Geeking out

Just a year ago I had no idea what I was doing. I had what seemed an impossible goal, an un-named passion. I knew what I wanted to do, but no idea what it was called or what I needed to do to get there.

And today, my books for Jordan came today. Understanding Global Health and Epidemiology. They're both intense, dense, full of specific and detailed information and will challenge me to no end. But flipping through them, I got so excited and passionate and thrilled...I teared up. Yep. I know. Major geek status. But seriously! This is *exactly* what I love and to know there's actually a name for this, that what I'm passionate about exists, that I'm DOING it, is so overwhelming.

So overwhelming. So exciting. So incredibly amazing. Wowwowwow.

This guy...

...is backpacking around Peru right now. He's 4,500 miles away and still makes me laugh. I found a little message in my inbox this morning that made me miss him like crazy. He's pretty cool. I kinda like him.

Refugees and Reciprocity

I wish I had taken a picture of the whiteboard.

Their words, carefully scrawled in red marker, punctuated my original sentences. The letters were shaky and un-uniform; some dipped below the line I'd drawn and some were near unrecognizable....but you could read them. "Salesperson", "fixes", "mechanic", "waiter", "cleans buildings". The words were there and, what's more, so was the comprehension. I was beaming.

Last Wednesday was my last day with the refugees for the school year. The ESL classroom is closed over the summer and I'll be studying abroad so we had to say goodbye. During our last lesson we mostly reviewed material from the last six months: places, directions, the months and days, colors, grammar, does vs. doesn't, jobs...and for some, the alphabet. It's been an amazing six months and when I thought back to January, I couldn't help but beam inside. Six months ago I was given my own little table with 6-10 newly arrived refugees (depending on the day and weather, attendance would shift). Six months ago we couldn't understand each other. Six months ago "January" meant nothing to them. Six months ago some of them couldn't even write their names. Now they're writing sentences on the whiteboard and they know what the words mean!

Alganesh is Eritrean and lived in an Ethiopian refugee camp for 10 years with her three little boys. She stands at the board sounding out each word as she writes and then, when she's written a word, she spells it back to herself. We laugh as she writes out what a waitress does...."My job!", she giggles. "I serve food everyday...but my boys, no tip." She gets it.

Law Meh is quiet and shy and always says "thank you Teacher" when I pass out her paper. I don't know how long it took for her to get out of Burma, but she hasn't been here long. She left in March to work on a mushroom farm, but was fired after two weeks for being too slow. She's back now, smiling and whispering at my table and as we practice the jobs she surprises us all. "I can plumbing" she announces. Alganesh tries to explain what plumbing is and Law Meh nods vigorously "yes! I can plumbing." Well, we've got a fix-it woman on our hands. She gets it.

Twa Meh joined us about a month ago. She'd never held a pencil. So while the others quizzed each other on jobs or made flashcards for themselves, she and I traced the alphabet and learned each tricky letter. She's been practicing her name for the past two weeks; there are pages and pages of her notebook covered in shaky"Twa Meh"s. Wednesday, I was busy working on vocab with the others and when I turned around a couple minutes later, her name AND the day's date were boldly written on her paper. She finally gets it! I was so proud.

I've learned so much from these refugees. Once again, I came in prepared to be the one teaching, instructing, and guiding. And while that did happen, once again I was surprised and humbled by how much I learned from them. Alganesh and I would sit at lunchtime and enjoy her homemade injera while she'd tell me of life in the camp. Ler Say and Nyay Reh would laugh as I tried to pronounce kareni words...I'm sure I was butchering them. They were patient with me as I tried to make English comprehensible; they smiled at my blunders and gave me grace when I couldn't ask for it.

I'm going to miss those guys over the summer. ESL is where it's at.

Sunday laundry

I'm cozy inside a green Mexican poncho. My jeans are ripped and frayed. My feet refuse to be entrapped by socks and my toes wiggle on the carpet.

Buffalo Springfield is serenading me with hippy songs and I'm munching on whole-grain bread from Berkeley. Today is a study day and I feel like a vagabond. I'm about to go camp out in the library for who-knows-how-many hours to do homework for my African societies class. I can barely even call it homework though; I have four African movies to watch and analyze. Tough life, I know.

My laundry is fresh out of the dryer; warm and delicious. I bury my nose in the towels, nostalgic memories of childhood streaming through my mind. We'd bear-hug dad when he held warm laundry so we could soak up the warmth. In the chilly winters we'd brave the cold and run to the dryer to get out the warm clothes we'd been heating up. We'd dance around in the cold air pulling up our hot jeans trying not to get burned by the washers or zipper. Every so often we'd have massive sock-folding marathons and the warm static electricity would make our hair stand on end. Zap.

Those were good times. As I carry my warm pile of laundry back to my apartment I smile. Warm laundry will always make me smile. It's the little things in life...and the silly, happy memories that accompany them that make a soul lighter. Finals are coming up and if I think about it too long, my brain has a panic attack. But right now, in this moment, I'm cozy inside a green Mexican poncho with armfuls of warm, yummy laundry.

Random

Right now all I want is to be curled up in a huge fluffy blanket with cold chow mein.

Eating the chow mein. Not curled up with it. Just clarifying.

Invisible Violence

"Structural violence is often invisible. It becomes so naturalized that it is no longer even perceived to be violence."

As a class, we've been analyzing the AIDS epidemic during and after apartheid in South Africa. We read ethnographies full of testimonies from the women, men, and children affected by the disease and you can hear the fearful grief in their words. Tonight we debated their disease: is it the consequence of promiscuity or longstanding structural violence? My classmates spoke eloquently and persuasively on both sides, but I was distracted by the quote on the board. "...invisible...so naturalized it's no longer even perceived to be violence."

My mind wandered to the story of South African Joseph Mahlangu who couldn't articulate his pain and experiences. Or the Burmese refugee interviewed last week about the political violence he'd seen as a teenager. Though fluent in English, all he could say was "I don't know....it was nothing....I can't remember." For both of them the violence they experienced was of a different nature. Oftentimes physical, yes, but there was another, deeper violence pervading daily life, so intrusive it became subtle. Like a loud noise you eventually drown out. People become used to violence, maltreatment, injustice, and pain. And it's once you grow accustomed to it, it becomes invisible.

I've been thinking about it all afternoon. How do people become "used" to violence? Why? And I realize it's not an international phenomenon; it's rampant domestically as well. Why do girlfriends and wives put up with domestic violence? When asked, they downplay it or, even worse, don't recognize it. They don't realize they're being abused. It's a tragic, devastating cycle of invisible violence.

Still thinking about it. Will be thinking about it. Thinking about the cause, the consequences, the impacts...the cure? What intrigues me is the silence in people's narratives. Why don't people realize it? Why can't they remember? Does blocking or subconsciously ignoring it become a survival mechanism? A way of coping?

"...it is no longer even perceived to be violence."

Next year...

...is going to be a dream.

Had an hour-long interview today which ended incredibly well. I'm officially part of a team conducting research on immigrant health among Mexican migrants and I'm floating. It's a year-long, graduate-level program that's going to be quite a challenge, but I'll 1) learn how to do extensive research, 2) conduct interviews in Jalisco, Mexico and San Francisco, 3) get published as an undergraduate!! It's amazing.

I danced home from that and registered for classes:
* Field Research and Migrant Health
* Dictatorship in Latin America
* History of Mexico: 1821-1924
* Migration and the Law
* Gospel Choir

Suuuuch an awesome schedule. They'll be tough and fascinating and challenging and ridiculously cool....and I'm finally singing again!

Yup. I'm excited.