My Year by the Numbers

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Accidental Electrocutions: 1
Average Cat-Calls/Day: 6
Average Hours Spent on Public Transportation/WorkDay: 1.7
Parasites: 3
Rounds of Antibiotics: 6
Rounds of Homeopathic Medicines: 4
Injections in the Buttocks: 4
Sprained Ankles: 3
Allergic Reactions: 6
Zombie Cockroaches: 2
Distinct Job Descriptions: 5
Work Sites: 3
Knit/Crochet Finished Objects: 13
Other Finished Craft Projects: 10
Books Read: 35
Worn-out Jeans: 5 pair
New Jeans Purchased: 3 pair
Worn-out Shoes: 5 pair
New Shoes Purchased: 3 pair
Money Spent on Clothing: less than $90USD
Languages Acquired: 1
Body Modifications: 0

I will remain restless, tense, and dissatisfied

Dear Lord, I will remain restless, tense, and dissatisfied until I can be totally at peace in your house. There is no certainty that my life will be any easier in the years ahead, or that my heart will be any calmer. But there is certainty that you are waiting for me and will welcome me home when I have preservered in my long journey to your house.
- Henri J.M. Nouwen

Adventure in Three Movements: Third Movement

The Newfoundland

Having experienced the Wonderland, it is impossible for us to ever truly return "home." We have been changed by the Wonderland, and our families and friends in the Homeland are always imperceptibly changing too. In returning from the Wonderland, then, we encounter the Newfoundland--our home as experienced anew through the lens of what we have lived in the Wonderland. This Newfoundland is where the missionary journey truly begins.

Whatever we accomplish in the Wonderland, we do so as outsiders, foreigners, "birds of passage." Assuming that we have been affected by the novelty, challenge, and depth of the Wonderland, we return as new or renewed people. Meanwhile, the events occurring in the Homeland--the changes taking place there--have been incremental and gradually assimilated by the community. Expecting, quite literally, to return "home," it can be deeply disturbing to discover that the Homeland does not feel like the same place we left. Returning to the Newfoundland can produce as much disjunction, surprise, discontinuity, and even pain as the entrance into the Wonderland may have produced. Yet, experiencing "home" as a Newfoundland can also be a profound gift. We can return renewed, reinvigorated, and actually relevant to the communities we had left behind. We can offer fresh perspective, a new witness to the gospel, and a deeper sensitivity to those around us.

Adventure in Three Movements: Second Movement

The Wonderland

The Wonderland is a world different from our own--it is someone else's Homeland. The rules of our homeland may not fully apply because different worlds are built on different systems of meaning. But because of our common humanity, we can expect to encounter commonalities even as we encounter differences. The challenge is to know how to interpret both the commonalities and the differences.

Adventure in Three Movements: First Movement

The Homeland

The Homeland is the place that formed identity, the place into which we sank our cultural roots. The Homeland taught us how to understand and interpret the world from a particular perspective. From the Homeland and its people, we learned how to "make sense" of a complex world.

Returning from Service

by Andrea Roske-Metcalfe

*The Two Gretels
by Robin Morgan

The two Gretels were exploring the forest.
Hansel was home,
sending up flares.

Sometimes one Gretel got afraid.
She said to the other Gretel,
“I think I’m afraid.”
“Of course we are,” Gretel replied.

Sometimes the other Gretel whispered,
with a shiver,
“You think we should turn back?”
To which her sister Gretel answered,
“We can’t. We forgot the breadcrumbs.”

So, they went forward
because
they simply couldn’t imagine the way back.

I discovered the poem by Robin Morgan at a coffee shop in Cuernavaca, Mexico, where I live and serve as an ELCA missionary. I was sitting with a good friend, flipping through Cries of the Spirit, a book of poetry. When I came across the “The Two Gretels,” I almost fell out of my chair.
“This is it,” I said to my friend. “This is what it’s like to go home.”

There's no place like home?
The notion of returning home from international mission service is a paradox. Although missionaries may return to the same physical locations from which they left, they have been so changed by their experiences that they can’t help but see everything through new eyes. This phenomenon is compounded by friends and family who often operate like Hansel by “sending up flares,” expecting them to find their way back to the very same place from which they set out. Often times, neither the returning missionary nor their friends or family recognize that this place no longer exists. This disconnect between Hansel and Gretel, between missionaries and the communities that sent them, makes any attempt to return home precarious, at best.

Gretel moves to a castle
My name is Andrea, and in returning from Global Mission service I became one of the two Gretels. My first returning experience came at age 15 when I spent a week of service in Juarez, Mexico. I helped build a one-room house for a family of five. The day after I got back to Minnesota, my own family of five moved into a much larger house than the one where I grew up. For the first time, I had my own bedroom and it had more square footage than the house we had just finished building in Juarez. My new home felt like an extravagant castle. I cried myself to sleep out of frustration and guilt. I didn’t know how to talk to my parents about my feelings without seeming ungrateful.

Gretel meets Super Target
Several years later I returned again, this time from a summer with Youth Encounter, in Tanzania. Once home, I accompanied my mom on errands to a Super Target store, an expanded version of the typical store chain. When we were ready to pay, I noticed that only two of the 32 registers were open. I had been back for several months already, but my mind began reeling. I was trying to calculate how much one register must cost, and how many bags of rice that would purchase, when my field of vision started going dark. I handed my purchases to my mom, stumbled out of the store, and promptly threw up in the garbage can.

Returning from Global Mission service is to become one of the two Gretels—it is to find yourself without breadcrumbs, without a map, without a GPS system for finding your way back to the place you call home. It is to find yourself in the midst of a reverse culture shock, which hits without warning in the unlikeliest of times and places. It leads you to wonder if you ever really knew your dearest friends. It makes you feel lost in your own community.

Gretel returns to herself
But returning from Global Mission service is also to become the other one of the two Gretels—it is to return home by going forward, because you simply can’t imagine the way back. It is to understand your own culture in new ways, through different lenses. It is to discern more fully who you are as a child of God, and to discover new ways of living faithfully and authentically in the world. It is to re-discover kindred spirits who were there all along.

I’m relieved to say that every time I’m faced with the paradox of returning home from an intense, inter-cultural experience, it gets a little easier. I don’t expect home to be the same, and my friends and family have stopped sending up flares. I no longer expect to return unchanged, and my friends and family no longer expect to remain unchanged themselves.

And this, perhaps, is the key: just as reverse culture shock affects the returning missionary and everyone around them, so does Global Mission service itself. The Holy Spirit blows in and through these experiences and relationships, changing everyone involved, but only if we let her in; only if we expect to be changed.

As the community of God’s people, we can’t go looking for breadcrumbs, and we can’t keep sending up flares. All we can do is go forward, because we simply can’t imagine the way back.


* Copyright 1974 by Robin Morgan in her poetry collection Lady of the Beasts (Random House).

The Cost

Part 1:
My friend Erika is one of the most amazing people I know. Her four kids are full of energy, enthusiasm, and snark. She manages them with so much calm, so much cariño. She works ungodly hours to be able to provide for them. She can scrape together the most delicious meals on a very tight budget--a little of this, a little of that. She speaks with me honestly about the violence in her neighborhood, and I feel trusted and respected and at home, but I have trouble believing in her fear; she seems fearless. She is a five-foot-two Amazon. She worries that I will have to spend important holidays alone, and tells me she's not sure what they'll be able to eat that day, but if I'm lonely I should come over and at the very least we'll dance until we collapse with exhaustion. She always remembers that I'm allergic to hot dogs, and that I don't like soda. She makes my favorite sweetened pumpkin dessert when she knows I'm coming for lunch.
When they first arrived in la estación, their house was made of cardboard and scrap tin and billboard plastic. She and her husband put up concrete blocks one wall at a time. He made all of their furniture by hand. They have just one room, one bed, for all six of them, and their four kids are growing like weeds.

Part 2:
I never understood floods--maybe because I've never seen it. I remember conversations my parents had about flood planes and homeowners insurance when we moved to South Carolina, and feeling baffled. I remember a vague terror over hearing about floods on the news, but it was a terror I reflected from my parents--it was not mine. "It was just water," I once said to my father. "What's the big deal?" The whole worry seemed silly and over-blown and far-away.

Part 3:
Erika's house sits at the bottom of the only hill in la estación. They tell me they've always had a little trouble when the rainy season hits, but that most of the water has been able to flow into the barranca, or ravine, without much drama. This year, people started throwing their trash behind their house because the other dump sites have gotten too full.
Last week, their house filled up with a meter of water, which churned around and around in their living room/kitchen/bedroom for a while before the rain died down and it was able to drain out. When the water left, it took with it almost a foot of the packed dirt that had formed their floor, the kids' school uniforms and good shoes, their school books. It ruined their simple but beautiful wood furniture, their stove, their mattress. It was just water.

This is the cost of being poor. Because land titles aren't being recognized in this community, the government refuses to help the community figure out appropriate solutions for waste management or drainage (despite all the promises during campaign season). My friends can't afford better land. They can't afford to build their house in such a way that it won't flood. They can't afford to protect their few belongings, and they can't afford, now, to replace them all. It was just water.

When I stopped by unannounced on Tuesday, Erika was at work. Her husband was mixing sandy concrete to try to put down a new floor. A few muddy books were hanging on the clothes line. Some of the kids' toys were sticking haphazardly out of a pile of dirt that had been shoveled off into the corner to clear the floor. The kids hugged me fiercely, brought me a chair, offered me the last dregs of a two-liter Coke. They dragged their puppies out from the corners in which they were hiding to show me how big they've grown. Their father mixed concrete. I had nothing to say. Nothing to offer. It was just water.

10 Suggestions for Helping your YAGM Return Home

10 Suggestions for Helping your Young Adult in Global Mission (YAGM) Return Home
by Andrea Roske-Metcalfe

1. Don’t ask the question, “So how was it?” Your YAGM cannot function in one-word answers right now, especially ones intended to sum up their entire year’s experience, and being asked to do so may cause them to start laughing or crying uncontrollably. Ask more specific questions, like “Who was your closest friend?” or “What did you do in your free time?” or “What was the food like?” or “Tell me about your typical day.”

2. If you wish to spend time with your YAGM, let them take the lead on where to go and what to do. Recognize that seemingly mundane rituals, like grocery shopping or going to the movies, may be extremely difficult for someone who has just spent a year living without a wide array of material goods. One former YAGM, for example, faced with the daunting task of choosing a tube of toothpaste from the 70-odd kinds available, simply threw up in the middle of the drugstore.

3. Expect some feelings of jealousy and resentment, especially if your YAGM lived with a host family. Relationships that form during periods of uncertainty and vulnerability (the first few months in a foreign country, for example) form quickly and deeply. The fact that your YAGM talks non-stop about their friends and family from their country of service doesn’t mean that they don’t love you, too. It simply means that they’re mourning the loss (at least in part) of the deep, meaningful, important relationships that helped them to survive and to thrive during this last year. In this regard, treat them as you would anyone else mourning a loss.

4. You may be horrified by the way your YAGM dresses; both because their clothes are old and raggedy and because they insist on wearing the same outfit three days in a row. Upon encountering their closet at home, returning YAGMs tend to experience two different emotions: (1) jubilation at the fact that they can stop rotating the same 2 pairs of jeans and 4 shirts, and (2) dismay at the amount of clothing they own, and yet clearly lived without for an entire year. Some YAGMs may deal with this by giving away entire car loads of clothing and other items to people in need. Do not “save them from themselves” by offering to drive the items to the donation center, only to hide them away in your garage. Let your YAGM do what they need to do. Once they realize, after the fact, that you do indeed need more than 2 pairs of jeans and 4 shirts to function in professional American society, offer to take them shopping. Start with the Goodwill and the Salvation Army; your YAGM may never be able to handle Macys again.

5. Asking to see photos of your YAGM’s year in service is highly recommended, providing you have an entire day off from work. Multiply the number of photos you take during a week’s vacation, multiply that by 52, and you understand the predicament. If you have an entire day, fine. If not, take a cue from number 1 above, and ask to see specific things, like photos of your YAGM’s host family, or photos from holiday celebrations. Better yet, set up a number of “photo dates,” and delve into a different section each time. Given the high percentage of people whose eyes glaze over after the first page of someone else’s photos, and the frustration that can cause for someone bursting with stories to tell, this would be an incredible gift.

6. At least half the things that come out of your YAGM’s mouth for the first few months will begin with, “In Mexico/Slovakia/South Africa/etc…” This will undoubtedly begin to annoy the crap out of you after the first few weeks. Actually saying so, however, will prove far less effective than listening and asking interested questions. Besides, you can bet that someone else will let slip exactly what you’re thinking, letting you off the hook.

7. That said, speak up when you need to! Returning YAGMs commonly assume that almost nothing has changed in your lives since they left. (This happens, in part, because you let them, figuring that their experiences are so much more exciting than yours, and therefore not sharing your own.) Be assertive enough to create the space to share what has happened in your life during the last year.

8. Recognize that living in a very simple environment with very few material belongings changes people. Don’t take it personally if your YAGM seems horrified by certain aspects of the way you live – that you shower every day, for example, or that you buy a new radio instead of duct-taping the broken one back together. Recognize that there probably are certain things you could or should change (you don’t really need to leave the water running while you brush your teeth, do you?), but also that adjusting to what may now feel incredibly extravagant will simply take awhile. Most YAGMs make permanent changes toward a simpler lifestyle. Recognize this as a good thing.

9. Perhaps you had hopes, dreams, and aspirations for your YAGM that were interrupted by their year of service. If so, you may as well throw them out the window. A large percentage of returning YAGMs make significant changes to their long-term goals and plans. Some of them have spent a year doing something they never thought they’d enjoy, only to find themselves drawn to it as a career. Others have spent a year doing exactly what they envisioned doing for the rest of their lives, only to find that they hate it. Regardless of the direction your YAGM takes when they return…rejoice! This year hasn’t changed who they are; it has simply made them better at discerning God’s call on their lives. (Note: Some YAGMs spend their year of service teaching English, some are involved in human rights advocacy, others work with the elderly or disabled, and at least one spent his year teaching British youth to shoot with bows and arrows. The results of this phenomenon, therefore, can vary widely.)

10. Go easy on yourself, and go easy on your YAGM. Understand that reverse culture shock is not an exact science, and manifests itself differently in each person. Expect good days and bad days. Don’t be afraid to ask for help if necessary. Pray. Laugh. Cry. This too shall pass, and in the end, you’ll both be the richer for it.

Identity

Maybe part of the problem is that I've sort of been forgetting that I'm not a poor Mexican. I joked at the start of this year that I've changed my name so many times because I'm still trying to figure out who I am, and trying on a new name helps me feel like I can start over. "I wonder who Carolina will be," I mused. That was back when I thought people might use my full name (chosen, in part, by a liguistic goof-up), before I was called Caro to my unending confusion, and before I started waging the still-undecided battle for Lina.
Whatever you call her, it's not an easy answer. In some ways, Carolina is a girl whose friends live in the "worst" parts of Cuernavaca, whose mamá makes her hot chocolate and tamales when she's sad, who walks to work to save the five pesos and fifty cents it costs to take the bus, who listens to Jarabe de Palo and Reik.
But she's also just one part of Miriam Kathleen, a young woman who has a college degree and reads for pleasure, who speaks three languages, who has had frequent opportunities for international travel, and who can get a couple thousand pesos out of the ATM whenever she feels like it. The same person who was once Katie and then Miriam and then Kat and sometimes Katja. I forget that although people frequently compliment how well I speak Spanish, I still have a foreign accent and limited vocabulary. I forget that although Licha calls me m'hija ("my daughter"), I'm still blond and a foot taller than the rest of my family.
It's easier yet to forget that all of those are me, that I don't get to suddenly become someone else because my name has changed and I operate in a new language. That I don't get to stop being privileged because I have chosen one year of simple living and accompaniment with the poor.

But I wonder, is this not true for all of us? Who is you're forgetting that you are?

Newsletter

My April/May newsletter is now available here.

A La Marcha

I wrote in my March newsletter about going to hear Javier Sicilia speak as a part of a march for an end to drug-related violence in Cuernavaca. This month, another march was organized, this time from Cuernavaca all the way to the city square of the nation's capital--the zocalo surrounded by government buildings and the national cathedral.

An effigy of President Calderón hangs beneath a sign that reads "imperialism's puppet,"
with protesters and the cathedral in the background.

While demonstrations in Mexico City on May 8 attacked a variety of issues (most of them anti-Calderón in one way or another), the largest faction was the "No Más Sangre" group led by Sicilia. The complaints against the government are complicated and controversial, but the crux of their argument boils down to this: in Calderón's attempt to legitimize his presidency, he has declared an unmanageable and un-winnable war against the drug cartels, but this war's toll has proven too great--we either need a dramatic change of policy, or a all-out change of leadership.
Many question whether Calderón's actions influence the rising death toll of the drug war at all, or if his political posturing just makes him an easy scapegoat. From The Esteyonage:

I went by [the march] for a bit, and just couldn't help but thinking what the hell cartel bosses around the country were thinking watching this all play out on TV. I kept thinking about a friend's cynical perspective that they would see this as a joke. That the government - who most appealed to - can't fix the real problems.
Despite all the positive energy, and thousands of people, I couldn't shake that somber thought.

And The Globe and Mail:

But when he in turn condemns the Calderon administration, declaring, “Your struggle for power has torn apart the fabric of the nation,” Mr. Sicilia steps outside of reason.
His son was not murdered by the state, but by criminal gangs. Contrary to what the poet says, the death can only “be blamed on our failing institutions” insofar as those institutions have been unable to vanquish the murderous cartels, not because they have had the courage to try.

There's an important question here: to what extent does any president have the full control of his country? What's more, this political climate has an eerie echo: a dubious election, a divisive president, an unpopular war against an invisible enemy. And in Calderón's responses, I see the same cocky cowboy tenuously defending the pursuit of justice, rooting for courage in the face of terrorism. Maybe I'm getting too caught up in the excitement of being on the ground in the midst of a populist movement, but I couldn't help but see the urgency in people's faces as they listened to Sicilia speak on that blistering Sunday. I, too, worry that these demonstrations are pointless, but I can't help but hope that where our passions failed to unify us in the States, Mexico might find a different outcome. I won't stop hoping that although there are no easy fixes in wars against Drugs or Terrorism, saying "We don't know the answer, but we do know this isn't it," might be enough for the moment.

Two marchers, whose signs put a twist on the popular slogan, "No More Blood."
These read "Yes, More Love."

Christ is Risen

Growing up a PK (pastor's kid), I felt keenly aware of what was going on in the life of the church. But I never paid much attention to the liturgical calendar, other than to know when the next big party was coming up. My interest in it diminished even further when I started practicing Quakerism, and trying to think of each day as equally holy. But here in Mexico, I've found the seasons of the church a helpful tool for keeping in contact with the people I left at home. I've discovered new ways of processing my experiences through the lens of each season.

That doesn’t mean that I’ve found it easy to live in the spirit of each one. Back in December, I wrote  about my relative success in realizing Advent, but Lent felt pretty strange. But it is the season of Easter that really has me scratching my head. For one thing, I had never even really thought about the fact that there is a season for Easter. My focus as a child was on how much candy I would get, and what color my pretty new dress would be. As an adolescent, I greatly enjoyed being a part of our youth group’s Eggstravaganza, an egg-hunt carnival we organized for younger kids in the congregation. But Easter really only boiled down to one day. One event. One moment.

Secondly, I missed out on all the prep work. I went to Chiapas for Holy Week. Every state and city in Mexico boasts that they have the “best” Holy Week traditions, and since we wanted to see Chiapas anyway, Anneli and I decided to see what they had to offer. Particularly spectacular, I was told, are the Good Friday services in San Cristóbal de las Casas, where they do a live reenactment of the crucifixion. Long story short, we missed that service, and only barely got a glimpse of the silent procession that happened that night, with people dressed up as something resembling both a priest and an executioner carrying the “corpse” (in this case, a life-size doll) of Jesus through town. It was an uncomfortable experience to be having without our host families to explain things to us. We lacked the confidence to go to Easter mass. We worried that we wouldn’t find the kind of trumpets-blaring, hallelujah-singing excitement we missed from back home. We worried we wouldn’t be able to follow the order of the service, and we’d had our fill of being tourists. So we skipped it. We spent Easter morning eating bagels on a bus through mountain passes, looking at hillsides green with banana leaves and corn stalks. Hallelujah, I thought.

And so now it is Eastertide. The time when we celebrate victory over death. Did you catch that? Victory over death. Why, then, have images like these been so common?

I'm not in the States currently. I don't know how people are responding to this news outside of Cuernavaca. But news outlets of various political leanings make this look like the biggest celebration that's taken place in our country in a long time--the first I can remember that crosses party lines. But I, for one, cannot ignore that the headlines here read "Osama is dead," and not "Christ is risen." From a military standpoint, I understand that this is a victory. But it's a battle that was won, not a war. Bin Laden's death doesn't get us out of Afghanistan. To the contrary, the questionable method of disposing of his body will likely fan the flames of anger and distrust that started this whole mess in the first place. To me, that doesn't sound so much like victory. It doesn't sound like trumpets and hallelujahs.

Never mind how difficult it is to hope that we are freed from death in the face of the massive violence in Mexico--and I don't have the courage to link to some of the images of that war. If, however, I am to find comfort in the risen Christ, I cannot celebrate anyone's death, no matter how horrible their actions. I refuse to believe that this death comforts the souls of those who died as a result of Al Qaeda's attacks. Indeed, I am reminded of the German phrase for the season: Jesus bringt leben. Jesus brings life. This Easter is not the season of one man's resurrection, but the celebration of the life we have all been given, through grace, through the mere goodness of God. May we all remember that gift of goodness, and strive to live in a way that is worthy of it.

All photos found via google. Credits here, here, and here.

Headed South

I'm sorry I haven't been writing very much lately. Some of you already know that my Granna has gotten quite sick in the last few weeks, and it's been difficult for me to manage my time well between work, calling home, and taking a moment for a deep breath alone.
This morning I'm headed off to the southern state of Chiapas for my spring break trip. I'll be spending two weeks visiting ruins, learning about traditional medicine, and breathing mountain air with Anneli. I'm excited for the trip, although it comes at a difficult time. I'll have lots of stories and pictures when I get back, I'm sure.
Speaking of pictures, I posted a lot of new ones over at my flickr this week, especially of Ari's quince in San Luis Potosi. If you've got a moment to head on over there, I encourage you to. This blog gets a good amount of traffic, but my pictures feel a little lonely.

I also wanted to link to the English version of Javier Sicilia's open letter to the Mexican government and drug cartels. I referenced these events in my last newsletter, but the letter is so much more poignant than anything I could ever say. I hope you'll take a few minutes to read it. Here's just one paragraph...

There is no life, Albert Camus wrote, without persuasion and without peace, and the history of Mexico today only knows intimidation, suffering, distrust and the fear that one day another son or daughter of another family will be debased and massacred. You only know what you are ask us, that death, as is already happening today, becomes an affair of statistics and administration and which we should all get used to it.

Be well, and Happy Easter, if I don't "talk" with you before then.

Newsletter

My March newsletter is now posted here.

The boy smelled of salt,
and was silent.
Even when he talked,
he didn't make any noise at all.

He just looked at me
as if he suspected me
of something he hadn't yet learned
how to fear.

Earlier, I picked up a
black plastic comb
and put it in my back pocket.
All he owns is in a thin plastic bag at my feet.

I ask if he will try again, and
his honey eyes turn to dirty spoons.
He is young, but handsome.
The coffee tastes like it has whiskey in it.

Maybe he left a girlfriend at home.
Maybe she is walking with him,
breathing his prayers for luck and for water,
or she makes him wish he could turn back.

His nails are black,
caked under with dirt,
bitten ragged.
My eyes are full of desert sand.

Ceviche de Soya

Welcome to lent: No-Meat Meals! I'm really excited about this, since I'm kind of tired of explaining that no, I'm not a vegetarian, and no, my church doesn't teach us not to eat meat, and no, I'm not allergic. I just don't like meat.
Regardless of your lenten habits or culinary preferences, I hope you'll enjoy this recipe. I personally don't like the fish version because the texture bothers me, but it's the more popular version, and is served in Mexico year round. Also, I'm feeling lazy about conversions, so good luck with that?

Soy Ceviche
serves 30
Ingredients:

• 1 kilo dried soy meat subsitute
• 8 laurel leaves
• 2 onions
• 1 kilo tomato
• 1 Tbsp dried oregano
• 2 bunches fresh cilantro
• 1/4 kilo limes
• 1 kilo ketchup
• 700mL orange juice
• 1/2 L orange soda
• 4 medium avocados
• 1/2 cup salsa Valentina OR diced green chiles to taste
• salt

Directions:

1. Place soy in with 1 slice onion, laurel leaves, and 2 Tbsp salt; cover with water and heat to rehydrate
2. Dice tomatoes, cilantro, and remaining onion
3. Juice limes and strain to remove seeds and pulp
4. Place tomatoes, cilantro, onion, oregano, lime juice, and 3Tbsp salt in pot and mix well
5. Drain the water from soy, remove laurel leaves; add to tomato mixture
   
6. Add ketchup, orange juice, orange soda, and salsa/chiles
7. Add avocados last, just before serving
8. Serve cold

To make the fish version:

• Substitute fish (like cod or talapia) for soy
• Increase lime juice to 1L
• Dice raw fish filets, and let sit in lime juice for 30-45 minutes before adding to tomato mixture as above

Sustainable Systems, pt. 3

"The way we eat determines, to a large extent, the way the world is used." -Wendell Berry-

Food in the States is cheap. That's partly due to those subsidies I talked about, but it's also because an estimated 80% of the agricultural workers are undocumented. They're underpaid and overworked at difficult and dangerous jobs. They're doing jobs that most of us don't want to do. If you balk at that claim, maybe you haven't heard about the United Farm Workers campaign to put good, hard-working Americans in those jobs instead of undocumented migrants. They have an easy sign-up form for you to become a farm worker on their website, TakeOurJobs.org, but very few people have taken the challenge.
I'm not saying that undocumented entry to the States is excusable. I am saying that if we want to change the systems that push people to cross the border without papers, we need to look deeper at our own national economic policies. We need to look at the people who do make the decision to cross, and see them as human beings whose lives extend beyond the five minutes it took them to climb the border fence or the two weeks they wandered in the desert. We need to look closer at our household purchases, too. Sounds overwhelming, doesn't it? I promise, it's not so bad. The first two of these issues warrant further conversation, but here are a few suggestions for what you can do at home:

• Cook fresh food instead of packaged. Processed food has a lot of preservatives, extra salt, and fillers that just aren't healthy. Prepare your own meals and make sure you like everything you're eating.
• Think of buying well, not cheap. One of the simplest ways we can vote on a daily basis is by changing our buying habits. We might not be able to vote Dole out of business, but we can certainly tell them that we'd rather have cleaner, safer food, and better working conditions for the people who grow it. Buying locally and organically is an investment in your health and global economic justice.
• Do you know where your food comes from? One of the non-migration effects of big-business agriculture is the breakdown of personal connections with our food. To me, it makes me wonder what I'm really eating. Local Harvest has a great tool for finding farmers markets and CSAs near you.
• Organic farms don't use chemicals. Even when you wash your produce, some of the chemicals used in food production are actually inside the cells of the food. Some of those chemicals are perfectly safe, some of them not, and some of them... well, we just don't know yet. I don't know about you, but I'd rather spend 20cents more on green beans that are just plain ole green beans. Even if you don't have access to a farmer's market, fresh, canned, and frozen produce are increasingly available at your everyday grocery store.
• Grow your own food! Not all of us have the space for a full garden, or the energy to manage one, but tomatoes can be grown on your front porch without much fuss. Herbs on your window sill. Lettuces need a little more space, but they're also really easy. 
• Sign the AgJobs Pledge, indicating your support of a bipartisan piece of legislation to improve working conditions for farm workers.

Additional reading, in case you're interested:
Food Politics Blog
Civil Eats
ObamaFoodORama

Thanks to Susana at BorderLinks for these statistics and action steps, and for the work she does with the Sustainable Foods project there.

Sustainable Systems, pt. 2

Meanwhile, in Mexico, a significant portion of the population is still growing corn. Did you know that Mexico has the world's largest genetic diversity of corn? Yep--not all corn is white and yellow, and a good deal of it is native to Mexico. Farms here continue to be small, where people do their best to keep their families fed, and hope to sell or trade the little extra they can produce to cover the rest. In fact, in some parts of Mexico, tortilla--not even all corn products, but just tortillas--continue to make up 70% of people's daily nutritional intake in 2011.

Sustainable Systems, pt. 1

I want to talk a little bit about corn. Corn, as an example, illustrates pretty perfectly the economic relationship between the United States of America and Mexico. It's kind of a long story, though, so I'm going to breaking this up over the next few days. Here we go.

Grace

I don't remember where I learned my favorite prayer, but I associate it strongly with the Quaker community in Columbia, SC. The idea is this: What does grace mean to you today? Before this year, I mostly used this prayer as a pre-meal blessing. Lately, I like to use it as a way to reflect on my experiences. It's interesting to me what unexpected answers I have to this simple question.
One of my more frequent answers lately has been a name: Vero.
When I first arrived at my work site in 10 de Abril, I offered to "help" her in the kitchen to fill in the gap left by an employee on maternity leave. I'm not much help, I'm afraid. I frequently spill things. I dice things I'm supposed to cut into strips. I put potatoes instead of peas in the rice. I'm a mess. I surprise myself every day with the new ways I invent to wreck breakfast.
Vero's response is invariably, "Esta bien." No problem. Don't worry.  Even when the mistake can't be corrected, Vero doesn't seem to be bothered. She moves through the small, hot kitchen with grace, quickly finding solutions and moving on with the morning. She is consistently the human embodiment of the forgiveness that I need, but don't know how to ask for. She is my grace.