Questions...

As I begin my weekend ritual of opening my mind, bulging at the seams with questions, and spilling them all over this keyboard, I wonder if I even capable of finding a starting point. I must warn you: the greater part of this entry is questions, questions which are currently pervading my mind; questions I know that are more rhetorical than answerable, but are no less necessary or real, or even significant, because of their apparent inaccessibility.

This fact, automatically, leads me to a Rilke quote, a classic, that I’m so often drawn to:

“I beg you…to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they are locked rooms or books written in a foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which couldn’t be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now, perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the future.
-Rainer Maria Rilke


Good-bye Autonomy, Hello Community?

So, here I am, almost seven weeks deep into my term of service in Belize, still understanding that I have so much yet to learn, but also loving the fact that I am still, quite literally, running around this place with a big fat smile, question marks glittering in my eyes.

Ultimately, I have more idealistic, radical energy bubbling out of me than ever before, in my life, really. And though that feels so wonderful, it’s also driving me crazy. It’s all I can do not to literally run out into the streets and scream. I find that a lot of my creative energy is getting funneled inward, into my own head, and ultimately into paper (or computer screens). Writing has been such a manifestation of my general need to do and process here, and I’m okay with that. Perhaps I need to get out of my own head a bit, but somehow, right now, it feels impossible – that processing feels like a basic, almost physical need. I feel such a need to document every emotion, sentiment and reaction that I am having about myself, Belizean culture, work, and my place within all of that – oh, and the future, of course. Because this energy that I’m feeling is so contextual, specific to this place and this experience right now, I think it makes these emotions inherently unique; they are innate transient and fleeting, thereby rendering their capture mandatory, even vital.

I have to keep reminding myself, though, “stop thinking about the future, as you always do. You are here now. This, right now, is what you’ve been longing for for years, for your entire life, really. Stop looking forward, and look down.” I’m constantly slapping myself on the wrist for this, and it is, perhaps, my biggest struggle.

One thing that I’m really learning about myself from community life is how much I truly need and crave alone time, and I’m wondering as to how I will acquire a healthy balance between the living and the processing. Part of me wants to scream: “Polly go do something somewhere and stop reading and writing,” but then this other part of me is like “No, what you are feeling right now is so rare, and special, and it deserves its time, too.” Perhaps I need to lay in them a bit, to roll around in my ambiguity, and find solace in it, somehow. And besides, I want to remember what this feels like, all of this. Because it’s what, I think, I’ve been craving my entire life – to feel, somehow, unstoppable, but contained, all at the same time.

So, these past two weeks have been pretty damn great. Documenting events, often times, for me, feels like a chore - because they feel detached from emotion and insignificant, but I know I must document them for proof of the memory, if nothing else. It’s also becoming more and more difficult to find time to really dig into the details and camp out in front of a computer. It’s so interesting. Our weekends are, generally, quite free (despite all these September celebrations), but it’s interesting how ‘full’ they become. How the most basic of tasks – tasks that in the states would take minutes, or would not exist all together – fill ones days here. That going to the market ends up being a sweaty bike ride and two hour adventure, almost a workout; that making bread and cooking in general, and doing laundry, and cleaning (never with any tangible results) occupies almost all your free energy. And, on top of everything else, communication. I can’t send a text message, or make a quick phone call anymore. And, granted I do given in to the light of the computer more than I would like to admit, letter writing and reading consumes most of my free moments. I’m still trying to find a healthy balance between adventure and living here, in my free moments (in the strict boundaries of SAFETY, which sometimes, seems impossible) and taking the time for myself, alone, that I so often hunger for: to think, and read, and write, for myself, and just plain be (quietly). That’s hard for me right now, as I feel that sometimes I’m the only one camped out in the safe haven of her room, bed covered in books and journals and letters and papers, and everything. Sometimes I feel that I’m not as social as I should be at night, but I’m hoping that as things become necessarily more mundane and routine, my head will also settle down, and I’ll begin to yearn for simple entertainment and interaction. But right now, I prefer the tortuous jungle of my mind - trying to connect literature with my work, with cultural issues, with structures and systems - piecing it together, and documenting it all.

But often times, I can’t have the alone time I need for such things. I keep thinking about how good it is for me, for us, to almost have to hand over our autonomy and independence at the door of JVI. Like we quite literally left it at orientation. Like…”Please, leave all control at the door, keep your number, and perhaps, if you want it, you can have it back in two years.” But, I think the hope is that when we, in two years, find our number, hidden back in our suitcases, we’ll throw it away. Because we’ll have understood, for the first time, what it’s like to live without complete power and autonomy – values which are of utmost significance in our American culture, and we’ll get it. I’ve become frustrated sometimes, not being able to spend time alone when I want it, not being able to go for a run when I want, not being able to go for a walk alone or see green when I need it, and even to the simple convenience and privilege of being able to eat, what I want, when I want. It’s all over. And despite the inevitable frustration, and almost even mourning of the loss of all of these acculturated needs, I know it’s what is ultimately demanded of us, in order to learn what solidarity is, what life is, really. Our lack of independence is a struggle that Belizean women deal with every single day – a story that I witnessed during my home stay. It’s reality here. It’s life.

Anyway, as I was saying, events. It’s been so great to be able to start really establishing relationships with my coworkers outside of work. It feels, really great, and really comfortable. The last couple Fridays we’ve spent the day on long drives: one to Orange Walk and the other to Spanish Lookout, small towns Northwest of Belize City. I must elaborate on the trip to Spanish Lookout. So, I have a tendency to become quite carsick, but it’s completely random as to when this hits me. I became incredibly carsick on the way to Spanish Lookout, so I spent the majority of the car ride with my eyes closed, trying not to vomit. All the while, one of my coworkers, Ruthie, who is, perhaps, the most loud and obnoxious creature that I’ve ever encountered in my entire life, is almost literally yelling and laughing in my face the entire nausea-filled car ride. Now, please note. I say that with a smile, and that I mean describe that the most endearing way, because she’s wonderful. But, it was tough. I had no other choice, but to fall asleep to her laughter, and to be awoken intermittently, ever 5 minutes, to it, yet again.

But when I finally woke up, I was greeted with the oddest of views. Are we, are we in…Nebraska? I looked out the window to find tractors, and corn fields, and farm houses, and, brace yourself: white people? If Ruth had stopped talking for a moment, I’m sure I would have waited to hear Izic giggle or to see my dad turning into Grandpa’s farm. Besides the scattered palm trees, Spanish Lookout looked, almost literally, like home. And it felt, odd. It is chiefly a Mennonite community – which tend to subsist primarily from an agricultural economy. The Mennonites are a small population, similar to the Amish, in Belize, only around 5%, I think – a lot of whom are in Spanish Lookout. They started coming to Belize in the 1950s because of an agreement with the Belizean government for land purchase as they were fleeing religious and political persecution. They are mostly of Dutch and German decent, hence the ‘whiteness’, but not American seeming at all. Needless to say, I was not expecting to see little boys with blonde hair and blue eyes when I awoke in the car. Wierd.

Other than the rendezvous, Carnival, and the absurdly wonderful parade that we witnessed yesterday must be noted. Watching grown half-naked women dance like they are 16, and inebriated women and men weave through the streets, feeling like for one day, they got the attention they deserved. Watching small girls, caked in sweat and dirt, and decade old sweat saturated costumes, dance. For miles, but to persist, relentlessly, despite the fact that their faces showed what their bodies couldn’t: exhaustion. I could write for hours about the parade itself, the overt craziness, but also, the more implicit undertones and implications for children, sexuality, disparity, etc, etc, that were hidden behind the vibrant colors, loud music, and incessant dancing. Lots of pictures, though.

In addition to Carnival here in September has been, today. Independence day! How moving it is to see a country celebrate a holiday, a freedom, that is still so fresh and real in the hearts and minds of its beloved inhabitants. Mass tonight, was poignant – listening to a woman speak of the day, 28 years ago, that she watched the British flag be lowered, and the new Belizean flag be risen into the night. To be able to look around the packed church and know that the majority of these people witnessed the birth of Belize as an independent and sovereign nation – and you can feel it. You can sense it in the way they speak of it, and the energy in their voices when they sing their beautiful National Anthem. How different it is to compare their independence day with our own in the states…

Another highlight of my last two weeks was a workshop I attended about adolescent’s assertiveness, empowerment, and HIV/AIDS training. Let’s just say that they thought it’d be really funny to make the little white girl get up and demonstrate to adolescents how to put a condom on a huge fake penis, in addition to having to be the star of every sexuality based role play. Not funny, but yet, absolutely hilarious. But, that’s not important (but had to be noted).

The most interesting part of the training was, for me, the values section. The point of the session was, naturally, values - first of an awareness of one’s own values, and next, to be cognizant of imposing one’s personal and moral values onto others, especially adolescents who we may be teaching or counseling. Now, not only was this especially beneficial for me as a foreigner, but it was also an absolutely fascinating eye opener into the (inherent?) distinction between my values with that of the Belizeans, at least those in the room. I won’t list them out, but there was an almost complete and utter divide between almost all of them and myself. And I was not shy or embarrassed about voicing why I felt the way that I did, nor should I have been. I felt okay about doing it openly, because, in that session it wasn’t about me compromising my values to accompany, it was about celebrating differences of values, and understanding, why in fact, we posses and own our values. It was enlightening. It made me sit in amazement of what products we are of our social and cultural environments, and yet, how utterly independent from them we are from them – fascinating stuff. Needless to say, it was difficult coming to consensuses.

Other than that, the last two weeks have been fast, but wonderful. September here is filled with holidays, the calendar crawling with blank days, and celebrations to match them. We have holiday this Monday, and a retreat October 3, and then, its time to buckle down to the routine, and let it take us for a ride. I’m becoming more acclimated to the heat, and consequently, do not finding myself collapsing quite as quickly when I enter the house at the end of the day, which feels really good. Our community is still very cohesive, standing strong on the seemingly unbreakable foundation of honesty and trust on which it was built. But, with that being said, tensions and difficulties will inevitably rise to the surface, like bubbles around the support beams of a bridge, but that doesn’t mean we’ll fall as a solid unit, or that we are any less strong to begin with.

Is Research* Innately Oppressive?
(I don’t like that word, but, for all intents and purposes, it’s best).

So, yeah, I have all this creative, idealistic energy, quite literally, boiling out of me, all these thoughts, about what I want to do, what I want to be. And I must remind myself that ALL of that needs to be channeled towards work – to each one of the girls, and towards my preparation, personal attitude, and accompaniment each and every day, with each and every interaction with them. To keep that energy from being diluted with exhausted, and cynicism and jadedness, and to concentrate it, to funnel it into my interactions with the girls. That is my responsibility right now, nothing else. But damned if I’m not going to let my mind spin on the bus ride to and from, and spend every free moment lost in the questions.

But, with all of that being said, I’m so fortunate, because I do have some sort of outlet. I’ve always known that I’d be able to do my graduate thesis during my JVI term, and I’m very excited for this – to be able to channel energy into something tangible, especially when everything else seems so abstract, frustratingly so. I realize that this is fundamentally selfish – my (our?) need for tangible progress, outcome, results, but my hope is that it’s not mutually exclusive from being something really positive for some one in Belize, and with the understanding that my very liberation is bound up to and with theirs. That perhaps, however I decide to funnel that energy, is the pinnacle of true ‘solidarity’?

But I’ve been wondering so much about ‘research’ in and of itself. Is ‘research,’ ultimately selfish and against any liberal notion of accompaniment and solidarity? Does it automatically create and perpetuate power structures? Are ‘accompaniment’ and ‘research’ mutually exclusive? Do we convince ourselves that ‘research’ is beneficial to those who we are researching, or is it really for ourselves? Does it insidiously perpetuate and contribute to the very power structures we are so desperately trying to break down?

I want to say, that it all boils down to intentionality behind the research, but I know that that is not true. The road to hell (and dehumanization, and power, and oppression) is, quite literally, paved with good intentions.” The older I get, the more I understand the world (a little), I realize how much destruction and devastation occurs out of a result of ostensibly good intentions. After all, we’re working with real people here – human beings – lives. I guess, ultimately, there rests an innate responsibility, on the hands of the ‘researchers’ to do two very important things before they start a damn thing: soulsearch and research, to fight ignorance, every kind, that hides in the cracks of good intentions, and pull them out into the light, before they start a damn thing. Which is what I’m currently doing…

So often, it seems that research is for its own sake – to be, perhaps, fed back into the circle of academia, and to have your name at the top of it all. But then it makes me wonder if this can be equated to knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Do we, as a results oriented people think that something is only as useful as its results – that something has to be immediately applicable and pragmatic? Maybe this is all about working towards a distant goal; that it’s all about seeing the big(ger) picture? Is ‘research’ something that is out of the realm of our vision? That its harvest will never be reaped in our lifetime? I do not know.

So, the thing I’m constantly wondering is: how can I do ‘research’ that falls within the boundaries of accompaniment and solidarity, for true, not just convincing myself of that. How can I do something real and powerful that isn’t fundamentally serving my own benefit as much as theirs, that ultimately, more than any other fact, liberates and empowers, the economically and socially poor, oppressed, and marginalized (and myself)?

Despite all of this relentless questioning, I’m slowly starting to realize what I think could be a way to ‘research’ within the boundaries of accompaniment, and to, ultimately, liberate and empower the poor and myself. Basically, I think, I want to, and can, tell stories. And that, ultimately, I need to story tell as much as they (we) need our stories told.

Because, after all, “If I am not for myself, who will be? And if I am only for myself, what am I?” –unknown?

Human Rights Advocate or Cultural Accompanier?

Work is getting, well, harder, but in a good way. The days are long, hot, and, you guessed it: sweaty. Not to mention the fact that some little white girl attempting to keep in order 13 adolescent girls, lots of whom have been kicked out of school for behavioral problems, is difficult, and would probably be quite humorous to watch through the windows. I’ll be honest. I get frustrated, and admittedly, probably fail to solve problems the best ways sometimes (or all the time). I know they see the frustration in my face, and feel it in my voice, not to mention my energy. But I’m learning; I constantly have to remind myself of my own power and place within our classroom. This passage, which I first found taped to the wall in Jess’ bathroom, and now hangs next to my doorway, is a constant reminder of what I can be and refuse to be as a teacher.

“I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather. I possess tremendous power to make a life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration. I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis will be escalated or de-escalated, and a person humanized or dehumanized.

If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they out to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.”

-Dr. Hima Ginott
“Between Teacher and Child”

We have gotten three more girls in the last two weeks, and because of this, it has completely changed the entire dynamics of everything: the dynamics of the girls themselves, not to mention the physical environment, as we have now outgrown the small confines of a classroom. So, with that, I had no other choice but to take it (us) outside. I think, somehow, it makes us all a little more sane, feeling the breeze on our flushed and sweaty faces and seeing some green around us. I love the fact that my new ‘teachers desk’ is the nook of the base of a tree (even though ants crawl up my skirt), and that my ‘students’ are scattered in the dirt and weeds, and sadly, trash. But despite all the loveliness of that, we are also barraged with an entirely new set of distractions: we now, quite literally, have chickens, and horses, and desperately looking emaciated dogs, wandering through our little ‘classroom’ - thereby making it quite difficult to ‘teach’. But, I’m (slowly) learning how to balance it all. I’m learning, we’re learning, together.

In addition to all the physical distractions, there exist countless issues, which permeate the dynamics of our classroom, and are so built into their little Belizean worlds, that they seem impervious to change. And am I the one to attempt to change them? No. I am not. Maybe just a little? Welcome to my crazy mind these days, constantly fighting the battle of universal vs. cultural rights, truths and, ultimately, my role as a foreigner – between cultural accompanier and human rights advocate. I constantly wonder if I’m coloring outside the lines, so to speak, of accompaniment. That I get so excited, so charged up, that I move too fast, my hand takes over, ultimately forgetting the intricate lines and curves of my place here. I forget how we were taught as children to color: slow, and steady, even though it takes longer. And the bottom line is that this isn’t my reality; I’m leaving, eventually. My place here is inherently as a transitory companion, to accompany, and learn how to truly live in solidarity, not revolutionize. But damn, a girl can dream. I’m trying to learn to accept this internal battle of ‘accompaniment vs. accountability,’ and to sit with it and in it for a while, without attempting to figure it all out, and to, somehow, accept this question, as it will (and already has) pervaded every facet of my life here, and probably will saturate the many layers of my existence as a global citizen, forever.

These issues are all so deeply rooted - so much bigger than these 13 girls that I’m slowly learning to know by heart. Examples of such issues, more insidious ones, are as small and simple as budgeting. Girls who barely have enough money each day to catch a bus spend more than that on sugary snacks of almost no nutrition value, daily. It’s not because they’re stupid, or ignorant, it’s because they just don’t understand. Each time they come to me asking for bus money at the end of the day, I politely ask, with a smile: “How many bags of chips, and how many suckers did you buy after lunch at the tienda? Sorry, girl.” “But, Miss!” They walk away, defeated, as I sit desperately hoping like hell that they actually do, in fact, have enough money to make the long bus ride home tonight…

Another, more overt issue that exists is the blatant division of Creole girls v. Mestizos. These two groups rarely interact with one another, often mocking the other, and only speaking when I make them sit by one another or work together in pairs and groups (they hate me for this). My biggest goal for these two years, is to somehow, create camaraderie among and within all of them. Somehow, for them to understand enough about one another to understand their connection, which ultimately creates empathy and understanding - that they don’t have to be best friends, but, at the very least, some sort of common ground and mutual respect. I haven’t the slightest clue how to do this yet….but I’m working on it, storytelling, perhaps? It is, undoubtedly, going to be a frustratingly slow progression. Wow, am I going to learn patience here. I’m having to accept that notion – painstakingly slow progression – as a reality for almost everything here. Good-bye instant gratification.

In addition to the division it creates, it must be noted that my class is slightly more than half Mestizo which, perhaps, speaks to the economic and social disparity inherent in the Spanish immigrants here, if there are so many attending an alternative women’s school. Many of these girls come from families who have fled Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador – drawn to the seemingly stable government of Belize (relatively speaking, of course) and ultimately with the hope that better opportunities exist in the small confines of Belize. But, it seems, despite Belizean’s relatively superior economy, a status as immigrant renders you as ‘less than,’ and ultimately creates for different opportunity and life circumstances than someone of Garifina or Creole descent.

Despite the heat, the humidity, and the sometimes seemingly relentless frustration, I’ve learned to revel in and find strength in the small, hilariously absurd, but beautiful moments that peak their heads out from behind the mundane and routine, the ugly and despair. When I find us all getting up and dispersing hastily like a frightened school of fish when a bee enters the imaginary boundaries of our classroom, all the while screaming and laughing. Or when someone brings a poem they’ve written, and reads it, voice quivering, to the class – and they actually listen, fondly. Or when I’m able to give oral quizzes with incentives of dancing or singing during class, and half way through, I’ll just sit and giggle as I realize, here we are, all these girls belting out Beyonce and Rihanna together at the top of our lungs during science class. Or, morning devotion - when I look around the girls, us outside, at 8:30 in the morning, singing and clapping together, preparing for yet another day. And not singing and clapping like many adolescents would do in the states if they had to in the morning, but with spirit, and energy, so much that I haven’t been able to stop smiling once yet during devotion songs (and I hope that never changes). As one of their devotion songs goes: “If you want joy, you have to sing for it!” And we do…

My most precious moments have come to be my lunch times where I have started to see and connect with the Mestizo girls. During lunch each day and as I help them with their afternoon chores, we speak Spanish. When I first explored this, I saw, many of them for the first time, smile, and ultimately, relax. And I saw them come alive, at least towards me, with me. And there’s such a rapport being built there, with the mop bucket and broom, with the giggling of my accent and forgotten vocabulary and tenses. That they see me as human, and silly, not just their teacher, and that they understand my desire to connect with them and their culture, in a place where they feel, often times, disconnected, foreign and isolated, perhaps even more so than myself. I’ve learned that I look forward to lunch time – when I’m able to really talk with them, in Spanish or English. And, that, I think, is the most powerful realization, that I need those moments just as much as they do, perhaps more – that I crave that feeling of camaraderie, comfort, and ultimately, acceptance from them.


But then there are the more arduous moments within the days. The moments where I get angry - with the deep roots of cultural tradition, and oppressive gender structures, and economic disparity; when I cringe in putting red marks on a test because I will remember the way a student looked at me yesterday and said “Miss, please don’t, I’ll get a lashing tonight for that grade,” and I quite literally see the fear in their eyes. Please tell me, how the hell am I supposed to be able to check anything wrong on their tests when I think of this!

Or, more devastatingly yet, when I take a student’s hand in mine and walk away from the classroom, along the dirt road, hidden in weeds, and witness to her own, brutal struggle. I listen, and nod, and try to hide my utter shock, swallowing down my impulse to gasp and curse, making sure my eyebrows are forming high rising arches rather than squished caterpillars. I learn that, despite her bulging belly on her tiny frame, she didn’t understand, nor conceive of the idea of being pregnant, yet again, at the ripe age of 15. That the father is 30 years old, and that these events will ultimately define her destiny. That she literally did not know she was pregnant until this week, and is due at the end of the month, and accepts this as her reality, as she tells me, in her soft, timid voice, that she’s “a little scared.” It’s paradoxical, that thing we call ‘free will’, isn’t it? Perhaps our ultimate roles in life aren’t really chosen at all, but are rather, assigned to us. How devastating it is to understand how intricately woven are our destinies to our environment. Confined, we are, by our place of birth - culturally, economically, socially.

I’ve just finished a brilliant ethnography by Irma McClaurin called “Women of Belize: Gender and Change in Central America.” It’s really incredible, to read all of this, to intellectualize it all, and then to get on the bus to go to school, walk through the doorway of reality, and have it all thrown back in your face. To learn a life and spirit who is detached from her reality of teen pregnancy, and must accept it – who will never have the opportunity to pursue who own dreams and goals because of…cultural norms?

It both baffled and broke my heart to see such a smart young woman so unaware of her own sexuality and body, and ultimately clueless about what was happening, and would soon happen to her in a month. I myself feel guilty for my own role in the issue itself - for not being more proactive in my attempts to ask her about her potential likelihood of pregnancy, as her protruding belly was hidden beneath her uniform skirt and over-sized blouse; that I didn’t insist rather than encourage her to go to a clinic to get tested.

The more I read, about the Belizean government, and corruption, and gender/economic/social disparity - when I connect these overarching issues and struggles with individual faces and battles, it makes me feel like I can’t not fight on their behalf, for something bigger, for something better. But I keep swallowing that need, necessary as it may seem, back down into the pit of my stomach, knowing that my role here is to fight for the dignity and against the indignation, not with huge forceful axes, but with small, tender nudges, with each individual person I encounter, through each personal battle I witness, all the while, clenching my fists. And so, I shall accompany her.

But this struggle is unrelenting. I feel it when I listen to women over coffee at workshops and in between classes, willingly sharing their lives with me - the realities of life as women of Belize, and connecting it to larger cultural trends, and I find myself livid. The fact that common law marriages are often formed and maintained out of economic necessity, and that late night infidelity is as ubiquitous in the streets as gun shots and robberies. And that these women – they can’t leave, because they are financially dependent and possess lowly ‘home skills’ which are rendered economically valueless by society. The more I read about these problems, I am continually and sadly reminded that these issues are constantly revealing themselves in my interactions with Belizean women, young and old alike. The Belizean ethnography has given me an incredible lens through which to analyze these structures and it has proven to be interwoven with each individual and story that I’m able to braid back into the bigger structural and social trends, oppressive gender structures. This all, for me, is so powerful, in both a magnificent and devastating way. It’s fascinating to really encounter and accompany human beings who represent statistics and trends, but at the same time, it’s so upsetting.

And all the while, through all of this, there’s some huge part of me screaming: “Polly, these are cultural issues; your opinions are fundamentally flawed. You’re imposing your own cultural preferences, ideals and views. Who the hell are you to judge a notion of reality so far removed from your own? I must constantly remind myself of my incredible ability to impose my own reality, my deep seated cultural and personal ideals, tacit or spoken, into the minds of these young women. But at the same times, what about universal human rights? About a woman’s right to her own autonomy, her own goals, free from economic and marital reliance, whose future isn’t directly traced to procreation and male dependence? So many women seem to be confined by an ‘economic-sexual cycle’ and it infuriates me. It’s inculcated from birth, and is perpetuated generation, after generation, after generation.

My only hope is that local grassroots organizations such as Y.E.S. are slowly, stripping it all away, removing layer after layer. The presence of these local organizations like Y.E.S. coupled with slowly changing laws and universal advocates like the United Nations’ presence here in Belize are making headway in this fight. I think, from my limited insight into social and sexual dynamics in Belize, that pervasive issues such as teen pregnancy, so tightly interwoven with so much other gender disparity, are beginning to be, if nothing else, questioned. And, I know, the questioning sometimes feels worthless, but in the face of everything else, it’s necessary. And if nothing else? Well, it’s a start. And perhaps, someday far in the future, the questions will gradually, without us even noticing it, have turned into different realities, different stories, ultimately...justice. For true.