Crossing Lines

I’ve mentioned before that I am beginning to feel completely immersed in my town and the culture. My Spanish is improving daily and I have incredible relationships with the people in the town. Even so, there are some days where I feel so disconnected and have trouble understanding and accepting some of the goings on in my family and the community. I try to be open-minded and judgment free, but I am human and it can be difficult at times.

The other night Audrey (peace corps volunteer) and I were talking with a local, Heyner, who is also an English teacher in a nearby town. He speaks English very well and he is a nice and fun guy. We were talking about our schools and the differences in our classes. We got into sharing annoyances that we experience while teaching elementary school. I mentioned that I get sick of hearing the word “teacher.” All of my students call me teacher and I probably hear the word a billion times a day. The students call me teacher and the director “nina,” which means girl. I mentioned that I thought it was funny when a student calls me “nina” and the others correct them saying “ella no es nina, ella es teacher.” Which means, she is not girl she is teacher. As if I can’t be both. Audrey asked, “They call your director nina?” I told her yes, that all female directors are normally called nina. As I said it, I realized what she was getting at. All the male directors here are called Don, which means sir, and it is a sign of respect. The equivalent for a woman is Dona. Yet, the female directors are not given the same respect as the male directors. Audrey and I asked Heyner and he didn’t really have an answer to why. He said nina is like a term of endearment, that didn’t make Audrey and I feel any better about the situation. How could a country, that has a female president, not give the same respect to women that it gives to men? I see it every day, my host father and brother sitting at the table waiting to be served, and then leaving their mess on the table for my host mother to clean up. Yet, my host mother, sister and I clean up after ourselves. Don’t get me wrong, I love my host father, he is a very kind and loving man. He cares about his family. But many people in this culture still see some things as the “woman’s job.” It is mostly frustrating because I feel like many of the women feel like they don’t have a choice. My host mom comes home from spending the day taking care of her mother and her very sick sister and she has a hungry husband, son, and gringa to feed. She does it with a smile, but I know she is tired.

I feel bad, but I don’t know what I can do. I don’t want to cross the line and suggest that maybe my host father can make his own plate of food. I don’t want to offend anyone. I feel like I cross the line enough with my host brother. I am constantly reprimanding him. He whines to his mother about how hungry he is and I tell him to go get his own food and he just laughs and continues to whine. He sits at the table and complains to his mother about how he doesn’t have any juice and I tell him to get off his butt and get it himself, again he just laughs. I am constantly reminding him to say please and thank you and he just rolls his eyes at me. His immature responses don’t discourage me, though. I keep reprimanding him, hoping that these things will stick and maybe he will eventually show his mother the respect she deserves. 

When it comes to my host brother, I get involved in situations that I probably shouldn’t. He is scheduled to have a surgery to have the fat in his chest removed because he is embarrassed by it and gets made fun of. My host brother is not a fat kid. He is a chubby kid, but he is also only 13 years old and has yet to hit puberty. I am appalled that a doctor would agree to do such a surgery on such a young boy. I am appalled that his parents are allowing it. I have been stressing about it for months. Though his mother agrees with me that he should try diet and exercise and exhaust all options before signing onto such a big surgery, she still is allowing him to have it. She encourages him to eat better and encourages him to do exercises with me, but she doesn’t force him. I think, “if I were his mother…” and then I stop. I am not his mother. I cannot force him to do anything. However, I can teach him. I can inform him. I’ve been informing him for months. Telling him how worried I am about him having the surgery. Asking him to come on walks and runs with me, which he sometimes does. Telling him to eat better, which he never does. As July and the surgery date near, I remind myself, I’ve done all that I can do. I’ve told him the dangers, I’ve explained the pain he will experience. I have told him other ways to go about it. I have told him to wait at least 4 more years. I’ve explained that if he continues to only eat chicken, rice, and potatoes that he will just regain the weight the doctors have removed. I’ve done all that I can do. Doing anything more would be me crossing the lines.

Yes I love it here. I love the people, I love the culture. But there are things I would change if I could. I am realistic. In my remaining six months I am not going to convince the whole country to stop calling woman directors “nina.” I am not going to change my host father’s ways. But maybe, I’ll instill something in the children I teach, and in my host brother. I’ll keep telling them to say please, thank you, and you’re welcome. Yes, English is an important tool for these kids. However, a year from now if they do not remember how to count to 100 in English, but they are saying please and thank you, that would be ok with me. I think that being a human being who has respect for other people is a much more important tool for their lives. 

 My host brother, Francel, and I