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.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Filling Out
Work is going pretty typically in the morning--I am outside pushing Gaby along in her wheelchair-- when I catch sight of my reflection in a window. Typically, a glimpse of myself is surprising as we have no full-length mirrors in our house. It is especially jarring this time as what our house does have is peanut butter and chocolate from the United States, and I have spent the last week consuming these items. ¨I can stand to lose a few pounds,¨ I think to myself.
I walk several times up one of Santa Fe´s giant hills during my afternoon break and then head back to work. An old woman with long gray braids and a brown, leathery face stops me and asks for anything--work, money and other items I don´t comprehend. It´s actually a situation I don´t encounter often since everyone is hard off and they would have more luck begging in rich areas.
¨Do you need food?¨ I ask her.
¨Si,¨ she says and then goes into a litany of what more she lacks. I tell her that I am on my way to a house of nuns who give out dispensas (pantry food) and they could probably give one to her. I want to lead her to aid to her that is more long-term than a few pesos, but to be truthful, I also don´t want the burden of dealing with her by myself.
She agrees to come with me, and as we walk, I have to remember that she is not a problem but a person. I force myself to walk at her pace and I ask her questions like her name (Amy) and if she has children.
When we arrive at the Sisters´ house, the door-guard won´t let Amy in and says she is always going door-to-door begging. I go inside and tell Sister Beth about her and she replies¨Yes, I´ll go take care of it. Thank you.¨
From there I am seemingly done with and can go about being with the girls, but I have an internal debate in my head. Why am I only comfortable around the poor when I´m in a delegated area? Isn´t Amy just as looked over as those inside the house who I´m visiting? I go outside with Amy on the doorstep and wait. Volunteers, priests, and nuns troop in and out and community members walk past us.
Generally, a lot of people come in to visit from outside of Santa Fe. There are college girls who are skinny, pretty and well-dressed. As I am likely to wear something to work that I also wore to bed, I feel frumpy next to them. There are rich women who have free afternoons since they have married well or retired from good jobs. They show up in cars driven by chauffeurs and carry bags of gifts. I think that I would´t mind living that kind of life. Sometimes, they all make me want to clean up my personal presentation and put more effort into my appearance. But as I am also surrounded by people whose own bodies have failed them and who would have nothing except for charity, I realize how blessed I am the way I am.
However, today I am wearing baggy sweatpants, a few layers of t-shirts, and carrying a misshapen bag of books that I brought to read to the children. Sitting alongside Amy, I wonder if people are mistaking us for a homeless granddaughter and grandmother and I am a little embarrassed. I also feel as if I am burdening the nuns and am inadequate compared to them as they are spending their lives devoted to the poor. I contemplate giving up everything the way they have (and then would put no thought into my clothing.)
At least, I should have tried to do more for Amy, since I am the one from a rich country. I remind myself that my family donates money to Catholic charities such as the one that the nuns run and that people in the United States give lots of money to the Missionaries of Charity. Thus the nuns owe it to me to give aid. This may be what if takes to actually beg--you have to talk yourself into a sense of entitlement.
Sister Beth comes out, assesses Amy and says ¨We give her a dispensa every month. We know her well. I´ll get something for her.¨
The guardsman tells me that Amy is from a really rough neighborhood, where everyone is on drugs all the time. Since she regularly receives food, I wonder if her children have forced her to go begging to support their drug habits or if she needs money to fund things like electricity and water bills. I am lacking in knowledge of things that could help me help her—of the Spanish language for one, and of social services available. My mind circles with with things that I should do to really bring about change that could benefit her—become a lawyer, a human rights crusader, an international development worker.
Sister Beth comes back with a few items of food and a small bag of hard candies. Amy insists on giving me a butterscotch and says she´d like to continue to listen to the children´s stories I have been reading. So after a introspective struggle about what my place in the world should be, it seems that I have only found what my place is for the moment—on the ground, reading kids´ books to a strange old lady while sucking on candy.
Though Amy may be taking advantage of people, there must be a loneliness to her life if she has no one to go to for help and she is constantly rejected by people. I hope I bring her a little comfort by reading. When we finish, she asks more for a few pesos. So maybe she was just sitting through the books in order to get more money. Wanting to invite her to my house, but not wanting her there, I tell her I´ll be at evening Mass and she agrees to come as well. (She doesn´t show.)
That evening, Jessica and I visit the Sisters of the Incarnate Word who live in Santa. Outside their door is Lupita, a neighbor who is addicted to drugs. She comes inside with us, reeking of chemicals, and eats tacos. Cessy and Nikko joke with her and seem quite comfortable with her. ¨Lupita look at me—you´re high,¨ says Nikko while laughing.
Lupita is in a chatty, amiable mood—due to the drugs, Cessy later says. Lupita looks at Jessica and I wistfully and remarks how pretty we are. She tells me that I look how she did when she was well. Now, she is skin and bones, dirty and bruised. Lupita says that she used to be gorda (fat) though Jess assures me she means it in a healthy, filled-out sense rather than in the manner I was worried about in the morning.
For about twenty years, I have been concerned about my weight and how I appear to others. I´ve seen tons of articles in magazines and on the Internet offering tips on how to not eat so much and how to win friends. What I really need now is advice on how to provide to others and befriend those no one wants to be around, but those sorts of readings are hard to find. Like many other people, I dwell on personal problems within myself to fix, perhaps because it´s easier than trying to face problems in the outside world. It´s here that I am slowly receiving a new education, and though hard, this is a good way to grow.
I walk several times up one of Santa Fe´s giant hills during my afternoon break and then head back to work. An old woman with long gray braids and a brown, leathery face stops me and asks for anything--work, money and other items I don´t comprehend. It´s actually a situation I don´t encounter often since everyone is hard off and they would have more luck begging in rich areas.
¨Do you need food?¨ I ask her.
¨Si,¨ she says and then goes into a litany of what more she lacks. I tell her that I am on my way to a house of nuns who give out dispensas (pantry food) and they could probably give one to her. I want to lead her to aid to her that is more long-term than a few pesos, but to be truthful, I also don´t want the burden of dealing with her by myself.
She agrees to come with me, and as we walk, I have to remember that she is not a problem but a person. I force myself to walk at her pace and I ask her questions like her name (Amy) and if she has children.
When we arrive at the Sisters´ house, the door-guard won´t let Amy in and says she is always going door-to-door begging. I go inside and tell Sister Beth about her and she replies¨Yes, I´ll go take care of it. Thank you.¨
From there I am seemingly done with and can go about being with the girls, but I have an internal debate in my head. Why am I only comfortable around the poor when I´m in a delegated area? Isn´t Amy just as looked over as those inside the house who I´m visiting? I go outside with Amy on the doorstep and wait. Volunteers, priests, and nuns troop in and out and community members walk past us.
Generally, a lot of people come in to visit from outside of Santa Fe. There are college girls who are skinny, pretty and well-dressed. As I am likely to wear something to work that I also wore to bed, I feel frumpy next to them. There are rich women who have free afternoons since they have married well or retired from good jobs. They show up in cars driven by chauffeurs and carry bags of gifts. I think that I would´t mind living that kind of life. Sometimes, they all make me want to clean up my personal presentation and put more effort into my appearance. But as I am also surrounded by people whose own bodies have failed them and who would have nothing except for charity, I realize how blessed I am the way I am.
However, today I am wearing baggy sweatpants, a few layers of t-shirts, and carrying a misshapen bag of books that I brought to read to the children. Sitting alongside Amy, I wonder if people are mistaking us for a homeless granddaughter and grandmother and I am a little embarrassed. I also feel as if I am burdening the nuns and am inadequate compared to them as they are spending their lives devoted to the poor. I contemplate giving up everything the way they have (and then would put no thought into my clothing.)
At least, I should have tried to do more for Amy, since I am the one from a rich country. I remind myself that my family donates money to Catholic charities such as the one that the nuns run and that people in the United States give lots of money to the Missionaries of Charity. Thus the nuns owe it to me to give aid. This may be what if takes to actually beg--you have to talk yourself into a sense of entitlement.
Sister Beth comes out, assesses Amy and says ¨We give her a dispensa every month. We know her well. I´ll get something for her.¨
The guardsman tells me that Amy is from a really rough neighborhood, where everyone is on drugs all the time. Since she regularly receives food, I wonder if her children have forced her to go begging to support their drug habits or if she needs money to fund things like electricity and water bills. I am lacking in knowledge of things that could help me help her—of the Spanish language for one, and of social services available. My mind circles with with things that I should do to really bring about change that could benefit her—become a lawyer, a human rights crusader, an international development worker.
Sister Beth comes back with a few items of food and a small bag of hard candies. Amy insists on giving me a butterscotch and says she´d like to continue to listen to the children´s stories I have been reading. So after a introspective struggle about what my place in the world should be, it seems that I have only found what my place is for the moment—on the ground, reading kids´ books to a strange old lady while sucking on candy.
Though Amy may be taking advantage of people, there must be a loneliness to her life if she has no one to go to for help and she is constantly rejected by people. I hope I bring her a little comfort by reading. When we finish, she asks more for a few pesos. So maybe she was just sitting through the books in order to get more money. Wanting to invite her to my house, but not wanting her there, I tell her I´ll be at evening Mass and she agrees to come as well. (She doesn´t show.)
That evening, Jessica and I visit the Sisters of the Incarnate Word who live in Santa. Outside their door is Lupita, a neighbor who is addicted to drugs. She comes inside with us, reeking of chemicals, and eats tacos. Cessy and Nikko joke with her and seem quite comfortable with her. ¨Lupita look at me—you´re high,¨ says Nikko while laughing.
Lupita is in a chatty, amiable mood—due to the drugs, Cessy later says. Lupita looks at Jessica and I wistfully and remarks how pretty we are. She tells me that I look how she did when she was well. Now, she is skin and bones, dirty and bruised. Lupita says that she used to be gorda (fat) though Jess assures me she means it in a healthy, filled-out sense rather than in the manner I was worried about in the morning.
For about twenty years, I have been concerned about my weight and how I appear to others. I´ve seen tons of articles in magazines and on the Internet offering tips on how to not eat so much and how to win friends. What I really need now is advice on how to provide to others and befriend those no one wants to be around, but those sorts of readings are hard to find. Like many other people, I dwell on personal problems within myself to fix, perhaps because it´s easier than trying to face problems in the outside world. It´s here that I am slowly receiving a new education, and though hard, this is a good way to grow.
Little Angel
A few days back from vacation, I ask the physical therapist at work about one of the little girls I haven´t seen since before leaving.
¨Donde Angelita?¨ (Where is Angelita?)
¨En cielo.¨ (In heaven)
The news is sad, but not too surprising. At eight, Angelita was among the oldest children as well as one of the sickest. Her head bulged out abnormally as if she had a tumor on the right side of her head (I think she had a condition called hydrocephalus, which I learned about in high school anatomy) and she couldn´t talk or walk.
Despite her deformity, Angelita had a beautiful smile that literally took over her face. She sat most of the time in a special chair, rapidly blinking her eyes and occasionally giggling at something--babies, noises or toys. Once, when I was throwing rubber balls into a playpen while cleaning up, Angelita started laughing at the site of the flying objects. From then on, when I remembered and had time, I would throw the balls in the air in order to entertain her. It was a good feeling that my simple actions could produce so much joy.
Still, Angelita was easy to overlook. She wasn´t cuddly and prone to jumping on visitors the way the toddlers are, and she wasn´t a tiny object crying like the babies who seem so in need of being held. When it came time to bring the kids to the lunch area, Angelita was usually the last one carried out due to the effort it took to lift her. I would hold her on my lap, but not to often since she was heavy and sometimes soiled me.
There wasn´t too much happiness in her life and I know her future would have been painful. I miss her now that she isn´t here but know she is in a better place. I picture her as continuously smiling while her eyelashes bat like the the wings of butterflies, as she is encompassed by the love that escaped her on Earth.
¨Donde Angelita?¨ (Where is Angelita?)
¨En cielo.¨ (In heaven)
The news is sad, but not too surprising. At eight, Angelita was among the oldest children as well as one of the sickest. Her head bulged out abnormally as if she had a tumor on the right side of her head (I think she had a condition called hydrocephalus, which I learned about in high school anatomy) and she couldn´t talk or walk.
Despite her deformity, Angelita had a beautiful smile that literally took over her face. She sat most of the time in a special chair, rapidly blinking her eyes and occasionally giggling at something--babies, noises or toys. Once, when I was throwing rubber balls into a playpen while cleaning up, Angelita started laughing at the site of the flying objects. From then on, when I remembered and had time, I would throw the balls in the air in order to entertain her. It was a good feeling that my simple actions could produce so much joy.
Still, Angelita was easy to overlook. She wasn´t cuddly and prone to jumping on visitors the way the toddlers are, and she wasn´t a tiny object crying like the babies who seem so in need of being held. When it came time to bring the kids to the lunch area, Angelita was usually the last one carried out due to the effort it took to lift her. I would hold her on my lap, but not to often since she was heavy and sometimes soiled me.
There wasn´t too much happiness in her life and I know her future would have been painful. I miss her now that she isn´t here but know she is in a better place. I picture her as continuously smiling while her eyelashes bat like the the wings of butterflies, as she is encompassed by the love that escaped her on Earth.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Swine Flu By
As a university student in Washington DC, I should have been in the city during the 9-11 attacks. Instead, I happened to be studying abroad in Perth, Australia. While my fellow students fled from campus after a plane crashed into the Pentagon and lived through an anthrax scare, I dealt with the shock from halfway across the world and returned to a much different America.
I´ve discovered that I have a knack for avoiding being around crises of that incite global fear. Three weeks ago, I left for the United States to vacation, and during my first day home, news of the swine flu was everywhere. At first I was skeptical that it would amount to anything more then a weekend story. Though pictures of Mexicans wearing face masks bombarded television, I assured my family that masks are commonly worn in the country due to pollution and smog.
Reports of the swine flu escalted--and so did my tempature. Throughout the month of April I had felt run-down and believed I had mononucleosis. My symptoms were flu-like and my family joked that I was a carrier of the swine flu.
Unfortunately, my family is a bit neurotic, and being around them probably inspired more fear than if I had actually been in Mexico City. My sister forbade me from touching her personal items and shooed me away from my niece. My father took the opportunity to ask me where I would like to be buried and what sort of funeral I´d like.
I decided medical advice wouldn´t hurt and set about calling clinics for a mononucleosis test. Upon hearing my symptoms and my symptoms and Mexico City mentioned, receptions advised me to head for the hospital.
I checked into the emergency room and was given a face mask to wear. The attendent told me that the hospital was full of people worried about swine flu, but I recieved a little special treatment due to my place of residency.
Though the E.R.. hallway was full of both elderly and bleeding people, I was put into a private isolated room. Two doctors came in to speak with me, and while the concluded that I probably didn´t have swine flu, CDC regulations required them to test me. They also advised me against returning to Mexico anytime soon.
A nurse came in to draw blood for a mono test. ¨ It´ll proably take about an hour and a half,¨ he said. ¨I´ll be back¨
¨So I should leave and return?¨ I asked.
¨No, you´re supposed to wait here, I think. But I´ll check on that.¨
Then one doctor came in for a mucus swab, which is basically done by sticking two q-tips up ones´ naval cavaties. I flet like my eyeballs were going to be gouged out.
After the doctor left, I waited for someone to tell me if I could leave and come back. After about an hour, I realized I was waiting for results. I flipped through my Spanish book, which was the only reading material I brought because I wanted to force myself to study. It helped me fall asleep.
At one point a nurse came to the door with a wheelchair-bounc patient in tow. ¨Oh,¨she said, startled to see me. ¨Are you supposed to be here? Do they know you´re here.¨
¨I think so,¨ I said. ¨I hope.¨ She went to check things out, leaving me wondering if there was a misunderstanding and I could have left hours earlier. I imagined trying to leave and having spacesuit-wearing government employees grab and sequester me.
Finally, four hours after samples were taken, the doctor came to tell me she hadn´t forgotten me and would come back soon with results. Forty-five minutes, I was declared free of swine flu (and mono.)
I ended up extending my stay in the United States for a few days before nervously going back to Mexico City. I was heartened by reports that the virus wasn´t nearly as bad as originally thought and that one would be okay by taking basic precautions like washing your hands and avoiding unnessary touching.
One of the first things I did once home was to stop by the parish. Guillito was so exicted that he grabbed me, squeezed me and covered me with kisses. He showed more exuberance over my return to Mexico than anyone did upon seeing me in the States. Guillito is a 76 year-old chain smoker and while telling me about his fears that I would never return and his plan to go to the United States to fetch me, he coughed with his trademark hack. Though touched by how much he cares, I was also concerned by the fact that his excited declarations caused spit to fall out of his mouth and onto my face.
Then it was off to Mass, though first I greeted everyone I hadn´t seen in weeks with hugs and kisses. The service was a bit different than usual as hosts were token by the hands of recipents rather than the tongue and there was no sign-of-the peace (the period during Mass when hands are shaken.)
After Mass, I ate tacos with everyone in the parish kitchen. There were plenty of tortillas to grab from a communal pile in order to assemble diner, but soap was missing. I rubbed my hands with lime before eating because it is supposed to be a natural disinfectant. During dinner Antonio--the handicapped, previously homeless man who Padre has given a place to live--sat next to me and, as always, coughed without covering his mouth.
Normally, I pride myself as being rather go-with-the-flow and accepting of the circumstances around me, but my return put me on edge. Everything I had heard in the States was being disregarded and I felt as if I was wallowing around in a giant petri dish of bacteria.
Padre comforted me by saying that the swine flu was mostly hype. He thinks it was exaggerated by the Mexican government to keep people from protesting economic conditions. The fact that the United States didn´t close the border showed to him that the U.S.A. realized it wasn´t all that dangerous.
Most people think the swine flu is a hoax and there are all sorts of rumours spreading around. Apparently Pemex- Mexico´s publicly owned owned oil company-went private during this time and it wasn´t reported on due to the flu. It is been said that the government exaggerated the flue to stop people from rioting due to general bad conditions or to distract citizens from unknown shady dealings. Others think it began in the United States and was brought over when President Obama visited. However, everyone agrees that it has been a huge financial blow as the people who eek by selling whatever have lost their only sources of income.
I returned to work with the Missionaries of Charity on Monday, the first day it was open to visitors after shutting down for the flu. The kids were especially clingy and eager to be held, though confused by my required face mask andtried to pull it off. Despite half my face being hidden, the older girls seemed to recognize and be happy to see me.
The schools have reopened and the streets are filling up again, though they are emptier than when I left. Life continues on. As for me, I´ve been somewhat hypochondriac since arriving here and the flu has definitely caused this to increase. This morning, I had a late start to work due to stomach problems and while walikng there I felt feverish. I debated whether or not to go in as now is not a good time to be passing along any sort of illness, but I decided to forge ahead and I pulled out my face mask. It snapped as I tried to put it on, and knowing that it would take a while to buy another one , I decided that was a sign from God to go home and rest and take my temperature.
After a long chat with the pharmacist, I learned two new words today--termómetro and caído la máscara-- and it turns out I´m fine. All and all, things are cooling off here, though the possiblity of economic collapse, oil protests and economic riots have given me some new things to worry about, though keeping my circulation from being cutting off from beneath my caído la máscara is taking priority.
I´ve discovered that I have a knack for avoiding being around crises of that incite global fear. Three weeks ago, I left for the United States to vacation, and during my first day home, news of the swine flu was everywhere. At first I was skeptical that it would amount to anything more then a weekend story. Though pictures of Mexicans wearing face masks bombarded television, I assured my family that masks are commonly worn in the country due to pollution and smog.
Reports of the swine flu escalted--and so did my tempature. Throughout the month of April I had felt run-down and believed I had mononucleosis. My symptoms were flu-like and my family joked that I was a carrier of the swine flu.
Unfortunately, my family is a bit neurotic, and being around them probably inspired more fear than if I had actually been in Mexico City. My sister forbade me from touching her personal items and shooed me away from my niece. My father took the opportunity to ask me where I would like to be buried and what sort of funeral I´d like.
I decided medical advice wouldn´t hurt and set about calling clinics for a mononucleosis test. Upon hearing my symptoms and my symptoms and Mexico City mentioned, receptions advised me to head for the hospital.
I checked into the emergency room and was given a face mask to wear. The attendent told me that the hospital was full of people worried about swine flu, but I recieved a little special treatment due to my place of residency.
Though the E.R.. hallway was full of both elderly and bleeding people, I was put into a private isolated room. Two doctors came in to speak with me, and while the concluded that I probably didn´t have swine flu, CDC regulations required them to test me. They also advised me against returning to Mexico anytime soon.
A nurse came in to draw blood for a mono test. ¨ It´ll proably take about an hour and a half,¨ he said. ¨I´ll be back¨
¨So I should leave and return?¨ I asked.
¨No, you´re supposed to wait here, I think. But I´ll check on that.¨
Then one doctor came in for a mucus swab, which is basically done by sticking two q-tips up ones´ naval cavaties. I flet like my eyeballs were going to be gouged out.
After the doctor left, I waited for someone to tell me if I could leave and come back. After about an hour, I realized I was waiting for results. I flipped through my Spanish book, which was the only reading material I brought because I wanted to force myself to study. It helped me fall asleep.
At one point a nurse came to the door with a wheelchair-bounc patient in tow. ¨Oh,¨she said, startled to see me. ¨Are you supposed to be here? Do they know you´re here.¨
¨I think so,¨ I said. ¨I hope.¨ She went to check things out, leaving me wondering if there was a misunderstanding and I could have left hours earlier. I imagined trying to leave and having spacesuit-wearing government employees grab and sequester me.
Finally, four hours after samples were taken, the doctor came to tell me she hadn´t forgotten me and would come back soon with results. Forty-five minutes, I was declared free of swine flu (and mono.)
I ended up extending my stay in the United States for a few days before nervously going back to Mexico City. I was heartened by reports that the virus wasn´t nearly as bad as originally thought and that one would be okay by taking basic precautions like washing your hands and avoiding unnessary touching.
One of the first things I did once home was to stop by the parish. Guillito was so exicted that he grabbed me, squeezed me and covered me with kisses. He showed more exuberance over my return to Mexico than anyone did upon seeing me in the States. Guillito is a 76 year-old chain smoker and while telling me about his fears that I would never return and his plan to go to the United States to fetch me, he coughed with his trademark hack. Though touched by how much he cares, I was also concerned by the fact that his excited declarations caused spit to fall out of his mouth and onto my face.
Then it was off to Mass, though first I greeted everyone I hadn´t seen in weeks with hugs and kisses. The service was a bit different than usual as hosts were token by the hands of recipents rather than the tongue and there was no sign-of-the peace (the period during Mass when hands are shaken.)
After Mass, I ate tacos with everyone in the parish kitchen. There were plenty of tortillas to grab from a communal pile in order to assemble diner, but soap was missing. I rubbed my hands with lime before eating because it is supposed to be a natural disinfectant. During dinner Antonio--the handicapped, previously homeless man who Padre has given a place to live--sat next to me and, as always, coughed without covering his mouth.
Normally, I pride myself as being rather go-with-the-flow and accepting of the circumstances around me, but my return put me on edge. Everything I had heard in the States was being disregarded and I felt as if I was wallowing around in a giant petri dish of bacteria.
Padre comforted me by saying that the swine flu was mostly hype. He thinks it was exaggerated by the Mexican government to keep people from protesting economic conditions. The fact that the United States didn´t close the border showed to him that the U.S.A. realized it wasn´t all that dangerous.
Most people think the swine flu is a hoax and there are all sorts of rumours spreading around. Apparently Pemex- Mexico´s publicly owned owned oil company-went private during this time and it wasn´t reported on due to the flu. It is been said that the government exaggerated the flue to stop people from rioting due to general bad conditions or to distract citizens from unknown shady dealings. Others think it began in the United States and was brought over when President Obama visited. However, everyone agrees that it has been a huge financial blow as the people who eek by selling whatever have lost their only sources of income.
I returned to work with the Missionaries of Charity on Monday, the first day it was open to visitors after shutting down for the flu. The kids were especially clingy and eager to be held, though confused by my required face mask andtried to pull it off. Despite half my face being hidden, the older girls seemed to recognize and be happy to see me.
The schools have reopened and the streets are filling up again, though they are emptier than when I left. Life continues on. As for me, I´ve been somewhat hypochondriac since arriving here and the flu has definitely caused this to increase. This morning, I had a late start to work due to stomach problems and while walikng there I felt feverish. I debated whether or not to go in as now is not a good time to be passing along any sort of illness, but I decided to forge ahead and I pulled out my face mask. It snapped as I tried to put it on, and knowing that it would take a while to buy another one , I decided that was a sign from God to go home and rest and take my temperature.
After a long chat with the pharmacist, I learned two new words today--termómetro and caído la máscara-- and it turns out I´m fine. All and all, things are cooling off here, though the possiblity of economic collapse, oil protests and economic riots have given me some new things to worry about, though keeping my circulation from being cutting off from beneath my caído la máscara is taking priority.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Good Friday Musings
Good Friday morning, I am outside with ten wheelchair-bound girls, aged 18 through 30. It is just me with them and I take them on walks and spin their chairs as they smile and giggle....or, honestly for some of the girls, as they continue to wail and rock back and forth, as my presence does nothing to change the torment in their lives. I am often alone with the girls and I like it because I imagine myself as the oldest sister in charge while parents are out of sight. When I am in their shared sleeping space after they`ve gone to bed, I read stories and tell jokes as if we`re having a secret slumber party even though lights are supposed to be out.
Mariana--one of the girls who weighs about sixty pounds and has a body composed of gnarled limbs--begins crying due to the sun, and I pull her chair into the shade. I leave the group and return to find Mariana sobbing as Corazon and Neddy try to comfort her. Corazon is one of the only girls who can walk, though she does it by quickly pushing her 90-pound frame forward in a clumsy manner that suggests she`ll fall over any minute. She is always eager to help out by pushing wheelchairs and she loves giving and receiving affection. Neddy, who is wheelchair-bound, is one of the few who can talk, though she rarely does it in the presence of visitors like me.
Corazon is hovering over Mariana`s wheelchair while clinging to it for support. Neddy is saying something unintelligible and extending her limp arms toward the chair. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking to see. Despite their own severe handicaps, the two girls posses something within them that makes them love and try to aid others, but they are still helpless. I wheel Edith back inside and she stops crying once she has reached her bed.
I sometimes have doubts about what I am doing in Mexico because I often feel like I am doing acts of charity that bring momentary aid rather than long-term change or relief. That moment with the girls is a reminder of how blessed I am just to be able to make small differences.
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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.
Mariana--one of the girls who weighs about sixty pounds and has a body composed of gnarled limbs--begins crying due to the sun, and I pull her chair into the shade. I leave the group and return to find Mariana sobbing as Corazon and Neddy try to comfort her. Corazon is one of the only girls who can walk, though she does it by quickly pushing her 90-pound frame forward in a clumsy manner that suggests she`ll fall over any minute. She is always eager to help out by pushing wheelchairs and she loves giving and receiving affection. Neddy, who is wheelchair-bound, is one of the few who can talk, though she rarely does it in the presence of visitors like me.
Corazon is hovering over Mariana`s wheelchair while clinging to it for support. Neddy is saying something unintelligible and extending her limp arms toward the chair. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking to see. Despite their own severe handicaps, the two girls posses something within them that makes them love and try to aid others, but they are still helpless. I wheel Edith back inside and she stops crying once she has reached her bed.
I sometimes have doubts about what I am doing in Mexico because I often feel like I am doing acts of charity that bring momentary aid rather than long-term change or relief. That moment with the girls is a reminder of how blessed I am just to be able to make small differences.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
In the afternoon, the church is packed with people and happenings. I attend a reflection on Jesus`s final words on the cross such as when he asks God to forgive His tormentors, His cry of abandonment and His thirst. I see portions of the Passion Play but the church grounds are so crowded that it is overwhelming to try to keep up with the crowds as they move from place to place trying to keep up with different scenes.
I forgo watching the Crucifixion reenactment in order to return to work. The children are alone as, ironically, everyone is attending a Mass about Jesus`s suffering. I try to juggle crying babies around while Vickie (who is six, paralyzed and one of the oldest children) gives me orders about where to put them. I bring her water, attempt to read her stories in Spanish and we count off the numbers in both English and Spanish.
While changing her, I inadvertently cause her pain by tugging on her diaper too hard.
``Bruja,`` she says. (Witch)
``Como?`` I ask.
``Bruja,`` she repeats firmly.
Her pronouncement may have something to do with me dressing in black from head to toe for Good Friday, but it`s funny how perceptions are. At that moment, I view myself as the person who cares about her most in the world, while she sees me as bullying and insensitive. Again it`s a sisterly moment, since as a younger sister, I know that`s how it works sometimes.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the evening, I go to another service, only by now I`ve lost track as to what it`s about. It`s packed and I don`t have a seat, so feeling tired and hungry from fasting, I decide to sit outside and read the missal.
``Caro!`` squeals Danni, a pint-sized sixteen year old girl who makes up for it with a loud voice that she utilizes often. She runs toward me and wraps her arms around my waist.
Danni has taken a liking to me and Jess and we get that reaction every time we see her. She likes to hold our hands when Padre takes the church on protest walks and she`ll invite herself to our house or the office while we are working. She once asked me why I don`t play in the streets at night like she does and she`s sported bruises from her fights there. She is usually in the process of chasing someone or being chased while she is at the parish.
Upon seeing me, she finds a missal and sits next to me and reads quietly. For about five minutes. Then she decides we should move to a shadier spot. She shouts out to groups of guys and makes plans with friends. She abandons reading for playing games on her phone. She follows me back to my house and I give her one of my sweatshirts as it`s getting cool and she has on a hot pink strapless shirt. She goes out to play in the street. I join Padre and a group of parishioners who are carrying statues of Jesus`s dead body and a veiled Virgen Maria through the streets as one of the boys beats a drum.
If I were ten years younger and Dani and I were in high school together, I would want to be a lot like her. As I was quite shy and had few friends as a child, I would have sat by myself in study hall reading a book, watching her flirt with boys and trash-talk with friends, and I would wonder how her extroversion comes so easily. Here and now, she finds herself struggling to be calm like me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four days later, after everything has calmed down, I am with the girls during a field-trip to the zoo. I push Edie along and seemingly entertain her by singing songs and reading signs which I try to translate. When she jerks her head when I am paused for too long, I tell her that it`s important to learn.
Really, I am amusing myself and I realize that my solitariness as a child has given me the ability to survive when I feel as if I am on my own here. All those times I felt left out growing up have prepared me for what I am doing now.
When I was in sixth grade, I had a teacher who wanted to fix my quietness and would call on me in class often, saying, ``This is the year that you come out of your shell.``
It wasn`t for about seven more years, through travel, acting lessons, weight loss and a study of college friends, that I harnessed the ability to be more social and outgoing.
However, throughout my adult life, I`ve had all types of friends and I was always going to parties and dinners. I don`t think that others thought of me as the girls who was an outsider as a teen. My decision to do mission work required a certain amount of confidence in myself socially, as I knew I`d be in a foreign environment where I`d know nobody.
Still, I often feel as if I am alone here, be it in actuality or due to communication problems.It is as if God shook me out of the shell I once inhabited and molded me for a new, more durable one. Only now, I pull others in with me and let them rest for a while as I push ahead.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Crosses to Bare
Following evening mass on Palm Sunday, I stop by the rectory and find Arturo there alone, sitting and smoking cigarettes and staring into space. As I mentioned before, Arturo is a parish groundskeeper of sorts who has a disheveled appearance (long uncombed hair, missing teeth, baggy clothes) and an aloof personality. He tends to ask me question that require complicated answers at inopportune times. (The other day while I was on the office computer working on taxes, he asked me to explain, through a closed window, why the economy of the United States is so bad and what can be done about it.)
Though I find him frustrating, I appreciate the consistency of my dealings with him. Like when working with some mentally ill people, I can count on Arturo for bizarre questions and unusual thoughts. It´s better than being on the edge around friends or bosses who make weird requests out of the blue.
Recently, Arturo told me that I should practice my Spanish since he can´t understand me. He advised me of this after saying that he would pay for someone from the United States send him a coat through me. I tried to explain that products in the two countries are about the same, only cheaper here since real estate is more expensive in the United States. Since his directives was based on not being able to grasp what I was saying, I told him he should be the one to practice with me. Since then he has showed more patience during our chats.
Upon encoutering Arturo, I tell him that I am losing my voice from bad cold, and he seems concerned, which is surprising since generally he only cares about debating things with people.
¨Do you want anything?¨ he asks. ¨Water or coffee?¨
¨No, thak you. I´m fine,¨ I reply.
¨You´re not fine. You´re sick.¨ Then he awkwardly extends his hand to touch me, lightly brushes it against my arm, and then quickly pulls away.
I smile and assure him that I´ll be okay before leaving. I find his attempt at showing affection rather touching because it´s out of character for him.
In Mexico, displays of endearment are so commonplace that they often serve more as means of convenience for the people who give them rather than kindness to the people who receive them. If you don´t know someone´s name, she won´t notice this because it´s normal to call someone a variation of ¨Senorita Bonita Linda¨ (Little Miss Beautiful Pretty.) If you need a better view of something, or a place to wrest your hand, it´s okay to put your arm around the shoulder of an acquaintance.
However,Arturo takes pains to physically distance himself from people. His slight touch reminds me of the story in the Bible in which the poor woman who gives her away her few coins is deemed more charitable than the rich people who donate thousands of dollars to the church, because she gives all that she has. Arturo´s act means a lot because it requires of himself to make.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Overall, Palm Sunday was quite a lavish affair. Outside the church, vendors sold palm leaves which have been twisted into the shapes of crucifixes and other religious objects, and decorated with jewels in order to be blessed during Mass. It´s very different from the States where simple palm leaves are distributed before Mass.
At six in the morning, biblical theater began taking place. Men dressed as Jesus and his various apostles made house calls, and walked down the main street of Santa Fe with followers. Stories from the Bible were acted out on parish grounds, with hundreds of people lined up to see them, despite blistering heat. (Ironically, during the scene where Jesus overthrows the vendors´ tables outside the temple and says that God´s house is not a marketplace, real-life vendors sold Popsicles to spectators.)
Though it was interesting to see, a personal scene of my own repeated itself--I felt too sick, exhausted, and confused by Spanish to really be enthusiastic about what was going on, and guilty for feeling this way. When I sat down for breakfast with a group of parish friends and everybody but me was talking while eating eggs and ham, I felt like the others were thinking of me--¨¨You don´t fit in and you´re not trying to.¨
However, I was comforted by the Gospel in church today, as it was the Passion of Christ were Jesus is crucified. As missionaries we have been encouraged to be like Christ in that we should share experiences with people, offer our time and befriend those who are neglected and poor. The Gospel was a reminder that it wasn´t always good times for Jesus in terms of his dealings with people--he felt (and was) rejected and humiliated by others, but kept going in pursuit of something greater.
¨We all have our crosses to bare,¨ is a phrase that I heard throughout my childhood, which means that we will suffer like Jesus, though far less. For now, my crosses are health problems and communication barriers, but they are quite small when compared to those of the people I work with, most of whom have been abandoned, have crippling diseases and can´t speak. Other people in Santa Fe carry different but heavier burdens than I, as poverty and a lack of education cause other problems. All the pains I face give me more compassion towards those who are worse off.
Jesus´s sufferings were eased a bit by connections with people that seem a bit out of place--Simon of Cyrene carried his cross for a while, and (according to Luke) Jesus was crucified next to a thief who asked for His forgiveness and a place in Heaven. My small brush with Arturo this evening was a reminder that there all kinds of ways to connect with people, and it made my own crosses feel lighter.
Though I find him frustrating, I appreciate the consistency of my dealings with him. Like when working with some mentally ill people, I can count on Arturo for bizarre questions and unusual thoughts. It´s better than being on the edge around friends or bosses who make weird requests out of the blue.
Recently, Arturo told me that I should practice my Spanish since he can´t understand me. He advised me of this after saying that he would pay for someone from the United States send him a coat through me. I tried to explain that products in the two countries are about the same, only cheaper here since real estate is more expensive in the United States. Since his directives was based on not being able to grasp what I was saying, I told him he should be the one to practice with me. Since then he has showed more patience during our chats.
Upon encoutering Arturo, I tell him that I am losing my voice from bad cold, and he seems concerned, which is surprising since generally he only cares about debating things with people.
¨Do you want anything?¨ he asks. ¨Water or coffee?¨
¨No, thak you. I´m fine,¨ I reply.
¨You´re not fine. You´re sick.¨ Then he awkwardly extends his hand to touch me, lightly brushes it against my arm, and then quickly pulls away.
I smile and assure him that I´ll be okay before leaving. I find his attempt at showing affection rather touching because it´s out of character for him.
In Mexico, displays of endearment are so commonplace that they often serve more as means of convenience for the people who give them rather than kindness to the people who receive them. If you don´t know someone´s name, she won´t notice this because it´s normal to call someone a variation of ¨Senorita Bonita Linda¨ (Little Miss Beautiful Pretty.) If you need a better view of something, or a place to wrest your hand, it´s okay to put your arm around the shoulder of an acquaintance.
However,Arturo takes pains to physically distance himself from people. His slight touch reminds me of the story in the Bible in which the poor woman who gives her away her few coins is deemed more charitable than the rich people who donate thousands of dollars to the church, because she gives all that she has. Arturo´s act means a lot because it requires of himself to make.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Overall, Palm Sunday was quite a lavish affair. Outside the church, vendors sold palm leaves which have been twisted into the shapes of crucifixes and other religious objects, and decorated with jewels in order to be blessed during Mass. It´s very different from the States where simple palm leaves are distributed before Mass.
At six in the morning, biblical theater began taking place. Men dressed as Jesus and his various apostles made house calls, and walked down the main street of Santa Fe with followers. Stories from the Bible were acted out on parish grounds, with hundreds of people lined up to see them, despite blistering heat. (Ironically, during the scene where Jesus overthrows the vendors´ tables outside the temple and says that God´s house is not a marketplace, real-life vendors sold Popsicles to spectators.)
Though it was interesting to see, a personal scene of my own repeated itself--I felt too sick, exhausted, and confused by Spanish to really be enthusiastic about what was going on, and guilty for feeling this way. When I sat down for breakfast with a group of parish friends and everybody but me was talking while eating eggs and ham, I felt like the others were thinking of me--¨¨You don´t fit in and you´re not trying to.¨
However, I was comforted by the Gospel in church today, as it was the Passion of Christ were Jesus is crucified. As missionaries we have been encouraged to be like Christ in that we should share experiences with people, offer our time and befriend those who are neglected and poor. The Gospel was a reminder that it wasn´t always good times for Jesus in terms of his dealings with people--he felt (and was) rejected and humiliated by others, but kept going in pursuit of something greater.
¨We all have our crosses to bare,¨ is a phrase that I heard throughout my childhood, which means that we will suffer like Jesus, though far less. For now, my crosses are health problems and communication barriers, but they are quite small when compared to those of the people I work with, most of whom have been abandoned, have crippling diseases and can´t speak. Other people in Santa Fe carry different but heavier burdens than I, as poverty and a lack of education cause other problems. All the pains I face give me more compassion towards those who are worse off.
Jesus´s sufferings were eased a bit by connections with people that seem a bit out of place--Simon of Cyrene carried his cross for a while, and (according to Luke) Jesus was crucified next to a thief who asked for His forgiveness and a place in Heaven. My small brush with Arturo this evening was a reminder that there all kinds of ways to connect with people, and it made my own crosses feel lighter.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Feliz Cumpleaños, Jessica!
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!
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!
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