Caroleena En La Ciudad

Mission Accomplished

2010-07-22T13:05:00.000-07:00

This is my final week in Mexico and it´s kind of unbelievable that something that seemed so far in the future is coming to an end. There are still lots of sights and touristy things that I haven´t done and I had plans to cram it all in this month. Though I have seen a couple more museums and such, I realized that I would rather try to enjoy being with my friends and people here rather than rush through a checklist of stuff to do.

Last Thursday was Martha´s birthday and Miriam (a lifelong missionary who once lived in Mexico) came to visit a few days later. This meant parties at the parish. For her birthday toast, Martha said she remembered arriving to Santa Fe about three years ago and Padre saying that they would make a family there. (Martha is a few years younger than me but lives two hours away from her family in order to work in commercial Santa FE.) As I looked around the table that night, full of people who are a little disconnected from their own families, but welcomed by Padre to share parish life, I realized how fortunate I have been to be part of such a hospitable community. Padre accepts people as they are without much show about it, and that is something I can do as well.

Martha and I were the last two to stop celebrating and we made jokes about being comadres. (A term of endearment, but literally a promise to be the godmothers of each others´ children.) We started getting closer during walks home together from the Iberio as she started working at the university while I was taking Spanish classes there. It feels good to have a Mexican friend my age, but a little sad that just when this has happened it is time to leave.

I have also been tearing up at the Missionaries of Charity as I think the girls are those who will most miss my presence. Still, I have never been able to get over the sadness that follows spending time there and I realize that I would never want to work their full-time or be a nun. While I feel a little guilty for leaving, I also realize that this experience will give me more motivation to prevent abuse, drug addiction and lack of education so that there are fewer terminally sick or abandoned persons in the world.

I will also bring back a newer appreciation for my family. In Mexico, family life is so important, and people find it strange that the other missionaries and I have lived on are own and would leave them for several years. Thus I am looking forward to being home and being part of holiday celebrations and birthdays once again.

Right now, the most important thing that I think I have gotten out of this experience is too be more patient and and understanding of both my own faults and those of others. While everyone wants love in their loves, the only way to give and receive unconditional love may be through God and we have to understand that humans are limited.

I know that there is a lot I would have done differently in retrospect and a lot that I can be proud of. Instead of analyzing what kind of missionary I was, what I am focusing on is that spending a few years doing service in foreign country is something that I have had a hidden desire to do for about fifteen years. So, now I have accomplished a life goal and that´s a really good feeling.

It´s appropriate that I´ll be arriving in time for Autumn. The change of leaves is one thing that I have most missed but symbolically I am looking forward to seeing something different that is familiar and comforting.

Higher Learning

2010-07-18T14:01:00.000-07:00

In our latest project together, Jess and I have been watching handicapped children from our neighborhood while their mothers attend a free sewing course at the Jesuit university in upper Santa Fe. For the most part, the kids have mild physical or learning disabilities. The exception is Marcos, a 23-year old man with schizophrenia. Though he is fairly calm, he is difficult to understand, he randomly shouts and curses at strangers, and he falls asleep at sporadic intervals.

Jess and I have the children outside one sunny afternoon (we care for them on campus grounds) and she decides to entertain them by singing and dancing. She demonstrates various dances by waving her arms, shaking her hips and pinching her nose (this at a university that has been called the Harvard of Mexico) and Marcos gets upset.

``Stop it, stop it,`` he yells, standing up and moving toward Jess while spinning around. ``I`ll go with my mama, I`ll go with my mama, I can`t take it!``

Jess stops dancing, apologizes and calms Marcos down. The rest of the day passes without incident.

We find the incident humorous and relate it as such to the program director. She is unsettled by our account.

``See how hard it is to care for someone like that? That`s why his mother can`t find work, because there`s no one to watch him. In the United States and other countries there is support, but here there is nothing.``

I do feel a lot for Marcos`s mother who has a lot of one-on-one time with him and seems dedicated to giving him the best life she can. Marcos actually has it a little easier. While he is incapable of leading a normal life, he seems unaware of this and thus spends his time coloring, shouting, and sleeping without knowing that things are off.

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I occasionally take Spanish courses at this University. That same day I had class earlier in the morning.I I arrived to school in a bad mood due to having to return home after forgetting an essay and subsequently getting on a bus that didn`t go where I thought it would.

First thing, I went to the coffee machine, which was occupied by guy with yellow hair (parted and slicked to his head) who was wearing khaki pants pulled up high over a collared shirt.

In a voice that was both nervous and full of dread he said to me in English ``Ohh, I don`t think it`s going to work. Yeahhh, it`s not coming.``

Since he wasn`t moving to let me assess the situation, I continued standing and staring. I got the impression that he wass someone who is uncomfortable when it comes to new encounters with young women. Uncaffeinated as I was, I couldn`t muster up the cordiality to make him feel more at ease.

``Oh there it goes,`` he said with relief when the coffee came spitting out.

``Si, se serve!....Que bueno.`` Then he shrugged his shoulders, grabbed his coffee and hurried away, leaving his change behind.

My U.S.A. friend was all too self-conscious, while Marcos, who is judged and laughed at, doesn`t realize the sort of reaction his behavior gets.

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One of the perks of taking a university class it that I can use its gym for free. The guy who manages it during the day has a shaved head, sports tight work-out clothing and has the stocky build of a bodybuilder who uses steroids. When I first started using the gym he made chit-chat with me (as he does with most of the young women who go there) but things cooled when I wasn`t too responsive to his inquiries as to if I have a boyfriend or could date.

The manager zealously enforces gym rules and is particularly insistent that hand towels be carried. Several times he has scolded me for forgetting to bring one. One day he approached me while I was on the elliptical machine and told me that as he has reminded me to bring I towel and I didn`t have one at the moment, I couldn`t enter the gym. (As I had clearly already entered the gym, it was his way of saying get out.)

I am not one to argue (particularly in Spanish) so I left but I thinking the situation was ridicuolous. The people carrying towels do little more with them than dust over machines, and if it so important that people carry towels, the gym should provide them.

Still, he has every right to enforce the rules. (In fact, it`s his job.) To me it`s petty, but lifting weights is his religion, the gym is his church and the rules on the walls are commandments to go by.

However, throughout his life, he must have been so mistreated and rejected by people that now he needs to unnaturally change his body in order to gain power and respect and he feels good by being bossy at the gym.

Annoying as I found the gym manager, he projects a confidence that he belongs in his setting that my coffee buddy could use.
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My Spanish class it taught by a short, round woman named Irma who wears loose clothes and big jewelry. She is in her late 50`s and she likes to come up with reasons for parties so that she can bring in pastries. During our first class, she told us that the great tragedy of her life is that her son died of heart failure a few years ago, and for that reason she doesn`t like to see young people stressed and she wouldn`t put much pressure on us. (Most of the students in these classes are foreign exchange students in their early 20`s.)

She peppers her classes with tidbits about Mexican politics, culture and history. I liked her well enough until the World Cup started and I was the only student who wanted to attend class in lieu of her offer to bring us to a teacher`s lounge in order to watch Mexico play. She arranged for me to go to another teacher`s class, but that teacher ended up watching the game as well. Irma seemed annoyed at having to make up the class just for me (and teach another class just for me when Mexico again played.) Since then, every time soccer or the World Cuphas been mentioned, she`ll apologize to me in a way that doesn`t at all seem sincere.

As I am paying for these classes from my limited budget with the notion that someday it will be meaningful to speak more Spanish, I am pretty insistent on getting my money`s worth.

But to her, I am taking a few skipped classes far too seriously and missing out on an important culture event. Perhaps she thinks ``my son is dead, nothing else is very important, we should enjoy life where we can, why is this girl such a killjoy?``

Still, I feel justified in wanting to attend. While I find the gym manager far too vigilant in enforcing rules, I wish that Irma would just stick to the most basic task of being a teacher (show up for class.)

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What I have been taught by university life in Mexico is basically what I have seen in my neighborhood. It can be so heartbreaking to be human. We try to battle loneliness and find acceptance while struggling to deal with each others`s quirks. We stutter at the coffee machine and smirk by the weight machines while wishing we could be closer to others. The love we feel for our children is too heavy if they are ill or if they have passed away. We want to help and know others but that often conflicts with other desires.

If we can keep finding time to learn and play in the sun, we are blessed.

Afternoon Walk

2010-06-27T17:30:00.000-07:00

Carolina and I are walking hand-in-hand down Santa Fe`s main avenue as we go to pick up her twin sister Paulina from pre-school. Or rather, I clutch and pull out her hand as I walk in order to prevent her from going into stores, grabbing at random items being sold and jumping onto pedestrians.

Mostly I keep her at bay, but she manages to run up and hug the 20-something year old cake shop guy. He is sitting in an open-doored car outside of his family`s pastry store.

This tendency that Carolina has to approach anyone is disturbing, but in this case it`s worse because I (sort of) know the cake guy. He has taken a shine to me based on the fact that I walk past his shop almost everyday. Our conversations are limited: he makes declarations of love in English and Spanish and I shake my head no when he tries to give me notes or calls out ``neena, ven aca`` (come here baby girl.)

I realize that his interest in my stems from the lack of excitement that comes with spending over two decades hanging out in the same pueblo shop. Still I would prefer to avoid him, but Carolina doesn`t understand this. As I pull Carolina away from him, I hope that he thinks that she is a daughter he would be saddled with if things were to progress between us, and not a charge I sent his way in order to get his attention.

Further along, we encounter Jess at the snack stand of a sweet, elderly, very poor lady. Carolina jumps up and down and points at her mouth and though I don`t want her having more sweets (she had some earlier) Jess`s friend wants to give something. I accept a lollipop which I put into my pocket. Within a minute of walking away, Carolina manages to retrieve and unwrap it, and shove it into her mouth.

A woman (around my age) with a daughter (around Carolina`s age) comes up to me and asks if I have adopted Carolina. She is excited by this thought as she knows Carolina from visits to the orphanage. Sadly, I explain that I am only volunteering with the girls and will be leaving soon.

We arrive at the guarderia where Paulina is waiting with the other children. Paulina has improved a lot over the last two years. When I arrived, she couldn`t talk and always wanted to be held by whatever grown-up was around. Now, she says names and words and interacts with other children. She asks for Vicky after school and Melissa (who works at the guarderia) says that she has friends there.

Carolina runs about while I collect Paulina and her things. We are all on the way out when Carolina takes a detour into a playhouse. I keep walking and pretend that we will leave without her with the assumption that she`ll get worried and follow. Paulina doesn`t want to leave without her and I think, how sweet that she won`t leave her sister behind. We go to the playhouse and Paulina sticks her hand through its window, grabs Carolina`s lollipop, puts it into her own mouth, and turns away.

This at least gets Carolina out of the playhouse and we all head out after I return the lollipop to its rightful owner. Paulina is recognized by a snack-shop owner next door who gives both the girls gifts of flavored sugar sticks.

The girls are cranky as we walk--Carolina wants to be carried because she is tired and Paulina because she is jealous. Carolina gets more upset when her lollipop falls. At a street corner, Carolina grabs a newspaper from the back of a pick-up truck. While its owner is asking for it back, Paulina presents me with an apricot that she has swiped from a truck stand.

Once everything is back where it belongs, I grab the girls by their hands and pull them along the street. Paulina yelps when her candy sticks falls and I won`t retrieve.

The girls whimper and cry as they run to keep up with me. What has happened? These girls are my sweethearts, the first ones I held and bonded with, the ones I most dream about taking back to States with me. But I know that even if I don`t stop and calm their tears, they will go away. And even if I do, they will still come back.

Back in the marketplace I encounter George,a 50-something photographer from the parish who likes cock fights and gambling. He is standing in front of a pirated DVD stand where customers can watch portions of videos to ensure that their quality is good (or at least worth the one dollar purchase price.) In order to calm the girls down, George has the stand`s owner put on Sesame Street and we stand holding the twins and watching television.

Without too much further struggle, I manage to discharge the girls at their house and then I head home. As always, the licquor store guys greet me. Lately, the locksmith guys have been saying hello by name, which is unusual as I have never been introduced to them. Today I ask them how they learned my name.

``From the church, from Gallo, from the Gregorians (a parish young adult group),`` says a guy whose name I find out is Miguel.

His friend is less polite and asks ``Why won`t you ever talk to us? Are you angry?``

I try to explain that it`s a little odd to call out to someone you don`t know as if you do but he interrupts me.

``You don`t have to be embarrassed, your Spanish is okay.``

I say good-bye and run into Julio, a guy from the street who is always wasted, but who I talk with when he isn`t too far gone.

Today he`s in bad shape and tries to kiss and grab at me so I yell at him and walk away. Though I want to show acceptance toward people, I have also learned that helping others doesn`t have to mean subjecting yourself to extremely uncomfortable situations.

The guys who hang out in front out of the hardware store close to me house ask me if everything is okay and I finally make it inside.

This is life in Santa Fe, where during a 30-minute walk, I encounter the best and worst of human nature and a whole range of human emotions. There is love and lust, greed and giving, gluttony and charity, concern and curiosity. On the streets, I feel very much part of local life and very much of an outsider, but I am always intrigued by what is around the corner.

Carolina, or Change

2010-05-18T11:53:00.000-07:00

On Sunday morning, my plan is to go to work at the orphanage and then head to a clown show being held at the parish. (A day of festivity sponsored by a political party who emblazons toys with their stickers--in Mexico there is not much separation of church and state.)

It occurs to me that small children and clowns are things that should be combined so before leaving around eleven, I ask Sister for permission to take Carolina (An autistic 5 year-old who rarely gets to leave the house) to the show.

``What time will you be back?`` Sister asks.

``Whenever you want. I was thinking around one.``

``No, not one.``

``Okay, maybe twelve.``

``No, not twelve.... You can bring her back at three. Three is good.`` (The convent is closed to visitors between 12 and 3.)

This is more of a commitment than I was planning on, but if it is the only way to spring her, I`m game. I gather up spare diapers and clothing and we take off.

When we arrive at the parish, clowns are dancing on a stage that has been set up and the yard is full of spectators and food and toy vendors. We sit with Isaac and Lisa, and for a while Isaac keeps Carolina entertained with his keys.

But she gets bored and we go near the stage where she is attracted by the colorful, glittery costumes of the clowns. She reaches out to them and is passed around by several clowns until she ends up on stage. They all dance while I hover nervously nearby answering questions about her. The head clown announces, ``we`re going to give Carolina some gifts but let her mother hold on to them now now,`` and she hands me a board game and rubber ball.

Since I now have a maternal image to uphold, I head onto stage with the group because Carolina is prone to sporadically squirming away from people or having tantrums. A clown tells me to dance along, and although both public performing and dancing are two things I would be happy never doing, I clap to the music until Carolina returns to me and we head off the stage.

We wander around the yard, with Carolina grabbing at toys she likes, lunging into the arms of grown-ups who look appealing, and taking food and candy from the bags of strangers. Like me, Carolina is on the pale side and since many people are unfamiliar with the symptoms of autism, she comes across as a misbehaved child. Thus I come across as a bad mother.

So it goes. We take a walk to my house where I give Carolina a snack. Melissa laughs at my mistaken identity stories and watches Carolina when I go upstairs to change my clothes.

``Mama,`` Carolina says and Melissa calls ``she`s asking for you.``

We head back to the parish and settle in for Mass. I have Carolina on my lap and she busies herself by going through a People magazine that she snagged from the house. She literally tears through it by ripping out pages as she looks at it. Though I`d prefer to just leave the discards on the floor until the end of Mass, helpful seatmates keep picking up the pages and handing them to me. The service basically goes okay, though I have to shush Carolina often, let her stand up on my lap to see things, and clutch her hand to prevent her from wandering the through aisles. Several times, an older lady looks at her and points to the door but I keep Carolina at bay until Communion.

There are a few moments in Mass when Carolina is quiet with her head rested against me and everything feels peaceful. My mother used to tell me that I was born in the wrong era and that I should have been a 60`s flower child or activist. However, being in church with Carolina makes me think that maybe I should have been born 100 years earlier, when all that would have been expected of me is that I take care of babies and go to service every Sunday, because watching over Carolina gives me a sense of purpose and happiness.

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Dreams of homemaking aside, I am very excited that I`ll be entering graduate school at Catholic University this August in order to study social work. Some of the things that appeal to me about the school are that I want to learn more about Catholic social justice teaching and that the university is located in a poorer area of Washington, DC that I hope to contribute to.

I show Padre my application materials when we are sitting around the parish table one night. He reads through them, picking out parts that he can understand.

``This $200,`` he says. ``Is that a one-time fee or will you have to pay it every semester?``

``No Padre, that`s just the entrance fee,`` I tell him. He is quite taken aback when I give him a ballpark estimate of how much it will cost every semester but he recovers in order to make me feel better.

``So you`ll have loans,`` he says. ``You`ll be able to pay that back easily. We``ll take up a collection outside the parish with a sign saying Saint Caro pray for us.``

He laughs, ``maybe we would get a $1,000.`` He says that the Iberio, a private university up the street, is much more expensive, though I have doubts about this.

His surprise over the price speaks to something I have been pondering: is it necessary to spend thousands of dollars on education when what I mostly want to do is give love and acceptance to others?

This is something I thought about a few months ago after a frustrating afternoon of calling universities and checking up on my school and loan application statuses. When I arrived at work, the older girls were already in bed, but many squealed with happiness when I entered. I realized that it really wouldn`t matter where I went to school, as long as I stay focused on helping the needy and keeping my heart with them.

Nevertheless, there have been many times here that I have felt that I could do more with further education and thus I look forward to entering school. I also realize that social work is a field that can feel draining, so I look forward to learning coping techniques and to the opportunity for mobility that a graduate degree will give me.

As for paying for tuition--there`s got to be a clown show somewhere in DC looking for backup dancers.

Chalma

2010-05-10T16:55:00.001-07:00

I`ll never turn down an invitation is what the gist of this blog has been of late, and in this spirit, I agree to get up at the crack of dawn on Saturday, don a crown of flowers and dance in front of a statue in a valley.

It sounds rather pagan, but all of these acts are part of the experience of making a pilgrimage to Chalma, a town in Malinalco, Mexico State where an image of Christ miraculously appeared in the 1600s. A popular religious site, many people take this trip walking (which can take hours or days depending on the starting point.) However, upon hearing that Gallo is going up with a busload of parishioners from his old parish, I decide to tag along.

At 6 in the morning, Gallo, Martha and Martha`s brother and mother (Arturo and Martha) and I take a taxi ride to the nearby pueblo of Jalapa and meet up with the rest of the participants. Jalapa is where Padre Salvador served as a priest for ten years prior to Santa Fe and the place where he and Gallo met. (Gallo still has a house in Jalapa but lives on parish grounds in Santa Fe helping with carpentry, cooking and shaman-like curing.)

We drive a few hours out city of the city to Agua de Vida, which is a prelude Chalma. Like others making their first pilgrimage there, I put on a corona of flowers and dance to salsa music in front of a small chapel. (Apparently the dancing is said to cleanse sins.) Gallo takes delight in spinning the Marthas and I out onto the dance floor. I share an awkward dance with Arturo--as he is a 17 year-old boy and I am an American who doesn`t like dancing, we both sort of stumble through the steps. From their we dunk our heads beneath pipes that pour out into a river. (I take it this water is sacred as plastic buckets are sold in order to collect it and bring it home.)

After a breakfast of tacos and broth (though I opt for fruit,) we pile back onto the bus and drive for less than an hour into Chalma. We go through a huge, long marketplace where sweets, food, sandals and religious relics are sold. Like the Shrine of the Basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe, it is very much catered toward tourists. (Tourists who aren`t too concerned about food safety as bees swarm over the candy and buckets of caramel sauce for sale.)

After walking through the market (on foot, although many make this part of the trek on their knees,) we arrive in front of the church where we wait outside for a while with the Chalmito Christ that parishioners have taken along from Jalapa. It is Christ represented as a carpenter, apparently because the Chalma Christ is supposed to be the working man`s Christ. The current priest who serves in Jalapa says Mass. Both outside and in the parish, pilgrims are sprawled about in various states of rest, exhausted from their voyages.

After Mass, we go to a river in front of the church. Though I brought along a bathing suit for this occasion, I am not sure of the Mexican etiquette for swimming in front of a parish as everyone else is dressed in shorts and t-shirts. (I have seen people dressed in this garb to swim before, but in this case I don`t know if people aren`t wearing bathing suits because they don`t have them or because it`s considered inappropriate to wear them on religious.) I opt to wear shorts over my bathing suit. Though I think the river is intended to be cleansing, ironically it smells a bit like sewage and I notice bugs stuck to me after getting out. Still, the icy cold water feels good after a hot morning in the sun.

From there we head to the marketplace to buy lunch supplies and we are surrounded by vendors trying to force samples of pork skin, cheese, pulque, and tortillas on us. Gallo lives up to his nickname of the Rooster by immediately agreeing to buy from the prettiest, young girls and insisting on buying me several bags of vegetarian products. We settle by at a table in the sun and have tacos and beer and listen to mariachi and other band players. Before heading out, we look at a wall of thanks for miracles granted by the Chalma Christ and the Marthas do some market shopping. Though the bus is scheduled to take off at five, it doesn`t leave until 6:30. In the meantime, I make small talk while waiting for everyone else to arrive. Like everyone else on the bus, I fall asleep soon after take-off and pretty much stay that way until arriving back in Santa Fe around 10. What adventure awaits me next?--only the Christ of Chalma knows.

Treating and Trying

2010-05-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

I don´t really get along with the women who work in the orphanage of the house of the Missionaries of Charity. I don´t agree with some of their actions toward the children and and they still view me as an outsider who can´t speak the language. Generally when I try to talk to them, they don´t bother with understanding me and they won´t take the time to listen to me stumble through Spanish. As is their relationship with most visitors, we don´t talk much.

On Wednesday afternoon, one employee, Senora Anna, asks me to stay past visiting hours until the night worker arrives, so that she can leave. I agree, particularly because I am hesitant to put down a child who won´t stop crying. (Marcos, a 3-year old boy born a drug addict, whose body is so stiff is so stiff that it is hard for anyone to move his limbs.)

Several of the older children had been shut in a bedroom with the door locked and after Senora Anna leaves, I unlock the door and try to attend to crying babies. Within minutes, the girls take a bag of hard candy and containers of icing from the kitchen and begin devouring them. As they had already placed mattresses and bedsheets onto the floor, the food wrappers add to the clutter of the rooms. I worry about the girls choking on candy but am too involved with others to take the sweets away. After I lug Vicky to the bathroom to change her diaper, one of the nuns enters and is angry that the girls are out and the rooms are messy.

Everything seems overwhelming and I control what I can--I take half-eaten candy from the girls, pick up trash off the floor, and I rearrange blankets and beds. While washing dishes, I try to block out the kids who are crying and I am realize that I am doing exactly the orphanage workers do that bothers me: putting chores over giving attention to the children.

Yet, messiness adds to a feeling of unease, and housework is something that can be completed while suffering is ceaseless. My focus on tasks over children may be wrong but the feelings that drive me to it gives me more understanding and empathy for the women who work at the orphanage. They have a hard job that they were n´t trained for and that they get little credit for doing.

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A change to unwind comes at night during an impromptu party for Padre´s 20th anniversary as a priest. When I ask Padre if the last 20 years have been as he expected, he replies that he has learned a little bit more about how to treat people better. He wasn´t expecting to have so many parties or dinners or be with people so much, but he has learned that the most important thing is how you treat people and that you are with them.

¨When you go to heaven´s door, St. Peter will ask you how much time you spent with people. And if you were busy with other things, he´ll say, ´then what were you there for?´´ Padre says.

Theoretically, I love Padre´s words because my life is about striving to be there for and with people . While this is still challenging and frustrating, I have gotten better at being there for people who are disenfranchised and destitute. However, his words point to a different actions--how do you offer love and acceptance toward people if if you don´t agree with their actions and if they don´t respect you?

During our community spiritual night, I offer a prayer intention for the orphanage employees. The next day, I make small talk with Senora Anna and ask what can be done about Marcos´ crying and she holds and him rubs his back in a manner that quells his tears. Later on, she sits on the mat and tickles and teases a group of children while they jump on her back. It is one of the only times that I have ever seen her play with the kids. This moment tells me to try to understand others better no matter who they are and what my past experiences with them have been.

Midnight Bathing and Pajama Rosaries: Semana Santa in Tampamolón

2010-04-27T12:05:00.000-07:00

I was offered another last-minute opportunity for Semana Santa as the Sisters of the Incarnate Word had been planning a mission trip to indigenous communities outside of Tampamolón and the missionaries were invited along. I had embarked on this two-year experience thinking I would be living a rural life and ended up in the chaos of Mexico City, so I decided to participate in the Easter Week Mission trip in order to see different lifestyle. I did not have a clear idea what this mission trip would entail but since I came to Mexico without really knowing what I would be doing, I decided I could stand a week and a half of anything.

On Friday afternoon, I leave in a van with Hermana Ceci-one of the Incarnate Word nuns who lives in Santa Fe- and two other women. On is shy 20-year old girl named Ingrid who is studying to be a chef and thinking of being a nun. The other is an outgoing 26-year old named Mariel who was a student in the Sisters´ school . She sports three tattoos, lots of eye makeup and a t-shirt that says I (heart) me. She says that she had previously gone on a mission trip but found it lacking due to disorganization and hopes that this will be a better experience. Before leaving, I chat with her mother (an associate with the Sisters) who tells me that she doesn`t go to the part of Santa Fe that I live in due to fear.

We drive for eight hours to San Luis Potosi and meet up with five pre-novitiates, most of whom have been relocated due to violence in the northern part of the country and sent on this mission trip. The age of the five girls together does not total up to 100 and they like eating lollipops and chewing bubblegum.

We spend the night at a convent and the next day drive for seven hours to Tampamolón, the base point of the mission. We arrive just in time for 1:00 mass and afterward meet up with four women from Guadalajara-- a 26 year-old named Fabiola who spent three years as a novitiate and three of her parish friends.

Prior to the tip, I told myself that I would try eating things contains meat or dairy if nothing else was available or if it would deeply offend the host if I didn`t consume it. For lunch, we are offered what looks to me like a bag of innards but is basically a chicken and pig parts mixed with chili and corn and cooked over a fire. I cannot bring myself to eat it and tell other guests that I had already eaten. Fortunately, a bowel of nopales (cactus leaves) are brought out and I happily chow down a big heaping of them. (They are not a food a particularly like, but I eat them often due to the alleged healing properties of cacti.)

At the Sisters´ house (for those keeping track of the number of convents I stayed over at during the last month, I estimate that it is five) , we discuss what will transpire over the week. We are to break off into small groups and dispense into indigenous communities outside of Tampamolón. Hermana Ceci says that the most important thing is that be with and share life with community members, but we are also to teach catechism and perform the all components of Mass that a lay person can perform. We spend the evening going over readings and preparing materials.

The next morning, Fabiola, Mariel and Jazzmine (one of the pre-noviates) and I are dropped off in the community of Palizades. We are greeted by the catechism teacher who shows us the pavilion where masses and other community events take place. She says that Palizades is a community comprised of 30 or 40 families. The house of our host family is made up four rooms separated by concrete walls . Their kitchen area is outside of their house and made of sticks and their dining area is comprised of a table and grilling area and has a grass awning over it. Separately they have toilet that flushes as well as a bathing area. Chickens, turkeys and dogs run around the yard. In comparison to housing that I will later see, it is rather lavish.

The father of the house is a man in his sixties with seven children, and he begins to tear while talking about one whom he has lost contact with. Another son lives with him for half of the year and spends the other half working in North Carolina pine tree fields. (Most of the town`s young people leave after junior high school and work in fields or as house help.) The situation makes me reflect as the son is imported to do work in the United States that no one there wants to do and I think I am doing things in Mexico that no one else wants to be doing. Perhaps, I should be working in the United States and sending money to this family so we can all just stay at home?

I change focus to help plan the Palm Sunday celebration that we are to put on in the afternoon. News to us is when one of the family members tells us that Padre Diego is scheduled to perform Mass at one. We arrive before one at the pavilion and other community members say that Padre Diego told them he would come at one p.m. in order to begin things at two.

We wait to do anything and I feel like a seasoned missionary as waiting is part of my life but the other girls are impatient. Padre Diego arrives after two and we help him with the Palm Sunday Mass. Another manner in which I have a leg up is that the girls feel a little out of place as Father Diego delivers much of his Mass in the Aztec language. As I have become accustomed to not understanding what is being said, a different language doesn`t make a difference to me. (Though it is a little annoying that just when I am finally feeling more comfortable with Spanish, the language gets switched up on me.)

We make announcements as to when we will hold catechism classes and Masses and then return home and eat enchiladas. The grandchildren of the host family come over from next door and watch us as we make posters about upcoming events.

In the morning we give classes to the young children(they color pictures of Bible scenes ) and with the adolescents, discuss pamphlets about discrimination. Though the young children enjoy coloring and playing, it`s harder to make a connection with adolescents who seem bored and hesitant to talk. After classes, they follow us around as we hang up posters and attempt to meet nearby community members. They show us shortcuts in the forest, including one beautiful area swarming with butterflies. This is heartening, because even if our class didn`t carry weight, our presence does.

We end up canceling adult catechism class due to the death of a community member. The girls and I visit the house of the deceased in order to say a rosary. The corpse is in a coffin in the center of the room and surrounded by flowers and candles. The family passes out coffee, cookies and pasta and a vigil is be held all night.

Upon our return to the house around 10:00, we our told that water has been heated for us so that we can bath. The family believes that if you are near a dead body, you carry the sickness of the dead person with you and shouldn’t enter a house without bathing, nor can you wear your clothes again before washing them. So even though the deceased was eighty and died of old age, we have to take bathes. (In this case, a bath is dumping warm water over yourself by flashlight.)

The next day we attend the funeral and Mariel an I walk to the graveyard where a coffin is placed in an above-ground tomb. The son mixes cement and seals the tomb shot with concrete blocks. Afterwards, we join the other girls for adult catechism class.

Back at the house, we all bath again and I put on the clothes that I brought to wear as pajamas (black yoga pants and a black tank top) as I am forbidden to wear the rest of my wardrobe. We attend a birthday dinner at which we say the rosary. As all of the guests are tired from the funeral, it is more stoic than celebratory.

The next morning we head back to Tampamolón for a check-in with the other missionaries. We had been planning on using the nuns` washing machine to clean our clothes but as it is out of service, we end up scrubbing them by hand.

I had been enjoying Palizades because as it does not really have streets , no one could call out to me. Though I am different, the other missionaries and I are together in being outsiders. In Tampamolón , a man comes up to me in a store and asks ``Aren`t you warm Guerre?`` He then says to his son ``Look at the Guerrita, all dressed in black in this heat,`` and they stare at me as if I`m a zoo animal.

Back in Palizades, we make house visits and issue invitations for upcoming festivities. This means a lot of sitting around and drinking coffee, especially for me because I love coffee. Drinking it distracts others from the fact that I am not saying much or eating meat-filled food. This turns out to be somewhat negative in this case as I am forced to use bathrooms which are basically holes in the ground on top of hills.

I get another taste of the simple life when some of the teenage girls invite me to the river to bathe with them. Wearing shorts and tank tops, we splash around, share soap and combs and dodge fish. The girls ask me about my life as a missionary and life in the United States and talk about their desires to be nuns. (Something they seem too young to be considering.) A 14 year-old named Chaya asks me if I feel lonely because I can´t speak in my native language and I´m touched by her understanding and concern. It is one of the first times that I feel like I am really bonding with community members as I had been struggling with this due to limited language.

Padre Diego celebrates Holy Thursday Mass, washes the feet of ¨apostles´´ and we have our own Last Supper comprised of coffee, nopales, beans , palmitas (spicy palm tree bark) and tortillas. (To my relief, these items as well and sweet breads are basically our diet throughout the trip which makes me happy.)

Two men cut down a tree in preparation for Good Friday and on this day and we reenact the Stations of the Cross. The apostles wear uniforms made of crepe paper and the girls have on veils over normal clothing. We walk along the towns´ dirt road and the Stations are read in Aztec and Spanish. The cross is quite heavy and many people take turns helping `Jesus` to carry it. During the fifth station, when Simon is called upon to help Jesus, Marian jokes that there are already many Simons. The day is serene; mass, prayer an then an uphill hike to another community to view the movie The Passion of Christ, which is shown on television screen set up outside.

Saturday is the celebration of the Resurrection and we spend the day making more visits and preparing for Mass. Though I don´t read as much as the other girls do, I compensate by sprinkling holy water on Mass attendants. After dinner the girls and I play basketball with the youth until 11:00 and then say our goodbyes to community members and our host family. Several members of the host family cry and ask if we will be able to return for Christmas. I say that anything is possible but really I am thinking that I will be back in the United States, that I have missed the last two Christmases with my family and that if I were to return to Mexico for Christmas, I would visit Santa Fe.

I went on the Semana Santa mission trip without the notion that I would make a big impact of the people within the indigenous community. I wanted to see a different manner of life and have a good experience that would improve my interactions with the people I serve in Santa Fe. So it is a good feeling to realize that my presence was valued in Palizades but sad as it makes me think about how hard it will be to leave Santa Fe after two years.

A highlight was living with Fabiola, Mariel and Jazzmine for a week. . I haven´t really made friends with Mexican women of my age since being here, so it was interesting to get know them. Overall they were very patient with me, especially Fabiola who made sure to repeat things so that I could understand them. At one point, Jazzmine commented that my asking for clarification for things brought something to the group because when I wasn´t understanding things, the townspeople usually weren´t either.

Despite efforts to help me fit in, I still felt a little isolated as it was the longest I have gone without speaking any English. On Easter Sunday when the group reunited to go home, I had a vague idea of our travel plans but was somewhat surprised to end taking a stop in a park where we comprised of rivers and cascades. My feeling out of place was worth it as I was able swim through and around waterfalls.

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A few months prior to the Tampamolón mission trip, a friend from one of my English classes ( a 23 year-old girl from New York by way of Russia) invited me to dinner with her 38 year-old Mexican boyfriend and one of his friends. We went to a restaurant decorated with velvet curtains were served foie gras was served. The men talked about skip trips, cars and university experiences. My date was an equities dealer who had closed a multimillion dollar deal that day after three years of bargaining. I had spent my afternoon negotiating with three year-olds as to how much candy they could eat and how much of my hair they could pull (and losing.) At the end of the night, the friend asked me if I was going to go to business school when I returned to the United States, and I looked at him as if he wasn´t in fact speaking perfect English and said I wanted to study social work.

Though I don´t consider myself very liberal or extreme, to people who definitely aren´t, I may come across as a little out there when I mention thinks like not having a TV, not eating meat and living amongst the poor. So while I enjoyed the night, I felt out of place despite being around white-looking people speaking my native language.

I thought of this during one point of the mission trip when I was sitting in a palm tree hut eating hand-made tortillas. The wife of the house was a little embarrassed about the simple setting and Fabiola said that Jesus was poor and chose to be that way because people are often uncomfortable around the wealthy.

So this may be why I was a little on edge during my restaurant night. However, I didn´t feel quite comfortable with indigenous community despite their lack of wealth. While trying to analyze which lifestyle is best and where I belong, I realized that that though we may feel awkward and out of place in certain situations, we all fit in no matter what because we are sharing the same experience of being human.

Yearly Retreat

2010-03-24T17:40:00.000-07:00

Once a year the Missionaries of the Incarnate Word gather for a retreat and for those of us in Mexico, this year`s was held in Cuernavaca, a vacation spot outside of Mexico City nicknamed ``The Land of Eternal Spring`` due to its consistently warm weather.

On retreat last year, it was nice to catch up with the women who I had met during orientation. This year would be different as these women had either finished the program or were unable to attend and thus our house would participate with a community who began serving in Monterrey in August. This community comes to Santa Fe and spends the day in our house and parish and from there we leave for Cuenavaca.

Our retreat house in Cuernavaca is a sunny spot run by Sisters of the Incarnate Word on ground that contains fruit trees and a swimming pool. It is a tranquil spot from which to reflect. During one of our first talks, we are invited to think back as to why we originally joined the program, which is of special significance to me as my two-year term of service is coming to an end in five months.

I entered the program at a time when I was fed up with employment struggles and I realized that the jobs had been seeking really were`t that important and I had the desire to grow as a person. As a missionary, the importance of being rather than doing is constantly stressed.

Through my work with the terminally ill, there are a lot of chances to just be as I mostly just offer my presence. This has been valuable for me as I have realized that though I may not have traits to make me succeed in the corporate world, I am able to be present to the needy because because I have the patience and stamina to just sit and off fer myself to them.

However, just being has brought a lot of sadness and loneliness that I hadn`t anticipated before coming. Despite finding myself in in very different and some to,es uncomfortable situations over the last few weeks, my mood has been better. This makes me realize that being around suffering has an affect on my personality as I dwell on the pain of the desolate.

One quote that sticks with me during the retreat is that we we are called to suffer with others but not be sad. This seems contradictory, because how can you wall in the misery of others and still come out a pleasant person? Still, this is ultimately what I want, to be a compassionate person who can face the darker realities of life while still appreciating the beauty of the world

The theme of the retreat is Lent, and important part of this is forgiveness as Jesus came into the world to forgive us and ultimately forgave us for having crucified him. There are people both here and home that I have been harboring grudged against and I want to let them go. And, if Jesus can forgive the world and I can forgive others, I must also forgive myself for times when I have mistreated people or not done enough to ease their pains.

One powerful part of the retreat a reflection on the stains of the cross, when the group shares ways that they have seen Jesus`s final steps lived out in the mission . I think of the times when I have have entered the homes of friends and realized that they are much worse off financially than I thought and realized they are carrying heavy crosses silently. Other missionaries share then pain of women who have lost children or persons ``crucified``as they have terminal diseases.

Additionally, we work on ways to grow and help each other as a community. Though I came into this program knowing that I would live in a community, I saw it has living with roommates. However, I am realizing the importance of sharing experience and offering support to those I live with. Though this program is about loving others, it is easy to to take for granted those who are physically closest to us. To counter this, we learn communication techniques and decide to start sharing a weekly community night during which we will eat together and share a spiritual activity.

Overall, the retreat serves as reminder to let go, to keep loving, and to move forward.

Going Indigenous

2010-03-08T09:28:00.000-08:00

While living in the world`s second largest city may sound exciting, lately I have felt a desire for change. Though everyday life in the community of Sante Fe brings about challenges or interesting encounters, it is still pueblo (small town) life and it seems like I take the same route and encounter the same people every day. While I am enjoying this type of life, I was was accustomed to traveling a lot and switching my living situation every year in the United States.

An opportunity for something different comes at 10:00 p.m. on Sunday night. Padre Salvador invites me to an indigenous conference to take place in the state of Guerrero the following day. As I am booked to leave on vacation for San Francisco on Friday (the anticipated return day to Santa Fe,) I take being able to change my departure date to Saturday as a sign that should go.

At 7:00 the next morning, Padre, Jessi and I leave in order to meet up with the bus heading to Chilapa. The bus is scheduled to leave at 8:30, but due to late arrivals, tamale buying and sorting out money to give to the driver, we do not take off until around 10:00. During the down time, Father uses one of his Virgin of the Mary holy cards to pick the lock of a nearby church`s bathroom so that we can use the facilities.

The bus is made up of residents of a Mexico City group who consider themselves indigenous and fight for rights and to preserve their culture. If there was a photo of participants labeled ¨What´s wrong with this picture?´´, Jessica and I would have arrows pointed over are heads. Still, Padre invited us along due to extra spots on the bus and his desire to expose us to new situations.

We take a picturesque journey to the town of Chilapa which is dusty spot located in the the state of Guerroro. After arriving in the seminary hosting the conference and watching an opening ceremony involving sword fights and Mass, Padre suggests that we all go out for tacos. Half of our group goes with him and we wander around looking for a place to eat. Most of the women of the group stay in spot serving chalupas ( a thick tortilla concoction ) while Padre, his priest friends, a secretary and I seek and find a tacqueria that serves cerveza. We drink beers and are given pumpkin seeds in the way that an American bar my offer peanuts.

During these types of conferences, townspeople serve as host families and open up their homes. However, as our half of the group was off eating while lodgings were procured, we are left homeless. A woman coming home from a party notices our plight and offers to let the eighteen of us stay in her mother`s house. Padre stays behind as he is to stay the seminary and the rest of us ride off.

A half an hour late our busload arrive in front of an impassable road (due to construction) leading to the woman`s home. A few group members wander of to assess the situation and forty minutes later come back to say that the mother was not prepared for or wanting over a dozen strangers staying in her house.

In a Sound of the Music moment , we are offered refuge in a convent. A nun in our group says that we can stay in her Sisters` nearby home. As this convent offers overnight schooling, thirteen women sleep in a bunk-bed filled room. . Throughout our nights there, lights go on at random times and we awake to various indigenous languages being spoken.

The theme of conference is that water, and the gist is that water is precious and the we should do our best to conserve it. I agree with this but find much of the conference is hard to understand, though it does force me think about how much water is used excessively. Generally people bath more more than needed and factories pollute water in order to produce bottled water and sodas.

Though the conference is a reminder to consider my use of scarce resource, what I enjoy most out of it is being able to encounter new people. One day, we go to a rural community and hike through the fields, up a mountain, and enter a cave where some of the first prehispanic indigenous drawings were discovered. One of the priests makes his musicsas (instrument players) play songs while we pray. Throughout the conference, different groups perform prayers that a a mix of indigenous prehispanic rituals alongside Catholicism.

Although food is served by the priests and students of the seminary, I often go back to the kitchen in order to request vegetarian food or get water (which is smoke-flavored and stored in from trashcans.) In thus back area, the kitchen staff hand rolls tortillas and cooks food over open fires. One priest encourages his students to practice their English with me and thus simple tasks like requesting napkins take about twenty minutes as their English is worse than my Spanish.

As I don`t eat meat or dairy, I often worry about the food in these situations, but the seminary gives me hearty portions of beans and corn-based products. Still, things just seem a little off. During the nights, we are served coffee and one morning a priest offers us several shots of his mescal ( a tequila-like liquor) for us to sample.

The last night is a fiesta and at first religious tunes our played but soon comes salsa music. On my dance card is a 22-year old who lived in the U.S.A. for several years and asks me ``hey girl, do you want to dance?``

A guy my own age issues an invitation, but during small talk I learn that he lives in the seminary as a student. (However, as I am staying in a convent this could make a great how we met story.) My worst dancing experience is with a 15 year-old uniform-clad student who I have to push away from me the whole time. He speaks English as he spent time living in the United States. It seems that his family shipped him off to seminary school in order to undo the damage.

On our bus ride home, we take a side trip to to a beach near Acapulco. For some members of our group it is their first time at the seashore. Before disembarking, Father announces to the bus ``Remember that Mother Nature brought you into the world without clothes. If you don`t have a bathing suit, she`ll accept you as such.`

I run along the beach, swim in a lagoon and join the group in eating seafood and drinking beer. When I sit down on bench, it begins to sway, but Padre tells me to relax because that that is how it is designed to function.

During lunch, Padre remarks that he is drinking a type of beer that he does not like because it is the only one that is available and that he also feels guilty feel eating and drinking heartily during lent. I am proud of myself for being able to make a joke in Spanish. ``But you`re drinking beer that you don`t like, thus you`re sacrificing for Lent,``` I say.

Padre and everybody laugh, and we are in good spirits as we feeding the beach dogs fishbones. The next thing l know, the people next to me are on the ground and then I am as well. The bench has broken and only Padre is left upright as his part of the bench was supported by a pole. This speaks to Padre`s faith as he is confident that things will be okay, and with him it turns out to be so.

Despite glitches, I enjoy the trip. We arrive in Santa Fe at 11 in the night and I pack at three in the morning in order to catch the plane to visit my sister and family in San Francisco.

The best part my trip the United States is seeing my family is seeing my family but there are are other comforts as well--jogging along tree-lined streets, understanding the language and not being referred to as ``white girl.`` While I appreciate life there, I also miss my every day run-ins with parish members, students and co-workers in Santa Fe. Every place has it delights as I will be returning to the United Sates at the end of the summer, I`ll be able to count on more change soon enough.

I Woke Up In a Priest`s Clothing

2010-01-31T12:09:00.000-08:00

I was spending a cold, dreary evening in the parish library when Padre came in and began setting up a makeshift bar. He was to host a biannual reunion of his classmates from seminary school and in the other room, a group of church ladies were hand-rolling tortillas and frying up tacos. He invited me to stay and mingle with his friends and eat and drink as I pleased.

``Este es tu casa.`` (This is your house.)

Knowing that I would be out of place amongst two dozen priests who have known each other for thirty years, I figured Padre was just being kind by asking me to stay. But the idea of witnessing such a reunion was intriguing to me and I figured a could use a night out (albeit in a parish) because things recently ended between me and the guy I had been seeing and I felt a little depressed. I decided that I dole out enough acts of kindness so that things would balance out if I were to accept one.

At the beginning of the event, I noticed Padre and one of the first arrivals carrying around small, circular marble objects. I thought that they were performing some sort of pray involving candles. It turned out that they were carrying around special shot glasses designed to enhance the flavor of tequila.

Padre`s friends were an interesting group. Some were philosophers and professors who spent their times locked away in ivory towers while others had traveled the world. I heard stories of helping street children as well as running the streets in triathlons.

As the night went on, it got much colder. Though people think of Mexico as being tropical, Mexico City can be quite chilly and when it is, it is made worse by the fact that there is no indoor heating. Padre lent me his sweater and Gallo let me borrow his sheepskin vest and gloves. Arriving home after midnight to a freezing house where everybody was already asleep, I went to bed in all of my acquired clothing.

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Despite the joys of tequila and tacos, heartache is still hard to get rid of, particularly in a foreign country. Rejection hurts and here is it was made worse by the fact that I have had trouble in general making connections with people here. A burgeoning romance made me feel more like I was fitting in with the community.

Worse, I felt guilty for getting worked up over some guy since I`m here to help others and grow spiritually and not obsess over my love life. At work I am surrounded by people with much graver afflictions than my own, so how can I feel bad about my own problems? However, my own loneliness made me emphasize much more with patients who have been abandoned by their families so sometimes my workdays seemed almost unbearably sad.

I spent some disheartening days at work sitting by the bedsides of older girls and praying the Hail Mary and asking that my suffering could relieve theirs. Then one morning a few days ago, I went to work with the young children. Paulina (who was kept out of school due to being sick) immediately sat in my lap and ended up falling asleep. I spent the morning letting her rest in my arms. In the afternoon, when I visited with the older girls in their bedroom, Neddy squealed with happiness when I walked and she smiled as I sat on her bed, holding her hand and eating popcorn while talking about nonsense.

These simple moments made me realize how blessed I am. It is hard to find people who want you and love you for nothing more than your presence and yet I constantly encounter. While I may be lacking a novio, there are plenty of people who are eager for and accepting of my attention.

Thus, right now Mexico is about offering love as best as I can, accepting it in unconventional ways (from the wardrobes of church members), and learning to recognize it.

Meeting La Famalia

2009-12-17T16:33:00.000-08:00

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.

Times Are A-Changing

2009-10-30T19:04:00.001-07:00

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.

Field Trip

2009-10-01T19:32:00.000-07:00

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.

Overtime

2009-09-30T19:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Vamos!

2009-09-27T20:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Yearly Check-In

2009-09-17T19:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Mi Madre!

2009-08-16T18:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Ven Con Nosotros!

2009-08-09T16:20:00.000-07:00

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.)
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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.

The Streets of Santa Fe

2009-06-11T18:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Puebla, Puebla

2009-05-30T18:19:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

More pictures!

How did this happen?

2009-05-27T18:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Filling Out

2009-05-19T19:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Little Angel

2009-05-19T13:01:00.000-07:00

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.

Swine Flu By

2009-05-13T18:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Good Friday Musings

2009-04-21T17:16:00.000-07:00

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Crosses to Bare

2009-04-05T22:00:00.000-07:00

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.

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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.

Feliz Cumpleaños, Jessica!

2009-04-01T14:34:00.000-07:00

If every little girl wants a pony for her birthday, than every young woman must secretly want a horse, even if she learns to hide this desire upon realizing it´s impracticability. However, for her 23rd birthday, Jessica´s dreams came true (at least for the afternoon) as our friends brought a horse to our door for her to ride on to Mass. Upon reaching the entrance, the service was held up so that Padre could come sprinkle holy water on the duo.

From there things seemed to be going pretty typically for a parish party--everyone ate chicken and mole, and Jessica was able to avoid the Mexican custom of having her face smashed into her cake. Things got a little unusual when she was pulled into a small side room, blindfolded and stripped.

Once, Jessica had told Padre that she felt left out because she had never experienced a quinceaños--a ¨coming-out¨ party for Mexican girls on there fifteenth birthday. Padre took it upon himself to remedy this situation, and Jessica´s girlfriends squeezed her into a puffy, sparkly, white and pink gown and presented her to her friends and Mexican family. She first waltzed with Padre (her surrogate Father) and then all the males in the room, including two ten-year old boys that she danced with at the same time.

Guests were called up to give her presents, most of which were flowers and chocolate. The sweetest gift was from our little friend Luci who gave her a cartoon drawing of Jessica. Padre and Gallo (in deference to the fact that Jessica is constantly begging me to allow her to get a puppy) were responsible for the funniest thing-- a stuffed dog that sings, in English, ¨I love you more than I can say. I´ll love you twice a day,¨ and dances.

Festivities continued well into the evening, ending after the rondalla (a choir consisting of guitar players) that plays at the 7 p.m. mass serenaded Jessica with birthday tunes, and paid themselves for their services by finishing off all of the party´s whiskey. We returned home exhausted, wishing we had a beast to help cart all of the loot.

Though I´ve told Jessica that a having dog would be too much upkeep, I´m still trying to think of a way for us to permanently keep the horse. Happy birthday, chica!

Horses and Donkeys

2009-03-29T04:15:00.000-07:00

Attentive readers will have realized by now that I am Catholic--thus, not Jewish and not very familiar with the customs of Jesus`s religion. However, I am aware that Passover begins next week and that during Seder dinners, participants consume sweet and bitter foods as a reminder to accept the bad along with the good of life. In this spirit, I am going to recount two stories that shows how this applies to me in Mexico.

Yesterday, I was in a bad mood as a cold was coming on and the kids at work had been particularly grabby and demanding. The week overall had gone poorly because Jessica and I had been to a third government office due to our ongoing struggle to obtain visas to stay here. We`ve had to deal with stacks of paperwork and regulations like the offices not being able to provide photocopies of papers they have given us even though they are the ones who need the copies. It`s always a rush to get to the offices as they`re open to the public only during the morning hours and every time we go we come back with a long to-do list. We have made at least a dozen trips total and have just realized it would have taken less time and money just to leave the country for a weekend and return on a tourist visa.

Rather unhappily that evening, I walked into the parish and saw two, huge, beautiful horses grazing in the lawn. (The animals are too be used in the forthcoming passion play.) Their owners let Jessica and I climb up on them and we rode them bareback through parish grounds. I had been riding a few times before, so I new enough to maneuver the horse and it was thrilling to be able to ride it without the hassle of finding a ranch, paying for lessons and staying on a trail.

Still, my grumpiness returned today since I now have a cold and I had to fill out more paperwork for visa. (Can anyone tell me if my forehead has a normal, high or low slant?) However, I was cheered by the addition of two new horses and a pony at church and by the fact that my ride extended to the streets of Santa Fe.

Where I`ve lived in the States, horseback riding is costly and time-consuming, but it was run of the mill here. While I am sometimes baffled by lack of organization in Mexico and frustrated by the unexpected, what goes along with that is being able to do things like hop on a horse out of the blue. (And by the way, a donkey as well--last week I took a ride on the church`s now neglected burro.)

Though it seemed like the week would end on a positive note, I am right now awake at 4 in the morning due to noisy neighbors. Recently,after weeks of construction and jack-hammering, a tire shop opened next door. Now we are dealing with things in front of our door like controlled fire tires and the cars of customers.

I have seen the owner doing business from nine in the morning to midnight. However, I am remiss to give him too much credit for being a hard worker as the shop often seems like a place for him and his buddies to hang out. The drink beer, listen to music and stand on the sidewalk waiting for customers at all hours.

Tonight, music has been coming from the shop at random intervals and the streetlight that the shop installed (that shines directly into my bedroom window) has been left on. I don`t know the owner well enough to ask him to pipe down and calling the police is useless here. This is the downside to living in a place where things are so uncontrolled. (Though on the bright side, I appreciate the owner`s taste in 60`s rock music.)

As I am groggy from sleepiness, I can only wrap this up by saying that I have shared a few good antecdotes but am missing a punchy clincher--let`s accept this and see what tomorrow holds.

Fish Tales

2009-03-08T15:35:00.000-07:00

In my hometown of Pittsburgh, advertisements for fish sandwiches signify that the season of Lent is taking place. Probably because of the city`s large Catholic population, almost every food place in the city sells huge slabs of fried fish and mayonnaise between rolls of white bread, despite the fact that Pittsburgh is nowhere near the ocean. This harkens back to a time when Catholics could not eat meat on Fridays. Now that the ban only takes place during Lent, the fish sandwiches are promoted and on sale at dive bars, restaurants and fast-food joints during the days leading up to Easter.

In Mexico City, Lent has been much more in-your-face, beginning with Ash Wednesday when my house was turned into a drive-up for people who wanted ashes stamped on their foreheads. In the United States, Catholics typically go to Mass on Ash Wednesday and ashes are crossed onto their foreheads in order to signify repentance. In Mexico, there are various points at places such as chapels and churches where the devout can go to have ashes put on their foreheasd. The night before Lent at the parish, we sat around carving crosses onto the ends of wine-corks. The corks were used to make markings on people`s foreheads, as the women here like to have neat crosses on their faces instead of smudges. The next day, various people came to quickly get ashes from the chapel in front of our house, including those who would run off buses and cars at lights and the elderly and in-firmed who didn`t get out of their cars and instead had ashes delivered to them.

The church was mobbed with people who wanted to get ashes and vendors took advantage of this by selling toys, snacks and sweet treats outside of the parish gates. Apparently, Mexicans only fast for half the day on Ash Wednesday but since I did the traditional Roman Catholic fast, I was a little irritated by the temptation of food right outside the church.

Since the beginning of the year, one of the church`s youth groups has been practicing for the Passion Play, so I have grown accustomed to men carrying around heavy crosses and being whipped with plastic brushes on the parish lawn. I was surprised the other day when the director came riding into church on a burro--the donkey is going to be used for the play and a Palm Sunday sermon.

On Friday, Jessica and I stopped in the Cathedral in the Zocalo and on our way out we ran smack into six men dressed in shiny, blue fish costumes. They made their way into some sort of fish show taking place in a tent nearby, which I assume was happening in order to remind people not to eat meat fish on Fridays.

As for my own Lenten goals of abstinence, I am feeling pretty healthy without alcohol despite occasional cravings for a beer. My biggest test came last night when Jessica and I attended a small party at Javier`s house which lasted until four in the morning, so I did a lot of sitting around and watching everyone else consume tequila. However, I was able to observe the culture of the country--Javier brought out his guitar and he and his male family members challenged each other to sing song lines and responses on the spot. The lines were rhyming insults regarding each other and their ex-girlfriends and drew a lot of laughs--I couldn't`t understand what exactly was begin said, but got the gyst of it. Of course there was salsa dancing--unfortunately, a lack of alcohol did not improve my ability to dance or help me forget that I lack rhythm, and I`m afraid that when it comes to salsa I`ll forever be limited to twirling and tossing my hair.

Regarding my other goal to be careful about what I consume and buy, my circumstances are helping me with that. Leaving Santa Fe is somewhat arduous as riding the bus is time-consuming and uncomfortable and I don`t really have an income to buy things. So despite the fact that there are things I`d like to buy, it`s easier not to, and anything I do end up purchasing helps the small merchants of Santa Fe.

One thing I have realized since coming here is that the United States lacks a shared culture and history. In Mexico, I have had the chance to spend time with people of various economic statuses with wildly differing levels of education. However, everyone seems to know the same dances, cheers and songs. While I love that various ethnic groups in the States have their own customs, there is not as much that unites everyone.

It`s interesting being a Catholic here as it makes me like I share something with most everyone as we grew up attending the same services and celebrating holidays in similar. In the United States, I had few Catholic friends and religious activities were not big part of my life so I wonder what the adjustment will be like when I get back. For now I`m just trying to avoid being in the cross path of whips and animals, and I`ll worry about finding a good fish sandwich when I return.

40 Days

2009-02-22T12:44:00.000-08:00

Since the beginning of Lent is upon us, I`ll begin with a confession--before coming to Mexico I went to lots of happy hours and good-bye celebrations where I did plenty of imbibing. I did so with the reasoning that it would be my last chance for such activities before embarking on a spiritual conversion. It thought it would be impossible for me to spend my time drinking and partying here when my days would be occupied with good works and (in my spare time) church and prayer.

It turns out that I have spent a lot of time on parish grounds when I am not at work, though in the kitchen socializing rather than at church. What I have found is not something that has surprised me since it`s the way of life in Pittsburgh and what I witnessed when I started drinking at dive bars as an exchange student in Australia --when working-class, middle-aged men spend time together, they do so with drinks in hand. No matter if they are clergy members or parish groundsmen. Thus there`s sort of a boys` club atmosphere here at the parish--tequila or beer are served at most meals and it`s not frowned upon to have a glass of cerveza with your huevos in the morning.

I often feel at of place at the parish since I have trouble communicating and I don`t eat the food with meat or dairy products that everyone else shares. While everyone else is chatting and eating, I`ve made up for my lack of participation by bonding over tequila with the guys. I`ve also justified drinking because it helps me cope with the sadness I feel over certain situations at work or and to cope with boredom when I am at social events and I don`t know what is going on.
A few weeks ago, I reevaluated why I came here, and I realized that it wasn`t to spend my evenings in a haze and I have drastically cut back on my consumption of alcohol. I feel healther in both body and spirit -- alcohol is a depressant and ultimately isn`t helping me overcome unhappiness. Additionally, I was relying on it instead of myself and God to feel comfortably socially.

Instead of drinking I have been spending more time at work and praying in the evenings with Jessica. I do have trouble saying no to drinks at times. It`s hard for others to accept this change in me and I`ve had glasses pushed up to my lips or served to me after I repeatedly turn them down.

In trying to cut back, I have to be less concerned with the feelings of others. I tell myself that I don`t always have to be a drinking buddy and that if I find a social situation painfully uncomfortable without the aid of alcohol, I can leave it at risk of offending someone. As for it helping me to forget about the sorrows of others, nobody`s problems are going to be solved based on how much I drink.

With all this in mind I`m giving up alcohol for Lent. Interestingly, Ash Wednesday coincides with the six-month mark of our arrival in Mexico, which is a time to reflect on why I came here originally and how I can make the experience better. I`m hoping that this period of abstinence will help me to better to do better service as a missonary and build my relationship with God.

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My other confession--I`ve never understood hard-core environmentalists and animal-rights activists in that I thought that if one is going to make a lot of effort for change, it should be for something that benefits people. Rather than protesting environmental policies, it would be better to lobby for human rights and instead of picking up litter, one should visit patients in hospitals.

However, what I`m coming to understand is that everything is connected in the way we treat the Earth, animals, fellow human beings and ourselves. A lot of practices that also hurt the environment are also harmful to humanity. For example, in the United States my closet is full of clothes that I don`t really need. Not only are they a waste of money, but I paid no attention to the workplace conditions of the people who made them, and a lot of energy was spent in their creation and distribution. If I were to only buy used clothing, or buy (less of it) only from ethical companies, I would be taking a stance against unfair labor practices and I would be helping to conserve resources.

Other thoughts:

There is a crisis in obesity going on throughout the United States and in the world. It is partially due to the amount of cheap, nutritionally-void fattening convenience foods that are consumed. If people were to eat more produce instead of junk food, particularly from farmers` markets, they would not only be doing their bodies a favor but cut back on the amount of packaging and transport that goes into making processed foods. (Along those lines, I strive to follow a vegan lifestyle, not just for animal-rights and health reasons but because it takes lot of food is produced to feed the animals that produce meat and dairy.)

In terms of media that is consumed, magazines, television, video games often pull people apart from the families and fill their heads with violent, damaging images--created in order to sell products like corn chips, lipstick and beer. If people were to consider more closely what they read, watch, and play, they might feel healthier and be more inclined to give their attention to people. Additionally, their desire for material items would decrease, which would ultimately help the environment.

And speaking of lipstick, women (and men) spend an enormous amount of money buying such products to cover up and change the way they look. These products are often tested on animals and take a lot of effort to produce. By cutting back on beauty products, women would be more accepting of themselves, help the environment and prevent animal cruelty.

With all this in mind, my other intention for Lent is far less concrete than giving up alcohol, but still involves consumption. I am going to give up overly processed foods so that I can help both my health and the Earth. I also plan to consider everything I take in, buy and consume as to whether it`s really good for me and the Earth and who benefits from it.

Part of me would like to run around in hand-made clothing, free of make-up and distributing trail mix. A bigger part of me can`t give up piling on eyeliner or resisting Starbucks. However, even some changes in my lifestyle will have a ripple effect and I hope to continue being more conscious even after Lent is over.

Now if you`ll excuse me, I`m off to gather wildflowers to weave into my hair.

Sunny Days

2009-02-12T12:13:00.000-08:00

While locked in on parish grounds today, I decided that one of the cool things about being a missionary is that it is perfectly valid to be very late for work for reasons such as you are literally stuck at church.

Though being trapped caused me to be tardy in getting back to the Sisters` house after a mid-afternoon break, I considered the situation was all part of doing missionary work. I had gone to the office in the parish in order to use the computer to prepare English lessons, as Jessica and I have taken on a large number of new language students. This week I am teaching them solo as Jessica went with Padre to a conference in Veracruz.

As I worked, one of the church´s handymen, Arturo, came in to talk with me. He has somewhat limited social skills and generally sits grumpily in a corner smoking and mumbling to himself while everyone else eats and chats. He has taken an interest in Jessica and I though and is always very concerned with where we have been, what we are doing, where we will go, what we will do afterward and what are plans are for the following day. The two of us have longer conversations whereby he asks me questions like ``Who wrote the formula E=MC(2)?, What do you think of communism? Why don`t you have a boyfriend? Is it better to be fat or thin?`` I don`t understand most of what he says, but he is persistent despite the fact that our talks tend to frustrate both of us.

I did my best to fill Arturo in on the events of my day. Once I finished using the computer, he said he would let me out of the church, as the gates are locked between two and four in the afternoon. We went outside and he knocked on Guillito`s door for the keys and Guillito yelled at him to wait. Arturo muttered a curse (there are some parts of the Spanish language I am adept in) and told me to sit and wait. I showed him the English lesson I had made up and tried to answer his questions on how to clarify if someone has light or dark blue eyes.

He mentioned that he had keys to a side gate used as an entrance for cars. I agreed to go out that way, but for whatever reason we continued to sit, and so I thought I had misunderstood him. Alejandro, the church`s flower man, came outside and headed toward the parish entrance. We watched to see if he was trying to leave the parish and if he had keys. Thinking he could open the door, I ran toward him, but I realized he was stuck as well. Then Arturo decided to let both of us out of the side gate.

You might be wondering why Arturo just didn`t let me out of the other gate in the first place. I tried not to concern myself with that as I am taking things as they come. However, in the States, being late for work would have been a source for stress for me. Here, the nuns take little notice of my comings and goings , but if they did question me on my arrival time, I am sure that being held up at church would have been a situation that they could relate to.

However, I don`t have any scheduled tasks with the nuns and they only find need for me when I happen to be around while they are engaged in some task. This is why I have been randomly called over to climb up a pile of rocks and clean a shrine to the Virgin Mary, take down and hang up eight sets of curtains, and put out clothes to dry on the roof while watching the children of workers.

Though the people being cared for at the house are happy to see me come and seem sad when I leave, what time I get there doesn`t mean much to them. So had I been worried about the situation, I would have been the only one.

There are so many things that bother me here that I can`t control, such as the handicaps of the people I work with, how long it takes for things to get done and how schedules mean little to people. Today I realized that when something you can`t change allows you to relax and enjoy the sunshine, it`s best to just soak it in.

Road Trip

2009-02-04T17:02:00.000-08:00

I arrive at the parish punctually at 7 a.m. for a pilgrimage to a chapel built by a parishioner in honor of his deceased wife, even though I knew that all the rushing I did to get there in time will be in vain. The parishioner, Stephan, is waiting patiently at the gates of the parish. He is a quiet, tall, slim man in his 70`s with pale skin and white hair.

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The night before, Soledad (one of the church ladies) had come to our house at 10:00 in order to tell us that Padre was inviting us to the chapel benediction in a small town in the state of Michoacán. The proposal came when we were already exhausted from that day`s events as we had taken a group of young people from the parish to a diocesan youth festival. Different activities had taken place in tune with the lives of Jesus, Mary and Joseph and were categorized by play, prayer and values. We spent the day humiliating ourselves in volleyball, waiting to go to confession, going to Mass, and waiting in line for karaoke. We got lost on the way there and on the busride home, I read a political magazine while the kids and younger chaperons sang and roughhoused. ( I felt old until I realized the scene was similar to bus trips when I was an anti-social teen who ran high school track.) We finally returned to a crowded parish, where the grounds were overflowing with people who had brought their baby dolls to be blessed in honor of the feast of the Presentation of Jesus. We watched the chaos for a while before returning home and Soldedad`s invitation followed.

A few days ago, I decided to give into the fact that life in Mexico--particularly among the poor--is unstructured and random. I realized that if I could be more accepting and go-with-the-flow, I would be happier, instead of grumpy and irritable as I was last week when a jackhammer kept me up until 3 a.m. as workers built street lights at night.

So even though Jessica couldn`t come and I wasn`t sure what the trip would entail, I agreed to go along for the ride. I actually thought it would be good for me to be without Jessica since I rely on her for translation and to explain appropriate cultural behavior.

``Be there at seven on the dot,`` Soledad told me several times, through Jessica, and I got up a little after six to shower and prepare.

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A little after seven, Father lets me and Stephan inside the parish, puts on coffee, and wanders off. Stephan cares for a hermitage behind the church that was the home of Santa Fe`s founder. Father thinks the hermitage should be open to the public and he often leads marches to grounds during which parishioners sing, pray and plant crosses. At the gate, Stephan will appear and explain simply and solemnly that you need special government permission to go in. Sometimes, he lets a few stragglers enter.

Face-to-face, Stephan seems sad and I doubt he cares all that much about the hermitage. He tells me that his wife died eight years ago, and today is the anniversary of her death. I think that he is just waiting to join her.

We sit around awkwardly in the kitchen with him wondering, I suppose, what to say to the foreign English-speaking girl who is tagging along on his sacred trip. He tries small talk and says we shouldn`t be gone for long, since it only takes two and half hours to get to his village on public transportation. Soledad breaks the tension by arriving at 7:20 with her chronically late, unemployed and exuberantly cheerful daughter Lupita in tow. I learn Lupita is coming along, which is good since we are the same age and she is friendly. The two of them heat up rice-milk and chatter about the contents of Lupita`s purse. Father returns and Antonio comes in with eyes blurry from sleep. We all sit around drinking hot beverages and eating cookies. Since I`m being accepting, I stop myself from complaining inwardly about arriving at seven and enjoy my second breakfast.

Guillermo and Louisa, two parishioners who I have seen occasionally visiting Father, arrive at 7:50 to take us to the chapel. They are a quiet, sweet married couple who look alike as they both have round, smiling faces, small eyes and jet-black hair. We set off in their van and the scenery changes from the slums of pueblo Santa Fe, to the skyscrapers of new Santa Fe, and then to the country. We drive on windy roads for about two hours and we stop at a barbacoa stand. Everyone but me has tacos and Lupita insists on taking me to a tamale lady for food. Even though I have already had breakfasts and the tamale has cheese in it, I eat one to be sociable.

We make it to Stephan`s hometown where the buildings look like those in pueblo Santa Fe, only spread out and surrounded by grass and fields. We stop at Stephan`s sister`s convenience store and the women end up outside while the men are in the shop. Father calls me in so that I can try some homemade liquor.

Now, I`ve been trying to ease up on drinking and in general I don`t believe in alcohol consumption before noon. But when your priest and a grieving widow want you to join them in a shot, it`s hard to refuse. I sample sweet, sticky blackberry and sassafras mixtures.

We head to the chapel, which is quite pretty, gleaming white, and decorated with flowers, statues and photographs. Father jokes with a small crowd and then leads them in prayer. It is a short benediction and we go on to look around the grounds of Stephan`s house, bless a home under construction and pray at his wife`s grave. It is different from routine and I realize how much I have been missing fresh air and the ability to walk around.

We wrap things up around 12:30 and Father suggests going to the nearby Monarch Butterfly Reserve, which causes Lupita to squeal and clap her hands excitedly. I imagine that we will take a half-hour diversion in order to go to a roadside park full of butterflies. What no one anticipates is that we won`t actually end up getting home until 3:30 in the morning.

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A toll both operator gives us directions to the reserve, saying it will be about twenty minutes until we get there. Twenty minutes turns into two hours, during which we repeatably ask for directions and I sleep intermittently. Everyone keeps saying to keep going straight and that we will get there soon. Finally, we see buildings on the highway that look promising--The Butterfly Hotel and restaurants with signs in English that signify tourists go there. A schoolboy tells us to go straight ahead and that we will get to the butterfly reserve in an hour.

We enter another village where we are told to go straight and where we have to pay an entrance fee for a car. Boys plead for pesos and one hangs on to the back of our vehicle. The car treks up a steep mountain full of a multitude of shacks, small houses and donkeys and burros on the streets. This is the lifestyle I expected when I signed up for mission work, but seeing it for the first time is jarring.

After a slow drive, we make it to the parking lot of the butterfly reserve where we learn that it will be a 40-minute walk to actually see the butterflies. Guillermo asks if we all want to go ahead despite this, and at this point, no one can turn back.

During the uphill walk, Lupita and I clutch arms and count steps, alternately in English and Spanish. We lead the way (except for Father who meanders nearby on his own), to Lupita`s credit as her boots have three-inch heels.

The ending point is a restful spot, where, as you would expect, many butterflies fly overhead. However, not as many as I expected because their migration period begins soon. We can closely observe dead insects and those with broken wings, which Lupita and Father are fascinated by. I enjoy the stillness and quietness of the woods, along with my exercise high.

The trip downward is much easier, but we are again confronted by children begging for us to eat at their family restaurants or to give them pesos. They run alongside the car pleading with us. No one acts that desperate in Santa Fe and I wonder if the people in the country are worse off or if they just know they are more likely to get money from tourists. I contemplate whether I should be doing mission work in an area poorer than Santa Fe, than think of how the people I work with have their corporal needs met but are missing family and companionship. Then I think of Washington, DC where there are many social programs to help the poor, but homeless people freeze due to the harsh climate. It`s overwhelming trying to create a formula in which you calculate who is neediest by assessing their lack of money, food, love, company and good weather. I decide you have to help those close to you, accept that it`s something but not enough, and enjoy life where you can.

We drive to a nearby town for dinner and eat at a small restaurant where there are three meal options. The waitresses/cooks/owners take their times serving tables and I have rice and beans and sip cinnamon coffee while everyone else enjoys chicken and mole. Father checks in at the parish to tell the deacon to say evening Mass and to let Jessica know that we will be arriving around 10:00.

Stephan opens up a bit more and says that his work at the hermitage is a distraction for him. He explains that he lives with other retired people.

``Like a monastery,`` Father jokes, as he translates to me.

I think of my house where Jessica and I don`t have television, a computer, boyfriends or heat and where lately, we have been praying every night.

``Mi casa tambien,```I say.

Incidentally, the parish would probably be a VFW hall, similar to those I have been to in Pittsburgh. While I don`t think many of the older handymen who work there have been to war, they are licking the wounds that life has given them, as are the woman without families who spend time there. It felt most like the VFW on Sunday, when I watched the Superbowl in Guillito`s tiny shed in front of the parish, on his black and white TV. Though I am from Western, PA where football reigns, I don`t take much interest in the game unless the Steelers are playing or it`s the Superbowl. So, I had to see the game, which I didn`t really understand because it was translated in Spanish. The guys around me were lost as well, but enjoyed drinking cheap beer, smoking cigarettes and slapping my hand after plays. It was quite similar to bars and clubs I`ve been to with my Dad in Pittsburgh, so I felt nostalgic.

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We leave the restaurant around 7:30 and the drive makes me nervous due to the the lack of street lights. I cope by sleeping and am awoken around 10:00 to the sound of the car skidding. Father gets out and deduces that we have a flat tire.

Lupita takes the breakdown in stride and recounts past breakdowns, thanks God we weren`t in an accident, and suggests calling her brothers. They don`t pick up and more calls are made, to tow-truck companies who don`t want to travel out far to get us. One finally agrees to come, within 20 minutes. It still hasn`t come after 30 minutes and Jessica, who has gotten nervous waiting for me, calls and translates what is going on and tries to find a number for a tow-truck company. Guillermo calls the towing service and learns that they won`t be coming, so he and Father decide to walk to the far-off toll booth for help.

I can`t help but think that in the States, you might not have a spare tire but you`d probably have a three A`s card. And if you don`t have that, after about a half-hour on the highway, a patrol car would happen by and give you aid. Or there`s 9-1-1.

But, I am not in the States and instead of thinking of ways out of the situation, I think of ways we are in danger. (A target for robbers, potential victims of bad drivers.) At the youth festival yesterday, I had gone to confession as required by a novena that Jessica and I have been saying. I wonder if God wanted me to make peace with him before dying and I think that at least my family has each other and I won`t be leaving behind a despondent spouse like Stephan behind.

Thinks look better when a highway repair service called the Green Angels appear. We tell them to pick up Father and Guillermo and then to return. Jessica calls with numbers for more tow-truck services but Lupita says they won`t come out that far and that everything is under control . A few minutes later, Father and Guillermo return on their own, meaning the Green Angels are looking for them in vain. My cell phone runs out of battery power. The Green Angels fail to resurface and Father tries to flag down cars and I don`t know whether to be more afraid that someone will stop or someone won`t. Lupita and I huddle together and say prayers. Stephan seems adrift and I wish I could comfort him because I bet he`s still only thinking of his late wife. He finds a number for a nephew who lives an hour away and talks to him. Finally the Green Angels appear and begin the process of changing the tire. They set up cones and a light and leave us again for a spare tire. Around 2:30, the car is fixed and we return to the city.

Jessica, my own angel, is awake when we arrive and she has fixed up a bed for Lupita to stay in and made up mine . In the morning, we sleep well past the time she has left the house, and eat homemade muffins she has made for us.

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Before all of the mechanical problems, I was thinking of how even though the car full of people had been thrown together, we were operating as a family. Father would be the patriarch, the couple who drove us obedient children, Lupita and I wayward sisters, and Stephan a solitary uncle. At the parish, as when I watched the game, I often feel like I am around family members as everyone participates in food, hugs, and disagreements.

In Mexico, people use the names of family members as terms of endearment, referring to non-blood acquaintances as daughter, son, uncle and aunt. Additionally, Mexicans are much more physically affectionate than Americans and I link arms with, am embraced by and have my back rubbed by people of all ages and sexes. I wonder if the ability to formulate makeshift families and quick bonds with those around them is Mexican a response to the unreliability of the government, social programs and a general sense of time. It seems in Mexico, you can only cling to those are are directly beside you. As I`m learning to tranquilly accept life around me, I`m sure I`m in for many early mornings and and late nights during which to ponder this.

Identifying as Queer

2009-01-17T10:59:00.000-08:00

Over the course of my life, I have missed less than a dozen Sunday Masses and I attended catechism classes for eight years as a child. Some may view this as being ultra-religious, but I can't identify Bible passages and I am not really familiar with Catholic doctrine. Many times, I have gone to Mass more out of a sense of obligation than due to my faith.

However, at the lowest points in my existence I have turned all of my problems over to God. I have also been comforted by familiar prayers, services and views of the Catholic church. While I know that many people in the United States might see me as strange and religiously zealous for becoming a Catholic missionary, I chose to do a religious-based volunteer program because I felt a spiritual void in my life. Since being Catholic has shaped me in different ways, I also wanted to learn more about the Church that I feel drawn to remain a part of.

This week, I attended the VI World Meeting of the Families, a Catholic conference on the values of Christian families. Even before going, I knew I would be out of place there because unlike me, other attendants had been to these sorts of events before and are more involved in the Church than me. I went because it was held near-by, in the business section of Santa Fe, many parish members were going, and because Father got us a big discount on the ticket price.

It was hard for me to follow what was going on due to what was being said and the physical method off communication. The speakers came from all over the world and attendants were given radios from which translations were broad-casted. I spent much of my time trying to find the English station or listening to static transmissions. Even those who spoke in English often had thick accents that made it difficult for me understand them.

I found some of what was said to be moving and thought-provoking such as how abortion and euthanasia allows family members to kill each other and the manner in which abortion is used to get rid of poor and minorities within society. However, there were veiled and outright messages that disturbed me deeply--many speakers spoke out against homosexual unions and marriage and legislation allowing same-sex couples to adopt children.

What they said seemed to stem from Church teaching, but I couldn't understand the reasoning behind it. Some said that homosexual marriages would dis-value traditional marriages. They also said that children are harmed by not having both a male and female role model.

I am not familiar enough with Church teaching and dogma to be able to refute it, so everything I have to say on the subject of homosexuality comes from my heart, observation and some of my college courses. The speakers said that marriage is an act of love between men and women because of the stories of Adam and Eve and Mary and Joseph in the Bible. However, historically, marriage has not always been about love, it has sometimes been about connecting families and extending property rights. It often oppresses women. Still, even if I did believe that God wants sexual unions to occur only between married men and women, I also believe in religious freedom and would be against laws legislating this.

As to whether or not homosexuals should be allowed to adopt children--I've spent much of my time working with abandoned children here and I know there are unwanted ones all over the world. If loving people want to take care of them, it is abhorrent to try to prevent this. I know homosexuals who would make wonderful parents and I know married men and women who have done a lousy job raising their kids.

The conference saddened me because it showed me a part of the Catholic Church that I don't want to be associated with. I have encountered many people who extol wonderful Catholic virtues. I admire Father for allowing a developmentally handicapped man (who would otherwise be homeless) to sleep in the spare space of the parish. I respect the nuns at work who wear thick, rubber black boots beneath their saris as they carry the twisted bodies of handicapped people into the showers to be washed daily. I got a kick out of all the nuns I met in Texas who lead unique lives as war protesters, renowned psychologists and mystics writing poetry in the woods.

I went to Confession during the conference, and afterward I spoke with the priest about how upsetting the speakers were to me. He basically said that while the Church isn't against homosexuality urges or close relationships between people of the same sex, sexual acts between people of the same sex are wrong because God designed men and women to be together. He said that being born a homosexual is to be born with an impediment such as cancer or a short leg, and while they will struggle with it, they can control it.

I replied that homosexuality doesnt have to be viewed as an impediment and speeches like those that I had been hearing were contributing to discrimination. We went back and forth for a while and he didn't make me feel much better. He said that what I was hearing was the end result of church study but because I am a caring, compassionate person, I was seeing the emotion going into the issue. He said that it was okay to question views and that I am doing so because God made me a loving person, and I will probably struggle with this issue for years.

I am not ready to leave the Catholic Church over this, in the same manner that I retain my American citizenship though I despise some government policies. I wouldn't disown family members even if they held views on race which I find bigoted.

However, it makes it even more difficult for me to be here, because I feel like I have lost so many things--material comforts, a social life, contact with friends and family, my ability to communicate, and now my confidence in the Church as a way of promoting harmony.

What remains is my ability to love and my belief that God will carry me through this experience and help me to learn from it. What is growing is my ability to sympathize with those who feel disillusioned and rejected.

A Lonely Piece

2009-01-03T01:00:00.000-08:00

Paulina is three and-a-half years old, was abandoned by her parents, and has dark brown hair that is kept in a bowel cut. She walks around the Sisters' home in cute dresses with her arms swinging, head up, and always after something. If her twin sister has a soft, white roll and is enjoying a bite of it, Paulina will grab the bread from her sisters' hand and stuff it into her own mouth. Paulina eats food from unattended plates and grabs books and toys from smaller children. Mostly, she is on the lookout for adults to pick her up and when she sees someone bigger, she approaches them with her arms extended upwards. She'll settle for holding hands, but if she finds another set of open arms to scoop her up, she will let go of the person she has. If I am carrying a crying baby, she tries to pull the baby from my arms, or she points to a crib or baby-seat in an effort to get me to put the child aside and pay attention to her.

My father is in his late 60's, has spent his whole life and Pittsburgh, and has graying hair that is usually covered by his sports cap. He doesn't miss Mass, he rarely misses choir practices, picnics or Steelers games, and he often misses work. He didn't want me to go to Mexico and had lots of ideas of what I should do instead, ranging from running for Congress to tending bar. One of his last suggestions was ''Look, you can live at home and not pay rent. You can do social work at the Senior Center. I'll retire and let you have the Beemer.''

Paulina can't speak but if she could she would be saying what my father was really saying--
''Let's be safe and happy together. Let's not worry about anything else.''

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Then there's Corazon who is nineteen years old, very tiny, and seems to be comprised of a huge smile and baggy clothes. She walks unevenly, with a limp and hunched back. Sometimes she is weeping instead of smiling and then I'll put my arm around her and give her dolls and read her stories until she perks up again. She dances and says a few words, mostly 'Mama' and 'Sister.' When it's time to move the other girls, she helps to push the wheelchairs. Once, when one of the nuns was trying to to force medicine into Edith's mouth, Corozan jumped out of bed to help Sister hold down Ediths' arms.

I am sitting on Corazon's bed, reading her 'Sleeping Beauty' when a new nun walks in and introduces herself. Her name is Sister Maria, she is from Columbia, and she became a nun 28 years ago after her Father died and she went to England and took a pilgremage to Lourdes. She asks me where I am from, what I am doing here, and if I have a boyfriend.

''Praise the Lord,'' she says to my response. ''They'll just hold you back. You need to be free to do your own thing and move around. People say single people are lonely, but married people get lonely too. You have as good a chance of marrying a good husband as you do winning the lottery. Just do good works and do everything for God. If you feel lonely, there are plenty of people to visit, '' she says, as she looks around at the room full of beds of handicapped women. ''And there are even more people in hospitals who need companionship.''

Her thoughts seem valid, but I don't tell her that being at the home often makes me feel lonely than being by myself. I feel out of place, as if I am a clumsy one-woman cheerleader squad. I think that if I did have a boyfriend or family to come home too, it would make things much easier. Of course, back in the United States there's a whole country full of guys I would be able to talk to who used to approach me at parties and work, but I had someone and wasn't interested in them.

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I am trying to figure out why there are so many needy people out there when there are so many people needy people out there. It's like a third of the world fits in a puzzle, and the rest are pieces scattered about, trying to find a place inside, or fit with another random piece.

What if Paulina was my Dad's daughter? Maybe she'd stay with him his whole life and they'd spend sweet Sunday afternoons driving around together. How many couples are desperate for little girls? Meanwhile, Corozan is going to be a little girl forever, calling for Mama. As for me, why didn't I end up with my own family in Pittsburgh....or why can't I be like the nuns and have it be enough do everything for God?

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This is being written as I am home alone on a Friday night, though I could have gone to the Parish where I would have felt welcome. Guillito would try to feed me and he adores me, probably because I remind him of some of the mothers of of the nineteen children he has fathered. The men with mental handicaps like talking with me because I listen to them patiently. I am not there because I know eventually I will feel frustrated and left out if I stay for too long sinceI don't understand what is going on. I'll use this as an excuse to nip at the tequila and since my New Year's resolution is too take better care of myself, I am at home.

The thing is--my thing is people, mostly people who are somehow awkward or different. I notice them, I think of them, I listen to them. The fact that people here so often make me feel lonely and irritable makes me question who I am.

In orientation, we learned that bad spirituality is what happens when people fail to know God and it manifests itself through things like drugs, overeating, greed and violence. I wonder though if maybe those things are the result of a failure to feel close to other people.

But, we are all made in God's image and likeliness. By paying attention to others, we can know God. While I may not always feel at ease around people, my calling my be to share my experiences of others and encourage people to look hard for those that they fit with. As for those times when I retreat inwards and prefer being alone, by coming to know myself, I am knowing God too.

Christmas Day

2008-12-29T16:35:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Eve

2008-12-27T18:16:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So this is Christmas...

2008-12-15T12:40:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sick Day

2008-11-19T22:00:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what I hear:

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

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

We'll see how much better I get.

Listening to Mom

2008-11-18T18:01:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful Girls

2008-11-16T15:39:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Playing Dress-Up

2008-11-09T10:36:00.000-08:00

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

Preperation

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

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

The Ceremony

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

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

The Reception

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

Food

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

Antics

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

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

Dancing

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

Sweets and Treats

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

Happy Ending

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

New Girl

2008-11-05T16:09:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Día de Muertos

2008-11-03T17:05:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tricks and Treats

2008-11-03T16:02:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Way I See

2008-10-25T22:14:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to School--Missionary Month

2008-10-24T22:08:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cadena de Amor

2008-10-12T15:34:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ups and Downs of Mission Life

2008-10-07T11:42:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home/Sick

2008-09-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four Fiestas and a Funeral

2008-09-17T10:17:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Name of the Father

2008-09-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Talk

2008-09-09T23:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Sprinkling of Salsa

2008-09-06T16:59:00.000-07:00

On the bus on the way to meet up with Javier, (a friend of Jessica´s from when she studied abroad in Mexico who has invited us to a bar!) Jessica tells us about him. Javier is very kind and generous and also lots of fun--once they made all types of salsa and spent a whole night going around and sampling it.

At least that´s what I deduce Jessica is saying. She is speaking Spanish for my benefit as I told her it´s hard for me to learn because many people talk to me in English. However, I can´t understand her story but I catch the word ¨salsa¨ and she moves her hands around. Since she loves to cook, I figure the story is condiment related. As it turns out, she was explaining that Javier likes to dance salsa, and is a great partner because he´ll grab you and throw you around and you don´t have to know how to dance.

Upon meeting Javier, everything she says seems true as he is tall and thin and looks as if he could easily glide around the dance floor. He tells us that he is inviting us out, which confuses me as I think ¨Of course you´ invited us, that´s why we are here.¨ However, he was using an expression to explain that all bar covers and drinks would be his treat.

Once Javier´s friend Hidalgo and Jess´s old roommate Maddie arrive, we pile into Javier´s big, blue van to go to a place called the Beer Hall, where another of his friends will be playing in a band. Javier says that he would have taken us in the Corvette he just bought from America, but it would have been to small for everyone to fit. The differences in his cars speak to the ways in which his personality seems to duel with itself. Javier teaches religion in a school, volunteers in an orphanage, and earns much of his income by selling beer to small shops. He wants to go to Rome to get a Master´s in Religion, and he might have been a priest except for the fact that he loves girls and wants to get married and have 30 children.

Both he and Hidalgo are very gentlemanly in a way uncommon to most men in the United States. As we make our way to the bar, they open and close our doors, walk on the part of the sidewalk closest to oncoming cars and wait for us to step up on sidewalks or enter a building before they do the same.

Anyone who has ever been in a bar that primarily sells beer can imagine what the Beer Hall is like--it´s small, crowded and dark and waitresses wearing tight, red polo shirts serve fried food and popcorn. While the band is between sets, huge, giant television screens play 80´s music videos. When I catch myself humming along to Madonna´s ¨Material Girl,¨ I remember that I am in Mexico to take a stand against materialism and feel a little unmissionary-like being at a bar. However, breaks from Santa Fe are important, as is having friends under 30 who haven´t taken vows.

Not that it´s easy making friends with the guys--I can barely understand them as it is, but the loud noise makes it impossible to make small talk. Once the band starts, everyone gives up on communicating. They play some sort of heavy metal with a good, but loud beat, but and no one can tell if they are singing in English or Spanish. Javier says that it´s not really his scene, but he´s there to support his friend and afterward we will go somewhere better.

We end up at the Mambo Lounge, a huge venue containing palm trees, where waiters wear long white sleeves. After a round of mojitos, we head out to the big, wooden dance floor, which is an interactive experienxce as lights flash and day glow sticks are thrown from the stage. After some pop music, a band arrives and begins playing ranchero and merangue music, to the delight of Javier, Hidalgo and everyone else, because this means it´s time for salsa.

I´ve taken tango (which is similar to salsa) lessons twice and I found it diffiuclt as I lack rhythm and a sense of direction. When it comes to salsa, I repeat the same strategy I utilized in tango which is to follow my partner and look into his eyes, which works as Javier and Hidalgo are experts at the dance. It also helps to smile a lot and wave my hair around and soon I am trying all sorts of complicated twiests and turns. One of the boy dancers on stage-a kid wearing tight, white jeans and ripped white T-shirt who I assume is at least 18-tugs at me shirtsleeve and winks, and I start to feel as if I am assimilating.

After a lot of dancing, we take a break, except for Jackie, who is stuck on the dance floor. My 22-year old, fresh from college roommate has been scooped up by a 30-something man who promises to take her on a motorcycle ride. We rescue her and then have a final dance to Hawaiin music, complete with fire explosions, hula dancers and lauis.

The night ends at four in the morning and everyone (except me) eats hot dogs topped with guacomole and hot peppers from a street vendor. We are to spend the night at Javier´s and he stops to get milk for our breakfast and then inflates the air mattresses he has gotten for us to sleep on. He is a champ, because he has to get up at 6:30 in the morning for work, and before we all head to bed, he says we should all meet up again soon.

Exhausted, I fall asleep almost immediately My first night on the town has been exhilerating and while it didn´t help me imporve my Spanish, I learned something about the language of salsa, which seems to be just as useful in fitting in and getting a taste of the culture.

Mothers and Sisters

2008-09-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

"To touch another person is to feel the touch of God,"

This quote is imposed over a photo of Mother Theresa clutching a baby, in the House of Peace and Joy where I started working at today. It brought me comfort because I saw it after realizing that despite a college degree and loads of volunteer experience, the most I could do for the people I was working with was to touch them.

I arrived at the house (for the elderly and diabled) run by the Missionaries of Charity at eight in the morning. The first Sister I saw said I should work with the babies, and she led me upstairs to a room full of young girls and boys with all sorts of birth defects. Immediately, one little girl ran to me and jumped into my arms. My heart went out to her because because she is two, about the same age as my niece Josie. Though Josie loves people, I have never seen my niece open up to strangers in the way that this little girl did with me. I do not know if she was hungry
for attention, or if she understands that any new person will be caring, but she clung to me for most of the day.

The nuns began the day with the prayers and they said one in English for my benefit. I was not introduced to the group and there was no sort of training process. Though the workers, nuns and volunteers are friendly, they did not go out of there way to welcome volunteers. Jessica has visited the home several times before, and she told me to expect this because the workers are so focused on the people they help that they can not take time for others. Also, they are used to many volunteers coming in and out. I tried as much as I could to speak Spanish with the other volunteers, but felt frustrated by my inability to communicate. All the nuns know English though (their order was started by Mother Theresa in India and the sisters come from all over) and that made things easier.

After prayers, I was taken into a bathing room and asked to dress and change the babies. I have always been a little comfortable around babies because I am afraid of breaking them somehow. The situation made me regret all the times my sister wanted to show me how to change Josies" diapers and I avoided doing it because I was clueless as to what to do. I felt like I was playing tug-of-war as I tried to pull legs into diapers, and involved in a wrestling match as I put squirming limbs into clothes.

Once everyone was dressed, I went into a playroom filled with babies, toys, and a few workers.I had been given no direction as to what to do and I lacked the Spanish to talk to the workers. However, a few of the kids jumped on me for hugs and while that felt back-breaking, what really hurt was seeing the kids who did not moved and just laid there alone and quiet. I was not sure what to do because if I had been with Josie I would have read her stories or tried to teach her new words. In this case, I could not speak the language and many of the kids will probably never be able to understand any language as it is. I remembered reading how important touch is in humans, so I just went around hugging and holding babies. That was when I saw the photo of Mother Theresa on the wall which said touching humans it to feel the touch of God.

There were many times throughout the day when I felt overwhelmed, uncertain and just uncomfortable. I really wanted to cry out for my mother to come in and take care of everything. In the same way that she has been able to tend to Josie even though she raised her last baby 25 years ago, I know that she would have been able to easily change diapers, coax food into mouths stop kids from biting each other, and come up with games to play.

The longing I felt for my mother though, made me feel for the babies even more, because they are abandoned and orphaned and though they have that same desire for a mom to look after them, it will never be fufilled. As I ambivalent on the possibilty of having children of my own, I always assumed that I do not posess a maternal instinct. However, I realized that I do have one and it is something different than what I thought. Loads of women have raised babies without anyone showing them what to do. As a female, I must have that same inate ability to care for the very young. That thought gave me more confidence throughout the day, and it is something that I need to bear in mind as I work. Though being surrounded by babies is far from the life I was living a year ago, when I was consumed with happy hours and office politics and living in a city that kept children regulated to suburbs, I am coming closer to touching God.

Aqui in Santa Fe

2008-08-31T16:22:00.000-07:00

Note: Please excuse spelling mistakes. I am on borrowed time at an Internet cafe and the English spell-checker doesn´t work!

Upon arriving in Mexico City last Monday, the three of us (Jessica, Jacki and I) lug two huge suitcases apiece along with multiple carry-on bags through customs. Eventually ,we are greeted by Sister Angela, tiny woman with a practical haircut who wears a long gray skirt and practical shoes. If she is overwhelmed by anything about us (our sizes, our stuff, our hair made big by the Texas heat we left) she doesn´t show it, but we have much luggage to take a taxi as she planned. Instead, she calls her nephew Mario to give us a ride to Sant Fe.

We spend about an hour making awkward chitchat (particularly for me because I´m nowhere near fluent in Spanish) and then Mario pulls up in a giant SUV. I finally get my first glance of the city. The buildings are bright but dilapidated, people are everywhere and it´s terrifying to see it from inside a care because traffic laws are more like traffic recommendations in Mexico. Cars weave in and out of right and left lanes, don´t slow for people or other automobiles, and gun it through traffic lights.

About an hour into the trip, it gets dark due to time and a rainstorm, so I can´t see enough to be nervous about the traffic. Instead, the thunder and wet roads scare me, as does the fact that our journey is taking much longer than I anticipated. My eyesight is already blurry due to problems with my contacts (and good-bye tears) which further inhibits my ability to see. I can´t understand the Spanish being spoken around me, so I enter a dreamy state whereby I occasionally chant to the American 70´s pop music being played on the radio.

I came out of it once we make it to Santa Fe, the neighborhood that we are staying in. The reason for the delay was due to the fact that a road was washed out by the rain. After dropping off our things at our house, we go to the Sisters´ home for dinner. Like a good sobrino, Mario spends a lot of time angling the car right beside doors, so that none of us will get wet. We have tortillas with the nuns and then attempt to go home--but the road where the sisters live is so steep and wet that Mario´s SUV can´t make it up the hill. After two attempts, we take an alternate route that adds 20 minutes to what should have been a three-minute ride.

Once we return to our house, I see a man in the window and immediately think ¨Wow, I know there´s crime here but who would have though someone would break in on the first day.¨ I embarrassed but touched to open the door and find that the man is one of several parishioners who have come to tidy up our house, clean up water from the leaky roof, bring food and decorate it with flowers. Exhausted, we all fall asleep quickly after they leave.
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Our house is simple, so the big, elaborate bouquets of roses and carnations seem out of place. Jessica and I decide that the are probably offers to the church or leftover from funerals and weddings. Though much work has been done on the house, it´s missing some stuff, that when I think about it, might make it easier for people to cohabit ate together. For example, my old roommates would always get mad at me for someone getting the bathroom floor soaked after my showers. In this house, there is no shower door or curtain, so the bathroom floor is always wet. I used to be irritated when my brother would leave the toilet seat up--there is no toilet seat here. People sharing laundry facilities are bothered when someone moves their stuff out of the washer to use it their selves--we have no washing machine or dryer.

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So far, our days have been spent paying visits. Sister Angela is a doctor so shes takes us to see patients and she also introduces us to neighbors. Parishioners have stopped by to see us, we get waved to church members when we are out walking and parish staff comes by to fix up our house. The sense of community here is very strong as is the presence of the Church. Yesterday we stopped at the the day care center where Jackie will be working as well as the center that the Missionaries of Charity run, where I will primarily work. Though the day care center is crowded with babies, toddlers and pre-school children, they are well-behaved and it´s very well-organized. There is a lot of joy there.

By contrast, I found the home run by Missionaries of Charity to be beautiful but somewhat depressing. It is a home for severely disabled woman, abandoned handicapped girls, and elderly women. Rooms are full of beds of people who have no one to take care of them. During my visit, Jessica translated for me, but when she had to leave she asked when of the mentally handicapped girls to show me the ropes. It was humbling but touching to have here take my hand and show me around. It was also heart-warming to see other disabled women tend to those who were bed-ridden. I admire the nuns who work there, and hope that there strength will rub off on me.

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I haven´t yet been here for a week and though I miss everyone, I don´t feel homesick yet. It still hasn´t quite sunk in that I will be gone for two years. Instead it feels like I did when I went to Germany and visited my friend Martina for a few weeks--I enjoyed experiencing her lifestyle and tagging along and meeting her friends, felt a little left out because I didn´t speak the language, but knew it would be over soon enough. That´s not the case here and I am hoping the first three months will be the hardest. I am looking forward to milestones to get through them--my birthday, Mexican Independence Day, the Day of the Dead, and Christmas. After that, I am hoping to feel more at home.

Chinatown to Mexico City

2008-08-20T15:23:00.000-07:00

While not quite the Silk Road, there is an element of exoticism and danger that pervades when traveling on Chinatown bus lines, services on the East Coast that take you from the Chinatown of one major city to the Chinatown of another major one. Last year, while living in Washington, DC, I frequently used this mode of transportation to visit my then boyfriend who was living in New York City. For about $15, I travelled among college students, Asians and the budget-conscious, chauffeured by driver who barely spoke English. The bus smelled of fried rice, contained overhead TVs that played erotic Japanese movies, and during rest stops I worried about making it back in time before the bus took off. The trip took about 4-8 hours depending on traffic and the level of comfort was often affected by whether or not the heater or air conditioner was working.

At first, I didn't mind the bus because I was having a great time visiting New York. Eventually, I came to find the mode of transportation tiresome and it seemed to exemplify how hard I had things. I asked myself, why couldn't I have a boyfriend who lived in the same city as me, why was it always me going out my way to see him, why couldn't I afford a more comfortable means of transportation, and why couldn't everyone just speak English?

Soon enough, those trips came to an end, but as a reminder I had a skirt that I had bought during a visit to the city. I wore it in one day to the mental health clinic where I was doing volunteer work. On this day, Dorothy (one of students,) was in a particularly social and chatty mood. (Her states of being were variable-sometimes she wore drab colors and gave one word responses to questions, other times she wore tons of makeup, flowery dresses and was full of curiosity.)

"I like your skirt," Dorothy said to me. "Where did you get it from?"

After I told her, her eyes widened in surprise and she said in awe, "I would love to go shopping in New York City."

I was about to say that it really wasn't a big deal, but then I realized how much of a big deal a lot of elements of my life that I took for granted and complained about would be to her. Dorothy didn't have the emotional stability to be in a romantic relationship , the confidence to take a long trip, or the extra funds to put toward unnecessary clothing or travel.

In talking with her, I was able to see how blessed I was in my own life and saw that I should appreciate the experiences that I had, particularly the ones I found daunting. Realizing how much I have makes me feel obligated to practice works of mercy.

As such, I'm going on this mission trip. Most people who have done the type of the volunteer work that I will be doing say that they get more out of the experience then do those they serve. The spirit of mission is to help those in other cultures or situations and to listen and learn from them. (The story of the Visitation is in this vein, as when the Virgin Mary goes to see her cousin Elizabeth, they are both with child and they provide comfort to one another.)

However, thinking that I must go to and will be changed by the less fortunate brings up a new conflict in me--I wonder if I am sanctimonious and arrogant in believing that I can make a difference and also if I am using others to feel better about myself.

I could spend lots of time mulling this or debating it with academics, but I've drawn upon faith to put my mind at ease. I believe that going to Mexico is the right decision for me and both others and myself will benefit from it.

But boy, will I miss the cheap steamed dumplings and veggie-fried rice, available all hours.

Into the Woods

2008-08-16T18:32:00.000-07:00

One Body

Lord cloak me in your love
Allow me to act weightlessly beneath it

Let the divine scent of coffee outside
Not reach my nose during Mass

When the celestial beeps of my alarm call me to prayer
Help me respond with grace

If a burning rash of mosquito bites appears on me
May I acknowledge the greatness of all your creatures

When frustrated with directions on the way to retreat
Remind me of the wise men finding their way to you

If there are times when the cloak comes loose,
and the stresses of scents, nature and hunger are allowed to reach me
Let me not shy away, but recognize it as an opportunity to see God

My poetic side came out this morning on retreat. The setting is beautiful mansion in a wooded area where we can watch deer run or sit reflectively by the lake. Today, Sister Bridget touched on some interesting topics, including a response to our concerns that there our so many problems in the world that we won't be able to help. She said that we have to remember that even Jesus was limited to his place and time, and to a certain amount of energy. Though we can't be everywhere, we can live and love as Jesus did.

She gave us the suggestion to reflect on our deepest desires spiritually (what we long and thirst for) and to put this into some creative form. So, I trudged of to the woods and tried to get lost in thought, but felt really tired....and the insects were biting me....I was kind of hungry....the sun was in my face. Which made me think about all the times when I feel like I should be paying attention to someone or trying to establish a connection with a person or God, but instead I am distracted by my physical needs. I realized, however, that as we're made in the image and likeliness of God, the moments when we are human are also moments when we are Godly. That's what I tried to get across in the above poem.

Sister also noted that all of us seemed tired from a week of classes and reminded us to check in with our needs and take time to relax. In that spirit, I'm off to have a glass of wine with the girls before heading to bed.

How I Spent My Feast of the Assumption Day

2008-08-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

Over the last few years, I've often found myself in situations where I have looked around and wondered "How exactly did I end up here?"

Last summer, a former assistant to the Pakistani ambassador invited me to their embassy to watch a famous singer perform. I was one of the only white faces among a crowd of diplomats and personnel with ties to the Middle Eastern country and I seemed to be the only person unfamiliar with the sitar. Still, it all felt glamorous and cosmopolitan, and after the show, I crowded into a black SUV along with a group of Pakistanis and we drove to a sheesha cafe. During the ride over, the driver played Pakistani and Indian folk songs, and while the rest of the passangers sang, wailed and danced along, my Singaporean roommate and I kept to ourselves, feeling as if we were what was wrong with the picture.

Three years prior to that, I had just moved to California, where I initally had no friends other than my sister. I went on a few dates with a friend of my landlord's, a guy named Ahmad, who was in his mid-20's of Chinese-Iranian descent. On our third outing, he took me to a family party where we were the only adults under 40. His mother and her sisters drank lots of wine and danced, while I nibbled at Persian food that I hoped was vegetarian. Ahmad's relatives winked at me and said how nice it was to see Ahmad with a girl and I spent most of the evening trying not get pulled into the circle of dancing women.

During my study abroad trip to Australia, after spending a whole night awake at pubs and clubs, one of my friends (Peter) said that he was taking a three-hour drive to a beach town that morning, and could use some company if anyone wanted to come along. Most of the crew bowed out, but my best American friend (Tracie) and I decided we'd love to go for a swim. We chatted excitedly on the way up, and once we reached Bunbury we went to the beach while Peter attended to his business. Tracie and I fell asleep on the beach four hours later-- hungry, dehydrated and suffering from third-degree sunburns. More than wondering how we ended up there, we asked ourselves what we had been thinking (particularly during the next painful week.)

I had another "How did I end up here?" moment this afternoon when I had lunch at the retirement village with the sisters of the Incarnate Word. It actually seemed very natural to attend mass there (for the Feast of the Assumption), congratulate the nuns who were celebrating their anniversaries with the order and then to eat and mingle in the cafeteria with the retired nuns and lay people who live at the community.

Meghan (the assistant program director) complimented me afterwards on branching out beyond the missionary group and approaching strangers with my tray of food and joining them for a meal. (Fish, no surprise.) It was ironic because in high school, I was the girl who was alone at lunch because I didn't have friends to sit with, and I often hung out in the library or stayed late after class studying in order to avoid the embarrassment of being alone.

Reflecting on this made me realize that I have come a long way since childhood in terms of my ability to put myself out there in potentially uncomfortable or awkward situations. I had a "How did I end I up here?" moment when I realized that most of my friends in their late-20s are in offices on Friday afternoons and not socializing at a retirement center along with a few girls just out of college. (Except for Meghan of course, but it's her job.)

When having such moments, it's best not to analyze what brought you into the situation. Sing, dance or smile along, or find someone to chat with, and don't worry about what else you should be doing. This was the message that I got out of a video that Meghan played this morning that documented the experiences of modern-day Catholic missionaries.

"It's best not to think too much on your motivations for being here," said a missionary in Thailand. "Instead, focus on being here and doing God's work."

There are many reasons as to whyI joined this program, ranging from wanting to save the world, to wanting to travel and change my surroundings. I have learned that once I am in Mexico everything may be different than I anticipated--I may not feel utilized or necessary and I could get fed up with poverty, bugs and cold showers.

If that happens, my goal is to forget about how I ended up there and what I expected, and to become absorbed in making the most of the situation. All of my past awkward situations may just have been homework for the test to come.

However, I'm not too worried about being able to weather difficulties. After all ,Sister Magdalena--the little, 82-year old nun who loves Ice Cream Fridays and was sitting across from me today-recently returned from a two-year stint in Peru. If my new friends could handle mission work, then I should be able to too, and I know I'll be getting their prayers of support.

Just Visiting?

2008-08-12T14:55:00.000-07:00

Like many young women, I'm a fan of Jane Austen, the 19th century novelist whose heroines encounter social tribulations and exciting scoundrels as they search for love. The characters mostly lead sheltered lives and are concerned with balls, gossip, friendships, and travelling before they end up with proper husbands.

As we paid a call to Visitation House (a home/program that the Sisters have created that enables homeless families to obtain housing and work) yesterday, I felt a bit like the title character of Austen's novel Emma. In this book, Emma- a young, charming, well-to-do women- spends much of her time paying visits to others and some of her time embarking on charitable or other well-intended causes. Like her, I am now in a comfortable place, (I still have the luxuries that other Americans do) I spend free time mingling with others and attending dinners, and yesterday, I went on a visit to learn more about a social cause.

Driving up to to the home reinforced the notion that I had stepped back in time a few centuries. The large, white two-story house has columns and wrap-around porches on both floors. Inside, the house is clean and furnished with wooden furniture, soft couches and a formal dining table.

Sister explained that Visitation House was established around 30 years ago in response to the Church's calling for a preferential option for the poor. (As I understand it, this basically means attending to the neediest.) Visitation House was influenced by the Catholic Worker movement, and began as a place where the homeless could obtain emergency shelter for an indefinite period. The house was always crowded and helped to alleviate the burdens of those in bad situations. However, staff members noticed that many people would seemingly get off their feet and leave, only to return again in a few years. The face of homelessness began to change as well as many young (oftentimes abused) mothers sought shelter, while previously the majority of homeless were men with drug, social and/or mental problems.

Visitation House evolved into a program whereby young woman and their children could receive temporary shelter for a few months and then move into an apartment complex next door for two years. During that time they set reasonable goals to be educated (obtaining a GED, associates degree, or another form of training) and learn other financial, coping and life skills. There is a tutoring program for the women as well as well as for their children.

I was very impressed by the sanctuary that has been set up for homeless as well as the tangible results of the program. (Grown children whose mothers benefited from the program have shown up at the door of Visitation House with advanced degrees of their own.) It is one of the many different ways in which I've learned about people helping others. While I admire these workers, I have also had my eyes opened to all of the people in need. I hope to be someone who is consistent in addressing the neediest.

This concern is another way in which I felt like Emma. In the novel, she is complimented on her efforts to do good works, but she brushes it off saying that she needs to do such things now- while the desire is there -because in a few years she my not feel compelled to do anything. I worry that after my mission experience, I'll get boggled down in everyday life and forget about helping others.

Complicating my little head is that upon returning from Visitation House I read a few articles on Catholic social teaching (we'll have a lesson next week) and I learned that committing acts of charity are not enough to address the problems of those in need. It may be a band-aid, but one really must work to change the social structures that exist that keep people down. (For example donating $100 to the sick might help someone in the short-term but questioning why the sick don't have access/can't afford health care is more beneficial in the long run.)

Fostering long-term stability was a goal of Visitation House when they changed their program from a shelter to a program that enables long-term education. At first, hearing about the change bothered me a little because while the program as it exists now is wonderful ,an emergency shelter open for anyone at anytime is also amazing and vital. However, I can see how the shift was compatible with social teaching. (As part of their ministry, the sisters address those who need emergency help by providing information a multitude of resources at all hours.)

While it may be easy for me to make these next few years simply a break from the routine, I am hoping that they will be a stepping stone that forces me to change my lifestyle and way of thinking. Like an Austen heroine, concerns over finding love may have been a priority over the last few years, and I could use distract myself with acts of charity in Mission before embarking on my 'real life' again. However, I am living in a different time period than Austen and have the opportunity and obligation to take on weightier concerns than simply paying visits to those in need.

Missions, Mass, Music

2008-08-10T14:21:00.000-07:00

When I saw Missions Game on our orientation itinerary for Saturday night, I was a little nervous because I thought we missionaries would be pitted against each other in bizarre competitions. I imagined being quizzed on Bible verses, races back from the river carrying buckets of water, and an intense arroz con frijoles cook-off.

As it turns out, the Missions Game entailed sitting in the sun, drinking beer, eating peanuts and watching the San Antonio Missions play the Arkansas Travelers. Meghan is a huge fan of baseball, so she loaded us into the van and took us to the stadium to watch a minor league game.

First thing we did was have our picture taken with the giant H & B Grocery Bag Mascot.

Here are Courtney and I in the stands:

These are some shots of the game:

This may have been our last time seeing a live baseball game for a while, and was nice American activity. However, it had a Texas flair to it as there was a giant Jalapeno mascot running around and the concession stand sold "pickle pops"--frozen pickle juice. Unfortunately the Missions lost 2-4, but we enjoyed fireworks at the end.

Sunday may be the Lord's Day, but it felt rather ungodly this morning as I woke up at 6:30 to go to San Fernando Cathedral. We attended a special mass for missionaries and the spirited, bilingual service helped to awaken me. In the gospel, Peter walked on water toward Jesus, but began to sink and feel frightened until Jesus caught him. It was appropriate for missionaries, as we may be walking on unfamiliar territory, but can rely on Jesus's support. Here are some shots from the cathedral:

After Mass was another first--tacos for breakfast in the Cathedral Courtyard. Then, Sister Martha took us on a tour in which we explored artwork in the city. Sister Martha has long reddish hair, wore a bright, flowing purple dress and a simple wooden cross. She reminded me of a 60's flowers-child and she gave a post-modern, feminist, peace-loving tour of the city. We visited the Cathedral's museum to see its history and went to a huge Mexican restaurant decorated with colorful murals. Inside of Charity Hospital, we saw pictures depicting its history. Outside the hospital, we went to a park where those interested in drawing attention to social justice issues often gather and we viewed this mural:

We ended the day with a visit to a colorful Mexican-style marketplace where a band played outdoors, children drank slushy fruit drinks, and vendors sold dresses, sculptures, hats and all kinds of other glittery things.

Finally, we returned back to MACC to make Sunday a much needed day or rest.

Friday Night Spirits

2008-08-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

I had had few experiences with nuns before beginning this trip, and I used to think that they spend of their time in chapels-occasionally making it out to attend Mass and teach school- and that they wear dark robes. I have since learned that those black habits and cloaks became optional after Vatican II, that only cloistered nuns spend most of their time in prayer, and that they all lead diverse, dynamic lives. This week, I met a Bohemian sister who lives at a retreat center, serves as a spiritual director, teachers art and Tao Chi, and spends her spare time writing. Another was a clinical psychologist dressed in a practical suit who was able to make insights as to how a group of young women she had just met would get along as roommates. There was also a down-to-earth sister who has set up a global program to empower and raise funds for underprivileged women.

I was able to spend even more time bonding with the Sisters when we visited the convent this tnight to have dinner with our spiritual companions. Our spiritual companions will pray for and listen to us and be with us in spirit while we are in mission. We all got to know each other by relaxing on comfy couches and chairs, munching on macaroni salad and sandwiches and chitchatting about creative cakes, snow in Texas, growing up in a funeral home and struggling to learn Spanish.

Jane remarked that the event reminded her of a sorority rush in college. I never rushed, but this past week has reminded me of my first few weeks of college. (I had five roommates freshman year.) Once again, I have been placed together with a group of strange young women and I am absorbing a new environment with them.

However, it's completely different from college in that what's missing is the presence of booze, boys, cigarette breaks, designer clothes, and looming deadlines. We've been stripped of crutches and distractions preventing us from knowing each other, ourselves and God. It's been a very relaxing and healthy period.

In a spirituality lecture today, I learned that vices common in college are actually a form of bad spirituality. I was confused by this because I thought all spirituality was good. In actuality, spirituality is a response to a longing within ourselves to know God. We can have habits that can be manifested healthily in order to know Him, or unhealthily in order to cover up that longing.

Healthy spirituality is developed through God and people. I found it interesting to learn that doing religious acts like prayer and going to church will not make us closer to God because we already close to Him. Instead we need to be aware of His presence and His love. As humans, we are full of divine energy and accepting this leads to healthy spirituality.

Admittedly, this topic is confusing to me and I don't fully understand it. If I were in college writing a paper on it, I would need to take a break and have a snack/grab a drink/talk to the guy across the hall and then delve into it more. However, I was able to find peace tonight simply by sitting with a groups of nuns and sipping lemonade with them, and I know that time will bring all the insights I need.

Girls' Night Out

2008-08-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

Remember the Alamo? I didn't. I learned about the San Antonio fortress/mission in elementary school, but neither me or my fellow missionaries could recall many details about the events that had taken place there. As we were getting a little cabin fever from being inside the gated MAC Center, we decided it was time to get some history by taking a trip to the city. The nine of us girls piled into a big, white unmarked van, driven by our small, blond assistant program director and we strolled into the streets of Texas---after flying through the HOV lane, circling for parking and cramming the van into a tiny space.

Here's the Alamo:

It's located right in the midst of downtown and not out in the desert as I anticipated. The story goes that in 1835, about 200 Texans fought here against 6,000 Mexicans during the Texas Revolution. Davey Crockett was one of the Texas soldiers. Texas lost brutally, but there heroism was not forgotten and "Remember the Alamo" became a battle cry that eventually helped Texas to win the war.

We were hungry after all that education, so we went to eat at an Italian restaurant on the Riverwalk. Here I am with Meghan (our director), Jessica, Mary, Clare, and Nicole.

The last trio of girls of are from Ireland. Mary and Clare will be staying in San Antonio while Nicole is off to Guatemala. I know Iam in for a culture shock when I go to Mexico, but imagine the surprise that Mary must have felt, when she, a women from Ireland in her mid-20s', was denied a drink. Her driver's license is paper and the restaurant wouldn't accept it. Still it was great food, with portions big enough to feed the Texas army.

Here we are on the stairs of the Riverwalk, along with a photo the river. I'm in front with the Irish girls behind me. Then there's Jessica (who'll be my roomie in Mexico) and then Courtney who's going to Peru. Next there's Jackie who is also on her way to Mexico followed by Jane and Julie who will be in a Peru.

After a big night out, we returned to MACC and took a dip in the seminarian's pool. As the seminarians are mostly on retreat, we were spared the potential awkwardness of a run-in with them. The bats that had been skimming the water the other night were nowhere in sight, so it was a relaxing end to the day.

It's All In the Numbers

2008-08-06T16:00:00.000-07:00

If you are reading this blog entry, be glad I managed to post it because I have a passion toward laziness. Also, I tend to confuse easily, so it's surprising that I could even remember the password to my blogger account in order to post it.

Today I received some insight into my personality through the use of an Enneagram personality system. The origin of the Enneagram as a personality tool is uncertain, but it is thought to have been developed thousands of years ago by the Sufi tribe. Basically, this system classifies people into nine different types of personalities which are points on an enneagram (a nine-sided polygram). Each category has positive and negative traits, and when a person is at his, best he will project the positive attributes of his number. Sometimes a person can have "wings" or secondary attributes, but when a person is his true self or stripped of his crutches and cloaks, he will project only the traits of his primary number. These are the nine traits:

1. Reformer/Perfectionist--Does everything right

2. Helper/Giver--Attains to the needs of others

3. Performer/Status Seeker--Needs to achieve

4. Artist/Romantic--Must be special and unique

5. Thinker--Wants to understand everything

6. Skeptic/Loyal Friend--Wants security and approval

7. Enthusiast/Epicure--Seeks adventure and happiness

8. Leader--Values power and strength

9. Peacemaker--Wants union with others

Each number directly connects to two other numbers. To move in a positive direction, a person will pick up the healthy traits of one connecting number, but can also go in a negative direction and pick up the unhealthy traits of another number.

Enneagram:

Listening to this in class, it all seemed a bit hokey. But, I went along with it because I am pretty open-minded. That's one of the good traits that others have pointed out within me, along with patience and friendliness. However, I cringe when people say that I withhold or don't formulate opinions and that I am slow to respond because I know this to be true of myself.

However, when we came to number Nine, I became a believer a Enneagrams because I saw my personality. Nines seek union with others, want peace, and avoid conflict with others. At their best, nines are nice, good-natured and empathic. Typically, they can be too easygoing and are unresponsive. At their worst, they are repressed, withdrawn and don't take action.

This relates to mission life in that if we can learn more about our personality and the personalities of others around us, we won't begrudge negative traits and can learn to counteract weaknesses. Personally, I think that following the Enneagram led me here.

Eight months ago, I felt stagnant in many areas; career, relationships and spiritual growth. I was showing the tendencies of a nine at its inefficient worst and wasn't facing my unhappiness about my situation. In order to better myself, I took on the positive traits of three (a performer). Threes challenge themselves, focus on self-improvement and accomplishment and do things that get attention.

I have learned that once I go to Mexico and into Mission life it can be positive to be naturally laid-back Nine because life is more slow-paced. I'll need to take time to talk and learn from others instead of instantly trying to help. Still, I may have to take on the traits of Three in order to make an impact and avoid withdrawing from others. For the next few years, I may bounce around between numbers, but at my core, I am a child of God and everything will get figured out.

Love and Chocolate

2008-08-05T11:15:00.000-07:00

"I'm just a regular person," says Ray the MAC Center cook while we stand in the kitchen after lunch. Ray is over 6 feet tall, stocky, and deeply tanned as he just returned from a vacation in Italy. He his in his late 20's and wears a backwards basketball cap along with baggy, colorful, pajama-like pants and a long apron. I am attempting to make small talk with him and have just asked if he lives on the property.

"I'm not like a priest or seminarian or anything. I'm just a normal guy. I've got my own place," he says.

Though he may not live on the grounds, I can tell he is a valued member of the MACCC community. He often sits and chats with the priests and seminarians who live across the street and eat their meals at the center. Staff members go out of their way to thank him for food and rave about their favorite dishes. He jokes and banters with others who work in the kitchen.

He has also endeared himself to the the nine of us missionaries. The other night, he showed us where to find a stash of chocolate-chip cookies offered us cereal and chips anytime the need should arrive. At one lunch, Julie, a vegetarian, asked him if there were any meat products in the rice and beans on the buffet. Since then he has gone out of his way to prepare big meals just for her.

What really won us over now serves as one of our biggest temptations. At one dinner, the girls here from Ireland were craving chocolate, so after eating they asked Ray where they might find a sweets shop. He told them not to go anywhere and instead gave them a massive bag of M & Ms that we are now struggling to finish or resist, depending on who you ask.

His kindness is especially meaningful as we prepare for mission. In one class, Sister Carol Ann told us that once we reach our destinations, we are going to encounter trash, poverty, pollution and crowds. In order to survive, we most become engaged with the people around us and find beauty within them.

Ray has had no reason to go out of his way for us, even though all the missionaries are friendly. However, he is making us feel part of the community at which we are temporarily residing and he is helping us all feel better about being far away from home.

Sister Carol Ann's advice on people came in the contest of a lesson on spirituality. It's one I have heard before but often forget; we are loved by God simply because we exist. God will never turn away from us and his love is not something we earn or deserve.

Jesus loved us unconditionally and we learned that though he may be gone, we can act as his hands and feet and do good works. Like Ray, we may just be regular people doing everyday tasks, but we can bring comfort and love to others.

My Future Plans...

2008-08-03T22:00:00.000-07:00

As a freshman at George Washington U., I woke up early in the morning to work on Capitol Hill and sat in while national policy was being debated. A year after graduation, I found myself staying up until early in the morning while staff members at the bar where at I worked discussed whether it's best to use gin or vodka in martinis. (Vodka won, with a twist.)

I've always struggled to figure out what to do career wise. This uncertainty has given me an eclectic resume (congressional intern, cocktail waitress, reporter, interactive analyst) and allowed me to write colorful cover letters for job applications. Invariably, I have found myself at interviews trying to smile and come up with clever answers, all the while looking around a cramped office thinking "Do I really want to sit here day after day?"

I've had dreams of avoiding these trappings by becoming a famous actress or big shot politician. However, the people I truly admire are those who are out there quietly serving the needy and God, people we rarely here about. The altruistic part of me had sometimes contemplated a similar path, but I brushed the desire aside thinking it would be to hard to leave the people and material comforts in my life behind. At the same time, I've had a desire to be like the people who drop everything to travel the world and immerse themselves in new cultures. I've never been brave enough (or perhaps I'm too American) to do this.

However, during my last round of job interviews I felt a calling that has put me on a path whereby I'll have a chance to live like those I look up to. For the next two years, I'll be living in Mexico City, Mexico as a lay missionary with the Incarnate Word Missionaries, a group sponsored by Catholic nuns. Right now, I am at a three-week orientation attending classes covering a range of topics including the history of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word, cross- cultural issues, missiology and Catholic social teaching. I am in staying at the Mexican American Cultural Center (MACC) along with eight other women who will be going to various parts of the world. I feel blessed by this opportunity and will keep you all updated on my journey. Upon sharing my plans with others, there have been lost of questions, so I'll take this time to answer the most common one regarding my future plans; though I am in awe of and have an incredible amount of respect for those who have taken religious vows, I do not intend on becoming a nun.