it's so fluffy

"As they were going along the road, someone said to Him, 

'I will follow You wherever You go.' And Jesus said to him, 

'The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, 

but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.'" 

-Luke 9: 57-58

As our plane began its final descent into Lima, I shared some profound reflections with my sister by relating my emotions to those of Agnes in Despicable Me, whose excitement can hardly be contained by the words she chooses:

While Lima is far from fluffy, the knowledge that I would soon be re-immersed in a world of crazy drivers, humid ocean air, Peruvian Spanish slang, delicious piles of rice, cumbia music, crowing roosters, street-side venders, etc., etc…. was too much to bear.  No words could suffice.

Plus, I got to see my brother for the first time since he moved to Peru in September. 

So it was a complicated whirlwind of desires—desiring to see my brother, help my sister experience Peru, have sibling share time, meet my brother’s community, have an authentic experience of Lima, and, under the surface of all those desires, really wanting to go to Chimbote.  Because, said and done, yes, I was happy just to be in Peru, but Lima is not my home. 

Lima

Unfortunately, it is my brother’s home and his primary experience of Peru (which I say with a smile because there are wonderful things about Lima, too, but it’s kind of its own world). 

Despite all the noisy traffic and polluted air, the overwhelming characteristic of the visit for me was a sense of community.  I felt communion with my brother and sister as we explored the new ways we had grown apart and together during the previous several months.  I was embraced by the Sodalit community as they continuously went out of their way to make sure my sister and I were happy and comfortable.  I felt pride in observing so many signs that my brother has developed meaningful relationships not just within his household but with all the people around him—little acts of kindness and teasing from the ladies who cook for his community, a warm greeting from the neighborhood guard, affection and respect from the community leaders of Las Tunas in Pamplona Alta, where my brother visits regularly. 

I was opened up to a new dimension of Peru, a dimension that my brother is more at home in than I am.  He became the caretaker, the money handler, the bus navigator, the presenter… all roles that I had previously filled when family came to visit me in Peru. 

This new dimension now also included my younger sister.  Her unique perspective and insights as we explored the saints and churches of Lima helped me reach a new depth of reflection on Peru’s unique history.

So it was difficult to say goodbye to my family, especially Jeff, but he has now become an integrated piece of my experience of Peru, and in a way I feel closer to him now than ever.

Chimbote

Lima was nice, but I can’t help but grin when I remember pulling in to the Terminal Terrestre (bus terminal) in Chimbote.  The foul smell of fish, the taste of humid salty air, venders selling sandwiches of pan francesa and shredded chicken and cups of hot quinoa for breakfast… I was home.

There were so many little things that I hadn’t even realized I miss.  I miss bumpy moto rides blasting reaggaton music.   I miss the accessibility of fresh fruits and veggies, snacks, and household products through the local market or corner stores.  I miss the mornings: donkey carts, cool air, people heading off to work, people just finishing the party, women starting lunch still wearing their pajamas.  I miss hanging up my laundry on the roof.  I miss bargaining with taxi drivers.  I miss cachangas and combinado and Inca Cola and fresh bread and fishing boats and having neighbors… (My heartache gets stronger with each sentence I write!)

During my four and a half days in Chimbote, I was busy from one activity to the next from morning until night.  I could frame these activities in many ways—things I did, foods I ate, places I went… but none would provide exactly the right fit, because the visit was, more than anything, about being together. 

If there was any doubt in my mind before this visit, it’s gone now: what makes Chimbote home for me isn’t its cultural charm.  What makes Chimbote home are the youth in my parish family.

I was so touched by the effort everyone made to spend time with me, as well as their generosity and hospitality.  We played volleyball, had a theater practice, waited in line two hours for a pollada (chicken dinner), went for walks, went out to eat, danced, took pictures, talked, laughed…

Returning to Chimbote has helped me to recognize that many of my friendships there are truly unique.  They are not based on age or similar life stages; they are not based on shared career interests; they are not based on political ideology or even religion. 

They are based on our desire for community.  Everyone who comes through the youth program, even if they don’t stay, is seeking to belong somewhere.  And those who stay learn to love each other not because of everything they share in common, but simply because they are members of the same community.  (Am I painting an idyllic picture?  The community certainly isn’t perfect, but the love is there!)

Thanks to the grace of God and the love of my friends in our little corner of Chimbote, I feel affirmed in the fact that I do belong in their community.  I am not just a passing breeze through their lives, and neither are they through mine. 

We are friends.  We are a community.  And I can’t think of one place where I feel more comfortable and more alive than I do at San Francisco parish in Chimbote, Perú.

Chicago

After hugging two of my best friends goodbye at the bus terminal in Chimbote, we watched each other through the bus window as we texted words that we had been unable to say out loud. 

We are sad, but you are a part of us now and you will always have a home here, they wrote.

As I read, I let them see my tears.  I replied that they are also a part of me, and that I hope to be able to carry the love that they have shown for me and share it with other people wherever I go.

On the bus ride from Chimbote to Lima, I wrote in my journal:

Thank you, God, for so many meaningful relationships in my life… so many opportunities to love you and be loved by you.

                            I love falling in love,

and I know I will again, dónde sea.

Now as I prepare to expand the territory that I can call home, I open my heart to let that happen, so that I may continue to be so excited about life that I can hardly contain it in my words.  

Reflection on Japan 2: Itadakimasu = “I humbly receive”

Itadakimasu.

What I love about this word is, while it’s roots are Buddhist, it’s meaning does not exclude any specific religion nor turn off the non-religious.  While those who believe in God may automatically interpret this as a nod toward God, as I did, its intended meaning does not necessarily assume that God is in the picture at all. 

Reflecting the Buddhist principle of respect for all living things, itadakimasu is a recognition of all the living beings that contributed to my ability to consume a meal—from the plants and animals that may have been used to make it, to the farmer or hunter or grocer or factory worker or cook or all of the above who were crucial to the process of this food being placed upon my table.

To integrate this phrase into my own world of understand, I ask, what are the dominant attitudes that I have experienced regarding the same act of consuming food?

A bowl of strawberries I was given from a friend I made in
Nagaoka--they were grown in Nagaoka, she proudly told me
in broken English.

One that comes to mind quickly is the idea of "blessings." I think many of us were taught to recognize food and other material possessions as blessings.  Without criticizing our use of the word, I simply question what it makes me think and feel. 

Yes, it brings God into the picture, which for me as a Christian is good.  However, it also leaves me feeling that somehow this food or material item dropped directly from heaven and into my hands.  It does not bring to my mind the expansive community that I belong to, the people I am now intimately connected to, because of my consumption of this product.

Then there’s the attitude that many of us were directly or indirectly taught, that of entitlement: I am able to eat this food because I worked for it and I deserve it.  This is especially true when we indulge in some luxury—I can eat this chocolate because I deserve it! 

Not that we shouldn’t reward good behavior, but this attitude again cuts me off from the rest of society.  Not only did I work hard to earn this, but somebody else, or perhaps many people, have worked just as hard so that I could be rewarded.  And, unfortunately in many cases with our food today, the people involved in the processes of food production have not been rewarded in proportion to their labor.

As a Christian it becomes easy to just shrug sympathetically and say that their sacrifice will be rewarded in heaven, but this kind of lets us off the hook.  Though we are not of the world, we are in the world, which requires us to be stewards of creation and promoters of the peace and justice and hope and love characteristic of the Kingdom of God.

Setting aside my predisposition toward blessings and entitlement, I can begin to appreciate the deeper meaning that, “Itadakimasu/I humbly receive,” evokes in me, and let it transform the way I think and live.

Now, I haven’t spent enough time in Japan to see if words translate to action.  But I have been touched by the humble gratitude expressed in such a simple word. 

For me it reaches beyond just a feeling of abstract gratitude and calls us to greater consciousness.  It helps us to remember that we are not an island, but an intricately connected community.  It brings to mind issues of justice and respect for life that we rarely prompt ourselves to think about, all before the first delicious bite of food enters our mouths.

A young boy paying respects to the temple of Buddha.

Scott and I enjoying
Japanese cuisine.... french
fries with chopsticks :)

And this is not even to mention the cultural, if not explicit, presence of this beautiful word in other aspects of Japanese life that I have been blessed to witness humbly given--the simple but profound acknowledgment of another person in bowing, the kindness of complete strangers in helping me find my way, the celebration of life and community in the midst of a tragic history, the deep appreciation and honor shown toward historic temples and shrines, the pride and delight shown in restaurants and hotels to be able to share something of themselves, the unashamed expressions of fashion and self-identity.  No culture is without flaw, but each has much to offer.

Recognizing my limitations in expressing my full gratitude, I humbly receive.

reflection on japan 1: itadakimasu

One morning in Japan, after devouring our fresh-from-the-oven Japanese bakery pastries, S. headed to work and I set out for a neighborhood in Tokyo called Shinjuku.  My destination was Shinjuku Gyoen National Park, a large area of trees and ponds featuring an English-style grassy area, a French-style rose garden, and a more expansive Japanese garden.  I bought a to-go lunch from the train station before navigating my way to the gardens.

Once there, I wandered around a bit, finally settling under a tree in the Japanese gardens to eat my lunch, something like popcorn chicken with rice and a couple of BBQ meatballs.  

Breakfast

Some of the more adventurous lunch
selections.

An intersection in Shinjuku on my way from the train station
to the park.

A young couple in traditional Japanese
dress having a photo shoot in the Japanese garden.

My Lunch.

All around me, people were talking and laughing as they opened up their baskets and distributed food--young couples, groups of moms with their young children, girl friends and coworkers escaping from the city noise for a restful lunch.

Near me, two young women (my age?) settling under a tree, laid down their blanket, and unpacked plates, wine glasses, and chopsticks.

I glanced their way more often than normal, observing their behavior and etiquette--feet tucked to the side (I quickly shifted my legs from cross-legged to one side), a patterned plastic picnic blanket beneath them (I did my best to make my slip open plastic bag look like a blanket), their homemade food brought in reusable containers (I felt even more shame at my plastic disposable-packed lunch).

But when they finished setting everything up, before they started eating, my self-consciousness switched to excitement as they did something I was familiar with.

"Itadakimasu," they said as they each put their hands together and bowed slightly.  They said it in a way that was smiling and full of energy, almost singing, stressing the "maas" at the end of the word.

Aha!  I know that word! I thought, delighted at this real-world event that actually connected to something I had learned about before.  With hesitating, I used up a bit of my 100MB of international data to send S. a message about my astuteness. 

He had just taught me that word--which I had trouble remembering beyond the first syllable that sounded like "eat"--in the days previous, as the word used by Japanese before eating a meal.  He explained it to be kind of like saying grace, but not exactly, roughly translating it on-the-spot as something like "I have been given."

I like that, I had thought, and had told him so.  And now, after seeing it in action, I felt more confident about my desire to adopt this little piece of true Japanese culture, feeling it to be a rite-of-passage in my immersion.

I felt myself standing up a little bit straighter when crossing paths with other "tourists."  I earned it, after all.  I knew where to find the most delicious breakfast, I could navigate the trains, I knew how to enjoy lunch like the locals, and I could recognize Japanese words and recite them back if given a moment to recall them.

I had yet to understand that the true meaning of this little word was something quite contrary to the pride I felt at learning it.

¿No entiendes? – a reflection on (not) speaking Japanese

I’ve been in Japan one week now. Communication, or rather lack of, is definitely a struggle. My brain seems to think that a foreign language=Spanish. A couple days ago, the woman who greeted us as we came and went from our hotel in Tokyo said to me, “Going out?” as I was heading toward the door, and I said, “Si,” before thinking “yes” or the Japanese affirmative “eh.”

Last night I dreamt that I was getting a souvenir at a shop here in Japan, and at the register the woman began speaking to me in Japanese. At my reaction of a blank stare, she said, “¿No entiendes?” (Spanish for, “You don’t understand?), and I excitedly began speaking to her in Spanish. I think it was a reflection of my increasing desire for a personal encounter amidst the fast-paced world of Tokyo—that is, a personal encounter beyond the mute pointing and nodding that had gotten me thus far.

Now Nagaoka is an even more daunting challenge. Unlike Tokyo, it is anything but a tourist destination, especially for foreigners. But it seems to already be unraveling some small surprises.

Entrance to the train station.

Some houses along a small river through Nagaoka. 

This morning I wandered into a small gift shop, after having passed by without entering, debating about it, and finally deciding to go for it. It was full of little wooden carvings of Japanese symbols like monkeys and dragons and various other carvings for home décor. The store owner emerged, a woman about 60 years old.

“Konichiwa,” I said, acknowledging her. She began speaking rapidly in Japanese.

“Nihongo.. skoshidake…” I stumbled. Japanese… just a little. And she nodded and watched me silently. I got up the courage to use one of the phrases I had been practicing all week with no real-life application to date.

“Atsui des ne.” It’s hot outside, huh? She agreed, then quickly disappeared through a side door. She emerged a couple minutes later with hot tea, and poured me a cup. I took it, thanked her, and sat down to drink. After a few moments in silence, she tried to speak English to me.

“You like…(some mumbling)?” I said yes. Then we began to have a broken conversation with bits and pieces of her English and my Japanese, as I explained where I was from and why I was in Nagaoka. As we reached the limit of our basic language skills, she went next door and came back with another woman, a friend.

Her friend appeared to know even less English, but quickly became quite concerned about me and my situation.

For the next two hours they attempted to help me figure out things to do in Nagaoka, first calling an English teacher friend they knew to translate. He suggested they take me back to the hotel where somebody would speak English. So, even though my hotel was right across the street, they closed down shop and escorted me to the hotel desk for help. The hotel clerk suggested taking me to some information center. So, they walked me a few blocks to the International Center where we could get some materials in English. Following one of the suggestions of the girl there, they then walked me to a main events center, where they directed me toward a 3-D theater showing a 15-minute video of Nagaoka’s famous fireworks show.

Itki, Me, and Yoku, posing for a picture before saying goodbye.

Though we had only known each other a few hours, we had trouble saying goodbye. We took a picture together, we shook hands several times, I thanked them, they said lots of things in Japanese that I didn’t understand, and they finally left.

Me watching the 3-D movie
of fireworks.

Not knowing a language certainly makes meaningful human interaction harder to come by, but not impossible—if only I were always brave enough to walk through the door of the small, mysteries gift shops!

my sad is

Really good days are those when I am attentive enough to appreciate the mystery of the people around me. Part of my current job is picking up eight high school newcomers from the high school and driving them five blocks to the middle school, where the newcomers program is based, and then driving them back. I don't teach them, so our contact is pretty minimal. Our conversations are basic, with their limited English and my efforts to avoid speaking purely in Spanish with most of them (to push them to learn English, and to not exclude those who aren't Spanish-speaking). But they are a cheery bunch and we usually manage to have positive interactions. One day this week I loaded up the girls and as we started moving, I asked them how they were. Some didn't catch the question; somebody said "fine" from the back of the van. "Are you happy?" I asked emphatically. I got some nods, and a couple of smiles. One of the girls raised her hand. "I am sad." "Sad? Why? Did something happen?" I asked in English before slipping into Spanish to make sure she understood. "¿Algo pasó?" "No. My sad is my brother." Her brother still lives in Guatemala, so she hasn't seem him for several months. Then another girl chirped up from the back. "My sad is Guatemala." Then another voice joined in--"My sad is my grandma." I didn't quite know how to respond, so I taught them to say, "I miss..." But somehow their attempt to speak with incorrect English seemed to convey their feelings better. I am thankful for the simple honesty with which those girls expressed deep and painful truths. I pray that we can all speak our sadness--and our happiness--and be a support for one another each and every day.

white girl

I recently started a new job, taking the place of a teacher's aid on maternity leave.  I help with the Schuyler Middle School's newcomers program, a classroom full of 6th-8th graders who have come from abroad and are learning English to transition into the regular classroom.

I love it so far, and am getting to know students from across Latin America--Guatemala, Mexico, Cuba--and from around the world with a student from Hong Kong and two families from Ethiopia.  Yes, Schuyler, Nebraska is becoming quite a modern-day melting pot.

We push our students to speak in English as much as possible, but now that the Spanish-speakers know I speak their language, they often opt for that route.  I was teasing one of our Ethiopian students that he's going to finish school speaking both English and Spanish, and he said, "Si."

We've also had a few moments to get to know each other a little better, while they work on projects or have a little down town in between classes.  A conversation this week reminded me that the difficult reality of immigration is never too far beneath the surface.  It was with one of our Mexican students, when he realized that I'm a "white girl."

"Where are you from?" he asked me, in Spanish.
"Not from Schuyler, but close to here," I replied, assuming "Dodge" would mean nothing to him.
"But in the United States?"
"Yeah."
"Were you born here?" he continued.
"Yes."
"Oh, so you have papers."
Of course I do, I thought, and told him so, almost as if he were joking.  But he wasn't.
"So where are you parents from?"
"Here.  They were born here too."
"And your grandparents?"
"Also from here."
"Oh, so you're a güera (white girl), no offense."
"Yeah," I conceded.  I am a white girl.
"Ohh.  So what kind of music do you like?"

This is just one snippet that gives a bit of insight from his perspective.  Unfortunately living without papers is a reality lived by many in Schuyler, even many students, which is why we must keep pushing for a more just and effective system of laws opening our country to immigrants and welcoming those who are here.  

I am excited, because I will be filling this position until the end of the school year, which will give me a chance to build more solid relationships with the students.  And at any rate, the newcomers classroom will be a good transitional step into the program in Intercultural Ministry that I'll be starting in the fall!

...are you hispanic?

Shout out to my mom, Joan, for suggesting I tell the following story on my blog.

One of the special highlights of substitute teaching for me is that the two schools where I´m teaching both have significant Latin American immigrant populations, which sometimes gives me the opportunity to speak Spanish and always gives me the opportunity to gain insight into the lives of immigrant children in rural Nebraska.  And, sometimes, it just gives me a little laugh.

I recently substitute taught for the Spanish teacher at an Elementary school.  Ironically, all students take Spanish at this school, even if they are Spanish-speaking.  So although I was only teaching basics, as I moved from class to class many of the students could tell by the way I pronounced the words that I actually knew Spanish.  That was definitely the case as I started class with the 5th graders, and two students toward the back were whispering back and forth even as I began the lesson.

"Eyes up here and mouths closed, please," I stated firmly without losing my place in the lesson.  The whispering boy raised his hand.

"Do you have a question?" I asked him skeptically.  Satisfied, he lowered his hand and pointed to his friend.

"She wants to know if you're Hispanic."

I smiled, flattered.  I was often tempted to tell students I was Peruvian, but when the words came out I always ended up telling the truth.  So I explained that no, I am not Hispanic, but that I do speak pretty good Spanish because I lived in Peru.  From somewhere in the room I heard someone whisper, "See, I told you!"

We continued with the lesson, though classes with Spanish-speaking students are always more energy-charged once they know I know.

And that makes it all the more fun!