Translating for my and my boyfriend's mothers

Since I am in a relationship with someone from another country, I have the constant blessing of participating in new experiences. Today I translated a live conversation between my mother and my boyfriend’s mother—yet another first. My boyfriend and I are staying the week at his parents’ home in Antofagasta, Chile—my second time visiting. I was skyping with my mom when my boyfriend’s mom, Nori, pops her head in my room with a huge grin and sings in her sweet way, “Hola Wendy!”

“Mom, Nori says ‘hi’ to you,” I tell her. Nori takes a few steps closer and hunches over my laptop and into my webcam’s frame. “Hi Nori! How are you?”

“Te dice ‘hola’ Nori, y te pregunta cómo estás,” I tell Nori. Translating a brief greeting turned into a brief conversation, thanking the other for a 38 different things, and talking about pictures and how excited my mom is for my boyfriend to move to my city in December.

It was a beautiful time and although brief, it was just enough to wet my palate for the day they get to meet. That day, I will be able to translate full conversations, and let the laughter and smiles translate on its own.

Peruvian Cuisine and Interview Synthesis

I savored each bite of a homemade Peruvian rice dish with chicken, hot dog, egg, soy sauce, and green onion today. I considered it a delicious treat for good journalism, which to me, means getting to the right location, or finding the right contacts. In this case, I had done both. But by no means did I do them alone--they were friends of Juanchi. So the recipe (wink) to receiving a mouth-watering meal while reporting involves four steps: Use a contact's contacts, go with a warm reputation preceding you, get invited to the home, and hold the interview in the kitchen.

The dear family I met today was the Moreno family, natives of Trujillo, Peru. The parents, Javier and Maritza, moved to Buenos Aires in 1993, not in search of a better economic situation, but simply to be able to live together in the same city. While Martiza and her young children (one is missing from the photo because he was out of the house at the time) lived in Trujillo, Javier lived ten hours away in Lima, where he worked a good job in the government. Martiza would take the children to visit their father once every two to four weeks, but that was hardly enough. Finally, they decided to move to Buenos Aires, where they could live in the same city. Yet they decided to leave their children with their grandmother while the couple began to form a life in the city. When they first arrived on August 13, 1993, they had $13 to their name. A friend told them of an Evangelical church that was receiving immigrants, so they quickly located it and moved in to the top floor that was home to about 100 new arrivals. When they first walked into the building, Javier approached a young man in his early 30s and asked to speak to the pastor. The corners of the man's lips curved up into somewhat of a smirk. "I am the pastor," he said. "I never would have thought he was the pastor," Javier said. "He looked so young." That young pastor was my boyfriend's father, Juan Peréz. Juan and his wife Nora were immigrants themselves, having moved from Temuco, Chile, as newlyweds and both certified doctors and pastors. They witnessed the dramatic increase of immigrants in the city who often slept in the streets with no place to go, so they decided to open their church as a refuge.

"It was not comfortable, but it was a place to stay," Martiza said, describing the housing the church provided. Of the 100-something people staying there, only a handful were Protestant Christians, she said. Initially, some of the women who stayed there didn't like her and said she couldn't stay. She begged her husband to go elsewhere with her, anywhere but that church. He encouraged her to try for awhile, and so they ended up staying. Martiza described the women's room as a dark environment. She said that people would get drunk, say horrible things, some women would strip and have shows, and some were prostitutes. Living there was her worst experience since arriving in Argentina.

She cried every day. She missed her children in Peru. A year-and-a-half later, she and her husband saved enough money to return to Peru and bring their children with them to Argentina. But the children would cry every day. The family squished together in one room, when they were used to their 300 square meters home in Peru. Yet for the last ten years, they have been living happily together in a cement house they rent in the city.

Javier described the discrimination that his children experienced at school and he and his wife received at their jobs. The most shocking example of discrimination and mistreatment was Martiza's experience working at a geriatric center. Since her husband worked in the kitchen, he had access to good quality food during the day. But properly feeding those who cared for the elderly was not high on anyone's priority list. Martiza was a caregiver, and she was given leftover food that was put in a blender for a disgusting and unsanitary smoothie mush. During that time, she went days without eating anything but a few oranges.

Today, their youngest son, Jeampierre, is a skateboarding fanatic and began a t-shirt company geared toward the skating crowd. His company is called DreamX, and each shirt has an X on it somewhere. When I asked him why the X is significant, his says its for extreme dreams.

Peruvian Food and Photographer's Fear

I've been in Buenos Aires for a little over three weeks now. I kissed my boyfriend for the first time in 4 1/2 months, turned 21, drank lots of wine, went running and got my boyfriend to run with me, accepted a photography job for no pay, turned down an offer to photograph a wedding in Ushuaia for pay, started photographing with my grandfather's 1972 SRT101 Minolta, and have managed to avoid buying a single piece of clothing. I've also only made one portrait of a Peruvian family for a photography project I'm working on.

I see them almost every day because they run the vegetable stand across from my apartment. I've been making a lot of contacts of people to photograph and interview, most of whom are acquaintances of Juanchi, but have been struggling to make them on my own. I don't mind his help in the least bit, but by going through people he knows, I'm strategically avoiding confronting my fear of approaching people I don't know in hopes of photographing or interviewing them about their immigration experience. A clever, but poor decision.

So I did what any bored photojournalist does when they are ready to talk to someone--I got my cameras, notebook, and went a location where I would have to be a leader in the antisocial movement to miss meeting a potential photo subject. When Juanchi and I arrived at the Peruvian restaurant, I hardly had time to visually confirm the nationality of the waiters and observe the art on the mango-colored wall before I noticed three of Juanchi's four housemates sitting in a corner table. We had just arrived from my place and weren't expecting to see them, and joined them for a lovely time during lunch. Two are from Panamá and the other is from Ecuador. Yet I didn't realize quite how globalized our table was until I asked one of the Panameños, Jan, how "broster" chicken was cooked, and he responded with "Kentucky Fried Chicken." Apparently they have those in Panamá. I asked them if they knew what Kentucky means, and they responded with "the owner's last name," then later decided it was a city in the U.S. At least they got a little closer to the right answer. I explained to them that the KFC in Chapel Hill closed because so many people were protesting it. Or at least that's why I think it closed, after seeing protestors out there one month and the building empty the next.

I ordered grilled chicken with rice, steamed potatoes, and a salad.

Juanchi ordered this:

Which to me, was the obvious star for my next picture. But for him, was a stomach ache as we were strolling around China Town in search for peanut butter, a rare commodity in Argentina.

I didn't photograph any people today. But I did make another contact. I will return to the restaurant on Friday to interview and talk with our waiter, Renaldo. I didn't explain much, but said it was for an artistic-historical project on foreigners in Buenos Aires. So for the next three days, I have interviews lined up with a family, a couple, and the waiter. On the fourth day, Argentina plays Nigeria in the World Cup, and I will be rephotographing the Peruvian family. I thought I had successfully photographed them with my grandfather's Minolta last week, but apparently I hadn't even turned on the camera when I thought I was "making frames." Classic mistake of the digital generation.

To put on plastic jewelry

For the last two months, I've been going to a Latino Baptist church in Pittsboro, NC. Last week after the service, some of the teenage girls called me over to their mom's car where they were selling colorful plastic jewelry for their neighbor who is pregnant and trying to make a living from her house. They asked me if I wanted to buy anything and were showing me some very, let's call them interesting pieces of jewelry that I think I might have work eight years ago. As a Peterson girl, I was raised to like fine, dainty pieces of gold and silver jewelry, and was the topic of discussion whenever I donned my coconut shell earrings and when I got a green studded nose ring. I was picking through the pieces with a smile on my face, trying to find something of interest to me, but ended up saying that I didn't think I needed any jewelry right now, but thanks anyways. Plus, I had used the last of my cash on the tithe, so I had a really good excuse if one was needed. Then, this 28-year-old woman who I had never met turned from the jewelry stash and asked me which one I wanted, holding out two necklace and earring very fake pearl sets, one in blue and the other in white. I politely declined and told her in Spanish that she didn't need to buy me anything, but then she informed me that she already bought it and c'mon, choose which one you want. So I chose the blue.

She proceeded to ask me what I was doing after church and I said going home, so she invited me to lunch with her family, which included her sister, brother, mother, niece and nephew. Touched by the invitation, I agreed to lunch and then drove her and her 8 month pregnant sister in my car as we headed into downtown Pittsboro to their favorite Mexican restaurant. While we were in the car and listening to the embarrassing perpetual dinging of my confused, old van, it occurred to me that I didn't even know their names. I asked, we arrived, we ate, and the 13-year-old boy asked me about my favorite movies. I regret that I'm so boring and had to tell him that I don't normally watch movies. They paid for my lunch with them and we went our separate ways.

Today, I'm about to head off to church. I'm dressed in my khakis, a nice black top, a purple shrug, and matching plastic blue earrings and necklace.

Dear Land of the Free

Dear Land of the Free, I need help understanding a recent decision that you made to deny my Argentine boyfriend a visa to visit me.
You told me to study hard, so I did. You taught me to love diversity and new experiences, so I sought after them. You helped fund my study abroad last semester to Buenos Aires, Argentina, so I was able to go. You told me to try not to hang out with Americans much so that I could be deeper immersed in the Argentine language and culture, so I did. My second weekend there, I took a risk and went on a retreat with a local Argentine church. They needed a translator during the sermons because American missionaries were visiting, so I gladly helped out.
It was that weekend that I met my boyfriend. His dark, handsome features and colorful Ecuadorian hat caught my eye, and he quickly swept me off my feet with his hospitability, musical talent and eagerness to help me improve my pronunciation.
As our relationship grew over the semester, so did our plans for the future. He would visit me the first of April, we had decided, so that he could meet my family and get to see Chapel Hill in bloom. Then, I would be back in Argentina soon after exams so we wouldn’t have to go too long without seeing each other.
Plans changed after you denied him a visa at the beginning of February. Sure, he has all kinds of factors going against him. He is a recent college graduate, doesn’t live with his parents, works several jobs and has a girlfriend in the States, which apparently is code red for “likely to stay in the U.S. to form a life, so he can’t come in.”
I think your policies are contradictory and whoreish. What I understand from this situation is that it is okay for U.S. citizens to study and learn and become better human beings from their experiences in foreign cultures and bring back the knowledge and love we gained abroad to share with people at home. But we’re not going to be good hosts and allow the people who taught us abroad to visit and learn from us if there is the slightest possibility at all that they might want to form a life here. You sold me out, America. I feel like I used the beautiful country of Argentina, their universities, the church and all the kind people who helped me along the way. I thought I was getting involved in a cultural exchange, which to me, occurs when both sides win. As much as I’d like to think that Argentina greatly benefitted from hosting me, I don’t think it compares to the ways in which I benefitted from being there.
Next time, please make it clear to all people who want to pursue foreign travel or work that they should avoid all possibilities of falling in love while they are abroad—that is, if it’s the kind of love where you would want to see the person again.

Another visa denied

There are few things that frustrate me more right now than the U.S. visa system. I will begin with the newest disappointing story I heard. Yesterday after church, I was talking to Pastor Enrique about his family and asked where his wife was. He told me that she had gone to Mexico to get her 87 year-old father a visa to visit their family in the states. The old man's wife, Alicia's mother, is also living with their family in Chatham County. So Alicia took her old father to the U.S. embassy to say, "This is my father and I came back to Mexico to get him. He's coming home with me to visit the rest of our family and his wife." They denied him a tourist visa to visit his family. My assumption is that they figured he would go to the U.S. and stay. And even if he did? He's 87 and certainly not going to fill up a job that "belongs to an American." At the very most he might use health resources he's not paying for (although his family is through taxes). Although I believe he completely deserves that, simply because his daughter does laundry at a hotel, his son-in-law pastors a Latino church and makes $16,000 a year, and also he has probably worked some job in Mexico from which Americans have benefitted in the form of cheap labor or goods. I say, "Thank you, compadre, we would be honored to host you in our country and wish you and your family a happy reunion. Let me say this again, his son-in-law is a pastor. That means he's keeping young kids off the street and men out of bars and leading a healthy environment focused on God and positive family environments. And they wouldn't let him in.

I won't continue for tonight. I'll save similar stories, and my personal visa situation, for another day. I just wanted to bring back the blog because I'm a woman with a lot on my mind and not enough ways to sort through it all.

Buenas noches.

Why I want to adopt

I came across this great video today about a boy's orphanage in west Detroit. It's heart-warming to hear about their experiences there and to see their determination to control their behavior and anger and to always persevere with their goals. While it still breaks my heart to see them in a flawed system, as just a small number of the 18,000 youth in orphanages in Michigan, I can't help but think that, according to edmundriceinternational.org, 700 kids sleep on the streets of Buenos Aires every night, and thousands roam the city every day begging for coins, often for an adult they are working for or so their parents can buy paco (the cheapest version of cocaine).

Today I was walking alongside a waterfront in Puerto Madero after leaving the library at la Universidad Católica de Argentina and saw two children walking alongside each other, each less than 3 feet tall, without shoes and clearly without bathing for a long time. What was so striking about these two young boys was that they moved about and interacted with each other as if they were 17-year-old boys. I'm not sure how else to describe it other than they had the mannerisms of people twice their age and twice their height. It was hard to miss the juxtaposition of these two street kids walking over a beautiful cobblestone path alongside flashy restaurants and happy couples and friends posing for pictures along this charming waterfront.

Minutes later, as I sat down along the curb to contemplate whether or not I should buy an ice cream from the shop meters away, a man approached me and asked me politely, yet meekly for a piece of my time, with a slightly frightened look as if I might snap at him. He started explaining to me about this magazine he was selling for 3 pesos, or about $0.80, that exists to use the proceeds to give opportunities to street kids so that they don't have to beg for money. Although I'm still not sure what he meant by that, I bought a magazine anyways (there were pretty photos). After awhile he felt comfortable enough to sit down beside me and even introduce himself. I'd definitely say he's one of the nicer people I've met in the city.

Well I didn't end up buying the ice cream, but that's irrelevant and had more to do with the fact that I just didn't want to spend the money (but really, US$4 for a small???) Anyways, I've been thinking about adoption ever since high school when I learned about Compassion International (compassion.com) that let's you sponsor a child for a certain donation each month to provide them with education, food, and other basic necessities. This world has everything we could need to sustain each human body in it, but resources are so badly distributed and hoarded by a small percentage of the world. Right now I feel so full from dinner that it's kind of uncomfortable (french fries and fried fish....Marieta and I just had a discussion about how I don't want her to buy fried food anymore and she was really surprised and said, "But I thought you'd like it since you're American"). I feel guilty. The guilt of the "haves." I think I'm gonna start bringing extra food with me to give out. I'm not quite sure why it took me 2 months to get to this point, but if I'm so unsure against giving out money for fear of supporting someone's drug habit, a healthy food is a great alternative.

Noting the above statement, I realize that I tend to end my more pensive blog posts with some sort of tangible way to apply what I've learned. So for me, I'll say that this week I'll buy more fruit at the fruitería in the mornings to give out as I go along during my day. And I will be praying about adoption. How will you respond?