180 Degrees

I have a tough class. Again. One little munchkin in particular was making me particularly insane. He was just really disrespectful and then thought it was funny every time I tried to regañar him. I really would have liked to wipe that smirk right off his face. Anyway, I ended up eating dinner in Casa Suyapa last weekend because my hogar ran out of food. He sat up against my legs and asked me how many dreams I’d caught with my atrapasueños necklace. We ended up having a long discussion about how the filter in my water bottle (thanks, Zeiger Girl Scouts) works. Come Monday, this kid was my best friend. He is working hard and making huge improvements academically. Sound familiar? Just goes to show you can’t underestimate the power of relationship. The other day, one of the little girls told me that this same boy told her I was a princess. I told her it was true.

I Wish I Didn’t Know the Spanish Word for “To Bury”

There is so much death in this place. Last week, we lost one of our abuelos. He was the father of two of our girls here. He had emphysema, so we knew it was going to happen, but it was hard to take. He passed on Father’s Day, and we buried him on what would have been his 73rd birthday. Mourning here is so different. The coffin is brought up to the church for mass, and everyone who wants to can view the body and say their goodbyes. I can’t begin to explain the reaction of the family, the wailing and abject sorrow. We all then made the hike up to the cemetery to bury him. The fact that we have our own cemetery is in itself upsetting for me. During the burial, I was frustrated with the reaction of the Ranch kids. Several of them were upset and crying, but others were laughing and playing around. It seemed so strange to me for them not take it seriously when virtually every one of them has personally experienced the loss of loved ones. I suppose it must be something of a defense mechanism, but it felt disrespectful to me. The reality for me is that my life has been relatively untouched by death. And then I came here. In December, we lost Glenda, one of our special needs girls, Krisly, an 8 year-old with Down Syndrome, and Juan José, a young man in Casa Angeles receiving care for diabetes. On New Year’s Eve, Rosa Lilian David died in a tragic accident. In January, one of our psychologists died suddenly. It just feels like too much, but it also serves as a reminder that I am indeed in the third world as well as a rude awakening of just how the other half lives.

El Día del Padre

If you think it's strange that we celebrate Father's Day at an orphanage, well...you're not the only one. I was anti-this celebration from the get-go. It seemed like another time-wasting event that might also manage to really upset the children. On top of that, we spent hours and hours creating intricate centerpieces and decorations. We also had to prepare a presentation for the assembly. I somehow managed to end up in charge of this. It would have been fine but, of course, we were doing everything at the last possible moment. The other teachers literally changed their minds FIVE times about whether they wanted a play or a dance. If I'm going to be in charge of something, I want it to look good, and I didn't feel like I could under the circumstances and ended up in tears. One of the other teachers ended up helping me with a little play about an embarrassing dad. Today was the big day, and I'm surprised and pleased to say how much I actually enjoyed it. All the male figures on the Ranch (directors, tíos, teachers, staff) showed up for an assembly in their honor. Our little play went just great even though it was hard to hear the kids (I did the narration). The most important people up front understood it. My favorite part was when they lined up all the honorees and all the kids passed through the line to hug and thank them. I took my little Nataly up with me. We had recess until the kids left at noon, and I got to just play with the kids, which was so refreshing. After cleaning the classroon as per usual, we went to enjoy a special lunch with the "dads." It was great to relax, laugh, and shoot the breeze with the rest of the staff, especially the Montessori girls. I hadn't talked to Momo about the fact that I'd decided not to stay another year, but she mentioned to someone that she didn't want to let me go and they'd be heartbroken, but that there would always be a place for me there. I've been having a hard time, and that was what I needed to hear. And it also felt good to honor some really important people on the Ranch for all they do to fill the father role for these children. Perhaps I should work on being more optimistic in general.

Volunteer Housing AKA Musical Chairs

You may remember from an earlier blog that before I came home for a visit, I had to pack up all my belongings to be moved while I was gone. I feel the need to elaborate on the theme. San Vicente (Casa Personal) was in need of some serious remodeling. All the wood had to be ripped out because it was moldy and disgusting and the roof was structurally unsound. They started work on my hallway in January. When I came back, five of us were living in Casita Buen Pastor by where the tíos live. Tiffany, Patricia, and Sona were in one bedroom with three beds, and Leila and I shared the master bedroom with one queen size bed. When Leila left, I had a room, bathroom, and closet to myself. I would have preferred to have Leila stay, but I wasn’t about to complain about having my own room. The casita has its own kitchen and common area, which made it really fun to have visitors. I loved living with those girls, the remaining ones from my original volunteer group. We were supposed to move back to San Vicente when the rooms were ready, and I was going to get to have my own room since there was one extra space (the volunteer coordinator Lauren was moving to another building) and I’m the veteran. Well, we got the call today that EVERYONE had to move…except me. We four girls wanted to stay here in the casita, but that was not to be. Lauren’s new room was taken by a nun who has come to live on the Ranch. So, Tiff, Patri, and Sona moved into the newly renovated rooms. They are quite lovely, but they lack any sort of shelving as well as a door to the bathroom because apparently the money ran out. Mmhmm. Lauren is moving in with me, and two of the new volunteers DeeDee and Micaela are moving into the other room in the casita. Supposedly the rooms in the other hallway will be done in 2-3 weeks (why do I doubt that?), and Lauren and I will move into her old room. At least I’ll have hot water, but possibly nowhere to put my things. Trying not to complain too much because the rooms are really nice. And the poor new volunteers are finally getting to move after being in the dorms at the far end of San Vicente for way too long. But it’s hard to feel settled when you have to move cada rato and things change at the drop of a hat.

Being Asian in Honduras

Means…

You are Chinese. Even when you thoughtfully explain that your biological father was born in Vietnam and your mom is a gringa, you are misunderstood. When you further explain that Vietnam is a country to the south of China, it is then assumed that you are in fact Japanese.

To get your attention on the streets of Tegucigalpa, people yell “china” (Chinese girl).

Your closest Honduran friends lovingly refer to you as “chinita” (little Chinese girl).

When they see the scene where the Chinese girl dances in the latest Karate Kid movie, all the girls scream your name.

Children ask you if you can do karate and tell you to put your hair in a bun “like they do in your country.”

Adults ask you if you are related to Bruce Lee. You say no, you are related to Jackie Chan.

You start to make off-color racial jokes because it is so normal here (see above).

When you are making a sample coat of arms for the first grade “Who am I?” unit and you draw in one of the squares what you want to be (in my case, a mom), your teaching partner edits the drawing of you and your baby so that they have slanty eyes. Seriously.

You despair when one of the abuelitas tells you that you must not be from the United States because you look different. You then have a little personal celebration when she says you don’t look Chinese, but CATRACHA!!!

Finally...

a good day at school. It’s been a rough first 18 days, let me tell you. Between the two of us, Kenia and I have 12 first graders, but it feels like a lot more. They have really been pushing me. I’ve never been around kids who just don’t listen and whose immediate reaction to direction is to say “no.” Maybe the dance team girls. ;) And between sharing a classroom and the constraints of the system and the culture, I sometimes find it difficult to work my magic, if you will. But I’m doing what I know to be best practice, and I’m seeing results. I’m giving choices (thank you, Donna Egge and Love and Logic and MOM): You can play now and work during recess or work now and play during recess. I'm taking away privileges when they are disrespectful, whether that is going to a special class or the right to be in the classroom itself. I’m using humor. I literally sat on a kid until he stopped saying no. Hmph…try that in the United States! I’m using wait time. That sometimes means we sit in the ellipse for a really long time. I’m using discipline based in love and relationship. We had our first art class with Dorie today, and I heard Cathy Crossen in my ear and decided to do the project with the kids. I’m giving hugs and kisses because I can and because these kids need it. Momo came up to me and thanked me for backing her up during a pedagogical discussion with the other teachers. Those who have been in my classroom know that I have always placed more importance on content than presentation. And that is so not Honduras. I just don’t think a first grader should have to redo his science classwork five times to make sure the spelling and handwriting are perfect, and Momo is with me on that. But it’s hard to convince people who were educated in such a different way. Sorry I haven’t written in a long time. I’d been feeling pretty down and wanted to wait until I had something good to say. And now I do.