You Rebuild

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

1. To obtain (Can I get the list?)
2. To contact (I got in touch with my friend.)
3. To leave something like a vehicle (I just got off the train.)
4. To reach (When you get to the street, turn left.)
5. To buy (Can I get a cup of coffee?)
6. To recover (I hope you get better soon!)
7. To Return (He can’t wait to get back to Albuquerque).
8. To Receive (I got the fax this morning.)
9. To Prepare (I need to get ready before I leave.)
10. To Begin (Let’s get started at seven).
11. 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

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

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

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.