Melon Juice: The melon juice was all over me. I had never seen so many melon balls in my entire life. There were trash bags full of them. We were preparing for the food distribution. There were a variety of fruits and vegetables that we helped distribute. The amount was incredible, but it was melons and broccoli that surrounded me for several hours. I was at a table with a big bag of melon balls and a Frisbee-like object, which I used to scoop the melon into each woman’s bag. The women who come to The Dreamer Center on Fridays are mothers who participate in the center’s programs. The programs are varied and from what I was told, they include different meetings and activities, all of which help them find support to take care of their families in an environment where there are few support mechanisms and resources at their disposal. Their participation enables them to receive food every Friday from the center.
Civil War: I could still smell the melon from earlier that morning. It seemed to grow in the heat of the small room where I was sitting with our group and a few additional people from the project. At the front of the room was Victor, a translator, and the man who was the first in a series of life story talks given by different people at The God’s Child Project. This man participated in the Guatemalan civil war. As I sat listening, I was trying to guess how old he was, because I sensed that he was not that much older than me. He gave the year he joined the military to fight in the war. What was I doing that year? My family and I would move in the summer of that year from Missouri to California. It was an awful year for me, but it cannot even compare to what this man went through. How different can lives be? And now here we are at an interesting point of intersection.
Juxtapositions. The more contradictory and seemingly irreconcilable they are, the better. The more they cause me to react and reflect, the harder I try to hold on to them. It often means I’m being challenged and opened in some new way. I’ve been home now for nearly a week and I think about the ridiculous number of juxtapositions moving through my mind. The United States and Guatemala couldn’t be more different. Yet, I never expected to find so many points of connection.
Fargo: I was sitting with friends at a place called Sky Prairie. It’s essentially the rooftop seating area for the HoDo, a local restaurant and bar. We were enjoying great conversation and some drinks. The flows of the conversation moved randomly through many different topics, yet I spent some time trying to trace the trajectory of my trip in Guatemala for them. It was weird to be sitting there on a rooftop, living my life, while I knew all that I saw back in Guatemala was still going on.
I have been living in a liminal state ever since I returned from Guatemala. One foot is in the memories of my trip and the other is moving forward with my life here. And that reality is fraught with contradiction and uncertainty. It’s the source of my need to keep writing and thinking about everything that happened. It’s left me stalled in moments and thoughts that I must soon step away from so I can go on with my life here.
Civil War: As I sat listening to our speaker, I searched through my head to remember some of the details of the book, I, Rigoberta Menchu. It has been a few years since I read it and now I regret not reading it again before I left. I know that book recounts the oral history of the Mayan people’s struggle through the civil war and how both sides—the government and the guerrillas—used the people in devastating ways. It was brutal and tragic. I know the history of the civil war only in a very superficial way. Listening to this person, I am forced to confront how ignorant I am of that past and how important it is to understanding the present. The life this man now lives—the life of all Guatemalans, for that matter. The very existence of The Dreamer Center. My presence in Guatemala. And even the food distribution that we participated in that morning.
Melon Juice: Occasionally I would look up from the bags of melon and the women in front of me and look for the end of the line. The line wound around the stone castle structure that marked the volunteer office at The Dreamer Center. It continued around the medical building and up the driveway to the entrance. There didn’t seem to be an end to the line. There were so many women, nearly all of them with children. I would guess the ages of the women ranged from late teens/early 20s to maybe 60s. All of the women carried their own bags and we poured different fruits and vegetables into them. Buenos Dias and De Nada came out of my mouth in a rhythmic fashion. I must have emptied more than ten garbage bags full of melon during the distribution.
Fargo: My mom called the night before last to tell me that my grandfather is starting to go into decline and that hospice had to be called. I hadn’t spoken to my mother in almost a year. My relationship with my parents is fragile at best. I am on better terms with my mother than my father, which was why she called to tell me about my father’s father. After going over the specifics of my grandfather’s situation, we eventually went into a discussion about my trip. I was trying to explain it as succinctly as possible, but it was difficult. The gaps and spaces between my life and hers were noticeable and wide. Yet, I felt relieved and comforted that I finally spoke with her. The past is painful and unfortunately it is largely responsible for the chasms dominating my relationship with my parents. I could tell my mother was nervous talking with me. Her voice stuttered and she stumbled over words. At times I think I intimidate her and that she thinks I’m judging her. But I’m not. I’m just at a loss as to how to communicate with her. As the conversation wound down, she told me that I should always call to tell them when I go out of the country. I hadn’t done that because I don’t call my parents. Usually, I will write them or my sister will relay the big events in my life to them. So often I feel like a terrible daughter.
Melon Juice: It was not without sadness that I looked at all of these women, mothers. Yet, it felt so nice to be in the company of so many women. It gave me something I don’t have in my daily life at home.
I knew that the women in that line confronted poverty on the daily basis and that the extreme situations they face have been normalized over time. I’m sure many have dealt with abuse of various sorts. I know the look all too well. It’s all over my mother’s face and deep within her voice—still. It always amazes me how much we can take as human beings and how accustomed we become to horrific situations. There is a saying in yogic philosophy that I think about a lot. If you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, she will immediately jump out to save herself, but if you put her in a pot of cold water and slowly heat it to boiling, the frog will stay and she will eventually boil to death. Gruesome tale, but telling of our amazing capacity to adapt and the struggle it can take to change those adaptations.
I look back at my growing up and think about that frog story. At times, I see myself as the frog that jumped out of the hot water and my mom as the frog that stayed in it. And there is nothing I can do about it. My mother and I are separated by the pot and the water—with all its heat. Neither of us seems capable or willing to change our positions. She won’t get out and I sure as hell will never go back in. Instead, I am simply filled with overwhelming sadness at the situation.
In my phone conversation with my mom, I never bring up the mothers at The Dreamer Center. But they’re on my mind throughout.
Civil War: After the man finished speaking, he passed around photos of himself from his time in the military. He was incredibly young in those photos. I could only faintly recognize the boy in the photo within the eyes of the man speaking—but both were there. This man who sat before me was loving, kind, and brave. You could see it in person as well as in the photos.
I often wonder why some men can rise from a situation such as war and others become tragic victims to it. Are those who rise stronger? Were they better suited for the rituals and requirements of traditional masculinity? Are they more resilient? Do they have more social support? Are they better at compartmentalizing things in their lives? I suppose this is why I am so focused on war. Why my research is always at least a few degrees away from asking questions about war and how it affects human beings. I want answers. But I know that a definitive answer will never be found. Humans are way too complicated for a single answer to emerge from that question. So maybe what I really want is an answer to why my dad fell victim to war. Maybe, when I talk and listen to veterans I’m trying to find a solution to my father’s pain—or at least some explanation for why he was so damaged. And, then, maybe, that would help me understand why his pain came home to terrorize my mom, my sister, and me.
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