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.