The Mango Tree

In the middle of the school yard here at Mount Carmel High School there stands a mango tree, and underneath the mango tree sits an old wooden picnic table. There is nothing particularly special about the mango tree; for mango trees grow in every corner of Belize, and there is most definitely nothing special about picnic tables, no matter where they stand. This particular tree and table have been home to many of my memories while in Belize, and it is the memories that give an object any particular significance.

It was this mango tree that gave me shade on some of the hottest days of the past nine months when I was in desperate need for escape from the teacher’s lounge. I’ve sat under this tree with so many different people for so many different reasons. It was a place to get counseled in teaching by my mentors. It was a place where I learned so much about teaching skills and strengthened my resolve for my education goals for the year. It was a placed where I met with students. There we talked about our lives and found connections and helped each other learn Spanish and English. I watched countless sporting events, from futbolito to softball from the vantage point of this tree (and dodged a few flying objects from this seat coming from said event). I received guitar lessons from talented teachers, and choco-bananas from generous students. I have taken my English classes to this tree to discuss books and write poetry about mangoes and nature and learned a lot about the joys of spontaneous bursts of creative teaching. It is at the picnic table under this mango tree that many of my fondest memories of Mount Carmel High School will be set.

This tree is not only hold special significance for me but for all of those who have become part of the Mount Carmel family. As the tree has grown and matured, so has the school that has grown up around it. What was once a small, last-chance school in a far corner of Belize has now blossomed in the last 20 years to a place where hundreds of students can come to learn and grow and take a chance at having the most fulfilling future life can offer. And every year there is a new class that is prepared for release into the real world. As the year goes by and the final ripening of soul and mind take place, the mangos that form from the blossoms of this tree in the middle of the school yard also grow and ripen. The fruits hang from the tree, watching all that grows around them and silently awaiting the moment in which they will serve their purpose. It is tradition at Mount Carmel High School to let these mangoes ripen until the end of May. No one is allowed to steal a mango from the tree. No one, no matter how much they beg or bribe you, is allowed to help themselves to these delicious fruits for theirs is a special purpose.

At the last assembly of the year for the graduating class of 2011, the principal gathered the school for the send-off, and then sent the fourth-formers to pluck their mangoes as tradition holds. At the sound of go, the 46 fourth-formers were running from the basketball court to the mango tree. Up the tree they climbed, and suddenly there came a rain of mangoes, dropping towards all those eagerly waiting underneath. In a matter of minutes the tree had been stripped of its fruit and the seniors were walking off to their classes with bags bulging with the fruits. Mangoes were distributed to all the seniors and all those whom the seniors wished to share with (There were many more mangoes then seniors). Sticky fingers abounded and the sweet smell of mango wafted through the teachers lounge as we too shared in the success of our students.

This tree will continue to grow and continue to bear fruit, just as the Mount Carmel family will continue to grow and continue to send forth its own fruit into the world with every year that passes. I am proud that I too have become part of this tree, part of this family, and part of the beautiful work that is being done here in this little corner of the world.

What is the Meaning of Success?

It’s hard to believe that there are only 4 weeks left of school. Difficult to believe that I have spent 9 months living in a random corner of the world, and difficult to believe that I have entered classrooms now for nine months and filled countless hours with that strange thing called ‘education.’

Education is a strange thing. Once you release it, it can sprout and blossom. Or it can simply die. I have released this thing into the world through my words and actions and can only hope that it has not just fallen on hard ground and withered away. Despite the frustrations that have followed me throughout this great endeavor, I have been able to witness some of the buds that have grown from my efforts.

One of the easiest ways to see progress is to start from the very bottom. I was assigned the Basic English class and was placed in charge of girls who could barely get past basic conversation let alone read and write in English (I don’t blame them. They either live in Guatemala or have parents who don’t speak a lick of English). The ambitious, literature-loving me began the year with visions of inspiring my students with Shakespeare, Milton, and all the rest of my favorite authors. I foresaw deep discussions, well-written reflections on themes and symbolism, and just inspiration, pure and simple. But my ambitious delusion was put into perspective by week two of teaching. (The first week was filled with introductions and icebreakers. I didn’t really have much time to figure things out before, especially since I didn’t know what subject I was teaching until the first day of classes.) I had assigned a poem to read entitled ‘Life’s Success’ It was a fairly simple, straightforward piece of art that I thought even the least literary inclined could handle and enjoy at least a little. We went through the poem. The students have a natural inclination for music and enjoyed listening to the rhythm and meter of the poem, even if they couldn’t fully grasp its meaning. We finished the reading and I looked around at my smiling students.

“Alright girls, can you tell me what this poem is about?”

Silence. The first time the chattering had stopped all semester.

“Surely someone can tell me what this poem is about?”

Is it cliché to say that I could hear a pin-drop? Because that would be a pretty accurate description. I had to change my strategy.

“Are there any words in this poem that people don’t understand?”

“Miss,” one brave girl replied, “What is the meaning of ‘success?’”

I was floored. How could they understand the poem when they could not even understand the main word in the poem’s title? My dreams of a year of Wordsworth and Steinbeck had been crushed. I had to make some new goals, and, as we were already two weeks into the term, I had to make them quick. My dreams of literary analysis swiftly morphed into dreams of basic vocabulary skills, basic writing skills, and basic reading comprehension. I plugged away at it all year, lecturing on verbs and prepositions, quizzing on vocabulary words, reading stories paragraph-by-paragraph, wondering if we would ever make it to the finish-line with such a slow trudge along the way. Instead of O. Henry and Guy de Maupassant (Two authors I loved when I was in highschool), I was forced to enlist the help of some of my other favorite writers, from Roald Dahl and Shel Silverstein to my own dear friend, Sarah Cramer. Instead of Dramas and Sonnets, I changed my tune to Fairy Tales and Limericks. It was a much more enjoyable compromise.

Months passed, and I could only hope that some of the seeds that I had planted had taken root. What I discovered was a pleasant surprise and some comfort in the fact that the year is quickly coming to a close. We were reading our final selection for the year, “The Alchemist” by Paolo Coehlo. Due to my lack of copies, we can only read it during class time and quite honestly, it’s slow-going). It’s not a difficult read, by any means, but leaps and bounds more advanced from what we began the year with—so many big words! One afternoon in this past week, we were sitting outside and reading the story aloud in turns (Their ability to read aloud and enunciate properly has been one of their greatest improvements. I blame Mrs. Malone for burrowing proper reading skills into my head, making it necessary for me to pass them on.) and we came across a rather dense section of writing—plenty of big words and abstract descriptions. I was almost nervous to ask the meaning of the phrase “The crystal retains the aroma…” (It seems trite, but English can be a little tricky sometimes when don’t know the meanings). But I did it anyway.

“It means that the cups they’re placing the tea in can hold the smell well.”

Leave it to little Beatriz to make my day. I let out a giggle of delight and my students probably thought that I had had too much sugar today. It’s not a big victory, and I know I can’t take all of the credit for it, but it felt like we had finally made it somewhere. In teaching, it’s the little things that make your day, and I’m glad to get a small glimpse of the progress I have worked towards all year. The success of this year is knowing that, even if we haven’t quite reached the finish line, at least we’re moving in the right direction.

Semana Santa Part 2

It is now Easter Sunday and I sit here trying to re-cooperate from what has been a crazy but wonderful week in Benque. The week was filled to the brim with traditions, customs, and activities that both enthralled and brought me closer to the true meaning of Holy Week. There is so much that happened that I feel that recounting it will take some time and effort to share every detail, but I will do my best to rack my brains and bring this colorful celebration back to life.

Holy Monday: On this day that would usually have just passed by as a normal day in the States we began the marathon of processions. Though mass was at 7 pm and most people would be want to come to such a late service, the church was filled to the brim. And after Mass the procession began. There was only one float—that of the most sorrowful mother of Jesus. At first glance these floats don’t appear as if they carry that much significance or weight, but I was wrong on both assumptions. And for this float, it was the women that bore her. To begin the procession, the Calgadores (float bearers) filed into the church, wearing purple robes and black veils on their heads. They picked up the float that was seated at the altar and filed back down the aisle and down the stairs to the street, led by torch bearers and incense and followed close by the marching band. To follow close to the traditions of the Guatemalans, who inspired Benque’s Holy Week festivities, the Calgadores swayed the float in unison, and would occasions move backwards (Thank goodness we don’t fully follow the traditions of our neighbors, for their float moves three steps forward and two steps back throughout the whole procession.) After we watched the float pass, the procession continued with the congregation holding candles and walking in two straight lines. Around the town we slowly, slowly trudged. The marching band played somber music to match the solemnity of the occasion, but I couldn’t help but chuckle when the “Sounds of Silence” made it to the playlist. Two and a half hours later, we made it back to the church, exhausted. And this was only the beginning.

Holy Tuesday: I now know why our school gets the whole of Holy Week off. After not getting home on Monday night until 11pm and then having to wake up on Tuesday for school, it was all I could do keep myself going. (and I can’t even imagine how my students felt!) Today was promising to be another intense day. Especially since we found out today that we had been volunteered to be Calgadoros for this night’s procession. It was the last day of school, and it was all I could do to keep my restless students’ attention and then say my goodbyes for the next week. Though break had begun for us all, vacation surely had not, for we had a lot of stuff to do before we could relax.

Today the procession was to be before the mass. Dressed in all black, we met at the Church to begin our journey. It is an honor to be one of the Calgadores, and this was the day that I was officially inducted into Benque’s society. While waiting to be called for our task, I sat and talked to two of my students that were also to take part in the procession.

“Miss, how many times have you carried [the Unde (floats)]?”

It was almost embarrassing to admit that we didn’t have such traditions in the States. When I explained what our Holy Week festivities consisted of (which didn’t take too long) my student’s response was simply “But that’s so…boring!” And indeed it is.

Minutes later, the women to take part in the procession were separated into groups based on height. This is one of the most essential elements of carrying the Unde, for any variations of height can bring a lot of discomfort to the carriers. Humorously enough, I was placed in the ‘tall’ category. This procession was to commemorate the point in Jesus’ passion when he met his mother and St. John. Because of this, there were three floats in this procession: one of the Mary, one of John, and one of Jesus carrying his cross. The procession began separated. The men went with Jesus and the marching band, and the women were to accompany the statues of Mary and John.

One of the biggest hurdles to cross of the whole experience was to get the float out of the church and down the stairs to the street. There was a lot of “hold it up!” or “Lower it, LOWER IT!” from the float coordinators. Finally we were on the street, and trying to coordinate our swaying and balancing the float on our shoulders. It was very, very heavy. Even with 6 girls on either side, it was as if I was lugging a 50 pound bag of feed for two miles. The people of Benque refer to this task not only as a great honor, but as their form of Lenten penance (the look on their faces as they carry it reflects bold determination and suppressed pain, telling me that this statement is very true. I can only try to imagine what my face was reflecting as I carried it.)

One of the most beautiful parts of this procession was the silence. The women’s procession was led in complete silence to recognize the sorrow that Mary must have felt at this point in her son’s passion. As we walked through the streets, it was as if there had been a tacit agreement with the whole town. Usually the streets are filled with the reverberations of dogs and cars and stereos, but that night the only sounds I could hear were the occasional whispers of the crowd and the sound of gravel being tread underfoot. After what seemed like forever, our group finally met up with the men’s procession. The two floats were placed face-to-face in the boulevard to symbolize the meeting of mother and son, and then the final trek to the church was made. All in all this was one of the most beautiful processions of the week, but I must admit, I woke up the next morning with very sore shoulders.

Holy Thursday: Today was the first day of what is called the Triduum. The church was crowded and busy with people cleaning and decorating the sanctuary and the floats, practicing for the passion drama, and dying sawdust for the alfombras that would soon be lining the streets. By the end of the day, my hands were completely painted yellow and green to show what part of the preparations I helped with.

The mass was celebrated to commemorate the Last Supper, and to celebrate, 12 men processed into the church dressed as the apostles. In the midst of the mass, the priest knelt down to wash the feet of the apostles. (This is something that churches do in the States, but I am a tad embarrassed to admit that I had never been to on of these services before, but I have plenty of time to make up for it…) After the mass was complete, the priest carried the Blessed Sacrament out and around the church and into the Parish Hall, where they had set up an adoration chapel. The whole congregation went into the Parish Hall for adoration, which lasted until midnight. It was a beautiful sentiment, but it was another late night with the promise of an incredibly busy day to follow.

Good Friday: Its 6 am and I am walking through town to help with the creation of the alfombras. These colorful carpets decorate the paths with which we will walk in the final major procession held later this evening. This time of day would usually find the streets of Benque virtually uninhabited, but this morning the mist had not even cleared from the hills before people were awake and hard at work on their creations. The construction of an Alfombra is a pretty straightforward process, but, as we had never made on in our lives, it was a process of touch-and-go. Luckily, we had the neighboring alfombra-creators to spy on and imitate as we saw fit. The first layer was wood chips to give the carpet some substance and cushion. These carpets are not just to be decoration, but are used as a respite of the weary feet carrying the floats that evening. The next step was to apply the sawdust, which has been so refined that it takes the appearance of sand. It is a delicate process of trying to make the layers level and smooth and to add enough water that one gust of wind does not destroy your hard work. (This was at one point our biggest hurdle, for we didn’t have a hose and had resorted to using our hands to sprinkle the water from buckets. Luckily, someone felt bad for us and donated a hose for the cause.) I also discovered in this process is how dedicated and artistic our students can be. While several were busy working with their families and friends on their own carpets, several came out to help with ours, which was for the school. They spent their morning cutting out stencils from cardboard boxes and gingerly placing sawdust onto the carpets in intricate patterns. It was a lot of work for a project that just hours later would be trampled on by thousands of people, but by far of the coolest traditions I have gotten to experience.

By 9 am I was off to the next major event of the day, which was the passion drama. I was one of the two volunteers who did not have a role in this production, but I was responsible for capturing all of the exciting moments on camera, which was harder than I thought it would be. After waiting an hour for the production to begin (Darn my American punctuality! You would think that after 9 months I would have learned that nothing ever starts on time.) I was pleasantly surprised at how professionally the production came off. The setting was Benque, and the scene was set when Pilate’s palace was one of the nicer looking porches on the Boulevard. From there a very realistic-looking Jesus, complete with blood stains, a scraggly beard, and an emaciated frame (one of our students played Jesus, and after a drastic hair color change, I barely recognized the kid.) After the condemnation was played out, we followed Jesus as he carried his cross through the streets of Benque, complete with soldiers on horseback leading the way.

One of the most difficult but probably more realistic aspects of the drama was the mob. Hundreds of people were following the actions, and it was crazy to try to see what was happening in the drama while trying not to get trampled by the people. The only downside to this was at times Jesus was walking right next to someone trying to capture his picture with a camera phone. But I just had to think of this as a modern interpretation of the passion. We followed Jesus through the “Stations of the Cross”, even up to the point were he was hanged on an actual cross on the hill in front of the church. It was quite the spectacle and such a beautiful way to remind us what Good Friday is really commemorating. After the drama was completed it was only two hours until the next event, which was the Good Friday service followed by the 4-hour procession through the town.

The final procession of Holy Week promised to be full of all the drama and splendor of any parade you could find anywhere. The Unde they had been preparing for weeks was finally revealed, and it was a heavy work of art. Weighing approximately 2000 pounds, this 30-foot long float featured several statues and centered a glass coffin containing the Corpus-a statue of the crucified Jesus. 40 men were commissioned to carry this float through the whole town of Benque in the longest procession of the week. In addition to this float, the floats of Mary and John were also to be carried in the procession. Two marching bands and several other characters were also part of the spectacle.

Just minutes before the procession was to begin its journey, I was accosted by one of the procession organizers. Apparently they had forgotten that the John float was supposed to be in the parade, and needed people to carry him. Something that I have learned in my time in Benque is that my role here as a volunteer encompasses so much more than just teaching. My title incorporates all aspect of my life, from cooking and cleaning, to construction work, and yes, even carrying a 400 pound float on my shoulder for 4 hours around town. (I believe I’m going to remember this moment of my life to bring up to St. Peter if my entrance into heaven is ever in question. ‘Do you remember that one time in Benque where I carried that float? Doesn’t that count for something?’) Instead of merely following the procession, I was bringing up the rear with St. John on my shoulders, but I suppose there are worse ways to spend your evening. I must also add that our trampled Alfombras were the cushiest of any of the carpets I trampled all night. Such a proud moment, but so difficult to see all of your hard work destroyed. Four hours later, St. John was safely returned to the church and I went to bed with aching shoulders and feet. It had been a crazy day, but certainly one to remember. The most exciting Good Friday of my life was complete.

Holy Saturday: Though the rest of the week had virtually exhausted us, there was still plenty of work to be done to prepare for Easter. I spent the afternoon cleaning and cooking and just barely had time to get myself ready for the Easter Vigil mass. It was my first Easter vigil, and thus I was pretty clueless about the happenings at such an event. The only knowledge imparted to dispel my curiosity was that it was very long. This just made me worried and in need of lots of caffeine.

In true Belizean fashion, the event started precisely 30 minutes behind schedule. A fire started in the park as the faithful gathered around holding their candles. Father blessed the fire, and then lighted the Easter candle. From there it was a silent procession through the dark streets of Benque following the candle. “All who dwelt in darkness have seen a great light.” The time had come for Easter. What followed was a 4-hour-long service in Spanish, most of which took place in the dark. I cannot lie and say that I did not doze throughout, but I also can say that it was one of the most beautiful services that I have ever attended. By the time the final Alleluia was sung, I was feeling the full impact of the joy of Easter. So much so that I spent the next 2 hours serving Bollos and coke to the crowds that came to the ‘Resurrection party,’ while sporting high heels (The one and only time I have worn heels my whole tenure in Belize and I just had to reprise my waitress role.) By 2:30 am, the crowds had dispersed and it was time for us to go home and try to get some rest before our Easter celebrations continued later that day.

All in all, this was one of the coolest but one of the most exhausting weeks of my life. It made me realize how much we are lacking as far as traditions are concerned. Sure, it’s not necessarily feasible to spend four hours parading around the city while carrying a 2-ton float, but it’s the sentiment that counts. It’s the fact that people of all ages, demographics, and religions were willing to come together for a whole week to celebrate one of the most significant moments in human history. It certainly gave the holiday much more meaning for me. Don’t be surprised if next year I turn the driveway into an alfombra. It could happen.