The School at Xepocol, Day 308 (Guatemala story)

The Casa de Oracion was wonderful but not one of us traveled all the way to Guatemala to sit and chat amongst lovely flowers. We had to step outside and each time that we ventured beyond Ron’s green gate my body would tense up a bit. There were always two pickup trucks waiting out front to carry us into the mountains. We rode unfettered in the dusty dented truck beds. I’d take a deep breath and lift my feet which always seemed a little heavier on the outside of the green gate. Anticipating this venture, “This is why I came,” I’d grab onto the tailgate and pull myself into the bed of the pickup truck which proudly wore the Chichicastenango dust coating. “This is why I came,” with another deep breath I’d sit on the dust coating in the truck bed, it’d rub off of the vehicle and onto my clothing and I’d wonder at where we were going. “How would I talk to them?” My Spanish was quite terrible and what I knew I was ashamed to speak. I felt so foolish trying. “How would I help them?” I came to help, but could I? I didn’t help the woman and child at the airport. “Could I help anyone?” These thoughts plagued me upon each departure. I was so full of fear, despite the beauty of Guatemala and its mountains. I’d look out onto the hills. The landscape didn’t have one flat plain. It was mesmerizing and so grand. I could hardly believe I was in those moments actually apart of the vast new world I was viewing. As we jostled around in back of the pickups I couldn’t take in all the sights. The hills reached to the heavens. There were tiny shack houses next to fields planted on 90degree angles. Together whole families crouched over beneath the hot sun working the land. Small children ran through the hills like squirrels popping out from behind trees and vanishing just as quickly. Men and woman carrying their heavy loads up and down the mountains appeared around each curve of the road. The clothing of all these people was so dirty, so worn, and would have been so vibrantly colorful without these elements. Occasionally a loud explosion would occur in the distance. One of our Guatemalan chaperones said that the people regularly set off canons to scare away the demons. I was in a totally foreign land, nothing familiar, and everything new. A fear crept beneath my skin but it was a fear of me. I was completely terrified of not being able to accomplish what I set out to do; of not being able to truly help anyone; I was afraid of failing.

Our very first venture beyond the green gate culminated with the trucks slowing to stop as we pulled up to a school. I could feel my heart beat increase within my chest. Here it all came to a culmination. Our drama practices, our prayers. The meetings we held each week dining together on words from the Bible. The hours we spent getting ready to change the world, or at least a little part of it in Guatemala. All of my wondering and nervousness found a purpose here at a school in the mountains. I had never anticipated this. We came to work with orphans and widows, to build houses for needy families, and to minister God’s word at feeding programs where very hungry people came to find relief. THIS WAS A SCHOOL! At this moment the statements and resentments of a few back home had now returned to haunt me. “Christian evangelizing has massacred many beautiful civilizations. In the name of Christ, tradition, culture, and identity have been stripped like the clothing of a rape victim from innocent people throughout time.” Here I now was at a school full of Mayan children. We didn’t come here to feed them. We didn’t come here to offer them help. We came here to pull them out of class and tell them about Jesus. I couldn’t help but question, “O Lord what am I doing?”

We began unpacking the trucks; sound equipment, puppet stage, suitcases full of candy and beanie babies. We would win them over! As we approached the dusty worn down concrete buildings we could see little eyes peeking through windows. But for the children and the desks they sat at the classrooms were empty. They didn’t have books. Concrete walls enclosed inquiring minds but they would have to learn everything they could from the words of their teacher and the chalkboard in the front of the room. I’d never seen a class room like this, apart from on television, or in movies. It was full of children but empty. A few of the braver boys and older girls slowly stepped into the afternoon sun from inside the dusty concrete building that controlled the keys to their futures. The children held onto the door post and stayed tightly huddled together as they covered their mouths and snickered at us. We were to them like a herd of giraffes outside an American primary school. They were definitely delighted at the spectacle of the tall, fat, light skinned swarm of people who spoke weird, dressed weird, brought with them weird items and were over all completely and totally weird. In classic tourist fashion we all pulled out our cameras and started taking photos of the wide eyed Mayan school kids. One in our group approached the giggling huddle and held out his camera so they might see the picture he’d just snapped. With a lot of laughter, a few classically girly screams, and much awe the children viewed the miracle. A few of the kids ran back into their classroom. Several children covered their eyes. Some of the boys jumped at the camera to grab it. It was a rare and amazing sight to see children flabbergasted by a camera and completely in shock by the image of themselves painted on its screen.

After the initial camera incident that replayed itself hundreds of times in the close future we made our way to a basketball court in the center of the school yard. There wasn’t a playground anywhere to be seen. A few unschooled kids played a game of chase in a close by corn field. The school children were allowed the privilege of running around and throwing a ball at a net on a concrete basketball court while they attended school. As we set up our production the children spilled out of the classrooms and suddenly they were everywhere. Some hovered close to the buildings they should probably have been attending class in. Others made their ways to the fence that bordered the basketball court in order to get a closer look at us. A few of the boys attempted to initiated friendships by racing up to each of us with a strong tap (rather like a punch) and then quickly running away giggling. The most daring boys came right up to where we were setting up our show. They hung around with bravery and calm. They watched each item come out of its case and they’d lean around long legs to see what else might emerge.

Despite my constant fear of failure, a fear of not being able to find the right words, I think a fear of looking foolish (I cannot think of one good reason why that would matter in the mountains of Guatemala, but my instincts, my heart, and the paralyzing fear that consumed me didn’t need a reason). Despite this I managed to work up enough courage to approach a group of girls hovering near a fence. They were all bashful smiles and little giggles, and they exchanged numerous quick taps followed by secret whispers. I merely said “hola.” I may have asked what their names were (many of my encounters were so full of adrenaline that my memories were consumed by it). I studied them ever as intently as they were studying me. Each little girl was clothed in the heavy Quiche skirt paired with a blouse or t-shirt. Most of the girls wore their hair neatly pulled back into a thick pony tail. All of the girls and boys had identically colored hair. Each blade was coated with dust; the blackest black had a slightly grey tint to it but it didn’t look dirty. Not all of the children wore shoes. But the shoes I saw didn’t fit; they were filled with holes and were missing shoe strings.