If anyone thinks he or she in an effective communicator, it's best to test your skills in foreign language.
Last week I was studying with Ingrid again, who decided that she was going to stop sugar-coating the commas, as it were, and lay down the bi-lingual law. She began telling me that my 2-page essays were not long enough to really gauge my skills, and this was "unacceptable." She was being harder on me than normal, and I was just getting more an more frustrated.
At one point, in a moment of frustration, I asked her, "Is there something wrong? I feel like you are really frustrated with me." I suppose when you put two women together who are mutually hard-headed, conflicts are bound to surface. Luckily we are both also gluttons for conflict-resolution.
We ended up having an hour-long conversation about her life and my life, and how she finds herself being harder and harder on me because she sees herself in me, and she doesn't want me to make the same mistakes she has. "I know that you have had a hard year," she said. "I think it has been one of the hardest times of your life. I see a brokenness in you that is very, very fresh."
At this point, I was totally confused. I had never mentioned anything about a hard year to her, but yet she really seemed to get it - most all of it. Suddenly she started crying, and I started crying, and there at Celas Maya we found ourselves more or less re-enacting the "it's not your fault" scene from Good Will Hunting. You gots to love you some Ingrid. Homegirl got it goin' on.
At any rate, I kind of hit a wall with Spanish studies and decided to take a break this week. After learning 10 tenses in 7 weeks, I felt the general need to assimilate before moving on.
Heading out to Antigua for Kevin's last weekend in Guatemala. Expect updates.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Resourcing
I am quite sure that the Guatemalan people are the among the most resourceful on the planet. They can make shoes out of a coconuts and a piece of sting, whip up dinner with foragings from the backyard, and the Mayan women can balance circus midgets on their heads (some of these examples fault actual sightings, but you get my drift).
Lis and Ron, college compadres, are visiting this week and I was giving them the 411 on some quick Guatemala trivia this morning. One thing I pointed out was that the massive amounts of white stuff falling from the sky is not snow but instead sediment from the volcano, which I can thank for my non-stop runny nose. As I was telling them this, I was thinking that the Guatemaltecos surely find a use for all the dust that compiles here, and made a mental note to investigate.
On Sunday, Kevin and I fixed French toast and we conversed about how Americans have to be the least resourceful people on the planet. I had discovered a hole in one of our pots and considered throwing it away, and Kevin speculated that the pot patching profession surely exists here as the cheaper alternative.
Shortly after, as I was doctoring up our coffee, I was getting ready to throw out the last little bit of milk. Kevin intercepted it on the way to the trash can, saying "Have you learned nothing? What's left of this milk could feed a Mayan family for a week!"
And it's true. Resourceful indeed.
Lis and Ron, college compadres, are visiting this week and I was giving them the 411 on some quick Guatemala trivia this morning. One thing I pointed out was that the massive amounts of white stuff falling from the sky is not snow but instead sediment from the volcano, which I can thank for my non-stop runny nose. As I was telling them this, I was thinking that the Guatemaltecos surely find a use for all the dust that compiles here, and made a mental note to investigate.
On Sunday, Kevin and I fixed French toast and we conversed about how Americans have to be the least resourceful people on the planet. I had discovered a hole in one of our pots and considered throwing it away, and Kevin speculated that the pot patching profession surely exists here as the cheaper alternative.
Shortly after, as I was doctoring up our coffee, I was getting ready to throw out the last little bit of milk. Kevin intercepted it on the way to the trash can, saying "Have you learned nothing? What's left of this milk could feed a Mayan family for a week!"
And it's true. Resourceful indeed.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Wherever you go...
Apparently the world is not only flat, but full of people who are constantly (and perhaps inadvertently) chasing their own tails. I met a girl at Celas Maya today who works at the Honeymoon Cafe in Pismo Beach, a stone's throw from my apartment. She described her surfboard and I described Lucy, and we are pretty sure we have seen each other in the water on more than one occasion.
This week has been a good one. After days of living in a fog of antibiotics and direct/indirect pronouns (the concepts formerly known as the bane of my existence), I think I am starting to catch onto this Spanish gig.
For the second week, I am studying with Ingrid. She reminds me of Allen Wells, British rowing coach extraordinaire (you know the one: "Laura! For f--k sake don't pull the blade above your nellies! It makes you look like a f--king praying mantis!") in the sense that she writes all my mistakes as I am talking and then reviews them one-by-one with comments like, "Lau-rita, do not say it like that. You sound like an idiot."
She also seems somewhat perplexed (read: irritated) by the fact that concepts that are generally considered easy for students seem to be hard for me, and other concepts that are considered difficult I tend pick up without many problems. When I told her that is kind of the grand metaphor for my life, she laughed and moved on quickly. Then again, I don't really think the metaphor "fat kid in dodge ball" translates all that effectively.
With Ingrid, I have to write an essay everyday about something that we have talked about during class, which serves to remind me that honing in on languages is more difficult than some of the bulk concepts. It goes beyond direct translation and into the territory of understanding the language autonomously, which means re-learning concepts that I have spent my entire English grammar-loving life despising (double negatives: holler if you hear me). If ever I complain or start to feel like the Spanish is really hard, she reminds me of the group of students here from Holland who are working on their 5th language.
At any rate, she has taken me from "soy un libertarian" to discussing problems with domestic violence and marginalization of indigenous peoples in Guatemala, the history of the electoral college in the States, and our hope for a minority president starting in 2008.
She has a soft side, too, and you know when she is smiling and nodding as you are speaking that she is not simply placating; you are really, truly communicating well in another language. And last week as a reward she walked me across town to her mother's house and the three of us sat and chatted over coffee.
For many reasons, not the least of which being my love for straight-shooters, I never want to give this one up.
This week has been a good one. After days of living in a fog of antibiotics and direct/indirect pronouns (the concepts formerly known as the bane of my existence), I think I am starting to catch onto this Spanish gig.
For the second week, I am studying with Ingrid. She reminds me of Allen Wells, British rowing coach extraordinaire (you know the one: "Laura! For f--k sake don't pull the blade above your nellies! It makes you look like a f--king praying mantis!") in the sense that she writes all my mistakes as I am talking and then reviews them one-by-one with comments like, "Lau-rita, do not say it like that. You sound like an idiot."
She also seems somewhat perplexed (read: irritated) by the fact that concepts that are generally considered easy for students seem to be hard for me, and other concepts that are considered difficult I tend pick up without many problems. When I told her that is kind of the grand metaphor for my life, she laughed and moved on quickly. Then again, I don't really think the metaphor "fat kid in dodge ball" translates all that effectively.
With Ingrid, I have to write an essay everyday about something that we have talked about during class, which serves to remind me that honing in on languages is more difficult than some of the bulk concepts. It goes beyond direct translation and into the territory of understanding the language autonomously, which means re-learning concepts that I have spent my entire English grammar-loving life despising (double negatives: holler if you hear me). If ever I complain or start to feel like the Spanish is really hard, she reminds me of the group of students here from Holland who are working on their 5th language.
At any rate, she has taken me from "soy un libertarian" to discussing problems with domestic violence and marginalization of indigenous peoples in Guatemala, the history of the electoral college in the States, and our hope for a minority president starting in 2008.
She has a soft side, too, and you know when she is smiling and nodding as you are speaking that she is not simply placating; you are really, truly communicating well in another language. And last week as a reward she walked me across town to her mother's house and the three of us sat and chatted over coffee.
For many reasons, not the least of which being my love for straight-shooters, I never want to give this one up.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Dr. Quien, Latin Medicine Woman
Let me preface this post by saying that I am still a little drugged up. I think I have had more injections the past 4 days than all other times in my life combined.
The short end of a long story (which we all know I am not capable of delivering, but it sounds promising) is that I had a bit of a bad go of things on Friday. I went to Tiff’s school on the mountaintop in Xela to help with her third grade class. In a haze of excited kiddos asking me what color they should paint their masks for the Brazilian Carnival party, I narrowly escaped to the bathroom in time to start hallucinating, break out in a cold sweat and more or less black out.
Tiff and her boyfriend Freddy carted me all around the city on Saturday trying to figure out what was wrong. Never is one more aware of her third world status than when she is sick. Most of the hospitals and doctor’s offices here require payment up front, so we started by trying to find an ATM with money. Little known fact: ATMs rarely have money in Guatemala. Super.
I was pretty sure it was altitude sickness. I had similar spell happen when I went up to the mountains in Colorado to try out for the tennis team in college. But after a trip to the doctor, the hospital, the pharmacy, and a visit from an internal specialist, I was diagnosed with an intoxication of my intestines. Most likely from some bad lettuce.
I finally landed at Freddy’s house where his precious Latin mother was very eager to nurse me back to health. In sickness, I think we all tend to regress (in varying degrees) to the five-year-old versions of ourselves. All I wanted at that point was the comfort of knowing I did not have to run the risk of communicating poorly in Spanish, and whispered to Tiff that I kind of just wanted to go home.
Other little known fact: you do not do that in Latin American countries. Taking care of sick extranjeros is not optional in these parts, so I had Tiff and a slew a guatemaltecos at my beckon call for the three days it took me to be coherent enough to get up and out of bed. With my in-home I.V. jimmy rigged to a microphone stand by the bed, Freddy’s dad came in every 6 hours to give me my anti-nausea shot in the bum (no room for bashful people here). Tiff and I were laughing about how it all seems so 18th century, and I was trying desperatly to sleep as stray cats were running across the fiberglass roof (which I equated to a latin version of cat on a hot tin roof...for my own sanity).
Freddy’s mom was anxious to get food in me after 2 days of me not having an appetite. So she was very excited when I started keeping things down, planning my meals and charting my progress. And she was very excited to tell anyone and everyone about it. "Laura ate a warm banana today! And - thank God! - she did not throw up! But she still has diarrhea. But - yah! - she is feeling better! Yah! Maybe tomorrow no more diarrhea..."
So today: Yah! Feeling better. Yah! Still on meds. Maybe tomorrow no more intoxication of the intestines.
The short end of a long story (which we all know I am not capable of delivering, but it sounds promising) is that I had a bit of a bad go of things on Friday. I went to Tiff’s school on the mountaintop in Xela to help with her third grade class. In a haze of excited kiddos asking me what color they should paint their masks for the Brazilian Carnival party, I narrowly escaped to the bathroom in time to start hallucinating, break out in a cold sweat and more or less black out.
Tiff and her boyfriend Freddy carted me all around the city on Saturday trying to figure out what was wrong. Never is one more aware of her third world status than when she is sick. Most of the hospitals and doctor’s offices here require payment up front, so we started by trying to find an ATM with money. Little known fact: ATMs rarely have money in Guatemala. Super.
I was pretty sure it was altitude sickness. I had similar spell happen when I went up to the mountains in Colorado to try out for the tennis team in college. But after a trip to the doctor, the hospital, the pharmacy, and a visit from an internal specialist, I was diagnosed with an intoxication of my intestines. Most likely from some bad lettuce.
I finally landed at Freddy’s house where his precious Latin mother was very eager to nurse me back to health. In sickness, I think we all tend to regress (in varying degrees) to the five-year-old versions of ourselves. All I wanted at that point was the comfort of knowing I did not have to run the risk of communicating poorly in Spanish, and whispered to Tiff that I kind of just wanted to go home.
Other little known fact: you do not do that in Latin American countries. Taking care of sick extranjeros is not optional in these parts, so I had Tiff and a slew a guatemaltecos at my beckon call for the three days it took me to be coherent enough to get up and out of bed. With my in-home I.V. jimmy rigged to a microphone stand by the bed, Freddy’s dad came in every 6 hours to give me my anti-nausea shot in the bum (no room for bashful people here). Tiff and I were laughing about how it all seems so 18th century, and I was trying desperatly to sleep as stray cats were running across the fiberglass roof (which I equated to a latin version of cat on a hot tin roof...for my own sanity).
Freddy’s mom was anxious to get food in me after 2 days of me not having an appetite. So she was very excited when I started keeping things down, planning my meals and charting my progress. And she was very excited to tell anyone and everyone about it. "Laura ate a warm banana today! And - thank God! - she did not throw up! But she still has diarrhea. But - yah! - she is feeling better! Yah! Maybe tomorrow no more diarrhea..."
So today: Yah! Feeling better. Yah! Still on meds. Maybe tomorrow no more intoxication of the intestines.
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