As
I mentioned in Vol. 1, this particular encounter really hit me for a number of
reasons including (but not limited to) the fact that I was exhausted from a day
of visits, had just recently watched clips from Emma Watson’s speech at the UN
and John Oliver’s bit on Miss America Pageants and all the money he’s since
raised for women’s scholarships (watch til the end and you’ll see the shout-out
to the Society of Women Engineers!), and had some nastiness working its way
through my digestive tract… Given that context, here you go:
I was sitting in a classroom alone, waiting for a
larger, general community meeting to end, and this little Maya Quiche girl kept
coming into the room. She looked to be around 8-9 years old and had her toddler
little sister with her. She wore a gorgeous, inquisitive smile and at first
just poked her head in to stare at me, then gradually made her way closer and
closer, always hesitantly watching the door to see what her sister and mother
were doing outside. I was focused on trying to put some thoughts on paper
concerning my ideas for grad school (which are still in a state of
semi-disarray, but much clearer to me now) and as she was making her slow
progression into the room, I would occasionally look up and return her smile.
Finally, she was close enough to talk to, so I asked her what her name was and
if she went to school here – in response she just maintained the same
inquisitive look and smiled back. I asked again a bit louder and in more-proper
Spanish, but she simply shook her head and said something in Quiche, at which
point I finally had the realization to ask “hablas espanol?” to which she
simply shook her head, all the while maintaining the same smile and inquisitive
look.
At this point, we both noticed a young woman who
appeared to be 18-20 and was clearly related to the girls (likely the oldest
sister responsible for keeping an eye on the younger siblings) sending nervous,
semi-disapproving glances our way. After many such glances, the girl would pick
up her little sister and leave the room, but would inevitably return after a
few moments to stare at me as I wrote or at the posters on the wall from Save
the Children that had cartoon pictures of animals and different vehicles with
their names in Spanish and English. Her unbridled curiosity and little smile
were utterly disarming. The brightness in her eyes was astounding. As I was
looking at this little girl with what must have been an expression of curiosity,
surprise, and what I would like to say felt like empathy (but probably looked
like pity), I felt the older sister’s eyes on me again.
This time, when I looked at her, she did not look
away abashedly as she had before, but instead held my gaze with a palpable
intensity. I’m not great at making eye contact, and the modest, often timid
Quiche women usually avert their eyes from me as well, so this experience from
the start was shocking and (literally) eye-opening to me. We had no way of
communicating with words, but her eyes were loud and clear. She told me in no
uncertain terms “don’t you dare judge or pity me or my sisters; we are strong
women” – it was a look filled with self-worth and defiance that came from a
place of tremendous inner strength and made an assertion so deep and nuanced
that I simultaneously couldn't bear to maintain our connection, but couldn't bring myself to look away.
Finally, the meeting ended, the large crowd of women
and children all began to move, and the little girl in the room gave one last grin
to me and the posters, then grabbed her toddler sister, and joined her older
sister and mother outside. The older sister gave me one last glance before
corralling the children and helping her mother leave the center.
All of this caused an immense wave of emotion to
well up inside me. What I felt (and can feel in the most fleeting sense now as
I write this) was entirely overwhelming but completely ambiguous – at the end
of this encounter, I certainly didn't feel pity (or, perhaps more accurately, I
felt pity mingled with shame for pitying), but I felt some mix of enlightened
happiness and terrible sadness/frustration all at once. Having just finished
Fr. Boyle's book "Tattoos on the Heart” (a
compilation of short stories and musing pertaining to his experience working
with gang members in L.A.) and all of the simultaneously heart wrenching and
warming stories he tells, I think the best explanation for this emotion must be
joyful love. Realizing this made me a bit uncomfortable (I am still an engineer
after all… expressing emotions isn't really my “thing”, though thanks to the Jesuits, I can at least feel and recognize them now), but left me feeling
deeply connected and more determined than ever to complete my work and service
here to the fullest of my abilities.
Further, it made me think more about my values and
belief in equal opportunity for women, especially when it comes to education,
and the cultural context in which I live. It is not uncommon (forgive the
double negative…) for women here to have access to education, but still not
have the opportunity to pursue it due to familial needs such as hauling water,
cleaning, and cooking. Beyond that, firm gender roles still exist with great
force, particularly in the Mayan culture, and the idea of sending women to
school is still foreign in some communities. After this encounter, I have a
hard time feeling outright indignation towards the men for the societal categorization
of a woman’s role, because, as Ms. Watson so eloquently puts it, this also
means a detrimental categorization of men. I also certainly cannot simply view
these women as intellectually impoverished or weak – I have a deep love of
intelligence in the context of academic pursuit, but this experience reminded
me that there are other forms of intelligence and mental strength.
Ultimately, this brief encounter with a little Mayan
girl and her big sister gave me a lot to ponder…
In other recent ponderings - Language/literacy:
- Recently, I've had some interesting conversations with Lauren, Margaret, and Kike’s friends about language
- Our host mom, Dona Humbe, is illiterate, so Lauren and I have had recent convos about what it would be like to be illiterate – her suggestion (after nearly 1.5 years of thinking about this) was that it must be like seeing Chinese or Arabic which I think makes sense but is still mind-blowing
- One of the guys at Kike’s house asked me “do you find it shocking when you hear someone speaking in your native tongue with a non-native accent?” After thinking about it, I realized that I've encountered enough accents within the US that it’s not shocking as much as interesting and just makes me wonder where they’re from. Further, Lauren, Margaret and I have chatted about how listening to people try to pronounce English makes us wonder what we sound like trying to pronounce Spanish
Ropa Americana
- For context, here in Guate there are shops(ish) called pacas which are essentially where Good Will clothes go to die – massive quantities of random articles of clothing that go un-sold in US thrift stores are packaged up and sent to developing countries where people by them by the kg, put the clothes on display in markets, alleys, and rough store fronts, and sell individual articles of clothing for a profit
- Lauren and Margaret do far more paca shopping than I do, but we like to share stories about different finds, both in the paca and worn by acquaintances – here are some of my favorites:
- “Badabing Titty Bar”
- “Joseph’s Bar mitzvah”
- “Boyscouts of America Troop Leader 199” (patches removed)
- “My little black dress” the onesie – interesting because the cultural concept of a “little black dress” does not exist here in Joyabaj
- A whoopee cushion costume – our host mom bought it to use as a rug because she thought it looked so “calidad”
