Me Duelle mi Corazón

26.02.13

Guatemala is amazing. My time in Antigua has been incredible; my host mom is so sweet; I’ve been electrocuted in the shower, survived several tests, conducted interviews in Spanish; I have gone to church, made new friends, seen the sunrise over a mangrove, and spent a whole weekend beside the Pacific Ocean, feeling words only Kate Chopin’s The Awakening can express. I’ve lived an entire month with a different country, culture, a different continent. I have so many stories I want to tell everyone who takes the time to read this blog, and I will sharethose stories, but I have to write this.

I cried today. Not because I was homesick, though I miss my family, friends, and the presence of sofas. It wasn’t because I was stressed, though this week is going to push me academically. It wasn’t because I was sick or lonely or hormonal. My tears, barely held back all morning, were a result of the perfect (in a horrible way that strikes at the bitter reality of brokenness) mixture of academic knowledge combining with personal experience and being a witness to silent suffering.

My class this morning ended with a thirty-minute discussion between my professor, Rosa María, and myself. We’d just finished reading the book Cajas de Cartón, a story of so much more than a Mexican immigrant, and we were thinking about the cycle of poverty. One topic led to another and Rosa María started to talk about the habits of Latin American men – one of her favorite subjects. Today’s theme lacked the jovial tone of previous conversations.

Guatemala is a machismo society – kind of patriarchal. Men hold a large sway and many of the “rules” of society are swayed to fit their desires. Men’s wants and commands are put above those of women. People are fighting to change this, but it is a slow and tedious process. I can’t imagine it. My own patience wears thin as I avert my eyes, again, to avoid unwanted attention and mistaken intention. I dress modestly to fight against the stereotypes the media has portrayed of me and prevent uncomfortable encounters. I am careful with whom I begin conversations and I am to be in the house by 10:00, 9:00 in Magdalena. Extremes are taken to provide my safety in a system where men’s desires sit on a throne of violence.

These desires include wives who do not use any form of sexual protection – that would be interpreted as adulterous behavior, for that would be the only reason for birth control. Some women do try to use protection, going in secret to receive surgeries or buy pills, but they do so at their own risk – often a risk of being beaten. Guatemala’s extremely Catholic society frowns upon family planning that would prevent the will of God. And so the cyclical system of poverty continues as children are born into already poor families who barely manage to scrape by. And children work instead of going to school. And government gifts to encourage education are sold for extra cash. And people starve and beg and sell trinkets to tourists. And little people learn the bad habits. And it goes on and on and on.

There is a babysitter in our host family, Isabella. Isabella watches the granddaughter. The daughter of the daughter. The princess, the beautiful, the cutie, the lovely, precious, adorable little girl. That’s what they tell her. Constantly. What a baby. Que chulla. Princesa. Guapa. Bonita. Mi amor. Isabella watches Princesa every morning. Isabella is fourteen. She is quiet and shy and never speaks unless spoken to. She eats lunch in the kitchen with the other house worker, not with us. She does not go to school. She probably will never go back to school. Her skin is darker and her nose a little flatter. She leaves work after lunch to work at home. What will she do when the Princess is grown? Probably find another baby or a different home or be married off to her own children and labor. Or maybe both.

And today it was too much. Today my lessons from class and my own disgust of my ungratefulness welled up in an ocean of hurt and I thought my heart would burst right there at the lunch table. I watched as grandmother, uncle, mother, and even those of us sitting around the dinner table took the moment to coddle the baby, to tell her she mattered, to show her she was precious. And Isabella, herself a little girl, stood there holding this child, the same as everyday. And she stood there – a piece of furniture, an extension for the child, a hired hand – and no one let her know that just because she was poor, just because she was indigenous, just because she was a young woman, that that made her no less a human being. No one told her she was precious and treasured. That she was created and is loved.

So in my frustration, in my room, I burst into tears. I let them fall into my hands and I told myself that I would never again complain about school. I told myself that I would remember to thank my parents and family for their hard work so that, on a summer job, I can go to school and lead the life I lead. I told myself to thank God for the blessings I have each day, being born in a place that I take for granted, into a group that supports and encourages my dream – recognizing them as valid. And I told myself, I promised myself and God, that I would learn to take the time to make the most of each interaction. To spend the rest of my short time demonstrating to the people I encounter that they are valued, that they have worth, and that they are loved.

So I will, once again, post pictures and stories and expand on the joy I find here. I love my experience and I would not trade it. I know I’m here for a reason. I am having a good time and I can’t wait to share stories of this beautiful country I am living in, but I believe you needed to know. Maybe even if it is just to take a moment to say thank you and rest in peace, appreciating what seems the littlest blessing. And then, perhaps, to think of how to pass that blessing on.