The following was written on Wednesday May 27th 2010.
I was sitting in the teacher’s lounge this afternoon planning for my Technical English class which was a mere ten minutes away. My boss, Mario, came into the room and told me I would not be giving class today. Instead, I would be accompanying a group of fifty 10th graders to the house of their teacher and my coworker, Elizabeth, whose brother tragically died this week in a car accident. Mario also told me that instead of moving my missed class to next week I would have both of my classes on Friday morning, my free day. Great, I thought, not only am I responsible for fifty 16 year olds on an impromptu field trip through the streets of Ciudad Sandino but I also just wasted an hour planning for a class that I won’t have to give. The following hour put my minor inconveniences and complaints in perspective.
For three days it has been raining off and on. All day it has been drizzling and the dirt streets of Ciudad Sandino are like a swamp. It reminded me of stream-walking with my dad and brother as a child. As we walked through the misty streets it was hard not to feel the ominous presence of death at the end of the road. When we arrived at Elizabeth’s house the door was closed. Someone knocked and the door opened slowly. The kids stood around the door in utter silence and respect for their profe. The rain continued to fall as we listened to her story. I stood in the back of the group. I couldn’t make out much of what she was saying. I started to look around, taking in the surroundings of this typical Ciudad Sandino street. Across the street an old grey haired man sat on the ground in soiled clothes talking drunken nonsense to himself. Another man walked down our side of the street and yelled to the old drunk man, ¿Dónde venden guaro? (Where do they sell booze?) The old man just pointed a gnarled finger down the street. The man nodded and zealously walked toward his next fix. Just then two rough looking guys in their mid-twenties came riding by on an old bicycle. One was wielding a machete and kept making comments about the students and their gringo teacher. I looked away and realized how uncomfortable I felt. The drizzle turned to a steady rain. Elizabeth invited everyone into her small and humble living room. There wasn’t enough room for everyone so I stood in the doorway, one foot in one foot out. All I could hear was the rain on the tin roof mixed with the sound of sniffles and kids praying for Elizabeth and her family.
I never know what to say in situations like this. All I managed to squeeze out was, “Realmente lo siento.” (I’m really sorry) It was such a sad and sobering experience. I cannot imagine losing my little brother. As I stood at Elizabeth’s house I started thinking about how sad it would be to lose someone not only to an accident, but to something like alcoholism or gang violence. They seem like much slower but perhaps more painful forms of death. Amidst the moribund imagines that surrounded us this afternoon I was encouraged and empowered by the spirit of community brought by my students. In my experience as a North American, death is a personal experience to be felt and dealt with in privacy. I truly believe that death, in any form, should be confronted by community. Whether it is like my students coming to visit, pray with, and hug their teacher, or like the many community initiatives I see working all over Ciudad Sandino to confront domestic abuse, substance abuse, and gang violence. Community is so powerful because it can provide the support to grieve and mourn, which ultimately can lead to transformation. This reminds me of the apostles gathered together after the death of Jesus. They gathered to mourn the death of their great friend. In the end they were filled with the Spirit and emboldened to go forth, live the gospel, and denounce the injustice of what had happened to their friend Jesus of Nazareth. In community they were filled with the hope of the resurrection and were transformed. In my experience, personal and communal transformation unfolds when suffering is met with prayer and intentional accompaniment of those who suffer.
Although I initially wasn’t thrilled to accompany my students today I have come again to realize it is they who continually teach me.
