Hospitality in Sharing

Gato, Jessie, Junior

My bed is wet; I am sweating. No surprise. I roll over and groan with an overwhelming sense of frustration. I am being bombarded by the deafening base of reggaetone music. I walk out of my room to the living room. The constant commotion and noise never gets old. I am awoken by it regularly, but each time I am almost surprised by how loud it is. I look out the window and see a group of four teenage boys on the corner. From a stranger’s perspective, they are thugs. Baggy jeans, loud t-shirts, flat brimmed hats cocked to the side. Hands moving from left to right as they mouth or sing along to the provocative music that is reverberating the entire block. Of course, it took me months to actually understand the lyrics to a majority of the songs. It’s early, but my impulses tell me to walk outside and sit on the corner with them. A task that I mastered within the first three months of living in Duran.  A task that I mastered when I dared to let my guard down. When I dared to see past the gangster image of these young men, and actually get to know who they are, what they enjoy, what they dream about.

 Daniel and I often sat, leaned up against the cement wall of house next to his. I remember one of the first afternoons we spent talking. I looked directly into his rare, hazel-green eyes which won him the nick-name “Gato” or “Cat” and I immediately was drawn to learn more about this young man. His eyes spoke so much to his character—they were mysterious, full of experience, yet yearned for more; yearned for a life that he dreamed of; yearned like most nineteen year olds do, to find an exciting life for themselves. Yet with him, it was clear without saying much, that perhaps he was not like your average nineteen year old, and he did not feel as though he had the world in the palm of his hand. In fact, he had so many obstacles that his view was obstructed, preventing him from seeing where and which way he should go. His presence screamed for accompaniment.

 Every day I would walk out of the tall fenced gate that enclosed the Rostro de Cristo property. The two floor house that connected through an outdoor patio to another side, with another two floors where visitors constantly came and stayed for a week at a time.  I would walk out of the gate that was a constant reminder of who I was, which was not Ecuadoran; a constant reminder that I would never fully understand some of my neighbor’s realities because of my privilege and background, because of my own reality. I would walk out of the gate that sometimes felt like jail cell, with bars separating me from the community that I fell in love with. I would walk out of the gate that habitually had me wondering, who are the prisoners? My roommates and I, or the community that lay outside?  I often would hear the gate slam with a jingle and vibration as it closed, and feel the chill as I thought about all of  its symbolism. As I locked it, I would regularly turn to see Gato sitting in his windowsill, staring blankly into the street or up at the sky-- listening to music, writing a song or reading...or with a girl of course. Even on the days when I was in a rush, or hustling to get to my next point, I always stopped for a quick hello or conversation. He was always so full of curiosity and questions. Both of which were balanced out with his genuine knowledge and wisdom partnered with his calm and mature presence.

We sat one day, in our usual spot, facing my monstrous home. My home that would be considered small where I came from, but stood out like a mansion in this “barrio”. Sometimes I felt myself wince or felt my face flush with embarrassment as I looked at how humble his situation was, how humble the entire community of Antonio Jose De Sucre was, especially compared to mine; compared to the home I had across the street with access to running water, with acces my own bedroom and with access to a living room big enough for each of my roommates and I to have a comfortable seat on a couch or a chair. Gato sat silently as I rambled on, the way I usually did, sometimes uncomfortable with silence. “Que vas a hacer hoy día?” “Encontraste trabajo?” “Donde esta Junior?” “What are you going to do today?” “Did you find a job?” “Where is Junior?”  He politely answered my questions almost robotically, “No se.” “Todavía no encontré nada.” “Pienso que Junior esta dentro, pero tal vez el está en el cyber.” “I don’t know.” “No, I still have not found anything. “ I think Junior is inside, but maybe he is at the Cyber.” On this day he was not particularly quizzical with me. When I noticed his quiet demeanor I asked, “Gato que paso? Todo bien?” “Gato, what happened? Everything okay?” He looked at me for what felt like a long time, his eyes hardened and without telling me about what was going on, he quietly responded, “Cuentame de tu vida en Los Estados.” “Tell me about your life in the United States.” I felt like I had been knocked over the head with a hard object. I sat there almost in shock, semi disgusted with myself. Here I was in a foreign country, meeting all of these new people, seeing all of these new places, learning all about this new culture. I was sitting with someone whom I considered to be a close friend and who had confided in me about so much of his life. I began to realize how selfish I had been. How unreasonable I had been. Up until that moment, I had been living life in Duran with an expectation. An expectation that these people who were becoming my friends and family should be telling me all about their lives. About their families. About their struggles. About their successes. Yet how hypocritical of me to not have been sharing in so much of whom I really am, where I come from. What my life eight-thousand miles away in one of the most powerful and free countries in the world looks like.

I immediately hugged him. “Gato, gracias! No puedo creer que hasta esto momento nunca compartía mucho de mi vida contigo! Ya vengo” “Gato, thanks! I cannot believe that up to this moment I have never shared a lot of my life with you! I will be right back” I jumped up and ran into my bedroom. I looked at my walls. They were plastered with pictures. Pictures of family, pictures of friends. Quotes that spoke to me. Things that reminded me of where I came from. Where my roots lie. I tore down so much of it and walked outside, struggling to get to the spot where he was, so full of excitement to share in my life with him through pictures. We sat there for almost an hour. I ripped through the pictures. I told stories of my family. Explained how I was “una mescla”, a mix of each one of my family members. I explained how I got humor from my brother Rich, compassion and a love for education from my sister Krystin, my bravery from my brother Mark, my reflectiveness from my father Mickey, my personality and trustworthiness from my mother Carol—all  traits that brought me to Ecuador. Gato sat there looking at the pictures, looking at my life. He never once took his eyes off me when I spoke of a person, of a story. He barely said a word, but his facial expression showed everything. It was one of the many learning moments I had with him. This experience could be rich simply because of how new everything was, how foreign it was, how easy it could be to romanticize situations. But the true beauty behind it all would not blossom if I was not allowing for it to be mutual. If I was not sharing in whom I was. Taking ownership of where I came from, even though at times it was hard to be honest about my own opportunities and access. Gato opened my eyes to see how much I was hindering my situation by simply waiting to hear from others. I too needed to open my hands and heart through hospitality; and not hospitality by simply inviting someone into my home, but inviting them into my life, into my history, into my story....all which segway into my heart. 

Gato looked at me. He smiled, his hazel eyes glimmering as the sun set behind the soccer cancha. “Gracias por compartir tu vida conmigo. Es un gusto a conocer tu familia.” “Thank you, for sharing your life with me. It is nice to know your family.” This one instance was a turning point in my experience. I saw for the first time, that giving was not just done through the action of teaching a class, running an after school program or having a one-ended conversation. It was also about sharing in who you are. In sharing your own stories, and vulnerabilities which help continue to strengthen the mutual understanding that is the core of strong relationships. That is the core to the strongest power of all, love.

Isa, Gato, Jessie

My Right Hand Man

You walk in and you are greeted, and by greeted, I mean viciously attacked by a beige, short haired, aggressive dog named Scott. As you walk, your feet crunching against the gravel, your eyes meet a beautiful grey chapel that sits just in the center of the entrance. You look left and you see a huge open air space, with red brick buildings that outline a green lush area full of bushes and bustling trees with intermitted brick patio type flooring. You see the huge green, well yellowish colored field, connected to two cement “canchas” with soccer goals in the distance.  It’s overwhelmingly calm and very aesthetically pleasing. As you breathe in this seemingly peaceful environment, you are suddenly bombarded. Bombarded by eighty boys. Eighty boys between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Your personal space is no longer there, and these boys are in your face. Hugging you, shaking your hand, holding your arm. You are so deeply surrounded, that the initial breathe you took is completely gone and you may even be struggling for air.  You try to see the bigger picture and you are scared. There are three boys wrestling in one corner, barraging one another with their fists. One boy staring straight at you holding a rusted, charcoal grey machete. You look to your left and you are arm and arm with a boy named Truen who is five foot eight, and has the most valiant, white teethed smile you can imagine.  He is wearing a white t-shirt with dirt stains streaked throughout and a pair of dirty white washed jeans.  On his feet he is wearing one sneaker, which has a hole exposing his big toe and one broken flip flop sandal. You look to your right and you are being pulled in the other direction by a smaller, pudgy light skinned boy name Luis, who cannot stop saying “oye Gringa!!” He too is in a white t-shirt, also wearing mismatched shoes. You stop in your tracks and try to understand what everyone is saying, and in the center of sheer chaos, you feel the greatest sense of joy you have ever experienced because you know no one, but they make it clear. Each boy makes it clear through their first powerful God-filled gaze that they need you. It doesn’t matter who you are. You are there, you see them and they need you. Welcome to “Proyecto Salisiano, Chicos de la Calle”, The Silesian Project for Street Boys. My home and my nightmare for 12 months.

 

I walked into the “taller” or workshop and the head Carpenter, Marco just glared at me. A woman in the workshop was laughable, and I still had not yet won him over; yet I walked in and immediately made my presence clear. “Que hay chicos!”—“Whats up boys!” Right away, my right hand man called me over. In his raspy, frog-like voice he yelled, “Gringa Loca, ven por aca”—“Crazy white girl, come over here” Chiri, aka Chuck Norris was standing next to a work bench. He barely saw over it—fifteen years old, five feet three inches on a good day. His hair spiked up making him look exactly like sonic the hedgehog. His already tiny brown eyes were squinted into slits looking directly at me; glimmering in the small amount of light that shone through the room.  His nose pointing up, the birthmark on the top of his cheek bone just beneathe his left eye was raised from his smile; his unexplainable smile. It sat across his face, with his white teeth, which had small gaps in-between them, and allowed for anyone to see at first glance that he was someone special. Someone to be reckoned with. I excitedly skipped over and gave him a giant bear hug. I encompassed all of his bony small body. “Oye, que eres loca? Dejame!!”—“What are you crazy? Let me go.” The grin still slapped across his face.

Chiri began sanding a piece of wood. He was covered in wood dust, making his skin an ashy mix of beige and caramel. He shoved a piece of wood and sandpaper in my hand. “Senorita, si eres carpentera tienes que trabajar, no seas baga”—“Miss, if you are a carpenter  you have to work, don’t be lazy.” As usual, I began to sand the piece of wood. This is how conversation always began. Some days, for the whole hour before lunch, the two of us could sit there in silence. Some days we sat there and did not stop talking. Some days the room filled with our loud voices. Other days with a quiet whisper as he shared his life’s realities. But no matter what, this boy could make any living thing laugh. He was one of the smallest boys in the shelter, but his “anima” and personality made him one of the biggest and one of the most well-liked kids in the room. Our relationship is often what helped me to survive amidst the violence, chaos, and disrespect that stems from so many issues, problems, and needs of eighty young boys all put into one place.

On this one particular day, we talked briefly about his time at the shelter. Chiri spent almost his entire life there. His older brother also went through the project. He touched on his mother. Each time he spoke, even when his eyes drooped when describing a particular hardship, If his mother was mentioned, they immediately perked up and he smiled. He showed his gratitude for her without saying anything. After talking back and forth for a while,  I turned to him and asked “Porque estas aqui?”—“Why are you here?” He quickly responded, blurting out in anger. “ No soy chico de la calle!”—“I am not a street boy!” I shuttered, and was unsure if I had offended him. I slowly, began to open and close my mouth, taking deep breathes, not sure what to say. Before I could say another word, he began to explain. “Es que, somos pobres. Mi mami no nos puede dar todos. Cosas son difícil para nosotros. Y por eso, estoy aquí. Pero yo tengo familia y casa y por eso estoy orgulloso.” –“ It’s that, we are poor. My mom cannot give us everything. Things are hard for us. So, that’s why I am here. But I have a family and a house, and  I am proud of that.” I quickly understood. There was a drastic difference in his mind, and it was the common thought process of all the boys.  There was a line that separated them. Made them different from one another. Some kids were there because they had been recruited; they had already been living on the streets, working on the streets. Some had no homes. Some had no families. Some were abandoned. Then, there were other kids who were there for prevention purposes. They were at risk. They had families; some good, some bad. But they had families or homes that could not provide for them. That needed more assistance, like Chiri. This moment brought me to a realization. I became more aware of one of the millions of dynamics that took place in this environment. I became more conscious of what the kids said to one another and how things were perceived. This was one of the many moments where one of the boys was more of a teacher and mentor to me, than I could ever be to him.

The shelter was a place of darkness. A place of darkness that also shone some of the brightest light in the world. So many personalities, stories, backgrounds woven into this fabric that was their home. For some, their home all the time, for others their home during the five days of the week, and for other their home during school days. Whatever their situations were, there was so much I had to learn there. So much I had to learn in regards to my role as a female mentor and teacher. My role as a listener. My role as a learner. Chiri, although 7 years younger than me, took me under his wing. He changed my life each and every day through our conversation, and broke my heart through his stories; and at times with his actions.  He was one of the first young men to put their trust in me. In doing so, he gave me the best lesson I could have asked for. Through his openness and directness, he was subconsciously guiding me to better places of understanding. Understanding the violent behaviors the boys encountered and demonstrated. The lies and deception that they faced and told. The cruelty they witnessed and portrayed. But most importantly, their need to be seen. Their need for patience. Their need for laughter. Their need for love. Their need for someone to continue to shine light on their darkness; to guide them to see and believe in their own potential.

Beauty Amidst Chaos

The dust from the dirt roads came flying up.Through the clouded, dirt filled, tarnished windows, I saw the blue building with the cartoon painted Children and the words “ La Escuela Alan Lynch”.  I knew it was time for me to get off. I slowly walked to the front of the packed bus, stumbling with each step as every single eye on the bus was glued to my presence. I timidly yelled “Parre!” and the bus jerked to a stop. My hands clenched around the metal bar as the rest of my body fell forward. As I gained my balance I stepped off into the dusty dirt road, with the sun beating on my face. Within a matter of seconds, I was surrounded by the strong smiles, screams, hugs and hands of about ten children. The scene that was created would have led one person to believe that I had been spending time in the 28 de Agosto community for a long time, yet it was the first Saturday that I had ever spent there.

“Donde vas?” “Where are you going?” the kids all screamed. It took a moment for me to gain my barings and I smiled, because I had no clue as to where I was going. I had taken a leap of faith by showing up in this community that sits on top of an old landfill. Realistically, I had only begun to work with the children through  the after school program, and I did not have a “ningun” idea as to where I would be going that day. I shook my head and laughed, saying “ Yo no se!” With that, every single child in front of me was pulling me in every direction. Each one wanted me to visit their home. I somehow ended up with two brothers. I walked hand in hand with Jean Pierre, “Jumpy” and his brother Jorge Damion, “GiGi”. Jumpy’s squinty brown eyes and big toothless smile, with his silky straight brown bowl cut drew me in, even though he was a nightmare each day in the after school program. The two boys dragged me through the wooden brown fence that was falling apart, and strapped by thick chain-links for security. I walked in and immediately was greeted by some of the largest smiles I have ever seen. I looked around and could not help but visibly show my surprise. The front area of their space was covered in mud and there were animals everywhere. Baby chickens, roosters, cats, dogs. All visibly starved and running around. I looked to my left and saw a cane shack almost falling apart, yet there was something quaint and beautiful about it. “Ven pora aca mija, como esta?” I heard the smoothest voice coming from the inside of a door, and was gently grabbed on my upper forearm by an older women. Her dark thick hair was swept back by a scrunchy, with her front brown wings falling on either side of her wired rim glasses,  which sat on the bridge of her nose. Her chocolate almond shaped eyes pointing up due to the smile that was spread across her face. She stood at about five feet four inches but her presence made her seem much larger than that. Her arms hung by her side, her skin covered in wrinkles that showed a woman who clearly had been through a lot of hard work, yet also a woman filled with laughter and love.  As I walked into the front door of this tiny home, I was surrounded by one of the biggest families I had encountered. “Me llamo Mercedes, soy la abuelita de los muchachos.” “My name is Mercedes, I am the grandmother of these kids.” I heard a soft giggle and was greeted by another adult with small beady black eyes. Her jet black hair was in a bun and a small birthmark sat on the top left side of her high cheek bones which sat on her full face. Her son, GiGi was stuck to her, hanging on her like a little monkey hangs to their mother. She slowly walked up and introduced herself. “Soy Celia, bienvenida a nuestro casa.” “ I am Celia, welcome to our home.”  

I sat in a broken plastic red lawn chair, that had been repaired and stitched back together with a thick string material. The chair was placed on top of boarded wooden floors, which were cracked and sunk each time weight was placed or shifted on them. I felt as though I was going to fall through.  I was circled by a sea of people. Jumpy, GiGi, Ana Gaby, Mercedes, Celia, Tito, Bryan, Jordy, Brita. And this was not even half of the members of this gracious family.   A million questions darted towards me. A majorty of them from Celia and Mercedes. “ De donde es uds?” “Que has hecho antes de llego aqui?” “Como es tu familia?” “ Como son Los Estados?” The questions came and were endless. I did my best to respond through my broken Spanish. Yet again, language did not seem to be a real barrier.

 I was covered in sweat. Flies were buzzing all around me. The smell was unimaginable. Smoke from the burning trash out in the street slowly crept through the front door. The kids were running around chasing marbles, hitting one another. The rooster was screeching. I was sitting in what felt like a pool of sweat as the the bright eyes of the kids looked up at me; laughter and screams entered my ears as the kids fought over who would sit on my lap. Kids in this neighborhood by any outsider may at first glance, seem uncivilized and violent, yet the love they shared and the innocence that shone through each of them immediately won me over.

The scene was chaotic to say the least. Yet as I sat there, surrounded by people whom at the time were a little bit less than strangers, I was engulfed not just by love, but a calming sense of peace. Whether I looked left, right, up or down  with my eyeballs rapidly moving around and eating up each little crumb of my environment, the poverty was breathtaking; and not breathtaking in a positive way. When I stopped to take a look at my surroundings it was impossible not to feel a giant pit sitting in my stomach. Yet I felt almost comfortable among the discomfort of how poor and broken this community was. And I was not romanticizing the poverty, the environment was horrific; but the absolute disarray of the children, women and community drew me in from this day on.

I felt the call to be present to these people. To this community. A community where a majority of its residents did not own their own land; who spent each day wondering whether or not their home would be knocked down, and they would need to search for a new place to live. A community where the kids were more accustomed to violence, and defending what was theirs. A community where the kids had little to no idea how to resolve things in a peaceful manner. A community that had little to no resources. A community that struggled to have access to water. Access to education. Access to healthcare. And these are just the basic, more obvious injustices that this community faces.

In one of my first days, one of my first leisure times spent in the place that would become my true home, I quickly learned how the love of children, the yearning for accompaniment from mothers and women, and the visible injustices of a broken community were going to change my life. Call it God, call it fate, call it destiny. I knew 28 de Agosto, its people and its reality were why I was brought to Ecuador. I knew this place would define my experience and that my relationships there would grow. This first day is when I learned how powerful presence could be. We may not be able to change the world, but we are able to change the world of one person by simply being with them, listening to them and walking with them. I left that day feeling blessed to have quickly learned how much doing nothing, but doing nothing with great company can allow you to walk on water, and create change for not just yourself, but those who surround you. This day of nothingness was one of my first memories of experiencing true joy through conversation, laughter and of course, love.

 Jordan and Luz, Tito and I

Mercedes and Ana Gaby

The "Tragic" Accident

Imagine this. A tall white woman, five feet nine inches. Curly blonde hair, frizzing like a lions mane in the 85 degree weather with ninety-nine percent humidity. Sweat dripping down her bright red forehead, hitting the group of freckles that sit across her full cheeks. A smile spread across her face, creating three little wrinkles on the side of each of her bright blue eyes, which are shimmering in the sunlight. Doesn’t sound too out of the ordinary, right? WRONG. Let’s put things into context. Imagine all of this amidst the city of Durán. A city where the tallest person hits five foot five.  A city where a majority of the people have jet black, or glossy brown hair. A city where you encounter people who have the most beautiful skin, ranging from silky caramel to smooth dark chocolate in color. A city where you look into the peoples deep brown eyes and immediately feel the presence of God. This visual paints the real image of my life as a  foreign white woman living in a small city in Latin America.

Now these are just some of the differences. This does not even begin to paint a picture of how my world and culture collided with what felt like a completely different planet. This just gives a visual image of some physical differences that made me completely stand out of any crowd.

Each day going to and from work, this gigantic white girl stood amidst a packed bus stop; amidst the noise of honking horns, swerving cars, and salsa music blaring. Amidst the heavy stares of every single person she passed by; amidst the “sssst, ssssttt gringa” catcalls from strange men; amidst the candy vendors forcing candy into her hands. Yet, the funny part is, none of this seemed to be an issue. None of this seemed to even be processed during my first month in my new home, in my new country, Ecuador.

I guess during those first 30 some-odd days, I romanticized where I was and what I was doing. Notice how I do not even mention that fact that I was traveling in an unknown land, and knew a handful of phrases in the native language. “ Hola!” “Como estas?” and let’s not forget the one phrase I mastered, while slowly shaking my head up and down like one of those bobble figures…” Si, Si, Si , Si!” It was not until I had my first tragic accident (And let’s be honest, what only seemed tragic to me at the time, because everything was brand stinking new) that things began to really set in, and I began to recognize that I had no clue about where I was, what I was doing, or what I had gotten myself into.

It was my third week in Durán. It was my first day taking the bus home alone, without my other “gringa” community mate, who helped diffuse those stares, calls and the general discomfort of being a foreigner. I stumbled as I gripped onto the strap of the messenger bag that hung across the front of my sticky, sweat filled Rostro de Cristo maroon polo and boarded the rickety bus that had already begun to move before I fully got on. I remember hearing the bus helper screaming “VENGA VENGA VENGA” having no idea what he was saying to me. I just smiled, did my normal “Si, Si” head shake and paid my bus fare.

 I walked a few rows back and sat next to an elderly woman who simply smiled at me. She began a conversation, and somehow, the same way I always do, I began to have what I thought was a mesmerizing and beautiful conversation—even though I understood none of it. She eventually got up and “bajar-ed” the bus, disappearing into “El Centro”,  the downtown of Durán. I was captivated by the constant hustle and bustle of public transportation; the mother who got on the bus holding her new born baby while trying to pull her three other small children into a seat; the old man who swiftly moved through the bus counter hauling a giant sack of what seemed to be filled with the treasures of his days work of digging through trash; the loud music that was overshadowed by constant WOOSH of speeding cars and beeping horns, or the group of teenagers in their school uniforms fooling around in the last row. These images still strike me.

As I looked out the window, I began to recognize that I was getting close to my “barrio”, or neighborhood. Being the foreigner that I was, and not adhering to the norms, I got up out of my seat, my pants stuck to the back of my legs, and began to walk to the front door of the bus—three blocks before I needed to get off. I was standing there naively looking at the people sitting in plastic chairs outside the front of their homes, the men fixing their cars, the mother’s breast feeding their babies. So it came to me as a shock, when a man in the back of the bus came running towards the front of the bus screaming “Parre! Parre!” And within a matter of seconds, the bus had begun to slow down, and this man who was running jumped off the bus, taking me right with him. SPLAT. Three seconds later, this tall white gringa was face planted on a main road in Duran.

Disoriented and confused about what was going on, I looked up only to see the man who had just pushed me off the bus continuing to run while yelling “ Lo siento!!!!!!!!!!!!” which I did understand at the time. He went on his way while screaming “SORRY!” Then I looked around and every single person within a two block radius was laughing, and staring. A person falling off the bus is worth a laugh for most, never mind the huge foreign blonde haired blue-eyed white American girl who was belly first in the middle of the road. I was completely shocked. I slowly peeled myself off the blistering black gravel, which happens to be one of the few paved roads in the area. I looked down and saw a pool of red. I was bleeding from my hand and my elbow. People from all sides were running up to me and screaming, touching my arm, rubbing my back and I did not have a damn clue as to what they were saying. I walked down the street like a zombie and turned onto my block. I was biting my quivering lip fighting back the tears that formed in my eyes. It was the first time I felt homesick, and a little scared.

I limped down this familiar road and was greeted with a shriek from a man named Gabriel. A tiny eighty year old man, with sleek grey hair parted into a comb over, with a prickly mustache that ran across the top of his lip. His eyebrows were scrunched over, his caring brown eyes gazing at my wounds and his lips pursed tightly together causing his entire mouth to wrinkle.  “Niña, niña, que paso? Ven por aca” “Come here my child, what happened?” He lunged at me and gave me a giant hug, then pulled me into the front door of his home. His wife Theresa, a large gentle woman with soft brown eyes, put me in her arms and got me settled. I sat in their dark home bleeding  and unsure as to what exactly had just happened. I felt like I was going to throw up. And I felt almost annoyed that these two people were forcing me into their home while I was in the middle of what I felt was a crisis.

Then, Gabriel  came out from a back room with a Pepsi in hand. Homesick, tired and in pain, these two incredibly gracious neighbors of mine offered me a taste of home. A taste of home not just through the Pepsi which completely quenched my thirst, but through their hospitality and loving presence. These two people who literally have nothing, gave me everything I needed. Theresa rubbed my back and tried to have a conversation with me, even though we both knew neither of us had any idea as to what the other was saying. Language at this moment did not matter. She softly tried to clean out my wounds, and even though she was not successful, this too did not matter. They both recognized that I was in turmoil, away from home and upset. They recognized that all I needed was their presence and love. These two complete strangers brought me to a place of peace as I opened my eyes and heart to the reality of where I was. To the reality that the year ahead of me was not going to be so easy, and that I had a lot to learn.

So this “tragic” event taught me two things. The first was a more practical lesson—never get up and stand at the door of the bus too far in advance. When riding public transportation in Ecuador, you get up and get off when you are seconds from your destination. The second was much more life changing. The smallest acts of kindness go the longest way. Gabriel and Theresa gave me my first true taste of the meaning of hospitality by opening the doors to their home and the doors to their hearts. Their company moved mountains in regards to the new perspective that they had given me about the power of presence, kindness and love---even from strangers.

Defining Machona

Defining Machona

Machona. This spanish word describes and defines my life changing year long experience in Ecuador. A person might laugh at this, because it translates into:

“ A woman who does not do womanly things.”

It is something that is similar to being called a tomboy. Yet anyone who has lived in Ecuador, knows that it is also an insult.

” Eres machona, anda a cocinar.” “Eres machona, ponga la ropa de mujeres.” “Eres machona, anda a bañar.” “ Eres machona, porque solo pasa tiempo con muchachos?”

“You tomboy go cook.” “You tomboy, put on womens clothes.” ” You tomboy, go take a bath. “ “You tomboy, why do you only hangout with boys?”

These are just some of the phrases that I heard on a regular basis from the people I love the most. And the funny part is, each and every time I heard them, or I think about them now, a spark is ignited in me, and I smile from ear to ear.

 From my perspective, the cultural norms of Ecuadorian society at times put women in a box. Their role is to cook, clean and look after young children. They maintain the household and keep things in order. So any girl or woman who does not fit into these roles is looked upon strangely. This is laughable to anyone who knows me. The girl who hates to cook;the girl who usually has a messy room or house; the girl who goes against status quo on a regular basis through her independence and strong opinions; the girl  who prefers to wear t-shirts and sweatshirts with a pair of Nike sneakers. Anyone who knows me, knows that I certainly am “machona” and fit this definition. Yet I am not offended. This blog is dedicated to my experience in Ecuador, and I am titling it MACHONA, because this word turned into a term of endearment. 

As I spent a year of my life living, working and being with my Ecuadorian family, neighbors, friends, students and culture, we quickly broke down those barriers and became accepting. I came to understand where this term came from, why it was used, and how it was defined. And the people of Ecuador quickly accepted me for who I was, although it was vastly different from the norms of their own culture and society. Although I was continuously told how “loca” I was for the way I chose to live my life, I also knew how much life and love was put behind the word each time it was said. The same way I know how much life and love was put behind my response to the people each and every time I heard it.

 “Y? Porque te importa?” or” i oye, dejame no mas!” “And why do you care?” “Ah, just leave me alone!” 

 Each time I faced one of these conversations, I felt nothing but love for my friends, and I knew they felt nothing but love for me.

It would not be fair if I did not also talk about how much I came to respect the women in Ecuador with every ounce of my being. While I may not agree with their “roles”, the women took their responsibilities head on each day and showed me what a true hardworking, dedicated person looks like. The small stream of sweat on Jesus' brow as she cooked for her sons and husband in the dead, wet heat each day, taught me something. Watching Francisca, or hearing her as she talked to me with dark grey bags under her eyes as she waited patiently outside each day hoping to catch the water trucks, taught me something.  The wrinkle that formed in-between Amalia's eyes as she squeezed her forehead together; while using all of her strength to hand wash her families clothes, taught me something. It taught me how much strength, love and dedication it takes to provide for a family amidst limited opportunity. Throughout my experience, I came to understand them. This blog is dedicated to all of my lessons learned during my year there.  This term “machona”  for me, explains how mutual understanding for one another,  amongst people in general, can bring us to an awakening. An awakening of how human relationships and love are what make life worth living.