For the last few years, I have suffered through not having any sort of photo alteration software on my computer. How many nights I longed for a bit of Photoshop magic...for the blog, for presentations....
Today I opened my computer and while looking for another program I don’t use too often, realized that I do, in fact, have Photoshop on my computer. This caused a rash of highly colorful words and a good head pounding on the non-existent desk: how could I have been so blind? Did I never actually CHECK? Is it possible that in all the years I have had this computer I never ONCE thought to look through the list of software that’s on this hard drive??? I highly doubt this is a miracle. I am quite irritated at myself and my own rash stupidity...and loving having the power of a brush tool and text editors!
But my computer is running slow, being old, and this is complicating the Photoshop process...you may notice I tried to change the header on my blog. Much more of a process than I hoped it would be...I may have to put it off until I arrive back in the States, as at least there I have some access to what is longingly remembered as "high-speed internet."
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Sunday Scribblings: Masks
It happened, walking past a group of pot-smoking teenagers crouched around a tiny portable television. We didn't make eye contact. My choice. There was a head nod, a sort of tacit acknowledgement of presence, and a hasty "boa noite." The kid with a walker (he's easing out of the wheelchair, I think), moved it out of the way. Some five feet away, I wondered. Do they feel as non-existent as I just made them? What masks must they wear to protect themselves from the indifference or fear of their neighbors? We know who they work for, and what they could be involved in. When the shots ring out in the middle of the night, their faces flash across my dreams and I pray for their safety. But I don't know their names, and haven't said more than a 'hello' or a 'goodbye' and a 'can I pass please' to them in two years. What does that do to a person? Is that enough stigma to stay in the trade?
J- is a forest of smiles around me, gentle in his actions and interested in so much around him. Polite and soft-spoken, he shines in the group of street kids we have gotten to know. But if I hang around a little after, once the volunteers have gone home, he puts on his heavy mask that buries pride and suffocates shame to beg for money or at least a shoeshine job. If I call to him, he doesn't respond. The mask is on so tightly, he can't hear. He's become a beggar, no longer J-.
L- pulled her hat down over her face, a perfect US-style robbery mask, and laughed behind the black striped wool. For warmth or concealment? I prefer not to know...
I wear masks too. To hide disgust or humor at the pick-up lines that come on all sides like we're prey in some urban dating video game. To pretend I'm not scared or frustrated or angry or white when the police cars pass. To bury my tears deep, because there are façades I would like to keep intact. Or like the feathered Carnaval masks, gaudy with glitter and iridescent mirrors, I paint elaborate plumage to attract, entice, keep at a safe distance. That must be the real purpose of a mask...fearing exposure, we need another layer between ourselves and the world, others, God...even our own souls.
And when the masks come off, would we even recognize ourselves?
J- is a forest of smiles around me, gentle in his actions and interested in so much around him. Polite and soft-spoken, he shines in the group of street kids we have gotten to know. But if I hang around a little after, once the volunteers have gone home, he puts on his heavy mask that buries pride and suffocates shame to beg for money or at least a shoeshine job. If I call to him, he doesn't respond. The mask is on so tightly, he can't hear. He's become a beggar, no longer J-.
L- pulled her hat down over her face, a perfect US-style robbery mask, and laughed behind the black striped wool. For warmth or concealment? I prefer not to know...
I wear masks too. To hide disgust or humor at the pick-up lines that come on all sides like we're prey in some urban dating video game. To pretend I'm not scared or frustrated or angry or white when the police cars pass. To bury my tears deep, because there are façades I would like to keep intact. Or like the feathered Carnaval masks, gaudy with glitter and iridescent mirrors, I paint elaborate plumage to attract, entice, keep at a safe distance. That must be the real purpose of a mask...fearing exposure, we need another layer between ourselves and the world, others, God...even our own souls.
And when the masks come off, would we even recognize ourselves?
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Surreal
My life in the last few days has been abnormally surreal. One night I'm at a party held in a swanky penthouse apartment in the Zona Sul or having dinner (on the house) at a restaurant with with the owner, with the resultant movie-star perks: a parking spot saved for us at the front door, almost no waiting time on our food, the best chocolate brownie I have eaten in years. Another day I'm hiking around the city in three-inch heels for documents and interviews, ending in Praça Mauá, where we have some friends. I stop to take my killer shoes off on, standing on a piece of damp cardboard to cradle a crying baby. His mother has 12 children and lives mostly on the street. I pray for her, watching "lagrimas desesperadas" run down her worn cheeks. I think about her son in jail and her daughter who-knows where and I wonder why God allows all this and whether there is really any chance for serious societal and personal change when the obstacles are this great. And I throw a quick, frivolous prayer to the skies that her lovely baby boy won't throw up on my gorgeous new suit as I toss him in the air, to his delight and the confusion of onlookers. I am barefoot, after all, with my pinstriped pants rolled up so as not to drag in the puddles and my suit jacket only slightly rumpled. He is cute and chubby and laughs with a rattle that shakes his tiny lungs. Another night I hang out with friends who drop big Hollywood names casually and go to modeling gigs. I find myself dizzy with the contrast between the worlds I walk in. I have a friend who is in debt mostly because they had to put grocery shopping on the credit card...and couldn't pay it off. I see one of our volunteers crying on the streets and unsure whether she can share with our friends there, as their situations are so much worse, so much more hopeless. And then J- comes up and slips his arm around her and says, "Tia, don't cry. What's wrong? You can tell us...have faith. You need to be strong! For us..." and then every song they choose that night, at our makeshift church service, seems to be tailor-made for that woman. I watch her leave in a haze and we have to smile at how God is not at all like how we would want a god to be. Because God's answers are not simple and they always require us to act. I would rather have a god who is in tune with my personal preferences, makes everything easy and simple and uncomplicated, and never left me feeling guilty, torn, or frustrated. Of course, I know people who worship just such a god, and they are miserable. God's radical difference from me is perhaps one of the key reasons I believe...because this life is nothing I would have ever chosen for myself if I didn't find God totally, unconvincingly real and interested in me. (I would have made a really wonderful materialist, hedonist, and consumerist. I love shoes. With heels and bows, in leather and crocodile, straps and laces and intricate embroideries...and unrestrained by either space or funds, I would have thousands of pairs. Really.) But I'm glad I'm not. Because shoes don't really have much to offer up against God and seeing the change that is happening in small but seismic leaps in the lives of people who had given up believing that they were worthy of love.
I'm not usually a fan of modern translations of the Bible, because I love words, and love intricate combinations of words, and modern stylings usually take something lovely and turn it into sixth-grade-history-textbook boring. But when I was thinking about how much living in the favela and working among people on the street has changed me, I remembered a verse that I liked...and it rings truer for me today in The Message version than anywhere else. It comes from the first letter to the Corinthians, in the first chapter. The author is encouraging the fledgling church:
"...Christ is God's ultimate miracle and wisdom all wrapped up in one. Human wisdom is so tinny, so impotent, next to the seeming absurdity of God. Human strength can't begin to compete with God's "weakness." Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don't see many of "the brightest and the best" among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families. Isn't it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these "nobodies" to expose the hollow pretensions of the "somebodies"? That makes it quite clear that none of you can get by with blowing your own horn before God. Everything that we have—right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start—comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. That's why we have the saying, "If you're going to blow a horn, blow a trumpet for God."
This blog is about as much trumpet as I get. Thanks, God, for everything...
There is so much more to say on this subject, so many conversations to relate, so many thoughts to share...but there is too much for now. Have a wonderful weekend...
I'm not usually a fan of modern translations of the Bible, because I love words, and love intricate combinations of words, and modern stylings usually take something lovely and turn it into sixth-grade-history-textbook boring. But when I was thinking about how much living in the favela and working among people on the street has changed me, I remembered a verse that I liked...and it rings truer for me today in The Message version than anywhere else. It comes from the first letter to the Corinthians, in the first chapter. The author is encouraging the fledgling church:
"...Christ is God's ultimate miracle and wisdom all wrapped up in one. Human wisdom is so tinny, so impotent, next to the seeming absurdity of God. Human strength can't begin to compete with God's "weakness." Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don't see many of "the brightest and the best" among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families. Isn't it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these "nobodies" to expose the hollow pretensions of the "somebodies"? That makes it quite clear that none of you can get by with blowing your own horn before God. Everything that we have—right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start—comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. That's why we have the saying, "If you're going to blow a horn, blow a trumpet for God."
This blog is about as much trumpet as I get. Thanks, God, for everything...
There is so much more to say on this subject, so many conversations to relate, so many thoughts to share...but there is too much for now. Have a wonderful weekend...
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
You know those days that promise to start out so badly,
and actually end up being something so wonderful that you get writer's block just thinking about how to share?
Today was one of those days.
Woke up with a praise song in my head and a four-hour meeting ahead of me...and it's been a wonderful wonderful fantastic day! But because it is late, and I have another long day ahead of me tomorrow, I'm not going to post. You'll have to wait until tomorrow...
So visit my friend Ali's blog and laugh about Café Gratitude...or my sister Ellen's blog and read about drug dealers and prostitutes and other beloved children of God...
G'night!
Today was one of those days.
Woke up with a praise song in my head and a four-hour meeting ahead of me...and it's been a wonderful wonderful fantastic day! But because it is late, and I have another long day ahead of me tomorrow, I'm not going to post. You'll have to wait until tomorrow...
So visit my friend Ali's blog and laugh about Café Gratitude...or my sister Ellen's blog and read about drug dealers and prostitutes and other beloved children of God...
G'night!
Saturday, May 12, 2007
More jewelry pictures
This weekend has been great creatively and personally. I'm relaxing, starting the slow process of packing my bags for two months away from Brazil and packing my house up for a quick move once I return. I've made a lot of jewelry. My back hurts as a result, because I work on the floor. I know it's not the most intelligent place. I think I do it because of laziness. Working on the floor in the spare bedroom means I don't have to clean anything up when I'm done; I can leave projects half finished and know that they're not accidentally going to get mixed in with the lasagna, as would surely happen if I worked in the kitchen!
Here's some pictures of the latest goodies, most of which will be going to the Projeto Vidinha fundraiser:
These first two necklaces are made from wooden beads and seeds. Very Amazon and hippie...
This necklace is made of purple glass beads and a turquoise colored glass accent, with two tiny (real) turquoise chips. I made a pair of earrings to go with it as well.
Remember that sodalite necklace that wouldn't photograph? I'm still not sure if I'm going to make it a ribbon or a chain necklace...but I'm wearing it here, as I talk on the phone with a friend...
and a similar style is shown below, made with gold colored glass beads.
It's been hard to hold myself back to just making fairly inexpensive items. I can't wait to start working with silver and semi-precious stones again!
Here's some pictures of the latest goodies, most of which will be going to the Projeto Vidinha fundraiser:
These first two necklaces are made from wooden beads and seeds. Very Amazon and hippie...
This necklace is made of purple glass beads and a turquoise colored glass accent, with two tiny (real) turquoise chips. I made a pair of earrings to go with it as well.
Remember that sodalite necklace that wouldn't photograph? I'm still not sure if I'm going to make it a ribbon or a chain necklace...but I'm wearing it here, as I talk on the phone with a friend...
and a similar style is shown below, made with gold colored glass beads.
It's been hard to hold myself back to just making fairly inexpensive items. I can't wait to start working with silver and semi-precious stones again!
Friday, May 11, 2007
I hate iPhoto. And I love food.
Just turn your computer monitors sideways, or your heads. Whichever is easier. Because those pictures were properly positioned when I uploaded them. And I'm not trying it again tonight. Sorry!
---
When we lived in Tijuca, the little neighbor girl, age nine or so, befriended us. She once invited us up and had their cook explain how to make her favorite spaghetti; I think she realized that we weren’t eating very Brazilian! I remember it being really, fabulously good, and never being able to replicate it exactly. I think the cook didn’t share all her ingredients...but then, there was that language barrier...
Basically, it was onions and garlic browned up in butter, and then leftover cooked spaghetti and cream thrown in on top, salted to taste and served. Tonight, I was craving real food but not in much of a mood to make anything time consuming. I started with some onions I had in the fridge, sliced up paper thin, and left them to brown in a saucepan with butter. I then scanned my cabinets. Since I’m leaving in 20 days, I have to eat up all the things that have been lying around for months. Pasta came next, and I threw it on to boil, not even bothering to pick out the bugs. (My freezer isn’t big enough to store everything, so yes, I have bugs). I did, however, strain them out before adding the pasta to the sauce...
Next up, some frozen breaded chicken patties and a couple of cubes of frozen spinach, tossed into the saucepan until they were unfrozen and all onion-y. De-bugged pasta came next, followed by a squirt of creme de leite and milk, some salt, white pepper, nutmeg, and a teeny bit of worstershire sauce. Let me tell you. This spinach take on Garibaldi 19/101 Onion Pasta is AWESOME!!! And it took all of, oh, seven minutes to make.
And now, I must do my dishes. Because I don’t want to feed the rat that’s already eaten my olive oil container, part of my oven mitt, and who knows what else. I hope he dies of starvation!
---
When we lived in Tijuca, the little neighbor girl, age nine or so, befriended us. She once invited us up and had their cook explain how to make her favorite spaghetti; I think she realized that we weren’t eating very Brazilian! I remember it being really, fabulously good, and never being able to replicate it exactly. I think the cook didn’t share all her ingredients...but then, there was that language barrier...
Basically, it was onions and garlic browned up in butter, and then leftover cooked spaghetti and cream thrown in on top, salted to taste and served. Tonight, I was craving real food but not in much of a mood to make anything time consuming. I started with some onions I had in the fridge, sliced up paper thin, and left them to brown in a saucepan with butter. I then scanned my cabinets. Since I’m leaving in 20 days, I have to eat up all the things that have been lying around for months. Pasta came next, and I threw it on to boil, not even bothering to pick out the bugs. (My freezer isn’t big enough to store everything, so yes, I have bugs). I did, however, strain them out before adding the pasta to the sauce...
Next up, some frozen breaded chicken patties and a couple of cubes of frozen spinach, tossed into the saucepan until they were unfrozen and all onion-y. De-bugged pasta came next, followed by a squirt of creme de leite and milk, some salt, white pepper, nutmeg, and a teeny bit of worstershire sauce. Let me tell you. This spinach take on Garibaldi 19/101 Onion Pasta is AWESOME!!! And it took all of, oh, seven minutes to make.
And now, I must do my dishes. Because I don’t want to feed the rat that’s already eaten my olive oil container, part of my oven mitt, and who knows what else. I hope he dies of starvation!
If I wrote for a jewlery catalogue, it would sound like this
Since I’m not going to be here for the tea party Projeto Vidinha is having in June (to raise money to buy a combi), I offered a little extra help in the form of jewelry. I’m going to donate several pieces for them to sell at the fundraiser. So today, I stopped by the beading stores and picked up a couple of things. My problem now is...I don’t know what to give, what to sell and what to keep!
One of the necklaces is made from polished chunks of blue sodalite, red glass beads, keychain links, and a bit of ribbon. I just love the weight of these stones...I’m a sucker for heavy jewlery. I tried and tried to get pictures of the necklace and earrings but the only ones that came out are the earrings in the next picture. It's an upside down pair and they are MINE!; I loved the ones Ali had up on her website so much that I went ahead and artistically plagiarized. I hope she doesn't mind...
This necklace is made out of açai and unidentified seeds. These styles are really popular right now, so I'm sure I'll be doing a couple of similar ones for the fundraiser. They're easy to make and look great with nearly everything.
The focal glass bead on this necklace looks like a gigantic butterscotch. I think I picked it out because I was hungry at the store, and the food-colored beads kept catching my eye! I believe all the beads are glass, and the disks are “ouro velho” which isn’t really gold at all, but they clink when you walk and make a nice monochromatic statement.
A chain salvaged from another necklace started this piece, which is made of lemony yellow and toffee brown (foods, again!) crystals that were leftovers from my great-grandmother’s bead stash. I’ve never been much of a fan of yellow, and so these beads have been waiting to be used since I was in high school. Mixed with chunky caramel glass beads with some interesting shape and a quirky little beaded tassel detail to finish, this necklace is modern with an antique feel. I made a pair of matching earrings too. They look better on than I thought they would...
Please notice that I am smiling in all my pictures. (Ellen...that's for you) It's harder than it looks to balance the camera, avoid showing unwashed dishes in the background, and get a non-cheesy smile on before the flash goes off...but I am smiling. Though, personally, I like the distant, Abercrombie stare...
One of the necklaces is made from polished chunks of blue sodalite, red glass beads, keychain links, and a bit of ribbon. I just love the weight of these stones...I’m a sucker for heavy jewlery. I tried and tried to get pictures of the necklace and earrings but the only ones that came out are the earrings in the next picture. It's an upside down pair and they are MINE!; I loved the ones Ali had up on her website so much that I went ahead and artistically plagiarized. I hope she doesn't mind...
This necklace is made out of açai and unidentified seeds. These styles are really popular right now, so I'm sure I'll be doing a couple of similar ones for the fundraiser. They're easy to make and look great with nearly everything.
The focal glass bead on this necklace looks like a gigantic butterscotch. I think I picked it out because I was hungry at the store, and the food-colored beads kept catching my eye! I believe all the beads are glass, and the disks are “ouro velho” which isn’t really gold at all, but they clink when you walk and make a nice monochromatic statement.
A chain salvaged from another necklace started this piece, which is made of lemony yellow and toffee brown (foods, again!) crystals that were leftovers from my great-grandmother’s bead stash. I’ve never been much of a fan of yellow, and so these beads have been waiting to be used since I was in high school. Mixed with chunky caramel glass beads with some interesting shape and a quirky little beaded tassel detail to finish, this necklace is modern with an antique feel. I made a pair of matching earrings too. They look better on than I thought they would...
Please notice that I am smiling in all my pictures. (Ellen...that's for you) It's harder than it looks to balance the camera, avoid showing unwashed dishes in the background, and get a non-cheesy smile on before the flash goes off...but I am smiling. Though, personally, I like the distant, Abercrombie stare...
Friday, 5:30 am
The litany of things going wrong continues...
Yesterday I started coming down with something, that "ughk" kind of feeling where there's nothing specificially wrong with you and you certainly wouldn't head off to the doctor. But you feel terrible and achy and yet at the same time, are too wired to just lay around in bed...
...the wired part was probably due to my realization that I am leaving in 20 days and that's not nearly as much time as I thought it was. But doing anything about that is going to have to wait for another day, when I don't feel so lousy.
My computer has begun her slow descent into old age. Or, it was a slow descent and now it is a full-scale freefall. My photo program has eaten all my photos and I have yet to find a fix. That makes it hard to finish my slideshow presentation I was working on for my supporters and churches. And the internet is so blastedly slow. Apple must really think that all their users have high-speed connections. My update is 168 MB. That is, according to my computer's current estimate, 46 hours on the internet. Hours. And if I lose the connection, which happens frequently here, due to cheap dial up services and bad phone lines, I get to start it all over again. Maravilha!
So I'm going to be seeking out a new computer when I get back to the land of cheap technology. And it probably won't be another one of these cute, sleek, Garageband equipped Macs...because the new ones don't come with an internal modem. America-centric, Mr. Jobs!!! Not everyone has wireless...or wants to laptop it with a USB modem hanging off the side.
It's gotten super chilly here pretty much overnight. I woke up this morning to the sound of rain or my invisible but very much present rat friend and thought about my friends on the streets, who must be miserable in this weather. What kind of shame or pride or foolishness or addiction or abuse is strong enough to keep someone living outside on wet cardboard or a filthy mattress, also damp, when they have homes they could go to? Sometimes I criticize them, think about how anything would be better than street life, and then sometimes I have flashes of insight and realize that, no, there are things that are worse.
We're officially living in the Gaza Strip of Rio, according to the Brazilian newspaper "O Globo." Along with about a million other people, which means that pretty much a tenth of the city is in this civil war zone. That's not a strip anymore...it's the whole Zona Norte! I wish you all could read Portuguese, because some of these articles are really revealing. There were several just about various corruption schemes being cracked this week. The Judas scheme, bringing in considerably more than 30 pieces of silver (try hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars) in which skimming the fees imposed on cars heading up to the Cristo monument supposedly reached the point that only 1 in every 15 cars was actually being reported (and involving pretty much everyone who had any connection with tourism: tour groups, guards, ticket takers, and of course, the cops); and another about a couple of police officers who made a driver pay money for a bogus ticket and then stole his car afterwards...
This is depressing. I'm going to go pray, now that I've been up for over an hour and gotten to see the sunrise for the first time in, oh, six months?!
Yesterday I started coming down with something, that "ughk" kind of feeling where there's nothing specificially wrong with you and you certainly wouldn't head off to the doctor. But you feel terrible and achy and yet at the same time, are too wired to just lay around in bed...
...the wired part was probably due to my realization that I am leaving in 20 days and that's not nearly as much time as I thought it was. But doing anything about that is going to have to wait for another day, when I don't feel so lousy.
My computer has begun her slow descent into old age. Or, it was a slow descent and now it is a full-scale freefall. My photo program has eaten all my photos and I have yet to find a fix. That makes it hard to finish my slideshow presentation I was working on for my supporters and churches. And the internet is so blastedly slow. Apple must really think that all their users have high-speed connections. My update is 168 MB. That is, according to my computer's current estimate, 46 hours on the internet. Hours. And if I lose the connection, which happens frequently here, due to cheap dial up services and bad phone lines, I get to start it all over again. Maravilha!
So I'm going to be seeking out a new computer when I get back to the land of cheap technology. And it probably won't be another one of these cute, sleek, Garageband equipped Macs...because the new ones don't come with an internal modem. America-centric, Mr. Jobs!!! Not everyone has wireless...or wants to laptop it with a USB modem hanging off the side.
It's gotten super chilly here pretty much overnight. I woke up this morning to the sound of rain or my invisible but very much present rat friend and thought about my friends on the streets, who must be miserable in this weather. What kind of shame or pride or foolishness or addiction or abuse is strong enough to keep someone living outside on wet cardboard or a filthy mattress, also damp, when they have homes they could go to? Sometimes I criticize them, think about how anything would be better than street life, and then sometimes I have flashes of insight and realize that, no, there are things that are worse.
We're officially living in the Gaza Strip of Rio, according to the Brazilian newspaper "O Globo." Along with about a million other people, which means that pretty much a tenth of the city is in this civil war zone. That's not a strip anymore...it's the whole Zona Norte! I wish you all could read Portuguese, because some of these articles are really revealing. There were several just about various corruption schemes being cracked this week. The Judas scheme, bringing in considerably more than 30 pieces of silver (try hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars) in which skimming the fees imposed on cars heading up to the Cristo monument supposedly reached the point that only 1 in every 15 cars was actually being reported (and involving pretty much everyone who had any connection with tourism: tour groups, guards, ticket takers, and of course, the cops); and another about a couple of police officers who made a driver pay money for a bogus ticket and then stole his car afterwards...
This is depressing. I'm going to go pray, now that I've been up for over an hour and gotten to see the sunrise for the first time in, oh, six months?!
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Revision
The Swiss girl isn't Swiss. Thanks, Ben, for catching that. She's Swedish.
At least, we think...
All those Europeans look the same...
...just kidding! Sorry, C-, for messing up your nationality!
At least, we think...
All those Europeans look the same...
...just kidding! Sorry, C-, for messing up your nationality!
Winter came in the middle of the night
Rain. With cold blew in...
My interview went nicely, thanks for all who prayed for me. It looks like I'll be a business student after all! I went down to Praça Mauá after, walking the length of Rio Branco in nearly four-inch heels. The kids didn't recognize me at first, in my suit and fancy shoes. I played with a baby for a while and slipped out of the foot torture devices to sing nonsense songs on a scrap of cardboard and mull over the fact that I was accepted to this school more probably because of this than anything that my resume said about me. "This" being different, working for an NGO, knowing street people, in touch with what's going on in Brazilian society in a way that people who are physically removed don't tend to see, or want to see. My interviewer made a comment about how he thought that even at coffee breaks I was going to spark some interesting conversations. I think he's right. Along with my mother. :)
So I'll be getting another student visa in the States, and taking night classes a couple times a week starting in September. Fun! Do you think anyone will mind if I show up smelling like the streets???
It's been a while since I went to the movies. A big group of us from church headed out tonight and it was fun. I think I'm getting a bit more ADD-it was so hard to sit all the way through, even though I enjoyed Spiderman 3! I still think Harry is much more interesting than Spidey... And I didn't even complain about the walk home from the mall after, at midnight. It is good to live close to things, you know? But after so much walking, I am glad to be home, and even more excited to see my bed. G'night!
My interview went nicely, thanks for all who prayed for me. It looks like I'll be a business student after all! I went down to Praça Mauá after, walking the length of Rio Branco in nearly four-inch heels. The kids didn't recognize me at first, in my suit and fancy shoes. I played with a baby for a while and slipped out of the foot torture devices to sing nonsense songs on a scrap of cardboard and mull over the fact that I was accepted to this school more probably because of this than anything that my resume said about me. "This" being different, working for an NGO, knowing street people, in touch with what's going on in Brazilian society in a way that people who are physically removed don't tend to see, or want to see. My interviewer made a comment about how he thought that even at coffee breaks I was going to spark some interesting conversations. I think he's right. Along with my mother. :)
So I'll be getting another student visa in the States, and taking night classes a couple times a week starting in September. Fun! Do you think anyone will mind if I show up smelling like the streets???
It's been a while since I went to the movies. A big group of us from church headed out tonight and it was fun. I think I'm getting a bit more ADD-it was so hard to sit all the way through, even though I enjoyed Spiderman 3! I still think Harry is much more interesting than Spidey... And I didn't even complain about the walk home from the mall after, at midnight. It is good to live close to things, you know? But after so much walking, I am glad to be home, and even more excited to see my bed. G'night!
Monday, May 07, 2007
Praça XV
I spent a lot of time with J- today on the streets. She was alternating between every available drug and trying valiantly not to crack and let the tears that were filling her body slip out. She only allowed a few to slip and she shared almost nothing with me, but we sat and looked at the boats fill with people and talked about what their lives must be like. How from a distance, they all look the same, all faceless and foreign, but that each one of them has a home and people they love and difficulties and aches and losses. Somewhere in that crowd was a woman anxious for her weekend wedding, a man whose parents recently died, a guy robbed earlier that day, a woman rushing home to make dinner for her family, a couple giddily joyous at the news of a pregnancy. And we sat and thought about how God cares for each of them...
J- wants me to make up some reading materials for her before my trip, so she can study when I’m gone. It’s interesting how my relationships have matured with these young people. We talk about things now that I never would have talked about with the Lapa guys. They want to know if I’m afraid of flying (I’m not) and jump to conclusions faster than I can lead them there. (Oh...you’re not afraid of flying because it can’t be any more dangerous than walking home! Haha! Courtesy of J-) We talk about relationships and men and not having a television, about starting a business and how I should dress and act for (and not break my fingernails before) my interview at the business school I want to attend. I promise to go look at the apartment G- might be able to live in after said interview, and she laughs at the thought of me in heels and fancy pants.
J- hasn’t been home in over three years and wants to know if that’s a long time. I think so. She’s too ashamed to go home, and we talk about shame, about the past and the fact that every moment is a chance to change our future. I tell her the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman, and she barely believes me. She’s seen it once, on video at some shelter, but never really heard it, this story about a seriously promiscuous woman who’s shunned by pretty much everyone so that she has to get water when no one else will be around so that her shame doesn’t overwhelm her. And Jesus, who’s obviously a Jew and therefore, shouldn’t be on friendly terms with her either as a member of a detested race OR as a woman, sits down and starts chatting with her. Lets her know she’s important, that her past really doesn’t matter all that much, because it’s past, and it is her future that’s more important. And then he sends off this two-minute convert off to be one of his first preachers. J- laughs and thinks and her eyes set back in contemplation. What??? Perfection isn’t necessary??? Maybe she’ll come to the realization that her grandmother will just be happy to know that she’s alive, and that taking this step may be the first step to coming off the streets. Maybe she won’t. Maybe her grandmother won’t be happy, or even alive. I wrestle with these questions even as I encourage her to visit with her family...
Two more ladies were jailed over the weekend. We're going to have to try to make visits next week. One of our volunteers brought a friend, a guy who came down to the streets in his suit and tie, and let one of the street boys, named Melchezidek, prance around bare chested and in dirty shorts, wearing his fancy silk tie and suit jacket. I wish I had had my camera to take a picture...it was great! This guy was fantastic with the kids, and I laughed to myself at our group, our odd family. Gringos and blond Brazilians, guys in suits and women in dresses barely covering their bottoms, guys smoking weed in ripped shorts, and a bunch of Americans in grungy street clothes all hanging around holding hands and singing worship songs....we make a funny sight. We're a paradox. I love it!
J- wants me to make up some reading materials for her before my trip, so she can study when I’m gone. It’s interesting how my relationships have matured with these young people. We talk about things now that I never would have talked about with the Lapa guys. They want to know if I’m afraid of flying (I’m not) and jump to conclusions faster than I can lead them there. (Oh...you’re not afraid of flying because it can’t be any more dangerous than walking home! Haha! Courtesy of J-) We talk about relationships and men and not having a television, about starting a business and how I should dress and act for (and not break my fingernails before) my interview at the business school I want to attend. I promise to go look at the apartment G- might be able to live in after said interview, and she laughs at the thought of me in heels and fancy pants.
J- hasn’t been home in over three years and wants to know if that’s a long time. I think so. She’s too ashamed to go home, and we talk about shame, about the past and the fact that every moment is a chance to change our future. I tell her the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman, and she barely believes me. She’s seen it once, on video at some shelter, but never really heard it, this story about a seriously promiscuous woman who’s shunned by pretty much everyone so that she has to get water when no one else will be around so that her shame doesn’t overwhelm her. And Jesus, who’s obviously a Jew and therefore, shouldn’t be on friendly terms with her either as a member of a detested race OR as a woman, sits down and starts chatting with her. Lets her know she’s important, that her past really doesn’t matter all that much, because it’s past, and it is her future that’s more important. And then he sends off this two-minute convert off to be one of his first preachers. J- laughs and thinks and her eyes set back in contemplation. What??? Perfection isn’t necessary??? Maybe she’ll come to the realization that her grandmother will just be happy to know that she’s alive, and that taking this step may be the first step to coming off the streets. Maybe she won’t. Maybe her grandmother won’t be happy, or even alive. I wrestle with these questions even as I encourage her to visit with her family...
Two more ladies were jailed over the weekend. We're going to have to try to make visits next week. One of our volunteers brought a friend, a guy who came down to the streets in his suit and tie, and let one of the street boys, named Melchezidek, prance around bare chested and in dirty shorts, wearing his fancy silk tie and suit jacket. I wish I had had my camera to take a picture...it was great! This guy was fantastic with the kids, and I laughed to myself at our group, our odd family. Gringos and blond Brazilians, guys in suits and women in dresses barely covering their bottoms, guys smoking weed in ripped shorts, and a bunch of Americans in grungy street clothes all hanging around holding hands and singing worship songs....we make a funny sight. We're a paradox. I love it!
A recap of the weekend
Thursday morning we set out for our retreat. Seven Americans, one Swiss, one Brazilian. We were stopped twice in five minutes by the cops before even managing to get off the main road running by my favela. The surfboards did it, I think. There's an ingrained idea that surfers=druggies. Especially white ones. Oh well. I'm getting used to having guns pointed at me, and people refusing to believe that I live on the street I say I do. But repeating yourself five or six times to men with machine guns aimed at you becomes a little absurd. I have to bite my tongue not to say anything smart.
We arrive almost without incident, only to have the key to our car break in two when someone tried to open a bottle of water with it. Yes, you read that correctly. Tried to OPEN A BOTTLE of WATER with the CAR KEY. We are intelligent folk! Of course, Trindade, the tiny beach/mountain town we're staying in, has no locksmith. They're having a harrd time getting a drugstore to stay in town past the tourist season. So thankfully, it rained the next day and we bused into Parati, the next town over, to have lunch and fix the key.
Our retreat was to be a bit of community building between our two groups (the three Americans and the Swiss versus the four Americans and Brazilian) and also a time of solitude with God. We managed to combine the two rather well. The Swiss Connection kicked the Brazilian Fleshies' butts at ultimate frisbee, despite being several years older and having one pregnant player. I am still feeling the results of that game in my muscles. The quiet times with God were great, with sand underfoot and hardly anyone nearby, surrounded by rocks and green mountains and the bluest blue skies. It was truly gorgeous.
In our free time, we chatted, spent time at the beach and hiked around the mountains, ate lots and lots of good food, and enjoyed our landlady, who was quite the character! She hung several of her sparkly, trash-as-treasure paintings in every room, as well as on the ceilings, and was always ready to share her religious beliefs with the unsuspecting guests. Throw in the white bunny and numerous cats that ran around your feet or climbed up on the table at breakfast, plus the tree growing in the corner of our room (I could rest my feet on it from my bed) and you have quite a colorful weekend!
On the way home, our car wouldn't make it up the mountain, so we had to get out to "lighten the load." I thought we'd hike up the hill and the car would be waiting for us. But the hill didn't stop...and we had to hike nearly one kilometer straight uphill before we found a flat spot where the car could rest...leaving us nasty and sweaty and exhausted for the four hour ride back to Rio. :) Ah, adventure.
Even leaving early, we managed to get home well after dark. I took Dandy to the bus stop in J--. After she got in the bus, I walked down to the light to cross the street...and a cop car pulled up and the police started jumping out. I made it about four good running steps before the shots started. The man in front of me was running so fast he tripped over his own feet and fell flat down on the ground...there were about twenty of us waiting around in a cement enclosed parking lot that was the best cover on that side of the street. I had some funny thoughts, mostly in the line of "hey, my knees DO work after all!" and "dang it! I've had enough with running and hiking for one day!" Everyone was talking to each other, because normal social barriers break down when you're running away from big ugly men with guns. But our conversations were oddly normal. The man next to be was commenting that “Friday was worse...just like Iraq. Bang bang bang...at 8:30 at night. It sounded like it would never end." And the ladies with babies in their arms were antsy: "We can’t go home when it’s like this...what are we going to do?" They were trying to convince their husbands to take the long way home, around the favela and in the back entrance. Another man was guiding everyone towards the scary looking dog chained to the back wall, because the thick concrete "will be the last to take shots. Let’s stand by it...”
In truth, I think the cops just shot into the air, because there was no return fire. And I went home the back way, down an alley that links right up to the entrance I prefer to use. Just as I passed a seriously dark corner, I hear engines behind me and see three motorcycles zoom up into that corner, followed by the cop car. They cops were awkwardly riding the crotch rockets in their boots and bullet-proof vests. That corner isn't anywhere near the police station, but it is frequently used for what appear to be shady deals, so my guess is that the cops were using this opportunity to grab a little cash off the guys they "nabbed" for driving around to celebrate their soccer team's win.
I'm getting sick of this.
My little sister has a great post up on her blog right now (it's Ellen, she's in the links on the right) about gang members and prejudice and our response. I think about those two guys on the motorcycle, how they threw their hands up and shouted, "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" How they were probably fleeced for whatever they had on their persons, if not their bikes as well, because they were black and lived in a poor area of town. It's not like they can go to the police and complain.
A guy I met briefly in Trindade this weekend was ranting to me about how he hates the "glamorization" of the favelas, how he hears people talk about their "pride in the favela" and finds it disgusting. Because the favela, to him, is all marginalization and oppression and poverty. And he's right, kind of. But he's wrong too. Wrong because pride doesn’t have to be pride in poverty and lack of education. It can be pride that in spite of all that, the favela has something to offer. That the favela doesn’t lay down and say, hey please stomp all over me! That the favela fights back.
We have water again. I don't know why, but I'm guessing that it has a lot to do with some stubborn women from the favela who wouldn't give up. There are big billboards up all around the city stating that the police will try to avoid raids during school hours. Because people from the favela wouldn't give up. They wouldn't accept that bullet-riddled schools and wounded children were acceptable casualties in this fake war against drugs and local terrorism. I see people from the favela working in the fanciest office buildings in Rio (remember the 89 Manhatten tower from that crazy Burger King commercial where they push a car off a bridge? I know a girl who works there!). I see people from the favela working hard to change their realities from that of marginalized and outcast and into privileged and honored citizens. And if it's not for one kind of kingdom, it's for another, better one. And I am proud to be a fellow citizen with them.
We arrive almost without incident, only to have the key to our car break in two when someone tried to open a bottle of water with it. Yes, you read that correctly. Tried to OPEN A BOTTLE of WATER with the CAR KEY. We are intelligent folk! Of course, Trindade, the tiny beach/mountain town we're staying in, has no locksmith. They're having a harrd time getting a drugstore to stay in town past the tourist season. So thankfully, it rained the next day and we bused into Parati, the next town over, to have lunch and fix the key.
Our retreat was to be a bit of community building between our two groups (the three Americans and the Swiss versus the four Americans and Brazilian) and also a time of solitude with God. We managed to combine the two rather well. The Swiss Connection kicked the Brazilian Fleshies' butts at ultimate frisbee, despite being several years older and having one pregnant player. I am still feeling the results of that game in my muscles. The quiet times with God were great, with sand underfoot and hardly anyone nearby, surrounded by rocks and green mountains and the bluest blue skies. It was truly gorgeous.
In our free time, we chatted, spent time at the beach and hiked around the mountains, ate lots and lots of good food, and enjoyed our landlady, who was quite the character! She hung several of her sparkly, trash-as-treasure paintings in every room, as well as on the ceilings, and was always ready to share her religious beliefs with the unsuspecting guests. Throw in the white bunny and numerous cats that ran around your feet or climbed up on the table at breakfast, plus the tree growing in the corner of our room (I could rest my feet on it from my bed) and you have quite a colorful weekend!
On the way home, our car wouldn't make it up the mountain, so we had to get out to "lighten the load." I thought we'd hike up the hill and the car would be waiting for us. But the hill didn't stop...and we had to hike nearly one kilometer straight uphill before we found a flat spot where the car could rest...leaving us nasty and sweaty and exhausted for the four hour ride back to Rio. :) Ah, adventure.
Even leaving early, we managed to get home well after dark. I took Dandy to the bus stop in J--. After she got in the bus, I walked down to the light to cross the street...and a cop car pulled up and the police started jumping out. I made it about four good running steps before the shots started. The man in front of me was running so fast he tripped over his own feet and fell flat down on the ground...there were about twenty of us waiting around in a cement enclosed parking lot that was the best cover on that side of the street. I had some funny thoughts, mostly in the line of "hey, my knees DO work after all!" and "dang it! I've had enough with running and hiking for one day!" Everyone was talking to each other, because normal social barriers break down when you're running away from big ugly men with guns. But our conversations were oddly normal. The man next to be was commenting that “Friday was worse...just like Iraq. Bang bang bang...at 8:30 at night. It sounded like it would never end." And the ladies with babies in their arms were antsy: "We can’t go home when it’s like this...what are we going to do?" They were trying to convince their husbands to take the long way home, around the favela and in the back entrance. Another man was guiding everyone towards the scary looking dog chained to the back wall, because the thick concrete "will be the last to take shots. Let’s stand by it...”
In truth, I think the cops just shot into the air, because there was no return fire. And I went home the back way, down an alley that links right up to the entrance I prefer to use. Just as I passed a seriously dark corner, I hear engines behind me and see three motorcycles zoom up into that corner, followed by the cop car. They cops were awkwardly riding the crotch rockets in their boots and bullet-proof vests. That corner isn't anywhere near the police station, but it is frequently used for what appear to be shady deals, so my guess is that the cops were using this opportunity to grab a little cash off the guys they "nabbed" for driving around to celebrate their soccer team's win.
I'm getting sick of this.
My little sister has a great post up on her blog right now (it's Ellen, she's in the links on the right) about gang members and prejudice and our response. I think about those two guys on the motorcycle, how they threw their hands up and shouted, "Don't shoot, don't shoot!" How they were probably fleeced for whatever they had on their persons, if not their bikes as well, because they were black and lived in a poor area of town. It's not like they can go to the police and complain.
A guy I met briefly in Trindade this weekend was ranting to me about how he hates the "glamorization" of the favelas, how he hears people talk about their "pride in the favela" and finds it disgusting. Because the favela, to him, is all marginalization and oppression and poverty. And he's right, kind of. But he's wrong too. Wrong because pride doesn’t have to be pride in poverty and lack of education. It can be pride that in spite of all that, the favela has something to offer. That the favela doesn’t lay down and say, hey please stomp all over me! That the favela fights back.
We have water again. I don't know why, but I'm guessing that it has a lot to do with some stubborn women from the favela who wouldn't give up. There are big billboards up all around the city stating that the police will try to avoid raids during school hours. Because people from the favela wouldn't give up. They wouldn't accept that bullet-riddled schools and wounded children were acceptable casualties in this fake war against drugs and local terrorism. I see people from the favela working in the fanciest office buildings in Rio (remember the 89 Manhatten tower from that crazy Burger King commercial where they push a car off a bridge? I know a girl who works there!). I see people from the favela working hard to change their realities from that of marginalized and outcast and into privileged and honored citizens. And if it's not for one kind of kingdom, it's for another, better one. And I am proud to be a fellow citizen with them.
Home. Safe and sound...though not without incident
but that's for telling later.
I have water, praise the Lord!
I didn't get shot or run over or drowned or any of the other possibilities after our fun weekend, so that's good too!
I'll update after we get back from the streets tonight....
I have water, praise the Lord!
I didn't get shot or run over or drowned or any of the other possibilities after our fun weekend, so that's good too!
I'll update after we get back from the streets tonight....
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Weekend in Sight...
I'm packing my bags and giving gleeful shouts that this rusty, infected, murky stuff that comes out of my pipes for about five minutes a day will be the farthest thing from my mind until Sunday...
...because we're going away for the weekend! To a pousada, where they'll have running water that you can even brush your teeth with and that hopefully won't make my skin feel like it's crawling with pollutants...
My landlady is getting nervous. I think she senses my irritation and great, unleashed desire to move. It's all I can do to hold my tongue and not say anything. I need this place as storage for all my stuff while I'm gone!
This weekend will include:
sleep
beach
no funk parties
sleep
time with God (on the beach)
food
sleep
clean showers
beach
worship in Portuguese
devotions in Portuguese
dreams in Portuguese...
Ahhhhhhh...
And this is all good, because next week will most probably be trying. I have an appointment on Wednesday to interview for the school I'm interested in attending. I've got to make a decision soon! While that is a little nerve-wracking, it's not the trying part.
This is. We found out on Monday that three of our friends from the streets were arrested for assault. It's a murky story, but in any case, they WERE assaulting this someone, whether it was for money or his cellphone or just to be plain mean. We're going to try to visit them in the next week or two. I have never been inside a Brazilian prison. I hoped to never have to go, and not just because of the humiliation women must go through, a strip search and squat over a mirror (according to other ladies that have gone to visit husbands or friends). Brazilian prisons are notoriously awful. The boys were beaten up pretty severely before they were taken away; I can't imagine what they're going to look like. We'll have to bring them food, because, well, if we don't, who will? And probably toiletries. I'm most upset with B- for his part in this. Just the other week, he'd gone to church with Rich. He was dreaming big. He was fulfilling his probation without incident. He's the sort of kid who helps old ladies down stairs and watches out for the blind in the middle of a crowd, because if he doesn't help them, who will? He learned some sign language to communicate with the deaf boy that hangs around with the street kids. And yet. And yet. He'd gang up on a guy with Thug Number One and Thug Number Two because the man appeared gay. It's beyond me.
I expect disappointment in the work that I do. I know all the statistics, I know what I'm up against, and I do it because I love Jesus and I know he loves these kids. Knowing that was enough to give me love for them...and now it's deeply ingrained. But just when I let the barriers down, when I get to know a different group of kids, when I start investing in someone and caring about their future...something happens like this. Disappointment doesn't even begin to express what I feel, what I'm sure some of the other street workers are feeling right now.
There are obvious spiritual parallels; I'm sure God has this on a daily basis with me, this high-expectations-shattered-in-a-moment experience. But it cuts deeply when it's in the flesh. Thankfully, these wounds are only deep enough to push me forward, to say "I love you enough to keep wanting your best," and go into that prison (if they'll let me), to give a hug to a seriously screwed up young man and put a little food in his stomach and let him know that we're disappointed but unfazedly NOT GOING ANYWHERE. He's stuck with us!
Even so. It's going to be an interesting couple of weeks. This HAD to happen just when I'm in my last few weeks before heading back to the States, didn't it?
...because we're going away for the weekend! To a pousada, where they'll have running water that you can even brush your teeth with and that hopefully won't make my skin feel like it's crawling with pollutants...
My landlady is getting nervous. I think she senses my irritation and great, unleashed desire to move. It's all I can do to hold my tongue and not say anything. I need this place as storage for all my stuff while I'm gone!
This weekend will include:
sleep
beach
no funk parties
sleep
time with God (on the beach)
food
sleep
clean showers
beach
worship in Portuguese
devotions in Portuguese
dreams in Portuguese...
Ahhhhhhh...
And this is all good, because next week will most probably be trying. I have an appointment on Wednesday to interview for the school I'm interested in attending. I've got to make a decision soon! While that is a little nerve-wracking, it's not the trying part.
This is. We found out on Monday that three of our friends from the streets were arrested for assault. It's a murky story, but in any case, they WERE assaulting this someone, whether it was for money or his cellphone or just to be plain mean. We're going to try to visit them in the next week or two. I have never been inside a Brazilian prison. I hoped to never have to go, and not just because of the humiliation women must go through, a strip search and squat over a mirror (according to other ladies that have gone to visit husbands or friends). Brazilian prisons are notoriously awful. The boys were beaten up pretty severely before they were taken away; I can't imagine what they're going to look like. We'll have to bring them food, because, well, if we don't, who will? And probably toiletries. I'm most upset with B- for his part in this. Just the other week, he'd gone to church with Rich. He was dreaming big. He was fulfilling his probation without incident. He's the sort of kid who helps old ladies down stairs and watches out for the blind in the middle of a crowd, because if he doesn't help them, who will? He learned some sign language to communicate with the deaf boy that hangs around with the street kids. And yet. And yet. He'd gang up on a guy with Thug Number One and Thug Number Two because the man appeared gay. It's beyond me.
I expect disappointment in the work that I do. I know all the statistics, I know what I'm up against, and I do it because I love Jesus and I know he loves these kids. Knowing that was enough to give me love for them...and now it's deeply ingrained. But just when I let the barriers down, when I get to know a different group of kids, when I start investing in someone and caring about their future...something happens like this. Disappointment doesn't even begin to express what I feel, what I'm sure some of the other street workers are feeling right now.
There are obvious spiritual parallels; I'm sure God has this on a daily basis with me, this high-expectations-shattered-in-a-moment experience. But it cuts deeply when it's in the flesh. Thankfully, these wounds are only deep enough to push me forward, to say "I love you enough to keep wanting your best," and go into that prison (if they'll let me), to give a hug to a seriously screwed up young man and put a little food in his stomach and let him know that we're disappointed but unfazedly NOT GOING ANYWHERE. He's stuck with us!
Even so. It's going to be an interesting couple of weeks. This HAD to happen just when I'm in my last few weeks before heading back to the States, didn't it?
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