Spotlight

So I started writing this entry at the start of Lent and now Easter has passed and Ordinary Time is upon us and I still never posted it.  I kept wanting to add to it.  Today is the 36th Anniversary of Nordia's death so I cannot allow the day to go by without taking the time to honor her and remember my Nicaraguan family.  So here we go.

Every Lent Catholic Relief Services organizes a "Rice Bowl" campaign to help people pray, fast and give during the season.  They offer recipes for simple meals from around the world for Catholics to abstain from meat on Fridays.  Besides just offering a dinner suggestion, they provide stories of hope from these countries to spread awareness and build solidarity.  Every week focuses on a different  country and every year is a new group of places.  For 2015, they decided to spotlight Nicaragua for the 2nd Week of Lent.  The featured meal is Gallo Pinto and they profile a coffee farmer.  I was surprised to see that Nicaragua was selected this year, not because I was unaware of the poverty but I was surprised too see it even get attention.

Honestly, I didn't know what to feel with Nicaragua's inclusion.  I was mixed with emotion.  Should I be happy to have it the spotlight?  Sad that it ranks among the poor?  Frustrated at potential stereotyping?  Annoyed with the white-savior-missionary complex?  When I watched the video on how to make Gallo Pinto I was shocked at how terrible it was.  The recipe was so wrong it made me lose faith in CRS.  I could no longer trust the legitimacy of anything they posted about another country.  I shared the video on Facebook so my cousins could react with same indignation over the botched dish.  I knew I had to cook it myself the right way to rectify it personally.

Although I've eaten it many times, I've only attempted to prepare it myself once before.  I don't remember much from my first try.  In this attempt I wanted to be as authentic as possible.  I got some queso fresco, crema and plátanos maduros to complete this Nica dish.  I wanted to properly represent.

Sometimes I feel that Nicaragua is most forgotten country in Central America.  First of all, people tend to skip the overall area for South America instead, but when they do think about the region they think of the neighboring countries.  El Salvador, Guatemala & Costa Rica definitely get more attention.  For example, when visiting the Los Angeles County Museum of Art with my family, we visited the exhibit on the Art of the Americas.  They had a beautiful collection of indigenous art.  Unfortunately, upon the wall where they had a map of America with dots corresponding to the various peoples around the land, they left Nicaragua blank.  Apparently there is no art from Nicaragua or any people from that area?  It was disappointing.

What is also annoying is when I go to the latin markets which should be more diverse they also lack in stocking foods from Nicaragua.  I can go to Vallarta and buy cheese from El Salvador or Honduras, but no Nicaragua.  I usually settle for something generically central american.  That's the norm.  Recently, I was pleasantly surprised to find for the first time Nicaraguan red beans!

I was so excited I could have taken a selfie right then and there in the middle of the aisle celebrating the triumphant finding.  Since I started writing this blog I've been to Vallarta again and this time found some Nicaraguan cheese.  The front side was labeled "Central American" but the fine print on the back said it was from Nicaragua.  Getting closer!  It's great to find little glimpses of Nicaragua.  I need to do my part to shed a positive spotlight on this land and its people.  One day I wore a Nicaraguan dress to church and received a compliment on it.  When I told the person where it was from she had never heard of the country!  I was so shocked that my mother's land could be so invisible that others don't know of its existence.  At least my outfit began the conversation.  If the museums and the markets don't make an effort to give Nicaragua attention, I must do my part.  If I take the time to remember my family, I know I can at least build the presence of Nicaragua to those around me.

Poesía

It seems like every November 16 I manage to submit some kind of entry on this blog, regardless of how faithful or not I've been during the year.  Part of my problem is having access to a decent computer.  My personal laptop is an ancient 2005 Powerbook G4.  I'm way overdue for an upgrade.  I think the majority of my writings on this blog have come during some respite in the workday.  Unfortunately, relying on the work computer means I have to give my job the priority.  Lately, I'm too busy at work to squeeze in personal time.  Yesterday, I decided to crack open my dusty laptop for a different writing project that needed my attention.  In doing so, I uncovered this Spanish poem I wrote 8 years ago after the death of my grandmother.  I remember I specifically wanted to try to write another poem in Spanish as I had done for my Tía Nordia in 2004.  I feel that in this journey in has been very important to remember both of these strong and amazing women.  As I search for the aunt I never knew, I am reminded of the grandmother I barely knew and the longing I have to know my family overall.  Despite the distance, whether across the land or far beyond, I will always carry them close to my heart.

Abuelita

No pude despedirme.

Ni un abrazo,

Ni un beso

Nada.

No pude estar a su lado,

En estos momentos difíciles.

Solamente pude ofrecer mis oraciones de lejos.

Una tristeza pesada,

Buscando la esperanza.

Aúnque lejos quedo,

Cerca de Ud. siempre estaré.

Hay millas hasta Nicaragua,

Pero nada puede separar el espíritu.

No pude despedirme

Porque va a quedar conmigo

Mi angelita abuelita

Cuidandome del cielo.

No pude despedirme.

No debo desperdirme.

English Translation:

I couldn’t say good-bye.

Not a hug,

Not a kiss.

Nothing.

I couldn’t be by your side

In these difficult times.

I could only offer my prayers from afar.

A heavy sorrow,

Searching for hope.

Although distant I remain,

I will forever be close to you.

There are miles to Nicaragua,

But nothing can separate the spirit.

I couldn’t say good-bye.

Because you are going to stay with me

My grandma angel

Watching over me from heaven.

I couldn’t say good-bye.

I shouldn’t say good-bye.

More than a Memory

In 2013 I made the resolution to write a new blog entry every month and I fortunately achieved that.  However, I did not renew that commitment into 2014.  I felt I might have been forcing myself to blog without as much content.  It felt more like personal sharing than successful research and discovery.  I didn't want to post without progress.  Unfortunately, instead of pushing myself to actually dive into material, everything has slowed down and now half the year has gone by without a notice.  I feel like I'm really failing to unearth my aunt's story.

The year hasn't been a complete dud.  I did attend an enjoyable Carlos Mejía Godoy concert and mini Nicaraguan festival.  I made the effort to watch the 1983, Under Fire, an American movie on the Nicaraguan revolution inspired by the murder of ABC reporter Bill Stewart.  It left me with mixed feelings.  Sadly, neither of these activities found their form online.  They remain as merely activities of my Nicaraguan nature.

We did however, uncover one important little gem.  I noticed on the back of an photograph of my mother some handwriting that said, "Esteli, Nov 76."  This photo is from the same day of pictures as the nice group picture of my mom, grandmother and aunt as well as the Nordia image my sister and I carried to Fort Benning.  We now finally had context.  A photographer would only be visiting if there was a party going on and since it was November it meant they were celebrating my Abuelita's birthday.  It was the last birthday they would celebrate together before my mom left for the United States.  Interestingly, it turns out that the photographer is my cousin Yahoska's great-uncle, Donaldo Picado.  He loved taking pictures and always brought his camera around.  I was surprised to see how the story of simple photograph could continue to grow.

  

Today marks the 35th anniversary of the attack on Colina 110, when mi Tía Nordia and 30-plus other teenagers were gunned down by helicopters, tanks and plowed through with bulldozers.  Two years ago as I remembered her death, I started this blog to write about her life.  Today it is again her death brings me back to write about her and explore her story.  I must renew my commitment to this journey.  In honor of her I wanted to light a candle by her picture on the mantle as my mother always does in our living room.  The only picture I had of her was a print-out from this same photo session slipped into the binder for my notes and so up it went.  This work is her memorial.  If I want to honor her life, I must make this photo more than a memory.

Ser Guadalupano

My favorite Marian holy day is the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe.  This is quite possibly heavily influenced by the fact that it occurs the day after my birthday and my mother prayed for her intercession during labor with me.  I feel a special connection to this brown-skinned, pregnant patroness of the Americas, who left her imprint on a simple tilma and upon the hearts of many.  I have two t-shirts with her image that I wear proudly.  I have other little items here and there graced with her lovely face and have even been mistakenly identified as Mexican because of my devotion.  Granted, I've been told to go "back to Mexico" without any Guadalupan markers, but this person was confused why I would care so much about her.

Although Our Lady of Guadalupe appeared specifically in Mexico, she is a mother for all of the Americas.  She came as one of the people, in their skin, speaking their language and appearing to Juan Diego.  Honor and veneration to her has spread across the continent.  I asked my mother to explain to me how she came into our family's life in Nicaragua.  Though this is not directly a part of Nordia's personal story, it does help with understanding the environment she grew up in.

In Nicaragua, a greater emphasis is places on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, on December 8. (Interestingly, this was the due-date I was suppose to be born.)  It is celebrated there somewhat similarly to Halloween in the United States.  Houses that want to participate decorate outside with an altar to the Virgin.  Children go from house to house singing songs to Our Lady and collect fruits and candies from the homes they visited.  No tricks, just treats and nothing scary, only joyful singing.  My family celebrated with this tradition every December.  Then one year when my mother was very young my grandfather, Juan Fernando Gonzalez Molina, took a trip with his brothers to Mexico.  They unintentionally happened to be there during the Guadalupan festivities.  He was so impressed by all the "peregrinos"and the great devotion of the Mexican people.  Deeply touched by what he saw, he wanted to bring this back to share with his family in Estelí.

What he ended up doing was loosely adapting their "Purísma" customs into a "Guadalupana" one.  They stopped setting-up on the 8th to prepare to host on the 12th.  The display was moved inside and he invited the whole neighborhood, with crowds growing into the hundreds eventually.  My grandmother would lead the prayer, ending the novena that day with the people gathered.  Prayers turned to songs and the sweets would be distributed.  In the early days, the fruits and candies would be passed out individually at internals, then eventually they started putting everything together in little buckets to give.  My grandfather observed this every year until he died and then my grandmother continued the practice.  Now my uncle upholds the tradition in her memory.

I personally find it fascinating that my grandfather could travel off to Mexico, fall in love with Our Lady of Guadalupe and build up such an ongoing, lasting devotion, celebration and tradition in their small town in Nicaragua.  My mother says she was around 5 or 7 years old, which makes Nordia two years younger.  This tells me that my aunt was raised with the same respect and honor to Our Lady.  It makes me happy to know that my Tía Nordia was probably a Guadalupana as well.  And to be Guadalupano, es algo escencial.

Dejada

As I continue to remember my journey of ten years ago participating in the SOA Watch Vigil in Georgia, I recall today especially as the day I left a photo of my aunt behind at the gates of Fort Benning.  On Sunday, November 23, 2003 after getting closer to my aunt and carrying her with me, I had to leave her behind.  I had to let go.  It was an extremely emotional experience for me.  I didn't realize how hard it was to put the picture down and walk away from it.

I can still remember the day very well.  The sunny clear sky welcomed us amidst the cool, crisp air.  We walked toward the back of the procession line, collecting our crosses along the way.  Simple, white wood, with black paint listing the name of a victim from a soldier of this school.  Some were nameless, with just an age.  We remember the fallen regardless of knowing them.  I did not take a cross, for I was carrying my aunt's photo.  She was my cross, her life was the one I carried with me.

When we found our place in line I was overtaken by the beauty of it all.  Golden red hues of trees lined the path and converged deep ahead to flank the center point of it all, the United States flag, hanging high from a pole.  I immediately admired the composition of it, thinking of my Advanced Storyboard class but had to laugh at myself and brush the distraction away.  However, it was still interesting that the prominent flag would be the visual focal point, as if the crucifix for the gathered congregation in our outdoor prayer.  The flag, striped red with the blood of the lives it had taken.  It made me uncomfortable.

A chilling, haunting voice broke free to made its resonance felt among the thousands, "Oscar Romero..."  A white sea arose in response, "Presente..."  The procession had begun.

Cry and response, a victim remembered, the prayer continued.  One step at a time, the procession slowly moved forward.  The chant went on in great length.  I remember noticing the neighbors houses as we inched along the path.  The forest of people was too thick to really see much ahead.  It wasn't until we were close to the stage and near the end that we could even catch the action.  Bodies on the ground, in masks, covered with red paint, representing the dead.  I didn't realize there was going to be anything else besides our procession.  We continued along slowly, raising our crosses together in turn and I lifting the portrait.

Finally we reached the end of the line.  I am still amazed how the gate was not visible until the very end.  What greeted us was a wall of white, hiding the wire behind.  An intricate web of crosses going every which way fully encompassed the span of the gate.  Where would we leave ours?  We moved together to a less congested patch and joined our crosses with the others, uniting them on the fence.  I didn't want to fold and tuck my photo into gate.  I left Nordia on the floor, facing out, supported by her neighboring crosses to be seen by those who approach this gate.

As I left her there I became deeply saddened.  The symbolism of leaving her behind transformed into an emotional reality.  The people surrounding me were happy and smiling, energized by exercising their civil rights of peaceful protest.  They joyfully took pictures of themselves in action promoting justice and serving their faith.  I felt broken and alone.  I remember falling down in tears.  Fortunately, my friend Jake saw my pain and came to comfort me.  I don't think he realized what it meant to me to be able to cry in someone's arms.  I will always be thankful.

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur.  It took more of a touristy character as we visited the sights of Atlanta before flying home.  And although we had to go back to California and return to college life, I wanted to continue to carry Nordia with me.

In honor of this memorable day I want to share the poem I wrote back then in 2003 as a reflection of my experience.

Nhordia,

Mi tía,

Nunca te conocí,

Nunca te pude ver,

Solo en los fotos de ayer.

Nunca te llamaré

Nunca te visitaré

Solo en el espíritu de Nicaragua.

Pero por un fin de semana,

Casi,

Te pude sentir

En el aire,

En la tierra,

Empezabas a vivir.

En mi cuerpo,

En mi mente,

Tu estabas allí

Resistiendo,

Protestando,

Nhordia en mí.

Y todavia,

No sé que pasó

Ese domingo triste

En la entrada

De la Escuela de las Americas,

Sangrienta,

Dolorosa,

Tú lo viste,

Las dos entramos

Pero salió sola una,

Erika.

Otra vez, caías

En los manos de la Guerra,

Otra vez, me fuí llorando,

Sin mi tía al salir.

Mi compañeros Zapatistas,

Y yo la única,

Sandinista.

De tu lado,

De tu alma,

Yo no quería partir.

Pensé que por segunda vez

Mi tía fue asesinada,

Pero El Señor me ensenó

Una Nhordia re-encontrada

Ese domingo memorable,

Buscando la gran liberación

Allí estaba mi tía

Continuando la revolución.

Por los siglos de los siglos,

Ya sé que va a pasar,

Mi Nhordia siempre viva

Nunca la volverán a matar.

¿Cómo puede ser esto?

¿Un cuerpo immortal?

Es el alma que se queda

Que yo la voy a llevar.

Translation:

Nhordia,

My aunt

I never met you,

I never saw you,

Except in photos from the past.

I would never call you,

I would never visit you,

Except in the spirit of Nicaragua.

But for one weekend,

Almost,

I felt you

In the air,

In the earth,

You started to live.

In my body,

In my mind,

You were there

Resisting,

Protesting,

Nhordia in me.

And still,

I don’t know what happened,

That sad Sunday,

At the entrance

Of the School of the Americas,

Bloody,

Painful,

You saw it,

We both entered

But only one returned,

Erika.

Once again, you fell

In the hands of the army,

Once again I left crying,

Parting without my aunt.

My friends Zapatistas,

And me the only,

Sandinista.

From your side,

From your spirit,

I did not want to leave.

I thought for a second time

My aunt was murdered,

But God showed me

A Nhordia re-found

That memorable Sunday,

Searching the grand liberation,

There was my aunt

Continuing the revolution.

Forever and ever,

I already know what will happen,

My Nhordia will always live

They’ll never return to kill her.

How is this possible?

An immortal body?

It’s the spirit that stays

That I will carry.

In a Decade

It's been exactly a decade since I stepped foot in Columbus, Georgia to visit Fort Benning and attend the Ignatian Family Teach-In and SOA Watch Vigil over the course of three days.  Friday, November 21, 2003 marked the beginning of this profound experience.  I traveled with about a group of 30 from Loyola Marymount University.  We learned together, we prayed together, we walked together.  This trip was the culmination of a lot of preparation, formation and reflection.  We learned about the Jesuit martyrs at UCA and the story of Oscar Romero in El Salvador.  We studied the history of US involvement with Latin America.  This was the first time I questioned my aunt's death as more than a casualty of war.  This was the beginning of my questioning.  Traveling to Georgia and honoring my Tía Nordia at the vigil was my first real relationship with her.  I will always tie this experience as part of my unraveling of her story.  Ten years later, I must continue to question.  I must always take time to remember her sacrifice.

In honor of the ten-year anniversary, I'd like to share these videos of our journey courtesy of Paul Pryor Lorentz.

and the third video which won't imbed:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZT5pEpcvKeE

Reunited

Today, November 16, 2013 marks the 7th anniversary of when my grandmother was reunited with her daughter, Nordia.  After waiting years for her to come home, she instead met her there.  As hard as it was for me to not be able to say goodbye, I rest with the hope of seeing her again someday.  Until then, I will take the time  to honor her life here on Earth.