Confessions from a Dorm 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 inunciation 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.   

Confessions from a Dorm

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.

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.