The Next Two Years of My Life Encapsulated

Amazing to think that in less than six months time, I'll be filling out this blog from a new home in Managua, Nicaragua.
Here are the details. For those of you who haven't heard, I accepted a position as a Jesuit Volunteer (JV) in Nicaragua between December 2010 and December 2012. I'll be working in a library at a center called Proyecto Generando Vida (Project Generating Life) in a poor neighborhood called El Recreo. I'll be living with three other JVs for two years in the capital city. The application process was challenging and competitive (160 applications for 30 positions, I think?), but also powerful and incredible--understandably so, because being a JV is challenging: During the first year, I'm not allowed to have visitors; during both years I am expected to stay within the region of my position (in Nicaragua's case, more or less Central America).
The Jesuit Volunteer Corps (JVC) is a faith-based service program with sites all over the US and in seven countries. According to their website, "Hundreds of grassroots organizations across the country and world count on JVs to provide essential services to low-income people and those who live on the margins of our society."

My favorite part of JVC is its emphasis on four core values:

Community

JVs live with other JVs (i.e. different from Peace Corps). Though we go out and work in the larger community in our host country, in which we are encouraged to form close bonds of solidarity (hence the two-year commitment) with a new culture, we always come home to a house of JVs (in my case, three of them). Here's the incredible part. As I was discerning (which is the Ignatian word for "going through the application/decision process") for this program, my Aunt Jeanine sent me the email and blog of a current JV--Sean Rawson--who, luck (fate?) would have it, is a JV in Managua, Nicaragua. So I'm pretty sure he'll be one of the JVs in my house next year!

Simple Living

This is much easier, though still a challenge, outside this materialistic country. JVs are called to serve with and for the poor and marginalized, which means eliminating excess and living reflectively. Practically, simple living means having none of the amenities of upper-class living in the United States. More deeply, it means becoming aware of and focusing on what we really need in life to make us happy. Which doesn't involve facebook or ice cream, two of my current favorites.

Spirituality

The spirituality of JVC is rooted in the teachings of (surprise) St. Ignatius of Loyola, who founded the Society of Jesus (Jesuits) in the 16th century. JVC encourages daily prayer and reflection in line with Jesuit ideals, and each community is expected to hold one Spirituality Night every week. Non-Catholics are completely welcome in JVC, so long as they are open to participating in the local Catholic life.

Social Justice

This value resonates particularly strongly with me. The truth is, folks, the status quo of the world is not okay. Really not okay. And it is the obligation of those who have food, education, health, etc. to work to bring these things to those who don't--the disturbingly vast majority of people. JVs strive to "better understand the structures that foster and perpetuate [this] powerlessness and poverty." I hope that my two years as a JV transform me into the kind of person that will always fight against these structures. Because I don't feel complete living in a world in which they exist.

That's all for now. I'm looking forward to a new post in which I will explore my personal reasons for joining JVC and discuss (and possibly refute) some of the reasons I've heard why this is a bad idea. I look forward to your reading and thoughts! Many thanks!

What's the hurry, States?

I find myself sleeping in a tight, kitchen-smelling dorm room with five other college students, four of them from the Basque Country (shame on you, if a consistent reader of my blog doesn't know where that is), at Santa Clara University during these these next two days (Jesuit Volunteers International discernment weekend).
This weekend marks the convergence of two huge thought processes: Spain vs. the USA, and reflection/simplification. I had been hectically trying to get everything done before coming to this discernment weekend, and can say that I failed miserably, at least in completing school work--I did buy a senior banquet/ball dress, I did write a pretty darn good article for the Loyolan, and I even applied for a job in Oregon, for which I'm pretty sure I'm getting an interview. Not bad! The point is, a lot was going on. Here's the problem with that. And if you're a college student, heck, if you're American, you know exactly what I'm talking about: a lot is always going on.
Funny, then, that as I struggled to uproot myself from academics and stress in exchange for reflection and interviews about possibly spending two years in the developing world, I found myself having a conversation with Nagore Gutierrez, a 22-year-old Basque exchange student at Santa Clara, about slowing down.
"Everyone in the US is always in such a hurry," she said. "I can't have close friendships with people because they're always going from one place to another, and they don't have time to talk or think."
Yikes. And I...can do nothing but agree. Because she was cooking a delicious Spanish dinner for us--salad with guacamole, eggs Benedict, fried potatoes, pork, oh yeah--I recalled grocery stores as an example. This past Wednesday I found myself stopping by Whole Foods for frozen blueberries and lettuce. I noticed no one in the store bothered to make eye contact with anyone else, and when we did, there was a clear sense of invasion--what are you doing taking up my time with your thoughts? Keep your eyes on your own business. And everyone was moving so fast. I nostalgically recalled shopping in Spain, where old men in berets spend 30 minutes staring at the chocolate bar selection, and I had no problem joining them.
But in the US, I'm swept up in the drive to DO. HURRY. FINISH. MORE. Which is a large part of the reason that I need to get out of it. At least for a while.
Because, news flash: life goes too fast on its own. You don't need to help it along.

Interwoven: Reflection on Prayer in a Mosque

King Fahad mosque stands defiantly on a particularly nonchalant stretch of Washington Blvd in Culver City, CA. Across the street is a gun store; next door is a run-down apartment complex. When we arrived, the pre-Friday-prayer buzz had barely begun. Rich and poor men and women emerged from alleys and Lexuses to greet each other in front of the arched entrance. I reluctantly began to tuck my hair into the orange scarf I had brought. Our obvious non-Muslimness was attracting stares and smiles. Soon, a well-dressed Arab with perfect black hair and what I think was a Pakistani accent stopped in front of our group and asked, with a face and tone conveying intrigue and amusement, "Are you just looking?"
"No," I said, "We're here for prayer."
"Oh!" He murmured something to the older gentleman following them, and beckoned up a creamy staircase. "Would you care to come with me? I will speak to the director, and he will show you around."
We waited outside for a few minutes, arms folded and scarves falling off, and I allowed myself to marvel at the Arabic script dotting the minarettes. In no other language that I have thus far encountered do the words literally become art. And the greatest word, to this effect? Allah--اللة--God. It is not a word; it is a presence.
A small man with huge brown eyes, thick spectacles which magnified them, an orange face covered in freckles and reddish brown hair plodded over to us. "We were supposed to meet today; weren't we? You are from Loyola Marymount?" I couldn't help but giggle as I found out who he was. This was Usman Madha, the Burmese Director of Administration and P.R. at King Fahad. A redhead Muslim. When I asked Rabbi Chaim and Dr. Amir Hussain whether we would stick out as a student group, the Rabbi chortled, "Well, Heather, you won't meet any other redheads!" Wanna bet?
Usman regretted that he had forgotten to meet us at 12:30, because there wasn't ample time to show us the mosque and the congregation (is it possible to use that word in a non-Christian context?) was already filtering in to the main prayer hall.
The next bit Usman said with some obvious discomfort. He even bowed his head slightly. "Okay, the women will have to cover their hair (which we had already done) and follow my sister upstairs to the next level. You (he said to Steven) can come with me. But my sister will take good care of the rest of you!" As the men made their way to the main floor, I realized he probably met with much hostility from non-Muslim women who refused to accept that they cannot pray in the same place men do. I disagree with biological difference signifying spiritual favoritism, but I mostly felt sorry for him, and the obvious attacking of tradition that has led him to such cautious behavior.
We removed our shoes in a bright marble walkway before making our way up a carpeted stair. I laughed again as Usman's sister met us--another Burmese redhead. We passed into what I would call an observation room. Long and carpeted with one wall consisting of windows, it stands above the main prayer floor, facing the front of the mosque, so that the women pray above and separated from the men. It initially gave me the impression that women are observers, rather than participants, in prayer. There were even TV screens so the women sitting at the back could watch the sermon.
Through the windows at the front of the room I saw the mens' floor and nooks for the reciter and the imam. Men were already lining up shoulder-to-shoulder sitting Indian-style. Some had begun their individual prayer cycles, alternating between sitting and reading the Qur'an to touching their foreheads to the floor in front of them.
All Muslims don't look like Bin Laden, people. These men were African, South Asian, Persian, and European (there was another redhead! 3 count!), and they sat so close to each other, and were so focused, that they kind of blended together into one chain of spirit that entranced me.
The women poured in to our floor. All of them looked genuinely surprised and happy to see us. They were so beautiful. I remember one, and Indian woman named Shanti, who came to us and gave us her email in case we had any questions on Islam or the mosque. Her sari and veil were Easter colors, I noticed--bright yellow, green, lavender, blue, and layered and flowing. She had a round brown face and similar eyes and I couldn't imagine she'd ever been mad at anyone.
She explained that when praying, all Muslims face the Ka'ba in Mecca, the place where Abraham built the first prayer house (a black stone box) to the one true God. She explained that they cover their hair with veils and that they never pray to Muhammad, only to Allah, the same God that "you" Christians worship. She explained that they pray five times a day and that Friday communal prayer is required within her community. The interesting thing is that I knew this already, from being in Lebanon, conversing with Muslims, and taking Dr. Hussain's Muslim/Jewish theology class (for which visiting a mosque is a requirement...hence this post). It interests me that she assumed my ignorance. After all, what are most Muslims met by? Hostility, misunderstanding, prejudice.
The reciter (I don't know what they call the man who sings the call to prayer which begins the communal service) made his way to the northwestern wall (closest to Mecca) and at his voice, all the faithful fell into line. My LMU friends and I took our place at the back wall to observe. Shanti in her Easter colors touched shoulders with an Indonesian woman in a long black hijab with flowers, who was right next to a high school student in a tight, girly white dress with her hair covered in a mod red scarf. Their differences struck me, but again, the colors fell together in a long line of prayer. I remember sitting speechless with my mouth slightly open as the song started and they began their bowing.
The imam's sermon was perfect. He said everything a priest would say and more. We must embrace everyone, regardless of religion, race, nationality. We must never cease to smile at our sisters and brothers, conveying the strength of Allah within us to the world. As he spoke, a four-year-old named Amina, holding a kid's copy of the Qur'an, curled up in my laugh. I had never met her; that didn't matter. Then he said, "I'd like to welcome the group of students from Loyola Marymount University. Ahsalam Alaykum (peace be upon you and your angels). You are always welcome in our community as we all strive for peace and understanding." Everyone turned to look at us, and every face was wide-eyed and wonderful.
As we left the womens' floor and headed back to the entrance, we received too many handshakes and thank-yous to count, and even a treat called a riyAH (or something), a khubz (bread) full of oil and sugar and wheat. Usman gave us a small tour of the mens' floor when everyone had left, and bid us return someday.
I think I will. And bring with me more people who are ready to experience the beauty of Islam.

It's Been Long Enough!

I don't have anything particularly insightful to say (GASP). I just noticed that the activities my senior year at LMU (GASP) have been rightfully commanding the majority of my time, and so I hadn't updated this blog in a month. So here goes.
Jess Vega and I are going to a discernment weekend for possible international Jesuit Volunteers. That is, I'm one step closer to spending two years with the poor and marginalized in a developing country. I've also begun following the blogs of current JVIs: Beth in Tanzania, who graduated from LMU, and Sean in Nicaragua, a Portland native to whom my Aunt J connected me. Reading their blogs is definitely like taking a step into the future.
I have been to Juvenile Hall three times now, and am still feeling called to go back. There may be something to this (like there was something to Portland).
Well--ready for an anti-climax?--that's all for now! Thanks for staying updated!

A Broken Heart in the Backyard

Background:
LMU sponsors eight or nine "alternative breaks" every year. These global service trips are designed to immerse students in social justice issues in order to better form them according to the Jesuit mission of forming men and women for others.
I applied to go to India over this past Christmas break. The two-week trip centered on interfaith dialogue, which is what I (perhaps) hope to study in grad school. What I learned later from the Center for Service and Action is that 50 senior women applied for this trip, i.e. I wasn't placed on it. Rather, I was placed as a co-leader to the East LA trip.
I openly shared with my group how initially disappointed I was. Rather than solidify my passion for ecumenism, I was going into gang territory. I imagined telephone poles, baggy jeans and spray paint instead of colors, chants, and prayer. I became more disappointed when I found that all but one of the participants initially placed on our trip had canceled (shout-out to Trevor! Ain't you the lucky one!). Who wants to go to East LA? A week-long service immersion 30 minutes from LMU? I didn't blame them. Instead, I psyched myself up with wishy-washy expectations--yay, I get to practice my Spanish. Yay, I will learn about conflict resolution. Yay, the pressure of leading is totally off because virtually all the participants knew more about Dolores Mission, where we spent a week, then I did. I resigned to a low-key and fun trip.

Story:
I haven't the words to express what happened to me in East LA. The closest I can get is to say that my heart is broken.
I'd never felt that before. No one and nothing has ever entered me that deeply and then crumpled me. Because I can't seem to process this feeling in blog form, I'm reverting to my journal entry after visiting Skid Row and Juvenile Hall:

My heart is broken. By the young men...the boys...of juvenile hall. I can't stop to think about it too long without crying, shivering, hurting for them.
They all wore ragged gray sweatshirts, loose navy sweats, gang tattoos, buzz cuts. Victims of a system with no escape. What I remember most--what hurts the most--is their eyes. No longer were they sexy Mexican/Chicano bad boys, nervous and smiley at the prospect of talking with a 21-year-old college gringa. That was my stereotyping, my imagination. No, they were terrified children, huddled in the sterile dark, the cold lights of the linoleum room, searching, begging for the good of the world. Is there any?, they often wonder. I desire more than anything to bring it to them.
"God will forgive me no matter what, right?"
Dear Roberto, José , and Ezekiel,
You have pierced my soul. I am in awe of you. I thank you. I pray for you at court today, Eze, though I have little faith to offer. My heart is broken for you, and I never want to forget that. I want to heal it with love. I will fight to remain afloat for your sake, to bring sunshine into fear, so that broken hearts may still rise.

I wrote that post while bawling. My amazing group huddled around me. Emmy rubbed my shoulders and said, "Okay, your heart is broken. How are you invited to rebuild it?"

This story does not end sadly. At least, mine doesn't. Deseo mas que todo que los muchachos de juvy se sientan lo mismo.