Marci Soifer

You have had those weeks when you meditate on Sunday night with a pep talk...you know, the whole...alright, gotta pack as much into the next few days as possible, with as much energy and creativity and postivity and meaning and everything I have got. Well, maybe you have not engaged yourself in that exact pep talk before, but this is what ran through my mind over and over on Sunday night. I knew that this week would be it at Deporte y Vida, and I would plan art projects for each day, games for the free time, and make sure that my Spanish was up and ready for the math lessons of the week.

Alas, it is Thursday night, and everything has ended. I sit at this computer, and remember the week. We, of course, played Plate, Plate, Dove (your favorite game...and mine), completed the multiplication tables for the numbers 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6, and finished 3 different art projects. My teacher helped the teaching of animals masks (complete with English vocabulary and paper plates supported by popsicle sticks), stained glass windows (with black construction paper and colored tissue paper), and spiral snakes (topped off with googley eyes). Thanks to the team teaching, the projects were all extremely successful, despite the kids not knowing how to use glue sticks...as they had never seen them before (too expensive).

I am not sure if it is because I was particularly in tune to the nuances of each moment in the classroom this week, but, these projects were a really powerful gateway connecting me to the kids (prior to my goodbye). I helped Angela color her snake with pink polka dots, discovering that the confidence in her voice that goes missing during academics comes out in full force when her creativity is challenged. I held Christians hand inside the small, orange scissors when I told him that he could pick any shape to cut out for his stained glass windows, and I could not help but smile in response to the excitement of possiblity that oozed out of his eyes. And, it will be hard for me to forget the changes in Dorians voice as attempted to pronounce sheep when creating his mask, and he repeated, ESHEAP, ESHE-AHD, ESHEEP, SHEEP...and the laughter when he heard himself get it right. It was a good week (although I did not go to sleep before midnight because I had lots to prep for the next day...and that is late around here for me---shocker, I know), and one that I know the kids really enjoyed as well, since they greeted me every morning with a gleeful, what are we making today (which made me forget that I was at all tired)?!?!???!

Yesterday was the final day of class, and today was the clausura, or final performance and party. This was scheduled for the afternoon, so I decided to take advantage of my morning and head off to another placement. I joined six other volunteers and ventured into La Victoria, the most dangerous, impoverished, and polluted neighborhood of Lima to work at the Mother Theresa home for the severely disabled and physically handicapped. I did not really know what to expect, but I was eager to see the neighborhood and the facility that I had heard so much about (from volunteers who spend their weeks working there).

We left at the same time, but instead of heading in the direction of Villa El Salvador, we were off in the opposite way. The surroundings got progressively less and less suburban...no more trees...no more nice cars...very few groomed people. Until suddenly, there we were...La Victoria. I knew we were there because I recognized the piles of garbage on the side of the road the size of our van and the blocks of buildings marked by fires, broken windows, soot covered bars (for security?), and hopeless looks on the faces of every roaming inhabitant that I had heard about. There were blocks like this...people who have just as much or perhaps a little less than those in Villa El Salvador, but lack the motivation to work for a better life for themselves. They seem, for the most part, to act incapacitated by their poverty.

Because of the danger of this neighborhood, we had to sit in the van and wait for the Mother Theresa employees and our driver to have a quick exchange and open the door of the facility before a van load of gringos hit the sidewalk. Our feet speedily climbed over the piles of garbage between the van and facility door, all of us looking down and ignoring the glaring Peruvians sitting idly on the street. Once we got inside, I inhaled. The smell was pungent, and reminded me of prison in Ayacucho. It hit me suddenly, and I knew that something intense definetely went on here.

I was right. We entered, deeper and deeper, and followed the other volunteers in climbing to the top (or third floor) of the building. We passed through hallways of men sitting patiently in wheelchairs, unable to speak, and rooms of bedridden children, nearly unconscious. These patients are cared for by a staff of volunteers and poorly paid men and women, amongst a few nuns. And, for the most part, while there are only men and children in this facility, they are people who have been abandoned and left to die in Lima. This is where they were taken in, accepted, and are now cared for.

My place, for a large chunk of the morning, was on the roof. This place, outside the building technically, was peaceful and nothing like the surroundings. This is the site of the laundry. There are about three women who run this operation and basically it consists of hand-washing and hanging out the laundry every, single day. I had no idea how vast this job was, until I rolled up my pants, grabbed a scrubbing brush, and got to work. The smell of bleach was pungent, and my fingers and toes quickly prunned. With the other volunteers, I hung out the towels and sheets on one side, the socks, diapers, and delicates on a small rack, and clothing on the leftover lines. Almost two hours after our arrival, with nearly 10 people working deligently, we finally finished. Covered in sweat and bleach, as I heaved the baisins of soapy water down the drain in the center of the floor, I contemplated a way to show thanks to my first world washing machine (which I will never take for granted again).

After the wash, I followed the others through the hallways and rooms, as some dropped off for their self-delegated jobs. Some embarked upon feeding a few of the children, which consisted of an hour and half long effort of holding a child in ones arms and working to settle a spoon worth of food into the small, often not totally effective mouth opening. Others worked with the men on physical therapy efforts, which took place in a small room with a few old mats and a random handful of equipment. Amazingly, as I wandered through the hallways and popped in and out of the spaces that I could tell these men and children had hardly ever departed from (and likely would never), I felt some sense of energy. The place seems to radiate strength. This is life, for so many of them, and they are living. And, it is evident that a huge part of their lives is being feed by the volunteers, exchanging a smile, or playing a game of checkers (if they have the ability).

I spent my last twenty minutes in the physical therapy room, tossing a ball between 9 men. They sat in a circle, although nearly 5 of them could not catch of throw the ball. I tossed and caught the ball, and smiled along with them when it fell (and I had to go get it), when it softly hit someone on the head (they really thought that was funny...especially my head), or when they did actually catch it. I do not know how often they play this game, but while their eyes seemed used to the motions, they seemed to happy to join the circle, and grasp onto something that could move.

We left and headed out of the city, leaving our windows closed until we reached the border with a suburb. Soon, we were back among grass, trees, security guards, fresh paint, children...our neighborhood. Lunch time. And then, it was off to Deporte y Vida, for the last time (in case I was trying to pack anything else emotionally draining into one day).

Villa El Salvador looked like a park compared to La Victoria. We got there at 3, which was when we were told to arrive for the beginning of the clausura. Turns out, when we arrived, the basketball court was just beginning the transformation into a small amphitheater (which really meant the hanging of black fabric around a few poles in the center and the moving of benches from the classrooms to the outside). I was thrilled to see directly below the sign welcoming parents and children to this, the final event of the summer, was an art display. This display was meant to show off some of the work of the kids over the last few weeks. And, there they were...nine (or so) pieces of art from three projects I had brought to school. I even was happy to see the signs of English colors made out of Playdough hanging on the poster, right in the middle of everything for the parents to see. I was really proud, because I knew that this meant that the kids were really proud of what they had created.

The kids were split between wandering throughout the hallways, sandy dunesides, and preparing any roles or parts they may in the performance (some even got into costumes). The other volunteer and I helped with some hair braiding, bench moving, and banner hanging, before we took our seats for the 4:30 beginning. We sat, kids on our laps and surrounding us, and fumbling over our digital cameras each time we took them out of our pockets.

Gerri, the program director, came out to do the introductory welcome. She spoke about the program, and how things had been running over the course of the summer. She even took a moment in her speech to point to myself and the other volunteer and thank ¨our friends at the cultural cross¨ (keep in mind that our program is called Cross Cultural Solutions...oh, Spanish), which proceeded to prompt the assmebled group of about 150 men, women, and children to stare and applaud us...very awkward and unexpected.

The program was amazing. I really did not know what to expect, but found costumed dancers, performances on the stilts, theatrical performances, singing, and modern dance. My kids were part of the show, and I even recognized some acts from free time (although I had no idea what they were practicing for at the time). For those of you who are camp people, think final banquet performances...but with costumes from Cusco, Peru.

When 6 pm approached, and our driver had returned for pick up, I had to say goodbye. Christopher grabbed my hand and pulled me, yelling, ¨dont go!¨, which made me sad. Angela said, ¨why do you want to leave?¨, which made me extremely sad. And, my teacher teared when she told me that my smile, excitement each day, and creativity taught her how to be a teacher, and that I could improve the world if I became a teacher, which made me tear and feel more sad than I ever could have imagined I would feel when leaving Deporte y Vida. I assured her that I learned more from these kids and from her and the other teachers than they even realized, but we just stood together, embracing. I was the first Jewish person she ever met, the first person from Michigan, and the first person who I think really tried to teach with her. It was a touching goodbye.

And, with that, I took a somber Flor, as she followed us up the hill to wait for the car everyday, up the hill. Our van was waiting, and Flor asked me once more when I would return. I looked down the hill for the last time, and told Flor that I did not think that I would return. Sadly.

So, the kids at Deporte y Vida are now on vacation. The grocery stores here are full of back to school supplies, and the air feels less alive...like summer is ending (not cooler or anything...do not worry). I will work next week, for my final week in Lima, in another school...with small children. Stay posted. And, as for this weekend, I am off to the mountains. This experience continues...