For those of you just tuning in, and for those of you who aren’t, thank you. This is my last month of Peace Corps. I am learning, as I continue to grow as a human, how important support is. Tanto extender como recibir. And I wonder a lot in these difficult days before my departure and during a break-up, about grief and growth and why we suffer. It has called into question my own beliefs, or lack thereof, if there really is A God. That sounds really heavy, right? I can only say that when I go through a heartbreak, I leave no stone unturned. Last time I went through a break-up I honest-to-goodness read A Grief Observed.

I stopped believing in The God Who Intervenes a long time ago, because the argument didn’t make sense to me. For this and many other reasons, I can’t get with the Testaments in the Protestant take on them.

Most of my closest, most supportive and loving friends identify as Christians. Honestly, it’s none of my business and not my place to question where people get their strength and what they believe. I’m having a heck of a camioneta ride figuring out how to reason with my own questions about existence. So I speak from a place of personal experience, nothing more and nothing less.

The point is: between this heartbreak, my personal development as I make moves to attend grad school and the ensuing culture/identity shock that is certain to ensue with the end of Peace Corps, I am crying out for comfort, for support, for help. I am not too proud to reach out to God. Because if there is a God, why wouldn’t I rely on his/her support? I’ll take it.

With that in mind: I share the details of my Tuesday (yesterday).

I got out of bed and tried to start the day. It was tough. I waited for a message or a phone call from a teacher participating in my diplomado who never did text or reach out. So, I was under the covers because I didn’t have to move yet. But every minute that passed, it was harder to get out from under them. This heartsickness has really thrown a wrench in my final months in Guatemala.

I decided I would take my computer and my body along with my heart to the Muni Library. I have friends there who, for better and for worse, distract me. Like a presumptious two-year volunteer, I set-up my stuff like I was in my own home office. I even brought my charger to plug-in and a mug to pour my coffee. But my friends weren’t that distracting one way or the other: Claudia didn’t talk much, seemed sick, and Luccy was preoccupied with her computer. It was just me and my thoughts and my non-internet work until my sister called.

I tried not to cry (which lately hasn’t worked) but I managed to keep an even tone. I don’t remember what we talked about except chit-chat. But I managed to get some writing done and progress on a diagnostic document. At around 11:30 I packed up my things and prepared myself for the market. I had managed to leave the house and get out into the sunshine.

Tuesday and Saturday are market days. I bought vegetables and returned home, happy with my eggplant and zucchini buys. The vendor still owed me Q1, she didn’t have change. You can do that in small towns, I guess. Pay someone back later. Vendors have given me produce under the good faith I’ll pay them, but I’ve never had a vendor owe me money before. It’s a little thing, something to note. Maybe people can loan me strength ’til I can pay them back with mine. Or find someone else who needs it.

On Monday, I looked at a pile of firewood and started to cry. It was because my firewood days are almost over. After I washed my hands and needed a towel on which to dry them, my host Aunt María offered me her apron, which she was wearing, to dry my hands. It’s the moments/things like that that choke me up. By the time lunch rolled around, all four of us (Abuelita, Clara and Rosario) were crying over our tortillas. What happened was, I leaned over Abuelita and said “Kin b’isonik” I am sad. And she said: ‘Kat b’isonik because you are leaving and because you got accustomed to living here….” and she said (in mostly K’iche’): “But Gracias a Dios, you had two years here in Santa Clara without injury, without illness, and you could manage to accomplish what you needed to accomplish out of your own necessity.” And she was crying, and then Doña Rosario started crying, and then Clara started sniffling. And we held our tortillas in our hands and all of our eyes were watering. They use their aprons to wipe their noses and tears, but I only had my sleeve which had to do because I didn’t want to leave for a tissue. I know I was crying over a couple of things, some which had nothing to do with leaving Santa Clara, but they all snowballed into a giant ball of tortilla dough.

I marvel at Abuelita, that she can be thankful for my health instead of being sad for my leaving. I mean, I know she is sad, but her gratitude puts things into perspective. And reminds me to try to be grateful, too (while my face crumples up into ugly crying).

These women have been there for me one million percent, and have accompanied me through every hard time in service: spraining my ankle, coming home from the US, struggling with work and work partners, missing friends who left service, learning how to express myself in two foreign languages. But one thing they can’t accompany me through is leaving them. Once again, like with every journey I have taken and will take, I have to go through that alone. We all have to go through transitions alone. “Naked I came, naked I will go…” and this fount of emotion landed me on the phone with my Mom, sobbing, ugly crying, until I had to leave for work. She said: “You have 22 days left.” And it hit me like a ton of bricks. For once, I hadn’t counted them.

I bought a soda (my ammunition these days) and walked to school in the sunshine, drying out my mildewy insides from so many tears. I sat in on Seño Mary’s third charla, after which I had to scurry to an event where I would be a JUDGE.

Twice I passed the same bolo (that’s a drunk) on the street, out cold, and he looked so pathetic and sick laying in the blaring sun, hungover. For the first time ever, I bought a bolo a bottle of water. I should have down it before. I don’t know if he drank it, but I left it in his hand. I think my sadness made me want to help someone, somehow, for all the support my friends and family are extending to me.

You see, it’s Fat Tuesday / Día Del Carnaval. In Barrio San Antonio there will be a talent competition and the best grade will win (read: tercero). As someone who has been here for THREE YEARS for this event, I can say with all sincerity that it is a lot for a foreigner to take in: from the costumes, the music and the customary performances, it’s A LOT FOR THE EYES.

And this was yesterday’s competition (2019):
There’s clearly a theme that I don’t fully understand, other than the connection with Mardi Gras (which, well I also don’t know much about other than it’s a party before Lent)….

During the event, which was quite long, I referred to my telephone and googled: “Bible verses of comfort.” I must say, there’s some beautiful stuff in there… My mind was all over the place. I was thinking about The Male Gaze and conversations with Tanya about feminism, how these young girls dance like they’re dancing for men. And how we, as women of all ages, are taught to do the same. As if we are constantly living up to a standard that should impress men, catch their attention, with our sexuality, our bodies, our appearance. Pretty much every music video ever made reflects this. It made me upset and frustrated. (Tercero básico won, como siempre) and the two young guys to my right helped me judge the competition. We added together the results and presented the prize. I was glad to have somewhere to be for the afternoon, even if it was a lot of confusing choreography.. It was my last Carnaval.

At dinner, my host sister told me she got mad at her Abuelita and Mom about our tears at lunch. “Estabamos comiendo y nadie comió bien por las palabras que ustedes estaban diciendo!” This from Clara, the one who calls her food “the sacred nourishment.” Food is still sacred in this culture. I think we lost sight of that type of regard for food in the US. We just see it as something to be controlled, and Clara sees it as something you do not cry over because you must enjoy it. I think she has a point.

I did some adult coloring, watched Combate Carnaval edition and went to bed.