I used to teach mi
ddle school. One of the (many) upsides was the summer vacation. In 2006 my wife and I decided to go down to Guatemala for 5 weeks during our time off...well, during my time off...my wife had to quit her job (that's her traveling in the back of a pick-up). We chose Guatemala randomly and stayed in the home of one of my middle school students who was from that country. Turned out that it was in a rough part of the city, which made life interesting. We found a little school and started volunteering. I wrote the following about our experience:
ddle school. One of the (many) upsides was the summer vacation. In 2006 my wife and I decided to go down to Guatemala for 5 weeks during our time off...well, during my time off...my wife had to quit her job (that's her traveling in the back of a pick-up). We chose Guatemala randomly and stayed in the home of one of my middle school students who was from that country. Turned out that it was in a rough part of the city, which made life interesting. We found a little school and started volunteering. I wrote the following about our experience: The streets of Guatemala City come alive early. At 4 a.m. the horns are blaring and the vendors are calling, each hawking his wares up and down the small residential street where we are living. I am aware that the noise has been going for some time when I finally roll out of bed. I check my watch. By five-thirty my wife and I need to be up to get ready for the day. I walk across the cold tile floor and flick the light switch. Nothing happens. Out of curiosity I walk into the bathroom and turn on the faucet. A few leaky drips fall and then nothing. No light or showers today; I suppose we can sleep for another half-hour.
The days are finally focusing into a pattern. We wake, eat a breakfast of fresh bread and maybe some beans and plantains if we’re lucky, catch a school bus that a friend of ours drives, get off near his house and then walk around the corner towards the school where we are volunteering. The streets are busy in the city and we are getting used to the stares of the people. I am a head taller than almost everyo
ne and painfully white. My wife, with her dark hair and eyes, has an easier time fitting in. We arrive at the school a bit late, and perhaps a bit too casual in jeans and flip-flops, but then, we are Americans. At the school we pretend to be busy and we try to help where we can, but mostly we just play the part of visiting celebrities. The children run up to us, hold our hands, vie for our attention, and give us gifts. We in turn, show our love for them the best we know how, while trying to avoid creating too much of a distraction from the everyday routine of learning. We enjoy helping out in the English classes. I begin to think that this could be my meaningful service; I teach English back home in the States and I could probably help the English teacher with some curriculum preparation. I spend a few days making notes about what to tell her. Then Teresa hits gold. She has wanted to get into photography for quite some time and decides to do some portraits of some of the children. We talk to Berly, the director and decide that I’ll do some interviews with some of the needier kids, and Teresa can take the pictures. Maybe somehow, recording their stories we can do something for them one day, or at least raise awareness of folks back home…Besides, it should be interesting work to get to know a few of the kids.
When in despair, I hung my head
There is no peace on earth I said.
I’ve been sobbing like a child for twenty minutes. I cannot control myself. I’ve pretended to be too strong for too long and now that I’m finally alone I can let go. It’s 10:30pm and we’re back in our little bedroom and outside its raining. We’ve been collecting stories for two days and we’re not even half-
way done interviewing the children that the staff of the little school has designated as “in need.” In these days I’ve listened to children who have felt the weight of the world in a way that no one ever should. The process has been simple enough. The child comes into the room with me and the director of the school. The director, Berly, smiles and holds their hand and says in the most loving tone, “We’re going to tell teacher Chris a little bit about your story.” It’s never long after that before the child is in tears, and more often than not Berly and I are crying too. I never quite know what to say or do; should I say, ‘I’m sorry you saw your father murdered’? or ‘I’m sorry your mother is dying of cancer.’ I want to hold them and tell them we are going to fix everything but I feel so helpless. One little girl cries when she says she has never owned a doll. I want so badly to cross the street and buy her one right now, but I know that there are 200 other children sitting outside the door who need help just as badly. And so I give her an awkward hug and try to express my love, while biting my tongue to avoid making promises that may or may not be in my power to keep. This and a hundred other faces haunt my dreams each night as we are in Guatemala.
For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
I have traveled to Latin America before. I spent several months in Paraguay during college, and I have been to Argentina, Brazil and Mexico. I was, however, completely unprepared for what we saw in Guatemala in terms of violence. It is a country, so recently emerging from the fog of war, with the guerrillas, the paramilitaries and the government having signed peace accords in 1996. A new specter, however, is haunting this troubled country—gang violence. The gangs of Los Angeles have spilled into Central America and the 18th street gang is by far the most visible where we are living. Everyday we see it in the paper: whole families murdered, children kidnapped, fathers gunned down, and mothers victimized. Everyone we speak with knows someone who’s been murdered and it’s hard to find a person who hasn’t been assaulted personally at some point in their life. The 18th Zone, where we are living, is especially troubled by gang violence. The children we come to love fall victim to this terror repeatedly.
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep,
God is not dead nor doth he sleep,
The days are finally focusing into a pattern. We wake, eat a breakfast of fresh bread and maybe some beans and plantains if we’re lucky, catch a school bus that a friend of ours drives, get off near his house and then walk around the corner towards the school where we are volunteering. The streets are busy in the city and we are getting used to the stares of the people. I am a head taller than almost everyo
ne and painfully white. My wife, with her dark hair and eyes, has an easier time fitting in. We arrive at the school a bit late, and perhaps a bit too casual in jeans and flip-flops, but then, we are Americans. At the school we pretend to be busy and we try to help where we can, but mostly we just play the part of visiting celebrities. The children run up to us, hold our hands, vie for our attention, and give us gifts. We in turn, show our love for them the best we know how, while trying to avoid creating too much of a distraction from the everyday routine of learning. We enjoy helping out in the English classes. I begin to think that this could be my meaningful service; I teach English back home in the States and I could probably help the English teacher with some curriculum preparation. I spend a few days making notes about what to tell her. Then Teresa hits gold. She has wanted to get into photography for quite some time and decides to do some portraits of some of the children. We talk to Berly, the director and decide that I’ll do some interviews with some of the needier kids, and Teresa can take the pictures. Maybe somehow, recording their stories we can do something for them one day, or at least raise awareness of folks back home…Besides, it should be interesting work to get to know a few of the kids.When in despair, I hung my head
There is no peace on earth I said.
I’ve been sobbing like a child for twenty minutes. I cannot control myself. I’ve pretended to be too strong for too long and now that I’m finally alone I can let go. It’s 10:30pm and we’re back in our little bedroom and outside its raining. We’ve been collecting stories for two days and we’re not even half-
way done interviewing the children that the staff of the little school has designated as “in need.” In these days I’ve listened to children who have felt the weight of the world in a way that no one ever should. The process has been simple enough. The child comes into the room with me and the director of the school. The director, Berly, smiles and holds their hand and says in the most loving tone, “We’re going to tell teacher Chris a little bit about your story.” It’s never long after that before the child is in tears, and more often than not Berly and I are crying too. I never quite know what to say or do; should I say, ‘I’m sorry you saw your father murdered’? or ‘I’m sorry your mother is dying of cancer.’ I want to hold them and tell them we are going to fix everything but I feel so helpless. One little girl cries when she says she has never owned a doll. I want so badly to cross the street and buy her one right now, but I know that there are 200 other children sitting outside the door who need help just as badly. And so I give her an awkward hug and try to express my love, while biting my tongue to avoid making promises that may or may not be in my power to keep. This and a hundred other faces haunt my dreams each night as we are in Guatemala.For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
I have traveled to Latin America before. I spent several months in Paraguay during college, and I have been to Argentina, Brazil and Mexico. I was, however, completely unprepared for what we saw in Guatemala in terms of violence. It is a country, so recently emerging from the fog of war, with the guerrillas, the paramilitaries and the government having signed peace accords in 1996. A new specter, however, is haunting this troubled country—gang violence. The gangs of Los Angeles have spilled into Central America and the 18th street gang is by far the most visible where we are living. Everyday we see it in the paper: whole families murdered, children kidnapped, fathers gunned down, and mothers victimized. Everyone we speak with knows someone who’s been murdered and it’s hard to find a person who hasn’t been assaulted personally at some point in their life. The 18th Zone, where we are living, is especially troubled by gang violence. The children we come to love fall victim to this terror repeatedly.
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep,
God is not dead nor doth he sleep,
Jose Alfredo is nine years old, but his body isn’t much bigger than that of a four year old. His little spine is crooked and hunched over, his feet are twisted the wrong direction and his brain is not a normal size. He wears diapers and has to use a walker to move. His parents have told us in tears that the doctors have told them not to waste their money (that they don’t have) on a surgery when Jose won’t live very long at any rate. I think of all of this as I watch little Jose. He looks up at me with big eyes and a wide grin. In the month that I’ve known him I’ve never seen him unhappy or angry. He greets me with excitement each time I see him and brings life to everyone around him. One day, when I die, I hope to be half the person that he is in God’s eyes. (Jose, above, has since passed away--2008).
The wrong shall fail, The right prevail,
With peace on Earth, good will to men
Our plane takes off in the morning and we watch through the oval window as that foreign city tucked into the green mountains grows smaller and smaller. I think again of the faces of the children we met. They are too many to recall by name, but each one is etched in my mind.
It’s hard at first to feel comfortable back home. I cannot sleep without wondering how many of the children have eaten that day. I cannot watch a movie without feeling guilty for enjoying the pleasures of safe surroundings and simple conveniences. I wake up thinking about Jose Alfredo, Elias, Gerardo, Katy, Susana and so many others. As time eases some of the most painful emotions I am able to take a step back and think about the situation in broader terms. I am amazed at the attitude of the children. Despite their circumstances, their attitude would be envied by a king. I hope that one day I can make some difference in their life. They have touched mine forever.
