Adulthood

It's Halloween here in Chile. I was told, by a somewhat reliable Chilean source, that in Chile the kids don't really do Halloween. What he told me, exactly, was: "If they want candy today, why won't they want candy tomorrow?" I reminded him that we work with kids, but that didn't have much of an effect.

But the kids came to our little casa in droves. Lots of princesses and superheroes. The obligatory baby pumpkin (he got most of the candy). We hadn't expected them, so we all emptied our pockets of the candy that we had acquired throughout the day and gave it to the little kiddies, who had previously (along with their parents) been afraid of the houseful of gringos, whom they thought were Mormons.

I dressed up, as I thought it was a requirement of the small party/meeting we were having. I had my costume picked out since I arrived. The Chilean teen has a very distinctive look: Lots of black, short denim skirt, piercings, tights and high boots. I have these things. That was it. I celebrated my briliance.

As I live with a Chillena, and have Chilean friends, I thought I might offend someone. So I made a point of saying that I was a Chilean teen. Teenagers, by definition, can be made fun of, no matter where they live. So I went with it. Brilliant.

During the party, I spoke to my parents. I'll admit that with my choices, as they are, I feel like a little kids in their eyes right now. I need help. I need money. I need support. But for all of that, every day I realize that I have adult problems. Problems that when I left, I had no idea I had.

Each day is a little more about perspective. I try to remind myself that compared to most of these eight year olds, I have it pretty easy. I try to remind myself of this when I'm pissed that I've had to stop buying shoes and bags. Or DVDs. Or the good toilet paper. That it isn't just about money. Its about having the security, and the knowledge that no matter what happens, someone will help you. My kids don't always have that. That's the perspective.

I'm trying not to preach, or be too dramatic. I'm lucky to see that the children in my class have moms, or dads or someone who loves them. So many of the other volunteers never get to see that. They don't see my kids hugging their parents when I let them out of the gate at the end of the school day. They don't see the well-packed snack. They don't see the love.

But I do. I see it in my kids, and in my own family. Adult or not, problems or not, I have love waiting for me in NYC.

So thanks for that.

Toma

I hear the same handful of phrases from my little ones daily: No quiero (I don't want), No puedo (I can't), Quien eres tu (Who are you?...a personal favorite, since I've been working there for four months, and the same little girl asks me everyday. she's not so good with names, as it turns out) Toma (Take). The last one is so frequent, that I start to wonder why I never noticed how often children ask you to take things from them in English. When they are done working on something, they say toma: "Take it, I'm done now. " Or in the case of my non-verbal boys, they just shove things at me and grunt. Its the same basic idea. Sometimes, one of them will find a piece of paper on the ground and say toma: "Take it, tia, its garbage." I've stopped finding it odd, but the word still manages to catch me off guard every now and again.

Our esteemed subdirectora (Assitant Director, Liz) began working at a Jardin Infantil (nursery school) in a campamento (shantytown) in Santiago when she first arrived here a year ago. Its official (?) name is the Toma de Peñalolen. I'm the first to admit that I don't fully understand the politics of what goes on there. I know that a group of about 400 people lived on the land for years, and there was an ongoing debate as to whom the land actually belonged. The families lived there in makeshift houses of cardboard, wood and metal. They had running water and electricity, proper addresses and streets, and an overwhelming sense of community. Five months ago, the government sent the police in to move most of the people out. They built tiny wood shacks, which were offerred as placement to those who could afford the down payment, or qualify for a loan to buy their new house. During my first visit to the toma, I watched people take their homes apart, piece by piece. The jardin was gone, and the remaining children and tias moved them into one of the few remaining buildings, and old church, where they remain for now.

There are so many things about this situation that I don't understand. I don't know whose land it is. I don't know why Santiago needs another soccer stadium, which will be built on the as soon as everyone vacates. I don't know how the jardin remains open, when the families pay only $4 per child, per month. I only understand half of what is said to me. I don't know how to tell a child to be careful playing outside, amongst the strewn garbage and rusty metal and nails of their former homes.

What I'm beginning to understand, what Liz has tried to explain to me on our micro rides, is what a happy, community strengthening place the jardin continues to be. Utility workers pay continuous visits, sometimes staying to eat lunch with the tias. The carabineros know the Assitant Director by name from her visits; during a particularly tumultuous day she was the only gringa allowed inside as people were being cleared out.

Children can be the most difficult, and the easiest people to know. They can't express everything that goes on in their developing minds, yet they provide amazing insight. The children of the jardin are sweeter, and more compassionate than most of the children I see in my school everyday. They enjoy life. They love to pretend they're Superman. So much so that my back starts to hurt from all the flying. They love listening to Liz read stories. They say toma, "Take this tia" when they finish a drawing. Not because they're done, but because they want me to have, to take it home with me and hang it on my wall, to think about them when I'm not there.

The jardin is dirty, and hot, and doesn't have a proper bathroom. There isn't always running water, so bottles are kept under safe watch, and water poured only on request. I made the mistake of carrying my giant bottle or carbonated water in my hand the last time I walked in to the old church. I was attacked by three thirsty children, begging for a sip. They watch the bottle for five minutes afterward, mesmerized by the bubbles shooting to the top. Our Executive Director, who has yet to visit the toma asked for a run down after my first visit. "Really cool," I said, ever eloquent. He paused and answered, "But in a sort of depressing, bad way, right?" That's it exactly. Happiness and despair playing together in an old chruch. And somehow my fridays at the toma are the highlight of my week.

I wear a lot of hats here. Tia by day, PR Director by afternoon, Volunteer Coordinator when needed. A volunteer needs to talk. The office needs a new computer. We all need better health insurance. I'm adding jardin activist to the list, knowing the threat of closure is constantly looming. We'll write a grant. We'll find people to help. Hopefully, when its all said and done we'll be able to say toma: The jardin is yours again.

I feel like I'm still allowed my small bit of idealism at 26.

Land Of Missed Opportunities

I've never wanted to look back on my life and wish I'd done something. Which isn't to say that I haven't made mistakes, or missed my fair share of opportunities. I'd sit on the subway (or stand, or lean) and think about all of the other places I could be, or all the places that I wanted to go and think "why not?"

At the end of September, we were going to buy a car. I spent most of the month saying "Don't worry about anything, we'll have our car by October." It seemed like a little thing, and a giant thing all at the same time. A way to transport ourselves, our resources. A great idea.

We didn't get a car, and I'm devastated. I feel the failure more than all of the little triumphs that I've seen since I moved here. One of the first things that I was told as a grant writer at my last job was that people are going to say no to you, and that disappointment goes with the territory.

But its not just that someone said no to us. We had a great opportunity laid out for us, and I didn't put enough of myself into it. My failure. My missed opportunity.

I've come to realize in the past weeks, that there are opportunities everywhere. There are resources aplenty, along with proposal deadlines that come and go, and complicated requirements, and people who drag their feet. There are setbacks and victories. And as it turns out, a world of disapointment.

A twenty-six year old, I'm one of the oldest people here. I've held a real job. I've had a lease. Me, and others who are willing, have to be administration, cheerleaders, and promoters of the positive. Yet I've found myself, in recent days, becoming run down by negativity and the feeling that I'm, we're, just not doing enough. Three months is almost six, six months will soon be twelve. And then what?

I imagine I'll be back on the subway. Sitting, reading ads for The New School or the Freelancer's Union, listening to my music. I'll think about all of the things that I could have accomplished here, and all of the things I did. And be happy that I didn't miss the opportunity.