All Soul's Day

Part of living in a completely different place is getting the opportunity to share in all the different cultural practices of that society. That opportunity arose in a big way during the Halloween season.

It was difficult to get excited about Halloween. The absence of cool weather, football games, jack-o-lanterns, and an excess of costumes for sale at the local department store caused me to almost forget the holiday even existed, except for our group’s grand plan to hold a costume party. The holiday came and went and with no real acknowledgement. The idea of dressing up and having silly parties is not the most popular idea for Belizeans. Only the youngest of the children dress in cute costumes to beg candy from strangers.

Though one practice that has been ingrained into our psyche had been utterly dismissed from our yearly experience, we were introduced to a much more unique and beautiful tradition.

The day following Halloween is All Saint’s Day. Back in my youth, we would get a holiday from school, but besides that, we would not place any more weight onto the occasion. Here we had school, but the people place a much higher value on the occasion. Church was packed for the evening service, and after mass, we were invited to join the procession to the Cemetery. We lit candles, grabbed our rosaries, and began to slowly walk from the church to the nearest local cemetery. We prayed the rosary in Spanish—luckily I had learned to pray the prayers of the rosary in Spanish way back in highschool—and slowly proceeded to our destination. I became so mesmerized with the slow and steady chanting and the flickering of candles that when we reached the cemetery, I almost had forgotten where we were going.

Traditionally cemeteries are considered scary places, especially at night. This evening, though the sky was overcast and the time of the year and the sound of barking dogs and hushed voices were ideal for moving thoughts towards the more macabre. But this was far from that type of experience. The cemetery was illuminated with tiny flickers of candle light and the murmurings of people in prayer were heard amidst our continued prayers. This was not a deterrent, but rather a pleasant invitation for all those in the procession. We made our way into the middle of the cemetery to finish our rosary and to say our prayers for the deceased and the intentions of the Holy Father. Though I was not fully able to understand all that was said, I could sense the power and respect for the people of the past. It was such a powerful sentiment that I couldn’t help but be stirred by the act. As the prayers ended, a reverent silence fell over the crowd. We moved around the cemetery, looking at the tombs as well as the makeshift shrines of flowers and candles assembled with care. We observed the scattered groups of families, gathered in prayer and remembrance of their loved ones. As I walked around I couldn’t help but feel that I was intruding on private, family moments, and so I quickly removed myself from the vicinity.

The processions continued, with the biggest evening being the night of All Souls. We celebrated mass in the park, and then proceeded to the cemetery. That evening the whole cemetery was alive with loving murmurings of prayer and was brightened by the flickering of candles to remember the lives snuffed out by death and suffering. Sitting in that cemetery, celebrating, remembering those of Benque, I was completely and utterly moved. I was inspired to start this tradition back at home, because it is such a beautiful sentiment—to remember those that had been a part of lives and are now simply memories. And how often I had simply avoided remembering because of the pain it might bring, instead of celebrating the fact that they were people I had known and loved, and their memories bring such joy to my life.

This experience also caused me to stop and look back on where I had been just one year prior. I had been in a cemetery, but not to honor the dead. We had been searching for ghosts, playing around, making something so natural into something unnatural and trying to make it into an ugly and scary place. If only I had known then, as I searched for ghosts and tried to get scared or haunted, that just one year later I would be in a cemetery in Belize, but for a completely different reason, I would not have believed it. It is funny how lives go, and the places we end up. The things we learn and the experiences we gather; the memories we make that will last for eternity.

Elvira

With this post, I am breaking my own self-imposed rule. I had promised myself, and had been faithful to it up ‘til now, that I would not refer to any persons met in Belize by name. My intent was to protect the innocent. It was a noble intention. But I feel that there are some things that need to be shared, and this young lady who has shared so much with me deserves much more than these paltry words can give her.

Elvira is one of my first form students in my Basic English class. She has a smile that can light up the room, and deep, dark eyes, full of understanding beyond her years. The first thing I ever learned about her was that she had a three-year-old daughter at home. It turns out she had been raped at 14 and conceived a child from it. She is, without exception, one of the hardest-working students in my classroom—she loves to tell stories and always eagerly awaits every opportunity to share with me what she has learned.

One Friday afternoon, while I was giving a break during a 2 hour period, Elvira comes up to me and asks if I can come over to her house after mass and hang out. Wishing to take every opportunity to get to know my students, both in and out of class, I readily agree. Sunday comes, along with Hurricane Richard. I go to mass, where I usually see Elvira and little Joanna, but there was no shining smile to greet me that morning. Thinking she had forgotten me, I went to mass and returned home to prepare to brace the impending storm.

Class was out for two days, along with the electricity and the water. By Wednesday the country had recovered enough for classes to resume, so we made our way back to school and continued with our lessons. As I am walking into class on Wednesday, I am greeted by a distraught Elvira.

“Miss! I am soo sorry I was not at mass! My mother would not let me go for the rain! Please can we try again this Sunday?”

Of course I forgave her and agreed to try again for the next weekend.

Next Sunday rolled around, and as promised, she met me at the church. Elvira greeted me with her beautiful smile, and after mass, we made the long trek to her house. The road was rough and the sun was beating down upon our heads. As we were walking, all I could think was how not only does she make this trek every Sunday to church, just her and her daughter. ‘Why does the rest of her family not go with her?’ I wondered.

‘They just don’t come. I’ve never asked why’ was the simple reply.

We arrived at her house. A small but stable-looking structure perched against the side of the hill. We approached the house, and were greeted with the clucks of chickens and the smell of horses. Nothing too terribly unusual for a small Belizean family from what I have observed in my time here. We enter the house. It was a room. Three beds; a couch, a table, a television. And all of the other things necessary for people to live. All within the confines of four walls. I tried to think of a time when I would have been comfortable sleeping in the same room as the rest of my family. To not only share your sleep space, but your living space, your changing-your-clothes space, and all semblance of privacy. The kitchen was behind the house, further up the hill. A small hut containing a wood stove and a pot was the home for years of family meals. And the restroom? I never spotted one. Most likely another small hut somewhere on the property.

I was presented to the family as “the maestra” and attempted in my broken Spanish to show my gratitude for them inviting me into their home. From the few moments of interaction I learned very little about her family, except that they were generally pleasant and seemed genuinely pleased that I had come to visit their home.

I was then whisked away by Elvira and Joanna to talk and play. Back into the house to look at pictures, and play dolls with a three-year-old. Joanna is a typical three-year-old. She likes to throw dolls around, and she has a great smile that never goes away. Her laugh is contagious. Within moments, Joanna and I were sitting on the ground, just laughing at a stuffed bear, who at the push of a button would state “I love chocolate.” It was all very hilarious. I had not laughed so long or so hard than with Joanna in a long time. How freeing is laughter sometimes, its almost cleansing. And at that moment me and Joannita became friends. She had to show me her pollitos (chicks) and the horses that she rides. In 20 minutes she brought me as much joy as my heart could muster. Oh the wonders of happy small children.

The visit continued. Elvira, Joanna, and I shared tangerines, freshly picked from the tree just outside, and then we sat on the bed, just like any friends would do. I played the keyboard that had been hiding under Elvira’s bed and tried to remember as many songs as possible. And we listened to songs as we tried to put Joanna down for a nap.

As I was sitting here, on this bed situated in the corner of this one-roomed-home, observing one of my students mothering a child, I suddenly became overwhelmed with the situation. I was suddenly not just hanging out with a student and friend, but observing a life that was so different than my own and a life I know I would never have been able to handle. Here was a girl, raped at 14, who conceived a child from this terrible act of hatred, who chose to keep the child, and is now the mother of a three-year-old child. All at 17. I don’t know what cares I had at 17 besides college shopping and after-school-jobs and friends, but they are nothing compared to what this girl has gone through, and will always live with. Not only does she make the long trek to school every morning, after having to wake up early and help clean the house and take care of Joanna, but she has to worry about homework, friends, family. She has to be a daughter, a student, and a mother—and all by choice. And nothing can compare to the bravery of a girl who chose to let an act so vile become such a source of joy.

It is not easy—it can’t be—for any person to have to go through what she has gone through, and she faces it with such joy and determination. Words can’t even describe how humbled I was in that moment. Who am I that I can teach her anything? Are verbs and vocabulary and story plots even worthy of what life has brought her?

But she wants to learn. She studies hard in school so that she can be a teacher one day. She wants to ‘Be someone that her family can be proud of.’ So that is what we talked about on the way back from her house. What we were going to do in English class. What stories we were about to read, why the vocabulary test was difficult, and how she was nervous about the upcoming science quiz that was coming up. All very important details for a girl who just wants to be a little girl again, but will never be able to come home from school to just sit in front of the television and do homework, with no other cares.

This is a terribly difficult story to tell, but one so worth telling. I wonder now, what my problem with it is. Perhaps it is just because it is a life that I know I would not be able to handle. Perhaps it is that I would never be able to wish this life on any person, and it is almost painful that I now know someone who lives with this reality. But perhaps the most difficult thing for me to handle is that someone who has been through things that I don’t even understand and never will was able to help me and teach me so much—to give me so much of what I did not have. And I have nothing to give her in return. Nothing I have is worthy of her.

It is now over two months into this journey of living, learning, and growing. I look back on the day I flew in, where I was thinking that I was absolutely insane for coming to Belize and teaching for a whole year. Now, between all the experiences, the people I have met, and the changes I feel slowly creeping over myself, I now wonder who and where I would be without Belize and without people like Elvira to show me how strong I could be, and to show me that no hardship in life is bad enough that you can’t live and live well. Such lessons they have been, and so many more to learn, and how grateful I am that I have had this opportunity to learn them