It turns out that 31 is not too old to experience something new and unexpected for the first time. If you’re starting to feel moldy from routine, Peace Corps is for you. But I’m referring to a renewed specialness for something very sweet and sometimes frustrating and ultimately childish (in a good way): Valentine’s Day!
I say this because I was walking to Paquip one day in February and it occurred to me: Thinking of Valentine’s Day actually makes me happy. And that surprised me. It surprised me a lot.
February, historically, has been a low month for me since I was old enough to feel insecure (so… 9th grade? perhaps?). Not every moment of it, not even every day, but while the cloud of the F-month does not warrant sadness, the general state of my union during this month seems to align symbiotically with an unspecific bored discontent mixed with the far-off unmet desire for more than just chocolate. This emotional status matches with a consistent: “Sigh.. February.” This feeling is accentuated by age somehow, even though one might suppose the opposite..
To me February is like the second lap of a 2-mile sprint, facing the time of ten months between myself and a new year, work (who takes long vacations in February? Not accountants), compounded by the letdown I associate with the 1-4: Valentine’s Day. And let’s be real: a lot of people crater into the negative numbers when it comes to love whereas being at zero is delightfully simple. It’s not so bad to live in the simple but all you need is plush hearts, balloons and flowers and YOUR MIND to come swinging at what is a perfectly content existence. [Note: Black History Month is a very important part of February I do value].
I don’t know if this historical mood-dip is encouraged by struggles with self-esteem (see my enneagram type #4: The Tragic Romantic, tempted by jealous thoughts and the constant need to feel original), or perhaps the sadness is due to default singleness or because the sun is still setting early in the day this time of year, but every year since middle school this month has encouraged a dark shade of emotion.
En cambio, this February is dissonant with the melody of years past (amen belongs here).
It’s sunny in Sololá as we are in the height of summer. In Guatemala summer is when it’s not raining and winter is when it rains. I know that rain is coming soon but I put that out of my mind on my 50-minute walks to Paquip. (I could take a tuk-tuk, but I try to walk at least one way for exercise). As I listen to podcasts I pass just-fallen flowers littering the adoquín which I sandwich in my emergency notebook as I keep walking. (I plan to make earrings and stationery out of these flowers, but if I don’t, they were dead before I got to them anyway).
I ALWAYS look forward to the steep, winding walk. I have my say of podcasts ranging from the story of Watergate (Slow Burn), Fresh Air to Beautiful/Anonymous: I download them when I have internet and they keep me sane in the quiet nights on Calle Principal. The mountains on the walk to Paquip are so stunning that I still take pictures even after I think I’ve taken a million of this path.
No matter who/what is responsible for my contentment, it’s a beautiful thing.
But let’s get into it the nitty gritty (or needy greedy, my old sitemate used to erroneously say to my adoration): Romantic Love. Valentine’s Day historically exposes a giant gaping question mark that I try to ignore. And while the size of that unchecked box takes up college-dorm room dimensions in my mind and spirit at times (‘will I find a partner?’ being the one or mejor dicho: “Will my partner find me?”), there’s a gorgeous universe outside the coordinates of that space.
This year, I crafted out in my kitchen/living room/office making Feliz Día del Cariño cards for my co-workers and friends. I decided to paste different colored hearts together and tape a 4-pack of trident to them. “Te Quiero Mucho” I marked on some, “Feliz Día del Cariño” on others. I made at least 20 Valentine’s out of construction paper and tape, what 31 year-old can say that? But I was content to think about all the people to whom I wanted to give cariño through this jejune gesture. I got hugs from all of the recipients, and it was fun to see the look on their faces when I gave them their little recuerdo.
Indeed this year I am humming a different tune.
And What’s Love Got To Do With It?
In these 16.5 months living in Guatemala, every woman I have lived with being my training host mom, my long-term host mom, host-grandmother and host-sister, are all un-partnered, hard-working women. Luchadoras. In fact in Guatemala I have met more single mothers than I could have imagined possible in this small population of 16.5 million. I could count on a perplexing repetition of fistfuls how many Guatemalan single moms I know. But, in the case of my training host mom, her husband passed away 5 years ago. My current host mom, age 65, was left for another woman (her words) after she had one daughter: my host sister. My host sister is 40, has never been married, had one long-term relationship and is currently living at home to care for Abuelita. As my host sister has accurately stated: Cuesta conseguir un buen hombre/A good man is hard to find. And Abuelita, the greatest 85-pound wonder of the world, is the most fascinating of all. It wasn’t until I shared the same roof and plancha with her for almost a year that I learned about her relationship history. I stumbled into it by accident. Would they have ever told me if I hadn’t taken an incorrect swing at my Host Aunt’s last name one afternoon?
As I prepared lunch over the wood-burning stove, wood chopped by Abuelita, I mentioned my host Aunt María (who we call Wij). Seño María, or Nan Wij, lives two blocks away. She is also a strong, unpaired woman and mother of 7, grandmother of more. I was trying to say her complete name, María Salquil….?, and I looked at my host mom to fill in the blanks. My host mom corrected me with Nan Wij’s last name and I wondered why she and my host mom’s last names are nothing alike. My host sister Clara read my mind and began to chart Abuelita’s relationship history, the word ‘chart’ being the accurate term. Abuelita?! Multiple Marriages! Sweet, loving, generous, faithful, diligent, cuts-the-leña-with-an-ax-at-90 Abuelita!?
Listen folks, I’m not judging. I just don’t understand how it is that my host mom told me that her husband left her for another woman the first 20 minutes of our relationship but I found out about Abuelita’s marriages after 10 months.
Clara begins: “First, Abuelita married a man” (and the picture of a young, smiling Abuelita floats to my mind) “and she had my Aunt Tuj, the one who lives allá (and signals with her lips which is the gesture for pointing because fingers are too busy in Guatemala). And I nod to say yes, I know the one. “But” (ain’t there always a but when it comes to love?) he was not a good man. He did not work. They said he was lazy” And in her exact words: “So they sent him away.” Like mail except male, Bye Felipe. But who is they of the “they sent him away” they? The council, the town, the family, her siblings? She continues to the next man: “Then my Abuelita married my grandfather, my mom’s dad. And my grandmother had Tía Sabella, Tío Kulax (pronounced like goulash but with a ‘k’), and then my Mom.” And I nod. I wait for the next but. “And they talk about what a very good man he was. A hard worker, respectful, devoted… But when my mom was very young, he died.” She talks about how good he was. “He was such a good man,” and in her expression the weight of his loss is clear. I show sadness. I know that my host mom was very young when her dad died. “Then my Abuelita’s dad told her, ‘you need to get married again because you need someone to accompany you.. You have these four children, you need help.’” And I picture Abuelita in the fields in her traje típico with a row of four human ducklings in her shadow as she cut leña/firewood with her machete, harvested beans and cut coffee while her children take a break to play leap frog, hopscotch or tag. “And she married Nan Wij’s dad. But he was not a good man. He did not do work. He was not kind.” And again she says “They sent him away.” Male mail. “And that is why Nan Wij has a different last name.”
I look over at my Abuelita and try to corroborate the living image of my sweet, precious, tooth-gapped Abuelita with the her relationship history. She is sitting in a small chair of 1.5 feet height from the ground cutting ichaj (herbs) for her pollitos. She looks up at me and smiles, honestly, happily, amused at my existence or perhaps just amused, flexing her strength against life by laughing.
I can say without hesitation that my odds of finding a partner decreased from lake-size to teaspoon when I got to country. It’s complicated to explain: It’s not because I couldn’t date a Guatemalan, but the culture gap between myself and rural Guatemala is as wide as Atitlán. A Tinder account is amusing but virtually useless. With the safety regulations (volunteers can’t enter Guatemala city which has a more modern mindset of dating), more English and, I would assume, more of a dating culture. If I wanted to hook up, I could make it happen easily because of all the tourists passing through Atitlán. But it’s not who I am. Meanwhile, campo mentality says: Find a Partner and Start Having Babies INMEDIATAMENTE. I get asked my age and marital status almost every day, it feels, and that is a fancy juxtaposition with the mujeriego/womanizer culture here. It’s like: get married so your husband can start cheating on you. That’s not what they mean but it’s so often what happens.
But… I didn’t find my soulmate dating in the States either, so the common variable here is me. If I wanted to be in a relationship enough, I think I would do it. But I must like my independence more than I’m willing to admit when I’m feeling lonely or tired of explaining why I’m single.
But when I walk the streets of Santa Clara (holding my iPhone as a fake mic) to support my blasting pop lyrics, I don’t feel incomplete. I feel surprised by life and happy by the happiness around me. That’s what I think people want from romantic love: the element of surprise, companionship and being known.
My rote responses to questions about my relationship status are in K’iche’: “Tengo tres novios: Xarakot, xibinel y ajluta” (three terms for ghost in K’iche’). I’ve said this enough around town that people expect that response, coupled with my response that: “Men want hijos and tortillas, neither of which I know how to make” also met with unfettered laughter. It only adds to the humor that I teach sexual health charlas, getting very specific about body parts and romantic relationships which I know very little about. They say God has a sense of humor, or circumstance is telling me that I am capable of more than I think including how to pronounce testículo.
But what keeps me going is the three generations of strong, fighting women who live with me. They are single, happy and strong. I don’t need to be in a relationship to be fulfilled, happy and strong. I want to reach beyond my apathy and occasional frustration of going solo to a higher ground of gratitude and laughter from which all gorgeous and vibrant matter of life grows. Through my proximity to these smart, strong women, drip drip drip, day by day waking up to see my Host Grandmother working and happy to be working, my host mom diligently committed to gathering her crops and my host sister traveling 4 hours to the capitals with costales of heavy avocados to sell, each drop of influence has gently reshaped my perspective and encouraged gratitude.
If you are one of those people who senses my frustration and wants to nudge me towards a different reality: “Natalie, love comes when you least expect it,” I respectfully veto this sentiment. I’ve been “least expecting it” for too long for that to be the main ingredient to finding love. And yet again it is absolutely correct. When I moved in with three strangers whose names I read on a piece of paper inside a manila folder: “Clara, 88 years old, lives at home. Rosario, 65, works at home. Clara, 38, works in the capital,” the love of family came when I least expected it. From them I learned through challenging my own experience that you don’t need money, degrees or romance to be complete. The abundance of strength around me rendered Romantic Love like ice cream: a treat you have to work to maintain or it might fall on the ground or melt all over your hands leaving you sticky and sad and sugarless. I don’t need ice cream to survive, thrive, be filled, happy or wise. And I don’t need romance to appreciate Valentine’s Day.
The 14th of February in Guatemala is called “Día del Cariño”/ the day of caring. My básico/middle school students make mail for each other and deliver it to the recipients declaring: “Yo necesito la presencia de…” and say their friend’s name. It’s so cute it makes my face hurt. Last year I pulled Elias Alexander’s name from the hat, and you can believe that I do not have a romantic relationship with a 13-year old boy but I was still able to express cariño through a notebook gift-wrapped with hearts, no matter how awkward he felt to get a gift from the gringa.
My dad asked me if he could ship me a Valentine’s Day gift, which he does for my sister and I every year no matter our relationship status. Sadly he can’t, mail system no funciona, but he is coming in March to visit anyway. And isn’t it sweet to have a dad who wants to send you a Valentine even when you can pluck your own gray hairs?
I dedicate this Día del Cariño to the women luchadoras in Santa Clara who work, fight, care, give and provide without apathy or hesitation. I am grateful to live near and among you, to marvel at the sheer quantity of vegetables you can carry on your head or firewood you can cargar strapped to your forehead with a 20-pound child on your back. Your life speaks to your love and your work to your efforts. You inspire me, teach me, love me and braid my hair and for that I am forever grateful and filled with love.
Special thanks to Nan Wicha who braids my hair every week, to Nan Clara for carrying the firewood from upstairs at a turtle pace so we have fuego for lunch, to Clara for tying my corte and finding me when I nearly broke my ankle, to my host mom for smiling at me even when she’s tired. To my egg lady who always gives me a good price, to the platano lady who always calls out to me when I walk by, to librarians Claudia and Luccy who bug me every time I see them, to Nan Celia who thinks I am going to marry her son who’s not interested in me, to Nan Clara who laughs at me for an inordinate amount of time when I walk into her bread shop and to my own Mama who will come to Santa Clara soon to see what it’s all about.
