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