Since I've been in Guatemala the past fifteen plus months, not one day has gone by that I have not come upon a new realization, an epiphany, of the lives people live here - in the real world- or, on the contrary, the life I have been living in the Western world - our fantasy land.
Being a woman in Central America has made me something I never thought I would say about myself - please excuse my French - a feminist. There. I said it. Now excuse me as I wash my mouth out with soap...
No, I haven't burnt any bras down here (they're too nice, comparatively), but the feeling of lashing out at male - or passive female- colleagues at times overcomes my emotions so much that, just for the sake of keeping peace and my reputation as a calm, collective woman, I "take a phone call" (read: make a phone call to someone to blow off some steam); or, in typical Barbara-fashion, bluntly ask the reasoning for whatever "solution" they have found to make the men dominant in whatever given situation.
It usually takes them by surprise, as they're not used to being questioned... especially by a woman.
The first time I truly felt affected by this was in my second month in site. There was a problem with managing the money of the artisan store in town- namely, there was no setting aside a small percentage of the profits to build up over time, so that would allow to serve as a cushion for when payments weren't received immediately. This way, the ladies could get paid right away and not have to wait for the payment to arrive.
I suggested this to the director of the organization, as well as two other male colleagues. No one said anything. They continued to argue over possible solutions when the director repeated my exact words (though in better Spanish). Immediately the two male colleagues praised him for such a stellar and ingenious idea.
I was dumbfounded.
It was then I realized that it does not matter what you say- what matters is who says it.
As frustrating as those situations still are, the fact of the matter is that being a Western woman in an indigenous community allows me to get away with far more than I could ever dream of if I were a local woman.
For example, I live alone. People don't understand why.
"What about your children?" they ask me.
"I don't have any," I tell them.
"Well, did your husband give you permission to leave?"
"No, I don't have one. But if I did, then I wouldn't need to ask him for permission... he would need to ask me for permission to do anything," I half-jokingly explain.
They laugh, but probably think my situation is just as ridiculous as I think what they are asking me.
So we're 1 for 1, I guess.
Another thing I manage to get away with here is having the freedom of carrying a backpack as full or as empty as I want at the age of 24.
If I were a 24 year-old indigenous woman in my town, I would probably have my third surviving baby strapped to my back, one child in each hand and be balancing a basket full of chickens on my head, walking one and a half hours to market at 7 in the morning.
And if I'm lucky, my husband would be walking next to me, empty handed- sober.
The freedom of choice is something I have never realized so much before as I do now. And I am not talking about the choice of abortion- I'm talking about being fortunate enough to have been educated to make clear, conscious decisions... knowing the possibilities that lay ahead, and knowing the possible outcomes- being able to make decisions based on choice, rather than accepting to live life the same way everyone else has and is, because that's how it is "supposed" to be.
Being one of two gringas in town allows for many exceptions; however, it also allows for many opportunities.
Earlier this evening, I was doing some Peace Corps work in my kitchen while my trusty site mate, Charlie, was building a rabbit cage for the three rabbits we have. He told me there were two women knocking at my door. Not expecting anyone, I opened the window and peeked out to see who it was. I saw a teenager with a baby strapped to her back and her friend, both whom I had passed in the street earlier in the day.
After greeting them, the friend of the mother started explaining how they would like help with their baby. A million thoughts were whizzing through my head... they probably want money, or food, or clothes... or me to take the mother and baby to the states? Absurd, but not that far-fetched, I have learnt after being in site for over one year.
Finally, after asking them how I could help them, the friend managed to say that they wanted help naming the week-old infant, and would like me to write down a list of names for them. I ran into the kitchen to fetch a pen and paper and went outside.
A bit frightened that they were going to name the baby after me, I asked what the sex was.
"Male," they replied.
I was secretly relieved.
I then asked what kind of name they wanted?
"Something that is uncommon around here," answered Aurelia, the 17 year-old mother.
So I started naming a random, assorted list of names off the top of my head, mainly of male Peace Corps friends in the region, as well as some more bizarre names I thought they may like- I mean, there are a handful of men named Wagner, Nixon (mainly in their 30's) and Jackson in my town, so I was just trying to fit the mold. Charlie also yelled out a few names as he continued working on the rabbit cage.
I left them with the list of names, which they told me they would look over with their family, and then let me know of the outcome. I can honestly say this is the most thought I have ever put into naming a child- even more than my future ones. ;)
I cannot tell a lie- I had to throw in a Hungarian name- so if a little indigenous Zoltán is running around in a couple years, you will all know who to blame...
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