Diario de Saundrita

NYC: Privy to a Knife Fight

At the moment I am dealing with a lot of feelings. To quote a new friend, “Unsettled feelings.” I anticipated having to deal with the fact I am living in a new place and building a new life, what I did not anticipate was something I witnessed on Saturday with two of my friends.

I think I need to write about this to just get it out of my head because it has been sort of insidious and emotionally draining. My two friends and I were walking down Bowery when we came upon a crowd of teenagers (it seemed). We moved toward the street side of the sidewalk even though we were sort of on a mission to get passed them. We heard a scream and three boys darted towards Canal, two other boys (or men) chasing after them. Through the crowds I saw the tallest boy/man chasing them with a butcher knife. He knocked down an older woman in the process. We stood dumbfounded for about 20 seconds and began walking in the opposite direction. No more than five minutes were cops and ambulances swarming the area. 

I am still unable to process how surreal that was. In less than 30 seconds my ideas about humanity and social progress are completely shaken. The boy with the knife looked so soulless and full of rage. I caught a glimpse of the boys being chased, they feared for their lives. Such visceral and primal reactions. I thought we/society/humanity were better than this. I thought we were growing. I’m thankful to all the higher powers that kept as many people safe as possible and I have been praying in every way/religion/language and to every deity/god/spirit that I can think of… but I can’t even focus. Who or what am I praying for? Peace, humanity, maturity, higher levels of awareness? I don’t know. Violence never solves anything, NEVER. 

I have been scourging the Internet for any news articles or police reports just to see what the outcome was, maybe for some peace of mind knowing no one was seriously hurt (I hope it’s not naive to request that). 

Welcome to New York. 

Your Moral Compass and Sudanese Refugees

Yesterday in a research methods lecture we watched “Invisible Children.” It is a documentary created by what were once three naive college students from southern California. It intended on covering the civil war in Sudan and transformed into an investigation of child refugees fleeing their home country in order to avoid “recruitment” into rebel armies. The raw footage displays children who have endured death, loss, violence, poverty, and isolation to name a very small few of their struggles. Afterwards we discussed the ethical limits of the students who developed the documentary. This conversation quickly turned into an argument that exposed the ignorance of some of my classmates.

The limits of researchers can be best exemplified by a few circumstances:

• During the film, one of the children discusses his refusal to cry. In a later interview, he talks about his older brother’s death and how he would like to meet him in heaven. The boy starts crying and the film rolls on. One of the college students attempts to console him.
• A few scenes display children violently beating one another.
• A woman approaches the students pleading for their address so she can come live with them.

These situations are relevant to my course because we are compiling qualitative research and some of our research proposals deal with poverty and suffering. While we discussed these particular situations and what the students did or should have done, I became privy to some of the most ignorant and uninformed moral rational than I ever expected out of an upper division group of students.

• A student claimed that breaking up the fight would be “Imposing our own culture on someone else. Fighting is a part of African culture.”

All humans have a moral duty to respect human life, protect human life, and defend human life. Fighting is NOT cultural. It is a learned behavior. This is like saying that because Los Angeles has gang members who shoot one another, we should not intervene because it is a part of Angeleno culture and we should respect that. As humans, we have an ethical duty to protect one another. This brings to mind a recent news story about a two year old girl who was hit by two vans and ignored by 18 people.

• A student claimed that the documentary was scripted and the imagery was fabricated. She later claimed that the filmmakers were culturally insensitive for being Caucasian in an impoverished African town; that the filmmakers were sensationalizing and exploiting children.

This is real life. The purpose of “Invisible Children” was to present to Americans an issue that is uncomfortable and distressing. The thousands of children displaced by war and violence are real and present in the modern world. Their moral development is not developed (if it even exists) because they are forced to murder and desensitization by army leaders. They live by a “kill or be killed” mentality and are often drugged to be much more submissive for their leaders. These are learned behaviors that become routine in their early childhood and development.

The rehabilitation process is a long and difficult road for both them and the administrators, if they are lucky enough to live that long. These are children. This is not fake. The very implication that any of this is fabricated says more about Americans than the filmmakers.

I am inconsolably disappointed in the student body. While I do have quite a few like-minded classmates, the fact that there are one or two ignorant morons sprinkled within my community proves a failure in my own society’s collective development and the reprehensible acceptance of this to continue.

Every Single Time

This past week was a little rough on me. I thought about what I was doing to improve the world, you know, the big picture. I couldn’t get past being stuck in this rat race for education and how insignificant it really is. I was thinking about what I was doing at my internship and I wasn’t feeling fulfilled. I was relentlessly searching for flights to anywhere far from here, calculating volunteer opportunities in Tibet, New Orleans, Japan, etc. Finally, I was on skype and Casa Hogar signed on. My spirit has completely been recharged and every distraction I once had has now been erased.

My heart is so full. Every time I see those girls, I know what my life is all about and what I am doing here on this earth. As many times as I feel insignificant in this world, when I talk to them, I realize I am important to them and that’s all I need. To know I am important to just one of those girls is enough motivation to get me back in the game. Everything I do is for them.

Las Portellas

May 2 of this year was the day I got a tour of Casa Hogar Santa Faustina and walked in the door to the play room for the first time. As soon as I opened the door a hare crazed, purple shirted, monster made eye contact with me and stole my heart. It was also that day I met her slightly older sister and found motherly instincts I never knew I had.

Comparable to the Grinch, my heart grew 4 sizes larger that day.

To all those that read this with those apprehensive speculations; I did not want this solely for the sake of being a mom and adopting. The connection I have with these two girls leaves me in a position where I feel that if they weren’t with me, it wouldn’t be right. It’s a profound spiritual and emotional thing.

This past weekend was not only a surprise for Casa Hogar, I was surprised as well. When I was in Jalisco, I received an email that the maternal Grandmother and the Father came back into the picture and are fighting over custody. My heart was in limbo, what the hell could I do to stay a part of these girls’ lives. When I got to Casa Hogar the administrators immediately scooped me up to talk about the situation with K+R. The Mom is hospitalized with Schizophrenia. When she was pregnant with K she tried to have an abortion and tried to kill herself while she was pregnant. The maternal Grandma only wants R, not K. The Father and maternal Grandmother are currently fighting. Not over Katherine, because the maternal side doesn’t want Katherine, only Rosita.

The Social Worker, Fany, took me to meet the Father. I was so nervous. I had to keep running things through my head “Don’t say shit” “Don’t judge” etc. I came there with intentions of building a relationship with him so that I could maintain a relationship with them if they should end up going with him but Tia Fany did me one better; she explained who I am, where I am from, and how much I love those girls and how much they love me. Yadda Yadda Yadda

In December I am probably buying 2 extra seats on my flight for mis hijas. He knows his bebes will have better opportunities and more security in EEUU. They also have family in San Diego which makes it much easier for foster and maintain relationships with their biological family which is one of my top priorities.

I can’t wait to see what this will bring me. The tallest Mexican family is going to add 2 of the shortest Peruvian girls to their family LOL.

Why I stopped reading, and, Why I started again.

There are people who collect books just to collect books, never having opened them just to prove to everyone they READ.

“I don’t read anymore.” I used to say that to people after my high school Palahniuk binge. I gave up. The same literary form and word vomit. Over and Over and Over. While I still appreciate his style, I just couldn’t do it anymore.

The sour taste couldn’t be washed away.

I believe in literary paradigm shifts and

right now

I am having one of my own.

After years of not reading, or writing for that matter, I’m back. I’m catching up. I’m also not afraid to admit I was hooked on audiobooks for a while because reading used to be boring.

Not anymore.

Words fly off the pages and climb up my shorts. So many stories books poems plays that I haven’t read that I need to read. Any suggestions?

They’re Pushing Me

Sometimes I feel like words are pumping through my veins, scraping my insides, screaming to be free. I watch documentaries and videos of my favorite writers speaking and I feel so inspired. 

I have always hated poetry. I hated it. I never understood it, but, a few sleepless nights ago I was awake googling every writers source of a source of a source of inspiration and I felt a giant hole in my chest. This chasm as big as Niagara Falls with words just pouring into it. I couldn’t silence myself. I couldn’t break free- not even to shut my eyes. 

I started feeling these poems. Line by line. They began to mean something to me, they took shape. I felt what they felt in the moments of loneliness and feelings of pitiful broken-heartedness. I wrote some of the shittiest shit junior high school poetry anyone has NEVER seen because it’s too embarrassing to be unearthed. 

What do you do?

I deleted everything and I started analyzing my voice as a writer, not that I claim to be a writer but, when I do write, I want to write with my own voice. As if you were in my head. Without influence from anyone else, without censorship or fear of what people might think about me or how I say the things I say. 

I have many things on my mind right now; school, work, impending surprise trip to visit Casa Hogar Santa Faustina, and all I can think about is writing and vomiting all of the shit that has been keeping me awake the last few nights. 

Family members: You should stop reading now. 

I hardly think of myself in situations that involve intimacy. Hardly. In fact, I more often than not claim to be a-sexual which is 80 percent true (I say that because I almost never think about relationships or love or my lack thereof). For some reason these past few days I have been dying to know why some women can’t be alone. They need to be loved, coddled, supported, and/or nurtured. Don’t say daddy issues because I have plenty and I definitely don’t feel those feelings. I feel the opposite. I don’t want attention. I don’t want to be coddled or loved or nurtured.

I want a buddy. A buddy I can hang out with and sometimes kiss and feel tied to but never chained to. Is that possible? Spare me the immature “fuck buddy” comments because it’s not about sex or fulfilling urges. I really just want a man to talk to, feel comfortable with, and never feel obligated to be anything but myself with, without ever feeling awkward or apprehensive or like a “girlfriend” (whatever that is). These are the things I have been thinking about. 

Jalisco

 

Since my first trip to Mexico (Merida, Yucatan) last December I have spent my time philosophically contemplating my place in Latin America. My father is Puerto Rican (1st generation American) and my mother is Mexican (2nd generation American). Despite this mixture, aesthetically I appear “guerra” sometimes people even ask me if I am Jewish.  In my heart I feel Latina and 2 weeks after I returned from Peru I left for Mexico; Jalisco, specifically. This trip caused me to reevaluate everything I once thought about being Mexican. My upbringing as a 3rd generation American makes me significantly different than that of a Mexican. In fact, I am inclined to deny my culture as Mexican and solely claim Mexican ancestry. To be in Mexico and tell citizens that you are too a Mexican, brings odd and sometimes offending stares; the looks of which infer “How dare you call yourself Mexican!”

I felt more camaraderie in Peru than in Mexico and up until a week prior to travel I had never even tasted Peruvian food. I will never deny my family tree and the genesis of my family but I can no longer claim Mexican or Puerto Rican because it’s just not true. I was raised American: free spirited, liberal, independent, non-forgiving, understanding.

At this point I am comfortable claiming citizenship of America and unofficial citizenship of Latin America, however, I’d like to consider myself a citizen of the world.

At any rate, prepare for a long-winded emotional sob story in two weeks, I plan on surprising the girls in Santa Faustina. I am flying in for Labor Day weekend to bring supplies and medicine.

Quiero Volver

It has been 7 days since I left Pachacamac, Peru. Last Sunday was the hardest goodbyeI have ever made. I cry a lot but this time my heart was hurting. I never felt true love like I do when I think about the girls. I hope and dream for them more than I do myself, even now, all of my goals have been altered to accomodate their best interests. Not an hour goes by that I can’t imagine what their hugs, kisses, and laughter feel like. I am counting the days until I return. December 8th to be exact. That day can not come soon enough. 

While I am here, though, I am collecting clothes, vitamins, and other things for the girls. The last thing they need is toys! Books in spanish, toothpastes, soaps, brushes, hairbands, medicine for lice. I am on a mission to bring them back truckloads of supplies. My world now revolves around their welfare. I now understand what it feels like (kind of) to be a Mom. There is not a day that my soul and heart ache because I can’t be with Katherine and Rosita. Everyday I pray that I will one day be able to wake up, make them breakfast, and take them to school, or console them when they scrape their knee. Everyday I try to remember what it was like to rock them to sleep or listen to their laughter. 

Everyday it gets easier and I get used to being back home but, my heart remains at Santa Faustina. Who knew two Peruvian sisters would turn my life upside down. Nothing is the same anymore, I don’t look at things and think about how great they would look in my apartment. I walk around stores thinking about what the girls might need. 

Who knows what will happen? I will die trying to be their Mom, until then, all I can do I dream and reminisce about the time we spent together. 

I love you Katherine and Rosita Portella.

Con Mucho Amor,

Tia Saundra

Salkantay

In order to explain the last two weeks, I have to give (whoever doesn’t know me very well) a little history on why I do the things I do; I am a “Tough Ass Puta”, failure is never an option, and when faced with a challenge, I never ever give up. The Marine Corps beat the word “can’t” out of my vocabulary. When I signed up for the 5 day Salkantay Trek and saw that it was “challenging” I scoffed thinking it meant challenging to the average Joe, however, as per usual, I ended up eating my words. The 5 day Salkantay trek tested my body, mind, and spirit. Not only do you face erratic weather conditions (the first day was raining and cold, 2nd day Snow, 3rd day Jungle, 4th day blistering Sun), the altitude progressively limits your body’s endurance. Needless to say:

I was in the back.

I wasn’t alone, though, I had a motivator: Raul! What a cool ass dude! He always asked how I was doing, making sure I wasn’t about to die (the first 2 days I had a stomach virus and was crippled in pain and diarrhea). Jose, the head guide was also a complete bad ass, always pushing (in a positive way) and making sure we weren’t getting too crazy or running up mountains (not that we could).The Salkantay trek is said to be about 44 miles total (I think) it doesn’t seem like much but when you account for the weather, altitude, and uphill battles, I am amazed I completed it. The second day is the hardest, that’s when you actually climb Salkantay and get to the highest point of the trek. I was so sick that they put me on a horse to ride because I just couldn’t move at some points. When we reached some of the scariest points of the trail (cliffsides, etc) that’s when I had to fake the funk because horses can tell when you’re nervous and that definitely does not calm the situation down. At one point there was a snowy path and it looked a little slippery. The horse stumbled a bit and eventually fell off the path into a snowy cliff while I was on it. My catlike reflexes and fear of paralysis launched me to jump off the horse mid-fall and roll into the snow. After that, I decided it was better just to do my best to get to the top without shitting myself (stomach virus). I eventually made it, surprisingly. At the top of Salkantay Jose performed an Incan ceremony and spoke in Quechua, we had to blow on coca leaves and pray for something or someone in particular to be blessed. The only thing I could think of were the people at Santa Faustina and my girls.

I also lucked out in group members; because of this trek I have met some of the most interesting and positive people! We left our blood, sweat, and (some of us) tears on the trek- a hard bond to break.

The entire trek took a toll on my body, mainly my face. By the 4th day, my skin was purple and blistering. Before you get crazy about sunscreen I must also preface the fact that people offered, but in my head I am a brown Mexican, not a pale Chicana so I thought I would be getting my “tan on”, not my “cancer on”. On day 5 I couldn’t smile and I could barely open my mouth enough to eat. On our way to the train back to Cusco my new travel buddy, Nia, severely screwed up her foot. She was in tears, about to give up. I ended up giving her a piggy back ride to the bus. When we got to our hotel, we were so exhausted we couldn’t possibly care less about our war wounds. The morning, however, was a different story. We called a doctor in to see Nia for her foot and the focus quickly moved to my face. Apparently I got some sort of bacterial infection and had I not come sooner I would probably have scars all over my face right now! EEEP! 2 hours later I was admitted to a hospital bed with an IV, antibiotics, pain killers, and various creams to reduce my resemblance to Freddy Kreuger. I was there for 2 days waiting for my skin to grow back. All of my plans to come home had to be rescheduled. Nia’s plans had to be rescheduled too.

Which brings me to today, Thursday, July 14, 2011: I am in the lobby of my hotel in Cusco waiting for the appropriate time to head to the airport. I get to see my bebe’s today, which makes everything worth it. If not having them in my mind and heart the whole time, I probably wouldn’t have made it. I’m not trying to prove anything but the images and memories I have of all the crazy/funny/stupid shit they do kept me increasingly motivated.

Here’s the thing:

Adoption is rough for people like me; single, studying, living at home, etc. I don’t “just want babies”. In fact, until I met las ninas, I had no interest in children at all. You don’t get a training book on how to be a mom or how to take care of kids, but for women, it’s natural especially if you had a good mom. When I got here, I didn’t think I would have a clue, but I do. Patience is a virtue, love is a priority, and at all times their best interests trump everything else in your life.

I have one year left on my Bachelor’s degree but in Sociology, you can’t do much until you finish Grad School which means another 4 years until I START at a decent job. Even then I will still be single and saving money to give these girls a better life. It’s not about me wanting to be a mom (well, it kind of is), it’s more of the fact that I KNOW I could be a good mom and they deserve a good mom and they can’t afford to wait for me to get my shit together. What I am trying to say is, as much as I wish I could be a mom to everyone of them, they can’t afford to wait that long. They need ONE family to love and care for them, they need attention and care. These are the most crucial years concerning their development as children. There are plenty of families out there that can do it (ahem, mom and dad). Villa Hope is the most recognized adoption agency in the US that has contracts with the Peruvian government. I want them to have the same childhood that I did, the childhood that ALL kids should have; where you don’t have to worry about whether or not you can afford school, whether or not you will have food at home, whether or not you will be sleeping on the streets dancing in front of cars, not being beaten or literally burned by your “parents” for not bringing more money home.

This is my plea to all the good families out there; you may not think you have the resources to raise a child and donations are great, but these children need homes, they need parents, they need to start over in a place where they are payed attention to and loved. You may not think you can do it but I ask you for 5 minutes consider and compare your situation against theirs. They have a better outlook living with a family than living their lives in a community. (I am not bad-mouthing Santa Faustina whatsoever, they are very lucky to be in Santa Faustina, but they need homes)