Pearls and Piojos

Peering out the window in the La Marín art room, I turn to Hilda and ask if we should risk it. My Girls Program was in need of materials and I promised I would take them that Thursday afternoon. The girls are all too good at holding you to your promises and so, despite the approaching storm clouds, I say to Hilda, “No importa. Vamos.” She responds with her usual sweet giggle and we go.

We take each other’s hands and frantically scurry across the street. Just as we step onto the curb the sky opens and we are drenched. For some reason, we didn’t think to turn back. Instead, we laugh hysterically and then… we run. We take refuge in the Caravana on the corner and wait for the rain to slow. While inside, the girls make friends with some boys selling gum and tell them about the WBC. The boys then turn to me and ask, “You are their teacher?!” I respond with a simple, “Si.” They looke perplexed and can’t quite seem to grasp the idea that a gringa actually worked with the poor of Quito. The girls and I cordially invite them to the Center and, realizing the rain had slowed, we venture out again.

Finally, we arrive. We enter the shop and the women working there look concerned when they see us. The girls were under strict instructions to be quiet and respectful, but as they feast their eyes upon the plethora of beads, buttons, lace, fabric, and pearls they cannot be contained. As I ask for our materials, I see the employees’ patience wearing thin, so I send the girls to sit on the stairs and wait in silence. They obey and I work with Hilda to get what we needed. The last item on the list is wire, which is located around the corner. As we head to that section I think to myself,  “Wow, the girls really are quiet. Let me see what they are doing.” I was shocked when I saw them hovered over Allison’s head picking out lice! Hilda and I motion to them to stop immediately and use our bodies to block what they are doing. We finish our order and, much to our dismay, the girls persist in the lice picking efforts.

It was in that moment a fierce wave of emotions came crashing over me. I looked upon those eight girls and saw my sisters. Their mischievous smiles, joyful laughter, and naive enthusiasm filled me with a profound peace and reverence for the work we do. When I reflect on this experience in its’ entirety I am left speechless. There are no words I can craft to adequately express the transformative nature of this time at the WBC. I can only say that I have found a purpose, a direction, and a great love I could have never otherwise encountered. The Working Boys Center – a family of families is no exaggeration. We are a family and all are welcome.

Connect Four

When I signed on the dotted line to become a year long volunteer at the WBC I was not surprised nor dissuaded by the requirements addressed in the contract. In general, it fulfilled what I was hoping to find in a volunteer program, and so I signed without vacillation. As I said nothing alarmed me, but I do admit there was one component which left me curious. It was the fourth clause. It states:

"I will do whatever work the Center requires of me. I understand that the daily schedule is from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm Monday through Friday..."

My initial reactions were as follows:

That is an extremely long day...
             What would I be doing for twelve hours a day?
                            How can I sustain that schedule five days a week for an entire year?

Well...

The month of September came and went and I was working until 5 pm each day, much to my surprise. After an hour long commute, I had plenty of time to work out, shower, prepare for the next day, eat dinner, and then relax. Life was good.

The month of October followed and I soon learned the meaning of the fourth clause:
Adult Education.

After teaching the niños during the day, we begin class with their parents in the evening. There are two sections with a break in the middle for a little merienda. In class we focus on community building, reading, writing, and math. I admit I was more nervous to begin teaching the adults than I was their children. Here I am, a newly graduated twenty-two year old teaching adults who are not only older than me, but have two, three, four, five... even six children. I found myself feeling strange and somewhat uncomfortable. I began to think on my life's experiences, the opportunities I have been afforded, and the decisions I have made based on the culture I grew up in, and I saw striking differences. I do not equate them as better or worse... just simply different.

Every evening as we transition from teaching children to their parents, I feel a wave of humility crash over me. The majority of the parents at the La Marín center are indigenous and Spanish is actually their second language. Without fail, they arrive with a smile, speaking Quichua to one another, and greet us with a hug and a kiss. The women are dressed in striking traditional clothing with brightly colored alpaca blankets draped over their shoulder. They are warm and inviting. I look down at my Scranton sweatshirt, gap jeans, and converse and am disappointed.

When we first began class, we brought a variety of games and simply took time to learn about each other. I distinctly remember the first time I met Faviola (as she spells it). Her daughter Isabella is in my English class and I have her sons, José and Edison, in art class. She is a single mother working to turn her circumstances into opportunities. This particular day I ask her what she wants to play and she replies by nudging the Connect Four box toward me. I begin by explaining the game, the rules, and how one wins. She nods in agreement and, so, we start.

I place my black plastic piece down the middle row and she follows with her red chip. I then place my next chip down the neighboring row, and she follow. We continue until I win. We take a time out to review the rules and try again. This time Faviola decides to pay no attention to what we just talked about nor where I place my pieces, and continues to play until she deems herself the victor.

She is enjoying herself, so we continue and she then decides to disregard all rules and create a design. She begins to tell me where to out my pieces so we can complete what she has designed in her mind's eye. I think to myself, "Should I stop this? Should I explain the game again? We are supposed to be practicing strategy and critical thinking, but I do not want to discourage her. Maybe I will just let it be."

When we finish the board is completely full and a sweet smiles grows on her face. "Connect Four," she says. The same smile stretches on my face and I nod in agreement. I ask if she wants to play again and she agrees. She then proceeds to conjure up a new design and dictates where my chips need to go. Who says she isn't thinking critically?

The Name Game

We have reached week six of classes and I feel less like a stranger here. I have established a level of comfortability with my students and, in return, I believe they have become less skeptical of me. I think back to when I first arrived... I was very dedicated to learning every student's name. I felt this was the first step I needed to take in order to begin to discover who they were. This proved very difficult as I took attendance my first week and realized there are three Joel's in one class, a John, Johny and Johnathan in the next, and Diana and Dayana and Jenny and Jennifer in another, along with many other indigenous names I couldn't even begin to pronounce.

Now, as I call roll and look up to meet the faces of these beautiful children, I no longer identify them by the sound I make with my lips, but, rather, I feel their presence. Their names conjure up certain thoughts, feelings, and emotions within me and their energy gives me life.

Here are just a few examples of what I mean:

Kazandra... sassy yet caring
         Nancy... kind and quiet
                  Odalys... opinionated but loving
                             Erika... tom-boy yet creative
                                    Miguel Christian... flirtatious but genuine
                                                   Alexander.... mischievous but joyful
                                                               Edison... meticulous and sincere
                                                                         Bryan... difficult yet compassionate

Just as I am now able to call them each by name, my students call my name and it means something to them. I am no longer identified by my blue eyes and white skin, but, rather, by the personal relationships I share with each student here at CMT. Señorita Estefy, I am sure, evokes a wide array of emotions, both good and bad, among students, but it also evokes a wide array of emotions with me.

Prior to CMT, I was a student,
                                a collegiate athlete,
                                           the littlest sister,
                                                   a grieving daughter...

But now I have become a foreigner,
                                a teacher and counselor,
                                           a big sister and mother...

This shift in roles happened quite naturally, but as I reflect every evening, sometimes I feel so out of character. The Stephanie of the U.S. seems to be a very different person when compared to the Estefy of Ecuador. What a blesssing it is to discover my Truest Self among the people of El Centro de Muchacho Trabajador.

Bienvenida

To blog…
or not to bog.

That was the question.

Prior to my departure, I toyed with the idea of beginning a blog to document my year volunteering with The Working Boys Center in Quito, Ecuador. I knew it would be an excellent way to keep family and friends involved throughout my journey, but, to be honest, I was never quite sold on the idea. When asked if I was thinking about beginning a blog I always turned to a noncommittal response, “You know, I’m not entirely sure... I may.” Transitioning from a college student to an unpaid volunteer seemed daunting enough, so the idea of “publishing” anything during a time of such great change seemed silly to me. 

How could I find time to organize my thoughts? Everything is so new, where do I possibly begin? What would I even write about? Who would my audience be? These questions and many others made me at one time feel that I might need to keep to myself and live this experience “quietly.” I most certainly didn’t need a public audience during a time of confusion, exhaustion, and, as mentioned, change. So, per usual, I packed my journal and believed that would be enough.

The past weekend marked four weeks here in Quito and (surprise!) I have decided “to blog.”

Why? What changed?

After a conversation with my mother, I realized a blog would, of course, allow others to accompany me throughout this year, but it would also help me more deeply examine my own experience here. It would provide a space to dialogue about the exhaustion, confusion, and change I am somewhat fearful of. I have begun to understand the magnitude of the opportunity that lies in front of me each day, and so I wish to share in my experiences and reflections publically as well as invite others to join me.

I have several friends who have chosen to embark on yearlong service in the states and abroad, as well as others who will accompany me in teaching English as a second language. My desire is to have them join me in this space and offer their own personal insights and experiences.

I pray that together we can sow hope as the ever inspirational Pope Francis explains:

“Poverty calls us to sow hope…. Poverty is the flesh of the poor Jesus, in that child who is hungry, in the one who is sick, in those unjust social structures.”

(Meeting with Students of Jesuit Schools—Q&A, 6/7/13)