Some very good days this week, especially Friday and yesterday. But we'll get to them in due time.
The news that I killed chickens still is in my mind. I'm mostly over it, though the one chicken that squawked in protest as I began cutting its neck is kind of haunting.
Aaaaanyway, Monday, day after the feast of St. Francis (we celebrated it on Sunday and it was a big deal), we went up to the Capuchin Postulant House in Ñaña to partake in their celebratory luncheon. It was a bountiful and delicious lunch, but it was even more cool to see the Capuchins all there, because they were genuinely glad to hang out together and celebrate that fraternal bond. I got to see Hermano Polo smile a bit more, which is nice, because he usually has to wear his stern or his very stern face at the Ciudad. Of course, when the subject turned to how to kill various animals painlessly, I kind of wished that lunch had happened beforehand. Definitely not a conversation I expected to have.
After that, I returned and worked in the Panadería, "helping" with the Pannetone-making. I mostly just followed the guy who knew the most around and he would occasionally tell me to do things, watch me do them, say, "No, no, Michael," show me a different way, then have me do something else. I was pretty effective at slamming cubes of lard and margarine into the table and proceeding to mix them together, which, along with my height, slowness at speaking, and hairy features, simply further contributes to a widespread (no factual basis for this) rumor among the folks here that I am a Neanderthal. I got to help add the fruit and raisins to the dough a couple of times...one time part of the plastic bag got stuck in the mixer and went into the dough. The next day I was helping bag pannetone (see a connection? There actually isn't one, I said I wanted to see what the next steps in the process were, so they assigned me there). It's a tough thing, feeling like I have to constantly thank people for their patience. They're very good-natured, even in the midst of having to get stuff done, though, so that's very cool.
So that was Monday afternoon and Tuesday the whole day. Wednesday, I painted goal posts in the AM and helped dig a hole for depositing rocks and debris in the PM. Thursday was a no-school-day, so I basically just acted as supervisor for the various things the kids had to do. I still struggle with what I'm doing here, because there are just so many moments that I forget that it's not about me and I'm here for the kids. Sharing what I have as a basic human being and receiving from them the same, stripping away academic smarts (though it sometimes helps), technological knowledge (because it's kind of different here), and simply giving and receiving who we ARE...it's a lot to take in. I'm not sure if that made any sense, but hopefully by now you're used to what I write not making a lot of sense.
But yeah, the current struggle is having myself follow suit with the idea of being here for them, being myself for them, and improving myself for them, because the idea of getting to the core (well, more or less, that's a lifelong journey) of who I am is a beautiful notion, but it's rather uncomfortable. Thus, my mind and my body protest very vocally. In the midst of this struggle came Friday, a day I really just wanted to not be there so that the kids would go out for the weekend and I could just veg. In the morning, I worked in the granja with the hens, feeding them and collecting eggs, but then I was called over to help clear debris, i.e., very large portions of tree. I had a little forklift (not one that you drive, but one whose lever you manually pump. They call it a "pato" here, which means "duck" literally, which I find hilarious), but it was a difficult slog. I was by myself doing this, and kinda just being an emotional turd, especially when I was told that I had to move the stuff farther away than I had, which meant going back and lifting everything by hand and carrying it to the new destination. When lunch rolled around, I felt a lot better (food can do that), and was honest enough to realize I was just bitter that I couldn't go on break early and had to plod along right up till the lunch hour. What? Do work? Who'd have thunk? That afternoon, I was assigned to finish the job, but I had the help of three kids. Here's where Friday became amazing. They were good workers, but also freaking hilarious. They would pile as many branches as they could onto the lift, then one would sit on the pile while the other two would lie down on it, and the two would push the lift forward with their legs while the one would steer. It was amusing to watch and I wish I'd had my camera. It was just so nice to have people there, and light-hearted ones, at that.
Saturday, which I've come to dread because the last two weeks it's meant cleaning the Comedor, which isn't a small task and usually leaves me frustrated with the kids who don't work too hard, was an interesting surprise, because Hno Polo asked me to accompany the kids to a session that some folks specializing in education were holding on punctuality. I tell ya, playing ice-breakers in another language is an interesting experience. Also, I found myself repeatedly thinking that punctuality is a nice quality, but so is knowing how to pay attention without opening your mouth, i.e., I was angry with some of my kids. They tried telling me afterward that that is just how people act according to custom, but I responded that the people who led the 5-year-olds have been chewing the little ones out for acting in a similar fashion. So maybe it's the custom for 3-year-olds, but for everybody else, it's just a sign that you don't have respect. They weren't impressed, because what does the gringo know? but they had to listen to me, because nobody wants to make the Neanderthal raise his voice, because he will either be intimidating or tell Hno Polo what's going on (or both), and those aren't pleasant options. The boys were also shameless, because the majority of the people in this presentation and workshop were girls, and so they would misbehave just so that the girls would grab their hands and tell them to be quiet. They were also very excited when one of the girls was the same age as me. They told me several times that she was within 5 months of my age, and they told her the same thing. The both of us being exasperated and entertained at the same time was the result. She asked me, "So, they're hard to handle, huh?" And I said, "Yeah, they're a bunch of miscreants," (in Spanish, clearly), and the kids were so overjoyed that I knew Spanish. I had been issuing threats to them all day, yet my ability to joke around was far more worthy of realizing I can sometimes speak the language. Hmmm.
So a couple of weeks ago we went to this restaurant Rustica which is on the beach, and I just have to think about it more...The night is dark enough and the sky uniformly cloudy that at a certain point, you can't distinguish the water from the sky. It's amazing what the clouds will do. I'll get pictures up someday to show you guys what Ciudad's view of San Juan de Miraflores looks like on a regular day, maybe in the morning, and what it looks like on a sunny day. When the daylight is able to pierce through the clouds, you see the city for what it really is. It's not just a bunch of hills completely covered with houses and radio towers and the like: when the sun pierces through, a veil is lifted and you can see the graceful green mountains sloping into the hills, the green intact and unsullied by humans, though still covered in a bit of a haze that's unavoidable in a city of about 8 million people. On the days of gray, the days of haze, when it's chilly and unpleasant and I feel totally isolated, I know that summer's around the corner and brings a a heck of heat and illumination. The same thing with the beach and really with the whole city: when the sun is out, it's ten billion times more amazing. I pray that the days I have like Friday morning can have the same hope in joy and meaning as I have knowledge and assurance of sunny days and gorgeous vistas, that the days when there's light are a closer approximation to what the place is than the days without it.
Sappy enough for you? I'm choking over here. But really, I do hope for that.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Y Ahora Soy Matador
The big story of this week is that I killed chickens. I won't go into much detail, seeing as some viewers might object (come to think of it, I object), but suffice it to say that I have wrung their necks and decapitated them. And plucked their feathers afterward. I did not butcher them any further, which I consider a blessing. However, it will be almost impossible to get the chicken blood off of my sandals, so I'll carry around a little piece of that wherever I go. And I'm sure that they will call upon my killing services again in the future.
I was SO hoping that I'd get by with just put the live chickens in bags, feeding the egg-yielding hens, and plucking feathers. The feather-plucking wound up being my downfall, though: I had never done that before, so I was a little slow, and Hermano David noticed and said, "Miguel...ahora, solo matar." And in my mind, I grimly thought, "Sí, qué suerte..." knowing that it was just too good a stroke of luck not to have to bring a knife to chickens' necks.
I've managed to eat chicken since then. I have to will myself to think about the trauma of it all. Trust me, when I let my mind go there, it's horrific and makes me shudder. But seeing as my food options are rather low, I'll just have to shudder about it on days when we have lentils for lunch.
I have a whole long line of thoughts about this, but they're all semiformed and disjointed. Not that that's much of a break from tradition.
On a more food-FRIENDLY basis, the word this week: Papas a la Huancaína y Arroz con Pollo. Dude. The former is some boiled potatoes put on a lettuce leaf with a spicy cheese sauce (hardboiled eggs and olives optional), the latter is just really good chicken with some rice that has great flavor. OH! Also, anticuchos de corazón. Beef-heart shish-kebab. Slightly chewy, but oh so delicious.
Even with how much I gush about meat, I could totally see being a vegetarian when I come back to the states. I'd have to find a way to combat the constant hunger that I would feel, but I know I'd be fine. We'll see.
Other events: I have decided to forgo the whole shaving and hair-cutting thing for a while. We're not sure how long. Maybe all my time here. I'll keep you updated. It's already somewhat disheveled and I'm not really socially presentable, and that's before I need to comb my hair back and possibly put it in a ponytail. Yikes.
October marks the beginning of Pannetone season at Ciudad de los Niños. The Panadería is open 24/7 to churn 'em out (they make a lot of their money by selling these things). Thus, the Panadería smells delicious almost all the time.
I really am glad for the older guys who're in San Juan with me. They're patient with my Spanish and willing to converse. Also, they have a level of maturity that's just right, so I don't feel quite so isolated as I might were I the only guy my age in San Juan. The 13/14/15 year olds need to grow up quickly in certain ways (i.e., poverty, drug issues, sex issues, etc.), but they're still not quite there. Some are more mature than others, which is almost deceiving sometimes, because they'll be a real ally to me one moment, then they'll act their age the next, and it's almost more a threat to patience than the kids who're consistently acting like awkward adolescents. It's beautiful to work with them, though, because they're so awkward that they can't help but be genuine. I can see through most airs that they put on to look more mature and impressive, and they can be really fun.
It's weird, though, being so consistently immersed in a group of people that's so definitely NOT my age. I'm so used to just being in a group of cohorts that it's slightly off-putting. It's a great way of discovering that I'm not as mature in some ways that I thought and that I'm more mature in others. I'd elaborate, but I'm not sure what I'm saying. I can genuinely say that I miss Fall, but I'm glad for the sunshine today.
Oh!And to make this perhaps even more long-winded than usual, I have been reading this book called The Sacrament of Salvation by Fr. Paul McPartlan. I had to read portions of it for his class in the fall of 2008, and now I'm dedicating myself to reading it all, especially now that Senioritis isn't an issue and I'm not bored of school. The book is about Eucharistic Ecclesiology, which I find fascinating. It's been a way to rejuvenate a somewhat stale taste I had in my mouth regarding the Mass.
Now, maybe the folks who went to Catholic University already think about this regularly, but I just find it amazing how often we go to Mass and don't even wrestle to find a deeper meaning in what we're doing. I mean, clearly we're human, so we're not really ABLE to grasp its meaning in its entirety, but dang. It IS about community, but it's deeper than the community of people who eat coffee and donuts and occasionally are impressed with the homily. It's about love, but not about a love that God and Christ had for us and each other to such an extent that led to the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ that stops there that we're simply to admire for an hour.
I keep coming back to this one verse that Fr. McPartlan's book mentions: "You have approached Mount Zion and the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and countless angels in festal gathering, and the assembly of the firstborn enrolled in heaven, and God the judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect, and Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and the sprinkled blood that speaks more eloquently than that of Abel." (Heb 12:22-24, NAB). Some versions say "graciously" instead of eloquently. My thinking simply isn't working today, so I'll just say: I really pray for the grace of awareness during Mass, because that phrase has opened up a world of strength, of possibility, and of courage...and now what I need is the courage and openness to jump into it. What are you saying "Amen" to at Communion?
I was SO hoping that I'd get by with just put the live chickens in bags, feeding the egg-yielding hens, and plucking feathers. The feather-plucking wound up being my downfall, though: I had never done that before, so I was a little slow, and Hermano David noticed and said, "Miguel...ahora, solo matar." And in my mind, I grimly thought, "Sí, qué suerte..." knowing that it was just too good a stroke of luck not to have to bring a knife to chickens' necks.
I've managed to eat chicken since then. I have to will myself to think about the trauma of it all. Trust me, when I let my mind go there, it's horrific and makes me shudder. But seeing as my food options are rather low, I'll just have to shudder about it on days when we have lentils for lunch.
I have a whole long line of thoughts about this, but they're all semiformed and disjointed. Not that that's much of a break from tradition.
On a more food-FRIENDLY basis, the word this week: Papas a la Huancaína y Arroz con Pollo. Dude. The former is some boiled potatoes put on a lettuce leaf with a spicy cheese sauce (hardboiled eggs and olives optional), the latter is just really good chicken with some rice that has great flavor. OH! Also, anticuchos de corazón. Beef-heart shish-kebab. Slightly chewy, but oh so delicious.
Even with how much I gush about meat, I could totally see being a vegetarian when I come back to the states. I'd have to find a way to combat the constant hunger that I would feel, but I know I'd be fine. We'll see.
Other events: I have decided to forgo the whole shaving and hair-cutting thing for a while. We're not sure how long. Maybe all my time here. I'll keep you updated. It's already somewhat disheveled and I'm not really socially presentable, and that's before I need to comb my hair back and possibly put it in a ponytail. Yikes.
October marks the beginning of Pannetone season at Ciudad de los Niños. The Panadería is open 24/7 to churn 'em out (they make a lot of their money by selling these things). Thus, the Panadería smells delicious almost all the time.
I really am glad for the older guys who're in San Juan with me. They're patient with my Spanish and willing to converse. Also, they have a level of maturity that's just right, so I don't feel quite so isolated as I might were I the only guy my age in San Juan. The 13/14/15 year olds need to grow up quickly in certain ways (i.e., poverty, drug issues, sex issues, etc.), but they're still not quite there. Some are more mature than others, which is almost deceiving sometimes, because they'll be a real ally to me one moment, then they'll act their age the next, and it's almost more a threat to patience than the kids who're consistently acting like awkward adolescents. It's beautiful to work with them, though, because they're so awkward that they can't help but be genuine. I can see through most airs that they put on to look more mature and impressive, and they can be really fun.
It's weird, though, being so consistently immersed in a group of people that's so definitely NOT my age. I'm so used to just being in a group of cohorts that it's slightly off-putting. It's a great way of discovering that I'm not as mature in some ways that I thought and that I'm more mature in others. I'd elaborate, but I'm not sure what I'm saying. I can genuinely say that I miss Fall, but I'm glad for the sunshine today.
Oh!And to make this perhaps even more long-winded than usual, I have been reading this book called The Sacrament of Salvation by Fr. Paul McPartlan. I had to read portions of it for his class in the fall of 2008, and now I'm dedicating myself to reading it all, especially now that Senioritis isn't an issue and I'm not bored of school. The book is about Eucharistic Ecclesiology, which I find fascinating. It's been a way to rejuvenate a somewhat stale taste I had in my mouth regarding the Mass.
Now, maybe the folks who went to Catholic University already think about this regularly, but I just find it amazing how often we go to Mass and don't even wrestle to find a deeper meaning in what we're doing. I mean, clearly we're human, so we're not really ABLE to grasp its meaning in its entirety, but dang. It IS about community, but it's deeper than the community of people who eat coffee and donuts and occasionally are impressed with the homily. It's about love, but not about a love that God and Christ had for us and each other to such an extent that led to the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ that stops there that we're simply to admire for an hour.
I keep coming back to this one verse that Fr. McPartlan's book mentions: "You have approached Mount Zion and the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and countless angels in festal gathering, and the assembly of the firstborn enrolled in heaven, and God the judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect, and Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and the sprinkled blood that speaks more eloquently than that of Abel." (Heb 12:22-24, NAB). Some versions say "graciously" instead of eloquently. My thinking simply isn't working today, so I'll just say: I really pray for the grace of awareness during Mass, because that phrase has opened up a world of strength, of possibility, and of courage...and now what I need is the courage and openness to jump into it. What are you saying "Amen" to at Communion?
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Thoughts
I thought I'd make a post, though I don't have much to say involving my week. Oh! I did go to Ñaña, which is a very cool town with a Capuchin Franciscan Postulant house. Beautiful! Very relaxing time there, beautiful mountain, and they have a ton of fruit trees. And a dog that really was too friendly: it followed me freaking EVERYWHERE.
Some random thoughts, though:
-When we in the US say, "That guy doesn't have the cajones, the huevos, whatever," and are using it as a substitution for "moxy," "guts," "balls," "nerve," or whatever, it sounds all cool and slangish, but I think we should take a minute and realize what these words truly mean. Next time you want to say that somebody lacks the cajones to do something, realize that you are saying that they lack the large boxes/drawers for the task. Now, it's used in some Spanish-speaking places as slang for what we've talked about, but I will never take you seriously (read: lies). But seriously, I crack up when I think of one of my friends saying that he didn't think another guy had the cajones to do a job well. "This guy lacks the boxes."
Huevos, by contrast, makes a little more sense. Literally "eggs," the idea that somebody is lacking eggs at least morphically makes sense in my head. But talking about not having the huevos...is there a recipe that we are needing to make? "You haven't got the huevos!" "You're right! My chickens died yesterday!"
-I feel a little bit like I'm in an episode of Arrested Development. Those who are fans might know my reference. Others...not so much. I'm commonly just referred to as "Hermano" here (it means "Brother"). In season 1, when Michael had an interest in his brother's girlfriend and she had one in him, Gob (the brother) comes up to Michael and says, "I think Marta is cheating on me...I heard her talking on the phone last night...she kept mentioning this guy's name...'Hermano, hermano.'" We who know what this means are amused. Meanwhile, the non-Spanish-speaking Bluth family is clueless. Anyway, I'm just called "Hermano" here, so if Michael Bluth ever were in search of "Hermano," he'd find me. I'd prefer it if Marta was looking for me, though.
-It is very hard to take even Hermano Polo seriously when he's giving a serious lecture when there's a small kitten batting his cincture around.
-I hate trying to understand people on cell phones in English...when people don't annunciate, I have problems. Now multiply this by 10 billion (based on scientific calculation) and you understand how I feel about talking to people on cell phones in Spanish.
-Ben Vincent once asked: "Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults do adultery?" I thought that if they did, we'd see some niche in the book market akin to the smutty romance novels you buy at the grocery store, except pertaining to the ecstatic experience of infancy. Then I forgot that infants are, for the most part, illiterate. So to answer the question, Ben, I don't know.
-We just went to hang out in Miraflores. We were hungry and waiting for Hno. Hugo, so we stopped at a bookstore. We proceeded to look at cookbooks. I feel that when you start fantasizing about food, you're either in a place of (if you can just STOP focusing on the broccoli salad) grace and able to appreciate what those who daily go without feel like, or you really need to eat more food.
-I once tried a detox diet that consisted of drinking just water, lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and grade b maple syrup. It was the worst decision of my life. I say it is worse than giving up gluten and meat for Advent AND my choice in hair length Sophomore year of high school. I dreamed about broccoli salad for 2 days, I kid you not. The detox did not last.
With that, and the fact that it's now past midnight where I am, I bid you a good night. I'm sorry that this blog post is vapid. I'll end it with a Deep Thought:
It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.
Thank you, Jack Handey.
Some random thoughts, though:
-When we in the US say, "That guy doesn't have the cajones, the huevos, whatever," and are using it as a substitution for "moxy," "guts," "balls," "nerve," or whatever, it sounds all cool and slangish, but I think we should take a minute and realize what these words truly mean. Next time you want to say that somebody lacks the cajones to do something, realize that you are saying that they lack the large boxes/drawers for the task. Now, it's used in some Spanish-speaking places as slang for what we've talked about, but I will never take you seriously (read: lies). But seriously, I crack up when I think of one of my friends saying that he didn't think another guy had the cajones to do a job well. "This guy lacks the boxes."
Huevos, by contrast, makes a little more sense. Literally "eggs," the idea that somebody is lacking eggs at least morphically makes sense in my head. But talking about not having the huevos...is there a recipe that we are needing to make? "You haven't got the huevos!" "You're right! My chickens died yesterday!"
-I feel a little bit like I'm in an episode of Arrested Development. Those who are fans might know my reference. Others...not so much. I'm commonly just referred to as "Hermano" here (it means "Brother"). In season 1, when Michael had an interest in his brother's girlfriend and she had one in him, Gob (the brother) comes up to Michael and says, "I think Marta is cheating on me...I heard her talking on the phone last night...she kept mentioning this guy's name...'Hermano, hermano.'" We who know what this means are amused. Meanwhile, the non-Spanish-speaking Bluth family is clueless. Anyway, I'm just called "Hermano" here, so if Michael Bluth ever were in search of "Hermano," he'd find me. I'd prefer it if Marta was looking for me, though.
-It is very hard to take even Hermano Polo seriously when he's giving a serious lecture when there's a small kitten batting his cincture around.
-I hate trying to understand people on cell phones in English...when people don't annunciate, I have problems. Now multiply this by 10 billion (based on scientific calculation) and you understand how I feel about talking to people on cell phones in Spanish.
-Ben Vincent once asked: "Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults do adultery?" I thought that if they did, we'd see some niche in the book market akin to the smutty romance novels you buy at the grocery store, except pertaining to the ecstatic experience of infancy. Then I forgot that infants are, for the most part, illiterate. So to answer the question, Ben, I don't know.
-We just went to hang out in Miraflores. We were hungry and waiting for Hno. Hugo, so we stopped at a bookstore. We proceeded to look at cookbooks. I feel that when you start fantasizing about food, you're either in a place of (if you can just STOP focusing on the broccoli salad) grace and able to appreciate what those who daily go without feel like, or you really need to eat more food.
-I once tried a detox diet that consisted of drinking just water, lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and grade b maple syrup. It was the worst decision of my life. I say it is worse than giving up gluten and meat for Advent AND my choice in hair length Sophomore year of high school. I dreamed about broccoli salad for 2 days, I kid you not. The detox did not last.
With that, and the fact that it's now past midnight where I am, I bid you a good night. I'm sorry that this blog post is vapid. I'll end it with a Deep Thought:
It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.
Thank you, Jack Handey.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Blastoff and Blasted In
This last week really flew by. Lots of adventures: Figuring out how to withdraw money (and getting charged far less than I thought I would), the end of language school, more adventures and misadventures with Peruvian cuisine...hooray. I really can't fathom that a month has gone by! I've started and finished language school! Wowza. Winter is ending, "Spring" is beginning.
Anyway, on to the adventures of this week. Monday was money day, so we spent some extra time in Miraflores post-language school to withdraw the funds. It wasn't really that exciting. The most exciting thing was that I didn't get charged for withdrawing from an ATM! However, I DID get charged for checking my account balance. I'm not quite sure how that works.
So then the week continued. Thursday, we decided to try this restaurant called Punto Azul for lunch. It's a somewhat cheap seafood restaurant that's actually more upscale than I thought, and it serves ridiculous portions. It was really an adventure! There was an interesting mixture of Spanish and English, because we were on all different levels, and my teachers (who are very cool, I might add) came along, too. I decided to try Cebiche Mixto. Cebiche, for those unacquainted, is a general name given for several different types of seafood. I've tried Cebiche Pescado and Mixto. Both of them involve cold seafood soaked in a lemon juice with raw red onions and served with a garnish of lettuce, some choclo (corn), yam, and more of the leche de tigre (which is the lemon juice mixture). I had the pescado (just fish) in its spicy variation last week. It was adorned with what looked like a cross-section of a red bell-pepper, so I ate the whole thing. Had I not liked spicy foods, this would have been a poor life choice. Liking them, it was only a surprising life choice. Anyway, Cebiche Mixto: fish is there, but you've also got calamari and octopus and something else. I've gotta say, octopus tentacles aren't half bad cold. Chewy, though.
I seem to talk about food disproportionately, but it's just such a different variety of foods! The fruits here are so different. Seriously, google "Charimoya," because it's not really something we have in the US. Yogurt is pretty much a drinkable commodity here: no spoons. Fun fact: yogurt comes in the plastic gallon and liter containers, but milk comes in plastic bags. I find this amusing. Soooo many different tastes and brands and ways of making things. Someday I'll go crazy in the potato chips section, because it's Perú, land of like 200 different potatoes.
While I'm on a food tangent, let me talk about Chicha Morada some more. Do we just not have purple corn in the US? If so, all is forgiven, but if not, I want to know who is responsible for keeping this beverage from the public at large. It's delicious, fairly nutricious, and a lifesaver if you don't want to drink soda in a Latin American country. So what gives? Are we seriously that afraid of purple stains? It can't be that, we give kids neon-colored popsicles.
Sooo...returning from the food talk (but with a promise to talk about more later), Friday was the last day of language school. To celebrate, Brooke (fellow classmate) baked cookies, Alyssa bought Inca Cola (which tastes to everybody but Peruvians like bubble gum, but that's because it must be the only place that Peruvians use the bubble-gum flavoring), and Rosa, our teacher, who will be leaving to pursue a Master's Degree in Spain, bought some more cookies. It was pretty fun, because we spent the discussion class asking each other questions like, "If you had an autobiography, what would the title be?" or "If you could date any celebrity, whom would you date and why?" It reminded me of the question prompts for the AP Spanish test way back in the day. Only this time I had fun answering the questions.
Oh! Wednesday was the end of the second trimester, so the kids received their grades. I got to look at every San Juan kid's grade (the 13-14 year olds) in order to enter them into an Excel spreadsheet. The way grades work here is slightly different from the US: They grade with a points system, the highest score being 20. For each subject, they get an overall evaluation ranging from 0 to 20. My job was to record the subjects' grades for each kid and then find each kids' GPA (as it were) for the trimester. Perhaps this was a nice introduction into a more real world for me, a guy who's been in private education all his life and been given the benefit of being in atmospheres of incredible intelligence (I have very, very smart friends). These grades were not so great. If you were to encounter a phrase "Masterpiece of an understatement," I think that that past sentence would probably be one of the example sentences. Jeez louise, man. I was so happy every time my fingers had to make the extra effort to type "18", because it was so rare. I was happy when I entered grades above 12. Dang.
It was a revealing moment for me. Some might wrongly assume that the grades were what gave me such pause. It wasn't like I realized, "Ah! I'm working with delinquent and/or dumb children." I will tell you to your face that you're wrong. What I encountered in those grades, and what was confirmed for me later on, was a sense of pessimism, of resignation, of grim reality that never was and probably never will be waiting for me at the end of my educational endeavors in the United States. People might get sick and tired of hearing about all of the opportunity that we have in the United States and how we take it for granted, and it's cliché to then mention Jairo from Guatemala who can't get an education or doesn't have much of a future post-education, but it's so flipping true. I wasn't aware that I had this particular assumption, but I suddenly realized that I was not here to bring the American dream of education to the deprived children. If you want to bring that dream to fruition, work with the school system, the culture, the government, while people with this ideal tutor kids and nurture them in a space encouraging that future with a life that confirms the encouragement. It's more than what 3 volunteers singlehandedly can do. So I'm not here to make them "A" students, because even if I do, what's the point? How do I bring hope to kids who face grim and difficult futures, and what kind of hope should that hope be?
Let me tell you, I've entered data before, and so I know that working in Microsoft Excel can be one of the more painful experiences in life (my life as a research apprentice, more or less). This was painful for a very different reason. I went to bed wondering, "So I'm not here to be their Messiah, because it's so far beyond my power. What in God's name am I here for, then? What the heck am I supposed to do?"
I'll interrupt here to say that I think that being in a foreign country for a prolonged period of time allows people to learn a lot about themselves. I'll venture to say that I've learned that I'm a far more kinesthetic learner than I thought. I always thought I was a mental kind of person, maybe pencil and paper when it came to math, but for that information to hop on the elevator and travel from the head to the heart, I need to live through experiences to make them concrete. One such example are any number of the Mother Theresa quotes, like, "God does not demand that you succeed, only that you try," or "There are no great works, just small works with great love," and things of that nature. Some people can read them and get it. I envy them. However, I'm being granted the boon and bane of experience in order to understand. The words of Theilhard de Jardin, "Above all, trust in the slow work of God," and of Bishop Ken Untener (though these words are often attributed to Oscar Romero):
It helps now and then to step back and take a long view.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of
saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession
brings perfection, no pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives include everything.
This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one
day will grow. We water the seeds already planted
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects
far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of
liberation in realizing this.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning,
a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord's
grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the
difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders, ministers, not
messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.
Ah, so that's what we're about! I love how that comes at the middle of the reflection, because it connects what's been said and what's being said. It comes together with the phrase "God is God and I'm not," and it was of enormous consolation to think of that. Pray, trust God, know that you won't do everything, that you'll inevitably do something silly or wrong because hey, you're human. Be yourself and be that well (name that saint!), know you're not God, but trust in His presence, believe that all will be well, pray for the hope in a certain future to get you through an uncertain and turbulent present. All will be well (I'm on a roll with quotations, this sentence was another saint).
Clearly I'm still in the process, because hey, that's life. I am still piecing together how to love, especially when it's rendered difficult by the kids I'm here to serve (which is when it's most worthy of the name love, I suppose). The day we went to Punto Azul, I got back from lunch and Hermano Polo was holding a town hall meeting. These happen daily. They are never, ever cheerful. And he's not the only one who does them. I understand that this is another culture, that they function far more on shame than on guilt, so it's theoretically more efficacious to publicly ridicule than privately guilt, but when that's all they ever hear (as I feel it is, and I feel it's pervasive), I have to wonder how effective that really is at doing anything other than confirming what people who live in a place like this, have few recourses, and have had rough childhoods have been told through society and possibly through family: they're not worth much. That was the confirming moment I had a couple of days ago. How do I tackle this misgiving? I need to talk with Fr. Hugo about it before I make any confrontations or even contemplate them, really.
With all the quotes, I really didn't mean to suggest that I have achieved Nirvana or really had everything make sense. I'm still struggling, am unsettled, and wanting to cry more than I have in a while. I've gotten attached to the kids, and I'm a softy, anyway.
What a way to begin working full-time, no? Hence the title. I just heard something akin to an explosion, so I ought to go and check that out, methinks. Much love and prayers, please pray for everybody here.
Anyway, on to the adventures of this week. Monday was money day, so we spent some extra time in Miraflores post-language school to withdraw the funds. It wasn't really that exciting. The most exciting thing was that I didn't get charged for withdrawing from an ATM! However, I DID get charged for checking my account balance. I'm not quite sure how that works.
So then the week continued. Thursday, we decided to try this restaurant called Punto Azul for lunch. It's a somewhat cheap seafood restaurant that's actually more upscale than I thought, and it serves ridiculous portions. It was really an adventure! There was an interesting mixture of Spanish and English, because we were on all different levels, and my teachers (who are very cool, I might add) came along, too. I decided to try Cebiche Mixto. Cebiche, for those unacquainted, is a general name given for several different types of seafood. I've tried Cebiche Pescado and Mixto. Both of them involve cold seafood soaked in a lemon juice with raw red onions and served with a garnish of lettuce, some choclo (corn), yam, and more of the leche de tigre (which is the lemon juice mixture). I had the pescado (just fish) in its spicy variation last week. It was adorned with what looked like a cross-section of a red bell-pepper, so I ate the whole thing. Had I not liked spicy foods, this would have been a poor life choice. Liking them, it was only a surprising life choice. Anyway, Cebiche Mixto: fish is there, but you've also got calamari and octopus and something else. I've gotta say, octopus tentacles aren't half bad cold. Chewy, though.
I seem to talk about food disproportionately, but it's just such a different variety of foods! The fruits here are so different. Seriously, google "Charimoya," because it's not really something we have in the US. Yogurt is pretty much a drinkable commodity here: no spoons. Fun fact: yogurt comes in the plastic gallon and liter containers, but milk comes in plastic bags. I find this amusing. Soooo many different tastes and brands and ways of making things. Someday I'll go crazy in the potato chips section, because it's Perú, land of like 200 different potatoes.
While I'm on a food tangent, let me talk about Chicha Morada some more. Do we just not have purple corn in the US? If so, all is forgiven, but if not, I want to know who is responsible for keeping this beverage from the public at large. It's delicious, fairly nutricious, and a lifesaver if you don't want to drink soda in a Latin American country. So what gives? Are we seriously that afraid of purple stains? It can't be that, we give kids neon-colored popsicles.
Sooo...returning from the food talk (but with a promise to talk about more later), Friday was the last day of language school. To celebrate, Brooke (fellow classmate) baked cookies, Alyssa bought Inca Cola (which tastes to everybody but Peruvians like bubble gum, but that's because it must be the only place that Peruvians use the bubble-gum flavoring), and Rosa, our teacher, who will be leaving to pursue a Master's Degree in Spain, bought some more cookies. It was pretty fun, because we spent the discussion class asking each other questions like, "If you had an autobiography, what would the title be?" or "If you could date any celebrity, whom would you date and why?" It reminded me of the question prompts for the AP Spanish test way back in the day. Only this time I had fun answering the questions.
Oh! Wednesday was the end of the second trimester, so the kids received their grades. I got to look at every San Juan kid's grade (the 13-14 year olds) in order to enter them into an Excel spreadsheet. The way grades work here is slightly different from the US: They grade with a points system, the highest score being 20. For each subject, they get an overall evaluation ranging from 0 to 20. My job was to record the subjects' grades for each kid and then find each kids' GPA (as it were) for the trimester. Perhaps this was a nice introduction into a more real world for me, a guy who's been in private education all his life and been given the benefit of being in atmospheres of incredible intelligence (I have very, very smart friends). These grades were not so great. If you were to encounter a phrase "Masterpiece of an understatement," I think that that past sentence would probably be one of the example sentences. Jeez louise, man. I was so happy every time my fingers had to make the extra effort to type "18", because it was so rare. I was happy when I entered grades above 12. Dang.
It was a revealing moment for me. Some might wrongly assume that the grades were what gave me such pause. It wasn't like I realized, "Ah! I'm working with delinquent and/or dumb children." I will tell you to your face that you're wrong. What I encountered in those grades, and what was confirmed for me later on, was a sense of pessimism, of resignation, of grim reality that never was and probably never will be waiting for me at the end of my educational endeavors in the United States. People might get sick and tired of hearing about all of the opportunity that we have in the United States and how we take it for granted, and it's cliché to then mention Jairo from Guatemala who can't get an education or doesn't have much of a future post-education, but it's so flipping true. I wasn't aware that I had this particular assumption, but I suddenly realized that I was not here to bring the American dream of education to the deprived children. If you want to bring that dream to fruition, work with the school system, the culture, the government, while people with this ideal tutor kids and nurture them in a space encouraging that future with a life that confirms the encouragement. It's more than what 3 volunteers singlehandedly can do. So I'm not here to make them "A" students, because even if I do, what's the point? How do I bring hope to kids who face grim and difficult futures, and what kind of hope should that hope be?
Let me tell you, I've entered data before, and so I know that working in Microsoft Excel can be one of the more painful experiences in life (my life as a research apprentice, more or less). This was painful for a very different reason. I went to bed wondering, "So I'm not here to be their Messiah, because it's so far beyond my power. What in God's name am I here for, then? What the heck am I supposed to do?"
I'll interrupt here to say that I think that being in a foreign country for a prolonged period of time allows people to learn a lot about themselves. I'll venture to say that I've learned that I'm a far more kinesthetic learner than I thought. I always thought I was a mental kind of person, maybe pencil and paper when it came to math, but for that information to hop on the elevator and travel from the head to the heart, I need to live through experiences to make them concrete. One such example are any number of the Mother Theresa quotes, like, "God does not demand that you succeed, only that you try," or "There are no great works, just small works with great love," and things of that nature. Some people can read them and get it. I envy them. However, I'm being granted the boon and bane of experience in order to understand. The words of Theilhard de Jardin, "Above all, trust in the slow work of God," and of Bishop Ken Untener (though these words are often attributed to Oscar Romero):
It helps now and then to step back and take a long view.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of
saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession
brings perfection, no pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives include everything.
This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one
day will grow. We water the seeds already planted
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects
far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of
liberation in realizing this.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning,
a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord's
grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the
difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders, ministers, not
messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.
Ah, so that's what we're about! I love how that comes at the middle of the reflection, because it connects what's been said and what's being said. It comes together with the phrase "God is God and I'm not," and it was of enormous consolation to think of that. Pray, trust God, know that you won't do everything, that you'll inevitably do something silly or wrong because hey, you're human. Be yourself and be that well (name that saint!), know you're not God, but trust in His presence, believe that all will be well, pray for the hope in a certain future to get you through an uncertain and turbulent present. All will be well (I'm on a roll with quotations, this sentence was another saint).
Clearly I'm still in the process, because hey, that's life. I am still piecing together how to love, especially when it's rendered difficult by the kids I'm here to serve (which is when it's most worthy of the name love, I suppose). The day we went to Punto Azul, I got back from lunch and Hermano Polo was holding a town hall meeting. These happen daily. They are never, ever cheerful. And he's not the only one who does them. I understand that this is another culture, that they function far more on shame than on guilt, so it's theoretically more efficacious to publicly ridicule than privately guilt, but when that's all they ever hear (as I feel it is, and I feel it's pervasive), I have to wonder how effective that really is at doing anything other than confirming what people who live in a place like this, have few recourses, and have had rough childhoods have been told through society and possibly through family: they're not worth much. That was the confirming moment I had a couple of days ago. How do I tackle this misgiving? I need to talk with Fr. Hugo about it before I make any confrontations or even contemplate them, really.
With all the quotes, I really didn't mean to suggest that I have achieved Nirvana or really had everything make sense. I'm still struggling, am unsettled, and wanting to cry more than I have in a while. I've gotten attached to the kids, and I'm a softy, anyway.
What a way to begin working full-time, no? Hence the title. I just heard something akin to an explosion, so I ought to go and check that out, methinks. Much love and prayers, please pray for everybody here.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
A Month in Lima, or How Many Different Routes Exist Between These Two Locations?
Just under a month has gone by, and in just one week, I'll be getting used to a new shift as language school ends and begin full-time at Ciudad! I'm excited for that. Language school has been very cool, and I love the teachers and conversation, but it's tiring to be there ever day, and the pollution that you get in your lungs from the transit from San Juan de Miraflores to Miraflores everyday is like smoking a pack of cigarettes (read: I have no idea how bad it is for your lungs, but the comparison seemed appropriate).
I think I've said that I'm working with adolescents aged 13-14 (ish). They're a great group of kids! I think I have finally gotten to the point where I know all their names (and what names they prefer to be called). To be honest, when I first walked in, I kind of thought that maybe I had walked back into my college dorm. They're lively, fun, kind, but won't hesitate to laugh at you, because they have the audacity to tell you that yeah, you're being ridiculous. Right now, my work consists of being with them in the afternoons post-school. I have been put in charge of gardening maintenance and tending to the vineyard, so when the kids work with me in the afternoon, there is a lot of weed-pulling, wire-tightening, and vine-enforcing. Weed-pulling is something I like. When I don't have open wounds, I like getting my hands dirty, and don't mind getting junk under my nails as I root around for...well, the roots. Vines fascinate me. We don't grow grapes to make wine (it's a city of kids, after all), but we eat the grapes. I just like how flexible they are, how you can generally guide them to grow in a certain way that will be more beneficial for it (and for us come harvest time).
The challenge of working with kids is one that I experienced last summer for a week doing Serviceworx with middle-schoolers. They can have great senses of humor, but they genuinely lack maturity, and it's not their fault, because that's just where they are in life. The trick is to remember this so as not to take things personally and jump down to an equal level of immaturity or vindiction in punishment, but at the same time trying to encourage them (both through punishment when necessary) and positive example how to grow into more responsible, more sensitive, more mature people. That's probably why so many people don't like working with adolescents: It requires patience and the equilibrium for reprimand and understanding is so hard to discern (and even harder is adhering to it). So yeah, it's been a challenge.
I work with Hermano Polo, a Capuchin Friar from Arequipa (South of Lima). He's a terrific guy. He plays guitar very well, he's got a pretty good musical ear, he knows how to do a million and one things, his sense of humor is terrific, and his life story is pretty cool, too. Or...what of his life story I could comprehend. He talks pretty quickly. He's trying hard to find the balance I was talking about...and, unsurprisingly, it's challenging. This is not an easy age group to lead. Props to him, though.
But yeah, I'm loving it. We went shopping this weekend. I've never been so excited for yogurt in my life (I was in desperate need of some calcium and milk products).
Note about language school: It can be very frustrating to learn another language. It can be even harder for somebody who likes to know things and hates not knowing things, because you've got to be willing to admit that your English vocabulary won't always help you and that thinking in paragraphs can be detrimental to getting across basic thoughts (especially if you have a lot of SAT and GRE words in those paragraphs). If you like being self-sufficient, it's tough, because a freetranslation.com translation usually won't help you out. I am liking this, tough though it is. When you strip away the intelligence, the fancy words, the knowledge of stuff that nobody else knows, you get a sense of who is there underneath. And, though sometimes it can be hard to look at that person, if you want to adjust happily, you've just got to bite the bullet and trust that people never loved you because you got good grades, because you happened to know the answers to questions, but because of who you were. And, if you're anything like me (who's really the "you" in all of these statements), your friends probably wanted to know you more.
It's hard to believe a month has gone by. Hard to believe that this is life, too, you know? That was kind of ambiguous. But I can't get any more specific. Much love, once again. Much missage, but not the sad kind.
I think I've said that I'm working with adolescents aged 13-14 (ish). They're a great group of kids! I think I have finally gotten to the point where I know all their names (and what names they prefer to be called). To be honest, when I first walked in, I kind of thought that maybe I had walked back into my college dorm. They're lively, fun, kind, but won't hesitate to laugh at you, because they have the audacity to tell you that yeah, you're being ridiculous. Right now, my work consists of being with them in the afternoons post-school. I have been put in charge of gardening maintenance and tending to the vineyard, so when the kids work with me in the afternoon, there is a lot of weed-pulling, wire-tightening, and vine-enforcing. Weed-pulling is something I like. When I don't have open wounds, I like getting my hands dirty, and don't mind getting junk under my nails as I root around for...well, the roots. Vines fascinate me. We don't grow grapes to make wine (it's a city of kids, after all), but we eat the grapes. I just like how flexible they are, how you can generally guide them to grow in a certain way that will be more beneficial for it (and for us come harvest time).
The challenge of working with kids is one that I experienced last summer for a week doing Serviceworx with middle-schoolers. They can have great senses of humor, but they genuinely lack maturity, and it's not their fault, because that's just where they are in life. The trick is to remember this so as not to take things personally and jump down to an equal level of immaturity or vindiction in punishment, but at the same time trying to encourage them (both through punishment when necessary) and positive example how to grow into more responsible, more sensitive, more mature people. That's probably why so many people don't like working with adolescents: It requires patience and the equilibrium for reprimand and understanding is so hard to discern (and even harder is adhering to it). So yeah, it's been a challenge.
I work with Hermano Polo, a Capuchin Friar from Arequipa (South of Lima). He's a terrific guy. He plays guitar very well, he's got a pretty good musical ear, he knows how to do a million and one things, his sense of humor is terrific, and his life story is pretty cool, too. Or...what of his life story I could comprehend. He talks pretty quickly. He's trying hard to find the balance I was talking about...and, unsurprisingly, it's challenging. This is not an easy age group to lead. Props to him, though.
But yeah, I'm loving it. We went shopping this weekend. I've never been so excited for yogurt in my life (I was in desperate need of some calcium and milk products).
Note about language school: It can be very frustrating to learn another language. It can be even harder for somebody who likes to know things and hates not knowing things, because you've got to be willing to admit that your English vocabulary won't always help you and that thinking in paragraphs can be detrimental to getting across basic thoughts (especially if you have a lot of SAT and GRE words in those paragraphs). If you like being self-sufficient, it's tough, because a freetranslation.com translation usually won't help you out. I am liking this, tough though it is. When you strip away the intelligence, the fancy words, the knowledge of stuff that nobody else knows, you get a sense of who is there underneath. And, though sometimes it can be hard to look at that person, if you want to adjust happily, you've just got to bite the bullet and trust that people never loved you because you got good grades, because you happened to know the answers to questions, but because of who you were. And, if you're anything like me (who's really the "you" in all of these statements), your friends probably wanted to know you more.
It's hard to believe a month has gone by. Hard to believe that this is life, too, you know? That was kind of ambiguous. But I can't get any more specific. Much love, once again. Much missage, but not the sad kind.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Repotting
It's a drizzly Sunday morning as we enter the 4th week of service in Lima. It's amazing. I'm loving it.
The last two weeks, we've been going to language school in the morning and returning for Ciudad in the afternoon. The first week was cool, and I really liked the review that it gave me. That weekend, the kids left in the afternoon to go visit families, so we had some time to ourselves to go exploring/eat more typical Peruvian cuisine/allow the tourist gringo part of us to show. We went down to Miraflores, one of the "Municipalities" in Lima (barrios/neighborhoods/what have you), which is a pretty happening part of town. Very cosmopolitan, some nice parks, right on the coast...very pretty, very fun. The coast is really beautiful. We saw it from much higher up, but even so. Anyway, we met up with Br. Hugo, our local coordinator, and had dinner at a small little place. There are a lot of foods to try, and we got started. I can't remember what kind of chicken Alyssa ordered, but it was a typical Peruvian fare that tasted very good. I got Lomo Saltado, which is very good (but, as you might guess from the name, very salty). Br. Hugo got Cebiche, which is terrific: fish served cold, prepared in a sauce of lemon juice and onions. Seriously, very tasty. Tania tried fried Cuy, which is....guinea pig! I don't know if I could ever eat dog (a mental image of my golden retriever pops into my mind, and more or less makes me want to cry), but guinea pig was delicious. The skin was a very interesting texture, and the meat was very good, if not...well, small. It's a creature the same size as a rat, after all. We then went to Barranco, an artsy sector that is very cool (and also with a nice ocean view) and tried Picarones, a fried dessert with a pumpkin batter. Delicious, with an interesting anise syrup on it.
While I'm on a food kick, I tried one of the popular Peruvian fruits: Charimoya. Google it, I can't explain it. We had no idea what we were buying at the time...we just had a hankering for avocados (and dude, the heck with California avocados with apologies to Californians out there, but they were the biggest and some of the best avocados I've had), saw another green and oddly-shaped fruit and had at it. Very good. Mark Twain thought it the most delicious fruit on the face of the earth. Not entirely in accordance with him, but it is quite tasty. Also, though it's not a fruit, per se, I tried a drink called "Chicha Morada," made out of purple corn. It was actually really good. Just don't spill it: it would make for some nasty stains.
Anyway, second week of language school was also good, but I have been sick. I essentially lost my voice, and still have a chest cold and lack the ability to sing in falsetto, meaning that I cannot entertain the adolescents with my renditions of Billy Jean or Beat It. This is not necessarily bad, but being sick is a drag. The air pollution doesn't help. We've been taking taxis everyday to Miraflores, as our neighborhood is pretty far...Miraflores is south-central, and San Juan de Miraflores is north-east. Anyway, traffic in a huge city boasting a population of 8 million+ people is...well, ghastly. Lots of car exhaust. Makes it difficult to recuperate.
Another challenge this second week was just realizing how totally inept I am. At one time, I'm impatient with these reviews, because the arrogant part of me remembers that I learned this stuff. Speaking it normally and knowing the rules for writing essays are very different, though, and I know that, but Mr. Arrogant isn't happy to admit it. At the same time, I'm just in awe as the realization drives its way deeper into my thick skull that Spanish is its own language. I mean, I gathered as much, but I really understand that it's a foundation and byproduct of culture, with a whole mindset, a history, and I know only the scarcest bits of it. Also, I may be able to talk about cohabitation in broken Spanish, but if I want to convey to Vargas at dinner that my food slipped off my fork, I don't know the verb for "slip". I don't know many, many, many things. It's amazing. Lots of gestures, lots of circumlocution, and lots of making a fool of myself. It's gotta happen, yeah? It's good.
I started reading a version of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" that's in Spanish. I thought it'd be a good way to pick up on verbs and vocabulary, since I remember many of the details of that particular book, but then I had to question its authenticity. In Spanish, you should never say, "Yo estoy embarazado" if you're a guy and feel embarrassed. It's inadvisable to use "embarazada," as well, ladies. See, it's a false cognate: In Spanish, that means that you're pregnant. The adjective to use would be "Avergonzado/a". So when on page 70 the book described Cedric Diggory as seeming slightly pregnant, I had to start wondering about the validity.
The title of the post has to do with my mental state, which is a little bit less interesting than what's been happening (unless you're me). This past Wednesday was my mom's birthday, so I sent her a gift and called her using Skype. She was in New York, having helped Stephen settle in at NYU (aw, he's a freshman), and chilling with Dad in Manhattan for a little mini-vacation. It made me sad that I wasn't there to see Stephen move in, to wish her happy birthday in person, won't be able to do the same for Dad, Steve, Grandparents, and other things. It wasn't demoralizing, but it was a "bummer" moment. I was listening to some music that always transports me back to late summer/all of fall back in what seems another world: senior year of high school and freshman year of college. The weather is very different, and I love the crisp of fall, the crunch of leaves, the transformation of ponds and rivers from (generally) pleasantly cool to ice water, the smell of mist and green in the morning, the mingling of the colors of the leaves and the green. Also, I just had a flashback to summers past, and it was beautifully bittersweet.
"Repotting" because it's the same thing wherever you travel: when a plant moves to a different pot or soil, it generally leaves some tendrils of its roots in the native soil. The connections are...undeniable and not going anywhere. And it'll be the same when in a few months I have to say goodbye to this place. I'll miss it. Never thought I'd miss DC my freshman year, and I was missing it last summer. It's cool, though, I like missing people. Motivates me to a) stay in touch and b) get more involved with the folks here. I just felt a moment of really liking the kids today. I've kinda felt it before, but it was a lot more pronounced this morning. So...without further ado, that's where I'm headed. Stateside, abroad, wherever you are, God bless, God speed, and much love.
The last two weeks, we've been going to language school in the morning and returning for Ciudad in the afternoon. The first week was cool, and I really liked the review that it gave me. That weekend, the kids left in the afternoon to go visit families, so we had some time to ourselves to go exploring/eat more typical Peruvian cuisine/allow the tourist gringo part of us to show. We went down to Miraflores, one of the "Municipalities" in Lima (barrios/neighborhoods/what have you), which is a pretty happening part of town. Very cosmopolitan, some nice parks, right on the coast...very pretty, very fun. The coast is really beautiful. We saw it from much higher up, but even so. Anyway, we met up with Br. Hugo, our local coordinator, and had dinner at a small little place. There are a lot of foods to try, and we got started. I can't remember what kind of chicken Alyssa ordered, but it was a typical Peruvian fare that tasted very good. I got Lomo Saltado, which is very good (but, as you might guess from the name, very salty). Br. Hugo got Cebiche, which is terrific: fish served cold, prepared in a sauce of lemon juice and onions. Seriously, very tasty. Tania tried fried Cuy, which is....guinea pig! I don't know if I could ever eat dog (a mental image of my golden retriever pops into my mind, and more or less makes me want to cry), but guinea pig was delicious. The skin was a very interesting texture, and the meat was very good, if not...well, small. It's a creature the same size as a rat, after all. We then went to Barranco, an artsy sector that is very cool (and also with a nice ocean view) and tried Picarones, a fried dessert with a pumpkin batter. Delicious, with an interesting anise syrup on it.
While I'm on a food kick, I tried one of the popular Peruvian fruits: Charimoya. Google it, I can't explain it. We had no idea what we were buying at the time...we just had a hankering for avocados (and dude, the heck with California avocados with apologies to Californians out there, but they were the biggest and some of the best avocados I've had), saw another green and oddly-shaped fruit and had at it. Very good. Mark Twain thought it the most delicious fruit on the face of the earth. Not entirely in accordance with him, but it is quite tasty. Also, though it's not a fruit, per se, I tried a drink called "Chicha Morada," made out of purple corn. It was actually really good. Just don't spill it: it would make for some nasty stains.
Anyway, second week of language school was also good, but I have been sick. I essentially lost my voice, and still have a chest cold and lack the ability to sing in falsetto, meaning that I cannot entertain the adolescents with my renditions of Billy Jean or Beat It. This is not necessarily bad, but being sick is a drag. The air pollution doesn't help. We've been taking taxis everyday to Miraflores, as our neighborhood is pretty far...Miraflores is south-central, and San Juan de Miraflores is north-east. Anyway, traffic in a huge city boasting a population of 8 million+ people is...well, ghastly. Lots of car exhaust. Makes it difficult to recuperate.
Another challenge this second week was just realizing how totally inept I am. At one time, I'm impatient with these reviews, because the arrogant part of me remembers that I learned this stuff. Speaking it normally and knowing the rules for writing essays are very different, though, and I know that, but Mr. Arrogant isn't happy to admit it. At the same time, I'm just in awe as the realization drives its way deeper into my thick skull that Spanish is its own language. I mean, I gathered as much, but I really understand that it's a foundation and byproduct of culture, with a whole mindset, a history, and I know only the scarcest bits of it. Also, I may be able to talk about cohabitation in broken Spanish, but if I want to convey to Vargas at dinner that my food slipped off my fork, I don't know the verb for "slip". I don't know many, many, many things. It's amazing. Lots of gestures, lots of circumlocution, and lots of making a fool of myself. It's gotta happen, yeah? It's good.
I started reading a version of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" that's in Spanish. I thought it'd be a good way to pick up on verbs and vocabulary, since I remember many of the details of that particular book, but then I had to question its authenticity. In Spanish, you should never say, "Yo estoy embarazado" if you're a guy and feel embarrassed. It's inadvisable to use "embarazada," as well, ladies. See, it's a false cognate: In Spanish, that means that you're pregnant. The adjective to use would be "Avergonzado/a". So when on page 70 the book described Cedric Diggory as seeming slightly pregnant, I had to start wondering about the validity.
The title of the post has to do with my mental state, which is a little bit less interesting than what's been happening (unless you're me). This past Wednesday was my mom's birthday, so I sent her a gift and called her using Skype. She was in New York, having helped Stephen settle in at NYU (aw, he's a freshman), and chilling with Dad in Manhattan for a little mini-vacation. It made me sad that I wasn't there to see Stephen move in, to wish her happy birthday in person, won't be able to do the same for Dad, Steve, Grandparents, and other things. It wasn't demoralizing, but it was a "bummer" moment. I was listening to some music that always transports me back to late summer/all of fall back in what seems another world: senior year of high school and freshman year of college. The weather is very different, and I love the crisp of fall, the crunch of leaves, the transformation of ponds and rivers from (generally) pleasantly cool to ice water, the smell of mist and green in the morning, the mingling of the colors of the leaves and the green. Also, I just had a flashback to summers past, and it was beautifully bittersweet.
"Repotting" because it's the same thing wherever you travel: when a plant moves to a different pot or soil, it generally leaves some tendrils of its roots in the native soil. The connections are...undeniable and not going anywhere. And it'll be the same when in a few months I have to say goodbye to this place. I'll miss it. Never thought I'd miss DC my freshman year, and I was missing it last summer. It's cool, though, I like missing people. Motivates me to a) stay in touch and b) get more involved with the folks here. I just felt a moment of really liking the kids today. I've kinda felt it before, but it was a lot more pronounced this morning. So...without further ado, that's where I'm headed. Stateside, abroad, wherever you are, God bless, God speed, and much love.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Ahora, mientras mi mente no está funcionando...
Pensaba que escribiría aquí.
Botched as my Spanish is, I find myself having trouble constructing English sentences and thoughts, too. I guess that's part of the process: I have to become unable to communicate in order to better comprehend the language. No, seriously.
It's been a good almost-week here: The first day or two were purely getting into a pattern of things. I have a cell phone to communicate with people here, I have the internet, I have drawers to store my clothes, I begin language school tomorrow...it's awesome.
I'm working with the 14/15/16 year olds (mostly 14/15) here at Ciudad. This is a huge operation, so let me explain what all goes into it. Ciudad de los Niños de la Inmaculada is an orphanage/thing that the Capuchin Franciscan friars run. They have 350-ish boys here. I include the "thing" specification (specific as it is) because it's an effective boarding school for many boys who have parents but come from destitute circumstances, have suffered abuse, etc. in addition to those who live here because they don't have parents who take care of them. It's hard to describe in full. They house kids from ages 3-18, i.e., the whole span of pre-primary through secondary education. There is a portion of the property that is a private school, in which both CdlN and non-CdlN can enroll (girls can enroll, too). The boys are split into various houses depending on grade level and age. I'm working with the awkward adolescents, which is an adventure and a challenge. The older kids also get some education in various trades through the various shops they have around Ciudad: they have a cobbler, a sewing shop, a farm with hens and pigs, an auto shop, a vineyard, a bakery...they're called "Talleres" in Spanish. Anyway, it functions as being sort of "shop" classes so that kids get an idea of how to do basic life skills, but it also helps maintain CdlN, and it gives the kids the ability to have a "trade" or sorts when they leave to tackle a career or the university.
The basic day for the older guys is as follows: Wake up, clean the household, get dressed and ready for school, eat, get backpacks and stuff for school, attend classes, come back for lunch, study/hang out a little bit, go to the various "talleres" until 5, study, go to communal prayer, dinner, study, bed.
I'm ready for sleep every night by the time dinner's over. Sheesh, it's a full-time job. Also, we wake up very early. Try
5:10 AM on school days. I thought I was a morning person, but my urge to hibernate when it's a cold, gray, usually somewhat wet morning (it's winter here) comes into conflict with being chipper.
Regarding Spanish-speaking, I'll admit it's tough. My Spanish is broken and barely proficient, and because I'm in overdrive by having to listen to it and decipher and interpret, etc., I feel like I'm regressing a bit. It's very difficult to not have the capacity to express anything more than the most basic needs (e.g., I'm hungry, thirsty, tired, not able to understand, confused, cold, warm, etc.), and so the feelings of being powerless and useless (ugh, especially useless) are hard to surmount, because I can't express frustration well, nor can I do much of anything that I imagine my role should be here. Yet.
The reminder that I've been here less than a week brings comfort. It's still very tough at moments throughout the day, and I'm thankful that there is ample free time on weekends to talk with Alyssa and Tania at night and rest a little bit during the day. Like now, for example. I do know that as comforting as it is to have some fellow expatriates here in solidarity, and as much as I need that connection and ability to communicate, a difficulty lies in having the internet around: The temptation is to shut down and/or do something inane like wikipedia for hours (it's become a luxury to do *anything* in English), so I have to be careful when trying to strike a balance.
I'm very grateful to be here, after it's all said and done. Even if the teenagers mumble and don't pronounce the words or think that my requesting, "Un poco más despacio, por favor," means "Communicate to me as if I am a Neanderthal incapable of expressing thoughts outside the realm of hand gestures and Spanglish" (which is actually more funny than anything else). It's a real exercise in trust and in being able to live with myself. I'm glad to have that opportunity. Hopefully I'll eventually be able to do something like service, but as language school doesn't even start till tomorrow, I think I can muster some patience. Also, I have 18 months left.
In retrospect, let me say this: I absolutely LOVED orientation, both international and CapCorps-specific. The people are absolutely wonderful, I look forward to seeing the two Nicaragua groups in a few months (5 is a few), and I certainly hope to keep in touch with the domestic groups, even if they'll be done with their time in CapCorps before we set foot on US soil again.
That all being said, it's time to do something else. I'm horrible about remembering concrete things I've done, but Alyssa and Tania have photographic evidence that will manifest itself on Facebook at sometime, I'm sure. Until next time, peace and all the good will I can muster to you all. God bless!
Botched as my Spanish is, I find myself having trouble constructing English sentences and thoughts, too. I guess that's part of the process: I have to become unable to communicate in order to better comprehend the language. No, seriously.
It's been a good almost-week here: The first day or two were purely getting into a pattern of things. I have a cell phone to communicate with people here, I have the internet, I have drawers to store my clothes, I begin language school tomorrow...it's awesome.
I'm working with the 14/15/16 year olds (mostly 14/15) here at Ciudad. This is a huge operation, so let me explain what all goes into it. Ciudad de los Niños de la Inmaculada is an orphanage/thing that the Capuchin Franciscan friars run. They have 350-ish boys here. I include the "thing" specification (specific as it is) because it's an effective boarding school for many boys who have parents but come from destitute circumstances, have suffered abuse, etc. in addition to those who live here because they don't have parents who take care of them. It's hard to describe in full. They house kids from ages 3-18, i.e., the whole span of pre-primary through secondary education. There is a portion of the property that is a private school, in which both CdlN and non-CdlN can enroll (girls can enroll, too). The boys are split into various houses depending on grade level and age. I'm working with the awkward adolescents, which is an adventure and a challenge. The older kids also get some education in various trades through the various shops they have around Ciudad: they have a cobbler, a sewing shop, a farm with hens and pigs, an auto shop, a vineyard, a bakery...they're called "Talleres" in Spanish. Anyway, it functions as being sort of "shop" classes so that kids get an idea of how to do basic life skills, but it also helps maintain CdlN, and it gives the kids the ability to have a "trade" or sorts when they leave to tackle a career or the university.
The basic day for the older guys is as follows: Wake up, clean the household, get dressed and ready for school, eat, get backpacks and stuff for school, attend classes, come back for lunch, study/hang out a little bit, go to the various "talleres" until 5, study, go to communal prayer, dinner, study, bed.
I'm ready for sleep every night by the time dinner's over. Sheesh, it's a full-time job. Also, we wake up very early. Try
5:10 AM on school days. I thought I was a morning person, but my urge to hibernate when it's a cold, gray, usually somewhat wet morning (it's winter here) comes into conflict with being chipper.
Regarding Spanish-speaking, I'll admit it's tough. My Spanish is broken and barely proficient, and because I'm in overdrive by having to listen to it and decipher and interpret, etc., I feel like I'm regressing a bit. It's very difficult to not have the capacity to express anything more than the most basic needs (e.g., I'm hungry, thirsty, tired, not able to understand, confused, cold, warm, etc.), and so the feelings of being powerless and useless (ugh, especially useless) are hard to surmount, because I can't express frustration well, nor can I do much of anything that I imagine my role should be here. Yet.
The reminder that I've been here less than a week brings comfort. It's still very tough at moments throughout the day, and I'm thankful that there is ample free time on weekends to talk with Alyssa and Tania at night and rest a little bit during the day. Like now, for example. I do know that as comforting as it is to have some fellow expatriates here in solidarity, and as much as I need that connection and ability to communicate, a difficulty lies in having the internet around: The temptation is to shut down and/or do something inane like wikipedia for hours (it's become a luxury to do *anything* in English), so I have to be careful when trying to strike a balance.
I'm very grateful to be here, after it's all said and done. Even if the teenagers mumble and don't pronounce the words or think that my requesting, "Un poco más despacio, por favor," means "Communicate to me as if I am a Neanderthal incapable of expressing thoughts outside the realm of hand gestures and Spanglish" (which is actually more funny than anything else). It's a real exercise in trust and in being able to live with myself. I'm glad to have that opportunity. Hopefully I'll eventually be able to do something like service, but as language school doesn't even start till tomorrow, I think I can muster some patience. Also, I have 18 months left.
In retrospect, let me say this: I absolutely LOVED orientation, both international and CapCorps-specific. The people are absolutely wonderful, I look forward to seeing the two Nicaragua groups in a few months (5 is a few), and I certainly hope to keep in touch with the domestic groups, even if they'll be done with their time in CapCorps before we set foot on US soil again.
That all being said, it's time to do something else. I'm horrible about remembering concrete things I've done, but Alyssa and Tania have photographic evidence that will manifest itself on Facebook at sometime, I'm sure. Until next time, peace and all the good will I can muster to you all. God bless!
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