Exposure, Part I

Growing up among the cows and corn fields of northern Wisconsin (ok, maybe not among  them, but in their general vicinity), I was exposed to plenty of things.  Things like eating grass fed beef and free range chickens/eggs without those fancy titles, watching the life cycle of all kinds of animals, understanding exactly how milk came from cows and feathers were plucked from chickens, and driving on icy country roads from a young age.  My parents outstanding reputation as the honest and hardworking chiropractors in our small town kept me well-fed and happy, and very sheltered from many realities of life.


What my charmed life sheltered me from was racial diversity (though not cultural-- I was taught to love my Norwegian heritage), urban poverty, discrimination, and economic disparity (although many of my friends were farmers' kids or lived below poverty levels, at the end of the day the 53 students in my class stood pretty united and pretty class-judgment-free).


Then this backwards little girl went to college, and her eyes were opened just a crack to the reality of life around her.  The more I heard, the more I wanted to experience urban living for myself.  I wanted to know what it felt like to have neighbors of all colors, and I wanted (naively?) to feel the crunch of barely having enough money to eek out a living.  So I moved to the Phillips neighborhood, the place where I thought I would live just like my neighbors.


And what did I find out?  First, that I will never, as much as I want to, be like the kids I work at school with, not even the white ones.  Why not?  Poverty is complex, and makes my temporary financial situation different from my students' families. I have this network of people bursting with resources who would give their right arms before they saw me go hungry or homeless.  My car tires are bare?  I mention the fact to my dad and he buys me new ones before I have time to decide whether my tiny savings account can handle it.  I have no nice jeans?  Not only can I drive myself to the nice thrift stores to get a cheap pair, I can also wear rich friends' Loft hand-me-downs.  No money to pay bills? Grandpa's birthday check comes just in time.


My students don't have these safety nets to cushion them.  When their parents can't pay rent, they live in a homeless shelter for a month or two.  When their cars break down they walk or taxi to school, and take the bus to buy groceries.  When their clothes wear out they come to school with holes in their pants and their brother's old shirt on.


Their families often have the added challenge of a language and culture barrier.  A parent who could manage a retail establishment in Mexico makes burritos at Qdoba because his control of English is inadequate for another job.  Racial discrimination keeps another parent from moving up in a company.  And a student grows up not knowing whether to identify with her Latino culture or her born-in-America pride, or both.  And I will never know these struggles like they do.


Yet most of these students of mine live in situational poverty.  Their parents have just moved to this country, or they moved to this neighborhood because unemployment forced them out of their old living situations, and they are working two or three jobs to create a better life for their children.  They go without so that someday soon their kids can have new uniforms, or even go to a "better" school.  These families are full of hope for the future.


So the question is, what do I do with this new knowledge?  How do I fit in this life?  Was it even a good idea for me to move here and get this job?  Where does the gospel come in?  I'll think about those questions in Part 2.

Legacy

I have just returned from what my grandpa deemed "The Kay Stucky Memorial Cruise," and I am spending the evening remembering my grandma by eating her favorite ice cream.


I am sitting in my bed and take the lid off of a pint of Ben & Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch.  Grandma used her spoon to scrape off the inside of the lid first, so that's what I do too.  Her dentures made it too hard for her to chew the toffee, so I suck on Heath Bar just like she did.  And my mind goes back to my years taking care of Grandma.

I don't have a lot of meaningful memories of Grandma Kay from my young years.  She would sit and smoke her cigarettes and watch golf when we visited her, and I was much more interested in the toys in her basement than who she was.  I remember her generosity-- buying my cousins and I matching dresses and talking parrots for Christmas and birthday gifts.  But I never really got to know my grandma until the end of my senior year of high school when I began to help her.  Her arthritis and an ulcer on her leg gave her limited mobility, so I would visit her once a week or so and do laundry, chop vegetables, or vacuum.  Never one to accept a handout, my grandma always slipped a bill into my hand as I left and refused to listen to my protestations.  When I started college I would drive over once a month to clean the bathrooms and stock the fridge.  During these times she would teach me about "crumbs" on the floor.  "If you just pick up any crumb or fuzz you see on the floor, you can wait much longer to vacuum."  And beets.  "Try boiling them for twenty minutes and see if the skin doesn't just fall right off."  And bookkeeping.  "If you so much as blow on a piece of paper, label and date it."


With three children, eleven grandchildren, and four great grandchildren, she never missed a birthday and remembered to call for friends' anniversaries.  No matter how much pain her ulcer or arthritis gave her, she always managed to sound pleasant on the phone.  Always she had good news about her family to share with a visitor, and always she took care of my grandpa.


She smoked cigarettes all day long and almost never missed an episode of All My Children.  Some of her habits I never want to imitate.  However, as her pain worsened and I began to help her bathe and take care of herself, I learned to appreciate her love of beauty.  She was not ready for visitors without red lipstick on, and the last thing we did before leaving the bathroom after cleaning up each day, after brushing hair and applying lipstick and looking in the mirror, was to dab a little Arpege perfume on her neck.  "For when Grandpa kisses me."  "In case I get visitors."  She was a classy woman, and I want to be classy like her.


And she fought.  When her ulcer covered most of her lower leg and another started on the oppposite leg, she got creative.  She found a remedy that worked, and always we rubbed her feet to get the blood flowing.  Finally the day came when the wounds started to get smaller instead of larger, and in a month there were only scars where there had been decaying flesh.  She always said that she would beat her arthritis, and when the pain got so bad that she needed help with the most routine activities, she kept her sense of humor.  "Barack Obama, Barack Obama, Barack Obama," she huffed as I lowered her into the bathtub one day.  "Somehow, focusing on his name makes the pain more bearable."


And one day as we dried her off after a bath, she confided in me about the growing lump on her body.  "Just never tell Grandpa."  She had vowed to refuse all medical care, and she knew that my grandpa would do whatever he could to see her well.  And the lump stopped growing for awhile, and we all thought that she had beat whatever kind of tumor she had.  


I graduated college (she sent a check that she could just barely sign, but hadn't left the house in years and didn't plan to start leaving with a graduation two hours away), and moved to Bolivia to teach for a year.  And the lump grew.  And her pain increased.  The arthritis with the added cancer was more than even this strong woman could bear.  We knew that time was limited.  When my dad came to Bolivia for ten days, she stopped eating.  Three weeks later, surrounded by her children and husband, she left this world.


And today, seven months later, I let the cold creamy coffee flavor sit on my tongue and remember her.  Not just a passing remembrance, a contemplating remembering.  I remember her life and her person and her spirit.  And I miss her.

Trip

There are so many things I've thought about writing in the last week or two, but all of my thoughts failed to turn themselves into words on this blog.  I thought about things like:


- How much I've learned about immigrant culture in the last two months
- My increased understanding about racial discrimination
- My very single state
- How wonderful my family is
- The way I've struggled to find community here
- A very strong pull toward consumerism I am feeling


But I didn't write about any of those things.  Instead, I took a little blog break.  And now... now I am leaving for ten days on a VACATION with my FAMILY.  We are going on a CRUISE.  And I am going to take pictures and show you them when I get back.  I am also committing  to journal a lot while I'm there.  It might just be about my trip, but I might journal future blog posts and then share them with you when I get home.  


One way or another, I will be writing about the above topics when I get home.  So pretty much, I'm saying to my few faithful readers, wait for me.  I'm coming back.  I just need to figure out how to blog in this country.

Now This Is Life

I haven’t been posting very frequently anymore, and as I was reflecting on that fact a few days ago, it occurred to me that maybe that’s because I feel like I’m really in my life now.  Last year I was in a new culture and country and I needed to share all that was going on in my heart and life.  Now life is slightly more normal, and I’m comfortable just sharing with those around me.

 

I think there’s also something different about being me again.  Last year I was Kayleen the Volunteer Teacher.  I could hide behind that part of my identity and speak from there.  Now I am Kayleen the Kayleen, and talking about living in my neighborhood is talking about me taking full responsibility for my thoughts and judgments and decisions.  This time in my life will be very special—being exposed to inner-city life and culture before I go on the mission field and possibly my last years as a single—but I think the struggles that it will carry are ones that will begin to define who I am.  Problems that I view as struggles here (finding a church family where I belong, being content to live on a limited budget, dealing with my procrastinating nature) will be struggles for me in the rest of my life.  Sharing those things is opening myself up and being raw.

 

But I think the sharing is worth it.  I want my life to be a witness to God’s power, and my weaknesses often best show His strength.  So I think you can count on the next two years.  You can count on updates and struggles and joys.  And after those two years maybe you can read about my travels to another new land, a new people, and God’s power.  May all of the things that I share glorify God can exalt Him above all else.

Gospel for the Inner City

Quick wonderful story of God's goodness even when life is hard.


Today I walked into a second grade classroom where I work, and one of the students who is often a behavior nightmare was behaving wonderfully.  I sat down and began to talk to him.  I told him that I heard that he used to attend a tutoring/discipling program that I local church puts on.  He got so excited about it!  He can no longer go because his mom doesn't have transportation, but he said he's been keeping up every week and plans on returning ASAP.  


God is the one who's doing a work in this kid's life, and I can't wait to see him back in the program, soaking up the truth of the word and being surrounded by gracious love.


Some days I love my job.

Giving Thanks

Last Thanksgiving I sat in 95 degree heat with tears streaming down my cheeks as my nieces sang a song for me over Skype.  I was glad to be in Bolivia, but spending the holidays away from my family was harder than I had ever imagined.  I made it through Christmas with not-as-many tears, but this year I have had extra reason to give thanks as I get to spend both holidays in the US with most of my family (minus Heather.  I will miss having her around for the holidays.).

Toasting the day with sparkling grape juice

Our Thanksgiving was nothing too special—we went to my brother and sister-in-law’s house and had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry, and pumpkin pie.  The basics. 

Highlights of the day were:
- Waking up and using my parents’ new juicer.  Our juice consisted of celery, carrot, orange, apple, lime, cranberry, broccoli, cumcumber, ginger, and more I think.  Deeeelicious!
- Getting to see my grandpa.  He just moved into retirement housing, and this was his first holiday without my beautiful Grandma Kay.  We all missed her. 
- Todd and Nicole had prepared a beautiful antipasto which is a  tradition in our family (because of our Italian relatives) that I had completely forgotten about.  It was beautiful, and we all got to finish putting it together.  Eat with delicious French bread that my mom brought made for a perfect appetizer.
- After we prayed, we all went around and said what we were thankful for.  I, of course, was thankful to be in the States.  My brother made a nice speech about being thankful for family that almost made me cry.
- Watching the Packer game!!!  My first full game since before I left for Bolivia (although I am required to keep up on the stats if I want to have significant conversations around here).
- Going home and unpacking Christmas decorations with my mom and dad. 

What a wonderful day!

On Being Back

My last few months in Bolivia were like injecting my veins with friendship speed.  Every day was celebrating something, and I had no end of cool people to celebrate with because they were coming and going, in and out of my country and city.  That's missionary life.

And missionary life was good for my friendships here in the US too, at least for those last few months.  My Facebook wall was always full of kind notes about people excited to see me when I got home.  Home.  As if that place existed to me anymore.


Now I've been back for just under four months.  I'm just beginning to feel settled into a semi-permanent job, a church, and a house.  And I am not on friendship crack anymore. And it's hard for me.  Maybe selfishly, but I liked being the novelty.  I was the gringa who could speak Spanish to my Bolivian friends, and my friends in the US were willing to excuse my bad communication and forgetfulness because I was serving the Lord in a foreign land. And the missionaries.  They were friends who understood my adventurous spirit and why I was willing to serve the way I did.  But my friends in Bolivia, even if they wanted to, do not have consistent internet access to stay in close contact.   My friends here can see my faults up close and personal, and I am just me again to everyone.  


How do I learn to be me, without a ministry or a cultural barrier to cover the parts of me I'd like to hide?  How do I exist exactly as God intends me to in this normal life?  This life means some nights at home with a book, and some days without phone calls. I like those things, but I'm not used to them.  Call it reverse culture shock, call it my third culture, but adjusting to do.