Monday, February 22, 2010
Audy Turns One
Last weekend I had the great privilege of being invited to the birthday party of my friend Wendy's baby, Audy. In contrast to the other birthday party I wrote about, six months or so ago, this party was an intimate family-only affair where Audy's first year of life and the love of her incredible family were celebrated. Wendy is a single mom, living with her incredibly supportive parents and her two younger siblings. I've had the joy of watching Audy grow from a bundle tied to her mother's back into the lively one year old that she is. It took her a while to warm up to me, but now she knows me well and makes "ojitos" (heart-melting combination of winking and head shrugging) whenever I come over. I love this family.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Carnival: Round 2
There's something about holidays in Latin America; they're a little bigger, noisier, food-ier. It's like they take a holiday that the rest of us celebrate and add something extra. Fat Tuesday is no exception. I've always found Fat Tuesday to be a strange celebration in the US- we indulge on the day before lent begins, so that we can then go without that which we indulged in for the next 40 days. Slightly bizarre, if you ask me.
Here in Guatemala, Fat Tuesday or Carnival, is a chance for kids to run amok in the streets. Any semblance of parental control is relinquished for the day as kids roam the streets searching for victims on whom to smash confetti- filled eggs and smear metallic grease paint on. Though annoying, if you frequently have to walk between your office and house, making you an easy and predictable target, it is a hilarious practice. I left the camera safe in it's case for most of the day, but managed to snap a few shots of some more docile moments.
Here in Guatemala, Fat Tuesday or Carnival, is a chance for kids to run amok in the streets. Any semblance of parental control is relinquished for the day as kids roam the streets searching for victims on whom to smash confetti- filled eggs and smear metallic grease paint on. Though annoying, if you frequently have to walk between your office and house, making you an easy and predictable target, it is a hilarious practice. I left the camera safe in it's case for most of the day, but managed to snap a few shots of some more docile moments.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
San Valentin
I went to elementary school with this kid whose Greek family owned the little pizza joint in our town. In third grade, for Valentine's day he made our beloved teacher Miss Billera a heart shaped pizza covered with anchovies, her favorite. There it lay, atop her desk amidst the pile of homemade paper cards and boxes of sweethearts- shaming the rest of us for our lack of creativity. To this day, it remains in my mind the coolest valentine I've ever seen.
The kids I live with, Jose, Ulises and Sofia love pizza. So I decided I'd take a page from my elementary school pal's book and make them some heart shaped pizzas, topped with their own favorite ingredients (and in true Guatemalan fashion also topped with ketchup and chile). It was a hit...
The kids I live with, Jose, Ulises and Sofia love pizza. So I decided I'd take a page from my elementary school pal's book and make them some heart shaped pizzas, topped with their own favorite ingredients (and in true Guatemalan fashion also topped with ketchup and chile). It was a hit...
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Solidarity with the Poor
Solidarity with the poor is something that has been somewhat of a theme in my life over the last few years. I think I first heard the term during a class my freshmen year of college, in which we were reading Bryant Meyers' "Working With the Poor." The whole premise of Meyers' book is that if we really want to do development that actually transforms lives, for the better, in the long-term, we have to actually live among the poor. As a very green 18 year old college student, this idea rocked my world. I had been raised in a family that taught me to love the poor, who demonstrated that love in many ways- from taking our family vacations to Mexico to do construction to opening our homes up to foster children. But the idea of intentionally denying material wealth and taking up residence in forgotten and abandoned places among forgotten and abandoned people changed my whole worldview.
After college I took a fellowship as a grassroots organizer for an international NGO, which paid a pittance and gave me an opportunity to practice poverty and reliance on others. I moved into a poor DC Suburb (yes, suburbs are increasingly the abandoned and forgotten places- chew on that!) and lived for a year among motley crew of people who taught me lots about the whole solidarity with the poor thing. We had late night conversations about what it means to choose poverty, we shared meals with the homeless and we opened our doors a host of interesting kids. Though short and arguably un-intentional, I learned a lot about what it means to see a neighborhood from the inside out.
So now I find myself here, in rural Guatemala, a Peace Corps volunteer with a monthly stipend that would barely cover the cost of my old DC metro habit. The whole idea of the Peace Corps is to gain the trust of your community by living with them and like them, eating the same as them, washing your clothes like them, bumping shoulders in the market with them, and then the goal is to see where you can use your skills to maybe improve their quality of life a bit. While I often struggle to put into words, or even into my own head, how I've improved the quality of life of my town, I can say without a doubt that I have learned in small ways how to live in solidarity with the poor. It's a humbling and amazing and sometimes nerve-wracking experience to reach the 15th of the month and have very little month left. It evokes creativity, thrift and community- as you lean on your neighbors for advice on how to stretch what money you have left.
I don't pretend to think that I can ever truly take on the weight of poverty; my parents would bail me out the second they thought I was skipping meals so I could pay my light bill. Nonetheless, I am amazed at this experience that I'm immersed in, and thankful for the lesson.
After college I took a fellowship as a grassroots organizer for an international NGO, which paid a pittance and gave me an opportunity to practice poverty and reliance on others. I moved into a poor DC Suburb (yes, suburbs are increasingly the abandoned and forgotten places- chew on that!) and lived for a year among motley crew of people who taught me lots about the whole solidarity with the poor thing. We had late night conversations about what it means to choose poverty, we shared meals with the homeless and we opened our doors a host of interesting kids. Though short and arguably un-intentional, I learned a lot about what it means to see a neighborhood from the inside out.
So now I find myself here, in rural Guatemala, a Peace Corps volunteer with a monthly stipend that would barely cover the cost of my old DC metro habit. The whole idea of the Peace Corps is to gain the trust of your community by living with them and like them, eating the same as them, washing your clothes like them, bumping shoulders in the market with them, and then the goal is to see where you can use your skills to maybe improve their quality of life a bit. While I often struggle to put into words, or even into my own head, how I've improved the quality of life of my town, I can say without a doubt that I have learned in small ways how to live in solidarity with the poor. It's a humbling and amazing and sometimes nerve-wracking experience to reach the 15th of the month and have very little month left. It evokes creativity, thrift and community- as you lean on your neighbors for advice on how to stretch what money you have left.
I don't pretend to think that I can ever truly take on the weight of poverty; my parents would bail me out the second they thought I was skipping meals so I could pay my light bill. Nonetheless, I am amazed at this experience that I'm immersed in, and thankful for the lesson.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
"Obscure Mayan Language Leaves Justice Tongue Tied"
The following article is about Mayan Mam speakers who are from my neck of the woods. Just a little glimpse into the prejudice and issues that they face. Though this article specifically speaks of what life is like for Guatemalans living in the United States, they face similar issues even here in their own country...
TAMPA — He was 28. She was 11. Her parents said they gave consent, claiming cultural norms of the Guatemalan highlands. But in Dover, Florida, a little girl with a baby raises questions.
When deputies came, Teodoro Pablo-Ramirez understood only some of what they said, according to his lawyer. He speaks no English and little Spanish — just the Mayan tongue of Mam.
The indigenous language, understood by few interpreters, has stymied court cases across the country. One interpreting service in Washington resorted to recruiting a Mam speaker out of a jail lobby.
In Hillsborough Circuit Court, two cases, both too serious to dismiss, are stalled for lack of a Mam translator. In one, a 4-year-old Wimauma girl was raped. The details are locked inside her mother, who speaks only Mam. And last year, Pablo-Ramirez was convicted and sentenced to life in prison, before the judge granted a motion for retrial.
The court could provide only Spanish interpreters.
In Spanish, the word "trial" is juicio.
In Mam:
Tun txi´ jun xjal twitz aj kawil.
Pablo-Ramirez lived next-door to the 11-year-old in a cluster of Dover trailers inhabited by migrant workers. He was her brother-in-law. They had sex at least three times in her bedroom, and in the spring of 2005, the girl got pregnant, records show.
She missed school and gave birth to a baby boy when she was 12. When she returned, a counselor asked why she had been away. By day's end, a Spanish-speaking detective was knocking on Pablo-Ramirez's door.
The man from the western highlands of Guatemala, who has only a first-grade education, had entered the United States illegally a few years earlier. Pablo-Ramirez picked up a bit of Spanish from other migrant workers. His lawyer says he knew just enough to understand the detective's questions. Did he have sex with the girl? Was the baby his?
Si, Pablo-Ramirez said. In broken Spanish, he tried to explain that he was paying child support. The lawyer says his client didn't understand his Miranda rights. As he was being led away in handcuffs on charges of sexual abuse and impregnation of a child younger than 12, he continued to promise he would pay for the baby.
The girl's family returned to their home town of Todos Santos Cuchumatan, Guatemala, and sent a notarized letter to the judge, saying the relationship happened with parental consent.
In the letter, the father said that in his culture, boys and girls marry as young as 11.
While more than 15 percent of Guatemalan girls are married by age 15, scholars with the Population Council say a pregnant or married 11-year-old is very rare.
When West Tampa lawyer Bryant Camareno first spoke to Pablo-Ramirez, the prisoner mixed bits of Spanish with Mam in a combination the lawyer couldn't understand. Camareno knew he needed to find a Mam interpreter. But how?
There is no state certification for Mam interpreters, no central bank. Texas linguistics professor Nora C. England wrote her doctoral dissertation on Mam grammar and has penned entire books about Mayan languages. Even she can't speak Mam well enough to translate, she says. She knows no one who does.
Public defenders and advocacy groups e-mail her regularly, sometimes once a week, looking for an interpreter.
The interpreter's office at the Hillsborough courthouse found a Mam interpreter in Lake Worth but could never connect with her to get her to court.
So Pablo-Ramirez sat through his jury trial last year with a Spanish interpreter.
An expert witness for the prosecution testified that Pablo-Ramirez spoke fluent Spanish.
Camareno argued that the Guatemalan didn't understand enough of what was said.
The jury found Pablo-Ramirez guilty. Then, on sentencing day, Judge Wayne Timmerman told Pablo-Ramirez he would spend the rest of his life in prison.
The words hit his ears in Spanish.
Pablo-Ramirez registered no reaction.
Timmerman asked Camareno if his client understood what just happened. No, the lawyer remembers saying; that was his point all along.
Camareno turned to Pablo-Ramirez and broke the sentence down to one word he thought the man might understand.
"Vida," Camareno told him.
Life.
Finally, Pablo-Ramirez looked shocked. "Por que?" he asked.
Why?
• • •
It's unclear how many people in the Tampa Bay area speak only Mayan languages, but officials at the Redlands Christian Migrant Association know the population in east Hillsborough County is growing.
The Immokalee-based non-profit provides early childhood services from Homestead to Plant City. Migrant Head Start manager Lourdes Villanueva said officials realized 10 years ago that about 80 percent of her children came from families who spoke only indigenous languages at home. That posed a problem, especially during child evaluation conferences with parents.
Program workers asked the Mexican consulate and local universities for help, but what they got couldn't begin to tackle the dozens of dialects spoken. So now, Villanueva said, staffers try to find Spanish-speaking neighbors to mediate. If that doesn't work, the child must interpret.
Court trials can't work that way. But Ed Fuentes, who owns an interpreter service in Washington, found a solution.
Seeing cases get dismissed, the Spanish interpreter considered learning Mam himself. Then one day, while waiting for a client in a jail lobby, he heard a man speaking the language.
The man had no interpreting experience. He earned a living by finding laborers to pick brush in the mountains. But Fuentes had never been closer to finding an interpreter. He spent 20 to 25 hours teaching the man legal terminology and court ethics.
Last year, when a Mam man faced a murder charge, Fuentes and his new interpreter worked in tandem at the same hearing — one from English to Spanish, and the other from Spanish to Mam. The case was dismissed and the man was deported.
Attorneys sometimes get lucky with Internet searches and track down Rosendo Leon Aguilar Carrillo, a San Francisco-based Mam interpreter who has traveled to Chicago, Kansas City, New Mexico and Seattle, charging $300 per day plus travel.
He says that when defendants in court can finally hear what's happening from a fellow Mam, some cry tears of relief.
• • •
Now 32, Pablo-Ramirez remains in prison. It's unclear whether he understands why. Or whether he'll get a shot at a new trial with a Mam interpreter.
Judge Timmerman was concerned about the defendant's ability to understand what was happening. The judge ordered a competency evaluation.
Doctors discussed his language deficits. Timmerman granted a defense motion for retrial, which prosecutors plan to appeal.
At a hearing this week, Pablo-Ramirez stood before a judge once more, a Spanish interpreter at his side.
Times researcher John Martin contributed to this report. Alexandra Zayas can be reached at azayas@sptimes.com or (813) 226-3354.
Found: http://www.tampabay.com/news/courts/criminal/obscure-mayan-language-leaves-justice-tongue-tied/1071371
TAMPA — He was 28. She was 11. Her parents said they gave consent, claiming cultural norms of the Guatemalan highlands. But in Dover, Florida, a little girl with a baby raises questions.
When deputies came, Teodoro Pablo-Ramirez understood only some of what they said, according to his lawyer. He speaks no English and little Spanish — just the Mayan tongue of Mam.
The indigenous language, understood by few interpreters, has stymied court cases across the country. One interpreting service in Washington resorted to recruiting a Mam speaker out of a jail lobby.
In Hillsborough Circuit Court, two cases, both too serious to dismiss, are stalled for lack of a Mam translator. In one, a 4-year-old Wimauma girl was raped. The details are locked inside her mother, who speaks only Mam. And last year, Pablo-Ramirez was convicted and sentenced to life in prison, before the judge granted a motion for retrial.
The court could provide only Spanish interpreters.
In Spanish, the word "trial" is juicio.
In Mam:
Tun txi´ jun xjal twitz aj kawil.
Pablo-Ramirez lived next-door to the 11-year-old in a cluster of Dover trailers inhabited by migrant workers. He was her brother-in-law. They had sex at least three times in her bedroom, and in the spring of 2005, the girl got pregnant, records show.
She missed school and gave birth to a baby boy when she was 12. When she returned, a counselor asked why she had been away. By day's end, a Spanish-speaking detective was knocking on Pablo-Ramirez's door.
The man from the western highlands of Guatemala, who has only a first-grade education, had entered the United States illegally a few years earlier. Pablo-Ramirez picked up a bit of Spanish from other migrant workers. His lawyer says he knew just enough to understand the detective's questions. Did he have sex with the girl? Was the baby his?
Si, Pablo-Ramirez said. In broken Spanish, he tried to explain that he was paying child support. The lawyer says his client didn't understand his Miranda rights. As he was being led away in handcuffs on charges of sexual abuse and impregnation of a child younger than 12, he continued to promise he would pay for the baby.
The girl's family returned to their home town of Todos Santos Cuchumatan, Guatemala, and sent a notarized letter to the judge, saying the relationship happened with parental consent.
In the letter, the father said that in his culture, boys and girls marry as young as 11.
While more than 15 percent of Guatemalan girls are married by age 15, scholars with the Population Council say a pregnant or married 11-year-old is very rare.
When West Tampa lawyer Bryant Camareno first spoke to Pablo-Ramirez, the prisoner mixed bits of Spanish with Mam in a combination the lawyer couldn't understand. Camareno knew he needed to find a Mam interpreter. But how?
There is no state certification for Mam interpreters, no central bank. Texas linguistics professor Nora C. England wrote her doctoral dissertation on Mam grammar and has penned entire books about Mayan languages. Even she can't speak Mam well enough to translate, she says. She knows no one who does.
Public defenders and advocacy groups e-mail her regularly, sometimes once a week, looking for an interpreter.
The interpreter's office at the Hillsborough courthouse found a Mam interpreter in Lake Worth but could never connect with her to get her to court.
So Pablo-Ramirez sat through his jury trial last year with a Spanish interpreter.
An expert witness for the prosecution testified that Pablo-Ramirez spoke fluent Spanish.
Camareno argued that the Guatemalan didn't understand enough of what was said.
The jury found Pablo-Ramirez guilty. Then, on sentencing day, Judge Wayne Timmerman told Pablo-Ramirez he would spend the rest of his life in prison.
The words hit his ears in Spanish.
Pablo-Ramirez registered no reaction.
Timmerman asked Camareno if his client understood what just happened. No, the lawyer remembers saying; that was his point all along.
Camareno turned to Pablo-Ramirez and broke the sentence down to one word he thought the man might understand.
"Vida," Camareno told him.
Life.
Finally, Pablo-Ramirez looked shocked. "Por que?" he asked.
Why?
• • •
It's unclear how many people in the Tampa Bay area speak only Mayan languages, but officials at the Redlands Christian Migrant Association know the population in east Hillsborough County is growing.
The Immokalee-based non-profit provides early childhood services from Homestead to Plant City. Migrant Head Start manager Lourdes Villanueva said officials realized 10 years ago that about 80 percent of her children came from families who spoke only indigenous languages at home. That posed a problem, especially during child evaluation conferences with parents.
Program workers asked the Mexican consulate and local universities for help, but what they got couldn't begin to tackle the dozens of dialects spoken. So now, Villanueva said, staffers try to find Spanish-speaking neighbors to mediate. If that doesn't work, the child must interpret.
Court trials can't work that way. But Ed Fuentes, who owns an interpreter service in Washington, found a solution.
Seeing cases get dismissed, the Spanish interpreter considered learning Mam himself. Then one day, while waiting for a client in a jail lobby, he heard a man speaking the language.
The man had no interpreting experience. He earned a living by finding laborers to pick brush in the mountains. But Fuentes had never been closer to finding an interpreter. He spent 20 to 25 hours teaching the man legal terminology and court ethics.
Last year, when a Mam man faced a murder charge, Fuentes and his new interpreter worked in tandem at the same hearing — one from English to Spanish, and the other from Spanish to Mam. The case was dismissed and the man was deported.
Attorneys sometimes get lucky with Internet searches and track down Rosendo Leon Aguilar Carrillo, a San Francisco-based Mam interpreter who has traveled to Chicago, Kansas City, New Mexico and Seattle, charging $300 per day plus travel.
He says that when defendants in court can finally hear what's happening from a fellow Mam, some cry tears of relief.
• • •
Now 32, Pablo-Ramirez remains in prison. It's unclear whether he understands why. Or whether he'll get a shot at a new trial with a Mam interpreter.
Judge Timmerman was concerned about the defendant's ability to understand what was happening. The judge ordered a competency evaluation.
Doctors discussed his language deficits. Timmerman granted a defense motion for retrial, which prosecutors plan to appeal.
At a hearing this week, Pablo-Ramirez stood before a judge once more, a Spanish interpreter at his side.
Times researcher John Martin contributed to this report. Alexandra Zayas can be reached at azayas@sptimes.com or (813) 226-3354.
Found: http://www.tampabay.com/news/courts/criminal/obscure-mayan-language-leaves-justice-tongue-tied/1071371
Monday, February 8, 2010
Life of Late
Well folks, I have officially reached the 18 month mark in my Peace Corps service. During my first week of training I spoke with a volunteer that was about to "COS" (Close of Service) and asked her to summarize her experience, give me some wisdom for the coming months, etc. She said to me that the days often crawl, but the time flies. She was absolutely right. I can't believe that I've been here for so long, and how far I've come during that time.
I try to be positive in this blog- sharing with you the successes and and incredible moments I've experienced. But if I am completely honest, these last 18 months have been more challenging than anything. It is indescribably difficult adjusting to a new culture, language and context without the comfort of those you know and love. My work situation has been less than ideal most of the time, with my Peace Corps assigned counterparts not knowing how to utilize a volunteer and often not wanting to deal with the hassle. My community has faced myriad challenges in my time here- from riots and violence to food shortages and drought. But I'm a part of this community, of my office, of the life here and I feel like I've finally emerged on the other side of the adjustment period.
I truly feel like I am a part of this place. People trust me and ask me to help them with projects and to participate in community events. I speak the language and even sometimes understand the nuances of the culture! It feels like an amazing accomplishment and privilege to be let into the life of this community and into the hearts of the people here. It was worth the struggle.
I try to be positive in this blog- sharing with you the successes and and incredible moments I've experienced. But if I am completely honest, these last 18 months have been more challenging than anything. It is indescribably difficult adjusting to a new culture, language and context without the comfort of those you know and love. My work situation has been less than ideal most of the time, with my Peace Corps assigned counterparts not knowing how to utilize a volunteer and often not wanting to deal with the hassle. My community has faced myriad challenges in my time here- from riots and violence to food shortages and drought. But I'm a part of this community, of my office, of the life here and I feel like I've finally emerged on the other side of the adjustment period.
I truly feel like I am a part of this place. People trust me and ask me to help them with projects and to participate in community events. I speak the language and even sometimes understand the nuances of the culture! It feels like an amazing accomplishment and privilege to be let into the life of this community and into the hearts of the people here. It was worth the struggle.
Friday, February 5, 2010
9 Things
In the past month I've been thinking a lot about what I've learned and done so far in my 18 months in Guatemala, which of course, has me thinking about what'd I'd like to accomplish in the last 9. I've made my annual work plan and mapped out the projects that need attending to; there are latrines to build, a library to improve, and high schoolers to teach. However, there are a few things that I'm itching to do while I'm still here that don't appear in the work plan. So here they are, in no particular order:
- Celebrate my 25th year with something frightening (suggestions? para-glidng?)
- Make a flawless tortilla
- Grow Spinach
- Spend more time creating
- Hike to El Mirador
- Brew Beer
- Finish the AFI top 100 list
- Visit Rio Dulce
- Say goodbye to my womens' groups in Mam
- Celebrate my 25th year with something frightening (suggestions? para-glidng?)
- Make a flawless tortilla
- Grow Spinach
- Spend more time creating
- Hike to El Mirador
- Brew Beer
- Finish the AFI top 100 list
- Visit Rio Dulce
- Say goodbye to my womens' groups in Mam
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