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Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Tears / Lágrimas

In Alta Verapaz it has been raining almost for a whole day, non stop. Maybe the sky is crying what I haven't been able to. It cries to see how we kill each other, how we ignore, how we forget. It's crying about Ayotzinapa, Ferguson, Nigeria, Syria, Palestine, Guatemala... It's crying for the kids murdered by whites that use unpunished bullets of racism. It's crying for the women dismembered by a macho. It's crying over the pieces of massacred colored people. It's crying over the young life that was left in potential alone when it was disappeared. It's crying for the ones that migrate and are executed next to walls.
It's not a drizzle. It's a shock storm, it is violent, frustrated. It is tears of pain, hopelessness, rage.



En Alta Verapaz ha llovido casi un día entero, sin parar. Tal vez el cielo está llorando todo lo que yo no he podido. Está llorando al ver cómo nos matamos, cómo nos ignoramos y nos olvidamos. Está llorando por Ayotzinapa, Ferguson, Nigeria, Siria, Palestina, Guatemala... Está llorando por los niños asesinados por blancos que usan balas impunes de racismo. Está llorando por las mujeres descuartizadas por el macho. Está llorando sobre los pedazos de personas de color masacradas. Está llorando por la vida joven que se quedó sólo en potencial al ser desaparecida. Está llorando por los que migran y son ejecutados junto a muros.
No es una llovizna, es tormenta de choque, es violenta, frustrada. Son lágrimas de dolor, de desesperanza, de rabia. 

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Life lessons / Lecciones de vida

My nephew loves pizza.
He was so excited when my sister told him they would have that for dinner. Pizza: his eyes lit up.
He was patiently ordering with my sister, then waiting for their order's number to come up. We went for a walk (actually we were running around) while we waited. With more patience (and excitement), we went and washed our hands. Then, he had to wait (again waiting), for the pizza to not be so hot that it would burn his mouth.
Finally, with a huge smile, he gave his first piece a bite. It was a personal pizza, with four pieces: two for my sister, two for him. My mom and I had already had dinner.
He said, with wisdom face, "you can't open a pizza into its layers. If you remove the cheese the sauce comes out". He smiled again, knowing he had spoken truth.
And then he signaled me and my mom with his free hand, offering us his second piece. Astonished, I just said "Oh thanks love". But I didn't take it because I wasn't hungry. He stopped eating. He signaled me again, with an inviting hand gesture, and said "eat" very sweetly.
I grabbed it, went for one bite and explained I had had dinner already, but that I was very thankful he was sharing with me. He smiled very excitedly, and took the piece with his hand and devoured it.
My nephew loves pizza.
He is three years and seven months old.
And he knows how to share. How to be patient. How to offer food to others, with loving and inviting gestures. Food he loves.
If a three year old who loves pizza is willing to share it with his aunt (who has not been constantly in his life for all three years), we can all share, and we can all be patient. Share even the things we hold dear or like the most. We can at least ask others if they are hungry or cold. And we must learn patience, waiting for those things we want so much.
We can't lose that capacity. Of sharing, of patiently waiting. And if we have, we can learn it from three year olds.



Mi sobrino ama la pizza.
Se emocionó mucho cuando mi hermana le dijo que eso era lo que iban a cenar. Pizza: se le iluminaron los ojos.
Fue muy paciente al ordenar con mi hermana, luego al esperar a que saliera el número de su orden. Fuimos a caminar un rato (realmente estábamos corriendo por ahí) mientras esperábamos. Con más paciencia (y emoción), fuimos a lavarnos las manos. Luego, tuvo que esperar (esperar de nuevo), a que la pizza no estuviera tan caliente que le fuera a quemar la boca.
Finalmente, con una enorme sonrisa le dio la primera mordida a un pedazo de pizza. Era una pizza personal, con cuatro pedazos: dos para mi hermana y dos para él. Mi mamá y yo ya habíamos cenado.
Dijo, con cara sabia, "no podés abrir la pizza en capas. Si le quitás el queso la salsa se le sale". Sonrió de nuevo, sabiendo que había hablado verdad.
Y luego, nos señaló a mí mamá y a mí con su mano libre, ofreciéndonos su segunda pieza. Sorprendida, le dije, "Ay, gracias amor". Pero no la agarré porque no tenía hambre. Él dejó de comer. Me señaló de nuevo, con un gesto invitador, y me dijo "Comé", dulcemente.
Agarré el pedazo, le di una mordida y le expliqué que ya había cenado, pero que le agradecía mucho que él quisiera compartir conmigo. Sonrió muy emocionado, agarró el segudo pedazo de pizza con su mano libre y se la devoró.
Mi sobrino ama la pizza.
Tiene tres años y siete meses.
Y sabe compartir. Cómo ser paciente. Cómo ofrecerle comida a otros, con gestos amorosos e invitando. Comida que ama.
Si un niño de tres años que ama la pizza está dispuesto a compartirla con su tía (que no ha estado en su vida constatemente en sus tres años de vida), todas y todos podemos compartir, y todos podemos ser pacientes. Compartir aún aquello que queremos mucho o que nos gusta. Al menos podemos preguntarle a otros si tienen habmre o frío. Y debemos aprender paciencia, esperando por esas cosas que queremos tanto.
No podemos peder esta capacidad. De compartir, de ser pacientes, de esperar. Y si la hemos perdido, la podemos aprender de los que tienen tres años.