tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23166596503919361332024-03-05T11:07:48.721-08:00A Year With AmigosFriends and Jesus in HondurasAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-7036833721901549632014-11-14T16:02:00.004-08:002014-11-14T16:02:43.612-08:00Parish Presentation!Hi there!!<br />
<br />
Okay so this really is the last one. I am giving a presentation at my parish this Monday night about my time in Honduras! I spoke at St. Stephen's parish in Pennsauken, NJ before going to Honduras and the generosity of the parishioners there really made the year possible, in addition to the generosity shown by so many of you who are following this blog. To give back, I wanted to share a little of what I learned and the pastor, Fr. Rocco, who has been amazingly supportive from the beginning, said, of course!<br />
<br />
So here is the write-up that was published in the bulletin. If you're in the South Jersey area and free that night I would love to see you there!<br />
<br />
Lots of love, and thank you all so much, once again, for all of the support.<br />
<br />
Time: 7 p.m.<br />
Date: Monday, Nov. 17<br />
Place: Parish Center of St. Stephen Parish<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">6300 Browning Rd, </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;">Pennsauken Township, NJ 08109</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
What I Learned from a Year in Honduras </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
In August I came back to the U.S. after living and working for a year at an orphanage in Honduras. For twelve months I ate more corn tortillas and beans than I care to remember, cohabited with scorpions, attempted to keep four of the world's cutest special-needs second graders from taking the last of my sanity, and learned to like hugs that were dusty, sweaty, and long at waist height. The experience was life-changing, and this parish made it possible. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
About a year and a half ago I spoke at Masses about the volunteer year I was beginning at Amigos de Jesus orphanage. I was inspired and humbled by the outpouring of generosity and support I received. Throughout the year I heard about so many of you who continued to support me in prayer. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Now that I'm home, I would like to share some of my experiences with you: of the children's heart-wrenching stories and incredible resilience; of daily life in the third-world country I called home for twelve months; and of the work being done by this home, started by a Philadelphia priest, to get at the heart of the problems that forced hundreds of Honduran children to flee their country for the U.S. this summer. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Join me on Monday, November 17th at 7 p.m. in the parish center for stories and conversation about my year at Amigos. Thank you once again for your incredible support. I'm really looking forward to sharing some of the things I learned with you.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-23960723245626424792014-10-11T10:02:00.000-07:002017-12-05T12:45:01.251-08:00A Message from Home<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-dvrIkqekenKGWQTdl3UxErgjPufUdXKaDB9E7qaPuN2dyYIQwDUni9RGUlvL5oOvPgvdk1-ljvHzv0KyG7pmO84Z2VrKcG3E4SBla7sitAAXpMvJnU70hw72PSi12Fj0tUOSNtNg5k/s1600/10351247_10100709887252077_3962039967680647256_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz-dvrIkqekenKGWQTdl3UxErgjPufUdXKaDB9E7qaPuN2dyYIQwDUni9RGUlvL5oOvPgvdk1-ljvHzv0KyG7pmO84Z2VrKcG3E4SBla7sitAAXpMvJnU70hw72PSi12Fj0tUOSNtNg5k/s1600/10351247_10100709887252077_3962039967680647256_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my last nights at our <i>despedida</i>, goodbye party.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I promised this last post a long time ago. There have been a lot of times when I've almost written it or written it all out in my head, then haven't actually done it. I can't say exactly why. Laziness probably. Busyness. Tiredness. There's probably a little subconscious stuff going on too, but there you have it.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLX9lfIUcfJ5DbZhlRSOHavkrUkzwB2A7J-Gc0vfsZrrMdm6URtz3zo2befsFkeaD4pkIf8ufDLR9zlBcl38Cd2WxgbVZkUkMzEfIhvNQSJyk4HzHe3h6CSJL3dCJ4ETejbO_JdAttFBg/s1600/DSCF8388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLX9lfIUcfJ5DbZhlRSOHavkrUkzwB2A7J-Gc0vfsZrrMdm6URtz3zo2befsFkeaD4pkIf8ufDLR9zlBcl38Cd2WxgbVZkUkMzEfIhvNQSJyk4HzHe3h6CSJL3dCJ4ETejbO_JdAttFBg/s1600/DSCF8388.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Levin, the time he decided, totally on his own,<br />
to dress up as a king for the day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So an update! I am happy to say that I have a job back here in the States. I am extremely fortunate. My Mom heard about the job and I applied and interviewed via Skype while I was still in Honduras. I came back to the states on August 12 and I started work on September 2. I am the "social ministries communicator" for Catholic Charities and the Diocese of Camden. I basically have two people I report to, one the executive director of Catholic Charities Camden, and the other the communications director for the diocese. For the latter I get to write news stories about social ministry going on in the diocese -- out of parishes, out of Catholic Charities, from parishioners -- for the diocesan website and newspaper, the Catholic Star Herald. For Catholic Charities my job is a little broader, doing general communications and a little bit of marketing. I manage their website news content and a few other pages, work with social media, and write press releases and stories. I hope to do some more newsletter-type things in the future too. It's nice when both responsibilities overlap, which they often do. Really it's an amazingly ideal situation. I'm writing, and about things I care about, good work people are doing, and I'm meeting inspiring, incredible people.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PGCKFd-t8qt_5vw4FhDGFTEQLr4AxKEEodh8S2rjuJuW-N9hH1-YfMU7-8ZbmfLd5UlrdhJMJNQC74bWoKWDh3YsT_ufEvWR4pEZq-ykuCqxPlBqrCDnaSSFQZBg5wfE1pCvVQkeneo/s1600/IMG_5364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PGCKFd-t8qt_5vw4FhDGFTEQLr4AxKEEodh8S2rjuJuW-N9hH1-YfMU7-8ZbmfLd5UlrdhJMJNQC74bWoKWDh3YsT_ufEvWR4pEZq-ykuCqxPlBqrCDnaSSFQZBg5wfE1pCvVQkeneo/s1600/IMG_5364.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The three boys who came to the home around Christmas<br />
and became my students in January.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And I work about ten minutes away from my house where I've moved back in and taken over the third floor guest bedroom. It was a major dream come true the day I took out all of my books from their boxes in storage and arranged them on the bookshelves up here. Fiction, non-fiction, religion, philosophy. I felt a little like I was back in my library in Honduras while I was doing it. I love just looking at them. Once an English major, always an English major. It's nice living at home again. I'm wrapped once again in that blanket of love I grew up with, and I get to be part of my younger siblings' lives. And I'm surrounded, still, by children. The noisiness of our dinner table is a little like the craziness of the <i>comedor</i>, but don't tell my mom that. She's <i>seen</i> the comedor.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZHIx3iRslsxN_bP8jNr1IntLpiKc633kEfBQy5ubY5ucPRJgr6N0TgkIUcUvvy0uTKWq24o5Y1dMQGJEe8TgLIgPSjnhvyzNEeiX51NhFX9-TEGBWYDL1VBufPfSiIxowxPUpeb5f-Q/s1600/IMG_0719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZHIx3iRslsxN_bP8jNr1IntLpiKc633kEfBQy5ubY5ucPRJgr6N0TgkIUcUvvy0uTKWq24o5Y1dMQGJEe8TgLIgPSjnhvyzNEeiX51NhFX9-TEGBWYDL1VBufPfSiIxowxPUpeb5f-Q/s1600/IMG_0719.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My special needs one-on-one student, Rana.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One of the best parts of my job are my Spanish-speaking co-workers. There are a lot of them in the office and a few who will only speak to me in Spanish. It's been so great. One of my worst fears was losing my Spanish, but I don't think it's gotten too much worse. My job also has me covering Spanish stories once in a while, too. I recently went to our Diocese's Hispanic family celebration, a day that was entirely in Spanish, and I got to even interview people in Spanish! It was amazing.<br />
<br />
Another strange development has been the Amigos kids' use of Facebook, and even Skype! After we left some of the older boys figured out how to download Skype on their phones and I've skyped several times with them! It's crazy to see them on my computer screen, to speak in Spanish with them. I really can't describe it. In September, four of the kids came to the States for the annual fundraising visit Amigos has. Our executive offices are right in Malvern, P.A., so I was close enough to go to a lot of events, even to meet them in the airport. There was a magnetism to their visit. I couldn't stay a way, even though I felt them scratching away the scabs I had made. It was so beyond wonderful to be with them, to laugh with them, play with them, remember inside jokes we had. I felt again that belonging and was reassured that I still have my place with them. But each night when I went home, and especially when I had left, the reality of our apartness had to be faced.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8s74PZsZ1hov4IIZIbuc87Pnqv_wI5eHpElevGqBYhWvwknDBE-2CUlZEJSd63eBYEbiEJuekAA0h15IEQ3XSRa9UfzNj1xWiNSQU_rbn2YTu8PuHDgFUyPjNXOvZ7KCCXhGELf4tgYg/s1600/IMG_1054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8s74PZsZ1hov4IIZIbuc87Pnqv_wI5eHpElevGqBYhWvwknDBE-2CUlZEJSd63eBYEbiEJuekAA0h15IEQ3XSRa9UfzNj1xWiNSQU_rbn2YTu8PuHDgFUyPjNXOvZ7KCCXhGELf4tgYg/s1600/IMG_1054.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Levin and his little brother Wilbur.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The pictures you see are the ones I've been using as the desktop backgrounds on my computer (and the really good ones are courtesy of my amazing fellow volunteer, Emily Pettinger). Every time I open my computer I see their faces and I smile. I miss them so much. I think of them so often. Being at work is usually my saving grace. When I'm there, I become consumed by the work at hand and I've been pushing myself there like a crazy person, which is entirely characteristic anyways, but also sort of a necessity now. But even there I'll see their faces suddenly in something someone says. Some location will stir up a memory. The slightest thing takes me back there, to the road to San Pedro Sula, to the school, to Buen Samaritano and the wheelchair-bound people there, to the soccer field and a child telling me he used to eat dirt, to our porch and boy saying he wishes he knew where his mother was, to our kitchen where I once spent hours with a teenager scanning google maps of Honduras searching for some kind of needle in a haystack that only he understood. And to happy moments too. The way the sun would set behind the hills, the warmth of a summer night, the stars, listening to Spanish romantic songs from the 70's with my friend Jacob, sitting with Levin on my lap one night after dinner, feeling the bone-crush of little Edgar barreling into me one morning before school. I'm back there in an instant, so many times a day.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHP3dsE-F3_KcO26SvbZv3qZq3zXEZsK17v_QVgJiTX8trQ9-kRpiZRV37pLEs9v_-DPaV2_2LeX17Gjm1s90rMwADM-EtcNeQRZq8JRTEDArIs3HQoxzRanLsWjJiTbqwTgFo6F8Lk2o/s1600/IMG_1323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHP3dsE-F3_KcO26SvbZv3qZq3zXEZsK17v_QVgJiTX8trQ9-kRpiZRV37pLEs9v_-DPaV2_2LeX17Gjm1s90rMwADM-EtcNeQRZq8JRTEDArIs3HQoxzRanLsWjJiTbqwTgFo6F8Lk2o/s1600/IMG_1323.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting asked to be my student's godmother at his Baptism.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In one of my favorite novels of all time <i>The Brothers Karamazov</i> (I'm really not trying to be pretentious -- if you've read it you know it's great stuff!) the brother Ivan makes his case that freedom is not worth the suffering of innocent children, that the world order set down by God in the form of free will, and atonement, is not worth the blood and tears of one abused child. "Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to 'dear, kind, God.'"<br />
<br />
Dostoevsky had an answer for that, and it's all somewhere in the God who didn't remain just God but became man and died, and somewhere deep in my own personal culpability, which I am to spend my life atoning for. But the logic of Ivan sometimes is clearer, more seductive, more plain. Then again, it's no way to live.<br />
<br />
That personal culpability sometimes takes more concrete and immediate terms. I left them after a year of getting to love them, I needed to leave, and I went into it knowing I would. I took so much from them, then I left. I might have given a little, too, but ultimately I'm gone. That's an incredible responsibility. The story doesn't have to end there, unless I let it. But distance and forgetfulness are funny things; I feel them creeping up on me already.<br />
<br />
Really all this wrestling is something everyone does anyway, I've just given it my own twist. The truth is, when I think back on my time there now, what I remember most is being happy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzbXaX1EQl4E_DxDNo2t3hO4LPY15cU90LTATbQ-AgysHke89avDQVBItidggOMRv2kOTT5ew2uzPcisYUcqg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
And when I think on my life now, the proper response is gratefulness.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx_AojkBDus-okekeSixWYJHR8RHr9P-WdmK3vvJ-X1deJlkq3brdzfVBgj0hjQqcHBNwE1H-66GneumKgx-A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
Thanks again for reading this blog. Many of you supported me financially too, which I am so very grateful for. I may post just one more time to let you know when I'll be giving a presentation on my time in Honduras at my parish, St. Stephen's in Pennsauken, N.J. I've been working with the pastor there to set a date and when it's all settled I'll let you know. Most of all, I know many of you were with me in prayer this year, and that was such a blessing. I can't thank you all enough for your love and support on this journey!<br />
<br />
There's a beautiful prayer, written to commemorate the martyrdom of Msgr. Oscar Romero in El Salvador, that tells how all work like this must necessarily be incomplete. I was reminded of it recently by my boss at Catholic Charities. So I won't try to wrap this blog up too neatly either, but will instead use those words.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">enterprise that is God's work. Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">No statement says all that could be said.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">No prayer fully expresses our faith.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">No confession brings perfection.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">No pastoral visit brings wholeness.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">No program accomplishes the Church's mission.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">No set of goals and objectives includes everything.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">This is what we are about.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We plant the seeds that one day will grow.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We lay foundations that will need further development.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">builder and the worker.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12px;">We are prophets of a future not our own.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-46369262938718380222014-08-01T21:30:00.000-07:002014-08-01T21:30:36.076-07:00Mom's Published!Hi all!<br />
<br />
My mom wrote a beautiful reflection on her time here at Amigos in May. Click the link to see it on the Amigos blog!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://amigosdejesusblog.blogspot.com/2014/07/my-trip-to-amigos.html">http://amigosdejesusblog.blogspot.com/2014/07/my-trip-to-amigos.html</a><br />
<br />
She's pretty great, huh?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-3036431283129245192014-07-19T23:12:00.000-07:002018-10-28T19:45:08.982-07:00The Surreal Countdown and Lots of Good Times<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg70a9ptC8VsxMrW-03iUNdhHjnT0FQ0mS0zuerNouDWM1VGilcihraMv8z2BdvsjXB46EOitJe4sQzsajPyxjzydlDjxIdHokLME_3GbEYaIK77ftcg2jlX8imbFwNjhFBJ6EWgEzRbY/s1600/DSCF8072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg70a9ptC8VsxMrW-03iUNdhHjnT0FQ0mS0zuerNouDWM1VGilcihraMv8z2BdvsjXB46EOitJe4sQzsajPyxjzydlDjxIdHokLME_3GbEYaIK77ftcg2jlX8imbFwNjhFBJ6EWgEzRbY/s1600/DSCF8072.JPG" width="294" /></a></div>
Let me tell you about my day.<br />
<br />
I let myself sleep in this morning, skipping Saturday's pancake breakfast. Funny, when I got here it was my favorite breakfast of the week! Real almost-gringo pancakes, and even though there wasn't syrup, my sugar-deprived body quickly learned to like honey. Now the sugary sweetness of an all carb breakfast makes me nauseous and weak the whole morning. Give me a hearty plate of beans and rice, with salty cheese and tortillas, the usual fare the other days of the week.<br />
<br />
We do chores on Saturdays. While I was cleaning the bathroom I heard Levin's voice calling from the gate. The kids know they can't come in without permission so high pitched endlessly repeated versions of "Laura!!" "Emma!!" "Emilia!!" "Joanna!!" are a common occurrence, drawing either a groan or a smile from whoever's being summoned depending on the kid. This time for me it was the latter. He had brought me two deep red "moras," a raspberry-like berry that grows nearby. He's done this for the last three mornings now. I told him the first time I really liked them and he hasn't forgotten yet.<br />
<br />
My project for the morning was to continue organizing and labeling the new books that came for the library when the annual container shipment arrived about two weeks ago. I grabbed my computer for tunes and set out to round up some willing boys. After about fifteen minutes I had my crew, seven helpers, and we set off for the school. Listening to my by now impressive selection of super cool Spanish music they worked, sticking on different colored labels to storybooks in English, not a single complaint, not one slack worker. They ranged in age from 8 to 15. They didn't have to go, but our kids like helping, simple as that. I never stop being surprised at how willing they are to pitch in. It's something to do, and this is their home, their family. They want to be part of it. Also they got to hang out in the library and read books afterwards, which they love.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinY-uWBvAFJzg88IL4nmNwImC6YH5JWA2qLIemVXfRZwmsMJ9hayFWeaLmbGMhOO41tZSYxJSbPZGVFcE29mBHAslw02bWpS3DKq2wSBWtn6_YTIutDOf51r5Hxj0Ki38RkeczESjNyBA/s1600/DSCF8088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinY-uWBvAFJzg88IL4nmNwImC6YH5JWA2qLIemVXfRZwmsMJ9hayFWeaLmbGMhOO41tZSYxJSbPZGVFcE29mBHAslw02bWpS3DKq2wSBWtn6_YTIutDOf51r5Hxj0Ki38RkeczESjNyBA/s1600/DSCF8088.JPG" width="240" /></a>After lunch the plan was to take a hike to the phone company tower that sits in the highest mountain near us. We're out in hilly farm country so the hike starts when you exit our gate, turn right, and continue going up on the dirt road that leads to the hogar. And up and up and up! It was 2 in the afternoon, the sun was intense, and I was sweating about three minutes in. Everyone but the youngest children were in on the hike. I walked most of the way with three of the youngest guys. They were troopers! We climbed steep hill after steep hill, and it was oh so very very hot. One guy kept repeating over and over how un-thirsty he was. He would say something suddenly like, "I'm tired," *pause* "but I'm not thirsty," and trudge stoically on. We walked passed pineapple fields blanketing rolling hills and through pine forests interspersed with broad-leafed shiny tropical plants and brilliant orange and red flowers. We reached the peak and the tower at about 3:30 and the view was spectacular. We looked out over miles of flat farmland, the shape of the vast valley we live in suddenly apparent: far in the distance was a wall of blue mountains mirroring the ones we stood upon. The wispy clouds brushed their peaks. "From those mountains you could touch the clouds, huh," one of my little guys said.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Two of the teenagers had come up on horseback. As we set off back down the mountain at about 4:30 I stopped and admired one of them. About a quarter of the way down, they were passing us and the teenager I had talked to got off the horse. "Get on," he said. I have wanted to ride a horse since I got here! He had been riding with another of our younger teenagers, about fifteen. This kid sat behind me and held the reins. He's a tough guy but while we rode the whole way back to the hogar, probably half an hour ride, he was reassuring and talkative, answering all my questions about the horses, even cracking jokes, patient even though I was in his way, even eager to teach me. We went down steep inclines and galloped through flat stretches. We passed the dispersed members of the hogar on the road home, all of them staring at the strange spectacle making lord knows what kinds of jokes. The horse was so beautiful and richly brown, the countryside was so gorgeous. The heat of the afternoon had turned into a breezy evening. I didn't want the ride to end.<br />
<br />
By the time we got back to the hogar it was time for dinner. I thanked the teenager who had given up his place on the horse and walked all the way home so that I could ride. I still can't believe he did that, but also I can. That's the kind of person he is. He takes care of the younger ones here, he's very responsible, he has an amazing work ethic. He's just a good kid.<br />
<br />
After dinner I had appointments with a few of the kids to check Facebook and e-mail on my computer. One wanted to put new songs on his memory stick. Those are the kinds of computer chores I've done with kids all year. It can be annoying sometimes but I do it because very soon I'll want to be able to keep up with these kids on Facebook and I'll hope that one of the new volunteers will take on the mantle of computer go-fer, 15-minute time limits and all. As I sat on the steps outside the house with a teenager and my laptop, the trees and distant mountains were silhouetted black against a brilliant pink sky threaded with orange clouds. A cool breeze in Honduras is one of the sweetest things I know.<br />
<br />
The kids were watching movies. I walked into the comedor to fund a bunch of our girls watching a talent show type of program on our newly acquired cable (we got it just in time for the World Cup). I was so tired I came home early. It had been a busy day.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybz_Ug8hzGK0viboii0Gh_YDI292uw9kj8vIOvG4kUr-7lczlC75d40v1QJs9vhexVJHik_7sOIiq0HCiRTwcHs6NcauOwPSkjUupCuzOjKRCKcsHTXguGKiLQi7MDsnUijewVzViITo/s1600/DSCF8080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybz_Ug8hzGK0viboii0Gh_YDI292uw9kj8vIOvG4kUr-7lczlC75d40v1QJs9vhexVJHik_7sOIiq0HCiRTwcHs6NcauOwPSkjUupCuzOjKRCKcsHTXguGKiLQi7MDsnUijewVzViITo/s1600/DSCF8080.JPG" width="320" /></a>This Tuesday makes three more weeks. I guess I always knew that just before leaving I would want to stay. Part of me always knew too that it would be <i>because</i> I knew I was leaving. Who knows, if I did have four more months, or six or twelve stretching out in front of me I might feel differently. I might not feel as ambivalent as I do now towards the bucket showers, not as tolerant of the noise and mess of eating meals with 100 children, not as patient with the bugs or the heat or the dirt. Not as forgetful of the painful ache of being away from the ones I love back home, and the one they feel for me. I can almost say with certainty I know I wouldn't, because about a month ago all of those things had exasperated the hell out of me and I was ready to leave. But then there were 8 weeks left. And now there are only three.<br />
<br />
And then again I changed jobs (summer camp started three weeks ago and suddenly lesson planning was over!), got a whole lot less stressed, and realized with a start that I have made some amazing relationships here. That I feel comfortable here with the kids in a way I never thought was possible. That I love being around them, the way they make me laugh, the way they impress me with their virtues, the way, some of them, many of them, respect me. It's true. I realized this month - and it almost brought me to tears - I actually have earned their respect. How about that.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
<br />
So much has happened in this last month and a half! I have a class of second graders I'm responsible for in summer camp, which has been awesome. Yesterday we took a field trip with the whole school to Copan Ruinas, where I started out in language school. It was a blast - the kids talked about it all day today. The kids were up at four in the morning. We left at 6:30 in a yellow school bus that usually works a public route (it was fitted inside with plush tour bus seats) to make the two and a half hour drive. In the morning we visited the Mayan ruins and in the afternoon went to a zoo for tropical birds where the kids got to have giant blue and green and red macaws sit on their arms and shoulders. Then each kid was given 30 lempiras (the equivalent of a dollar fifty) and half an hour in the city to spend it. Oh how that money was well spent. Full of soda, chips, cookies, snow cones, and ice cream we piled onto the bus for the ride home.<br />
<br />
This month I organized our third and final service trip for a group of our teenagers to a home in San Pedro Sula for severely disabled kids and adults. I've never written about these trips but I should have. Each time the experience has been too much for me. This trip especially deserved its own post, but I know it won't get done. So I'll just add it on here and make this one too long. About fifty people live in this home run by an order of Honduran sisters. Most are wheelchair-bound and suffer from severe physical disabilities along the lines of cerebral palsy. Many also have mental disabilities and delays. The majority can't speak or move many of their limbs or even their heads. Some are bed-ridden, and walking through the home you encounter people with shriveled stick-like limbs and bloated heads, bodies only a few feet long, that could be teenagers or adults. Their eyes look up at you and you can't be sure whether or not their minds are there. After our first trip I decided to only take our oldest boys since it can be a scary place to visit, even though the people are meticulously cared for. Almost everyone, for example, must be in a diaper. But there is not even the faintest smell of urine in the home. The incredible sisters who run it are small models of the home's name: <i>Buen Samaritano</i>, Good Samaritan.<br />
<br />
Each time we have gone we follow a similar structure. We wheel several people onto the home's back patio and almost everyone that can walk also comes and joins us. We end up with a group of 15 to 20 of some of the home's highest functioning residents. We bring bubbles, paints and crayons, bingo, and other activities and hang out with the residents for about two hours. A lot of the boys have spent much of their time just pushing people around the patio in their wheelchairs. Unfortunately there are no pictures from these visits because the home does not allow it.<br />
<br />
There are a few residents each time that make a particular impact. Two wheel-chair bound young men with advanced cerebral palsy but sharp minds are always favorites. They are 16 and 17 years old, about the same age as most of the boys on the trip. One has a radio he dials with his thumb. He constantly is listening to music or to the news or to a soccer game and can talk about soccer with expertise. The other has a big, vibrant personality. He fills the patio with his laughter and his loud voice. "You, you!" he'll shout, having forgotten the name of whatever teenager he's been hanging out with. "Draw me another picture!" And then he'll give minute instructions. One time both got into a competition to see who could have more pictures drawn for them. There are big smiles on both of their faces all the time. Their positivity is incredible. They make our visits genuinely fun. Another is a young man who does not speak and does not have any use of his arms or hands. He does literally everything with his feet. He would get our attention and make us understand with a lot of effort that he wanted a book placed on the ground for him. He took a marker between his toes and colored. He could actually lift a bubble wand to his mouth with his toes like a contortionist and blow bubbles. He moved his wheelchair alone with just his legs and feet and could really get some speed.<br />
<br />
Two of the youngest teenagers (both 15) I brought on this particular trip did something amazing. The day after I let them know they were on the trip they came to me with the idea of bringing a piñata. I was obviously really excited about their enthusiasm and I didn't want to let them down, but in my head I was thinking there is no way. What would we fill it with? How would the residents, most of whom had no control of their arms or hands, break it? I called the home to run the idea past the head sister. To my surprise she said no problem. Just fill it with plain crackers or cookies. Still feeling a little hesitant myself, I told the boys it was a go. For the next two days the piñata was all either of them talked about. First came the wire frame, made from scraps they had found somewhere. Next they had to hunt down newspaper but they found it and covered the frame with two layers, held together with watered down glue they were able to borrow from the school. Finally they covered their creation with crepe paper, as well as a scrap piece of PVC pipe that they decked out with paper and streamers to be a beater. The final product was meant to be a rubber tire, but one side end up being lopsided so they called it a flat tire. It looked awesome.<br />
<br />
When the time came we hung the piñata from the patio's basketball hoop and gathered all the residents in their wheelchairs in a semi-circle. We started by pulling one of the residents who was not wheel-chair bound up to give the piñata a whack. She loved it! Next came a woman with a walker. Residents were signing that they wanted a turn so we wheeled up wheelchair after wheelchair to let people take whacks with the beautiful stick. The piñata was a huge success! It was without a doubt the best part of the trip that day. We decided after a while that it was time to rip open the piñata and pass out the cookies. But as one of the boys was doing so, the man who does everything with his feet busted into the circle. He hadn't had a turn. We pulled the piñata up on its string one last time, and he began to beat at it with his feet! As we watched on laughing and applauding and mostly in shock he ripped open the piñata! It was one of the most unforgettable things I have ever seen. The boys, anywhere from 15 to 20 years old, carefully opened the packages and fed people their cookies. The two boys who had organized the whole thing seemed overwhelmed, but happy. Later they said it was their favorite part of the day.<br />
<br />
The last hour of our trip is lunch time and we help the sisters give out food. Most of the residents are spoon-fed. It's one of the hardest parts of the day and I told the boys it was optional. Every one of them did it. As I looked around the room at the boys spooning food, wiping mouths, slowly and careful giving juice, I felt so incredibly proud to know them, so overwhelmed with emotion. Our boys have known what it is to go hungry. They've known what it is to scavenge in the streets for food. They know what it is to be the recipients of charity, to be fed. Here, in a room surrounded by people who could only eat by another's hand, they were the ones doing the nourishing.<br />
<br />
After the trips we do a bit of reflection and the boys have a chance to write their thoughts in a notebook. To close this bit, I'd like to share pieces of their reflections:<br />
<br />
<i>"For me, it was beautiful to be near people like them. They can't speak, they can't walk, they can't do different things like we can. All of us can run, eat well, wash clothes, anything we want to do. They can't do anything on their own, in everything they need help."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"My experience was incredible. It was fun to be with them. Helping them do what they can't do, that changed my life and my attitudes."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"It was a fun experience, but at the same time very sad to see these people who need the love of other people. Even though they couldn't express themselves in words, they expressed themselves with their hearts."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"I felt happy that I could visit them. My favorite part was the smiles."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="font-style: italic;">"It made me think about how God has given us everything. I believe they don't get angry with him, but even we complain to him a lot."</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>
<i>"This trip was very interesting. Since the trip I've been thinking differently about what has been and happened. That's why it's good to visit these places, to see how things are different."</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
<br />
Also in June, my mom visited! (Hi Mom!) With my younger sister Theresa!! I had given up hope of anyone in my family coming for a visit, and it was sad for me because I knew that meant there wouldn't be anyone in the family I'm coming home to live with that would really get what it's like here. Now there is! Of course, beyond experiencing general life at the hogar, they got to meet the kids. These kids, who I have so fallen in love with, they got to meet and fall in love with too. We also did some traveling, which included its own set of quite unintended adventures involving Honduran public buses. Another story I wish I could tell, but I'm falling asleep.<br />
<br />
If you made it all this way you are either my Mom or a very patient reader. Thank you, in all seriousness, for reading this blog, this jumble of feelings that I've been posting to for a year. For you dedicated readers I promise one blog post more, a closer. And then this chapter has closed, but not completely. Nothing really ever ends.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-63290270748700942322014-06-07T18:40:00.001-07:002014-06-07T19:04:52.669-07:00Getting Closer to Goodbye<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCidK1wHjInjT6Nl0uk5sXnUPb0dkXEAWap_iAXj54ZsnYnfA6SbAlvfjrqcAmhwMSJiT2WWhmHkIs3NJWq07ntrX-v4eS5v2ef0aQb9tapP1LaKsRrjf2v_rzUGIl6NcFNrizDdgl5k/s1600/IMG_1373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCidK1wHjInjT6Nl0uk5sXnUPb0dkXEAWap_iAXj54ZsnYnfA6SbAlvfjrqcAmhwMSJiT2WWhmHkIs3NJWq07ntrX-v4eS5v2ef0aQb9tapP1LaKsRrjf2v_rzUGIl6NcFNrizDdgl5k/s1600/IMG_1373.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font-family: Times;">
My four original students, all demonstrating pretty accurately</div>
<div style="font-family: Times;">
their individual personalities. All photo credits go to the amazing<br />
Emily Pettinger.</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Once again, far too much time has elapsed between posts. The last time I posted it was just about May and we had all begun to think in earnest about the approach of going home. Now, just a few days away from the two month mark, the thought of leaving occupies more and more of our thoughts. We're planning our goodbyes, setting goals and making to-do lists.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
My thoughts and feelings about leaving are, as always, a mix. The last month was harder than I expected. I had hoped, starting out in May, that the last three months would be easy ones, filled with great parting moments with the kids and finally a sense of deep-rooted security in my place here. The month started with our final retreat as a volunteer community. We went to the beach and spent a long weekend in a beautiful practically-beach-front house donated to us by friends of friends. It had air conditioning, hot running water and cable TV, so basically paradise. I spent my 23rd birthday on May 8 floating in the Caribbean Sea and chowing on spaghetti with meat sauce and red wine. It was a wonderful retreat. We all enjoyed one another's company more than we ever had before and had plenty of down-time to be in it. The retreat consisted mostly of looking back at our time at Amigos. We shared stories, laughed and cried together. And we ate amazing, ultra-gringo food, like bagels and cream cheese and cold-cut sandwiches. (As Amy, our director, observed oh so aptly, Hondurans never eat cold food! Even the milk in breakfast cereal gets heated up).</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Over those four days I missed the kids a lot. I wrote down stories of things that had happened and spent a lot of time thinking about the kids who were important to me, the things they had shared with me, their terrible suffering, the ways they had made me laugh so hard, and the intenseness of my love for them.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I came back from retreat ready for the last three months to be one big high culminating in a heart-wrenching goodbye. I still haven't learned that there will always be good and bad, that there has to be. That life here, and everywhere, is always a mix of ups and downs. We aren't, after all, really in paradise yet. The bads make the goods real.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGW27YhpnSExbv0Mp53hu7zPZRnBTez5D2KHgfOdEgFJ3CB6H8gp-ADO-Qy5TU_TNJfGf5IywuZZK5eUIHvhKhAbg_Tu-XcQoNToSqB_YGLUC8Q-WA6W50EiJ35NfAF58Bafz6CjF0Sk/s1600/IMG_1255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGW27YhpnSExbv0Mp53hu7zPZRnBTez5D2KHgfOdEgFJ3CB6H8gp-ADO-Qy5TU_TNJfGf5IywuZZK5eUIHvhKhAbg_Tu-XcQoNToSqB_YGLUC8Q-WA6W50EiJ35NfAF58Bafz6CjF0Sk/s1600/IMG_1255.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys and I present our science fair experiment, <br />
"The Amazing Egg," another good moment in May.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A week after coming back from retreat I got sick. The insidious thing about it was that I was only really bed-ridden, not-able-to-move sick for maybe a day. The rest of the two weeks the darn thing held on I was okay enough to walk around and work, but feeling like I had a giant sack of potatoes on my back. I was tired all the time, always felt nauseous, and never had an appetite. I watched as my clothes got looser as day after day of practically no eating went by and still I wasn't hungry. I finally was able to start taking in earnest the antibiotic I had brought with me in the second week and after about four days I started to feel better. I'll never be quite sure what I had.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
The week before I got sick, four new children came to the hogar, a four-year-old boy, two girls aged 8 and 10, and a 10-year-old boy. My main teaching job during the day is working in our transitional classroom, which is theoretically supposed to be just for new kids who come to the hogar, assessing their levels and placing them in appropriate classrooms. The thing is, since our bilingual program can't take new kids after Christmas, kids who might be a fit for one of those classrooms have to stay in transitional. We had gotten three new kids right before Christmas so those three were in my class, plus a fourth with such severe behavioral issues that there was no other place for him. I had had those four boys since starting with the classroom after my vacation in January. It had been tough. Three of the four have learning disabilities, all are at different academic levels, and all have behavior problems. But the four had gelled. I had English goals for them and was working through a science curriculum. In math I worked with just the most advanced two and it was enough because even with two the levels were completely different. Even though behavior was a constant battle, I felt like I had finally begun to get a handle on it and had a system that they at least understood, if they didn't always respect it.</div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Then, new kids. The week I got sick was the week three of the four were introduced to my class. It was Wednesday. I was constantly vacillating on whether or not to go to see a doctor, but with such a big change, I couldn't miss school. When I needed energy, creativity and patience more than ever I found instead a sack of potatoes. After that first day I felt completely overwhelmed. I realized, with a touch of pride, just how far my four had come in English using the bilingual approach I had copied from the teachers in our bilingual program. How to bridge that gap? Science was easy enough to just continue where we had left off with a new unit. But my math class doubled to four, all at different levels. The three new ones had to be exposed to classroom procedures and had not a few behavior problems of their own. As the second week started, the fighting that had always happened between my four was augmented by bickering between the three, who had lived together in the state-run home, and spats between the newbies and the oldies.</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4pmymHZ7nc-EmW9qtccu-EYqUQrz1736b-3-CmtBh_fd5aNi_nlPrFDmVQR6An0QFnCRpdmIEwobThLmLa5qUZfG3hpkhlmkrGC_wEGOhCyM5k0wD0JLRdc1QHB64uoTqUkwI8O-D-M/s1600/IMG_0714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4pmymHZ7nc-EmW9qtccu-EYqUQrz1736b-3-CmtBh_fd5aNi_nlPrFDmVQR6An0QFnCRpdmIEwobThLmLa5qUZfG3hpkhlmkrGC_wEGOhCyM5k0wD0JLRdc1QHB64uoTqUkwI8O-D-M/s1600/IMG_0714.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My special needs student, Rana!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Of course, it could have been much worse. The new kids could never have been exposed to school before, as has happened with other new arrivals, and been totally illiterate. They could have had severe learning disabilities, and the spectrum of behavior issues goes way beyond what I've seen in the kids so far. But the days are hard. My school day has no breaks or planning periods. I go from mornings in pre-school and with my special needs student, Rana, to after-recess classes with transitional, to after-lunch library classes, which have gotten harder and harder to plan as I reach absolute rock-bottom on ideas (I've been teaching these classes since late August). All in all, May closed with a very burnt-out Joanna who has vowed never to be a teacher again. (That's a little dramatic - check back in ten years :]).</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
So, as much as I hate to admit it, I've started a mental countdown to going home. I miss its comforts, I miss my family, and I'm so very tired here right now. The biggest countdown of all is to the end of teaching. This Monday marks just three more weeks since I'll be teaching only until the end of June. For the month of July I'll be helping out with a summer camp for the kids in our bilingual program. The summer camp is being mostly run by a group of month-long volunteers coming down from the states so the burden of planning doesn't fall to me at all. I'm so grateful to have a change of pace for my last full month here. The first weeks of August, leading up to our depart date on August 12, the six of us volunteers will be running a summer camp for the kids, which also promises to be fun.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
The biggest disappointment for the month of May was how grumpy I was all the time and how short-tempered I felt. I feel like the kids saw too much of a very angry, frustrated Joanna. I hope that in these last two months I can be more myself again. I don't want them to remember me as always grumpy, always tired.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5mzBDnGKkqH6bg7Thi4kQAFr4NFKREta6Q8V1jc9_3S_dCYF5IFyyX7lJKq_lgsoart26lOck-oxTfMxKE61kLcq__kSR7cOUQ_Dsa5CpJFc28y-wN5kLO5MvHMGwWaQxpcf0pI3bVQ/s1600/IMG_0812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5mzBDnGKkqH6bg7Thi4kQAFr4NFKREta6Q8V1jc9_3S_dCYF5IFyyX7lJKq_lgsoart26lOck-oxTfMxKE61kLcq__kSR7cOUQ_Dsa5CpJFc28y-wN5kLO5MvHMGwWaQxpcf0pI3bVQ/s1600/IMG_0812.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Mother's Day escort.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But, of course of course, May had its good moments. One interesting, bitter-sweet one was Mother's Day. Here, as for father's day, all women are celebrated on Mother's Day. And, as on father's day, that meant that we women were put through two celebrations, one on the hogar side, and one in the school. As the celebrations came closer I confided in one of the teenagers here that I felt uncomfortable being the center of attention. I'm not a real mom after all. He basically gave it to me. "What do you mean you're not a mother? These kids don't have moms," he said, waving his hand over the field we were looking at where the kids were playing soccer. "And you're here, taking care of them. Being a mom doesn't mean you have <i>hijos</i>, your own children." I was a little taken aback and said I hadn't thought of it that way. "You should think then," he said. He's a frank kid, and coming from him it wasn't as harsh as it sounds. But lesson learned. I needed to learn to receive graciously, to let the culture celebrate me, to not always be on the giving end.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Mother's Day meant dinners where we sat at tables set aside specially for the women, served first. At the hogar, they took us all at noon one day to a neighboring farm with a swimming pool and gave us a spa day, complete with manicures and wine. We got all dressed up there and came back to the hogar for a dinner and fiesta. At the school, there was a presentation of songs and performances and another fiesta. Both were so much fun. And I got a mother's day card from one of my students that made me cry and cry.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Maybe because mothers were on their minds, kids wanted to talk about their moms more in those days. The subject would come up suddenly, unexpectedly in a conversation. One mother had died when the boy was young. Another mentioned how much he would like to just know where she was. Another said he dreams about her sometimes, walking away down a long street. Learn to graciously receive.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I think about moments like these and the kids behind them, the kids I've gotten close enough to to have conversations like this, and my heart still breaks at the thought of leaving. Yesterday at breakfast I was sitting with one of my favorites, an all-around good kid who is 15 and in many ways seems younger, but also often older. It's become common for the subject of our leaving to come up with the kids a lot and yesterday it came up with this kid at breakfast. He was one of the new arrivals who I went to pick up in my first week from the state-run home so he saw the old group of volunteers leave and has always understood that our parting will come too. He asked, for the umpteenth time, what day we were leaving. I told him and he kind of groaned, like he does in library when he gets passed out an assignment he doesn't want to do and said, "I'm going to miss you." Then he said, "You're going to be weird when you go back to the states, aren't you." I asked him what he meant. He said, "You're going to be missing Honduras. You're going to feel weird and sad." I was stunned at his perceptiveness. Most kids, certainly myself at his age and often now, wouldn't be able to put themselves in another's experience that way. I've never heard another kid express so perceptively what it must feel like for the volunteers who leave. That takes incredible maturity. He's a really special kid. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Dammit, they're all such special kids. They're all such incredibly frustrating, exasperating, disrespectful, resilient, miraculous, loving, life-altering kids. What am I going to do without them?</span><br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-77424715708579438472014-04-30T22:12:00.001-07:002014-04-30T22:15:00.179-07:00A Spring Shower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5oQh4WDN8WBO5WDJZruTj9fSGobY7O4nvrEHnWZemHsIgB9KToEWz2RA_wfV7SqN-qJgAuBv_7sW_fuhoZNs-eknfV1g18agGF4Q4OwqlWG93iU0sOQSsVRXiL3paBQqe8M0ZI5G4W4/s1600/rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5oQh4WDN8WBO5WDJZruTj9fSGobY7O4nvrEHnWZemHsIgB9KToEWz2RA_wfV7SqN-qJgAuBv_7sW_fuhoZNs-eknfV1g18agGF4Q4OwqlWG93iU0sOQSsVRXiL3paBQqe8M0ZI5G4W4/s1600/rain.jpg" height="200" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
The heat has been oppressive the last few days. It's like a blanket, as my fellow volunteer Emma described it. A big heavy blanket that clings to your skin, weighs down on you head, makes it hard to breath. You start sweating as early as 7 a.m. and lie in bed at night without sheets to the sound of the fan pushing warm air around. The water in the big bucket in our shower feels warm after a day of sitting in the super heated air.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
The only thing that brings relief is the rain. It's rained about four times now since the start of the dry season in late February. The heat and heavy humidity are worst just before the rain. This week the pressure built and built unable to find release. In school I felt sapped of energy and just as cranky as the kids. The fans are too loud to have on during class so we bake under the tin roofs of the classrooms, continually wiping the sweat off our faces.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Finally last night we began to see the tell-tale signs of coming rain. The general haziness of the sky had collected itself into a broad grey sheet. The wind picked up and began to set the papaya tree in front of the comedor waving. The kids stood in their lines in front of the comedor for prayer, but were allowed to run off quickly before eating to move their laundry indoors from the laundry lines. Almost all of the young boys and teenagers broke from their lines, whooping and running towards their dorms, caught in the exuberance of the promise of rain and the break of routine. They ran towards and past me as I watched behind the roof of the comedor the wind pick up a cascade of dry leaves and heave them into the air in front of an ever-darkening, billowing sky.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
As we finished dinner, the drops started on the roof. Rain here is always loud, filling the rooms with its echo on the metal roofs. The prayer was scarcely audible over the din. When it was over, the kids poured outside, the teenagers standing coolly watching the rain from under the overhanging roof, the little ones screaming and running out into the water. Before long a soccer game had begun, of course, the littlest ones running around the older ones' feet and darting back again under the cover of the roof.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Two of the teenagers leaned jauntily against one of the dorms as the rain fell, watching the general hilarity in the yard in front of the comedor, the <i>pequeños</i> especially relishing the mud, rolling around on the ground, soaking themselves to the skin. "It's as if they've never seen rain before," one remarked disdainfully to the other.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I sat watching the rain come down, loving the feel of the cool wind and the cold rain that blew onto my face. Little Levin, my Levin, came and sat down beside me. "Let's tell stories," he suggested. So we did. He went first, a story about a group of good lions unjustly killed, but in the end somehow they had all come back to life again. He knows I like happy endings. I told one I recycled from a book I had read in the library. In front and around us, the yelling and playing of the other kids made the air noisy. Nearby on the porch where we were sitting were groups of <i>jovenes</i>, teenagers, laughing and talking. But I felt like it was just the two of us, sitting there, enjoying the coolness of the air, the smell of the rain, the freshness of the water and the rapt attention of each other.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I don't often realize how much moments like these mean to me until later when I can't stop thinking about them. There is such richness to my life here. Part of that richness is the sadness of knowing how soon my time will come to an end. C.S. Lewis defined joy as inseparable from a kind of sadness. Joy is all at once a great happiness mixed with the great sorrow of knowing it cannot be grasped or held in place, that it cannot be totally fulfilled here and now. It has a necessary element of loss and longing.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
When I say these moments are full of joy for me, I mean it in that sense. The beautiful moments I sometimes share with the kids - of their vulnerability, of my learning to love them, of mutual trust - fill me with joy, a joy that always implies the sadness of the brokenness of their pasts, of their families, of the country they will grow up in and one day need to survive in on their own; the more selfish sadness of my own impermanence.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br />
But joy is joy. Like rain that falls like tears bringing release and relief.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-70531774116328726002014-04-10T13:25:00.001-07:002017-12-05T12:54:06.674-08:00The Apodo Effect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzrUjcm11fuWxdtJlFBUeM_UfPJJreNUUGTv_DovU7s0W8WRrDnD7kGqkFGbRkYZcvx57TRQXQpgCYwyxsLc_BrKaR-r7Pm6kSJLHb3LjsxjffIeifOHjlbNmcJPKjdiSegsQOAEE86vk/s1600/DSCF7840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzrUjcm11fuWxdtJlFBUeM_UfPJJreNUUGTv_DovU7s0W8WRrDnD7kGqkFGbRkYZcvx57TRQXQpgCYwyxsLc_BrKaR-r7Pm6kSJLHb3LjsxjffIeifOHjlbNmcJPKjdiSegsQOAEE86vk/s1600/DSCF7840.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">"He's calling me a nickname!" says Victor, his arm fully extended as he points at Joel his classmate. He's looking at me with an intensely hurt expression that's a warning I understand well: "I'm telling the teacher now, but in about a second I'm gonna hit him." I'm glad Victor, a short 12-year-old built of pure muscle, has chosen this more diplomatic option for now, but I know it's basically inevitable that Joel will get hit, go on using nicknames, and go on being called them by Victor (who's just as guilty truth be told).</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
The word here for nickname is <i>apodo</i>. It's a useful term; kids use it to talk about the nicknames they have here at the <i>hogar</i> or the ones they use for other people. It's also a negative thing, as it was for Victor that day (every day to be honest). "He's calling me a nickname" in this sense of the word really would translate to English as "He's calling me names." But there's a sense of ownership in it, too; he's not just calling me names, he's calling me my name, the one assigned to me, the one that hurts because it's just mine, and it's kind of true.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Nicknames are an incredibly common part of life for the kids here, and for anyone who comes to live here. Everyone, no exceptions, has a nickname, or seven. It's one of the first of the many idiosyncrasies of the kids' lives here an outsider notices. In some cases a nickname has morphed into the person's everyday name. In others, the <i>apodo</i> is a hated kind of insult, but sticks just the same.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<i>Apodos</i> are, very often, hilarious because they are so accurate. I am always impressed when a new nickname emerges (I've been here to see a few) by the kids' perceptiveness, eye for detail, and crushing accuracy. For example there's a 9-year-old here, a short little ball of a boy. He can be sweet, but he's mostly infamous for picking on the other kids and causing trouble. His nickname is Shrek, the character from the Dream Works movie. I would never have had the ingenuity to invent the name, but with his perpetually shaved head and especially the ears that stick out from its sides, there is something unmistakably Shrek-like about him that's hard to forget once you've heard the name and that draws an immediate laugh of recognition. He hates his nickname. The other <i>pequeños</i>, our younger boys, love to get a rise out of him by calling him his <i>apodo</i>. It always works.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
As much as the kids might hate them, I can't help but feel like there's also something to them that means belonging. Being given a nickname means you've been taken in as part of the family. One of the first things that happens to a new kid who arrives is the bestowal of a nickname. Give it a few weeks and the boys will find some oddity of appearance or personality and assign it the perfect name. One of the boys I teach arrived to the <i>hogar</i> in December. He was here for less than a month when the kids found it: zombie. Once again, I never would have found such a fitting word for that whatever-it-is about him. But zombie sort of nails it. He loathes the name. "Don't put <i>apodos</i>" is a constant in my school day.</div>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbmWqsrBvO3EBWXCaxv32s5DD4A7aI2ReMuNNBxVb0_VkVyo7HELGvHOWT4wldNoSrBF3QU-2RW_OH66HWRNbToG5LqgoGPbd4bcHNNZPU3W1adi9kj2r5yfKo_sZBokdIVxR47jbGL0I/s1600/IMG_6008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbmWqsrBvO3EBWXCaxv32s5DD4A7aI2ReMuNNBxVb0_VkVyo7HELGvHOWT4wldNoSrBF3QU-2RW_OH66HWRNbToG5LqgoGPbd4bcHNNZPU3W1adi9kj2r5yfKo_sZBokdIVxR47jbGL0I/s1600/IMG_6008.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<i>Apodos</i> are a strange and fascinating aspect of the kids' lives and the life of Amigos de Jesús. They make you laugh, and in doing so they bring people together, even if it's at the expense of the one on the receiving end of the name. But that person too, even if the name hurts, is pulled into the life of the home that way, joining the ranks of all the others with their lists of nicknames. Most of the nicknames have stories, stories that make up a childhood lived at this place. They're the stuff of a real home, a real family. There's one kid called "puppet" in Spanish for the odd way he has of flailing his limbs when he moves. Another is called papaya because it's the only food he would eat when he arrived. Toolio is the nickname of one man who grew up and now works here when, way back in the family history, a little one could only pronounce his name with a lisp.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
But they have that dark underside. Recently I was having a conversation about this with one of our older university boys. He was rattling off <i>apodos</i> and we were cracking up together about them. He got to one teenager who's nickname is machete. It's because his mother used to beat him with one. He has the scars still, all over his head. He mentioned it with a list of others, most of them silly, others with funny backstories. He was laughing as he told me about it. I got caught mid-laugh by the horror. But the kids have to laugh. You have to make jokes or it's just too horrible. And laughter diffuses; <i>apodos</i> mean belonging.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I don't have too many of my own proper <i>apodos</i>. One cute one is with one of our teenagers whose last name is <i>flores</i>, flowers in English. One of his common <i>apodos</i> is the word "flowers." I call him flowers, and he calls me Ms. Garden. A few other volunteers have them. Laura is called the "Lorax" by the same teenager, a nod to the Dr. Seuss story. She gets "loca" a lot as well, "crazy." </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
But one of the teenagers' favorite ways to use <i>apodos</i> with us volunteers right now is to mix our names up. One teenager has been calling me by another volunteer's name for months (I call him another kids' name). It started because he really couldn't get my name straight at first; then it became our joke. But recently it's become quite a game with a couple of the others. There are three of them in particular who call out a different volunteer's name at me across the field whenever they see me or get up close to me shouting the name. It's their way of teasing. But it's annoying. After a while I told them so. Why didn't I like being called other volunteers' names, they wanted to know, oh so innocently. Because, I told them, it's not my real name! Plus we're different people. And it's just annoying.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Number one rule of <i>apodos</i>: as soon as it becomes annoying, that's when it sticks. Of course the game only became more amusing once I let on I was annoyed. I don't think I'll ever hear those three call me Joanna again.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
So there's the rub of <i>apodos</i>. On the one hand, they're a sign of acceptance, at least at the surface. There's nothing for building a relationship like having a joke. Here, hanging out with a bunch of kids all the time, those kinds of silly, drawn-way-too-far-out jokes are sometimes the only thing holding a relationship together. You run out of things to talk about; you need to have a joke, something to laugh about together. And when one emerges from the kids' end it gives me as a volunteer something I search for desperately and constantly: a sense of belonging with and among the kids.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
On the other hand, there's the uncanny perceptiveness of nicknames, the way they seek out a weakness and latch on. This name-mixing <i>apodo</i> game is no different. Somehow, probably unconsciously, the kids' found a place that stung. For me it's the reality of the fact that all us gringa volunteers that come down here for a year are probably very much the same. We have more or less the same impact, probably more or less the same personalities. To the kids, we even look more or less the same. We all come, we all go after this brief year, we all say I love you and don't come back. Those are things I've heard from the kids and am struggling with right now. Something about the name switching <i>apodo</i> hits that nerve and stings. That's what makes it a good <i>apodo.</i> In some way it has to be true. An <i>apodo</i> is born in the moment of recognition by the namer, and the named's own self-recognition. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjJDsPpxrCW4EHDnC7HJcduMb6PKgAOY-sP3N5jldeBg__es-U8SO3OSEvLr9eVG277bfQbQ2q4kPEL_I62ui9I3gkp6JotYSjNTZlytVk97F0XrfUcTGB2jljUEXqJxJt5E_J1uZkWQ/s1600/IMG_5347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjJDsPpxrCW4EHDnC7HJcduMb6PKgAOY-sP3N5jldeBg__es-U8SO3OSEvLr9eVG277bfQbQ2q4kPEL_I62ui9I3gkp6JotYSjNTZlytVk97F0XrfUcTGB2jljUEXqJxJt5E_J1uZkWQ/s1600/IMG_5347.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I was recently part of a conversation typical only in how prominently <i>apodos</i> played into it. One of the teenagers was relentlessly calling me by my volunteer-double name and we were joking about it, while I was getting annoyed. One of the smaller boys, noticing what was happening, came up and called the teenager "duck-lip." Sure enough as soon as he said it I noticed, for the first time, the slight protrusion of the teenager's upper lip. His face immediately fell and he muttered something at the little boy who was intensely pleased with himself, jumping around ready to dart out of the way if the teenager got too mad. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">It's hard to capture the </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">apodo </i><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">phenomenon here. And I'm sure that, like so many aspects of life at this home, I only understand a tiny piece of it. All I know is, even though I know they will most likely sting a little, I want a few more of my own.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-4530991313013514382014-04-03T12:51:00.002-07:002014-04-03T12:57:30.930-07:00The Ups and Downs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhraT0chOySlHKIs5b_2ra3h8NE5GMovyleJrVGyMxN_8xlQWNeflrUpvkp1e1pPY4Y6TstCeHrTwcRX4uEl4dw5gRyL5v0o0MHhysdbcn1v4ob0GmJL8JGMg81BtrJYZEyZYqBgscSfcg/s1600/coffee+blossoms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhraT0chOySlHKIs5b_2ra3h8NE5GMovyleJrVGyMxN_8xlQWNeflrUpvkp1e1pPY4Y6TstCeHrTwcRX4uEl4dw5gRyL5v0o0MHhysdbcn1v4ob0GmJL8JGMg81BtrJYZEyZYqBgscSfcg/s1600/coffee+blossoms.jpg" height="275" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Walking back from school today, the cloud of acrid grey smoke followed me. The pit where we burn our trash is all the way on the other side of the school, up a hill, set behind the buildings, but today the wind was not on my side and the cloud had drifted over the three tin-topped buildings of our school to follow me home. There isn't a trash collection infrastructure in Honduras. Everyone burns their own trash. Our school pit has everything in it from scraps of paper, to plastics, to brush and leaves, to (yes it's gross) the papers we toss in the wastebasket after using the toilet (you can't flush paper here, or in most parts of Central/South America). </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Burning trash - the bitter smell of it, the grey smoke - is a common feature of life. We have our own pit behind the volunteer house, and others dot the Amigos property's obscure corners. The smoke drifts over the campus at various points throughout the day. Walking to the nearby village, small fires will be going on the side of the road. While Hondurans keep their own yards and properties meticulously clean and swept, the lack of easy trash disposal means that it's more or less culturally acceptable to throw trash in public places (there are almost never public trashcans to be found anywhere). People commonly leave trash in the road when they walk or throw it out of the windows of cars and buses.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
As I continued my walk home from school, gradually the smoke dissipated. I took the back way home, a secluded, tree-draped path through a bit of forest. The path is bounded on one side by a wall of earth, the side of a high hill, and a descent down to a small creek on the other. The walk only takes about 3 minutes, but in that short time I feel like I'm in another place. It's not quiet, but it's not the usual kind of noisy. There are no children to be heard, but the forest hums with insects and strange bird calls and the groaning of the cows in the pasture just past the stream. The trees are covered with tropical oxygen-feeding plants and moss. Today as I walked a new scent filled my nose, a beautiful, intense scent I've only ever experienced here. As I looked down the hill I saw that the usual tangle of green foliage had exploded in tiny white flowers: coffee plants. In the space of a day the flowers had opened, pouring out their sweet perfume. I stood their drinking it in, thinking how beautiful this country is.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuYi5oaKCWFgbuGTO62Tx6aBUOx9BmbLxR4P2WWIKXLIAHT4sv2K7g_oKLh-7wYgZiRQDXuQptB0PduLUnP4V5ohWPw89FeZBqANk2SM5q1Bh2h5g0-EpCI4ETYIoR0Gcy6xpYJrAZc7s/s1600/DSCF7725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuYi5oaKCWFgbuGTO62Tx6aBUOx9BmbLxR4P2WWIKXLIAHT4sv2K7g_oKLh-7wYgZiRQDXuQptB0PduLUnP4V5ohWPw89FeZBqANk2SM5q1Bh2h5g0-EpCI4ETYIoR0Gcy6xpYJrAZc7s/s1600/DSCF7725.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On retreat near Lake Yojoa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Lately I've been struck by how supremely frustrated I've become by aspects of life in Honduras, and how overwhelmed by the country's beauty at the same time. I realized I haven't written much about what living here is like and I figured now might be a good time, a time when both my love for this still very foreign country and my discomfort in it have reached a particular peak.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
We're in the midst of a water shortage here at Amigos. Every year during the dry season water becomes an issue, but this year has been especially bad for our well. After weeks of super unreliable water, we've gone on a ration system. The water gets turned on three times a day for about 15 minutes each. During that time we do any dishes or cleaning we need to do and fill up all our water containers: our bottles and pitchers for drinking; our pila, the concrete basin where we wash our clothes; the giant tub in our shower we use for bucket showers; the pot we use to flush the toilet. I thought cold showers every night were hard. Cold bucket showers are worse. For awhile it was terrible not to know when you would be able to fill up your dry water bottle, or not knowing if after a long sweaty day the water would be on when you wanted to shower. Although there's a schedule, the short bursts of water are still a little unreliable. But we still even at the worst times have it better than a lot of others in Honduras. I recently stayed with my host mother in Copan again for a weekend. She told us that in early March they lost water for 10 days in a row.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9y9EQvgXtO768We414C2rTols_QWw9EqmUJIRwgklBopjB9Fgm_Suv0oFJTYLgybVNmjK75_uO0s1gymZE-dZ2awSkmdwNjodYlGylalaC3uEEevKfv5EsZE32CVUtpGePAjkGMpTWK0/s1600/DSCF7757.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9y9EQvgXtO768We414C2rTols_QWw9EqmUJIRwgklBopjB9Fgm_Suv0oFJTYLgybVNmjK75_uO0s1gymZE-dZ2awSkmdwNjodYlGylalaC3uEEevKfv5EsZE32CVUtpGePAjkGMpTWK0/s1600/DSCF7757.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The waterfall Pulhapanzak</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
At the same time, I've had a lot of moments lately where I've gotten to see the amazing side of this country. The first time I had been stopped in my tracks by the amazing aroma of coffee blossoms was during our second volunteer retreat. We took it near the lake Yojoa, Honduras' only lake. We stayed in a hotel in the middle of a tropical rainforest. One day was completely silent and all of us individually had time to explore nature trails throughout the hotel. The grounds used to be a coffee farm so paths were lined with the waist-high green shrubs, covered in white blossoms. The scent wafted all through the grounds. The forest was lush and green and dotted with incredible tropical flowers. Once I saw a black bird with a long startling turquoise beak.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
On the same retreat, we had the chance to hike behind a huge waterfall. A guide took us along slippery rocks and waded through side pools to get close to the great roaring, spraying thing and then took us through the caves that have been formed behind the rushing water. It was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. At points I was gasping for breath while the spray blinded me and the roar deafened me. At another, just under the main cascade, I was able to look up and see the sun shining behind the water as it poured over the cliff. It's something I'll never forget.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Then again the other day in the library I reached for a book and almost grabbed a spider the size of my hand. There are just little animals everywhere. Little gnats that swarm around a light in the dark, tiny ants that invade our kitchen during the day, scorpions that have been known to hide in our couch or in the bathroom, frogs that live in the clean pila water we use to wash clothes. There's the dogs barking constantly at night. Dogs don't get "fixed" here. People think it's kind of weird. So they're everywhere, roaming around the streets, or the ones with owners, in and out of houses. Our own resident puppies are driving us all insane, peeing on the porch, carrying off our shoes to mutilate them in the corners of the yard, barking and fighting at night.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvT9Q8mZOKFIgRMZre_bpnpu2vIAS2ptEkXTyygDMdbfkW6OyNST7wNRnlcI60RclVAFi3xFDQCs-r9mf90QLb7ZyG0IwrEhmmXUjq7oeU94aNKycmT-oc77SLt11pKXV_49Ep2m8LGw/s1600/DSCF7581.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvT9Q8mZOKFIgRMZre_bpnpu2vIAS2ptEkXTyygDMdbfkW6OyNST7wNRnlcI60RclVAFi3xFDQCs-r9mf90QLb7ZyG0IwrEhmmXUjq7oeU94aNKycmT-oc77SLt11pKXV_49Ep2m8LGw/s1600/DSCF7581.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Lake Yojoa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
There are cultural things I don't understand either. I'm pretty much proficient in Spanish now, but I still feel I'm not completely "me" in Spanish, like I have a different personality. There's a whole world of innuendos and jokes and cultural references and plays on words and sarcasm that I don't have yet in this language. I can communicate, but I can't be fully myself. Or maybe I never will be, but the equivalent Spanish personality just hasn't emerged yet. There are social norms too in the culture that I haven't fully assimilated. What I'm learning is that no matter how many similarities exist, it takes a lot of work to make another culture really feel like home. There's a level of comfort in your own language, in your own national identity, that's hard to feel elsewhere. How hard to be an immigrant.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Tonight as I stood in prayer circle holding hands with two of the kids looking around at the big ring of faces, it struck me: no matter how much I may love or become exasperated with this country, all I really know (in Spanish you would say </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">conozco</i><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">, the "I know" you use for knowing a person, another human) is just this tiny corner, a few acres in the north, in the department one local called "the Texas of Honduras" for its cowboys. This </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">hogar</i><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> and the 110 kids in it I've grown to love will be the realest Honduras to me, the tiny piece of this country I called home for 12 months. This country I really don't know at all with all its poverty and corruption and violence and pain, I will always love because of them.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-59711183595007993752014-03-16T09:40:00.000-07:002014-03-16T09:41:36.576-07:00Trying to Take a Picture with Jose - A Photo Essay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
On a lighter note, this also happened on family day...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IyyVpdTbw7KVoQGDhwN5Qc790R1lSGct6A-rl1_8Gkmul-HF8Wqfs8-YPVYpeGvDoaEyWp8iK-BVH4CSKjpHZm3bi1mbXkhtZOiHexf-Bx_FU3UfeO2qR7ltIpwxATEQw7ZK7MUbUJU/s1600/DSCF7819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IyyVpdTbw7KVoQGDhwN5Qc790R1lSGct6A-rl1_8Gkmul-HF8Wqfs8-YPVYpeGvDoaEyWp8iK-BVH4CSKjpHZm3bi1mbXkhtZOiHexf-Bx_FU3UfeO2qR7ltIpwxATEQw7ZK7MUbUJU/s1600/DSCF7819.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Spotted.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxK1VZWMNlMQ6G-7E1fC1Ur5xUjorDHzT4Qt_0WpBTGElvV6PvxxFwF7xgiRK-8mUAO4BUuUeLJhcmbSWGeYmLKkTcrmavlSgC7GqNohhz4uiEd0ISFtyKZjIupCVkC6aXdPRGXqhWbW4/s1600/DSCF7820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxK1VZWMNlMQ6G-7E1fC1Ur5xUjorDHzT4Qt_0WpBTGElvV6PvxxFwF7xgiRK-8mUAO4BUuUeLJhcmbSWGeYmLKkTcrmavlSgC7GqNohhz4uiEd0ISFtyKZjIupCVkC6aXdPRGXqhWbW4/s1600/DSCF7820.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicXcHKITDzhN-jRJNqip_zZj0uq3Uu2VkjnyRBtg8zW2sCOqGvs5Z5LervKS__Mx6xNwPf8HMrlf_ZRGDF_GS7eStDVaqJQVMpWIIsLLT7TJWZuvpYVvZYOJ84OePiqedjluErhdiQXiM/s1600/DSCF7821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicXcHKITDzhN-jRJNqip_zZj0uq3Uu2VkjnyRBtg8zW2sCOqGvs5Z5LervKS__Mx6xNwPf8HMrlf_ZRGDF_GS7eStDVaqJQVMpWIIsLLT7TJWZuvpYVvZYOJ84OePiqedjluErhdiQXiM/s1600/DSCF7821.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWMhwRoURw-kXTDanu1kxZcOVc4M5C-qgmWdoLb31_iTWF4KDUIFAollj8vB9xwlQETYybxUH3wRYiZ4AJdhh7Ud5Jda751rmobNfia3ESjnlcTESP28HINQ-PZtBe4E2BxKAn6AtFPiE/s1600/DSCF7822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWMhwRoURw-kXTDanu1kxZcOVc4M5C-qgmWdoLb31_iTWF4KDUIFAollj8vB9xwlQETYybxUH3wRYiZ4AJdhh7Ud5Jda751rmobNfia3ESjnlcTESP28HINQ-PZtBe4E2BxKAn6AtFPiE/s1600/DSCF7822.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDALh-izire2qgLOf_6Z4sQz1tf5Jhq8aEyaRX54jPyMTznZ0Q0_Ms6UMnb4yApOpWP85NVimwx3tpiG3tp05hDcCcn51ZjDFIVA5C11jJF8ewVIZfyVO6zrAt7_DJgIzJmn9DliSUJ_Q/s1600/DSCF7823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDALh-izire2qgLOf_6Z4sQz1tf5Jhq8aEyaRX54jPyMTznZ0Q0_Ms6UMnb4yApOpWP85NVimwx3tpiG3tp05hDcCcn51ZjDFIVA5C11jJF8ewVIZfyVO6zrAt7_DJgIzJmn9DliSUJ_Q/s1600/DSCF7823.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVP_7qq-9FvwoX-YWMqPg6s4Uxr_LzINZ21oS6KL6ri1qkWtKXRksa3vPy0GZEosH0r-iScBPJxpOMKao_Lx40edVA0IFxqIJ3eMJRDjFpm8nAx7v48eIy_l-7_xr96GJPdN8DU61XmXo/s1600/DSCF7824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVP_7qq-9FvwoX-YWMqPg6s4Uxr_LzINZ21oS6KL6ri1qkWtKXRksa3vPy0GZEosH0r-iScBPJxpOMKao_Lx40edVA0IFxqIJ3eMJRDjFpm8nAx7v48eIy_l-7_xr96GJPdN8DU61XmXo/s1600/DSCF7824.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Success!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-25006859195877955182014-03-16T09:11:00.001-07:002014-03-16T09:38:06.213-07:00Family Visit Day<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY4pmgpWjceBQLoHEJol3aAkGeMt5xAv7AfDGy53By3fBhkQ1ylC6aF6051XOVUwBK29ZqrYBb-glDoZ5jSrn5iu0t3WSRWO5FLzNfeALMcsSIhMSZxry7VlyAY5srRriooASTgWx1yaY/s1600/DSCF7790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY4pmgpWjceBQLoHEJol3aAkGeMt5xAv7AfDGy53By3fBhkQ1ylC6aF6051XOVUwBK29ZqrYBb-glDoZ5jSrn5iu0t3WSRWO5FLzNfeALMcsSIhMSZxry7VlyAY5srRriooASTgWx1yaY/s1600/DSCF7790.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>Hi friends and family! Needless to say my resolution to post more often has fallen through. But better late than never!</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
A few weekends ago was family visit day. Like so many aspects of life at the <i>hogar</i> it was a day of both happiness and heartbreak. Many of the kids here have family members that are able to come visit them - aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, grandparents, sometimes even a parent - for various reasons. Many have none of these.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Amigos did a great job of finding visitors for the kids without family members. Several of our youngest kids were visited by the nuns who had cared for them in another home. Volunteers who had been regular visitors at the state-run children home were invited to visit our kids who had lived there. Teachers from other schools where some of our children had previously attended were invited. The teachers from our school came to be part of the festivities; neighbors from the nearby town, former madrinas, all were there to be the family a lot of kids don't have.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Everyone congregated for the day up at the school, with its picnic tables and open green lawn. There weren't planned activities so that the children and their family members could have time to just visit. There was a little store where visitors could buy soda, food, and snacks and the children without visitors were given an "allowance" to spend there. Lunch was brought up to the school and in the afternoon there were piñatas. With all the people milling around, all the children playing and all the food and snacks, the whole day had a festival feel, like a summer barbecue.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
One little boy had sat with me crying on New Year's Eve because he missed his grandmother. I got to meet her, a sweet and worn old woman. He sat close beside her all day, doing most of the talking. When I went up to meet her he said, "do you want to see a picture of me when I was a baby?" And he took out of his grandmother's purse a worn picture of the two of them when he was probably three. Tucked behind it was a postcard, one of those "Your donation makes a difference in the life of a child" cards, written in English, with empty fields for name, address, donation amount, and a tragic-looking picture of him probably around age 5. Holding it in my hands I was struck by the bizarreness of it all. Now, at age 11, the usually silly, frenetic boy, while standing at his grandmother's side, was glowing with a mature kind of happiness I had never seen in him before.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">A different family was feeling very sad. Our older kids are able to go on visits to family members, something Amigos tries to make happen as often as possible so the kids are able to maintain those connections. This particular group of three siblings had made the 2 hour trek to the city just the day before to have a visit with their dad, but they hadn't been able to find him. They're aged 13, 11 and 9 or so. It's hard to wrap my head around what that must have felt like. Trips to the city like that mean a full day of preparation and getting dressed up and hot dusty travel and driving up and down the streets looking, looking and then turning around and driving all the way back. They were all down during the family visit day. The oldest boy lay around lethargically, trying not to show too much. The youngest at one point was sobbing.</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
I had been hanging out with them throughout the morning, along with many of the other volunteers and staff. Everybody was very aware of how hard it must have been for them and was trying to come up with ways to distract them. I had wandered away to meet the grandmother when one of the siblings came up to me to invite me to their "party." I followed her and saw that the two sisters had pulled themselves together, taken their allowance to the food stand and bought a 3-liter soda, cups for sharing and all the candy and snacks they could buy. And they wanted to share it with another volunteer and me. We sat in the bed of one of the pick-up trucks parked in the yard, surrounded by other family groups having similar picnics and tailgates, and they passed out their soda and chips and chewing gum. Their resilience is absolutely amazing.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1J6kGEVTuRfsuAUKmWclaWP6AqtDsxHC34roppAMcR8yR9zII5fY1k3d0CfFHmYNrHHbUcNlj5zY114FLlenVqxJ-XaZBinFM0sp0AeOzS4j7rZ7S7UVoJNb2KD2EoZEpCfUEY6lvkZQ/s1600/DSCF7840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1J6kGEVTuRfsuAUKmWclaWP6AqtDsxHC34roppAMcR8yR9zII5fY1k3d0CfFHmYNrHHbUcNlj5zY114FLlenVqxJ-XaZBinFM0sp0AeOzS4j7rZ7S7UVoJNb2KD2EoZEpCfUEY6lvkZQ/s1600/DSCF7840.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>Life rolls on here at Amigos; the days are long and exhausting, but the weeks fly by. Another of the volunteers recently wrote a beautiful blog post where she summed up the experience. Things settle into a familiar normal routine; but then a conversation, an interaction, some aspect of life here barges in and reminds us of just how un-normal it all is. Family visit day was definitely one of those. I spent a lot of the day with a middle-school aged boy who didn't have visitors. Most of the day we were laughing and joking; he's a really fun kid. But at one point out of nowhere he said, in a sing-song voice, the way he might complain about the food, "My mom didn't come." I asked him where she was. He said he didn't know. He doesn't know. I've heard that answer before. It makes me shudder every time.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Later that day I was walking back across the soccer field to the school when I crossed paths with one of our high school aged boys with a huge grin on his face and a swing in his step. I said he looked happy and he said he was. I asked if he had family visiting and he shook his head quickly. "No, but it's fine," he said, a little defiantly. "I already have my family here." </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
That afternoon I was back in the volunteer house trying to get rehydrated (you folks back home may still be having winter, but we're getting into the peak of the dry and hot season here). We had a visitor from the states staying and she had brought back with her, as visitors usually do, any packages for us volunteers that had accumulated in the Pennsylvania office. There was a package for me from my family. Things in Honduras never quite seem to work out exactly as planned; life is full of absurdities here. So, typically, the package had been intended to arrive in November, and here I was in March with a lovely box full of Thanksgiving and Christmas trinkets and treats. My mom had obviously put time and thought into each little article and piece of candy, little things to remind me of home, right down to a pack of Thanksgiving-themed napkins. There was a card signed by all of my siblings, full of messages of love. My own family visit. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Of all the disparities I see here, this is the one that's hardest to understand. It's also the one not confined by national borders. There are plenty of disparities unique to Honduras that slap us in the face every once in a while: the lack of clean and reliable water, the poor quality of education, the staggering absence of jobs and opportunities. But of all my privileges, the greatest is one I knew existed all along - the presence of a loving family.</div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Hasta pronto.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-55296773228264376862014-02-17T14:32:00.001-08:002014-02-17T14:37:01.184-08:00Kisses Goodnight<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Hello friends and family!</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Sorry it's been such a long time. I was shocked to see that my last post was about two months ago. It certainly doesn't feel that, but time here flies faster than I've ever known it to fly. Especially these last eight weeks.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
They were probably some of the toughest I've had here in Honduras. During the first four, we were in the midst of the Christmas, New Year's, and Epiphany festivities. The kids were still off from school and I was feeling weird. Without my days filled with teaching, I had too much time to think about home and to over-think my relationships with the kids. I began to compare myself to other volunteers, entered the deathly spiral of believing everyone else was more liked, needed, loved than me. It was a deeply selfish time, but it taught me a lot about myself. Everyone says how much this year teaches them about themselves; now I think I see why. It's an incredibly humbling thing, self-discovery. But so very valuable.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
The weeks were'nt all bad at all. They were typical of all the other weeks I've spent here in the way they were shaped as the cliché emotional roller-coaster, only the dips were lower than they had been in the past. But the peaks were still amazing. During our time off from school we volunteers were assigned shifts to work as <i>madrinas</i> and <i>padrinos</i>, the children's full-time caregivers. The staff shrinks during the holidays because half of the <i>padrinos</i> get to spend Christmas at home and the other half gets New Year's. Being a <i>padrino</i> is a hard job. As the kids' full time caregivers, they are on duty constantly, keeping track of where all the kids are and getting them to do their chores, not break the rules, and participate in the activities. They wake them up in the morning and get them into bed at night and spend the whole day with them in between. And when there's no school, they get very little time off. As hard as teaching is, I wouldn't trade jobs.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
One of the things I discovered as a <i>madrina</i> was the joy and heartbreak of saying goodnight to the kids. On Christmas Eve I was assigned to the younger boys' dorm. I moved from bunk to bunk doing tuck-ins and kisses goodnight. At some point it struck me that if I wasn't the one doing it, no one would. It also struck me, with a great deal of force, that I wouldn't be the one doing it next year. One of the toughest things to come to terms with here is that as a volunteer I'm just another impermanent, transitory person in the kids' lives. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
The boys, aged anywhere from 7 to 13, are at their best when they're being tucked in goodnight. Those normally with a chilly teenager attitude were smiling young kids again. Kids who loved to be disrespectful were cute and smiley. Boys too cool to spend too much time talking didn't want me to leave.There is something so intimate about sitting on the edge of a child's bed and talking to them as they lie there on the verge of sleep. I loved the kids so much at those moments, and I hurt for them so much too. "Tomorrow is Christmas!" I whispered and they would break out in big smiles. The boys who have come since I've been here and who would be spending their first Christmas at Amigos were especially fun to talk to. They were full of questions. "Will there be presents?" "There will be new clothes! Presents on the Epiphany." "And a fiesta?" "We'll dance till midnight." We whispered conspiratorially as the boys at their most innocent and vulnerable let me be part of the moment with them. </div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Some of the kids that Christmas Eve were not happy. One boy told me he didn't like Christmas, but was counting down to his birthday on December 26. Another I rocked, crying, to sleep. I don't know why he was crying; it could have been he was forced to get into bed when he would have rather stayed up, who knows. It could have been something else. He had come to the home just two weeks earlier with his younger brother.</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
During those weeks as a part-time Madrina, I always looked forward to saying goodnight to the kids. The youngest children, our <i>chiquitos</i>, aged 3 to 6 were also beautiful and heartbreaking. They wrapped their tiny arms around my neck and pulled we down, begging me not to leave, to snuggle with them until they fell asleep, while 6 others called my name from other bunks. I felt stretched thin. These little developing children need someone there to hold them as they fall asleep, and there's not enough of us. The Honduran staff, the volunteers, we all love the kids, but we can't be exactly what a mother and a father would be for them. </div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
The weeks at home came as a much-needed break. While I was at home I surprised myself by how much I thought about and missed the kids and the country of Honduras. It was also so incredibly wonderful to be with my family. I realized that especially my first week back at Amigos when I was hit with the worst homesickness I've had so far. I longed for my loved ones at home, the easiness of their love, the comfort of it -- not to mention hot showers. I talked to several other Honduran and "gringo" staff about how I was feeling. I got the same answer several times. One of our Honduran <i>padrinos</i> said it best: we always miss what we leave behind, and we always leave something behind. He knows better than most. He lived for years in the states before being deported.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Part of what set my equilibrium off was new responsibilities at school. My school day this half of the year is much busier than last year. My beloved sixth graders have moved on to <i>colegio</i>, or middle school, leaving large English and Library class gaps in my schedule. My new responsibility is our transitional classroom, designed for new children who come to the home. I teach English, natural science, and math to what is right now a class of four kids around the 1st, 2nd grade level. That number will grow whenever new children come to the home. Some I will help to place in appropriate classrooms, but others will stay with me through the end of the year since our bilingual school classes don't take new students after Christmas. Combined with my one-on-one special needs student's two hours a day and six library classes a week, my school days are pretty packed. But now, three weeks in, I'm starting to enjoy it. I love my four boys, though they make me want to pull my hair out, and it's so fun having my own classroom to work with.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">That's certainly enough for one blog post, and hopefully to bring everyone a little more up to date. The new school schedule doesn't leave me much free time, but I'll try not to let too much time go by again. The continued prayers and thoughts are so very appreciated. I want to try posting shorter posts more often with just little things that happen each day, but we'll see if that happens. For now, hasta pronto.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-32551196859056737432013-12-19T23:02:00.001-08:002013-12-19T23:10:33.458-08:00Home<br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gkk7yrPPgW0cv5cNt33Ly3cgvkiRJeby8oyc9D7sCCwhOgcBnL4MurCJA0ieJZlQnFrGvPOmXhPrZJMv1K-FAml51DbphjnOTRwM9sdQ_SDNUPu0dmPPvx7_SiJop8kiPxvxxz3-wwQ/s1600/cross+countdown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gkk7yrPPgW0cv5cNt33Ly3cgvkiRJeby8oyc9D7sCCwhOgcBnL4MurCJA0ieJZlQnFrGvPOmXhPrZJMv1K-FAml51DbphjnOTRwM9sdQ_SDNUPu0dmPPvx7_SiJop8kiPxvxxz3-wwQ/s320/cross+countdown.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Through the <i>comedor</i> window, the multi-colored lights on the Christmas tree twinkle. There's something about seeing Christmas lights through windows that has always made me feel nostalgic for home. From the outside, you can imagine the warmth within. Garland hangs around the outside of the building and on the slope of the hill is a display of nativity scenes set in a large box draped with lights. Farther up the hill, there is a sign of lights bearing the Amigos crest, a cross in the center of a heart circumscribed in a circle. At the crest of the hill, much farther up, the huge white cross gazes down serenely as always.</span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Chrsitmas is a beautiful time at Amigos. For the 15 or so new kids that have come to Amigos since I've been here it must be overwhelming. Kids come to Amigos for all different reasons; some were living on the streets because their parents could not afford to support them; some were abused at home; some have parents who have died or been killed. Some come directly from their family's homes, others have been living in other children's homes from an early age. It's hard to know what their Christmases have been like in the past. For the new kids here, the only certainty is that they've never experienced one quite like this.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsjK4uc7mtBg5y2XiXIINZmgwhFQNTtzh1lI0bdKXZyMyoK7jUDaEl6VOldjxjyOKNXrilJLfy4E-1pqDRROzf2FhwjWsl73JdsJMZwJJqHakm_3jE3MtxBP8fBu2vVx1Vavp_ZNFU3eg/s1600/christmas+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsjK4uc7mtBg5y2XiXIINZmgwhFQNTtzh1lI0bdKXZyMyoK7jUDaEl6VOldjxjyOKNXrilJLfy4E-1pqDRROzf2FhwjWsl73JdsJMZwJJqHakm_3jE3MtxBP8fBu2vVx1Vavp_ZNFU3eg/s320/christmas+tree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">If I let myself think too much about the holiday I'm afraid of the terrible homesickness that could overcome me, so I've kept it at bay somewhat, not letting myself imagine home. But we'll see how long I hold out. Since coming here I've never felt the absence of home so much, the warmth and comfort of it, the rightness and belonging of it. It's made me think about what home means, what family means, in a totally new way. More than anything else it's made my heart break for the kids. Each one left some sort of home once at some point to come to this new place. Some came with siblings, others with friends from other homes, others were left to face a new home all alone. For the 15 kids I've watched arrive, this is all new. And those are just those children who have arrived since I've been here. I learned a few days ago that since Amigos has been growing so quickly, this year just under 40 children will be experiencing Christmas here for the first time.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">These past two nights we've had our first of many <i>posadas. Posada </i>is a tradition celebrated in many parts of Latin America. The way it's done here is a group of family members or friends comes to the door of a house. There is another group inside and alternating back and forth the two groups sing a traditional song. The people outside represent Mary and Joseph looking for a place to stay for the night so that Mary can give birth to Jesus. The people inside are the innkeepers of Bethlehem. At first those inside tell those on the outside to go away; there's no room. But by the end of the song, realizing that the savior is at their doorstep, those on the inside sing for the "holy pilgrims" to enter, and then everyone eats and celebrates together. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sex6apFNpYkgWUvguwr-ehszfRmbRLpnEgIqaM30YzGDxsyCPAuRzjSwt1CG04-wDQvskG5yP5g0hkjVNXz0x0eo071L9XI_QSxIzMulOc-u_JSyBVZZ2YN32f1G0MyHSEL91k8ZEx4/s1600/10+days.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sex6apFNpYkgWUvguwr-ehszfRmbRLpnEgIqaM30YzGDxsyCPAuRzjSwt1CG04-wDQvskG5yP5g0hkjVNXz0x0eo071L9XI_QSxIzMulOc-u_JSyBVZZ2YN32f1G0MyHSEL91k8ZEx4/s320/10+days.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We'll have a <i>posada</i> at Amigos every night now leading up to Christmas, one at each of the major houses and dormitories of the campus. Last night's was at the school and we did it outside, on either side of the gate leading up to the school grounds. All of the school children and the teachers were on the "inside" and the teenaged boys walked across the long soccer field towards us as the pilgrims. In the darkness, their candles shed a beautiful glow, and on our side colored lanterns illuminated our song lyrics. The teenagers sang at the top of their voices. I was holding one of our little <i>chiquitos</i> who stared wide-eyed at the flame for all eight verses. Tonight's was held at the <i>chiquitos'</i> dormitory. We volunteers and several of the older boys were on the inside to boost the singing while the whole rest of the <i>hogar</i> came to the door. On both nights after the ritual, there was food and laughing. On both nights I watched the older boys scoop up the little ones in their arms for the singing and tumble around with them afterwards as everyone hung out eating snacks. And it felt so much like a family, it felt so much like a home, albeit one with more than 100 siblings.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">All of these kids came to the door of Amigos once for the first time, a time that had to have been a type of lonely and scary and foreign that I can't even begin to comprehend; that took a type of courage I don't know if I have. What each one of them has found, God willing, is a warm inner room of home and family, joy and love. It's not the same thing as the mom and dad that every one of these kids deserve, but my prayer for these kids at Christmas is that on nights like tonight it feels like family, it feels truly like home.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">----------------------------</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVk2b6X8dHTuny8o1LI4RWvpNdtfJsUYENkqNfoQaV-qV00FSBp8gJmSwbQtKMGRy9bKSWq3YntLz0N08SNl5ixedzzqKy7-WCg515LrAz2lnPz3HpBIi6vblgHQs5iIo4NUJdNyrLEUI/s1600/11+days.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVk2b6X8dHTuny8o1LI4RWvpNdtfJsUYENkqNfoQaV-qV00FSBp8gJmSwbQtKMGRy9bKSWq3YntLz0N08SNl5ixedzzqKy7-WCg515LrAz2lnPz3HpBIi6vblgHQs5iIo4NUJdNyrLEUI/s320/11+days.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Check out Amigos' countdown to Christmas on the Christmas fund <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Amigos-de-Jesus-Christmas-Drive-2013/684742651556072">facebook page</a>! The pictures are adorable. Many of you reading this have already supported my year of service and Amigos. If you are interested, this is a great time of the year to continue supporting Amigos' mission. At Christmas time all the children get new clothes, their only new clothes for the year, and a toy. Donations to the Christmas fund make their Christmas special. Thank you all so much for all of your support!! Feliz Navidad y hasta pronto.</span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-35901674798873329042013-11-23T20:13:00.001-08:002013-11-23T20:16:52.709-08:00The Reunion<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I was riding in the back of one of the pick-up trucks (one of my favorite things about living in Honduras) with the other volunteers returning from our vacation weekend when Levin spotted us. He sprinted up to the side of the car with his giant smile on his face. "My </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>hermanito</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> (little brother) is coming!" he squealed. My heart was bursting. "I know!" I laughed with him, and we collided in a hug as I jumped out of the truck.</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Levin is the eight-year-old boy who ran away from the <i>hogar</i> on his very first day (you can read about it <a href="http://yearwithamigos.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-prodigal.html#more">here</a>). He was trying to go to the city where he had been living a state-run temporary children's home to get back to his little brother. He agreed to stay at the <i>hogar</i> on the condition that we would bring his brother. The team here had been working on bringing his brother even before Levin arrived at the end of August. Levin had adjusted to living at Amigos and seemed happy, but he never stopped asking about his brother. Now finally, at the beginning of November, he was coming. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I had gotten the news before we left for our vacation and thank goodness we left. I wasn't allowed to tell Levin, just in case it didn't work out, and I don't think I would have been able to contain my excitement all weekend if we had been here at the <i>hogar</i>. When one of the volunteers told me the news, I surprised myself by instantly beginning to cry. I hadn't realized how much I, like Levin, had been hanging on to the promise of his brother coming to the <i>hogar</i>, how I had been storing up in my heart all the times Levin said something like, "He's very very little, my little brother. Much younger than me; he's 6. When is he coming?"</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That Sunday night after dinner, I learned that I had been given the day off from teaching so that I could go into the city with Levin to pick up his brother from the court. I was elated. The next morning we were on the road by 6 a.m. I've never seen Levin sit so erect and still for so long in his life, but for the first half hour of the car ride, he barely budged. Sitting in the middle of the back seat, his eyes were glued out the window as though he could hardly believe we were going, only moving to throw grins back at me over his shoulder every few minutes. Levin is a challenging child in a lot of ways. He doesn't like to listen when he's told to do something, he whines for what he wants when he's not given it, and he throws terrible fits over absolutely nothing, things like not getting his way immediately. He's gotten a reputation among the other boys his age as a cry baby. As I've gotten to know him better over the last three months, it's been hard to see the unpleasant side of him come out, even as he continues to adjust to life here in this safe, stable environment. But I'm still crazy about him. As we drove, I thought about how having his little brother around might help him grow up a little bit. I could see being a good role model as a powerful force in improving his behavior.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">As we drove, the driver noticed something wrong with the car. By the time we were in the city, it had started making terrible noises, squealing brakes and grinding gears. We barely made it to an auto-repair shop. While our driver stayed at the shop with the car, our lawyer, Levin and I took a taxi to a neighborhood half an hour outside of the city where the court was where we would be meeting Levin's brother and signing off on the paper work. Even with the delay of the broken down car, we arrived in the town early enough to have Levin eat breakfast and to be waiting on time at 9 a.m. for our appointment. Levin's brother's guardian was supposed to bring him and we were to meet him and take Wilbur with us. The lawyer had hoped we could leave at 10 and be back at the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>hogar</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> by noon in time for lunch.</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We waited and waited and waited. There was a box of toys in the waiting room and Levin and I played. He didn't realize we had an appointment time; he thought the waiting was normal. Throughtout the morning, he would throw out bits of information about his brother that began to break my heart more and more as it got later and later. He was blissfully unaware, occupied with the toys in the waiting room as I began to hear talk of police escorts and force. As it turned out, the people in the office who had the current address for the guardian were on vacation and the threats of a police escort coming to forcibly remove the child hadn't worked. Our hands were tied and it was already after 12. We had to admit that there was no use waiting around and head home.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Levin took the news like a champ as we got back into the taxi and drove back to the city. We had just entered the city when the taxi began to make strange noises. Just then the lawyer got a phone call. The guardian had shown up with Wilbur. We pulled over and the driver began to examine the front of his car. He called a friend to come get us and we sat in the hot cab waiting for him to arrive so that we could turn around and drive the half hour back to the court.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We pulled into the familiar parking lot and walked back through the familiar foyer into a waiting room that had been transformed. The toys, which I had made Levin keep neatly in the box, were scattered about the entire perimeter and smack in the middle was a child like a tornado. Levin was suddenly a little shy, but went up behind to tap him on the shoulder. For a second Wilbur stared blankly at Levin, then suddenly recognized his brother. They hugged. With barely a pause, Wilbur was back to yelling happily at his toys (his one volume is loud) and for Levin to check out all of the things he had found.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Wilbur has a face that makes you want to laugh, no matter what kind of trouble he's making. He has an enormous personality. He's like Dennis the Menace meets Dori from <i>Finding Nemo</i> meets the Energizer Bunny. And he comes up to about my knee, so it's all packed into a tiny muscular body that walks with a swagger and grins up with a smile sans its two front teeth.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Levin hung around me at first, watching. Wilbur is an overwhelming child. "He's very little, isn't he? I didn't lie," he kept saying. Gradually he started chiding him a bit, trying to get him to meet me, his friend the <i>gringa</i>, and make a little less noise. By the time we were leaving, he had already cleaned up for his brother several times. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We were a long time in the office until it was time for the goodbye between the guardian and Wilbur, which I will never forget. We took the long familiar road back to the city, but our adventures were still not over. The car couldn't be fixed that day so after spending hours buying the parts it needed and driving back and forth between the auto body and the parts store and doing some price haggling and buying food on the road, we weren't headed back to the <i>hogar</i> until 5:30.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At first, Levin was the best I've ever seen. He was super patient with his incorrigible brother, modeled good behavior without being asked, held his brother by the hand and told him to be well behaved. But somewhere during those long, hot, hungry hours his patience ran out. At one point he was sitting on the floor crying outside of the car parts store while I chased Wilbur through the parking lot. In my hot and tired state it was hard for me to not take to heart the "He's not my brother" that Levin had adopted like a mantra. But by the time we were all in the back seat of a borrowed car for the two hour ride home with fast food in hand, things had reached equilibrium once again. When Wilbur fell asleep on my shoulder, I knew I had fallen in love again.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm sorry to bore you all with the details of the whole day, but it's just so typical of so many of my experiences here: the frustrations of institutional failures that are so common, the million tiny things that always can and therefore do go wrong so that I've begun to expect them, the emotional intensity of being let into the kids' world, the infuriating bad behavior, the immense love.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You can't help but love Wilbur. He's stolen a lot of hearts already in the time he's been here. He's also an exasperating kid. I've already told you his height. Tonight he took a running jump from a step onto my back with his hands in a vice around my neck. Sometimes I think he's all rubber and springs. Levin is still Levin. He's at his best when he's the protective big brother and he can be counted on to encourage Wilbur to do the right thing and listen to his Madrinas and Padrinos. Levin himself, however, still has trouble with the latter. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The two brothers sleep in the same room now. They eat at the same table at dinner. They'll grow up here, safe and loved, together, a little family within the bigger family that is Amigos de Jesús.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-36331239013152044762013-11-11T20:50:00.001-08:002013-11-23T20:14:32.872-08:00Falling in love<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>"'It has done me good,' said the fox, 'because of the color of the wheat fields.'"</i></span><br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica;">The Little Prince, </span>Antoine de Saint-Exupéry</span></i></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This week I fell in love with Rana. It took me by surprise one day, like noticing the lateness of the hour; like the proverbial arrow in the heart. I was looking around the <i>comedor</i> for a place to sit at dinner, and I saw her slightly oblong head sitting with the other <i>chiquitos</i> at their little table. I went over and sat down beside her and her eyes lit up. “Rana!” she said, which is what she does when she’s happy. “Sapo no, rana sí!” she said, and I knew I was welcome at her table. She leaned up next to me, and stuck her tongue out. When I mimed her, she burst into giggles and I just hugged her. I felt at that moment like I could have hugged her forever and it wouldn’t have been enough. She was so happy sitting beside me, and I was so happy sitting beside her. We were both so happy. Our presence was a blessing, one to the other.</span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 13px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Rana means frog in Spanish, and it's the name I'm using here to refer to the special needs student I work with one-on-one each day. Her behavior is still very difficult, sometimes heart breaking. Just when I think we're making progress, we'll have a morning where she refuses to do any of the activities, like this morning for instance where I had to end by carrying her as she pounded my back with her little fists and cried, to her dormitory. But no matter how challenging she is in class, or how rewarding, I'm not going to be able to stop loving her. The moments like yesterday morning when I walked into class and her face lit up and she called out my name fill me with too much joy. Where does that come from? What has Rana done to elicit that love from me? And what have I done to elicit it from her? Forced her to sit still in class for two hours a day? Taught her how to trace? The answer is nothing, I've done nothing to deserve her loving me. The quote from my favorite musical of all times hangs on the cabinet in our bathroom: “To love another person is to see the face of God.” Maybe that's the only way to understand.</span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Rana will not remember me for very long after I leave in a year from now. Her mind alights on concepts like a bee does on a flower, pausing for a moment, then moving on to the next bright blossom, sometimes slowly, lazily, sometimes with frenetic activity. If I visit, she may be glad to see me, for the first couple of months after I leave. But I’ll fade from her life. She is different from the other children, of course, but she helps puts my time here in perspective. The others may remember a little longer, but for all of them the reality is that I will leave and our lives will go on apart from one another. We’ll have this year to love each other, and then our love will need to take on a very different form, one I haven’t yet learned to recognize. So has it done us any good?</span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">All of us volunteers talk about how we don't know how we'll be able to leave, but I mostly just don't let myself think about it. I did, though, this past weekend with one of my wonderful fellow volunteers, Emma. I said at one point how I couldn't stand the thought of us coming here and working our way into the life of this place for a year and then just going. "To these kids, we're going to be just one more person who left," I said. She corrected me: "One more person who loved."</span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-----------------------------------------</span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I re-read one of my favorite books of all times this past weekend on our vacation while I was doing a lot of processing on this topic. The quote above is from the book but it doesn't make a lot of sense without the context. Here's the <a href="http://www.angelfire.com/hi/littleprince/framechapter21.html">chapter</a> if you want to check it out.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-89400304345403541532013-10-27T22:17:00.002-07:002013-11-23T20:14:43.963-08:00Harvest Day<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The corn was thick in the air as we walked up to Amigos' maize field. Like a display of fireworks, the ears hit their peak and gradually descended, each at a different moment.</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was harvesting day for Amigos' maize (corn) and all the <i>jovenes</i>, or teenaged, boys at the <i>hogar</i> had been enlisted to help. The 20 of them worked their way in a pack up and down the field, a row at a time. The dried out ears had to be pulled off and then catapulted to the nearest of several large piles that had been cleared out in the midst of the stalks. In nearly two acres of corn there were five or six piles, and that's why the corn flew through the sky at such a great height. It's also why, despite the heat, several of the boys seemed to be enjoying themselves.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Maize is what we gringos know as yellow corn, several months later. At the point where sweet corn would be ready to harvest, the stalks are doubled over and allowed to dry out for several more weeks. Once harvested, the hard, dry maize kernels are ready to be ground into the flour that constitutes the tortillas eaten at every meal - two tortillas a person, breakfast, lunch and dinner. The maize we harvested that day, in grains, weighed 4,500 pounds, enough for six months worth of tortillas here at the hogar.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Beginning at 8 a.m., the boys and other employees of Amigos' agricultural program, Agro as it's referred to here, were at work pulling the brown, crinkly maize cobbs off of doubled-over, waist-high stalks. The sun was fiercely strong by 9 a.m. and the work is best done in long pants and sleeves, since the dried stalks are prickly and scratchy, sometimes dangerously sharp, and lots of creatures (read snakes) like to live in the field. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's unsurprising that among the-high schoolers, there were those who didn't relish the hard work. What's more surprising is that some of them did. When I asked one of them why, he said throwing the ears the distance to the piles was fun, and that he liked seeing how far he could throw. Then he gave a reason I didn't expect. He said he also liked walking from plant to plant, pulling the corn off the stalks. To me, a first-time maize harvester, this seemed like the least fun part of the job. My legs and arms were scratched and itchy and I was constantly worried about what insect I would see next crawling out of a corn ear. Sweat was pouring down my face and I had a bloody gash on one hand from an especially sharp stalk. Harvesting maize is brutally hard work and that's the daily reality for many Honduran farmers, one that really struck me in the field. But this kid also saw the beauty in the process. He was able, even in a long-sleeved shirt drenched in sweat, to appreciate the kind of satisfaction harvesting your own food can bring.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Amigos uses about eight acres of farmland. Currently the <i>hogar</i> produces all its own milk, chicken, maize, and beans. Beans will be planted next in the same field as the maize. There are two harvests a year for both crops and each plant replenishes the soil for the next in a beautiful, ageless cycle. The boys at the <i>hogar</i> who work in the agro program are learning about a crop and a cycle that has been a staple in the lives of Hondurans for generations. I learned a saying in my first week here that is catchy in Spanish: <span style="font: normal normal normal 15px/normal Arial;"><i>Sin maíz, no hay país,</i></span><span style="font: 15.0px Arial;"> which basically translates to, the country falls apart without maize.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 17.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 15.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We walked back from the field dehydrated and exhausted, at least I was, but also on a strange sort of high, the kind that comes from doing a hard job through to the end. The boys were making whooping noises for no reason, giddily laughing. The tortillas at lunch that day didn't taste quite the same.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-64357159868271181952013-10-12T19:49:00.002-07:002013-11-23T20:17:07.090-08:00A Day in the Life (Part 2)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">We left off at 2:10, the end of the school day. Usually I need a rest after the end of a school day so I try to come home for awhile to take a break. I go back to the volunteer house and drink some coca-cola (I've become a total addict here; I think I crave the sugar), and to prevent myself from never moving from the sofa, I try to wash clothes.</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here, as in most of Honduras, clothes are washed by hand. Every house I've seen has what's called a <i>pila</i>, a waist-high, rectangular concrete basin that fills with water. Imagine a lid on the basin and a large square cut into the top of it. The two remaining sides have washboards and a drain built in and that's where clothes are washed. We have bars of clothes-washing soap that we rub on to the clothes, you scrub them, and then you dip b<i> </i>uckets into the basin for water to rinse. For the kids, washing clothes is a daily chore, and I try to once a day as well or else it really piles up. Even when I have to skim the floaties off the top of the <i>pila</i> water; even when I can never ring all the soap out of my jeans; even though all my clothes are now hopelessly stretched out; even when I find bird poo on the clothes hanging on the line (okay, that one is a stretch), there's something I love about washing my own clothes. Maybe it's the feeling each day that I've accomplished something, or the peacefulness of standing at the <i>pila</i> after a long day, or the camaraderie I feel with the other volunteers when we wash clothes together, or the mindless productivity that allows me to think and process the day's events, or the feeling that by washing my own clothes by hand each day I'm a little closer to the daily experience lived by a vast majority of the world's population.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After taking an hour or two at home to rest and wash clothes and do some lesson planning or internet work in the office, I try to spend the rest of my afternoon with the kids. Every afternoon is different. Sometimes I've made plans in advance with a kid; someone in one of my classes who wants help with the homework I've given or needs to get caught up on a lesson; someone I promised to study English with; one kid in particular who likes to go up to the big white cross on the hill and have me tell him a story. When the kids have birthdays, the volunteers take them into the closest neighboring village, a 20-minute walk down the road, with a few friends to buy soda and snacks, so those "birthday parties" are usually afternoon activities planned in advance. A lot of other times, there's nothing planned. I'll wander out to see what's going on in the rest of the <i>hogar</i> and if there's someone I can play with or talk to.</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Connected to either side of the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>comedor</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> are two dorms, one for </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>chiquitos</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">, the youngest children at the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>hogar</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">, ranging in age from 1 and a half to 6 years old. Little Rana also lives in this room, and all the children that come to the preschool class I help out with. There are about 15 of them in total. They are, obviously, adorable. As soon as you walk in, someone's on you, latched on to your leg or pulling you towards a toy, or yelling repeatedly the same 4-word bit of news - "We ate breakfast!" "We're going to the pool!" "We have school tomorrow, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>verdad</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">?" The room is lined with little bunk beds with a large space in the middle for playing with toys and a TV corner, and the back opens into a fenced-in grassy play area with a swing-set and monkey bars and see-saw. Whenever you walk by the front windows or the back fence and children spot you, they begin yelling your name. Anytime I need an ego boost, I head to the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>chiquitos</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> room, though spending a lot of time there is exhausting.</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The other connected dorm is for the 12 girls who live here. If the girls have finished their chores and homework, they're usually out in their own backyard area, or playing in the room on their own bunk beds, or refolding their clothes (a common activity). We'll sit out back and play a clapping game or lay on the extra bed and sing songs. The other day one of the girls, one of the sweetest but with a gravelly voice and few rough edges, chased me around the field in front of the <i>comedor</i> and then wanted to wrestle me to the ground. The oldest girls are 13/14 and they all live in one room together, so there is definitely drama. There are a few sets of biological sisters in the group, but really all of them act like sisters. They have to stick together, the group of only 12 of them in a home of mostly boys, but, like teenage girls everywhere on the planet, they bicker and are sweet in turns.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Across from the <i>comedor</i> and the girls and <i>chiquitos</i> dorms on the other side of a grassy field, is the office building. Behind that there is a stream that can fill to waist-height after a heavy rain, and becomes completely dry during dry spells. A wooden footbridge crosses the stream and a dirt path leads to the boys side of the Amigos campus. The dorms sit behind a wide open soccer field. In the afternoons, there is always a group playing soccer and kids and <i>padrinos</i> hanging out on the porches of the dorms. The <i>pequeños</i>, or younger boys, 6 to 12/13 years old, live in one dorm and the <i>jovenes</i>, teenagers, in another. Two other buildings are for staff and <i>padrinos</i>.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Amigos is a great place to be a kid. The stream is full of tiny fish and if you're lucky you might be able to catch a crab. There are always boys messing around in the stream, using old bottles or scraps of wood to construct little buildings or catch fish. There are wide open fields and big trees, plenty of places to play in the dirt constructing little buildings or making highways for toy cars. A few weeks ago, one of my little buddies found a huge piece of cloth somewhere. By draping it over the low-hanging branches of a tree on one side of a fence and using a big stick to prop up the top like a tent, he made a cozy house. He found a piece of a pillow from somewhere and set it on the ground and we sat in there like two little kings. The tree was a lemon tree, but these are not like lemons in the states. The small ones are the size of grapefruits and they can get to be twice as big as that. Of course the house attracted several of the other <i>pequeños</i> and everyone was pulling off the giant lemons, peeling the thick skin and sucking on the juice for as long as they could stand.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There is fruit everywhere here. There's coconut, papaya, lemon, orange, avocado and coffee trees and a whole field of pineapple plants. Then there are trees with fruits I had never heard of before coming here and for which I still don't know all the names: <i>guyaba</i> with thick green skins and pink insides; strange orange husks that have bright red sweet seeds; moras, purple fruits the size of small plums that are a lot like grapes; strange yellow fruits the size of the lemons covered with spines that you eat by sucking the sweet, white, fibrous fruit off of large hard seeds. Since I've been here, the favorite activity of the kids next to soccer, across all ages, is collecting nances. Amigos is full of nance trees. They are tiny yellow fruits the size of small marbles with a seed in the middle and I think they taste like cheese, but the kids think they're the greatest thing since candy. They shake them out of the trees and gather them off the ground. They fill their pockets, or their shirts, or two-liter soda bottles that they find somewhere. A lot of times the older boys will make juices by filling some old bottle with with water and nances and shaking it all up. They cause all kinds of problems in school and in the preschool classroom we've had to institute a no nance policy.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If it seems like the kids play with a lot of trash (old bottles and sheets and other scraps) it's true, but not because Amigos is dirty or because the kids don't have toys. First, they're kids, and they have a great ingenuity for inventing new toys. But I've noticed that this ingenuity goes beyond what I've seen before in the states. The kids always seem to have something they've found somewhere that they're using as a toy. Combined with their innate knowledge of the fruits here, what's good to eat, what's not and when, you see a lot of the traces of the kids' lives before, when they may have really needed that knowledge and ingenuity to survive.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Five thirty is dinner. The bell in front of the <i>comedor</i> rings and the kids come running from all corners of the campus. Dinner is cafeteria style at long wooden tables. After dinner on a school night is free time. I'll wander out of the <i>comedor</i> and play or talk with whoever is outside hanging out. Sometimes we sit on the backs of the parked pick up trucks and play cards, or someone is kicking a ball around in the field in front of the cafeteria, or I'll sit on the porch of the building and talk. A few nights one of the kids has organized a big game of capture the flag in one of the soccer fields. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This lasts until 8:00 when the bell gets rung for the last time of the day. All the kids come from their corners to the field in front of the <i>comedor</i>, all the <i>padrinos </i>and<i> madrinas</i>, all the volunteers, and we form a big circle holding hands. It's prayer circle, and it closes every day. The prayer begins with the sign of the cross and then the prayers begin. Each starts <i>"Gracias Señor..."</i> - "Thank you God..." - and ends with the same phrase, which the whole circle repeats, offering up the child's prayer together. This too is the subject of its own post. Payer circle ends with an Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be, and then the circle disperses for the hugs goodnight. Everyone hugs everybody and says <i>Buenas Noches</i>: the kid who was disrespectful in class, the kid who you talked with for an hour, the kid who sat with you making rude jokes at dinner, the kid who's mad at you and giving a cold shoulder, the kid who you know is hurting, the kid who made you laugh that day. The hugs are sometimes just another goodnight, sometimes a reconciliation, sometimes another wound, sometimes just what you needed. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We volunteers walk back to our house to lesson plan and eat American-y snacks like peanut butter and honey sandwiches, we take our cold showers, and we - I anyway - collapse into bed, sometimes ready, sometimes not, for all the next day brings.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hasta pronto.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-90140821143816756682013-10-01T21:33:00.002-07:002013-11-23T20:15:49.289-08:00A Day in the Life (Part 1)I have to apologize again for the long delay! This time my excuse is a broken computer keyboard, and things are not easy to get fixed here. The cliché is actually super true - we really do take a ton for granted. The ability to hop in a car and drive a computer somewhere it can be fixed, maybe even be left over night with confidence, and come back to get it the next day, for example, is not something I or anyone has here.<br />
<br />
There is so much going on here all the time, I thought it might be good to bring everyone up to speed on what a typical school day is like here, at least for me. It should help to give a little context.<br />
<br />
The day starts at either 6 or 5:30 a.m. when I get up to go to breakfast and do whatever internet chores or class prep I have to do (since we don't have internet in our house). Breakfast varies, but during the week it invariably includes beans and the signature corn tortillas. My favorite breakfast is hole beans (verses mashed) with steamed plantains and a delicious sauce they call <em>mantequilla</em>, which is kind of a liquidy, cheesy, sour cream. We have it every Monday with banana <em>licuado</em>, hot milk with some sort of add-in, a lot of times rice or oats.<br />
<br />
The <em>jóvenes</em>, or teenagers, here get up at 5:30 every morning so that they can leave for high school by 6:15ish. It's a half hour walk and school starts at 7. So breakfast is a casual affair in the <em>comedor</em>, with kids, teachers, <em>madrinas </em>and <em>padrinos</em> filing in at different times depending on their schedules. At a little before 7, the metal bell outside the <em>comedor</em> that serves as the signal for the beginning of every activity here, rings for all the elementary school kids to line up outside to walk to our school, which sits behind the big soccer field at the back end of the campus. They all wear light blue button down shirts and brown pants. Their uniforms usually look really nice during this time each day (they get taken off and washed immediately after school); after a couple hours, it's amazing how un-<em>bonito</em> they look.<br />
<a name='more'></a>My day doesn't start until 8, which is when the preschool school day begins. I usually end up going to breakfast just at the end and staying after the bell rings to eat and talk with some of the <em>jóvenes</em> who don't go to high school in the morning. I love the subdued chaos in the <em>comedor</em> when the little kids are there, the way they'll jump up behind me with their bean-y hands to cover my eyes and make me guess who. I also love when they all leave and peace settles (sort of) and I can talk one on one with one of the <em>jóvenes</em>. Today I got to talk for awhile with one of the especially outgoing <em>jovenes</em> who wanted to know what the buildings are like in the United States. They're not made of concrete like ours are, are they, he asked me. For example, this <em>comedor</em>, he said, waving a hand to bring in the scope of the long cafeteria with it's five rows of long wooden tables and benches; this would be the size of one family's house, right?<br />
<br />
I try to get up to the library by at least 7:15. If I have a library or an English class that day I usually need to prep some materials or books, and I always need to pick out books to read to the preschoolers and to my one-on-one special needs student. At 8, I head down to the preschool classroom and the craziness begins. On Mondays through Wednesdays there are 3 extra youngsters in the class for the first hour, all of them three years old. My special needs student is in the classroom every day for that first hour. I watch in amazement as my fellow volunteer Emily begins class with circle time and marvel at how she's able to keep it up for 4 hours. The kids have nicknames like <em>pollita</em>, little chicken, or <em>mami</em>, the only word one child could say when she arrived, or <em>rana</em>, frog, my special needs student's favorite animal (I'm going to call her Rana here).<br />
<br />
After the first hour, Rana and I head to the library for an hour of one-on-one time. I will need to give Rana her own blog post some day. For now, suffice it to say that she will be one of my biggest challenges this year, but our relationship will probably be one of the most rewarding I form here as well. As I begin to see better what God has to teach me through this little girl, I'll write more. Our first week she bit me twice; tonight at dinner, she sought me out in the<em> comedor </em>and wrapped her skinny little arms around my waist from behind: ''rana! rana!''<br />
<br />
I walk Rana back to her dormitory at 10 and head back up the hill to the school. It's already hot, hot, hot. In the library, I'll be sweating sitting still. I teach library classes to our 6th grade and two mixed classes of kids in about 4th to 6th grade, one of them a special ed class. These classes have been super challenging because of the range of abilities, particularly the special ed class, which includes kids with learning disabilities as well as serious behavioral problems. It's amazing, though, in that class in particular, how invested I feel in every kid. As I get to know them and their stories and see their desire to learn, even though it's my most exhausting class, I'm so glad I get the chance to teach them. I could tell you a story about every one of them. For now, I'll just tell you about one. One of the new kids from the last post is in that class. He can't read or write or do basic math or identify the letters of the alphabet or simple numbers, not because of any disability, but because he's never been to school. He's thirteen years old. After four weeks of school, he now can write his own name and identify most of the letters and he loves to read by repeating each word after me and saying the simple words he knows alone. Today he sounded out the word <em>las</em> by himself; it was like Christmas morning.<br />
<br />
Three days a week I also give English classes to the 6th grade, and I love it. I love the 6th grade; there's another class full of wonderfully unique personalities, and they're also super eager to learn. It's amazing how badly the kids here want to learn English. They already know how much it could help them to speak that language, the amazing opportunities it could give them.<br />
<br />
When I'm not teaching my own class, I help out the two volunteers who co-teach the two mixed grades. A lot of times this means I'll work with one of their kids one on one on reading or math, and in the afternoons it means I'm a classroom aid to my fellow volunteer (and roommate) who teaches the special ed mixed class full time. She has 5 of the 10 kids for the entire day, when they're not in specials. I am every day amazed by her patience and creativity and passionate advocacy for these kids. Every class she makes it a point to tell the kids how smart they are. For some of them, it's the first time they've ever heard it.<br />
<br />
The school day ends at 2:15 and that's where this post will have to end as well. I'll follow up with a part 2 in the next one! Thanks for reading!<br />
<br />
Hasta pronto.<br />
<br />
p.s. my foot is doing really well. I don't limp anymore and even though it's still a little sore, I kicked my first soccer ball yesterday so we should be good to go. [:Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-88593043021556804132013-09-19T15:02:00.000-07:002013-09-19T15:05:19.602-07:00Visiting a Different Hogar<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Sorry it's been awhile since my last post. I sprained an ankle last weekend and it's really thrown me off. I'm still hobbling around like a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><i>viejita</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> as the kids say but getting better!</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
This is a post I wrote several weeks ago. It's a sort of retrospective part 2 to the post "The Prodigal," and I have to warn from the beginning that's it's pretty depressing. I want to take a few steps back and tell a little bit about what it was like to pick up the three new boys from the state-run children's home. The experience has definitely been one of the most impactful of my time here so far, and I know I'll be feeling it's repercussions for a long time. By this time, this is an old story, but it's amazing how vividly and how often my experiences there recur in my memory.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The home is part a network of state-run institutions throughout Honduras. It's meant to be an impermanent home for children who have been removed from their families or picked up from the streets until they can go to more permanent homes like Amigos. Of course, this doesn't always happen and children can end up staying in one of these institutions for much longer. One of the boys we picked up had been there for three years.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Driving up to the home was exactly like driving up to a prison. That's not an exaggeration; it's located right next door to a prison and they share the same high solid concrete wall. At first we actually drove up to the wrong door, a massive solid metal entrance that could open to let a car through. Through a small square window (the Wizard of Oz absurdly comes to mind) a guard told us that this was the prison entrance and directed us to an identical doorway a bit further down the wall. </div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
We drove into the compound toward a large concrete building sitting in a field of dust and pale grass. It was about three-stories high and structured around a courtyard in the center. The prison feel didn't completely go away (especially since with it's stairways to the upper levels and concrete flooring, the courtyard looked a lot like a recreation area you might see in a jail), but the inside was painted with pale greens and purples and yellows which broke up the tedium a bit and reminded me that this was a home for children. As we entered, children stared down at us from the upper levels surrounding the courtyard and called out to us. Here, the children address each other as well as adults as <i>tío</i> and <i>tía</i> so that's what we heard: a chorus of high voices shouting sharply "tía! tía!" for our attention.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The children we were picking up had been told only that day that they were leaving. They weren't ready when we arrived so we went to go visit with some of the other children. One of last year's volunteers (who has since left) was with us and had made several trips to the home. She directed us toward the babies and toddlers room. The room had a wall painted with cartoon characters and a back corner full of toys. In the center were maybe 8 cribs and the wall opposite to the mural was lined with what I can only describe as crib cubbies; they looked like cages. They were painted purple and each had a thin mattress. They were stacked like boxes, two high, and the side facing out into the room had a crib-like barred side that could be pulled up and down to slide the children in and out of their cubby. They were just big enough for maybe a one and a half year-old to lie down.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
One of the first things I noticed, after the wall of crib-cages, was the contrast between crying and happy children. Two cute little toddlers were running around, playing with each other, but two younger babies were in their cribs crying. The staff didn't seem to have the energy or the time to pick up these children or comfort them. We pulled a few of the crying babies out of their cribs and bounced them around a bit to try and quiet them. Other babies were sleeping in their cribs or cubbies, seemingly oblivious to the noise around them. One little baby smiled at us and reached for us through the purple bars. There weren't so many children that it was overwhelming, but there wasn't staff to give them attention. A toddler in one of the cubbies had wet the bed. I don't know how long she had been wet, but she stayed sleeping in it for the duration of our visit. At one point she woke up and looked at us with hostility then rolled over in the mess and fell back to sleep.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Another baby was a point of particular concern for us. She was lying behind the crib bars in one of the cubbies and looked from the size of her body like she was maybe 6 months old. She is actually two, and she has a cleft palette that has not been treated. Amigos is looking into getting her a surgery and a possible diagnosis. She looked out with a vacant smile and her arms and legs were like sticks. Something is very wrong, but there are just no resources (or advocates).</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
One of the main problems here is the lack of resources and the corruption that funnels away the few that exist. However, there's something even bigger here that isn't as easily diagnosed. I think it comes down to a lack of vision. There's nothing in an institution like this - in some ways there can't be - that acknowledges a child's need for love.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The hardest thing for me to see that day doesn't necessarily have to do with Amigos' mission and it's a much bigger problem than I know how to even approach. Adjoining the room for babies and toddlers is the room for the <i>tranquilo</i>, or gentle and manageable, disabled kids. It had maybe eight beds and cribs on each side and each held a child or two with a range of disabilities I could not identify, except for the child in the first crib. I knew from his distinct look that he had Down's Syndrome. He must have been somewhere between 6 and 8 years old. He wore only a diaper, had a shaved head, and his skin and face were covered in visible dirt. There was an eerie fixed smile on his face and a thin rag tied around his ankle and around one of the rungs of the crib. When I walked in he looked at me and reached with his arms. When I reached back, he scratched me with long sharp nails. So I tried to cup his hands in mine and pulled them toward me to kiss them but he twisted in my hands to dig his nails into my palms, all the time with the same expectant smile. When I tried to pull away, the fingers came to my arms again, scratching. So I had to leave him while he still reached out to me from his own cage. </div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
It occurred to me that he has learned that he gets reactions from people by hurting them. He has learned that in human interactions when he causes pain he gets a response, and that may be the only response he has ever gotten from anyone. Of everything I saw that day, it's his face I can't get out of my mind, his smile that stays with me and flashes every once in a while before my eyes, especially when I look at the small place on my hand where he broke the skin. When I go back (and I will), it's him I'll be going to see.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I walked over to a particularly peaceful older boy sitting in a bed in the corner, probably in his teens and dressed again only in a diaper. His skin also was dirty and so were the sheets on his bed. He had a row of small toys and stuffed animals lined up meticulously against the wall. All he wanted to do was hold them in front of me, one by one, touching them repetitively on the head and shoulders. I would give him my upturned palm, which he would take in his hand - so slowly, so gently - and lower the toy gradually into my hand. I did this with him for probably ten minutes before I pulled myself away to briefly see the others in the room and return to the group in the baby's room. With each toy he gently gave me I fought back tears. There are so many lives in that room that could bring light and love into the lives of others and they're being wasted. Jut by visiting, though, this boy briefly touched mine.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
And still, of everything at the home, this particular room filled me with the most despair. There is no place for these kids to go, there are no resources. If Amigos becomes solely a home for disabled kids, it loses its mission. And even with Amigos - and this was one of the hardest things to accept that day - there isn't enough room for everyone. Every single child there deserves a place like Amigos and we just can't give it to them.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Just as the institution's terrible physical structure is broken up by colors and painted murals and the corner of toys, the interactions between the staff and the children were marked by spots of light. One of the most touching parts of the day was watching the staff members warmly hug the three boys who were leaving at the door, telling them "<i>cuidense,</i>" take care. It's not their fault. There's no one to train them, there's no resources (to say it again), there's no <i>vision</i> for this place. It's the system that's broken, and overwhelmed by the sheer number of kids who need it. (And, I might add, in the U.S. we have a broken system of our own. This is just one I got to see up close. There are a lot of things wrong with this home, and it's easy for me to stand at the outside and point them out. But my initial observations and cultural prejudices may not be just. )</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Amigos in all this is a glimmer of light. Each child that gets out of there and comes to Amigos has a chance at not just a future and an education; he has a chance to learn he has value; he has a chance to be loved. Seeing the home made me realize for the first time what a huge need Amigos fills and what an amazing thing it is doing for these kids. The best part of the day was that it began the really special relationship I have with each of the three boys now, all of them with distinct and wonderful personalities. It's amazing how much I find myself caring about them. We're new here at Amigos together, and they're helping me feel like I have a place here, even while they're carving out a place for themselves. All in all, it was an incredible experience to have had so early in my time here. It's taken me to extremes of both sadness and hope, and it's given me three kids to feel special to.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Hasta pronto.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-64658880880931180552013-09-08T08:25:00.000-07:002013-09-08T08:26:13.324-07:00A Prayer for Peace<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">To walk in to the Amigos de Jesús chapel yesterday between 11 and 12, it would have been difficult to believe it was full of some 25 teenaged boys and two girls, anywhere from 13 to 22 years old. You would have found the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><i>capilla</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> in reverent silence, save for the church music serving as a background to the kids' meditations. The Amigos de Jesús family was answering Pope Francis' request for prayers for peace.</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The <i>capilla</i> at Amigos is the second floor of the office building and it is open air. All four sides have a concrete rail and through it you can see the mountains in the distance and overlook the rest of the Amigos campus. The service began with Amy, our co-director, explaining what was happening in Syria; that it is locked in a civil war, that there is destruction everywhere, that the government used chemical weapons against its own people, that those who suffer the most are the children. She showed a short news clip with some images of the fighting in the streets. All the kids were rapt with attention.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Then two of the boys took turns reading the text of the Pope's message delivered last Sunday calling for peace (you can find the text in English <a href="http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/francesco/angelus/2013/documents/papa-francesco_angelus_20130901_en.html">here</a>). It was a profound moment. As I listened to the words in Spanish, sitting in this open-air chapel overlooking the beauty of the Honduran countryside, I felt the force of the Church's universality in a way I never had before. Those words redounded around the world in every type of setting, in every language.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Before the time for prayer, Amy called attention to the Pope's call for peace not only in Syria, but also around the world. Honduras, though not at war, is also not at peace, she said. We must pray for the people of Syria, and for peace in our own nation, and in our own hearts.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Everyone was invited to pray for as long as they thought fit. Then every head bowed and silence descended on the chapel while the hymns played in the background. No one stayed for less than half an hour, and when the hour was up there were still several boys at prayer. Each teenager there has suffered so much and for that hour, their prayers were with those suffering so much now.</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
A few hours after the service, I was hanging out with two of the boys aged about 13 and 15. We were laughing and talking, but soon it became obvious that the morning's prayer service was still on their minds. They kept asking about Syria and the situation there, why the people were fighting the government, why so many people were dying, and why there was such destruction. I found I couldn't answer most of their questions. Then one of them said that during the prayer service he was thinking, what if this <i>hogar</i> wasn't in Honduras, but in Syria. He said he imagined the destruction of his home, the soldiers and tanks bursting through the front gate. And he was grateful that he lived in Honduras.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Sometimes there are moments here when the spirituality, the thoughtfulness, the goodness of the kids, and by proxy the presence of God, is overwhelming. Once in a while it happens during nightly prayer circle, sometimes it's during a conversation or witnessing a moment of kindness, and sometimes it's during such spontaneous moments as a prayer hour with the home's teenaged boys - who have known war - praying for peace.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Hasta pronto.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-21313094376574963322013-08-29T11:56:00.003-07:002014-07-12T21:49:47.984-07:00The Prodigal<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Tonight, during the hour and a half each night between dinner and prayer circle where everyone hangs out outside, I played for a long time with a little boy who is new to the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><i>hogar</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">. He is eight years old and has a smile that spreads in a long line across his face to light up big brown eyes, a high-pitched voice and a babyish laugh. He called me over to a corner of the porch to sit on the ground so I could watch him proudly assemble a tiny plastic top. He spun it as fast as he could a few times - "Mira! Mira!" - and then handed it to me to try. He was completely content in that moment, spinning his tiny top or watching me spin it, shrieking when it got too close to the edge of the porch, giggling every time it fell over. I could hardly believe that it was only a few days ago that I had sat with the same boy while he sobbed miserably into a plate of pancakes. </span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I was one of the group who went to pick him up from one of the state-run children's homes four days ago. We picked up three new children from the home that day and he had been then one I had gotten to know the least on our trip. In contrast to the other two boys, he had been calm and unimpressed during the ride back to Amigos, half-smiling at times, but mostly quietly looking out the window. I don't remember once seeing the wide smile that has come to define his face for me now.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
We arrived to the <i>hogar</i> as everyone does here: to the applause of the entire home gathered at the front gate. All three timidly got out of the car and walked through the crowd where they were introduced to the <i>padrinos</i> and <i>madrinas</i>, the caretakers of the boys and girls who live on-site and are with the children full-time.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I didn't see the littlest boy much that evening or the next day. At dinner in the <i>comedor</i> I made a point to sit with him, but he gave me a cold shoulder. At breakfast and lunch the next day I looked around to find him sitting sullenly, not speaking to the other boys around him. </div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Late that afternoon, we new volunteers were in the midst of an orientation session when we learned that the boy had run away. It was 4:30 and we learned he had been gone about half an hour. We came out of the session to see search parties assembling. Two of the trucks full of people went out to drive in separate directions and a large group of boys and a few <i>padrinos</i> went out on foot. After night had fallen, the search parties began to return one by one. Staff members assembled a description of the child with photos and dropped them off at local police stations. We had to go to sleep that night not knowing where he was.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">The next day, the whole home was spending the day at a nearby water-park starting at around 8 a.m. We needed to take multiple trips with truck-loads of kids to get everyone there. I wasn't with the group that found him, but I heard later that it was wild. The whole truck full of children seemed to spot him at the same time and began screaming and pointing. He had been walking towards them down the road; when he spotted them, he darted away and one of the older boys ran after him. When they put him in the car, he was already sobbing.</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Amy, our co-director, called me over to the <i>comedor</i> to sit with him while he ate some breakfast. I listened while she told him that he had woried us so much because he is very important to us, because we love him. Waves of sadness poured over the little guy; he didn't know where to put his face. Every time the crying slowed for a bit, a fresh wave seemed to overtake him. He had his little bundle of clothes the <i>hogar</i> had given him in a plastic bag (when he arrived he had nothing with him but the clothes he wore), and he took them all out, refolding them, and putting them away again. He told us he had spent the night in a nearby town and had been trying to get back to the city to his younger brother. (Amigos is already working on trying to bring his brother here).</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Amy told him that we were going to a water-park that day and that it would be really fun. Gradually he warmed to the idea. He agreed to leave his bundle at the home and go to the water-park with the last group. While we waited for the truck to arrive, I showed him around the home. We walked up the hill to the big white cross that overlooks the whole campus, and he agreed with me that the view of the mountains was beautiful. We looked at the wide green soccer field with it's rows of half-tire "stands." We slid together down Amigos' big tube slide. As the smile slowly began to show itself on his face, I realized that he hadn't let himself really look around at the home before; hadn't let himself begin to like it.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
That day at the water-park, I watched a version of this child emerge that I had never seen before as he shrieked and played and acted like the little kid he is, instead of like a mini-adult alone in the world. Since he's been at the <i>hogar</i> I've loved watching him run and play with the other boys and eat good meals with that big smile on his face. That's how his face is supposed to look.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
As I begin to understand a little more how important Amigos is and what it does for these kids, this little guy will always come to the forefront of my mind. He always runs up to me now at meals or out on the field after dinner, and I look for him, too. The relationships built with the kids here are what everyone says make it so special. I've got a few I'm working on, but I know this one will always be very special to me. Because he was lost, and I watched him be found.</div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Hasta pronto.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-24275276686783508102013-08-29T06:51:00.002-07:002013-08-29T11:54:17.360-07:00Photos of Copán Ruinas<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKd95GNSnlBvKn9T72RBrKTheAJDCmdLlWXRQ1qmcGWJRIy26_tvKvasdwE1GptA9PbYtuxrMlflvaecIeICQvwms9qu5TwJkdI2d-oEfInJmO9REZlSeEkwJbtOmuEHhA1X5ZbUO8v1Y/s1600/Copan+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKd95GNSnlBvKn9T72RBrKTheAJDCmdLlWXRQ1qmcGWJRIy26_tvKvasdwE1GptA9PbYtuxrMlflvaecIeICQvwms9qu5TwJkdI2d-oEfInJmO9REZlSeEkwJbtOmuEHhA1X5ZbUO8v1Y/s320/Copan+1.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjbGouem93UWgCG690Wv5MEqMgzt8Zp0hQxjFEKDC0roEV9WP5OM7WwCkEjkhbZFFId2hajL5Hqo_FFWwRTucxk0TGDX9RlhV5nuvnPhfIl_MfAqvzk6_GyHyvENSDhIdEO28vcqz6I0/s1600/Copan+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjbGouem93UWgCG690Wv5MEqMgzt8Zp0hQxjFEKDC0roEV9WP5OM7WwCkEjkhbZFFId2hajL5Hqo_FFWwRTucxk0TGDX9RlhV5nuvnPhfIl_MfAqvzk6_GyHyvENSDhIdEO28vcqz6I0/s320/Copan+2.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Here are the long awaited photos!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
To the right, this was a replica of a temple found at the site and reconstructed inside the museum. They really liked red paint, apparently. We think of the stoney colors that you see in the picture above, but because of paint flecks archeologists have found, we know that most of those buildings actually would have been brightly painted, many of them in this kind of bright red. It must have been really vibrant if you lived there, and really terrifying if you were a conquered visitor! We actually got to see those beautiful parrots (macaws). They were everywhere and with the ruins as a backdrop it made you feel like you were in a movie. The skulls below lined the bottom of where the king's throne would have been. A lot of the Mayan artwork we saw involved skulls.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmtWRYGo1E342iy0GOHmD5R5s01-mZ2zf-v2mKA06Do7MtXGUnWUF4GfhHKV4l2YTXYiZ7pEhy1pooW53yQmwbDmDMCYgbhAi-ILeOIIO_NHoL3ZR6LYy5aKfoymKWJfcsPlcdu9Iubc/s1600/Copan+6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4sYzaEaAI9tC20mYB97V_uhuJMmAAuYQUK4nnJEUuFX11M9yIq1I9uKpa51e86mhTRsInlNjvtCRdQJyBPXFYp4Pwn0HPKwvum9gJ74rF-obttViVBipoKnN0nO4iKOIK-OabuBUGAE/s1600/Copan+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4sYzaEaAI9tC20mYB97V_uhuJMmAAuYQUK4nnJEUuFX11M9yIq1I9uKpa51e86mhTRsInlNjvtCRdQJyBPXFYp4Pwn0HPKwvum9gJ74rF-obttViVBipoKnN0nO4iKOIK-OabuBUGAE/s320/Copan+3.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKmtWRYGo1E342iy0GOHmD5R5s01-mZ2zf-v2mKA06Do7MtXGUnWUF4GfhHKV4l2YTXYiZ7pEhy1pooW53yQmwbDmDMCYgbhAi-ILeOIIO_NHoL3ZR6LYy5aKfoymKWJfcsPlcdu9Iubc/s320/Copan+6.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtE-ElXxJRK7xit1Dci1xHINegCMJiXMyvMkGnPda1CA-aFTUivTaasMKEWnNnEWBoTZ4b1xlUuUjF1cvGlqk0_JUzCOHVomQfSKfeE5R2rHzs42NyU87-4ysHspu0LUoNgWwDQAM6Rs/s1600/Copan+7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtE-ElXxJRK7xit1Dci1xHINegCMJiXMyvMkGnPda1CA-aFTUivTaasMKEWnNnEWBoTZ4b1xlUuUjF1cvGlqk0_JUzCOHVomQfSKfeE5R2rHzs42NyU87-4ysHspu0LUoNgWwDQAM6Rs/s320/Copan+7.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Finally, this is the coolest thing I think we saw. This stairway protected by a tarp is basically a giant history book. Engraved on those stones from left to right are the names and deeds of the Mayan kings from one of the dynasties. The stairway was like a stoney library. A carving of the ruler in the middle of the stair marks where his section begins. Though other nearby ruins are famous for more impressively large buildings, these are most famous for these stairs and the amazing artifact they are for researchers. <a href="http://www.globotreks.com/weekly-snapshot/copan-hieroglyphic-stairway/">Here</a>'s a little more info and a better picture. <a href="http://mayaruins.com/copan/a1_1138.html">This</a> is another really good picture of it.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
Photos of Copán</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHS-Oggh6u3NwCatkNMI6wkmmf9HttKqTleRr353OGYIGF93h8BimJvr2zNzMYoLaVzZK3RNdX-pH5jwPx5ojpTh-_lHi2JPjNp6wa2zAEbL0eoh5KloiHVbT_Nvjh3zJsCMOkYvQUAxo/s1600/Copan+9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHS-Oggh6u3NwCatkNMI6wkmmf9HttKqTleRr353OGYIGF93h8BimJvr2zNzMYoLaVzZK3RNdX-pH5jwPx5ojpTh-_lHi2JPjNp6wa2zAEbL0eoh5KloiHVbT_Nvjh3zJsCMOkYvQUAxo/s320/Copan+9.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">This is the main square that was a social center of the town<br />
and and the white building is a church.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-right: 1em; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieuaio7Yx_heW8IwV-7OivId6OXvJ7Q_rSw1IgQFyj5bOXIaibgNX-GIlqiStgjUmFLoupuA6J9ykRFr8XBgtyjCDKZnQbmB_laFg4wZbbqlPWC-Xpx9AC1OyrE6Woo6nTVbuXN1i_Erk/s1600/Copan+8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieuaio7Yx_heW8IwV-7OivId6OXvJ7Q_rSw1IgQFyj5bOXIaibgNX-GIlqiStgjUmFLoupuA6J9ykRFr8XBgtyjCDKZnQbmB_laFg4wZbbqlPWC-Xpx9AC1OyrE6Woo6nTVbuXN1i_Erk/s320/Copan+8.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">One of the Copán streets with a red mototaxi<br />
driving off. (The mountains!!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-right: 1em; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWmNVB5obJk7ds69JJupiNWH_f7e55qx0byQORDm_U5HV63jCzNrpxj08avcRcEZdpDSubn6DqhZD5ZwR-gund42ZhAbxEw5VNaUW85Dvhfy9jvgyOWsvtXdcWsdu585REJBTTCgsDPI/s1600/Copan+10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWmNVB5obJk7ds69JJupiNWH_f7e55qx0byQORDm_U5HV63jCzNrpxj08avcRcEZdpDSubn6DqhZD5ZwR-gund42ZhAbxEw5VNaUW85Dvhfy9jvgyOWsvtXdcWsdu585REJBTTCgsDPI/s320/Copan+10.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Another street that shows how steep some of them were!<br />
A mototaxi or truck would tackle this hill without a problem<br />
A few friends we met called it "El Diablo."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRZGPycL3RLqavetB_KAIbB3OUeleQ231EIbu1czE4hHVBJLnvA-w0r06Hjka9XGiuPXjjjKnWzihy5FXdZg7dKLur8oqeWoh3Luo6F4mrAC0pMa6dvN3-xKPCNwJeDzwwMao9KVS_Ss/s1600/Copan+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRZGPycL3RLqavetB_KAIbB3OUeleQ231EIbu1czE4hHVBJLnvA-w0r06Hjka9XGiuPXjjjKnWzihy5FXdZg7dKLur8oqeWoh3Luo6F4mrAC0pMa6dvN3-xKPCNwJeDzwwMao9KVS_Ss/s320/Copan+4.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Me! With the Río de Copán and a pretty sunset.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
¡Hasta pronto!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-32847762021399806162013-08-23T14:11:00.002-07:002013-08-23T14:21:51.147-07:00¡Trabajos!We found out about jobs yesterday! Of the six of us, four are working in the school here on site at Amigos. It is comprised mostly of Amigos kids, grades preschool through sixth, and a few children from the outside community. It's pretty necessary that we have our own school. In the neighboring village, there is only a one-room schoolhouse with a single teacher and 44 children. In our school, the student to teacher ratio varies, but some of the classes are as small as 8 or 9 children and the largest are around 18. After 6th grade, the kids go to a <i>colegio</i>, middle school and high school, that is a 30-minute walk away in the larger town of Macuelizo (also where we go to Mass on Sundays).<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The school will be where I spend most of my time this year. The other volunteers have more clear-cut jobs, but I'm going to be more of a jack-of-all trades this year. The best way to tell you is probably to list my responsibilities:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Librarian/ Library Teacher - My compulsive book hoarding finally has a productive outlet! I'm going to be in charge of the Amigos school library this year! The volunteer who came before me got it amazingly organized. A lot of my work will be organizing all the new books that are always coming in and managing check-outs and book returns. I'll also be teaching library classes an as-yet undetermined number of times per week, but I'll most likely have 4th, 5th and 6th grade possibly twice a week.</li>
<li>6th Grade English (as a second language) teacher - I'll only have this job through the end of the Honduran school year, which is in November. I'll have a class of eight 6th grade boys possibly up to 4 days a week for 45 minutes. I already love all the students in the class. They are really eager to learn and are all just really good kids. I was introduced to the class yesterday and several of them approached me later in the day to say how excited they were. I know 6th grade boys can be a devious bunch, but for now I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt!</li>
<li>One-on-one special ed teacher - We have a really special little girl here who just doesn't fit into any of the other classes at the school. She's 12 years old and has special needs, so for two hours a day I'll be working with her one-on-one on basic school objectives and life skills. Over the past few weeks I already fell in love with her. I know this is going to be a big challenge, but I'm really excited to work with her, and I think it'll be very rewarding.</li>
<li>Pre-school teacher's aide - Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays for an hour an additional 3 young children will be added to the pre-school class taught by another of the volunteers. This is to begin to acclimate these young children to the classroom while they're still too young to be in the class full-time. During that time, I'll be working with the teacher. I'll probably bring my special needs student with me to these classes as well so that she can have a classroom experience. It's all a big experiment, but we'll see how it works.<a name='more'></a></li>
</ul>
<div>
Those are the biggest things but there are a couple other responsibilities I have as well. When new children come to the <i>hogar</i> I'll have them in a classroom until it's been determined which class is the best fit for them. I also may end up teaching specials, specifically Music (!) which would be amazing.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Other side-jobs will be decided in a month or two when we've all settled into a schedule with our main jobs. These will include things like social media and communications work, service trip planning, special projects, etc. The whole community also has a few things we are responsible for together, such as taking the kids to the nearby village on their birthdays, cooking a meal for the whole <i>hogar</i> once a month, planning a spirituality night for the whole <i>hogar</i> once a month, maintaining a bulletin board in the <i>comedor</i> (thanks RA!), and helping plan and run weekend activities. We each will also have a case-load of kids we are responsible for checking in with periodically, to make sure that none of the children here fall through the cracks. As a community of volunteers, we also have meals together twice a week and have weekly community and spirituality nights.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Needless to say, it's going to be a busy year! I'm most nervous about all the teaching; I don't have any experience! But everything needs to start at some point and there are lots of resources here I can tap into. I'm also really excited about my jobs. They are all things I was interested in, and, to be honest, this crazy mess of responsibilities was my first choice!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thanks for all of the prayers. We have the next few days to plan and we all begin teaching and doing our different jobs this coming Thursday, so continued prayers are appreciated.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
¡Hasta pronto!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
P.S. pictures of Copán and the ruins coming soon! </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-77779166786599538462013-08-18T13:03:00.000-07:002013-08-23T14:22:41.118-07:00Beginning Life at Amigos<br />
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Sorry it's been awhile, but life since last Saturday has been a total whirlwind as we begin to settle into life at this amazing, terrifying, intimidating, beautiful place. The last week has been orientation for us new volunteers and when there aren't sessions planned we've been trying to use every spare moment to interact with the kids and begin to get to know them, and to get to know each other.</div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
So what can I tell you about life here? As of this week there are 91 kids living at the <i>hogar</i> (home) and that number is going to grow in the next few weeks. They range in age from 1 and a half to mid-20's. They are mostly boys, but in 2012 they accepted their first girl and there are now at least 10 of them. The process has been slow but rewarding as we all try to meet them, and frustrating as we try to remember their names, but I feel like I'm making progress!</div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The thing that has struck me the most and that I now realize will be a process throughout this entire year, has been realizing just how much these kids have been through. The friendliest, most outgoing, sweetest kid here has been through hell to get to this place. The current volunteers tell us the kids who live at Amigos are here because they were in the Honduran child welfare system, but it's a very broken system in many ways so being "in it" means the situation must have been very bad. It's one thing to hear about or read about abuse, and it's another thing entirely to know a face and a name and the beginnings of a personality and then begin to think about what might have occurred in this child's past (and then add 90).</div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
So many of them have already worked their way into my heart, and I know that will only continue as the year goes on; that they will continue to steal my heart with their vibrant personalities and uniqueness and silly ways and virtues; and break it with the sadness of their stories; and be frustrating and annoying in all the ways kids usually are. Needless to say the week has been a roller-coaster already.</div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I have several stories to tell, but they'll have to wait for future posts! To give a sense of the timeline, we're continuing orientation into this week and the current volunteers leave this coming Tuesday. We will be assigned our jobs on Wednesday or Thursday and our first day of non-orientation is this coming Friday. Hopefully once we're in a bit more of a solid schedule I'll have more time to post! I want to tell you about the layout of the grounds here, and the kids' daily schedules, and some of the amazing things that have happened this week. But finding time will be tough, because already I can feel my priorities tipping more and more entirely towards the kids.</div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
¡Hasta pronto!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-67209018068150055882013-08-10T08:07:00.001-07:002013-08-10T08:07:06.499-07:00Adiós a una Ciudad Nueva<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGMZM2I6P9IhrKNJ4JlJwRK5m4vD3Z-pXRl0BSOjtqyv0qEGUiz4XezTgXr8QUW1pa4CxBX1AT3Z2IaG-d3F6YzH6M8OG569bv9-FAeJKzKlPYIrv0tIAX29QuVVeJ25MkZEvS6V-txJ0/s1600/copan.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGMZM2I6P9IhrKNJ4JlJwRK5m4vD3Z-pXRl0BSOjtqyv0qEGUiz4XezTgXr8QUW1pa4CxBX1AT3Z2IaG-d3F6YzH6M8OG569bv9-FAeJKzKlPYIrv0tIAX29QuVVeJ25MkZEvS6V-txJ0/s320/copan.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />The streets of Copán Ruínas are cobbled with multi-colored stones and lined with multi-colored houses. The colors on every street are what stand out the most to me: pinks and lime greens, yellows and light blues. Roofs are sometimes corrugated steel but, more often, are large, red, almost Mediterranean-style concrete tiles. Many of the houses have gates facing the street that open into small courtyards, and often the windows on the street are open, with a thin curtain waving in the breeze. <br /><br /> The second thing you notice after the colors are the trees and plants. There is vegetation everywhere, tumbling out of windows, climbing in vines up walls, filling courtyards and gardens, bursting into more color with flowers. The trees are tropical – there are all kinds of varieties of palm trees – and they all seem to have fruits on them. Mangos and avocados are recognizable, but many of the fruits are new to me: tiny green ones of all different sizes, large green balls the size of a softball or larger. <br /><br /> Dogs wander about the streets and sometimes in and out of the homes. They bark and howl at each other all night. The other nocturnal pests are the roosters who crow continuously throughout the night (and during the day, too) with their ridiculously pompous squawks that still make me laugh – when I’m not trying to sleep. (To talk about the roosters, I’ve used the word for “yell” or “scream” to describe what they’re doing [<i>gritar</i>], but I’m always corrected to use the verb for “to sing” [<i>cantar</i>] – it’s the rooster’s “song” here, not its “squawk.” I love that.) <br /><a name='more'></a><br /> It’s not unusual to see a horse trotting by with its rider. Red moto-taxis zip around corners (if they’re empty, they’ll always call out “Taxi? Taxi?” as they pass.) The streets are hilly here, and there are one or two that seem to defy the laws of physics when cars drive on them. They seem to rise up straight in front of you at 45-degree angles, but trucks and motor-cycles and the occasional SUV chug up them without a second thought. Every time I’m at the bottom of one of those hills and see a car about to make the plunge, I marvel at the trust all of us street-walkers place in brakes. The most disconcerting thing is the police trucks that drive around with soldiers in uniform sitting in the truck bed nonchalantly toting their huge guns. The guards outside the bank or that we’ve seen near some of the farms are the same way, long, frightening-looking rifles slung across their backs or held casually in their hands. <br /><br /> The Parque Central, a large, open plaza, is the social center of town where people sit chatting in groups or play games or just stroll through. All throughout the city, but especially here, small children will approach with black plastic bags full of hand-made, brightly patterned corn-husk dolls and hold them up to you with their big brown eyes. The other girls who have been here longer have learned a few of their names, and it makes all the difference to know who these children are and say hello, instead of feeling as though you’re always turning them away. (There’s only so many corn-husk dolls a person can buy!) They come from La Encantada, which, I think, is an indigenous community outside Copán up in the mountains. On the night we went to dinner at the Canadian couple’s farm, we walked a long way down the same path the children use with a brother and sister who sell the dolls. They were sweet kids and said they enjoyed school and making dolls. I can’t imagine what life is like where they live. We walked outside of Copán about a half hour on that path; they said they had much further to go. <br /><br /> The streets that fan out from the Parque are lined with shops, but are also full of street vendors selling jewelry on long tables under white tents, or cooking food to sell, or offering all kinds of strange fruits and vegetables to passerby. Some vendors also go door-to-door with their empanadas or tamalitos or fruits, and both at the school and at the house where I’m staying, they are welcomed in to sell their wares. <br /><br /> I’m soaking up the sights and sounds and feel of this city because today is my last day. It’s amazing how quickly the week has passed and to think that this place, that I’m just starting to appreciate, will be replaced with another new place that I’ll have to begin to grow comfortable in all over again. I’m really going to miss my house family. The youngest daughter is 12 and reminds me so much of my sisters. She wrote me a note and gave me her e-mail address and a hug last night in preparation for me leaving this morning! And I so admire the mother of the house, Orfilia. She is the oldest in her family of nine children and her house is where she takes care of both of her parents and also, as I saw this week, is the meeting point for all of her siblings scattered throughout Honduras and other countries. She has been so kind to me, and the food has been truly amazing. I wish I had time and space to describe it all! Maybe I’ll add another subheading to this blog with the riquisimo foods I come across. I was so surprised by how much I love the food here! <br /><br /> My whole experience this week has felt like a surreal kind of vacation. There was a lot of adjusting to be done and there were of course the mornings of language school and a lot of Spanish practice; but overall, it’s been a nice time. I know everything is about to change and the real work I’m here to do is about to begin. I’m anxious about what’s to come, but also excited to get back to the children and begin the work of building relationships, as much as that scares me. <br /><br /> The good news is we have two weeks of training and orientation ahead of us, which is very comforting. Last night kicked off the orientation with nothing more than a prayer. What a perfect way to start. Everything seems really big and scary, and the prayer was the perfect way to remind me that I’m not doing this alone, and that that is the most important thing to remember. <br /><br /> I’m just gonna stop apologizing for length. If, by the way, you are interested in what the sayings included in the last post meant, check out the new tab at the top of the page for Hondureñismos. It’s full of good sayings and some jokes I’ve heard this week at school and elsewhere and I hope to add to it throughout the year! <br /><br /> Thanks so much for all the prayers and support. Our whole volunteer community (finally all six of us are here and know one another!) I’m sure will continue to need them as we start orientation. <br /><br /> ¡Hasta pronto!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2316659650391936133.post-4744998364157531492013-08-07T12:58:00.002-07:002013-08-08T14:01:00.070-07:00A Visit to the Mayan Temples<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTitXqMb2LoUtF0p1-dPZIc2zWzEPsYYdDVc5ncyMlYbAbFtFGdo3Cs9_ITC4Qis0RppLw9AieP-fO6dRC1TwHVa6xTHCamxXJ1CPClYKOie2Fxfyxcw67qSW8XZS-EdnlivIus1h6utI/s1600/copan+ruinas-macaws.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTitXqMb2LoUtF0p1-dPZIc2zWzEPsYYdDVc5ncyMlYbAbFtFGdo3Cs9_ITC4Qis0RppLw9AieP-fO6dRC1TwHVa6xTHCamxXJ1CPClYKOie2Fxfyxcw67qSW8XZS-EdnlivIus1h6utI/s1600/copan+ruinas-macaws.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
The name of the city where I’m staying is Copán Ruínas, and there’s a good reason for that. Yesterday I visited the Mayan ruins for which this city is famous. Tourists come from all over the world to see them. I have a ton of pictures of my own (the one above is from el internet - though I really did see those birds!), but I brought the wrong cord to Copán with me and I can’t get them onto my computer. You’ll just have to try to imagine and I promise to get the pictures up here as soon as I get back to Amigos! <br />
<br />
Apparently the tall pyramid ruins in nearby Guatemala (as in a 20-minute drive) are also very famous, and our tour guide made the distinction this way: The ruins in Guatemala are the New York of the Mayans, with buildings impressive as sky scrapers; but the ruins at Copán are the Paris, the capital of art and culture (sorry to all you New Yorkers who read this).<br />
<br />
The story of how we had a guide at all is worth telling. The woman who sold us our tickets around 2:30 said the museum, which had come highly recommended, closed at 4 and the ruins at 4:30, so we ought to see the museum first and then go to the ruins. We followed her advice and at about 3:20 headed over to the make-shift building near the road to hire a guide, but when we got there, we learned that the last guide had left for the day because, in reality, the ruins close at 4.<br />
<br />
We were understandably pretty frustrated. All of a sudden this small boy, probably about 10 or 11 years old, materialized near us. He spoke vey rapid Honduran Spanish and said something about helping us find a guide. We politely turned him down and began to walk off in the direction of the ruins to see what we could before they closed.<br />
<a name='more'></a>No sooner had we hit the main path to the ruins than the boy was by our side, rapidly and Honduranly telling us that he would take us to the guide that had just left at 3 with a group of only two people; he knew where to find him; the guide’s name was Juan Carlos; the guide spoke very good English. We were only getting about every other word, but we certainly weren’t getting rid of this guy.<br />
<br />
<div>
So we followed him into the ruins site, and it was amazing. Like you see in books, a broad green field with stony pyramids and misshapen sculptures sprouting up everywhere. Nervously we followed as he led us up the side of one of the pyramids, but as soon as we got to the top, sure enough, there was Juan Carlos with his group of two. We joined the group and had our tour after all, and our friend came along, too.<br />
<br />
We asked Juan Carlos (his name is in here because he wanted the publicity – if you’re ever in Copán, you know who to look up for your tour) if the boy worked for him, and he said no, he was a friend. The boy has seven brothers and sisters and a single mother, Juan Carlos told us, so he sometimes let the boy help out and gave him food. The boy said he could give the tours himself, he had heard it all so many times; but the whole time, he followed us, listening attentively.<br />
<br />
So, the ruins. We learned a ton of interesting facts about the Mayans. For example, the king would drink crocodile’s blood and chocolate, for fertility. He could have as many as 18 wives; the most important among them was the one with the most money; the second most important was the one he loved (the rest were for entertainment, because, you know, the Mayans didn’t have TV back then, Juan Carlos explained). Some kings lived long into their 80s (and bear in mind, this is like 500 BC!), but the poor lived to an average of 35 years old, worn out from hard work (building those temples and monuments was a grueling task) and poor food. We learned a couple new phrases, too, on the tour: <i>Sin maíz, no hay país</i>, and, <i>La esperanza no llena, pero mantiene</i>. I’ll let you figure those out yourselves. Maybe the answers will be in the next post. :)<br />
<br />
When I’m able to post the pictures, I’ll give you all more details about the ruins themselves, and you’ll get to see how beautiful these mountains are. What stood out to me was the brutality of this ancient culture – anyone who has seen the sacrificial altar with its small canal for human blood will tell you so – but, at the same time, how incredibly advanced it was, and how this brutality and this great intellectual achievement could exist side by side.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, things are still going well with my host family and every day I learn a little more about them and their lives. Life here might seem very new and different and sometimes strange to me right now, but the more I get to know them the old cliché holds true, and there’s really nothing new under the sun. They may eat and work and do dishes in ways that are completely foreign to me (and a different kind of poverty is part of that), but life is really not so different when it comes to the things that really make it; things like relationships and family, tragedy and joy.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, I promised a shorter post and I haven’t delivered. These are also super close together. I expect my posts to gradually grow further and further apart, especially once I start work at the hogar, but enjoy it while you can, Mom!<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Hasta pronto.<br />
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07667554048060402694noreply@blogger.com0