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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Yearly Retreat
Once a year the Missionaries of the Incarnate Word gather for a retreat and for those of us in Mexico, this year`s was held in Cuernavaca, a vacation spot outside of Mexico City nicknamed ``The Land of Eternal Spring`` due to its consistently warm weather.
On retreat last year, it was nice to catch up with the women who I had met during orientation. This year would be different as these women had either finished the program or were unable to attend and thus our house would participate with a community who began serving in Monterrey in August. This community comes to Santa Fe and spends the day in our house and parish and from there we leave for Cuenavaca.
Our retreat house in Cuernavaca is a sunny spot run by Sisters of the Incarnate Word on ground that contains fruit trees and a swimming pool. It is a tranquil spot from which to reflect. During one of our first talks, we are invited to think back as to why we originally joined the program, which is of special significance to me as my two-year term of service is coming to an end in five months.
I entered the program at a time when I was fed up with employment struggles and I realized that the jobs had been seeking really were`t that important and I had the desire to grow as a person. As a missionary, the importance of being rather than doing is constantly stressed.
Through my work with the terminally ill, there are a lot of chances to just be as I mostly just offer my presence. This has been valuable for me as I have realized that though I may not have traits to make me succeed in the corporate world, I am able to be present to the needy because because I have the patience and stamina to just sit and off fer myself to them.
However, just being has brought a lot of sadness and loneliness that I hadn`t anticipated before coming. Despite finding myself in in very different and some to,es uncomfortable situations over the last few weeks, my mood has been better. This makes me realize that being around suffering has an affect on my personality as I dwell on the pain of the desolate.
One quote that sticks with me during the retreat is that we we are called to suffer with others but not be sad. This seems contradictory, because how can you wall in the misery of others and still come out a pleasant person? Still, this is ultimately what I want, to be a compassionate person who can face the darker realities of life while still appreciating the beauty of the world
The theme of the retreat is Lent, and important part of this is forgiveness as Jesus came into the world to forgive us and ultimately forgave us for having crucified him. There are people both here and home that I have been harboring grudged against and I want to let them go. And, if Jesus can forgive the world and I can forgive others, I must also forgive myself for times when I have mistreated people or not done enough to ease their pains.
One powerful part of the retreat a reflection on the stains of the cross, when the group shares ways that they have seen Jesus`s final steps lived out in the mission . I think of the times when I have have entered the homes of friends and realized that they are much worse off financially than I thought and realized they are carrying heavy crosses silently. Other missionaries share then pain of women who have lost children or persons ``crucified``as they have terminal diseases.
Additionally, we work on ways to grow and help each other as a community. Though I came into this program knowing that I would live in a community, I saw it has living with roommates. However, I am realizing the importance of sharing experience and offering support to those I live with. Though this program is about loving others, it is easy to to take for granted those who are physically closest to us. To counter this, we learn communication techniques and decide to start sharing a weekly community night during which we will eat together and share a spiritual activity.
Overall, the retreat serves as reminder to let go, to keep loving, and to move forward.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Going Indigenous
While living in the world`s second largest city may sound exciting, lately I have felt a desire for change. Though everyday life in the community of Sante Fe brings about challenges or interesting encounters, it is still pueblo (small town) life and it seems like I take the same route and encounter the same people every day. While I am enjoying this type of life, I was was accustomed to traveling a lot and switching my living situation every year in the United States.
Though the conference is a reminder to consider my use of scarce resource, what I enjoy most out of it is being able to encounter new people. One day, we go to a rural community and hike through the fields, up a mountain, and enter a cave where some of the first prehispanic indigenous drawings were discovered. One of the priests makes his musicsas (instrument players) play songs while we pray. Throughout the conference, different groups perform prayers that a a mix of indigenous prehispanic rituals alongside Catholicism.
Although food is served by the priests and students of the seminary, I often go back to the kitchen in order to request vegetarian food or get water (which is smoke-flavored and stored in from trashcans.) In thus back area, the kitchen staff hand rolls tortillas and cooks food over open fires. One priest encourages his students to practice their English with me and thus simple tasks like requesting napkins take about twenty minutes as their English is worse than my Spanish.
As I don`t eat meat or dairy, I often worry about the food in these situations, but the seminary gives me hearty portions of beans and corn-based products. Still, things just seem a little off. During the nights, we are served coffee and one morning a priest offers us several shots of his mescal ( a tequila-like liquor) for us to sample.
The last night is a fiesta and at first religious tunes our played but soon comes salsa music. On my dance card is a 22-year old who lived in the U.S.A. for several years and asks me ``hey girl, do you want to dance?``
A guy my own age issues an invitation, but during small talk I learn that he lives in the seminary as a student. (However, as I am staying in a convent this could make a great how we met story.) My worst dancing experience is with a 15 year-old uniform-clad student who I have to push away from me the whole time. He speaks English as he spent time living in the United States. It seems that his family shipped him off to seminary school in order to undo the damage.
On our bus ride home, we take a side trip to to a beach near Acapulco. For some members of our group it is their first time at the seashore. Before disembarking, Father announces to the bus ``Remember that Mother Nature brought you into the world without clothes. If you don`t have a bathing suit, she`ll accept you as such.`
I run along the beach, swim in a lagoon and join the group in eating seafood and drinking beer. When I sit down on bench, it begins to sway, but Padre tells me to relax because that that is how it is designed to function.
During lunch, Padre remarks that he is drinking a type of beer that he does not like because it is the only one that is available and that he also feels guilty feel eating and drinking heartily during lent. I am proud of myself for being able to make a joke in Spanish. ``But you`re drinking beer that you don`t like, thus you`re sacrificing for Lent,``` I say.
Padre and everybody laugh, and we are in good spirits as we feeding the beach dogs fishbones. The next thing l know, the people next to me are on the ground and then I am as well. The bench has broken and only Padre is left upright as his part of the bench was supported by a pole. This speaks to Padre`s faith as he is confident that things will be okay, and with him it turns out to be so.
Despite glitches, I enjoy the trip. We arrive in Santa Fe at 11 in the night and I pack at three in the morning in order to catch the plane to visit my sister and family in San Francisco.
An opportunity for something different comes at 10:00 p.m. on Sunday night. Padre Salvador invites me to an indigenous conference to take place in the state of Guerrero the following day. As I am booked to leave on vacation for San Francisco on Friday (the anticipated return day to Santa Fe,) I take being able to change my departure date to Saturday as a sign that should go.
At 7:00 the next morning, Padre, Jessi and I leave in order to meet up with the bus heading to Chilapa. The bus is scheduled to leave at 8:30, but due to late arrivals, tamale buying and sorting out money to give to the driver, we do not take off until around 10:00. During the down time, Father uses one of his Virgin of the Mary holy cards to pick the lock of a nearby church`s bathroom so that we can use the facilities.
The bus is made up of residents of a Mexico City group who consider themselves indigenous and fight for rights and to preserve their culture. If there was a photo of participants labeled ¨What´s wrong with this picture?´´, Jessica and I would have arrows pointed over are heads. Still, Padre invited us along due to extra spots on the bus and his desire to expose us to new situations.
The bus is made up of residents of a Mexico City group who consider themselves indigenous and fight for rights and to preserve their culture. If there was a photo of participants labeled ¨What´s wrong with this picture?´´, Jessica and I would have arrows pointed over are heads. Still, Padre invited us along due to extra spots on the bus and his desire to expose us to new situations.
We take a picturesque journey to the town of Chilapa which is dusty spot located in the the state of Guerroro. After arriving in the seminary hosting the conference and watching an opening ceremony involving sword fights and Mass, Padre suggests that we all go out for tacos. Half of our group goes with him and we wander around looking for a place to eat. Most of the women of the group stay in spot serving chalupas ( a thick tortilla concoction ) while Padre, his priest friends, a secretary and I seek and find a tacqueria that serves cerveza. We drink beers and are given pumpkin seeds in the way that an American bar my offer peanuts.
During these types of conferences, townspeople serve as host families and open up their homes. However, as our half of the group was off eating while lodgings were procured, we are left homeless. A woman coming home from a party notices our plight and offers to let the eighteen of us stay in her mother`s house. Padre stays behind as he is to stay the seminary and the rest of us ride off.
A half an hour late our busload arrive in front of an impassable road (due to construction) leading to the woman`s home. A few group members wander of to assess the situation and forty minutes later come back to say that the mother was not prepared for or wanting over a dozen strangers staying in her house.
In a Sound of the Music moment , we are offered refuge in a convent. A nun in our group says that we can stay in her Sisters` nearby home. As this convent offers overnight schooling, thirteen women sleep in a bunk-bed filled room. . Throughout our nights there, lights go on at random times and we awake to various indigenous languages being spoken.
The theme of conference is that water, and the gist is that water is precious and the we should do our best to conserve it. I agree with this but find much of the conference is hard to understand, though it does force me think about how much water is used excessively. Generally people bath more more than needed and factories pollute water in order to produce bottled water and sodas.
Though the conference is a reminder to consider my use of scarce resource, what I enjoy most out of it is being able to encounter new people. One day, we go to a rural community and hike through the fields, up a mountain, and enter a cave where some of the first prehispanic indigenous drawings were discovered. One of the priests makes his musicsas (instrument players) play songs while we pray. Throughout the conference, different groups perform prayers that a a mix of indigenous prehispanic rituals alongside Catholicism.
Although food is served by the priests and students of the seminary, I often go back to the kitchen in order to request vegetarian food or get water (which is smoke-flavored and stored in from trashcans.) In thus back area, the kitchen staff hand rolls tortillas and cooks food over open fires. One priest encourages his students to practice their English with me and thus simple tasks like requesting napkins take about twenty minutes as their English is worse than my Spanish.
As I don`t eat meat or dairy, I often worry about the food in these situations, but the seminary gives me hearty portions of beans and corn-based products. Still, things just seem a little off. During the nights, we are served coffee and one morning a priest offers us several shots of his mescal ( a tequila-like liquor) for us to sample.
The last night is a fiesta and at first religious tunes our played but soon comes salsa music. On my dance card is a 22-year old who lived in the U.S.A. for several years and asks me ``hey girl, do you want to dance?``
A guy my own age issues an invitation, but during small talk I learn that he lives in the seminary as a student. (However, as I am staying in a convent this could make a great how we met story.) My worst dancing experience is with a 15 year-old uniform-clad student who I have to push away from me the whole time. He speaks English as he spent time living in the United States. It seems that his family shipped him off to seminary school in order to undo the damage.
On our bus ride home, we take a side trip to to a beach near Acapulco. For some members of our group it is their first time at the seashore. Before disembarking, Father announces to the bus ``Remember that Mother Nature brought you into the world without clothes. If you don`t have a bathing suit, she`ll accept you as such.`
I run along the beach, swim in a lagoon and join the group in eating seafood and drinking beer. When I sit down on bench, it begins to sway, but Padre tells me to relax because that that is how it is designed to function.
During lunch, Padre remarks that he is drinking a type of beer that he does not like because it is the only one that is available and that he also feels guilty feel eating and drinking heartily during lent. I am proud of myself for being able to make a joke in Spanish. ``But you`re drinking beer that you don`t like, thus you`re sacrificing for Lent,``` I say.
Padre and everybody laugh, and we are in good spirits as we feeding the beach dogs fishbones. The next thing l know, the people next to me are on the ground and then I am as well. The bench has broken and only Padre is left upright as his part of the bench was supported by a pole. This speaks to Padre`s faith as he is confident that things will be okay, and with him it turns out to be so.
Despite glitches, I enjoy the trip. We arrive in Santa Fe at 11 in the night and I pack at three in the morning in order to catch the plane to visit my sister and family in San Francisco.
The best part my trip the United States is seeing my family is seeing my family but there are are other comforts as well--jogging along tree-lined streets, understanding the language and not being referred to as ``white girl.`` While I appreciate life there, I also miss my every day run-ins with parish members, students and co-workers in Santa Fe. Every place has it delights as I will be returning to the United Sates at the end of the summer, I`ll be able to count on more change soon enough.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
I Woke Up In a Priest`s Clothing
I was spending a cold, dreary evening in the parish library when Padre came in and began setting up a makeshift bar. He was to host a biannual reunion of his classmates from seminary school and in the other room, a group of church ladies were hand-rolling tortillas and frying up tacos. He invited me to stay and mingle with his friends and eat and drink as I pleased.
``Este es tu casa.`` (This is your house.)
Knowing that I would be out of place amongst two dozen priests who have known each other for thirty years, I figured Padre was just being kind by asking me to stay. But the idea of witnessing such a reunion was intriguing to me and I figured a could use a night out (albeit in a parish) because things recently ended between me and the guy I had been seeing and I felt a little depressed. I decided that I dole out enough acts of kindness so that things would balance out if I were to accept one.
At the beginning of the event, I noticed Padre and one of the first arrivals carrying around small, circular marble objects. I thought that they were performing some sort of pray involving candles. It turned out that they were carrying around special shot glasses designed to enhance the flavor of tequila.
Padre`s friends were an interesting group. Some were philosophers and professors who spent their times locked away in ivory towers while others had traveled the world. I heard stories of helping street children as well as running the streets in triathlons.
As the night went on, it got much colder. Though people think of Mexico as being tropical, Mexico City can be quite chilly and when it is, it is made worse by the fact that there is no indoor heating. Padre lent me his sweater and Gallo let me borrow his sheepskin vest and gloves. Arriving home after midnight to a freezing house where everybody was already asleep, I went to bed in all of my acquired clothing.
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Despite the joys of tequila and tacos, heartache is still hard to get rid of, particularly in a foreign country. Rejection hurts and here is it was made worse by the fact that I have had trouble in general making connections with people here. A burgeoning romance made me feel more like I was fitting in with the community.
Worse, I felt guilty for getting worked up over some guy since I`m here to help others and grow spiritually and not obsess over my love life. At work I am surrounded by people with much graver afflictions than my own, so how can I feel bad about my own problems? However, my own loneliness made me emphasize much more with patients who have been abandoned by their families so sometimes my workdays seemed almost unbearably sad.
I spent some disheartening days at work sitting by the bedsides of older girls and praying the Hail Mary and asking that my suffering could relieve theirs. Then one morning a few days ago, I went to work with the young children. Paulina (who was kept out of school due to being sick) immediately sat in my lap and ended up falling asleep. I spent the morning letting her rest in my arms. In the afternoon, when I visited with the older girls in their bedroom, Neddy squealed with happiness when I walked and she smiled as I sat on her bed, holding her hand and eating popcorn while talking about nonsense.
These simple moments made me realize how blessed I am. It is hard to find people who want you and love you for nothing more than your presence and yet I constantly encounter. While I may be lacking a novio, there are plenty of people who are eager for and accepting of my attention.
Thus, right now Mexico is about offering love as best as I can, accepting it in unconventional ways (from the wardrobes of church members), and learning to recognize it.
``Este es tu casa.`` (This is your house.)
Knowing that I would be out of place amongst two dozen priests who have known each other for thirty years, I figured Padre was just being kind by asking me to stay. But the idea of witnessing such a reunion was intriguing to me and I figured a could use a night out (albeit in a parish) because things recently ended between me and the guy I had been seeing and I felt a little depressed. I decided that I dole out enough acts of kindness so that things would balance out if I were to accept one.
At the beginning of the event, I noticed Padre and one of the first arrivals carrying around small, circular marble objects. I thought that they were performing some sort of pray involving candles. It turned out that they were carrying around special shot glasses designed to enhance the flavor of tequila.
Padre`s friends were an interesting group. Some were philosophers and professors who spent their times locked away in ivory towers while others had traveled the world. I heard stories of helping street children as well as running the streets in triathlons.
As the night went on, it got much colder. Though people think of Mexico as being tropical, Mexico City can be quite chilly and when it is, it is made worse by the fact that there is no indoor heating. Padre lent me his sweater and Gallo let me borrow his sheepskin vest and gloves. Arriving home after midnight to a freezing house where everybody was already asleep, I went to bed in all of my acquired clothing.
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Despite the joys of tequila and tacos, heartache is still hard to get rid of, particularly in a foreign country. Rejection hurts and here is it was made worse by the fact that I have had trouble in general making connections with people here. A burgeoning romance made me feel more like I was fitting in with the community.
Worse, I felt guilty for getting worked up over some guy since I`m here to help others and grow spiritually and not obsess over my love life. At work I am surrounded by people with much graver afflictions than my own, so how can I feel bad about my own problems? However, my own loneliness made me emphasize much more with patients who have been abandoned by their families so sometimes my workdays seemed almost unbearably sad.
I spent some disheartening days at work sitting by the bedsides of older girls and praying the Hail Mary and asking that my suffering could relieve theirs. Then one morning a few days ago, I went to work with the young children. Paulina (who was kept out of school due to being sick) immediately sat in my lap and ended up falling asleep. I spent the morning letting her rest in my arms. In the afternoon, when I visited with the older girls in their bedroom, Neddy squealed with happiness when I walked and she smiled as I sat on her bed, holding her hand and eating popcorn while talking about nonsense.
These simple moments made me realize how blessed I am. It is hard to find people who want you and love you for nothing more than your presence and yet I constantly encounter. While I may be lacking a novio, there are plenty of people who are eager for and accepting of my attention.
Thus, right now Mexico is about offering love as best as I can, accepting it in unconventional ways (from the wardrobes of church members), and learning to recognize it.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Meeting La Famalia
Besides my dietary habits (no meat, no dairy) the thing that perplexes people most in Mexico is the fact that I do not have a boyfriend. Two of the most common questions that I am asked are Tienes novio? and Por que no tienes novio? (Do you have a boyfriend? Why don´t you have a boyfriend?) While there are plenty of chavos willing to fill the role, no one but me is bothered that I am at least five years older than most of them and I can´t fluently speak their language.
Apparently people have been praying for me, and lately I have been seeing enough of someone (Fernando) that I was invited to his end-of-the-year work party. As is common here, the party was preceded by mass, and it took place on one of the biggest celebration days of the year, the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (Mexico´s patron saint.)
So on Saturday, Fernando picked me up for the party. He arrived on time (something that is not to common here) and then we went to the parish to fetch the Deacon who was to say the service. Of course the Deacon wasn´t there and we waited outside while Fernando exchanged phone calls with a friend who was supposed to accompany the Deacon. In the interim, a nun from work passed by and waved. This made me a little nervous because upon seeing us together a few weeks prior at Mass, one of the nuns from work had commented ¨Be careful with the boys here. They seem nice at first but then they´ll beat you.¨ If having a date that took place in a church was cause for concern, I wasn´t sure how me being in a parked car with a guy would go over.
We were supposed to meet the Deacon at 3:30 and the service was to begin at 4:00 but it wasn´t until 5:00 that we tracked down the Deacon at a house where he had said a different service. As he had been working all day and the services are followed by fiestas, it appeared that he had been celebrating Mass and celebrating afterwards. On the car ride to the party, the Deacon chatted incessantly and quoted Bible passages and portions of Mass.
The service took place at Fernando´s workplace, which is a shop where theater sets are constructed. Everyone was wearing jeans and I felt overdressed in a skirt. More awkwardly, Fernando works for his familys´ business, so I found myself being introduced to a slew of relatives.
Though I was obviously the foreigner who didn´t belong, the Deacon decided to make sure it was evident. During one of the few parts of his homily I could decipher, he asked who wanted to be a missionary. I raised my hand, and the Deacon looked at me and said, ¨Si, Caro esta una missionara.¨ At a portion of his homily where immigrants were mentioned, he talked about how I had come from a different country.
After the service, a group of seven-year old girls gathered around me and stared. As a white girl in dress-up clothes, I suppose it was as if a giant Barbie had walked in for them to play with. While I tried to think back to what sort of conversations grown-ups had with me some twenty years ago, I noticed a group of older, male cousins staring at me as well but at least they kept their distance. Two people trying to ignore me were Fernando´s young second cousins who also happen to be my English students; I´m sure they were perplexed to see their teacher at a party.
Everyone ate and then Fernando and I took a much more subdued Deacon back to Santa Fe. While we were gone, pinatas were broken and when we returned, the girls immediately presented me with candy. I was introduced to more relatives, including an uncle who asked Fernando ¨Is this your girlfriend?¨
Since this was a conversation that we haven´t had, I tried to joke my way out of it by saying ¨I don´t speak much Spanish.¨ The uncle took me seriously, asked me a few more conversations and then said, ¨Pero estas aprendiendo. La guerrita esta aprendiendo.¨ (But you´re learning. The white girl is learning.)
More difficult was talking with Fernando´s father. He sat down next to me and after some basic chitchat about where I was from, he declared ¨And then next year, you´ll go back home and break my son´s heart.¨ He said this several times using hand gestures to make sure I understood.
Though I tried to tell him who knows what could happen in a year and that Fernando could break my heart, the father kept before asking me to dance. Then came salsa dancing with the uncle, who basically spun and threw me around the dance floor.
By the time the evening ended, the uncle and father were very spirited and they came with Fernando and me back to Santa Fe. The father kept repeating what he had told me earlier until I finally said. ¨Yes, that´s why I´m here, I´m going to break a new heart every month and then I´ll go back to America.¨ The uncle, who had been listing all the words he knew and English as well as the places he knew of in the United States, laughed and shouted comments about me that I couldn´t understand in which I was referred to as the guerrita.
Despite how uncomfortable it all may sound, anyone reading this who has attended one of my family reunions knows that Catholic ceremonies, tipsy uncles and a father with a faulty internal sensor are nothing out of the ordinary for me. Thus, other than whiplash sustained from the dance floor, meeting the family in Mexico felt pretty familiar.
Apparently people have been praying for me, and lately I have been seeing enough of someone (Fernando) that I was invited to his end-of-the-year work party. As is common here, the party was preceded by mass, and it took place on one of the biggest celebration days of the year, the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (Mexico´s patron saint.)
So on Saturday, Fernando picked me up for the party. He arrived on time (something that is not to common here) and then we went to the parish to fetch the Deacon who was to say the service. Of course the Deacon wasn´t there and we waited outside while Fernando exchanged phone calls with a friend who was supposed to accompany the Deacon. In the interim, a nun from work passed by and waved. This made me a little nervous because upon seeing us together a few weeks prior at Mass, one of the nuns from work had commented ¨Be careful with the boys here. They seem nice at first but then they´ll beat you.¨ If having a date that took place in a church was cause for concern, I wasn´t sure how me being in a parked car with a guy would go over.
We were supposed to meet the Deacon at 3:30 and the service was to begin at 4:00 but it wasn´t until 5:00 that we tracked down the Deacon at a house where he had said a different service. As he had been working all day and the services are followed by fiestas, it appeared that he had been celebrating Mass and celebrating afterwards. On the car ride to the party, the Deacon chatted incessantly and quoted Bible passages and portions of Mass.
The service took place at Fernando´s workplace, which is a shop where theater sets are constructed. Everyone was wearing jeans and I felt overdressed in a skirt. More awkwardly, Fernando works for his familys´ business, so I found myself being introduced to a slew of relatives.
Though I was obviously the foreigner who didn´t belong, the Deacon decided to make sure it was evident. During one of the few parts of his homily I could decipher, he asked who wanted to be a missionary. I raised my hand, and the Deacon looked at me and said, ¨Si, Caro esta una missionara.¨ At a portion of his homily where immigrants were mentioned, he talked about how I had come from a different country.
After the service, a group of seven-year old girls gathered around me and stared. As a white girl in dress-up clothes, I suppose it was as if a giant Barbie had walked in for them to play with. While I tried to think back to what sort of conversations grown-ups had with me some twenty years ago, I noticed a group of older, male cousins staring at me as well but at least they kept their distance. Two people trying to ignore me were Fernando´s young second cousins who also happen to be my English students; I´m sure they were perplexed to see their teacher at a party.
Everyone ate and then Fernando and I took a much more subdued Deacon back to Santa Fe. While we were gone, pinatas were broken and when we returned, the girls immediately presented me with candy. I was introduced to more relatives, including an uncle who asked Fernando ¨Is this your girlfriend?¨
Since this was a conversation that we haven´t had, I tried to joke my way out of it by saying ¨I don´t speak much Spanish.¨ The uncle took me seriously, asked me a few more conversations and then said, ¨Pero estas aprendiendo. La guerrita esta aprendiendo.¨ (But you´re learning. The white girl is learning.)
More difficult was talking with Fernando´s father. He sat down next to me and after some basic chitchat about where I was from, he declared ¨And then next year, you´ll go back home and break my son´s heart.¨ He said this several times using hand gestures to make sure I understood.
Though I tried to tell him who knows what could happen in a year and that Fernando could break my heart, the father kept before asking me to dance. Then came salsa dancing with the uncle, who basically spun and threw me around the dance floor.
By the time the evening ended, the uncle and father were very spirited and they came with Fernando and me back to Santa Fe. The father kept repeating what he had told me earlier until I finally said. ¨Yes, that´s why I´m here, I´m going to break a new heart every month and then I´ll go back to America.¨ The uncle, who had been listing all the words he knew and English as well as the places he knew of in the United States, laughed and shouted comments about me that I couldn´t understand in which I was referred to as the guerrita.
Despite how uncomfortable it all may sound, anyone reading this who has attended one of my family reunions knows that Catholic ceremonies, tipsy uncles and a father with a faulty internal sensor are nothing out of the ordinary for me. Thus, other than whiplash sustained from the dance floor, meeting the family in Mexico felt pretty familiar.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Times Are A-Changing
At least here--Mexico still goes by the correct time change date, so least week we gained an hour. (Some things never change. I can never resist a chessy pun.)
Halloween is tomorrow and I am that remembering last year at this time, we had a big parish dinner and carved pumpkins. By that point I was starting to feel as if we had been here for a while and that I was at home so it`s kind of crazy to think that it has been a year since then.
I have started writing applications for graduate schools and the essay process has definitely made me realize that I feel a calling to study social work and I am excited to learn more about the field. However, thinking about next year makes me realize that I won`t be here and that I`m going to return to friends and family who have made big changes in their lives. It makes me sad to think about leaving behind the girls at the Missionaries of Charity as well as my friends at the parish, but there is also I lot I miss about the United States.
To come to terms with it all, I`m trying to live in the present so I`ll share a recent day. Last Sunday, Lisa and I went to a celebration at a chapel (Senor de Christo Negro) that is part of our parish. The celebration began at eight a.m. with fireworks we could hear from our house, but we didn`t walk down for the Mass until the afternoon. (Twice, actually, as I got confused by dos and doce when I was beig gtold what time to show up.) We arrived ten minutes before two o`clock Mass, which didn`t start until 2:45. While we waited, we watched salsa and kumba dancers perform beneath a makeshift pavilion that had been set up. There was a street fair type atmopshere as beer and tacos were sold and consumed in the streets, children played games, and people danced.
When Mass began, so did a downpour. Carmelita (a sweet church lady) insisted on giving Lisa and I an umbrella. During Padre`s sermon, water gushed off an awning and onto the crowd. Padre told the crowd that theymay not have been expecting a baptism, but they inadvertantly experienced one. While Padre was speaking at the end, one of his helpers, David, repeated everything he said and Padre just laughed and let him take over the microphone. After Mass, tables were set up and food was distributed and we sat with our friends from the parish. (As Lisa said, part of Padre`s posse.) Padre made sure to give Lisa and I vegetarian lunches and Gallo passed me sips of tequila from the special cups that he and Padre had been served.
There was nothing atypical about the day, but when I think about it, I appreciate the love I encountered, the sense of community, and the willingness of people not to take things so to seriously. It`s days like that I want to learn on and hold onto, no matter what my next step may be.
Halloween is tomorrow and I am that remembering last year at this time, we had a big parish dinner and carved pumpkins. By that point I was starting to feel as if we had been here for a while and that I was at home so it`s kind of crazy to think that it has been a year since then.
I have started writing applications for graduate schools and the essay process has definitely made me realize that I feel a calling to study social work and I am excited to learn more about the field. However, thinking about next year makes me realize that I won`t be here and that I`m going to return to friends and family who have made big changes in their lives. It makes me sad to think about leaving behind the girls at the Missionaries of Charity as well as my friends at the parish, but there is also I lot I miss about the United States.
To come to terms with it all, I`m trying to live in the present so I`ll share a recent day. Last Sunday, Lisa and I went to a celebration at a chapel (Senor de Christo Negro) that is part of our parish. The celebration began at eight a.m. with fireworks we could hear from our house, but we didn`t walk down for the Mass until the afternoon. (Twice, actually, as I got confused by dos and doce when I was beig gtold what time to show up.) We arrived ten minutes before two o`clock Mass, which didn`t start until 2:45. While we waited, we watched salsa and kumba dancers perform beneath a makeshift pavilion that had been set up. There was a street fair type atmopshere as beer and tacos were sold and consumed in the streets, children played games, and people danced.
When Mass began, so did a downpour. Carmelita (a sweet church lady) insisted on giving Lisa and I an umbrella. During Padre`s sermon, water gushed off an awning and onto the crowd. Padre told the crowd that theymay not have been expecting a baptism, but they inadvertantly experienced one. While Padre was speaking at the end, one of his helpers, David, repeated everything he said and Padre just laughed and let him take over the microphone. After Mass, tables were set up and food was distributed and we sat with our friends from the parish. (As Lisa said, part of Padre`s posse.) Padre made sure to give Lisa and I vegetarian lunches and Gallo passed me sips of tequila from the special cups that he and Padre had been served.
There was nothing atypical about the day, but when I think about it, I appreciate the love I encountered, the sense of community, and the willingness of people not to take things so to seriously. It`s days like that I want to learn on and hold onto, no matter what my next step may be.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Field Trip
Tuesdays at the convent, the Brothers of the Missionaries of Charity come with their residents to give and collect food. I was chatting with them a week ago when one of the nuns suggested that I go to their house sometime for a visit—the brothers also run a home from the handicapped, but only males live there.
``She can come back with right us now,`` the Brother said. ``She can take the bus home.``
That was a little too spur-of-the-moment for me, but Sister told him I could prepare and go the following week. So I got ready by asking Jessica to come along with me—of course because I love her company, but also because she is able to ask bus drivers directions more easily than I can.
The following week, I went to the convent and Jess said she would meet up with me soonafter. I met up with Brother Marcos who said both Jess and I could back with him and that they would be leaving in 15 minutes. As I fed Edith, I texted Jess and worried that she wouldn`t make it before it was time to leave
``Let`s go,`` Brother Marcos said to the residents with him, just as Jessica arrived. I thought it was perfect, that she had made it just in time. Instead, Brother Marcos had more food to pass out and more nuns to talk to. Jessica and I lingered by his van as three teenage boys with Down`s Syndrome hugged us, tugged at us, and one jumped on my back. We decided we were in for an adventure. As the Brother made more rounds, Sister Maria quizzed Jessica about the progress of her cathecism students. A half hour later, we set off.
In the car, Jess sat next to Israel who stuck his head out the window and yelled at pedistrians. Brother Marcos seemed unconcerned by this but Jess and I told him many times to settle down. I sat between two boys and listened to one tell me repeatedly that another nun had once come with them and sat in that very van. Everyone was entertained when I ducked my head behind the seat in front of many times as part of a game called ``Donde Estoy?`` (which I have honed my skills at playing over the past year.) Jess and I belted out a long rendition``If You`re Happy and You Know It.```
We drove out of Pueblo Santa Fe and the Commercial Center and into a small town called San Mateo. In the grounds of the Brothers` Home, the boys led us to a concrete area where there were about 40 handicapped men—some in wheelchairs, some laying on the ground, most walking about.
Immediately we were surrounded by men who put there arms around us and tugged us in different directions. In terms of sadness it wasn`t worse than visiting the convent but being around men made me a little nervous. At work, the women at the convent are mostly bedridden, but here we were surrounded by many grown men who could physically function but had undiscernable mental problems. Jess and I did our best to get over our worries about being there and tried to chat politely with everyone. No one really cared about what we were saying—our presence was enough.
During dinner time (apple stew, home-grown corn and donuts,) I mingled with various tables. The boys from the van-ride passed out food, one wheelchair-bound man fed another wheelchair-bound man ,and a young man could not stop climbing up on his chair. One man seemed desperate to communicate with me, but I could only vaguely understand that he was trying to say ``nino.`` Jess learned from Brother Marcos that visitors so rarely come that they don`t even have visiting . I asked him if we could do anything to help, and passed along to Jess the fact the he wanted us to collect and wash dishes.
As I stood at the sink, the man who had been trying ``nino.`` grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the kitchen and over to a wall of photos. He showed me a pictures of himself as a child and then the boys from the came over as well to point out their pictures. Then they pulled me outside to show me flowers, the statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the corn that they are growing, and the dog. We circled the grounds several times Jess and washed the dishes that I had offered to clean. As I prayed by Maria and accepted freshly-picked flowers, I began to feel at peace.
Back inside the house several men were watching TV and Jess and I saw the rooms of the men—like at the convent about 15 patients live in single beds in big rooms. The residents of the Brothers seemed more active than the residents of the Sisters and I liked that they are able to roam the grounds freely. The Brothers I met had a hip vibe to them—they were from India and wore jeans or athletic pants. One had bushy beard and they were all very laid-back.
There was a time I would have been much more uncomfortable in such a place. I`ve always thought of myself as someone who is patient and accepting of others but the visit definitely tested my limits. In the United States, I spent some time volunteering with mentally ill men and of course, over this past year I have been spending my days with discapacitated women. Many times I wondered what I was doing at those places and chastised myself for not making a huge difference in the lives of others. However, those experiences helped me prepare for being more open toward the residents of the Brothers. Most of the men struggled to speak, and as I have spent the past year doing the same thing (wondering how I got myself into such a position,) I felt a lot of compassion toward them. The day was a reminder to me that even when I am not sure why something is happening at the time, it can help prepare me for something far down the road.
``She can come back with right us now,`` the Brother said. ``She can take the bus home.``
That was a little too spur-of-the-moment for me, but Sister told him I could prepare and go the following week. So I got ready by asking Jessica to come along with me—of course because I love her company, but also because she is able to ask bus drivers directions more easily than I can.
The following week, I went to the convent and Jess said she would meet up with me soonafter. I met up with Brother Marcos who said both Jess and I could back with him and that they would be leaving in 15 minutes. As I fed Edith, I texted Jess and worried that she wouldn`t make it before it was time to leave
``Let`s go,`` Brother Marcos said to the residents with him, just as Jessica arrived. I thought it was perfect, that she had made it just in time. Instead, Brother Marcos had more food to pass out and more nuns to talk to. Jessica and I lingered by his van as three teenage boys with Down`s Syndrome hugged us, tugged at us, and one jumped on my back. We decided we were in for an adventure. As the Brother made more rounds, Sister Maria quizzed Jessica about the progress of her cathecism students. A half hour later, we set off.
In the car, Jess sat next to Israel who stuck his head out the window and yelled at pedistrians. Brother Marcos seemed unconcerned by this but Jess and I told him many times to settle down. I sat between two boys and listened to one tell me repeatedly that another nun had once come with them and sat in that very van. Everyone was entertained when I ducked my head behind the seat in front of many times as part of a game called ``Donde Estoy?`` (which I have honed my skills at playing over the past year.) Jess and I belted out a long rendition``If You`re Happy and You Know It.```
We drove out of Pueblo Santa Fe and the Commercial Center and into a small town called San Mateo. In the grounds of the Brothers` Home, the boys led us to a concrete area where there were about 40 handicapped men—some in wheelchairs, some laying on the ground, most walking about.
Immediately we were surrounded by men who put there arms around us and tugged us in different directions. In terms of sadness it wasn`t worse than visiting the convent but being around men made me a little nervous. At work, the women at the convent are mostly bedridden, but here we were surrounded by many grown men who could physically function but had undiscernable mental problems. Jess and I did our best to get over our worries about being there and tried to chat politely with everyone. No one really cared about what we were saying—our presence was enough.
During dinner time (apple stew, home-grown corn and donuts,) I mingled with various tables. The boys from the van-ride passed out food, one wheelchair-bound man fed another wheelchair-bound man ,and a young man could not stop climbing up on his chair. One man seemed desperate to communicate with me, but I could only vaguely understand that he was trying to say ``nino.`` Jess learned from Brother Marcos that visitors so rarely come that they don`t even have visiting . I asked him if we could do anything to help, and passed along to Jess the fact the he wanted us to collect and wash dishes.
As I stood at the sink, the man who had been trying ``nino.`` grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the kitchen and over to a wall of photos. He showed me a pictures of himself as a child and then the boys from the came over as well to point out their pictures. Then they pulled me outside to show me flowers, the statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the corn that they are growing, and the dog. We circled the grounds several times Jess and washed the dishes that I had offered to clean. As I prayed by Maria and accepted freshly-picked flowers, I began to feel at peace.
Back inside the house several men were watching TV and Jess and I saw the rooms of the men—like at the convent about 15 patients live in single beds in big rooms. The residents of the Brothers seemed more active than the residents of the Sisters and I liked that they are able to roam the grounds freely. The Brothers I met had a hip vibe to them—they were from India and wore jeans or athletic pants. One had bushy beard and they were all very laid-back.
There was a time I would have been much more uncomfortable in such a place. I`ve always thought of myself as someone who is patient and accepting of others but the visit definitely tested my limits. In the United States, I spent some time volunteering with mentally ill men and of course, over this past year I have been spending my days with discapacitated women. Many times I wondered what I was doing at those places and chastised myself for not making a huge difference in the lives of others. However, those experiences helped me prepare for being more open toward the residents of the Brothers. Most of the men struggled to speak, and as I have spent the past year doing the same thing (wondering how I got myself into such a position,) I felt a lot of compassion toward them. The day was a reminder to me that even when I am not sure why something is happening at the time, it can help prepare me for something far down the road.
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