First of all, I miss you. It has been over 1 year now since I left
the united states, which has me in a nostalgic place. It´s crazy to
think how quickly time flies, how much I have or have not accomplished.
It´s hard to keep track of all this, to be honest. The concepts of
time and accomplishment are very relative things which I have not yet
learned to measure accurately.
In short, all marches well here. I am working and growing and
experiencing all of the pains and pleasures that come with each. It´s a
constant rollercoaster ride, this peace corps life, but I am loving it
just the same. To be honest I struggle most when I leave and then come
back again--it´s hard to readjust. The modern world has some strange
affect on me, and when I re-settle at home I always pass a few days
dazed and confused and jetlagged. After a few rough mornings I sink
back into the comfort of village life, complete with green
mangos, nonstop social interaction, dirt from my head to my toes that
never seems to wash away, a million giggling children that never grow
bored of me, and all is great until my next interruption.
Instead of telling you about all the work and the water and the
scenery and whatever else I usually tell you about, this letter, I´m
going to tell you a story... it´s not a happy story, so don´t get your
hopes up. it´s a true story though and i´d like to share it with you.
hope you enjoy.
Maria de la Cruz.
A new day and little Yeli is waiting for me outside the door
again. It´s 6:30 in the morning on a school day. I can hear her water
tanks clinking, though she doesn´t say a word. It doesnt matter how
many times I tell her to just go check to see if there is water in the
faucet and if there is to go ahead and fill up with asking-- she still
waits silently outside my door. Most days there is no water, but she
comes anyway, and in the event that there is, she fills the tanks and
then waits for Maria de la Cruz to come haul the tanks up the hill on
her head.
Maria de la Cruz is her mother, and she is also my neighbor. On
Tuesday two of her 9 children showed up on my patio with a slice of
papaya and that look they always give me when they really came to ask
for something but are too shy to just say it. I ask Yeli what she wants
and she tells me it´s her mom´s birthday, and could she please use my
colored pencils and some paper to make a card. Of course I give her a
big sheet of red construction paper and I cut it in the form of a big
heart for her, and she goes to work. Maria de la Cruz is 42 years old
and has 7 grandchildren. Her children and grandchildren are at my house
almost daily, which at times can be inconvenient but I don´t have the
heart to send them home. I know what home means for them. For one
thing, everyone in the community knows that Isaiah beats Maria de la
Cruz. Yelizabeth tells me about the times when he has hit her with
liquor bottles, leaving enormous egg-sized welts on her body. One
night, Yeli says casually as she washes her baby sister in a bucket on
my front porch, they both grabbed machetes and threatened to kill each
other, so Yeli took the baby out to play by the mango tree. I tell her
she did the right thing, and that it´s not okay that her dad hits her
mom, and then I continue washing my clothes, but my mind wanders and my
heart sinks.
Crucita, the older sister arrives and stands over me, her belly
swollen although her breasts are still not fully formed. She is 15
years old and pregnant with her second child. I don´t want to make
hasty assumptions but I cannot help but to speculate as to how Crucita
first became pregnant at the age of 13 in a culture where young women
are not allowed to go out with men alone. I don´t want to make hasty
assumptions but I find it odd that Crucita lives unmarried in the
neighboring community of Las Playitas with her sister rather than at
home. Could it be the father again? I dont want to speculate anymore. I
continue washing clothes. Maybe if I scrub harder these terrible
thoughts, too, will wash away.
I´d like to think that I could talk to Maria de la Cruz about all
this. In the US I could tell her that she has the right and power to
report this, that there are agencies and people who can help her. But
here, metido in the campo of Panama, I know that we are too far in the
thick of it for anyone to save her. And she knows it. Here without
cell phone service, with a road that is only passable for certain months
of the year, what agency would possibly be able to help? And what
would become of the 16 children who depend on her for food and shelter
and safety? And what would become of her extended family that stays
behind to deal with the fury of Isaiah? And what would become of me,
the neighbor who enticed her to escape? It´s not only a bad idea, it´s
an impossible one.
All I can think to do is fill the water tanks for Yeli and carry
them up the hill when I have time, let her and the rest of her siblings
stay late at my house to read stories (especially on the nights when
Isaiah is drunk), and give them left over vegetables to take home when I
leave town. It pains me to know I cannot fix this family, nor can
I make their lives any safer, but there´s something to be said for being
a good neighbor, so I do my best.
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