I Forgot to Publish This (October, 2015)

I'm home now. In case you didn't know.

Transitions are weird. Most days are a mix of thankfulness to be home and grief for what was. But I'm still making my way.

Over the last year, I have been keeping a couple of lists. I'll share parts of them here.

Places I Never Thought I Would Find Myself

being attacked by 3 dogs (I was unharmed. It was probably the least violent dog attack in the history of dog attacks.)

dancing on a rooftop all night

sitting next to a girl on the bus as her phone is snatched out of her hands

stargazing on an organic farm in Uruguay

waiting out a flood in a hardware store with strangers

picking dog hairs out of donated rosemary

boiling my pillowcases to kill the lice

combing lice out of my hair in a hotel in Buenos Aires

el fin del mundo- the end of the earth, Ushuaia

the back of a casino with my father, the only place in Ushuaia that would exchange dollars to pesos

watching the bucks win the national championship and explaining football to my friends

standing with Chechu’s parents, waving goodbye to her at the bus terminal

swimming in a waterfall

coincidentally on the same boat as a random friend from home

an agro-ecological farm in northern Argentina

napping in a hammock during a rain shower

just across a field from a lightning strike

a river beach

designing a website

evening mass at the national cathedral

sleeping with mayo and vanilla extract in my hair to kill more lice

boiling my pillowcases AGAIN

accidentally locked in a room in ISEDET

celebrating literacy through a Cuban reading program

el rincon de los amigos on a Tuesday night

Things I Don't Want to Forget

The little kid sitting next to me on a bench in the park

The smell of the flowering trees

The size of the cathedral

The guy driving his moto one-handed with his mate and thermo in the other

Nayla and the kids walking down 26 bis to the plaza

The cityscape from la teraza on Chechu’s birthday, then the sunrise

Cooking Thanksgiving dinner by candlelight

Galletitas

Crafting Christmas ornaments

the guy who vaguely looked like Ryan Gosling from afar on the bus

Asado on the church terraza, stars, Mora

Waiting out the flood in the cafe, hardware store, remiseria

sunflower fields

when we had to change buses in BA because “no tiene fuerza” literally the bus "didn't have the strength"

the cat that shows up in our patio

my housemates singing while they study

double rainbow all the way in Misiones

swimming in the arroyos/cataratas- freedom of naked children

“In Amanda We Trust”

Cumbia Pterodactilo

“griegos, romanos, son todos humanos”

When little Karen found a book with english and spanish words in it and asked Hermeto why leon was spelled two different ways and he told her to ask me to read them both. 

Mili asking me if I traveled to the US in colectivo

Seeing a meteorite while we ate dinner on the patio

Teatro Argentino- The curtain actually falls

Transporte

Every Tuesday and Friday, and sometimes Thursday or Wednesday, I walk ten blocks to a bus stop and then wait for a bus with the number 273 in blue lights above the windshield and a green sign on the dashboard. The sign can say anything except "C" or "4". Those buses will not take me where I need to go. Once it arrives, I will likely wait in a line, step up to the card scanner next to the driver, say "3.50" so that he knows how much to charge me, and hold my dark blue SUBE card up to the lime green machine. It will probably blink green and I will search out a seat or a good place to hold on for the next forty minutes until I reach the Disco grocery store in City Bell, just four blocks from Compartiendo Un Sueño.

I've grown to love and hate the public transportation system. One time I did a google maps search and found that if I had a car, I could drive to Compartiendo Un Sueño in 18 minutes. Instead, I leave an hour before I need to be there, and often arrive late. In the summer, the open windows seldom provide relief from the stifling heat and humidity inside a bus full of people, and in the winter that heat escapes all too quickly. I lost my cellphone on the bus back in October and weeks later sat next to a woman as a man with quick hands snatched her smartphone and ran off the bus. A few weeks ago a toddler eating a sucker wiped her sticky hands on my pants. Somedays I get on a bus with an unhappy driver and end up using all my muscles to stay standing. People often ask me for directions to places I've never been.

But one time I met a young english professor who was excited to speak a few words to me in my first language. Another time, a Mormon missionary offered me his seat and I got to eavesdrop on his conversation about how much his spanish had improved. I'm consistently impressed with how quickly someone jumps to help a mother with toddlers and a stroller, before I even realize what's going on. Once, a person in a wheelchair needed to get on a non-handicap accessible bus. Every young man on that bus was involved in this person's subir and bajar. I love when someone who is friends with the driver gets on and stays near the front so they can talk. Once, the driver's family was riding along and his little daughter rode seated on the engine cover until one of her parents made her find a safer place to sit. A few months ago, I waited at the bus stop next to a couple who couldn't stop looking at their ultrasound pictures.

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, Medina County, Ohio, public transportation might have meant the train that I took with my youth leader to avoid parking fees when we went to baseball games in Cleveland. And when I moved to the big city, I still felt more comfortable walking to campus and bumming rides from friends until I was able to bring a car to school. I went on a couple "COTA Adventures" but they were just one-time deals. I never let myself get comfortable. I think if I had pushed myself a little harder I could have learned to appreciate the public bus. And I'm going to add that to my list of life goals for when I return.

I think that the point I want to make here is that public transportation has its merits. There are the often-talked-about benefits of reducing fuel consumption and cutting down on traffic. But beyond that, public transportation here is used by everyone, regardless of economic standing. (Okay, I'm sure there are some people who own multiple cars and don't take the bus, but they are few. And yesterday a woman who came to ask for clothes at the church said she would ride her horse in the next morning if she couldn't find some pesos to put on her SUBE card. So I guess there are outliers on both ends.) It's a common space where you will come face-to-face with someone different than you. You'll probably see fancy clothes, funny hats, people in love, people who are just friends, babies, elderly, workers with dirt still under their fingernails, students with their books out even while standing, people in uniform, people in sweatpants, people with bread to sell, and sometimes people with iPhones. And for a little bit, they're all going in the same direction.

We've all got somewhere to go. I'm glad that our paths might cross along the way.

Peace, Love, and Mate

My hand painted mate, made from a gourd.

And now, a long-awaited post on mate. Pronounced "mah-tay," mate is a traditional hot beverage shared all over Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay and parts of Brazil. It's very caffeinated and always shared. The word mate refers to the cup, traditionally made from a hollowed-out gourd but these days more often made from wood or plastic. The loose leaves placed in the mate are called yerba. Hot water is poured over the yerba to make an infusion. A metal straw, called a bombilla, with a filter on the end is used to drink the tea without having to drink the leaves. It's definitely an acquired taste, kind of smokey and bitter. You can drink it dulce, with lots of sugar, or amargo, straight-up yerba and water. The person serving the mate is called el/la cebador(a). He or she will fill the mate with almost-boiling water, and pass it to the person next to them who will drink all the tea in the mate and pass it back to the cebador. He or she will pour more water into the same mate and pass it to the next person in the circle. No one cares about sharing a bombilla with the rest of the group, although many have refused a mate because they were sick and did not want to spread germs. This passing and refilling continues until the yerba gets weak, there is no more hot water, or conversation ends, whichever comes first. And a person can always opt out of the next round by saying "gracias" after finishing a mate.

While this whole ordeal might sound strange to someone from almost anywhere else in the world, most Argentines I talk to can't imagine a world without mate. I've grown pretty fond of it myself.

My coworker recently shared this bit of prose on facebook and I thought I would translate it and share it here. Originally written by Lalo Mir, an Argentine radio personality, it is pretty representative of the value and tradition wrapped up in the simple mate.

Mate and Love, by Lalo Mir

Mate is not a beverage. Well, yes. It's a liquid and it enters the body through the mouth. But it is not a beverage. In this country, no one drinks mate because they are thirsty. It's more of a habit, like scratching an itch.

Mate is exactly the opposite of television; it makes you talk if you are with someone and it makes you think when you are alone. When someone arrives at your house, the first thing you say is "hello" and the second is "want some mates?" This happens in every house. In the homes of the rich and the poor. This happens among chatty and gossipy women and among serious or immature men. This happens among the elderly in nursing homes and among teens while they study. It's the only thing that parents and children can share without discussion or throwing in each other's faces. Peronistas and radicals prepare mate together without question. In the summer and in the winter. It is the only way victims and tormentors appear the same; the good and the bad.

When you have a child, you begin to give him or her mate when they ask. You give it to them lukewarm, with a lot of sugar, and they feel grown up. You feel enormously proud when the little lazybones with your own blood starts to drink mate.  Your heart leaves your body. Later, they will make a choice to drink it sweet, bitter, really hot, cold, with an orange peel, with a little lemon juice.

When you meet someone for the first time, you will drink some mates. People ask, before they are sure, "Sweet or bitter?" The other responds: "However you drink it."

Argentine keyboards are full of yerba. Yerba is the only thing that is always present in every house. Always. With inflation, with hunger, with militaries, with democracy, with whichever of our plagues and eternal curses. And if one day there isn't yerba, a neighbor will have it and will give you some. No one ever denies another of yerba.

This is the only country in the world where the decision to stop being a child and become a man happens on one day in particular. Nothing about long pants, circumcision, university, or living far from your parents. Here, we become grown ups the day we have, for the first time, the need to drink some mates alone. It is not a coincidence. It is not just because. The day when a kid puts the kettle over the fire and drinks his first mate without anyone else in the house is the day he has discovered he has a soul. Or he's dying of fear, or he's dying of love, or something: but it is not an ordinary day. None of us remembers the first time we drank mate alone, but it should have been an important day for each of us. There were inner revolutions.

The modest mate is nothing more and nothing less than a demonstration of values. It's the solidarity of putting up with some weakened yerba because the conversation is good. The conversation, not the mate. It's respect for the time to talk and to listen. You talk while the other drinks. And it's the sincerity to say, "That's enough, change the yerba!" It's the companionship made in the moment. It's the awareness of the boiling water. It's the care behind asking stupidly, "It's hot, right?" It's the modesty of whoever prepares the best mate. It's the generosity of serving until there is none left. It's the hospitality of an invitation. It's the justice of drinking one by one. It's the obligation to say "thanks" at least once a day. It's the attitude, ethical, frank, and loyal, of finding yourself sharing without pretense.

Original in spanish here.

Being and Butternut Squash

Sorry about the lapse in blogs. Since my last post I've traveled a tiny bit more (mid year retreat!) and things have pretty much settled down. I'm in charge of a space for english tutoring at my nonprofit and have been learning about creating websites. I've started an english conversation group with some young adults in my congregation and have really enjoyed speaking english with my friends. I was warned at Chicago orientation that there might come a point in the year where I stopped having words to describe my experience. I think I'm there now. And it's not that I'm overwhelmed with my reactions and emotions or anything, but rather that things have become more normal. Here I am, just making my way in the world.

One of my goals for my remaining months here is to learn how to cook Argentine foods. Empanadas, tartas, milanesa, dulce de leche, etc. So last week I was making a tarta de zapallo, aka butternut squash tart, and wasn't sure if I had enough butternut squash. "Bueno," I thought, "es lo que hay." This basically means, "it is what there is." It's a commonly used phrase at Compartiendo Un Sueño where we sometimes only have the essentials (crackers and jam) to serve for a snack. Chloe and I had been talking about spanish phrases that we might have to give up when we return to our home communities and how our brains are this weird mix of languages right now, so I started thinking about why I like this phrase.

Es comes from ser, "to be." Hay comes from haber, which more or less means "there is." If you remember from spanish class, there is another verb that also means roughly the same thing as these two, estar. That's three commonly used verbs that all refer to existence. And we didn't even include existir, to exist. What might that say about a culture's values?

Something we talk about as YAGMs in accompaniment in Argentina/Uruguay is ser vs hacer ("to be" vs "to do"). We come from a culture that puts a lot of emphasis on action and some days it is hard to remember that just being is enough. Showing up with a smile, sitting beside a stranger, or being a set of ears to listen is often what another needs. Of course there are days when more action is necessary, but it is comforting to remember that a lot of good can come from the simple act of being with someone.

Es lo que hay means getting by with what you have. It reminds me that I can wish and imagine and hope for all the best things, but something is existing in front of me. It is what it is. I might as well make the most of it.

I thought about going to the verduleria down the street and picking up another butternut squash for my recipe, but it turned out that lo que habia was plenty.

What's in a name...

I didn't expect my name to be something that I thought about this year. I'm pretty hashtag blessed to have a name that is also a somewhat common name in Argentina. Amanda Martin? So easy to change to spanish. It's just pronunciation. Amanda in spanish is pronounced similarly to the word almond in english, but without the l. And add an a to the end. And pronounce the "d" like the "th" in "the."

These are things I knew. I remember the exact moment I realized my name was an english/spanish chameleon. I was checking my coat in Peru when we went salsa dancing one night. The woman asked me for my last name, and it just came out of my mouth with spanish pronunciation and my world was changed. I had a TA in a science class who was from Ecuador. The class was taught in english, obviously, since it was science, but he had a spanish accent. One day he handed me back my paper and pronounced my name the spanish way. I automatically responded, "gracias."

In our bible study here, we've been reading through the Old Testament. I'm pretty familiar with these stories; I've been reading them most of my life. Recently, I've been thinking about name changes. Abram became Abraham. Sarai became Sarah. Jacob became Israel. Later, Simon becomes Peter. Saul becomes Paul. They didn't change their names all willy-nilly. Abram didn't just wake up and think, "You know, my name is whatever, but now I'm going to be Abraham." Their names changed when their identity changed. They were called by God. God makes a promise to Abram and Sarai and their names change. Jacob wrestles with God and receives a blessing. Jesus decides to build his church on Simon Peter. Saul has a blinding conversion in the middle of the road.

I've been called a lot of different nicknames. Manda, Mandark, Mandango, Manders, Mandy, Arsty-burpsy-bad-at-mathsy. Nothing as identity-changing as the previous examples. But I do think that I have changed a lot in these last eight months. Probably in ways that I won't understand for a while. All of that has happened with my name being pronounced differently. Part of my identity is changing.

The Original Traveler

I have been traveling A LOT recently. It is full-on summer here in Argentina, meaning schools are closed and many business owners are on vacation. It seems that most of the country takes off for a week or two for vacations in January. As I've mentioned previously, all of my housemates are college students, so they are home for vacations. Because I don't want to stay alone in my house, I have been keeping very busy with a visit from my family, a week camping with youth from local churches, and visits with my housemates' families. I've been on the road since the day after Christmas! And while I love to travel, it definitely has its challenges.

My clothes smell funny. They're all pretty clean, but one pair of kind-of-smelly shoes and the whole bag smells weird. My hip still hurts from the week I slept on the ground/concrete floor. There are some friends I haven't seen in a month and I miss my bed. I've experienced plenty of miscommunications and spent more than one night on a bus.

Story time: A couple of weeks before I left Columbus, Dana, Chelsea, and I met an actual band of train jumpers. Like they ride on freight trains and also play in a band together. Dana and I accidentally made eye contact with one of them when we were waiting for Chelsea in the parking lot at Jacob's Porch and he climbed down the side of a building from the deck he was sitting on to talk to us. He asked us about Jacob's Porch and faith in general. Then he sang us a song he wrote about how Jesus was the original traveler. He sang about how no one ever thinks about how sore Jesus' feet were. How he had calluses and dirt on his face.

Now, I'm pretty sure Jesus wasn't the original traveler. People had been traveling for a very long time before Jesus got here. But I think it is important to remember that Jesus WAS a traveler; he knows the struggles of living out of a bag (probably, right? like Jesus had to have had a bag) and the uneasiness of being in a culture different from the one in which he was raised. He knows what it's like to leave everything you've known behind you. He's experienced the awkward conversations where neither person is sure if they have been fully understood by the other. Jesus probably had a sore hip at some point. It's cool to know that God gets it.

I want you to also know that I've had way more beautiful experiences than challenging ones in the last month. I got to show some of the beauty of Argentina to my family. I made new friends, new crafts, and braided hair at camp. I've been able to find time to rest and read books. I've been able to soak up the Argentine sun and accidentally swallow a good amount of Argentine seawater at the beach. I've gotten to spend time with and experience the generous hospitality of my housemates' families. They've been my personal chauffeurs and personal tour guides and I couldn't be more grateful.

I like that God knows about these things too. God struggles with us and God is joyful with us. God knows about sore hips and God knows about good hospitality. So these days I'm pausing to be thankful for movement and for those who are moving alongside of me.

Once I Saw Mountains Angry

by Stephan Crane

Once I saw Mountains angry,

And ranged in battle-front.

Against them stood a little man;

Ay, he was no bigger than my finger.

I laughed and spoke to one near me,

"Will he prevail?"

"Surely," replied this other;

"His grandfathers beat them many times."

Then did I see much virtue in grandfathers-

At least, for the little man

Who stood against the Mountains.

Sobremesa

Pretend that I posted this a month ago:

Whenever I talk to people here about language differences and words that don't translate well, sobremesa always comes up. We don't have a word for it in english, but it basically is the time spent around the table, talking and eating together.

Today my hogar had an asado, basically an Argentine barbecue, complete with hours of sobremesa. The school year and the actual year are both coming to a close, so many of my housemates will be going to their respective homes all over Argentina this week and will return when classes start again in February.

Alexis, who lives in the apartment above us, was the asador today so he got up and started the fire early this morning. He told me that the lechon we ate today took around 4 hours to cook. Marilina and Karen prepared the lettuce and tomato salad and the potato salad. For dessert, Karen made chocotorta, which is delicious layers of chocolate cookies and dulce de leche. It was very Argentine and very good.

Between bites of well cooked, delicious meat, I looked around the table at my friends laughing and sharing food, and remembered that this is holy. These are the important and beautiful parts of life. Being able to share your thoughts and share your food is something universal, something that happens all over the world, with all kinds of people. Breaking bread is sacred. Oftentimes, it is when we are finally able to recognize the face of Christ in those we meet.

Housemates and friends

Karen making potato salad.

My plate! Pork and salads!

Chocotorta!

Thoughts On Getting Angry

Pretend that I posted this two months ago:

At our retreat last week, for one of our devotionals, Krystle talked about Mark 4:35-41, when Jesus calms the storm on the sea. He woke up and yelled at the wind and the rain. He didn't tell the disciples to stop being babies. (He did get annoyed that they didn't trust him, but that's different, right?) He got mad at the situation.

How often do we blame people for the way they handle situations? This last week, I had to break up two fights at my nonprofit placement. They were nine and ten year-old boys and no one was really hurt, but I'm not very big and it was just kind of a scary thing to be a part of. In both cases, they were boys that I see almost every day and generally really like. But when they were fighting, I did not like them at all. I was so mad at them. And yeah, we're all responsible for our actions. But it is important that I recognize that these boys see violence in their daily lives as a viable option for settling disputes. A big part of what we do at Compartiendo un sueño is to try to teach them otherwise, but it is part of their reality. So is it really fair for me to put all of the blame on them?

What I should be doing is paying attention to the bigger problems this points to. Domestic violence. Poverty. Broken education systems. I should be getting angry that these things happen. Like Jesus yells at the storm to stop, I should be losing my voice yelling at these big storms in the world. I can't make them stop on my own, my voice isn't as powerful as Jesus's voice, but at least I won't be getting mad at the disciples for waking me up.