Where do I stop, where do I begin?

This has been an interesting day, and it's only 5:40pm. Office hours are 10am-6pm, but since I live in the office, the hours are now, later and even later.

An email appeared in my inbox this morning. The subject: I wrote about your blog. As I have two blogs, technically (this one and that one), and I generally have multiple gmail accounts open, I though he was talking about the VEBlog, which is a work in progress. At an admin meeting last night, I told our Formation Director that my goal was to start updating that blog daily, eventually getting comments, etc. His response was: "Lauren, en serio? Diario?.....pucha." This can be loosely translated to "sure.......ok."

This blogger, Chileno, was talking about ATGD. Woo-hoo! His words were flattering, and he seemed to get the point. However, I took a look at the other blogs he'd reviewed and I started to feel guilty. I don't blog about travel, because I have little time to travel. I don't blog particularly about poverty and my work (it's more anecdotal) because my position somewhat precludes my ability to openly discuss, negatively I suppose, the organization I work for. The founder once came upon a post I wrote last December about an event we put on. It wasn't overtly negative, but I used the phrase "not a well oiled machine." I mean, we're not, but we're getting there. It may have rubbed him the wrong way. Plainly, as I officially speak for the org in a professional sense, I can't speak for them here, however unofficially. Therefore, I haven't tried very hard to publicize this blog at all.

I started this as a way to explain to my family and friends what the hell I'm doing in Chile. I'm not in love with the place (if you read Chileno's blog, he does a fine job of explaining why I wouldn't be). Being in a place that has all the appearances of a fine, upstanding member of the global community doesn't seem to make sense, considering the conditions in which we work. Having a higher literacy rate, or per capita GNI doesn't mean that the children I work with can read, nor does it make them any less poor.

More than that, I don't want to beat people over the head with poverty, and how a small group of volunteers in Santiago think that they can change the world. I'd like for people to see how fulfilling and frustrating it can be to try to get people to work together, exist within an imperfect social service system, not speak the language perfectly, and try to help a new non-profit grow. (For the record, I didn't start it...I arrived on the scene two years in)

I just found out that a grant that we applied for (painstakingly, in three stages) did not ultimately get funding. We submitted it as a long shot, but with every step forward (we were one of 30 finalists out of 545 applicants) we got more and more hopeful. This would have been our first major source of funding in Chile, and the reading program that we designed was, and is, very personal to me. Books are unbearably expensive here, and the school where I volunteer doesn't have any. I read to the kids once a week, and that it possibly the only time that they come into contact with books at all. There is simply no access. I wish I knew how they measure that magical 99% youth literacy statistic.

We created something replicable, that brings families into the mix and that focuses on pre-readers. We read the needs of the kids, how they like to get up out of there seats and put things on the blackboard, and how they like to point out every strange picture in the book as I'm reading aloud, as we mapped out what kids of things we'd do with them each week. We talked to the tias about what they needed to get out of the whole thing.

So this was a blow. I went to school to tell the director and she wasn't there. I practiced what I would say in Spanish, and how I would explain that I was going to focus on U.S. funding sources next. It makes me uncomfortable to tell her that, because of the pre/misconception that all of our volunteers are independently wealthy and can fix all problems with American money.

Of course, if I went into a depression every time I didn't win a grant, I wouldn't have made it through 2004-2006. So we move on. To the next foundation, the next group of volunteers. Our tour is moving along, so we could just make enough money to do the program outright. How great would that be?

"Poor Kids"

The latest issue of the newsletter went out today. It was the tenth issue, and it's been a year since I started it at all. It has come so far. The current editor put together a fantastic piece about inequality and how it relates to children's rights and our work. You can find the newsletter here, if you're interested. The fact that it exists at all is a major accomplishment, and I'm very proud.

Getting wrapped up in trying to learn a CMS or a CRM can sometimes prevent me from visiting my kids. My pride and joy of a reading program has faltered thanks to days and nights spend planning "the tour", helping out with decision-making within the org and just doing my job. I'm usually a very "behind the scenes" kind of person, but recently I've become much more active in the day-to-day, and less obsessed with the future and growth.

Which is why, when Liz told me we were taking kids to the movies, I jumped at the chance. The jardin is one of my favorite places. The kids are anything but standoffish, and desperately want to know you and play with you and talk to you the minute you walk in the door. Taking them to see Ratatouille, on the micro no less, sounded like the best thing one could do on a Wednesday morning.

I had no idea.

These kids are hilarious. We walked down the street, everyone holding hands and singing "Vamos al paseo beep beep beep, en un auto feo beep beep beep." There are more words than that, but since Tia Lauren couldn't remember them, we just sang those over and over again. I never realized just how high up those micro stairs are, but trying to get 12 four year olds into a bus with any speed is next to impossible, unless you have the help of every Chilean man on the bus, who can't resist the urge to help a gringa in distress.

I knew the movies would be a big deal. A multi-plex, bright, colorful and full of noises and sounds, is overwhelming for anyone. For a child going to the movies for the first time, it was...an assault on the senses. The lifesized cardboard cutouts served as hiding places and new friends. The blue and red carpet seemed like a perfect place to take a nap after a lively round of "arroz con leche".

But nothing could compare to Michael Jackson. As Liz negotiated the box office lines, where the only tickets left were for Shrek 3, the kids caught a glimpse of a TV monitor playing the Thriller video. They were equal parts enthralled and appalled by what they saw, and the volunteers were too busy grinning stupidly at how happy the kids were to notice that they thought it was the movie. After MJ's 10 minute masterpiece ended, the kids grabbed our hands and were ready to head home.

I've told this story many times, sometimes in an effort to explain what it is that I do, and why I do it. Other times just to make people smile. Most people get that, but occasionally I tell someone and they say to me "That must make you feel so good. To give something to the poor kids."

Like a punch to the gut.

Poverty is part of my daily life, but not in a way that makes me feel like my taking children to the movies is somehow going to save them. These kids may be from the campamento, but they're kids just like any other kids. I remember my first trip to the movies: excitement, fear, confusion, Snow White. Their fascination with zombie videos had little to do with money, and everything to do with youth. The most important thing that I can tell anyone is that children need attention and love, and that's what our volunteers provide. Not ipods or an expensive pair of shoes, but a first experience. Like meeting a famous futbolista. Or having a proud face in the crowd when they win an award at school. Rich kids need that as much as the poor. We all do.

A Touch of Grey

This week fall came rumbling in (literally...there were two earthquakes this morning). We haven't seen the sun since monday, and our window-filled office turned in to a n icy wind-tunnel. As I've explained many times, Chile isn't all that cold (climate is like northern California, at least in Santiago), but so few places (including my apartment) have heat that when its cold outside, its also cold inside. And everything is made of concrete. So its cold, and dark and I have three grants due tomorrow and I've been cranky all week. So here is a foto of my last really great day:

Kids. Playdoh. Punto.

Tortugas Ninjas!!!!

Blogger Beta? Totally killing my world. Well, that and the fact that we 'accidentally' blew out our cable modem while we were rearranging the office. Thank goodness for neighbors!

I'm not particularly inspired at this very moment, and as usual wish that I had some wit and witticism for my (3? 4? readers). At this very moment, all I am is tired. Preparation for the new class (the first ones arrive tomorrow) is exhausting, even though I'm not all that involved. But the general energy of the organization is GO! GO! GO! and it’s the sort of this where if you don't have something to do, there must be something wrong with you. Right now, it is 11pm and we're all in the office, working. I've been designing place cards for PalooooZA, which is our celebration of the work we've done in the last few months. It’s a big deal. I even got a new dress. ROCK!

And the kids are frustrating. Everyone in Chile is pregnant, so my tias have been sort of rotating, leaving me solita in my class with no idea what I'm doing. Mostly we do puzzles and work on letters of the alphabet when I'm left to fend for myself. Or we play Abajo! Arriba! which is just as complicated as it sounds. But they love it, because jumping is fun.

My kids are rotating, too. My little favorite (not Ojos, the one who gives me the finger) has been out for almost a month, as he's apparently prone to illness. I miss his constant shooting at me (he brings fake guns to school, and I've yet to figure out the translation for 'recipe for disaster'), and the way that he mocks the other kinds with no malice. I think about the way that we all mock each other and feel like its a healthy part of growing up. If you can't call a friend out on something ridiculous, are they really your friend?

They've also placed me in another classroom for part of the morning, since another volunteer left. Its the jumpy jumpy room for an hour, which flies because of one little boy who thinks he's Superman. He has multiple Superman t-shirts, and wears one everyday. I can just picture his madre in the morning, trying to get him to wear something else. He probably just screams, as they all do, because they can. Its standard practice at my colegio.

Chile loves Superman.

I'm working on getting some photos to post of Dia del Nino, which is bigger than Christmas down here. I recall myself asking my dad at some point when I was growing, that if there was a Mother's Day, and a Father's Day why wasn't there a Kid's Day.

"Everyday is kids day," he said. My dad is no joke.

In Chile the respect for kids (and soon-to-be-mothers) is EVERYWHERE. There is actually a special line at the grocery store for those who are expecting, which includes those with little ones. So Dia Del Nino was a huge frackkin deal. Our celebration included: A dance contest (you haven't lived until you've seen the girls in the hogares dance to the reggaeton....it's an art), an art contest (which I missed because I was at dance central), a presentation by the Carabineros and their perritos which I will totally not explain to its fullest hilarity without the aid of photos and.....wait for it....the Tortugas Ninjas!!!!!!!!

Remember them? Raphael, Donatello, etc? As it turns out, in addition to Superman and knocked-up women....CHILE LOVES THE DAMN NINJA TURTLES!!! So much in fact, that the carabineros have a show where they dress up in costumes, do motorcycle tricks and JUMP THROUGH A RING OF FIRE!!! Possibly, the most awesome thing I've ever seen. Besides, of course, the first season finale of LOST.

So that's what I got. The men are still men. The kids are still kids. And the tortugas, well, they're gonna live forever.

Slack On

Oh, happy day of all happy days! The sun is shining, the birds are singing and our eerily early spring weather has lifted our spirits! Too bad I just bought a hot water bottle.... but bygones.

My happiness also stems from the fact that I am typing this from my brand-spanking-new laptop. The deterioration of my first laptop, a mere month old, had me in a tizzy for quite some time. My reliance on not only my files and the Internet, but mobility (read: ability to work at Starbucks in Las Condes) made me kind of depressed these last few weeks. Rather than get to the root of the problem, or attempt to fix it, I just got a new computer. HAPPY GIRL!

Somehow, we are two weeks away from the arrival our new class of volunteers. How did this happen? I feel like I've been here for years, like I've known my kids since birth, and at the same time, I still have now idea what the hell I'm doing.

I have mixed feelings about new people. Just when you begin to get you bearings, everything shifts. Things have to be explained over again. People leave. I'm getting a new roommate. I don't think that I'm particularly adaptable, but I'm doing my best.

Everything here happens with such intensity. Part of the reason I feel like I know everyone so well is because I know their secrets. I've read the files on my kids. I know what they've been through. There is a campaign in Santiago (possibly all of Chile) called "Una cama para un nino" or One Bed for One Child. It is common for families, siblings, etc. to share beds because of the expense of buying a bed for every child, or the lack of space. Extended families commonly live altogether, but not everyone can afford to live in a giant house, with each member in their own room. I understand, now, why my Ojos never sits in her chairs. I constantly have to tell her to sit down and work, instead of leaning on the table on top of me, scribbling and babbling and repeating everything everyone says. Of course, it completely freaks her out is I say something in English, which I occasionally do out of frustration. I'm surprised that she hasn't picked up the phrase 'Seriously, why are you doing this to me?'

She hasn't. My English confuses her and she sits back down, obviously uncomfortable. Because at home, she doesn't sit. At home, there isn't a chair.

I don't think that there is a Chilean phrase for personal space. If there is, I don't know it. People, children especially are so used to living and breathing on top of each other at home, that they either forget or don't care when they are out in the world who they are touching. My kids, whose special needs compound their lack of appropriate boundries, touch me all the time. I'm not a touchy feely kind of person. I'm not a hand-holder. At least not without tequilla. On my first day of school, my kids were so desperate to hold my hand that I let them crawl all over me, anxious for their affection and acceptance. Kids will be kids, and they're too cute for me to get overly frustrated with the fact that at any time, in any location, and under any circumstance, I could just be grabbed, or punched or kicked (the kicking, however, is generally b/c someone needs their shoes tied). What more can you expect from a child who shares a bed with as many as three relatives? Still, sometimes I just want to scream.

The adults, I actually scream at. Not the lady on the micro with the fourteen shopping bags, one of which is in my lap. Nor at the man in the collectivo in the business suit who has both of his shiny feet on my side of the floor and WILL NOT MOVE THEM. No screaming necessary. Better just to scuff his loafers with my beat up Birkenstock clogs.

But I scream at men in the bars. While I tried to devote the majority of this blog to work and travel, I'm not going to deny that I like to go out and have a good time. I like Escudo and Pisco and Tequila. I love dancing, and singing all of the worlds to the english language music so that I make friends with the group of Chilenas next to me, who are trying deperately to hate me because I'm rubia. So with the singing, and the dancing and the drinking, come the men. In most places, its fairly easy to pick me out of the crowd. I don't blend, and as a result, and the target of some of the stupidest pick-up lines, in English, that I've ever heard. To add insult to injury, these are generally spoken to me from about 3 inches from my face. Invading my personal space to insult my intelligence and butcher my language when I am perfectly capable of talking to you in the language NATIVE TO THE COUNTRY THAT WE ARE STANDING IN is not ok. I scream.

I scream that my blonde hair does not make me easy. I scream that yes! I can speak spanish, and you saying 'I love you" in english over and over again does not do it for me. I scream that no, I'm not a student, or a backpacker, or rich. I scream that why can't a dance be just a dance?

But such is life. Its true that all women love attention, and I'm not pretending that I'm the exception. I just wish I could remember the exact moment that I surrendered all of my privacy. I guess it was that Friday that I got on the plane.

Damage

Today is the first day of winter vacation, which means no Ojos, pelotas, stabbings with needles, besitos or 'No, tia' for two whole weeks. I'll miss my little ones, but there is much to do, and a whole city to see.

And many people. As my struggle with Spanish continues, I have (with some help) taken matters into my own hands and accepted the fact that when people say "When you live in a foreign country, its really easy to pick up the language" they are dirty liars. So now I have a language partner, and he is as eager to learn English as I am Spanish, which works out quite well.

Thursday we had another VIM (Very Important Meeting) where we all get together and talk about something very important to our work, so that we can think about what we are doing here and why. Many of us don't know why we're here, just that it feels right. As I'm often reminded, I've only been here for a few weeks, which is not necessarily enough time to shape the meaning of your life. So I find these VIM's (my name for them) useful, if for no other reason than I find out a but more about the other voluntarios.

The article up for discussion was 'When Charity Chokes Justice' by David Hilfiker. I wasn't a huge fan. Great ideas, not much follow through and what seemed like a whole lot of complaining. However, it managed to spark a discussion that was unexpected, and different, and not the usual liberal politically correct nonsense that I tend to use in all discussions about social services.

Being around so many Americans (and Hungarians, etc.) I sometimes forget where I am. Sure my tia talks to me about how Santiago is bad, and I'm learning that Chileans feel like bread is the solution to all problems ("The children are cold! Their teeth are chattering! Someone go buy some pan!), but I haven't gotten to the point where I can have one of those conversations yet...about ideals, and goals and family life of a real Chilean. For whatever reason I'm just not willing to ask the right questions because I'm not sure I want the answers. I talk about helping, but I don't know if I'm ready to face how difficult and different life is here, and in turn confront my own guilt.

There are limits to charity. Charity does not solve problems, but symptoms. Sometimes, treating a symptom too well causes the problems to be overlooked. This is Mr. Hilfiker's argument.

And the discussion: I agree that sometimes we're doing more harm than good. Sometimes helping people gives the world at large the sense that everything is ok. Other times, we can actually damage people by giving them something that they should be able to get themselves (that is, through government programs and the like). If charity is too successful, will the government decide that all is well in the world? Will they forget WHY people need our help in the first place? And most importantly, is it all our fault? Does charity equal damage?

We didn't really decide, but we talked about it. Languages and Escudo flying, passion and ideas with no real answers.

When I got home from the discussion, foremost in my mind was that I'd learned the word damage. For some reason, I thought this would come in very handy in the coming days.

But I didn't know how. Until Saturday. It was supposed to be a repair weekend, a chance for us all to get together and complete a project for a hogar. Except, so whatever reason, no one signed up. Well, no one but me, J and C (the Organizer). Since the project was supposed to just be pulling a few posts out of the ground (rock bar? shovel? AmeriCorps?) in the patio of the hogar, we figured we could just get in done, the three of us. But what happened instead was chaos, Chilean style.

The "posts" were huge column-like structures, supporting a canopy covered in branches. If I had remembered batteries, there would be photos now, and all of this would make more sense. If it wasn't 11:45pm I might even draw you a picture of them. These posts were huge and precarious, and embedded in concrete.

But we had a plan: Remove the branch from the top of the canopy, remove the canopy itself one wooden slat at a time, take out the posts one by one. J brought gloves. There were shovels. We could do this.

We went forward with "The Plan", when suddenly 5 Chilean teens (?) showed up and, seeing that we had gotten to work, started pulling on the top of the canopy, causing all of the delapidated posts/columns to bend and shift and make me incredibly nervous. The three of us stopped working to brace the posts while the Chileans pulled away, seemingly unaware of the danger of what they were doing. We tried to tell them to stop, but it didn't register, until finally the posts (wood wrapped in a very heavy plaster) began to fall. This got their attention.

Time to regroup: We exchanged ideas in broken Spanish and got back to work. Our original plan wouldn't work because a) the canopy/columns were just too unstable and b) the alleged "Branches" were still attached to a tree, which we originally did not notice (have you ever felt so stupid that your head hurts and you want to pay your parents back for college? that was me at 11am on Saturday morning).

The new plan involved a big shove, sending the whole structure crashing to the ground. I'm not sure at what point this registered as a "good" plan with everyone, but we all agreed on the course of action. Uno, dos.....calamity.

The force of the falling canopy caused one of the posts to shoot backwards, shattering a window.
The crash sent the kids (who were in the sala, watching all of this unfold) running towards the glass, because that makes sense, gasping and saying "oooooh, tiiiiaaaaaa." The Americans all froze, taking in that one moment full responsibility for everything that had happened and knowing that we blew it. I could tell that the potential injuries shot threw our minds at the same time, as did the feeling of total failure. Is it worth it to take down a few posts if you break a window? Is it worth the damage?

But no one cared. At a hogar for children who are removed from their homes by the police while their parents battle for custody, or go to jail, or kick drug habits, this was not a tragedy. This was a piece of glass that would soon be replaced. The tios were actually satisfied that the sturcture had come down so quickly and that we could now get to work removing all of the wood, chopping down the tree with its tricky branches, and digging what was left of the posts out of the ground.

No one was hurt. We would be more careful going forward.

Then came the sledgehammers and saws and tools that I could not believe were being so freely passed around, but served to very quickly remove the rest of the structure in such a controlled kind of chaos that I can't really remember it. The kids came in and out of the patio, grabbing crumbling, splintered wood with their bare hands to feel helpful and involved. They begged the Chileans to let them use the tools. They asserted that this hogar, however temporarily, was their home, and that they wanted to be a part of it. C cleaned up the broken window, and no one remembered that anything had happened.

I wish I could end this post with "And we left the patio beautiful and new" but I can't. I don't know what it looks like at this moment, because it isn't my hogar, and renovations aren't always completed in one day. After a while we were given the very unglamorous task of scraping old paint off a window because it just needed to be done. The fumes from the paint thinner made us crazy, and the term 'Manpants' was born, for better or for worse. We worked together: volunteers, tios, kids, Americans, Chileans. We learned that there are many kinds of damage, and all you can do is try to fix one thing at a time.