(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!