La Soledad + Studying

Hello again! I finally have a moment to post an update about recent events.

Last Tuesday Trevor and I accompanied the sixth-year students from Colegio Santa Rosa on their service trip to La Soledad, which is an impoverished rural community about 90 minutes away from the city. Since the beginning of my trip, I had heard from so many other volunteers that visiting La Soledad is a beautiful experience, so I was eager to see for myself.

Based on what I had read in previous fellows’ blogs and the stories I had heard from volunteers here, I had some idea about what to expect upon reaching our destination that morning. Our previous trip had been cancelled because of heavy rains that had made the dirt roads that lead to the community virtually impassable. This description alone gave me a good idea of how isolated La Soledad would be. I can hardly imagine the rain stopping any passage to or from my town, preventing me from getting to school or going to the doctor if needed. It also seemed strange to me that a location just over an hour outside of the city would be so isolated. I was curious to see the roads we would take and the scenery we would pass on the bus ride to the location, so I spent the entire commute looking out the window and taking in the sites.

After leaving the outskirts of the city, the scenery immediately begins to take on a more rural appearance. There are more fields and small houses, and the side roads tend to be made of dirt instead of asphalt. As we continued toward La Soledad, the space between houses became greater, and I noticed fewer and fewer businesses lining the roads. On one particularly wooded stretch of road, I unfortunately saw many dead dogs who had been struck and killed by vehicles, likely at night when there is barely any light for drivers to see the animals in the street. My heart broke for all of those animals, likely strays, who met such unfortunate ends.

As we came nearer to our destination, the bus turned into what seemed to be a giant field with a narrow road carved down the middle. The road almost seemed like it was walled in by dirt because of how high the grass and earth were next to the bus. As the bus bumped along the dirt road, I began to get a bit antsy and wonder when we would finally reach the town. It wasn’t until two turns later, both down equally narrow, dusty roads, that we reached the chapel and mission in La Soledad.

After a quick breakfast and prayer with the sixth-year girls (all ages 16 and 17), we broke into groups to do service. Trevor and I could pick if we wanted to do home visits or help out in the school. We both thought that home visits might provide us with a more in-depth understanding of the residents’ lives, so we joined separate groups and began to walk to our assigned houses for visits.

I was assigned to houses in “Zone 1,” which is the section of town farthest away from the chapel. Although we had a long way to walk, the journey wasn’t so bad because it was sunny and not overly hot. The first house that I visited with my group was located at the entrance of the town, right in the middle of a huge field. The house was quite modest with a long driveway and many dogs roaming in the front yard. As we approached the house, we were greeted by a young woman holding a small child. The woman introduced herself as Frances and the child as Luz and invited us to have a seat to chat with her. She revealed that she was 20-years-old and that Luz was her two-year-old daughter. She lived in that house with her mother, father, and seven younger siblings. Her parents were in the city buying supplies and her younger siblings were all at school, so Frances was at home doing some chores and had a spare moment to chat with us. I couldn’t help but feel incredibly sad as I listened to Frances, not because she was telling us a sad story or complaining about her life, but because her situation seemed so stagnant and her opportunities so limited. She is younger than I am, already a single mother, entrusted partially with the upbringing of her seven siblings in a small, ramshackle house. Her financial prospects are limited, as are her opportunities for higher education. It seems so unfair that at almost the same age as Frances I have a comfortable home, access to a great education, and a whole world of opportunities ahead of me, while the story of her life seems to already be written for her, and for so many other women in her community. Although I feel sad when I look at Frances’ situation, that sadness should not be confused with pity. I do not pity Frances because I could tell how strong and determined she is. I could tell how much she cares for her daughter and the rest of her family based on the work that she was putting into her home. She didn’t speak as if she was looking for sympathy and didn’t complain about the path on which life had taken her. She only explained to us her situation with a smile, and repeatedly said “todo bien” – “all is good.” I was so inspired by Frances example of faith and strength. I hope that if I am ever faced with a situation even half as challenging as hers I will be able to approach it with her same degree of fortitude.

We visited three more houses on our walk back to the chapel, at each one greeted with the same welcoming spirit and friendly kiss on the cheek. At one home I met a young mother with four children, an eight-year-old, a six-year-old and twin three-year-olds. The twins were barefoot and very dirty and there was a litter of very skinny, sickly looking puppies in the yard. Visiting this home was a great exercise in understanding poverty for me. My first instinct was to be angry at the mother for letting her children walk around barefoot in an area with so much broken glass and sharp rocks and for allowing the puppies to be so malnourished. Yet, when I step back and look at the big picture, I don’t see a mother neglecting her children or ignoring the needs of her animals. I see a woman doing her best with what life has handed her. I see her prioritizing putting a meal on the table over buying new sandals for her rapidly growing toddlers. I see her giving whatever leftover scraps of food she has left from her family dinner to the unanticipated litter of puppies in her front yard. I see a person doing what she can to provide for her family, even if all that she can provide is not much. As an American, I know that I come from a place of great privilege with very high standards of living. The opportunities I have been afforded – education, a stable home, healthcare, etc. – have allowed me to set my own standards for the life I want to live. In contrast, poverty sets the standards for the residents of La Soledad and of other similar communities. Poverty and the systems that perpetuate it determine standard of living for that young mother and her children. She does not get to decide if shoes are a necessity of life for her twins. Poverty tells her that shoes are a luxury, that a piece of bread is a meal, and that struggling is a way of life. This is not to say that I believe that those who live in poverty lack freedom of choice, but rather that the opportunities provided for them are often so narrow that any and all choices offered to them are less than optimal. To me, this feeling of limitation, of being unable to choose one’s own path and priorities, is the greatest injustice of poverty. I pray that something changes for these residents to bring them new, exciting, promising opportunities, and that through it all, they keep the faith that is so visible in their smiles and their tenacity.

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During the hours that I am not doing service or giving classes in the schools, I have been working on my history thesis. Thanks to Sister Cynthia, I had the chance to meet with a local historian named Lucia who specializes in 20th century Argentine nationalism. Lucia read over my abstract, made some adjustments to my translation, and provided me with a list of additional sources that might be useful for my ongoing research. She also directed me to the archives at UNSTA, the university just down the street from the school where I volunteer, because this particular library holds the entire collection of a magazine I have been desperately trying to find. This magazine, called Criterio, was run by a radical nationalist priest named Gustavo Franceschi in the 1930s (the time period that I am studying). This publication is an essential primary source for my research, so I was so happy to hear that I would be able to access it.

Sister Cynthia contacted one of the librarians at UNSTA, who then invited me to stop by during my break from school. He pointed me to three shelves full of ALL the editions of Criterio, starting with 1928. I only had an hour to look over the magazines, but I started taking scans of important pages on my phone to look at later. I also took some photos of interesting pages:

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I ended up going back to the archives that same day after I finished giving evening classes at Santa Rosa. I stayed until the library closed at 9 and managed to take scans of relevant articles from about two and a half years worth of magazines. Now I just have 11 more years to go! I am hoping to make it back to the archives again before I have to head back to the States – I can’t find Criterio back home, so I need to take advantage of my spare time here to advance my understanding of my research topic.

Last Friday was my last day in my fourth and first grade classes at Santa Rosa. I taught in those classes with Lola, one of the English teachers, for two weeks. I took some photos of the kids on our last day together. Fourth grade was learning about modes of transportation and first grade was working on cards for Dia del Padre.

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I also received this lovely decorated leaf as a parting gift from one of the first graders.

My next post will be about our trip to Alta Montaña, which was Saturday, June 15 to Thursday, June 20. I have a lot to say about that trip (and a lot of pictures to share), so please excuse the delay. More soon!