- from visit to Walker Scultpure Garden, December 27th, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
airport greetings
i'm in the managua airport waiting to fly home!
the air conditioning is on too high and i'm chilly. i think my system is in for a shock :) i might not write much during these next few weeks but wanted to say thank you to those of you who continue to read this and to all who send me your care in all of the incredible ways that you do. i am beyond blessed.
the air conditioning is on too high and i'm chilly. i think my system is in for a shock :) i might not write much during these next few weeks but wanted to say thank you to those of you who continue to read this and to all who send me your care in all of the incredible ways that you do. i am beyond blessed.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
arms grown strong...
The last of the students left today and I slept for three hours this afternoon. I've been utterly exhausted these last few days. The students presented their finals on Wednesday, we went to la Laguna de Apoyo for a day long retreat on Thursday (see pics) and then Friday did errands and evals and went out dancing. Our first airport run was at 5:00 am, so none of us slept much - if 
any - and naturally, emotions ran high.
It was bizarre to watch them all go, bizarre to remember my departure from Mexico four years ago. I left kicking and screaming then, cried for days and I remember being terrified of the transition. And through all of the goodbyes the last few days I didn't cry, not even once. I suppose this can be attributed to me getting older and having been through a few more transitions, but it still seemed odd to me. Maybe I just felt like I had to be strong for them? Although there were times when tears would have seemed more appropriate; I don't know.
The closest I came to tears was during one of our reflection sessions, when one of the girls talked about how she feels that she has fallen in love with Central America. When she said it I could see in her, through her tears, that she really did feel heartbroken to leave. I remember that feeling; I think she'll be back. I'm excited to see what they do - that intensity of sadness and purpose usually turns into some kind of action.
This afternoon I read an email from my dad and it wasn't sad, but I just broke down in tears. I'm ecstatic to go home in a few days and I adore this job, but I really will miss them.
Y si alguno de ustedes esta leyendo esto: Espero que hayan llegado bien a sus casas, que esten descansando (espiritualmente y fisicamente) con familia o amigos o quien sea que te llene. Me impresionaron un monton y les voy a extranar muchsisismo.
any - and naturally, emotions ran high.
It was bizarre to watch them all go, bizarre to remember my departure from Mexico four years ago. I left kicking and screaming then, cried for days and I remember being terrified of the transition. And through all of the goodbyes the last few days I didn't cry, not even once. I suppose this can be attributed to me getting older and having been through a few more transitions, but it still seemed odd to me. Maybe I just felt like I had to be strong for them? Although there were times when tears would have seemed more appropriate; I don't know.
The closest I came to tears was during one of our reflection sessions, when one of the girls talked about how she feels that she has fallen in love with Central America. When she said it I could see in her, through her tears, that she really did feel heartbroken to leave. I remember that feeling; I think she'll be back. I'm excited to see what they do - that intensity of sadness and purpose usually turns into some kind of action.
This afternoon I read an email from my dad and it wasn't sad, but I just broke down in tears. I'm ecstatic to go home in a few days and I adore this job, but I really will miss them.
Y si alguno de ustedes esta leyendo esto: Espero que hayan llegado bien a sus casas, que esten descansando (espiritualmente y fisicamente) con familia o amigos o quien sea que te llene. Me impresionaron un monton y les voy a extranar muchsisismo.
in those days,
we finally chose
to walk like giants
& hold the world
in arms grown strong with love
& there may be many things we forget
in the days to come,
but this will not be one of them.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
la purisima!
I learned today, this 7th of December, that the virgin Mary was immaculately conceived on this very day (however many years ago that would have happened). And you better believe that in the Catholic Church this is reason enough to celebrate, or at least go to mass. My coworker was explaining that in the states today is known as one of the days of 'Obligation' or something similar (no offense to Catholics if I'm mistaken; I really am just now learning about all of this).
However, in Nicaragua it's one of the largest holidays of the year and is celebrated with fireworks and a Halloween-esque tradition in which people set up altars to the virgin in their home and then give out food or candy to people who enter and sing a song of praise to 'la purisima' (the incredibly pure one: Mary).
My friend Eliett invited me to her home and it really was a lovely evening. We were walking around the neighborhood, waiting in lines to sing at different altars (me mostly pretending to know the words...I don't think I was fooling people) and the streets felt electric in the best way possible. Imagine Halloween, without the scary stuff and for everyone, not just kids and creepy teenagers.
One of Eliett's relatives said "Today no one is hungry, even those who don't have anything". Anyone is welcome to come sing and receive the food that's given out. Do I personally believe that Mary was immaculately conceived on December 7th? Not really, but I do now love this holiday. I loved the way it's celebrated, the fact that people here go all out for this kind of stuff (you wouldn't believe the fireworks in the last 24 hours) and the belief it encourages in the idea that the best way to celebrate is by singing and giving, to whomever happens to show up.
However, in Nicaragua it's one of the largest holidays of the year and is celebrated with fireworks and a Halloween-esque tradition in which people set up altars to the virgin in their home and then give out food or candy to people who enter and sing a song of praise to 'la purisima' (the incredibly pure one: Mary).My friend Eliett invited me to her home and it really was a lovely evening. We were walking around the neighborhood, waiting in lines to sing at different altars (me mostly pretending to know the words...I don't think I was fooling people) and the streets felt electric in the best way possible. Imagine Halloween, without the scary stuff and for everyone, not just kids and creepy teenagers.
One of Eliett's relatives said "Today no one is hungry, even those who don't have anything". Anyone is welcome to come sing and receive the food that's given out. Do I personally believe that Mary was immaculately conceived on December 7th? Not really, but I do now love this holiday. I loved the way it's celebrated, the fact that people here go all out for this kind of stuff (you wouldn't believe the fireworks in the last 24 hours) and the belief it encourages in the idea that the best way to celebrate is by singing and giving, to whomever happens to show up.
"Que causa tanta alegria?!"
"La concepcion de Maria!"
"La concepcion de Maria!"
- refrain shouted through the streets
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
trash...
We visited the city dump today. And I realized, I don't think about trash as much as I should. A few years ago, when I visited Cuernavaca, they had run out of places to take the trash and so 
people were just piling it in the streets. Two weeks without the trucks that cart the waste away and the city almost couldn't function. That was one of the first times the reality of trash really hit me in the face, today was another.
And today it wasn't just about trash, it was about the trash people and the boy on the back of the bus.
Here, there are so few resources that some 160 families have made their homes inside the dump. They live on top of the smoking piles of waste and spend their days sifting through garbage for bottles, scrap metal, plastic bags, cans, anything they can sell to the intermediaries. Their children work with them; when they're young (3-4) they may sit watch over things
collected, later on they begin sorting or searching. The woman we spoke with guessed that they make between 2 and 4 dollars a day and while they don't have to pay rent or transportation, many of these families only eat once a day.
It's an entire community, there on top of the trash; they have schools and food vendors that come in to sell to the collectors, and a small clinic that an NGO set up. And yet, many times of the year the flooding is bad enough that they can't leave the dump, there's just no way out. In the dry season they deal with fumes and smoke and fire that often engulfs much of the landfill.
And it really did hit me today, just smacked me upside the head. We drove around and saw it all through the windows of our air conditioned Toyota Cruzer and I felt myself detaching from the emotional windstorm inside. A long list of questions formed in my head (how did this start? what is the government doing about it? do most people here in the city know? what's the alternative? if they were offered one would they take it? etc.). I do this, I've realized, when I'm not sure how to process all of the grief and disbelief that gurgles in such situations; I turn to questions.
But the whole way through there was this little boy on the back of our bus. As soon as we entered the dump he ran after us and hopped on the back ladder, holding on to our bus with one hand and to his jar of glue with the other. At one point we tried to ditch him and he ran after us for blocks, tenacious as fuck (symbolism I wanted to ignore). He was inches from me; and
suddenly my questions seemed grossly inadequate.
We stepped off the bus (I, a tad unwillingly, I'll admit) and the ugly got uglier. Garbage under our feet, smells I care not to remember, smoke burning our eyes and the little boy walks up and grabs me, continues asking for money. I felt so white, so privileged, so guilty, just standing there asking our guide questions. And then we got back onto the bus. And drove away.
And my questions surged again. Of course they are grossly inadequate but without them I'm not sure what to do. I won't stop asking them; at this point, I don't think I could. These people deserve answers or at least attempts at answers. Today it feels like attempts at questions are all I've got to offer. Hopefully attempts at answers are somewhere down the road.
people were just piling it in the streets. Two weeks without the trucks that cart the waste away and the city almost couldn't function. That was one of the first times the reality of trash really hit me in the face, today was another.And today it wasn't just about trash, it was about the trash people and the boy on the back of the bus.
Here, there are so few resources that some 160 families have made their homes inside the dump. They live on top of the smoking piles of waste and spend their days sifting through garbage for bottles, scrap metal, plastic bags, cans, anything they can sell to the intermediaries. Their children work with them; when they're young (3-4) they may sit watch over things
collected, later on they begin sorting or searching. The woman we spoke with guessed that they make between 2 and 4 dollars a day and while they don't have to pay rent or transportation, many of these families only eat once a day.It's an entire community, there on top of the trash; they have schools and food vendors that come in to sell to the collectors, and a small clinic that an NGO set up. And yet, many times of the year the flooding is bad enough that they can't leave the dump, there's just no way out. In the dry season they deal with fumes and smoke and fire that often engulfs much of the landfill.
And it really did hit me today, just smacked me upside the head. We drove around and saw it all through the windows of our air conditioned Toyota Cruzer and I felt myself detaching from the emotional windstorm inside. A long list of questions formed in my head (how did this start? what is the government doing about it? do most people here in the city know? what's the alternative? if they were offered one would they take it? etc.). I do this, I've realized, when I'm not sure how to process all of the grief and disbelief that gurgles in such situations; I turn to questions.
But the whole way through there was this little boy on the back of our bus. As soon as we entered the dump he ran after us and hopped on the back ladder, holding on to our bus with one hand and to his jar of glue with the other. At one point we tried to ditch him and he ran after us for blocks, tenacious as fuck (symbolism I wanted to ignore). He was inches from me; and
suddenly my questions seemed grossly inadequate.We stepped off the bus (I, a tad unwillingly, I'll admit) and the ugly got uglier. Garbage under our feet, smells I care not to remember, smoke burning our eyes and the little boy walks up and grabs me, continues asking for money. I felt so white, so privileged, so guilty, just standing there asking our guide questions. And then we got back onto the bus. And drove away.
And my questions surged again. Of course they are grossly inadequate but without them I'm not sure what to do. I won't stop asking them; at this point, I don't think I could. These people deserve answers or at least attempts at answers. Today it feels like attempts at questions are all I've got to offer. Hopefully attempts at answers are somewhere down the road.
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