Dear friends,
I sincerely want to apologize for the lack of communication with you all on my part these last few months. I’ve been pretty good about making up excuses to not go to the internet café, and I received a wonderful visit with my family in May that gave me so much love and energy that I’m still glowing with joy from the time we spent together and the opportunity I had to share with them a little bit of my life here.
My return in December is sneaking up on me. In six months I will pack my bags and try to express in good-bye hugs how important all these people have been to me these past two years. But finding myself in this downhill six month stretch has really got me thinking. In many ways I feel like I am on my last lap, the last leg of the race, I see the finish line so close in the distance and know that I am at my peak in terms of relationships I have spent so much time building or my time as a librarian that I have so open heartedly poured myself into. Honest conversations with coworkers or library users come so naturally; I’ve seen women carry children for 9 months, give birth and am now watching the children grow and take first steps; and I can actually eat a mango without dripping the juice all over my clothes.
But the absolutely haunting feeling that permeates within me and throughout my days is the fear that when I pack my bags and get on that plane in December, I will say goodbye to a hurting country that I watched get worse everyday over the time I spent there. Some weeks are worse than others, and I see the changes at a very micro level through the lives of coworkers and friends in the neighborhood where I work, which is one of the poorest and most marginalized in Managua, but it seems that the economic situation is rapidly getting worse leaving so many people without options and little hope.
Inflation for the year of 2007 was a steep 17% and by the time this year is over they are anticipating an outrageous 28% based on the assumption of oil prices continuing to rise. What that means at a most basic level (the one that I personally witness) is that people are hungry. Of course I am from the small, blessed percentage of people in Managua that don’t have to worry about where we will get our next meal, but the search for food is a struggle taking place around every corner, even in the middle class barrio where I live. Tortillas are smaller; prices of beans and rice have reached new highs; and cooking oil (a staple to any typical dish) has double in price in just the short time I have been here.
My hope for this email however is not to bore you with statistics and numbers because I don’t know if that is the best way to describe the reality of the situation, but I want to share with you some of the ways that I have seen the effects of the global food crisis taking place in the poorer parts of the world, and how increasing gas prices greatly affect a large population of people that will never be lucky enough to drive a car. I share these stories with you in confidence knowing that they are others’ stories and not my own, but with the hope that they will allow us to think a little deeper about the complexity of the world in which we live.
Hungry Hunters: Around 4:45pm this past Friday afternoon, I was hurriedly cleaning the mop in the outside wash basin thinking about the upcoming weekend when I heard what sounded like rocks whizzing past me and bouncing on the metal roof tops and falling to the ground. I fearfully looked around and saw no one nor heard any footsteps. All the kids had left for the day and I knew that just 2 coworkers and I were the only ones left in the project. I promptly blew off the incident and returned to the library to quickly mop the floor and leave for the day, but it wasn’t until I was on my way out the gate several minutes later that I could explain what had happened. I spotted two young boys armed with sling shots. Of course my immediate reaction was one of anger thinking that they where trying to harm me earlier as I washed the mop, so I stormed over to where they were and asked what they were doing shooting rocks in the direction of people. Clearly I was thinking worse case scenario: sling shots can be a violent weapon in the hands of young boys. As soon as I began to speak, they quickly lowered the sling shots and earnestly apologized. They had assumed everyone was gone for the day and wouldn’t harm anyone. I still however didn’t understand what they were doing and kept asking questions about why they wanted to be at the project when it was closed, again thinking the worst that they were up to no good, but once more upon my questioning they apologized saying that they didn’t mean any harm because they were just trying to kill some pigeons to eat because they were hungry. My heart sunk I felt awful looking into their sad, desperate eyes and had no food or anything to offer them. Feeling almost nauseous, I apologized and told them to take care of themselves and walked away. How quick had I assumed they were causing trouble and honestly never would have guessed they we just searching for dinner.
- A friend from the library, a young mother who had just returned to school to finish her last two years of high school told me on Friday that she was dropping out of school. The two of us are the same age but are in very different situations. She has two young daughters both of which have no father figure for any type of support. On Friday, her one day off, she came to visit me at the library but when I asked her which book to pull of the shelf to lend her, she sadly lowered her head and told me that she wasn’t going to continue studying because she had just gotten a job on the janitorial staff of a college in Managua. I was trying to give her hope suggesting she switch her studies from the night to the weekends, or at least try and finish this semester which is almost over. But her only reply was that her kids have to eat. “The reality is that we have to eat,” she told me. That quieted me quickly because I knew it was the truth.
- A 12 year old girl who comes to the library often told me how she wants to come see my house. I proposed we would find a date for her to come visit my house and meet me roommates on the agreement that she would first take me to her house to meet her family, especially her mother, so the next day she met me at 5pm after I finished work to take me to her house. When we arrived, I was never actually invited inside, but I was immediately given coffee and a piece of sweet bread. The visit was brief; they only had one chair which they gave to me. Her mom, brother, and sister just awkwardly stood around me. All of a sudden it made so much more sense why she came to the library everyday, they didn’t even have a table or chairs to sit on. I left very thankful for the visit, and in a few weeks during her vacation from school she is going to come spend a day with me.
- The past few weeks I have been working alone at the library during the mornings. My coworker had to switch jobs to help out another program in the project. The transition to working alone has naturally been a lonely one; I don’t think I ever realized how much I relied on her for advice and companionship let alone the fact that this switch has greatly increased my work load. I greatly missed her presence last week when a very terrible, completely unfortunate accident occurred in the library. A very frequent library user, ten year old Odalis, came to the library to do her homework. I don’t know much about her family situation, but I can tell that they are struggling. Their mother works all day long at the sweatshop factories, so the three children get passed around between busy family members and neighbors. On this particular day Odalis brought along her three year old sister, Madeline, a truly beautiful girl with a very hard life. I always have to repeatedly tell Madeline to put on her sandals and not walk around barefoot, and this day was no exception, but the consequences this day we much greater because Odalis was leaning back on the bench she was sitting at and caused it to tip over and come crashing down onto Madeline’s barefoot. I didn’t even hear the bench fall, but I did hear the painful scream and cry she released and saw the blood and wound on her foot. I snapped into to panic mode which for me in that situation was to hold her and clean her foot off (she is almost always walking around in the dirt without shoes on). Cleaning her foot to stop the bleeding was no simple task. It was impossible to put pressure on the cut because the bone in her toe had shattered so placing pressure was too painful. I sent one of the kids to get one of my coworkers for help and sent Odalis home to get her grandma to come take her to the hospital. Really all I could do was hold her and listen to her cry. Her cry was so disturbing: in between gasps of breath she shouted syllables of my name. “Ma--rrrr---ia--!” I continued waiting but her grandmother never came, meanwhile her foot kept bleeding. I eventually handed Madeline over to one of my older coworkers while I went and looked for more gauze. When I came back, I saw a young boy no older than 12 years old walking away with her in the direction of her grandmothers house. I feared that she would be abandoned with no one to care for her and it was obvious to me she needed medical attention. As I continued with my day, I couldn’t get her cries out of my head, so I went back with Margaret during our lunch break to check in on her. Her grandmother seemed relieved to see us; it seemed that no one had so much as touched her since she left the project. She sat alone in the chair crying in pain with blood still dripping from her foot. We encouraged them to take her to the hospital, and when her 16 year old aunt got home from school the two went alone to the hospital.
- One of the main leaders of a political party in Nicaragua is on a hunger strike. She has been fasting for 12 days and says she will continue to do so until the government puts her party back on the ticket for the upcoming mayor elections. Fasting as a form of protest seems powerful and ironic in a country where many are hungry.
- One of the main “ventas” or small corner stores run out the front of house was robbed last week. What was stolen: a hundred pound bag of rice and a hundred pound bag of bean that had just been distributed by the government to this family to sell at a very subsidized price to the people in the neighborhood. I can’t imagine the effort put into breaking into a house and then lifting the heavy bags over a tall cement wall. Must have been hungry.
I appreciate you allowing me to share my thoughts and stories, may they fill our hearts as we pray others stomachs are filled. I hope that we can continue to remember how blessed we are and keep all those suffering in our prayers. Thanks again.
Peace,
Mary
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The Complexity of Poverty
“Lord, when was it we saw you hungry and gave you food, when was it we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, when was it was saw you sick or in prison and visited you? And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’” Matthew 25:37-40
We arrived soaked from head to toe after a two hour hike through mountain trails to arrive to the home of the family of my co-worker, Myrna. I was a little apprehensive because I had never met her family or been to a house so far removed from everything. But within the first few minutes, despite being a complete stranger, I was welcomed with warm hugs and was sitting with dry clothes near a fire, drinking coffee and eating bread.
The above passage from Matthew appeared at the beginning of John Pitts Corry’s article I just read in The Catholic Worker when he wrote about the struggles of knowing what this passage means for our lives but the difficulty we encounter in trying to really live out that call. Jesus makes his home around the poor, likes being around them, and constantly takes up their cause in the public arena. Must we not do the same? Corry questions what the people fleeing from gunfire in Baghdad or women caring for their young, dying children in Africa would have to say about our need to go out to a restaurant for nice dinner or on a vacation? Not to mention all the things we take for granted that many other people on the globe don’t have access to: education, healthcare, electricity, water. His honest words of struggle to live this Gospel call spoke truth as I evaluated my own life in this area.
I remembered again the few days I had just spent in the remote mountains of northern Nicaragua with my co-worker’s family. I romanticized about the simplicity of the lifestyle there: The dependency on the land and farming, following the sun’s natural clock of when to sleep and when to rise, cold bucket showers from a nearby well, close relationships among neighbors although the nearest one is a thirty minute walk away. I was so caught up in the natural beauty of the mountain views, the wonderful people around me, and the adventure of entering a new type of life (one morning we walked in boots over two hours to bring back 40 lbs of fresh cuajada cheese from a tiny house high in the mountains) that I had completely failed to realize how “poor” these people were based on the North American standards I was raised by. And if these people were so “poor,” why was it that they were the ones welcoming me, the stranger, into their homes and offering me food and drink?
Then, my thoughts returned to a Bible workshop I went to with co-workers back in November. We spent a lot of time talking about “Christ’s Project” and how he was committed to the poor. I remember feeling uncomfortable several times about the constant use of the word poor, especially knowing the difficult economic situation many of my co-workers face in their homes. One of the women even boldly complained, “We are not poor by choice; we are involuntarily poor because we were born into this!” But despite the continuous use of the word poor, we never once really discussed what it means for us.
The complexity of all that the word poor brings has me realizing the intricate heart Christ has and questioning my own interpretation of the word. Some say that we can circumvent our responsibility to the economically poor by saying God cares for each of us the same in the individual ways we each are poor, but I don’t think I personally subscribe to that. Can we all be the last or the least? I believe God cares for us all deeply, but He is with the poor (interpret that how you will), so is that not where we should go?
So many times I find myself in situations when fail to live this message. Sometimes I forget and other times I just don’t. What is holding me back from this complete conversion to the poor? Why is it so easy for me to fall into the thinking that maybe not all of us are called to be like Mother Teresa? At the heart of it, I know that it is nothing more than my own fear and desire to hold on to my own independence.
Living in Nicaragua, it is not difficult to to love the poor and find my home in them, but it would be a lie to say I always encounter the presence of Jesus in the face of everyone that is economically poor or abused or sick or homeless, but I do know that in my heart I believe He is there. I might recognize it immediately with some and with others it might be a little more difficult, but I know that He is there…and that has to be enough.
We arrived soaked from head to toe after a two hour hike through mountain trails to arrive to the home of the family of my co-worker, Myrna. I was a little apprehensive because I had never met her family or been to a house so far removed from everything. But within the first few minutes, despite being a complete stranger, I was welcomed with warm hugs and was sitting with dry clothes near a fire, drinking coffee and eating bread.
The above passage from Matthew appeared at the beginning of John Pitts Corry’s article I just read in The Catholic Worker when he wrote about the struggles of knowing what this passage means for our lives but the difficulty we encounter in trying to really live out that call. Jesus makes his home around the poor, likes being around them, and constantly takes up their cause in the public arena. Must we not do the same? Corry questions what the people fleeing from gunfire in Baghdad or women caring for their young, dying children in Africa would have to say about our need to go out to a restaurant for nice dinner or on a vacation? Not to mention all the things we take for granted that many other people on the globe don’t have access to: education, healthcare, electricity, water. His honest words of struggle to live this Gospel call spoke truth as I evaluated my own life in this area.
I remembered again the few days I had just spent in the remote mountains of northern Nicaragua with my co-worker’s family. I romanticized about the simplicity of the lifestyle there: The dependency on the land and farming, following the sun’s natural clock of when to sleep and when to rise, cold bucket showers from a nearby well, close relationships among neighbors although the nearest one is a thirty minute walk away. I was so caught up in the natural beauty of the mountain views, the wonderful people around me, and the adventure of entering a new type of life (one morning we walked in boots over two hours to bring back 40 lbs of fresh cuajada cheese from a tiny house high in the mountains) that I had completely failed to realize how “poor” these people were based on the North American standards I was raised by. And if these people were so “poor,” why was it that they were the ones welcoming me, the stranger, into their homes and offering me food and drink?
Then, my thoughts returned to a Bible workshop I went to with co-workers back in November. We spent a lot of time talking about “Christ’s Project” and how he was committed to the poor. I remember feeling uncomfortable several times about the constant use of the word poor, especially knowing the difficult economic situation many of my co-workers face in their homes. One of the women even boldly complained, “We are not poor by choice; we are involuntarily poor because we were born into this!” But despite the continuous use of the word poor, we never once really discussed what it means for us.
The complexity of all that the word poor brings has me realizing the intricate heart Christ has and questioning my own interpretation of the word. Some say that we can circumvent our responsibility to the economically poor by saying God cares for each of us the same in the individual ways we each are poor, but I don’t think I personally subscribe to that. Can we all be the last or the least? I believe God cares for us all deeply, but He is with the poor (interpret that how you will), so is that not where we should go?
So many times I find myself in situations when fail to live this message. Sometimes I forget and other times I just don’t. What is holding me back from this complete conversion to the poor? Why is it so easy for me to fall into the thinking that maybe not all of us are called to be like Mother Teresa? At the heart of it, I know that it is nothing more than my own fear and desire to hold on to my own independence.
Living in Nicaragua, it is not difficult to to love the poor and find my home in them, but it would be a lie to say I always encounter the presence of Jesus in the face of everyone that is economically poor or abused or sick or homeless, but I do know that in my heart I believe He is there. I might recognize it immediately with some and with others it might be a little more difficult, but I know that He is there…and that has to be enough.
Out of Managua
Wanted to share a few picture about a recent trip I took to visit the family of a friend outside of Managua.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
365 down, 365 to go (Part 1)
Wow…the fastest 365 days of my life. I know that some passed more quickly than others, some were easier, and others were filled with despair, but individual days aside, the year has completely changed me from the inside out. Even just looking back on these last few months when I have failed to write, so much has happened, I can hardly remember myself, but for now I would like to share a short story.
Just yesterday I was invited to a first communion of Edelis, one of the young girls I have gotten to know this year at the library. Only one of the many beauties of this culture is that a friendship with just one person opens you up knowing an entire family. In the case of Edelis, I know not only her but also her brother, numerous cousins, parents, grandmother, and even a few uncles and aunts. More than 20 family members live together on a plot of land in El Recreo, the neighborhood where I work.
I arrived to her house round 7am yesterday morning a little nervous and unsure of what a typical first communion experience would be like. Not surprisingly, I was greeted with excitement, love and hugs and kisses from everyone, but most amazingly was treated just like one of the family. Upon my arrival, we quickly left for the church that was a little ways away in the next neighborhood. It also quickly came to my attention that this day was not just the first communion of Edelis but also a family affair because her brother and two cousins received their first communion also. This day had been looked forward to by all of them for a long time, and I was really touched that they wanted me to be a part of it.
Mass started by a loud ringing of the bells, and I again felt so glad to be sharing in this moment especially as I watched all the communicants process in meeting eyes and smiling with those I had just spent the last year working with at the library. In a neighborhood where families struggle to make ends meet and put food on the table, this day was a huge accomplishment for everyone.
Midway through mass right after the homily, fireworks were set off just steps away from the doors of the church in typical Nicaraguan fashion as a way of demonstrating happiness and excitement. Of course through my North American glasses, it seemed like nothing other than a huge safety hazard as smoke and debris from the fireworks entered the church and also a big disturbance of the sanctity of mass (imagine how distracting and LOUD fireworks are when you are less than 50 meters away). Most everyone just ignored them, but of course I completed jumped out of my skin because that was the last thing I was expecting to happen.
Afterwards, we returned to the house where everyone lived and ate cake and drank coke (also a very cultural thing…no party is complete without cake and “gaseosa”). The “house” is a chain of small rooms built with scrap wood and dirt floors. As I sat outside on the small patio area that connected the various parts of the house, I took in all that was around me…the very close context in which they lived; there weren’t enough chairs for everyone to sit on; no toilet only a small latrine, no running water, and many people slept in the same bed. The mother shared with me that she wasn’t able to make lunch for everyone due to all the expenses of the day. It was incredible the high importance they placed on buying a beautiful, white, communion dress, lace gloves, matching shoes, and veil. Especially when I reflected on the conditions of their house, I was really impressed by the way they worked to conserve parts of their culture.
This experience was just one part of that one day. Last night as I went to bed, I laid my head down on the pillow, and thinking back to the days events, I once again felt grateful for this experience of being here. Please stay posted…I still have many other days and stories to share.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
From Managua to Marietta and back
It is an incredible reflection of privilege that in just a matter of three and a half hours, I can get on a plane and move practically effortlessly from what seems like two different worlds. A month ago, I walked out my front door from my home in Managua crammed into a small rundown taxi that was probably over 20 years old. There were six of us in the small vehicle which isn’t an uncommon sight in Managua. We blew through the streets passing women with baskets on their heads selling bread, shoeless children washing car windshields, men shouting headlines from the daily paper, and breaking every traffic law I had ever learned as a 15 year old in drivers ed.
After about a twenty minute ride, we all spilled out of the taxi at the airport gates. I was on my way back home to Marietta to be with my family for my dad’s upcoming operation. He has been struggling with a super rare disease called Cronkite-Canada Syndrome since April, and after much discernment I decided to go home to be with my family. With a small bag and passport in hand, I said by to my community and walked through customs and then onto the coach class of a Delta flight headed direct to Atlanta. Three and a half hours later, I drove into the outstretched, long-missed arms of my family. We climbed into the family’s comfy sedan with leather interior, turned the air conditioning to the exact degree we wanted, and drove through the familiar 16 lanes of traffic through downtown. As we sat in traffic, I enjoyed my family’s much missed company but knew my heart and mind were still marked with the heavy impressions left by Nicaragua.
Of course the 26 days I had at home were filled with too much shock and emotion for me to comprehend. I would go a few hours feeling like it was if I had never left and just so glad to back to a well-known place where I could speak my own language, be surrounded by people who knew me since my childhood, hear country music on the radio, walk around on carpet with my shoes off, and eat turkey and cheese sandwiches whenever I wanted. But not too much time could pass before I would see something that would remind me of an experience in Nicaragua. For example, one morning I went running down Trickum Rd. right by my house (running in general is a much missed privilege I unfortunately rarely get to do in Managua due to time, the heat, safety, etc.) and saw that someone had dumped about six rolls of wallpaper on the side of the road. I wasn’t sure if they were left there or purpose or if they had fallen off of a truck, but I immediately thought that was so strange and knew you would never see six unopened rolls of wallpaper in Managua. First of all, someone would have quickly come by to pick it up, but secondly, they would probably wouldn’t even understand the necessity for wallpaper but find something else probably more useful to use it for. After the run, I opened the fridge and again was reminded of the little luxuries I had available. Right in front of me, in my own house were about 8 different drink options: two different flavors of water, two types of Gatorade, ice tea, diet coke, milk and orange juice. The fridge was also stocked with 5 flavors of yogurt, 2 kind of hummus, grapes, apples, and many other hard-to-come-by foods in Nicaragua, but it wasn’t so much the types of foods that was the shock, but more so the quantities. The fridge was so full…and we had another freezer downstairs filled as well!
The thoughts of the extreme differences between the two worlds never left for much longer than a few hours, and the 26 days went by quicker than I ever could have imagined. I enjoyed my last hot showers, loads of laundry in the washing machine, hours on wireless internet, and turkey sandwich and was filled with much emotion saying goodbyes for the second time around knowing that I wouldn’t be back for another 15 months. In many ways I was glad and ready to return to the simpler life in Managua. But I remain completely awestruck knowing that I walk this thin line between two realities. I knew that no matter how many pictures I could show or stories I could share, I could never accurately portray or get one to understand the reality many Nicaraguans face. Likewise, I was a little relieved to remind myself that many people in the neighborhood where I work will never understand the immense luxury and accessibility to everything we have in states…and if they did, they probably would be absolutely horrified by all the waste.
I made the reverse trip from comfy Marietta to my Managuan home, this time with a little more understanding and a bigger heart for my time here. My first day back to work in addition to about hundred huge hugs and kisses, my co-worker in the library threw me a welcome back party with her and the four high school volunteers that help out every afternoon in the library. They had prepared fried chicken and cabbage salad which we ate off tortillas and sheets of notebook paper for plates. One of them handed me a dryer sheet to use as a napkin, and this time I wasn’t thinking about Nicaragua but was reminded of home…I was probably the only one of us that had ever seen a dryer. Who knows why we had the dryer sheets or where they came from? Either way, I gladly used it as if I didn’t even know the difference. The thought behind the party was so genuine and kind. I am always amazed by the welcome I am given in a country I once new next to nothing about, but I was truly touched as I was welcomed back another time.
After about a twenty minute ride, we all spilled out of the taxi at the airport gates. I was on my way back home to Marietta to be with my family for my dad’s upcoming operation. He has been struggling with a super rare disease called Cronkite-Canada Syndrome since April, and after much discernment I decided to go home to be with my family. With a small bag and passport in hand, I said by to my community and walked through customs and then onto the coach class of a Delta flight headed direct to Atlanta. Three and a half hours later, I drove into the outstretched, long-missed arms of my family. We climbed into the family’s comfy sedan with leather interior, turned the air conditioning to the exact degree we wanted, and drove through the familiar 16 lanes of traffic through downtown. As we sat in traffic, I enjoyed my family’s much missed company but knew my heart and mind were still marked with the heavy impressions left by Nicaragua.
Of course the 26 days I had at home were filled with too much shock and emotion for me to comprehend. I would go a few hours feeling like it was if I had never left and just so glad to back to a well-known place where I could speak my own language, be surrounded by people who knew me since my childhood, hear country music on the radio, walk around on carpet with my shoes off, and eat turkey and cheese sandwiches whenever I wanted. But not too much time could pass before I would see something that would remind me of an experience in Nicaragua. For example, one morning I went running down Trickum Rd. right by my house (running in general is a much missed privilege I unfortunately rarely get to do in Managua due to time, the heat, safety, etc.) and saw that someone had dumped about six rolls of wallpaper on the side of the road. I wasn’t sure if they were left there or purpose or if they had fallen off of a truck, but I immediately thought that was so strange and knew you would never see six unopened rolls of wallpaper in Managua. First of all, someone would have quickly come by to pick it up, but secondly, they would probably wouldn’t even understand the necessity for wallpaper but find something else probably more useful to use it for. After the run, I opened the fridge and again was reminded of the little luxuries I had available. Right in front of me, in my own house were about 8 different drink options: two different flavors of water, two types of Gatorade, ice tea, diet coke, milk and orange juice. The fridge was also stocked with 5 flavors of yogurt, 2 kind of hummus, grapes, apples, and many other hard-to-come-by foods in Nicaragua, but it wasn’t so much the types of foods that was the shock, but more so the quantities. The fridge was so full…and we had another freezer downstairs filled as well!
The thoughts of the extreme differences between the two worlds never left for much longer than a few hours, and the 26 days went by quicker than I ever could have imagined. I enjoyed my last hot showers, loads of laundry in the washing machine, hours on wireless internet, and turkey sandwich and was filled with much emotion saying goodbyes for the second time around knowing that I wouldn’t be back for another 15 months. In many ways I was glad and ready to return to the simpler life in Managua. But I remain completely awestruck knowing that I walk this thin line between two realities. I knew that no matter how many pictures I could show or stories I could share, I could never accurately portray or get one to understand the reality many Nicaraguans face. Likewise, I was a little relieved to remind myself that many people in the neighborhood where I work will never understand the immense luxury and accessibility to everything we have in states…and if they did, they probably would be absolutely horrified by all the waste.
I made the reverse trip from comfy Marietta to my Managuan home, this time with a little more understanding and a bigger heart for my time here. My first day back to work in addition to about hundred huge hugs and kisses, my co-worker in the library threw me a welcome back party with her and the four high school volunteers that help out every afternoon in the library. They had prepared fried chicken and cabbage salad which we ate off tortillas and sheets of notebook paper for plates. One of them handed me a dryer sheet to use as a napkin, and this time I wasn’t thinking about Nicaragua but was reminded of home…I was probably the only one of us that had ever seen a dryer. Who knows why we had the dryer sheets or where they came from? Either way, I gladly used it as if I didn’t even know the difference. The thought behind the party was so genuine and kind. I am always amazed by the welcome I am given in a country I once new next to nothing about, but I was truly touched as I was welcomed back another time.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Librarian Life?
Never would I have guessed that after graduating college I would work in a library of all places. Sure I always enjoyed libraries and reading, but now that is where I spend almost all of my time. Sometimes I get restless and feel locked up behind the doors, but the moments when I realize that my job is nothing at all about books or reading, I am completely reaffirmed that my job is absolutely perfect for me…and it has been flawless in showing me the injustice that permeates this country. Honestly, there are days that I am faced with too much to deal with, but more and more these are the days I am beginning to appreciate.
This one particular day began with a slow, boring morning…one of those days that I have to remind myself that I work in a library… The banal work of the morning was soon interrupted when a 16 year old high school student, Katherine, came in to borrow a book to finish her homework. We sat at the same table both half working and half talking to each other. I asked some simple questions about how her classes were going and how her family was, and before I knew it we had launch into a conversation about the sexual abuse her close friend had receive for four years. Katherine was talking low and soft and quickly, I was having trouble understanding everything, but I knew this was a conversation that I shouldn’t ask questions, just listen. Everything she described sounded horrifying…the mom knew the abuse was taking place, the friend felt like it was all her fault, etc. Apparently, this all occurred 6 months ago, and she has since been removed from the situation, but when I asked how she was doing now, Katherine sadly tells me that two weeks ago her boyfriend who was 21 or 22 moved into the house. The mother approved as long as he paid for his own expenses and that the girl washed and ironed his clothes and cooked for him. All I could do was lean my head down and shake it slowly in disbelief, and close my eyes and pray. We sat in silence for a few minutes after the conversation; neither one of us wanted to return to the work in front of us. Although I felt a disgust and rage for this sad story, what more could I have done?
A few hours later, I cross the cancha (basketball court that doubles as a soccer field) and headed to lunch. I came across Gloria, a woman who worked in kitchen at the project but left to find other work. She shared with me that her family was in a “critical” economic situation. I didn’t have to ask what that meant. She is recovering from eye surgery and doesn’t want to return to washing and ironing clothes because that is what she did for 13 years and doesn’t think her back and body can handle the work anymore. Later in the conversation, she tells me her son quit school although he only has a year left until he graduates to look for work also. On top of her job-searching struggles and barely making ends meet, she is attending Saturday school because she is determined to finish high school.
During lunch I was given the opportunity to accompany Emilio, a friend of the project from
As we entered the crowded, chaotic, three thousand student high school, I was greeted by dozens of regular library attendees. I think we were all surprised and excited to see each other outside of the typical setting of the library. They say everyone gets their ten minutes of fame, right? Never before in my life had I felt like both a huge celebrity and complete foreigner at the same time. Children were running out of classrooms to hug me, shouting my name through open windows to exchange a smile, staring at me with wide-open eyes. Meanwhile, I stood stunned and speechless at the conditions of the school environment in front of me. I tried to focus on the reason I originally came the school that day.
Emilio and I entered the classroom and began working with the students. After a few icebreakers, we sat in a circle and played a simple game. Emilio would say “Stand up and move your seat if…”, and the students would respond by running and quickly searching of an open, available seat in the room. He started out with simple phrases, but when he moved into the move heavier questions, I was shocked by some of the candid responses of the students.
Emilio, “Stand up and move your seat if…you ever seen someone dead…”
Four kids move.
“Really, you have seen someone dead? Who was it?”
My cousin he was being assaulted by two robbers and they killed him. The entire family was very sad.
“And you, what death did you see?”
My uncle. He offered no more explanation. No more words.
“Stand up and move your seat if you like the war”
Five kids get up and move.
“Why do you like war?”
Because people fight, and I like fighting. These words were spoken by a third grade girl named Maria. She stood there stoically looking painfully innocent in her school uniform.
“Does anyone else like fighting?”
Kids throughout the classroom nod their heads in agreement.
“Stand up and move your seat if you ate lunch today.”
Of the twenty kids or so only half moved.
“Stand up and move your seat if you were woken up last night by people shouting.”
Without thinking four students quickly ran across the room.
“Stand up and move your seat if you know someone who is a robber.”
Seven kids search for new seats.
“Is the robber a friend of yours? Does she live in the neighborhood?”
Yeah she is a friend, but she is a little older than I am. She is my neighbor who lives in the house right in front of mine. She has never stolen anything from me though. I think she only works on Saturdays.
“Stand up and move your seat if you have ever yelled at your mother.”
Everyone even those that haven’t been participating much moved.
“Move…if you like hugs.”
Not a single move except one innocent looking young girl stands slowly and nervously looks around.
“Stand up and move your seat if you like hugs.”
Emilio stood and repeated the question. Still no movement, and the girl sinks backs down in her seated hoping to remain unnoticed.
The kids couldn’t even stand in front of the room and say their name. All the classrooms are open. Metal roofs which make it impossible to listen in the rain. Broken desks, children sharing desks. Trash thrown all over the floor. Children screaming, shouting, hitting one another.
A teacher yells so loud that her voice quivers and runs down my spine, trying to get the children to behave. I can tell she has passed the point of frustration; she’s lost hope and is not acting this way because she wants to be. I think she would be embarrassed to know my thoughts about her at that moment.
While we walk out of the school, I realize my afternoon is not quite over. We pass by an assembly for the secondary students. After a very biased political speech given by a representative of the government, they announce that the president is giving a brand new bike to the best student in each classroom. The best student of the school receives a new computer. Meanwhile, they lack teachers, paper, photocopies, pencils, classrooms. But a bike is something necessary for the top student of the class? Why not award them money towards a college education they might never have?
I leave, get on the bus. I don’t even know what else to think. I don’t speak, just stare and stand and try not to fall over amidst the many stops. I want to think about everything and nothing that happened today. I want the world to be just. That seems so far off.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Pictures
I figured it was way past time to post some pictures. These wonderful faces and images I see daily in the library and want to share them with you.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Reflections
It is Sunday and it is 7am and I am tired. I lie in bed and listen to fireworks being shot off less than two blocks from my house. As much as I love and respect Nicaraguan culture, at this moment I wanted to curse whoever it was or for whatever reason large, loud explosions were going off in what seemed like was my bedroom. It is Sunday and it is 7am and I am tired. I close my eyes and go back to sleep.
I can barely open my eyes. I was in darkness, but now all I see is bright sun. All I feel is hot sun and the sweat beginning to cover my skin. I walk out of the national cathedral after Sunday mass and am literally blinded by the light of the sun. I follow many others leaving the mass, and we bottleneck at a gate we must pass through to leave. I wait about a minute for the crowd to fade, wipe the sweat off my forehead then step through the sheltered gates of the cathedral and into Managua. Lined up in perfect single file outside the gates where seventeen homeless men and women each one with a hand stretched out and a face asking for help. Words weren’t necessary: their shoeless feet, dirty faces, ragged clothing, and missing teeth spoke for themselves. I took a deep breath to muster the strength to walk past them. I knew I didn’t have a single cordaba on me and that I wasn’t going to be able to fill their empty hands or stomachs, so I compromised and decided to walk by slowly and at least look each one in the eyes, and by the time I passed by the last set of sunken, sad, desperate eyes, although it was a span of less than a minute, I was completely exhausted. Any feeling of hope and strength the mass had left me was completely gone, and I felt tired and mad and frustrated with the problems of the world.
I walked a little faster and tried to release my anger. I wasn’t even off the cathedral’s property before I received my first “chelita, linda, preciosa” (a call given by some Nicaraguan men which literally means “beautiful, precious, little white girl”). I crossed the street and hear my name being shouted by neighborhood friends as they pass by on a motorcycle. We smile and wave and say “adios,” and some sort of comfort and hope is restored in me. I take a few steps and pass by a man sleeping on the ground at the bus stop, then receive two more separate calls and whistles from different men. I begin to walk a little quicker and to my left is a man sleeping in a sewer resting his head on trash. How have we let the world become like this? I feel anger and sadness. I feel frustration and despair for all my contribution this injustice. It is ugly.
By the time I arrive home, eleven different men have made some sort of comment or whistle. One of which came from a man that looked about 65 who called me a doll and asked me where I was going and if I needed him to take me there. I could be his granddaughter! But during all these comments, I keep my head down. I don’t look up to acknowledge; that is what they want…for me to acknowledge their comments, and I won’t give them that.
Three hours later I am in a crowded, humid room filled with about thirty young children screaming, laughing, fighting, crying, and slowly emerging from the chaos with handfuls of candy. The piñata at Doña Carmen’s grandson’s first birthday has just broke open, and I am praying no one gets hurt. We were lucky to make it safe out of the actual breaking of the piñata. Imagine thirty children in a small, crowded room blindfolded and swinging with all their strength at an object they couldn’t see. The DJ shouted into the microphone offering meaningless advice and directions of where to swing, but from my position in the room there seemed to be a few close calls between the bat and people’s faces. The entire party was such a beautiful representation of Nicaraguan culture: family and friends together on a Sunday eating delicious arroz con pollo listening to overly loud music and enjoying each others company. We talked about the recent power cuts, the rain, how pitaya is the cheapest juice to make right now, and watermelon only cost 6 cords. The entire party we were waited on hand and foot by the family: filling our drinks, introducing us to friends, etc. They had arranged for us to sit at a private table in the back of the house that is normally reserved for family. And above everything, I was reminded of my favorite thing about Nicaraguans: they are always so willing to share with you whatever it is that they have to give. I knew that the grandmother who was hosting the party had just been left by her husband a few weeks earlier and that they probably didn’t have money to be throwing such a huge party, but I saw it as their way of celebrating the first year of Eden’s life and sharing with their friends and family what they had. Very beautiful.
If I haven’t mentioned this already, we are have a severe energy crisis. The power generally gets cuts everyday for hours and hours at a time making it hard for me to have time to write much, so I will end this entry with a few short stories and reflections.
Reflections for the past few weeks:
- Walking home from work the other week, I passed three boys playing with huge blocks of Styrofoam about the size of baseball bats. They were dismantling the blocks by breaking off little pieces and throwing them into the air on the street with out any intentions of picking up the remnants and throwing them in the trash. About ten days later I was still seeing the pieces on the street.
- On Wednesday, the strong afternoon storm arrived right at five o’clock as I was just about to walk out of library and to the bus stop to head home. My co-worker and I decided to wait a few minutes to see if the heavy rains would pass because neither of us had umbrellas. We sat together sheltered from the rain under a pavilion at the project looking out on the cancha, which is the basketball court that doubles as a soccer field. There were two boys who were maybe 3 or 4 completely naked playing in the rain. As puddles would form they splashed themselves and each other. They threw dirt and bathed themselves in small streams of runoff that were forming. It was a moment that was sad and beautiful at the same time. Without really thinking, I asked my co-worker why they weren’t wearing clothes, and she responded by telling me they probably didn’t have any. Oh right, why else wouldn’t they be wearing clothe. But in that moment I didn’t think it made a difference to them; they were happy and content where they were.
- When I took the trash out, as soon as I set it on the curb a man without hesitating approached to break it open and look through it. Unfortunately, the first bag he broke open was the trash from the bathroom.
- For the first time in my life, I saw a family of four on a motorcycle. The dad drove holding a small girl in front of him. The mom rode behind him with another daughter sandwiched in between. No one was wearing a helmet.
- We had an hourglass timer sitting on the desk at the library that belonged to a board game. So many kids were completely fascinated by it. One afternoon a girl asked if she could borrow it, and I told her of course. She brought it back to the table where she was sitting and for about forty-five minutes she and her friends each took turns turning over the hourglass and watching the sand seep out. They were guessing if it was made of sugar or salt and timing how long it took to completely empty. It was as if they had never seen anything like it…well, they probably hadn’t.
- A man named Henry stopped by the house one morning just as I was about to walk about the door to see if we could help him out. He spoke perfect English and told me that he was exported from the US and that he was HIV positive. He was very honest and looked me straight in the eyes the entire time he spoke telling me that he unfortunately had been unfaithful to his wife and contracted AIDS and without knowing passed it on to her and later their baby daughter. He asked for anything I could help with, so I ran back to the kitchen put some powered milk into a bag and gave it to him along with a few pieces of fruit. His seemed more than grateful, and repeatedly thanked me.
- Maria, a young girl who comes to library frequently lost one of two front teeth, and the other is well on its way to falling out also. Her sister, Itaty, tried to talk me into puling it out for her, so I half jokingly suggested tying a string from her tooth to a doorknob and then slamming the door. They rolled around in laughter in response to my suggestion and the tooth fell out on its own, therefore, evoking more laughter. There is no sign yet of either front tooth growing back, which leaves Maria with a beautiful smile!
I can barely open my eyes. I was in darkness, but now all I see is bright sun. All I feel is hot sun and the sweat beginning to cover my skin. I walk out of the national cathedral after Sunday mass and am literally blinded by the light of the sun. I follow many others leaving the mass, and we bottleneck at a gate we must pass through to leave. I wait about a minute for the crowd to fade, wipe the sweat off my forehead then step through the sheltered gates of the cathedral and into Managua. Lined up in perfect single file outside the gates where seventeen homeless men and women each one with a hand stretched out and a face asking for help. Words weren’t necessary: their shoeless feet, dirty faces, ragged clothing, and missing teeth spoke for themselves. I took a deep breath to muster the strength to walk past them. I knew I didn’t have a single cordaba on me and that I wasn’t going to be able to fill their empty hands or stomachs, so I compromised and decided to walk by slowly and at least look each one in the eyes, and by the time I passed by the last set of sunken, sad, desperate eyes, although it was a span of less than a minute, I was completely exhausted. Any feeling of hope and strength the mass had left me was completely gone, and I felt tired and mad and frustrated with the problems of the world.
I walked a little faster and tried to release my anger. I wasn’t even off the cathedral’s property before I received my first “chelita, linda, preciosa” (a call given by some Nicaraguan men which literally means “beautiful, precious, little white girl”). I crossed the street and hear my name being shouted by neighborhood friends as they pass by on a motorcycle. We smile and wave and say “adios,” and some sort of comfort and hope is restored in me. I take a few steps and pass by a man sleeping on the ground at the bus stop, then receive two more separate calls and whistles from different men. I begin to walk a little quicker and to my left is a man sleeping in a sewer resting his head on trash. How have we let the world become like this? I feel anger and sadness. I feel frustration and despair for all my contribution this injustice. It is ugly.
By the time I arrive home, eleven different men have made some sort of comment or whistle. One of which came from a man that looked about 65 who called me a doll and asked me where I was going and if I needed him to take me there. I could be his granddaughter! But during all these comments, I keep my head down. I don’t look up to acknowledge; that is what they want…for me to acknowledge their comments, and I won’t give them that.
Three hours later I am in a crowded, humid room filled with about thirty young children screaming, laughing, fighting, crying, and slowly emerging from the chaos with handfuls of candy. The piñata at Doña Carmen’s grandson’s first birthday has just broke open, and I am praying no one gets hurt. We were lucky to make it safe out of the actual breaking of the piñata. Imagine thirty children in a small, crowded room blindfolded and swinging with all their strength at an object they couldn’t see. The DJ shouted into the microphone offering meaningless advice and directions of where to swing, but from my position in the room there seemed to be a few close calls between the bat and people’s faces. The entire party was such a beautiful representation of Nicaraguan culture: family and friends together on a Sunday eating delicious arroz con pollo listening to overly loud music and enjoying each others company. We talked about the recent power cuts, the rain, how pitaya is the cheapest juice to make right now, and watermelon only cost 6 cords. The entire party we were waited on hand and foot by the family: filling our drinks, introducing us to friends, etc. They had arranged for us to sit at a private table in the back of the house that is normally reserved for family. And above everything, I was reminded of my favorite thing about Nicaraguans: they are always so willing to share with you whatever it is that they have to give. I knew that the grandmother who was hosting the party had just been left by her husband a few weeks earlier and that they probably didn’t have money to be throwing such a huge party, but I saw it as their way of celebrating the first year of Eden’s life and sharing with their friends and family what they had. Very beautiful.
If I haven’t mentioned this already, we are have a severe energy crisis. The power generally gets cuts everyday for hours and hours at a time making it hard for me to have time to write much, so I will end this entry with a few short stories and reflections.
Reflections for the past few weeks:
- Walking home from work the other week, I passed three boys playing with huge blocks of Styrofoam about the size of baseball bats. They were dismantling the blocks by breaking off little pieces and throwing them into the air on the street with out any intentions of picking up the remnants and throwing them in the trash. About ten days later I was still seeing the pieces on the street.
- On Wednesday, the strong afternoon storm arrived right at five o’clock as I was just about to walk out of library and to the bus stop to head home. My co-worker and I decided to wait a few minutes to see if the heavy rains would pass because neither of us had umbrellas. We sat together sheltered from the rain under a pavilion at the project looking out on the cancha, which is the basketball court that doubles as a soccer field. There were two boys who were maybe 3 or 4 completely naked playing in the rain. As puddles would form they splashed themselves and each other. They threw dirt and bathed themselves in small streams of runoff that were forming. It was a moment that was sad and beautiful at the same time. Without really thinking, I asked my co-worker why they weren’t wearing clothes, and she responded by telling me they probably didn’t have any. Oh right, why else wouldn’t they be wearing clothe. But in that moment I didn’t think it made a difference to them; they were happy and content where they were.
- When I took the trash out, as soon as I set it on the curb a man without hesitating approached to break it open and look through it. Unfortunately, the first bag he broke open was the trash from the bathroom.
- For the first time in my life, I saw a family of four on a motorcycle. The dad drove holding a small girl in front of him. The mom rode behind him with another daughter sandwiched in between. No one was wearing a helmet.
- We had an hourglass timer sitting on the desk at the library that belonged to a board game. So many kids were completely fascinated by it. One afternoon a girl asked if she could borrow it, and I told her of course. She brought it back to the table where she was sitting and for about forty-five minutes she and her friends each took turns turning over the hourglass and watching the sand seep out. They were guessing if it was made of sugar or salt and timing how long it took to completely empty. It was as if they had never seen anything like it…well, they probably hadn’t.
- A man named Henry stopped by the house one morning just as I was about to walk about the door to see if we could help him out. He spoke perfect English and told me that he was exported from the US and that he was HIV positive. He was very honest and looked me straight in the eyes the entire time he spoke telling me that he unfortunately had been unfaithful to his wife and contracted AIDS and without knowing passed it on to her and later their baby daughter. He asked for anything I could help with, so I ran back to the kitchen put some powered milk into a bag and gave it to him along with a few pieces of fruit. His seemed more than grateful, and repeatedly thanked me.
- Maria, a young girl who comes to library frequently lost one of two front teeth, and the other is well on its way to falling out also. Her sister, Itaty, tried to talk me into puling it out for her, so I half jokingly suggested tying a string from her tooth to a doorknob and then slamming the door. They rolled around in laughter in response to my suggestion and the tooth fell out on its own, therefore, evoking more laughter. There is no sign yet of either front tooth growing back, which leaves Maria with a beautiful smile!
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