Unpacking-and not just boxes

Part of the hustle and bustle of preparing the house was opening up the storage shed to inspect all of the things we had set aside before leaving. We were amazed at how well our dishes, small appliances, decorations, etc. had held up. As we opened up our little, unintentional time capsule, we marveled at the pictures of nieces and nephews from ten years ago. We fretted (a bit) over how we'd blend the Mexican house decorations with our mementos from Asia and we laughed at some of the things that didn't seem to merit being sealed away for ten years.

Perhaps, more important than the boxed up toaster oven and Margarita pitcher with matching Saguaro cactus glasses are some of the old emotions that are beginning to bubble up once again as I readjust to the US. It's begun to hit me, how important it used to be to fit in. Thanks to a natural maturing process, and especially the experience of living so long as a foreigner, I can laugh at my initial reaction to the following situations.

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It happened again. You would think that ten years in Asia would have taught me to get used to being different. Just after our nephew Stevie's wedding, we met an old friend of Cece's mom who used to babysit for Cece.

"¡Ay mi hita! ¡Que chula!" -Smack, smack went the two besitos on Cece's cheeks.

"Hola Señora." Cece replied, stifling a Sawatdee ka and quietly praying that Thai wouldn't slip out during the brief encounter.

¡Gracias a Dios! She was saved from further Spanish when attention was directed to me with, "And this is her husband Daniel."

"Halo, how are you?" she offered stiffly in conjunction with a nice firm handshake.

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Imagine the local barbershop. There are tons of people in the shop and everyone's tossing around Spanish or Spanglish. Smack-----slide----bump go the handshakes offered to each barber. Clearly, everyone in there knows everyone else.

When I step up to the chair... "How would you like your hair cut sir?"

Aw man! No chest bump, no handshake, not even a fist bump, just a lousy sir. I feel a little bit like Charlie Brown expecting to kick the football.

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I even had a similar experience in Thai. We went to a local Asian market to see what types of Asian ingredients were available. Just in the other aisle we heard a women complaining in Thai that the store was out of something. I eagerly walked around the corner with the hope of a Sawatdee but... she shot me a glance and a lightly accented, "Hello."

I tell you, it's like I'm collecting these experiences.

I am the opposite of Sr. Len. She's a Filipino who got sick of being confused for a local every time she visited Thailand. She partially solved the problem by wearing gaudy tourist caps. I suppose my goofy grin and nerdy glasses still mark me as distinctly non-local.

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It's funny how the same old issues pop right back up no matter how long you pack them away. Sealed away but ever ready to spring into life was this desire to fit in. I laugh as I reflect on it now. How real, but how ridiculous! I am grateful that I can see the energy that was lost while worrying, but realize the lessons I have learned. My prayer is that I can keep hold of these learnings and continue to grow while I transition from Thailand to the US.

Tucson Refugee Festival

The other day Cece and I went to the Refugee Festival held in downtown Tucson.  We walked around, enjoyed the music and perused the handicrafts.  It wasn't till I saw the group of African teenagers running a "kick the soccer ball through the hole" booth that I was struck with the pain of missing my boys in Thailand.  

I choked up.  They were identical to my boys in their love of futbol and in the way they held themselves; balanced on the edge of a peculiar "self"-confidence that is buoyed by the group, and an innocent fragility.   I longed for a welcoming smile.  

I imagined asking my boys in Bangkok what kind of booth they would like to run.  

"You can do anything that you want, but you'll have to put down the money to create it."  I'd say.

"Anything?" they'd query.

"Yup."

They definitely would not come up with the idea of a dunk tank or a stuff your face with food contest.  Plain and simple, they would come up with a football game.  It's something they know, love and requires very little investment.  

I left with the bittersweet feeling that comes with loss and love.  Oddly, I'm grateful that the fog of amnesia that's been rolling in as we begin a new life, an ocean away from the previous one, is not impenetrable.  

Roots

In 1896, Pedro Aguilar left his small Yaqui village near Hermosillo, Mexico.  Simultaneously driven out by rumblings of civil war and drawn forth by rumors of work in the north, he made his way to Tucson.  There he rented a room in the Presidio neighborhood.  His affinity for machines eventually helped him to secure a job with the railroad.  Later, he met and fell in love with Jesus, a woman from a different Yaqui village near Hermosillo, who was living in a nearby apartment.  

Soon they married and Pedro purchased a lot and began building a house, poco a poco (a little at a time) as was typical in those days.  Put up the beams of the house, save some more money, close in a room, save a little more then put up another adobe wall.  Their house grew as their family grew.   Alex, Manuel, Carmen, Frank, Helen, Albert, Pete, Angel and Jesus all came at a steady rate two years apart over twenty years.   They passed through the house sharing the rooms until a sister was married or a brother went to war.  

Today, Albert at 81 still lives in the house.  It's the only home he's ever known, if you don't count the fire station where he lived for the 48 hours on, 72 hours off intervals of fire fighters.  

The little house at the back used to be a garage until some time in the 30's when the space was needed for people.  Adobes were stacked, floors were laid and windows installed.  Eventually, three little rooms were made.  Helen raised her three girls in the house converting the porch into a room for her oldest daughter Tessie.  

After Frank moved back from California, where he taught math, he moved into the little house in the back and transformed the area around the house into a gorgeous flower garden, still famous in the Aguilar family today.  After Frank passed away, Albert rented the casita to a lady who made tamales, that were by most accounts good, but not as good as "ours".  She left and a couple of guys with a cleaning business moved in, but were precipitously deported.  

The latest arrival to the house is Albert's niece and nephew, Cecelia and Daniel.  They moved in after Cecelia's family put in an effort, quite possibly equal to the original conversion from garage to home.  They invested countless hours painting, installing cabinets, laying tile, scrubbing and scrubbing some more.  The intense and generous effort was to welcome them back home after ten years in foreign mission and to welcome their baby who's expected some time in the last week of July.  

A new life blooms forth in the desert from ancient roots, which like the Saguaro's extend in many directions and nourish for hundreds of years.   

 "Give thanks to God for the many blessings that await you in your new ministry."  Fr. David encouraged me before starting the Wat Prok Education Program.  

Being birthed into our new life in Tucson has already been full of blessings and not surprisingly, a bit of anxiety.  

While driving away from Cece's parent's home we recalled the first time we were left on our own in Bangkok.  A traumatic but invigorating moment that seared into my memory as if I'd been a 5 year old lost in the mall.  For nearly two weeks after our arrival in Thailand our every activity was accompanied.  Finally, one Sunday after brunch with our fellow Maryknollers, everyone set out on their own.  This person was going to the bookshop, that person was going home, another had an errand and two others had slipped away unnoticed.  Nobody invited us to join them.  We thought, "What about us?  Who's going to take us home?  What if we miss our stop and end up going all the way to Malaysia and never finding our way back?"  Everyone set out to their own destination and Cece and I found ourselves ALONE.  

Suddenly out of the terror came forth exhilaration.  Freedom!  Adventure!  Break the shackles of our doting nannies!  Let's get on that number 15 bus!  Woohoo!  When panic briefly returned we repeated our mantra, "Turn onto New Road, wait for two lights, get off at the third stop and be sure to tell the money collector Rongram Maenam.  We can do this."  

And we did.  

We fear stepping out into the darkness, the unknown, the mystery of what will come, but the thrill is as close to flying as we get.  And gently nudged out of the nest we are.  Our families have done so much to help us.  Weeks before our arrival, Lenny, Trisha, Kiki and Cece's dad, Chapo were tearing out old cabinets, installing new ones, laying tile and painting.  Cece's mom, Curly calls Lenny a bomb because he comes in for a weekend and BOOM!  Except when the dust settles we realize that he's creative rather than destructive.  

Since our arrival, Curly has been feeding us so well and if that wasn't enough, the day after we moved out she brought over future breakfasts, lunches and dinners in the forms of bagels, lunch meat, cheese, beans, tortillas and tamales.  Mmmmm, tamales!  

My parents are chomping at the bit, dying to get in on the action.  Since they're far away they're offering their car.  My mom releases some of the pressure by "just picking up a few things for the baby" every time she goes to the store. 

We're still a bit anxious looking for a job and preparing for the baby, but even if we don't fly right away, it is clear that we'll have a soft landing thanks to our families.  

Thank you God for the blessing of our loving families.

Fresh off the plane

April 14th, 2009

Have you ever read a really good book and thought to yourself, "Wow, that was fantastic, but there was a lot in there that I didn't quite get.  I'll have to pick it up again."  ...but you never do.  That's how it feels right now and it's heart-rending.  

I remember, as if it were yesterday, saying goodbye to our parents in the Tucson Airport.  I remember the thrill as we embarked upon a new adventure, the fantastic scenery of our homeland viewed from above.  I carried the volcanos, canyons and desert mountains with me for the duration of our Thai sojourn.  I remember the group of friends that accompanied us out to dinner just a stone's throw away from the airport.  I remember the moment when we left Kristi and passed through the security area.  The love of our family and friends formed us, sent us and sustained us.  The airport security finally severed us from our friends, family and our land.  We entered a new place, Asia.  

Now we are back, returning finally to Tucson, but it still feels like maybe it is just vacation.   We'll go visit loved ones, eat tons of good food, make church appeals and head "home" to Thailand in a couple of weeks?  Not this time.  This time it's setting up a house, finding a midwife, buying a car, finding work and of course, visiting loved ones and of course, eating tons of good food.  

Hopefully, we can continue to reflect upon and learn from our experience in Thailand and maybe even one day return as a family to our home in Asia.  

A dip in the River Kwai

Few things are more relaxing than sitting on the bank of a river listening to its sound and watching as it constantly changes and renews itself.  I took my last dip in the famous River Kwai this past week while on a field trip with my students from Wat Prok to the Children's Village School.  It took me back to my first dip nearly 10 years ago.  

On a Buddhist meditation retreat we were told that it is easy to comprehend the idea that when you jump into a river, the water you jump into is not the same as the water you leave, because we can see that the water doesn't stop.  But we were challenged to comprehend the idea that even the 'I' that jumped into the river was different than the 'I' who climbed out.   I am amazed at all of the changes that have occurred in my life and understanding from when I first jumped in to when I last climbed out.  It isn't such a huge stretch to think that I really am not the same person anymore.  So much has changed in me and my life and I'm grateful for it all, the joys as well as the failings and disappointments.  

The first trip

I was full of excitement and enthusiasm, fresh out of Maryknoll orientation with a strong sense of call to serve God in service to my neighbor.  My mind was fixed on going where I was needed, learning a new language and enjoying my immersion in the new and fascinating culture.  I relished being a tourist even while not admitting that I was one and was happy to be led here and there by my Maryknoll companions.  Ellen Cowhey and Fr. Mike Bassano were our great friends, holding our hands and guiding us as we soaked in the experience of the country.  

The day Ellen took us out to the school was terrifically exciting.  Big boats, small boats, inter provincial "VIP" buses, motor scooters, pickup trucks and flip flop shoes accompanied with bargaining, negotiating and convincing at each transition.  I especially remember Ellen arguing with the boatman that we weren't tourists and didn't deserve to be charged the tourist rate.  We wanted the commuter rate.  Of course SHE wasn't a tourist, but it was pretty hard to convince them about us.  We stood there dumbly smiling, wearing brightly colored shorts, caps and sunglasses, cameras at the ready and massive backpacks strapped on.  Whether we admitted it or not, at that point we were definitely tourists.  However, we ended up paying half the tourist rate- the discount for Ellen's excellent Thai.  

Our first motor scooter ride was one to remember too.  The scooter itself was somewhere between a motorcycle and a moped, but closer to a moped.  I later learned that this type of motor scooter is generously referred to as a "family motorcycle".  The driver, a Thai man, smaller than Cece, sat all the way up at the front of the seat with Cece's massive backpack between his legs.  Cece was squished up against him and then I was left wearing another big backpack, balancing on the last bit of seat at the back.  I graciously let Cece have the foot pegs placing significant and undesired stress on my sensitive parts.  Crossing the train tracks was the worst!  UghUgh!  At one point during the relatively short, but painful trip, my flipflop nearly fell off so I cleverly placed my feet onto the pavement.  My shoes slipped right back on my foot, but nearly tipped us all off of the bike.  Live and learn, or rather if you live you might learn.

Really, just the trip there and back was enough of an adventure, but Cece and I loved the school.  Thankfully, nearly four years later we would have the chance to live at "The Children's Village School" or Moo Baan Dek.     

to be continued...

My Work at Wat Prok

Some Background about the Wat Prok Migrant Education Project

The education of the migrant children at Wat Prok has been a concern of  Maryknoll Br. John Beeching’s for nearly as long as he's been in Bangkok.  He provided for meals, blankets and other necessities as well as organizing occasional volunteers to teach English and provide enrichment activities for the boys.  

In May 2006, Daniel Aguilar Ortiz started a full time effort with the intention of expanding the education of the children at Wat Prok.  An informal approach is required because children from Burma are not easily accepted in local schools and are the victims of considerable prejudice.

Prior to Daniel’s arrival the children mainly studied Mon and Pali language.  Initially, he planned on teaching English and Math and providing some enrichment activities.  After a couple of months the number of children at the temple doubled and Daniel hired two Thai teachers to better serve the children.  In consultation with the main caregiver, Phra Utara and the Thai teachers, Daniel modified the project aims to focus on Thai language acquisition while maintaining English, Math and enrichment activities.  

The local Non-Formal Education Department Director showed interest in helping the children at the temple and when she realized that Marykoll had an ongoing program she provided student identification cards and weekly government teachers.  This developed into a two year grade 6 certificate program for nearly 35 students.  

Current situation

Presently, there are 65 children studying at Wat Prok.  There’s only one girl.  They range in age from seven to eighteen.  A core group of about 25 students have been at the temple for two or more years, but the average stay is a little less than a year and is dependent on the parents’ needs.   The parents usually withdraw their children from the temple to help earn money in shrimp and fish factories in the outskirts of Bangkok.   Mahachai in Samut Prakan has an extensive Mon population.  Sometimes families work in Bangkok’s booming construction industry. 

In general, the children have high self esteem, are respectful and kind.  They care for one another, and responsibly attend to their chores.  They are spirited and curious yet attentive in class and are a joy and privilege to teach.  

There are three full time teachers each weekday and a government teacher comes every Wednesday.  Mr. Daniel Aguilar Ortiz, Ms. Sawika Tookjit and Ms. Warapon Komphet are the full time teachers.  The Non-formal Education office sends Ms. Kannika Songnai to teach once a week.   Ms. Komphet has a  Teacher’s License and  Ms. Tookjit is currently studying for hers.  All three full time teachers have many years experience working with and teaching children.

People often ask, “Why is there only one girl?”  There is no simple answer, but the easiest answer is that traditionally girls aren’t taken to temples to study, mainly because it is a male environment, a monastery.  There are only a handful of women monks at present in the Theravada Buddhist tradition.  The boys in the class say that if their parents bring the girls with them from Burma they keep them close.  Often they stay in the apartments and look after the younger children.  Other parents choose to leave their girls with the grandparents in Burma.  The one girl who does stay at the temple stays with her father, the abbot’s secretary.  

A Typical Day

The children basically take part in the life and responsibilities of the temple from accompanying monks as they receive alms at dawn to chanting and meditating in the evening.  A typical day begins at 6:00 am.  They wash up and accompany one of the seventy resident monks as he walks through the neighborhood receiving offerings.  They  return to the temple around 8:00.  Boys who don’t go out with the monks attend to setting the table and laying out the food once it arrives.  After the monks eat, the boys clean up, choose their breakfast from the collected food and go outside to eat with their friends.  At 9:00 they start school with the Mon and Thai National Anthems, a short Buddhist chant and 5 minutes silent meditation.  After any announcements they  break into three groups, based on age, Thai language ability and previous schooling experience.  The main focus of the class work is Thai language and culture acquisition, but each group studies English and Math for at least two sessions a week.  At 11:00 it is time for the monks to eat.  The boys are responsible for serving the monks and cleaning up the dining area.  After the Abbot has finished the sermon the children eat and relax.  From 1:30 to 3:30 they study and then clean up the classroom and their living area.  On Friday afternoons everybody goes down to the local futsol (5 on 5 soccer played with a smaller heavier ball on a paved court) court to expend some energy and build up the community spirit.  From 4:30 to 6;00 they study on their own in Phra Utara’s quarters. At six they eat and enjoy some free time until 8:00 when they are expected to join the monks for the evening chanting and meditation.  Bedtime comes around 9:30 for the younger boys and 11:00 for the older ones.  Occasionally, the older boys stay up very late watching their favorite soccer teams from the English Premier League. 

Introduction

I was recently remembering a story within the story of The Alchemist about the boy who is sent throughout a magnificent castle with a spoonful of oil.  He was told not to spill a drop, but to enjoy the wonder and beauty of the castle.  He was so worried about spilling that he didn't see a thing.  The second time around he became lost in the beauty and spilled all but a few drops.  That's our challenge in life and that is the story behind the title of this blog.  In fact, I hope that it will help me to remain cognizant of the wonder that surrounds us while staying focused on my task.

   

"How can I tell if love of life is not a delusion?  How can I tell whether a person who fears death is not like one who has left home and dreads returning?  Lady  Li was the daughter of a border guard of Ai.  When the Duke of Chin first took her captive, she wept until her dress was soaked with tears.  But once she was living in the Duke's palace, sharing his bed and eating delicious food, she wondered why she had ever cried.  How can I tell whether the dead are not amazed that they ever clung to life?"

from Chuang Tsu: Inner Chapters by Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English

On April 10th, Good Friday, Cece and I return to the US.  Our departure from Thailand after 10 years marks a certain culmination of one part of our story where we have learned, suffered, celebrated and been transformed.  Anyone who has ever asked why we came to Thailand knows that it was not our first choice.  It wasn't even our fifth choice.  In fact, it was nowhere on our list of choices.  Other than a vague interest in Asia and World Religions we had no idea what to expect.  Again we find ourselves strangely, but clearly called.  It is time to return home.  Of course, home is no longer the same as the one we left, just as we are no longer the same people as when we left.  We need not look any further than Cece's beautiful belly and the life growing inside.  But there has been new life and transformation in less obvious ways as well.  In these articles,  I hope to chronicle a bit of our lives in Asia while focusing on the beautiful and intense, but often traumatic experience of transition.