Thursday, June 29, 2017

A Community In Grievance Part 2: Casket to Casket

Tuesday June 27th, 2017

When clergy begin their ministry they are given a faucet. This faucet is placed in front of their heart and it leaks. It pours out compassion, love, empathy, and energy. One cannot always stop the leak and so they are drained. Slowly yet surely there will be a drop where there was once a pond. Somehow there is never a drought. It is as if this faucet just digs deeper and deeper into the soul finding something to consume and eject. How does one fill their pond before a well is dug? How do clergy types tighten the leak?

My faucet was leaking the entire night as I wrestled in my blankets texting my congregants about the viewing. I had no desire to wake up hourly or cada media hora. By 2:00am it occurred to me that sleep would be required. As the woman always preaching self care to my students and friends it seems that I am failing to take my own advice- per usual. It was not the sleepless night that bothered me so much but the spurts of anxiety that accompanied it were what was painful.

5:45am First alarm goes off.

“I can’t get up. I just can’t do it.”

6:00am Second alarm goes off.

“But I made a commitment. Has the sun even dawned upon my window?”

6:20am Third alarm goes off.

“Nic. It’s time.”

Another member and I agreed to meet that morning at the church and walk together to see the girls. She was their Catechism teacher. For nearly a year they all spent every Friday evening together reading bible stories and playing games. When they received their first communion, she handed each of them the wine and embraced them individually to celebrate the sacrament. Today she would witness another one. The weather turned cold as if the earth knew there would be no sunshine in our hearts today. It was dreary across Grand Bourg. Shops were closed. Most people were walking in the same direction as if the Holy Spirit was guiding us.

We arrived to what I learned would be the first velatorio by 8:00am where Marianela and Valentina resided. We walked two blocks west of the church to find an abundance of people already grieving on the streets. As we approached the driveway familiar faces popped up around the crowds. Every single teacher from IEA was there gathered in groups by grades. All pale and tender faces, slightly red and puffy around the eyes. Women that were normally well decorated in makeup stood around in raw form. Hair pulled back in loose pony tails and messy buns. Palms clenched tissues like a pearl in an oyster. This was not unique to the teachers as other students stood with their parents in like attire. Everyone came as they were completely out of uniform with each other. Some mourners were in sweatpants and sneakers while others were in jeans and sandals. Then here I was in a full collar and suit already being the most obvious stranger to many. 

The velatorio consisted of three rooms; room one with closed doors and people inside grieving who I believe to be another victim of the crash, room two was also closed with no signs of people, then furthest from the entrance room three which contained a more secluded waiting area and our two girls. It was packed from wall to wall. My member and I walked in a line passing through rivers of tears and sleeping children. Most viewers stood outside of the door just staring. A cross sat between two closed caskets covered with photos and disheveled parents. Big brothers were held by friends. Mothers held by their sisters. The photos lingered in my head as we stared into this crowded space for over ten minutes. We stood there like the rest. By the time we turned around our faces too where covered in tears, mine triggered by the moans of family. 

“Donde estaba Dios?”

As we left the room for air it seemed as dozens of more people arrived. In the center of the open roof lobby the two of us stared towards each other but into the distance. Another member arrived. We were silent as there were no words to speak. I watched my teacher groups slowly disperse down the driveway and back towards the school. Further into the distance were over a dozen men lined up on the adjacent sidewalk staring into the velatorio. 

“Donde esta la otra chica?” I broke the silence.

I learned Maria Sol was at another velatorio a few blocks over. I asked the second member to lead me as the first one left for work. It was 8:42am and the crowd easily doubled in size. As we walked out through the driveway we would see another hundred people gathered in clusters and walking towards us. The entire town grieved.

We walked two blocks east and past the church to south east down another. The two of us circled around the plaza where we once stood for the vigil. Melted candles stood boldly on the plaza stage as the light drizzle began. Wax hardened down the sides of the stage and flowers were piled up in the center. We continued on our journey and turned right passed the local pool house. A large green and white sign hung over another large crowd of people. The same teachers were there but now there were more strangers. This two room partially enclosed patio led to two rooms. The front room held another victim and kept the doors relatively closed. Her mourners leaned on the windows of the building separated from us by an imaginary wall.

We walked towards the back of the patio where more school administration and family members stood. The entrance slightly differed from the first as there seemed to be two separated lounges but just as many people standing in the doorway. Her mother stood by the right side of the entrance where people walked over to embrace her. Supporting her were her sisters and mother. On the opposite side was her father leaning over her open casket as the Vice Principal held him. He too was once a student at IEA. The open casket broke my spirit as this sleeping angel laid there draped in white like her first communion. Flowers from Tio y Tia laid upon her legs with small cards and other trinkets. I remember her face. My loss of words were evident as I could not even speak to people I knew well. All I could do was watch.

Soon after I paid my respects I found my well seasoned supervisor. I felt overwhelmed. Maybe it was the walking back and forth between two funeral homes or knowing that two different homes were completely occupied from the same accident. Regardless, there was a lot of pain to encounter. This was not what any of us sign up for when we think about parish ministry. Unpredictable accidents involving children has trumped nearly any other trauma I have had to deal with in the past. We were not only dealing with three families but dozens of staff and hundreds of students. I was hoping to find guidance in what to do by my supervisor but it she too had to walk through the same trenches and that was just as difficult to observe.

Before the hour ended we walked back to the first velatorio expecting to watch Marianela be taken away to the cemetario. The girls were scheduled to be removed by the hour. Following her would be Valentina and then we would walk back to Maria Sol before noon. The walk back from Sol was much more difficult than this morning. It was not only my supervisor, member, and I but now majority of the IEA staff. We passed by other mourners walking in both the same and opposite direction as us. Many were with children. Adults walked in pairs. One could tell who was participating in this pilgrimage due to their body motions. Many people held each other and walked quietly. Steps were not as powerful. Familiar faces intentionally stopped to greet each other. It was unlike anything I had experienced before. 

Returning to the first location was no easier than getting up this morning. The Vice President of IELU met us in the lobby so we could then walk together to view the girls again. This time around I noticed the grieving parents and how much they differed from each other. One of the fathers could barely sit still as he clenched his daughter’s lime green winter coat. He tied it around his neck like the invisible cloak, like it was protecting him from the realities of the world. The other girl’s mother weeped more softly moving between chairs near her daughter’s casket to the benches in the lobby. Shortly after our arrival the fire department arrived to also pay their respects. Marianela’s casket was moved one last time into room two before her final departure. It was then when her mother took a seat outside of her room where she sat and smoked a cigarette as a crowd of people rushed into to see her precious daughter. Pained.

I could not bear to stare any longer at closed caskets and drenched faces. The clock had finally struck 10:30am and Marianela’s chariot awaited. Grievers lined up the driveway. The men across the street grew vastly in numbers. People were still in room three with Valentina and others were outside of the building talking amongst themselves. I had counted over 50 people alone in the 10 feet radius of me after most people cleared space for the pole bearers. Slowly as the driver pulled off with our girl, the crowd began to collapse in on each other following the vehicle to the street.

We wept. 

By 11:17am the clergy crew and I were on our way back to Maria Sol for the last time. This is when it dawned on me that I had very little strength to continue. My supervisor on the other hand made her way around these spaces able to provide that same sort of care she delivers any other day of the week. I was in awe. V.P. was no different in her approach to grief. The two of them tagged teamed and made their rounds within the velatorio spanning from staff to family to neighbors to children. The two of them have always inspired me in the way the minister. Their ability to sense and embrace exceeds that of many others I have seen. Their presence is powerful without being overbearing. They can do this, I however am falling behind.

In the moment I labeled this as traumatic when the proper word would be draining. Staring at caskets and bodies is draining. Watching strangers cry which then makes you cry is draining. Feeling for every single person because you have a bad habit of trying to figure everyones relationship to the dead is draining. We lamented for four hours before I finally took a walk. 

For an hour I caught my breath trying to process what was even happening. I found security in my local eatery. The waitress approached me in my collar and knew immediately where I had been.

“Las chicas estan mis estudiantes. Tres asistieron la escuela aca.”

I was frazzled and raw blurting these things out before I properly greeted this familiar face. Am I panicking right now? I felt premature for my position and irresponsible for walking away. Staff members  that saw me leaving made sure to check me as I passed. Am I abandoning my tribe by taking a break? Nevertheless it did not stop me from calmly sipping my coffee and watching others trek a similar path back and forth. By the end of the 12th hour I headed back into the deep end to be guided by clergy into a car. Trustingly I asked:

“Dale, a donde vamos?”

We were heading to another velatorio. 

My heart weakened and my eyes drifted close. 

We arrived.

We grieved.

We left. 


We planned for tomorrow. Today had hurt. My pond is empty. The faucet still leaks. But those who are thirsty will still need to drink tomorrow.



#ReclaimMissionary

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

A Community in Grievance Part 1: Candelight Texts

Monday July 26th, 2017 10:02am (Day 309)

I slept peacefully in Capital Federal electronically disconnected from the world, a rarity for me. It was my version of the weekend. After over ten months in country it no longer occurred to me that tragedy happened. I felt like I escaped that. As if I was fleeing from R.I.P. T- shirts and police brutality. I arrived to this land foreign to me with generations upon generations living, trauma that was not quite fatal, and baptisms in abundance. Maybe six months into this journey I had completely written off the idea of preparing for a funeral. The joke is on me  I guess.

As my alarm sounded, I asked my friend for a wifi password. I was carefree- for a moment.

“Nic fallecieron 3 chicas del colegio en el accidente. C.C. esta destruido. Te necestiamos.” (8:57am)

“Estamos en el templo.” (9:52am)

My eyes stretched over the message confused at what I was reading. “Three of my students were in an accident. I don’t understand what this says though. Fallecieron?” Someone else had to explain to me that my students were dead. My face dropped. This could not be happening. 

But I’m not in Grand Bourg. I’m an hour away. What do I do? More messages popped up on my phone from the congregation with lists of girls that were hospitalized or potentially dead. My brain could not even compute what I was reading. This happened last night? Mendoza? 100 different things raced through my mind as I tried to stay calm in front of others while putting the pieces together. 

“Yo vengo.”

What was a forty two minute train ride felt like three days as SZA played in my headphones. I scrolled through Instagram stories where majority of my connection with students reside. Our youth are aching something awful. Our community is disheveled. I finally began to cry. With no idea who these students at the time, my heart continued to ache for Instituto Evangelico Argentino (IEA). Our community has this bond I have never experienced before. Parent support exceeds the boundaries of our building and into field trips like Rosario. Teachers love students like they are their own. I have watched them cut food for students during meals and prepare children’s clothes during shower time. Familes and staff of the school watch these children grow up together from nursery throughout high school. And it doesn’t end there either. Iglesia de San Lucas sits right in the center of the school acting as the Lutheran alternative to Communion class, confirmation class, and youth related activities. Majority of our first communion kids are students of IEA as well as most of the attendees of Saturday LIGA. We are as bonded to the spiritual nourishment of IEA students as we are to our baptized members. This was not merely losing students, this was like losing your own kin.

I arrived at the school by 11:16am while teachers gathered in a circle of mourning and the directors clicked through Facebook photos. They showed me the last videos the girls, Marianela, Maria Sol, and Valentina, posted before the accident. Savoring the precious moments. While standing there in silence they finally explained to me what happened. A dance studio from Grand Bourg were on a trip in Mendoza. Something happened while on the bus which was difficult to understand. What was presented in the papers and on the news was a turned over bus leading to fifteen deaths, including our three girls. Others were severely injured and remain hospitalized in Mendoza. Another one of our students is part of that group. I did not know until then that there were others involved in this tragedy. I could not even begin to fathom what this meant for the greater Grand Bourg community. As each second passed the day became more grim.

The school was so empty that morning. I remember the erie silence in the halls where children normally play. Cleaning staff continued with their tasks as tears dropped on the very floors they wiped. They were our girls. Words could not crawl to my tongue fast enough. Just teary eyes and cold hands. Even with a room full of staff it felt like each one of us were alone. While there was community and embraces passed amongst each other, facial expressions displayed various essences of grief. As they should. Tell me, what does one say to broken hearts and empty spirits?

As they hour grew longer I felt myself back in CPE at Grady Hospital. There was a gunshot wound to the head victim, teenage girl, found on the side of the road in the early morning. I remember when her parents arrived. Her mother was unconsolable and her step father was too at a loss of words. I remember the strange discomfort I had around accompanying her and my consistent inability to speak. How far into the room should I be? Should I say anything? Do I rub her shoulder blade? I remember the regret I felt after leaving them feeling as though I did not do my job. Like there was more that could be done to provide care to those in grief. These feelings resurfaced as teachers greeted and walked past me to head home for the day. My mouth wanted to move but to say what? How do I embrace them so they know they are fully supported? Am I doing this pastoral care thing right? My anxiety has an appetite.

What happens next? It was now almost 1:00pm and the Candelight Vigil at the plaza was not until 7:00pm. I had no desire return to my home and isolate in fear of letting my own grief destroy me. So I walked up to the secundaria and returned to my newly beloved scaffold. I stared at the mural as my back faced the same seats the seventh and eighth graders would sit during recess and after school. Our girls were the same age. They too would linger by the recess tables or run in and out of the girls bathroom which resided on the left side of the mural. This patio felt sacred. In pure emptiness I could almost feel presence of these friend groups strolling by and staring. I remembered all the various students that would ask to help during break. I could hear the whispered “Que lindo”s from the lips of teens. Our youth are so sacred.

By the end of the session three pink ballet slippers hung from the hand of God. The same hand that held a girl in the waters of baptism. It felt prophetic for a minute to see this image of the baptismal water as we are given new life through this Holy Sacrament. We believe that through this sacrament death is not the end result. Rather, death is the point of transition to where we begin our eternal life with God our Creator in Heaven. It hurts today to lose our loved ones in their physical form and by no means is the acceptance of death easy. However, in baptism we trust in God’s eternal love for us and the gift of eternal life through our faith in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I guess the challenge is then believing that God still loves us even when we lose someone we love. Accepting the fatality of innocent children is a spoonful to swallow. It is an unbearable pain for parents and caretakers. A travesty such as this makes it difficult to reconcile with a loving God and a God often taught to be a puppeteer of daily life. My family too had to reconcile with this issue as I’m sure plenty of others had to as well. I try to preach about a responsive God rather than a commanding God. The God of  the Israelites who led Her people out of Egypt during times of slavery and genocide. I hope we can imagine a God who hears Her people and aches with them equally. God loves us so much that she gave us the power to live autonomously and hopefully humbled.This accident is of human origin and how we will all heal is of God’s power. Though that may be tough to digest today I cannot imagine leading a life of hate and resentment over something out of my own control. In other words, the God of my understanding is the one who is life giving, pain bearing, and earth making.

It was now 6:42pm and I had 18 minutes to prepare to publicly grieve with my community. Part of me wanted to walk home and shut down. But the streets were filled of people walking towards the plaza. Flower stores and candle stores had lines out of the door. Text messages kept coming in from congregants. I sat on the sidewalk in front of a local restaurant trying to develop the courage to walk. Then a student from the primary school passed me and waved. We all need each other.

I am curious how often pastors need to find the courage to face people. Tell me, has this ever happened to you? When we heard the Grand Jury did not indict Darren Wilson, heading in to Center City Philadelphia to protest and grieve was not even a second thought. One’s presence had always been instinctive. Then something like this happens and it seemed like my instincts were fading. I am ashamed.

The night was warm as if it were the bosom of God Herself. I walked over to the plaza with an ice cream cone in my hand as an irrational method to keep calm. Members of San Lucas waved me over as the vigil began. We lit our candles in silence and retreated to a less crowded space. Then a woman walked up to the stage where the TV cameras were. She invited the cluster of us to pray the Lord’s Prayer for the girls. Maybe is was the tearful mothers next to me but in that moment something clicked. As hundreds of community members entered the plaza, I began walking through the crowds to find my people. There was this bizarre juxtaposition throughout the space. Small children carelessly tinkered on the playground while their parents were swallowed in each others arms. High school kids that once laughed on the grass they stood on were consumed by tears. Hallow trees felt more full than the onlookers on the streets.  For brief moments I embraced youth, teachers, directors, and mothers. My tongue was still tied and my anxiety still thrived but it was important to check in on as many of us that I could. It was hard. It was uncomfortable. Yet it was intentional- the spirituality of presence. 308 days ago Grand Bourg welcomed me with open arms and invited me to accompany their ministry in the world. They offered me steadfast love and entrusted to be an equal participant in their community. Whether or not I am deserving of that invitation, they are deserving of all the love and support any stranger could possibly offer. 

The night concluded well after I departed as we all planned to regather at 11:00pm at the viewing of the bodies. We never reconnected. In reality is was better this way. There was no way anything healthy could come from us rushing through the evening to grieve once again. Everyone was tired if not physically at least emotionally. Eyes were swollen and red. Hands were filled with tissues. 

Not tonight. 

Tomorrow we would meet again. 



#ReclaimMissionary


Monday, June 19, 2017

The Patriot


Before I left for the States I managed to solidify a chaperone position on the fourth grade field trip to Rosario. To be honest I really had no idea what I was getting into. To me it sounded like a great opportunity to get to see another province of Argentina and Nic never says know to a chance to travel. In reality this was an academic/ social experience for our children to explore Argentine History already taught in schools and to be exposed to a different lifestyle than what we had in Grand Bourg. Our school, both primary and secondary, incorporates a lot of camping and trips  into their programming for this exact reason. Student formation is not exclusive to education. Rather, it is multidimensional and intentionally incorporates life experience and diversity. Without trips like these, many of our students may never receive these opportunities otherwise. To me, youth development that incorporates all of the person is greater than our traditional styles of schooling that I see in the U.S.

For the past sixteen years Instituto Evangélico Argentino has taken their fourth grade class to Rosario, Santa Fe for the Annual Flag Ceremony. There, hundreds of students from across the country gather in uniform with their oversized Argentine flags, Argentine pins, and pledge allegiance to the flag in unison. They sing songs of their country like the National Anthem while their parents and spectators gather behind them and cheer. Flags all across Rosario are raised as neighbors sit on their balconies to watch. This celebration happens on the center of the city between major monuments that form the shape of a ship almost. Behind is the eternally burning flame which symbolizes the unity of the country and the lives sacrificed for freedom.
In front of the crowd is the Monument of the Flag, also called the Tower. Inside the Tower contains a memorial to Manuel Belgrano, creator of the Flag, and an elevator that takes you to the top where one can oversee the river and the rest of the city.
It was on the shore of the Paraná River where the flag was first raised in celebration of Argentina’s independence from Spain in 1816. After the celebration students normally visit the neighboring city of San Lorenzo to learn about the war and explore historical sites such as the Franciscan mission where Jose de San Martin (liberator of Uruguay, Peru, Argentina, Chile, and Paraguay) had slept. Incredible to say the least.



I resided in a strange place between nostalgia and awe. They reminded me so much of what is was like to be in elementary school; singing on the bus to pop songs, not knowing how to brush ones’ own hair, wanting to touch, wanting to explore, the curiosity, snuggling up for girl talk in the bunk beds fortress, and unknowingly seeking approval from your elders. It was pure bliss at times especially on our day of play. A dozen kids rushed to embrace me with joy before we walked over to the basketball courts.
“You have all these children now."Such loving people I hope they continue to be. I translated Lutheran camp graces before meals. We sung my broken spanish graces that resembled Superman and Jaws.


Surrounding us was beautiful sand and the Parana River kissed every night and every morning by Mother sun herself. There was not one day that this felt like actual work.


My children taught me patriotism by the enthusiasm in their eyes at 6:30am on a Friday as they prepared to brush their teeth for the ceremony. Every single one of them with eyes lit like an eternal flame preparing to carry their flag into a parade of other flag bearing schools.
We were greeted by parents upon our arrival to the monument. Majority of the cheering section were Grand Bourg supporters. From abuelos to primos, love flowed in from all over. These parents were so thrilled to see their children at the Promesa a la Bandera Ceremonia, a morning filled of joy and delight. There was live entertainment keeping the crowd lively. The entire audience sung along to whatever came out of the band’s mouth. It was truly beautiful as thousands of people gathered from all across the country merely to celebrate the flag. And as we sang songs about the skies being the inspiration one could look up and see exactly how the celeste y blanco mirrored the soft clouds coddling the sun while the deep sky blended into this canvas. Increible.

#RealTalk

To be honest when I first arrived in Argentina I was skeptical of things like this. I noticed immediately how often I saw the Argentine flag incorporated into graffiti and art. Every night at midnight the National Anthem is played on the radio stations. Every single holiday is related to the Independence of Argentina and students are taught folk dance routines and made to wear traditional costumes at festivals. Displays of patriotism were like triggers to me. They brought me back in a state of discomfort as I imagined what the U.S. flag meant to me back home. I think of people who still dress like Confederates and reenact the Civil War. The American flag feels like it has been conquered by white- nationalism and every time it waves another innocent Black person is murdered by the police. Yes, I recognize this may sound absurd to many U.S. citizens reading this. However keep in mind that we just celebrated Juneteenth, the day African Americans (though should be all Americans) celebrate the liberation of an enslaved people which was only 152 years ago. My point here is, I did not understand what patriotism should look like because the declared “patriotism” exposed to me back home tends to be overwhelmingly toxic .

With that being said for the past year I have had to really sit with this concept of people loving their country and not terrorizing other people that live in it. Well, that too may be a bit of a stretch considering previous posts about femicide, anti- abortion legislation and domestic violence in the nation. But you will not find Argentines burning down the Mosque in Palermo or defiling a Jewish cemetery. The police do not exert unneeded power during protests nor does the military occupy space in nearly every other country. When your nation manages to generally stay in their lane, it is much easier to have an undying love for your flag without having to be fed a military industrial complex. How different is it for the love of a nation to not be bound to being coerced to also love war under the illusion of freedom.

For a number of years now I have struggled with the concept of patriotism. We have this very misinterpreted way of telling the story of American history. We go from the underdogs to wolves and begin to do things to others that we obviously did not want done to us. Those in power continue to colonize the term patriot used to justify acts of discrimination against people who were seeking the same liberties European colonizers sought upon their arrival. The difference here is that we are now the reason why many have to seek asylum away from their place of birth.

Embarrassingly enough what I am slowly beginning I comprehend this year is that the liberation of My America was, is and will continue to be bound to the liberation of all Americas. The representation of many of these American countries did not always resemble what they are today. Those who declared their freedom in countries such as Argentina also had a large colonizing class of people that came from Europe. And even after their liberation, the European elite were still very much maintained power. For me, some of the major differences are how they responded to the racial differences in their countries. Argentina for example abolished slavery in their constitution which was first written in 1853, before slavery was abolished in the United States. There were not developments of mass genocide of indigenous people though the marginalization of non- white people may still be present.

What the US does and continues to do to non- white people are daily acts of injustice. Whether it was illegal internment camps for Asians and Asian Americans, travel bans against predominantly Muslim- Arab nations, mass incarceration of black and ethnic- Latino people, or flat out discrimination in the workplace, we continuously participate in acts of violence against ourselves and our neighbors. I struggle with patriotism because the way we show our affection to our country is through manipulating our narrative and claiming any rejection of American crimes is hate towards soldiers and freedom.

My elementary school did a wonderful job of teaching us all the folk songs and making sure we all pledged to the flag even though most of my classmates’ families came from an exploited nation. We learned all about the founding fathers, the civil war, “slavery”, manifest destiny and the Native American groups of our state. We were brainwashed to believe that we were all made free even though we had a war less than a hundred years later proving that we weren't. We were assured reservations were just allocated plots of lands to Native people and sharecropping was better than slavery. Imperialism was glorified as if it were some sort of Pokémon edition to catch all the already claimed land of brown and black people. Rather, land was spoken about as if it were just empty and culture was optional. Genocide was only taught exclusively when reading about the Holocaust. The intentional mass murders of people who would fail a paper bag test did not get a name. They barely got a chapter in the history textbooks. But I digress.



I struggle. I am cautious of the word patriot because of the connotations made with it in the era that we are in. I struggle with being patriotic to a country that has benefited off of the bodies of my ancestors. I am conflicted in the present day relationship my country has with people in the margins both domestically and abroad. How can I be patriotic when my country cannot even admit people like me existed as anything other than slaves and Rosa Parks? I want to be able to love my country without my criticism of our imperialistic behavior being associated with hating our troops. I want a love that is not limited to freedom but also to the diversity and various cultures that are celebrated all over the country. I want a love that is demonstrated through universal healthcare, affordable higher education, and justice for people of color both living and dead. But maybe I am selfish for asking my country to love its people. All of them.

#ReclaimMissionary

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Vicar Goes to the U.S. (ESP)

Back in November I asked my family for an early Christmas gift. I asked them to purchase a ticket back to New York for me so that I may walk at graduation. Stay tuned for a graduation reflection. In the meantime during my travels home I decided to make a spanish language video for my blog to show my friends, students, and colleagues back in Argentina a little bit about my life back home. I invite both spanish speakers and non- spanish speakers to experience a little bit of the chaos that is my life. You will see a whole lot of food, a bit of family, and some really bad clips of me hopping around the boroughs, Philadelphia, and Long Island.

................

En Noviembre yo pregunte mi familia para un regalo navidad temprano. Se pregunte pagar para mi ida y vuelta a Nueva York entonces yo puedo caminar por graduación (Próximo reflexión sobre graduación viene pronto). Mientras que estuve a mi casa, elige hacer un vídeo en español para mis amigos, estudiantes, y compañeros en Argentina sobre mi vida en Nueva York. Invito todos y todas quienes hablan español y no pueden hablar español experimentan la caótica que esta mi vida. Veras mucha comida, poquito familia, y muy mal videos de mi en transito cruzando NYC, Filadelfia, y Long Island.


#ReclaimMissionary