I write this post to recount an especially long day. Some days do feel very long in Peace Corps, and as boring as it feels sometimes to be in the pueblo, a lot can happen in one day.
November 9:
I was sleeping so deeply when my alarm(s) shook me into consciousness. Two phone calls from 2 unknown numbers made it officially necessary to get up. On the second ring, I answered. It was Nan Oucha (weecha).
Why do people call from unknown numbers? Because they run out of minutes and they borrow someone else’s phone. It happens all the time; if you ignored every unknown number here you would miss a lot of things.
Her call was before 8am so I was not thrilled. I’m not really available before 8am, according to my biological paperwork.
This day is doble jornada y doble clausura. That means I am working all day by participating in two graduations (normally school is from 1-6pm); there is uncertainty surrounding both as to my participation. The first one is more soaked in doubt because me toca ser Madrina. Madrina literally translates to Godmother, but it has a different purpose for this occasion: graduation. I’m meant to be like a sponsor, representative, commemorative speaker, benefactor, and sometimes your name gets plastered across a maroon curtain in bright sparkly letters (or so I have seen in places).
Many other volunteers got asked to be Madrinas last year, their first, and I did not. I wondered why that was but I was ultimately relieved because I knew it was a big expense…
November 8:
The day before this morning several people said things to me and did not follow through. Specifically a Profe and a Doña. Profe and I had planned to go on a hike to San Juan. Since it was my idea I’d probably be paying for the venture on both counts but I was happy to do it for the company. Profe was one of my coworkers this year and I have found him to be more career-oriented, more professionally groomed, than most. But that is the case with many of the male teachers who are working at this particular school. But the Profe did not text me the night before, did not text me the day of, didn’t call. Nothing. No trip to San Juan. At 1pm I texted: “Profe, Que pasó?” and now it’s tomorrow. No response. Last time I checked he hasn’t even received the message. I can tell you how many times this has happened with Guatemalans but I will skip it. They have too much pena to cancel on you so they just pretend that they forgot.
Then, the second instance: Nan Oucha. I love this woman with my whole wanima/corazón. She works in the pharmacy 6 days a week as a nurse at the school where I teach Tuesday and Wednesday mornings. She used to braid my hair (when I had enough to braid). There’s something very nurturing about having your hair braided. Once I almost fainted in class, broke into a cold sweat and thought I might vomit. I had to lay my head on the desk and ask for agua pura. Eventually she came to get me and escorted me to the pharmacy. There were black clouds in my vision as we walked. It was all very odd. Months later I would realize it was an effect of the malaria meds I had taken. But in the moment it was startling, and in front of my class, embarrassing. The Profe, the one who was supposed to go to San Juan with me, ran to get Nan Oucha to rescue me. It was really dramatic.
As I lay on the bed, pale, in a cold sweat, she told me stories to distract me. She told me about both times she gave birth and that the first birth her baby flew out of her and hit her head on the floor. I find this hard to believe but I think she thought it would distract me. You know, bedside manner. When my fever went away I returned to my class for my coffee, my woven belt relaxed from my waist so much so that it almost fell off.
The day before the graduation Nan Oucha said: I am going to put you in traje de Santa Clara. “Come here today at 6pm” she says. “I’m not sure if the traje I have is going to fit you!” I walked up, 5:55pm, to all doors closed. I walked down to her home by Escuela Dos, doors shut no one home. “Nan Oucha!!!!!” I projected in the general direction of where I thought someone, maybe she or a relative, would hear. Nothing. Knocks on doors. Nothing. Probably the iglesia. I walked home, annoyed. Two people who made a commitment and didn’t follow through. Keep in mind, her house is on the other end of the town center, it’s like 20 minutes walking roundtrip. Oh well, I needed the extra exercise anyway. I went home in the dark.
That night I worked on my palabras/my graduation speech. Every graduation I have been to has included una intervención on the part of the Madrina o Padrino, words of congratulation and encouragement to the graduating students, maybe some nugget of wisdom. I typed it out, asked my host sister to read it over. It was a little annoying because I wanted to use figurative Spanish like I would in English “light at the end of the tunnel” for example, but my host sister said that wouldn’t be understood here. In the campo we don’t have tunnels. It is a phrase in Spanish, la luz al final del tunel as it is written in newspapers, pero bueno, I left it out. I transferred my speech to my USB to print tomorrow and went to sleep.
“How well am I going to do on my Spanish exam in the States if I can’t speak elevated Spanish here and be understood?” a fact that bothers me more lately. Probably because of the exam…
Friday November 9:
The next morning, the big day, I ran to Nan Oucha at the pharmacy and asked “Where were you yesterday?? I came to the school at 6pm like you said! I walked to your house!” She laughed and said “Oh my goodness we went to church!” which is what people do here. They tell you where they went, but they don’t readily recognize that they forgot to do what they said they would. Eventually she said: “La verdad, se me olvidé.” It takes a strong woman to own up to forgetting in this culture, and she admits to what really happened. For this and many other reasons, she is twice the woman. I’m worried to be late to graduation so I quickly jump into the traje and she wraps it around me.
Then I sit as she braids my hair, weaving a long woven string into it and bobby pinning it down. All the while I am throwing makeup on my face, letting my fingers decide where the eyeshadow should go: mirrors are for sissies. She takes my picture and says: “Todos se emocionarán por usted.” I bet she is right. Out of these many months, 22, I have never worn traje de Santa Clara. To be honest, I don’t really like the traje of Santa Clara: dark blue and one single pink line across it. Trajic, I call it. But yes, everyone will be excited to see me as a pura Clareña for the first time.
I run home, show Abuelita my outfit and grab the gifts I am to give the students. I pad down the street to the town plaza and walk into the municipal gym full of people. I’m surprised, people are more or less punctual. 9 en punto means 9:40 here but everyone is here at 9:20. Maybe they’re waiting to start because of me? I gave my gift basket to Seño Gladys and ran to a library to print off my palabras. I didn’t see Profe, the one who stood me up for our hike. I was looking forward to seeing him because A: I wanted him to see me in my traje and B: He was going to get a piece of my mind. I don’t see him but figured he’d appear.
Two usual spots to print are both closed. I run to the second floor of the Muni and tell her I am in a hurry. Maura prints the document for me and I run back to the gym. I fold up my words and stick them into my red woven belt for easy access. They ask me: “Oh are these your datos?” And I say: “What datos. NO ONE TOLD ME TO BRING DATOS.” So I quickly scrawl them onto blank paper: Natalie Saxon, Licenciada de Teatro. De Atlanta, Georgia en Los EEUU. Técnica Voluntaria con Cuerpo de Paz, Proyecto Juventud en Desarrollo.” And I said, jokingly, make sure to say: Kin tzukuj Wachajil “Looking for a spouse” in K’iche’. I always get a laugh. I run off to take my place in line and stood next to the ex-directora, the madrina for the other group of students graduating at the same time.
“No planifique una intervención” she says and I say: “I did” and rapidly brandish my folded papers in my belt. She says: “They told me I didn’t need one.” I quickly walked to the director to investigate.
He says: “Pero no está programado.” And I say: “Why? I asked if I needed to prepare words and gifts and you said yes.” “Yes but the sub-director lo cambió que pude decir yo?” The truth is, he didn’t tell the sub-director I was planning words because he forgot. Just like Doña Oucha and 6pm, just like Profe Roberto and San Juan. Just like my palabras.
I return to the ex-directora, steamed. Fool me once, fool me twice, fool me 27 times.. They call me over to walk down the pine aisle and I do so quickly. I feel awkward with all of the eyes on me (if you can believe it). A photographer flashes a camera at me. Later I notice that everyone else pauses for their picture to be taken. Did I pause? No, because I didn’t know I was supposed to pause. Everyone just assumes that I know things here THAT I DON’T KNOW. I sat on the white plastic chair and watched the whole ceremony from a side angle, thinking “I can’t blast this whole day on my blog because I will be speaking ill of my host country when all I want to do right now is craft delicious words of retribution of what went down and how I feel.” Nevermind I’m PMSing and I am sitting in a tight woven belt squeezing the life out of me and I can sense it because I am more irritated by this than just normal irritated.
La Ex-directora has taken her seat next to me at the front. I ask “Why are so many profes missing on the stage?” my sly way of investigating the whereabouts of Profe Roberto. “Por la mala administración” she says. I can’t blame her for the dig, she just got fired. She is called up to the stage and says “ven conmigo” I wait for my name to be called, approach the stage and am presented a gift by Beliz. In every group of students there is always one student who is eons more pilas, professional and forward-thinking than everyone else. This is Beliz. I hug her and see that there is something woven in the bag she hands me. This would be the moment for my palabras, ready, in my faja, but the other Madrina didn’t give words and wouldn’t it be weird if I grabbed the mic and started giving mine? I sit back down and the Directora chuleó sobre the gift they gave me, said it is woven from San somewhere. It’s the first new piece of traje I’ll ever own, so that was exciting.
I ask Ex-Directora about her daughter, if she will have more, and she says: “no lo que pasa que mi esposo me dejó” she says. “He left me for another woman.” And I am sad. And I add it up: She got fired and got dumped, left alone with her 5 year-old hija this year. I asked her: “Why don’t you marry Profe Roberto?” another investigation as to his character and she laughs. “Nooooo” she says. And I am concerned. “Él no es bueno?” I say and she says “Él es pero mi esposo me dejó y ahora ya no.” And I remembered: Women who are separated, even if it’s because their husbands left them, are not supposed to get married again in this culture. Sure the men can but the women are actually bound by their vows. I’ve seen it play out in my own host family. The graduation ends and all of the students ask for pictures with the Ex-Directora but none of the students ask for pictures with me. It makes me sad, I feel like I don’t belong here. I scurry off to my lunch invitation.
I was invited by one of my co-teachers. I arrive and the patio is a sauna. There are plastic sheets shielding the sun but they are actually trapping the heat in. I am thrilled to see big pieces of chicken circulating on plates. I have only a few minutes to eat before the second graduation. Of course I didn’t realize that the lunch I was attending was to celebrate the graduation of the teacher’s younger sister. BUT I DIDN’T KNOW SO I DIDN’T BRING A PRESENT. DAGGUMIT SANTA CLARA. I piled on picante and everyone commented on how much I like chile. The same things they always say, chit-chat at the table directed toward the mystery of the gringa in traje eating spicy chicken. I found the student who graduated, congratulated her and headed out, walking uphill.
As I walked up the eternal hill back to my house, a woman who I didn’t recognize called me over. Now in the USA if a semi-stranger gestured for me to come into her house, my eyebrows would perk, but we are in pueblo here and the rules are different. I am a small-town celebrity. I approach the house and I am anticipating the normal chit-chat. I say a few things in K’iche’, she laughs, responding in words I half-understand. Normal. But things got less normal when she told me she wanted to show me her bathroom.. So I began to walk back with her to.. the bathroom..? and then a man appeared who seemed to be scolding her. Another eyebrow raised. Then she said: “I wanted to see if you wanted some juice..” And then it all became clear. She was tipsy and wanted to give the gringa a drink mediodía. In the US I would have not hardly found myself in this situation but remember, we’re not in the USA. I kindly declined and said goodbye to her in as many ways in K’iche’ as I could think: “Chawilana” “Chuweq Chik” “Nohim Kat Ek” “Mat tzaqik” Take care, see you tomorrow, be safe, take care of yourself…. and was back on the road up to my house. That was weird. Did a stranger just try to show me her bathroom and offer me juice? Why, yes.
I grabbed my other supplies I needed for the second graduation and I headed down to the other side of town, Barrio San Antonio. I walked to the other school and people were barely arriving. Everything looked beautiful and set-up, the plastic chairs had satin fabrics donned across them and the stage was arranged, with the classic maroon curtain and the letters of the name of the Padrino strewn across. There was still time before the ceremony was to begin, so I went to my tocaya‘s house. Tocaya means namesake, this baby got named after me by my surprise. Now I feel a responsibility to visit because the kid’s name is Natalie!
I knocked on the rusting lamina door and said: “Con permiso..” The little boys ran out and said: “Seño Natalia” wide-eyed and wonder. The Mom of 6 was sitting on a short wooden stool in the dimly-lit kitchen sewing a design onto a blouse. She said: “There are so many of us in one home and we have to work to pay our bills.” I felt bad. I didn’t know how I was supposed to respond. It’s a long story, the connection I have with this family. But take my word for it that I often feel uncertain as to what my place is. I tell her that “Yes I imagine so!”
I look for Nataly, the little baby. Clara, the oldest, brings her to me. The baby is at the age (5 months) where she recognizes that I am a stranger and starts to cry when I hold her. But I get a few snuggles before I have to leave.
One of the students brought us pastel/cake and I was pretty excited about the icing. Then graduation started. Not all of my students came, and it occurred to me later that many of them didn’t want to pay 62 quetzales to participate in the ceremony. That’s a lot of money for them. You see, there isn’t a budget for those sorts of ceremonies so if the kids want to participate they have to pay extra, which some parents aren’t willing to do.
At 2:30pm the graduation started, my third this week. I was to sing a song “Las Golondrinas” during the ceremony. I had the lyrics written across a poster sheet which I asked one of the students to hold up for me discreetly when I sing. My role in this graduation was nothing more than to hand out a few diplomas, take pictures and sing this song. I was not Madrina, but I prepared a note of congratulations with pictures from the school year for all of the graduating students. I handed each one the note, awkwardly, as they walked through the flags with their parents, a graduation ritual.
I felt like a bit of a stranger at the morning ceremony, even though I was the esteemed Madrina, but at the second graduation of the day I felt more comfortable: I know these kids. This is the school I’ve worked at since the beginning of my time here, and I’ve seen these kids grow up so much in two years. We all took pictures together, and that made me feel excited and special. I do remember being asked to escort in the “Padrino” and feeling very uncomfortable with that. Like a Model. Just because I was a woman, I had to hang on his arm. The other female teacher was on his other arm. But I did it.
After the ceremony, I was walking back from school with the other female teacher (this time we were just escorting ourselves) and she mentioned ever so casually the rumor behind why the ex-directora got kicked out of the school from the morning graduation. I was shocked, I think my jaw actually dropped. And whether or not the gossip is true, it’s a game-changer and a deal-breaker in a small town like this. And it made me sad that she has been ostracized by the community and nothing will ever be the same for her. No wonder they didn’t give me the microphone in the morning, because if they had given me a space to speak it would have been very uncomfortable not to give one to her as the other Madrina. But all of this was background information I didn’t have.
This day was a rollercoaster: two graduations, sauna lunch, offering of jugo from a stranger, being a model escort, singing Las Golondrinas, town chisme, and the end of another school year, all in traje all day long. It was a pleasure to participate, but my head was spinning and I was ready for bed.