Today was my last day at the clinic in Anapra. It feels so easy to be welcomed into another’s world, especially with the barriers of language broken down and a mild understanding of culture. I am free on a number of levels to come and go, move fluidly between my world and theirs and always, at the end of the day, step back into a more comfortable place.
Really though, as I waited in the long, hot border line home today with the sky soaring overhead and a metal fence protruding from a random patch of desert, I thought about how arbitrary this border was, about all the things it cannot contain or divide: sky, wind, natural ecosystems, love, hate, people (they’ll come no matter what) and the human connection. The desert looks exactly the same on both sides of the border, the common ground we’re all standing on. We all feel the heat, breathe the same air and get dusty when the wind blows. We’re all subjected to the same rainstorms, which fall without discretion at this time of year.
And yet, clearly, this construct has very real consequences. I heard Anapra referred to today, lovingly if possible, as “One of the ugliest places in the country.” I had to laugh, and agree that that was true. It is a pretty desolate-looking place – garbage strewn everywhere, dirt roads, everything seeming to be broken down, abandoned and in ruins. Even topically, it is a world away from the verdant cotton and pecan fields of New Mexico, irrigated by local government so that life grows for acres. Below Anapra's surface, I would venture to say that the region’s political and social realities are not ill-depicted by the town's image. One of the women at the clinic reported today, for example, that over the weekend a family was on their way to downtown Juarez to buy things for their daughter’s quincinera (15th birthday) when, misunderstanding a soldier’s signal, they proceeded to drive through a checkpoint. The soldiers “sprayed the car with bullets,” killing the girl whose birthday was to be celebrated. Another woman said that yesterday, a childhood friend of hers and his younger brother were shot and killed in the neighborhood. She heard shots, went up the street and saw his body. He was trying to get out of the narcotic life he’d gotten into, and his thirteen-year old brother just happened to be with him. Another woman recounted how she was downtown with her children this weekend and they were playing outside at a park. Her kids came running inside when they heard shots ring out in the air. What amazed her, she said, was how she could feel their hearts pounding in their chest. Slowly, after a short time, they returned outside to play. Sure enough, someone had been shot a few blocks away. It’s been reported that priests are being threatened not to hold funerals for the deceased, or rivals will show up and start shooting at the funeral.
As incredulous as it sounds, these are just the stories I heard today, reported by a small group of individuals. There are many, many more untold, here and around the world.
I’ve often asked people since being here what they believe it will take for the violence to stop. Today, I think I received one of the most far-sighted answers to date: “A generation of kids who grow up and are sick of the violence, and refuse not to participate in it.” An entire generation that has been sacrificed to violence, victims of a situation they could not possibly have had any hand in creating.
Years and years and years from now, perhaps we’ll find a way to love ourselves out of this, up and over the things that keep us divided.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Value of Barren Spaces
It is in barren spaces that the work is happening underground, unseen, that the soil is maturing and preparing itself to be of use. Seemingly barren spaces -- emotional, physical and spiritual -- are where roots sprout and grow down deep so that when the first green leaves break through the ground it is already much more of a plant than we know. I am finding myself trustful of barren spaces for a number of reasons, and have been drawn to the desert for a long time now.
Here, where you can see until the Earth begins to bend creating a horizon, there is nothing to stop your spirit from soaring except your own inhibitions. What are those things keeping me from expansion, growth and hope? Looking over the desert is like facing a mirror of sorts, an opportunity to stare deeply and see what comes back to you. Barren spaces are where ideas and longings mature, patience grows, resolve strengthens. In barren places and times there is a constant invitation to practice endurance and let go of despair, knowing the latter cannot possibly contribute to our survival. Barren spaces are where time, the ultimate healer and way-preparer, works its magic. They are, ironically enough, what must exist before any fruit can be borne.
During college, I went on a retreat to Death Valley in California. We spent a week in this desert – quite possibly one of the most barren places on Earth – and participated in a three-day fast and a two-day “solo quest.” During the solo quest, each person trekked off and found a camp of their own and did not have contact with other people for two full days. Truly, I think these 48 hours might have included some of the rawest moments of despair in my life. Desperately hungry, hot, afraid and unable for most of the time to really be with myself beyond these feelings of panic, I could not wait to return. I fantasized about food, shelter and relief from the heat. The sheer beauty of the stars at night was one of my only consolations and in a way, I felt, my friend. There was nothing to do but wait for the time to pass below my shantily-assembled tarp, which hovered a foot above the ground. I suppose that more enriched, soulful individuals would have used the time for authentic reflection and meditation, opened themselves to the Spirit’s movements and found a way to embrace the opportunity. Instead, I let anxiety run the show for (most of my) two days and stared longingly at the emergency food supply (which, through some deep resolve of dignity, I didn’t eat). My journal entries consisted of thoughts such as, “What in the world am I doing out here?” and “I dreamed about food for hours again last night.” A good amount of my energy also went to fearing bats, snakes, spiders, mountain lions, coyotes and the general unknown, all of which were said to make occasional appearances. I slept completely covered up inside my sleeping bag, despite the fact that I couldn’t breathe.
Upon returning to base camp on the morning of the third day, people shared stories of insights and dreams, revelations they’d had and the deep sense of peace and calm that had come to them during their time alone. My experience had been nothing of the sort, of course, and I felt like I had very little to share by way of the fruits of my time there. As far as I could grasp, the week had been both literally and figuratively one vast, barren place.
It was not until years later that thoughts of this retreat came slowly trickling back to me. But this time, somehow, they were wrapped in a kind of grace, sealed over with meaning. If nothing else, I began to realize, I made it through that time. I stayed and practiced patience and chose not to let fear run me back to the base camp. I have called on that example many times since then, relating it to a number of events and occurrences in my life. It has become a metaphor of sorts for all of the deserts I go through and the challenges and opportunities that present themselves while I'm there.
One grace of open spaces -- and perhaps one that has become apparent to me since being in the Southwest -- is that when the clutter, noise and denseness of ordinary life fall away, it's here that the promises of potential are sensed most clearly. What will become, what could become, what do I envision as possible when there are no limitations present? The notions that come to me in my barren places are always the ones I feel most intimately connected to and trusting of, as they have arisen out of a longing for movement forward in life and grow, for a while, without entanglement.
The decision to go to medical school came from a similar place. I had just decided not to do a master's thesis (and as was implied in this decision, a PhD) and was left in one of the most vastly open spaces I think I've known. My life -- what do I do with it? I had been walking, walking, walking straight down this path for so long and now here I was, suddenly, standing in the middle of then unknown place it had led me to. I knew that I had felt consolation slipping away for some time, but kept hoping that a guidepost or sign that I was headed in the right direction would appear sometime soon. Insead, nothing -- just the knowledge that I could go no further on this path yet at the same time, could not quite turn around. I considered leaving graduate school all-together and had it not been for a fully-funded assistantship, I might have. Somehow though, walking away didn't seem like the thing to do just yet.
Changing my plans to go to medical school was a bit like turing a massive, heaving ship by myself. Luckily for me, I had the next year and a half of graduate school to weigh my options, research the process and simply give the idea time to mature. Community Psychology lent itself well to someone interested in healthcare, by way of community health centers and public health issues to be investigated. I took another step. I was still quite unsure beginning my pre-med requirements last year, but I kept going, needing to know where this road was leading and refusing to believe that it led nowhere. Little by little, test by test, I feel like I can finally see the city lights, the dawn of that third morning in the desert. At the very least I think I can see the promise of them on the horizon. Bright, secure, hopeful lights.
An image presented in the Song of Solomon is that of a woman, “coming up from the desert, leaning on her Beloved.” Leaning on, trusting in. In those moments, what other choice do we have? For this reason, I've come to value all of the deserts I've returned, or am returning, from.
Here, where you can see until the Earth begins to bend creating a horizon, there is nothing to stop your spirit from soaring except your own inhibitions. What are those things keeping me from expansion, growth and hope? Looking over the desert is like facing a mirror of sorts, an opportunity to stare deeply and see what comes back to you. Barren spaces are where ideas and longings mature, patience grows, resolve strengthens. In barren places and times there is a constant invitation to practice endurance and let go of despair, knowing the latter cannot possibly contribute to our survival. Barren spaces are where time, the ultimate healer and way-preparer, works its magic. They are, ironically enough, what must exist before any fruit can be borne.
During college, I went on a retreat to Death Valley in California. We spent a week in this desert – quite possibly one of the most barren places on Earth – and participated in a three-day fast and a two-day “solo quest.” During the solo quest, each person trekked off and found a camp of their own and did not have contact with other people for two full days. Truly, I think these 48 hours might have included some of the rawest moments of despair in my life. Desperately hungry, hot, afraid and unable for most of the time to really be with myself beyond these feelings of panic, I could not wait to return. I fantasized about food, shelter and relief from the heat. The sheer beauty of the stars at night was one of my only consolations and in a way, I felt, my friend. There was nothing to do but wait for the time to pass below my shantily-assembled tarp, which hovered a foot above the ground. I suppose that more enriched, soulful individuals would have used the time for authentic reflection and meditation, opened themselves to the Spirit’s movements and found a way to embrace the opportunity. Instead, I let anxiety run the show for (most of my) two days and stared longingly at the emergency food supply (which, through some deep resolve of dignity, I didn’t eat). My journal entries consisted of thoughts such as, “What in the world am I doing out here?” and “I dreamed about food for hours again last night.” A good amount of my energy also went to fearing bats, snakes, spiders, mountain lions, coyotes and the general unknown, all of which were said to make occasional appearances. I slept completely covered up inside my sleeping bag, despite the fact that I couldn’t breathe.
Upon returning to base camp on the morning of the third day, people shared stories of insights and dreams, revelations they’d had and the deep sense of peace and calm that had come to them during their time alone. My experience had been nothing of the sort, of course, and I felt like I had very little to share by way of the fruits of my time there. As far as I could grasp, the week had been both literally and figuratively one vast, barren place.
It was not until years later that thoughts of this retreat came slowly trickling back to me. But this time, somehow, they were wrapped in a kind of grace, sealed over with meaning. If nothing else, I began to realize, I made it through that time. I stayed and practiced patience and chose not to let fear run me back to the base camp. I have called on that example many times since then, relating it to a number of events and occurrences in my life. It has become a metaphor of sorts for all of the deserts I go through and the challenges and opportunities that present themselves while I'm there.
One grace of open spaces -- and perhaps one that has become apparent to me since being in the Southwest -- is that when the clutter, noise and denseness of ordinary life fall away, it's here that the promises of potential are sensed most clearly. What will become, what could become, what do I envision as possible when there are no limitations present? The notions that come to me in my barren places are always the ones I feel most intimately connected to and trusting of, as they have arisen out of a longing for movement forward in life and grow, for a while, without entanglement.
The decision to go to medical school came from a similar place. I had just decided not to do a master's thesis (and as was implied in this decision, a PhD) and was left in one of the most vastly open spaces I think I've known. My life -- what do I do with it? I had been walking, walking, walking straight down this path for so long and now here I was, suddenly, standing in the middle of then unknown place it had led me to. I knew that I had felt consolation slipping away for some time, but kept hoping that a guidepost or sign that I was headed in the right direction would appear sometime soon. Insead, nothing -- just the knowledge that I could go no further on this path yet at the same time, could not quite turn around. I considered leaving graduate school all-together and had it not been for a fully-funded assistantship, I might have. Somehow though, walking away didn't seem like the thing to do just yet.
Changing my plans to go to medical school was a bit like turing a massive, heaving ship by myself. Luckily for me, I had the next year and a half of graduate school to weigh my options, research the process and simply give the idea time to mature. Community Psychology lent itself well to someone interested in healthcare, by way of community health centers and public health issues to be investigated. I took another step. I was still quite unsure beginning my pre-med requirements last year, but I kept going, needing to know where this road was leading and refusing to believe that it led nowhere. Little by little, test by test, I feel like I can finally see the city lights, the dawn of that third morning in the desert. At the very least I think I can see the promise of them on the horizon. Bright, secure, hopeful lights.
An image presented in the Song of Solomon is that of a woman, “coming up from the desert, leaning on her Beloved.” Leaning on, trusting in. In those moments, what other choice do we have? For this reason, I've come to value all of the deserts I've returned, or am returning, from.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Star Crashing
My housemate Romina invited Tracey and I along with her to Fort Davis this weekend while she gave a retreat talk. Fort Davis is about three hours east of El Paso, though its still considered “West Texas.” The town (population 1,050) is located in a small cluster of mountains which just seem to pop up out of nowhere coming from dry, flat El Paso. We drove for 70 miles after getting off the highway, making a single left-hand turn at about the 50-mile marker, over railroad tracks with no crossing markers. The sky and land went on forever in every direction.
A rainstorm somewhere far away. Then...
Welcome to cattle country in the Ft. Davis foothills.
Tracey and I were left on our own for the evening so we decided to take part in local entertainment. First, we went to a Rattlesnake museum. The exhibit claimed to be the largest in the world, though was at best the size of an average living room. Being the only two patrons in sight, Tracey and I received a personal tour of the two dozen or so cages, each hosting a different species of venomous snake. The owner had caught most of the snakes himself, he told us, and also bred them. In more than fifteen years of handling the creatures he had only been bitten twice. That’s not so bad, I guess? An overall interesting exhibit and four dollars not terribly spent. My favorite quote of the day: “The more people I meet, the more I like rattlesnakes.” We support local entrepreneurs.
Next, we lucked out and found a horseback riding tour that was just about to leave and had two horses available. So, we gaddied up and mozied out into the sunset. Okay, maybe not quite that gracefully, but we did manage to get on top of the horses and make them go. We rode for an hour along the base of a small mountain ridge and through a working cattle ranch. Our guide was a real Texas cowboy, complete with large white mustache (bordering on fu manchu), two herd dogs permanently at his heels and the belief that West Texas was the last of the true badlands. And he should know -- he spent nine years working security and equestrian circuits for the Prime Minister of somewhere in the Middle East. He was convinced of the notion that Tracey and I were much too female to be on our own anywhere in Texas, much less dangerous El Paso, and found it incredulous that we would choose to spend any time there voluntarily. “Afterall,” he said with his slow, southern drawl, “this is Western Texas, ladies. You’re not up north anymore.” When we mentioned that we’d heard El Paso was actually a safe place to live in and of itself, he practically spat the words, “That’s horseshit!” right out of his mouth. We shrugged, and replied that horseshit was probably something he knew a lot about.
Our final hurrah for the night was crashing a party of UT astronomers. The McDonald Observatory (one of the largest in the world) is located about fifteen miles from Fort Davis and was a must-see according to Romina. The observatory hosts public Star Parties where you can come and look through telescopes into sky unfettered by city lights. Excited to participate, we drove up, up, up the dark, winding road towards the white domes of the observatory well after the sun had set. As we were already fifteen minutes late for the listed start-time of the Star Party, Tracey and I headed straight towards the first parking guard we saw. “Are you here to attend the viewing?” he asked.
“Yep,” I replied. That sounded about right.
“Okay, park over here and I’ll call the shuttle down.” A white shuttle came and picked us up and we continued another ten minutes up the mountain.
“So, which telescope do you guys want to see first? The 107 or the 36?” he asked us.
“The what?”
“The 107 inch telescope, or the 36 inch?”
“Um,” I said, “Well which one do you recommend?”
“If you want to, I’d do them both of course,” he replied.
“Is it the same price to see two?” I asked. "Someone had told us it was ten dollars."
The driver laughed a little bit. “Oh, there’s no charge,” he said. “This is part of the tour.”
“Great!” I responded. “Well then, we’ll do them both!” He looked at us in the review mirror, slightly skeptical. You could see the wheels start to turn in his head as we neared the base of the dome.
“I’m just curious,” he said. “Are you two with the Board of Visitors?” Tracey and I looked at each other.
“Um…. no…”
The driver really laughed out loud now. “Oh, man,” he said. “Well, we’re already here so just try to blend in. This is a private viewing party, but it’s dark so you should be okay.”
What?? With no time to rethink our plan, and a sneaky desire to see something exclusive we just said, “Well okay, then!” and decided to hope for the best. We'd think of something.
With that, he pulled up to the dome and motioned us out of the van. He told the employee he had two more to go up and handed us off with a wink. After some uncomfortable questioning on the short elevator ride by other board members about who exactly we knew on the board (Tracey just replied, “A friend,” haha….) we were free. We easily blended into the small, dark observatory setting and proceeded to look through one of the largest telescopes in North America at Saturn, clearly in focus – rings, moons and all.
I later found out that viewing through these large telescopes is normally reserved for professional astronomers and private parties of donors. The Star Parties open to the public utilize much smaller scopes at the base of the observatory. We might not have known exactly what we were looking at -- the viewing also included nebula spottings through the 36-inch telescope -- but nonetheless we appreciated that it was something rare.
I guess, as Tracey said, the stars simply lined up for us that night.
McDonald Observatory domes from the road down below.
A rainstorm somewhere far away. Then...
Welcome to cattle country in the Ft. Davis foothills.
Next, we lucked out and found a horseback riding tour that was just about to leave and had two horses available. So, we gaddied up and mozied out into the sunset. Okay, maybe not quite that gracefully, but we did manage to get on top of the horses and make them go. We rode for an hour along the base of a small mountain ridge and through a working cattle ranch. Our guide was a real Texas cowboy, complete with large white mustache (bordering on fu manchu), two herd dogs permanently at his heels and the belief that West Texas was the last of the true badlands. And he should know -- he spent nine years working security and equestrian circuits for the Prime Minister of somewhere in the Middle East. He was convinced of the notion that Tracey and I were much too female to be on our own anywhere in Texas, much less dangerous El Paso, and found it incredulous that we would choose to spend any time there voluntarily. “Afterall,” he said with his slow, southern drawl, “this is Western Texas, ladies. You’re not up north anymore.” When we mentioned that we’d heard El Paso was actually a safe place to live in and of itself, he practically spat the words, “That’s horseshit!” right out of his mouth. We shrugged, and replied that horseshit was probably something he knew a lot about.
Our final hurrah for the night was crashing a party of UT astronomers. The McDonald Observatory (one of the largest in the world) is located about fifteen miles from Fort Davis and was a must-see according to Romina. The observatory hosts public Star Parties where you can come and look through telescopes into sky unfettered by city lights. Excited to participate, we drove up, up, up the dark, winding road towards the white domes of the observatory well after the sun had set. As we were already fifteen minutes late for the listed start-time of the Star Party, Tracey and I headed straight towards the first parking guard we saw. “Are you here to attend the viewing?” he asked.
“Yep,” I replied. That sounded about right.
“Okay, park over here and I’ll call the shuttle down.” A white shuttle came and picked us up and we continued another ten minutes up the mountain.
“So, which telescope do you guys want to see first? The 107 or the 36?” he asked us.
“The what?”
“The 107 inch telescope, or the 36 inch?”
“Um,” I said, “Well which one do you recommend?”
“If you want to, I’d do them both of course,” he replied.
“Is it the same price to see two?” I asked. "Someone had told us it was ten dollars."
The driver laughed a little bit. “Oh, there’s no charge,” he said. “This is part of the tour.”
“Great!” I responded. “Well then, we’ll do them both!” He looked at us in the review mirror, slightly skeptical. You could see the wheels start to turn in his head as we neared the base of the dome.
“I’m just curious,” he said. “Are you two with the Board of Visitors?” Tracey and I looked at each other.
“Um…. no…”
The driver really laughed out loud now. “Oh, man,” he said. “Well, we’re already here so just try to blend in. This is a private viewing party, but it’s dark so you should be okay.”
What?? With no time to rethink our plan, and a sneaky desire to see something exclusive we just said, “Well okay, then!” and decided to hope for the best. We'd think of something.
With that, he pulled up to the dome and motioned us out of the van. He told the employee he had two more to go up and handed us off with a wink. After some uncomfortable questioning on the short elevator ride by other board members about who exactly we knew on the board (Tracey just replied, “A friend,” haha….) we were free. We easily blended into the small, dark observatory setting and proceeded to look through one of the largest telescopes in North America at Saturn, clearly in focus – rings, moons and all.
I later found out that viewing through these large telescopes is normally reserved for professional astronomers and private parties of donors. The Star Parties open to the public utilize much smaller scopes at the base of the observatory. We might not have known exactly what we were looking at -- the viewing also included nebula spottings through the 36-inch telescope -- but nonetheless we appreciated that it was something rare.
I guess, as Tracey said, the stars simply lined up for us that night.
McDonald Observatory domes from the road down below.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Our Other Selves
Dear Family & Friends:
I am writing with a bit of sad news today – the Clinica Guadalupana (where I was originally volunteering) closed this Thursday due to lack of funding. Negotiations are underway that the clinic might be taken over by a larger organization, but if that happens it will most likely not be for a few months. The closing of the Guadalupana is a loss for the community it serves. Geographically, they are located in a remote area without other non-profit clinics nearby. Healthcare-wise, they currently serve over 1,000 patients, more than 60% of whom do not have health insurance.
I have still been going to the clinic to help with what I can and have been awarded a glimpse of life there. Much needs to be done quickly to prepare patients for the gap they’ll face in coverage, namely copying medical records and making sure their medication supplies will last. As I watch the women at the clinic work tirelessly towards a goal that is impossible to meet, I am moved by their true compassion and generosity of self. Though staff members just found out last week they would soon be without work, I’ve heard no bitterness or anger. Instead, the air at the clinic is one of genuine worry about where their patients will get their medication (most of whom cannot afford it) and where they will go for care. You see, the Guadalupana is not merely a clinic – it’s a site of community. Patients I've spoken with have literally gushed in sadness and love when they realize the clinic is closing. I saw almost immediately where they were coming from. “It’s not a place for people who just want a job,” Sister Peggy remarked. “We’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. The people who work there are really special. Annette (the clinical manager) carries people through the health care system.”
She carries them.
The women of the clinic are not simply administrators and receptionists – they are teachers who educate about basic health care within the context of their patients’ lives; they are advocates who navigate and bargain their way through a complex, profit-driven system for those who can’t do it themselves; they are bridges between complicated medical realities the equally but differently complex lives of the poor; they are cultural and linguistic brokers, crossing barriers and ferrying information in English and Spanish and all their implications. It is no wonder one woman began to cry when she came in to pick up her record. For patients without access to private healthcare insurance, the closing of the clinic is a safety net lost.
The Clinica GuadalupanaI have an image of the parting the Red Sea, immeasurably large and threatening walls of water held back as people somehow pass through unharmed. Like the women of the clinic and its patients, I have to believe all will come out safely on the other side… perhaps in a new and different place, and perhaps after some time has passed, but neither forgotten nor forsaken in their moments of immense vulnerability. What else is there to hope for?
I went to a Mass last night in downtown El Paso, presided over by local bishops and held in honor of a 15-year-old boy who was shot and killed by the Border Patrol last month. It was later shown that the boy was not armed, carried no drugs and had no criminal record. The mass was also held in response to the general increase of violence along the border, as unfortunately the boy’s case was not an isolated one. Factors behind this may include but are not limited to: the economic crisis and increased desperation to cross, increased hostility towards the “other,” as we all feel the panic of recession, and/or increasingly aggressive legislative efforts and military presence along the border (see: NYTimes: Governors Voice Grave Concerns on Immigration for a timely look at these issues). Whatever the reason, everyone feels the tension.
What comes to mind for me is chaos – large scale, overwhelming chaos that makes its presence known in the inane but constant moments of utter randomness: the prying, distrustful questions at the border that day, patrol agents watching over the Mass from a bridge, a machine gun poking out from a sand-bag barricade, immigration papers rejected, accepted, shuffled and lost for years, a mother and two-year-old daughter who leave and don’t return home, a district prosecutor gunned down in her car, the 23-year-old who did it, a car bomb exploding in Juarez last night at the scene of a police shooting. Perhaps it is the element of chronic unpredictability that makes collective violence so harmful to the human spirit. In a state of constant fear, who can be expected to thrive?
What I have learned with certainty is that we are each other’s proverbial neighbors. No matter how high the fences between us, nor the laws that say it is acceptable to deny another help, we are bound unmistakably to one another and, I happen to believe, especially to the poor. As long as our lifestyles and consumerism stand on the shoulders of the oppressed, a part of ourselves is also oppressed. Our lives, our goods, our health care, come at the cost of human dignity in many parts of the world. My hands are no cleaner than the next well-intentioned American's, of course, but sometimes it is about simply remembering that fact. I suppose we do the little we can – stay informed, recycle when possible, be kind towards just one other person, but we also have to stay grounded in the big picture. Doing so, I believe, presents a constant invitation (and perhaps moral imperative for those coming from a faith perspective) to work to change unjust structures. When the last remaining safety nets are removed, who will catch us if not those who are nearby, who are more able? If some of us are falling through, we're all falling through.
A Mayan phrase used in the homily on Wednesday stated this idea quite simply: “Tu eres mi otro yo.” You are my other self.
con amor,
elizabeth
The road coming from the Clinica... skies that go on forver!
Some pictures from the misa, courtesy of my housemate, Tracey Horan :)
The sign in the back is for Border Parking, the bridge is a walk-over bridge to Ciudad Juarez (one of five in downtown El Paso)
Marching to the Mass, traditional Matachines dancers
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Santo
Yesterday, I spent the morning in Anapra, Mexico. Anapra is, technically, a suburb of Ciudad Juarez, but certainly challenges the US notion of "suburb." Located about seven miles from downtown Juarez, Anapra is a collection of homes, which are in turn collections of building materials ranging from tires to cinder block and wooden 2x4's. From the ground up (as a first impression), the town felt like a patchwork quilt, haphazardly pieced together with fraying threads and the occasional, well-worn hole. Dirt roads rise and fall along the contour of foothills, and dry desert flora offer the occasional alternative to dust.
Standing on the steps of the clinic
After crossing the US/Mexico border in Santa Teresa by car, the short drive to Anapra carried us to our destination for the morning, the Santo Nino (Holy Child) clinic. The Santo Nino was founded and is run by the Sisters of Charity, originally with the help of a Columban priest. Santo Nino is a place for families of children with disabilities, to bring their children and receive therapy, company, lunch and support. For many poor mothers (and they are mostly mothers), there are few spaces where they and their children can receive both physical and emotional support. Santo Nino grew out of a need seen in what was the Sister's original mission in the area: a primary care clinic. Though their clinic on the US side of the border still remains, the clinic in Anapra slowly transitioned to serve only children with disabilities from this marginalized location. Three main rooms (built first next to, then adjacent to, then in place of their companion priest's house!) offer exercise mats on the floor, therapy balls, a massage table, toys and the clinic's hot spot -- a jacuzzi tub for water therapy. The space is very basic compared to the idea of a clinic in the US, but the love, care and dedication with which the sisters have tended its growth make it somewhat of a haven.
Front door (on the left) and clinic van!
Though I am just starting to know their stories, the women who come to the clinic, Sister Janet says, are able to take a special sort of refuge there. Normally, she told me, taking their children out and on public buses (as is the primary mode of transportation) evokes unpleasant and unwelcoming stares. At the clinic, they are home. The Sisters' mission to serve and be present for the poor have guided into a niche none of them, Sister Janet has confessed, quite ever imagined! Through the Sisters' and Father Bill's (the Columban priest) work with the community, and much divine providence, a scholarship program and library -- run out of a community member's house -- now exist, with over 200 scholarship students. Ten thus far have made it to the University.
A part of me feels reserved to write too knowingly about a place I am very new to, but the stories and dynamics I heard yesterday rang to me of El Salvador. Common denominators among the stories are poverty and survival. The giant shadow lurking in this area though, and what I have just begun to scratch the surface of, is the role that the culture of the US/Mexico border plays. As I do this blog, I will try to piece together what I learn from talking to people who live here with bits of knowledge and stories gained along the way. Personally, I find myself fascinated with the dynamics of life along the border, from high school students in El Paso smuggling drugs on the weekend to border patrol agents who share the same churches with undocumented community members. Drug trafficking seems to be a huge, constant lure.
US/Mexico border fence (as seen from the Mexican side)
Some things I have learned so far: Two weeks ago, a 2 ft x 2 ft tunnel for trafficking drugs was found running underneath the Rio Grande, crossing from Mexico into an El Paso storm drain. 200 pounds of marijuana and a 17-year-old Mexican boy were found inside. You can read more about the story here: http://www.elpasotimes.com/ci_15382488. Our next door neighbor, Siba, used to be a foster mother and shared on the journey to Anapra about a baby she took in a few years ago. The baby's mother had been caught bringing drugs over to the US in a car, and did not want the baby to stay with relatives in Mexico. Having a baby in the car, Siba reported, is thought to make people look less suspicious, so families may "lend" babies out. Youth crossing the border into the US are often targeted to carry drugs because juvenile sentences tend to be shorter, and youth are more willing and naive enough to take the risk. Ciudad Juarez is the site of more than 400 unsolved murders and abductions of women over the past 10 years -- mostly poor women who work in the maquilas (sweat shops). If you type "femicide" into a Google search, "femicide in juarez" is the first suggested match. Much, but not all, of the violence in Juarez is drug-war driven. Stories of poverty and survival.
While these are just small glimpses of light & truths garnered in the course of a few days, I think personal testimonies add a certain, irreplaceable dimension to the picture. They are their own sources. That said, know that the scope, implications, history and realities of the border are more than I could ever take in. Most of what I write here will be a simpler analysis of what I come into contact with, the pieces of the mosaic I touch. The focus of my time isn't necessarily scholastic research, so those seeking a deeper context should continue to explore that. (Though I did look up the drug tunnel, and statistics for Juarez, and will likely do that for things I'm overwhelmingly curious about :)
with love and rain from New Mexico,
thanks for reading,
elizabeth
Kayaking on the Rio Grande!
Standing on the steps of the clinicAfter crossing the US/Mexico border in Santa Teresa by car, the short drive to Anapra carried us to our destination for the morning, the Santo Nino (Holy Child) clinic. The Santo Nino was founded and is run by the Sisters of Charity, originally with the help of a Columban priest. Santo Nino is a place for families of children with disabilities, to bring their children and receive therapy, company, lunch and support. For many poor mothers (and they are mostly mothers), there are few spaces where they and their children can receive both physical and emotional support. Santo Nino grew out of a need seen in what was the Sister's original mission in the area: a primary care clinic. Though their clinic on the US side of the border still remains, the clinic in Anapra slowly transitioned to serve only children with disabilities from this marginalized location. Three main rooms (built first next to, then adjacent to, then in place of their companion priest's house!) offer exercise mats on the floor, therapy balls, a massage table, toys and the clinic's hot spot -- a jacuzzi tub for water therapy. The space is very basic compared to the idea of a clinic in the US, but the love, care and dedication with which the sisters have tended its growth make it somewhat of a haven.
Front door (on the left) and clinic van!Though I am just starting to know their stories, the women who come to the clinic, Sister Janet says, are able to take a special sort of refuge there. Normally, she told me, taking their children out and on public buses (as is the primary mode of transportation) evokes unpleasant and unwelcoming stares. At the clinic, they are home. The Sisters' mission to serve and be present for the poor have guided into a niche none of them, Sister Janet has confessed, quite ever imagined! Through the Sisters' and Father Bill's (the Columban priest) work with the community, and much divine providence, a scholarship program and library -- run out of a community member's house -- now exist, with over 200 scholarship students. Ten thus far have made it to the University.
A part of me feels reserved to write too knowingly about a place I am very new to, but the stories and dynamics I heard yesterday rang to me of El Salvador. Common denominators among the stories are poverty and survival. The giant shadow lurking in this area though, and what I have just begun to scratch the surface of, is the role that the culture of the US/Mexico border plays. As I do this blog, I will try to piece together what I learn from talking to people who live here with bits of knowledge and stories gained along the way. Personally, I find myself fascinated with the dynamics of life along the border, from high school students in El Paso smuggling drugs on the weekend to border patrol agents who share the same churches with undocumented community members. Drug trafficking seems to be a huge, constant lure.
US/Mexico border fence (as seen from the Mexican side)While these are just small glimpses of light & truths garnered in the course of a few days, I think personal testimonies add a certain, irreplaceable dimension to the picture. They are their own sources. That said, know that the scope, implications, history and realities of the border are more than I could ever take in. Most of what I write here will be a simpler analysis of what I come into contact with, the pieces of the mosaic I touch. The focus of my time isn't necessarily scholastic research, so those seeking a deeper context should continue to explore that. (Though I did look up the drug tunnel, and statistics for Juarez, and will likely do that for things I'm overwhelmingly curious about :)
with love and rain from New Mexico,
thanks for reading,
elizabeth
Kayaking on the Rio Grande!Thursday, July 8, 2010
Cross Here: Port of Entry
Dear Family & Friends:
As most of you know (and some may not!) I just arrived in El Paso, Texas where I will be spending the next four weeks. I came with the hopes of better discerning my hope to become a physician and am very excited to do that against the backdrop of particular clinic in the area, La Clinica Guadalupana. The Clinica was founded 15 years ago by the Sisters of Charity (who are also my hosts for the month!), and is in an "unincorporated" area of El Paso county. Unincorporated means that most homes do not have running water or electricity hookups and are sort of unofficially on the grid -- a bit like Appalachia. It is a very poor region of the country, and the clinic's function as a site of primary care is much needed. At the clinic, I will be working alongside their promotora de salud (health promoter) who does health education and prevention in the community, as well as shadowing their doc when he is in the office.
And that's about all I know! :) I'll let you know more as my time unfolds.
The drive out here was long, but beautiful -- especially our last day through western Texas and New Mexico (El Paso is actually south of a large part of New Mexico, which I did not know!) My dear friend Sarah drove with me from Nashville onwards after spending a night in the city and seeing our friend Erin's new home. Friends of Sarah's in Oklahoma City hosted us for the second night and we were even able to see a live music show where her friend Blake performed. The third day of driving brought us into Anthony, NM -- our final destination -- which is the suburb of El Paso where the Sisters' home is located. The house itself is quite a sanctuary, surrounded by peach orchards and infused with natural light. The house was custom built for the Sisters about four years ago, using an environmentally-friendly material whose name escapes me at the moment. Their little community includes the founders of the Clinica Guadalupana: Sister Janet, a physician herself, Sister Peggy, a nurse, and Sister Carol, a massage therapist, as well as Romina, a laywoman from the Philippines who teaches kindergarten, and Tracy, a recent graduate from the University of Dayton who will be teaching middle school. Oh, and three dogs and four cats from the rescue shelter. Their home is a kind, welcoming and relaxed one, and I can't believe it will also be mine while I am here.
I hope to use this space as one of reflecting/documenting/staying in touch... Please feel free to read along as much or as little as you would like! I'll do my best to write regularly and keep things interesting, informative and true :) I am just continuing my blog from last summer in El Salvador, keeping with the summer medical thread for now.
Con amor
With love
Elizabeth
As most of you know (and some may not!) I just arrived in El Paso, Texas where I will be spending the next four weeks. I came with the hopes of better discerning my hope to become a physician and am very excited to do that against the backdrop of particular clinic in the area, La Clinica Guadalupana. The Clinica was founded 15 years ago by the Sisters of Charity (who are also my hosts for the month!), and is in an "unincorporated" area of El Paso county. Unincorporated means that most homes do not have running water or electricity hookups and are sort of unofficially on the grid -- a bit like Appalachia. It is a very poor region of the country, and the clinic's function as a site of primary care is much needed. At the clinic, I will be working alongside their promotora de salud (health promoter) who does health education and prevention in the community, as well as shadowing their doc when he is in the office.
And that's about all I know! :) I'll let you know more as my time unfolds.
The drive out here was long, but beautiful -- especially our last day through western Texas and New Mexico (El Paso is actually south of a large part of New Mexico, which I did not know!) My dear friend Sarah drove with me from Nashville onwards after spending a night in the city and seeing our friend Erin's new home. Friends of Sarah's in Oklahoma City hosted us for the second night and we were even able to see a live music show where her friend Blake performed. The third day of driving brought us into Anthony, NM -- our final destination -- which is the suburb of El Paso where the Sisters' home is located. The house itself is quite a sanctuary, surrounded by peach orchards and infused with natural light. The house was custom built for the Sisters about four years ago, using an environmentally-friendly material whose name escapes me at the moment. Their little community includes the founders of the Clinica Guadalupana: Sister Janet, a physician herself, Sister Peggy, a nurse, and Sister Carol, a massage therapist, as well as Romina, a laywoman from the Philippines who teaches kindergarten, and Tracy, a recent graduate from the University of Dayton who will be teaching middle school. Oh, and three dogs and four cats from the rescue shelter. Their home is a kind, welcoming and relaxed one, and I can't believe it will also be mine while I am here.
I hope to use this space as one of reflecting/documenting/staying in touch... Please feel free to read along as much or as little as you would like! I'll do my best to write regularly and keep things interesting, informative and true :) I am just continuing my blog from last summer in El Salvador, keeping with the summer medical thread for now.
Con amor
With love
Elizabeth
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