my last la estación post

Part of me is really glad that the change in my work site came at Christmas break time. It meant that things felt like they had a closing, an end, that wasn't forced or awkward.

Miguel and me--the convivio more or less raging in the background

The Sunday after my birthday was the Christmas convivio at the community center. This is an event we had been busy planning since October. Mostly it's an opportunity for the community to get together in a more festive way than usual and share a meal, but the children who are sponsored by CFCA donors also get a gift and a bag of candy.

It was a very different experience to be in la estación on a weekend. Everyone seemed much more relaxed, and it was nice to have my friends seated at the table instead of running in and out, eating standing, and hurriedly rushing their kids off to school--although the ladies serving up tacos barely had a moment to breathe, I'm sure. I got to spend longer periods of time in casual conversation with my students. I received lots of hugs. I was especially glad that three of my friends, including two fellow YAGMs, Kate and Sam, got to spend this time with me and my community. One of my biggest fears about leaving my work site mid-year was the feeling that there wouldn't be anything to show for what I had done there. This is especially true because of the nature of my responsibilities; my main job in Mexico is to just be. I feel so blessed to have been a part of this community, and even more so to have Kate holding my hand as I walked away that evening, to have witnesses to the love and joy I experienced there.

Kate and Carlos kept everyone entertained.
Sam and I took pictures.

I can't say that working in la estación has been stress-free. I won't say that I don't feel a little relieved, even. Although I always felt safe and cared for, it wears on your confidence to be constantly told you're risking your life just by going to work (one of the more common coping mechanisms I have encountered in the face of rising drug violence is to repeat a mantra of distance: "this violence is something that happens to 'them' and not 'us'"). It has been difficult to know how much closer my loved ones are to kidnappings and murders, to wonder whose cousin or mother will be next.

My father has been good to remind me that my blessing is my curse, that what most equips me to serve here is also what makes the service so exhausting. I feel acutely the impacts of poverty. I follow the line of reason between inadequate schooling and drug-addicted 12-year-olds, and the path fills me with frustration. I absorb the fear and the sorrow that accompanies the deaths of people I do not know. I recognize and am ashamed of my own complicity in all of it. I am tired of feeling so much. But I also know that I cannot--I will not--forget these people who have met me on the street corner to share taquitos and gossip, who have repeated with determination the few phrases of English I was able to share in four short months, who have laughed with me, and cried with me, and reminded me that they are my own brothers and sisters.