I’d never heard the phrase until I was in a conversation I stumbled into the first week of January.

And like with so many phrases that fly past me like patterned barriletes I can’t remember, it joined the minimal ranks of words I needed to look up later. It means to fold my knees. It means prayer.

I pass by Don Miguel’s house every time I go to Jose’s to thief internet. He often says Xeq’ ij to me, or Hola Amiga!, and at first I thought he wanted something.

In general when I am being pestered I hear “Hola” rather than the street saludos Buenos Dias, Buenas Tardes, you know the breed. Side note: in the States (or at least, in Alabama) I say “Hey” “Hello” or “how are you?” as a greeting. It’s not meant to spark conversation, only to acknowledge the other person’s existence and bid them adieu. But here in Guatemala, I’ve taken note that there is a distinction between ‘Hola’ and a Greeting. Buenos Días is meant as a saludo, just a greeting to acknowledge another person. If you say ‘hola’ when you pass someone on the street it’s weird. “Hola” isn’t used just to greet someone. They say hola when they walk into a store and no one’s there, or ‘allo?’ when they answer the phone. BUT when an extranjera walks by and they want to get my attention, they may use ‘hola’ as they whiz by on a bike or tuc tuc. That’s around the time I stopped using Hola.

Por el otro lado, they use adios when they walk past someone. So instead of “Hello” they may say “Goodbye!” as you’re passing them on the street. E na, the K’iche’ goodbye, is the same. In fact, my host mom told me “E na” is to say “Hola” but the actual translation is ‘adios’ so there you have it. I’ve noticed that it’s more important to greet the elder in the street. If you’re talking to children, you will stop what you’re doing to “Buenas Tardes” the adult passing by. It’s frustrating to me because it’s not what I’m used to. It breaks the conversation that’s being had, but here children have not earned the status of the adult. So it’s more important to stop and say ‘buenas tardes’ as an adult passes tugging leña or caña or whatever the case may be.

So. I thought Don Miguel a bit odd for saying “Hola Amiga!” so expressively. It’s not unusual to think that an older man may be harassing you. Here in my site that is not common, I will say, but I’ve been living in another part of the country the past two months.

But I needed to find people to survey for my report for Early IST (in-service training). I’m supposed to interview parents of the community. He responded, yes yes I do have two children. I asked him their ages and he said (6 and the nena is 2). I ask him why they are in the capital (I’m trying to get information for my survey. Do people here send their children to the capital for better educations? That would be helpful to know) But instead I get a story.

I am hoping for research but I get all spirit, all culture, all soul.

His wife left him and took his two daughters to the capital. He gave him all his money, he doesn’t have any furniture. He’s got his car supply shop, which he has restocked with borrowed money, and he is there every day. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go or be. So he sits. The only places he does during the day is up and down the street because he’s tied to his ‘venta’, his business. He can’t wander far in case a customer appears.

And he tells me: The mujer has some problems with her mind. She drinks, she smokes. And I can’t get my daughters because the court says that children of this age should be with their mothers.

I’m looking at Don Miguel, framed by the car tools around him stocked by borrowed money, and I stand and listen. I’ve gone digging for information and I’ve struck a pipeline. Now I’ve got to expect the results that come from digging in a culture and in people’s lives without really knowing a thing about them. I said “Hello” instead of “Buenas Tardes,” I was looking to elicit information and information I got.

20 minutes pass. I know that time is different here. EstadoUnidense’s eat faster, move faster, interrupt faster, leave faster. I can’t do that. I need to stand and let this story unfold. When was the last time someone asked him about his family? Asked him about his life?”

And he goes on “Sometimes I cry” he says. “But Solamente Dios. At night I doblar rodillas for my daughters. I pray for them that they will be in God’s hands.”

And here I was thinking this was just an overly friendly stranger looking to associate with the extranjera. I didn’t know he was just a nice man in the crisis of his life, alone.

I wonder how much of this story is cultural: You dig here and eventually people tell you their pains. I wonder how much of it is expected, almost encouraged, by cultural norms: “You must associate with a deeper drama in your life. You must not have it too easy. Life is meant to be hard.” Plus in small towns, everyone knows a little of everyone’s stories. You might as well tell your own if given the opportunity instead of let the town chatter tell it for you.

But then I realize that life is simply hard here. Death is a part of life more than ever here. Mourning is part of life. I’ve noticed that people don’t cry when they talk about their loved ones they’ve lost. Once my host mom said to me: “You could cry but what’s it gonna do? You’d be upstairs crying but you wouldn’t have gotten anything done!” Crying, too, is a first world luxury. Crying is only for people who know that crying is for a season. When you’re life is constantly bombarded by loss: your primo, your cousin, your aunt, your mom, your daughter, your marriage, your home, your finances, your life; you can’t cry because you will truly cry without stopping.

I’ve considered that death is a tragedy, no matter someone’s age. In other countries, death is a sad reality. That is partly why they celebrate death more in other cultures and funerals aren’t just tragic. That’s why “Day of the Dead” is celebrated with bright colors and chuchitos and pan dulces. You eat your sweets and you sit with your loved ones who’ve left you “for a better place” and you share your time with them. You share your time.

And so I shared mine with Don Miguel. I tried not to draw conclusions. I told him “I will pensar en his hijas” I’m not sure if this means I will believe in his daughters, but I’m not comfortable saying “I will pray for your daughters.” Plus I don’t know if that’s something people say here? I’ve never heard it. My host mom told me once that she prayed for me, she lifted me up at night to Dios. She suplicared a los cielos for me. That was one time when I told her I was nervous and I forgot my books on the tuc tuc. I’ve had to learn to judge when I should tell my host family when I am sick, homesick or nervous. They get so worked up over my normal discomforts as I adjust to rural Guatemalan life (e.g. diarrhea, sadness, anxiety) that it causes a lot more trouble.

I told Don Miguel that I was going to go but I was going to think of him. I told him that I would see him again soon. He told me “thank you” when I said I would think of him. I wasn’t sure what else to say or how to “end it appropriately.” Have you noticed that EstadoUnidense’s are always concerned with the proper way to ‘end things?’ Conversations, meals, work, school, graduations, celebrations, endings endings endings. Because we are moving so fast?

I went to check my phone. I’ve only since said hi to Don Miguel once but every time I pass I look for him. I’m secretly relieved when he’s not there because then I can be on my way. You can take the girl from the States but you can’t change the state of the girl.

I’ve gone to Mass more times this year than I have in the last five. I don’t attend church and we won’t get into the kinks of it but I have it on good authority that attending church here is a clave into site integration. It’s a doorway into the community. So I go. It’s boring, it’s long, it reeks of incense I tell you and it’s half-Spanish, half-K’iche’ which I love and it often feels like it doesn’t apply to me. Every lady over age 10 covers their head it appears while I sit with my frizz-curl-whisps announcing their presence as we ease from prayer to prayer, response to response word to word from the Padre.

And once Mass is over it’s then that I’m glad I went. I’m glad I went because it was 2 hours in which I didn’t actively do anything for myself or for anyone else. It was as close to meditation as I can think of. Occasionally I smile at my host mom and she smiles back. I am anchored to so much through my relationship with her. And one time I realized that 2017 is the year of Divinity. #yearofdivinity I don’t know why except that I hope to lose parts of myself I don’t need to keep and find parts of the world I hope to absorb. And throughout my stay I hope to coat myself in gratitude like a blancita in the sun with SPF 50 on. And to pray.