Broken Home(stay)

So mere hours after I posted my last entry on Sunday night, something awful happened. My host parents broke up and my father moved out. To at least protect their privacy a little, I'm going to leave out the details, but it was upsetting and dramatic and not mutual.

It was the first night I came back from the North and I felt like I had a pretty good handle on things, until I completely didn't at all. Of course, this makes for a better story. I was entirely planning on having a thoroughly boring, if happy, two last weeks. So much for that.

The first night I found out, I didn't really sleep and the next morning I found myself crying on the street. Although I'm really quite fond of my host family, it was always only a temporary arrangement. It is not really my grief. I'm moving out in a week and my life will continue on as it had, more or less.

The first complete draft of my research paper was due yesterday and I was focused on writing and trying to let my mother have her space. I haven't spent much time with her or done anything much to help. I washed the dishes once because I understand that just because the world ends, doesn't mean there aren't still dirty dishes. I'm hoping to bake for her this weekend. Any other ideas? They didn't prepare us for this during orientation.

Whirlwind Week

This semester has been one of the most emotional times of my life because I'm constantly coming and going. And this week has been all about the coming and going. I'm leaving Chile 2 weeks from tomorrow. I'm so excited to be going home for the summer but of course, there's a part of me that feels tied up in Chile now.

I started the week in Arica, ready to finish up my field work. On Monday, I led a focus group of pregnant adolescents and went to a sex ed class, both of which were incredible and not at all what I was expecting. I may write more about that day later, but honestly, a week has not been enough to process all of it, not by a long shot.

On Wednesday, I had to show my research advisor, who I respect a lot, the progress I had made on my paper. I was super nervous to show her my 11 jumbled pages because I knew she was going to give me that mentor-look, the one that says: "Really? You can do better." What I wasn't expecting was for her to tell me that I should fix it and show it to her anew in 4 hours. It was a rough last day in Arica, but at the end of it, she was happy with my progress, as was I.

Thursday morning I got on a plane for Santiago, where I spent the weekend with my friend Jill who is studying the effect of machismo on gender performance amongst the urban lesbian population. (Where do I find these people?) We spent all weekend partying with a large group of Chilean lesbians. We meant to do other things, but never quite got around to any of them. No regrets.

Today, I got back to Valparaiso and was reunited with my host family here. I haven't seen them in weeks and wanted to tell them everything, which I did. I wouldn't stop talking for almost forever. They didn't seem to mind, though. I've come along way from the girl who was barely confident to enter a store for the thought of having to speak to someone in Spanish.

Happy Mother's Day

For the last 2 weeks, I've been in Arica, starting my independent research project. My project is a comparative study between pregnant adolescents with and without indigenous (specifically, Aymaran) descent. The first week, I spent almost all of my time waiting around for people to get in touch so I could actually conduct interviews. It was definitely worth the wait.

At the end of last week, I spoke with 10 pregnant teens. Their honesty is disarming and I can't express how much of an honor it is to bear witness to rather personal aspects of their lives. As a  random 21-year-old college student from the U.S., who isn't even fluent in Spanish yet, I'm surprised at times that they're willing to talk to me at all and I feel greatly indebted to them.

They are excited and nervous; they are planning on finishing school; they are single, in relationships, married; they have the support of their families, some more than others; they live with their mothers, or maybe their partners; they are first-time mothers or it is their second pregnancy; they have dreams, career plans, they want to travel; they are strong.

In a word, it's complicated. There's no one uniform teen mother experience, especially cross-culturally. Teen mothers are people, and they deserve to be treated as such. They are not cautionary tales or political bargaining chips. And honestly, they have me craving the whole heteronormative mess that is pregnancy (someday...) more than anything else I've experienced, even while reminding me that there is nothing normative about it. I'm sure I rolled my eyes, I didn't really even try to fight her on it.

Today, I also remember that I wouldn't be in Chile at all if not for my own mother. Among other things (like giving birth to me), she called my middle school guidance office to switch me into Spanish when I had signed up for French. My inner teenager is rolling my eyes at the thought of it, but I'm mature enough to admit that she was right. Happy Mother's Day!

Putre

Last week, I spent four days in a small town in the North of Chile called Putre. It's a common tourist destination for people looking to acclimate themselves to the high altitudes before going higher. The nearest city is Arica, and the majority of the youth from Putre leave for the big city to go to university and to launch their careers and as far as I can tell, pretty much never look back.

Kandice (another student in the program) and I were there learning about community organizations, hanging out in the Catholic Church during the preparations for Semana Santa and trying to contribute to the work on the farm. We were more or less useless on the farm and ended up spending more time in town but I did get to watch my host mother sort some potatoes into their various size categories and helped to herd some sheeps and cows so that they could graze on the grass.

We also learned a truly stunning amount about the community organizations. It really was a treasure hunt, with the last person we talked to always giving us directions to where we could find our next contact. (The directions usually included the phrase "por alla" which roughly translates to mean "over there," in other words, not exactly the type of directions we were expecting.)

Local politics are always fascinating and one organization in particular, "la junta de vecinos," had a great story about how they divided in the 80s into two distinct groups during the divisive Pinochet years and now only get together for important and pressing issues. We had the unique opportunity to attend one of those meetings. Apparently the townspeople were not getting along very well with a new doctor who came to Putre from outside (because none of the young people stick around long enough to have professionals who were born and raised in the area).

Spending time in the Catholic Church in town was also an unparalleled experience. We were there during Semana Santa or "Holy Week" which is more or less the week to be in church. It was a little weird for me as a Jew because even though Judaism and Catholicism aren't that far apart on the spectrum of religions, Easter is pretty much all about Jesus, a phenomenon I've never really understood and probably never will fully.

In our efforts to participate in the ritual, Kandice volunteered us for the job when the priest asked who would help "tomar el santo" or "take the saint." Now the verb "tomar" can mean anything from to eat, to drink and to carry, as we learned. We ended up carrying this huge statue of the Virgin Mary through the town square. She was super heavy and we were not half as strong as most of the people who spend their lives working on farms, but we took turns.

A lot of this made me think a lot about the role of various communities in my own life and the sacrifices people make to be part of a community. After all, if you want to do community organizing, you need to first be a part of one.

Last but not least, a llama jumped on my back and then wouldn't stop following me around town. Apparently a llama and alpaca in the town are friends and play together. It was terrifying and the llama even took a running start. Kandice tried to take a photo and her efforts were somewhat futile (she didn't want to get too close because she was even more scared that I was), but it's one of my favorite photos from Putre.

True Story: I kissed a fascist

Note: It took me a while to decide if I was actually going to post this on the internet. My curiosity got the best of me. How does it change the way we interact with attractive strangers in bars and clubs if their politics could turn out to be this twisted? Is their a moral dilemma here or am I over-thinking it? I'd love to read your opinion in the comments.

My last weekend in Valpo, I met this Chilean student from the armada academy (like West Point, he explained) and we spent most of the night together: dancing, flirting, kissing, pretty much what you'd expect. Early in the night, my friend, Samantha, having heard that most armada men are a bit on the conservative side asked him what he thought of Pinochet and Chile's military regime, but he declined to answer and we continued on our way.

Later, though, we got to talking and he told me that he actually held Pinochet in pretty high regard. He calmly explained that his father was a police officer during the military quo and members of his class at the academy were killed by radical leftists. I can't imagine what his father must have participated in, let alone seen, but I assume it was pretty horrific.

When I asked about the widespread torture, he couldn't find much of an answer. When I pushed further about the forceful takeover of a democratically-elected leader, he said Chile is different from the U.S. because their constitution changes often anyway and they don't have the same sort of attachment to it as Americans.

I was a little baffled. I knew that Pinochet apologists existed but it was different to have one in front of me who I had been getting to know pretty well. It felt like I was harboring a fugitive. Last summer, I kissed a boy who happened to be a Republican and it wasn't exactly my proudest moment. There were other mitigating factors (I was newly single and the Republican was very much not), but our political differences definitely played a part. To kiss someone who is anti-democracy and doesn't value human rights is crossing the line a bit more clearly.

I know that the whole point of meeting random strangers in clubs is that they are, well, strangers, but even so, it doesn't sit well with me. After all, isn't the personal political? Doesn't it matter, then, what type of person we decide to involve ourselves with sexually and romantically?

The armada guy sweetly called me the next afternoon to see if I got home okay and was by all other measures a nice guy, a good dancer and well, really attractive. That being said, I won't be seeing him again. After visiting torture sites and meeting victims, I just don't think I could. Calling him a fascist might be a little strong and I'm sure his point of view isn't all that uncommon. Still, though, knowing everything I know and appreciating everything I don't, I just can't.

The Lull

And this is the part of my semester where I'm so taken with everything that's going on that I forget to blog. Instead of apologizing for it, I'm going to let it speak for itself.

There are a couple of posts in the works that I'll put up soon, but for now, a quick recap. I spent my last week In Valparaiso saying goodbye. I left for a 2 week excursion to the North of Chile to spend time in Arica and Putre and I'm staying for an extra 3 weeks or so to start my independent research project on reproductive health and idigenous populations. It is very much in the planning stages, but should be, well, an adventure.

For most of the time I've been in the North, I've really been pretty sick. I also saw some of the most beautiful places in the world. I had a 102 degree fever, was never hungry and on top of it all, was adjusting to 11,483 ft altitude. I was basically an absolutely mess. Fortunately, after seeking medical attention 3 times, I'm very much on the mend. Study abroad sick is a special kind of miserable. But it's hard to be miserable when everything is this beautiful. I somehow managed, although my cynicism and dark humor took a hit. Hopefully, I look better than I felt...

Lake Chungara

Historical Memory and Pablo Neruda

In Spanish class this week, I learned that the world for remember (recordar) comes from the word for heart (corazon). More or less, the word literally means to pass through our hearts again. For just a moment, we surrender ourselves to the act of letting an event back in and keeping it in our hearts for future reference. When studying history, we do something rather strange. We let an event that once passed through the heart of someone we may have never met take ours over and remain, let it become a part of our knowledge about the world.

This week, we studied Pinochet's 1973 military coup, the U.S.'s role in the violent overthrow and the widespread torture and human rights' abuses that followed. I'm no expert, but I think it's safe to say that being a political dissident during Pinochet's rule was scary and brave and life-threatening. As a result of my overly developed sense of empathy, it was not the easiest of weeks. Remembering is hard work and the study of history asks us to do it constantly and thoroughly without reprieve.

Torture Victim Photos (Park for the Peace, Santiago)

Afterwards, I was ready to get away for a bit, so this weekend, I went to Pablo Neruda's final house. We took a bus to Isla Negra, an hour and a half south from Valparaiso. Of all the houses, it was by far my favorite, stunningly beautiful and right on the ocean. However, having completed all 3 tours, I can't help but be a little disappointed. These series of museums fail to live up to the legacy of the man. The tours discuss Neruda's joy of collecting, his beloved wife and elaborate social life, while barely touching upon his politics. To present Neruda's life without talking about communism and socialism is a historical erasure of the most blatant kind.

I asked the tour guide about this one painting in his dining room that displayed some fruit wrapped in the conservative newspaper “El Mercurio.” Although she didn't know the story, she said her guess would be that it was a gesture towards the assertion that this periodical was only worthy to be used as a recycled good. Otherwise, Neruda's radicalism was barely even a footnote.

By depoliticizing Neruda ad presenting him as merely a “cultural” figure, by reducing him to a caricature, his foundation does a disservice to all the tourists that pass through. After all, we can't know about the world what we've never experienced or heard mentioned. We can't practice empathy unless we are presented with the opportunity.

Speaking of tourism...

I bought a button at the book store that displays a Neruda quote: “I confess that I have lived.” (I know, I know, further supporting the tourism-industrial complex...) He did live, fully and completely. But part of that life was his ties to the far left, his posts as senator and later ambassador to France and yes, also all his parties for his radical friends, some of whom would later become Pinochet's victims.

I went to Pablo Neruda's houses to experience something distinctly Chilean, but it was mostly a further lesson in something sadly universal: the flattening of historical memory in the pursuit of selling it. Now, perhaps, Pablo Neruda wouldn't mind this oversight in the promotion of his brand. After all, he was not only a communist but also, clearly, a big time property owner who had no qualms about amassing things (granted, beautiful things). But, perhaps, when Neruda passes through our hearts, he deserves to be remembered as fully as possible, contradictions and all.