Mission Accomplished

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.