Yo te escribo hoy no solo un chico (en amor) pero un hombre, viviendo vida. Juso que importamente yo te escribo un escritor, un escritor y fundador del primero periodico al Centro Scheel, Tiempos del Centro Scheel!
Imagina mi sonreise grande, con muchos ninos Guatemaltecos todos, cientando (sitting?) a las mesas en la cocina, el todo escuela. Cientando, lleyando el producto de sus amigos trabajo duro, todo cien y trente alumnos, con el primero edicion del esta periodico en sus manos y ayy que emociante!
I was without words (English or Spanish). I only smiled as La Persona del "Tiempos del Centro Scheel" looked over their work, saw their picture and name next to the story that they created. Their expressions were perhaps restrained (after all, they are 13-15 years old), but I could only imagine what was going on in their malleable Spanish minds. Te gustas? I asked them and they grinned and said Si si, que bonita, bien hecho.
Moments before I had stood in front of all of the students (in the entire school) and presented the newspaper, folded, in a taped up package sitting on a chair in front of me. Los alumnos ustedes ven aqui estan la persona del Tiempos del Centro Scheel, el periodico para su escuela. Ellos han trabajado muy duro para esta pasado semana, creando algo maravillosa. Estoy muy orgullosa de ellos para sus ayuda en haciendo esta proyecta un realidad. Tenemos un copia para...cada estudiante, compartir con sus familas, sus amigos. Esperemos ustedes gustan....Ahora algo applauso para ellos estudiantes!
After the staff got their papers, the students surrounded us like mad to get their copy. I cannot express how incredible it was to feel the excitement in the room. The staff came in, took one glance and said Que bonita, trabajo excellente Adam. I threw out muchos gracias's like pennies to the dollar, everyone congratulating me on the beauty of the final product.
Moments later I handed out to all the staff the staff photo we had taken the day before, one in color one in black and white. They took the pictures with eager hands and cast all worries of other lives out the door. Today was their day. But while it was their day, it was my day. Actually it was my day because it was their day. Kevin, the leader of the pack, the one who wrote the big story for the newspaper, beckoned us all to come into the kitchen, the staff and I. In a 30 second speech he said something fantastic about me, about the paper, about the future of the project. What it was, I have no idea, but I could feel it in his voice. He was saying what the others could not, but what they felt nonetheless. He was saying "Your presence here was felt, and what you have done is appreciated and wil not be forgotten. If no one else carries this forth, it will be my fault because I desire to keep this project living and thriving at this school. I will be a great leader in no time". I signed his copy of the paper and gave a grand embrace, he one of a handful of students who I could really build a relationship with at the school, the only downfalll of my broken Spanish.
But at the same time it was the beauty of it. The fact that I could create such an impact, leave behind some sort of legacy, be the editor of a paper for which I don't speak the language. Oh! The possibilities are endless, I can only imagine what happens next-in my life, my life in another language.
In the goodbye ceremony (with cake and tears and the guatemaltecos lideres) words again were spoken of me, words that I could not understood. People looked at me in the eye, with sadness but hope in theirs, speaking truly and openly. I only smiled and realized the gravity in their words by the way they looked at me. One of the strangest sensations in my life, being spoken to in a room full of people in another language, laud and honor being poured upon you, sentiments spoken and you desire so much to know the minutia of the words, but yet only capture the greater picture-your presence was felt and thus will be missed by all.
Cuando vine aqui, mi espanol estaba...no bueno. Pero ahora...ahora ustedes estan mi familia. Ustedes tienen un oportunidad maravillosa compartir sus amores con ellos estudiantes, y ser un parte esta opportunidad...ayy... soy sin palabras. Ninos, estan mi pasion, estan mi vida. Ser en sus vidas, lo haceme muy muy feliz todo dia. Mi vida estaba increible, pero estaba solo una vida ingles. Ahora, aqui, con ustedes, tengo una vida espanol (Sonreises y poco reindo de esta palabras, tocando sus corazones)
Muchismos gracias por su paciencia, su ayuda de y mi proyecta. Lo ver ahora, ayy, estoy muy orgullosa, pero estaba todo los alumnos. Ustedes, sus alumnos, estoy muy feliz ustedes cognoscer. Esta experiencia, lo cambia mi vida. Gracias otra ves por todo.
The pride I have felt in the past day, I can hardly describe. In myself, in my Spanish, in those students, in the support of the beautiful people around me. It is almost too much, as such at moments I must just close my eyes and believe that my life is real and these feelings are only going to grow and my heart will only get bigger and there will only be more wonderful things to share with everyone. I cannot wait to share it.
sábado, 31 de julio de 2010
domingo, 25 de julio de 2010
Take A Ride Into the Jungle...
Take a ride into the jungle and you will probably jump off a bridge. Jump off a bridge and you will probably jump off a cliff above ground. Jump off a cliff above ground and you will probably jump off a cliff underground. Jump off a cliff underground and you will probably emerge into jungle showers at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, freezing with sore feet from cavernous rock-climbing with ghetto flip flops. If you do all this you will probably smile and realize that when you go for a ride into a jungle, anything can happen.
Hours and a soul-searching conversation with Courtney later, I heard my voice from the backseat. “Adam!” I turned around, “Que pasa?” “No, no, outside!” I had already been outside, so I stuck out my head again to admire the land around me-the rolling hills of Guatemalan country sides, going further and further from anything familiar. Realizing they meant to turn around outside, I did and saw Amanda waving from the back window. I waved back and laughed, turned around smiling at the others in the van. “She was waving at you for the past 5 minutes, you were too distracted with the beauty weren’t you Adam?” Suzanna said. “It is just filled with beauty, huh?”
I wake from my bungalow bed at 5:45, rolling over, not wanting to walk down the ladder to take my early morning piss. I am sleeping with Chris, John and Pat, of the Bridge Crew, in the roof of the cabins. Quite literally, the part where the cabin becomes a triangle, if you were to cut it from the square of the cabin, you have my home. Jungle leaves, tin, jungle leaves, the sandwich of a roof over our heads, sunrise light pouring in through our non-door, only open to mother nature’s beckoned call.
Sunrise in the jungle. Aside from being that, it is the first sunrise I have seen in Guatemala, and what a way to discover it- awoken by the light pouring in, naturally, not expecting to see the sun beginning to creep over the hills, so far away, from everyone but me. I watch the leaves curl up and dry, stirred from their nocturnal slumber somewhere in the distance. I watch the river touch up its muddied waters with bits of sunlight, dancing in rapid motions. Over the hills a lighter form of a shadow takes the place of the real shadow, but it is still not the sunlight that touches upon the canopies of the trees, something more innocent. The sky takes the only color of gray that is hopeful, the one sprinkled with pinkish orange hues of solar force, removing traces of melancholy and replacing it with a harmony of night and day; their sound is only seen, by me.
An un momento later, (40 minutes) I ask Freddie again. “Somos saliendo pronto?” “En un momento, tranquilo tranquilo.” Laughing I say “Estaba un momento hace un momento. Quantos minutos en ‘un momento’?” True Guatemalan laughter, “Jaja, muchos minutos amigo, muchos minutos”. And so goes how I learned what “un momento” means in Guatemalan time.
The candlelight flutters, casting underground shadows on the rock above and all around my head, the water below. My flip-flops are tied with a thick medium between a string and a rope, as if they would stay on my feet in such a place designed for men of the earth, under the earth. I walk with hesitation in the bowels of Semuc Champey, an underground cave that is filled to the shoulder with water, sometimes more, so that as you grace along the floors you must actually swim with one hand, candle barely above the water’s surface. To place a description upon something that has never been seen is difficult to do, so I will not try. I will only say that imagine something you have never seen and it is like that. I scale the cavern walls, and I hear a roar in the distance. Moments later my body is tucked into a space not meant for muy altos gringos, and I stand at the edge of a waterfall, underground. It pounds down and I walk just under it so that it jostles my hair vigorously, allow it to hit upon my back, receiving a massage from Mother Nature.
I climb up a ladder, almost drown in 8 feet of cave water (my flip-flops dragging me under), climb up another cliff eight feet into the air and jump into a pool of water of the same depth. Then I do it all over again, backwards, cold and wet and almost scared, more because of the fact that I am underground than anything else. I emerge from the cave, my candle gone in the midst of the water world, and am welcomed by the jungle showers of late afternoon. At this point I feel nothing but pure adrenaline and a desire to soak my feet in a tub of hot water, and smile for a picture that doesn’t even begin to touch upon the journey that started it.
It all started on a sunshiney and hopeful Friday afternoon. I climbed into the shotgun of a 12 passenger van with 15 other bright eyed and bushy tailed people, excited for my 8 hour drive into the jungle of Guatemala- Semuc Champey.
Hours and a soul-searching conversation with Courtney later, I heard my voice from the backseat. “Adam!” I turned around, “Que pasa?” “No, no, outside!” I had already been outside, so I stuck out my head again to admire the land around me-the rolling hills of Guatemalan country sides, going further and further from anything familiar. Realizing they meant to turn around outside, I did and saw Amanda waving from the back window. I waved back and laughed, turned around smiling at the others in the van. “She was waving at you for the past 5 minutes, you were too distracted with the beauty weren’t you Adam?” Suzanna said. “It is just filled with beauty, huh?”It was as if in that moment she understood one of the more beautiful parts of me-my ability to have my breath taken away at all times by the grandiosity of the undiscovered parts of the world, their beauty shines in innocence, in freshness, in splendorous colors of light and welcoming. To Suzanna’s question I only smiled and stuck my head out the window again.
Just swim to the right. My feet bare on six inches of rusted metal, my arms reach behind me to hold on. No time to wonder what is below, just jump. Faith, it is blind, especially at midnight in the jungle.
Cold, my butt hurts, the water takes me further and further. Just swim to the right, this time not the voice inside my head but the others at the riverbed. “Further up, follow our voices,” I swim again, reaching out for something, anything, a hand and safety at last. The rush of the previous moment is realized as we laugh in the dark. “The fall lasted longer than I expected,” Pat said, “What a sensation!” John said “What a way to start off our jungle experience!”Chris said. I just smile and wait, soaking in, literally, the cold dark moment. Wondering how I got here.
The others meet us at the edge of the bridge, our heads wet from complete immersion, from not holding back for a moment. We walk up a hill with the flashlight on our crummy phones; “Whiskey!” is shouted by all at the top, a photo that is labeled “the Bridge Crew” is all that remains.
I wake from my bungalow bed at 5:45, rolling over, not wanting to walk down the ladder to take my early morning piss. I am sleeping with Chris, John and Pat, of the Bridge Crew, in the roof of the cabins. Quite literally, the part where the cabin becomes a triangle, if you were to cut it from the square of the cabin, you have my home. Jungle leaves, tin, jungle leaves, the sandwich of a roof over our heads, sunrise light pouring in through our non-door, only open to mother nature’s beckoned call.
Sunrise in the jungle. Aside from being that, it is the first sunrise I have seen in Guatemala, and what a way to discover it- awoken by the light pouring in, naturally, not expecting to see the sun beginning to creep over the hills, so far away, from everyone but me. I watch the leaves curl up and dry, stirred from their nocturnal slumber somewhere in the distance. I watch the river touch up its muddied waters with bits of sunlight, dancing in rapid motions. Over the hills a lighter form of a shadow takes the place of the real shadow, but it is still not the sunlight that touches upon the canopies of the trees, something more innocent. The sky takes the only color of gray that is hopeful, the one sprinkled with pinkish orange hues of solar force, removing traces of melancholy and replacing it with a harmony of night and day; their sound is only seen, by me.
Nine o'clock and I am anxious to be a part of the jungle more intimately. I see Freddie in his South Padre T-shirt. “Ayy! South Padre, es circa Tejas, la playa en el muy sud. Que bonita! Tu visitas?” “No, solo puygas el camiso,” his smile lightens in the dim atmosphere of the hostel’s covered patio/bar/tell all your secrets place. “Freddie, quantos tiempos mas salimos?” “Un momento mi amigo, un momento.”
An un momento later, (40 minutes) I ask Freddie again. “Somos saliendo pronto?” “En un momento, tranquilo tranquilo.” Laughing I say “Estaba un momento hace un momento. Quantos minutos en ‘un momento’?” True Guatemalan laughter, “Jaja, muchos minutos amigo, muchos minutos”. And so goes how I learned what “un momento” means in Guatemalan time.
Mucho momentos tarde, la vista, que bonita! -The view of Elysium, or whatever Elysium looks like in Spanish. From on top of the tallest hill in Semuc Champey I stood, below the natural pools that pour over into each other in beautiful sweetness, like the layers of a chocolate fondue-the richness looks grand from afar, but to be in it is to experience it. To the far left, somewhere in the distance the source of this grand translucence of water, a waterfall pours over, peeking its cascading head out from behind the verdant hills. Straight ahead is only lush greenness that rises above from the perfect blue, the most fitting combination of colors, only found from a bird’s eye view. To the right, the mountains, hills, whatever you call them they are rises in the earth, attempts to reach towards the sky, to draw a newer and more vivid horizon, and they do. The river falls out of view somewhere towards the distance, the sky opens up and you see for miles the purity of the land.
Yet aside from the understood expanse, the one thing that makes this view the best is being a part of it. “Cannonballo!” I shout as I jump from a cliff side into the waters below, I can see the bottom. The senses all over my body are engaged as I take in the moment that takes me right now. My feet touch the bottom of the earth, soft dust with water makes softness. My body up to my shoulders feels the water, temperature perfect, if you looked from afar you could see my whole self to the ocean floor and know that it is so. My ears hear the sounds of Guatemalan children splashing in the agua pura, el agua pura del tierra. My eyes, they see the world not from a bird’s eye, more of a fish’s eye view, water sprawling into the hills of the earth.
I sit down on a rock that protrudes from the water just so, and imagine. Someone wonderful, Katy, stands there at the edge of a cliff, her feet tickled by the gentle pull of the water. Her yellow bikini is stretched delicately over her tanned body, brown hair tousled just so with moist jungle water. She smiles proudly and beckons me to join her. I am about to do so when Edgar, the guide, shouts “Vamanos chicos, vamanos!” I turn to hear his voice and turn around again to see Katy, but she is not there, only the river softly whispering, the sky blue. Yet I swear I could see a spark of yellow flutter in the wind, and just like that gone.
The candlelight flutters, casting underground shadows on the rock above and all around my head, the water below. My flip-flops are tied with a thick medium between a string and a rope, as if they would stay on my feet in such a place designed for men of the earth, under the earth. I walk with hesitation in the bowels of Semuc Champey, an underground cave that is filled to the shoulder with water, sometimes more, so that as you grace along the floors you must actually swim with one hand, candle barely above the water’s surface. To place a description upon something that has never been seen is difficult to do, so I will not try. I will only say that imagine something you have never seen and it is like that. I scale the cavern walls, and I hear a roar in the distance. Moments later my body is tucked into a space not meant for muy altos gringos, and I stand at the edge of a waterfall, underground. It pounds down and I walk just under it so that it jostles my hair vigorously, allow it to hit upon my back, receiving a massage from Mother Nature.I climb up a ladder, almost drown in 8 feet of cave water (my flip-flops dragging me under), climb up another cliff eight feet into the air and jump into a pool of water of the same depth. Then I do it all over again, backwards, cold and wet and almost scared, more because of the fact that I am underground than anything else. I emerge from the cave, my candle gone in the midst of the water world, and am welcomed by the jungle showers of late afternoon. At this point I feel nothing but pure adrenaline and a desire to soak my feet in a tub of hot water, and smile for a picture that doesn’t even begin to touch upon the journey that started it.The morning after, Freddie to my side, I turn around and watch as 12 heads nod in and out of sleep upon each other’s shoulders, dreams of jungle times dance in their heads. I only smile and stick my head out the window.
miércoles, 21 de julio de 2010
Mi Ejercito de Verdad (My Army of Truth)
Yo soy solo un hombre, pero un hombre que cree. En vida, y el fuerte de vida crear cosas maravillosas y fantasticos. Sin embargo solo en mi, vida puede crear, entonces debo creer ellos cosas maravillosas y fantasticos y ellas llamas vida.
Here at the Scheel Center I have decided that these cosas maravillosas y fantasticos (beautiful and fantastic things) which I believe in are products of other’s creation. That is to say I am attempting to create creation, not to play God, but to bring out the imagination and life in others. To do this, I have been working very hard the past two weeks to lay down the foundation for El Centro Scheel Tiempos (The Scheel Center Times), the newspaper I am building from the ground up at this school.
After I gave a presentation in Spanish to the leaders of the school (two weeks ago), I sat down with the one teacher who showed interest the following Monday. At the lunch table, as if it were fate, she (Zoraida, one of the older teachers, 35, whose class I sat in on that first day) was sitting next to Javier (also in his 30s, the only male teacher. We have exchanged pleasant courtesies of “Como estas? Bien, bueno te ver otra ves”- manos pequenyos Guatemaltecas and big American hands do a Latin American handshake-hands slap remove fist pound). I placed my laptop in front of me with Google Translate open, and also wonderfully conveniently Ralph, this Dutch twenty-something who speaks fluent Spanish, sat down also, without asking but recognizing he was needed.
Twenty minutes and many Creos y Queiros y Si es que los ninos quieren, es que quiero’s later I took a deep breath and said “Esta proyecta es muy importante a mi, porque es para los ninos. Deseo usar mi ingles te mostrar como mucho creo, pero espero puedes lo ver en mi ojos”. “Si, que bonita, es muy interessante, estamos emotionado,” they said. Their smiles said that my smile said what my Spanish could not, they were on board.
Two days later I stood in front of three different classes of students, each filled with twenty different Guatemalan faces, waiting to see what this gringo could possibly say that would alter their daily routine. “Ustedes tienen el fuerte de hacer este proyecto propio y de utilizar sus conocimientos en una manera nueva. Esto puede ser algo de que pueden estar muy orgullosos, si ustedes estan dispuesto a poner el tiempo y energía en ella,” (I essentially reached into their greater senses -that of pride-telling them that is up to them to make their own, if they are willing to put the time and energy into it). I stood in front of their curious faces and attempted to go off the cuff, without my script, to show them that I was able to lead them in Spanish. Once again, I like to believe that what my words could not say, the way I said them could. And they did. At the end of the day, I had 28 names of interested students for the El Centro Scheel Tiempos (still working on if that translates the way I want it to, time will tell).
For the past week I have gathered my ejercito de verdad (army of truth) as we pave a path to success. ? Puedo ayudar con su periodicos? People reaching out where I don’t have to, I learn that people believe in what I am doing. Ron, Senor Jefe, even had one of the volunteers (Carrie, who joined me on Volcan Pacaya) write up a story for his website on this project. Everywhere I go I received news of encouragement, “Wow, that sounds wonderful” , “It definitely seems like something you are passionate about”, and most recently from my buddy Paul from the states who came to visit (he goes by Pablo now) “Adam, I just love the way that you go out of your way to create something out of the ordinary. This is something that will last. Where other volunteers just do what their told, you do what you believe in, and you will leave your impression on this place for sure.” Needless to say, the forecast was cielos azules and if any clouds got in my way I would see above them.
Just two days ago, I stood in front of the class again. “Oooh, muy elegante hoy Adam” the girls from Spain as I walked down the stairs in the morning, wearing my freshly ironed Banana Republic white button down, khakis and my high tops, ready to make that impression.
Buenas dias, the response to my greeting to the eager minds, the beautiful intellects to be molded in the spirit of sharing the story of the Scheel Center with the community, and then the world. After many attempts to get the students to express their ideas, I ended up with two ideas and two minutes. Vale, vamos a regressar manana a el mismo tiempo en el mismo cuarto, entonces pueden recebrir sus cuentos (Okay, we are going to return tomorrow at the same time en the same room, so you all can receive your stories).
The next day I came in at 8:45, walking up the jagged cobblestoned and, by the time I can see the homes of Jocotenango, muddied streets to the Scheel Center, my mind rolling on all to accomplish in the next hour and a half. After all, I had a very important meeting at dies y quarto. I prepared a cut and paste document on how to write these stories, creating the ideas, laying out the questions and even giving the students contacts. As I was printing off the copies for the students, Javier walks in and I understand through Courtney (from Trinity, who is living with me, she is going to be the Photography Editor) that no students are there.
Supposedly when I said “A el mismo tiempo, manana, in el mismo cuarto” they did not understand. They nodded, but they did not understand. They said “comprendemos”, but they did not understand. I cut my losses, made sure they realized the importance of the meeting, said to Javier “Por favor communicas a sus estudiantes esta la reunion es manana a dies y quarto”.
Today, I composed another cut and paste document for the kids, on “How to Conduct an Interview”. I went by the classrooms at 9:30 to communicate in person to the students about the meeting, they smiled, said “comprendemos” and I left the room happy.
Dies y quarto, dos estudiantes. Struggled and frustrated Spanish uttered as I wandered about the halls of the Scheel Center, praying that lightning doesn’t strike the same American-Guatemalan twice. At dies y media and many worried faces and Que pasa’s? later I returned to the classroom and the two had turned into ten, and I breathed a heavy Spanish sigh…Ayyyy.
There is much to accomplish in the coming week. Kevin and Hugo are taking the news. Reina and Jose are taking sports. Sonia is taking entertainment. Gerson is taking the editorial. Edwin is taking the art section. Dominga, Maria, and Franklyn are taking the photography. This is just the students. Suzanna is running in the right direction for web design and graphic design. Nele and Katie are my negotiators, translating my broken Spanish proposals for the printing companies. Courtney is leading the way with the photographers. There is no reserve, all of them stand in the front line, together, it is the only way to truly conquer.
I stand amongst them, above them, they can look to me whenever they want and I will lead them in the right direction. What started out as an idea, is slowly but surely becoming a reality. We march on, and in less than a week, standing tall together, we will see victory. If what you do in life really does echo in eternity, I hope that the canyons are filled with the beautiful words of the Spanish language, through the voice of a child.
Here at the Scheel Center I have decided that these cosas maravillosas y fantasticos (beautiful and fantastic things) which I believe in are products of other’s creation. That is to say I am attempting to create creation, not to play God, but to bring out the imagination and life in others. To do this, I have been working very hard the past two weeks to lay down the foundation for El Centro Scheel Tiempos (The Scheel Center Times), the newspaper I am building from the ground up at this school.
After I gave a presentation in Spanish to the leaders of the school (two weeks ago), I sat down with the one teacher who showed interest the following Monday. At the lunch table, as if it were fate, she (Zoraida, one of the older teachers, 35, whose class I sat in on that first day) was sitting next to Javier (also in his 30s, the only male teacher. We have exchanged pleasant courtesies of “Como estas? Bien, bueno te ver otra ves”- manos pequenyos Guatemaltecas and big American hands do a Latin American handshake-hands slap remove fist pound). I placed my laptop in front of me with Google Translate open, and also wonderfully conveniently Ralph, this Dutch twenty-something who speaks fluent Spanish, sat down also, without asking but recognizing he was needed.
Twenty minutes and many Creos y Queiros y Si es que los ninos quieren, es que quiero’s later I took a deep breath and said “Esta proyecta es muy importante a mi, porque es para los ninos. Deseo usar mi ingles te mostrar como mucho creo, pero espero puedes lo ver en mi ojos”. “Si, que bonita, es muy interessante, estamos emotionado,” they said. Their smiles said that my smile said what my Spanish could not, they were on board.
Two days later I stood in front of three different classes of students, each filled with twenty different Guatemalan faces, waiting to see what this gringo could possibly say that would alter their daily routine. “Ustedes tienen el fuerte de hacer este proyecto propio y de utilizar sus conocimientos en una manera nueva. Esto puede ser algo de que pueden estar muy orgullosos, si ustedes estan dispuesto a poner el tiempo y energía en ella,” (I essentially reached into their greater senses -that of pride-telling them that is up to them to make their own, if they are willing to put the time and energy into it). I stood in front of their curious faces and attempted to go off the cuff, without my script, to show them that I was able to lead them in Spanish. Once again, I like to believe that what my words could not say, the way I said them could. And they did. At the end of the day, I had 28 names of interested students for the El Centro Scheel Tiempos (still working on if that translates the way I want it to, time will tell).
For the past week I have gathered my ejercito de verdad (army of truth) as we pave a path to success. ? Puedo ayudar con su periodicos? People reaching out where I don’t have to, I learn that people believe in what I am doing. Ron, Senor Jefe, even had one of the volunteers (Carrie, who joined me on Volcan Pacaya) write up a story for his website on this project. Everywhere I go I received news of encouragement, “Wow, that sounds wonderful” , “It definitely seems like something you are passionate about”, and most recently from my buddy Paul from the states who came to visit (he goes by Pablo now) “Adam, I just love the way that you go out of your way to create something out of the ordinary. This is something that will last. Where other volunteers just do what their told, you do what you believe in, and you will leave your impression on this place for sure.” Needless to say, the forecast was cielos azules and if any clouds got in my way I would see above them.
Just two days ago, I stood in front of the class again. “Oooh, muy elegante hoy Adam” the girls from Spain as I walked down the stairs in the morning, wearing my freshly ironed Banana Republic white button down, khakis and my high tops, ready to make that impression.
Buenas dias, the response to my greeting to the eager minds, the beautiful intellects to be molded in the spirit of sharing the story of the Scheel Center with the community, and then the world. After many attempts to get the students to express their ideas, I ended up with two ideas and two minutes. Vale, vamos a regressar manana a el mismo tiempo en el mismo cuarto, entonces pueden recebrir sus cuentos (Okay, we are going to return tomorrow at the same time en the same room, so you all can receive your stories).
The next day I came in at 8:45, walking up the jagged cobblestoned and, by the time I can see the homes of Jocotenango, muddied streets to the Scheel Center, my mind rolling on all to accomplish in the next hour and a half. After all, I had a very important meeting at dies y quarto. I prepared a cut and paste document on how to write these stories, creating the ideas, laying out the questions and even giving the students contacts. As I was printing off the copies for the students, Javier walks in and I understand through Courtney (from Trinity, who is living with me, she is going to be the Photography Editor) that no students are there.
Supposedly when I said “A el mismo tiempo, manana, in el mismo cuarto” they did not understand. They nodded, but they did not understand. They said “comprendemos”, but they did not understand. I cut my losses, made sure they realized the importance of the meeting, said to Javier “Por favor communicas a sus estudiantes esta la reunion es manana a dies y quarto”.
Today, I composed another cut and paste document for the kids, on “How to Conduct an Interview”. I went by the classrooms at 9:30 to communicate in person to the students about the meeting, they smiled, said “comprendemos” and I left the room happy.
Dies y quarto, dos estudiantes. Struggled and frustrated Spanish uttered as I wandered about the halls of the Scheel Center, praying that lightning doesn’t strike the same American-Guatemalan twice. At dies y media and many worried faces and Que pasa’s? later I returned to the classroom and the two had turned into ten, and I breathed a heavy Spanish sigh…Ayyyy.
There is much to accomplish in the coming week. Kevin and Hugo are taking the news. Reina and Jose are taking sports. Sonia is taking entertainment. Gerson is taking the editorial. Edwin is taking the art section. Dominga, Maria, and Franklyn are taking the photography. This is just the students. Suzanna is running in the right direction for web design and graphic design. Nele and Katie are my negotiators, translating my broken Spanish proposals for the printing companies. Courtney is leading the way with the photographers. There is no reserve, all of them stand in the front line, together, it is the only way to truly conquer.
I stand amongst them, above them, they can look to me whenever they want and I will lead them in the right direction. What started out as an idea, is slowly but surely becoming a reality. We march on, and in less than a week, standing tall together, we will see victory. If what you do in life really does echo in eternity, I hope that the canyons are filled with the beautiful words of the Spanish language, through the voice of a child.
lunes, 12 de julio de 2010
La Vista De Un Volcan
Pace past the corner of imagination and innocence. Look closely and you see the face of a child, smiling, at the zoo. Last Thursday I had the grand opportunity to accompany the children of Centro Sonyador (Dreamer Center, a connection to the Scheel Center through Nuestros Ahijados, their umbrella parent organization) on their first big trip out of the city. And he gathered two of every animal…to the Guatemala City Zoo. Guatemalan mothers watched their Guatemalan hijos y hijas climb on the bus, probably the first time they had truly let go of their young ones. Es bueno, I told them Yo voy a ser su hermano grande hoy! My excited Spanish imparting my love of being a big brother, especially to three beautiful Guatemalan children. Ludwig (Ludwig! Espera para mi! Became a constant phrase of the day. Who names their Spanish child after a German composer?), Michael (Pronounced Me-kay-el), and a girl I forget the name of, always did, luckily she never ran off.
It was quite a sensation to see the little placards that read “Leones de Africa” or “Monos”, watching little bronzed faces, (See picture with Ludwig)as the children pointed in real emotion at wild animals behind man-made iron fences. “Mira mira, es un elefante!” Michael kept telling me, it was his favorite animal. Vi un elefante en vida real en Africa, I attempted to tell him, who knows what he gathered from it. First time I have seen these animals since Africa, so strange from this side, in a different language.
Later that day I got the chance to be the big brother I had always wanted to be for 5 year old Spanish boys and girls. I began to pick one up by the arms, knowing it to be an open invitation for all the other boys and girls to get in line and take their turn being swung around by the tall gringo boy who they barely know, but so much love, at least for that moment. Moments of reflection from my ecstasy of sweet smiles with Jessica (Te gustame, no? She is with me in the picture below) allowed me to think about the strange fact of me being the only male on the trip, one of two or three out of all the volunteers I had met since my time in Antigua. It clicked to me how fantastic of an event it was to have a 6’ 4” Americano to look up to, literally and emotionally, coming from broken households, and if they aren’t their fathers certainly aren’t more than five and half feet off the ground. It made me smile to think that for a day I had changed the perspective of a handful of blessed, smiling, animal-watching Guatemalan children.
The next two days came in flurries of drinking homemade sangria with Americans and Canadians and Guatemalans (well sort of ), pick-up basketball games (never played basketball in Spanish before) and the other half of Antigua (welcomed into beautiful homes in south Antigua, hidden from the poverty, from the reality of the world. The warm water felt nice on my hands though). I will speak only more directly to the basketball game, as I must because when my passions collide it excites me so.
I walked to the court Saturday morning, just a tall skinny white boy going to the courts for a couple of shots at the bottom of a net, an ordinary sunshine-y day-except there was no net. Rather the imaginings of a net hung from weathered rim standing no more than 9 feet of the ground. To the nearer foreground rested the unsupported façade of a Guatemalan cathedral, sitting as if waiting for someone else to walk through its tired doors. In the farther background, Volcan Agua, cheering me on as I slam dunked like a real man, (or hombre real in the papers of the streets of Antigua the next day).
A random girl from the Scheel Center came out to shoot around, and in a matter of minutes four other people came, honeyed skinned legs funny with soccer shoes and Chicago Cubs hats to play tres en tres. In America, aside from the jazz stage, the basketball court is the place where I am uninhibited, natural, relaxed, my verbiage and language, my encapsulated lexicon (only used in boxes of places, understood nowhere else) all come alive. That’s a fancy way to say my smack talk on the court, but it is to say this to say that it was not on this day existent, for there is no Spanish translation for “Whoomp! There it is!” Alas, my team was victorious when we had more points, various shouts of “El es sus! El es sus!” went to no avail for the boys were not used to a game where people score more than every 30 minutes. Smiles said what words could not (they always do, even when words can) and I walked home, sweat dripping onto Guatemalan grounds, satisfied with my performance in my first ever tres en tres.
The view at the top, everything around you dead, you finally realize where life comes from-the endless cycle of destruction rebirth, watching with hopeful eyes for those patches of green, a banner of hope waving from afar. Such thoughts scattered my mind as I did a 360 on top of Volcan Pacaya.
Fresh from eruption only a month ago, the life around it was naught. Your feet pressed down and down some more upon the fresh ash, wherever you went it followed you, or you followed it. I bent down to pick up some, ended up with a chunk of igneous rock in my hand-a real lava rock. You never really think about a lava rocks as being something you are missing in your life, until you have one in your hand, from a real volcano, and for moment life feels complete. Until you look around from the top and see three other volcanoes seemingly miles away from 8,000 feet, but they rise above, sleeping giant neighbors of this younger brother, recently come to life. And that was just the view.
I of course wanted to share my perspective of the world with the volcano, it had been so kind to do me the same. So, I brought marshmallows. Some part of me imagined that I would brave the elements and roast them in real lava, but today, I was not ready for such a task, and yet I came prepared. At the bottom of the volcano I was looking for a stick (under the impression there would be no sticks on a burned down volcano, I was wrong), when I found Oh! Lord behold a metal pole, no more than half an inch in diameter, about a foot and a half long, with a pointy end on one side, and curvature that some may call a handle (and dare I did) on the other end. My excitement made me believe that this had been left here for me, for the sole purposes of roasting marshmallows. And I am a man who follows my beliefs.
Watching an artist at work are a huddle of German girls, some Dutchees, a few South Americans and fellow Americans (from Colorado). His art? Well crafting the perfect roasted marshmallow from the thermal vents of the heat of natural earth-i.e. on a volcano. The artist indeed was me, and I had never felt so wonderful in a long time. I love being in my element, being able to share with the world around me. Life is a continual game of give and take, and for all I have been blessed with I shall give back two fold. Just never thought it would be with marshmallows. Pictures were taken of me in this zone, I smiled real big for the camera, stood up and took a bite of my delicacy.
How wonderful it is to taste something that may not be able to be tasted again, to savor the moment and say “Where did your life turn wrong? Come! Join me on this volcano, we shall laugh, be merry, and we will live our lives with fresh air, blue skies, and all the marshmallows you could ever wish for!”
It was quite a sensation to see the little placards that read “Leones de Africa” or “Monos”, watching little bronzed faces, (See picture with Ludwig)as the children pointed in real emotion at wild animals behind man-made iron fences. “Mira mira, es un elefante!” Michael kept telling me, it was his favorite animal. Vi un elefante en vida real en Africa, I attempted to tell him, who knows what he gathered from it. First time I have seen these animals since Africa, so strange from this side, in a different language.
Later that day I got the chance to be the big brother I had always wanted to be for 5 year old Spanish boys and girls. I began to pick one up by the arms, knowing it to be an open invitation for all the other boys and girls to get in line and take their turn being swung around by the tall gringo boy who they barely know, but so much love, at least for that moment. Moments of reflection from my ecstasy of sweet smiles with Jessica (Te gustame, no? She is with me in the picture below) allowed me to think about the strange fact of me being the only male on the trip, one of two or three out of all the volunteers I had met since my time in Antigua. It clicked to me how fantastic of an event it was to have a 6’ 4” Americano to look up to, literally and emotionally, coming from broken households, and if they aren’t their fathers certainly aren’t more than five and half feet off the ground. It made me smile to think that for a day I had changed the perspective of a handful of blessed, smiling, animal-watching Guatemalan children.
The next two days came in flurries of drinking homemade sangria with Americans and Canadians and Guatemalans (well sort of ), pick-up basketball games (never played basketball in Spanish before) and the other half of Antigua (welcomed into beautiful homes in south Antigua, hidden from the poverty, from the reality of the world. The warm water felt nice on my hands though). I will speak only more directly to the basketball game, as I must because when my passions collide it excites me so.
I walked to the court Saturday morning, just a tall skinny white boy going to the courts for a couple of shots at the bottom of a net, an ordinary sunshine-y day-except there was no net. Rather the imaginings of a net hung from weathered rim standing no more than 9 feet of the ground. To the nearer foreground rested the unsupported façade of a Guatemalan cathedral, sitting as if waiting for someone else to walk through its tired doors. In the farther background, Volcan Agua, cheering me on as I slam dunked like a real man, (or hombre real in the papers of the streets of Antigua the next day).
A random girl from the Scheel Center came out to shoot around, and in a matter of minutes four other people came, honeyed skinned legs funny with soccer shoes and Chicago Cubs hats to play tres en tres. In America, aside from the jazz stage, the basketball court is the place where I am uninhibited, natural, relaxed, my verbiage and language, my encapsulated lexicon (only used in boxes of places, understood nowhere else) all come alive. That’s a fancy way to say my smack talk on the court, but it is to say this to say that it was not on this day existent, for there is no Spanish translation for “Whoomp! There it is!” Alas, my team was victorious when we had more points, various shouts of “El es sus! El es sus!” went to no avail for the boys were not used to a game where people score more than every 30 minutes. Smiles said what words could not (they always do, even when words can) and I walked home, sweat dripping onto Guatemalan grounds, satisfied with my performance in my first ever tres en tres.
The view at the top, everything around you dead, you finally realize where life comes from-the endless cycle of destruction rebirth, watching with hopeful eyes for those patches of green, a banner of hope waving from afar. Such thoughts scattered my mind as I did a 360 on top of Volcan Pacaya.
Fresh from eruption only a month ago, the life around it was naught. Your feet pressed down and down some more upon the fresh ash, wherever you went it followed you, or you followed it. I bent down to pick up some, ended up with a chunk of igneous rock in my hand-a real lava rock. You never really think about a lava rocks as being something you are missing in your life, until you have one in your hand, from a real volcano, and for moment life feels complete. Until you look around from the top and see three other volcanoes seemingly miles away from 8,000 feet, but they rise above, sleeping giant neighbors of this younger brother, recently come to life. And that was just the view.
I of course wanted to share my perspective of the world with the volcano, it had been so kind to do me the same. So, I brought marshmallows. Some part of me imagined that I would brave the elements and roast them in real lava, but today, I was not ready for such a task, and yet I came prepared. At the bottom of the volcano I was looking for a stick (under the impression there would be no sticks on a burned down volcano, I was wrong), when I found Oh! Lord behold a metal pole, no more than half an inch in diameter, about a foot and a half long, with a pointy end on one side, and curvature that some may call a handle (and dare I did) on the other end. My excitement made me believe that this had been left here for me, for the sole purposes of roasting marshmallows. And I am a man who follows my beliefs.
Watching an artist at work are a huddle of German girls, some Dutchees, a few South Americans and fellow Americans (from Colorado). His art? Well crafting the perfect roasted marshmallow from the thermal vents of the heat of natural earth-i.e. on a volcano. The artist indeed was me, and I had never felt so wonderful in a long time. I love being in my element, being able to share with the world around me. Life is a continual game of give and take, and for all I have been blessed with I shall give back two fold. Just never thought it would be with marshmallows. Pictures were taken of me in this zone, I smiled real big for the camera, stood up and took a bite of my delicacy.
How wonderful it is to taste something that may not be able to be tasted again, to savor the moment and say “Where did your life turn wrong? Come! Join me on this volcano, we shall laugh, be merry, and we will live our lives with fresh air, blue skies, and all the marshmallows you could ever wish for!”
viernes, 25 de junio de 2010
Mi Primero Semana En Antigua, (Mi Alma Habla...)
My first week in Antigua. My soul speaks...
...Gently. That is the title of my blog-"My soul speaks gently". It is such because it is true, but as describing someone as "beautiful" may be true, it still does not capture the entire picture. It does not begin to express the intricacies of the speech, where the words were spoken, to whom they were spoken, why they were spoken and to what those words led to next. It is true, here in Antigua, my soul speaks gently, but it also speaks in many other ways and from many other places. "Gently", it more attempts to capture the fluidity of the way I communicate here. Well at least my attempts are fluid, my inhibition flows out everywhere I go. And so does my misused yet impassioned Spanish. This is all to say that I doubt many people see it the way I do, "gently" that is. I can imagine it is perceived more as "loudly" or "awkwardly" or "without thinking". "Fearlessly" another word that I like, it is the only way to become a part of this language. And sin miedo estoy floreciente (Without fear I am thrving).
I have officially been in Antigua, Guatemala for a week now (as of 1 AM this morning). It is only now that I have been able to sit down and share all that has happened, it has been so much. First impressions? I awoke my first day and walked to third floor of my simple but beautiful Guatemalan home, the terrace overlooking the whole city. Rooftops in Guatemala, they are a gathering place. Laundry, lawn chairs, life scatters across these opened spaces, for people don't have lawns to play in. No, rather this view is all, and it is preferred-if not for the open space and fresh air than for the view. Ten miles from my rooftop is a geographic entity that I have never before witnessed, only heard of its power to destroy. But Volcan Agua, in all 12,000 feet of its presence, only shows to me the power to create. It creates an impression that lasts, for no matter what has happened since, I simply look to its jutting peak and realize the beauty of God's creation all around me. And that is just mother nature.
The streets of Guatemala are winding and jagged, you must bend and twist and skip and fold within their cobbled ways.The shops of Guatemala are painted in ancient pastel hues of yellow and orange and purple and blue, all strangely enough the colors of the sun as it touches the horizon. The architecture of Guatemala is rich with history and life, untouched and left as was for all to see the life that is in this culture, in these people.
The people. Los gentes bellos. They are grateful, they are warm, they are inviting, they are curious. Or perhaps that is just how I view them because it is how I am towards them. My first
day I met a man with a shirt that said "I (Heart) Dave Grohl" Mi amigo mejor en Los Estados Unidos amo el Foo Fighters! Is what I told him, Si, que bonita is all they ever say. I attempted to show him the symbol for rock 'n' roll, he only smiled and wondered who el Foo Fighters was.
My second day I met a boy on the bus (the bus taking an American, German and 10 Guatemalans to the pear orchards to pick fruit for the people of Jocotenango, the people I aim to win over and work with for the next six weeks). I can never understand their names, and they always think mine is "Alan", but whatever. Esta es una expresion en ingles, para su novia, es un sobre nombre-el rayo del sol. Comprendes? My attempt to connect our commonalities (a girlfriend) with the shining sun that day, perhaps went in vain, but he smiled and saw the energy with which I spoke, probably wondering what I was doing trying to speak his language.
I am learning quickly. Su espanol es muy bien, the people say. Dispacio, soy apprendiendo dia a dia I humbly say to them. "I wish I had your energy, your inhibition, your love for life," others say, as they watch me chase after a runaway dog on the jagged Guatemalan streets, making a friend with a young Guatemalan boy, all without saying a word.
My third day I met a woman on the bus. Quiero te invitar a mi casa, she said after only moments of conversation, begun by myself, continued with the help of Liz (who speaks more Spanish than I, everyone does actually). No porque? I said, my attempt to express no reason why I would not go have coffee with a strange Guatemalan woman who I just met, and at her house. Meeting at the bus stop hours later, she welcomed us into her home, told us of her family, her loneliness, describing in great detail and emotion her life story to the point we were at.
...Gently. That is the title of my blog-"My soul speaks gently". It is such because it is true, but as describing someone as "beautiful" may be true, it still does not capture the entire picture. It does not begin to express the intricacies of the speech, where the words were spoken, to whom they were spoken, why they were spoken and to what those words led to next. It is true, here in Antigua, my soul speaks gently, but it also speaks in many other ways and from many other places. "Gently", it more attempts to capture the fluidity of the way I communicate here. Well at least my attempts are fluid, my inhibition flows out everywhere I go. And so does my misused yet impassioned Spanish. This is all to say that I doubt many people see it the way I do, "gently" that is. I can imagine it is perceived more as "loudly" or "awkwardly" or "without thinking". "Fearlessly" another word that I like, it is the only way to become a part of this language. And sin miedo estoy floreciente (Without fear I am thrving).
I have officially been in Antigua, Guatemala for a week now (as of 1 AM this morning). It is only now that I have been able to sit down and share all that has happened, it has been so much. First impressions? I awoke my first day and walked to third floor of my simple but beautiful Guatemalan home, the terrace overlooking the whole city. Rooftops in Guatemala, they are a gathering place. Laundry, lawn chairs, life scatters across these opened spaces, for people don't have lawns to play in. No, rather this view is all, and it is preferred-if not for the open space and fresh air than for the view. Ten miles from my rooftop is a geographic entity that I have never before witnessed, only heard of its power to destroy. But Volcan Agua, in all 12,000 feet of its presence, only shows to me the power to create. It creates an impression that lasts, for no matter what has happened since, I simply look to its jutting peak and realize the beauty of God's creation all around me. And that is just mother nature.
The streets of Guatemala are winding and jagged, you must bend and twist and skip and fold within their cobbled ways.The shops of Guatemala are painted in ancient pastel hues of yellow and orange and purple and blue, all strangely enough the colors of the sun as it touches the horizon. The architecture of Guatemala is rich with history and life, untouched and left as was for all to see the life that is in this culture, in these people.
The people. Los gentes bellos. They are grateful, they are warm, they are inviting, they are curious. Or perhaps that is just how I view them because it is how I am towards them. My first
day I met a man with a shirt that said "I (Heart) Dave Grohl" Mi amigo mejor en Los Estados Unidos amo el Foo Fighters! Is what I told him, Si, que bonita is all they ever say. I attempted to show him the symbol for rock 'n' roll, he only smiled and wondered who el Foo Fighters was.My second day I met a boy on the bus (the bus taking an American, German and 10 Guatemalans to the pear orchards to pick fruit for the people of Jocotenango, the people I aim to win over and work with for the next six weeks). I can never understand their names, and they always think mine is "Alan", but whatever. Esta es una expresion en ingles, para su novia, es un sobre nombre-el rayo del sol. Comprendes? My attempt to connect our commonalities (a girlfriend) with the shining sun that day, perhaps went in vain, but he smiled and saw the energy with which I spoke, probably wondering what I was doing trying to speak his language.
I am learning quickly. Su espanol es muy bien, the people say. Dispacio, soy apprendiendo dia a dia I humbly say to them. "I wish I had your energy, your inhibition, your love for life," others say, as they watch me chase after a runaway dog on the jagged Guatemalan streets, making a friend with a young Guatemalan boy, all without saying a word.
My third day I met a woman on the bus. Quiero te invitar a mi casa, she said after only moments of conversation, begun by myself, continued with the help of Liz (who speaks more Spanish than I, everyone does actually). No porque? I said, my attempt to express no reason why I would not go have coffee with a strange Guatemalan woman who I just met, and at her house. Meeting at the bus stop hours later, she welcomed us into her home, told us of her family, her loneliness, describing in great detail and emotion her life story to the point we were at.
While Liz translated, I often didn't need it, for I could see the pain, the history in this woman's life. She needed me, I needed her. Se espanol, necessitas apprendir espanol, she said Se ingles, necessitas apprendir ingles I said back to her, and the realization that we wanted to share in each others language resulted in Que bonita! Vamos ser amigos mejor! And Spanish laughter and realizations followed, a new friendship formed in only my third day in this country, with only a month of untrained Spanish under my belt. We meet for lunch again this Friday.
On my fourth day I met the indigenous culture of the Mayans. After a journey to the breathtaking waterscape of Lago Atitlan, with my gringo company (Katie, Jake, and Carrie-strangely enough all people who are connected to me through San Antonio, Trinity) I settled in the mostly hidden community of San Pedro for Dia del San Pedro a celebration of the god who represents their town.
Weathered faces rested under woven headresses, whose intracacies must have taken weeks of patience and tradition to create. A people whose ceremony at one time would never have been witnessed by a white man, my mind wandered to a place where the rawness of these people was still wholly theirs. To imagine their lives without color TVs and mojitos and a life led by tourism. The incense in the air painted a picture of what this life must have been like, reflection in between the scents showed me a life extraordinary.
On my fifth day I met Frustration. Taking the back seat in conversations of negotiation, always having to ask someone else what is going, never really understanding for yourself what is happening. For the first time having so much to say but not being able to say any of it, there is no room for you. It is a new sensation, but one which we all must have to realize the world does not revolve around us, that we can never take communication for granted.
In my past two days I have been reconnecting with my past, writing emails completely in Spanish to old friends and to girls I met on the plane to Guatemala City. Taking care of my future, of my emotions, of love and people back home, I finally breathe as I take in all the grandiosity that surrounds me. I work with Guatemalans, with Germans, with Africans, with Spanish and beautiful people to prepare my work in the coming weeks. At the Scheel Center (http://www.scheelcenter.org/), the place I will be volunteering with my old friend Ron, I am creating a presentation to express my desire to help start a newspaper at the school I am working for. These children have no internet, no computers, but they have a voice and I want to help them share it with those around them. I have a lot of work ahead of me.
On my fourth day I met the indigenous culture of the Mayans. After a journey to the breathtaking waterscape of Lago Atitlan, with my gringo company (Katie, Jake, and Carrie-strangely enough all people who are connected to me through San Antonio, Trinity) I settled in the mostly hidden community of San Pedro for Dia del San Pedro a celebration of the god who represents their town.
Weathered faces rested under woven headresses, whose intracacies must have taken weeks of patience and tradition to create. A people whose ceremony at one time would never have been witnessed by a white man, my mind wandered to a place where the rawness of these people was still wholly theirs. To imagine their lives without color TVs and mojitos and a life led by tourism. The incense in the air painted a picture of what this life must have been like, reflection in between the scents showed me a life extraordinary.On my fifth day I met Frustration. Taking the back seat in conversations of negotiation, always having to ask someone else what is going, never really understanding for yourself what is happening. For the first time having so much to say but not being able to say any of it, there is no room for you. It is a new sensation, but one which we all must have to realize the world does not revolve around us, that we can never take communication for granted.
In my past two days I have been reconnecting with my past, writing emails completely in Spanish to old friends and to girls I met on the plane to Guatemala City. Taking care of my future, of my emotions, of love and people back home, I finally breathe as I take in all the grandiosity that surrounds me. I work with Guatemalans, with Germans, with Africans, with Spanish and beautiful people to prepare my work in the coming weeks. At the Scheel Center (http://www.scheelcenter.org/), the place I will be volunteering with my old friend Ron, I am creating a presentation to express my desire to help start a newspaper at the school I am working for. These children have no internet, no computers, but they have a voice and I want to help them share it with those around them. I have a lot of work ahead of me.
(Captions of the Scheel Center kids. In celebration of Dia Del Maestro "Teacher's Day")
I would like nothing more than to climb to the top of a Volcano and shout to the city of Antigua Aqui soy, te necessito me necessitar. Mostrame, apprendeme, dicame todo. Es todo quiero. Lo dame ahora, o voy a encontrate. My soul speaks...only time will tell who will answer. Until then, Espero.
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