The Option

As I continue to uncover the injustices and indignation and my place within this reality, this Belizean life; I’m finding the only consolation, the only truth, is the fundamental right and of the option of something else, if nothing else.

I could spend hours documenting the last month, the highs and the lows, the beautiful and the ugly, but I won’t. Instead, as stated before, I want to use this venue, to speak to a captive(?) audience to witness to the struggle of Belize as a nation and its people, and to entwine my own experiences and struggle into this portrait as well, as it has become impossible from being unwoven.

I want to preface this with the fact that I will share struggles that I’ve encountered thus far during my transient life in solidarity with Belizeans, not to boast about how ‘crazy’ and ‘dangerous’ life is here, but simply to tell the story of violence and danger in the streets here; to form the features of this country, in all its triumph and struggles. Trying, all the while, to be cognizant and grateful for my opportunity and privilege to be able to share in this reality-- to get a glimpse through the window of another life, knowing that the glass is inevitably smudged and dusted with my own perspective; the finger prints of my own foreign, American ideals and judgments cannot be cleaned off, hard as I may scrub. And that, ultimately, I can fight for and with these people BECAUSE I am not busy fighting for my own human rights.

The bottom line, on top of everything, of which I must keep reminding myself, is that we’re leaving; this isn’t our reality, and it never will be. We’re not Belizean, no matter how long we stay here nor how ‘acculturated’ we become. And that despite the sometimes wild stories and adventurous days, my life as become, inevitably, like any other. I wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, come home, eat dinner, and to bed I go. And that we as privileged foreigners are shielded more than anyone from the reality of this place, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling any less confused and broken as I encounter and witness injustices each and everyday.

But, regardless of that, it seems the battles are all the same, Belize, Nebraska, wherever, but at the same time, so fundamentally different. I want to scream that it’s not the same fight at all, most days, when I see blatant and disturbing injustices here on a regular basis, from innocent lives lost at the hands of a gun, to children pregnant against their will, to girls raped in their own homes, by the very people who should be protecting them from such evil. That some girls must rise each morning at 4 am to make breakfast for her siblings, to get on a two hour bus ride to school, only to finally return home at the end of the day by 9 pm, with the only other bus leaving late that evening back to her village. How can I argue that life looks the same for people who are deprived of the most basic of human rights? It doesn’t. It seems, sometimes, I cannot.

I guess I’m desperately trying to prove to someone, especially my students, that though we may look different, come from different, we are for the same. My relentless longing and ache to really know them has manifested itself in an assignment to ‘write’ their stories, with the understanding that I, too, will write mine. So that, somehow, they’ll learn to see their white teacher as human and flawed, fighting her own battle with and for this world. I’m learning that however desperately I’m longing to break down and pull away the many layers of my girls and see them at their core, that I too, am wanting to have my own layers stripped, by them and for them. I, so desperately, want them to be able to see me as another human being-- not as a volunteer, a foreigner, a white, rich American, a teacher, or even an adult. For them to learn I have my own problems, my own faults, my own struggle, though it may look markedly different than theirs. Perhaps, through this mutual space of understanding, we may come to a new found level of respect and appreciation for one another, as different as we look, as different as we sound. But I also wonder if this is a romantic ideal which may never materialize itself as such, hard as I may try. I guess, above all else, as the days get harder, I’m learning to be patient with myself, understanding, why, in fact, we have two years. Not that that’s enough time to “figure it all out” or “get it right” because that’s an impossibility, but to learn what it truly means to live in solidarity and to accompany the socioeconomically poor and marginalized.

Some days flow beautifully, and I smile and laugh as I feel it, ‘the dialogue’, between the girls and myself, even over Math problems. But, other days they aren’t so pretty. Sometimes, as I ride the bus home at the end of the day, I feel defeated and ultimately, that I’ve failed in my abilities to promote an atmosphere of soil for the growth of such pretty ideals as ‘empowerment’ and ‘liberation’. That some days I find myself feeling inhibited and confined by the lack of structure and sustainability. That we have to move every 15 minutes with the sun as the shade from the tree makes its way around our patch of grass, or out of the army of red ants that bite our ankles, or that I get a new student each week, and lose one the next, that we have no books, and that girls come and go as they please from day to day, as they are pulled to responsibilities at home or kept by inability to pay to get on the bus.

What does this look like? Well, to be honest, the opening scenes of Sister Act II. Sometimes, at the end of the day, I find myself checking my seat for glue (for those of you who are Sister Act II enthusiasts; oh, who are we kidding – you all are). That some days, I have to literally laugh at myself, to remind myself that it’s always healthy to have your ass handed to you, once in a while. So, as I walk to the bus, instead of crying in frustration, I have to laugh and shake my head at the day, at myself. I think, if nothing else, I’ll learn to laugh at myself here, if I haven’t already.

Teaching has become, for me, so much like my experiences at Cooper Village in Omaha. Some days coming home feeling like I deeply connected with and touched the life of one of them, and the next day feeling betrayed and hurt by that same individual—having them look me in the eye and lie, or blatantly disrespect or ignore me. But no matter how disrespected I feel, sometimes, I must remind myself why they are, in fact, the way they are. Not to excuse or defend such behavior, but rather to have a foundation of understanding of a fight fought, still being fought, outside of the classroom.

I have been able to see small windows into their reality as myself and two other coworkers are doing our rounds of home visits these past few weeks. How fascinating it is to get physical insight into the lives of these young women; to meet their mothers and share a couch with them; to witness to their lives and their daughters. To see the small space where their daughters, my students, zips up her maroon skirt, buttons her white blouse, and tightens the straps of her black maryjanes. The small bed she shares with her siblings, the fan that cools her body while she sleeps. And from there, each morning, often without breakfast, walks out the door, and gets on the bus to school.

So much happens outside of the imaginary boundaries of the classroom, responsible for so much of what I see inside of it. I’m wondering if I’ll ever truly know what happens outside of the classroom, inside the minds and hearts of these young women. Or if the boundaries of teacher and student, foreign and local, white and brown, will prevent such rapport – if even time and safety, perhaps could stand in the way of real, intimate companionship and accompaniment. I’m learning that, yes, there is no language barrier, but a barrier of danger and violence in a city – shackles which often come with the darkness feel, sometimes, even more of a hindrance than a language barrier. Ultimately, is the social situation of Belize City itself and my place as a foreigner conducive to the real place of accompaniment I so desperately crave with these young women?

As I continue to witness, each and everyday, forms of gender disparity and discrimination, sexual exploitation - insidious and overt - I still struggle in my interpretations and acceptance of such norms. No, I am not a Belizean, I tell myself, but I am, indeed, a woman. And with this understanding comes an intense level of unity and a longing to be some small part of that revolution here. I feel that these are innately crimes against the humanity of woman, of which I feel personally dehumanized. I think, honestly, that I feel responsible on behalf of my gender to uphold and fight for, if only by accompanying the women by providing, if nothing else, support: a hand to those who are literally, in the deep trenches of a battle which I’ll probably never fully comprehend.

The organization that I work for, YES, launched a Sexual Exploitation campaign this past week: against Commercial Sexual Exploitation. It was so inspiring to be a part of, if only a small one, and to, if nothing else, see it with my own to eyes, and smile and nod. Yes, I whisper while I nod, some small movement taking place against an injustice in Belize, in the world.

I guess, though, as I’m slowly feeling out these issues in all their forms, that it just seems the only justice is that there’s, if nothing else, an option-- to go to school, to work outside the home, to be anything other than her womb. Not to be defined by her gender obligation to procreate; not to be confined by her breasts and her hips—reducing her body to an object of sex and procreation. That, if she so chooses, her identity could be something different than that. And not to say that there’s anything wrong with the alternative, but, the right of having the option of something different. But then, part of me wants to throw my hands up in the air and question it all; perhaps we in the states have it all wrong. That this idea, of which we are one of the only cultures to adopt--of ‘marrying for love’ is fundamentally flawed, and is proven in our sad statistics of divorce and separation. Perhaps making marriage as some sort of economic agreement on grounds of mutual respect and understanding, is a more sound negotiation for a life where perhaps there are no other options when you must look out for your most basic needs above all else; where you may fall through the cracks of a system, or lack thereof, if you don’t have someone else providing for your needs. If this means dating a 30 year old man so that you can have clothes on your back and food each night, why fight it? As my community mate Brian says “why fight the path of least resistance?” What’s the alternative? Perhaps there is no option for some.

And I’ll end with this:

Lullaby
Gun shots--
as ubiquitous in the late night streets
as infidelity;
the lullaby of the children of the south side.
A presence--
a reality unknown to our existence
until now;
an ordinary part of our evening bedtime routine.

Solidarity?
As you sit with your neighbor
Speechless and shaken
Still hearing the 16 clicks echo
Like the pulse of the heart
That stopped beating moments ago.

But we,
We’ll leave, eventually—
the streets, the south side, this country.
But him,
He’ll stay, forever—
Singing his daughters to sleep
Their lullaby.

His strong, austere features
Match his thick, built muscles
Skin pulled gaunt around
The remains of his fight.
Of lives lived,
Opportunities lost,
New life, found, necessarily.

This man, who’s been the face
Of your nightmares
Tenderly carries his baby.
This man
Who once stole cars and snorted crack
Smiles as his daughter sings
For the whole neighborhood to hear,
A more peaceful lullaby,
If only for a night.

As the shots
Echo through the streets yet again.
And all he can do
All you can do
Is tuck them into bed
Under sweat stained sheets
And kiss their foreheads
Each night.

But who kisses his?
Who tucks in his fear-filled soul
When he lies down to bed
And falls asleep to the lullaby
Of the gun shots?


…which I bravely post publicly from my journal. This was written after a particularly difficult night that occurred in our neighborhood, opening us up to the true wounds of violence in this city, which will undoubtedly leave scars in the memories of our time in Belize. “Not on my street, he kept saying, “it’s always been close, but not this close,” as he shared with us his struggle, and we, the safety of our living room, with him. For the first time, I think, we truly were in solidarity with the pain, fear, and ultimately struggle that comes from a life in violence. And that we really sat with another in his grief and pain, feeling a bit of it ourselves-- in the confusion and panic that comes with being surrounded by violence. But I can’t help but keep thinking that this really isn’t our own reality at all. Most Belizeans don’t have a big cement house, sturdy locks, or barred windows from which to hide behind. What about the people who have to walk home after church on Sunday nights, children in tow, home to mere wooden walls, and broken windows between them and the danger; who listen to the radio each morning and hear the names of friends and family members as the latest news story. What about them? This isn’t about the white kids who had a scare one night, it’s about Belizeans for whom this life, this violent life, is a reality, choice or not. No other option.