Day 12, I Think-The Kids

I’ll describe the kids so you can understand what I’m dealing with.
First, you need to know that this place is a safe haven. The kids don’t want to leave it. Here, they are told they’re loved, fed, given freedom, and enough food to eat-and a warm bed. Their own bed. The small towns around here are Indians, and some don’t speak Spanish, but a weird Indian dialect. Other Guatemalan towns are happier, friendlier, and better off than here. But these towns are owned by Satan. They worship a god of prostitution and alcohol, which leads to the accepting of molestation/rape/abuse of kids. They also drink alcohol like water. When we went into town the other day, we saw men standing with young girls and beckoning passersby.
Lucia is a victim of this. She was fortunate enough to go to school, where a teacher asked her why she wasn’t participating in sports. She replied, “I’m pregnant.” The teacher had the situation investigated into. Lucia and her son, Josue, showed up at Hands of Compassion’s door, 12 years old and a few months old. The responsibility of a child has been lifted off of her small shoulders here, and she treats him as a little brother (well, he is) when she feels like it. She actually prefers Isaac to take care of (the girls have to help with the babies).
Despite having such genetically close parents, Josue is the most advanced of all the babies. He’s usually happy, cries the least, can almost walk, and is always getting into trouble.
Mercedes is a few months old. She was found by the side of a river, with the umbilical cord still attached. Abortion is illegal here (one thing Guatemala has done right) so they resort to dirty illegal abortions and throwing newborns in the river or trash.
Jacob is a year old. He has enormous brown eyes that make him look like the pathetic puppy. He was found in a field, crying. He was taken to a hospital for 5 months until he was given to Hands of Compassion, which is why he is a bit behind.
Isaac is even more behind. He was left in the hospital for 5 months as well, and hates doing anything but lying around. He is a year old and can barely crawl.
Mynor was neglected by his alcoholic parents. He has symptoms of Alcohol Syndrome. This means that he is INSANE. He acts like any other baby-always needs attention and his own way, except it’s accentuated. His screams can be heard from 100 feet away, inside of another house. But he’s adorable. He has chubby cheeks, waddles around, and instead of talking, he points and makes squeaky noises.
Korina was also neglected by her alcoholic parents (everyone around here is an alcoholic) and is the youngest. She is tiny and has the facial features and hair of one of those toy trolls. She’s the best behaved baby and Josh and Donna might adopt her.
I don’t touch Davey, who is Deb and Dave’s son. He is a few months younger than Mynor, but is the same size. They fight a lot, but Davey is favored and gets lesser or no punishments for the same thing Mynor does.
Anjelito, or On-hell-eeto, and his sister Vidalia were abandoned to live off worms in a dump. When they came here, Vidalia had lice and Anjelito’s belly was swollen and had grey hair, which is a sign of malnourishment. They’re beautiful, loving kids, but still have issues. Vidalia was caught cheating in school last week, and Anjelito is so lazy that he is late for breakfast everyday because he takes so long to do his chore, and wets the bed.
Esai, or Ee-sy-ee, looks like a monkey and acts like one too. I don't know his or his siblings' past.
Saul, or Sa-ool, is a taller version of Esai, which makes sense since they're brothers. I don’t spend much time with either of them.
Jeamy, or Jamie, is 13 and has been here for 4 years. She speaks incredible English, is active and helpful, but gets in trouble a lot, mostly social issues with the kids. She's bossy, even with the volunteers, and has the attitude my mother accuses me of having.
Angel, or On-hell, speaks near perfect English and is waiting to renew his visa so he can go back to the states with his adopted parents, the former orphanage directors. He lies sometimes, but is usually pretty helpful.
Maria was abandoned in a hospital when she was 4, and since no one wanted her, she stayed there till she was 7 when her mother decided she was old enough to make money off of by prostituting her until she died when Maria was 10. Maria was then adopted by an old lady who didn’t treat her nicely, and was raped several times while living there. The old hag decided she was too much, and gave her up to HOC. Maria is now 12 years old, quiet, helpful, and stunningly beautiful. She seems so innocent, you’d never guess what her past was like.
Rosa is the second biggest pain here, the first being the almost constant chorus of screaming babies. She is an adorable 3 year old who can barely talk, likes to lie, and doesn’t know colors, animals other than a sheep, the alphabet, or how to count to 10. I tried teaching her, but gave up after 3 days of watching her play the dumb card. I tried bribing her with play time and choco-puffs, the cereal we eat for breakfast every other day, and make Tabby sick.
Yelsi is 17, and I don’t know her past either. She speaks English, and is very mature for her age. She works in town on Saturdays, goes to school in town (while carrying mace on her wrist, of course) and does a ton around here. She is considered one of the adults.
Martina is a special needs child. She is 14 years old, but looks 8. She was thrown into a fire by her mother, (but was rescued by someone else), which is why her face, neck, and arms are deformed. Not only is her body a mess, but she is very mentally retarded. She can’t walk or talk, except when she gives this weird moan-laugh. Each day, an assigned girl (Emily and I have Sundays) drags her out of bed, bathes her, chops up her food to feed her for every meal, lets her sit on a toilet for 20 minutes after wards, reads to her, lets her sit buckled in on a swing outside, makes her stand leaning against a wall for 2 hour-long sessions, makes her walk by holding onto her arms from behind and pushing her feet, changes her diaper, and puts her to bed. This duty is grueling and grotesque. I don’t know how people can do this for a living.
All in all, I love the kids here. They give me headaches, confound me with their stupidity, amaze me with their bilingual skills, make me want to slap them with their attitudes and laziness, and make me want to fix their problems with their lack of innocence, that was taken too early. I was surprised to hear that all of them had been molested except the babies, because they don't show it anymore; the first few weeks however, some of them were touching each other inappropriately.
Of course, they aren't enough to keep me in Guatemala-this is the part where I gush cheesiness. I am actually a bit homesick for the people I love, and I want fall asleep thinking about them every night.

Day Three-The Orphanage

6/21/2011
Just a heads up-I'm a bit delirious and am not in a writing mood, so bare with me.

This is a beautiful place, on every level. The orphanage is a huge stone house with either wooden or tile floors. Outside is a large fenced in yard, covered in berry bushes, a playground, two dogs and their three baby puppies, flowers, two cows living in shacks made by the kids, large rocks good for climbing, and exotic foliage all over the place. There are 24 kids, all of them beautiful and scarred. I'll post a blog about all of them later. Dave (23) and Deb (26) are the owners. Deb has lived here for years with her parents, who left a while ago to take care of their sick mother in the States, leaving their newlywed children in charge. Dave met Deb when he came on a mission trip here. They talked nonstop, and he came back a year later. When he left, he knew he made a mistake, and was about to call Deb’s father but received an email from him instead, telling him to come back. Deb had also emailed him, quoting “since you’ve been gone, it feels like the prince has left the palace.” So he asked her father permission to return and start a relationship with her. They’re celebrating their 2 year anniversary July 4th. I think that’s adorable! Josh (21) and Donna (22) are also a married couple who are living here for two years. The teachers of the kids’ home-schooling program will only be living here for a few months, which is sad because they’re a huge help with getting the kids out of the house in the mornings and afternoons.
If you’d like to know the atmosphere-well, with 24 kids, 5 dogs, 2 talkative cats, 4 adults, and 3 volunteers, it’s bound to be chaotic. It is also extremely loving. On the first night here, Dave explained that these kids are not orphans. They call Dave and Deb mom and dad, because they are their parents now. Even though the kids were born in the lying and cheating Guatemalan society, they’re being raised to treat each other with respect. It is also so very accepting, as every kid here has their story.
It amazes me at how young these 4 people are that decided to take on the raising of 24 kids, 8 of them below the age of 4. It makes me scoff at people who are too afraid to give up their lives to God, because here are Dave and Josh talking about shooting people in a computer game while changing 7 diapers in a third-world country.

Day Two-The Dirty Work

6/19/2011

I haven’t ached this much since I took my four hour long (only a 2 minute break, and no drink breaks) black belt test.  My calves, back, hands, fingers, and shoulders hurt like never before and my hands are blistered.  Yesterday, we went a half hour away to a feeding center on Foot’s Hill, by infamous NASCAR driver, Richard Leister!  He claims he has a Guatemalan driver’s license; well, he drives dangerously fast over rough terrain, dodges other vehicles coming directly at him, and doesn’t make sure all his passengers are wearing seatbelts.  He surely does have a Guatemalan license!  Drivers here are worse than drunk American drivers.  The road to Foot’s Hill was mostly unpaved, was constantly steep, and wet.  Imagine riding in the back seat of a boxy 13 passenger van, all of which were praying, with an old deaf man fish-tailing on skinny, wet, mountainous roads.  After we finally got as far as we could go , we walked up a littered dirt road surrounded by free running chickens, cows, gorses, and diseased dogs which I resisted petting.  Our jobs at the feeding center were to build steps into the hill, and add more space to their “soccer field” by leveling off this here cliff.  We did this by loosen to dirt and rocks with a pick, hoeing it down, and shoveling it into wheel barrows from 10 A.M. to 3:30 P.M. with a half hour lunch break. Owies!

I obviously hate this kind of mission work.  I'm a 107 lb bag of wuss, and I feel like my body could best be used elsewhere, than feeling useless compared to everyone else who were much more productive.  But at the same time, I was doing what I loved; helping people.  I don't care if I still ache three days later and sweat like a pig (I hate sweating) and am so bored I'm naming the worms I find in the dirt.  I'm doing what God wants me to do--

and this isn't just an optimistic Christian viewpoint I guilt trip myself into saying.  I hated what I was doing, and even though I didn't get to see the outcome, I sincerely am glad I did it.
And then I remember all my friends who asked why I wanted to go to a third-world country for 7 weeks, and told me they would never have the guts to do what I'm doing.  Open your eyes.  There are children eating worms in dumpsters and who have never had a stuffed animal.  It costs $24 a month to clothe, feed, and educate them.  I understand that not everyone is called to be a missionary, but we are called to love each other and have compassion. 

Day One,At The Hotel Villa Espanol!

I'm chilling in our hotel complex's lobby (I say it's a complex because of the concrete walls and gate protecting us from annoying people wanting to do things for us for tips), listening to...Miley Cyrus and Eminem...in Guatemala now. In a hoody. Apparently June is the rainy season.
Anyways, flying down was pretty much a breeze. When Rich, the director of Field of Harvest Missions, booked our flights they told him we were each allowed two check through bags and two carry-ons. The rules changed without notice, and we had to pay an extra $30 for each extra check through suitcase we had, which were ironically filled with ministry materials and stuffed animals for the orphans. Thanks, American Airlines. This is exactly what we want at 4 freaking A.M.
The flight to Miami was 2.5 hours and I slept against the window, and next to an old guy. The flight to Guatemala was also 2.5 hours, and I slept against the window and next to a Guatemalan kid and his mom. They looked at me funny =}
We breezed through customs where they looked at our passports and papers we filled out (I've a feeling it won't be so easy getting back in) and we made it to the other side!

My team is pretty sweet. I listened to Shane sing Tom Petty in every airport and scream at his IPod games on the way to the hotel. Emily is the name of my roomie. She makes really good conversation and has the same aspirations for her life as I do. It feels really nice to be understood; to have someone else who lives their life day-to-day, waiting on God to call them to the next school, town, or country, for only He knows how long.

I just told my dad "I'm so happy to be out of that country and away from its idiots!" referring to specific people, of course. Hpwever, Guatemala is obviously uncomparable to America. In America, little men don't try to handle your luggage without permission and ask for tips. We have alarm systems, not barbed wire and ten foot tall gates around our property. We have educated parents who know not to move their eyes away from us when we're toddlers. We also have much better fashion sense than even the wealthiest Guatemalans. =]

For those of you WU kids who know Esteban Saldi, he is an amazing teacher.  I wish I spent more time with him now, because I've no idea what anyone is saying. But since English is an influential  language enough for its popstars to be blasting from hotel lobbies a on other continents, most people speak at least a little.  For instance, the chick at Burger King (we've also got McDonalds down here) knew what Ketchup was.  And it was Heinz!!!

Tonight we're going to practice our skit, eat dinner at Poyo Campero (the Guatemalan version of KFC) and go to a Guatemalan mall (HIGH EXCITEMENT!) Then a reallyyyy long nap in an actual bed, which I haven't slept in for 24 hours. Hooray!

I hope everyone is doing well up there! Let me know if Obama gets assassinated while I'm gone. Peace out, girl scouts!

Yeah, That's Right. I'm Talkin To YOU!

Psalm 139:14

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

The only incentive we need to take care of ourselves.  Because God is GOD! He is EVERYWHERE: from the depths of the ocean to the top of the tallest snow covered mountain, from the bottom of Loch Ness with Nessie to inside your bedroom, from inside Alcatrez to inside your heart.  He made EVERYTHING: the stars, psychology, sleepovers, laughter, hugs, fireplaces, snowball fights, Waynesburg University, kittens, Sea World, music!  He’s brilliant, a genius, a mastermind.  God doesn’t create trash.  He creates fetuses that are meant to be beautiful and dance in white dresses and form close bonds with each other, but somehow are born from the womb and are influenced and messed up by the world and make the wrong decisions and hurt instead if Love each other. 

This all-powerful Being created you: your desires, yours needs, your passions, your traits, your beautiful body.  Being created by Him is an honor all in itself.  But the sad thing about being human is that we have human eyes and not only can we not see His complete glory, but we can’t see the complete beauty in ourselves. We are fearfully and wonderfully made.  That means that you are a complicated, intricate, interesting, admirable, inspiring, beautiful being. 

So take care of yourself.  Eat your veggies and don’t stress yourself out too much.  Treat yourself with respect.  Dress modestly, don’t purposely hurt yourself, and don’t let anyone see what’s meant for your hubby, who will Love you unconditionally and bring you flowers just because and make you laugh harder than anyone else and make you feel the most comfortable and safe you’ve ever felt around anyone. 

He doesn’t want you to be going through this.  He wants you to know that you’re loved, and he’s waiting for you.

I'd Hide Myself In A Hole If I Weren't Such A People Person

With every compliment, my self-esteem is lowered a little bit.
I’d like to attract a friend who doesn’t develop feelings for me; someone who isn’t a “friend with other intentions”, or at least someone who respects me as a person enough to still be my friend after I turn him down.

I’d like a boy to look at my mouth when I talk, not what I honestly try to cover.

I’d like a boy to hang out with me because he thinks I’m clever/funny/sweet/interesting, not attractive.

I’d like a boy to give me more compliments on my personality than my body.

I’d also like a car.  Perhaps a Ferrari? 

My relationships with boys matter to me, because most of my friends are boys.  I relate more to girls but boys are funnier, relaxed, and more open to my sense of humor, so I connect with them better.  It doesn’t help that I’m a social butterfly and crave interaction with other human beings at all times.  But boys, you are getting hard to put up with!

Maybe I bring it upon myself.
Do I draw attention to myself?  I admit, I wear makeup.  I wear pretty cute clothes.  I wear more tank tops than t-shirts, but my cleavage rarely shows.  I wear jewelry and spend more than five minutes picking out an outfit each day but in all honesty, it’s like a hobby for me.  Like most girls, I like coordinating clothes with makeup and jewelry.  It’s another creative outlet. 

Maybe the Muslims have a point.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we all dressed alike and every woman had to cover every inch of her body except her makeup-less eyes?  They would have to treat us like individuals.  They couldn’t tell how big our boobs are or how cute our faces are.  It’d be nearly impossible for them to hit on us, because they’d have to know us first.  They’d have to be turned on by our sweetness and our smarts, not how low our shirts are.  We wouldn’t have to try to impress them with our looks.  We’d all look the same but different heights and widths.  Wouldn’t it be great to be treated like an intellectual and not an object all the time?

But we can’t do that.  To demand that every woman respect herself enough to cover everything up would be an invasion of our personal rights.

Damn you, freedom!  Damn you!

Maybe I should stop complaining and make a change.

I’ve thought about not wearing makeup and only wearing t-shirts all the time, but I don’t want to be considered unattractive.  I just want to look nice.  I don’t want to cringe every time I look in the mirror—I’d rather be confident that I am a good looking person.  I just want to know that I am able to charm a boy, not turn multiple boys on.  Maybe there’s a switch for my femininity? 

Maybe these silly physical things shouldn’t matter to me so much.

If someone treats me differently because of the way I look, I shouldn’t want their company.  It’s as simple as that, and as hard to accept as rocks are to chew.  People make their first impressions within the first fifteen seconds of meeting someone and the rest of their time is spent subconsciously finding evidence to support his or her judgment.  By wearing makeup to please and dressing to impress, I’m playing that game.  I’m recognizing the way girls are treated differently because of their external qualities, not their internal ones, and I am allowing myself to be put above some of them. 

So I’ll blame you.

I hate this generation’s priorities and how they’ve influenced me.

The Black Seems Less Vast This Time

I am writing this on a bus. It’s a Megabus that you order tickets from online and the sooner you get them, the cheaper they are, prices starting at $1.  Megabuses attract foreign people and college kids like myself; much different from Greyhound buses that are twice as expensive but more popular, and attract old people and business people. I’m travelling from Philly to Pittsburgh, and then getting a ride back to campus from a friend. 

I have an Asian girl sitting next to me. She’s quiet and is content with staring straight in front of her. 

I remember the last time I rode this bus.  I wasn’t able to sleep, so I stared out the window at the complete blackness.  313 miles of the world passed before my eyes, but it was just the abyss to them.  The road stretched on forever as I was cooped up in a bus for six hours, and I wondered how long it took the tired men to pave it. 

You’d think that since I can’t see anything, I’d feel like there is less matter surrounding me, but the black makes the entire world bigger as I feel smaller.  The thought of travelling never scares me since my life is lived in a suitcase, but I took a mental step out of my life to look at it in third person.  There I was, an eighteen year old child, travelling to another city by herself.  She was leaving a campus filled with hundreds of peers but she didn’t feel as if she were in a community.  More lost in a crowd of other faces not looking to make new friends.  I was leaving a dorm where I lived, with a hometown with no home.  I felt extremely alone right then…but I don’t remember feeling lonely at school…maybe since I was surrounded by people at school, I felt especially alone doing something by myself for the first time in a while.

Less lonely and more afraid.  Like imagining all of the universe’s planets, suns, black holes, and meteors that could strike at any moment; and here is our tiny Earth, seemingly huge to us, just suspended in midair-there is no air in space-mid-nothing, only orbiting the sun.  The rotation around the sun…the very foundation of normalcy that connects us all, but isn’t completely reliable.  Does this frighten anyone else?  It does for me, which is why I hate astronomy.

Now imagine you, a tiny person floating around Earth’s surface, with only your money and connections suspending you in normalcy and recognition as a person, which essentially makes you who you are; your relatives, where you’re from, where you live, who you know, what your job is if you have one.  Am I right?

I realized what little I have of that.  I realized how much my fate relies on chance and who knows me and is willing to not take advantage of me or give me a break. 

“God is everywhere,” said that Sunday school teacher.  She was so sure of herself, but I felt as if humanity is alone on this Earth and God only touches us from where He is in His otherworld haven.  Why would he want to dwell here more than how long He made Jesus live here already?

Because He is in me.  The Holy Spirit tells me what place I should travel to next, what I should do with this life and its gifts, and sometimes gives me the perfect things to say. 

God is in me, and I’m here.  God is here, and I’m never alone.

The sun takes its time setting, leaving the sky a violet that’s more colorful than what’s below it.  Then it disappears completely.

The black seems less vast this time around.