A day at school

Some of you email me and you ask me what I am doing. I dont really know how to answer that question. I have my minimal tasks that I do in a day and if I write them on paper as a list they look small and shallow as compared to my list of events back home in the states.
For example yesterday:
Woke up at six-thirty
Went to visit the school in Moroceli.
Went to visit a neighbor
Went home for lunch
Went to the computer center to check email
Went home for dinner and to clean house
Read my book for half hour and went to bed at ten thirty.

(Doesnt really seem that thrilling to write home about) And then I make a list for today:
Woke up at six-thirty
Rode bikes to the school in the nearby town of Suyate
Taught one English class and one reading class
Rode home to have lunch
Went to the computer center to check email
I am still here, but I imagine that I will go home for dinner soon, then read my book, maybe take a cold bucket shower, and then go to bed around ten-thirty or so...

Now let me lay out the events of a typical day in the United States before I came here.
Wake up at seven-thirty
Go to substitute teach at local school
Walk to the supermarket for lunch
Return to teach until four in the afternoon
Walk home to change clothes and get apron
Walk to local restaurant to waitress
Get out of waitress work around ten
Go out to the bar or local cofee shop with friends
Come home around eleven or twelve for bed.

So if I tell you what I do in terms of events in comparison to your lengthy busy scedules in the United States you might be inclined to call me lazy. Now, rather than a list of events let me share with you the details because its the details that are really the important part rather than the events themselves.

I woke up snuggled with my husband this morning at six-thirty. Its so wonderful to wake up close to another human, another soul that knows me inside and out, to be accpeted for my strengths and my weaknesses. So I wake up each morning with the comfort of having my best friend by my side and that in itself makes my world beautiful. We crawl out of bed and the sun is already beating on us. That is another detail--the sun and its amazing power that is stronger than our home in the North. Its the detail of adventure that reminds me that I am growing to know the workings of another culture. For breakfast we have organically grown coffee--yep another detail is organic because the coffee is produced by our friends who hand pick the coffee in the mountain. We devour its freshness with bread and honey (in an old glass ketchup bottle from the lady that lives in the next village)... Another detail is connections and close relations with neighbors. I walk out the back door in my long t-shirt and underwear and my neighbor greets me with ^Buenos Dias¨´ She holds something behind her back with a larger grin than the usual morning and then presents me with my pants that I gave her to cut and turn into capris because its just too hot for me here to wear pants. I try them on and thank her for her wonderful hemming job. She beams at the abilitiy to please the only female foreigner in town. At eight-thirty we head out the door and roll down the gentle road across the valley about forty-five minutes until we reach the small cluster of houses and a school known as Suyate. Here we stop and all the kids yell "GOOD MORNING" They are proud to test the few English words that they can remember from my lessons. I pat some on the head, kiss others on the cheek, hug the taller ones that can reach my shoulders. Others I call my love, and I pinch cheeks too. To my surprise, a crowd of about twenty kids are headed out the school door. I pinch a few more cheeks, shake some hands, and then ask boldly--Where are you all going? They reply that their teacher did not come today because his son was sick. He passed by in a car, they say, on his way to the capital. I announce that I will volunteer to keep them for a few hours to teach some more English words and read them some of my made up stories in Spanish. They hoot and shout with glee and turn around, headed for the classroom. I put a list of colors on the board in English and on the other side of the black board I write the same colors in spanish in a mixed up order. I tell them to draw a line between the corresponding colors. I walk around, pat heads, grab shoulders, tell them how nice their letters are, and how smart they are and how they are doing great in English--even if they do say boo instead of blue. I invite some of them to come up in front of the class to shout the new words to their classmates. The directora of the school knocks softly on the wooden door and thanks me for coming. She brings me a banana shake as her sign of thanks. I hug her and we linger outside the classroom for a good ten minutes sharing about our weekend and how her daughter is finally recovering from the flu and how she is recycling old ketchup bottles to make flower vases. I say I would love to see them and in less than five minutes two of her students stand wide eyed at the door with two of the recycled vases. When the mothers of the community come with a pot of fresh cooked beans and corn tortillas, I dismiss the class with a high five for each student as they pass out the door. I wander in and out of the other classrooms during the snack, more hand shaking, head patting. I read a few of my home made books in Spanish to them as they eat and then hand them out for them to read amongst themselves. I tell the teachers to send me the kids that cannot read to one of the empty classrooms. From each grade (first through sixth) the teachers send two children. Some have no shoes or socks, others are like crazy monkies running in all directions. Without enough chairs, my job is that much difficult. My classroom is a dusty enclosement of twenty screaming, running monkies. It takes me a good five to ten minutes to get them to sit on spots I draw in the dust on the floor. Somebody hits so and so and they begin to run and shout all over again and my drawn lines are stepped on and erased. Teaching is not that easy, you see. It takes patience and guts to be in there with all these monkies. And sometimes it still takes me a moment to move beyond my overwhemness and my frustration to pick out the words in spanish to discipline them. I count in English, I clap my hands, and I pat the good children on the head that are following directions. Finally, finally--just for a moment they are sitting and looking at me. I take advantage of the just about quiet moment and begin reading a story in Spanish to them. I tell them that a story has different parts and somehow without the chairs, without the shoes, without markers, or paper for everyone- we form a story together and we say it together over and over again. We talk about what characters are and setting and a problem and a solution. I dont know exactly how it all happened, but I shook all their hands and dismissed them one by one. I still dont know all their names, so I just call them my love. I am so relieved to escape the rushing spanish and running wild children when we finally ride our bikes back to Moroceli. It begins to rain mid-trip and we have to stop at someone`s shack-impovished wooden house for shelter. I walk in the front room and six sets of curious eyes stare back at me. I ask if they are sisters and brothers and the answer is yes. Some are dressed and some are not. An old wrinkled man comes around from back and shakes our hands as a sign of welcome. I cant help but notice the lack of teeth that makes his language hard to understand. THe rain shower leaves as fast as it came. We thank the family kindly, kiss them all on the cheek for letting us take shelter and we head home after saying Buenas Tardes to everyone we pass. When we arrive home we have to boil water from the water basin (pila) to cook veggies. THe three year old neighbor boy enters the door way and just stares at us. Just stands there staring, staring, and staring some more at the strange white people. I invite him in to touch my pet bunny and tell him to fill up a bowl to give the rabbit water. He does as he is told and then I hand him a book (Dr. Seuss that I found in the peace corps office in English). He cant read anyway, but I figure just maybe the colorful pictures will encourage him to enjoy reading. Just maybe it will make a difference. After lunch, I decide that I miss the comfort of close friends and the close long hugs of my own mother and father. So we walk to the computer center to check email. It takes us awhile to reach the center, not because the walk is terribly far, but because everyone knows us and we take the time to shake hands, and kiss cheeks. I admit that I feel guilty at times because I just cant remember all the names. Even the town drunk stops us to shake our hands. He asks Steve where his other women are and Steve replies that one wife is plenty. We chuckle and keep walking.
So with all these details written and recorded.. what is it that I do? I walk around all day and shake hands, give hugs, hand kids random books. I try to make a difference. In conclusion, I am doing the same thing that each and everyone of you is doing--I am trying to make a difference. When I think of what it is that people have done to influence my life--it is just caring and loving me. Often times I sit here in my quiet, quaint little house and I ponder what is it in life that I am supposed to do.. What really matters? It is not my body, how thin I am, how much make-up I wear, how many hours I work--not at all.. It is love and really caring for others. I want to thank you all for teaching me this. For caring and loving me-- Its that which keeps me going. I love and miss you all.. I hope you all had a GOOD day...

Write Me A Happy Ending

Grease sizzles at the bottom of the large pan and makes a hot bed for the plantain slices. They pop and dance with energy until they sweat and tan. Mercy uses a spatula to flip them and then place them on a plate to rest. Her nine year old son Fernando places a couple skinny tree limbs into the side of the homemade mud oven, turning up the lively rhythm of the fire. Miguel, her other seven year old son comes out of the adobe house with another tray of freshly cut plantains and adds them to the heated floor of the pan. Maria Jose, her five year old daughter, sees me approaching and runs into me, greeting me with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. Her little fingers form around mine. My footsteps shorten to meet with her tip tap tip tap pace. We hop across the massive mud puddle. I tug on her arm, lengthen her leap and then hear the sizzling oil, and feel the breath of the flaming fogón. The littlest of the children, one year old Elsa peeks her head out of the scarred, scratched door: barefoot, her mouth hangs in a cute baby face expression. The dust has collected in her dimples and crusts the ends of her feather brown hair.
“Buenas Tardes, Mercy!” I greet her warmly, “Como esta?”
“Bien,” she states, “y Usted?”
“Bien, gracias.”
Her “bien” response is flat, automatic.
I enjoy the kids surrounding me and crunch on the fried platano chips that she gives me topped with cabbage, onion, and a bit of hot sauce too. I enjoy the scene more than the overly oiled spiced banana chips; the green mountain in the back drop, the long dirt road climbing past the small pueblo life to meet it and in the foreground the single mother and her four children all working together selling food on a wood burning stove in front of the house where their grandfather lives too. It seems romantic, authentic, warming to me. I like the small town life. It contrasts the busy monster cities, mall, and materialistic life I came from in the United States. It is simple, like the red wheel barrel poem we read in high school English class. I take my last bit of fried platano and Mercy kneels beside me at first taking the empty plate into her own hands and then meeting my eyes with her wide brown eyes. “Fíjense que yo me voy mojada a los estados…”
My romantic image is shattered. The foreground is ugly and cannot be balanced by the beauty of the mountains and nature in the background.
“what?! QUE?! What about your four children? What about the old frail grandfather? What about crossing Guatemala, Mexico, and finally into the United States illegally without papers. Something could happen Mercy. Are you sure?”
“Es necessario, Teresa. No hay otra manera. No hay otros negocios ni dinero aquí.”
“What about the kids? Who will care for them and love them like you do? Four children with three different fathers, (can we say machismo?!).”
“I am doing it for them. I will send back money.”
“You can’t open up a comedor here in town? You can’t borrow money to make a negocio of your own?”
“No, Teresa. Me voy en ocho días. No hay otra manera. Mi hermana y mis vecinos ya fueron. Mandan cheques.”
“Gracias por los platanos.”

I want to keep her life the way I admire it, tranquilo and rich in cultura, honduran cooking over a fogón. Maybe she doesn’t understand what the United States is really like. Or maybe I cannot understand what it is like to be a desperate single Honduran woman with four children desperately needing shoes. “Mommy, I need a cuaderno for school. Mommy, I need a new shirt,” and not being able to give. Selling fried plantains just isn’t enough.
But send money from the United States to buy shoes notebooks, and new shirts isn’t enough either. Abandoned by father and then by mother. My story is a sad one. I am going to break every grammar writer’s rule and leave it unfinished. I hope it will have its own happy ending someday.

A saber?!

I have been slacking in writing in my journal not really because I have been lazy nor too busy but merely because life taunts me and haunts me and has me so roped up and choked in confusion. I know that I need to take a few deep breathes, calm down, and hand my life over to destiny. Every minute, I try to think and plan it out: review all options in my mind, trying so hard to predict where the best outcome and memories would be. I feel like my life is the sumation of all my choices and I forget all about the possibility or reality of other forces such as God or destiny. I feel like if I choose the "right" decisions, I will have more influence over others and have a purposeful meaningful life. Clearly, I worry that my decision to join Peace Corps and leave my family was a mistake. I wonder if my influence could be greater at home. Clearly, I might be more productive in definition of having a routine rushing to and from work, appointments, driving my car to save time on transportation... But really, having a filled agenda and a set routine doesn`t create a grand influence in the world, or maybe it does?! But so does having a conversation over coffee with my Honduran neighbors: crossing cultures, knowing, feeling, and experiencng the truth that humans are really all humans despite differences in color, language, and customs. And you ask me how I know this? How do I know that these Burnos dias, como esta, bien gracias, que pedos, todo masizo conversations actually count and make some kind of a difference? I know because it makes a difference in my own life. These conversations signify connection : one person connecting to another, sharing a moment together feeling empathy enough to ask Como esta, wait for an answer, shake a real firm handshake, meet my eyes with their eyes... It means a lot to me. If for nothing else in that moment, I feel as if everything is ok. I am with another, understood by another, accepted and respected by another. I guess in this random, heavy thought process, I have concluded that it doesn`t matter where I am. Life is not so concrete as my moment by moment decisions like I tend to think. Controlling my overall influence and impact on others, destiny is silent and calm, guiding the chain of events. I need to let go and live the truth that influence is invisible to me as to others and even unconscious at times. Influence is a part of destiny or another realm and dimension that we humans cannot see, hear, smell, touch, or imagine. And that is hard to accept for many of us in Peace Corps. We are here because we care and we want to influence, help, and change others. The problem lies in expecting and wanting to see the influence we have created. Influence is not our own, rather it is a part of a whole spectrum that is bigger than us and our own concpetion. A word that someone has said, a phrase in an article, an event, could influence you or act differently in a situation which could therefore change somebody else`s ideas, acts, or choices. Influence, therefore, continues in a silent chain reaction.
While I secretly hope some word or phrase I`ve written here will influence your thoughts or at least touch you, I`ll never know. To some my written thoughts will be a pile of words on a page never read, to others a pile of words read yet still meaningless, and to some of you they will spark a feeling or reaction. I´ll never know just as we will never know our influence and impact in our peace corps service. I think I will go to bed now. I am too tired to influence anyone or even think about it anymore. Buenas Noches!

Almost like Autumn

In Michigan, I always said that I dreaded the change of seasons. I was always in love with summer sunshine, flowers, hours of hiking in nature preserves and the idea of cold bitter winds made me angry. But now as I sweat, my shirt sticking firmly to my back, I actually miss autumn. I miss the ocasional cool breeze, and jack frost nipping at my nose. This past weekend, though, we found a way to escape the hot brutal heat. We hopped in the back of a pick up truck and went along with a family to visit a town in the mountains called San Marcos de Colon. We drove through Danli, through El Paraiso and across the border into Nicaragua. We drove up into the green lush mountains, through coffee plantations and quiet quaint towns. We entered Honduras again on the southern tip and climbed into the town of San Marcos where a cool breeze rests on the mountain side. All day Saturday, we hiked eight hours into the mountains, into clouded forests. I saw lots of bromeliads, plants that live through the means of air using tree branches as their refuge. The flower blossums were unique and beautiful. The wind and low hanging clouds made me feel like it was autumn in Michigan only the landscape was different! After a weekend of cool mountain climbing and cloud forest, we returned through Choluteca and Tegucigalpa all the way back to Moroceli and its not nearing winter. We are back in hot hot hot summer land. As for projects, here in our little valley town of Moroceli, things are going slow. The government has not payed the teachers and once again the teachers have been on strike, so my classes have come to a halt. I will end my short entry on a good note. Just last week, Steve and I purchased airplane tickets to return to Michigan on the 21st of December and we will be home for two weeks. So I wont have to ask any of you to throw snow balls for me or make me a snow man because I will be there to make one with you! We miss you all so so so much. I hope that you are all happy, healthy, and enjoying the summer weather before your change of season comes! Lots of love, Teresa