Losing Words and Finding Friends

The pictures and brief bios of the moms I tutorat Camino Seguro.

For the last five-ish years I've written grant proposals and emails and newsletters and appeals and blog posts on behalf of people halfway around the world that I have never met on a weekly basis.

Last year at Plant With Purpose, in my office alcove, I longed to meet the people whose stories I told.  I longed to get a fuller glimpse into their life than a two sentence testimony or a Flickr photo description.

I moved to Guatemala with a heart open for stories. For people. Hungry for connection and confirmation that I’m where I’m supposed to be.

New people and new experiences offer themselves to me every day in this foreign country. I work with mothers who are learning to read for the first time and kids who live in squatter settlements near the Guatemala City garbage dump.

I get to see them, speak with them, laugh with them, and do long division with them three times a week. I've been given a much fuller glimpse into their lives than an emailed testimony, yet when it comes time to write about them, to share a bit of their lives so that you may be compelled to give to the life-changing work of Camino Seguro or to be encouraged by the dedicated people working in a marginalized corner of Guatemala, my words fall flat. Empty.

I can extrapolate a two page report or a $50,000 proposal from a two sentence testimony from “the field,” but when I’m actually living and working in “the field,” silence wins.

I only know that I don’t really know them.

I know facts, yes. Bits and pieces, but they seem insufficient, incomplete.

For example, I know that most of the moms I tutor at Camino Seguro work difficult jobs with long hours—like sorting through trash in the garbage dump or rising in the darkness of the early morning to make and sell tortillas on a street corner bus rides away from where they live, where the money is. I know they live in a dangerous area with an astronomical crime rate. I know most of them are single mothers, have likely suffered domestic abuse, and would do absolutely anything for their children. They've sacrificed to send their kids to Camino Seguro, to enroll themselves in primary school this late in life, and to make education a priority for themselves and their children.

Dona Paula and Camino Seguro board member

I know that Doña Paula’s hair usually hangs in a thick, black braid down her back. I know Doña Bonifacia wears pink reading glasses that are broken at the bridge of her nose and she refuses to switch to a new, unbroken pair. I know which moms struggle with multiplication and which moms need an extra push to get going on their work.

I've shared two months with them, and yet it feels like I don’t know them at all. I become reluctant to write anything about them.

And perhaps that’s a good thing.

When I write about a friend or family member on this blog, I exercise an exponentially greater amount of thought and care when writing the post than I do when sharing my own thoughts and stories. I read the draft over and over.  I imagine what it would feel like to read those words about myself.

When I fundraise and advocate for people I don’t know, it’s easy to orient my words in a compelling manner without giving it much thought. With words I can befriend them in my mind. I don’t have to fumble with Spanish conjugations or admit I don’t remember any short cuts for long division.

Three of the moms at the recent graduationfrom 6th grade.

Making friends in real life takes a lot longer than rounding out a blog post or tacking on a Donate Now button to my sidebar.

The people I've met and have worked with in Guatemala are people, not a cause or an ideal or blog material. They’re potential new friends. And I have to admit I’m slow at making friends, at establishing trust, at sharing my own story with others, even when language and culture isn't a barrier. But as I build trust, build friendship, hope to find myself a home here, I also want to write. It’s what I do.

And so hope you’ll be patient with me as I learn to put the amount of care and thought and time into sharing about my new friends here as I would about my dear friends back home. And I hope I’ll learn to be patient with me, too.

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Just as I was beginning to articulate these thoughts for myself, I came across this excellent post by D.L. Mayfield on the role and responsibility of a writer or artist in sharing others' stories. I highly recommend taking a gander at her post, War Photographers, and getting cozy with her blog where she writes about living in the upside-down kingdom.

It's Complicated

With all of the #kony2012 and Invisible Children hubbub and hero worship and criticism and rebuttals (have you ever wondered what a ‘buttal’ is that we could retort it?) it’s enough to make your head spin.

The one thing that it seems everyone in the twittersphere and the blogosphere and hipstersphere can agree on is that IT’S COMPLICATED.

We don’t want it to be. We’d rather have easy answers and tangible results.

We’d rather be seduced.

As my favorite snarky aid blogger (his blog is no longer public access which is why there is no link) put it, “we’ve become totally seduced by the belief that solving the basic problems of the world can be done cheaply and easily.”

And the seducer?

NGOs. Charities that flaunt such irresistible slogans as “ ‘98 cents of your dollar goes directly to beneficiaries’,  ‘your $100 buys a poor family a cow and gets them out of poverty’, or ‘feel good about making a difference while on vacation.’ ”

Saving the world is just one click—and your credit card information—away.

It’s not just Invisible Children.

We’ve fallen head over heels with programs that boast of tangible results, low overhead, and flashy campaigns to end the world’s problems, but the truth is, it’s complicated.

As a staff member of an NGO that writes about the difference our organization is making in the lives of the rural poor, I can’t figure out if I’m the seducer or the seducee (not to be confused with the Sadducees of the New Testament). When I report on the use of grant funds I want to tell funders that we’ve met all of our objectives, that lives are being transformed, that their money is already making a difference. I want to say X number of families no longer live in poverty or have hardships.

But it’s just not true. Sometimes we don’t meet all of our objectives because of drought or economic downturn or political unrest. Sometimes responding to immediate needs or adapting to a rapidly changing environment is just more important. Sometimes we make mistakes, but we learn valuable lessons from our mistakes as well.

This last week I’ve been frustrated with much of the Invisible Children tactics, but I’ve also been impressed with their willingness to engage in conversation. Their willingness to learn from their mistakes. 

If the conversation ends with pitching in $30 to IC and settling back into our self-centered, materialistic ways, we’ve missed the point. If we cynically write off Kony and Uganda and how we can make a difference merely because IC has the marketing prowess to create a movement, we’ve also missed the point.

Unsuspecting or cynical, we haven’t really engaged. That’s what gets me.

In my recent post Sound Bites of Justice, I wrote about the complications of speaking on behalf of the voiceless, wondering if in my own small scale work of marketing and social media advocating is really building up the dignity of those I seek to serve.

 

This last week the question resurfaced, “are we giving voice to the voiceless or shouting so loudly that even those with a voice are being drowned out?”

I don’t know the answer.

But I’m glad the aid world and the hipster world and the celebrity world are asking it.

In a culture of quick fixes and seduction, that question is something I think we should fall in love with.

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For more resources on the Invisible Children controversy check out  Rachel Held Evans’ grace-filled and encompassing post: http://rachelheldevans.com/invisible-children-kony-2012-resources.

To read my post on Solidarity and Advocating for the Voiceless, click here.