Filling up my heart with memories – Fifty-Five And One Antiguan Nights

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

Right now I’m taking the train into Philadelphia to a doctor’s appointment. I’ve put off writing this for a while, but I figured that now, when I have nothing else to do, I have to start thinking about the end of my trip. Part of why I have avoided writing this blog is that I’ve been adjusting and catching up on sleep. I’ve also been meeting with friends from home and preparing my things in this quick turn around between Guatemala and returning to school.

Binging is definitely not healthy kids, don't try this at home — Binging is bad kids, don’t try it at home

Part of it, I won’t lie, is because I’ve picked up watching The Office and I had to get to the point where Jim and Pam become a couple. But behind all of that is my want to avoid thinking about what just happened. I feel like I’m in sixth grade, adjusting to waking up early for school for the first time, refusing to open my eyes or move my body even though I’m awake just because I know that I have three more minutes until 6:30 a.m. and maybe I’m not ready to face a return to real life yet. For a week I found myself giving vague responses like “it was amazing,” so that I don’t have to start synthesizing my adventures. Once you catch yourself in your own tricks on yourself, how can you let yourself keep playing them?

So now I’m thinking about the question my friend asked me three weeks into my study abroad: “Is it everything you thought it would be??” Wow. Fantastic question, Meg. You really nailed me to the wall on that one, making me stop saying superlatives and start thinking. Geez, I don’t know, I thought. For the most part, before this summer I just knew I would have “experiences,” with no real idea of what kind they would be. I decided I would wait to answer that question until I had lived every part of my trip. I kept waiting because I didn’t want to say that it was over.

Well. Was it everything I thought it would be? Heck no. Is it too cliché to say to say that it was better and more than I thought it would be? Probably, but that’s the truth. How could I have predicted anything that I did or saw this summer? Disney got one thing spot on when it said, “You’ll learn things you never knew you never knew.” In my last week alone, I found out more tangible examples of what I want to be than in two years at college.

When my last week in Guatemala started, I was on a redeye bus from Tikal to Guatemala City, coming back from the oldest, most expansive, and most impressive site of Mayan ruins in the world. At the same time, my friends, Taylor and Risa, and I realized it was the end.

“We go home next Saturday,” Taylor said.

All I could think of to say back was “yeah.” To be fair, what else can you communicate in a whisper in the middle of a red-eye bus? I sat up and leaned my head against the window while I tried to make out familiar shapes from the unfamiliar shadows on the highway. No, the fact that we were leaving so soon hadn’t sunk in. I couldn’t feel anything. I don’t think it had fully hit any of us. None of us felt like saying things like, “I can’t believe we’re leaving in a week,” or “I know, right?” We felt numb but not so much that we didn’t know it would be cheap to say things we didn’t really understand yet.

On my last Monday I acted out a skit in Spanish class with my friend Aiza of our first real weekend when we went to the less-than-safe, more-than-fear-inducing-and-dangerous caves in Semuc Champey. I recalled how scared and cold I had been, how I had heard a choir of children singing “Will I Lose My Dignity” from RENT in my head, and how I had said I never wanted to go in those caves again. All I wanted now was to be back in that state of fear with a whole summer of adventure still in front of me. I watched as Nory, my lovable Spanish teacher, for the seven hundredth time encouraged us to learn through laughter and real life, and I thought, “Man, I’d love to be like her.”

Later we went to a Mayan ceremony that asked for blessings for workers and students, where the priest asked for safety, health, and success for each of us by name. We had a barbecue with one of our professors, Ricardo Lima-Soto, at his house.

See, the thing is that Ricardo is one of the most intelligent, funniest, and nicest professors I’ve ever had. He’s had more adventures than Leonardo DiCaprio in all of his movies combined. Ricardo could spark incredible debates and conversations about subalternism, post-colonialism, and racism in Guatemala with respect to the scores of different identities and nationalities in Guatemala, but somehow got us to draw just as many parallels about the intricacies and social-racial dynamics in our own country. What left the biggest impression on me was how at peace he seemed to be with himself and the world. It was not that Ricardo underestimates the problems in the world or the problems he faces; instead I think he has a perfect understanding of both and still he has a calmness, happiness, and sense of stability. As malleable, young twenty-somethings who lack this peace and clear sense of direction, my classmates and I marveled at our teacher who could talk about systemic oppression and then Minions without missing a beat or seeming like he didn’t understand the actual level of gravity or levity of the two, respectfully. We all decided at one point or another, “I want to be like him.”

On Tuesday night I had my last night with the teens and young adults in the English class at Los Patojos. I silently admired at how openly determined they were. Even if you’ve thought otherwise, the truth is that I’ve always been a little shy about saying, “this is what I want to do with my life and I am working on it right now.” But these people had the bravery to say, “These are our dreams and we’re putting them in action.” Again, as I talked to the other teachers and the students, “I thought to myself, I want to be like them.”

On Wednesday afternoon my friends and I went to Earth Lodge on top of a mountain ridge, where we talked about our summer experiences while we watched the sun set over Antigua and the surrounding volcanoes below. Then our professor, Jennifer Casolo, told us her story. Jenn became my hero probably less than two minutes into the story: she had worked for peace in El Salvador in the 1980s, been mistakenly arrested by the military, interrogated for days despite refusing to lie and name innocents as subversives, and then eventually been released thanks to nation-wide support back in the United States. As I sat there, feeling like a preschooler with my hands motionless and my head tilted up to watch her without blinking, I realized I was listening to a hero. Even now on the train, I can still see Jenn, her hair tucked behind her ears, wearing colorful clothes, standing instead of sitting as if she was about to sprint with all of her excess energy, her hands alternating between motions and clasps together, and her eyes trying to reassure us as we listen in panic. Jenn was calm as she told a story more harrowing than our worst nightmares. She told us of how she had felt at the time like she would somehow be okay, and we sat there like cub scouts listening to our first ghost story, in awe and mystification at how she could be so courageous. It grew dark and we all had to go home for dinner (I know, how cute and great is that?), but we begged Jenn to meet us at a café afterwards to continue her story. We sipped our tea by candles and leaned in down the table to listen. There was a room-wide warm-golden-fuzzy-happy feeling as we heard about her badassery. This time I thought to myself, “I wonder if it’s even possible to ever be like her.”

On Thursday I went to Los Patojos and saw part of the Poetry Exposition that they hosted for all of the schools in the area. Fourth graders recited and performed poems written by current Guatemalan poets, some of who attended the event. I felt like the kids were singing songs in front of rock stars. If these kids wanted to go to the moon, I think the teachers at Los Patojos would contact the X Prize competitors and make it happen. Seeing their commitment made me want to be like them.

On Friday I said goodbye to my teachers, my roommates, and my friends and students at Los Patojos. When I started to realize it would be years before I saw these people again, I felt duped. For two months, I’ve been trying my best to acclimate myself in Guatemala and to feel and learn everything possible. I sewed my heart to this place and these people. And as I left, I felt someone pulling at the seams. I don’t think I write enough to explain how much I love this school or how Juan Pablo is my role model.

This summer I got to have real adventures, the kind I always watched in movies and assumed that I’d never get enough bravery or coolness to leave my warm couch and blanket to have. I clung to the bars of an open truck bed as we drove through the jungle of Alto Verapáz on our way to climb up waterfalls. I found out that I’m afraid of caving and bats, but I climbed and swam through caves of Semuc Champey and I walked through the Bat Palace of Tikal. I jumped off a rope swing, took a boat to a zoo in the middle of a lake, walked through an ancient Mayan ball court with a little girl in Mixco Viejo, kayaked in a lake surrounded by volcanoes in Panahajel, climbed volcanoes in Pacaya, made new friends and danced on the regular. I got to study in the peace of the most beautiful and expansive social science library in Central America, listen to speakers who have actually changed the world, have some of the best conversations, and joke with my host parents daily. Guys, I got to see a volcano every morning when I woke up. Can’t stress that one enough. But the adventures can’t compare to the people who taught me what I want to be when I grow up. (I’ve still got plenty of time before I cook my own Thanksgiving dinner, and that’s the standard of adulthood that I’m sticking to.)

So what’s next? Well I’ll go back to school at Penn State and work to earn enough to return to Guatemala as soon as I can. I’ll keep wearing the bracelets my kids gave me. I’ll take small steps as I try to get used to walking down College Ave instead of Segunda Avenida Sur. I won’t even be mad when I have to explain that I went to Guatemala and not Nicaragua, Costa Rica, or even Thailand. I’ll wish my friends back in Guatemala happy birthdays and think of them every time I see them on Facebook. I’ll do my best to not cry as I work on compiling all of the work of the kids at Los Patojos into the final book. I’ll write more of my novel. At the risk of another cliché—but hey, third time’s the charm—I promise I won’t forget this summer in Guatemala. I mean, really, how could I? I might’ve known that I wanted to be a writer and a teacher before this summer, but I never could have known the mindset and personality I wanted to have without Guatemala.

There’s just one more thing I’d like to clear up. Lucky and José, I wanted to explain to you what I couldn’t before. Whenever I’d ask for a packed lunch, you’d always play a joke on me and pretend to be inconvenienced, and I’d always get worried that you weren’t kidding. We’d laugh about it, José would say “Tranquila,” (Calm down) and then we’d move on to the next joke. Here’s the thing: Ninety-eight percent of me knew that you were kidding. How could you not be kidding? You two are the nicest, funniest, most interesting, and most welcoming host parents I could have asked for. But that two-percent possibility that I was upsetting you made me freeze because the last thing in the world I wanted was upset two of my new favorite people in the world. Man, José, I can hear you teasing me and asking me if I’m going to cry. Pretend you can hear me saying “no” unconvincingly. Lucky, I can hear you laughing. Pretend I’m saying good afternoon after class. Pretend I’m smiling because you just called me your rose or baby (sin pampers, so almost close to an adult but not—I never did acknowledge how true that is). Pretend I’m a minute late after the dinner bell and tease me about it. Anyhow, I just wanted you guys to know that I love you both and that I’ve always wanted to be like you. I promise I’ll be back soon. Jose, help a gringa out and translate this for Lucky.

Forgive me if any/all of this seemed scattered—that’s sort of how I feel. I guess it’s better to say it all like this than to not say anything. I know that there are a bunch of things I’ll wish I had written later on. But the summer’s got to end and I have to pack my dorm furniture, so count up your points, my friends, and maybe you can take away one last thing from all of this. The best I can do is to tell you that I thoroughly loved all of my life-changing fifty-six days in Guatemala, from the unbelievable adventures to the everyday chores. Que te vaya bien, hasta pronto.

The Limit Does Not Exist

As the only white people and three of only a handful of women in the dim fluorescent lighting in the bare white room with dirty blue chairs and an open door to the street, Risa, Taylor, and I clung to our bags and talked low as we tried to play cards. We were in the Linea Dorada bus station in Guatemala City, waiting to go to Tikal. Scared and pissed off prostitutes stood nearby on nearly every corner in tight neon dresses and high-heeled wedges. Otherwise only men were outside–either walking quickly or standing completely still. Our bus would not come until 10 at night. Sure you could have told us that our fears were superstitious and exaggerated like shadows on a wall, but we would have told you to shut up, stop talking in English, and calling more attention. Thankfully we got on the 8 p.m. bus, and left that scary part of the night behind us. The bus ride to Santa Elena was very cold and we still had to wait five hours before we would arrive in Tikal.

But it didn’t matter. Every bad thing slipped away when we got into the national park. I thought about not writing about the bad things at all, just to avoid the risk that they might tint how you felt about my trip. I tell you them just so that you can know that I forgot them. I’ve said once that this is how Guatemala is: very upfront about the good and the bad of life, letting them stand right next to each other. I say it twice so that you know how much I mean it (twenty points if you remember which children’s book that comes from).

Our motley crew of tourists included us, a family from Shanghi, a guy from Río, a guy from Panama, a couple from Ireland, and a couple from Mexico. Just the international make up of our group surprised me and acted like a reminder that a whole world exists outside of the places with which I’m familiar. Sure, there were language barriers, but I was amazed how easily people could maneuver around them. Within one afternoon, people from almost unrecognizable personal histories and sets of idioms were joking and getting along. People shared new words, stories, and ways of doing things. Even though I said only a little, I was happy as I thought to myself, this it what it means to get along with the world.

The entrance to the park has a unique, rectangular arch that looked like an enormous trapezoid. The park itself is incredible and absorbing. Tikal is a humid, relentless, and inscrutable jungle. It’s called a sub-tropical rainforest, but for half of the year (during our winter) the ground is so dry that cracks run through it. Signs warned about crocodiles and our guide warned us about jaguars and snakes. No one warned me about the bats (famously in the Temple of the Bats) and it turns out that I’m afraid of bats. Monkeys jumped across trees above our heads, not caring whether or not we could take pictures of them.

The temples are a whole majesty in and of themselves. Tikal National Park has the ancient ruins of the temples and palaces of an ancient Mayan civilization that existed and then disappeared hundreds of years before Spanish men in hot metal outfits ever arrived to the continent to claim that they discovered it. It’s clear they left because the climate was so hot that agriculture was no longer sustainable. But before that.

La Vista de la cima de unos de los Templos

Before that, they built these amazing temples and palaces, connected by huge roads covered in white cement. They surrounded this religious center with provinces of villages that they controlled. But we don’t know who they were. We don’t know which Mayan language they spoke, what they called themselves, or anything else other than what archeologists surmise from the things they left behind.

Tikal seemed like that person you meet only a few times in your life who is simultaneously intriguing and cryptic–the person you feel you could spend years with and not understand.

But even in one of the most unique places I’ve ever visited, maybe since it’s the end of my trip, it reminded me of home. Call it homesickness or intercultural connections—it’s probably both. A smell on the bus reminded me of sitting in Mrs. Lebovtiz’s kitchen talking about someday being a grown up with my old friend Marcelyn. The cow herders in flannel, jeans, and cowboy hats that we saw on the ride over reminded me of Penn State. The deafening humidity reminded me of summer soccer tournaments at the GCVSA Line Road fields. The grass reminded me of my neighborhood park.

The views on top of the temples reminded me of the adventures I envied from books I read during lunchtime in elementary school. When we climbed down and I fell at the exact second after the tour guide mentioned that two weeks ago a jóven (young adult) like me had fallen in the spot where I stepped, I thought of the song my dad used to sing to us when we skinned our knees hiking in Vermont.

No doubt, this is a mellower blog. I had just as many adventures this weekend, visiting Tikal, taking a boat to an outside zoo, eating ice cream for dinner, and I’ve been trying to make sense of these different memories that have mixed with this new scenery.

I’ve come up short for an explanation because my head is foggy with the impending flight home and all of its implications. I’m going home it a week. I miss my family and friends. I miss living in my hometown, because living in a foreign place is like treading water instead of walking, and that’s tiring. But I know that those feelings are fogging up the rearview mirrors that’ll clear up in two weeks and show me what I’ll miss when I leave.

I wish the world were a smaller place. I wish I had more time to at least try to understand places like Tikal. Sure, you could argue that as a white foreigner from a culture and ethnicity that has consistently benefitted from the oppression of Guatemala, I might not ever understand the country and its geographical, social, and political landmarks in the same way that a Guatemalan would. And you’re right. But that’s like saying that we can’t be sinless. And as my friend Betsy always said about that, just because there’s a limit to what you can understand and do, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to push that limit or pretend it doesn’t exist. [Yes, I did just throw another nostalgia token and a reference Mean Girls out there at the same time.]

Life’s an experiment that we understand we’ll never perfect, but which we have to try to make it as good as we possibly can. Because, honestly, what’s the alternative?

And that brings me back to why I’m here: to do my best to understand what happened to Guatemala, in large part because of what the United States did over the past century or so, and to write my best to act as a megaphone to the world. Maybe that way we can try this experiment of interacting with one another again, and this time, a little better.

No More Name Calling

Like a lot of kids, I learned “I” statements when I was in preschool. It’s a way to resolve issues without getting upset. Let me give it a shot. I don’t like it when we call countries “Third World Countries,” “Developing Nations,” or “Underdeveloped Nations.” Let’s please stop.

Sure, I could fill a country with all of the ways that this country is different from actually everything I’m used to. Even nuances like outdoor courtyards inside the walls of homes and buildings make me stop and watch the world with surprise and confusion like your regular twenty-something, doe-eyed idealist dreamer arriving in New York City at the beginning of her Rom-Com. Except there’s no music (or even a movie for that matter) to cue everyone else into my revelations, and, you know, this is my study abroad in Guatemala. To someone like me who’s had no exposure to Central American cultures, I’m baffled daily by the intricacies of this country that are so different than mine.

But focusing on what’s different is how we forget that other people are people. Even though courtyards, catcalling, salsa that burns your lips for twenty minutes, and plenty else puzzle me, I’ve had moments nearly every day with wonderful people when I’ve almost forgotten to remember that I’m in a foreign place.

It’s the People 🙂 National Historical Police Archives Tour Guide

People are working on home improvement projects, showing off pictures of their daughters on their phones, burying their husbands, in their mid-twenties trying to figure out where they’re going in life, falling in love, organizing church events and baby showers, making sarcastic jokes, teasing their friends about girls, talking about this new band they just heard, bragging about their all-grown-up kids, and talking about how much they dislike Donald Trump.

When I see these people in Guatemala, I have to smile and make that little huff of a laugh that you get when something surprises you. This isn’t a third-world country like we hear about in the States, I think to myself. This isn’t what we talked about in that survey political science course in high school—these people are like the people I know and like me.

It's the People :) Yo y Lucky — It’s the People 🙂 Lucky y Yo

Now maybe someone is pointing out that these countries—the ones we seem to call Third World on reflex—like Guatemala are rife with a list of problems longer than a hypochondriac’s list of fears. And that’s true. But how is that so different than the United States? (Fifteen points if you asked yourself this.) Since I’ve been in Guatemala, I’ve seen a wide spectrum of economic conditions. In Antigua, wealth manifests in colorful colonial-style buildings, lavish cars, expensive restaurants, dozens of nightclubs, pricey jewelry and clothing stores, and plenty other subtle and not-so-subtle signs. Yet slums and even an entire neighborhood in a garbage dump sit not too far from the high-luxury apartment buildings and hotels of Guatemala City. On the way to extravagant tourist destinations, there are miles of coffee, corn, and banana plants tightly surrounding worn homes like blankets pulled snug around a face—showing you how land owners try to extract every bit of profit from the people who live there. Every once and a while, you catch a look at a gated property or neighborhood with gorgeous lawns and ginormous houses. Maybe the financial spectrum is wider on the bottom end in Guatemala than in the U.S., but not by as much as you’d think.

It’s true that there’s violence, drug trafficking, malnutrition, and weak education for many here. Guatemala had approximately 5,253 murders in 2013, but the United States had approximately 14,496 in the same year, and mass-shootings are more common in the United States. Guatemala’s infamous Petén region services drug traffickers—on their way through Latin America to the United States. The majority of indigenous children in Guatemala are not in school regularly, but thousands of children, especially migrant workers, in the United States are not either. Nor does hunger seem to discriminate by nationality.

The question is, if the good parts of humanity aren’t so different and the bad parts aren’t either, why do we talk to and about countries like Guatemala like they’re made of entirely different parts all together?

That “why” is a bigger question than I can answer just in this blog. Best guess is that it stems back to maintaining a certain global economic hierarchy, racism, and Western-centrism. But here’s “what” happens when we are “into labels.”

When we commit international name-calling, what we’re really saying about those “Third World”/ “Developing”/ “Underdeveloped” countries is that they’re different than ours in irrecoverable and fundamental ways. Worse, we’re implying that those countries are inferior to and incapable of being like our country—even though we think they should try. Maybe you think that I’m exaggerating, but hear me out. When we talk about these countries, we’re usually talking about something that’s wrong with them—namely in comparison to our country. Think of it this way: it would be rude beyond belief to tell someone to their face that they are a second or third-class citizen or to describe that person in that way. It would also be rather awful to describe or tell them that they are still “developing” or “underdeveloped” as a human. Calling them that assumes they’re supposed to “develop” in a certain way to be more like you. The truth is, calling countries the equivalent names is some George Orwell, “all pigs are equal but some pigs are more equal than others,” kind of discrimination. And even if certain countries are struggling, lumping them into such categories makes it easier for us to ignore how each one has different struggles for its own reasons.

This is the part where maybe you look at me, brain still processing, and ask what we should do. This is also the part where I take a big breath, let it out, and shake my head to say I don’t exactly know. But we can start with the basics. Which countries are we talking about? Poor ones. Ones with extreme violence. Ones with discrimination and persecution. Almost always they’re former colonial states. But man, they’re so much more than that. That’s the worst part of those insulting names: describing things by their worst qualities means that we’re looking to dislike them, maybe even discriminate against them. If you don’t know of any good qualities, go explore and look for them. It’s not an easy investigation sometimes; it’s expensive to go in person and get to know somewhere or someone, and looking through second-hand sources until you get past the scandalous and the negative takes time. But it’s worth it. Because if you can’t think of a broad category for a group of countries (or for a group of people, for that matter) that isn’t offensive, that’s probably a sign that non-offensive one doesn’t exist and that you shouldn’t group those individuals together. So call them by their names, every single one. Otherwise you might forget that they each have one.

It's the people :) Día de Santiago con mis Padres — It’s the people 🙂 Día de Santiago con mis Padres

Instead of A Résumé

Someday someone is going to have a stack of résumés on a desk. He or she’ll pick up mine early one morning or late one night when he or she really wants to pick up coffee instead. This person will read the frame of my professional life and try to surmise if I’m worth the interview. Let’s say that I am, for the sake of the argument. When I get called into an interview and maybe my hair’s still a little wet from my morning shower and I’m wearing a suit I only pull out a few times a year, I’ll sit in front of this person with my shoulders pushed back—because I’ll have reminded myself that good posture is supposed to be a good sign. This person will ask me what makes me qualified and prepared for the job. My whole body will want my mouth to say, “Guatemala,” hoping that just that word will transfer all my knowledge and experience into this person’s mind The Giver style.

My second urge will be to ask this person to read my personal travel diary even though it’s in Spanish—a next best option for explaining how this summer abroad has changed my life. The truth is, some of the things that give us the best preparation for a path in life, including a career, are often too gigantic to synthesize into a 12-point, Times New Roman, single-spaced blurb. Even if I say this summer has changed my life, I wonder if that’ll mean anything to the person who interviews me. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t blame that person. See, the thing is, when every adult in my life said to me before I left, “You’ll have the time of your life,” it’s not that I didn’t believe them—I just didn’t understand them. How could I? We throw absolutes and hyperboles around so much that we don’t realize how much meaning we strip away every time we use “life-changing” to describe our pizza, a new album, or a newly discovered bookstore. Let me jump off this train back to my point. For half of my life, I’ve wanted to be a teacher and a writer. I’ve made it my ambition in life to work as hard as I can to do both jobs well someday. Three years ago, after tutoring ESL students every day after school for a semester, I knew I wanted to work with English language learners, so I stopped cramming for Spanish vocab quizzes and started asking about the more intricate grammar. Two years ago when I took my first Latin American History course, I also knew that I wanted to write about Guatemala, a country with a history that so painful that it floods the land’s beauty with blood like dye in water. Studying and spending my summer in Guatemala has brought my dreams closer within my reach.

In Guatemala, I’ve learned what it means to be a language learner. My Spanish, although not perfect, has improved faster than a student athlete on steroids. But man, has it been a hard go of it. It’s not just a matter of learning the conjugations, idioms, and sentence structures. It’s not even as simple as using them in regular conversation. It comes down to this: when you’re nervous and flustered at the post office, on a tour, when your schedule changes, or when you’re so lost that you duck into a “Chicken Champion” chain restaurant just to ask directions, can you convey what you mean like a normal human being? Now while I can’t assume the ontological position of (all of the conditions of) an English language learner, I can grasp a heck of a lot better their challenges. I know how scary it is when you don’t have time to strategize sentences strung together in your head. I know what it’s like to struggle with a grammatical structure that absolutely doesn’t exist in your native language. It’s difficult when you concentrate all your energy on just understanding and you have none left over to create a thoughtful response—and I know how it feels when someone mistakes that for disinterest. Worse, I know the sense of helplessness when you realize instantly that you’ve just made a grammatical error and there’s no time for you to let the native speaker you’re with know that you know the correct form without stalling life—but you wish like crazy you could let them know you know.

Living in Guatemala, even for a sneeze-worth of time, has taught me what real poverty and terror can look like for a lot of folks. Frankly, I don’t even like to talk about it too much when my audience can’t see my eyes and know for certain that I’m not bluffing or speaking glibly. Because in addition to these conditions, I’ve seen in Guatemala what it means to enjoy and succeed in life. I’ve seen what it means to have dozens on dozens of different cultures crammed into one environment, and what it actually means to coexist.

At my internship at Los Patojos, an alternative school full of love, creativity, excellence, and bossness, I’ve learned what it means to invest in your students as much as you wish to be invested in, to work long hours, plan lessons and then roll with it when plans change, and to collectively find a great idea and run with it while laughing your eyeballs off. My readings, lectures, and class discussions have taught me the intricacies behind culture and fighting against systemic oppression. In a phrase, from Guatemala I’ve learned how to respect what’s different without making a scene and then to keep working for a better world. All of this and more, I’m sure, will help me as I work as an English or History teacher in a Latino community. Maybe I won’t know a Dominican accent that well, the details of a small regional culture from Ecuador, or the exact chain of events in Mexican history. Still. This trip has made me aware enough to be on the look out so that I can learn.

And as far as writing goes, as kids say these days, the ideas are literally everywhere (no figurative meaning for that “literally”). The mountains look like sleeping dinosaurs covered in moss, the fog floats around the highlands like a sea of clouds, the lakes seem like massive craters in the moon filled with water, and the people have more passion to work for a better Guatemala than any metaphor could explain. The historical, political, sociological, and emotional knowledge I’ve gained has given me what I needed as I write my creative thesis (and hopefully someday novel) about Guatemala—things like jokes, facts so unknown to outsiders that you could never Google them, and belief systems that I’d never learn at my home library in Pennsylvania.

In Guatemala, my life has changed and certainly for the better. I think of my professors and teachers who gave me a boost to where I am now, and I know that whenever I see each of them, I’ll have an uncontainable grin as tell them, “I learned so much,” and I know they’ll understand. I know they’ll grin and nod back at me because more than anything, Guatemala’s taught me how to be a grown-up. More than once I’ve realized that I’m not on some guided tour through life anymore with snacks and hugs provided by adults with nametags—rather I’m on the precipice of having to be an autonomous human being that has to participate in the world without a provided prompt.

A thousand points if you figure out a way to convey that all with sincerity and passion in a 12-point, Times New Roman, single-spaced blurb, because this is one for the books.

Fill Me Up

How do I put this? I’m sorry, please give me a minute to pick up my words. I cut my mind on some sharp thoughts earlier. When you have a day like I had, it’s hard to make sentences do what you want. My heart is so full right now that it’s overflowing into my throat, making it hard to breathe or speak. But I’d like to share my Wednesday with you. bear with me.

(A little before) 8:00 a.m. I arrive at Los Patojos. If you didn’t already know from a few blogs ago, it’s what I hope heaven’s like. Everything is colorful and the murals on the wall all at once reassure you that in here everything is okay because it all belongs to the kids.

Justicia, the stray dog that the kids adopted when she was an abandoned puppy in a plastic bag thrown over a wall, sleeps on the turf in the warm sun as little bodies in bright smiles and small sneakers run around her. That endorphin-giving laugh that little kids have, the one that sounds like tiny Christmas bells, mixes with a song with a pulsing beat. After saying hi to some familiar faces, I walk to the classroom with my friends who are also working at Los Patojos with me. I’m relieved to see Mauricio, a Los Patojos grad around our age who always helps us out when our final straws of Spanish fail with the kids. Let me say a quick word about Mauricio: he is the guy that the kids look up to, the one who learned English almost on his own in three months, the one who always has a smile, joke, and a ready-to-help mindset. Without him, we’d feel a whole lot more lost and anxious.

We start setting up the pencils, paper, crayons, markers, glue, and music. As our five morning kids run in towards us with hugs, my heart fills up and I forget how tired I had been when my alarm went off that morning.

“Buenos días, chicos! ¿Qué pasa? ¿Como fueron sus semanas pasadas?” (Morning, kids! What’s up? How were your past weeks?) I got the normal range of unrevealing “bien,” “divertido,” and “aburrido” (good, fun, boring). No one said more than that and I didn’t ask more. “Bueno, hoy el tema es ‘¿Quienes son?’” (Okay, today the theme is “who are you?”)

~~Let me explain this real fast and then get back to the kids: At Los Patojos, as interns we had to come with a creative project to do with the kids. My friend Zazil is creating a garden with some of the kids. As it happens, I’m scared of worms. I also stink at drawing and can only fake playing piano with chords just like my Dad. So what could I do? Well, (hopefully you think so) I can write. And this past year I published a children’s book called Madam President: Five Women Who Paved the Way with my co-author and Associate Dean at my Schreyer Honors College Dr. Nichola Gutgold through Eifrig Publishing House. So about a month ago in the middle of our orientation to Guatemala, I had an idea: help the kids write poetry and stories about themselves, Los Patojos, fictional characters, and whatever else are some of their favorite things and then see if we can’t get it published bilingually. With a little help from my friends (10 points if you know that song), that idea grew into including art projects of the kids and the work of the youth of Los Patojos. Each week we have a different theme. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.~~

I cue up the song we’re going to listen to, “Soy de Zacapa,” to talk about how songs are a kind of poetry and to introduce the idea of Where I’m From Poetry. After examining the song with the kids, we play La Estatua, which we gringos might know as musical freeze dance. We take a break while the kids go to eat their breakfasts. Another group of grown ups tours the place, which catches my attention, but the kids could hardly notice. After all, this is their fantasy world, and those strangers are just passing through.

9:30 a.m. Then the first batch of magic happens: the kids write their poems. For some it’s easier than others, but each takes their own spin on the task. As always, they hand me their papers as fast as they finish like old-style reporters on a deadline and watch as my face lights up. If you’ve ever read poems of kids before, maybe you can understand how I felt. You’d think it’d be simple, and in a way it is. But there was a startling beauty, flair, and complexity in their poetry’s “simplicity,” just like always. I can’t say “muy bien” and “bueno trabajo” enough.

After that we take another quick break, during which I swap more U.S. hand games like Rock-Paper-Scissors and Concentration 64 for Guatemalan ones like Zip-Zip-Zip with the kids. They are patient with me as I try my best to learn the motions and the rhymes, never getting frustrated or disinterested.

I run to the front office to grab more paper and colored pencils, and end up talking to Veronica, the principal of the school. She reminds me of a brilliant, warm mother ready with a smile and a clipboard of inspiring ideas. I tell her that I’m a little nervous and that when I’m nervous, my grammar (I’m talking about you, masculine and feminine pronouns) worsens. She reassures me that my Spanish is solid and gives me the energy to dash back to class instead of walk.

10:15 a.m. My friend Aiza works the second round of magic. She explains how they’ll make self-portraits by drawing the facial features on small squares of paper and then assembling them. Again, each kid takes a different route with this project. Some have their eyes cloed, some partially opened, and some with downward-facing eyebrows overhead. Some of the faces take up the whole paper while others are small. Some have plain shirts, and some have rainbow-colored ones. And combined with their words and their mannerisms, from these I can start to see who these kids are.When they finish their self-portraits, they ask for more paper. They still have another forty-five minutes with us, and they’re itching to show us their hearts. We have free draw time, and the unscripted beauty of their minds relaxes.

12:00 p.m. We said goodbye to our morning bunch and welcome our second group: all boys. Set aside every stereotype you could possibly have about working with five pre-teen boys on poetry and art.

These boys laughed as we freeze danced together, concentrated on writing down their souls, and looked at me with hope and a need for love just as much as the girls and boys of the morning. I marveled at them, and tried to hide how shocked and amazed I felt when they looked up at me from their papers. Here were these strong boys, who could easily scoff at me and walk out of the room, but instead they rolled up the sleeves of their hoodies and sat cross-legged on the floor to write and draw. Talk about fearless. Meanwhile, one of the sweet boys from the morning dashes over near our room to wave and smile at us throughout the afternoon. Whenever I can spare the time from the group, I go over and ask him how he is and give him a hug.

1:30 p.m. Aiza, Alessondra, and I rest our bodies against chairs or walls for life-support during lunch. Teaching will tire you out more than any workout—I’m not kidding (teachers, 20 points if you can back me up on this). We eat and pray for more energy. I trudge to the bathroom, but on the way there, a four-year-old little girl approaches me and asks me my name. Within a minute, she and I are playing. It doesn’t matter to her that she’s never met me before because she knows that everyone in Los Patojos is love in action, and it doesn’t matter to me that I was going to splash water on my face for the same reason. After a few minutes, she scampers back to her class and waving goodbye. Her happiness and lack of fear boggle me. She’s like a something out of a Pixar movie, a little fairy of curly brown hair and laughter waiting to be picked up and hugged. My heart fills up a lot more, and she was just a filling it for a few minutes.

2:00 p.m. Again, the boys take the art project in a new direction. Some cut out their faces. Some draw thick necks. I can’t believe how incredible they are at art. One of them draws partially red eyes and a red mouth, and it looks like a Picasso. Their magic manifests as they all giggle as they draw a different kind of moustache. Sure it’s a self-portrait and there’s not one of them over thirteen but maybe the different moustaches reveal something about what’s inside, their personality, who they want to be, or even just that they wanted to have fun. I’ll accept all of the above as acceptable.

3:00 p.m. The boys finish and free draw, staring at encyclopedia picture books of sea creatures and far-away countries for inspiration before turning to their papers and maneuvering their pencils better than I ever will.

3:20 p.m. They say goodbye and smile with excited and hopeful eyes when I say see you next Wednesday. The sweet boy from the morning is still there and gives me another hug. I hear Bruno Mars playing from a stereo and I start dancing, making the fourth scoop of magic. A few kids come over and smile at me. At first when I ask them to dance too, they giggle and retreat to the wall. But after making it clear that I don’t mind looking like a dancing fool and asking them again, we’re all dancing. Of course it’s silly, but it’s also a beautiful mix as two cultures teach each other new moves and forget how much those two cultures have fought in the past. We danced the tango, two-step, meringue, head-banging, krump, bachata, shopping cart, reggae, disco point, break-dance, salsa, and club fist-pump jumping. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. My heart feels full.

I say goodbye as these final kids head home, promising to see them on the following Wednesday. I give one more hug to the sweet boy.

3:55 p.m. I walk into the back office with Aiza and Alessondra to find Juan Pablo, the rad genius director and founder of Los Patojos. He’s had a long day and has a long night ahead as he works on three newspaper articles he has to submit in a few hours and prepares for the youth to come at night. But he takes a minute to tell us the stories and backgrounds of some of the kids we work with, including the sweet boy. I’m not going to share their stories with you for the same reason I won’t share their names: it’s not my place tell or your business to know the personal details of elementary school kids anywhere. But let me tell you this: those kids must be made of titanium. I want to punch a wall, cry, hug them all again, and seal their hearts with protective covers. I can’t tell if my heart is stretching to hold all that this place is filling it with or if my heart is just leaking. Either way, it hurts a little.

4:15 p.m. We finished talking to Juan Pablo, somehow feeling optimistic and full again. He does that–make people feel full with love and inspiration. The taxi arrives to take my friends and me back to Antigua. We’ve still got dinner and miles of homework to go before we sleep.

If you’re reading this to see what’s the take-away about these kids, here it is: they were more extraordinary in a day than most people are in years. These kids have a resilient and passionate desire to change their lives and country—and their average age is ten and a half years old. They might be a world away from you, but I’d advise that you watch as they change that world. These kids keep living when I think I’d refuse to get out of bed. They make food, jokes, homes, friends, families, masterpieces, and plenty else with what they have just like us. Please, please remember that we have more in common than we have separate. Because here’s the truth: these people aren’t victims whom we should pity from our positions of comfort but rather are humans just like you, your best friend, your coworker, in your class, and everyone else in your memory. Treat them like humans by acknowledging all of the good and bad, and trying to help them as your global neighbors (Yep, I’m talking about social, political, and economic support. **Disclaimer: We have to listen to what our global neighbors are saying they need in terms of these support systems instead of assuming or imposing “needs” on to them to fulfill our own agenda.**).

If you’re reading this to see what’s the take-away about me and my trip, here it is: This is what a lot of my days are like here in Guatemala. My days are rather beautiful, emotional, physically-exhausting, and intense. I absolutely, head-over-heels, talk-about-it-all-the-time love studying and working here in Guatemala. Granted, a volcano of political revolution just erupted out in the open after decades, and really centuries, of corruption and oppression. And there’s poverty right next to luxury. And the kids in the dream school live nightmares outside of it. But I love being here in the midst of these paradoxes and finding truths.

I like my long days here. Where I’m from, people try to hide their bad and usually ending up dulling their good right along with it. But these paradoxes are the embodiment of humanity, and to deny them means to forget a little what it means to be an empathetic, interpreting human and what it means to treat others like that. In Guatemala, the divine and despicable manifest all at once, and I’ve never felt so alive or so full.

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