Summery:
This is a true story of many of my embarrassing, comical, serious and spiritual experiences in a Bible School in Guatemala, Central America where I went to study for two years after my high school graduation. These are moments of first experiences as well as my reactions and my true thoughts. It was a time of rebirth, growth, as well as many truths that I discovered along the way, not only about the Scripture, but about people in general, diversity, and myself-my identity.
Note: I have changed the names of individuals I interact with in my story to protect their identity as well as to respect their privacy. It is suffice to say that while their names have been protected, they are most certainly based on real people who I lived with for those two years.
I will be updating it periodically.
Confessions from a Dorm
Preview:
Appearances Can Be Deceiving
It felt surreal. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, blinking repeatedly. I am really here! I had thought that if I squeezed my eyes tight enough, I would open them to find myself back at home in my own room. I couldn't believe it. Am I regretting my choice? I placed my doubts on the balance, trying to measure them. In the end, I still didn't have an answer as my mind continued thinking, I am really here.
I believe everyone has their place in this world and that God gives us different abilities to use for the benefit of others and His glory. During the biblical course “The Tabernacle of Moses” the instructor went over many aspects of the tabernacle that the Israelites built in the desert. We had been approaching the items used for the tabernacle’s construction and their significance when my mind had chosen somewhere around that time to daydream. So when the instructor mentioned the Spanish word garfio, all I had understood was “Garfield”. Garfield? As in the fat orange cat? What does Garfield have to do with any of this this? During our 15 minute intermission, I asked around and found out it was really garfio or hook.
The instructor had mentioned that in life we are like those wooden boards that stand upright together, but in that body are also brethren that must serve as hooks to link us together to one another. He went on to explain that these hooks represent ‘to place another on fire’. As they connect one board to another they dig into them, causing pain, representing people who like to be ‘hooks’, making people mad.
One blessed sister whom all students were obliged to see once a month when paying their monthly subscription was immediately dubbed Sister Garfio in my mind that morning.
It was quite a narrow climb towards that admission building to her little kingdom on top. Prior to coming to Bible school, I had been warned. Nevertheless, I don’t think anyone can ever truly prepare themselves to meet Sister Garfio.
It had been on my arrival that I was called almost immediately into her office. My name had been voiced on the intercom for the first time. I had thought it was cool.
After introductions Sister Garfio bluntly said “You’re paperwork isn't in order”. I frowned. I had thought I’d been careful with everything. I had received my shots, I had my passport… “I can’t send your paperwork to the embassy to file for your visa without a stamp on this paper” she said gruffly while pointing to a document. “Don’t you Americans know how to read?” her lips seemed set on a firm pout. I turned different shades of red at her biting remark. I didn't know what to say. What was there to say? How do you answer that? Am I supposed to answer that?
Somehow I managed to form some words, “Many of us do read, but it doesn't mean we necessarily understand everything.” Was that a smart answer? I worried afterwards. Maybe that was a rhetoric question, but she had looked up at me from behind her small round glasses as if she had expected something so…I panicked! And answered her. I had felt provoked, but only because I was scared and for the first time feeling threatened by such a confrontational person. Geeze, here I was on my first day and I couldn't even take this old lady’s remark? My mother was forever telling me, “when people are old they don’t reason as much, you should just try to give them their way instead of expecting them to understand.” But with her verbal attack I wasn't feeling as meek as my mother.
I didn’t have a Guatemalan sim card for my cell phone yet, so I was forced to dial a collect call that morning to my home. I knew both my parents were at work so had little hope someone would answer the phone and tell me what to do. What if no one answered? Would they leave me out in the street? I naively wondered. I didn't know anyone in Guatemala and I had nowhere else to go! Internally I suppose I realized it wouldn't have happened, it being a Christian Bible school, but at the moment with my experience, I didn't think there was any Christian charity in that woman. I hoped she had a heart of gold somewhere in there.
“Hello?” I heard William’s voice on the line. I felt a lump in my throat and took a deep breath.
“Will?” I gasped out. I answered quickly before an embarrassing sob could come out. I never cried in front of my family if I could help it. It wasn't due to any cultural reason, rather personal. I saw it putting my emotional weakness in display. It was much too personal, and I felt exposed when others saw my tears. “Umm…I’m here.” I paused each time to breathe in deeply. “It looks like...” I blinked repeatedly, fighting the tears that threatened my already stinging eyes, “something is missing...Sister Violeta (Sister Garfio) said…I need a stamp…from the embassy?” I don’t know if I imagined it, but it seemed as if William could see me through the phone. I had always been very private with my feelings at home so it had surprised me to feel as if knew me better than I had let on at this moment. Perhaps he was remembering his own experience with Sister Violeta, or maybe he could hear it in my frequent pauses, short gasps, or broken voice.
“Okay, I’ll tell dad when he gets home. Don’t worry” he repeated over and over, “Don’t worry. You know Sister Violeta? She’s always like that. But don’t worry, everything is going to be okay. We'll figure it out.” I almost let out a sob of relief as he tried to comfort me through the phone. I felt his connection that ran through curled tendrils from the black phone that I held. I almost wished he hadn’t tried to though because it was so difficult to hold back that cry of relief.
I could only bob my head up and down and answer “uhuh, yeah ok” wishing I had some tissue for my runny nose. I was still trying to hold myself together, trying to cage my sobs that begged to escape. But my pride ran through, a stronger force that quieted them down and made them lie dormant for another day. It would have to wait for a more convenient time.
That was some welcome, but as the year went by and I continued to visit Sister Viole every month, I began to notice something from that old lady with salt and pepper hair. I began to identify myself with the stoical woman behind those pastel business suits. She was a hardcore woman. A tough cookie to crack. And I was a lot like her, very strong willed. I would eventually make more trips to her office out of my own free will and talk about some of my goals, sometimes fiddling with the items on her desk like I had done with my father’s desk as a child.
“What are you doing?” she asked the first time grouchily.
“I’m just organizing your paperclips and rubber bands.” I looked up at her innocently. She would go back to ignoring me for a few minutes before picking up the conversation again.
“Well you know, some people come in here and mess up my papers and then I can't find them” she muttered. I learned to nod sympathetically like a therapist with my oh's and mmm's. From my visits I learned that she was widowed at a young age and forced to be the sole bread winner for her daughters. I would go on to learn that Sister Violeta had survived the terrifying years of guerrilla warfare in Nicaragua as well. She had had a very hard life, but despite that she was alive and working at Bible school, serving in the best way she knew how. I like to think she developed some affection for me. I know she watched me, otherwise she wouldn't have taken notice of my awkward walk.
“Get back here,” she said one day as I was leaving her office. “You walk wrong.” By this time I had grown very accustomed to her frankness and didn't take any offense. I simply assented, because even my own mother said I walked funny. To this day my shoulders seem to tense whenever I walk in public. “Your steps are too big too, watch this.” After making me watch her petite form walk up and down the hallway, an arm stretched outward holding an imaginary purse, she made me repeat her example. My mother had only given me one lesson with heals before my fifteenth birthday, but aside from that, I had always taken large steps to catch up to William’s and my father’s large gait. Old habits die hard and I am sorry to say that Sister Violeta walking lessons didn’t quite stick, but I did make an effort when I knew she was around my perimeter.
Some of my first year experiences had been strenuous, scary, and bizarre, but I am grateful for all of them. Had it not been for those early hours volunteering in the kitchen, initial isolation, and even Sister Violeta—yes, even her, I might not have known some of my strengths and weaknesses. I might not have learned that through God’s grace, I would find the means to overcome them and found experiences that would help the new students in the following year.
Chapter 1
I thought I would be used to the dirt roads, that different smell in the air, familiarized with the culture from my summers as a child in Mexico with my mother’s family. I pondered these thoughts and many other questions as I wandered down the dark and cold concrete hallways that led into the dorms. The heels of my black boots clicked on the floor.
I was being escorted to my new shared bedroom, Dorm 6. When it had come to unpacking, I remember feeling so overwhelmed when I realized I had brought no toiletries with me! After a short tour, I was lent a few items until I could be taken out on one of the many Mitsubishi vans or omnibuses the campus owned to shop at the nearest mall.
Dark circles had already begun to form around my eyes like a sleepless zombie. Getting some sleep for the rest of the semester in exchange for a month of awkward loneliness was difficult but a great exchange for me. No one really talked to me. I was the only American in a room half filled with 2nd year and new students like myself. We were a mixture from the African, Central and Southern American continents. I felt alone at first and simply followed my roommates around those first few weeks. At night, I would hear their whispering as they grouped together to speak beside their small lamps, casting their shadows among the glow of their lights. They would laugh quietly as I pretended to read or sleep, feeling like an outsider and promising myself that in the coming year, I would do my best to make all the first year students in my room feel welcomed. I feared the silence that might have come if I approached them—making myself an intruder into their private conversations. Maybe it wouldn’t have gone that way, but I was too afraid to try, afraid of facing any type of rejection, afraid of any type of failure. Although I wanted to have someone to talk to as well, I simply watched everyone, observing the quick developing cliques on campus.
The cafeteria was the perfect place to watch this happen. Although it was an international school, it was common to see the tables filled with either roommates eating together or groups separated by nationality. There was no rule and it wasn’t verboten to sit randomly at a table, it seemed as if they were simply drawn to one another like the lizards I had seen in my backyard seeking the heat of the sun.
Chapter 2
I wouldn’t fit in at all. They were the exact opposite of how I was raised. Having been homeschooled, I would remember my mother adding her own old fashioned teachings—“A lady never draws attention to herself.” She had meant that women were not supposed to be attention seekers, and that is what they appeared to be. I was unused to this behavior. At home, I never minded being the center of attention, but outside of those walls I tried to blend into the background. I was a misfit beside my fellow countrymen and a novelty besides the many Latinos on campus. I never thought the word ‘Gringa’ would ever have been applied to me by what I had long considered to be my own kind. Not when I had grown up beside my fair colored brothers who were thus called hueros by others. Instead, my kind continued to look at me as an oddity when I refused to take the classes without English translations, scrubbed my clothes by hand beside them at the pilas[1], or hanging my clothes to dry along theirs on the metal wires. I went about campus in my homemade clothing made tediously with my mother’s loving hands. They would stare and ask, “But aren’t you American?” As if that meant that I shouldn’t be washing my clothes by hand, that my Spanish should have a bigger accent or that I should be less frugal. No one believing that I was a simple American at first. I felt like an alien.
Chapter 1
It wasn't at all what I had expected. What had I expected? Well a more modern looking dormitory, that’s for sure. With at least cheap carpet instead of tile flooring and a more Americanized western structure. But this is Central America I reminded myself. I dragged my suitcases behind me. What am I doing here? I thought, why am I here? No one had twisted my arm. Was it just to travel? Try something new? I felt I would fit in and break stereotypes that Latinos had on Americans. That we are too soft and spoiled. In that case, maybe it hadn't been a good idea to have worn my fedora on the day of my arrival. My brown hair was at its longest, straightened and curled at the ends, but still reaching my hips. I was hoping to donate it to cancer the following year. Dark kohl framed my brown eyes. The ends of my white cotton shirt were buttoned and sticking out from my black vest, spilling over my black pants.
I thought I would be used to the dirt roads, that different smell in the air, familiarized with the culture from my summers as a child in Mexico with my mother’s family. I pondered these thoughts and many other questions as I wandered down the dark and cold concrete hallways that led into the dorms. The heels of my black boots clicked on the floor.
I was supposed to find the Women’s monitor—Connie in Dorm 3. She kept an eye on all the young women that were boarding at a Bible school. There were five dorm rooms for the women on the second floor. They were all identical, with a max capacity for seven people. Every two rooms were annexed to each other, two at a time through bathrooms with three toilets, and showers apiece. I looked down towards the men’s dormitories beneath me. The building had a U shape and a deck that went all around the building on the women’s floor.
Finally arriving at Dorm 3, I knocked loudly. A women’s head poked out, her shoulder length hair looked voluminous and overly processed. A victim of over dying and flat ironing. She looked to be somewhere in her forties. Although her brow showed hints of fine lines and her skin looked a bit leathery, one could tell by her facial features that she had once been beautiful.
“Hello, my name is Zara and I am looking for Sister Connie?”
“Oh my heavens, that’s me my dear, you must be William’s sister?” I simply nodded and loosened my burgundy tie a bit. I had heard much of this strange woman from my older brother whom she was currently singing praises of. Obviously, he had made a very good impression. He was one of the chosen few that had made it into Connie’s good book. Although I would initially set out to do the same, I had the nagging feeling near my departure that the reason the same friendly chemistry hadn't develop amongst the two of us was because…I wasn’t a guy. I didn’t hold it against her. It’s a woman thing, I thought.
I was being escorted to my new shared bedroom, Dorm 6. When it had come to unpacking, I remember feeling so overwhelmed when I realized I had brought no toiletries with me! After a short tour, I was lent a few items until I could be taken out on one of the many Mitsubishi vans or omnibuses the campus owned to shop at the nearest mall.
When I was left alone at last to choose my bunk and unpack. All the bottom ones had been taken. Knowing I was finally alone in the room gave me the freedom to sink on the closest bed. Am I really here? Just that morning I had been in my own home weighing my luggage for the 5th time. I had said goodbye to my mother as if I was only going down the street to visit my friend. It felt surreal. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, blinking repeatedly. I am really here! I had thought that if I squeezed my eyes tight enough, I would open them to find myself back at home in my own room. I couldn’t believe it. Am I regretting my choice? I placed my doubts on the balance, trying to measure them. In the end, I still didn’t have my answer as my mind continued thinking, I am really here.
I quickly learned what rules were observed the most and took care to follow them. But we all slipped up once in a while. The important thing was that if you had to break a rule was to not get caught… and if that happened, it was always a good idea to come clean. The most popular broken rule was talking to the young men outside of the permitted ‘social time’. This not only helped to keep us focused on our studies, but tried our self-discipline as well. Our volunteer working hours were not considered ‘social time’. And what usually started with a nod and “How are you?” might accidently turn into a full out 10 minute conversation on the walkway. Female students were not allowed to look down towards the first floor of the dormitories which belonged to the men. Not that there was much to look at though anyways, except their boxers or towels hanging on the laundry line, or maybe a girl could catch the guy she likes at the washboard, scrubbing his clothes clean. All of these were the most common rules broken. Anything that had to do with guys, you could be sure we young women would break them.
….Ok, well there were two girls who would have been the only credible candidates I’d believe to be blameless of this crime. Very special girls, we all agreed, but it was hard to be their friends. You couldn’t help feeling like such a sinner beside them. They were very sweet though, no doubt about that. By the end of my time in Guatemala they would become good friends of mine.
Everyone caught on fast to the campus lingo. Our studies pertained largely to the biblical texts from which derived an abundance of our inside jokes. When we’d catch a classmate looking down at the men from the deck which was forbidden we’d say, “Stop coveting the forbidden fruit”. From the deck we could also look out into the streets. Sometimes we would gather around to watch the local boys who we had dubbed “the Philistines” playing some soccer. It had been one of our many inside jokes that none of my friends from back home would understand.
I remember my first night, I didn’t sleep. One of our roommates was a heavy young woman who slept across the room from me and snored awfully loud. Having had my own room for years, I found this unbearable. I begged God to either stop her snores or to use his divine power and knock me out unconscious. Anything to get some sleep. After my 6 hour flight I had been exhausted. I must have dozed off eventually as I recall someone gently rubbing my arm, awakening me.
“Yeah?” the room was still dark.
“It is almost time for devotions, you might want to get changed now before the chichara rings.” It was Dawn. They had warned me about the fire alarm that rang at 5 A.M. every morning. It was a signal that let students know that the guard dogs had already been caged. The colonia in which the campus was located within Guatemala City didn’t have a very good reputation, what with the many cantinas down the streets and prostitutes that lingered nearby them. The campus took as much precaution with their security guards, patrols and gates day and night.
I tried to pry my eyes open. I was able to see that Dawn had somehow managed to have put on her daily eyeliner and mascara with only the help of the moonlight shining through the open slits of glass window panes. We weren’t allowed to turn on the bedroom light until 7AM. All that went through my mind was, Are you serious? I looked at my little clock on the tall dresser beside me, it read 4:45. A.M! Are you SERIOUS! I was used to doing my devotions, but not at such ungo—I mean—an…early hour. Won’t God appreciate if my prayers are actually lucid enough and not some gibberish I may mutter half asleep? I didn’t argue though. I hadn’t known that our devotions were an actual requirement…I mean having to get up at 4:45? AM? That’s all my brain kept thinking. God? How am I going to survive? Asking for his grace, I did the hardest thing for me at that moment. Flipping away my soft white blanket I jumped down from my bunk and survived.
I felt my way around the first year. I remember thinking all the guys looked alike and wondered if I would ever be able to tell them apart. I was a misfit during my first month because after a week I was moved again for some unknown reason to the room annexed to our bathroom—Dorm 5. Everyone apparently had already made friends with each other and I felt like the outsider. Having just turned eighteen, I was among the youngest in the room. I thanked God because I was finally going to get some sleep without any snores to keep me up.
Dark circles had already begun to form around my eyes like a sleepless zombie. Getting some sleep for the rest of the semester in exchange for a month of awkward loneliness was difficult but a great exchange for me. No one really talked to me. I was the only American in a room half filled with 2nd year and new students like myself. We were a mixture from the African, Central and Southern American continents. I felt alone at first and simply followed my roommates around those first few weeks. At night, I would hear their whispering as they grouped together to speak beside their small lamps, casting their shadows among the glow of their lights. They would laugh quietly as I pretended to read or sleep, feeling like an outsider and promising myself that in the coming year, I would do my best to make all the first year students in my room feel welcomed. I feared the silence that might have come if I approached them—making myself an intruder into their private conversations. Maybe it wouldn’t have gone that way, but I was too afraid to try, afraid of facing any type of rejection, afraid of any type of failure. Although I wanted to have someone to talk to as well, I simply watched everyone, observing the quick developing cliques on campus.
The cafeteria was the perfect place to watch this happen. Although it was an international school, it was common to see the tables filled with either roommates eating together or groups separated by nationality. There was no rule and it wasn’t verboten to sit randomly at a table, it seemed as if they were simply drawn to one another like the lizards I had seen in my backyard seeking the heat of the sun.Chapter 2
I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to be categorized as an American (The generalized term for U.S. citizen students). William had already informed me that everyone could tell an American apart from all the other international students just by looking at them. It was in the way they walked, stood, their posture, the way they spoke—always loudly, as if wanting to be heard by everyone. It didn’t sound very positive, so I did my utmost to be the opposite. I didn’t want to bring any kind of negative attention from anyone.
Because I was in Central America, I wanted to blend in as much as possible. I wanted to look and feel as if I belonged ther. But I didn’t want to be identified with the overly raucous group of girls who happened to be—Americans. Everyone stared at them, including me. American students in general were usually looked up with a level of admiration. Everybody talked about them and watched them. Students thought we were all wealthy, lived in beautiful two-story homes, and thought we could afford brand clothing and many other unrealistic things. Many were surprised that some of us were already fluently bilingual. It would have been easier for me, to fit in. I was American, I spoke English, maybe I could have tried to play the part, but it wouldn’t work out.
I wouldn’t fit in at all. They were the exact opposite of how I was raised. Having been homeschooled, I would remember my mother adding her own old fashioned teachings—“A lady never draws attention to herself.” She had meant that women were not supposed to be attention seekers, and that is what they appeared to be. I was unused to this behavior. At home, I never minded being the center of attention, but outside of those walls I tried to blend into the background. I was a misfit beside my fellow countrymen and a novelty besides the many Latinos on campus. I never thought the word ‘Gringa’ would ever have been applied to me by what I had long considered to be my own kind. Not when I had grown up beside my fair colored brothers who were thus called hueros by others. Instead, my kind continued to look at me as an oddity when I refused to take the classes without English translations, scrubbed my clothes by hand beside them at the pilas[1], or hanging my clothes to dry along theirs on the metal wires. I went about campus in my homemade clothing made tediously with my mother’s loving hands. They would stare and ask, “But aren’t you American?” As if that meant that I shouldn’t be washing my clothes by hand, that my Spanish should have a bigger accent or that I should be less frugal. No one believing that I was a simple American at first. I felt like an alien.
I watched my paisas as well-the Mexicans, my ethnic roots. They were almost just as boisterous as the Americans though. I had thought I would have related better to them, but there was no nationalistic bone in my body, so I couldn’t really identify myself with most of them. I remember their table growing quite once when an Ecuadorian girl happened to mention “Mexico”.
Having been sitting in front of her I knew she was innocently talking about the distance between Mexico and Guatemala. But the group of Mexican girls sitting in the table behind her quieted at hearing her say, “Mexico”. They watched her apprehensively as if she were about to say something negative of their homeland. After affirming that nothing wrong had been spoken, I saw them nod at each other and continue filling the room with their voices. Seeing that kind of behavior discouraged me a bit.
As classes would begin to roll around and I began to know my classmates sitting by me, I realized I puzzled them. I wouldn’t have thought I would have come to question my own identity in a Latin country with international students.
“Que eres?” James, an Ecuadorian classmate asked. It was a simple enough question in an international school. What exactly am I? I mentally searched for the right words to categorize myself. Back home in California whenever anyone asked me, I simply answered, “Mexican” which covered my racial roots. Sometimes I answered—“I’m Mexican American” and people were satisfied with this answer. No more questions followed. But in Guatemala, that wasn’t enough. I was constantly placed under a microscope. I felt like a piece of data that they were stuggling to know where to file. No tab seemed to fit my category The following is only one of many similar conversations I had during my time at Bible school.
“O, ¿naciste en México? No pareces Mexicana ni hablas como ellos.” I shook my head. In Guatemala, to claim a Mexican identity insinuated that I was born there. So what am I? And what was this? I don’t look Mexican? What is a Mexican supposed to look like? I thought. As for my non-Mexican accent, that was easy enough to answer. I was raised in the U.S.
“¿Donde naciste?” the interrogation went on.
“I was born in the United States” I answered.
“Pero, tus papas. ¿De dónde son?” he persisted, trying to key my physical characteristics in the right category in his mind. Once my classmates like James learned that my parents were fully Mexican, they simply would shake their heads as if they were not satisfied with my answers. As if something was missing. What are they looking for? I thought so many times. When I asked them. They couldn’t answer me.
I usually received, “I don’t know, but you don’t look Mexican.” From just within my own family like my father who was moreno[2] and my mother who was blanquita[3], I knew that there existed diversity amongst the Mexican race, so it surprised me when I received the same response from my Mexican roommates and classmates. They would shrug their shoulders and say, “You look American.” It was a mystery to me, but unless I was being questioned I didn’t really dwell on it until I came back home and had time to reflect on my Guatemalan experiences.
[1] Latin word for washroom, usually rectangular stone washboard are available to wash clothes by hand.
[2] Dark skinned
[3] Light skinned
Chapter 3
Inéz was friendly, but we never shared anything besides friendly greetings and polite conversation. It was difficult to make new friends when everyone was already comfortable with their classmates whom they had shared all of those two years with. Even if many of us had wanted to, it was simply easier to bond with our roommates or our friends of two years. Inéz and I were not close. She had an exotic look about her. She had ethnic looking hair, voluminous, black and tightly curled. She hardly ever straightened it because of all the effort it took. She owned a rich earthy tan and large eyes that matched her hair. Her thick lashes threatened to hide her eyes when they weren’t curled upwards.We shared a mutual friend from California—Alexus. Throughout the years we simply became distant from one another and even on campus we never sought each other out. Despite Inéz’ friendships outside our room, she was a responsible room monitor. She made sure we were all accounted for by our 10 PM, our curfew. Inéz had no qualms about telling us whether some of our clothes was on the borderline of the modest dress code either.
“That sounds so funny,” a girl from Ecuador laughed, “what is that?” sometimes when no one understood me, I felt irritated. Some of them doubted some of my words were real.
“It’s what we call a baseball cap girls,” Inéz would butt in. I couldn’t help looking around the room at them as if to say ‘see?’ It feels so childish now when I look back at it. I don’t know how such a little thing could have bothered me.
Who would have thought that I would have had to adapt to a new vernacular? I had naively assumed that because Guatemala was a Latin country, I would have been able to fit in with the locals. During my first weeks I found it difficult to communicate in the school. A large portion of the faculty spoke Spanish only and many of the locals said things I didn’t understand.
When I asked, “¿Cual cajón es mio?”, my Guatemalan roommates gave me a bazaar look as if to say,, ‘what planet did you fall from?’. I would turn to a Mexican roommate for support as if to say, ‘tell them I’m not crazy’. One of the Mexican girls—Inéz, who was from second year and happened to be my dorm monitor helped me adjust my Mexican Spanish to Guatemalan.
“They call them gavetas here,” she taught me.
Inéz was friendly, but we never shared anything besides friendly greetings and polite conversation. It was difficult to make new friends when everyone was already comfortable with their classmates whom they had shared all of those two years with. Even if many of us had wanted to, it was simply easier to bond with our roommates or our friends of two years. Inéz and I were not close. She had an exotic look about her. She had ethnic looking hair, voluminous, black and tightly curled. She hardly ever straightened it because of all the effort it took. She owned a rich earthy tan and large eyes that matched her hair. Her thick lashes threatened to hide her eyes when they weren’t curled upwards.We shared a mutual friend from California—Alexus. Throughout the years we simply became distant from one another and even on campus we never sought each other out. Despite Inéz’ friendships outside our room, she was a responsible room monitor. She made sure we were all accounted for by our 10 PM, our curfew. Inéz had no qualms about telling us whether some of our clothes was on the borderline of the modest dress code either.
“Has anybody seen my cachucha?” I asked once.
“That sounds so funny,” a girl from Ecuador laughed, “what is that?” sometimes when no one understood me, I felt irritated. Some of them doubted some of my words were real.
“It’s what we call a baseball cap girls,” Inéz would butt in. I couldn’t help looking around the room at them as if to say ‘see?’ It feels so childish now when I look back at it. I don’t know how such a little thing could have bothered me.
“Does anyone have unos ganchos I can borrow?” That day Inéz wasn’t around to translate for me. I made hand motions like in charades and gave them the dictionary meaning until they understood I wanted some clothes hangers.
“Oh, you mean cerchas?” cerchas? What in the world? And they think I’m the weird one, I mused. Eventually everyone in my dorm became educated about cultural differences.
I learned that in Ecuador, to say, “¡Que bestia!”, it wasn’t to say you were a beast, but slang to say, ‘that’s funny’. Whenever the Guatemalans called me patoja, I realized it wasn’t a strong word to cause offence, but the term for a young girl. When I heard the locals say, “Alagran” or “púchica”, I learned it wasn’t a curse, but an expression of amazement. IMH, served not only to know more about scripture or build a stronger relationship with God, but it was the beginning of a trip that broadened my curiosity and awareness for cultural diversity.
In our class of Genesis II, we learned how Noah—a man of faith was willing to be in an ark with all those animals inside along with his family.
“Imagine the stench!” the Instructor pointed out. Imagine how it must have smelled in those enclosed quarters.” The ark was compared to the church and the diversity of animals to people—“some leave the ark because they are offended. Some have found disappointment in the church, having expected perfection; some cannot tolerate the smell of the other animals and are compelled to leave the ark because of it…” this was my first course I received and it couldn’t have come at a better timing when many of us were still new and trying to adapt to all the different cultures that surrounded us in the dorms. During volunteer hours while we worked side by side, or during our time of fellowship there were many instances that could have opened the door to offenses and separation, but through these words we were united by remembering that we shared the same goals—to learn more about God and the scripture he had given us, and to grow in our relationship with Him.
And of course, a new joke was given birth inside the dormitories, “If we can live through this stench of one another, we can survive anything!” we laughed. My esperiences varied in differences of our vernacular, cultural customs such as cleanliness, relationships and even character.
Chapter 4
“Sure, come on.” My heart unclenched and relief spread throughout me. Maybe I will fit in after all. From then on, I didn’t have to worry about ever being alone again. I found a family amongst the tight knit community of Ecuadorians on campus, although I made up my mind not enclose myself like many others I had seen around me. I wanted to get to know everyone, I wanted to make the best of my experience in Guatemala.
Greet them with a smile and nobody seemed to mind if I inducted myself to their already tightknit cliques. It was a formula I learned to use well throughout my two years.
Chapter 4
Two of my own roommates had been from Ecuador. They both had round faces and hair so dark, it looked black. Elizabet’s hair had bronze highlights and her skin had an almost orange tinge while Abigail had the largest Asian-looking eyes I’d ever seen. They looked to be straight from Anime. When I was facing her it was like looking inside the trunk of a tree, a golden yellow hue with life rings inverted to a darker color.
They were from different cities, yet they were already close. Two weeks after moving into dorm 5, I was still pretty much of a loner. So one day, as I heard Elizabet and Abigail talking about heading down for lunch, I reached for the courage buried deep inside my guts and jumped from my top bunk.
“Can I go with you guys?” I remember how they turned back and looked at me as if barely noticing my existence for the first time. Had that been what they had been waiting for? Had they been expecting me to approach them? Perhaps that was what was expected of me as an ‘American girl’.
When classes were close to beginning, I remember overhearing the second year students speak animatedly of which course was coming up, which one they looked forward to, or the excitement of certain teachers. Some guest speakers were spoken of as if they were celebrities amongst the
students. They all had their preferred ones. The institute would invite pastors from different countries to teach about a Biblical book or topic such as hermeneutics, ministerial ethics etc... Each course was given in a timespan of one week.
students. They all had their preferred ones. The institute would invite pastors from different countries to teach about a Biblical book or topic such as hermeneutics, ministerial ethics etc... Each course was given in a timespan of one week.
Eventually, I would develop my own preferences for certain speakers as well. But until then, I tried to control my eyes from bulging out when I found out classes lasted for from 8 am to 1 p.m. Five hours? Every day? Five hours on the same topic? For a whole week? I don’t know why I was so overwhelmed. It was shorter than the average school day and I had been to religious seminars where is was much longer.
Sure, I grew up in the church. I did the whole napping thing on the pews until I was 5, and went through the coloring phase, playing footsies with my brother and chipping my mother’s nail polish during the sermons until I was 9. So why did I feel some dread?
I had believed to be saved in kindergarten, before I knew the magnitude of life, of sin, and holiness. By fourteen I had decided to be baptized, but it hadn'y made an impression in me as I had thought it would. I can only remember two things from that day: the big argument I had had with my mother that morning and my surprise from the lack of cold I felt at being submerged beneath the ocean’s waves.
Unfortunately I had yet to understand the extent of what I was doing until after coming into my own faith in high school. Till then, it had all been pure religion and tradition for me. Only after pleading with God to fill that utter void and strange unfillable hunger that consumed me from within did I understand that it was God´s presence that I needed every day. And perhaps that was why I was here. Maybe it was because I was still filled with a thirst and hoping I would find satiation here. I wanted to feel God’s presence like I had that morning on my knees when God had finally filled that piece that was missing from my life.
So many times I would cry out to him after causing another argument with my mom, ruining the holidays with my attitude, or being unnecessarily spiteful—God, I messed up again! I wanted that to stop, to put an end to that part of me that was so purposely hurtful to others, but it was as if an invisible force kept me from being the happy person that I so wished to be.
Coming to Guatemala was crossing a barrier that was a personal step of my faith. I felt it was like a chance to redeem myself. So many things that should have been important like my salvation and my baptism had become so meaningless to me in the past, but this…I wanted this to mean something to me. I wasn’t going to mess this up, God please, let me get this right.
Perhaps, I still felt a tinge of dread because my faith was still new to me and the past was still very much alive. But after years of sitting on pews I wanted my understanding and my faith to grow. No more naps, no more footsies under the pews, no more side distractions during the sermons. I was ready to listen. I wanted to listen. I needed to learn to breathe on my own like a baby who comes out of the womb.
Chapter 5
Bible school meant leaving home, our families and friends. For those of us who came from abroad, it also meant leaving many commodities such as full time use to cell phones, TV, radio, and Internet. It was a separation during those four semesters which would help to alleviate distractions. But where those were impeded, many others would begin to grow in their place...
And somehow I managed to fit all of this…and this in one top cabinet and one locker like this.
My first Guatemalan storm caught me off guard. I was in the cafeteria, as usual after
working my hours, waiting for my friends to finish their work in the kitchen.
Chapter 5
Inside the campus, there were many things we learned to do without. I am not simply talking about the clothes softener, or those trips to one’s kitchen to randomly snack on something when one is bored. When we had all decided to come to Bible school, we knew that they would be two years to learn as much as we could about the Bible and the ministry. We knew it was an opportunity to have some of our questions answered and use the tools of understanding to grow in our own faith. They would prove to be two very short years to me.
Bible school meant leaving home, our families and friends. For those of us who came from abroad, it also meant leaving many commodities such as full time use to cell phones, TV, radio, and Internet. It was a separation during those four semesters which would help to alleviate distractions. But where those were impeded, many others would begin to grow in their place...
Sometimes students with professional experience were asked to help under their fields of expertise, and we all learned that we had something to contribute. The institute owned a small butchery, bookstore and minimart, as well as coffee bean fields to help the running of the place which many students helped out with occasionaly. Students who paid all their fare such as myself were only required to work 3 hours during the week. Many international students studying on scholarship worked anywhere from 4-5 hours during the day. Many were onn scholarship to relieve the costly trips back home during breaks.
There were trees everywhere on campus. It made a stark contrast from outside its walls. The neighboring community of Colonia Santa Fe seemed slightly arid so it made Bible school seem like a little island of paradise. The trees stoodtall with skinny trunks. They were generally green all year round and the many gardens were surrounded by green lawns and flowers that were always in bloom.
Guatemala has tropical weather and it brought my hair to life! At home it had been poofy and it couldn´t decide on whether it wanted to curl. The moisture in the Guatemalan air hydrated my curls naturally. I felt this was a great plus and was tempted to stay, of course not only for the positive effects on my hair, although that may have been one fof the contributing factors. Sometimes, at night we would be lulled to sleep by the showering rains which passed us like many waves. You could hear it from a distance as it came closer, until it was in front of us, over us, and finally passed over us. It was like a performance for our ears as we heard several curtains of rainshowers overhead. In the mornings when the rain cleared, birds sang, hidden in the foliage of the trees. Different aviary tunes could be heard everywhere.
Although the rain was beautiful, it was tiring as well. There were many months of rain. I come from California where currently we are experiencing the worst drought since the late 80's. We barely receive the minimum rainfall to keep us from being officially calles-a desert. So you may imagine how exhilarating it was for the first week. But then then that week became plural-WEEKS-to month and from month to months! I thought I was going to lose it for a while.
“Will we ever see the sun again?” I would ask constantly during the rainy season. The spring season seemed endless, beginning in July(on my birthday! Ugh.) and lasting until December. Guatemala seemed to have only two seasons: spring and summer. I hadn’t known of this before. So when classes had started in January, I was naively prepared with a winter wardrobe. My first semester felt like I was boiling in my pew during class. That either perked me right up or seemed to lull me to sleep.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” I yelled at William. He was sure to feel my wrath over the phone.
And somehow I managed to fit all of this…and this in one top cabinet and one locker like this.
My first Guatemalan storm caught me off guard. I was in the cafeteria, as usual after
working my hours, waiting for my friends to finish their work in the kitchen.
The lightning flashed brightly even in the afternoon amidst the grey skies. The thunder pierced my ears. I thought I would go deaf each time it roared. The strong vibrations were felt beneath my feet and up to my chest. It was frightening at first, but after my first year, I saw it not only as something dangerous, but beautiful as well and invigorating.
Chapter 6
Sometimes a few internos passed by to climb down to the carpentry room that was in the sunken level beneath the washroom. Behind the washroom to the right was a storage space where extra mattresses were piled up higher than a house and covered with silver and blue tarps. Eventually, my friends and I would use it as the scene for out ‘photo shoots’.
Here is one of me posing as ‘Rapunzel’ as some of my friends called me. All this I cleaned. I had little direction from Papa Celes when I began. It felt overwhelming at first, I didn't know where to start! I wished he could have given me a list to follow. I rememberd Booker T. Washington when he was made to clean an old room in order to be accepted into a school. He managed to impress with his cleaning skills and I hoped to do the same. Only, Papa Celes wasn't much for feedback. It was difficult to know if he was pleased by your work or not so I tried to do a good job. I swept until I reached the patio that ran along in front of the kitchen and cafeteria. It formed a large L-shape around the corner of the building.
Sometimes I had someone to talk through the kitchen window like the girls working in the kitchen or in dishwashing. Elizabet who was usually chosen for Dinner duty could quarter chickens expertly. No one could beat her. She was that good. When I had done 2 she had already done 5.
Chapter 7
The institute I was studying at was not only a Bible school campus, it was a nondenominational Evangelical Christian ministry which owned the Bible institute, the dormitories, facilities and was coincidently the headquarters of the ministry. In the past it had also run an orphanage as well, and some of the previous orphans had stayed on as adults and worked with the ministry, helping with the Bible institute.
Chapter 6
Sometimes a few internos passed by to climb down to the carpentry room that was in the sunken level beneath the washroom. Behind the washroom to the right was a storage space where extra mattresses were piled up higher than a house and covered with silver and blue tarps. Eventually, my friends and I would use it as the scene for out ‘photo shoots’.
Here is one of me posing as ‘Rapunzel’ as some of my friends called me. All this I cleaned. I had little direction from Papa Celes when I began. It felt overwhelming at first, I didn't know where to start! I wished he could have given me a list to follow. I rememberd Booker T. Washington when he was made to clean an old room in order to be accepted into a school. He managed to impress with his cleaning skills and I hoped to do the same. Only, Papa Celes wasn't much for feedback. It was difficult to know if he was pleased by your work or not so I tried to do a good job. I swept until I reached the patio that ran along in front of the kitchen and cafeteria. It formed a large L-shape around the corner of the building. Sometimes I had someone to talk through the kitchen window like the girls working in the kitchen or in dishwashing. Elizabet who was usually chosen for Dinner duty could quarter chickens expertly. No one could beat her. She was that good. When I had done 2 she had already done 5.
As I swept the patio many times in silence I often had to remind myself that while I wasn’t feeling as if this small contribution was something, sometimes the most insignificant job could serve a greater purpose. If nobody swept the area, there would be more work for those cleaning inside the facility.
You had to learn patience on this job. Sometimes, the patio had been already half-swept when gushing circular wind currents spread the dust and leaves! Even though I knew I had swept, I couldn't leave it like that. Papa Celes might not believe me. I could already picture his impassive face as I explained. It was better to simply begin all over again. All that work for nothing? Patience had never been one of my virtues.
Listening to many of the courses inspired me as I meditated on them while I swept. A part of me couldn’t wait to get back home and share with my friends and family about the Biblical truths that I had never seen before. I wanted to go out and do some greater good for the world, whatever that meant. What am I doing here? I should be out there doing something useful! My patience didn’t always win. But one day as I was complaining about this to God, he allowed me to see something. In my mind I saw a cartoon image of a cartoon figure in running position. He was moving his feet so fast that all you could see were circles where his feet should have been. But as I looked closely, I noticed that he wasn’t going anywhere. The picture seemed to fade out and I was able to see a large hand that held the caricature from the hood of a sweater, pinching it between the hand’s thumb and pointer finger. I suddenly realized what God was telling me.
“That’s you. You’re trying so hard to run. But you are not going to get anywhere because look, I’m holding you back. It’s not your time yet. When it’s time, then I’ll let you go.” It wasn’t an audible voice. I was just able to sense a soft voice in my mind as if it had been my conscience. But the message had gotten through. Loud & Clear. I needed to be patient and wait until God said, “Go.”
Chapter 7
The institute I was studying at was not only a Bible school campus, it was a nondenominational Evangelical Christian ministry which owned the Bible institute, the dormitories, facilities and was coincidently the headquarters of the ministry. In the past it had also run an orphanage as well, and some of the previous orphans had stayed on as adults and worked with the ministry, helping with the Bible institute.
The ministry held their services in the gymnasium every Thursday night and Sunday mornings. This meant that the chairs had to be taken out and set up from storage on Thursday afternoons and Saturday nights by the internos[1]. While the young men unstacked and organized chairs, sweep and mop the floor, the ladies would help with the dusting, cleaning the nursery, and the modulos where Bible classes were held for the children.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from my first service. When I climbed down all the stairs to the gym, most of the chairs were filled. The cement built bleachers were packed. It was very different from my small church. They actually had an orchestra which played from the left corner of the gym. It was composed of strings, flutes, clarinets, cymbals, and brass instruments, an electric organ and a beautiful black baby grand piano. My fingers had itched to touch the white keys. It was an incredible instrument! The orchestra's setup seemed so grand to me.
Whether simple or fancy, everyone was in their best. I saw local women with their traditional dress of colorful woven skirts and blouses, some tops had been beautifully embroidered at home and some had bright beadwork, but all were amazingly vibrant to my eyes.
Amidst the church members there were those who were simple, as well as wealthy and others who were successful business owners. The majority of people in Guatemala City shared short stature, with rich earth colored skin and dark strait hair. Indigenous women wore their hair in thick braids or let it hang loose below their waist. But there were also many with varying features with shiny black curls that felt silky. Some from the colder and more mountainous region shared the indigenous facial feature of stretched, yet large dark eyes and sharp noses, but with lightly pink skin and of course there were some with European characteristics as well—tall and fair. Despite the great variety of economic status among the members, there was also unity. Like many Hispanics and Latinos, the Guatemalan people shared different physical characteristics.
Before and after service the women greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek and a hug while the men shook each other’s hand firmly. Both genders simply shook one another’s hands. This was all new to me. I was used to the American wave form of greeting or the handshake. Giving hugs and kissing another woman’s cheek felt almost like an invasion of my personal space. Hesitant at first, I soon gave it no thought by the end of my first year.
The wide pulpit was placed on a platform in the center between the organ and the piano. One projector hung on each side of the gym to show the words from the worship songs. Further back were wooden chairs that seemed to belong in a fancy dining room from the Renaissance Era that stood in front of a royal blue backdrop curtain. I remember having touched it when I had helped sweep the floor nearbye; it felt like a rich velvet to my fingers. It was hard to think it had been a gym just a few hours ago!
Due to problems that had arose in previous years with the internos, there was a certain section reserved for my fellow female classmates, while the young men were permitted to sit anywhere.
I hadn’t been to church in a while. Not because I was forgetting God, or my faith was groiwing cold, but because our previous pastor had decided to leave the ministry our church was under. It had been a difficult and sad event. While we waited to receive a new pastor, my family had simply united together in our living room. My father would lead the family in prayer and worship. We sang coros[2] and sometimes there was a time for adoracion[3]where everyone sang their own song of adoration to God. In whatever key we had begun to sing, our personal praise would vary at will in different octaves of the same note. It was almost in imitation of the sound of the wind. In my family, we generally worshiped in Spanish.
My family began a time of Bible studies alone at home which continued from December until I went to the Bible school in January. As it was, I hadn’t assisted a church service in a long time and I had begun to actually crave that feeling of unity with other people we called our brothers and sisters in Christ as we gave praise together to God.
When the worship finally began, I joined in whole-heartedly with the rest of the congregation. It was an amazing feeling to be among so many people who felt the same urge to worship. The trumpets that played sounded majestic. Even the children participated with enthusiasm beside their parents. The couple who sat in front of us had three children. I saw them raise their hands and sing their hearts out.
I couldn't help but remember how I had been different at their age. I had raised my hands because my mom had always told me to. I knew the words to the songs by heart and closed my eyes as a sign of reverence, but I was embarrassed to participate in the adoracion for years while these children in front of me needed no parental prompting.
I remember telling my mom, “but I don’t know what to do. What do I say?” She didn’t make us sing our words.
Instead she answered, “Just praise God in prayer then.” But these children, I could see the earnestness in in their little faces with real tears streaming down their faces; no one was nudging them. And no one made them sing their personal praise of “¡Gracias Señor! ¡Tu eres tan bueno!” that could be heard intermingled with the adult voices. Their voices added a sweet touch to the harmony as they thanked God and told him how good He was. Everyone participated with such a liberty as I had never witnessed before.
No one was embarrassed of being overheard, or of who sat behind or beside them. No one cared who was going to see their tears. They were just there to praise God and attract his presence with their worship. They were so absorbed within their personal relationship with God alone and everything else that surrounded them ceased to exist.
I realized how much I had missed out in my childhood. I could have been like one of those children. I saw with conviction now what my mind had already known—you don’t have to be old to find God. I could have been as young as that four year old looking boy in front of me and enjoyed feeling a piece of what it means to feel God’s intense love and peace, subjected to His presence. Unfortunately, neither my parents, nor I were aware that at one could tap into God's presence at such a tender age.
The unity was so beautiful. And the overwhelming feeling of finally being in a service again overwhelmed me. I was at home. My body felt as if a sort of electric current ran through me in waves as God’s presence washed over me and all I wanted to do was to stand there and absorb it all. It was a moment like I had experienced months before of having the feeling of learning to breathe. As I stood there, it was as if I hadn’t known my body was a dry desert, parched. But God’s presence was like a strong rain that my dry body could not even finish drinking as it flooded over me.
It was as if my soul was a cup which was being filled to the brim with God’s presence as it overflowed[4]. For that moment I lived that psalm[5] which King David [6]sang of how a day with God is worth more than a thousand days elsewhere[7].
I didn’t want that moment to end. I remember the words ‘thank you,” erupting from my own lips constantly that night.
This would only be the first of many more church services that I would experience in my two years in Guatemala. I treasured them.
[1] Boarding students, can be used for men or mixed group of men and women.
[2] The Spanish word to reference un-secular songs of religious nature.
[3] Worship of adoration
[4] From the Bible, Psalm 23:5 “my cup runneth over”.
[5] A sacred song
[6] The second King of Israel spoken of in the Bible who was chosen by God. He is also known as a psalmist and a man who desired to please God’s heart.
[7] Psalm 84:10 “for a day in thy courts is better than a thousand” (KJV Bible).
worker and was a tool that helped
students build good character and work ethic. After vacation I would even bring him a big container with my mother’s spicy sauce for his breakfast eggs. By the end of my two years I would have experienced working in every single position that surrounded the kitchen area, from cleaning its patio, cleaning and setting up the cafeteria for meal times, breakfast duty, dishwashing, serving the bar, kitchen aid for dinner and cleaning the kitchen. I have to say that each task taught me something different. As Papa Celes circulated us, I’d learn what it felt like to be in someone else’s shoes on the job which made me conscientious whenever I had the power to cause a positive effect. Each came with a pro and a con. While I was cook, I hadn’t realized how many cutting boards I had carelessly placed in the sink, but I felt the pressure from the people at the bar rushing us to hurry up with the refried black beans. When I was serving bar, I realized what it was like having to confront the hungry crowd when the food was running late, but I hadn’t noticed that I was stopping the flow of the dishwashers as I invaded the sink
to fill my thermo with more water. When I was a dishwasher…well I learned to be patient with the many interruptions and constant piling of dishes that seemed endless, to wear gloves so my skin wouldn’t peel with the Ajax soap, and to sing in harmony with the crew to make the time go faster.
Chapter 9
Chapter 8
As I had mentioned before, my first job was Breakfast. After the bell rang I would leap to my feet and pull my baseball cap over my head. It was a trial in the beginning, but soon I learned to dress in the clothes for the next day. Anything to catch a few minutes in the morning. Silently, I’d make my way in dark morning with the other girls on Breakfast duty.
The Breakfast Crew often used Morpheus—the Greek god of dreams as a pretext for running late sometimes, “Man, Morpheus wouldn’t let go of me this morning!” No matter what our job was, we were expected to keep our things in order. There were no excuses, and although we struggled with maintaining neatness when we knew the patrol wasn´t about, it wasn´t our greatest problems in comparison to others. Some of the dorm rules included leaving our laundry baskets and toiletries atop the bed instead of tucked underneath for the girls who did dormitory cleaning. In order to catch some more z´s, I learned to sleep like a mummy with mu baskets beside me on the bed, with just enough space on the narrow mattress. I would sleep with clean clothes on that I would wear for breakfast that day so I could sleep in if only a few more minutes. It seems silly now, but I used to calculate how much time I´d save by prepping for my morning routine. . . and it seemed worth it at the time!
We rotated the duties. There was an elderly man who had been serving the ministry for years already in his late seventies.
He was known by his heavenly name (literally) Brother Celestine, but as boarding students, we grew attached to him and called him Papa Celes.
His hair was still a dark grey despite his age and he had good stamina. Papa Celes would appear anywhere on campus always wearing those baseball caps he loved. He would pass us by when we least expected him as if to make sure there was no fooling around on the job.
Sometimes, when he had had a long day I would catch him sitting down with his brown colored eyelids closed for a few minutes. He was the man who organized and assigned everyone their jobs for each semester.
Every day a different girl would make him his breakfast. I was frightened when it was my first try. Rumor had it that Papa Celes was very particular about his meals though. If he didn’t like how you prepared the meal he had asked for, he wouldn’t eat it. Sometimes, he would go off skipping that meal if there was no time to give the poor girl a second chance. Older folks tend to be set in their ways like that. It happened to me once and I felt terrible of the old man going on without breakfast!
Every morning he would eat in the kitchen with us “Breakfast girls” and often laugh along with us, showing his tiny worn out teeth. I remember thinking they had looked so worn out that they seemed as if they had been filed down. We all learned to love Papa Celes though. He was a diligent
students build good character and work ethic. After vacation I would even bring him a big container with my mother’s spicy sauce for his breakfast eggs. By the end of my two years I would have experienced working in every single position that surrounded the kitchen area, from cleaning its patio, cleaning and setting up the cafeteria for meal times, breakfast duty, dishwashing, serving the bar, kitchen aid for dinner and cleaning the kitchen. I have to say that each task taught me something different. As Papa Celes circulated us, I’d learn what it felt like to be in someone else’s shoes on the job which made me conscientious whenever I had the power to cause a positive effect. Each came with a pro and a con. While I was cook, I hadn’t realized how many cutting boards I had carelessly placed in the sink, but I felt the pressure from the people at the bar rushing us to hurry up with the refried black beans. When I was serving bar, I realized what it was like having to confront the hungry crowd when the food was running late, but I hadn’t noticed that I was stopping the flow of the dishwashers as I invaded the sink
There was this machinery in the kitchen we bitterly called the Animal. It was like a large rectangular pressure pot, approximately 4 feet long, 2 feet wide and one foot high. It had a large heavy cover which could be locked closed, and a handle that could tip the steel pot like a hospital bed. Anything from: tortillas, steamed plantains, quesadillas, rice, stew, and weekend pancakes and French toast were prepared there. The two people on the dishwashing crew who had to dry the dishes got to wash the Animal which was tedious as we scrubbed it from awkward angles. In order to learn to survive among the jumble of nerves waiting to cause chaos, it was imperative to learn how to coexist. This began with being conscientious of every crew working in the kitchen.
There was a girl called Mara who had been on bar duty when I had been a kitchen aid during dinner one night. She was Salvadorian with a small thin frame. Mara had dark eyes with a unique shape that gave her face a pixie look and pale skin.
I was trying to help get the food served faster by bringing the trays which was their job. The stainless steel tray which carried around 50 quesadillas was burning hot and heavy. I don’t know what game they were playing in the bar as they tossed their hats at one another. They wore them to cover their hair while they served to hide their hairnets.
Mara was running in the little space there was behind the counter and ran into me as I swerved the tray away before it could fall. Her black hair held up in a ponytail flung into my face. I was annoyed, but she simply laughed. Why are they playing their dumb games in here? What if I had dropped the food? I was annoyed because I was thinking of what could have been after having stood over the hot griddle for a long time with the spatula as I turned so many quesadillas over. I had expected an apology, but none came. This shocked me, so the next night I gave into my temptation. It seemed too easy to resist. I rushed in and out of bar to make sure they weren’t missing any items and when the time came to replace one of the empting trays I returned the gesture. Except my arm that bumped into hers wasn’t as hard as when she ran into me the previous night. So I was surprised when she turned around with a mad face.
“Hey!” she yelled. Her eyes were like sparks.
“Oh,” I turned back to look at her in mock astonishment, “excuse me.” Mmm, it hadn’t felt as good as I had planned. Maybe it was my conscience, or maybe it was because I had deliberately planned it. Whatever. Geeze, but my mind wouldn’t give me a rest. As I did my devotionals that night in the chapel with the other girls, I kept playing the scene over and over in my mind. I knew what I had to do. And I hated it.
On the third night just before serving time came around I took Mara aside from the counter to the little lobby entrance to the kitchen where we hung our personal belongings. It was next to the little mirror where some of the girls put on their eye makeup in the mornings before the boys saw them.
“Mara?” I began to admit that yesterday hadn’t been a mistake. That I had done it on purpose because I had been mad at what happened the day before. I admitted that I was wrong, something I hardly ever did at home because my family was tired of arguing me that they just gave me my own way. I was ashamed, but I was glad I got it off my chest. “I’m sorry, it was wrong of me and I just want to get along and work together with you with no problems between us.” We called it a truce and to my astonishment she stopped me from going back in.
“I’m sorry Zara, I don’t want to be fighting either. Let’s just put this in the past and from now on we’ll work together, ¿sí?”. I nodded and we gave each other a quick, but heartfelt hug as we hurried back to the scene. The show must go on. Dinner wouldn´t serve itself. Our hungry classmates waiting in line were a testament to that.
Chapter 9
I believe everyone has their place in this world and that God gives us different abilities to use for the benefit of others and His glory. During the course “The Tabernacle of Moses” the instructor went over many aspects of the tabernacle that the Israelites built in the desert. We had been approaching the items used for the tabernacle’s construction when my mind had chosen somewhere around that time to daydream. So when the instructor mentioned the Spanish word garfio, all I had understood was “Garfield”. Garfield? As in the fat orange cat? What does Garfield have to do with this? During our 15 minute intermission I made sure to ask around and eventually corrected my notes to garfio or hook.
The instructor had mentioned that in life we are like those wooden boards that stand upright together, but in that body are also brethren that must serve as hooks to link us together to one another. He went on to explain that these hooks represent ‘to place another on fire’, that as they connect one board to another they dig into them, causing pain, representing people who like to be ‘hooks’, making people mad.
One blessed sister whom all students were obliged to see once a month when paying their monthly subscription was immediately dubbed Sister Garfio in my mind that morning. It was quite a narrow climb towards that admission building. Prior to coming to HMI, I had been warned. Nevertheless, I don’t think anyone can ever truly prepare themselves to meet with Sister Garfio.
It was on my arrival that I was called almost immediately into her office. My name had been voiced on the intercom for the first time. It felt exciting at first to hear my name like that. I had thought it was cool.
had thought I’d been careful with everything. I had received my shots, I had my passport… “I can’t send your paperwork to the embassy to file for your visa without a stamp on this paper” she said gruffly while pointing to a document. “Don’t you Americans know how to read?” her lips seemed set on a pout. I turned different shades of red at her biting remark. I didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? How do you answer that? Am I supposed to answer that?
Somehow I managed to form some words, “Many of us do read, but it doesn’t mean we necessarily understand everything.” Was that a smart answer? I worried afterwards. Maybe that was a rhetoric question, but she had looked up at me from behind her small round glasses as if she had expected something so…I answered her. I had felt provoked, but only because I was scared and for the first time feeling threatened by such a confrontational person. Geeze, here I was on my first day and I couldn’t even take this old lady’s remark? My mother was forever telling me, “when people are old they don’t reason as much, you should just try to give them their way instead of expecting them to understand.” But with her verbal attack I wasn’t feeling as meek as my mother. I had a cell phone, but not yet purchased my new sim card. I was forced to dial a collect call that morning to my home. I knew both my parents were at work. I prayed for someone to answer the phone.
“Hello?” I heard William’s voice on the line. I felt a lump in my throat and took a deep breath.
“Will?” I asked gasped out. I answered quickly before an embarrassing sob could come out. I never cried in front of my family if I could help it. It wasn’t because my family frowned on it, I just felt as if it was a sign of weakness. It was much too personal, and I felt exposed when others saw my tears. “Umm…I’m here.” I paused each time to breathe in deeply. “It looks like” I blinked repeatedly, fighting the tears that threatened my already stinging eyes, “Something is missing...Sister Violeta (Sister Garfio) said…I need a stamp…from the embassy?” I don’t know if I imagined it, but it seemed as if William could see me through the phone. I had always been very private with my feelings at home so it had surprised me to feel as if knew me better than I had let on. Perhaps he was remembering his own experience with Sister Violeta, or maybe he could hear it in my frequent pauses, short gasps, or broken voice.
“Okay, I’ll tell dad when he gets home. Don’t worry” he repeated over and over, “Don’t worry. You know Sister Violeta? She’s always like that. But don’t worry, everything is going to be okay.” I almost let out a sob of relief as he tried to comfort me through the phone. I felt his connection that ran through curled tendrils from the black phone that I held. I almost wished he hadn’t tried to though because it was so difficult to hold back that cry of relief.
I could only bob my head up and down and answer “uhuh, yeah ok.” I was still trying to hold myself together, trying to cage my sobs that begged to escape, but my pride ran through, a stronger force that quieted them down and made them lie dormant for another day. It would have to wait for a more convenient time.
That was some welcome, but as the year went by and I continued to visit Sister Violeta every month, I began to notice something from that old lady with salt and pepper hair. I began to identify myself with the stoical woman behind those pastel business suits. She was a hardcore woman. A tough cookie to crack. And I was a lot like her, very strong willed. I would eventually make more trips to her office out of my own free will and talk about some of my goals, sometimes fiddling with the items on her desk like I had done with my father’s desk as a child.
“What are you doing?” she asked the first time grouchily.
“I’m just organizing your paperclips and rubber bands.” I looked up to her innocently. She would go back to ignoring me for a few minutes before picking up the conversation again.
“Well you know, some people come in here and mess up my papers and then I don’t know where to find them.” From my visits I learned that she was widowed at a young age and forced to be the sole bread winner for her daughters. I would go on to learn that SisterVioleta had survived the terrifying years of guerilla warfare in Nicaragua as well. She had had a very hard life, but despite that she was alive and working at HMI, serving in the best way she knew how. I like to think she developed some affection for me. I know she watched me, otherwise she wouldn’t have taken notice of my awkward walk.
“Get back here,” she said one day as I was leaving her office. “You walk wrong.” By this time I had grown very accustomed to her frankness and didn’t take any offense. I simply assented, because even my own mother said I walked funny. To this day my shoulders seem to tense whenever I walk in public. “Your steps are too big too, watch this.” After making me watch her petite form walk up and down the hallway, an arm stretched outward holding an imaginary purse, she made me repeat her example. My mother had only given me one lesson with heals before my fifteenth birthday, but aside from that, I had always taken large steps to catch up to Edward’s and my father’s large gait. Old habits die hard and I am sorry to say that Sister Violeta’s walking lessons didn’t quite stick, but I did make an effort when I knew she was around my perimeter.
Some of my first year experiences had been strenuous, scary, and bizarre, but I am grateful for all of them. Had it not been for those early Breakfast hours, isolation, and even Sister Violeta—yes, even her, I might not have known some of my strengths and weaknesses. I might not have learned that through God’s grace, I would find the means to overcome them and found experiences that would help the new students in the following year.
Chapter 10
We might have signed up for two years of study, but it was up to us whether we decided to stay or not. This was determined by our agreement to fulfill our part of the bargain following the rules campus set for us and our academic success.
Our first semester was a ‘trial period’. Although Bible School didn’t believe good test scores proved we met their mission of developing a stronger relationship with Jesus Christ, we were still encouraged to study hard. We were allowed to fail a maximum of 6 tests. If we passed this limit as well as failed to comply with several warnings, the director could arrange for our prompt return. Bible School was not interested in students who simply wanted to have a two year vacation.
My grades were a test for me. Always having achieved high scores in my primary education, I learned to deal with becoming a lower-than-average student. Not once did I ever receive an A. Perhaps this could have been partly because it was the first time I took classes in a foreign language.
Although each time I received a B or C, I knew in my heart that my pride was being placed on trial.
That’s why it didn’t take me by surprise when we received our easiest test back on ‘Church History’ with a B. Everyone else had gotten an A! But due to a careless mistake I received a B! Really God? You couldn’t just give me this one? Just this one! The one everybody else passed perfectly. It was frustrating. embarrassing, and humiliating. . .are these last two synonymous? Sorry. Sometimes I quickly put my test away before the person next to me could ask. But like many humans, I learned to adapt and while I was not proud of my low scores, I no longer cried as I had in Kindergarten whenever I received anything lower than an A.
It made me see that there were other things more important than the grade. It was not about that, but what we did with the words we received each day. It was about living with kindness, helping my neighbor in the dorm or in the kitchen during our volunteer hours.
Perhaps I no longer felt getting low grades was the end of the world, but nearing the end of my first year I had gotten a few D’s. I remember not wanting to think about how many exams I had already failed. Having to go back home before graduation worried me some. I kept that in the back of my thoughts, never quite allowing it to consume my immediate attention, but my fear was still there, usually popping up after a test
.
.
Now that I look back I see the hand of God’s mercy which permitted me to remain. It was sometime when I had failed exam 3 when Brother Reuben called me into the chapel during our working hours. I had been worried at first. Did he catch me talking during class? Brother Reuben was a sort of assistant that helped run the chapel during the classes. He reviewed the video recordings and helped administer our exams. Students had told me that he saw everything! So I suppose it was normal to be a little intimidated by the man. He held a position of authority which we respected.
One day during the class break, he had asked to see me afterwards during my working hours. I wasn't worried at first. I was rather thinking I would get away from work for a short while. It was as the hour grew nearer that I began to feel nervous, my brows became unconsciously tight knitted with worry as I swept. . . shaking my head, occasionally as if that motion could diffuse the possible outcome. Somewhere in my thoughts I knew that forgetting about the status of my grades would not eliminate the problem, yet I still refused to think about it.
As I entered the chapel from my afternoon job of sweeping, I wiped my tennis shoes in the doormat while some male students busily vacuumed the inside and polished the pews. I hesitated a moment before knocking on his office door that stood at the right side of the entrance. I heard a few voices within and stood back a moment before he finally stepped out to speak to me.
“Gracias Charly, we’ll look at that later” he dismissed the man that worked the cameras every day. He was even shorter than Brother Reuben whose eye level was only slightly above my own.
“You wished to speak to me Bro. Reuben?” All the while I raked my brain to find some fault for which I assumed he wanted to speak about.
His face was as serious as ever. Brother Reuben’s face never betrayed anything. He was a quiet man who seemed to be somewhere around his forties, with no signs of graying. Had I not seen him around his wife and child on occasion, I wouldn’t have thought him a very affectionate person.
“Yes,” his thin lips were pressed tightly, “I wanted to discuss some of the questions of the exam with you.” You do? I was surprised when he pulled out my test and pointed to some that had been marked incorrectly. “Are you sure you don’t remember this?” He went on to give me keywords to clue me into the correct answer. I was shocked at first. Why are you doing this? I wanted to ask. Why are you helping me? Does he do this for other students as well? I wanted to ask, but I feared that doing so might break him out of this spell and he would come to his senses.
On one of these occasions when Bro. Reuben had called me afterwards to see him about one of my tests, I nearly broached the subject, “Brother Reuben, how many tests have I failed already?” I was almost afraid of the answer.
“Four” he answered simply. He wasn’t as blunt as Sister Yoli, but he was a man that was resourceful with his time.
“How many are we allowed to miss?” The rule book wasn’t exactly fresh on my mind near the end of the year.
“Six, but hna. Zara” he called me by the Spanish enunciation of my name, “We’d like to prevent that from happening.” I nodded, not wanting to do anything to change his mind. By all means continue! I thought. Sometimes I felt some guilt. He’s not exactly giving me the answers, and I hoped I wasn’t the only one in this position, but I feared too much to ask because I really didn’t want the tables to turn and have to go home before my two years were fulfilled.
Brother Reuben amidst his stiffness saved many of my C’s from becoming failing D’s. I continued to learn constantly on campus that people were always much more than what they appeared to be, those you might be afraid of or begin avoiding might become a good friend.
Chapter 11
As I sit here typing this and pelting peanuts at my family's rat looking pest...I mean pet of a dog (I say that with great affection from somewhere deep inside...very deep :D) I remember a little tidbit which I hope will make some of you laugh.
By the time you've been living for almost 2 years alongside these young men and women, there tends to be a sort sibling familiarity.
"Mother!" By now I had been promoted as a room monitor whom interns affectionately referred to as mother or father. This adopted daughter of mine was the youngest of my room and her bigger sisters and I were always after her to remember to bundle up in the early mornings that she went to help with breakfast, or listen to her talk about what one of her admirers had done now.
"Do you know what Dino told me now?"
"What happened?"
"He'd seen me eat one of those fruit pops and said 'you might want to be careful, remember that you are what you eat...' can you believe it?!"
"Ugh!" was my immediate response, the nerve of some of these guys! Granted, Dino had been a close acquaintance as he did sit in front of me during classes for a whole year...but when ANY guy was messing with one of my girls, I'd stick with my own kind...and as an afterthought I asked, "how many did you eat?"
"I was on my third one..."
"Oh Vita!" I had a sudden recollection of dragging her all over the dorm floor for eating four hot dogs once and given momentarily into gluttony as a jest. "Well..."well what do you expect? I thought. What could I say when sometimes I was guilty of eating one too many of those fruit pops? They were divine! And if you bought the right color, it functioned as a natural lip stain that was the perfect shade of purple pink.
I sat in some of the steps a few days later with one of my close friends eating that same dessert, hidden from the view below. You could never be too careful of who was watching.
We sat laughing as I recounted what had happened to Vita.
"Those guys are so bad!" my friend exclaimed.
"I know..."after a quiet moment I began to think more about Dino's words. Of course they had been taken a little out of context from the classes we had received that week...but I couldn't help to think,
"Wait a minute Mariam, if we are eating all these fruit pops...what DOES it make US?"
She pondered on it for a bit, ruminating the question, her face brightened suddenly, "Why, it makes us delicious fruit pops!" her genius thought process made us laugh once more. Even the boys' critical observations of us womenfolk would not be enough to stop our increasing addiction to these delightful fruit pops!
Chapter 11
As I sit here typing this and pelting peanuts at my family's rat looking pest...I mean pet of a dog (I say that with great affection from somewhere deep inside...very deep :D) I remember a little tidbit which I hope will make some of you laugh.
By the time you've been living for almost 2 years alongside these young men and women, there tends to be a sort sibling familiarity.
"Mother!" By now I had been promoted as a room monitor whom interns affectionately referred to as mother or father. This adopted daughter of mine was the youngest of my room and her bigger sisters and I were always after her to remember to bundle up in the early mornings that she went to help with breakfast, or listen to her talk about what one of her admirers had done now.
"Do you know what Dino told me now?"
"What happened?"
"He'd seen me eat one of those fruit pops and said 'you might want to be careful, remember that you are what you eat...' can you believe it?!"
"Ugh!" was my immediate response, the nerve of some of these guys! Granted, Dino had been a close acquaintance as he did sit in front of me during classes for a whole year...but when ANY guy was messing with one of my girls, I'd stick with my own kind...and as an afterthought I asked, "how many did you eat?"
"I was on my third one..."
"Oh Vita!" I had a sudden recollection of dragging her all over the dorm floor for eating four hot dogs once and given momentarily into gluttony as a jest. "Well..."well what do you expect? I thought. What could I say when sometimes I was guilty of eating one too many of those fruit pops? They were divine! And if you bought the right color, it functioned as a natural lip stain that was the perfect shade of purple pink.
I sat in some of the steps a few days later with one of my close friends eating that same dessert, hidden from the view below. You could never be too careful of who was watching.
We sat laughing as I recounted what had happened to Vita.
"Those guys are so bad!" my friend exclaimed.
"I know..."after a quiet moment I began to think more about Dino's words. Of course they had been taken a little out of context from the classes we had received that week...but I couldn't help to think,
"Wait a minute Mariam, if we are eating all these fruit pops...what DOES it make US?"
She pondered on it for a bit, ruminating the question, her face brightened suddenly, "Why, it makes us delicious fruit pops!" her genius thought process made us laugh once more. Even the boys' critical observations of us womenfolk would not be enough to stop our increasing addiction to these delightful fruit pops!
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