So, I realize that here at Secrets we don't have any Halloween-related posts yet. Now, I had been planning to do a Dia de los Muertos post, which, for the record, is not at all similar to Halloween in any way, except in my head. I might still do that, but considering I don't know whether or not I'll be in Mexico then, there's probably no point. Instead, as a small token Halloween offering, I give you this bit of a classic:
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Faith, Hope, and Charity?
I am probably one of the most naïve 20 year olds on the planet, which is extremely odd considering my personal history. I really should be far more jaded and cynical than I actually am. But, being the naïve idiot that I am, I decided a long time ago to take my naiveté in stride and to be happy about the fact that I am so optimistic, and gullible, and positive. I’m generally very slow to see problems that most people would see almost right away. So, generally, when I see something right away and think that it’s very, very wrong, it really is. Something has to be pretty screwed up for me to notice right away.
I recently started working at a shelter in Nogales, Arizona. I need to acknowledge first that the shelter does very good work, and that it’s the only place on the American side in Nogales that gives people food and a place to stay. It’s very important, and I don’t want to deride that. However, I have several problems with it already. I feel like I have to question why the shelter exists. And I don’t think it’s because there’s a need in Nogales, although there certainly is a need here. It seems to me like the directors of the shelter started it because there religion told them to. I went to Catholic school, but this shelter is the most “Christian” environment I have ever been in. Before I began working here, I had never been asked for my “salvation story” before. (I still don’t know if I even have one of those, or if I do what it is.) I suppose part of my problem with this place is my own personal history with religion and with overly religious people. My own crises of faith have left “indelible” marks. Religion, or rather, my lack of it, killed what was once a very close friendship and I still sort of regret my own part in that.
Despite my previous troubled interactions with religion, however, I’m still extremely ambivalent about it. I realized a while ago that religion (or at least Catholicism) was never going to play the part in my life that I wanted it to and that it did in my friends’ lives. For several years, I felt as if I were religiously incompetent—that the reason religion didn’t mean anything to me was because of some inherent flaw I had, and that’s why I “couldn’t” pray, why I lacked the faith and personal relationship with God that everyone around me seemed to have. It’s hard to tell now how much of it was a crisis of faith and how much of it was something entirely different, but that was one of the hardest times in my life. And religion and that time are intrinsically linked in my head, which is probably slightly unfair. However, and I’m not entirely sure where this comes from, exactly, I still see religion in a fairly positive light. If I’m completely honest, part of me is still extremely jealous of “people of faith” because part of me still wants what I was never truly able to have. Despite all of the problems it’s caused me, and, more importantly, the world in general, I still see religion as inspiring acts of great good.
But a discussion I had with a friend a while ago made me think about whether motives matter. Is it a problem that people do good work because they think Jesus told them to, instead of out of compassion for their fellow human being? Does that even matter? Is the only important aspect the work that is done? After all, if it weren’t for Christian beliefs, all of the people that I helped feed today wouldn’t have had lunch, and they wouldn’t have been given food to take home, or beds to sleep in. The small utilitarian part of me thinks that the work is so important that it doesn’t matter why it was done. But the rest of me, while I still acknowledge the importance of the work, sees a problem with giving people a side of Jesus with their soup. These next two months should be very interesting…
I recently started working at a shelter in Nogales, Arizona. I need to acknowledge first that the shelter does very good work, and that it’s the only place on the American side in Nogales that gives people food and a place to stay. It’s very important, and I don’t want to deride that. However, I have several problems with it already. I feel like I have to question why the shelter exists. And I don’t think it’s because there’s a need in Nogales, although there certainly is a need here. It seems to me like the directors of the shelter started it because there religion told them to. I went to Catholic school, but this shelter is the most “Christian” environment I have ever been in. Before I began working here, I had never been asked for my “salvation story” before. (I still don’t know if I even have one of those, or if I do what it is.) I suppose part of my problem with this place is my own personal history with religion and with overly religious people. My own crises of faith have left “indelible” marks. Religion, or rather, my lack of it, killed what was once a very close friendship and I still sort of regret my own part in that.
Despite my previous troubled interactions with religion, however, I’m still extremely ambivalent about it. I realized a while ago that religion (or at least Catholicism) was never going to play the part in my life that I wanted it to and that it did in my friends’ lives. For several years, I felt as if I were religiously incompetent—that the reason religion didn’t mean anything to me was because of some inherent flaw I had, and that’s why I “couldn’t” pray, why I lacked the faith and personal relationship with God that everyone around me seemed to have. It’s hard to tell now how much of it was a crisis of faith and how much of it was something entirely different, but that was one of the hardest times in my life. And religion and that time are intrinsically linked in my head, which is probably slightly unfair. However, and I’m not entirely sure where this comes from, exactly, I still see religion in a fairly positive light. If I’m completely honest, part of me is still extremely jealous of “people of faith” because part of me still wants what I was never truly able to have. Despite all of the problems it’s caused me, and, more importantly, the world in general, I still see religion as inspiring acts of great good.
But a discussion I had with a friend a while ago made me think about whether motives matter. Is it a problem that people do good work because they think Jesus told them to, instead of out of compassion for their fellow human being? Does that even matter? Is the only important aspect the work that is done? After all, if it weren’t for Christian beliefs, all of the people that I helped feed today wouldn’t have had lunch, and they wouldn’t have been given food to take home, or beds to sleep in. The small utilitarian part of me thinks that the work is so important that it doesn’t matter why it was done. But the rest of me, while I still acknowledge the importance of the work, sees a problem with giving people a side of Jesus with their soup. These next two months should be very interesting…
Friday, October 10, 2008
One-and-a-half-lingual?
Sorry for the double post. I have limited Internet access, and as such, I decided that it would be easier to just post two entries that I'd already written at once. I have several more ideas for posts, that I hope I'll be able to post next week. However, since I don't have the most reliable access, that's hardly a guarantee.
This is something that I’d have never thought I would say: expressing even my most basic thoughts is extremely difficult. I’ve always identified myself as articulate, well-spoken, and, on occasion, perhaps even eloquent. I might be quieter than most, but that’s because I’ve always tried to choose my words well. That way, when I do speak, and when I do I usually speak for a long time, what I say has more weight. The words I use, and the thoughts that they’re conveying are stronger that way. While I might on occasion complain about my articulateness, I’ve always known that I am capable of explaining any of my thoughts or beliefs in English, and that my explanation will be understood. In fact, any problems that I might have in self-expression stem not from linguistic inability, but rather from the fact that I don’t understand what I’m trying to say. The language itself isn’t the problem.
Or so I thought. Until I came here I don’t think I understood exactly how difficult learning another language actually is. Granted, I knew that I wasn’t fluent in Spanish, but I think I thought that I was close enough that I would be able to get by, and that I would be able to express myself and make myself understood. I assumed that I wouldn’t need to be fluent, exactly, but fluent enough. And to be fair, this was a somewhat logical assumption. After all, I’ve been taking Spanish classes since my freshman year of high school. All of those years must have taught me something, right? Well, they did, but I don’t think that they taught me enough. I can usually understand what somebody says to me, and I can usually answer them back, but there are so many more things that I want to be able to say, so many ideas that I want to be able to explain. Whenever I’m in a situation where I need to discuss a complex idea, I find myself stricken mute because I don’t have the words for it. Or, when I do have the vocabulary I need, I begin to obsess about the different grammatical structure and I stumble over conjugations that I learned years ago, and so I still can’t express myself at all.
I suppose my choice to live on the border was particularly apt. In addition to living 5 minutes from the steel wall that separates México and the U.S., I’m also living in two languages. I still think in English, and thankfully, all but one of my classes are in English, but my family doesn’t speak any English at all. With my family, and with random people on the street, I speak Spanish. I watch Spanish TV, unless I’m feeling extremely homesick, in which case I watch American movies with Spanish subtitles. I cross the international border every Monday through Friday, but I cross the language barrier every five minutes. While I’m living a bilingual life in a bilingual world, I am not bilingual at all. At best, I’m one-and-a-half-lingual. (I don’t know what the prefix for one-and-a-half would be.) I can express basic ideas in Spanish, but my English is still light-years ahead of my Spanish. If I’m being completely honest with myself, it probably always will be. It’s extremely frustrating and exhausting to not be able to be as articulate as I normally am. Little misunderstandings are depressing, if only because I thought that I was beyond them. The most amusing part of this language struggle, at least to me, is that my host family seems to be pretty much oblivious to it. They’ll say things like “Ella se habla muchísimo Español.” Or, “Tu Español es muy bien. Entiendes casi todos.” I just don’t have the words to make them understand. Hasta luego, Kat.
This is something that I’d have never thought I would say: expressing even my most basic thoughts is extremely difficult. I’ve always identified myself as articulate, well-spoken, and, on occasion, perhaps even eloquent. I might be quieter than most, but that’s because I’ve always tried to choose my words well. That way, when I do speak, and when I do I usually speak for a long time, what I say has more weight. The words I use, and the thoughts that they’re conveying are stronger that way. While I might on occasion complain about my articulateness, I’ve always known that I am capable of explaining any of my thoughts or beliefs in English, and that my explanation will be understood. In fact, any problems that I might have in self-expression stem not from linguistic inability, but rather from the fact that I don’t understand what I’m trying to say. The language itself isn’t the problem.
Or so I thought. Until I came here I don’t think I understood exactly how difficult learning another language actually is. Granted, I knew that I wasn’t fluent in Spanish, but I think I thought that I was close enough that I would be able to get by, and that I would be able to express myself and make myself understood. I assumed that I wouldn’t need to be fluent, exactly, but fluent enough. And to be fair, this was a somewhat logical assumption. After all, I’ve been taking Spanish classes since my freshman year of high school. All of those years must have taught me something, right? Well, they did, but I don’t think that they taught me enough. I can usually understand what somebody says to me, and I can usually answer them back, but there are so many more things that I want to be able to say, so many ideas that I want to be able to explain. Whenever I’m in a situation where I need to discuss a complex idea, I find myself stricken mute because I don’t have the words for it. Or, when I do have the vocabulary I need, I begin to obsess about the different grammatical structure and I stumble over conjugations that I learned years ago, and so I still can’t express myself at all.
I suppose my choice to live on the border was particularly apt. In addition to living 5 minutes from the steel wall that separates México and the U.S., I’m also living in two languages. I still think in English, and thankfully, all but one of my classes are in English, but my family doesn’t speak any English at all. With my family, and with random people on the street, I speak Spanish. I watch Spanish TV, unless I’m feeling extremely homesick, in which case I watch American movies with Spanish subtitles. I cross the international border every Monday through Friday, but I cross the language barrier every five minutes. While I’m living a bilingual life in a bilingual world, I am not bilingual at all. At best, I’m one-and-a-half-lingual. (I don’t know what the prefix for one-and-a-half would be.) I can express basic ideas in Spanish, but my English is still light-years ahead of my Spanish. If I’m being completely honest with myself, it probably always will be. It’s extremely frustrating and exhausting to not be able to be as articulate as I normally am. Little misunderstandings are depressing, if only because I thought that I was beyond them. The most amusing part of this language struggle, at least to me, is that my host family seems to be pretty much oblivious to it. They’ll say things like “Ella se habla muchísimo Español.” Or, “Tu Español es muy bien. Entiendes casi todos.” I just don’t have the words to make them understand. Hasta luego, Kat.
Ugly American Tourists and Hostels Galore
First of all, I need to apologize for going so long without posting. My only real excuse is that I’ve been extremely busy. I spent the past few weeks preparing to leave Tucson, which of course meant that I only had time to write papers and do all of my reading. I barely had any time to spend with my absolutely wonderful Tucson host family. And after Tucson, I spent the past week in Mexico City, and I was in no position to post anything there. I did have access to the internet, but I had to pay for it. And more importantly, I was definitely still trying to process everything that I had seen and experienced.
Of course, to be entirely fair, I still haven’t processed everything that I saw while I was in Mexico City. To some extent, I’m not even sure what I should think about the trip. On the one hand, it was a program-based excursion, complete with fascinating talks about the student rebellions in Mexico in 1968(and the massacre on October 2) and 1999, internal migration in Mexico and the legal and economic ramifications of NAFTA. (Ok, so the economic discussion wasn’t as fascinating: I find numbers boring in my first language, but in my second, they’re impossible.) This part I loved, and, what’s more, I don’t feel bad about loving it. While we did do some touristy things, like going to the Torre Latino and the Frida Kahlo museum, we weren’t there solely to be tourists. That changed the dynamics of the trip, at least for me, because in a sense, it allowed me to feel a small sense of superiority, especially when I compared myself to the other people staying in my hostel. For the most part, they did not speak any Spanish, and were only in Mexico City to shop and go clubbing. (Granted, I did both of the last two things as well: the former quite a bit, the latter only once.) During the programmed part of the week, I felt different from those tourists, because I was there to learn more about complicated problems that some of them had probably never even heard of. I’ll admit it was a really nice feeling.
If you think I sound extremely arrogant, you’re right. However, that sense of superiority quickly disappeared once the programmed part of the week ended and my fall break began. I didn’t have a better reason to be in Mexico City anymore. I quickly began to feel like the epitome of the ugly American tourist, hated the world over. Now, I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t enjoyed all of the time that I spent in Mexico City, because I really did have a lot of fun and I managed to learn a lot, even during my break. I loved going to Bellas Artes, the Palacio Nacional, and the Mueso de Antropología. I will even admit to loving the tour that my hostel gave that took us to the Basilica de la Virgen de Guadalupe and Teotihuacán. That was an incredible experience, and not just because we went to two absolutely awe-inspiring places. The group that went on the tour was a mix of different nationalities, and while English was a second language for quite a few people, Spanish was spoken by very few. That was ok, however, because our tour guide spoke English. The places we went to were beautiful and absolutely sublime. As a lapsed Catholic, I was especially affected by the Basilica. Seeing the tilma with the Virgin’s image on it, affected me in ways that I wouldn’t have expected. A few days after going to the Basilica, I found myself praying in my head, which is something I hadn’t done in years. I don’t really know what I should make of that development, other than that I was less lapsed than I’d thought. But Teotihuacán was something else entirely. Walking through the reconstructed ruins is something left me speechless for the entire day. I still am unable to describe it in a way that is even remotely comprehensible. I also am struggling to write about the place without romanticizing it. I am a horrible romantic, but I know that if I describe Teotihuacán the way I want to, as the ruins of an extinct civilization, then I am not describing it as it is today. If I write about the glory of the Teotihuacános, and the Aztecs who only later inhabited the city, then I’m ignoring all of the people who still make a living there. While Teotihuacán is frequently seen as a reconstructed, it is still alive. Granted, it is not as alive as it once was, and it isn’t the same, but it is still very much alive. The streets are no longer filled with Aztecs, but rather tourists, tour guides, and the thousands of vendors who sell at the feet of pyramids that used to be the site of human sacrifices.
I’m sorry; I’m not being very articulate. I suppose I still don’t know exactly what I should say about this past week. I still feel overwhelmed by the entire experience, and I’m having difficulty sticking with only one topic, when there are hundreds of things that I could be saying. However, I do have some good news for the very few readers of this blog: I have several ideas for more posts, so keep an eye out. Hasta luego, Kat.
Of course, to be entirely fair, I still haven’t processed everything that I saw while I was in Mexico City. To some extent, I’m not even sure what I should think about the trip. On the one hand, it was a program-based excursion, complete with fascinating talks about the student rebellions in Mexico in 1968(and the massacre on October 2) and 1999, internal migration in Mexico and the legal and economic ramifications of NAFTA. (Ok, so the economic discussion wasn’t as fascinating: I find numbers boring in my first language, but in my second, they’re impossible.) This part I loved, and, what’s more, I don’t feel bad about loving it. While we did do some touristy things, like going to the Torre Latino and the Frida Kahlo museum, we weren’t there solely to be tourists. That changed the dynamics of the trip, at least for me, because in a sense, it allowed me to feel a small sense of superiority, especially when I compared myself to the other people staying in my hostel. For the most part, they did not speak any Spanish, and were only in Mexico City to shop and go clubbing. (Granted, I did both of the last two things as well: the former quite a bit, the latter only once.) During the programmed part of the week, I felt different from those tourists, because I was there to learn more about complicated problems that some of them had probably never even heard of. I’ll admit it was a really nice feeling.
If you think I sound extremely arrogant, you’re right. However, that sense of superiority quickly disappeared once the programmed part of the week ended and my fall break began. I didn’t have a better reason to be in Mexico City anymore. I quickly began to feel like the epitome of the ugly American tourist, hated the world over. Now, I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t enjoyed all of the time that I spent in Mexico City, because I really did have a lot of fun and I managed to learn a lot, even during my break. I loved going to Bellas Artes, the Palacio Nacional, and the Mueso de Antropología. I will even admit to loving the tour that my hostel gave that took us to the Basilica de la Virgen de Guadalupe and Teotihuacán. That was an incredible experience, and not just because we went to two absolutely awe-inspiring places. The group that went on the tour was a mix of different nationalities, and while English was a second language for quite a few people, Spanish was spoken by very few. That was ok, however, because our tour guide spoke English. The places we went to were beautiful and absolutely sublime. As a lapsed Catholic, I was especially affected by the Basilica. Seeing the tilma with the Virgin’s image on it, affected me in ways that I wouldn’t have expected. A few days after going to the Basilica, I found myself praying in my head, which is something I hadn’t done in years. I don’t really know what I should make of that development, other than that I was less lapsed than I’d thought. But Teotihuacán was something else entirely. Walking through the reconstructed ruins is something left me speechless for the entire day. I still am unable to describe it in a way that is even remotely comprehensible. I also am struggling to write about the place without romanticizing it. I am a horrible romantic, but I know that if I describe Teotihuacán the way I want to, as the ruins of an extinct civilization, then I am not describing it as it is today. If I write about the glory of the Teotihuacános, and the Aztecs who only later inhabited the city, then I’m ignoring all of the people who still make a living there. While Teotihuacán is frequently seen as a reconstructed, it is still alive. Granted, it is not as alive as it once was, and it isn’t the same, but it is still very much alive. The streets are no longer filled with Aztecs, but rather tourists, tour guides, and the thousands of vendors who sell at the feet of pyramids that used to be the site of human sacrifices.
I’m sorry; I’m not being very articulate. I suppose I still don’t know exactly what I should say about this past week. I still feel overwhelmed by the entire experience, and I’m having difficulty sticking with only one topic, when there are hundreds of things that I could be saying. However, I do have some good news for the very few readers of this blog: I have several ideas for more posts, so keep an eye out. Hasta luego, Kat.
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