Encabezados

Fomenting Repentance: A Vision of the 100%

2012-01-31T09:22:00.000-06:00

Originally posted at http://www.stateofformation.org/2012/01/fomenting-repentance-a-vision-of-the-100-2/

Christianity has manifold resources for individuals who feel mired in sin who seek to repent and live a new life. As Kaari Aanestad pointed out in a wonderful article, this is not without problems, as it can keep individuals trapped in cycles of depression. But what about societies that are mired in sin, which as mass entities are unable to feel as individuals feel? And what about individuals within an unjust system who perpetuate it and benefit from the injustice, even though they did not create the system and by themselves are powerless to stop it? Is the language of sin and repentance effective for transforming societal sins? The works of Reinhold Niebuhr and Martin Luther King, Jr. suggest to me that it is not effective to indict large groups of people for sins they may perpetuate, but did not engender.

In Moral Man and Immoral Society, Niebuhr states that

"Individuals are never as immoral as the social situation in which they are involved and which they symbolize. If opposition to a system leads to personal insults of its representatives, it is always felt as an unjust accusation…An impartial teacher of morals would be compelled to insist on the principle of personal responsibility for social guilt. But it is morally and politically wise for an opponent not to do so." (p. 248-49)

To support this assertion, he points to William Lloyd Garrison, whose fierce criticism of the evil of slaveowning merely “solidified the south in support of slavery.” (p. 248)

Martin Luther King, Jr, seemed to follow Niebuhr’s advice (with both men drawing also on the work of Gandhi). In “Give Us the Ballot,” he stresses that “our aim must never be to defeat or humiliate the white man…We must respond to every [court] decision with… an appreciation of the difficult adjustments that the court orders pose for them.”

Rather than calling on white moderates to lament their role in a racist system, he prays for them to have the courage to be strong leaders. The distinction is perhaps subtle, because strong leadership is the ultimate goal of repentance. The difference is that King focused on rallying to the correct way rather than criticizing the incorrect way.

The priests in Nehemiah 8 also take this strategy in orchestrating mass repentance:

“This day is holy to the Lord your God: you must not mourn or weep,” for all the people were weeping as they listened to the words of the Teaching. He further said to them, “Go, eat choice foods and drink sweet drinks…Do not be sad, for your rejoicing in the Lord is the source of your strength.”’

In Nehemiah, discovering the right way to live was not cause for contrition, but for celebration and action.

Fomenting transformation on a wide scale means calling people to their highest values, rather than excoriating their sins. Excoriating sins tends to alienate folk, and alienation does not create political will. Movements that build political will are not humble and contrite; they are strong because they are joyous. They are, in Heschel’s words, “spiritually audacious and morally grandiose.”

Religious leaders would do well to take the model of Niebuhr and King into consideration when participating in the Occupy Wall Street movement. The call of the 99% may be able to unite a vast array of folks, but it is predicated on calling the 1% to repent of their sins. As long as the 1% are made to be a sinful other, they can never have a place in the mission of the 99%. President Obama recognized this in his State of the Union address when he called on his fellow wealthy Americans to participate in a fairer economic system as one of the 1%. We need to imagine a vision of the 100%.

Niebuhr also recognized that those with privilege would not cede it unless forced to do so. To some extent, it is unrealistic to create a vision of social change in the hopes that it would appeal to the privileged. Nevertheless, the only way to approach a world of the 100%--in which common good is taken seriously by all, and giving to the poor is once again a shared virtue--is by having the imagination to conceive of it.

It is the duty of religion to provide such vision. The call of the 99% follows the Christian model of admonishing sinners to repent. We need to explode the limitations of that movement and provide a Nehemian vision, in which the community celebrates because together they have found a new way to live.

Bibliography:

Reinhold Niebuhr, Moral Man and Immoral Society (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1932).
Martin Luther King, Jr, “Give Us the Ballot,” in A Call to Conscience: The Landmark Speeches of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., ed. by Clayborne Carson and Kris Shepard (New York, NY: Warner Books, 2001), pp. 43-56.

An Advent Advertisement

2011-12-20T09:31:00.000-06:00

Hey there, weary Christian! Are you a retail employee disillusioned by the singleminded zeal of shoppers determined to spread the spirit of giving, come hell or high water? Are you a stressed out churchgoer searching for that perfect donation to foist upon your local nonprofit, because poor little Timmy’s Christmas will be ruined if you can’t personally deliver him the right teddy bear and see his face light up? Give that season of giving a rest! I present you with Advent: the Christian alternative to the Christmas season.

Dare to leave American civil religion’s one and only liturgical season off your calendar! After all, the cultural trappings of the Christmas season do not date back to the birth of Christ. In fact, many of them do not date past the fifties. If more authentic celebration is what you’re after, give the season of non-celebration a try!

Family get-togethers and office parties stressing you out? Advent has no holiday cheer required! So go ahead and respond to that party invitation by saying, “Sorry, I need to sit alone.” Feel liberated to act out that instinct to respond to the question “What do you want for Christmas?” by running away, shutting yourself in your room, and pondering the question’s deep existential ramifications. Just stay in there awhile. Don’t let incessant carolers break your Advent spirit!

Ever stare into the deep darkness of lengthening winter nights and just feel like staring some more, instead of declaring war on winter and fortifying your house with blue glowing icicles and a lit-up Santa Claus? Advent is the season for you! Let that darkness symbolize your pain and strife, then sit with it awhile. Ponder what needs illuminating. As the interim associate pastor at my home church put it, Advent is the moment you strike a match and wait to see if it lit. Revel in the fragility of that hope! It doesn’t have to be the most wonderful time of the year!

And if you like Advent, try Christmas, the week and a half set aside for celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior conveniently timed to coincide with the end of the stressful holiday season. Run through the streets with your children singing “O Holy Night” to your heart’s content while society rests from the holiday frenzy.

And later, in August, when the non-profits are really strapped for donations in civil religion’s off-season, then you can take up that spirit of giving and cut your local homeless shelter a hefty check.

Live Your Story

2011-10-30T22:43:00.002-05:00

For months, I had been dreading attending the Mission to Mission reentry retreat. Leaving Nicaragua had been a long grieving process for a place, for a community, and for friends who changed me so thoroughly. My soul was slowly starting to catch up with me in the US. I was afraid going to the retreat would make me feel the loss anew. Over the course of the weekend, however, I became aware of how much I had grown since returning to the US, and how much Nicaragua had continued to grow inside me.
The retreat helped me recognize that I had been living in a precarious position between wanting to put distance on the intense emotional rawness of volunteer experience while wanting to dwell on that experience for fear of losing its effect on me. As the facilitator explained it, it sometimes feels like you have to introduce yourself as “Hi, my name is Kathryn I-was-in-Nicaragua,” as if it was your middle name. The goal of reentry, she explained, is getting to the point where you live the story of your volunteer experience, so you don’t feel like you have to tell it all the time. I had to find a balance between holding on and letting go, between embracing how I had been transformed while giving my grief permission to pass.
To this end, we spent time identifying the specific ways our international service had changed us, as well as the individuals who had participated in that change. I recognized the sacred gift of all those who had reached out to me in my loneliness, who had taught me to be patient and to trust God even when there seemed like there was no apparent reason to do so. At the end of this exercise, I realized that one of the greatest skills I had was the ability to do just what we were doing then. I had learned how to receive wisdom from people around me at unexpected moments, and in unexpected ways. I learned how to be open and attentive, to recognize gifts others are always offering that can make me a better person. Even now, when I attend my divinity school classes, I am much more able to gain insight from the comments of my fellow classmates than I ever was as an undergraduate.
By recognizing this and all of the other ways I grew during my time in Nicaragua, I now understand what it means to live my story. Every time I discern prophetic words in the mouths of my peers, whenever I go out of my normal routine to practice hospitality, when I surrender illusions of being able to control others or achieve optimal efficiency, then I am living the story of my international mission. The mission did not end when I returned home. The work continues, and the international segment of my mission lives on and adapts to new circumstances. That is why organization calls itself “Mission to Mission.”

If Only Thomas Aquinas had known Rogers & Hammerstein

2011-09-16T20:16:00.000-05:00

I wrote this in response to Rebecca Levi's post Oh The Clergyperson and the Scientist Should Be Friends, which I think would have been more aptly titled "Science Takes the Fun out of Pantheism."

The scientists and clergy should be friends.
Oh, the scientists and clergy should be friends.
One reports to the AMA,
The other answers to Yahweh,
But that’s no reason why they can’t be friends.

Professional folks should stick together,
Professional folks should all be pals.
Science makes clergy’s medications,
Pastors tend the researcher’ souls.

The scientists and clergy should be friends.
Oh, the scientists and clergy should be friends.
One preaches hearts be filled with love,
One dissects hearts with latex gloves
But that’s no reason why they can’t be friends.

2011 Campy Awards

2011-08-25T11:56:00.005-05:00

I'm pleased to announce the winners of the 2011 Summer Campies in the following categories:

Best Accident Report goes to Anna,* age 5, for getting her laminated name card caught firmly between her teeth.

Honorable mention to Mike, age 8, for shoving a bean so far up his ear that our removing it was prohibited as a form of minor surgery.

James, age 6, takes home Best Behavior Report for slapping his friend upside the head because "he farted."

Perpetual Optimist Award granted to his friend, who was so excited to tell his mom about another friend he made at camp that he forgot to tell her he'd been slapped.

The Campy for Best Reason for a Tantrum goes to Betsy, age 7, for "That kid said I was as cute as a teddy bear and gave me a hug."

Winner of the award for Best Explanation of a Tantrum is Thomas, 7, for "I think I have The Hulk inside me."

"I Have No Sympathy for You" Campy goes to Oscar, age 10. During a game of Jeopardy, the kids were presented with the question "Name 3 languages spoken in Africa." Anya, whose parents immigrated from Africa, easily rattled off three indigenous languages, two of which I hadn't even heard of. Oscar rhetorted, "That's not fair...she's from Africa!"

Campy for Best Debut Original Song is taken home by Katie, 6, for her one-hit wonder "I Have a Thousand Kinds of Rats."

In the technical category, we have a Campy for Captain Planet, which provided the best check-in ever when you only have four kids in your group. Also a nod, to Parker, who knew where "Earth, fire, wind, water, heart...Go Planet!" comes from. Also the only one in the K-1 group who knew who Mr. Rogers was.

Finally, the I Wish I'd Known You Sooner Campy goes to Alex, age 10:

I met Alex on the very last day of camp. She is often mistaken for a boy (including at first, by me) because she prefers looser athletic clothing and wears her hair short. Part of me kicked myself for lapsing into normal gender stereotyping, but then I reminded myself that I'm always judging kids based on gender stereotypes and was bound to get it wrong one of these days. After we talked for a little while, she blurted out, "I hate it when girls stare at me in the locker room because they think I'm a boy...It makes me feel embarrassed and angry." I asked her what she wished they would do instead. She said, "I don't know. Talk to my friends or to a teacher and ask them. Or just be nice about it and say, 'Hey, it's cool that you wear your hair short like that, but it kind of makes me wonder if you're a girl or a boy, instead of asking 'ARE YOU A BOY OR A GIRL?' " I told her I had friends who had female bodies but felt like they were actually boys on the inside, so they identified as boys, and they liked it best when people ask them if they use boy words like "he" or girl words like "she". Alex's face lit up. "That's how I feel!" She thought for a moment. "But I still like using 'she.'" "And that's totally fine," I replied. We talked for quite a while about gender stereotypes (not in exactly those words) and the difficulties of learning math.

All in all, an excellent field for the 2011 Campy Awards. Congratulations to all the winners. Keep rockin' the camp!

*Kids' names are pseudonymous.

Passing Through Vipassana

2011-06-13T19:05:00.005-05:00

It was over a year ago that I first read about S.N. Goenka's secularized movement of Vipassana meditation and the 10-day introductory courses for the practice, offered at centers around the world. It was perhaps eight months ago that I decided I was interested in trying it, and last week that I finally took the course. The decision came after speaking with one of the directors of Cap Corps about how easy it is to get addicted to extreme emotions, because they're clear, free of ambiguity, and give one a sense of truly "living," whatever that means. Swinging from extreme emotion to extreme emotion, however, is also extremely stressful. The director had found that Vipassana helped her stay more in control, and I thought I could get in on that. After spending a week in silence at the Taize monastery in France, I had learned to embrace rather than fear 10 days of silence. I was a little worried about waking up at 4:00 in the morning, though it turns out it's easier to wake up at 4:00 to meditate than it is to wake up at 6:30 to go to work.

The idea behind Vipassana is this: people are driven miserable by constantly reacting to things with pleasure or aversion. We yearn for what we want yet don't have, and long to be rid of that which we have yet don't want. It may be a fleeting craving for ice cream or a burning desire to fall in love, a brief pang of hunger or chronic back pain. These reactions drive us, and drive us crazy.

This idea was not news to me particularly, and it's not news to most people seeking spiritual balance, via religion or otherwise. It has provoked such wisdom as the theology of abundance, which is the belief that God has given enough for everyone and we don't need to be constantly trying to compete with others for happiness and wealth.

What Vipassana contributes to the effort to avoid madness is a meditative practice. The theory goes that when I interpret an outside stimulation as good or bad, I'm not actually reacting directly to the stimulation. At a deeper level, my body reacts first, with tension or relaxation, pain or tingly chills. My brain then interprets my body's reaction with craving (Give me more of that) or aversion (Stop this). This interpretive process is what makes me miserable.

So during meditation, I just sit there. I may feel pain, or tingly, relaxed or tense. I observe my body's sensations with equanimity and remind myself that they'll go away. And then they do. And something else equally temporary replaces it.

The first day was the hardest for me. My eyes wanted to be active. They disliked being closed for so long when my mind was awake. I also really disliked not knowing how much longer I had to meditate. I gained a new appreciation for the kids at Hope House who were always asking, "Is my reading time over YET? How much longer?" We meditated for about ten hours every day: 4:30-6:30, 8:00-11:00, 1:00-5:00, and 6:00-7:00. Since we couldn't read, write, or exercise during the break time, it wasn't too hard to go back into meditation, because there was nothing else to do.

During the first few days, as much as I tried to focus on my breathing, I also took stock of the impressive array of thoughts that parade through my mind on a daily basis. None of it particularly shocked me, though I was surprised that I went through a couple days of nearly exclusive imagined interactions with fictional characters from TV and books before I started reliving memories. And always there were the show tunes. No matter how many different kinds of music I may listen to, Broadway seems to be the music of choice for my subconscious mind.

It took me until the eighth day to have the epiphany that none of this mattered. I didn't have to be aware of what was passing through my head, much less resolve or extract insight from it. All that mattered was my observation with my body and what it was feeling. It was like realizing I don't have to solve all any of the math problems in the textbook. I just have to look at the pictures very intently.

Day nine was the wonkiest, because that was the day we started scanning inside our bodies. I hit a whole bunch of spots where my body had stored its reactions to painful memories. It didn't hurt, it was just really uncomfortable. I hit one point in my stomach, like a knee-jerk reaction, started weeping. I didn't feel sad or angry, nor did I recall any specific memory. It was downright bizarre. And then, like all feelings, it passed. I didn't feel the spot again. And sure enough, when the course was over, I didn't feel such a strong physical reaction to various memories as they came up.

I was skeptical about Goenka's insistence on the universality of the Vipassana practice, mostly because I'm skeptical of any claim of a universal solution to suffering. Like all universal truths, suffering is understood, is explained, only in the cultural and the specific context. I found many aspects of his evening discourses problematic. But I accept his premise that Vipassana meditation can be useful even for those who are not followers of any of the Buddhist traditions. I especially love the bottom line: it's about the practice, not the belief. Christianity can get so caught up in orthodoxy, right belief, as opposed to orthopraxy, right practice. Both have their place. Yet, as Goenka taught in his discourses, there are levels at which one can have wisdom. There is th e level of being taught, like reading a menu and thinking, this looks like it could taste good. Then there's the observation level, which is looking at other people who are eating the food and seeing that they are enjoying the food. The only level that really counts is the experiential level, where you actually taste the food for yourself. Vipassana is about taking those precepts of not acting out in anger or pain, which I've always had in mind, and trying to let them permeate to a deeper, physical level.

As Goenka pointed out, it's so easy to believe the importance of things like "Be angry, but do not sin," or "Do not look on your neighbor with hatred," but it's so hard to find an exercise that allows you to cultivate these Christian precepts so that you can implement them in your daily life. Modern Christianity, which as I have said before is too frequently estranged from its contemplative traditions, is often unhelpful in providing these exercises. This is where Vipassana can help.

May 22, 2011

2011-05-22T21:52:00.003-05:00

The ancient world turned
The modern world scoffed

A few in between watched
For heaven ripping open.

The numbers added up
Jesus was coming down.

“We know not the hour,”
Said the preacher.

I said, “Amen.”

Then lit a candle
To guide the way.

Secretly I had hoped
I’d meet Jesus

Yesterday.

The Practice of Resurrection, OCD, and a little bit of glee

2011-05-06T10:03:00.006-05:00

I am a Glee devotee for various reasons, not the least of which being that it's so different than anything else on TV (read: reality shows and medical examiners or other non-federal agents partnering with police in a man-woman pairing fraught with sexual tension that they deny). It may be more preaching than plot development, but often the sermons aren't half-bad. Watching the episode "Born This Way" (I think the producers tore their hair out when Lady Gaga came out with this song after they'd already done their Gaga episode), I teared up a little watching Emma seeing a counselor for her OCD, and hearing there that OCD was not who she was; it was keeping her from being who she was. I came to this distinction after much internal struggle in college; Emma's "OCD"-blazoned T-shirt is mine as well.

OCD is a fiendish little boggart; it disguises itself as valid concerns, then runs amok through the brain. I thought I had conquered it in high school after I was able to name my obsessions for what they were: a mental disorder. But then it took on other forms. I had been brooding and losing sleep, thinking about how I'd screwed up various relationships in my living community and elsewhere. I went to a counselor to see if I could resolve the feelings of hurt and anger that kept plaguing me. When I told him I had OCD, he was all on top of it and recommended a book called Brain Lock: Free Yourself from Obsessive-Compulsive Behavior. It was wonderful, because every time I saw a counselor in the past they always gravitated towards my depressive symptoms rather than the OCD, which in my case is actually far more pernicious. I felt so relieved to finally find someone who had the training and inclination for doing OCD therapy, which apparently is rather rare. I would recommend this book to anyone dealing with OCD or living with someone who has OCD. Because I started reading this book a week before Easter, I discovered to my delight that I had found a new, concrete way to "practice resurrection," as Wendell Berry puts it, by literally transforming my mind. I do mean literally; behavior therapy physically alters the brain.

The book occasioned the shocking epiphany that there would be no resolving my emotional turmoil. I could not think my way out of it, or air some unresolved feeling that would make it better. I had to stop thinking about it. I had to tell myself that rehashing the past was not making me more adept for the future, but rather crippling me. I needed to let go. But when I think about the disagreements we had in our community, the moments I shut up when I should have spoken up, I can't convince myself that I shouldn't be thinking about it. It seems too important. What I can do is focus on how it feels to be ambushed by terrorist thoughts and emotions armed with fear, guilt, anger, and self-doubt. I have learned to recognize the feeling of "brain lock," as the book puts it, the rising of tension, the feeling that the CD in my head suddenly got scratched and is going on repeat. I focus on that, rather than the thought content, and remind myself that this a mental disorder, not reality. As Schwartz puts it, reality is my ally.

As I practice this mindful vigilance, it helps me to know that this is what it means to embody resurrection; to strive inwardly to create peace, focus, and the renewal of my mind and body. OCD's a bitch, but at least it's occasioned a practice that is at once behavioral, mental, and spiritual; the practice of resurrection.

International Networking: Professional and Personal

2011-04-29T10:31:00.005-05:00

The other day, I was talking on Skype with the pastor at the Moravian Church in Puerto Cabezas, and she mentioned in passing that Carol Forbes, one of the women who attended the Creole Moravian young adult meetings with me, would be in Chicago for a workshop on grassroots organizing around issues of domestic violence. I said, "Wait, back up. Someone I know from Puerto will be a mere two and a half hour drive from my home and conveniently located near some of the best theatre in the Midwest?" Count me in.

I met up with Carol last weekend, and I think the feeling of relief was mutual. She'd been in the US for a week and didn't have anyone to talk to who knew her family and her community. I remember that feeling all too well; you are forever on square one and explaining what your home is like to people who, as well meaning as they are, really have no point of reference for understanding. To some extent, even the women who were there from Belize and other parts of Nicaragua come from different realities. They had told her that her Creole didn't sound like Creole, but like "normal" English, and they were going to send her a dictionary so that porteno Creoles could keep from losing their language. We agreed they could go screw themselves.

For my part, it was nice to talk to someone who had also bridged both worlds; who knew Puerto, and was now experiencing this part of the US for the first time. I felt a new surge of connection and relevance. She talked about her sisters, and people that we both knew, and local communities, and the struggles they were facing. In Puerto, I felt like I really could transform the world through my relationships. People in need were not living in other parts of town or the world; they were my friends and neighbors. Love, compassion, and justice never felt so intimately related. When I act out my values by donating to charity or even by volunteering my time in controlled, defined amounts, it feels much more distanced. Not that these acts aren't important and wonderful. It just isn't the same, and it doesn't appeal as much to my more relationship-oriented way of being.

Our conversation also brought back to my mind the conflicted feelings I have about international ministries and outreach. She was talking about how she needed to encourage her sisters and other women to get educated and get jobs and then give part of their money to helping women in situations of domestic abuse construct their own homes so they could had another option. These women have valuable skills and know how to run a household; they just don't have the capital to actually start their own. I was inspired by her passion; I believe it is local visionaries and organizers in Nicaragua, most often found among professional and educated women, who will ultimately transform the country. My interest is purely selfish; I love the organizers that I met there, and the community in general. I want to support their struggle because they are my friends and I am inspired by their work, but ultimately the struggle is theirs. Even if they are poor, it is better if they gather their own funds to support members of their community, because they have the relationships, knowledge, and trust to make it work. Well-meaning, international non-profits' interventions can mess up that dynamic of local agency and accountability and create dependence, even while providing the capital local people need to create the changes they wish to see.

The workshop that she was attending provided me with hope for possible avenues of productive international relationships. It brought women together from several regions of Central America to discuss their situations, see how domestic violence plays out in the Chicago area and meet with speakers on gender issues in other areas of the world, such as Egypt. Carol said she'd gotten a lot of different strategy ideas to take back to Puerto Cabezas, and she'd have to wait and see what worked and what didn't. This type of gathering and discussion allows for give and take, which is what any relationship, international or otherwise, ought to look like. I'd like to think that was what my Cap Corps time was about; giving and taking knowledge of one another, that we might all be enriched. As the Qur'an says, "O humankind, we have created you male and female and made you nations and tribes, so that you might come to know one another." (Surah 49:13)

The Sweaty God: Another translation from the Misa Campesina

2011-04-03T18:40:00.006-05:00

Here is my translation of the Canto de Entrada from the Nicaraguan liberation theology misa campesina. You can listen to the song at

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymGY_NJ6th8

You are the God of the worker,
God of the poor and the humble,
The God who sweats as he labors,
Your face the color of leather.

And that’s why I talk to you
The way I talk to my people.
With words that are plain and simple,
Because you’re a worker, too.

You walk hand in hand beside my people,
Struggling in the field at hot midday.
Then you line up with the farm hands,
Waiting until you collect your daily pay.
You snack on raspado on the park bench,
With Eusebio, Pancho ‘n’ Arnulfo,
And you even protest over syrup
When you think they should have poured you more.

I have seen you sitting in the market,
Selling watermelon from your stall.
And I’ve even seen you on the highway,
Patrolling in gloves and overalls.
I have seen you in the gasolinera
Checking out the tire pressure gauge.
And I’ve seen you selling lott’ry tickets,
But the job does not make you ashamed.

Adulthood: The Game

2011-03-31T15:36:00.004-05:00

Because maturity may be something you become, but adulthood is something you do.

Point Values for Each "Adultivity"

Go to the bank 5
Eight hours of work 20
Check bank account 3
Send business e-mail 2
Send business letter 3
Pay a bill on time 20
Pay a bill late 10
Cook a meal 8
Buy groceries 5
Other errand 5
Wash dishes 3
Cleaning chore 3
Balance checkbook 10
Possess a filing system 10
Organize filing system 5
Take out a mortgage 50
Have a child 50

I'm still waiting to see what you win.

Asking Questions: The Witness of Curiosity

2011-03-20T21:12:00.004-05:00

This is the sermon I preached today in First Baptist-Madison. The texts were Acts 8:28-40 and John 5:2-9a.

I chose these two Scripture readings because they are both examples of the under-practiced ministry of asking questions. In the Acts reading, Philip is directed by the Holy Spirit to a road, to a specific man in a chariot. Yet he does not begin the conversation with the assertive statement one might expect from someone who has been given a mission from an angel of God and led by the Spirit to this place. He does not open with “Hey there, I’ve been called by God to explain to you what you have been reading. You may think you understand, but from what this angel tells me you clearly don’t.” This statement comes with an implicit judgment, an assumption. Instead of going the judgment route, he opens with an expression of curiosity. “Do you understand what that means?”
The set-up in the gospel reading invites an assumption that is so commonplace in reading Scripture we may not even be aware we make it. There’s a lame man by the pool. Jesus comes along. We’ve all heard this story before. Lame man wants to be healed, Jesus will heal him. I would think Jesus, who lives this reality every day, would be the first to assume that the lame man seeks to be healed. But he doesn’t simply heal him. He asks first: “Do you want to be healed?”
Perhaps more surprising than the question is the answer, which shows that the lame man also assumes he wants to be healed, but doesn’t stop to actually think about it. He complains that he can never get to the pool that can heal him. This statement is based on the underlying assumption that he wants to be cured, but he doesn’t actually come out and say, “I want to be healed.” The difference between that statement and “I can’t be healed” is one of agency. He is unwilling to take responsibility for his own healing; he blames his situation. He says, in effect, that it doesn’t matter if he wants to or not; he can’t be healed because of his place in life. This learned helplessness is even more debilitating than his physical impairment. In asking what may seem like an obvious question, Jesus brings the lame man to reveal that his true affliction resides in his mind, not his legs. Jesus then tells the man to stand and take up his mat. The command makes me wonder. What if, in lying there for heaven knows how long, the man’s body had healed by itself, but he had become so used to being a cripple, he hadn’t realized it? In any case, the real miracle here is as much the man actually taking action for the first time, at Jesus’ command. He is no longer helpless. The story goes on to prove that this affliction is much more difficult to heal than his physical disability had been.
This kind of learned helplessness is a pernicious affliction of those who suffer financially, emotionally, and physically. It would be an excellent sermon topic, but that’s not what I want to focus on today. I want to focus on Jesus’ approach to ministry that begins with a question rather than an assertion or a command. He opens the scene with an expression of curiosity, rather than judgment. This allows the truth of the scene to be revealed. Curiosity affords a deeper understanding of others, allowing them to define themselves rather than be defined by the inquirers, which sets the scene for conversations to happen at a deeper level, beneath the normal back and forth conditioned by assumption and habituated response. This kind of conversation leads to true relationship and mutual understanding. It’s more than just an attitude. It’s a Christian witness. I am going to talk about how this witness applies to civil discourse, which includes not only government, but also business, professional, church meeting-ish relationships and to personal relationships.
When I went to Nicaragua for a year and a half, I was constantly presented with new and challenging situations that left me with nothing but questions. It is easy in such situations to fall into a judgmental or complaining mentality. Why can’t anyone arrive on time? Why aren’t school resources used more efficiently? Why can’t you just do things my way? It would be the equivalent of Philip coming up to the chariot, hopping in uninvited and saying, “here, let me explain this to you.” For this reason, perhaps, Americans have developed a bit of a reputation for being insufferably bossy. This kind of complaining mentality is a bottomless pit, because there are always things in every culture that are silly and can be complained about. We simply get inured to a certain degree to the ridiculousness of our own culture. In any case, if you fall in, you will never be content.
While it is especially easy to be judgmental and miserable in another country, there is still no better place to cultivate an attitude of curiosity. This is precisely because everything is new and foreign. When I constantly find myself confronted with difference, I can more easily make the shift in thinking from “Ugh!” to “Huh!”
When presented with the unknown, you have a greater power to decide how to react because you haven’t developed a habitual pattern of reaction yet. I had never had to wait two hours for a practice that may or may not happen. I had never had school cancelled last minute because of rain. My year and a half in Nicaragua was a great opportunity for me to cultivate more flexible, even-keeled response patterns based on suspending judgment and seeking more information because it was so far from all the things I know that I hadn’t realized that I knew, which Hunter Forrester says is the very definition of “culture.”
It is much more difficult to approach situations and people we see every day with curiosity rather than judgment, because we are so thoroughly habituated to the response patterns we already have. In Nicaragua, if I saw a political sign supporting one of the local political parties, I always wondered why they supported that party. In the US, if I see a political sign supporting a candidate, I respond with positive emotion or negative emotion. All these ideas start to form in my head of what this person must be like and why they would support this candidate. I can hear what Daniel Ortega does, and I take it into consideration, I may or may not believe it. I hear what Walker does, and I respond emotionally. I don’t take the same time to question is this true, why do I feel this way, what are this person’s motives. Emotions aren’t bad. Habituated responses, left unquestioned, are bad.
Cultural familiarity leads to habituated responses and impedes a witness of curiosity. It is much harder to practice new ways of being in a set of circumstances we are utterly and completely used to. For this reason, it was actually harder for me to live in community with two fellow American ex-pats than it was to interact with the people of Nicaragua. In community, I would get so used to being angered and irritated that I wouldn’t ask the questions I needed to ask to interrogate and perhaps transform the situation. For example, I got really sick of one of my housemate’s frequent complaints about various elements of life in Nicaragua. I would become silent and sullen whenever she launched into some critique of something she had encountered there, and it was a major impediment to our relationship. Yet it wasn’t until we were in a mediated, intentional conversation that I was actually able to look at her and say, “Do you like being here?” To which she answered yes, I do. And we just left at that. She later told me that asking her that had been really helpful for her, because it made her think, “Huh, why don’t I talk about the stuff I like more?” So the question had allowed us both to shift the focus from what was being said to what was not being said, which was what I had needed. But in our daily conversations, my irritation dominated me and I couldn’t bring myself to shift the conversation in the way I needed it to shift.
Asking questions can be a way to challenge or overcome habitual ways of acting and reacting. It can also be a way to challenge habitual ways of non-acting and reacting. When I think I know a person well, I more freely assume I understand their motivations for acting the way they do. Then it turns out the other person doesn’t share my assumptions, and conflict and hard feelings ensue. An example would be a couple weeks after I got back from Nicaragua, I mentioned to Twink that I was surprised that no one had asked me to preach or share or anything about my experience there. I harbor the belief that the church which nurtures and encourages the development of spiritual gifts has a right and a duty to almost obligate its members to share those gifts with the community. She explained to me that people tended to assume that I was busy with my, you know, like, life or something, and that if I wanted to share I had to come forward. “So you wanted to preach then?” “Well, yeah, I guess so.” I assumed that I would be asked if my gifts were wanted, and others had assumed that I would come forward if I wanted to share. As a result, no communication happened, and I like to think we were all the worse off for it. I remember I think it was Claire Rider who told me I should sing in the choir, and then said, “And now you feel guilty about it.” I thought somewhat self-consciously, like she shouldn’t have said it. I wanted to respond, “No. That’s perfect. Obligate me!” That’s the church’s job.
There was a line from the song “Iowa” by Dar Williams that kept repeating in my head while I was in Nicaragua. “Way back where I come from, we never mean to bother. We don’t like to make our passions other people’s concern. We walk in a world of safe people, and at night we walk into our houses and burn.” She’s talking about the Midwestern American cultural phenomenon of the “polite but aloof,” in which people make the assumption that others want to keep their passions, their fears and their inner struggles to themselves. We don’t ask questions. The Nicaraguans do not share this predilection for privacy. Your passions are everybody’s concerns. I was once stopped by an acquaintance on the street, a woman who sold snacks outside of the school grounds where I worked, and she looked at me and said, “You look sad today. What’s wrong? Did something happen at home?” Another time I was walking beside a woman I didn’t know on the street. We exchanged greetings, and then she began to tell me about how her son was alcoholic and obnoxious and she wanted to kick him out.
This cultural practice of sharing everything has its downsides. The gossip, for example, can be vicious and out of control. On the other hand, it made me feel cared about. I felt like I had an obligation to be part of community, to share of myself and to share in the struggles of others. Both a Norwegian and Nicaraguan friends mentioned to me on separate occasions something to the effect of, “With Americans, you can have a conversation for an hour, but you’ll never really talk about anything important. You never really know who they are.” That may work for the supermarket and cocktail parties, but it’s not good enough for a church. We are the body of Christ, that suffers with the pain and rejoices in the strength of every stomach, foot, and shoulder. In order to do that, we have to ask the questions. We have to provoke with our curiosity, and not default on the assumption that others don’t want to share their deepest insecurities. When I went to visit my little church in Milwaukee, a Baptist gathering called the Broken Walls Christian Community, we got into a discussion of which divinity school or seminary I should attend. The pastor looked at me thoughtfully for a moment and then he asked me, “What are you hungry for?” This gave me pause. I realized I wasn’t sure. It was actually somewhat maddening. I was frustrated because I didn’t have a ready response, which is such a fundamental part of American conversations. But that was the beauty of the question. It gave me something to think about that I really needed to think about. He said, “when you know that, you’ll know where to go.”
“What are you hungry for?” “What’s most difficult in life for you right now?” “Where are you on your faith journey?” “What are you learning about yourself these days?” What if these questions replaced “How are you dealing with the cold spell?” “What are doing these days?” ? It would be obnoxious and intrusive, just like the mustard weeds of the kingdom of God. It might bring responses of “I’m not sure” and that would be okay. It might mean risking overstepping one’s bounds and getting “I don’t really want to talk about that right now.” Which would be a beautiful amalgam of Latin American and American culture, with both a dogged interest in the lives and wellbeing of others, while allowing the other person to put up boundaries without the need for anyone being hurt or defensive.
Church is a place of tradition, which means it’s also a place of deeply held belief and habit. Nowhere will it be harder to ask tough questions of one another, to challenge ourselves and each other to see the community and each individual in new ways. But church is also a safe space to grow in frightening new directions, to learn, to be wrong. This is the kind of transformation Christ calls us to. Jesus’ question to the lame man is still before us: “Do you want to be healed?”

I May be Getting the Jump on Lent, But...

2011-03-01T14:54:00.005-06:00

I was studying music that I brought back with me from the misa campesina at the Batahola Norte Cultural Center in Managua, and I discovered one with a familiar tune. I wrote a translation for the lyrics, posted below.

"Cuando un niño"
To the tune of "Were You There When They Crucified my Lord"

When the little hungry children ask for bread
When they weep because no one answers their plea.

Oh oh oh, I tremble for you, my Lord, you're suff'ring, crying, dying
With the starving children you are dying, too.

You are dying when poor people become slaves,
When they shout out to demand their freedom.
Oh oh oh....
When the poor become slaves, you are dying, too.

When I feel the world is torn apart by war,
When a brother his own brother seeks to kill,
Oh oh oh....
With those who are dying, you are dying too.

When you are sick and dying at my side,
When I forget your hunger and your pain,
Oh oh oh...
When I'm stupid and I'm selfish you die, too.

And for all you who speak Spanish, here's the original:

Cuando un niño con hambre pide pan,
Cuando llora pues nunca se lo dan,
Oh oh oh, tiemblo por ti, Jesús, sufres, lloras, mueres,
Con los niños de hambre mueres tú.

Mueres tú cuando un pobre esclavo está,
Cuando grita pidiendo libertad,
Oh oh oh....
Con los pobres esclavos mueres tú.

Cuando siento que el mundo en guerra está,
Que el hermano al hermano matará,
Oh oh oh...
Con las gentes que mueren mueres tú.

Cuando pasas enfermo junto a mí,
Cuando olvido tu hambre y tu sufrir,
Oh oh oh...
Por mi absurdo egoísmo mueres tú.

Deep Questions

2011-02-19T15:04:00.004-06:00

Do you have trouble thinking of meaningful questions to ask people who have recently come out of a life-changing experience like international travel or service? I know I do! Instead of resorting to safe but inane queries about adjusting to the weather and even future plans, try some riskier inquiries that make both of you take pause. In our meeting last week, the returned volunteers came up with a list of questions we'd like people to ask of us, even if it might seem overly personal or annoying because we actually have to think. I know this list was extremely helpful for me in engaging my fellow volunteers, so I thought I'd share it with the wider community. In time, perhaps I will dare to extend its use beyond people returning from profound experiences into my everyday inane conversations.

How did you experience God?
Where did you find your nourishment?
What was the hardest part?
What has changed you?
What did you learn about yourself?
What do you miss?
What were the normal things that made up your days?
How are you incorporating your experience into your life now?
What do you need now?
Who were the people that were important to you?
How are you going to use your experience to give back?
What feelings are still with you?

Note that for many of these questions, a simple tense change from past to present can make it apply to everyday living. Here's to taking our conversations to a deeper, more intrusive, and more meaningful level!

Also: shout out to the protests at the State Capitol. Today I led the Rotunda in a rousing rendition of the "Solidarity Forever" chorus. It's really an exciting demonstration of political will.

A Community Practice

2011-02-10T11:58:00.000-06:00

After living in intentional communities of three people for the past two and a half years, I can honestly say that no other experience has me more convinced of the fallen nature of humankind. I can never love other people the way God loves them. I'm not even talking about the destructive, self-denying "love" that is so often associated with divinity. I may know to speak up when I get angry, when I shouldn't take things personally, or when to listen to someone else speak up because they took something personally. I may know that community member A sees things differently than I do, and I may understand perfectly how both I see them and how A sees them. But it won't matter. I will still fail to be honest, to be patient, to be understanding.

In all of the myriad ways I can fail and on occasion succeed in community, I have found it best to center my awareness on just a few at a time. Or even like just one. Lately, I have been reflecting on one practice in particular: curiosity.

Marcia Lee, the assistant director of Cap Corps who has done graduate study on conflict resolution, often speaks of learning to approach others from a place of curiosity rather than judgment. This practice is actually easier to cultivate with people I hardly know and in unfamiliar cultural settings. For that reason, traveling abroad is an excellent exercise in developing curiosity, because so much of what I encounter falls outside the beaten tracks on which my thoughts normally travel. When I think I know a person well, I more freely assume I understand their motivations for acting the way they do. This assumption impedes vital communication. For example, someone says to me that they think Miskito people are ignorant, or that Muslims can't be trusted to hold public office in the US. Or even something less extreme like, "I think I'd prefer if you let me know before bringing guests over." Instead of being outraged or indignant, as enjoyable as those reactions may be, it tends to work better to think, "Wow, I would never ever have even thought to think about that the way you do. Can you explain to me why you feel that way?" I'm trying to program this as a default response, even when I think I understand where a person is coming from. It facilitates better communication, and it's much easier on my nervous system. While it's still a work in progress, my preliminary findings suggest that curiosity can be a gateway practice that opens up towards other practices that have deeper spiritual significance, like compassion, patience, and serenity.

It never gets easier. Living in community, or in authentic relationship more generally, entails a ridiculous amount of work that often feels like it's not going anywhere. I have to believe that the very practice of intentional relationship, like meditation, is inherently worthwhile, rather than a means to attain affection, worth, or stability. I do it because I'm called to it, not because it will bring me some revelation of God. Maybe in accepting that, and accepting that I will sometimes fail to be fully curious about the people that surround me, I will stumble into that serenity.

Keeping the Faiths

2011-02-06T22:49:00.000-06:00

Today in church I participated in a discussion about the book The Faith Club, in which a Muslim, Christian, and Jew discuss their faith. One woman pointed out how great she thought it was that children can go to school with people from all different religious background, and that this might circumvent some of the prejudice and ignorance held by previous generations.

The comment reminded me of a conversation I had with my Christian Formation co-teacher at Colegio del Nino Jesus, Cornelia Lackwood. I was explaining to her how the volunteer corps that sent me was a Catholic organization, even though I myself was not Catholic. (On a sidebar, I was really impressed by how this was taken in stride by the local nuns and the Catholic religion teachers I worked with. When asked if it would be okay for me to work with them even though I was Baptist, they all simply said, "Oh, it's all the same God." This is not a view I encountered so much in the western part of the country.) I told her that I had learned to value various elements of Catholic tradition, and particularly the spiritual teachings and mysticism of various saints. Baptists don't do mysticism well, and I think our spirituality suffers for it. She asked me if at any point I had felt a draw towards converting to Catholicism (she herself had converted from the Moravian church). I explained to her I hadn't, because my heart still lay firmly with my own tradition. It's a very important part of my identity, because it connects me with my extended family, generations that came before me, and the faith community that nourished me when I was growing up. She then asked me a question that gave me pause: "Do you ever feel like you're riding two horses at once?"

I didn't bother telling her that I was attending a Moravian church and had previously taken various courses on Islam, Judaism, and Hinduism, all of which influenced my religious thinking. So if I am riding more than one horse, I must be mounted on at least a half-dozen. I struggled a bit with my answer, which is that I don't. I guess at the end of the day, I know where I belong, which church I'll be going back to. But I feel like no religion can fully capture God. Some religions elucidate certain elements of God very well. Catholics are good with forgiveness of sins and the usefulness of meditation, Lutherans nail the grace thing, and Quakers have the absolute egalitarianism of human souls before God. Jews have this awesome idea that God made a covenant with people, and people have a right to hold God accountable. I recognize that and appreciate it, but I feel like it's important to belong to one community in which I can know and be known, where I share all of these thoughts and reflections, and feel like I'm participating in a tradition that reaches back generations and will continue on for generations.

I'm probably writing it a bit more eloquently than I explained it, but I said something to that effect. I was a little self-conscious, because I thought her point had validity. Even setting aside debates about cultural appropriation, cherry-picking religious concepts has only limited value. Most elements of religion really work the best in the context of their whole tradition. I can practice yoga as a spiritual aid, but I know that I will never experience its full power because I will never fully embrace the spirituality and worldview behind it. Her response, however, was quite touching: "How different would the world be if more of us thought like that!" I appreciated the vote of confidence.

For a community of people with very strongly held and often conflicting religious beliefs, the overall spirit of ecumenism in Puerto's mainline churches always moved me. According to Susan, even Mormon missionaries preferred Puerto Cabezas to other Nicaraguan sites they visited, because the people there were generally more open and willing to hear them out than they were in other places. Maybe this is because of the long history of two dominant churches, the Catholics and the Moravians, rather than just one. Or maybe it's because Puerto is just a pretty cool place.

Crossing Border(')s

2011-01-24T23:12:00.000-06:00

At our final Cap Corps retreat, we spent some time reflecting on the things we were looking forward to in the US and the things we wanted to take back with us. My response to the "looking forward to" question was always books, a culture of reading, and intellectual conversation. Nicaraguan culture is very oral-based. People hang out on their porches and talk to each other; they don't read. If I cracked open a book in a public place, people thought I must be reading the Bible. I missed talking to people about books and the ideas inside them.

During my layover in Miami, I was immediately drawn to the bookstore, like a moth to the laptop screen when the power is out. The top-selling book covers featured the handsome faces of Sarah Palin, George W. Bush, and Glenn Beck (was he this popular when I left?), as well as Barack Obama. There were titles telling me all about what was wrong with the current government. Why the economy failed. How to make money really fast. I suddenly remembered the feeling of despair I often had before going to Nicaragua, that feeling that I would never be able to read everything I needed to read in order to be the well-informed, effective, and sensitive person I liked to imagine myself to be. My ready defenses against the barrage of visual media telling me what to do and think had atrophied living in a city that no sales agency cared to market. My chest suddenly felt like a balloon slowly inflating with the stale air of inadequacy, and I felt the overwhelming urge to cover up my ears and run out of the bookstore screaming"LEAVE ME ALONE!!"

I realized that analysis is nice. But sometimes it's nicer to just take life as it goes without picking it apart to try to make it better all the time.

And then I ate some Haagen-Dazs ice cream. Deep chocolate with peanut butter chunks. Marketing can be so delicious.

Transition

2011-01-23T22:50:00.000-06:00

I have now been repatriated for one week. My sleeping habits have been thrown off by the drastic reduction of natural light. My eating habits are all higgledy-piggledy because suddenly there's all this food around all the time that I can just eat without hardly any preparation. Now that I'm not walking or dancing so much, I need to find new ways to exercise. The main theme of my life right now, therefore, is reestablishing biorhythms.

I have not unintentionally restricted my interpersonal contact almost entirely to my immediate family, because that's about all I've been able to deal with. My mom has told me I seem to be adjusting well on an emotional level, and on the whole I think she is correct. Nonetheless, I feel like part of my heart got ripped out and left behind. In part, of course, this is because I said good-bye to the first person I ever fell in love with in the airport, and I don't know when I'll see him again. But it is also because I fell in love with a whole bunch of people, a natural environment, and a way of living that I can't carry back with me, no matter how many pictures I upload to Facebook, songs I cram onto flash drives, and entries I post on my blog. I stay fairly even-keel, but there are moments, before I fall asleep at night or while I'm washing the dishes, that I feel completely overwhelmed by a sense of loss and I start to cry. And then, mere minutes later, the feeling passes. It's like the isolated rainclouds that would come in off the ocean, showering Puerto in a fierce downpour. The only thing to do was stop under an overhang and wait patiently, taking the time to admire the rain and the moment, because both would soon pass.

Home

2010-12-28T17:24:00.000-06:00

This will be my last post from Puerto Cabezas. Just writing that makes my throat constrict a little, as it has done from time to time, like when I passed the bakery on the way to the airport or left the dance studio for the last time.

There is always a script for my conversations with people here these days. "When are you leaving?" "December 27th." "And you're not coming back?" The number of times I have rehearsed this with people has allowed me to tinker with the script a little. I used to say, "To visit, yes, but not to work." And then a heavy silence sets in with the awareness of impending, permanent change. I have recently discovered a much better response, which is, "Yes, perhaps next December." To which they respond, "Oh, okay." This is followed by a much lighter sense of relief, that relationships may indeed have the chance to continue. One woman ruined this dialogue by persisting: "But you won't be living here?" "No, just visiting. But who knows?" One thing I like about Nicaragua is its permissiveness for the contemplation of possible if improbable futures. But who knows? When I left Nicaragua the last time, about five years ago, I never imagined I would be spending a year and a half here, during which time I visited my former host family in Nandasmo about five times.

You might have noticed that the departure date above has already passed, and yet I remain in Puerto Cabezas. I was slated to fly to Bluefields yesterday, where I would spend a few days with the girls working in Managua. My flight was cancelled due to heavy wind, so I have to wait until the next flight out to Bluefields, which is tomorrow. Unfortunately, we already sold my bed, so I found myself shacking up at the house of the pastor of the Moravian church, who lives just down the street and has an extra room. Now I'm in a weird limbo, having already said good-bye to everyone and prepared to leave, only to be stuck here for two days. I feel like a little like a ghost, trapped between worlds and haunting my former place of residence. So I try to watch TV, which transports me to a virtual world that is happy to have me for a few days.

It is nice to be able to rest. The last few weeks have been crazy and unrelenting. I had just finished up a few volunteer jobs I had taken on and said good-bye to Sol, my dear friend from Norway, when the girls from Managua came to visit. This was followed by Christmas, and then I went around saying good-bye, packing up, and giving away or selling all of our household possessions and personal affects that would not be coming back with me. Having nothing to do is a nice change, but it provides wide space for rumination and depression. I'm about to leave my community in this warm, vibrant place, leaving behind a language spoken almost nowhere else except in Miami, and a culture of music and dance all its own. And returning will cost a little more than popping over to Milwaukee or even Oberlin for a visit. I'm excited about seeing my family, and eating macaroni and cheese, and the recent cold spell, with temperatures in the 60s and 70s, has started to prepare me for Wisconsin winter.

The problem with traveling extensively and experiencing lots of different cultures is that my whole self, in all its facets that have developed in these different places, can never be truly home again, not in any one of them. Where do I belong now? In a way, it doesn't matter, since wherever I belong never seems to be where I end up. Sol, who has spent her time here moving between Puerto Cabezas, where her work is, to Norway, where her family is, and Colombia, where her house is, experiences this reality more acutely than anyone I know. Upon her return to Norway, she suggested that my next blog post be about good-byes. The transitory life, like life in generaly, is a continuing process of good-byes to the people and places that have become home. World traveler and writer James Michener overcame the sense of homelessness this causes by proclaiming that the world was his home. Christian tradition overcomes it by proclaiming that this world is not our home. Our director Marcia said she was trying to find home within herself.

All of these approaches are contemplative devices for seeking a continuous sense of peace, comfort, and belonging in a changing world that promises none of these things. I espouse each one at different times and try to keep all of my homes, in their diversity, alive inside of me.

Purisima

2010-12-16T16:56:00.000-06:00

Last week, my dear friend and intrepid former nun Angela Pasquier invited me to her comunidad to celebrate Purisima, the celebration of the immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary. Now, Angela could invite me to spend Purisima in a cardboard box with her and I'd accept. However, the additional treat of getting to travel to the famous "comunidades," the rural communities surrounding Bilwi, I would have to have grisi siknis not to accept.

For those who are unfamiliar with Catholic tradition, the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin refers not to the conception of Jesus, but of Mary. According to Catholic doctrine, Mary was born without original sin. That doesn't mean she was virgin-born, like Jesus, it just means God removed from her the sinful nature inherent in all people from birth. This quality of Mary is celebrated on December 8, which also happens to be my birthday. Which is why it's fitting that my name is Kathryn, though perhaps my parents did not realize it, since Kathryn means "pure."

Angela's family lives in the auspiciously named town of Kilometro 43, so named because it lies 43 kilometers outside of Bilwi. Or at least it did, when there was a railroad, before the war. Along the current road, it's 47 kilometers away. But the name stuck. The community borders the slightly more well-known Mani Watla, which I heard of a few months back when it was said that two men there had been hacked to pieces with a machete, and then, still alive, set on fire, owing to accusations of witchcraft. I didn't quite make it there to get my National Park passport stamped.

The bus dropped us off in front of their house, and then we crossed a little creek on a log to get to the house. I was a little worried about keeling over under the lopsided weight of my baggage and because I had to stoop to grab the handrail. The kitten I was carrying from Angela's house in Bilwi was even less enthused about the crossing.

Bilwi is not exactly the heart of technological development, but Kilometro 43 is a step even farther back in time. There has been no electricity there since Hurricane Felix back in 2007, and cooking is done over wood and coal in a separate kitchen building. No running water, of course, except horizontally through the creek.

I'm used to not having electricity or even running water in my own house, but it's a little jarring and surreal to be somewhere unfamiliar in the dark. I just sat in the kitchen, the place where everyone gathers, and listened to the family chatting animatedly in Miskito in the dim shadows cast by a couple candles. From what I could understand, they talked about various health problems of people in the community and the failure of the doctors to treat them. A shy little girl of about 5quietly sat down next to me, and as the evening wore on gradually fell asleep against my shoulder, her face illumined by the glow of my candle.

Everything in the night was so quiet. There were no dogs barking, roosters crowing, cars passing by, people shouting. And for the first time in a while, I did not feel unsafe to be alone outside, despite the lack of light.

I went to sleep early that night, worn out by the bus ride, the language, and adjusting to a new environs. Everyone else worked on through the night, preparing nacatamales for the Purisima celebration the following day. They filled up a large steel trash can with nacatamales, which cooked through the night over an open fire.

The next day, December 7, is called the Griteria, or the Day of Shouting. Purisima is preceded by a novena, or 9 days of observance, and the Griteria is the last day. It is the big celebration day of Purisima, like New Year's Eve is the big celebration of the changing of the year. I went with one of Angela's sisters over to the house of another family member (somewhat easy to do, because most of Kilometro 43's residents are related), where we set up the altar to the Virgin where people would later gather for singing and prayers and nacatamales. We adorned the area with palm branches and balloons, the traditional celebration decor in these parts. Two little girls from the neighboring house ran up and started talking to me in a mix of Spanish and Miskito. One girl asked me a question in rapid-fire Miskito, and then the two girls giggled. I asked Angela's sister what she had said, and she replied, "Oh, you didn't catch that? She asked if you could fix the other girl's foot." Only then did I look down and notice that the other girl's foot was twisted, so she essentially walked on the top of her foot and her ankle. "No, I'm not a doctor," I replied, and the girls giggled again, apparently unconcerned about my lack of expertise in the medical and/or miracle department.

Around 2 in the afternoon, folks arrived to commence the Purisima celebration. We sang various hymns extolling the purity, beauty, and compassion of the Virgin, peppered with the traditional call-and-response shouts of "Viva la Virgen!" "Que viva!" and "Quien causa tanta alegria?" "La Concepcion de Maria!" That is, who causes so much happiness? The conception of Maria! As Lee pointed out, it should technically be WHAT causes so much happiness, since the subject is the conception, not Mary herself.

After the singing had ended, the gathered community received their nacatamales and moved on to another house to repeat the process. Tired from the morning activities, I skipped out on this house and the house that followed, choosing to return to Angela's house, where they had already prepared their altar for the fourth and last house visit of the Griteria celebration.

Shortly after sundown, people began to arrive, young and old alike crossing the log-bridge in the dark to fill out the yard in front of the altar and the house. Angela, in her typical lively energy, commenced with a round of shouting, threatening not to give out nacatamales if the crowd was not animated enough in its adoration of the Virgin. We then commenced with the same songs we had sung before. The repitition reminded me of Christmas caroling. There were readings and Scriptures, and Angela asked me to sing Ave Maria in Latin, since she had misplaced her recording. I readily agreed, then realized I had forgotten a chunk of the version I had sung in church back in college. I skipped over that part and hoped no one minded. At the end, Angela's father, a deacon in the local Catholic Church, gave me a special blessing and prayer for my birthday. It was a very special moment.

At eight o'clock, after six hours of visiting houses, the celebration had not yet ended. Everyone got their second round of nacatamales, after receiving threats that the Virgin was watching and looked unfavorably upon those who snuck into the line to get more than one nacatamal. They then headed off to the church for the final celebration. The pews were filled up, sprinkled with children falling asleep in their parents' laps. I was also very tired, but I could swear one of the crucifixes on the wall had a rasta hat on. I made a note to check it later, but the generator that was supplying the power gave out at the end, and I did not get the chance.

Again the singing commenced, followed by a section of testimonials. Various individuals got up and explained why they celebrated Purisima. Angela's mother, back at her house, had spoken of three consecutive visions she'd had of the Virgin at a time in her life when she was very depressed, encouraging her to take heart and keep moving forward. Some spoke of promises they had made in return for blessings, or thanksgiving for children healed. They prayed the rosary, which is for the most part the repitition of the Hail Mary, and then ended with a list of perhaps twenty epithets for the Virgin, from "Mother of God" and "Queen of Heaven" to the more enigmatic "House of Gold." The service over, they handed out coffee, juice, bread, and candy. I stole over to the children's side of the chapel so I could get juice instead of coffee.

And so ended my first marathon experience in Virgin adoration. I came to appreciate the affection Catholic Nicaraguans have for the peasant woman who loves them and intercedes on their behalf. There is reverence and honor for Jesus, but Mary is truly loved. Mary permits a kinder, more compassionate image of the divine which perhaps, in the Nicaraguan imagination, can only be found in feminine form because it defies machismo, while remaining sorely needed by the people. It seems to me that, despite her importance to the society, Mary remains constricted by this same machismo, that extoles her for her beauty, chastity, and obedience to God primarily and her prophetic calling for justice and the turning of society secondarily. Her elevation in the Purisima celebration took her away from the more human image of Mary I like to imagine, the one of a young woman who overcomes her own fears and misgivings to courageously play her role in the salvation story.

"¡Se oye, se siente, las mujeres están presentes!"

2010-12-10T19:21:00.000-06:00

While my friends and loved ones were celebrating together and giving thanks for myriad blessings last Thursday, I marked a very different observance that, this year, coincides with Thanksgiving: the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women. It was nice to have something special to pour my energy into that was not related to Thanksgiving. It helped me not feel sad and adrift while eating my traditional scrambled eggs and gallo pinto.

The Center for Integrated Attention to the Costena Woman, or CAIMCA, home to the Nidia White Women's Movement, where I teach dance classes to victims of domestic and sexual abuse, organizes an annual celebration of this day. It is especially meaningful in the RAAN department, which has the highest numbers of women dying in acts of violence in the country. We commenced with what was the most exciting march I have ever participated in. I was honored to be able to march side by side with the girls that I work with in the shelter. Not too long into the march, it began to pour mercilessly. Our numbers dwindled as the less enthusiastic sought shelter along the route. The core that remained became even more determined, our paper signs disintegrating into wooden sticks for smashing injustice.

As we rounded the corner into the central plaza, we were met with reinforcements for our reduced numbers. Several groups from the communities surrounding Bilwi were waiting for us there with their own signs, banners, and loudspeakers. They began to rally: "Where are the women from Sasa?" And a sector cheered. "Where are the women from Waspam?" And another section cheered. I felt a little sad that I had no hometown to cheer. And then I heard: "Where are the women from Wisconsin?" I was thrilled. They were, of course, referring to the small community of Wisconsin, Nicaragua, but who's to judge?

Normally, I'm not much for marches and mass enthusiasm. I feel shy, uncomfortable, and awkward, even if it is a cause I support. This time, however, I felt proud and determined. Maybe it was the dynamic women who led the march, or the fact that I was marching with the girls I work with, or because I´d been mugged just the weekend before. Maybe it was because of the variety of ways gender-based violence affects my life here, much more than in the US, in both first- and secondhand ways. It's ubiquitous. Some studies say that 4 out of 5 women in Bilwi experience some form of domestic violence, either sexual, physical, or psychological, during their lives. The fear, insecurity, and stress that engenders is palpable in all settings of social interactions. Whatever the reason, I actually was angry, and the rally was both therapeutic and empowering.

When we arrived triumphant back at the CAIMCA, the girls in the shelter insisted I ask the director to allow them to dance in the act. They had worked hard at a choreography I had given them, only to have their slot in the show revoked due to bad behavior. I spoke with Chira, who said, "Okay, they can dance, because they have been behaving well and because their teacher interceded for them." They were thrilled. I think they forgot that they were supposed to do the moves they had been practicing in the order they had practiced them. Still, they got up in front of everyone and had fun and I couldn't have been prouder.

Q: Can I get a Witness? A: Yes. I would be delighted.

2010-11-28T18:39:00.000-06:00

In the spirit of my friend Megan Highfill's blog 10 Churches, http://www.10churches.com/, in which Megan writes about different churches that she visits each week, I am devoting this post to a group of religious folks about whom I knew little before coming to Puerto Cabezas: the Jehovah's Witnesses, or Testigos de Jehova (which gives rise to the most offensive moniker "Testiculos de Jehova," employed by some of Bilwi's more vulgar constituents).

Today, I attended part of a two-day conference, one of many being held around the world by various gatherings of Jehovah's Witnesses, which featured various speakers and a "full-costumed drama"(!). Michael invited me to come along, since his family are Jehovah's Witnesses and had asked him to attend. I was ready to shake up my weekly religious regimen, so I accepted.

First of all, I will put forth several terms as I understand them to differ from those used by other Christian sects:

1) The meeting-place is the Kingdom Hall (Salon del Reino in Spanish, Asla Aidrubanka Watla [something like "House of the Mission Done Together"] in Miskito), not the church.
2) The body of believers is referred to as an "organization," rather than a denomination or church.
3) Like the Society of Friends, they call their regular gatherings "meetings," rather than worship or Mass.
4) Like the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, their leaders are called elders.

What strikes me the most about Jehovah's Witness meetings is how cerebral they are. It feels more like a religion class than a worship service. There is very little prayer. Rather, if you want to seek the presence of God, if you have any question, you are exhorted to read the Bible. In the part of the conference I attended, a series of speakers came to the microphone, each expounding upon a different quality of God: empathetic, forgiving, generous, impartial, loyal. They drew from various parts of the Bible, citing exactly one verse in each example, in effect constructing scripture by stringing verses together. I tend to be open-minded when it comes to strategies for interpreting sacred text, but I find this sort of sound-bite exegesis jarring and somewhat irritating. It works well, however, for creating the cogent, accessible theological treatises that are the hallmark of the Jehovah's Witnesses. They work very hard to provide understandable and relevant guidance for believers in all aspects of life, an effort I very much admire. In doing so, they provide both the questions and the answers: no muss, no fuss. No existential angst. Every speech was followed by a sort of conversation-testimony in which an elder asked another member of the church how they had overcome some life challenge through their faith. The exchanges were so succinct and rehearsed, with no show of emotion or struggle. I was unsure if these were the actual life stories of the people involved or if they were doing a dramatization.

If I had to sum up the Jehovah's Witnesses in one phrase, it would be "quality control." They pump out a truly impressive array of materials in hundreds of languages on every possible subject. The missionaries they send to Puerto are already conversant in Miskito, which makes me a tad envious. This raises their esteem in the community. Their meetings feature a discussion based on articles in the Watchtower ("Atalaya" in Spanish). The intent of every presentation is overtly didactic, and they take pains to make it as easy to understand as possible, flatly rejecting any ambiguity or complication that might muddy up their message. The "fully costumed drama" was actually a pantomime to an hour-long Spanish-language audiotape furnished by Jehovah's Witnesses central. I laughed at first, but soon came to appreciate how much easier it was to follow the well-annunciated and well-broadcast dialogue than the audio nightmare that is the typical church drama. Leave it to the Jehovah's Witnesses to have the audacity to shun the mediocrity of the traditional church pageant (perhaps there's something to the "testicles of Jehovah" thing).

The message of the drama was that we walk by faith and not by sight, and if we trust God and obey God's commands, good things will come to us, and if we don't, we will be killed by the incoming Roman army. It was quite uplifting, actually, except for the part with the Roman army. It reminded me of coming to Nicaragua and how it's both super uncomfortable and challenging but also makes me feel able to follow Christ in ways I had never experienced before, and that is truly joyful.

Coming from the American Christian scene, without realizing it I had come to believe that I should either agree with theology or be offended by it. My experience with the Jehovah's Witnesses gave me the delightful gift of utter bafflement. For example, they believe that communion, originally only offered to the apostles, is reserved for highest members in the order who are part of the 144,000 believers who will go to heaven to reign with God, while ordinary believers will live in the new earth under God's reign. This is an entirely different way of viewing communion that I certainly don't agree with, but it is so far away from anything I had previously considered that it can't help but provoke thought. Though I was a little irate when the whole message on the importance of generosity was about giving to the worldwide mission of the Jehovah's Witnesses despite the economic crisis.

I'm definitely not okay with all of the practices of the organization, like shunning former members. I think it's unfortunate that Michael's dad will not be escorting him down the aisle at graduation because the ceremony will be held in a church building that does not belong to the Jehovah's Witnesses. However, my experience at the convention taught me that there is a way to disagree with theology without being offended by it. Bewilderment, rather than righteous indignation, can be a wonderfully healthy response. In no way does it impede relationship. The Jehovah's Witnesses will be happy to continue attempting to enlighten me, and I will joyfully choose to remain bewildered, by them, by God, and by my own murky faith that lacks any means of quality control.

It also leads to some wicked games of Who can find the Bible verse faster: Jehovah's Witnesses vs. Baptists.

Assault

2010-11-21T11:02:00.000-06:00

Not a week goes by without some kind of drama. Some weeks more than others.

Last Sunday, I went to the beach with Michael, where two men with machetes ambushed us. They took my backpack, his shoes, and my camera. I'm so used to being accosted by people asking for stuff and ignoring them that I didn't fully appreciate the situation until it was almost over. Then I was irate that two glue-sniffing drug addicts could take what they wanted because they happened to be armed, which they would then sell for maybe five or ten dollars to get their next fix. I took some comfort in knowing that come the next day, I would go back to living a productive, meaningful life while theirs continued to be shitty and pointless.

After passing a surreal hour walking back to Michael's house to find clothing to wear (since my house keys had been in my backpack), then going to the police station to file a report, I was so exhausted by the shock of it all that I fell asleep. By the time I woke up, Susan and Lee had returned from what should have been a far riskier sojourn to a river outside of town. I caught them up to speed on the situation, then went to the harvest celebration at church, which was the reason I had decided not to go to the river in the first place. Harvest Day is a day for giving thanks for all the bounty we have received. I had spent two hours on Saturday baking bon, or sweet bread, with the young adult group, which we sold after the service, along with the pies, cookies, and "chap siu" (chop suey) brought by others. For the service itself, the sanctuary was adorned with palm branches and the clothes that were going to be sold after the service. A bunch of stuffed animals that were also for selling had been placed on a table before the altar like ritual sacrifices.

I felt a sense of panic rising in me from not having my camera. The reason I had it with me at the beach was because I had begun to take pictures of everything, in recognition that I would soon be leaving. This special moment in the life of Puerto Cabezas was passing me by, and without my camera I was going to lose it forever. This feeling has been one of the hardest to deal with since the robbery. I feel even more intensely that my time here is slipping away from me, never to return.

The other feeling I struggle with is guilt. I knew that part of the beach borders on one of the more dangerous neighborhoods in town. I knew there was a risk. Never mind that these things just happen here. There's always a risk. Go with a local person, go in the middle of the day, don't bring any cash, whatever. Yet somehow my response is not fear but just guilt, like being robbed indicates some kind of failing on my part.

Maybe I strive to emulate superheroes a little too much.

An Ode to Susan Elle

2010-11-15T08:35:00.000-06:00

I offer this blog post in humble tribute to my noble comrade in the struggle, Susan Elle. She who brazenly threw to the wind the warnings and admonishments of those citizens who counselled her to stay in at night, for fear of assailants, and set out into the dark streets of Barrio Moravo to befriend all of those who might therein be lurking. Jesus-like, she reached out to all she found there; in her eyes, no one was too young or too dirty or too stoned. Ah, that we all might show such disregard for the dictates that demarcate decency! And so Susan, in her indiscriminate ambling, came to know and be known by all of the barrio, gangsters and housewives alike. To know, if not by name, at least by face. To be known by name, namely "gringa loca": she who cotemns the customary feminine comportment. She who by so doing gained that elusive, coveted freedom to meander aimlessly about the streets, saluting those gangsters who have beaten their swords of "Give me your money" into the (idle) plowshares of "Oy, Susan!"

Oh Susan, she who rules the third-grade B class with an iron fist. Who rigidly enforces her schedule irrespective of the arbitrary ringing of recess and dismissal bells, stubbornly refusing to submit to the subdirector's caprices in determining exactly when her students will commence and terminate their learning. She comes home to lament her lack of control over the devils, yet remains revered by all the teachers for the discipline she imposes in the classroom, her voice at times rising to such a sonority as can be heard by the nuns in the neighboring convent. Would that she had had a class of students from the beginning of the year, so as to mold the young breed to her expectations over a longer course of time. The result, I've no doubt, would have been quite remarkable.

While at times, like the rest of Puerto, I find myself bewildered by her propensity for the culturally inapropos, I cannot but admire her ability to elicit affection from all corners. Following the example of Christ, she who makes and divides the bread in our house has garnered quite a following from the people in the streets. I can only hope that I shall be recalled with such fondness after departing this place.

In other news, I'm reading and very much enjoying Herman Melville's Moby Dick.

Autonomy and Identity

2010-11-02T20:18:00.000-05:00

October was Autonomy Month on the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua, culminating in Autonomy Day on the 30th. It celebrates the relative political autonomy that the Coast has while still being under the federal government of Nicaragua. Politically, it means the Coast has its own Assembly, and culturally it means there's a public recognition that the Coast has its own cultures that ought to be recognized and promoted. It's an intentional response to the Sandinista mandates of Spanish-only in schools and a general devaluation of Coast traditions like dance, due perhaps to its sensuality. While it's certainly a good move, it seems to me like a lot of talk that doesn't often turn into action. Still, there have been some joint government-nonprofit efforts to promote bilingual education, as well as tourism.

As part of the effort to promote Coast culture, a reporter from Managua came to film local cultural acts. Our dance group got called up to perform. As we prepared to get taped, the reporter told our director, "Now I don't want any Honduran dances. Just Nicaraguan dance." Which meant he didn't want us to dance the punta garifuna, which is most commonly associated with Honduras. Neco responded, "Actually, there are garifuna communities in Nicaragua." I encountered a similar situation when I asked a music vendor in Masaya, on the Pacific side of the country, if he had any punta music, and he replied, "No, we only sell NATIONAL music."

The garifuna are an ethnic group that have preserved their own language, descended from members several different African ethnicities that escaped slavery due to shipwreck of slave ships. There are garifuna communities along the Atlantic Coast of Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua. Like the Miskito and Creole cultures, it is not bound by national borders. Part of the Pacific-Atlantic Coast tension lies in the fact taht while the Pacific side of the country has developed a strong nationalistic identity, people on the Coast still identify with ethnic groups that have more in common culturally with places like Jamaica and the Cayman Islands, where much of the Creole community has roots, and the Atlantic Coast of Honduras, which also has Miskitos, garifuna and Creoles. This is part of the reason Nicaragua has historically struggled to integrate its coast with the rest of the country. Efforts to create stronger cohesion, by promoting the teaching of Spanish and national symbols, invariably comes across as a repression of local cultures. It is a common tension that comes with the national identity. The new response of the government is to emphasize diversity and talk up the Coast culture as a part of what makes Nicaragua the special country that it is. As a result, those elements of the Coast that make Nicaragua more like other countries cause a bit of uncomfortableness.

After the interchange with Neco, the reporter from Managua looked at me skeptically and said, "And where are YOU from?" Neco replied, "She's, um, a gringa costena." The others said, "Speak to him in Miskito!" I said, "Ao, yang miskitu sna." Which means, "Yeah, I'm totally Miskito." Although my size is somewhat formidable compared to the people here, there are Miskitos, mestizos, and even the occasional Creole who share a similar complexion. Still, he looked unconvinced, but decided, "As long as she dances like a negra, right?" Whatever, dude.

After the performance, he came up to congratulate us. He looked at me and said I was approved. I actually felt irate despite myself. I didn't need his approval. He's not even from the Coast. Who was he to decide who and what it ought to look like? The people here in Bilwi have always expressed the utmost enthusiasm for me sharing in and thereby helping to promote their culture. That's the only approval that matters. If I'm accepted by the group then what is this reporter worried about?

So it seems some of the defensive indignation costeños feel towards people in the Pacific part of the country has stuck to me. Perhaps I'm just overcompensating for always being the outsider by pretending to be more like an insider when someone from the other side of the country shows up. Or maybe the time I have spent here, building relationships and learning the language and the culture, really has made me more of an insider in this city than even a Nicaraguan from somewhere else.

Learning and Teaching Self-Esteem

2010-10-21T03:29:00.000-05:00

I was at the Center for Integral Attention for the Caribbean Woman, waiting for my appointment with the psychologist, when the director of the shelter for victims of sexual and domestic abuse looked at me for a moment and said offhandedly, "You could teach dance classes here, right?"

I'm no longer surprised when someone recognizes me for being in the dance group. Between our various presentations around the city, some of which I'm told get played on the local TV channel from time to time, I'm fairly well recognized around town as the gringa who dances. Not that people need television to know my business, or anyone else's for that matter.

While not surprised that she knew I danced, I was a bit jarred by the way the director jumped into the middle of the conversation, bypassing the typical pleasantries like, "How long have you been in Bilwi?", "Do you like it here?", and "What's your name?" In any case, I considered for a moment and said, "Sure, why not?"

And that is how I started teaching dance classes three times a week to girls and women in the shelter. We dance a little bit of everything: Palo de Mayo, punta, cumbia, merengue, reggaeton. I'm hoping to get some Miskito music soon so we can dance that, too. It's a pretty laid-back and fun hour which somewhat inconveniently leaves me unusually sweaty in the middle of the day. I was expecting women in their 20s and 30s who were going to be shy and not necessarily thrilled about the new activity thrown into their schedules. Instead, the four girls who attend regularly are very enthusiastic and very young. I don't think any of them are older than 15. I don't know what their stories are, nor do I ever need to, but I hope the class is a safe space that helps them feel more in control of and have more esteem for their bodies and themselves.

And then there's the issue of my own self-esteem. My psychologist gave me a survey to see how assertive I was. It caused me to reflect on how far my behavior has fallen from the strong, assured self image I had created for myself sometime in college. She looked over my response and reported summarily, "You are an insecure person." We then proceeded to review some basic principles of assertiveness, which I found helpful and will reproduce here.

1. Sometimes, you have the right to be first.
2. You have the right to make mistakes.
3. You have the right to have your own opinions and beliefs.
4. You have the right to change your ideas, opinions, or ways of acting.
5. You have the right to express critique and protest unfair treatment.
6. You have the right to ask for clarification.
7. You have the right to try to change what does not satisfy you.
8. You have the right to ask for help or emotional support.
9. You have the right to feel and express pain.
10. You have the right to ignore advice from others.
11. You have the right to receive recognition for a job well done.
12. You have the right to deny a request, to say no.
13. You have the right to be alone, even when others want your company.
14. You have the right not to justify yourself to others.
15. You have the right to not take responsibility for the problems of others.
16. You have the right to not anticipate the desires and needs of others and not have to intuite them.
17. You have the right to not be dependent upon the goodwill of others, or the absence of illwill in their actions.
18. You have the right to respond or not.
19. You have the right to be treated with dignity.
20. You have the right to have your own ideas, and that they be as important as others'.
21. You have a right to feel and express your own emotions, and to be your only judge.
22. You have the right to stop and think before you act.
23. You have the right to ask for what you want.
24. You have the right to do less than you are capable of doing.
25. You have the right to decide what to do with your body, time, and property.
26. You have the right to deny requests without feeling guilty or selfish.
27. You have the right to talk about a problem with the person involved and clarify it, in case everyone's rights aren't clear.
28. You have the right to do anything, as long as it doesn't violate the rights of others.

It seems obvious and simple as I type it now, but reading over it with the psychologist, it felt like a revelation.

Sylvi and Ronaldo: A Story

2010-10-06T21:23:00.000-05:00

Ronaldo is eleven years old. He lives in Puerto Cabezas, a city in Nicaragua that's right by the ocean. He lives there with his mother, aunt, and about twenty other family members on a little plot of land that has three houses and one well where they all get their water.

Among all his family, his favorite is his cousin Sylvi. Sylvi helps him eat and bathe and keeps him company during the day. Ronaldo needs extra help because he has cerebral palsy. That means he has trouble moving his body, so he can't walk or talk or move his arms very well.

Ronaldo likes to show people how he feels with his face. He especially likes to smile. Sylvi always seems to know if he's feeling hungry or lonely or if he wants to move his body around, and she knows just what to do to make him smile again.

During the week, Sylvi takes Ronaldo to school at Escuela Maureen, a school for children like Orlando who have special needs. Ronaldo loves going to school to see his friends. He smiles a lot there. When it is very hot, his friends always remember to help Orlando wipe his brow so he doesn't get too sweaty.

Ronaldo likes going to school with Sylvi. He was very sad when one day, Sylvi wasn't at home to take him to school. Sylvi and Ronaldo had another cousin, and he hurt Sylvi very badly when they were little. Now, they are almost grown up, but her cousin told Sylvi that he wanted to hurt her again. She was very scared, but she did not want to tell her mom because she thought her mom would get mad and say, "Your cousin is a good person. He would never hurt you."

Sylvi wanted to leave the house to be safe, but she did not know where to go. One night, she got very scared and sad and tried to die. But she did not die after all, and her family took her to the hospital. She talked with a woman there who told her she could go to a safe house where there were other women who had been threatened by someone in their family.

Sylvi did not want to leave Ronaldo and her family, but she knew she needed to be safe, so she went to the safe house. Now she is sad because she cannot take Ronaldo to school and keep him company anymore. Ronaldo is sad, too. He misses Sylvi and does not understand why she is not in the house. He misses school, too, because now no one can take him. He hopes someday Sylvi will come back so that they can spend time together and go to school again. Sylvi hopes so, too.

THE END. For now...

Universal Declaration of Human Rights

2010-10-04T18:22:00.000-05:00

I've been working on grad school applications lately, and haven't had mental energy for blogging. Here is the reflection of one of my students, which is one of the more empowering stories I've read lately. We studied the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and the assignment was to write a story in which one of these rights was violated.

THE RIGHT TO KNOW YOUR RIGHTS

One day a child told his father that he wanted to know his rights but his father said no, he wasn't going to tell him and the child was sad. The next day he asked his mother and his mother also said no and the child was sad again. One time, the child was still sad and a woman asked him, "Hey, why are you sad?" And the child said, "I'm said because my parents don't want to tell me what my rights are," and the woman said, "Don't worry, because I will tell you your rights."

"All children have the right to education, freedom, to play, and to laugh."

And the child was happy and went to tell his parents and he told them that he wanted to study and that he wanted to be someone in life and he also wanted to work to help his family. His parents were surprised by what he said, and his father said, "If you want to study, I'll send you to school."

The child went to study and now he's helping other students who don't know their rights.

I Feel More Nicaraguan When I

2010-09-21T18:53:00.000-05:00

1) Decide not to do anything because it's raining.
2) Open something with my teeth.
3) Add the phrase "God willing" to the end of my sentences.
4) Think 40 minutes late is pretty close to on time.
5) Wear perfume.
6) Paint my nails.
7) Delay on tutoring a student because I'm talking with one of the teachers.
8) Tell a lie to create a more socially acceptable response.
9) Clean my shoes.
10) Bathe two or more times a day.
11) Refrain from bathing because I'm too hot and sweaty.
12) Wear shoes so as not to be adversely affected by the relative coolness of the floor on my bare feet.
13) Share what I'm eating with everyone around me.
14) Agree with someone to make them feel supported even if I'm actually ambivalent.
15) Ask someone a question about their health or relationships that I would otherwise consider too personal, for the sake of showing interest in their lives.
16) Sympathize with the personal woes of a relative stranger.
17) Freely dispense advice or overt displays of compassion.
18) Address someone by a physical characteristic, such as weight or skin color (I still rarely bring myself to do this).
19) Take time to rest without feeling guilty or unproductive.
20) Say "tuani" to mean cool, "dale pues" to mean "okay, then," "pata," or paw, for foot, "oy," "que honda?" for "what's up?" or "fachenta" to mean "show off."

Panamaniacal

2010-09-12T16:41:00.000-05:00

We just returned from our retreat in Panama yesterday, about 30 hours after leaving the retreat site for the bus station. Not counting the five hours spent at the two borders, I whiled away the hours watching timeless classics such as Air Bud 3: World Pup.

Traveling to Panama was a bit of a culture shock. I always feel a little overwhelmed when I go into the supermarket in Managua and there's all this stuff and air conditioning. Panama was that times ten. I went to see a movie in a theatre for the first time in over a year. Panama City is enormous, with a skyline longer than any I've seen. The Canal was an amazing experience; the bathrooms were super clean and had soap AND toilet paper. And the locks that the ships passed through were pretty cool, too.

In some ways, it was wonderful. In Bilwi they say you can get anything in Managua. I would amend that to "anything except falafel." I had falafel and hoummus in Panama City, and it was positively heavenly. It was also really nice to find hair conditioner and gel. My head felt so light and smelled so good after I used it, I felt brand new again. There are little luxuries that make life much sweeter, which I didn't realize I had missed while in Bilwi.

Still, if I had to characterize my overall experience in the City, the words dizzying, headache-inducing, and overwhelming come to mind. While I did not miss the everpresent poverty, I missed the simplicity that comes with a lack of options for things to buy and things to do. I also realized that hot showers are best used only to help me adjust to the water in preparation for a cold shower, because cold showers really are much more refreshing. There's something a little bit wonderful about coming in from a hot day and taking a cold shower in water that I know comes from the well outside. It's more effortless; no energy had to be put into heating it.

Most of all, I missed the intimate connection with nature provided by buildings that are not sealed off and climate-controlled. Even the intransigent insects that invade the house incessantly provide a constant reminder of life's abundance, with the occasional coral snake or tarantula thrown in to remind of life's impermanence. It's comforting and addicting to be surrounded by so much color and so much life. If I'm sad, I can just go outside and look at the hibiscus plant threatening to annex our front porch, or the small forest of banana plants in the neighbors' yard across the street, from which hidden children shout their greetings. When I return to the United States, I think it is this intimacy with the natural world, which tires me out by 10 at night and wakes me up at 6 in the morning, that I will miss the most.

Unbearable Hotness

2010-08-28T20:30:00.000-05:00

Until today, it hadn't rained for almost a week, and temperatures were climbing past 100 degrees. It was grueling. However, that's not the subject upon which I intend to expound at the moment, though it might be related. Ever since arriving in Nicaragua, the three of us volunteers in Puerto Cabezas have been upgraded to movie star gorgeous status.

In Nicaragua, as in all of Latin America, light skin is considered the most attractive, and it's one of the most salient features in determining beauty. Here, a darker-skinned woman who would draw far more attention than me in the US gets beauty demerits for being dark-skinned. Although, given the relentless sexual appetites men are expected to cultivate here, it probably doesn't much affect her ability to secure a partner. With this added boost to my admittedly already near-irresistible sexual appeal, I become the overt object of desire of nearly every man in the city, and probably not a few women. One day, as I was walking with Michael, even the mayor of Puerto Cabezas called out “Oy cuňado, cuidala!” Which means “Hey brother-in-law, take care of her!” In this clever taunt, the mayor posits himself as my boyfriend, thus relegating Michael to the role of my brother. Latin American culture dictates zero discretion in the revealing of sexual interest, so this sort of call follows me and Susan wherever we go in the city. This diminishes somewhat when I'm out with Michael, and stopped completely only when my parents came to visit and I was showing them around.

The effect of all this attention is both maddening and intoxicating. I will freely tout the assertion that the way men address women in the street is disrespectful and reinforces physical forms of disrespect, ranging from grabbing a woman on the street to rape. In this cultural milieu, I am much more sympathetic to men who jealously guard their girlfriends. Though my American independent-woman mindset makes me a bit ashamed to admit it, I actually feel better having someone who at least partially shields me from the unwanted attention that makes me feel physically less safe. I'm not sure how much more capable Michael is of fighting off an assailant than I am, but the fact is men are just seen as more formidable opponents. If I am accompanied by a man, I will be more likely to be left alone.

On the other hand, I would be lying if I said I only detested the attention I am given here. The truth is, it's wonderful to feel beautiful and widely desired. I find myself dressing up more here than I did in the US, even though I can draw attention regardless of what I wear, because people focus so much on keeping themselves stylish and immaculate. I used to think I cared less about what I wore when my self-confidence was higher. Now I'm not so sure. I'm experimenting with what it means to take pride in myself and my appearance. I do not aim to draw additional attention, but to both revel in and live up to the attention that is given. It's blowing my mind daily, because it's so contrary to the culture I had become accustomed to in which standards of beauty for women are considered a form of oppression. Perhaps it is not so much that I am fully embracing sex appeal and makeup, but rather I am learning to playfully manipulate these expectations placed on women to experience a different way of being and interacting.

I often wonder what it will be like when I return to the US. Will I feel safer on the street? Or more neglected? I suspect that I will at least be much more tuned in to men's intentions in my relationships with them, and a little more inclined to keep my distance. I sincerely hope the overall effect will be increased social savvy rather than cynicism.

Modern Day Samuels

2010-08-28T15:41:00.000-05:00

The assignment- write your own version of I Samuel 3, 1-10
Responses by students ages 10-12

A child named Jorge didn't know about the Word of God. One day, he was sitting when he heard a strange voice that came from a little sanctuary. He stopped and thought, then ran to his older brother Luis and said "You said something!" But he said no. An hour later he heard the strange voice again. "Jorge!" "You called me, Luis?" And Luis again told him no. A half hour later, "Jorge!" "You called me, Luis?" "No, surely it was your guardian angel, sent by God. If he calls you, answer and pray for the people around you."

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One morning, a voice was heard saying, "Come with me and I will protect you." Later one of the girls in my class followed the voice that called her. When she got there, it was God, but no one wanted to believe that it was God that called her. The next day the same voice returned and the girl said, "Enough. Who are you?"
"I am your father."
"I can't see you."
"You can't see me but if you listen to me, I am your father and I will protect you."

Things I have learned about being in relationship with Nicaraguans/people with a great deal of need

2010-08-24T12:30:00.000-05:00

I have been reflecting about setting good boundaries in relationships lately, spurred in part by a wonderful Norwegian friend who has a lot of experience being in relationship with the people here in Puerto Cabezas. This is an attempt to start to articulate all that I have learned in the past two years about being in relationship with people in poverty. I write this as a person who is caring, compassionate, loving, and eager to know other people and be there for them. This is the kind of person an organization like Cap Corps attracts, and it stands that such people must be ready to set firm boundaries in their relationships. It amazes me that I felt I was strong and assertive and had good boundaries last year working at a homeless shelter, that this year I would feel like I lost all of that training in maintaining an emotional distance from people who have a great deal of need in their lives. The reason is that at Hope House, I was only in contact with such people in a professional setting, and the additional boundaries I needed for the clientele built off of normal employee-client relationships. Here in Bilwi, the people on the street and the friends that surround me are the ones in need. The same people I draw on for emotional support are the ones who have incredible need both emotionally and financially. When I say Nicaraguans/People with a lot of need, I mean it's impossible to separate the social culture of Nicaragua from a culture of poverty, because the poverty is so widespread. People in poverty in Nicaragua may have different ways of acting than someone in poverty in the US, but I believe there are still fundamental similarities that anyone who is disposed to enter into relationship with someone facing great economic and emotional need ought to know. I'm sure that people who don't live in poverty also adhere to these characteristics, but they express themselves in different ways.

1) Love. Poverty is really stressful. It causes mistrust and anger between spouses who can't provide for themselves or their family, between children who don't get enough, and between parents and young adults who have difficulty becoming independent for economic reasons (see my blog entry In-dependent). This leads to high rates of anger, abuse, and general discontent among families living in poverty. This is a bit different in the US, where I felt like a lot of the people who came to Hope House were estranged from their families and felt alone. Although I have noticed that many young people here feel alone despite being surrounded by their family.

All this is to say that among people who live under the stress of poverty, it is very common (though far from universal) that people will desperately crave love and attention. If you present yourself as friendly and sympathetic, you will attract these people to you. They can take up lots of your time, preoccupation, and emotional energy. First of all, it's good just to listen. People generally just want someone to listen to them. You don't have to understand or offer advice. Secondly, you have to be very self-aware and notice when energy is starting to drain from you because of a relationship. When you are aware, anchor yourself emotionally. Don't get carried away in the emotions of the other person. It doesn't help them and destroys you. I find it's good to set a time limit. How long can I listen to this person before I must go on to something else. You don't have to explicitly say "I'm going to listen to you for 15 minutes," but recognize when that limit is reached, what your "out" is going to be (I have to go to bed now), and enforce it tactfully but forcefully. Then go do something that gives you energy, like listen to music or read a book or talk to someone else. I felt like I had become good at this, but in the ambiguous give-take friendship that gradually become more and more take and less and less give for you, it can become hard to notice when a tipping point has been reached and boundaries must be readjusted. Don't be afraid to readjust boundaries.

2) Lying. Lying is a fundamental part of the culture here. People tend to say whatever they feel they need to say to get what they want, and it's not all that shameful to be caught in a lie. To some extent, the same is true of stealing. Despite how much you love someone, you always have to be skeptical about what they say, especially if they're looking for something, be it your time, your money, your sympathy, whatever.

3) Lending money. There is practically no lending of money here. There is only giving. If you lend someone something, especially money, don't expect it back. Material items can be returned with some agressive pursuit, but money is almost always a loss. I recommend you start by not lending any money at all. Then if you feel comfortable, you can give as you feel led. Generosity is smiled upon here, but it's also exploited like crazy. So know when to say no, and say it a lot.

It's good to not take lying, thieiving, attempts at exploitation too personally. As Michael Crosby says, it's just the hunt. Everyone has need, and they're just trying to get what they can where they see opportunity. People can attempt to be emotionally manipulative if you say no. Stand your ground, and then let it roll off you. Remember that it's just the hunt. If you get too bitter or reserved, you will never have good relationships with anyone.

4) Theft. Anything can be stolen, even if it doesn't seem like it's worth anything to you. And anything unsecured is good as gone within a short period of time. On the bright side, the good people like to keep an eye out for you, so if you forget something often a good person will grab it and hold onto it until you come back.

5) Experiences of suffering bring great wisdom. If I shut down too much emotionally, I might miss the wisdom they have to offer. Also people are in general a lot more comfortable with pain and grieving here, so it's okay to be vulnerable about your feelings. Sharing your thoughts and feelings openly is one of the best ways to endear yourself to the people here, and they are, I find, much more effusive and supportive than Americans. The US has a "polite but aloof" atmosphere that encourages things like suffering to be done in private. In Nicaragua, your pain and joy, just like possessions, are expected to be shared with everyone. If you start to cry, you will immediately have people flock to support you. In the US, they tend to just stand there uncomfortably or retreat to a safe distance.

Setting boundaries is the first lesson, and the last. It's always about boundaries.

One Year, 50 Posts

2010-08-16T20:34:00.000-05:00

Today marks the one-year anniversary of our arrival in Nicaragua. An auspicious moment such as this one requires that I make testament to how far God has brought me in my journey. This 50th post on my blog shall, therefore, be a marker post, an ebenezer that bears witness to where I have come by God's help.

My faith has scrambled a lot this year as it tries to define itself in a new cultural context, where the people do not dispute the existence of God and yet feel a constant shame for failing to follow the path they see God dictating. I had trouble finding a church, and spent the first few months adrift and churchless until I decided that I needed to have a church community, even if it wasn't ideal or strongly compelling. Church is the anchor of my week that keeps me from drifting too far from God. When I finally settled down and set my intentions upon regular attendance at the Moravian Creole church down the street, I discovered moments of God's kingdom breaking through in services I had previously found routine and lifeless. Like when the pastor announced, "and now Miss Martha will sing some special music for us," and a tall, slender woman in her 50s gets up and intones with heartfelt sincerity the words of John Lennon's "Let It Be." For the record, the Moravians do not espouse Marian-centric theology. Or, on Children's Day: "Juliet will now recite a poem for us." The little 4-year old girl that lives next door gets up and announces "Happy Mother's Day," to the delight of the audience. Or the congregation that I had only known to sing 100 year old hymns accompanied by an organ playing the pace of a funeral dirge that suddenly springs to their feet and sings a zesty rendition of the Magic Penny song from memory, with corresponding motions.

I have also marked my faith in the observations and responses of my religion students at the two schools. Last week, we were talking about social sins in my 3rd year class, and I was explaining how social sin ultimately came down to hierarchical structures where people at the top abuse their power over the people at the bottom. Climbing upon her soapbox, 17-year-old Yorleni responded with such passion I thought she was disagreeing with me. "Because when judgment comes, you know it's not going to be the people at the bottom with the most to answer for. It's going to be the people at the top, with the power." And her classmate Kent joined in and said, "Then the people at the bottom come up and the hierarchy gets destroyed." Here I raise mine ebenezer.

The symbol of the Moravian church, so ubiquitous in these parts that many children can draw it from memory, constantly reminds me of what I am about here. It features a lamb carrying a flag, as if from battle. The words wrapping around the cross say "Our lamb has conquered. Let us follow him." This image contains two theological tenets I do not normally hold to. The first, symbolized by the lamb, is that Jesus is a sacrifice meant to appease the wrath of God. The second, symbolized by the flag, is that Jesus is a general leading all into violent battle. While these two ideas are not part of my theology, the juxtaposition is something at once ridiculous and beautiful. In the ritual slaughter of the lamb, who would have thought of the lamb being the one who emerges triumphant? What would Braveheart be like if Mel Gibson cast Lambchop in the lead role? It is our vulnerability which conquers. And in a land of unfamiliar cultural constructions, I must look closely and discover that the Spirit of God and my own spirit have always been at home here.

These moments, and a hundred lazy conversations around kitchen tables and park benches, have kept me strong in the faith. I continue to follow Lambchop and her battle cry of freedom.

Playing Teacher

2010-08-05T10:05:00.000-05:00

The religion teacher at Colegio del Nino Jesus is taking a 3-week class on the Bible in Bluefields, so she tapped me to teach not only her religion classes, but also the "Convivencia and Civismo" classes she is responsible for. This class covers everything from human rights and gender identity to healthy eating and proper bicycling practices. They copied the biking notes surprisingly enthusiastically, as if they were actually aware that a bike typically has things like lights and reflectors, and it is generally recommended to wear a helmet.

I have found the creative freedom of creating all of my own lesson plans to be a breath of fresh air. I enjoy the challenge of drawing together resources and adapting my knowledge to present a cogent lesson that a teenager can both grasp and run with in search of their own ideas. I hit a crisis when thinking about how to teach smart consumerism. It first occurred to me to teach about the media's influence in consumption and the various ways they seek to manufacture needs and pursuade people to buy. I then started to think about the kinds of media that are present here in Bilwi, and I realized that no one's developing ad campaigns to target the modern Bilwi youth. The only international media that has any widespread influence is via television. I have to wonder how many of the products advertised there are available here. There's also radio, but that's locally run. The economy is operating very close to subsistence levels; in general people don't buy much more than what they need, and sometimes not even that. There are far fewer manufactured needs here. In my education, smart consumerism had everything to do with learning to make the right choice in an endless sea of options. How can I teach young people to be shopping-savvy when there's only one type of peanut butter available? In the end, I focused the lesson on two points: distinguishing between want and need, and the importance of saving money. The latter is scarcely present in the "just survive today, let tomorrow take care of itself" philosophy that pervades the culture here.

Despite all my training at Hope House, I err on the side of being too nice and forgiving. Or at least I think I do. When I told Lee I had taken several tests away from students who were copying, he said, "Wow, I just took points off." I love the dramatic flourish of whisking a test away. It's deeply satisfying.

I find myself challenged with trying to make lessons about proper nutrition and hygiene interesting enough to hold my attention. I don't worry so much about holding their attention. If it's interesting for me, I can convince them to be interested, too. I was looking for an angle from which to present the lists of information about the proper handling of food. I started off saying, "Did you know that a kitchen rag has more bacteria than the toilet?" They responded with a languid stare, nonplussed. I tried another tack.

"Do you know what BOTULISM is?"
"No."
"It's a DISEASE that you get from preparing your food wrong. It slowly paralyzes your body until it reaches your heart, and then your heart stops and you DIE!"

They seemed mildly more impressed by this. Capitalizing on what little interest I had managed to pique, every time a student stopped paying attention or started talking, I pointed at them and said, "YOU'RE going to get BOTULISM!" A few students caught onto my logic that the word "botulismo" rolls off the tongue delightfully, both in English and in Spanish. By the end of class, one of the worst offenders was bouncing up and down, pumping his fists and chanting "Botulismo! Botulismo! Botulismo!" A lump of pride began to swell in my throat.

The other strategy I employed in that class was the traditional trivia quiz-style review, where the class is divided into two teams. One member of each is sent up to the front, and they have to answer a question about the material. In my rambunctious first-year classes, engaging activities like this is like trying to steer a horse at a frenetic gallop. If you can keep it going in the right direction, you can get quite far. If you lose control, all hell breaks loose. I was quite pleased with the results of my class, though the teacher in the room next door might not have been.

On the whole, I have enjoyed playing the part of teacher. I think keeping that element of "play" in the job makes the difference between a delightful class and a nightmarish one.

In dependence

2010-07-26T15:36:00.000-05:00

Susan's birthday was on Wednesday, and we celebrated by taking a cake and soda over to the house of our friend Julie to celebrate. I was originally contemplating cooking a meal for their family, but after doing the math on the amount of food required to feed the 20-odd family members living on the property, I elected to just bring the sweet stuff. They were remarkably gracious about letting us stuff their children full of sugar and caffeine before bedtime.

Like most families in this area, Julie's family owns a piece of property on which they have built several houses. When one settles down in Nicaragua, one does not buy a house, one buys land and builds a house. The land and whatever houses are on it are passed down through the family. In Julie's case, there are three houses on the property, with family members running around between each one. This system ensures that there are always people around to watch the kids, which is especially important in the case of Julie's severely handicapped cousin Orlando. Julie plays a large part in caring for him and raising the small children, especially her baby brother Victor. “Sometimes he even prefers me to his mom,” she told me.

If the upside of this arrangement is the interdependence between family members, this is simultaneously the downside. If Orlando's mother has an argument with Julie's mother, for example, it would be very difficult for her to go somewhere else, because she would have no one to help her in the enormous responsibilities of caring for her son. This reality similarly prevents abused spouses from moving out. Incest is also a problem, and many children have to grow up coexisting with the cousins that raped them at an early age. Even in cases where there is no abuse, it is simply very difficult for young people to become independent and separate from their parents when they reach adulthood. Anita, my Nicaraguan mother in Nandasmo, feels that this is an important part of growing up that is lacking in Nicaragua. Even Adam and Eve needed to strike out on their own at some point, and their parental figure was God.

The difficulty with becoming independent is both economic and psychological. Selmira, our supervisor, once observed to us that it was amazing that we volunteers at such a young age were able to come so far away from home and be so clear in what we want to accomplish and have the ability to follow through. She made this comment while telling us about her nephews, who had gone to college in Managua, where they dropped out of class and spent the money their mother sent them on alcohol, while lying to her about it for months. Obviously, there are American young adults who squander their resources upon moving out of home and Nicaraguans who go away to college and do just fine. Still, she made a probably valid point that Nicaraguan youth aren't brought up to become independent in the way that American youth are. And with good reason, since many of them probably won't. Whether the cause is economic, cultural, or both, Nicaraguans put enormous value on sharing and mutual care, where the US prizes self-reliance. The result in Nicaragua is very lovely and Christian, wherein even those who are poor will generously share what little they have. But the flip side is the inability to separate from one's family, both economically and geographically.

Despite the negative aspects of large families living in community, it remains quite touching to see a gaggle of ten icing-smeared children spontaneously dancing to Shakira with their brothers, sisters, and cousins in the family living room.

My Students Weigh in on Marriage

2010-07-20T17:40:00.000-05:00

My dear readers may recall that last month I posted a reflection on the significance of Father's Day in Nicaragua. Last week, it fell to me to teach my third-year Christian Formation class about the sacrament of holy matrimony. After a lively discussion about the elements of a good marriage, I put it to them to write dialogues exploring the pros and cons of getting married. I offer some of their insights here, that the reader may employ to support, question, or otherwise further develop on the ideas I put forth. Common themes include a fear of divorce, mistreatment, economic insecurity. Also a strong connection between matrimony and being a good Christian, though with so many things here it's hard to tell if that makes it desirable, unattainable, or both.

Notes:
1)It's not always possible to tell from their responses if they are interested in getting married themselves. These are more their observations of the views that surround them.
2) Men are rather unrepresented, because they are a minority in the class and tend to not turn in their homework. But that's another topic entirely.

Erely and Joddy (female):
Person 1: For me, marriage is good. For me, a person from the time they're born thinks about only being with one person to love and to be sure of their love they should marry.
Person 2: I disagree because if someday one of the pair doesn't want to stay married they have to divorce and, even worse, if it's through the church it's until death do them part and I wouldn't like that...
Person 1: That's not love. Love is sharing ideas, things, and problems. I see my companion's point but I still [support marriage.]
Person 2: ...Marriage...at the beginning is lovely but later shameful things come to pass...perhaps someday I'll support marriage.
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Osmelda (female):
"Because of marriage the partners are happy and through marriage they follow the church, loving each other in the Lord. They don't think bad thoughts or have eyes for others, only for that man or that woman."
"It's bad to get married because as soon as they're married, whether it's by the state or the church, the first night they're already cheating on their wives, especially the men... if they marry in the church, two days later they don't go to church, they don't love their partner, if they have children they don't show them love and kindness but only mistreatment, a week later they want to get divorced, saying "I'm bored with you, I'm tired, I can't stand you," and they go around sleeping with other women and men."

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Hellen (female):
"Marriage for goodness is good because it serves to form a family, take care of each other...it's also good to be [together] in the good times and the bad, and in marriage there's happiness, sadness, and the spouse and children are there to comfort...there are some partners that don't want to have children, and some that do because a child is a blessing in the family..."

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Doyly and Gino (male):

Person 2: I understand marriage to be a relation that exists between two people that love each other...I think that marriage is of little importance in life...I'm not getting married because you know I don't have money to buy clothes and celebrate wtih the family.
Person 1: I want to get married to be close to God that is on high and stay free of all evil.

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Johana (female)

"Marriage is something beautiful before God and the world and for families...not everyone gets married for love, but for money and material goods...this is very bad before God... For this reason, it's better that they not marry. What's the good of a marriage that lasts one year or two and then they get divorced....and then they take away property, they threaten each other, etc."

[Note: Johana affirmed to me that she does want to get married someday.]

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Karina (female)

Here, the majority of couples don't get married because they know that love isn't forever, because everything in this life ends, even love, in part because of infidelity, because both men and women are unfaithful."

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Stefany and Ruth (female)

Person 1:"It's good...to get married because the force of love is the union of two people...the married life is very happy when there's love and trust between them."

Person 2: "A married person lives in hell...the husband hits her, insults her, and chides her for everything."

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Jahaira (female)

Person 1:When he marries, the person accepts God and his wife...Marriage is important for life and for our future.

Person 2: Marriage is sacred, but if I get married... I don't know if that man is going to mistreat me or leave me or kill me. Because of this I'm not going to get married... I can't marry a disrespectful and irresponsible man...and when I get pregnant he's going to tell me "It's not my daughter or my son," he's going to tell me to get an abortion. That's why I don't accept marriage.

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Shanelia (female)

Person 1: What happened with your marriage?
Person 2: I decided not to get married because it can be a risk.
Person 1: But how, if marriage isn't anything risky, it makes you happy.
Person 2: But I think that if I get married I might experience tragedy, my husband might mistreat me.
Person 1: No, marriage is healthy if it's about loving each other mutually, of course you have to choose the right person.
Person 2: I never thought of marriage that way.
Person 1: You should, because marriage is a blessing from God, because from it children are born along with a pure love between the two partners that lasts until death, if you choose the right person.
Person 2: Thanks for your advice, now I'm thinking well.
Person 1: No problem, I hope to see you get married someday.
Person 2: Of course!

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Nesly (female)

Marriage is good because that way we can show that we love each other, we need someone to love us. It's also important because this way we can show God that we love him, that we're faithful to him, that he is important in our lives. And that we love each other, and act in a rightful and patient way because marriage means a pact that we make with God.

Some people shouldn't get married because they get married for money and when there's money, there's love...but when the money ends the love gets lost.... If someone gets married for [wordly] interest and then divorce it's because they're not faithful to God.

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Sandralee (female)

Many people don't get married, and many girls that get pregnant at an early age. Maybe because the men who get them pregnant don't have the ability to marry and maintain their wife.

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Sterry (male)

Person 1: [Marriage] is terrible. I don't want responsiblity, I want to have adventures and lots of women.

Person 2: Marriage is something Christian. It's for loving each other, obeying each other, and respecting each other.

Person 1: I don't want to get married because it's not interesting for my life.

Person 2: But marriage is God's law.

Person 1: Of course...don't... say it [ellipsis original]

Person 2: You're joking, you could marry the woman you love.

Person 1: Don't sermonize!

Person 2: It's advice, not a sermon.

Person 1: Fine, I'll get married.

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Noemi and Jolaina (female)

Person 1: I think marriage is a bad idea because...if the man is a drinker and machista, you have to tolerate his yelling and hitting. But if it's a religous marriage there's no divorce, it's until death.

Person 1: Marriage is nothing bad. When someone gets married they should love each other mutually, the man just like the woman. The woman shouldn't permit her husband to yell at her or lay a hand on her.

Person 1: But this can happen in any marriage because when a woman gets married she doesn't know what the man is like. At the beginning, he's all sentimental, but at the end he's bitter.

Solution: Because of this, there's dating so the partners can get to know each other well. When the man starts to talk rudely, better to end the relationship because it doesn't lead to anything. We women should defend our rights.

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Helen (female)

"I think people don't get married very much because most of the population is very young and doesn't have marriage prospects. Most people get married when they have a stable economic condition."

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Vicky (female)

Person 1: I want to get married.
Person 2: Why? You're really young.
Person 1: But I'm old enough.
Person 2: But why can't you be like me? I have my boyfriend.
Person 1: That's you. I'm me and you don't even want to have kids.
Person 2: Why should I care about kids?
Person 1: Yes, you have no heart.
Person 2: Why don't I have a heart?
Person 1: Because you don't even want to have one child.
Person 2: But a child costs too much.
Person 1: But a child is everything!
Person 2: How is it everything?
Person 1: Of course it's everything. A child is love, kindness.

------------------------------------------

Onier (male)

Joselin (fictional? woman): Are you going to marry me?
Onier: I can do you the favor, but the truth is I'm not ready.
Joselin: But I want to marry you.
Onier: We're young and I don't want to marry now.
Joselin: But I can't stand this anymore.
Onier: You know I don't work and I have my lackings.
Joselin: Tell me the truth. You don't want me.
Onier: It's not that. It's like I said, I'm not old enough to get married.
Joselin: You have someone else. That's why you don't want to marry me.
Onier: I can't do this anymore. I see that you want something serious with me and I can't see you anymore.

--------------------------------

Iris and Meybi (female)

Person 1: I think marriage is good because it's where you unite your lives for your whole life.
Person 2: I disagree because you have to enjoy life and besides often there's infidelity.
Person 1: That's when they don't really love each other.
Person 2: I had a boyfriend and he cheated on me. Since then, I'm completely convinced that two people can't get married.
Person 1: You're wrong. If God's love is present, those people can understand each other.
Person 2: There's no love of God in people, only the devil's love.
Person 1: That's not true, because the devil's love doesn't exist in God nor in people.
Person 2: Ha ha ha, you're a genius. Marriage isn't for people.
Person 1: You don't believe the one that has to convince you. Open your damn eyes, blind girl!
Person 2: Reality is reality. Marriage doesn't exist.
Person 1: Of course it exists, you just don't accept it.
Person 2: It's fine, I'll get married or follow your advice. Thanks for your advice.

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Margarita (female) and Kevin (male)

Margarita: I think marriage is sacred, serious, it isn't a game. It's when two people unite and give themselves to God...when you get married you have to be mature and aware of what you're going to do. It's necessary to have time to think and decide what you really want.

Kevin: Marriage is good for those people who want to form a good, dignified family with much love and kindness.

Margarita: I'm not going to get married, because you don't know what your husband is going to be like. At the beginning he treats you well, but later he mistreats you. That's why I don't want to get married, don't even think about getting married.

Kevin: I want to get married to live with my family and have lots of love together and live in harmony with God, my children, and my wife.

----------------------------------------------------------

Esmelda (female)

For me the sacrament of marriage is important because it's good that someday we can follow a good path. Marriage is a promise that one makes with God to have faith in God and mutually act like a Christian. But for some people, they don't want to receive this gift or this sacrament. It's not important for them because they don't believe in God.

For others, they get married, but they leave each other again because one mistreats the other or the man wants to be with another woman, he doesn't love his wife or his children, abandons them and his children mistreat other people. Sometimes women part with their husbands. They run away when the man is at work, and the woman is happy with another man in the house.

..I don't know if I'm going to get married. I say I want to get married, but it may not be the gift God has given me.

----------------------------------------------------

Tayron and Kent (male)

Tayron: I think that marriage is a big responsibility for two partners, in which there must be: trust, kindness, care, and above all love. These things are vital in a marriage!!!! It's okay that a man or a woman gets married, but first they should choose that person well... ok!!!!!!

Kent: I think it's good to get married to have a family because through children you have a lot of help, because when they grow up they help us and also we have company through them, but also parents should be responsible in raising them so that their children grow up well.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Juan (male)

Person 1: A lovely marriage is that they feel a pure love between them and at the same time feel the love of our God and when they feel the pure love of God it's that they love each other and have an eternal marriage.

Person 2: I think it's a bad idea because if in less than ten years they separate they have to divide their material goods. When the love ends they live a war, they'll be unfaithful. Differences in opinion can come from having other children, economic issues.

Luto (or And Speaking of Death..)

2010-07-17T11:13:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a day of mourning in Puerto Cabezas. On Thursday night, a large truck carrying about 40 youth from the Central Miskito Moravian Church down the street took a turn too sharply and rolled over. They were on a mission trip to Waspam. Eight people died, including one of the pastors of the church, and dozens were injured. None of them were my students, although there was one Colegio del Nino Jesus student among the injured. It's the largest number of people who have died at one time in this region since the hurricane.

I accompanied two other teachers to the vigil in the Moravian church that had been going on non-stop since the night before. When people got word, they went to the church and waited all night for the bodies to start to arrive. When we got to the church, three of them were there; two boys in their late teens and one girl of about 8 or 10 years. There were crowds around the caskets, and several women weeping over the glass panels that opened on the faces of the young people. As best I understood him, the pastor was reminding people in Miskito to take their seats when they were done, to let the family and others have a chance to see the deceased, and to avoid crowding too much because it was very hot and people might faint. He also made announcements about when others were expected to arrive and when the wounded being treated in Waspam would be brought back, intermingled with words of reassurance about the power of God to deliver from death. One by one or in small groups, people came up to the microphone to offer a hymn. I was whisked into one of these groups by one of my companions, the music teacher.

I passed by several times later in the day. The number of caskets varied, as did the size of the crowds, but it was basically the same process all day and night. It reminded me of the tedious, even boring nature of grief as it simply lingers on, hour after hour.

The Canadian pastor of the Creole Moravian Church and her husband had described funerals in this city as more "organic," less sterilized than North American funerals. When I arrived I saw what they meant. The bodies of the dead are generally prepared by the families, not by professionals. I once heard Selmira half-joking with her sisters about which one would be painting her nails, and which would do her makeup after she died. While efforts are made to make the body diginified and presentable, they are nowhere near as extensive as in the US. Cotton had been put in the noses and, in one case, the mouth of the bodies to prevent leaking fluids. It just then occurred to me that they must do this in the US, but they take pains to make it not visible to the public. The same with the stitches that held together cheek of the little girl; there was no attempt to render them invisible. I remember, after my grandmother died, my mother reached out to touch her hand, and had to brush off her fingers a fine dusty paint that had been used to give my grandmother´s skin the appearance of life. The skin of these young people retained its pasty, ashen color of death. They were all dressed or shrouded in white, draped to conceal the worst of the head damage, but bloodstains had not all been diligently purged, a la Lady Macbeth.

All the while, I severely questioned my motives for looking upon those who had died. Was I motivated by a desire to accompany the living in their grief and the dead in their passing? Or at least an anthropological curiosity to see the burial preparations of the urban Miskito culture? Certainly these were both present. I couldn't help feeling my motivation also carried an element of a rubbernecker or a gawker, looking for shock and gore. Then I decided to look on this motive with compassion. I have generally only seen death when living people are made up to look dead or when dead people are made up to look living. How many times have I seen death just being death? I think of the times I came upon a dead squirrel in the yard of my house in Milwaukee, or the dead dogs in the streets of Managua. Every one of these moments jars me from my ilusion of life's security. I remember that I am like an infant who lacks object permanence, forgetting about that which is not in my line of sight. There is something compelling about looking upon the absence of life where it once had been. It is certainly a reminder of life's fragility, but I was more struck in the moment by life's power to transmit expression, color, dynamism, and love. It was as if lightning had struck the coffin, leaving a hole in the fabric of the living world, to be gradually be filled with more life. I was left wondering where all that energy had gone. It couldn't have just vanished. Just as I had forgotten death by its absence in my life, so had I been desensitized to soul, by its abundance. The absence of the soul was so conspicous as to leave no doubt in me that it had at once been present, and had since vacated the premises.

In the end, I find myself yet again realizing that I am not, nor will I be completely acclimated to life here, in this place of abundant life and abundant death.

Dia de los Muertos

2010-07-15T18:49:00.000-05:00

...was back in November. I wrote a poem about it, which I just came across while organizing my files. I submitted it to my writers' group, where it was met with mixed reviews. Since long distance, in this case, has precluded an in-depth editorial conversation, I let the project lie like the dead people we commemorated that day. But since blogs are all about first drafts, mediocrity be damned, I present my poem for your potential edification:

Dia de los Difuntos

Pines, as I know them,
Are the green that remains through the harshest winter
There is another evergreen, all but forgotten in my world:
That of the land which knows no winter.
In this place, palm trees and pines grow together
Up from grass that grows exuberantly
around the graves of so many little ones.

Look, there’s my husband. In the dark blue.
My eyes find their rest upon the immaculate tomb.
“Que lindo es!”
How lovely it is.
How lovely he is.

In a place of so many palms,
Pine is the symbol they claim.
As hearts enduring a hidden barren season,
The abundant death shrouded in abundant life.
Grief thrives like the flora,
But they have not come to grieve.
They have come to accompany.
as I have come to accompany
The living, and today the dead.
See, love, a foreigner has come to visit you

Cleaning, painting, tidying their homes,
Most families simply sit,
Gladly accepting the hospitality of their loved ones’ resting places.
A girl of 10 reclines upon a tomb no larger than her own body.
Two children resting in each other’s presence,
A mirror image in life and death.
Two old women sing
I do not know if the pitches they seek are the same or different
But their voices meet in startling harmony,
Not quite unison and not quite dissonant.

They pray for resurrection and eternal life in heaven,
Yet the spirits never leave them on the journey,
Can never escape their care, even in heaven.
Lord, remember those dead whose names are lost to us,
Lest they have need we cannot know.
In heaven or on earth, walking together as a community unbroken

In this place, the land of the palm and the land of the pine are one.
Under their protective shade, families are whole again.

A Bit of Litter-ature

2010-07-12T18:38:00.000-05:00

"You know," I said to Kate, a volunteer in Managua, as we stepped over the rotting carcass of a dog on the way to the grocery store, "Puerto Cabezas really is prettier than Managua, though there's more trash in the streets there.

"There's MORE trash in the streets there?"

In Nicaragua, and especially underdeveloped areas like Puerto, the burden of what to do with the byproducts of consumption is borne not by the government and the poor neighborhoods that get stuck with trash disposal sites. It's borne by every individual. I've only ever seen recently dead dogs in Puerto Cabezas, and only maybe twice at that. I don't know if people clear them out, or if the impressive rate of decomposition, in no small part due to Bilwi's army of vultures, takes care of them before I notice. Dead dogs notwithstanding, Bilwi does have a lot more trash in its streets than Managua. It's not because the people are more apt to throw trash here than in Managua. Both places teem with litterbugs. It's because Managua has trash collection services, while Bilwi, for all intents and purposes, does not.

Our first exposure to Bilwi's garbage disposal policies came shortly after we arrived. The guys we were living with at the time started a cheery bonfire just outside Susan's window. We watched in lurid fascination as a plastic chair melted into oblivion.

Burning is the most common means of trash removal here. Larger organizations and wealthier folk pay for private trash removal services by men who take it and do God knows what with it. When we moved into our new house, I thought, "Good gracious, I can't burn my trash. I'm an American, for Christ's sake." So I dutifully sojourned to the municipal services office on the other side of the city. I met with the man in charge of trash collection, and he assured me his people could come and pick it up. After several weeks of faithfully putting our trash outside, to have it ripped apart by the dogs, and then putting it out in rice sacks, to have it sniffed at longingly by the dogs, we finally realized that the mythical trash men weren't coming.

Indignant, I felt a surge of capitalist righteousness rise within me. "If we can't get the public service to pick up our trash, we might as well contract someone that we can refuse to pay for not removing our trash!" And so we did. Unfortunately, private contracting does not guarantee regular pick-up, only squabbling over payment. So much for capitalism. After months of trash struggles, burning became more and more appealing. Susan forbids burning trash in our yard (something about toxic fumes...?) so I waited until she had left on vacation to try my hand at burning trash. It may be toxic and un-American, but turns out it's satisfying and oddly thrilling. Just don't get the fumes in your eyes. It burns.

The official government position is that people should bury their trash. My response is "Where, next to my well?" Burying the trash means I'll be drinking it eventually. Burning it means I'll breathe it. Chuck it in the ocean, and it'll come back in your seafood. In the face of these options, maybe the best one is what so many people opt for; just throw it by the road. It may be unsightly, but at least I'm not consuming it.

Out of the Closet with a Stack of Books

2010-07-06T15:00:00.000-05:00

One of the joys of my time here in Puerto Cabezas is the amount of reading I've been able to do. Book after blessed book, I curl up in my hammock and read for hours, or until someone comes to the door or window looking for attention. I've long contemplated writing a blog entry about the reading I've accomplished, but I've been balking for several reasons. First of all, I figure, anyone in the US can read a book, even more easily than I can here in Nicaragua. People want to hear about life in Nicaragua, not about the time I spend engaging in reading, that most un-Nicaraguan of activities. This is an oral culture. People spend time talking about Ruben Dario, not poring over his collected works time and time again. This brings me to my second reason, which is guilt. I feel a bit guilty for the time I spend in my room with my books, or the time I read instead of talk while waiting for dance practice to start. I should be using the time to immerse myself in the local culture, part of which involves NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, SHOULD YOU FIND YOURSELF ALONE.

Then, today, I opened up that gem of a blog written by Peace Corps volunteer Jake Grossman. I found that he had written an entire entry not only reflecting upon the importance of books in his life in Paraguay, but reporting detailed statistical data he had carefully compiled on the books he had read, which is double the number I have read. I thought, "Wow, if this most excellent international blog can extoll the joys of reading, why can't I?" And so the story of my reading hobby is declassified from the top-secret files in my heart. (The story of my romantic life, however, has lost the petition for declassification for the time being. Besides, it may end up being the primary plot thread that ties together Puerto Cabezas: The Book)

I haven't spent free time devouring books this voraciously since grade school. Susan attributes it to the lack of other activities in which to engage, but I think it's more than that. First of all, I burned out a bit on reading after college. I'm finally over it. Secondly, I believe the sheer enormity of reading possibilities I had in the US actually limited the amount of reading I did. I would go into the wonderful, magical downtown Milwaukee Public Library and be so overwhelmed by the options that I would end up leaving with no book in hand. On the chance I did find a book, I would think, "Oh, this isn't SO great. There are so many other choices that I should go find another." And so my reading career faltered.

Here in Puerto Cabezas, I read whatever other ex-pats offer me. Susan and Lee, for sure, but also Deborah, the Canadian pastor of the Moravian church down the street, and Solveig, the Norwegian nurse currently working at a local university. Deborah and her husband Don have been my primary dealer of reading material. My parents have also brought me books. The book that I am reading now, James Michener's memoir entitled "The World is My Home," is one my family and I found in a hotel in Granada, where it had been abandoned after being checked out from the Miami-Dade Public Library (judging by the due date, not so very long ago).

As it turns out (and as Jake mentios), the books I read haven't been so terribly far removed from my experiences here. Diana Gabaldon's Outlander tells of a woman who builds a new community about her after being ripped suddenly from her own place and time. I could relate very much to her sense of being caught between worlds, despite the gentle waft of Harlequin rising from its pages, diminishing my normally robust apetite for reading. I do have to question the wisdom of my pastors who gave me The Sparrow before I left Milwaukee. A book about a missionary expedition that ends in massive bloodshed and the brutal deaths of nearly all involved is not exactly what you want to be reading when starting out on a year of service. Still, it was a lovely theological exploration with compelling characters that reminded me of the long and mixed tradition of overseas service workers and seekers in which I find myself. Jan Wong's excellent memoir Red China Blues was a lovely companion, sharing experience both the allure and the struggle of spending an extended period in another country, especially a poor one. Above all, that's what these books have been; companions, new friends to accompany me on my journey and share their wisdoms. Even Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, which I venture is about as unremarkable as one would expect from a book that draws its critical acclaim from Julia Roberts and Elle magazine, proved an amiable companion that provided a word of unwavering self-love and care at a time when I needed just such a message.

As my options close, my mind opens. I try out new books I would not otherwise have picked off the shelf, and I have not only made it through most of them, I have enjoyed them vastly. I've rediscovered that feeling I had once in college, when, curled up in bed with a theology book, I heard someone having sex. I smiled to myself and realized I could not be any happier than right there, where I was, with only my book for company.

The Books I Have Read in Nicaragua Thus Far :

1) The Sparrow by Maria Doria Russell
2) Shibumi by Trevanian
3) Caves of Steel by Isaac Asimov
4) The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud by Julia Navarro
5) Red China Blues: From Mao to Now by Jan Wong
5) The Lost Chord by Ian Thomas
6) The Devil in the White City: Murder, Madness and Magic at the Fair that Changed America by Erik Larson
7) The Eight by Katherine Neville
8) White Stone Day by John M. Gray
9) The Doomsday Key by James Rollins
10)Outlander by Diana Gabaldon
11)Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
12)Life of Pi by Yann Martel
13)The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible by AJ Jacobs
14)Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India, and Indonesia
15)Games for Actors and Non-Actors 2nd Edition by Augusto Boal
16)The Time-Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
17) Theatre of the Oppressed by Augusto Boal
Currently Reading:
Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories that Heal by Rachel Naomi Remen
Bible: A Biography by Karen Armstrong
The World is My Home: A Memoir by James Michener

Books that I made a grand effort at and have yet to finish:
Canterbury Papers: A Novel by Judith Healey
Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Promote Peace, One School at a Time by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin

The Ultimate Guide to Puerto Cabezas

2010-07-05T17:46:00.000-05:00

I imagine that some of my readers are currently saying "What gives? You haven't posted in two weeks!" I also imagine that the strength of this sentiment is directly proportional to the number of gene variations my reader and I have in common. In any case, I'll have you know that I have been most industrious these past few days, churning out the ULTIMATE (or at least above average) guide to Puerto Cabezas for those who will be coming here in the future. All the while being pitying the poor souls for not being able to arrive in Puerto with no idea whatsoever of what it was like, where they would be living, or what they would be doing.

Here are some excerpts that I hope the reader will find propitiatory:

First of all, you may be wondering, “What is this Bilwi/Puerto Cabezas business? Which is it? Am I going to Bilwi or Puerto Cabezas?” The correct answer is: it is both. You will be going to both places at once. “How very postmodern,” you reply. “How is this possible?” Bilwi is the name of the city, and Puerto Cabezas is the municipality. “But a municipality traditionally encloses no other governed districts. How can a city be located within a municipality?” You silly Anglophone! The city of Bilwi and several surrounding communities comprise one governmental district which several geographically distinguished regions. Bilwi is the urban(ish) center of Puerto Cabezas. The entire region is communally owned by various indigenous groups. I'm not sure what this means politically, but our friend Blanca says it's why the tourism industry will never take hold in Puerto. Apparently capitalists dislike communally owned territory.

As your levels of ennui begin to increase, I come to the more important question: “What am I going to do there? Where will I go?”

Restaurants

Puerto Cabezas features a plethora of restaurants and little cafes called comedores. Here are the ones I know best:

Kabu Payaska- One of the best restaurants in Puerto, Kabu Payaska is the classiest restaurant with plastic chairs you'll ever find. Located overlooking the beautiful Caribbean Sea, you will discover it truly lives up to its name, which is Miskito for “Sea Breeze.” As befitting such a location, it is especially known for its seafood dishes. An excellent choice for entertaining visiting family and friends.

Oasis- Located in the Loma Verde neighborhood on the far south side, Oasis enjoys the rather dubious distinction of “Best Pizza in Puerto Cabezas.” It really is quite tasty pizza. It also offers a wide array of brightly colored fruit juice options. The slow preparation time will allow you to enjoy a luxurious social hour with your friends, all while ensuring that health code is properly followed in the kitchen, which is separated from the dining area by a glass window. A delectable and, by US standards, economical choice for large groups of people.

Comedor Aquí Me Quedo- This adorable little restaurant is located next to the central park. It features typical Nica food- gallo pinto (beans and rice), fried chicken or other meats, tajadas (fried plaintain strips), fresh fruit juice. I can get a drink and food to last me for two meals, all for the reasonable price of 70 córdobas (about $3.50).

Mini-Market- A convenient 5-minute walk from our house, this mini-supermarket features a small cafe that sells tasty burgers and mediocre pizza that is quite possibly the second-best in Puerto Cabezas.

Other Food Places

“Familia Meza Chow”- This yummy-foods shop is located near the two schools, and is a popular hangout for students after as well as during class hours. It sells cakes, cookies, sweet breads, and homemade soft-serve ice cream.

Panaderia two houses down from “Baby's House”- This secret little gem is not marked by any sign, and until last week simply worked out of a house. It was known of only by word of mouth, like a hot Prohibition-era speakeasy. They now have a little wooden store-like structure that makes them easier to spot. This nameless bakery sells all sorts of sweet bread deliciousness.

Susana's house- Susana is the sister of Selmira, the directora of Maureen Courtney. We have a standing invitation to come to her house for lunch on Sundays. It is scrumptious and the company is most pleasant.

Mercado Central- One of the two open-air markets in Puerto, the Central is known as the Miskito market because most of the people who sell there are Miskito. You can buy produce, meat, clothing, basically anything that's available in Puerto is found here. Admittedly, that's not saying much.

Mercado San Geronimo- the Mestizo market, because most of the people who sell there are Mestizo. Smaller than the Central, it's also prohibitively far away from our house.

Supermercado Monter- A shining monument to the economic stimulus that comes from one of Puerto Cabezas' primary sources of income, drug trafficking. It's the only place in the city where you can buy liquid milk.

Culture

Casa Museo- Located right across the street from our house, Casa Museo features the colorful and whimsical artwork of Creole artist and Puerto native Judith Kain, as well as a variety of other costeño cultural pieces. Also a hotel, it´s a convenient place to store visiting family and friends.

Comisión Anti-drogas- This Austrian-funded non-profit features the premiere school of costeño dancing in the RAAN, out of which the nationally touring dance group sensation Sweting draws its membership. The dance teacher also offers aerobics classes in the evenings for 100 córdoba per week. Along with dance, the Comisión offers free classes in painting and guitar for young people.

Recreation

Malecón- a discotech and restaurant. The floor is kind of small and the music is hit or miss, but it's a nice little place with good food and air conditioning. It's owned by the mayor of Puerto Cabezas, who endears himself to his constituents by not charging cover. Perhaps for this reason, it is the pre-party spot for most people going out on a Saturday night. It's busy until around midnight, and then everyone clears out and goes to Rincón. It also has a staircase that takes you down to the beach.

Rincón- the most popular discotech in Puerto Cabezas. It plays good music, but it's a little small to handle its reputation. It gets pretty crowded.

Miramar- The discotech with the largest dance floor. It attracts a younger crowd, and if you go you will likely see some of your students.

Polideportivo- An indoor basketball court that's also a venue for dance shows and any other large event.
It's across the street from a concrete soccer court. I say court, because field just wouldn't be accurate.

La Policia- A big huge field- really a field- by the police office where people play soccer. I guess they do that so the police can keep an eye on the vagrant youth.

Estadio Ernesto Hooker- baseball stadium where the local team plays.

La Bocana- A strip of beach where one of the rivers empties into the ocean. La Bocana is a good place to go swimming. During Semana Santa, it's transformed into a hot social area with swimming, restaurants, bars, dancing, live shows, and boxing.

Tuapi- A community near Bilwi, about 15 minutes away by car. Tuapi is known for its beautiful rivers, where people go bathing and picnicking. Just make sure the local brujos don't slap their mojo on you.

FAQ's For Pacific-side Nicaraguan:

Question: Do they even speak Spanish there?

Answer: 55% of the population of Bilwi speaks Miskito, and there is a Creole English-speaking community, as well. However, nearly everyone also speaks Spanish, which is the lengua franca of the area.

Question: So there are a lot of black people, huh?

Answer: The Coast has a strong African heritage that comes from slaves brought over by Europeans, so there are many people who are darker skinned that what is average in the Pacific. However, there is also a lot of Dutch and English as well as Spanish ancestry, so there are some people who are as white as any European. Throw in a mix of Miskito, Rama, Mayangna, and Chinese heritage, and you end up with pretty much every variation of skin color under the sun in this one little city.

In conclusion, most Pacific side Nicaraguans don't really know anything about the Atlantic Coast.

Father's Day

2010-06-20T20:07:00.000-05:00

Today in Nicaragua, as in so many places around the world, we take time to celebrate fathers. At church, we sang a rousing chorus of "Father Abraham," and gave out gifts to fathers in the church. My invitation to preach was happily preempted by little children singing "Daddy loves me, this I know," and "Happy Father's Day to You," with a few going up one by one to proclaim their love for their fathers. We ended the service with my very first Moravian love-feast, consisting of muffins and soda.

After church, I went to the house of our friend Susannah for lunch. As we were eating, she pointed to a man who passed by on a bike, talked with her brother-in-law for a moment, then continued on. "That man is my father," she said. "My biological father, anyway. He had no part in raising us." The national newspaper La Prensa published an article today that said 31% of Nicaraguan families are headed by a single mother. I don't believe this statistic, at least not here in Puerto. As Susannah, herself a single mother, said: "I think it's the other way around. Sixty-nine percent of families are run by single mothers, and thirty-one percent are two-parent." And I imagine there are a handful of single-father households, as well. Susannah calls her mother to congratulate her on both Mother's Day and Father's Day, since her mother fulfilled both roles.

Father's Day is a decidedly staid and anticlimatic observance after Mother's Day celebrations, with their cakes, adornments, and a day off school for a pageant featuring song, dance, and various odes extolling maternal virtues. The third-grade teacher asked her class if they wanted to celebrate Father's Day. Their reaction was a bit ambivalent: "Let's do something, but just among ourselves." (To which she responded, "I don't think any of you are fathers.") At a parents' meeting on Friday, a couple male teachers complained about this. I wanted to respond, "Do you live with your children? Do you even see them every week?" Not because I was judging them based on statistics, but because I know for a fact that they don't.

The overwhelming absence of fathers in the lives of children is apparent in a variety of ways. No one ever asks me how is my father, is he coming to visit, does he miss me, etc. They are always inquiring after my mother. One of my tutees, Diedrich, drew a picture of his family for me, a neat row of stick figures. His mother was first, followed by about ten siblings, aunts, grandmother, cousins. His father was second to last in the row.

La Prensa attributes high rates of absentee fathers to machismo, that men are taught that it's manly to have babies by a variety of women. There is some truth to that. Taking the way one of the teachers at Maureen Courtney in particular is viewed, fathering children by various women is looked upon with a weird combination of reproval and respect. My Spanish teacher in Granada, Sergio, said the absence of fathers is because women don't know how to live with men. I have certainly found it to be true that many young women here are quite cynical about men and reticent to pledge their lives to a man that may turn out to not be what they expected after marriage. They are less reluctant about having babies. And it is true that for whatever reason women do sometimes discourage the participation of the fathers in the lives of their children. My friend Simon has trouble visiting his son, because the child's mother doesn't want to have anything to do with Simon. Maybe absentee fatherism has become somewhat of a self-fulfilling prophecy both for women and for men.

The church, I'm afraid, is so focused on extolling its ideal of marriage before babies that it's actually rather unhelpful. I came to the convent one day to find Sister Zorelia, bless her heart, railing against patriarchy in general and in particular against one local priest. When a single mother came to him asking him to urge her child's father to pay child support. The priest simply admonished her for not being married, and pointing to her situation as the logical consequence. As with so many of its virtues, it has succeeded in constructing the moral framework of the people here. Maybe that's why no one wants to get married; it's so idealized that they think they can never do it right. That's certainly why many people choose not to become Christian.

We had a discussion about this in the Creole Moravian young adult group, the majority of whom are unmarried with children. This is a large part of the reason they're not members of the church. To become members, they can't be unwed mothers. The one man I know in the group might be able to get away with it. His son lives in another city, so his unwed parenthood isn't as glaringly obvious. Two women were going back and forth; one of them really wanted to get married someday, the other didn't. Either way, neither felt ready to be married just yet. The members of the young adult group are there because they find spiritual nourishment in faith and in religion. The moral strictures of the church, however, prevent them from fully integrating into the community.

Marriage is one of the topics that comes up in my religion textbook, and I was thinking of teaching it next week. In a place where marriage is so rare, how do I make the subject accessible, and not just the unreachable ideal it seems to be?

A Day in the Life of Ecumenism

2010-06-19T18:21:00.000-05:00

On Monday, the thing I had most feared upon beginning to teach religion in a Catholic school came to pass. It shouldn't really have come as a surprise; it's more or less why so many people furrow their brow in bewilderment when they hear about my gig. I was handed a lesson plan that took off from the sixth commandment (ironically, "sexto" in Spanish): "You shall not commit adultery." Which is all well and good, but the teacher was taking advantage of the topic to summarize the Catholic Church's teaching on sexuality. That is, sexual pleasure separated from procreation is "gravely and intrinsically disordered," as are extramarital sex, masturbation, and homosexuality.

My first reaction was "Dammit, why couldn't I have stayed on vacation just one more day?" My second was "This is precisely why I don't want to work in a church." I reviewed my options: teaching the lesson as it was presented to me was out of the question. That left as my options:
1) recusing myself
2) refashioning the lesson plan so that I felt I could teach it and maintain my integrity, while
a) contradicting what the Catholic Church taught, or
b) avoiding those points I found detestable, while teaching something that was more or less in keeping with the spirit of the lesson.

Options 1 and 2a seemed the most heroic, but also seemed to solicit conflict that probably wouldn't come to anything good. I opted for 2b. It may be overly conciliatory, but I saw no fruit in being deliberately contentious in this situation, even for a cause I think is just.

So I focused closely on the theme of adultery. I explained that not commiting adultery means being faithful to the promises you make to those you love. The teacher had put the quote from Jesus that "He who looks on a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart." I took advantage of that to link back to an earlier theme we had expounded, that sin comes from the heart; intention matters just like action does, and if you don't want to reap adulterous actions than you shouldn't sow and nurture adulterous intentions. This brought us to the point of "pirropos" or cat calls, which are really common here. Does this constitute sinning, according to what Jesus says? A fair number of the kids said, "No, pirropos come from cariño (affection), they´re not morboso (lewd)." Incidentally, this observation has led me to consider more carefully the tone of the shout outs I get on the street, and I have to admit that most, though not all, of them do seem more friendly than lewd.

In what time reminded, I left it up to them to reflect about masturbation, sexual pleasure, and homosexuality. I had them answer the questions "What is it?" and "Can it be holy?" (Always/Sometimes/Never). I haven't checked their answers, but I decided that if they wanted to lecture themselves about the evils of homosexuality, I was not in a position to instruct them otherwise, even if they would have believed me.

And so I got through the class, discovering my first major effort at finding a religious middle road wasn't as bad as I had expected. Really, it is only because of my incredible fortune to be in supportive churches that I haven't been in this situation before. I've been lucky that the school has given me such free reign in my lessons, and that the book they gave me to teach from is so justice-oriented. Even so, it was inevitable that this day would come. I hope, as they arise in the future, I will be able to face them with courage and grace.

This Post: Proverbs Party in Puerto

2010-05-21T18:47:00.000-05:00

I just finished reading through Proverbs. Here are some of my favorites:

"The way of a man may be tortuous and strange, though his actions be blameless and proper."(21:8- JPS Tanakh translation)

Some people are just weird, and it's cool. Take Neco, for instance. After someone in the group had their cell phone stolen, he informed us that he had visited a seer down by the wharf and he knew who had taken it. That person had until the following day to return it, or Neco would denounce him as a thief on public radio.

"Like a gold ring in a pig's snout is a beautiful woman without good sense." (11:22)

I'll keep that in mind.

"The lazy man says, "There's a lion in the street; I shall be killed if I step outside!" (23:13)

This reminds me of when the entire city shut down business because the government was changing hands, on the off chance that a riot might break out.

"Giving a straightforward reply is like giving a kiss." (24:26)

A conversation between me, Lee, and Jaime, the dance teacher at Maureen Courtney:
'We call him Alfonso because he lies a lot.'
'Why "Alfonso?"'
'Because he lies.'
'Why do you call him "Alfonso" because he lies?'
'Because we call everyone who lies 'Alfonso.'
'Why?'
'Because they lie.'

"Visit your neighbor sparingly, lest he have his surfeit of you and loathe you." (25:17)

Absolutely unheard of here. If I mention I'm going to be alone because Susan and Lee are away, I will immediately have several volunteers eager to relieve me of the tragedy of being by myself.

"My son, eat honey, for it is good; let its sweet drops be on your palate."

BUT:

"If you find honey, eat only what you need, lest surfeiting yourself, you throw it up."

We eat a lot of honey in this house, despite its scarcity in these parts. We stock up on the occasional trip to Managua.

Proverbs for living in community:

"A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger." (15:1)

Don't rile a former debater. You'll never hear the end of it.

"One who forgives an affront fosters friendship, but one who dwells on disputes alienates a friend." (17:9)

I've already gotten over whoever ate the rest of my gallo pinto.

"He who greets his fellow loudly early in the morning shall have it reckoned to him as a curse."(27:14)

Guilty as charged.

Proverbs that become much clearer in the Third World:

"Rich man and poor man meet; The Lord made them both." (22:2)

It used to be weird to think of myself as rich. It's not anymore.

"The field of the poor may yield much food, but it is swept away through injustice." (13:23)

It's startling to me sometimes how vulnerable to being cheated those without money are. I had a couple friends who were driving a car when the wheel went out. They had to get it fixed, but they had no money to fix it with. The station manager took a valuable hat as collateral, which was worth more than the repair. By the time they got the money together and went back to the station, the manager's brother had taken the hat, and the manager had no interest in getting it back for them. It kind of sucks when it's one of your few possessions.

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is the tree of life." (13:12)

Future plans are easily made and easily destroyed by economic realities. One can't pay to go to the university, one can't find work. It's amazing how even being able to go out once in a while becomes a huge animating force for some people here.

"The poor are disliked even by their neighbors, but the rich have many friends. Those who despise their neighbors are sinners, but happy are those who are kind to the poor." (14:20-21)

I'm so eager to use the Internet at the Agnesian convent, yet I get wearied when friends incessantly ask to use our computer.

I'm frequently drained by the level of need and the emotional baggage among my closest friends
in Puerto. Economic differences are a huge strain on relationships, even with those who aren't looking to take advantage of me. But in navigating these relationships, I feel a lot closer to understanding how the gospel is calling me to live. I'm finding my grasp on my possessions, which had been tightened by US cultural expectations, starting to loosen in a culture that considers sharing one's goods to be mandatory polite behavior, not beneficence.

"All the days of the poor are hard, but a cheerful heart has a continual feast."

It's hard to obtain joy in the face of economic distress. This is a continual goal of religion classes and sermons here. When people achieve it, there's nothing quite so beautiful.

Final meditation:

"The heart knows its own bitterness, and no stranger shares its joy." (14:10)

and yet

"As face answers to face in water, so does one man's heart to another." (27:19)

Cross-culturally or otherwise, our souls are as kindred and untouchable to one another as we are to our own reflections.

A Trip to the Hospital

2010-05-09T20:03:00.000-05:00

Before writing about May 1's Carnaval, I ought to write about that week's pre-party at the hospital.

Upon arriving in my house after dance practice, my stomach started hurting a fair bit then filled up with gas like a balloon. I elected to see what the public hospital was like, with my posse in escort (Lee, Susan, and Michael).

We entered the waiting area, and I was quite grateful not to have to figure out how to say "triage" in Spanish. Since no one was at what I assume was the front desk, Michael took me back into the screening area and put me on an empty bed (I am unsure whether permission was obtained or not). Several people came through and asked me the same questions over and over. I learned a new word ("pupusear"- it means what it sounds like it means), and my posse learned quite a bit more about my bowel functions than they probably cared to. After recording my symptoms, one nurse said, "Okay, who's responsible for you." We all looked at each other for a moment, then proceeded to elect Lee as my temporary guardian. Then a new doctor came in and shooed Lee and Susan out so they could "interrogate" me. Michael was allowed to stay for translation purposes. The doctor was evidently unaware that he speaks no English, except for a small vocabulary of cuss words and phrases from TV like "Prepare for the next battle!" which he utters randomly like a broken wind-up doll.

I was then ushered into an observation area with 5 beds. I was given bed #4, which smelled faintly of vomit. I considered myself lucky for not receiving bed #3, which had long black hairs all over it. Since there was no television in the room, I was pleased that the waiting area was opposite the main nurses' desk, with a busy hallway in between. I passed the time hanging out with an IV in my arm watching people go by, talking about their various problems in Spanish and Miskito. I also enjoyed contemplating the double doors that opened into the waiting area, which had window panels that, instead of glass, had old X-ray sheets.

A nurse came up and informed me that they would need a urine sample. I was given a test tube to pee in, which is an irritatingly small target area that cannot be hit without either constricting urination to a mere drip or peeing all over your hand. Fortunately for Lee, I was able to pull up and fasten my pants one-handed, though I briefly considered saying "Hey Lee, can you hold my pee?" purely for comic value.

On the way back to my bed, we swapped the urine sample for materials for a stool sample. Instead of the comfortingly sterile, quintessentially American plastic "collection hat" and little bottles with spoons attached, it was a little piece of cardboard and a little paper bag. I came to understand that I was to defecate in the toilet (which still had the leftovers from someone else's stool sample), then scoop up some of the probably tainted product with the strip of cardboard and put it in the little paper bag. I decided that I could settle for a less than fully rigorous battery of tests.

And so we languished for several hours in the observation area. Since it was hot, the nurse gave Lee a large piece of cardboad and admonished him to fan me vigorously. Lee passed the time playing games on his new phone, while Michael informed me of his progress based on the noises the cell phone was emitting. Lee then plucked out the tune of Happy Birthday note by note on the phone, probably to the annoyance of the patient in bed #1. I found myself contemplating the drastic measures taken by our friend Danilo, who had once given up, pulled out his IV, and walked out of the hospital.

A doctor with a motorcycle helmet in his hand came to my bed and introduced himself as the surgeon. He invited me to recite my litany of symptoms, which I was getting quite good at. He informed me it was probably not parasitic, then breezed out. Forty-five minutes later, the nurse came back with the test results and informed me that it was in fact parasitic. Happily, the surgeon had already left and avoided losing face. The nurse handed Lee the prescriptions. He said, "Shouldn't you give these to her?" "NO!" he replied. "She is SICK. She will rest while YOU fill the prescriptions."

I suppose that's the perk of having a person responsible for me.

Susan had already given up and gone home to bed. We seized the moment to follow her fine example.

Meditation

2010-04-16T19:59:00.000-05:00

As Michael has pointed out to me on various occasions, I get angry quite easily. In a world where so much doesn't go according to plan and I'm constantly faced with cultural difference and other stresses, it's neither terribly difficult nor particularly advantageous to lose my calm. I'm always getting stuck in thought patterns of "I'm not organized enough. I don't speak well enough. I don't discipline well enough. I don't care enough. I care too much." And the language I use on myself I invariably turn against other people. I don't think it's possible to be kind to others if I'm not always practicing by being kind to myself. And then, to top it off, I start needing other people to reassure me that I'm good enough, even though I don't have the strength of mind to reassure them that they are good people.

I was stuck pretty fiercely in these destructive patterns last week, until one of my Maureen Courtney 6th grade students' reflections surfaced abruptly in my head. I was teaching them about the road to Emmaus, and the assignment was to write or draw about a time when they felt like Jesus was with them. One of them wrote:

"I find Jesus through myself. When I'm feeling sad, I begin to think with lots of hate about the person that made me feel that way. Then I start to think about all the good things that [God?] does for us and then I calm down. I begin to think about what happened and I realize that it was Jesus that helped me calm down."

Destructive lines of thinking are insanely powerful. God's power is stronger. It's electric, even in its gentlest trace.

In response to David Weasley's call for job statements

2010-04-12T10:30:00.001-05:00

http://somefolks.blogspot.com/2010/04/i-feel-like-everyone-should-write-one.html

I am powerful beyond my understanding or imagining
I am gentle as a mother's caress
And strong as the beacon of a lighthouse
On the stormiest of nights.
Illuminating darkness,
Sunlight shining on a laughing dancing river,
And that is enough.
I know a stronger light shines through me,
And I am ever expanding to encompass it.
I know that all people are worthy of love
And my ability to forgive goes deep as the ocean
And all sorts of creations make their home there.
My smile washes warm like the Caribbean
My truth stings like salt in the nose of the one caught unaware.
I am capable of tremendous patience
For searching through the selection of scripts
for malice, mistrust, and bitterness
To find a sheet of the musical score for God's breath.
I am capable of tremendous impatience,
Refusing to accept the written pages I am handed as engraved stones
I know that something radical is always breaking through,
Even in this moment.
My name is Kathryn Ray, and I defy physics.

Cultural Constructions of Sex and Gender

2010-04-05T21:04:00.000-05:00

I think I owe my Spanish teacher from Granada an apology. I now understand much better his belief that "lesbians are lesbians because they don't like penetration." I came to this epiphany after a lengthy conversation with two members of my dance team about how sexual orientation and gender identity work in Nicaragua.

The whole conversation really just confirmed the conclusions of Roger Lancaster in his book "Life is Hard: Machismo, Danger, and the Intimacy of Power in Nicaragua," which I read before going to Nicaragua the first time back in January 2006. Even so, I still had to re-learn the whole cultural construction of sexuality in Nicaragua for myself, and it remains one of the harder cultural differences for me to get my mind around.

Gender identity and sexual orientation are inextricably linked, and both are defined by the act of penetration, which is the ultimate definition of masculinity. There are three major gender categories: Men, women, and "cochones" or homosexuals. One who penetrates is a man, one who is penetrated is a woman. Homosexuals, or "cochones" (possibly from "colchon," which means mattress), think they are women and want to be penetrated. In a sexual act between two men, only the one being penetrated is considered homosexual. A man can penetrate a cochon or a woman and still be a "man," as opposed to a "cochon," although they also can get the label "cochonero" for regularly penetrating cochones.

Women can also be "cochonas" and "cochoneras." It is believed that one is the "man" of the relationship, that is the one who penetrates. This was reiterated when I asked what happens if they both penetrate each other. I also asked what it meant when a woman penetrated a man using something other than a penis, and got the response "That's not done."

To say that lesbians don't like penetration, therefore, is tantamount to saying they don't like men. The second assertion makes much more sense to me than the first.

As this conversation was carried out with two men, I'm interested to get a woman or an out homosexual's take on the whole subject. The subject, I thus conclude, bears further scrutiny.

The Nitty Gritty

2010-04-05T11:09:00.000-05:00

For those of you (like my parents, for example), who just don't get enough of Puerto Cabezas and the life here from my blog, I recommend you check out Lee's blog at leecaragua.blogspot.com. He's got lots of good stuff on there.

Also, here's a breakdown of my weekly schedule, in case you wonder how exactly I spend my time here:

MONDAY:

8-12: wash my sheets and/or towels (Note: all washing is done by hand in a concrete sink and washing board combination called a pila). They get pretty dirty pretty quickly, especially during dry season when there's so much dust in the air. Prep time (includes creating materials, like translating children's books, making lesson plans, grading assignments, reviewing lesson plans, organizing stuff, taking notes on tutees, doing any extraneous household errands)
12-1: lunch
1-3: co-teach Grade 5A, 5B, and 6 religion classes at Escuela Maureen Courtney (EMC)
3:30-5:00 faculty meeting and prayer at Colegio del Niño Jesús (CNJ)
6:30ish: community dinner, business meeting, and meditation
Evening: boil drinking water, tidy up the kitchen

TUESDAY

8:15-10:15 tutoring at EMC
10:15-11:30 prep time, nap time
11:30-12:20 lunch
12:30 arrive at Niño Jesús to go over religion lesson plan with religion teacher there.
1:00-1:40 co-teach Grade 4 religion at EMC. They can be pills, so I often fall back on teaching them songs in English, Spanish, and Miskitu.
1:40-3:00 Fifth year religion class at CNJ
3:15-5:00 dance practice
7:00 Miskito lesson with Simon
Evening: boil water, tidy up kitchen

WEDNESDAY

8:15-8:55 tutoring at EMC
8:55-9:35 religion class for kids with developmental delays. We play lots of games when I'm in charge.
9:35-10:15 tutoring
10:30- 1:00: nap, prep, lunch
1:00-2:20 coteach afternoon special needs class, 5B religion
2:20-3:00 tutoring at EMC
3:15-5:00 dance practice

(On Tuesday and Wednesday, I'm also on call from 4:00-4:30 for the counseling teacher, in case she wants to divide up the class for talking about sexuality and whatnot. It doesn't happen that often.)

5:30-6:30 cook dinner
6:30 community dinner, Bible study
Evening: boil water, tidy kitchen

THURSDAY

Morning: same as Monday. Wash laundry instead of towels and sheets.

Afternoon:
1:00-1:40 Grade 4 Religion, EMC.
1:40-2:20 Chill with the workshop teachers at EMC
2:20-3:00 Grade 6 Religion, EMC
3:20-4:40 Third year Religion, CNJ. This is the only class I always teach solo.

Evening:
Miskito lesson with Simon
boil water, tidy kitchen

FRIDAY
6:30 community yoga
8:15-10:15 tutoring, EMC
10:15-12:00 prep, nap, lunch
12:20-3:00 First year A and B religion class
3:15-5:00 dance practice
6:00ish community dinner
Evening boil water, tidy kitchen

SATURDAY

grocery shopping in the market
laundry
2:00 Go to the convent to take advantage of the faster Internet connection Skype with parents and watch a TV show illegally via the Web (I'd do it legally, but none of the legal sites work outside the US)
5:00 I either attend the young adults meeting at the Creole Moravian Church or go to reflection with the Agnesian sisters
boil water

SUNDAY

12:30 lunch at the house of Susannah, a friend of ours and the sister of the director at EMC. Her whole family comes.

clean the bathroom
cook beans for the week
boil water

Along with cooking beans, boiling water, and cleaning the bathroom, I am also responsible for making sure there's cooked rice in the fridge, so if anyone's in a rush they can quickly heat up some beans and rice for a meal.

Compared to my life pre-Puerto, I spend less time at work and more time doing household chores.

Aside from these activities, there are always people stopping by to hang out. I occasionally go out to the discotech, and we have dance shows every other week or so.

And...that's my life. If I could make "exhaustion" or "ennui" possible reactions just for this blog post, I most surely would.

Dancing with the devil on your back

2010-03-29T08:55:00.001-05:00

Friday marked the first day of Holy Week here in Puerto Cabezas. It's called Viernes de Dolores, or Friday of Pains. As far as I an tell, it's like a pre-party to the crucifixion in the Catholic Church. In the rich bacchanal culture of Puerto, it marks the beginning of a week long celebration on a strip of the beach called La Bocana, which Lee alleges means “estuary.” As co-religion teacher at two catholic schools, I of course dutifully took my place with my dance group in the mini- carnival that marked the beginning of the week's festivities.

We started with a parade around the major streets of the city with all seven dance groups riding in pickup trucks. My group got to ride in front on the fire truck, which was awesome but a bit noisy. We all disembarked at the BICU, a lo cal university, and danced in the street from the BICU down to the stage on the beachfront, where we all performed. Dancing Palo de Mayo around the bend in the road and seeing the ocean in front of us and all the people waiting and all the cabanas that had been built for the festivities has to be among the more amazing experiences I have had. For second, I thought is this really my life? For serious? I think I've been caught in some kind of wormhole that spit me out halfway around the world. Then I realized I had, and that wormhole was called Cap Corps.

The celebration was a beautiful way to let out the frustration that had been building up in me all week. I usually split the religion class with Rumalda, the religion teacher at Maureen Courtney. With Semana Santa approaching, however, her normal inclination towards the didactic swelled into a feverish pitch that lasted for the entire class. With the celebrations in the Bocana paralleling the highest holy days in Christianity, she had to make her preemptive strike on behalf of temperance before the vices had fully arrayed their forces. She railed against alcohol and dancing. She employed a particularly vivid story about a past Maureen Courtney student who had disappeared from La Bocana, to turn up four days later further down the beach with his throat slit, as a cautionary tale against the evils of vagrancy. And of course the coming holiday brought out theology that I found problematic. Rumalda asked the fourth-graders what the two most important days of Holy Week were. “Ummm...Resurrection Sunday?” suggested one student.

“No,” she replied. “Thursday and Friday. Thursday is important be cause it is the day Jesus was arrested. Friday because it is the day he was crucified.”

When we were coming back from dancing at La Bocana, I saw the Catholic procession observing the stations of the cross, as they do every Friday during Lent. Among them was Rumalda and a few other teachers, all solemn and reflective, and there I was still in my bright, rather revealing dance costume. Ever the coward in the face of potential religious recrimination, I hid behind the dance building until the procession passed. I knew it was unnecessary. Not being catholic, I am considered out of their jurisdiction. Any potential moral turpitude on my part is someone else's problem. And I could always explain that my tradition doesn't observe the Friday of Pains, and that would stand as valid. But I just felt beaten down by the week's tirades, and I couldn't face the moral disapproval that, in that moment, the procession represented for me. I think that's why a lot of people aren't Christian here. It's not that they don't believe in God. They just can't bear to be that moral. As one of my tutees, who I'm told is also a gangster, explained,

"Christians can't hit people in the face when they offend them. I want to hit people in the face. It's much better."

Maybe it helps people to know there is redemption to be found in so much suffering, rather than from so much suffering. I can't do that much meditation on pains. I don't even plan to attend Good Friday worship this year. Normally, I am a fan of the observance. It is a day for me to meditate on the ways in which crucifixion still goes on in the world, and how Jesus still suffers with us. Here, I see so much crucifixion, in every begging widow and every tale of children raped. I don't think my spirit can take a day devoted to it. Sometimes every day feels like Good Friday. I can't escape the glorification of violence that I see on Good Friday. I don't think the filter in my head that keeps disagreeable theology from wounding my spirit will be able to keep out the elevation of crucifixion as the act that saves us, rather than resurrection. this Good Friday, should dance practice take place, I will dance, as I do every day. I will dance even more strongly than ever, because I know that Jesus does not stay dead. It is at the song says:

“I danced on a Friday when the sky turned black. It's hard to dance with the devil on your back. They buried my body and they thought I'd gone, but I am the dance and I still go on.”

Miskito-Catholic Sacred Narrative

2010-03-12T17:39:00.000-06:00

In religion class today, the Catholic Miskita teacher I collaborate with offered the following story as part of her explanation of the sign of the cross:

Lucifer was the greatest of all the angels, but he sought to be like God, so God banished him to the earth. He fell from the sky, and when he hit the ground he broke into many pieces. Some of the pieces became the evil spirits in the water, that are the mermaids, some of them the evil spirits in the wind, and some the evil spirits in the wilderness, that is the gnomes. So now we make the sign of the cross to ward off the evil spirits.

Magic Pennies

2010-03-11T07:13:00.001-06:00

At the beginning of the year, a couple of the teachers and I realized that, between the three of us, we knew the Magic Penny song in three different languages. We sang it at the opening convocation, and at every faculty meeting thereafter. Multilingualism is one of my favorite aspects of Puerto Cabezas. "Happy Birthday," for example, is always sung in at least Spanish, English, and Miskitu, even in Creole communities that express disdain for the Miskitu presence in Puerto. It always reminds me of the Pentecost.

Love is something if you give it away
Give it away, give it away,
Love is something if you give it away,
You end up having more.

It's just like a magic penny;
Hold on tight, and you won't have any.
Lend it, spend it, you'll have so many,
They'll roll all over the floor.

Dale amor a tu prójimo
Dáselo, dáselo
Dale amor a tu prójimo,
Y lo recibirás.

No es como el dinero,
Que se guarda para no gastar.
Préstalo, regálalo,
Y regresará a ti.

Latwan laka uplara yayasma,
Yayasma, yayasma.
Latwan laka uplara yayasma,
Bara kli manra balbia.

Lahla baku apia sa,
Karna atkaia tikaia apia wisi
Len muns tiks bara uplara yas
Bara kli manra balbia.

How do you fit so many syllables in the Miskitu version? By singing it really fast. Also note that there is no magic penny in either the Spanish or Miskitu versions. Still, Pentecost.

Dear Next Door Neighbors,

2010-03-08T07:49:00.000-06:00

"Come" is a terrible name to give your dog, especially when you have more than one dog.

Compassion

2010-03-08T06:56:00.000-06:00

In college, I made the observation that compassion fatigue might be more aptly termed compassion psychosis. After living in Nicaragua these past few months, I have decided that they are two distinct phenomena. Compassion psychosis arises from facing an overwhelming amount of need and not knowing what to do about it. I knew this well in college, where I was surrounded by talk of injustices and outrages and urgent needs in the local community, the country, and the world. In Puerto Cabezas, I struggle with the knowledge that many of the kids I work with are undernourished and witness violence in their homes. On the street, I'm always being asked for food and money. Jesus' command to give to all those who ask of you continues to haunt me and infuriate me. He must have been just as surrounded by poverty as I am. How on earth could he have lived up to that mandate? How did he avoid people becoming dependent on him, seeing him only as their savior, the cure for their ills, not another human being with his own need for relationship and compassion? If Jesus simply is the savior of humanity, it seems like an impracticable example for me to follow.

With an ever-expanding consciousness of the great needs in the world, I want to be compassionate and share the suffering of so many people, it feels like nothing I do will be enough. Instead of looking to where I am making contributions, I'm always looking to where I'm not making contributions, and my sense of myself as a compassionate person evaporates. I get so wrapped up in all of this suffering, I cannot be present to the needs that I can respond to, right in front of me. That's the psychosis.

It seems to me to the solution is focus; I must concentrate on those needs that are in front of me, that I can respond to, and leave the rest in God's hands. There's a good reason the people here seem much more willing to leave burning issues of poverty and injustice to God. There are simply too many of those issues for any one person to face, and the strain of poverty prevents the development of a community that can confront its own poverty effectively.

Compassion fatigue, on the other hand, comes from being overly present to the needs in front of me. Listening to peoples' stories, building positive relationships with people who have so few positive relationships in their lives. I can do this, and I know by doing it I am making some small transformation in myself and in my world. A young friend tells me that she got drunk and had unprotected sex with a relative stranger, so I offer to accompany her to the clinic to get tested for AIDS. She didn't know that there was still a possibility that she was pregnant, after taking a test immediately afterwards, and broke down and sobbed for 10 minutes in the nurse's office. I know all I have to do is be there. I don't have to offer advice. This is entirely within my capacity. And yet, upon arriving at my home, I feel so drained of emotional energy I can only collapse in my hammock and stare at the ceiling.

The only response I have to this is to dig deeper into my spiritual life. This Lenten season, I have been reading the Psalms like a dope fiend. They have been a wonderful vent for my frustrations and articulation of my hopes.

New Year's Resolution

2010-02-14T15:52:00.001-06:00

Swim in the ocean more. I've been to the beach three times this month. So far, so good!

letter for a new school year

2010-02-14T15:48:00.000-06:00

Usually, I post regularly to my blog and draw from my blog to send e-mail updates to my blog-averse and other friends. Today, however, I am doing the opposite. The familiar names of the e-mail list seemed much more inviting than cold, anonymous cyberspace. But just so cyberspace doesn't feel unloved, here is what I wrote.

Hello friends,

The 2010 school year in Nicaragua is under way, and my schedule is filled up with religion classes and tutoring. In a few weeks I will also begin assisting with the "counseling" or general life skills classes. I am mostly in an auxiliary role to the religion teachers at the two schools. The teacher at Colegio del Nino Jesus, the Catholic secondary school, is so packed with teaching other classes, though, that I've agreed to take over the third-year class solo. Once a week, therefore, I am in charge of providing spiritual enlightenment for forty-one 13-15 year olds. I begin every class by crossing myself in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit and leading a prayer. Not because I'm eager to pretend to be Catholic, but because it's the easiest way to get all of them to realize that class is starting.

Fortunately, the director has given me a textbook to work from. It's pretty commie; it has a whole unit devoted to religion and labor. Skimming over the citations, it seems that the "What does the Church say?" sections could be more accurately labeled "What does Vatican II say?" One of its "living testimonial" sections is about Joan Baez.

I am very much looking forward to working with the religion teacher at the special-needs school. She is excellent in communicating themes and keeping discipline, and I contribute creative activities that explore those themes. She also has an unfortunate tendency to try to push off the grading on me. I drew the line when she asked me to grade the pictures drawn by the Down syndrome and autistic students.

My Miskitu language skills are coming along. My listening skills have especially developed, as well as reading, thanks to the Miskitu Bible the Catholic priest loaned me. Speaking of commie things. The phrase for "Son of Man" translates loosely as "from the people." It's always a delight to finally realize the English derivation of some of the words. Just yesterday, I figured out that "adar" comes from "order" and "trengsar" is from "stranger." Oh, that Creole influence. Speaking is still difficult, because here in the city I can always fall back on Spanish and know I will be understood.

Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I try to decide whether to apply to renew my placement for an additional year. I also appreciate any wisdom you might have on the subject.

Kaiki bas/Cuídate/Take care,

Kathryn

First Fruits

2010-02-06T17:34:00.000-06:00

"South America is the ambassador of Europe's civilizations to their more powerful neighbors to the North, still too harried to listen, but to whom will arrive the time of anguish and questions. But your role is not only as intermediary and conservationist: civilizations rot when they become overly conservationist. From your land something new must arise, we don't know what. American civilization has grown too rapidly; you mature more slowly, as do the things of nature. The fruit will be more delicious that way." -Emmanuel Mounier, 1949

This is a quote from the religion textbook I was given for teaching the third-years at Colegio del Niño Jesús. It has nicely framed my re-entry into work. Everything is slower here. I work fewer hours. I have fewer resources. But I have to believe that there is maturation going on, both in me and in the classroom. Even though I can't see it happening.

In the meantime, however, I get to enjoy the fruits of young wisdom. The 10-12 year olds were analyzing the quote "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven." As one boy explained, "The camel was good and shared his wealth with the poor people, so he entered the reign of heaven. The rich man didn't share his wealth, and didn't enter the reign of heaven."

Parents!

2010-01-29T14:28:00.000-06:00

In other, slightly older news, I had a lovely visit with my parents a couple weeks ago. As they observed, we spent most of our time buying food, waiting for food, preparing food, eating food, or cleaning up after eating food. Getting things done just takes longer in Bilwi. We enjoyed some fabulous company throughout, though. I also thoroughly enjoyed the fact that no one dared to cat call me when I was in the street with my parents.

We took a break from our rigorous schedule to go to dance class. My parents observed that all of the men were dancing farther away from me than from the other women dancers. If I got close to them, they would back away. I mentioned this to Michael, and he said, "Yeah. I told them not to touch you while your parents were here." Always looking out for us, that Michael.

Tica vs. Nica

2010-01-29T14:02:00.000-06:00

By Nicaraguan immigration policy, visitors on a tourist visa have to leave the country every six months in order to renew their visa and remain legal. Since we're relatively close to the border with Honduras, this wouldn't be a big deal. Unfortunately (for us, anyway), Nicaragua and Honduras enjoy an open border policy. There's no one to stamp my passport as I cross into Honduras. It's like I never left Nicaragua. Thanks to the two countries' mutual amiability, we have to fly to Managua and then take a bus to Costa Rica in order to renew our visa.

We don't have to worry about amiability between Costa Rica and Nicaragua ruining our plans. Citizens of the two countries do not get on well. As was explained to me before I left, Costa Ricans, or "Ticos," as they call themselves, see Nicaraguans as poor and uncivilized, and the Nicas see the Costa Ricans as unwelcoming and stuck up. They say Costa Rica tries to keep the Nicaraguans out so they don't drag down the economy (sound familiar?).

It's certainly true that Costa Rica is far wealthier than Nicaragua. Upon arriving in the city of Liberia, I was immediately overwhelmed by the even sidewalks lined with trees, street signs, businesses, and paved roads. It all seemed so organized. I hardly knew what to do with myself.

I received a dissertation on Tica-Nica relations this morning from the owner of the hostel where Susan and I are staying. It was quiet, and I asked him where all the guests had gone to, in hopes of perhaps going there myself. Apparently, there's not much to do in Liberia. I asked if they'd all gone to the national park.

"No," he replied. "They've all gone to Nicaragua. It's cheaper there. That's what they always say: 'Nicaragua is so much better. Things are less expensive there!' They're so ignorant! Don't they realize it's cheaper because everyone's poor? I don't think Nicaragua is pretty. It's ugly because everyone's so poor, and they're so sad. Everyone seemed sad when I went there. The tourists don't see the other side of the coin. Things cost more here because we have nice houses, and our kids can go to school, and we have running water."

He especially feels the pressure because he runs a business fairly close to the border. He's close enough to compete with Nicaraguan tourism, which is hard for him. It's like tourism is being outsourced.

I suppose he has a point about visitors not always seeing the rampant poverty that results in the low prices in Nicaragua. From a capitalist perspective, isn't that's how it's supposed to work? Lower prices draw tourism to Nicaragua, whose economy is bolstered by their presence. Of course, it's never that simple. As the hostel owner pointed out, many businesses in tourist areas of Nicaragua are owned by foreigners, not Nicaraguans. I'm not sure what percentage of businesses are foreign-owned, though.

But moreover, what he said doesn't reflect the countries as a whole. Nicaragua's tourism industry is far less developed than Costa Rica's. It can't compete, even if it's less expensive. Businesses in this area may feel some pressure from the border, but the fact is most of the tourists are still in Costa Rica. I find it somewhat encouraging that businesses here are feeling pressure, because that means Nicaragua's tourism must be getting stronger.

I had a feeling Nicaragua was turning me capitalist. I started to suspect it when I supported switching from the city trash collection to the private collector, who's far more reliable. At least with the private collector we can withhold money if he fails to pick up our trash.

Adventageous

2010-01-12T07:07:00.000-06:00

It has been almost a month since I blogged last, as I have been out of town. However, it has most certainly not been a month of unblogworthy activity. I hope to catch up in a series of blog entries over the next few days (possibly weeks...).

My internal Christian calendar has been completely thrown off by the different holidays and weather of Nicaragua, along with the fact that I don't really have a church community here. As a result, I found myself contemplating how to prepare myself for Christmas without all the typical cultural, environmental, and religious cues. While perusing the blog of some friends, I read an entry by Megan Highfill, quoting Rachael Weasley: "Be an empty manger, and Christ will come." This sentence stuck with me, and became my Advent mantra. I decided to let go of all my expectations of what Christmas ought to be, and simply wait to see what came into in my manger.

Inspired by the Bilwi practice of "going to one's community" for Christmas, I flew to the Pacific to spend the week of Christmas in Nandasmo, staying with the family I lived with for a month during college. They are the closest I have to extended family in Nicaragua, and pretty darn close at that. Before I left, a friend asked me if I was evangelical like the family. We were discussing the widely held evangelical belief that dancing is sinful. "Yes, I consider myself evangelical" I replied. "But...not like they are."

When I arrived in Nandasmo, I discovered a major difference between my own practices and those of the family. They don't celebrate Christmas. "Christmas is whenever Jesus is born in your heart," the mother, Anita, explained to me. "It's not on the 25th of December." As lovely as this sentiment is, I suspect the lack of Christmas celebration also arises from the fact that evangelical identity in Nicaragua is forged to a great extent by differentiating themselves from the Catholics. If the Catholics do it, the evangelicals try not to.

It's true that the date for Christmas, from a strictly biblical standpoint, is arbitrary. However, it's nice to have a period of every year designated for reflection on the meaning of God made flesh, born a poor child in a little town. I said as much to Anita, whose response is recorded in my memory as something like, "Hey man, whatevs." I also like the cyclical nature of the liturgical year, which end-times focused evangelical theology tends to lack. All in all, the Christian calendar may just be another Papist heresy, but I'll keep it anyway.

As it happens, Anita and Donald are Nandasmo's major distributors of the traditional Christmas fireworks and other devices that make lots of noise. Thus, I spent Christmas Eve selling explosive materials to small children. Or, more accurately, I spent Christmas Eve assisting Anita's 10-year-old grandson Marcelo, who knew the prices and the merchandise much better than I. I took a brief excursion to the Catholic church up the street, where they put on a Christmas pageant. One of the innkeepers was dressed as a Roman soldier, and I suppose the costume defines the character, as he said in a booming, authoritative voice: "NO! THERE IS NO ROOM HERE! YOU MUST LEAVE NOW!" The pageant also featured a real donkey, which is pretty easy to come by in small-town Nicaragua. It is not so easy, it turns out, to get it to leave the stage on cue. Mary and Joseph had to do a little extra wandering in Egypt before they could get the donkey offstage.

I may not have sang the Christmas hymns, or lit the candles, or ate sugar cookies, but leave it to the semi-ridiculous, semi-mediocre and fully amazing children's Christmas pageant to catch up to me in Nicaragua. They're a cross cultural wonder.

During the week I was in Nandasmo, we were preparing for the visit of a group from a Baptist sister church in Ann Arbor. The family had little plaques to give as gifts. Unfortunately, many of them featured saints and other Catholic-ish images that just wouldn't do for a group of Baptists. We went through and sorted out the overly Catholic ones. There were several cross-shaped plaques that featured Jesus on the cross in the middle, with images from his life in the corners. "Not those," said Anita. "I don't like those."

As we sat tending the "ammunitions warehouse," as they called it, I asked her why she didn't like the crosses. They didn't feature anything extra-Biblical, which is usually the reference point for what's acceptable and what isn't. She explained to me:

"In Corinthians, it says a death on a cross is a cursed one. Why such focus on Jesus' death? Jesus isn't dead; Jesus is alive. He's alive inside us. If your son or your loved one was shot by a gun, would you carry around a symbol of a gun? It doesn't make sense."

I immediately began to regret my words to my friend: "Not like them." I regretted it again when I joked about the lingering cough that I had, saying "I guess God is punishing me." "No, God doesn't do that," Anita responded. "God loves us." Though we may have differing views on the value of a Christmas holiday, Anita's theology and mine are strikingly similar. When she preaches in her little church, invoking the God who gives sight to the blind and releases the captives, I get goosebumps. I have come to see her as one of the women ministers who guide me towards a better understanding of my own ministry on this earth.

I left Nandasmo on December 27, feeling rested and fulfilled. I returned to Managua to reunite with the volunteers who are working there. That evening, I went with Kate to a Mass at the Batahola Norte Cultural Center. It was a misa campesina, or a Mass developed to specifically focus on the reality of rural, poor Nicaraguan agrarian workers. The chapel area, open to the outdoors on three sides, featured a large mural on the one wall. In the center was a brown-skinned baby Jesus in the manger. Surrounding him, the Nicaraguan farm workers offered the baby the gifts of their harvest: wheat and watermelons and other foods. Among the admirers looking upon the infant Christ were Che Guevara, Archbishop Oscar Romero, Cesar Chavez, and Augusto Sandino. As Kate explained, the mural also featured the likenesses of several women who had been leaders in the struggle for justice in the local community. The bright colors of the mural glowed with a radiant joy and pride in the rich traditions of the Nicaraguan campo.

The priest preached on the model of the family offered to us in the Bible, one where everyone has their place and their own rights to dignity, even the chidren. He spoke of how Jesus required the love and care of his parents in order to become the savior and prophet he was. At the end of the homily, he invited the congregation to offer their reflections. An elderly American man, a former Capuchin who fell in love and married a Nicaraguan, leaving the order and settling in Managua, responded enthusiastically about Jesus' comments that those who do the will of God in heaven are his mother and brothers. He said that Jesus was challenging the notion that the will of the parents was most important, even more important than a sense of call.

The choir was stunningly gorgeous, singing Latin American Christmas hymns that I'd never heard before but touched me in the same way the so-familiar carols from home do. They sang:

"They expected a warrior, but peace was his war.
They expected a king, but serving was his reigning.
They expected a strong man, but he came a baby.

They're coming and going to Bethlehem by pathways of joy.
Christ is born in everyone who gives themselves to others.
They're coming and going to Bethlehem by pathways of justice.
In Bethlehem the people are born when they learn to fight."

I normally don't like Mass. I perpetually feel like an outsider. But this church so reminded me of my churches back home in its intimacy and liberation focus, I felt a part of my heart open up that had toughened over during my time here. I haven't found a church in Bilwi that feeds me, where I don't have to wrench inspiration out by force. I realized how much I missed a church community, and absorbed as much of its warmth as I possibly could.

This Christmas, I found much-needed theological inspiration in evangelicals and spiritual nourishment in Catholic Mass, two places I don't normally look for inspiration and nourishment. Christ came into the manger of my heart in an unexpected way this Christmas, as he did so many years ago in Bethlehem. Had I not relinquished my grasp on the traditions I hold so dear, I might never have found him.

2009-12-15T14:21:00.000-06:00

Kathryn Fails to Be Nicaraguan...Again

Neko: Where's Michael?
Me: I don't know.
Neko: What do you mean, you don't know where he is? He's your neighbor!

For Neko, the question "Am I my brother's keeper?" is practically not worth asking.

Critters in My House, Part III

The favorite (and only) recurring segment on my blog.

A snake and a tarantula. Only one was successfully removed from the house still alive. Can you guess which one?

A Trip to the Clinic

2009-12-09T22:08:00.000-06:00

After two weeks of battling a cough, I finally went to one of the main health clinics in Bilwi. Michael, feeling bad because his teas had failed, decided to accompany me. Also because he stepped on a nail and conceded he might need to at least get a tetanus shot.

I spoke with a doctor in a room with two other doctors and patients, all consulting simultaneously with their patients and checking in with each other to see what they thought about their respective clients' conditions. This, combined with the repeated conversation starter "So what are you here for?" led me to suspect that patient privacy is not high on their priority list. After a consultation, I was given a doctor's slip and told to go over to the hospital for a chest X-ray. We did so, and ran into another dancer in the X-ray line, who had been mugged the day before and refused to let his cell phone go without a fight (it turned out he had no broken bones). After they took the X-ray, they pulled it out of the developing water and stuck it on the fence outside. As I sat watching the X-ray dry above the scattered litter and birds bathing in dirty rainwater, I felt part of my sense of mystique regarding the medical profession disappear.

When it was done, they handed me the X-ray and sent me back to the health clinic, where it was determined I was having allergy troubles and prescribed a nebulizer treatment and medication. As I went in to get my nebulizer treatment, an old man walked up to me, smiling, and started talking in a language that most definitely was not Spanish. Fortunately, my hours of studying Miskito paid off in this case. I was able to decide with reasonable certainty that the man was not in fact speaking Miskito, and was therefore probably speaking Mayangna, the much less used indigenous language of the region. I nodded and smiled pleasantly.

Upon leaving the clinic, I felt like something important was missing from my hospital experience. I then realized that no one, not at the clinic nor the X-ray lab, had ever asked me the hallmark question "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?"

With the exception of one of the medications, all of the care was free, courtesy of the Sandinista government.

My Day

2009-12-06T20:12:00.000-06:00

(Relatively) Locally Harvested Tea

Today our neighbor Michael appeared at the door with a bag full of weeds in his hand. "I heard you coughing, so I hiked for 45 minutes over to Loma Verde and grabbed some of these herbs to make you tea. It'll make your cough go away."

Who ever said an idle brain was the devil's playground?

Worst Graduation Speech Ever

These were the subdirector's closing remarks at the Escuela Maureen Courtney Graduation Ceremony:

"Only 13 of you showed up at the Graduation Mass [as Susan pointed out, the other 15 are probably Jehovah's Witnesses], and I hardly saw any parents. I'm very disappointed in you. I hope as your children move on to secondary school, you will be better, more supportive parents. I thought about canceling graduation, but you're lucky we have hearts of cotton. Congratulations to all those who showed up and those who didn't show up!"

When Evil Spirits Invade Your Summer Camp

2009-12-05T18:48:00.002-06:00

When I am rudely and abruptly confronted with something that is entirely outside my realm of experience and incongruous with my ways of thinking, my first reaction is usually one of hilarity. What a nonsensical world! As long as I keep this reaction under wraps, I have found it an immensely useful one. It keeps me from digging into my way of thinking too deeply and going completely crazy.

I had a chance to practice this reaction quite extensively over the past few days. Susan and I attended a summer camp for 15-25 year olds from the Bilwi area. It began with us regaling Neko, the director of my dance group, about the hummingbird that had gotten trapped in our house. "It's a bad omen," he said. "Something bad's going to happen."

His suspicions were confirmed when, on the way to Betania where we were going to camp, we ran into a roadblock set up by some locals. They were angry that the government wasn't sending money to fix the road, so they were barricading it. Neko and the other leaders talked with them for a while about how they totally agreed with them but were just trying to take some young people up to a summer camp. Then the blockade people responded that they completely understood, but if they let the buses through they'd have to let everyone through and then where would they be? This conversation never resolved itself. We ended up turning around our old school bus from Missouri and heading to Tuapi, a small town on the outskirts of Bilwi. "See?" said Neko. "I told you something bad was going to happen!"

We arrived in Tuapi, who let us set up camp in their school. The guys and the girls each got their own classroom to sleep in. We used the river for bathing, and people from the town graciously let us pull water from their wells for cooking, drinking, and cleaning. There was no electricity, so nighttime activities consisted primarily of guitar playing, singing, and talking.

The second night, as I was coming out of the outhouse and wishing I would remember to go in there during the day so I knew exactly where the toilet was, I ran into a girl named Ingrid, falling into Michael's arms on the path in front of me. "She just fainted."he said. I thought they were playing around, and said, "Seriously?"

"Seriously! Help!"

Several guys rushed over and carried her to the girls' classroom. By the time they arrived, the girl had awoken, screaming and crying. Susan was inside playing with a 5-year-old from the town nearby. "What's going on?" she said.

"Grisi siknis." replied the boy matter-of-factly.

I was sitting with Michael near the classroom, listening to the loud screams that were now filling up the camp, when Xander, one of the other dancers, came over and informed us that the girl had grisi siknis. I had attended a student's senior-year presentation on grisi siknis, so I was familiar with the subject. It's adapted from the English "crazy sickness," and it's a culturally-bound, contagious malady caused by witchcraft. It primarily affects young women. The first symptom is usually fainting, followed convulsions and visions of riders on bloodstained horses beckoning them into the wilderness.

We waited silently in the dark as the directors of the camp brought a Bible to put under her head and pray to cast the demons out. "Why are there so many men in there with her?" I asked one of the women who was watching. "To keep her from running away into the wilderness!" replied the woman, clearly agitated. I sat for a while with Michael and two of the other dancers, listening to Ingrid's cries. In that moment, I was a not-quite-insider, not-quite-outsider. It frightened me, and yet never touched me because it was so far from my world, even while being within earshot. I started running my hands through Xander's hair to keep myself anchored in the moment. Michael moved closer to me, and admitted he was scared.

Eventually, a truck came and took Ingrid back to Bilwi. Neko informed the group that no one was to leave the immediate area of the two classrooms, and if anyone needed to use the outhouse they were to inform their director and go with an escort of two to four men. I later asked him if that was in case the person fainted, or in order to fight off the evil spirits that might attack. "It's psychological," he replied. "If they believe that the men can protect them, they won't be affected." Like many people in Bilwi, Neko is a not-quite-unbeliever in witchcraft. He spoke the language of psychology, perhaps recognizing his American audience, but when push comes to shove, he too ascribed the events of the evening to witchcraft.

I returned to bed shortly after the girls' classroom cleared out. I discovered that the mattress Michael loaned me had been used for Ingrid during the rituals, so I cleared off the bits of herbs that remained and laid down to go to bed. I was shortly followed by a flood of young women who, as I learned the next morning, had been reluctant to return to the classroom after the nights' events and were waiting for someone else to go to bed before they were willing to face whatever evil spirits might still be lurking about.

Later that night, I was awakened by Franci, the woman in the bed next to mine, moaning, "Giddyup! Giddyup!" At first, I thought someone was having sex outside the window, but I soon realized that Franci had also begun convulsing. Neko and the other directors came back into the room, and we rubbed a mixture of herbs and water into her feet and held her down while she convulsed. "Who's doing this, Franci?" Neko kept saying. "Give me a name!" Franci was not as seriously afflicted as Ingrid, and she recovered within the hour.

Neko later announced that he was certain it was one of the women in the group of students that was practicing witchcraft, and he was going to talk to the Solkia, or the primary healer in the community, and get to the bottom of it. Softened by my confidence in the security of my relationship with Neko as well as lack of sleep, I lost my general acceptance of witchcraft as a part of my new reality and snapped at him for blaming a woman in the absence of any apparent evidence. I didn't really expect to convince him otherwise, but it felt good to vent. Ever since I got here, I have been piled up with reasons to feel vulnerable and afraid because of my gender. I had no interest in having another one, and less interest in women beng made responsible for this vulnerability.

Thoroughly exhausted from the nights' events, we packed up our belongings and prepared to leave the next day. Michael no longer wanted anything to do with the mattress that had been used in the rituals, and instructed me to burn it on the trash pile.

As it turns out, grisi siknis is a common summer camp malady here. When a bunch of kids get together, someone in the camp or someone in a local community uses it as an opportunity to try out the magic they've been practicing. As far as curses go, it's a relatively mild one, paling by far in comparison to demon possessions.

Hilarity works as an initial reaction, but now I am left with the work of reconciling my experience with what I had previously known as my world, in which magic and witchcraft were fantastical or academic questions. What is it about culture that has such power to give our beliefs control over our bodies? As an outsider to this culture, I firmly believe that the demons that haunt this place have no power over me. Still, what of the demons that haunt me back home, the ones that followed me here? The demons that we call anxiety, stress, depression, low self-esteem, and all of the physical maladies they cause? If I stop believing in them, will they no longer have power over me? I wish it were so, but I think I would have to be stronger than my cultural upbringing in order to make that true. Is grisi siknis simply one more manifestation of an experience that is essentially human and is bound to appear everywhere, though the circumstances that trigger it and the way it presents itself vary from place to place? If that's true, then maybe I can avoid catching grisi siknis during summer camp, but that won't stop me from buckling in my own way under life's myriad pressures. The possibility of a culturally accepted avenue of temporarily going crazy is actually quite appealing. I have no doubt that I would have fallen into it at various points during my adolescence, had I grown up in this culture.

Darkness

2009-11-23T21:31:00.001-06:00

Two of the generators are out at the local plant and energy is being rationed. As a result, we've spent a fair amount of time sitting around in the dark with some friends from the neighborhood, talking and exchanging riddles and stories. Tonight we were playing Two Truths and a Lie. What is the proper response when someone offers as one of their statements that they were raped as a child? And then when it turns out that it's the truth?

Critters 'n' More

2009-11-22T08:57:00.001-06:00

Critters in My House, Part II

1) Hummingbird- They're fast little buggers. We tried for hours to get it out of the house. It couldn't find the door for the life of it. I suppose it's evolutionary: when they feel like they're in danger it goes against their instinct to fly downward to go through the door, as opposed to going upward into the ceiling. Once the sun went down, it went berzerk and tried to burrow into the light. After having exhausted itself in this effort, I was finally able to use a shirt to pick it up by the beak, wrap it in the shirt, and carry it outside. It lay there, prone and shocked, for a moment, as I held my breath, thinking it was dead. Then came to its senses and flew away.

2) Frog- in the bathroom. Not much more to say.

Critters Not in My House, Thank God

On Thursday, we walked down to the beach at night with our neighbor Michael. This is not an enterprise I would have undertaken without a local companion, as everyone claims the beach is full of drug dealers at night. As it turned out, we encountered no drug dealers, but lots of rather large crabs. As it also turns out, Michael is rather terrified of rather large crabs, scurrying about in the dark. He claims one of them pinched him. Susan brought her flashlight, so we were able to scope them out and avoid them pretty well, but Michael still shrieked every time the light illuminated one. I, of course, seized the opportunity to play crab and grab his calf.

Dance

Michael is part of a dance group called Swetin.
"It's a word in Miskito," he explained. "It means...it means..."
"Sweating?" I suggested.
"Yeah, that's it!"

I sat in on their practice, and also attended the aerobics/dance class that the group's coach also teaches. It was fun working out to hilariously vulgar songs in English that no one in the room probably understood, as well as a pumped-up version of "California Dreamin'" by The Mamas and the Papas.

Language notes, etc.

2009-11-17T16:27:00.000-06:00

Padre Roger loaned me a Miskito language Bible, and I have discovered that the Miskito has interesting built-in ways of doing gender inclusive language. Like English, nouns and adjectives do not, as a rule, carry gender. Unlike English or Spanish, the third person does not have gender. "Witin" means he or she, and "witin nani" is they. Furthermore, the words "brother" and "sister" function a little differently. The word "lakra" is for siblings who share your gender, and "muhni" is for those of the other gender. Because I'm a woman with two brothers, I have two "lakra," (or "laikra," because they're mine), and no "muihni." If I were a boy, I would have two "muhni" and no "lakra." Because the Miskito Bible uses "muhni" to mean "brothers" or "brothers and sisters," it's normative to the person of reference. For a woman, "If you are giving your gift at the altar, and you remember that your brother has some grievance against you," it would actually read "your sister."

It gets really complicated when you have a word for the son of your sister, provided you're a man. I had to draw a diagram to figure out how all the relationships worked.

Capacitated

2009-11-14T15:55:00.000-06:00

I sit in when the counseling teacher at Escuela Maureen gives class. Last week, I suggested to her that since the 4th grade class ranges in age from 10 to 15, it might make more sense to divide the class into older and younger groups for talking about sexuality. In my mind, you can talk to 10 year olds as pre-sexually active individuals, but by 15 years old they are definitely already making those choices. She said okay, next week the younger kids are all yours. So I have about 30 minutes on Monday to talk about sexuality with the 10 to 12 year olds. Even better, I probably won't have any more time than that, since the school year is drawing to a close.

To get advice, I stopped by Bilwi's equivalent of Planned Parenthood yesterday. A woman named Mildred gave me some great resources. When I asked if they were going to be giving any workshops, she said she was giving one for sex workers today, and would I like to stop by. "Would I!" thought I.

So today I attended a 5-hour workshop with about 20 women who work as prostitutes in Bilwi. We learned about human trafficking, the morning-after pill, and living with AIDS. I found out several things I didn't know before or had forgotten, like sperm can live in the uterus for up to 72 hours, and the morning after pill works by preventing the sperm from reaching the Fallopian tubes and fertilizing an egg. Neat! At the lunch break, Mildred brought out a camera and took a picture of the group. "Say 'clitoris'!" She said. "Clitoris" in Spanish rhymes with "cheese" in English.

The women were very nice. The oldest among them, whom they referred to as the Mother Superior, invited me to come back for the next meeting. I think I just might.

a new language

2009-11-10T15:45:00.000-06:00

My acquisition of Miskito is going well, though I still get impatient with the tedious process that is learning another language. One of my new favorite quirks of Miskito is that concepts are often created by putting together words that don't really seem to make sense together. For example, "Bili kaiks" means "Wait for me." Literally, though, it would be translated as "Look at my mouth." Some of the combinations make a sort of sense:"Latwan mai kaikisna" is "I love you," or literally "I see your suffering." "Kupia Kumi" is "peace," or "one heart." "To follow" is "nina blikbaia," or "to send name."

These phrases appeal to my delight in the hilarity of the nonsensical, and therefore make it easier to learn. Still, it means I very often understand a lot of the words somebody says, but I can make no sense of them when they are all strung together.

It also bolsters my efforts that everyone is thrilled to death that I'm learning their language. I am only now coming to appreciate the fact that the Miskito language carries their culture. In terms of heritage, almost everyone here is some mix of British, Dutch, African (Creole), mestizo, Miskito, and other indigenous groups. There are people here of every skin tone and other physical markers, and they're all intermixed. Language, not physical characteristics, seems to be the primary marker of ethnic identity. If you grew up speaking Miskito, then you're Miskito. Even if you didn't grow up speaking Miskito, speaking the language seems to more or less earn you some degree of acceptance as an insider. Even with the handful I've learned, some people are already joking that I'm Miskito now. It makes sense; I have heard from time to time, mostly from native speakers, that the language is seen as primitive and illegitimate. This is not generally said with anger; I feel like it may be a view that's been internalized. Hardly anyone who speaks it can write it, since only Spanish is taught in most schools, and it is the primary language in all the schools. Learning Miskito is a way of giving the language, and the culture, more legitimacy in the eyes of those who speak it.

Grief

2009-11-05T14:55:00.000-06:00

Last week was a difficult one for me here in Bilwi. The civil unrest of a few weeks ago blew over with a bunch of people arrested, a few injuries, and one death due to heart attack brought on by exposure to tear gas. School started again, just in time for Autonomy Day and Día de los Difuntos. It all amounts to far too many days off school, especially for kids who struggle with long term recall as it is.

This week also saw the departure of two dear friends. After we moved out of our previous house, I continued to return occasionally to visit Miguel, one of the guys who lived there, and Blanca, the puppy. The companionship of both of them helped anchor me during my transition to living here. Miguel was frequently around to talk to, and he often could commiserate because he had only recently moved here, and Blanca was always around to comfort me if I felt lonely. Last Monday, Miguel told me that he was moving back to his home city of Bluefields, and the owner of the house had given Blanquita to someone else.

Later, after the other housemate Eric had gone to bed, he told me the truth about the puppy. After coming back from a largely unsuccessful fishing expedition, Eric got very drunk and killed her. He said he was going to put her out of her misery because there was nothing to feed her. Miguel loved the puppy, and when there wasn´t money for dog food he shared his own dinner with her. Before he left town, he encouraged me not to come by the house ever again.

I´m grieved by what happened, and haunted by the widespread violence here, bred by poverty. I have acquired several bruises caused by my frequent tripping on the uneven roads here, but no one believes me when I tell them I fell, though only Miguel pressed me about it. I´m haunted by the fact that Blanquita is not the only victim of this displaced aggression. I have no idea how many kids I work with are beaten for similar reasons, but I know it´s far too many. I only see some of the bruises.

Poverty is no excuse for violence. Period. But poverty is its own kind of violence. It twists people and relationships into desperate, horrendous messes. Messes with no easy answers.

Climate Change, Miskito Style

2009-10-24T15:46:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I attended an all-day workshop on climate change with the other teachers of Escuela Maureen Courtney. It focused on the climate change and the rights of indigenous peoples. In Nicaragua and in other places, the government has used "environmental protection" as a reason for appropriating indigenous lands for activities like reforestation. Primary focal points for countries like Nicaragua are adapting to the realities of climate change, which have already greatly damaged the people's livelihoods, and recognizing that they are not the primary cause of this damage. They are looking to foster sustainable development while holding developed countries like the US accountable for their role in climate change.

During the second half of the day, four women who are working in rural communities to help them understand climate change discussed how the Miskito and Sumu women have merged the science of climate change with their own religious beliefs. As they explained:

In the past, the Unta Dawanka prohibited us from hunting more than our fair share. The mermaids took care of the river. The gnome, the eyes of the water, took care of the trees. Every tree had its owner, and one had to ask the owner permission before removing branches or cutting down a tree. If we did not obey, the owners of the forest would punish us. We have lost this way of thinking. We have come to believe that Caoba trees are valued only in money. The owners of the forest are angry.

I'm going to talk with the religion teacher about adapting some of these women's thinking and strategies into the religion classroom to teach environmental stewardship. I don't know how open she is to incorporating non-Christian spirituality, and I know I don't have the knowledge base to do so, but there are people in the community who do. It seems like the job of religion class to impart their knowledge, albeit in a Christian context.

Towards the end of the workshop, they showed us this really cool video. It's in Spanish, but it's pretty easy to follow:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5vu05d6G2Y&feature=related

Unrest

2009-10-20T17:33:00.000-05:00

The Miskito independence movement Wihta Tara has been marching for about three days, and the entire town has more or less shut down (though some of that may be because it´s raining so much). I heard that there were people throwing stones and pro-Sandinista folks lighting tires on fire down at the central park, but this entire part of town is quiet now. The Wihta Tara headquarters, which is also referred to as the Miskitia embassy, is only two blocks south of our house. There was a police blockade by it earlier. Police were grabbing young men as they walked by and pulling up their shirts to see if they carried any weaponry, but besides that everyone was mostly just standing around and waiting.

The conflict has brought out a lot of the racial tensions in the city. Creole and mestizo folks have very strong prejudices against the Miskitos. On Sunday, we were eating lunch at the house of a mestiza woman we are helping with some English translations when Wihta Tara marched by the first time. She explained to me that they were mostly thieves, delinquents, and people who generally didn´t want to work. Despite Wihta Tara´s emphasis that they are a nonviolent movement, they seem to be widely perceived as violence-obsessed. I think both sides have some truth in their versions. The man in charge of trash collection, whom we had spoken to the day before, explained that Wihta Tara was a bunch of old people who wanted to go back to the days when people hunted with bows and arrows.

He did also make the point that the original Miskito monarchy which Wihta Tara is trying to reinstate was only a puppet of the British government, anyhow. The presence of imperialism on the Atlantic Coast is interesting this way. It has long taken the form of economic conquest, even when political conquest was the primary form of empire elsewhere in the world. However, it is the political conquest of the past 100 years, and especially the last 30, by the Nicaraguan government that has the local people up in arms.

The politics are accompanied by the economic reality that the wealthy here tend to be Creole and especially mestizo, and the Miskito people tend to be poor. This is especially visible in the two schools where we work. The private Catholic school is overwhelmingly Mestizo and Spanish-speaking. Several of the teachers characterize the students as spoiled rich kids (comparatively) who expect to live off their parents´money and don´t feel the need to learn or be respectful. My experience teaching there does not lead me to disagree. The kids at Maureen Courtney, the special needs school, are predominately Miskito (because, according to one mestiza woman, the Miskito parents don´t care for their kids as well).

All of this makes for a mildly uncomfortable position for me as an outsider. Though they do think I am monied, no one really bears any grievances against me as a white person or American. All their resentment is for one another. This is, in the end, the legacy of European imperialism on the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua.

Critters in My House

2009-10-02T21:37:00.000-05:00

1)Ants
Everywhere. Always in the kitchen. It doesn't matter if you keep the food off the counters or not. Upsetting at first, but now I'm zen.
2) Geckos
Friends! They eat bugs.
3) Cockroaches. They cause abjection, but mostly harmless as far as I know.
4) Mice
In the kitchen and in my bedroom. Quite elusive. They eat clothing and bite, but I don't know if I would be able to kill one even if I wanted to. They're fast.
5) Tarantulas.
Uncommon, but poisonous. Better off killed.
6) Mosquitos (called zancudos)
Of course.
7) Blanquita
The puppy. I'm okay with her in the house, but Eric is firmly against it, so we try to discourage her presence. She is very determined to be in the house, and gallingly audacious about it at times.
8) Beetles, flying insects, other unidentified bugs.

Esther and Cinderella

2009-10-01T21:01:00.001-05:00

I wrote a poem last year that I have been working on for awhile now. It's a dialogue between Queen Esther of biblical fame and Cinderella. It just received the "finished" stamp of approval from my writer's group, so I thought I'd share it here. Note: Some of the formatting isn't going through on the blog (the italics aren't working for some reason), so it may be unclear who is talking when. Just know that when the stanza changes, the speaker changes. I'll try to fix that when I can.

Upon the lush throne of accident or destiny,
Cinderella stumbles into a new dance, new partner,
Once upon a new dream.
Not a fairy godmother, nor a prince,
But resplendent in regality all her own.

“I, Hadassah, sprig of myrtle
Thrown to a night sky which kept me, impossibly,
Transforming me to Esther,
the star that knew not how to shine.
But how my people wished upon me!
As you dreamed a wish for a better morning.
I held vigil over the night sky,
Guarding my people against
terror that wastes at noonday”

“Transformation can carry you only to
the horizon of imagination.
What wondrous dream led you to light!
Light spills forth with hidden fantasies
The morning wind still dances last night’s waltzes
As mice strut like broad-chested horses.
Magic surrounds you, dear Esther.”

“The glimmer of fireflies draws your gaze from approaching hellfire.
You need not fear a homely reality,
The greatest comfort lies in the hardiest of shoes.”

“In the vilest reality lies a seed of dream
Waiting to turn the world inside out.
I fear not. I water the seed.”

“I know you, Cinderella,
For I wore your slippers once.
Destiny, rising impossibly to fit the arch of my feet,
Settling into them with the weight of a little girl’s fears.
They were shoes for a road I never imagined.
Down a long, lonely hall,
Towards a king, uninvited,
To woo his power to give life and death.”

“A man who would not sweep the frightened little girl
off those quavering feet, even if he could
Lift her into a heaven she had not dared to seek. “

“He had been the royal man of my fairy tale,
Standing before an endless sea of maidens…”

“His eyes fell to me, the color of morning wind,
With magic equally strong!
In his gaze, not even love, but a dream of love,
Yet it held power to sweep away a thousand dagger-eyes
of a thousand stepsisters. “

“…His eyes fell to me,
Eyes that had long forgotten the difference between
The power of a man to love
And the power of a man to rule.”

“Yet at last attired on every limb
To match the beauty of your dreams.
Freed from coarse, colorless poverty
That stifles the dreamer.”

“Free from the disfigurement of poverty
Into the chains of wealth. I had beauty, perhaps,
But what greater beauty than freedom from the interests of men?
Such freedom I had none.”

“I never had much to do with the interests of men;
The interests of women chained my feet.
But in the shadowland of imagination,
Where dreams and distant memory play as one,
I found freedom in a dance.
I spun gladly, and alone.
Until into the dance came another,
One man with an interest.
From his interest grew love,
And in that love I found still greater freedom.
Love and wealth caught me in one embrace,
But the greater by far was love.”

“There lies a greater love you may yet discover.
Beyond the infatuations of a prince,
Beyond the flitting of your imagination,
Deeper relationship draws you out.
The love of my uncle planted a seed-
A love for a people,
That love called me to freedom,
called me to my feet.”

“Or your knees, in tears, perhaps?
Begging the king to intercede on your behalf?
That is the strength to which you call me?”

“Strength to use what power you have
In the name of love, a power far greater.
Your shoes,
Such fine shoes for one who has not learned to walk.
For what time such as this
Have you come to the place where you are?
Fairy godmother, helpful mice, persistent prince,
Always dancing in the misty haze of dreams,
she never takes the lead.
Stepping lightly, lest the shoes shatter,
Piercing her little feet like nails.”

“Fairest Queen Esther.
Dreams do not deceive my consciousness,
Dreams choreograph my dance.
I worked for years, but not to be loved.
Not for a mother’s love, unearnable.
I worked to survive.
I found love in the overlooked, the forgotten,
in dreams.
You scoff at how daintily I step through life.
But here’s the thing. I lived! I loved!
That is my testament.
I loved through the whisper of dreams.
My dreams grew so strong, they made themselves reality.
They became a mother, watching over me.”

“The world has yet to ask you to look beyond your dreams.
Perhaps I envy you for that.
My uncle I have rescued, his accuser the surrogate sacrifice
Like Vashti before him,
Appeasing the king’s peculiar honor…”

“Prince Charming, indeed!
Poetic justice lends its lyrics to a song no heart should sing.”

“…now a writ the king has bidden me write
To protect my people as I protected my uncle.
Sturdy shoes to guard their tender feet,
Never to be dashed against a stone.
They shall shout light and whisper joy,
Gladness and honor will be their song.”

“I saw love that wasn’t there,
And it appeared before my eyes!
The world is really a wonderful place,
If we only imagine it so.
Is it really so hidden from you, Esther?
A world where no one seeks your harm?”

“Cinderella, magic is not to make dreams real,
But to safeguard the dream
From those who would see it end.
To unite, to defend,
To destroy, to slay
Not only the men who would harm us,
But women who suckle vainglories into
Children bent on robbing the dreams
Of their unwanted stepsisters in the land of Ahasuerus.”

“Like the marching army plowing through
the spider’s elaborate gossamer,
Plans enacted too quickly leave dreams in tatters.
If my eyes fell to the perils that threatened my dreaming,
If I tried to vanquish every foe,
My fear would never end.
I would sleep fitfully until all my fears were gone,
With a kingdom’s power at my feet,
How many dreams can fear destroy?
Endless fears lead only to endless grieving.
Is love your motivation, Esther, or fear?”

“Fear for those I love.”

“Do you love them enough to abandon your fear?
To let love lead you into the fairy tale
which promises to transform the world
And, in its hidden beauty, possesses the power?”

“If I had your vision,
Could I also have your faith in vision,
Or is it the other way around?
I cannot dream when robbers break in at midnight.”

“Then I will dream for the both of us.”

Reflections of an Insomniac

2009-09-26T00:49:00.001-05:00

As I am currently unable to sleep due to a largish nap at mid-morning, I shall begin my reflections on my first week working at Escuela Maureen Courtney and Colegio del Nino Jesus. The schoolgrounds are lovely, located right where the land starts to descend towards the seashore, with a view of the ocean and a nice breeze. Like all the facilities, the grass is maintained by the students, and mowing is a BYOM (Bring Your Own Machete) affair. It was really adorable to see all these 7-12 year old boys with their big machetes from home swinging away at the grass, frequently cutting down to the root and leaving nothing but a patch of dirt.

We spent most of the week sitting in on classes and talking with the teachers. Because the religion teacher was out, I also got to teach religion classes to 3rd and 5th graders at the last minute on Monday. Fortunately, I had brought my Spanish-language Bible with me that day and was able to pull together passable lessons. Though I felt a little bit useless and aimless, sitting in on classes was very important, because the teachers talked very directly to me at times about what they were doing and the issues their students have. I was at times taken aback by how freely they discussed their students' needs in front of them. After this week, I feel like I have begun to develop relationships with a fair number of teachers and understand their methodologies and the functioning of the school a lot better.

As my integration into the school begins, so does my learning Miskito and Nicaraguan Sign Language. I plan to do a fair amount of work with the "Nivelacion" class for students who function are not developmentally delayed but are very behind their grade level, mostly in reading and writing. There are several students in this class who are deaf-mute, and so I have begun to learn how to sign with them. I actually had my first missed communication in sign language just today, when I asked the teacher of the audition classes, who is deaf mute herself, if she was leaving with the woman who teaches the special needs kids. She signed back, "No, we're just friends." Like English, spoken and signed Nicaraguan Spanish use the verb "to leave/to go out" to mean dating.

Though most of the people here speak Spanish and teachers give class in Spanish, they frequently speak to each other and individual students in Miskito. Still, even those with the most dramatic developmental issues have to be bilingual enough to speak Miskito at home and Spanish in school. Because I miss a substantial part of the dialogue and the culture, I am looking forward to further cultivating my Miskito skills. The teachers at Maureen Courtney have decided that they want us to teach them English every week, and have offered to give us Miskito lessons in exchange.

English is not a recent arrival to the Atlantic Coast. It's been here longer than Spanish, and is the linguistic seat of the Creole culture here. As the pastor of the Creole Moravian Church informed me, it is also fast dying out. Young people go to school in Spanish, make their friendships in that language, and speak English less and less. The Moravian Church is the only remaining English-speaking church in the city. All this is to say that I used to see teaching English as a venture with imperialistic overtones, but I think it's different here. In this region, increasing knowledge of English is actually a mechanism of cultural preservation for the descendants of escaped African slaves. It's a small measure, to be sure, but nonetheless important.

Fire!

2009-09-26T00:37:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, the power went out abruptly. This is not a terribly uncommon occurrence here, and I thought nothing of it until I started smelling something burning and looked out the window to see a column of smoke rising in the sky and lots of people in the street. We went outside to see what had happened, and discovered that a house not 100 yards away from our own had gone up in flames. As I watched it burning and the firefighters arriving, I joked to Susan, "I think I'm going to start packing my suitcase." And then I suddenly realized that I wasn't joking after all. I ran back into the house and threw my most valuable items, like medications and the computer, into my backpack in case we needed to leave in a hurry. I then headed back out, and we went over to help people who were moving all items of value (and also lots of random crap) out of the house that was closest to the fire, in case it caught fire, too. It was very chaotic. Some guys removed a hutch that was too large for the door by banging it into the doorframe until the top of the hutch broke off, also smashing an electrical outlet located right above the door. It was a small miracle another fire didn't start. The exercise turned out to be unnecessary, as the firefighters got the fire under control before it spread to any of the other houses (quite fortuitously for us). The power stayed out for a while, and Lee was quite a sight to see, chopping garlic with his flashlight that straps onto your head.

And so it begins...

2009-09-23T17:41:00.000-05:00

Last Sunday, I visited the Creole Moravian church in town. They spoke in English and sang hymns I knew, from authentic Moravian hymnals. They had announcements about raising funds and church meetings, and the organist dragged behind and the choir dragged behind worse. It was just like home.

The pastor is a woman from the United Church of Canada named Deborah. She just moved here a few weeks ago with her husband, Don, who is going to work with the prison system. They invited us over for dinner on Sunday. As we stood outside their locked gate (which, like most gates, was about eight feet high), a good distance from their house, wondering how to let them know we were there, a man stopped by and said, "Oh, I'll let them know for you." He then proceeded to climb over the gate and approach the house. We thought, "We could've done that, we just didn't think we should." As we waited, the power on the street suddenly went out, plunging us into darkness outside the locked gate in a neighborhood we didn't know very well. As no one was coming, I expedited matters by scaling the fence myself and going to find Deborah. When I got to her door, the man who had gone to let her know we were there was busy asking her for money. I guess it makes sense to kill two birds with one stone, while he was in the neighborhood.

We got the situation straightened out and the gate opened, and proceeded to have a lovely conversation about life in Puerto Cabezas. Deborah and Don are really neat people, as one has to be to up and move to Nicaragua for four years at 60 years of age. She talked about getting tear gassed in riots in Kenya, and he talked about the appalling state of Puerto Cabezas' prisons, which are severely overcrowded and lacking in food and other resources.

We have also started working this week, but as I must now cook dinner that story will wait for another day.

Walking

2009-09-18T13:16:00.000-05:00

This morning, Lee, Susan, and I walked down to the shore to watch the sunrise. There were a fair number of fishermen on the beach, pulling in their nets. I didn't see anything in the nets, but one young boy walked away with an impressively sized crab.

For a long time, I was running on the reassurance that I was journeying towards a home at which I had not yet arrived. Any sadness or discomfort I had came with the knowledge that this, too, shall pass. Now that my movement across countries has come grinding to a halt, all of my displacement and longing has drawn into a stagnant pool around me. Tellingly, these feelings are most overwhelming when my body is still. Literal movement has been the best way to dispel lingering feelings of loneliness. It's also a fine way to overheat at mid-day.

As my Milwaukee pastor (also Joyce Rupp) remind me, my home is not in this world; we are always moving onward, whether we have a fixed geographic location or not. I seek to recover my sense of journey, even as I reach out to put roots in the community here in Puerto Cabezas. The latter endeavor remains the more daunting of the two, because I have no idea how one goes about making friends and cementing relationships here.

Despite cycling feelings of displacement and loneliness, I do feel like I'm slowly starting to develop a sense of place. I love walking through the market buying groceries. I'm grateful for the company of Eric and Miguel, our Latin American housemates, who share their music and offer guidance. The power went out last night, and I went out to look at the stars without my shoes because I couldn't find them in the dark. Miguel came out with a flashlight and said, "You have to wear shoes!" He illuminated a spider that was sitting near where I had been. "See that spider. It's poisonous. That's why you wear chinelas (flip flops)."

Sexual Tensions

2009-09-15T16:21:00.001-05:00

Because we have so much down time now, I'm seizing the opportunity to digest a bit more some of my reflections on my first three weeks, spent mostly in Granada.

All of the sexual tension in relationships is carried much closer to the surface in Nicaragua, and I imagine in all of Latin America. Nowhere was this more evident than in Casa Xalteva, which was staffed primarily by men under the age of 40. It's not that they said things that made me feel uncomfortable or harrassed. It's just that everyone there was much more forward about issues of sexuality in a way that I'm used to among friends, but not in a work environment. My experience of teacher-student relationships have always been colored by the near-paranoia about sexual harrassment that exists in American workplaces, which buries all discussion of potentially uncomfortable questions under layers of "professionalism." It's a good thing and a bad thing, but it's what I'm used to.

Perhaps because of this directness, one day in Spanish class we began to talk about masturbation. I'm not sure how we got there. I had asked our teacher, Sergio, to talk about cultural norms regarding relationships between people of different genders. As he was wont to do, he steered the conversation in a direction that was unforeseen yet perhaps even more interesting. He talked about how masturbation was discussed freely among men of his generation, both now and when they were younger, but adolescent boys did not seem to care to discuss the subject when he broached it with them. He thought they might be afraid of being teased, since so much of the talk among adult men about masturbation is carried out in the form of teasing. I don't blame the adolescents.

I asked him about masturbation among women, and he said that as far as he knew, it was never discussed. He'd once heard of one young woman who masturbated, and he wasn't suprised because she was a mojugata: a girl who acted like an angel with her parents but was really a wildly promiscuous party animal. He also said he believed that masturbation should be a topic men and women could discuss openly. After hearing him talk about his mojugata, I can see why it isn't.

This shows the caveat to the openness about sexuality: I don't think it applies to women. Men can discuss their attractions and sexual experience freely, and perhaps women can discuss men's attractions and sexual experiences, but not their own. It's really not radically different from the US. No one ever discussed masturbation with me until I got to college. The only time I ever heard a male classmate ask a female classmate if she masturbated, her response was exactly the same as that of the Nicaraguan adolescents: "Of course not. That's sick."

I know questions of sexuality will come up in working with high school students, and it will be interesting to see how I deal with them. I'll have to be careful, because I can easily fall into super (dare I say self-righteous?) teacher mode when it comes to sexuality, because I believe accurate knowledge in this area is so important. Despite the fact that, as Sergio explained, almost every conversation in Nicaragua carries double entendre at some point, it seems to me there remains a gaping absence of knowledge, especially about female sexuality. Case in point: During our conversation in Spanish class, my fellow classmate observed that her lesbian friends seemed much more comfortable talking about masturbation than other women. Sergio looked at us and said, "Why would lesbians masturbate? They don't like penetration."

Something inside of me snapped. All of my uncomfortableness with teaching miraculously vanished. I explained that, first of all, lesbians are lesbians because they like women, not because they don't like penetration. I taught him the word "dildo" at this point. Secondly, for women, sexual sensation is derived primarily from clitoral stimulation, NOT penetration. I saw his wife in Casa Xalteva after class, and resisted the urge to walk up to her and say "You're welcome." This is why I should never be a teacher! I can get really arrogant sometimes.

If that wasn't enough for one session, the other woman in the class, a theology major from Creighton, referred to God as "she" that day. After Sergio "corrected" her, we began to talk about feminist theology and the dangers of conceptualizing God as solely masculine. Apparently, this had never occurred to him before. We had to take a break at that point, because, as he informed us, "me han explotado la mente." [You've blown my mind.]

Now the question remains: How will these discussions play out in a high school religion classroom? Honestly, I can't wait to find out.

Patria Days

2009-09-15T15:18:00.000-05:00

We have lots of down time these days, because Nicaragua is celebrating its Independence Day(s), so there's no school. I was inclined to feel anchorless and desperate, having no daily routine to comfort me in the midst of the anomie that is moving to a new life. However, I just realized that I really have not had any time to rest for months, and I'm tired. Therefore, I'm relishing these days of rest, and decidedly not doing my damnedest to integrate just yet. There will be plenty of time for that later.

Teaching has loomed like a black hole in my life, slowly sucking me in despite my strongest efforts to resist. After graduating from college, I specifically made it my mission to stay out of school buildings for several years. Somehow, I knew my resistance was futile. Perhaps because all I have at this point is an excess of knowledge and thinking abilities and not much else in the way of practical skills. I was drawn to Nicaragua to work with Cantera, a non-profit that promotes gender justice in Managua. Then, I was going to work on the Coast, with a school, yes, but as a counselor and in extracurricular activities. When we finally met the directors of the schools, we found out that they needed help in the religion and music classes. Great, I said, those happen to be two areas in which I have a fair amount of enthusiasm and expertise. It was only when I got home that I realized I was going to help teach these classes. I'd been had. Tricked. Ambushed. Foiled again! Now there's naught for me to do but stare at my navel and try to figure out why the thought of being a teacher makes me want to stop this ride and get off right now.

Church!

2009-09-13T14:17:00.001-05:00

Today I begin the sacred rite of church-hopping. This morning, we visited the Central Moravian Church. The Moravian church has a long history here on the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua. The people I spoke with after the service spoke proudly of the first missionaries who came, risking their lives and sometimes sacrificing them to bring the word of God to the region. They thoroughly identified with the missionaries in the story, it seemed, as opposed to the indigenous people they evangelized. In that conversation, "missionary" did not have a negative connotation at all. Missionaries formed an important part of their heritage and identity. Because there's so much religious diversity on the Coast, they didn't bat an eye when I told them I was a Baptist working with a Catholic service group and visiting their Moravian church.

The sermon had a fierce liberation theology to it. Because the Patria celebrations, or Nicaraguan Independence Day, starts tomorrow, the Scripture for the service was John 8:31-36, in which Jesus says that "The truth will set you free...all who sin are slaves to sin...if the Son sets you free, you will be truly free." Like the rest of the service, the sermon was a blend of Spanish and Miskito, so I only caught about half of it. The preacher didn't focus very much on the metaphorical connotations of the passage, but on the literal practice of slavery as an affront to God. There was a moment when he was talking in Miskito, and everyone in the audience laughed. The woman next to me leaned over and asked if I'd understood. When I told her no, she explained that he said something to the effect of, "Why is it that women take the men's names when they get married, but men don't take the women's names? What does that show about us?"

My favorite moment was when he said "Jesus knew the Jews weren't free. First of all, they weren't free because they were all subjugated to the foreign empire of Rome." Then he talked in Miskito for a while, and concluded in Spanish "And that's why I won't be shouting for joy on Nicaraguan Independence Day tomorrow!" I tried to find him after the service to ask him to go over why exactly he wouldn't be celebrating Independence Day, but I was unsuccessful.

One of the neat things about church here is that most churches have services at 10:00 am and 6:00 pm, which means that I can church-hop twice as efficiently as I can in the US AND I can pick two churches to attend on a weekly basis instead of just one. I'm hoping to hit the Baptist church tonight.

Transitions

2009-09-12T07:51:00.000-05:00

These last two months, I have visited so many places and said hello and good-bye to so many people. Upon arriving in Puerto Cabezas, I felt like my soul had been stretched over a large portion of the continent, from Milwaukee, Oberlin, Chicago, and Madison to Granada, Nandasmo, Niquinohomo, and Managua, and it was only a hollow shell of me that was actually arriving in Puerto Cabezas. Slowly, I am starting to gather myself back up and bring my entire being here into this present moment. Joyce Rupp's book Praying Our Goodbyes has been my constant companion during this journey, and I have revisited her meditations many times.

It helps my transitioning that Puerto Cabezas is absolutely lovely. The Agnesian sisters have a convent and a garden right by the ocean, and fresh sea breeze is always blowing through. We live about a 25-minute walk away from the convent and the schools, and there are lots of little stores and markets between the two. We can very easily pick up food we need for dinner from the vendors in the market on the way home from the schools.

The owner's son lives in the house with us, and his friend is over all the time. This arrangement may not last, as some of the nuns really want us to have our own space for a variety of reasons. However, it has been very helpful for me these past few days to have people around to explain life here. We don't have a refrigerator, and we have learned that the microwave can double as a storage space for anything that we don't want bugs to get into. They have gently chastised us about leaving the windows unlatched when we leave the house ("Don't they have burglars in your country?").

As our bootleg Internet connection fratzes out, I will leave off there and resume at a later time.