Only on the outside

On my desk I keep a picture of two small boys sitting on the slab of concrete in front of their adobe house in Talanga, Honduras. The walls of the hut have been whitewashed numerous times, but are left looking dingy and gray. The roof is made of tejas, or clay tiles, but from the angle the picture is taken, it appears as a flat line across the top of the irregularly shaped wall, as though it is caving in. There is one door and one window. The door has been pushed open and since it is approaching twilight, the inside looks like a cavernous hole. The window is shuttered closed. Juan Miguel, the older of the two--perhaps ten, sits with the heels of his feet resting on the edge of the concrete, his knees wagging in the air, and his hands folded across his belly. His smile is broad and sincere, excited to be getting his pictures taken. His younger brother, noticeably chubby next to the stringy Juan Miguel, does not yet talk, only cries incessantly. His hair falls in long curls around his pouting face, as he inches toward his older brother and away from the gringa taking the picture.

I sometimes wonder why I love this picture; why I am drawn to it. Most of the pictures I took in Honduras had me or a companion on the center stage. This one, however, has nothing to do with me. I did not know Juan Miguel long or well. He was eager to meet and talk with us, but his parents wanted nothing to do with the American and El Salvadorian missionaries who followed their son's directions home. Juan was eager and cheerful, would often walk with us for blocks at a time, asking questions, would show up on Sundays at random. In many ways, he epitomized the children and youth that I met. No money, no shoes, no education, no worries.

When I look at that picture, I am reminded not so much of the disparity between myself and Juan Miguel, but of the different ways we view the world. Its not that one is better than the other, just different. When I lived in Honduras, I grew accustomed to seeing little girls with matted hair, dirt floors, and gas lamps. I learned what it was to eat rice and beans with tortillas as utensils, to see the "gutters" flowing down the side of the dirt road with black water, to hear little children selling their wares--perched atop their heads--house to house. I never saw a water heater or carpet, and only in the city was there a supermarket. I saw heads pop out of unseen windows buried in trash heaps on the side of the highway. I was not surprised to find chickens, even ducks or pigs, or in the winter, donkeys, sharing the house with the one small spring board mattress and a stray plastic chair for the family of six. Water came once a week, if at all, and power-outs at least once a month.

But they were doing the best they could with what they had. Women spent hours scrubbing thread-bare clothes in river water, and men expended all their physical strength in the land in order to feed their families. Many of them believed that the grass is greener on the other side. They believed that if they lived in the fairy tale portrayed in American Soap Operas (beautiful homes, clean yards, paved streets), they could be happier. They failed to see that going to the United states not only mean a potentially higher wage, but a whole new set of problems as well. One way isn't always better than another.

While coming home, almost three years ago, was a clash of cultures, I was not surprised to find neatly lined houses or 15 aisles in a supermarket. Moving to the small town of Blanding, again did not create the surprise or culture shock one would expect. Of course I encounter(ed) the unexpected, but it was not overwhelming. I would have been disappointed if it wasn't different. I love the flavor of living and experiencing new places, cultures, and perspectives. All over the world are people who live in big houses and small houses. We buy ready made dinners or carefully prepare them. We get up in the morning and worry about getting to work on time or getting our bills paid. We breathe in fresh country air or the haze of city life. We spend our time and energy on the things that matter to us, hoping and praying we will overcome life's difficulties. We feel pride, love, fear, hope, and devastation. We are not all that different, despite the outward ways we live our lives. It does not matter if we wear crusted and weathered work boots, classy flats, or no shoes at all. What does matter is that we live and breath, hope and dream, work and struggle, and make it through.

I get tired of the prejudices and fears that seem to plague us when confronted with someone who lives differently than we do. When I look at that picture of Juan Miguel and Jesus, I am reminded to seek and appreciate the differences around me. They are what make us human. They are what make us need each other.


ps. I wrote this just now during my creative writing class. We are currently working on personal essays. Mostly we come together every two weeks for an hour and write. And write and write and write.

pps. I can tell that most of you don't like my philosophical posts as much as the funny ones (not as many comments), but I can't help myself! I can be funny much of the time (my students ask if I ever stop laughing. What can I say? They are stinkin' funny!), but at my core, I'm a thinker. I can't help but write about what I'm thinking about. Sorry. Even on my mission my family would tell me to be more specific and less philosophical. Bare with me :)