Let's Begin Again (or, Hello from the other siiiiiiide)

Bonjour from Geneva!

(Yes, in Geneva they speak mostly French…I don’t speak French.)

I’ve been here for a week now and since nothing particularly traumatic happened on my trip over here (like last time) I figured I would wait to post until something interesting happened and/or I knew what I would be doing during my time here. Interesting things have happened AND I know what I’ll be doing, therefore a blog post!

So I’m one of four interns here at the Human Rights for the Instituto Internationale di Maria Auxiliatrice (I think I spelled that right). We’re a pretty diverse with the American (yours truly!), Pedro from Mexico, Maria Rita from Italy, and Gabby from Korea.

During the next three months, we’ll be attending UN meetings on various topics connected to the rights of the child and women’s right, particularly the right to education for all and women’s development. After we attend these meetings, we write up reports or articles about the content of the meeting. They’re only allowed to be a page at most, so it’ll be good practice on figuring out what is most relevant to our mission. It’s pretty chill in terms of workload right now (it’s basically been orientation time), but apparently it’s gonna get crazy when the next Human Rights Council session starts up in March.

But yeah, on Tuesday we went to the UN and got our official badges and wandered around the buildings in the freezing cold so we could take the official tourist photos.

Look at all those flags!!

I think my answer would have to be...world peace

What a good looking group of young adults!

The next day we attended a meeting on the Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC for short) and its implementation in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. 

FIRST REAL THING

Now bear with me for a moment because will come up again and I need you to understand this review process so that I don’t have to explain it again. Got it? Good.

There are nine core ‘international human rights instruments’ (fancy name for conventions/covenants) that nations can ratify so that they are legally obliged to follow them. There are a lot of other conventions and treaties on different issues (environment, labor, etc.), but these nine are the ones we care about. Some of them have optional protocols (like special consideration for particular topics) and some of them don’t, but you can sign the optional protocols, too. Each Convention has a Committee, which is made of up member States, or countries that are party to the convention. Every once in a while a country will present a report that shows how they are implementing the rules of the Convention in their country, usually responding to recommendations that were made during the last report review. I say every once in a while because sometimes it can be two years or, as in the case of the DRC, it can be eight. Anyway, the member States on the Committee will grill the country representative(s) that is presenting the report on all possible areas of concern and the representative(s) will respond to those questions as best they are able (or answer as vaguely as they are able, depending on the question. Politics.) The Committee, after this grilling, will issue recommendations to the country on what it can do to better adhere to the Convention and make positive progress. The country does not have to follow these recommendations, but considering it’s the UN and they ratified the Convention, they should probably make a good show of trying.

Right, lesson over! Basically we listened to the DRC representative get grilled and her responses to the questions. It was interesting to say the least. I think it will be cool as we continue to figure how politics and diplomacy play out in the UN.

The rest of the week was pretty chill, but Maria Rita, Gabby and I went around Geneva a little bit today just for fun. (Weekends are relaxing time for the most part so I might even get to take a few weekend trips to places farther away!)

Going out on the town! 

CHOCOLATE CATS

Someone show this candy dog to my grandmother

We tried not to get hit by a tram...SUCCESS

ALL THE BREAD!!

ALL THE CHEESE!!

I just thought the vines eating this building looked cool

This is just pretty

St. Peter's Cathedral

WHICH HAS A SUPER COOL FACADE

And quite a nice inside as well

THIS WAS CALVIN'S CHAIR (YES, THAT CALVIN)

And here is the amazing view from the top of the church tower

There were bells and everything!

Though the weather made lighting difficult for photos

Still, pretty awesome cathedral!

Until next time, au revoir, everybody!

IIMA Human Rights Office, January-April 2016

An Anniversary (or, Reflecting on a year without Dad)

Let’s start out by being upfront. Today is the anniversary of my father’s death.

I won’t go into the details. They matter, but they don’t particularly matter to you. And this post is less for an audience and more for self-processing, for seeing this last year written down in black and white. It’s about how my dad, and his death, affected me.

So it starts with praying for a miracle. With saying a rosary (in Italian, because why not) on the way to the hospital everyday and saying another on the way back. It starts with him sitting in his hospital bed lucid, then not lucid, then barely lucid as he is transferred to the ICU. The night before he passed away, I cried for the first time since he had gone into the hospital, sitting in my apartment in College Station because, no matter what we want, our lives do not stop when someone we love is dying.

There’s a call the next morning and I’m told to say goodbye. I won’t make it in time to say it in person. I don’t cry then and I don’t cry when I arrive home. Instead, I plan a funeral.

My family likes to deal with tragedy through morbid (and therefore somewhat inappropriate) humor. (My sister and I now say that we sing at both weddings and funerals!) The only time I cry instead of laugh is when I see a friend at the burial site who has flown across the country to be there for me. When I hug her, I let myself cry for a few seconds.

The thing about funerals is that people you’ve never met show up. They know all about you because your dad was always bragging about his kids, but you’re realizing that he had a life you weren’t a part of, friends that you never knew. And it’s nice to know that dad was so well loved, but it’s also strange to know that they knew a different version of him, one that was reserved for friends rather than family. The funeral ends and we go home.

And I’m angry at God.

It’s a quiet anger, a consistent but small flame burning in my chest because I prayed for a miracle and I didn’t get it. My dad died and if God had wanted to, He could have saved him. It turns out that believing miracles are possible makes it that much more painful when they don’t happen.

It felt like a friend had betrayed me. Being Catholic, it actually felt like multiple friends had betrayed me because saints. Wrestling with that was…difficult to say the least. Dad wasn’t there at my graduation, wasn’t there when I left for Kenya, and wasn’t there when I got back. And he should have been.

No one should have to watch their father die by inches in a hospital bed. For me, it didn’t matter that I believed in heaven; I wanted my dad on earth. I wanted him to stay with me.

During my time in Kenya, I had a lot of time to reflect on my life and on the past year. A lot of that happened when I prayed the rosary or in adoration. Like I said before, I had prayed the rosary in Italian everyday when I visited the hospital. For the next five months, I didn’t pray the rosary in Italian, because if I did, all that emotion flooded back, including the sadness and anger. But the sisters pray the rosary every day, and so I prayed it with them. They have adoration every week, so I attended adoration with them. For a stubborn and disgruntled Catholic, it was basically the equivalent of aversion therapy. You have issues with these things? Well, do them enough and you’ll get over it eventually or you’ll leave.

It’s a long process. I’m still not happy with God. Honestly, I might not ever be. I still believe in miracles, so I still believed He could have saved my dad. But time has given me some perspective.

I loved my dad, even though he wasn’t perfect. He was fighting battles I’ve never had to fight and dealing with issues I’ve never had to face. Selfishly, I would have rather he stayed on earth and continued to fight and struggle, as long as he was still here. But he no longer has to fight. When God took him, He took him away from those things on earth that cause us hurt and suffering. Really, dad got the better end of the deal.

There’s nothing that says I have to be happy with that though. I’m allowed to feel angry, to be upset that I no longer have my dad. Grieving for all the things that might have been doesn’t make me a selfish person, nor does it diminish my relationship with God. A relationship is just that – a relationship. It has ups and downs and moments when people are angry at each other, when they don’t want to talk even though they know they should. I’m human God doesn’t expect me to be happy with everything He does. He knows me better than that. Maybe He has a plan for all this, but if this past year has taught me anything, it’s that, though He wants me to trust Him, He isn’t going to force me to do so. He’s willing to wait until I forgive Him. After all, forgiveness is kind of His specialty.

So on this anniversary of dad’s death, I offer a toast.

To everyone who knew my dad and loved him, who visited him in the hospital and traveled across the country to be at his funeral, may they always remember him as the boisterous man in the Ole Miss T-shirt that was never short on laughs.

To my mom and siblings, who have supported me and each other during this past year, even when we hack each other off, may we continue to use inappropriate humor to keep our loss in perspective.

To my God, who, while still not exactly on my favorite persons list at the moment, has continued to patiently wait as I deal with the ramifications of grief and anger.

And lastly, to my dad. I still miss you. I traveled around the world this year and, though I didn’t bring home a gift this time, I thought of you as I walked through the Masaii market in Kenya and down the streets of Amman, Jordan. My next stop is Geneva, and I promise I’ll think of you there, too. Since you’re watching over me, you’ll see all the places you never got to see while you were alive. I hope I'll make you proud. 

Interlude (or, A quick trip to San Antonio)

Hello all! It’s been a while since my last blog post, being home for Christmas holidays and all. By the way, I hope that everyone had a great holidays!

I interrupted my month at home to head to San Antonio for a week to help with the VIDES formation camp. Most of you probably don’t remember what that is. First of all, VIDES is the organization with which I am volunteering during this year. Before I left for Kenya, I went to a two-week formation camp in San Antonio to help me understand the Salesian charism and to put it into practice a bit during our week-long camp with undocumented immigrant kids that come across the border without adult accompaniment. So for the past week, I was back to assist during camp once again.

The first time I did the Unaccompanied Minors camp, I was with the only house of girls and it was…difficult. No one has to participate, but it was hard seeing some of the girls immediately put their nametags away and head to the back of the room. I didn’t speak Spanish and it was the first time my partner had ever done something like a camp. We did okay; I hoped that we had made a difference despite our difficulties.

And I came back. And I was with the girls once again. In a strange twist of providence, I was with my same partner from last June as well, along with a recent high school graduate that was fluent in Spanish but was in the early process of learning English. Being honest, I was a little worried. However, it was clear almost immediately that God was going to show me something incredible.

We walked in the door of our house and the girls greeted us happily with a ‘Buenos tardes.’ They smiled as we performed our song and jumped up to participate in the skit. Throughout the week, the girls were engaged and joyful and a complete 180 from the group feeling that permeated the air in June. Some of the girls were even the same girls that we had been with six months ago and they remembered us, happy that we also remembered them.

I wasn’t sure how I would feel coming back to the camp again since my experience in June was hard, but I’m so glad I did. It really brought home the fact that oftentimes, we are just seeing a snapshot of God’s work in someone’s life. Leaving the camp in June gave me a feeling of hopelessness, of sadness. Honestly, I didn’t feel like I had much of an impact on the girls since even getting a smile was a rare occurrence. But coming back, God gave me the opportunity to see that, while I was away in Kenya, He was continuing His work, bringing hope and change.

The story for our camp was the story of Joseph, the young man sold into slavery by his brothers who eventually rises to become governor of Egypt after almost two decades of painful struggles. If you picked one moment of Joseph’s life to look at, you might pick the time he was in prison or the moment he was sold into slavery. And if you only ever saw those moments, you would always think of him as beaten-down, sad, and lost. But if you picked another moment, it might be when he is given Pharaoh’s ring, or even better, when he is reunited with his father after all those years. The theme of the story that we stressed in the camp is that God has a plan and is always with us. That no matter which part of the story you are in, there is always more to come.

Doing this camp was my reminder that I am only seeing a moment in these girls’ stories. Not only should they trust that God has a plan for them, but I have to trust in Him as well. Trust that He continues to do good after I leave the places I have worked at and the people for and with whom I have worked. God’s plan is not a single moment, but an entire lifetime and beyond. When I become discouraged, I can now look back at this experience with the Unaccompanied Minors and remind myself that I don’t know the great plan in place for these children’s lives, but God does. In doing so, I will continue to find hope for the future.

Back in the USA (or, The first thing I ate was donuts, I won't lie)

I’m sitting on my couch at home as I type this sentence. Looking up, I see the familiar furniture, the familiar pictures, even the familiar Christmas decorations that we put up every year around this time. My younger brother is playing with one of the dogs, patting his lap and praising the little guy when he finally makes it up.

It’s nice and it’s also really weird because it means I’m no longer in Kenya.

Five months and a bit later and I’ve returned back to where I started. But I hope I’m not the same. So I’ll take some time for reflection now, because I have a month before I’m off to my next site in Geneva (very different from Kenya).

Let’s begin with the physical changes (mainly because those are the most obvious). Firstly, I lost weight – about 20 pounds actually. I had to assure one of the sisters in Kenya that, as an American who doesn’t always eat the healthiest things, losing weight is a perfectly normal consequence of changing to a healthier and fresher diet. My sister was somewhat shocked by my decreased waistline, but as Christmas is coming up, I’m sure it will return to normal soon enough. I also have a bit more color. Considering that I am ridiculously white, any color at all is more than I usually have. Since I got sunburned about three days before I came home, the very, very slight tan is more noticeable than it usually would be.

But the physical changes are easy to notice. Behavioral changes are little bit more difficult to tell. Even so, there are few things that I’ve already noticed in the two-ish days I’ve been home. For example, I take really short showers now. I didn’t take particularly long showers before, but after spending two months in Karare during a drought (without hot water for most of the time as well), I’m much more conscious about my water usage. Same thing with electricity, but less so than with water. There’s also a part of me now that always wonders what else I can use something for after it’s been used for its initial purpose. Maybe this scrap paper can be used for decorations down the line, or maybe this misprinted document can be used to test weird p0rinting jobs. I’m sure this will eventually get on some people’s nerves as it can also lead to the unfortunate habit of hoarding. And I do not want to end up on that TV show.

Then there are the things that will appeared more slowly as I readjust to my home and family, the things that are emotional – or spiritual. There are an awful lot of things to be thankful for I’ve realized. For a house that not only gives you shelter, but is filled with memories of time with family and friends. For electricity that doesn’t turn off without warning, leaving you in darkness. For people waiting for you at the airport with signs that say, “Welcome home, we missed you.”

My time is Kenya has taught me that sometimes it’s the smaller things that we should be the most thankful for, because they are the things that bring us the most happiness. Despite what it may seem like sometimes, I can live without conveniences. While the internet is great, I won’t fall apart if I don’t have it. While telephones are amazing, my world won’t end if I can’t call someone whenever I want. Having a glass of wine is nice, but sharing a glass of water with a friend is more meaningful.

While I’m pretty private about my spirituality (though my name is pretty much a dead giveaway), I was living with Catholic sisters. I was able to go to Mass almost every day and participate in evening prayers and rosaries. There’ll be another post later that will touch on some of the things I worked through in Kenya, but suffice to say that having those moments for spiritual renewal were very important to me. And I’ve changed because of them as well.

A lot can change in five and a half months, and I’m still only halfway through my year! I’m not closing the door on the Kenya chapter of my life because it’s not a chapter; it’s a theme. It will continue to reappear again and again, scattered throughout the pages of my existence, the characters appearing in flashback scenes to offer comfort and guidance (and maybe even reappearing in person).

So here’s to my time in Kenya! May I be forever changed by the things I did, the places I went, and the people I met!