Week Seven was a pile of dung. Not really.
It was like a roller coaster and I came close to high-fiving Heaven’s gates and dragging my shoes through piles of poo every on a 4-hour rotation. Lowlights were: practicum and practicum and practicum. Highlights were Host Mom, Host Mom, Friend of Host Mom, Chocobananos. Always chocobananos. At 1 or 2 quetzales (20-30 cents) each, it’s a sweet deal.
During technical sessions my attitude officially, transparently swept across friendly borders and into The Land of the Lost. I’m told the worst is over (of training) but I won’t be sure ’til I ring that bell on December 2 (swear-in).
The week unlaced deeper frustrations and sweeping gratitudes: I experienced an entire Chinese Dragon dance of emotion.. My own well-being in the hands of puppeteers beneath me, pushing me and pulling me down by their own rhythm. I stuffed myself full of banana muffins to escape the monotony and incapacitation of training and tried to recenter over my yoga mat in the aftermath. By the end of the weekend, the cool weather and windy nights delivered me to a place of gratitude and Fall nostalgia: sweater weather.
Practicum:
In retrospect, I feel compunction:I know that a bad ‘tude is the mark of a non-professional. I wish that I had been stronger or smarter and risen above the frustrations of practicum and put on a good face. But I got through it and maybe that’s the best I could do.
Practicum was all the words you might think of when you describe the experience of Christmas Tree selection with an estranged family. Through clenched teeth: “it was great, we got a beautiful tree” when all you’re thinking is “get me out of this van I don’t care if the tree falls on I-75 Uncle Pete.”
Throughout technical training, I felt the need to express my feelings several times a day but all the outlets were exhausted. I wanted to steal a friend’s listening ear and unpack just what bothers me about just about every single thing until I am good and done. But I didn’t do this, so all the emotion weighed in my eyeballs and #RBF like rotten fruit. My most accessible outlets are other volunteers. The people who can understand my frustrations the most are the people who are (likely) just as tired and frustrated as me so it’s a double-edged sword to empathize with them (even thought many of them would say, you have to vent! It’s good!). I don’t want to come across as a griper and yet I feel the urge to gripe. My critical side emerges in shades of hot apple red once my defenses are down and I’ve dabbled too heavily in the refa once again. I feel like I can’t lean on any particular branch or all of my sooty feelings might weigh too heavily. One must distribute negativity like unsavory food evenly between the cheeks.
Conversations with my Host Mom #ftw:
But the week naturally seemed to counteract itself with continued blessings from my Host Mom. Each morning and evening this week I found myself in a sandbar of treasures from her stories or thoughts. In Guatemala, conversation is a type of currency, hospitality, hosting. When I host guests in the States, I take measures to provide comfortable towels, clean in advance, make a good time for all my guests. In Guatemala, you roll out the red carpet with your tongue, be it through conversation or food. This is a massive difference between Guatemalan culture and US culture. There are scripts and roles that are played simply through the art of speaking and the time expectation is worlds apart. This isn’t to say that my house isn’t cleaned assiduously and very lovely. I am very comfortable here: wifi for Pete’s sake.
On Tuesday morning, my host mom had the table set and breakfast ready: “Nati, I wasn’t able to pay attention to you this weekend. Perdón.” I told her, through genuine shock, “No tenga pena Mi Mama!”(I’m supposed to just say “Mama” according to Profesora Gladiz but I tried and Mi Mama stuck anyway) I realized later that I should have said “No te preocupes” but I hope that my expression delivered the intention. I told her “I am a part of your family!” Sure on Sunday she was very busy serving her family after a very long wedding day to keep the party going. There was a GIANT pot of soup on the stove, like I could have fit into it. I had to slip out to work on a project, I slept most of the morning. I wasn’t the hospitable house guest I could have been. So when my host mom even had the thought to apologize to me, I couldn’t believe it! I wanted her to feel free to tend to her family as she needed: you’re son only gets married once! You shouldn’t have to worry about a host student during that time. And I don’t need to be waited on hand and foot.
After she offered this thoughtful sentiment, she sat with me post-cereal just to talk. She told me about how she and her husband traveled. She told me about her family in Canada. I began to feel the tug of the pesky question as conversation lingered: “Is she telling me all of this because she feels like has to entertain me, or because she wants to?” You know when you give someone a token hostess gift, a cheap candle or something? Was she talking to me as a gesture to make up for her supposed distance over the weekend, or because she wanted just to talk to me? I imagine it was both, but it still made me itch a little. It just made me nervous: I didn’t want her to think she had to entertain me.
I left for the office with a kiss on the cheek and “Que te vaya bien” and the day crept along, 8 hours of sitting, breaking up into groups, acting out skits about safety and security then coming back as a group to reflect. Questions anyone? Rinse and repeat. By week 7 this endless cycle has me in a prison of under-stimulation.
That night at dinner she showed me two photo albums of her family.
The photo albums sit in the dining room by the tea collection. As I flipped through, I saw how many trips and places she and her husband traveled. I noticed how thin and “delgado” his face was and she explained he just recovered from cancer at that time. She told me how he always asked that God would take him quickly, so that he wouldn’t suffer. She said that he died in 10 minutes so he got his wish. My gut sank as she said this factually, not without feeling but without suffering. As close as they were and as much as they loved one another, she has accepted that he is not here.
That same night, she told me how her mother died. Spanish words I didn’t know zoomed by but I held onto the main thread of conversation to keep from rushing away and hitting the language barrier dam. I know the thud too well.
After her mother died, her sister died the same month (or it may have been the next day). She cared for her sister’s daughter who was 2 years old at the time. Her sister who died had lupus. I listened in awe as her efforts throughout her life piled on like undesired pancakes. She cared for her sister’s daughter from age 2-9 until she was adopted by another sister. She lost her mom, her sister and “inherited” care for her niece in a matter of a month. Three years ago she lost her husband.
She told me her stories without sadness or regret. She told them to me the way you might tell a tale of distant passion, a high school crush in the style of: “he broke my heart, but that was years ago now.” It was hard to detect one solid emotion other than that of factual acceptance. I marvel her at her strength every day.
Another day comes along: she sits with me at breakfast, prays over our food, asks me about this or that or explains a Spanish word I don’t remember.During breakfast on Wednesday RoMa spent 20 minutes telling me about how to find compromise in a marriage. She didn’t cook spicy food when her husband was alive because he didn’t like it. She also said my parents will be at ease once I find a spouse because people aren’t meant to be alone. I needed Miracle Max to help me with that pill at 6:30am.
Just the night before, I was telling my mom about a frustrating dynamic of practicum. She understood my frustration and empathized with me in complete sincerity. I typed into my translation app “complain” and said “No debería quejarme/I shouldn’t complain” and she said “It is good for you to complain and explain the situation to me so that you can feel better.”
I’m sure I don’t deserve this woman.
At the end of each morning, she sends me on with a kiss on the cheek and “Que te vaya bien.” I love this woman. I did not know that the first person I would fall in love with in Guatemala would be my host mom, except a part of me knew that is exactly what would happen. Guatemalan women are best-kept secrets.
Practicum with the Youth:
On Friday, three days into our practicum parade, our team taught to a small group of 20 kids (we were expecting 70). We spent Thursday afternoon training a new group of students who were to get involved in our lesson planning and help us teach. We got a BOMB group of 5 students, including a set of sisters who were just the absolute loveliest and most capable of young women. I was inspired by these kids, when we taught together it was exciting.
Even though we were teaching to such a small group, and sometimes we had to pull answers out of them “How do we make this goal more PRECISE?” to blank stares.. When our “youth helpers” stepped up to explain the activity or to reword our poor Spanish delivery, it felt like the warm sun cracked through my shelter of frustration. I felt the magic of the moment, the youth mentoring and supporting other youth. This was the first moment I felt like I saw the potential impact of my service. The moment was rich.
Then I ping-ponged back to reality by nightfall:
On Friday night, I stood over the pila washing the dishes (I have perfected my technique, pour the clean water over the dish and hold the dish over the other clean dishes to use the water more). It was the first time in training I felt cabin fever. I’m 30 minutes from Antigua but I can’t go because it is unsafe after dark. Antigua is a party and a popular destination and my body and mind itched to go.
2 years more of a 6pm curfew.
On Saturday:
At the end of a pimply week of Practicum and practical magic, I slept until 8:30 and left for Antigua at 10. I got one on one time with two of my favorite chicas. We talked about guys and host families and after that I caught a camioneta back with Tanya and Amanda. It was a good day.
My host brother and sister returned from their honeymoon. They were so happy with their time in Colombia. I felt like a part of the family, welcoming them home.
On Sunday:
I emerged at 9 for coffee and cereal autoservicio. Thank God my family drinks real coffee and not instant like so many families.
I gave undivided attention to a book. How novel.
At 1, RoMa and I walked three blocks up the street to watch the horses jump and gallop and dance. There were chicas on the horses, too. I’d never experienced anything like it.
I grabbed special coffees for me and RoMa from my favorite girl Flori, and walked them home. Flori didn’t get to see the horses so I showed her pictures/videos. She looked at each. I love that coffee-Around 2pm, we ate lunch: pepian. Food for a celebration.
Then I went to Andrea’s house (she is RoMa’s house helper). Andrea and her sister Betty (Beatriz) taught me how to tortear (it’s been ten years…)
We laughed and giggled as I made dramatics out of failed tortilla-ttempts.
They invited me to go to their dance rehearsal. By the time we walked past every corner store in town seeking choco-bananos to no success, we got to rehearsal to find it already ended.
We walked back to town, finally found our choco-bananos (over-frozen but better than nothing) and padded home in awe of the erupting volcano.
I got home and climbed the terrace. My laundry STILL wasn’t dry.
The lava was leaping from the top of the mountain.
Time with the girls was the highlight of my weekend. I am here to work with the youth. This was my first time on my own with Guatemalan youth. Walking and laughing and ogling at Volcán Fuego felt like a tiny present from the future. The wind blew and whispered “more to come, kiddo..”
I fell asleep to the “hard rain” setting on my sound machine app. I recalled the events of this week. I am glad I got through this week and I’m none too sad that it is over.
Suddenly I see the end in sight: site placement next week.
