Main Characters

I’ve felt at times in the past that I’m not the main character in my own story.  There might have been so much going on or so many other people in my life busying themselves with one task or goal or another, that I often felt like I was playing a supporting role, a Gandalf or an Obi-Wan Kenobi type of character, perhaps.  At times, I would find that type of role intriguing—after all, who wouldn’t want to be the wizened old wizard or the Jedi master, the one who could supply answers and advice at precisely that moment of crisis?  But there were other times, too, when I felt robbed of ‘my story,’ when I felt as though all I was good for was a helpful word here and there, and otherwise other people were off living the adventures.

It seems to me that one of the biggest challenges for anyone who goes abroad for any period of time—or probably for anyone who steps outside what they know to be good and comfortable—is that suddenly they’re not just the main character; they’re the only character, and they seem to be surrounded by a handful of ‘extras’.  For me, this continues to be a tempting and dangerous reality.  It’s obvious that it’s hard to build strong relationships with or find support from people you consider as ‘extras’ in the great story of your life.  And yet, a constant question when encountering anybody new is, how long will this person be in my life?  An inability to answer this question often leads to uncertainty about how to proceed in the relationship, how much to give, how much to receive.  And certainly this conundrum is only compounded across language barriers. 

But most dangerous of all, I’ve found, is that when you relegate people to the role of ‘extras’, it becomes increasingly simple to separate yourself from them, to build a line of division which you justify yourself in not crossing.  “I don’t need to learn the names of all the kids in Hogar Don Bosco,” I might tell myself.  “After May, I’ll never see them again.”  Or, “If I want to hide in my room and read instead of sitting and talking with other community members, I can; after all, they probably can’t understand me anyway and I don’t need to try to make them—it’s not that important in the long run.”   

Certainly, I’ve found I need to take time for myself.  I think one of the most mentally, emotionally, and spiritually draining aspects of living and working in Bolivia is an overwhelming lack of ‘safe spaces.’  What do I mean by this?  Nearly every moment of every day, I need to be ‘on.’  When I’m eating lunch or dinner, I need to be engaging the kids I’m surrounded by (or perhaps the other volunteers) in a language and culture to which I remain a foreigner.  At breakfast or when I’m just lounging around in the common room writing or reading, I need to be ready to meet and greet another volunteer and carry on a conversation.  When I help with the research project, I’m often surrounded by teachers or administrators who constantly look over my shoulder, peppering me with comments and questions, or I have to constantly be on the lookout for Karina’s next instruction—again, all in Spanish, all clouded with frustration.  When I go to Barrio, I need to be ready to play games that I might not know or be good at and have conversations that I might not understand, all while fighting off an overwhelming feeling of uselessness.  And when I teach English, I have to be ready to meet with failure.  All of this I have to do while constantly afraid that I might miss that key word in the sentence or that all-important cultural cue, and the meaning of what might be happening all around will elude me.  And even when I have time in my room alone, I constantly feel as though there is more I should be doing, that my schedule is too light, or that I should be “out there” helping.  Even when I sleep I’m not safe—the phone might ring, someone might come to the door, and when I sleep at Barrio, I have to ward off bugs and be ready to greet the boys in the morning.     

It only seems natural that I should need some moments to recharge, but where can I go to get them?  Writing and reading, learning to play the mandolin, journaling, prayer—these are all good and viable outlets.  But I still can’t help feeling the lack of ‘safe space’ pressing in around me, and most troubling of all, in each moment of ‘safety’ I suffer from a fear of what is to come next—I may have had a great conversation with Mauricio on the bus from Barrio this morning, but I doubt I’ll be able to do that again; English class went great today, but how will I ever mirror such a productive lesson next time?  And so on. 

If you’ve read to this point and are thinking, “Man, Eric is talking a LOT about himself,” there’s a good reason for that—this is the perspective of someone who is the only character in the story. 

           

Did the kids learn something from that ‘failed’ English class?  I don’t care; I felt terrible afterwards. 

           

Was it encouraging to the Barrio boys to see me at dinner tonight?  Doesn’t matter to me; I felt useless. 

I think these are the kinds of sentiments that hide between the lines of my thoughts and feelings, and it is against these sentiments that I must in every moment exercise caution.  But it’s hard—I want to feel useful; I want to feel safe.  I want to know that I can repeat the successes tomorrow that I’ve enjoyed today. 

As she often does, Alli provided two essential pieces of insight to help me process what I’ve been grappling with above.  First, in reflecting on a book that literally everyone has told me I must read, Tatoos on the Heart by Greg Boyle, Alli reminded me that, rather than being called to be ‘men and women for others’—an oft quoted Jesuit mantra—we are called to be ‘men and women with others.’  Is this really that big of a difference?  YES.  Instead of me doing for Bolivia, I can simply be with Bolivia.  As much as I might like to convince myself otherwise, I haven’t brought any pearls of wisdom or magic beans to this country; I’ve brought a college grad who likes to read and write, isn’t very good at sports, and has something of an obsession with reflection.  As Fr. Ivan reminded me in confession last Sunday (which, as you might imagine, was something of an adventure in Spanish), volunteers don’t come to Proyecto Don Bosco as ‘experts’ in something, though they certainly bring particular gifts.  Rather, volunteers come for the singular purpose of accompanying the youth in whatever manner that volunteer is most capable. 

Second, Alli reminded me—in grappling with her own Ecuadorian experience—that the people here existed before I arrived and will continue to do so once I leave.  She noted that, while it may be frustrating to sit in awkward silence with a Bolivian or an Ecuadorian, it’s okay—if I wasn’t here, they’d be in silence anyway.  What’s most important is my simple presence, that persistent, “I’m here with you, and even if I can’t articulate it, know I’m here out of love and solidarity.”

Most of all, these bits of insight remind me that I’m not the only character in this Bolivian experience, and, in fact, I’m not even the main character.  I’m one of a cast of hundreds, thousands, and I’m called to play my role, simple as it might be, though most likely always in a state of flux.  My role, as one member of a rather large cast, is to respond with joy and flexibility, to recognize and embrace my own limitations and respond in love where I can.  This role says that it’s okay to go to Barrio and just have dinner with the young people I encounter and play a few rounds of cards; I don’t have to infuse the minds of the youth with profound wisdom.  This role says that it’s okay to teach the kids how to sing “Hey, Soul Sister” in English class because I don’t need to turn out perfect little English-speaking citizens; I need only meet the kids where they are, and where they are is in a place that desires to sing the songs they hear on the radio just a little bit better.  And yes, this role says that when I’m tired or worn down or simply desire to sit and read in the quiet of my own room, I can—after all, the Bolivian world isn’t relying on me to keep things moving forward, and so I can retreat now and again —I can try to turn myself ‘off’—and be okay with that.

But there is a deeper invitation buried within these reflections, and God, I think, has been quietly nudging me in a frightening direction.  I’m not the main character—I might not even be a supporting character!—and the fate of Bolivia does not rest on my shoulders.  I am called merely to struggle humbly and joyfully, to succeed where I can and to learn from those moments of failure.  I am called to simply be.  What does this mean?  It means that I am being offered a great moment of liberation, that I can step outside those ‘safe spaces’ and still feel ‘safe.’  It means, essentially, that despite all appearances, there are no successes and failures, only moments of grace, moments of community, moments of love.

I’ve spent the better part of the last two weeks doing a rather tedious bit of data entry for the research project.  I’ve been traveling to the various schools in the two neighborhoods we’re researching and collecting pieces of information on nearly each and every student—where they live, where they were born, etc.  When I began this part of the project, my pride flared up:  “This is the kind of work you give an intern who is trying to claw his way to the top!  I didn’t fly across two continents for this!”  And so my spirit suffered, and I became rather irritable.  But then a new avenue appeared:  while it’s true that this is the kind of work one might do to climb the ladder of success, I don’t have to worry about that here.  I need only work quietly and humbly and see what there is to see.  My frustrations abated somewhat, and suddenly I saw another side of Bolivia:  I glimpsed a bit of the inner workings of Bolivian schools; I enjoyed minor moments of hospitality—a soda here, a smile there; I got to practice my Spanish in new settings where I had only myself to rely on; and so on.

Embracing this form of liberation, seeking to step outside my ‘safe spaces’ to meet God in the challenge, the ugly, the troubling, and the frustrating, allows me to be more present to the moment.  If there is nothing to gain and nothing to lose, why bother myself with assumed expectations, both my own and others?  If all I can do is my best, if all I can do is be present to the moment, what the moment needs, and allow myself to both succeed and fail, then that has to be enough. 

It seems as though the other volunteers and workers with whom I live find me funny.  Not my jokes, so much (no surprise there), but my general approach to life, my mistakes, my attitude.  This can be fun—it allows me to do goofy things, to tune my mandolin while cooking dinner, to walk around with a handful of half-eaten crackers, to wear blue and yellow shorts with a lime green t-shirt—another opportunity for liberation, stepping beyond expectations and allowing myself to be present to the good and bad.  As Henri Nouwen noted in the book I just finished, Gracias!, I am being afforded the opportunity to be child-like, to ask silly questions and make silly mistakes.  But this can be disheartening as well, especially when it seems everyone is laughing at my Spanish or my accent or my inability to understand.  Yet, again, I must smile and allow that failure to be—I am not being tested; there’s no final exam.  I just have to keep moving forward.  Difficult?  Incredibly.  But with a constant call to humility, I am learning much.

Henri Nouwen noted that there are countless moments of extreme joy and extreme depression, that we find these moments in both those things we thought we’d love doing and those that we thought we’d hate.  The only constant thing we can rely on is the fact that these moments exist.  And so we have a choice—we can live for those moments of extreme, or we can seek to live in a state of spiritual continuity, to exist in the in-between.  I think this latter option allows us a better spontaneity to be open to the demands of the present moment.  Certainly, it is difficult for me to come away from a moment of great joy and satisfaction—will I be able to find such success in the next moment?  Will I be able to hold such a fulfilling conversation in Spanish with the next person I encounter?  But this form of liberation to which I feel called says not to worry, to put myself in all moments, challenging and enjoyable, and allow what will be to be. 

I’ve thought not a few times about last semester and how busy I was in comparison to my time so far in Bolivia.  I definitely saw myself as a main character—I was integral to the Communion Services, to the Eucharistic Ministers, to my residents in the Ignatian Residential College; I had to work hard at KPMG for my own benefit.  Perhaps I was wrong; perhaps in the end it’s better not to be the main character but to merely be part of a larger cast, all working together to create a grand saga of stories.  Perhaps that is the attitude I would have done better to adopt last semester; who knows what graces could have come from that?  Perhaps that is what we’re all called to.  I guess I’ll have to wait and see in the coming days, months, and when I return home.

During my VIDES training this past July, I was introduced to the Mission Mysteries of the Rosary while at Maryknoll headquarters.  One of the mysteries offers a reflection on the Roman Centurion who sought out Jesus in the hopes that he would heal a sick servant.  This story was important to my prayer this week:  here we see a man who leaves his home to meet God in a foreign place, to ask a simple question in the hopes that this journey will result in a new grace back in his own home.  Why is it we must leave our home—what is known and comfortable—to meet God so far away?  Certainly, this ‘distance’ doesn’t just mean a physical journey; God invites us ‘far away’ in many different ways.  But for me, what was most important about this story was the faith of this man…what kind of faith motivates a person to such an adventure, an adventure grounded in an extreme form of trust?  This Centurion was no ‘main character’—we hardly see him at all, in fact.  But his simple action—or perhaps not-so-simple action—challenges me to seek out this kind of faith in my own life, to base my own actions on a trust that I can’t quite comprehend.  It is through this trust, I think, that I will be able to move from moment to moment, from joy to sorrow, without falling into uncertainty and depression.  In faith and trust—and of course, constant gratitude and humility—perhaps I can better embrace this idea of liberation, this opportunity to simply be with people, allowing myself to endure the bumps and bruises, the joys and wonders that God provides along the way.