A Volunteer’s Manifesto

In Celebration of Women’s Day, Women's Month, and Women Everywhere.

2010-03-12T13:06:00.000-08:00

None of these words are my own, because I would not give something I feel so deeply any justice. But, with that being said, I share their bold sentiment, and stand in solidarity with their force, feeling profound gratitude for the women whose lives have directly affected my own, those whom I do and do not know, and will never know. Thank you.

So many more thoughts on this to come in the future-- others' and my own.

The first three are some Adrienne Rich quotes and a poem I hold close to my heart, followed some words from a Belizean woman, unnamed. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

“The connections between and among women are the most feared, the most problematic, and the most potentially transforming force on the planet.” – Adrienne Rich

“Across the curve of the earth, there are women getting up before dawn, in the blackness before the point of light, in the twilight before sunrise; there are women rising earlier than men and children to break the ice, to start the stove, to put up the pap, the coffee, the rice, to iron the pants, to braid the hair, to pull the day's water up from the well, to boil water for tea, to wash the children for school, to pull the vegetables and start the walk to market, to run to catch the bus for the work that is paid. I don't know when most women sleep.” –Adrienne Rich

“... there is no way of measuring the damage to a society when a whole texture of humanity is kept from realizing its own power, when the woman architect who might have reinvented our cities sits barely literate in a semilegal sweatshop on the Texas- Mexican border, when women who should be founding colleges must work their entire lives as domestics ... “–Adrienne Rich

Hunger, by Adrienne Rich
--for Audre Lorde

1.

A fogged hill-scene on an enormous continent,
intimacy rigged with terrors,
a sequence of blurs the Chinese painter's ink-stick planned,
a scene of desolation comforted
by two human figures recklessly exposed,
leaning together in a sticklike boat
in the foreground. Maybe we look like this,
I don't know. I'm wondering
whether we even have what we think we have--
lighted windows signifying shelter,
a film of domesticity
over fragile roofs. I know I'm partly somewhere else--
huts strung across a drought-stretched land
not mine, dried breasts, mine and not mine, a mother
watching my children shrink with hunger.
I live in my Western skin,
my Western vision, torn
and flung to what I can't control or even fathom.
Quantify suffering, you could rule the world.

2.

They *can* rule the world while they can persuade us
our pain belongs in some order.
Is death by famine worse than death by suicide,
than a life of famine and suicide, if a black lesbian dies,
if a white prostitute dies, if a woman genius
starves herself to feed others,
self-hatred battening on her body?
Something that kills us or leaves us half-alive
is raging under the name of an "act of god"
in Chad, in Niger, in teh Upper Volta--
yes, that male god that acts on us and on our children,
that male State that acts on us and on our children
till our brains are blunted by malnutritiou,
yet sharpened by the passion for survival,
our powers expended daily on the struggle
to hand a kind of life on to our children,
to change reality for our lovers
even in a single trembling drop of water.

3.

We can look at each other through both our lifetimes
like those two figures in the sticklike boat
flung together in the Chinese ink-scene;
even our intimacies are rigged with terror.
Quantify suffering? My guilt at least is open,
I stand convicted by all my convictions--
you, too. We shrink from touching
our power, we shrink away, we starve ourselves
and each otehr, we're scared shitless
of what it could be to take and use our love,
hose it on a city, on a world,
to wield and guide its spray, destroying
poisons, parasites, rats, viruses--
like the terrible mothers we long and dread to be.

4.

The decision to feed the world
is the real decision. No revolution
has chosen it. For that choice requires
that women shall be free.
I choke on the taste of bread in North America
but the taste of hunger in North America
is poisoning me. Yes, I'm alive to write these words,
to leaf through Kollwitz's women
huddling the stricken children into their stricken arms
the "mothers" drained of milk, the "survivors" driven
to self-abortion, self-starvation, to a vision
bitter, concrete, and wordless.
I'm alive to want more than life,
want it for others starving and unborn,
to name the deprivations boring
into my will, my affections, into the brains
of daughters, sisters, lovers caught in the crossfire
of terrorists of the mind.
In the black mirror of the subway window
hangs my own face, hollow with anger and desire.
Swathed in exhaustion, on the trampled newsprint,
a woman shields a dead child from the camera.
The passion to be inscribes her body.
Until we find each other, we are alone.

Women’s Day in Belize.

March 8 is celebrated globally as International Women’s Day. In Belize, the celebration has been extended beyond a single day to the entire month of March. This by no means implies that we only acknowledge and celebrate women’s achievements during this time, but rather that women’s month allows us to focus our attention on specific issues that affect women in Belize and the accomplishments of women in various sectors of society.

In Belize, the women’s movement continues to be faced with challenges. Gender equality has still not been fully realized in our country and women continue to suffer inequity, discrimination and violence.

The economic, social, cultural, and political achievements of women have been attained through hard work, perseverance, faith, and determination. While many men may feel threatened by the achievements of women in Belize and may question the need for focus on women’s advancement, we must be mindful that personal insecurity begets animosity hostility, and inferiority. We should not be intimidated by the success of women; they are our equal partners in the home, classroom, workplace, community, and even parliament. It is only when both women and men realize shared responsibility that we would have achieved true gender equality.

International Women’s Day (March 8) is an occasion marked by women’s groups around the world. Putting women and women’s rights on the global agenda is moving force behind this day. It is the story of ordinary women as makers of history; it is rooted in the centuries- old struggle of women to participate in society on an equal footing with men.

The tradition of celebration International Women’s Day represents at least nine decades of struggle for equality, justice, peace and development. The idea of a day for women, celebrated all over the world, began in America and Europe. The focus was the movement for women’s right and achieving universal suffrage for women. Between 1913 and 1917 women held rallies either to protest the war or to express solidarity with their sisters.

The International Women’s Day protest that changed the world occurred in Russia in 1917. Coming on the rise of long struggle and many strikes, International Women’s Day 1917 inspired thousands of Russian women to leave their homes and factories to protest the terrible shortages of food, the high prices, the world war, and the increased suffering they had bitterly ensured. The protest increased the last push of a revolution.

some pieces of life.

2010-02-07T16:01:00.000-08:00

These little pieces of life have been hiding in my computer for quite some time without a flash drive to save them. Better late than never.

Women
January 10, 2010

I am of the firm believe that the issue of women’s rights is the single biggest social, economic, and political issue in Belize. With it, comes the opportunity to preserve, restore and maintain the very dignity of the country, and ultimately, the world. As cultures and countries embrace the power of women and their place in society, countries transform themselves.

If we want to empower youth and nations, we must work on both ends of the spectrum providing education for young women which promotes an awareness and understanding of sexual reproductive rights while still working on a broader scale of outreach and advocacy against all forms of gender discrimination, sexual exploitation, and abuse, so that we can ultimately affect gender policy here in Belize.

By fighting this issue from both ends by providing education for young women, we provide them with options and opportunities for a life free from poverty, which often comes with increased vulnerability for economic and gender discrimination. This is not to promote a lifestyle different than or better than, but rather an alternative to their current life circumstances.

These issues are intricately interwoven; at their roots lie education, and the opportunity for alternative options. In order to begin thriving, we, as a world, must adopt a new found understanding of the interconnection among economic, social and psychological issues in the implementation of women's issues.

We must begin to transition the focus from just intervention strategies to a balance between prevention and intervention. By fighting for women's right on a local and global scale, community and individual level, will we see change-- slow, but tangible change.

The statistics prove the urgency of action and reformation of ideals, particularly for Belize:

19% of teenagers had at least one pregnancy in the last 5 years and 66% of pregnant teenagers did not plan their pregnancy. Belize also has the highest rate of HIV infection in Central America and the 4th highest in the Caribbean, with an estimate that as much as 90% of the population has not been tested. Additionally, Belize’s biggest issue is the price of its booming tourism industry: CSEC (Commercial Sexual Exploitation of Children) and ‘sugar daddy’ syndrome, where older Belizean men are abusing young girls, often in exchange for help with the educational or family expenses, and done with the acceptance of, or even arranged by, the mother; CSEC is seen as a culturally accepted practice rather than as a crime against a child, against which YES is slowly fighting. These conditions put Belize’s young women and girls at high risk for sexual abuse and exploitation, HIV/AIDS, unemployment, poverty, and teenage pregnancy.

No, our nation’s fate does not just linger waiting to be claimed by its most powerful, or most wealthy, or those who bear the title of prime minister, or mayor. Nor does it rest on the shoulders of just young women or men, but on everyone.

Women’s empowerment is just as much, if not more, a male issue rather than a female one. We can work day in and day out to empower, to advocate on behalf of, to promote women’s rights, but this can only be achieved through the partnership of men. If we want to stop cycles of domestic abuse, and gender discrimination, we must educate our young men. As a brilliant Belizean woman said at a weekend Gender Based Violence conference, “because boys grow up to be men.”

This past weekend I was graced with the utter privilege of attending that conference. I learned more in this weekend than perhaps I have in the entirety of my six months here. I learned about the real cost of the tourism industry. Yes, as the cruise ships come in, not only do they destroy Belize’s beautiful coral reef; Belize loses so much more than that. With those cruise ships come child trafficking, and the sex tourism business as a booming enterprise, a hot commodity. I learned what marriages are really like-- that fidelity is the exception, not the norm; I learned that gender discrimination pervades this culture, engulfs it, even. I learned that we may lose an entire generation of young women and men to HIV/AIDS.

But I also learned about Mary Open Door, an incredible support group in Belmopan who formed simply out of three women taking care of one another in their home, many of whom were victims of domestic violence; I’ve learned about Regina, a small women’s group who has slowly formed in the poorest area of Belize, to come together and work for change among their community. I learned about nearly every NGO in Belize that fights relentlessly to educate the general population about women, about gender-based discrimination and exploitation, and the way it has permeated culture.

When we start to place the priority on sexual and reproductive rights of our women as the cornerstone of development; it is then that these nations we refer to as developing, will stand developed.

YES continues to be one of the major NGOs in Belize tirelessly fighting for the rights of women; rights that have been dignified to women of the US since roughly 1919, contrasted with women in Belize who are just now, in the past few decades, gaining these same rights. Seems odd to think that I, a young woman who has never not known a life of such; that I, since I can remember, have always had a daddy telling me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. Seems odd to think that I’m witnessing something that I could have missed by a few decades in the US; (not to say that the movement is at all over anywhere in the world). Seems odd to think that women, who are entrusted with bringing life into the world, creating it and cultivating it, are deemed unworthy of much more.

In the spirit of women, check this out:

Girleffect.org

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Under the Shade I flourish
January 17, 2010

It’s been land of the eternal shade these past three months; days where the temperature falls below 80 and you have to take a raincoat in your backpack rather than a sweat rag. You transition quickly from the urge to shower twice a day to rid oneself of sweat and dust and filth, to terror at the thought of it; ice cold water against an already chilled body: traumatic. I’m serious.

“Under the shade I flourish” is the motto written on the Belizean flag: ‘Sub Umbra Floreo’. I have been flourishing in the shade now for nearly two months, when in late November the heat disappeared into cool breezes and nights’ sleeps covered in thick blankets, believe it or not. The absence of the heat has revealed the deadening effects of it as we feel it creep its way back into our lives and down the back of our necks.

The heat and humidity of the city make it nearly impossible to do anything with much zest. It leaves you feeling eternally lethargic. It is like a dead fog that follows you around in the day and keeps you up at night. It has found us again in January and is making me hate myself for any night that I cursed the cold when my thin blanket and thin sweatshirt fell short of warming my body from the cold wind and broken windows of my bedroom.

In land of the eternal shade, life is easier. Days aren’t quite as long, bus rides less sweaty. Laundry and showers are less of a requirement, and more of a suggestion. Your life is not pervaded with sweat, and the quest for a piece of shade, or a fan to cool your sweaty face.

Me? I guess I flourish under the shade, too.

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A Few Thoughts on Haiti…
January 17, 2010

The Belizean newspaper this past week, and really always, is filled with the ugly. I read it and I cringe. In fact, I hate reading the paper: it makes me feel helpless; it makes me feel hopeless, but I read it anyway. Nearly anything newsworthy around here is the political corruption, the shootings of the weeks, the latest scandal or monopoly. I read it in the paper, read it in my girls’ poetry; I hear it at night, too.

But with this week next to our Belizean newspaper rests another: the New York Times, which came in the suitcases of visiting parents from the States. Its front page is full of Haiti’s devastation; the photos and articles haunt me each morning between my sips of tea and spoonfuls of oatmeal. Maybe it’s because I’ve always felt particularly interested in Haiti as a country after spending time in the Dominican Republic; always cringing upon learning the way they are viewed by nearly all Central American and Caribbean neighbors. Belize is certainly no exception. Maybe it’s because it is absolutely horrific suffering at the hands of natural disaster and failed infrastructure, and the deadly implications of such a lethal combination. It seems that just as minimal progress is happening, natural disaster strikes and unhinges any hope or optimism as a binding force for its people.

And yet, we sit in our homes and watch catastrophe strike on our TVs. We see bodies lined on streets, clay-caked children’s feet dangle off of garbage stricken streets. We look on, we shake our heads, we change the channel to something more interesting; after all, how can we begin to process the suffering the glares from our TVs. We were not designed to see such suffering, let alone process it from a distance. It has only been in the last century that we have been exposed to such diametrically opposed ways of living and life, suffering and celebration, until the advent of the television.

Sometimes it seems like instead of standing amazed, in awe, in solidarity, we stand divided and disillusioned, nearly numb to it—to life’s differences. The media has the potential to be an incredible tool through which we come together in solidarity—marked by seemingly entirely different existences, but instead, it seems to do the opposite. It stares at us. We stare right back, simultaneously amazed and unfazed, desensitized. We’ve seen enough, and yet, we’ll never see enough. We will never see enough of the suffering that encapsulates Haiti, and every Haiti that is out of the headlines, who is in such a constant state of disillusion, that it is no longer newsworthy; no longer romantic or interesting.

I, too, sometimes, feel my numbness as the zeros behind the numbers add up identity-less bodies. I, too, feel helpless and vulnerable in the face of destruction. No, I’m not asking all of us to pack up our bags and make a pilgrimage to Haiti to do relief work. I’m not sure what I’m asking for; I guess just that others’ suffering doesn’t go unnoticed. And this doesn’t just mean those who are flashed on the screen in the face of complete and utter devastation at the hands of natural disasters, but those who suffer daily on the dirty streets of cities and structures that have failed them. They deserve our attention, too. And no, it’s not just dirt ridden faces in the “developing world”, it’s perfectly clean ones who live in the city, or even suburbia. They need to be noticed, too.

It appears to me that, contrary to the very nature and point of media in the first place, its presence has led to complete indifference in the face of suffering. Still, we persist. We no longer stand daunted and perplexed at the idea of suffering, but rather desensitized and immune. We are used to seeing the destitute suffer and die. We watch idly from our comfy couches while our furnaces warm our cold bodies. We watch, we mention it on the phone to our friends. Haiti, as of the Human Development Index 2008 was 146th of 177, what will it be now? Dead last? Dead being the operative word.

Maybe all we can do is keep watching the news and reading the paper, to stop for a second and accompany someone, even from a distance, in their suffering. There is such profound suffering going on in the world, and often times, we never know a bit of it, let alone inquire as to the root of it. It hurts to see such suffering; it scares us; it questions and compromises our safety, as nations and individuals. Maybe we all need to feel a bit of vulnerability, as we watch Haiti, and any other individuals suffering at the hands of natural disasters, economic disasters, personal disasters. The least we can do is acknowledge their suffering; show them, in some small way, that their suffering does not go unnoticed.

I guess what I’m saying is, we should keep listening to the radio. We shouldn’t stop. Keep looking on. We cannot allow ourselves to be desensitized to the world’s suffering. Though it hurts, we can’t turn our heads. Keep listening. Let us not forget about Haiti after they leave the headlines on the New York Times for something more interesting.

I will end this with a quote from an editorial to the Belizean “Amandala Paper” which you can read here: it is such a testament to another country’s take Haiti’s situation.

http://www.amandala.com.bz/index.php?id=9431

“As people who have lived under the umbrella, so to speak, of white supremacy for the last centuries, we Belizeans, both consciously and subconsciously, tried to move ourselves and our families from blackness into whiteness. Our slogan was, “Raise yu colour.” It was real. We believed this was the way to self-preservation. We turned our backs on our own blackness: we shunned our black brothers and sisters. We were ashamed of Haiti, and did not accept Haitians as our brothers and sisters. But they are our brothers and sisters. They are our brothers and sisters from way back in the West African reality. Embrace our roots, Belizeans. Feel the pain. Reach out to Haiti. Pray for the Haitian people, created in the image and likeness of God. Solidarity with Haiti.
Power to the people. Power in the struggle.”

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Why Hope?
January 10, 2010

Paulo Freire writes that “as long as I fight, I am moved by hope; and if I fight with hope, then I can wait.”

Why do we hope? In the face of homelessness, senseless violence, deplorable living conditions and seemingly solution-less poverty. The answer to this question is as subjective as the question itself, but my answer is this: The older I get, the more I learn more about the buearocracies and structures, I’ve been left feeling hopeless rather than hopeful, powerless rather than powerful, meaningless rather than meaningful. I ultimately felt helpless in the face of adversity. But never before have I felt so integrated into and a part of a struggle, hope tangible, in faces and the movement. There is collaboration and community- solidarity. Each one a piece back to the puzzle named hope, wreaking of equality, and dripping with dignity.

I am acquiring, slowly, knowledge; with this, I have been stirred by a new sense of hope. I am learning about this country, its politics, its progress and setbacks, its slowly evolving movement. Belize, like any country, is slowly unfolding itself, just as is the States, as Barack spoke to in his State of the Union. It must be a relentless preservation of hope, if nothing else, that a nation possesses. It is in solidarity and community that we will learn to thrive, as nations--divided to united, as people trying to take care of themselves and each other.

The hope that rests in the back pockets of women and men alike, whether it be in thick cement houses, or thin wooden structures. There’s hope. It is in the chorus of the dogs, and the symphony of the children. It is in the coming together of people, and the raising of voices. It is the anger and frustration-- the lessons learned, lives and opportunities lost. It is in meeting rooms and conference calls, the gathering of women on rickety back porches all over the world. From the bottom to the top, and the top to the bottom-- there’s hope.

I learn with Belize, and without it. Perhaps I still don’t have much to show for myself here, maybe I never will; maybe I’ll never have any tangible evidence of my ever being here, except my name on old faded envelopes, a carving into my wooden desk, or a few amusing stories left on the lips of my coworkers or students, but I keep learning. As Freire writes “Knowledge emerges only through invention and re-invention, through the restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful inquiry human beings pursue in the world, with the world, and with each other.” And so I keep learning; I may do nothing else for these two years, but learn. And with that, I am okay.

I continue to learn more and more about YES as an agency, and am inspired, moved, humbled to accompany this organization. After six months, and several missteps and confusion, I feel that I am just now transitioning from a place of apprentice to accomplice. It continues to fight, without permission, for women’s equality, as each staff member of our team of ten firmly believes in the power of young women, especially those who are most vulnerable and oppressed by their gender and their socioeconomic status. I am but a small part, if any, in this movement.

I continue to teach two days a week, with counseling, home visits, proposal writing filling my other days. We are also in the process of putting together a website for the organization, some tangible evidence that we exist, and to share a bit of YES with the rest of the world, with the rest of Belize. I cannot wait to share it with you all.

More than anything, I think, I have realized how much of the education for these girls, their current situation at hand, demands real life applicability. When it boils down to life, education becomes the key in the lock. No, this isn’t about the worksheets in math, not even long division. The academic focus has shifted from an emphasis on formal traditional education to non-traditional trades such as sewing, cooking, etc, with the understanding that these are the skills that will proved these young women with the opportunity to return promptly to the work force, while a hand full will be reintegrated back into the formal Belizean educational sector. Education loses the idea of “education for education’s sake but education for survival’s sake. Everything from English to science to math must be related to life skills, to sewing to cooking to charging money; it must be directly related to moving from a place of survival to a place of thriving.

It’s about posing questions and creating a space where the essentials and the questions can coexist around their reality. It is this co-existence, this atmosphere, that I am still trying persistently to create, promote, maintain, sustain. It’s getting easier. Yes, it’s getting easier. Life is finding itself a rhythm.

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Morning
January 17, 2010

Each morning, Belize city, desolate and dirty, is awoken by bus horns and fruit carts. The streets are swallowed whole by the dust and debris; we choke.

This cement structures too big for its own good-- rooms too large for any semblance of coziness. Dust collects in the corners of each room; each weekly slop of the mop missing it by mere centimeters. We squint our eyes as the dust wafts in through the window slates and collects on our house, on our lives. If for no other reason, it reminds us that we can’t sit still for too long; it’ll be physical proof of any place where life wasn’t.

The books align themselves from their height; they collect dust on their edges and smell of years, latent, waiting to be read. Some bindings are now cracked and aged, tinted brown from their accumulation of the dirt. These walls, they scream for love; for some eager soul to paint them and love them. They need new coats and a good scrub like a child needs a mother, but it’ll never get done.

Our flip flops slap against the floor, two by two, from the moment our feet, dangled from our bedsides are aimlessly fumbled into their rubber molds. Music wafts in most days with the dust; both of them louder and thicker than we’d like. They invade our space, not that it was ever our own, in the first place, as if there is ever such a thing.

The empty laundry line begs for clothes, as if the sun exists only to warm, and light, and dry. Trash litters the streets, so do the bodies; the regular faces are stirred by the movement; their beds have become the walkway of the city. They stay asleep, somehow.

Most women are left inside, most days; some peer out behind barred windows, others from their wooden frames; they fasten their children’s shoes and button up their blouses. They scoot them out the door and start the wash. They begin dinner for that night at 9:00 am; if not, it won’t be ready on time.

A man pedals by on a child’s bike, his knees barely missing the handlebars. He turns from a man into a boy when he sits on its seat-- no matter how strong he is or how much money he makes. He looks silly on that bike. It’s too small; he looks like one of those men in the circus, or in a parade. It always makes me laugh. He carries a jug of water, and a rake under his arm. On the other bike, is carried a family heading out for their day. They ride on their way to work like the family in suburbia in their SUV

They’ll ride their bikes to work, pumping their legs, fighting against rusty chains and strong winds, not to mention their wife on their handlebars. The bus is full. Some stair out the window, fondly, others text on their cell phones mechanically; others still smoke their cigarettes and watch life pass them by with foggy morning eyes.

The streets are filled with colors, each school uniform an billboard for its institution. You dare not misbehave while you’re wearing it, the teachers say, everyone knows where you go to school. You wear your identity for everyone to see. Like it or not.

projects and sleepovers. They spend their days clutched next to mom as she washes the laundry. They spend their days in front of the TV. It’s probably too hot to play outside, or its just plain unsafe.

The dog barks and incessant remarks from the nightly card players, beer in right hand, hand of cards in the left, cigarette tucked behind their ears. They wear beaters and sagged shorts; they play their music too loud and cursing adjectives accompany nearly every noun. No, these aren’t up and coming adolescent boys; they’re grown men. I like them very much, actually.

Some women in the streets wear stylish pantsuits and high heels, but you don’t see many of them on the South side. You see tattered t-shirts, faded by the sun, pulled and stretched out by the line, and uniforms made by poorly trained tailors. The arms uneven, the fabric frayed after one wash.

The rain that slaps against the corrugated tin roofs, soon is poured into drinking cups. It falls from the sky and into our bellies, replenishing the water which has fled from our bodies quickly, dripping from our faces and into our laps. We hide under it by our big umbrellas; we shuffle along in the puddles, track marks on our back to prove it, as it kicks up behind our dirty flip flops, or along our bike tires like a small squirt gun.

I stand, among the masses, waiting for my bus; I carry life on my back. It’s zipped up tightly, hidden from plain view. Life is heavy some days. Some days it’s so heavy I think I might fall over backward. I am little girl who wears a grownup backpack when she should have a little girl one. It wears patches when it should have Barbies. I topple over backwards at the weight of it. Sometimes, life is too heavy.

My hair is messy from the wind and last night’s sleep. I don’t look right to them, and to me. I wear Chocos instead of heels. I’m not like the pretty American women they see on their televisions. I think we both resent me for that. Regardless, I stand with the rest, and I wait for my bus. I step on and carefully choose my seat; I look out the window. I read my book. The bus delivers me slowly to my day.

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Gwennie,
under construction, always

Allow me to introduce you. Her name is Gwennie. Gwennie’s not particularly nice, or pleasant. Gwennie’s different than the rest. And this is precisely why I like her so much. No, she doesn’t remember my name, she hardly remembers yesterday. She’ll never remember my name. But that’s not the point. The point isn’t for me to be named, or her to distinguish me from any other of my American friends. The point is to sit on a step with Gwennie and share a day with her, an hour, or even just a wave across her crumbling cement fence. That’s the point.

Gwennie sits on the back stoop every day, the front porch in the night. She sees everything, Gwennie; she sees nearly everything that happens in our neighborhood. What she doesn’t see, she’s the first to hear on the radio. She sells her plums. She yells at the neighbor kids when they try to steal them from her trees. She gets dressed up for church on Sundays, and she walks the block to St. Lukes.

“She’s lonely,” she says; I think she’s right.

“It’s my husband, my boyfriend, my best friend” she utters emphatically as she clutches her radio under her arm. It’s always under her arm, that radio. Like a little boy carries his teddy bear, or his blankie. We all have our teddy bears, I think.

A tattered bandana tightly wraps around her frenzied hair; its adorned with marijuana leaves. She doesn’t care. She watches the people come and go; she knows the sounds of the city by heart. Her mind is a keen watch; she knows the day’s events instinctively, maybe even before they happen—40 years she’s sat on that stoop and watched life happen.

The deep creases in her face don’t hide, but reveal her real thoughts, not that she’d ever hid them from you. You can see the remains of her once smooth brown skin that graces the photos on her wall in her young age. I was beautiful once, she thinks, the corners of her mouth turning up; those deep creases hold years of being. There’s life hiding in those deep lines and fine wrinkles. They are tucked away in a safe place, never to be taken away.

Just one tooth left, twisted in the front of her mouth. “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,” she says in her gruff voice. She doesn’t smile. When I ask her if she likes Barack Obama, she responds “Is that that new rapper?” I can’t help but laugh.

She moves slowly, almost meticulously across her yard. The laundry dangles all above her among the low hanging tree branches. She ducks beneath them, swatting at the hanging clothes like mosquitoes.

The sun beats down on her tired face as she watches it fall back behind Martins. She’s seen the sun fall back down for years from that porch. She knows it all too well, I think.

Her children have moved to the states, and taken her grandchildren with them. Her husband died of prostrate cancer, or from what I’ve gathered of her vague description. She says this happens, you know, but “I don’t have to be happy about it.” She’s lived, she’s loved, and now she’s savoring life’s moments from her front porch, with the program announcer and her next door neighbors to accompany her. Her once grassy backyard has turned into one big bald spot that sometimes resembles an old soccer field.

Gwennie moves slowly, methodically raking the small plum leaves from the dirt; she puts them all in their designated pile, before consolidating them; every week the same day. I know. I watch her. I’ve always watched Gwennie, from my window since August – every Sunday morning, raking her plum leaves.

Her habits have become so repetitive and uniform; even the paint is wearing away into the silhouette of her body, the paint on the wall where she sits to watch TV. The walls too have spoken back to tell her they notice her. We know you are still here, Gwennie. There is proof.

The irony, though, is this; I don’t pity Gwennie. In fact, I envy her. She’s not waiting for life to happen to her like I am; it already has. She’s had life, already.

Yes, she was once pumping her legs on a worn out bike; she was once toting a toddler on her hip, wiping drool from her chin. She was once setting the table for five, and tucking kids into bed. She was once smiling across the room at her husband, and chatting with her girlfriends outside the schoolhouse. But now she just sits, her face in her hand, and watches life. She listens to it, too. I bet some days, she can still taste it, life.

You see, Gwennie is proof of life-- etched in her face, her callused hands, her tired feet. Life dangles from her; it has already happened.

Untitled

2009-12-13T17:19:00.001-08:00

The dogs woke us up again last night. We’ve learned to fall asleep to their incessant barking, though I’m not sure how. Some nights a symphony, others a cacophony—but like it or not, it has become our lullaby --between the loud music and mufflers, gunshots and crickets. Like the howling, back and forth across the city, like children waiting to hear the echo of their voice, or a competition, with no referee, no time outs, no jerseys. And when they line the streets in the morning, tails perched proudly- “yep, that was me,” you can’t help but smile and shake your head.

It seems we’re all fighting to have our voices heard, even if it’s just a faint howling in the night, a barking at the moon.

Yes, it looks like dogs in the middle of the night, howling at the moon, but it’s also a timid young woman, crying while she finds a new home; it’s an aged one, fighting like hell for an organization she created; it’s my students—asking for more in a world than it’s given them. It’s my community trying to grow not just as entity, but simultaneously as individuals. And me, with my own faint howl—me who fights to have her voice heard in a classroom; trying desperately to have an identity more than a white foreigner, a place in this city all my own.

These voices have become normalcy: each barking a different tone and pitch, tempo and rhythm. Sometimes I feel like my bark is a distant, far cry. Some days I find myself feeling painfully inadequate, others are grounds for celebration. But, indeed, the sounds are familiar, sights mundane, sounds of the roads and quarks of my community a regularity. And I must admit it feels good, despite the fact that some days it feels like I just got off that plane yesterday and I’m still unpacking my hopes for these two years along with my camera and passport.

Some days, I feel like I haven’t learned a damn thing here, that I’m still unpacking my suitcase and trying to adjust to this foreign life. No, I don’t know a lot just yet; it’s only been five months. I don’t know all of the Creole slang or all the words to the National Anthem, but of a few things, I am certain.

I know the sound of the conch shell against our cement floor when the bathroom door opens; whose laughter I hear from the kitchen.
I know Gwenie’s voice from Alice’s and I can differentiate Whiskey’s bark from the Lenox’s puppy’s.
I know a truck from a car, a gunshot from a firecracker.
I know loud mufflers and cat calls, children laughing and drunken men.
Yes, the sounds are familiar.
I know whose laundry is hanging when I walk up to the house,
whose boxers or bras; whose panties and favorite t-shirt hang in the breeze.
Whose childhood blankie hangs from the front line like a tattered flag.
I know the women who dance in the street, holding their beers above their heads like trophies.
I know the fruit cart in the morning and the sound of the ice cream truck, and that you can get marijuana with your popsicle.
I know when Kristen’s stressed, when Patrick’s restless, when Jess has to grade more papers than are hours in the night.
I know that Patrick and John will fix the bikes, Kristen will clean the kitchen, and Allana will leave a note on my bed.
They know me, too, I think.
I know the sounds of mass nearby, and what time the bell will ring on Sunday mornings.
I know the Lord’s Bank junction sign, the billboard about HIV, the sign before the bridge that reads “Welcome to beautiful Belize City” that I see each day on the ride to work.
I know that Jess will be the last to smile at me across the hall before I go to bed, and Patrick will be the first I see in the morning, eating his oatmeal at the breakfast table.
I know my bus drivers-- the ones who greet me with a smile and nod; the ones who propose marriage; the ones who race and fight with the drivers in the next lane.
I know that the babies will be taken to school on their daddy’s handlebars, and that sometimes mommy will be on the bike, too.
I know the difference between mosquitoes or sand fly bites; the smell of sewer versus trash.
I know my showers will always be cold, and I’ll never be clean, no matter how hard I scrub.
I know “mom” will tells me to wash my hands and a “dad” will yell at me when I burp, just like home.
I know the sound of the blender in the morning, and of Brian’s guitar, softly strumming at night.
I may not know a lot, but I know some things.

I’m feeling myself settle in here, even though it doesn’t fit just right. The right arm’s a little long, the neck a little stretched out; it’s a little too tight around the waist sometimes, I think, depending on the day. But it’ll do just fine. I like the print; it suites me-- the energy and the life, despite the hardship and struggle. Yes, Belize, you and I, we’ll get along just fine, but I can’t give you my heart; I’m leaving, one day.

And it’s here; the moment I feel everything shift underneath me; those tectonic plates named ‘cultural shock’ shift. I think I can quite literally feel one foot back in honeymoon phase, desperately trying to keep it planted, while the other is running forward. And it happens, as the toe slowly digs into the sand, it slowly is pulled across the line, leaving a small trail behind me.

I am finding that if I continue to relentlessly question and analyze, that those long ropes of questions will slack around my neck and become a noose; they’ll strangle me and my time here. Yes, there is a time and a place for analysis, questions, anger at oppressive systems and structures, but there’s also a time to just be and live it.

Sometimes, I still feel like I’m in a dark room and my eyes haven’t quite adjusted yet; I’m feeling for the edge of a doorway, the cushion of the bed, but I’m not sure of their placement just yet. I’m still learning it all by heart. Sometimes I’m finding I run smack into the door, not knowing that it’s shut. My eyes are slowly adjusting to all of this, and I think my mind has necessarily had to take a step back from overanalyzing structures and dynamics and just be here. If for no other purpose, but to maintain sanity. Yes, “an unexamined life is not worth living”, but you can’t let it choke you.

I’m still finding sacred moments, which I’m finding are hidden, not just in the mundane, but in the unknown-- in the adventure of the human experience, of ‘foreign living.’ These reveal themselves in the most unlikely of places, but I’m finding that each time, they happen because I open myself up to them, making them available to find me. Fleeting moments and sharing with strangers-- in cars and buses, dirt roads and hammocks. They get me out of bed in the morning and grace my face with a soft smile. It is those little moments that make all else worth it. They wash away the lack of independence and the danger of the late night streets. It is these moments that I cling to desperately, and tuck them away tightly in my memory, and pull them out like old letters when things feel tough. It is those moments that I can still taste, I still smell, I can still see in the backs of my eyelids. These moments, they are sacred, I feel. I can still feel the wind beating on my face in the back of the truck, and feel the paper Tomacita handed to me with her number on it. I can feel her wet kiss on my sun burned face before she got on the bus. I can feel a single tear drop onto a tightly clasped hand; I can remember the boundless sky, starts infinite, and fireflies, in an open orange grove. I can feel my pillow hugged to my chest, and hear the laughter and off-key singing filling a tiny car. I can feel the Caribbean sea on my body, and the fibers of the hammock branding itself to my skin. I can hear the clink of two Belikins together, and the soft noise of water gently slapping the sand.

Yes, Polly, you are in foreign territory. No, there’s no statue of liberty or corn fields. There’s no cell phone or wireless internet. You haven’t spoken with your sister in a month; you haven’t had a warm shower in four. Your feet smell, and your journal pages are empty. You’re laundry is piled up for weeks, and most nights, you don’t remember your head hitting the pillow. Yes, Polly, you are, indeed, in foreign land.

2009-12-13T17:17:00.000-08:00

“How do we hold people accountable for wrongdoing and yet at the same times remain in touch with their humanity enough to believe in their capacity to be transformed?”
--Bell Hooks

I’ve been sitting in this question, feeling it enveloped and sometimes paralyze me in its inaccessibility and sometimes apparent impossibility. I ask it not only on a broad scale but also a narrow scope: in the classroom, in the field, and on a continuum of humanity and human nature. Well, I sure as hell don’t know the answer to this question, not that it actually does exist and is hiding from me, counting to ten and waiting for me to find it. One day I’ll find it, at least that's the hope.

Jeff, our in-country coordinator, told us something I found to be pretty profound at our last retreat. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. In essence: the existence of ‘a scale of suffering.’ We as Americans are, quite obviously, on the far end of the spectrum. We live most of our lives at a 7 (or around there). Our day to day difficulties and struggles often materialize themselves in traffic jams or quarrels, copy machine jams and long lines. People living in poverty, like Belizeans, live most of their lives at a 3. (Refugees and Internally displaced people probably live around a 1 or a 2. I think we’d be nauseous if we truly comprehended how many endure lives at a 1 or a 2). When we experience a death or other similar tragedy, we get lost in it. Not that it’s not valid, but because we’re not used to the 3’s, so it’s hard. We are dropped down to a level of suffering that is not only foreign, but is therefore traumatic.

But people who live in the 3’s, when they experience death or heartbreak or tragedy, pick themselves right back up, most of the time, from what I am gathering. I witness this so much, as I hear my girls constantly speak to death, and gunshots, rape, and violence as just another factor of the day, almost like brushing their teeth.

I say this not to invalidate my own or anyone else’s feelings, but only to remind us that other realities exist. I find this to be so important. It is a moral and ethical imperative, I feel: to remind ourselves that other realities exist, not to invalidate our own, but to know that other people live, and to learn from it. No, our religion is not it, nor is our lifestyle, our clothes, our customs. They are not all that is out there. We are constantly needing to remind ourselves that other realities exist—that ours isn’t it, or the best. It is our biggest challenge, I think. And I fear, the most unattainable.

I’ll be honest and say that teaching these girls is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I wanted them so badly to see me, but I’ve realized that was pretty selfish. It’s not their job to know and see me, but I’ll know them. Just like it’s not a child’s job to love a parent; it’s a parent’s job to love the child. It’s not their job to love me; it’s my job to love them. I’ll bravely admit that sometimes it’s really hard work to love them. Sometimes they’re mean and vindictive and seemingly evil. Some days I don’t want to love them, but I try anyway.

It is so much harder to be with people and love them. It’s hard work. And not because it’s hot and there’s bugs and I’m sweating and I’m thirsty, but because it’s hard work to love people sometimes. It’s the hardest work there is, most days. Some days, I’ll be honest, I’m awful at it. I fail. I succumb to fear and frustration.

Some people deem accompaniment to mean complacency. It is the exact opposite, I’m learning. It’s so much easier to sit in a classroom and intellectualize it all and sit and talk about “the poor”; it is so much harder to live inside of it. Some say that it’s idealistic and naïve to think that any of it matters at all. Some may roll their eyes at about being with and doing for, someone else, but to them I say: as Paulo Freire writes: “Some may think that to affirm the dialogue—the encounter of women and men in the world in order to transform the world—is naively and subjectively idealistic. There is nothing, however, more real or concrete than human people in the world and with the world, than humans with other humans.”

These young women, their battles are incredible; suffering which I’ll probably never in my lifetime understand, let alone endure. I’m learning so much about suffering, and what it means like to accompany someone else in their suffering. I’m not there to save them or protect them; I’m there to be with them. I’m there to listen and support; but I’m also there to encourage, challenge, discipline—TEACH. And sometimes being these two people, a counselor and a teacher, feel like mutually exclusive titles. I’m not sure I’m doing either of them justice presently, but I sure am trying. We’re all still feeling each other out, even after four months. All this time I’ve wanted to be alongside them, not in front of them. But that’s not my job; I am supposed to be in front of them; I am to teach them; I am to love them while I teach them, though some days it feels like an impossibility.

The injustices that once infuriated me, have become a reality that I must accept. No, this doesn’t mean we accept it, or shrug our shoulders or sit and hug our knees to our chest and wait; it means we pull ourselves up and persist. That’s what they have to teach me, I think. We don’t just sit and whine and become angry. We pull ourselves together and take care of each other. We don’t become complacent, we don’t accept the world as it is; we challenge it. We fight like hell for something better.

“Life is, in fact, a battle. Evil is insolent and strong; beauty enchanting but rare; goodness very apt but weak; folly very apt to be defiant; wickedness to carry the day; imbeciles to be in great places, people of sense is small, and mankind is generally unhappy. But the world as it stands is no narrow illusion, no phantasm, no evil dream of the night; we wake up to it again forever and ever, and we can neither forget it nor deny it nor dispense it.”
-Henry James

YES, we’re struggling, but we’re fighting like hell. Miss Karen in her floral print dresses and her slippers. Some days a wig accompanies her golden hoop earrings, other days a weave. She is our warrior, our leader; a woman whose brilliance conspicuously radiates out of her like a fog machine. The room’s atmosphere fundamentally changes upon entrance. A woman who has been the director of YES, not accompanied but created its movement, even as diabetes take her toes like conquests. Her body moves slow, off balance a bit at their recent loss; she’s still readjusting to their absence, still feeling out this body that feels foreign. How it must feel as one grows into body that doesn’t match its spirit. Something we’ll never understand until we get there, I imagine.

YES is presently in a financial hole. We’re digging like hell, though, sweat dripping from our brows, still trying to catch our breath, I think, praying we’ll make it. It’s a shame—YES is such a presence in Belize. It has made unprecedented strides in the field of women’s advocacy, teen pregnancy, and human rights in Belize, not to mention the individual lives it has changed by its training center. Our fate dangles in the hands of others, as we desperately beg for funding. The fact of the matter is that it’s not only the ngos that are struggling these days, but also the very foundations that support them. We’re one of many, I fear, all of us chomping at the bit, competing for the little money that is still available. Everyone’s fighting for a small piece of money in Belize. Some achieve it through grants and donations, others through robberies and murders.

Prime Minister Dean Barrow just declared a recession in Belize in October, so it seems that despite the Christmas season, the spirit is a bit down, as we can all testify as well in the states. Christmas in Belize, I’m told, is a time of celebration and hope, but also a time when crime is often at its worse.

A time when people want to fix up their houses by painting them and buying new curtains; they want to give gifts to their children. When you don’t have the money to do this, you find a way, don’t you.? Yes, Belize isn’t in a dire state, in relation to its Central American counterparts, in terms of poverty. In terms of danger, however, it has mountains to climb. Belize has enough development, media infiltration and gun imports to create danger, but not an environment to compete with it. Sometimes I fear Belize City is losing itself to danger and violence and shootings, no different than parts of the United States, though.

The injustices that reveal themselves in Belize are present everywhere else in the world. They are just as prominent in the states; I have just been fortunate to have been shielded from them-- to have been held in a blanket of security by my socioeconomic status. There is rape and poverty, shootings and hunger. It’s easier to call poverty and injustice by name when you’re entrenched in and engulfed by it, but it’s a lot easier to exist in a state of being where we look the other way and pretend it doesn’t exist. I’ve done that a lot in the states—maybe out self preservation and the need to live the day to day. Maybe we all have to ignore some of it, or we’d never make it through a day.

Belize is no different than any other country; we’re all working towards the same goals; our work just looks different sometimes. Belize looks a lot like the states in so many ways; it has been completely infiltrated with American culture and ideals; sometimes I feel like it’s a child imitating her mother-- trying on her dresses and putting on her lipstick. But it doesn’t fit quite right. The similarities mask the differences, making life as a foreigner hard. We think it’s the same because the language is the same (minus the Creole) and imported goods dominate the market, but the culture is, indeed, markedly different.

Belize is a country the size of Massachusetts with as many cultures and languages to match the states in almost its entirety. It’s only had its independence since 1989, but I am a firm believer in the hard work that’s being done, and the progress that has been made. I like to think that so many of the ngos are responsible for this; they’ve at the least, had a hand in it: advocating for those who aren’t able to advocate for themselves-- from the disabled to the psychologically ill, the abused and neglected, hungry and unhealthy. Belize is fighting like hell. No, I’m learning, it’s not the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps mentality”; it’s a lot different than that. It’s not about climbing the ladder or efficiency, it’s about the process, and the baby steps that it takes to get there (though sometimes it comes at a price, and feels painfully inadequate).

I admit I only see a small snapshot of Belize. I see Belize City and witness its reality from a small smudged lens. I see the northern highway each day, but only from the dusty bus window. I only see the realities of my 25 girls, and a handful of others with whom I share stories and realities. There is so much more to learn about this place, I’m realizing. Belize City is just a small facet of this small, diverse country, and is certainly not representative of the country as a whole. Sometimes, I forget that, I think. Belize City is not Belize country.

Dear Belize

2009-12-13T17:15:00.000-08:00

Belize, can I admit something to you? Sometimes I don’t like you; sometimes you piss me off and make me want to cry. Do you know that you make me feel inadequate and inferior? Sometimes you leave me feeling helpless, Belize. Sometimes I want to hold you so tight and protect you, but I know you’re too big for me to hold. You’re holding me, aren’t you, Belize.

Some days I weep with you, though, when you’re sad and in mourning. Other days I yell right along side and dance in the streets; we celebrate together, you and me. You know how to celebrate, Belize.

Sometimes though, Belize, you make me feel lonely. Some days I feel like I don’t belong with you; that we’ll never work, you and me. Sometimes I feel like you don’t know me at all; you haven’t even met my family yet. Will you ever really know me, Belize?

Belize, every once in a while I feel like I might hate you. Some days I’d rather be somewhere else. The others are prettier than you, you know. They comb their hair and put on perfume. Sometimes you’re too loud in the morning, Belize. I don’t like it when you shout at me during the day, and bang at night in your sleep.

Do you even want me here Belize? I never did ask your permission. You never invited me; I showed up on your doorstep with my bags and demanded you let me in. Some days I wonder if you want me here at all. Some days I wonder if I’ve overstayed my welcome; if you’d rather I’d be like the tourists who get off their cruise ships and back on in eight hours. Would you rather I be like the tourists, Belize?

Can I accompany you, Belize, please? I’d like it if you accompanied me, too. Have I told you that you already do, Belize? You hold my hand and cry with me some days, and swim with me in the sea on the others; you sit next to me on the long bus rides home, and laugh at me when I can’t understand your language.

Sometimes you make me feel really suffocated, Belize; you really are possessive now and then. You rarely let me call my family; you’ll only let me write letters. Sometimes I’m too tired to write letters, Belize.

Belize, sometimes I don’t understand you. Your words sound muffled and foreign, and it frustrates me. It doesn’t help when you yell them at me, Belize. Sometimes I feel like you embrace me with arms wide open, but other days you seem to turn your back to me. You really do turn away from me some days, Belize. Why do you do that? Some days you feel really far away.

Every so often I just want to hide from you, Belize, or run away. Some days I just want to sleep, but you won’t let me. You never let me sleep when I need it, Belize. And other days, I want to play, but you’re too busy. I hate it when you’re too busy to play. I don’t tell you though; I know it’d break your heart. There’s still a lot you don’t know about me, Belize. And I’m pretty sure I still have a lot to learn about you, too.

You’re like no one I’ve ever met, Belize. You look a lot different than the rest; you smell different, too. Belize, why do you smell sour and sound angry sometimes? There are times I feel like you just yell at me; sometimes I just want to yell back at you, Belize. I don’t like yelling. I’ve never told you; it scares me. Sometimes you scare me, Belize. Sometimes I want to pack my bags and move out. I take my pillow and my backpack and I sit on the curb, but I never get any farther. I’d never leave you early. I won’t leave until I have to. I promise you that much, Belize.

I learn from you, Belize. Do you know that? You teach me without either of us knowing it, most of the time. I learn how to suffer and celebrate, how to love and live. We teach each other, I think, you and me.

Most days you really are beautiful, Belize, maybe I don’t tell you that enough. You make me smile and laugh; you teach me how to sing and dance. I really love you on those days. I love you most of the time, Belize, especially the times you come bearing gifts. You always hide them though; you make me find them. You want it that way, don’t you, Belize. Have I thanked you for that, Belize, for everything? Thank you, Belize.

The Option

2009-10-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

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.

“As long as I fight, I am moved by hope; and if I fight with hope, then I can wait.” -P.Freire

2009-10-18T14:00:00.000-07:00

I must say that I am perpetually grateful for my placement at YES and remind myself of this each and every day, of the opportunity to be able to be a part of and witness to a progressive, grassroots movement for women’s rights in the formal sense, but to also form personal relationships, and to encounter and accompany the real faces of these injustices everyday. It is such a beautiful balance, for which I am so thankful. Though, often, I feel broken and helpless as I learn of these young women and their struggles outside of school, I am eternally grateful to be able to learn of them and from them, and walk alongside them these two years. It is they who will teach me what it truly means to accompany. But I'm with all of that being said, I'm starting to have to remind myself to be patient with my time here and these questions that consume me.

So, other than all the questions and existential banter, life here is, in a word: good. That, as I said before, I’m feeling it all, the intensely beautiful and devastatingly ugly, knowing that I signed up for this for a reason, not expecting or wanting it to be easy. This pervasive feeling of joy is a result of experiencing the good and the bad; not a joy that exists, despite the difficulty, but because of it. Does that make sense? The gratitude and appreciation for the opportunity to feel it all: the relentless heat and humidity, the bugs biting my ankles, the cool breeze on my sweaty face, the ache for loved ones, the hurt and brokenness of witnessing the faces of injustices, fresh mail on the table bearing my name, a cold shower after a long, hot day, paralysis and confinement in the face of violence, freshly cleaned sheets, the comfort of falling asleep in a safe home.

The biggest thing I find solace in, is that there’s time, so much time, to explore all of these issues and questions I’m having, especially in my role as a teacher and accompanier. And ultimately, that I am incredibly grateful to be able to have these girls for the entirety of my two years here. And that when I leave next summer, so too, will they-- both of us moving forward to the rest of our lives, really. I think there’s something really profound in that. All of us coming together for these two years, and leaving each other, together, at the same time. And that, ultimately, these girls are going to teach me so much more than I realize.

There are often moments were I sit, as I did on the bus ride home last night from my soccer game, and as I feel the harsh wind against my body (as the entire two windows at my bus seat had been knocked out the night before), seeing more and more stars with each mile, I found myself lifting my head back, closing my eyes, and smiling, with gratitude, with simple appreciation for all. I cannot articulate how good it felt to put on shin guards, lace up my soccer shoes, and have a number on my back. A reality of nostalgia lived out; a game my body has known since the age of five. What a wonderful cure for homesickness when it inevitably arises. Also, I couldn’t help but appreciate that as the hot sun set against the silhouette of palm trees and horses, feeling the faintest of a fall breeze against my tired body.

Personally, I guess, I should mention within all of this, that I’m truly learning to move from a place of guilt to a place of gratitude, and that, for me, is a really profound and big movement in myself. As we went on our first retreat to a beautiful little eco lodge deep in the forest, I was immediately overwhelmed with feelings of guilt; acknowledging that this, in no way, falls in line with living in solidarity, as few Belizeans are able to travel out of their district. Ultimately wondering how much I, as I sit at this beautiful eco lodge, am perpetuating cycles of insidious colonialism by being a white foreigner who gets to see the beauty of a nation that 90% of its citizen will never see. And as we sat, analyzing our lives, spending hours in discussion, I felt guilty-- for having the opportunity, the privilege, to spend hours discerning of our lives and places in this world, while others fight relentlessly for their lives each day.

But I’m finally starting to realize how unproductive, unhealthy, and ultimately detrimental guilt is to me and my growth as an individual committed to a life for the poor. And that I must learn to accept the life I’ve been given, and to feel grateful for it, all the while being aware of this privilege, and ultimately, exercising it for others. And that with my privilege also comes the opportunity to give some of it up – the option – to give some of it up. Though, I know I’ll never be able to hide my white skin, or my American citizenship, which inherently, undeniably, provides me with more privilege than I’ll ever truly comprehend in my lifetime, whether I asked for it or not. So, rather than guilt, I choose gratitude.

Gratitude for everything:
An opportunity to live with and learn from Belizeans
To encounter and witness to their struggle, as a nation, and as individuals fighting for a life.
Of my most basic of human rights which I take for granted.
For unyielding support from home.
For a beautiful community to come home to each night.
For sturdy locks, the postal service, and telephones.
For the very computer on which I type.
For the ability to choose and create a life for myself, each day.

Questions...

2009-09-21T09:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Pictures. (Because I can't figiure out how to link blogger and picasso, yet)

2009-09-18T11:05:00.001-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/polly.pillen/BelizeanLifeThusFar?feat=directlink

“Oh, the ache we have to know and be known, to love and be loved.”

2009-09-06T12:56:00.000-07:00

I understand that up until this point that this blog has been a venue filled with my own thoughts, my insights about my presence, my life, my evolution, but my hope is that as my time progresses here, that it will inevitably become less about myself, and more about Belize as a country – its struggles – its people – their brokenness, and my own, tethered together. My hope is to somehow give faces, carefully carved features, to each issue, each individual battle. And to somehow, if only vaguely, demonstrate how intricately it is laced to our own struggles, our own country’s state of turmoil, our own anxious thoughts that pervade our minds each night as we fall asleep. That ultimately, it’s not because it could have been us, but that it IS us. I read that somewhere this week (I can’t remember where!) and it continues to ring in my head. It makes so much sense to me.

I guess I’m just feeling so compelled to be an advocate for that very notion – to somehow articulate our…connectedness. “Oh the ache we have to know and be known, to love and be loved.” – that ache traverses all boundaries, borders, and labels. It is a quote that comes from the book “Radical Compassion” a quote that has pervaded my thoughts ever since my mind read and processed its power. It’s such a simple quote, obvious, yet so profound. I’ve filled up my bus riding time this week with books – and I love to think about how much of what I read is tightly laced into the wires of my mind, so potent that they’ve become a lens, a framework through which I exist.

So yeah, obviously my head is big ol’ crazy mess right now, but I’m okay with that, as long as I’m reminded each night not to take myself too seriously. I had a wonderful reminder the other day, as I was walking home from the bus stop – deep in thought – trying to wrap my head around the day, the girls, Belize itself – when suddenly I heard “Hey, white girl! Smile.” At first I thought I was hearing yet another catcall, so I almost instinctively ignored him – it took me a few moments to really hear it, to process the demand. It touched me so much that I turned around to say “Thank you, sir. You’re so right. Thank you.”

In fact, my brain dances so much I’ve taken to carrying around a little notebook. I always think I’m having these small epiphanies, and I’m terrified that if I don’t write them down – to capture them like a still-life painting – that they’ll be gone forever, never to be found in the confines of my crazy, turning mind again. This notebook has become a ubiquitous presence in my satchel. It’s beginning to be my most prized possession – torn, dirt ridden pages, riddled with incoherent scribbles and words jotted down in a hurry – pages wrinkled from sweat pressed fingers and forearms. It often finds itself pressed against dirty bathroom walls, bus seats, and sweaty legs. “Girl, why you always writing? You always writin’!” I’m pretty sure some of my coworkers may think I’m crazy. I’m quickly becoming that crazy white girl, always wandering around aimlessly, Nalgene and notebook in tow, but I’m quite okay with that…

I’m just feeling this incredible need to document everything, knowing at the end of the day that it will still feel insufficient. I recently understood why I (and my community, as well) haven’t been too eager to publish our pictures to the world so far. Why? Because it is such a small, inaccurate portrait of our lives here. It’s this small glimpse of a world that took place outside of Belize itself, of our little orientation dreamland. This leads my mind to the inherent inadequacy of pictures in general – that they almost always fail to capture the entire picture – only the parts which are somehow slow enough to stop and snap – never capturing the crazy, the ostensibly mundane, the ugly parts - the REAL, authentic snapshot of the human experience. And once in a while we do capture it - even the beauty – with the tradeoff of the moments lost, jinxed somehow, or simply ruined by the presence of a camera. I constantly find myself torn between the desire to savor the moments here, or risk their destruction by my need to capture them.

With all that being said, I have to admit that I’ve been hesitant thus far to bring my camera outside of the comfort of our community – of these strong walls that hold up our little fortress. And I must say, ’m proud of myself for not being careless, but careful (so unlike me!), thus far in my journey. But the more I’m beginning to feel at home, the more I’m slowly fumbling my way to comfort, I’m starting to feel a bit restless. To put it blatantly, I’ve decided that I refuse to let this city cage me in – to inhibit me from my seemingly inherent, intrinsic need to document and live it – to take my camera on the streets and bus – to poke its head out from my bag and attempt, ATTEMPT, to capture something real here – not just smiling white faces among waterfalls and hammocks. And if my camera gets stolen – if it gets ripped from my grasp - then so be it. It’s a risk I am, at this point, willing to take (You can tell me you told me so after I’m sobbing into this computer when it gets stolen).

It’s ridiculous, how much I already feel myself transforming here. The last two years its like I became a wet rag, soaking up, almost dripping with cynicism - and JVI orientation, the dawn of it all, began the slow process of wringing me out, drip by drip. It’s so odd – to feel idealism again – like a long lost friend whom I fully intend to pull back under my arm, and fight like hell to keep there. Sometimes I find myself lost in my thoughts, looking in the mirror, thinking – “Wow! Who is this girl? Where have you been?”

This poem says it all about the idealism brewing in me, coupled with the need focus on the now, the basic. Thank you, Thomas.

“After Nietzsche”
Not merely bear what is necessary,
Still less conceal it –
All idealism is mendaciousness
In the face of what is necessary –
But love it

Love it, not merely bear it
In the face that must conceal it:
Mendaciousness of idealism
Not able to bear what is necessary –
Not merely bear it but love it.

In the fact that must conceal
What is necessary
To bear
Love appears in the face
Of the face of what is necessary.
-Tom Sleigh

At this point in time I want to thank you (s?) – who have made it this far in my insanely long, ridiculously detailed blog entry (for which I apologize, but I can’t help myself) – for the insane number of lovely, lovely letters I have received thus far. My community has come to resent me for the amount of mail I receive, for which I have no other response than a quick smile, not pretending that I have words to articulate how wonderful and considerate the people in my life truly are.

I apologize if I haven’t been able to respond as of yet; the days here are not nearly as free as I had expected them to be. I thought my evenings would be filled with reading and letter writing, but so far, only my Saturdays and Sundays have been afforded such luxuries. My days look something like this: Rise at 5 am to run in order to allow for a bit of yoga, coffee drinking, breakfast eating, and my need to a gradual transition into the day. I have to catch the bus by 7:15 am in order to get out to the training center by 8 am. I work out there all day, and catch the 4:00 bus back home and often times walk into the house just as the clock strikes 5:00. Now, one would think: “5:00? That leaves so much time for your evening!” No, only four hours really, and besides, I have found myself so physically and mentally exhausted by the end of the day – by the insane heat and constant sweating, coupled with the energy I must maintain to keep the girls’ attention – that I quite literally walk into the house, grab my ipod, and collapse onto my bed, back still soaked in sweat from the bus ride home, chacos still caked in dirt.

I’m finding that I so badly need that time to unwind, to relax and transition back into the evening, often falling asleep, if only for a few minutes. If it’s my turn to cook, or we have a community or spirituality night which fill the remainder of the evening – with bedtime being at 9 pm, sometimes not being able to keep my eyes open a minute past. It’s odd even as I sit here on this Saturday morning, that I couldn’t sleep in past the ripe hour of 6 am. So anyway, with that, I am about to delve into my notebook and the torn-open envelopes scattered on my desk – and REPLY. So sit tight, loves. They’s a comin’.

As I’m about to wrap this all up, I have to include in here what Kristin is painting/writing on the wall right next to me, right above our kitchen table. Because, well, I think it’s wonderful, and want to share it with you! (among so many other passages, excerpts, poems which I intend to spend every moment compiling with the intention that everyone has the opportunity, if they so choose, to fall in love with them the way that I have). It’s a concrete reminder of the fact that we are part of a long line of JVI’s who have lived here before us, and will come after us. It connects us to our families back home (and everywhere)and to our fellow JVI communities all over the world that gather together each day around their kitchen tables. Anyway, here it is.

“Perhaps the World Ends Here”
By Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Also, I assure you that as life here settles down and becomes more mundane and routine, my blog entries will be fewer and farer between, and shorter (maybe). Promise!

Accompaniment

2009-09-06T12:55:00.000-07:00

Given all of the aforementioned, I am forced to think about accompaniment itself – at this notion of solidarity – the preferential option of the poor, and how difficult I’m already finding that idea, as my mind dances in circles around these issues – about what I want to do and think I should do, but feeling as if the seemingly narrow margins of accompaniment limit these ideals. The other night at the dinner table, as we shared the highs and lows of our work days – the frustrations and struggles that are the foundation of cross cultural work – I found myself quite literally pounding my fists on the table and saying “To hell with accompaniment.” (Which, I know, was a reactive action – one which I am embarrassed to advertise, but I, too, must admit my own development and struggles to the world). I’m terrified I’m beginning to view accompaniment as some sort of straight jacket – knowing all the while that it is more of a spectrum through which I am challenged – to be a catalyst – to empower my girls to fight for the issues with clenched fists, rather than myself as a foreigner - to provide sustainable, progressive, evolving dialogue, not just abstract solutions.

I say this all with the understanding that I am a direct result of a problem solving environment and culture, a structure that promotes ‘do do do’ and ultimately results in a ‘white man’s burden’ ideal - which I’m having to fight to the bone each night as I fall asleep. I’m still learning to see the beauty in the simplicity of accompaniment – in walking with. I’m finding that I'm having to take the solidarity ring we were given as a token of our commitment to accompanying the poor, a simple wooden sphere that dangles around my neck on a string - and feel it between my fingers - to remind myself why I’m here. I’m still wandering aimlessly, fumbling blindly through this labyrinth of accompaniment, hoping that one day perhaps the blindfold will come off, and I’ll see it all so clearly.

I’ve been wondering a great deal about the future these days (I know, I’ve been here for one month, but I can’t help it). At work, when I’m not lesson planning, I’m finding myself elbows deep in UNICEF assessment reports and documents (Unicef sponsors our outreach program), and at home, pulling all the books from our library about Belizean history – taking notes from the “Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw,” which is riddled with information about the government, policies, and structure of the Belizean system.

Perhaps it all comes down to the levels of intervention - the bodies being thrown into the river analogy – and that each mode of involvement is a necessary component of the problem – the picking them up and drying them off, but also the running up the river to see who’s throwing them in, and WHY, and how to stop it, etc, etc - and it’s only a matter of assessing one’s own strengths and goals as to where they fit into that picture. Some huge part of me wonders if I’m destined to wander the broken roads of Belize for a while – to see it all through dirt stained bus windows, to look each person in the eye, to take a hiatus from learning about it all in textbooks and in classrooms, but to feel it all through the faces – to feel the ache and tremor behind each voice. But there’s this other pull inside of me, wondering if I have a fundamental responsibility to receive as much education as I can (right now?) to learn as much as is physically and intellectually possible – and to use that to fight for fundamental human rights – theirs and my own (OUR), and to somehow be a part of this relentless pursuit, this brutal war for social justice, something I so badly want to be a part of, if only a small sliver.

There’s this huge part of me that’s feeling that it’s simply immoral to leave this country after two years - that we will be deeply submerged in everything about Belize: it’s structures and bureaucracy, all the while stuck within the boundaries of accompaniment, and then peace out after two years. The more I learn about Belize itself – how new and young this country is, I can’t help but think of all the progression and transformation that is possible. I so badly want to speak and spread light on this infant of a nation – skin still pink and sensitive – finicky, even – as vulnerable as a newborn baby. But more than the country itself, its people - to accompany them in their fight – to truly understand what it’s like for my fate to be interlaced with theirs. But even more importantly than that, to provide evidence of this, not just for Belizeans, but for each creature who steps foot on this blessed earth.

It’s interesting, how disconnected I quite literally am from the rest of the world these days. It’s such an odd progression – to go from reading international news for nearly an hour each morning over coffee – to not having stepped foot into that universe for nearly six weeks. I’ve learned that I have no choice but to embrace my reality here with open arms – to pull its edges around me like pages of a newspaper – and burrow into their words – the history, the politics, the old, corrupt ways that have plagued Belize and countries all over the world since the beginning of time. In other words, I don’t have the present news, but I have history – all of it at my disposal, right downstairs, filling the shelves of our makeshift library.

With all that being said: Relevant poetry. (yes!) (It’s okay, you can roll your eyes).

“Mind Without Fear”
Where the mind is without fear
And the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up
Into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from
The depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches
Its arms towards perfection;
Where tireless striving stretches
Its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason
Has not lost its way into the dreary
Desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action-
Into that heaven of freedom,
Let my country awake.

-Rabindranath Tagore

Work (Finally)

2009-09-06T12:54:00.000-07:00

As I sit on this early Saturday morning, camped out at the kitchen table with my coffee, basking in the quiet of the morning, my mind refuses to cease its endless chatter. So much has happened in these last couple weeks; it’s been such a different world than the one of orientation – a better one, filled with the erratic undertones that I so desperately seek out of life. Weekends are already becoming some sort of sacred ritual – filled with writing, reading, and processing the week’s happenings – an invigorating oasis from the ostensibly crazy weekdays.

My first day of work was August 26, with my first real teaching day being August 31st. I spent those first few days preparing for the week, feeling out this new and foreign territory. But as I began to feel comfortable, I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed with giddy feelings of enthusiasm while sitting in rooms bordered with posters that read “Gender Equality” “Equality Empowers” “When You Educate a Woman, Poverty Doesn’t Stands A Chance”, not to mention information about the highly anticipated campaign against Child Trafficking. I was quite literally bouncing in my seat; it took every ounce of my energy not to jump up on top of this woman’s desk, raise my fist in the air, and yell “Hell Yes!”

It’s all moving - this small little NGO, made up of only women, so inherently progressive – fighting the deep, oppressive roots of gender norms, structures, and stereotypes; this young NGO, fighting relentlessly for the rights of Belizean women, slowly altering and transforming the structures on which it’s all built, with slow teetering steps. The organization itself is comprised of the Training Center, a Center for Teenage Mothers, and Outreach and Advocacy Department; my intention is to dig deep into each one of these components – into the seemingly convoluted world of structures and systems – the boundaries within which this organization must work in order to accomplish anything. Our creed is “Empowering young women to lead secure, independent, and fulfilling lives through education, skills training, and advocacy and outreach” (I know, right?!)

Upon knowledge of my place within this system, I learned that I would be teaching. At first glance, I was disappointed by this new information – feeling my enthusiasm quickly deflate like a popped balloon. I was initially told that I would be doing counseling work, something that I had been fanaticizing about since I got my phone call of acceptance from JVI. But on my bike ride home, I forced myself to reassess. I realized that so often in life we become obsessed with labels, with words, with letters behind names, frequently resulting in the loss of substance within them, hidden behind their capital letters. I so badly wanted the title of counselor (or something similar) – to feel like I was ‘doing’ something that felt tightly woven with my degrees, my goals. But almost abruptly, I came to an understanding. “Polly, stop being such a brat. This isn’t about you. It has never been, and it will never be. You’re really not all that important. You are working for and with this organization, to accompany and support it – in all its glory, and perhaps struggle, too, and that it isn’t about my personal preferences and ultimate growth (though that is certainly an added benefit).” And after my first week of work with my girls, I’ve learned how much capacity exists within the label of teacher – that so much is lost in the label itself – that ultimately, perhaps, a title of ‘companion’ is more appropriate. And furthermore, there is already an absolutely excellent Belizean woman filling the role of ‘counselor’ which is infinitely better than a foreigner.

At any rate, my work will consist of teaching Monday through Wednesday at the ‘school’ – which is a 45 minute bus ride out to a small village called Ladyville, with the rest of my week spent at the Center for Teenage Pregnancy, doing parenting classes and outreach and advocacy projects (I think). As I got off the bus that first day, the only body left on the bus at the end of its route, I began to giggle at my new ‘school’ - these three little wooden structures, paint peeling, hidden among the long grass, the dirt roads, the randomly placed houses. Upon entrance into the teacher building, I was given keys and told “Go clean your classroom” – with a nod given in the direction across the dirt road. “Right there? That one?” I asked. “Yep!” They replied. I looked across the road and saw a ten by ten foot wooden shack. I first unchained the padlock that held the wooden door closed. And from there? Well, I retrieved my water, rag, and broom and started cleaning. About half way through, I was overcome with laughter, at the simple absurdity of it all. There I was, on my knees, caked in sweat and dirt, out in the middle of nowhere…cleaning my new little classroom, and well, I couldn’t have been happier.

Finally, the cleaning was done, the classroom prepared, sparkling immaculately, (but not really) anxiously awaiting the arrival of the students which would soon fill its desks. As I met each one, introducing myself as “Miss Polly” (which still makes me laugh – EVERY time they say it, but even more when I am forced to utter the oddity) carefully noting their names and faces. Despite all the giggles, I’m must say that I’m quite cognizant of the fact that teaching is going to strip me of my protective layers – to pull out all my inadequacies – to have them plastered right there on the blackboard, but somehow, I don’t care. Somehow, I feel already feel oddly comfortable in this rustic little classroom – with its charming appeal - such an intimate, un-intimidating space (obviously).

Somehow, even as I type in the descriptions, it all just feels so fundamentally right – how everything is so beautifully coming together. A dear friend gave me a quote in one of her letters a while back, and it has saturated my mind – in each moment that I’m ‘teaching’- as I mark each day off my Belizean calendar. (thank you, lt) “I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.” - Annie Dillard.

It’s all so amusing how life flows – how I’ve always been so sure that “If I’m certain about one thing – I know I could NEVER be a teacher” and here I am, sitting in front of this group of young women, feeling strangely at ease. I’m innately incapable of being formal, so our classroom often turns into a little discussion, a dialogue, and inevitably, often times, with intermittent giggle sessions.

A little glimpse into that:
So there’s one particular student, Shamika – who is brilliant, who is fundamentally a leader (and she knows it) – one of those rare individuals who can instantly make or break the energy in a room. I realized right away that if I can keep her engaged and positive, the rest will fall right into place. The first day I realized that she will often finish her work early, so the second day of class I brought her a dear book: Rilke’s “Letter’s to a Young Poet.” I told her she could read as much or as little as she wanted, that it was one of my favorites – and to add to the scribbles and underlining that filled its pages. The next day, over lunch, I excitedly asked her how it was going – she said “Good, Miss. But I have all these words I don’t know. I’ve written them all down – I’m going to look them up tonight.” And there she shows me, an entire page filled with unknown words. I was absolutely giddy at the idea of this, and oozed it from my body. I instantly jumped up and down, hugged her saying “Really, girl? Are you serious? That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day!” The girls erupted in laughter. “Why are you all laughing at me?” “Miss, we no laugh at you! We laugh with you!” The truth she speaks (I think). Laughter ensued…

So here we are: ten young women all squished into this small, hot space like a crayon box filled with one too many crayons. That first day, I wanted to be radical somehow – wondering how I could implicitly scream “I want this to be a collaboration - a symbiotic relationship between us! I want you to fall in love with reading and writing and LEARNING! And I want you to trust me, and respect me – and how do I convince you of complete reciprocity? How do I make you understand that I will learn all of your inadequacies, your struggles, your strengths - each one of them – and love you to pieces anyway?” How do I tell them all of this? Now, I didn’t do all of that, but I spent an entire hour talking about assumptions – based on skin color, accent, language, appearance, etc – of respect – and allowed them to ask me any and all questions they wanted.

I have to keep reminding myself: “Polly, calm down. You can’t force this all. It’s an evolution, a progression, a process, which after even just one week – I’m already feeling the progress creeping up on us, slowly tiptoeing its way into our classroom: a place of understanding, intimacy – rapport, even. And I’m comfortable, despite my lack of patience, in the waiting - in the fact that I know that one day I’ll wake up and realize it’s all coming together – and I didn’t even realize it - that it’s hidden in the science homework, the endless chalk dust, the sweat and bugs of this little congested space. I have all of the first year girls, some of whom haven’t been in school for a while – who have gotten refused based upon their behavior problems or their inability to pay. I will be teaching them almost everything, spending almost every moment of our days nestled together between those four, fragile walls.

I know it’s going to be so difficult for me, sometimes, to stop myself from the gravitational pull to shelter them from the cruel battle that is adolescence - that I’m going to want to take them in my arms and shepherd them from it all – from the growing pains themselves, but I must stop myself with the understanding that I would be doing them such a disservice - in taking that from them – the fundamental right, the ritual of adolescence. I also know it’s going to be a challenge sometimes – to really see into them – to look their very souls right in the eye – past the fronts, the defense mechanisms, the teenage angst (yours truly being the queen herself). I can’t even comprehend all of the opportunity – all the latent, limitless potential there is right now – for these ten young women, who will spend so much time together in this little space – to grow. It’s quite literally like a little box garden, seeds planted, waiting for the rain.

It’s interesting how one would presume that all the seemingly normal difficulties of high school are absent in such a remote, rural setting, but everything’s still there: the anxiety, the racial tension, the awkward fumbling for words and desperate need for acceptance and love. It’s fascinating how much ethnic tension can exist with only ten girls. How the shape of your eyes, the texture of your hair, your accent, your language all places you in some sort of box, even within the boundaries of this seemingly small little country and school.

Despite all of the already overt difficulties that we’ll have to, as a community of women, pull out from behind the shadows and write in big bold letters on the blackboard - to throw them right out the windows, among the trash and debris that surround our little one room structure (not for long). And the strange part of it all is that I feel oddly comfortable and confident in my abilities to accompany these young women through it all – to quite literally hold their hands, to prop them up, to give them tender nudges in the right direction, and encourage each of us (myself included) to have the ability to laugh, even as we reluctantly put ourselves back together at the end of each school day.

Oh, one more thing...

2009-08-24T13:43:00.000-07:00

Pictures are coming. The internet isn't really conducive to picture uploading, but we're currently working on compiling pictures thus far, and putting them all up on a website. Patience, friends.

08.25.2009 “Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”

2009-08-24T13:31:00.000-07:00

This quote, beautifully written in chalk on the wall above my bed, is a constant reminder of the need to take each day at a time. It was the first thing I noticed in my room as I walked into the seemingly desolate, austere space loaded down with backpacks and exhaustion, not sure which one was heavier. As I lay in bed that first night and looked above me, I pondered the possibility of the next two years, how often I would need to reflect upon that quote as laid my head down each night.

The evolution of the last two weeks began with a slight low, slowly progressing into a beautifully rising curve, culminating with all the growth and exploration that took place throughout the last leg of phase two orientation. In the spirit of just plain synopsizes of events, bear with me. I intend to attempt to cover as much as possible, focusing more on the emotion of it all, on the moments within the activities - the fractions that make up the whole that are most salient as I page through these past couple weeks of memories on the bus ride back from PG.

I was challenged immediately during my time in Belize City, my first real personal battle with its chaos and intensity. And to put it bluntly, I was dominated. I naively thought that I understood the dangerous nature of the city, the precautions, the warning signs, but was brutally rebuffed during our excursion to the market one day. We spoke incessantly throughout orientation about safety, gender dynamics, etc, but I don’t think I fully understood the restrictions, and dependence that comes with my gender until that moment; the realization that I’m completely limited, vulnerable, and dependent, simply because I’m a woman. It infuriates me, but at the same time, I understand that I must accept this as the reality of my world here. But that won’t stop me from throwing a mild temper tantrum along the way…

To make the story short, bicycle stolen. Vulnerability palpable. A little dignity lost. Generally speaking, it was a harsh reminder, slap on the wrist (quite literally), that I’m a visitor in this country, and that it makes me inherently susceptible - to danger, to manipulation, to exploitation. My lack of awareness of the city coupled with a bit of poor decision making with my community-mates was a recipe for weakness – a weakness that was taken full advantage of within mere seconds. That left me feeling inadequate, having something taken from me, quite literally right out of my hands, in broad daylight, and feeling completely and utterly helpless.

The whole experience is quite amusing now, picturing us walking back with one less bike, dignity trailing behind us a few yards back, like puppies returning home with their tails between their legs. But we were greeted by wonderful community mates with worry and empathy tangibly present among hug-giving and sarcasm. It is in those moments that I can’t imagine experiencing this without community around me; without individuals to challenge and support me, to call me out when I’m being a brat, and to hold my hand during situations like the one mentioned above.

Ever since my acceptance into JVI, I’ve struggled with its differentiation with that of Peace Corps, especially after my year in a Peace Corps affiliated Masters program. It seems to boil down to solitude versus solidarity – the growth that results from individual struggle and reliance on oneself versus reliance and struggle within community. But I’ve come to appreciate the concept of living in ‘intentional community’ more than I ever anticipated. The life skills acquired by simply learning how to live with people different from oneself in a curious, foreign culture is simply invaluable. It is a skill that’s power is of the utmost importance – which pervades all facets of ones life. The dynamic of quite literally living with strangers in an intentional community is an experience which I may never have again (well actually, I intend to have it again), which will undoubtedly pull out my inadequacies, my frustrations, perhaps my strengths, too, more than I can comprehend.

With that being said, I also must confess that the concept of community, and the difficulty that comes with it, is still quite foreign to me. The potential difficulty and conflict that come with community are more out of my current realm of comprehension. It all boils down to learning to accept people’s bad habits - not being able to move out, to push them away, when they leave their clothes out, when they forget their keys, when they play their music too loud. It’s all about loving people who may drive you crazy on a daily basis, especially when they’re not bound to you by blood. This, folks, may just be the biggest challenge of it all.

Anyway, the day after the bike theft, home stays ensued.

I stayed at a home only a few blocks from our house with a family of all women. All things considered, it was a great experience, but one that left my head spinning (literally and figuratively). It was difficult, spending almost the entirety of our days inside a stuffy, incredibly hot, three room structure. But this is reality of many lives here, the limitation that comes with existence in the city. The fact that it is unsafe for women to go out after dark, to roam the streets alone. It left the majority of time devoted to television watching, with the only two channels of cable they received. The days were long, and I found myself looking at the clock in between American soap operas and game shows.

It made me reflect upon television itself and how ubiquitous its presence is across the world, and how many people fill their free time with its light. I say this not to conclude that all Belizeans spend all their free time mindlessly watching television, but at the same time, realizing that it’s certainly a presence in homes.

Independent of the heat and the television watching, my experience was quite lovely. The mom babysat two children throughout the day, one six months and one two years old, and her two children left in the house were six and eighteen. My days began cuddled up on the couch watching cartoons with the younger children (which made me yearn for IZ), playing cards and learning Creole in the afternoons, engaging in legitimate, intriguing conversation with the oldest daughter whom I adored. I was even able to help my host mom with the cooking, though it mainly consisted of us chatting while I watched her make tortillas and rice. All in all, I walked away from the house with no profound conclusions or realizations, but a simple appreciation and limited understanding of Belizean home life.

My favorite ‘moment’ of the stay was a silly one, but it rings in my mind and makes me giggle every time it crosses my mind. There was (of course) a massive (even on local standards) rat that lived in our kitchen. They would speak of it, and I would just dismiss it, and forget about it moments after. One evening we were all freshly bathed about to watch ‘Duets’, the obsessively popular American Idol like local television show here, when my host mom ran from the kitchen yelling that she’d ‘gotten him.’ We rat over as we watch the rat, sadly stumbling around the kitchen floor with saran wrap stuck to his face.

We all began to giggle and scream as we climbed on the rickety wooden kitchen chairs to free ourselves from its potential gracing of our feet. My host mom then began to proceed to throw fruit from the kitchen table in order to kill him. From that point on, the scene was ridiculous. These four pajama clad girls, wet out of the shower, giggling and screeching as we threw plantains and mangos at the kitchen rat. (I threw plantains intermittently when I pulled my head out from under my shirt – I was terrified of seeing what a single mango may do to the body of a rat). Needless to say, the experience left me light hearted and eased, despite the fact that we failed in our attempts to capture him, and I was left to hear his squeaking as I drifted off to sleep that night, hoping that he wouldn’t make his way to the bedroom…

Anyway…I came back from home stays with the reality of life present in my mind, prompting everything to bounce in my head, forcing me to analyze the struggles that formed my observations and feelings about life here. Wondering how biased and deeply flawed my opinions are from on my own cultural perspective, but also feeling that certain factors were and are fundamentally wrong. I was so incredibly ready to flee the city and my thoughts, to get on that bus to PG and rejuvenate myself (which felt incredibly ridiculous as I’d only been here for two weeks).

I must admit passed out the moment I slouched into my bus seat at 5 am, but when I awoke to green filled windows of mountains, palm trees, and lush vegetation, I instantly felt cured of my city sickness.

Those ten days reminded me of what it felt like to live, in every sense of the word. Not just intellectually, emotionally, or physically; that these states of being are not merely mutually exclusive states of existence. It reminded me what it felt like to be physically drained at the end of the day, to feel like you’ve literally exhausted all your resources. When your feet have been muddy for days, when you can’t run a finger through your hair from transportation solely in the bed of a truck, hair tangled among the salt water, sweat, and dirt, when you fall into bed too tired to change out of your swimsuit, still soaked in salt water by your late night swim, and don’t even remember closing your eyes, despite the shrill of a sea-side thunder storm. When you’ve spent the day aching with laughter, reading until your eyes fall out, voices scratchy from veranda side serenades, remaining shaky hands from waterfall jumping, you know you know you’ve lived that day. When you intellectualized poverty and justice, and interpretations of spirituality until your mind spins like a top. When you ran along the Caribbean coast, and lost yourself in your people back home. When one is literally, utterly SPENT, in every sense of the word. Depleted, in the most brilliant way. You know you really lived that day.

Our time in PG was filled with village stays, ocean runs, yoga on the pier, lovely dinners, X-MILK, candle lit conversations, impromptu dance offs, late night swims, rats, water fall jumping, pickup bed transportation, Mayan ruins, stargazing, afternoons existences filled only with reading and napping in hammocks, cooking, and music.

We began the first weekend by going to San Antonio, a small Mayan village an hour outside of Punta Gorda. We had to sleep in an abandoned rectory, which was naturally covered in rat poop, tangible evidence that we were in fact invading their turf. Needless to say, it was only table sleeping for me, as my other community mates fought over the middle spots in a line of bodies across the floor, trying to balance the need for air and space with a desire for protection from scurrying rodents. Needless to say, it was an interesting evening, but its times like those when a little Tylenol PM and generally physical exhaustion are very helpful .

Anyway, that’s insignificant. The village itself was a beautiful scene, a more romantic notion of simplicity and poverty, the type you see on TV, or in photos in National Geographic. Given that, I am delighted that there is a very strong likelihood that I will be able to live there for a couple months next summer during our interim semesters. It would be a wonderful break from the city, a breath of fresh air, an opportunity to learn about a completely different side of Belize. The thought of this potentiality turning into reality makes me giddy. I hope to be proactive in making this happen. Updates will come on my progress.

On the whole, the past two weeks have been an idealistic little existence for me. The rustic nature of PG embraced me and I felt so comforted by the sea, the vegetation, and the seemingly primitive and rural existence of its inhabitants. It’s so interesting to contrast PG with Belize City. Perhaps its utterly useless as in comparing apples and oranges, but it seems to me that I ‘jive’ a lot more with the PG sort of life, with the a quaint little home overlooking the sea where everyone knows everyone. Belize City isn’t an entirely different story, but it lacks the blatant beauty. The city itself seems to be a perfect recipe for intensity: equal parts poverty – a need for more coupled with enough development and progress to make it happen, in any way you are able. Does that make any sense?

Anyway, being in PG was literally my little utopia, my ideal notion of what life can be and should be. But at the same time I must remind myself that our existence there wasn’t a real life, it was still orientation, life without workloads, deadlines, STRESS. But I can’t help but think that perhaps I’d still thrive there a great deal more, that the ocean and the small, simple town itself would sustain me, would encourage me to live the type of life that I crave.

Part of me wanted to hide in the cabinets yesterday when the bus left, to have to be pulled from the front railing with lifeless arms, kicking and screaming my way to the bus stop, but I knew that I had to go. That this paradise was not life, but the exception, one which I am grateful to have nearly, hopefully never to be taken for granted, with the potential for a quick get away when I need quiet and greenery. It’s only a bus-ride away – a beautiful one.

Perhaps it wasn’t just PG itself, but the place that I was internally while I was there. I accomplished so much mentally. I was able to sort out my feelings about these two years, set explicit goals, and abstract ones; to wrap my head around structures and ideals, to attempt to understand community dynamics, to break down my motivations and needs. I was present, in as much as I could be, without taking away from REALLY living. I initially left Belize City feeling defeated from the city after only a week. My time in PG sustained me, but more importantly, I hope that I learn to appreciate both ends of the spectrum, the simplicity and calmness of PG, and the liveliness and intensity of Belize City.

I understand that my elusive description of Belize City thus far has left many confused. My meager, failed attempts are admittedly inadequate, therefore I leave you with the following excerpt from Bruce Barcott in “The Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaro: One Woman’s Fight to Save the World’s Most Beautiful Bird.” Barcott does an excellent job of articulating what I can’t; he captures the energy of the city beautifully, painting a picture with firm, bold strokes.

“If you feel a need to escape the law, elude creditors, hide assets, or shed the skin of your humdrum life, you could worse than run away to Belize…it’s firmly attached to Central America but considers itself a Caribbean island, like a chicken that thinks it’s a duck.

It’s difficult to overstate the smallness of the place. Imagine a country the size of Massachusetts with the population of Corpus Christi, Texas. Give it an army of seven hundred soldiers and a seat in the United Nations and you start to get an idea of Belize. Centuries ago more than one million Mayan populated this part of Central America. Today fewer than three hundred thousand Belizeans spread themselves among the country’s river towns and tin-shack villages. Two-thirds of the country is covered by jungle.

Belize goes unnoticed by the rest of the world, and over the years the country has parlayed its obscurity into an attractive asset. For those shipwrecked on the shoals of life, Belize offers a new beginning. The country teems with adventurous refugees who’ve set up shop in the middle of the Central American jungle. British innkeepers, Mennonite farmers, Chinese shopkeepers, Lebanese entrepreneurs, American missionaries, Canadian aid works, and Dutch scientists live peacefully alongside the nation’s longer established residents, the Garifuna artists, Maya cacao growers, Mestizo plantation managers, and Creole politicians who make the majority of the country’s population. Belize draws the eccentric, the madcap, and the downright mad.

I made my way by rental car to Belize City, the nation’s largest city and notoriously dangerous cultural capital. The sign on the outskirts of the town read BELIZE CITY, POPULATION 70,000. WORKING FOR A BETTER CITY. Founded 350 years ago in a mosquito-ridden swamp near the mouth of the Belize River, the city exists because seventeenth-century sea merchants found it a convenient spot to anchor while loading timber. Today Belize City is a teeming town of stilted wood houses pinched together along narrow broken streets just inches above sea level. The land is so saturated that the dead lie entombed in surface vaults at the edge of town.

I turned on the radio. “No suspect has been identified in the pedal-by shooting that left one man dead in Belize City yesterday….” I switched off the radio and took in the scene around me. Uniformed school children walked the curb. Stately black women crossed the street holding umbrellas like shields against the sun. Shirtless men in long dreadlocks wove their bicycles along street side fruit vendors. Deep gutters and open canals crosshatched the city, filled with turbid waters and menacing, well-muscled crabs.

The streets of Belize City are laid out like a tangle of snakes. Most are unmarked. There is no commercially produced map, although a crude letter-size rendering of the city’s layout circulates around the city like tourist samizdat. I cut across a canal, caught a whiff of its stink and turned left, scanning for a street sign. An old man with gray dreadlocks wandered into the middle of the street, barked something hostile, then continued on his way. I tugged at my shirt, sodden from the tropical heat. Another turn. Didn’t I just cross this bridge?

As the evening sun fell into the sea, I strolled around a peninsula jutting into the warm Caribbean sea. Above me frigate birds spread their great wings and rode the wind to distant homes in the cayes, the tiny offshore islands that form the Western Hemisphere’s largest barrier reef. Belize has a strong relationship with the sea. In proclamation and lore, Belizeans are forever declaring their love for the Caribbean. In Belize city, which is dominated by the descendents of black Caribs, to be Belizean is to be Caribbean. The national antherm hails Belize as the “land of the free by the Carib Sea.” Yet when it comes to the sea itself, the Caribbean is merely the place where the city ends. It’s less a shoreline than a giant curb. Again and again I tried to walk the land’s margin and failed. The sidewalk disintegrated into jagged concrete. A skim of plastic bags, used condoms, and empty bottles floated on the tide. Foamy gutter runoff streamed around breakwater boulders. I kept to the shore until I was stopped by a fence topped with razor wire. I cut back to the hotel through a rusty playground.

Back at the Chateau, I rinsed off the days’ sweat and fell into bed. In the middle of the night I rose from a fitful sleep and switched on the light. The room stayed dark. I tried another light. It didn’t work either. I turned over and went back to sleep. In the morning I awoke to find both lights burning.”

Given that, and my time spent thus far in the city, I have to accept its reality as a sometimes dangerous, challenging environment, especially for a young girl from the states. But also that it has so much to teach me so much about safety, navigation, about fear and false confidence, about learning and needing to see beauty in a place that sometimes seems outright beauty-less. It forces one to seek the moments, the individuals, the interactions, rather than the bigger picture of a month, a week, or even an hour…

It makes me think about time versus moments, and how many truly special moments comprised my time in PG, that filled the hours and time. It made me draw on a quote from a book I read while at orientation. It reads…

“That night I realized that time can be conceptualized in different ways and that it can be stopped and expanded into something grander…Just as with energy, time can be both a wave and a particle, something continuous and something discrete. My idea is that moments are discrete time, complete in themselves and utterly distinct from the habit-bound wave time in which we all live much of our lives. While minutes are earthbound and can be measured, moments both emerge with eternal time and exist outside time altogether.
-Mary Pipher

Anyway, moving on…Communication with home is significantly more difficult than I had thought. The whole idea of e-mail is daunting, especially when one is only able to check their e-mail roughly once a week. It makes me long for communication existing solely in the form of letters, though I understand that other people don’t have the luxury of free evenings and weekends during which I can spend the entirety of my time filled with writing love letters back to the states. I know that I must be respectful of other people’s time and energy and that often times e-mail is simply most efficient - to remind myself that real life is going on back home. The 9-5, deadlines, stressors, anxiety, and the like. I must remind myself there’s a world outside of these eleven individuals in this odd little country, of our little world which I already feel lost inside. I worry that I’ll exist in some sort of bubble with a thick, waxy exterior, which takes a knock from a friend at home, or someone in my community to crack me back into reality.

My most important hope for these years is to balance and more importantly respect my relationship to and with home. When I was in Ecuador, I became far too tangled up in home, in relationships, in familiarity, which often resulted in knots, in incongruencies between my presences in both places. One can’t be fully present, and give themselves fully to both places. It is a delicate art, which I know I’ll never master; my only hope is for some sort of balance and stability. To give my sense of home, and those who fill that word, all the respect, support, and love I can muster out of me. I know I still carry every one and thing from ‘home’ and every other place that has filled me up, that I belong to them, and they to me - that they are laced up in this experience, as tight as I can pull. But at the same time, I also feel compelled to give this experience every last trace of my attention. To give this opportunity the dedication it deserves, for the fundamental privilege that comes with one being able to volunteer. A poem (well, a part of it) has really resonated with me lately and the notion of leaving familiarity, of people, but also feeling such ease here….

Song of the Open Road
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them; and I will fill them in return.

-Walt Whitman

Anyway, I undoubtedly feel most connected to home when I go for runs, especially in the mornings - more than e-mails, pictures, phone calls, and even videos. I’ve never felt this conscious when I’ve exercised before. I’m so much more present and emotionally deliberate with my time; I get mentally lost on my runs, in people, in places. Especially in the morning, I can picture so many people (except for Jess – and it’s killing me!) in their morning routine, in their natural environment: the office, rolling out of bed, in coffee shops, classrooms, or perhaps, playing with trucks in pajamas while munching on dry cereal with cartoons in the background– oh how I miss my summer mornings ). I feel so present with them somehow. I can feel our existences interlaced almost more than I do when I’m mere hours, or states away from them. It’s interesting how by being so far away, one can still be more present than they had been even when one is in the same room. It is in those moments that I revel in their existence and feel that I’m with them. Then there’s the little moments of connection that shake me up, that can’t help but make me smile at the thought of them.

As evidenced by…
On the bus ride back from Punta Gorda today, a young woman arrived on the bus when we stopped in Dangriga, she came and sat right in front of Patrick and I. I gasped (dramatically) when I realized that she was holding the book “Grace for the Moment” by Max Lucado, a book my dad has had in the counsel of his car for the past two years, at least - book that is inherently part of his morning routine, as much as breakfast at HyVee or running the Bailey and Gracie - a book that he often encouraged me to ride when I climbed up into his truck, only to be exchanged with a look of eye rolling and sighing (but I usually did eventually appease him).

But as I sat behind this young woman, I couldn’t help but think about my dad reading that very book that morning, most likely before 7 am church. I politely asked the young woman if I could read the page for today. She keenly obliged. As I read the page marked August 23, 2009, I felt so fused with home, to my dad in that instant; it is those moments that are reminders of home and comfort, of connection in the small things – even miles, countries, seemingly worlds away, that make me feel alive – and remind me of how connected I really am to home, more so that I truly understand.

I understand that the longer I’m away from home, and the more disconnected I feel, I will inevitably become resentful of this place, the heat, the bugs. But I must remind myself of the way that I feel right now – that can’t imagine being anywhere else these next two years, doing anything else. I have such a strong sense of excitement and enthusiasm, some sort of understanding, though foreign, of how formative these next two years will be for me. Truth be told, I’d probably be happy anywhere, but this specific environment, these people, this country, all making up this delicious experience…I literally have no desire to BE anywhere else.

So much so that I feel comforted by the placement of the little things – like the fact that I’ve been longing for a silk robe for the past two years. Upon exploration of my room here, I found an oversized men’s silk pajama top. I wear this to bed every night. It makes me happy. Is that utterly ridiculous and silly? Absolutely. But it makes me feel comforted here, like I’m somehow designed to be in this little room, in this little fortress among the shacks in the city, in this little Caribbean country, in the Southern hemisphere. And hey, whatever makes me feel at home, right?

Speaking of which, this notion of simple living puts an entirely new perspective onto life. It shakes you up, strips things down, and almost forces you to get off on the small things in life. I think I may be most excited about this tenet of JVI, about what it has to teach me, how it will challenge me, and the way it will in which it will fundamentally affect the rest of my existence. It is interesting, though, how pervasive the notion of simplicity really is in our lives, from the meals we eat, our drinking water we get that falls from the roof of our house, our activities, our purchases (or lack there of), and especially the difficulty of keeping travel within the boundaries of our stipend (which frustrates me).

Living in this environment, I have to admit, is stirring up my mind, a lot. I say this with an understanding that I’m still in my ‘honeymoon stage’ of culture shock (though I despise being labeled as such. Yeah, it’s the 4 in me. Damn Enneagram). So anyway, take it for what its worth, but where I’m at now, where my mind constantly finds itself is lost in the future and my longing for a radical, fundamental life change. I feel like for the past few years I’ve accomplished so much in my realm of “nots” – of, “I know I don’t believe in this behavior, lifestyle, idea, but I think so much is going to develop in what I believe to be true, about what I want, what I seek, what I truly know to be right in the world. I’m going to truly start the process of understanding my own path, what I truly want out of existence, and what the fundamentals are to achieve it all. My fear is that this change will be so radical that others would oppose, will lack understanding, and condemn me for a desire to life a certain sort of lifestyle, a certain type of being.

I know I still have a lot of discernment on my course, in a balance of service and living, and yet again, Barcott articulated it far better than I am able. His words (and everything else) makes me question my previously held beliefs about power, and education, and service. I do know that I want social justice to be fundamental to my existence-that’s its already quite literally intertwined with my being, and I don’t foresee it ever coming untangled. The path through which I will be most effective, however, is still unknown. This quote makes me question previously held axioms, and wonder where my truth lies.

“At times the earth’s fate seems so dire and inexorable that I’m tempted to throw up my hands and say to hell with it. The forces driving the sixth extinction possess so much money and power that fighting them requires a willing suspension of disbelief. The odds are so long that if you look at them too hard you’ll lose your mind. Every once in a while, though, I meet a rare subspecies of human who offers hope. It’s almost never a politician or a scientist. It’s almost always a woman without credentials. They’re often self-taught researchers who become experts through years or hard experience and close observation. They’re the ones who scoop up a jar of brown water from a ditch and ask impertinent questions about what’s in it. Because they don’t know protocol they barge in and do what nobody else has the courage to do. They don’t ask permission. When government authorities demand to know what gives them the right to speak, they don’t flash advanced degrees. They straighten their shoulders and say, I have the right because I walk on this early and I breathe this air.”

As I read through this and am about to save it on my jump drive and take it over to post it on my blog, I laugh at how much my head is already spinning, how many goals, how many admittedly overly ambitious ideas I have in my head, and how I haven’t even had my first day of work yet…..

I want to apologize for the length and excessively detailed nature of my blog this time around, but I also know that you’ll read what you want, with the time you have. I was initially so incredibly opposed to the concept of a blog, but the idea has grown on me a great deal (obviously). I’ve come to look forward to writing down my thoughts, more than incoherent scribbles in a journal. In being forced to think cohesively, to document the connections I make in my day, week, and month – between my relationships, books, conversation, reflections, and to share them with people I adore and value.

I was initially terrified of my candid feelings being so blatant and public, but I’ve accepted this, and somehow don’t seem to mind how others view or interpret my experience and thoughts. I’m learning to own it, to own myself, my worldview, my ideas, my thoughts, and it’s a lovely place to be.

Anyway, it wasn’t until I began to read “Walden” by Henry D. Thoreau and I discovered a suitably articulate means for why in fact I want to have a blog – and live in general. Why I find it surprisingly liberating and wonderful, and know its ultimately more beneficial and potent than simply journaling.

…because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived…I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.”

Anyway, life is inevitably beginning to slow down, as our real routines here commenced this morning. I understand life will necessarily become more mundane, more difficult during these next few months, as I ease into work, and begin to feel overwhelmed, limited, and probably quite clueless. But I’m excited to settle down into life, to feel the days pass over me. My biggest fear here is slipping into too strong of a routine, to feeling complacent, to becoming stagnate. It makes me think that perhaps I’ll come to crave those nights when I collapse into bed feeling like this place conquered me, that the only solace I find is in the quote above my bed, in the realization that the only hope lies in tomorrow.

Living Room

2009-08-07T09:12:00.000-07:00

2009-08-07T09:07:00.000-07:00

2009-08-07T08:58:00.000-07:00

09.06.2009 We've Arrived.

2009-08-07T08:43:00.000-07:00

I type this from our living room feeling a wonderfully refreshing breeze with hammocks swinging amongst the living room. I revel in the voices and the laughter, and the oddly comfortable, content feeling that has taken over me, this odd realization that I feel remarkably comfortable being here, despite the unforeseen difficulty of leaving Cleveland.

Leaving Cleveland was remarkably more difficult than I could have ever anticipated. Living among such wonderful people made me feel so supported and I miss the energy and comfort that came with their presence. I simply felt alive among them; I was challenged, inspired, and calmed by their presence. I never anticipated mourning two losses on that plane: the loss of home (and everything that comes with it), and the loss of orientation. Getting on that bus to go to the airport just plain hurt - the emotional hurt that feels purely physical. It felt like I a half read book that I was just starting to fall in love with was ripped from my grasp. I felt shorted somehow, and I wanted more time. But the reality was that I had to leave, that the little dream world of orientation couldn’t last forever, but it didn’t make pulling away in that bus any easier.

The most comforting thought, however, is one of pure beauty. The recognition that all of these people coming together for those two weeks will soon (or already) depart all over the world, all working for the same goals, same passion, the same truth. I cannot think of anything more powerful, nor beautiful than that. I know that I will perhaps never be part of something so fundamentally right, and real than that. All of us from that weekend are bound together now, and those people are genuinely and literally in my thoughts, just as much as family back home, just as much as the comfort which I will soon seek once my honeymoon state of culture shock inevitably dissipates.

Perhaps it all sounds like such romantic ideas, and dramatic, idealistic energy which I felt those past two weeks, but that makes it no less real, and intense, and I have no reason other than to embrace it, as I know my connections with those individuals will absolutely carry me through the next two years, especially when I will have the ability to connect to someone else half way across the world (for example, Micronesia, or Nicaragua) who is experiencing similar (or identical) highs and lows.

All of my intense feelings were incredibly exacerbated by my insane lack of sleep, and I almost felt incapable of feeling anything real until we got on the plane. I sat down and started to feel nauseous and short of breath. I was so incredibly grateful for Matt’s presence. He sat next to me, just as exhausted, and I looked him in the eye, and just as crocodile tears started to fall he took my hand with a tacit understanding that he wouldn’t let go until I was ready (or I would kill him). Though he fell asleep within moments, it was enough to sustain me while I choked on tears and assured the flight attendant that I was (despite the way I appeared) in fact, okay. I held onto that hand for dear life and knew even in that moment that the comfort of that hand was simply invaluable. Both Matt and Patrick (and everyone else) have been just so incredibly supportive. When I spoke with Lauren on the phone at the airport, she told me that when Patrick hugged her goodbye that he said in her ear “I’ll take care of her.” It broke my heart with gratitude and compassion. Having both of them around reminds me of having brothers that I know have my back regardless of how aloof and lackadaisical I will be (and actually was in the airport).

So anyway, the flying was undoubtedly painful, but once I was awoken to the excitement that we could see Belize from the windows, I knew it was time to transition from the leaving to the coming, and I didn’t give myself a chance to regress. The day before we left Cleveland our future housemates had sent us silly Belizean outfits to wear to the airport, we all took a leap of faith and put them on before exiting the plane, and were delighted to see some fellow Americans waving and yelling frantically from the gate dressed even much sillier than ourselves. Additionally, they had a huge banner which read “Welcome to Micronesia” which is apparently a tradition. Needless to say, I felt comforted by the absurdity of it all.

I can’t say that it was clear sailing from there, but it was certainly quite comfortable. We spent the evening resting as we were all exhausted and just spending time among the company of one another, learning about everyone. We then used the remainder of the evening to chop fifteen chickens which were to be saved for Welcome BBQ we were having the next evening to meet everyone and introduce ourselves to the community of Belize City.

It was sad going to sleep that night, I was so pleasantly exhausted, but I felt inadequate and a bit uneasy. I was grateful for my excessive state of exhaustion so that I didn’t have a moment to think before I fell asleep. I have to admit, though, I spent a moment looking at pictures, going through my phone and looking at all the wonderful text messages that I had deliberately filled my phone with the last month. I knew they would comfort me and make me smile. Pathetic? Perhaps, But a girl needs some comfort sometimes…

I was pleasantly surprised at 6:00 am when I awoke to Mr. Wooters busting in my room yellin “Mornin’ baby!” and jumping onto bed. It felt so wonderful because a small part of me was terrified to wake up in this new foreign, desolate room that still feels like a temporary residence. I still can’t grasp that I’m going to be living here for two years. We were giggling earlier tonight when we were chatting about how everyone’s feeling about being here.. Patrick said something to the affect of “It’s most odd when I go to bed and wake up in the morning. Each time I open my eyes and look around I think ‘Yep, Still here…’”

The next morning we took a little tour of the city and then Miss Cherry came over to help us make tortillas for the meal that we were going to attempt to serve (with help, of course) to our anticipated 100 invitees (impressive, right?). We spent the day primarily preparing for the big party that night, which I must admit, was quite wonderful. I was able to chat with my two future coworkers, Nadine and Earlet, both of who are in their mid 20s and are hilariously blunt, loud, and just plain fun. I am delighted to know that they are both in my future. I haven’t been able to stop into my job site quite yet as I am awaiting the presence of supervisor so that I can chat with her regarding my responsibilities, etc.

Despite the unknown elements of work, I’m still so incredibly excited to be a part of Y.E.S. (Youth Enhancement Services). It is rooted in the belief of women’s empowerment and alternatives education to meet the needs of challenged young women. Those tenets coupled with its strong dedication to advocacy make me excited and proud to begin my work. From what I do know, I will most likely be split between the school and the Teen Pregnancy Center, but who knows what my work will actually entail. I’m trying to have (as JVI calls it) “Apostolic Availability” and to accept whatever they need of me and to be proud simply to be among them and learn about the organization itself, and not to get frustrated with what I want to be doing there.

Other than that, life has been good here. This morning we rose with the sun and went for our first run to the “track”. This, of course, must take place at the beautiful hour of 5:30 am as the heat is simply unbearable at any other hour. I was surprised by the number of Belizeans exercising at that time, and found the environment of the track with its gravel, long grass, and weeds to be simple and somehow aesthetically pleasing in its own little way. I love the quiet of the roads and the comfort of having others exercising in the early morning hours before the heat gives away and the intensity of the Belizean city routines commences. It presents a more docile personality of the city which one never sees after the sun rises. I think I’ll learn to love the intensity of the city, and to revel in the small moments of biking to the market in the rain, throwing banana peels into our “compost”, doing yoga on the front veranda after running (Yep, we have a veranda. Fancy, right? Not really…)

I think I’m going to love this simple, ritualistic lifestyle of rising with the sun, running, yoga, coffee, work, and simply BEING in the evenings, not doing, and feeling pleasantly exhausted by 9:00 pm. There’s something so wonderful about the simplicity, and I’m excited to be in a routine.

Anyway, Belize itself is perhaps one of the most unique places I have been. It’s such a diverse mix of people; I love hearing Spanish, Creole, and English at the market and seeing so many different looking people and accents. The city itself is rather rundown, but there’s still something unique and beautiful about it. With my last international experience being Ecuador, it makes Guayaquil look like New York City. I’m still learning my whereabouts, and will accept with patience the fact that it will undeniably take quite a while to know the city the way I enviously see my second year housemates navigate. The main difficulty that I’ve had being here is not being immersed in Spanish. In the past when I have been in such an environment, I have been barraged with Spanish and I must admit that some large part of me is so disappointed that I won’t be able to practice Spanish. Not only that but I miss hearing the language around me. But, with that being said, I must also admit that I’m thankful for the lack of difficulty in communicating with Belizeans. I was so appreciative to really be able to talk with people at our welcome bar-b-q rather than having the difficulty of dancing around sentences, tenses, and hand gestures. But at the same time there’s something so wonderful about that barrier, about the laughter and humility that comes along with it. It’s just something that I’m struggling with, and keep reminding myself that the primary benefit of the lack of language barrier is my potential impact of my work. I can be a lot more powerful and involved in work without dealing with a language barrier. That thought alone will sustain me through any frustration with my lack of Spanish skills upon my return to the states.

Generally speaking, I’m beginning to acclimate to the concrete floors, the bugs, and more difficultly, the bug bites, which keep me up at night with their incessant need to be scratched. The transition from my parents immaculately clean house to the dirty walls and sheets is an extreme one, but one that I embrace with the understanding that it’s part of my life here, and ultimately is something that I can accept easily after a bit of time to adjust. My living standards have never been high, and will undoubtedly be lowered substantially after two years in this environment. The heat is something completely different, but is something I forced myself to accept a long time ago, the realization that I would sweat nearly all day long, and that it’s really not that big of a deal. Given that, it really hasn’t fazed me a great deal. Oh, and the most delightful news of the week has been the information that we don’t have to wash our own clothes with a wash board. We can use the rectory washing machine. Those of you who know me know how much I absolutely hate doing laundry, and though I had mentally prepared myself for having to do it the long way, I am incredibly relieved to know that that doesn’t have to be a part of my life.

My roommates are purely wonderful. We are essentially this random bunch of folks thrown together with our own eccentricities, but I truly think it’s going to be great. Genuinely. I’m not saying that out of obligation, responsibility, or just plain optimism, but am sincerely excited to learn from these people and to live among - share in their journeys. I’m proud to be among them, to live with them, and to ultimately have an experience of which I will never have with any six other people. It’s so special and wonderful.

So here I am, beginning to sweat from the heat of my computer on my lap and feeling pleasantly tired at only 9:00 pm. The voices around me are growing quiet, and I can tell that we’re all starting to think about heading off to our individual quarters to lay our heads (to soon be awoken by barking dogs and fruit carts). I’m excited for the next week as we leave tomorrow for “Banana Boat.” When we return home on Sunday we have our commissionary mass at St. Martins and then will head to Punta Gorda to see the other JVI house and to help our ‘country mates’ in settling in their new home. After that is home-stays for three days. I have already met my host mother and I am beyond excited for the inevitably fun adventure that awaits me next week, and ultimately these two years.

07.26.2009 The Adventure Begins...

2009-08-07T08:39:00.000-07:00

Here I sit, camped out in a corner the Chicago airport for the next four hours with my meager and unsuccessful attempts to process all of this. I’ve accepted the realization that I can’t quite fathom the reality of being away from everything I know and love for two years, and I must admit, I’m incredibly grateful that I can’t quite wrap my head around this; I would undoubtedly be one hot mess if I could . I’m completely and utterly exhausted, so I’m attributing my lack of cognitive capability to that fact. It’s been an emotionally loaded weekend, watching Brocky and Sarah get married, spending time with everyone, and trying not to think about the fact that I won’t get any of this for two years…BUT, despite all of this, I’m excited. And ready.
So, here we go…..

The hard part’s over; I’ve said the goodbyes (which actually weren’t as hard as I thought they would be) and now I’m ready to do this. I think a lot of my peace of mind comes from this past week of orientation. My expectations have been exceeded as I learn more about JVI, its tenets, and the people with whom I’ll be embarking on this journey. I am humbled and honored to be surrounded by so many brilliant and compassionate individuals and am comforted to know that we will all be sharing this experience together. My roommates are simply wonderful; I am very lucky. I say that with complete excitement, and can say with all honesty that I depart to Cleveland and Belize with absolutely no hesitation. A bit of anxiety? Of course. But I’m pretty sure that moving to another country is inherently rather anxiety provoking. But the ‘fear of the unknown’ element has been eased a bit, so that’s comforting. I was honestly excited to go back, to be around all these like-minded folk and dig right back in. I certainly was not anticipating being sad to leave orientation and excited to go back…

I cannot deny the fact that the leaving was hard. It hurts, but I just haven’t allowed myself to lose it…or even to think negatively in any way. I keep thinking of this quote about not allowing yourself to “fall apart” because it creates a habit of doing so. I just know that if I start thinking negatively now that I’ll create habits of sulking about missing home, and what I’ll miss out on, etc. And the truth of the matter is that it’s simply selfish and silly to focus on that aspect when I have so much to be excited about. I simply cannot focus on the leaving, I have to focus on the going, but sometimes it’s not easy. I am so grateful for this opportunity, and can’t waste a moment on the difficulties with which it comes.

I have been overwhelmed and humbled by the support that I have received in my decision to take part in JVI. I know that some people think I’m crazy, and perhaps can’t grasp why I am choosing this path, but I understand that and have accepted that as a reality. But those who do support me, have been simply incredible. One of the requirements of participation in JVI was soliciting donations for at least $3000. In order to accomplish this, I sent out several letters to members of the Columbus community, family friends, etc, and have been amazed by the response. What was even more incredible than the monetary generosity of those who responded, were the kind words and sweet little notes that so many of you wrote to me. Those notes fill an entire manila envelope and is of the most prized of my limited possessions that fill my two suitcases. It is those words that will sustain, motivate, and inspire me, and will continue to do so throughout the entirety of my time in Belize, and will certainly be a source of comfort when I start to miss home, when my brain finally wraps itself around this reality with a firm, stubborn hold. My only hope is that this takes place in far in the future, when I’m acclimated, comfortable, and able to handle such potentially difficult emotions. Until then, well, I’m along for the ride, and will just going with the flow.

I will have one week in Cleveland and will head out to Belize August 3rd. I’m excited to get back in the orientation routine. It’s comforting knowing that there are familiar faces waiting for me back in Cleveland. This week I will participate in a silent retreat during which I intend (if it’s allowed?) to do A LOT of writing. It is my hope that this writing will be in the form of letters, and will be sent home before I ship out!

Oh. Speaking of mail… I have my new address:

Polly Pillen
Jesuit Volunteer International
St. Martin de Porres Church
P.O. Box 489
Belize City, Belize
CENTRAL AMERICA

I have to admit, I’m excited to increase my number of pen pals. I plan on spending the majority of my $60 stipend on postage. I’m very excited about this aspect of Belizean life, and embrace this whole-heartedly. I am of the firm belief that there are few things more beautiful than a hand-written letter.

2009-06-26T10:20:00.000-07:00

A Brief Introduction...

2009-06-26T10:08:00.000-07:00

So I would like to preface my blog with the fact that I'm rather uncomfortable with the idea, but have come to the conclusion that it is simply the most efficient means of communicating with people back home, and ultimately is an indestructable documentation of my experience. Most importantly, it will force me to document my time in Belize in a coherent and logical way, rather than jotting down events and emotions in a journal and trying to fit them into letters and e-mails. With that being said, I will make a valant effort at keeping this up to date as frequently as technology and time allows.

It will undoubtedly be filled with humorous/awkward stories, work struggles and successes, love letters to home, photos of my adventures, and the like. Feel free to write or comment as I will take all the contact from back home that I can get!