Estirar

I bid you a weary good evening from Maryknoll. I should not be here tonight, because my mind is wiped out. But I want to hear, to the best of my ability, what they are saying in this part of the world about the crisis of accountability in the Church in the wake of generations of sexual abuse by clergy and religious. There is a colloquium that will get started at 7 p.m. in the hall of the mission center. So I dash this in haste from the student lounge before going downstairs for a listening-in on Latin American perspectives on clericalism and power.

I really do not like these long Wednesdays. I do not do well with them. Four hours of classes, then back to the convent for lunch, then volunteering at Nuestra Casa for two to three hours. And today I squeezed in Mass at midday here at Maryknoll, and now this colloquium. It is too much. My brain is in rebellion. 

In the third class period I was pushing back against Profesora Karla, bad cop to Profesora Liliana the good cop. I do not like getting so many corrections from Profesora Karla when I am in mid-speech. I do not like pressing ahead so firmly with our paces, as we do with Profesora Karla. There is scarcely any time through the class for a pause, for slowing down. (To the contrary, I have been advised to cut the pauses in my speech, as if I could think faster.) I just do not like it, and by the fourth period, our weekly conference, I was done, ready to tune out everything. Ironically, the topic was culture shock, presented by the director of the mission center, Padre Alejandro Marina. For me, it was more like culture stun, as my brain was tasered into a paralysis. 

Then, just as the bell rings, as we are ready to leave, Profesora Karla asks me to prepare some questions for a meeting being arranged by Maryknoll for me with the Cochabamba archdiocesan mission office. This is part of an effort to find ways to tailor my language acquisition to my ministry goals back in the United States. I think Maryknoll means well, but I am not entering mission in another country, I am not a priest, and though I work in a parish, I do not consider myself a pastoral worker. (If you are reading this, take note, Father Michael, Father Robert and the provincial council.) I am dubious about the merit of this meeting being arranged. So I do not have much motivation going into this meeting on Friday morning. As for the homework assignment: arrrgh! Stop springing these assignments at the final minute, profesora!

Nuestra Casa was not where I wanted to be this afternoon. I tried to talk Señora Janneth into agreeing that it was not working out for me being a volunteer, and she should let me go. She disagreed. I was dismayed. My tongue was tied, as usual, and I could not understand even the simplest words from one of the younger girls, who I am sure has a speech problem. She got me to understand that she only wanted to kick a soccer ball and color some pictures with her. We did that, but in silence for all but a few moments here and there.

Sorry for the venting and griping and moping today, folks. It was just a hard day today, and felt far from wherever the Holy Spirit was taking action. I do not respond well when I am stretched beyond my capacities. Rather I recoil and turn inward. But there are some days when you cannot hide your inadequacy. This was one of them. Sigh ... that is adulthood, I guess.