Two years ago i started reading Barack Obama's memoir, Dreams From My Father. It was one of the many books on my "to read" list, and my motivation for starting it was simply to be able to cross it off with a check mark at the end. At the time, I never finished reading it, and handed it back to the library with some over due fines. It wasn't until two weeks ago, when Sister Ruth let me go through her treasure chest of books that I rediscovered it, and started from the beginning.
To be honest, I didn't follow much of the book. In times, the writing was confusing and the insights too complex to be written down in simple wording. I found much of his critiques on race in the US to be overdone, wondering if he focused too much on color and not enough on substance. But then again, as I'm sure he would say, I am a white American upper class woman born on his "powerful" side of society. what do I really know about being an African American in the US?
After reading the book, I had the feeling that I needed to sit with it for a while. That it was one of those books that don't make sense when you close the cover, but somehow begin to take shape in the days, or in my case mere hours, that follow.
Much of his book is about his feelings of being an outsider in a society where identity is pertinent. It's about his struggle to find his definition between different races and continents, between a white family in Hawaii and an African family in Kenya. Clearly, there wasn't much for me to relate to on an immediate level. I'm an Irish- italian American with a firm sense of self, spending the last 22 years figuring out where I stand in the world. Until 7 weeks ago when I stopped being a racial majority and started being one of a handful of white people in the city I call home.
Being American here didn't start to present a challenge to me until approximately 8 o clock last night. I've been blessed with the ability to live in a host family that is accepting of me and willing to help me learn. They treat me as an individual, as a member of their family, and help me to express and substantiate my opinions through my different experiences. I realized last night that this isn't the case with everyone. Being a white volunteer comes with preconceived notions, ones that I hate and that shake my firm foundation of comfort.
It starts with people wanting my opinion, thinking that I'll agree or that I know best. It started last night with the declaration from a man that I must agree that his son playing with girls toys was unacceptable and the worst thing that could happen. What do I say? Do I get into an argument in broken Spanish about how being a good parent is loving your child no matter what they are? About how I can already see the path of his relationship with his child's and that it kills me? That I want to hug his child and tell him he's beautiful, no matter what he likes? No, because I'm in someone's else's home, because I literally don't know the words, and because I'm the American. I'm on the outside. If I agree,It collaborates their belief, which is the last thing i want. But if I disagree I can easily become the rude American, and create riffs in the family circle that seems to include everyone in Ocoa. So I fake that I can't understand, look stupid and take another sip of soda, hoping that the moment will pass quickly. It does, and another takes it's place.
The ever so popular conversation of whether or not i have a boyfriend commences. Apparently being 22 and single is absurd, leading people to question why I don't have a boyfriend, and then to assure me they will find me one. There is no space to explain that these five months are not for me to fall in love, but that this time is for me and the people I am working with. The last thing I want to do is cloud my short time here with a romance that won't last and that involves way too many tissues, chocolates and emotions that i would rather spend elsewhere. In this specific conversation, I was not only told that I could easily find a boyfriend among the many nice friends that this specific gentlemen, the father of the son playing with girls toys, promised me, but also that I could bring the said "chosen one" back to the US where we could both live. As the American girl, I am less attractive because of whatever beauty I may or may not possess, and am more attractive because of my ability to bring someone to the US. I've become a vessel for the new world.
As the night drew to a close, I started to understand what Obama was saying about being an outsider. I felt less like person and more like an ideal that I didn't fully understand, but was supposed to live out.This morning, it was solidified. I like to think, naively I now see, that volunteering time means more than giving money. That the personal connections are important, that they mean more than a check. At the nursing home I have been talking to one woman, bed ridden for years, on a consistent basis. I spend the most time with her and have come to value our friendship. Today, I felt as if the last four weeks of conversations were stripped away in one quick swoop.Today she looked at my shoes and asked me what size they were. After I responded, she told me she wanted them when I left, that she would remember them. She then asked if I had anything else for her; that she wanted things. I was immediately taken aback and hurt. I felt like the only reason I was valuable was because of what I had, not who I was. Not to mention that she was already planning for me to leave, when i still have three and a half months left. It wasn't my story or friendship she wanted, but my shoes.
I don't know what the answer to this struggle, this being an outsider, is. Do i give away everything i have, because i can and therefore should? Or do I refuse to give shoes or things to anyone, to prove that it I'm not here to give things, but to give time? Do i stop sharing my possessions with others in a culture where all they do is give? Does that even make sense in a culture when people need so much? Does my time here even matter? Or is it just what I'll leave behind in materials that I should care about?
And what about my opinions? Free to express them in Freddy's house, I feel taken aback and defensive outside. I feel shy and like it isn't my place. But is it? When do you speak up and when do you know that it isn't your place? Is choosing one an abandonment of self, or identity?
Today, I feel confused. I've been faced with the struggles I knew would come, but didn't want to. I feel like my foundation has been shaken, and I'm not sure how to right it. I'm not sure how to dispel the American stereotypes when I can't stop being the white American girl. Sure, I can say I'll keep being myself, but I also have to keep being sensitive to the culture I'm living in. It isn't black or white. It isn't about just giving people things, but rather the expectation that because I am white, giving is automatic. Because I am American, I will bring someone back to the states. I will give money, just because I can. I don't know where to draw the line. I don't know where to right myself. What I do know is that I owe Barack an apology. Your book wasn't confusing. It was my own lack of clarity, lack of understanding of your life, that muddled the words. And honestly, I wish I didn't have the clarity to make sense of it. I wish I didn't have to be the outsider to understand your words. I'm sorry that you were for so long. I see where you stood, I hear your words, and with dread, I understand. I get it. I just wish that I didn't.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Neither Here Nor There
One of the biggest mistakes I've made in preparing for this trip, and trying to adjust to new elements as they come, is my comparison of life here to my life in Italy when I studied abroad for 4 months. On the one hand, it made perfect sense for me to compare the two. Living in Italy was the only experience I had living abroad for an extended period of time, so it was the only niche into which I could try to fit my new lifestyle. On the other hand, it was the dumbest thing I could have done. News flash: studying abroad with English friends in a developed country is a little difference then going alone to a country that, in all it's beauty, still struggles with poverty.
Nevertheless, when I found out that I would be teaching English twice a week at a catholic school in one of the campos, I was immediately filled with dread. I hated teaching English in Italy. I had no control over the lessons or the kids, had little support from the teachers and just generally found the experience to be more stressful than enjoyable. I left each day questioning whether or not I was meant to be a teacher, and what it was I was doing so wrong that made every lesson a failure. So it was with an anxious heart and heavy mind that I entered the old barn where the catholic school is located. Granted, the hour bus ride that left an hour late and follows eroded roads and cliff sides the entire ride didnt exactly ease my fears.
As soon as I entered the first partitioned classroom, I realized the mistake that I had made. Comparing my experience in Italy to what would be my experience here was like comparing my skin color when I arrived to my skin color now- not even fair. I walked in to a crowd smiling faces staring up at me and wanting to soak up every word that I said, whether in English they didn't understand or Spanish...that they still didn't understand because I'm not exactly a language expert. They wanted my love, my help, and my attention. And I could have given it to them forever. My time with them the first day was cut short, and instead of feeling a sense of relief, I felt a sense of sadness that they didn't get to finish decorating their name tags, and would have to wait a whole other week. I knew then, that this time was different. This time, the classroom was my home and not my enemy.
Granted, there are similarities. Elementary aged children everywhere are the same. Full of energy, unable to sit still and still in awe of their own voice and knowledge, leading them to want to teach instead of learn. I was the same all those years ago ( sorry mrs. Livingston). Most kids are good for about a half an hour of English, and then are bored. Instead of fighting it, this time I came prepared with coloring books and enough markers to go around. I learned from the terrors in Siena, and refused to be beaten this time around.
I'm not sure if this time is different because of me, or because of the kids. Maybe I grew more than I knew in my teaching abilities during my last year of school. Maybe somewhere along the road I found the patience I've been lacking since the day I was born. Or maybe I just connect with these children on a deeper level than teacher and student. Maybe they mean more to me than the kids in Italy did. Whatever it may be, what I know is that I'm counting the days until I go back. I know I want to be there, and I want to plan. And I know that no matter where my life will lead me, my heart and home will always be in a classroom, whether in a beautiful school in Vermont or a barn in Rancha Arriba.
I've always believed that education is the way to change the world; truly I believe it is the only way. And I believe it is my mission to do my part and be a facilitator of that change. You see, I don't teach because I love children. In fact, out of the classroom I secretly find many of them annoying. It's the brutal, and surprising, truth. I teach because each child deserves the chance to decide what they want out of their lives without limitation based on what family or country they were born into. I teach for the child who has no hope, to give them that starting spark. And never have I seen the need for education more than I have here. These kids soak up everything, in the hope that one day they can be what their dreams are telling them now they are capable of. Even if it's only for two or three hours twice a week, I teach here to keep that dream alive for one more minute of one more day. To give them that hope.
So next week, and the week after, and the week after, I will board the crazy gua-gua, be smushed against the window and make my way to the barn. I will make my way home to be with my kids and try to teach them the difference between there, their, and they're, while asking ask myself who in God's name made English so complicated. Really, it's unnecessary.
Wishing you a great weekend,
Siobhan
Nevertheless, when I found out that I would be teaching English twice a week at a catholic school in one of the campos, I was immediately filled with dread. I hated teaching English in Italy. I had no control over the lessons or the kids, had little support from the teachers and just generally found the experience to be more stressful than enjoyable. I left each day questioning whether or not I was meant to be a teacher, and what it was I was doing so wrong that made every lesson a failure. So it was with an anxious heart and heavy mind that I entered the old barn where the catholic school is located. Granted, the hour bus ride that left an hour late and follows eroded roads and cliff sides the entire ride didnt exactly ease my fears.
As soon as I entered the first partitioned classroom, I realized the mistake that I had made. Comparing my experience in Italy to what would be my experience here was like comparing my skin color when I arrived to my skin color now- not even fair. I walked in to a crowd smiling faces staring up at me and wanting to soak up every word that I said, whether in English they didn't understand or Spanish...that they still didn't understand because I'm not exactly a language expert. They wanted my love, my help, and my attention. And I could have given it to them forever. My time with them the first day was cut short, and instead of feeling a sense of relief, I felt a sense of sadness that they didn't get to finish decorating their name tags, and would have to wait a whole other week. I knew then, that this time was different. This time, the classroom was my home and not my enemy.
Granted, there are similarities. Elementary aged children everywhere are the same. Full of energy, unable to sit still and still in awe of their own voice and knowledge, leading them to want to teach instead of learn. I was the same all those years ago ( sorry mrs. Livingston). Most kids are good for about a half an hour of English, and then are bored. Instead of fighting it, this time I came prepared with coloring books and enough markers to go around. I learned from the terrors in Siena, and refused to be beaten this time around.
I'm not sure if this time is different because of me, or because of the kids. Maybe I grew more than I knew in my teaching abilities during my last year of school. Maybe somewhere along the road I found the patience I've been lacking since the day I was born. Or maybe I just connect with these children on a deeper level than teacher and student. Maybe they mean more to me than the kids in Italy did. Whatever it may be, what I know is that I'm counting the days until I go back. I know I want to be there, and I want to plan. And I know that no matter where my life will lead me, my heart and home will always be in a classroom, whether in a beautiful school in Vermont or a barn in Rancha Arriba.
I've always believed that education is the way to change the world; truly I believe it is the only way. And I believe it is my mission to do my part and be a facilitator of that change. You see, I don't teach because I love children. In fact, out of the classroom I secretly find many of them annoying. It's the brutal, and surprising, truth. I teach because each child deserves the chance to decide what they want out of their lives without limitation based on what family or country they were born into. I teach for the child who has no hope, to give them that starting spark. And never have I seen the need for education more than I have here. These kids soak up everything, in the hope that one day they can be what their dreams are telling them now they are capable of. Even if it's only for two or three hours twice a week, I teach here to keep that dream alive for one more minute of one more day. To give them that hope.
So next week, and the week after, and the week after, I will board the crazy gua-gua, be smushed against the window and make my way to the barn. I will make my way home to be with my kids and try to teach them the difference between there, their, and they're, while asking ask myself who in God's name made English so complicated. Really, it's unnecessary.
Wishing you a great weekend,
Siobhan
Friday, February 17, 2012
These are a few of my Favorite Things
It came as kind of an annoyance that my one month anniversary of being in the Dominican Republic should land one of my least favorite holidays. But, gosh Siobhan, you might say, I thought you were a true believer in love and flowers and soul mates...why on EARTH would you hate valentines Day? Well, my friends, it isn't a holiday about love, but about who gets the biggest bouquet of flowers or best box of chocolate. And being boyfriend-less does not make this holiday fun. It was much to my relief, however, to learn that this holiday, when celebrated in DR, is less about romance and more about friendship and appreciation. This I could swallow, and it was in this spirit that I spent my own solitary one month anniversary with my ADESJO family. And it is in this spirit that I bring you the fourteen things I have learned about myself and this culture in the last month. Ye the use of the number fourteen is cliche, but so am I so just deal. Or x out of the page and miss the best blog ever- your choice.
Top 7 cultural revelations:
1. When offered a chair, you must sit down. If you do not, not only will you be looked at as having two heads, but you will be asked to sit down repeatedly until peer pressure gives in and you find yourself in the seat anyway. Avoid the awkward 30 seconds of trying to be polite, and just give in. And don't expect this to change as time goes on...Freddy's family still gets up so I have a seat whenever I walk into the room. It's a little like being royalty.
2. Tight clothes are ok, and preferred. This came as much a relief as I realized the if I keep eating at the pace I do, even my baggiest clothes will look like thy were tailor made for someone 2 sizes smaller. This is okay, because here it is the fashion. Even better is if you can add in something see through. I'm working that one in.
3. When people say "gracias a dios" they don't mean the casual thank god that we say at home. They truly mean thank you god for the gift you have given me, whether it be good health, food or a good friend. Religion here is not contained in books, churches or in a said prayer. It is lived, breathed and acted every day. It is less a belief and more a form of being. I have had more beautiful and simple religious experiences here than I have in the last few years at home, and I finally feel like I am starting to find something I was missing. Gracias a Dios, for opening my eyes.
4. Everyone you meet is either a best friend or family member. If you met them at church, they probably work with you, may offer you free medical care ( long story for later) or may just end up at your house that upcoming weekend. And if they aren't actually family, they will be soon. When a Dominican tells you that his house is your house, it isn't a line from a movie, but something that comes from the heart. And if there isn't enough room in their house for you, chances are they will build you your own...like Freddy is building me mine.
5. It is important that before embarking on this journey to is beautiful culture, you fast for a month or two. When it comes to food saying no doesn't exist. For someone very health and image conscious, it can be a daily challenge. To them, food is love and care. For us, it has often become an enemy, something to be avoided or to enjoy and later feel guilty about. Here, moderation is silly and who cares if you only eat carbs? They enjoy life, and want you to as well. So fast, bring your stretchy pants and get ready to enjoy the best food in the world.
6. Slow down. Things here are done at a slower pace. People and relationships are more important than work, and there is always tomorrow to get things done. A successful day is one where you talk to many people, laugh, dance and eat. It has little to do with our form of productivity, and more to do with the quality of your time spent. A cup of coffee or two don't hurt either.
7. And finally, when those boys yell at you from across the road, it's okay to pretend you don't speak Spanish or English. When they tell you they love you, the easiest tactic is to cross the road and look at your feet like they are the most interesting things you've ever seen. And when they make a hissing sound, it's less that they are mad and more that they want to get in your pants a little. Beware.
Ok, so that was kind of long and we are only half way through. Sure, you can leave the page now, but remember how much I just made you laugh? There's more to come and this time you can laugh at me. I wouldn't go anywhere if I were you...
Top 7 personal revelations:
1. I hate change. Not really a revelation as everyone but me seems to know this, but more of a reminder. As my parents and best friends told me over and over, if you can get through the first four days, you'll make it. I also am not blind to the irony that as much as I hate change I consistently throw myself into situations demanding it, and then don't understand why I'm homesick. So who volunteers to be the next person to remind me that this is how I am when I inevitably forget again? Applications always accepted.
2. I need time for myself and absolutely need independence. For those of you who have known me the last year or so, this may be obvious. But what is remarkable is that if you read my blogs from two years ago, or simply knew me as a freshman or sophomore in college I was much different. I hated being alone, needed someone to eat meals with at all times and often depended on someone else for my happiness. Granted, my need for independence has caused some hiccups, but for me it's also a hallmark of how I've grown.
3. I'm prone to bug bites and need to exclude all sugar from my diets. Also, when at the drug store before a trip it would do me well to remember that just because I am buying bug spray doesn't mean that I won't actually get bug bites, and that maybe I should splurge and buy the anti itch cream just in case. Not doing so has been a grave and itchy mistake and is one I will never make again.
4. I should never expect to sleep through the night. If it isn't our family of rats, or the symphony of pigs that keep me awake, it's my constant need to pee, or my irrational fear that a spider will lay eggs in my ear and have babies in my brain. Don't ask, but it kept me up for a good hour before I slept with a blanket wrapped around my ears. Why said baby blankets weren't still good at age 22?
5. I'm better at listening when I don't know how to respond. It's amazing how much you can take in and learn when you truly listen to someone else. I've been forced to do that here as I understand much more than I can speak back, and it makes me wonder how much we miss at home. It's common knowledge that we miss most of what people say because we are already formulating our response. I physically can't do that here because it takes me too long to process, and because of that I listen much more, and say less. It's a lesson I was forced to take, but one I think would serve us all well. Truly listen, as if your survival depended on it (because mine does) and then take the time to respond. Slow. Down.
6. I can be funny in a other language. Without my humor and sarcasm, I am lost in the world and am much less fun to be around. It's kind of like a clown without the big shoes- still enjoyable but missing a crucial element. So naturally I was worried that I would be a shoeless bozo for five months. Have no fear my friends, even with my limitd language capabilities I have found a way to make people laugh, and thus have found my identity in another world. I realized the day I started to feel at home was the day I made a joke and Manuel laughed and meant it. I knew then that I had found my shoes.
7. Lastly, I have discovered that I am stronger than I thought. Besides being able to lift two cement blocks at once, I can also live in another world and survive. I can be dropped somewhere with limited knowledge of the language, and forge my way through the days. Sure, I still need my nutrients of family, friends, and chocolates, but I can actually do it. Some days I still question whether I am actually making a difference here, and what my purpose on this journey is, but I no longer question if I am capable. I've already proven to myself that I am.
And that, my friend, is my much too long list of fourteen things that I have learned. I am excited to have given myself the chance to learn them, and to see what comes next. If I learned that much barely understanding what was happening, imagine what will happen after month 3 when I really understand people. And I offer you my congratulations for sticking with my until the end. I would send you a gold star, but it would take about a month to arrive in the states, and by then it would lose its glimmer.
Happy late friendship day,
Sabrina
Top 7 cultural revelations:
1. When offered a chair, you must sit down. If you do not, not only will you be looked at as having two heads, but you will be asked to sit down repeatedly until peer pressure gives in and you find yourself in the seat anyway. Avoid the awkward 30 seconds of trying to be polite, and just give in. And don't expect this to change as time goes on...Freddy's family still gets up so I have a seat whenever I walk into the room. It's a little like being royalty.
2. Tight clothes are ok, and preferred. This came as much a relief as I realized the if I keep eating at the pace I do, even my baggiest clothes will look like thy were tailor made for someone 2 sizes smaller. This is okay, because here it is the fashion. Even better is if you can add in something see through. I'm working that one in.
3. When people say "gracias a dios" they don't mean the casual thank god that we say at home. They truly mean thank you god for the gift you have given me, whether it be good health, food or a good friend. Religion here is not contained in books, churches or in a said prayer. It is lived, breathed and acted every day. It is less a belief and more a form of being. I have had more beautiful and simple religious experiences here than I have in the last few years at home, and I finally feel like I am starting to find something I was missing. Gracias a Dios, for opening my eyes.
4. Everyone you meet is either a best friend or family member. If you met them at church, they probably work with you, may offer you free medical care ( long story for later) or may just end up at your house that upcoming weekend. And if they aren't actually family, they will be soon. When a Dominican tells you that his house is your house, it isn't a line from a movie, but something that comes from the heart. And if there isn't enough room in their house for you, chances are they will build you your own...like Freddy is building me mine.
5. It is important that before embarking on this journey to is beautiful culture, you fast for a month or two. When it comes to food saying no doesn't exist. For someone very health and image conscious, it can be a daily challenge. To them, food is love and care. For us, it has often become an enemy, something to be avoided or to enjoy and later feel guilty about. Here, moderation is silly and who cares if you only eat carbs? They enjoy life, and want you to as well. So fast, bring your stretchy pants and get ready to enjoy the best food in the world.
6. Slow down. Things here are done at a slower pace. People and relationships are more important than work, and there is always tomorrow to get things done. A successful day is one where you talk to many people, laugh, dance and eat. It has little to do with our form of productivity, and more to do with the quality of your time spent. A cup of coffee or two don't hurt either.
7. And finally, when those boys yell at you from across the road, it's okay to pretend you don't speak Spanish or English. When they tell you they love you, the easiest tactic is to cross the road and look at your feet like they are the most interesting things you've ever seen. And when they make a hissing sound, it's less that they are mad and more that they want to get in your pants a little. Beware.
Ok, so that was kind of long and we are only half way through. Sure, you can leave the page now, but remember how much I just made you laugh? There's more to come and this time you can laugh at me. I wouldn't go anywhere if I were you...
Top 7 personal revelations:
1. I hate change. Not really a revelation as everyone but me seems to know this, but more of a reminder. As my parents and best friends told me over and over, if you can get through the first four days, you'll make it. I also am not blind to the irony that as much as I hate change I consistently throw myself into situations demanding it, and then don't understand why I'm homesick. So who volunteers to be the next person to remind me that this is how I am when I inevitably forget again? Applications always accepted.
2. I need time for myself and absolutely need independence. For those of you who have known me the last year or so, this may be obvious. But what is remarkable is that if you read my blogs from two years ago, or simply knew me as a freshman or sophomore in college I was much different. I hated being alone, needed someone to eat meals with at all times and often depended on someone else for my happiness. Granted, my need for independence has caused some hiccups, but for me it's also a hallmark of how I've grown.
3. I'm prone to bug bites and need to exclude all sugar from my diets. Also, when at the drug store before a trip it would do me well to remember that just because I am buying bug spray doesn't mean that I won't actually get bug bites, and that maybe I should splurge and buy the anti itch cream just in case. Not doing so has been a grave and itchy mistake and is one I will never make again.
4. I should never expect to sleep through the night. If it isn't our family of rats, or the symphony of pigs that keep me awake, it's my constant need to pee, or my irrational fear that a spider will lay eggs in my ear and have babies in my brain. Don't ask, but it kept me up for a good hour before I slept with a blanket wrapped around my ears. Why said baby blankets weren't still good at age 22?
5. I'm better at listening when I don't know how to respond. It's amazing how much you can take in and learn when you truly listen to someone else. I've been forced to do that here as I understand much more than I can speak back, and it makes me wonder how much we miss at home. It's common knowledge that we miss most of what people say because we are already formulating our response. I physically can't do that here because it takes me too long to process, and because of that I listen much more, and say less. It's a lesson I was forced to take, but one I think would serve us all well. Truly listen, as if your survival depended on it (because mine does) and then take the time to respond. Slow. Down.
6. I can be funny in a other language. Without my humor and sarcasm, I am lost in the world and am much less fun to be around. It's kind of like a clown without the big shoes- still enjoyable but missing a crucial element. So naturally I was worried that I would be a shoeless bozo for five months. Have no fear my friends, even with my limitd language capabilities I have found a way to make people laugh, and thus have found my identity in another world. I realized the day I started to feel at home was the day I made a joke and Manuel laughed and meant it. I knew then that I had found my shoes.
7. Lastly, I have discovered that I am stronger than I thought. Besides being able to lift two cement blocks at once, I can also live in another world and survive. I can be dropped somewhere with limited knowledge of the language, and forge my way through the days. Sure, I still need my nutrients of family, friends, and chocolates, but I can actually do it. Some days I still question whether I am actually making a difference here, and what my purpose on this journey is, but I no longer question if I am capable. I've already proven to myself that I am.
And that, my friend, is my much too long list of fourteen things that I have learned. I am excited to have given myself the chance to learn them, and to see what comes next. If I learned that much barely understanding what was happening, imagine what will happen after month 3 when I really understand people. And I offer you my congratulations for sticking with my until the end. I would send you a gold star, but it would take about a month to arrive in the states, and by then it would lose its glimmer.
Happy late friendship day,
Sabrina
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Mother Mary Comfort Me
The Hail Mary is one the prayers that I grew up saying as a child. It was one that I prayed at night, along with the Our Father, when I was younger, and it is a tradition I still hold on to. Im not sure why I started repeating it, but I guess I liked the balance of praying to a male and female figure before starting my personal prayers. It was a recitation that I knew by heart, and to which I thought I understood the meaning, until this past Monday when I started volunteering at the local nursing home.
I walked in that first morning, not knowing what to expect. And what I came to experience was simply humbling. There is something special about walking into a room with 30 elderly adults, all with different mental and physical capacities, as they pray aloud as one. Even more moving was when halfway through the prayer repetition, I realized that they were praying the Hail Mary. Although I've known the prayer all my life, all of a sudden i saw and experienced the meaning of it first hand. I saw the meaning more than I even felt it. Here were a group of people all in the last stage of their life, repeating a prayer asking for forgiveness now and at the hour of their death, knowing that those two times are not as far apart as they once were.
As the repetition ended and everyone moved to hug each other, tears came to my eyes. I realized that no matter what we do with our lives, or who we become, we all end up at some form of this stage. Some of us develop Alzeihmers, some of us lose our hearing and some of us just lose the abilities we used to have. But at the end of the day, as we lose different pieces of our bodies and minds, we all want the same thing. To be forgiven and to be able to connect with others, now and at/until the hour of our death.
Many could say that when I go to the nursing home I do the least amount of work compared to the other organizations I'm working with. I do a lot of sitting and hand holding, occasionally play dominoes, help serve breakfast, feed some patients and hang laundry to dry. It isn't a lot in theory, but when my three hours are up, I feel more fulfilled than I have when I've worked whole days at home. There is something, I don't know what, about being able to hold someones hand that feeds the soul, both theirs and mine. There is something about feeding another person that breaks down any cultural barrier that may exist and is an expression of humanism in the rawest form. And when it takes me 20 minutes to leave because I have to hug everyone goodbye and promise to be back soon, it reminds me that human connection is what we strive for.
I've begun to learn that it's not the hours you spend on a project that matter, but rather how full your hours are. My three hours with these beautiful people are full. Full of life both past and present, of love, and of connection. I may not understand what they say, but I understand their smile. And in a world where it is increasingly important for us to understand different cultures, I can tell you that the elderly age the same here as they do in the US, and that despite our differences, we all end up on the same road.
So I would like to dedicate this not only to my grandfather, who may believe that he is living in a resort, but also to the hundreds of staff and volunteers who go and sit with him everyday. I know he may not make sense, but sometimes people just need to be heard. And when we give them that right, we give them connection, and a little more time. We help them, at least for a little, extend the time between "now and at the hour of our death". And in the end, isn't that the hope we all need?
Tomorrow, when i go back to see my new friends, i do so in the name and eith the respect of all the people who take the time to hear the elderly; Who let their stories live on in another generation of people. And here's to you, grandpa, wherever you may be in your mind and spirit. Have a milkshake on me,
Sabrina
I walked in that first morning, not knowing what to expect. And what I came to experience was simply humbling. There is something special about walking into a room with 30 elderly adults, all with different mental and physical capacities, as they pray aloud as one. Even more moving was when halfway through the prayer repetition, I realized that they were praying the Hail Mary. Although I've known the prayer all my life, all of a sudden i saw and experienced the meaning of it first hand. I saw the meaning more than I even felt it. Here were a group of people all in the last stage of their life, repeating a prayer asking for forgiveness now and at the hour of their death, knowing that those two times are not as far apart as they once were.
As the repetition ended and everyone moved to hug each other, tears came to my eyes. I realized that no matter what we do with our lives, or who we become, we all end up at some form of this stage. Some of us develop Alzeihmers, some of us lose our hearing and some of us just lose the abilities we used to have. But at the end of the day, as we lose different pieces of our bodies and minds, we all want the same thing. To be forgiven and to be able to connect with others, now and at/until the hour of our death.
Many could say that when I go to the nursing home I do the least amount of work compared to the other organizations I'm working with. I do a lot of sitting and hand holding, occasionally play dominoes, help serve breakfast, feed some patients and hang laundry to dry. It isn't a lot in theory, but when my three hours are up, I feel more fulfilled than I have when I've worked whole days at home. There is something, I don't know what, about being able to hold someones hand that feeds the soul, both theirs and mine. There is something about feeding another person that breaks down any cultural barrier that may exist and is an expression of humanism in the rawest form. And when it takes me 20 minutes to leave because I have to hug everyone goodbye and promise to be back soon, it reminds me that human connection is what we strive for.
I've begun to learn that it's not the hours you spend on a project that matter, but rather how full your hours are. My three hours with these beautiful people are full. Full of life both past and present, of love, and of connection. I may not understand what they say, but I understand their smile. And in a world where it is increasingly important for us to understand different cultures, I can tell you that the elderly age the same here as they do in the US, and that despite our differences, we all end up on the same road.
So I would like to dedicate this not only to my grandfather, who may believe that he is living in a resort, but also to the hundreds of staff and volunteers who go and sit with him everyday. I know he may not make sense, but sometimes people just need to be heard. And when we give them that right, we give them connection, and a little more time. We help them, at least for a little, extend the time between "now and at the hour of our death". And in the end, isn't that the hope we all need?
Tomorrow, when i go back to see my new friends, i do so in the name and eith the respect of all the people who take the time to hear the elderly; Who let their stories live on in another generation of people. And here's to you, grandpa, wherever you may be in your mind and spirit. Have a milkshake on me,
Sabrina
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Rabbit Rabbit
It's funny how life just works sometimes. Many of you have heard me express my frustrations in my lack of tasks during my first two weeks here. As much as many people would love to sit in the sun, read, eat and be taken care of, it was driving me nuts. I needed to start doing things, and I needed to relieve my cabin fever by getting out of the house. So I set a goal that on February first, no matter how or what it meant, I would do something. I would go to the nursing home and beg that they let me work, or I would just hold on to the back of Freddy's motorcycle and refuse to let him leave the house without me. Clearly I've matured in the last 3 weeks.
The morning of February 1, at about 230 in the morning I awoke to do my nightly pee in the dark, and then lie awake to the symphony of animals. It was also at this time that I whispered "rabbit rabbit" into the depths of the night and hoped that somewhere God was also awake peeing, and would hear my wish for good things to come. Well. Did he ever.
February first was the beginning of what would be a whirlwind of meeting with volunteer groups, villagers, Canadian ambassadors, Dominican senators and great cooks. I spent the days traveling with Freddy, Sonia and Antonio to the villages to make sure all of the volunteers were okay, and that they had all the necessary provisions. Along the way I made some Canadian friends, met a future saint mikes prospect, and realized that maybe I am useful here.
As much as I realized I was needed when I had to translate for a group who spoke zero Spanish, it was in the in between moments that I found myself smiling and truly reveling in my life here. It was when, after talking to an older group of volunteers and joking around with them, Freddy looked at me and told me how special I was. It was when I didn't go to a closing ceremony for a group, and they asked Freddy where I was. It was when groups remembered me and wanted to talk to me about my experience so they could learn more within theirs. It was when a girl gave me her email address because she wanted to know more about what I was doing. It was when people told me I was brave, even though I'm just following my heart... And everyone else when they tell me to "vamos". And it was when Sonia, Antonio and Freddy all claimed that I was their child; that I was a child to ADESJO.
This week I realized I may have something to offer. It may not be in the form of building, but it's just in me. It's my ability to talk to people, to introduce myself, to smile and to share what I have been through. Its in talking and being able to listen to and justify someone else's experience. Looking at the groups leaving, I saw myself in their tears and inability to say goodbye to the people who had stolen their hearts. I was brought back to my first and second times here, and I was reminded of how I got to be here today. And as I saw their tears, heard them say grace and give thanks for learning this week, and looked around at the people who care enough to call me their child, I felt the tears form in my eyes. Because for the first time since I've been here, I've realized just how hard it will be for me to leave. To say goodbye to my crazy, sunny home. This week, while I started to put the pieces together, I also started to lose them one by one. You see, my heart, it's already broken and traces are all ready spread over this province. I'm already falling in love, for a third time, in a different way. Simply put, when June 13 comes, I'm screwed.
I still have complaints, frustrations and anxieties, that I will continue to write about and process. But thats life; a lack of frustration would be a lack of learning, or living with passion. Amidst these feelings, however, is progress. I've lost count of the number of days it's been since I've last had a tearful meltdown, and I've tuned out the animals...for the most part. I still may not have a bicycle, or my independence, but I'm in a different world and with that comes adjustment. I'm experiencing much, just not on my own timeline, and I'm starting to be okay with that. So cheers. Here's to a new week of still not knowing what's happening until it happens, of being exhausted all the time, and of trying to figure out just what people are saying. I couldn't be more excited.
Love to you all from the beautiful mountainside,
Sabrina
The morning of February 1, at about 230 in the morning I awoke to do my nightly pee in the dark, and then lie awake to the symphony of animals. It was also at this time that I whispered "rabbit rabbit" into the depths of the night and hoped that somewhere God was also awake peeing, and would hear my wish for good things to come. Well. Did he ever.
February first was the beginning of what would be a whirlwind of meeting with volunteer groups, villagers, Canadian ambassadors, Dominican senators and great cooks. I spent the days traveling with Freddy, Sonia and Antonio to the villages to make sure all of the volunteers were okay, and that they had all the necessary provisions. Along the way I made some Canadian friends, met a future saint mikes prospect, and realized that maybe I am useful here.
As much as I realized I was needed when I had to translate for a group who spoke zero Spanish, it was in the in between moments that I found myself smiling and truly reveling in my life here. It was when, after talking to an older group of volunteers and joking around with them, Freddy looked at me and told me how special I was. It was when I didn't go to a closing ceremony for a group, and they asked Freddy where I was. It was when groups remembered me and wanted to talk to me about my experience so they could learn more within theirs. It was when a girl gave me her email address because she wanted to know more about what I was doing. It was when people told me I was brave, even though I'm just following my heart... And everyone else when they tell me to "vamos". And it was when Sonia, Antonio and Freddy all claimed that I was their child; that I was a child to ADESJO.
This week I realized I may have something to offer. It may not be in the form of building, but it's just in me. It's my ability to talk to people, to introduce myself, to smile and to share what I have been through. Its in talking and being able to listen to and justify someone else's experience. Looking at the groups leaving, I saw myself in their tears and inability to say goodbye to the people who had stolen their hearts. I was brought back to my first and second times here, and I was reminded of how I got to be here today. And as I saw their tears, heard them say grace and give thanks for learning this week, and looked around at the people who care enough to call me their child, I felt the tears form in my eyes. Because for the first time since I've been here, I've realized just how hard it will be for me to leave. To say goodbye to my crazy, sunny home. This week, while I started to put the pieces together, I also started to lose them one by one. You see, my heart, it's already broken and traces are all ready spread over this province. I'm already falling in love, for a third time, in a different way. Simply put, when June 13 comes, I'm screwed.
I still have complaints, frustrations and anxieties, that I will continue to write about and process. But thats life; a lack of frustration would be a lack of learning, or living with passion. Amidst these feelings, however, is progress. I've lost count of the number of days it's been since I've last had a tearful meltdown, and I've tuned out the animals...for the most part. I still may not have a bicycle, or my independence, but I'm in a different world and with that comes adjustment. I'm experiencing much, just not on my own timeline, and I'm starting to be okay with that. So cheers. Here's to a new week of still not knowing what's happening until it happens, of being exhausted all the time, and of trying to figure out just what people are saying. I couldn't be more excited.
Love to you all from the beautiful mountainside,
Sabrina
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