Looking Back: A Year in Review

It's hard to believe that a year ago at this time I was sitting on a plane, heading back to the strange new land of my home country.  That day was so crazy; the power outtage forcing me to gather my belongings by the light of the camera, ever-loyal Paz's eyes mournfully glowing up at me from the doorway, Ingrid wondering who would take her to church after I left, sitting in the truck with Natalie taking in the last pre-dawn looks of Montero, checking in my luggage, Madre slipping a few bolivianos into my hand for a saltena and some tea later, the painting of the family hugging, saying goodbye. 

So much has happened in this year.  My engagement ended shortly after the six-months-of-being-home blog post.  Although it has not been an easy road and grief is a process that is far from over, I can honestly say that I have grown stronger for it and learned a lot.  I am choosing to focus on the positive things I have gained and it helps a lot. 

During my time in Bolivia I learned that my mother had been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, a condition considered by NIMH to be a serious mental illness.  It was a devastating piece of information at the time and yet freeing.  Finally I had a concrete explanation for the conflicting experiences, both hurtful and happy, that marked my early childhood through young adulthood. In this year of being home again I have finally begun to explore what being an adult child of a borderline mother means and to process her past and present behavior in order to heal.  Most recently she moved, refusing to tell me where, with my ten-year old brother.  It took me months to find out that she moved to a city two hours away.

I first began to seriously question my faith in Bolivia.  I am no longer sure of what I believe.  I am okay with that.  I know I am not the first to be unsure of whether or not there is a God after living in the orphanage, and I suspect I will not be the last.  I know there were times in Bolivia where I could tell that someone or something was looking out for me, where what I needed was provided when I needed it.  Like when I only had a few dollars to my name, and the little girl in the market gave me a discount on the bread I needed to feed me for a few days.  Or the kind nurse who sat and talked with me in such a comforting way when I had an allergic reaction to some medication.  Watching Deimar get adopted and transform in such a remarkable way when I was so worried he would get sent to some overpopulated, understaffed baby-factory-type orphanage.  Managing to secure a job back home despite numerous and unpredictable technological obstacles: cut cables, random power outtages, the like.  Since returning home I've had the privilege of working at a Jewish Community Center and it is the Jewish understanding of "miracle" I have adopted as my own: when we needed it, it was there.  Small miracles, all of these.  But miracles they are nonetheless, and for them I am grateful.  For now, to acknowledge and believe in these is enough for me.

I am not sure where exactly this new year is taking me.  Deep down I have an inkling that my days of international projects are far from over.  For now I feel like it is time to put down roots here.  I am home.  I belong here.  The needs in Bolivia are perhaps more elemental and glaring then the needs I experience here, but that doesn't mean that I am not needed here.  My afterschool and camp children are not "my babies" in the same way that the Bolivian orphans were, but I am still a crucial part of their lives.  They may have mommies or daddies to take care of them, but they still need me to be a motherly, sisterly figure, tying their shoes or admiring their latest artistic endeavors, empowering them to become more fully the wonderful little people they already are.

In this year post-Bolivia I have had the chance to reconnect with my father, an opportunity I never really expected to have.  Initially I was motivated to contact him when I first became engaged.  It seemed like an appropriate excuse to contact him.  Ever on the forefront of my mind was my responsibility to the family Joe and I were about to create; I needed to make peace with my own past before I had children of my own.  Though we broke up shortly after seeing my dad for the first time in nine years, my relationship with my dad has been slowly growing over the last six months.  I have been able to meet relatives I hadn't seen since I was two; my grandmother and step-grandpa, my aunt and uncle and cousins.  I look forward to getting reacquainted with this side of the family I never knew and to finding my place within it.

This year of being home has not been easy.  It has had its ups and downs.  It has been full of unexpected things, both happy and hard.  But it's been a good year overall.  I am going back to school this fall, ready to finish up an individualized-studies bachelor's degree in Spanish, elementary education and women's studies.  I am starting my second year with the JCC afterschool program and beginning an internship with an Ypsilanti midwifery practice.  I have finally been able to pursue my interests in urban farming and the local food movement and am learning to bellydance.  I am also the happy owner/mother of three very mischevious kitties.  Life is good. 

It's good to be home.

6 Months Later...

This coming Valentine's Day will mark 6 months since coming home from Bolivia.  A lot's happened since then.  Among other things, I've moved into an apartment with my brother and a friend, started two new jobs (and finished one of them!), adopted three velociraptors -er, kittens, and got engaged to Joe. 

Joe and I meeting new baby Peter Andrew Nitkiewicz

Bolivia is still constantly on my mind.  I'm constantly thinking and dreaming of the kids.  I find myself at a loss of what to write.  Pen and paper do not seem to do my thoughts and feelings justice.  So much of my experience went untold.  It is impossible to truly convey the eleven months I spent in Bolivia; really you need to have been there, to understand.  But I shall do my best.

Coming home was hard.  People changed while I was gone, and I changed too.  I became a lot more vocal and outspoken about things I might have kept to myself before.  After living next to 30 teen and pre-teen girls for a year, with only half a window separating my room from theirs, in a noisy Bolivian town, life in Ypsilanti felt far too quiet.  I found trouble adjusting to a more comfortable lifestyle.  Everything seemed too nice after life in a third world country.  Buildings, roads, etc. felt too spaced out; there were too few people on the streets.  Body space was a thing now.

I no longer had to fight anything; the internet worked, the hot water in the shower worked every time and I was in no danger of being shocked by it.  I could see Joe every day.  Instead of handwashing every article of clothing I owned, and hanging it to dry on the hogar roof, I could just toss it in the washer and dryer.  Food was plentiful.  I could choose my own dinner.  The first month I lived off of bagels, cheese, eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, apples, and noodles.  It was heavenly at the time, though it may seem kind of pathetic now. 

When I came home from Bolivia, I was on antibiotics fighting a parasite, an amoeba, salmonella and a bunch of bacteria.  My head was full of lice.  It took poor Joe four lice shampoos and painstaking sessions of picking nits out of my head with a lice comb (he'd never tied a hair tie in his life), spread out over six weeks, all done in secret while my host family was gone, before I could be pronounced lice free. 

My stomach had shrunk.  I had a hard time finishing a yogurt.  Food seemed too plasticky and processed.   Anything fried turned my stomach.

I found myself , in the span of a few short weeks, going from caring twenty-four seven for over a hundred orphans who had been sent over from other orphanages because they were supposedly so bad they couldn't handle them, to caring for a quarter of that amount, all white and priviliged kids.  It was a complete paradigm shift. 

People had choices over what they wanted for dinner.  They had several types of meat and other types of food in their refrigerators, at any given point.  They had so much food that they threw it out if nobody wanted it.  It was too much.

I felt guilty, eating.  I felt like I was betraying my children, letting them down.  How could I eat, when I knew that they were hungry?  In the hogar, breakfast was typically a piece of bread the size of your fist, two if you were lucky.  They were usually stale, sometimes even moldy.  Often we got  a baggie of expired cookies from the school lunch program for breakfast or dinner.  Sometimes dinner was a cup of corn, which we ate with our fingers.  When we got meat, it was hardly what one might call meat or even edible.  It might be the thin sinew between two chunks of spinal cord, the leftovers normal people wouldn't eat.  There was usually bones in our food.  I saw the meat once, sitting in the wheelbarrow outside the kitchen waiting to be cooked.  It was going bad, you could smell it.  Even cooking and seasoning it did little to mask the smell.  I couldn't eat it. 

Lunch was the main meal of the day.  Some days, people were generous and we had enough.  Other days, food was scarce.  I used to hate the days where we had nothing but a bowl of soup for lunch.  One week, all we had for lunch was a bowl of soup.  All week long.  That week was torturous.  Even the little cups of Toddy we had at breakfast with our bread, there wasn't enough for a full cup.  My temper was so short.  The kids cried because they were hungry.  It was so hard to take care of them properly, I didn't have the energy.

I got to the point where one ladleful of lentils, spread out on my plate, grossed me out because it looked like too much food.  There were days I would eat sugar straight out of the jar, I was so hungry.  I would hallucinate food.  One day there wasn't enough bread at my table for each of us to have a full piece, so I broke the bread into pieces so we could each have 3/4 of a piece.  Lunch that day was a small bowl of watery vegetable soup, no meat.  I laid on the chapel floor, face down, and cried, begged Jesus to send food to my kids.  It was a prayer I prayed often.

People would post pictures of their food on Facebook, ask whether they should choose this food or that food for dinner.  I resented them.  How could they?  Where did they ever get the idea that food was something so trivial? 

When I had been home for a few months or so, I sat in Sunday mass with Joe and his family.  The readings were about the abundance of the Lord, about a banquet table, abundant food.  I couldn't take it.  All I could think of was my kids, about how they were not eating, about how they were not experiencing the  "abundance of the Lord".  The pain was overwhelming.  I couldn't stop crying, couldn't pray. 

I had a dream the other night, in which I met other people like me who were interested in the hogar and in helping to provide better nutrition for the kids.  How I wish it were reality.

I've been home now for 6 months.  My godson, Franz, and his older sister Belen have finally been adopted by a German family.  I have a new goddaughter from the sponsorship program, one who was one of my babies in Santa Maria.  There are three new SLMs at the hogar, doing the jobs done by Natalie, Aisling and I, as well as two other volunteers from Germany.  My kids are happy and growing; their Christmas newsletter pictures are hanging on my fridge.  I can eat now.  My stomach is back to its normal size; my head is lice free.  I can go to a Spanish mass without bursting into tears, and my fiance has not had to plead with me to eat for a while.

But the dreams persist.  The feelings and the memories are still there, even in the midst of going about my normal everyday life.  I find myself watching documentaries of life in other countries, of  issues affecting women and children internationally, in an effort to keep in touch with life as I've known it. 



Shirley, my goddaughter now

There is no way that I can process everything I saw and felt and experienced in one brief post.  I hope that in the months to come, this blog will afford me the opportunity to finally get it out.

Franz and I on the day of his baptism; he had already soiled his baptismal garments :)

Yhajaira, my goddaughter, on the day of her First Communion with her older sister Mayra and her younger sister Ofelia

Belen, Franz's older sister

Joe with Melani, his goddaughter who has since been adopted by her aunt in Argentina

Natalie, my wonderful site partner and fellow SLM, poses with Tatiana and "Flat Stanley"

Joe holds Melani and Shirley during his visit

Aisling, our co-volunteer from BOVA, hugs Tere during her despedida (good-bye party)

"Flat Stanley" poses on one of the Comedor tables - this was a typical breakfast or dinner










 

  

Deimar

I first met Deimar not long after arriving at Hogar Sagrado Corazon to begin my year of mission.  He made an immediate impression on me, with his huge shock of jet-black hair, and how tiny he was, petite all around.  He was just so cute!



Deimar soon earned the reputation of being my "little vampire," a name he earned for himself one day by chomping down hard on the back of my leg one October day in retaliation to my efforts to lure him away from a pile of building materials.  He left a lovely, gigantic bruise the exact size and shape of a toddler's jaw right below my knee.

Deimar gave the best hugs... he had a really cute way of hugging me around the legs and leaning his little head into my legs.  Like any little guy, he had an absolute fascination for the garbage, the bathroom, the sink, and pretty much anywhere else he knew he wasn't supposed to be.  He was the kind of kid who would hit another child and then, after being disciplined, reach over to hit them again, all the while his little black eyes fixed on me mischievously as if to say, "Hey!  Look what I'm doing!  Exactly what you told me not to!  What're you going to do about it?"  Many times I've had to yell at other kids to get off of the table, only to have Deimar hop right up and dance around on it too, laughing with glee.

He loved shoes, especially girls' shoes.  And little toy horses.  And putting clothes on dolls. 

More than once, Deimar's scared me by falling headfirst off of something.  Once, during Joe's visit, he fell smack on top of his head onto the hard floor.  Another time he tumbled off the swing and hit the spot right between his eyes.  And there was one day he gave me a good scare by jumping on the stairs, slipping, and then falling down 3 or 4 stairs.  But no matter how hard he cried, or how badly he'd hurt himself, or how much he'd scared me (!), Deimar would hop right back up again and try it again, whether it be the swing or jumping off the bed, etc.

Once Deimar had a really high, 102 degree fever.  I was entrusted with the task of bathing him in lukewarm water for 10 minutes to bring his fever down.  Deimar was happy as a clam.  He swished around like a little fish in the water, cooing and screaming with delight, splashing water right and left.  I told him he was swimming in the rain, and he was tickled pink.  It worked... his fever went down, and within a day or two he was back to normal.

One day in December, I went upstairs to wake up Deimar for dinner, thinking he'd overslept his nap.  I found his bed empty and immediately went to find Sandra, feeling slightly panicked.  She told me Deimar had gone home with his parents, and that she hadn't had a chance to say goodbye either.  I tried to be happy for little Deimar, but I couldn't help but feel worried.  When Deimar came to the Hogar, all he ate was rice.  He was going on four years old but only looked a year and a half.  Would Deimar's parents know how to take care of him?  Would Deimar's mommy know how to blow on his soup for him when it was hot?  Would he give her hugs around the legs too?

I found out later that Deimar had been adopted by a local Bolivian family. 

Three days later, I was just coming out of the volunteer kitchen when some of my Santa Maria munchkins came running up to me.  "Antonieta, Antonieta!  Deimar's back!  His parents brought him a toy!"  The surge of hope I felt was immediately quelled by feelings of dread and unease.  I rushed into Santa Maria only to find my suspicions confirmed.  Sure enough, there was Deimar, looking bewildered, mobbed by 17 other children.  I hardly recognized him, even though only such a short bit of time had passed.  His head had been shaved, his stomach was swelled up and bloated from overfeeding.  He was clutching an inflatable neon-green space toy, wearing new clothes.  There was an animal look in his eye, one of desperation and panic.  He showed no sign that he recognized me.

Deimar had been returned by his adoptive parents for biting his father.

I was filled with rage.  Who could be so immature?  Who would ever return a toddler for biting?  A toddler from an orphanage, with a troubled background, for crying out loud?  I was glad though, that they returned him.  He deserved better.

Gradually my fears about Deimar's difficulties adjusting to life at the Hogar abated.  He ran up calling my name the very next day, and allowed me to give him a good night kiss.  Soon Deimar was back to normal. 

The biting continued, however.  One day in February it got brought up in a staff meeting with the Madre Rosario.  We explained Deimar's behavior to her, and her reaction surprised me.  She decided to make a call to a nearby Hogar, Hogar Fatima, to see if there was any opening for him.  I locked myself in the bathroom afterwards and sobbed.  I had thought the hogar was precisely for these sorts of children.  It broke my heart to think of Deimar going to an assembly-line hogar, with babies lined up against the wall and sleeping on the floor, because they'd run out of beds for them... No one had suggested that someone take him under their wing, work with him a little more intensely, etc.  They had given up on my little boy.  For something as trivial as biting.  And that hurt.

I decided to draw out my feelings that night.  I started with my original image, one of a little Deimar floating in a giant teardrop.  I surprised myself as the drawing began to evolve.  Eventually there were two little ones in the giant teardrop; Deimar, clutching a teddy bear, and the Child Jesus, waving and sitting right beside him.  The giant teardrop was coming out of my eye. I stood in the background holding my heart in my hand, which was one and the same with the Immaculate Heart of Mary.  And in the teardrop, the little Child Jesus spoke in Spanish: "My Daughter, I will take care of Deimar."

Although the drawing made me feel a little bit better, it didn't stop me from feeling slightly panicked whenever I heard Hogar Fatima mentioned, or worrying that he'd be sent there.  I prayed they wouldn't have any room for him.

But God made good on his promise.  Toward the end of March, Deimar was called to the office.  An older Bolivian couple was there waiting for him.  They seemed quiet, gentle, soft-spoken.  Over the next 5 days, they came to see him repeatedly.  They took him out for short trips and spent hours with him wandering the Hogar property or hanging out in Santa Maria with him and the other little ones.  They brought fruit for the other munchkins.  I was able to give them Deimar's art collection, of which they seemed very appreciative, and learned that the husband had been referred to Hogar Sagrado Corazon by a friend who'd adopted a set of siblings from here.

Today, April 15th, was a bittersweet day.  Deimar helped Natalie sort some Easter eggs in the library, and made an Easter card for his madrina.  He colored a coloring page (sort of!) and helped me pick up the crayons.  I took him back to Santa Maria, changed his diaper, and sat him down to lunch.  During lunch, Beti the doorkeeper came to take him to his parents.  I was able to take a few quick photos with him before she brought him out to the gazebo to join his parents.  Teresa and I followed him.  Deimar's parents had brought him some fresh peaches, which they were in the process of showing him.  I wished them a good morning and congratulated them, then took Teresa's hand and started walking slowly back to Santa Maria.  I looked back one more time, knowing I might not see him again.  Even though I was going back to 16 other children, and holding the hand of the seventeenth, the sadness was still there.  No matter how many kids you have, none of them can ever be replaced. 

I will miss Deimar very much.  But I am excited he has a new start in life and that his story here has a much happier ending then I would have ever imagined.  Child Jesus was right.  He did take care of Deimar.  And now Deimar has a home and a family.

 

Deimar as Baby Jesus in the Hogar Christmas play.

 

 

Deimar gets his present from Papa Noel.

 

 

Deimar being his cute little self.

 

 

My artwork

 

 

Deimar at Carnaval

 

 

Saying goodbye

 

 

 

 

Feliz Dia del Estudiante - September 21, 2013

I've already described what happened here in my October blog post "Happy Birthday from Bolivia!"  Here are some more photos of the goings-on of that day.  :)  The kids are so super cute.  I wish I could give you names of the littler ones, especially my babies, but for their protection I can't.  Our kids arrive at the Hogar for so many different reasons (abuse - both physical and sexual, neglect, death of one or both parents, etc.)  so for their protection it's better not to identify who they are.  I wanted to share pictures of them though so that you get a little better picture of who they are and what life at the Hogar is like!  Love you all and miss you. :)