American Holiday

I´ve been on vaca. In the past week I´ve taken a horrendous 16-hour bus ride up north to Iquique -- where seven other volunteers live -- and had official girl-talk with my two loves, Bree and Kate, for the first time in almost two months. I´m saying ... as a girl, you don´t know how much you´re gonna miss girl-talk til you´re living in a tiny city with only two other boys (one an hour away) who sometimes seem to speak another language anyway. The first two days in Iquique I couldn´t stop saying "Wooooowww....this place is soooo big." It´s a city on the beach with a couple hundred thousand and it made me realize how very much I´ve missed the city. I can´t believe it´s taken me this trip to finally admit, I am a city girl through and through. We pàssed a mall while driving and I had to be physically restrained. I walked into the grocery store (which was basically a Chilean Target) and I swear I heard angels singing. I loved it, but mostly because they have the beach and something about sitting by the ocean always seems to make everything ok. Our hostal was one block from Playa Cavanche and all 8 (or so) of us just sat around in bathing suits talking and laughing and sunbathing (except for Bree who, unlike Kate and I, finds "playing catch" with the guys appealing) until the sun set and my first day back with all my friends I kept thinking "this is my perfect moment." It was beautiful, it was fun, as expected I drank and ate way too much but here are some quick highlights:

• I had a surf lesson. I learned "officially" how to surf and it was FUN! The water was freezing and I soon discovered a very-dormant fear of huge waves, but I am told by my friends -- who are far too nice -- that I "stood up" about three times. Take it as you will...
• Kate and I cooked (mainly Kate, of course) a big family dinner for seven of us in the hostal, complete with salad, pasta, veggies and wine. And we all sat around the table like one big family (which really, if you think about our situation, we are) and gave our "high´s" and "low´s" of the vaca.
• We went to a discoteca, snuck onstage only to be escorted directly back off, and danced until 6 in the morning. I can´t remember the last time I crawled into bed as the sun was rising (and remembered the next day why ...)
• We rented a car and drove two hours into the desert and saw crazy geoglyphs on giant sand dunes in a place called "Cerros Pintados" and then stopped in the tiny desert oasis town of Pica, where the fruit is so fresh and abundant you actually smell the lemons and limes as you drive in.
• Did I already mention the girl-talk...?
• I visited Bree´s school and found she works far more hours than I, but that her students are far less "flighte" aka ghetto (which would be the case with mine)
• And lastly, my last day, after everyone had gone but me, Bree (who lives in Iquique) and I had an "American Tuesday." We went to the movies (I almost dropped dead at the wonderfulness of the option) and saw a heart-breaking film, while munching on popcorn, that left me sobbing. Then we sat on her bed and watched cable in English, while stalking Kevin on facebook. If you have been reading my blogs you should notice that 1) I don´t have cable/English t.v. 2)There is no movie theater in Vallenar (and if there were you can be sure there would be an absence of English films) 3) I have no laptop (it broke promptly as I arrived in country) and 4) There is no internet in my house. I truly felt, for a whole day, like I was back home with everything at my fingertips. Let´s just say it was a welcome change of pace and had it not been for my American Tuesday and Iquique trip in general, I might have had a mental breakdown sometime quite soon.

But ... arriving back home and seeing Dora´s look of surprised glee, when she opened the front door to sweep out some dirt, and found herself standing face-to-face with travel-ridden me (complete with huge backpack and several carry-on´s), it felt good to be home. I consider this my home now. The teaching inner-city school kids thing, still beats the crap outta me, but thank God for my Dorita. After lunch today, as I was drinking my daily mid-day coffee (it´s all instant here, I´ve mentioned that right?), I was chatting with Dora in the kitchen while she dried the dishes and I told her how excited I was for her to meet my Kevin when he comes (Nov. 21) and she said that in a sense, she´ll be sad to meet him because that will mean it´s time for me to leave her. She turned around and she was tearing up and I wanted to wrap my arms around her and scream "I´ll never leave you Dorita!!!" But I told her my hunch, "I think Kevin is coming here to get me for just that reason, because he knows if he doesn´t, I may never leave ..." Couldn´t I just bring her with me?

Practicin´ My Victory Dance

The most amazing thing just happened. Angel and I were discussing schedules, scenery for my theater group, my future work with the cheerleaders here (who apparently "nobody knew existed") and the picture-taking he recruited me to do tommorrow during school practice for the 18th (dances and songs and what-not), and before I turned to leave, Angel put out his hand for me to shake. (He´s so bizarre sometimes, I thought to myself.) And then he said (in Spanish, obv), "I would like to congratulate you, because you´re Spanish is improving each day..." I hooted and threw my arms up and performed what I like to think is the universal dance for VICTORY (which is "vicotoria" in Spanish btw). I am improving! All those hours reading the dictionary and translating magazing articles and Madonna tabloids at the kitchen table are finally paying off. Por fin!!! I soooooooo want to improve my Spanish. I imagine this language like an imaginary wall I am knocking down around me every day that I learn a new word or finally realize the correct phrasing of a sentence I use daily. I am floating I tell you.

I compared myself to Dora´s two-year-old grand-daughter, Josefa, last week. She is in the learning phase, where she repeats everything she hears and absorbs new words like a sponge. I watch the news and find myself speaking to the t.v.. "Ahora tenemos una pausa." "U-na pau-sa," I repeat, entranced, letting the words find their rightful place in my mouth. As if to make them comfortable as they slip off my tongue, I repeat again, "una pausa." A commercial comes on with some (supposedly) famous soccer star holding a glass of milk and sitting beside his mother. I know how the commercial will end, I´ve seen it a million times, but regardless I must say it, "Tomate la leche!" I cry at the end, simultaneously proud of myself and loving the grammatical format of the command I have mastered. (If I ever need to tell someone else to drink their milk in Spanish, there will be no grammatical errors in my delivery.) I look up and Dorita is laughing at me (weird). I realize I have been repeating words that catch my ear for the past 15 minutes. And then it hits me, I am in the same stage as Josefa who says "he-llo" back to me every time I greet her. I am literally like a two-year-old. But it´s WORKING!

P.S.- The object I desire, more than any other material thing in the world, at this moment in my Chilean life-time, is a Spanish-English dictionary with every word that has ever existed inside. Mine is sufficient for now, but if anyone else is going to send me something, dear God let it be the fattest, most advanced Spanglish dictionary that has ever been realized. Gracias. Ciao.

Run It Off

I was forced to take a collectivo up the hill from my high school (“liceo”) to the Poblacion Carrera, my neighborhood, due to my excessive baggage (not the metaphorical kind, surprisingly enough). The government delivered a sweet new stereo to my liceo that afternoon, and of course, I had overdressed that morning -- one can never be sure whether to brace for Antartica or Hawaii in these parts -- and worn heels. I needed the walk, I was dying for some exercise and some time alone with my million-miles-an-hour thoughts and the calming beauty of the valley between at sunset. But as I resignedly sat stuffed in the window seat beside a stone-faced woman determined to take up two seats, I made up my mind. I would run. I needed to run immediately, before the sun stopped setting and finished its waning magic act of slowly whipping all the colors of the hills up around it til it was gone from the valley and on to other parts (where Becca is perhaps?). I pushed through the front door of Dora´s tiny house, gave her a weak smile and headed straight for my bedroom, almost knocking over a chair on my way through the kitchen with my over-stuffed "Programa Ingles Abre Puertas" messenger bag (another gift from the Gobierno). "Me voy a correr" I huffed, untangling my bag and scarf from the chair. "Before tecito?" Dorita asked sweetly, the way she sometimes asks an innocent question, with a hint of uncontrollable motherly reprimand/surprise; yet without any intent of stopping me. "Absolutamente," I answered.

It had been a bad day. It was Tanya´s birthday and I missed her. I wanted to be the first person to call her that morning, to surprise her with birthday cake and Starbucks, to glue myself to her side at her birthday dinner, surrounded by the easy company of our cousins and friends and showered with love. In general I am not homesick, I am perfectly content each night watching telenovelas in Dora´s company. But, when I called Tanya that morning from my classroom computer and got choked up in between "Happy Birthday," and "dear Tanya," I knew today would be different. I struggled through class with the notorious Primero D students, spending a solid hour going around the room chanting "I am..., I like to/ She is..., She likes to...." and bribing them with a brand new bag of "prize candy" for participation. They are not that bad, but their English is depressing. They leave the room and I collapse in my chair completely drained. I use more energy on that class, remaining positive, entertaining and patient, than with any other class.

The day before, I taught a lesson to a different course on introducing family members. I taped up pictures of my mother, father, Thomas, Tanya and Eddie and introduced each of them, relaying their ages, personalities and personal characteristics. I get the question all the time, every day almost: "How many children in your family?" I still freeze, miss a beat, think carefully about which answer I´m going to give, three or four. 99% of the time I say four. But while I´m standing at the board introducing Thomas I feel like I´m pretending. The girls all think he´s handsome. "How old is he????!" I have to think before I say, uneasily, 20. "Does he have a girlfriend?" Oh God ... can we pleeeeease move on? "No, " I answer definitively. It´s my fantasy, no harm done, I can pretend my brother is still alive because giving them the truth will just confuse them and make them uncomfortable, but I refuse to leave his picture at home and omit him from my lesson. I am the oldest of four, I cannot stop identifying myself in this way. The only problem is, it takes a toll on me. Like settled street dust that is suddenly distrubed after a truck barrels through, my latent grief has been stirred up. And now, today, Tanya´s birthday, the emotions and memories are still swirling around in my head, and I am sad.

I throw on my running gear and lace up my sneakers with an urgency I have not had in weeks. I have not run here in Vallenar because I have not had the courage to face the whistles and whispers and catcalls and stares. Nevermind the abundance of barking, drooling homeless dogs. But this night, I race out into the brisk night air fearless. I head in the direction of the fading sun and as soon as my feet find their rhythm hitting the pavement, my eyes on the bright orange sky, I relax. I am completely unaware of the stares and honestly, come to think of it, I don´t think many people seem to notice. "Follow the sun," I keep thinking and I run, faster than I have in forever, and chase the sun past endless tiny houses connected together haphazardously, without a nod to what is aesthetically pleasing. I run so far that I find myself panting, on the edge of a new neighborhood atop the city in near darkness, my lungs stinging with happiness. I remember hearing that this is a semi-dangerous neighborhood and finally head back, this time my eyes on the twinkling lights of the city below me. I feel strong and realize my heart is not as heavy as it was 30 minutes ago. The dust has settled significantly, enough for now. I love this city with it´s obnoxiously-painted houses and dirt roads and I love my students. And right now, I love my alone time with the night sky and my heart, pumping furiously. I love my life. I miss my sister and I miss my brother and I miss the constant love of everyone in Charleston, but I just feel so strong. I am learning to take care of myself, really take care of myself, without getting mixed up in the needs of those around me. Teaching is different, it´s a job (granted, I don´t get paid), but it´s a job. But here, I am finding a balance I really have never known, and I really really like it. Like Kevin says, I am finding my groove.

I treat myself to a bottle of wine on the way home and sit down for tecito with Dorita and tell her about my day before we oooh and aaaaah over the horrendous telenovela I can´t live without called "Hijos del Monte." Julieta is pregnant with her (once-fiance) Juan´s baby, but he is falling for his half-sister, Paola – deemed "the blond," –- who is trying to ransack his relationship with the mother of his child. Scintillating. I tell Dora very matter-of-factly that she is my best friend here and then take a sip of my glorious "Gato Negro" $1 box-wine. It´s amazing what a little exercise will do.

Correction

Correction, I found it! The newspaper with Madonna´s face (and boobs apparently) front and center and the "Llega Carne Gringa" line. It seems I also forgot a very important ending to the headline: "Cara pero Rica," (Expensive but Delicious). Smarmy? Anyone?

Priceless ...

I´m devastated. I passed a newspaper stand only days ago with a giant picture of Madonna´s face plastered on the front and the headline read, "Por fin. Llega Carne Gringa en Chile." Translation: "Finally. White Meat Arrives in Chile." And the kicker is ... I didn´t take a picture to show the rest of the world, and now it´s gone, forever. (I´ve literally gone to several newsstands and begged for last week´s paper.) I will never get that priceless photo-op back.
I must add that Madonna´s pending December arrival in Chile rivals the publicity I´d expect of a visit from Jesus himself. A bit overkill...

Second official order of business. I´ve been strutting around the teacher´s lounge, Dora´s house and every asado I attend proclaiming, "Soy Chilena!" No, but seriously, I have a CARNET card which is a Chilean identification card, which makes me feel very very badass. It´s official proof that I´m in this country for more than a pleasant visit. I´m blending I tell you.

Third, I received a giant package from Kevin yesterday which basically made my month. It included the essentials: a book, some CD´s, tampons (God love em´ ), a new Old Navy top, some photos and magazines, including my beloved skirt! magazine. I slowly and carefully flipped through the pages of my skirt! magazine like I was holding the original Declaration of Independence. But, onto the newsworthiness of this event ... I showed some teachers and students at school some of my American reading material, and my go-to guy, Angel (very machismo and in charge of everything), took a particular liking to my skirt! magazine. He kept saying it was for mujeres (women), yet painstakingly flipped through every page. I had to take a picture. Chileno relaxing with a skirt!, ha! Gotcha! If you only knew how priceless that is, in theory.



Lastly, Chile´s Dia de Independencia is fast approaching and as I have mentioned once before, their national dance is the Cueca. Every child seems to learn this dance shortly after exiting the womb, so, how unlucky for me that I was born in America, because these people won´t cut me a break. Monday afternoon classes were cancelled to make way for the festival of the "Cien Cuecas," (100 Cuecas). Everyone dressed traditionally and schools around the city arrived in our gymnasium to literally dance, (duh) 100 cuecas. For me, it was just a bowl of photo-op´s and cultural enlightenment, and I mingled among my students for the first time as a real person and not just a teacher. I communicated with them in Spanish and some students gasped, "Profe!!! Has aprendido Espanol en una semana!!!" (Silly children.) I delightedly told them, no, I had not just learned to speak Spanish in one week, I´ve been working on my Spanish for years and after all ... "soy Chilena." One of the teachers, Lorenzo, approached my huddle and took my hand and informed me I was about to dance cueca with him. "Dear God no," I begged and pleaded. Making a fool of myself at an asado of 10 people is one thing, but we were in a gymnasium for Christ sake. Students started chanting, teachers were nudging me forward, a girl stuffed her white embroidered handkerchief into my hand and off I went. I was dancing .... something. The steps to this dance elude me. I have been a dancer all my life and can usually pick up on this sort of stuff quickly, but I swear to you ... there are no steps. There are patterns. "Ocho! Ocho!" my students kept screaming at me (helping my nerves not at all). "Que ocho!!??" I screamed back. I just wasn´t seeing the figure-eight. Anyway, after the flash of about 100 cameras and an announcement on the loudspeaker (just to make SURE every person in the gym was watching the gringa), the dance was over and I was led back into my gaggle of giggling girls (alliteration not intended). People took pictures on my camera, but I also pass students in the hallway now who stop me and inform me they have pictures of me dancing cueca. So ... let´s just stick that up there with my top three most embarrassing moments, ever.

Teresita loves...

Things I Love About Vallenar:
1) I am watching Spanish t.v. all the time. I mean literally, we have three channels in my house (four on a good day) and nothing is ever in English and it dawned upon me this past week that I don´t even care. I watch the news about three times each day with my Spanish-English dictionary glued to my hand (Now that is my new alternative Bible, NOT Lonely Planet) and am absorbing at least five new words a day (important words O.K.? I´m working on the volume). I am now so accustomed to living (or traveling) in South America that I watch American movies dubbed in Spanish easily, as if I´m missing nothing -- as if Will Smith always spoke in a husky Castillaño.
Imp. Random Note: I have also discovered that at the finish of these dubbed movies each night at exactly 10 p.m., one of my 3 1/2 channels converts into a public karaoke channel... sometimes these people still manage to leave me speechless...

2) I feel I must properly introduce everyone to my "tia" Dora, Marcela´s mother and the woman I live with who insists on washing my dishes, hanging my laundry, tidying up my room and (my personal favorite) making sure each night before I go to bed I have my "guaterro"(sp?), (a hot water bottle/pack) tucked under my sheets, strategically wrapped with my pajamas. "Dorita" as I call her, tells me that it feels like I have lived here forever (for which I love her) and tries desperately to adjust to my bizarre American habits. The first time I asked if I might make myself a cup of tea for no reason in the afternoon, she looked utterly perplexed. Didn´t I want to wait for "tecito?" (dinner, which actually consists of a cheese sandwich and tea) she asked. I told her if it was alright, I would like some tea now AND at dinner ... and while I was on a roll, might I even pour a couple drops of milk in there? Family will visit us for tecito and offer me the sugar and before I can politely decline Dorita officially informs them that Teresa doesn´t LIKE sugar in her tea. She´s so cute. She has also caught onto my avid love of all things postre. Each night she offers me some sort of make-shift candy bar like it´s a secret special treat only for us girls. (Note: the wrapper warns it is "chocolate flavored," so I must stress that I wait with bated breath for a twix bar from...anyone.) She has also noticed that I don´t really eat the creepy unidentifiable bologna looking "meat" she puts out for tecito but dive in when there´s turkey on the table, and that I much prefer mashed potatoes to rice. Dorita is as old-fashioned as they come and she is one of the people for whom I am thankful every day in Vallenar.
Worth Mentioning: the desperate attempts at communication on behalf of both Dora (who speaks only Spanish) and Kevin (who speaks only English and knows "Hola, soy Kevin. Puedo hablar con Teresa?") when he calls each night. He´s been hung up on a few times (once by grandma) and messages I get on both ends rarely match. But bless them both, they try so hard each time, even with the pleasantries. "Como estas?" "Bien, tu?" "Bien," (I know after this bit Kevin is out of material and panicking so I run to the phone giggling).

3) The sunsets here are a-mazing. It is when I stand on the hill above my tiny city between 6 and 7 p.m., watching the sun set over the valley of 50,000 people, fluorescent pinks and oranges exploding against a backdrop of mountains, that my breath literally catches in my throat and I say "thank you" out loud to the universe for placing me here and giving me this gift. I know I sound stressed sometimes, and I would be lying if I said this was easy, but I am not unaware of how lucky I am and how life-changing this experince has already been.
Worth Mentioning: I love that I can see every single landmark in this city from my neighborhood up on the hill -- my school, the plaza, the church, the bus station, my favorite supermarket. It´s like a mini Google Earth map, except I don´t need to Google it, cuz I´m actually here.

4) I am living in the driest desert in the world (Atacama), but I stumble upon the most beautiful flowers and trees here, unlike any I have ever seen. I love the tree in this picture. I have no idea what it´s called but it sprouts millions of these bright yellow round buds that just always put me in a happy mood. The colors in the desert are hard to find, but when you find them, they are brilliant yellows and red and fuchias and I love them, yes I do.

5) It seems important that I should mention the tiny fact that I now have bodyguards in my high school. I´m not kidding either. These guys are BIG and if they weren´t protecting me from 15 and 16-year-old´s I´d be scared. They are the "inspectors" here, in charge of discipline and disorder and many mornings now before class they wait for me outside the teacher´s lounge patiently and say "Miss? I will walk with you?" Why yes, you absolutely may walk with me. Take THAT, you ... monkeys.

6) In Chile there are endless "modismo´s" or "Chilenismo´s," which at first made my life difficult (all prior vocab went out the window), but which I now enjoy. It´s like I´m part of some secret society that speaks in codes (I have no IDEA how I snuck in). My favorite is the "-ita, -ito." I swear to you that these people believe that every single word in the language could use a little "ito/a" to top it off properly. Tecito, perrito, Teresita, aguita, bolsita, tragito, viejito, pancito, cafecito, zapatito, amorcita ... IIIIII mean... any idiot could catch on and immediately be part of this club. My other favorite new modismo which I probably overuse is "fome." From what I can tell it´s some mix of boring, lame and not cool. I split my seniors into groups last week and had them write a tiny story in English using some funny vocab I had just taught them. The last group of boys got up and read three lines about nothing interesting and I just cocked my head to the side and said "That´s it? ... FOOOOOMEEEEEEEEEEEE." I´m so hip it´s unbearable. They usually laugh AT me, not WITH me, don´t worry.

What´s in a Blow-pop?

I´m conducting the same lesson for about the 8th time. I have five courses, each one is split in half, so that makes 10 total (not including the two special groups from the elementary schools, the Winter Camp group from this school and the theater crew). The lesson involves the most basic dialogue, all it needs to succeed is participation. I have a new class today. Primero D. They are freshman. I just might kill them. I recognize a particular girl from my observation day two weeks ago. The teacher was handing out a test and the girl walked right out of the classroom laughing, sucking on a blow-pop. "She does what she wants to," Claudia (an English teacher) explained. "Oh....." I replied, not really understanding. But, here she was again, in my class, blow-pop in place. There are mini-conversations going on throughout the computer lab (my classroom). I have never been given a group this big. There are about 25 of them. The average class is 17. I try to motivate them, but they are embarrassed. They will not repeat after me. Their friends are watching. "How old are you?" I single out blow-pop girl. Her eyes dart around the room, and she whispers to her girl friend and shrugs her shoulders. I repeat myself, "how old are you?" The answer is scrawled in giant letters across the board: I am fourteen-years-old. Blow-pop won´t budge. I try to make it even more simple (if that is possible). "Repeat, I (I) am (am) 14 (14) years (years) old (old)." I smile and touch her shoulder. "See? Excellent," I tell her. What´s the expression? "Like pulling teeth." It is the most basic and boring lesson possible, but where in the world do I start, if not from there? Either they have not been taught how to respond to the most important questions in English ... or they are playing dumb. Honestly I think it is a bit of both and a huge lack of conversation practice. They may know the correct answer is "My name is," but they have never practiced saying it. Teachers keep telling me that´s where I come in. The problem today is, this class is giving me very little respect. Very little attention. While I feel deep down that blow-pop kid is warming up to me and needs positive reinforcement (which I specifically give her three times during class), she is still disrupting my class and answers a knock on the door and proceeds to have a conversation... I am suddenly aware of myself at the board giving the lesson, as if out of my body watching. Huddles have formed, noone is paying attention and I suddenly realize how silly I look. I am generally not the type of person who allows others to walk all over me. I have no idea what to do, how to refocus them, how to change the tone. So, I stop ... and I wait.

Several minutes pass before even blow-pop girl has acknowledged my muted presence and her rude chatting. She giggles nervously and looks around, but for once, noone else will look at her. They are all looking at me and I´m time portaled back to elementary school when a teacher stood as I am standing for five minutes before we shut up (which reminds me, I need to call him and apologize). I stare back at the 25 little pubescent faces and say the only thing I can. "You know, I´m not being paid to be here." Hushed translations go around the room. I´m still defiantly speaking in English/sign language, very very slowly. "I´m not making any money today. Also, I´m not a teacher. I studied journalism. Also, I don´t speak your language, Spanish. Also, I miss my family and friends and boyfriend (wow this is sounding familiar). I´m here, every day, with you all, as a volunteer. I´m only here to help YOU learn English. But why? ... why do you need to learn English? Does anyone know?" Blow-pop girl shrugs her shoulders. Everyone else is still amazingly silent. I write the word ENGLISH on the board and circle it, initiating a spider chart. I repeat the question in Spanish and someone mumbles something about leaving the country. I write it on the board and connect it to my ENGLISH bubble. I continue to explain about traveling, meeting people, working, jobs. Someone wants to be an engineer. I tell him about my father, born in Colombia, a hard worker and successful engineer in New York City. I tell them that if they don´t want to learn English to kindly stop wasting my time. If they want to act like they are in kindergarten, then I´ll let them play and save myself the trouble. I take out two big poster sheets and some markers and throw them on the ground. "Here, you want to play? Go ahead. Make some posters." I´ve had every class make a poster to represent their course (and for a possible scoreboard for contests to come), it´s been a winding down activity for most and a bit of a reward for good behavior. "MISS!!? porque jardin?????" They are asking me why I keep calling them kindergardeners. "Just play," I say.
I put on some music as they huddle around the sheet on the ground. The girls are closest to me and a couple keep staring at me quizzically (think: misbehaving puppy which has been quarantined to the kitchen peeking over the gate at you on the couch in the den). "Miss? Estas enojada?" I ignore them and begin reading the New York Times online.

Fifteen minutes pass and I get up to peruse the artwork. The girls are giggling and trying to cover theirs up when I approach. Finally I push through to see the finished product.
A giant red heart covers half the white space and inside it, Miss Teresa is written with a happy face. Blow-pop girl is dedicatedly finishing the multi-colored leaves on the flower stem that runs alongside the right edge of the poster. She has filled much of the empty space with several other beautifully drawn flowers. I feel as though I have stumbled upon one of blow-pop girl´s valuable secrets. She is an artist. Now she is calm, content, even acting her age. Girls laugh and talk and tease each other around her and she never once looks up from her petal project. I hold the poster up and crack a smile for the first time in 25 minutes. The girls all look at me anxiously, wanting my approval (I realize to my astonishment). I tell them it is my favorite poster thus far and it is beautiful. Blow-pop girl speaks for the group, "We are sorry for how we acted today. Sometimes we can be like that." The other girls nod their heads furiously in agreement. They tell me they will be better next time. I am touched and relieved and I realize this is what former volunteers have been warning me about. They said this experience would be "the hardest thing you´ve ever done, and also the most rewarding." I´m looking at my name in a big mishapen heart on the wall, and I feel ... different. It´s the way you want to throw your barking puppy out the window sometimes, or give him to your cousin who lives in another city. But you don´t, cuz he´s just a puppy and you know he needs you, at least for a while.