Halt in the Routine

Four weeks ago this coming Thursday will mark one month since the unexpected death of one of our girls at NPH. Yuri was nineteen-years-old and in her last year of high school.

The immediate days following her death were unbearable and indescribable. The days were full of feelings of helplessness, grief, and what ifs. The heart-wrenching, body-shaking sobs I heard during Yuri’s wake were unlike anything I had ever experienced. I saw how losing a loved one in teenage hood evokes an entirely different grief process than the one when losing a grandparent or older relative. It’s all just so unexpected.

I didn’t know how to deal with her death myself. I found it hard to reach out to others to find help for me. Instead, I absorbed myself in my mothering duties with my other girls.

It’s still painful to realize she’s gone. But in acknowledgment of what happened I write to you that I miss Yuri and that I wish none of my kids here had to deal with another painful death in their lives.

I have three weeks left in my volunteer experience. Yuri’s death so close to the end of my volunteer year has completely changed the ending I thought I would have. On the bright side of things – I get to fix my regrets instead of living with them at home after my volunteer experience has ended.

Yuri’s smiling face in her photos contradicts so strongly what I feel while I look. Her smile is so beautiful.

The Power Status of the Radio

Every director and caregiver in the house is equipped with un radio, or walkie-talkie, for quick, easy communication. Having one places you in a different level in the NPH power pyramid. Once the kids graduate from high school and enter their first year of service by being a caregiver, cook, working on the farm or in maintenance, they're awarded their radio.

As volunteers, we aren't so privileged to be a part of the radio network. From a practical standpoint, it's not extremely necessary for us to have one as we are more here as extra help and can be contacted by a phone call or door knock if need be. Still, I envied my fellow co-workers, directors and caregivers whose back-and-forth of "Olguin, Olguin" - "Adelante" I wanted to be a part of.

I never thought I would rise to such status, but just this past Friday, Sophie and I, after nine-and-a-half months of volunteering, were each awarded a radio. For the first time this week, I have heard my name coming from the radio. The call of "Naomi, Naomi" effusing from the speaker has been music to my ears and an affirmation that I have established myself in NPH as more than a temporary, occasional volunteer presence.

The award of the radio came because the women's director will be out-of-town on vacation for the next couple weeks. Her vacancy left just one caregiver in charge of the seventy girls in the house. Sophie and I are to help the lone caregiver in her absence and hereby donned on us two radios.

It's been a unique week - one in which by girls have asked me permission to do things more than ever before, one in which the director of the house has given Sophie and me important responsibilities, and one in which, for the first time, we will be full-time parental figures in-charge of the girls this weekend in their wake-ups, chores, activities, permission to leave the house, and everything in between.

I thank-you, radio, for the responsibility you have give me.

Personal Space

American's are infamous for their need of seemingly excess personal space and stricter definition of privacy. As any home-grown American, I have come to appreciate the one-and-a-half- to four-foot distance between me and the person with whom I'm conversing, the freedom to browse a clothing store without an assistant following my every move, and the peace and quiet of my home without intrusions of neighborly noises (for the most part).

Living in Mexico has challenged my definition of personal space in more ways than one. Mexicans love to always be touching - so I've adjusted to the kids constantly holding my arm, pinching my belly fat, and pulling at my hair. Noise ordinance laws don't exist - so I've become a master of falling asleep while duranguense music blasts next door until 2AM in the morning while the neighbors celebrate the birthday of some distant relative. Earphones rarely make an appearance either - so I've kept my sanity in the NPH offices by bringing my own earphones to block out the overlapping, clashing musical interests of my office mates' speakers. Even the cats here in Mexico seem to endlessly be in heat always right outside my window during the hours of 1-3AM in the morning.

I'll be glad to get some of that American personal space back - if only for the sake of a little less air pollution.

Cinco No Mayo

Cinco de Mayo? Not a peep from anyone yesterday in reference to this, what I now see as a, great American holiday.

My Spongebob calendar from the U.S. marked May 1st AND 5th as holidays celebrated in Mexico. While the offices and schools did have off from work on Monday, I'm not sure what it was for (nor do any of the kids). If you want the real holiday, you've got to come down on September 15th for Dia de la Independencia.

Back home I hope you enjoyed margaritas and Coronas. Here I enjoyed a nice cup of agua de limon with my kids. Cheers to Cinco de Mayo - in the United States.

Mexican Starbucks

I wrote this entry a few months ago but never posted it. With two trips to Starbucks this past weekend, I was reminded of my un-posted commentary.


Starbucks (Mexican chain) - A little taste of America, in more ways than one.
Your welcome Starbucks for your new slogan.

I accompanied Sophie today to Starbucks. Having yet been to one in Mexico, and yearning for someplace warm yet outside of the house on this rainy day, I was happy to make the trek.

Little did I know that the Mexican Starbucks would remind me of America for reasons other than the sight of the Twin-Tailed Siren and its familiar, house-roast aroma. Looking around, I noticed the clientele of this Starbucks was exclusively lighter skinned than the average Mexican skin tone. It caught my attention right away because in the NPH home, most of the children are medium- to darker-skinned. In fact, any kid in the home that's slightly pale (and pale in Mexico would be an Anglo-Saxon with a nice tan) is usually given the nickname guero or "pale-one." The name has even spread to me, and many of my kids affectionately call me guera. Point being, in Cuernavaca for the first time, I was sitting with the most number of gueros that I had seen since my arrival six months prior.

I got to thinking about racial divides (forgive me for referencing a social construct), something still ever present in the United States but not something I had considered in Mexico up until that day in Starbucks. Why, in this cushy, high-priced coffee shop could I only find lighter-skinned Mexicans? Why, in the home I volunteer which aids orphaned, abandoned, and abused children, are 95% of the children darker-skinned? And why was I suddenly feeling so disturbed with myself that I felt at home immediately upon entering the doors?

The answers are all too apparent. How had I fooled myself into thinking we had progressed so much further than we actually have?

Murmel Murmel Murmel

One of my favorite books growing up was Robert Munsch's "Murmel Murmel Murmel" - a story of a girl named Robin who finds a hole in yer backyard. Robin yells down the hole louder and louder "ANYBODY DOWN THERE???" to the same response of "murmel, murmel, murmel" coming out of the hole. She finally decides to stick her hand down there to discover what's making the noise and pulls out a baby. The rest of the story, Robin tries to find someone who can care for the baby, who the whole time talks to Robin with its incomprehensible gibberish of "murmel, murmel, murmel."

While the murmling of a baby is perfectly cute, it's cute because babies grow out of it starting at 10-12 months (though if your baby is not there yet, not worries). Well, at 271 months of age, I seem to have not grown out of it.

I have always had a mumbling problem. In elementary school, my teachers would send notes to my parents and write comment after comment on my report cards saying some variation of "Naomi needs to speak with confidence," "Naomi needs to enunciate her words," or "We cannot hear Naomi when she speaks and I need to constantly ask her to speak up."

Over the years, I thought I had improved. When I presented in high school and college, my teachers and professors no longer had to ask me to speak up. Among friends, people rarely asked me to repeat what I said.

I was wrong.

Being in Mexico has highlighted the extreme lack of improvement in my murmeling. Before Mexico, my friends of one, two, or three years had faked me into believing that they understood me at all times. Instead, I have figured out that my friends had mastered the motions of "fake understanding" over the course of our relationship. If they couldn't decipher what I was saying, they would just look at my face, read its emotion, and give me an appropriate response ranging from laughing to sighing without understanding what I actually said.

In Mexico, I began to meet all new people - people who hadn't developed response strategies. The first month I noticed that my co-workers and friends had to repeatedly ask me what I had just said. At first I blamed it on their hard hearing or my lack of sleep. After a couple months, I realized I am the problem.

I don't believe that living in a Spanish-speaking environment has helped me any. My English has gone down the drain because I don't speak it quite as much as I used to. Now my mumbling has taken a turn for the worse.

I think that 271 months of age is the perfect time to achieve the next level of language development. I'm just gonna ask for your assistance. And for all you who have dealt with years of my incomprehensible giberish, I have a couple of words for you:

aljho sdfh kjdyf gkjhf

I knew you'd understand.

Following a Few Steps Behind

Once a week, I assist in the elementary school English classes. The kids have many "barricades" that block them from participating in the lesson. The excuses include, but are not limited to:

1. I don't have my English notebook.
2. My pencil isn't sharpened.
3. I'm not working today.
4. Yesica is kicking my chair.

Thankfully, many of these "problems" have an easy solution which I help them to quickly find get back on track. Just three weeks ago, however, I encountered problems with not such an easy or quick solution. In two of my classes we received new students. I noticed them right as I walked in, because among a sea of 8-11 year-olds their 13- and 14-year old bodies literally stuck out. The barriers these two children face are far harder to work out than the ones of my 9-year-old 3rd graders.

Last week, in my 4th grade class, the teacher presented a English lesson on telling time. As the teacher recited various times, such a 5:15, 6:30, and 2:23, the kids copied them down to later draw the time on individual miniature clocks. When I looked across the classroom for confused faces, I saw 14-year-old Maria staring at her paper. When I approached her, I saw with the help of a friend she had successfully deciphered the recited times but was stuck at that. I gently explained the activity in Spanish to her, thinking she hadn't understood the instructions the teacher had given in English and then I walked away. When I returned a few minutes later, she had made no progress. It was then that I realized she had never learned how to tell time. The little hand, big hand, and five minute intervals for Maria made no more sense in Spanish than they did in English. I changed the English lesson into a telling-time lesson in Spanish. I spent the last ten minutes of class teaching Maria the parts of the clock, its 12 points, and its silly little hands.

This past Thursday, in my 3rd grade class, I took a seat next to Ivan, the 13-year-old new arrival who I had made a point to help each English class. He has been picking up English quickly. During this week's lesson on fruits, he smiled proudly when he successfully could give me manzana (apple), sandia (watermelon), and uvas (grapes) in English. Often though, Ivan falls behind when copying sentences on the board. Why? He painfully labors over writing every letter. When the rest of the class has already copied the day's date and has moved onto the lesson, Ivan is just finishing writing the "s" of "Today's date is:" Before Ivan entered NPH, writing skills were not something he used often.

When I see Ivan and Maria struggle I don't know whether to be angry at their pasts which denied them an education or to rejoice in their daily triumphs at NPH where they now have the chance at a promising future.

At least I do know that my definition, and hopefully my 8-year-old student definitions, of "problems" has slightly changed in meaning.

The Roller Coaster

One month anniversary of no posts.

The reason for my prolonged absence is not that I was too busy to write or that a month has passed with no thought has crossing my mind. Instead, in this roller coaster of being a volunteer, the reason for my absence has been due to a seemingly, semi-permanent low. In late-February/early-March, after a couple weeks of frustrations with my kids, discovering more details about the past of some of the children, and a lot of negative energy on my part, the downhill of the roller coaster ride came to a halt in a valley where my cart refused to go back up the hill.

I spent March and the beginning of April dealing with a variety of (mostly negative) emotions. While I had the occasional touching pass-through-an-obstacle-with-a-disadvantaged-child-moment as I have experienced since coming to NPH, my attitude about being here turned worse for the wear. With my masters program on the horizon, I became impatient to go home where look for housing and register for classes in the same time zone and with a working cell phone. With visits from home and chats with old friends, I wanted to return to the familiarity and ease of American culture. With water shortages, cockroaches, and declining security in Mexico, I wanted the safety of my home.

I became distanced from my work. In one way, that was easier. The less time I spent with the kids, the less time their heartaches preoccupied my mind. The less time I spent talking with my girls, the bond I created with them became weaker making it easier for me to leave in July. I fooled myself into believing that I had learned all there was to learn about being a volunteer at NPH, and all that was left for me to do was tie up some strings and go home.

I don't know when it hit me, or when the clouds started to clear away, but finally, after a month-and-a-half of stormy weather, I have started to commit myself with as much of my heart as my mind.

Here's to the last two-and-a-half months.

Upside Down Dog

By living in tight quarters with three other girls, I've started to pick up some of their habits. While some, like becoming addicted to Private Practice and eating an entire box of chocolates in one sitting, haven't become some of my best qualities, others I find are quite beneficial.

My roommates are fit machines. Each has a couple of marathons, half-marathons, and bulging biceps under her belt. It's inspirational - so much so that I have become determined to be as nimble and flexible as they.

My professional trainers (aka roommates) have suggested yoga as a way to achieve my goal. I've watched a couple of videos, done a few sun salutations, and goggled as my roommates twist and contort their bodies as a start. The position names are proving to be a bit hard to grasp. I have called the downward facing dog position "upside down dog" more than once.

Here I am posting a picture for reasons two fold: 1. To see how three months of yoga will improve my flexibility, and 2. To make myself accountable. I will achieve that perfect v-shape form of the downward facing dog position I see Rodney doing his DVD (thanks Jeremy).



Anyone who practices can obtain success in yoga but not one who is lazy. Constant practice alone is the secret of success.
-Hatha Yoga Pradipika

Seems like yoga, and my roommates, might have a little more to teach me than just how to do a perfect downward facing dog.

At A Crossroads

It's a lot to ask. A lot to expect.

Once children at NPH enter high school, their life-style changes. At the younger home, their days are scheduled and packed. The children go to school, come home and eat lunch, shower and do chores, go to study hall and then required activities. Before you know it it's time for dinner and bed.

At the high school, many experience choice and freedom for the first time when it comes to their schedules. If they want to, they can skip breakfast to sleep in a little longer. On the weekends they can leave the home on their own to go shopping downtown. Their caregivers no longer check their homework.

It's all to form the children into responsible, self-providing young men and women. After high school, each pequeno does two years of service by cooking or taking care of the children as their repayment for the house. Before asking them to be responsible for children, they need to develop from children into responsible young adults themselves.

Not all mature as fast as the others. Many test the boundaries of their new-found freedom in high school. They see what will happen if they don't do their homework or show up for school. They fail to do their chores or listen to directors. In other words, they're your typical rebellious teenagers trying to figure out just how much you love them.

The things is, at NPH, it is possible to push the buttons too far. And where many parents would love and support their child no matter what they did, there are certain times when NPH can't, for the sake of the home's reputation and as an example to the other children, let a child stay in the home.

Last week I said goodbye to one of my favorite kids. Cheque wasn't one whose misbehavior crossed a line, but he had little motivation for school. At the end of the first semester of his freshman year, Cheque was failing many of his classes. Already his second time around as a freshman, and after a semester off from school in reflection, NPH couldn't keep him on the traditional high school track. Instead, he will be completing a vocational course to prepare him for a job in a couple of years. He still expresses interest in coming back to high school, but his interest is backed up with nothing but failing grades, unfinished homework assignments, and naps in class.

It's here when I can't help but ask the dangerous "what if?" What if Cheque had parents who could afford him tutoring? Who could check his homework every night? Who could support him in his struggle? What if I had noticed his failing grades earlier and could have helped him out? What if he wasn't left to his own resources? What if he had endless second chances, as so many of us with loving parents receive time and time again?

Now Cheque will hopefully finish vocational school and find a job. But his chances of going to university are most likely shot. He will probably not earn enough money to go if he wants to down the road. It's hard to swallow. Had Cheque just pushed through, he would have received a college education paid for by NPH setting him up for a career and a life filled with so many more opportunities.

When I said goodbye to Cheque I had to swallow back tears. It was a powerful moment - seeing a boy at a crossroads who chose to go down the More Difficult Path when he could have taken The Easier Path. Too bad second chances and safety nets can only go so far.

It's a lot to ask.

The Majesty of My Backyard

The past two weeks we have been blessed with clear skies allowing us to see for miles from our rooftop. We've had the most beautiful views of Popocatépetl, the 17,800 ft. active volcano outside of Puebla, 110 miles away.



The views from our shower window can't be beat either:



Nor the sunrises:



I say we've got a prime piece of real-estate.

February Sun

Last Saturday morning a spent a good three hours outside running on the track and at basketball practice with the girls. About two hours in I realized that I should have put on sunscreen but was too lazy to run up to my house and apply the lotion.

Plus...it was only February...right?

Results after three hours of being fully exposed to the Mexican February sun:

Message in a Pad

Once a month the girls receive their hygiene products: soap, shampoo, detergent, toothpaste, toilet paper, and sanitary pads. Before this month's distribution, pads became a topic of discussion with Veckry, the women's director of the house.

Veckry cleared her throat to catch the attention of the girls and began:
"As you know girls, we are in a time of economic crisis. We must conserve all that we use. That includes sanitary pads. I have seen some of you use pads to write notes to your boyfriends or stick them in your lockers as decorations. I warn you, you will only be receiving as many pads as you need - don't ask for more. Please, don't usie pads for other purposes."

While this addressed a very serious issue (of the difficult financial situation we find ourselves in) I couldn't help but smile behind Veckry's stern expression and applaud the ingenuity of my girls, especially in this time of limited resources.

It's the Little Things

Volunteering I believe attracts people for the cultural experience it offers, the opportunity to learn a new language, and above all, the possibility of to make a difference. In college I spent spring breaks building houses, participating in hurricane relief, and making programs for community development. As part of my service fraternity, I tutored low-achieving students, did trash clean-up in Williamsburg, and sold cookies, candy grams, and anything else I could bake to benefit relief organizations. And I felt good.

In those short-term volunteer experiences, I felt I had made a difference. Perhaps because there was some tangible evidence of my work. I could see the difference in the form of the foundation of a new house I had laid over the week, or in the completion of a homework assignment of one of my students. Here at NPH, however, I have found my volunteer experience not so life-changing for the community I am helping as I perhaps was disillusioned to believe before.

I'm heading into the last third of my volunteer year. While I know I have grown in leaps and bounds and have personally benefited from this experience more than I could have imagined, I am forced to think how others have benefited from me. There's where I draw the blank. This time, I don't feel so good.

Upon reflection of the volunteer community of Cuernavaca, I know we've established a firm "gringa" presence in the high school home. Our kids have grown used to hearing people speak Spanish with an accent (and have given them an extra person to make fun of). We have given them an extra person to help with their English homework. They have someone who can bring them yummy chocolate from the US and hand-me downs. They have a free movie rental shop from our large selection of movies we've acquired. They have been introduced to my all-time favorite dessert of brownies.

All joking aside, the moments in which I see any real benefit of my presence at NPH usually are far and few between. I became unusually discouraged this past week because of the little tangible evidence I could see that my presence makes any difference. There are no houses that I've built that gives shelter to a family in need or park that I've cleared of trash so wildlife can live more safely.

This past Tuesday, while still feeling discouraged, I headed to the high school to help in the English classes as usual. That day we listened to Cold Play's "Viva La Vida" while the kids tried to fill in the blanks where words were missing in the lyrics. One of my students, Juan, became quickly discouraged when he got lost after the first refrain. In frustration he yells "I hate this song! Why didn't you pick another one?" and puts his head on his desk. At this point I decide to sit next to him and start singing the song along with the CD player. Juan picked up his head making his paper visible. For the next two repeats of the song we followed the lyrics with my pencil touching every word. Upon filling in the last missing word Juan boasted to the class "I'm done, haha," as many of them were still filling in the lyrics.

While I walked around to the other students, I glanced over at Juan every so often who was singing along with the words. At one point he caught my eyes and told me "I like this song." He asked for more songs by Cold Play.

As corny as it might be, Juan cheered me up quite a bit. He made me realize, there is probably no big change I will make here. Let's be realistic. Prior to my arrival I though one year in Mexico would give me the opportunity to make things happen. In reality, a year is how much time one needs to acclimate, to learn, to establish one's presence and validity in an organization before even proposing those big ideas. Big ideas take time, and in the span of an organization, a year, my year, is a fraction of what it took to bring NPH to where it is today.

As I've only got a year, I believe I have to readjust my goals and give a little more credit to the little things.

The Lenten Season

I would classify myself as one of those lost souls who took one too many religion courses in college which forced me to question my religious upbringing and destroyed all of my childhood assumptions of heaven and hell and all in between.

I still remember my religious formation classes in elementary school. We would all yell out together "God created the world!" and define the difference between moral and venal sins with such confidence. My confidence started to wain in high school, and most definitely in college, when professors began to introduce movements such as the "Death of God" movement of the 1960s, highlight the indiscretions and sometimes hypocrisy of Catholicism and the Catholic church, and bring that damn p-r-o-o-f word into every argument against the validity of the bible. On faith alone we could not stand.

I don't enjoy being lost. If anything I wish I could still have the naive mentality of the world of my childhood: one in which Jesus fed thousands of people with only five loaves and two fish or one in which my daily prayers at night talking to God could comfort me because because I knew that even if the rest of the world shut me out, He was listening. I am trying to become "un" lost, but it is a daunting task.

This past Wednesday with the beginning of Lent, I decided to go to mass to receive ashes. While working here at a Catholic orphanage, though I have come to no closer realization of how to classify my beliefs, I have decided it is more important to be an example to my kids on the outside regardless of how wayward I might be on the inside. During the Ash Wednesday service, I expected to go through the actions and prayers of mass as automatically as I have with any religious celebration here thus far. But as Father Phil, the Chicago-raised priest and CEO of NPH, raised the chalice that held the ashes, I was overcome with the memory of my Uncle Donnie, who was passed away suddenly this past November. As a priest, my Uncle Donnie conducted countless masses before his death, and watching Father Phil raise the chalice on Ash Wednesday reminded me of my uncle more than I expected. I was flooded with almost a shame that I could not revere the symbolism of the mass or have faith in the Lenten season as he did. I was sad that I will never get to confide in him about my doubts or learn from him. As someone I respected, someone I revered for his commitment to something so unclear, and someone who I know had his doubts but drove through them, I mourn his loss especially during this time in my life. Above all, I felt a yearning to be part of this beautiful season when people so strong in their beliefs celebrate possibly the most beautiful thing that we could ever realize.

Perhaps, regardless of where I stand, this Lenten journey can be as fulfilling for me as it would be for someone who can confidently define their beliefs. As a time of reflection and cleansing of the body, a time when we can learn from the example of Jesus, and a time when we can reflect upon what exactly we are doing and where we are going, there are no qualifications one must have to take part in the observance.

The Varying Definitions of Conservative Dress

Sophie and I went on a run today. For the first time in a while, Sophie paired shorts instead of pants with her long-sleeved tee. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to her legs. They were fascinating and I had no idea why.

It wasn't until during out walk to the track that I discovered the reason for my fascination: I had not seen a pair of legs sans pants in a very long time.

You see, in the US, it seems that one who shows a lot of leg, but covers everything up on top, can still pass off as dressed appropriately (even in the case, perhaps, of a skirt leaning to the skimpy side). Meanwhile, in Mexico, women rarely showing off leg and instead exposing a lot of upper-body around the shoulders is perfectly acceptable.

(There are of course exceptions to the rule and extremes that throw this observation out the window).

Sophie has agreed to model the differences. In the first picture you will find Sophie displaying conservative, but sexy American dress for a first date. In the second, you will find the tasteful outfit a Mexican woman might wear on her first date.




So in my transition into becoming a Mexican, I no longer bat an eye at bra straps or exposed chests. Instead, long, exposed legs have become a rather exotic part of a woman that really just must be covered up

The Normalcy of Overcoming Adversity

With the intention of reflecting on my experience thus far in Mexico, I read my journal entries from my first month at NPH, July 2009. I was comforted to find optimism, vigor, and enthusiasm for the coming year. I wrote about my fear of living in a Spanish-speaking world and working with high schoolers. I mentioned my excitement in meeting new people and living with volunteers.

What most caught my attention was my initial amazement and written detail of the life stories of my kids and co-workers. When I first arrived, each pequeno seemed to leave me goggle-eyed. Upon hearing their stories of overcoming abuse, extreme poverty, and abandonment, they became something almost superhuman in my mind. I had this overwhelming want to "rescue" them and be that person in their lives who unconditionally supported them and helped them see what the world could offer them if they only punched their pasts in the face and set on forward. It was like I would act out some Hollywood movie.

Unconsciously, over the following months, that mentality faded. As I lived side-by-side with my kids they became "normal" to me and a little more human. I never thought about their reasons for being in NPH. Instead, they have become my lovable, teenage brats with whom I have trials and tribulations as would any guardian. They have annoyed the crap out of me when they refuse to go to bed or make me late for church because they aren't done with their make-up. They have made me laugh when they imitate my gringo accent. We have had countless conversations about the most meaningless and the most important things.

I don't mean to overwrite what they have overcome or want to say that their adversity is something we don't see in the home. Every week we have heartaches here: a girl who leaves the home because she no longer wants to be in the house and can't yet see the benefits of staying in school through university, a boy who is failing all his classes or gets into fights at school resulting in suspension or expulsion, or others who have such depression they don't want to get out of bed and cry themselves to sleep at night. But what I do mean to say is that at first I was unsure how to approach these kids because their adversity was all I thought about. When really, what I have learned is that by putting their pasts at the back of my mind, I feel I have been able to be there more fully for them. My relationships with them have been formed without any basis in their reasons for being at NPH.

We're all human. Just born in different places into different circumstances. When we can look past that, that is when we can help one another. A truly rewarding relationship must be a reciprocal one. And ironically, by my kids' adversity becoming normalcy, I've been able to learn from them more than I would have otherwise.

Non-Rainy Season Rain

Ale, my new roommate, asked me last week one cloudy day if it would rain. In my know-it-all-i-have-six-months-more-experience-in-Mexico-than-you voice I responded, "No, Ale. It only rains during rainy season. That ended in October. And even then, it only rains at night."

Today we woke up to another cloudy day. Confident the skies would not break lose I brought no umbrella on my trek outdoors. Half-an-hour after leaving the house it began to sprinkle. A few hours later in the early afternoon it began to pour. The forecast doesn't even look good for tomorrow when Ale plans on hiking a nearby ruin, but she might have to cancel it due to the prospect of rain, which according to me, would never be an issue for her.

I SWEAR this is only the second day it has rained since rainy season ended in October. But the heavens have unleashed on me because my know-it-all attitude got the best of me.

Ale, I stand corrected. It appears to rain outside of rainy season. I hope you will forgive me.

From New to Old

Two weeks ago we welcomed eight new volunteers. Their arrival reclassified my generation of volunteers (who arrived in July of 2009) from "new" to "old" as NPH welcomes a new generation every six months.

Becoming an "old" volunteer has brought on a new sense of responsibility. Because I'm no longer new in the neighborhood, my role as an observer and Spanish-language-learner has transitioned into active staff member of the care-giving team. Since my return from winter vacation, I have seen a difference in how my co-workers and directors treat me. I have been given more responsibility such as organizing activities, giving children permission to leave the house, and making calls for directors.

The kids now see me as a part of the house - as a caregiver just like the others. They come to me with their problems or open up if they're having a bad day with the expectation that I will be there for them. They're scared of me catching them out of the dorms after bedtime whereas before my presence was no threat to them at all - them knowing they could pounce all over me by speaking really fast in Spanish.

In the office, my Spanish is at the point where I'm not apprehensive to speak to superiors or other important figures. I'm not afraid to ask for the definition of a word if I don't understand.

The arrival of new volunteers has forced me to question myself - what have I done here thus far and what am I going to do my last five months here?

I've done the learning of the systems, made the adjustment to the culture, and acquired the language. There's no holding back now and time to gear into full steam ahead.

In Memory of Molly

I returned from home after two weeks of vacation this past Sunday. I was excited to come back, already having enough free time at home to become a couch potato. Also, a little overwhelmed at the thought of another six months. But, the break was good and renewing. Starting my second six months in conjunction with the start of a new year somehow gives me more of a push to make my last six months here better.

Soon after my return, Haiti was struck by an earthquake. Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos has a home in Haiti as well as a hospital, school, and special education program. Everyone’s thoughts here went immediately to our brothers and sisters in Haiti.
Wednesday came only with the news that we could find online. We heard that the pequeños in the home were safe and secure. The earthquake barely touched the home which is located high in the mountains further away from the shocks. But other buildings received substantial damage.

Thursday came with more news. The building which houses volunteers and visitors completely collapsed. The brother of a volunteer who was visiting his sister died. Another volunteer, Molly, was still missing.

And today, Friday, by keeping constant vigilance over twitter, news sites, and emails. We found out that the body Molly Hightower, 22, was found earlier today.

I want to extend my deepest regrets and comfort to her family.

The news of her passing is hitting me harder than I would have thought. Molly went down to Haiti to volunteer for NPH the same time I came down here to Mexico. She graduated last May from college. She’s been working with special needs kids in the orphanage since she arrived. Her blog is beautiful (www.mollyinhaiti.blogspot.com). When I first heard she was missing, I found her blog. Her last entry was on December 30th, a week after returning from her vacation of six months. She missed home but loved her kids even more.

Molly is not the only one who NPH lost to the earthquake. Office workers, adults who once used to live in the orphanage, and family members of NPH are among NPH’s losses.

It’s overwhelming to begin to think about the earthquake’s effects past the specific context of NPH. Within our sector, there is already so much loss and suffering. There are hundreds of other organizations and hundreds of thousands of other people who have suffered great, great losses.

As always in events such as these, I have begun to think more of “life.” It’s unpredictable. It’s incomprehensible. It’s joyous and heartbreaking all at the same time.

I find it truly an honor to be here to be part of the NPH family. Really, they have done more for my development than I have for theirs. NPH Mexico has opened my eyes, has taught me unconditional acceptance. It has given me the chance to be part of something wonderful. I’m so grateful to NPH - that in my life, I can contribute to what NPH is doing.

At the end of our lives, whether that is tomorrow or one hundred years from now, all we can do, is live doing what we love and spend time with those whom we love. So when that day comes, as predicted or in the blink of an eye, we’re at least content with the life we have lived.



If you feel moved to support NPH Haiti, visit www.friendsoftheorphans.com, the United States based fundraising group for Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos.