Mucha inspiracion

So there are three experiences I'd like to communicate. Or three feelings I guess. They were not quick flashes of epiphany or anything like that. Rather each feeling was was a slowly accumulating gratitude and inspiration- which had points higher or lower than others- but in general obtained for the entire length of the three experiences of which I'd like to sing.

I'll do this backwards then, starting from the last hour that has just passed, then moving on to the morning, and then to last night.

So this morning I had my poetry class at the Center. In attendance were Maria Jose and Alex Antonio, who are young (14 or so), humble kids who have been in the class since the first session. Also in attendance were the "cool" kids- Luis, who always wears a trucker hat and big t-shirts, Erwin who likes to rap every class, Armando the shy, well-dressed, and Wilbur, the skinny lively one with cool graphic T's. These are the sorts of kids for whom I designed the "rap" portion of the class, and who, I've been discovering, are quite humble and kind themselves.

We read a portion of a poem by Pablo Neruda called "Amor America"- an excellent collection of ideas and images about the history of the earth, the history of human beings, the lost epoch of early human development, the initial stages of our slowly-civilizing (or devolving) dance with mother earth.
I asked the students for reactions, responses, images that they enjoyed and we spent a good 40 minutes discussing the various meanings, the importance of retaining the historical memory of human experiences (wars, society, etc.), some images or words the students didn't understand. For me, explaining the Northern Lights of Antarctica to a class of Salvadoran students- in Spanish, and in the context of this brilliant and sometimes dark Pablo Neruda work- is a joy of simply un-utterable degree.
To top it off, we did an exercise where I read the poem to the class one more time while they sat with their eyes closed "entering the world of the author". And afterward I asked them to write a reaction, or a response, or a continuation to/about/for/similar to "Amor America". For homework they are to review the poem and write an original work of some sort- cancion (song), poema, o algo similar- to turn in to me. I am excited to see what the next class brings...

The second feeling took place this morning.
I left my new home in El Bario around 8:15 or so and made the short walk up a dirt road to the corner bus stop. I sat on one of several rocks conveniently scattered about on the side of the road. These rocks serve as a pleasant open-air waiting room.
As I sat on the rock I began reading a poem one of my students had written in class on Monday- about a flower. I had asked the students to close their eyes and imagine a simple image- a flower- and then take 5 minutes to describe or build the image in their minds.
This is what Brandon, one student of mine, wrote:

Sin mi no vivirian los humanos porque
si no existieramos nosotros las rosas
todos los humanos moririan
y tambien las abejas no tuvieran miel.
Yo naci de una semillita y me morchiatare
y sembraran otra semillita
y nacera y siempre me cuidaran.

Yo naci en una tierra negra
arriba en una loma en medio
de una milpa y tambien
a los colibris les doy miel y
de esa milpa comen los pajaritos.

Y cada vez que llueve
me voy haciendo mas fuerte
y entre mas fuerte mas
miel doy yo
soy un girasol.

Wow. I felt so blessed to be sitting on this rock in the open air, under the blue sky of the Salvadoran morning, reading this inspired work that came right from the mind of a young man in El Salvador who, as Alicia reminded me the night before, could be just as easily- or perhaps much more easily- spending his time emulating la cultura machisma, or the super sexual culture that surrounds him.
After a few moments pondering the poem, another young man in a soccer jersey came up and sat on a rock nearby. He was listening to an N'Sync song in Spanish ("hasta yo no respira/ yo te voy amar" - "til the day my life is through, this I promise you"). We struck up a conversation about the music, and I eventually learned that this guy's name is Walter, and that he plays for la seleccion de Suchitoto, se llama "La Brasilia".
As we waited for the bus, a pickup came by and when Walter gave a slight flip of the hand the drivers of the pickup beckoned him aboard. Walter said "vamanos" and I jumped up on the bed of the truck with him.
We enjoyed the fresh flowing air on our faces as we traversed the winding, jungle and farm immersed road, and we traded words about our families and sports preferences. Walter is probably in Apopa by now, eating lunch with some of his teammates before heading to Aguilares to play their team. He told me on the truck that his team is the only one in the league that is undefeated. After 8 games out of 12 they are doing quite well. I hope to see them when they play next week on their home concha here in Suchitoto.
When we arrived in Suchitoto we had to walk a little bit because the truck driver was headed the opposite direction from the Center and the bus-stop to which Walter was headed. I was so proud of Suchitoto and Walter in particular as we walked together. It seemed everyone on the street knew Walter- young and old, women and men- or at least everyone recognized Walter was donning the Suchitoto yellow and green and they offered their support or a joke about the previous game with wide smiles, from open tienda doorways, from passing trucks, or passing us on the street. I also saw my friend Maricel from yoga on the road headed to a cooking class she is attending at the national university here in Suchi.

The general feeling this morning with Walter, with the poem, walking through Suchi was just pride in our world. And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else experiencing it.

The third experience I want to express is my second night in El Bario, living with David (25 year old friend of Hermana Peggy and the Center) and his Abuela, Dona Carmen. The first night in El Bario was a little rough because David took off and his grandmother spent at least an hour talking to herself, or people from her past- friends, family, maybe some who had died in the war- and I had some difficulty deciding that it was not my job to swaddle her in love and care and reverse all the damage and inevitabilities of time and suffering that had transpired in and outside this small, sturdy woman.
Well last night David remained in the house and when I arrived around 8pm we actually spent a good while walking the streets of El Bario in the dark- encountering some friends of his, surveying the location of the community center, the soccer field, the cooperative daycare playground. We then sat in the house and spoke for a while about David's experiences in Europe, particularly Irelandia or Ireland, Escocia or Scotland, and Inglaterra or England. Through a program that had passed through the Center, David was one of two Salvadorans who had the opportunity to travel to Ireland for a year to visit and study culture.
David had much to say about everything- the materials that most abounded in European art and architecture, the attitudes that most abounded among the various peoples (the Rusos, Polanos y los de Alemania are the most "rough" in his experience). We talked about the affect of weather on a people's attitude and economy- apparently in El Salvador one can predict the normality or danger of a storm solely by witnessing from which direction it comes (from the north come normal storms, from the south come the home-wreckers). However, in Scotland and England Ireland, David told me, the weather is simply unpredictable, coming from every which way and changing constantly, though always remaining a somber shade of grey. It seems to me David entered his abroad experience with a whole lot of energy to learn and grow....
He also partied some with the Europeans and had many stories about the different types and grossly excessive amounts of alcohol they drink in Ireland, Scotland and England. One time some friends and he took a journey to a castle at midnight to see the supposed phantoms and spirits that some English believe to exist there.

All in all, by the time we went to bed I was feeling quite fortunate to have such a guide in David. I cannot begin to relate the depth of emotion there lay in his voice when he described to me some of the history of the war in the life of his grandmother- who had raised him and his brother herself, and who had lost an eye to a branch running through the woods to protect them- as well as the history of their once destroyed home, their strip of land on the haunted Cerro Guazapa, and the nights of terror the people of El Bario endured in the mountains when the military came to their town to occupy houses and kill anyone who remained behind.

Puchica is the word here for "dang". Puchica.

Ok, maybe that didn't end with inspiration. But if you take this blog post as a whole the message can only be inspiring. David and his grandmother have opened their home to me, some poets have opened their imaginations, and I am learning how to open myself to the many things this world can do to me.

Peace, Love,
Alex