Thursday was back to reality, but first: banana pancakes. The alarm went off before 8am (in other words, before it should) and I brushed my teeth, boiled my water, poured my coffee grounds, put on my clothes and ejected myself onto the street. Ready or not, Thursday.
After the session ended: “What is Addiction, Drug Addiction and Alcoholism?” facilitated by Seño Magda, I observed and made notes, I came home. Thankfully, Abby stayed for more episodes of Boy Meets World before catching the camioneta home. Even more magically, she had made banana pancakes. We sat on my colchón (floor mattress)/sofa and watched three consecutive episodes. I told her that I missed grieving the death of William Daniels (Mr. Feeny) in my life, and that makes me sad. Actually I just looked it up and he is still alive, so March might not be such a bad month after all.
At 11:20am, I had another session. But I was too early because I got the times confused. So I sat in on a session from 10:45 to 11:20 taught by Profe Noel, my long-since betrothed and unbetrothed neighbor because facebook revealed he has some girlfriend somewhere. (It’s all in bromas). After the students presented the plot line of Moana on poster paper, the class finished and Profe Roberto strolled in with the projector. He defined “factores de riesgo para el consumo de sustancias.” He is the best teacher in the diplomado that I am training (don’t tell any of the others, they are good too). He has a way of explaining things clearly, understanding the content, and keeping the students’ attention.
I often look at Profe and wonder how he does it. His wife died five years ago, unexpectedly, and he continues to live in Santa Clara with his wife’s family and raises his son. He teaches all day long, at Cedcom in the morning and the other middle school in the afternoon, and he studies at the university on Saturdays. How did he go to work those days, weeks, after his wife died? These are just things I wonder because I spend at least an hour every day behind a tissue(s), and no one died. I don’t believe that the answer is that men are stronger than women. Has a man ever given birth? I think society teaches us that because men have bigger muscles that they are stronger. But when did muscles equal strength? Plus, if we’re going by that rubric, I’m bigger than every man in this pueblo so let’s just leave it alone.
I was sad Abby was gone, and after Profe Roberto’s class I got a message from Seño Mary: “Come to my class today” she said. I’m glad she texted me because I wasn’t sure. On the way to class, I cried. Abby’s visit had distracted me from my sadness and now she was gone and so were all of the banana pancakes and weekday excursions. I met Seño Mary at school and her presence is always a source of comfort. She was my first real work partner and friend (save for my host family) in Santa Clara. She helped me when I couldn’t find the words for Spanish, she has received and hosted me in her home in San Juan. She has showed me love and support, she introduced me to tacos with lengua meat (tongue). They’re actually quite good, but I only eat them with her.
I waited (early again) for her session to start. She caught me up a little, told me about how she hasn’t slept this week because of her workload between school and studies. By comparison, I’ve been coasting, haven’t I? She said to me: “Seño Natalia, I am going to tell you something entre amigas.” I braced myself. (CAVEAT: I don’t make it clear always, but everything written here was spoken in Spanish. Not a word of English. That’s important because sometimes hearing something in a second language makes it ring through even more clearly, more loudly). She said: “It used to be that people said about indigenous people that we are uncivilized. That we live like animals, savages.” Where was she going with this? What a sad thing to hear. “and it occurred to me, the first time you visited me, that we sat at the same table and we ate the same food, and that was when I realized that we are equal. That everyone is equal.” “Somos iguales” she said.
It stopped me dead in my tracks (I was sitting, but still). What a powerful thing to say. This is a moment I will never forget, two women sitting across from each other at a table in a high school, both who are in Santa Clara for work who both speak first languages that are not Spanish (Tz’ut’ujil and English). Seño Mary is from San Juan. Both of us are single. We have had options, but the relationships ran their course. Neither of us are unhappy, both of us struggle, and we are both equal. Why did it take me sitting at Seño Mary’s dining table and eating her food and sleeping on her bed, for her to realize that? And, more importantly to me, how did I get so lucky to be Seño Mary’s friend?
These are the moments in Peace Corps that you can’t report in your quarterly work write-ups, or even explain out of context, that so powerfully shake your foundation like the earthquakes we regularly experience in Guatemala. And you never know when they are going to hit and change you fundamentally, forever.
When it was time to start our session, parents walked in and Seño Mary was occupied. They were asking about their daughter’s grades. I knew this would take up at least 10 minutes (we had 35 for the session) and it did. When we (finally) left for the classroom, we got there and another Profe had passed out a quiz (during our class period). I was annoyed. This took up another 7 minutes. I thought to myself: “A female teacher would not have disrupted a class period like this.” I thought about what Cindy said yesterday at the Italian bakery when she was explaining: micromachismo. This was an exact example of that. That teacher who took over the class used to call me princesa, guapa, preciosa, until I told the school director I didn’t like it. Ever since then he doesn’t call me that, but he doesn’t talk to me much either. I’m used to, but not happy with, these dynamics.
After her class I offered her a pan dulce and we chatted during recess. I tried to stay, what’s the rush? After recess ended, I left for the other middle school and on the way, I called my sister. I cried. This is what a fresh break-up does: I’m like eggs being scrambled. I’m now standing outside the middle school, continuing our call. Children and passing adults pause to listen to my English and my emotion. The ‘fishbowl’ metaphor of the Peace Corps Volunteer has never been more true. Eventually Profe Miguel and Seño Mayra were walking up to me as tears were collected beneath my eyes. I needed to talk to Profe, to confirm our session for tomorrow, so I quickly got off the phone, dried my tears and walked with them. They both noticed, asked me if I was sick. They said: “Maybe something happened with your family?” I didn’t know how to respond other than to brush it off. After I walked with them to run their errands, we returned to the school and seeing as I had accomplished my errand (confirming tomorrow’s session), I shook Profe Miguel’s hand and I headed home. I bought beans for dinner from my favorite comedor and dumped them into a metal tin to heat them up. When the plancha was unoccupied I put the beans over the fire. I sat and waited for the air bubbles to reach the surface. I had three avocados that I got for 1Q each (a good price) and they were perfect. I gave the other two to my host mom and host sister.
Funny, I’ve been too distraught and distracted by my relationship status to really consider the upcoming changes in my life like Peace Corps ending… What an unexpected plot twist that came and went during the four months of my extension. Imagine: if I had not extended, I would not have experienced any of this heartbreak. I’m glad I extended, even though it hurts. And even if my co-workers run into me crying on the street. I live in a pueblo, there is no where for me to fake it or hide. You know how Cory learns hard lessons on Boy Meets World? The pueblo is like my audience whether I like it or not. But I think they are rooting for me.
