Observation is Everything

2006-06-11T10:31:00.000-07:00

Well, seeing as I have some very nasty comments about my recent lack of communication, I suppose I should explain myself. You see, sometimes the pressure of writing, and all that it entails, that is, the pressure to create overwhelms writers. I, having enjoyed such a terrific reception at such a young age, have succumbed to pacifying world of drugs, alcohol, and promiscuous sex. Obviously, I am not alone in my response to fame; many other writers deal with it exactly the same way. However, after reading the comments from Marisa and Kelly, I have decided to return to the straight and narrow, to revive my considerable talent, and to come out with a tell-all memoir at the age of 23. In stores soon.
Just kidding, I´ve just been too busy living my life to write about it. Things here have reached the point where many things that would have inspired me to write are simply normal, part of my everyday routine. I do have a few stories though, I guess. If you´re asking.
So, after my cousin Molly left, I went to Peru for spring break. After a very long, very arduous journey, we found ourselves in Lima. We had missed our flight from Lima to Cuzco by 2 hours owing to the fact that there were no buses from a town in Ecuador to Lima because it was Holy Friday. We had walked across the Ecuador/Peruvian border (actually about 6 times back and forth because the customs people on each side kept telling us to get forms from the other side). Anyways, so Lima is very nice and we decided to travel a little outside of it to go to a town called Huacachina. We went sandboarding in the desert (which is like snowboarding only on sand), took boat tours, winery tours, and drank as much pisco as possible. It was wonderful.
Also, for those of you who don´t know, after we came back from Peru, we went to a soccer game in Quito. All was well, but these skinhead type people specifically came and sat next to us and kept asking us for our beer. I know this seems weird, but drinking is truly a social activity in Ecuador in that it is not uncommon for someone to ask you for a sip of your drink. Near the end of the game, one of my friends finally said no, and the skinhead guy said that since she was in his country it was his beer. She told him to fuck off. He was mad. He then came to ask me and I said sure, we´re in your country so it´s yours, and the next time I see an ecuadorian in my country I´ll be sure to ask them for whatever they have in their hands at the time, car keys, a child, you know, whatever they got. He didn´t like that. Then his skinhead girlfriend, who was drunk as shit off our beer, came over and started screaming at me. I decided it wasn´t worth it and gave her the rest of my beer, which she threw on me. So then I threw my cigarette at her shoe. And then she slapped me in the face and called me a pale face opressor bitch (in english). So that was nice.
On a related note, Ecuador won its first world cup game the other day, and it also happened to be my friend´s birthday, so we went out. Luckily we picked a restaurant that was high above the street because a riot broke out in the street below and we had beautiful viewing seats. Some drunk guy got kicked out of a bar into a crowd of people and then the bouncer of the club took a baseball bat to him. So that pissed people off and they started throwing every available piece of glass at this bar. It was insane. We´re talking hundreds and hundreds of bottles. Then the bouncer got a gun and fired it in the air. After that didn´t deter people, they closed the iron gates of the bar and waited. After about 10 minutes, the riot police showed up and threw tear gas and started beating the hell out of everyone they could catch and firing their pistols in the air. It was sort of scary. Apparently you don´t mess with Ecuadorians and football.
All in all, those are my only good stories of late. I´ve been spending as much time with the center people as possible because I´ve only got 6 weeks left. I can´t believe it´s almost over, and I´m not going to write about that right now because I don´t want to think about it. Anyways, I hope you all are well, I´m doing just fine, and I can´t wait to see you all. Be well and I´ll write again soon, I promise.

2006-04-02T16:21:00.000-07:00

Alright, finally I have something somewhat interesting (I think) to write about. I have a visitor! My lovely cousin Molly is here from Milwaukee visiting me. She brought me cookies and a carton of Parliament Lights, I am a happy girl. She´s just gotten in last night, and I, being the great responsible cousin that I am, immediately took her to a bar. I realize that her mother will be reading this, but please, don´t worry I had my eyes on her like a hawk, made sure I bought her drinks, etc, etc. In fact, I was accused by some of my friends of being "exactly like a mother" or "obsessively overprotective". But all´s well that ends well, I believe she had a headache this morning just the same.
We met some of my fellow volunteers and also some of our friends we´ve made here in Quito. It´s a great group, fun to go out with and great to talk to. One of the group is an Austrian here studying Anthropology, another is a Colombian here studying Architecture, there was an Ecuadorian who just got his Ph.D in Applied Mathematics (a surprisingly interesting fellow), and an Irishman who appeared to have studied alcohol consumption rather meticulously. So, after the bar, two of our friends were having a little party at their apartment, which we like to go to because we know the people, it´s clean, and it´s in a nice neighborhood where we can easily catch a cab home. All was well until the Colombian decided to profess his love for me. Now, don´t get me wrong, he´s certainly a catch, good looking, funny, interesting, smart, good on paper, blah blah blah, but I have other fish to fry. So, in the past, I´ve sort of shuffled off his advances as nicely as I could. I really enjoy talking to him, he has a very interesting life; his father is an anti-narcotraficante in Colombia so his family is spread throughout the world in order to escape the death threats they all recieve regularly. Anyways, so as he was launching into one of his last ditch drunken efforts to get me to go out with him, as he was in the middle of telling me that he was a South American I could trust, that he was interested in my mind and not my body (a line frequently tossed out in desperation by many males, regardless of nationality), he recieved a telephone call. He seemed very upset by this phone call, and when he hung up he grudgingly told me that his ex-girlfriend was on her way up to the roof where a few of us had been talking. First of all, this ex-girlfriend had been described to me on numerous occasions as LIVING IN SWITZERLAND. But no matter, I thought perhaps there was more information than I knew. When she showed up, I could tell from her icy demeanor that not only had she not just flown in but also that she was not in fact his ex-girlfriend, but his current girlfriend. I have never seen this person before, I have never been lead to believe that she exists in any real physical proximity to him, and even as she was on her way up to the roof this Colombian yahoo was telling me how she, in her deluded state, thought that they were still together, even though he kept explaining to her that they were not. Well, I suppose I can understand such confusion on her part because as it turns out SHE LIVES WITH HIM. I felt terrible! If I were her, I would have wanted to slap me until I was dead. Luckily, I have an excellent sense of self-preservation and I high-tailed it out of there. Now, it appears that I have experienced the worst of all dating traumas: I have been cuckolded by someone who I wasn´t even interested in. I have no idea how I let such a thing happen. I guess I missed the subtle way he would shut his bedroom door whenever we came over, or how at 3 am, he suddenly got an urge for people to go on the roof. I bet this is the time she comes home from work. My question is this: how does one justify this sort of behavior? This guy, up until last night, seemed like a perfectly nice, respectful, intelligent person to be around. The occasional profession of love is to be expected, I am after all ridiculously attractive, but I never let this get in the way of our friendship. And perhaps there is more than I know, but I mean I have talked to this guy quite a bit, I want to know how you simply forget to mention that your girlfriend lives in your bed. I would think that a live-in girlfriend would be a hard thing to miss, so I can´t believe he forgot. Also, how does one accidentally confuse Switzerland and Ecuador? No, I think this boy decided that he wanted more than one girlfriend, the greedy bastard, and I just happened to come in for it.
My poor dear cousin Molly. Well, actually, poor me, because she laughed at me the entire way home for it, and all of today as I´ve related this story to those that weren´t there. One thing´s for sure, if you come to Ecuador, I´ll be sure to make every night a night to remember. I think it was probably a very good lesson for her to learn, without having to learn it herself. The lesson: do not, under any circumstances, begin to think for a moment that men in this country actually want to know you, respect you or be honest with you. If they were, their girlfriends and wives would have a fit.

2006-03-26T17:01:00.000-08:00

ok hi, yes i know i have completely stopped blogging, i´m sorry, etc. Anyways, this isn´t the real blog, that will be done later this week, but I just wanted people to know that I´m fine, I´m not at all dead or even in danger of being so, so no worries. I have recieved some information that the protests here are being painted as violent, which I have not seen them to be. Also, I am in Quito and the protests are in the country, so I´m not at all in danger, just wanted to reiterate that. Ok, keep reading, I will have something for you this week, I promise.

2006-02-15T06:39:00.000-08:00

I realize that I have lapsed in my updates of late, but I´ve been busy, blah blah blah. Plus, aside from my one loyal friend, marisa, no one has been reading. Or perhaps you have been reading, it´s just that my writing is so uninspiring, there is nothing to say. Whatever the case, here´s a little nugget that can safely go flying off unnoticed into the blogosphere. Well, two nuggets, actually.
I have two stories of odd things that have happened to me recently. I´m not sure what they mean yet, so I don´t think I´ll make any tidy yet incomplete conclusions. First, I should warn you, if you happen to care about me, these stories may make you fear for my safety. No worries please, all is fine.

1. As my friends and I were stumbling out of a bar one weekend, we were confronted by a uniformed police officer who asked to see our identification cards. Now, any foreigner worth her salt would never bring something so difficult to obtain to a bar, where it might be stolen or lost. It took me 3 hours to get this little piece of laminated paper, and I certainly don´t want to go through this again. Therefore, I generally leave it at home. Unfortunately, I was out that night with one of my blond friends. Blond people are human gold in this culture, especially if you are a blond woman. Obviously, this police officer wanted to talk to our blond friend. She had her I.D. with her and even after he saw it he detained her. Since we failed to produce our papers, the officer identified us as undocumented foreigners. He told us he would have to bring us to jail and then migration to have our legal status verified. Now, just the week before this, I had watched our morning bus driver pay a cop $20 to forget about the red light he had just ran, nearly killing us all. Therefore, I offered the police officer money. Far from being offended by my blatant attempt at bribery, he was in fact offended by the amount. I offered him $5, but he only accepted 20´s. This, as it appears, really chapped my ass. I said, "Sir, in order to talk to our blond friend here, you don´t have to arrest us, you only have to say ´hello´ ". Again, he was not offended by this comment, but insisted that he really intended to arrest us. This is where my gloves came off and I said, "Then take me to jail, take me right now. No, really, I want to go, I´m illegal and I am breaking the law which you care so much about so take me to jail then. First, however, let me write down your name and badge number. Then, before we go, can we go talk to your supervisor, who I know is over there smoking cigarettes with the other officers?" I held out my wrists so he could put hand cuffs on them, at which he laughed. He brought me to his supervisor, I explained that I was here volunteering with the poor people, that we could to my house where my I.D. card was, or that if they really thought it was necessary then they could haul me to the hoose gow. After ten minutes of my holding out my wrists and saying "take me to jail you degenerates i´ll have you for everything you and your country is worth", they decided they´d bit off more than they could chew and let us go. Maybe I just snapped that night, but living in a country where as a white woman you are basically seen as a sex slave or dirt, I guess I just couldn´t handle it. I knew that police officer wasn´t bringing me to jail, no matter what. He would have taken me in his car, with his buddies, and good god knows what would have happened. So, although the stink I caused seems petty, childish, immature, arrogant, what have you, I´m glad I refused to surrender my dignity to this person. One could certainly argue that the scene I caused implies a loss of dignity on some level, but I am confident that it was child´s play compared to the humiliation I would have been subjected to had the officer thought I would go without a fight.

2. Strangely, or not so strangely, enough, last weekend, at the same bar where the incident with the police happened, I walked outside to smoke a cigarette. I sat down on a stoop, and prepared to cool off from all the dancing and revelry that had been taking place inside. To my left and right there were benches, all occupied. On my right, there were a series of couples making out. On my left, there was a group of boys my age dressed all in black leather. Their heads were shaved. They wore big combat boots. In my country, these would be the skinheads. I thought, no, it can´t be, someone must have told them, they must know better. When they started marching around giving each other the "hile hitler" salute, I realized that indeed, no, they did not know better. I couldn´t help myself, and since this little Hitler parade was most certainly for my consideration, I said, "You know, I don´t know if you guys realize this, it may have been overlooked, but by Hitler´s standards, you guys are dead." I meant it as a friendly little ice breaker, something to break the discomfort of sitting alone with maker outers on one side and ecuadorian neo-nazis on the other. Well, maybe not a friendly ice breaker, but a funny one at least. They did not think this was funny. One of them yelled, "Go home you yankee bitch!" I pondered this and said, "Well, I could, but that still won´t solve this Hitler problem. Say what you will, but being a ´Yankee bitch´ probably puts me in a better place in Hitler´s book than it does you guys, and you´re the ones running around saluting a dead man who would have exterminated you if given half the chance...." I went on thoughtfully. About half way through my little speech, I saw one of them, the little one of course, start running toward me with his hand raised in a fist. The others caught him, thankfully, but as they dragged him inside the bar the ones with free hands walked past me and whispered "latin power" in my ear. Now, it´s obvious that somewhere these guys got their movements crossed, but it´s interesting how they, in the course of a 5 minute conversation with a stranger, they managed to identify themselves with two seemingly opposed hate movements. I guess all cats look the same in the dark.

2006-01-10T16:05:00.000-08:00

Sorry to have posted the last one twice, I wasn´t sure it was posted at all and then I had to do the thing, and you know how it is.

I´m back in the center after a lovely, decadent two week vacation. We are lucky to have a group from the St. Thomas Vision program here visiting and volunteering for a few weeks. This is a group that comes down here every year and 3 years ago, I was a member of the group. Having them here has reminded me of my own first steps into this country. My shadow (the girl whose job it is to follow me around) was talking today about how she feels like she´s a million miles from home, like she´s been here for months even though it´s been 5 days, that when she first arrived and saw what this is she wanted to get on the plane and go back home. I, very compassionately, laughed at her, not only because what she was saying is so cute and innocent in itself, but because I remember feeling the exact same thing. Up until I had this conversation, I kind of had this memory in my head of my first trip down here as a serious turning point in my life. And, in the long run, it was. A lot changed for me here, but I don´t think I knew that as it was happening. I think I assigned that distinction to that experience in hindsight, in analysis, perhaps even in an excuse to avoid grad school by coming back.
Anyone who knows me knows I have a flair for the dramatic, for the story of things. This is one reason I write. Somehow it´s ten times more acceptable to be dramatic in print; when you´re dramatic in person people tell you to calm down, have a drink, stop talking so loud and gesturing so wildly etc, etc. And I love to tell stories. I love to see the stories happening, even if they end up only being "based on true events". Still, it makes me wonder exactly what effect my flair for drama will have on my memories, and thus my contact with reality. Will I, if my memories continue to be reinvented through my own analysis of them, eventually become one of those raving lunatics who talk about the good old days when gas was really cheap, I was good chums with the president, and I regularly saved invalids from burning buildings? I certainly hope not.
Still, I can almost feel myself becoming that as the events are happening. I kid you not, sometimes I pause in the middle of things and say "This will be a moment I remember for the rest of my life". Now, first of all, I think that´s a little ambitious. Who can remember all this stuff? At the end of my life I will feel blessed to remember my teeth. Second, I think that by making this grand realization, I begin the process of analyzing and romanticizing even before the event I will romanticize is over. An example (and I will freely admit that much of this particular entry was made to build up to this example). This past week, I was in the small Ecuadorian hippy beach town of Montañita. It´s on the coast, which means it is very warm, beautiful, you know, your basic tropical paradise. It was heavenly. As I was laying one day in the hammock on the porch of my cabaña, I noticed a very tall, skinny black man walking by. He seemed dynamic, gesturing all around his head with his large, long hands. At this moment, I realized it was Dave Chappelle, the American comedian. Now, we had enjoyed a few margaritas the evening before, and there wasn´t anyone around to confirm my realization, so I talked myself out of it. Luckily, later that night at dinner, we ran into him and this american couple he was tagging along with. I didn´t say anything to him, I just became silent and from what people tell me my eyes were bugging out and my face went scarlet red. Obviously concerned that something was going to pop out of me, like my liver or something, he came over and introduced himself. This is not romanticizing at all--my hands were shaking and I had to stop myself from blurting out any number of his jokes. Instead I squeaked out "I´m a huge fan!" in complete geek fashion. But he ended up hanging out with us for a long time. We built a bonfire on the beach with Dave Chappelle.
Now, hanging out with Dave Chappelle was cool, I mean he´s a pretty funny guy, but the greater question that arose out of this was, how in the world will I ever tell this story? I was pondering this question as he was sitting next to me. I said to myself, this is something I will always remember. I swore I would, so I could tell it to other people. And yet, all I can really say is that we hung out and it was fun and he´s a nice guy. I can´t remember hardly any of the jokes he told. I know I laughed a whole lot. There has got to be a better story here, I know there was! But, alas, I am left with only one mildly cool fact to relate: I met someone famous.
Therefore, in the version I´m going publish for real, Dave Chappelle and I are actually best friends. He loves me! He told me all his secrets of comedy and I told him all mine about being a 22 year old volunteer. Although he´s married and faithful to his wife, he did mention to me that I was the first girl he´s met since his wife that he considered leaving her for. Also, he sent me flowers the next day to say what a funny and inspiring person I am and how nice I looked in the glow of the campfire. Also, he´s called me three times since I met him and he donated $20,000 to the center I work for. Also, he bought me a house in the states just because I´m so nice. Also, when he calls, he doesn´t say "hello", he just says "I´m Rick James, bitch!".
I know the last paragraph isn´t true, and I´m if anyone read it out of context, they would know as well. Still though, it would be a way better story. Way better. I guess I´m just a girl who will always twist reality a little bit, just tweak it if I can, so it stands out as a better memory, a better experience. Until life presents me with a continuous string of unbeatable stories, I guess I´ll just have to make my own both on paper and in my life; I hope desperately to have humdinger of a whopper of a razzle-banger of a tale to tell when I die.

2005-12-31T11:23:00.001-08:00

Hello to anyone who´s still reading this blog! Thanks for checking it and I´m sorry I haven´t had anything new or interesting to say in awhile. Hopefully today should be different.
This past month has flown by so fast that I feel like I don´t even know where to begin. We spent most of the weekends this month helping out with preparations for Christmas in the center, which after all the work we put into it, was a bit anti-climactic. I guess I expected the events to be on par with the academy awards after all the things we did in preparation, but that was a silly expectation anyways. I have to admit that this year didn´t feel quite like Christmas for me. It was the first time in my life that I haven´t been with my entire extended family on Christmas Eve opening presents and singing Christmas Carols. But, like Santa Claus, my family arrived in Quito on Dec. 24 at Midnight. And it was a gift to have them here. They got to meet some of my kids, which was great for me (and also for my kids because it´s always difficult for them to imagine that people can live so far away from me and still love me). We traveled to Baños, which is a town about 5 hours away from Quito. We stayed in the Andes mountains at this beautiful resort. We laughed. We fought. We went rafting down the Pastazo River. All in all, it felt great to have people around me who love me for who I am. I have rarely experienced what it feels like to simply want someone around just for the sake of their companionship and I feel blessed to feel that for my family.
Truthfully, it can be difficult to be here sometimes. I am surrounded by a community of people, some of which I enjoy immensely and others not so much. I am in a giant city that pulses with people and noise whether I like it or not. I have the love and support of all my friends and family at home. Yet, sometimes at night I am as lonely as I have ever been. It´s strange how I feel less lonely when I´m actually alone. I really don´t understand why this is, but it is. Perhaps this is my Holden Caulfield stage or something, although it´s still so strange that this would happen now, of all times. To remedy this lonliness, I like to take a cab into the center of Quito on Sundays. I have an international lunch (meaning not Ecuadorian food) which includes a glass of white wine, reading a book, and smoking as many cigarettes as I feel compelled to smoke. I usually see a movie afterwards (in English). I have no idea why this makes me less lonely, since no one goes with me or even really knows I do this here, but it does. Perhaps it´s because when I am around people to whom I have nothing interesting to say but feel obligated to talk to nonetheless, I guess it makes me lonely. It seems that other people are so good at bellowing inconsequential nothings at one another whereas I only feel like I´m good at it after a full night´s rest, a good meal, a nice glass of wine, and plenty of time to prepare. So this is what I do on Sundays, when I can, so that I can make it through the rest of the week. I wonder if anyone else ever has this problem?
That said, it was phenomenal to have my family visit me. I can be around them, say nothing, and they don´t bug me about it. I can just be with them. I can´t express how grateful I am just for that.

2005-12-31T11:23:00.000-08:00

2005-11-28T16:51:00.000-08:00

And now, a revelation of an epiphany. I have never really considered how I learn. I don´t remember a time when I could not read. I don´t remember what it´s like to look at letters and not have them automatically form into words. I do remember a time when I could not add or subtract, because I still have to think about it everytime I do it. Still, I know that even my feeble math abilities are advanced enough to call myself educated. I have no idea what it would be like to be 22 and completely illiterate.
Every night, I teach a group of three women who fall into this category to which I cannot relate. These women are mothers many times over, married and pregnant before any other idea had occurred to them. I can´t say I blame them. If I were poor and uneducated I would probably marry an older man and have his babies as well. We´re all just looking to leave a mark on the world, and children are a legacy that can be left even if one lacks every other oppurtunity. Further, these women should now be applauded for coming to the center, for putting just a little blind hope in the possibility that they could learn, though all their lives they´ve been told they cannot. When their parents couldn´t afford school, or hadn´t gone to school themselves, they told these women that they didn´t need school, that it wouldn´t do them any good, that "intelligence" just doesn´t run in their family and so better to get married instead. These women are 30 years old and look 50.
But still they come. Believe me, one of the most difficult things I deal with here is the presumption I feel teaching women older than I in age and experience how to read, subtract, and add. We are also supposed to teach them about Ecuador, i.e. what the colors on the flag mean, the national anthem. I don´t know these things offhand, so I go to the internet, read it, and teach it to them. It makes me ashamed to know that I can read and then teach them something about their own country. They´ve lived here all their lives, I´ve been here 3 months, and here I am teaching them about their own home.
The presumption is not only mine. The adult education program is overseen by a man named Freddy. This is a man who obviously has some teaching experience, though he has never mentioned of what sort, and I believe that his previous career was as a voice-over announcer of Spanish television commercials. Perhaps he dabbled in radio. Whatever the case, the man comes in to take attendance and booms "¿Buenas noches, como estan todos?" just about every night. At this, the women who might have been previously lively, funny, interested, and on their way to self-confidence literally turn down their eyes and cower. He, also a man younger than all of them, proceeds to make sure they´ve been attending, and often puts them on the spot, making them solve math problems or read words. I have grown to despise this man and I´m pretty sure he despises me right back. When he comes in and checks up on us, he always asks me what I´ve been doing. He asks the women questions more as a test of my teaching abilities than of their learning capacities. He´s already decided they´re stupid, just as the moment he met me he decided I was stupid, and just as he has decided that every woman on the earth is stupid. I wrote in my last blog about the cultural differences which I didn´t know how to judge; well, I figured one out: I will not and do not ever accept any man deciding himself more intelligent than I because of his sex. I may accept that men may be more apt to certain types of intelligence than women, but I hold the vice versa true as well. Therefore, this man who not only demeans me but demeans women who have been demeaned their entire life has become my enemy. I thought I was presumptuous, but this guy is ridiculous. I sat in on a class he gave in which he called on the only 2 men in a classroom of 15 students for one hour. I also listened to him in this very same class say that Ecuador and South America are referred to as "poor" and America and North America as "rich". This, of course, made my students again feel wonderful about themselves, and gave them the impetus towards total and complete self-confidence in my presence. Who is this guy kidding? They know where we´re from.
Anyhow, though it is awkward, frustrating, and at times painful, the adult education classes provide me with perhaps my greatest sources of hope. These women want to learn so badly that they are willing to put aside their own fears, their own low self-esteem, to believe in (in their mind) the tiny possibility that they can learn. This is an unbelievable expression of strength. I could never have taught them that, but I hope to teach them to see it living within. And they´re getting better at keeping their heads high. With everything they learn, they get just a little more confident. It´s subtle, but it´s there. On a recent night, Freddy came into the class to take attendance in his usual cocksure manner. He asked the first two ladies if they had attended the night before. They answered a meek "yes". When he asked the third lady, she looked him in the eye and said "I´ve been here every night and if you don´t believe me you can go suck it!" Now that is living proof that an education is priceless.

2005-11-16T10:30:00.000-08:00

And once again, hello. Before I get into it, I wanted to thank all the people who commented on my last blog, including Andrey and the leprachaun man. Obviously everything those two are trying to sell me pertains to what I´m doing in Ecuador. That was a lie. Seriously, it´s excellent to hear from all of you, and I really appreciate your indulgence of my narcissism.

I have been here almost 3 months, although it doesn´t feel like it because I´ve been so busy and also because the weather never changes here. It´s chilly in the morning (like 40 degrees) and gets up to about 80 in the afternoon, and back down to 40 at night. Sometimes, just for a change of pace, it rains in the afternoon for about an hour. Other than that, there are no time markers for me here, other than vacations, which are few and far between. I didn´t realize that Thanksgiving is next week! It seems far too early for such a thing, where´s the snow, I haven´t seen a leaf this fall!
Still, it´s been good. Three months is very close to the amount of time I spent in Spain, and thus I feel qualified to compare my time here with my study abroad experience. The only thing the two countries have in common is that both of their national languages are Spanish. Also, I suppose one could say that they architecture and layout of their major cities is somewhat similar, but then, that´s only because Spain was evil. Other than that, the differences abound. One is the lack of posh European influenced commercial establishments. There are very few cute cafes to sit in here; the cafes instead usually have a dog in the corner and coffee is Nescafe (a particularly sinister brand of instant coffee). If the cafe is cute, it is run by Europeans, and is thus 3 times as expensive as the one with the dog. This carries over into drinking establishments as well. Here, one has to ignore the dirtiness of the place, and if the owner wants any customers at all, he´d better turn the lights down so they can´t see the cockroaches scurrying across the floor. In Spain, one could get a martini in a martini glass with an olive. Here it comes in a coffee cup with a lime. Ok, that last statement was an exaggeration, you can´t get martinis at all here, but you can get a hell of a mojito.
Which place do I prefer? It´s still difficult to say. Obviously, I love what I´m doing here more than what I was doing in Spain, but I´m trying to judge on a purely cultural basis. Spain has more in common with America than Ecuador does, but then I´m not generally a huge fan of American culture, so that´s no help. Here, there are various cultural practices which I can´t decide whether to respect as part of Ecuador or hate for being inefficient. For instance, no one will change a $20 bill here. I am not sure why, but I think it´s because they never have enough change. The concept of a till seems to have eluded them. It gets to the point that they would rather not have the money you would like to spend than change a $20 bill. THIS WOULD NEVER HAPPEN IN AN INDUSTRIALIZED COUNTRY. Also, I had an experience the other day where I found myself $14 in debt to 2 separate stores who would not accept a $20 bill I had recieved from the cash machine but that was apparently damaged beyond spendability. I even tried to make a deal with one guy that I would pay him $20 for a $5 bill, but sadly, no dice.
Another example of a "cultural difference" is that the parents hit their kids. Now, I don´t know if this means all ecuadorian parents hit their kids, which would truly make a cultural difference, or if it is only the people I work with, but as far as I can tell it´s the main method of discipline in this country. Parents tell me to hit their kids if they misbehave in my class. I don´t, though at times it´s very tempting, only because I am too much of a wimp to see the defeated look on their face that I observe when their parents hit them.
I don´t know what to think about these things. In Spain, the cultural differences were only as brash as a later dinner time and more vacation. Those, I could handle. Here, I am tempted to judge them as bad, or annoying. It´s annoying that car alarms are constantly going off for hours, or that there is no such thing as a vehicle emissions test, or that I get robbed by poor children, or that nothing ever just works perfectly. As far as the money thing is concerned, I would see it as an impediment to enterprise, which as an American I have been conditioned to regard as tantamount to an attack on one´s liberty. In Europe, and especially in America, we are interested in making money, in getting what the other guy´s got. Thus, everything we do, everything we own, is either an effort to secure wealth or an effort to show off the wealth we´ve secured, or both. Here, not so much. Also, we frown on hitting our kids. You can go to jail for spanking your kid for crissakes. Here, not so much. So are these things examples of Ecuador´s identity which I should respect as much as a typical food or dress of Ecuador or should I go with my gut and say that they are wrong? I don´t know. I know how I do feel about them, that the first instance is an example of stupidity and the second an example senseless violence, but is that right? Am I being the typical American abroad, throwing my weight around a country I barely know, thinking I´m right because of where I came from? We certainly don´t do everything perfectly in the U.S.; anyone who has ever tried to obtain or renew a document issued by the government knows this . We sit in traffic for half our lives for what appears to be the wrong reasons. But still, we at least attempt to fix our problems, and if we don´t know how, we find someone who does. Here, the problems fester and become "the way things are". To me, this is a depressing thought, but maybe I just need give this country more of my respect and less of my pity.

2005-11-06T12:48:00.000-08:00

Forgive me father for I have sinned it´s been almost 3 weeks since my last blog. Sorry to those of you who have been reading, checking the site everyday in the vain hope that I would deign to share my awe-inspiring insight. I know it´s been hard, but it´s going to be alright, stop crying. Seriously, thanks to those who have been reading; you´re making it easier for me to write.
The last few weeks have been interesting. We had a few days off during this last one, and so a large group of the volunteers here went to a small resort town called Baños about 3.5 hours south of Quito. The town marks the beginning of the Jungle, or the Oriente as it is called here, and thus is very lush and beautiful. We rode horses through the mountains and aside from a very sore butt and a very sunburnt torso, it was an amazing experience.
I suppose this trip was interesting for a variety of reasons. It is not my intention to underplay the natural beauty and spiritual experience of riding through the Andes Mountains on horseback, but I truly believe that something more amazing than this happened for me in Baños albeit more subtle.
Within the group of volunteers, there are a few very distinct personality types. There is the rich kid. Well, I guess I´ll face it, we´re all pretty much rich kids; even if we are not now independently rich, we all grew up in well-off families. This quality in itself seems to manifest itself in a few different ways, however. About half of the group seems to be on a vacation from their normal lives. Still, this vacation includes a lot of drinking, lattes, shopping, and what have you. Thus it seems to me that their experience here is really just the experience of home with a slightly different setting, different language, different job. I certainly fit into this category somewhat. The other half of the group is interested in total Ecuadorian immersion, spiritual journey, and all-around dedication to the Center. I also fit into this category. If there must be two distinct groups, then I am glad that I am able to move easily between them. Still, I have been significantly put upon by both to give up gossip ammo to the other. If this sounds trivial, stupid, childish, and mean that´s because it is. I have listened to conversations the likes of which I haven´t witnessed in my own age group since we were 14 or 15. I have also listened to hefty amount of "educated gossip", which is gossip between people with college degrees (it employs a larger vocabulary, takes on an air of healthy analysis, but is still just petty as shit). I should put in the necessary admission here: I am not above this gossip, I know I have even perpetuated it at times with my stories of other people, but I can honestly say that I almost always think about things before I say them, not because I´m Mother Teresa or something, but because I´m too self-conscious not to.
Anyhow, so I have found myself in the midst of a verbal battlefield, Catholic v. Catholic, Spiritual Seeker v. Spiritual Seeker. Since each side knows I am neutral, each confides in me and also asks me to communicate any grievances with the other. Does this sound like a school age parable yet? Anyhow, so up until this last week, I attempted to keep the peace. I tried to simply keep my mouth shut and my head down, not make waves, whatever. It´s funny how whenever I try to do that, I end up snapping and yelling something out. So we were in Baños, and one of the girls in the "latte" group mentioned (for the 50 millionth time) a grievance she holds with a girl from "serious" group. Apparently "latte" doesn´t like how "serious" chews loudly enough to be heard throughout the room. On the one hand, I can understand "latte". It is unpleasant, not to mention hard to hold an audible conversation, when "serious" is at the table. Still, the thought of how much it would hurt "serious´s" feelings to know that she is being laughed at for something she doesn´t know she does wrong moved me to defend her (for the 50 millionth time, though I really put some passion in it this time). I asked "latte" if she was absolutely sure that she herself had no odd habits, qualities, quirks, idiosyncracies, etc. She said she would know. I pointed out to her that "serious" persisted unawares of a bad habit none of us find it possible to ignore. This shut "latte" up.
The next day, emboldened by my victory, I told "serious" that for her own social good, she should close her mouth and keep it closed while eating. Gutsy, I know. Still, it went over as I expected. She was embarassed, but only in front of me as opposed to in front of the entire group. Thinking that I had successfully struck a blow for peace in the commune, I sat back, ready to revel in the glorious friendship and understanding that could now flow freely like honey from the open hearts of my assigned kinfolk. Or not. When I mentioned to "latte" that I had said something to "serious" about this chewing, that she was now aware of the problem and thus much more apt to fix it, "latte" said, "Well good, finally, now if she would only do something about shaking her big butt at every guy she sees".
This is where the important realization comes in. I realized that I would not be able to make others be kind to one another. I have no power over the will of these people, because when it comes down to it their animosity rests not in chewing or men or even big butts, but instead in the perceived threat they think the other represents. It´s the homecoming queens vs. the art geeks, the business majors vs. the art majors, the republicans vs. the damn-near communists. Even though I believe that I straddle these divisions alot of the time (with an admitted leaning towards the latter of every division above), I can´t make either of them see eye to eye. Hell, half the time I can´t resolve the divide between these two factions even within myself. Therefore, I have finally gotten that I will simply have to just be friends with them all, listen to them all, but maintain my own position as myself, free of a group, regardless of how lonely it might be sometimes to be the one girl you don´t gossip to. To find the confidence to remain on the fence, to refrain from taking a side, is something I rarely do. To say I´m an opinionated girl is putting it mildly; but I realized this week that I have one opinion that trumps any I might share regarding the menial behavior of people I live with: it is always better to be kind, to seek the good of every person. Not just for some lofty moral purpose either. It is better to be kind because it is easier to be happy this way. I guess, in the end, it´s sort of selfish really. Now, don´t tell anyone I said this.

2005-10-19T16:38:00.000-07:00

Lots of you have asked me how I feel about living in a Catholic environment. I have to admit, it´s difficult at times, mostly when I know I am obligated to go to mass and I would really just like to continue my nappy. Still, it´s not just that. This place attracts a certain type of person. At base, all the volunteers have a desire to be here at the center teaching children. After that, I would say that the most common personality trait is "extreme morality" (which, coincidentally would also be a good name for a reality show). Whether this morality springs from a Catholic perspective or from a sort of earthy, life experience, I-am-good-because-I-want-to-feel-the-pulse-of-life outlook, it exists in everyone here. For those of you who don´t know, when I say "everyone" I mean volunteers my age, priests, seminarians, and nuns, all of whom I live with.
A good example of this comes from a conversation I had the other day. It took place between a few other volunteers and I, and I would say I am the least religious of the group. One of them was a seminarian for awhile, one of them is currently studying Catholic Studies in college, and one of them was raised by republican oil executives. Thus, I obviously took the role of the atheist communist, just to add a little spice to their life. No, I´m kidding, I was truthful. The conversation started out as one regarding the celibacy of priests, whether it´s necessary, you know, that old thing. It turned into a conversation about whether or not the institution of the church embraces all of its members, even those who don´t accept all of its dogma. The seminarian argued that it does not, that "cafeteria catholics" are simply too wimpy to make the sacrifices the religion demands of them. I agreed with him, but contrary to his expectation, this did not cause me to renounce my position as a cafeteria catholic. I believe that by rejecting parts of an institution I believe are wrong I am actually letting my faith play a more active role in my life than if I just unconditionally surrendered to the church. I surrender to God and on one else. Well, perhaps also cheese, but that´s another story.
Still, the conversation got me thinking that even though I don´t accept all of the Church´s teachings, I am at this moment a representative of the Church. I work in a Catholic institution and its one which requires its members to adhere to the teachings of Catholicism, that they might be saved from the eternal fires of hell, or their current lives, whichever´s worse. So this means that if someone were to ask me what I thought about the Church, Jesus, the Trinity, sex before marriage, abortion, poverty, wealth, homosexuality or even something as seemingly insignificant as communion, I would have to answer as the institution wanted me to despite my own personal beliefs. Luckily, no one has asked me. Luckily there isn´t a younger version of myself walking around. I remember how I used to grill religion teachers on difficult subjects, ask them questions that are virtually impossible to answer such as "So if the Bible says 'Love your neighbor' and Jesus loved and accepted everyone, how come gay people aren´t really accepted in the church?" If the teacher knew what was good for him, he would change the subject. If not, he would give me the Catholic answer, and I would proceed to take up the entire class explaining why this answer was unadulterated bullshit.
But now I´m the teacher. I don´t want to change the subject; I would love to be an example of my own beliefs for my kids. I want to show them that if you believe something, you should always believe it, no matter where you are. But then, I don´t want to cause problems for a place I respect so much. I have respect for the priests and nuns here that goes beyond the fact that they are Catholic. I have respect for them because they decided when they were my age that they were going to devote their entire life to helping the poor, no matter what happened. I have respect for someone who knows when they are 22 how they will spend the rest of their lives. I try not to hold the Catholic thing against them, but then again, it gets difficult when I hear the priest preaching about what God wants for his people and how this desire of God is suspiciously close to requirements he made for the members of the center (I´m not sure that God really cares if you take a bath everyday, and if he does, well, I think I´m in trouble).
Anyhow, so this is what its like. Being a Catholic is like being an American; both mean that I belong to larger institutions whose best quality is that they sincerely mean well and whose worst is that they constantly claim that their philosophy is absolutely right in all situations. I deal with this by trying to love both truly, trying always to seek the good of the institution and the people in it. It appears God is in the details.

2005-10-12T17:22:00.000-07:00

Hello again all!

Judging by the titillating and rapid response to my last blog, it seems that my writing is really "reaching out and touching people". Well, two of them anyways. Thus, I continue.

I have been here for over a month now, and I suppose it´s customary to take some stock of how this experience is affecting me. I´m tired. I have diarrhea almost constantly (I feel it best to give the complete picture). I am dirty. I am so stressed out that just before I fall asleep at night, I am visited by scenes of terrific violence involving people I know and love. I have not been able to completely quit smoking, but I don´t smoke on Mondays and Tuesdays. I am working up to quitting on Wednesdays also, but it´s a baby step situation. I live with a bunch of people my own age who are equally as stressed out, which makes for a great "Real World: Quito" to the 10th degree. I find myself often looking into the eyes of small, relatively innocent children and wishing that they would just shut the hell up forever. I also find that my pride is lowering day by day; how can it not when people are constantly telling you important things which you do not understand (such as "Miss Emily, your fly is open" or "There is no fire in the oven and you left the gas on for an hour, endangering the life of all 500 people in this building").
Still, I think all these factors put at just the right place to relate to the people I teach. First, as far as the language is concerned, I am teaching English to small children. When I ask them to say something in English, at times I have to put my head on their desk in order to hear them, but I gain confidence in myself when they say something correctly. They, in turn, gain confidence from correcting my spanish or saying something about my ass that I can´t understand. It´s beautiful. Actually, I think it´s very rare for a teacher to have so much socially in common with her students (unless you count those college professors who are just trying to get laid by one of their promising pupils).
The children are also tired, dirty and confronted with violence. Thus, to know them, all I have to do is imagine the feeling I get whenever I see a woman beat her kid over the head or an older boy break a girl´s nose, and it´s enough to make me meek, humble, caring, and concerned. It is still necessary to scare the shit out of the girls every once and awhile, just to keep them honest, but I´ve learned how to do it with very little physical action. I´ll write what I do here, only because the other volunteers think it´s funny. The other day, a girl (one of my "problem children") was talking out of turn for the 3rd time that day. I stopped speaking and stared at her until I got her attention. When I had it, I asked her to tell me and the class what was so important that it couldn´t wait until I was done speaking. She said nothing, so I continued, "No really," I said, "it must be very important, so let´s hear it." When she still didn´t answer, I got in her face and asked if perhaps she had a hearing problem, or a mental problem, one that prevented her from speaking only when someone was actually listening and it didn´t involve disturbing other people. By the end of this episode, the poor girl was almost in tears. I felt bad, but when I looked up, the entire class was staring at me with wide eyes. I was able to continue with no problem.
I think what my girls and I share most is the discomfort and anxiety of an unfamiliar situation. Both of us are a bit scared of each other, not quite sure what the other will do next. Both of us rely on each other for success. And I suppose I can´t speak entirely for them, I get the impression that it´s mutual as well, but I love these girls. I absolutely love them. For all the frustration, the dirtiness, the smart comments about my ass, I still come back and am so proud of them almost everyday (I say almost because one day they cheated, I was not proud of them then but instead scorned and depressed). I love that they correct my spanish because I love the snide look they get on their face when they do it; sometimes they even get exasperated and say "Miss Emily, what are we going to do with you." It is very, very funny. Today we were working on the "How much vs. How many" concept, and it lead to a discussion of the cost of things here vs. the cost of things in the United States. When I would tell the girls about something that is vastly more expensive in the United States, they would all scream out the price in disbelief. They were especially excited by the price of some concert tickets ( picture 20 little girls screaming $600!!!!!??????). I know I´ve become a complete and total sap now, but it was so cute, so funny, so precious that I doubled over laughing.

Anyhow, sorry to go on and on about teaching, but it´s my life right now. As far as other things, as some of you have queried in your emails, no there are no boys. I live in a convent with nuns and and a priest. I have no time for boys. I like the people I live with. If I die in this country, it will be on a bus or in the back of a taxi that is trying to pass a bus on a two way city street. OK, paz afuera.

2005-10-01T13:26:00.000-07:00

Hello again all!

Sorry I haven't written in awhile, I know you have all been becoming more and more anxious in my absence, but I have been boycotting blogger.com since it lost an entire entry of mine last week. Twice. It was frustrating, but I'm ready to forgive and forget.

So, news. Well, I completed my second week of classes without too many slip-ups, and as usual, I have reached a few new conclusions. One of them is that not only are sixth grade girls agents of satan, but also that they won't shut the hell up. This is probably the most frustrating part of my day. First I yell. Then I stand there in silence and glare at them until one of them notices and tells everyone to be quiet. I believe the look on my face must inspire some sort of fear in them. I believe they think I am going to injure them. This is a misconception that I do not intend to correct. I asked one of them why all the girls talk so much in my class and she said it is because the other teachers allow them to talk. I didn't think this could possibly be true until I sat in on the Thursday afternoon health classes. I thought my class was bad but the health classes are certainly my latest idea of what hell might be like. The classes are co-ed, a rarity at the Center. The boys at the center are some of the scariest, oddest, most violent people I have ever encountered. They're cute and all, but it's hard to think so when they're throwing desks or beating the crap out of someone in the corner. As I stood outside waiting for the first class to file in, a boy who had already arrived looked up at me, smiled, and said "Fuck you" in perfect english. Nice. I was very taken aback, I mean, I didn't even know this kid and here he was already tossing the bastion of English offensive language at me without so much as a hello? Then I got mad. I asked the kid his name, he told me, and then he asked me mine. I'm not sure exactly what I said, but I know it was along the lines of "You're gonna find out soon enough amigo". I thought I had scared him into behaving well, but unfortunately, he wasn't put off his deviant behavior. The little shit. (I mean that in the most affectionate way).
I just don't understand how children can behave so badly, so violently, and not get punished in some way that might deter them from repeating the offense. Still, it shouldn't be too hard to imagine. Their parents hit them. The other teachers at the center hit them. Violence as discipline is simply the status quo here. I'm sure the Ecuadorians would get a kick out of our namby-pamby "time outs" and "groundings" and "behavior modification techniques". They have the same things here, but they all consist of meeting a moving object with a non-moving object; that is, it could be a hand meeting the back of a head, a stick meeting a hand, a spoon meeting a cheek or what have you. Thus, we Americans, averse to hitting children in all cases, (and lovers of small animals and the defenseless in general), have to find interesting ways to discipline. The key is to find something that makes the child very uncomfortable but that doesn't really hurt them. For instance, in my gym class, which I teach with another girl, we have started employing the "cucaracha". This tactic has the child lay on their back, preferably on cobble stones in the sun to maxmize the discomfort level of the naughty little beast, and stick their arms and legs straight in the air. This move works wonders! We had to do it to a little boy this week because he took the new kid's hat off, threw it in a puddle, and stomped on it. After 5 minutes in the cockroach position, the little angel was glad to apologize, dry off the hat, and walk reservedly back to his spot in line. I realize that child advocates will probably respond to this poorly. Well, to them I say that you have never seen such violent children. In most situations, they get hit, so when they have the oppurtunity to exact some power over someone else, usually the new kid, they do so with relish. There is one kid in the school who really likes to take rocks and crack other childrens' skulls open with them. There is another who really likes to cut other children with knives. In the second gym class that day, I sent a kid to the principal's office for punching a girl in the face. I don't want to continue the cycle of violence, so I will never hit them, but this also means that I have to find a way to protect my students and myself. It's weird to deal with children who are already completely insane in some way. Perhaps I shall make them do yoga. Maybe all their missing is a concentration of chi.

2005-09-20T17:42:00.000-07:00

I´ve done it- Parte Dos

Sorry about the lapse, the internet cafe closed. Anyhow, now I have two days under my belt, so I´m officially officially a pro. As opposed to yesterday when I was only officially a teacher. With my wealth of experience, I have come to a few conclusions.
1. Sixth grade girls are the meanest beings upon the earth.
I teach english to sixth grade girls twice a day and teach all ages of girls handicrafts and cooking twice a day as well. What happens to these people after 4th grade has become one of my many inquistive missions for the year. I remember 6th grade. It was pretty much the only year I was nice. This was because everyone else, well mainly Vanessa the knife-weilding mexican girl who rode the city bus to South Milwaukee from downtown and wore huge pants, was very very mean. Looking back on it, I´m sure Vanessa turned out to be a fine upstanding human being. Unfortunately, I only really knew her in 6th grade when female humans reach the peak of their evil. Yesterday, I put the girls in seats. I´m a professional, so I thought a seating chart was a good idea. The girls also thought it was a good idea until I sat one of the more popular, prettier, older girls next to a new, less attractive girl. You would have thought I poured poop on the pretty girl. I did not, but after her behavior, I can´t say she wouldn´t have deserved it. The new girl is very, very poor, obviously a bit malnourished and scared out of her wits by just about everything. When I call on this girl in class, I swear a bug living in her ear ( I´m sad to say there may actually be a few) would have ask her to repeat what she said. She came in late yesterday because she didn´t know where to go, the principal had to bring her to my class, and when I sat her down, the pretty girl literally cried out "No!". I understand that this new girl probably doesn´t smell as good as everyone who has been bathing regularly for the last 10 years, but what the heck? The new girl has already become my pet, though it´s hard to get her to do anything for me because she´s afraid to stand up. Still, I´m trying, my heart is already breaking for her and I don´t know what to do. I was mostly the mean girl. Perhaps this is penance.
2. I should not be allowed near the kitchen.
3. I should not be charged with teaching young girls how to cook.
Well. I had my first cooking class today. I am team teaching with another girl who is very nice, very proficient in spanish, and who likes all children. Too bad neither of us can bake oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Too bad this means we have to pay for the cookies we ruin. Hmmm. Everything was going along fine until we put the cookies in the oven. In fact, the only part we are remotely responsible for is taking the cookies out of the oven so they don´t burn. Perhaps in my defense, one could say that it is a very chaotic situation, baking cookies with little girls running around, but unfortunately this claim is ever-so-easily refuted. First, there are only 6 girls at a time. Second, if it´s so hard, then why are mothers generally famous the world over for handling this situation with grace? Ah, so. The disappointment that registers on childrens´faces when they see smoke billowing out of the oven, when they realize that they will not get to see the fruits of their toils, when they realize that you have made defense missiles out of the cookies they intended to sell to their friends, can make a girl want to hang it up and teach more gym class.
4. I can´t make wedding cake cards.
Alas, tomorrow I get to make crafts. Yesterday I spent 2.5 hours trying to make a card with a pop up wedding cake in the middle. I did it, but it was the sorriest looking piece of shit excuse for a "craft" you have can imagine. It´s bad when 7 year olds have to show you how to do it and you´re supposed to be teaching them. I tried to inform them that I wasn´t in the least domestic, that I couldn´t cook, that I should teach the reading class, but they wouldn´t listen. Well, this is what they get. Burned cookies and a shit-show cake card.

Thanks for reading, I miss you all, write me! Thanks for reading!

2005-09-19T19:57:00.000-07:00

Well, I´ve done it. I have officially become a teacher. Well, as officially as one does anything in Ecuador. Considering there are 5 year olds who can officially call themselves "working men", I suppose my new occupation doesn´t mean as much. But whatever, I love this. Today was my first day and I can honestly say that I am exhausted and elated. I didn´t sleep last night despite my best efforts (reading, popping Nyquil, you know). I was so incredibly nervous. I envisioned a room full of kids running around, pulling my hair, and kicking me while I curled up in the corner and cried. This did not happen. When I "woke up" this morning, I was terrified. I took the quickest shower of my life and ran to make my 6:45 am bus to the downtown school where I start my days. On the way, I stared out the window, tried to gather my zen. I couldn´t though, it was like "zen, what´s zen? I don´t have time for this shit, I have to teach goddamnit!" And then we rounded a corner and the highest mountain in the Quito region became visible in the morning light. Cheesy, I know, but it was beautiful, covered with snow on the ecuator, and I thought, eh, my life really isn´t as important as I think it is.
So I got to school and, since I was still a healthy amount of nervous, I decided to mask my fear by becoming a huge hardass. I was teaching an English class, and to scare the kids, I spoke only in English for most of it. It was beautiful. After I realized I had them cowering, I started translating my sentences after I spoke them, but I think my initial demeanor might have done the trick. As long as I don´t skip in there laughing tomorrow and spend the entire time talking about boys, I think I have it locked up.
Ah, I am getting kicked off my computer. will write more later.

2005-09-12T09:23:00.000-07:00

Hi again!

Well, in a somewhat unbelievable turn of events, there is evidence that people are actually reading my blog. Thank you, kind friends, for indulging my arrogant notion that someone might actually be interested in what I´ve got to say about life. So I guess I´d better deliver the goods then, huh?
So, first week in Quito completed, and still hard to know what to say. We spent the last week becoming "orientated"; that is, walking around the city, talking about the upcoming year, attempting to plan for teaching, etc. Well, that was the official orientation, anyways, but as everyone knows, the underlife orientation that occurs is always much more valuable and interesting. I live in a palace. And it´s white. It overlooks the school yard of one of the schools (of which there are 3), and the people literally call it "La Casa Blanca". I´m understanding George Bush more everyday. This last statement is actually a lie.
I live with two nuns, one priest, and eleven other gringos. The ages range from 21-75 years old. It is a dynamic unlike any other I have experienced. Although I thought living with any sort of ordained religious figures would be a challenge, thus far it has been nothing but wonderful. I get the privilege of listening to them talk about their 40 years here, how they started, how they have been screwed over by the very people they are attempting to help. Then I get to contemplate the idea that they made a decision when they were my age and they have stuck with it their entire life. Nowadays, Americans have something like 2.5 careers throughout the course of their life. To see the juxtaposition between these two notions is thought-provoking to say the least.
Whereas I thought the problems would arise out of living with nuns and a priest, actually I believe it will be more difficult to live with my peers. We are all so self-conscious and nervous right now; it feels kind of like a high school cafeteria full of first-day freshman all the time. Well, I shouldn´t say all the time, because I´m fairly certain that the majority of volunteers have had at least a beer a day since we´ve been here. Normally I would be against this, or at least point out how unhealthy it is while opening my beer, but to recieve a tiny respite from our own discomfort is a blessing. We´ll save the self-righteousness until after we´ve fully subverted the self-consciousness.
The excellent news about all this turmoil is that through it all, there is a constant school yard full of kids just footsteps away. We can play with them pretty much any time we want. And these kids are different from American kids in many ways. For starters, they like me. Whereas with American kids, I am constantly aware of the fact that they will probably either soon become bored or disappointed with me, with the Ecuadorian kids I am constantly aware that I will have to tell them I am leaving and then make a mad dash for the area forbidden to them. When I stop playing with these kids, they run after me and since I´m slow they almost always catch me, tackle me, and cover my eyes with their grubby little hands. I love it. However, this makes me terrified to teach them, given that they have now proved themselves physically stronger than I. Perhaps I´ll start pumping iron. It´s just that they´re so starved for attention that if you give them an inch they will literally walk all over you. I hope I can give them enough love that they don´t feel the need to tackle me, but then we are talking about kids who will run up to you, punch you in the arm, and then be completely incredulous when you don´t want to play with them. I hope to teach them that I will give them attention even if they don´t beat me, but I think it´s a bit of a losing battle. Luckily for them, I have no problem fighting losing battles; I am, after all, a democrat.

2005-09-04T11:29:00.000-07:00

Well I made it. This is exciting to me; believe it or not, I wasn´t sure completely convinced I would make it here. So anyways, not an entirely large amount of info to report, it´s all pretty much the same as it was when I was here before. Except we are allowed to drink. The "no smoking" thing is going a bit more rocky than I thought it would. People smoke here, which is going to make this very very difficult for me, but I am going to do this no matter what. Soooooo, not sure if anyone is looking at my blog, so I think I´m going to wait and see if anyone has read this before I write more, plus, I really don´t have much to report.

2005-09-01T22:15:00.000-07:00

Hello all. Well, I suppose by "all", I basically mean myself because at the present time, I haven' released my blog address to anyone able or concerned enough to remember. So, hello future readers then.
I am about to spend the last night I will spend in my hometown bed for at least a year, barring any terrible tragedies. Although I'm feeling a very significant amount of anxiety, logically I know that if I just push forward and finish my nightcap glass of chardonnay, all will be well. I'm scared about a million things. I'm scared that my travel bug will run out while I'm there and I'll just want to be home baking cookies or something. I'm scared that I won't be a good teacher. I'm scared that the people at the center will see the inherent arrogance and racism that exists in a white girl from the American suburbs thinking she can teach them something. I'm scared I won't be good enough for the Church, that I will disappoint the nuns and priests who (although I have my misgivings about Catholicism in general), I admire so much. I'm scared something will happen to my family or loved ones when I can't be here.
It's a lot. I keep asking myself why I'm doing this. Everyone I've talked to today has told me very good logical reasons why; in fact, they've basically returned to me the justifications I used when I announced I was doing this. I recognize this as love. People who love you remind you of who you are and what you can accomplish especially when you are in doubt. I am so grateful to them for supporting me; it would be difficult to do this if everyone I talked to told me to stay here, even though they know how much I need to do this. But the question remains: why? Why leave? I've traveled, I've been blessed to see so much of the world at a young age. I suppose there is the "it will be an amazing experience" or the "only in giving can you truly recieve" or even the last-ditch "well, you'll improve your spanish" reasons. These are all good. However, in the end, I suppose I simply can't completely articulate why I'm going to Ecuador. This is both the cause of my greatest hope and my greatest anxiety. On the one hand, I am so nervous that any sort of calming rational would be extremely welcome (I've given up on it and headed for the wine, which brings me to my next brave point). On the other, I know I'm going because I feel that I need to go. I want to be the person who follows her heart. I have always held a special admiration for people who do things for themselves that don't seem to make much sense to anyone else; even if they end up laying face down in the mud, the gall they show elicits a wry smile at the very least.

So I suppose I'm going to Ecuador to prove to myself that I can. This is the first time in my life that I haven't been confident in my own success. I realize this makes me sound like a normally arrogant person, and at times I am, but it is the arrogance required to try new things. No one could ever attempt something they were sure they were going to fail at. One could attempt something he was 90% sure he was going to fail at, perhaps for the romance of it all, but then, that 10% belief makes all the difference in the world. I'll give myself a 50/50 shot. In the end, I guess I'll just have to see.

2005-08-08T19:11:00.000-07:00

Why am I going to Ecuador?

Lately, I seem to be getting asked this question in one form or another all the time. If the person is too polite to actually say it, they usually say something like "oh, well that sounds like an adventure" and then slowly back away. I'm going to volunteer for a year at a center for impoverished families in Quito, Ecuador. People my own age say "oh that is so cool", people my parents' age say "well now's the time of your life to do that", and people i work with say "so you're really not getting paid at all?". So why am I going? My answer is, well, why not? I don't really think anything bad can come from helping people learn, living in a developing country, and spending time in a hyper-spiritual environment. Honestly, perhaps I'll be proven wrong, but then, that is the purpose of this blog; to chronicle how closely my expectations resemble what my actual experiences. Perhaps someone will read this, perhaps not. But one year from now, when I am home again (or wherever I am), I hope I know more than I do at this moment. I don't really see how I couldn't.