lingered by his van as three teenage boys with Down`s Syndrome hugged us, tugged at us, and one jumped on my back. We decided we were in for an adventure. As the Brother made more rounds, Sister Maria quizzed Jessica about the progress of her cathecism students. A half hour later, we set off.
In the car, Jess sat next to Israel who stuck his head out the window and yelled at pedistrians. Brother Marcos seemed unconcerned by this but Jess and I told him many times to settle down. I sat between two boys and listened to one tell me repeatedly that another nun had once come with them and sat in that very van. Everyone was entertained when I ducked my head behind the seat in front of many times as part of a game called ``Donde Estoy?`` (which I have honed my skills at playing over the past year.) Jess and I belted out a long rendition``If You`re Happy and You Know It.```
We drove out of Pueblo Santa Fe and the Commercial Center and into a small town called San Mateo. In the grounds of the Brothers` Home, the boys led us to a concrete area where there were about 40 handicapped men—some in wheelchairs, some laying on the ground, most walking about.
Immediately we were surrounded by men who put there arms around us and tugged us in different directions. In terms of sadness it wasn`t worse than visiting the convent but being around men made me a little nervous. At work, the women at the convent are mostly bedridden, but here we were surrounded by many grown men who could physically function but had undiscernable mental problems. Jess and I did our best to get over our worries about being there and tried to chat politely with everyone. No one really cared about what we were saying—our presence was enough.
During dinner time (apple stew, home-grown corn and donuts,) I mingled with various tables. The boys from the van-ride passed out food, one wheelchair-bound man fed another wheelchair-bound man ,and a young man could not stop climbing up on his chair. One man seemed desperate to communicate with me, but I could only vaguely understand that he was trying to say ``nino.`` Jess learned from Brother Marcos that visitors so rarely come that they don`t even have visiting . I asked him if we could do anything to help, and passed along to Jess the fact the he wanted us to collect and wash dishes.
As I stood at the sink, the man who had been trying ``nino.`` grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the kitchen and over to a wall of photos. He showed me a pictures of himself as a child and then the boys from the came over as well to point out their pictures. Then they pulled me outside to show me flowers, the statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the corn that they are growing, and the dog. We circled the grounds several times Jess and washed the dishes that I had offered to clean. As I prayed by Maria and accepted freshly-picked flowers, I began to feel at peace.
Back inside the house several men were watching TV and Jess and I saw the rooms of the men—like at the convent about 15 patients live in single beds in big rooms. The residents of the Brothers seemed more active than the residents of the Sisters and I liked that they are able to roam the grounds freely. The Brothers I met had a hip vibe to them—they were from India and wore jeans or athletic pants. One had bushy beard and they were all very laid-back.
There was a time I would have been much more uncomfortable in such a place. I`ve always thought of myself as someone who is patient and accepting of others but the visit definitely tested my limits. In the United States, I spent some time volunteering with mentally ill men and of course, over this past year I have been spending my days with discapacitated women. Many times I wondered what I was doing at those places and chastised myself for not making a huge difference in the lives of others. However, those experiences helped me prepare for being more open toward the residents of the Brothers. Most of the men struggled to speak, and as I have spent the past year doing the same thing (wondering how I got myself into such a position,) I felt a lot of compassion toward them. The day was a reminder to me that even when I am not sure why something is happening at the time, it can help prepare me for something far down the road.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Overtime
I was never a Catholic schoolgirl, but I`m familiar with enough pop culture (and family stories) that when a nun barks an order at me, I get a little frightened. Such was the case late Monday afternoon at work-- I was walking outside with Marisol when Sister Maria called over to me, told me to put Marisol to bed and to``Wait for me here.``
I did as she said, thinking that she would do something like give me a copy of papal document to study or ask me to clean a shrine. In the back of my mind, I was worried that she would reprimand me for wearing torn jeans or for chatting to long with a male volunteer.
``Let`s go,`` she said when she came over to me, and to my surprise we walked outside of convent grounds.
``Where are we going?`` I asked.
``We have to cross the street,``
``Yes, but were are we going?``
``It`s so dangerous here, I don`t coming here alone,`` she remarked as we began going down a steep hill in a sketchy part of town. ``There are drug addicts everywhere. One of the ladies from my Friday group died and they called me. It`s a sad story—she lived in a beautiful house but her daughter fell in love with a drug addict and moved into one of those tin shanties.It was too much on her heart and blood pressure``
``We`re going to a funeral?``
``I want to pray,`` she said taking out her rosary. ``Should we do it in English, or Spanish so you can learn?
``Spanish,`` I said, so that I could learn and so that I could avoid a lecture on the fact that I don`t have many prayers memorized in English.
We passed by Lupita (Sister said there was no time to talk with her) and other drug users and arrived at a home at the bottom of Pueblo Nuevo, very close to where the Sisters of the Incarnate Word live. I realized that I had actually been to the house before, when I was visiting various infirmed people with Sister Angelita last November.
We went inside a beautiful home that seems out of place for Santa Fe. Inside was one of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word as well as Dona Mari, an older lady that Jess and I often visit who is also part of Sister Maria`s Friday group. Everybody was wondering when Padre Salvador would show up to say Mass. It seems that all the circles I run in are closely linked together.
In front of the coffin, a relative of the deceased began wailing that God does`t exist. Sister Maria took her away to talk with her and I sat next to Jackie, a physically handicapped girl whom I had met when visiting with Sister Angelita. She was very shaken up but able to say that she remembered me. Soon Sister Maria returned and led everyone in a Rosary—pausing to tell us to slow down and listen to God.
Then Sister Maria left with another nun of the same name for some sort of sisterly business and two women came over to comfort Jackie. Which left me alone and funeral crashing.
A handsome man came offered me food several times and I didn`t eat but watched him pass out plates of spaghetti. One young woman was sitting (and occasionally giggling) with who I think was the cousin of the host and said to him ``Gracias pero no guapo, cariño, hermoso.`` So from my vantage point, funerals for older people in Mexico are like those in the United States—for certain parts of the room, it`s the worst experience of their lives, but for others, it`s an excuse to flirt and eat.
I left with Sister Maria soon after we returned—she was in a hurry and I ran to catch up with her after saying goodbyes to the people I knew. As we walked, she showed me her moist hands and said that she had received a golden glistening from the Virgin Maria while praying the Rosary.
We stopped several times as we walked up the hill—cathecism students said hello to her (she pointed out the ones who are bad in Mass to me) and we paused because she was tired. She often walked backwards, staring at the mountains and said that looking at the beauty gave her the strength to keep going.
Once we reached the convent, she thanked me profusely for coming along with her, gave me an apple she didn`t want and said maybe I could come on visits with her more often as she needs someone to go out with. And I am looking forward to those outings because despite the awkward moments, I love that I am collecting experiences here.
I did as she said, thinking that she would do something like give me a copy of papal document to study or ask me to clean a shrine. In the back of my mind, I was worried that she would reprimand me for wearing torn jeans or for chatting to long with a male volunteer.
``Let`s go,`` she said when she came over to me, and to my surprise we walked outside of convent grounds.
``Where are we going?`` I asked.
``We have to cross the street,``
``Yes, but were are we going?``
``It`s so dangerous here, I don`t coming here alone,`` she remarked as we began going down a steep hill in a sketchy part of town. ``There are drug addicts everywhere. One of the ladies from my Friday group died and they called me. It`s a sad story—she lived in a beautiful house but her daughter fell in love with a drug addict and moved into one of those tin shanties.It was too much on her heart and blood pressure``
``We`re going to a funeral?``
``I want to pray,`` she said taking out her rosary. ``Should we do it in English, or Spanish so you can learn?
``Spanish,`` I said, so that I could learn and so that I could avoid a lecture on the fact that I don`t have many prayers memorized in English.
We passed by Lupita (Sister said there was no time to talk with her) and other drug users and arrived at a home at the bottom of Pueblo Nuevo, very close to where the Sisters of the Incarnate Word live. I realized that I had actually been to the house before, when I was visiting various infirmed people with Sister Angelita last November.
We went inside a beautiful home that seems out of place for Santa Fe. Inside was one of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word as well as Dona Mari, an older lady that Jess and I often visit who is also part of Sister Maria`s Friday group. Everybody was wondering when Padre Salvador would show up to say Mass. It seems that all the circles I run in are closely linked together.
In front of the coffin, a relative of the deceased began wailing that God does`t exist. Sister Maria took her away to talk with her and I sat next to Jackie, a physically handicapped girl whom I had met when visiting with Sister Angelita. She was very shaken up but able to say that she remembered me. Soon Sister Maria returned and led everyone in a Rosary—pausing to tell us to slow down and listen to God.
Then Sister Maria left with another nun of the same name for some sort of sisterly business and two women came over to comfort Jackie. Which left me alone and funeral crashing.
A handsome man came offered me food several times and I didn`t eat but watched him pass out plates of spaghetti. One young woman was sitting (and occasionally giggling) with who I think was the cousin of the host and said to him ``Gracias pero no guapo, cariño, hermoso.`` So from my vantage point, funerals for older people in Mexico are like those in the United States—for certain parts of the room, it`s the worst experience of their lives, but for others, it`s an excuse to flirt and eat.
I left with Sister Maria soon after we returned—she was in a hurry and I ran to catch up with her after saying goodbyes to the people I knew. As we walked, she showed me her moist hands and said that she had received a golden glistening from the Virgin Maria while praying the Rosary.
We stopped several times as we walked up the hill—cathecism students said hello to her (she pointed out the ones who are bad in Mass to me) and we paused because she was tired. She often walked backwards, staring at the mountains and said that looking at the beauty gave her the strength to keep going.
Once we reached the convent, she thanked me profusely for coming along with her, gave me an apple she didn`t want and said maybe I could come on visits with her more often as she needs someone to go out with. And I am looking forward to those outings because despite the awkward moments, I love that I am collecting experiences here.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Vamos!
I had 2.5 goals before running the half marathon today--I wanted to finish and to run the whole way without walking, and I was half hoping to finish in less than two and half hours. I am happy to say that all of my goals came through today and I am feeling exhausted (in a good way) after running all through Mexico City.
Lisa and I left our house at 6:15 in order to get to the Zocola where the race began. She started two hours earlier than me as she run the complete marathon. While waiting, I drank water, applied sunscreen, stretched and made multiple trips to the bathroom. (In true Mexico fashion there was no toilet paper in the port-a-pottys so earlier on, Lisa and had I snagged napkins from 7-11.)
Lisa began the race with very few people as the start times for marathon runners were stunted by expected finishing times. However, everyone running the half-marathon began at the same time ,so my starting line was flooded with people. I was chatting with a man next to who had spent a few years in Canada when I realized (during what I thought was a warm-up trot) that the race had begun without me knowing.
The first five kilometers were difficult and I started talking to myself (in my head) in order to get through it. My thoughts ranged from the divine to gutter. I prayed the Hail Mary and then told myself --''If you can make it through 13 (insert curse word) months in this country you can make it through less than three hours of running.'' I also tried to translate signs and the conversations of people around me.
The course was all on roads and along the way I recognized places I had been before-mostly in the vicinity of visa offices and convents. Part of the run was through Chapultepec a big park that many people have been talking about, and it was nice to be surrounded by trees.
Along the way people cheered and there was music and bands. Water and Gatorade were passed out along with food such as chocolate candy, limes and bananas (which was quite dangerous as everyone threw their peels on the ground. I slipped and imagined someone else falling cartoonishly over.)
I told myself that once I made it through eleven kilometers the rest would be easy as I would be half-way there. That helped me make it through it though I had stomach pains and sore feet. I pretended that I was actually running a marathon and that I had already completed half of it, so that made things get easier.
At the end of the race, while I was stretching in the finishing area, a journalist asked if he could interview me. I wasn't feeling up to speaking Spanish, nor was I looking great, but since I wrote for my college newspaper I know how hard it can be to find people willing to be interviewed for things. Thus I answered some basic questions and let him take my picture for a Mexico City running magazine.
Harder than the race was waiting in line to pick up my things. I started getting chills and felt queasy in the stomach and the line seemed endless. A Good Samaritan lent me here jacket and held my place for me until Jessica, Melissa, Ricardo and Marcos showed up with more clothing and offered to collect my things.
As for Lisa, I told her if she felt twice as bad as me after, it must be pretty bad. She finished the marathon but with a higher time than her Chicago marathon probably due to lack of training. However, we're both feeling happy but sleepy so on that note, I'm off to bed. I definitely won't be running tomorrow and though I told myself during the race I never had to run for the rest my life after it, I might have a few miles left in me later on this week.
Lisa and I left our house at 6:15 in order to get to the Zocola where the race began. She started two hours earlier than me as she run the complete marathon. While waiting, I drank water, applied sunscreen, stretched and made multiple trips to the bathroom. (In true Mexico fashion there was no toilet paper in the port-a-pottys so earlier on, Lisa and had I snagged napkins from 7-11.)
Lisa began the race with very few people as the start times for marathon runners were stunted by expected finishing times. However, everyone running the half-marathon began at the same time ,so my starting line was flooded with people. I was chatting with a man next to who had spent a few years in Canada when I realized (during what I thought was a warm-up trot) that the race had begun without me knowing.
The first five kilometers were difficult and I started talking to myself (in my head) in order to get through it. My thoughts ranged from the divine to gutter. I prayed the Hail Mary and then told myself --''If you can make it through 13 (insert curse word) months in this country you can make it through less than three hours of running.'' I also tried to translate signs and the conversations of people around me.
The course was all on roads and along the way I recognized places I had been before-mostly in the vicinity of visa offices and convents. Part of the run was through Chapultepec a big park that many people have been talking about, and it was nice to be surrounded by trees.
Along the way people cheered and there was music and bands. Water and Gatorade were passed out along with food such as chocolate candy, limes and bananas (which was quite dangerous as everyone threw their peels on the ground. I slipped and imagined someone else falling cartoonishly over.)
I told myself that once I made it through eleven kilometers the rest would be easy as I would be half-way there. That helped me make it through it though I had stomach pains and sore feet. I pretended that I was actually running a marathon and that I had already completed half of it, so that made things get easier.
At the end of the race, while I was stretching in the finishing area, a journalist asked if he could interview me. I wasn't feeling up to speaking Spanish, nor was I looking great, but since I wrote for my college newspaper I know how hard it can be to find people willing to be interviewed for things. Thus I answered some basic questions and let him take my picture for a Mexico City running magazine.
Harder than the race was waiting in line to pick up my things. I started getting chills and felt queasy in the stomach and the line seemed endless. A Good Samaritan lent me here jacket and held my place for me until Jessica, Melissa, Ricardo and Marcos showed up with more clothing and offered to collect my things.
As for Lisa, I told her if she felt twice as bad as me after, it must be pretty bad. She finished the marathon but with a higher time than her Chicago marathon probably due to lack of training. However, we're both feeling happy but sleepy so on that note, I'm off to bed. I definitely won't be running tomorrow and though I told myself during the race I never had to run for the rest my life after it, I might have a few miles left in me later on this week.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Yearly Check-In
It's been over a year since I arrived in Mexico which means the time I have left to stay here is less than the time I have been her. Though some days I long for seeing my family, the change of seasons, speaking English (and Thai food) I also realize this is a unique experience and I want to soak up as much of life here as I can. Megan once remarked that as I became more active here my blogging would slow which is why my posts have been faulty over the summer. Here are the highlights of the past month:
Tengo Ganas
I have been taking Spanish lessons on and off since February but the language has really started clicking during my recent courses. In June I began taking classes at the Iberio, a university in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. I was disappointed that I was only placed in level two but found that the course contained a whole slew of tenses I had yet to encounter. The university went on summer break, and when I entered another course in September, I was bumped up to level five. The said to me 'tienes ganas pora aprender' 'which basically means that because I am eager to understand the language, she thought I could handle the jump.
I can keep up with my classmates (a mixture of foreign exchange students from Japan, Germany and France) though I am not sure if I could have used a review of all tenses rather than leaning the subjunctive tense which we are concentrating on now. However, it's good for me to hear a solid two hours of Spanish spoken slowly each day, no matter what I am learning. I am making an effort to spend more time at the parish listening to Spanish and have one-on- one conversations with people in Spanish even if they speak English. At work, in lieu of singing American nursery songs to the girls, I have been reading to them from my Spanish as workplace.
My language ability has definitely approved though I still get frustrated as I often understand everything in class but miss out on at least half the conversation. in group situations People often tell me that my classes are a waste of money and that I should just learn by hanging out in the street and conversing, but without my classes I wouldn't be able to understand the advice.
Getting to class is interesting. I wait on the street until I can climb on a bus that is not so crowded that people are hanging out of it. Then I have an uncomfortable ride to Santa Fe on a bus mostly filled with people who are likely working low-paid jobs in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. But my classes are filled with either foreign exchange students who are seeing even more of the world or wives of foreign businessmen who have jobs in Mexico City and are chauffeured into the university.
Tuvimos Fiestas
Like last year, September was a month a celebrating, though this time, for us, things started up in August. A week after the Feast of the Assumption was Padre Salvador's birthday. Before the party, Jess and I helped out with the preparations--I picked the bad parts off of corn kernels while Jess shaved a pig's head--pork and corn are key ingredients in pozole, a Mexican soup. A whole pork had been purchased for the party and though Jess was as initially weirded out by it, she soon took delight in pointing out its` heart and ears and putting its` tail near her own behind. I attempted to help pull apart chicken but then decided I would better serve the situation by keeping Padre company away from the preparation. The party went well and was day of dancing, tequila and (for me) muchos friojoles.
A few days later the new missionaries, Lisa and Melissa arrived. We had a big Mexican-themed party for them a few days after they got here. It has been interesting to see things through their eyes and I realize have pretty much adjusted to really difficult things about being here--language frustrations, getting sick more easily, the sadness of my workplace, not being able to communicate with loved ones easily and constant attention on the streets. Knowing that I have gone through the hard parts makes me glad I committed to a two-years, especially now that I have two more fantastic girls to hang out with. (Interestingly enough the arrival of two more cute, young American girls has coincided with an increase of young Mexican men giving us invitations and hanging around our house and we've been doing more socializing with people beyond our parish group.)
Last weekend, we went out twice in a row, partially in anticipation of my birthday. On Friday, we went to a hipster bar in the center of Mexico City where everyone was dressed in black and a live band played a mixture of Mexican favorites and American sock hop music. The next place we went to a bar in Cococayn called The Attic, which was like an attic as we had to climb up and stoop down in order to sit in a wooden bar area crowded with other beer drinkers. Sunday was my birthday and my roommates surprised me with a treasure hunt in which they hid presents in various places throughout the house and gave me illustrated clues toe help. (I don't know if I'll ever celebrate another birthday whereby I'll have such easy access to a chapel and a roof.) We went to Mass (a little late) and I was escorted to the front to sit in a chair of honor. In honor of the parish`s 476th anniversary many people wore indigenous garb and people stood at the altar holding corn stalks. After the service we had a lunch featuring what constitutes my idea of a party--spinach, nopales (cactus), red wine, and a special vegan cake that Jess made for me from a mix my mother sent from the States. In the evening we had more guests over, and all the partying made me feel better about reaching my late-20s.
On September 15, we went to the Zocola to celebrate Mexican Independence Day and hear the grita. (When the President comes out and yells Viva Mexico and Viva (name of various Mexican hero.) We got to the square about 20 minutes before the event started and were literally pushed into line so that we could pass through metal detectors. Inside we saw the President and fireworks and were drenched by both rain and a soapy, foam mixture that spectators were spraying. We had celebrated Independence Day in the parish last year (for many people the day is commemorated in their houses with the family,) and while that was fun, it was interesting to there the grita that everyone has been talking about.
Tengo Conejos
During my first few months in Mexico, it was pretty hard to stay in shape. I couldn't force myself to get in a good work-out with just my jump-rope. For a while, I tried climbing up and down a huge nearby hill but realized that as it's filled with cars, pollution and sketchy guys, the safety risks of using as it as a workout tool have outweighed its benefits.
Over the past few , I have been going to work-out at the University's gym and I have also been (for lack of a better word) trembling (Whereby I spend 10-minute sessions on machines that vibrate and burn 500 calories during this period.) It sounds hokey but I read an article saying that in Europe it's the rage and it really works.( The owners were smart for starting the machines as obesity is a problem in Santa Fe and it's difficult to find ways to exercise.) With the arrival of the new missionaries I have been introduced to even more ways to stay fit. I tag along with Lisa and Melissa to Zumba (and bounce out of rhythm to salsa-type music while doing aerobics.) Lisa is a marathon runner and I told her if she did the Mexico City Marathon next week, I would do the half-marathon. We have both signed up for it and found a nearby park to go running at. That means that I have gone running for the first time in over a year (I put in three sessions that each went over an hour.) I am quite sore and am only hoping to finish the race as I have never run more than 10 miles at a time in my whole life. However, Lisa is inspiring as she not only cheers me on during runs but told me that she used to run for ten miles a day in Chicago.
Nos Vemos
I am going to wrap this up by giving a quick synopsis of my day. In the morning, Lisa and I went running at a park at which some sort of presentation was taking place complete with a helicopter, police officers and ambulance truck. I couldn't quite figure out what was happening despite running into and chatting with some Missionaries of Charity (in their white saris) and asking them what was taking place. Still we run an circles and I was nearly blown away by the copter taking off.
Later we went to Mass where a burro with purple legs was grazing by church. (Some sort of medication was applied to it's legs. After Mass we attended a lunch commemorating the year-anniversary of a tragic event of a family of friends from the parish and I awkwardly tried to make small talk with guests. Afterward, I went to a planning meeting for an upcoming retreat of our youth group (I could only understand half of it and was annoyed when my suggestion of serving fruit over potato chips as snacks was shot down.) Then, I went to the parish kitchen and hung out with the church ladies. I drank several servings of tibeticos, a bacteria drink that ferments in the parish kitchen that was allegedly first brewed by Mother Theresa and has amazing healing properties.
Right now, I am in the parish library typing. The church handyman followed me in here and is giggling without apparent reason while waiting to walk me home. I told him he needs to read or listen to music instead of sitting and thinking all the time and he replied that he never thinks. I am both proud of myself for having a conversation in Spanish and slightly uncomfortable with his presence. But I can bicker with him without having to pretend I think he`s altogether right. Which is why I like life here--it is different and often surreal but I can recognize and laugh at the absurdities while learning to appreciate them.
Tengo Ganas
I have been taking Spanish lessons on and off since February but the language has really started clicking during my recent courses. In June I began taking classes at the Iberio, a university in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. I was disappointed that I was only placed in level two but found that the course contained a whole slew of tenses I had yet to encounter. The university went on summer break, and when I entered another course in September, I was bumped up to level five. The said to me 'tienes ganas pora aprender' 'which basically means that because I am eager to understand the language, she thought I could handle the jump.
I can keep up with my classmates (a mixture of foreign exchange students from Japan, Germany and France) though I am not sure if I could have used a review of all tenses rather than leaning the subjunctive tense which we are concentrating on now. However, it's good for me to hear a solid two hours of Spanish spoken slowly each day, no matter what I am learning. I am making an effort to spend more time at the parish listening to Spanish and have one-on- one conversations with people in Spanish even if they speak English. At work, in lieu of singing American nursery songs to the girls, I have been reading to them from my Spanish as workplace.
My language ability has definitely approved though I still get frustrated as I often understand everything in class but miss out on at least half the conversation. in group situations People often tell me that my classes are a waste of money and that I should just learn by hanging out in the street and conversing, but without my classes I wouldn't be able to understand the advice.
Getting to class is interesting. I wait on the street until I can climb on a bus that is not so crowded that people are hanging out of it. Then I have an uncomfortable ride to Santa Fe on a bus mostly filled with people who are likely working low-paid jobs in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. But my classes are filled with either foreign exchange students who are seeing even more of the world or wives of foreign businessmen who have jobs in Mexico City and are chauffeured into the university.
Tuvimos Fiestas
Like last year, September was a month a celebrating, though this time, for us, things started up in August. A week after the Feast of the Assumption was Padre Salvador's birthday. Before the party, Jess and I helped out with the preparations--I picked the bad parts off of corn kernels while Jess shaved a pig's head--pork and corn are key ingredients in pozole, a Mexican soup. A whole pork had been purchased for the party and though Jess was as initially weirded out by it, she soon took delight in pointing out its` heart and ears and putting its` tail near her own behind. I attempted to help pull apart chicken but then decided I would better serve the situation by keeping Padre company away from the preparation. The party went well and was day of dancing, tequila and (for me) muchos friojoles.
A few days later the new missionaries, Lisa and Melissa arrived. We had a big Mexican-themed party for them a few days after they got here. It has been interesting to see things through their eyes and I realize have pretty much adjusted to really difficult things about being here--language frustrations, getting sick more easily, the sadness of my workplace, not being able to communicate with loved ones easily and constant attention on the streets. Knowing that I have gone through the hard parts makes me glad I committed to a two-years, especially now that I have two more fantastic girls to hang out with. (Interestingly enough the arrival of two more cute, young American girls has coincided with an increase of young Mexican men giving us invitations and hanging around our house and we've been doing more socializing with people beyond our parish group.)
Last weekend, we went out twice in a row, partially in anticipation of my birthday. On Friday, we went to a hipster bar in the center of Mexico City where everyone was dressed in black and a live band played a mixture of Mexican favorites and American sock hop music. The next place we went to a bar in Cococayn called The Attic, which was like an attic as we had to climb up and stoop down in order to sit in a wooden bar area crowded with other beer drinkers. Sunday was my birthday and my roommates surprised me with a treasure hunt in which they hid presents in various places throughout the house and gave me illustrated clues toe help. (I don't know if I'll ever celebrate another birthday whereby I'll have such easy access to a chapel and a roof.) We went to Mass (a little late) and I was escorted to the front to sit in a chair of honor. In honor of the parish`s 476th anniversary many people wore indigenous garb and people stood at the altar holding corn stalks. After the service we had a lunch featuring what constitutes my idea of a party--spinach, nopales (cactus), red wine, and a special vegan cake that Jess made for me from a mix my mother sent from the States. In the evening we had more guests over, and all the partying made me feel better about reaching my late-20s.
On September 15, we went to the Zocola to celebrate Mexican Independence Day and hear the grita. (When the President comes out and yells Viva Mexico and Viva (name of various Mexican hero.) We got to the square about 20 minutes before the event started and were literally pushed into line so that we could pass through metal detectors. Inside we saw the President and fireworks and were drenched by both rain and a soapy, foam mixture that spectators were spraying. We had celebrated Independence Day in the parish last year (for many people the day is commemorated in their houses with the family,) and while that was fun, it was interesting to there the grita that everyone has been talking about.
Tengo Conejos
During my first few months in Mexico, it was pretty hard to stay in shape. I couldn't force myself to get in a good work-out with just my jump-rope. For a while, I tried climbing up and down a huge nearby hill but realized that as it's filled with cars, pollution and sketchy guys, the safety risks of using as it as a workout tool have outweighed its benefits.
Over the past few , I have been going to work-out at the University's gym and I have also been (for lack of a better word) trembling (Whereby I spend 10-minute sessions on machines that vibrate and burn 500 calories during this period.) It sounds hokey but I read an article saying that in Europe it's the rage and it really works.( The owners were smart for starting the machines as obesity is a problem in Santa Fe and it's difficult to find ways to exercise.) With the arrival of the new missionaries I have been introduced to even more ways to stay fit. I tag along with Lisa and Melissa to Zumba (and bounce out of rhythm to salsa-type music while doing aerobics.) Lisa is a marathon runner and I told her if she did the Mexico City Marathon next week, I would do the half-marathon. We have both signed up for it and found a nearby park to go running at. That means that I have gone running for the first time in over a year (I put in three sessions that each went over an hour.) I am quite sore and am only hoping to finish the race as I have never run more than 10 miles at a time in my whole life. However, Lisa is inspiring as she not only cheers me on during runs but told me that she used to run for ten miles a day in Chicago.
Nos Vemos
I am going to wrap this up by giving a quick synopsis of my day. In the morning, Lisa and I went running at a park at which some sort of presentation was taking place complete with a helicopter, police officers and ambulance truck. I couldn't quite figure out what was happening despite running into and chatting with some Missionaries of Charity (in their white saris) and asking them what was taking place. Still we run an circles and I was nearly blown away by the copter taking off.
Later we went to Mass where a burro with purple legs was grazing by church. (Some sort of medication was applied to it's legs. After Mass we attended a lunch commemorating the year-anniversary of a tragic event of a family of friends from the parish and I awkwardly tried to make small talk with guests. Afterward, I went to a planning meeting for an upcoming retreat of our youth group (I could only understand half of it and was annoyed when my suggestion of serving fruit over potato chips as snacks was shot down.) Then, I went to the parish kitchen and hung out with the church ladies. I drank several servings of tibeticos, a bacteria drink that ferments in the parish kitchen that was allegedly first brewed by Mother Theresa and has amazing healing properties.
Right now, I am in the parish library typing. The church handyman followed me in here and is giggling without apparent reason while waiting to walk me home. I told him he needs to read or listen to music instead of sitting and thinking all the time and he replied that he never thinks. I am both proud of myself for having a conversation in Spanish and slightly uncomfortable with his presence. But I can bicker with him without having to pretend I think he`s altogether right. Which is why I like life here--it is different and often surreal but I can recognize and laugh at the absurdities while learning to appreciate them.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Mi Madre!
As religious and cultural traditions are pretty intermingled here, I am often not sure whether I am experiencing a Mexican or Catholic custom. Such was the case on Friday evening, when I went to Mass to see the Dormition of the Virgin Maria.
It was the eve of the Assumption of Maria, the day that celebrates Maria's` entrance into heaven. In Catholic teaching, there is debate as to whether it was her just soul that entered or if God raised up her whole body. For Mexicans, there is little doubt that she went cuerpo intact. Thus she is put to sleep the night before the Assumption (the Dormition) and she is raised up while sleeping.
As the Dormition was something new for Jess and me, we were pretty excited to go. However, right before Mass was to begin, we had to wait out a massive downpour. Once things settled down, I donned flip-flops, we both rolled up our pants legs and we waded through the streets of Santa Fe in order to see the Reina.
As so happens during major religious feasts, the atmosphere in Santa Fe was the opposite of what the cause of celebration would imply. The Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe was full of chaos and revelry and Good Friday was an excuse to excessively eat and drink. On the day when one is meant to reflect on the purity and chastity of a woman, a dozen men stood in the market place street catcalling females.
``Fire,`` one man called to us, which was a cue for the rest to try and sing the lyrics of a song and fail, and instead slur ``Babies lights my fires.``
``If you`re going to speak in English, learn to speak it correctly,`` Jess shouted at them in perfect Spanish, allowing me to walk away smugly. (If I had tried to yell the same thing in Spanish, it would have come out like `When you speak English, tried talk correctly` and the effect would have been lost.)
We plodded past them and into a church gone dark--not because it was bedtime, but due to a power outage. Aside from a bed surrounded by apples and angel statues in front of the altar, Mass was typical. Afterward, Padre instructed various baptism classes to go to different rooms and neither Jess or I could figure out what big thing was going to happen--usually for these types of events the statue of the Virgin is paraded around town after Mass.
While I was changing out of my flip-flops in anticipation of going outside, Jess and our friends seemed to disappear on me. Now, I hadn`t heard any instructions, the church was dark, and lately I have been wearing pair of glasses with an outdated prescription as I`m awaiting a new shipment of contacts. Sensory-deprived, I stumbled out of church (the Friday nights I spent leaving bars in such a manner are a lifetime ago) and began looking for the Virgin. In the middle of the marketplace street, I stopped to telephone Jess but she didn`t pick up. Contemplating what to do, I looked up to encounter of the previously-mentioned drunk men who (not looking for a virgin) offered ``Drink, Guerita?``
Thus was the cue for the rest of the men to begin shouting at me. It reminded me of a cartoon scene whereby someone seemingly finds safety in a cave, only to see one set of yellow, glowing eyes , and than notices about 20 more wolves waiting to pounce on them.
``Baby, baby, I love you,`` they all screamed in English. I didn`t feel nervous but it was rather embarrassing to be in the middle of a big scene. It was like sitting outside at the parish--the dozen dogs that Padre keeps there always crawl all over me because Jess is nice to them and they smell her scent on me--and it attracts unwanted attention.
I hurried out of the marketplace and looked around a few blocks before heading back to the church. Apparently Jess had never left and the Virgin had only been taken off the altar. She was put in a special room, her garments were changed and she was laid in bed. A group of parishioners stayed up all night keeping vigil over the statue. I left early for my own personal dormition.
The next day, I woke up at five a.m. to the sound of fireworks. Jess and I headed back to church, where eight Virgin statues had been placed on the altar. Overnight, people had taken out their Virgin statues from roadside shrines, changed their clothes and brought them to church. For three hours various mariachi and rondella bands played to them in a crowded church. Outside, sweet bread and coffee was served. I don`t know if it`s common in other Catholic countries to give such attention to Virgin statues, but I do think Mattel would be highly successful were it to market a Virgin Maria Barbie in Mexico.
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Having witnessed the glorification of motherhood, it was only fitting that in the afternoon I experienced its pitfalls. After a long morning nap, I went to work at the convent, where residents, nuns and others where outside for Mass. I was upstairs visiting with the babies when Sister Estrella came to me with Carolina (half of a set of developmentally-delayed twins who can` t talk yet,) who was kicking and crying.
`` Here, if you want to take her somewhere you can,`` said Sister Estrella. ``Take her.``
``Oh...So, do you want me to take her to Mass?" I asked.
``Mass or wherever,`` Sister shrugged. ``Just take her somewhere.`` We each took a hand of Carolinas` and she jumped downstairs and outside.
(Some background-- a few weeks ago Carolina`s twin began attending daycare while Carolina remains at home, restless. Carolina can`t go because she is aggressive and overactive if she were to attend, the nuns are afraid that she would hurt the other children or be disruptive. On Friday, I asked Sister if Carolina could to the guardaria a few afternoons a week if I were accompany her. Sister Estrella had reservations about this, but did say I could probably take her out on walks or to the park. I hadn`t expected our outings to begin so quickly.)
Carolina sat through a minute of Mass before getting up to run around. I followed her closely, feeling as if I were being tested somehow. I took her a little further down the street, where a makeshift carnival was being set up and we looked at the games and rides.
Carolina was difficult-- she tugged and grabbed at games and toys. Even when I held her hand tightly, she would run up to strangers and wrap herself around them. I held her in my arms and she cried, squirmed and tried to climb onto strange woman. The only thing that made her calm and attentive was taking off my glasses and putting them on her face, which was unsafe for us both. Carolina is rather fair-skinned and as I clutched her and she wailed, people on the streets stared at us as if I were a really bad mother. I wondered how for the second time in less than 24 hours, I was part of another spectacle.
I wanted to bring her over to Sister Estrella and say ``Here, you can take her now,`` but I felt like it would be giving up to easily so I held on to her. It made me wonder what sort of mother I would be. With my own possessions, I am careless and tend to break and lose things and I have always worried I`d be like this with my own kids. However, being with Carolina made me think I`d be overprotective parent who would imagine harm at every corner. I wondered how she could be so fear less when there was so much danger awaiting her.
Eventually, Carolina got so fussy that I took her back to the convent grounds, and it was better because I could let her roam around. She found some sweet bread which she ate happily and slowly while sitting in my lap as we listened to choir music, rainfall and fireworks. That type of moment keeps motherhood in business.
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That evening, I attended Mass for the Feast of the Assumption, special because the bishop was there and Jessica`s children`s choir sang . At the end of Mass, Padre announced that a statue of the Virgin would be crowned eleven different times by people representing various community members. While representatives of nuns, church workers (Gallo did the honors in this group and drew the applause of a rock star) and families crowned the Virgin and said a few words, I watched nervously. Padre had mentioned something about either Jess or me participating in the Coronation of the Virgin, but I had figured Jess would handle it and it would take place during Sunday Mass.
However, Jess was way up in the choir loft and Padre saw me near the front of the church and asked me to crown the Virgin as a representative of missionaries. I have a certain amount of public speaking anxiety, so I was proud of myself for being able to muster up a few words in Spanish thanking the people for Santa Fe for their hospitality and for the presence of nuestra madre.
One of the nice things about this blog is that I was able to back at the blog entry I made at this time during Orientation. I wrote about how it was unusual for me to celebrate the Feast of the Assumption but that I anticipated doing even more out of the out of the ordinary things.
That has come to pass as I have found myself in unanticipated situations here. Though it may sound like I spend all my time struggling with small children and Spanish I have also witnessed a lot of cool things--this weekend for example was a huge celebration for the Assumption and I watched fireworks after Saturday Mass and Aztec dancers on Sunday. My difficult experiences here has been made easier because I have found some many people who have been loving and accepting.
Despite struggling to accept a different way of life and witnessing very sad situations, I still feel blessed to be here. I wrote last year that my goal was to make the most of things I didn`t expect. To a certain extent I have done that and I have to give myself credit for being able to take things that are (certainly in the case of small children) thrown at me. While day-to-day life presents a certain amount of stress, I hope that in the coming year I`ll be able to take what I`ve learned over the past year and better enjoy and appreciate the people around me.
It was the eve of the Assumption of Maria, the day that celebrates Maria's` entrance into heaven. In Catholic teaching, there is debate as to whether it was her just soul that entered or if God raised up her whole body. For Mexicans, there is little doubt that she went cuerpo intact. Thus she is put to sleep the night before the Assumption (the Dormition) and she is raised up while sleeping.
As the Dormition was something new for Jess and me, we were pretty excited to go. However, right before Mass was to begin, we had to wait out a massive downpour. Once things settled down, I donned flip-flops, we both rolled up our pants legs and we waded through the streets of Santa Fe in order to see the Reina.
As so happens during major religious feasts, the atmosphere in Santa Fe was the opposite of what the cause of celebration would imply. The Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe was full of chaos and revelry and Good Friday was an excuse to excessively eat and drink. On the day when one is meant to reflect on the purity and chastity of a woman, a dozen men stood in the market place street catcalling females.
``Fire,`` one man called to us, which was a cue for the rest to try and sing the lyrics of a song and fail, and instead slur ``Babies lights my fires.``
``If you`re going to speak in English, learn to speak it correctly,`` Jess shouted at them in perfect Spanish, allowing me to walk away smugly. (If I had tried to yell the same thing in Spanish, it would have come out like `When you speak English, tried talk correctly` and the effect would have been lost.)
We plodded past them and into a church gone dark--not because it was bedtime, but due to a power outage. Aside from a bed surrounded by apples and angel statues in front of the altar, Mass was typical. Afterward, Padre instructed various baptism classes to go to different rooms and neither Jess or I could figure out what big thing was going to happen--usually for these types of events the statue of the Virgin is paraded around town after Mass.
While I was changing out of my flip-flops in anticipation of going outside, Jess and our friends seemed to disappear on me. Now, I hadn`t heard any instructions, the church was dark, and lately I have been wearing pair of glasses with an outdated prescription as I`m awaiting a new shipment of contacts. Sensory-deprived, I stumbled out of church (the Friday nights I spent leaving bars in such a manner are a lifetime ago) and began looking for the Virgin. In the middle of the marketplace street, I stopped to telephone Jess but she didn`t pick up. Contemplating what to do, I looked up to encounter of the previously-mentioned drunk men who (not looking for a virgin) offered ``Drink, Guerita?``
Thus was the cue for the rest of the men to begin shouting at me. It reminded me of a cartoon scene whereby someone seemingly finds safety in a cave, only to see one set of yellow, glowing eyes , and than notices about 20 more wolves waiting to pounce on them.
``Baby, baby, I love you,`` they all screamed in English. I didn`t feel nervous but it was rather embarrassing to be in the middle of a big scene. It was like sitting outside at the parish--the dozen dogs that Padre keeps there always crawl all over me because Jess is nice to them and they smell her scent on me--and it attracts unwanted attention.
I hurried out of the marketplace and looked around a few blocks before heading back to the church. Apparently Jess had never left and the Virgin had only been taken off the altar. She was put in a special room, her garments were changed and she was laid in bed. A group of parishioners stayed up all night keeping vigil over the statue. I left early for my own personal dormition.
The next day, I woke up at five a.m. to the sound of fireworks. Jess and I headed back to church, where eight Virgin statues had been placed on the altar. Overnight, people had taken out their Virgin statues from roadside shrines, changed their clothes and brought them to church. For three hours various mariachi and rondella bands played to them in a crowded church. Outside, sweet bread and coffee was served. I don`t know if it`s common in other Catholic countries to give such attention to Virgin statues, but I do think Mattel would be highly successful were it to market a Virgin Maria Barbie in Mexico.
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Having witnessed the glorification of motherhood, it was only fitting that in the afternoon I experienced its pitfalls. After a long morning nap, I went to work at the convent, where residents, nuns and others where outside for Mass. I was upstairs visiting with the babies when Sister Estrella came to me with Carolina (half of a set of developmentally-delayed twins who can` t talk yet,) who was kicking and crying.
`` Here, if you want to take her somewhere you can,`` said Sister Estrella. ``Take her.``
``Oh...So, do you want me to take her to Mass?" I asked.
``Mass or wherever,`` Sister shrugged. ``Just take her somewhere.`` We each took a hand of Carolinas` and she jumped downstairs and outside.
(Some background-- a few weeks ago Carolina`s twin began attending daycare while Carolina remains at home, restless. Carolina can`t go because she is aggressive and overactive if she were to attend, the nuns are afraid that she would hurt the other children or be disruptive. On Friday, I asked Sister if Carolina could to the guardaria a few afternoons a week if I were accompany her. Sister Estrella had reservations about this, but did say I could probably take her out on walks or to the park. I hadn`t expected our outings to begin so quickly.)
Carolina sat through a minute of Mass before getting up to run around. I followed her closely, feeling as if I were being tested somehow. I took her a little further down the street, where a makeshift carnival was being set up and we looked at the games and rides.
Carolina was difficult-- she tugged and grabbed at games and toys. Even when I held her hand tightly, she would run up to strangers and wrap herself around them. I held her in my arms and she cried, squirmed and tried to climb onto strange woman. The only thing that made her calm and attentive was taking off my glasses and putting them on her face, which was unsafe for us both. Carolina is rather fair-skinned and as I clutched her and she wailed, people on the streets stared at us as if I were a really bad mother. I wondered how for the second time in less than 24 hours, I was part of another spectacle.
I wanted to bring her over to Sister Estrella and say ``Here, you can take her now,`` but I felt like it would be giving up to easily so I held on to her. It made me wonder what sort of mother I would be. With my own possessions, I am careless and tend to break and lose things and I have always worried I`d be like this with my own kids. However, being with Carolina made me think I`d be overprotective parent who would imagine harm at every corner. I wondered how she could be so fear less when there was so much danger awaiting her.
Eventually, Carolina got so fussy that I took her back to the convent grounds, and it was better because I could let her roam around. She found some sweet bread which she ate happily and slowly while sitting in my lap as we listened to choir music, rainfall and fireworks. That type of moment keeps motherhood in business.
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That evening, I attended Mass for the Feast of the Assumption, special because the bishop was there and Jessica`s children`s choir sang . At the end of Mass, Padre announced that a statue of the Virgin would be crowned eleven different times by people representing various community members. While representatives of nuns, church workers (Gallo did the honors in this group and drew the applause of a rock star) and families crowned the Virgin and said a few words, I watched nervously. Padre had mentioned something about either Jess or me participating in the Coronation of the Virgin, but I had figured Jess would handle it and it would take place during Sunday Mass.
However, Jess was way up in the choir loft and Padre saw me near the front of the church and asked me to crown the Virgin as a representative of missionaries. I have a certain amount of public speaking anxiety, so I was proud of myself for being able to muster up a few words in Spanish thanking the people for Santa Fe for their hospitality and for the presence of nuestra madre.
One of the nice things about this blog is that I was able to back at the blog entry I made at this time during Orientation. I wrote about how it was unusual for me to celebrate the Feast of the Assumption but that I anticipated doing even more out of the out of the ordinary things.
That has come to pass as I have found myself in unanticipated situations here. Though it may sound like I spend all my time struggling with small children and Spanish I have also witnessed a lot of cool things--this weekend for example was a huge celebration for the Assumption and I watched fireworks after Saturday Mass and Aztec dancers on Sunday. My difficult experiences here has been made easier because I have found some many people who have been loving and accepting.
Despite struggling to accept a different way of life and witnessing very sad situations, I still feel blessed to be here. I wrote last year that my goal was to make the most of things I didn`t expect. To a certain extent I have done that and I have to give myself credit for being able to take things that are (certainly in the case of small children) thrown at me. While day-to-day life presents a certain amount of stress, I hope that in the coming year I`ll be able to take what I`ve learned over the past year and better enjoy and appreciate the people around me.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Ven Con Nosotros!
The title of this posting refers to the lyrics of one of the only religious songs (in Spanish) that I have memorized, due to the fact that I hear it so often . It goes Ven con nosotros a caminar, Santa Maria Ven and roughly translates to 'Come with us and walk, Saint Mary, come!'
Lately, Santa Maria has been doing a lot of walking with the people of Santa Fe. As I've mentioned before, the Virgin Maria is revered by most everyone here and the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (commemorating the day in the 1500s when she appeared as indigenous women outside of Mexico City) is amongst biggest holidays of the year. I recently learned that locally the Feast of the Assumption of Mary is almost equally as significant due to the fact that our parish is named in honor of her.
This means that since the beginning of August there have been processions, fireworks and fiestas in her honor which are leading up to the August 15th feast day. Certain groups have their own special celebrations. The other day, a statue of the Virgin was displayed in the marketplace along with welcoming signs and flowers. As I was walking home from work that day (irritated by the noisy, daytime fireworks being set off), a woman whom I had never met before grabbed me asked me why I wasn`t taking part in the parade that was going to be had with the statue. She begrudgingly accepted that I couldn't go because I had a class to teach.
No matter. Santa Maria came to me, as a group of paraders dressed in white carried her statue past my home. They returned a half hour later, stopped in front of our chapel, and a woman more or less demanded that I open up its` doors. Trumpets and hornets were blasting, participants sang, and friends of ours went up on the roof to ring the church bells. Little children trooped in and out of our house to use the bathroom. It seems my frequent singing the song worked and Santa Maria (and her followers) walked to me.
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How does it affect girls growing up in a country where there is such devotion to a figure whose three most well-known qualities are that she is a virgin, she is a mother and she is without sin? I began thinking about this a few months ago when I brought two sisters from our parish youth group to a procession that the Missionaries of Charity (the nuns who live with disabled, abandoned women in the convent where I work) held in honor of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary. Despite it being a cold, dreary rainy day, we marched alongside the nuns and other devoted persons while carrying a statue of the Virgin Maria.
The nuns ordered us to form lines and sing and encouraged passersby to join in the march. At random spots, Sister Maria stopped us so that we could pray and Rosary and convinced taco-stand diners and tired shopkeepers to join in. At one point, we were praying near the highway and I looked up past the Virgin and saw a huge billboard featuring Hugh Hefner surrounded by three young beautiful blond women--an advertisement for a television show called `The Girls Next Store`. (Although in Mexico the program is called `The Girls of the Playboy Mansion because the irony of the true title would be lost here.)
The moment was a literal synopsis of Gender Studies 101 class that I took ten years ago at a small women's college. Society and the media largely promote the idea that for a women to be looked up to, she must either be a blond, white sex object or as pristine as the Virgin Maria. In the United States, there is much more promotion of beautiful, white women, while in Mexico (at least in the part where I live) images of the Virgin predominate. Mexican women can relate to the morena Virgin of Guadalupe but it would be impossible and superfluous to try and be like skinny, white playboy bunnies.
In general, I think this makes women more nurturing because while they can`t completely be like the Virgin (she was born without original sin), they can emulate her motherly qualities. Thus, senoritas often stop me on the street and ask where I am going, why I don’t have a sweater on, and if I need anything eat. When I visit the house of a woman, she generally lists off or pulls out the contents of her refrigerator and cupboards until she comes upon something to feed me.
The tendency towards caring starts at a young age. The other day, I woke up an older man who was passed out drunk on a sidewalk and I sat chatting with him in order to assess his condition. He was bleeding and I thought he should go to a hospital. A thirteen-year old girl and her seven-year-old sister approached me and asked if I needed any help. While they went to look around for taxis, a police officer walked right past by the man and ignored me when I tried to get his attention. (He was escorting someone delivering a large order of beer to a shop.) Eventually I realized the drunk man could talk cohesively and a local tortilla shop-owner who knew him said he would watch out for him. Coincidentally, I ran into the girls later on that afternoon at the convent, as they were volunteering there as well.
Personally, while I reap the benefits of girls and women who are motherly, it can also be difficult. As a young women associated with the church I feel like I`m expected to be offer unconditional affection as well. At work, I am surrounded by orphans and handicapped people who are constantly in need and I accept this. Even outside of that, life can be heavy as I often find myself trying to be patient while listening to the problems of strangers on the street or trapped in one-sided conversations with parishioners at church. Some burdens are ones that I have placed on myself, because as I missionary I feel more of a duty to help the neglected that I come upon in the street than I would have in the United States. (More and more it seems, Jessica and I find ourselves stumbling over people passed out in the street and we recently went to our first AA meeting in order to figure out how we can help the situation.)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
While walking on the day of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary , the two sisters who I had brought along held hands and huddled together to shelter each other from the rain. In general, the bonds among females are stronger here, perhaps to protect each other against a culture of machismo, perhaps because they identify with each other caretakers, or perhaps because they cling to each other as they would Maria. It`s rare to see a girl or young woman alone, they are almost always with a friend, mother or sister. When Jessica and I are not together, we are constantly asked about where the other one is. It's partly out of interest but the implication is: what are you doing by yourself and why are you leaving your friend alone?
I spend my days with nuns who have formed an insular but powerful community. At parties, I see females family members who function smoothly together in cooking and serving meals. In Santa Fe, it`s the norm for sisters or single mothers and daughters to share not just bedrooms but beds. Jessica and I have formed a tight-knit household as we not only live together but spend most of our social time with one another, we work on projects together and for a long time, I relied on her heavily in order to communicate with others. Women gain strength from each other here.
In a few weeks, two new missionaries will joining us in Santa Fe, doubling the size of our household. (Jackie left way back in October due to the health problems of a family member. I was too sad to write about it, but we miss her everyday.) Though I am little leery of sharing a room for the first time since college, I am excited not just for more company but because new-comers mean that the missionary presence continues even after Jessica and I end our time here. Thus being part of this program makes me feel like I am something bigger than just the work I am doing over the course of two years.
Jessica and I talk about the new girls (Melissa and Lisa, both fresh out of college) like parents expecting newborns--we wonder what they will look like, how they will react to their surroundings, and what they will think of us. We even speculate about their names as Mexicans tend to make adjustments to English names. I am excited for the experiences they will have, nervous for them because I know the hardships they will face, and eager to help them through the tough times and share what I have have learned from my year here. August, it seems, is a month of walking together.
Lately, Santa Maria has been doing a lot of walking with the people of Santa Fe. As I've mentioned before, the Virgin Maria is revered by most everyone here and the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (commemorating the day in the 1500s when she appeared as indigenous women outside of Mexico City) is amongst biggest holidays of the year. I recently learned that locally the Feast of the Assumption of Mary is almost equally as significant due to the fact that our parish is named in honor of her.
This means that since the beginning of August there have been processions, fireworks and fiestas in her honor which are leading up to the August 15th feast day. Certain groups have their own special celebrations. The other day, a statue of the Virgin was displayed in the marketplace along with welcoming signs and flowers. As I was walking home from work that day (irritated by the noisy, daytime fireworks being set off), a woman whom I had never met before grabbed me asked me why I wasn`t taking part in the parade that was going to be had with the statue. She begrudgingly accepted that I couldn't go because I had a class to teach.
No matter. Santa Maria came to me, as a group of paraders dressed in white carried her statue past my home. They returned a half hour later, stopped in front of our chapel, and a woman more or less demanded that I open up its` doors. Trumpets and hornets were blasting, participants sang, and friends of ours went up on the roof to ring the church bells. Little children trooped in and out of our house to use the bathroom. It seems my frequent singing the song worked and Santa Maria (and her followers) walked to me.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How does it affect girls growing up in a country where there is such devotion to a figure whose three most well-known qualities are that she is a virgin, she is a mother and she is without sin? I began thinking about this a few months ago when I brought two sisters from our parish youth group to a procession that the Missionaries of Charity (the nuns who live with disabled, abandoned women in the convent where I work) held in honor of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary. Despite it being a cold, dreary rainy day, we marched alongside the nuns and other devoted persons while carrying a statue of the Virgin Maria.
The nuns ordered us to form lines and sing and encouraged passersby to join in the march. At random spots, Sister Maria stopped us so that we could pray and Rosary and convinced taco-stand diners and tired shopkeepers to join in. At one point, we were praying near the highway and I looked up past the Virgin and saw a huge billboard featuring Hugh Hefner surrounded by three young beautiful blond women--an advertisement for a television show called `The Girls Next Store`. (Although in Mexico the program is called `The Girls of the Playboy Mansion because the irony of the true title would be lost here.)
The moment was a literal synopsis of Gender Studies 101 class that I took ten years ago at a small women's college. Society and the media largely promote the idea that for a women to be looked up to, she must either be a blond, white sex object or as pristine as the Virgin Maria. In the United States, there is much more promotion of beautiful, white women, while in Mexico (at least in the part where I live) images of the Virgin predominate. Mexican women can relate to the morena Virgin of Guadalupe but it would be impossible and superfluous to try and be like skinny, white playboy bunnies.
In general, I think this makes women more nurturing because while they can`t completely be like the Virgin (she was born without original sin), they can emulate her motherly qualities. Thus, senoritas often stop me on the street and ask where I am going, why I don’t have a sweater on, and if I need anything eat. When I visit the house of a woman, she generally lists off or pulls out the contents of her refrigerator and cupboards until she comes upon something to feed me.
The tendency towards caring starts at a young age. The other day, I woke up an older man who was passed out drunk on a sidewalk and I sat chatting with him in order to assess his condition. He was bleeding and I thought he should go to a hospital. A thirteen-year old girl and her seven-year-old sister approached me and asked if I needed any help. While they went to look around for taxis, a police officer walked right past by the man and ignored me when I tried to get his attention. (He was escorting someone delivering a large order of beer to a shop.) Eventually I realized the drunk man could talk cohesively and a local tortilla shop-owner who knew him said he would watch out for him. Coincidentally, I ran into the girls later on that afternoon at the convent, as they were volunteering there as well.
Personally, while I reap the benefits of girls and women who are motherly, it can also be difficult. As a young women associated with the church I feel like I`m expected to be offer unconditional affection as well. At work, I am surrounded by orphans and handicapped people who are constantly in need and I accept this. Even outside of that, life can be heavy as I often find myself trying to be patient while listening to the problems of strangers on the street or trapped in one-sided conversations with parishioners at church. Some burdens are ones that I have placed on myself, because as I missionary I feel more of a duty to help the neglected that I come upon in the street than I would have in the United States. (More and more it seems, Jessica and I find ourselves stumbling over people passed out in the street and we recently went to our first AA meeting in order to figure out how we can help the situation.)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
While walking on the day of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary , the two sisters who I had brought along held hands and huddled together to shelter each other from the rain. In general, the bonds among females are stronger here, perhaps to protect each other against a culture of machismo, perhaps because they identify with each other caretakers, or perhaps because they cling to each other as they would Maria. It`s rare to see a girl or young woman alone, they are almost always with a friend, mother or sister. When Jessica and I are not together, we are constantly asked about where the other one is. It's partly out of interest but the implication is: what are you doing by yourself and why are you leaving your friend alone?
I spend my days with nuns who have formed an insular but powerful community. At parties, I see females family members who function smoothly together in cooking and serving meals. In Santa Fe, it`s the norm for sisters or single mothers and daughters to share not just bedrooms but beds. Jessica and I have formed a tight-knit household as we not only live together but spend most of our social time with one another, we work on projects together and for a long time, I relied on her heavily in order to communicate with others. Women gain strength from each other here.
In a few weeks, two new missionaries will joining us in Santa Fe, doubling the size of our household. (Jackie left way back in October due to the health problems of a family member. I was too sad to write about it, but we miss her everyday.) Though I am little leery of sharing a room for the first time since college, I am excited not just for more company but because new-comers mean that the missionary presence continues even after Jessica and I end our time here. Thus being part of this program makes me feel like I am something bigger than just the work I am doing over the course of two years.
Jessica and I talk about the new girls (Melissa and Lisa, both fresh out of college) like parents expecting newborns--we wonder what they will look like, how they will react to their surroundings, and what they will think of us. We even speculate about their names as Mexicans tend to make adjustments to English names. I am excited for the experiences they will have, nervous for them because I know the hardships they will face, and eager to help them through the tough times and share what I have have learned from my year here. August, it seems, is a month of walking together.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Streets of Santa Fe
The streets of Santa Fe are filled with the sound of vendors announcing they have the cheapest and best strawberries, oils, mangoes, matches, or whatever they happen to have for sale. Theyt sit in the back of pick-up trucks turned stores and try to lure in customers. Their voices have competition when the gas man walks by yelling ``G-G-Gas`` repeatedly to signify his truck of of nearby tanks, or the garbageman comes past ringing a bell to let people know they can give him their trash.
Panderias fill the air with smells of fresh sweet breads, but I often leave lose my appetite upon seeing the whole carcasses that are hung and hacked at in front of butcher shops. Most homes retain their original drab concrete color,ing though the stores are brightly painted and decorated with elaborate lettering and cartoon pictures. Cars whiz past, except when they have to prod through pedestrians or struggle up a steep hill. Salsa music is pretty much always blaring. Packs of wild dogs roam around examining the trash that is thrown into the streets.
In the midst of all the chaos, I still manage to draw attention. People constantly call out to me `Hola Guera` or `Hey Guerita`, which basically means `Hi white girl`. Though I am told guera is a compliment, I have suspicions as I can think of many terms that minorities are called in the United States, and none are ones I would ever say or print.
Despite my natural ability to get attention, I keep finding myself in situations that draw even more notice. At work the other day, Sister Estella asked me to pick up Vickie from school. In order to to so, I had to accompany one of the residents, Clara, who has a photo ID that enables her to get inside the school. Sister Estrella says that Clara likes the trip because it lets her out for a while and makes her feel valuable. She keeps herself well-groomed all day in anticipation of going.
Off we went, with Clara leading while grunting and pointing, as she is mute. Along the way I bought Vickie a snack of water and corn chips. Once we had collected her, Vickie announced ``Quiero helado`` as the ice cream man had smartly packed his stand right in front of the kindergarten. Vickie chose coconut, while Clara (I hope) was happy with chocolate.
``What`s this?`` Vickie asked as she pulled out pieces of shaved coconut from her ice cream.
``I don`t want them,`` she said as she handed them to me.
``Well, I don`t want them either,`` I said, throwing them on the ground so that I could keep grasp of her wheelchair.
Though the house if a 5-minute walk from her school, Vickie tried to prolong the trek home by insisting on walking on certain parts of the sidewalk. She also had it in mind to zigzag across the streets instead of keeping a straight course. Leery or unnecessary crossings, I struggled to keep her on a straight path as she pushed herself to the side.
There I was, a white lady fighting with a handicapped little girl while being trailed by a mute, elderly lady. We drew a few stares but made it back in tact.
After work, I went of to a friends` house to retrieve a pair of sunglasses I had forgotten. Along the way, I ran into Antonio, who lives at the parish. I invited Antonio to take a walk with me, and as he`s a slow mover, he turned a three-minute trip into a fifteen minute one. He was also being trailed by five of the parish dogs. Upon reaching Paublo`s home, a dogfight ensued, with the parish dogs battling Paublos` pit bulls. We all screamed, Antonio kicked, and it was finally broken up. As Antonio, I and the perros walked backe, Antonio chatted incessantly. I could barely understand him, so I just politely listened and wondered how someone who lives at a church, works for the church (running errands and doing yard work) and spends his free time at Mass could have so much to say.
In the streets, I often encounter Lucius, a man I became acquainted with him when I encountered him drunk in front of the parish with a huge gash on his face. Only being able to help him in that moment, I told him I really liked the type of liquor he was holding and convinced him to give me the bottle. Though he hasn`t fallen for that trick again, we always make small talk and when he his lucid he is pleasant and tells me admires the work I do and if he can help by teaching me Spanish. When he`s far out of it, he slurs beyond comprehension and I push him away if he aggressively tries to hug me. During these interactions, everyone in the market street seems to be watching either curiously or with worry.
It`s through the streets that I had my first success as a proselytizing missionary as I brought someone into the folds of the Catholic Church. Lately, I have been walking up and down the streets of the Puebla Nueva, a steep hill near the home of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word. A young teenage boy approached Sister Angelita and professed his love for me and asked for advice on wooing me. It seems he started going to Mass in hopes of seeing me. I haven`t heard from him though--perhaps I was a tool calling him to priesthood.
There is always something going on outdoors. I buy lollipops from Lupita or give her food as she sniffs kerchiefs soaked in paint thinner. I say hello to Raul, a homeless man who directs traffic. I receive free tamales from Conchita, a church lady with pink hair bound in curlers, who keeps a stand during the nights. I constantly run into shopkeepers and co-workers I know and guys feel compelled to shout whatever English they know at me. I see my English students and youth group members, busy on their cell phones and flirting with their friends, and I feel comforted knowing some things are just like the U.S.A.
I actually don`t go many places in Santa Fe. My workplace is a ten-minute walk from my house and the parish is along the way. Weekly, Jessica and I venture to the market and I take my walks down Puebla Nueva. I have a rather limited view of the community. Despite this, more than in other place I have lived, every day I feel as if I am going out into the world.
Panderias fill the air with smells of fresh sweet breads, but I often leave lose my appetite upon seeing the whole carcasses that are hung and hacked at in front of butcher shops. Most homes retain their original drab concrete color,ing though the stores are brightly painted and decorated with elaborate lettering and cartoon pictures. Cars whiz past, except when they have to prod through pedestrians or struggle up a steep hill. Salsa music is pretty much always blaring. Packs of wild dogs roam around examining the trash that is thrown into the streets.
In the midst of all the chaos, I still manage to draw attention. People constantly call out to me `Hola Guera` or `Hey Guerita`, which basically means `Hi white girl`. Though I am told guera is a compliment, I have suspicions as I can think of many terms that minorities are called in the United States, and none are ones I would ever say or print.
Despite my natural ability to get attention, I keep finding myself in situations that draw even more notice. At work the other day, Sister Estella asked me to pick up Vickie from school. In order to to so, I had to accompany one of the residents, Clara, who has a photo ID that enables her to get inside the school. Sister Estrella says that Clara likes the trip because it lets her out for a while and makes her feel valuable. She keeps herself well-groomed all day in anticipation of going.
Off we went, with Clara leading while grunting and pointing, as she is mute. Along the way I bought Vickie a snack of water and corn chips. Once we had collected her, Vickie announced ``Quiero helado`` as the ice cream man had smartly packed his stand right in front of the kindergarten. Vickie chose coconut, while Clara (I hope) was happy with chocolate.
``What`s this?`` Vickie asked as she pulled out pieces of shaved coconut from her ice cream.
``I don`t want them,`` she said as she handed them to me.
``Well, I don`t want them either,`` I said, throwing them on the ground so that I could keep grasp of her wheelchair.
Though the house if a 5-minute walk from her school, Vickie tried to prolong the trek home by insisting on walking on certain parts of the sidewalk. She also had it in mind to zigzag across the streets instead of keeping a straight course. Leery or unnecessary crossings, I struggled to keep her on a straight path as she pushed herself to the side.
There I was, a white lady fighting with a handicapped little girl while being trailed by a mute, elderly lady. We drew a few stares but made it back in tact.
After work, I went of to a friends` house to retrieve a pair of sunglasses I had forgotten. Along the way, I ran into Antonio, who lives at the parish. I invited Antonio to take a walk with me, and as he`s a slow mover, he turned a three-minute trip into a fifteen minute one. He was also being trailed by five of the parish dogs. Upon reaching Paublo`s home, a dogfight ensued, with the parish dogs battling Paublos` pit bulls. We all screamed, Antonio kicked, and it was finally broken up. As Antonio, I and the perros walked backe, Antonio chatted incessantly. I could barely understand him, so I just politely listened and wondered how someone who lives at a church, works for the church (running errands and doing yard work) and spends his free time at Mass could have so much to say.
In the streets, I often encounter Lucius, a man I became acquainted with him when I encountered him drunk in front of the parish with a huge gash on his face. Only being able to help him in that moment, I told him I really liked the type of liquor he was holding and convinced him to give me the bottle. Though he hasn`t fallen for that trick again, we always make small talk and when he his lucid he is pleasant and tells me admires the work I do and if he can help by teaching me Spanish. When he`s far out of it, he slurs beyond comprehension and I push him away if he aggressively tries to hug me. During these interactions, everyone in the market street seems to be watching either curiously or with worry.
It`s through the streets that I had my first success as a proselytizing missionary as I brought someone into the folds of the Catholic Church. Lately, I have been walking up and down the streets of the Puebla Nueva, a steep hill near the home of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word. A young teenage boy approached Sister Angelita and professed his love for me and asked for advice on wooing me. It seems he started going to Mass in hopes of seeing me. I haven`t heard from him though--perhaps I was a tool calling him to priesthood.
There is always something going on outdoors. I buy lollipops from Lupita or give her food as she sniffs kerchiefs soaked in paint thinner. I say hello to Raul, a homeless man who directs traffic. I receive free tamales from Conchita, a church lady with pink hair bound in curlers, who keeps a stand during the nights. I constantly run into shopkeepers and co-workers I know and guys feel compelled to shout whatever English they know at me. I see my English students and youth group members, busy on their cell phones and flirting with their friends, and I feel comforted knowing some things are just like the U.S.A.
I actually don`t go many places in Santa Fe. My workplace is a ten-minute walk from my house and the parish is along the way. Weekly, Jessica and I venture to the market and I take my walks down Puebla Nueva. I have a rather limited view of the community. Despite this, more than in other place I have lived, every day I feel as if I am going out into the world.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Puebla, Puebla
A must-do for any Catholic missionary in Mexico is take a trip to Puebla, Puebla. The first town in Mexico to be founded by Spaniards is home to 364 churches and only about 200,000 people. On just about every corner you will find an iglesia ( which makes it difficult to keep up with the Catholic custom of making the sign of the cross everytime you pass a church).
Jessica and I recently made a weekend trip there, though not quite for religious purposes. Puebla is known for its blue and white ceramic pottery and for being the creation spot of mole--a thick, complex sauce made with numerous ingredients including chocolate. Jess wanted to pick up some of each as souvenirs for her upcoming visit home. We also wanted to relax in the town`s tranquil European-style streets and drink coffee.
We took a scenic two-hour bus ride to the city, riding past the volcano Popocatépetl. The trip is a blur of funky marketplaces, churches and seeing the body of St. Francisco. One of the things that proves he is a saint is the fact the his body is supposedly not decaying despite the fact the he died some 500 years ago. However, his body looked at a bit funky to me as well.
Overall, the churches were quite beautiful but some were bordering on gaudy as they were lavishly covered with gold. Jessica and I both had moral qualms with the amount of wealth actually in churches. One guide explained that hundreds of years ago, churches were decorated with gold in order to draw the attention of people since people were illiterate and books couldn't be used. On the positive sides, the churches are open for all people, rich and poor, to enjoy. (On another negative note, I found the church workers to be quite unforgiving as two repeatedly screamed at me after I accidentally used my flash when taking pictures.)
What stands out for me more is a our trip to Cholula. We went there in order to visit the Great Pyramid of Cholula--the world`s largest monument. Though we expected to take a bus directly to the site, we got lost and ended up in the middle of town. It all worked out as we attended Mass in a sedate church and found the town of Cholula to be more relaxed than Puebla and we were able to sit in a park.
After making our way to the remains of the pyramid, we climbed it and then encountered the Church of Our Lady or Remedies, which sits atop the pyramid. While catching out breath, we met an American minister who has been living in Mexico city as missionary for the past 22 years.(Making our two-year commitment seem slack.) We were able to get some trade tips from him-- advice and information on drug rehabilitation programs.
Jessica and I recently made a weekend trip there, though not quite for religious purposes. Puebla is known for its blue and white ceramic pottery and for being the creation spot of mole--a thick, complex sauce made with numerous ingredients including chocolate. Jess wanted to pick up some of each as souvenirs for her upcoming visit home. We also wanted to relax in the town`s tranquil European-style streets and drink coffee.
We took a scenic two-hour bus ride to the city, riding past the volcano Popocatépetl. The trip is a blur of funky marketplaces, churches and seeing the body of St. Francisco. One of the things that proves he is a saint is the fact the his body is supposedly not decaying despite the fact the he died some 500 years ago. However, his body looked at a bit funky to me as well.
Overall, the churches were quite beautiful but some were bordering on gaudy as they were lavishly covered with gold. Jessica and I both had moral qualms with the amount of wealth actually in churches. One guide explained that hundreds of years ago, churches were decorated with gold in order to draw the attention of people since people were illiterate and books couldn't be used. On the positive sides, the churches are open for all people, rich and poor, to enjoy. (On another negative note, I found the church workers to be quite unforgiving as two repeatedly screamed at me after I accidentally used my flash when taking pictures.)
What stands out for me more is a our trip to Cholula. We went there in order to visit the Great Pyramid of Cholula--the world`s largest monument. Though we expected to take a bus directly to the site, we got lost and ended up in the middle of town. It all worked out as we attended Mass in a sedate church and found the town of Cholula to be more relaxed than Puebla and we were able to sit in a park.
After making our way to the remains of the pyramid, we climbed it and then encountered the Church of Our Lady or Remedies, which sits atop the pyramid. While catching out breath, we met an American minister who has been living in Mexico city as missionary for the past 22 years.(Making our two-year commitment seem slack.) We were able to get some trade tips from him-- advice and information on drug rehabilitation programs.
Then we explored the church itself--check out the translations-
Back on the ground, we went inside the pyramid and explored complex tunnels and stairs. Outside were remains of altars, stairs and game spots. The whole site followed the Spaniard custom of building religious spots on top of Mayan and Aztec sites. It was symbolic of the way Catholicism is in Mexico--people are outwardly Catholic, but beliefs are intertwined with native practices underneath.
The trip ended with a two-hour bus ride to Mexico City, followed by one and a half hours on public transpiration back to Santa Fe, souvenirs in hand. Good practice for Jess as she will soon be lugging all that pottery and mole back to the States.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
How did this happen?
My fourteen-year-old English students laugh at me--they laugh when I try to speak Spanish, they laugh when I talk at them in English, and they laugh for various other reasons that I don`t understand. I don`t quite get them and vice versa. The difference isn`t cultural, it`s the thirteen years I have on them. They are at an age where if something is not a cause for tears, it is generally a reason to burst into giggles. Authority figures over the age of twenty-five (such as myself) are especially funny.
Admittedly, I do odd things. At work yesterday, I came upon Paulina riding on a toy tricycle. Instead of cycling on the pedals, she was using her legs to trudge herself along. I corrected her form and pushed her, but couldn`t get her to ride on her own. Wondering if the tricycle even worked properly, I tried it out myself and she then she attempted to push me along. That didn`t work, so I decided to demonstrate how one circles their legs. While lying on the ground moving my feet through the air, I thought of my peers spending their Wednesday afternoons in offices. I realized that within the span of one year (and without acquiring a husband or child), I have gone from being a hip, young urbanite to leading the life of a small-town PTA mom.
This is a typical weekend in Santa Fe: I go to the market to buy ingredients for a fresh raspberry pie that Jess and I will bake for an elderly neighbor. While shopping, I exchange pleasantries with co-workers and students that I encounter. Playing nearby is the parish dog wjp has followed me into the market. Minus my nagging chitchat with Lucius (the town drunk I`ve befriended), it feels very Normal Rockwell. On the weekend, I also make stops at the parish where I help lead youth group, chat with the church ladies and clear up after meals.
Ironically, one of the reasons that I didn`t do volunteer work abroad out of college is that I had the idea that I needed to settle down and start a family and this type of thing would hold me back. Realizing it is easier to obtain a family than to make this sort of commitment, I got over that fear and decided I wanted to try something exotic. Ironically, my life has turned
decidedly domestic.
When tell others that I am doing missionary work in Mexico, they conjure up images of me working in the jungle with native people or living in the midst of drug wars. Life is actually much simpler. At work I wipe noses, read children`s books and give hugs. At home, I cook meals with fresh food from the market place and entertain neighborhood teens who stop by. Despite putting aside my desire to start a family, I feel as if I have turned into a mother. I suppose my life is pretty funny.
Admittedly, I do odd things. At work yesterday, I came upon Paulina riding on a toy tricycle. Instead of cycling on the pedals, she was using her legs to trudge herself along. I corrected her form and pushed her, but couldn`t get her to ride on her own. Wondering if the tricycle even worked properly, I tried it out myself and she then she attempted to push me along. That didn`t work, so I decided to demonstrate how one circles their legs. While lying on the ground moving my feet through the air, I thought of my peers spending their Wednesday afternoons in offices. I realized that within the span of one year (and without acquiring a husband or child), I have gone from being a hip, young urbanite to leading the life of a small-town PTA mom.
This is a typical weekend in Santa Fe: I go to the market to buy ingredients for a fresh raspberry pie that Jess and I will bake for an elderly neighbor. While shopping, I exchange pleasantries with co-workers and students that I encounter. Playing nearby is the parish dog wjp has followed me into the market. Minus my nagging chitchat with Lucius (the town drunk I`ve befriended), it feels very Normal Rockwell. On the weekend, I also make stops at the parish where I help lead youth group, chat with the church ladies and clear up after meals.
Ironically, one of the reasons that I didn`t do volunteer work abroad out of college is that I had the idea that I needed to settle down and start a family and this type of thing would hold me back. Realizing it is easier to obtain a family than to make this sort of commitment, I got over that fear and decided I wanted to try something exotic. Ironically, my life has turned
decidedly domestic.
When tell others that I am doing missionary work in Mexico, they conjure up images of me working in the jungle with native people or living in the midst of drug wars. Life is actually much simpler. At work I wipe noses, read children`s books and give hugs. At home, I cook meals with fresh food from the market place and entertain neighborhood teens who stop by. Despite putting aside my desire to start a family, I feel as if I have turned into a mother. I suppose my life is pretty funny.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Filling Out
Work is going pretty typically in the morning--I am outside pushing Gaby along in her wheelchair-- when I catch sight of my reflection in a window. Typically, a glimpse of myself is surprising as we have no full-length mirrors in our house. It is especially jarring this time as what our house does have is peanut butter and chocolate from the United States, and I have spent the last week consuming these items. ¨I can stand to lose a few pounds,¨ I think to myself.
I walk several times up one of Santa Fe´s giant hills during my afternoon break and then head back to work. An old woman with long gray braids and a brown, leathery face stops me and asks for anything--work, money and other items I don´t comprehend. It´s actually a situation I don´t encounter often since everyone is hard off and they would have more luck begging in rich areas.
¨Do you need food?¨ I ask her.
¨Si,¨ she says and then goes into a litany of what more she lacks. I tell her that I am on my way to a house of nuns who give out dispensas (pantry food) and they could probably give one to her. I want to lead her to aid to her that is more long-term than a few pesos, but to be truthful, I also don´t want the burden of dealing with her by myself.
She agrees to come with me, and as we walk, I have to remember that she is not a problem but a person. I force myself to walk at her pace and I ask her questions like her name (Amy) and if she has children.
When we arrive at the Sisters´ house, the door-guard won´t let Amy in and says she is always going door-to-door begging. I go inside and tell Sister Beth about her and she replies¨Yes, I´ll go take care of it. Thank you.¨
From there I am seemingly done with and can go about being with the girls, but I have an internal debate in my head. Why am I only comfortable around the poor when I´m in a delegated area? Isn´t Amy just as looked over as those inside the house who I´m visiting? I go outside with Amy on the doorstep and wait. Volunteers, priests, and nuns troop in and out and community members walk past us.
Generally, a lot of people come in to visit from outside of Santa Fe. There are college girls who are skinny, pretty and well-dressed. As I am likely to wear something to work that I also wore to bed, I feel frumpy next to them. There are rich women who have free afternoons since they have married well or retired from good jobs. They show up in cars driven by chauffeurs and carry bags of gifts. I think that I would´t mind living that kind of life. Sometimes, they all make me want to clean up my personal presentation and put more effort into my appearance. But as I am also surrounded by people whose own bodies have failed them and who would have nothing except for charity, I realize how blessed I am the way I am.
However, today I am wearing baggy sweatpants, a few layers of t-shirts, and carrying a misshapen bag of books that I brought to read to the children. Sitting alongside Amy, I wonder if people are mistaking us for a homeless granddaughter and grandmother and I am a little embarrassed. I also feel as if I am burdening the nuns and am inadequate compared to them as they are spending their lives devoted to the poor. I contemplate giving up everything the way they have (and then would put no thought into my clothing.)
At least, I should have tried to do more for Amy, since I am the one from a rich country. I remind myself that my family donates money to Catholic charities such as the one that the nuns run and that people in the United States give lots of money to the Missionaries of Charity. Thus the nuns owe it to me to give aid. This may be what if takes to actually beg--you have to talk yourself into a sense of entitlement.
Sister Beth comes out, assesses Amy and says ¨We give her a dispensa every month. We know her well. I´ll get something for her.¨
The guardsman tells me that Amy is from a really rough neighborhood, where everyone is on drugs all the time. Since she regularly receives food, I wonder if her children have forced her to go begging to support their drug habits or if she needs money to fund things like electricity and water bills. I am lacking in knowledge of things that could help me help her—of the Spanish language for one, and of social services available. My mind circles with with things that I should do to really bring about change that could benefit her—become a lawyer, a human rights crusader, an international development worker.
Sister Beth comes back with a few items of food and a small bag of hard candies. Amy insists on giving me a butterscotch and says she´d like to continue to listen to the children´s stories I have been reading. So after a introspective struggle about what my place in the world should be, it seems that I have only found what my place is for the moment—on the ground, reading kids´ books to a strange old lady while sucking on candy.
Though Amy may be taking advantage of people, there must be a loneliness to her life if she has no one to go to for help and she is constantly rejected by people. I hope I bring her a little comfort by reading. When we finish, she asks more for a few pesos. So maybe she was just sitting through the books in order to get more money. Wanting to invite her to my house, but not wanting her there, I tell her I´ll be at evening Mass and she agrees to come as well. (She doesn´t show.)
That evening, Jessica and I visit the Sisters of the Incarnate Word who live in Santa. Outside their door is Lupita, a neighbor who is addicted to drugs. She comes inside with us, reeking of chemicals, and eats tacos. Cessy and Nikko joke with her and seem quite comfortable with her. ¨Lupita look at me—you´re high,¨ says Nikko while laughing.
Lupita is in a chatty, amiable mood—due to the drugs, Cessy later says. Lupita looks at Jessica and I wistfully and remarks how pretty we are. She tells me that I look how she did when she was well. Now, she is skin and bones, dirty and bruised. Lupita says that she used to be gorda (fat) though Jess assures me she means it in a healthy, filled-out sense rather than in the manner I was worried about in the morning.
For about twenty years, I have been concerned about my weight and how I appear to others. I´ve seen tons of articles in magazines and on the Internet offering tips on how to not eat so much and how to win friends. What I really need now is advice on how to provide to others and befriend those no one wants to be around, but those sorts of readings are hard to find. Like many other people, I dwell on personal problems within myself to fix, perhaps because it´s easier than trying to face problems in the outside world. It´s here that I am slowly receiving a new education, and though hard, this is a good way to grow.
I walk several times up one of Santa Fe´s giant hills during my afternoon break and then head back to work. An old woman with long gray braids and a brown, leathery face stops me and asks for anything--work, money and other items I don´t comprehend. It´s actually a situation I don´t encounter often since everyone is hard off and they would have more luck begging in rich areas.
¨Do you need food?¨ I ask her.
¨Si,¨ she says and then goes into a litany of what more she lacks. I tell her that I am on my way to a house of nuns who give out dispensas (pantry food) and they could probably give one to her. I want to lead her to aid to her that is more long-term than a few pesos, but to be truthful, I also don´t want the burden of dealing with her by myself.
She agrees to come with me, and as we walk, I have to remember that she is not a problem but a person. I force myself to walk at her pace and I ask her questions like her name (Amy) and if she has children.
When we arrive at the Sisters´ house, the door-guard won´t let Amy in and says she is always going door-to-door begging. I go inside and tell Sister Beth about her and she replies¨Yes, I´ll go take care of it. Thank you.¨
From there I am seemingly done with and can go about being with the girls, but I have an internal debate in my head. Why am I only comfortable around the poor when I´m in a delegated area? Isn´t Amy just as looked over as those inside the house who I´m visiting? I go outside with Amy on the doorstep and wait. Volunteers, priests, and nuns troop in and out and community members walk past us.
Generally, a lot of people come in to visit from outside of Santa Fe. There are college girls who are skinny, pretty and well-dressed. As I am likely to wear something to work that I also wore to bed, I feel frumpy next to them. There are rich women who have free afternoons since they have married well or retired from good jobs. They show up in cars driven by chauffeurs and carry bags of gifts. I think that I would´t mind living that kind of life. Sometimes, they all make me want to clean up my personal presentation and put more effort into my appearance. But as I am also surrounded by people whose own bodies have failed them and who would have nothing except for charity, I realize how blessed I am the way I am.
However, today I am wearing baggy sweatpants, a few layers of t-shirts, and carrying a misshapen bag of books that I brought to read to the children. Sitting alongside Amy, I wonder if people are mistaking us for a homeless granddaughter and grandmother and I am a little embarrassed. I also feel as if I am burdening the nuns and am inadequate compared to them as they are spending their lives devoted to the poor. I contemplate giving up everything the way they have (and then would put no thought into my clothing.)
At least, I should have tried to do more for Amy, since I am the one from a rich country. I remind myself that my family donates money to Catholic charities such as the one that the nuns run and that people in the United States give lots of money to the Missionaries of Charity. Thus the nuns owe it to me to give aid. This may be what if takes to actually beg--you have to talk yourself into a sense of entitlement.
Sister Beth comes out, assesses Amy and says ¨We give her a dispensa every month. We know her well. I´ll get something for her.¨
The guardsman tells me that Amy is from a really rough neighborhood, where everyone is on drugs all the time. Since she regularly receives food, I wonder if her children have forced her to go begging to support their drug habits or if she needs money to fund things like electricity and water bills. I am lacking in knowledge of things that could help me help her—of the Spanish language for one, and of social services available. My mind circles with with things that I should do to really bring about change that could benefit her—become a lawyer, a human rights crusader, an international development worker.
Sister Beth comes back with a few items of food and a small bag of hard candies. Amy insists on giving me a butterscotch and says she´d like to continue to listen to the children´s stories I have been reading. So after a introspective struggle about what my place in the world should be, it seems that I have only found what my place is for the moment—on the ground, reading kids´ books to a strange old lady while sucking on candy.
Though Amy may be taking advantage of people, there must be a loneliness to her life if she has no one to go to for help and she is constantly rejected by people. I hope I bring her a little comfort by reading. When we finish, she asks more for a few pesos. So maybe she was just sitting through the books in order to get more money. Wanting to invite her to my house, but not wanting her there, I tell her I´ll be at evening Mass and she agrees to come as well. (She doesn´t show.)
That evening, Jessica and I visit the Sisters of the Incarnate Word who live in Santa. Outside their door is Lupita, a neighbor who is addicted to drugs. She comes inside with us, reeking of chemicals, and eats tacos. Cessy and Nikko joke with her and seem quite comfortable with her. ¨Lupita look at me—you´re high,¨ says Nikko while laughing.
Lupita is in a chatty, amiable mood—due to the drugs, Cessy later says. Lupita looks at Jessica and I wistfully and remarks how pretty we are. She tells me that I look how she did when she was well. Now, she is skin and bones, dirty and bruised. Lupita says that she used to be gorda (fat) though Jess assures me she means it in a healthy, filled-out sense rather than in the manner I was worried about in the morning.
For about twenty years, I have been concerned about my weight and how I appear to others. I´ve seen tons of articles in magazines and on the Internet offering tips on how to not eat so much and how to win friends. What I really need now is advice on how to provide to others and befriend those no one wants to be around, but those sorts of readings are hard to find. Like many other people, I dwell on personal problems within myself to fix, perhaps because it´s easier than trying to face problems in the outside world. It´s here that I am slowly receiving a new education, and though hard, this is a good way to grow.
Little Angel
A few days back from vacation, I ask the physical therapist at work about one of the little girls I haven´t seen since before leaving.
¨Donde Angelita?¨ (Where is Angelita?)
¨En cielo.¨ (In heaven)
The news is sad, but not too surprising. At eight, Angelita was among the oldest children as well as one of the sickest. Her head bulged out abnormally as if she had a tumor on the right side of her head (I think she had a condition called hydrocephalus, which I learned about in high school anatomy) and she couldn´t talk or walk.
Despite her deformity, Angelita had a beautiful smile that literally took over her face. She sat most of the time in a special chair, rapidly blinking her eyes and occasionally giggling at something--babies, noises or toys. Once, when I was throwing rubber balls into a playpen while cleaning up, Angelita started laughing at the site of the flying objects. From then on, when I remembered and had time, I would throw the balls in the air in order to entertain her. It was a good feeling that my simple actions could produce so much joy.
Still, Angelita was easy to overlook. She wasn´t cuddly and prone to jumping on visitors the way the toddlers are, and she wasn´t a tiny object crying like the babies who seem so in need of being held. When it came time to bring the kids to the lunch area, Angelita was usually the last one carried out due to the effort it took to lift her. I would hold her on my lap, but not to often since she was heavy and sometimes soiled me.
There wasn´t too much happiness in her life and I know her future would have been painful. I miss her now that she isn´t here but know she is in a better place. I picture her as continuously smiling while her eyelashes bat like the the wings of butterflies, as she is encompassed by the love that escaped her on Earth.
¨Donde Angelita?¨ (Where is Angelita?)
¨En cielo.¨ (In heaven)
The news is sad, but not too surprising. At eight, Angelita was among the oldest children as well as one of the sickest. Her head bulged out abnormally as if she had a tumor on the right side of her head (I think she had a condition called hydrocephalus, which I learned about in high school anatomy) and she couldn´t talk or walk.
Despite her deformity, Angelita had a beautiful smile that literally took over her face. She sat most of the time in a special chair, rapidly blinking her eyes and occasionally giggling at something--babies, noises or toys. Once, when I was throwing rubber balls into a playpen while cleaning up, Angelita started laughing at the site of the flying objects. From then on, when I remembered and had time, I would throw the balls in the air in order to entertain her. It was a good feeling that my simple actions could produce so much joy.
Still, Angelita was easy to overlook. She wasn´t cuddly and prone to jumping on visitors the way the toddlers are, and she wasn´t a tiny object crying like the babies who seem so in need of being held. When it came time to bring the kids to the lunch area, Angelita was usually the last one carried out due to the effort it took to lift her. I would hold her on my lap, but not to often since she was heavy and sometimes soiled me.
There wasn´t too much happiness in her life and I know her future would have been painful. I miss her now that she isn´t here but know she is in a better place. I picture her as continuously smiling while her eyelashes bat like the the wings of butterflies, as she is encompassed by the love that escaped her on Earth.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Swine Flu By
As a university student in Washington DC, I should have been in the city during the 9-11 attacks. Instead, I happened to be studying abroad in Perth, Australia. While my fellow students fled from campus after a plane crashed into the Pentagon and lived through an anthrax scare, I dealt with the shock from halfway across the world and returned to a much different America.
I´ve discovered that I have a knack for avoiding being around crises of that incite global fear. Three weeks ago, I left for the United States to vacation, and during my first day home, news of the swine flu was everywhere. At first I was skeptical that it would amount to anything more then a weekend story. Though pictures of Mexicans wearing face masks bombarded television, I assured my family that masks are commonly worn in the country due to pollution and smog.
Reports of the swine flu escalted--and so did my tempature. Throughout the month of April I had felt run-down and believed I had mononucleosis. My symptoms were flu-like and my family joked that I was a carrier of the swine flu.
Unfortunately, my family is a bit neurotic, and being around them probably inspired more fear than if I had actually been in Mexico City. My sister forbade me from touching her personal items and shooed me away from my niece. My father took the opportunity to ask me where I would like to be buried and what sort of funeral I´d like.
I decided medical advice wouldn´t hurt and set about calling clinics for a mononucleosis test. Upon hearing my symptoms and my symptoms and Mexico City mentioned, receptions advised me to head for the hospital.
I checked into the emergency room and was given a face mask to wear. The attendent told me that the hospital was full of people worried about swine flu, but I recieved a little special treatment due to my place of residency.
Though the E.R.. hallway was full of both elderly and bleeding people, I was put into a private isolated room. Two doctors came in to speak with me, and while the concluded that I probably didn´t have swine flu, CDC regulations required them to test me. They also advised me against returning to Mexico anytime soon.
A nurse came in to draw blood for a mono test. ¨ It´ll proably take about an hour and a half,¨ he said. ¨I´ll be back¨
¨So I should leave and return?¨ I asked.
¨No, you´re supposed to wait here, I think. But I´ll check on that.¨
Then one doctor came in for a mucus swab, which is basically done by sticking two q-tips up ones´ naval cavaties. I flet like my eyeballs were going to be gouged out.
After the doctor left, I waited for someone to tell me if I could leave and come back. After about an hour, I realized I was waiting for results. I flipped through my Spanish book, which was the only reading material I brought because I wanted to force myself to study. It helped me fall asleep.
At one point a nurse came to the door with a wheelchair-bounc patient in tow. ¨Oh,¨she said, startled to see me. ¨Are you supposed to be here? Do they know you´re here.¨
¨I think so,¨ I said. ¨I hope.¨ She went to check things out, leaving me wondering if there was a misunderstanding and I could have left hours earlier. I imagined trying to leave and having spacesuit-wearing government employees grab and sequester me.
Finally, four hours after samples were taken, the doctor came to tell me she hadn´t forgotten me and would come back soon with results. Forty-five minutes, I was declared free of swine flu (and mono.)
I ended up extending my stay in the United States for a few days before nervously going back to Mexico City. I was heartened by reports that the virus wasn´t nearly as bad as originally thought and that one would be okay by taking basic precautions like washing your hands and avoiding unnessary touching.
One of the first things I did once home was to stop by the parish. Guillito was so exicted that he grabbed me, squeezed me and covered me with kisses. He showed more exuberance over my return to Mexico than anyone did upon seeing me in the States. Guillito is a 76 year-old chain smoker and while telling me about his fears that I would never return and his plan to go to the United States to fetch me, he coughed with his trademark hack. Though touched by how much he cares, I was also concerned by the fact that his excited declarations caused spit to fall out of his mouth and onto my face.
Then it was off to Mass, though first I greeted everyone I hadn´t seen in weeks with hugs and kisses. The service was a bit different than usual as hosts were token by the hands of recipents rather than the tongue and there was no sign-of-the peace (the period during Mass when hands are shaken.)
After Mass, I ate tacos with everyone in the parish kitchen. There were plenty of tortillas to grab from a communal pile in order to assemble diner, but soap was missing. I rubbed my hands with lime before eating because it is supposed to be a natural disinfectant. During dinner Antonio--the handicapped, previously homeless man who Padre has given a place to live--sat next to me and, as always, coughed without covering his mouth.
Normally, I pride myself as being rather go-with-the-flow and accepting of the circumstances around me, but my return put me on edge. Everything I had heard in the States was being disregarded and I felt as if I was wallowing around in a giant petri dish of bacteria.
Padre comforted me by saying that the swine flu was mostly hype. He thinks it was exaggerated by the Mexican government to keep people from protesting economic conditions. The fact that the United States didn´t close the border showed to him that the U.S.A. realized it wasn´t all that dangerous.
Most people think the swine flu is a hoax and there are all sorts of rumours spreading around. Apparently Pemex- Mexico´s publicly owned owned oil company-went private during this time and it wasn´t reported on due to the flu. It is been said that the government exaggerated the flue to stop people from rioting due to general bad conditions or to distract citizens from unknown shady dealings. Others think it began in the United States and was brought over when President Obama visited. However, everyone agrees that it has been a huge financial blow as the people who eek by selling whatever have lost their only sources of income.
I returned to work with the Missionaries of Charity on Monday, the first day it was open to visitors after shutting down for the flu. The kids were especially clingy and eager to be held, though confused by my required face mask andtried to pull it off. Despite half my face being hidden, the older girls seemed to recognize and be happy to see me.
The schools have reopened and the streets are filling up again, though they are emptier than when I left. Life continues on. As for me, I´ve been somewhat hypochondriac since arriving here and the flu has definitely caused this to increase. This morning, I had a late start to work due to stomach problems and while walikng there I felt feverish. I debated whether or not to go in as now is not a good time to be passing along any sort of illness, but I decided to forge ahead and I pulled out my face mask. It snapped as I tried to put it on, and knowing that it would take a while to buy another one , I decided that was a sign from God to go home and rest and take my temperature.
After a long chat with the pharmacist, I learned two new words today--termómetro and caído la máscara-- and it turns out I´m fine. All and all, things are cooling off here, though the possiblity of economic collapse, oil protests and economic riots have given me some new things to worry about, though keeping my circulation from being cutting off from beneath my caído la máscara is taking priority.
I´ve discovered that I have a knack for avoiding being around crises of that incite global fear. Three weeks ago, I left for the United States to vacation, and during my first day home, news of the swine flu was everywhere. At first I was skeptical that it would amount to anything more then a weekend story. Though pictures of Mexicans wearing face masks bombarded television, I assured my family that masks are commonly worn in the country due to pollution and smog.
Reports of the swine flu escalted--and so did my tempature. Throughout the month of April I had felt run-down and believed I had mononucleosis. My symptoms were flu-like and my family joked that I was a carrier of the swine flu.
Unfortunately, my family is a bit neurotic, and being around them probably inspired more fear than if I had actually been in Mexico City. My sister forbade me from touching her personal items and shooed me away from my niece. My father took the opportunity to ask me where I would like to be buried and what sort of funeral I´d like.
I decided medical advice wouldn´t hurt and set about calling clinics for a mononucleosis test. Upon hearing my symptoms and my symptoms and Mexico City mentioned, receptions advised me to head for the hospital.
I checked into the emergency room and was given a face mask to wear. The attendent told me that the hospital was full of people worried about swine flu, but I recieved a little special treatment due to my place of residency.
Though the E.R.. hallway was full of both elderly and bleeding people, I was put into a private isolated room. Two doctors came in to speak with me, and while the concluded that I probably didn´t have swine flu, CDC regulations required them to test me. They also advised me against returning to Mexico anytime soon.
A nurse came in to draw blood for a mono test. ¨ It´ll proably take about an hour and a half,¨ he said. ¨I´ll be back¨
¨So I should leave and return?¨ I asked.
¨No, you´re supposed to wait here, I think. But I´ll check on that.¨
Then one doctor came in for a mucus swab, which is basically done by sticking two q-tips up ones´ naval cavaties. I flet like my eyeballs were going to be gouged out.
After the doctor left, I waited for someone to tell me if I could leave and come back. After about an hour, I realized I was waiting for results. I flipped through my Spanish book, which was the only reading material I brought because I wanted to force myself to study. It helped me fall asleep.
At one point a nurse came to the door with a wheelchair-bounc patient in tow. ¨Oh,¨she said, startled to see me. ¨Are you supposed to be here? Do they know you´re here.¨
¨I think so,¨ I said. ¨I hope.¨ She went to check things out, leaving me wondering if there was a misunderstanding and I could have left hours earlier. I imagined trying to leave and having spacesuit-wearing government employees grab and sequester me.
Finally, four hours after samples were taken, the doctor came to tell me she hadn´t forgotten me and would come back soon with results. Forty-five minutes, I was declared free of swine flu (and mono.)
I ended up extending my stay in the United States for a few days before nervously going back to Mexico City. I was heartened by reports that the virus wasn´t nearly as bad as originally thought and that one would be okay by taking basic precautions like washing your hands and avoiding unnessary touching.
One of the first things I did once home was to stop by the parish. Guillito was so exicted that he grabbed me, squeezed me and covered me with kisses. He showed more exuberance over my return to Mexico than anyone did upon seeing me in the States. Guillito is a 76 year-old chain smoker and while telling me about his fears that I would never return and his plan to go to the United States to fetch me, he coughed with his trademark hack. Though touched by how much he cares, I was also concerned by the fact that his excited declarations caused spit to fall out of his mouth and onto my face.
Then it was off to Mass, though first I greeted everyone I hadn´t seen in weeks with hugs and kisses. The service was a bit different than usual as hosts were token by the hands of recipents rather than the tongue and there was no sign-of-the peace (the period during Mass when hands are shaken.)
After Mass, I ate tacos with everyone in the parish kitchen. There were plenty of tortillas to grab from a communal pile in order to assemble diner, but soap was missing. I rubbed my hands with lime before eating because it is supposed to be a natural disinfectant. During dinner Antonio--the handicapped, previously homeless man who Padre has given a place to live--sat next to me and, as always, coughed without covering his mouth.
Normally, I pride myself as being rather go-with-the-flow and accepting of the circumstances around me, but my return put me on edge. Everything I had heard in the States was being disregarded and I felt as if I was wallowing around in a giant petri dish of bacteria.
Padre comforted me by saying that the swine flu was mostly hype. He thinks it was exaggerated by the Mexican government to keep people from protesting economic conditions. The fact that the United States didn´t close the border showed to him that the U.S.A. realized it wasn´t all that dangerous.
Most people think the swine flu is a hoax and there are all sorts of rumours spreading around. Apparently Pemex- Mexico´s publicly owned owned oil company-went private during this time and it wasn´t reported on due to the flu. It is been said that the government exaggerated the flue to stop people from rioting due to general bad conditions or to distract citizens from unknown shady dealings. Others think it began in the United States and was brought over when President Obama visited. However, everyone agrees that it has been a huge financial blow as the people who eek by selling whatever have lost their only sources of income.
I returned to work with the Missionaries of Charity on Monday, the first day it was open to visitors after shutting down for the flu. The kids were especially clingy and eager to be held, though confused by my required face mask andtried to pull it off. Despite half my face being hidden, the older girls seemed to recognize and be happy to see me.
The schools have reopened and the streets are filling up again, though they are emptier than when I left. Life continues on. As for me, I´ve been somewhat hypochondriac since arriving here and the flu has definitely caused this to increase. This morning, I had a late start to work due to stomach problems and while walikng there I felt feverish. I debated whether or not to go in as now is not a good time to be passing along any sort of illness, but I decided to forge ahead and I pulled out my face mask. It snapped as I tried to put it on, and knowing that it would take a while to buy another one , I decided that was a sign from God to go home and rest and take my temperature.
After a long chat with the pharmacist, I learned two new words today--termómetro and caído la máscara-- and it turns out I´m fine. All and all, things are cooling off here, though the possiblity of economic collapse, oil protests and economic riots have given me some new things to worry about, though keeping my circulation from being cutting off from beneath my caído la máscara is taking priority.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Good Friday Musings
Good Friday morning, I am outside with ten wheelchair-bound girls, aged 18 through 30. It is just me with them and I take them on walks and spin their chairs as they smile and giggle....or, honestly for some of the girls, as they continue to wail and rock back and forth, as my presence does nothing to change the torment in their lives. I am often alone with the girls and I like it because I imagine myself as the oldest sister in charge while parents are out of sight. When I am in their shared sleeping space after they`ve gone to bed, I read stories and tell jokes as if we`re having a secret slumber party even though lights are supposed to be out.
Mariana--one of the girls who weighs about sixty pounds and has a body composed of gnarled limbs--begins crying due to the sun, and I pull her chair into the shade. I leave the group and return to find Mariana sobbing as Corazon and Neddy try to comfort her. Corazon is one of the only girls who can walk, though she does it by quickly pushing her 90-pound frame forward in a clumsy manner that suggests she`ll fall over any minute. She is always eager to help out by pushing wheelchairs and she loves giving and receiving affection. Neddy, who is wheelchair-bound, is one of the few who can talk, though she rarely does it in the presence of visitors like me.
Corazon is hovering over Mariana`s wheelchair while clinging to it for support. Neddy is saying something unintelligible and extending her limp arms toward the chair. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking to see. Despite their own severe handicaps, the two girls posses something within them that makes them love and try to aid others, but they are still helpless. I wheel Edith back inside and she stops crying once she has reached her bed.
I sometimes have doubts about what I am doing in Mexico because I often feel like I am doing acts of charity that bring momentary aid rather than long-term change or relief. That moment with the girls is a reminder of how blessed I am just to be able to make small differences.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
In the afternoon, the church is packed with people and happenings. I attend a reflection on Jesus`s final words on the cross such as when he asks God to forgive His tormentors, His cry of abandonment and His thirst. I see portions of the Passion Play but the church grounds are so crowded that it is overwhelming to try to keep up with the crowds as they move from place to place trying to keep up with different scenes.
I forgo watching the Crucifixion reenactment in order to return to work. The children are alone as, ironically, everyone is attending a Mass about Jesus`s suffering. I try to juggle crying babies around while Vickie (who is six, paralyzed and one of the oldest children) gives me orders about where to put them. I bring her water, attempt to read her stories in Spanish and we count off the numbers in both English and Spanish.
While changing her, I inadvertently cause her pain by tugging on her diaper too hard.
``Bruja,`` she says. (Witch)
``Como?`` I ask.
``Bruja,`` she repeats firmly.
Her pronouncement may have something to do with me dressing in black from head to toe for Good Friday, but it`s funny how perceptions are. At that moment, I view myself as the person who cares about her most in the world, while she sees me as bullying and insensitive. Again it`s a sisterly moment, since as a younger sister, I know that`s how it works sometimes.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the evening, I go to another service, only by now I`ve lost track as to what it`s about. It`s packed and I don`t have a seat, so feeling tired and hungry from fasting, I decide to sit outside and read the missal.
``Caro!`` squeals Danni, a pint-sized sixteen year old girl who makes up for it with a loud voice that she utilizes often. She runs toward me and wraps her arms around my waist.
Danni has taken a liking to me and Jess and we get that reaction every time we see her. She likes to hold our hands when Padre takes the church on protest walks and she`ll invite herself to our house or the office while we are working. She once asked me why I don`t play in the streets at night like she does and she`s sported bruises from her fights there. She is usually in the process of chasing someone or being chased while she is at the parish.
Upon seeing me, she finds a missal and sits next to me and reads quietly. For about five minutes. Then she decides we should move to a shadier spot. She shouts out to groups of guys and makes plans with friends. She abandons reading for playing games on her phone. She follows me back to my house and I give her one of my sweatshirts as it`s getting cool and she has on a hot pink strapless shirt. She goes out to play in the street. I join Padre and a group of parishioners who are carrying statues of Jesus`s dead body and a veiled Virgen Maria through the streets as one of the boys beats a drum.
If I were ten years younger and Dani and I were in high school together, I would want to be a lot like her. As I was quite shy and had few friends as a child, I would have sat by myself in study hall reading a book, watching her flirt with boys and trash-talk with friends, and I would wonder how her extroversion comes so easily. Here and now, she finds herself struggling to be calm like me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four days later, after everything has calmed down, I am with the girls during a field-trip to the zoo. I push Edie along and seemingly entertain her by singing songs and reading signs which I try to translate. When she jerks her head when I am paused for too long, I tell her that it`s important to learn.
Really, I am amusing myself and I realize that my solitariness as a child has given me the ability to survive when I feel as if I am on my own here. All those times I felt left out growing up have prepared me for what I am doing now.
When I was in sixth grade, I had a teacher who wanted to fix my quietness and would call on me in class often, saying, ``This is the year that you come out of your shell.``
It wasn`t for about seven more years, through travel, acting lessons, weight loss and a study of college friends, that I harnessed the ability to be more social and outgoing.
However, throughout my adult life, I`ve had all types of friends and I was always going to parties and dinners. I don`t think that others thought of me as the girls who was an outsider as a teen. My decision to do mission work required a certain amount of confidence in myself socially, as I knew I`d be in a foreign environment where I`d know nobody.
Still, I often feel as if I am alone here, be it in actuality or due to communication problems.It is as if God shook me out of the shell I once inhabited and molded me for a new, more durable one. Only now, I pull others in with me and let them rest for a while as I push ahead.
Mariana--one of the girls who weighs about sixty pounds and has a body composed of gnarled limbs--begins crying due to the sun, and I pull her chair into the shade. I leave the group and return to find Mariana sobbing as Corazon and Neddy try to comfort her. Corazon is one of the only girls who can walk, though she does it by quickly pushing her 90-pound frame forward in a clumsy manner that suggests she`ll fall over any minute. She is always eager to help out by pushing wheelchairs and she loves giving and receiving affection. Neddy, who is wheelchair-bound, is one of the few who can talk, though she rarely does it in the presence of visitors like me.
Corazon is hovering over Mariana`s wheelchair while clinging to it for support. Neddy is saying something unintelligible and extending her limp arms toward the chair. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking to see. Despite their own severe handicaps, the two girls posses something within them that makes them love and try to aid others, but they are still helpless. I wheel Edith back inside and she stops crying once she has reached her bed.
I sometimes have doubts about what I am doing in Mexico because I often feel like I am doing acts of charity that bring momentary aid rather than long-term change or relief. That moment with the girls is a reminder of how blessed I am just to be able to make small differences.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
In the afternoon, the church is packed with people and happenings. I attend a reflection on Jesus`s final words on the cross such as when he asks God to forgive His tormentors, His cry of abandonment and His thirst. I see portions of the Passion Play but the church grounds are so crowded that it is overwhelming to try to keep up with the crowds as they move from place to place trying to keep up with different scenes.
I forgo watching the Crucifixion reenactment in order to return to work. The children are alone as, ironically, everyone is attending a Mass about Jesus`s suffering. I try to juggle crying babies around while Vickie (who is six, paralyzed and one of the oldest children) gives me orders about where to put them. I bring her water, attempt to read her stories in Spanish and we count off the numbers in both English and Spanish.
While changing her, I inadvertently cause her pain by tugging on her diaper too hard.
``Bruja,`` she says. (Witch)
``Como?`` I ask.
``Bruja,`` she repeats firmly.
Her pronouncement may have something to do with me dressing in black from head to toe for Good Friday, but it`s funny how perceptions are. At that moment, I view myself as the person who cares about her most in the world, while she sees me as bullying and insensitive. Again it`s a sisterly moment, since as a younger sister, I know that`s how it works sometimes.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the evening, I go to another service, only by now I`ve lost track as to what it`s about. It`s packed and I don`t have a seat, so feeling tired and hungry from fasting, I decide to sit outside and read the missal.
``Caro!`` squeals Danni, a pint-sized sixteen year old girl who makes up for it with a loud voice that she utilizes often. She runs toward me and wraps her arms around my waist.
Danni has taken a liking to me and Jess and we get that reaction every time we see her. She likes to hold our hands when Padre takes the church on protest walks and she`ll invite herself to our house or the office while we are working. She once asked me why I don`t play in the streets at night like she does and she`s sported bruises from her fights there. She is usually in the process of chasing someone or being chased while she is at the parish.
Upon seeing me, she finds a missal and sits next to me and reads quietly. For about five minutes. Then she decides we should move to a shadier spot. She shouts out to groups of guys and makes plans with friends. She abandons reading for playing games on her phone. She follows me back to my house and I give her one of my sweatshirts as it`s getting cool and she has on a hot pink strapless shirt. She goes out to play in the street. I join Padre and a group of parishioners who are carrying statues of Jesus`s dead body and a veiled Virgen Maria through the streets as one of the boys beats a drum.
If I were ten years younger and Dani and I were in high school together, I would want to be a lot like her. As I was quite shy and had few friends as a child, I would have sat by myself in study hall reading a book, watching her flirt with boys and trash-talk with friends, and I would wonder how her extroversion comes so easily. Here and now, she finds herself struggling to be calm like me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four days later, after everything has calmed down, I am with the girls during a field-trip to the zoo. I push Edie along and seemingly entertain her by singing songs and reading signs which I try to translate. When she jerks her head when I am paused for too long, I tell her that it`s important to learn.
Really, I am amusing myself and I realize that my solitariness as a child has given me the ability to survive when I feel as if I am on my own here. All those times I felt left out growing up have prepared me for what I am doing now.
When I was in sixth grade, I had a teacher who wanted to fix my quietness and would call on me in class often, saying, ``This is the year that you come out of your shell.``
It wasn`t for about seven more years, through travel, acting lessons, weight loss and a study of college friends, that I harnessed the ability to be more social and outgoing.
However, throughout my adult life, I`ve had all types of friends and I was always going to parties and dinners. I don`t think that others thought of me as the girls who was an outsider as a teen. My decision to do mission work required a certain amount of confidence in myself socially, as I knew I`d be in a foreign environment where I`d know nobody.
Still, I often feel as if I am alone here, be it in actuality or due to communication problems.It is as if God shook me out of the shell I once inhabited and molded me for a new, more durable one. Only now, I pull others in with me and let them rest for a while as I push ahead.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Crosses to Bare
Following evening mass on Palm Sunday, I stop by the rectory and find Arturo there alone, sitting and smoking cigarettes and staring into space. As I mentioned before, Arturo is a parish groundskeeper of sorts who has a disheveled appearance (long uncombed hair, missing teeth, baggy clothes) and an aloof personality. He tends to ask me question that require complicated answers at inopportune times. (The other day while I was on the office computer working on taxes, he asked me to explain, through a closed window, why the economy of the United States is so bad and what can be done about it.)
Though I find him frustrating, I appreciate the consistency of my dealings with him. Like when working with some mentally ill people, I can count on Arturo for bizarre questions and unusual thoughts. It´s better than being on the edge around friends or bosses who make weird requests out of the blue.
Recently, Arturo told me that I should practice my Spanish since he can´t understand me. He advised me of this after saying that he would pay for someone from the United States send him a coat through me. I tried to explain that products in the two countries are about the same, only cheaper here since real estate is more expensive in the United States. Since his directives was based on not being able to grasp what I was saying, I told him he should be the one to practice with me. Since then he has showed more patience during our chats.
Upon encoutering Arturo, I tell him that I am losing my voice from bad cold, and he seems concerned, which is surprising since generally he only cares about debating things with people.
¨Do you want anything?¨ he asks. ¨Water or coffee?¨
¨No, thak you. I´m fine,¨ I reply.
¨You´re not fine. You´re sick.¨ Then he awkwardly extends his hand to touch me, lightly brushes it against my arm, and then quickly pulls away.
I smile and assure him that I´ll be okay before leaving. I find his attempt at showing affection rather touching because it´s out of character for him.
In Mexico, displays of endearment are so commonplace that they often serve more as means of convenience for the people who give them rather than kindness to the people who receive them. If you don´t know someone´s name, she won´t notice this because it´s normal to call someone a variation of ¨Senorita Bonita Linda¨ (Little Miss Beautiful Pretty.) If you need a better view of something, or a place to wrest your hand, it´s okay to put your arm around the shoulder of an acquaintance.
However,Arturo takes pains to physically distance himself from people. His slight touch reminds me of the story in the Bible in which the poor woman who gives her away her few coins is deemed more charitable than the rich people who donate thousands of dollars to the church, because she gives all that she has. Arturo´s act means a lot because it requires of himself to make.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Overall, Palm Sunday was quite a lavish affair. Outside the church, vendors sold palm leaves which have been twisted into the shapes of crucifixes and other religious objects, and decorated with jewels in order to be blessed during Mass. It´s very different from the States where simple palm leaves are distributed before Mass.
At six in the morning, biblical theater began taking place. Men dressed as Jesus and his various apostles made house calls, and walked down the main street of Santa Fe with followers. Stories from the Bible were acted out on parish grounds, with hundreds of people lined up to see them, despite blistering heat. (Ironically, during the scene where Jesus overthrows the vendors´ tables outside the temple and says that God´s house is not a marketplace, real-life vendors sold Popsicles to spectators.)
Though it was interesting to see, a personal scene of my own repeated itself--I felt too sick, exhausted, and confused by Spanish to really be enthusiastic about what was going on, and guilty for feeling this way. When I sat down for breakfast with a group of parish friends and everybody but me was talking while eating eggs and ham, I felt like the others were thinking of me--¨¨You don´t fit in and you´re not trying to.¨
However, I was comforted by the Gospel in church today, as it was the Passion of Christ were Jesus is crucified. As missionaries we have been encouraged to be like Christ in that we should share experiences with people, offer our time and befriend those who are neglected and poor. The Gospel was a reminder that it wasn´t always good times for Jesus in terms of his dealings with people--he felt (and was) rejected and humiliated by others, but kept going in pursuit of something greater.
¨We all have our crosses to bare,¨ is a phrase that I heard throughout my childhood, which means that we will suffer like Jesus, though far less. For now, my crosses are health problems and communication barriers, but they are quite small when compared to those of the people I work with, most of whom have been abandoned, have crippling diseases and can´t speak. Other people in Santa Fe carry different but heavier burdens than I, as poverty and a lack of education cause other problems. All the pains I face give me more compassion towards those who are worse off.
Jesus´s sufferings were eased a bit by connections with people that seem a bit out of place--Simon of Cyrene carried his cross for a while, and (according to Luke) Jesus was crucified next to a thief who asked for His forgiveness and a place in Heaven. My small brush with Arturo this evening was a reminder that there all kinds of ways to connect with people, and it made my own crosses feel lighter.
Though I find him frustrating, I appreciate the consistency of my dealings with him. Like when working with some mentally ill people, I can count on Arturo for bizarre questions and unusual thoughts. It´s better than being on the edge around friends or bosses who make weird requests out of the blue.
Recently, Arturo told me that I should practice my Spanish since he can´t understand me. He advised me of this after saying that he would pay for someone from the United States send him a coat through me. I tried to explain that products in the two countries are about the same, only cheaper here since real estate is more expensive in the United States. Since his directives was based on not being able to grasp what I was saying, I told him he should be the one to practice with me. Since then he has showed more patience during our chats.
Upon encoutering Arturo, I tell him that I am losing my voice from bad cold, and he seems concerned, which is surprising since generally he only cares about debating things with people.
¨Do you want anything?¨ he asks. ¨Water or coffee?¨
¨No, thak you. I´m fine,¨ I reply.
¨You´re not fine. You´re sick.¨ Then he awkwardly extends his hand to touch me, lightly brushes it against my arm, and then quickly pulls away.
I smile and assure him that I´ll be okay before leaving. I find his attempt at showing affection rather touching because it´s out of character for him.
In Mexico, displays of endearment are so commonplace that they often serve more as means of convenience for the people who give them rather than kindness to the people who receive them. If you don´t know someone´s name, she won´t notice this because it´s normal to call someone a variation of ¨Senorita Bonita Linda¨ (Little Miss Beautiful Pretty.) If you need a better view of something, or a place to wrest your hand, it´s okay to put your arm around the shoulder of an acquaintance.
However,Arturo takes pains to physically distance himself from people. His slight touch reminds me of the story in the Bible in which the poor woman who gives her away her few coins is deemed more charitable than the rich people who donate thousands of dollars to the church, because she gives all that she has. Arturo´s act means a lot because it requires of himself to make.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Overall, Palm Sunday was quite a lavish affair. Outside the church, vendors sold palm leaves which have been twisted into the shapes of crucifixes and other religious objects, and decorated with jewels in order to be blessed during Mass. It´s very different from the States where simple palm leaves are distributed before Mass.
At six in the morning, biblical theater began taking place. Men dressed as Jesus and his various apostles made house calls, and walked down the main street of Santa Fe with followers. Stories from the Bible were acted out on parish grounds, with hundreds of people lined up to see them, despite blistering heat. (Ironically, during the scene where Jesus overthrows the vendors´ tables outside the temple and says that God´s house is not a marketplace, real-life vendors sold Popsicles to spectators.)
Though it was interesting to see, a personal scene of my own repeated itself--I felt too sick, exhausted, and confused by Spanish to really be enthusiastic about what was going on, and guilty for feeling this way. When I sat down for breakfast with a group of parish friends and everybody but me was talking while eating eggs and ham, I felt like the others were thinking of me--¨¨You don´t fit in and you´re not trying to.¨
However, I was comforted by the Gospel in church today, as it was the Passion of Christ were Jesus is crucified. As missionaries we have been encouraged to be like Christ in that we should share experiences with people, offer our time and befriend those who are neglected and poor. The Gospel was a reminder that it wasn´t always good times for Jesus in terms of his dealings with people--he felt (and was) rejected and humiliated by others, but kept going in pursuit of something greater.
¨We all have our crosses to bare,¨ is a phrase that I heard throughout my childhood, which means that we will suffer like Jesus, though far less. For now, my crosses are health problems and communication barriers, but they are quite small when compared to those of the people I work with, most of whom have been abandoned, have crippling diseases and can´t speak. Other people in Santa Fe carry different but heavier burdens than I, as poverty and a lack of education cause other problems. All the pains I face give me more compassion towards those who are worse off.
Jesus´s sufferings were eased a bit by connections with people that seem a bit out of place--Simon of Cyrene carried his cross for a while, and (according to Luke) Jesus was crucified next to a thief who asked for His forgiveness and a place in Heaven. My small brush with Arturo this evening was a reminder that there all kinds of ways to connect with people, and it made my own crosses feel lighter.
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