A Thanksgiving in Guatemala

Here's a little article I wrote for the Colonia Corner, my town's monthly newspaper. Don't know if it'll make it in, but here it is anyway!

This past Thanksgiving, I ate all three of my meals alone. It was the first time that I spent the fourth Thursday of November without my family. There were no dulcet candied yams blanketed in melted marshmallows and nor was there cylindrically shaped cranberry sauce. Instead, in my Thanksgiving this year, food-coma-inducing turkey was replaced with a couple fried eggs cooked with as much butter as egg-whites. Stuffing came in the form of a hefty helping of black beans. And of course, no Guatemalan supper would be complete without a six-inch stack of hearty corn tortillas to balance out the meal.

For the past two and a half months I have been living in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala and volunteer-teaching English to kids from the outskirts of the city. Having spent the majority of my life in our quiet chunk of suburbia, I’ve experienced culture shock to the max. Everything here feels different. Everything. I look absolutely nothing like most people here and I’ve suddenly gone from being of average height to being a giant. Something as simple as walking down the street has left my senses overloaded. There’s unmistakable smell of burning garbage diffusing from a “house” made of corrugated tin and a few two-by-fours holding it up. Dust kicked up automobiles and their black, unfiltered exhaust mix in the air before settling and leaving their stale flavor on my tongue. My ankles are always rolling in new directions as they tread over the treacherously unpredictable sidewalks and streets. The syllables that enter my ears are all foreign from my native tongue, and my brain has to work overtime to process these new sounds and translate them into words, thoughts and feelings. Most of all, however, I’m overwhelmed by what I see. There are the elderly indigenous women with their tanned and leathered skin carrying giant baskets of vegetables for sale on their heads trying to make a survival wage. Stray dogs and the homeless share the sidewalks as a bedroom. And worst of all, if I walk through the European-styled Central Park, I’m offered shoe shines and cigarettes by boys no more than ten years old during school hours.

With the clinking of my fork and the slurping of my coffee being the only noise at the table, this year Thanksgiving was uncomfortably quiet. Usually, Thanksgiving in my house is filled with the din of shouting matches darting across the table combined with the ravenous sloshing of a face-stuffing session. However, this year, in this unexpected silence, my brain was the only companion I had to talk to. At dinner, I thought about what I’d be doing if I was at home: probably struggling to stay awake on my couch with my belly inflated to twice its normal size. I couldn’t help but wonder what my students would think if they saw the overabundance of food: the plates of turkey, the casseroles, the mashed potatoes, the cookies and pies, and so on.

From there, I thought about what they would think if they saw how life in Colonia was every day. We’re able to drink tap water and rest assured that our stomachs won’t be pumped full of diarrhea-causing amoebas. What would they say if they saw how much we wasted leaving the water running doing dishes or brushing our teeth? We have yards and parks with grass, playgrounds, fields, and space. How confused would the kids be when they saw that almost no one was outside?

Then I thought about what made me so different from these kids that I was blessed to be born into a family that could send me to quality private schools, that could afford a house with insulation, central air and heating, and that earned enough money to sign me up for Little League and buy me whatever the newest Nintendo system was. Were we somehow naturally superior? After seeing how hard my Guatemalan host mom works – ten hours a day, five or six days a week doing basically everything at the El Nahual Community Center where I volunteer – there’s no way that I could believe that. The only conclusion I could reach was that somehow, when I came into this world, I did so with the winning lottery ticket in hand. From that day, I would be blessed with a loving family and a comfortable, trauma-free childhood.

As I sat there, experiencing Thanksgiving as if it was just any other day, I realized how much I really had to be grateful for. I gave thanks that my parents never struggled so much to put food on the table that they made me beg for money on the streets. I gave thanks that I was taught the importance of an education and that I’ve been able to experience of having one. I gave thanks for hot water, for being able to throw toilet paper into the toilet, for clean air, for traffic laws, for growing up in an environment that told me I could do whatever I wanted to in life. I hoped that I’d never forget how lucky I’ve been and never forget to appreciate everything I’ve been given by my birth. Mostly, I prayed that I’d treat every day – every miniscule, seemingly insignificant moment – as if it were an occasion to give thanks.

Bull Balls and La Boca Costa

“…son testiculos de toro,” Hector explained to the table. I don’t think I have to translate this one for you all to get the idea. “Tom, quieres probar?” he asked me. Tom, do you want to try? I looked at the filleted and pan-fried testicles and thought to myself, ‘juevos de toro’ eh? They kind of look like eggs over easy. My friend Sergio’s Elisa’s eyebrows shot up spontaneously, as if to say “mi juevo,” or absolutely not. Ana Maria, Sergio’s mom, didn’t seem fazed by any of this. Diana, Anamaria’s daughter, seemed a little eeked by the thought of eating bull balls, too.

Now, you might be asking yourself how the hell I came to be seated next to a man, eating testicles a la bull and eager to share his treat with those seated around him. Actually, if you’ve been following my blog, you’re probably wondering who the hell these people even are in the first place. Well, that in itself is an interesting story.

Just over a month ago, when I went to Antigua for a week, I was introduced to a man of sixty-some years by my Polish host Zena. His name was Edgardo, and we all ate lunch together. He told stories of living and working in the states for years and years and his struggles finding consistent work right now, all while unabashedly showing off his warm toothless smile. He also told me of a woman, a good friend of his, named Ana Maria who lives in Xela. He asked me if I could deliver a gift to her; a simple necklace with a stone he carved as the pendant. “Of course,” I told him. It would require practically nothing of me to call up this woman and deliver his gift.

There’s an episode of The Office in which Andy and Dwight try to out-polite each other so that the other would not be indebted to return the favor to the other. Well, if Ana Maria thinks anything like Andy and Dwight, then Ana Maria and her family made sure to pull out the trump card right off the bat. I met her in the Parque Central, in front of the cathedral where she works, and, after giving her the letter and necklace, she invited me to her house the following night for coffee with her family. When I showed up, she gave me food and hot chocolate. Her son Sergio is also twenty-two and also plays guitar. We had a little jam sesh, shared some music, and when he went out to pick up some cigarettes he came back with a couple brewed surprises. I had no idea what to expect from that night and, to be honest, what I did expect wasn’t much. But good intentions and good deeds go round and round here; it seems like all you have to do is throw yourself into the cycle and enjoy the ride.

We hung out a couple more times, playing guitar and enjoying a couple more beers. Sergio showed me pictures of his house on the coast, the home where he grew up and where he returns now with his family each weekend. He asked me if I wanted to join them one weekend so that I could see a different part of the country. I was shocked, but I said I would love to.

Then, a few weeks later as if I transported in time, I was at a table in his spacious but simple colonial style house, being offered a taste of testes a second time. The group waited anxiously for my answer, probably half-grossed out by the idea of eating testicles and half-hoping that I’d do it and expose myself to a barrage of ball-related insults. I told Hector, Sergio’s older brother, yes, but only if Sergio manned up and joined me as I crossed a boundary I never thought I would. Sergio let out a bass-y laugh and agreed. We both got pieces about half the size of my pinky nail. We looked at each other, nervously chuckling and probably wondering if this would somehow make us gay. I picked up my fork, scooped up the Italian-sausage-looking sliver of meat and before I knew it, there was a piece of testicle in my mouth. The taste was actually overwhelming. I don’t know how to describe it, but if I hadn’t known it was bull ball I probably would have said it was ‘alright.’

I looked around the table as the little piece began its journey to my belly. Hector was smiling. Diana had that cheeks-pursed, eyebrows-raised look you’d expect someone to have if they just watched you eat an animal’s testicle. Anamaria’s eyes remained hidden by her tinted classes, but her usual puckered-lip expression transformed into a big, lip-sealed cheek-to-cheek grin. Across the table, Sergio grabbed his Coke and took a big swig, washing away the taste but not the shame. His girlfriend just chuckled and shook her head.

After dinner, Sergio and I exited the finished wooden walls of his house into the mini-compound that his family owned. Behind the gate to the street, there was an entire yard filled with tiny four-wall structures with families living inside. Sergio told me that the people living here were only charged about 400Q (about 80 bux) each year. He said that she couldn’t just give them away for free because then everyone would come in and try to claim something for themselves. By charging them almost nothing to live there, it keeps the peace and also does some good for these families as well.

We hopped in his mother’s pickup. I didn’t get a look at the make, but it was nice and new, spacious, and had air conditioning, something I had not yet experienced in Guatemala. We drove through the town, looking for a little tienda that had a couple of liters of beer for us to enjoy. Even though it was dark, the streets were vibrant and full of people enjoying the warm night air. A lot of the houses – if you can call them houses – we passed were assembled from corrugated tin paneling and pieces of wood thrown awkwardly holding them up. Out of all of the kids that we drove by, I’d say one out of every three were running and playing on the dirty, rocky, garbage covered roads barefoot. Men merrily stumbled by, red-faced and drunk.

Our first trip, I walked into the tienda with Sergio. There were two small kitchen tables that a few young guys were seated at, drinking some beers, a small counter, and an even smaller refrigerator. That was it. Everyone’s jaw in the tiny square room dropped when they saw me. Apparently not many foreigners had passed through these parts of the country. This will probably be as “real” of an experience of Guatemala as I will get in my time here. I was happy Sergio let me pay for my half this time. The rest of the night was spent sitting and talking with the family over a few small glasses of beer.

I woke up the next morning with the sun peaking through the windows of my second-floor room for the night. I walked out onto the balcony – yes, there was a balcony surrounding the entire square house – and looked out at the five or so volcanoes visible in the clear morning sky. The view was stunning. Guatemala really is a beautiful country.

That day would be filled with a visit to Hector’s grandparents-in-law’s coffee/cacao/over-sized lemon plantation, delicious carne asada, a lot of relaxing, and capped off with a variety show to elect the “queen” of the town. We watched the show from the balcony outside of Sergio’s bedroom (which became mine those two nights; Sergio shared his mother’s bed). I sat there, watching men in white masks, wigs, and hilarious “your fantasy animal” dresses strut their stuff, a standup comic, and a ridiculously talented ten-year-old singer, understanding almost every word that was said but somehow still missing almost every joke that was cracked. It didn’t matter. I was just grateful to be a part of it all.

Attitude and Gratitude

I never thought throwing a piece of toilet paper into the toilet would be anything worth writing about. Nevertheless, there I stood in a Houston airport bathroom, feeling guilty about the piece of paper that was about to fall from my hands into the water waiting below. It had been exactly two months since I had flushed toilet paper. Before I knew what happened, the paper was prematurely auto-sucked down with enough force to swallow a small child. The next piece felt more natural. I was back in the States.

For those of you who don’t know, I flew home Friday, November 13^th to surprise my old man the next day at his surprise 50^th birthday party. I was home for less than five days and, looking back on them now, they feel like a weird dream I had in the middle of my Central American adventure.

What caught me off guard at first was driving up the NJ Turnpike and I-95 with my girlfriend, Julie. The wide, well-lit lanes, the tolls, the bridges, and the impatient Jersey drivers weaving from shoulder to shoulder to save thirty seconds on their trip – everything felt so… well… normal. New Jersey was still the same New Jersey that I’ve known my entire life.

That night and the next day all happened too quickly for me to notice anything different about home or myself. Waking up next to Julie felt too good to be true. On the trip to my house, I was too anxious about surprising my dad and not somehow blowing the surprise in the last minutes beforehand. Walking into my house I was bombarded with a blur of faces and middle-aged men getting drunk in honor of my dad reaching the half-century mark. I stuffed my belly full of Italian food, imported German beer and birthday cake and cookies. And I got to see my best buddies from home. I was scared it would all seem different or foreign now, but I seamlessly slipped back into the old routine. Sometimes it’s nice how things just don’t change.

It was only during the next couple days, after all the excitement died down, that I started noticing the little things. Monday was exceptionally warm for a mid-November day and, since I didn’t have a car or car insurance, I decided to go for a couple hour bike ride around my town. As I rode through these familiar streets, everything was so quiet. It was almost eerie. The night before I flew home, I stayed with a Guatemalan girl named Italia. She visited Austin, Texas to see a Grad School and she told me what struck her most was how all the houses had perfectly maintained lawns and the parks had brand new jungle gyms and basketball courts, yet there was not a person to be seen. She joked that in Guatemala, this playground would’ve been beaten to shit already but that there’d still be people there at all times. I shared her confusion on this beautiful autumn day and when the streets were abandoned.

On Monday, I decided to visit Julie for the night up in Connecticut. On the way home the following morning, I looked out the window from my spacious Amtrak seat and took in the remaining colors of fall. I noticed the suburbs, too – the cookie-cutter houses with their backyards and second stories, the well-paved streets and sidewalks, the cars moving in a well-choreographed dance between stop signs and lights. Everything was so tidy and organized. I thought back to the streets of Guatemala: both the windy, essentially lawless highways and the city streets congested with black-fume spewing buses and trucks and cars without blinkers. All the exceptional things here that I never notice, I thought to myself, that we never notice.

Finally, my last Ah-hah moment came when I was helping my dad put away the dishes in the kitchen. He let the hot water run over the dirty dishes in the sink as he leisurely strolled about the kitchen and to his bedroom and back. Almost instantly as he left the room I thought of the dirty, amoeba-ridden faucet water of Guatemala. I thought of what my host family would think if they saw so much clean, drinkable going to waste. How could I ever justify it? I stopped loading the cups into the dishwasher to turn off the faucet. I am not one-hundred percent sure why. I mean, it’s not like I could’ve saved that excess water, bottled it up and delivered it personally to my Guate-family. But access to something as seemingly basic as clean water is not as basic as we’d like to believe. It is a blessing, and for us to treat it as anything less than that would be a sin.

And it doesn’t just stop with water. Think about washers and dryers. Sure, you’ve gotta wait an hour or so for your clothes to be clean and dry, but most Guatemalans that I’ve met do their laundry by hand, scrubbing the clothes in a cement sink and letting them air-dry for a couple days. I’ve tried it. It’s quite the forearm workout, but I’d much rather toss my clothes in a machine and forget about them for an hour. Just about everyone I know in the States can get on the internet whenever they want in the privacy and comfort of their own homes. It’s really incredible, if you think about it, how much great information we have access to at any given moment – we can watch TV shows, get news from around the world, watch YouTube videos on how to fix a flat bike tire or how to salsa. It’s also really sad when you think about how much we can complain that Facebook isn’t loading fast enough. Or think about driving. Yeah, it sucks being stuck in traffic, but after seeing the roads here, I’ll take traffic lights and organized merges over roadway anarchy any day.

My good buddy Paul asked me in an e-mail if I thought people leading simpler lives here in Guatemala made them happier. I told him that I don’t know if it makes them happier, but it definitely keeps things in perspective. That is, what is important in life. But after thinking about it a bit more, I think it also forces them to make the most out of what they have. For example, I’ve seen a family of five fit on one motorcycle. Husband, wife, and three kids. No joke. When you don’t have much, everything you do have becomes that much more valuable. Back home in the States, we are spoiled, myself included. After all, I drank about two gallons of milk every week for the past eight years. It’s not healthy, physically or spiritually. But it’s not that we have to feel bad that we have so much, provided that we’re actually aware of how much we have. It’s all in our attitudes. And if we take time to mix some gratitude into our attitudes, we’ll find ourselves appreciating the little things more. All of a sudden, sitting in traffic sucks a little less because all of a sudden just having a car becomes pretty damn sweet. Each meal is a little tastier because just having food is something to celebrate. If the internet decides to crap out for no apparent reason we won’t fret because we’ll realize how awesome it is having it the other 364 days of the year. When you’re surrounded with the exceptional, it’s easy for it all to start looking ordinary. That’s why it’s on us to consciously remember how damn good we really have it.

Reflection Numero Uno... Family Matters

So my Aussie buddy Andy told me time and time again, “Tom, you’re thinkin’ too much, mate.” And he was right. I think. A lot. However, somehow, against all odds, Andy’s persistence must’ve paid off. I find myself very able to get lost and immersed in whatever I’m doing here. Whether I’m trying to have a conversation in Spanish, teaching and playing with the kids, and even just lugging dirt and rocks around the construction site, it doesn’t matter. My mind, for the most part, has kept to the task at hand and stayed out of the sky, philosophizing to itself.

In the mornings, however, when I wake up is when I find my mind racing to put together the pieces of the big puzzle of life. I’ve resisted the urge to share any of these internal reflections thus far, but right now, however, I’m going to indulge myself.

So by being here, I can’t help but realize how ridiculously lucky I’ve been in this crapshoot called life. I was born into a loving family that was able to put me through great schools all the way through college. We live beyond our means a bit, but we’ve always had enough money to live comfortably. For most of my friends and I at home, our privilege is something we take for granted.

Here, however, on a daily basis I see things that we’d be baffled to see in the States. Of course, there are the more quirky things like the Mayan women balancing a huge basket on her head or the overloaded – with both people and products – beds of pickups, but here I’m talking about the more disturbing things. If I walk through the city on any given day, I’ll pass by at least a half dozen kids, no older than eight or nine, shining shoes. I’ll pass many more kids carrying trays loaded with candy, gum, and cigarettes, trying to sell them. I think back to my childhood, when I wore my yellow and navy blue colored SJV uniform, when I played Little League baseball, basketball and football, and when my parents would sure as hell never ever send me out to shine shoes. It’s overwhelming. You know the parents want better for the kids – after all what parents wouldn’t? Many people here, however, haven’t learned the value of education, or don’t believe in its value. Many times, it just makes more economic sense to have your kids be another source of income.

At El Nahual and La Cuchilla, when I’m teaching, I forgot all about these kids backgrounds. After all, they’re just kids. They love running around, screaming without purpose, fooling around in class, learning in class… kids are the same everywhere. But every now and then, I’ll be reminded how marginalized they are. For instance, yesterday one little guy ran up to me and gave me a huge waist level hug. He looked up at me smiling, and I noticed his front two teeth. They weren’t just a little yellower than usual; they were rotted black almost to the gum. Nevertheless, he kept on smiling. Other times, kids just can’t make it to school – either because of the rain, because their parents are sick, or – what we fear most – that their parents don’t want them to go to school.

I think about how I got to where I am today, a legitimately happy college graduate who has the chance to travel and learn about other parts of the world. Through school, of course. Through my own hard work and soul searching as well. But without my family, neither of those would have been possible.

So realization #1 on this trip: family is indescribably important. I just wrote about my host-mom Paty. She works her ass off, almost at all waking hours, to support her family, but she is not alone. Her mother lives here, as well, and a couple times a day I’ll find her jogging by my room in her old-lady slippers to her next task in the day-to-day chores of this house. Even more, Paty’s siblings and their families are constantly popping in and out, helping with cooking or with the kids. I still believe Paty is Superwoman, but I couldn’t possibly see how this family would still be afloat without some outside help.

I’ll think of my family sometimes and their stories. My Aunt Evey will tell me stories about how they lived in the projects – her, her sister, and my great-grandmother – together. Or she’ll tell me about the house those three plus my mom , my Aunt Dawn, and Aunt Gina lived in together… the one with the skunks living in the walls and the chickens in the backyard. Through abusive husbands and divorces, struggles to make ends meet, and raising kids, somehow my family stayed afloat and they did it together.

I realize, however, that many people have domestic family situations that aren’t the best of situations. I don’t believe, however, that a family is defined solely by blood. I believe a family is what you make it as well. I believe a family is that group of people who support you – through good times and bad – and believe that you always have it in you to be better, that you can always grow, mature, learn, and find satisfaction in life. Deep down, I think that it’s ultimately up to each of us to be our best selves, but we also need people that can see this person even when we ourselves cannot. Without these people, this life can be a very dark, hopeless, and lonely place.

So let me be cheesy for a moment, loved ones. I love and miss you all more than you can know. Thank you for… well, for everything.

Paty: My Guatemalan Super-Mom

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO… MAMá… NO VAYA… NO VAYA.” no Mommy. Don’t go! Don’t go! These words are my 6 A.M. alarm clock almost every day. Little four-year-old Diego Andres is never happy to see his mom, Paty, leave for work. Nevertheless, Paty is up by 5:30 six days a week getting herself ready. By 6:15, she is out the door and on her way to El Nahual. On these mornings lie in bed, swearing to myself that I’m never having kids as I try to fall back asleep. Sometimes I think about how easy it is to be chaste when you’re wrapped up in a 101 Dalmatians comforter, when you have a two foot tall Spongebob cutout watching your every action, and when you have Spanish Blue’s Clues songs providing your wakeup soundtrack. Honestly, it is very possible that I am asexual now. Sometimes I’ll think about the world and its problems. I’ll debate with myself inside my head and pretend that I have answers to the unanswerable questions. And sometimes, amidst the din of Diego’s morning screams, I’ll think about my host mom, Paty.

I don’t want to sound like I’m overstating anything, but Paty is an amazing human being. I’ve asked a couple of people – including Paty – what she does for El Nahual and they’ve all given me the same answer: everything. She gets there around 6:30 to make sure the building is clean from top to bottom. She makes the coffee and the tea for all of the students. She is our director Jaime’s secretary. She coordinates where all of the students/volunteers will live. She handles the inscription of new students, Guatemalans and foreigners alike. She cooks Jaime lunch every now and then. She teaches a cooking class every Wednesday. She deals with parents and people in the community with special requests/needs. Like I said, she does everything.

The work continues, however, when she comes home. Not only does she have to cook for me and my two Guatemalan high school-aged housemates, she has to take care of her little ones. Javier and Diego can be the sweetest of kids, but they can also be the biggest little shits. When they’re happy, they’ll run through the kitchen and living room, chasing each other and screaming over Paty’s commands to slow down. Javier doesn’t cry much anymore unless he gets hurt, but, damn, Diego can wail. And he likes to show off his powerful little lungs several times a day.

I can’t help but think of my sisters, especially when they were younger, whenever I hear Diego scream because he wants a snack or because he wants to watch TV. Sometimes it makes me laugh. Other times, it makes me feel for Paty. On the night of Halloween, we – my housemate and I – asked Paty to join us for a bit at the Halloween benefit party for El Nahual. Surprisingly, she said yes. We were both thrilled that Paty would finally get some time to get away from her job and the house and hopefully just be able to relax. I asked her if she was coming in front of Diego and Javier, and, literally, within seconds both of the boys broke into tears. The video does this scene much more justice than my words ever could, so check it out:

Now, you might be asking yourself, “Where’s the dad during all of this?” The answer is simple: in the States. Some time ago, he migrated north. Fearing I’d bring up too sensitive of a subject, I didn’t press too much and I still do not know if his decision to leave was a plan they devised together or if he left unexpectedly, not caring who and what he left behind. Regardless of how it started, it might as well have been the second option. Paty told me he does nothing to help them. Hence she works six days a week and hosts students to make ends meet.

Whenever I see Paty, she always looks like she just finished a race. S

he’s constantly moving. Into the kitchen, out of the house, back home from the school, tending to Diego when he gets hurt – always, always on the go. I always want to help, but I have no idea what to do. After all, the woman had an inflamed ulcer only weeks ago from all the stress. Should I take the kids out to the movies? Or would that just create a whole fiasco and, consequently, more stress for Paty? Should I just have a Styrofoam cup of water ready to give her as she runs by? After all, she needs to hydrate at some point, right?

Despite being possibly the busiest woman I’ve ever met, Paty is also among the warmest. You know how some people who are too busy will give you the half-laugh because their minds too busy worrying about twenty other things and you can tell they really only heard enough of what you said

to realize it was so supposed to be funny? Or how some overworked people have that crazed, desperate, I’m-five-minutes-from-going-postal kind of laugh? Well Paty is miles in the opposite direction of both of those. From the first night I met her at the bus station, I’ve noticed her laugh. It’s so genuine; so free. Somehow – amidst the endless tasks needed to be done at El Nahual, the stress that comes with have two five and under kids to take care of at home, the painful memories of her husband’s abandonment and her father’s tragic death in a factory accident twenty years ago – Paty has not forgotten the art of laughing for the sake of laughing. She will literally stop whatever she’s doing at times if I need to talk to her and, when I mock myself for butchering her language, she will grace me with her beautifully hearty giggle. Despite the toll they take on her, Paty can still stare in wonder and laugh at Javier failing miserably to get his kite to take air or at Diego excitedly playing with his memory card game on the floor, announcing, “Gané!” I won!

If it’s not clear enough yet, I admire Paty about as much as one can admire someone else. I admire her because of how hard she works, of course, but that is not what impresses me most. I respect her for persevering through hardships that could potentially derail many people, but there is something even deeper than that. Somehow through it all – the heartache, the stress, the abbreviated nights of sleep, the cries and the screams – Paty has not forgotten what is most important in life. This Guatemalan superwoman clearly gets herself out of bed each day with the love she has of her family. People like Paty, my teacher Francis, and my Aunt Evey, however, remind me that sometimes when life seems the darkest all we really need to do is open our eyes.

When It Rains, It Pours: Frustrations with Teaching

I had high hopes for this class. There were only six students (originally). They all had learned a lot of the most basic aspects of English. Even better, they were all bright kids who were eager to learn. They behaved. They answered our questions, albeit sometimes shyly. They did what we asked of them. Most importantly, at least for me, we were starting from scratch in this class. Our first day there was also the kids’ first day there. It was a chance to start things on a high note and keep them that way throughout the three-month vacation school period. There wouldn’t be any confusion about what the previous volunteers had taught them. There wouldn’t be the stagnant repeating of “How are you” and the verb “to have.” I would know exactly what these kids did and what they were capable of; I would be the one steering the class. I had high hopes alright, but now I’m scared they may have been washed away with a week’s worth of rain.

Let’s back track a little before I go on. The regular school year in Guatemala ended only a few weeks ago and now most kids have off until mid-January. Realizing that every second of education these kids receive is invaluable, El Nahual offers two vacation school programs: Manos de Colores – English, Art, and math and science reinforcement classes in the actual community centre every day – and La Cuchilla – a two hour, twice-a-week English and Art class in a school outside of the city.

The week before classes ended, I tried leading a class at Telesecondaria, a high school only minutes away from El Nahual by foot. As happens too often down here, I was told what class I was teaching until about a half hour before it was time to leave. I also learned that the lesson plan that I was going to use was done with these classes the week before. Well… Shit, I thought. We scrambled and put together our plan: practicing the verbs “to have” and “to be” with adjectives by having the students draw crazy alien pictures and describing them in English – yeah right – to their partners.

I walked into the class with the two other volunteers that were supposed to be my support, my voice even weaker than usual because of the cold I was fighting to get over. When we got there, we found about thirty-five 13 to 17 year-olds who couldn’t give half a shit less about what we had to say. The girls in the back corner sat in a square chit-chatting, half of them with their backs to us completely. The guys in the front – hair gelled and collars popped – cracked jokes about us, each other, the girls... who knows, I couldn’t understand what they were saying. There were a handful in the class that were actually interested, but with all the commotion and disorder I don’t think we could even reach them that day. The second class was not better.

I had written that the previous Wednesday – the one I spent with the God’s Child project – had been my high point on my trip; this Wednesday at Telescondaria was the exact opposite. I walked out feeling the stress tense up every one of my muscles. I was pissed. I didn’t know why the hell we were there. I couldn’t blame the kids, though. After all, they had a week left in school. If I were in there place, I couldn’t say that I’d give a damn about some incompetent volunteers struggling to teach their own language, especially when I knew that I wouldn’t even be tested on the material I learned. That day, I really believed the kids would be better off without us being there at all.

Things were changing though. School ended for the year. And fortunately, I was not the only volunteer who realized how absurd the whole system had been to date. Far from it. Talks about a creating a curriculum for volunteers to follow, as well as a system to keep the classes progressing and the volunteers supported was well under way. This news gave me hope that maybe we were still just in the early phases; maybe we would finally have a foundation on which to build much better classes. Determined not to let my memory of volun-teaching be a bitter one, I immediately requested to be in charge of the La Cuchilla until I left here in late December.

The first week was shaky, but the class definitely had potential. We showed up the first day not sure if we’d have three students or twenty-three students. There were five of us volunteers on the first two days; there were only six students. As I said before, these kids were/are amazing. You call on them to answer a question, and they answer it. You tell them we’re going to play a game and all of their eyes light up, even though we all know that it’s going to be a semi-lame English practice game. It doesn’t matter. These kids’ enthusiasm is reason enough to make the half hour trip to the school twice a week.

The second week was even better. My friend Eleni – who had also been pretty frustrated with the volunteering thus far – wanted to help out with this class as much as she could. With both of us focused on making this class legit it seemed like we would finally be able to avoid the usual disorganization and confusion.

Unfortunately, however, the rains came this week. In Guatemala, it is supposed to rain essentially non-stop from April/May through September. October is wish-washy and November is the start of the dry season. This year was an exception to that rule. The country suffered a horrible drought, causing crop yields to plummet. Ironical in an almost cruel manner, it rained almost non-stop the first week in November when it was harvest time.

This past Tuesday, Eleni and I made the half hour bike ride to La Cuchilla. We rode uphill, inhaling the dust and fumes spewed by the endless train of freight trucks and chicken buses roaring to our left. I had a bad feeling, and it wasn’t the usual tightening of the throat from inhaling the dirty air nor was it the usual fear that my bike – which sporadically forgets to dig its teeth into the chain – would hurl my body in front of a delivery truck; no it was something else that day. Did I feel unprepared? Did I feel insecure about teaching the material we had prepared? Did I just feel tired and cranky and did I not want to teach that day? I don’t know, but it didn’t feel right.

Every time we rolled up to the school, we always found all of the kids outside waiting for us, sometimes as much as fifteen minutes early. Today there were only two of them. Marta and Rosario – two sisters who have been the most ambitious and eager to learn in class – told us that the others were not coming. They also told us they thought class would be boring without more people, and we could tell that they did not want to be there. Eleni and I were lost. It would be boring, we both thought, but maybe we should teach them anyway. I don’t know if it was fear or laziness, but we ended up giving in to the girls’ wishes. “We’ll see you Thursday,” we told them in Spanish.

Thursday came and I hoped that this time would be better. I had a new teaching partner this time and she was a bit scared to ride on the bikes through Xela, which – especially in the rain – I can’t blame her for. So after walking literally forty-five minutes, uphill in the cold rain, we got to the school fifteen minutes early and the kids were not there yet. They probably didn’t want to be stuck out in the rain. They’ll show up, I thought to myself. Three o’clock arrived, but it didn’t bring any students with it. Five minutes passed and no one showed up. Ten minutes and still no one. At 3:15, Abby and I decided it was time to walk back with our heads bowed and tails tucked in shame.

Nothing comes easy here: not the volunteering, not the language, not the digestion. After this past Thursday, I couldn’t help but doubt myself. Maybe Eleni and I did something wrong. Maybe we lost our credibility by not having class. Maybe the parents thought the class was a waste of time. Whatever. Such thinking will leave you stuck in the past, and I’d rather keep moving forward. Going up the hill to La Cuchilla is challenge enough in itself, but every time I climb it there always seems to be another mountain waiting. I’ll keep climbing, though; sometimes that’s all you can do.

Dia de los Muertos

One of the biggest differences between foreigners here and local Guatemalans – you know, aside from height, skin color, and the ability to balance objects on their heads – is the way they dress. Backpackers, with a few exceptions, tend to travel light, bringing only a week or so’s worth of clothing. Things get dirty quickly and stay dirty for a very long time. The majority of Guatemalans, however, always dress to impress. My Guatemalan house mom gets up at 4:30 every morning to get ready to leave by 6. Men mixing cement by hand will often wear slacks and dress shoes. Rural women vending tortillas, chicken or veggies on the street will have their ornate traditional Mayan dress on display. Despite having limited resources, the Guatemalans still seem to value their appearance.

This past weekend, Day of the Dead celebrations were in full force. My Guate-family invited me to join them in their annual trip to clean and adorn the graves of lost ones in the cemetery. I thought that if there was one day for me to dress up in Guatemala then this must surely be it. After all, we were going to pay respects to the dead; I might as well look respectable.

Wearing the only button down shirt that I brought and my khaki-ish pants, I walked out of my room moments before we would leave. I was shocked. Paty’s two sons – Javier, 6, and Diego, 3 – were dressed in t-shirts and board shorts. Even Paty was dressed down to jeans, sneaks, and an OK t-shirt. Her sister wore stylishly torn jeans and a white top and her brother-in-law wore a label tee and jeans as well. Abuelita, Paty’s mom, wore her long skirt and beige old lady stockings, but I’m pretty sure she wears that same outfit to sleep. I couldn’t believe it; for the first time since I arrived in Guatemala, I was the most dressed-up person in the room.

We walked outside and there was joyous pandemonium in the streets. The Cemeterio General is just across the Cuarto Calle and today the usually fast-moving street was turned into a parking lot. We joined in with the crowd and headed towards the gate. There were ice cream vendors navigating through the heaps of people, ringing his cow bell. Vendors sold mixed packages of fresh fruit. Everyone seemed to be dressed as casually as my Guate-family. Kids smiled and ran around in the streets. Their parents and relatives appeared light-hearted as well. For a day that I thought would be somber and tranquil, spirits were incredibly high.

The Parque Calvario sits at the entrance to the cemetery and it is a sad excuse for a park. It is a small triangle island in a sea of heavily trafficked streets. There is a run-down basketball court that is now used to hold nightly soccer matches and a few aged pieces of playground equipment. This weekend, however, the streets were blocked. In place of the cars and chicken buses that would be passing through, there was an entire street fair. Vendors peddled burnt MP3 CDs of Michael Jackson and pirated DVDs, there were churro and fried chicken stands filling the air with their delicious, oily scents, and there were even small, motor-less, hand-moved carnival rides. Everywhere you looked there were flowers and wreaths, beautifully colorful and colorfully beautiful.

Inside the cemetery, the grounds are broken up into three sections: upper, middle, and lower class. Yes, that’s right. Even after death there are still class distinctions. When you walk into the cemetery, you feel like you are walking into a tiny city of the dead. The huge above-ground tombs are meant to hold entire families, but a few exceptionally rich individuals have a micro-temple all to themselves. The graves in this first section are ornate with pillars and columns and all sorts of other extravagant features to make sure you know that, even in death, they are still richer than you. I forgot the exact number, but to keep your body in this part you have to pay upwards of Q10,000 every 12 months. Fail to pay and you will be evicted. Yes, I’m serious.

We skipped right through the upper class section with Paty’s family. Instead, we headed to the grave of Paty’s father who was killed twenty years ago in a car accident; he was 51. Like theother graves in this section, his grave was nice and simple. No bells and whistles here; just standard cement box with a nice plaque on the front (missing two letters from his last name).Javier and Diego tugged on Paty’s leg until she gave them a couple Q to get two ice cream cones. As they ran down the hill, you could see the sadness on Paty’s face. Her eyes seemed lost inside her head, replaying memories that I could not possibly imagine. Before long, however, she was smiling and laughing again as she watched her boys play with Hannah, my American housemate.

After Paty’s family finished cleaning the grave and decorating it with flowers and candles, we moved on to the grave of Abuelita’s father. As we walked along, the cheerful sounds of a live Marrimba band accompanied our steps and filled the entire cemetery with its warm tones. As the family paid tribute to another family member, I sat down and tried to make sense of the scene around me. Kites filled the sky like a school of jellyfish, their tentacles squiggling in the water. The specter-looking pieces of paper peacefully floated and watched over the kids who were holding their strings, some standing on the ground and others on top of 10 ft tall grave stacks. Vendors walked by offering water, ice cream, and other little snacks; it felt more like a music fest than a celebration of the dead.

We had one more stop to make in the cemetery before going back home to feast. We walked away from the middle class area into the lower class section. The difference was immediate. Whereas the land in the two higher-class areas was level and well kept, the land in this last section was illogically hilly and overgrown with weeds. The people we passed carried machetes to clear away the brush covering their deceased loved ones and their clothes were farm-worker dirty. The graves themselves were nothing more than a little tombstone head and a small concrete casket halfway burred in the ground. We headed to about as far and remote as you can get in the cemetery and found a grave that was well out of sight from the nearest pathway.

The next day I would ask Jaime, the El Nahual director, if he thought the Day of the Dead was a happy day and he would immediately say yes; in fact, he would not really seem to get why I didn’t understand that. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I was imagining something like afuneral procession, everyone dressed in black and a reverent silence. I don’t know. But whatever it was, it was not what I found.

It was a day to remember the dead, but it was not a day for mourning. After Abuelita and Lorena, Paty’s sister, finished cleaning the remote grave, Javier and Diego finally got to have a go with their newly acquired kites. As the kids failed miserably to get their kites to take flight, the entire family broke out into a roaring laughter. Every time the kites would dive bomb into a bush, the laughs came pouring in more and more. It was amazing. It was amazing to watch Paty’s attitude change so drastically in only an hour, to watch her go from reliving probably the most painful memory of her life to living so fully in this moment with her children. It was impossible to avoid the inevitability of death on this day, but it was also as if that didn’t matter. It was as if everyone standing in that cemetery, flying kites and decorating graves only let the bitterness of loss made life taste that much sweeter. It was as if that everyone believed that life was something worth celebrating, even in the face of death.