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
