2 Years

Any attempt to describe and sum up two years of life in a few words would be no less than a crazy, troll-sized, casi-impossible task for anyone. Personally, for me to tell about my last 2 years of living here in Managua, Nicaragua, I’m not even sure if I could do it if I were given 3 hours. And yet, I know the time will come when I am asked, “How was Nicaragua!?” --Ehh. Uhh….It was hard? It was beautiful?

It’s not that I dread or hate the question…I’m just not really sure what all to share!

How do I talk about Nicaragua and this whole new chapter of my life and identity to everyone?
Would they be described as the two years where I learned to speak and listen in Spanish? The two years I spent every Monday-Friday from 8-5 volunteering at ProyectoGenerando Vida? The two years I experienced what it’s like to live outside the United States?

Yes to all of the above.
And yet so, so much more…

They were the two years I learned to deal with sweltering heat and yet was obligated to wear pants. The two years I learned to ride on crowded public transportation.The two years I lost 15 pounds on our mainly rice/beans/vegetables/fresh fruits diet.

They were the two years I came to love chicharrón (fried pig skin). The two years I listened to Carlos Mejia-Godoy, Guardabaranco, and Calle 13 songs on repeat. The two years I trekked through some of the most beautiful beaches, lakes, rivers, waterfalls, mountains, and volcanos that I’ve ever seen.

They were the two years I didn’t have a cellphone. The two years I learned to wash a shirt without a machine. The two years I read 36 books. The two years I learned to sit, be, and enjoy the company of others.

They were the two years I lived in a house with various other loving women, each beautiful and amazing in her own way. The two years I learned the importance and necessity of interdependence and intentional convivencia (communal living). The two years I learned to share joyfully.

They were the two years I learned to fail and keep going. The two years I learned to be more loving and patient with myself. The two years I found my voice and practiced how to use it non-violently.

They were the two years I learned how to work in micro-lending. The two years I formed relationships of confianza (trust) with my coworkers and over 350 women. The two years I heard and witnessed the many injustices that people (especially women) in this world face. The two years I received more hugs than the rest of my life combined.

My life here has been all this and more. It has pushed me, taught me, held me, loved me, made me cry, made me question, made me laugh, and in the end transformed me. Maybe not in a big, Hollywood way, but in many small ways that matter.Thank you Nicaragua for all the beauty and struggle that you have shown me—that which exists within me, those around me, and in the world. May we continue to move forward together always.

(I also want to thank everyone who has supported me and kept in contact with me during my time here, whether it be by reading this blog, being my pen pal, calling to chat, or sending facebook messages/emails. It is such a relief to know that I am going back to people in the U.S. who have basically already heard my story—people who already know so much about how my past two years of life have been. Thank you for making this transition easier for me.)

Alcohol Injustice

Recently I saw a man lying in the dirt near the project where I work. I assumed him drunk as it’s not the first time I’ve seen this occur. But today was a little different. Today there was a mother. I watched as his elderly and in pain mother slowly walked up to where he lay. She bent down close and put her hand on his face to see if he was still alive. I felt her pain in those first few moments of uncertainty as we held our breaths hoping that he would show some small movement or sign of life. After a few gentle taps, he stirred a bit. Assured and relieved, she hobbled off but didn’t stay away long. She came back with a cup and a pan, both filled with water. She tried to make him drink, feeding him the water with a plastic spoon. Then she carefully poured some of the pan water on his head and feet, attempting to clean off the dust and grime. With the help of another very drunk man, they moved him underneath a tree a few yards away. Probably feeling that she had done all that she could do for the moment, she left him there in the shade to sleep. Later I saw some kids from the barrio trying to pee on him… 

This was not my first interaction with an overly drunk man in this country. I probably haven’t gone a single day without experiencing the horrible abuses of alcohol that happen all around me here. Just to get to work each morning I have to walk past a corner where I’m almost guaranteed at 7:45am to see at least two very drunk men. Once I saw a couple of women dragging a passed out, drunk relative from the street into their house. Another time I found a very drunk man outside the project who had fallen and was bleeding from the head. A different morning we found out that one of the regular drinkers from the barrio, a brother of one of the bank women, had died overnight due to cirrhosis of the liver. We also have a man named Balbino who is experiencing homelessness and who very often comes to our house drunk and asking for food.

I know that all of these things happen in the US, but never in my life have I been so surrounded by it all. Seeing it brings me a mix of emotions: sadness, frustration, anger, disgust, and nervousness. I often want to shake these men awake and yell, ¨Stop dong this to yourself and your family!¨ But I know that the cure is not that easy. The sadness tugs at me as I wonder what all these men have suffered in their lives to warrant this drastic form of self-depletion. It could be the not-so-distant wars that were fought here or the prevalent physical and verbal abuse. It could be the failed relationships or the unmedicated mental illnesses. Or maybe it could be the lack of quality education or even the fact that they can´t find a decent paying job. It is possible that it is a combination of many or all of them as well.

Seeing the human dignity in a very drunken person in the street can be a difficult task, and despite my own efforts, I still often have a hard time treating these men with kindness. But at a team prayer this year, many of my coworkers expressed that these men may be the prostitutes and lepers of our society today.   Maybe we should start treating them the way Jesus (or the mother in my first story) would—with love and compassion.

Race

The other day I was sitting on the bus (yay a seat!) coming home from work, and I saw a girl get on. She was tall and had dark skin, and pretty much every Nicaraguan I know would (admittedly or not) take one look and label her as someone from the Atlantic coast. (The two coasts of Nicaragua tend to have very stereotypically different physical appearances.) And maybe they are right—maybe she was born there. But as I sat there studying her, I found myself thinking…I wonder what would her race be? Would she be Black? African? Hispanic? Afro-Caribbean? If I were to describe her as “African-looking” what African would I actually be referring to? Surely there is more than one type of African look.

So then I got really confused. What exactly IS race? It seemed to me that some race labels are related to where the person is from while others are simply colors. (Pacific Coast Islander and Indian vs. White and Black) That made no sense to me. If it is based off the person’s culture or where s/he is from, then wouldn’t a person’s nationality or ethnicity suffice? If it is based off color, then there would be way more choices than just white or black. If it takes into account facial features, what happens if you have a combination of different ones or if the facial features and the skin color don’t match the archetypical description? There are some people I know who have pretty light skin, yet they would not consider themselves “White.”  What would a person of mixed races be? Do we have to choose only one?

The whole idea of race really doesn’t make much sense to me. I would so much rather know where my ancestors came from geographically and culturally than know what specific physical traits they passed to me. And if people need to describe me by my skin color, I would definitely not call myself white…it would probably more of a light tan at the moment.

I’m honestly at the point of never filling out the race category on any future form that asks me…

But while I may think the idea of race sounds ridiculous, there is no doubting that there are enough people who accept it as a truth that it is actually a reality in the world. For instance, the idea of race in Nicaragua plays a big role in human interactions and relationships. From what I have experienced (please, please anyone correct me if I´m wrong…I know I´ve been here almost 2 years but I´m not an expert.), people tend to mainly recognize the following races: Foreign White, Atlantic Coast Black, Chinese, Indigenous, and Mestizo (Mix). Foreign White tends to describe anyone that has very light skin, big eyes, a small nose, and very often lighter hair. (The idea of a darker-skinned foreigner is hardly if ever recognized.) Atlantic Coast Black would describe someone with very dark skin, dark hair, very tall, and more built. Chinese refers to basically anyone with smaller eyes. Indigenous refers to various groups of people with brown skin and dark hair who have been living in Nicaragua and following their own traditions since before the conquistadors. Everyone else seems to just fall under the Mestizo category—brownish skin and dark hair (although it varies).

Mestizo tends to be the majority in the area of Nicaragua where I am. As the dominate race, there is a freedom and acceptance that exists for those that are a part of it. It is seen as normal. If you ever see a tourist brochure depicting the “traditional” Nicaragua, you will most likely see this group of people represented. However, despite the freedom, there does seem to be the feeling that people from this group would prefer lighter skin…(At least I personally have heard a lot of comments along these lines.)

The Indigenous population tends to be pretty small, and unfortunately not much of their original roots has survived. Many people relate to them as an important part of the history, culture, and identity of Nicaragua, but in the present day affairs they often tend to get overlooked or pushed aside.

People associated with the Foreign White race tend to be associated with good qualities. They are seen as beautiful, trustworthy, and financially wealthy. It would seem that despite all the horrible things that lighter-skinned people have done here in the past, their good reputation is incorruptible. I have personally benefited from this bias on a few occasions, although I try my best to avoid this as much possible. For example, even though I´m not a student, I can get into the UCA (the big Jesuit university) simply by saying I have an appointment with someone, whereas other Mestizo-looking, non-students have told me that the guards ask a lot of questions, and then they have to leave a form of identification at the door. It is also very easy for me to get ride if I ever hitchhike anywhere.

On the other hand, people associated with Atlantic Coast Black are many times treated warily. Even though they technically come from the same country, their dress, language, religion, dance, food, and other traditions tend to be distinct, and I think due to little interaction with and understanding of these differences, there exists some fear and negative sentiments towards them. A coworker explained to me that even their physical stature can create these feelings, as they tend to be a lot bigger and taller than the Mestizo population.

Then there are the people put in the Chinese category. Again there does not seem to be a great understanding of this group of people. They are seen as very smart, but also often mean, stingy, and even ugly. This racial label is very frustrating for it tends to group all Asian backgrounds together. Someone I know here who was born and raised in the U.S. but who has Korean roots expressed how difficult it was to be labeled this way by so many people.

In the end, all of these perceptions are harmful. We cannot allow made up racial categories to determine how we view and treat other people. They may be quick, easy ways to label and organize people in our heads, but they never do justice to the people we are sorting. They assume often incorrect information about others. Even those sentiments that seem positive (thinking that foreign white people are beautiful and trustworthy) can be hurtful, as they tend to put these people on a high pedestal and create an inequality. As flattering as it may initially sound to hear that my skin is beautiful, I always cringe. I know that what they really mean is that it’s pale so it’s better. (One woman even straight up said to her daughter, “Wouldn’t you rather have Jana’s skin?” as if the obvious answer was yes.) Those sentiments that are negative are even more harmful as they directly and violently oppress the people they are directed towards. And it all stems from a place of ignorance and fear.

Can’t we just let people be who they are for once…?

Peace vs. Growth

The following are two different sets of quotes, all said by people that I highly respect.

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“If you remain neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has his foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality.

-Bishop Desmond Tutu

Ïf you cannot fly then run, if you can´t run then walk, if you can´t walk then crawl, but whatever you do, you have to keep moving forward.¨

-Martin Luther King Jr.

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“If you are pushing yourself and others around, you have not yet found the secret of happiness. Know that things are okay as they are. This moment is as perfect as it can be…When we are manipulating, changing, controlling, and fixing, we have not reached enlightenment. The calculating mind is the opposite of the contemplative mind.”

-Richard Rohr

“I call you during these days to sit under a tree and be quiet and to learn that it’s okay to be the way you are.”

-Jean Vanier

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While all of these statements are beautiful, they seem to be contradictory. How can you be at peace, while also struggling to make things better? How do you tranquilly accept the reality while also recognizing that we must continue searching for answers, moving forward, and challenging ourselves and the world to improve?

I have been thinking about this a lot especially lately. I would say that I am finally at a point in my time here in Nicaragua that not everyday is a struggle. In general I feel happy and at peace. For example, we recently went on a 3 day silent retreat to Laguna de Apoyo (a breathtaking crater lake outside of Managua). Normally I would use this time to try and sort out some big question or confusion or difficulty that I am experiencing here, but for some reason I just found myself being happy, content, thankful, and at peace in the moment. At first I felt guilty, like I wasn´t taking advantage of this time to reflect. But then I realized that what I was feeling was beautiful, and that I should just let it happen.

But after retreat we each had a phone conversation with the JVC office, and some of the questions were about growth--where would we like to grow in our next few months here in Nicaragua? This stumped me a bit. I know so much of being here is about growth, and it is true that I have grown in so many ways. Our community even has a phrase for all those challenging growing moments: AFGO…(Another Freaking Growth Opportunity). :) But how do I incorporate that struggle and growth into my life without losing the inner peace? How do I challenge myself to be better and still lovingly accept the finite human being that I know I am? Where is the line between peaceful acceptance and complacency? And then even if I SOMEHOW discern these answers for myself…applying it to the world around me gets even more complicated and tricky! How do I challenge others but also love and accept them for where they are at?

Maybe part of the answer is that even though we are at peace, we still must be awake and paying attention. I just read that Buddha in Sanskrit means ¨I Am Awake.¨ We must have our eyes, ears, hearts, and minds open to ourselves and the world around us, noticing the stirrings and happenings in both. Peace and tranquility must not mean inaction or stagnancy. I suppose a truly at peace person would move forward and grow by seeing a challenge, simply recognizing it as a reality, and then moving forward with the next correct action without harsh judgment or negativity towards themselves or others. It simply is, and we simply must react. And maybe when it comes to that step of challenging others, we just have to make sure that no matter what, the challenge comes from a place a love—not fear or anger or needing to be right—but rather a genuine love for that person and wanting them to find a better version of themselves or a better way to deal with a situation. 

But whatever the actual answer is, I do know that during my time here in Nicaragua I have felt the truth that can be found in each of those previous quotes. I am still trying to figure out how to meld the two together and find the balance and harmony that I know must exist there between acceptance and growth, but hopefully one day I will make it there..or at least close. :)

I’ll leave you with a couple quotes also. :)

“ You must not worry if those around you aren’t doing their best. Just worry about how to make yourself worthy. Doing your best is the surest way to remind those around you to do their best. But to be worthy requires the continuing practice of mindfulness. Only by this practice will we not lose ourselves but acquire a bright joy and peace.”

-Thich Nhat Han

“We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.”

-Archbishop Oscar Romero

(man I just realized that all of those quotes are from men….I have to go read some Dorothy Day or something…)

The Story of How We Lost Our Surfboard

The following blog contains two stories recounting two different views of the way that we lost our surfboard.

Tara’s Version

www.creatureonthecouch.wordpress.com

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Thanks, Tara, for that lovely version…although it really just sounded to me like an odd mix between Life of Pi, Blue Crush, and some Nicaragua names and events…. But anyway…moving forward with the second version.
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Jana’s Version

A few months into my time here in Nicaragua I discovered that we have a surfboard in our house. Even though I hadn’t seen the actual surfboard, I knew of her presence by the large, surfboard-shaped case half shoved into our “attic” (aka a hole in between our ceiling and roof where some rats and a few dust bunnies have made their homes) and also through the telling of a few stories about some JVs riding her in past years. Apparently she (the surfboard) had come to reside in our house a few years back when some German guy left her here, saying that he would come back later. Well, he never came back.
She was ours.

Apart from Thomas and Sean using her a couple years ago, really the surfboard just stayed there in her bag collecting dust and not calling any attention to herself. She had been forgotten, neglected, uncared for. (In our defense, trying to get a surfboard on a bus to go anywhere in Nicaragua wouldn’t be exactly the easiest task…)

But then suddenly her opportunity came!...in the form of a US delegation from Kentucky that was here for a week doing work with Hand in Hand Ministries. We were invited to go along with them in their large bus to the beach for a day.

 That morning before being picked up, we were all hurrying around trying to get ready.
 Sunscreen. Check. Hat. Check. Towel. Check. Dry clothes to change into. Check.
I was standing there ready—or so I thought. As I stood there, I started thinking, “Now if only I had something to float on…” I knew we didn’t have a boogie board…and our air mattress has a hole in it so that wouldn’t work either... Then suddenly I remembered the surf board! My middle-of-Texas-born-and-raised self had never ridden (much less touched) a surf board before, but ni modo. I was sure I could learn. I skipped back to the half-showing, half-forgotten surfboard and pulled her down…and along with her, at least 2 years-worth of dust. After I brushed the case off with a broom and could finally breathe again, I opened it up. And there she was, a bright yellow color with quite a lot of wax and sand still left on from her last usage.

Everyone else in our house looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re really going to take that!?” Chelsea questioned. “You should call first to make sure there is enough room,” Eva stated. “You do you,” Tara chimed.  “Awesome!!”  Cynthia exclaimed.  So following their advice, I called to make sure it was fine. Ed said they’d see what they could do, and when the moment of truth came, she easily slid between the rows of seats. And we were off. 

When we arrived at the beach, I was eager to try out this surfing thing. I had already enlisted Tara with her infinite surfing experience (1.5 surf lessons in New Jersey) to teach me all I needed to know. I unzipped the bag, pulled out our yellow surfboard, and we walked her out to the beach (Tara showing me the correct way to walk with a surfboard). Once out there, Tara said we needed to clean off a lot of the old sand and wax that had basically melted in the heat of Managua days into a thick coat covering the top of the board. We had nothing with which to scrape it away so we tried our best with pieces of seashells. Then Tara told me what mas o menos I needed to know in order to move myself from the laying down to standing up positions. I tried a couple times, already realizing that this was going to be way harder than I had expected.  We then screwed the fins in (again, something I didn’t know about surfboards), and started to head out to the water. But right then there was a snap, and we realized that her poor old and brittle leash had broken. Lame….But I was determined. 

This determination lasted for about 20 more minutes… Tara and I got into the water and she tried to teach me how to duck under the unwanted waves…although according to her none of them were really ideal that day. I tried what she said and mostly just ended up getting a lot of water up my nose and having my contacts swish around on my eyeballs. Also, en general I was having a hard time balancing on top of the board, falling every which way even when there were no waves. A few times the board flew out of my hands, and since she was not connected to my body, she went sailing away from me, causing me to have to chase after her.  I decided to give it a rest for a while. Maybe the waves would be better later. Maybe I would suddenly find some inner source of balance later. Besides, Tara was getting out for now and she could take the board back to shore with her.

Chelsea, Eva, and I were frolicking in the water when we suddenly see Tara waving her arms at us as if we needed to get out. We move towards her thinking maybe there was a shark or something, but she instead informs us that there was a 6.6 level earthquake that had just happened a few miles down from where we were, and that now the whole beach was on a Tsunami watch. We packed up our things and got ready to evacuate. I slid the still wet and sandy board hurriedly back in her case and we walked to the parking lot. They told us that we only had to drive up to a hill a few miles away and wait 15 minutes to see if the offshore buoys detected tsunami activity. If no, we could return back to the beach. I assumed we would be back soon enough. This was the reason (along with the fact that we had to fit a few extra beach-goers into our bus) that I left our priceless, antique surfboard near the bathrooms on the beach.  We would be right back…no big deal. 

Well, I was wrong. We got up to the safe point and we let off our extra passengers, and the leader of the delegation decided that we should just go ahead and leave now. It wasn’t worth our time sitting around for who knows how long until someone decided it was potentially safe.  So in the overly concerned delegation fashion we continued driving…away from the water…away from the beach…away from the 13 inch “Tsunami” wave that we later found out was the final result of the earthquake…and finally away from our surfboard.

So in the end…. I never learned to surf,
                              we now have no surfboard,
and we are left with a gaping empty hole in our “attic” for even more rats and dust bunnies to fill.

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So, which story do you prefer to believe?

You are free to decide. We like both….and so it is with God.