Onward

Los Jaivas are a Chilean band we’ve been listening to a lot here. They’ve been playing music since before the dictatorship. One of their songs “Todos Juntos” is a Chilean anthem. So much so that during the Allende government, it was played before the nightly news. One part goes “Si vivimos todos separados, ¿para que son el cielo y el mar? ¿Para que es el sol que nos alumbra si no nos queremos ni mirar?” If we live separately, then why have the sky and the sea? For what is the sun that illuminates us, if we don’t love each other and look at each other? That’s kind of a clumsy translation as I’m rereading it now, but some really nice ideas. I’ve especially been fixated on the idea of looking at people. The power of looking. So frequently I ride the micros or the metro or I walk on the sidewalks teeming with people and I’ve been realizing lately that I had often managed to do those things without even looking at the people next to me. Sometimes it’s easier that way. But I think Los Jaivas are right, a fundamental part of creating a community, of fostering collective empathy and respect, is really looking at the people around you. And it’s pretty easy to do. But since I’ve started doing it, I’ve realized that it’s also kind of rare, especially in a city as crowded as Valpo. 

Two Sundays ago I went to a funeral for Exequiel Borvarán. He was 19 years old and shot in the street near the Plaza Victoria two Thursdays ago. There was a lot of confusion. Apparently, Exequiel had been spray painting the side of a building with a political message, or maybe gluing up posters. The landlords’ son came outside and shot him and Diego Guzmán, age 25. Exequiel was a member of Centro Cultural Roberto Matta. We never personally met, but Carlos and the other kids I work with knew him really well. Like many of the kids in the Centro Cultural, he was into circus arts: juggling, Diablo, things like that. In the photo of him that’s been circulating in the media, he’s got this huge smile and he’s wearing a clown nose. There were hundreds of people at the funeral. It was in this little modest chapel in Quilpué, and there were more people gathered outside than could fit inside. When we first arrived there was this older man standing by himself in the midst of everyone wearing a really nice, well-fitting suit, carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers, eyes kind of distant, face drawn. Wearing a bright red clown nose. It was bizarre. And so sad. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything like it. A lot of the people at the funeral wore clown noses. And they were crying and solemn. I don’t know exactly why but to me, it exactly communicated the feeling of losing someone too early, someone who shouldn’t have died. It was perverse almost, in a really powerful, beautiful way.

I’m living with a new family now, and they are wonderful. My host-mom is a beautiful actress who is smart, giving, exuberant. I have two host siblings as well, both very kind, and smart. So much has happened since I moved, I don’t know how to write it all down. Last weekend Bridget and I went north to Valle del Huasco to help with flood recovery there. We met a 73 year old man, Don Domingo, who is still working on his land sunrise to sunset every day. His hands are so tough that he was able to coil barbed wire without gloves. His wife has Alzheimer’s and stays inside watching TV most of the day. He takes care of her really well though. It was cool to see that.

A few weekends ago our group went on an excursion to Santiago to visit all the memorials of the dictatorship. It was a heavy, impactful day. We visited a torture site, listened to testimonies, visited the massive grave site of people executed. But, the two most powerful things, I’d say, were seeing an exhibit of the victims’ personal items: a tie, a camera, a letter, a faded photograph of a missing man holding his baby. And also a video of a woman who’s husband was killed arguing with police as she tries to lay flowers in a public square as a tribute to him. Her son was with her and he was 11 and his face looked so lost.

My host mom and I went to a play about mothers who had lost their children a while ago. There was one part, kind of the climax of grief, where all the actresses playing the children unfurled sacks full of glass marbles and let all the marbles fall and scatter across the stage. The noise lasted for what felt like a really long time. Shortly afterward, a little boy, the only real child in the piece, walked onto the stage wearing all red and began to blow bubbles. Bubbles are so beautiful and light and silent and weightless. Especially compared to marbles. Cool image. The other day I was walking home and I saw a bright yellow butterfly flying along the sidewalk in the middle of the business and grime of Calle Condell and Subida Ecuador. It made me feel kind of the same way as the bubbles.

The (Ex) Host Family, or An Ode to a Failure

In my journal (Yes I have a journal. Once my Lit Theory teacher said journaling was “puerile”), is this passage written on January 29^th 2015, “I got my visa everyone this is real I’m going to Valparaíso Chile in 19 days. Then I will stay there for 147 days. Worst-case scenario there is a giant earthquake at the same time that I get kidnapped and lose all my contact lenses. Best-case scenario I find myself/figure out my whole life.”

This week I moved out of my host family home. What a phrase. Host, family, home. Before coming to Chile, the host family experience was the aspect of study-abroad I was most enthusiastic about. By far. I didn’t even know the names of any cities in Chile apart from Valparaíso and Santiago. I didn’t know what kind of government Chile had. I wasn’t sure even which countries bordered Chile. I didn’t know what classes I would be taking, when they would start, or whom I would be taking them with. I essentially came in blind. But I did know I would be staying with a host family. And for that reason, I could tranquilly float into the unknown.

It’s hard to describe now what happened, what went wrong if something went wrong, whose fault it was if it has to be someone’s fault. I feel simultaneously regretful, guilty, angry, confused, tired, and also euphorically relieved.

My host family consisted of a relatively young couple expecting a baby. Several years ago, they experienced an epiphany together that led them to revolutionize the way they lived. They chose to become vegetarian, to quit their jobs and work for themselves, to let their hair grow out.  They believe that life is beautiful and that the noblest thing a person can do in life is to endeavor to live in peace. I say “they” so much because they really seem to be of one mind on almost everything. When they speak, they almost always use “we” instead of “I.”

They believe that their house is a sacred space, that it is pervaded by energies, and that it is crucial to cultivate good energies by cleaning often, by burning incense, by removing shoes before entering. They reject drugs in all forms. They don’t drink coffee. They believe that alcohol is replete with bad vibrations, and they avoid it at all costs. It is not permitted inside the house. Nor are people who are drunk or tipsy.

They eat wholesome, healthy, fresh food, though in small quantities. They love Mapuche culture. They reuse almost everything. They hate finding hairs anywhere. You have to be really careful about hairs. They love music. They love dance. They really, really love each other.

What it came down to in the end, I think, was that the two words family and home didn’t apply to the three of us at all. And I felt like the parasite to their host. And the catalyst, interestingly, was an outbreak of parasites in my bedroom. Last week I woke up every morning with at least ten fleabites all over my arms and torso. I had brought home fleas. This is easy to do in Valparaíso, where there are thousands of street animals and everyone rides the same micros, but I brought them all the same. In fact, I had been convinced for a couple of days that they were bed bugs, which in the United States is equivalent in urgency with small pox. The week before, I had had a sinus infection, which had been festering for more than two weeks. There I was, sleeping in their house, eating their food, bringing in all sorts of plagues. With the baby coming, I told myself, it would be better to remove myself from their lives, to stop causing harm. It would be better to live without worrying constantly that I’m doing something wrong, even if it’s something I can’t control.

I told my program director, who asked them to come to his office, it was urgent, to tell them. It’s program policy that the program director informs families when the student decides to move. I hate this policy. They were shocked. They felt blindsided. When we discussed my decision after they returned from the meeting, they told me that they would continue to feed me as usual until the end of the week, and after that, they would never speak to me again. I tried to ask “And if we run into each other on the street?” But I accidentally used the verb chocar, which is pretty literal. “And if we crash on the street?” The answer is still no. We will not speak.

This whole thing has caused a shift in me that I’m still trying to identify. Why did I feel like a parasite? That’s a significant mental route that does warrant reflection. Granted, the three of us rarely spoke when we weren’t eating a meal together, which happened once a day at most toward the end. I had never sat on our couch. We had never shared a belly-laugh. Sometimes we didn't even look at each other. And now seeing how another host family functions (I’m staying for a few days at Jennie’s house), I feel so much better. But I really failed. I failed at the host family. There are people in the world now who don't ever want to speak to me again. When I decided to move, I hurt people, caused a lot of stress, burned bridges, or bridges were consequently burned really. All for the sake of no longer feeling like a burden. But I can't imagine not doing it now. I know this is better. I felt really uncomfortable and now I feel less uncomfortable. There's a lot there, I don't know. A lot to think about.