I have been very blessed in my life to never lose someone I am close to. I'm not afraid of dying myself - much to the frustration of my family - but I am terrified of losing someone I love. This weekend, my heart broke to pieces watching my favorite family grieve the loss of someone. On Sunday, there was a gang shootout that sent 6 boys to the hospital, and killed one. Giovani, the young 24 year old man who died, was the nephew of my house mom, Angela. I can't even begin to express the love I have for Angela and her family. Angela's 19 year old son Danny has taken it upon himself to be my protector. Her sister Meri is the best part of my every morning - she's a sassy, leapoard print wearing lady who greets me with sarcasm and laughter every day. Meri's daughter Sara calls me her big sister, and we stay up at night talking fashion and boys (even though I'm terrible with both). And Meri's 7 year-old grandson Steven has completely stolen my heart, my hermanito lindo. We spend every evening together, laughing and playing. He's always waiting for me in the street, he runs and tackles me and smothers me with kisses. It was his older brother who died.
This whole week has been devestatingly hard. It began of course, with the horrifying shooting. It happened in the middle of the day, with poor innocent kiddos playing in the street, bearing witness to a violence that their sweet minds should never see. I was not in town that day, but I have been told the stories. I won't retell them to you here, because I've found they just cause you out there (whoever you are) to worry about me. But the story of that day is something from a movie full of sangre and sadness. Little Steven was inside the house and heard everything. He told me he made a cup of sugar water for himself and hid in the corner to stay calm. The heartbreak of this week is real for everyone - but I feel it most through Steven. His childhood innocence and care free spirit has been stolen from him - I've seen the change in his eyes.
I spent all week mourning with the family. It's a tradition here to have the coffin in the house for a Velorio - a wake - for two full days. Nobody sleeps. It's two full days of praying and crying and singing and sharing coffee and stories. It's impossible to describe the depth of emotion that ebbed and flowed throughout my body and that house in those two days. I would leave for moments, to shower, finish some work, or check on my 2 new volunteers. When I came back, I always found Steven standing in a corner by himself crying and terrified.
One of the things about Latin American culture I've found, is that emotions are strong and loud. It's not the conservative, keep what your feeling to yourself kind of expressive life style that I'm accustomed to. Emotion here is loud and in your face and real. I find this to be beautiful and freeing and also scary. Steven's mom and sister and Grandma were often crying with a crazed intensity, and using him to cry on. He's the only boy left in that family, and he wavered between trying to be strong for them, and falling apart himself. I found lots of opportunities to snag him and hold him, to let him cry into my shoulder. He and I talked about his brother, we drew him pictures, we watched Care Bears and made up stories about his uncle and him having magical powers and we found opportunities to escape the sadness. Monday night of the wake however, was one of the most terrifying nights I've ever had.
At 11 pm when everyone was recharging with coffee and telling stories of Giovani, a call came from the hospital that Angela's other nephew (15 years-old) had just passed. The kid's dad lost it, and was out in the street screaming and yelling. A fight broke out, then he ran to the house of the parents of the boy who killed his son and was banging on the door and telling them to come out in the street so he could kill them. Everyone was out in the street crying and screaming (out of anger or sadness) and trying to get him to calm down. I ran outside and scooped Steven up and brought him back inside his house. It was only he and I left inside, but the screaming and threats and sounds of the dad beating the door were so loud it echoed in our chests. Steven's body was shaking with terror, and I just hugged him and told him stories and sang to drown out the terrifying scene outside. Once Steven calmed down, he wanted to show me his brother. He opened the coffin and showed me Giovanni - the first dead person I've ever seen. It is so crazy to know someone, see their live and vibrant face, and then see them in a coffin. It felt like he wasn't really gone, how could he be? He had just been alive the day before. Steven put my hand on his heart and told me "He's with me forever now. Here, in my heart." I put Steven to bed that night with worry dolls to catch his bad dreams, my "magical" blankie to keep him safe, and I found myself singing him to sleep with Adel Vice - the song my mom used to sing me.
The sadness of the the week continued with the burial for Giovani, and the wake and funeral for Alexander - Angela's other nephew. I cannot begin to express the feeling of sadness deep in my chest at so many different moments this week - Meri's painful cries as she threw herself ontop of her son's coffin, the reverberating sound of 100 people's loud and passionate praying all at once, Angela gripping me and breaking down as she re-lived the death of her daughter (who was shot by the gang 5 years ago), seeing Steven's beautiful eyes full of tears he should never have to know.
When I sat in that room alone with Steven and Giovani, I understood the urge to feel my emotions like my Guatemalan family around me. I felt the urge to cry and scream and hit the wall. I felt the ache in my arms to rage at the injustices of gang violence and poverty. I was so angry that this beautiful community, these luchador women and these sweet children live with this every day. When I looked at Giovani, I told him his family deserves better than this. And instead of this tough week making me want to run away from here, I got the fire in my belly to stay. I can't fight the gangs. I can't change the fact that this is the reality of life here. But I can love these kids with my whole heart, and do my best to give them a safe space in my arms and at school to learn, and share and be kids. I believe with my whole being in the word "Esperanza - Hope." I remember feeling a buzz whisper from the universe when I found out La Esperanza was the name of my community. It's what I'm holding onto now, and what I will stay just a little longer to fight for.
Here's me and Steven, a week before all of this happened.
