smells rotten, tastes good

Milk. Today, Anita ate old soy milk that smelled like butt. Gross. She didn´t even notice. Salvadorans generally do not drink cold milk, though they sell it at the grocery store. It smells slightly rotten, but tastes good. If you ask for milk at a restaurant, you receive it hot. And if you ask for coffee with milk, the ratio is about 1:4, mostly milk. The milk in Casa Ita is usually powdered. Just add water! I´m personally more comfortable with powdered soy milk than powdered `real´ milk. Last Wednesday at Oti´s house, we drank fresh soy milk that she made herself. This, too, was served hot. New discovery: Chikis and cold milk. When I first arrived in El Salvador, there were three things sitting on my desk to welcome me - a map of El Salvador, a painted wooden pencil holder, and Chikis. Chikis are square shortbread cookies `enrobed´ on one side in either strawberry, chocolate, or vanilla. Vanilla is the only one that tastes good. Anyway, this is the best snack in the world. On Sunday morning, I milked a cow.

There are little things about being here that surprise me. Gum doesn´t last long. It looks chewed before you chew it, melted and stuck inside the paper wrapper. Envelopes seal themselves. But alas! The rainy season has left us and we are at peace with the wind. My clothes dried in less than a day.

Beans and rice are served with everything, even fried chicken and mashed potatoes. I was meant to be here.

There are bigger things, too. Mauricio Funes, FMLN presidential candidate, directly outside our houses in rich, conservative, seemingly gringo-infested Antiguo Cuscatlan. Of course it was rained out. That night, we had to go the long way to get to Kevin and Trena´s to watch the debates, as the road was blocked. Bailey almost lost a shoe in the flood and we had to sacrfice the umbrella to save it. So we arrived soaking wet, but were welcomed by pillows and tea and borrowed clothes. We were even allowed to put our own clothes in the dryer. I forgot what it felt like to put on hot clothes. Beautiful. But the sunshine does wonders, too. Politics can be depressing; shredded bits and pieces of red FMLN flags still hang on the wires outside of Casa Silvia. Salvador, our taxi driver, stood on the corner one day looking up at the flags, and told me how much it hurt him that the rain came.

More: Trash collection is too expensive for many people, so they burn their own trash in the street. As far as I know, emissions regulations are relatively non-existent on the vehicles here, and so this giant disgusting brown cloud hangs weightly over an already depressed atmosphere as of late. It seems that everyone is sick, and it is no wonder. The health care system, too, is a wreck. Sometimes it rains when the sky is blue and cloudless, or so says Anita. There is no explaining this place. And it´s making me very tired. The awkward reaction, I suppose, to things I don´t know how to deal with. Outside, sleepy. Inside, unexpressive, blank, and angry. But I´m getting in touch with it, with all of these feelings, thoughts, inner somethings rising up within me. There are ugly things here: trash. pollution. sickness. poverty. gangs. shitty education sytem. abuse abuse abuse. the absolute impossibility of being able to walk down the sreet without being stared at, shouted at, honked at, kissed at, whistled at, whispered at. memories, stories, images of war. mental, spiritual, physical scars. corrupt governement, puppets of our corrupt government. There are glass shards and barbed wire on the tops of walls, high walls. Bars on every window. We cannot see our neighbors. Where are all the brown people on the billboards? Why do all the fast food restaurants compete for the biggest playpen? Where are the parks? In short, what is it that has been so intricately and subtely constructed so as to oppress people in the most ridiculous, absurdly violent ways? I want to fix it, naturally. During orientation, one of the first things Dean Brackley said to us was, `You can´t fix it.´ So, what then? This is all about my formation? my spiritual growth? my calling? my conscientizacion? my life? Bullshit, right? Maybe not...but sometimes I don´t feel any closer to solidarity. Dorothy Day: `Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.´My time to be afflicted, I guess.

So, the halfway point, I suppose. For a while, the irony was beautiful. And it still is, but it gets harder to see, or appreciate. The list of life-giving, community-inhabiting, profoundly graceful things I have encountered here is overwhelming. Rain and pineapples shaped like suns. A green volcano, the view from our street. Casas abiertas. Singing, laughing, and learning so much. Children, and so many children... But somedays, it all feels like this empty, kitschy, pastel-colored drapery. And then the artist Sabina comes along and slices it down the middle, leaving this gaping wound of reality, fear, pain, suffering, and death. Am I being dramatic? Always a possibility. I am addicted to sad things. Am I a masochist for wanting to cry? Because the thing is, I haven't been able to cry. They sing dirges and I cannot weep. But it's not that I want any of this leftist kitsch, Grand March shit. Because that means two tears - one because you're moved, and the other because you know you're moved. This is the closest I've been to the dark spots, to those earthly bruises, pulsing and swelling with blood, a black and blue pressure that you feel in your chest but travels so slowly to the eyes. So I never cry when I want to. It's always completely unexpected. But I had a good cry the other night. Always brought out by Dad and Mama (by no fault of your own...I just get homesick, and start to wish things for you, and hate that you worry about me with probably twice the heaviness with which I worry about you and I wonder how you bear it...and there's something about hearing your voices that releases something enormous in me and there you have it...our shitty Casa Ita phone didn't help either).

So, it's been different. And heavy. And I've been trudging, feeling slow and locked. And then I think about my passport, and how unfair it is. This is not an exchange program. Already I dread the goodbye, for it will be both good and trying, light and heavy, relieving and painful. But asi es. I am a homebody getting in touch with her need to move. It's always hard for me to say goodbye, to change places, to leave home and come back and leave again. A pervasive nostalgia haunts me wherever I go, and there is always something that I miss. So, still, I am working on presence. And living in this tension, which I'm finding is very much a part of who I am. Neither far away nor close to home for too terribly long. But always with a home.

At night, the streets are empty and dark. Nothing but the artificial light of Casa Ita after 6pm. In Belgium, the sun set at 10pm. I forgot how much I love the night. The freedom to walk around in it, listen to it breathe, waiting patiently for the sun. I think maybe it is the intimacy of night that I love and that keeps me awake. Night is always in suspense, on the edge of something, unsure and buzzing. There are secrets resting here, and also waiting. And so it intrigues me. It's the brightness and noise of the day that lulls me to sleep. Like being at big parties as a child, and suddenly all the lights become blinding and all the voices a monotone murmur and you drown in it. So most of the time, I would rather stay up late and sleep in. But here, the sun rises early, the trash truck rings its obnoxious bell, the tropical birds perch on our windowsill, the showers are cold, and the day greets you with a slap in the face. But I am growing to deeply love the mornings. On Sunday, I awoke before dawn. I watched the day arrive with oil on my hands and the smell of fresh milk and shit. Cow utters are worty and warm. Cow tongues feel like sandpaper. Cow eyes are my favorite.

This past weekend, we were in Esquipulas, Guatemala, visiting what is apparently the Mecca of Central America - Cristo Negro. People from all over Central America, especially the Mayan people of Guatemala, travel here to see the Black Christ, the Christ of their people. Standing in line to pass by this beautifully foreign image of God, the man in front of me tells me that it all depends on how much faith you have. Sure, the wood is just old, blackened from more than 200 years of smoke and acid - but the walls are full of miracles, little silver plaques sent from all over the world thanking God for this and that. I'm not sure. It was like seeing St. Catherine's body in France. I left unmoved, disappointed even, and yet deeply touched. Blank on the inside, but with plently of room to paint. Yes. Plently of room to paint.

El Salvador, lleno eres de gracia

I have always hated the sacrament of reconciliation. It always made me feel small, but not in the same way that a sky full of stars or watching Planet Earth make me feel small. The former smallness is insignificance and absurdity without beauty, the latter full of grace.

El Salvador is full of grace, and I have had to reconcile many a thing here. How is it that this place, so far from home, is filling me up as if it were Thanksgiving Day in mama´s kitchen? I am continuously broken and made whole. We break bread together and it fills us. I´ve never lived so fully in the mystery, named so many doubts and fears and questions, made so many connections. My life is a spiderweb. In a room of candlelight and tea, I laid my shit out on the table. Weighing my baggage and bringing it to the light. Todos aquí somos humanos.

All of this is very vague. Así es la vida. We share ourselves in pieces and peaces.

Last weekend we went to El Mozote. In December of 1981, about 1000 people were killed here. Rounded up and killed indiscriminately - men, women, and children. 146 children were later found buried deep in the earth, 140 of them under the age of 12. Read the Massacre at El Mozote by Mark Danner if you wish to know details, though of course you won´t find an explanation or a reason for such ugliness. But it´s important to know the story, which I think gives dignity to all of those people. The least and yet the only thing we can do.

There was one sole survivor of this massacre, Rufina Amaya. Buried deep within thorns and brush, she heard her children and could do nothing but cry and promise God that if she lived she would tell the story. She died recently, no doubt from the exhaustion of reliving it all over and over again, keeping her promise. Upon arriving in the nearby town of Perquín, we were greeted by one of Rufina´s daughters, who had been away from the town at the time of the massacre. She is a plump woman with big gaps between her teeth, but a lovely smile. She literally welcomed us with open arms, and did not introduce herself until the following day when she took us to El Mozote. Instead, she immediately started dishing out enormous portions of chicken, avocados, tortillas, potatoes, cheese, beans, rice, and more. She scooped vegetables from a giant silver pot with her hands, setting them roughly on our plates. Later she took us on a little walk up to Rufina´s house and to their little finca where they grow beans and corn on the steep hill. Our view from the top of this hill was the most beautiful view of El Salvador yet. Misery, mystery, beauty, and history - El Salvador, you are so full of grace. On the walk back, we passed by an old man in the middle of a bath. He was gray haired and gordo, and wearing blue underwear. Without any shame whatsoever, he continued his bath at the pila, saying good afternoon over and over again as about 20 gringos passed by, and gently pouring buckets of cool water over what seemed like a very grateful body. Speaking of baths, I watched little María Jose receive her bath in the pila. As her mamí poured the water over her head, she straightened her back, closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and made that rapid and refreshed breathing sound that we all make when jumping into an ice cold pool. Not a tear was shed. She was happy to be alive.

Back to El Mozote. After visiting with Rufina´s daughter, we went to visit the museum in Perquín where a man with a limp and a heavy accent from the campo showed us arround. Here we saw photos and weapons (all of course sent from the US), murals about caring for the earth, a giant crater from a bomb now surrounded by moss and trees, and walls full of brown egg cartons.The egg cartons were on the walls of the FMLN´s radio station room. Here, the guerrilla´s broadcasted their news and risked their lives. So much to see and learn in this country. Later, we went to our little hostel to settle in and then some of us left to play soccer on the little cancha nearby. As we started to play, we were immediately surrounded by an audience, overjoyed to see us making fools of ourselves in the rain. They stayed the whole time, eventually learning our names: muy bien, abi! bien, bien! Twas a bilingual soccer game, since Neto and Julio and Reina were there as well. Soccer will forever be my favorite sport.

The next day, we were visited by a man named Sebastian who was a guerrilla during the war. Over a marvelous breakfast, he talked to us about his country and his politics, about violence and nonviolence, about Oscar Romero and the Gospels, about community and forgiveness, about his family, about resistance and taking up arms, and about Barack Obama. In some ways, our votes cannot be our own. Much depends on this election, and it will effect the entire world. Makes me nervous, no matter who lifts his right hand in January.

In the bus to El Mozote, I sat next to Rufina´s daughter. She was knitting a blue purse, and I was holding her white roses. El Salvador, you are full of grace. Where the children were found, there are now roses and murals and mosaics. So much color and life. El Salvador, you are full of grace. The memorial reminded me of being at the Vietnam veterans memorial. Children rest in both places. Though the latter was a deep black beautiful gash in the earth of Washington D.C., the former was bright, made of wood and earth and flowers. (Michael, I know what you mean. You feel betrayed in the presence of that, but you linger because you want to give some shred of dignity to it, reading about it, looking at the names, walking on that ground.)

On Monday, in Mariona, we made candles and then took naps. I rested in a hammock and Maria Jose and Karen sang me a lullaby in Spanish. El Salvador, you are so full of grace. The pineapple here is always fresh, cut into large circular slices. They look like suns, especially when half-eaten. The strings stem out from the center like rays. El Salvador, you are so full of grace.