The World´s Many Ways
The clouds in the sky seem to enrich the variable greens that cover the entirety of the community. Next to the peeling painted walls of the beneficio, the drying patio is covered with piles of coffee, laid out on tarps or tin, and covered with corrugated tin tents to protect the parchment beans from the threat of rain. A pair of young men walk by me where I sit on the steps of the “casa grande”, the big house, with my notebook, trying to take in these moments and make some sense of what life is in this unique corner of the world. They carry with them a basketball, their aim the unoccupied section of the drying patio where a hoopless backboard has been constructed for their amusement.
In the background, I hear guitar music and off key singing coming from the grass street over, where today they are celebrating a quineañera, the coming of age birthday for girls in Guatemala and Mexico. It happens at age 15.
Tomorrow, the focus of the fiesta will switch from celebrating a flesh and blood community member to honoring one that hovers over everything, ever-present. She is the patron saint of Santa Anita, the Virgin of Guadalupe. Her like ness can be found in any of the houses here, framed or unframed, drawn or painted or a statue, in some crook of at least one room. In addition, tomorrow one of the community’s couples will be wed in the church as part of the Virgin’s mass. Not a new couple however, Luciana and Obispo have been a couple for decades, but according to her are finally going to honor the union as children of God in front of God. Afterward there is to be a chicken dinner.
Just being here a few days, one learns a lot about the individuals, the community, the country. The father of the quinceañera is working in the states, sending money home which makes possible the celebration, complete with rented plastic chairs and a microphone. While the quinceañera is always an important event, a public celebration is really only possible for those with some disposable income (read: a family member in the states). On the same street, there is an older man who is an alcoholic, a common issue in rural communities. The woman that I eat with has a husband, but he lives on another farm, where he has a second family. His leaving her may be related to her inability to have her own children. Many of this community’s children do not speak and do not desire to learn the indigenous languages native to their parents, a symptom of the continuing racism which exerts pressure even in these bucolic places. Here, I can talk to families native to eight or ten regions on the country, all united by their history as campesinos united on the guerilla side of the 36-year civil that ended in 1996. They are tied together by stories of oppression, by disappeared relatives, by exile in Mexico, and now, by a commitment to work this farm together in hopes of eking out a better future for themselves and the many children running around without shoes, carrying smaller children.
The wedding of tomorrow is to be the first in the community’s eight-year history; something that seems impossible in a predominantly Catholic country. However, Guatemalans in my experience have shown themselves to be profoundly practical as well as religious. Almost all older people in the community have their marido or mujer, but most often, when you really ask, they are united only in a “free union”. They do not have the money, the time, or the attachment to frivolity to marry by the church, despite being deeply religious and traditional. Rather, they recognize themselves as both children of God and sinners, and have faith that God understands their situation whether or not it comes with an official seal. Official seals, by the same token, matter very little, as many people here have only a cédula, or citizens card for identification. Things like birth certificates, passports, and drivers licenses will not be found in any of the corners of the rooms of these houses, no old bank statements or credit card receipts, no filing cabinets with electricity or water bulls. People are who they say they are, or they aren’t, and that’s just the way it is. Either way, they make their lives day by day, absent the paperwork and the formalities we thrive on in other parts of the world.
Being here really does mean just seeing another way to be, where people aren’t rushed, despite there being lots of work to do. Where women spend the day in the house, washing or cooking over fires encircled by cinder blocks. Where the school vacations really do match with harvest time, and there really isn’t anything for the kids to do except figure out how to amuse themselves. Where some member of the family has to stay in the house to watch the store, one of which there is on every row of houses, and where the sales consist of 5 cent bags of chips or bottles of soda, laundry soap or bubble gum. Life moves slowly as the morning turns to afternoon, the afternoon to evening, and the evening into bedtime about nine o’clock. Living here these few days, it is hard to imagine a lifetime of these quiet morning and nights. It feels like I imagine growing up in any community of only 170 would feel, both comfortable and claustrophobic. Comforting to know that it is what people here have chosen, have sought. And I feel like an explorer, coming away with I am not sure what impressions, but with more ideas and knowledge about ways to be in the world than I had before...
In the background, I hear guitar music and off key singing coming from the grass street over, where today they are celebrating a quineañera, the coming of age birthday for girls in Guatemala and Mexico. It happens at age 15.
Tomorrow, the focus of the fiesta will switch from celebrating a flesh and blood community member to honoring one that hovers over everything, ever-present. She is the patron saint of Santa Anita, the Virgin of Guadalupe. Her like ness can be found in any of the houses here, framed or unframed, drawn or painted or a statue, in some crook of at least one room. In addition, tomorrow one of the community’s couples will be wed in the church as part of the Virgin’s mass. Not a new couple however, Luciana and Obispo have been a couple for decades, but according to her are finally going to honor the union as children of God in front of God. Afterward there is to be a chicken dinner.
Just being here a few days, one learns a lot about the individuals, the community, the country. The father of the quinceañera is working in the states, sending money home which makes possible the celebration, complete with rented plastic chairs and a microphone. While the quinceañera is always an important event, a public celebration is really only possible for those with some disposable income (read: a family member in the states). On the same street, there is an older man who is an alcoholic, a common issue in rural communities. The woman that I eat with has a husband, but he lives on another farm, where he has a second family. His leaving her may be related to her inability to have her own children. Many of this community’s children do not speak and do not desire to learn the indigenous languages native to their parents, a symptom of the continuing racism which exerts pressure even in these bucolic places. Here, I can talk to families native to eight or ten regions on the country, all united by their history as campesinos united on the guerilla side of the 36-year civil that ended in 1996. They are tied together by stories of oppression, by disappeared relatives, by exile in Mexico, and now, by a commitment to work this farm together in hopes of eking out a better future for themselves and the many children running around without shoes, carrying smaller children.
The wedding of tomorrow is to be the first in the community’s eight-year history; something that seems impossible in a predominantly Catholic country. However, Guatemalans in my experience have shown themselves to be profoundly practical as well as religious. Almost all older people in the community have their marido or mujer, but most often, when you really ask, they are united only in a “free union”. They do not have the money, the time, or the attachment to frivolity to marry by the church, despite being deeply religious and traditional. Rather, they recognize themselves as both children of God and sinners, and have faith that God understands their situation whether or not it comes with an official seal. Official seals, by the same token, matter very little, as many people here have only a cédula, or citizens card for identification. Things like birth certificates, passports, and drivers licenses will not be found in any of the corners of the rooms of these houses, no old bank statements or credit card receipts, no filing cabinets with electricity or water bulls. People are who they say they are, or they aren’t, and that’s just the way it is. Either way, they make their lives day by day, absent the paperwork and the formalities we thrive on in other parts of the world.
Being here really does mean just seeing another way to be, where people aren’t rushed, despite there being lots of work to do. Where women spend the day in the house, washing or cooking over fires encircled by cinder blocks. Where the school vacations really do match with harvest time, and there really isn’t anything for the kids to do except figure out how to amuse themselves. Where some member of the family has to stay in the house to watch the store, one of which there is on every row of houses, and where the sales consist of 5 cent bags of chips or bottles of soda, laundry soap or bubble gum. Life moves slowly as the morning turns to afternoon, the afternoon to evening, and the evening into bedtime about nine o’clock. Living here these few days, it is hard to imagine a lifetime of these quiet morning and nights. It feels like I imagine growing up in any community of only 170 would feel, both comfortable and claustrophobic. Comforting to know that it is what people here have chosen, have sought. And I feel like an explorer, coming away with I am not sure what impressions, but with more ideas and knowledge about ways to be in the world than I had before...
posted by Hilary King at
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