Circa 2006

In my sophomore year, I wrote a silly little poem inspired by an article that I read in one of my Spanish books about monarch butterflies that migrate to Mexico every year. I rescued it recently from the mess of college assignments that remain cluttered on my laptop. Though I'm usually embarrassed when I find pieces of my old writing, I actually kind of like this one. I think that it captures a bit of that inexplicable something that I find so enchanting about Mexico...

Migration to Zitácuaro

Cold autumn comes and they depart

the billowing of a billion paper-thin wings

weaving south, leaves blushing brown

at their hurry.

They alight, spilling atop canopies

of waiting trees, weighing the boughs

in a glorious sway of searing orange,

bursting like steam soaked in cilantro

and maize, dizzy in a stupor of sangria.

Drawn by the love-song of mariachis,

and the murmur of smoke stained glass,

México lindo y querido, disarming dream

spun for monarchs: the butterflies.

La Ciudad de México

(Via Wikipedia)

I was driving around New York City this past weekend on the way to visit my friend who dwells in the most diverse county in the world. Lost and nearing the point of cardiac arrest, I realized that I will be living in a city that's even bigger. Thank God I will not have to drive there.

"In 2006 Greater Mexico City had a population of 19.2 million, making it the largest metropolitan area in the western hemisphere and the second largest in the world."

(Part 2)

Mexico (Continued)

Mexico was my first love, my first destination the first time that I ever set foot on a plane. In 22 years I've yet to fall in love with another person, but it helps to carry this romantic notion that I have fallen in love with an entire country. My first venture south of the border was senior week, the infamous week where highschool grads go with their best friends to the beach and experiment with drinking if they haven't already done so at someone's party their senior year. I had never sipped alcohol in my life at that point, and that didn't really change over senior week... what did change was the scenery. Instead of going to New Jersey or Maryland, my friends and I flew to Acapulco where one of my wealthy, well-traveled friends Kristin had a timeshare. Our parents were dubious about letting us travel un-chaperoned to Mexico; their worry was futile because we barely left the resort. It was pure, mint-on-your-pillow, entitled tourism. I spoke a year's worth of "Spanish 1" and didn't know much more about the real Mexico than what 2 years of working at a pseudo-Mexican restaurant had taught me. And I couldn't see the real Mexico beyond the neon lights and high rise buildings of Acapulco. Yet, one's first time abroad leaves an indeniable impact, and I came home curious, eyes opened (if just slightly) to the bigger world that loomed beyond my sheltered suburban bubble.

Fortunately, my curiousity was multiplied the following fall during my first semester of college. I took a course called "Contemporary Mexico" with the most contagiously passionate professor I have ever had the privilege of learning from: Dra. Parkyn. My small first year seminar of 11 students read about Mexican history and culture throughout the fall months and hopped a plane for a three week January tour of central Mexico. That sealed the deal, as the saying goes. The bold colors, the mix of cultures (indigenous, Spanish, and modern Mexican), the sprawling markets, the flat-roofed houses, the relaxed sense of time, la comida rica... and mostly the wonderfully warm and hospitable Mexican people stole my heart, which was in sensory and experience overload. I came home determined to learn Spanish and to go back to Mexico. I was very naive in many ways, wielding my rose-colored glasses and black-and-white perspective with insufferable traveler's pride. Yet, falling so hard for Mexico as a freshman shaped the rest of my college career, beginning my journey towards cultural and international understanding.

Whew, back to Senior Year... this rambling appears to have no end in sight. The Chiapas Project. A Catholic Worker farm located in the southernmost state of Mexico which had been the home of the Zapatista movement. I began emailing the founder of the Chiapas Project about how I might get involved, and the picture that emerged was intriguing: I could spend some post-graduation time doing volunteer work. Gardening, cleaning chicken cages, driving women to get their children birth certificates, washing dishes, living in a village, and helping to organize slides. Slides from the 14 years of photo-journalism that the founder had amassed in Central America. Could this picture have looked any more different from the one that I had been envisioning with Teach For America?

What most attracted me to the Chiapas Project was the idea that I could go to my beloved Mexico to live and learn in a community that was committed to the values of the Catholic Worker movement. I also imagined that it would be a very humbling experience for me, going in with relatively little to offer (had I ever worked on a farm? cleaned chicken cages? done carpentry work? Noooo...) Yet, what ultimately steered me away from this opportunity were some of the very same things that attracted me to it. I was craving the chance to learn about simple, communal living, and although the Chiapas Project was indeed a Catholic Worker community, the director warned me that I would have to learn to live alone. And although I wanted to be stretched in this rural setting that was miles and miles from what I knew, previous experience had taught me that I would struggle without the validation of knowing that I was contributing something. Not to mention the simple questions of how I would support myself, afford health insurance, etc... nonetheless, I did not let go of this chance immediately. I placed it on the backburner, using it as a back-up of sorts as I subconsciously pursued other possibilities. As I alternatively considered moving to Philly, teaching English in Ecuador, and working at a soup kitchen in LA, I was content with the crazy notion that if I wanted to, I was welcome to sort out my life with this farm community in gorgeous Chiapas.

Catholics and Quakers

While I was in contact with the director of the Chiapas Project, he suggested that I read The Long Loneliness and become involved with a Catholic Worker community in the States. I took that suggestion to heart, agreeing that it might be a good idea to have a better sense of what I was getting myself into before buying a plane ticket. I knew little about Catholicism, or the Catholic Worker's movement for that matter. I had a hazy idea that Dorothy Day had influenced much of Shane Claiborne's thinking in the influential Irresistible Revolution: community, serving and learning from the poor, voluntary poverty, etc. Why not explore some of the amazing urban centers that had come of the Catholic Worker's movement in the States before relocating myself to one in a different cultural and linguistic context?

Thus, I hatched my plan to become involved with the Los Angeles Catholic Worker House before heading to Mexico. No, I couldn't simply volunteer for a few days at Catholic Worker communities in Harrisburg or Philadelphia... I had to set my sights on the opposite side of the country. Typical. I stumbled upon an opportunity to be a summer intern for 6 weeks at the LA Catholic Worker House, and as graduation was approaching, this new idea seized me full force. This was essentially how I operated throughout my entire senior year: bouncing from one possible future project to the next, passionately talking over each and every one with my oh so patient family and friends. I was so excited at the notion of serving in such a tangible way, providing food and shelter for the homeless of LA's Skid Row while becoming part of an intentional faith community. These folks seemed like they were taking Jesus at his word, evaluating what it might look like to live out the Gospels in a radical way in 21st century America.

Then came Spring Break '08. While my dear roommates were off galavanting in Florida, I was stuck at home applying to LA, packing up my mom's apartment, and getting into painful discussions with my parents about health insurance. They weren't so sure about this volunteering business. What were my plans to eventually support myself, or use my degree? How was I going to pay for insurance, or my car, or my cell phone bill? When was I going to get a real job, and why was I pursuing such seemingly dangerous options as living with the homeless in LA? Tough questions. Tough questions that didn't have easy answers.

A lot happened that week between tears and arguments and sealing memories into cardboard boxes, but the most important thing that happened was my Granddad's memorial service. My wonderful Grandfather passed away in February after a long struggle with Alzheimer's disease. It is hard to describe how much I adored and admired my Granddad as a child, touched by the twinkle in his eye and the compassion in his speech. He had an incredible ability with children, and I had the good fortune to spend a lot of time with him on the weekends as I was growing up. He taught me how to build dams, make paper airplanes, and conquer my fears. He was a master teacher and story-teller; he was the type who could have a whole room hanging on his every word. Yet, he was humble and lived a life of deep integrity. I only wish that I could have had the privilege of knowing him as an adult. His Alzheimers robbed him of his memory, spirit, and dignity, and as the years slid by, my grandmother was the only person who he never forgot. She served him his meals in the nursing home with the patience and devotion of a saint, quietly enduring the pain of watching her vibrant husband fade away.

His memorial service was the most moving one that I have ever attended. It was a Quaker-style service, which meant that people were welcome to stand and share memories and messages throughout the silent worship. Hardly a moment passed where someone was not speaking, and I heard so many stories about the impact that my Grandfather's life had made on many others. Common threads were woven through; many mentioned that he had a way of making you feel important when he listened to you and that he had an eternal twinkle in his eye. He also knew the value of an important question and how to teach and challenge by questioning. His ability to be present in the moment, to truly listen to and validate another person, was something that left me thinking that day. How often am I supposedly in conversation when my mind is in a million other places? How often am I thinking about the next thing that I am going to say instead of being a good, sincere listener?

I came away from the experience in awe of life's mystery and the idea that people who have passed away can continue teaching us from beyond the grave. I spoke at the service about the relationship that I had had with my Granddad as a child and the sense that I had then and now that he will always be with me. It was good to remember and to mourn the person who he was before he was afflicted with Alzheimer's, the person who we had not fully seen for almost a decade. I was also struck by the realization that Quakerism had been a huge part of his life. He had served as a conscientious objector during WWII due to his Quaker beliefs, he had been an active member of different Quaker groups and councils, he had taught Quakerism during his teaching career. I had not been at a Quaker meeting since I was about 10 years old, but maybe it was time to reexamine my Quaker roots? If Quakerism had played such a vital and fulfilling role in the life of one of the humans who I most admired, then maybe I ought to give it a closer look.

Throughout senior year, I felt the gnawing conviction that I needed to find a faith community and invest myself in it. The only problem was, I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with more traditional churches and the language of salvation, sin, evangelism, etc. I am not exactly sure where I stand theologically right now, but I'm seeking and exploring and hoping that Quakerism will allow me to experience God's presence and leading in ways that I have not previously experienced it. I tell people who ask me why I am going to work with Quakers in Mexico City that I "grew up Quaker," though that is not exactly the truth. I went with my dad and grandparents to Quaker meeting until about the age of 10, when my grandparents switched meetings due to a disagreement over the sanctioning of a homosexual couple, and my Dad stopped attending meeting altogether. I have fragments of memories from that time period: closing my eyes in the old meeting house and listening peacefully to the spring leaves rustle outside, walking upstairs expectantly with the other kids after First Day school had finished, waiting for the customary handshake which ended meeting and meant that we could scamper downstairs to feast on the snacks.

My mom converted to Christianity when I was a teenager, and I began attending a non-denominational church with her. It was big and intimidating and boasted a youth group leader who is still one of the most dynamic that I have ever encountered. Thus began my brief fundamentalist phase, as I was pulled into an atmosphere where we talked about God and Satan, the steps to salvation, and the idea that the Bible is "not a salad bar that you can pick and choose from." My years at Quaker meeting seemed distant and irrelevant, and as I grew older I think I smugly wrote Quakers off as "bizarre" and "unbiblical." Until my Granddad's memorial service in my senior year of college. I was moved by the style of the service, and I was moved by my Granddad's commitment to Quakerism. For the remaining 6 weeks of my last year in school, I began attending a Quaker meeting in Harrisburg and was surprised to find that Quakers did talk about the Bible and that I could feel something stirring in my soul during those hour long meetings for worship.

Back to the Catholics. I was beginning to get comfortable with the plan that I was formulating for this first step into the real world. If everything worked out, I would be headed to Los Angeles in the summer and Mexico in the mid-fall (financial issues pending), well on my way to becoming a bonafide Catholic Worker. When I was informed that I had not been accepted into the summer internship program at the LA Catholic Worker House, I was devastated. Although it was only a six week program and although it had caused so much conflict between me and my family, I had really set my heart on it. It's safe to say that I was more upset about being rejected by the Catholic Workers than I was about being rejected by Teach For America. Maybe it was the fact that there were only 12 applicants, or because it was so close to graduation and plans just kept falling through, or because all I wanted was this tiny little volunteer position, not a competitive, paying job... regardless, this rejection sent me into definite existential crisis. I was a big ball of doubt, indignation, and hurt.

¡Por fin!

After a few days, I was able to regroup and march right back to square one. Fortunately, I already had a new lead, another opportunity found through a few online clicks of the mouse: the Casa de los Amigos in Mexico City. I happened upon their website one day after a particularly enlightening time at Sunday meeting. I had searched for service programs abroad with the Mennonites and the Catholic Workers, so why not check out what the Quakers were up to internationally? When I clicked onto their page, it was either desperation or love at first sight because I immediately thought to myself, "this is exactly what I have been looking for." Here it was: an urban faith community in Mexico that called itself a "center for peace and international understanding." I could learn to live simply and in community, improve my Spanish, engage with people working for peace and social justice, and continue my spiritual journey surrounded by other seekers. On top of that, they had a program for volunteers; I would not have to pave my own way like I was considering doing with the Chiapas Project. Were the stars finally aligning?

Well, folks (if there are any people who actually made it this far into this ridiculously long entry?), I was eventually accepted at the Casa as a year-long volunteer, and I feel so blessed to have arrived at this amazing opportunity after the struggle that was my senior year. I was headed in so many different directions (teacher! social worker! activist! farmer! hipster!), but somehow I have peace about this decision. As my wise friend Hannah says, sometimes we can only move in directions towards God's leading, unsure of exactly where we are going. Don't get me wrong, I am still an insecure, nervous wreck. But, I am sure (just as I am always sure before entering a new and big experience) that I will come out a different person. Don't ask me yet what I will be doing in another year's time... the fact that I have somewhere to go for the next 12 months is a miracle in itself.

My favorite part of this whole "Coming to the Casa" tale ties back to my Grandfather's memorial service. There I met one of my Dad's old college friends, April. She happened to be in the area, saw that the memorial service was taking place, and decided to come. Dad hadn't seen her in more than 20 years because after college she had moved to Mexico. He introduced me to her, jokingly warning, "Don't talk too long to April, I don't want her to rub off on you!" (My father's perpetual fear is that I will leave and never come back). I chatted with her for awhile in Spanish and mentioned that I might be headed to Chiapas post-graduation. She gave me her email address and told me to contact her if I ended up there, explaining that she lived in Mexico City but that her husband was from Chiapas. Well, after I found out that I was going to the Casa, I shot her a quick email to let her know that I would be in her city. "I'm working for a Quaker organization called the Casa de los Amigos, have you heard of them?" She replied that she has been on the board of directors for the Casa for twentysome years and that her parents used to be the directors of their guesthouse! ¡Qué casualidad!

I Love Gael

"Tonight I'll show you how dreams are prepared... love, friendships, relationships. All those ships."

-The Science of Sleep, 2006

"Senior Year" or "Coming to the Casa" (Part 1)

Wherever you are, be all there

My senior year of college was a memorable, yet somewhat disjointed time of great friends, late assignments, changed plans, and existential crisis. I remember thinking in the summer before my senior year that it would be a short blip on the screen, a forgettable bump on the road to the "real life" that was coming at me fast. Mentally, I had already fastforwarded to graduation. It was as if the months that lay between Summer '07 and Spring '08 were a hazy, forgettable time that I was obligated to live. What could really happen to me during my senior year in central Pennsylvania that would be of any consequence? After the whirlwind experiences off-campus in Ecuador and Philadelphia that had shaped my junior year, what was in store for me other than a few more English classes and late night conversations? Back then, I had no idea what form my struggles would take senior year: from crying on the way to an interview, lost on the outskirts of Philly to feeling like I didn't belong in my major to learning how to drive a handicapped vehicle for a fiery old woman in a wheelchair.

The theme of my senior year became learning to live in the moment. I don't know how much I actually accomplished to that end, but I was certainly aware that I was living both in the past (junior year) and the future (post graduation) and that that needed to change. I embraced the motto that my friend Nancy had carved onto a clay plaque which she sent to me for my 22nd birthday: "Wherever you are, be all there." It was a challenge that loomed over me as I fell asleep at night, reliving scenes from the past year and dreaming of future people that would come into my life, future places that I might go. Be present in the moment, Heather. Be present in these conversations. Love these amazing friends that you've been given and be grateful for this time that you have together, before your lives are scattered all over the globe. You will be nostalgic for these days, so live them while you are in them.

Though I was attempting to invest myself in the present, it was undeniable that future plans had to be made. For goodness sakes, there was a deadline: May 18, 2008. By that day, I thought, I better have a place to go that is not my parents' house. I had better have a job offer or a plane ticket. (HA!) Throughout the fall months, mass emails full of job tips and opportunities would pour into my college account from staff and advisors trying to be helpful. Check out this teaching position! This company has an opening; they are looking for recent college grads! The Mennonite Central Committee is hiring in the Northeast region! The second deadline to apply for Teach For America is approaching! Thus began my first foray into imagining my life after college. I applied to Teach For America.

Teach For America

Applying to Teach For America made more sense to the person that I was at age 13 than the person that I am at age 22. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I applied to Teach For America because I had cut their ad out of a teen magazine and pasted it in my journal when I was 13. I remember feeling overcome at the time with the sense that this was something that I was supposed to do. It was a quasi-spiritual moment. So, when I saw the email about the approaching TFA deadline, my mind remembered that moment that had transpired 9 years before and thought that maybe this was a sign from my spiritually enlightened 13 year old self. Although I had not thought about TFA at all in that 9 year time gap and though I didn't even know what it was really, clearly this was a prudent decision. Honestly, I was beginning to feel antsy. I needed to actively do something, pursue something, and feel like I had a handle on this whole business of post-graduation job search.

I applied and made it to the final interview day... the day that I was driving around desperately lost and a half an hour late on the outskirts of Philly. Throughout the ridiculously long application process, I had learned the language of Teach For America. I was both excited about and douftful of their admirable vision to lower the achievement gap between students in high and low income areas. (Why does TFA think that young college grads without education degrees are the best people to affect change in extremely challenging classroom settings? What lasting change can be made when teachers only stay for 2 years? At the same time, maybe the TFA approach affects change on an individual basis, seeing to it that students graduate highschool who might not do so otherwise...?) I was beginning to picture myself as a teacher and wonder if teaching might be my career calling. I thought that if I made it into TFA, despite my apprehensions, I could be made into a crash-course teacher and see if teaching in the inner city was something that I was cut out to do. I had had some wonderful experiences helping to teach ESL classes in West Chester and Harrisburg and some not-so-wonderful experiences teaching 10th grade English in Ecuador. Did I have what it takes to be a teacher? And more importantly, did I have what it takes to be a Teach for America teacher... the go-getter type? The amazingly organized, passionate, self-motivated, law school bound type? I certainly had my doubts, but I was also fooling myself, molding my image into the perfectly busy and ambitious person that the recruiters wanted me to be.

When I finally found out in January that I would not be a bilingual teacher in San Francisco or Philadelphia for two years, it was as much a relief as it was a disappointment. It was a definitive closed door, and as much as my ego was bruised, I could rest in the fact that it was clear that TFA was not what I was supposed to do. There were still 5 months til graduation, so what next?

Mexico

In the weeks before I heard from TFA, I could not fall asleep at night. There were too many wrenching, conflicted thoughts brewing in my head and settling in the pit of my stomach. While trying to separate and balance my passions and motivations, I felt perhaps for the first time the weighty consideration that goes into an important decision. While I should have been waiting for the news about TFA with anxious excitement, instead, I was filled with an unsettled dread. Things were not adding up. Why Teach For America... why was I heading into a two year contract that would bind me stateside when all I had ever envisioned myself doing post-college was traveling again? Was my passion to travel to Latin America selfish, impractical, or worse yet, harmful? Yet, if those things were true, then what sense could be made of all of the time and effort I had invested in learning Spanish if I were just to abandon it in the real world? The next step in my life had to include Spanish and Latino people, cierto? What if I were to end up teaching middle school English with TFA... a respectable job, but not my passion?

Here's an excerpt from one a journal entry that encapsulates my struggles, circa Dec 07/Jan 08:

"I suppose the main question is: should I stay or should I go? The time to travel is when we are young, free of obligations and not yet set in our ways. I love to travel- I know this about myself. There is something undeniably invigorating and addicting about travel. A sense of urgency and adventure when you awake every morning in a foreign country- a heightened awareness of your potential to learn from everyone you encounter. I felt justified traveling as a student in Ecuador- I was more than a tourist. I was there for cultural exhange. To learn their language, to embrace their traditions. Of course I did feel guilty at times for being a student at USFQ, for being able to study at the most expensive university in the country at my American whim. Now, as I no longer have the excuse to travel as a student, what is my title? What is my motive? I envy people who are blessed with the skills to be doctors or engineers. They can provide legitimate help to people in developing countries with poor health care opportunities or water purification systems. This is urgent, effective work.

I am a writer. Maybe a teacher. Maybe a social worker. How could I be of use abroad? Teaching English? Why would I fly to Latin America to teach Latinos my language in some twisted neo-colonial enterprise? Why would I teach English abroad when there is a world full of immigrants here desperate to learn and succeed? If I were to teach in Latin America, I know my students would love me for being a gringa. Would this not feed into the already unfortunate beauty ideal- ojos claros, white skin, light hair? Would I contribute somehow to making young girls wish they looked more European or American?

Because of the level that my Spanish is at right now, unfortunately, there is probably no other job for me in Latin America than as an English teacher. I am not fluent enough in Spanish to be effective working for a non-profit or NGO. Would I ever be fully effective working abroad, knowing that I would never speak a perfect Spanish or completely hold an understanding of the culture? Was there a reason why I was born in the States- fluent in English and American culture? To serve here? Yet, I know there's a reason why I have been overcome with a passion for Spanish and Latin America in college. The fact that this passion hit me out of nowhere makes me believe that it happened for a reason."

Shortly after penning these words and after being in conversation with a friend who was considering returning to Ecuador, I allowed myself to dream again. I let go of the terrible sense that I had that travel was purely selfish and irresponsible. I snuck onto the computer late at night and browsed the internet for programs, positions, and communities- anything that might send me back to Latin America. A friend recommended idealist.org to me, and from there I found a new crazy idea to entertain. An idea that had nothing to do with the direction that TFA would have taken my life in, an idea that seemed at once bizarrely attractive and also purely out of left field: The Chiapas Project.