Ok, so most of what I have written thus far has been fairly objective, even journalistic, but I think that it is due time that I record some thoughts for those of you who would be interested.
To begin with, school is school.
I go every day, hoping that, through some miraculous incident, somebody learns something.
The kids that are chosen for this particular school are all very poorly behaved, and I'm not talking about talking back to the teacher. There are kids who are extremely violent (I've already been hit, kicked and bitten more times than I can count.) And there are kids who, from an outsiders perspective would seem to have lost their tiny little minds. Yesterday, one of the children got it into his head that he was simply not going to do anything. This is not an unusual occurrence, but the difference is that he decided to scream at the top of his lungs and run about wildly instead. With no exaggeration, this child screamed for hours on end, for no apparent reason other than he simply felt like it. And that's just one kid.
That being said, I do not want to make it seem as if my job is horrendous. There are very beautiful moments, constructing a solar system out of styrofoam and scrap wood, watching the kids help each other clean the room after class, and watching a student complete a problem on the board that he/she was not able to complete yesterday. Enjoyment, compassion, and progress. Devotionals are my favorite time of the day. It is the time when we are not barking orders at the children, but expressing to them how much God loves them, and how much we love them too. It is the time at the beginning of the day when I get to look at each child in the face and remember that they are human beings with worth and potential. And then they start screaming profanities at each other. So it goes.
Home life is nice, too. I live in a part of town that never lets me forget what poverty is, or any of the emotions that go along with it. There is fear, as I walk alone at night, but I have a destination with a lock on the door. A luxury I do not take for granted. There is a sense of entrapment, as I see the same gentlemen sleeping outside my window every night, knowing full well that without a shower, new clothes and a haircut, they will never pass as fit for the workforce. There is a sense of invisibility, as people, myself included pass them by with neither the time or resources to assist them in any meaningful way. If you make eye contact, they are sure to ask...so everyone finds it easier to ignore them.
As I have said, I do have a roommate. His name is Ryan, and he hails from the great state of Ohio. He and I get along really well, but that is really of no consequence, seeing as how most of our time is spent with Ferney, the 8-year-old that we are (comically) responsible for. I'm not saying that I'm a parent, I'm just saying that I can begin to empathize. His story is one of the most heartbreaking that I have ever heard, and I almost have pity on him, until he rips up his homework and throws it down the stairs, laughing maniacally. If any part of my spanish has improved, it has been my commands. Sit at the table, do your homework, don't touch that, etc. He is really a good kid. Today he woke me up at the crack of dawn to tell me that he had cleaned his room. On the one hand, I am up waaaay before I would like to be, and I am not happy about it, but on the other hand, his room is pristine, and he's rather proud of it. So I smile, tell him he did a great job, he's a wonderful kid, now go bother Ryan.
Before coming here, I pictured this whole experience as being very very emotionally trying. I would be confronted with heart-wrenching situations at every turn, and every one would be an innocent victim of the system. This, I hoped would solidify my conceptions of universal right and wrong, of purpose and of the world at large. However, I have found, as I imagine most do in my situation, that this was an overestimation. Poverty is certainly an elusive thing to define; we create words like "abject" and "relative" to attempt to convey its nuances. No, I am not working with children dying of AIDS or hunger or anything else, but I am working with children in need. Yes, there are children in need where I lived in the states, but does one justify oneself by claiming that there is more need here? If so, why not always move on to the greater need.
They are legitimate questions that I have no answers to, and exploring them only reveals more uncertainty, but this I do know: There is something very transforming about seeing poverty with one's own eyes, and for that transformation to have any longevity, one must be constantly surrounding oneself with these questions, these issues, and these people. I have very few distractions here, and if that transformation is to take place, it is more likely that it will happen here, in the squatter settlements and displacement camps where there is no escape from the reality of the situation, rather than the streets of Chicago or Dallas, where I can simply cross the street or walk to a nicer part of town.
Well, it's time for me to go to the bread store and buy breakfast, I have another day of school ahead of me, and the kids have learned that they can attach themselves to my legs, and go wherever I do without having to work at it, so I'll need the energy.
Tyler
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
So, Tyler, have you been working at all?
Now, some of you, or rather, those of you who have been keeping up with my posts, may be wondering, "Tyler, do you do anything other than travel to exotic countries in search of grand adventures?"
No, not really.
But, I do have a job here in Colombia.
Well, now I do.
You see, for the past two weeks, the three other new volunteers and I have been in "orientation". Formando Vidas has a few different parts, and they wanted us to try them out to see where we think that we would fit in best. For the sake of any future allusions to these entities, and for your own enightenment, I will list them below in the order that they are experienced by the children.
First, there is the street team. This group, consisting of just a few people, will go out into a community, and talk with children and parents about the particular situation of the children in that area, and discern which children are in need of immediate care, specialized education or further observation. This process takes place over a number of months, at the end of which, the kids are placed in their respective ministries.
This only happens every once in a while, due to the fact that we can only care for so many kids at one time, but due to some circumstances which I hope to elaborate upon later, this might be taking place again in the near future, and I have expressed STRONG interest in taking part.
For the younger kids that have been developmentally slowed in one way or another, there is a kind of pre-kindergarten called The Other Way, or El Otro Camino. Here, kids have nutritious meals, learn numbers and letters, and work on things like hygiene, socialization, and movement (many of the kids never learned to crawl).
For the older ones, there is a fully functional school, called Light and Life, or Luz y Vida, where they can attend. Once again, they are provided with warm meals, there is an emphasis on learning social norms (please, thank you, throw your trash in the trash can) and the classes are customized to their level of development. By this, I mean that, for whatever reason, many of these children are at intelligence and maturity levels far below what is normal for their age.
This is where I work during the day. I teach fourth grade.
For children who have been completely abandoned, there is an area of Formando Vidas called 24 hour care. It is exactly what it sounds like. There are two group homes where these children can live, be safe, and have positive parental figures. Many other kids are adopted by staff members or friends of Formando Vidas.
No one is totally sure yet, but the place where I will be living may turn out to be another one of these homes. My roommate, Ryan Gerber, is taking in an 8-year-old boy named Ferney, and you'll never guess who else is partially responsible for the upbringing and well-being of this child. I'm sure that I'll write more about this as events unfold, and unfold they will. Ferney is a handful.
So that's about it. During the day, I work as a teacher, and at night, I help take care of Ferney. I am currently in the process of making preparations to spend Saturdays in Cazuca, a neighborhood in Southern Bogotá that has the highest concentration of displaced people in the area. And as for Sundays, well...I haven't found a church yet, but I'm looking hard. Specifically for a small church that might need a musician or something. Somewhere where I can get to know the congregation, these Latin mega-churches are so impersonal.
Hasta Pronto,
Tyler
No, not really.
But, I do have a job here in Colombia.
Well, now I do.
You see, for the past two weeks, the three other new volunteers and I have been in "orientation". Formando Vidas has a few different parts, and they wanted us to try them out to see where we think that we would fit in best. For the sake of any future allusions to these entities, and for your own enightenment, I will list them below in the order that they are experienced by the children.
First, there is the street team. This group, consisting of just a few people, will go out into a community, and talk with children and parents about the particular situation of the children in that area, and discern which children are in need of immediate care, specialized education or further observation. This process takes place over a number of months, at the end of which, the kids are placed in their respective ministries.
This only happens every once in a while, due to the fact that we can only care for so many kids at one time, but due to some circumstances which I hope to elaborate upon later, this might be taking place again in the near future, and I have expressed STRONG interest in taking part.
For the younger kids that have been developmentally slowed in one way or another, there is a kind of pre-kindergarten called The Other Way, or El Otro Camino. Here, kids have nutritious meals, learn numbers and letters, and work on things like hygiene, socialization, and movement (many of the kids never learned to crawl).
For the older ones, there is a fully functional school, called Light and Life, or Luz y Vida, where they can attend. Once again, they are provided with warm meals, there is an emphasis on learning social norms (please, thank you, throw your trash in the trash can) and the classes are customized to their level of development. By this, I mean that, for whatever reason, many of these children are at intelligence and maturity levels far below what is normal for their age.
This is where I work during the day. I teach fourth grade.
For children who have been completely abandoned, there is an area of Formando Vidas called 24 hour care. It is exactly what it sounds like. There are two group homes where these children can live, be safe, and have positive parental figures. Many other kids are adopted by staff members or friends of Formando Vidas.
No one is totally sure yet, but the place where I will be living may turn out to be another one of these homes. My roommate, Ryan Gerber, is taking in an 8-year-old boy named Ferney, and you'll never guess who else is partially responsible for the upbringing and well-being of this child. I'm sure that I'll write more about this as events unfold, and unfold they will. Ferney is a handful.
So that's about it. During the day, I work as a teacher, and at night, I help take care of Ferney. I am currently in the process of making preparations to spend Saturdays in Cazuca, a neighborhood in Southern Bogotá that has the highest concentration of displaced people in the area. And as for Sundays, well...I haven't found a church yet, but I'm looking hard. Specifically for a small church that might need a musician or something. Somewhere where I can get to know the congregation, these Latin mega-churches are so impersonal.
Hasta Pronto,
Tyler
Monday, October 1, 2007
What a day to forget my camera...
So, Bogotá is not the city it was made out to be by all of the news articles and books I had read before I came.
First off, I was picturing something like San Jose, Costa Rica, my former Latin American home, a city of about a million...only more violent and dangerous.
Bogotá has about 8 million people in it, a population equal to that of New York city. And while much of that population lives under the shadow of abject poverty, a great majority of it doesn't. It is a bustling hub of culture and commerce, just like any other city of it's size, and it contains all the advantages and disadvantages thereof.
Let me explain by telling a story:
Yesterday, I woke up around six to the rhythmic pounding of steel against steel, as there is a construction site about 30 meters from my bedroom window. I got up, showered, dressed, and decided that it was a good day to find a church. I looked in the phone book, and there was only one church listed, a Wesleyan church about 30 minutes walk from downtown. I got some breakfast, and took the 45 minute bus downtown. I got off, and began to walk through a park that I had not yet traversed. I was soon greeted by a dozen or so nuns, who were passing out tracts. I politely declined and went about my way. It was not long before the streets got a little meaner. And then a lot meaner. There was trash everywhere, and the panhandlers and drug addicts were becoming more frequent and more aggressive. I turned the corner, and there I was, a gringo, alone, dressed in a suit jacket, with a wallet ever so conspicuously in my back pocket, in the midst of one of the rougher neighborhoods in Bogotá. I used my better judgment, and turned around, having decided that I will return in different dress and with someone who knows what they are doing.
I walked back to downtown, finding myself in front of the capitol building in a courtyard of cobblestone and pigeons...and bikes. Dozens of red and yellow bicycles. I politely inquired about the unusual addition to the plaza, and I was informed that every Sunday, several lanes of the busiest streets were partitioned off for the use of bicyclists. Curious, I walked further.
They weren't kidding, thousands upon thousands of bicyclists weaved in and out of each other, some whizzing by with aerodynamic helmets and brightly colored spandex, and some leisurely trailing behind friends and family, chatting in a rapid Spanish along the way. Enjoying a break from the noise and exhaust of the traffic, and taking advantage of Colombia's eternally perfect weather, I continued walking.
Not much further, I was stopped dead in my tracks, almost colliding with a clown that handed me a flyer, advertising a live theater production that was taking place that morning. I looked up and saw that not only was I across the street from that very theater, but the clown with whom I had previously interacted was not the only one. There was a veritable carnival in the street. There were jugglers, tiny cars, and a live band, all there to advertise the play going on inside. I grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich (not very Colombian, I know) and sat on a bench, enjoying the spectacle. After I finished my lunch, I moved on.
A little ways down the road, I came across an enormous cathedral with music blaring from its large, wooden doors. I had felt some slight pangs of conscience for not having attended any kind of church service on Sunday morning, so I wandered in.
Everything was dark, with the glaring exception of the cathedral's three story altar, gilded in gold from top to bottom, every inch decorated in the most ornate Gothic style. The booming pipe organ halted abruptly, and the priest, diminished by the monstrous architecture behind him, got up to speak. The PA was too loud, meant more for those outside the church than those inside, and it seemed as though the message was too. The tiny priest condemned every aspect of Colombian life from the guerrillas to the rich to it's overly-western consumerism. In fact, I could not discern any kind of coherency to his thoughts other than condemnation itself. I politely bowed, crossed myself, and left.
I passed a park, where hundreds of middle aged men and women were jazzersicing to Jock Jams, and deciding that I was active enough, not to mention dressed improperly, I once again forwent catching a bus home, and walked further into this increasingly fascinating city.
I was then lured into another park by the siren's song of familiar music (Coldplay's Clocks), where I found myself surrounded by pink.
Apparently, yesterday was also the date of Bogota's Walk to Cure Breast Cancer. Having nothing better to do, and rather anxious to see what was around the next corner, I bought a pink Avon balloon, and joined the march. I marched along, chanting little rhymes about preventing cancer and attempting to sing along with the marching bands of trumpets, congas and bass drums, playing music somewhere between a rumba and a New Orleans funeral dirge. After about 70 blocks, I was exhausted. I gave my balloon to a little girl next to me and I waved down the bus.
On the ride home, I couldn't help but reflect on how alive this city is. When I first arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it is very much like a Chicago or New York, with the only difference being that signs and billboards are in Spanish. I am now inclined to think that Bogotá is better than these, as it has been able to keep that sense of community and public activity that makes Latin America so wonderful, while still embracing the amenities of being a world business center. Don't get me wrong, there are still slums of millions of displaced people, and there are still neighborhoods that are not safe for a lone gringo, but Bogotá is not the dark, industrial wasteland of violence and fear that still exists in the mind of those who have not been recently. It is moving, and from my little time here, I would say that it is moving forward.
First off, I was picturing something like San Jose, Costa Rica, my former Latin American home, a city of about a million...only more violent and dangerous.
Bogotá has about 8 million people in it, a population equal to that of New York city. And while much of that population lives under the shadow of abject poverty, a great majority of it doesn't. It is a bustling hub of culture and commerce, just like any other city of it's size, and it contains all the advantages and disadvantages thereof.
Let me explain by telling a story:
Yesterday, I woke up around six to the rhythmic pounding of steel against steel, as there is a construction site about 30 meters from my bedroom window. I got up, showered, dressed, and decided that it was a good day to find a church. I looked in the phone book, and there was only one church listed, a Wesleyan church about 30 minutes walk from downtown. I got some breakfast, and took the 45 minute bus downtown. I got off, and began to walk through a park that I had not yet traversed. I was soon greeted by a dozen or so nuns, who were passing out tracts. I politely declined and went about my way. It was not long before the streets got a little meaner. And then a lot meaner. There was trash everywhere, and the panhandlers and drug addicts were becoming more frequent and more aggressive. I turned the corner, and there I was, a gringo, alone, dressed in a suit jacket, with a wallet ever so conspicuously in my back pocket, in the midst of one of the rougher neighborhoods in Bogotá. I used my better judgment, and turned around, having decided that I will return in different dress and with someone who knows what they are doing.
I walked back to downtown, finding myself in front of the capitol building in a courtyard of cobblestone and pigeons...and bikes. Dozens of red and yellow bicycles. I politely inquired about the unusual addition to the plaza, and I was informed that every Sunday, several lanes of the busiest streets were partitioned off for the use of bicyclists. Curious, I walked further.
They weren't kidding, thousands upon thousands of bicyclists weaved in and out of each other, some whizzing by with aerodynamic helmets and brightly colored spandex, and some leisurely trailing behind friends and family, chatting in a rapid Spanish along the way. Enjoying a break from the noise and exhaust of the traffic, and taking advantage of Colombia's eternally perfect weather, I continued walking.
Not much further, I was stopped dead in my tracks, almost colliding with a clown that handed me a flyer, advertising a live theater production that was taking place that morning. I looked up and saw that not only was I across the street from that very theater, but the clown with whom I had previously interacted was not the only one. There was a veritable carnival in the street. There were jugglers, tiny cars, and a live band, all there to advertise the play going on inside. I grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich (not very Colombian, I know) and sat on a bench, enjoying the spectacle. After I finished my lunch, I moved on.
A little ways down the road, I came across an enormous cathedral with music blaring from its large, wooden doors. I had felt some slight pangs of conscience for not having attended any kind of church service on Sunday morning, so I wandered in.
Everything was dark, with the glaring exception of the cathedral's three story altar, gilded in gold from top to bottom, every inch decorated in the most ornate Gothic style. The booming pipe organ halted abruptly, and the priest, diminished by the monstrous architecture behind him, got up to speak. The PA was too loud, meant more for those outside the church than those inside, and it seemed as though the message was too. The tiny priest condemned every aspect of Colombian life from the guerrillas to the rich to it's overly-western consumerism. In fact, I could not discern any kind of coherency to his thoughts other than condemnation itself. I politely bowed, crossed myself, and left.
I passed a park, where hundreds of middle aged men and women were jazzersicing to Jock Jams, and deciding that I was active enough, not to mention dressed improperly, I once again forwent catching a bus home, and walked further into this increasingly fascinating city.
I was then lured into another park by the siren's song of familiar music (Coldplay's Clocks), where I found myself surrounded by pink.
Apparently, yesterday was also the date of Bogota's Walk to Cure Breast Cancer. Having nothing better to do, and rather anxious to see what was around the next corner, I bought a pink Avon balloon, and joined the march. I marched along, chanting little rhymes about preventing cancer and attempting to sing along with the marching bands of trumpets, congas and bass drums, playing music somewhere between a rumba and a New Orleans funeral dirge. After about 70 blocks, I was exhausted. I gave my balloon to a little girl next to me and I waved down the bus.
On the ride home, I couldn't help but reflect on how alive this city is. When I first arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it is very much like a Chicago or New York, with the only difference being that signs and billboards are in Spanish. I am now inclined to think that Bogotá is better than these, as it has been able to keep that sense of community and public activity that makes Latin America so wonderful, while still embracing the amenities of being a world business center. Don't get me wrong, there are still slums of millions of displaced people, and there are still neighborhoods that are not safe for a lone gringo, but Bogotá is not the dark, industrial wasteland of violence and fear that still exists in the mind of those who have not been recently. It is moving, and from my little time here, I would say that it is moving forward.
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