Put in My Place by the Youngest

Coming home today I ran into Sami, the 3-year old son of the Women's Director. He was talking to himself, so I asked him:

"Sami, what are you playing?"

He responds: "Your Daddy."

I walk away with no words, failing to come up with a come back line. My Spanish level has not quite improved to the level where I can beat a 3-year-old. I'm sticking to witty conversations with 2-year-olds for now.

Surviving Street Tacos

Two days ago, I consumed my first street tacos. They were something I hoped I would never have to eat. It's well known that taco stands in Mexico are probably the most common cause of food poisoning for foreign travelers.

On Monday, however, the men's sub-director invited the caregivers out for tacos. I thought we were going to the restaurant down the street, but we stopped short at a taco stand run by two friendly women neighbors. I felt it would be too rude to say no.

My Digestive Process
Monday, 12:30pm: Consumption of two delicious chicken and cheese quesadillas
Monday, afternoon: Tacos sitting well, but food poisoning never seems to set in 'til the next day so I'm not counting my eggs before they hatch.
Tuesday, 5:15am: bright eyed and bushy tailed, no effects
Tuesday, 2pm: appetite normal, ready to eat lunch
Conclusion: friendly women neighborhood taco stand SAFE

I wish I had a better story for you that ended with me making friends with the porcelain throne. But I don't. Instead all I've got for you is the discovery one of the few safe street taco stands in Mexico.

My (In)Ability to Relate

This morning, several of our high schoolers skipped out on school to do their annual visit to Cerezo, the state prison, where their parents are serving their sentences. As the kids going to the prison hung back as the rest went to school I started to think. Usually after waking up at 5:15am I can fall immediately asleep at 6:45am for an hour before I have to get ready to head to the office. Today, though, I couldn’t.

Every morning as the kids leave for school, I say some variation of good morning/have a good day to each. This morning though, I couldn’t think of what to say to those leaving for the prison. I almost felt as if didn’t have a right to say anything or ask them how they were feeling because I have no experiences to relate to them. Because in a way I’m innocent coming from a two parent family anf a safe neighborhood. I’m grateful to have been raised in a stable, supportive environment free of the horrifying experiences of many of my kids. But in some backwards way, I was wishing, just for a moment, that I had some story to share with them to show them that I understand or be someone who they could come to.

I try to remember that there are many things in life through which people can relate besides painful experiences. There’s our love of music, of playing instruments, of playing football. There’s our love of hanging out and telling jokes. But it’s like I feel guilty for being so lucky.

The Efficiency of Sweeping

Saturday, September 19th

Back in dorm life, cleaning my room was a rare occurrence. When the cleaning ladies cleaned our communal showers, bathrooms, and sinks, that's all I seemed to need. Being in Mexico however has upped my standard of cleanliness. The daily chores the kids do keep this place spotless. So when my bedroom floor goes for a week un-mopped, I feel like I’m walking in dirt.

As the supervisor of my girls’ chores, I have had the opportunity to try my hand at sweeping, squeegy boarding, and washing dishes. Not successfully however. After laughing at my sweeping abilities (or lack thereof) the pequeño I’m helping takes away my broom, sgueegy, etc. and does the job herself. It’s much more efficient when they do it.

I have to say though, that after two months of observation, my sweeping abilities have improved infinitesimally. Compared to the first time I swept my patio, I noticed a definite improvement in the efficiency of my strokes and my strategy of attack today. Maybe the girls will let me give sweeping another try during their chores. Second time’s a charm, here in Mexico.

So Do You Like To Dance?

September 15th - Dia de la Indepencia of Mexico.

The house celebrates Independence Day with activities, a fancy dinner, and a dance. The kids only have a couple dances a year, so whenever we have one it's a big deal. So much so that for the entire couple days before, everyone asked me if I was going to dance at the dance.

At first I responded of course. I love to dance! Anyone who knows me knows I'm not shy at busting a move on the dance floor. But my enthusiasm dropped when my response was quickly followed by an "Oh yeah, what kind of dance?"

Wait, what?

The dance proved to be no endless disco-beat, grinding, sweaty fiesta as every high school dance in the US is. Instead, cumbia after salsa after duranguense song played from the DJ's speakers forcing me back to my middle school dance days when I stood against the wall watching everyone else who could dance better than I could.

Some generous souls invited me to dance and taught me steps. But that only lasted a full song before they got bored of me and moved onto their more experienced and graceful friends.

So I didn't have the salsa moves to bust out. But at least I could yell just as loud as any Mexican in the grito at midnight:

Viva Mexico! Viva!

Some pictures from the day's festivities:


The kids participated in the Three Armed Egg Race - Sophie's and my activity


With the two princes and king of the Independence Day Dance


Last year's queen passing off her crown

Rainy Season

Today, I saw the sun.



Never has the sun brought so much joy to my life than today. After tweleve consecutive days of thick cloud cover, pouring rain, and thunder so loud it made me want to curl up with my mommy, the sun has finally come out.

It's rainy season in Mexico. From July to October, daily rain storms are the norm. This rainy season however has been pretty dry, raining only every few days and only at night. Not anymore. I've had a healthy daily dosing of cats and dogs for almost two weeks now. It's so damp my walls are wet, my towel never dries, and the smell of mildew has become the smell of home.

Thank goodness for the sun today. I was becoming a depressed zombie around my kids who only wanted to crawl into bed and watch movies until the rain stopped and the clouds rolled away. Fully taking advantage of the sun by writing this blog post in doors. Must end, move outside, and get my Vitamin D.

First Day of School

On Tuesday, I assisted in the English classes at the high school for the first time. The high school the children attend is run by NPH and all 180 pequeños attend it. It’s supported by the other half of the student population who are Cuernavaca residents (called “externos”)who pay tuition.

Because all the pequeños attend this high school, I already knew half of the students in my classes which got me off to a great start with remembering names. I’m enjoying the chance of being able to speak a language in front of my kids without a horrible accent and grammar mistakes. They look at me with wonder when I read from the book at seemingly “lightening speed.” Or maybe they’re just realizing I’m not as stupid as I sound when speaking Spanish.

One of the thoughts that constantly crosses my mind during class is the difference in backgrounds and home environments between the externos and pequeños. Many of the externos go home to a family, where they live with their mother who cooks them dinner every night and their father who buys them things form the store. Who when they have trouble with homework, they can ask their dad. Or who when they have a problem in school, they have a mom who can come in and talk to the teacher. They always have someone to look out for them, who always has their utmost interest at heart.

Then there’s my pequeños, for which each group of 20-30 kids has a director and one caregiver to help them with their homework, to watch out that they’re doing well in school, to comfort them as a parent would with their heart breaks. It’s not fair, that when they have trouble with homework, they sometimes have to give up because there’s no one to help them or to push them. Yet, I am so amazed by how hard these kids work simply on their own initiative, their own desire to succeed.

Don’t get me wrong. The kids have a support network here. There are safety nets in place. For kids who have trouble in school, their teachers hold extra tutorial classes for them. For kids who have further trouble, they have individual tutors. And most of all and most valuable, they have each other. These kids truly are each other’s brothers and sisters regardless of blood relations. I’ve seen countless pequeños help another who is so frustrated with her work her head is on her paper or one who arrives at dinner defeated because of the last grade he received.

But there’s the thought in the back of my head that refuses to go away: with as much love and support there is at NPH, can it ever live up to the love that a mother and father could give their child? A rather rhetorical question. Of course, every child in NPH is here because their mother and/or father cannot give them the educational support needed. These children for sure receive more at NPH than back at home where they would have had little life options and the far off opportunity to succeed.

At the same time, I feel such pain and pride. Pain because they don’t have figures in their life. But so proud because they have refused to let that dictate their level of success.

Day of My Birth

Monday, September 7th


My birthday. Potential of being a lonely day spent moping around in thinking of family, friends, and the life I left behind NOT fulfilled.

Festivities ran 24-hours long. Included a breakfast out, a surprise cake at our weekly Monday meeting (which I subsequently had my head smashed into, twice), a dinner by the majestic cathedral of Cuernavaca’s city center, and tons of Facebook well wishes. Sophie had also succeeded in posting flyers of me with two pictures of when I was a kid all around the house so that all 180 high schoolers knew it was my birthday (hmmm, I wonder where she got those pictures? coughMOMcough). Every hug and shout of “felicidades” I received were very heart warming.

Overall, a reminder of the many people I have in my life, the many more I have made a part of my life here, and that I am truly loved. Thank you for making my 22nd birthday a day to remember.

La Misa

The kids are required to go to mass every weekend. Usually we go to 6:00pm Saturday mass at a church a 10 minute walk away. As volunteers, we’re required to attend mass. The kids know that. And if they don’t see you at mass one day, if you doing something wrong, or if you show up late, they will let you know you did so.

Today I was extremely tired. At 3:30 I went down for a nap. I thought I would wake up no problem to meet the kids to head over to mass for 5:30. Slight freak out when I woke up at 5:30. Sophie and I change quickly, head down at 5:33, expecting to see some late goers.

However, we found the dorms deserted. We walked quickly to mass, arrived what would be 10 minutes early, and found everyone seated and silent ready for mass to start. Sophie and I shuffled into an empty seat quietly, hoping no one would notice our late arrival.

Then I hear giggling behind me. Pilar is looking at me and laughing. “What?” I mouth to her. She makes the motion of sleeping with her hands and head and points at me. Then she points at Sophie whose lines on her face give us away without question.

Caught red handed.

beep, Beep, BEEP

Not music to my ears. Whenever the power goes out, a little black box in my house notifies me kindly with a horrible sequence of three beeps over and over and over again until the power returns.

That wonderful black box is located in my bedroom.

Usually the power returns within the half hour, but today the power outage lasted FIVE hours. This of course coincided with my one morning off of the week forcing me out of my house. No sleeping in, no wasting time on the internet, no laying around my bed in solitude.

However, I have to admit that because of the incessant beeping, I ended up doing some physical activity for once at the track (surprise) and later hanging out with the directors and other caregivers. Dare I say I thank that black box for forcing me out of my house? For finding something a little more worth my time than internet surfing and snoring away? I love life’s ironies.

But if you little black box decide to beep for that long again, I promise you I will punch you in the face.

West Coast, Check It

Sunday, August 30th

DESCANSO. After three weeks of working without a break, my weekend off finally arrived. Operation Acapulco in action. Beautiful beaches, foamy green water with trash, endless offers for a taxi ride, and nightlife central. Best of all worlds, trashy water and all.

Acapulco actually proved to be quite a mix of new experiences. They included:

A four-hour bus ride next to someone who doesn’t understand the concept of a personal bubble. Half-an-hour hot, humid, sweaty walk to the hotel with incessant offers from taxi drivers to take me there when all I wanted was directions.
Hotel elevators with security guards every time you went up or came down. Nightclubs with bungee jumps, views of the beach, and bathroom attendants who turn the water on and off at the faucet for you. Mexican police officers who love to get the most out of the tourists who stroll the beach at night. Quinceñeras on the pool dock when all I wanted to do was listen to my own music and the sound of waves. Palm tree hats. McDonalds for not only the first time in Mexico, but the first time in at least two years. Seeing the Pacific Ocean for the first time. Constant bombardment on the beach from souvenir vendors, waiters for beers, advertisers for nightclubs, and singing children to get a coin or two. Six people in one hotel room.

Great company, great times, great weekend. Just what I needed.

Dinner for Fifteen

Thursday, August 20th

Every other Thursday, all directors, volunteers, and year-of-service pequeños (about 15 of us) get together for a dinner made by two of the group. Sophie and I had the great pleasure of making dinner this past Thursday.

From the hour of 2pm until dinner at 9pm we were cooking away, using a miniature oven for two pans of brownies, three lasagnas, and three rolls of garlic bread for fifteen hungry mouths.

Throughout the day we had a number of adventures.

#1 What to Cook
We had to come up with what to cook based on the donations in the kitchen. Of our ideas, hamburgers proved too much of an extra cost, pizzas too complicated with no ovens (Mexicans don’t use ovens that much for cooking), and American Mexican food just impossible, as there is no cheddar cheese in the grocery store. We therefore went with lasagnas using Mexican sausage, tomato paste, and random spices found on the shelf in the kitchen.

#2 Adventure to Wal-Mart
My most American experience thus far in Mexico. Garrido, the men’s sub-director drove us in his minivan to Wal-Mart to get the few things we were missing. As we rode the escalator with our cart into the blinding light emanating from the Wal-Mart ceilings, I had a moment of nostalgia for my native culture. I hate that Wal-Mart is responsible for that. At least Wal-Mart had what we came for: brownie mix.

#3 Lighting a Gas Stove
My stove is the scariest part of my life in Mexico. Above cockroaches. Above the whistling men. It’s the gas stove and oven that I need to light with a one and a half inch match that gives me the willies over all else.

Today was our first attempt at using the oven. We opened it up and looked inside. No clue as to what to do. I resort to the internet. They talk about pilot lights and removing shelves and turning knobs. Say what? I ask Veckry, the women’s sub-director, and all she supplies is a story of how one volunteer attempted to light the oven and came out of it with singed eyebrows.

Solution: get Sophie to do it.

She by far has bigger balls than I do. Within a matter of seconds she successfully lights her first gas oven. Finally, in go the brownies.

#4 How to Fit It All In
We have a tight schedule. Two pans of brownies need to bake separately in the kitchen in our house. We then need to move to the main kitchen in the cafeteria to cook pasta, sauces, vegetables, and meat. We the need to return to our house with the enough time to cook three lasagnas each for 45 minutes and place in garlic bread to heat. We guess the temperature on the unmarked knobs praying not to burn the brownies or leave the pasta uncooked in the lasagnas.

#5 Rainy Season and Visitors
Dinner location. We planned to have the dinner in the visitor house. Negative, full of visitors. Move to the roof of the visitors’ house. Code yellow – it might rain. We do it anyways, gather our table for twenty underneath the plastic awning. We go up to the roof at dinner time. Pure darkness. Oops. Forgot that there were no lights up there. Volunteer Mario to the rescue and soon we have a construction light shining across the roof.

#6 Are Plates Really Necessary?
Of all the things to forget, we forgot to reserve the plates, utensils and cups with which to eat. Half an hour before dinner, I ask the Veckry where I can find some. She says don’t worry about it, she’ll bring them.

Fifteen minutes into dinner, Veckry’s still not there. It’s ok. Tiempo Mexicano

Thirty minutes – yes, I see Veckry coming up the stairs. Wait, she’s empty handed. Crap.

Haha, five minutes later a pequeño comes sprinting back with our long awaited eating materials. Dining time.

#7 The Taste Test
After a long afternoon of cooking, chopping and cleaning, it’s time for the verdict. Of course who comes to dinner to dine with us but the National Director of NPH Mexico. I’m praying it will be good. We start to serve. People ask for two slices of lasagna – really? Before you’ve even tried it??

All of a sudden there’s a sound from the far end of the table that is soon echoed from every corner:

“Mmmmmmmmm.”

Ahh. The sweet sound of success.

Why?

I’m at work researching a child story about a girl who entered NPH exactly one month ago. I just finished talking with the social worker about her story, and though I am supposed to be writing an article on this little girl’s life before and after she entered NPH, I can’t manage to bring my thoughts together enough to write anything.

For confidentiality, I cannot go into any amount of detail, besides the story I eventually write which I will share with anyone who is interested once it is published. But her story upsets me so much, I cannot concentrate.

When I interact with my kids on a daily basis, I don’t think about how I’m working with orphaned, abandoned and mistreated children. It just doesn’t cross my mind. They make me laugh like a friend would, they push my buttons as a child would, and they have many of the same heartbreaks, challenges, and joys that I once had (and still often do) in high school. I can relate to them so much.

But then I’m reminded every once in a while, when a new child enters NPH, or when I need to do research such as this for work, that these kids have faced so much more than they ever should have. That in many ways, my kids grew up a long time ago.
And now for the inevitable and unanswerable question: why is the world so unjust? Why do millions of children need to be subjected to poverty, abandonment, and abuse? What did they ever do to deserve growing up in an environment without love?

Thank God for organizations such as NPH. But though the kids are here now, I still hate how they had that experience. This little girl is just once story. There are 800 more like hers in NPH alone.

At risk of sounding corny and cliché, these kids are truly my heroes. So many have refused to let their past determine their future. They have overcome the obstacles of emotional and psychological damage placed in front of them. I have so much to learn from them.

And I ask you to pray for them and think of them. And love them without even meeting them. They cannot be loved enough.