Nicaragua: the new preschool teacher

This is a picture of Miguel, the new preschool teacher. He's reading to Eva while Michael puts a yellow ring on his head. He just left it there after she climbed down and wandered off to play. I think this communicates what a great companion and guide I think he is for my students. He has studied teaching in Nicaragua (he lives in the same community as the 5th & 6th grade teacher), so he knew some things I didn't about early childhood development. I feel great about him taking over with my kids. He was able to start on the first of September, so the kids had both of us in the classroom for two weeks before I left. That way they could get used to him and he could get used to our schedule. He is very respectful and patient with them. I am thankful to God for providing such a wonderful teacher for those 14 beautiful children.

A Student Lost

I was folding laundry and calling Leah when my phone beeped. I quickly finished my message on Leah’s voicemail and flashed over to the other call. It was Adam.

“How are you?” He said hastily.

“Fine,” I replied. It wasn’t odd that he was calling me after being out of touch for several weeks. We call each other to check-in every once in a while. He tells me what’s going on at my old school and we exchange advice and encouragement.

“You busy?” He asked.

“Nope,” I responded.

“Really?” He questioned.

“Really,” I said. “I just got home, took a shower, and now I’m folding laundry. I’m actually not busy, it’s amazing.” I laughed.

He hesitated.

“What is it?” I pushed.

“Do you remember Brittany Jaques? White girl, kind of nerdy…”

I went through the Rolodex of my former students’ pictures in my head.

“I think so,” I said, unsure of her exact identity.

“You know, white girl,” he knew that if he pushed, I could narrow it down just by race. “Glasses, she’s a 7th grader now.”

“Brittany,” I thought to myself. Then her picture flashed into my head. “Yea, Brittany!” I exclaimed. “I used to drive her home sometimes.” The truth is, sometimes is an understatement. By the end of the school year, she and Luis talked me into giving them a ride almost every day. Other teachers took students home, so I always agreed. It was a good chance to get to know them as they were both in the most difficult class in the school. Their presence in class was always overshadowed by the behavior problems of the other students.

“Well, she’s dead now.” He said solemnly.

“She’s what?” I stopped what I was doing.

“She’d dead, Megan.”

I was worried this would happen. That school is in such a rough area, I was sure that one day I would turn on the television and see that one of my students had been killed in gang activity or armed robbery. But of all the students on my mental Rolodex, she would be the last I would expect to be killed. Some of these students made me believe that they were safe…that they would make it through and go to college. Brittany and Luis were two of these students. I learned this about them while I drove them home every day. Their parents, teachers, the principal, we weren’t worried about them.

At 3:00 a.m. Tuesday morning, Brittany, still in pink pajamas, put on her tennis shoes and her glasses and walked out her front door. She took nothing but house keys, locking the door behind her, and ventured 2-3 miles through empty lots and fields or busy roads to the highway. Around 3:30 a.m. she stepped in front of a car that had just entered the highway and was hit and killed instantly.

I was silent. “I’m sorry to ruin your evening,” Adam said.

I ran down the stairs and grabbed my computer. “I don’t understand,” I said, assuming Adam had the details wrong. This didn’t make sense. I scanned local news websites and read the short stories finally identifying the child that on the 5:00 a.m. news was listed as “unidentified.” Adam’s details matched the news.

“How are things?” He tried to change the subject.

“I’m sorry, I don’t feel like talking anymore.” I said bluntly. “I’ll call you later this week. I’ll text you or something,” I said, afraid to break into tears on the phone.

“Okay,” he said.

I watched the online video of the 5:00 a.m. news that broke the story about Brittany. They were still saying that a “woman” or possibly a “late adolescent” was killed on the highway early this morning. This must have been what Brittany’s mom was watching, shaking her head sadly and thanking God for her own child. It wasn’t until she opened her daughter’s bedroom door to wake her up that she realized this unidentified “woman” might be her daughter.

After rereading the stories online, I sat and stared at the computer. I tried to remember every memory of her. Every moment she was in my car. Did I take her home in my car? No, not always. Sometimes it was my dad’s truck or my grandpa’s car. She and Luis couldn’t stop talking about how they thought my grandpa’s 10-year-old Grand Marquee was the nicest car they had ever seen. I thought about where she sat in my class. Three seats in on the long row. In a class full of students throwing chairs, fighting, saying and doing terrible things, she sat there and followed directions. While her friends, mostly boys, were somewhat bullied, the students seemed to like her. She never seemed frustrated or unhappy. Though I might classify her as an outcast, it seemed that she was mostly an introvert. She was comfortable in her awkwardness. As I got to know her in the car, her sarcastic sense of humor made her seem well adjusted and able-to-cope. She talked about a loving mother encouraging her to do her homework. She spoke fondly about her brother.

This is why the details didn’t make sense. Was she sleepwalking? Then why did she put on her shoes and glasses, and lock the front door behind her. Was she going somewhere? All of her friends and family lived away from the highway. Was she committing suicide? Honestly, she was too smart to use that as a method of killing herself. Was she running away? This seems likely, but she took nothing with her. No clothes, no money, and she stayed in her pajamas.

The details of how she got there don’t make sense either. The distance she had to walk in addition to the pathway she had to take. Did she take the bridge that didn’t accommodate walkers or did she work her way through fields?

I cried without knowing if I had a right to cry. For some reason, I felt guilty, like I wasn’t allowed to be upset because I was not her teacher anymore. But I could still see her in my car, in my classroom. And now her face is all over the internet, television and newspaper. I miss her, even though I had already left her.

This morning, I looked at all of my students differently. I looked at each one and began to memorize their faces. I thought about how they are all so much like Brittany, searching for something I don’t understand. Part of me has lost hope that my students are going to be all right. I look at the faces of those that I am sure will live forever, though now I am not so sure. But mostly, I look into their eyes and see the children, my children, that give so much to my classroom every day. I try to file away every moment, remember every time they make me laugh. Through my students, I celebrate Brittany’s memory, and I get to know each of them a little bit better.

swag

The following is a text version of the story I told for today's storytelling class. The assignment was "How I Got to Be This Way: A Story About my Origins."

Begin by reading Mark 5: 1-13.

where i grew up, everybody was white. there were maybe five asian kids in my high school, and one puerto rican kid. all of the asian kids had been adopted by white families.


somebody had to tell me that i was white. i didn’t really know there was any other option. i knew some people of color, i guess, and i saw them on tv. but to think of myself as having a race: this was a new idea. I wasn’t white so much as i was “normal.”


where i grew up, everybody was American. I didn’t even think of myself as being a US citizen. It was just something everybody was, in the same way that I don’t think of myself as someone who breathes. Somebody had to tell me I was a US citizen. I didn’t really know there was any other option. I met some people from outside the US, but to think of myself as having nationality: this was a new idea. I wasn’t American so much as I was “normal.”


where i grew up, everybody was straight. a few kids came out in my high school, and my dad came out to my family in middle school. that helped me realize a little, but i never much thought of myself as “straight.” I dated girls in high school; I’m dating a girl right now. I wasn’t “straight” so much as I was “normal.”


where i grew up, everybody was middle class. i once went to a friend’s house, and there were not that many nice things there; there were some kids in my school who got the free lunches. I knew about poverty, kind of. I saw it on tv, read about it in books. We talked about it in church. But I never thought of myself as poor or not, never thought of myself as being a member of a class. I wasn’t ‘middle class’ so much as I was ‘normal.’


where i grew up, everybody was male. There were women in my school, at my church, in my family. But I didn’t have to think of myself as having gender. I wasn’t male, so much as I was normal.


my friend calls us swags: straight white american guys. Nobody tried to teach me that all these things were normal, with the possible exception of the advertising industry. None of my teachers wrote out a lesson plan that said, “today, teach david that white people are better than other people.” Or, “today, teach David that he is better than Becca because of his genitals.”


But, friends, I grew up in a small town in the United States of America, where most everybody learns these things. Particularly the swags.


I catch myself, sometimes. Catch myself acting in a way that shows I think US citizens are better than others, that I am better than others for my whiteness, my maleness, my straightness, or for some other imaginary thing.


But most of the time I don’t catch myself; I just go on acting in racist and sexist ways.


Last week, I was talking with a friend and colleague about original sin. Original sin, see… not something that I would list as something i believe in. This sin that is inexorably passed down to us from our sinful parents. That we cannot escape without the grace of God.


But, I, my friends, am a straight white American guy, and this is the story of how i got to be this way. Trying to get better, but still racist, sexist, homophobic and nationalist at my core. Only able to escape from this mire with the help of traveling companions who will call me out. And with the grace of God, calling me out of my hatred into solidarity, into struggle, into wholeness.

...original sin.

End by reading Mark 5: 1-13.

Back from Nicaragua

I arrived in the United States on Thursday afternoon. First shock: people speak English. Second shock: the incredible variety and diversity of foods. Third shock: you flush the toilet paper, you don't toss it in a little garbage can in the stall. Fourth shock: all the soap smells unnecessarily great.

My godmother was waiting for me at the very edge of the security line. I hugged her. It felt so good. She has known me since I was 3 or 4. That is longer than anyone in Nicaragua has known me. She brought me a piece of chocolate cake and a fork. It was really, really good chocolate cake.

My dad came in on the Marin shuttle and met us in the baggage claim. He hugged me. He's my dad. It was wonderful.

On Friday my godmother and I went to all these Burts Bees-selling funky rich grocery stores and a Mexican grocery store, buying raw milk and plantains and cabbage and poblano pepper, which FYI is the closest thing to Nicaraguan chiltoma I found. We went to the post office on behalf of one of Beth's friends in Guatemala who needed some mail sent. Another shock: stamp prices passed the 40 cents mark while I was away.

I made the following Nicaraguan foods for my family: rice, beans, guacamole, tortillas (from scratch), cheese (yes, I made cheese with a Nicaraguan cheese pill and raw milk from the store), tostones (fried plantains), cabbage salad, and jamaica-flavored Tang. I wanted to bring jamaica flowers from Nicaragua and boil them to make the beverage, but I thought customs would give me a hard time. Thanks to the Nicaraguan cooks who trained me, everything turned out delicious. It was way more food than we usually ate in a meal in Nicaragua, though. They thought I couldn't find salsa inglesa here. But thanks to the power of the Bay Area, it was easy.

I called Benjamin, of the Benjamin's piñata blog post, who lives in San Francisco. I needed some information while I was on the phone but couldn't find Dad's laptop. When I called for Dad, Benjamin interrupted me. I have the information highway right here, he said. Another shock: lots of people have computers.

Today I wanted to mail a letter to David. Did I rush out of Chacocente to make it to a far-off and out-of-the-way post office before its obsenely early closing time? Did I bike to the bus stop and take the bus and buy a couple baggies of water and readjust my backpack for the walk from the bus to the post office? Did I get whistled at, did men I passed make kissing noises, did they say they loved me in Spanish, did they call me white girl? Did I weave in between vegetable stalls to stay out of the hot hot punishing sun? Were my feet tired and dirty? Did I have to have remembered to pack an envelope, did I have to buy stamps at the post office?

No. Dad had an envelope. There were stamps IN THE HOUSE (!). I addressed the letter without specifying "USA" in David's address. Then, get this. I CLIPPED THE LETTER TO THE OUTSIDE OF THE MAIL SLOT ON OUR FRONT DOOR, AND THE MAIL CARRIER JUST PICKED UP THE LETTER RIGHT FROM OUR HOUSE.

shock.

I felt nervous and sad or a little overwhelmed or something this afternoon. Praying for my friends in Chacocente helped. I prayed that their planting would go well, that working together in the fields would increase their sense of community, that they would work together well and enjoy fellowship. I prayed that Wilma's body will nurture the baby it carries, that being parents again will strengthen her marriage, that her seven-year-old will welcome the baby and feel just as loved as when he was an only child. I prayed that Esperanza and Wilma and Calin and Nelson will be transformed and ignited by their upcoming Walk to Emaus retreat. I pray that right now, as I write this, Charito's wedding to her Costa Rican fiance will be a blessing to them both and to their community. At this very moment they are a half hour into the ceremony. Or, knowing Nicaragua, ten minutes into the ceremony. I pray that her dress fits her well and the food tastes delicious and that the skies are clear beyond the palm branches on the street my church is on in Nicaragua.

I owe you posts on the following subjects:
1. the well
2. the teacher who is with my students now
3. my street flooding
4. leaving Nicaragua
5. visiting Beth in Guatemala.

So, stay posted! Get it?

managing empire

I preached at Grace Baptist Church last Sunday. My friend Lisa the animator videotaped it and put it up on youtube. It's in three parts.

Here's how Lisa described them:
"It is in three parts, because of the length being too long for youtube
to allow one cut of it. Part one is the introduction complete with the
taking down of Jesus. Part duex is talking about our privaleges and
using them, as well as David's experiences with the face of God in the
hospital. Part three has a lovely song."

I was following the revised common lectionary, so the gospel reading is the first part of Luke 16, and some doom and gloom stuff from Jeremiah and Psalms.







Part III has a recording of that song I posted here a while ago.

take it easy but take it,
David

the most amazing thing anyone has ever done ever

So, on Friday I stopped by Lisa's room. Lisa is a cool new member of my co-op, and she had been animating on her chalkboard wall. Yes, that's right.

Anyway, we decided to make a music video of the Gentle Revolution song I wrote for Emily's birthday this spring.

Then we played with chalk for the next eight hours. While I was working my last shift at the hospital yesterday, she edited it.

I just can't say enough about how awesome this is. Basically, you have to see it for yourself. Thank you Jesus for inventing Youtube. And to Josh for recording the song. And to Lisa for making (much of) the movie.

Some of you might know that I tried to do stop-motion animation in middle school, and loved it, but had really, really crappy equipment. I've always wanted to do more. Long live my new home, where amazing stuff like this is happening all the time.

Can't stop the Spirit.

(If it doesn't work above you can go see it on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ilM0BONIgw)

all kinds of love

Last week I finished my summer hospital chaplaincy internship, and this weekend I flew down to Atlanta to officiate at my sister's wedding.

I saw a lot of love in the hospital, and a lot of marriages. Often, I saw this love, and these marriages, in moments of incredible crisis: either the sharp moments surrounding death, or the long slow suffer of walking with someone through illness and surgery.

Eventually, I came to see the face of grief as the same face of love, filtered through pain and anguish; I guess it's like what that book said that I quoted here a few days ago- every lament is a love song.

But it was pretty powerful to come out of the hospital, to take a step back from husbands standing constant vigil over sick wives, from the wife I saw trying to pray her husband back to life, from the man who rushed in to the hospital in the middle of the night because his wife coded, and then just looked at her. Because, the thing of it is, that man who came in looked at his wife, lying wordless and trached, in the intensive care bed, and she looked back. And it was the same look that Kate and Kenneth shared, as they stood in front of me, as I performed their wedding. This love is the same. And it is as strong as death.

The first song they danced to, at the reception, when I could finally cry my wedding tears and wasn't so caught up in my role that I had to take appropriate distance from my emotions, was this ben folds song, 'the luckiest.' The amazing bluegrass band that played there learned it just for them. The last verse pretty much says it.

"Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away

I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong..."

There it is.

And I am pained and proud to carry my identity as a lover into the hospital room and into the wedding feast. I got to write the pronouncement part of their wedding. I'll close with what I said there:

"This world is often full of struggle and hardship. We walk daily amidst sickness, amidst news of wars and death and tragedy, amidst injustices on a grand and intimate scale.
In the face of this, the greatest gift that one of us can give to another is a constant, faithful, loving presence.
Therefore, it is my great pleasure, to stand before the gathered community today, and to stand before Kenneth and Kate. I do not only stand for myself, but also for the gathered and the scattered Loved Ones, and for the Spirit.
Then, on behalf of all of these, here amidst these pines and these witnesses, I pronounce you Kate and Kenneth McGuinness, husband and wife."

amen.