After my first week in Tucson, I went to a Desert Doves’ Meeting. Who are the Desert Doves? RPCVs (Return Peace Corps Volunteers) who live in Tucson. All of us individually at some point in our lives served 2 years in the Peace Corps somewhere in the world and now we are in Tucson, sweating it out alongside the cacti.
As our millennial group of four rolled in an hour late, we automatically seesawed the age demographic in the room. At first glance I saw a patio of white-haired white men and their spouses a few glasses in. It was almost just as much culture shock as being in Peace Corps, but in my own country… The three people I came with are in my study program. The four of us served in The Gambia (Aalisa), Tanzania (Cindy and David) and Guatemala (Me). David and Cindy are married (David’s not in the same study program, but you get the idea). I even paid my $15 membership fee to be a part of this group and almost immediately regretted it. 15 dollar is like Q109.5. I could buy so much with 109 quetzales.
The earth was still cooling after the desert sunset. When I stood to introduce myself on this brimming patio of RPCVs, I mentioned that I speak a Mayan language, I just COSed (close of service) on April 1 (foolish) and that I am studying at Teach Arizona and here thanks to Georgia (the head of my Fellowship program, to whom I gestured). That is what speaking in English feels like again, considering parentheses after every thought that you decide whether to heed or to skip over. I sat back down and continued to shovel the delicious food into my pie hole. It was a delightful array of food I haven’t eaten in more than 2 years (except for that visit home in Thanksgiving 2018) and I DID NOT HOLD BACK. Ornate salads with ingredients I have missed, walnuts, spinach leaves, balsamic dressings, desserts like lemon bars, specialty cookies with syrupy toppings, and no obligation or expectation that I eat tortillas with my food. The kitchen island even have drinks, which I skipped for now (I’m on a year of no alcohol), but I made a note, this group wanted to imbibe and enjoy.
On the cooling patio the agenda ensued. A heated discussion broke out over which Peace Corps project we wanted to support, a menstruation support project in Africa or a water well installation project (…in Africa) and once that was decided (mostly while I retreated inside), two loud white men approached me at the end and told me about the monastery where I should volunteer. “They help process intake for immigrants who need to arrange transportation to their sponsors. You speak a Mayan language so you can help!” One of the guys Fred pulled out a flip phone to take my number. I texted him my name from my number. He said he would email somebody about something and that I should come help translate. I told him that under no uncertain terms was I fluent in K’iche’, But he assured me that it would be a helpful point of reference for some Guatemalans. The next day I had several emails between Fred and someone named Kat in my inbox and two weeks later, I parked in the lot of a YMCA and found the room for the training, taking a seat at the back. The backs of heads of mostly white people with gray hair were facing the screen. I could see that most were retirement age. One woman had an ornate braid that ran across the crown of her forehead with her dark brown and gray hair weaving seamlessly from her scalp. I noticed that the style in Tucson is different than Atlanta. Women can age and wear long gray hair and still be beautiful.
As I sat anticipating 2 hours of powerpoint presentation, I pulled a flash card from my purse and jotted down things that the facilitator said. The flashcard already had a label for my Tests and Measurements class but it was called to a higher purpose. Kat was poised, passionate and dressed in a típico shirt from Mexico. It made me nostalgic for Guatemala while recognizing that these countries are very different while often conflated.
She began to explain the intake process to us and went through the form we fill out online, advising as we go of the proper way to ask questions: “Don’t read directly off of the form. Make it more of a conversation. For example, instead of asking: “Did they deny you food at the border, it’s better to ask: “What did they give you to eat?”” This may have seemed obvious to Kat after conducting her millionth training, but for me these nuances were extremely important. Not only am I a second-language speaker of Spanish (and she is a native speaker), I never even considered that shelters existed along the border until Fred approached me at the Desert Doves’ meeting. I have a lot to learn.
I noticed an attractive man at the back and the subsequent wedding ring on his left hand. Darn. No anciliary benefits for being a good person. I didn’t speak to a single person around me as I sat in this packed room. This would never have happened in Guatemala. I would have had a brief chit-chat with at least someone. No one said: “Hello. Did you live in Guatemala for two years because I can see it in your eyes.” And I didn’t say back: “Ah! How did you know? Yes that is why I am here, to serve the people who loved me so thoroughly and unconditionally during my 2.5 years of service.”
When Kat got to the section about languages, she cautioned us that we should not rely on google translate to do the intake processing. If you greet a guest who speaks Portuguese, “we have translators who we can call.” Or if you meet someone who speaks a Mayan language, there is a list in the intake booklet that spells these names and many of the people who have been processed in the shelter have provided their phone numbers so we can call them and have them translate over the phone.” And she said something I’ve never heard before, she said: “We want to be sensitive to language justice.”
I wrote it down on my repurposed flash card.
That’s when I heard Kat say, “The Mayan langauge K’iche’ is sometimes spelled with a K and sometimes spelled with a Q.” And I almost jumped out of my seat. “I SPEAK K’ICHE’ AND the province of Quiche is spelled with a Q and the language is spelled with a ‘K apostrophe’ which is a glotal stop representing a pause and a withholding of your breath as you pronounce the word!” If this was Autobiographical Jeopardy Alex Trebek would read this question under “Her Time in the Peace Corps.” But I suppressed the leaping of my heart inside by stitching my lips together with imaginery super glue and releasing the balloons of excitement only to thud against the ceiling of my clavicle.
I felt it sink-in like the weight of my footprint into desert sand: This is not about me. At all.
And you know what was weird (or maybe you don’t think this is weird at all), that was hard for me. My journey to/from Peace Corps was not the main event at this gathering, nor bragging rights nor fodder for conversation, the objective was training on how to process guests who need a place to stay who have left their homes, not returned (like me) and who will probably never return (like me). Además everyone in this room has a specific, visceral connection to these countries whether it be their birth countries, their daughter-in-law’s homeland, their ex-patriot retirement residence of 10 years or where they left their heart in 2019 when they rang the bell in the Peace Corps office (I’ll let you guess which one is me).
This isn’t Peace Corps service anymore, this is real life. My experience shrinks in size every time someone shares a story with weights more cumbersome and burdens that lean heavier than my own. I could cry for all the reasons but perhaps tears will only reroute me back to myself. A balloon found a sharp edge inside me and popped.
Or maybe a cactus is growing between my ribs.
As the training continued we received super helpful direction on how to do intake processing, along with horror stories interspersed: “There was a case where a woman was pregnant and they didn’t give her water” / “Families are being sliced and diced” / “We had a situation where two brothers were separated” and “Twelve year-old girl raped at the border” next to “Get on Sign-Up Genius” scrawled in my notes.
I went to Guatemala to learn Spanish and I learned how to be loved. I came to Tucson to go to grad school and I am learning how to help. In all of the moments in between, I am seeing all the ways my privilege has charted my path. I am also cultivating the tools to dust myself off, cry, rejoice, eat balanced meals, exercise, grieve, wonder and be myself. I pray that everyone else who passes through the shelter (or our borders in any capacity) have the opportunity(ies) to do the same.
At this point, I hadn’t been to the shelter but I signed my name to be added to the Whatsapp group and the Intake list serve. Kat said I would be getting emails about arrivals once I am added. I left the meeting anxious, not sure if I could conduct the intake process to the standard Kat would like and without making mistakes. But I remembered the voice of my host family: Poco a poco my host mom told me. You will learn, we will help you. I left the training, inhaling, exhaling. I will blow up more balloons to keep myself afloat. I will take this one day at a time. I will help, I will learn, the world will be less horrific or maybe it will stay exactly the same. Poco a poco.
If you want to learn more about the monastery, here is the link: https://www.ccs-soaz.org/agencies-ministries/detail/alitas-aid-for-migrant-women-and-children