BROKEN ENGLISH

          

Sign on the border of California and Arizona. Picture taken on our last trip to visit my cousins.

  Arguably, the beauty of the human character could be found in our brokenness and the patches that hold the broken pieces together. Sitting around the table, many of us were broken. Sleep deprived, college students had arrived at the barn ready to teach English to migrant workers. After 9 hours of farming potatoes, the Mexican men faced exhaustion as well. The air was frigid and numbing as it wrapped around our throats and stunned our stuttered speaking. Even the door that was forcibly kicked open was a symbol of the fragility of the human character. The door was unsure of whether it wanted to open for us allowing a haven, until we jabbed and shoved our way through the archway waking the rusted hinges. Once opened, the door creaked with a shallow welcome.

            Twice a week, I drive with a small group to Hillsborough, Oregon to teach migrant farm workers how to speak English. Each week, I feel a greater sense of closeness to these men. Their stories, I have adapted as part of my worldview. During the past two weeks we have been working on sharing our stories. Last night, we talked about how complex the issue of illegal immigration is. The men explained that without the work in the United States, they would not be able to provide for their families. One man said, “Work in States es dificil pero there is money for my familia. My familia no eat with no money from me.”  In Spanglish, my friend teaches me the importance of the individual despite the politics.

            No matter what our stance is regarding the politics of illegal immigration, the fact of the matter is, the system is flawed and has left a broken community behind. Many of the men have not seen their families for ten years. If there is one thing I have learned while working with the men, it is that no one willingly wants to leave their home and loved ones if their needs are provided for. Which means, their needs in Mexico have not been met.

            I believe my mission in Costa Rica will be similar to my work at the Campo with the migrant farm workers. My job will be to make their homes a place they want to stay. I will be working with children living near the river that connects the entitled, the religious, prostitutes, drug lords, and the helpless. I will be teaching children the importance of their own lives and fixing the broken aspects of their lives. In fixing the broken, my own broken pieces will be patched.

             Leaving Campo last night, while walking out of the barn, my attention was focused to the stars. Mira I said happily, las estrellas son bonitas. The men, the students, and I faced our eyes to the night sky. Our eyes watched the same stars that I also knew were shinning over the children by the river in Costa Rica. The stars were the first patch to mending the broken, they were something we could share—and together we claimed them as our own.

           

Statements of Fact

View from the top of St. John's bridge taken with my phone.

            I woke up to find snow falling yesterday. I got dressed huffily throwing on a raincoat and boots as I stormed out the door. In Portland, I expected the rain but snow—I didn’t sign up for snow.  Admittedly, I am being melodramatic; once the snow touched the ground, it never stuck. But, the point was, I was frustrated by the circumstances I couldn’t control. Later that day, I went on a run under blue skies with brisk steps on dry pavement. Blasting “The Beatles” I rejoiced in the turn of events.

            Last semester, leading up until finals my roommates and I decided that we would say nothing but positive things. I can’t say that we were completely successful but we did become more aware of our negativity. The debate over negativity and SOFs (statement of facts) became frequent. SOFs being acceptable, we were drawing the line between what was simply a truth and what was an unnecessary negative comment. I think that that desire for control and the attempt at positivity are enormously connected. There are some things in life that are uncontrollable, the weather for instance. Others that are undoubtedly in our control: whether we get out of bed for that 8:10 class, not eating that extra slice of pie when we have already had one two hours before, or finally taking the time to do the laundry that has been piling up. Then, there is the gray-area that is embraced by civil rights and social justice.

            After buying the ticket for Costa Rica yesterday, I started to think of the long flight over. The uncontrollables once I landed: what if the taxi took me two hours the wrong way, what if after a month I make no difference, or better—what if I miss my flight (it wouldn’t be the first time)? The uncontrollables took hold and the only solution was to think of the sunshine after the snow—the positives. Once I crossed the St. John’s bridge on my run, I stopped and smiled out of thankfulness. I thought to myself “today I ran in the sunshine. Tomorrow, the snow will not be a negative—only a SOF.”

¿Cómo se Dice "Ticket" en Español?

    It is within our culture to find a sense of normality and adhere to it. To be overly expressive, boisterous, or exceptionally eccentric in any aspect of life would be socially condemning. However, I believe that it is in the flaws of the individual and the exceptions to ordinary in which true humanity is found. My latest obsession has been the book Winesburg, Ohio. The author, Sherwood Anderson, weaves together the connections between human interactions and the flaws of the individual. Subtitled, The Book of the Grostesques, Anderson identifies the fantastically absurd aspects of society expressing that through the absurdities, we find relationship in one another. The book has made me think about my own grotesque presence, although seemingly monstrous; the act of being grotesque, in reality, unites humanity itself.

            At times, I am inflexible, illogical, judgmental, and absorbed in my own self-importance and I admit this willingly because I know I am not alone. Reading the newspaper in the morning paints the flaws of our community vividly: Egypt is burning, Haiti has been forgotten, and Africa is suffering. The reality seems inevitable; we are grotesque. But when is enough, enough? When are we obliged to draw the line? At what point do our needs become more or less important than those of others? Studying Hinduism the other day I read an old story of a yogi.

 "As he sat meditating on the banks of the Ganges, (the yogi) saw a scorpion fall into the water. He scooped it out, only to have it bite him. Presently, the scorpion fell into the water twice more, whereupon a bystander asked the yogi, ‘Why do you keep rescuing that scorpion when its only gratitude is to bite you?’ The yogi replied: ‘It is in the nature of the scorpions to bite. It is in the nature of the yogis to help others when they can.’”

            The importance of our needs is a matter of perspective. A wise aunt always tells me, “Our needs are just as important to us as others needs are to them.” Reflecting on my choice in education, I am called to a greater responsibility. I am double majoring in Psychology and English with a minor in Social Justice at the University of Portland. This says something more than I will be working pretty hard for the next four years as an undergraduate. Psychology means I am learning to listen to others. To make an assessment and help my greatest tools will be my heart and my ears to hear their needs. English, the major that is never paid, holds exceptional responsibility. It is with an English major that I take ownership over my words. The weight of what I say, how I articulate what I feel, and the choices I make with language carry credence. When I chose to be an English major, I chose to tell the world, “I think about what I say, and therefore, listen to me. Judge my words with a sense of harshness and question my validity.” Social Justice allows me to question the world and to gain political savvy to accompany raw emotions that are complements to the world’s pain.

            This summer, I am striving towards a change in my perspective. My needs are important; I have recognized that. Empathizing with my community, globally, is a step in broadening my perspective. For a month, I will be traveling to Costa Rica and working to influence the lives of people outside of myself. In a community that has been forgotten, children are hungry, and thirsting for knowledge; knowledge that I have. I will be there for a month teaching. I am writing to you to ask for your loving support. Your support will help me to gain a new perspective, and give something that I think is perhaps indefinable. In an effort to shed light on the grotesque, this is the step I am taking and I invite you to be a big part of it.

            In the early 18^th century novels never ended with “the end”. The Italian influence was still carried out and when the reader came to the word “Finis”, they knew it had ended. As the 18^th century progressed, the Romantic era became outdated and writers made stating “The End” or “Finis” obsolete. Plato argued in his Republic that poets should be cast off from society because they caused the people to question, to find the grotesque in a society that couldn’t see it. The poets of the 18^th century are ahead of us in this respect. This summer I am taking “The End” out of my vocabulary. There will not be an end to service, to loving those that need it most, to using my life to make a change. I am thankful for your support and will carry you in my heart as I learn what it means to be a servant for service.