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.