So. Among other things, I currently work part time at a coffee shop. My first day on the Bar (pulling expressing, steaming milk -- making the drinks essentially) I was given a basic "this is this and that is that" introduction and set loose. Until someone ordered a cappuccino, when the student manager momentarily relieved me, saying "you don't make cappuccinos your first day."
Cappuccino are a little tricky: they are mostly foam, but no airy foam, very thick nearly liquid smooth heavy foam.
i think they are beautiful.
My next shift, I got to try to make one. It was a little heavy. So I decided practice trying to make beautiful foam. Hold the steamer so it just brushed the top of the milk making a cute little whisping sound; holding it so the steamer was against the bottom or side of my pitcher of milk making a more "grr-ing" bubbling noise. Pouring the milk into the latter (or caramel macchiato or mocha or...) and using a spoon to hold the foam back and
having the latte weigh like a wet cappuccino. Wet meaning a little heavier, a little more milk in the milk : foam ratio than typical because I has made such beautiful think foam that it poured around the spoon.
Trying to actually make a cappuccino yielded thick big like soap bubbles. Sigh.
I still do it, make the unintentional cappuccino if I dont really pay attention thick heavy foam when bubbling milk is called for.
It seems to me that there's an analogy here. Somehow I have fallen in love with cappuccino foam (and it always makes me think of Emily cause I know she loves foam. And usually if i drink a cappuccino it is after dinner with her) and it has become the automatic (or the fascinated consistent accident).
It makes me think of the other "defaults" in my life. I was thinking earlier about how completely I seem to have transitioned and reverted back in Georgetown in my post-El Salvador life. I work in a coffee shop, yer I don't know where our beans are grown. I don't know who harvests them and what they are paid. I knew people who left their homes for 3 months of the year to be part of the coffee harvesting and I don't think of them as I work.
One of the beautiful things about the Salvadorans is that the truly embrace life. They seem to not just "survive" but to enter life with a commitment. How can I then enter into survival mode?
Life lately has seemed like a test of endurance: work and work, pay rent for food cell phone the bus . see friends(don't be a hermit) talk and laugh and drink coffee (from beans I again do not know the origins) and ... Those friends times make m think of sophomore year. Seeing people, listening, supporting, maybe telling my story: these relationships give me life.
Working 40 hours a week is a different type of busy than anything else. Having so much time accounted for and no "work" to do when I am done. I am used to "15-18 hours of class week, lots of homework reading projects) now it is the other way around. and seeing people and listening is limited.
the connection with the cappuccino has been lost but I want to share one last thing with you: Archbishop Oscar Romero was shot saying mass 30 years ago, for being the voice (and the hear for) his people. He gave everything for his love for his people. Vive Romero. We love you look up to you and live in your memory. Vive Romero
24 March 2010
23 March 2010
UCA Martyrs
This is a reflection I gave last November on the 20th Anniversary of the UCA martyrs. The themes, thoughts ideas are ones I have been revisiting as we approach the 30th anniversary of the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero this March 24. Likely this week I will post some reflections on Romero, but I wanted first to share my starting place.
The Jesuit Martyrs and their Legacy for Jesuit Education: Personal Reflections
Christina Darr, Georgetown University
Segundo Montes. Ignacio Martin Baro. Juan Ramon Moreno. Amando Lopez. Joaquin Lopez y Lopez. Ignacio Ellacuria. Elba Ramos. Celina Ramos.
I did not know them, I was barely alive when they were murdered on November 16 of 1989, yet they have had a profound impact on me, through what I know of their lives and what I know of their people, the Salvadorans
Last semester, I had the opportunity to study in El Salvador through Santa Clara University’s program Casa de la Solidaridad, House of Solidarity. Through this program, I lived in community with 26 other US students in 3 houses. I attended classes 3 days a week at the UCA (University of Central America). 2 days a week I spent in a poor urban Salvadoran community with 2 other students in my program. Calle Real, communidad Dolores Medina is a community of 43 families who had been forced to relocate from the country side during the war. I spent my days there teaching English and getting to know the people. They are a people who have formed me, who I hold close to my heart. Through them, I know the martyrs.
Martyr comes from the Greek word for witness, and so from the witness of the UCA martyrs, from the witness of the Salvadoran people I learn how I want to live: to speak the truth, to love and care for the persecuted and the poor, to not be afraid, to risk everything for the integrity of who I am and what I believe to be true.
This is the purpose of a Jesuit education: to teach life, how to live, to educate the whole person, cura personalis, to be and to recognize that same being in the other, so that together we work for justice, recognizing our common humanity and the fact that we are all in this together.
I saw this in the martyrs, but it was the Salvadorans – the people I knew and lived with and worked with, ate with, talked with, and loved that taught me how to live this way.
On my first day in El Salvador, we visited Mariona, a community where three other students in my program would be spending their Mondays and Wednesday. Later, I noted:
In my philosophy class with Father Mark Ravizza, S.J., we began talking about the hope of the martyrs, picking it apart, trying to understand what it meant, this seemingly contradictory phrase that was being lived everywhere around us: these men were killed for speaking the truth, where is the hope in that? It could so easily be catalyst to despair that even these men, respected priests, could be killed.
I talked with one of the women in my community, Juana, and I asked her if she had ever lost hope, she told me:
This is a woman whose father and brother died during the war, who was forced to leave her home in the campo to seek safety from the war violence in the capitol. This is a woman who, despite her limited economic resources, has taken in and raised for the pasts seven years two children abandoned by their parents (I don’t have enough money for them, she told me, but I have enough love). There is a living martyrdom in the way she lives her life.
Her faith and hope, the faith and hope of the Salvadoran people, is not in a life that is easy, nor in a life in which there is no suffering. It is however a faith that believes that life is not about conforming to those “worst things;” it is a hope in a God who is present and will draw one onward; it is a faith that the journey of life, of continuing onward, is good and worthwhile even amidst bitter hardship
Scott Wright, a gringo who spent many years during the war in El Salvador with the war refugees, came to one of my classes and spoke to us. In his book, he writes of the Salvadoran people, saying that “They teach us a deeper sense of what it means to live –to be able to give up your life for others, to have this capacity and this love to give up your life in a struggle so that all people may have life “ This is what we see in the martyrs. This too is what I saw in the Salvadoran people.
In a church in Chaletenango, there are pictures of the Stations of the Cross painted on the walls. For each station there are two paintings: one of Christ and one of an image from the war. In walking the passion with Christ, in allowing themselves to share his suffering, and in sharing theirs with him, these people name their loss and suffering and pain, but also the hope of redemption, of new life amidst death.
There is hope in the human dignity recognized by the Jesuit martyrs– a recognition which led to their death. A common human dignity I found I share through the martyrs, through the Salvavdoran people like Juana and Oti. I learned, and am learning to let suffering and loss, joy and hope sit right next to each other, not mutually exclusive. In reflection I wrote,
What a gift it is to feel: to cry with tears welling up from deep within me, to laugh so hard I cry. There is a freedom in this feeling, as well as a feeling of danger and of risk, to feel so deeply. In Calle Real, I live in this freedom with this risk, walking with a community who knows both laughter and tears, yet have welcomed me, a newcomer, foreigner and stranger, as one of them—or if not one of them, someone already loved by them.
In the tears and in the laughter, and the freedom and acceptance to do both, a freedom given to me in a way by these Salvadorans, is the result of a learning through example: in the Salvadorans, in the martyrs, I see the courage to embrace the difficult, the painful, the horrible. The courage, as Oti did to share that pain, years later, and yet to not become trapped in despair, but rather from the sacrifices and from the ashes to still be able to appreciate the life in themselves, in their community and to continue hope. It is a courage drawn from the passion of Christ, a courage drawn from identification with the martyrs
This identification is very powerful. A Salvadoran said, “There’s no difference between Monsenor Romero and a neighbor because they’re all our martyrs and we are human beings.”
It is this identification that allows the martyrs to still be a source of hope today Jon Sobrino, a Jesuit from the UCA who was traveling at the times of the killings, warns : “…beware of the well-known mechanism of admiration in order to avoid imitation, or in religious language of ‘canonizing,’ ‘sanctifying’ in order to create distance.” If the martyrs are only looked upon us heroes, they are awe inspiring, but removed; they have little to do with how I live my life because one so small as myself couldn’t live the great life they chose.
So the Salvadorans tell stories about the martyrs: keeping them human, keeping them involved in their daily lives, being challenged to live in truth and integrity even in the face persecution. So the martyrs are a source of comfort on several levels: first that the these Jesuits would risk staying in el Salvador, risk speaking up for the persecuted poor knowing their lives are at risk—sending the message that you are worth it. Second, So the martyrs they are a present day challenge to live whole, holy, completely; to feel pain and joy, to be and to live as I believe.
Ellacuria says beautifully what it means for a university to live such a life: “If our university had not suffered we would not have performed our duty. In a world where injustice reigns, a university that fights for justice must necessarily be persecuted.”
So to the martyrs have something to say not just about how I live my life, but how we as a Jesuit university must conduct education: through engaging students beyond the classroom, through being engaged in the community in which we are situated, through living and educating in a way that fights for justice and so leads to persecution.
The Jesuit Martyrs and their Legacy for Jesuit Education: Personal Reflections
Christina Darr, Georgetown University
Segundo Montes. Ignacio Martin Baro. Juan Ramon Moreno. Amando Lopez. Joaquin Lopez y Lopez. Ignacio Ellacuria. Elba Ramos. Celina Ramos.
I did not know them, I was barely alive when they were murdered on November 16 of 1989, yet they have had a profound impact on me, through what I know of their lives and what I know of their people, the Salvadorans
Last semester, I had the opportunity to study in El Salvador through Santa Clara University’s program Casa de la Solidaridad, House of Solidarity. Through this program, I lived in community with 26 other US students in 3 houses. I attended classes 3 days a week at the UCA (University of Central America). 2 days a week I spent in a poor urban Salvadoran community with 2 other students in my program. Calle Real, communidad Dolores Medina is a community of 43 families who had been forced to relocate from the country side during the war. I spent my days there teaching English and getting to know the people. They are a people who have formed me, who I hold close to my heart. Through them, I know the martyrs.
Martyr comes from the Greek word for witness, and so from the witness of the UCA martyrs, from the witness of the Salvadoran people I learn how I want to live: to speak the truth, to love and care for the persecuted and the poor, to not be afraid, to risk everything for the integrity of who I am and what I believe to be true.
This is the purpose of a Jesuit education: to teach life, how to live, to educate the whole person, cura personalis, to be and to recognize that same being in the other, so that together we work for justice, recognizing our common humanity and the fact that we are all in this together.
I saw this in the martyrs, but it was the Salvadorans – the people I knew and lived with and worked with, ate with, talked with, and loved that taught me how to live this way.
On my first day in El Salvador, we visited Mariona, a community where three other students in my program would be spending their Mondays and Wednesday. Later, I noted:
On my very first day, I was struck with this unbelievable willingness to encounter suffering in order to witness to the life of a friend and in witnessing to this pain, Oti also witnessed to an unnamable hope.
In my philosophy class with Father Mark Ravizza, S.J., we began talking about the hope of the martyrs, picking it apart, trying to understand what it meant, this seemingly contradictory phrase that was being lived everywhere around us: these men were killed for speaking the truth, where is the hope in that? It could so easily be catalyst to despair that even these men, respected priests, could be killed.
I talked with one of the women in my community, Juana, and I asked her if she had ever lost hope, she told me:
My faith will never come to an end. My faith and hope go together because hope is quite important. I never say, “ No, through what has happened, difficult trials,” it is easy to think of the worst things, but then I would only conform to that. I have faith and when I say, “this I cannot endure,” I kneel and I pray to God that he would draw me forward and the Lord helps me and the Lord blesses me… Faith and hope are things that must be together throughout life. …It’s not only about living life in the way that is already known, because life is a university where one never stops learning.
This is a woman whose father and brother died during the war, who was forced to leave her home in the campo to seek safety from the war violence in the capitol. This is a woman who, despite her limited economic resources, has taken in and raised for the pasts seven years two children abandoned by their parents (I don’t have enough money for them, she told me, but I have enough love). There is a living martyrdom in the way she lives her life.
Her faith and hope, the faith and hope of the Salvadoran people, is not in a life that is easy, nor in a life in which there is no suffering. It is however a faith that believes that life is not about conforming to those “worst things;” it is a hope in a God who is present and will draw one onward; it is a faith that the journey of life, of continuing onward, is good and worthwhile even amidst bitter hardship
Scott Wright, a gringo who spent many years during the war in El Salvador with the war refugees, came to one of my classes and spoke to us. In his book, he writes of the Salvadoran people, saying that “They teach us a deeper sense of what it means to live –to be able to give up your life for others, to have this capacity and this love to give up your life in a struggle so that all people may have life “ This is what we see in the martyrs. This too is what I saw in the Salvadoran people.
In a church in Chaletenango, there are pictures of the Stations of the Cross painted on the walls. For each station there are two paintings: one of Christ and one of an image from the war. In walking the passion with Christ, in allowing themselves to share his suffering, and in sharing theirs with him, these people name their loss and suffering and pain, but also the hope of redemption, of new life amidst death.
There is hope in the human dignity recognized by the Jesuit martyrs– a recognition which led to their death. A common human dignity I found I share through the martyrs, through the Salvavdoran people like Juana and Oti. I learned, and am learning to let suffering and loss, joy and hope sit right next to each other, not mutually exclusive. In reflection I wrote,
I cry a lot here. Sob is really more like it. So hard that I have a headache even still the next day. I cry for the kids in my class -- for their hard situations… I cry for myself, as I am learning to deal with conflict, as I am learning to embrace myself. Some days I am more angry and hurt at myself for my imperfections, screw ups, letting others down than others. Some days I can love my self with all of those imperfections.
What a gift it is to feel: to cry with tears welling up from deep within me, to laugh so hard I cry. There is a freedom in this feeling, as well as a feeling of danger and of risk, to feel so deeply. In Calle Real, I live in this freedom with this risk, walking with a community who knows both laughter and tears, yet have welcomed me, a newcomer, foreigner and stranger, as one of them—or if not one of them, someone already loved by them.
In the tears and in the laughter, and the freedom and acceptance to do both, a freedom given to me in a way by these Salvadorans, is the result of a learning through example: in the Salvadorans, in the martyrs, I see the courage to embrace the difficult, the painful, the horrible. The courage, as Oti did to share that pain, years later, and yet to not become trapped in despair, but rather from the sacrifices and from the ashes to still be able to appreciate the life in themselves, in their community and to continue hope. It is a courage drawn from the passion of Christ, a courage drawn from identification with the martyrs
This identification is very powerful. A Salvadoran said, “There’s no difference between Monsenor Romero and a neighbor because they’re all our martyrs and we are human beings.”
It is this identification that allows the martyrs to still be a source of hope today Jon Sobrino, a Jesuit from the UCA who was traveling at the times of the killings, warns : “…beware of the well-known mechanism of admiration in order to avoid imitation, or in religious language of ‘canonizing,’ ‘sanctifying’ in order to create distance.” If the martyrs are only looked upon us heroes, they are awe inspiring, but removed; they have little to do with how I live my life because one so small as myself couldn’t live the great life they chose.
So the Salvadorans tell stories about the martyrs: keeping them human, keeping them involved in their daily lives, being challenged to live in truth and integrity even in the face persecution. So the martyrs are a source of comfort on several levels: first that the these Jesuits would risk staying in el Salvador, risk speaking up for the persecuted poor knowing their lives are at risk—sending the message that you are worth it. Second, So the martyrs they are a present day challenge to live whole, holy, completely; to feel pain and joy, to be and to live as I believe.
Ellacuria says beautifully what it means for a university to live such a life: “If our university had not suffered we would not have performed our duty. In a world where injustice reigns, a university that fights for justice must necessarily be persecuted.”
So to the martyrs have something to say not just about how I live my life, but how we as a Jesuit university must conduct education: through engaging students beyond the classroom, through being engaged in the community in which we are situated, through living and educating in a way that fights for justice and so leads to persecution.
11 March 2010
Little Friends for Peace
Dear Friends,
I wanted to let you know of an exciting thing Little Friends for Peace (the nonprofit I work for-- go here to read more about LFFP) is doing! Someone had recommended we check out GoodSearch -- it's a search engine (powered by yahoo) and every search sends a penny to a non profit. Following this lead, we were able to register and now when you search you can be helping us out. (you can also shop online through GoodShop)
Go to GoodSearch.com or you can download the GoodSearch & GoodShop Toolbar. The GoodSearch Toolbar works with your browser to ensure that your cause earns money every time you shop and search - even if you skip coming to GoodShop or GoodSearch first! Make sure you type in "Little Friend for Peace" as the nonprofit you want to support when you first set it up.
Consider using this and passing on the word! We need all the help we can get!
Thanks,
Christy
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