I wanted that title to be like Wheel-a-Fortune Before and After catagory. As in Prison Break, Big Break...but it didnt work out. oops.
I used to have a section on the blog here called "We're Making Headlines" in which I posted links to newspaper articles about the organizations that I work with. But then I realized that the articles were in Spanish, and as I dont have many friends and family that read Spanish I took that part down. Also, after this one visit where a former Ambassador and the Vice-Mayor of Guayaquil came out, we (as in the Mujeres de Lucha) have gotten A LOT of press coverage, and I just could not keep up with all the stories! A few days after that visit (which was way back in Feburary, my blog post about the New-Chick refers to it) we made the front page of the city section in the major Guayaquil newspaper. After that story ran, we got a couple of phone calls, mostly from organizations wanting to help us out with one thing or another. One organization wanted to give us discounted coffins...um, okay? Another sold us resturant materials at a discounted price so that we could expand the lunch program to include a resturant so that we could increase revenue. Another gave nearly-free eye exams and free eye glasses to anyone in the community over the age of 30. We did not, however, get what we needed the most, which is Padrinos for the lunch program.
Padrino literally means God-Parent, and it is a role taken very seriously in Ecuador. In fact, a mother refers to her child's God-Mother as comadre, which means co-mother. However, a Padrino for the lunch program is only responsible for paying $1.50 each week so that their ahijado (God-Child) can eat lunch for that week. I have an ahijada myself...her name is Melissa. She's all over my photo page...She eats all her soup every day like a good little girl. I love her.
Anyhow, last week Thursday I did not go into the barrio because I was at home being lazy. When I went in the next day they told me that this small, although very popular newspaper had come out. My immediate response was, "Why? Nobody died here," because this newspaper is notorious for having nasty bloody corpse pictures all over the front cover. That and pictures of half naked ladies....The Mujeres were like, "Tere! Dont talk like that! They came to help us, they are going to write a story about the lunch program." So last Monday the story ran. By the time I got to the barrio on Monday at 10AM, we already had 3 appointments to be to that day with people that were interested in apadrinaring a child (which is Spanglish for "being a Padrino"). The rest of the week continued in that fashion, everyday we got more and more phone calls, by Friday we had a list of 32 new kids to start eating lunch next Monday with payment from a Padrino. It was totally amazing. I was totally blown away by the generostiy of the people in Guayaquil.
One of the strangest (in my opinion) calls we got was from the prison. Yep, an inmate called and wanted to help us. What the what?!?! was basicaly my response to that one. How on EARTH can we take a prisoner as a Padrino....I mean, think about where the money comes from. The Mujeres agreed, but they still thought we should go out and meet with him: even if we wouldnt be able to collaborate with him as a Padrino, maybe he just likes to get visitors and we could talk to him and give him advice and stuff. Again, I was blown away. As many problems as these women have in their own day to day lives (including not making any monthly income despite working more than 8 hours a day with the organization, and offering to have their kids be the last ones on the list for Padrinos, which means that they keep paying each week...), they want to take the time to talk to a prisoner, in hopes that they can give him some advice. Ecuadorians continue to surprize me.
One of the Mujeres has a family member in prison, lets call him Juan. He has been in for two years for robbery (from what I could gather), and is still awaiting sentancing. We decided that I would go with her, we would visit her brother, and we would ask him if he had heard of this guy who called us. So this morning I got outta bed, got dressed, and headed over to my friend's house to go to an Ecuadorian prison. The prison here in Guayaquil, I believe, is the 2nd largest in Ecuador, and it houses men and women (although they are separtated). There is also no distinct location for a jail vs. prison. If you are only in for a week, you get put in one part of the prison; if you are in long term, you get put in the other part. My friend told me to bring my ID and to leave my cell phone at home. At her house, her family packed up a big bag of food, coffee and a small sum of money to give to Juan. We caught one bus for about 10 blocks, and then another bus for about 45 minutes to get out to the prison. As we got on the second bus, she saw a friend of her's who was also carrying a big bag, also on her way out to the prison to visit a loved one. I asked why we were bringing all that stuff with us, and my friend told me that its because the food in the prison is not very good, you dont get very much, and the prisoners have to pay for it themselves (and its expensive). So someone from her family goes every weekend to visit Juan and bring him food. I asked what inmates do when they dont have family to bring them food or money, she shrugged and said she didnt know.
The bus was packed full by the time we got there, and when we got off my friend was like, "Walk fast, 'cuz theres gonna be a line!" So we rushed into a line that wound around the outside gate. The line we were in was for women only, there is a separtate line for men, and another still for elderly and women with children. As with any line in Ecaudor, it is only for formality sake, because as soon as you get to the front, people start pushing and jetting in front of each other. As if that ever made anything go any faster, sheez! Outside the prison there are a ton of vendors set up serving small snacks, full meals, gum, soda and candy. There are also people that will store you cell phone, sunglasses and hats for you (since none of those items are allowed inside). A nicely dressed woman came up to one of the storage vendors and asked where the female was that usually worked there, the man said thats his wife and she was at home for the day. I thought it was odd that this woman would be so familiar with a random vendor, but I assumed maybe she, too, visited someone every week. But she didnt have any large bags of food with her...my friend told me that usually when you see a nicely dressed woman like that at the prison, its because she comes to "offer her services" to the inmates. What??...like, where? Where do they, you know, have relations? And does she, like, take appointments?? My friend shrugged, the men know shes coming, she probably has regular clients.
As we made our way to the front of the line I realized my hands were shaking. I was terrified they wouldnt let me in, since I dont have an Ecuadorian ID, and sometimes the cops get crabby with the ID that I do have to offer. The guard to enter the prison grounds didnt even look at my ID. From there we ran (literally) to get into the next line. My friend told me to switch my purse to my left arm, so I did. A cop came by and made a stamp on my right arm. My friend says that this stamp, and one more that we would get when we were all the way in, is what gets us out at the end of the visit. Its the only way of distinguishing inmates from non-inmates. Huh? Are the inmates in regular clothes? I asked. "Claro," she says, of course, "What, in the States inmates have uniforms?" Well, yeah, I said. That way you know who is and inmate and whos not...even without a stamp on the persons arm. The guard to let us in almost didnt accept my ID. My friend turned on her EcuaWoman sass and was like, "Shes with me, shes not from here, shes not a minor and she just wants to see what the prison is like." He nods and accepts my ID. I'm in.
Next my friend leaves her bag on a table and ushers me into a room. She told me this is where they do a pat down search to each visitor. I still had my purse on, I didnt even realize I didnt leave it on the table to get looked through. I stood infront of the female guard who was supposed to pat me down. She was eating an orange, glanced at me, and with her free hand flicked her wrist at me as if to say "ya, ya, go ahead." We went back to the table for the bags, I asked my friend if they needed to see my purse, she said dont worry about it. The guard reviewing her bag pulled out a clear plastic baggie with a bag of sugar and a yellow non-see-through tupperwareish container. The yellow container had coffee in it, I saw them packing it back at the house, but the guard doesnt know that. My friend tells him, "its just coffee" and (get this!) he SHAKES it, nods, and puts it back in the bag. He doesnt smell it, doenst open it, nada. Shakes it. As if the sound of coffee in tupperware is different than that of cocaine.
Then we are in. There are a bunch of men milling around an open front yard area, and my friend leans to me and says, "Check their arms. If they dont have a stamp, theyre a prisoner." There are armed guards milling around as well, although none are actually near the exit door. We head into the large compound area. I wonder how on earth we are going to find Juan, since no one has asked which prisoner we are there to visit. We walk through a short entry corridor and head into another outside yard. Some guy, street clothes and stampless arm, comes up and asks my friend who she is looking for. She keeps walking and doesnt respond, but hes right by her side. She speeds up (I think shes seen Juan), and a young man in a striped polo shirt, blue jeans an Nike shoes walks up to us. "I thought you werent coming! Ive been waiting forever," he says. Its Juan. The random guy taps him like he wants something, my friend says "No! We found him on our own," and Juan tells him to get lost. He leads us back into the indoor corridor, and into a bigger hall. There are men lining the walls, some are craning their necks down the hall and look like they are waiting for someone, some look like they are waiting for something, some just look like they are waiting. "All these guys are prisoners," my friend tells me proudly, sort of pointing at them. Yeah, thanks, I kinda gathered that much.
We head into the cell block through a gate (Juan sort of nods at a non-stamped guy guarding the door) and then into Juan's cell. Juan opens a padlock on the door with a key he got from another inmate in the hall, there is a sheet hanging on the inside of the door so that you cannot see in the room even if the door is open. I have not seen a guard since we left the front yard. They explain to me that each cell has an owner, who buys the cell. Then the owner can "rent" out space for extra inmates who cannot afford to buy their own cell. Juan is one of those inmates, and shares the 15ft by 8ft cell (my rough estimate) with the owner and 7 other guys. I count the tiles on the floor: by what I can see, the owner sleeps on a trunkated twin bed, 6 guys sleep on the floor--about 2ft of space each, and one guy sleeps in the hammock above their heads. As we visit, my friend and I sit on the bed and Juan lounges in the hammock, devoring the food we brought. He goes through the other items (soap, coffee, sugar) and stores them in a small ledge behind the bed. He offers me some of his cola. He cleans the dishes using a bucket of water on the kitchen floor, which has a drain in the corner. Connected to the kitchen (a space I am guessing is 8ft by 3 ft) is the bathroom, I cannot see if there is a shower. At the foot of the bed is a wire with clothes hanging on it. "The guys sleep with their feet under the bed," my friend tells me, as I take in the Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling. The room is basically spotless, the bed is nicely made, outside I can hear some kind of a concert going on, or at least a live DJ.
We hang out in his cell for a while, as my friend lectures Juan about praying with his heart and not just his mouth, and things of that nature. He looks like hes heard it all before but he listens politely. Another guy comes in (not the cell owner, but one of the cellmates), Juan offers him the glass of cola he is drinking. Another friend comes in who Juan was friends with on the streets. My friend continues to lecuture them both (as they share Juan's fish, rice and beans), this time about not blaming their girlfriends for moving on with their lives while they are in prison. My friend asks Juan if hes heard of the guy who called us. Yes, he has, he owns a store in the prison, we will go see him ya mismo. My friend tells me that inmates open up small businesses (stores, fruit juice bars, pharmacys, etc) in the prison to make money. Prisoners have various expenses, like buying their cell or paying cell rent, paying the "guard" (the inmate watching the cell block door), buying food, toilet paper, medicine and whatever else they need to get by.
Before we head to the guys store, Juan wants to take us to visit another one of his friends. We head down the hall, Juan seems less comfortable walking into this area, I guess because its not where he lives so people dont recognize him as well. As we head down the hall I smell marijuana, I look around and see an inmate sorta slumped against the wall, inhaling on something hidden in his hand. There are people everywhere, children running around, a toddler jets past us with no shoes on. A sgraggly looking dog crosses our path. Some guy offers Juan his hand in a greeting, but Juan refuses to shake his hand, saying something about not wanting any of that. We head into another cell block, passing through a group of guys playing pool. Into another cell, this one about twice the size because there is a bathroom thats the size of Juan's cell attached to it. This inmate is an old friend of the family, hes sorta chubby, espcially compared to Juan. There are bunk beds in his cell, and I am told that only 2 guys sleep there. Juan tells me that these room are for foriegners (though my friend tells me later that this is only because the cells cost more, and foriegners have more money sent to them from the outside; this guy, for example, is Ecuadorian). He has been sentanced to 17 years, I think he has already been in for a year or two. He comes out of the bathroom to greet us, pulling on his shirt and zipping up his unbelted pants. He introduces us to his beautiful newborn baby and his wife. There is a rug with a print of a tiger on his floor. My friend commends him for being so chubby, and nudges Juan saying that maybe if he smoked less he would gain some weight, too.
We finally head down to this store of the guy who called us. There is a woman and two small children working in the store. My friend presents us, the woman calls for he husband and he lets us into the store. We sit down and he talks to us about how he was impressed with the work we are doing, he says that hes concerned about the families not being able to afford the lunch. He talks to us about Community Banking, which he used to participate with in his home country (he is not Ecuadorian) before he got "here." My friend asks how long hes been in? 7 years, he says, and hopefully he will be out soon. He quickly changes the subject back to Community Banking. He eludes later to being in for something having to do with drugs. We talk for a while, maybe half an hour, and thank him for his thoughts. He seemed like a nice enough guy.
Juan wants to show us around a little bit, and I am all game. So we check out the swimming pool for inmate's kids, and walk through another yard area. Everywhere you look there are inmates hanging out, wandering around; I still havent noticed a guard since we came in from the front yard. Some of the inmates are alone, some with people who look like their mothers, others with women holding small children, some are leading women in fancy clothes and high heels down the halls into the cell blocks. We head back to Juan's block to get my friends bag that she left in his room. We are informed by one of the cellmates that she will have to get the bag next week; there is a "visit" going on in the room, and we cannot get in. We head back towards the exit, another family member has come to visit Juan and we run into him in the hall. We pass and area with a closed door and guys hanging out, my friend says those are the really bad cells, for inmates with no family and money sent to them to get a nice cell. On our way out, Juan gives me a semi-toothless grin and tells me that when he gets out he will protect me on the streets. I laugh and wish him luck.
Out in the front yard there is a huge group, like 80-100 women, waiting in several unorganized lines to pick up IDs and leave. We are in line for at least an hour, pushing, getting pushed, waiting. Everyone is yelling, "Get to the back of the line! Guard, help us!" as women creep around the edges and cut ahead in the line. I kid you not, I counted 7 armed guards milling around the front yard, SITTING DOWN AND CHATTING, as this group of 100 angry EcuaWomen push and shove and fight to get their IDs. Finally, a young guard with braces on his teeth comes up and starts to try to establish some kind of order. He stands no chance against these women, and he knows it. The machine gun strapped across his chest does not even phase them, he kindly asks them to step back, they look past him and scream out their last name to the guy sorting through IDs to hand out. An inmate keeps coming up around the side, telling the ID guy last names and getting IDs to take to the back of the line. I think this is the business that he has set up, I am pretty sure I heard him say, "I already gave you the $4 for these IDs!" and then yells out a last name attached to the ID he is seeking. We finally get our IDs, push our way back out of the line, and head through the door.
I check my arm, worried that my stamps have rubbed off. My friend told me that once, her sister only got one stamp (instead of 2) and they almost didnt let her out. My stamps are intact, but a little smudged. I accidentally made a copy stamp on my upper arm at some point during the day because its hot and sweaty out. There is no guard at the door when we exit the yard, no one looks at my id or my arm at any of the checkpoints on the way out. I want to keep my stamp on til I get home so I can take a picture, my friend just laughs at this idea. It starts to rain as we head home: hard, pouring, Guayaquil-rain. I ask what happens in the rainy season with stamps at the prison, she says they do it the same as they do all the time. I wonder what keeps inmates from licking their visitors arms and passing the stamp to their own.
"So, what did you think???" my friend asks as we cross the street to catch the bus home. Well, its certainly different than prisons (as I know them) back in the States, I respond. If nothing else, I learned lots of new swear words.
Until next time,
Theresa
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Peace Corps Volunteers: They're just like US!...They love and worry about kids
Haha, thats my nod to my favorite section of the trash magazines from the States. Like its important to know that Ashton Kutcher plugs the toll on his own meter. Ah, but I cant help but look...Anyhow, on to the post.
This problem I have right now is multisided, multidimensional, multiplying with each coming day. In Ecuador, migration is a major problem. Have we discussed this? I think so. Its two sided: adults leave Ecuador to go live and work in other countries, especially the States, Spain and Chile (at least in the families that I know). Then they send money back to their families here in Ecuador. Sounds like a good enough thing, but the problem is that most of the time they leave their kids behind. And as much as money is helpful in raising kids, (in my opinion) a present parent is far more valuable. Interesting factoids: Of the total Ecuadorian population (about 13 million people), about 15% live outside of the country; and money sent from family members who migrated to other countries is the second leading source of revenue in Ecuador (second to oil. I think I previously said it was the third, but I was wrong). So, obviously, migration is a big problem in the country, because it leaves lots of kids behind; but its totally necessary in the country, because it creates revenue.
So there are the statistics. Here is a piece of the reality, in my admittadly skewed, American way of seeing it. I work with teens in one barrio here in Guayaquil, and I work with an am very close with children in another barrio here in the city. The teens I work with are incredibly wonderful. In fact, they just threw me a surprize birthday party last week and pushed my face into the cake. It was wonderful and I love those kids! They are smart, they come to meetings twice a week, and they are generally interested in learning about values, self esteem, and of course, sex. We had a charla the other week about the human genital parts. They were so freaking attentive during that charla, it was scary! It was so much fun, such a rush, to see them connect the pieces together...the pain near your pelvic bone when your ovary releases an egg, the fact that the penis fills with blood (not sperm) to create an erection, the concept that the vagina expands in such extreme ways that it allows a new child to pass through into the world. I would not trade the work that I do with them for anything, it is a major part of my life here.
Like I said, they are really great, wonderful kids. They are well cared for, they have adults in their lives who look out for their well being. But the fact is that they are not the only teens living in their barrio. Consistantly there is a group of about 9 kids that come every week, but there are hundreds of teens living in that barrio. When I get off the three-wheeled moto in Isla Trinitaria, I pass by lots of teens sitting around on street corners, doing a whole lot of nothing. They gather and play cards, they probably drink a beer or two if they can get their hands on some. They whistle at girls who pass by, they struggle to carry the children that they had years before they were ready to care for them. Thats just reality. I love my jovenes, but that doesnt mean that I dont notice all the teens that dont come to the meetings. I care about my jovenes, but that doesnt mean that I dont worry just as much (if not more) about the kids gathered on the corner.
As you know (if you have been keeping up), I spend most of my time out in Calle 8. Since I am there for several hours a day, 6 days a week, I have come to be that Peace Corps Volunteer that kids run up to screaming "Tia!!!" (which means Aunt). They grab my hands and ask me if we have class that day (art class), ask if we can play a game, ask me for 5 cents so they can buy a frozen treat (I never give it, but they keep asking). There are a couple of kids that I see very often, and am becoming very attached to. Two are a set of brothers, two are a set of sisters, both live with grandparents. The boys' mom live here in Guayaquil. When I ask adults where she is, I get told that shes "Over there" with a motion leading out of the barrio. When I ask what shes doing, and why shes hardly ever around, I get shrugs. What is she doing? Drugs? Who knows. The girls' mom has migrated to another country. She comes back to visit about once a year, an event that is coming up right now with much anticipation from her daughters and mother. And me. I want to know her, I want to not be so mad at her all the time. I want to understand her intentions, because I am sure they are good.
Ah, this is hard. Out of respect for the kids and their families, I dont want to give too many details. But I want you to know these kids. I want you to come to lunch and meet them, to see how they all but beg be be spoon fed their soup, despite the fact that they are 7 years old. I want you to see how giving them one little hug results in them crawling up on your lap, cradling themselves in your arms like an infant. I want you to feel this constant tug on my heart that these kids make.
The girls' dad lives in Guayaquil, too. He was supposed to take care of them for the school year, but when confronted with the reality that he would then also have to be financially responsible for them, he ran off with his 'other woman.' The girls dont seem to mind, I wonder if this was the first time. While taking a nap the older one heard her grandmom say that someone had called earlier. She woke from her slumber and asked, 'Who called? My dad? Is he coming to get me? Did my mom call? Who called, grandma?' We all just looked at her...what do you say? Your dad doesnt....doesnt want...doesnt want to what? To care for you? To pay for you lunch? To hold you when youre sleepy? To play with you? To what? And your mom? How do you explain to a seven-year-old that mom loves you SO much that she moved far, far away so that she can send money home to pay for you to go to school?
I just worry about my kids, thats all. I want to take them all home with me, to love them all like they are my own and to remind them everyday, every hour and every minute how beautiful and wonderful and special they are. I do not want them to grow up to be those kids who hang out on the corner and do God knows what. I want, I want, I want them to be okay. But, at the same time, I know that I am not the solution. As much as those kiddos love me and I love them, I am Tia, not mom. I tell them that I love them all the time, I braid their hair, I kiss their boo-boos, I draw pictures with them. But I am Tia Tere, and thats just reality. I just hate reality, thats all. I want to be able to some how change it, somehow make it "better" or at least "easier." But what do I know? And more importantly, what can I do?
...ah, I hate stressing so much. Continue with art classes (in celebration of Earth Day they each decorated little cups and got little plants to take home and care for). Hold hands as we walk down the street. Blow on spoonfulls of soup to cool it off. Kiss boo-boos. Be Tia. Thats all I can do.
Go home and kiss your kids,
Tia Tere
This problem I have right now is multisided, multidimensional, multiplying with each coming day. In Ecuador, migration is a major problem. Have we discussed this? I think so. Its two sided: adults leave Ecuador to go live and work in other countries, especially the States, Spain and Chile (at least in the families that I know). Then they send money back to their families here in Ecuador. Sounds like a good enough thing, but the problem is that most of the time they leave their kids behind. And as much as money is helpful in raising kids, (in my opinion) a present parent is far more valuable. Interesting factoids: Of the total Ecuadorian population (about 13 million people), about 15% live outside of the country; and money sent from family members who migrated to other countries is the second leading source of revenue in Ecuador (second to oil. I think I previously said it was the third, but I was wrong). So, obviously, migration is a big problem in the country, because it leaves lots of kids behind; but its totally necessary in the country, because it creates revenue.
So there are the statistics. Here is a piece of the reality, in my admittadly skewed, American way of seeing it. I work with teens in one barrio here in Guayaquil, and I work with an am very close with children in another barrio here in the city. The teens I work with are incredibly wonderful. In fact, they just threw me a surprize birthday party last week and pushed my face into the cake. It was wonderful and I love those kids! They are smart, they come to meetings twice a week, and they are generally interested in learning about values, self esteem, and of course, sex. We had a charla the other week about the human genital parts. They were so freaking attentive during that charla, it was scary! It was so much fun, such a rush, to see them connect the pieces together...the pain near your pelvic bone when your ovary releases an egg, the fact that the penis fills with blood (not sperm) to create an erection, the concept that the vagina expands in such extreme ways that it allows a new child to pass through into the world. I would not trade the work that I do with them for anything, it is a major part of my life here.
Like I said, they are really great, wonderful kids. They are well cared for, they have adults in their lives who look out for their well being. But the fact is that they are not the only teens living in their barrio. Consistantly there is a group of about 9 kids that come every week, but there are hundreds of teens living in that barrio. When I get off the three-wheeled moto in Isla Trinitaria, I pass by lots of teens sitting around on street corners, doing a whole lot of nothing. They gather and play cards, they probably drink a beer or two if they can get their hands on some. They whistle at girls who pass by, they struggle to carry the children that they had years before they were ready to care for them. Thats just reality. I love my jovenes, but that doesnt mean that I dont notice all the teens that dont come to the meetings. I care about my jovenes, but that doesnt mean that I dont worry just as much (if not more) about the kids gathered on the corner.
As you know (if you have been keeping up), I spend most of my time out in Calle 8. Since I am there for several hours a day, 6 days a week, I have come to be that Peace Corps Volunteer that kids run up to screaming "Tia!!!" (which means Aunt). They grab my hands and ask me if we have class that day (art class), ask if we can play a game, ask me for 5 cents so they can buy a frozen treat (I never give it, but they keep asking). There are a couple of kids that I see very often, and am becoming very attached to. Two are a set of brothers, two are a set of sisters, both live with grandparents. The boys' mom live here in Guayaquil. When I ask adults where she is, I get told that shes "Over there" with a motion leading out of the barrio. When I ask what shes doing, and why shes hardly ever around, I get shrugs. What is she doing? Drugs? Who knows. The girls' mom has migrated to another country. She comes back to visit about once a year, an event that is coming up right now with much anticipation from her daughters and mother. And me. I want to know her, I want to not be so mad at her all the time. I want to understand her intentions, because I am sure they are good.
Ah, this is hard. Out of respect for the kids and their families, I dont want to give too many details. But I want you to know these kids. I want you to come to lunch and meet them, to see how they all but beg be be spoon fed their soup, despite the fact that they are 7 years old. I want you to see how giving them one little hug results in them crawling up on your lap, cradling themselves in your arms like an infant. I want you to feel this constant tug on my heart that these kids make.
The girls' dad lives in Guayaquil, too. He was supposed to take care of them for the school year, but when confronted with the reality that he would then also have to be financially responsible for them, he ran off with his 'other woman.' The girls dont seem to mind, I wonder if this was the first time. While taking a nap the older one heard her grandmom say that someone had called earlier. She woke from her slumber and asked, 'Who called? My dad? Is he coming to get me? Did my mom call? Who called, grandma?' We all just looked at her...what do you say? Your dad doesnt....doesnt want...doesnt want to what? To care for you? To pay for you lunch? To hold you when youre sleepy? To play with you? To what? And your mom? How do you explain to a seven-year-old that mom loves you SO much that she moved far, far away so that she can send money home to pay for you to go to school?
I just worry about my kids, thats all. I want to take them all home with me, to love them all like they are my own and to remind them everyday, every hour and every minute how beautiful and wonderful and special they are. I do not want them to grow up to be those kids who hang out on the corner and do God knows what. I want, I want, I want them to be okay. But, at the same time, I know that I am not the solution. As much as those kiddos love me and I love them, I am Tia, not mom. I tell them that I love them all the time, I braid their hair, I kiss their boo-boos, I draw pictures with them. But I am Tia Tere, and thats just reality. I just hate reality, thats all. I want to be able to some how change it, somehow make it "better" or at least "easier." But what do I know? And more importantly, what can I do?
...ah, I hate stressing so much. Continue with art classes (in celebration of Earth Day they each decorated little cups and got little plants to take home and care for). Hold hands as we walk down the street. Blow on spoonfulls of soup to cool it off. Kiss boo-boos. Be Tia. Thats all I can do.
Go home and kiss your kids,
Tia Tere
Saturday, April 12, 2008
I´m not Ungrateful, I just suck at Small Talk
Before we get to the story, let me add that I turned 25 on Monday! Happy Birthday to me, to me, to me! haha. Did you know that in Ecuador they sing the Happy Birthday song first in Spanish and then always followed by the English version? I dont think that most people even know what they are saying, but they sing it all the same...I was serenated by both the staff at Applebees in Quito and by the Mujeres de Lucha. Good times. The best birthday wish I got? From my little sister who posted on my Facebook wall: "Feliz Navidad sista! Hope you had a fiesta fantastica!" hahaha! Clearly she doesnt always know what the words in songs she hears mean, either....as in "Feliz Navidad...I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart." Ohhh, too funny little sis. Feliz Navidad to you, too.
So what does a Peace Corps Volunteer do for her 25th birthday? Well, this one went out dancing one night, had a party with the Mujeres de Lucha another day, went to dinner with friends a couple of times, and oh yes, gave a charla about homosexuality in Ecuador. Ahhh, duty calls.
The newest Omnibus 99 arrived in Ecuador in January, and now they are just getting set to head out to their sites. They are the Agriculture and Habitat Conservation Groups, so you know, their PC life is gonna be just a liiiittle bit different than mine is. Nonetheless, their training site is the same place where I used to live: in Tabacundo (lindo de mi corazon, eres la tierra de mi pasión). As a member of the PC-Ecuador GLBT Interest group, I was invited to give a charla about homosexuality in Ecuador along with a friend of mine from the group. I took the night bus up to Quito on Sunday night so that we would have Monday (the day I became a quater of a century years old) to plan. Yeeeaaaah...she has a tv so instead we watched movies and dvds of The L Word. But I mean, hey, watching The L Word is sorta like planning a GLBT charla, right? So yeah, the charla didnt end up getting planned until basically the morning of the charla, which was the next day. No big deal because we were just replicating the charla that was given to us several short months ago when we were eager to learn trainees.
So we head out on the bus to Tabacundo. I wanted to stay awake and alert so that I would see my old surroundings coming in around me again, and relish in the beauty that is the sierra of Ecuador. Instead I fell asleep on the bus...oops. When we got there, I called my old host family. Heres the thing--I have done a real crappy job of keeping in touch with those folks. And its not because I dont love them, because I do love them. They are wonderful and absolutely the best host family match for me and I wouldnt trade them for the world. The problem is that keeping in touch requires a skill called "small talk." Thats something I have always stuggled with, and it doesnt get any prettier in Spanish. I did text my host sister once to tell her that I was reading all the wonderful things that I had written about her in my journal and that I missed her. But then she didnt call me back. In fact, they have called me no more than I have called them, which is not at all. So then I didnt feel so bad, you know?
So anyhow, we get to Tabacundo and I call the host family, ask for Sra. Carmen. A man answers the phone...shit...its Don....Don...Don, shit! How can I forget my own host fathers name?!?! I'm like, Hi! Its Tere! How are you?? And he's like, Teresita?? I dont believe it! How are you, how have you been, how long its been since I have seen you, how is everything, how do you feel? Awww...did I ever mention how my host dad asks a minimum of 5 "how are you doing" questions at the beginning of EVERY phone conversation? Haha, I love that man. So we get to talking and he's like, We thought we would never hear from you again. Youre in Tabacundo? Where? Since when? When are you coming over? My wife and the kids will be home later today. I feel this immediate rush of happiness and nostalgia and wonderfulness and missing my host family like crazy. I tell him that I have to give this charla to the new group, but I will come over shortly after that. They have a new host daughter in the new group, he asks if I know her? (ps, at least as it relates to Peace Corps, in Ecuador the general assumption is that all gringos know each other). I say no, but I will look for her during the charla. After I hang up it hits me: Cesar! Don Cesar is his name! Man, Im an idiot.
Yay! So they dont totally hate me for not being the wonder-gringa that their last host daughter was who called them once a week and visited like once a month. And it seems like they want to see me, too, which makes my heart smile. So I head back over to the meeting site for Omnibus 99, and immediately one of the PCTs comes running up to me and is like, Oh my God! I was so excited to see you! I figured she was one of the girls who I had talked with online before they got here. But no, she thought I was a friend of hers from home. Haha. Funny how many people I look like. Anyhow, I find the new host daughter for my host family and introduce myself.
Then we get going on the charla, and all in all, it goes well. Well, I mean really, the main part of it totally crashed and burned because it based on a lie and they didnt really go along with it (kinda complicated to explain, but just trust me it didnt really work out). So I was like, heres a PC Lesson: Sometimes charlas dont work out. Haha. Then we had a productive discussion on how to improve the charla to do in their sites, their worries about doing a charla on such a hot-button issue like homosexuality, talked about intergrating into your site first, etc. Really we had a good little chat, it was fun. There are also 5 people in their group that are from Wisconsin, and they enjoyed my (still)very Wisconsin accent. It was really fun being the person who came to visit the new group. I remember when I was in training and all these random PCVs came in and gave us charlas and we (or at least I) were in such awe that they actually live all alone in this country and enjoy themselves and manage not to die. In case you dont recall, I totally fucking hated training, so it was always such a major refresher to see real life volunteers. Its a lofty goal, but I hope that maybe one of those 99ers was like, Dude, that Theresa chick was cool and is doing some cool work and I hope I become a cool volunteer like she is. Ahh, dreams. I did end up meeting a girl who had read my blog...so in case shes reading this now: Hello! Good luck at site!
So after the charla I ended up continuing to be a crappy host daughter and did not go out and see my host family. I just ran outta time because I went to coffee with some of the new group and we were chatting and I felt bad bailing out on them. But I went back out the next day. I got off the bus (I stayed awake this time, and yes: the sierra is still way prettier than the coast) and I was like, crap! How do I get to my house?? I lived in Tabacundo for 10 weeks, and I get back there and feel immediately lost. Then I took a deep breath and realized I knew exactly where I was and walked home. Im pretty sure I saw my host uncle in the paper store they own, but I didnt stop to say hi because I couldnt remember his name (although Im sure he doesnt remember mine either) and because that would result in the dreaded small talk game. I get to the house, open the front gate and walk up to the door. A car drives up behind me and a guy says "Who are you looking for?" and Im like, Eeeee! My family is here! (it was my host dad, I recognized his voice). We all hugged and headed inside and they took my bags and sat me down at the table.
For the next several hours I kicked myself over and over again and wondered what the hell had kept me from calling them all this time. I mean, its been SEVEN MONTHS! And believe me, they reminded me of it. My host mom even joked that they thought maybe I was just ungrateful. At least I think thats what the word meant...and I was like NOOOO! I think about you all the time, Im just not good at calling. Turns out they had my phone number wrong, so the ball was all in my court and I totally didnt pick it up. They were full of questions about my life in Guayaquil, my work, and how I am adjusting. They (I, we all, everyone) were very worried when I went to site because I was so completely terrified at the prospect of living in Guayaquil. I assured them that all was well, that I was living in a nice house with a nice landlord who also lives on the same plot of land. They said they were really glad that I was safe and happy. My host sister said shes glad I have a place and now she can come and visit me! Yes! I hope she meant it! We talked about the difference between life on the coast and life in the sierra: how I was shivering cold now in Tabacundo because I had gotten used to it being 90 degrees out everyday. How men on the coast stand around with their shirts lifted up over their beer bellies on the side of the road. How Guayaquil is totally crazy and practically its own little world. How I talk weird, fast, slurred coastal Spanish now, instead of the slow, clear sierran Spanish. And as we spoke I realized how much I have grown up since I was in Tabacundo. I dont know that I have really matured (well, maybe I have...) but I am certainly more myself now than I was then. Talking with them came so much more naturally than it did when I was in training. And being myself was less of an effort, as well. I think as I spend more time here in Ecuador Theresa and Tere are becoming more of the same person. Thats a good thing. I dont quite know that we are one yet, but we are getting there.
I also chatted quite a bit (in English and Spanish) with their new PCT. She is really nice, shes 30 and from Florida and her site will be with the Tsachilas (the super cool indigeounous group that I visited during a tech trip waaaay back when). She seems to be real nervous about going to site and being out on her own. Shes still really stuggling with Spanish and worried about that, I told her that when you stop being surrounded by gringo PCTs and are at your site, you have no choice but to learn Spanish. She seemed a bit awed that I was gonna hop on a bus all alone (at night time nonetheless, how DANGEROUS!) and go to Quito and then back to Guayaquil. She said that the other day she took the bus to Cayambe (which is about 20 minutes from Tabacundo) and she was terrified. I tried not to laugh, because I can totally remember feeling exactly that way just a short time ago. I told her that PC tells you a lot of things are dangerous, but when it comes down to it, you gotta just learn to be yourself and live your life here in Ecuador. Following all the PC rules about night buses, sleeping on buses, taking pictures with your digital camera, eating meat sold on the street, eating strawberries, brushing your teeth with the water, all that stuff. I mean, they say it all for your own good, and any one of those things could turn out to be "dangerous" but its worse not to do them, I think. Except for the strawberries: do NOT eat the strawberries.
So anyhow, thats what I learned on my 25th birthday. I learned that keeping in touch is only difficult in theory, and that once you do it feels oh so good (you also get a delicious home cooked sierran dinner and amazing peach flavored Quaker outta it--thats a drink made out of water strained from Quaker oatmeal, my host mom makes it better than anyone on the freaking planet. Ecuadorians think its totally weird that in the States we actually eat the oatmeal instead of straining it and drinking the water. They also refuse to believe that its pronounced "Quake-er" and not "Quwaak-er" hahaha!). I learned that this life I live here is making the different parts of myself more like one whole self. I was reminded of how terrifying it is to be a PCTrainee, and how good it feels to look back on how far I have come. I learned to try to stay awake and watch the view.
I also scheduled a gyno appointment, so it wasnt all good times...haha.
Besos mijitos,
Tere, Theresa and somewhere inbetween
So what does a Peace Corps Volunteer do for her 25th birthday? Well, this one went out dancing one night, had a party with the Mujeres de Lucha another day, went to dinner with friends a couple of times, and oh yes, gave a charla about homosexuality in Ecuador. Ahhh, duty calls.
The newest Omnibus 99 arrived in Ecuador in January, and now they are just getting set to head out to their sites. They are the Agriculture and Habitat Conservation Groups, so you know, their PC life is gonna be just a liiiittle bit different than mine is. Nonetheless, their training site is the same place where I used to live: in Tabacundo (lindo de mi corazon, eres la tierra de mi pasión). As a member of the PC-Ecuador GLBT Interest group, I was invited to give a charla about homosexuality in Ecuador along with a friend of mine from the group. I took the night bus up to Quito on Sunday night so that we would have Monday (the day I became a quater of a century years old) to plan. Yeeeaaaah...she has a tv so instead we watched movies and dvds of The L Word. But I mean, hey, watching The L Word is sorta like planning a GLBT charla, right? So yeah, the charla didnt end up getting planned until basically the morning of the charla, which was the next day. No big deal because we were just replicating the charla that was given to us several short months ago when we were eager to learn trainees.
So we head out on the bus to Tabacundo. I wanted to stay awake and alert so that I would see my old surroundings coming in around me again, and relish in the beauty that is the sierra of Ecuador. Instead I fell asleep on the bus...oops. When we got there, I called my old host family. Heres the thing--I have done a real crappy job of keeping in touch with those folks. And its not because I dont love them, because I do love them. They are wonderful and absolutely the best host family match for me and I wouldnt trade them for the world. The problem is that keeping in touch requires a skill called "small talk." Thats something I have always stuggled with, and it doesnt get any prettier in Spanish. I did text my host sister once to tell her that I was reading all the wonderful things that I had written about her in my journal and that I missed her. But then she didnt call me back. In fact, they have called me no more than I have called them, which is not at all. So then I didnt feel so bad, you know?
So anyhow, we get to Tabacundo and I call the host family, ask for Sra. Carmen. A man answers the phone...shit...its Don....Don...Don, shit! How can I forget my own host fathers name?!?! I'm like, Hi! Its Tere! How are you?? And he's like, Teresita?? I dont believe it! How are you, how have you been, how long its been since I have seen you, how is everything, how do you feel? Awww...did I ever mention how my host dad asks a minimum of 5 "how are you doing" questions at the beginning of EVERY phone conversation? Haha, I love that man. So we get to talking and he's like, We thought we would never hear from you again. Youre in Tabacundo? Where? Since when? When are you coming over? My wife and the kids will be home later today. I feel this immediate rush of happiness and nostalgia and wonderfulness and missing my host family like crazy. I tell him that I have to give this charla to the new group, but I will come over shortly after that. They have a new host daughter in the new group, he asks if I know her? (ps, at least as it relates to Peace Corps, in Ecuador the general assumption is that all gringos know each other). I say no, but I will look for her during the charla. After I hang up it hits me: Cesar! Don Cesar is his name! Man, Im an idiot.
Yay! So they dont totally hate me for not being the wonder-gringa that their last host daughter was who called them once a week and visited like once a month. And it seems like they want to see me, too, which makes my heart smile. So I head back over to the meeting site for Omnibus 99, and immediately one of the PCTs comes running up to me and is like, Oh my God! I was so excited to see you! I figured she was one of the girls who I had talked with online before they got here. But no, she thought I was a friend of hers from home. Haha. Funny how many people I look like. Anyhow, I find the new host daughter for my host family and introduce myself.
Then we get going on the charla, and all in all, it goes well. Well, I mean really, the main part of it totally crashed and burned because it based on a lie and they didnt really go along with it (kinda complicated to explain, but just trust me it didnt really work out). So I was like, heres a PC Lesson: Sometimes charlas dont work out. Haha. Then we had a productive discussion on how to improve the charla to do in their sites, their worries about doing a charla on such a hot-button issue like homosexuality, talked about intergrating into your site first, etc. Really we had a good little chat, it was fun. There are also 5 people in their group that are from Wisconsin, and they enjoyed my (still)very Wisconsin accent. It was really fun being the person who came to visit the new group. I remember when I was in training and all these random PCVs came in and gave us charlas and we (or at least I) were in such awe that they actually live all alone in this country and enjoy themselves and manage not to die. In case you dont recall, I totally fucking hated training, so it was always such a major refresher to see real life volunteers. Its a lofty goal, but I hope that maybe one of those 99ers was like, Dude, that Theresa chick was cool and is doing some cool work and I hope I become a cool volunteer like she is. Ahh, dreams. I did end up meeting a girl who had read my blog...so in case shes reading this now: Hello! Good luck at site!
So after the charla I ended up continuing to be a crappy host daughter and did not go out and see my host family. I just ran outta time because I went to coffee with some of the new group and we were chatting and I felt bad bailing out on them. But I went back out the next day. I got off the bus (I stayed awake this time, and yes: the sierra is still way prettier than the coast) and I was like, crap! How do I get to my house?? I lived in Tabacundo for 10 weeks, and I get back there and feel immediately lost. Then I took a deep breath and realized I knew exactly where I was and walked home. Im pretty sure I saw my host uncle in the paper store they own, but I didnt stop to say hi because I couldnt remember his name (although Im sure he doesnt remember mine either) and because that would result in the dreaded small talk game. I get to the house, open the front gate and walk up to the door. A car drives up behind me and a guy says "Who are you looking for?" and Im like, Eeeee! My family is here! (it was my host dad, I recognized his voice). We all hugged and headed inside and they took my bags and sat me down at the table.
For the next several hours I kicked myself over and over again and wondered what the hell had kept me from calling them all this time. I mean, its been SEVEN MONTHS! And believe me, they reminded me of it. My host mom even joked that they thought maybe I was just ungrateful. At least I think thats what the word meant...and I was like NOOOO! I think about you all the time, Im just not good at calling. Turns out they had my phone number wrong, so the ball was all in my court and I totally didnt pick it up. They were full of questions about my life in Guayaquil, my work, and how I am adjusting. They (I, we all, everyone) were very worried when I went to site because I was so completely terrified at the prospect of living in Guayaquil. I assured them that all was well, that I was living in a nice house with a nice landlord who also lives on the same plot of land. They said they were really glad that I was safe and happy. My host sister said shes glad I have a place and now she can come and visit me! Yes! I hope she meant it! We talked about the difference between life on the coast and life in the sierra: how I was shivering cold now in Tabacundo because I had gotten used to it being 90 degrees out everyday. How men on the coast stand around with their shirts lifted up over their beer bellies on the side of the road. How Guayaquil is totally crazy and practically its own little world. How I talk weird, fast, slurred coastal Spanish now, instead of the slow, clear sierran Spanish. And as we spoke I realized how much I have grown up since I was in Tabacundo. I dont know that I have really matured (well, maybe I have...) but I am certainly more myself now than I was then. Talking with them came so much more naturally than it did when I was in training. And being myself was less of an effort, as well. I think as I spend more time here in Ecuador Theresa and Tere are becoming more of the same person. Thats a good thing. I dont quite know that we are one yet, but we are getting there.
I also chatted quite a bit (in English and Spanish) with their new PCT. She is really nice, shes 30 and from Florida and her site will be with the Tsachilas (the super cool indigeounous group that I visited during a tech trip waaaay back when). She seems to be real nervous about going to site and being out on her own. Shes still really stuggling with Spanish and worried about that, I told her that when you stop being surrounded by gringo PCTs and are at your site, you have no choice but to learn Spanish. She seemed a bit awed that I was gonna hop on a bus all alone (at night time nonetheless, how DANGEROUS!) and go to Quito and then back to Guayaquil. She said that the other day she took the bus to Cayambe (which is about 20 minutes from Tabacundo) and she was terrified. I tried not to laugh, because I can totally remember feeling exactly that way just a short time ago. I told her that PC tells you a lot of things are dangerous, but when it comes down to it, you gotta just learn to be yourself and live your life here in Ecuador. Following all the PC rules about night buses, sleeping on buses, taking pictures with your digital camera, eating meat sold on the street, eating strawberries, brushing your teeth with the water, all that stuff. I mean, they say it all for your own good, and any one of those things could turn out to be "dangerous" but its worse not to do them, I think. Except for the strawberries: do NOT eat the strawberries.
So anyhow, thats what I learned on my 25th birthday. I learned that keeping in touch is only difficult in theory, and that once you do it feels oh so good (you also get a delicious home cooked sierran dinner and amazing peach flavored Quaker outta it--thats a drink made out of water strained from Quaker oatmeal, my host mom makes it better than anyone on the freaking planet. Ecuadorians think its totally weird that in the States we actually eat the oatmeal instead of straining it and drinking the water. They also refuse to believe that its pronounced "Quake-er" and not "Quwaak-er" hahaha!). I learned that this life I live here is making the different parts of myself more like one whole self. I was reminded of how terrifying it is to be a PCTrainee, and how good it feels to look back on how far I have come. I learned to try to stay awake and watch the view.
I also scheduled a gyno appointment, so it wasnt all good times...haha.
Besos mijitos,
Tere, Theresa and somewhere inbetween
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