totally random sh*t

As any one of my students in Los Estados can attest to, there are Very Good Reasons I don't teach math. I mean, "break into groups of five," should not be like figuring out how to build the Eiffel Tower, but apparently, it is close for some of us. It is therefore with great irony and no small amount of pride that I can share my success in helping Lesvia, third grader extraordinaire (well, not when it comes to math. I know her pain. Intimately.), learn how to do long division. I think. We will see next week when she takes her midterm exams. Fingers crossed, candles lit, prayers up to heaven, and hopefully, Lesvia will not make us look bad. The thing is, here in Guatemala, teaching includes a lot of rote memorization. So we drill drill drill the multiplication tables and then repeat repeat repeat the steps in the process of doing long division. Stay tuned...

In Spanish, the word for "to hope," "to wait" and "to expect" is the same: "esperar." Every day, when I am waiting for the chicken bus, I am also hoping that I get on the right one, and at the same time expecting that eventually, one will show up and I will get to where I need to go. Right now, while I am waiting for Richard to get here, I am also hoping that he will like Guatemala, and I expect that we will have a good time together while I show off all that I know of this cool place. Of course, these two examples represent the Anglo understanding that the three activities (hoping, waiting, expecting) are exactly that--three different things, related but nonetheless distinguishable. I do not hope for the bus and wait to get on the right one, but I guess I do expect that I will get where I need to be, eventually. Yet every day when it is time to go to Ciudad Viaja--even though I have done so many times now over the past three years--that expectation is mingled with a bit of trepidation. I could, after all, end up somewhere else without a clear understanding of how to get back to where I started. It has happened before.

For many years, the people of the pueblos in Guatemala (and El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua) both hoped and waited for peace. If one lost hope, one no longer waited, I think. What is unclear to me is, while mothers watched their sons taken to be toy/boy soldiers, as children watched men fight kill rape burn destroy terrorize, as people fled from one unsafe place to another, I can't help believe that some of them must have continued to hope and wait for peace (why run, otherwise?). Yet did they also expect peace to come? When someone said, 'Epseramos la paz," did that mean they were at once waiting, hoping and expecting? Surely someone, if not everyone, was expecting and end to civil war. (As an aside, the one Quetzal coin of Guatemala has a beautiful relief of the national bird (the quetzal--a bird that does not survive captivity) with the word "paz" flowing from its wing). I especially like the "expect" part because it carries a sense of believe that the thing hoped and waited for will come to pass.

All of this musing brings to mind the Sapir-Wahorf hypothesis, which queried the relationship between culture and language: does language shape culture or does culture shape language? I think Sapir and Whorf thought they knew the answer and I can't remember what they said, but to me, it is more of a chicken and egg sort of question. Someday science will have that one figured out (maybe it is already figured out), but I am not sure what we get from that knowledge. I am just pondering a worldview, a mindset, that sees hoping, waiting, and expecting as one thing. It is just another reminder that we don't ever really cross over into another culture. I will never be a native speaker of Spanish, nor a native of a Spanish-speaking country, no matter how much time I spend studying the language and submerging myself in a culture I was not born into.

However, I can practice. Therefore, I can say that I espero that Lesvia does well on her math exam:).

A lot of the above is influenced by a great movie called Voces Inocentes, the real-life story of a family that struggled during the El Salvadoran civil war, which I saw for the second time this past weekend. You can find it with subtitles, and I cannot stress enough how powerful the movie is. If you are in the Western Washington gloom or the horrible heat of every where else, check it out for a little relief from the weather.

Meanwhile, my boyfriend comes tonight and we will take off for a place I have never been: Moterrico, a black sand beach on the Pacific Coast. Today is our 25th wedding anniversary:). !Yo espero!
Paz a todos.

This is Marcela. And this post is a little a bit about her.
Two years ago, when I first came to Nuestro Futuro and volunteered in the first grade classroom, there she was, a tiny thing, almost cowering at her desk. Dressed in jeans and a bright red, 101 Dalmatians sweater, she rarely looked up, and when she did, it wasn't really up, but with a slight lift of her chin and a sideways stare.
That year, the instruction included a lot of one on one; after Seno Liseth (then the teacher) gave instructions, the kids would work out their assignments and come up to the desk one at a time for either Liseth or me to review and correct their work. Some kids always got cien por ciento (100%), others not very often. Most of the second group accepted with fairly decent grace the added work of fixing what they had done wrong. Marcela, member of group two, would walk timidly to the desk, her face lifted in nervous and hopeful anticipation, and would drop her head to her chest with what looked like almost a scowl of resentment when her work wasn't so good.
"Man, that girl does not like me," I thought. It seemed that, no matter how encouraging I tried to be, she did not like being told that she had errors. And the way she looked at me from the corner of her eye made me take the whole thing a bit personally. But what do I know?
After a week or so (and after I began to get a feel for the personalities and dynamics in the classroom), I noticed that Marcela was a bit of a target. It was a kind of a Darwinian, survival of the fittest sort of thing. The kid just didn't have any friends. If we played duck duck goose at recess, she never got chosen. If kids paired up to read, she never had a partner. She walked to school alone and returned the same way. Kids can be assholes. But what do I know?
One day, after reviewing her work and doing my best Spanish cheerleader routine, she slumped back to her desk, as usual. I got busy with another kid, but before too many minutes had passed, there she was again, standing at my side, a piece of paper in her hand. I said--in my wonderful version of Spanish--"You have to wait Marcela; you just had a turn." (These kids LOVE to learn and would beg beg beg to get shot at either Liseth or me).
Her chin dropped to its common position, but she didn't budge. "Okay, show me what you have." I was prepared to see a page of mangled spelling words or math problems. But what do I know?
The paper was folded many times over, not the typical school work page. I unfolded it and cried. "Te amo," it said. Okay, so I am crying just a little right now remembering that moment.
Last year, there she was again in her red sweater, not an inch bigger than I remembered her. What had seemed to be sullenness the year before seemed to have turned to mean. Still without a legitimate friend, she had turned to pilfering stuff and pinching. Many times over, she was sent to the Director's office for what was basically a time out. I remembered the note from the year before, and did my very very best to include her at recess (volunteers are like rock stars only better) when little girls were begging me to play one game or another, most of which I didn't understand. Marcela liked the attention and stuck to my side as much as possible.
My time passed and I came home.
So this year, there she was again, but without the sweater. She was indeed a bit taller and some how changed. Well, duh. Kids grow up, right? Even undernourished ones who come from very short genes. On my first day, I got busy doing one on one tutoring in the library (can you see why volunteers are essential? No one at home can help because they have never been to school themselves), so I didn't really see much of her. But then recess began.
Someone in the last year gave the school a bunch of jump ropes and taught the kids how to jump. And at recess, there was Marcela. She can jump fast; she can jump slow; she can jump on one foot and then the other; she can cross her arms and jump and she can jump backwards. And she can jump longer than anyone in the universe. She is the jump rope star of Nuestro Futuro.
She is the center of attention, and when there are jumping competitions during the half hour break from study, she is The One everybody--absolutely everybody--wants on their team. Head held high, her smile shining like a string of fireflies, Marcela, Queen of the Rope.
The possibilities for change are almost as startling and surprising as the things that bring change. A jump rope. Really? Yep, a jump rope. But what do I know?
My sister leaves in two days (lots of fun showing her around/showing her off:)), and my querido esposo comes next Wednesday. Right now, we have "little summer" going on--a short respite from the winter rains and colder temperatures that have forced us into sweaters and rain jackets. The past three days have brought warm, 75 degree days and NO RAIN!!!! My most sincere sympathies (and empathy!) for all Seattelites who have been enjoying exactly 78 minutes of summer.
Paz a todos--
Jali
Comments welcome; Just sayin' :).

I have been waiting for some sort of inspiration or great idea to come to me before posting anything this year. I don't want to write the kind of thing that has no point, or meaning to anyone else. You know--kind of like when someone decides to describe in GREAT detail the dream they had the night before, or how a five year old answers the question, "What did you do in school today?" Something that goes, "Today I woke up and then walked around Antigua visiting all of my favorite places and then I had lunch at a great place--beans and rice--and it rained really hard and I am so glad I remembered to bring a better rain jacket and then I went our for my first Moza (the best dark beer in the world) and I was so tired but couldn't sleep so I took a half an Ambien and the next morning Spanish classes began and this year I have a new teacher whose name is Sandra and most of the other teachers remembered me from the years before and now my room is on the second floor so I have a much better view of Volcan Agua plus I brought a mosquito net to hang over the window so it is great to have fresh air at night and on Monday I went to begin work at Nuestro Futuro, the project school in Ciudad Vieja, and my kids are now in 3rd grade, so they are much easier to work with because everything does not need to be turned into a game and I love love love them a lot and I think many of them love me, too..."
Gross, right?!?
But as my sister and our new friend Edie and I wandered around the ancient ruins of churches, convents and monasteries last Sunday, a question kept creeping up. These places, now under the protection of the government and declared internationally important historical sites, have been carefully preserved and enhanced with gardens and such, and made me wonder, what was it like to live here at the convent de las Capuchinas or the monastery of Santa Clara? Not so great if one were a woman, it turns out.
Being a nun in Santiago de los Caballeros (what Antigua Guatemala was called when it was the capital of all of colonial Central America and before an earthquake demolished big fat stone and mortar buildings with a shudder) was a hard life. I don't mean by our standards (too obvious) but by the standards of colonial times.
The Capuchin order began in 1520 as an effort to reform the Franciscans to what one guy who probably didn't get enough love from his mom thought would be closer to San Francisco's original intention. The order was austere (it still exists, but I think today members are allowed to wear shoes and use blankets and pillows--forbidden acts for the original Capuchines) and originally not in great favor with Rome, but it nonetheless managed to eventually spread across the Atlantic.
In 1725 the cloister and temple of Our Lady Pilar of Zaragoza opened in Santiago de los Caballeros and some nineteen women entered its doors, never to emerge. For such a poverty-devoted group, the buildings, even today, are/were astounding. Like everything else constructed for colonial occupation, the walls were three feet thick and the ceilings reached into the heavens, the sanctuary and hallways cavernous. A rotund, two story building served as the dormitory for the sisters and its second floor is a common area with nineteen tiny cells (such an appropriate word!) arranged neatly around the circle, bringing forth visions of Foucault's "Panopticon." No one ever had a moment of privacy, as each resident could easily see into everyone else's space.
While nothing of the sleeping quarters is truly horrible, the first floor of the dormitorio reveals a curious conception of what "to the glory of God" did/can mean. The outside wall is symmetrically lined with people-sized, arched niches that face out into the courtyard and gardens. At the top of each niche is an opening, and each of the three sides are marked with holes. The purpose of these little niches is hard to fathom, but here is what I learned:
The Capuchines was a penintential order. But because women could not be trusted to ascribe their own penance, the niches (each nun had her very own, right under her cell) were constructed to provide proper discipline. In the convent's days of glory, the niches also had manacles attached on each side and a spike affixed to the back wall. When one committed an infraction (passing gas during Vespers; coughing during Matins: smiling?!?), she was duly chained into her private torture chamber, her back against the spike, and water was poured in a constant flow through hole in the top. I think today we call this, "water boarding." Because each niche faces out in to common areas, the sisters were able to enjoy the show of their compatriots being tortured.
Good times. Yay God.
The Santa Clara's have a very different story. The monastery was actually both convent and cloister for monks (monjas y monjes). The grounds are symmetrical and square, the architecture invoking images of Italian renaissance. Today, the gardens are beautiful and the place initially seems to speak of order and peace. There is a sanctuary that served not only the residents, but the public as well. A pulpit faces out onto the street, evoking images of El Papa in Rome (not to be confused with "la papa" which means "potato"). Curiously, though, the floor of the sanctuary has three stairwells that descend beneath its floors. Yes indeed, below is a crypt where people were buried. Not so unusual, but wait--it gets really interesting.
The men and women--all who had of course taken vows of celibacy--were cloistered in very separate parts of the grounds. Yet for some reason, tunnels were built that connected the living quarters of the nuns and monks (really?!? What could have possibly been the excuse?!?) and of course from time to time Miraculous Conception took place. No specific stories are known today--was it love? Rape? Mutual, simple horniness? But what is know is that when one of the nuns became embarazada ( I just love that the cognate used for "pregnant" is "embarrassed"), she was interred in the crypt until delivery of the child. When Santa Clara was excavated for rennovation, piles of tiny bones--infant bones--were discovered all over the floor of the crypt. Again, way to revere all that is holy.
Edie was a bit amazed that the docents at both ruins were so willing to share these shameful facts of Antiguan history. Yet our own history includes the orphan trains and Indian schools and other lovely moments of incredible cruelty.
Okay, I am just getting pedantic now, not to mention morose. But honestly, to walk in Antigua is to walk in history. And to walk in history is to learn stuff about humanity.
I will hope for more uplifting inspiration:).
Paz a todos!