Be the Change

Matt - Life in LA

2009-01-15T09:06:00.000-08:00

When I learned I was moving to Los Angeles, I didn’t expect glamour and celebrities at every corner. I didn’t picture fancy dinners on the Sunset Strip or sipping $13 cocktails by the beach in Orange Country. I certainly didn’t imagine making a lot of money – after all, the word “volunteer” isn’t in so fine a print in the job description. The day I made my decision and signed that contract, I thought I had a pretty good idea of the things I would be giving up and saying “no” to by accepting a year a Jesuit Volunteer.

What I didn’t expect was just how much I would be given or how much would be expected of me. [I find the things I miss most about Boston and love about L.A. are different than what I thought they’d be.]

In many ways, my life includes your typical 9-5 workday and time at home with my roommates. On the surface, it appears to be only that: paperwork, meetings, and commuter traffic, chores, waiting for the bathroom, and watching TV. But my work is so much more than a job and my roommates aren’t just people I share a roof with. Together, my placement and my community breathe life into my experience.

At work, I am challenged on a daily basis to reexamine my faith and it how it shapes the way I see the world around me. My clients are former gang members, convicted criminals, and people who I would have grown silent as I passed three months ago. Today, I am asked to get to know them, listen to their stories, and work with them without judgment. You see, I work with the robber and the robbed, the victim and the victimizer. Almost all of my clients have been shot or shot at, and several more have used a gun themselves.

Sometimes the stories are difficult to hear and I almost wish I didn’t know what my clients have been through, witnessed, or done. But then I remember that for many of my clients, this is the first time they’re telling anyone not wearing a badge, suit, or robe such events of their life.

It’s been a lesson in listening, and humility.

Coming home from my placement isn’t the end of my day, but the beginning of an equally important part of life as a JV: community living. Living in community is different than living with roommates. You share a living space with roommates, but in intentional community your living space becomes a living space. Its very function is to breathe life into a place that for too many of us is a place of only seclusion and sleep. We eat together, pray together, share struggles with work and relationships, and, perhaps most importantly, keep one another from getting too comfortable.

The weather and the schedule are adjustments, for sure, but it’s the demand of my placement and community that I’m most challenged by – and most grateful for. Though I’m worn our by the time my head finally hits the pillow, I go to sleep grateful that my exhaustion comes from exercising not only my body and mind hard at work but my heart and soul when I’m at home.

These are the early goings of one Jesuit Volunteer. I look forward to continuing the conversation.

Paz,
Matty

Matt Carroll is a blogger for Jesuit Volunteer Corps. He welcomes questions and comments at Matthew.carroll.86@gmail.com.

Dermot - Fr. Fred

2008-12-12T07:28:00.000-08:00

Fr. Fred

"…The steward was shutting the door to the plane and, finally, I felt some relief. I was being deported from Peru. Then, the door opened and in popped Monseñor Luis Bambarén, the Auxiliary Bishop of Lima. He looked into the cabin to make sure I hadn´t been kidnapped and then secretly taken off the plane. In those days, you know, they were ´disappearing´ many people in Peru…"

It´s about 11am on a Sunday morning. I am gazing out over the Pacific Ocean, relaxing at the Jesuits´ beach house, about a thirty-minute drive from Tacna. I have the 85-year-old Fr. Fred Green, SJ, right where I want him: he is comfortably lounging in his favorite chair, relating another story from his unbelievable past.

Before me sits the legend of Tacna: the founder of two of its most prestigious schools, the builder of whole communities for the poor, the former-World-War-II-bomber-pilot-turned-priest, the Hawaiian-born surfer who has dedicated his life to a dusty Peruvian border town, the near saint completing fifty years in the priesthood.

In Tacna, the name "Padre Fred" is gold: he is a humble super-star, as unassuming as he is effective in the good works he directs. There are teachers at Fred´s schools who say they pass up better pay in other areas only out of gratitude to the man who inspired them to lead in the classroom. As Jesuit Volunteers, if we encounter problems at the border crossing to Chile, we are instructed to drop Fred´s name, as many of the guards are Fred´s former pupils. I know at least three Peruvians who bear the very un-Peruvian first name, "Fred," in honor of this extraordinary gringo.

I will even concede an almost selfish desire for one-on-one time with Fred, and so I was elated to accompany him to the Jesuit beach house, a refuge where Fred has spent almost every Sunday since before most who are reading this email were even born.

Alone with Tacna´s Superman in his own Fortress of Solitude, I have an insatiable desire to know all about Fred`s past. The problem is that Fred is too coy to reveal his cards so quickly: truly, this octogenarian Jesuit possesses a reticent dignity emblematic of America´s "greatest generation." I know his eyes have seen the horrors of war, the injustice of abject poverty, and the triumph of steadfast prudence against the caprice of Latin American despots. I want to learn about all that Fred has experienced, but realize the man possesses an inherent humility—characteristic of so many born in the 1920s—that prevents him from sharing too much of the grandeur of his past.

To get this deportation story out of Fred required a good fifteen minutes of digging. I knew that he had outlasted three Peruvian dictators and that he had had a close encounter with one of them. Now, Fred is relating how, in 1971, he fought on behalf of his teachers at Colegio Cristo Rey for higher wages and how this fight almost cost some of his motley crew their lives.

All the trouble started with an open letter to the Peruvian military junta. In 1971, with Peru in the hands of the tyrannical and pseudo-socialist General Juan Francisco Velasco Alvarado, all available funds were being directed toward the military, at the expense of other vital services, such as education. Fred`s teachers saw their purchasing power shrink mightily, just as Peruvian army bureaucrats saw their salaries rise.

The teachers asked Fred to take a position on the matter and so Fred wrote an open letter to Velasco, noting the discrepancies in salaries and suggesting that the army chiefs take a reduction in pay, to free up more funds for the teachers and to show solidarity with their "comrade" teachers who played an equally important part in Velasco`s revolution.

The response to the letter was swift. Within a few days, it was published in Tacna´s daily newspapers and, within a week, in dailies in the large, southern Peruvian city of Arequipa. Shortly after, unionized teachers in Lima were making hundreds of copies of the letter and using it as a rallying call for a national strike.

With armies of teachers striking and thousands of ordinary citizens attending rallies against the government, Velasco was forced to acquiesce to the teachers' demands or face the possibility of a coup.

He increased the teachers` salaries and even paid them for the days they were on strike. The teachers could claim victory, in part thanks to the catalyzing effect of Fred`s letter.

But, now, Velasco wanted revenge. Convinced that Fred was a CIA operative bent on overthrowing his government, Velasco sent his agents to Tacna and to Colegio Cristo Rey, both to observe this troublesome gringo and to arrest some of his teachers. In a calculated operation, two of Fred`s teachers were "disappeared" to the Peruvian jungle and held there as political prisoners.

Thanks to Fred`s quick thinking, however, more teachers were not captured. Fr. Fred even surreptitiously celebrated a wedding for one profesora in her home and then spirited the new couple away to the Jesuit beach house for their necessarily secluded "honeymoon," in a grand scheme to evade Velasco`s spies. In the end, Fred was able to outfox Velasco: he stayed in Peru and his teachers—after a period of detention—were able to return unperturbed to their classrooms.

As Fred winds down his story, I am once again aware of the immense privilege to be able to spend time with a man who inspires me at times to consider a vocation to the priesthood. And the cause today seems all the more urgent. Fred is the second oldest Jesuit in Peru, yet the rest are not far behind. The Society of Jesus is aging fast and is constantly challenged to support works like the ones Fred started, with an ever-dwindling number of religious. Indeed, meeting Fred at the end of his life, I encounter a humble warrior readying himself for one last fight. Fr. Fred has parried the blows of Japanese fighter pilots, Latin American dictators, and Tacna´s petty bureaucrats; yet now he faces a much more indefatigable foe: his own mortality.

This fight against time is most apparent at Colegio Miguel Pro, a second school Fred founded in 1992, where three of my fellow Jesuit volunteers currently work. Unfortunately, this school is still more dependent on money that Fr. Fred raises on yearly trips to the US than on donations from other sustainable forms of funding.

Amazingly, Fred is still able to find enough money to allow Miguel Pro to offer a well-rounded education (he is able to put one student through the school for $129 a year, despite the falling value of the dollar and rising food costs). The problem becomes what happens when Fr. Fred is unable to keep up with the exigencies of exhaustive fundraising trips.

What will happen to Miguel Pro when Fred dies? Is it our job as volunteers to continue the financing of his good work? Would it be better if Miguel Pro were administered by the Peruvian government? Is it good that Fred´s schools were/are dependant on foreign financing?

Is JVI contributing to an unhealthy dependency on the "West" through our presence at these schools?

These are real questions that Fred and my community-mates tackle on a daily basis. You can only imagine the stresses that build from the uncertainties raised about Miguel Pro´s future. Moreover, as I have mentioned previously, when confronting such daunting challenges, the response can be fear-driven inertia: you don´t know how to deal with the problem so your response is slow or absent.

Here at the beach, though, soaking in the sum of Fred`s life experiences, the focus is not on these elephants in the room. For better or worse, I have stolen a moment to learn of Fred`s past. The fight will continue tomorrow. For now, the two of us sit back, take a break from the stresses of Tacna, and look out over the Pacific blue.

Lauren - The Challenge of Community

2008-12-03T07:57:00.000-08:00

For some reason, over the summer before I started JVC, I had convinced myself that all my roommates were going to be closed minded, belligerently conservative Catholics. So when I first met my community and everyone turned out to be kind, open-minded, and easy-going, and I was relieved. I came to love them even more throughout orientation as we bounced around all kinds of ideas about composting, farmers markets, prayer before meals, chore wheels, even a social justice movie club. I was ecstatic. To me, we seemed like the perfect community. But of course, no community is perfect, and my first struggle in community was accepting that. My second great challenge was and is, accepting that I was not placed in this community to bring us to perfection.

The first challenge hit pretty quickly after orientation. Going into the year, I had very high expectations for us. I really believed that we were going to be able to implement all the ideas we talked about at orientation. So when we wouldn’t make a point of doing spirituality night, or we’d buy something I didn’t deem very simple, or there was tension over chores, I’d feel anxious and disappointed. How were we ever going to grow into a strong community if we couldn’t even meet some of the basic goals we’d set for ourselves? But as I came to see all the good that was coming out of our community, that anxiety started to disappear. Things like everyone coming together to cook even when there wasn’t a scheduled family dinner, or coming home at night to see everyone in the living-room knitting and watching baseball, or all the ridiculous but affectionate nicknames that emerged, all showed me that even though we may not be living up to all the specific expectations we had established, we were still building a great community.

But even after establishing we could be a good community even if we weren’t perfect, I was left with a second personal challenge: getting out of the mindset that I was in this community to push us closer to perfection. I didn’t even realize I was thinking this way until our Area Coordinator was giving us his suggestions after a week long visit and said, “In our individual conversations, each of you expressed your desire to go deeper into this experience as a community.” Hearing him say that woke me up to the reality that we’re all equally invested in our community. It has helped me re-orient the way I spend my energy thinking about community. Instead of thinking, “I know what we need to do to best live as a community, how can I share this?” I am trying to set aside my pride and think, “We all want to build community, how can we use all our different perspectives to build it collectively?” It’s a challenge I’ll probably work on all year, but luckily, together we’ve already laid the base for a warm, supportive, and trusting community, where we can all work together overcoming the many individual and community challenges of a year in JVC!

Justin - How I got here

2008-11-20T07:28:00.000-08:00

How I came to JVC still remains questionable in my and a lot of my family’s minds. How/why does one actively choose a “Life of Ruin” shortly after graduation? Well, during March of my final semester of St. Edward’s University, life was going nowhere fast – so a ruined life seemed an upgrade. Just to give you an idea of how clueless I was moments before graduation, I was a Theology Major with a Minor in English Writing & Rhetoric who had little to no interest in:

Law School

Priesthood

Waiting Tables

Construction

Becoming a Full Time Writer

Pursuing a doctorate

Going into Sales

So how does a guy who is seriously challenged in thinking ahead or intentionally come across JVC and actually go through with it? Well I digressed for a moment but I now take you back to March. So I go into a job fair put on by student “ambassadors” (too bad they never go anywhere – so why that title I’ll never know). I come equipped with no resume or any inkling that I’ll find any short term or long term path. While at the fair, I stumble upon a JVC booth.

“Hey, I went to a Jesuit High School in New Orleans. Cool, huh?”

“Umm, so are you interested in this at all?”

“OK I’ll take some brochures.”

Well it was a little more than that but this blog entry is supposed to be 250 words… So for the rest of the semester I sat staring at the bag which contained the JVC information. And as graduation approached, the more and more I thought a year of service would be the thing for me. So finally, a month after graduation, I made up my mind. I was gonna do it!!! And by “it” I mean actually start an application. I waited until almost the last second, aced my phone interview, and realized that orientation was a week away. Whoops. The family was angry, perplexed, but most of all worried that I was getting into this in too much of a rush without any thought. “Don’t worry. I’ve been mulling this over since March.” And it’s true, whether or not I made a list of pros and cons (I didn’t), talked to peers and former JV’s about the idea (I didn’t), got permission from my mom (no shot) I had been intentional in my decision. As a theology major, you get a lot of theories about God and your place in the world. As far as God goes, it’s a Mystery folks. Hate to give away four years of study that quickly. And as far as your life goes, well my life at least, I like to keep my ear to the ground (or the sky if that’s where God lives) and be pulled into the direction I feel I’m sent. Not overly religious, not over-thinking, just willing to go blindly into the realm of transcendence, and begin anew. Welcome to JVC…

Others blindly heading into their year of service and a Life of Ruin.

Being "whooshed" into my new St. Louis community. I'm a lot happier than I seem, I swear . . .

Welcome our new bloggers

2008-11-20T07:10:00.000-08:00

Though we get to hold on to Dermot through December, we welcome new bloggers from some of our other regions!
From the Midwest, meet Justin:

Justin grew up in Arabi, LA, a city in St. Bernard Parish located next to the lower 9th ward of New Orleans. He was raised by his perfectionist dad Anthony, a New Orleans policeman, and selfless mom, Karen. His older brother, Anthony Jr., currently works for Cintas Uniform Co. in Pensacola, FL, and his younger brother, Vinnie, is a freshman at Southeastern Louisiana University. Justin attended Jesuit High School in New Orleans and is a graduate of St. Edward’s University (Austin, TX) with a BA in Theology and a minor in English Writing & Rhetoric. Despite dealing with two major hardships over the past several years, the loss of his father to cancer during his senior year of high school and the loss of his home to Hurricane Katrina during his sophomore year of college, Justin enjoys finding humor in all things. He has performed as a stand-up comedian and co-hosted an internet radio show in Austin. Justin currently resides in St. Louis, MO, with four other Jesuit Volunteers. He works for Franciscan Connection, performing home repairs and renovations for senior citizens and low income families.

From the South, meet Lauren:

Lauren Carpenter is from East Hartford, Connecticut. In May 2008, she graduated from Smith College in Northampton, MA with a major in anthropology and a minor in Spanish. While at Smith, she rowed on the crew team, spent her junior year studying in Puebla, Mexico and was an active member “the Radical Catholic Feminists of Smith.” This year she is working at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in San Antonio, Texas. At Our Lady of Guadalupe, she runs the Social Services Office which provides groceries and financial assistance to families in need. She also works with the youth ministry program and other parish activities.

From the Southwest, meet Matt:

Mathew Carroll was born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts and graduated from Boston College in 2008 where he studied Philosophy and English. With none of Wall Street’s top Philosophy firms hiring, Matt decided to pursue a career as a contemplative in action at Homeboy Industries, the nation’s largest outreach center for gang members, located in Los Angeles, CA. This is the first time living away from Boston for Matt, so a little homesickness is natural. Fortunately, Southern California’s recent futility against New England sports serves as an easy reminder of home. When he’s not working as a case manager at Homeboy, Matt enjoys “practicing” guitar, writing, sports, reading, the outdoors, and 90’s boy band music (perhaps just a bit too much).

Kate - Moving On

2008-08-05T13:12:00.000-07:00

Wow. It’s tough to try and sum up a year of my life in a short blog. I just returned from Dis-orientation, and Orientation feels so long ago. I guess that is a good place to start. When I arrived at Orientation, I completely freaked out. I knew my parents had met through JVC, but beyond that, I didn't know a lot about their experience. However, at Orientation, I realized so much of my childhood stemmed from this program (hence the freaking out). I grew up with agenda meetings, occasional spirituality nights, and anywhere from two to eight other housemates living with my family of nine.

I think the other part of my freaking out was that I felt as though this was one of the first things I did that really paralleled my parents' lives. Before JVC, I had participated in multiple "programs" and spent substantial time abroad. My parents were always 100% supportive of me, and yet, at the same time, I had felt that they didn't completely know or understand what it was that I was doing. And then there I was, at Orientation, thinking about my parents at my age at their own Orientation. Did they have any idea what the year would bring? Did they know that it would result in a lifetime together?

The way my life was paralleling my parents made me feel vulnerable and less independent. I subsequently emailed my parents and told them that I needed some space to absorb what was going on and that I would call them in a month. Which, luckily, they were mostly understanding about (well my mom was very understanding, and my dad called me at work on my second day.)

I didn't exactly understand my own reaction, but I knew I needed that space. In retrospect, I think I needed to delve into JVC in my own way, and truly decide for myself what the year would mean to me. And, while I know so much of who I am stems from my parents, I needed to fully explore that on my own. What roles do I want spirituality, simplicity, social justice, and community to play in my life? How would my understanding of these values evolve over the year?

As I look back over this experience, there is so much I am thankful for. The lessons I have learned from my clients, the mentors I have found in my workplace, the opportunity to pray with others, and the constant support we receive. Some of the greatest gifts have been things I wanted to happen-a reconciliation with Catholicism, the breadth of knowledge and skills I have gained in my workplace, being humbled, and finally having an excuse for my own cheapness. And some of the greatest gifts have come from things I was adamant I didn't want to happen- dating a fellow JV, having my housemates be my main group of friends, and moving mid-year.

As I sat at Dis-Orientation last weekend, it felt so strange to by saying good-bye to all this. And I realized that was because JVC is not just a program I am doing; it has become my life. And now suddenly somebody was taking that away from me - my job, my co-workers, my housemates, and my home - and I sort of want to say “wait a minute, you can’t have this.”

But my JVC year is coming to an end, and so I have been thinking about how I want to continue from here. JVC has given me ample time to examine myself, and also to examine myself within the context of the four values. I have been blessed this year to see so many different ways these values can manifest.

I would like to say I have been "ruined for life" by JVC, but I don't think it is a direct result of this year. I’ve pretty much been “ruined” since birth, and for that I have my parents to thank. What I have realized this year is that I want those values to not just be a part of my life, but I want them to be a conscious, intentional part. And I hope my understanding of them will constantly evolve. I don't know that I'll ever be able to fully answer the question as to how I want the JVC values to play out in my life, but I hope I never stop asking the question.

** In regards to the photos, the first is of my parents during their JVC year (30 years ago!). The second is me laughing with my favorite attorneys/co-workers.**

Learn about Kate here.

Dermot - Api

2008-07-24T10:48:00.000-07:00

To lay the groundwork for this story, I need to take you back to the battlegrounds of Mes de Misión: the month-long service trip I completed in January. This is where I first tried api: a warm corn-based drink that has the consistency of runny toothpaste, the flavor of something awful doused with a lot of sugar, and the potential to ruin your day, if consumed in large quantities. I imagine that in some dystopian future, an alien invasion force might force-feed api to rebellious humans, as the beverage is as torturous as it is other-worldly. If you disagree, ask yourself: how many times have you seen anyone voluntarily drink steaming, purple goo? Before Mes de Misión and outside of reruns of Star Trek, I had never encountered anything like the pseudo-beverage that has become the nemesis for my teaching at Cristo Rey.

Now, I can't entirely blame what happened on the api. I was on my third day of Mes de Misión and was getting ready to eat a simple breakfast, when my new best friend Doña Lila filled my Nalgene water bottle with an overwhelming quantity of the purple stuff. I was happy for the generous gift and was pleased to know that Doña Lila (the cook at the cafeteria where we ate every morning) had taken the bait from all the effusive compliments I had paid her about her cooking. Unfortunately, the Almighty frowned upon both my gluttony and my sycophantic tendencies toward Doña Lila by giving me the all-to-familiar rumbling in my stomach which sends me running to a Peruvian bathroom.

I politely excused myself from the breakfast table and headed toward my living quarters. I was fiddling with the keys to open the door and quickly redeposit the api in our communal toilet, when mother nature dictated that that the front door to our house would be a better place.

Luckily, no one actually saw me vomiting up purple bile. But, sure as sunshine, all my kids came marching out of the cafeteria as I was attempting to hide the evidence of my latest failure with Peruvian cuisine. I tried to play it off that a dog had done something nasty….or maybe it was funny run-off from the river (I tried to tell them, "It´s the rainy season, you know"). Then, the biggest smart-ass in the class stared at me deadpan and said, " Meester Liinch, es vomito de api." (No translation needed).

The cat was out of the bag. And it’s been the running joke in the school ever since. In class, on a bad day, I turn around to write something on the board and I hear “api,” “api,” “api,” from various corners of the room. I try to discipline the kids and somebody invariably yells, “don´t worry, Miister Liinch, be api (happy).” Two weeks ago, I was watching Cristo Rey play a soccer game and the entire 4^th year and 5^th year classes (120 students) started chanting “api” as I walked by.

What can I do in the face of this problem? In reality, very little. At first, I tried to be rigid: a strict disciplinarian. I tried to make the kids fear me. I threatened them too much with detention. I tried to shock and awe them with meticulously organized lesson plans. None of this really worked. I realized that excessive punishment only alienates you from the students, while more trust will give you a great class.

I learned this valuable lesson in balancing discipline and encouragement after visiting the houses of my "tutoria" students. As part of the Peruvian education system, every thirty kids are assigned the equivalent of a super-homeroom teacher who must fulfill the role of head disciplinarian, counselor, spiritual guide, and adult best friend for the student. Part of this job entails a visit to each students’ house during the first half of the year. As an assistant tutor (working with a very capable Peruvian), I have visited 29 of the 30 kids at their homes and have learned about the difficulties many of them have overcome.

Perhaps most shockingly, I learned that about half of my students come from broken families. The parents might have had children early (and unexpectedly), as is often the case in Latin America, and now have trouble maintaining a marriage caused more by an accidental pregnancy than through mature and prolonged feelings of love. On the other hand, there are a surprising number of families who are split for economic reasons: the man or the woman might work across the border in Chile or in the mines outside of Tacna, while the other parent is left to work in town and take care of the family. Either situation is far from ideal and certainly gives my kids more to worry about than the correct way to conjugate the past perfect simple.

Furthermore, after talking with my fellow JVs who teach at another school in Tacna, we all concluded that depressingly few of our kids have positive male role models in their lives. I´d never known so many single mothers until I came to Latin America. I´d never met someone who beat his wife until I moved to Tacna. And I felt especially grateful this Father’s Day to have such a caring and stable father, when so many of my students lack the same.

I kept all this in mind when I saw the 120 kids chanting “api.” What did I do to stop them? I could have flown into a fit and punished the entire class. I could have grabbed some more teachers to "tranquilizar" the students. I could have ignored them.

Instead, I put a big smile on my face and charged head-on into the crowd. I half-tackled the ringleader of the group and introduced him to the very American concept of a "noogie," only after picking him up and playfully throwing him in the air, in a move reminiscent of the WWF wrestling stars all these kids love so much. The kids enjoyed my antics thoroughly and only chanted “api” in a louder voice: something I interpret as a good thing.

I understand now that these kids need a male in their lives that will do more than yell at them and demand of them without reward. In short, I've learned to embrace api in all its forms, as long as it will bring me to a closer and more respectful relationship with my students. Not, I join in the api jokes when it suits me, as a self-effacing way to connect with my students.

Learn more about Dermot here.

Kate - On Faith

2008-07-07T14:06:00.000-07:00

I came to JVC seeking both reconciliation with the Catholic faith of my childhood and absolute fear that JVC would brainwash me into "becoming Catholic".

I was raised Catholic, but from a very social justice orientation. I attended gay right protests, woke up to migrant workers sleeping in our playroom, and by the 2nd grade had written a book on racism and sexism. At the same time, I did not make the connection between justice and faith. What I remember about faith was receiving a Bible in preparation for my First Communion and randomly flipping it open to the section about how a wife should obey her husband. I couldn't believe that this was the book everyone believed in. In my First Communion class, I also asked the teacher if we could change the Lord's prayer (not knowing you can't change it) to say as we TRY to forgive those who trespass against us, because we don't always forgive them. Religion and I were not off to a good start.

As I grew older, I drifted from Catholicism but maintained a belief in justice. I still considered myself a very spiritual person, but it was mostly a personal practice for me. When I thought of Christianity I immediately thought of anti-gay, anti women-rights, and generally close-minded people. I must admit that I came to JVC with these prejudices. At the same time, I believed so strongly in the four values, and I genuinely wanted reconciliation with Catholicism.

What I have loved about spirituality within JVC is that I feel as though I am given the space and the time to explore it fully. No one is telling me: "This is what you have to believe". Instead they are asking, "What is it you believe?" How do those beliefs sustain you? What can you do to go deeper into faith? I feel as though so often in our lives we are not given the time and space to ask these questions, and yet JVC asks that we do.

There are many different things I have come to understand about Catholicism this year. I have met so many incredible people who identify as Catholic or Christian, thus shattering my pre-conceived notions about what it means to be religious. I have loved the connection to social justice and the idea of approaching justice from a faith-based place. This connection is one of hope; and I feel that it is hope that ultimately allows me to keep doing this work even in moments of despair.

At the same time, I am not sure I want to identify as Catholic. Sometimes I go to Church and feel very much at peace, and other times I just get angry. Why would I want to be part of something that is telling me women are second-class citizens? Why would I want to be part of an institution that is against gay marriage? If I say I am Catholic, aren’t I automatically saying I am these things too?

I suppose as with any institution, the Catholic Church is not perfect. And it will never change if everyone who disagrees with it as a whole just chooses to leave. I can chose to either fight from the inside or from the outside. I can say: I am not Catholic because there are some issues I institutionally do not agree with and therefore do not want to be identified with, or I can say: I am Catholic, and I want others to understand that to be Catholic is ultimately about the people and the message and not necessarily the institution.

I haven't yet decided where I want to stand. I do know there is so much more I want to learn about Catholicism, and that I love having a community element to my spirituality. I suppose my reconciliation is this: to be Catholic should ultimately be a call to radically love. If you go to the Gospels, and look right at Jesus' message, it is pretty radical and beautiful. It is a call to love all people, to recognize their human dignity, and to especially recognize that in the people who have been marginalized by society. It is a message of hospitality and the idea that we are all family. And I personally don’t think you need to believe in Jesus to believe in these things. I think faith in something, whether it is god or humanity or this earth, ultimately should be a call to radically love one another.

Learn more about Kate here.

Dermot - The Peruvian Girlfriend

2008-04-24T08:23:00.000-07:00

As a Jesuit Volunteer, the greatest mistake I almost made was to start dating a Peruvian. It took the advice of my community and family, coupled with some honest introspection, to prevent my insecurities from getting the better of my good judgment.

What follows may seem like a prudish, anachronistic, or even insulting justification of Jesuit Volunteers International's counsel to eschew all "significant relationships" while in the field. Nevertheless, after having almost broken this rule, I more fully understand its purpose, not as a paternalistic norm designed to control the libidos of free-spirited twenty-somethings, but rather as a healthy means of challenging volunteers to question the "amorous" feelings that can fool them into an attraction based more on external stresses than on true romantic chemistry.

It all started with a favor for a friend. In September of last year, a male acquaintance asked me to help a young woman with her application for an April 2008 placement in an au pair program in the US. I said yes and, through my male friend, started to help her with the project. One night, she came to a party we had in our house.

By then, it was late November. I had just greeted the new JV arrivals, while I was preparing to say goodbye to the two veteran volunteers who had accompanied me through my first year. It was a stressful time, during which I felt like I was being pulled between the needs of my old community and the desire to integrate with the community we would form in 2008. Things seemed to come to a head at this party; and I ended up pouring my soul out to my new friend, talking to her until the wee hours of the morning. A week later, I bought her an ice cream. A few days later, we exchanged gifts for our birthdays (two days apart) and I started thinking about the nature of our friendship.

To be clear: I had all the power to make the decision about what to do next. I was the one with the English skills she wanted. I was the one with the US passport and all the prestige and expectations that come with it. I was the one who had the economic power (my family would visit me later in the month, at a cost out of reach to most Peruvians). I was the super star. As one former JV uncouthly put it, "You are a Backstreet boy for 2 years; enjoy it while you can."

She told me that she got a kick out of hanging out with the tallest man in Tacna. Being around a beautiful girl made me feel special. More disturbingly, at one point, she even told me that we could "be" whatever I wanted us to "be." She was willing to do anything to call herself my girlfriend. This scared the hell out of me. Even after one private encounter, the friendship started to feel so one-way and almost manipulative.

In the midst of these confused feelings, I thought constantly about the JVI handbook, whose regulations I had agreed to uphold. Under JVI guidelines, I would have a week to inform the JVI office if I pursued a "significant relationship." If I procrastinated, it would be the responsibility of my community-mates to fulfill this requirement "out of care and concern for the JV in the relationship."

Assuming that my community or I would inform the office, I began to weigh my chances in a debate with the three members of the JVI Program Team in Washington, DC. I knew that pretty much every year in JVI Tacna´s recent past,

there has been a relationship between a North American and a Peruvian. Some have been fruitful, some quite hurtful, and some have even ended in marriage (as a side note, of the six marriages I know of between North Americans and Peruvians, two have ended in divorce).

I told myself that if I was willing to "take on" the office, I could eventually get my way. I immediately created an adversarial lens with which to view the JVI staff, anticipating a fight to get what I wanted. The poor people in DC hadn´t even done anything to me. And they seem, for the most part, like nice folks. I was definitely acting weirdly.

My arguments for "being with" my friend were based in everything from Bill-Clintonesque semantics ("it depends on what your definition of ´significant´ is") to idiotic nonchalance ("it doesn't mean anything that I have bought her ice cream; I buy ice creams for people all the time; this isn't so serious"). In short, I had an array of rhetorically bankrupt justifications in favor of pursuing a relationship.

Questioning both my misplaced aggression toward the office and my inadequate reasons for starting a relationship, I began to look for a deeper rationale to explain the feelings I was having. I concluded that the stresses of being in Peru were finally playing upon a weakness I rarely acknowledge.

Let me preface this analysis by postulating that a long-term volunteer program like JVI will exacerbate insecurities you didn´t even know you had. If you binge drink in the States, you are more likely to drink excessively in country. If you have a problem with depression, it can be intensified by two years away from home.

For me, my insecurity concerned relationships with women. I do not have too many close, female friends. I have never had a serious girlfriend and felt "defective" for this apparent "failure." Add to this insecurity the pressures of culture shock and the stress of transitioning communities and you find the textbook explanation of why I was seeking a special friendship. I started to look more objectively at the situation and realized that it would be manipulative and unfair to use my friend as a means of dealing with my inquietudes.

In the end, perhaps my mom put the final nail in the coffin on my vacillations as to the future of my "relationship." In the Lima airport, ten minutes before I would say good bye to my family for another year and a half, my Mom took me aside to give me two bits of patented Anne Lynch advice.

First, invoking the counsel passed through Irish mothers for centuries, she told me to "beeeee careful during this coming year" (the Irish brogue turns "be" into a 4 syllable word). Per usual, I have failed to follow her advice.

Second, and more importantly, she told me, "Now, Dermot, if you don´t stop fooling with the emotions of that Peruvian girl, I´ll………………….…….." To keep this blog PG-rated, let´s just say that my mother can be very convincing and horrifyingly creative when she is both angry and holds the moral high ground.

I left Lima with a sober vision of what I would need to tell my friend. I had a hard, but honest talk with her. She accepted the platonic friendship I offered; and I have helped her complete the visa requirements to travel to the US as an au pair. She will be leaving Tacna in a month. I hope that she truly does forgive and understand me.

For better or worse, I have come out of the experience knowing much more about what makes me tick. More importantly, the process has allowed me to realize the value of the JVI handbook: a practical document not written by those who wish to "dictate morality," but rather by those who bring with them decades of experience the problems inherent to long-term distance from home.

I am back at school now enjoying my second year with my Peruvian kids. I wish you all a Happy Easter season and a pleasant spring. I went fishing last week for a Good Friday catch. The Peruvian man I went with said that I would be a better "fisher of men" than fisherman. I didn´t even catch one fish to his 15.

The photos included in this blog are from various recent travels, since returning from Mes de Misión. The first is a shot with my community-mates before boarding our transport home from a recent retreat. We passed 3 cops with all this cargo and were not stopped by one of them. Asies la vida en la America Latina. The second is my appearance as our Savior in a Domingo de Ramos celebration.

Learn more about Dermot here.

Dermot - Mes de Misión

2008-03-11T08:12:00.000-07:00

Since last we spoke, I´ve experienced quite a bit in the Peruvian campo, working with students from my high school in the town of Locumba (pop. 500). I was given the opportunity to travel to these towns as part of a program called Mes de Misión (in English, "Mission Month"), a four-week service project that all students at my school must complete during the summer between the equivalent of their freshmen and sophomore years of high school. The purpose of Mes de Misión is to give the students the opportunity to help people in poorer areas of Tacna, while challenging them to live independently, away from their families.

For me, living in rural Peru this past month was like entering another world, where the main lodging was often huts made from cane, with dirt floors and communal, outdoor plumbing; where the primary means of transit was in the back of a rickety camion, which would race down narrow, unpaved, and dangerously sinuous roads to towns in which few Westerners have ever stayed; and where the natural beauty of the valley where Locumba is located was matched only by the hospitality with which our group was greeted by many of the locals. Mes de Misión was, in short, the greatest adventure of my life: a journey back in time and a very close encounter with people who live without the daily stresses and comforts that we are accustomed to in the West.

Now, before you start to think that this month was some romantic tour of the idyllic Peruvian countryside, let me give you a taste of how I experienced rural third world poverty, and how I endured what was easily the most challenging month of my life.

One of the most difficult things about the month was the diet. I ate a lot of rice and potatoes, and pretty much nothing else. I went a month without protein. The month-long fast would have been manageable on its own, were it not for the tough requirements of the manual labor. Most of my month was consumed by the construction or filling-in of zanjas (big ditches) that would be used to bring water to a small town outside Locumba. To dig these zanjas, we had available pick axes, shovels, crow bars and about 60 sets of scrawny 14-year-old arms. Needless to say, I became well acquainted with construction methods used in the US in the middle of the last century, and spent days toiling on projects that could have been accomplished by a mechanized backhoe in a few hours. I personally had an intimate, four-week relationship with a pick-ax that left my hands blistered and my unchallenged mind craving both the climate control and intellectual stimulation of good desk job.

Finally, on top of both hunger and exhaustion, there were, of course, the "chookies." Perhaps you remember the B-listed 1980s horror film about a demonic doll named Chucky? Peruvian professors love this film and have adopted the name of the lead character (pronounced "chooky" in Spanish) to refer to their equally devilish students. I certainly had my fair share of run-ins with the chookies, to the extent that I often felt that if Sartre is right, and hell really is the eternal presence of other people, then the deepest darkest circle of my own personal inferno is one inhabited by Peruvian 14 year olds. These kids' teasing, their lack of focus, their raging hormones, their constant need for direction (from 5am until 9pm) left me more emotionally and physically sapped than the manual labor. Thankfully, I have a slight respite from them, until classes start in March.

Well, I have now given you 500 words of complaining about Mes de Misión. And that's often what I did during the month: bitch. Self-pity was my constant companion in January. Be it my rumbling stomach, my often rumbling bowels (yes, even a diet of only carbs can make a gringo sick), or the constant presence of the chookies, I always had a way to feel sorry for myself. It was not until half-way through the month that I actually tried to enter more fully into the experience and rely on my faith to keep me from getting completely overwhelmed. For, yes, I was malnourished; yes, I was emotionally drained; yes, I will never look at a ditch in the same way again; but, at the same time, I had moments in this month where I could not have felt more spiritually alive.

In the end, I concluded that you could choose to look at Mes de Misión as a taxing and absurd obligation which is unhealthy, unhelpful (professional workers could have done our work in half the time and with a tenth of the drama), and, thus, unnecessary. I know some of the kids I led felt this way. Some part of me agrees with them, too.

What made the effort at times fruitful was that I forced myself to believe in a prayer from Saint Ignatius of Loyola (founder of the Jesuits), which I recited every morning and which I have provided you below. Among other spiritually uplifting Jesuit mottos, I forced myself to remember this prayer whenever I questioned the utility of the construction project, the sanity of the chookies or even my rationale for spending two years in Peru.During those times when I rejected the temptation of self-pity, this month was very spiritually powerful for me. Like St. Ignatius suggests, I was able to realize that I could offer up to God all that I loved (i.e., a balanced diet, contact with my family, my health, my liberty) and feel blessed and honored in the sacrifice. Perhaps I´m crazy or just gullible enough to believe in Jesuitical trickery. I prefer to think that I genuinely grew closer to God in the past four weeks and know that I helped some of the kids to do the same. All the same, I am happy that I have finished the two Mes de Mision experiences that I will have in Peru.

I wish you a blessed and (hopefully) warm month. I am conscious, however, that there are probably around 150 potential JVs out there, who are in the middle of a demanding discernment process. You all have a lot of questions, probably which you would like to ask me anomously, instead of risking a misstep with the dreaded JVI office (they´re not THAT evil). Ask me anything, no question is out of bounds (and all will be kept in confidence). Email me at dlynchper06@yahoo.com. I will try to respond to your quesitons in the JVI blog next month. In the meantime enjoy the prayer below as a tranquil way to reflect on the discernment process you are undertaking at present.

Prayer of Saint Ignatius of Loyola

Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty,
my memory, my understanding, and my entire will.
All I have and call my own.
Whatever I have or hold, you have given me.
I restore it all to you and surrender it wholly
to be governed by your will.
Give me only your love and grace
and I am rich enough and ask for nothing more.

Learn more about Dermot here.

Daniel - Life in Community

2008-02-27T11:59:00.000-08:00

February 18, 2008 “That’s a lot of estrogen”

Saturday, February 16: I sit in my living room, wrapped in a blanket, eating chocolate and watching a romantic comedy with four green-faced women. No, they have not all come down with the flu or a bad case of food poisoning, but rather, all have decided to indulge their skin with avocado-based face masks.

The wait is over—I have decided to spill the beans on my life living with five women. With a female to male ratio in the East this year of nearly four to one, it was bound to happen. In fact, it’s occurred twice this year, with Boston sporting a house of five girls to one guy. You’re my boy, Chris.

Monday, February 18: Jim Carey is appearing on Oprah today as I write this blog. He scans the audience and declares, “That’s a lot of estrogen.” His reaction takes me to last summer when I received the Newark community bios in the mail, which read: Alison, Francesca, Jacqueline, Jenna, Claire and Daniel. –You said it Jim, “That’s a lot of estrogen.”

When I inform people that I live with five women - it doesn’t matter if they’re family or friends, male or female - the reaction is always the same. “Ooohhh, man!?!? How is that? That’s got to be rough.” This is accompanied with a look of sympathy, disbelief and a little bit of horror. It’s as if I just told people that I was living with a pack of wild, ravenous wolves.

I can tell you right now that the women I live with are---brace yourself---normal people. Five women living under one roof do not turn into a vicious monster. Actually they turn into five—kidding. I honestly thought that I was in for a rude awakening. I grew up with four brothers and two sisters. The television was dominated by Oakland A’s baseball, Notre Dame football and ESPN. Testosterone prevailed. When I received the roommate list, I pictured God snickering. I felt as though I was entering the female version of “How the Other Half Lives.”

When I think about living in community with five women, the image that comes into my head is of us talking. I know it sounds common, but that’s it. We talk during breakfast, at work through emails, g-chat and phone calls. After work, during rides home, in the living room before dinner, for well over an hour during and after dinner we are talking. Ohh—and how could I ever forget pillow talk?

If you find yourself in a similar situation, get ready for a marathon of talking and listening. A helpful hint: don’t just listen with a blank stare and nod of the head…it doesn’t count. Be ready to offer advice, insight and your feelings on an endless list of topics, including: news, weather, celebrities, men, male and female stereotypes, feminism, books, men, bras, clothing, movies, doing dishes, not doing dishes, men, music, siblings, relationships, families, parents, ex-boyfriends, boys that happen to be friends and of course, the boys we want to be more than friends.

But—isn’t that what people do? We talk about issues in our lives, things on our mind, people we like, we don’t like, what happened during our day, insecurities we battle and compliments we try our best to believe. We are people; communication is our tool---male, female, it doesn’t matter.

So—when I tell people that it is going well, this is the image I have. I like the talking and I am learning to appreciate the level of description that goes into stories. Now, I know I might be walking the dangerous line of gender stereotypes, but what I am learning is that women are all about detail. A story’s minute aspects are dissected, prodded, rolled over, turned upside down and inside out over and over again.

I’m learning. They have been patient with me and I with them. We are people. We are a community.

Learn more about Daniel here.

Gisella - Lessons I learned at AFG

2008-02-19T11:04:00.000-08:00

It has been six months since I started working at Alternatives for Girls (AFG) and after all this time has passed, I could not see myself anywhere else. AFG is a shelter for homeless women aged 15-21. My job requires a lot of energy and flexibility because I never know when one of my clients will need something from me. As a case planner I assist the young ladies under my care in managing their lives. (At the same time, I am attempting to manage my own!) Even though my clients don’t realize it, we are both trying to make the most out of our lives, and so we can help each other to grow.

I have learned many valuable lessons while working with these homeless young ladies. First of all they have taught me that being present to them and their needs can be enough for them. Sometimes I wish I could do something when my clients come and talk to me about all their problems but as one of my clients told me, the fact that I can be there for them, to hear them when they need me, is enough. This has been a difficult lesson because I wish I could do something tangible, something that I can see helps to take their pain away. However, thanks to my client, I have learned that by being present I am doing a lot, even if I don’t realize it at first.

Another thing I have learned is the real value of sharing. I always thought I knew what sharing meant until I had a profound experience with one of my clients. One day when I was assisting my client with an online job search, I mentioned I was hungry, not expecting any response. Without hesitation my client said she had her Bridge card (food stamps card) with her, and that she would walk to the store a block away to buy me some food. I told her not to worry about it, but in my mind I couldn’t help but think how a young lady who has only $155 a month for food was willing to spend it on me when I said I was hungry, even though that act of kindness might mean she would have no food the next day. I thought about this incident for a while and wondered if I would have done the same. I was ashamed to realize that I would probably not have made the same offer. This young lady taught me a lesson on the value of sharing that I will never forget.

One final lesson I have learned from working at AFG is the value of being part of the daily lives of the people I serve. Due to the loss of some grants I had to work an RA shift in the homeless shelter. At first I was a little hesitant about it because the shift includes staying until 10pm on Thursday nights. What I didn’t realize was how much I would end up loving being an RA for the girls. Because I stay with them throughout one full day I am able to share with them in meals, playing games and the task I love the most: taking care of babies J. When I came to the shelter there were 5 pregnant ladies and now all the babies are born. It is such a blessing to be part of their lives, to be able to feed them, burp them (yes, babies need to be burped often – who knew!), read to them and even become mother number four to a very special baby. Kenyon is the baby of the first young lady I met as I started my job; it is for that reason that I feel such a strong connection with him. He is now a big baby, 5 months old, and yesterday we had his first photo session eating real food!!! Enjoy the pictures of my babies that bring so much joy to my JVC life.

Learn more about Gisella here.

Kathleen - On the Job

2008-01-31T08:17:00.000-08:00

Flexibility. That is the key.

It is difficult to explain what my job entails, much less a “day in the life.” Every day is different and something unexpected often comes up. My job entails many different responsibilities and it’s often a juggling act.

One highlight of my week is the ESL class. As a not-for-profit women’s center, we don’t have too much money for English books, and I haven’t found an ESL book that I like—most are aimed at kids and don’t incorporate the day to day English we use. So I am always thinking about the language and terminology I use. It’s pretty easy in El Paso; I just ask myself if I know how to do everyday things in Spanish, and create a lesson out of that. How do I find out the bus route I need to get to work? How can tell a doctor when I don’t feel well? How can I sell something to a customer? After brainstorming lesson ideas, I start piecing together a lesson plan with handouts and activities. Often, they are so itching for knowledge that I spend the class answering questions. A big one is the pronunciation of words that sound similar, such as: beer, bear, bird, board, bored, and border. Sometimes I wonder if they actually are learning as I contort my face with the different vowel sounds and try to think of motions to help them remember—beer has a guttural sound, so I act like I have a big belly; bird has an airy vowel sound, so I flap little wings as I say it; bored sounds like a yawn. It all makes me think of our language as mouth candy and understand why it is confusing to go from a language that has five vowel sounds to one that has numerous sounds with different spellings (ever think about how you pronounce bought, through, and rough differently even though they all have “–ough” at the end?).

Taking programs to other agencies in El Paso has also been a wonderful part of my week. Mondays, I ride my bike to the bridge (maybe 1 ½ miles), walk across to Cuidad Juaréz, and take the bus out to Siglo XXI (a neighborhood in Cd. Juaréz that lacks infrastructure) to meet with the women there. It is always strange to ride the bus along the Rio Grande, staring at El Paso’s skyscrapers looming behind the fences, trains, and Border Patrol cars. I cannot imagine what it would be like to see the disparities every day—to hear that education in El Paso is affordable, to know that some food in El Paso costs less because they have Wal-Mart, to see El Paso’s buildings seem cleaner and well-maintained—and all that naturally separates you is a river.

The women meet in a little chapel when they can to make crafts, watercolor, or just talk about life. They are a support to one another, and I have been so fortunate that they let me walk with them. They are teaching me a lot about how Americans are viewed and how the border and American economic policies affect their lives.

Another group of women have also let me into their lives to see the challenges they face. Twice a week I facilitate an arts and crafts class at the Opportunity Center, a shelter that essentially takes in the most marginalized—those who have been turned away from other shelters in El Paso. Some days, the women are in bad moods. It’s hard to have nearly 20 women sleeping on mats in a space the size of my living room. Those days, I might make some origami by myself or paint with one other woman. Other days, the women are happy and talkative. It helps that I am not on staff at the Opportunity Center; they have nothing to lose by unloading on me. I hope they enjoy the time to just do something with their hands and be creative, since many say they don’t have much going on. They give me a lot to think about as far as the connection between mental health and homelessness and prison, as many of them have chemical imbalances.

I have been inspired by the strong women I meet with for our self-esteem workshop. They all have so much power. My role is to pose questions or do different activities to get the women thinking about their lives and talking to one another. I am not there to tell them what they need; they have it already in each other. I have been so fortunate to be alongside these women as they share personal stories and encourage one another to use the power they have.

There is so much more to this job than I can fully describe in a blog, but the women I have had the pleasure of accompanying have given me much more than I could ever give them.

Learn more about Kathleen here.

Dermot - The Latin Kiss

2008-01-02T11:55:00.000-08:00

Let me start with a Christmas admission, from under some Peruvian mistletoe. I have kissed more women in Latin America—way more—than I ever will in the United States. To start with, I have kissed every one of the profesoras at Cristo Rey, every señorita in my host family, many a married woman, all of my lucky female community-mates, a surprising number of nuns and Latin grannies, at least one member of the Jesuit Volunteers International (JVI) staff, quite a few strangers on the street, and maybe even a few women who didn´t deserve the Dermot mark of approval, but received it anyway. What can I say? I´m a generous guy.

If I were in the United States, between my personal and professional life, I would probably have violated every sexual harassment law in the country. But before JVI picks up the chastity hotline to put an end to the wanton lasciviousness of this philandering gringo, let me qualify comments made in the above paragraph with a note on cultural sensitivity. In Peru , you must kiss women when you meet them. To not do so is considered rude and highly impersonal. It is just one way I observe this country to be a much more "tactile" place. The people want—expect—more than a moribund and guarded handshake. They want the gift of your touch and are happy to give it, too.

Peru engenders none of the interpersonal distance that I see in the US. I recently learned that North Americans require an unoccupied space, 30 inches in diameter, to feel unthreatened and comfortable. You get within 1.5 feet of someone in the US and we reach for the mace. Down south, they think much less of it. Peruvians require you to give them a robust embrace, a passionate conversation, and an almost immediate closeness that would make many North Americans flee to a quiet and solitary refuge. So, if you plan on joining JVI Peru, get ready to pucker up: a Latin´s lips—and hips—never lie…at least in the opening salutation.

Before I continue, I should probably share with you the best way to kiss a Peruvian woman ( I never thought I´d use that line in the JVI blog). Stop laughing. Kissing is serious stuff in Peru . To effectively navigate this delicate maneuver, you must approach the Latina , embrace her, touch her right cheek to yours, and blow a kiss approximately toward her ear. Don´t blow the kiss too hard and make sure you don´t have spit in your mouth. You don´t want to give the poor girl a wet willy. Confront the task like a salsa dancer. Do it suavemente (smoothly) and she will be encantada (let´s say, very thankful).

Also, an important corollary: do not plant the kiss on her cheek with your lips. It took me about six months in Peru to realize that the platonic kiss is normally meant for the air, not the woman. A kiss on the cheek is a sign that you might be looking for passion in more than just the conversation. Oops! Mea culpa. I may have given some poor Hermanas de la Merced (Sisters of Mercy) the wrong idea on how I feel about their vow of celibacy.

Having given you a brief introduction to Latin philematology, let´s continue with more Peruvian rules of etiquette. When you arrive late (if that is possible in this country) and find a group of Peruvians has already arrived at an engagement, you must make sure to greet each of them individually. In these situations, the typical formation Peruvians adopt is what I call the "circle of death." Perhaps it´s a sociological curiosity endemic to this country, but when Peruvians mingle, they don´t form small groups like in the US; rather, they almost always create large circles where everyone can see everyone else and note which reproached Latina the gringo forgets to kiss. If I am going to end the night on good terms with all, I must proceed around the entire circle (at times, upwards of 30 people), making sure to kiss the women and embrace the men. This process can be more involved, prolonged, and subtle than Middle East peacekeeping. Moreover, if you get it wrong, the Latinas might forgive, but they will never forget.

I probably have kissing on the brain in this blog, because, today, I gave some of my longest anticipated kisses of the year. My family touched down in Tacna´s Airport at 7:20 AM today (but who was counting the hours?). You can be damn sure that my mom and two sisters benefited greatly from the great kissing education I received during the past year. Needless to say, this Christmas will be very special for me, as it will be one in which I get to share my gringo family with the Peruvian one which has adopted me during the past year. I am excited to continue with another year of JVI and am already feeling refreshed from the energy boost my family has given me.

In my last blog, I promised a rebuttal to Ivan Illich´s indictment of volunteer programs . Sorry to disappoint, but I´m not ready to offer it up, yet. I´ll make it a New Years resolution to tackle these issues, after a long conversation with my parents.

Learn more about Dermot here.

Kate - Life in Community

2007-12-18T10:38:00.000-08:00

What do you get when you put a native Bostonian, a Cuban-American Miami girl, a Texas Christian graduate, a New Orleans Frat boy, a Northwest tree-loving chica and a son of Vietnamese immigrants in a four-bedroom apartment for a year? Your first guess may be “Real World: Volunteer,” but this is actually Jesuit Volunteer Corps. Welcome to my community.

I am having trouble articulating what it actually means to live in community. And I think every community is very unique (for example, we happen to have six very strong personalities; the advantage being a lack of passive-aggressiveness and no one being walked all over, the disadvantage being sometimes we are just, well, aggressive). I have tried New Orleans Crawdaddy delight and Cuban Rice and Beans, sat through many an agenda meeting, argued about levels of cleanliness and about who actually knows how to clean. We have our share of fun too – impromptu dance parties, lots of laughing, a Sunday spent taking a Christmas photo (Alana made us wear matching clothes) and making an Advent wreath, good discussions and girls’ nights, and jokes about our Tapestry-covered TV.

It is far easier to talk about community superficially. I think I entered this program being very excited about the community aspect of JVC; I was going to have an opportunity to live with people who must be similar to me; I mean, we all are probably coming from the same place in that we share these four values. That assumption was my mistake, and the fact that it is not true a blessing in disguise.

My housemates are the people most different from me that I have ever lived with. I have come to realize that while I do believe in the four pillars, the ways those beliefs are manifested is not the same for everyone. I think to fully grow from this experience you have to let go of your own notion of what spirituality or community or simplicity or social justice looks like, and be completely open to somebody else’s interpretation of it. I don’t believe that I have completely done that, but I do think it is the way to get the most out of this experience. Ego has to go, and the fact that I have spent a good portion of my life in community does not make me a better housemate than anyone else.

I feel both challenged and blessed by my community. I am incredibly grateful for these people and the gifts they bring (JT’s generosity and delicious desserts, Eric’s easygoingness and dance moves, Susie’s considerateness and outfits that only she could pull off, Alana’s friendliness and endless labeling/color-coding of our lives and Joe’s listening skills and Latin music). We have had our ups and downs, but at the end of the day I come home to a home where I feel safe, supported, and loved.

Learn more about Kate here.

Daniel - A Day at LINK

2007-12-14T14:06:00.000-08:00

The other day I was having the typical morning at LINK Community School. I arrived barely on time, cold and hoping to learn from the mistakes I made the day before. I kept telling myself that today I would actually give a detention to every kid that said, "shut-up" or rolled their eyes or sighed when I gave directions to the class. Or, today I would make sure that I was constantly present in every conversation I had with a child. These seem like pretty strait forward goals, and yet, they become so difficult. I'm halfway through my day and I realize that I've lost. Conversation after conversation become one long day, and at the end, I stand in front of an empty class asking myself, "Did I reach them today?" "Did I make a difference?" Will I ever know the answers to these questions?

These are the thoughts that greet me each afternoon, but thankfully I have found a release. Beginning about two weeks ago I began working everyday with the 7th and 8th grade girls and boys basketball teams. (For those that don't know me, I love basketball. I have been playing competitively and for fun for nearly 14 years, beginning in the 3rd grade). My role on the LINK staff is the assistant coach, a position of authority--but the role of disciplinarian and all-around tough guy is reserved for Coach Jones. It’s at this point that I can talk to the kids about something they love and make them appreciate it even more.

It’s a chance for me to talk about something I love and know. I feel like that's major part of being a successful teacher - when a teacher is passionate about a subject, not because they have to teach it, but because they love the subject itself. When the time comes for them to share their knowledge, it’s not a class/teacher scene, but a conversation between people. They bounce ideas and questions off each other to find the best understanding.

I've had one of these "conversations" recently. Cassie is not your typical/ideal student. She is not eager to pay attention to a teacher lecture about algebraic equations or scientific theories. But, mention basketball, and she is all ears. Sort of. She is a 13 year old girl, born and raised in Newark, New Jersey. You can't tell Cassie what to do; you just hope when you give her an assignment, all you get back is a sigh and a role of the eyes. It’s that, or she is out the door ready to do her own thing.

During a recent practice Cassie was taking several jump shots, becoming more and more frustrated with each subsequent miss. I walk over to the basket and begin rebounding for her. She misses again and is ready to chuck the ball through the ceiling. Luckily, I retrieve the ball first and calmly walk over to her. I hand her the ball and remind her that Steve Nash shot 1-9 the previous night and he has two MVPs under his belt. She nods her head reluctantly, takes the ball, and then we begin to talk about her form. We decide on a comfortable shot for her and test the results. She makes the first shot from twelve feet out. She makes the second. I pass her the ball and remind her to use her legs. She hits a third shot in a row. She begins to smile and quickly hides it, because for Cassie, she expects to make every shot. We work for another 25 minutes. She takes nearly 60 shots. When practice ends, she jogs over to me and asks if we can work on her shot tomorrow after practice. I say yes, of course--trying to hold back my own beaming smile, less she find out exactly what that means to my heart.

Learn more about Daniel here.

Dermot - El Hogar del Buen Samaritano

2007-12-04T12:10:00.000-08:00

I feel that my fellow countrymen and women of the developed world have failed the people of Viñani. Worse still, I feel that we have failed them not by our indifference (normally the great obstacle to realizing change), but by our moral certitude in knowing what is “right” for those people. With reference to my November entry, I give great credence to Ivan Illich when he says that the road to a third world hell is paved with good (Western) intentions. I see Illich's “path” clearly visible every time I walk into the Hogar del Buen Samaritano in Viñani, a place almost destroyed by the altruism of Western volunteers and NGOs.

The outward appearances of the Hogar are probably what you expect when you hear “third world orphanage.” The building is decrepit, the 17 kids who live there flea-ridden, their clothes threadbare, and their physical size well below the average for their age. This place is right out of a late-night infomercial for Save the Children.

The Hogar is run by an enigmatic and now-evangelical ex-convict named Fermin. He is the type of person who would be barred from running such a social service in the US. I sometimes think that Fermin is a reformed man who was raised on the street and is now desirous to give back to his community, even if he lacks some of the skills to do so effectively. Other days, I think he might be a scoundrel who has successfully manipulated well-intentioned North Americans and Europeans into supporting an enterprise that is more exploitative than it is nutritive to the kids he is raising.

I can’t divine Fermin’s intentions. I can’t determine if the kids are abused or if they would be better on the street. But worse still, I always leave Viñani with the dangerous belief that more Western investment will solve all the kids' problems. I know that my family and friends are a generous bunch (many of whom donated to JVI, when asked). If I merely asked them to support me again at the Hogar, I am confident that I could raise a substantial sum. I am now convinced, though, that money is the wrong solution to this problem, given how ineffective I have seen such donations to be in the past.

A generous French NGO, for example, gave Fermin a new van to drive the kids around. Donating a car to the orphanage might sound like a great idea, as the kids could use a safer form of transportation and Fermin would not have to spend money and time on bus rides. Unfortunately, the van costs more to maintain and fill with gas than the amount saved on bus trips, a situation which is worsened by Fermin's overuse of the car for trips of convenience.

Similarly, a German Rotary Club built Fermin a bakery, in the hopes of making the Hogar economically self-sufficient. They forgot to consider, however, that making profits on bread requires constant, stream-lined, and large-scale production, a goal which cannot be achieved with Fermin's three small ovens. Adding to this problem, before I arrived in Peru, Fermin tried to launch the bread-making enterprise and forgot to factor the cost of electricity into the price of his product. He now faces a $200 electricity bill and another $200 in fines for failure to pay on time. Thus, the kids at the Hogar remain in desperate poverty, despite Western investment of what I would estimate to be over $15,000 (more than enough money to feed the orphans for years).

Fermin has also learned that Westerners are a good source of funds and continually asks me for money. It is easy to understand why. Our relationship from the beginning has been tainted on account of the donations made by my gringo antecedents. I have trouble leaving the place, knowing that I could give money to help out these kids, but cannot shake the idea that I could be contributing to a problem. With reference to my November entry, Bill Gates was right: complexity is a heady opponent to realizing change. As a corollary to this rule, charitable Westerners who oversimplify the poverty of the developing world do so at the peril of those they are supposedly trying to help.

I have no idea what to do at the Hogar. My current solution is to continue to accompany the kids. I organized a tooth brush campaign to get them all brushing their teeth a few months ago (see photos) and feel that this was at least partially helpful. I also continue to be the most popular person to give piggy-back rides and can take some comfort in lightening the mood for little kids who have too much to worry about.

The situation might improve next year, as we will have a volunteer position at Colegio Santa Cruz in Viñani. Brad Mills, a fellow JV who served one year in Bolivia and will be finishing his service in Peru, has recently joined us here in Tacna and will increase our contact with the albergue (refuge). I pray that if I can have more contact with the kids through Brad's connection to Viñani, they will trust me more and I will become wiser in the ways I can help.

I still haven't had the space to address Illich's worthy critique of JVI. Frankly, I have run out of space here. The rebuttal must wait until my third entry in this blog. Until then, Illich's haunting words will cause me to continually scrutinize my actions in Viñani, with the goal of preventing my falling into the trap of providing the same type of hurtful “beneficence” to the poor of Tacna.

Learn more about Dermot, here.

Kate - On the Job

2007-11-28T07:21:00.001-08:00

I work at the Lawyer’s Committee for Civil Rights, a non-profit law firm that offers free legal assistance in civil matters and litigates cases surrounding issues of race, class, and immigration. In the JVC application process, I applied for jobs very different from experiences I had already had, which is how I ended up with an office job in legal work as my first choice. I am much more of a direct services oriented person, but I am fascinated by law, and, while I do not see it as my career path, I do feel that it is an essential tool to social justice.

I also found it very hard to actually imagine the work you will be doing, day in and day out, based on the one paragraph descriptions you are given when choosing a job. I was explaining this frustration to my dad (why can’t we know more about the jobs that are about to determine a year of our lives), and he said that is part of the beauty of the experience: you are dedicating yourself to a year of service, and to whatever challenges and rewards that year brings.

These have been some of my challenges thus far:

· Getting use to an office job. This may not be difficult for a lot of people, but it is hard for me to sit still, so I frequently have to walk before, during, and after work to get rid of excess energy.

· Phone Connections. A lot of my interaction with people is on the phone, which is different than what I am used to. I sometimes feel as though I would prefer more direct one-on-one contact with clients because that is more emotionally draining and I want to be challenged. The lack of that contact is just due to the nature of the job. It is also good to realize all the non-direct work that needs to go on in order for direct services to be possible.

· Realizing sometimes you just can’t help, nor can you change systems that are unjust overnight. I have heard a multitude of life stories that echo this point, but there is not the space to write about them.

And these are some of the rewards:

· Personal Education. I feel as though I have learned so much about law and the challenges faced by people who are not listened to in society. Also, because I am not in constant contact with clients I have both the time and energy to really listen to their problems and sometimes I think listening is in itself a service.

· Great Supervision. By this I mean I was set-up to be successful, but at the same time, nobody is micro-managing, so I feel ownership in my work. Early on I mentioned my desire for more direct service to my supervisor, and was immediately given a list of projects I could work on that fit my needs. I feel as though my agency has gone out of their way to make sure I am happy here.

· The people I work with. Every single person in my office (18 staff) continually amazes me with their commitment to a better world, their humbleness, their work ethic, their ability to be light-hearted and yet still really care, and so much more. The first day I was told, “We’re like one big family here” and it really feels that way. Even though I am new here and here only for a year, people treat me as if I know just as much as anybody else (even though I don’t). I feel very lucky and grateful to work with such phenomenal people.

Learn more about Kate here.

Dermot - Looking back on year 1

2007-11-07T09:44:00.000-08:00

Walking down Avenida Bolognesi, Tacna´s main drag, you almost forget you are in Latin America. You can buy ice cream, read the newspaper, and embrace a modern, internet-connected Peru. Less than three miles from the center, however, the street lights and paved roads disappear and the estera (cane) huts prevail, until you find yourself in the midst of some of the worst poverty in the country, in a neighborhood called Viñani.

When I think of the “third world,” I think of Viñani. I know that Peru is “developing” and that the term “third world” is offensive; but one trip to Viñani makes you realize the absurdity of maintaining a quixotic and semantic focus on the euphemisms we use to describe an impoverished existence that is so unjust and difficult. Viñani crushes all politically correct thoughts about poverty and “living in solidarity with the poor.” Quite frankly, the place feels other-worldly. I have trouble identifying with the people. Nothing will allow me to free myself from the privilege I feel over them and the distance I feel from them. I am most gringo when I spend time in Viñani.

Every time I visit the place, I want to curse. I resort to vulgarity not only because of my indignation at the injustice of the situation, but—more importantly—because I am presented with a frustrating problem that is so damn mind-boggling to solve. At Harvard’s commencement last year, Bill Gates said, “The barrier to change is not too little caring; it is too much complexity. To turn caring into action, we need to see a problem, see a solution, and see the impact. But complexity blocks all three steps.”

I can now identify with Gates on how complexity thwarts progress on poverty, as I feel overwhelmed by the challenges of confronting it and will protect myself with something that feels like indifference. When I am not indifferent, I feel that I can only apply small bandages on a gaping wound. I am completely uncertain if I am actually helping anyone when I visit those I have befriended out there.

On second thought, the last paragraph also explains many of the problems with “Western” philanthropy in Viñani. Did you notice what I did? Look at how this do-gooder JV described his relationship with the poor. I offered vague terms to describe the “desperate masses.” I rightly expressed my frustration and indignation, but incorrectly presumed that I am helpful in applying the “small bandages” that I can offer, or that I have sufficient experience to “solve the problem of poverty.”

I also set up a nasty relationship with the “poor,” in treating them as nothing more than passive repositories of my charity. I am the doctor; they are the patient. I know what they need and I will provide it. JVI challenges us to examine these unjust dichotomies that we can often create in our interactions with the poor.

On my Reo/Diso this past month, I read a speech by the radical Catholic priest Ivan Illich, who notes that “the road to hell is paved with the good intentions” often carried out by North American volunteers serving abroad. In a brusque and often cynical form, Illich goes on to indict my work, writing to a departing class of volunteers to Mexico, “You are ultimately-consciously or unconsciously- ´salesmen´ for a delusive ballet in the ideas of democracy, equal opportunity and free enterprise among people who haven't the possibility of profiting from these.” Illich goes on to condemn the very existence of organizations like JVI, which send volunteers into “developing countries,” as we will only experience a very damaging false solidarity with the poor whom we are purportedly “serving.”

Illich would have me pack my bags and return to the US tomorrow. Moreover, his strident indictment will serve as a constant reminder to me in my second year, of the dangers endemic to acting with self-righteousness as a JV. For better or worse, though, I am still in Peru. You call me a hypocrite or a seductive salesman of corrupt Western values. I will explain in my next entry why I do not believe this to be the case, yet will definitely give Illich his due, given the infernal pain I have seen “well-intentioned” NGOs cause at an orphanage here in Tacna.

Learn more about Dermot here.

Daniel - Orientation

2007-10-24T13:43:00.000-07:00

A little after midnight on August 16, I boarded a red–eye flight to Baltimore with my best friend. We both had chosen to dedicate the next year of our lives to living in service with the Jesuit Volunteers, fighting for social justice, and growing spiritually.

Our flight brought us to Texas and then to Baltimore, where we caught a taxi that would take us to the Hagerstown Greyhound bus station. We anticipated meeting other JVs at the bus stop. My thought was that we would arrive, chat with other JVs, maybe meet my first housemate, and then board the bus that would take us to Blue Ridge Summit for our four-day indoctrination into the JV community.

That was the plan. But—as I and nearly thirty other JVs learned, plans have a mind of their own.

The wait at Hagerstown, which was supposed to have been about a half hour, turned into a 5 hour ice breaker. Greyhound decided that it best to over book their buses for that particular day. Looking back, I don’t think that I would have had it any other way. The long wait forced many of us into those early awkward conversations of asking each other where we were from, where we went to school, where our placement was located. As ordeals often do, it bonded us in our hatred of a common villain—the Greyhound bus depot. I should really send them a thank you card.

We were finally rescued by members of our support staff—Beth, Katie, and Stephen. So instead of riding in a cramped bus, filled with strangers, we were able to travel in style, crammed in three 12 seater vans in the company of those who, just hours before, were nothing but strangers.

Once settled in our rooms, the thought on most minds was lets have some food—or was that just me?

Over the next few days, I met amazingly gifted, goofy, and interesting people from all parts of the United States. Many from schools I’d heard plenty about, but never visited. It was a chance to put faces to names, and shake off the anxious feeling of wonderment as to what your housemates were going to be like.

I remember thinking to myself, both on the way to the retreat center and during, that I wanted to be active and step outside of my shell. This was an opportunity to share my gifts of spirit and laughter with others who had chosen a lifestyle similar to my own. I told myself that I wanted to be present in every conversation, mindful during every prayer, and open to new ideas and outlooks on life.

I don’t want to ruin the surprise for future JVs, so I’ve decided, will all the restraint I can muster, not to go into any real detail about the activities we did, prayers we offered, masses that were held, people that spoke, games that were played, or food we ate. When Sunday rolled around, I found myself driving with two of my housemates on our way to Newark, New Jersey, a place I had often heard about in the news, but had never stepped foot in. As we drove I noticed something really amazing. After only three days, I already felt so close, not only to my housemates, but to the mission of JVC.

For all those that were concerned, Greyhound did refund most of our tickets. You can rest easy now.

Learn more about Daniel here.

Gisella - How I got here

2007-10-24T13:41:00.000-07:00

JVC is something I have been looking forward to for quite a while. Growing up in Peru I was used to volunteering here and there but I had never heard about people taking a year off to volunteer, especially in the United States of America where stereotypically everyone one is supposed to care only about themselves. So when I heard about my friends from Loyola Marymount University joining a volunteer program to intentionally serve the population I have always longed to serve, to grow in faith and community with each other and to be challenged to grow, I knew it was for me.

I specifically decided to apply to the Midwest because no one in my school applied there. Whenever I told anyone that I wanted to go to the Midwest, they would look at me weird and say “ . . .But why?” That’s when I knew that it was the place for me. I wanted to go where not many people want to go, I wanted to go to a place that would challenge me to experience different things, a place that will challenge me to grow into the person I long to be – a servant for and with others. What can be more different from Lima, Peru and Los Angeles, California than THE MIDWEST!!!

I didn’t take my application process for granted, I had a systematically organized system of what I needed to do and when. The application was so long but it helped me understand more and more why I wanted to do JVC and what I wanted to do. I waited anxiously for the interview and I cried when I was finally accepted. I was actually taking an Ignatian Spirituality class during the time I decided to apply to JVC so I used Ignatian Spirituality throughout the process. As I got interviewed and heard all the amazing opportunities I would have to experience with JVC I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt what the Jesuits call a sense of “consolation” or God present in my life every time I thought about being a JV. I had so many people encouraging me and helping me read my application and giving me honest feedback, like my spiritual director Brendan and my “advisor in JV life” Tom, both who are former JV’s. I also had my little English angel Maria who helped me correct my application so I would use the best words possible to describe my feelings. In writing my application and throughout the whole process I grew much stronger in friendships and faith, knowing that through the process God was there letting me know that what I was committing myself to was his will for me. At the end of the process I felt that I was following God’s call for me, I knew I was called to be “Ruined for Life,” THE JVC WAY.

Learn more about Gisella here.

Kathleen - Life on the Border

2007-10-01T11:37:00.000-07:00

El Paso is really unlike any other city I have seen. With the downtown right on the U.S./Mexico border, it is truly an international city. For 35 cents, we can walk across a bridge to Cuidad Juárez and with 30 cents (exact change) and a license we can cross back to El Paso. Yet, while the international boundary line divides these sister cities, they really operate more as one large community—with one being a part of the so-called “First World” and another in the “Third World.” The dividing line between these two cities is clear, and disparity in economic and structural wealth is readily apparent.

As part of our local orientation, two of the JVC support people—local residents of the JVC city who are there to assist the JV’s throughout the year—took us to a part of the border fence in New Mexico. Within seconds of parking, a Border Patrol agent drove over and asked what we were doing at the fence. In our conversation with him, he said he had seen some pretty difficult things at the fence—especially the children trying to cross. But, he added, his training taught him to leave his heart at home and that is what he has to do.

As the conversation ended, some children ran up to the fence. We chatted with the five boys for a while, then, spying my water bottle, one boy asked for a drink. Through the chain links, I offered the boys my tap water—clean, safe, and free. Two thoughts immediately hit me: how lucky we are to have that necessity running through our taps whenever we need it, and how I wished I could just touch them. It just felt wrong to have people fenced off from one another because they happen to be born on one side of this arbitrary line. Those were my brothers standing on the very same soil as I, but we could not embrace, or hold hands, or play games.

I cannot stop thinking about this first encounter with the border. And I cannot stop thinking about the immigration debate in Washington taken up, for the most part, by people who have never actually seen this border and how much these cities depend on each other economically, with thousands crossing every day for work and to visit family. Certainly, the whole immigration debate in our country is a complex issue, and it appears very different on the soil of El Paso/Cd. Juárez. It is not an easy question to answer; nor is it a simple issue to comprehend. I just keep thinking of the dignity we owe to one another, whether that person is on the opposite side of the fence or guarding that fence.

Learn more about Kathleen here.