Friends,
Jonathon was the first boy I met in the Hogar. He´s sixteen and was eager to try what English he knows on me. My first night in the Hogar I sat with a guitar in my hands. The boys were all around me asking me to play pop songs I´ve either never heard or never dreamed of learning on the guitar (How does one play Black Eyed Peas on a classical guitar?). In those first few weeks, Jonathon (who also goes by ¨Harry Sucio¨) was a much needed ally. He helped explain things to me in clear Spanish. He defended me. He introduced me to the customs of the Hogar.
The other day I found him sobbing.
¨I´m going,¨ he said.
¨Where?¨
¨I don´t know.¨
He had had a fight with his brother- also a resident at the Hogar. What hurts, I asked. Nothing, he sobbed. And he meant I´m not hurt, I´m hurting. I gave him no advice. For sure, the teacher in me wanted to sit the brothers down and start conflict mediation. Instead, I gave him a hug, and he went to take a shower. I told him to eat something. Actually, I told him the milk is delicious today and rubbed my tummy furiously in a vain attempt to cheer him up.
The next day I talked to his brother as he walked to work. We talked about having brothers, and what it means to have unconditional love for someone. You see these two brothers don`t fight because they don't love each other; they fight because they do. George shared his wisdom with me. He said, ¨He's all I've got. I don´t want him to leave the Hogar mad at me... but he's so stupid.¨
I´ve learned to wait for these situations, when the relationship building pays off, when I can be completely honest with the people around me, when I speak knowing I´m saying exactly what I mean to say (albeit broken, choppy, and badly conjugated). I´m happier knowing I said my piece (peace). George and Jonathon were happy I took time to let them say theirs.
The brothers, as brothers tend to do, forgave each other without ever discussing what had happened. They are stronger for having gone to that breaking point. And I'm more a part of their community than ever.
Christmas gave me the opportunity to feel my place in my many communities. I shared it with the people at the Hogar and church. I shared it with my host family. I shared it with my fellow volunteers here in Argentina. I shared it with my own family in the United States as they gathered for my grandmother's funeral. I am a member of all of these communities, and they are a part of me.
I didn't give many presents this year, just some bread to the people I know and love here. I sent no cards. Instead, I received. I received presents (including a wallet that says ¨I'm sexy!¨ and a pair of slightly used goggles). I received meals. I received well-wishes, emails, and a pile of Christmas cards. My thanks build up in me, and I think I'll take my time, maybe my whole life trying to show my gratitude. Maybe that's why the church sends us (young adults) out to the many centers of the world, so we will have to receive, so we will be genuinely grateful. I'm learning to receive as an act of love.
I tell myself, I've done the hard part of the year. I've built relationships in my many communities. I'm established now. And yet, I know, that relationship building never ends. Jonathon and George aren't done building theirs with each other, nor I with them. I still struggle in my church community to make myself someone more than just the guy who doesn't know the words to the songs. And after this year, I´ll have new communities to join. For me, Christmas let me feel out my place in all of my communities. It felt good.
Andrew
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Quarterly Update
At least a few times this year I will write longer entries that will go up on the PCUSA´s website. Here´s a sneak preview of my update.
Dear Friends,
They told me to walk with the people. In orientation, the ministers and church people, the former volunteers, that´s the advice they gave us. Walk with the people. To me, it sounded a little too much like ¨marching in the light of God¨ (Siahamba...oo-EEE-oo!) I want to do a little more than just walk with people. I´d like to actually do something.
I´m two months into my placement. I work as the Young Adult Volunteer at El Hogar La Casita, a home for street boys, a stop along the social services ¨system.¨ The boys are 8-20 years old. They are rough, some of them, and nice, sometimes. Ask a boy at La Casita why they are there, and you will get a heartbreaking story. Abuse, addiction, abandonment. That´s not who they are, but it is a place they´ve been. I try to keep that in my mind when I´m with the boys.
In the mornings, I walk Luis and Walter to school. Luis is eight and he drags a broken Loony Toons book bag behind him. Walter is twelve and we practice counting in English as we walk: ¨One, two...ten, eleven, Tuesday.¨ I walk them home from school a couple hours later, and my day at the Hogar begins.
I´ve eaten cafeteria food all of my life. Public school, university dining hall, and a private school where I taught last year. I love it. But I have never met a group of young people who appreciate their food more than these boys. Everyday, they ask me, smiles and food on their faces, ¨¿Rico, no?¨ Delicious, huh? ¨Sí, riquisimo.¨ Yes, the most delicious. In cold weather, the oven and the food are all that warm the little room where we eat. The boys and I sit on church pews on either side of mismatched tables. They eat quickly. They clean their plates. They ask for seconds.
After lunch, it´s time to go to the park. The park is 15 blocks away. Not a short trip with these boys. I walk. I try to keep them ¨en grupo.¨ They are spread out over five blocks. Some of them are climbing trees and stealing oranges. I try to save them from traffic. They told me to walk with the boys. They didn´t tell me about traffic. They didn´t tell me that fights would break out mid-avenue. They didn´t tell me that I would have to hold Joaquín´s hand because he wants love and Nahuel´s because he wants to hit Joaquín. They said only to walk. And so I walk. To the park, to school, home, and to work. I ride the bus. I take the train. I close my eyes in the noise and try to hear every sound. I don´t listen to the noise. The Hogar has lots of noise. I listen in the noise, and I break up fights, and I hug a hundred times a day.
It´s dinner time now. I´ve just walked in the gate that separates the boys from the street. I sit down to my dinner with some of the older boys. They are talking about fútbol. Always. And I see Walter outside on the bench. I go out. I put my arms around him until he stops crying. The night is cold and dark. What happened, I ask. He doesn´t have an answer for me. How could he? What happened? That´s like asking the hurricane victim, or the earthquake survivor what happened. This boy doesn´t know. And neither do I.
I´m discovering that walking with people who hurt means that I will hurt. The boys don´t understand why they are where they are, and sometimes I don´t understand why I am where I am. I want to be effective. I want to see my effectiveness effecting change. So far this experience is teaching me that effectiveness isn´t always the bottom line. We often work below the bottom line, where God´s love moves and works.
After dinner tonight, I went with the older boys to collect old bread from the local bread shops. They lumber down the street as only teenage boys lumber, like a graceful stumble that says, I´m too cool to look like I´m actually trying to walk. The boys whistle at girls. ¨Por favor, [expletive deleted].¨ They bum cigarettes from the people on the main drag. One picks through the trash looking for anything of use. One leans close to my ear and says, ¨After tonight, you won´t eat the bread at the Hogar.¨ Some bread shops give us a lot, one gives us none. We finish and I head home for the night.
Five blocks to my house. Depending on the day, I may be tired. I´m often angry. On this walk I air out all of my self-doubt. I didn´t handle that right. I was weak. I wasn´t as loving as I could have been. I stop in the window of an English school. Private academies have sprung up around the city. They´ve decorated the front hallway for Halloween. For a moment I peer through the window and soak up the familiar sights. Jack-o-lantern cutouts taped to the wall, a black witch hat sitting atop the TV. For a moment, I think I should throw open these doors and start a Halloween party. I should declare ¨I speak English perfectly!¨ I want someone to value me for my mind. I want badly for someone to be impressed that I have smart thoughts. I haven´t said anything smart in Spanish. Which means I haven´t said anything smart in two months. And that´s when I get it. As I´m standing on the sidewalk looking at Halloween decorations like they´re modern art, I realize that I´ve spent most of my life wanting people to like me for my brain, my personality, and for funny things I say. And this year, people will love me without any of those reasons. The boys will love me just because I love them.
I look up to see what stars are visible through the city-light pink. I cross the street. I round the corner. I fall asleep.
I can talk about successes. I´ve instituted something resembling consequences with the boys. The social worker and I are entering real discussions about how to improve the Hogar. Many of the boys trust me. The older boys respect me. These are the blocks I´ll try to build on. But for now, I´m trying to be content with where I am and remember that small steps got me here and small steps will get me through the next week.
Peace,
Andrew
Dear Friends,
They told me to walk with the people. In orientation, the ministers and church people, the former volunteers, that´s the advice they gave us. Walk with the people. To me, it sounded a little too much like ¨marching in the light of God¨ (Siahamba...oo-EEE-oo!) I want to do a little more than just walk with people. I´d like to actually do something.
I´m two months into my placement. I work as the Young Adult Volunteer at El Hogar La Casita, a home for street boys, a stop along the social services ¨system.¨ The boys are 8-20 years old. They are rough, some of them, and nice, sometimes. Ask a boy at La Casita why they are there, and you will get a heartbreaking story. Abuse, addiction, abandonment. That´s not who they are, but it is a place they´ve been. I try to keep that in my mind when I´m with the boys.
In the mornings, I walk Luis and Walter to school. Luis is eight and he drags a broken Loony Toons book bag behind him. Walter is twelve and we practice counting in English as we walk: ¨One, two...ten, eleven, Tuesday.¨ I walk them home from school a couple hours later, and my day at the Hogar begins.
I´ve eaten cafeteria food all of my life. Public school, university dining hall, and a private school where I taught last year. I love it. But I have never met a group of young people who appreciate their food more than these boys. Everyday, they ask me, smiles and food on their faces, ¨¿Rico, no?¨ Delicious, huh? ¨Sí, riquisimo.¨ Yes, the most delicious. In cold weather, the oven and the food are all that warm the little room where we eat. The boys and I sit on church pews on either side of mismatched tables. They eat quickly. They clean their plates. They ask for seconds.
After lunch, it´s time to go to the park. The park is 15 blocks away. Not a short trip with these boys. I walk. I try to keep them ¨en grupo.¨ They are spread out over five blocks. Some of them are climbing trees and stealing oranges. I try to save them from traffic. They told me to walk with the boys. They didn´t tell me about traffic. They didn´t tell me that fights would break out mid-avenue. They didn´t tell me that I would have to hold Joaquín´s hand because he wants love and Nahuel´s because he wants to hit Joaquín. They said only to walk. And so I walk. To the park, to school, home, and to work. I ride the bus. I take the train. I close my eyes in the noise and try to hear every sound. I don´t listen to the noise. The Hogar has lots of noise. I listen in the noise, and I break up fights, and I hug a hundred times a day.
It´s dinner time now. I´ve just walked in the gate that separates the boys from the street. I sit down to my dinner with some of the older boys. They are talking about fútbol. Always. And I see Walter outside on the bench. I go out. I put my arms around him until he stops crying. The night is cold and dark. What happened, I ask. He doesn´t have an answer for me. How could he? What happened? That´s like asking the hurricane victim, or the earthquake survivor what happened. This boy doesn´t know. And neither do I.
I´m discovering that walking with people who hurt means that I will hurt. The boys don´t understand why they are where they are, and sometimes I don´t understand why I am where I am. I want to be effective. I want to see my effectiveness effecting change. So far this experience is teaching me that effectiveness isn´t always the bottom line. We often work below the bottom line, where God´s love moves and works.
After dinner tonight, I went with the older boys to collect old bread from the local bread shops. They lumber down the street as only teenage boys lumber, like a graceful stumble that says, I´m too cool to look like I´m actually trying to walk. The boys whistle at girls. ¨Por favor, [expletive deleted].¨ They bum cigarettes from the people on the main drag. One picks through the trash looking for anything of use. One leans close to my ear and says, ¨After tonight, you won´t eat the bread at the Hogar.¨ Some bread shops give us a lot, one gives us none. We finish and I head home for the night.
Five blocks to my house. Depending on the day, I may be tired. I´m often angry. On this walk I air out all of my self-doubt. I didn´t handle that right. I was weak. I wasn´t as loving as I could have been. I stop in the window of an English school. Private academies have sprung up around the city. They´ve decorated the front hallway for Halloween. For a moment I peer through the window and soak up the familiar sights. Jack-o-lantern cutouts taped to the wall, a black witch hat sitting atop the TV. For a moment, I think I should throw open these doors and start a Halloween party. I should declare ¨I speak English perfectly!¨ I want someone to value me for my mind. I want badly for someone to be impressed that I have smart thoughts. I haven´t said anything smart in Spanish. Which means I haven´t said anything smart in two months. And that´s when I get it. As I´m standing on the sidewalk looking at Halloween decorations like they´re modern art, I realize that I´ve spent most of my life wanting people to like me for my brain, my personality, and for funny things I say. And this year, people will love me without any of those reasons. The boys will love me just because I love them.
I look up to see what stars are visible through the city-light pink. I cross the street. I round the corner. I fall asleep.
I can talk about successes. I´ve instituted something resembling consequences with the boys. The social worker and I are entering real discussions about how to improve the Hogar. Many of the boys trust me. The older boys respect me. These are the blocks I´ll try to build on. But for now, I´m trying to be content with where I am and remember that small steps got me here and small steps will get me through the next week.
Peace,
Andrew
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
The Life in a Death in the Family
Today was a good day at the end of a rough week. My Grandfather died last Saturday. I was very far from home. I found out in an email from my brother and started crying in the internet cafe, this internet cafe, the one I´m in now. I walked back to my house. I tried to remember the correct conjugation for ´he died´ so I could tell my host mom. I went to my room. I sat on my bed. And I felt very far from home.
There´s a happy ending here. I´ve cast my nighted color off, so to speak. My family was great at supporting me, making me feel right. My pastor at the pentecostal church where I worship stopped our Wednesday service and asked everyone (I mean the whole crowd) to give me a hug. I was in a little church with a dozen hands on me, people kissing my cheeks, blessing me, and telling me how happy they were that my Grandfather was in heaven. I felt loved and supported.
And so I thank those who knew and were praying for me last week. I thank those who didn´t know and prayed for me anyway. And I thank those who don´t so much pray as just send good thoughts. It´s all good. We are small. I love you.
There´s a happy ending here. I´ve cast my nighted color off, so to speak. My family was great at supporting me, making me feel right. My pastor at the pentecostal church where I worship stopped our Wednesday service and asked everyone (I mean the whole crowd) to give me a hug. I was in a little church with a dozen hands on me, people kissing my cheeks, blessing me, and telling me how happy they were that my Grandfather was in heaven. I felt loved and supported.
And so I thank those who knew and were praying for me last week. I thank those who didn´t know and prayed for me anyway. And I thank those who don´t so much pray as just send good thoughts. It´s all good. We are small. I love you.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Some of the inner-monologue
I want to write something light and insightful. I want to tell a cute story that sums it all up. My first week of service. What to say about it? It was awful and hard and exhausting. I could say that. But don´t say that. It will seem like you are glorifying yourself, or worse, looking for pity.
It was fun and exciting and challenging. I could say that. But don´t say that. People will think that all you do is fun and games. I can´t believe you are spending a year playing tag with 8 year-olds. (I play a lot of tag.)
Talk about the boys. Talk about just one boy. Which boy? Luis? I do spend the most time with him. His behaviour covers the spectrum. It´s wild and unchecked, mostly uncheckable. Sometimes when he cries, I feel like he´s screaming against the whole world. When I put him in timeout, he kicks and punches his way out and hides under the table.
And when we ride on the bus to school in the mornings, he wants to hold the tickets, thin strips of paper with the time, the fare, and the bus line printed on it. He smiles and rolls them between his fingers. He shows me his toys and the drawings he does at school.
That should do it. It´s quick and it doesn´t have any hard to swallow details. I can`t tell these boys´ stories. I don´t know their stories. For now, I´ll stick to what I know.
It was fun and exciting and challenging. I could say that. But don´t say that. People will think that all you do is fun and games. I can´t believe you are spending a year playing tag with 8 year-olds. (I play a lot of tag.)
Talk about the boys. Talk about just one boy. Which boy? Luis? I do spend the most time with him. His behaviour covers the spectrum. It´s wild and unchecked, mostly uncheckable. Sometimes when he cries, I feel like he´s screaming against the whole world. When I put him in timeout, he kicks and punches his way out and hides under the table.
And when we ride on the bus to school in the mornings, he wants to hold the tickets, thin strips of paper with the time, the fare, and the bus line printed on it. He smiles and rolls them between his fingers. He shows me his toys and the drawings he does at school.
That should do it. It´s quick and it doesn´t have any hard to swallow details. I can`t tell these boys´ stories. I don´t know their stories. For now, I´ll stick to what I know.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Both Feet In
The boys at the home swear I have the largest feet they have ever seen. They marvel at them, ask me what size they are, and when I tell them, they tell me I´m lying. Surely these can´t be a reasonable size, these must defy sizing. I think they expect me to answer- They have no size, they are specially made for giants like myself.
I´m into my service now. I´m two enornmous feet in. And the boys, for now, treat me like a celebrity, a novelty, and I´m thankful for the reprieve. I don´t have to talk much (not that my Spanish is really good enough to do so). I can get by with hugs, with the occaisional- ¿Qué tal, chico?- and with handshakes that that they teach me and reteach me. They change every time we do them.
-------------------------------------
Pictures are up. This group spans from orientation in Chicago through our in country orientation. There are no pictures of the home yet. Those will come later, as I get to know the boys more.
I´m into my service now. I´m two enornmous feet in. And the boys, for now, treat me like a celebrity, a novelty, and I´m thankful for the reprieve. I don´t have to talk much (not that my Spanish is really good enough to do so). I can get by with hugs, with the occaisional- ¿Qué tal, chico?- and with handshakes that that they teach me and reteach me. They change every time we do them.
-------------------------------------
Pictures are up. This group spans from orientation in Chicago through our in country orientation. There are no pictures of the home yet. Those will come later, as I get to know the boys more.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
He Llegado
I have arrived. There is too much to say. Here is some of the stimuli:
- On the trains, people try to sell everything from chocolate bars to alarm clocks to mix CDs of your favorite 90s ballads (including Richard Marx, Celine Dion, and Bryan Adams). They call out their goods: ¨Un reloj, solo tres pesos...Un reloj...Chocolates, tres por un peso.¨ They pass through once, twice, sometimes leaving the chocoloate bar in the empty seat next to me. Trying to tempt me.
- In 2001, Argentina experienced an economic collapse equal to the crash that led to our Great Depression. I am seeing a nation four years into the worst economic period in its history.
- One cannot properly greet or meet with a guest in Argentina without providing tea, coffee, and snacks to that guest. I average six coffees a day, sometimes a few mates (MAH-tays), and many, many cookies and pastries. No visit is brief. Our days are remarkably busy without causing any real haste.
More entries and pictures soon.
- On the trains, people try to sell everything from chocolate bars to alarm clocks to mix CDs of your favorite 90s ballads (including Richard Marx, Celine Dion, and Bryan Adams). They call out their goods: ¨Un reloj, solo tres pesos...Un reloj...Chocolates, tres por un peso.¨ They pass through once, twice, sometimes leaving the chocoloate bar in the empty seat next to me. Trying to tempt me.
- In 2001, Argentina experienced an economic collapse equal to the crash that led to our Great Depression. I am seeing a nation four years into the worst economic period in its history.
- One cannot properly greet or meet with a guest in Argentina without providing tea, coffee, and snacks to that guest. I average six coffees a day, sometimes a few mates (MAH-tays), and many, many cookies and pastries. No visit is brief. Our days are remarkably busy without causing any real haste.
More entries and pictures soon.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
The End of Orientation
For the past week, all of the young adult volunteers who are setting out for our year of service have gathered at Mc Cormick Seminary for orientation. We have heard from former former volunteers, theologians, and mission personnel.
The week is over and tomorrow we will get on planes to head out to 13 different countries. We will each have different amazing experiences. While I'm playing futbol with the boys at my placement, someone else from the young adult volunteer (YAV) program may be writing a report on the World Bank in Nairobi, and another still will be having dinner with a family in the Ukraine. I'm pround to be connected with this program and these people.
I have learned more about my placement, but I'll wait until I can provide more specifics before I say more. I appreciate your prayers and your thoughts.
Vaya con Dios,
Andrew
The week is over and tomorrow we will get on planes to head out to 13 different countries. We will each have different amazing experiences. While I'm playing futbol with the boys at my placement, someone else from the young adult volunteer (YAV) program may be writing a report on the World Bank in Nairobi, and another still will be having dinner with a family in the Ukraine. I'm pround to be connected with this program and these people.
I have learned more about my placement, but I'll wait until I can provide more specifics before I say more. I appreciate your prayers and your thoughts.
Vaya con Dios,
Andrew
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Preparation
Preparation is a strange state. I am not yet doing my year of service, and yet, I spend much of my day preparing for that service. I study Spanish. I write and send funding letters. I scan headlines for news from Argentina. I pray and think and make promises to myself to ease lingering anxiety.
None of these activities are the service itself, yet they are of the utmost importance. To serve, I must be at peace. To be at peace, I must prepare. And so I go back to writing a letter. Maybe you will get one. Maybe you already have gotten one.
My time at Eagle Rock draws to a close. I leave here on Tuesday to drive back to South Carolina. To those who have supported me through THIS year of service and now support me as I prepare for Argentina, I say, Gracias por todo.
None of these activities are the service itself, yet they are of the utmost importance. To serve, I must be at peace. To be at peace, I must prepare. And so I go back to writing a letter. Maybe you will get one. Maybe you already have gotten one.
My time at Eagle Rock draws to a close. I leave here on Tuesday to drive back to South Carolina. To those who have supported me through THIS year of service and now support me as I prepare for Argentina, I say, Gracias por todo.
Monday, July 18, 2005
My placement
I opened my email this afternoon to find the email I've been anxiously awaiting for the last 3 months. I know where I'll be in Argentina and what I'll be doing.
I've been placed at La Casita boys' home in Florida, Buenos Aires. The email I received says this about the site:
"This is a home for boys coming from broken families and sent to La Casita by the local judges. La Casita is a ministry of El Tabernaculo, a Pentecostal Church."
I'm pumped about spending another year working with young people. I feel blessed.
Some of my anxiety has waned, but now my mission has realness to it. I can't pretend any more that this year is just another stop along my journey.
I've been placed at La Casita boys' home in Florida, Buenos Aires. The email I received says this about the site:
"This is a home for boys coming from broken families and sent to La Casita by the local judges. La Casita is a ministry of El Tabernaculo, a Pentecostal Church."
I'm pumped about spending another year working with young people. I feel blessed.
Some of my anxiety has waned, but now my mission has realness to it. I can't pretend any more that this year is just another stop along my journey.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Addressing My Supporting Church
Yesterday I talked at St. Giles Presbyterian Church , my supporting church. Everything went beautifully. I was received with open arms. The congregation is excited about having a volunteer abroad and curious about all aspects of my service. I couldn't ask for a more supportive church.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Funding Woes
In order for me to go to Argentina, I have to raise $8,000 in support. This money ensures that I am not a burden on my community there and that I have food to eat and a plane ticket home. The good news is that all of you can support me by donating.
Instructions:
1. Make checks payable to the Presbyterian Church (USA).
2. Write "Andrew Barron ECO # 074156" on the memo line.
3. Send the check to:
The Presbyterian Church (USA)
Individual Remittance Processing
PO Box 643700
Pittsburgh, PA 15264-3700
Instructions:
1. Make checks payable to the Presbyterian Church (USA).
2. Write "Andrew Barron ECO # 074156" on the memo line.
3. Send the check to:
The Presbyterian Church (USA)
Individual Remittance Processing
PO Box 643700
Pittsburgh, PA 15264-3700
Friday, July 01, 2005
Launching a Blog
I'm going to Argentina for mission service. I don't know what I'm doing, yet. They (the good people at the Prebyterian Church (USA)) tell me that I will find out the details of my placement on Argentine time. I'm pretty sure that is later rather than sooner.
The main purpose of this blog is centralize my thoughts and pictures from my year of service in Argentina. If I have cheap access to the Internet, I'll probably do a wonderful job of keeping up with my postings. If I'm in a rural village, miles away from the nearest computer, the postings will be sparse.
I have mixed feelings about blogs. I think they are somewhat presumptuous. Why should I think that people are all that interested in what I have to say? But then, I'm not making you come to this website and read my postings, so I won't feel too bad about it.
The main purpose of this blog is centralize my thoughts and pictures from my year of service in Argentina. If I have cheap access to the Internet, I'll probably do a wonderful job of keeping up with my postings. If I'm in a rural village, miles away from the nearest computer, the postings will be sparse.
I have mixed feelings about blogs. I think they are somewhat presumptuous. Why should I think that people are all that interested in what I have to say? But then, I'm not making you come to this website and read my postings, so I won't feel too bad about it.
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