Mi Hogar

Tonight, I found myself sitting in a child-sized wooden chair hunched over a tin plate of leche condensada, chowing down on a half-stale roll dripping with the gooey stuff.  My upper lip was smeared, my fingers were sticky all over, but I was definitely ready to eat a second one about halfway through the first. Having always been disgusted by any kind of “ickiness” on my hands, I had to laugh at myself while blithely devouring our delicious cena (yes, two rolls and a warm cup of oatmeal drink pass for dinner here—lunch is the big meal of the day). They’re big fans of carbs here, but not as keen on plates, utensils, napkins or any of the other commodities that accompanied the usual dining ceremonies of my childhood. The girls around me were equally eager to consume as much of the creamy mess as possible, crowding around my table to drain the last plate, lick the spoons, and wipe up the spillage with their fingers.  At mealtimes, I sometimes cringe a little on the inside when the six to eight year olds at my table stretch out their greasy fingers and grin at me with rice sticking to their cheeks.  Nevertheless, I gladly shared in their delight this evening, despite the sticky consequences.

Slowly, slowly, I am beginning to grow accustomed to the life at the Hogar. I remember the names of most of the younger girls who climb up my legs and arms as if I were a tree. Several aggressively friendly Santa Ana girls (younger ones between six and eight) taught me how to play “liga” with them, showing me how to jump onto and between the elastic strings that they string up between any available stabilizing structures. In the photo, two Santa Ana’s are flaunting their “liga” skills for the camera: Lulu (a raucous, energetic and incredibly dirty but good-hearted character) and Nayelli (an adorable “princess” who pouts when denied the attention she constantly demands). The older girls are a little more reticent, but I can joke with some of them and most others at least smile when I awkwardly greet them in passing. (However, that was only after getting suckered into thinking that one girl had a twin in the Hogar—a twin that goes by Jocelyn’s real name, instead of the nickname, Chiqui, used by most in the Hogar).  I can find my way through the wide halls in the dark now, without using my “linterna,” which the little girls love to turn on and off with their grubby fingers. I know to expect a strong stench of urine when rounding the corner on the way to visit the sisters or the other volunteers at the convent.  I don’t forget to take my water bottle with me to the bathroom to brush my teeth or to pack a little extra toilet paper when going into the city, just in case. Tania and I, all by ourselves I can boast, successfully navigated through motos, trufis, and taxis all the way to Santa Cruz to pick up visa documents.  Although it took me about an hour or so to wash my laundry today, I knew to put the torn leaf in the drain to detain the water.  And, a couple days ago, in the amber light of late afternoon, I had a though-provoking chat with an amiable, fashionable teenager as we walked towards the inner front door.  Angelica, who usually teases or pokes fun at me in our interactions, told me rather seriously, “sabes que este es tu hogar ahora”.  Though I may be very far from the comforts of home, family, and friends, I do think I might soon be able to see this place as “home.”

This is the first part of the little prayer we say at the end of meals every day:

“Gracias Señor por hacernos todos diferentes y por reunirnos juntos en esta mesa….” – “Thank you Lord for making us all different and for bringing us together at the same table…”