Las Profesoras

Adiós, Osvaldo y Óscar. Hola, Liliana y Julia. 

We switched over to new instructors yesterday at Maryknoll. Señora Liliana and Señora Julia are my tutors for the next three weeks.

Every teacher has a different approach. Both Profesoras Liliana and Julia have made their methods known, and they are distinctive. For instance, both of them have had Joshua and I get up and go out of the classroom to practice our conversational skills in a real-life simulation. Thus, as we were learning how to give directions, Profesora Liliana had us lead her, as if she could not see, from the classroom to, say, the secretary’s or the language program coordinator’s office. (We were careful not to have her collide with any door or wall!) As we were learning how to use prepositional phrases to describe the relative position of objects, Profesora Julia guided us through the Maryknoll Mission Center grounds and had us answer how this tree, or that car, or that person, was situated.

I think that, based on feedback they must have received from Profesores Osvaldo and Óscar, Profesoras Liliana and Julia have made other pedagogical adjustments. For example, the teachers do not conduct their lessons simply by the (text)book we use. They encourage digressions into unprogrammed conversation. These excursions clarify grammatical questions, enhance our vocabulary, and build endurance for thinking and speaking Spanish. They also introduce cultural knowledge. Thus far this week, I find that both Joshua and I are veering into longer digressions with our teachers. Granted, they do much of the load bearing in our conversations, but we the students are picking up some more slack and sustaining more of the discussion. In fact, Joshua and I are often the ones unraveling new threads of conversation by a question or observation we offer. I take it this is a positive development. It keeps us engaged, it keeps us focused, it makes time pass quickly, and it reinforces the feeling we are making progress.

Speaking of cultural knowledge, I feel that our lessons will only become more saturated with context as we advance. Profesora Liliana raised the bar by assigning Joshua and me an article from the Spanish-language edition of National Geographic about the drying out of Lake Poopó in the Altiplano of Bolivia and other great lakes of the world. (Here it is in English.) We have also had conversations about violence against women in Bolivia, in preparation for the Wednesday weekly conference, which Profesora Liliana will lead on this very topic. I hope to give you a rundown tomorrow after the fact. But this evening I am to ponder two basic questions for in-class conversation immediately prior to the 11 a.m. conference. First, what does it mean to be a woman? Second, what does it mean to be a man? Pretty open-ended questions. What do you say, dear readers?

Tráfico

I saw it happen, right in front of me.

It was quarter after seven this morning. I was walking north up Calle San Martín to the bus stop at the corner of Calle Ecuador. I was approaching Calle Colombia, the street before Calle Ecuador. I was maybe 70 or 80 feet from the corner of Calle Colombia. The bus I was hoping to chase down barreled right on by me into the intersection. Already in the intersection crossing Calle San Martín from the west was a big silver-gray van. The bus was too late to stop; I don’t think it stopped at all. The front of the bus collided with the right rear of the van, sending the van skidding, spraying glass from its broken taillight and shedding pieces of bumper. It was a frightening sound, the sickening dead thud of metal on metal and the crash of glass. The left side of the van scraped against obstacles on the left curb of Calle Colombia and came to a stop. The bus sputtered several more feet up Calle San Martín and braked.

The passengers, dazed but seemingly all right, evacuated the bus slowly. A family staggered out of the van. A woman was wailing. A boy, her son I imagine, was kneeling, hunched, cradling his arms. Were they broken? And other people from the van and the bus were weeping and moaning.

All the while I was frozen. I looked up; all the lights in the traffic signal were lit, red, yellow, and green. Were they like that before the collision? And other questions. Whether the signal was working or not, who had the right of way? Shouldn’t the bus have proceeded more cautiously, slowly, toward the intersection? Shouldn’t the van have been proceeding more cautiously? Did the passengers in the van have seat belts, and were they wearing them? I know the buses have no seat belts. There are rules of the road; doesn’t anybody follow them?

The anger came later, but at the moment I was shocked. I saw a collision, and from the looks of it, it could have caused fatalities, but for the grace of God and the guardian angels.

And helplessness came over me. I couldn’t call an ambulance. My phone does not work here. And if I could, would I know what to say or do? A crowd was gathering close to the family. Were they, could they help the family? What did they need? What could be done?

I stood, impotent, watching these helpless people. I had to get to school to learn the language I came here from four thousand miles away to study so I could help the helpless in New York City. Would this family, would these bystanders understand if this man dressed in a friars’ robe walked away from them without a word, without a gesture, not because he did not care but because he felt afraid and ignorant and embarrassed to have nothing to give but surprise and shock, which he was trying hard to hide?

I walked past the crowd to the bus stop at the corner of Calle Ecuador. I felt like the priest and Levite on the Jericho Road. Dear God, forgive me for not knowing what to do.

Did I have a premonition of this incident? Last night I dreamed of a plane crash, that a plane went down in Bolivia.

What I take to prayer tonight is grief for the hurt family. I take anger that the roads are so unsafe in Cochabamba. I take fear because I worry about getting to school and to the convent safely every day. I don’t know whether to walk or ride the bus. I take the hope that city leaders will do better, improve the functionality of traffic signs and signals. I pray they will enforce the rules of the road, punish bad drivers, and train all who apply for licenses to operate motor vehicles more responsibly. I ask God’s guardian angels to slow down the motorists and steady their hands and feet and focus their eyes and ears.

Pray that God will watch over all of us in our coming and going. Amen.

Fotos

Backtracking over the last week and a half:

On Facebook, the Maryknoll Mission Center posted photos from its k’oa celebration of ch’alla (March 1) and its Ash Wednesday service (March 6), which I covered in previous posts. These were not added to the Maryknoll website; they are only on Facebook. So visit the group’s page and scroll down for the photo albums.

Nota bene: While everyone in the United States has turned the clocks forward one hour to begin daylight saving time, Bolivia does not do this. That means Bolivia and the Eastern Time Zone in the U.S. are now telling the same time. So, my friends in the Northeast, this will make it easier for us to coordinate video calls!

Corso de Corsos

“Today is holy to the Lord your God. Do not lament, do not weep! Do not be saddened this day, for rejoicing in the Lord is your strength!” (Nehemiah 8:9,10).

We read these words every Sunday at morning prayer during Lent. These words come to mind as I reflect on what I saw Saturday afternoon at the Corso de Corsos in downtown Cochabamba. Sheer rejoicing was the spirit of the day, and it gave prodigious momentum to the affair.

I didn’t have to go far to find the Corso. One block north, up Calle 25 de Mayo from Templo San Francisco and the convent to Avenida de Heroinas, and there you were. I couldn’t go much further, either. One block east to Calle San Martín, and the route was packed with spectators already. There was no more sidewalk, and you couldn’t walk in the street while the groups processed. Well, you could try, but you would get sprayed with espuma from spectators in the peanut gallery.

I arrived late, after one o’clock, which is why I could not make my way north along Calle San Martín to El Prado, as I had done last Sunday to view the Corso Infantil. The reason there were no sidewalks is that upon them the city erected wooden bleachers, as well as risers with plastic seats, all of them covered by tents or canopies to keep out the rain, which fell in the morning, and the sun, which returned in the afternoon, annihilating the gray-white clouds. In effect, if you did not arrive early enough to pay for a bleacher or riser seat, you were walled off from the Corso, at least from where I approached it. What you had to do, as I did, was crawl into the narrow space left behind the risers, about 18 inches deep, pull back the tarp covering the rear, and crane your neck around the backs of other heads and necks to see what you could see. Fortunately, from my peephole behind the risers at the northwest corner of Avenida de Heroinas and Calle San Martín, where the parade bended to turn north, I saw and heard everything.

What was this everything? A rock concert. An IMAX movie in 4D. The Rite of Spring. A victory parade for the gods. A war dance. A freak-out. A rave. A happening.

Hour after hour, fraternities, groups, and societies, men and women marching, playing, dancing. Hour after hour, brass and percussion bands thumping and thundering all the time. It was like one continuous song, relayed from one band to the next, never ending, though I know the rhythms and tunes changed for the different traditional dances. It was like there was a war deity acting as DJ and mixmaster, and all the bands were like discs on his turntables, tracks on his digital player.

Hour after hour, there were dancers, resplendent, surreal, doing la Diablada, la Morenada, la Llamerada, la Cullaguada, los Incas, los Tobas. Blink, and you missed something. Where did they come from, all these performers? They just kept coming! Did they go around the block and return? No! There were all-new groups, with new moves and new costumes.

Dios mío, how can I describe the costumes? Red-yellow-green-black-pink-teal-orange-blue-white-brown-gold-silver. So many combinations of colors, in never-ending invention. To watch the rainbows dancing by was like tumbling inside a kaleidoscope that would not stop turning.

What was I seeing? Women in mini-skirts and six-inch platform shoes or knee-high high-heeled boots wearing three-foot plumes looking like Amazonian glam rock stars. Men moving like mixed martial arts masters in their psychedelic indigenous costumes. Where did they all come from? Venus and Mars? Mount Olympus? The sun?

Both the men and women were looking like messengers of the gods and demigods, like kings and queens and angels and demons, like avatars of ancient and coming ages. Shimmering in sequins, skirts, padded shoulders, unreal headdresses, and armor.

These fraternal societies, dedicated to preservation of Bolivian folklore and culture, prepare months for Carnaval. Understatement of the year: it shows. My mouth hung open at the dress of the performers from Tinkus San Simón. How could there be so many colors in one costume? How could there be so many pieces to one costume? So many threads, sashes, tassels, stoles, plumes, mirrors, beads, trinkets, fringes, sequins. What embroidery, what weaving! Hats and caps, breeches and skirts, bandanas, scarves, vests, boots. Incredulity followed incredulity as more unbelievable costumes appeared, as in the team from Tarata dancing la Diablada to remember the legend of Wari and the Urus. Vipers, toads, lizards, ants, condors, bears, Wari himself, the Inca princess Ñusta, and angelic Auroras. How tall were the headdresses—three, four, five feet?

As I regarded all of this, this is what I was thinking: Everybody is graceful. Everybody is talented. Everybody looks beautiful—transfigured. And I want to see something like this again in heaven. 

For all their efforts, these mighty musicians, these regal dancers, too, were sprayed heartily with foam. Prohibited or not, espuma was being sold, and espuma was being used. As I was standing behind the risers, a little boy, maybe 6 or 7 years old, sprayed me with his empty can, blowing only dust at me. He looked very happy to see me.

From time to time, the cosmic DJ hit Pause. As the music died down, the street crowded with people, spectators and vendors mingling with performers, eating, drinking, spraying, until you did not know who was who.

(Profesor Óscar estimated on Friday that 15,000 people would be participating in the Corso de Corsos from all over the department of Cochabamba. Cochabamba is the name of one of the states of Bolivia, as well as the capital city of the department. The daily Los Tiempos estimated 20,000. Never mind how many came to watch.)

Gradually, the canned music over the loudspeakers was overtaken by a rumble coming from the north down Calle San Martín from El Prado. A Corso marshal raised a green flag: the cosmic DJ hit Play; the dancers and musicians got back into formation; and the dance resumed. Firecrackers and whistles! The glorious mysteries of life had risen again!

I remained for three waves of music and dance. At last, a company of Afrobolivian drummers passed through. Oh, am I glad I stayed long enough to hear them! They were different from the other groups in rhythm and dress. After a litany of sights and sounds exotic to my senses, this felt like a coming home. My soul was uplifted, my body stirred. I was moved.

I stood for almost three hours, until 4 o’clock, but it all began at 9 o’clock this morning and was still going on as I composed this draft on Saturday evening. From the convent, it sounded like the Civil War. It looked like a battle. Fireworks in the sky! (I missed the real soldiers, the military procession having occurred at the beginning of the Corso.)

My eyes and ears full of sensation, I walked back to Templo San Francisco through the street fair that stretched along Avenida de Heroinas between Calle San Martín and Calle 25 de Mayo. Once more I passed the trampolines, the carousels, the games of chance. I passed the foosball machines. I passed the aromas of all the cooking meats, the tang of the cotton candy, the saltiness of the popcorn and nuts. I passed the spangle of the jewelry and the glitter of the masks. Whoosh. I turned around. Some kid found his target … me. A spray of foam found the back of my habit. Not much, but noticeable. I put out my hands and, like an old fogey, shook my head at him to say, why me? But I shook it off. Why not me? Brushing myself clean—the foam faded like water—I continued home, feeling initiated.

You can read a perspective on the Corso de Corsos here and see a video here, with many more attractions I missed earlier.

Lluvia

Friends, you may not believe it when I tell you, but I will tell you anyway.

The friars had just finished reciting morning prayer in the chapel. Back in my room, I was sitting at my computer, full of feelings, full of thoughts. My window shutters were still closed. But my ears began to pick up the sound. Outside, the drizzle of water, like a drumroll. Here in Cochabamba it showers more often in the afternoon than in the morning. No wonder my ears picked up on the sound. An unexpected visitor.

Then, suddenly, an impulse. No, an imperative. Go. Now.

I had been sitting in my sleepwear, a black undershirt and green bottoms. Swiftly, I put on my old brown boots and threw on an even older blue raincoat. That’s all. Nothing else. No umbrella.

I strode out quickly, along the balcony, down the stairs, to the cloister garden. I passed only one friar on the way, who must have wondered at my slovenly dress. Carmelo, my canine nemesis, barked his disapproval: Go back inside!

No. It’s time.

And there I was, in the cloister garden, staring up at the light-and-dark gray sky, feeling the drops pat my face and eyeglasses. I began to slick my hair back. I turned around and around, facing every direction of the garden. Pacing to the north, the south, the east, and the west, I looked at the fruit trees: thank you. I looked at the flowers on the trellises: thank you. I looked at the statue of St. Francis and the Wolf: thank you. I looked for the fish in the fountain, hiding low in the pool: thank you.

Fray Freddie saw me from the north balcony. He called out to me: Hermano, ¿Qué tal? ¿Cómo está? How was I doing? I answered him: Estoy estupendo. La lluvia es bella. El jardín es bello. Yes, brother, I feel fantastic, and everything is truly beautiful. To him I must have looked like a character in a Fellini or Rossellini film.

The rain began to fall harder. I rolled up the sleeves of my raincoat. I unbuttoned the slicker, and I tilted my head back, letting the drops fall on my shirt. The air was neither too warm nor too cool. How good it felt on my skin. How good the moisture, the weight, of my soaked raincoat felt on my outstretched arms and shoulders.

By now the drizzle had become a sizzle, on the grass, on the trees, on the stones, on the tiles. There are two words for rain in Spanish: llovizna for a light shower, and lluvia for a heavy shower. La Niña Llovizna gave way to La Hermana Lluvia. There I stayed with her in the garden, my body absorbing it all, my mind and my heart stilled. All my preoccupations washed away. A morning ablution.

With final salutations to the north, south, east, and west, I left the garden. Carmelo barked one last reproach as I returned to my room. I peeled off the raincoat and removed my shoes. I took a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I was glistening, from my hair and face down to the neckline of my undershirt.

You ask: Why did you do it? I answer: Because my heart was on fire.

As I write this, I’m missing the main part of the Corso de Corsos, the climax of Carnaval in Cochabamba. But this, I’ve missed this even more. The Corso will keep running all day. I will catch up to it. For, at last, I have let the rain fall down on me.

Ayunar

“Is this not, rather, the fast that I choose” (Isaiah 58:6).

One of my favorite passages from the books of the Prophets is today’s reading from Isaiah. The first time I heard this Scripture proclaimed and preached was in August 2007 in Williamsburg, Va., by the Rev. Dr. William Barber, today the national co-chair of the Poor People’s Campaign. I was a graduate student at Boston University School of Theology and a summer seminarian intern at Interfaith Worker Justice. I had joined hundreds of religious leaders and activists to picket a shareholder’s meeting of Smithfield. For 15 years, the company had refused to allow the meatpacking workers at its North Carolina plant to organize a union. Poor wages and debilitating injuries, butchering human lives and human families: none of this mattered to Smithfield. I was electrified as Reverend Barber thundered the words of the prophet: “See, on your fast day you carry out your own pursuits, and drive all your laborers.” I never saw or heard the Word of God take flesh like that before in a preaching event. I was filled with a thrill. Our march and picket was about to become a prophetic sign-act, a word from God! Though I was feeling hungry and sleep-deprived, having been up since maybe three in the morning to catch a couple of flights from Massachusetts to Virginia, I was exhilarated: win or lose, our witness for worker justice would not be in vain. And all the works leading up to this shareholders’ protest—the capstone of a summer of boycotting bacon and ham, of sending petitions, phone calls, and prayers—would not be in vain. (Eventually, by the end of 2007, the workers formed a union that was recognized by Smithfield.)

Whenever the Church comes around to this reading, I return to that galvanizing day in Williamsburg. And as we encounter this reading at the head of Lent, I ask myself, to be accountable, to examine my consciousness: what fast does God choose for me now? Here in Cochabamba, Bolivia, what opportunities does God reveal to me to release those in bondage, to untie the thongs of the yoke, to share my bread with the hungry, to harbor the homeless? I asked this question before in an earlier post as I begin to read the signs of the times here—the poor look indigenous, not Hispanic; the water that brings life also brings hazard to those living in the campos to the south. On this International Women’s Day, I am conscious that violence against women (and girls) is encoded in the culture, and so is a distorted, unhealthy masculinity. (Several couples and individuals representing community organizations from all over Bolivia came to Maryknoll yesterday for a conference on reforming, or rebirthing, masculinity so as to reduce violence, transform conflict, and promote integral development of the family and society.) In the five months I have left here, how might I hunger and thirst for righteousness in real solidarity with my neighbor?

A fast such as this, such as Isaiah proclaims as an oracle of God, as God’s will, requires more than personal austerity. It requires holy activity, guided by the Holy Spirit. So you won’t be reading about me skipping meals. On the advice of others who have lived the immersion experience, I will do what Holy Mother Church prescribes, but I will not be imprudent with my health. Besides, if I miss meals, then I miss opportunities to listen, to speak, and to grow into conversation. As I write this, I hear a marching band, their brass and drums leading from downtown to the Revolution. While I may not storm the barricades any time soon (if you are reading this, Father Provincial, relax!), I will seek the fast that God chooses, the fast of righteous works. So, yes, Lord, give me your hunger; give me your thirst; and show me how to satisfy these, gladly, generously.

Tarea

“ ‘Take up your cross daily and follow me’ ” (Luke 9:23).

It is nearly the midpoint of this term of classes at Maryknoll. Tomorrow concludes my third week of studies. Next week I will rotate with my classmate Joshua to two new instructors. So long to Profesores Osvaldo and Óscar, for now. We have an opportunity, tomorrow, to provide feedback to the language school about our learning experience so far. How are the instructors doing? What do you think of the curriculum? How are the assignments in class and at home?

Ah, homework. This is an interesting subject. At first blush, it would seem the instructors are lenient. We do not receive take-home assignments every day. On the other hand, when there is an out-of-class assignment given, I find it challenging. For example, we toured the downtown churches last Thursday. Then we had to write a description of the churches using the grammar we learned. We also had to be prepared to have a lengthy conversation about the tour. Well, I realized I had to go back to the churches again to fill my eyes and memory, so I made another trip on my own on Saturday. Then I wrote descriptions in English first. Then, doing my best not to cheat, I composed simplified sentences in Spanish based on my English descriptions. By cheat, I mean using Google Translate. I did not use Google Translate to form my sentences. But sometimes after the fact I used Google Translate to verify that the sentences I composed were somewhat correct grammatically. I did not make alterations; I still made mistakes. 

Overall, it was slow going. Other assignments I have received were the same: simple to comprehend but whose cost in time and effort were not to be underestimated.

None of this just comes to you. You do need to prepare when you are asked to have a dialogue with the instructor or classmate the next day. And, unlike those calculus or chemistry lessons that you put away forever when you aced the Advanced Placement exams in high school, you never put behind you any language lesson you finish. You do have to keep practicing the use of this verb or that verb, whether or not there are exercises in class the next day or ever again. 

Thus I am finding that understanding the rules of grammar isn’t enough. I understand everything I have learned so far. But I do not apply the majority of what I understand. I still make mistakes matching gender and number. I still drop articles. I get hopelessly mixed up with prepositions; I employ the wrong part of speech; and just for fun I choose the wrong vocabulary. You should see me during the third or fourth hour of class, the expressions of frustration visible on my contorted face when Profesor Óscar corrects me yet again. It’s a lot of fun. You’d enjoy watching my memory fail. Try and keep up with all the facepalms.

And the solution to all this is … do it again. More homework. Convert understanding into practice. (Do you detect an analogy here to living the Christian life?)

Do my instructors give me enough to do? Yes and maybe no, but that isn’t the point. They are not the only trainers I have. My homework comes from many places. I do my homework at the dinner table with the brothers. I have homework in the chapel, and in the church. I have homework when I ride the red bus to school. I have homework when I walk up the street to Cala Cala and the man with the mustache wants to ask me about the Capuchin habit I am wearing. I have homework when I meet Señora Vicky who wants to sell me her artisanal stoles I can’t afford and don’t need. 

School is always in session. Everyone is an instructor. Homework is everywhere. As in language learning, so also with living the Gospel.