Caroleena En La Ciudad

Mission Accomplished

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 20:05:00 +0000

This is my final week in Mexico and it´s kind of unbelievable that something that seemed so far in the future is coming to an end. There are still lots of sights and touristy things that I haven´t done and I had plans to cram it all in this month. Though I have seen a couple more museums and such, I realized that I would rather try to enjoy being with my friends and people here rather than rush through a checklist of stuff to do.

Last Thursday was Martha´s birthday and Miriam (a lifelong missionary who once lived in Mexico) came to visit a few days later. This meant parties at the parish. For her birthday toast, Martha said she remembered arriving to Santa Fe about three years ago and Padre saying that they would make a family there. (Martha is a few years younger than me but lives two hours away from her family in order to work in commercial Santa FE.) As I looked around the table that night, full of people who are a little disconnected from their own families, but welcomed by Padre to share parish life, I realized how fortunate I have been to be part of such a hospitable community. Padre accepts people as they are without much show about it, and that is something I can do as well.

Martha and I were the last two to stop celebrating and we made jokes about being comadres. (A term of endearment, but literally a promise to be the godmothers of each others´ children.) We started getting closer during walks home together from the Iberio as she started working at the university while I was taking Spanish classes there. It feels good to have a Mexican friend my age, but a little sad that just when this has happened it is time to leave.

I have also been tearing up at the Missionaries of Charity as I think the girls are those who will most miss my presence. Still, I have never been able to get over the sadness that follows spending time there and I realize that I would never want to work their full-time or be a nun. While I feel a little guilty for leaving, I also realize that this experience will give me more motivation to prevent abuse, drug addiction and lack of education so that there are fewer terminally sick or abandoned persons in the world.

I will also bring back a newer appreciation for my family. In Mexico, family life is so important, and people find it strange that the other missionaries and I have lived on are own and would leave them for several years. Thus I am looking forward to being home and being part of holiday celebrations and birthdays once again.

Right now, the most important thing that I think I have gotten out of this experience is too be more patient and and understanding of both my own faults and those of others. While everyone wants love in their loves, the only way to give and receive unconditional love may be through God and we have to understand that humans are limited.

I know that there is a lot I would have done differently in retrospect and a lot that I can be proud of. Instead of analyzing what kind of missionary I was, what I am focusing on is that spending a few years doing service in foreign country is something that I have had a hidden desire to do for about fifteen years. So, now I have accomplished a life goal and that´s a really good feeling.

It´s appropriate that I´ll be arriving in time for Autumn. The change of leaves is one thing that I have most missed but symbolically I am looking forward to seeing something different that is familiar and comforting.

Higher Learning

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Sun, 18 Jul 2010 21:01:00 +0000

In our latest project together, Jess and I have been watching handicapped children from our neighborhood while their mothers attend a free sewing course at the Jesuit university in upper Santa Fe. For the most part, the kids have mild physical or learning disabilities. The exception is Marcos, a 23-year old man with schizophrenia. Though he is fairly calm, he is difficult to understand, he randomly shouts and curses at strangers, and he falls asleep at sporadic intervals.

Jess and I have the children outside one sunny afternoon (we care for them on campus grounds) and she decides to entertain them by singing and dancing. She demonstrates various dances by waving her arms, shaking her hips and pinching her nose (this at a university that has been called the Harvard of Mexico) and Marcos gets upset.

``Stop it, stop it,`` he yells, standing up and moving toward Jess while spinning around. ``I`ll go with my mama, I`ll go with my mama, I can`t take it!``

Jess stops dancing, apologizes and calms Marcos down. The rest of the day passes without incident.

We find the incident humorous and relate it as such to the program director. She is unsettled by our account.

``See how hard it is to care for someone like that? That`s why his mother can`t find work, because there`s no one to watch him. In the United States and other countries there is support, but here there is nothing.``

I do feel a lot for Marcos`s mother who has a lot of one-on-one time with him and seems dedicated to giving him the best life she can. Marcos actually has it a little easier. While he is incapable of leading a normal life, he seems unaware of this and thus spends his time coloring, shouting, and sleeping without knowing that things are off.

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I occasionally take Spanish courses at this University. That same day I had class earlier in the morning.I I arrived to school in a bad mood due to having to return home after forgetting an essay and subsequently getting on a bus that didn`t go where I thought it would.

First thing, I went to the coffee machine, which was occupied by guy with yellow hair (parted and slicked to his head) who was wearing khaki pants pulled up high over a collared shirt.

In a voice that was both nervous and full of dread he said to me in English ``Ohh, I don`t think it`s going to work. Yeahhh, it`s not coming.``

Since he wasn`t moving to let me assess the situation, I continued standing and staring. I got the impression that he wass someone who is uncomfortable when it comes to new encounters with young women. Uncaffeinated as I was, I couldn`t muster up the cordiality to make him feel more at ease.

``Oh there it goes,`` he said with relief when the coffee came spitting out.

``Si, se serve!....Que bueno.`` Then he shrugged his shoulders, grabbed his coffee and hurried away, leaving his change behind.

My U.S.A. friend was all too self-conscious, while Marcos, who is judged and laughed at, doesn`t realize the sort of reaction his behavior gets.

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One of the perks of taking a university class it that I can use its gym for free. The guy who manages it during the day has a shaved head, sports tight work-out clothing and has the stocky build of a bodybuilder who uses steroids. When I first started using the gym he made chit-chat with me (as he does with most of the young women who go there) but things cooled when I wasn`t too responsive to his inquiries as to if I have a boyfriend or could date.

The manager zealously enforces gym rules and is particularly insistent that hand towels be carried. Several times he has scolded me for forgetting to bring one. One day he approached me while I was on the elliptical machine and told me that as he has reminded me to bring I towel and I didn`t have one at the moment, I couldn`t enter the gym. (As I had clearly already entered the gym, it was his way of saying get out.)

I am not one to argue (particularly in Spanish) so I left but I thinking the situation was ridicuolous. The people carrying towels do little more with them than dust over machines, and if it so important that people carry towels, the gym should provide them.

Still, he has every right to enforce the rules. (In fact, it`s his job.) To me it`s petty, but lifting weights is his religion, the gym is his church and the rules on the walls are commandments to go by.

However, throughout his life, he must have been so mistreated and rejected by people that now he needs to unnaturally change his body in order to gain power and respect and he feels good by being bossy at the gym.

Annoying as I found the gym manager, he projects a confidence that he belongs in his setting that my coffee buddy could use.
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My Spanish class it taught by a short, round woman named Irma who wears loose clothes and big jewelry. She is in her late 50`s and she likes to come up with reasons for parties so that she can bring in pastries. During our first class, she told us that the great tragedy of her life is that her son died of heart failure a few years ago, and for that reason she doesn`t like to see young people stressed and she wouldn`t put much pressure on us. (Most of the students in these classes are foreign exchange students in their early 20`s.)

She peppers her classes with tidbits about Mexican politics, culture and history. I liked her well enough until the World Cup started and I was the only student who wanted to attend class in lieu of her offer to bring us to a teacher`s lounge in order to watch Mexico play. She arranged for me to go to another teacher`s class, but that teacher ended up watching the game as well. Irma seemed annoyed at having to make up the class just for me (and teach another class just for me when Mexico again played.) Since then, every time soccer or the World Cuphas been mentioned, she`ll apologize to me in a way that doesn`t at all seem sincere.

As I am paying for these classes from my limited budget with the notion that someday it will be meaningful to speak more Spanish, I am pretty insistent on getting my money`s worth.

But to her, I am taking a few skipped classes far too seriously and missing out on an important culture event. Perhaps she thinks ``my son is dead, nothing else is very important, we should enjoy life where we can, why is this girl such a killjoy?``

Still, I feel justified in wanting to attend. While I find the gym manager far too vigilant in enforcing rules, I wish that Irma would just stick to the most basic task of being a teacher (show up for class.)

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What I have been taught by university life in Mexico is basically what I have seen in my neighborhood. It can be so heartbreaking to be human. We try to battle loneliness and find acceptance while struggling to deal with each others`s quirks. We stutter at the coffee machine and smirk by the weight machines while wishing we could be closer to others. The love we feel for our children is too heavy if they are ill or if they have passed away. We want to help and know others but that often conflicts with other desires.

If we can keep finding time to learn and play in the sun, we are blessed.

Afternoon Walk

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 00:30:00 +0000

Carolina and I are walking hand-in-hand down Santa Fe`s main avenue as we go to pick up her twin sister Paulina from pre-school. Or rather, I clutch and pull out her hand as I walk in order to prevent her from going into stores, grabbing at random items being sold and jumping onto pedestrians.

Mostly I keep her at bay, but she manages to run up and hug the 20-something year old cake shop guy. He is sitting in an open-doored car outside of his family`s pastry store.

This tendency that Carolina has to approach anyone is disturbing, but in this case it`s worse because I (sort of) know the cake guy. He has taken a shine to me based on the fact that I walk past his shop almost everyday. Our conversations are limited: he makes declarations of love in English and Spanish and I shake my head no when he tries to give me notes or calls out ``neena, ven aca`` (come here baby girl.)

I realize that his interest in my stems from the lack of excitement that comes with spending over two decades hanging out in the same pueblo shop. Still I would prefer to avoid him, but Carolina doesn`t understand this. As I pull Carolina away from him, I hope that he thinks that she is a daughter he would be saddled with if things were to progress between us, and not a charge I sent his way in order to get his attention.

Further along, we encounter Jess at the snack stand of a sweet, elderly, very poor lady. Carolina jumps up and down and points at her mouth and though I don`t want her having more sweets (she had some earlier) Jess`s friend wants to give something. I accept a lollipop which I put into my pocket. Within a minute of walking away, Carolina manages to retrieve and unwrap it, and shove it into her mouth.

A woman (around my age) with a daughter (around Carolina`s age) comes up to me and asks if I have adopted Carolina. She is excited by this thought as she knows Carolina from visits to the orphanage. Sadly, I explain that I am only volunteering with the girls and will be leaving soon.

We arrive at the guarderia where Paulina is waiting with the other children. Paulina has improved a lot over the last two years. When I arrived, she couldn`t talk and always wanted to be held by whatever grown-up was around. Now, she says names and words and interacts with other children. She asks for Vicky after school and Melissa (who works at the guarderia) says that she has friends there.

Carolina runs about while I collect Paulina and her things. We are all on the way out when Carolina takes a detour into a playhouse. I keep walking and pretend that we will leave without her with the assumption that she`ll get worried and follow. Paulina doesn`t want to leave without her and I think, how sweet that she won`t leave her sister behind. We go to the playhouse and Paulina sticks her hand through its window, grabs Carolina`s lollipop, puts it into her own mouth, and turns away.

This at least gets Carolina out of the playhouse and we all head out after I return the lollipop to its rightful owner. Paulina is recognized by a snack-shop owner next door who gives both the girls gifts of flavored sugar sticks.

The girls are cranky as we walk--Carolina wants to be carried because she is tired and Paulina because she is jealous. Carolina gets more upset when her lollipop falls. At a street corner, Carolina grabs a newspaper from the back of a pick-up truck. While its owner is asking for it back, Paulina presents me with an apricot that she has swiped from a truck stand.

Once everything is back where it belongs, I grab the girls by their hands and pull them along the street. Paulina yelps when her candy sticks falls and I won`t retrieve.

The girls whimper and cry as they run to keep up with me. What has happened? These girls are my sweethearts, the first ones I held and bonded with, the ones I most dream about taking back to States with me. But I know that even if I don`t stop and calm their tears, they will go away. And even if I do, they will still come back.

Back in the marketplace I encounter George,a 50-something photographer from the parish who likes cock fights and gambling. He is standing in front of a pirated DVD stand where customers can watch portions of videos to ensure that their quality is good (or at least worth the one dollar purchase price.) In order to calm the girls down, George has the stand`s owner put on Sesame Street and we stand holding the twins and watching television.

Without too much further struggle, I manage to discharge the girls at their house and then I head home. As always, the licquor store guys greet me. Lately, the locksmith guys have been saying hello by name, which is unusual as I have never been introduced to them. Today I ask them how they learned my name.

``From the church, from Gallo, from the Gregorians (a parish young adult group),`` says a guy whose name I find out is Miguel.

His friend is less polite and asks ``Why won`t you ever talk to us? Are you angry?``

I try to explain that it`s a little odd to call out to someone you don`t know as if you do but he interrupts me.

``You don`t have to be embarrassed, your Spanish is okay.``

I say good-bye and run into Julio, a guy from the street who is always wasted, but who I talk with when he isn`t too far gone.

Today he`s in bad shape and tries to kiss and grab at me so I yell at him and walk away. Though I want to show acceptance toward people, I have also learned that helping others doesn`t have to mean subjecting yourself to extremely uncomfortable situations.

The guys who hang out in front out of the hardware store close to me house ask me if everything is okay and I finally make it inside.

This is life in Santa Fe, where during a 30-minute walk, I encounter the best and worst of human nature and a whole range of human emotions. There is love and lust, greed and giving, gluttony and charity, concern and curiosity. On the streets, I feel very much part of local life and very much of an outsider, but I am always intrigued by what is around the corner.

Carolina, or Change

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Tue, 18 May 2010 18:53:00 +0000

On Sunday morning, my plan is to go to work at the orphanage and then head to a clown show being held at the parish. (A day of festivity sponsored by a political party who emblazons toys with their stickers--in Mexico there is not much separation of church and state.)

It occurs to me that small children and clowns are things that should be combined so before leaving around eleven, I ask Sister for permission to take Carolina (An autistic 5 year-old who rarely gets to leave the house) to the show.

``What time will you be back?`` Sister asks.

``Whenever you want. I was thinking around one.``

``No, not one.``

``Okay, maybe twelve.``

``No, not twelve.... You can bring her back at three. Three is good.`` (The convent is closed to visitors between 12 and 3.)

This is more of a commitment than I was planning on, but if it is the only way to spring her, I`m game. I gather up spare diapers and clothing and we take off.

When we arrive at the parish, clowns are dancing on a stage that has been set up and the yard is full of spectators and food and toy vendors. We sit with Isaac and Lisa, and for a while Isaac keeps Carolina entertained with his keys.

But she gets bored and we go near the stage where she is attracted by the colorful, glittery costumes of the clowns. She reaches out to them and is passed around by several clowns until she ends up on stage. They all dance while I hover nervously nearby answering questions about her. The head clown announces, ``we`re going to give Carolina some gifts but let her mother hold on to them now now,`` and she hands me a board game and rubber ball.

Since I now have a maternal image to uphold, I head onto stage with the group because Carolina is prone to sporadically squirming away from people or having tantrums. A clown tells me to dance along, and although both public performing and dancing are two things I would be happy never doing, I clap to the music until Carolina returns to me and we head off the stage.

We wander around the yard, with Carolina grabbing at toys she likes, lunging into the arms of grown-ups who look appealing, and taking food and candy from the bags of strangers. Like me, Carolina is on the pale side and since many people are unfamiliar with the symptoms of autism, she comes across as a misbehaved child. Thus I come across as a bad mother.

So it goes. We take a walk to my house where I give Carolina a snack. Melissa laughs at my mistaken identity stories and watches Carolina when I go upstairs to change my clothes.

``Mama,`` Carolina says and Melissa calls ``she`s asking for you.``

We head back to the parish and settle in for Mass. I have Carolina on my lap and she busies herself by going through a People magazine that she snagged from the house. She literally tears through it by ripping out pages as she looks at it. Though I`d prefer to just leave the discards on the floor until the end of Mass, helpful seatmates keep picking up the pages and handing them to me. The service basically goes okay, though I have to shush Carolina often, let her stand up on my lap to see things, and clutch her hand to prevent her from wandering the through aisles. Several times, an older lady looks at her and points to the door but I keep Carolina at bay until Communion.

There are a few moments in Mass when Carolina is quiet with her head rested against me and everything feels peaceful. My mother used to tell me that I was born in the wrong era and that I should have been a 60`s flower child or activist. However, being in church with Carolina makes me think that maybe I should have been born 100 years earlier, when all that would have been expected of me is that I take care of babies and go to service every Sunday, because watching over Carolina gives me a sense of purpose and happiness.

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Dreams of homemaking aside, I am very excited that I`ll be entering graduate school at Catholic University this August in order to study social work. Some of the things that appeal to me about the school are that I want to learn more about Catholic social justice teaching and that the university is located in a poorer area of Washington, DC that I hope to contribute to.

I show Padre my application materials when we are sitting around the parish table one night. He reads through them, picking out parts that he can understand.

``This $200,`` he says. ``Is that a one-time fee or will you have to pay it every semester?``

``No Padre, that`s just the entrance fee,`` I tell him. He is quite taken aback when I give him a ballpark estimate of how much it will cost every semester but he recovers in order to make me feel better.

``So you`ll have loans,`` he says. ``You`ll be able to pay that back easily. We``ll take up a collection outside the parish with a sign saying Saint Caro pray for us.``

He laughs, ``maybe we would get a $1,000.`` He says that the Iberio, a private university up the street, is much more expensive, though I have doubts about this.

His surprise over the price speaks to something I have been pondering: is it necessary to spend thousands of dollars on education when what I mostly want to do is give love and acceptance to others?

This is something I thought about a few months ago after a frustrating afternoon of calling universities and checking up on my school and loan application statuses. When I arrived at work, the older girls were already in bed, but many squealed with happiness when I entered. I realized that it really wouldn`t matter where I went to school, as long as I stay focused on helping the needy and keeping my heart with them.

Nevertheless, there have been many times here that I have felt that I could do more with further education and thus I look forward to entering school. I also realize that social work is a field that can feel draining, so I look forward to learning coping techniques and to the opportunity for mobility that a graduate degree will give me.

As for paying for tuition--there`s got to be a clown show somewhere in DC looking for backup dancers.

Chalma

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Mon, 10 May 2010 23:55:00 +0000

I`ll never turn down an invitation is what the gist of this blog has been of late, and in this spirit, I agree to get up at the crack of dawn on Saturday, don a crown of flowers and dance in front of a statue in a valley.

It sounds rather pagan, but all of these acts are part of the experience of making a pilgrimage to Chalma, a town in Malinalco, Mexico State where an image of Christ miraculously appeared in the 1600s. A popular religious site, many people take this trip walking (which can take hours or days depending on the starting point.) However, upon hearing that Gallo is going up with a busload of parishioners from his old parish, I decide to tag along.

At 6 in the morning, Gallo, Martha and Martha`s brother and mother (Arturo and Martha) and I take a taxi ride to the nearby pueblo of Jalapa and meet up with the rest of the participants. Jalapa is where Padre Salvador served as a priest for ten years prior to Santa Fe and the place where he and Gallo met. (Gallo still has a house in Jalapa but lives on parish grounds in Santa Fe helping with carpentry, cooking and shaman-like curing.)

We drive a few hours out city of the city to Agua de Vida, which is a prelude Chalma. Like others making their first pilgrimage there, I put on a corona of flowers and dance to salsa music in front of a small chapel. (Apparently the dancing is said to cleanse sins.) Gallo takes delight in spinning the Marthas and I out onto the dance floor. I share an awkward dance with Arturo--as he is a 17 year-old boy and I am an American who doesn`t like dancing, we both sort of stumble through the steps. From their we dunk our heads beneath pipes that pour out into a river. (I take it this water is sacred as plastic buckets are sold in order to collect it and bring it home.)

After a breakfast of tacos and broth (though I opt for fruit,) we pile back onto the bus and drive for less than an hour into Chalma. We go through a huge, long marketplace where sweets, food, sandals and religious relics are sold. Like the Shrine of the Basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe, it is very much catered toward tourists. (Tourists who aren`t too concerned about food safety as bees swarm over the candy and buckets of caramel sauce for sale.)

After walking through the market (on foot, although many make this part of the trek on their knees,) we arrive in front of the church where we wait outside for a while with the Chalmito Christ that parishioners have taken along from Jalapa. It is Christ represented as a carpenter, apparently because the Chalma Christ is supposed to be the working man`s Christ. The current priest who serves in Jalapa says Mass. Both outside and in the parish, pilgrims are sprawled about in various states of rest, exhausted from their voyages.

After Mass, we go to a river in front of the church. Though I brought along a bathing suit for this occasion, I am not sure of the Mexican etiquette for swimming in front of a parish as everyone else is dressed in shorts and t-shirts. (I have seen people dressed in this garb to swim before, but in this case I don`t know if people aren`t wearing bathing suits because they don`t have them or because it`s considered inappropriate to wear them on religious.) I opt to wear shorts over my bathing suit. Though I think the river is intended to be cleansing, ironically it smells a bit like sewage and I notice bugs stuck to me after getting out. Still, the icy cold water feels good after a hot morning in the sun.

From there we head to the marketplace to buy lunch supplies and we are surrounded by vendors trying to force samples of pork skin, cheese, pulque, and tortillas on us. Gallo lives up to his nickname of the Rooster by immediately agreeing to buy from the prettiest, young girls and insisting on buying me several bags of vegetarian products. We settle by at a table in the sun and have tacos and beer and listen to mariachi and other band players. Before heading out, we look at a wall of thanks for miracles granted by the Chalma Christ and the Marthas do some market shopping. Though the bus is scheduled to take off at five, it doesn`t leave until 6:30. In the meantime, I make small talk while waiting for everyone else to arrive. Like everyone else on the bus, I fall asleep soon after take-off and pretty much stay that way until arriving back in Santa Fe around 10. What adventure awaits me next?--only the Christ of Chalma knows.

Treating and Trying

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Fri, 07 May 2010 18:20:00 +0000

I don´t really get along with the women who work in the orphanage of the house of the Missionaries of Charity. I don´t agree with some of their actions toward the children and and they still view me as an outsider who can´t speak the language. Generally when I try to talk to them, they don´t bother with understanding me and they won´t take the time to listen to me stumble through Spanish. As is their relationship with most visitors, we don´t talk much.

On Wednesday afternoon, one employee, Senora Anna, asks me to stay past visiting hours until the night worker arrives, so that she can leave. I agree, particularly because I am hesitant to put down a child who won´t stop crying. (Marcos, a 3-year old boy born a drug addict, whose body is so stiff is so stiff that it is hard for anyone to move his limbs.)

Several of the older children had been shut in a bedroom with the door locked and after Senora Anna leaves, I unlock the door and try to attend to crying babies. Within minutes, the girls take a bag of hard candy and containers of icing from the kitchen and begin devouring them. As they had already placed mattresses and bedsheets onto the floor, the food wrappers add to the clutter of the rooms. I worry about the girls choking on candy but am too involved with others to take the sweets away. After I lug Vicky to the bathroom to change her diaper, one of the nuns enters and is angry that the girls are out and the rooms are messy.

Everything seems overwhelming and I control what I can--I take half-eaten candy from the girls, pick up trash off the floor, and I rearrange blankets and beds. While washing dishes, I try to block out the kids who are crying and I am realize that I am doing exactly the orphanage workers do that bothers me: putting chores over giving attention to the children.

Yet, messiness adds to a feeling of unease, and housework is something that can be completed while suffering is ceaseless. My focus on tasks over children may be wrong but the feelings that drive me to it gives me more understanding and empathy for the women who work at the orphanage. They have a hard job that they were n´t trained for and that they get little credit for doing.

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A change to unwind comes at night during an impromptu party for Padre´s 20th anniversary as a priest. When I ask Padre if the last 20 years have been as he expected, he replies that he has learned a little bit more about how to treat people better. He wasn´t expecting to have so many parties or dinners or be with people so much, but he has learned that the most important thing is how you treat people and that you are with them.

¨When you go to heaven´s door, St. Peter will ask you how much time you spent with people. And if you were busy with other things, he´ll say, ´then what were you there for?´´ Padre says.

Theoretically, I love Padre´s words because my life is about striving to be there for and with people . While this is still challenging and frustrating, I have gotten better at being there for people who are disenfranchised and destitute. However, his words point to a different actions--how do you offer love and acceptance toward people if if you don´t agree with their actions and if they don´t respect you?

During our community spiritual night, I offer a prayer intention for the orphanage employees. The next day, I make small talk with Senora Anna and ask what can be done about Marcos´ crying and she holds and him rubs his back in a manner that quells his tears. Later on, she sits on the mat and tickles and teases a group of children while they jump on her back. It is one of the only times that I have ever seen her play with the kids. This moment tells me to try to understand others better no matter who they are and what my past experiences with them have been.

Midnight Bathing and Pajama Rosaries: Semana Santa in Tampamolón

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 19:05:00 +0000

I was offered another last-minute opportunity for Semana Santa as the Sisters of the Incarnate Word had been planning a mission trip to indigenous communities outside of Tampamolón and the missionaries were invited along. I had embarked on this two-year experience thinking I would be living a rural life and ended up in the chaos of Mexico City, so I decided to participate in the Easter Week Mission trip in order to see different lifestyle. I did not have a clear idea what this mission trip would entail but since I came to Mexico without really knowing what I would be doing, I decided I could stand a week and a half of anything.

On Friday afternoon, I leave in a van with Hermana Ceci-one of the Incarnate Word nuns who lives in Santa Fe- and two other women. On is shy 20-year old girl named Ingrid who is studying to be a chef and thinking of being a nun. The other is an outgoing 26-year old named Mariel who was a student in the Sisters´ school . She sports three tattoos, lots of eye makeup and a t-shirt that says I (heart) me. She says that she had previously gone on a mission trip but found it lacking due to disorganization and hopes that this will be a better experience. Before leaving, I chat with her mother (an associate with the Sisters) who tells me that she doesn`t go to the part of Santa Fe that I live in due to fear.

We drive for eight hours to San Luis Potosi and meet up with five pre-novitiates, most of whom have been relocated due to violence in the northern part of the country and sent on this mission trip. The age of the five girls together does not total up to 100 and they like eating lollipops and chewing bubblegum.

We spend the night at a convent and the next day drive for seven hours to Tampamolón, the base point of the mission. We arrive just in time for 1:00 mass and afterward meet up with four women from Guadalajara-- a 26 year-old named Fabiola who spent three years as a novitiate and three of her parish friends.

Prior to the tip, I told myself that I would try eating things contains meat or dairy if nothing else was available or if it would deeply offend the host if I didn`t consume it. For lunch, we are offered what looks to me like a bag of innards but is basically a chicken and pig parts mixed with chili and corn and cooked over a fire. I cannot bring myself to eat it and tell other guests that I had already eaten. Fortunately, a bowel of nopales (cactus leaves) are brought out and I happily chow down a big heaping of them. (They are not a food a particularly like, but I eat them often due to the alleged healing properties of cacti.)

At the Sisters´ house (for those keeping track of the number of convents I stayed over at during the last month, I estimate that it is five) , we discuss what will transpire over the week. We are to break off into small groups and dispense into indigenous communities outside of Tampamolón. Hermana Ceci says that the most important thing is that be with and share life with community members, but we are also to teach catechism and perform the all components of Mass that a lay person can perform. We spend the evening going over readings and preparing materials.

The next morning, Fabiola, Mariel and Jazzmine (one of the pre-noviates) and I are dropped off in the community of Palizades. We are greeted by the catechism teacher who shows us the pavilion where masses and other community events take place. She says that Palizades is a community comprised of 30 or 40 families. The house of our host family is made up four rooms separated by concrete walls . Their kitchen area is outside of their house and made of sticks and their dining area is comprised of a table and grilling area and has a grass awning over it. Separately they have toilet that flushes as well as a bathing area. Chickens, turkeys and dogs run around the yard. In comparison to housing that I will later see, it is rather lavish.

The father of the house is a man in his sixties with seven children, and he begins to tear while talking about one whom he has lost contact with. Another son lives with him for half of the year and spends the other half working in North Carolina pine tree fields. (Most of the town`s young people leave after junior high school and work in fields or as house help.) The situation makes me reflect as the son is imported to do work in the United States that no one there wants to do and I think I am doing things in Mexico that no one else wants to be doing. Perhaps, I should be working in the United States and sending money to this family so we can all just stay at home?

I change focus to help plan the Palm Sunday celebration that we are to put on in the afternoon. News to us is when one of the family members tells us that Padre Diego is scheduled to perform Mass at one. We arrive before one at the pavilion and other community members say that Padre Diego told them he would come at one p.m. in order to begin things at two.

We wait to do anything and I feel like a seasoned missionary as waiting is part of my life but the other girls are impatient. Padre Diego arrives after two and we help him with the Palm Sunday Mass. Another manner in which I have a leg up is that the girls feel a little out of place as Father Diego delivers much of his Mass in the Aztec language. As I have become accustomed to not understanding what is being said, a different language doesn`t make a difference to me. (Though it is a little annoying that just when I am finally feeling more comfortable with Spanish, the language gets switched up on me.)

We make announcements as to when we will hold catechism classes and Masses and then return home and eat enchiladas. The grandchildren of the host family come over from next door and watch us as we make posters about upcoming events.

In the morning we give classes to the young children(they color pictures of Bible scenes ) and with the adolescents, discuss pamphlets about discrimination. Though the young children enjoy coloring and playing, it`s harder to make a connection with adolescents who seem bored and hesitant to talk. After classes, they follow us around as we hang up posters and attempt to meet nearby community members. They show us shortcuts in the forest, including one beautiful area swarming with butterflies. This is heartening, because even if our class didn`t carry weight, our presence does.

We end up canceling adult catechism class due to the death of a community member. The girls and I visit the house of the deceased in order to say a rosary. The corpse is in a coffin in the center of the room and surrounded by flowers and candles. The family passes out coffee, cookies and pasta and a vigil is be held all night.

Upon our return to the house around 10:00, we our told that water has been heated for us so that we can bath. The family believes that if you are near a dead body, you carry the sickness of the dead person with you and shouldn’t enter a house without bathing, nor can you wear your clothes again before washing them. So even though the deceased was eighty and died of old age, we have to take bathes. (In this case, a bath is dumping warm water over yourself by flashlight.)

The next day we attend the funeral and Mariel an I walk to the graveyard where a coffin is placed in an above-ground tomb. The son mixes cement and seals the tomb shot with concrete blocks. Afterwards, we join the other girls for adult catechism class.

Back at the house, we all bath again and I put on the clothes that I brought to wear as pajamas (black yoga pants and a black tank top) as I am forbidden to wear the rest of my wardrobe. We attend a birthday dinner at which we say the rosary. As all of the guests are tired from the funeral, it is more stoic than celebratory.

The next morning we head back to Tampamolón for a check-in with the other missionaries. We had been planning on using the nuns` washing machine to clean our clothes but as it is out of service, we end up scrubbing them by hand.

I had been enjoying Palizades because as it does not really have streets , no one could call out to me. Though I am different, the other missionaries and I are together in being outsiders. In Tampamolón , a man comes up to me in a store and asks ``Aren`t you warm Guerre?`` He then says to his son ``Look at the Guerrita, all dressed in black in this heat,`` and they stare at me as if I`m a zoo animal.

Back in Palizades, we make house visits and issue invitations for upcoming festivities. This means a lot of sitting around and drinking coffee, especially for me because I love coffee. Drinking it distracts others from the fact that I am not saying much or eating meat-filled food. This turns out to be somewhat negative in this case as I am forced to use bathrooms which are basically holes in the ground on top of hills.

I get another taste of the simple life when some of the teenage girls invite me to the river to bathe with them. Wearing shorts and tank tops, we splash around, share soap and combs and dodge fish. The girls ask me about my life as a missionary and life in the United States and talk about their desires to be nuns. (Something they seem too young to be considering.) A 14 year-old named Chaya asks me if I feel lonely because I can´t speak in my native language and I´m touched by her understanding and concern. It is one of the first times that I feel like I am really bonding with community members as I had been struggling with this due to limited language.

Padre Diego celebrates Holy Thursday Mass, washes the feet of ¨apostles´´ and we have our own Last Supper comprised of coffee, nopales, beans , palmitas (spicy palm tree bark) and tortillas. (To my relief, these items as well and sweet breads are basically our diet throughout the trip which makes me happy.)

Two men cut down a tree in preparation for Good Friday and on this day and we reenact the Stations of the Cross. The apostles wear uniforms made of crepe paper and the girls have on veils over normal clothing. We walk along the towns´ dirt road and the Stations are read in Aztec and Spanish. The cross is quite heavy and many people take turns helping `Jesus` to carry it. During the fifth station, when Simon is called upon to help Jesus, Marian jokes that there are already many Simons. The day is serene; mass, prayer an then an uphill hike to another community to view the movie The Passion of Christ, which is shown on television screen set up outside.

Saturday is the celebration of the Resurrection and we spend the day making more visits and preparing for Mass. Though I don´t read as much as the other girls do, I compensate by sprinkling holy water on Mass attendants. After dinner the girls and I play basketball with the youth until 11:00 and then say our goodbyes to community members and our host family. Several members of the host family cry and ask if we will be able to return for Christmas. I say that anything is possible but really I am thinking that I will be back in the United States, that I have missed the last two Christmases with my family and that if I were to return to Mexico for Christmas, I would visit Santa Fe.

I went on the Semana Santa mission trip without the notion that I would make a big impact of the people within the indigenous community. I wanted to see a different manner of life and have a good experience that would improve my interactions with the people I serve in Santa Fe. So it is a good feeling to realize that my presence was valued in Palizades but sad as it makes me think about how hard it will be to leave Santa Fe after two years.

A highlight was living with Fabiola, Mariel and Jazzmine for a week. . I haven´t really made friends with Mexican women of my age since being here, so it was interesting to get know them. Overall they were very patient with me, especially Fabiola who made sure to repeat things so that I could understand them. At one point, Jazzmine commented that my asking for clarification for things brought something to the group because when I wasn´t understanding things, the townspeople usually weren´t either.

Despite efforts to help me fit in, I still felt a little isolated as it was the longest I have gone without speaking any English. On Easter Sunday when the group reunited to go home, I had a vague idea of our travel plans but was somewhat surprised to end taking a stop in a park where we comprised of rivers and cascades. My feeling out of place was worth it as I was able swim through and around waterfalls.

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A few months prior to the Tampamolón mission trip, a friend from one of my English classes ( a 23 year-old girl from New York by way of Russia) invited me to dinner with her 38 year-old Mexican boyfriend and one of his friends. We went to a restaurant decorated with velvet curtains were served foie gras was served. The men talked about skip trips, cars and university experiences. My date was an equities dealer who had closed a multimillion dollar deal that day after three years of bargaining. I had spent my afternoon negotiating with three year-olds as to how much candy they could eat and how much of my hair they could pull (and losing.) At the end of the night, the friend asked me if I was going to go to business school when I returned to the United States, and I looked at him as if he wasn´t in fact speaking perfect English and said I wanted to study social work.

Though I don´t consider myself very liberal or extreme, to people who definitely aren´t, I may come across as a little out there when I mention thinks like not having a TV, not eating meat and living amongst the poor. So while I enjoyed the night, I felt out of place despite being around white-looking people speaking my native language.

I thought of this during one point of the mission trip when I was sitting in a palm tree hut eating hand-made tortillas. The wife of the house was a little embarrassed about the simple setting and Fabiola said that Jesus was poor and chose to be that way because people are often uncomfortable around the wealthy.

So this may be why I was a little on edge during my restaurant night. However, I didn´t feel quite comfortable with indigenous community despite their lack of wealth. While trying to analyze which lifestyle is best and where I belong, I realized that that though we may feel awkward and out of place in certain situations, we all fit in no matter what because we are sharing the same experience of being human.

Yearly Retreat

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 00:40:00 +0000

Once a year the Missionaries of the Incarnate Word gather for a retreat and for those of us in Mexico, this year`s was held in Cuernavaca, a vacation spot outside of Mexico City nicknamed ``The Land of Eternal Spring`` due to its consistently warm weather.

On retreat last year, it was nice to catch up with the women who I had met during orientation. This year would be different as these women had either finished the program or were unable to attend and thus our house would participate with a community who began serving in Monterrey in August. This community comes to Santa Fe and spends the day in our house and parish and from there we leave for Cuenavaca.

Our retreat house in Cuernavaca is a sunny spot run by Sisters of the Incarnate Word on ground that contains fruit trees and a swimming pool. It is a tranquil spot from which to reflect. During one of our first talks, we are invited to think back as to why we originally joined the program, which is of special significance to me as my two-year term of service is coming to an end in five months.

I entered the program at a time when I was fed up with employment struggles and I realized that the jobs had been seeking really were`t that important and I had the desire to grow as a person. As a missionary, the importance of being rather than doing is constantly stressed.

Through my work with the terminally ill, there are a lot of chances to just be as I mostly just offer my presence. This has been valuable for me as I have realized that though I may not have traits to make me succeed in the corporate world, I am able to be present to the needy because because I have the patience and stamina to just sit and off fer myself to them.

However, just being has brought a lot of sadness and loneliness that I hadn`t anticipated before coming. Despite finding myself in in very different and some to,es uncomfortable situations over the last few weeks, my mood has been better. This makes me realize that being around suffering has an affect on my personality as I dwell on the pain of the desolate.

One quote that sticks with me during the retreat is that we we are called to suffer with others but not be sad. This seems contradictory, because how can you wall in the misery of others and still come out a pleasant person? Still, this is ultimately what I want, to be a compassionate person who can face the darker realities of life while still appreciating the beauty of the world

The theme of the retreat is Lent, and important part of this is forgiveness as Jesus came into the world to forgive us and ultimately forgave us for having crucified him. There are people both here and home that I have been harboring grudged against and I want to let them go. And, if Jesus can forgive the world and I can forgive others, I must also forgive myself for times when I have mistreated people or not done enough to ease their pains.

One powerful part of the retreat a reflection on the stains of the cross, when the group shares ways that they have seen Jesus`s final steps lived out in the mission . I think of the times when I have have entered the homes of friends and realized that they are much worse off financially than I thought and realized they are carrying heavy crosses silently. Other missionaries share then pain of women who have lost children or persons ``crucified``as they have terminal diseases.

Additionally, we work on ways to grow and help each other as a community. Though I came into this program knowing that I would live in a community, I saw it has living with roommates. However, I am realizing the importance of sharing experience and offering support to those I live with. Though this program is about loving others, it is easy to to take for granted those who are physically closest to us. To counter this, we learn communication techniques and decide to start sharing a weekly community night during which we will eat together and share a spiritual activity.

Overall, the retreat serves as reminder to let go, to keep loving, and to move forward.

Going Indigenous

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 17:28:00 +0000

While living in the world`s second largest city may sound exciting, lately I have felt a desire for change. Though everyday life in the community of Sante Fe brings about challenges or interesting encounters, it is still pueblo (small town) life and it seems like I take the same route and encounter the same people every day. While I am enjoying this type of life, I was was accustomed to traveling a lot and switching my living situation every year in the United States.

An opportunity for something different comes at 10:00 p.m. on Sunday night. Padre Salvador invites me to an indigenous conference to take place in the state of Guerrero the following day. As I am booked to leave on vacation for San Francisco on Friday (the anticipated return day to Santa Fe,) I take being able to change my departure date to Saturday as a sign that should go.

At 7:00 the next morning, Padre, Jessi and I leave in order to meet up with the bus heading to Chilapa. The bus is scheduled to leave at 8:30, but due to late arrivals, tamale buying and sorting out money to give to the driver, we do not take off until around 10:00. During the down time, Father uses one of his Virgin of the Mary holy cards to pick the lock of a nearby church`s bathroom so that we can use the facilities.

The bus is made up of residents of a Mexico City group who consider themselves indigenous and fight for rights and to preserve their culture. If there was a photo of participants labeled ¨What´s wrong with this picture?´´, Jessica and I would have arrows pointed over are heads. Still, Padre invited us along due to extra spots on the bus and his desire to expose us to new situations.

We take a picturesque journey to the town of Chilapa which is dusty spot located in the the state of Guerroro. After arriving in the seminary hosting the conference and watching an opening ceremony involving sword fights and Mass, Padre suggests that we all go out for tacos. Half of our group goes with him and we wander around looking for a place to eat. Most of the women of the group stay in spot serving chalupas ( a thick tortilla concoction ) while Padre, his priest friends, a secretary and I seek and find a tacqueria that serves cerveza. We drink beers and are given pumpkin seeds in the way that an American bar my offer peanuts.

During these types of conferences, townspeople serve as host families and open up their homes. However, as our half of the group was off eating while lodgings were procured, we are left homeless. A woman coming home from a party notices our plight and offers to let the eighteen of us stay in her mother`s house. Padre stays behind as he is to stay the seminary and the rest of us ride off.

A half an hour late our busload arrive in front of an impassable road (due to construction) leading to the woman`s home. A few group members wander of to assess the situation and forty minutes later come back to say that the mother was not prepared for or wanting over a dozen strangers staying in her house.

In a Sound of the Music moment , we are offered refuge in a convent. A nun in our group says that we can stay in her Sisters` nearby home. As this convent offers overnight schooling, thirteen women sleep in a bunk-bed filled room. . Throughout our nights there, lights go on at random times and we awake to various indigenous languages being spoken.

The theme of conference is that water, and the gist is that water is precious and the we should do our best to conserve it. I agree with this but find much of the conference is hard to understand, though it does force me think about how much water is used excessively. Generally people bath more more than needed and factories pollute water in order to produce bottled water and sodas.

Though the conference is a reminder to consider my use of scarce resource, what I enjoy most out of it is being able to encounter new people. One day, we go to a rural community and hike through the fields, up a mountain, and enter a cave where some of the first prehispanic indigenous drawings were discovered. One of the priests makes his musicsas (instrument players) play songs while we pray. Throughout the conference, different groups perform prayers that a a mix of indigenous prehispanic rituals alongside Catholicism.

Although food is served by the priests and students of the seminary, I often go back to the kitchen in order to request vegetarian food or get water (which is smoke-flavored and stored in from trashcans.) In thus back area, the kitchen staff hand rolls tortillas and cooks food over open fires. One priest encourages his students to practice their English with me and thus simple tasks like requesting napkins take about twenty minutes as their English is worse than my Spanish.

As I don`t eat meat or dairy, I often worry about the food in these situations, but the seminary gives me hearty portions of beans and corn-based products. Still, things just seem a little off. During the nights, we are served coffee and one morning a priest offers us several shots of his mescal ( a tequila-like liquor) for us to sample.

The last night is a fiesta and at first religious tunes our played but soon comes salsa music. On my dance card is a 22-year old who lived in the U.S.A. for several years and asks me ``hey girl, do you want to dance?``

A guy my own age issues an invitation, but during small talk I learn that he lives in the seminary as a student. (However, as I am staying in a convent this could make a great how we met story.) My worst dancing experience is with a 15 year-old uniform-clad student who I have to push away from me the whole time. He speaks English as he spent time living in the United States. It seems that his family shipped him off to seminary school in order to undo the damage.

On our bus ride home, we take a side trip to to a beach near Acapulco. For some members of our group it is their first time at the seashore. Before disembarking, Father announces to the bus ``Remember that Mother Nature brought you into the world without clothes. If you don`t have a bathing suit, she`ll accept you as such.`

I run along the beach, swim in a lagoon and join the group in eating seafood and drinking beer. When I sit down on bench, it begins to sway, but Padre tells me to relax because that that is how it is designed to function.

During lunch, Padre remarks that he is drinking a type of beer that he does not like because it is the only one that is available and that he also feels guilty feel eating and drinking heartily during lent. I am proud of myself for being able to make a joke in Spanish. ``But you`re drinking beer that you don`t like, thus you`re sacrificing for Lent,``` I say.

Padre and everybody laugh, and we are in good spirits as we feeding the beach dogs fishbones. The next thing l know, the people next to me are on the ground and then I am as well. The bench has broken and only Padre is left upright as his part of the bench was supported by a pole. This speaks to Padre`s faith as he is confident that things will be okay, and with him it turns out to be so.

Despite glitches, I enjoy the trip. We arrive in Santa Fe at 11 in the night and I pack at three in the morning in order to catch the plane to visit my sister and family in San Francisco.

The best part my trip the United States is seeing my family is seeing my family but there are are other comforts as well--jogging along tree-lined streets, understanding the language and not being referred to as ``white girl.`` While I appreciate life there, I also miss my every day run-ins with parish members, students and co-workers in Santa Fe. Every place has it delights as I will be returning to the United Sates at the end of the summer, I`ll be able to count on more change soon enough.

I Woke Up In a Priest`s Clothing

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 20:09:00 +0000

I was spending a cold, dreary evening in the parish library when Padre came in and began setting up a makeshift bar. He was to host a biannual reunion of his classmates from seminary school and in the other room, a group of church ladies were hand-rolling tortillas and frying up tacos. He invited me to stay and mingle with his friends and eat and drink as I pleased.

``Este es tu casa.`` (This is your house.)

Knowing that I would be out of place amongst two dozen priests who have known each other for thirty years, I figured Padre was just being kind by asking me to stay. But the idea of witnessing such a reunion was intriguing to me and I figured a could use a night out (albeit in a parish) because things recently ended between me and the guy I had been seeing and I felt a little depressed. I decided that I dole out enough acts of kindness so that things would balance out if I were to accept one.

At the beginning of the event, I noticed Padre and one of the first arrivals carrying around small, circular marble objects. I thought that they were performing some sort of pray involving candles. It turned out that they were carrying around special shot glasses designed to enhance the flavor of tequila.

Padre`s friends were an interesting group. Some were philosophers and professors who spent their times locked away in ivory towers while others had traveled the world. I heard stories of helping street children as well as running the streets in triathlons.

As the night went on, it got much colder. Though people think of Mexico as being tropical, Mexico City can be quite chilly and when it is, it is made worse by the fact that there is no indoor heating. Padre lent me his sweater and Gallo let me borrow his sheepskin vest and gloves. Arriving home after midnight to a freezing house where everybody was already asleep, I went to bed in all of my acquired clothing.

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Despite the joys of tequila and tacos, heartache is still hard to get rid of, particularly in a foreign country. Rejection hurts and here is it was made worse by the fact that I have had trouble in general making connections with people here. A burgeoning romance made me feel more like I was fitting in with the community.

Worse, I felt guilty for getting worked up over some guy since I`m here to help others and grow spiritually and not obsess over my love life. At work I am surrounded by people with much graver afflictions than my own, so how can I feel bad about my own problems? However, my own loneliness made me emphasize much more with patients who have been abandoned by their families so sometimes my workdays seemed almost unbearably sad.

I spent some disheartening days at work sitting by the bedsides of older girls and praying the Hail Mary and asking that my suffering could relieve theirs. Then one morning a few days ago, I went to work with the young children. Paulina (who was kept out of school due to being sick) immediately sat in my lap and ended up falling asleep. I spent the morning letting her rest in my arms. In the afternoon, when I visited with the older girls in their bedroom, Neddy squealed with happiness when I walked and she smiled as I sat on her bed, holding her hand and eating popcorn while talking about nonsense.

These simple moments made me realize how blessed I am. It is hard to find people who want you and love you for nothing more than your presence and yet I constantly encounter. While I may be lacking a novio, there are plenty of people who are eager for and accepting of my attention.

Thus, right now Mexico is about offering love as best as I can, accepting it in unconventional ways (from the wardrobes of church members), and learning to recognize it.

Meeting La Famalia

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 00:33:00 +0000

Besides my dietary habits (no meat, no dairy) the thing that perplexes people most in Mexico is the fact that I do not have a boyfriend. Two of the most common questions that I am asked are Tienes novio? and Por que no tienes novio? (Do you have a boyfriend? Why don´t you have a boyfriend?) While there are plenty of chavos willing to fill the role, no one but me is bothered that I am at least five years older than most of them and I can´t fluently speak their language.

Apparently people have been praying for me, and lately I have been seeing enough of someone (Fernando) that I was invited to his end-of-the-year work party. As is common here, the party was preceded by mass, and it took place on one of the biggest celebration days of the year, the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (Mexico´s patron saint.)

So on Saturday, Fernando picked me up for the party. He arrived on time (something that is not to common here) and then we went to the parish to fetch the Deacon who was to say the service. Of course the Deacon wasn´t there and we waited outside while Fernando exchanged phone calls with a friend who was supposed to accompany the Deacon. In the interim, a nun from work passed by and waved. This made me a little nervous because upon seeing us together a few weeks prior at Mass, one of the nuns from work had commented ¨Be careful with the boys here. They seem nice at first but then they´ll beat you.¨ If having a date that took place in a church was cause for concern, I wasn´t sure how me being in a parked car with a guy would go over.

We were supposed to meet the Deacon at 3:30 and the service was to begin at 4:00 but it wasn´t until 5:00 that we tracked down the Deacon at a house where he had said a different service. As he had been working all day and the services are followed by fiestas, it appeared that he had been celebrating Mass and celebrating afterwards. On the car ride to the party, the Deacon chatted incessantly and quoted Bible passages and portions of Mass.

The service took place at Fernando´s workplace, which is a shop where theater sets are constructed. Everyone was wearing jeans and I felt overdressed in a skirt. More awkwardly, Fernando works for his familys´ business, so I found myself being introduced to a slew of relatives.

Though I was obviously the foreigner who didn´t belong, the Deacon decided to make sure it was evident. During one of the few parts of his homily I could decipher, he asked who wanted to be a missionary. I raised my hand, and the Deacon looked at me and said, ¨Si, Caro esta una missionara.¨ At a portion of his homily where immigrants were mentioned, he talked about how I had come from a different country.

After the service, a group of seven-year old girls gathered around me and stared. As a white girl in dress-up clothes, I suppose it was as if a giant Barbie had walked in for them to play with. While I tried to think back to what sort of conversations grown-ups had with me some twenty years ago, I noticed a group of older, male cousins staring at me as well but at least they kept their distance. Two people trying to ignore me were Fernando´s young second cousins who also happen to be my English students; I´m sure they were perplexed to see their teacher at a party.

Everyone ate and then Fernando and I took a much more subdued Deacon back to Santa Fe. While we were gone, pinatas were broken and when we returned, the girls immediately presented me with candy. I was introduced to more relatives, including an uncle who asked Fernando ¨Is this your girlfriend?¨

Since this was a conversation that we haven´t had, I tried to joke my way out of it by saying ¨I don´t speak much Spanish.¨ The uncle took me seriously, asked me a few more conversations and then said, ¨Pero estas aprendiendo. La guerrita esta aprendiendo.¨ (But you´re learning. The white girl is learning.)

More difficult was talking with Fernando´s father. He sat down next to me and after some basic chitchat about where I was from, he declared ¨And then next year, you´ll go back home and break my son´s heart.¨ He said this several times using hand gestures to make sure I understood.

Though I tried to tell him who knows what could happen in a year and that Fernando could break my heart, the father kept before asking me to dance. Then came salsa dancing with the uncle, who basically spun and threw me around the dance floor.

By the time the evening ended, the uncle and father were very spirited and they came with Fernando and me back to Santa Fe. The father kept repeating what he had told me earlier until I finally said. ¨Yes, that´s why I´m here, I´m going to break a new heart every month and then I´ll go back to America.¨ The uncle, who had been listing all the words he knew and English as well as the places he knew of in the United States, laughed and shouted comments about me that I couldn´t understand in which I was referred to as the guerrita.

Despite how uncomfortable it all may sound, anyone reading this who has attended one of my family reunions knows that Catholic ceremonies, tipsy uncles and a father with a faulty internal sensor are nothing out of the ordinary for me. Thus, other than whiplash sustained from the dance floor, meeting the family in Mexico felt pretty familiar.

Times Are A-Changing

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 02:04:00 +0000

At least here--Mexico still goes by the correct time change date, so least week we gained an hour. (Some things never change. I can never resist a chessy pun.)

Halloween is tomorrow and I am that remembering last year at this time, we had a big parish dinner and carved pumpkins. By that point I was starting to feel as if we had been here for a while and that I was at home so it`s kind of crazy to think that it has been a year since then.

I have started writing applications for graduate schools and the essay process has definitely made me realize that I feel a calling to study social work and I am excited to learn more about the field. However, thinking about next year makes me realize that I won`t be here and that I`m going to return to friends and family who have made big changes in their lives. It makes me sad to think about leaving behind the girls at the Missionaries of Charity as well as my friends at the parish, but there is also I lot I miss about the United States.

To come to terms with it all, I`m trying to live in the present so I`ll share a recent day. Last Sunday, Lisa and I went to a celebration at a chapel (Senor de Christo Negro) that is part of our parish. The celebration began at eight a.m. with fireworks we could hear from our house, but we didn`t walk down for the Mass until the afternoon. (Twice, actually, as I got confused by dos and doce when I was beig gtold what time to show up.) We arrived ten minutes before two o`clock Mass, which didn`t start until 2:45. While we waited, we watched salsa and kumba dancers perform beneath a makeshift pavilion that had been set up. There was a street fair type atmopshere as beer and tacos were sold and consumed in the streets, children played games, and people danced.

When Mass began, so did a downpour. Carmelita (a sweet church lady) insisted on giving Lisa and I an umbrella. During Padre`s sermon, water gushed off an awning and onto the crowd. Padre told the crowd that theymay not have been expecting a baptism, but they inadvertantly experienced one. While Padre was speaking at the end, one of his helpers, David, repeated everything he said and Padre just laughed and let him take over the microphone. After Mass, tables were set up and food was distributed and we sat with our friends from the parish. (As Lisa said, part of Padre`s posse.) Padre made sure to give Lisa and I vegetarian lunches and Gallo passed me sips of tequila from the special cups that he and Padre had been served.

There was nothing atypical about the day, but when I think about it, I appreciate the love I encountered, the sense of community, and the willingness of people not to take things so to seriously. It`s days like that I want to learn on and hold onto, no matter what my next step may be.

Field Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 02:32:00 +0000

Tuesdays at the convent, the Brothers of the Missionaries of Charity come with their residents to give and collect food. I was chatting with them a week ago when one of the nuns suggested that I go to their house sometime for a visit—the brothers also run a home from the handicapped, but only males live there.

``She can come back with right us now,`` the Brother said. ``She can take the bus home.``

That was a little too spur-of-the-moment for me, but Sister told him I could prepare and go the following week. So I got ready by asking Jessica to come along with me—of course because I love her company, but also because she is able to ask bus drivers directions more easily than I can.

The following week, I went to the convent and Jess said she would meet up with me soonafter. I met up with Brother Marcos who said both Jess and I could back with him and that they would be leaving in 15 minutes. As I fed Edith, I texted Jess and worried that she wouldn`t make it before it was time to leave

``Let`s go,`` Brother Marcos said to the residents with him, just as Jessica arrived. I thought it was perfect, that she had made it just in time. Instead, Brother Marcos had more food to pass out and more nuns to talk to. Jessica and I lingered by his van as three teenage boys with Down`s Syndrome hugged us, tugged at us, and one jumped on my back. We decided we were in for an adventure. As the Brother made more rounds, Sister Maria quizzed Jessica about the progress of her cathecism students. A half hour later, we set off.

In the car, Jess sat next to Israel who stuck his head out the window and yelled at pedistrians. Brother Marcos seemed unconcerned by this but Jess and I told him many times to settle down. I sat between two boys and listened to one tell me repeatedly that another nun had once come with them and sat in that very van. Everyone was entertained when I ducked my head behind the seat in front of many times as part of a game called ``Donde Estoy?`` (which I have honed my skills at playing over the past year.) Jess and I belted out a long rendition``If You`re Happy and You Know It.```

We drove out of Pueblo Santa Fe and the Commercial Center and into a small town called San Mateo. In the grounds of the Brothers` Home, the boys led us to a concrete area where there were about 40 handicapped men—some in wheelchairs, some laying on the ground, most walking about.

Immediately we were surrounded by men who put there arms around us and tugged us in different directions. In terms of sadness it wasn`t worse than visiting the convent but being around men made me a little nervous. At work, the women at the convent are mostly bedridden, but here we were surrounded by many grown men who could physically function but had undiscernable mental problems. Jess and I did our best to get over our worries about being there and tried to chat politely with everyone. No one really cared about what we were saying—our presence was enough.

During dinner time (apple stew, home-grown corn and donuts,) I mingled with various tables. The boys from the van-ride passed out food, one wheelchair-bound man fed another wheelchair-bound man ,and a young man could not stop climbing up on his chair. One man seemed desperate to communicate with me, but I could only vaguely understand that he was trying to say ``nino.`` Jess learned from Brother Marcos that visitors so rarely come that they don`t even have visiting . I asked him if we could do anything to help, and passed along to Jess the fact the he wanted us to collect and wash dishes.

As I stood at the sink, the man who had been trying ``nino.`` grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the kitchen and over to a wall of photos. He showed me a pictures of himself as a child and then the boys from the came over as well to point out their pictures. Then they pulled me outside to show me flowers, the statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the corn that they are growing, and the dog. We circled the grounds several times Jess and washed the dishes that I had offered to clean. As I prayed by Maria and accepted freshly-picked flowers, I began to feel at peace.

Back inside the house several men were watching TV and Jess and I saw the rooms of the men—like at the convent about 15 patients live in single beds in big rooms. The residents of the Brothers seemed more active than the residents of the Sisters and I liked that they are able to roam the grounds freely. The Brothers I met had a hip vibe to them—they were from India and wore jeans or athletic pants. One had bushy beard and they were all very laid-back.

There was a time I would have been much more uncomfortable in such a place. I`ve always thought of myself as someone who is patient and accepting of others but the visit definitely tested my limits. In the United States, I spent some time volunteering with mentally ill men and of course, over this past year I have been spending my days with discapacitated women. Many times I wondered what I was doing at those places and chastised myself for not making a huge difference in the lives of others. However, those experiences helped me prepare for being more open toward the residents of the Brothers. Most of the men struggled to speak, and as I have spent the past year doing the same thing (wondering how I got myself into such a position,) I felt a lot of compassion toward them. The day was a reminder to me that even when I am not sure why something is happening at the time, it can help prepare me for something far down the road.

Overtime

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 02:33:00 +0000

I was never a Catholic schoolgirl, but I`m familiar with enough pop culture (and family stories) that when a nun barks an order at me, I get a little frightened. Such was the case late Monday afternoon at work-- I was walking outside with Marisol when Sister Maria called over to me, told me to put Marisol to bed and to``Wait for me here.``

I did as she said, thinking that she would do something like give me a copy of papal document to study or ask me to clean a shrine. In the back of my mind, I was worried that she would reprimand me for wearing torn jeans or for chatting to long with a male volunteer.

``Let`s go,`` she said when she came over to me, and to my surprise we walked outside of convent grounds.

``Where are we going?`` I asked.

``We have to cross the street,``

``Yes, but were are we going?``

``It`s so dangerous here, I don`t coming here alone,`` she remarked as we began going down a steep hill in a sketchy part of town. ``There are drug addicts everywhere. One of the ladies from my Friday group died and they called me. It`s a sad story—she lived in a beautiful house but her daughter fell in love with a drug addict and moved into one of those tin shanties.It was too much on her heart and blood pressure``

``We`re going to a funeral?``

``I want to pray,`` she said taking out her rosary. ``Should we do it in English, or Spanish so you can learn?

``Spanish,`` I said, so that I could learn and so that I could avoid a lecture on the fact that I don`t have many prayers memorized in English.

We passed by Lupita (Sister said there was no time to talk with her) and other drug users and arrived at a home at the bottom of Pueblo Nuevo, very close to where the Sisters of the Incarnate Word live. I realized that I had actually been to the house before, when I was visiting various infirmed people with Sister Angelita last November.

We went inside a beautiful home that seems out of place for Santa Fe. Inside was one of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word as well as Dona Mari, an older lady that Jess and I often visit who is also part of Sister Maria`s Friday group. Everybody was wondering when Padre Salvador would show up to say Mass. It seems that all the circles I run in are closely linked together.

In front of the coffin, a relative of the deceased began wailing that God does`t exist. Sister Maria took her away to talk with her and I sat next to Jackie, a physically handicapped girl whom I had met when visiting with Sister Angelita. She was very shaken up but able to say that she remembered me. Soon Sister Maria returned and led everyone in a Rosary—pausing to tell us to slow down and listen to God.

Then Sister Maria left with another nun of the same name for some sort of sisterly business and two women came over to comfort Jackie. Which left me alone and funeral crashing.

A handsome man came offered me food several times and I didn`t eat but watched him pass out plates of spaghetti. One young woman was sitting (and occasionally giggling) with who I think was the cousin of the host and said to him ``Gracias pero no guapo, cariño, hermoso.`` So from my vantage point, funerals for older people in Mexico are like those in the United States—for certain parts of the room, it`s the worst experience of their lives, but for others, it`s an excuse to flirt and eat.

I left with Sister Maria soon after we returned—she was in a hurry and I ran to catch up with her after saying goodbyes to the people I knew. As we walked, she showed me her moist hands and said that she had received a golden glistening from the Virgin Maria while praying the Rosary.

We stopped several times as we walked up the hill—cathecism students said hello to her (she pointed out the ones who are bad in Mass to me) and we paused because she was tired. She often walked backwards, staring at the mountains and said that looking at the beauty gave her the strength to keep going.

Once we reached the convent, she thanked me profusely for coming along with her, gave me an apple she didn`t want and said maybe I could come on visits with her more often as she needs someone to go out with. And I am looking forward to those outings because despite the awkward moments, I love that I am collecting experiences here.

Vamos!

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 03:08:00 +0000

I had 2.5 goals before running the half marathon today--I wanted to finish and to run the whole way without walking, and I was half hoping to finish in less than two and half hours. I am happy to say that all of my goals came through today and I am feeling exhausted (in a good way) after running all through Mexico City.

Lisa and I left our house at 6:15 in order to get to the Zocola where the race began. She started two hours earlier than me as she run the complete marathon. While waiting, I drank water, applied sunscreen, stretched and made multiple trips to the bathroom. (In true Mexico fashion there was no toilet paper in the port-a-pottys so earlier on, Lisa and had I snagged napkins from 7-11.)

Lisa began the race with very few people as the start times for marathon runners were stunted by expected finishing times. However, everyone running the half-marathon began at the same time ,so my starting line was flooded with people. I was chatting with a man next to who had spent a few years in Canada when I realized (during what I thought was a warm-up trot) that the race had begun without me knowing.

The first five kilometers were difficult and I started talking to myself (in my head) in order to get through it. My thoughts ranged from the divine to gutter. I prayed the Hail Mary and then told myself --''If you can make it through 13 (insert curse word) months in this country you can make it through less than three hours of running.'' I also tried to translate signs and the conversations of people around me.

The course was all on roads and along the way I recognized places I had been before-mostly in the vicinity of visa offices and convents. Part of the run was through Chapultepec a big park that many people have been talking about, and it was nice to be surrounded by trees.

Along the way people cheered and there was music and bands. Water and Gatorade were passed out along with food such as chocolate candy, limes and bananas (which was quite dangerous as everyone threw their peels on the ground. I slipped and imagined someone else falling cartoonishly over.)

I told myself that once I made it through eleven kilometers the rest would be easy as I would be half-way there. That helped me make it through it though I had stomach pains and sore feet. I pretended that I was actually running a marathon and that I had already completed half of it, so that made things get easier.

At the end of the race, while I was stretching in the finishing area, a journalist asked if he could interview me. I wasn't feeling up to speaking Spanish, nor was I looking great, but since I wrote for my college newspaper I know how hard it can be to find people willing to be interviewed for things. Thus I answered some basic questions and let him take my picture for a Mexico City running magazine.

Harder than the race was waiting in line to pick up my things. I started getting chills and felt queasy in the stomach and the line seemed endless. A Good Samaritan lent me here jacket and held my place for me until Jessica, Melissa, Ricardo and Marcos showed up with more clothing and offered to collect my things.

As for Lisa, I told her if she felt twice as bad as me after, it must be pretty bad. She finished the marathon but with a higher time than her Chicago marathon probably due to lack of training. However, we're both feeling happy but sleepy so on that note, I'm off to bed. I definitely won't be running tomorrow and though I told myself during the race I never had to run for the rest my life after it, I might have a few miles left in me later on this week.

Yearly Check-In

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 02:28:00 +0000

It's been over a year since I arrived in Mexico which means the time I have left to stay here is less than the time I have been her. Though some days I long for seeing my family, the change of seasons, speaking English (and Thai food) I also realize this is a unique experience and I want to soak up as much of life here as I can. Megan once remarked that as I became more active here my blogging would slow which is why my posts have been faulty over the summer. Here are the highlights of the past month:

Tengo Ganas

I have been taking Spanish lessons on and off since February but the language has really started clicking during my recent courses. In June I began taking classes at the Iberio, a university in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. I was disappointed that I was only placed in level two but found that the course contained a whole slew of tenses I had yet to encounter. The university went on summer break, and when I entered another course in September, I was bumped up to level five. The said to me 'tienes ganas pora aprender' 'which basically means that because I am eager to understand the language, she thought I could handle the jump.

I can keep up with my classmates (a mixture of foreign exchange students from Japan, Germany and France) though I am not sure if I could have used a review of all tenses rather than leaning the subjunctive tense which we are concentrating on now. However, it's good for me to hear a solid two hours of Spanish spoken slowly each day, no matter what I am learning. I am making an effort to spend more time at the parish listening to Spanish and have one-on- one conversations with people in Spanish even if they speak English. At work, in lieu of singing American nursery songs to the girls, I have been reading to them from my Spanish as workplace.

My language ability has definitely approved though I still get frustrated as I often understand everything in class but miss out on at least half the conversation. in group situations People often tell me that my classes are a waste of money and that I should just learn by hanging out in the street and conversing, but without my classes I wouldn't be able to understand the advice.

Getting to class is interesting. I wait on the street until I can climb on a bus that is not so crowded that people are hanging out of it. Then I have an uncomfortable ride to Santa Fe on a bus mostly filled with people who are likely working low-paid jobs in the wealthy part of Santa Fe. But my classes are filled with either foreign exchange students who are seeing even more of the world or wives of foreign businessmen who have jobs in Mexico City and are chauffeured into the university.

Tuvimos Fiestas

Like last year, September was a month a celebrating, though this time, for us, things started up in August. A week after the Feast of the Assumption was Padre Salvador's birthday. Before the party, Jess and I helped out with the preparations--I picked the bad parts off of corn kernels while Jess shaved a pig's head--pork and corn are key ingredients in pozole, a Mexican soup. A whole pork had been purchased for the party and though Jess was as initially weirded out by it, she soon took delight in pointing out its` heart and ears and putting its` tail near her own behind. I attempted to help pull apart chicken but then decided I would better serve the situation by keeping Padre company away from the preparation. The party went well and was day of dancing, tequila and (for me) muchos friojoles.

A few days later the new missionaries, Lisa and Melissa arrived. We had a big Mexican-themed party for them a few days after they got here. It has been interesting to see things through their eyes and I realize have pretty much adjusted to really difficult things about being here--language frustrations, getting sick more easily, the sadness of my workplace, not being able to communicate with loved ones easily and constant attention on the streets. Knowing that I have gone through the hard parts makes me glad I committed to a two-years, especially now that I have two more fantastic girls to hang out with. (Interestingly enough the arrival of two more cute, young American girls has coincided with an increase of young Mexican men giving us invitations and hanging around our house and we've been doing more socializing with people beyond our parish group.)

Last weekend, we went out twice in a row, partially in anticipation of my birthday. On Friday, we went to a hipster bar in the center of Mexico City where everyone was dressed in black and a live band played a mixture of Mexican favorites and American sock hop music. The next place we went to a bar in Cococayn called The Attic, which was like an attic as we had to climb up and stoop down in order to sit in a wooden bar area crowded with other beer drinkers. Sunday was my birthday and my roommates surprised me with a treasure hunt in which they hid presents in various places throughout the house and gave me illustrated clues toe help. (I don't know if I'll ever celebrate another birthday whereby I'll have such easy access to a chapel and a roof.) We went to Mass (a little late) and I was escorted to the front to sit in a chair of honor. In honor of the parish`s 476th anniversary many people wore indigenous garb and people stood at the altar holding corn stalks. After the service we had a lunch featuring what constitutes my idea of a party--spinach, nopales (cactus), red wine, and a special vegan cake that Jess made for me from a mix my mother sent from the States. In the evening we had more guests over, and all the partying made me feel better about reaching my late-20s.

On September 15, we went to the Zocola to celebrate Mexican Independence Day and hear the grita. (When the President comes out and yells Viva Mexico and Viva (name of various Mexican hero.) We got to the square about 20 minutes before the event started and were literally pushed into line so that we could pass through metal detectors. Inside we saw the President and fireworks and were drenched by both rain and a soapy, foam mixture that spectators were spraying. We had celebrated Independence Day in the parish last year (for many people the day is commemorated in their houses with the family,) and while that was fun, it was interesting to there the grita that everyone has been talking about.

Tengo Conejos

During my first few months in Mexico, it was pretty hard to stay in shape. I couldn't force myself to get in a good work-out with just my jump-rope. For a while, I tried climbing up and down a huge nearby hill but realized that as it's filled with cars, pollution and sketchy guys, the safety risks of using as it as a workout tool have outweighed its benefits.

Over the past few , I have been going to work-out at the University's gym and I have also been (for lack of a better word) trembling (Whereby I spend 10-minute sessions on machines that vibrate and burn 500 calories during this period.) It sounds hokey but I read an article saying that in Europe it's the rage and it really works.( The owners were smart for starting the machines as obesity is a problem in Santa Fe and it's difficult to find ways to exercise.) With the arrival of the new missionaries I have been introduced to even more ways to stay fit. I tag along with Lisa and Melissa to Zumba (and bounce out of rhythm to salsa-type music while doing aerobics.) Lisa is a marathon runner and I told her if she did the Mexico City Marathon next week, I would do the half-marathon. We have both signed up for it and found a nearby park to go running at. That means that I have gone running for the first time in over a year (I put in three sessions that each went over an hour.) I am quite sore and am only hoping to finish the race as I have never run more than 10 miles at a time in my whole life. However, Lisa is inspiring as she not only cheers me on during runs but told me that she used to run for ten miles a day in Chicago.

Nos Vemos

I am going to wrap this up by giving a quick synopsis of my day. In the morning, Lisa and I went running at a park at which some sort of presentation was taking place complete with a helicopter, police officers and ambulance truck. I couldn't quite figure out what was happening despite running into and chatting with some Missionaries of Charity (in their white saris) and asking them what was taking place. Still we run an circles and I was nearly blown away by the copter taking off.

Later we went to Mass where a burro with purple legs was grazing by church. (Some sort of medication was applied to it's legs. After Mass we attended a lunch commemorating the year-anniversary of a tragic event of a family of friends from the parish and I awkwardly tried to make small talk with guests. Afterward, I went to a planning meeting for an upcoming retreat of our youth group (I could only understand half of it and was annoyed when my suggestion of serving fruit over potato chips as snacks was shot down.) Then, I went to the parish kitchen and hung out with the church ladies. I drank several servings of tibeticos, a bacteria drink that ferments in the parish kitchen that was allegedly first brewed by Mother Theresa and has amazing healing properties.

Right now, I am in the parish library typing. The church handyman followed me in here and is giggling without apparent reason while waiting to walk me home. I told him he needs to read or listen to music instead of sitting and thinking all the time and he replied that he never thinks. I am both proud of myself for having a conversation in Spanish and slightly uncomfortable with his presence. But I can bicker with him without having to pretend I think he`s altogether right. Which is why I like life here--it is different and often surreal but I can recognize and laugh at the absurdities while learning to appreciate them.

Mi Madre!

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 01:28:00 +0000

As religious and cultural traditions are pretty intermingled here, I am often not sure whether I am experiencing a Mexican or Catholic custom. Such was the case on Friday evening, when I went to Mass to see the Dormition of the Virgin Maria.

It was the eve of the Assumption of Maria, the day that celebrates Maria's` entrance into heaven. In Catholic teaching, there is debate as to whether it was her just soul that entered or if God raised up her whole body. For Mexicans, there is little doubt that she went cuerpo intact. Thus she is put to sleep the night before the Assumption (the Dormition) and she is raised up while sleeping.

As the Dormition was something new for Jess and me, we were pretty excited to go. However, right before Mass was to begin, we had to wait out a massive downpour. Once things settled down, I donned flip-flops, we both rolled up our pants legs and we waded through the streets of Santa Fe in order to see the Reina.

As so happens during major religious feasts, the atmosphere in Santa Fe was the opposite of what the cause of celebration would imply. The Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe was full of chaos and revelry and Good Friday was an excuse to excessively eat and drink. On the day when one is meant to reflect on the purity and chastity of a woman, a dozen men stood in the market place street catcalling females.

``Fire,`` one man called to us, which was a cue for the rest to try and sing the lyrics of a song and fail, and instead slur ``Babies lights my fires.``

``If you`re going to speak in English, learn to speak it correctly,`` Jess shouted at them in perfect Spanish, allowing me to walk away smugly. (If I had tried to yell the same thing in Spanish, it would have come out like `When you speak English, tried talk correctly` and the effect would have been lost.)

We plodded past them and into a church gone dark--not because it was bedtime, but due to a power outage. Aside from a bed surrounded by apples and angel statues in front of the altar, Mass was typical. Afterward, Padre instructed various baptism classes to go to different rooms and neither Jess or I could figure out what big thing was going to happen--usually for these types of events the statue of the Virgin is paraded around town after Mass.

While I was changing out of my flip-flops in anticipation of going outside, Jess and our friends seemed to disappear on me. Now, I hadn`t heard any instructions, the church was dark, and lately I have been wearing pair of glasses with an outdated prescription as I`m awaiting a new shipment of contacts. Sensory-deprived, I stumbled out of church (the Friday nights I spent leaving bars in such a manner are a lifetime ago) and began looking for the Virgin. In the middle of the marketplace street, I stopped to telephone Jess but she didn`t pick up. Contemplating what to do, I looked up to encounter of the previously-mentioned drunk men who (not looking for a virgin) offered ``Drink, Guerita?``

Thus was the cue for the rest of the men to begin shouting at me. It reminded me of a cartoon scene whereby someone seemingly finds safety in a cave, only to see one set of yellow, glowing eyes , and than notices about 20 more wolves waiting to pounce on them.

``Baby, baby, I love you,`` they all screamed in English. I didn`t feel nervous but it was rather embarrassing to be in the middle of a big scene. It was like sitting outside at the parish--the dozen dogs that Padre keeps there always crawl all over me because Jess is nice to them and they smell her scent on me--and it attracts unwanted attention.

I hurried out of the marketplace and looked around a few blocks before heading back to the church. Apparently Jess had never left and the Virgin had only been taken off the altar. She was put in a special room, her garments were changed and she was laid in bed. A group of parishioners stayed up all night keeping vigil over the statue. I left early for my own personal dormition.

The next day, I woke up at five a.m. to the sound of fireworks. Jess and I headed back to church, where eight Virgin statues had been placed on the altar. Overnight, people had taken out their Virgin statues from roadside shrines, changed their clothes and brought them to church. For three hours various mariachi and rondella bands played to them in a crowded church. Outside, sweet bread and coffee was served. I don`t know if it`s common in other Catholic countries to give such attention to Virgin statues, but I do think Mattel would be highly successful were it to market a Virgin Maria Barbie in Mexico.

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Having witnessed the glorification of motherhood, it was only fitting that in the afternoon I experienced its pitfalls. After a long morning nap, I went to work at the convent, where residents, nuns and others where outside for Mass. I was upstairs visiting with the babies when Sister Estrella came to me with Carolina (half of a set of developmentally-delayed twins who can` t talk yet,) who was kicking and crying.

`` Here, if you want to take her somewhere you can,`` said Sister Estrella. ``Take her.``

``Oh...So, do you want me to take her to Mass?" I asked.

``Mass or wherever,`` Sister shrugged. ``Just take her somewhere.`` We each took a hand of Carolinas` and she jumped downstairs and outside.

(Some background-- a few weeks ago Carolina`s twin began attending daycare while Carolina remains at home, restless. Carolina can`t go because she is aggressive and overactive if she were to attend, the nuns are afraid that she would hurt the other children or be disruptive. On Friday, I asked Sister if Carolina could to the guardaria a few afternoons a week if I were accompany her. Sister Estrella had reservations about this, but did say I could probably take her out on walks or to the park. I hadn`t expected our outings to begin so quickly.)

Carolina sat through a minute of Mass before getting up to run around. I followed her closely, feeling as if I were being tested somehow. I took her a little further down the street, where a makeshift carnival was being set up and we looked at the games and rides.

Carolina was difficult-- she tugged and grabbed at games and toys. Even when I held her hand tightly, she would run up to strangers and wrap herself around them. I held her in my arms and she cried, squirmed and tried to climb onto strange woman. The only thing that made her calm and attentive was taking off my glasses and putting them on her face, which was unsafe for us both. Carolina is rather fair-skinned and as I clutched her and she wailed, people on the streets stared at us as if I were a really bad mother. I wondered how for the second time in less than 24 hours, I was part of another spectacle.

I wanted to bring her over to Sister Estrella and say ``Here, you can take her now,`` but I felt like it would be giving up to easily so I held on to her. It made me wonder what sort of mother I would be. With my own possessions, I am careless and tend to break and lose things and I have always worried I`d be like this with my own kids. However, being with Carolina made me think I`d be overprotective parent who would imagine harm at every corner. I wondered how she could be so fear less when there was so much danger awaiting her.

Eventually, Carolina got so fussy that I took her back to the convent grounds, and it was better because I could let her roam around. She found some sweet bread which she ate happily and slowly while sitting in my lap as we listened to choir music, rainfall and fireworks. That type of moment keeps motherhood in business.

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That evening, I attended Mass for the Feast of the Assumption, special because the bishop was there and Jessica`s children`s choir sang . At the end of Mass, Padre announced that a statue of the Virgin would be crowned eleven different times by people representing various community members. While representatives of nuns, church workers (Gallo did the honors in this group and drew the applause of a rock star) and families crowned the Virgin and said a few words, I watched nervously. Padre had mentioned something about either Jess or me participating in the Coronation of the Virgin, but I had figured Jess would handle it and it would take place during Sunday Mass.

However, Jess was way up in the choir loft and Padre saw me near the front of the church and asked me to crown the Virgin as a representative of missionaries. I have a certain amount of public speaking anxiety, so I was proud of myself for being able to muster up a few words in Spanish thanking the people for Santa Fe for their hospitality and for the presence of nuestra madre.

One of the nice things about this blog is that I was able to back at the blog entry I made at this time during Orientation. I wrote about how it was unusual for me to celebrate the Feast of the Assumption but that I anticipated doing even more out of the out of the ordinary things.

That has come to pass as I have found myself in unanticipated situations here. Though it may sound like I spend all my time struggling with small children and Spanish I have also witnessed a lot of cool things--this weekend for example was a huge celebration for the Assumption and I watched fireworks after Saturday Mass and Aztec dancers on Sunday. My difficult experiences here has been made easier because I have found some many people who have been loving and accepting.

Despite struggling to accept a different way of life and witnessing very sad situations, I still feel blessed to be here. I wrote last year that my goal was to make the most of things I didn`t expect. To a certain extent I have done that and I have to give myself credit for being able to take things that are (certainly in the case of small children) thrown at me. While day-to-day life presents a certain amount of stress, I hope that in the coming year I`ll be able to take what I`ve learned over the past year and better enjoy and appreciate the people around me.

Ven Con Nosotros!

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 23:20:00 +0000

The title of this posting refers to the lyrics of one of the only religious songs (in Spanish) that I have memorized, due to the fact that I hear it so often . It goes Ven con nosotros a caminar, Santa Maria Ven and roughly translates to 'Come with us and walk, Saint Mary, come!'

Lately, Santa Maria has been doing a lot of walking with the people of Santa Fe. As I've mentioned before, the Virgin Maria is revered by most everyone here and the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe (commemorating the day in the 1500s when she appeared as indigenous women outside of Mexico City) is amongst biggest holidays of the year. I recently learned that locally the Feast of the Assumption of Mary is almost equally as significant due to the fact that our parish is named in honor of her.

This means that since the beginning of August there have been processions, fireworks and fiestas in her honor which are leading up to the August 15th feast day. Certain groups have their own special celebrations. The other day, a statue of the Virgin was displayed in the marketplace along with welcoming signs and flowers. As I was walking home from work that day (irritated by the noisy, daytime fireworks being set off), a woman whom I had never met before grabbed me asked me why I wasn`t taking part in the parade that was going to be had with the statue. She begrudgingly accepted that I couldn't go because I had a class to teach.

No matter. Santa Maria came to me, as a group of paraders dressed in white carried her statue past my home. They returned a half hour later, stopped in front of our chapel, and a woman more or less demanded that I open up its` doors. Trumpets and hornets were blasting, participants sang, and friends of ours went up on the roof to ring the church bells. Little children trooped in and out of our house to use the bathroom. It seems my frequent singing the song worked and Santa Maria (and her followers) walked to me.

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How does it affect girls growing up in a country where there is such devotion to a figure whose three most well-known qualities are that she is a virgin, she is a mother and she is without sin? I began thinking about this a few months ago when I brought two sisters from our parish youth group to a procession that the Missionaries of Charity (the nuns who live with disabled, abandoned women in the convent where I work) held in honor of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary. Despite it being a cold, dreary rainy day, we marched alongside the nuns and other devoted persons while carrying a statue of the Virgin Maria.

The nuns ordered us to form lines and sing and encouraged passersby to join in the march. At random spots, Sister Maria stopped us so that we could pray and Rosary and convinced taco-stand diners and tired shopkeepers to join in. At one point, we were praying near the highway and I looked up past the Virgin and saw a huge billboard featuring Hugh Hefner surrounded by three young beautiful blond women--an advertisement for a television show called `The Girls Next Store`. (Although in Mexico the program is called `The Girls of the Playboy Mansion because the irony of the true title would be lost here.)

The moment was a literal synopsis of Gender Studies 101 class that I took ten years ago at a small women's college. Society and the media largely promote the idea that for a women to be looked up to, she must either be a blond, white sex object or as pristine as the Virgin Maria. In the United States, there is much more promotion of beautiful, white women, while in Mexico (at least in the part where I live) images of the Virgin predominate. Mexican women can relate to the morena Virgin of Guadalupe but it would be impossible and superfluous to try and be like skinny, white playboy bunnies.

In general, I think this makes women more nurturing because while they can`t completely be like the Virgin (she was born without original sin), they can emulate her motherly qualities. Thus, senoritas often stop me on the street and ask where I am going, why I don’t have a sweater on, and if I need anything eat. When I visit the house of a woman, she generally lists off or pulls out the contents of her refrigerator and cupboards until she comes upon something to feed me.

The tendency towards caring starts at a young age. The other day, I woke up an older man who was passed out drunk on a sidewalk and I sat chatting with him in order to assess his condition. He was bleeding and I thought he should go to a hospital. A thirteen-year old girl and her seven-year-old sister approached me and asked if I needed any help. While they went to look around for taxis, a police officer walked right past by the man and ignored me when I tried to get his attention. (He was escorting someone delivering a large order of beer to a shop.) Eventually I realized the drunk man could talk cohesively and a local tortilla shop-owner who knew him said he would watch out for him. Coincidentally, I ran into the girls later on that afternoon at the convent, as they were volunteering there as well.

Personally, while I reap the benefits of girls and women who are motherly, it can also be difficult. As a young women associated with the church I feel like I`m expected to be offer unconditional affection as well. At work, I am surrounded by orphans and handicapped people who are constantly in need and I accept this. Even outside of that, life can be heavy as I often find myself trying to be patient while listening to the problems of strangers on the street or trapped in one-sided conversations with parishioners at church. Some burdens are ones that I have placed on myself, because as I missionary I feel more of a duty to help the neglected that I come upon in the street than I would have in the United States. (More and more it seems, Jessica and I find ourselves stumbling over people passed out in the street and we recently went to our first AA meeting in order to figure out how we can help the situation.)
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While walking on the day of the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Mary , the two sisters who I had brought along held hands and huddled together to shelter each other from the rain. In general, the bonds among females are stronger here, perhaps to protect each other against a culture of machismo, perhaps because they identify with each other caretakers, or perhaps because they cling to each other as they would Maria. It`s rare to see a girl or young woman alone, they are almost always with a friend, mother or sister. When Jessica and I are not together, we are constantly asked about where the other one is. It's partly out of interest but the implication is: what are you doing by yourself and why are you leaving your friend alone?

I spend my days with nuns who have formed an insular but powerful community. At parties, I see females family members who function smoothly together in cooking and serving meals. In Santa Fe, it`s the norm for sisters or single mothers and daughters to share not just bedrooms but beds. Jessica and I have formed a tight-knit household as we not only live together but spend most of our social time with one another, we work on projects together and for a long time, I relied on her heavily in order to communicate with others. Women gain strength from each other here.

In a few weeks, two new missionaries will joining us in Santa Fe, doubling the size of our household. (Jackie left way back in October due to the health problems of a family member. I was too sad to write about it, but we miss her everyday.) Though I am little leery of sharing a room for the first time since college, I am excited not just for more company but because new-comers mean that the missionary presence continues even after Jessica and I end our time here. Thus being part of this program makes me feel like I am something bigger than just the work I am doing over the course of two years.

Jessica and I talk about the new girls (Melissa and Lisa, both fresh out of college) like parents expecting newborns--we wonder what they will look like, how they will react to their surroundings, and what they will think of us. We even speculate about their names as Mexicans tend to make adjustments to English names. I am excited for the experiences they will have, nervous for them because I know the hardships they will face, and eager to help them through the tough times and share what I have have learned from my year here. August, it seems, is a month of walking together.

The Streets of Santa Fe

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 01:48:00 +0000

The streets of Santa Fe are filled with the sound of vendors announcing they have the cheapest and best strawberries, oils, mangoes, matches, or whatever they happen to have for sale. Theyt sit in the back of pick-up trucks turned stores and try to lure in customers. Their voices have competition when the gas man walks by yelling ``G-G-Gas`` repeatedly to signify his truck of of nearby tanks, or the garbageman comes past ringing a bell to let people know they can give him their trash.

Panderias fill the air with smells of fresh sweet breads, but I often leave lose my appetite upon seeing the whole carcasses that are hung and hacked at in front of butcher shops. Most homes retain their original drab concrete color,ing though the stores are brightly painted and decorated with elaborate lettering and cartoon pictures. Cars whiz past, except when they have to prod through pedestrians or struggle up a steep hill. Salsa music is pretty much always blaring. Packs of wild dogs roam around examining the trash that is thrown into the streets.

In the midst of all the chaos, I still manage to draw attention. People constantly call out to me `Hola Guera` or `Hey Guerita`, which basically means `Hi white girl`. Though I am told guera is a compliment, I have suspicions as I can think of many terms that minorities are called in the United States, and none are ones I would ever say or print.

Despite my natural ability to get attention, I keep finding myself in situations that draw even more notice. At work the other day, Sister Estella asked me to pick up Vickie from school. In order to to so, I had to accompany one of the residents, Clara, who has a photo ID that enables her to get inside the school. Sister Estrella says that Clara likes the trip because it lets her out for a while and makes her feel valuable. She keeps herself well-groomed all day in anticipation of going.

Off we went, with Clara leading while grunting and pointing, as she is mute. Along the way I bought Vickie a snack of water and corn chips. Once we had collected her, Vickie announced ``Quiero helado`` as the ice cream man had smartly packed his stand right in front of the kindergarten. Vickie chose coconut, while Clara (I hope) was happy with chocolate.

``What`s this?`` Vickie asked as she pulled out pieces of shaved coconut from her ice cream.

``I don`t want them,`` she said as she handed them to me.

``Well, I don`t want them either,`` I said, throwing them on the ground so that I could keep grasp of her wheelchair.

Though the house if a 5-minute walk from her school, Vickie tried to prolong the trek home by insisting on walking on certain parts of the sidewalk. She also had it in mind to zigzag across the streets instead of keeping a straight course. Leery or unnecessary crossings, I struggled to keep her on a straight path as she pushed herself to the side.

There I was, a white lady fighting with a handicapped little girl while being trailed by a mute, elderly lady. We drew a few stares but made it back in tact.

After work, I went of to a friends` house to retrieve a pair of sunglasses I had forgotten. Along the way, I ran into Antonio, who lives at the parish. I invited Antonio to take a walk with me, and as he`s a slow mover, he turned a three-minute trip into a fifteen minute one. He was also being trailed by five of the parish dogs. Upon reaching Paublo`s home, a dogfight ensued, with the parish dogs battling Paublos` pit bulls. We all screamed, Antonio kicked, and it was finally broken up. As Antonio, I and the perros walked backe, Antonio chatted incessantly. I could barely understand him, so I just politely listened and wondered how someone who lives at a church, works for the church (running errands and doing yard work) and spends his free time at Mass could have so much to say.

In the streets, I often encounter Lucius, a man I became acquainted with him when I encountered him drunk in front of the parish with a huge gash on his face. Only being able to help him in that moment, I told him I really liked the type of liquor he was holding and convinced him to give me the bottle. Though he hasn`t fallen for that trick again, we always make small talk and when he his lucid he is pleasant and tells me admires the work I do and if he can help by teaching me Spanish. When he`s far out of it, he slurs beyond comprehension and I push him away if he aggressively tries to hug me. During these interactions, everyone in the market street seems to be watching either curiously or with worry.

It`s through the streets that I had my first success as a proselytizing missionary as I brought someone into the folds of the Catholic Church. Lately, I have been walking up and down the streets of the Puebla Nueva, a steep hill near the home of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word. A young teenage boy approached Sister Angelita and professed his love for me and asked for advice on wooing me. It seems he started going to Mass in hopes of seeing me. I haven`t heard from him though--perhaps I was a tool calling him to priesthood.

There is always something going on outdoors. I buy lollipops from Lupita or give her food as she sniffs kerchiefs soaked in paint thinner. I say hello to Raul, a homeless man who directs traffic. I receive free tamales from Conchita, a church lady with pink hair bound in curlers, who keeps a stand during the nights. I constantly run into shopkeepers and co-workers I know and guys feel compelled to shout whatever English they know at me. I see my English students and youth group members, busy on their cell phones and flirting with their friends, and I feel comforted knowing some things are just like the U.S.A.

I actually don`t go many places in Santa Fe. My workplace is a ten-minute walk from my house and the parish is along the way. Weekly, Jessica and I venture to the market and I take my walks down Puebla Nueva. I have a rather limited view of the community. Despite this, more than in other place I have lived, every day I feel as if I am going out into the world.

Puebla, Puebla

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Sun, 31 May 2009 01:19:00 +0000

A must-do for any Catholic missionary in Mexico is take a trip to Puebla, Puebla. The first town in Mexico to be founded by Spaniards is home to 364 churches and only about 200,000 people. On just about every corner you will find an iglesia ( which makes it difficult to keep up with the Catholic custom of making the sign of the cross everytime you pass a church).

Jessica and I recently made a weekend trip there, though not quite for religious purposes. Puebla is known for its blue and white ceramic pottery and for being the creation spot of mole--a thick, complex sauce made with numerous ingredients including chocolate. Jess wanted to pick up some of each as souvenirs for her upcoming visit home. We also wanted to relax in the town`s tranquil European-style streets and drink coffee.

We took a scenic two-hour bus ride to the city, riding past the volcano Popocatépetl. The trip is a blur of funky marketplaces, churches and seeing the body of St. Francisco. One of the things that proves he is a saint is the fact the his body is supposedly not decaying despite the fact the he died some 500 years ago. However, his body looked at a bit funky to me as well.

Overall, the churches were quite beautiful but some were bordering on gaudy as they were lavishly covered with gold. Jessica and I both had moral qualms with the amount of wealth actually in churches. One guide explained that hundreds of years ago, churches were decorated with gold in order to draw the attention of people since people were illiterate and books couldn't be used. On the positive sides, the churches are open for all people, rich and poor, to enjoy. (On another negative note, I found the church workers to be quite unforgiving as two repeatedly screamed at me after I accidentally used my flash when taking pictures.)

What stands out for me more is a our trip to Cholula. We went there in order to visit the Great Pyramid of Cholula--the world`s largest monument. Though we expected to take a bus directly to the site, we got lost and ended up in the middle of town. It all worked out as we attended Mass in a sedate church and found the town of Cholula to be more relaxed than Puebla and we were able to sit in a park.

After making our way to the remains of the pyramid, we climbed it and then encountered the Church of Our Lady or Remedies, which sits atop the pyramid. While catching out breath, we met an American minister who has been living in Mexico city as missionary for the past 22 years.(Making our two-year commitment seem slack.) We were able to get some trade tips from him-- advice and information on drug rehabilitation programs.

Then we explored the church itself--check out the translations-

Back on the ground, we went inside the pyramid and explored complex tunnels and stairs. Outside were remains of altars, stairs and game spots. The whole site followed the Spaniard custom of building religious spots on top of Mayan and Aztec sites. It was symbolic of the way Catholicism is in Mexico--people are outwardly Catholic, but beliefs are intertwined with native practices underneath.

The trip ended with a two-hour bus ride to Mexico City, followed by one and a half hours on public transpiration back to Santa Fe, souvenirs in hand. Good practice for Jess as she will soon be lugging all that pottery and mole back to the States.

More pictures!

How did this happen?

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Thu, 28 May 2009 01:21:00 +0000

My fourteen-year-old English students laugh at me--they laugh when I try to speak Spanish, they laugh when I talk at them in English, and they laugh for various other reasons that I don`t understand. I don`t quite get them and vice versa. The difference isn`t cultural, it`s the thirteen years I have on them. They are at an age where if something is not a cause for tears, it is generally a reason to burst into giggles. Authority figures over the age of twenty-five (such as myself) are especially funny.

Admittedly, I do odd things. At work yesterday, I came upon Paulina riding on a toy tricycle. Instead of cycling on the pedals, she was using her legs to trudge herself along. I corrected her form and pushed her, but couldn`t get her to ride on her own. Wondering if the tricycle even worked properly, I tried it out myself and she then she attempted to push me along. That didn`t work, so I decided to demonstrate how one circles their legs. While lying on the ground moving my feet through the air, I thought of my peers spending their Wednesday afternoons in offices. I realized that within the span of one year (and without acquiring a husband or child), I have gone from being a hip, young urbanite to leading the life of a small-town PTA mom.

This is a typical weekend in Santa Fe: I go to the market to buy ingredients for a fresh raspberry pie that Jess and I will bake for an elderly neighbor. While shopping, I exchange pleasantries with co-workers and students that I encounter. Playing nearby is the parish dog wjp has followed me into the market. Minus my nagging chitchat with Lucius (the town drunk I`ve befriended), it feels very Normal Rockwell. On the weekend, I also make stops at the parish where I help lead youth group, chat with the church ladies and clear up after meals.

Ironically, one of the reasons that I didn`t do volunteer work abroad out of college is that I had the idea that I needed to settle down and start a family and this type of thing would hold me back. Realizing it is easier to obtain a family than to make this sort of commitment, I got over that fear and decided I wanted to try something exotic. Ironically, my life has turned
decidedly domestic.

When tell others that I am doing missionary work in Mexico, they conjure up images of me working in the jungle with native people or living in the midst of drug wars. Life is actually much simpler. At work I wipe noses, read children`s books and give hugs. At home, I cook meals with fresh food from the market place and entertain neighborhood teens who stop by. Despite putting aside my desire to start a family, I feel as if I have turned into a mother. I suppose my life is pretty funny.

Filling Out

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Wed, 20 May 2009 02:03:00 +0000

Work is going pretty typically in the morning--I am outside pushing Gaby along in her wheelchair-- when I catch sight of my reflection in a window. Typically, a glimpse of myself is surprising as we have no full-length mirrors in our house. It is especially jarring this time as what our house does have is peanut butter and chocolate from the United States, and I have spent the last week consuming these items. ¨I can stand to lose a few pounds,¨ I think to myself.

I walk several times up one of Santa Fe´s giant hills during my afternoon break and then head back to work. An old woman with long gray braids and a brown, leathery face stops me and asks for anything--work, money and other items I don´t comprehend. It´s actually a situation I don´t encounter often since everyone is hard off and they would have more luck begging in rich areas.

¨Do you need food?¨ I ask her.

¨Si,¨ she says and then goes into a litany of what more she lacks. I tell her that I am on my way to a house of nuns who give out dispensas (pantry food) and they could probably give one to her. I want to lead her to aid to her that is more long-term than a few pesos, but to be truthful, I also don´t want the burden of dealing with her by myself.

She agrees to come with me, and as we walk, I have to remember that she is not a problem but a person. I force myself to walk at her pace and I ask her questions like her name (Amy) and if she has children.

When we arrive at the Sisters´ house, the door-guard won´t let Amy in and says she is always going door-to-door begging. I go inside and tell Sister Beth about her and she replies¨Yes, I´ll go take care of it. Thank you.¨

From there I am seemingly done with and can go about being with the girls, but I have an internal debate in my head. Why am I only comfortable around the poor when I´m in a delegated area? Isn´t Amy just as looked over as those inside the house who I´m visiting? I go outside with Amy on the doorstep and wait. Volunteers, priests, and nuns troop in and out and community members walk past us.

Generally, a lot of people come in to visit from outside of Santa Fe. There are college girls who are skinny, pretty and well-dressed. As I am likely to wear something to work that I also wore to bed, I feel frumpy next to them. There are rich women who have free afternoons since they have married well or retired from good jobs. They show up in cars driven by chauffeurs and carry bags of gifts. I think that I would´t mind living that kind of life. Sometimes, they all make me want to clean up my personal presentation and put more effort into my appearance. But as I am also surrounded by people whose own bodies have failed them and who would have nothing except for charity, I realize how blessed I am the way I am.

However, today I am wearing baggy sweatpants, a few layers of t-shirts, and carrying a misshapen bag of books that I brought to read to the children. Sitting alongside Amy, I wonder if people are mistaking us for a homeless granddaughter and grandmother and I am a little embarrassed. I also feel as if I am burdening the nuns and am inadequate compared to them as they are spending their lives devoted to the poor. I contemplate giving up everything the way they have (and then would put no thought into my clothing.)

At least, I should have tried to do more for Amy, since I am the one from a rich country. I remind myself that my family donates money to Catholic charities such as the one that the nuns run and that people in the United States give lots of money to the Missionaries of Charity. Thus the nuns owe it to me to give aid. This may be what if takes to actually beg--you have to talk yourself into a sense of entitlement.

Sister Beth comes out, assesses Amy and says ¨We give her a dispensa every month. We know her well. I´ll get something for her.¨

The guardsman tells me that Amy is from a really rough neighborhood, where everyone is on drugs all the time. Since she regularly receives food, I wonder if her children have forced her to go begging to support their drug habits or if she needs money to fund things like electricity and water bills. I am lacking in knowledge of things that could help me help her—of the Spanish language for one, and of social services available. My mind circles with with things that I should do to really bring about change that could benefit her—become a lawyer, a human rights crusader, an international development worker.

Sister Beth comes back with a few items of food and a small bag of hard candies. Amy insists on giving me a butterscotch and says she´d like to continue to listen to the children´s stories I have been reading. So after a introspective struggle about what my place in the world should be, it seems that I have only found what my place is for the moment—on the ground, reading kids´ books to a strange old lady while sucking on candy.

Though Amy may be taking advantage of people, there must be a loneliness to her life if she has no one to go to for help and she is constantly rejected by people. I hope I bring her a little comfort by reading. When we finish, she asks more for a few pesos. So maybe she was just sitting through the books in order to get more money. Wanting to invite her to my house, but not wanting her there, I tell her I´ll be at evening Mass and she agrees to come as well. (She doesn´t show.)

That evening, Jessica and I visit the Sisters of the Incarnate Word who live in Santa. Outside their door is Lupita, a neighbor who is addicted to drugs. She comes inside with us, reeking of chemicals, and eats tacos. Cessy and Nikko joke with her and seem quite comfortable with her. ¨Lupita look at me—you´re high,¨ says Nikko while laughing.

Lupita is in a chatty, amiable mood—due to the drugs, Cessy later says. Lupita looks at Jessica and I wistfully and remarks how pretty we are. She tells me that I look how she did when she was well. Now, she is skin and bones, dirty and bruised. Lupita says that she used to be gorda (fat) though Jess assures me she means it in a healthy, filled-out sense rather than in the manner I was worried about in the morning.

For about twenty years, I have been concerned about my weight and how I appear to others. I´ve seen tons of articles in magazines and on the Internet offering tips on how to not eat so much and how to win friends. What I really need now is advice on how to provide to others and befriend those no one wants to be around, but those sorts of readings are hard to find. Like many other people, I dwell on personal problems within myself to fix, perhaps because it´s easier than trying to face problems in the outside world. It´s here that I am slowly receiving a new education, and though hard, this is a good way to grow.

Little Angel

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Tue, 19 May 2009 20:01:00 +0000

A few days back from vacation, I ask the physical therapist at work about one of the little girls I haven´t seen since before leaving.

¨Donde Angelita?¨ (Where is Angelita?)

¨En cielo.¨ (In heaven)

The news is sad, but not too surprising. At eight, Angelita was among the oldest children as well as one of the sickest. Her head bulged out abnormally as if she had a tumor on the right side of her head (I think she had a condition called hydrocephalus, which I learned about in high school anatomy) and she couldn´t talk or walk.

Despite her deformity, Angelita had a beautiful smile that literally took over her face. She sat most of the time in a special chair, rapidly blinking her eyes and occasionally giggling at something--babies, noises or toys. Once, when I was throwing rubber balls into a playpen while cleaning up, Angelita started laughing at the site of the flying objects. From then on, when I remembered and had time, I would throw the balls in the air in order to entertain her. It was a good feeling that my simple actions could produce so much joy.

Still, Angelita was easy to overlook. She wasn´t cuddly and prone to jumping on visitors the way the toddlers are, and she wasn´t a tiny object crying like the babies who seem so in need of being held. When it came time to bring the kids to the lunch area, Angelita was usually the last one carried out due to the effort it took to lift her. I would hold her on my lap, but not to often since she was heavy and sometimes soiled me.

There wasn´t too much happiness in her life and I know her future would have been painful. I miss her now that she isn´t here but know she is in a better place. I picture her as continuously smiling while her eyelashes bat like the the wings of butterflies, as she is encompassed by the love that escaped her on Earth.

Swine Flu By

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Thu, 14 May 2009 01:24:00 +0000

As a university student in Washington DC, I should have been in the city during the 9-11 attacks. Instead, I happened to be studying abroad in Perth, Australia. While my fellow students fled from campus after a plane crashed into the Pentagon and lived through an anthrax scare, I dealt with the shock from halfway across the world and returned to a much different America.

I´ve discovered that I have a knack for avoiding being around crises of that incite global fear. Three weeks ago, I left for the United States to vacation, and during my first day home, news of the swine flu was everywhere. At first I was skeptical that it would amount to anything more then a weekend story. Though pictures of Mexicans wearing face masks bombarded television, I assured my family that masks are commonly worn in the country due to pollution and smog.

Reports of the swine flu escalted--and so did my tempature. Throughout the month of April I had felt run-down and believed I had mononucleosis. My symptoms were flu-like and my family joked that I was a carrier of the swine flu.

Unfortunately, my family is a bit neurotic, and being around them probably inspired more fear than if I had actually been in Mexico City. My sister forbade me from touching her personal items and shooed me away from my niece. My father took the opportunity to ask me where I would like to be buried and what sort of funeral I´d like.

I decided medical advice wouldn´t hurt and set about calling clinics for a mononucleosis test. Upon hearing my symptoms and my symptoms and Mexico City mentioned, receptions advised me to head for the hospital.

I checked into the emergency room and was given a face mask to wear. The attendent told me that the hospital was full of people worried about swine flu, but I recieved a little special treatment due to my place of residency.

Though the E.R.. hallway was full of both elderly and bleeding people, I was put into a private isolated room. Two doctors came in to speak with me, and while the concluded that I probably didn´t have swine flu, CDC regulations required them to test me. They also advised me against returning to Mexico anytime soon.

A nurse came in to draw blood for a mono test. ¨ It´ll proably take about an hour and a half,¨ he said. ¨I´ll be back¨

¨So I should leave and return?¨ I asked.

¨No, you´re supposed to wait here, I think. But I´ll check on that.¨

Then one doctor came in for a mucus swab, which is basically done by sticking two q-tips up ones´ naval cavaties. I flet like my eyeballs were going to be gouged out.

After the doctor left, I waited for someone to tell me if I could leave and come back. After about an hour, I realized I was waiting for results. I flipped through my Spanish book, which was the only reading material I brought because I wanted to force myself to study. It helped me fall asleep.

At one point a nurse came to the door with a wheelchair-bounc patient in tow. ¨Oh,¨she said, startled to see me. ¨Are you supposed to be here? Do they know you´re here.¨

¨I think so,¨ I said. ¨I hope.¨ She went to check things out, leaving me wondering if there was a misunderstanding and I could have left hours earlier. I imagined trying to leave and having spacesuit-wearing government employees grab and sequester me.

Finally, four hours after samples were taken, the doctor came to tell me she hadn´t forgotten me and would come back soon with results. Forty-five minutes, I was declared free of swine flu (and mono.)

I ended up extending my stay in the United States for a few days before nervously going back to Mexico City. I was heartened by reports that the virus wasn´t nearly as bad as originally thought and that one would be okay by taking basic precautions like washing your hands and avoiding unnessary touching.

One of the first things I did once home was to stop by the parish. Guillito was so exicted that he grabbed me, squeezed me and covered me with kisses. He showed more exuberance over my return to Mexico than anyone did upon seeing me in the States. Guillito is a 76 year-old chain smoker and while telling me about his fears that I would never return and his plan to go to the United States to fetch me, he coughed with his trademark hack. Though touched by how much he cares, I was also concerned by the fact that his excited declarations caused spit to fall out of his mouth and onto my face.

Then it was off to Mass, though first I greeted everyone I hadn´t seen in weeks with hugs and kisses. The service was a bit different than usual as hosts were token by the hands of recipents rather than the tongue and there was no sign-of-the peace (the period during Mass when hands are shaken.)

After Mass, I ate tacos with everyone in the parish kitchen. There were plenty of tortillas to grab from a communal pile in order to assemble diner, but soap was missing. I rubbed my hands with lime before eating because it is supposed to be a natural disinfectant. During dinner Antonio--the handicapped, previously homeless man who Padre has given a place to live--sat next to me and, as always, coughed without covering his mouth.

Normally, I pride myself as being rather go-with-the-flow and accepting of the circumstances around me, but my return put me on edge. Everything I had heard in the States was being disregarded and I felt as if I was wallowing around in a giant petri dish of bacteria.

Padre comforted me by saying that the swine flu was mostly hype. He thinks it was exaggerated by the Mexican government to keep people from protesting economic conditions. The fact that the United States didn´t close the border showed to him that the U.S.A. realized it wasn´t all that dangerous.

Most people think the swine flu is a hoax and there are all sorts of rumours spreading around. Apparently Pemex- Mexico´s publicly owned owned oil company-went private during this time and it wasn´t reported on due to the flu. It is been said that the government exaggerated the flue to stop people from rioting due to general bad conditions or to distract citizens from unknown shady dealings. Others think it began in the United States and was brought over when President Obama visited. However, everyone agrees that it has been a huge financial blow as the people who eek by selling whatever have lost their only sources of income.

I returned to work with the Missionaries of Charity on Monday, the first day it was open to visitors after shutting down for the flu. The kids were especially clingy and eager to be held, though confused by my required face mask andtried to pull it off. Despite half my face being hidden, the older girls seemed to recognize and be happy to see me.

The schools have reopened and the streets are filling up again, though they are emptier than when I left. Life continues on. As for me, I´ve been somewhat hypochondriac since arriving here and the flu has definitely caused this to increase. This morning, I had a late start to work due to stomach problems and while walikng there I felt feverish. I debated whether or not to go in as now is not a good time to be passing along any sort of illness, but I decided to forge ahead and I pulled out my face mask. It snapped as I tried to put it on, and knowing that it would take a while to buy another one , I decided that was a sign from God to go home and rest and take my temperature.

After a long chat with the pharmacist, I learned two new words today--termómetro and caído la máscara-- and it turns out I´m fine. All and all, things are cooling off here, though the possiblity of economic collapse, oil protests and economic riots have given me some new things to worry about, though keeping my circulation from being cutting off from beneath my caído la máscara is taking priority.

Good Friday Musings

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 00:16:00 +0000

Good Friday morning, I am outside with ten wheelchair-bound girls, aged 18 through 30. It is just me with them and I take them on walks and spin their chairs as they smile and giggle....or, honestly for some of the girls, as they continue to wail and rock back and forth, as my presence does nothing to change the torment in their lives. I am often alone with the girls and I like it because I imagine myself as the oldest sister in charge while parents are out of sight. When I am in their shared sleeping space after they`ve gone to bed, I read stories and tell jokes as if we`re having a secret slumber party even though lights are supposed to be out.

Mariana--one of the girls who weighs about sixty pounds and has a body composed of gnarled limbs--begins crying due to the sun, and I pull her chair into the shade. I leave the group and return to find Mariana sobbing as Corazon and Neddy try to comfort her. Corazon is one of the only girls who can walk, though she does it by quickly pushing her 90-pound frame forward in a clumsy manner that suggests she`ll fall over any minute. She is always eager to help out by pushing wheelchairs and she loves giving and receiving affection. Neddy, who is wheelchair-bound, is one of the few who can talk, though she rarely does it in the presence of visitors like me.

Corazon is hovering over Mariana`s wheelchair while clinging to it for support. Neddy is saying something unintelligible and extending her limp arms toward the chair. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking to see. Despite their own severe handicaps, the two girls posses something within them that makes them love and try to aid others, but they are still helpless. I wheel Edith back inside and she stops crying once she has reached her bed.

I sometimes have doubts about what I am doing in Mexico because I often feel like I am doing acts of charity that bring momentary aid rather than long-term change or relief. That moment with the girls is a reminder of how blessed I am just to be able to make small differences.

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In the afternoon, the church is packed with people and happenings. I attend a reflection on Jesus`s final words on the cross such as when he asks God to forgive His tormentors, His cry of abandonment and His thirst. I see portions of the Passion Play but the church grounds are so crowded that it is overwhelming to try to keep up with the crowds as they move from place to place trying to keep up with different scenes.

I forgo watching the Crucifixion reenactment in order to return to work. The children are alone as, ironically, everyone is attending a Mass about Jesus`s suffering. I try to juggle crying babies around while Vickie (who is six, paralyzed and one of the oldest children) gives me orders about where to put them. I bring her water, attempt to read her stories in Spanish and we count off the numbers in both English and Spanish.

While changing her, I inadvertently cause her pain by tugging on her diaper too hard.

``Bruja,`` she says. (Witch)

``Como?`` I ask.

``Bruja,`` she repeats firmly.

Her pronouncement may have something to do with me dressing in black from head to toe for Good Friday, but it`s funny how perceptions are. At that moment, I view myself as the person who cares about her most in the world, while she sees me as bullying and insensitive. Again it`s a sisterly moment, since as a younger sister, I know that`s how it works sometimes.

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In the evening, I go to another service, only by now I`ve lost track as to what it`s about. It`s packed and I don`t have a seat, so feeling tired and hungry from fasting, I decide to sit outside and read the missal.

``Caro!`` squeals Danni, a pint-sized sixteen year old girl who makes up for it with a loud voice that she utilizes often. She runs toward me and wraps her arms around my waist.

Danni has taken a liking to me and Jess and we get that reaction every time we see her. She likes to hold our hands when Padre takes the church on protest walks and she`ll invite herself to our house or the office while we are working. She once asked me why I don`t play in the streets at night like she does and she`s sported bruises from her fights there. She is usually in the process of chasing someone or being chased while she is at the parish.

Upon seeing me, she finds a missal and sits next to me and reads quietly. For about five minutes. Then she decides we should move to a shadier spot. She shouts out to groups of guys and makes plans with friends. She abandons reading for playing games on her phone. She follows me back to my house and I give her one of my sweatshirts as it`s getting cool and she has on a hot pink strapless shirt. She goes out to play in the street. I join Padre and a group of parishioners who are carrying statues of Jesus`s dead body and a veiled Virgen Maria through the streets as one of the boys beats a drum.

If I were ten years younger and Dani and I were in high school together, I would want to be a lot like her. As I was quite shy and had few friends as a child, I would have sat by myself in study hall reading a book, watching her flirt with boys and trash-talk with friends, and I would wonder how her extroversion comes so easily. Here and now, she finds herself struggling to be calm like me.

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Four days later, after everything has calmed down, I am with the girls during a field-trip to the zoo. I push Edie along and seemingly entertain her by singing songs and reading signs which I try to translate. When she jerks her head when I am paused for too long, I tell her that it`s important to learn.

Really, I am amusing myself and I realize that my solitariness as a child has given me the ability to survive when I feel as if I am on my own here. All those times I felt left out growing up have prepared me for what I am doing now.

When I was in sixth grade, I had a teacher who wanted to fix my quietness and would call on me in class often, saying, ``This is the year that you come out of your shell.``

It wasn`t for about seven more years, through travel, acting lessons, weight loss and a study of college friends, that I harnessed the ability to be more social and outgoing.

However, throughout my adult life, I`ve had all types of friends and I was always going to parties and dinners. I don`t think that others thought of me as the girls who was an outsider as a teen. My decision to do mission work required a certain amount of confidence in myself socially, as I knew I`d be in a foreign environment where I`d know nobody.

Still, I often feel as if I am alone here, be it in actuality or due to communication problems.It is as if God shook me out of the shell I once inhabited and molded me for a new, more durable one. Only now, I pull others in with me and let them rest for a while as I push ahead.