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.