You are mine.

A couple weeks ago I went to a Halloween party.  Halloween is to Costa Rica as "Cinco de Mayo" is to the United States.  Kind of one of those half-celebrated holidays adopted for the sake of partying.  Not everyone acknowledges Halloween in Costa Rica.  There's probably a solid 60/40 who do.  Vendors sell witch hats bedazzled with bling-bling spiders on street corners but you won't find houses lit up by carved pumpkins or littered with artificial cobwebs.  Some Costa Ricans disagree with celebrating Halloween claiming that it is a "gringo" holiday and not theirs.  They protest the invasion of American culture into their own and try to resist its influence.  There is even a festival that was started in a town outside of San Jose to counter the rising popularity of Halloween here.  This festival has a parade in which traditional Costa Rican masks are worn and displayed as people walk through the streets.  Thankfully my friends in Costa Rica are the ones who do celebrate Halloween and I didn't have to miss it this year.

So, as you know, I live with four Germans - two girls and two boys.  We were all sitting around the table after dinner a few nights before the Halloween party and trying to think of costumes.  Originally fending for myself and racking my brain for ideas, I had a stroke of genius and started hunting down a group costume.  I then decided on:  Scooby Doo and his gang.  If you knew my roommates, you would know how eerily similar they are to these characters in demeanor and physical attributes.  Ironically enough, only one of the Germans had ever seen Scooby Doo, and it had been the movie - not even the cartoon.  Throughout the entire night, each one of them kept coming up to me and asking "Now, what's my name?"  "Who am I?"  "What am I like?"  After they got their alibis down, they played the parts fantastically - mainly because they only really needed to play themselves.  I elected myself to be Scooby Doo.  I'll refrain from commenting on how well I played my part because I feel it could be both self-promoting and incriminating at the same time.

SCOOBY DOO CREW PROFILES:

Martin played Fred.  The blonde hair, blue eyes, and tall/athletic build fit him perfectly.  Fred is more or less the leader of the group - makes decisions, comes up with the ideas, and motivates others to do it.  Martin is the same way.  He's always the one suggesting a short trip to the beach or setting alarms so we can start dinner on time.  Fred also has a way of thinking he's always right and Martin does too... haha.

Nadine played Daphne.  Daphne is generally the pretty one of the group - Fred's right hand girl.  She is smart, popular, and beautiful.  Nadine is all of the above and at times the reason we go out at all.  It rains a lot here and it's tempting to stay in sometimes, but Nadine is always running around the house in her dress and heels henning us around like chicks ordering us to get ready.  You can't hide from her.

Tobi played Shaggy.  He is equally as goofy as Shaggy and has the impressive ability to each as much as him as well.  Tobi probably eats as much as the rest of us put together, seeing as how is eating speed is as shocking as his quantity.

Anja (pronounced Anya) played Velma.  Both are more or less the brains of the group.  Smart, sarcastic, and well aware of it.  Anja already wore glasses which made the costume easy to manage.  Slapped her on a pair of Tobi's knee-high soccer socks and we were good to go.

I played Scooby Doo.

My last day working in El Jardin was October 31st.  I arrived on Sunday night like normal and stayed at Hazel's house.  After our short trip to their property the week before, I had managed to rub up against some poison ivy that gave me a large rash around my ankle.  I can't remember even one complete year of my life that I haven't got poison ivy so the novelty of it has well worn off; however, the mixture of poison ivy and mosquitoes that night was close to unbearable.  Regardless, the next morning I woke up for my last day of work in the school.  As is routine, Marilin and I left the house at 6:30 to walk across the street and wait on Windy, a girl in the first grade class.  After Marilin calls Windy's name at the top of her lungs about five times, Windy always rushes to the door with her eyes all wide and busy as she continually seems to be surprised when we arrive at her house on the same day at the same time every week.  About the time Marilin and I get done rolling our eyes and sighing audibly at her, she is hopping out the door on one foot, trying to slip the other shoe on while dodging the mud puddles that have come to comprise the walkway up to her house after the increase in rain in the last month.  We then set off down the gravel road to the school passing house by house and slowly accumluating a large amoeba of children making their way to school.

By the time I get to Jahayda's house, where the church is, she and Hector are always waiting for me at the gate.  If they're not there, it means they thought I already passed by and went running to school to find me.  They then see me walking towards them and, at first walking, slowly break out into full sprints to greet me.  Jahayda and I each take a strap of her bookbag and swing it between us while Hector walks circles around us and laughing every time we throw it into the air and I catch it.

I always teach the second grade class first in the morning at 7am.  I was sitting outside of the classroom door with the kids when 7:15 rolled around and still no one had unlocked the door for me.  When I asked the principal what was going on, he told me that the janitor, who is pregnant, wasn't feeling well today and was the only one with a key to the room... and she had accidentally taken it home.  So, he herded the kids and me into the new classroom that is being constructed.  The kids were excited about a new setting and I would have been as well had the classroom had anything remotely like a chalkboard.  Since these schools do not have a lot of technology like projectors, etc. I base most of my lesson plans on using the chalkboards.  Since there wasn't one, I had to makeshift one using white paper, my notebook and markers.  I wrote on the paper and circled around the room both as slowly and quickly as I could so every student could copy the notes.  Naturally, with every step I took away from one student and towards another, choruses of "Wait," "Hold on," "Turn around," "I'm not done," "What was the last word?," "I can't draw that," would echo through the room as the harmony of "Finally," "Right there," "That's good," "Thanks," "One more second," accompanied it.  Welcome to rural Costa Rica.

Rumors that it was my last day spread throughout the school and students boldly cornered me to verify.  When I confirmed it, I got nods of understanding.  Looks of disappointment.  Shrugs of indifference.  Misty eyes.  Pleas to not leave.  Goodbye hugs.  The kitchen sink of farewells.  I've been trying to write this blog for two weeks now and I still don't know what to say about it.  It still hurts.

After school that day I went to the church and spent the evening at the church with Jahayda's family.  We took our usual positions in the kitchen/dining room/living room and ate dinner together.  Maria, Jahayda's mom, kept staring at me.  I'll never know for sure, but I think she was trying to figure out why she cared that I was leaving.  Trying to replay how I had managed to make her love me against her best efforts.  After dinner, the kids and I went to the Sunday School room across from the church and played cards the rest of the night.  We played the game "Tonto" which means "stupid" where the person who has the last card at the end of the game is called "tonto."   We played a Nicaraguan game called "Casino" that's filled with a bunch of adding.  The kids brought their stuffed animals outside so we had a photo op with them.  Everything passed just as normal.  No one said a word about it being my last night and we just played like we always did.  That night I had to stay at Hazel's house again because Pastor Nehemias took the keys back to San Jose to make copies so I couldn't spend the night in the church.  When I went back to the house to gather my stuff, I kissed Maria on the cheek and told her I'd see her soon.  I said goodbye to her husband, Camilo (the oldest son), and Sadie (the youngest daughter).  When I turned to Hector, I put my hand on his head and he threw it off and glared at me as if I had broken his favorite toy in half, threw it in a puddle of mud and laughed at him.  I asked him what was wrong but he just threw himself on the bench in the kitchen, crossed his arms, and pierced me with his eyes.  I told him I loved him and then looked for Jahayda.  I found her behind the other side of the wall in a tornado of sniffles and tears.  I finally convinced her to come outside with me.  I asked her if she was crying because I was leaving and she nodded, though she wouldn't look at me.  She had both hands over her face and kept them there like they were super glued.  I tugged at them a bit but her sobbing made her embarassed and she couldn't muster up the courage to meet my eyes.  I told her over and over that I was coming back to visit, that she didn't need to cry, that I loved her, that I would see her soon.  None of it seemed to affect her.  Finally, I asked her, "Jahayda, do you believe me?  Do you believe I'll come back to visit you?"  She shook her head no and sunk to her knees as she knelt between my legs.  She flung her head on my leg and wrapped her arms around herself.  She broke my heart.  "Jahayda," I said.  "I promise you I will come back to see you.  I promise.  Do you believe me?"  She nodded yes faintly.  Her mother called from the house and told her she better let me go as it was about to rain and I had to walk back to Hazel's.  I hugged Jahayda and hoped she could feel everything I felt in my heart for her.  I kissed her head.  Rubbed her back.  And I left.  It still hurts.

In El Jardin, stray dogs and cats are as easy to come by as banana trees.  And that's a lot.  So, many people establish ownership of a pet simply if it continues to come to their house.  After a while if it is around long enough, the family with throw it bones, feed it leftovers (though there is never much).  Then they'll give it a name and eventually it is theirs.  They just kind of claim it.  No collar, no tags, no shots, no papers.  It's just theirs.  Jahayda's family had a few animals such as this and one was a small dog.  To be fair, it was more of a mid-sized dog, but given the sparcity of food, it was a skinny little thing comprised of shaggy hair and bones.  Jahayda had named it "muneco" which means "doll" (don't ask me...) and it was always wandering the garden property.  I had taken a liking to this dog because of its gentle demeanor and a general overwhelming feeling of pity I had for the thing.  I always threw it pieces of meat when I had the chance (or found the meat unidentifiable and therefore inedible).  Over time, the family began to refer to the dog as mine.  "Nicole, your dog smells terrible,"  "What is on your dog's face?"  "Tell your dog to stop begging."  One afternoon, Jahayda and I were taking a walk to her aunt's house.  The dog was following us and, looking back at the mut, she asked me "Why don't you take your dog to San Jose with you?"  Instead of describing how difficult it would be to take care of a dog while I travel and work so much, on top of all the legal documents I would have to fill out to keep it and the financial responsibility of it all, I decided to simply respond "Well, it's not really my dog.  It's your family's dog."  She then looked up at me and said "No, he was our dog.  But you love him.  So he's yours."

It was such a simple logic.  A basic mathematic formula.  But for some reason it sat down in my heart and dwelled there for weeks.  I began thinking about ownership and what if all ownership in life was contingent on your love for that thing.  The idea that love gives you the right to something.  If you have the purest of intentions for a person, they are yours.  Forever.  This means holding onto them when they need you and letting go of them when they don't want you.  Loving them.  Love them and they are yours forever.

The night in the garden, with Jahayda sobbing on my pant leg as I rubbed her back and made her promises, this memory came back to me.  And I just thought over and over.  "Jahayda, you are mine forever.  You are mine forever.  I love you, and you are mine."

Sometimes when I think of the word "mine" I think of ownership and possession, even slavery.  I think of it in a negative context and I am resistant to the idea.  I think back to the bra-burning days and I mumble to myself, "No one owns me.  I am free."  But, when I think longer about it, I realize that in the end, I want to be somebody's.  I want to be someone's wife.  I want to belong to someone.  And I want that relationship to be built out of love.  I want to be owned because I am irreversibly loved.

I think this is the kind of possession God was talking about when He said to us "Don't be afraid, for I have redeemed you.  I have you called you by your name.  You are mine."  Or like that story with King Solomon when the two women came to him claiming they were the mother of the same baby.  He told them that to fix the problem he would cut the baby in half and give them each a piece of him.  One woman agreed to the deal, but the true mother of the child said no.  She told the other woman she could have the baby as long as it wasn't harmed.  And that's how King Solomon knew she was the true mother.  Possession determined by love.

You are mine.  You are mine.  You are mine.  There is something comforting about that ownership.  That belonging.  That claim.  I am His.  I am His.  I am His.

Somehow, Jahayda figured all that out long before me.  How love trumps ownership and even givers the rights to it.  We are His because we are loved.  I am my parents because they love me.  Jahayda is mine because I love her.  Nothing can change it, only you.  Only your love or your indifference.  God says that we are His.  We are His because He loves us.  And He promised He would love us until the end of time.  Forever.  We are forever His.  No matter what we do, no matter what we say, no matter what we think we know.  No matter who we think we are, no matter where we go, no matter no matter.  Take comfort in the fact that...

You are His.  You are His.  You are His.

Period. Fact. Unchangeable.

Two Sundays ago, October 16th, was Hector's birthday.  Hector is Jahayda's little brother, the family who lives behind the church I sleep in in El Jardin.  I had promised Hector a month ago that I would come up to El Jardin on Sunday to celebrate his birthday with him and spend the night in the church that night.  He had strategically brought up his birthday every time I saw him since I made the promise, including questions about what I was going to get him.  I had been dodging the question for a month now because I wasn't sure what I was going to get Hector or if I should even get him anything at all.  I knew that his family, and most families in this community, can't afford birthday gifts.  What typically happens, as with Marilin's birthday, is the mom will make their child's favorite meal, the family will eat it together and that is that.  Happy Birthday.  The entire time I'd been here I had been very careful about how I approached the topic of money with the community members and made sure not to buy children things while I was there.

I did this for a few reasons:  1)  I didn't want my relationship with any community member or child to be based on money;  I didn't want them to rely on me for money or invite me places because they knew I would pay for things.  I wanted them to look at me as a person who had a real relationship with them based on friendship, not look at me like I was a wallet as happens so many times during mission work in poor communities.  2)  "If I buy something for one child, I have to buy something for every child."  I really hated hearing that while I was growing up.  From teachers, parents, and every adult ever.  But with El Jardin being such a small community, I was well aware that if I favored one kid or, to any degree, financially supported a community member or a family and not another, that I would create jealousy and resentment between neighbors and students.  3)  I don't want to make anybody feel inadequate as if I could provide something for their child that they couldn't, or something for their family that they were unable to.  People react very differently to help.  Some appreciate it, some are too prideful to accept it, some resent the person who helped them, etc.  The risk of stirring up feelings of animosity towards me or towards themselves was not worth it.  4)  Money complicates everything.  Everything.

One day Hector and I were sitting at the base of a large tree in the garden, eating rice and beans from our plastic plates, and he once again asked me what I was going to get him for his birthday (with a playful grin on his face).  I said "Well, what do you want?"  He said "In general, girls get dolls and boys get cars."  I said "That's super helpful Hector, thank you."  He smiled, then, his face dropped, he abruptly set down his plate of food on the other side of his lap and ran off to the house.  I saw him run up to his mom and whisper in her ear.  Then he came running back, picked up his plate, and said "I'd like pants for my birthday."

Now things were more complicated.  This was a child asking for basic necessities like clothes, clearly instructed by his mother, which of course made me want to get him a toy even more.  No one wants basic necessities for their birthday except my mother with her sock obsession and Baloo the bear from The Jungle Book (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ogQ0uge06o).  For the next two weeks I went back on forth on whether or not to get him something.  Even worse, if I decided not to, I knew he was expecting something - the whole family was.  I kept trying to be rational and play the reasons I listed above over and over in my head, but my mentality, drenched in American culture could not let go of the idea of a child's face lighting up by a new gift in a new box in shiny wrapping paper.  There is something special about knowing that you are the first person to own that gift.  That it is completely and utterly yours.  And that someone thought you were special enough to have something the first time around.

So, as I walked around the supermarket, gathering material to make chocolate chip cookies to bring Hector on Sunday, I kept sauntering by the toy aisle.  First only glimpsing, then scanning, and finally stopping dead in front of the Hot Wheels cars and running my fingers over the plastic crates that, by the way I was gawking at them, apparently held Hector's happiness in them.  I finally decided on a shiny silver motorcyle.  Thick, heavy, and perfect.  I also went to the little boy's department and picked out a pair of blue pants with a soccer ball on the front pocket.  I probably spent 30 minutes walking back and forth between two sizes sticking my hands in the pants, stretching them out as far as they'd go, measuring the length against my leg, and returning to the other size.  Awkwardly enough, for some reason, the supermarket had hired about 10 men to dress up like clowns and walk around on stilts all day.  I had spent so much time stretching, pulling, measuring, smelling, scratching, and picking at these two sizes of boys' pants that the stilted men even had the nerve to look at ME like I was the weird one.

I got to El Jardin on Sunday afternoon and Hector, Jahayda, Camilo, and Seidi all ran out to the bus to meet me.  I went inside the house and, their mom, Maria greeted me at the door, enveloped in a cloud of smoke, as she stirred a huge pot of soup, poured water on the rice, and sauteed chicken in a pan at the same time.  She told me to sit down and served us all a special meal with chicken for Hector's birthday.  We ate our food quickly and as I was scooping my last bite of rice, I noticed all the kids sitting on the bench in the kitchen staring at me.  They were waiting.  I pretended to ignore them, but Costa Rican children are not like American children.  If they have something on their mind, they will ask you, tell you, embarass you (intentionally or not), until they have nothing more to say.  So after 1 more minute, Jahayda walked over to my bag, picked it up, and, with a smile, asked me why it was so heavy.  I told her I had no idea.  She threw her head back, laughed, and returned to her seat on the bench.  Soon after Hector said "Did you bring me something for my birthday?"  I said "No, absolutely not."  He half smiled, half eyed me cautiously as a new six-year old does when confronted with sarcasm.  Finally, Camilo said flat out "Nicolette, come on!  What did you bring?!?"  I walked over to my bag and threw Hector's presents into his lap, then tossed everyone a cookie.  I then sang Hector happy birthday in English and Jahayda joined in making Oooo and Eeeee sounds as I sang.

I have never seen a child look at a toy like that.  He slowly took it out of the box.  Ran his finger along the body of the motorcycle and then quickly put it back in the box.  He stared at it some more, from the outside looking in, then pulled it out of the box again.  He spun the wheels with his index finger.  Then put it back in the box.  At first I thought he didn't like it because he reacted so mildly, but it wasn't long before I realized that he was so happy with the toy he was afraid that it would disappear right out of his hands.  He was speechless.  Now, this is a boy who I have seen, multiple times, throw his toys against the wall of his house just to watch them break into pieces, throw his stuffed animals outside in the mud when it's raining, and drag his blocks through the orange juice, coffee, and dirt on the kitchen floor without an ounce of acknowledgement or remorse.  But this toy was different.  I knew it had a lot to do with the fact that it was his and only his and that it was new and had never been anyone else's, but there was a part of me that hoped that some of it was because it was from me.

Hector also loved his pants.  He carried them around all day but refused to put them on.  He didn't want to get them dirty.  He, and the rest of the family for that matter, kept smelling the clothes.  The children kept commenting on how good it smelled to which Maria always replied "Well, that's what new clothes smell like."  Then she would take a sniff herself.  A couple days later, Hector wore his pants to school but he refused to take off the tag.  So there he was, walking down the gravel road with his bookbag and lunch box as a barcode swung back and forth between his legs as he went.

Though it makes for an anti-climactic story, I'm happy to announce that the presents I bought Hector haven't negatively affected my relationships with Hector, his family, or anyone else in the community.  For a couple weeks after Hector's birthday, Jahayda and Camilo made a point to remind me that their birthdays were in like 8 or 9 months and before I leave the country I should probably buy them their presents.  A couple kids in the community joked about me buying them new bookbags or ice cream after school, but, when I didn't break, everything pretty much returned to normal.

Now, for some COSTA RICAN CULTURE SHOCK:

1)  Most Costa Ricans consider any piece of cloth, cotton, or absorbent fabric of any kind to serve as a paper towel for any occassion.  Spill some milk on the kitchen floor?  Don't fret!  Grab that shirt hanging on the back of the chair and mop it up!  Get orange juice all over your face?  Have no fear!  Just pull that pillowcase off the clothesline and wipe it off!  Track mud into the house from your dirty boots?  No worries!  Fold those sweatpants up and clean away!  (And my family rolls their eyes at me when I wipe my hands on my pants while I eat... Pshhh.)

***Note:  This is not just an El Jardin/San Julian middle of nowhere custom.  This is a national phenomenon witnessed countless times by yours truly.

2)  Facial expressions and body language are a very natural form of communication in all cultures.  Here in Costa Rica it is common to use the mouth to express navigational direction.  It can also be used to replace the index finger as the go-to pointer finger.  Instead, many Costa Ricans pout their lips in the commonly accepted "kissy face" and throw their head in the direction to which they are referring.  "Where's the bathroom?"  ***Pouts lips and throws head to the far left corner of the room.***  "Which way is the church?"  ***Pouts lips and throws head to the west.***  So, if you ever visit Costa Rica, please do not think that the men are being presumptuous or the women flirty; they are simply performing their civic duty of directional advice.

3)  Coffee is such a cultural staple here that it is completely acceptable for children to start drinking as early as they can start using a sippy cup.  After dinner, Jahayda and her family drink coffee right before they go to bed.  They drink it so much I think the caffeine is starting to have a reverse affect on them.  Jahayda's mom even packs them little thermoses of coffee for snack at school.  Once I found this out it made me laugh to see Hector swinging his blue lunch sack back and forth as he walked down the road to school cause it made me think of him heading off to work at the office like my dad.  This 5 year old drinking coffee as much as my parents.

Last week I also had my last class in San Julian.  So, at mid-day I started the long walk to San Julian for the last time. After two months walking this road, I have now realized that it is impossible to look attractive walking on gravel.  The roads in El Jardin are filled with so much churned up gravel and loose rocks that, after walking long distances in the sun, it is hard to avoid not looking like a rag doll as the gravel shifts your balance step by step and your body tenses to control the shocks and conform back to its original position.  Quite often the gravel roads here are shaved like an overgrown beard with a CAT tractor bulldozing the way leaving only bigger, looser rocks to be defeated.  I am not sure what purpose it serves and after a quick survey from the families with which I stay, no one really does.  The walk to San Julian has three long stretches of road that are flat and straight as an arrow.  So much so that you can see someone walking towards you from as far as the eye can see.  As I look ahead and see someone walking toward me, I try to walk confidently and with sure steps, but the walk is so long it is like watching that corny scene from romantic comedies where two lovers run in slow motion into each other's arms but really, really, really slow.  Not to mention, on these long gravel walks I find that the cows always stare at me and it makes me uncomfortable.  It's like a back-country middle of nowhere cat walk where the cows are my audience.  My very critical, unimpressed cow audience.  (I would also like to say that when I told Hazel this she laughed at me until we walked on the second long stretch of road on the way back from school and she confirmed the cows were paying special attention to me.  She said it was the strangest thing she'd ever seen.)

The last day of class in San Julian went well.  It was nice to be able to say goodbye to all of them and give them some last minute pointers before their final English exam:  1)  read the questions first and only search for the information that is absolutely necessary, 2)  relax; being stressed out about the exam will only lower your grade and ability to process information, and 3)  you have people thinking about you and praying for you who you don't even know.  I said this last thing with the confidence that you all will indeed be thinking of them and they will be in your prayers  while they take six 3-hour exams every day for the next week.  I bought a cake and some Coke and after my pep talk we just sat around and talked.  They asked me more questions about the US and who I am.  I asked them about their plans after they PASS their exam.  One girl is interested in going to the university and learning sign language.  Another boy wants to go to the university as well but doesn't know what he wants to do.  They both explained university is what they'll do if they can find a scholarship.  If not, they will find a job or stay home with their family.   Mari, another girl, said she will work in her father's banana plantation when she's finished.  We laughed about times I had completely butchered the Spanish language while giving a lesson.  One day I got mixed up and repeated a word so many times before I could spit another one out that we now refer to it "Nicolette's remix."  Hahah.  At the end, someone for some reason had the karaoke version to "No One'' by Alicia Keyes (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rywUS-ohqeE&ob=av2n) and we stood around the computer and say it together.  It.  Was.  Awesome.  So, I said goodbye to them, wished them luck, and left them my email so they could let me know how it goes.

Later that afternoon after school, Hazel and her dad took me to some property they own down the road.  It's only about a mile walk to get there.  Half of it is through other people's pastures.  They bought the land a few years ago and it is huge.  They have a lot of cows on it but nothing else.  They are not going to start building on it until roads are built.  At this point it is really just huge plots of land marked off by homemade fences of sticks and barbwire.   Hazel's dad cut down a coconut from a tree and we drank the water from it.  He then carved out the coconut guts (I'm sure there's a much more kosher word for it) and we snacked on that.  Strangely enough their dogs, Pinto and Tuni, love coconut guts.  After a while we walked over to the cows and her dad fed them salt from his hand.  They were really hesitant at first but after they got the taste in their mouths the whole herd was following him around the property.  We walked back when the sun was setting and as we made our way back I tried to revel in that feeling of belonging for as long as I could because it doesn't happen often in a foreign country but just for a while I felt like we were all part of the same family - no matter where the bloodline ended or began.

So, like usual, at 4:30am on Wednesday morning I got up and headed back to San Jose.  When I got on the bus there was a group of women sitting in the front.  I had seen them before on the bus, but after spending two months here, I now knew them all by name.  One was a mom of one of my student's, the other was Jahayda's aunt, and the other a friend of Estebana's (Hazel's mom).  I had passed by them in the months before as they laughed and chatted with each other, not knowing who they were nor them me.  But now I was a part of the community and I felt that way when one of them women waved at me and patted on her seat for me to sit next to her.  Traveling, or more so, living in another country seems to be that way.  One big roller coaster of shining moments of acceptance and darker ones where you feel like everyone wishes you would go home.  After traveling to Chile and the Dominican Republic and other countries, I am used to being the tourist.  I am accustomed to being the odd man out, the one who looks different, the girl who talks funny.  Especially based on the countries I have traveled to, mostly in Latin America, I am also used to being the only one with blonde hair (as they call it and I suppose it is compared to their black hair) and "clear" eyes.  I have had to learn to laugh at how white my skin is, when I say the wrong word, or when I don't understand the severity or humor of a cultural situation.

There are some people who enjoy the company of foreigners.  They find other cultures interesting and intriguing.  They want to know who you are, where you're from, when you're coming back, and if you like their country.  They try out as many English words as they can just to practice and have the patience of Job when explaining something you don't understand.  These people are my personal angels.  These are the people that make my life okay here day in and day out.  I often wonder if I am as accommodating in my country to those who have decided to live in the US and take on an entirely new culture as some of these people are in theirs.    Inevitably, especially in such a tourist location as Costa Rica, there are others who are not so fond of tourists - especially Americans.  As I'm sure most of you know, we don't have the best reputations in other countries.  The typical American stereotype falls somewhere in between ignorant, arrogant, and selfish.  Though that is a conversation for another day, there are many people I come into contact with throughout my travels who make it very clear that they are not happy I am in their country.  I've been yelled out on the street by homeless people, ignored by service attendants, and cheated by taxi drivers with no remorse.  Sometimes it's just an attitude, other times verbal abuse, and at times a simple lack of recognition.

It is a fact that some people treat foreigners poorly, cheat them, or refuse to serve them as quickly as locals.  And it is because of this that many times I have to fight the urge to assume I am being mistreated for that reason.  The other day I went to store with my German roommate, Nadine.  We waited at the counter for over 25 minutes while others were people served around us.  The store was not that busy and I eagle-eyed every store attendant I could find.  And the fact of the matter is, I will never know whether or not they didn't want to serve me because I was a tourist - because they were afraid I didn't speak Spanish well or didn't feel like dealing with me or had been raised to resent foreigners or had had a bad experience with other tourists and now held that prejudice for all of us OR if it was truly a case of poor service, not relating at all to my nationality.  I don't know and I never will.  And that is something I learn to accept and let go of.

I was thinking about that the other day while I was on the bus.  There were not many seats left open on the bus and three people passed my seat.  They went to the back of the bus and stood instead of sitting next to me.  One even sat next to a baby, which on a bus ride is like entering the lottery to win poison ivy or something - you never know if the kid is going to break into ear-splitting screams or not.  But people took that chance instead sitting next to me.  As I sat there, I couldn't help but initially think "is it because I'm a 'gringa'?"  It was the first thing I thought of.  I let it go after that and rationalized that they could like standing better or enjoyed smelling baby drool and diapers.

As a white girl in the US there have been very few times when I have thought someone didn't give me a fair chance or treat me with the same respect as others because of how I looked.  And those times can generally be summed up in elementary school when the boys thought they could play basketball better than me just because I was a girl even though they couldn't 'cause I hit my growth spurt about 8 years before them.  But that's besides the point.  And so when other people, when I've heard stories of other races who have assumed they were being treated unfairly because of the way they look, who they are, I always wondered why they would think that.  Why would they immediately assume that?

And now, after my time in Costa Rica, I think I have found, if not part of the answer, at least a piece of empathy to the situation:  it is possible they feel this way or jump to that conclusion so easily because it is completely possible.  It is a reality that they live with as a minority.  Some people are racist.  Period.  Fact.  Unchangeable.  It is branded in our history and lurking everywhere in our present.  And so, if they are treated unfairly, it is completely plausible that it is because of what they look like and what people think that determines about who they are as a person.  They are judged for the culture they come from.  The way they are represented on television.  The actions leaders of their community have taken.  An isolated incident that happened between a person and someone else of that race.  And nothing, nothing, nothing, to do with who they really are.  Inside.

So I guess I'm just saying that in the end, I want to be someone else's personal angel.  Not give one person the shadow of a doubt whether or not I am interested in getting to know them or who they are.  Making it crystal clear through my actions, body language, and words that, at least with me, at least for this moment, they will not have to wonder whether I like them.  They will know.  Just like the people who breathe new life into me here when they take interest in me.  When they share a bus seat with me.  When they invite me to their property.  When they cook me dinner.  When they ask me questions about my family.  I don't have to question whether or not they are thinking about the differences between us, because they are so transparently clear with their intentions that I want to be the best version of myself for them.  I want to be worth getting to know.

And there's the cycle.  The vicious cycle.  Who has to be nice first?  Who has to take the first step?  Who has to smile first?  Who has to talk first?  Why does it have to be you?  Because you are loved and you are called to love others.  Period.  Fact.  Unchangeable.