My Nostrils Are Pretty

´´All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful.´´-Flannery O'Connor

As I look back to my previous entry, I noticed that I really didn’t include anything that I actually did, besides maybe speak Spanish, eat rice and beans, sit on the porch, and run.  Well, to be honest, I didn’t do much else my first week.  Mainly because there wasn’t much going on due to the massive amount of rain.  They don’t have school when it rains because kids come from other towns and the rivers they need to cross are running pretty damn fast.  Therefore, I had the first week to adjust slowly, I guess you could say.  I have been taking 4 hours of lessons each day as well, which keeps me busy.  I’d come back from lessons feeling like I could either study more because I knew how much work I had to do, or want to zone out because my brain was trying to comprehend so much.  The first weeks was a bit strange- feeling like I should be doing something- and I wasn’t sure if I felt that way because I should have been doing more, or because I’m an American.  Regardless. Things are starting to pick up for me here! 

Also, I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors.  Normally I am not that lazy and I can’t stand little errors (especially when people write youre when they mean you’re. It drives me nuts), however, while I was copying my writing into the blog, I was running out of time and had to catch my bus back to Lagartillo.  I’m not even sure if grammatical errors are something I need to apologize for… but here I am doing just that. 

Contrary to popular belief, no category of music quite fits this community other than 80’s classic ballads.  Every morning that I have class, I walk by this one house that blasts music.  It differs every day, but on Thursday I couldn’t have asked for a better song.  Bare with me: “I want to know what love is! I want you to show me!”  Also I heard another family’s radio playing a latin jazz flute interpretation of Simon & Garfunkel’s “Song of Silence.”  Then, I come back to the house later in the day to hear Jose Angel rocking more 80’s ballads, such as Air Supply and Michael Jackson.  Now I don’t know where ABBA fits in this category, but he certainly likes the song “Chiciquita.”  Well I can’t blame him on that one: judge me if you will, but that is a damn good song.

I successfully planted a couple coffee plants.  That was very exciting.  Mainly because it was the first day of little to no rain, which meant I could do more than just sit or stand under shelter.  Also I had never seen coffee plants before and they are beautiful.  There is so much work that goes into a beverage so many people are infatuated with.  I tromped around in my amazing rain boots, I dug my hands into the dark Nicaraguan soil, I felt the hot sun on my back.  It’s beautiful here, and I am so thankful for this experience.  I am thankful for Accion Esperanza for supporting me in coming here.  I sense purpose here for some reason: I have learned so much already and have much more ahead of me.

cano when she's not screaming for food. (on the porch)

the view from balta's 2nd story

Just outside of the porch there is a chicken that sits in a tree every once and a while.  Not under a tree but in it, about 8 feet off of the ground.  And I've discovered that she doesn't just sit, she roosts: every night before dinner.  I didn’t realize chickens could or would want to do this.  Her friends are hanging out down below, but it’s as if she just needs to take her space for a while.  I like this chicken. 

So my Spanish is getting much better, but there are times when the language barrier feels like thick, dense concrete.  There are times where I want to spew words for a few minutes…maybe for hours.  It’s not that I don’t want to learn- I do and I am.  I love this language and I feel it’s much more beautiful and melodic than English, in fact.  But if one English speaker were to pass by, I feel as if I’d throw my opinions, thoughts, everything at them.  So many words: I feel as if I am full of them.  Words fall off of my clothing and out of my hair.  They bounce off of me with each step and wriggle out of my shoes and onto the ground.  Ultimately, they end up in my journal or here. I am learning more and more how to express myself here, but I have so much to say but cannot say it all. I never knew this about myself until now.

However, how many have sacrificed this comfort of language for something different?  How many refugees, immigrants, families have had to pick up another language in a (at times) harsh environment just to survive?  Too many to count, I’m afraid.  And I am only one young woman doing this because I want to, not out of necessity.  So many people that are living in foreign places have so much to say, to ask, to tell, to convey… but perhaps cannot find the words to say what’s on theirs minds and hearts.  I felt humbled when I realized this. 

Nevertheless, I have hope that humans who have a few ounces of compassion and empathy can communicate beyond words.  I have felt that way since coming here.  Just the other day I was feeling frustrated- it seemed as though every other person was correcting my Spanish or finishing sentences for me because I wasn’t going fast enough.  I’m positive that it wasn’t nearly that dramatic.  But during dinner the same day Jose Angel and I talked pronunciation.  I expressed my inability to roll my R’s and how annoying it is for me.  He gave me words and I practiced, but mostly it was no good.  We both had to laugh (I suppose he laughed before I did).  Then, Lady Gaga started playing on his ipod (I know, stories always get good when Lady Gaga enters the scene) and he asked me why it was spelled Lady and not Lary (here their R’s are pronounced like D’s).  “Larry?!?” I asked, laughing at the same time. 

It felt so wonderful to have a light heart about the language I’m trying to speak and understand.  Sure, there are so many more things I wish I could say, but cannot quite find the words.  It can be frustrating and taxing for certain, but is laughter ever a common ground.  None of my frustrations mattered that evening, because I was too busy trying to explain why vegetables is pronounced like “veg-ta-bles,” and not “veg-it-a-buls”.  Do I ever love it here.  I pray that those who are in a foreign place and are tying to understand a new language encounter people filled with compassion and an ability to communicate beyond words.

Before arriving, my dear friend Lucy told me that I’d figure out what I would want to get involved in- whether that be helping out in el campo, working with the little kiddos, helping at the school, etc.  I think I’m slowly working into my calling- can one be worked into a calling?  Doesn’t that cancel out the concept of calling?  At any rate, I’m going to help Balta with her English classes.  She has a couple each day and she wants me to help with pronunciation, more vocabulary, and verbs.  I can help her plan lessons and help her in the classroom as well.  I love working with her because she reminds me that we’re both trying to accomplish the same thing- me with my Spanish and her with her English.  We’re reaching towards the same goal from opposite ends.  It’s similar to that team-building exercise in which you’re sitting back to back with a person and you both have to stand up while your arms are connected.  It seems like Spanglish at times, and I wish there was a less trite word for what I’m describing.  It feels as though someone understands me a little better now.  And does that ever feel great.

The first days of English classes went really well.  I love it.  It reminds me that there are others who are trying to understand another language other than their own as well.  I don’t feel so out of place.  Also, I’ve heard some of the most brilliant comments- if only these students knew how beautifully hilarious they are.  (Disclaimer: I am allowed to find this funny because you would not believe the laughter than comes from Jose Angel when I try to pronounce certain Spanish words).  I was teaching about sports to a class of 8^th graders.  A couple boys were arguing and I didn’t see it.  To get my attention, one of the kids said to me, “Justine, boxing!”, as he pointed behind me.  Way to use that vocabulary!  However, the best one came on my first day of teaching: we were talking about body parts, so the students had to come up with sentences using certain vocabulary.  Things like “I have brown hair.”  But one young man hit the charts: and as he spoke, a grin slowly developed on his face as he proudly pronounced the words, “My nostrils are pretty.”  Brilliant.  He gets an A.  This is in no way to make fun of this young man- I know how hard it is to learn a new language (I am rather certain last week I asked if I could cry, instead of asking if I could bring something).  And maybe his nostrils really are pretty.

My Spanish classes are going good as well- I’m finishing up my second week and have two more to go.  And to my surprise, my second week of classes immediately started with an existential conversation. Now, I’d expect this in any of my past religion/theology classes.  But, in a Spanish immersion class?  Wow.  Way to go Yomar.  Yomar is my teacher for my second week.  What sparked this conversation was, I suppose, when he asked me what I studied in university.  I told him art and religion.  Perhaps he was looking for something to talk about, so we talked a bit about Catholicism, Christianity, religion in Nicaragua, etc.  We peeled back the layers of liturgy, baptism, church and structure to reach this core concept of God and who we believed God to be.  He told me that many people in Nicaragua and the Catholic church here believe that God does participate in our lives, but from above.  He told me that God is big and powerful and can interject in the world.  Yomar believes that God is love, but he doesn’t know what more to believe. 

I told him that I believe God is both big and small.  He didn’t exactly understand this, so I tried to articulate as best I could.  He said he couldn’t imagine a god being small, because gods are supposed to be magnificent, large, powerful.  I said yes, but if I am going to pray and communicate with a God, I’d prefer this God to be small, because most days I feel small.  I want to be heard by God; how comforting it is for me to believe that God is big enough to get small and sit close to me.  The conversation went on, and we eventually moved on to other topics.  However, this conversation stuck with me for a while.

Is God big enough to be small?  I think so.  I believe a lot of things that Jesus said in the Gospels are confusing, enlightening, scary, and comforting- all at the same time.  I love the man, but wow was he ever a hard-to-interpret mystic.  Here’s what I know I like: “the kingdom of God is within you.”  There are other times as well, in which Jesus compares the kingdom (a grandiose word, mind you) of God to things such as yeast, a mustard seed, and a small treasure hidden in a large field.  These things are small and close to us.  If some of us proclaim and have faith in an intimate and loving God, I do believe that we have with us a God that can become small.  If we are the new temple and the Kingdom of God can be compared to something the size of a booger, then God must be able to get small.  Compared to things like volcanoes and mountains, there isn’t much wiggle room in our bodies.  We are a small people- God has to fit in there somewhere.

It was my second day of lessons with Yomar when I learned more about religion around here.  He started to talk to me about music in Nicaragua.  Eventually, in the middle of his explanation, he said something along the lines of “Well, you probably don’t listen to much music since you’re a Christian, right?” My facial expression I am sure was enough to communicate that I didn’t understand his assumption.

Apparently, there are two main “religions” in Nicaragua: Christian and Catholic.  Catholics have the same liturgical rituals as in the states.  But, according to Yomar, most Catholics participate in every common culture practice: dancing, listening to music, maybe having a drink or cigarette every once and a while.  And then there are the Christians, who supposedly, in Nicaragua, separate themselves from many cultural rituals.  The women wear long skirts and no make up, the don’t dance or listen to popular music, they dress modestly, and they don’t smoke or drink at all.  It seems so black and white to me when I feel myself rather gray.

I am in no way trying to spark debate or come out with strong beliefs.  If there is anything I’ve learned in my life, it’s that most people are trying to figure out how to relate and love this God we’ve got.  People are reaching in many different ways from many different directions.  Yomar didn’t mean to, but he had his assumptions from the first day of class.  I was wearing a skirt, I told him I studied religion in college, and when he asked me what my religion was, I said Christian.  And because I didn’t use the word Catholic, he assumed I lived a very strict, simplistic life.  I don’t know why this irks me so.

I suppose my heart feels a bit sore when I hear that there are only a couple options out there for how to live out one’s life and faith.  I truly believe that God is within and among us, and not to be found only in the smoke of the incense that makes its way toward the altar, or within the absence of music, dancing and drinking.  I have found what some may call a medium, a middle ground.  I don’t see it as a middle ground, however.  I don’t have many words to describe what I think in English, let alone Spanish.  I just don’t want people to think that because I call myself a Christian I have a list of things I will or won’t do each day.  I am active in this world because I know that God is active with us.  It’s called faith for a reason- it means more than a list, more than a statement.  It’s jumping, it’s trusting, it’s hoping… faith is all of these scary things compiled into one.  Faith is throwing your arms up in surrender, knowing something bigger is going on, even if you cannot pinpoint it. 

“I have a lot of faith.  But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything.  I remembered something Father Tom had told me- that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty.  Certainty is missing the point entirely.  Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns.”-Anne Lamott

Jesus gave a commission to his disciples to go and make disciples of all nations and to teach them to follow everything Jesus commanded.  People for years and years have tried to decipher what that means.  And people go- all over the world, all throughout their neighborhoods.  But my question is not focused on where or how many people Christian’s reach.  My question is how.  How?  How do we go about telling others that we believe in a God who truly loves us with intention and care?  How to we do this without such separatism within the same set of beliefs?  Catholics are Christians, to the surprise of Yomar.  Where did we go wrong, and can we even go about making some of this right?  Is it even ours to make right, or Someone else’s?

Maybe for now I will just stick with simple things, moments in time that I am certain bring joy, and in turn, remind me that God is ultimately love.  Like when Ricardo is running around looking for his imaginary friend Carlitos.  Or when the entire family starts dancing to Shakira after dinner.  And sometimes it’s in those small comments like “My nostrils are pretty.”

Thanks for letting me blurt all this out. Feel free to read what you want and skip the rest! :)