Let's Talk About Sex...

Baby… you know you want to. It’s a delicate subject, sure, but also incredibly fascinating. Comparing the sexual dynamics of an overly-religious, very repressed, over-populated country versus those of El Salvador should prove interesting. Just kidding. When it comes to sex, I’m glad I’m American. But I can see how both our sexual liberation and their sexual repression expose all the good things and the bad things that can be. I’ll try to keep this fairly restrained and not too graphic, but I should warn you now that this entry is not G-rated.

So let’s dive right in. Sex in El Salvador is full of ironies, not all of which I understand. In many ways it is more covert. People aren’t very open about their sexual conquests or experiences. You don’t see many people openly confessing whom they’ve slept with. So at first glimpse it seems more hidden. But it isn’t. Chambre (gossip) is infectious here. Somehow, everyone knows who is having sex with whom… secrets don’t last. So even if sex isn’t discussed in open circles, it is still discussed in private discourses. Thus an irony arises. People are too ashamed or embarrassed to talk openly with others about their sexual actions or desires; yet it’s all in vain because everyone talks about it anyway. It’s the white elephant effect: people feel there is something taboo or forbidden about sex, and yet they know it is prevalent and are drawn to talk about it anyway. And boy is it prevalent. Don’t let the repression fool you; the sexual voracity here is huge. It has to be with the birth rate here. People find their way to have sex early and often. A common event that follows suit to this irony: a young couple wants to have sex, but is too embarrassed to go to the clinic and ask for condoms for fear that the staff will tell and everyone will find out. A consequential pregnancy ensues… by which time everyone knows that they’ve started having sex in the first place. Yikes, when will they learn? There is a 13 year old girl this year (who looked to me like she’s 7) who got pregnant and left school. Her “novio” is this 18 year old schmuck who’s been seen spending time with many girls. Good riddance. I hope the best for them but am doubtful it will amount to much.

The spaces where sex takes place also exemplify the ongoing irony of how sex here is hidden… but not. Many homes have little to no division between public and private areas. A private master bedroom is a luxury here; many couples don’t much have the chance to put the kids to bed and then go crazy in their own room. I don’t really want to imagine it, but I do assume that there’s a fair amount of coitus in a shared room with the kids. So… while open conversations between parent and child about the birds and the bees aren’t particularly common, firsthand demonstrations in the hammock a few feet away probably are. Bleh! If the house isn’t available, the wide open outdoors offers a lovely alternative. Corn stalks and coffee trees provide adequate privacy and I guess set the mood to some eager young couples. If it’s raining? Well, a good old latrine should do the trick. I still have a hard time grasping this one. My tolerance of latrines certainly has grown after two years, but not nearly enough to have sex in one. I don’t know how one can stay aroused around such a horrific smell… but apparently they do. So again, the semi-private/semi-public irony rises. I guess a latrine and a hidden bend provide some privacy, but they certainly aren’t exclusive spaces. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I have accidently stumbled across some couples trying to have private time… or at least have heard some unpleasant noises while walking through our labyrinthine paths.

The reasons for having sex differ here as well. Not so much for guys… who seem to likewise extol the virtue of busting a nut and spreading their seed with as many partners as possible... Who would have thought? But for women… the want to have sex is affected by very different beliefs than our own. I honestly feel sorry for them, and thank my lucky stars that I live in a place where Sex and the City is celebrated. Religion certainly plays a part. For evangelical Christians, the sole purpose of a vagina is to serve as a receptacle for a penis in order to get pregnant and as a portal into the world when said pregnancy is complete. This means: no condoms, no tampons, no pap smears, and no masturbation (Christine O’Donnell would love it here). As you could understand, this cuts my work out for me… what with charlas about birth control, cervical cancer and less invasive forms of intercourse. But more than that… with these beliefs, women are fairly shortchanged, aren’t they? It seems there is little to no value of the female orgasm here; instead it’s considered a chance occurrence that just might happen on the way to baby making. Machismo fosters this conviction. Many men here believe it’s just great to receive oral sex, but to give it… HELL NO, that’s disgusting and degrading. Ungrateful bastards. So I get confused in comprehending why so many young girls jump into the sack early. I mean, sex, for them, really isn’t that rewarding. I think a great deal of them are pressured into it by guys, sensing that they’ll have security being a guy’s lover, and even more security if they get pregnant.

I’m sure there are women here who enjoy sex and are motivated by this desire to have it. But in all honesty, they are not very liberated sexually; indeed, they are oppressed. For example, another reason women don’t regularly get their pap smears, aside from the fact that it deviates from their vaginas’ objective, is that their partners don’t approve. Men apparently boast ownership to their women’s vaginas and don’t want anyone else, even if it’s a professional doctor, even if it’s a professional female doctor, meddling with their property. I think this deserves a WTF? Not having ownership over your own vagina? These women function as a tool to satiate their hombres’ sexual appetite, without much choice or enjoyment for themselves, and to pop out as many kids as they can along the way. I’ve done a lot of camps and other lessons with coming of age girls who seem pretty tepid toward sex, nervous for the fear that once they do it they’ll be subservient to their partner and his cravings, as if they have no choice in the matter. When rape is mentioned, their minds fill with visions of a horny drunkard attacking a solitary woman in the street. They don’t realize that most rape cases are committed by someone the victim knows, they don’t understand the concept of date rape, nor do they think that rape can happen by a boyfriend or husband. Honestly, it’s as if in having sex once with a guy they are signing away their bodies to be at their new lover’s disposal. That’s oppression in my book, and a damned shame.

Now, if I could be a man for a day and see the world through their eyes to try and gain some new perspective, I would. But, I can’t. So as an unabashedly biased woman, I know this next section about how men have sex here will be duly scathing. The rate of infidelity by men here is beyond compare. Actually I've read statistics that El Salvador has a higher rate than any other Central American country, which has a collectively high rate already. It’s so big that it’s shameless… people accept it as truth that men cheat, that they are supposed to cheat, and that to expect fidelity is just crazy. I’ve done several charlas in which I commend the benefits of mutual monogamy, but I usually end them with: But who are we kidding? Monogamy?!? Here?!? Hahahaha! Where a condom!!! Not that I’m mutual monogamy’s biggest defender. Personal opinions aside, what I find bothersome here is that the men are anticipated to cheat, while the women are expected to stay faithful. It’s the oldest double standard in the book and men here boast it about as often as Sarah Palin does to the phrase “small town principles.” It’s quantity, not quality here and every sexual conquest counts. In contrast to the vagina’s purpose, the penis is not applauded as the tool to impregnate; contrarily it is used to tally the number of partners a man can accrue. And it starts early. A girl’s virginity? Why it’s the most precious possession she has. A guy’s virginity? Well it’s the bane of his existence and proof of his weakness. So, if a young buck has reached a certain age and still hasn’t made full use of his loins, visiting a brothel to stage the blessed event is a common practice.

Of course I am making gigantic generalizations here. Not all men and women here conduct the kind of sexual behavior as I have written. But there’s enough of it about that stereotypes arise; and stereotypes don’t come out of thin air. It causes problems. For instance, certain men do not want to wear a condom because it makes them “less of a man”. Or, a man with a STD who wants to spread it to as many people as he can, because he certainly isn’t going down alone. Another volunteer here told me that in her community, an outbreak of Gonorrhea could be linked to one lothario who contracted it on a fun weekend in the city, and within a few weeks of coming back to his rural home, 18 others had caught it. Although it is more concealed from the naked eye, sex here happens often, with many partners, and in all sorts of forms.

Which brings me to my next topic: gay sex. Again, I’ll try to keep the terms here euphemistic and not graphic, but it’d be a shame to skip how Salvadorans approach homosexuality; I find it fascinating. In the rural setting especially, there is no open homosexuality, no “coming out” or having an open gay relationship. In urban spaces there certainly is more flexibility with this… in fact, many cities have open transvestites, which is completely out of the closet. But this doesn’t mean that gay sex doesn’t happen in all parts of the country. What’s ironic here is that men only consider it gay to receive, not to give. So, otherwise “straight” men (men who are married with children) regularly have homosexual sex but do not define it as such. Which, in a way, by not defining it as gay, it isn’t. I’m not sure the percentage of men who engage in this, but I bet it’s higher than what most people think.

It’s hard for me to talk about homosexuality here without feeling a bit culturally and morally presumptuous. I mean in a way, they have created a realm where gay sex can happen with little public stigmatization. But I can’t help but feel bad for homosexuals forced to put on a mask, forced to hide their inner desires and play pretend for the world. Not to mention, the gay volunteers who have come out back home, and are forced back in the closet here. Their task must be a hard one to bear. Once again in lockstep with the pseudo-covertness of sexuality here… many people suspect or know who is gay in the community, although openly discussing this does not happen.

Approaching sex here is a tricky task indeed. What I find, and this is emblematic of Salvadoran behavior on many fronts, is that in more personal settings people are remarkably open. I’ve been surprised at how frankly people talk about sex on an individual basis. But as soon as they’re in a public space, the pena seeps in and no one will talk about or admit to anything. I guess it’s something that they show up to the charlas in the first place, even if all they do is sit like vegetables. But warranting action afterwards, expecting people to actually start following some of the practices I advise, seems to be like wishful thinking.

I recently coordinated with a branch of Doctors Without Borders, who came through and gave a medical brigade. It was a big success in many ways. Tons of people showed up and received minor treatment for all sorts of ailments. The doctors were incredible, they were so open and flexible, and worked so efficiently with our unimpressive casa communal to set up different stations for various treatments.

Anywho, I specifically helped a group of female doctors who focus on women’s health. We quarantined any and all women, gave a separate charla for them in our warehouse space, and set up an improvised examination room for pap smears and breast exams using rope and blankets for curtains. The charla seemed to go pretty well… the women seemed receptive that cervical and breast cancer are serious, and that simple practices like the self exam could prevent a world of hurt. We described just exactly what the pap test is, attempting to absolve any fear that exists around it. I described how a pap smear takes about 5 minutes… and you only have to do it once a year. The Salvadoran nurses at our local clinic are very capable of doing the exam, though they rarely have any patients. A 5 minute sacrifice, once every year, that’s easy… right?!? Most of the women were open to this, and seemed to except in theory that doing your pap every year is good. But accepting this in practice is a whole different ballgame. I ended the charla with: Okay, so now we have many female doctors who have very kindly come all the way down here from New York to generously volunteer their time and expertise. So, guess what?!? Everyone is going to get their breast exam and pap!!! Sheesh… I might as well have burned the Bible in front of them for how scared they turned. Some women jumped on board and rushed to take advantage of the doctors, others tried to surreptitiously weasel out, and still others (ahem… Evangelicals) stood straight up and made for the exit. I literally had to guard the door and make sure that each woman got tested unless they could confirm that they had had their pap within the last year. I had to be a bit more calculating than I would have liked… but once the first few had done it and had broken the ice, the tension calmed and every woman got their test. There were women in their 60s, who had had heaps of kids, yet had never once had a pap smear or a breast exam. After they got it over with, all the women admitted that it wasn’t nearly as bad as they anticipated. No wonder… I mean, after having 8 kids, there can’t be enough traction left on that tire that a pap smear is going to bother it.

The point of this random and graphic tangent, is that while I was glad we were able to convince so many women to get checked this time, I am not so sure many will continue this practice on their own. I can’t be around and force them to get a pap every year, and medical brigades are a real rarity, so waiting for the next one to do anything is almost pointless. I had an AIDS workshop recently in which we all practiced putting condoms on cucumbers and bananas (a more than generous estimate for Salvadoran men)… and people loved it. We gifted almost 1,000 condoms to the community. BUT… will they actually use them???? That is the question.

Perhaps I’ve been able to change some minds, and I suppose that is something. There have in fact been some people who have come to me for condoms. And, for some guys with whom I have a great degree of confianza, I’ve opened their minds to think more selflessly about sex… convincing them that the whole experience is probably a lot better if each partner knows that the other is likewise enjoying it (subtext: RETURN THE FAVOR, ASSHOLES!). But until I can get a nationwide charla, with guest speakers: Hugh Hefner, Dr. Ruth, Bill Maher, Dr. Drew, Jenna Jameson, and musical guest Salt n Pepa… I think a sexual revolution in El Salvador will be years in the making.

The Moments

What is that saying? Life is not about the number of breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away. A little cheesy I suppose, but it holds a certain truth no doubt. It is true that the strongest memories we have are usually of more monumental moments in life... whether they’re good or bad. I am 21 months into the Peace Corps chapter of my life, and I can tell that after I’m done, it will trickle down into a series of memories of the best and worst moments. Así es. This whole experience is such a crazy juxtaposition of the touching moments… the ones that you feel somewhere deep, the ones that stop you in your tracks and make you feel, even just for a second, completely happy… along with the other moments that crush you… the ones that frustrate and hurt you, the ones that make you feel almost betrayed. There are times when I feel entirely at home here; times when I think: this is right, I am where I should be. Other times are not so fortunate; the times when I think: what the hell am I doing here… I need to get out! While after 21 months, I am much more at ease with this mad dichotomy, it still can throw me through a loop. To enlighten better, I thought I’d share a few of the high moments and a few of the lows.
I think some my favorite moments I’ve had here are the ones that humble me. In my opinion, you can never have too many humbling moments. And in living with some of the poorest people on the planet, I’ve had them time and time again. I see people that have next to nothing, and not much hope for improvement, and yet are still, somehow, happy. I marvel at the… I don’t know if courage is the right word, but it’s the best I can think of right now. There’s this one family here, la familia Reyes, whom I love. Every member is always cheery and warm, and everyone is active in the community. They all are trying to make the best of what they have, and are slowly but surely setting the example and improving the community. The father and the eldest son are both health workers, who visit homes and do community charlas; they are both are very respectful and nonthreatening. Anyway, this past year the family experienced tragedy when the middle son Bernardo became ill. He’s been suffering what they think is bone cancer, but countless trips to the hospital still hasn’t procured a proper diagnosis. A few months ago, Nardo’s conditioned worsened, and without knowing exactly what his ailment is, he had to have his right leg amputated up to his thigh. He is sixteen years old.
I have two healthy legs and I still find it murder to get around here. I can’t imagine trying to do so with only one leg and crappy crutches. So, with the unforgiving roads and trails here, Nardo’s been fairly house-ridden. He’s had to drop out of school… which, from his house, is about a 35 minute uphill trek for a healthy person to do. But he’s been learning… he’s been getting out more, adjusting to his new slowness, walking around the community. I’ve seen him come to many soccer games, which must be hard for him to watch since he used to be a star player. Every time I see him I tremble a little. It’s so unfair. I would understand if he hated the whole world. But he doesn’t. Despite this heartbreaking misfortune, Nardo is probably one of the liveliest, most chipper kids I know. And his entire family, who know how awful and unfair their situation is, do not show even a whiff of wallowing. I see this and suddenly, none of my problems seem to merit pity. This case is rather extreme. But the truth is, so many people here have far worse problems than I, and yet seem to be much more contented and at peace with them. The restraint they show in the face of disaster is truly humbling. It reminds me time and time again that I should not complain, and that most of my problems, are not really problems at all.
And yet, as always, there is a flip side. The general temperament here is more reserved, it’s more even-keel. So while most people don’t reel in the depths of despair, they can also be hard to excite. Pena… shame or embarrassment… is absolutely suffocating at times. The difference of when you talk to people on an individual basis and when they’re in a group is tremendous. Some of the most candid and straightforward people become utterly invisible in a crowd. I teach a class to eighth and ninth grade at the school called Como Planear Mi Vida (Life Planning Skills) that really is a lot of fun compared to their other classes. The lessons vary from thinking about the future, to practicing good communication, to sex-ed; and what teenager doesn’t like sex-ed? And the way the lessons are taught are much more dynamic and fun…but they require participation to be so. I like teaching the class usually. But it’s heartbreaking at times. Some of these kids I know are much more open and expressive than they let on in class. There’s a pair of sisters, Yesenia y Evelin whom I hang out and joke with all the time. We regularly play music dance at Mari’s house together. They’re clever and cheeky… they drive me nuts sometimes… but crack me up as well. However, in the classroom, it’s as if they suffer multiple personality disorders. It’s really hard to get voluntary participation… so most times I have to call on victims. Most people answer… but some don’t. Yesenia and Evelin are masters at enduring awkward silences. I’ve had everlasting stare-downs with them far too many times. And it seems no matter what I do… they won’t participate… in anything. I’ve joked, I’ve placated, I’ve encouraged, I’ve disciplined… nothing works.
Yes there are other ways to get through to these kids, ways in which they show their true intelligence and individualism. Writing and art projects can be heartwarming. But it is so painful to plan a lesson that you think will be fun… a clever game, something funny and with prizes, something refreshing and new… and the kids just sit and stare. Last week I taught a fun class where I passed out different sexual terms… oral sex, testicles, breasts, and in groups the kids had to think of as many slang expressions for each. That’s FUN… right? (Interesting side note, Salvadorans call breasts apples not melons, and testicles eggs not nuts.) They did fairly well in their small groups, there was a lot of giggling; I could see that they enjoyed it. But afterwards, when I wrapped up the lesson and tried to lead the class in discussion… they were silent and self-conscious as always. I even had candy to pass out… but nothing. I got strict and said I can wait just as long as they can and said that no one could leave until someone answered me. Then I stood in front of a very penosa classroom for 5 minutes and no one said a word. The teacher Nuria finally interjected and forced someone to respond. I know that whenever dealing with teenagers, either American or Salvadoran, apathy and aloofness are rather par for the course. But there’s something cultural at hand here too. It’s ironic… because these same kids who are like statues in the classroom will run up to me in the street and excitedly ask when my next class is. Sí hombre, I believe the same forces that make them modest and reserved in times of emotional distress, are also the ones that cause them to disappear in a group. And in those moments when I feel that the individual is lost, captured by pena, it can be truly devastating.
I really do feel extremely lucky with the host family I got put with. Some volunteers get really unlucky and have very uncomfortable living situations. I don’t think I could have asked for a better family. Mari is perhaps the kindest person I’ve ever known… and I love Yessica and Sulma like they were my real siblings… and younger siblings at that, which has been a very fortunate and rewarding experience. I really do love them all… that was easy to do. There have been so many small moments when I feel… just… right with them, too many to write. I’ll share just one. The other day I was at their house watching a telenovela, and I started making fun of it, remarking how they are always so dramatic and passionate, and could they imagine if life were like that here? Then we all started joking, saying lines to each other like the novela stars…. “Yessica, I love you so much it hurts!” … “Laura, you betrayed me from the core! I hate you!” … “Sulma… I’m pregnant, with twins! One’s yours and the other’s Alexander’s!” Yessica spit-taked and Sulma fell on the floor laughing. Mari and I were in tears. When we finally calmed, Mari said “God will we miss you Laura.” And I almost lost it. In that small moment… everything was perfect. I don’t cry often… but I know for certain that I will be sobbing when I have to say goodbye to my family here.
But… then again, I’m reminded very often that I am a foreigner, and that no matter how I try, I’m never really a part of their family as I may want to be. Yes, they can be warm and friendly, welcoming me without pretense. And yet, they don’t endeavor for much depth in the relationship, and at times their lack of sentimentality can be harsh. A while ago I was with Mari and the girls when Mari said “I wish you were staying a year longer.” I thought this was extremely sweet… another tender moment… CHOKE! But then she continued with “That way you can get Yessica a scholarship for high school.” Oh... that’s why she wants me to stay. I’ve helped other students apply for scholarships, and of course I would like to help Yessica too. But she can apply for one whether there’s a volunteer here or not... and they know that. I can’t exactly blame Mari for wanting her child to continue school, of course not. But statements like that make me feel like not much more than a dollar sign. I notice things… like: I feel very welcomed when I visit people at their homes, but people rarely visit me, unless they want something… usually money. Can I buy them something or lend them money? I don’t mind small favors. I’m one of the only people in the community who has a digital camera, so I frequently take pictures and print out copies for people… copies that oftentimes are never reimbursed. As soon as I moved out of Mari’s house and into my own space, people immediately started asking me about what I’ll be doing with my furniture when I leave, hoping to snag my fridge, my bed, my stove as soon as I’m gone. Again… it’s hard to reproach people for this… if I were in their shoes, I’d most likely do the same. But every so often, just as I feel like I really belong here, I am reminded that I am different. And that to some people, I’m not much more than a blonde American with more cash than average and some nifty toys.
Ah yes… my white skin and my blonde hair… and my blue eyes I guess. It is unbelievable how much commotion these attributes cause. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit flattered by some of this attention. Every so often, there’s a community dance that coincides with a different event, like Mother’s Day, Independence Day, or graduation. And as much as sometimes I just gotta dance, the Salvadoran style of dancing is actually a bit of a letdown. It’s not the romantic Latin style you might have in mind… no Salsa or Meringue here. No no no. Ranchero, or rural music here, is accompanied by awkward dancing in which the couple stands in front of each other and more or less walks in place with little sense of rhythm. This is not exactly the dance party I’d be eager to join… except that the amount of attention I get at these things is unparalleled. To be honest, it is a bit uncomfortable… because only about 10% of the gente actually dance, and fewer women than men do (who I suppose are afraid of being tainted as rather promiscuous for dancing or something stupid like that). Everyone else just stands around and does what Salvadorans do best… STARE. But… my goodness… I indulge, because I truly do feel like the prettiest belle at the ball. These men surround me and tug at me, pleading with me for a dance. I’ll be dancing with one guy, and before the song is over, new guys circle around, pushing each other out of the way, to beg for the next dance. It is a bit awkward, and certainly unfair to the rest of the eligible female dance partners. But compared to their other behavior, the men in general are respectful when they dance. And hey… I might as well enjoy this kind of attention while I still can. Perhaps it is a bit gauche, but it is ingratiating nonetheless; and in these moments, I usually have on a blushing smile.
Ooooh, but prepare yourself for the other side of this coin. I might feel flattered on the dance floor… but in practically every other realm where men try to uh… “pursue” me, I feel nothing but absolute disgust. I’ve become fairly immune to the constant piropos (catcalls) I get; I have mastered the “blank ignore and walk away” maneuver. I sometimes do respond to piropos… especially when the guys attempt them in English: “Ai looove you!” Then I offer a snarky reply, again in English: “Oh really? What else do you know in English you pathetic waste of space who has nothing better to do than sit on your ass outside my home and wait for me to walk by!?!” …… To which is replied: “Qué……….?” It’s a feeble redemption, but it’s mine.
Busses are worse. Men take full advantage that I’m captive in the seat next to them for hours at a time to put on full douche bag mode. Now… I have to give credit where credit is due. I have had some pleasant conversations with men who have sat next to me, men who are really genuine and unthreatening. But more often, I’ve been tormented by pathetic pick-up attempts, patronized through extreme arrogance, or just disgusted by overall grossness. With my diminishing patience to men in general here, I have amused myself with just how rude I can be. Once, this fat ass who was probably thirty years my senior sat next to me and started flipping through a magazine. He found a picture of Scarlett Johannson, let out an audible groan of lust, and then turned to me and said I look just like her (yeah, right). I slowly swiveled my head toward him with my best “FUCK OFF” face, then dramatically grabbed my i-pod, put on music, and then very exaggeratedly turned away from him and pretended to sleep. He didn’t bother me for the rest of the trip. I’ve been working on the “FUCK OFF” face, and to my delight, it’s pretty effective. Recently on another bus, I was one of the first people to board, and I picked a seat in the middle. The bus was practically empty... and then this man (again old… WTF… they seem to get worse as they age) came on and began to sit down right next to me, opening a pickup line before his butt even hit the cushion. I darted the “FUCK OFF” face, aka “death stare,” quickly and unrelentingly. And this dude stopped mid-sentence and gaped in fear. Then he nervously grabbed his things and moved to a different seat.
Now… I don’t want to come home a complete man-hater, maybe 85% or so… but not totally. But JEEZ… for any of the meager breakthroughs or genuine connections I feel I accomplish with some men, there are triple the incidents of piropos, pickup attempts, “accidental” brush ups, or outright harassments. ARGHHHH… in these moments… I feel frustrated and repulsed, and want to get the hell away from these dismal muchachos.
Most days are not very exciting. Sometimes, I feel productive when I all do is my laundry that day (which indeed takes a very long time). But now and again there is a fleeting moment, whether it’s good or bad, which extends beyond the others, to be stored in memory always. I do think that overall, the memories I have will be more good than bad… but I keep learning how it’s impossible to have the high without the low. Perhaps it is one of those lessons in life we have to learn again and again.
 

Mythbusting...

Hello dear reader(s). I should preface this by saying that I wrote an entire blog entry with this theme already… and then the powers that be, namely Mother Nature, decided to lash out with a vengeance and ruin my computer in the process. Even indoors and protected, my poor laptop could not evade the elements, which, in all certainty, are much harsher here. So… while I try to find some meager solution to my situation (I’m actually quite stressed, I’m in the midst of applying to law school), I a rewriting this entry from memory. Perhaps it will turn out better edited… but I have a feeling that it will just come off the more annoyed and cynical. Sorry folks, but fair warning.

Okay, here goes, take two…

A friend here recently told me about some personality test he took to see if he was overall a pessimist or an optimist. He scored pretty low, coming out as a morbid depressive. And while I think this particular person can be a bit gloomy, I still thought his final grade was a bit severe. So it made me wonder, if I were to take a similar test, where would I fall?

I don’t think I come off as a Debbie Downer (at least I hope I don’t). But neither do I think that people see me as a Miss Peppy who always looks on the bright side. I can retain hope, for sure. But just as quickly I unleash a sarcastic quip reeking with disdain. Optimist or Pessimist? Most people fall somewhere in between, and I make no exception.

When I first came here, I held some glossy fantasy that I could inspire, that I could motivate people to be better, that I could open eyes. What an arrogant fool I was. While, I guess I had my good intentions, I was also incredibly insensitive in this presumption. Yes, in some cases, I have felt that I actually have gotten through to someone… but I have just as often assumed that they cared, and shoved my opinion regardless.

So what’s been interesting is that where I feel I have actually been able to shed some light, has been in a rather dark (pun intended) way. I feel that my experience of life in the US is actually something people here take to heart. And I’ve used it, time and time again, to bust the myths that they hold here. In a kind light, this could be called: ¨giving a reality check.¨ But on the same token, it could easily be called: ¨raining on their parade, ¨ or ¨breaking their spirit.¨ You tell me.

One third of Salvadorans live in the United States, a third. Some stay for just a while, but others stay for years, and many never come back. Sometimes, whole families can eventually make it across the border. But more often than not, only one member (usually the father) stays and works and sends money back home to his dependent family.

Households that receive remittances from abroad are called remesa homes, and you can tell in a minute here if a home is remesa or not. My host family has a remesa home, it´s made of adobe (not sticks and mud), has a refrigerator, a television, and recently added, a floor (most homes have dirt floors). I understand why non-remesa families salivate with envy, there’s no way they could afford these luxuries. Remesa homes do indeed become materially richer, thus sparking the desire of all non-remesa homes to become remesa homes. But there’s such a terrible dark side to the remesa system, one that I feel obligated to enlighten.

First of all, it creates a structure of complete and utter dependence. Families become entirely reliant on their monthly remesa, so much so that it impedes progress here. Sometimes, remesa kids will drop out of school early, they figure: what’s the point, I’ve got the monthly check coming in. In Mari’s case… she has two girls old enough to tend to themselves, and the domestic work she does doesn’t keep her inside all day. Although she has no education, she could do some basic work to earn extra cash. She could learn a simple trade, like hammock weaving, and sell those. With her remesa money she bought a large table-top stove on which she could easily make papusas (those sell like crazy). I don’t want to imply that people live particularly well from such methods of work… but it´s also true that it doesn’t take a lot to get by here. People who earn their money doing trade-work can live pretty comfortably by comparison. And, it´s organic: created within their means, here. But, what I see often, is that the desire to better one’s life here with what’s available, the wish to pick-up one’s own bootstraps, become eclipsed and defected. Instead, people bide their time as their more-or-less constant remesa comes in.

Another practice that continues this dependence between remesa givers and receivers, is how instantaneously and irresponsibly they spend that money. Salvadorans have very little economic savvy, they don’t trust or understand banks, nor do they grasp the concept of saving. Granted, I wouldn’t expect them to play the stock market, but most don’t even have bank accounts. And while I’ll say that some purchases (like a fridge, for example) indeed hold value… others come across as extremely frivolous and unnecessary… things like cheap jewelry and perfume, chips and soda, backtones for a cell phone, and a ton of pan dulce. Okay… I understand, when you’re living on a month to month basis, splurging on candy or whatever can be pleasing, it´s an extravagance. But those extravagances are short-lived. I cringe as I watch people do this, who are evidently unaware that this is actually perpetuating their dependence in the long run.

Again, I’ll use Mari as an example. She spends her monthly remesa (about 200-300$) like there’s no tomorrow. Her husband Carlos lives in New York and works as a cook in a restaurant. He’s been there six years, and has expressed interest in coming home (actually, this is why I moved out to begin with, he had planned to come back in March, but that never happened). He’s in a predicament. Because if he does come back, everything that he left here in the first place will be the same, save for a few new gadgets his home has. He and his wife have saved nothing, and all of the problems he left behind are still here. I tell Mari, if she could save enough money to make a significant investment, buy a pick-up truck per se, that would do the trick.

I think I've explained my ridiculous transportation situation before, but I’ll mention it again. For all the thousand people or so of Los Cimientos, there are only six pick-up trucks. If you want to get off the mountain, you leave at the will of others. There is no constant truck that leaves everyday, so I often find myself hiking pre-dawn the hour or so it takes to get to the next community, where there are more trucks. Hitch-hiking is customary here, the modus operandi being: hop in the back, go as far as the driver will take you, and then pay them for their services. Pick-up owners make bank here. Not only can they earn money transporting people, but there’s always some job or another needed here bringing materials etcetera. And so I tell Mari, if she could save her money, little by little, and buy a truck, everything would change. Carlos could come home, they could earn good money here, they could leave whenever they wanted. She smiles politely at this idea. But as soon as the next remesa comes, it´s gone in a few days.

A further negative aspect of the remesa game is how it destroys families. I meet women here who tell me they haven´t seen their husband in ten or fifteen years. And I think: that´s not a marriage, oh and by the way, your husband´s cheating on you. Not that I really blame the men who have been away from their wives for years at a time to sleep around. But it´s also true that some have double lives; they have multiple families, and keep one a secret from the other. Also, I find it unfair that the men can cheat openly and unabashedly there, while their lonely wives wait celibately at home. Indeed, some women do cheat here (could you blame them?), but not without extreme public stigmata. Their every move is watched scrupulously; gossip is the favorite pastime here. And so, more often, remesa wives sleep alone, knowing that their husbands´ beds are full.

Mari, the unsentimental and pragmatic Salvadoran that she is, takes this in stride. She says: ¨Carlos tells me that he loves me, but we'll see.¨ This impresses me. She's aware as well as I that he probably has a mistress abroad, if not two (in fact, she told me that once he called her the wrong name on the phone). But she accepts this as par for the course, if she’s to receive her couple of hundred each month. So I think: if it doesn’t bother her, why should I mind.

And yet-

It pains me to see how willingly people accept this. How readily couples give up sharing a life together here, making the best of what’s available (little as that may be) here. How easily they fork over their marriages, their families as they know them, all for the sake of a few hundred bucks a month.

But finally, what upsets me the most about remesas, more-so than the inescapable dependence it creates, or the destruction of families it causes, is how it constructs wild ideas of what life is like in America, making it seem easy, fantasy-like. So when I here people raving about their American daydreams, I feel obliged to put on my mythbusting cap and let loose.

To start with, the journey to actually make it to the US is frankly, treacherous. I’ve spoken to some Salvadorans who have gone and come, and you couldn’t imagine the horrors they endure. When families send off a loved one for the States, it could very well be the last time they’ll ever see them, with prison, starvation, and death as likely outcomes. I don’t think most Salvadorans realize how dangerous the trek is. Nor do I believe that all homes that strive to be a remesa home do so out of mere desperation. I think there’s more: oh, look at that lovely TV the remesa home has, I want one!

If the trekker can successfully make it to the US, again, I don’t think most families realize the challenge that still lies ahead. I mean, starting from scratch in America, with no money, little if no education, and no English! People here don’t know the kind of menial labor, and living situations their family members abroad endure to be able to send those 200-300$ dollars a month. One man I know, Arnoldo, who’s been there and back, told me that he worked two jobs, as a migrant farmer and a busboy, and shared a two-bedroom apartment with 5 men. Can you imagine? Grown men, in their thirties and forties, who left behind their own homes with their own families, sharing a tiny apartment, even bedrooms, with other men! That´s what’s so infuriating here when they get their remesa and spend it on crap. I recoil at the thought that they don’t appreciate, they have no concept of how difficult it must be to have sent that money in the first place.

Indeed, there are more opportunities in the States than there are here. But that doesn’t mean that there is no hope here. Nor does it mean that taking advantage of those opportunities still isn’t incredibly difficult.

MARI: Oh, sometimes I wish Carlos would just take me away to live with him there.

ME: Really? Well… it´s pretty expensive over there, and competitive. There aren’t as many jobs available as you might think, especially if you have no education and don’t speak English. (Mari’s never gone to school, is illiterate, and doesn’t speak a lick of English) You’d have to work, what would you do there?

MARI: I could clean houses.

ME: Right. Well, even then you’d probably still have to learn some English. And that doesn’t pay very well. You might have to work 10-12 hours a day just to make any kind of a profit.

MARI: That long?

ME: Probably. How many hours a day do you spend doing housework here?

MARI: Maybe two or three. More if I have to wash clothes.

ME: Uh-huh… and how many (hour-long) telenovelas do you watch a day?

MARI: Three regularly, sometimes five or six.

ME: Hmmmmmmmmmm.

BUSTED!!!!!!!

Okay… almost through (for the second time). Hang in their folks; I know this is a long one…

I don’t exactly relish busting myths (okay, that´s not entirely true). I understand that having a dream can be motivating, can give meaning to the daily routine, can give hope for a better tomorrow. However, there’s a danger in dreaming too. When the lines between reverie and reality become clouded, life isn’t lived presently or actively. The hope is enticing isn’t it? But, like so many things we yearn for in life, it is a bit uncertain, and a little fantastic, and always just out of reach.

I hope you don’t think I’m judging too harshly. What would Atticus Finch say: Laura, you don’t understand their situation, their desperation? That´s true, as much as I try, I really haven´t walked in their shoes. But I also think that beyond their desperation, they are a little deluded, motivated by a misapprehension; and if they were more aware, they would think twice about coming to America.

The up and up? Waiting for fundulation for my projects that that will make my final months pretty tight. But that's the way ain't it? We're approaching the home stretch: 19 and a half months down, 6 and a half to go...

We had our Independence Day (Sept 15) march recently. These Native Americans were a new addition this year. I thought they were adorable.
An Interesting side stoy. If you remember last Independence Day (check out the blog ¨Mari and a Pageant¨ if not. But they asked me again this year to participate to be a Candidata again... to my reaction this time was ¨Thanks, but NO.¨
Turns out I wasn't the only one who was miffed at last year's injustice... no one wanted to participate. Last year they had about 15 different candidates, and this time around, only 4 put on the banner. Passive aggressive vengeance at last...

Both my sisters danced at the Indias this time around. I loved their dresses, they were beautiful. Sulma's second the far left, in the red and green, Yesica is far right in blue and red, looking at the camera