Ten Years

The summer before my senior year of college, I went down to Guatemala for three months. I chose Guatemala for several reasons, one of which is that a family friend lives there with his wife and daughters. I flew into Guatemala City, stayed overnight in a small hotel, and was driven out to the countryside to the American mission by one of their drivers. That makes it sound fancy, doesn't it? It wasn't. The driver was a member of the church who had business in the city anyway; it was three or four hours in his (mostly quiet) company, holding on for dear life as we bumped over two-lane asphalt highways and then small dirt roads, heading due west of the capital.

I was deposited mid-day at the parish, which consisted of a good-sized church (for that town), attached to living quarters for the priests and nuns, offices, a dining room and a kitchen for feeding all the American volunteers. I lugged my bag into the dining area where one of the priests explained that everyone would be gathering for lunch soon. After lunch, I was shown to the volunteers' living quarters, where I stayed for about two weeks, until my new friend Jessica and I arranged a homestay with a church family. A few days later, Sister June introduced me to another volunteer, Steve, and asked him to show me around the town. I think we walked all the way up the hill to the clinic and also around the cemetery at the far edge of town and everywhere in between. It was quite a thorough tour.

A few weeks in, I contacted our family friend, Paul. He's always looking for new things to do, and asked me lots of details about the different projects the mission has. After his own solo visit, he made arrangements for himself and his older daughter, then about 14, to come for a few days. While they were there, Lucia got a chance to work on some of the medical projects since she dreamt of becoming a doctor (and she has almost achieved her goal now, ten years later). Lucia also got to know me and some of the other volunteers, including Steve. She invited me to her Quinceanera, which was in July. She was careful to let me know I could bring a friend, and had a ready suggestion: Bring Steve, she said.

What could I do? It was the girl of honor's request. I very awkwardly asked him if he'd ever been to a Quinceanera (he had; he'd been living in Guatemala for maybe 9 months and is very kind and easy-going, and worked with kids; it stood to reason that he'd befriend many families and be invited to at least one or two) and mentioned that Lucia (and I) would like him to go to hers with me. He accepted graciously and we made our plans. Paul would come back to the town for a few more days of volunteer work and then take us back to the city with him for the big day.

A slight problem occurred when we realized we had nothing to wear. We had come down to Guatemala expecting to work hard and live simply, not go to fancy city parties! However, Lucia's mother was about my size and so we went through her closet together, and Steve ended up with one of Paul's suits, which hung on his slight frame. It felt like we were playing dress-up in our parents' closet, but it was fun. They also made a hair appointment for me. I couldn't believe that this family, who had so many details to prepare for their older daughter's big day, would go to so much trouble to make sure we were taken care of. They even helped arrange for me to go to synagogue and Steve gamely came with me, sparking the first of many conversations about religion.

The day of the party arrived and the Mass was beautiful. Lucia dedicated herself to the church with grace and there were tears in my eyes at hearing her conviction. We headed over to the reception afterwards, where she danced with Paul and other significant men in her life in a choreographed ritual that was new to me. Then the general dancing started.

I am not a big dancer, and Steve had a big job on his hands to get me to the dance floor. But once he got me there, it was enough of a different experience from American dances, and he was so carefree and fun, that I was actually having a good time! Though we hadn't talked much before this trip, we became fast friends. As a longer-term volunteer, he was friendly enough but understandably not overly interested in making friends with the shorter-term volunteers, so we hadn't really gotten to know each other except for a bookmobile trip down to rural Totolya to read and sing with the kids. Ten years later, I know him much better, thanks mostly to Lucia.

I think it's safe to say that Steve is addicted to living overseas. To my friends who only know him from stories, he has alternately been known as Guatemala Steve, East Timor Steve, Thailand Steve, and currently, Cambodia Steve. In the past ten years, he's been back in the U.S. maybe a grand total of two years, instead mostly doing ~4 year stints with Maryknoll Lay Missioners, and we usually have epic phone conversations while he's stateside. This summer we will have been friends for a decade and tomorrow (or today, where he is) is his birthday. Happy birthday to a great inspiration to me on how to live your values, simplify your life, and concentrate on what really matters. To many more birthdays, and many more years of friendship!

Meeting Becca

"Chrissy, is that you?"

I froze. It was not me. I was just minding my own business - really, nobody's business but mine, seeing as I was in a dorm shower stall my first week of college. But my eyes widened and I wondered who would be so bold as to address someone she couldn't see, who was also in a vulnerable position.

"No," I called over the steam and water, trying to sound casual, like someone addressed me over the shower stall every day.

There was a pause. Clearly this was not the answer she expected.

"Oh... who is it, then?"

This girl wanted to carry on a conversation with me! In the shower, no less! Crazy. But it was still early enough in my freshman year that I didn't know more than three people in the entire building: my randomly-assigned roommate and two friends from high school who roomed together three floors up. If this stranger in the next stall lived on my hall, it was an opportunity to meet someone. So to speak.

"Um, Amy?" I squeaked.

"I'm Becca, nice to meet you," she said cheerfully.

I finished rinsing, keeping my ears perked in case there was more to come from this Becca person, but there wasn't. I wrapped myself up in towel and bathrobe and squished in my shower shoes back down to my dorm room.

Not long after that, maybe a day or two later, not having new friends still weighed on my mind. I sat in my room, psyching myself up to go out and make some friends. I gave myself a little pep talk and instructed myself to open my door and walk around until I heard noise - any noise - and follow it until I found people, and then force myself to knock and give it a try. I'd never had trouble making friends before, so I wasn't sure why I was so nervous now, but I took a deep breath and stepped into the hallway. I started down the hall towards the bathroom and followed the sounds of laughter and talking, all the way to the end of the hallway. The last door on the left was open and I peeked in.

The first thing I saw was a guy I'd gone to high school with, who'd graduated two years ahead of me. (These are the small-world joys of going to college an hour away from home.) His hair was now pink and he smiled at me, which encouraged me. I thought he recognized me, but he could have just been his characteristically welcoming self. I took a tentative step inside.

The room was full of maybe a dozen new faces, and they all looked over welcomingly. It was as if the whole room stopped and said, "Hey, great, another new person! How fun!" They asked my name, and then all introduced themselves. About halfway around the room, a girl simply said, "I'm Becca." and the two of us started laughing. Everyone else exchanged bewildered but bemused glances and I knew I was in the right place. I relaxed as we told the story of how we'd met, and settled in on the bottom bunk bed next to Becca to get to know my new friends.

The Great Tornado of '90

Sitting here among the piles of snow that now cover Boston, I realize that I don't remember childhood snowstorms as well as I remember tornadoes. For one thing, nothing especially untoward has ever happened to me because of snow. However, tornadoes are indicated by a siren, and a downright terrifying one at that. Also I think that the effects of a blizzard are pretty well known and finite: you could lose power or water, not be able to get out of your house, starve or freeze to death, etc., whereas with a tornado, one never really knows what will happen. You might just end up in Oz for all you know. Pretty scary stuff.

Michigan, where I grew up, is at the tip of Tornado Land (not even sure it's officially in Tornado Alley, but it is susceptible) but is sheltered by the lakes and generally doesn't get many tornadoes. Therefore, the tornadoes we did get, maybe one every few years, made enough of an impression. There was one in particular that anyone living in the Detroit area in 1990 (I think - could have been '89) remembers well, particularly if they were in school at the time. I was in third grade and remember it clearly.

The first thing to know is that my elementary school had a lot of outside walls and most of that was windows. There were two parallel hallways of classrooms, with courtyards between almost every one. At least one wall of each classroom, and most of the hallways, were big plate-glass windows. The rooms in the middle of the school were back-to-back, with the bathrooms in between (and doors from both classrooms, its own special kind of terror!). In one such arrangement, at the end of the hallway, the girls' bathroom also had big plate-glass windows. So of course, that is where the third-grade girls were shuffled into when the tornado siren went off that day.

Your whole life in Tornado Land, you are told to stay away from windows! Yes, they often say the bathroom is the best place to be, but not when the bathroom has an enormous window in it. Even at 8 or 9 years old, I remember squeezing into that smelly bathroom with 20 of my peers and looking at that sheet of glass maybe 8 feet away from my face and thinking, This is really dumb. And then my friend Melissa started in.

Don't get me wrong, Melissa was a really nice girl. She was probably my best friend in third grade, until she moved away. I don't know what possessed her to do this, but after we'd been shut in by the teacher and left to our own devices (another brilliant plan, grown-ups), as the sky got that weird green tornado-y color and things were quiet and creepy, Melissa started listing off all the ways in which every person in that bathroom was vulnerable: The people by the window are going to die first because they're going to get crushed by the glass. The people by the toilet are going to get sucked down it. (This included me, and I have to say, I did not appreciate this assessment.) The people over there by the vent are going to get sucked in. And so on. It was terrifying even for those of us who hadn't seen The Wizard of Oz (or hadn't seen past the beginning).

This went on for what felt like eternity, until the tornado had passed (leaving us all unscathed, as with pretty much every tornado I remember) and the teachers came to get us. We all walked back to class pretty subdued. I have no idea if a similar situation played out in the boys' bathroom, but for their sake, I hope not!