Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving isn’t exactly big in Colombia.  The only tradition I managed to salvage was watching football; we put the Lions Patriots game on over lunch at work.  I had a ham and cheese sandwich. 

What’s the big deal about Thanksgiving anyways?  We gather together with family, watch football, and eat too much.  Whoopie-doo.  No presents, not many decorations, and let’s face it, even though it’s technically about the pilgrims and the Native Americans, you learn about it in second grade, make a cute hand turkey, and that about marks the end of it.  But everyone loves Thanksgiving.  I love Thanksgiving.

This is my third Thanksgiving out of the country, my first away from my family.  Having “seen” the holiday from an outsider’s perspective, I finally figured out what makes Thanksgiving so great.  It’s 100% American.  The United States has an extremely unique social culture, but when it comes to food and holidays, we kinda just steal from everyone else and Americanize it: burgers, pizza, Chinese food, sandwiches, etc.  We didn’t exactly invent that.  Christmas, Hanukah, Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day… not quite.  But Thanksgiving?  That’s ours; only ours.  We watch football, a game that the U.S. enjoys far more than any other country.  We eat turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, casseroles, stuffing, apple cider, and pumpkin pie.  There’s not even a translation for those foods in Spanish because they simply do not exist.  And even though I already negated the relativity of the pilgrims and the Native Americans, can anyone else claim that as part of their history?

Every day, every minute, this world becomes more and more globalized, less and less ethnocentric.  I’m all for it; I’m a citizen of the world.  But Thanksgiving, that stays with us.  I’m thankful for that.

This year, I’m also thankful for technology.  Ew right?  I’m supposed to say family, friends, and good health.  Plus, I’m not even good with technology:  I have a Blackberry, but I don’t have it synced to my email account and I still write my daily agenda on the palm of my hand; I have a kindle, but I have yet to play with any of its multifaceted capabilities other than reading from the screen; I have an iPod… correction had an iPod, with no more than 200 songs on it.  But this year more than ever, technology, primarily GChat and Skype, has kept me close to those things I’m really thankful for.   Last Thursday I watched the Bears beat the Dolphins with my Mom and Dad through Skype.  It was like I was there in the family room.  Today I got to talk to my entire family.  I saw my sister-in-law’s pregnant belly that holds my nephew; my Dad and my brothers; and my Mom preparing dinner.  I could practically smell the turkey.  And thanks to the 21^st century’s advanced mailing system, I received a hand-written letter from my Aunt Mary wishing me a happy day.

What’s not to love about Thanksgiving?     

Trust Me

One thing that has never come easily to me is trust.  Trusting people with my personal information, trusting people to follow through.  I would rather just not give them the chance to let me down, to disappoint.  But trust has managed to weasel its way into nearly every important element of our lives.  Even the one-dollar bill says In God We Trust.  The value of money itself is based in trust.  We don’t have gold reserves anymore.  Just think about capitalism… it’s trust.  Trust in those we don’t even know, those who don’t know us.  But society wouldn’t function without it.

I arrived at this rant about trust because of a current debate I’ve been following in microfinance.  SKS, now India’s largest MFI, announced an initial public offering  just over three months ago.  Compartamos, an MFI in Mexico, has been publicly traded for years, but this is still a big step, and possibly an indication of where the microfinance industry is headed.  From what I’ve gathered it boils down to a couple main points of contention: Does commercialized microfinance imply exploitation and/or mission drift?

The benefits of being an aggressively for-profit MFI are evident: SKS reports an annual compound growth rate of 165% since 2004.  That represents millions of poor people who now have access to financial services, and women who have been empowered.  Furthermore, because SKS has reached such a large scale, they have been able to utilize their unique distribution channels to strike special deals with other for-profit companies to offer products such as cell phones, water purifiers, and sanitary pads to the poor at drastically lower prices.  Things they wouldn’t otherwise have access to; things I take for granted every day.

So what’s all the fuss about?  Microfinance is about helping the poor help themselves, giving them access to capital, formal savings products, life insurance, things ordinary banks have denied them for centuries.  Its mission is based solely around the best interest of the borrower, the client, the poor.  With commercialization, new major players are introduced: stakeholders (and not just the clients themselves as in Grameen Bank).  Profits no longer solely go back to the borrowers, but out to other stakeholders.  Is this pushing the industry towards loan sharking and profiteering?  Will short-term investor needs overshadow long-term strategy and dedication to the needs of the poor?

Thus far, I say no.  Going public has helped SKS achieve significantly greater outreach, better and more diversified products and services, and they are now under the ever-critical public eye.  Governance must be more transparent.  But once again it’s a matter of trust.  SKS is an extremely powerful institution that could easily, I mean easily, exploit the poor.  In a big way.  So do we say it’s not worth the risk?  Or do we trust them, and ourselves, to put the right people in charge and stay true to microfinance’s mission so that this life-changing industry can continue to grow? 

It’s not an easy decision.  Trust me.            

There's No Place Like Home

Little Dorothy has had it right all along. Although I wasn’t “home home” per say this weekend; it sure felt like it.

This weekend I was reminded of so many things that I already know. But it feels good to be reminded. I was reminded of how strikingly beautiful Vanderbilt’s campus is on a warm, cloudless, October afternoon; of how you can’t go wrong with the plethora of options in a Panera’s You-Pick-Two; of how despite now being 23 I think I will always prefer a good frat party over a bar; and of how peanut butter and conditioner make a perfect combo for getting gum out of your hair. Exponentially more importantly, I was reminded of the value of true friendship; of the joy of a good surprise; of the strength of a mother’s love; of the comfort of sharing with those you trust; of the solidity of an honest, dedicated father; and of happiness so genuine it’s hard to keep down an obnoxious smile.

So why leave? Good question.

For me, the adrenaline, the leap of faith, and the test of personal strength and perseverance is just as important as the comfort of the familiar. When it comes to my room and my eating habits, I like it the same: if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. But when it comes to life experiences, I’m incessantly asking for more, for new. I think I have been able to love and appreciate travel because of how much I love home, not in spite of it. So thanks; I miss you already.

World Peace

World peace… every beauty pageant contestant`s famous last words. But wouldn`t it be nice?

I spent this past weekend in Sogamoso, a relatively small town in the Department of Boyacá. As part of the Indigenous Art Festival hosted by the city, I attended a free, outdoor Aterciopelados concert. The group has been popular for over 20 years, but they are 20 years young. The spirit of the group, the audience, and the message they sent could not have been more alive, genuine, and absolute. While the main singer, Andrea Echeverri, did partake in a few corny/hippie-esque demonstrations, like holding up a sign that said Amor y Paz (Peace & Love), what I got out of it was more than just an idealist let`s get together and feel alright sentiment.

I`ve always wanted to save the world. Don`t we all. And I`ve always been disappointed by those who say that you don`t have to make a big change in order to make a difference; every effort, no matter how small, matters; it`s the thought that counts. To me all of this always sounds like an excuse, a cop out, a way of accepting mediocrity.

Now I think there´s more to it. Peace takes political reform, from the top. Period. But there´s no means by which to compel compliance if we don´t have a solid middle class: a group of people who make peace contagious through their active positive attitude, acceptance of differences, and dedication to loving the good and doing the right. It´s a two way street, so unlike Harry P and Volds (new nickname), top-down and bottom-up, world-wide and inner-city, group and individual efforts can and must coexist.

So I guess every effort does count, but don´t get lazy; I´m still rather critical of that concept. You can give more, be better, try harder, so that when this Earth goes to rest, it may do so in peace.

You Are What You Eat

Some say the best way to get to know a culture is to eat your way through it. Sounds like a fat person’s rationalization to me; or anyone’s excuse for gaining weight on vacation. Been there done that right? Actually… in Colombia’s case, I tend to agree.

Colombians are really into their food. That’s not to say they’re overweight, just that, in general, Colombians derive a great deal of pride from the perceived deliciousness of what they eat. Everyone, I mean everyone, has asked me So how do you like the food here??? They ask genuinely, but they’re waiting for a very specific answer. Sometimes they even prime the answer by “asking,” Isn’t the food here amazing??? I must say, the food is good. Of course I miss my mom’s famous gooey noodles and French toast, but Colombia knows what’s up.

Being the domestic fool that I am (and as I am really busy), grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, pasta, and bizarre combinations of the three are as far as I’ve gotten. Even when my roommates cook, they give me remedial tasks like mixing things and setting the table. Pathetic I know. I’ve found some local “hot spots” to eat out on weekends, and Arepas rellenas off the street are so delicious and so cheap I’m not sure why I eat anything else.

My greatest eating experience thus far however, bar none, was the weekend I spent out on the farm. Benjamín (Ben-ha-mean in Spanish), a good friend without whom I would admittedly be rather lonely, invited me to travel out to Fresno where his parents live on a farm. Not the Illinois, flatland farms you’re picturing. This farm is in the mountains. It’s ridiculously beautiful, and they grow chocolate (yes, chocolate grows on trees here!), bananas, coffee, plantains, maracuya, guayaba, mangos, oranges, avocado; you name it, they grow it. They have dozens of fruits that don’t even exist in the US. Aside from fruit, as it is a farm, they also have chickens and the like running around everywhere. Most unfortunately, I woke up Sunday morning to a giant rooster hanging upside down with blood oozing down its face into a bucket placed appropriately below. Graphic I know. So this is where Benjamin’s mom comes in.

For starters, she’s ridiculous. She cooked all day Saturday and Sunday; I’m literally not sure she ever stopped. Everything’s from scratch. And I mean scratch scratch, like start-by-killing-the-rooster scratch. She prepared traditional Colombian tamales, which start as a mixture of potatoes, rice, carrots, corn, chicken, beef, and probably lots of other things I’m unaware of, and are then wrapped up in giant leaves (picked from the trees out back) and cooked in boiling water for 2 hours. She made 100… one hundred. It was almost comical, like a witch with a giant wooden spoon, ladling her magic potion in a giant cauldron. And the kitchen is far from high-tech. We’re talking coal and wood burning under the stove.

Needless to say, I overate. She just kept handing me food, and I kept eating it. She even sent me home with four tamales to eat throughout the week: hospitality in its purist form. I watched her cooking the whole time, intrigued, and when she caught on to my curiosity she asked, Well how does your mom make them? She struggled to understand what exactly we eat in the United States if we don’t eat tamales. Adorable.

In Colombia, food is a way of life. Boasting about your mother’s homemade meals is a common pastime. Sharing a good meal in good company is about as good as it gets J.

Wake Up Call

I was robbed today… by a guy with a knife.

Perhaps you’re imagining a narrow alley, late at night, creepy homeless guy. None of the above. Noon, sunny day, I had just gotten off the bus that I take three days a week between my two jobs. I had been walking pleasantly along the sidewalk of a busy street, when a guy about my height came up behind me, wrapped his arm tightly around my shoulders, held a knife to my cheek and mumbled something almost under his breath. As I was listening to my iPod at the time (Yo no sé mañana, great tune) all I heard was “iPod.” It’s the same in Spanish. Unable to take my eyes off the knife in my face, I frantically reached into the pocket where my iPod was nicely tucked away, grabbed my cell phone and iPod, threw them at his feet, and took off in the opposite direction. That’s it. Four seconds of my life.

Since I can remember, I have been fortunate enough to have a great deal of self confidence; a great deal. It has served me well and allowed me to be one of the happier people I know, but my self confidence has a tragic flaw. It managed to translate itself into a perception of near invincibility. It has allowed me to remain naïve. I’m not ignorant, nor do I maintain an “I’m invincible” attitude, just that my perception of security has always felt real to me. Today I was reminded that my perception of security is a mere state of mind, not a reality.

Bottom line, I’m fine. I was lucky (relatively speaking). He let me flee after I threw my stuff to the ground; for the first few moments I was sure he would follow me. I lost a cell phone and an iPod: a $10 cell phone and an iPod with a more than lame compilation of music. Somewhat traumatizing experience on the whole, but I already feel calm, and now that my Colombian friends know what happened their super-protection-Annie radars are back on. Learn my lesson and move on; sometimes that’s all we can do.

I Hope You Dance

“Si no bailaste, es como si no estuvieras allí” – 9th semester student, male. If you didn´t dance, it´s as if you weren´t even there.

Thus far my only workout has been going out. Pretty much anywhere you go, when the right song comes on (and that´s nearly every song), everyone gets up to dance. This dancing does not include standing in a circle and bopping up and down, not that there´s anything wrong with that, but I´m talking about Salsa, Meringue, and Vallenato. Each has its own rhythm and basic steps. I´m still working on distinguishing the difference between the three.

As much as I love soccer, dance will always be dearest to my heart. It´s culture is a paradox: creativity, discipline, expression, conformity, tradition, innovation, control, freedom. Saying so much without saying anything at all. It´s art. So does dancing in a noisy, crowded bar count? Yes. It most certainly does. Perhaps this is dance´s truest form: of the people, by the people, for the people. It´s dance´s vernacular. Sure there are dance studios (at which I´ll be taking lessons starting next Sunday wooot), but most people learn from their family and friends. The tradition is passed by “word of mouth.”

I spent at least 14 years of my life learning, practicing, and perfecting the art of dance. Although performing will forever be one of the greatest joys in my life, I like to look at dance from a more practical perspective these days. For one, it adds a level of sophistication to the standard drinking scene; an alternative if you will. It´s also a way to boost your game. If you´re not so cute, learn to dance, you´ll do just fine. On a simpler level, dance makes me happy. Not sure what it is exactly, but it´s one of the most genuine feelings of happiness that I can identify in life.

Dancing is a test. A test of courage, putting yourself out there; a test of faith, learning to relax and trust your partner; a test of balance, the push and the pull; and a test of assimilation, every new song, new partner, new space, requires you to change a little bit about yourself and your ways in order to adapt and survive. Do all of that, yet to thine own self be true. Therein lies the paradox yet again.

If I have succeeded in anything in writing this blog it has been revealing the intricacies and complexities of dance. What I wanted to do is regress to eighth grade and say, in every aspect of your life, “If you get the choice to sit it out or dance… I hope you dance.” -- Leanne Womack