The doors of the local baptist church display Psalm 108:4: For thy mercy is great above the heavens: and thy truth reacheth unto the clouds and a universally necessary message: Christ loves you.
The value of truth-as seen in the OR:
One image that I keep remembering (something that may remain as a vivid memory from this trip) is an OR scene. A young girl (of 17 or 21, I can't remember which was her age) was being put down for surgery. I knew her age because I had read the surgery schedule but would have minstaken her for an 8 or 10 year old child, judging from her frail appearance. She was somewhat scared by all the commotion and looked helpless amongst the americanos..even though an interpreter was present. When she was sedated for the cleft palate reconstruction, the medics wanted to arrange her body in a more comfortable way for the surgery and found that her leg was permanently bent. I thought, "what good is it that we're fixing her palate if she will still be crippled?" The word manchado comes to mind, which Dra. Raquel uses to describe teeth with caries or other maladies. I am sure that this patient's quality of life will increase with the palate reconstruction and have no business questioning the validity of the procedure but wonder if the shame and fear in which she seems to live will remain, as a result of her leg abnormality, regardless of the palate restoration. Was I, in the moment of my questioning, weighing out the good and bad, hoping that the good outweighed the 'still-existing' bad? ...but the TRUTH--that is, doing good--does not need justification or defense, right? (as stated in the novel No Graven Image) When I am doing seemingly "useless" tasks (manning the suction and UV curing light, sterilizing instruments, or making cotton balls and gauzes) I wonder if my presence is justified...the inconvenience and expense of traveling abroad and the complexity of working in a different cuture, language, and country...Couldn't and shouldn't I do these mundane tasks at home if I have nothing grander to offer? ....BUT, as I cite in consolation, the truth needs no justification or defense-and I can satisfy in doing it well, as simple or complex as the task may be.
Additional quotes encouraging similar reasoning:
Imagination in Place
"...Having started out to be a professional, he has become an amateur, working (like the best kind of professional) for love" (Sweetness Preserved, Berry).
Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood
"If we could once leave it to each other to give what honour is due; knowing that honour demanded is as worthless as insult undeserved is hurtless" (chapter 10, McDonald).
In chapter11, Mr. Wilson presents his sermon on Matthew 6:24, 25 and makes some interesting statements:
"To serve is the highest, noblest calling in creation. For even the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister" (chapter 11, McDonald).
"WHAT then are we to take thought about? Why, about our work. What are we not to take thought about? Why, about our life. The one is our business: the other is God's" (chapter 11, McDonald).
"I never could be indifferent to what people thought of me; though I have had to fight hard to act as freely as if I were indifferent, especially when upon occasion I found myself approved of. It is more difficult to walk straight then, than when men are all against you" (chapter 11, McDonald).
...And a beautiful promise from the Bible:
"The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life" Proverbs 11:30
From my home's balcony the Celaque mountain range is visible. I hope to visit the highest peak in Honduras (a four-hour hike from home) before leaving Gracias.
From the same balcony, a view of the street. Hondurans (in Gracias, anyway) only name neighborhoods and pulperias...you must describe the color and shape of your home from there. Also, there is not such a thing as mail. Once in a while, if you have a special circumstance, you can receive a package in an office in town. I wonder how Hondurans have adjusted to email if they are not accustomed to writing/receiving letters.
Thoughts about home:
Getting used to my current home, I find myself remembering the place I called home in the past year. I'll share a Russian (translated) song concerning the meaning of a home. In Russian, house and home are one word but I think the poet of the song meant home. Please excuse my Russian spelling (I am citing the lyrics to the best of my ability as I remember hearing them):
Мимо текла, текла река There was a river, flowing, flowing
Плыли куда то облока The clouds towards somewhere floating
Шел человек была дорога не легка A human walked.There was a road-not easy
И человек мечтал о том: And the human dreamed of such:
Что он построит где то дом That he would build somewhere a home
И поселится счястие в нем And happiness would come dwell within
В доме одном... ...Within that one home
Если когда то уставал And if ever he tired
Он неизменно напивал He relentlessly hummed
Песню любимую свою, ту что пою: His favorite song, that which I sing:
Дом как известно всем давно A home, known to all as of old,
Это ни стены ни окно Is not walls, not a window
Даже и стуля со столом Not even chairs with a table
Это ни дом ...This is not a home
Дом это то куда готов A home is that where, willingly,
Ты возвращатся вновь и вновь You return again and again
Яростным, добрым, нежным, злым, ели живимAngry, kind, tender, evil, barely alive
Дом это там где вас поймут A home is that where you are understood
Там где надеются и ждут That where they, in faith, await
Где ты забудеш о плохом Where you will forget of the bad
Это твой дом...это твой дом This is your home...this is your home
In Honduras (perhaps in other Latin American countries, also) yellow ''school buses'' as Americans are familiar with are used as public transport vehicles. Each bus is decorated according to its destination or origin. Because much of the congregation lives far from town, the baptist church has purchased a bus to aid in the long journies required of some members.
One of my more diligent recorder students, Ada, arrived on time, early enough to accept a photo before someone arrived to unlock the church. Her father, René, works at the clinic as a financial book keeper.
A Russian teacher in Gracias:
I have held several recorder lessons in two churches with two groups of kids in the past weeks and will share about the experience that I have had so far. I hadn't anticipated making the recorder groups formal classes but am hearing the kids call me maestra and adults calling the kids my alumnos. So I realized on Sunday afternoon, as I treked home on the hot and dusty streets through el centro, that I have put on the teacher's cap...or maybe it's better said that this cap was put on me. Anyway, I think I am observing the same joys and sorrows that many instructors experience...and I am enjoying the experience immesnsely! There seems to be three kinds of music class students: those that have talent and put forth effort to stand out, those that try with little success for lack of capacity, and those that, although capable, do not exert effort or express interest. I think the latter situation has been most frustrating or sad to accept as a maestra. These characteristics may be exagerated in music classes but I presume that similar circumstances are found in non-art classes.
But what do my alumnos think of me? On several occasions, students have interrupted class to comment on the blueness of my eyes, ask about California or New York, or ask about how I learned to play the recorder. I do my best to answer their questions so as to suggest that I am no different a person (and was no different a child) than them. That is, that my dad's eyes are blue while my mom's eyes are brown, that New York and California are very far from my home, and that my third grade elementary school music teacher taught me how to play the recorder. I can sense a certain precaution, fear, or shame in some kids when the maestra gringa corrects their fingerings. Although most kids are very respectful (as far as their attention span allows), a few teenagers like to test how far they can get involved in their own conversations before I have to do the awkward deed of scolding them back into the class's agenda. The combination of being quick to correct and necessarily strict makes me feel like a mean teacher on some of my walks home. I have been told that especially duro, or hard/strict, managers and teachers are called rusos. (I think the American version of the term is "nazi") I cringe at the thought that some kids would start calling me a rusa, although that is politically a valid adjective for their maestra. On the bright side of things, Amazing Grace is starting to take a recognizable form, and (although I'm not sure all teachers would approve of this as a bright moment) I am growing fond of several star alumnos.
These critters decorate the walls of the inside of my guesthouse/room. They remind me of (and may be related to) the water penny beetle larvae, as I remember them from my first biology class at EMU during a river invertebrates lab. At first, I was uncomfortable sleeping in a room with these and other critters but have since decided that we can live in mutual respect, so long as the cockroaches stay out of my oatmeal cookies and the rest of the gang keep the mosquitoes out.
Adventures to account for:
Although most of my time is spent adorned in gloves and a face mask, suction in hand, I can entertain you with at least two anecdotes. I'll tell you the stories, and you can decide how amusing each is.
In the evangelical church in downtown, recorder lessons are held in a Sunday school classroom. To reach our practice site, we must remove two padlocks and pass through a large black metal door, which happens to only open from inside of the church, once closed. Using this side door to enter a completely enclosed churchyard, we settle in the Sunday school classroom's plastic lawn chairs for a 9am-10am Saturday morning recorder lesson. For reasons often lost in translation (or as a result of my poor interpretation of their best efforts), a few children usually appear just as the lesson is concluding. I usually end the lesson and, without much explanation or scolding, begin the day's lesson anew. The second lesson usually goes quicker than the first, as I have practiced the lesson plan just prior and there are fewer students and thus less fingerings to correct. This past Saturday, we finished around 10:40am with three belated muchachas. Seeking an exit after gathering our things, you might suppose (correctly) that the big black metal door--yes, the one that only opens from inside of the church--was closed. Banging on this gong-like obstacle and peeking into the church windows, we decided our efforts would be less futile elsewhere. After checking several other classrooms for an exit, we found none. One of the girls suggested that a man usually comes to the church at 2pm (we found out on Sunday that he had gone to Santa Rosa, a neighboring town, for the day). Refusing to be still and accept the reality of being constrained in the churchyard, feeling furious at the logic of the church's architectural design, and thinking about my host family expecting me home by that hour, I looked for possible escape routes. Most of the visible roofing was a thin rusty sheet of metal, likely to cave in if we tried to climb it. The only ladder in the yard was hung above the pila (water basin) and was too heavy, or fastened too securely, even to test its weight. Seated on cement steps that lead to the unyielding church door, wondering if my belated alumnos (or my lenience to extend the lesson time) were to blame for the unfortunate circumstance, I noticed that one of the limbs of the single tree in the churchyard extended towards the tall roof of a sturdy-looking classroom. Inquiring at least thrice in different ways from the girls that the roof would not collapse or brake if I climbed it, I scrambled up the mid-sized trunk. Finding my sneekers perched on bark and not branches (sustained by friction), I rebuked myself for my impatience and concluded that the possibility of sucess in such an escape route would not be valid if I fell and broke a limb.
Thankfully, although surely not gracefully, my feet reached the cement roof. I surveyed my surroundings and found that no one was in sight to accept a plea for help and that my mission was only partly successful. On the side opposite of the square churchyard appeared to be an abandoned lot (although a gringa should not judge the appearance of a "liveable" yard in Honduras). Seeing metal rods poking out of the side of the Sunday school classroom's wall, I found reason to appreciate the architectural logic. First dropping my recorder bag, I resolved that I shoudn't be in a hurry to jump to the firm ground, so long as I could grip onto the metal rods. As I began to descend, I realized the rods were spaced just far enough that I had to completely release my grip off one rod to reach the one under it. This predicament reminded me of being the only fifth-grade girl to be able to do 12 pull-ups, and I realized that it had been a while since fifth grade. Friction, along a rocky/sandy unfinished corner, saved the day, yet again. Reaching the ground with a thud, I was relieved and overjoyed that the church keys were just across the street, in the town's office. Preparing to excuse my trespassing across someone's property and formulating a Spanish explanation for the morning's strange situation, I found that the lot, across a bard wire fence, was still several meters above the street. Feeling a little annoyed, I turned towards the sound of rustling leaves to behold a large dog (like the one's used by police stations-maybe a Belgian/Dutch Shepherd blend) trotting down from the wooden building, which I had judged to be abandoned. Ears perked and head high, he made me inhale as if in an ice-cold shower and hold my breath as I turned to walk away as calmly as I could. Somewhat aimlessy, as I pittied myself and sighed out a desperate prayer, I found a ramp leading down to a large gate. Seeing a padlock from a distance, I criticized the need for locking absolutely everything in the country. Direly hoping that it was unlatched, I gratefully found it so, once I came close. In the most natural and unalarmed way possible, I opened the gate and slipped away, trying to keep the panic of seeing my oppressor at my side down to a minimum (I was convinced as a child that dogs could sense fear and use this skill to your disadvantage). Trying to recover from the overwhelming excitement, once on the other side of the gate, I found greetings from catrachos on the street especially untimely and more unwelcome than usual. Hurrying to the office and half decently explaining that I needed the church key as several kids were locked in, I slipped it off a nail on the wall and went to find my alumnas. I explained to the girls that I had gotten down on the other side of the roof to get the key and mentionied the big dog, which did not elicit a response (as I am sure they have much grander dog encounters to relate with). The walk home was a comical sigh of relief, although the 11:30am sun was not gentle. Buying fruits was uneventful and I didn't sense that anyone at home could bear my flawed grammar that afternoon as I would attempt to recall the story. I only said I had to climb a roof to open the curch. I am not sure what those three alumnas think of their maestra gringa, or what she thinks of herself, for that matter. I am greatful for the harmless adventure but might also be content with the stability of gloves and a face mask, holding my well-managed suction.
However, the dental clinic has a mini-adventure to account for, also. Don Ángel, the supplies manager comes to visit Dra. Raquel roughly every 3 weeks regarding dental supplies. When he came to visit one morning, I left the room for several minutes, knowing that I wouldn't be needed. When I returned, they were finishing up their transactions and I found a small white dixie cup filled with coffee on the cardboard box that I use to store my belongings during the workday. As it was around 10am, I presumed that Dra. was having her merienda and had brought me coffee, as she often does to encourage me to join her for the snack. The cup was not full to the top but I could tell that the coffee was getting cold, so I dutifully drank the small dose, so as to be grateful for Dra.'s kind gesture. As I began to read whatever I had brought that day, Don Ángel approached the corner box beside which I sat. Dra. was busy adjusting a hand piece and I was ever-so-intently engrossed in my reading, while Don Ángel lingered for at least 5 seconds before silently returning to Dra. Astonished, I tried to hide my smile and earnestly hoped that Don Ángel was old enough to doubt whether he had drank only a bit of his coffee. As he left, he saluted Dra. by adding, "Gracias por el cafecito." I wasn't sure if this was an authentic salute of gratitude or was meant as a rebuke to Dra.'s coffee-stealing assistant. I glanced with a desperate grin towards Dra. but found her attention still at the hand pieces and no indication that she found his statement needing interpretation. Dra. and I continued in our interests and went on with the day. I think Don Ángel should visit at least once more during my time in Gracias, so I might confess to Dra. if she needs a funny story to brighten her day.
Near to my home (and there are quite a few more in town) is a Beneficio, on the rooftops of which coffee beans are shuffled around during the day for sun-drying.
More on Honduran culture:
Pictures throughout this post have included those seen from my home's balcony and those at the baptist church in which I hold recorder lessons. Some new things I've learned:
-Pulperias are small shops that sell the basics (corn, beans, coffee, butter, eggs, and pop). They can be found in almost all neighborhoods, often on every block.
-It is hard to describe what a Honduran is. My host dad's parents are Turkish and Spanish, while my host mom's parents are Spanish and Italian. The region in which Gracias lies is home to the post-Mayan ethnic group of the Lencas, which have also exchanged influence with other nationalities.
-Beneficios, like the one near my home, purchase coffee from the fields, dry it daily on roof tops, and sell it in bags to processing factories.
-Once upon a time, Gracias was the capital of Honduras.
-Although the dictionary calles bananas platanos, bananos are the ones you can eat raw.
-"Feliz como una lombric" is a rhyming saying equivalent to "happy as a lark" and means happy as a worm (and you can recognize its delight--in case you wondered how--when it moves like you can move your index finger).
I have caught my first cold/flu virus and am thankful for the local oranges and a cup of hot tea. Accompanying my host mom on her morning walk/jog, I am glad to be acquainted with Gracias streets at sunrise and witness the coffee-pickers (and other workers) getting to their jobs on foot, bike, or in truck beds. Nearly half my stay in Gracias is passed, so I will embrace the life I've adjusted to, as well as continue to greet new experiences.
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