Poco a Poco: A Millennial Take on Nonprofits, Volunteering and Social Justice

What Story Would Be Written About You?

2011-11-02T10:21:00.000-07:00

The man is slumped in his chair and he looks dead. On acrowded street corner, people and cars fly by, unfazed by the very real possibilitythat his man slumped in his wheelchair isn’t just high or drunk, but may verywell be dead.

I know he’s not dead because when I first got to this coffeeshop, I came upon another man checking on him and indeed the man was rousedawake. But time and again, I have watched as the masses pass by.Worse yet, a number of people walk by, turn around and stare, but then decideto move on. But hope abounds, because I have watched time and again how when oneperson stops and tries to engage the man and make sure he is alive, severalothers stop, and ask what they can do to help. There is discomfort, uncertainty, and confusion, but aboveall else there is a certain level of compassion and shared responsibility. Andso from a privileged place I watch the best and worst of humanity struggle todeal with a problem that goes beyond one man in a wheelchair.

I must confess of all the social issues I care about,homelessness is one of the most vexing. It’s hard to find the kind of "light at the end of the tunnel" hope you encounter in something like education. No, with the homeless, the weight of the charity we offerindeed weighs heavily upon our shoulders as we are asked to work on a cause and withpeople where the hope we want to believe in seems to havefaded long ago.

We’re a results oriented culture, but I really believe sometimes we're tasked to just show up and acknowledge in the other the shared humanity and dignity they themselves might not believethey possess. Our task, however daunting it may be, is to somehow make the socially irrelevant realize how relevant theyreally are.

As I was finishing this post, a man leaving Starbucks approached the homeless man. After he saw he wasn’t dead though, he didsomething different. He stayed, and listened patiently for about 5 minutes asthe man spoke to him. And the man just listened. Then he smiled, handed him a cigarette, splithis breakfast sandwich in half, and then got behind the wheelchair, sharing a laugh withthe man as he helped, literally and figuratively, move the man a little closer to where heprobably really wants to be. He never noticed me, or anyone else whose eyeswere fixated on the touching scene unfolding on a gritty and busy street corner.He did what was right most likely because his heart told him to do as much.

Some would say the odds are against us in this world. Now 7billion people strong, there’s simply too many people, too many problems, topay each one the proper attention deserved. Well, perhaps it’s true, but I’llbe damned if I don’t count myself among those who still try anyhow. How aboutyou? What story is someone writing about you when you least suspect it?

Short Working Boys Center Documentary and Thoughts on Post Graduate Service

2011-10-17T16:01:00.000-07:00

Google Alerts is perhaps one of the greatest things out there yet. Have a topic you care to follow closely? A Google Alert helps you monitor the internet for the latest content about that particular topic. Anymore, it's a must. You can use it to keep track of news about your company or about an organization you hope to one day be a part of. It's also a great way to monitor what sort of content is being released out there about yourself. That's right, set a Google Alert up to track anything that comes up with your name to help manage your personal brand.

One of my Google Alerts is for The Working Boys Center- the organization I volunteered with (and fell in love with) for a year in Quito, Ecuador. One of my alerts for the WBC this morning was a great link that really had me reflecting on the value and merits of doing some sort of volunteer work for an extended period of time right after college. A number of college seniors are reflecting on what's next for them, and for many, post grad service is possible in the cards. Reflecting on my own experience, I continue to see the benefits of my time in South America in both my personal and professional life.

So all this is to say, if you're contemplating a year (or two) of service after college, or really at any point in your career, I'm working on a post to really help break things down a bit. Until then, enjoy the video of one tiny place on the map that provides incredible opportunities for program participants and volunteers alike! If you know of the center, the video might take on even more special meaning. For example, the student speaking at 5:17 in the video was one of my students his first year at the Center. It's amazing to see how much he has grown up!

If you have any thoughts about post graduate volunteerism, let me know as I'll be putting together a future post.

Working Boys Center Documentary // Quito, Ecuador from Anthony Sylvester on Vimeo.

Facebook Timeline and the Implications for Millennials

2011-09-22T23:00:00.000-07:00

Facebook Timeline preview from techcrunch.com

Welcome to Timeline. Mark Zuckerberg, at the f8 Developer conference, said “We’re more than what we did recently” as he went on to announce timeline profile pages.

If you want the idea in under 2 minutes, watch the official Facebook video. Facebook has created what appears to be a beautiful mosaic thatreally takes a profile and focuses it into three areas: applications, selfexpression, and a users story. And they do this, all on one page. The idea,according to Zuckerberg was to more or less move from telling the story of yourlife in the last 15 minutes and actually captures the whole of your life.Audacious? Yes. Intriguing? Most certainly.

On one hand are the obvious privacy concerns. Many sayprivacy is dead and we should get over it, but I think I’m of a unique agegroup that has comfortably lived adult lives pre-facebook and after Facebookburst onto the scene. Privacy, in several aspects, still means something to useven if at times it’s difficult to see just how.

On the other hand, I am fascinated by the potential this hasfor changing the way we interact through social media. Whether privacy is deador not I hope is a topic of debate for sometime to come, but there is nodenying social media, in one form or another, is here to stay.

So what should tech savy (and career savy) millennials do inresponse to this roll out by Facebook?

Think about your biography

Because more or less, that's what this is. A biography. No one likes a story where at the end, you knew there was so much more to it. If you decide to utilize this feature, go all in. Make it interesting. Make it uniquely you so that when friends go to your page, they do feel as though they've entered your virtual home. That doesn’t mean make stuff up, but work with what you’ve got- photos, interests,and everything else to really be strategic about how you present yourself inthe world of social media.

About those friends of yours...

They're really the only people who should be able to see what you're up to Facebook. It never ceases to amaze me how many people don’t have some sort of privacy settings on their Facebook profile. In this day and age, there’s no excuse. Protect your profile.

Clean up your act

There’s the old “don’t have anything on your profile youwouldn’t want your mom to see. Go a step further and think of your (future) son or daughter. An even easier rule: if you have topause to think about whether or not something should stay a part of yourprofile, it’s time to take it down.

Talk to your friends

If there’s photos floating out there, tagged or not, thatyou feel could cause you embarrassment, talk to your friends and see if they’lltake them down. Have one friendalways posting things you rather not be a part of your Facebook story- it’s time to have that conversation or cut offtheir posting privileges.

Face to face is never bad

I don’t know which is more awkward, grandparents on Facebookor teens who don’t know how to interact in person. As we grow more accustomedto communication through social media, the true value of your abilities toconnect with people face to face increases. Platforms like Facebook can andshould more fully enable our online conversations to serve as an impetus formore meaningful interactions offline. As we communicate more and more overstatus updates and texts, your ability to communicate in more traditional formats willhelp you stand out.

Framing the Story: Spike Lee Remembers 9/11 and Martin Luther King Jr.

2011-09-11T11:50:00.000-07:00

How do you remember 9/11? What was your personal story ofthat day? What are some of the stories that still resonate with you?

The LA Times had an article a few weeks ago that really captured the essence of good storytelling.

Day of terror in New York: Pages from a reporter's 9/11 journal is a series of reflections by Los Angeles Times writer Geraldine Baum on the journal entries she scrawled in her journal on that day.

As I was reading the paper a few weeks ago, I came across this line and felt my heart in my throat as though experiencing the moment myself:

"In the months after Sept. 11, Walter was preoccupied with trying to find who led him and his co-workers to a stairwell, saving all their lives. Finally, he was able to identify "our hero" — Pablo Ortiz, a Port Authority employee who had died helping others. A photograph of Ortiz's family hangs on Walter's office wall."

But also noteworthy is what is unfolding in terms of how companies are remembering9/11 via their commercials today. Sitting here watching football on the first Sunday of the NFL, I’vebeen more intrigued with the commercials taking place between snaps than the game itself.

I wrote a few weeks back about a Chevrolet commercial for the newMartin Luther King Jr. memorial put together by Spike Lee. Theresult, as you can see below, was powerful. And he’s at it again. I’ve seenthis new State Farm commercial he's directed now 4-5 times today and it moves me each time. In short, a group of school children singEmpire State of Mind while traveling through parts of New York, ending up ata local fire station to serenade a group of fire fighters.

I don’t know if State Farm will sell any more home or autoinsurance based off this ad. I don’t really care about their motivation formaking the spot. It’s a fitting tribute to the men and women who lost theirlives. It says something about the resilience of New York, of America, really of humanity to never forget but carry on living.

Watch the spots below. I hope like me, you’ll be happy thattwo powerful spots like these are reaching a larger audience, and framing thestory of two important events in a way any of us who believe in the power of storytelling are happy to see. If you like the version of the song, you can purchase it on Itunes and State Farm says that all proceeds will go to a national firefighters fund.

Chevrolet MLK Commercial

State Farm Empire State of Mind

Interviews and Extras in their own words (on State Farm Youtube site)

Moving Beyond Generation Limbo, the Lost Generation, etc...

2011-09-08T19:17:00.000-07:00

“What it’s like for 20-somethings to go looking for meaningful work- and not find it.” Welcome to the Lost Generation. The other day The New York Times came up for another name for us: Generation Limbo.

So what’s a well-educated 20-something to do? About 14 percent of people who graduated between 2006 and 2010 are unemployed. A greater chunk work in dead-end jobs that pay little more than the rent- if even that. Indeed living at home with mom and dad have less to do with laziness and everything to do with graduating college, prepared for a world that isn’t yet prepared for you.

But the real danger goes beyond the obvious financial woes and dilemmas. Long term unemployment or lack of meaningful employment can give rise to a way of thinking that internalizes the problem as less to do with an economic crisis and more to do with personal shortcomings.

So what can be done in times like these to avoid both the financial and emotional toll caused by lack of meaningful employment?

Consider moving.

Maybe it’s time for a scenery change, and nothing says employment with that change of scenery like Minneapolis, Houston, or Washington D.C. according to Forbes Magazine’s “America’s Best Cities for YoungProfessionals.” Good Magazine just released their own guide of best cities forthe young and broke, with cities like Austin and Philly making the list.

Keep a schedule

Going to bed late, waking up late, and passing 72 hours in your pajamas is enticing for all of about 72 hours. After that, you’ll need something to stay positive. Set a schedule. Work out regularly. Schedule time for job searching and cover letter writing. Pencil in informational interviews, and be deliberate in scheduling time to grab lunch or coffee with friends and acquaintances who can help you on your search (and maybe pick up the tab for lunch or dinner).

Volunteer

Countless studies show that it becomes increasingly difficult to transition from a job that requires no degree to one that does. So while working for pay is ideal, if you can afford to volunteer part time or full time in a field more closely alligned with your career goals, look into it. Is there the possibility your volunteer work will lead to full time work? Check into it with an organization you've always wanted to work for.

Go back to school

If you were planning to go back to get an advanced degree anyway, well, there’s no time like the present. Depending on what you’re planning to study, there might also be great scholarship opportunities, usually based upon academic potential. So in your schedule, provide significant time to study for the GRE or GMAT.

Teach English Abroad

Always wanted to study abroad but never got around to it? In a way, now is your chance. Teach abroad, experience a new culture, hopefully even save up a little money, and add international experience (and maybe new language skills) to your resume. WorldTeach and JET are the names most people have heard of, but check out Matador Notebook for other leads.

Reach out to your Alma Mater

Call the career development office at your alma mater and see what sort of assistance they can provide. No longer live in the area where you completed your undergraduate degree? If you went to a Jesuit university, I know you can usually contact a career center at a local Jesuit university or college to gain access to the reciprocal services they offer to students and alumni of other Jesuit schools. Didn’t go to a Jesuit university? Call your school’s career center and see if they have any similar partnerships.

Looking for more advice?

Brooklyn based blogger Allison Jones has some great easy to follow advice in a blog post on Brazen Careerist.

And finally, going back to where we all started, keep a positive outlook, however trying that becomes. These trying times are no indiciation of your ability or work ethic. In the words of James Carville- “it’s the economy, stupid!”

Storytelling Fit For a King: Celebrating I Have a Dream

2011-08-22T14:08:00.000-07:00

The Martin Luther King Memorial officially opened to the public today! The monument will be officially dedicated on August 28^th- marking the 48^th anniversary since Dr. King delivered his I Have a Dream speech.

Simple lessons can be taken from King’s speech to help you the next time trying to motivate anyone- from a prospective donor to a new employee.

BLUF

In writing, this is known as bottom line up front. Give the main point away immediately. It need not be the first sentence, but it sure should be in the first two minutes of your talk. King gets to his BLUF in the first two minutes. “But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free” King says. He goes on to provide powerful visuals (we’ll get to that) and then tells those gathered: “So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.”

Listen to Aristotle

In Poetics Aristotle tells us “A whole is what has a beginning and middle and end”. Easy enough. And yet, how often do we fail to frame a story along at least a loose timeline? King’s speech starts in the past- “five score years ago” but quickly moves the audience along to the present reason they are gathered: “but 100 years later, the Negro is still not free.” And for most of us in the nonprofit world, the end is our ask- what we want the other person to do or believe, etc… For King that end begins (and lives on) with a few simple words: “I have a dream…”

Imagery

Storytelling in causes and nonprofits is just another word for the combination of imagination and kinship. A good story has visuals that allow the person on the other end to imagine the picture painted, and feel a connection with the people in the story. A great visual example building along “the table of brotherhood” King alludes to can be seen in this ad created by Spike Lee.

Listen

Clarence Jones, who helped write the famous speech wrote in his book Behind the Dream that the most famous part of the speech was not ever written out.

“Martin's favorite gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson, who had performed earlier in the day, called to him from nearby: "Tell 'em about the dream, Martin, tell 'em about the dream!"

Martin clutched the speaker's lectern and seemed to reset. I watched him push the text of his prepared remarks to one side…I have a dream . . . In front of all those people, cameras, and microphones, Martin winged it. But then, no one I've ever met could improvise better.”

Final Thoughts

Muriel Barbery writes that "In order for consciousness to be aroused, it must have a name." Storytelling for good is simply putting a name (and hopefully a face) to what you do and why it matters. Too many nonprofits fail not for lack of good work, but an inability to tell the story of why what they do matters. Give people a reason for why their consciousness ought to care about what it is you do.

Heard It Elsewhere...

2011-08-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

Some of my favorite links I stumbled upon this week.

Kiva is trying to spread the word- lending money to aspiring entrepreneurs is cool. And for a short time, trying it out is free. Sign up for a Kiva account here and get $25 to lend for free.

For anyone who's ever had to raise some cash for their nonprofit- a visual approach to Sasha Dichter's blog post about making the big ask.

Let's reinvent the toilet. As perhaps only the marketers at the Gates Foundation can do- a blog and a video about, well, poop. Check out the innovative sanitation ideas here.

Old school vs. new school. Challenging the traditional mindset we have on grouping organizations as for profit or nonprofit.

Managing yourself by managing your network. My friends in The New Leaders Council passed along this Harvard Business Review article about networking done well. Hint:

Going to Grad School After July 1st, 2012? It Just Got More Expensive.

2011-08-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the recently passed debt ceiling legislation, it just became more expensive to attend graduate school if you'll be taking out loans. Graduate students applying for a loan after July 1, 2012 will no longer be eligible to receive subsidized Stafford loans. The $8,500 subsidized loan will instead be converted to unsubsidized funding.

What does this mean for graduate students? For anyone who gets a loan after July 1, 2012- interest will accrue on those loans while they are still in school. Before, the government had paid the interest on the loan for the length of time a student was in school. The legislation also eliminates a rebate students get when they make loan repayments on time for 12 consecutive months.

The change will save the federal government an estimated $26 billion over 10 years. To put that in perspective: consider three months of operation in Afghanistan costs roughly that.

Is there any upside for students? For those pursuing their undergraduate degree, yes. Part of the savings from the student loan cuts will help keep funding for federal Pell Grants. These grants are traditionally awarded to the most financially needy students. Republicans slashed summer Pell grants earlier in the year and many have been attempting to eliminate the Pell grant program altogether.

For a more in depth reading on the Stafford student loan issue, check out CNN Money.

Twitter: It Isn't Only About What You Ate For Breakfast

2011-07-28T16:48:00.000-07:00

Who do you follow? I have a number of friends who think Twitter is nothing more than a place to “text” to the masses what you ate for breakfast or declare what you’re about to do, and so they avoid Twitter. But Twitter, like most social media, has the potential to be about so much mroe.

Twitter is about access
Back in December, I sent a Tweet to Andrew Evans (@WheresAndrew) a travel writer for National Geographic who I had been following with great interest. I asked Andrew for his best travel advice in 140 characters or less. Twenty minutes later I got this reply:

@pjfurlong Say "yes" more than "no" & learn "Thank U". Make wrong turns. Treat your horse kindly. Passport & toothbrush R only essentials.

If I had emailed him, I don’t know that I would have received a response that quick, if ever. But with Twitter, the reply was instantaneous and was not only shared with me, but with thousands of other people who follow Andrew.

Take a look at this photo, probably snapped on her iPhone, and Tweeted by @MeredithShiner today outside Speaker Boehner's office as reporters wait for word about what will happen with the debt ceiling vote. Unpolished and real, you can imagine the anxiety the photo captures so vividly.

http://lockerz.com/s/124508214

Twitter allows me to stay in tune with issues that matter to me.

I follow very few of my actual friends on Twitter because I don’t need to read about what they ate for breakfast- I’ve got Facebook for those types of status updates. On Twitter, I've created a nonprofit community of sorts. I follow people, famous and ordinary, as well as organizations who care about and tweet about the same issues that matter to me. By following them, I end up getting exposed to countless relevant articles, blogs, and videos that I otherwise might have missed.

So again I must ask- who do you follow?
If the answer is no one, I'd encourage you to take the plunge, sign up for Twitter. You can even pledge to never tweet about your breakfast (unless it's really good). To start, I’ve included a few of my favorite folks in the nonprofit Twitosphere that I think are worth following.

People you may have heard of: @BillGates, @Jeffdsachs, @thisissethsblog, @NickKristoff, @Tom_Peters

Everyday People: @CynthiaHellen, @Cdilly, @ajlovesya, @socialcitizen, @otreyes,

Organizations: @weblogtheworld, @roomtoread, @Harvardbiz, @Acumenfund, @ynpnla (LA specific), @Inventurefund

Storytelling in the Nonprofit Sector

2011-07-27T19:16:00.000-07:00

A couple years ago I had figured out what I wanted to do in life. I saw myself working for a dynamic nonprofit providing education and health services to those in the developing world. And I would be the organizations professional storyteller, not to be confused with development officer or program manager. I would be able, as Blair Miller of Acumen Fund puts it to “travel back and forth from the slums of Kenya to the conference halls of Aspen.”

Trouble is, I’ve yet to see any postings for Chief of Storytelling or Storyteller Manager I or II. And so, for those of us that understand the value of a story, and want to dedicate our profesional lives telling the stories of the poor and often voiceless, what must we do?

While I don't know the answer to that just yet, what I beleive we all inherently get, even if we don't understand it, is quite simple: Storytelling REALLY matters. Stories, the power they have over us, isn't an exercise in logic at all. Anyone who has ever donated on impulse after a moving talk or video knows it's actually quite illogical Empathy still means a great deal in deciding where we will give parts of our precious time, energy, and money. Data matters too, but it ceases to mean anything unless we have a way to connect what we see on a spreadsheet to what we experience in real life. In the end, it's about telling stories, ours, that of another, and the often overlooked challenge Blair Miller addresses of getting out of the way of a good story so that it can be told by the actual person living it.

Listed below are a few links to what I think touch upon the essence of good storytelling.
-Blair Miller at Acumen Fund writes a brief blog entry about The Next Phase of Storytelling

-Andy Goodman's podcast Storytelling For Good Causes

-And of course a couple amazing talks posted on Ted: JK Rowling's Harvard commencement speech and spoken word artist Sarah Kay's talk on the power of self-expression.

For What It's Worth

2010-09-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

Some clippings of news and events relevant to those who may have a common interest.

-Charity:water, arguably the world’s most hip, tech savy and media savy nonprofit, attempted a live drill for clean water in Congo- and they failed. What makes this story worthy of attention is how they handled failure- they admitted their own frustration, vowed to fight on, and were transparent in using the situation as a teachable moment of the true challenges of accessing clean water in remote parts of the world. Read about it here.

-DonorsChoose founder Charles Best received a phone call that asked one simple question: how much would it cost to fund every California teacher’s wish list on the website. What happened next? A very happy first day of school for every teacher in California who posted a wish list on DonorsChoose. Read about it here.

Pakistan. Floods. We know, but do we really? What if the sound bite were reworded to emphasize the reality: People affected: more than Haiti and Katrina- combined. Rabia Ahmed wrote a moving love letter to Pakistan, posted on the Acumen Fund Blog. Read about it here.

For those who see themselves as storytellers (marketers) in the nonprofit, Seth Godin has some advice: start marketing. Right now. Read about it here.

If you will be in New York September 20th- I envy you. Might be worth checking out The Social Good Summit. Read about it here.

Turning a corner: Capacity Building as Millenials Working for Change

2010-08-16T09:44:00.000-07:00

Who are we called to be? We are the generation of 9-11, of Katrina, and of the worst depression since that big one in the 1930's. We are living amidst two wars, environmental decline, and an uncertainty almost never mentioned but always present.

We are the children of the internet. We have access to technology unimaginable a few years ago. What will we blog about? Will our tweets be about what we just ate or a tool to link us together with intellectual curiosity just beyond our otherwise limited reach? How will we use the social media network Facebook affords us?

Oscar Romero might have called us prophets of a future not our own and we stand on the edge of a world in need, and our response to this fierce urgency of this very moment will set a tone for generations to come.
This is our burden, this is our greatest responsibility. And if you’re like me, you react in accordance: at times anxious that you aren’t doing enough to reach your potential, to mange genuine and lasting change, no matter how big or small it may be. Other times you an embodiment of what I think is our reality- incredibly confident that we are indeed the leaders we have been waiting for. This much we know: the world isn’t waiting for us as individuals, and paradoxically, the world can’t wait any longer for us as a group of people to come together, “to get it” so to speak.

And so this blog is going to be “turning a corner” if you will. It’s time to shift the tone from one of self reflection to group reflection and capacity building. I hope, In my own small and humble way, to build upon my work with City Year in Boyle Heights and as a graduate admissions counselor with the University of Southern California. To build upon experience as a social entrepreneur with Magis and move the conversation forward on how to do good in this world. And to continue to to build upon experiences volunteering with the Holy Cross Associates and the Working Boys Center.

I know about the power of service, the potential connectivity and solidarity can have on the ways in which we choose to live our lives. And I know about education, the limitless potential good education provides and the vast shortfall of our society in meeting the curiosity and possibility of so many young people here and abroad.

So I hope you will join me on Twitter. I hope you will contribute your input here and suggest other blogs and arenas in which to read, to dialogue, and to learn and grow. And if you would like to discuss volunteerism, post-graduate service, working in the nonprofits, or the graduate school admission process, please don't hesitate to comment here or email me at pjfurlong at gmail dot com.

Impatient Idealism and the War on Poverty: Let's Talk Hope, Not Despair

2010-07-15T08:53:00.000-07:00

How do we talk about poverty? It’s something I have been obsessed about a lot as of late. There is this tendency on behalf of us nonprofity do gooders, and yes that is a scientific term, to paint a very bleak picture. Stats seem to be a favorite tool of ours. Post some depressing statistic over an even more depressing photo and suddenly we have our pitch for why caring about poverty and the people who live in it should matter more than say, Lindsay Lohan or learning where LeBron chooses to play ball next year.

People don’t invest long term in response to the depressing, they just don’t. And who can blame them? The human heart is not looking for punishing blow after blow. People get burnt out on bad news. Our focus shifts: why focus on stuff that truly hurts to internalize when we can focus on a world of reality TV that is anything but real?

And that’s exactly why we need a new framework for how we communicate about poverty. Our stereotype of the poor as hopeless and helpless is at best, often misinformed, at worst, patronizing.

And so I’d like you to imagine a new way of addressing poverty. A photo that highlights the beauty, possibility, and the resilience that is typical of so many of the people in Latin America and other parts of the developing world that speak to the real reality of so many: entrepreneurial people, primarily women, who are ready to make a change in their lives and those of their children and community. Instead of unconquerable despair we focus a bit more intentionally on untapped and eager potential. Doing so empowers a community, it empowers women, and it empowers us to pass by a world consumed by junk consumption for something more authentically life giving.

I am not saying this should be the way we communicate about things all the time. The reality of AIDS in Africa, education in the inner city, and so many other issues is that once in a while must speak to the great disparity. But what I believe is that we error when the message is so focused on that, with almost no messaging around potential and hope! This new communication works!

Don’t believe me- look at what Kiva is doing. They connect people like you and me to entrepreneurs on the ground in the developing world. You read their story, see a real photo of them, and “loan”, yes loan, $25 (or more) to help them start a business. Money is pooled amongst other lenders like you and suddenly you are invested in kinship without ever leaving your living room. Kiva started in 2005 and already has made loans to 378,862 people totaling $147,673,750. Over 80% are women and the repayment rate: 98.27%. These numbers are as of July 14, 2010. Other groups like Inventure Fund are taking their own approach to the microfinance craze and experimenting with some really cool ideas to bring out the best in investors, entrepreneurs, and the community.

Poverty sucks. I doubt you will find much disagreement. It is romanticized only by fools. But having been on the ground, what upsets me aside from this unnecessary poverty is the fact that we are failing the people living in this context in other ways when we fail to share stories of success in the battle against poverty. But don’t take my word for it, take 30 seconds to watch a video from “The Living Proof Project” from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation: evidence impatient idealism can improve the world.

The Answer is Compassion

2010-05-12T07:30:00.000-07:00

Activist Dorothy Day once remarked how we all imagine ourselves to be so wicked, when really we’re just ordinary people who stumble from time to time and try to do what’s right.

I heard it said that we should “Just assume the answer to every question is compassion.” Can you imagine a worldview colored by that philosophy?

I am not a theologian, but I’ve come to believe through my own experience, shortcomings, and stumbles that what God wants most is for us to be madly in love with life. Whoever we are, whatever our background or beliefs, God I imagine yearns for us to yearn for kinship. I think God beckons us to trust that he trusts us in what is needed to fall madly in love with life. We are tasked with recognizing where God dwells, not only "out there" but in our own being and in the existence of all those we encounter.

I went to a talk by Greg Boyle earlier this year where he said that “The Lord comes to us disguised as ourselves. We do come to believe that we grow into this. The only thing we know about Jesus growing up is he grew in age, and wisdom, and favor with God. But do we really grow in favor with God? Did Jesus become increasingly more favorable to God or did he just discover over time that he was holy, favorable?” It is perhaps in this spirit of compassion we are called to view ourselves, and view those around us.

If we are to assume compassion is the answer to every question, then at once we stand less in judgment of the burden “the other” carries and more in awe that they are able to carry it at all. And we also cleanse ourselves of the shame in which we view our own stumbles and shortcomings. Liberated to just be present to life, we understand what so often evades us in this culture: we are worthy of love not for what we are able to do but simply for being who we are. Like Father G says, we live ever present to the possibility of living our way into a new way of thinking, a thinking that recognizes we didn’t grow more favorable to God; we just discovered how favorable we have been all along.

This reflection came about from reading Greg Boyle's Tattoos on the Heart. I highly recommend it.

Earthquake in Chile

2010-02-27T12:54:00.000-08:00

As you all know a large earthquake struck the central part of Chile early this morning.

There isn't much to say other than the images that are coming out of the country are heartbreaking. It's made more intense of course when you look at images and recognize them not as disasters in a foreign land but disasters impacting people you came to know and love living in the country for a brief period.

Some news is good. Most of our friends appear to be OK. We have received a fair amount of messages via Facebook and through a loosely formed network of former volunteers alerting one another whenever we receive news. Most news goes along the lines of "I'm okay, my family is alright, our house is a mess." One friend reported that in my former neighborhood, close to 80% of the houses had a wall collapse. I am still waiting to hear back from a couple friends in that area, one friend who is a volunteer there. I can't get anything about the kids I worked with there, as the houses split apart sometime ago but I pray they are all safe.

A friend Ryan shared the following sites as helpful resources.
http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/02/earthquake_in_chile.html - This has some pretty vivid and telling photos- buildings split in two, bridges collapsed with cars turned upside down.

Google has set up a site to help people communicate about missing people in Chile. http://chilepersonfinder.appspot.com/

In terms of giving- the Red Cross, World Vision, and Save the Children are all dispatching either teams or supplies. Un Techo Para Chile is a great organization on the ground already, but their website is down. If I hear of any initiatives that are more grass roots from the people I know in Chile- I will be sure to pass it on.

Again, not much more to say except that Chile has one thing going for it- it's people are some of the most proud and stubborn people I have ever encountered. In a crisis- there wouldn't be anyone I'd want beside me more.

Keep em in your thoughts and prayers, and let's pray for some reprieve from mother nature for a little while.

A Different Type of Volunteer: Meet My Neighorhood Council Hero John

2010-01-21T21:11:00.000-08:00

John is my hero. You don’t know John, most likely never really will. That’s not his real name by the way but in a lawsuit happy country, you never can be too safe. You see, to know John like I now know John, you have to sit through a three hour neighborhood council meeting in Westchester. A meeting full of Robert’s Rule of Order, various public comments that peak my curiosity but baffle my mind, and sometimes painstakingly boring presentations by certain speakers who make it obvious within the first 30 seconds they did not prepare for their moment of shinning glory in front of this auspicious crowd.

Back to John, he’s my hero, in a neighborhood council, I’m glad you’re doing this because I don’t think I’d ever care to sort of way. John has fought tirelessly against the expansion of LAX and had a fairly successful track record. Personal feelings you may have aside, expansion of LAX would be bad for a community right next to LAX, especially as Orange County and Long Beach refuse to accommodate their people thus exasperating the crisis in LA. And so John fights. And he fights against power lines with high unsafe levels of electricity running down residential streets they shouldn’t run down. And he does it with energy uncommon a man his age, and with a twinkle in his eye I am certain none of us could maintain after years of these battles for his neighborhood.

And so John has me thinking. I admire him greatly and yet if we sat down and spoke about politics, we would most certainly disagree, and disagree like water to hot oil. We probably wouldn’t see eye to eye on much, most likely on a local and national scale. But in the spirit of Dr. King, I have been thinking a lot about service and volunteerism. For a lefty like me, it’s easy to look at Americorps and the Peace Corps, and religious projects like the Working Boys Center or Jesuit Volunteers- groups where people literally give of themselves in the name of improving some aspect of society failing the poor and oppressed. As a nation, we are able to recognize the value of service in our men and women deployed overseas, regardless of whatever our feeling is about the conflict that has them stationed there.

But I wonder when we as a nation might wake up and do a better job of recognizing folks like John. People who spend hours a month at meetings that bring new meaning to the adage “more boring than watching paint peel” or people who comb through every dreary public announcement by agencies big and small and then cause a ruckus in the name of true public debate.

John fights a good fight for the neighborhood of Westchester. Whether you agree with him or not to me is beside the point. He does it for free, he does it out of convictions he holds dear, and he does it with a smile and with a dignity that is lost upon many of us. And so a big thanks to John, for the hours he spends on projects to improve my community, and for helping me to consider with a more wide angle lens the spirit that is service and volunteerism in America today.

Dueling Realities

2010-01-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

Reality is complex to define. While in South America, I was often subjected to conversations with friends back home who knew nothing of my reality and thus dismissed my volunteering as a cheeky avoidance of reality- an extended spring break of sorts if you will. What I have seen in my time back in the United States is at once simple and complex: the world is limitless with definitions of reality, each one different, real, and wholly unique from the other, and each equally important to understand.

And so I live the reality of a man who has not just seen developing world poverty but lived amongst it and attempted in a rather amateur way to repair it or at least heal some of the wounds that develop as a result of it. And now I am a mid 20 something, surrounded by a haunting reality of a world I can’t and don’t want to forget. And yet I am increasingly entrenched in a world where like it or not your bank statement and your 401K mean something- not so much in terms of competition or prestige but in the simple matter of being able to provide for yourself. Suddenly, the question “what do you want to do with your life?” weighs heavy upon my shoulders.

Living in debt sucks. I know this first hand because it is perhaps the greatest characteristic of my time back in the United States. Working for little pay, I have found myself with a monthly credit card statement that can’t always be paid off on time. And my digs have ranged from a former convent in South LA where my room was the size of a closet to an apartment in a freshman dorm at my alma mater. In that capacity I try, sometimes with limited success, to expose freshman to the challenge and opportunity that is discovering the poverty that lurks in our midst and what we all can and should be doing to respond to it. Life giving as this role is for me, I am faced with the realization that one can only be a coupon whore and live gratis in church attics and dorms for so long.

And all this has me thinking, or more accurately said, worrying, about what my future contains. This I know, I am happiest when directing my energy towards making the world a better place. To take it a step further, I imagine I would be in my element working for a nonprofit focused on combating crisis of health and sanitation in the developing world. But at what cost? I attended a conference of nonprofit leaders in LA last year where the keynote speaker lamented about one of the greatest problems in the nonprofit sector: how are we to eliminate poverty in this world if we entrap our employees within it?

And so dear reader, now 18 months back home, I find myself adjusting to the world that I imagine many if not all returned volunteers face: how does one live with the urgency to expend every ounce of your talent towards fighting against a reality you were exposed to that is poverty, that you know is unjust and in need of repair. And how do you do that while juxtaposing it with a sincere and indeed acceptable desire to make enough money so that an unplanned expense such as a root canal doesn’t bring the prospect of financial misery for many more months to come? I wish I had an answer, but more often then not I find myself overly obsessed with a most frightening question: what if you are fairly certain of the career path that would bring you the greatest satisfaction and horribly uncertain if it can provide for a modest but comfortable lifestyle?

The Voice Within

2009-09-21T11:42:00.000-07:00

At Mass last night, a charismatic priest began his homily by saying he was a missionary a few years back. A missionary in Latin America he continues, and I lean forward. He continues some more, explaining the country he worked in- Ecuador. And in Ecuador he tells the audience, he came across a place that changed his life: The Working Boys Center. My heart beat taps an excited dance. A smile appears on my face and all the noise that has needlessly occupied my life for these past few months ceases for a brief moment.

There is a place where children quite literally work to feed themselves he tells this group. And my eyes closed and images of these little loved ones came to the forefront. I felt at peace, I felt connected to a part of me that I am still struggling to incorporate in my current setting. His homily ends rather abruptly, and we sit in silence for a few minutes as though he is beckoning his listeners to make his story their own.

It brought to light a familiar theme in my life throughout my readjustment phase: the struggle to tell the unique stories my journey into solidarity has afforded me. A gifted speaker, I have floundered when sharing my experiences. A passionate advocate, I have sat quietly on the sidelines letting opportunities to educate and raise awareness pass. I have beat myself up a lot, and felt as though I were in a race against time to right these wrongs, so to speak.

Stories yearn to be told, and I left Mass realizing those stories are not mine to tell so much as they are Gods stories that are longing to be told with me as an active collaborator. I have always readily been able to identify God in the other, but struggled to find where God dwells within me. In Ecuador, I found that connection. Today, after a year of many ups and downs, I am learning again to establish that trust in God so I can tell the stories through my lifeworks I so long to tell. I found a quote I thought explains it best. Below that, a video that explains what I have to motivate me to continue on in seeking the Magis within me.

“For me to be a saint means to be myself. Therefore the problem of sanctity and salvation is in fact the problem of finding out who I am and of discovering my true self.” Thomas Merton New Seeds of Contemplation

You Rebuild

2009-07-22T11:13:00.000-07:00

I have sat in front of a computer for sometime now plotting out my entry to explain my return visit to Quito a month ago. I spent two weeks visiting the Center and the experience was invaluable in so many ways. It was a much needed visit that allowed me to better understand what my service meant while at the same time giving me permission to not so much move on as to move forward.

This past year, I have been unable to adequately share with anyone what my experience as a whole meant. It was so deeply personal, I foolishly reasoned that sharing any aspect of it was impossible. People never responded the way I felt they should, and so I shut down. And so when a friend or new acquaintance would genuinely ask about a portion of my service, I held firmly to a generic position that “it was a really great experience” and then subtly attempted to pose my own questions about a different subject, hoping to tactfully divert speaking about it.

On my last day visiting the center, a current volunteer who had journeyed with an Alternative Break group from Loyola Marymount gave to me a letter I had apparently written to this group upon their departure. In it I said the following:

“A bit of advice I too will be putting into practice when I head back in July: take it home. There are stories here that need to be told to the hearts at home that yearn, perhaps unconsciously, to be moved. You will arrive on campus in a matter of hours, and in the green and lush yards, you will struggle to balance the contradiction that is Quito to Westchester. Contradictory it may be, and yet both pieces now work together to in someway define who you are. Rather than deny one for the other, embrace both and seek to integrate these two seemingly contrasting worlds so that you are better in Westchester for your visit to Quito, and the people in Westchester are more informed and better because of the part of you that is the memory of an Ecuadorian street kid.”

Reading it, and seeing how I had failed to live up to the very advice I bestowed upon this group I was reminded of the story in the Bible in which Peter denies Jesus three times before the cock crows twice. And like Peter, the realization of my denial led to an intense wave of emotions.

Dave Eggers, in his powerful book What is the What says the following: “Whatever I do, however I find a way to live, I will tell these stories… because to do anything else would be something less than human. I speak to these people, and I speak to you because I cannot help it. It gives me strength, almost unbelievable strength, to know that you are here… I will tell these stories to people who will listen and to people who don’t want to listen, to people who seek me out and to those who run. All the while I will know that you are there. How can I pretend that you don’t exist? It would be almost as impossible as you pretending that I do not exist.”

And so what I take away most, both from my two years of service and my two weeks of visiting, is, as a friend Nate said in his reflection on returning to Ecuador- "I’ve taken away how blessed i am. To have a college degree. A U.S. passport. Health. Opportunities. Social mobility. I want to help and work with those who don't have those advantages in this world. Kind of like Sister Annie says "to give voice to the voiceless." Ecuador, after a year of being out of my element, affirmed in me only further the belief that I am in my element when I am working on international causes.

There are stories to be told, stories I have for the most part neglected in telling. Brendan spoke about returning from volunteerism as being like your house is burning down, and you don’t know what else to do but go into survival mode and get out of the house. You find yourself then standing amongst the ashes of what was once your familiar and safe foundation, and asking what now? It’s taken a year, but at long last I can answer with confidence what the next part of the metaphor is. You rebuild. It may sound simplistic, but doing it has been anything but easy. I know there are areas I have been weakened and faltered. And I work on those, that is to say, I work on myself- with gentle kindness, something I am great at doing with others but not with myself. And I look to the past for guidance towards the future, steadfast with the knowledge that my work in the future years is what will allow me to pay adequate respect to those from my past that silently accompany me on this journey.

In the coming month, I would love to try an experiment called Memories whereby I post a series of short blogs introducing you to some of the people or memories that were such a vital part of my experience. It's just one small way to begin honoring those that have taught me so much and loved me so unconditionally, at home and abroad.

I need your help

2009-06-10T06:49:00.000-07:00

Hi friends and family,

So I am in operation Ecaudor mode.

June 19th, I return to the motherland. To give you a quick lesson about Quito and Ecuador:

Ecuador is home to the gold medal speed walker Jefferson Perez, aptly referred to as the "Pride of Ecuador."

The elevation of Quito is 9252 feet. To give you some perspective: that's more than double that of the Mile High City- Denver.

Its airport, one of the highest in the world, is situated in the middle of the city, right next to a large mountain range. Meaning a pilot must clear the mountains and then drop quickly in order to land. Special certification is required. One best not youtube Quito airport before flying into the airport for your own peace of mind.

In 1978 the city of Quito was declared UNESCO a world heritage site.

Despite being a mere 15 miles from the equator, the average high temperature never rises above 70 degrees. Confused. Go back to the point about being more than two miles above sea level.

Quito is host to the great soccer team LIGA, which won the Copa Libertadores and then went on in club play to the world championship, only to lose to a little known team- Manchester United.

But aside from all this, it's home to my home away from home- The Working Boys Center.

And I need your help.

As I prepare to return June 19th I think about supplies and needs at the center. I want to bring a suitcase worth of goods per person traveling, and to do that means I need you.

Anyone care to help by donating the following?

Clothes
Stickers
Toys
Games
School supplies

Anything you can think of, we can use in Ecuador. If interested in helping, please contact me or send it to me via postal mail:

Patrick Furlong
2851 West 120th Street
Suite E254
Hawthorne, CA 90250

Thanks everyone!

Baldness, Window Tint, Broken Beds, and Starfish- For Lack of a More Creative Title

2009-04-23T17:29:00.000-07:00

I am slowly going bald and rapidly growing hair on my back. This is perhaps the most vexing of human concerns I have taken to in my mid twenties. Trivial it may be, but I’d like to make it known that I vote nature can give you hair loss or ridiculous amounts of hair, but not both and in the wrong spots. I’d like to wake up tomorrow and look at my head and be like “damn where did all that hair come from” and then look at my back and be thinking “where’d you go?” But sadly, that won’t happen.

On another note- I can’t tint my front car windows- it’s illegal in California. I live in the most progressive state in the union. OK, OK, I know, the last election we passed prop 2 giving chickens leg room in their cages but somehow failed to give our gay neighbors, friends, and family the right to marry the people they love. Progressive moment of silence for the shame I feel on that one. But aside from that, we are a pretty progressive bunch out here. And so the car window tinting thing vexes me. I don’t need limo dark, just dark enough to keep the heat out, use less AC, and save some emissions and fuel. Seems like a total California “governator” thing to do- why hasn’t it happened yet?

Dogs are treated like humans. Better than some of the humans that defined my life the last two years. We have been here already so I won’t visit it much more other then to say, for the love of God: why?

I broke my bed. Make all the jokes you want at my expense. You may remember I broke a bunk bed in Chile, tumbling to the floor and bringing half the frame with me so I am no stranger to this. After breaking this one, I dutifully measured it’s dimensions, even went out of my way to purchase a new tape measure for the occasion. I went to IKEA to purchase a new frame, and failed to use any of those measurements when making my purchase. I don’t know why.

I installed the bed with the help of my girlfriend Laura. She kinda sorta works in construction (in a nonprofit save the world and paint murals and construct benches sort of way) and so is better with power tools than I am- sensitive subject don't press it. Anyway, 3.5 hours of IKEA instructions and when at last I finished and moved the mattress onto the frame, I learned something very troubling: I have a full size bed. Queen size frame. Troublesome my inability to not head that problem off a little sooner. More disturbing: the queen sized hissy fit I threw as a result, with no one to blame but myself. To those who witnessed this- I apologize profusely.

Kids in South America and the United States are really into the fact that my name is Patrick and Sponge Bob Square Pants best friend is Patrick Star or Patricio Estrella depending what language you view it in. I run an after school program in an elementary school as part of my job that is called Starfish Corps. It wasn’t until last week that one girl, who approached me with a smile of the grandest proportions, put together what neither I, my staff, nor any other kid had pieced together: “your name is Patrick, Spongebob’s friend is named Patrick. Patrick on the show is a starfish and get this, you’re a starfish too! Isn’t that crazy” she asked me with genuine wonderment that only a third grader can sincerely manage.

Lots of things confuse me. Moments like the last one, remind me why, for the last three years, I have chosen a career path that leads me towards little pay, growing bills, but perhaps the most genuine satisfaction a career can give.

Conversing With Dogs

2009-03-31T10:15:00.000-07:00

I’m talking to dogs. Don’t worry; it’s not what it seems. Or perhaps it is and depending on who you are, this either fills you with great joy or disturbs you beyond consolation. One train of thought goes along the lines of “about time you speak to Pookie because pookie isn’t just any type of dog, she’s a big girl who loves Patrick, yes she does yes she does” and you can hear the baby voice that is said in. The other line of reasoning, the one I would most likely be inclined to side with says with flippant irreverence “sellout” and need not say anything more as you shake your head and wonder how another one bit the dust so quick.

But in my transition into the United States this is an enormous step I thought I could never take. There are a fair share of friends and family who have small dogs in their lives. And you know, transitionally speaking, I have been amazed at the human status dogs have been granted in our society. Entire rooms of houses are cornered off for the use of dogs. Lawsuits have been filed by dog owners angered that some restaurant had the audacity to suggest Mr. Snuggles not be allowed to sit at the table. I have been at more than a few dinner parties when a dog gets unruly, and my third world instincts had to be quelled. Rather than try and soothe it, I find myself scanning the room for objects to throw.

But the other day I caught myself talking to a dog as though he would talk back. He looked at me with droopy eyes as I conversed about my conundrum of the time and his response was a burp, a spastic lick attack of his genitals and then as I neared completion of the story, he ran off barking at the mailman. It was then it hit me, I have sold out to talking to dogs. Why do I care so much? Because with that comes the fear, unreasonable or not, that soon I will “sell out” in other ways. Maybe soon I won’t feel my vocation should still be in sync with my career. Maybe soon I will look at a homeless man and not wonder about the humanity of it all? Or maybe it’s because I have began to forget the names of some of my students in Chile and Ecuador, and this burdens me with a self imposed guilt I don’t know how to address.

And so you see, I am talking to dogs. I am taking the baby steps of being back in this culture and I think I am almost there, there being the place I was looking for that seeks to mix the best of USA me and South America me into just plain old me. Best of all, when I raise my arm South America “you mess with me dog and I will make your life worse than rabies” style, my American friends think it’s cute that I am trying to calm the dogs nerves down by engaging in a game of fetch. If only they knew…

A Lenten Challenge

2009-03-12T22:22:00.002-07:00

It’s Lent. I know this because one random Wednesday there were a whole bunch of people that were doing one of two things: looking at me with horrid curiosity or nodding at me, smiling as though we were part of some secret society together, though the large black cross (or smudge) on our foreheads made our club anything but secret.

The traditional Catholic sentiment is that Lent is about giving up something. I always struggled with this as, well, my childhood instincts never leave me. I figure being 25 and giving up candy isn’t really kosher anymore. I listened to what other people were giving it up, and having no room to critique seeing as how I had yet to come up with my sacrifice, I nonetheless found myself highly critical of their “sacrifices.” Giving up fatty foods and beer, sure it is hard, but I have a nagging suspicion that it’s not so much about God as it is about your waistline.

I am by no means the model Catholic. Things like stem cell research, homosexual marriage, equal rights for women, etc… stand in the way of me being a by the book model. But I’d like to think I have been surrounded by some pretty insightful Catholics and one in particular always speaks about using Lent to not so much give up something as to take on something new. Giving up beer is cool. It also helps you get one step closer to being the sexiest Catholic since Bono. But taking the money you saved from avoiding beer consumption and giving it to a cause you are passionate about- now that’s the spirit of Lent I think we could all use a little more of.

In Ecuador, there are two thousand people who turn to The Working Boys Center each and every day for tools to eliminate poverty in their lives: clothing, three meals a day, education and books, medical and dental care, workshops for escaping poverty, spiritual nourishment, the list goes on and on. And in this economy, I imagine the people who I personally witnessed tirelessly are perhaps struggling a little more than ever before. In these tough times, more than ever we are called to be agents of hope.

And so this Lent I am asking you to join me in donating to The Working Boys Center. I have failed these last eight months to really develop the words that make up the story that was my own personal journey of enlightenment in Ecuador. And so I hope you hear me when I tell you that if you give now, be it $5 or $100 I could sit with you and tell you stories of people I know and love, people whose faces are burned into my memory and heart, that will directly benefit from your generosity.

I am pledging $20 a week (for the non Catholics in the crowd that will add up to $120). Anyone care to match me?

To give via Facebook click HERE

To give via the website, learn more about the program, and see how it is a 501c3 click HERE

In advance, I thank you on behalf of Maria, a 6th grader at the WBC. I thank you on behalf of Erik, a 5th grader. I thank you on behalf of Antonia, an employee of the center. And I thank you on behalf of the countless volunteers and staff who in way or another have given a part of that which is them to see to it that people are equipped with the needed tools to escape poverty, for themselves and their children.

If you join me in this personal cause, I promise you not just one but two things.

1. I will take lots of pictures when I visit in June so you can see where your money is going. I may even take you with me if you have the interest.
2. When you get off this ridiculous anti alcohol Lenten diet, the first beer is on me!

Learning in Transition

2009-02-16T00:04:00.004-08:00

A few things I have learned over the last 7 months.

Speaking fast and under the guise of confidence is usually enough to hold people under the illusion you know what you are doing.

When tasting wine and you discover you thought an $8 bottle tasted better than a $90, have no shame: ya like what ya like. Simple enough. Ya like what ya like.

No matter how hard I try, I can't bring "provecho" (eat well) and the hug and kiss greeting and goodbye to be commonplace here in the States.

The Wii is pretty damn cool, in a frightening, “is this technology possible” kind of way.

Blackberry is the new love hate of my life.

Running is therapeutic. Cooking- even more therapeutic.

Seeing the garage you park your car in featured in an episode of Heroes can make you way more excited than something that ridiculous ever should make you. To all my friends in Albuquerque, I promise that will be the last time I call you at midnight trying to convince you to watch Heroes on Hulu just to see level 7 of my parking structure.

Speaking of Hulu- poor man’s DVR, and it rocks my socks!

If I were to tell you my floss was made in Ireland, would you be surprised?

Along the lines of surprised, GM has a new sales campaign that goes along the lines of “The Chevy Malibu is a great car. FANTASTIC QUALITY. And…it’s made by GM… Surprised?” Newsflash: your ad campaign, like your strategy to take a private jet to beg for a bailout, not so great, though nor am I “surprised” at the lack of thinking that went into either.

The Tamales at King Taco- pretty much as good as the tacos.

Colgate can be reached 24 hours a day on their hot line- begging the question: why?

Oh, and Brett Favre is retiring… again. I can’t say you will be so fortunate with me!

Please Turn Off and Stow All Electronic Devices

2009-01-11T16:06:00.004-08:00

One of the joys of returning to a country you have been away from for so long is not so much the frighteningly new things, the Wii and Blackberry to name only the two most perplexing and intriguing of that category. I think I threw my shoulder out playing Wii against my friends 10 year old the other day, but that's a story for another time. But more exciting than dealing with what's new is returning to things that have been as they are for years and years and wondering, with a fresh perspective- why the hell is it like this?

On my flight home from a wedding in Sacramento (congratulations again Brian!) a flight attendant frantically came down the aisle of the plane, zeroed in on my seat with a menace you never want to see from a woman who, for all intensive purposes, has proprietary control on anything and everything in your life above 30,000 feet.

She mumbled something incoherent. OK, well, it was probably coherent enough but I didn’t hear a word of it because my IPOD was rocking to World Town off M.I.A.'s Kala CD -one of the greater discoveries upon return to the states. But I paused it just in time to hear here repeat, with more disgust in her emotions, “sir, federal regulations prohibit the use of electronic items during takeoff or landing, please turn off your electronic musical device now.” Electronic musical device for those of you not in the know is my MP3 player even more commonly referred to as an IPOD. But anyways…

It made me think about flying and a few things I don’t quite understand. How is taking off my shoes at security making the plane any safer? Why is my water bottle treated as a possible plot to blow up a plane? Why do I have to pay extra to fly stand by on an earlier flight or pay $15 to check my bag for that matter... ok, the last two were new wonders but you get the point. But most disturbing of all, does my IPOD really have the capability to interfere with the on board technology of my 393,000 pound 747-400 so much so that we might crash and when they review the black box, they will determine beyond doubt that the landing wouldn’t have been a problem if the kid in seat 26D hadn’t kept his IPOD Shuffle on? And Yes, I Googled the weight of a 747 for the sake of enhanced journalistic integrity.

In the meantime I have taken a most righteous approach to the scenario. I apologized to the flight attendant and waited until she was seated for landing to flip on my IPOD. I know, I know, a true rebel without a cause, James Dean would look at me and be jealous. But really, what the heck to all the above questions about flying in the United States nowadays? And where did the free meals go? OK, that is probably asking too much...

It is what it is

2008-12-27T17:23:00.004-08:00

I am in the airport. My flight is delayed. It’s going on six hours now. People are angry, people are frustrated. But I can't recall when I've felt more at peace. With no where to go, nothing to do, all I can manage is to sit here and reflect about the whirlwind that has been life since returning to the United States in July. These are my initial thoughts.

A few months ago, Michael Phelps went for an amazing eight gold medals. History was being made and me, being the good American I am, all I wanted was to share in it with someone, anyone! To feel connected to something big in my country in ways I had not been able to these past two years- what a thrill! And yet, I couldn’t. For reasons I can’t understand, partly my fault and partly the result of a lifestyle stateside I am yet to master- the friendships and love I specifically sought to return to LA for have been mostly MIA in my life. People changed, I changed, and now I don’t really know where I fit into a world that I was MIA from for two years. And so calls went unreturned, friends contemplated getting a beer to watch it versus missing a rerun of the Hills and medal after medal was won, with me sitting on my couch watching- alone. And so Michael Phelps, American hero, is forever emblazoned in my mind as a symbol of my loneliness and my struggle to find kinship in a city that once provided so much for me. It is what it is.

I have these dreams where I am back in Ecuador, peaceful and in tune with my kids and then wake up, alone in a dark and empty room far away from those that I love the most. I miss them. I want to go back to them. And I can't. It is what it is.

My adventure into the dating world, has been, at best, horrific, a far cry from my days at the suave gringo who could chat up any girl in South America with confidence and ease. And I just kinda have to laugh after each date here, each stupid mistake and just smile and think how funny it really is. It is what it is.

Stuck in this airport and hearing people grumble provokes contrasting emotions. A part of me wants to shout to gain some perspective. I want to spew out stories about kids sleeping six to a bed and shinning shoes for a quarter. And yet, another side of me yearns to respond with care and compassion to their exasperated frustration. To simply say I hear ya, this sucks and then let them continue to complain, but at least feel as though at last someone is listening.

If I have learned anything from my service and from my five months feeling like a stranger in the midst of familiarity- it’s that people want to be validated. We want to be heard, we want to know that others recognize our inherit dignity- be it in our right to have food on our table and a stable job or simply in our petty moments of frustration, to voice exasperation and simply feel someone cares enough to acknowledge that what we are saying, what we are feeling, means something.

I have been back in my country for five months. And you know, I’m still searching for my voice in my experience, my story in my current setting.

I watch people hustle to and fro really going nowhere. I smile at a little kid in the airport who smiles back at me, oblivious for now to the argument his parents have above him. I watch a couple romantically whisper to one another and find myself rooting for their love to conquer all obstacles.

In a city where I have few friends left, I feel connected to the human story in an intense way I never before felt. I yearn for connectivity in ways I never before my volunteer time did. I feel at once genuine and alive! And though I have not found as many connections as I would like to call my own back home, and though I frequently question how and where do I fit into this world- I can’t help but wonder how blessed am I? In volunteering I found a story not my own that moved me to make my own life one more intentionally lived. I am alive and in good health, happy and confident that the best is yet to come. How truly blessed am I? It is what it is.

If this photo doesn't scream my mantra "it is what it is" then what does?

Time to Say Goodbye: The Last Post

2008-07-15T14:22:00.000-07:00

For a few weeks now, I have been waiting for it to hit. “It” being reality: I am leaving. It mystified me to say I have lived in South America for 700 some days, and in my final days, I had yet to really feel like I had internalized it was drawing to a close.

Saturday my moment of realization came. The center hosted a despedida, a going away party for us. From a soccer game of Gringos vs. Ecuadorian dads to fun and games with the kids to most moving of all, a program full of dancing and singing, poems and meaningful words of praise and love from the people we have worked with all year long. “We have no money to give you proper gifts for all you have done,” explained one individual, “and so we give you all that is us through our song, dance, and word.”

At the end, we were surrounded by laughter and tears. Kids came and wrapped their little arms around our necks and legs, some cried, others said thank you. Many did their best to put into words how much they loved us and would miss us and in their innocent child like way, pleaded with us not to leave or at the very least, “nunca me olvidas.”

And it was all very moving, all very real, all very final. I’m coming home and instantly fear set in. I don’t know what home is anymore, because home in my heart is my life in Ecuador. I’m hugging people and talking to them and now wondering if this will be the last time I get to do that. What’s next for these children I have grown to love? I many never know. That’s hard. People ask when I am coming back here, and I don’t know what to tell them. Invitations are being passed out left and right to visit this family and that family one last time in their homes, and there aren’t enough days to meet all the requests.

A lot of things finally clicked Saturday afternoon. The most pressing was that I am leaving and my time is limited. Now what do I do with it? The next thing was that this transition back home will not be as easy as I had silently hoped it would be. Living in a foreign land has made me foreign and perhaps even a bit odd. A friend doing JVC explained her thoughts on her experience to me saying: I will have to reintroduce myself to everyone I once knew because they won’t know me anymore. I don’t know what awaits me when I get back, I don’t know if who I have become can sustain who society will call me to be. I’ve already faltered on this, and I haven’t yet returned home.

This much I can say: I made a decision a little over a year ago to leave a program in Chile that was not working out for me and come to Quito for a year. In the two years I have been gone, I have experienced the single handed worst year of my life and simply the most incredible year of my life. What they hold in common is the love both given and received that allow me to say I have had two life giving years of growth.

As I say my goodbyes, I reflect on that frightening decision to come here, and with much uncertainty surrounding my current status, I say without doubt or trepidation, it was the single best choice I have made since graduating college. And so, thank you Working Boys Center, thank you to the wonderful people of Ecuador, thank you to my friends and family back home, and thank you to the members of the center who, with nothing to offer but song, dance, and word that have filled my heart with a soundtrack, movie, and moving poem by which to remember this inconceivable experience where I lived amongst an incredible people. No te olivdare.

Seeing as how I leave Ecuador July 18th, this is most likely my last post. I will do a few travel specials after this, but nothing service related. I can´t guarantee I won´t pull a Brett Farve, but I´m pretty sure this is it. Thanks for taking the time to read it and God Bless!

Getting mugged at our goodbye party by some of my favorite students.

Living in the Moment

2008-07-08T04:00:00.000-07:00

Living in the moment. I’m almost two years into this moment, and as I think of one of the things I am most ashamed of, it’s this: I’ve yet to master just living in the moment. It feels like for months now, I have been living in Ecuador with my eyes set on my future.

I heard a saying: if you wait for the future, it comes. If you don’t wait, it comes just the same. And so what is this obsession with my future that I can’t put on hold? I’m in one of those moments I truly should be alive and present to, and I can’t will myself to do it. When I’m not at school, not around the kids, my thoughts drift to the future, my legs wander to an internet café. First it was for job searches. Now with that out of the way, apartment searches and whatever else can shamelessly occupy my mind.

And the only thing that somewhat comforts and consoles is knowing I am not alone. Tension has risen amongst the house as uncertainty looms over us all. Exasperated stories that begin along the lines of “when this ends, I don’t know what happens next” are the norm. Some have jobs or school to return to, some know what city they will call home, and yet, all of us realize at some inherent level- we can only prepare so much for life post-Ecuador.

My obsession with the future persists as a means of external validation. On one hand, an obsession with the future allows us the security of knowing that we are always upward bound. Who wants to believe they have reached the peak and have nothing further to look forward to? Focusing on the future is a way of reassuring ourselves, comforting ourselves, that the best is always yet to come. But how much do we void ourselves of the pure joy the current moment is ready to offer by doing that?

Dare I say that after two years of this game, I have yet to master what I have always known it to be about? Just be, the rock on my desk says, and at times, I have done anything but that.

People back home will invariably ask the question that frustrates me most: “how was it?” They ask about your life experience, your year, as though it is nothing more than a meal or movie. The answer is so much more complicated and long winded then what the seeker truly wants to hear. But maybe despite it all, I will have an answer to give them, one that satisfies me with its depth and satisfies them with its brevity. How was it? Love and failure, that’s how it was.

It was two years: it was the best year of my life and the worst year of my life and it spanned across three countries. It was learning how to love and be loved, and it was the constant failure to do that and so much more as much as I would have liked. It was watching the poor stumble and seeing my own stumbles in theirs.

What did I learn? To see the humanity in every statistic, to see my own reflection, the best and the worst that is within me, in those who remain unseen. The struggling single mother, the ten year old shoeshine boy, the alcoholic father, the fifteen year old aspiring female doctor: all my students, and all my teachers. It was here a people with nothing more than their love and their failures taught me about how to rebound from my own failures, and how to truly utilize my love. And while I couldn’t always live in this moment, it is my hope that for the many moments ahead in my life, it is these moments that will shape me and ground me in that which I have always known it to be about: failure, and love in spite of it all.

Some Fears About Transition Back to the United States

2008-07-01T15:02:00.002-07:00

Transitioning from South America to the USA these are some pressing concerns I have:

1. Costs. A liter of beer costs $0.80 here. I don’t want to think how much a 20 oz. bottle of beer costs back home. A gallon of gas in Ecuador- $1.50. No, I don’t have a car so this means nothing to me, but it will at least supply me righteous indignation when I do have a car and pay $4.00.

2. Food. Here, fruits and veggies that are cheap and junk food like KFC and McDonald's that’s expensive. The last time I bought a bushel of bananas in the United States- it didn’t cost $0.20. Prices are going to kill me!

3. English. The other day a crazed dog attempted to attack me. This is the second time in Latin America I have had to get physical when a dog attacks I might add. I was proud of myself when I began shouting Spanish obscenities at the pinche perro! It will be weird to speak English all the time and not have to worry if I am using the right “for”- an incredibly pressing concern in my day to day life here in Ecuador. Or, what happens that first time someone upsets me and I mumble something to the effect of “you’re such an idiot and I hope your store closes down” forgetting that everyone around me speaks English now too. Ooops.

4. Busses. Call me crazy, but I’ve taken rather fondly to the challenge of boarding and getting off busses. It slows down to about 5 MPH and you grab the sidebar, hop and pray for a successful landing INSIDE the bus. Getting off, it’s much the same. The bus slows down, you survey the ground to make sure there are no obstacles such as potholes, and you jump/run cartoon style off the bus. Also, bus fare is $0.25 and they will even give you change for a $20 should you need it. I realize about 99% of my readership has never taken public transpo in LA so they have no idea just how incredibly cool it is to get change on a bus fare, nor do you realize how affordable $0.25 is!

5. Celebrity status. If I return to LA, I’ll simply just be another one in twelve million. My life here is the closest I will get to being a celebrity. Everywhere I go on the C.M.T. campus, children shout my name, wave excitedly, and sprint from all directions to jump in my arms and hug me and ask me to throw them playfully in the air. I’ve even perfected a wave any red carpet walker would be envious of. All that ends, and I am back to average Joe status. Plus, let's face it. Here, I hug any kid I want. If I try and do that in the United States, I'll be that weird guy.

6. Pay. The other day I jokingly told Madre Miguel I felt underpaid. She responded that if I felt that way, she’d double my salary. Before you get too excited, remember I make $0. You do the math of what that is doubled. 0X2= I hope you can do this better than two of my students who tried the other day. Alex Rodriguez, star of the New York Yankees, made more money than the 33 man roster of the Florida Marlins- at least before the H. Ramirez deal. There is really no relevance between my pay and that of A-Rod other than it is a cool stat to spout out to whoever will listen and it does make me sick.

7. Speaking of Nicknames, A-Rod is cool but I think I’ve managed to one up even that. Everywhere I have been in South America, my name, Patrick is most commonly translated not to Patricio but to Pato, coincidentally the Spanish word for duck. As much as I hated it at first, I have grown rather fond of Pato and will have an incredibly difficult time not necessarily returning to Patrick, but returning to the most commonly used name, that which I loathe the most: Pat. Why do I hate Pat? Three words: Saturday Night Live. So cut a man a break: Patrick, Furlong, Pato, Patricio, even duck if you must, just no more Pat!

Who would have ever thought going back home after two years who be more difficult than leaving home in the first place? And yet, so as to not be totally depressing, I am excited about some really good things. I am really fired up about my new job with an organization called City Year, a job which I start immediately upon return. I am excited to have baseball replace soccer, a micro-brew replace a Pilsener. I’m excited to watch Scrubs season eight, sit on the beach, and run 10k’s at something less than 9,000 feet above sea level. And of course to see friends and family! So in a round about way, I’m so nervous, and so excited, and so confused as to why A Rod makes more than all the Marlins combined and doubling my salary still leaves me with a net income of zero.

Airplane Lavatory: More Complicated Than It May Seem

2008-06-23T16:51:00.001-07:00

On a flight from Miami to Quito, I discovered a few things about the airline industry that I found, well, newsworthy.

First things first- lightening. Miami International Airport (MIA) along with its compatriots LAX, JFK, DFW, etc… have managed to deliver wireless internet to all of its terminals. It appears they have the capabilities to land about one airplane every 1-2 minutes. And they’ve also managed to manipulate customers into thinking that $9 for a personal pizza from Pizza Hut really isn’t a bad deal. Throw in a $3 bottle of soda and you really got yourself a deal! And yet, when lightening strikes, they are helpless in the face of it. How do I know? Because I sat on an airplane for a little over three hours, parked a mere 100 feet from the gate that was empty and awaiting my plane. Lightening was in the area and apparently the entire airport, I swear to you, just shuts down. It seems to happen quick and without warning. And as I sat there, watching the rain helplessly fall, I was able to infiltrate this mysterious price raising industry known as aviation and learn a thing or two.

Flight Attendants. It’s a job that’s got its challenges so my intent isn’t to take anything away from these wonderful men and women who have, as far as I am concerned, been offering the entire can of soda instead of just the plastic cup a lot more as of late. But did you know it takes OVER 5 WEEKS of in class training to be a flight attendant. They cover the gambit, everything from how to properly wake a passenger up for his or her meal to simulated water landings that are practiced in, from what my inside sources tell me, a swimming pool. But over 5 weeks- really?

Third and most startling- the on board bathroom. Do you have any idea just how many American adults are helpless in operating the on board lavatory of your typical airplane? And no, I’m not talking etiquette rules like no peeing on the seat or no leaving paper towels all over the floor so I don’t walk out with something stuck to my shoe. I am talking the basics here people.

I had a seat near the lavatory and noticed the frequent and disturbing number of passengers who entered the bathroom after dinner was served who would enter, look around lost, and then press the help button to ask the flight attendant how to turn the light on. I once thought the bathroom was as standard an operation as the seat belt. For anyone who hasn’t been in a plane since 1963, you enter, you close the door. You lock the door, and just like that, a light is triggered to automatically switch on.

As I sat observing, I decided in honor of my Political Science degree to do a little statistical research. This may have been because due to the delay on the tarmac my IPOD was out of juice and sadly, the in air entertainment console in my seat was broken meaning I could only watch 27 Dresses with no sound. I did for a little bit, and I do believe I got as much out of it as the woman who watched it with sound next to me. It didn’t strike me as a complicated plot. As I grew tired of the muted movie, I did the only thing that seemed natural: I could count the number of people that went to the bathroom and the people who were able to successfully operate the bathroom light challenge in under one minute. Why one minute? Don’t ask too many questions.

The results: 17 out of 20 were unable to do so. I wish I was lying; it shames me to say this is true. And in case you are wondering about the three that succeeded: all three were, in my modest estimate, under the age of 15.

To Feel Like an NBA Rookie

2008-06-10T13:32:00.001-07:00

I’ve heard it said that rookies in the NBA always hit a slump near the end of the season. In college, the season has something like 35 games. The NBA on the other hand, has an 82 game season.

I feel like an NBA rookie, minus the lucrative contract and groupies and mean pranks by veterans. It’s June. For my entire life, school has started in late August and ended in May. My body aches. My brain is shutting down. Every part of me is confused as to why we are still going through this process of homework and tests and all that assortment of things that just need to come to an end.

Furthermore, the kids are going crazy. I think this might prove a theory that the September to May calendar is just intrinsic in the minds of children worldwide because the kids are acting like children ready to slam notebooks down and go screaming out the doors not to be seen with anything academic for 2 months.

This year, I will have to go to school on my birthday- July 16^th. Now mind you, it’s my last day of school, but it’s still school. I’ve never once been in school for my birthday, and I tell you, it’s going to be weird…

And so I take consolation in the fact that NBA rookies undergo the same stress on their minds and bodies. Of course, they are paid anywhere from the league minimum $427,163 to millions of dollars to do it, whereas I, well, yeah… I have lost money directly out of my savings account over the past year. Damn NBA Rookies, and damn the aches and pains of the homestretch of being a teacher! How badly I want to walk back to my room singing “School’s Out For Summer” and then blast Lynard Skynard’s 9 minute version of “Free Bird” and truly feel free… free from grading, free from lesson planning, free from the overwhelming realization that while I love these kids, I NEVER EVER want to be a teacher again!

A Lesson In Sharing

2008-05-27T04:15:00.000-07:00

It confused me. After all, these are poverty stricken kids. I watch everyday as they dramatically duel over whether a goal was a goal and fight over who deserves to be first in line. And here they are with pizza, a rare treat. And they take a bite of it, make a comment about how good it is, and then wrap it up in napkins and put it in their backpacks.

Confused, I asked one kid why. With sincerity that only a child has, he told me his mom has never tasted pizza before. He was saving the slice so they might enjoy it together later. As the kids left I asked why they didn’t eat their pizza then and there. All told the same story but through different words: “I want my sister to try it” said one. “My brother and me will eat it when he gets out of class tonight,” said another. “My dad will miss dinner tonight and I want him to have food when he comes home,” said the last one as he smiled and left.

Just when you think you know it all, these kids do that to you. In one fleeting moment as my time here draws to an end, I saw what I guess I had always hoped I would always see working with people in poverty:

“When it was evening, the disciples approached Jesus and said, “This is a deserted place and it is already late; dismiss the crowds so that they can go to the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “There is no need for them to go away: give them some food yourselves.” But they said to him, “Five loaves and two fish are all we have here.” Then he said, bring them here to me, and he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples, who in turn gave them to the crowds. They all ate and were satisfied, and they picked up the fragments left over- twelve wicker baskets full.” Matthew 14: 15-20

Perhaps the modern day parable would go something like this. As another dark night fell upon the world’s poor, the naysayer’s cried out “you see, we give them this and that and still those Haitians (or Bolivians or Ecuadorians or Sudanese) have nothing to show for it. This land is barren, these people prone to poverty. Let’s stop the aid and have them buy their own food. They don’t need us, so send them on their way. Only then will they eat and be plentiful.

But Jesus saw the falsehood in this and ordered the people to sit before him. As the crowds swarmed around him, he took what food he had, and shared it. “Take what you have and share with others” he pleaded. 15 cents of every $100 isn’t enough for international aid, Mr. US of A. Meanwhile some poor street kids no more than nine years old, took what little they had of their rice and beans or empanadas and paticones, and shared them. And in this utopia, the rich watched with amazement, and instead of making excuses to account for the miraculous generosity they witnessed, they created their own miracle, and slowly began to share as well. Food was not used for E-85, and so corn prices went down. “How great it is this little child no longer has to die for the luxury of my Ford Expedition” cried with joy one soccer mom.

Food prices weren’t marked up for higher profits, and the fuel companies let go of their record breaking 2007 profits to see to it that people could come from all around to share what little they had. And they discovered this: there was enough food to feed everyone. There was no reason to hoard it.

Little poor kids with hungry stomachs took what little they had and saved it to share with precious loved ones. What a world this could be if we’d all follow their example. We can do better, we must do better. There’s some second graders in Ecuador sharing what might be their one slice of pizza all year long that are counting on us matching their generosity and love. Do we hear that story, imagine that moment, and still have the audacity to ignore a world in need? From underneath the 12^th street bridge to the ravaged fields of Haiti, the people are crying out. What are we to do? Matthew 14: 15-20

Dropping the S Word on You Today

2008-05-20T05:00:00.001-07:00

The other day I was sick. Whether it is a bacterium from food or just another head cold passed through the millions of germs we come in contact with, we always seem to be ill down here. And so, I have become pretty chummy with the medical staff at the Center.

Visiting the doctor here is a pretty straight forward process: checking the charts, taking blood pressure, temp, weight, height (still about a quarter inch under six feet) and explaining the reason for the visit.

The major difference is the financial aspect. Never have I been asked to wait while they call my insurance provider. I’ve never been denied treatment or told to go to another hospital because my insurance doesn’t stack up. I have never had a letter delivered to my mail box that surprises me by saying I owe $500 for whatever lousy treatment they gave me (thanks Mr. Knee Doctor). And never once have I been outrageously overcharged for a simple procedure. In fact, several visits and counting, I’ve yet to pay a single penny to receive care or treatment. Brace yourself for the bad words about to come out my mouth: here at the center I work at, we have socialized medicine.

And today was no different. The doctor spoke with me, did the usual steps of checking my lungs, looking in my throat and ears and nose, and then diagnosed me. We sat at her desk as she wrote out my prescriptions and gave me the typical spiel about do’s and don’ts with the meds I’d receive. As we finished, she transferred me to the nurse who asked me to sign an acknowledgement I was being given the prescriptions and then she handed them to me on the spot.

In the United States I avoid the doctor’s office at all costs; knowing damn well that to enter one might redefine the expression “at all costs.” When it becomes time to return to the United States, the richest nation in the world, I know I will be overwhelmed by the penny pinching application form full of “pre-existing conditions” that insurance refuses to help out with followed by the list of when I will and will not be covered. A wonderful attempt to help make already rich men and women in the health industry that much more wealthy. Hell, even a $10 co-pay will feel like a rip off. And it feels that way, because, maybe in our heart of hearts, we know it is. What portion of my pay check each month will go towards assuring me that co-pay?

Paul Farmer says that “Clean water and health care and school and food and tin roofs and cement floors, all of these things should constitute a set of basics that people should have as birthrights.” From all the personal experiences I’ve compiled in South America, I’d have to agree. And call me a socialist or a communist or whatever else you can spit at me, but I’d venture to say that it’s about damn time every citizen in the United States can receive the type of treatment every one of my impoverished students and their family members receive at the Working Boys Center.

Watching a Bright Star Slowly Fade

2008-05-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

Ruined for life. Solidarity with the poor. It’s phrases like these that become so common place in your vernacular at a Jesuit university. Hearing “ruined for life” is almost as frequent as “hey how ya doin?” “Solidarity with the poor” becomes as frequent place as “it sure is beautiful today” and like I say, before you know it, you cease to grasp the power of those phrases. Until something takes it out of the ivory halls and into your own little reality.

You aren’t supposed to have favorites as a teacher, but I’ve been pretty bad at that. Many of you saw the articles in America Magazine or on the Catholic News Service that featured my blog. The authors used a photo of me conversing with my favorite student- 11 year old Evelyn.

One week in October, Evelyn stopped coming to the center. For the weeks that followed, I hoped to run into her on the streets, to better understand what it was that made her family drop out of the center. And it wasn’t until February, I at last saw my favorite student. She was walking the streets, with a bag of candy in her hand. What you fear most usually happens: the candy wasn’t for her or her family. No, instead the ultimate symbol of childhood innocence came to symbolize another childhood destroyed by the cruelty of poverty. Eleven years old, an elementary school drop out whose life had brought her back to the streets, selling nickel candies to help the family get by. Suddenly ruined for life was neither cute nor cliché.

Not long after that day, another volunteer and I went and hung out with Evelyn, her seven brothers and sisters, and their mother. The entire family shares a one bedroom dwelling in a seedy part of Ecuador, so the family asked if we’d be able to meet at a park instead. We insisted it made no difference to us, but pride is a strong thing, and the family insisted we not see their living conditions. The day at the park was perfect. A rare sunny Day in Quito, shared with my favorite student and her trademark smile. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what the future held for her.

As my time slowly but surely draws to an end in South America poverty is no longer just a cause: it’s deeply personal. It’s plaguing people I love. It forced me to look into the eyes of an 11 year old child that was once my brightest student and not know if the future holds hope for her. Wrap your head around that for a moment. We come from a “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” society. Everyone can make something of themselves if they just try hard enough, or so goes the American fairy tale. What happens when you look into the eyes of someone who is poor, and you can’t paint that rosy possibility on their future? You become ruined for life, and again, it’s neither as cute or cliché as you once naively envisioned it to be.

I ask God why a child must be born into a sufferable living situation not at all their own making? What’s a child do to deserve that I asked myself? What did I do to deserve my lifestyle other than be born on the right longitude and latitude? What makes her mom different from my own? The answer to all those questions is simple enough: nothing. And yet that neither comforts nor pacifies the emotions I am feeling right now. I asked God, with a tinge of anger in my voice. And now I ask you, pleading that you understand what this journey is all about. What’s it means to get ruined for life? It’s to ask life’s hardest questions and fail to find an answer that satisfies or comforts. 11 years old, once my brightest student and now relegated to hustling candy on the streets of Quito. Why?

Evelyn, center.

I Retract a Previous Blog Statement

2008-05-06T05:00:00.001-07:00

I always thought (and have said) Spanish was harder than English. I even vented about it in an earlier post. You have 30,000 plus verb forms compared to our 3,000 some. There are two ways to say the word “for” and nouns and adjectives are assigned to be masculine or feminine and the way you say the word “the” corresponds according to the gender assignment. Clearly then, my line of thought went, Spanish was the harder language.

I have since seen the light. Allow me to explain.

First, pronunciation. In Spanish, pronunciation never changes, what you see is what you get. English, we have words spelled nothing like they look. Letters in English change sounds frequently… soft a, hard a, somewhere in between a. Consider the name Abraham. Three different sounding a’s. In Spanish, Abraham has the same “a” sound across the board.

And while I could go on with many more examples (window v. widow) or the different (there, their or two, too, to, or bear, bare, OK ENOUGH!) I will close my argument with the true deal sealer: the verb get.

Consider this. In English, the verb get can be used as follows:

To obtain (Can I get the list?)
To contact (I got in touch with my friend.)
To leave something like a vehicle (I just got off the train.)
To reach (When you get to the street, turn left.)
To buy (Can I get a cup of coffee?)
To recover (I hope you get better soon!)
To Return (He can’t wait to get back to Albuquerque).
To Receive (I got the fax this morning.)
To Prepare (I need to get ready before I leave.)
To Begin (Let’s get started at seven).
To board (Get on the first bus that passes).

I tried showing it’s complication to a friend here by writing this paragraph…

I need to get in contact with a travel agent so I can get a plane ticket and get back to Ecuador. When I get off the plane, I walk until I get to Customs. I don’t get why it takes so long. But I wait, get my documents ready, and think about the newspaper I will get at the store outside When I read the paper, I always hope the world is getting better. It’s not. I get a taxi, and get ready for my meeting. I get out and see my boss who doesn’t say hello, just asks “Shall we get started?” As soon as I get onto my office floor, I already wish I was somewhere else!

English is hard. You get what I am saying?

Call Then Losers If You Want: What It Means To Be a Volunteer By Patrick Furlong

2008-04-27T12:29:00.004-07:00

So this concludes my series on volunteer life. After reading all the guest authors entries, I just had to write one myself!

I always wanted to fight poverty. Sounds both weird and cheesy, I know. But while friends had weekend soccer matches, I was with my mom, walking around Central Ave. in Albuquerque passing out Egg McMuffins to the homeless. I don’t know if I ever knew how it was forming me, but slowly but surely, it was.

At LMU it felt like one ideal and cause after another, I was on the front lines. Poverty didn’t just move me, it angered me. Looking back, I suppose there were issues behind the surface motivating me as well. Poverty was something to be angry at for sure, but I think my unusually strong anger spoke to a personal spiritual poverty I had no idea how to tackle.

As graduation neared, loved ones dropped buzz words like law school, career and 401K, but all I could think about were the buzz words that had defined my college experience: poverty, Latin America, social justice. I’d browse the Peace Corps website and leaf through application packets from several domestic and international volunteer organizations. Networking, law school, and my 401K would have to wait.

I once read textbooks on poverty. I memorized facts and figures, using them in exams and conversations with like-minded “idealists” and skeptical “realists.” Today, in place of those stats are the names and stories of people I’ve come to know and love. And that makes reality all the more painful.

Those skeptical realists I battled with in college were right: I can’t save the world from poverty and injustice. When I leave South America, poverty and suffering will linger around, maybe even increase. Children I know and love deeply will still go to bed hungry and wake up forgotten. Poverty, in the lives of my Chilean neighbors, my Ecuadorian students, and my South American friends, and yes, even myself- will persist. It begs a rationale question I had long struggled to answer: why?

Until a little girl named Tamara broke her ankle the other day. A fellow volunteer and I tried to comfort her and calm her as we transported her from the park to the center, and then to the most depressing hospital I can imagine. But what most heartbreaking is what followed…

Tamara’s mom arrives. She has been crying for hours now, she's in intense pain. And her mom gets there and the first thing she asks is not "are you ok?" Instead, a curt "What the hell did you do?" is her first question to her daughter. I try and imagine being eight years old and knowing that the person that should be there to support you is instead ready to yell at you and possibly hit you when you return home.

This is what we are up against: a system that is depressing, and parents who know nothing about child care- despite our best efforts. The realists shake their heads and mumble: I told you so. In July, I return to their world, and I return with nothing to show for my time here except a depleted bank account, feelings about love that don’t mix with the societal race for success, and memories of kids that were poor when I arrived and poor when I left.

And yet, in being with Tamara, I realized why we still do this kind of work, even when the results remain elusive: I'm working with precious children who deserve better. We have no right to quit on them, in spite all that's stacked against them. Maybe someday when Tamara’s daughter gets injured and sent to a hospital, Tamara will run in and instead of being angry, be concerned. “Are you ok?” will be her first words. And maybe she will treat her own daughter better because when presented between options for how to care for children, she chose the route we teach in the center instead of the poverty stricken method her mother was raised with and raised her with.

Change is slow. Maybe we won't change these kids lives today, but maybe someday, some change somewhere can be credited to a couple gringos who cared more than most others thought was wise. This much I know, we have no right not to try. Paul Farmer, in Mountains Beyond Mountains speaks of fighting poverty as giving up our status of being on the winning team and instead uniting with the poor in fighting a long defeat. I think of his words, and I think of my life these past two years. To do service is to use every fiber of your being to tell the rest of the world, Call them losers if you want, but that makes me one too.'

In my classroom at our downtown center, La Marin.

While this concludes my series of guest entries on what volunteerism has meant to people, I would encourage you to submit a piece should you have the desire and it will be included. Thanks to all my guests writers and to all of you who have read the series. For any of you thinking of service work, I hope it helped!

"It’s Not in the Decision; It’s in the Trust" By Mike Santa Maria

2008-04-20T12:37:00.003-07:00

If memory serves me right this is an exciting time in the service world at universities. Decision, decisions and more decisions… It is a time where seniors begin to savor their last moments. The count down begins and you start to count meaningless benchmarks that don’t matter, your last midterm, your last convo, and your last cram jam. All to hide the heart numbing benchmark, graduating college and facing the infamous question, what are you doing after graduation? For many of you Patrick Furlong blog fans the answer is, “I am doing service!” An easy answer which get the heat off you for a second until you really think it out and realize that there is so much struggle in the world, there is so much to do, so many ways to help and so many things that you want from the experience that you don’t know where to start. You start pondering the tough question, what do I want out of my year of service? Some hunger for community, others adventure, some look for an experience of simple solidarity while others reach for an opportunity to affect radical change. After just 15 minutes of thinking you either feel like you are so frustrated your brain is going to explode or you are so overwhelmed you are going to cry. If it provides any solace at all relax! It’s all going to okay.

I know it seems like a big decision, after all it is a whole year or two of your life, but in all honesty it’s okay you will be fine. What makes serving others so beautiful is also what makes it so incredibly hard. Trust. Trust is required because in giving something to someone naturally leads to a response whether it is a thank you, a no thank you or no response at all. Since giving requires a response it requires the giver to trust that giving was the right thing to do. The same goes with service. In making the decision to serve you must learn to trust. Trust that you made the “right” decision. Trust that your community will work out. Trust that you will be accepted in your placement. Trust that you will be effective in the service that you provide. That’s a lot of trust and even in all that trust there is no guarantee. Did you make the right decision? What’s the right decision? Will you be in a good community? Who knows? Will you be effective at your job? Maybe? I hate being the barer of bad news but it is really not bad news. Saying yes to service is a great risk but comes with great reward. But you need to trust. Not to say that in trusting it will be all that you could ever hope for, but rather trust in the process which you are about to embark. Many are called but few are chosen. You were called, you answered, and you are sent to serve others. Many surprises will come along the way if you trust.

I remember making the decision for myself and I chose to serve as a teacher in Los Angeles. Many times these past years I have questioned if I made the right decision. I found myself in the same city I grew up in walking around the same LMU campus while I heard the exciting stories from Micronesia, Ecuador, Bolivia and Omak. I was failing at my job. My community struggled everyday as I searched for the support I so badly desired. I was pushed to hopelessness many times, which drove me to meet with a spiritual director. In a meeting with my spiritual director during one of my hardest moments in serving he asked me three thought provoking questions: When you made the decision to do service do you feel that it was what God wanted you to do? Has God failed you before when you have answered His call? What makes you think He will fail you now?

In praying after that meeting I vividly remembered a retreat I went to my sophomore year. I remember asking God to teach me to love no matter what the cost. Be careful what you ask for. In saying yes to serving others God was saying yes to my prayer. This past year and eight months have been one of the most beautiful experiences I have ever been through. It has answered my prayers and has taught me to love in ways I didn’t know I could. By giving my self to the service of others I was granted the privilege to learn to love. Through all the success and struggles I have experienced I do not regret the decision I made. I can’t say my experience will be your experience because you are you I am me. There is no amount of thinking, praying, discerning or meditating that will ever make you confident enough in your decision because the it is not in the decision but rather in the trust, so relax or you will give yourself a nosebleed.

You will just have to trust. Trust that you will make the right decision. Trust that you will be where you are supposed to be. Trust yourself. Trust God. Trust the experience and be open to the grace that will come your way. Just trust it’s going to be okay.

Mike, and fellow Response-Ability teacher Danielle Tamashiro (who is volunteering in Washington D.C.).

Mike Santa Maria graduated from Loyola Marymount University in 2006. He in currently finishing his second year as a volunteer teacher in Los Angeles with an organization called Response-Ability. Upon completion of the program, Mike plans to continue to work as a teacher in the Los Angeles area...

"Why Am I Here?" By Marcos Gonzales

2008-04-15T14:13:00.003-07:00

Growth comes from being stretched and broken open. The only way for a seed to grow is for it to break through its shell, a flower blossoms through its bud, an insect breaks through its cocoon. There’s a breaking that needs to be done. And that breaking isn’t always painless. Its difficult and challenging and most of the times it sucks. I find myself asking, “What the hell am I doing?” a lot.

A few weeks into being on the island I volunteer on I put up a question on my wall: “Why are you here?” A lot of times, the answer only serves to further my discomfort: I don’t know. I’m broken, and my time in Micronesia has served to prove that in ways I never allowed before. But I realize that all my times of ignoring my brokenness I was only stepping away from possible areas of growth, and in stepping away I have only allowed myself to live on the surface level, avoiding the problems that lie deep within me. To be at peace is to realize that the problem is there and the answer is not and that’s okay. It is through these eyes I am trying to see this world I inhabit.

To get new eyes is a difficult challenge. And more and more I struggle with the nature of why I came out here. I feel that I am taking advantage of my presence here. I struggle trying to answer the question “why am I here?” as I get these new eyes. An exercise of my privilege? To take two years out of my life, to not have to worry about money and paying loans and to go do something for “me” to have “an experience.” Then after I have received “my experience”, I get to go home and leave the challenging unjust situations that these people who have walked with me teaching me cannot. Or is it something else?

It is hard to reconcile the privileges that we have as volunteers while being here. I often think more about the negative effects of our presence here; creating dependency on volunteers, instead of us trying to work ourselves out of a job, charity versus justice type shit. We aren’t here to do charity, but rather to live in justice and to try to find the poverty that exists within all of us and realize that we are just as broken as anyone else around. And only then, with that realization, can we begin to work together to lift ourselves from our poverty. It is at that moment the new eyes work, and it is there that we find justice, and we find it together. It’s painful, and it’s hard to take a look at the ugly parts of myself that I so often try to hide. But I struggle to find some hope and value in our presence here.

The fact is that globalization is shrinking our world more and more. Even on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that doesn’t even show up on a map unless it’s magnified a million times. Values become so distorted and money becomes the central message or goal that the youth focus all their energy towards consumerism. A term out here they use a lot is “Big Money”. They ask me, “Why would you come out here, where you can only make little money, when you could be back home, making big money?”

A tiny spec on the map, a place where once all that the people needed could be found on their land and in their sea, has changed to a land where people are chasing “big money.” And of course it is important not to write off the fact that some “things” are beneficial to life and that money in itself is not evil. But the idolization is, and I think that line gets crossed far too much. So much so that we can no longer see where the line is drawn.

And I think that if anything, it’s important to serve as very real and present response against all these twisted ideas. I find too often that there is nothing that I can say about the culture that these people live in. It is not my place to say what is right and what is wrong for these people. But I do know my culture, and I do know the evils that I see have broken down and continued to spread poverty where I come from. And if I can help people see that and in someway help prevent that same brokenness to travel to other places… then I can find importance in this experience.

“Why are you here?” That I might learn about a way of living that isn’t centered on money. Ultimately, I am here to learn more than I could ever teach. And everyday I walked into that classroom, little did my students know that I was their pupil just as much as they were mine. And together we grew closer to understanding one another, and in that understanding, kinship was born.

It’s never been easy. Growth comes from being stretched and broken open. The only way for a seed to grow is for it to break through its shell, a flower blossoms through its bud, an insect breaks through its cocoon. There’s a breaking that needs to be done. And, as painful and challenging as it is, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Marcos doing one of the things he loves most, playing the guitar.

Marcos Gonzales graduated from Loyola Marymount in 2006. He has spent the last two years with the Jesuit Volunteers International, living and serving in Chuuk, part of the islands of Micronesia.

When Things Don't Go According to Our Plan By Genesee McCarthy

2008-04-06T13:39:00.004-07:00

Last year at around this time I began the application process for postgrad service. I did extensive searches and found a program that I fell in love with. Their sites, their mission…everything about it seemed perfect. It had a very lengthy application that involved writing pages and pages of personal essays but I knew it would be worth it. In April I got a call from them about setting up an interview. I was so excited! I remember preparing for the interview and feeling like this was so right, this is exactly where God wants me to be, I just knew this was the program for me. And then they called and instead of interviewing me, told me they thought I wasn’t ready for international service.

I was extremely heartbroken. I had to rethink all my plans and motivations. The belief that I could live abroad was shaken to the core.

After that I still wanted to do service, but I concentrated more on school and writing my senior thesis. At graduation I still had no idea what I was going to be doing in the fall. I was lucky enough to stumble across two other programs that also had sites I was interested in and whose applications were not nearly so long. I applied to them both and waited without too much hope.

I went back home for the summer and picked up a babysitting job to fill my time and take my mind off of not knowing what I would be doing. I ended up hearing from both programs within a day.

After phone interviews with the two programs, one really stood out. The interview was great, a nice, honest chat, and at the end the director told me they wanted to send me to

Bolivia

. I went to a month long orientation from July to August and I left September 8th.

I had looked over this volunteer group at first because the website seemed a little outdated and there wasn’t too much info online. But I am so glad that I ended up applying because it is the perfect place for me. I am at an orphanage with over 100 girls in a small town in Western Bolivia that has been receiving volunteers for almost 20 years. The nuns that work here are so much fun. They have incorporated the volunteers into the daily life at the orphanage and really depend on us. It’s great having a set job and knowing what is expected of me. Also, the community is so used to having volunteers that we were incorporated with open arms right from the beginning.

I absolutely love being here and feel so blessed that I didn’t give up and found the perfect program for me.

Gen with some of the older girls she works with in Bolivia.

(The program that I found is the Salesian Lay Missioners. They are sponsored by the Salesians of Don Bosco and the website is: http://www.salesians.org/slm/)

What's Next for me?

2008-03-30T11:17:00.005-07:00

I am having trouble getting photos for the next few posts in my series about making a decision to do post-graduate service. It should be straightened out by next week. Until then, here is a post about my future.

What’s next? I had been hearing people ask me what’s next since before I even departed for South America. And all along, I answered with ease, without hesitation. Well, I am hoping in August to relocate to Los Angeles, Chicago, or San Francisco. I would like to work for non-profit, preferably one that is working on behalf of immigrants or refugees. I am looking forward to a cold glass of Dr. Pepper, a colder glass of Sam Adam’s Summer Brew, and a dish of Italian Sausage Pizza, a Cubs game on TV, all in the company of people I love and miss so damn much!

In two to three sentences, what’s next? The reporters question brings me back from my day dream. I want to tell him how I once knew. How I have been dreaming of what’s next for 18 months, almost skipping over what’s here and now. I want to tell him how March 7^th a child got sick, and I carried her all the way back to our center. I want to tell him about the unexplainable impact it had on me. The tears that couldn’t stop flowing, even with everyone all around, watching me.

I want to tell him about this uncontainable love that I now experience in my life. A love I had sought before I had words for it. I want him to know what it feels like to come alive, to love with heartbreaking vulnerability, and laugh with mind breaking ease. My heart is pounding within to tell a story that my mind simply can not translate for my mouth to share.

I yearn to talk about seeing Evelyn, a former student now peddling chewing gum on the street for 25 cents and how it rips my heart wide open. I want to tell him about genuine smiles and deep belly laughs. I want to tell him how I found the path to the walk that goes along with the talk I’ve embodied for years- and how more than anything, I’m so afraid to become nothing more than just talk, no walk, all over again.

I wanted to tell him what I now need to tell you. I don’t know if I am ready to leave Ecuador just yet. You’d think two years in South America would have been enough. But, I find myself strongly considering spending one more year at the Working Boys Center. I’ve found the trail that leads towards the man I want to be. I love without abandon here, and I don’t know that you can understand what that means to me. More important still, I don’t know if I can continue it if I return to the States just yet.

What’s next? In the next month or two, through continued discernment, discussions with loved ones, and prayer, I’ll be able to tell you. Either way, the decision won’t be easy. But until then, pray for me, think about me, send good vibes my way, whatever you can, to help me make sure I make the right decision.

There’s so much more to explain. So much more that could be said. But this isn’t the place, this isn’t the time. And ultimately, this is between me and the man I used to be, trying to find the best version of the man I was, am, and in the final analysis, want to be.

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.” Walt Whitman Song of Myself

Stations of the Cross on Good Friday with Cindy rockin' my sunglasses and Jenny, the girl who got sick, holding my hand as we walk through the stations with the people from La Marin

What I Wish I Would Have Known by Maddy Goodreau

2008-03-24T10:18:00.006-07:00

I have been a Jesuit Volunteer for two years. I spent my first year in the Northwest region in Washington teaching at a school for Native American children. In late January of my first year, I began to think about doing a second year and by mid February, I decided to apply for year two. I am currently living in Phoenix, Arizona, working at an on-site child care program at a family emergency shelter.

Her blog can be found here: http://www.madsinomak.blogspot.com/

Part of being a Jesuit Volunteer is being asked what you know now that you wish you had known going into your year of volunteer service. It is a popular question for prospective JVs to ask and one that never fails to stump me. The answer that first comes to mind is, nothing. There is nothing that I have learned in my years as a JV that I would have wanted to learn in any other way.

I think of the world of knowledge that I have now, that I have gained through experience: things that I have learned about myself, about relationships, about certain social justice issues, about what I can do within the stretch of who I am and what skills I have to make life a little easier for others; and I am thoroughly satisfied with the way in which I acquired that knowledge. Some of it was learned easily-- reading books, discussions with housemates, however other bits came in not so pretty packages. Lessons disguised in knock-down, drag-out days at work, in days where the thought of living in community with these people for how many more months makes you wish you could be invisible for just one night, in days that you could not hear the voice or see the face of God, in the days where all you want to do is buy a Dairy Queen Moo-latte without judgment from yourself or others. Those lessons are the ones that, I suspect, ring most clearly years after the experience.

Having said that, I suppose one thing that I wish I knew when entering the first of my two years as a Jesuit Volunteer is that it's really hard. The process of learning those invaluable lessons is hard, it hurts and sometimes you want to quit. Sounds like a simple concept that I probably should have guessed, just from my understanding of the four JVC values- community, spirituality, simplicity and social justice. I think I heard a recruiter say it once, that it was a challenge, but I didn't get it.

When I graduated from Loyola Marymount University almost two years ago, I had a romanticized vision of what a year of service, living in community would be like. Here's my little dream-bubble from my senior year: Like-minded people living together, building each other up, supporting each other in doing the always fulfilling and rewarding work that we do. First of all, work is not always rewarding. Sure, I have had moments of consolation where I felt like I taught a child something, when I felt that I connected with a parent, or when I was just able to laugh with a client, but there are certainly moments of desolation when I have felt completely powerless against the institutionalized injustices that our clients face, when I have felt angered by self-destructive decisions that clients have made, or when I question my ability to make a difference in the lives of my clients. Secondly, community is not all smiles, hugs, and support. Surprisingly, even people with a common desire to serve are different from each other, and sometimes in essential ways. Trying to make decisions about what kind of peanut-butter or milk to buy with three to seven very different people can take an absurd amount of time, and can be infuriating. Trying to get to the bottom of what everyone truly wants and needs when not everyone one is equally skilled in letting their needs and wants be known, is also a challenge, to be sure. It's natural for people's priorities and values to be different, so I don't know why it came as such a surprise when I moved into a house and into relationship and into a bank account with complete strangers. So my dream-bubble although lovely, is not reality. Work is hard and living in community is hard.

The second thing that I wish I would have known (if I had known that it was going to be hard), is that it is completely and totally worth it. Seriously, do you think I would have chosen to do a second year if it wasn't? I would have run screaming in the other direction. My life has changed in wonderful and meaningful ways because of the difficulties that I've encountered in my one and a half years as a Jesuit Volunteer. In the past year and a half I have formed habits that will last throughout my life (i.e. I am ruined for life). I reflect on what I am choosing to spend my money on, that way I am more able to support industries that share my values. I have learned how to figure out what it is that I want and how to communicate it to others. I learned more about (I still have a ton to learn) systems and procedures in a field that I could see myself working for a long time. And more than that, I have found a field that I could see myself working in for a long time.

It is the difficulties, the desolation and frustrations that have stuck with me and formed me. The consolations have sustained me, motivated me to keep going, but the challenges have changed me. I enjoy who I have become as a result of my experiences, particularly the hard ones, and I look forward to seeing those changes manifest themselves in the years after JVC.

Maddy with a child she worked with in Washington.

Seven Letter Words by Roy Pequeño

2008-03-17T11:36:00.003-07:00

This is the second part in a series of entries about what it means to be a volunteer. The idea is to generate a diverse gathering of voices who have done or are currently doing service to share with potential future volunteers what we wish we would have known before making the leap to do post-graduate service. It’s my sincere hope that this and other posts throughout this blog might be of service in some way to those thinking of doing service. Stay tuned for more guest editorials in the coming weeks.

Seven Letter Words By Roy Pequeño

As several of my friends prepare for the GRE, I have recently begun to become of aware of vocabulary. Honestly I must say that I am very intrigued by all the words out there. Some words look like someone just put letters together (i.e. syzygy). Some have cool sounds or are fun saying (i.e. cinnamom). Some just look intimidating (i.e. floccinaucinihilipilification). There are so many words that I am slowly becoming aware of and it’s quite frankly overwhelming. How am I suppose understand all these words my friends are teaching me, when I am still having a hard time comprehending a simple seven letter word? Service.

My experience with service – I realize now – had been very limited. Before my experience in Chile, my volunteer experiences varied: helping at a soup kitchen, a food pantry, volunteering at the hospital, and a project at a local park. In each location, I would volunteer a number of hours a week/month and reach a goal. In the soup kitchen, my goal became serving food. In the food pantry, my goal became organizing the donations. In the hospital, my goal became running samples to the lab as quickly as possible. In the park, my goal became building an animal enclosure. Even though, my “service” was done in a variety of areas it was limited to yet another seven letter word. Results.

As I prepared to embark on a two-year service commitment in Chile, I was told time and time again, to arrive without expectations. Since I did not know what, where, or how I would be providing a service to my community, I took the advice of my program mates and arrived to Chile without expectations. Or so I thought.

After about six months of living in Peñalolen and working in various place in Santiago, Chile, I realized a truth in myself. I had arrived in Chile with expectations of service and they were not being met. As mentioned earlier, my experience with this seven-letter word of “service” was related to another seven-letter word, “results.” My “service” in Chile a majority of the time had no physical “results” – something that I was accustomed to seeing after volunteering. I was not building houses, organizing food, running samples or anything like that. My greatest service that I found in Chile is being a person who listens.

Call me naïve – or completely out of sync with people – but I never realized how important listening to people really is. It was not until I began to pack my bags to leave Santiago that I realized the importance that people placed on the time we shared. Not necessarily the conversations – because for the first year or so I stumbled my way around Chilean Spanish – but the time that was taken to listen to people. People who I would talk to for five minutes a week, a child who would tell me her concerns, a student in the middle of a confirmation process talking about his struggles in faith, and several others, expressed their gratitude for my service. For my role as an individual that listens. In this world there are several things that people can always get back; however, time is one thing that passes and cannot be relived.

Mother Theresa once said, “The biggest disease today is not leprosy or tuberculosis, but rather the feeling of being unwanted.” I must agree. By giving a listening ear, we give immeasurable amounts of dignity and respect to people. In my humble opinion, it is the time spent with an individual - listening to their stories, opinions, and concerns – that reveals that someone’s service has a purpose.

I doubt that I will ever learn all the GRE words that my friends are learning, but I am willing to try. And maybe I can teach them a little something about a seven-letter word that can knock the wind out of you. Service.

Roy Pequeño, pictured right, with just two of the many people he lent a listening ear to during his tenure in Chile.

Roy Pequeño graduated from St. Edwards University in 2005. He spent two years with the Holy Cross Associates in Santiago, Chile. He is currently living in Austin, Texas, working at his alma matter as a Resident Director.

You're Weird by Caitlin Early

2008-03-09T15:06:00.004-07:00

“You’re weird,” the words hit me hard. My cover is blown. Years spent trying to fit in and to earn my place at the cool girls’ lunch table is undone by two dreadful words. To make matters worse, it is coming from my 15-year old brother who effortlessly navigates hormones and high school, dressed in the latest Ed Hardy jeans and retro edition Jordan’s. Yes, ladies, he is the epitome of cool. I, unlike my stud of a brother, am not.

You may be wondering why a less than hip 24-year old is so concerned about what her pubescent brother thinks of her. If I could maintain some semblance of a self-esteem through high school and college, why all the sudden was I looking to a teenager to be my barometer of cool? I hit a low point. I recently returned from a two-year service program in Latin America. I went from Tuesdays in the parish kitchen, cooking gourmet meals with colorful, Chilean señoras to Tuesdays in my pajamas, unemployed, and living at home. I am the only person I know who can wake up at noon and not be late for work. I do not have places to go and people to see. I really am weird.

Yet there is something to be said for being weird. I have lived a life that most will never know. I had the chance to live in a poor, working class Chilean neighborhood, far from the touristy spots in the city center. I worked with people from all walks of life, rich, poor, young and old. I learned to speak another language and to create a life for myself in that new language. I made friendships with Chilean women that welcomed me into their homes as their hija, or daughter. I challenged myself to live a simpler life and to better define needs and wants. I learned to thrive in community with other volunteers, to confront conflicts and frustrations, and to find some amazing friends. Most importantly, I grew to know my true self, which in essence brought me into a closer, deeper relationship with God.

While my transition from Chile to the U.S. has been bumpy, I would not have it any other way. Upon leaving Chile, a dear friend told me that my tears and sadness were signs that the experience was not a two-year break from my real life. Chile was an important part of who I was and who I was becoming. If asked to do it again, to live the experience with its mixed bag of highs and lows, I would; I am a changed person because of it. To my friends and family, I am weird. What I chose to do was not normal and I now I am left to deal with the rewarding consequences of lasting friendships, emotional maturity, spiritual growth and a new perspective on life. Not too shabby if you ask me.

Deciding on a post-graduate service program can be a scary and overwhelming time in your life. Not only are you leaving the college comfort zone, saying goodbye to friends and contemplating your next step, but you are also trying to convince your parents that you are not crazy and that someday you will put your hard-earned degree to use. There are no guarantees that a service program will be a good fit for you or that it can live up to your expectations. Like any other major decision in life, you go on what you know at the time, you take a leap of faith and you hope for the best. It took me a long time to learn that life is just as unpredictable and messy in the U.S. as it is in any far off place. Trust yourself and take comfort in the fact that you do not know where this road will lead you. Buckle up, enjoy this roller coaster of a ride and keep an open mind.

I am also entering into a new phase of my life and once again nothing is settled or certain. I am not shielded from the scariness of life in spite of an amazing experience in Chile. I am just as vulnerable as any other twenty something that does not know where he or she is heading. The difference for me lies in that I can draw on great strength and support from my Chilean friends and from the life lessons I learned with them. The experience I lived cannot save me from fears or anxieties I have about the future; it empowers me to continue to live a life that is a real witness to a loving people in a thin country.

Caitlin saying good-bye to a close Chilean friend and co-worker, Marta.

Caitlin Early graduated from The University of Notre Dame in 2005. She volunteered with the Holy Cross Associates from 2005-2007 and lived in Santiago, Chile.

Calling All Current and Former Volunteers

2008-02-28T14:19:00.003-08:00

I am trying to use this blog as a resource for college students contemplating service after college. Seeing as how we are almost in March, a time traditionally where college students make the decision on whether or not to commit to volunteer work, I am asking for your help to help with their discernment!

I am looking to get new voices with differing perspectives to write a 300-500 word entry on what their volunteer work has meant to them. It can be an affirmation of the choice made, a "wish I would have known this" entry to give people insight you lacked, or an overall philosophical reflection on the value or lack thereof of volunteer work. The forum is open... I want to allow people room to use their creativity and if there is response to this, hopefully get a diversity of views and topics discussed.

If you are interested, please email me at pjfurlong at gmail.com

Also, if you know anyone who might be interested, please pass this onto them!

I will put the first post up beginning next week and hopefully will have more to follow!

Black History Month: In Ecuador of All Places!

2008-02-24T12:09:00.003-08:00

“I have a dream” proclaimed Martin Luther King Jr.. This, being Black History Month, I have to ask, how many Americans can say exactly what he said his dream was? In other words, who can finish the quote?

Last Monday, my high school students stopped me in mid-lecture. “Tell us about the elections in the USA” Wendy said. With every ounce of my might, I tried to side step it: there were grammatical rules of English to be taught and learned. But they persisted. I became suspicious, wondering if they knew of my obsession with American politics. When they successfully named the three candidates in the race, I relented (is anyone really counting Huckabee anymore?). Our discussion of the candidates eventually took us into a history of America I feel too many young people my age don’t know enough about: black history. I tried in a short time frame to cover Martin Luther King Jr, Malcom X, Rosa Parks, Carter G. Woodson,Thurgood Marshall, the Black Panther, the Little Rock 9, Frederick Douglass, and more...

The questions flew from every direction. Everyone was engaged and voicing their opinion. I gave an impromptu lecture about race relations in the USA and moderated a conversation about relations between blacks, those of Spanish descent, and indigenous here in Ecuador.

I happened to have a mixed CD with the song “We Shall Overcome” on it. I played the song, roughly translating it. As class ended, no one moved. Eventually, one girl spoke up. The voice of the singer was sad she told the class. And it frustrated her that after these powerful messages of “walking hand in hand”, “living in peace” and “we shall overcome” were always followed by the same phrase: algun dia. Someday. It’s an issue of inequality, a universal issue these kids know well. Why not “now” she asked me and her classmates?

In America, more black young men will go to prison than college. Consider that “For every $1.00 earned by a man, the average woman receives only 77 cents, while African American women only get 67 cents and Latinas receive only 57 cents.” Hate crimes rose by 8% in 2006. “African Americans and Hispanics are more than twice as likely as whites to be searched, arrested, or subdued with force when stopped by police. Disparities in drug sentencing laws, like the differential treatment of crack as opposed to powder cocaine, are unfair.” *

There is a great columnist at the Miami Herald, Leonard Pitts Jr. Not too long ago, he wrote a piece entitled "When You're Right Beyond All Questions." I wish all white people could read it so they might understand me better when I say there is still so much to be done. Despite all the progress: the Civil Rights Act, affirmative action, a black man running for president with a viable shot at winning- we still have so far to go.

Oh, and as for what MLK said in that famous speech: "And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!."

I’m reading To America by historian Stephen E. Ambrose. He noted how Jefferson, despite the many great things he did for America, followed convenience over conviction by leaving the next generation of Revolutionaries to end slavery. It took until the 1860’s. It took another 100 years to push through Civil Rights thanks to brave men and women of all walks of life. Let’s not wait until 2060 to take that next step: that one day our children will not be judged by the color of their skin, but the content of their character.

* Obtained from Barack Obama’s Blue Print for Change on his website, www.barackobama.com

How I Became a Morning Person

2008-02-17T09:42:00.003-08:00

I hate early wake ups. I talk to my alarm the way an abusive coach talks to his most undisciplined player. Curse words are thrown its way, it beeps back at me, I take a swing at it to shut it up and then… reluctantly, I get up.

A few minutes later I stumble downstairs, grab a cup of strong black tea and a bowl of cereal. Out the door and towards the bus by 6:55 AM, and proceed to try and sleep for the 50 minute trip through the congested, loud and polluted streets of Quito.

It doesn’t have to be this way ya know. The center operates three campuses: one next to our house, and two downtown. And somehow, 1/3 of us were selected to be on the early wake up crew. I prayed with every ounce of my being, expended all my capital with God- begging for the shift that would allow me to sleep in an hour later. No dice.

And yet, I have taken a special liking to my kids that I work with downtown in La Marin in the mornings. They are more urban- more edgy, spunky, and full of so much attitude. And there is something about that which makes me love them even more. Sincerely.

While the early morning clamor of the kids has the ability to devastate some, it somehow ignites a flame in me. That first moment I see some of my students, the whole morning does a brilliant 180 degree turn.

You have to picture it: the kids spot us entering, and all the cacophony ceases and a beautiful symphony begins: beautiful little voices screaming your name as they try and position themselves first in line for hugs. And I am not talking little hugs here. I am talking about the type where they run full sprint, fling themselves into your waiting arms and wrap their little hands around your neck and seem to never let go.

And as luck would have it, these kids are only there in the morning hours when we are. If I had the afternoon shift instead, our paths would never cross.

It’s 7:50 AM, there are hoards of screaming children, giant bear hugs, and some of the freshest cut sarcasm being dished my way from some of the tiniest children. This is my life, these are my mornings. An hour of extra sleep would be nice. But at the cost of missing this? No thanks.

Keely getting some of that early morning love from the kids.

Voting Tomorrow

2008-02-04T07:58:00.000-08:00

He looks like me. I passed around a photo the other day of the leading candidates for president on both sides. The kids wanted to know about the United States, about war, about so much, and I figured it was a good seg-way into what was going on. One kid stopped at the Obama photo. He refused to believe he was possibly going to be President of the United States of America. I insisted until we got to the core of why he couldn´t believe it: but teacher, he looks like me. How is that possible? Immediately, not even knowing who was who, these kids liked him. Why? Because they saw a bit of their own story in this man running for the most powerful post in the world.

Tomorrow is super Tuesday and I just urge you all to vote. Living abroad for a year and half I have seen the power of our nations politics on that of other nations. Our decision impacts their economies, and impacts their own dreams and hopes.

I hope you go out and vote, and yes, I hope you go for Obama. It´s given me tremendous hope down here, and it´s given these kids hope too! I wonder how many other poor people around the world look at him and think... he looks like me.

Make your vote count tomorrow.

Finding Your Post Graduate Service Placement: Domestic or Abroad

2008-02-04T05:40:00.000-08:00

This blog is meant to be a service, an insight into the life of a volunteer “in the trenches” one might say. It is not a glossy advertisement or endorsement, but rather a true telling that would hopefully leave readers to decide for themselves if a step into the volunteer world after college is for them.

That said, I want to provide some resources to find volunteer programs, as well as make note of programs I am familiar with- either through personal experience or from word of mouth of others in the programs. Click the blue links to get to what I am talking about.

First, the website links…

Notre Dame University’s Center for Social Concern has a great website that lists categories: domestic, international, teaching, and secular. It is an awesome resource for anyone, not just ND students.

Response is a publication by the Catholic Volunteer Network that is comprehensive for faith based programs. It provides a search engine that will allow you to fill parameters such as where and for how long you would like to volunteer among other issues. If you are looking for a faith based volunteer program, this is a great place to use a search engine to discover options that meet certain criteria you may have.

Connections 2008, a search engine hosted by Saint Vincent Pallotti Center is another great search engine. The website of Pallotti is also a great resource for those pondering volunteer work, as well as current and former volunteers. I personally find this website to be incredibly useful and resourceful.

Aside from that, my opinions on other programs that I am familiar with... Keep in mind, these are only my opinions based upon my personal experience or second hand knoweldge from people who have done them.

First, The Working Boys Center. The Center itself is an incredible mechanism. Providing education, technical training, medical care, three meals a day, as well as microcredit, childcare and a host of other needed responses to poverty, it´s hard to find a place more wholistic in its battle against poverty. I love the participants and the employees of the center and am very satisfied with my decision. A downside might be community insofar as we are not really a community so much as we are a group of people living together and working together. No binding decisions need to be made as a group and many elements of community living as I experienced with the Holy Cross Associates are missing. And depending how you feel about your service, a call towards simple living is largely absent. All that said, I would not hesitate to recommend the program. I am in love with the place! The work here is a one year commitment with an option for two. The Spanish skills of volunteers vary.

Next would be JVI and JVC. I hear strong things about JVI and I visited a JVI community in Bolivia and was impressed. They seem to have a healthy mix of life giving work that benefits both the community and the volunteer while at the same time doing a great job with simple living, community, spirituality. Most of all, I have heard great things about the support staff and retreats and the like. As for JVC, the reviews remain a little more mixed (not as much support and stability) but as far as I have heard from people in Domestic programs, they fare better than most.

Rostro de Cristo, based in Southern Ecuador is a program I visited for a week my junior year and for a few days this past year while living in Quito. If you can look past the heat and humidity, I would say I love this program. It’s a one year program that requires good Spanish skills. It’s a program on the rise as volunteer programs go: it is divided amongst two houses in neighborhoods about a 15 minute walk apart and has a large volunteer corps who works on a variety of issues usually splitting time between a job in the morning and one in the afternoon. It’s also got an awesome English speaking library- a huge plus when living abroad. Downsides might be that the work is somewhat more fluid than say a JVI or Working Boys Center, but some might enjoy the flexability and variety of working at two diferent places each day.

The Inner City Teaching Corps is a program based out of Chicago. A smaller program as far as teaching programs go, I have heard nothing but good thing from participants who have served two years. A master degree is included in the mix. Emphasizes simple living, unlike some other volunteer teaching programs.

Place Corps- based out of LA is also another program I am familiar with. Simple living is not a tenant but teachers work as teachers in Catholic Schools in inner city Los Angeles and receive a Master’s Degree as well as a pretty generous stipend and if my friends are telling the truth- brand new Mac Laptops to each teacher. Needless to say, simple living is not a tenant.

Holy Cross Associates, my former program in Chile, is, as far as I know, closed down for 2007-2008. But should it re-open as planned, it was a pretty good program. The biggest thing it lacked on internationally was solid work placement but most people in the Domestic version of the program seemed to enjoy. I wouldn´t put it above a JVC, but if you are looking for other options and moving away from the Jesuits but still being with a big Catholic order of priests- this might be the place.

Peace Corps, most people are familiar with. 27 month program that emphasizes “flexibility is the greatest asset” of their volunteers. Run through the government, the awards and incentives for life after Peace Corps are pretty big. Also helps in that placements are world wide. If there are complaints, it is usually based on disorganization or volunteers being placed in job placements that require a certain expertise or experience they lack. But most Peace Corps volunteers I know and have encountered on my own journey are happy and have a range of diverse experiences despite the occasional and long lasting bursts of frustration with support and placement.

So there you have it. I also have on my sidebar links to blogs of people I know doing service. As well, should you search on google for something like ¨blog volunteer¨ or ¨post graduate service blog¨ you will be amazed at the number of blogs that show up from anyone from a Peace Corps guy in the Dominican Republic to a volunteer in Tanzania.

Lastly, research and investigate programs. Think of things you want, things you don’t want, and when interviewing, remember, you’re not JUST trying to market yourself to them- they too are trying to market themselves to you. So don’t be afraid to be honest and ask the right questions, rather than try and solely impress them and telling them what you think they want to hear. You rather get rejected from a program they know you wouldn´t fit into then manipulate your way in and find yourself unhappy and unsatisifed for one year, maybe two! Nothing is worse than a mismatched program and volunteer.

A Chilean Blast From the Past: Roy

2008-01-24T11:45:00.000-08:00

He wouldn’t shut up about Texas. I kept using this word passion to infuse everything I did. We were miles apart, geographically and symbolically, and we both made our decision before we ever met: we wouldn’t exactly be the best friends.

Arriving in Chile, tensions increased. He’d read a couple of my pre-departure blogs and grew more convinced he wouldn’t like me: too much uninformed passion When he picked me up from the airport looking aloof and wearing goofy slippers that should have never left the house that rainy day, I knew as well, Roy Pequeno and I were two men who would never get along: he was a tool.

Months later, we would sit down in our living room regularly over a plate of Spicy Spagetti and a dubbed episode of “24” or some other quality programming. Besides the turkey sandwich and eggs (both of which we lavished with hot sauce), Spaghetti was about all we made. There, in the simplicity of our house we would sit, reminiscing about the past, talking about life and the funny stories of the day, every once in a while pausing to shout at the TV or pull a prank on Natalie. The hate we shared for each other before August lasted all of about 1 day… ok, and maybe one other day in December when I surprised the group and showed up early from language school- sorry! But really, I never could have imagined back in July that Roy would not only become my roommate, but a role model and a close friend as well.

In Chile, I was nothing short of worthless. My Spanish stunk, I was jobless, and I felt vulnerable and truth be told, in over my head and afraid. My whole community was wonderful and supportive, but, it was Roy who read through the lines and helped me keep my head above water, and to do it with dignity no less. It was Roy who sat next to me on community nights and joined me in hushed jokes. It was Roy who went with me on a house visit or to this place or that when my confidence was shot and I struggled to be my own man. Again and again, it was Roy, in the most subtle of ways that kept my spirits up. He had a way of supporting me, carrying me really, but in a way that allowed me to maintain my dignity and pride. It was a unique gift, one I pray for the grace to receive. And through his example, it was Roy who helped form me into the servant I am today.

It’s in the way I try and speak the language with a local zest (fresco man). It’s in the way I interact with the kids. And in the ways I now deal in a healthy way with the stress that overwhelmed me in Chile. Roy taught me that a hot oil incense burner and a little bit of silence and journaling can go a long way in maintaining your sanity when all the forces around you are attempting to destroy it.

I laugh about our quest, seen on Youtube, to kill the rat that invaded our house. I laugh about the stupid pranks we pulled, mainly on Nat and Michelle because no one messed with Caitlin or Ryan. Cait just because she was Cait and she was too nice and you felt like crap. And Ryan, he’d get us back 10 fold. Long live the time we cut the electricity and ran into Nat’s room dressed in black and with flashlights swinging everywhere!And I laugh when I think about the two of us walking to the neighborhood fast food cart, simultaneously shouting to no avail at our three legged dog who insisted on crossing the street without looking. Never mind the fact that is how he became three legged Jack in the first place.

When you first think about community, you obsess on the possibilities of what can go wrong. Personality clashes, detestable people and the like. You never imagine it’ll somehow become your rock when everything that was supposed to go right goes wrong. And what’s more, you never imagine the guy you thought you’d detest most is the guy you’ve since strived PASSIONATELY to resemble most… other than the ridiculous pony tail and absurd talk about Texas!

Updates to My Working Boys Center Blog

2008-01-09T04:00:00.000-08:00

You might notice that after months of absence, I am beginning to update the photos in the photo bar. Take a peak if you like.

You will also notice the blue bar of ads above head along with the Google Search Bar. Why, the cheesy add ons you may ask? The more money I generate, the more I can do with these kids. Simple enough.

I have added some new blog links which are really great. Dave Muccino, a fellow volunteer writes some great stuff. Where I am the dreamy optimist trying to play Shakespeare, Dave has a very straight to the point way of reporting things. Aaron Hendrickson is our resident comedian and his blog gives you true insight to the comedy that is our lives as volunteers.

Also, Angelo DeGuzman. Though not a full time volunteer, Angelo is a friend from back in LA who is in Magis as well as working on a host of other things. Angelo is one of the most insightful and driven men I know, and I felt that reading his blog could be beneficial for others to discover as well.

I've also made public my support of Barack Obama for president in my sidebar. I write on the tail of the New Hampshire primary but still strongly believe in that which Senator Obama stands for. It's a time for telling Americans what they need to hear, not what they want to hear is something I have heard him say a lot. It's a time to rise above the fray of party politics and once again, hope for greater things. It's a time, for a movement like his, a movement no other candidate can match. Watch the videos below from and tell me you don't want to believe. The top video is 1 minute, the second, longer but worth it.

So check out the blogs, watch the Youtube video, and forgive me for the tacky blue bar!

Why?

2008-01-01T16:39:00.000-08:00

Christmas was hard. It’s supposed to be- being thousands of miles away from your friends and family, from the snow and eggnog and pasole, etc… But it was for a different reason. In the middle class lives we lead, Christmas is looked upon as, at best, utopia, at worst, a reprieve from whatever struggles we are fighting off. But walking the downtown streets of Quito on Christmas Eve, I saw no utopia, nor felt any reprieve. I found mothers with babies in tow, begging for change. I saw little kids in tattered clothes, working like they would, any other day of the year. I walked aimlessly through these sad streets, my mind attacking my senses from time to time with only one preoccupation, one seemingly little question: why?

It all started on December 22nd as I stood in a crowded cafeteria overlooking a crowd of poor families waiting anxiously for potato sacks of used clothes and a second-hand toy or two. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great gesture from the center to its participants. But there is something indescribably sad about watching people get excited about a potato sack of what is, if we are to be honest, nothing more than some other person’s junk. I thought about my own family and the Christmas they had given me for years. The seemingly limitless presents, of which only a few would manage to entertain for more than a few days before becoming considered “junk.” Again, I could only wonder: why?

With all that on my conscious, late on Christmas Eve., I loaded into a bus of festive volunteers reveling in a “Joy to the World” like holiday cheer I felt so distant from. The world was suffering on Christmas Eve just like it did the day before and just like it would continue to do the day after and the day after that. It seemed preposterous to even pretend like I could partake in the same old Christmas jingles and cheers as we snaked our way into a wealthy expatriate area community. It was “Gringo Mass” and it was there I thought I might find resolution to my questions.

Forgive me for saying this, but the Mass just stunk. You’d think being around people who were foreigners living abroad or hearing Mass in your own language for the first time in over a year would be great. But instead, I felt nervous, uncomfortable and horribly out of place. There were no upbeat Latino Church songs with off beat clapping. No chorus of little voices shouting Amen after each prayer. I tried to concentrate on the Mass and the songs, convince myself again and again that I should feel at peace- this was after all my culture and my language. How was it all that different from Masses I used to enjoy at LMU? But something wasn’t right, and again and again the voice haunted me with a question that seemed to symbolize so much: why?

And so I left the church and sat outside on the steps. Just beyond the guarded fence of the chapel grounds, two indigenous elderly women, small children swaddled up in their arms, waited in the cold for the opportunity to beg the Gringos for a bit of change. I sat in the darkness and locked eyes with one women. “A bit of change” she seemed to beg with silently pleading eyes.” I came here with the goal to do just that,” my eyes pleaded back, “and look how far it’s gotten the both of us.” Again, the question surfaced: why?

I’m fighting this losing battle day after tired day, not because I’m convinced I’m gonna beat poverty anymore. That part of me seems to have died a long time ago. The ideals and the causes are gone, and all I have left to lean on is conviction. Anymore, I am doing what I am doing, because it feels right and like it NEEDS to be done, not because I really see myself as an agent of change anymore.

Saint Catherine of Siena supposedly said “If you are what you should be, you will set the whole world ablaze.” I don’t really believe that anymore. But from somewhere deep within, a voice I hardly recognize anymore instinctually rises to plead with me: why the hell not?

But then there is this, "Letter to a Young Activist" which more and more, provides great consolation in this work that I have undertaken.

"Do not depend on the hope of results. When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the truth of the work itself. And there, too, a great deal has to be gone through, as gradually as you struggle less and less for an idea, and more and more for specific people." READ THE REST HERE OF THIS WONDERFUL QUOTE HERE

Love and Loneliness

2007-12-23T09:03:00.000-08:00

I have never been much of a romantic but I must say, as of late- love is all around. In every song I see, in every park I pass, there seems to be some sign of romance. And movies- movies kill me. I can’t watch anything which has an even somewhat romantic theme- and that’s 99% of movies. Even Transformers (car robots blowin’ crap up) had a love theme to it, and please, don’t ask how I know. It seems love in full bloom everywhere- everywhere but here.

Don't get me wrong- I love my life here. I love these kids and feel like at this moment, that’s who should receive every ounce of my energy and care. But ya know, something happened in Chile and continues on in Ecuador that is making me want to organize my life not around success anymore- but love.

I know what you might be thinking among other things (he’s gone crazy). But the answer is no- both to the craziness part, and what I think many might be thinking … I won’t find someone in Ecuador. There’s something to being alone, cursing it, and then grudgingly bearing it. Born into a generation desperate for quick fix diets and the like, it appears we rarely understand the need to experience loneliness in order to truthfully understand love. Call it what you will, judge it as you see fit- but I don’t want a quick fix. And so, the long loneliness ensues.

You wanna do service abroad? All the good stuff the brochures and recruiters say- it’s all true. But there’s another side to this that no one seems to mention. It can be lonely and it can be difficult. And ironically enough, a lot of that is what makes it worth it in the end. You have the opportunity to discover brokenness in your service that completes you. It unites you in solidarity with those you work amongst. It is that brokenness that will teach you how to embrace love.

And so I think this much is certain in the life of an international volunteer: a juxtapose of overwhelming genuine love and incredible loneliness.

I made a choice that changed my life in ways I never planned. And ya know, I don’t regret any of it, because it’s making me who I’ve always wanted to be. As Christmas looms on the horizon, it’s hard not to get a lil’ sad and feel a bit lonely. But I’m reminded of another quote I found while studying in Dublin: “Home isn’t where you’re from; it’s where they know you the best.” The past two years have changed me in such a way that I can say- I’m at home this Christmas. At home amongst the kids I have grown to love, at home with the love and loneliness that are present in my life… at home amongst myself.

I pondered whether or not to publish this reflection. It’s personal, very easily misunderstood and let’s be honest- pretty damn cheesy. But in the end, I heard lyrics from a John Mayer song “Say” that made me realize what to do. “You better know that in the end, it’s better to say too much, then to never have to say what you need to say again…do it with a heart wide open and say what you need to say.”

Happy Holidays from me and the kids at The Working Boys Center!

The Art of Sitting

2007-12-12T15:59:00.000-08:00

Sitting. I realized the other day how complex it really is. I had the opportunity to visit the wonderful volunteer community of Rostro de Cristo this past weekend. It’s a community in Southern Ecuador, in a town called Duran. Coincidentally, I visited this community 2.5 years ago and it was there I realized my call to do service in Latin America.

And so going back to Duran was moving. I saw some of the same sights and met with some of the same people that moved me to move to Latin America. And in the process, I did a lot of sitting. Entering people’s houses and over the course of hours, just talking. It’s a common theme of almost any international volunteer experience. And it’s the part I struggle with most.

But this past weekend in Duran I sat like a true champ. I looked at photos of a family and volunteers I didn’t know and as they shared their story with me I shared mine with them. I soaked in sweat and gulfed down some of the best Arroz con Pollo I’ve ever had. I played dominos with a group of elderly, outcast lepers for hours on end. And in all three situations- I shared in the quiet, sometimes awkward solitude of companionship. I learned to just “be.”

In many ways, we are called less to be servants and more to be present to people. It shouldn’t excuse us from working where we are called, even needed, but rather it should permeate in our work in such a way that we never lose sight of what, or that is to say- who, we are working for.

You can only fight so much for a cause you don’t intimately know. If you want to learn about poverty, if you want to learn about love, reading Jeff Sachs poverty book isn’t enough. You have to meet the people that embody the experience. You have to embrace who they are in such a way where both their unjust suffering and their inexplicable joy infiltrate your defenses so you connect with them. And you’d want to do anything to eradicate the injustice that victimizes them.

And so, bringing this back home, I have a simple challenge this holiday season. May we all can try and see the world less through the marketing of “presents” and more through the challenge of giving all of ourselves through “presence” to those we love, and even those we don’t know. Sit with people and learn their stories. And in the process of sharing your own story, you might even learn a little more about who you really are. Happy Holiday’s Y’all.

Volunteering: The Big Reality Break

2007-11-29T16:56:00.000-08:00

(This is a journal entry written in July while I was volunteering in Chile. I thought it was a pertinent response to something I have heard one too many volunteers relate to. I have edited it a bit to mix experiences both from Chile and Ecuador.)

Taking a break from the real world. “A year or two off from reality” seems to be the catch phrase many people have used to explain my decision to commit two years of my life after college to international volunteer work. And I’m here to tell you- what a break it’s been!

What’s my life like as a volunteer in a foreign country? First, live and communicate in a foreign language. Move away from everything you love and feel secure in, everything that validates you. Leave all that false security to come to a foreign land and have your day to day experience be radically changed into nothing more than a humbling attempt to get up after you have fallen again and again. But unlike other trying moments in your life before, there are no friends around that can help you out. No night out for happy hour or anything like that. There is a cold house that leaks when it rains, and is freezing in the coldest of weather and a sauna on the hottest of days. It is there, in that excuse of a shelter you will find out what you’re made of, you will find out who you are.

Then you have to look beyond yourself and open your eyes to a horribly depressing story called poverty that plays out day to day. I teach a group of kids that often times are the principle bread winners of their family. Do you have any idea what it feels like to look into the weary eyes of a 7 year old child whose hands are blackened after hours of shining shoes? It is neither glorified nor cute. It just is what it is: someone else’s cold, hard reality. And you, you’re a helpless witness to a tragedy you can only do so much to change.

You still want to talk about reality?

I didn’t take any break from reality when I graduated college. I’d say the 22 years of life I lived up until my time in South America was the true break from reality as the majority of the world knows it. No disrespect to anyone in continuing education or working the day to day in the United States. I do not discount the trials and tribulations that pass through your life.

So for God sakes, give me a break and, at the very least, recognize that what I have chosen to do with my life is the furthest thing from a vacation or play time. I am an eyewitness to the grace of God at her best, and the power of humanity at our worst. I see and live intimately in both extremes. And I pay the full price of my ticket, every damn day.

So until you have seen injustice at its worst and had the ugliest and weakest of yourself revealed in it, you have no right to merely “glance” at what I am doing- and without an ounce of experience in it, demean it as something that is only cutesy and idealistic.

I guess I just need to know this: if encountering and battling poverty manifested in one’s own personal identity and the world at large isn’t reality…then what in God’s name is your definition of reality?

A Blast From the Past, A Fear For the Future

2007-11-18T12:01:00.000-08:00

The decision to do service abroad is the result of the accumulation of several events over my life. But it was a trip to Southern Ecuador with the Alternative Spring Break program at LMU that I must credit with giving me that final push. I had just seen poverty at its ugliest the day before. I felt worthless and utterly hopeless in the face of it, and for the first time in my life, began to buy into that pessimistic view that nothing can be done to battle the poverty epidemic. And in walked Pat.

I never got her last name or fully understood exactly what she did. But what I will remember is the talk she gave to my group that day, and the way it made me feel. “Having just seen what you all have seen” she said, “you have a moral obligation to do something about it.” She concluded by telling us that, in the face of such devastation of innocent life, “we have no right to fail.” There was a certain confidence that emanated from her in the face of such dire conditions, and it was allergic. We don’t have many moments in our lives that we can point to and say “there, that was when I decided to make a life changing decision.” But this was one of those moments. There is a bracelet I received that day, a bracelet I have not once taken off in over 2.5 years in order to always remind myself why it is I needed to come back to Latin America.

Over the last year, I had tried many times to write a letter to thank her. I had always wanted to do service but was so afraid. She gave me the courage to take a leap of faith that to this day still surprises and amazes me. And when I decided to leave Chile and return to Ecuador I couldn’t help but think about that life changing moment. I couldn’t help but wonder about Pat.

The other day, at a Mass at The Working Boys Center, a good 12 hours from Duran, I saw Pat. I knew she didn’t remember me, but still, I felt I had to say something. I walked over and, avoiding any attempts at poise and tact, said “Hi. You don’t really know me. But you gave a talk to a college group one day in Duran and well, you’re the reason I’m here doing what I am doing.” I babbled a few more incoherent words, and then just said, “you probably never realized it, but your talk that day made a big difference in my life. I just want to thank you for how you inspired me and gave me the courage to be here.”

Seeing Pat made me realize just how happy I am with this decision to do post-grad service. It has made me genuine and permitted me to love and be loved like I never allowed. And so, seeing Pat also made me realize something else. Though it may be many, many months away, I’m so incredibly scared to return to the United States. I have changed so much since I left. And frankly, I don’t know if who I am here can survive the daily ritual of life in the States. The priority to do all things out of love and with love seems to get lost. My two weeks home taught me that as much as I wanted to hear everyone else’s story, not many people, save but a few really good friends, cared to hear mine. “How was it?” was the question of the day it seemed no one truly wanted an answer to. And you know, before my time down here, I was that otherwise well intentioned but not truly caring guy as well. I don’t want to become him again, and I’m so afraid when I go back to the United States I might lose the courage to stay true to what I have learned here.

And perhaps my next moral obligation as Pat might say is finding how to take who I am and what I do here and bring it back home. In a new twist on an old theme, seeing Pat 2.5 years later reminded me that, here or there, I have no right to fail.

My Biggest Mistake Yet

2007-11-07T15:13:00.000-08:00

For the last few weeks I have been heading to school with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wish it was an exaggeration, but I’m here to tell you that a devastating mistake I made some five weeks ago created unbelievable repercussions on my happiness for sometime now.

It all happened when I thought I heard one of my students call me a maricon. It was already building into a long day, and as I’ve come to learn, the quickest lapse of sound judgment can be the most dangerous.

I snapped. I ripped her apart, berating her about the lack of respect. I went on and on, demanding accountability for her actions. She denied any wrongdoing, refusing to admit she called me what I was so sure she called me. And you know, playing the moment over and over in my head again, a bit of doubt has began to creep in, questioning me to wonder if I really did hear her wrong.

Anyway, on I went, humiliating this poor girl in front of the rest of the class until I finally forced her to break down- sobbing and embarrassed. I stood there in front of the class, just having humiliated one of my poor students into tears. Mr. Tough guy, just like I felt I had to be- feeling like the biggest and most worthless jackass in the world.

Two days later I was in a bind. I couldn’t shake the guilt of my actions like the Patrick Furlong before South America might have been able to so easily have done. It became a moment in my young teaching career where the supposed mistake of the student paled in comparison to my mistake, that of the educator. And so, I made one of my most difficult but altogether important decisions: I humbled myself and apologized to this young girl. Throughout it all, she never once looked me in the eye or even acknowledged what I was saying to her.

Five weeks had crawled by and she still wouldn’t speak to me or even look at me. Racked with an incredible guilt that wasn’t disappearing anytime soon, I did everything I could to reverse the situation: all to no avail. A child was entrusted into my care, and I violated that trust. And she had every right to feel and act the way she did. She even got her little friends to ignore me as well. I was once like a saint to these children, and now I was nothing more than a jerk whose existence was acknowledged with a silent eye roll (and these kids give killer eye rolls). And so what once was my personal heaven, the downtown center in “La Marin”- quickly became my nightmare.

I submitted myself to my own trials of humiliation when day after day I would attempt conversation with her and day after day, she ignored me. And so imagine my surprise the other day when at last, she responded to me. It was nothing major, a short conversation about something or other at school, but the look in her eyes moved me profoundly. There are times, I am convinced, where God DIRECTLY communicates with you through another human being. It was as though the lesson of a lifetime was conveyed through her cautious eyes.

I went to a little hidden nook in the center after that little conversation and shed a few tears of relief and ultimately, of sincere thanks. In the end, 6th grade Diana taught me a think or two about forgiveness. And through her forgiveness, I’d like to think I learned more in that one shameful downfall then I might throughout the rest of the year about what kind of teacher, what kind of person I not only should be, but desire to be as well.

I have learned a lot about vulnerability over the last 15 months and would like to propose it is perhaps the most misunderstood adjective in our language. Perhaps it conjures images of susceptibility or weakness. But to me, vulnerability is having the courage to declare we are broken, and as a result, incredibly blessed. It’s looking at the world with the walls of our defense down. It’s allowing the human condition which seeks to permeate through our being to do just that. Ours is a life of co-dependency. To be vulnerable therefore is nothing more than to love without limits.

It’s taken a bunch of street kids and some lonely and challenging moments to teacher me the greatest lesson of my short life. Call it cheesy or call it cliché, but the only thing worth a damn in this life is finding a way to open ourselves freely to love in a way in which we live fully in the consequences: the sadness and the pain, the joy and euphoria. We all make grand mistakes, but perhaps the biggest of all would be to allow our pride to blind us in such a way that we see vulnerability as a weakness rather than our most admirable strength.

(Oh, and an update since I wrote this journal entry. Things with Diana are going great. She is talking to me again, joking and laughing, and even gave me a hug as I left work the other day.)

When a Student Drops Out

2007-10-28T07:23:00.000-07:00

I lost a student the other day. I walked into class and was told that Jose Luis won’t be coming back to the center. He apparently just up and left. I’m told it’s a common occurrence at the center. But I got so into my routine I guess I just kinda forgot it might happen. The problem with my routine however, is that the more I got into it, the more I cared about the well being of each of my students. You develop a relationship that I really think sustains you through the monotony of doing simple math and reading exercises over and over again. If you don’t love these kids, you can’t do that shit again and again, because to be perfectly honest, I hate teaching and yet, I love my job. Why? Because I love my students. And so losing my first one, has really been a personal blow, and I am still reeling.

Those of you who have been keeping in touch with me have no doubt been subject to my relentless conversations about Jose Luis, my 17 year old student who bravely began attending school for the first time ever this year. When I first got him, he couldn’t write his own name, count past 10, or even recite the first 5 letters of the alphabet.

But over time, we began to see progress. The last class I had with him, we were doing simple addition and subtraction, counting to 100, and reading small and basic sentences. Everyday was at once frustrating and enlivening. For so long, I struggled with him, but near the end, it was like something clicked. You work with a kid long enough and you learn how he learns. I learned about Jose Luis, and began teaching to how he learns. And as we began to see progress, there was this sense of excitement about what was going on. A life was changing, he was learning and it was having a tremendous impact on every aspect of his life. And I was in the front row, blessed to witness it all!

I go to bed tonight and I wonder where this kid is. You can’t over dramatize what it is we do, because in the end, we are nothing but a tiny peg in the system. But with this kid, my role was bigger. I really had an opportunity to do something substantial. To teach a kid to count his bus fare, to read. Really, it was beginning to see a future for a kid that once had none.

One of our last days of class, timid Jose came in and started giving me lip. I was so taken aback that it took me a while to realize what he was fussing about. He was holding up a book his cousin lent him, demanding me to account for why he couldn’t read it. Teach me more, teach me faster. Professor, please, push me more, he told me. And just like that, the motivation my student had found deep within himself lit a spark of my own. Quiet Jose, demanding to learn more. I had planned this week to try and squeeze in more hours one on one, so we could move him along more rapidly. I had all these grand visions of what we’d do. For Christ sake, I had a kid begging to learn, begging for homework, begging for more class time!

And none of that will happen. I lost a student and I’m losing sleep on it. He’ll never learn again, I know he won’t. I hate to be so cynical, but every core of my body knows this to be true. There is no fairy tail ending, no life lesson learned. At this moment there is me, in this room, looking at the lesson plans I had created just for him that are now wasted. Jose Luis is gone, and with him went an opportunity to get educated, an opportunity to break out of poverty. Why? Life isn’t fair, but damn it, sometimes it should be.

The Choices We Have To Live With

2007-10-14T16:16:00.000-07:00

Punishment is a tricky thing here at the center. The basic facts of the matter are that kids are kids no matter what part of the world you find them in. And being in the position of a teacher now, that also means inevitably my priorities (that they learn something) are going to clash with one of their most frequent priorities (that they get away with doing something they should not be doing). That said I always hated hearing that classic teacher’s diatribe about how “this is not a democracy and blah blah blah”…and wouldn’t you know I used it the other night.

Make rules and keep them consistent. Establish your classroom management. The advice was all there, and it all seemed so easy. And yet, I’ve learned in my brief time here, as a teacher, if there is anything that is my responsibility, it’s less about sticking with the rules I made and more about seeing these kids and situations through loving and logical eyes. For if kids are a tricky thing, so too are parents.

I confiscated a cell phone the other day. RULE= Items that have nothing to do with my class become mine for a week. And so, when a 10 year old was text messaging under her desk (something I did countless times as a student) I seized the phone. The girl stayed after class and begged for her phone. My response was simple. No. After my next class, she was there again, begging even more. No. Tears were almost in here eyes. But rules are rules, and I insisted, no.

And then near the end of the day, I started to process just why she was so desperate. It was nagging me, something about the way she looked at me. You get to know your students in a way where an unusual reaction stands out. Not exactly one of the teacher’s pets, this girl had already had her fair share of runs in and punishment with me, and never flinched before. So why now? I spoke with a colleague who put it into perspective. “Some of the parents here are still learning good parenting. And so, her mom might hit her if she comes home without a phone tonight.” There it was, clear as day, and complicated as all hell. Keep the phone and drive home my point of classroom management. But at what possible cost? It was my call.

Follow through seemed less and less viable but I didn’t want to let the girl walk off free of punishment for breaking a rule. And as the day came to a close, out of time and without an answer, I pulled the student aside from a class to speak to her. Maybe I am a sucker and maybe it will come back to bite me, but I gave her the phone back with nothing more than a talk about respect and a huge assignment: writing lines. I told her she was a great student but I needed her to be more attentive. Next time I wouldn’t be so lenient, but I told her I was hoping there would not be a next time.

I left school that day, failing at the one thing every expert told me was a must win situation: class room management. But I can tell you this. I slept a little easier knowing that in the everyday struggle to size up as a teacher, I at least had the common sense to look at the student first, the rules I created before I knew what I was doing, second. Would she have gotten hit by her parent? I don’t know, but I at least learned a little something about myself that day. Simply enough, whether she would get hit or not wasn’t a gamble I was willing to take over a stupid cell phone. That said, tomorrow it’s back to the routine rhetoric of “this is not a democracy… this is a pure and simple dictatorship.” (= Just kiddin, I don’t really say that… at least not the dictator part.

My Legs Hurt- My Life As a Teacher

2007-10-01T15:14:00.000-07:00

My legs hurt and I’m talking to myself a lot. It’s been about a month in the classroom now, and that is the short and sweet analysis of it.

I guess it makes sense. I mean, most of my days start boarding a bus at 7:10 AM to head to our downtown school. Unfortunately, the downtown school is very urbanized and therefore lacks adequate playground equipment. And so, from 7:45 AM to about 8:00 AM I serve as the in-house jungle gym for all the younger kids. Truth be told, it’s a highlight of my day, no matter how tired I am.

And come 8:00 AM, the magic begins. Downtown, I’m teaching English to little kids, or that is to say, corrupting young minds to say the most essential of English phrases. You know, “book, eraser, hello, hi, I’m fine, Patrick is the coolest person ever,” etc… So two hours of English and then two hours of what we call Girl’s Program. Girl’s program is time we provide our girls while the boys are out working. It’s their time to learn to cook, work on the computers, and make arts and crafts that they are able to sell and make money off of. It’s also a great opportunity to get to know the story of these little girls, and for that, it runs a close second to the human jungle gym as the best part of my day.

And come noon, I am on a slow moving city bus working my way back to our other campus. A quick bite to eat, a scan of the Miami Herald, and I am off to my most magical class. I don’t know what more I can say other than I taught a 17 year old boy how to read a sentence and count past 20 for the first time in his life. You can’t put a price tag on being present for that moment. And so three hours a day I work with him and three other students with one simple goal: get them up to the educational level they should be in Math and Spanish reading, and do it quick. It is my most challenging course, and my most meaningful one as well.

Come 5 PM, it’s English with little boys. Come evening, on Monday and Tuesday I am teaching Industrial English (words I don’t understand in English or Spanish) and Religion the rest of the week. At 8:30 PM, I call it a day, and head home where we eat dinner as a community. A little lesson planning and paper grading, and then off to bed and the whole process starts over again. It is not much of an exaggeration to say personal time is bed time. Period.

There is so much room to complain about the long days, until your think about your students. I can’t begin to explain to you how moving it is day in and day out to meet my evening English class and shake the little blackened hands of boys who themselves have been working all day as well- but they make their living shining shoes. On my weekends, I have the opportunity sometimes to participate in house building projects in the community or respond to the whinny chants of Ecuadorian kids calling my name to join their pick-up game of basketball. Did I mention we live on the campus we work on? It’s the coolest thing ever to hear them shouting for you to come outside. And ever played bball with little Ecuadorian kids? Two words on how it makes you feel- Michael Jordan.

So here I am, living in Quito, Ecuador, working with one of the most phenomenal organizations ever. My legs hurt and I am talking to myself a lot. A small price to pay for the many gifts this experience is giving me.

“Don’t ask so much what the world needs. Go out and do what makes you come alive, because what the world needs most are people who have come alive.” Howard Thurman

If you are new here...

2007-09-18T15:36:00.001-07:00

I got a large amount of emails from strangers all around the country responding to the story at Catholic News Service.

Please feel free to read some of the posts that try and say what it is like being a volunteer after college.

Also feel free to subscribe to email updates in the right hand corner. I post about every two weeks.

Lastly, the drive to get my kids in Ecuador good supplies continues. As such, there is a paypal donate link to the right hand corner, everything helps!

And ok, this is the real lastly, please feel free to email me or comment with any questions or comments and thanks for taking the time to check the page out...

Papa Vs. Papa- An intro into learning Spanish

2007-09-18T15:19:00.000-07:00

Spanish is a hard language to master. Think about the following...

In English, there are six different tenses of a verb like “to eat” for example. There is the present, past, the future, the present perfect, past perfect, and future perfect. The last three are based on the first three and are compound verbs, which means they require a helping verb. Stay with me, it will be worth it.

Six. A challenge to be sure, but let’s look at what the Spanish language throws at us.

Instead of six tenses, we have 14 (grant it not all are commonly used but you still have to at least be able to recognize em’ when they come up). In addition, Spanish verbs change, depending on who we refer to. In English, I ate, you ate, they ate, etc... The verb does not change with the subject. Memorize the simple forms of the verb, and you’re good… But in Spanish, think of it this way: I ate, you ates, he or she or “the other you” (we’ll get to that soon) ato, we atemos, they aten... are you still with me?

Now about that “other you”... Spanish has two forms of the word you- (sometimes three but that is beyond today’s lesson today) an impersonal form and personal (wud up) form. Figuring out when to use which you can be a social etiquette nightmare in itself Not to beat a dead horse, but to say the word “for”, you use por or para, but each have their own laws of usage and are not interchangeable. Damn.

Perhaps at this point you are confused. First, bienvenido a mi vida (welcome to my life) for the last year. Second, let me break it down in numbers...

English= 6 ways to use any given verb.
Spanish= 70… mas o menos.

And so, say I want to learn all 501 verbs in my book of “commonly used verbs” appropriately titled 501 Spanish Verbs.

In English, it would be 3,006 forms. DRUMROLL PLEASE…
In Spanish, we are looking at learning 35,070 forms.
There are no typos here... so please, just sit with the difference between those numbers for a moment.

And, once you master the verbs, such fun things such as gender assignment to nouns and adjectives await. La cabeza and el cabeza, spelled the same and all but yet two different things because one is a feminine word and the other, masculine (la is feminine and el masculine). El papa is the pope. La papa, the Irish pope- that is to say, nothing more than a potato.

First Thoughts From Ecuador

2007-09-05T18:59:00.000-07:00

After a few days in Quito, Ecuador at the Working Boys Center, I have a few observations right off the bat.

First, elevation sucks. Think about it like this: Quito is a city, at 9,000 feet, about two times as high as Denver which is known as the mile high city. If that weren’t enough, the city is full of hills here and a climb there. San Francisco has hills too you say? Please, a walk in the park compared to this place. If you were in need of a good laugh, I wish you could have seen me play soccer today- both for the elevation and because, well, the only goal I had was against my team.

Second, here, they use the word voluntario not misonero to describe me and they dig spicy food like no other. If that’s not saying Ecuador is the place for me to be, I dunno what is.

But my most important observation is this: this place is something special and unique. People have asked what it is I do and what it is we as a center do? I’ll update you on my own unique roll later, leaving us to describe what it is we, as a center do. Since I am going to be a teacher, here is your homework assignment dear reader. Find a way to articulate in a brief paragraph all this that is done by the Working Boys Center. It may seem like a lot, but rest assured, I left a lot of amazing things out in the interest of space. Good luck!

• 35,000 meals served a week
• 5,000 families (25,000 people) pulled out of poverty in the last 40 years, according to an independent and external analysis of the Center.
• In terms of education, we have Day Care and Early Childhood Education, Grammar School, Technical Education, and Adult Education spanning across three campuses.
• Our kids and their families have free access to on site MD’s and Dentists, as well as a psychologist.
• The Center has a program called “Drop of Milk” providing milk, nutrients supplements, medical attention and parenting skills to mothers in the wider Quito area who have malnourished kids.
• All of our participants participate in community service. The most common and popular is our Sunday “Mingas” which are house building opportunities in the community.
• Again and again, I have heard that we are not a charity program, we are a development program. To that end, participants receive financial budgeting lessons and our boys, who continue to work while going to school (I can explain about why the kids continue to work in a future post), are required to have a savings account with the center. When they graduate, they are given that money as seed money to enter whatever trade they desire.
• Microcredit, otherwise known as small loans, can be applied for by graduates who wish to start up their own business.
• The center also operates shops and businesses like a restaurant and toy store on site that are visited by the greater Quito community and also provide our students great in house training.

I can not tell you how inspiring it is to be a part of this. What’s more, individuals and groups who wish to visit the center get room and board, wait for it… FREE OF CHARGE!

Sounds great, right? But does it work? Consider the following…

Before joining the Working Boys Center (WBC), 60.30% of the participants surveyed in this external analysis of the center lived in single room dwellings. After joining the center, that figure dropped to 2.90%. * One last stat- before joining the center, 40.50% had potable water access. After graduating, 94.70% of participants receive potable water.*

There is not enough space to proclaim the good deeds of this place. And I know, I have not even been here a week, aren’t I getting ahead of myself? Personal challenges aside, like the, “holy crap I am a teacher molding young minds panic attack”- I think if you came and saw this place you too would be amazed. It’s like, after years and years of work and study in this area, for the first time I am a part of something that aims not to be a band aid but a set of tools (be they carpentry, auto mechanics or baking, etc..) meant to empower people to break the cycle of poverty that has possible been persistent in over three generations of their family. This place says it wants to end poverty in the lives of its participants- and it works.

Don’t believe me? That’s fine. Come and see for yourself, after all, you only need to pay for airfare- we’ll provide the rest. (=

*Facts and figures from The External Study of the Impact of Working Boys’ Center, A Family of Families

What It's Like To Be Home

2007-08-30T12:26:00.000-07:00

The other day a friend relayed a story to me that got me thinking about what my two weeks back in the United States has meant. He shared the story of a priest who went on a house building trip and after a weekend of silence his much anticipated comments at last came out as they neared the border. “You know what I like about the people here” he said. “They treat their dogs like dogs.”

Perhaps it was meant to be comical but it struck me the other day, with a twinge of deep sadness that I have indeed come across pet dogs that are treated better than so many of the people that live in poverty.

And so, this is what might be chalked up as my failed attempt to articulate what it feels like to return to the United States after a year of service abroad in a developing nation.

In many ways, it’s the dream two weeks. I’ve eaten a great steak or two. I went back to “my service roots” with a visit to the community it Tijuana I always went to never being able to say more than hello, and this time I could communicate. I can’t begin to express how amazing that was. I have been to three baseball games, two of the them Cubs games, one in which I got a tour of the organization from a friend who works with the org and another one of them came with the all too incredible opportunity to go hang out in the club house area and be surrounded by my favorite ballplayers while I pitifully attempted to play it cool. I discovered Pink Berry, which can only be described as the ultimate frozen yogurt experience.

Of course, there is another side to the story. While it has been a dream vacation it has been a rude awakening. People ask me if I am ready for Ecuador and I must confess I am so gripped with an uncontrollable (and irrational) of what I will do after Ecuador that I have barely thought about the next year I still have in South America.

Perhaps worst of all is the most common formality I undergo daily. People are fond of asking, ever so casually, “so how was it?” like the sum experience of your last year can be broken down and analyzed as easily as you might evaluate going to see a movie. And it’s like, I look in their eyes, and just know, through no fault of their own, they really don’t want the real answer I am somewhat dying to give. I can’t describe to them the inexplicable liberation that sought to thrive amongst a month or two of deep sadness. When people invite you out for a beer, it’s hard not to ask “how is it you can get a beer with me but you couldn’t send a two line email every once in a while when I was out there?” For all the blessings, there has been, as people said there would be, incredible culture shock, confusion, and just general, inexplicable anxiety.

And yet, all my reflections go back to a most pleasant surprise: love endures through all. The last few years I was so into building an adventure resume if you will. I somehow equated my happiness with my travel agenda. And while I will continue to travel and appreciate the many values it brings to my lifestyle, I feel like I kind of missed the point of the grand adventure. I was so afraid to come home. Questions flooded my senses: who are my real friends? How have they changed? Who am I and how have I changed? And you know, I felt at peace, I felt at home, in the midst of everything, I feel at peace among the people I love. And so getting back to missing the point, I’m coming to see it is not about saying I have lived here and there and done this and that but more about making decisions that enhance my ability to both give and receive love in a more open and vulnerable way.

Am I ready for Ecuador? Yeah, but I’m also, in ways I never imagined possible, ready for life after Ecuador. And how was Bolivia and Chile you ask? Serendipity. Look for an update on Ecuador soon as I fly there September 1st.

Again, in my final push for Ecuador- any amount of help helps me to help others. Thanks for your time and support!

Like A Blind Man Cutting Hair

2007-08-14T10:36:00.001-07:00

It’s only a haircut and yet, it’s not. Really, a haircut is almost like an adventure sport when you are living in Latin America. Skydiving, forget about it. The real adventure begins when you sit in your local barber chair.

I mean, for one thing, it only takes a few glances at most of the “fashionable hairstyles” of the men my age down here to realize, with absolute finality: I do not want to ever let my hair look like that. I am talking about rat tails, mullets- just think 80’s retro... yeah, like New Kids on the Block and Vanilla Ice Ice Baby.

But OK, so what, the slant in all the barber shops these days seems to indicate a blind man is giving scissors and simply told to go to town in an attempt (and horrible failure I might add) to make something stylish. Sure, perhaps in the United States, a detail by detail break down might work in the United States... i.e. 2.5 inches off the top, no sideburns, and a number 2 razor for the sides with a square back. But herein presents one of the most common dilemmas of my life for the past year: try doing that in a foreign language. Even once you start to get the word for translation you still realize that some direct translations don’t mean the same thing. Uh oh.

So, in a roundabout way I am telling you not only that sitting in the barber chair’s is one of the most harrowing experiences I put myself through in South America, it is also, an experience I am keen on avoiding. The last time I tried it, I got a beautiful haircut, except for the long rat tail running down the middle of the back of my head. Thankfully, Emily, a housemate, did some damage control.

In the USA, I averaged a haircut every six weeks and even then, my hair was usually beyond a point where anonymous notes were being left on my door saying something subtle like “the prehistoric age called, they want their wooly mammoth back.”

I have to admit that I have gotten a haircut, over the past year, three times. Yes, that is one every four months.

So take your pick of which reason to buy, I find a bit of rationality in both.

1. It is cold as hell down here and every little strategy to defeat the cold must be capitalized upon.

2. Or imagine sitting in a chair and looking into the eyes of a man with scissors, who, mind you has a track record of, shall we say, less than desirable haircuts. And you look at him, he looks at you, The Outfield is blasting through the speakers ranting “I don’t want to lose your love, Toniiight”. You hesitate and then you tell the man, with sharp objects in his hand, to do something to your head. Ya see, you wouldn’t want it either.

Then again, I am not so sure this is a more preferable result...

OK, who am I kiddin. If that is not sexy, I don´t know what is!

And again... By clicking on the DONATE button bellow you will be able to help me buy needed supplies for my upcoming volunteer work in Ecuador USING ANY MAJOR CREDIT CARD. If you don´t have a paypal account, select the step that says "don´t have a paypal account?

Leaving My Program

2007-08-03T17:03:00.000-07:00

I am leaving my volunteer program in the middle of August. I am thankful for my time with HCA. I have learned a new language, experienced Bolivian and Chilean culture, and met some incredible people that I won’t forget.

But I just know that to stay here another year would be to stay where I am not meant to be. I was working in jobs where I was charged with zero responsibility. There is so much more than could never be captured in this short amount of space but I guess you could say the following: The more I learned about who I am and thought about what it was that brought me to Latin America to serve in the first place, the more I realized my time in this program had ran its course.

And so, I am leaving my program, leaving Chile, and yet I won’t be coming home to the United States.

In September I begin new work as a volunteer (again) in Quito, Ecuador. There is an organization called The Working Boys Center (WBC). The basics are this: The WBC serves impoverished shoeshine boys and their families with a variety of programs, not the least of which is where I as a volunteer come in: an education. I will be working five days a week, 8 AM to 8 PM as a teacher, possibly teaching adults to read and write, teaching kids English, Theology, Sales and Marketing, and God knows what else- the program is extensive. Even my weekends can be spent volunteering- from field trips with my students to building houses in poor neighbourhoods to visiting people in their own homes- the opportunities are there for me to find my heart.

But there is always a catch in this life, and in my case, the catch is this: I am joining a program that can provide nothing more than room and board. No health insurance or airline ticket. Not even some of the school supplies I will need to be a good teacher. If I want to take my kids on field trips (which I am told most volunteers do on a regular basis)- again, that falls on my shoulders, or dare I say, our shoulders…

Yes you are getting dragged into this. Fingers are crossed for the dollar lottery ticket my mom buys in my name every week but I bet there is a greater chance of buying my classroom supplies and the like through donations from the people like you who, like me, really want to make this world a better place. $1 or more, anything helps, and it is now easier than ever: you can donate with any credit card, right here, and right now.

I feel torn asking for this help, it kinda lashes away at the image of self reliance and independence I once liked to paint myself in. But in all seriousness I think if anything, the last year in South America has taught me this: a life well lived is not one that can be done independently. Your help enables me to continue to try my best at helping people living in conditions of extreme poverty, and in a sincere sentiment that could never break through simple words such as these: it means a lot and I thank you. And yes, just to break the “priceless Visa” moment, I still feel that way whether or not you are able to financially help! (=

By clicking on the DONATE button bellow you will be able to help USING ANY MAJOR CREDIT CARD. If you don´t have a paypal account, select the step that says "don´t have a paypal account?

And if you like, click the blue link to read an article about the WBC- my new home!
http://www.companysj.com/v241/families.pdf

¨Wherever you go, go with all your heart.¨ Confucius

Just Call Me The Onion Man

2007-07-29T12:55:00.000-07:00

They call me the onion man. OK, well, not really, but it’s one of those titles I think I am deserving of. I think I even committed the cardinal sign of trying to nickname myself- that didn’t work.

First, you have to understand, nicknames can be weird down here in Chile. I mean, my name, Patricio, is often abbreviated to Pato, which translated to English is duck. So just imagine walking around and having people call out, “Hey duck, come and check this out?” or something of the sort.

But really, I could perhaps be called the onion man because one day a week while I have been in Chile I have worked in the kitchen of a modern day saint. I think first I hoped the nickname I might earn could be chef-boy-r-me or something of that nature, but it only took a couple weeks to realize one thing that stood in the way of that nickname: if Spanish is a foreign language, cooking (in that foreign language mind you) is even more foreign.

Every Wednesday when I show up to Hermano (Brother) Donald’s kitchen I have this weird mixture of excitement and fear. I carry a little pocket dictionary with me for moments like this:

My first week there, while making the desert, the instructions told me, in regards to the chocolate topping I was making for a pastry, to “hervir a fuego liento”. Confused, I turned to Hermano Donald, to ask what that meant. “Oh, simmer it, that’s all” he told me. I guess my poker face isn’t all I thought it was because two minutes later (I still hadn’t moved an inch) he asked me if I was ok. “Yeah, it’s just, well, uh, Hermano, what does simmer mean?” My first day went down in the books as a complete embarrassment.

And yet, I love it. For you see, in many ways, it is as though I work with a modern day saint, or as the women I work with often call him, un Santo de la tierra. Hermano Donald is a gourmet chef, training and all. Every Monday through Thursday, he comes to the kitchen that he personally built and with a small staff of volunteers, prepares food for 45 elderly people struggling to get by and has it delivered to their house. And again, we aren’t talking your ordinary soup kitchen like operation. I am talking about freshly made bread, delicious soups, fresh and seasoned fish, etc... Everyday Hermano is there, and everyday he puts up with a range of issues, from problems with the people receiving the food to lowly foreign volunteers like me whose conversation usually ranges from “what’s this mean?” to “oops, I really just messed this up.”

But perhaps you are wondering, why on earth would they call me the onion man, at least in my own twisted head? The other day like so many other days I found myself pealing and cutting the onions for the recipe. Again, we serve 45 people and so a typical onion count for a days order can easily turn out to be 30 or 40 large onions. Anyway, I pealed and chopped each one of the 34 onions I had that day and, drum roll please.... Not one tear was shed!

I was on CNN! Call it my 30 seconds of fame... (=

2007-07-18T11:22:00.000-07:00

Some get there 15 minutes of fame, and well, in my case, it was more like 30 seconds thanks to the good people at CNN who brought me to TV screens around the nation.

The Democratic presidential candidates are having a debate July 22nd and the questions being used are those submitted by everyday people like you and me, via Youtube. Turning the camera on myself, I asked the candidates to address the issues that concerned me most: poverty. And then July 17th, I got an email. The first email I got said this:

Hey there,

Great video submission for the CNN/YouTube debate!

We are running some pre-debate promotional shows on CNN next week,
starting Monday. CNN wants to be in touch with you about a potential
interview -- could you email or call Alex below if you're interested
in potentially being on the show?

The sooner the better....

Thanks,

(HIS NAME)

Head of News and Politics, YouTube

It peaked my interest, but still, they must send this out to several people I reasoned. Nonetheless I replied and was surprised when mere minutes later, I received this:

Hi Patrick-

I understand you have corresponded with a couple of my colleagues here at CNN. I’m writing to find out a bit more about you. We absolutely loved your submission for the You Tube Debate and would like to see if you are willing and able to join us for a LIVE interview! I first need to know if you are in the States today? What does your week look like?

Thank you very much,
(HER NAME)

(HER NAME)
Editorial Producer
CNN-Paula Zahn Now

After I responded I never received a further response, and so, figuring I was not selected to be on the program, I went about my day. And so imagine the shock when I received a call saying that Paula Zahn featured my 30 second question on her nationally broadcast primetime talk show on CNN!

Greater yet, my question still might be used in the upcoming debates. Who knows, maybe the candidates will be asked to answer my question, which, call it conceited, but I’d like to think would be pretty damn cool! But if not, I’d still say getting my 30 seconds of national TV fame was more than fun!

I am trying to get a copy of it as it appeared on CNN and hopefully someday in the next month can post that for fun!

Now, if you can, CLICK this LINK AND WATCH AND RATE THE 30 SECOND VIDEO

The Dogs Are Taking Over

2007-07-15T15:12:00.000-07:00

Dogs are everywhere in Santiago. They run the streets...

My favorite, is the ones that stroll through the super market doors, just watching the people go through the check out counters...

Walking by the Presidential Palace (La Moneda) promises a sight for sure... A beautiful color guard, a lush water fountain, sometimes a motorcade and, always, the local stray dogs can be found camping out and watching the political news of the day pass in and out of those doors...

And the only thing better, at least in my opinion... The aniamls are reclaiming the sea, one oily ship at a time in Valparaiso!

I make what Bill Gates Makes...

2007-07-06T13:13:00.000-07:00

I make $2,796. The reality hit me the other day when I was asked on a survey what my annual income was. Fluctuations aside, I am in the ballpark of $2,800. We are not talking a monthly salary here folks, this is what I make in a year! And of that, only about $60 a month is money I can use for personal spending. The rest is what we call community funding- groceries, repairs (and God there are many of those), water, gas, etc... Can anyone figure out how long it takes Bill Gates to make my yearly salary? My guess is less than a minute. If you have the answer to that, I’d really be interested.

Given our financial constraints, I had to recreate the notion of “going to the gym” a necessity for my mental health more than any physical health. Pictured below is “my gym.”

An old mattress off the top bunk of my broken bunk bed can be taken down and placed on the floor for push ups and sit ups.

The two ONE GALLON water jugs comprise the free weights section.

The wall becomes the inverse squat machine.

The cardio section features a jump rope and running shoes and well, if we ever find a way to fix the house bicycle the real life spinning class will be up and running. And as for the juice bar, compliments of my mother, we have the best Lemon Lime powdered Gatorade a man can find!

Oh, and God place Santiago for being a somewhat progressive city, because this much I have to be thankful for: running trails. Now mind you, they are in the midst of heavy traffic and incredible smog, but nonetheless, it is space to run, which, if you remember anything about my experience running in Bolivia (think dog bites and cows), is a blessing indeed!

What It´s Like To Be a Teacher

2007-07-03T12:36:00.000-07:00

I don’t know. It’s those three little words I have repeated again and again since beginning to teach English. The students I work with are absolutely great, almost too great. When I was in high school, I loathed Spanish. Perhaps it is something in our culture, but I could not wait until my two year requirement passed and I could at last stop taking foreign language classes. But these kids are in my class because, in addition to the required English classes, they want more English.

And so day by day, their fascination creates both wonder and confusion in my own struggling mind. Often, as perhaps anyone who has taught a second language might identify with, knowing how to speak it is one thing- teaching, quite a different thing.

Day after day, questions like this come in. “Profe, would I say he is a person that is nice OR he is a person who is nice?” Usually my answer leaves them looking confused, the smarter ones on to the game I am playing... Either works I tell them. Then I quickly scramble to a computer to review English language laws.

But perhaps the greatest trick the English language has played on me as a professor comes in the textbook I have to use.

On my first day of class when I had yet to even see the book we were using (I got thrown right in), I wrote an example sentence on the board. “It is an honor to meet you Mr...” and before I could finish, one of my most intelligent students interrupted me. “Profe, you spelled honor wrong.” I did a double take, spelled it in my head, and disagreed. “No, profe, really, you spelled it wrong. If you don’t believe me, look at page 20 in the book.” I flipped open the book to see the word honor spelled HONOUR. Reading on, academe and other flippant words popped out at me. I was horrified.

I befriended a wonderful priest named Martin Hardy during my time in Bolivia, and we used to go back and forth between the languages, English vs. American as he might say. I have to believe this is God’s way of siding with Martin.

It is a struggle to teach your own language because what comes so natural for one is so hard for the other. But day by day goes by and more and more I get comfortable in the classroom, sensing when my students understand and when, in the universal world of high school culture, they are utterly lost but much too afraid to raise their hand and admit it.

The questions ring on, the answers come stuttering out, and I find myself learning as much about English as I am Spanish anymore. (=

The Loneliest Bus Stop

2007-06-30T08:25:00.000-07:00

This is a bus stop close to my house. It was built in February with the exciting prospect of the new public transportation, called Transantiago. Unfortunately, some planner in their infinite genius neglected to realize that not a single bus runs by this stop. And so, amidst over crowded bus stops, I present to you, the Loneliest Bus Stop in All of Santiago. Or, for a more realistic portal into the day to day life of someone without a car, you might wish to see Ryan´s photo of just a normal day at the metro.

I Am Addicted and Going Through Withdrawl

2007-06-25T10:20:00.000-07:00

I’m addicted. There is no other way to explain it. I never fully realized it, but now, being here in Chile, I am reminded of it. You see, I am going crazy, and it isn’t for booze or drugs or sex. No, for me it’s baseball, a pure and simple love for baseball.

At first I thought, it’s gonna be OK. Life can still go on as normal. I was wrong. I am slowly going crazy. When I talk to my dad, I suck all the baseball info out of him I can. Whenever anyone else calls, I ask for info too. I have given up with my mother, a wonderful woman but one that couldn’t tell me the difference between short stop and middle relief.

And really, it seems the stars are aligned against me. Baseball is the sign of all signs that spring is upon us. It blossoms in the summer and closes shop in the winter. Here in Chile winter is upon us and I feel tricked. “But my God, my God” I cry out huddled in my sleeping bag, hugging a hot water bottle trying to stay warm in our un-insolated and unheated house “don’t you understand... it’s baseball season?

Sadly, God rotates around soccer season here, which, as far as I can tell, is a 365 day year a sport without what we call an off-season. And as for soccer, the last stab I took at playing I scored a total of -1 goals. Work on that for a minute. I have not returned to the pitch since.

And last of all, I am a Cubs fan. My father has never seen them win a world series. My grandfather died never knowing what it would be like. Anyone born after 1908 for that matter has never seen it happen. And OK, OK, I know, in true Cubbie fan fashion (even in spite of their pitiful bullpen) I am buying into the “this year is a different year stuff” that has tortured Cubs fans for generations. But can you imagine the horrible irony if they were to go to the World Series and win it, the first time in 99 years, and they did it for one of the two years I would be away from baseball?

And so for now, we get by how we can. I am reading a great book called Carrying Jackie’s Torch: The Player´s Who Integrated Baseball and America by Steve Jacobson. It is a story about the guys after Robinson, many whom we seldom here of but who were great ballplayers and even more so, incredibly noble men. Larry Doby, Curt Flood, Dusty Baker, etc... these are the names that will mark my experience with baseball in South America. And you know, the more I read about these men, their sacrifices, and their gifts, the more I realize, there ain’t a better way to miss baseball.

So from a hapless baseball fan, I wish you all a very happy baseball season... unless you are a White Sox or Cardinals fan. Sox fans, como se dice SWEEP in Español? (=

“It's designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything is new again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains comes, it stops, and leaves you to face the fall alone.” A. Bartlett Giametti

The Dirty Hippie

2007-06-18T10:39:00.000-07:00

It’s not that we are dirty hippies, it’s just that it hurts to shower.

I know, it sounds crazy, but consider our living situation.

It’s cold, and when I say it’s cold, yes, I am talking about life in 30 to 40 degree weather. Big deal, right? That’s what I once thought too. But consider this. We live in a house void of insulation, built like a dungeon so the minimum amount of sunlight possible enters, and without heat. And so, when it is 40 degrees outside, it is 40 degrees inside.

Central heating has been redefined as follows:
1. A tiny heating mechanism that sits in the corner of our living room called an estufita. If you stand directly in front of it, you are warm. Otherwise, it serves little purpose.

2. Guatero. Think of a hot water bottle wrapped in a cloth. Put steaming water in it, hug it like you’d hug your girlfriend, and pray you fall asleep before the warmth fades away. Unfortunately, these things apparently have been known to explode on people… I am praying to return with a body free of scalding, because I think the story that I fell asleep hugging a water bottle and that´s why I have these burns might not be too cool.

3. Sleeping bag. Sittin on the couch, or going to bed at night, also sleep in your sleeping bag, with another blanket or two on top as well as sweatpants, a hoodie (with the hood up covering your head of course).

4. Yelling obscenities while doing rapid movement. I’m convinced this one works the best.

5. Tea. Drinking it could be consolation enough, but some of the best moments of my day come from standing in front of the stove with my hands over the kettle, taking in the excess heat.

6. Laying on the couch with Jack. He might be dirty, but man is he warm!

7. Showers. And this my friends, is wear the pain comes in. First, we don’t even turn the cold water handle. Purely hot. And it feels like needles hitting your skin, especially your toes, as the steaming water makes contact with your body. And just as the pain wears away, and it starts to feel good, your shower is done. You turn the water off and step onto the cold tile, and instantly re-enter a cold world.

And so that brings me back to my opening. It’s not that we are dirty hippies. True, I change my clothes only every three or four days now (you trying getting naked in this weather) and true, I shower at about the same interval (ok, actually a little less). It’s not that we are earth children, it really is, that it is too friggin cold!

I know you understand me

2007-06-14T12:34:00.000-07:00

Chile, like the United States, can be a racist country. Last week, my Catholic Chilean co-workers couldn’t shut up about how horrible Peruvians are. If you were to listen to many Chileans, Peruvians are the scum of the earth. Having a good friend who grew up in Peru, the constant barrage of racial slurs towards Peruvians has, over time, worn me down.

In March, a man came up to me in the downtown area and asked me, in broken English, if I was from the United States. After I replied yes, he handed me a flier and spat at me, “go home Yankee. You not wanted here.” The flier said the same thing (but with better English).

Weeks later I placed a simple food order when I was out with my friend Emily. I spoke clearly and correctly, and the woman turned to her co-worker and as if I were not there, and said “I can’t understand him. You talk to him.”

And if it is not that, it’s a postal worker pretending I can’t understand Spanish, a store owner pretending they can’t understand my simple questions. It’s being called gringo and hearing choppy English phrases shouted at you when you are out and about. Right now, a popular one in my neighborhood is “what up nigger.” Bienvenido a Chile, disfrute su tiempo.

You think you can escape some of the things you shunned in your life in the United States, and sometimes it takes traveling half way across the world to realize the more things change; the more they stay the same. I have received but a tiny taste of what so many of my own friends have experienced in their own lives in the United States. From the United States to Chile to Europe, there will also be racist people. I guess then, the real challenge is learning to address it, and try to change it. There are racist Chileans and non racist ones, just like racist U.S. citizens and non. I guess I just wanted to write this, to dispel that idea so popular in my own liberal circles in the United States, that racism and bigotry is somehow unique to the United States.

“If you don’t have the courage to speak up for human beings, you don’t have the right to speak up for God.” Luis Espinal, S.J.

The Multiplication of the Loaves

2007-06-11T11:41:00.000-07:00

Catholics are not really known for being Biblical scholars but I am gonna go out on a ledge here and say most of you can follow me if I ask you to recall the story about Jesus going to a town called Bethsaida where a crowd of 5,000 follows him. He speaks with them, heals them, and at the end of the day, the Apostles come, asking Jesus to send them away so they might find food, as they are growing hungry. “Feed them” Jesus instructs. To which the Apostles reply, “but we have only 5 loaves of bread and two fish.” Remember it? Here’s a hint, it was the Gospel reading on Sunday, Luke chapter 9, verses 11-17.

The multiplication of the loaves, it is often referred to as. And like the falsehood that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, this important story of the Bible is so often misread, and misinterpreted.

If you read the passage yourself, you will come to see, like I was taught a couple years ago, that no where in the Gospel does it mention a multiplication of anything. It only says they sat and they shared what they had and left full. The Peasants of Solentiname note that “The miracle was to persuade the owners of the bread to share it, that it was absurd for them to keep it all while the people were going hungry.”

I was blessed to hear a wonderful homily yesterday to remind me about the powerful truth behind this Gospel message. I often wonder why I grew up, never having this truth revealed to me. Perhaps it was too much a temptation towards liberation theology for the mainstream Church, to emphasize not only charity, but solidarity. To share a penny if a penny is all you have.

The priest in my poor parish yesterday tried to imagine the story in our own context. Perhaps, he said, the people came together and pulled out their empanadas or what other little food they had, and together experienced the blessed and broken bread of Christ in ways we might struggle to imagine. It was a powerful idea to fill the Church hall with that day.

I just finished a book called Blood Brothers the other day. It deals with Iraqi veterans, amputated in the war, who come back to rebuild their lives. And it mentioned how everyday, one of the men had a tradition on his way to work to buy a coffee and sandwich for a homeless man he would see day after day. The symbolism is so powerful. It’s the idea that each of us has an obligation when our car stops under that underpass or we walk by the man in the shaggy clothes shaking a cup of change, to help. I came across this quote below while reading about Dorothy Day, an ordinary woman whose ordinary vision has created inspiration for millions of Catholics like myself. It gets to the true multiplication of the bread: us.

“Bread and truth, truth and bread, making the rounds. Today’s food would yield short of death (the death of the soul), to tomorrow’s hunger; the task would never end. But let tomorrow take care of itself; it was today’s hunger that must be met. Let us meet it. Let us multiply ourselves, in the youth, the workers, the poor, the street people, the excluded. All have the truth to offer; all can multiply bread, bake it, break it, pass it on.” Daniel Berrigan, S.J.

Jack Vs. The Cats

2007-06-04T08:16:00.000-07:00

An epic battle has been trudging on for sometime now in 1309 Ictinos. At first, Roy and I felt it best to take a position of neutrality. If history is a lesson to any American, it’s that a position of neutrality only lasts us so long. And well, really, our ally needed help. Our ally was growing helpless, and quite literally hungry. At some point, who were we not to align ourselves with our three legged dog in the battle against the stray cats?

It started out innocent enough. First it was cats on a tin roof, driving the dog nuts. So be it. Then, they started sleeping in his bed right outside our backdoor. This seemed to be pushing it, but again, not enough to cross us over. In March, we discovered traitors in our ranks. Unbeknownst to Roy and me, Natalie and Michelle, had, for lack of better terms, been coddling these young kittens, almost inviting the enemy directly into our house, most likely in the hopes of adopting one someday. Soon thereafter they began multiplying, and then the real battle began, the battle for food.

It wasn’t until April we realized just how dangerous these cute little kittens were. They began eating so much of Jack’s food we nearly doubled the monthly order. Jack appeared to be going beside himself. He was prone to random fits of spinning and yelping, hobbling and falling off the couch in a sprint like attempt to protect his domain. Roy and I watched this, and soon found ourselves, allies in this war.

We created squirt guns out of old water bottles and began charging out the back door, screaming with the force of ban gees while spraying water on anything that moved. Sorry Jack. Again and again the cats would approach the front lines, and every time they were met with a fierce repellant: screaming gringos with malfunctioning water bottles. Oh, and a three legged FIERCE dog.

Unfortunately the battle has been complicated as late. The other day I looked out my bedroom window and noticed two cats in Jack’s bed. Jack, a mere inches away, laying on the cold floor, merely looked up at them with a tranquility in his eyes no dog should ever have when faced with a cat. Roy relayed a story of Jack cornering one of the cats, and getting frightened when the cat hissed.

The battle wages on, but really it feels like a lost cause. The cats seem to be in it for the long haul. Just the other day they left us a warning: on the sunroof above our living room, the shadow of a dead bird sits as a subtle reminder of just what kind of vicious animals we are fighting against. The cats have come to play hardball, and my loveable but helpless three legged dog is losing the battle, and unfortunately, so are we. Roy wants to put a laxative in a decoy food bowl, I will let you know what happens.

Cardboard Cutouts... In Shades of Red, White, and Blue

2007-05-24T11:41:00.000-07:00

It brought tears to my eyes the night I sat in silence reading the following...

“The night before the helicopter flight, Victor Langarica called home for the last time, certain that he would die the next day. ‘You better make it’ his mother told him. ‘Your kids are waiting here for you.’ She put his 6-year-old daughter, Devina, on the phone to talk with him. When he got back on the line with his mother, he was crying. ‘ I will remember you every second,’ he said.” Devina’s father died in Iraq the next day. Excerpt from “The True Cost of War” by Weston Kosova. Newsweek, Feb 5, 2007

“Never forget that your daddy loves you more than anything and that I will be home soon.” Major Michael Mundell wrote that letter to his young daughter. He died in Iraq on January 5, 2007. Quote is an excerpt from “Our Soldiers Stories: The War in the Words of the Dead” by Jon Meacham. Newsweek, April 7, 2007

Reading “Our Soldiers Stories: The War in the Words of the Dead” in the April 2nd issue of Newsweek, I read the words of Terri Clifton, who lost her son Marine Lance Cpl. Chad Clifton. “It’s become very important to me that these soldiers and Marines are viewed as individuals with lives, dreams, experiences and families. They aren’t cardboard cutouts in shades of red, white, and blue.”

Lance Cpl. Clifton was 19 when he lost his life to a mortar.

If I am to be honest with you then it is important to emphasize I am of the political left.

I do not want this to be political, insofar as that can be avoided. In many ways, it can’t. But I hope you can read this, you too can maybe think of the human cost of war. One thing I have noticed in Chile is the media, is, as some might say, more graphic, others might call it something else: more honest. While watching the international portion of the news, I have seen bloodied corpses dragged out of burning cars, babies dead in rubble, and soldiers, face down, never to rise again. This is the reality I see the war in Iraq from, through the eyes of Chileans who day by day endure the photos and video of lives lost in the most horrendous of ways, ways we, those who should must see it the most, don´t tolerate.

I looked through a list of those who made the ultimate sacrifice, and began from the top of the list and worked my way through their ages:

21, 21, 21, 28, 20, 32, 26, 24, 21, 21, 25, 19.

I heard a story the other day about a depressed veteran who went seeking treatment from the Veterans Administration. “I’m depressed, I feel so suicidal” he noted. The clerk, without looking up, informed him they were unable to help. “Come back in a couple months.” This soldier, became another one of American’s fallen when he hung himself four days later. Senseless deaths, and it leaves me feeling anxious and empty inside as I write about them.

As a colective nation, we have never been asked to do anything since this war started, except to shop and shop a lot. And we have, as a nation, collectively done less than that, failing in essence, to see the humanity of the soldier, the humanity of the stranger outside our realm of reality, and the loved ones in our nation and Iraq that have so tragically been left behind.

Men, women, children... Iraqi and American, or that is to say, somebody´s son or daughter, wife or husband, mom or dad... real people, just like me, and just like you.

What´s a Kilo to you?

2007-05-22T12:44:00.000-07:00

What’s a Kilo to you? Living in Chile my life has switched from Standard Measurements like miles, pounds, etc... and instead been replaced with the horribly confusing Metric system of kilometers, kilograms, etc... Sometimes, the math, no matter how you do it, is astounding.

The first time I realized it was with my dad in town. God bless the man for bringing everything but the Italian Sausage to make us some true Chicago Style Pizza. Unfortunately, despite my best attempts I could not quite convince him that as hard as it was to believe, Chile did not seem to carry Italian Sausage anywhere. We went from store to store to store until finally he seemed to resign to this reality, and finding the closest thing we could to replace it, he told me to order him a pound of Sausage. I knew somewhere in the conversion from pounds to kilos we had a 1 and 2.2 and I took my best guess. “2.2 kilos of sausage please.” When the man handed me 5 pounds of sausage, I had to embarrassingly realize my calculation was wrong, 1 pound does not equal 2.2 kilos, but rather 1 kilo equals 2.2 pounds.

Well, again I ask what’s a kilo to you? This past weekend, on a weekend trip to Pomaire with my housemates Roy and Caitlin, Roy introduced me to quite possibly the most beautiful eating experience I have had in Chile. As some people have noticed in the photos where it looks like a baggy sweatshirt with baggier jeans swallowed me, I have been losing weight. I’d like to say it’s a result of me working out more, but seeing as how I have not ran since March, I must accredit it to our largely vegetarian diet that our volunteer budget affords us. There is a running joke in the house whenever someone asks what’s for dinner to respond “I think a pasta, rice, or beans dish with some tomatoes and zucchini.”

And so, getting back to the story, this weekend introduced me to the pinnacle moment of my eating experience in Chile. In response to what’s a kilo to you, this is what I can tell you: it is a 2.2 pound empanada filled with chicken, beef, onion, and olives stuffed in some of the most delicious dough, and if that were not enough, it was followed by a bajativo (a downer) that made a cold winter day a little warmer with a tasty Apple kick to it. All that for only $3 US.

I came home that night completely full, and, according to Roy, with the biggest smile he’d seen me with since I arrived in Chile. The next night, it was back to lentils and veggies, but for one day, one glorious day, I ate like an empanada king!

Who Knew Free Help Was So Hard to Give Away?

2007-05-15T07:56:00.000-07:00

(After the last entry, I thought a balance of finding meaning here might be good. Below is a journal entry from April 22nd, as I rolled into my 4th month of nothing to do for work. I had a job title- volunteer, but no job to do with the title.)

April 22nd, 2007

I am unemployed. And really, if I want to be honest, I have been in this state of unemployment since December. I mean, technically I have a job, in so far that I am a volunteer in a program called the Holy Cross Associates. Today celebrates 9 months of life as an Associate, and I am in no mood for celebration. Perhaps tomorrow will signify my first day of work, and that my friends, would be a reason to celebrate.

I never imagined free help in a supposedly poor country would be so hard to give away. I have tried, at times I really have. Imagine if you will, the humiliation that comes with the worthlessness that defines you when you must answer the most basic of questions, “what is it you do in Chile?” with an even more basic but all the real and honest answer: nothing.

I hope as you read this, the immediate instinct to offer reassuring words trying to speak volumes of the opposite can be quelled. Hear me, really hear me when I tell you of the worthlessness one feels when his days pass again and again without goals or hopes, and end void of successes or even failed attempts.

The program always advertised this experience as a presence with the people, a being rather than doing mentality that emphasized again and again I would not be down here to do a job a Chilean could not do. I wonder if a Chilean could get away without working the way I have the last few months. And so perhaps in the end it is my fault that I find myself in a program in which I often feel I do not fit. Anyone who reads this thinking about volunteering after college, I highly suggest figuring out if it is spiritual formation or service you want the emphasis on. It is something I would have been wise on discerning more carefully myself.

I came to Chile wanting nothing more than to work with the poor, to live amongst them and know them in such a way that this would create the cornerstone of a life of service, not just a two year formation. I came armed with nothing more than an open heart and hands inspired by nothing more than idealistic notions of what I could do, what I mistakenly assumed I would easily do.

And so, I am unemployed. It is humiliating, it is humbling, it is perhaps true solidarity in ways I never imagined and honestly never wanted.

Note: One week after this journal entry I walked into a local school and explained my situation. I am now working, co-teaching English classes to juniors and seniors, as well as working in campus ministry assisting in various aspects. It is still somewhat unfulfilling and I struggle with it, but now, at least, it is something. I might still be going under used, but at least I am no longer being unused. Other than that, I am still visiting the orphanage, and all I can say, is those kids will never know what they have meant to me in this time of difficulty.

Meet Paola

2007-05-09T12:33:00.000-07:00

“In this world, this demented inn, in which there is absolutely no room for him at all, Christ has come uninvited. But because he’s out of place in it, his place is with those others for whom there is no room. His place is with those who do not belong… he is mysteriously present in those for whom there seems to be nothing but the world at its worst. It is in these that he hides himself, for whom there is no room.” Thomas Merton

She’s a twelve year old girl with a smile, a sparkle in her eyes, and a thumb in her mouth. It’s the best way I can understand the quote from Thomas Merton. Everyday I visit this orphanage/foster home (hogar) she is the first one to jump out of her seat, run towards me, and leap into my arms. She gives me the customary Chilean kiss on the cheek, hugs me, and pulls back and looks into my eyes, penetrating all my defenses. I am helpless with this child, she has come to mean the world to me. If you ask me the thing I love the most about Chile, I could answer without hesitation and complete honesty, Paola. At times, it is the only thing I love about Chile.

You find God in humanity. When I work with Paola and the rest of the kids in the hogar, it’s like all the causes and ideals, all that used to motivate me through high school and college, they mean nothing. It sounds heretical, believe me I know, but before you kick me out of the justice league, just try to understand. In place of those causes and ideals, marches and protests and catchy slogans I now have names I can’t forget with memorable faces and unbelievable stories. It’s Paola, twelve years old, who jokingly tells me again and again with a smile and a wink “para ti, baby” (it’s for you baby) in her best Spanglish. It’s Gisella, who writes me little notes telling me how nice I am and how she likes when I visit them, perhaps never knowing how much I love her back, because who knows if she’s ever really been loved before and knows what worldly love feels like.

It’s hard to remind myself these loving children are victims of physical and sexual abuse and now deal with issues of abandonment. Causes and ideals, protests and marches, they are good and needed, but it isn’t until we live amongst what we are fighting for that we really understand: causes and ideals are nothing special in themselves without love and dedication to what lies behind the scenes. In college, I fought the good fight for human rights, but sometimes was able to forget just what I was fighting for.

I wonder as I write this is you can understand what it feels like to truly find God in humanity, to truly believe God isn’t looking down at you from the comfortable heavens but right through you, through the desperate eyes of an orphan.

I might not be able to change the world like I once thought, but yet, changes can be made, for Paola and others like her, one cause, that is to say, one person, at a time. Walking away from the house they live in, a ritual has begun. Paola insists on walking me out with the woman in charge. I say my goodbyes, which in Chilean terms means kisses on the cheek all around, words exchanged, more hugs and cheek kisses, and at last, a long walk, and a final goodbye to the woman in charge as I leave their compound. Then a few feet outside the gate of the house, I hear Paola’s little giggle, and then hear her voice shout,- Tio Pato (tio being anyone in charge, pato, being duck, but also the nickname for Patrick) But anway, “Tio Pato, para ti... BABY!” The neighbors in this quiet neighborhood must think I am crazy, as I turn around, take one last look at her smile, laugh, pray she understands the story my eyes try and communicate to her, and with more meaning then she may ever understand shout back, no, para ti… baby!

In Search of the Soda Gods

2007-04-30T09:24:00.000-07:00

It was a pretty risky thing to do. I might be brash, but in the end I like to be as politically correct as possible. But all the indicators told me my best estimates would prove me correct. The group of people sitting there were of a darker complexion. Many Chileans, with their blonde hair, ghostly skin, and blue eyes, are anything but that Andean culture with darker skin and darker hair. They were sitting alongside the chapel, a common hang out for them I have been told many of times. And, a few Chileans walked by, dishing almost unnoticeable glances of disgust at them, and that all but firmed up what I already knew to be true.

“Are you Peruvian?” I asked the group. Their hurried conversation came to a stop; they starred at me blankly for a moment, and hesitantly answered, yes. I don’t blame them for eying me suspiciously, reluctantly admitting their nationality. They are often poor in Santiago, working to feed a family back home, and treated by Chileans, the same way so many Latin American immigrants are treated by “US Citizens” back in the United States.

I suppose when I smiled and said “thank God!” they lightened up a little. When I told them I was dying for a Pisco Sour, a real one, like the ones from Peru, I sealed the deal and we were laughing together. The Pisco Sour, a traditional drink of Chile and Peru, is fought over amongst the two cultures as to who claims the original ownership of it. It’s a good way to win a Chilean or Peruvian over, or permanently frost relationships with them, depending on how you structure your comments about the drink. But anyway…

After a little bit of small talk, I explained I had a Peruvian friend back in the United States that got me hooked on something they might be able to help with. They were all ears. I explained my absolute obsession with the Inca Kola, a yellow cola, the Cola of the Gods! At this everyone laughed and when one man said, “who would have ever guessed a gringo in Chile in search of the Cola of the Gods” they all roared. Eventually laughter subsided and directions were given. It was an import, and so it is pretty expensive by cola standards, but fortunately, I was talking to experts. A left turn here, a right turn over there, there will be a building that looks like a galleria, turn into it. Walk five floors up the circular corridor and look for the nondescript restaurant without a name. There will be a bunch of Peruvians eating away, and it is there, the cola of my dreams will be.

I felt like a detective acting on a hot lead and it made sound cheesy, but I felt the sweet joy of victory when I walked out of this hole in the wall restaurant, the Peruvians looking at me somewhat oddly but also giving me that acknowledging smile. One man as I left smiled particularly big, and I as I was turning the corner, he shouted “Oye, amigo!” I turned around to look at this man with his own bottle of Inca Cola raised up high. “Salud.”

It’s the little victories that make the biggest differences anymore. When I opened the bottle of cola that night I must have made my roommates a little uncomfortable. I felt like I was in that Herbal Essences commercial, because I just kept taking sip after sip of my soda, going “ohhh my God, yeah!” “Ohhhhhh.” “Jeez this is sweeeeet!” I even started to address it as though it was a person. “My God I have missed you!” I’d like to think after my roommates had a taste, they understood, but then again, no one else seemed to react like I did, so who knows. Either way, besame el culo Coca Cola, I got Inca Kola!

Earthquake in Chile

2007-04-23T15:56:00.000-07:00

I didn´t even wake up to it. Little by little the house began to come alive with noise until at last I woke. Did you feel the earthquake everyone asked? I was half asleep and I guess in true LA fashion asked if everyone was OK and if anything broke. No, came the unanimous reply, everyone and everything was ok. It´s not a big deal then was my reply and I went right back to sleep.

So for those of you that know, there was an earthquake 800 miles south of Santiago. We felt the aftershocks but nothing big enough to create damage. When we got back to our house in Santiago (we were an hour north at the time) our voicemail was flooded with calls of concern and our email boxes as well.

So all is well for the Associates in Chile. No one was hurt, and some experienced their first earthquake like sensations for the first time!

Hope all is well with everyone else!

Responding to Human Tragedy

2007-04-17T11:49:00.000-07:00

Your brain goes into a helpless overdrive. I remember the day when a man on the street in Bolivia identified me as an American, and told me "it´s a tragedy you know, another plane crashing into a building in New York." Immediately my heart begin beating rapidly, as I pressed the man and sadly he could offer no more information. Slipping into an Internet cafe, I was relieved (if there ever is such a way to be relieved) that it was not as I had imagined, a 747 jumbo and instead ended up being a small prop jet.

And again today, it came crashing back. I heard something briefly about the university killings in the United States last night while playing soccer. But as I pressed for specifics, none were made available.

This morning, as I was running around obtaining my VISA, getting finger printed, the woman doing my finger prints commented about the tragedy. A shame she said, 30 some people killed at this university. We spoke for a minute and I asked her if she knew where it happened. Without a hesitation, she told me: Los Angeles. She had seen the news and thought it was Los Angeles, Chile, but no she said, it turned out to be Los Angeles, USA.

I got panicky, frightened, hoping it could not be LMU. I asked her if she was sure, she replied yes, she was. I left the office in a zone and even trembling a little. Surely someone would have called me if it was LA. Wait, I received a call last night, but I missed it. What if, oh God no, what if was all I could think.

I can´t explain to you what it means to be away from a world that is still your own, living in a world yet to embrace you. You hear things about planes crashing, university shootings, and you run to the nearest Internet cafe, trying desperately to get more information.

And a cruel irony of it all is reading about human tragedy, and knowing, despite what you want to believe, your first instinct is relief. Relief the plane wasn´t bigger, relief it was someone else´s friends and family, someone else´s Alma Mata. I go through these emotions, I realize they are not right, and in a way, it gives me insight into how so many in an affluent country like mine can overlook the genocide in Sudan, the nameless child blown apart in Iraq. Not my family, no in my realm, not my problem. While still untolerable, it becomes easy to understand why this was the most searched news items on Google in 2006...

Google News - Top Searches in 2006
1. paris hilton
2. orlando bloom
3. cancer
4. podcasting
5. hurricane katrina
6. bankruptcy
7. martina hingis
8. autism
9. 2006 nfl draft
10. celebrity big brother 2006

My heart goes out to everyone involved in that shooting. I feel great sadness for the students, the family, the community around Virginia Tech, and even the young man who did it, as well as the Korean or Asian community who will now be targets of misdirected hate and confusion from Virginia to California.

People often ask why we do what we do, this social service. Sometimes the answers are hard to come by. If I did not realize it before, after my time here I realize I won´t change the world. My causes, my ideals, as great as they are, they will never be a chapter to be closed. Poverty will persist, senseless death pass by unnoticed.

But it´s moments like these it becomes clear why I do what I do, what hopefully all of us do in our own small ways: you do good acts when possible, to take a shot at balancing out the many evil or indifferent acts that arise again and again, from here to there. You bear witness to the pain knowing you can´t change it, but by acknowledging it, you do more than so many would ever dare. Yeah, we aren´t going to win, but I´d like to think all God asks of us is the desire to erase hate with love, to come together, different as we are, under that which unites us under one canopy: that which brings us anguish, and the dreams we still dream in spite of it all, in spite of the temptation to turn ideological and hateful.

Again, my heartfelt condolensces to the many victims around our world today.

"Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together." Eugene Ionesco

Bring a Good Book!

2007-04-12T08:25:00.000-07:00

Say what you will about the United States, but I can tell you this: what happened to me yesterday in Chile would never, ever, in a million years, have been tolerated in any American business worth the salt in the ground upon which they build on.

The more ironic thing was, it didn’t really piss me off. I could have gotten up and walked off at any point, called it a day, but in the name of research, i.e. this blog, I stayed, and stayed, until another roadblock came up.

I carry a book with me wherever I go in this country. Whether it is going out to meet a friend for a cup of coffee or going to an important business meeting, I can’t remember a time the words “let’s meet” from a Chilean hasn’t sent me running for my book. For you see, the power of the book is such that any tardiness becomes tolerable, to the point that sometimes when the person I am waiting for shows up, I get irritated. Five more minutes, I think to myself, you’re already 20 minutes late, and what would another 5 have hurt you so I could finish this chapter!

The really funny thing is that this organization has the professional appearance of an American non profit. Tidy offices and people scurrying in a hurry to do this project or that. Meetings have, been amusing. It usually results with me traveling an hour each way to have a 20 minute discussion, or the classic and most common occurrence, we have meetings to set up meetings. But this was the grand meeting I was assured, this is where we would be hitting the road, surveying these communities of squatters, void of electricity and running water. This was the hidden poverty that had eluded me for so long, that I was starting to doubt existed in Chile.

And for a while, I started to believe them. They even rearranged the meeting, moving it up from 10 AM to 9:30 AM, gently urging me that by 10 AM it would be too late to do all we needed to do, casi imposible (almost impossible).

Still, knowing Chileans, I showed up a casual 10 minutes late, and walking through the door at 9:40 AM, I wanted to pat myself on the back for learning to be tardy. This is Chilean culture streaming through my veins damn it!

At 9:40 AM, I was ushered to the waiting room and told as soon as one more member of the team got there, we would be leaving. At 10 AM, I sighed, grinned, and then opened up my book and read.

It was a damn good book, and before I knew it 10:40 AM passed into 11:40 AM. Every now and then, the director rushed into the room and told me “a little longer” or “any minute now” words I have learned are really code in the American language for “it could be hours” or “it may never happen.”

I probably should have gotten up and left, but in the name of cross cultural research that begged the question “how much longer can they possibly keep me waiting!?!” I stayed.

Unfortunately, at 12 PM, I had finished leafing through the remaining 150 pages I had in my book. I read some informational magazines around me, but quickly I was bored, and with my backup plan exhausted, my research came to an end. As I stood up to leave, the director came in and again assured me we were just waiting for one more man to get to the office. “A few minutes more” he pleaded with me. I looked at my watch; we were 30 minutes away from when the meeting was supposed to have ended that day! I laughed as politely as I could, and said I had to get moving along, I had a commitment more pressing: visiting the kids at the orphanage, and, unable to resist a subtle moment for irony, I explained, “I don’t think I have the heart to make them wait hours for me.”

Coming home from the orphanage that day, the busses took longer than usual, and the Chileans, found it difficult to form a line to wait. After four busses and the course of more than an hour had passed and time and time again middle aged businessmen and women had ruthlessly cut with pushes and shoves past this elderly man and me patiently waiting to board a bus, I reached the limit of what we might call my Chilean tolerance: I close lined a woman. Well, it’s not like I knocked her down, but as she tried to run by me, I stuck a firm arm out, catching her in the neck. I pointed to the bus as people were still getting down from it, and told her with a chilly voice to wait and get in line.

Riding home on another overcrowded bus full of pushing and shoving, I could have focused on the unnecessary hours I spent waiting, for the meeting, for the bus, but instead, my thoughts went something alone the lines of this:

1. Great book, glad I got to finish.
2. I got gifted at the Hogar, as usual, with whatever they had. Paola gave me a flower, kind of closed up, but really pretty. It bloomed into this...

May we all be so lucky in our day to day lives.

A Week in Pictures

2007-04-04T10:30:00.000-07:00

I took my rarely used camera out this week and well, a picture really can tell 1,000 words, or so I hope... Enjoy!

While on the coast of Chile this week with my dad, I was reminded no matter how much I sometimes think my job stinks, someone has it much, much, worse...

Just another photo of a son and dad in front of some foutain, right? Wrong. A photo of me, inside the presidential palace in Santiago, the first location with any týpe of high ranking official I have dared to enter since my adventures in Bolivia. I was trembling going through security, no joke!

If I told you this crowd then fought to get into a narrow hallway and slowly inch their way down a 100+ yard tunnel, and that this is, by most accounts, normal for us now in Santiago, would you begin to see why there have been violent protests about public transpo here?

Despite no Spanish skills, dad was a big hit with the kids I work with at the hogar. They played a game that I translated for him, and the kids sung it in Spanish, he did it in English, it was great!

Valpo, a good place to come and just chill.

How can something so common, so ordinary, never cease to amaze? I guess in the end, it´s kind of like family, pretty common, but yet day in and day out, always so special...I watched this sunset on the Pacific, and you start to wonder, what if someone else I love back home was looking out at that mysterious body of water the same time I was. A world so big when we are so far apart, and yet, we can watch the same thing. Amazing.

Laundry... A DIRTY Process

2007-03-27T08:58:00.000-07:00

I hated when I needed to do laundry my sophomore year in college. The apartment complex I lived in was divided into two open air quads. I lived on the third floor of the east quad, the only laundry facilities in this outdated building were on the second floor of the west quad. East quad third floor residents loathed laundry day, quietly and more often than not, not so quietly complaining on the treacherous trek with our laundry baskets filled to capacity. Never did I imagine I would look back on this nightmare of a system and think as I do today, what I would give to have those luxuries back.

Laundry is a complex thing here in Chile if only because it is so darn simple. While most of our neighbors use little and effective machines we Associates do it the old fashioned way. Step one, fill the outdoor sink up with warm water. Step two, sprinkle in detergent. Step three, locate the hand washboard. After that, life gets dirty.

The basic idea is you take whatever item of clothing you have, scrunch it up, and scrub and grind until the odor and whatever stains once existed are removed. After we scrub all the clothes in soapy water you have to drain the sink, refill it with clean water, and then “rinse” the clothes. After the rinsing is complete, we go into spin cycle mode. Given our technology we have been working with to this point I will put your mind at ease. Spin cycle is not, as the simple living image might suggest, spinning in circles really really fast with your clothing. Rather, we take the clothes three shirts or four pairs of boxers (with a pair of sox or two mixed in to push the envelope) over to a tiny contraption known as the spinner which, true to its name, spins the clothes so much so that a large amount of the water drains out of the side of the spinner. For some reason I get a kick out of seeing how much water can drain out of my clothes, the most entertaining is my fleece jacket and jeans, at the same time! After that, we pin the clothes up on the clothes line and wait until they dry.

I would have never guessed it but a machine is much more gentile than human hands ever could be and obviously much more effective. My jeans are slowly wearing away where I scrub the hardest. My socks are no longer snuggly soft and my shirts are stretching out and slowly changing colors. As for effectiveness, I have learned that human hands are prone to cheating, trying to wash less than needed. I have paid the price one too many times with clean shirts that smell dirty, because, well, they still are dirty, even though “I washed them!”

And yet, like doing the dishes, I have sickly started to take a minor amount of enjoyment out of this archaic chore. Don’t get me wrong, the moment I see a washing machine I am hitting that thing up, if nothing more than for the sake of my poor clothes. But in the past, doing laundry was a chore because of the 10 minutes it took to take the clothes to the machines and back. Worst of all, God forbid, was the time I had to pass in the comforts of my apartment as the machine did its work. Now, laundry takes a large investment of laborious time, sometimes a couple hours. But it is a couple hours of good old fashioned elbow grease intermixed with some moments of silent solitude to reflect. Like the dishes, it requires much time and little thought, giving way to moments of silence, solitude, and if done right, solid reflection and clean clothes! Done wrong, well, let’s not talk about it…

Home Sweet Home?

2007-03-20T08:01:00.000-07:00

I loved working as a resident advisor but at times it became too much. The stresses of school and extracurricular activities, in general the day to day crisis that life could be had a way of piling up at my doorstep such that the nights I was on duty, I dreaded the four or five hours of open door policy where someone might drop by for a visit. The majority of the time the visitors were residents I enjoyed (oddly enough the troublemakers never would stop by) but there were those times where I just wanted peace and quiet. A home becomes a man’s sanctuary, his private hideaway from his public responsibilities, and for the last two years of my life, my home was my job, my private life more and more public. Graduating signaled the end of this life, a return to normality where my home could be where the introvert in me recharged to be the extrovert everyone else expected me to be.

“Alo” (think hello with an accent) ruptures the silence. We have no doorbell, and so this greeting serves as an announcement that someone is paying our house a visit. It usually comes as I am sitting on my couch journaling, writing a letter to a friend, or having a good conversation with one of my housemates. But it’s a rupture that happens day in and day out, and more often than not, when you are not ready for it.

I thought it was hard as an RA having a wide open door to my peers for 10 hours a week, but here, it’s a whole other ballgame. Our house is an open forum to anyone who wants to drop by to say hello, hunt out English lessons, or just sit in awkward silence for hours at a time as some people do. They come as early as 9 AM and as late as 11 PM, and have no days which they deem as days off. And unlike my college peers, they speak a language I am still struggling to grasp, a language that after a long day or during stressful times my brain is not always the best equipped to handle.

Sometimes, you just want silence. You just want your house to really be home sweet home. And yet, it is impossible here. My moments of true solitude and peace are when I hop on the metro, travel to some distant part of the city, and lay down in the grass of some foreign park. The people hustle and bustle all around me, but it’s like when I am there, I am no one. I am not an associate trying to live up to the expectations of my neighbors, the stories of my predecessors from years and years before. I am just another person enjoying the park, and the peaceful easiness that accompanies nothingness permeates my soul.

But as quickly as I find the peace, it disappears the moment I step back into the associate world. I no longer run just to run, I run to run away, a reality I am not proud of, but a reality that is nonetheless present. When the winter months come, and the rain barrels out of the sky, I wonder where I will find my space, my moment to be who I am at the core so I can be whom everyone else expects me to be, who wrong or right, I desperately want to be able to be.

I have no solutions, no turn around Disney ending for this one. It is hard to be present to others when I struggle to find the space to be present to myself. But in the end, I guess the reality of volunteering is that the romance of it all is harder to find than we’d like to admit. At times, it’s downright hard. I don’t know what to do about this one, I have a desire to be more present to our house visitors but often fail to turn desire into action. Sink or swim, if only life were that black or white how easy this would be.