NUMBER 1....
Right now I am at the Professional Development Camp for youth that was made possible by donations from friends and family at home.
I want to sincerely thank you all for donating and supporting my projects here in El Salvador. I am amazed by the successful experience our community kids are having at this camp, as I watch them on day 2. The change in their demeanor, the confidence they have already gained, the laughter, the new friendships, the bright eyes, is very rewarding.
Many of these kids have traveled across the country and are spending 2 nights with a new group of kids from around El Salvador. My fellow 8 PCVs and friends and I have designed this camp to provide Professional Development skills to deserving youth. After months of planning and fundraising, it has been exciting and highly rewarding to see the camp at work and the kids progress.
I want to Thank Everyone who donated for making this amazing opportunity possible. Soon you shall see photos posted on Facebook!
NUMBER 2....
For the past few months, my Community Development Team in La Montana and I have been designing the plans and work committees to build a foot-bridge over a creek in my community. Hundreds of men, women, and children cross this creek to get to school, to the coffee fields, or to the town center. During this time of year, the creek floods making the passage near-impossible.
I have been approved my Peace Corps to make this project possible through writing a Peace Corps Partnership Grant which is posted on the official PeaceCorps.gov project website, under my last name.
If you would be able to spare some fancy dinner money or some happy hour specials to this cause, it would be immensely appreciated.
I have agreed to extend my service to see this project through if needed and while I love La Montana and its members, I deeply miss my family and friends at home and hope that I will be back to see them as planned in March!
So every DAY counts. If you can afford to donate, please DO IT, and most politely, DO IT NOW!!!!!
Thank you so much in advance.
Thank you to those who have already donated. Thank you to those who read. Thank you to those who care and support and love and are spreading the love!
xoxoxo
from El Salvador
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Listen
Listen
Let our breath be gentle wind,
Let our ears be of those who listen,
Let our hearts be not ones
That rage so quickly and
Thus blow dramatically,
And uselessly.
Let our spirits attend and be
Most diligent to the soft
Yet desperate whisper of
Hope and peace for our world.
-Mattie J.T. Stepanek
Ambassador of Humanity
It was 5:05am. I was freshly bathed, hair still well and toes rubbery. I swung my backpack around onto my lap and strategically placed one-full and half-the-other butt cheek on the miniature bus benches, using my right hand to brace myself for the dips and climbs and my left hand to cradle my bundle of capital clothes and hot-water-awaiting toiletries tucked safely in my mochila.
My eyes were just rolling back in my head as some old feller (or perhaps young lad) stomped his green rubber boots upon my helpless left foot and I sprung ferociously back to life. Alls I saw was the back of his head as he anonymously marched away and I stared down at the victim that was my foot. Covered in mud, with pieces of corn stalk and grass creeping out from between the crevices, I wondered what percentage of the guck was cow maneur. In my head I replayed the scenario over and over, right eye twitching uncontrollably and mouth taut. My eyes were beating down on my toes like those of hypnotized Aladdin under Jafar’s evil trance and for an undefined period of time I lost all sense of human character traits. Im not sure if it was the frustration of the return to dirty-campo-toes or the actual worms and critters living in the muck upon my foot, but the agony began eating me alive. My left foot began scraping itself against the bus bench in front of me in a desperate attempt to quitar the foot-parasites. I’m not actually sure what else was happening to my body in those moments of internal rage but I can imagine my body rocking back and forth (as I relive this awful memory) and my fingers tapping rhythmically.
My trance was disturbed as a guy my age sitting across from me reached across and handed me a napkin.
My face immediately turned red as my ridicul-osity (some words just make sense even if they don’t appear in Websters) dawned on me. I feared how long this guy had watched me suffer over a dirty pinky toe. Although by that moment I was beyond all concept of time. I cleaned myself off, returning to my abnormal state of having mud-less toes, in a total of 37 seconds and graciously/shamefully thanked my good Samaritan.
The rest of the trip I had random fits of giggles over the mess that I became at the site of my tainted toes, interspersed with revels of my once again sparkling foot.
My month has been marked with stores like this; dreadful nightmares alleviated by wonderful awakenings.
A few weeks ago I came back from that bus trip to find out my beloved chucho had been run over by a car. Before you worry, my dog is alive and well (with the exception of a mangled tail). But for a good week or so, I was not sure. And while I was pained by Vaquito’s suffering, I was glad to see that he had finally learned his lesson and was no longer chasing the passing motorcycles or throwing himself Extreme-Sport-style in front of pick-up trucks.
The story I was told by my 9-year old neighbor was that he “quedo muerto” (was lying for dead) on the side of the road for awhile, after a long fit of ear-piercing yelps for help. It was then that his mara of neighborhood dog-buddies came to his rescue, lifting Vaquito on their backs and dragging him to safety.
I would love to think this as true and am awaiting offers for his leading role in Lady and the Tramp 3. But however it came to be, I am very grateful for his survival. A week he laid upon my dirty patio, echar-ing a smell that I thought was quite indicative of his demise, and I prayed silently for his peace. I even went to the nearest vet I could find and bought him some meds and while the expiration date read November 2007, I was confident he would pull-through. And he did.
And now, I worry practically never for his survival among the moto’s and pick-ups. The bucking bulls and kicking caballos are another story…
Nightmare number 3 can be explained in 2 words: rainy season. If there is one thing I took for granted in New York, it was mold-less clothes. Things just don’t dry here. My clothes were on the line after a weekend by the beach, as a few rays of sun were beaming down upon them in their best efforts to beat the 4pm showers. However, without warning, the hot day turned sour in a matter of seconds as the rain began to fall. I began tearing my clothes down from the line like a maniac, my neighbor and good friend Lucy running to help. As we repositioned the clothes on a line inside my home to await their moldy destiny, Lucy asked me why I washed my other neighbor, Karime’s clothes. Karime is 5. For a few moments I was confused, and then as she gentley placed my mini-jean shorts (stolen from my sister on her visit and ONLY wore when my community is NOWHERE in site) on the line. You see, women in the countryside DO NOT show anything above the knee. My jean shorts worn at the beach and small tank tops could only be perceived as Karimes. Fortunately, my explanation was not needed as we began to hear a pelting sound on my tin roof and ran to look out the windows. It was hailing! Well never in my year and a half here did I think it would ever hail in El Salvador! How cool…
My final story is yet again about the lack of privacy I have here in my little house. I honestly think only a handful of days have gone by when I have not had a visitor. Sometimes my blood starts curdling at the sound of approaching “strangers”. And I feel bad about it, I do. I know they are all in good intentions. And I really love them as people, I do. But sometimes, you just wanna be alone. You wanna read in the hammock or do yoga without someone staring at you.
There is one family, in particular, that comes by for no good reason. I have learned though, I think, to stay in good spirits. To appreciate the fact that they want to spend time with me. And so, as I played with my 4 year old friend the other day, I laughed instead of lamented. As we spent the day listening to Aventura while coloring and then dancing to “Si no le contesto se desespera”, I got to know Franky on a different level. Before he left, his mother asked if he could use my shower, since they do not have running water at his house. I let them, of course, and then Franky and I styled his hair together in the mirror. Before they left that day, his mom told me that he says “Im going to Jaimes house” whenever she is mad at him. That put a smile on my face…for a long time.
As I was reading that poem pasted above by Mattie Stepanek, I was inspired to write this blog. Because amazing things happen when you really listen. Listen to the peace and beauty in the world. Sometimes, you have to find it. And sometimes its so obviously right there in front of your face that you forget to acknowledge it. But it is so important to take the time to do so.
Let our breath be gentle wind,
Let our ears be of those who listen,
Let our hearts be not ones
That rage so quickly and
Thus blow dramatically,
And uselessly.
Let our spirits attend and be
Most diligent to the soft
Yet desperate whisper of
Hope and peace for our world.
-Mattie J.T. Stepanek
Ambassador of Humanity
It was 5:05am. I was freshly bathed, hair still well and toes rubbery. I swung my backpack around onto my lap and strategically placed one-full and half-the-other butt cheek on the miniature bus benches, using my right hand to brace myself for the dips and climbs and my left hand to cradle my bundle of capital clothes and hot-water-awaiting toiletries tucked safely in my mochila.
My eyes were just rolling back in my head as some old feller (or perhaps young lad) stomped his green rubber boots upon my helpless left foot and I sprung ferociously back to life. Alls I saw was the back of his head as he anonymously marched away and I stared down at the victim that was my foot. Covered in mud, with pieces of corn stalk and grass creeping out from between the crevices, I wondered what percentage of the guck was cow maneur. In my head I replayed the scenario over and over, right eye twitching uncontrollably and mouth taut. My eyes were beating down on my toes like those of hypnotized Aladdin under Jafar’s evil trance and for an undefined period of time I lost all sense of human character traits. Im not sure if it was the frustration of the return to dirty-campo-toes or the actual worms and critters living in the muck upon my foot, but the agony began eating me alive. My left foot began scraping itself against the bus bench in front of me in a desperate attempt to quitar the foot-parasites. I’m not actually sure what else was happening to my body in those moments of internal rage but I can imagine my body rocking back and forth (as I relive this awful memory) and my fingers tapping rhythmically.
My trance was disturbed as a guy my age sitting across from me reached across and handed me a napkin.
My face immediately turned red as my ridicul-osity (some words just make sense even if they don’t appear in Websters) dawned on me. I feared how long this guy had watched me suffer over a dirty pinky toe. Although by that moment I was beyond all concept of time. I cleaned myself off, returning to my abnormal state of having mud-less toes, in a total of 37 seconds and graciously/shamefully thanked my good Samaritan.
The rest of the trip I had random fits of giggles over the mess that I became at the site of my tainted toes, interspersed with revels of my once again sparkling foot.
My month has been marked with stores like this; dreadful nightmares alleviated by wonderful awakenings.
A few weeks ago I came back from that bus trip to find out my beloved chucho had been run over by a car. Before you worry, my dog is alive and well (with the exception of a mangled tail). But for a good week or so, I was not sure. And while I was pained by Vaquito’s suffering, I was glad to see that he had finally learned his lesson and was no longer chasing the passing motorcycles or throwing himself Extreme-Sport-style in front of pick-up trucks.
The story I was told by my 9-year old neighbor was that he “quedo muerto” (was lying for dead) on the side of the road for awhile, after a long fit of ear-piercing yelps for help. It was then that his mara of neighborhood dog-buddies came to his rescue, lifting Vaquito on their backs and dragging him to safety.
I would love to think this as true and am awaiting offers for his leading role in Lady and the Tramp 3. But however it came to be, I am very grateful for his survival. A week he laid upon my dirty patio, echar-ing a smell that I thought was quite indicative of his demise, and I prayed silently for his peace. I even went to the nearest vet I could find and bought him some meds and while the expiration date read November 2007, I was confident he would pull-through. And he did.
And now, I worry practically never for his survival among the moto’s and pick-ups. The bucking bulls and kicking caballos are another story…
Nightmare number 3 can be explained in 2 words: rainy season. If there is one thing I took for granted in New York, it was mold-less clothes. Things just don’t dry here. My clothes were on the line after a weekend by the beach, as a few rays of sun were beaming down upon them in their best efforts to beat the 4pm showers. However, without warning, the hot day turned sour in a matter of seconds as the rain began to fall. I began tearing my clothes down from the line like a maniac, my neighbor and good friend Lucy running to help. As we repositioned the clothes on a line inside my home to await their moldy destiny, Lucy asked me why I washed my other neighbor, Karime’s clothes. Karime is 5. For a few moments I was confused, and then as she gentley placed my mini-jean shorts (stolen from my sister on her visit and ONLY wore when my community is NOWHERE in site) on the line. You see, women in the countryside DO NOT show anything above the knee. My jean shorts worn at the beach and small tank tops could only be perceived as Karimes. Fortunately, my explanation was not needed as we began to hear a pelting sound on my tin roof and ran to look out the windows. It was hailing! Well never in my year and a half here did I think it would ever hail in El Salvador! How cool…
My final story is yet again about the lack of privacy I have here in my little house. I honestly think only a handful of days have gone by when I have not had a visitor. Sometimes my blood starts curdling at the sound of approaching “strangers”. And I feel bad about it, I do. I know they are all in good intentions. And I really love them as people, I do. But sometimes, you just wanna be alone. You wanna read in the hammock or do yoga without someone staring at you.
There is one family, in particular, that comes by for no good reason. I have learned though, I think, to stay in good spirits. To appreciate the fact that they want to spend time with me. And so, as I played with my 4 year old friend the other day, I laughed instead of lamented. As we spent the day listening to Aventura while coloring and then dancing to “Si no le contesto se desespera”, I got to know Franky on a different level. Before he left, his mother asked if he could use my shower, since they do not have running water at his house. I let them, of course, and then Franky and I styled his hair together in the mirror. Before they left that day, his mom told me that he says “Im going to Jaimes house” whenever she is mad at him. That put a smile on my face…for a long time.
As I was reading that poem pasted above by Mattie Stepanek, I was inspired to write this blog. Because amazing things happen when you really listen. Listen to the peace and beauty in the world. Sometimes, you have to find it. And sometimes its so obviously right there in front of your face that you forget to acknowledge it. But it is so important to take the time to do so.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Work Hard, Be Happy
Work Hard, Be Happy
El trabajo es como este valle, refleja la energia que pongas en el. No hay trabjao miserable. Si no estas satisfecho, corre el riesgo de cambiarlo todo y dedicarte a lo que amas. Mejor ser alegre con un pequeno salario que infeliz por tener miedo a cambiar.
O sea…
Work is a reflection of the energy you put in. There should not be any such thing as miserable work. If you are not satisfied, run the risk of changing everything and dedicating yourself to what you love. It is better to be happy with a small salary than unhappy because you were afraid to change.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today, I am competing for the crown. I am representing the community’s development group as candidata in an effort to raise money for the local Catholic Church. It is kinda like a beauty contest, except the winner is based on who raises the most funds, and not beauty nor dress nor walk nor talent. I’m not sure which I would prefer…being exploited for my money or being the only “white” contestant in a country where anyone and anything white is the most beautiful thing they have ever laid eyes upon. And while a tiara would fit nicely upon my trophy stand (next to our third place plastic futbol tournament award) I am not sure I actually want to win.
Much of my work here involves training and motivating, encouraging and promoting equality. It took a year and a half to show my community that even though I am a gringa, I do not have an unlimited supply of dinero. That, even though I have “white” skin, I am not invincible. That despite the fact I come from el norte, I do not have internet here on my laptop, nor a car, nor does all of my food arrive pre-packaged and prepared from the states. That I, too, ride the bus. I work hard. I play futbol. I studied. I have sisters and my parents, in fact, had to raise me… I wasn’t born into a life of luxury and ease.
So, a bit of me fears winning. Many people have made comments, expecting me to turn over $1,000 of “raised funds” to the church. Other competing candidatas have told me “ay Jaime, vas a ganar”, almost ready to concede their victory to me even before the competition has started. I fear another stupid reason for people to think “white means money” and/or “white is better”.
But despite all of this, I am making the most of the experience. I have less than 6 months left, and I feel honored to be part of this event. I did my best to raise what money I could for the church and whether people expected more or less I am not sure, but at least it is going toward a good cause. I see the day as an opportunity to build more relationships with my community or to strengthen the ones I already have already formed, instead of a competition. And more than anything, I am looking forward to learning more about the culture and just plain ol’ having a good time.
...Upon returning from the candidata event….
The invitation said to be at the church at 10am, so I was ready by 9am, however my counterpart told me to be there at 11am and that someone would come to do my hair at 10:15am. By 11am, still no one had arrived at my house to do my hair so I started walking to the church, arriving at 11:15am, fashionably late (and probably the 4th person to check-in). The majority of the folk arrived at 12:30pm and we started the whole marching ordeal promptly at 1:30pm. And so, somethings in El Salvador will never change and I will eternally be early for each and every public event…
By selling votes for 10 cents a piece to co-workers and community members, I raised a total of $66.05, ranking in at Second Place. I was quite pleased with my title however quickly my pride was stolen as a car passing by called to me “gringuita fea”.
The next hour or so was spent at the mass and as 5pm rolled around I looked forward to walking home…in the rain. However, my counterpart wasn’t ready to throw in the towel as soon as I and she forced me to talk another mile or so to the house of a wheelchair project recipient. The recipient had passed away and we wanted to ask for the return of the wheelchair to give to another person in need. However, upon arrival the lady informed us the wheelchair was already given away and so my next week’s duty would be to visit all of the other recipients to see if they are actually using the wheelchairs... And if not, steal it back. Not sure I am so into doing that.
However melancholy this blog may seem, don’t get discouraged.
On Tuesday, the scholarship winners leave the community. On Wednesday they fly to Wisconsin where they will spend the next 2 years at the University.
We had a going away party for them last week. We went on a big hike to the community waterfalls and I will never forget the moment of them screaming and laughing, heads submerged under the pounding water. I couldn’t stop laughing myself…one of those all encompassing laughters that makes your limbs shake and your cheeks hurt afterwards.
Later we had lunch at their houses where Brock and I told them how proud we were of them. What I didn’t really expect were their words or those of their parents.
They said to us, “You know, we were talking one day at the end of the school year about what we were going to do. There’s no jobs and no money so going to college just is not an option. You gave us this opportunity that we never would have known about if it weren’t for you. You supported us when maybe even our parents didn’t. We want to thank you guys.”
Their parents said, “We are worried about them leaving. We don’t understand how they are going to adjust. Who is going to help them? How will they eat and communicate? We are happy to know you guys because we know you are there for them. You help us understand.”
Later that week, I had a community meeting with my boss and all the people I have worked on projects with. Dora reflected on the first day they decided to put a volunteer in the community. She said, “It is hard being a leader. I feel responsible for the community and I really care about the future development of it but a lot of people criticize me. I felt alone. With Jaime here, I don’t feel as alone.”
The waterfalls moment, the words of the scholarship kids and their parents, Dora and the community leaders, give me the chills. Those are the moments that don’t make me feel like a “gringuita fea”.
Now, Brock, my closest volunteer and friend has retired after his 2 years of service, the scholarships kids are off to my homeland and I am in the home stretch. 6 months to go… so why does it feel like it should be easier than it is?
With the closest volunteer maybe an hour away, I feel more isolated than ever. With too much time left to surrender and not enough time to develop an impactful new project, I feel unmotivated. With a longing to be home, but anxiety to say goodbye, I feel lost.
The worst part of it all (although I am comforted by the fact that I am not the only volunteer who feels this way) is that sometimes it seems, WE (as volunteers) care more about our communities than they do. We are carrying the weight of 400 households on our shoulders. Dora does not know I bear the pain of her failing heart. Maria doesn’t know how I think of her four mal-nutritioned ninos as I sip on my soup and gnaw on my banana.
But how do I keep pushing to help them, when they don’t really care at all themselves?
Well, that’s our job. And when the waterfall hits you in the face one day, you realize… 6 months, a year, two years, all the struggling; it’s worth it. You gotta keep on fighting. Every day is an opportunity.
My friend (and fellow volunteer) Chelsea, made me realize something. In the states, when you ask people who they are, they respond: a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher. Here, they respond: a mother, a wife, a sister.
It is my job to lift my community. Or at least to try. My whole life I have been taught to study, to work, to grow, to fight, to achieve. Most of the people in my community have been fighting to eat, to live, to love and care for their families. I am a teacher. She is a mother. That’s what I have to remember when it comes to motivating people to work.
And I can reflect on what I have accomplished in the past year and a half. Analyze what went well, what went wrong and what I can do better in the next 6 months:
-Strengthening the Community Development Groups and their functions, soliciting new projects, such as:
• Winning 10 Wheelchairs
• Hammock making Course
• Expanding the Community House
• Community Christmas Event & Town Fair
• Diagnostic for Potential Future Water Project
-Artisan Youth Group
• Winning $2,000 for materials
• Making Jewelry
• Learning to work in a group
• Business Skills
• Selling at the Hotel Lenka & International Fairs
• Excursions to the Beach, Museums & Ruins
-Girls Soccer Team
• Winning uniforms, balls & cleats
• Teaching soccer skills, teamwork, & pride
• Hosting first tournament (winning 3rd place, $100 in prizes from local mayors, $100 in tropheys from INDES)
• Hosting the Peace Corps soccer teams
• Town fundraisers to raise $67
-Helping the Community Literacy Group
• Teaching English
• Improving Literacy in Adults
-Teaching Art at S. Lucas
• 2nd-9th Grade Art classes
-Computers
• Winning 15 computers ($1,500) from mayor for the school
-Planning a Business Camp
-Teaching English at L. Montana
• 4th-7th Grade English Classes
• Letter Exchange Program with Mrs. Brown’s Class
• Winning 2 Environmental Education textbooks
• Competing in Environment Ed Competition by creating a School Garden
-Sports Program at the school
• Winning $500 for sports equipment for the school (first year Phys Ed class)
-Self-Defense for Women Workshop
-Scholarships
• 2 winners from my community to study 2 years in the states
El trabajo es como este valle, refleja la energia que pongas en el. No hay trabjao miserable. Si no estas satisfecho, corre el riesgo de cambiarlo todo y dedicarte a lo que amas. Mejor ser alegre con un pequeno salario que infeliz por tener miedo a cambiar.
O sea…
Work is a reflection of the energy you put in. There should not be any such thing as miserable work. If you are not satisfied, run the risk of changing everything and dedicating yourself to what you love. It is better to be happy with a small salary than unhappy because you were afraid to change.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today, I am competing for the crown. I am representing the community’s development group as candidata in an effort to raise money for the local Catholic Church. It is kinda like a beauty contest, except the winner is based on who raises the most funds, and not beauty nor dress nor walk nor talent. I’m not sure which I would prefer…being exploited for my money or being the only “white” contestant in a country where anyone and anything white is the most beautiful thing they have ever laid eyes upon. And while a tiara would fit nicely upon my trophy stand (next to our third place plastic futbol tournament award) I am not sure I actually want to win.
Much of my work here involves training and motivating, encouraging and promoting equality. It took a year and a half to show my community that even though I am a gringa, I do not have an unlimited supply of dinero. That, even though I have “white” skin, I am not invincible. That despite the fact I come from el norte, I do not have internet here on my laptop, nor a car, nor does all of my food arrive pre-packaged and prepared from the states. That I, too, ride the bus. I work hard. I play futbol. I studied. I have sisters and my parents, in fact, had to raise me… I wasn’t born into a life of luxury and ease.
So, a bit of me fears winning. Many people have made comments, expecting me to turn over $1,000 of “raised funds” to the church. Other competing candidatas have told me “ay Jaime, vas a ganar”, almost ready to concede their victory to me even before the competition has started. I fear another stupid reason for people to think “white means money” and/or “white is better”.
But despite all of this, I am making the most of the experience. I have less than 6 months left, and I feel honored to be part of this event. I did my best to raise what money I could for the church and whether people expected more or less I am not sure, but at least it is going toward a good cause. I see the day as an opportunity to build more relationships with my community or to strengthen the ones I already have already formed, instead of a competition. And more than anything, I am looking forward to learning more about the culture and just plain ol’ having a good time.
...Upon returning from the candidata event….
The invitation said to be at the church at 10am, so I was ready by 9am, however my counterpart told me to be there at 11am and that someone would come to do my hair at 10:15am. By 11am, still no one had arrived at my house to do my hair so I started walking to the church, arriving at 11:15am, fashionably late (and probably the 4th person to check-in). The majority of the folk arrived at 12:30pm and we started the whole marching ordeal promptly at 1:30pm. And so, somethings in El Salvador will never change and I will eternally be early for each and every public event…
By selling votes for 10 cents a piece to co-workers and community members, I raised a total of $66.05, ranking in at Second Place. I was quite pleased with my title however quickly my pride was stolen as a car passing by called to me “gringuita fea”.
The next hour or so was spent at the mass and as 5pm rolled around I looked forward to walking home…in the rain. However, my counterpart wasn’t ready to throw in the towel as soon as I and she forced me to talk another mile or so to the house of a wheelchair project recipient. The recipient had passed away and we wanted to ask for the return of the wheelchair to give to another person in need. However, upon arrival the lady informed us the wheelchair was already given away and so my next week’s duty would be to visit all of the other recipients to see if they are actually using the wheelchairs... And if not, steal it back. Not sure I am so into doing that.
However melancholy this blog may seem, don’t get discouraged.
On Tuesday, the scholarship winners leave the community. On Wednesday they fly to Wisconsin where they will spend the next 2 years at the University.
We had a going away party for them last week. We went on a big hike to the community waterfalls and I will never forget the moment of them screaming and laughing, heads submerged under the pounding water. I couldn’t stop laughing myself…one of those all encompassing laughters that makes your limbs shake and your cheeks hurt afterwards.
Later we had lunch at their houses where Brock and I told them how proud we were of them. What I didn’t really expect were their words or those of their parents.
They said to us, “You know, we were talking one day at the end of the school year about what we were going to do. There’s no jobs and no money so going to college just is not an option. You gave us this opportunity that we never would have known about if it weren’t for you. You supported us when maybe even our parents didn’t. We want to thank you guys.”
Their parents said, “We are worried about them leaving. We don’t understand how they are going to adjust. Who is going to help them? How will they eat and communicate? We are happy to know you guys because we know you are there for them. You help us understand.”
Later that week, I had a community meeting with my boss and all the people I have worked on projects with. Dora reflected on the first day they decided to put a volunteer in the community. She said, “It is hard being a leader. I feel responsible for the community and I really care about the future development of it but a lot of people criticize me. I felt alone. With Jaime here, I don’t feel as alone.”
The waterfalls moment, the words of the scholarship kids and their parents, Dora and the community leaders, give me the chills. Those are the moments that don’t make me feel like a “gringuita fea”.
Now, Brock, my closest volunteer and friend has retired after his 2 years of service, the scholarships kids are off to my homeland and I am in the home stretch. 6 months to go… so why does it feel like it should be easier than it is?
With the closest volunteer maybe an hour away, I feel more isolated than ever. With too much time left to surrender and not enough time to develop an impactful new project, I feel unmotivated. With a longing to be home, but anxiety to say goodbye, I feel lost.
The worst part of it all (although I am comforted by the fact that I am not the only volunteer who feels this way) is that sometimes it seems, WE (as volunteers) care more about our communities than they do. We are carrying the weight of 400 households on our shoulders. Dora does not know I bear the pain of her failing heart. Maria doesn’t know how I think of her four mal-nutritioned ninos as I sip on my soup and gnaw on my banana.
But how do I keep pushing to help them, when they don’t really care at all themselves?
Well, that’s our job. And when the waterfall hits you in the face one day, you realize… 6 months, a year, two years, all the struggling; it’s worth it. You gotta keep on fighting. Every day is an opportunity.
My friend (and fellow volunteer) Chelsea, made me realize something. In the states, when you ask people who they are, they respond: a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher. Here, they respond: a mother, a wife, a sister.
It is my job to lift my community. Or at least to try. My whole life I have been taught to study, to work, to grow, to fight, to achieve. Most of the people in my community have been fighting to eat, to live, to love and care for their families. I am a teacher. She is a mother. That’s what I have to remember when it comes to motivating people to work.
And I can reflect on what I have accomplished in the past year and a half. Analyze what went well, what went wrong and what I can do better in the next 6 months:
-Strengthening the Community Development Groups and their functions, soliciting new projects, such as:
• Winning 10 Wheelchairs
• Hammock making Course
• Expanding the Community House
• Community Christmas Event & Town Fair
• Diagnostic for Potential Future Water Project
-Artisan Youth Group
• Winning $2,000 for materials
• Making Jewelry
• Learning to work in a group
• Business Skills
• Selling at the Hotel Lenka & International Fairs
• Excursions to the Beach, Museums & Ruins
-Girls Soccer Team
• Winning uniforms, balls & cleats
• Teaching soccer skills, teamwork, & pride
• Hosting first tournament (winning 3rd place, $100 in prizes from local mayors, $100 in tropheys from INDES)
• Hosting the Peace Corps soccer teams
• Town fundraisers to raise $67
-Helping the Community Literacy Group
• Teaching English
• Improving Literacy in Adults
-Teaching Art at S. Lucas
• 2nd-9th Grade Art classes
-Computers
• Winning 15 computers ($1,500) from mayor for the school
-Planning a Business Camp
-Teaching English at L. Montana
• 4th-7th Grade English Classes
• Letter Exchange Program with Mrs. Brown’s Class
• Winning 2 Environmental Education textbooks
• Competing in Environment Ed Competition by creating a School Garden
-Sports Program at the school
• Winning $500 for sports equipment for the school (first year Phys Ed class)
-Self-Defense for Women Workshop
-Scholarships
• 2 winners from my community to study 2 years in the states
Monday, July 18, 2011
Taking Life for Granted
Perspective and the Theory of Relativity are two important notions to aknowledge in the Peace Corps. By this I mean the difference between seeing your pila as half- empty or half- full can be the determining factor in how your day starts, and that’s before you had even considered the fact that a half-empty pila is a fully-full pila to a man who has no water.
One minute I was standing under the comfort of a plastic tarp that was housing a table of various vegetable offerings, taking a break from the sun and contemplating the purchase of 4 bananas for 2 quarters. The next minute rain was beating down so hard on the temporary roof above that I startled myself and dropped a quarter, sending it pinging and rolling down the river-esque road of Gotera, soon to be in the hands of a lucky winner. I returned the bananas to their respective positions with a snarl. I cursed my clumsiness, the backpack on my back, the 8lbs of dog food piled on top of a week worth of vegetables and powdered milk, as water pelted my pedicured-less toes.
I stood there whining (still not sure if it was silently or outloud to myself) and considered letting my arms drop, tomatoes splattering and potatoes plundering, kicking the box of leche, throwing myself to the ground and rolling side to side in a nina malcriada fit.
It was then that I recognized a pick-up and my friend abruptly came to a halt.
I threw my bags in the back and piled in…wearing a “I’m-a-little-wet-but-it’s-no-big-deal-at-all-Im-a-Cuerpo-de-Paz-way-tougher-than-you-no-sweat grin.” Inside I was all “gracias a Dios”.
Walking in the rain sucks. Squishing wet and smelly people on an unventilated bus with people’s muddy shoes trampling your feet sucks. Slow moving vehicles suck. Pick-ups, good.
We pass an old man bearing a cane taking 2 steps a minute. 1 step behind is a 7 year old child. They have no umbrella, yet they don’t seem to notice the rain. They have no jackets, they look cold, but they don’t wear signs of it on their faces. I have noticed so many people like this in my community. After a certain period of time, do you begin to not feel the rain? Or do you just know how to not let it show?
We slow and ask where the couple is going. “Allinomas”. Literal translate: right over there, no further. Interpretation: they actually may be going right over there, but they are probably going 5 blocks further, up and around the curve, down the bend and a sharp right. As we pull past them, I turn back adoringly, wondering if it is the young child who cares for his old grandpa or vice versa.
There are a lot of things I can quejar about down here. But the truth is, at the end of the day I feel rather foolish about it. Last night I sat up late chatting with Don Jorge at my neighbor’s house. His wife proudly handed me a boiling bowl of vegetable soup and I gratefully accepted. I initially had been sorta rushing to get outta there, truth be told, because I had not been home all day and in my mind I was quite literally starving. As I was eating, one of Jorge’s 6 living in his house grandchildren climbed into his lap in the hammock. “You know these kids have a meal to eat everyday?” Jorge told me. “I work hard to make sure they always have something on their plates. And they still complain. I work hard. I owe some money but I know how important it is to keep them well fed.” He looked at me with pride in his eyes as he lovingly caressed Kilmer’s head.
“When I was a kid, we ate hard tortillas with salt and drops of lime. I was really mal- nutritioned. We lived in a poverty that, hmph, that was poverty. I know how important it is to keep your kids good and fed” He continued and then gazed up at the ceiling.
I sipped on my soup, now feeling a pain in my stomach. I knew that was not his intention, but I cursed myself for all the times I have complained.
Kilmer looked over at me, his cheek still resting on Papi’s stomach, and smiled. Now this family is blessed in many ways, their kind hearts and beautiful family, but I’m sorry, the dimples take the gold. You know, this little boy, he can be a real pain…like all little kids. But it’s like those dimples have a power over me.
Earlier in the day, Karime ratted out her buddy. “You know what?” She told me, eye brows raised and mouth pursed in her most serious composure, “Kilmer pushed Lili over walking home from school today. Yup, and her hand is cut and her knee is cut, too.”
“Hey Kilmer, did you push my friend Lili today?” I asked him that night. “Yea I did!” He told me excited, proud and giggling a little. “And you know what, she’s got a real good cut on her hand!” He was trying to impress his 2 older brothers.
“Okay, Kilmer. Well, now you gotta apologize buddy because you can’t just go around pushing all my friends! I will have none left to play with. So, let’s practice. I will be Lili and you are Kilmer and it’s the next day at school.”
“Hola, Kilmer. Como estas? Vas para la escuela?”
All the kids startled giggling.
But good old Kilmer, dimples in tact, replied “Hola Lili. Perdoname.” And then he collapsed in my lap in hysterics.
“Okay Kilmer, good job. The other option you have,” I told him “is to sing that song…Te Pido Perdon…”
After which we all started singing and laughing on the floor of Don Jorge’s humble abode.
Relatively speaking, in terms of finances and status, maybe this family does not have it so good. But more and more I have learned that, really, the theory of relativity has little to do on one’s happiness in life. The relationships you have with your family and friends, strangers and even enemies for that matter, will be what makes your life what it stands for. Maybe there are people out there who can roll around on the floor at the end of the day with their piles of money, but I think Kilmer and Lili make much better company.
One minute I was standing under the comfort of a plastic tarp that was housing a table of various vegetable offerings, taking a break from the sun and contemplating the purchase of 4 bananas for 2 quarters. The next minute rain was beating down so hard on the temporary roof above that I startled myself and dropped a quarter, sending it pinging and rolling down the river-esque road of Gotera, soon to be in the hands of a lucky winner. I returned the bananas to their respective positions with a snarl. I cursed my clumsiness, the backpack on my back, the 8lbs of dog food piled on top of a week worth of vegetables and powdered milk, as water pelted my pedicured-less toes.
I stood there whining (still not sure if it was silently or outloud to myself) and considered letting my arms drop, tomatoes splattering and potatoes plundering, kicking the box of leche, throwing myself to the ground and rolling side to side in a nina malcriada fit.
It was then that I recognized a pick-up and my friend abruptly came to a halt.
I threw my bags in the back and piled in…wearing a “I’m-a-little-wet-but-it’s-no-big-deal-at-all-Im-a-Cuerpo-de-Paz-way-tougher-than-you-no-sweat grin.” Inside I was all “gracias a Dios”.
Walking in the rain sucks. Squishing wet and smelly people on an unventilated bus with people’s muddy shoes trampling your feet sucks. Slow moving vehicles suck. Pick-ups, good.
We pass an old man bearing a cane taking 2 steps a minute. 1 step behind is a 7 year old child. They have no umbrella, yet they don’t seem to notice the rain. They have no jackets, they look cold, but they don’t wear signs of it on their faces. I have noticed so many people like this in my community. After a certain period of time, do you begin to not feel the rain? Or do you just know how to not let it show?
We slow and ask where the couple is going. “Allinomas”. Literal translate: right over there, no further. Interpretation: they actually may be going right over there, but they are probably going 5 blocks further, up and around the curve, down the bend and a sharp right. As we pull past them, I turn back adoringly, wondering if it is the young child who cares for his old grandpa or vice versa.
There are a lot of things I can quejar about down here. But the truth is, at the end of the day I feel rather foolish about it. Last night I sat up late chatting with Don Jorge at my neighbor’s house. His wife proudly handed me a boiling bowl of vegetable soup and I gratefully accepted. I initially had been sorta rushing to get outta there, truth be told, because I had not been home all day and in my mind I was quite literally starving. As I was eating, one of Jorge’s 6 living in his house grandchildren climbed into his lap in the hammock. “You know these kids have a meal to eat everyday?” Jorge told me. “I work hard to make sure they always have something on their plates. And they still complain. I work hard. I owe some money but I know how important it is to keep them well fed.” He looked at me with pride in his eyes as he lovingly caressed Kilmer’s head.
“When I was a kid, we ate hard tortillas with salt and drops of lime. I was really mal- nutritioned. We lived in a poverty that, hmph, that was poverty. I know how important it is to keep your kids good and fed” He continued and then gazed up at the ceiling.
I sipped on my soup, now feeling a pain in my stomach. I knew that was not his intention, but I cursed myself for all the times I have complained.
Kilmer looked over at me, his cheek still resting on Papi’s stomach, and smiled. Now this family is blessed in many ways, their kind hearts and beautiful family, but I’m sorry, the dimples take the gold. You know, this little boy, he can be a real pain…like all little kids. But it’s like those dimples have a power over me.
Earlier in the day, Karime ratted out her buddy. “You know what?” She told me, eye brows raised and mouth pursed in her most serious composure, “Kilmer pushed Lili over walking home from school today. Yup, and her hand is cut and her knee is cut, too.”
“Hey Kilmer, did you push my friend Lili today?” I asked him that night. “Yea I did!” He told me excited, proud and giggling a little. “And you know what, she’s got a real good cut on her hand!” He was trying to impress his 2 older brothers.
“Okay, Kilmer. Well, now you gotta apologize buddy because you can’t just go around pushing all my friends! I will have none left to play with. So, let’s practice. I will be Lili and you are Kilmer and it’s the next day at school.”
“Hola, Kilmer. Como estas? Vas para la escuela?”
All the kids startled giggling.
But good old Kilmer, dimples in tact, replied “Hola Lili. Perdoname.” And then he collapsed in my lap in hysterics.
“Okay Kilmer, good job. The other option you have,” I told him “is to sing that song…Te Pido Perdon…”
After which we all started singing and laughing on the floor of Don Jorge’s humble abode.
Relatively speaking, in terms of finances and status, maybe this family does not have it so good. But more and more I have learned that, really, the theory of relativity has little to do on one’s happiness in life. The relationships you have with your family and friends, strangers and even enemies for that matter, will be what makes your life what it stands for. Maybe there are people out there who can roll around on the floor at the end of the day with their piles of money, but I think Kilmer and Lili make much better company.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Amar lo que Somos
Love What We Are
Banana = banana. Escuela = school. Bicho = kid
As I sit here writing a Spanish review sheet for my adult English class, much of which is consisted of Spanish words that, in fact, do no exist in the Spanish dictionary, I question my presence for the umpteenth time in this chicken-infested countryside of El Salvador.
It is true that I have less than eight months left to salvage this little community from the disaster of which it is not and I am running out of ganas to do so. Let’s face it, in eight months the students of my adult English class will have forgotten 80% of the words (although most likely 100%) they have learned and will once again not know their culo from their codo (in English that is). So, it dawns on me that while I sit here spending two hours translating banana to banana, biembenidos to welcome (Spanish spelling lessons- much more valuable project) and chucho to dog, I probably could be using my time in a more efficient manner. But fret you not, surely one of my fifteen students will successfully enter the states mojado where s/he will whip out my recently typed up review sheet and say “My name is Jaime”…(afortunadamente, my name works for both genders). And so, my project is deemed effective.
But its every now and then that the “Peace Corps moments” prove to be more important than the small, or sometimes large, successes we find in our community projects.
I headed out west this past weekend for a few reasons. One, because if I headed east I would shortly end up in Honduras and my project scope is El Salvador, two because I was invited to some events at the US Embassy and therefore needed to pass through San Salvador and three because I had plans to visit my best friend Chelsea who coincidentally resides in beautiful Chalatenango, the complete opposite side of the county. Celebrating July 4th and also 50 years of the Peace Corps at the US Embassy was nothing more than magnificent…besides for a rude slap in the face as to what life is like outside of the Peace Corps or outside of the campo. (By the way, for those not understanding, when you think “campo” think “the bush”). But what this entry is really about is my visit to see Chelsea.
We arrived in a beautiful little “tourist” town of El Salvador (when you think “tourist” do NOT think “Disney World”) where I ate the most delicious grilled pineapple and vegetable sandwich of my life and spent the afternoon exploring artesan shops and artwork painted with coffee beans. We spent the night at a quaint little $10 a night hotel, where we slept for approximately 3.5 hours and woke at 4am to catch a ride with the milkman (think milkman) on his little motor boat. At 4:30am sharp we were cruising across Lago Suchitlan where soon after I jerked awake as we nearly collided with our first clients (think livestock). Roberto climbed off the little rowboat, strategically causing it to teeter-totter me back to sleep, and proceeded to milk cow 1 and cow 2. Before I could finish my lovely dream of a Chipotle barbacoa burrito, we were chugging off. Yet again, I awoke as we pulled up a skip-and-a-hop away from Chelsea’s house and I smiled at the lovely site, waved goodbye to the milk man, and headed for her bed (think 5:30am).
We awoke a few hours later and stepped outside to enjoy our home cooked platanos and eggs by the lake. Just as the jealousy sit in that my friend lives on the water and takes a boat to get to her site, the sun reflected off the water, blinding me in the eyes and causing sweat to pour out of my forehead. And so goes it, that every rose has its thorn. We spent the next couple of days teaching her youth how to make recycled jewelry, taking a quick tour of the community and the lake, watching families make cheese and chatting the night away.
To know another community is to get to know your own all over again.
It is time to quote Paulo Coelho…
Amar lo que hacemos es transformor la esclavitud en libertad. =
To love what we do is the transform slavery into liberty.
It can be really hard being here and sometimes I think, what have I done in a year in a half? But I see that we are all doing a lot. And sometimes the “projects” we have do not hold enough to show for all the work that we really do.
And when times get hard, I start to get hard on myself. But I do know, that I am trying hard (keyword here if you have not picked up on it = hard). And that is the most I can ask of myself. So I like to change a little what my good friend Paulo writes and instead say...
To love what we are is to transform slavery into freedom.
We often worry about ourselves…how we look, our weight, our clothes, how much money we’re making, the size of our chest or our biceps or our kankles for that matter.
But it does us no good. If we love ourselves, we release ourselves from this sense of entrapment. To be happy with oneself is to feel this sort of freedom that is so liberating it gives you the power to do anything.
When times start to get hard, I take a look at the bigger picture… At communities like mine and Chelseas and how we each have affected the lives within. At how hard I am trying. About how much of myself I am giving. And I feel good.
So as I often go from journal writer, to blog publisher, to story teller, to spanglish rambler, to motivational speaker, I end on this note:
Put your all into everything you do. Do things will good intentions. Find compassion, share it with others and love yourself. Do what it takes to bring out the best in yourself and love yourself without worrying about your imperfections and what others think of you. I believe you will feel liberty.
If not, think…
Vaca = cow, Chavo = friend, Hot dog (replace New York Accent with spanglish) = hot dog (aka hot dawg).
Banana = banana. Escuela = school. Bicho = kid
As I sit here writing a Spanish review sheet for my adult English class, much of which is consisted of Spanish words that, in fact, do no exist in the Spanish dictionary, I question my presence for the umpteenth time in this chicken-infested countryside of El Salvador.
It is true that I have less than eight months left to salvage this little community from the disaster of which it is not and I am running out of ganas to do so. Let’s face it, in eight months the students of my adult English class will have forgotten 80% of the words (although most likely 100%) they have learned and will once again not know their culo from their codo (in English that is). So, it dawns on me that while I sit here spending two hours translating banana to banana, biembenidos to welcome (Spanish spelling lessons- much more valuable project) and chucho to dog, I probably could be using my time in a more efficient manner. But fret you not, surely one of my fifteen students will successfully enter the states mojado where s/he will whip out my recently typed up review sheet and say “My name is Jaime”…(afortunadamente, my name works for both genders). And so, my project is deemed effective.
But its every now and then that the “Peace Corps moments” prove to be more important than the small, or sometimes large, successes we find in our community projects.
I headed out west this past weekend for a few reasons. One, because if I headed east I would shortly end up in Honduras and my project scope is El Salvador, two because I was invited to some events at the US Embassy and therefore needed to pass through San Salvador and three because I had plans to visit my best friend Chelsea who coincidentally resides in beautiful Chalatenango, the complete opposite side of the county. Celebrating July 4th and also 50 years of the Peace Corps at the US Embassy was nothing more than magnificent…besides for a rude slap in the face as to what life is like outside of the Peace Corps or outside of the campo. (By the way, for those not understanding, when you think “campo” think “the bush”). But what this entry is really about is my visit to see Chelsea.
We arrived in a beautiful little “tourist” town of El Salvador (when you think “tourist” do NOT think “Disney World”) where I ate the most delicious grilled pineapple and vegetable sandwich of my life and spent the afternoon exploring artesan shops and artwork painted with coffee beans. We spent the night at a quaint little $10 a night hotel, where we slept for approximately 3.5 hours and woke at 4am to catch a ride with the milkman (think milkman) on his little motor boat. At 4:30am sharp we were cruising across Lago Suchitlan where soon after I jerked awake as we nearly collided with our first clients (think livestock). Roberto climbed off the little rowboat, strategically causing it to teeter-totter me back to sleep, and proceeded to milk cow 1 and cow 2. Before I could finish my lovely dream of a Chipotle barbacoa burrito, we were chugging off. Yet again, I awoke as we pulled up a skip-and-a-hop away from Chelsea’s house and I smiled at the lovely site, waved goodbye to the milk man, and headed for her bed (think 5:30am).
We awoke a few hours later and stepped outside to enjoy our home cooked platanos and eggs by the lake. Just as the jealousy sit in that my friend lives on the water and takes a boat to get to her site, the sun reflected off the water, blinding me in the eyes and causing sweat to pour out of my forehead. And so goes it, that every rose has its thorn. We spent the next couple of days teaching her youth how to make recycled jewelry, taking a quick tour of the community and the lake, watching families make cheese and chatting the night away.
To know another community is to get to know your own all over again.
It is time to quote Paulo Coelho…
Amar lo que hacemos es transformor la esclavitud en libertad. =
To love what we do is the transform slavery into liberty.
It can be really hard being here and sometimes I think, what have I done in a year in a half? But I see that we are all doing a lot. And sometimes the “projects” we have do not hold enough to show for all the work that we really do.
And when times get hard, I start to get hard on myself. But I do know, that I am trying hard (keyword here if you have not picked up on it = hard). And that is the most I can ask of myself. So I like to change a little what my good friend Paulo writes and instead say...
To love what we are is to transform slavery into freedom.
We often worry about ourselves…how we look, our weight, our clothes, how much money we’re making, the size of our chest or our biceps or our kankles for that matter.
But it does us no good. If we love ourselves, we release ourselves from this sense of entrapment. To be happy with oneself is to feel this sort of freedom that is so liberating it gives you the power to do anything.
When times start to get hard, I take a look at the bigger picture… At communities like mine and Chelseas and how we each have affected the lives within. At how hard I am trying. About how much of myself I am giving. And I feel good.
So as I often go from journal writer, to blog publisher, to story teller, to spanglish rambler, to motivational speaker, I end on this note:
Put your all into everything you do. Do things will good intentions. Find compassion, share it with others and love yourself. Do what it takes to bring out the best in yourself and love yourself without worrying about your imperfections and what others think of you. I believe you will feel liberty.
If not, think…
Vaca = cow, Chavo = friend, Hot dog (replace New York Accent with spanglish) = hot dog (aka hot dawg).
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Sick Again and More Dalai Lama
I never thought I’d say this, but I gave up trying to watch a movie in my house this evening because I couldn’t hear it over the neighbor’s cow’s never-ending moo-ing. Several times I got up from the hammock and peered out the window, expecting to see a calf fall to life from the beckoning vaca. But there was none. 15 months and I still don’t understand a word of their language. Alls I know is I wanted to finish my movie or I wanted a medium-rare Filet Mignon … and neither was happening.
I hate to bore you with the “I’m sick” stories…but I’m sick. After a few days of living in the latrine and a few nights of restless sleep, I was certain the stool sample was unnecessary, as after infection #3 you automatically become a certified-amoeba-diagnoser (you get to put this on your resume after you complete your 2 years of peace corps). Either way, I deposited my specimen at the laboratory and then setup shop in the air-conditioned comfort that only San Sal can offer you in The Savior. I promise you I have been somewhat productive in this downtime, although I can only remember a few hours that I have been awake. These meds are strong and at times I wonder if I’d rather be squatting in my outhouse all week or lying helplessly in my hammock with these headaches. On the bright side (and I think I shamefully speak for most of us gringas) we silently hope we will emerge from this parasitical infection with Marissa Miller stomachs…but it never quite works out that way. Its true that you lose all desire to eat while running back and forth in the rain and mud to the mosquito infested porta-potty… but you do, however, have the ganas to finish the entire box of Oreos your friend sent you, in one sitting. And when that is your only nutrition for the day I promise you each cookie sticks to your love handles and inner thighs so that you can practically read the cookie name bulging out from your skin. That’s what it feels like at least. And so you realize, and wish to divulge to Kelly on The Office, that the parasites…no valen la pena.
So they tell you to wash your hands (believe me, with all the bichos and chuchos, lodo and monte) I never pass up this opportunity. They tell you to bleach your fruits and veges, to filter your water, to say no to frescos and to turn down food that you are not sure has been cooked properly. They tell you not to eat the curtido and the snacks that are sold in little plastic bags on the bus. They tell you to say NO to “fresh” salads and fruit picked right off the trees. And I want to comply.
But upon returning to my house after abandoning my community for far too long, little Leslie walks up with a plate of comida. My head is ringing after a 6 hour journey home (thank you Gotera Special for not running and San Miguel Special for breaking down twice, and for the following bus that was approximately 120 F, and for the next pick-up ride around the dusty rocky roads in which 4 bicyclers passed us) and I want nothing but to be sleeping. But she has a smile that kills you and 2 dimples on her right cheek that you wanna steal away and make your own. And she stomps right up to you as you sit miserable outside in your plastic chair waiting for cell phone service. And she puts the plate of food on your lap, wraps her arms around you and says “Te Quiero Jaime, teeeeeeee quieeeeroooo.” And you say “Te quiero tambien Leslie, me hacia falta”… and you know that you are going to eat that whole plate of food.
After some time out of site, it can be hard to return to the countryside. To the solidarity of living alone, to be the only English-speaker in a Spanish land, to put away your shorts and back-on your long skirts. But it is just the adjustment that is hard. A few days and you remember how you fell in love with how the rain calms the land as it blankets the countryside. You see your little buddies hopping puddles as they head to the molienda and you hear the pito from the soccer field. Fidel asks you to help him practice English and you feel warm inside when you remember he will be shortly leaving for the US to study in a University. You think about some few pending projects and how there are only 9 months left to your service… and you realize you have a lot to do here in this Little Mountain before your time expires.
I have written many times about the struggles I face here. This may be the reason I so often find myself reading such books as those by the Dalai Lama (although I promise you I do read others) and Paulo Coelho. But today, after finishing The Lincoln Lawyer (see I told you so), I decided it was time to bring back out The Art of Happiness.
“Our days are numbered. At this very moment, many thousands are born into the world, some destined to live only a few days or weeks, and then tragically succumb to illness or other misfortune. Others are destined to push through to the century mark…But whether we live a day or a century, a central question always remains: What is the purpose of our life? What makes our lives meaningful?”
-Dalia Lama
I could keep going quoting my favorite parts of this book, but it would be easier just to buy you a copy.
You know what stresses me out sometimes being here? That one day, I will forget what makes life meaningful. I will forget the purpose of life. Because, for me at least, the purpose of life is to be happy. Right here, right now, it’s easy to me. I am doing something I love. I don’t rely on too much, because I don’t need too much. I’m not afraid of losing or ruining what I have, because I have little to lose. No one is judged by the job that they have or the brand of jeans that they wear. I feel more rewarded knowing I helped one child receive a scholarship, than at any job I have ever worked at or pay check I have ever received. I feel more proud jumping up and down, hugging my girls on the soccer team, than any game in any sport I have won in the states.
People have thanked me for joining the Peace Corps. People ask me how I do it. Sometimes I laugh to myself, not in a mocking way, but in a kind of awkward confusion. For me, this experience is a Blessing. I truly feel blessed to be able to be here. I actually fear when it will be over because I do not know if I will ever have the chance to do something like this again. I’m afraid I will lose everything I have learned here. I am afraid I will forget the beauty of this land, of these people, of this experience. I’m afraid I will forget What is the purpose of our life and What makes our lives meaningful.
Last Thursday I sat in a small room crowded with Salvadoran parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Together we all stood and pledged the Salvadoran flag, approximately 120 Salvadorans and 2 North Americans (fellow volunteer and amigo Brock and I). After a year teaching in the school, I was proud to sing along with the Salvadoran National Anthem. As the song ended, we went to take our seats, but it was then that we heard “Oh say can you see…” on the speakers. We stood back up, as a larger wave of pride rolled through me. A few Salvadorans gawked at us, incredulous to the fact we knew the words…but Brock and I sang along, off-pitch and red-faced. A few others smiled and the bravest of the braved moved their lips along too.
We were at the presentation of 2 students whom we helped win scholarships to study for 2 years in the states. Let me be perfectly honest, by helped, I mean I responded to an email offered by USAID and found a way to pick up the application. I contacted community members to find eligible applicants and was introduced to this young man who will be leaving in August to begin his studies. He is 100% responsible for all of the work he put into winning this scholarship and 100% deserves and needs this opportunity. He was one of 25 out of 400 Salvadoran applicants to win, and standing in the audience that night, I was so very proud. I was proud that he invited me, proud to be a US citizen, proud to be a Peace Corps volunteer, proud to be working in El Salvador and proud of our world.
As I looked around the room, at the smiling faces of family members seeing their loved ones shine, I smiled too. As parents watched with pride as their children exemplified how they would be successful studying the states, I felt pride too. As the children hugged their brothers and cousins, sisters and grandparents and loved them for coming, I loved my family too. As our scholarship recipients, as well as strangers, came to thank us, I felt thankful too. Because who else in the world would ever get to experience something like this? How many people can sit in a room of a hundred strangers, yet feel so recognized? How many people who meet our scholarship recipients in the states, will have shared this moment of joy when they celebrated their success with their friends? How many will know they came from a 2 bedroom house without electricity or covered floor? That they walked the cows to the fields everyday, or cut corn or sang in the church with their little brothers. How many people have gotten to wave and call “Salu!” to them as they marched happily down the muddy road with a pile of firewood on their backs. How many people have gotten to climb to the tippy top of a splashing waterfall with them and then hurry down, nervously laughing as the first few drops of rain began to fall?
As I looked around the room that night at the USAID scholarship recipients and their families, at the smiling faces and the teary eyes, I felt a warmth that I hope to find many more times in my future.
And as I lie here now reading the Dalai Lama, I hope I never betray him in the quest to find happiness.
I hate to bore you with the “I’m sick” stories…but I’m sick. After a few days of living in the latrine and a few nights of restless sleep, I was certain the stool sample was unnecessary, as after infection #3 you automatically become a certified-amoeba-diagnoser (you get to put this on your resume after you complete your 2 years of peace corps). Either way, I deposited my specimen at the laboratory and then setup shop in the air-conditioned comfort that only San Sal can offer you in The Savior. I promise you I have been somewhat productive in this downtime, although I can only remember a few hours that I have been awake. These meds are strong and at times I wonder if I’d rather be squatting in my outhouse all week or lying helplessly in my hammock with these headaches. On the bright side (and I think I shamefully speak for most of us gringas) we silently hope we will emerge from this parasitical infection with Marissa Miller stomachs…but it never quite works out that way. Its true that you lose all desire to eat while running back and forth in the rain and mud to the mosquito infested porta-potty… but you do, however, have the ganas to finish the entire box of Oreos your friend sent you, in one sitting. And when that is your only nutrition for the day I promise you each cookie sticks to your love handles and inner thighs so that you can practically read the cookie name bulging out from your skin. That’s what it feels like at least. And so you realize, and wish to divulge to Kelly on The Office, that the parasites…no valen la pena.
So they tell you to wash your hands (believe me, with all the bichos and chuchos, lodo and monte) I never pass up this opportunity. They tell you to bleach your fruits and veges, to filter your water, to say no to frescos and to turn down food that you are not sure has been cooked properly. They tell you not to eat the curtido and the snacks that are sold in little plastic bags on the bus. They tell you to say NO to “fresh” salads and fruit picked right off the trees. And I want to comply.
But upon returning to my house after abandoning my community for far too long, little Leslie walks up with a plate of comida. My head is ringing after a 6 hour journey home (thank you Gotera Special for not running and San Miguel Special for breaking down twice, and for the following bus that was approximately 120 F, and for the next pick-up ride around the dusty rocky roads in which 4 bicyclers passed us) and I want nothing but to be sleeping. But she has a smile that kills you and 2 dimples on her right cheek that you wanna steal away and make your own. And she stomps right up to you as you sit miserable outside in your plastic chair waiting for cell phone service. And she puts the plate of food on your lap, wraps her arms around you and says “Te Quiero Jaime, teeeeeeee quieeeeroooo.” And you say “Te quiero tambien Leslie, me hacia falta”… and you know that you are going to eat that whole plate of food.
After some time out of site, it can be hard to return to the countryside. To the solidarity of living alone, to be the only English-speaker in a Spanish land, to put away your shorts and back-on your long skirts. But it is just the adjustment that is hard. A few days and you remember how you fell in love with how the rain calms the land as it blankets the countryside. You see your little buddies hopping puddles as they head to the molienda and you hear the pito from the soccer field. Fidel asks you to help him practice English and you feel warm inside when you remember he will be shortly leaving for the US to study in a University. You think about some few pending projects and how there are only 9 months left to your service… and you realize you have a lot to do here in this Little Mountain before your time expires.
I have written many times about the struggles I face here. This may be the reason I so often find myself reading such books as those by the Dalai Lama (although I promise you I do read others) and Paulo Coelho. But today, after finishing The Lincoln Lawyer (see I told you so), I decided it was time to bring back out The Art of Happiness.
“Our days are numbered. At this very moment, many thousands are born into the world, some destined to live only a few days or weeks, and then tragically succumb to illness or other misfortune. Others are destined to push through to the century mark…But whether we live a day or a century, a central question always remains: What is the purpose of our life? What makes our lives meaningful?”
-Dalia Lama
I could keep going quoting my favorite parts of this book, but it would be easier just to buy you a copy.
You know what stresses me out sometimes being here? That one day, I will forget what makes life meaningful. I will forget the purpose of life. Because, for me at least, the purpose of life is to be happy. Right here, right now, it’s easy to me. I am doing something I love. I don’t rely on too much, because I don’t need too much. I’m not afraid of losing or ruining what I have, because I have little to lose. No one is judged by the job that they have or the brand of jeans that they wear. I feel more rewarded knowing I helped one child receive a scholarship, than at any job I have ever worked at or pay check I have ever received. I feel more proud jumping up and down, hugging my girls on the soccer team, than any game in any sport I have won in the states.
People have thanked me for joining the Peace Corps. People ask me how I do it. Sometimes I laugh to myself, not in a mocking way, but in a kind of awkward confusion. For me, this experience is a Blessing. I truly feel blessed to be able to be here. I actually fear when it will be over because I do not know if I will ever have the chance to do something like this again. I’m afraid I will lose everything I have learned here. I am afraid I will forget the beauty of this land, of these people, of this experience. I’m afraid I will forget What is the purpose of our life and What makes our lives meaningful.
Last Thursday I sat in a small room crowded with Salvadoran parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Together we all stood and pledged the Salvadoran flag, approximately 120 Salvadorans and 2 North Americans (fellow volunteer and amigo Brock and I). After a year teaching in the school, I was proud to sing along with the Salvadoran National Anthem. As the song ended, we went to take our seats, but it was then that we heard “Oh say can you see…” on the speakers. We stood back up, as a larger wave of pride rolled through me. A few Salvadorans gawked at us, incredulous to the fact we knew the words…but Brock and I sang along, off-pitch and red-faced. A few others smiled and the bravest of the braved moved their lips along too.
We were at the presentation of 2 students whom we helped win scholarships to study for 2 years in the states. Let me be perfectly honest, by helped, I mean I responded to an email offered by USAID and found a way to pick up the application. I contacted community members to find eligible applicants and was introduced to this young man who will be leaving in August to begin his studies. He is 100% responsible for all of the work he put into winning this scholarship and 100% deserves and needs this opportunity. He was one of 25 out of 400 Salvadoran applicants to win, and standing in the audience that night, I was so very proud. I was proud that he invited me, proud to be a US citizen, proud to be a Peace Corps volunteer, proud to be working in El Salvador and proud of our world.
As I looked around the room, at the smiling faces of family members seeing their loved ones shine, I smiled too. As parents watched with pride as their children exemplified how they would be successful studying the states, I felt pride too. As the children hugged their brothers and cousins, sisters and grandparents and loved them for coming, I loved my family too. As our scholarship recipients, as well as strangers, came to thank us, I felt thankful too. Because who else in the world would ever get to experience something like this? How many people can sit in a room of a hundred strangers, yet feel so recognized? How many people who meet our scholarship recipients in the states, will have shared this moment of joy when they celebrated their success with their friends? How many will know they came from a 2 bedroom house without electricity or covered floor? That they walked the cows to the fields everyday, or cut corn or sang in the church with their little brothers. How many people have gotten to wave and call “Salu!” to them as they marched happily down the muddy road with a pile of firewood on their backs. How many people have gotten to climb to the tippy top of a splashing waterfall with them and then hurry down, nervously laughing as the first few drops of rain began to fall?
As I looked around the room that night at the USAID scholarship recipients and their families, at the smiling faces and the teary eyes, I felt a warmth that I hope to find many more times in my future.
And as I lie here now reading the Dalai Lama, I hope I never betray him in the quest to find happiness.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Crayons
A lot of thoughts were going through my head as I hitched a ride for the umpteenth time out of La Montanita. The wheels in my mind started turning, as always, to the tune of Bedouin Soundclash "Im on a rocky road, heading down off the mountait slope..." as we rounded the bend and headed toward civilization.
As a kid, I remember getting frustrated with crayons. Id take a break from coloring the pages of my Disney book to eat some Dungaroos (as long as Mommy didnt intercept me first with a bag of baby carrots) and return to a torture chamber: On the table before me lay more than 8 different shades of green (insert scary movie sound effects)...and silly me had left the grass half-painted. Forest green, Jungle green, Lime green, Pleasantville-AYSO-Soccer-Jersey green...how would I ever know the right crayon to use??! WHYYY was it necessary to have so many different green crayons?
And so for years (as 50 cent so eloquently advised)I have been "patiently waiting". Patiently waiting for the day I would come to use all 8 greens of the Crayola pack. The day I would understand WHY my childhood was plagued with nearly-perfect Mickey paintings with just a smear of unmatching green in every field.
Bumping down the mountainside in El Salvador many years and many more crayons later, I yet again have come to curse Crayola. The hills in front of me have clearly been ambushed by those devil page-painters. Not only has each and every shade of green been used until demolishment (is that a word?), but the shades have even been melted down to liquid form and mixed to create EVEN MORE greens. I find myself mesmerized (which I promise you is not an easy feat clinging to the back of a pick up, holding my skirt down, squinting through dust and bouncing voilently) looking at the hills ahead. Each range of mountains is a different green. The layer closest me that lines the road side is Banana Leave Green, the next row in line screams Maguey Plant Green, and that behind reads Rolling Hills Green. There are speckles of Iguana Green and splashes of Bola green. If you look at it all together you get Rejuvinating Green and if you just close your eyes and feel it it feigns Fresco Green.
My point is, I had come to realize why 8 shades of green had been created. The most frustrating part was that for years I cried over those 8 shades, all for the wrong reason. Yes my poor Disney book was scarred with color deviations...but my complaining would get the best of me.
Looking at the mountainside, I realized the problem was not the abundance of green crayons but the lack there of.
I thought again back to my childhood. I remembered watching my older sister receive a painting leasson from one of our tenants. Learning by example, she painted the canvas of a flourishing landscape. I pictured myself doing that now. How I wished I could re-create the sight before me. Preserve it forever. Not only the way the fruit trees spring from the bountiful corn fields, but the way they sway silently on the mountainside. The way the coconuts sound when they break free of their ties and tumbles along the ground below. The pungent smell of podrido mangos and the prickley feel of the maguey points.
I often think, what am I going to do when I can no see and feel this every morning? When I no longer can jump in the back of a random car and show up fashionably late and sexy-windy-frizzy-pickup-truck-hair later at a reunion. When I can no longer go to sleep to the lull of rain pounding on my tin roof and wake up to the sweet chirps of roosters in the morning.
What if it all ends someday?
I blame Crayola.
As a kid, I remember getting frustrated with crayons. Id take a break from coloring the pages of my Disney book to eat some Dungaroos (as long as Mommy didnt intercept me first with a bag of baby carrots) and return to a torture chamber: On the table before me lay more than 8 different shades of green (insert scary movie sound effects)...and silly me had left the grass half-painted. Forest green, Jungle green, Lime green, Pleasantville-AYSO-Soccer-Jersey green...how would I ever know the right crayon to use??! WHYYY was it necessary to have so many different green crayons?
And so for years (as 50 cent so eloquently advised)I have been "patiently waiting". Patiently waiting for the day I would come to use all 8 greens of the Crayola pack. The day I would understand WHY my childhood was plagued with nearly-perfect Mickey paintings with just a smear of unmatching green in every field.
Bumping down the mountainside in El Salvador many years and many more crayons later, I yet again have come to curse Crayola. The hills in front of me have clearly been ambushed by those devil page-painters. Not only has each and every shade of green been used until demolishment (is that a word?), but the shades have even been melted down to liquid form and mixed to create EVEN MORE greens. I find myself mesmerized (which I promise you is not an easy feat clinging to the back of a pick up, holding my skirt down, squinting through dust and bouncing voilently) looking at the hills ahead. Each range of mountains is a different green. The layer closest me that lines the road side is Banana Leave Green, the next row in line screams Maguey Plant Green, and that behind reads Rolling Hills Green. There are speckles of Iguana Green and splashes of Bola green. If you look at it all together you get Rejuvinating Green and if you just close your eyes and feel it it feigns Fresco Green.
My point is, I had come to realize why 8 shades of green had been created. The most frustrating part was that for years I cried over those 8 shades, all for the wrong reason. Yes my poor Disney book was scarred with color deviations...but my complaining would get the best of me.
Looking at the mountainside, I realized the problem was not the abundance of green crayons but the lack there of.
I thought again back to my childhood. I remembered watching my older sister receive a painting leasson from one of our tenants. Learning by example, she painted the canvas of a flourishing landscape. I pictured myself doing that now. How I wished I could re-create the sight before me. Preserve it forever. Not only the way the fruit trees spring from the bountiful corn fields, but the way they sway silently on the mountainside. The way the coconuts sound when they break free of their ties and tumbles along the ground below. The pungent smell of podrido mangos and the prickley feel of the maguey points.
I often think, what am I going to do when I can no see and feel this every morning? When I no longer can jump in the back of a random car and show up fashionably late and sexy-windy-frizzy-pickup-truck-hair later at a reunion. When I can no longer go to sleep to the lull of rain pounding on my tin roof and wake up to the sweet chirps of roosters in the morning.
What if it all ends someday?
I blame Crayola.
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