Observations from the field | Observaciones del trabajo de campo

Bailey

Browne

Upon first glance, there is a small, dilapidated house that sits by itself on the side of a mountain.  However, to Rosmira, it is more than just a house.  Years ago, Rosmira and her family were forced to flee their home in the countryside due to violence in the area.  Her family, desplazados, was forced to move to this new area, Comuna 3, to start a new life.  With the help of her neighbors, at the time strangers, she and her husband built this house from the ground up.  Using whatever materials they could find, along with donations from the Red Cross, they shaped their new life.  They stacked bricks inside to form the wall of a bathroom, attached sticks together to form the shape of the roof, and sewed shirts together to make blankets to sleep on.  “This is MY house,” Rosmira tells me proudly.  “I built this house.”  And, just like that, friends, family, and strangers came together to give Rosmira and her family a new home.  A new beginning.  When I entered this house, it was just another visit with my cogestora.  When I left, it was more than just a house, and this was more than just a neighborhood.

The buildings of the Proyecto Altos de La Cruz,
and a guardería located inside one.

Elysia

The Proyecto Altos de La Cruz consists of three apartments buildings that loom high above the other homes in La Cruz, a barrio en Comuna 3 (Manrique). The project is part of ISVIMED (Instituto Social de vivienda y Hábitat de Medellín), as well as the Alcaldía here in Medellín, and the national government. In my time in the field, several of my interviews and even more of the visits I sat in on were with families who received housing through this project. Some of these families have lived in these apartments for just two months, while others moved in when they opened, in February of this year.

What most of these families have in common, however, is that they moved to this new housing project due to violence or danger in their previous homes and neighborhoods. One woman I interviewed told me that the home she had lived in before was deemed alto riesgo by Medellín Solidaria, and was at risk of falling down due to extreme damage to the house. Three sisters I visited, who all live together with their families now in the apartments, spoke of their previous living conditions - one house, with ten other families. Another woman, who had been displaced twice, now lives in this apartment building where she runs a guardería, or daycare, out of her home; many of the kids she cares for live in the same buildings.

This sign is outside the apartment buildings,
and reads "Here we are constructing 345 free houses".

From speaking to and spending time with these families, I can tell how much these new housing opportunities mean in their lives. For some, it is the first home that is truly theirs.  For others, it represents a safe place for their children and family, where they can work and live safely and happily. There was also a clear sense of community in these apartments - the older kids run back and forth between each others' apartments, while the mothers can be seen gossiping against the stair railings. The woman who runs the daycare says that her favorite part of her job is running into her kids in the neighborhood, hearing them shout out "profe, profe".

Our project is called Medellín, mi hogar (Medellín, my home), and I think that these apartments highlight not only how Medellín is home, but also how homes are part of Medellín. 

Jack

The León Rivera family. They were the first family I interviewed, and left me almost in tears. A beautiful family with so little, but that feels they have everything simply because they’re together. We’re pictured here on the bed they all sleep in together when it’s too cold to split up the boys and girls into their two separate beds. I was moving to sit on the end but they split apart and insisted I sit in the middle. When I see this picture I think of the incredible attitude that family had. I think about all the times I’ve complained about my showers not being hot enough, or not having enough water pressure. I think about the times I complained about the twin bed I was given at the private university I attend being too small. I think about all the times I’ve opened the fridge, and not liked any of the 20 options in front of me. I think about the smile on the childrens’ faces as I handed them a bar Toblerone. I remember Pilar, the mother, so thankful that even though sometimes they can only have one meal a day, they are together.

Kate

During both of my visits with a family in El Robledo, Camila, the youngest daughter of the family, played with Barbies. On the second visit, she arranged Barbie and Ken and asked me to photograph the scene. This post is a visual brainstorm about cultural constructions of beauty—in Camila’s life, in my life, in Medellín, in America, and inevitably and implicitly around the world. I have included pictures from this visit, from a personal photo project I completed in high school, from Colombian and non-Colombian magazines, from Facebook, from guides to battling eating disorders written in Medellín, and more. The visual brainstorm reflects an ongoing stream of consciousness I have had here as I encounter perfectly sculpted bodies on billboards, blonde, blue-eyed faces on the sides of buses, examples of cosmetic reconstruction on the streets, gym aficionados, and breathtaking shopping centers. Camila playing with Barbie reminds me that she too sees these things, walks these streets, rides these buses, plays with these toys. 

My work in ‘the field,’ in Colombia, that’s elusive and abstract, easily relegated to ‘over there’ and compartmentalized. Easily made distinct from life, and its troubles, in wealthier communities, in El Poblado, in Durham, and in Brookline, MA my hometown. Camila and Barbie are a reminder. Despite differing levels of privilege between me and those I meet in El Robledo, Camila and I are seeing and hearing some of the same messages that commodify beauty and turn a profit off the seductive promise to be something other, something better, than oneself.

This post is not meant to be an exhaustive look at the topics of cultural exportation, commodification of beauty, or my personal experiences. It’s not meant to blame one place—Colombia or America—or one culture or the other. I am grappling with just the opposite: one culture cannot be blamed because our cultural spheres, even ‘in the field,’ are not separate. It’s not a closed network. I hope connecting these images will inspire others to imagine in new ways how ideas of worth and beauty permeate borders.

Barbies cross borders. Dollars and pesos cross borders. Drugs cross borders. I want to acknowledge what else is slipping past. I’m not border control, I’m not Don Draper selling ads, and I don’t move commodities between countries. But I want to keep in my back pocket the question: how am I a part of this? 

Camila is never going to look like Barbie. I don’t know if she cares.

But to Camila, and to all the women I know, I want to say:

Don’t ever imagine you aren’t beautiful.


Nicholas

Nikita
Who knew so much negotiation could occur over a cup of coffee? My cogestora and I walked down some uncertain steps to reach a caged, iron-wrought door. Although the exterior was a bit gloomy, the inside proved to be warm and festive. Salsa music was blasting from a tattered radio, and five people were bustling around one small room. This room served the purpose of a dining room, kitchen, and bathroom – including a shower stall and toilet. The stall was also where they brushed their teeth in a tiny sink and stored their mops.  I know this because one of her children was performing his daily routine in front of us. She offered me one of the two chairs she had, and my cogestora sat on the other.  Both the bathroom and the kitchen were only inches away from me, and I saw what little means she had to cook for her large family. The woman had one large pot that she repeatedly rinsed to make rice for her son, an arepa for her daughter, and a pot of coffee for us. I do not drink coffee because my tolerance for the strong and the bitter is weak. I much prefer hot chocolate with added sugar and chocolate sauce. When she offered me some tinto, I hesitated. She only had a little bit of coffee powder in her can, but was excited to have me, an extranjera, as a visitor in her home. I asked for very little, and she used the rest of her coffee to make two steaming cups of coffee for my cogestora and I. My cogestora received a plastic bowl because she only had one cup with handles, which she gave to me.  The coffee was boiling, hot and strong and black. The woman looked at me, then offered me some sugar. These were immense negotiations that were occurring in my mind. “Should I accept her offer of coffee? If I do not, would it hurt her? Am I being selfish by accepting a pinch of sugar? How do I navigate this sharing of resources and conversation so as to show appreciation and respect?” She brought out a small plastic container filled with both brown and white granules of sugar. I took a pinch, and thanked her. She then proceeded to take a large spoonful, and pour it into my cup. I do not know why this was one of the most significant memories I have of working in the field, but I was amazed at her generosity and kindness. This woman did not have much to offer me, someone she had never met before, and no one particularly important, but she shared all she had. She even offered me the food she had made her children.  The sharing of food is an ancient and intimate practice, and so much was being wordlessly uttered by that cup of coffee.


Ryan


In the mountains | En las montañas from Ryan Catalani on Vimeo.

It took a long time to decide on this picture.
This experience with Doña Lolita conjured thoughts
on numerous subjects, so much that I was thinking
about putting up picture of my own mother and me.
Instead, I decided on a beautiful picture of Doña Lolita
herself and edited her background. Not because her
environment isn't beautiful, but since amazing people
like Doña Lolita shouldn't be stereotyped b
 their surroundings and in turn, be listened to by all.

Vaib

This has been the storied history of volunteerism throughout my life. Fix a roof. Feel great. Paint a mural. Feel accomplished. Babysit immigrant children. Feel fantastic. Successfully smirking after some had the "fortune" of being mixed in with my so called service. I did something good today, glad I filled that quota.

Often when in service, you walk with determination, knowing your work shall undoubtedly benefit someone. But where does that smugness come from? In terms of giving, we lose something of ourself for the benefit of others, whether it be time, wealth, or energy, making it inherently less productive. However, don't we in turn gain a internal satisfaction from our work? This satisfaction works in odd ways, as, only in my giving do I receive, deriving it from another person's existence.

A tear began to well in my right eye. While I stared forward, precariously attempting to keep the camera steady, my glance shifted onto 79 year old Lolita's glasses. The sun's glare continued to beat into the back of my eyes as I strained to peer through, searching for a tear. Was this ok? Lost in translation moments had happened time after time in the barrios, but none had actually amounted to anything. Why was she doing this to herself, why was she subscribing to this self-inflicted pain. Sure enough, this is what I had eventually wanted for the film. It was for the better good. The project.

She looked to her note with flat, painted eyes. Her words stumbled as her hands shook.
I had only asked for her to explain how she found the letter, not read every single word. She finished the second paragraph, my awkwardness finally surmounted itself, "si quieres…," hoping to stop her at the pause. I couldn't finish my statement, she continued, reading her only son's last words, a note to his beloved mother found on his dead body. Guerrillas killed her eighteen year old son Reuben, just because he didn't want to add to the bloodshed of San Carlos, Antioquia, a city which had 80% old its population displaced because of the paramilitary war. I maintained my silence, and my qualms.

My walk home, has been a long one. 2 weeks later, I still doubt I can coherently relay a thought on my time with Lolita, making this piece a struggle. In such a transient moment of time, Lolita felt the need to tell me those fatal words, reopening a long-scarred wound. In my supposed service for her, it felt as if she was helping me. Bearing the weight of her sorrow, she colluded in me a sense of trust for her story and her persona, as if to illustrate the beauty of her scar. I now stood to either relate my own fears to Lolita's or see how she had overcome such feelings.

In the barrios, the boundaries between helping and being helped skew indefinitely. In both many symbiotic and endangering ways, the relationships formed within a short series of videos adds to the depth of my 'satisfaction' here in Colombia. Every experience of interviewing helps in shuttling me into an experience so far from my own or in turn relays a sense of accomplishment or notice to my interviewees. Even so, my satisfaction differs from that of my previous service. The notion of trust between my camera and Lolita's words, or myself and Lolita, alludes my conventional thoughts on service. I stand to gain much more than a conceited notion that I successfully and selflessly transported my dollar to a good cause. But rather, to smile and learn from a friend is the reward for my service.

Lessons from the neighborhood and beyond | Lecciones desde el barrio y más

This week, we responded to one of two questions: What does our neighborhood mean to us, and what have we learned so far in Colombia?

Bailey
My compañeros and I made an observation our first weekend out together: Colombians dance with their feet; Americans dance with their hands. It’s true. While most every Colombian I’ve met has mastered salsa, vallenato, reggaeton, and who knows what else, Americans alternate between fist-pumping, arm waving, and—most pathetically—snapping.

My compañeros, along with many others I’ve encountered in Medellín, have attempted to coax my shy, arrhythmic self onto the dance floor. None has been more persistent than my host mom. Our second night here, she asked me if I liked to rumba. She and Vicki, her next-door-neighbor and co-conspirator, were making jewelry together in their workshop as they do most nights. I answered in the negative, insisting that I was not capaz to dance in any way.

This response was met with frowns and exclamations to the contrary. Before I knew it I was dancing with Margarita, who was counting out the quick moving steps to me as I tried to follow. She and Vicky laughed at my clumsy mirror of their fluid movements. But they kept with me. And every night since that I’ve walked into the taller and found the radio on, I’ve found myself dancing once again. These in-house salsa workshops have taught me what dancing here is really about: having fun.


Browne





Elysia

Jack

I’ve gained a healthy obsession for the Game of Thrones series; so naturally, I carry around the second book everywhere I go. To me, Carlos E. Restrepo feels like a hybrid between a neighborhood and a rainforfest, spotted with small parks and benches to read on for hours. As a result, the daily life of “A Clash of Kings” by George R. R. Martin is green and exploratory.


Kate: How to cheer up in Carlos E. Restrepo and beyond
Even in the City of Eternal Spring, I sometimes need a pick-me-up. What might get you down?

• A particularly heavy visit with my cogestora
• Breaking your harddrive
• One too many hours seated, like a Zombie, going through footage
• Nacional losing
• Nacional tying
• Nacional winning, and not getting a wink of sleep as bombas from the tienda beneath your bedroom window soar into the sky and cars screech past in celebration.
• Not getting to go into the field
• The George Zimmerman trial
• Okay the news in general, all the time, what gets made a spectacle of, and worse yet what goes uncovered.
• Phone calls in Spanish and/or the sinking feeling that you have no idea what you just agreed to. “Cierto? – Si, si es perfecto…” I think?
• Diarrhea
• Family illness
• Jota being gone (He doesn’t even go here!)
• Ryan getting two Yatzhee’s in one game
• No one wants to fund your Smellstagram or glow-in-the-dark toilet paper ideas. Still. (Note: I said ‘em first here.)
• FOMO (this one stems from a particularly good problem: having too many fun things to do!)

How to boost your spirits:

1. Girls braiding your hair.

   

   I have a new team of stylists including Ellie, new friends
   from the PBM program, and Camila from my community visits

2. Finally finding a chocolate chip cookie in a haven of hipsterness
   
3. Brownie ice cream from Frutti Jhon
4. Learning how to play Yatzhee from the master herself, Vicky!
5. Jugo.
6. Obleos and Mazamorra while in the field.
7. My host family.

   

   The fam watching the last Nacional v Santa Fe game.

8. Abrazos y besos.
9. Lounging around with your host family on a lazy Saturday.
   
10. A FestiPicnic. With your wonderful compañera (many thanks Juliana!) and her wonderful family.
    
    
    
11. Puerto Candelaria: Live jazz, blues, latin music.
    
12. ‘Tomar algo’-ing at the bookstore in Carlos E. Restrepo.
13. A dinner date: skyping your parents eating dinner while you eat dinner (Thanks, Gloria for setting this up! I love you lots!)
14. Giving in to making a fool of yourself
    Linguistically, musically, and in your physical appearance.
    (When you’re explaining Boston winters, snow, and snuggling in bed, esconderse ≠ escoger.
    When you’re at the Exito, addressing a craving, hummus ≠ mantequilla de garbanzas. And hummus still ≠ mantequilla de garbanzas at the next Exito.
    And I don’t have cuatro meses left. No matter how hard I wish cuatro meses ≠ cuatro semanas.)

Nicholas

Living in a different country can sometimes wear on your senses; not that this is such a terrible thing, though when this happens, as it does to most people, it’s a good idea to take a step back and do something to relax your mind. The Colombian culture here is extremely astute to facial expressions, and if you aren’t animo, or wearing an animated facial expression, when in the presence of a Colombian that you know, there might be a cultural miscommunication. For this reason, I’ve taken it upon myself to read books, in order to recharge my mind to keep myself as awake and animated as possible. A revolutionary idea, I know; who would have ever thought I would have time to read a book here in Medellín, when there is so much to do, see, hear, and smell?! So here I was, one morning, my mind weary from the mental exertion of trying to be paisa, to speak Spanish at every opportunity. I decided that after a tour around Carlos E Restrepo with Jota as our guide that I would find a quiet place to read my book. Jota lead us to a tree that he and the neighborhood call “Caucho,” or rubber tree. Apparently you could harvest rubber from the tree! So cool! And it was a behemoth, one of the most extravagant trees I’ve seen to date. It had a central trunk that broke off into a few other secondary trunks, like the body of a Hydra from the Greek mythologies, and grew skyward to create a canopy, from which branches, like vines, hung limply to the ground. It was something out of Tarzan. The tree appeared to have bangs. I thought with a smile, “it’s perfect.” So shortly thereafter, Jack and I decided to have a go at climbing the giant caucho to read our books, his Game of Thrones and mine The Great Gatsby (I feel like I was the only person who never read this in high school, so I felt the need to catch myself up). At first we couldn’t get up, because the tree was positioned on the cusp of a steep hill that initially scared us away from scaling the backside of the tree that was actually easier to climb. So for a few minutes we tried the front, and were rewarded by thoroughly dirtying our clothes with bark residue and mud. It had rained the night before, so that didn’t help matters. At last, we decided to try the hill-side of the tree, and though it seemed scarier, there were far more prudent grip placements on the tree of which we could take advantage. I went first, and climbed to the highest, flattest spot I could find in the tree, in which I could peacefully and comfortably read.

Jack followed, and hung out at the spot below me. It was beautiful, qué hermosura. There was quite a view, and it seemed as if we were so high that even all the mosquitos and bugs refused to bother us. Jack and I sat in that tree for about an hour, maybe an hour and a half. Children were playing in the park next to us, and some of the security guards seemed to be afraid that we would fall out of the tree and hurt ourselves. I read as if I had no care in the world. Afterwards, I came down from the tree feeling the most refreshed I had felt in quite some time. It was as if the tree could generate a bubble that blocked out all worries and stress, and I could lose myself in this bubble and recharge for while. I related this adventure of climbing a tree to read a book to my Colombian family, and they laughed hysterically, in a way that made me feel even closer to them, as if I were a part of the family.

Nikita

Recipe For Success from Nikita Yogeshwarun on Vimeo.

In my short time here, I have learned that these vibrant, resilient people of Medellín use such seemingly insignificant things, along with hope, determination, and desire, to sustain their livelihoods.

Ryan

Neighborhood: Rebirth | Barrio: Renacimiento from Ryan Catalani on Vimeo.

Vaib

Our first racial memories | Nuestras primeras memorias de raza

Bailey
My mom had a pet lion cub when she was a child. In fact, at various times, she had peacocks, goats, and a Shetland pony named Sunshine. As a kid, I was ravenously jealous of these memories when she recounted them, but she always scoffed, saying, “It’s because we were white trash.” My mom often jokes about her upbringing in Pasadena, a poor, rural suburb of Houston. She knows how out-of-place her field of a backyard and unconventional (illegal?) pets would be amidst the cookie-cutter homes and manicured lawns of the neighborhood in which she raised my sister and I. Yet the interesting thing to me is the phrase she uses to describe the difference between her childhood and mine: “white trash.” Why “trash?” And why the modifier, “white?” Is this to say that the base unit, the default for “trash” is people of color? Or that “white” people are not naturally trashy? From this and other related, seemingly innocuous turns of phrase, the six (or seven, or seventeen) year-old me developed a sense of superiority. In my predominantly white, upper-middle-class world—where the word “black” was always accompanied by a hushed tone, a glance over the shoulder, and a raised eyebrow--I felt secure at the top of a hierarchy I subconsciously created, a caste system I imagined was universally acknowledged. I was judgmental, working off of the “trash” definition I inherited, a definition which labeled people of color as those who had less, knew less, and, truthfully, were worth less. This vocabulary was so ingrained in my understanding of my place in the world that I didn’t truly discover it until much later; it was hidden in plain sight. It took some time, but that belief was eventually eroded by experience.

After writing the above paragraph, I debated deleting it for several days. I wrote an alternative post to share, one that talked about my wonderful-Kumbayah-campfire experience at a racially diverse high school—a story which is equally true in the sense that it happened, but maybe less true in the way it defines the way I’ve walked through life. I could talk about my tío who emigrated from Mexico, my cousins Rafael and Raquel. I could talk about my experience at Duke and its many types of diversity. But if I were really going to answer the question “When did you first realize you were white,” I’d have to go back to the beginning, because I’ve always known it. But what I want you to understand is that the easily-bruised racial pride that characterized my childhood lay on an insecure foundation. Because I came from “white trash,” I always feared that maybe I was trash, too. A small and silent part of me wondered if I deserved what I had. Truthfully, that foundation was only shaken when I knew for certain I was an impostor--when I arrived at Duke University. On full financial aid, having never left the country and seldom left Texas, without the designer clothes and expensive handbags, the prep school education and self-assuredness that everyone else seemed to have, I slid quickly and gracelessly to the bottom of the pyramid. This is what I learned, though: the pyramid/hierarchy/whatever-you-want-to-call-it was still self-constructed. It was still in my head. Or at least, regardless of if other people believed in the same stratification, I was making it true by buying into it, whether I believed I was less, or more. While I still struggle to articulate the things that I feel about race and racism, I’ve found that I don’t want to be treated as “trash” or really as “white,” either. Now, I assume that no one else does.

Browne
In Kindergarten, my best friend was named Yetunde Meroe.  We were inseparable.  One afternoon when I was sitting in my living room with my uncle, who was visiting from out of town, I told him that Yetunde was coming over.  “Yetunde….?” He racked his brain, trying to distinguish between the friends I always had running around the house.  “Oh, is that the black girl? Isn’t she from Africa?” he asked me.  I was caught off guard, as I had never heard someone refer to my friend in this way.  Sure, Yetunde was black, and sure, she was born in Ghana, but I had never really thought about our physical differences.  We were both six years old and we both liked Harry Potter so we were the same, right?  Why did one of us need to be set apart from the other in such a way?  This surprised me, and bothered me, but did not change the way I referred to Yetunde.  She would continue to be my friend, instead of my black friend from Africa.

Comfortable enough in my new neighborhood
to read a book in a tree.

Jack

My first experience with race in Medellin came the first time we walked through Carlos E. A pack of 10 gringos with a Paisa guide, taking pictures of every tree, building, or graffiti we saw. We were asking to get stared at. It felt weird and uncomfortable to so clearly be an outsider in the neighborhood I was going to live in for the next 8 weeks. Suddenly I was conscious of my vans, which no paisas were wearing. I was afraid to wear shorts in fear of sticking out like the European guys in capris on the promenade in LA. I hoped that it would improve, that I would feel less like an intruder with each passing day. After 3 short weeks, it absolutely has. Everyone has gotten used to the gringos on the block. I laugh with Felipe from the bar on the corner about the first time we went to his uncle’s bar. The Frutti Jhon guy gives me an extra scoop of strawberry ice cream every time I order a cone (or two). The waitress at the bookstore met my friend on Skype. I feel as though I have already formed stronger relationships with people in the community in Carlos E. than I have in Pacific Palisades, my hometown. The initial fears of being excluded because of my race have fled completely. I feel at home.

Kate

I honestly don’t remember my first racial memory. I recognize that the lack of a particular awakening to my race reflects the privileges of my whiteness. 

I know the first time I learned about the n-word. And I remember understanding adoption in part through friends with different races in their families.

But I don’t have a poignant memory of being treated differently from others around me because of my skin color. Perhaps this was because I live in a predominantly Caucasian area, so how I was treated matched my expectations as I looked around me. Perhaps this is because my home area is more liberal, more accepting, more color-blind than others. But I doubt that. Once in New Orleans, an African American art gallery owner—originally from New York—told me Bostonians are silent racists. Perhaps I just wasn’t an attentive enough kid. I didn’t have to be.

Nick

My first “racial memory” occurred when I was in the 3rd grade, when I was no more than 9 or 10 years old. It wasn’t a chastising incident, or a memory that I’m not particularly fond of, but rather the contrary. My best friend at the time, Vincent Burwell, and I were at a Cub Scouting event, and for some reason or another we had a fire going. I remember he put his hand into the fire, held it there for a few seconds, and then took it out, completely unharmed. Thinking I could show him up, I did the same, and to my dismay, I did not come out unscathed. I’m not exactly sure what had happened, maybe I had left my hand in for too long or he had dunked his hand in water prior, but I ended up burning my finger pretty nicely. He said to me, “it’s because I’m Mexican.” His skin was fire resistant because he was Mexican. Well, I’ll be damned, I thought in the 3rd grade. He’s Mexican. And I’m not. That’s why I got burned. I’m not sure if there is scientific proof for this, but it seemed very real for me at the time, and for this reason, I wished I was Mexican, at the very least so that the pain of this second degree burn, that would eventually scar jaggedly on my right index finger, would leave me in peace. There wasn’t anger or envy, because I knew that he had no control over whether or not he was Mexican, but rather this desire to not be white, which is weird to say now but an actual thought of mine when I was at that age. I legitimately wanted to be Mexican, to be his brother so that I could have skin as tough as his. Not that I didn’t love my culture and the rest; it’s just that I found myself so at home with him and his family that I wished there was no color line dividing us, that society didn’t see us as separate but unified by a common bond of friendship, of brotherhood. I am, and always was, color blind to these skin coloration differences; I call him my brother even though he’s Mexican and I am Polish/Italian.

Nikita

My mother is an artist, and she has raised me to understand that color is so much more than black, white, and brown. From a young age, I realized it was also chocolate, bronze, sienna, sepia, camel, peach, wheat, coffee, and all the shades in between. When I turned seven, I moved from my diverse, colorful home of London to a predominantly white suburb of Dallas, Texas. It is not that I did not notice I was different. When teachers would come to my name on a list, they would look up, and move on because it was too hard to pronounce. I would be one of the few children to bring my lunch to school because I was a vegetarian, and that was simply unheard of in Texas. I was also a Hindu living in the Bible Belt. Yet, as a child, I did not really notice my race. I had made wonderful friends, my English was even better than that of the native speakers in my class, and I had survived a successful year in my new home. At the end of that year, my classmates and I exchanged yearbooks and goodbyes. This day is vivid in my mind; I remember someone mentioning that “am the only colored kid” in the class. To me, this was a significant moment because I never noticed that I was the only “colored” person. My friends were peach and tan and all different shades. This was the first time I heard something so dear to me like color being referred to in a “lesser” manner. Yet, to this day, I believe race to be simply a social construct.


Medellín or Hawaii?

Ryan

One of the reasons that I love Medellín is because it reminds me of Hawaii, my home state. There are many superficial similarities that I notice just by walking around our neighborhood: the temperate climate, abundance of greenery, the omnipresent sight of mountains. But I've noticed some deeper parallels—one that has stood out to me both times I've visited is how time operates.

Where I come from, we call it "Hawaiian time." When someone's 15 minutes, 30 minutes, maybe a few hours late to a gathering, we often shrug it off as being on Hawaiian time. Of course, this doesn't apply to the academic or professional spheres, but if an invitation to a beach barbecue says it starts at 11 a.m., the only real obligation is that you'll arrive before all the food is gone.

It feels very similar here to me. People aren't necessarily in a rush to get places; a normal walking pace in Boston or New York can seem inordinately hurried here or in Hawaii. Meeting a friend for coffee in a major US city generally means starting at the appointed time, and in my experience, people get worried if you're more than a few minutes late. Here, though, when I recently told my friend that I was finishing up lunch and would meet her soon, she replied, "No hay afán. Tomáte tu tiempo." There's no rush; take your time.

It's a place, like Hawaii, where I've noticed long conversations don't prompt a semiconscious checking of the time on your iPhone every few minutes, and where sitting in a cafe for hours on end doesn't induce your waiter to come by every 15 minutes and see if you need anything else.

Researchers say that although ancient Hawaiians had a rich vocabulary to describe the passage of time, they didn't keep track of precise times during the day—indeed, they might not have even used sundials or tools like that. Even after Western missionaries arrived, clocks became commonplace, and the then-American territory adopted the nation's standard time system, hours and minutes remained flexible. Many plantations, which from the mid-1800s dominated the state's landscape for a century, also used their own time systems, generally based on the sunrise and sunset at their exact locations. "It was, indeed, a matter of principle that [one] plantation should not operate on the same time as the neighboring plantations," according to Robert Schmitt and Doak Cox, who wrote a paper on this very topic.

Having grown up with both a relaxed interpretation of time and the more rigid Western tradition, neither really bothers me, and I don't particularly favor either, although in doubt, I think it's safer to err on the earlier side. But I do think that understanding other people's expectations about time is important; like a language, a culture's understanding of time informs the way it communicates and sees the world. Recognizing that others might have different expectations about time, and for important meetings, being specific about when to arrive, might preempt trouble later on. Besides, arriving later than the appointed time isn't always a bad thing, I've seen, and being early isn't always a virtue, either—the barbecue might not even be set up yet. 

One of the reasons I love Hawaii in the first place, though, is how it exemplifies the melting pot analogy that we often use to describe America. Nearly a quarter of its residents identify as two or more races, eleven times higher than the national average. In the plantation era, new immigrants from as far away as Portugal and the Philippines sweat side-by-side and created their own language, Hawaiian Pidgin, to find a way to communicate with each other.

For as long as I can remember, I've known my basic ethnic composition—half Japanese, a quarter Indonesian, and a quarter Spanish. Most of my friends have multiple heritages too, and from very young, we were raised not to assume someone's ethnic story was as simple as a single word. Besides, thinking of others in terms of the color of their skin or contours of their face is too ambiguous in our multicultural state. It's not really something teachers had to write on a whiteboard or construct lesson plans around, but something we learned simply by getting to know each other. Our ethnicities were often one of the first things we talked about with new classmates, and I can't remember a time when someone couldn't give an answer or felt bad about their background.

And so even after I got older and was introduced to standardized forms that only allow you to choose one race, it wasn't so difficult. I remember filling out SAT registration paperwork with my college counseling class, and one of the first questions was about which box we should check. "Whichever you want," our teacher replied. She knew we cared about our cultural background, but, I think, also recognized that we were confident enough in that background to not let something like that be too bothersome. I wish those forms were more flexible, but I also understand that they aren't seeking a complex representation of myself, and I don't believe that by checking a box, I'm limiting the scope my own character. And anyway, I am a majority Asian.

What I do remember is being called Hawaiian. Being Hawaiian is different than being Californian or Texan or Pennsylvanian; it doesn't necessarily mean that you're a resident of the state of Hawaii, but that you have native Hawaiian blood. Growing up, it was always very clear that only kanaka, people of native Hawaiian ancestry, could call themselves Hawaiian. Kama'aina, residents of Hawaii like myself, would never use the term.

But often, when I introduce myself on the continental US, people will use the term Hawaiian to describe me, either in the ethnic or residential sense. And here in Medellín, I've been referred to as the chinito—affectionately, the Chinese guy. (For a while, I wondered why Chinese was the preferred designation for someone Asian, and after talking to some friends here, we concluded that, regardless of cultural factors, saying someone is Chinese is easier and sounds better than, for example, Asian or Japanese.)

These identifications, though, have never really annoyed me. Startled me, at first, because it was surprising to hear someone make an assumption about my ethnicity, but it's never stung. It's more a source of pride that I can explain my actual ethnic background, explain a little about what it means to be Hawaiian. But I'm always aware that it was only through enormous serendipity that I was born in a place where talking about our racial backgrounds was as common as the salty air and palm trees, and that outside our island bubble, talking about ethnicities is probably not something fourth-graders do on the playground. Maybe it should be, though.

Cultural stimulation, across races,

at Duke with the Hindu festival of Holi

Vaib

I honestly can't pinpoint when I first defined my self as brown. As long as I can remember, race has been an integral part of my existence. From Preschool to 3rd grade, my parents enrolled me in St. Michael's Lutheran School, a predominately white school. I learned how to fill my separate roles in my school and Indian communities; however, I don't think I ever imagined the two would ever collide together. 

In the spring of 2nd grade, my teacher asked if my parents would give my class a presentation on the Indian festival of lights, Diwali, for some sort of cultural stimulation. Truthfully, I didn't even realize the racial profiled question of my teacher, but I went ahead and helped my parents schedule a day with my class.

My parents came in class and presented for my class, sighting the festivities in India with colorful pictures, savory desserts, and added videos of me dancing at a local Diwali celebration. Despite all the embarrassment from the video of me dancing with one girl on stage, I was proud. My parents had made me glean with pride as my culture was shared with my classmates. Maybe it was a product of my parents helping me integrate my Indian world into my predominately white world, maybe it was the fact that my white teacher had actively supported my cultural experiences outside of the classroom, maybe seeing my friends enjoy my culture as much as they enjoyed their own made me appreciate the benefits of the nexus of my two worlds, but certainly so, my first racial experience has only added to the dignity of my race as opposed to others.

First impressions, first visits | Primeras impresiones, primeras visitas

Our first impressions of Medellín:

Bailey

Before DukeEngage, my thoughts about Medellín were tainted with outdated, half-baked recountings of drugs, violence, and sex-trafficking. Though Medellín, like any city, has its struggles to overcome, I solely (and unjustly) equated the city to crime. Furthermore, my ill-informed imaginings extended to the people who I anticipated I would encounter here. I envisioned an awkward, crowded host home. I doubted I would build relationships with my compañeros from the Universidad Nacional. I braced myself for thieves on every corner, drug lords in my closet. 

The paisas have shattered each of my preconceptions with their warmth, kindness, and generosity. My host mother, Margarita, has not only welcomed me into her home, but has given me my own room and bathroom. She cooks constantly, always asking me what else I need to be happy (the answer is nothing; her food helpings are bountiful). She is incredibly thoughtful and philosophical—we spend hours after dinner talking about culture, beliefs, and experiences. She has encouraged me in every possible way, including clearing a space on her bookshelf for the novels she insists I will write. With every small act of kindness, she resists my protestations and denies my thanks, saying “con cariño, mi amor.” I’ve taken to calling her my madre Colombiana because “host mom” fails to express the way she has made me feel at home here in Medellín.
In addition, my compañeros--Viviana and Felipe-- are incredible friends to me. Viviana invited me to a finca, or country home, for her birthday weekend. After knowing me for a grand total of two hours, she included me in this celebration with her family and closest friends. The entire weekend she repeatedly checked in on me, asking me what I needed and what she could do for me. Even on her special day, Viviana made certain I was happy and comfortable.

The people I’ve met in Medellín have truly made my experience special. Instead of hiding, ducking, fearing, I’m being drawn out of my shell and being loved and welcomed more than I ever have before.

Browne
“Vive con alegría”.

These are the words my host mom sings every morning as she prepares a hot breakfast.   In just the first five days, I was warmly welcomed into my new family of eight uncles, six aunts, four cousins, a brother, grandma, mom, and dog – “La Niña de la Casa”.

“In Colombia, family is very important,” my host mom tells me.  Even with ten siblings, the entire family spends the majority of their time together.  The warmth and excitement my host family welcomed me with is mirrored in the city, in the people.  My compañeros have invited me into their lives, introducing me to their friends and favorite places.  After just one short week in Medellín, its nickname has revealed a new meaning.  “The City of Eternal Spring” alludes, of course, to the weather, but also describes the constant happiness and openness of the people.  In Medellín, I have not only found a new home, but a community that seems to take those lyrics to heart. 

Live with happiness.

Vive con alegría.

Me with my host brother, Nico.

Elysia

Almost every morning, the first sound I hear is a tiny bike running into the bathroom door. My host brother, Nico, has a little plastic bike, and his favorite thing to do, for whatever reason, is to ride it around inside and run straight into the door. The first morning, it jarred me awake, but now it’s just another part of my amazing homestay family.

Yesterday when I got home, while I was unlocking the door (it’s a surprisingly complicated process), I could hear my family inside and they said hello. But when I opened the door, my host cousin, Miguel, was right there, and scared my so bad I jumped. The rest of my host family was sitting in the living room, laughing so hard they were almost in tears.

These two experiences in my homestay, along with countless others, have really shown me that this is my home. I never expected to feel this at home here, but my host parents, and absolutely my host brother and cousin (the youngest of whom is still learning to say my name), have made the transition incredibly easy.

And this kind of encounter mirrors everything and everyone that I have met so far in Medellín. Everyone has been incredibly welcoming, from the other homestay families to the people from ACI who gave us tours around the city. Everyone is interested in us, our families and lives, and also in what we are going to do for the rest of our time in Colombia. And I’m excited to continue to share this with them.

Left to right starting from the top:
Arepas, chorizo, papas, chicharrones, empanadas,
morcilla, limon, y tomate

Jack
Bienvenidos gets the award for word of the week. Paisas are the most welcoming group of people I’ve ever met. After having traveled in Europe, where Americans are not the most anticipated visitors, it’s refreshing and comforting to be welcomed so warmly in a foreign country. EVERYONE, from homestay families, to compañeros, to waiters, to homeless people asking for money on the street (even after telling one I didn’t have money), have made an effort to say “¡Bienvenidos!” to the newest gringos on the block. For me, it has made a huge difference in adjusting to the new environment. It’s so much easier to relax and enjoy everything when everyone seems legitimately happy that I’m there enjoying it with them. In the other direction, I say bienvenidos to the paisa food. I’m very happily welcoming every paisa meal I’ve tried so far into my diet. I have fallen in love with arepas de anything, empanadas, limonada de coco, jugo de lulo, chorizo, the list goes on. Ajiaco is pretty easily the best soup I’ve ever had. Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m going to need you to Skype with my home stay mom to learn how to cook everything she’s given me. I’ve only been here for a week, and I’m already dreading the flight back home.

Kate

“Fue un día muy duro.” I found myself repeating the phrase Friday evening— to “mi padre colombiano” Leo,  “mi madre colombiana” Gloria, “mi hermana colombiana” Manuela, and “mi hermano colombiano” Fabrio, and later again to mis compañeros. Each was understanding, compassionate, and loving. “Claro,” “entiendo,” “tranquilla, tranquilla.” I’ve gotten used to hearing these patient well-wishes from my new family and friends. I am an often-flustered person, preoccupied with small things, the “big things,” and inconveniencing others. With rusty Spanish skills made worse by nerves and a tripping tongue, I should be one big gringa inconvenience in this city of paisas. Add to that my shyness, indecisiveness, and vegetarianism—well it’s a wonder they haven’t shipped me home by now. But the truth is, my Colombian support team, my new family, has never once made me feel like an inconvenience. The first few days I blundered about verbally- apologizing for my incoherence and relying too heavily on “Como se dice *insert entire English soliloquy here*.” Yet, my host family and especially Manuela helped me and continue to help me find the right words. They nurture my linguistic confidence with lies and compliments, and so I keep trying. Another trouble from the gringa: I don’t eat beef or chicken or pork or anything else good and Colombian. At first I felt uncomfortable knowing that Gloria would have to accommodate my pescatarian diet. “Tranquilla, tranquilla,” she says, taking incredible care of me.

Of course I could go on, sharing more examples of the ways in which everyone has helped me this week. (And I’m sure the list of examples will only grow.) But my point isn’t about a (long) list of favors and gestures. I have been welcomed and accommodated as if it were nothing by the people I have met here. I would like to say thank you, here. For everything my family and my compañeros have done for me this week. And especially for doing it all out of love. I’ve felt this love in the efforts you’ve made for me because these efforts have been un-asking, patient, and merry. I couldn’t feel luckier and I am so grateful. Thank you to Tam, Jota, and Alex as well for surrounding me with these wonderful new friends.

I am only just beginning to imagine how much I’ll lean on this support and generosity over the next two months. Friday “fue un día muy duro.” We visited five different sites throughout Medellín that are part of programs run by the Mayor’s Office. In the morning we visited a public mental hospital for children, el Hospital Mental de Antioquia. The boys and girls had been living on the streets. Some suffered from mental illnesses and others substance addiction. We happened to be visiting on the day of a big soccer tournament, and we saw the children happy and engaged. Part of their therapy includes artistic creation—beautiful bracelets of rope, paintings, drawings, rap about their lives, music, and more. Their creations and the creative confidence the program is nurturing sweetened the visit.

After a restful lunch (at none other than Crepes and Waffles), we visited three sites for “habitants del calle.” I love this Spanish phrase; it is equivalent to “homeless people.” However, the Spanish term doesn’t emphasize neediness and lack of property in the same way. The adults at the sites we visited don’t have permanent homes, but they occupy a permanent space in the fabric in this city (just as in any city). They dwell in the streets. At the sites, I thought of idleness, poverty, and the potential monotony of passing day after day in these places. However, as at the mental hospital, artistic creation brightened the visit. The last site we visited of the “Sistema de Atención al Habitante de Calle Adulto” was a site for adult “habitantes del calle” who are able to create products, potentially for sale. They make paintings, dolls, and other merchandise. Some of their paintings:

The artwork blew me away. One was a recreation of part of Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam,” which decorates the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican. I was fortunate enough to visit Rome and the Vatican this past May. I stood in line to see Michelangelo’s ceiling and was silently and hurriedly ushered through the chapel. The contrast of the contexts between this recreation, in Medellín, Colombia, and the original fresco thousands of miles, lifetimes, and realities away moved me. I joked to another member of the group, “I’d take this piece and this view over the other any day.” But the truth is I would. Isn’t art about how one is moved, how one connects with the artist, the subjects, and the space, how the impression lasts and evolves after the viewer walks away, and how one is changed? In a homeless rehabilitation center on an unspectacular street in Medellín, I think yes. It’s not that the intricacies of the craft here were better than in that grand chapel. Yet I was better moved by whatever story was being told, by impressions of talent, mobility, charity and hospitality, and beauty. The recreation carried with it the context of Medellín, a context I’m only just beginning to see.

For our final stop, we visited a hospital for the oldest population. The experience was gripping. In the room for dependents some of the patients had deformed bodies. I cannot find words that are haunting, yet also soulful, graceful, and respectful enough for what I saw. Patients also walked about, dancing, greeting us. It was a tough visit, but I couldn’t help feeling that what happens there is incredibly beautiful. Everyday nurses shook these people’s hands, asked “Como estás,” looked them in the eye, showed them respect, called them señora and señor. It’s easy to see individuals in such stripped states and to dehumanize them. It requires trained faith and belief to see bedridden individuals and maintain the possibility in one’s imagination that their thoughts are complete, their eyes windows into imaginations and minds just as grand and nimble as ours. It is a beautiful thing that the nurses who work here engage with these people on whatever terms they are able: giving recognition to their lives and the possibility that they are so much more than they seem. They do the hard work of looking past their dependency, and up in the beautiful hillside, hugging myself with Goosebumps from the cold and possible something else, I was smiling.

We returned to Carlos E. and dispersed back to our homestays. As I walked back to my home, I began to cry, and I was frustrated that tears were coming now as I was alone, leaving the group. I lamented that I couldn’t go home to my Boston home and family, who knows my emotional ebbs and flows and who I can be a couch potato with. It’s the norm here to give your attention to each other with hugs and genuine interest about each other’s days upon entering and leaving a space. I walked into my homestay, and on cue mi padre colombiano asked me how I was and how my day was just as the rest of my family and mis compañeros would later. That afternoon, I felt comfortable and confident in the fact that Leo and the others wanted to hear about my day and my feelings, that they would understand and I mattered to them. This is what the Colombian tradition of greetings initiates, and on Friday afternoon it reminded me of the patience and generosity of my Colombian support team. So I began “fue un día muy duro” and continued to talk about our visits with the city’s vulnerable. I shared because each person wanted to know and I wanted them to too.

Kendall
My first impression of Medellín contains far too many thoughts and ideas to convey in one written piece or to internalize in a single moment. And so, I have chosen a small, standalone symbol that represents my initial perspective of this very new place.

In the heart of the neighborhood in which we are staying, there is a tree that has a very special set of branches which grow toward the ground and plant a new set of seeds in a simple and direct fashion. The tree takes up a tremendous amount of space and is commanding in a way that makes extranjeros like me feel quite tiny. In evolutionary terms, it seems, this tree has the potential to surpass all other species.

Medellín is a city of tradition and change. In the home of my host family, we eat arrepas and sit together around the table for every meal, recounting our days. In the center of the city, there is sharp modern architecture paired with the worn brick of old school buildings that the people of this place refuse to tear down.  And in the mountains, the children play outside in the kind of eternal way that darkness cannot intrude upon, while their parents travel on fast moving metrocables to their jobs.


And in the constant shine of sun, the people and the city grow like trees with old roots.

Nicholas

Upon setting foot in the city of Medellín, an eerie wave of excitement came over me, even before I reached the sliding exit doors of the airport. And lo and behold, when the Colombian sunshine hit my face as I boarded the van with Rolando (our driver, and a soft-spoken yet kind man) and our group, I felt the magic that I had been waiting for, that transition from mystery to tangible reality, and I relished in it. From the rolling hills and lush vegetation to the soft eyes and genial salutations of nearly every single passerby, I felt comfortable and at ease. Though, I believe what truly solidified my love-at-first-sight for this city was my host family, for meeting them was tantamount to seeing my dearest and oldest friends. As soon as pulled into Carlos E Restrepo, removed my belongings from the van and rode the elevator to the 8th floor of the gated apartment complex, I realized that this was a very special place. The hospitality, the love, the food, the consideration, the talkativeness, and the friendliness: it all screamed royal service. I made my bed in the morning, and when I came back one night, it was remade; if I came back late at night, breakfast was left on the table for me were I to wake up at 2 in the afternoon; they refused to make juice with sugar to save me the embarrassment of refusing anything with simple sugar; and above all, they are simply interesting and funny people. And thus I fell asleep that night with an easy conscience. If Medellín is a city that has borne the brunt of much despair and violence, its beautiful people, culture and environment has passed the test of time; very little of the remnants of the past remain. Maybe the place in which I sleep every night is guarded by armed security guards with bolt-action rifles and policemen with riot bats. Maybe, I’ve seen the emaciated, malnourished homeless sleeping in broad daylight on the sidewalks and next to the carreteras. I’ve seen amputees hopping around for lack of a crutch, begging for money in the streets. But unbelievably, if a place can boast incredible despair and, yet, unbridled beauty and felicity, all at the same time, it is the small little town of Carlos E Restrepo, a town that I have only begun to know superficially, at best. I see in Carlos E a blanket desire to be happy, the benign eyes of strangers. What surprised me most is that, although I’ve just arrived here to Medellín, I can already point out similarities to life in California. Colombia has been alienated by the American press for some years; connotations and malapropisms abound to describe Medellín, especially after Pablo Escobar. From my perspective, walking in the streets of Medellín, I perceive a city that is just like any other. Maybe it is a little greener, in part because of the tropical climate. But, this is to say that every city has its homeless, every city has its drug problems. Maybe Medellín is a dangerous place, but so is New York City, so is Los Angeles, and so is Detroit. I’ve seen just as many homeless amputees in Los Angeles as I have in Medellín. My view of this picture that depicts Medellín is not complete, and I don’t think it ever will be; however, what is important to understand about Medellín is that, although it has had a dark past, it appears to me, as an outsider looking in, that its future could not be brighter. From the most dangerous city in the world to the most innovative, Medellín, through my lens, is doing well for itself and everybody associated with it.

Nikita

Being an art history major, I often think visually. To me, Medellín is a city of contrasts - one painted with endless layers and hues. I immediately associate Medellín with Paisa artist Fernando Botero. To my delight, our DukeEngage group visited a plaza entirely dedicated to his sculptures. His style is unmistakeable, and his work consists of figures drawn with exaggerated line and curve. In other words, they are extremely plump and just as beautiful. In reality, figures on the streets of Medellín seem quite different. Many Colombian women have sculpted their own bodies with the help of plastic surgery -- enough for Medellín to have earned the nickname, "Silicone Valley". Intrigued, I spoke with my compañeros about this trend, and learned that plastic surgery has often been given as a gift by drug lords to their women. Twenty years ago, Medellín was considered one of the most dangerous cities in the world. This year, it is considered to be the most innovative one. As I walk down the street, I notice a disabled man sleeping to my right. When I look down, I see that some of the stones are raised while others are not, so as to help the blind navigate the streets. It has only been a few days since I have arrived, but I am eager to understand how Medellín is able to balance immense poverty and a violent past with its overwhelming culture and brilliant innovations.

A bird's eye view of Medellín from Biblioteca
España featuring Ryan Catalani

Vaib

Medellín to most outsiders could fit the stereotype of any Latin-American city, filled to the brim with people, problems, culture, and conflicts. However, among the millions of occasions happening in Medellín daily, their efforts combine to form something distinctly paisa. The term paisa is used to describe the extensive dialect of spanish here or a native of Medellín, but in my week of experience, it has symbolized my feelings about the city. Upon my first glances of Medellín, the city is gorgeous in a purely aesthetic way, a jungle of lush rain and never-ending greenery. Yet, in a closer look, you could spend years picking out the peculiarities that take place everyday here. Some of these details are the ways in which the mayor's office interacts with its constituents, through thoughtful yet ingenious social programs found under the city's name. But the paisa trait also extends to the unflagging care that my host mom affords me, the openness of my Colombian university compañeros, and not to mention my favorite, the city's unburdening love of dance, specifically salsa. This whole environment invokes emotions of comfort that are new to me in their setting yet all too familiar too me. Medellín is paisa, and paisa is Medellín. How these two terms interact with each other fills me with awe, as the equal sign between the two is filled with a Medellín-only sense of community and tradition that I have begun to love and only begun to discover.

---

Reflections on our first visits around the city

Bailey

I’m not a graceful crier. My face becomes blotchy, my eyes red and puffy. Oddly viscous snot bubbles out of my nostrils. For some reason my longer-lived cries are always accompanied by hiccups that rack

It’s for this reason that I dislike crying and abhor crying in public. Yet somehow during our Friday tour of Medellín with the Mayor’s Office, I found myself crying in front of strangers for nearly an hour.

Let me give some context. Because our DukeEngage program is working with the Mayor’s Office (El Alcaldía de Medellín), a representative took us to several of that organization’s other projects. We visited a mental hospital for street children, a rehabilitation center for homeless adults, and a nursing home for the indigent. It was this last stop that turned on the waterworks.

The setting of this home is idyllic. Nestled in the verdant hills, away from the bustle of the city center, is the site of the last days of Medellín’s least-privileged citizens. We saw the autonomous citizens sitting on the porch, enjoying salsa music. We viewed their cafeteria, courtyard, workshop, and a school where many end their lifelong illiteracy. All of these things were beautiful, even moving.

But then we walked into the ward for the dependents. We saw adults shriveled like raisins, their wrinkled skin hanging in folds over slender bodies. A nurse patiently held a bottle to the mouth of an indignant elderly woman, coaxing her to take a few sips of the nutrients. Another in a diaper screamed repeatedly, wordlessly, her eyes rolling back in her head.

I was holding myself together pretty well until our staff guide asked me if I was ok. Then I proceeded to sob (ungracefully, as you’ve heard) for the rest of our visit.
Though it was shocking to see human beings in this state, the emotion I felt was not for the present. Rather, I was overwhelmed with the improvement this circumstance must be over what their lives were like before the program, when poor families were forced to abandon the elderly in their lives. When the woman who couldn’t eat and the man who couldn’t speak would writhe in the streets until their lives came to an end, alone and unnoticed.

I want my videos this summer to impact viewers the way this nursing home impacted me. Rather than pity for the present, I want to elicit awe for the monstrous past that has been overcome. Medellín Solidaria and the many programs of the Mayor’s Office have wrought a change over this city, revolutionizing the lives of its citizens. I want to share this miracle, this triumph, with people at home.

Browne

“Are you coming back?”

A young boy of around five or six years old, face pressed against the fence between us, asked me this question with wide, hopeful eyes.  After touring the wellness center for children and learning of those affected with both mental and physical illnesses, we were led outside to a swarm of children holding colorful posters and chanting excitedly for their upcoming soccer game.   This sudden change from a serious tone when learning of their illness to a lively, exciting environment caught me by surprise.  It also, however, showed how the children had overcome adversity to enjoy their time in the center  We had been living in this city for almost a week, yet I had no idea that such a place, or large population of these people, existed  This “other” population of Medellín is important to learn about; we call the same city home, regardless of for how long.  The way that the city has implemented such programs for affected people shows its adaptability and heart.  At El Centro Día, a center for the homeless, we passed by amputees, men and women comfortably sleeping on the cement despite their access to a bed.  The only black man in the center jumped happily on his only leg, following us and extending his welcome.  “El Negro!”, they called to him happily.  He exuded joy.  Joy to talk to us, to welcome us.  A woman missing an arm fed herself soup, waving with a smile as I walked by.  The happiness of these people struck me and is now an image engrained in my mind.  One arm less, one leg less, but full of pure and utter joy.  The adults we encountered, the children we met at the other center, had this in common:  happiness.

After our tour of the Wellness center, a large group of children was gathered around the fence, eager to talk to us.  They spoke of themselves, they asked about us, but above all they showed their overcome hardships.  Understanding another culture or person is easier than it seems.

Sometimes, all you have to do is listen.

The outside of the Biblioteca España,
as seen from the Metrocable.

Elysia

Last Thursday and Friday, went spent two jam-packed days visiting various sites and places around Medellin. The sites we visited were incredibly varied, something that really showed the diversity of the city. Thursday, we visited some of the most famous tourist sites in the city - the Plaza Botero, the Jardín Botánico - and also got our first chance to take the Metrocable up to the barrios, in the poorer parts of the city. While the views were incredible, it was also amazing to get to see the neighborhoods where we are going to be working for the next few weeks. We got the chance to take a tour of the Biblioteca España, which was astounding from the outside, and even more incredible inside. The architecture of the buildings is striking, three hulking black structures with cutout windows and sharp corners and edges. On the inside, each floor is crowded with people, books and technology, a true resource for this community. It was incredible seeing how much something as simple as a library has helped out, and will contribute to, this community.

On Friday, we visited several sites involved with the Alcadía (mayor's office) of Medellín. We visited a children’s center, several homeless shelters for adults, and finally a center for los ancianos. At the children’s center, a sede of the mental hospital of Antioquia, we watched a video about some of the kids who have lived at the center, including several who had created their own rap music videos. The psychologist there told us that in order to rap, they had to learn to read, and write first, something I think was an amazing way to promote literacy.

Throughout our visits, our was struck by the linear progression of our day, from the young children who had learning disorders or had traumatic experiences, to the habitantes de calle at El Centro Día, to the oldest, the inhabitants of our final visit. This really showed me that the idea of early intervention is of the utmost importance, and perhaps if the children in at the sede can be helped, like so many of the success stories in the video showed, they won't fall into a life on the streets. From what we saw from the smiling faces and exuberant chants of the kids, it seems possible. 

Jack

Friday snapped me out if my paisa dream state. The week previous, we were on vacation with almost no responsibilities. We were all little pollitos, entranced by the culture and in an unreal state of excitement.  On Friday, the reality of what we're actually here to do hit me in the face. The first stop was incredible. With kids laughing, chanting, and yelling all around us, it was near impossible for me to focus on the presentation. I gave the first autograph I've ever given to a little Colombian child, who swore we would be a soccer star. We climbed back into the bus, sporting new bracelets hand woven by the children that lived there, and smiling the entire trip down the mountain. The next two stops were more intense. We walked through two homeless shelters, stepping over homeless people that were too accustomed to sleeping on the concrete to sleep in the beds offered to them. Right outside the second shelter, the graffiti read “without truth there is no life, and without education there is no truth.” (Picture below) I suddenly felt thankful for the opportunity I was given on this trip, and the life I was born into in general. Seeing this situation gave me a really strong sense of what exactly Medellin Solidaria is trying to prevent. Understanding this lowest state makes me better understand Medellin Solidaria’s work, and what they’re taking actions to create and prevent. As I begin conducting interviews I feel compelled to document the impactful work that the mayor’s office and Medellin Solidaria is doing. I strive to find stories of improvement, in which the help of the city may have directed a family away from the shelters we saw and towards a more positive path. Friday was hard, painful at points, but it made me excited to get my hands dirty. 

Kendall

In our two days touring the city of Medellín, I admired the consciousness in the contrast. On Thursday, we saw what change looked like. We saw the ways in which the city has progressed with its stunning public spaces like the Jardin Botanico, with its community centers like La Biblioteca de España, places constructed and run by compassionate geniuses. We ate at the most breathtaking restaurant oasis that put us at ease and made us feel quietly at home. We listened to people who believe that everyone deserves potential and that potential deserves to be seen in everyone.

The following day we looked at challenges that the people of the city face and we looked at them hard, in the colors that only reality can paint. It is not to say that the first day was not real, was not something to be valued. Those changes, progressions, and beauties are meant to ease the challenges, prevent them even, for those who suffer. And so, as we stood facing self-made soccer teams of children who had previously lived the street life just years or months before, we began to understand the gravity and importance of yesterday’s social initiatives. 

This kind of careful planning may seem like a contradiction at first glance: poor and wealthy, hopeful and despairing, but in fact, it is so intentionally intertwined. 

With the visits these past few days, I learned a lot about stories. As we look at the mountains and take pictures of the paisaje, we use cameras with wide angles and our eyes capture faraway snapshots of colorful homes stacked atop one another in a scene we simply cannot pull away from. We are floored by the grand scale of a very romantic landscape.

But what about the nursing home we visited that sits atop a hill way in the distance? What about the woman who lives there, the one who wears a baseball cap and wraps her arms around me without a sound from her lips? What is her story? 

Or what about the young girl who speaks to me through the fence in a yard she shares with dozens of other kids? “Tu eres bonita,” she says and she is sincere and she is wearing a tee shirt the same color as all the other girls. You wouldn’t pick her out of the crowd for any particular reason. But she has picked you and what is her story?

These visits were like a zoom function on a lens. It was critical to learn about the larger social initiatives, projects, and programs in Medellín. But these programs work to support people who in turn support the programs with their stories. 

It would be easy and more appealing to find some obscure, poetic moment that impacted me during our visits on Thursday and Friday, but reality is truth. I cried at the nursing home because despite the cultural dedication to family here, those people dying in their beds had no visitors. I held my breath at El Centro Dia because I couldn’t predict the actions of those around me and I couldn’t blame them for looking at me like an intruder. I let the goose bumps rise on my skin as I watched kids line up in teams grouped by colored shirts, holding onto the one special place and the handful of special people that were theirs.

These difficult instances are panicked opportunities. I was allowed into these different places, these very exceptional places without question, hesitation, or negativity. These opportunities to visit and reflect are given to me, in part, because of where I come from, where I study, what I look like, and so forth. These videos can’t be about us or about our perspective. They have to be about the people of Medellín. We cannot control a story about a life we will never fully internalize because we will always be wrong.

Nicholas

I have been here one week. No one can write about a place with complete confidence and understanding with only one week of acclimation. As for me, I am no different: emotions and images are flying epileptically through my subconscious at near light speeds. 

For some reason, however, this confusion and chaos in my head suits me. Comfort zones are sacred commodities in this world today, at least for most people. I’ve found that I’ve never cared for these comfort zones. I feel most accomplished and secure with myself when I am pushing the limits of my capabilities, of what my mind thinks I am able to accomplish. When I don’t know who I am or what I’m thinking, I seem to be at my best, oddly enough, because I feel as if am constantly learning new things about myself. These past few days of touring the city of Medellín moved me in a way that made me question who I was, but it wasn’t the cozy/fuzzy experience that I usually associate with learning. I loved and hated what I saw. I experienced things I have no words for, that to describe them would be to delineate the experience entirely from its visceral source. How can I describe to you the feeling of being shot with a supercharged emotional bullet? I will try to describe my perception of what occurred, through a foggy lens I suppose.

Shaking the out-stretched hands of these habitantes de la calle in a homeless shelter for adults between the ages of 18 and 59 called El Centro Día, I smiled and, in turn, was greeted heartily by the ex men and women of the streets. I seemed to be OK; my countenance was holding up, though the emotions drained me. It was as if being born and raised as myself made me culpable in some inexplicable crime that I felt overwhelming guilt for committing. And yet, I couldn’t figure out what crime it was exactly that made me feel guilty, for being raised in Southern California isn’t a crime...  right? Was it the fact that I was relatively healthy and they were struggling to survive?

However, at the Hospital Mental de Antioquia, a mental hospital for homeless children that suffered from substance or sexual abuse or both, I watched a boy, named Andrés, play goalie with the help of a prosthetic leg in the hospital’s soccer tournament. The idea that he was close to my age stabbed at my heart as I watched the game: what if I had grown up like him? What if I lived on the street for the first 16 years of my life and, upon entering in the ‘civilized’ world, refused to change my clothes or shower or sleep in a bed because I had never done so? How could I legitimately rationalize the thought of preferring to sleep on the concrete rather than a bed, as some these children in this mental hospital had to rationalize without the help of their parents or family? How could I fathom going through cocaine withdrawal at eight years old or even 50? What would my mental state be if were a sex slave to a drug lord for the first seven years of my life? What would my mental state be like if I were forced to beg for money to feed myself? My heart weakened ostensibly, and I had to remind my face to smile, as if even my mind couldn’t resist gravity’s urge to force my furrowed brow. Soon, some of the children who were waiting their turn to play in the tournament came up to me. We began to talk, and the subject of my diabetes came up thanks to my “plata,” my silver medical identification necklace. When I showed them my insulin pump at the site in which it connected into my abdomen, they gave me stares as if I were bionic. And in a way, I guess I am, but to them, I was some futuristic being, something they had never seen before. One of the boys told Bailey, one of the Duke students on the trip, that he thought I was a robot. In a way, this lightened my heart. At least these kids were still kids, creative and imaginative, despite their stressful upbringings. 

The last trip we took was to a nursing home for the abandoned and homeless elderly, seemingly isolated form the rest of the world. Upon visiting this nursing home, all reserve that I had mustered was obliterated. My mind melted. I saw a blind man sitting under a statue of an angel, greeting each of us as we passed him. Thinking that we had left, as soon as we stopped moving and stood silently in front of the nursing home’s chapel doors, he began mumbling prayers to himself. Then, we turned into the ward for agentless women. The screaming naked woman stuck in a contorted position of infinite torture, the toothless woman trying to eat, like Sisyphus and the boulder, and the old man incapable of walking by himself, feeding himself, shaving himself and, essentially, being himself, because of blindness: in one fell swoop, my mind snapped like toothpick being assaulted by an ax. It angered me that these presumably good people suffered so. More than angered – infuriated me. And in all this darkness, I saw this soft, glowing light: a crippled man, who could hardly walk, dancing his way up to the steps of the chapel, as we prepared ourselves to leave. He would jig, take a drag of his cigarette, the jig again to the melodious salsa music. And at this, I couldn’t help cracking a smile and experiencing a twinge of awe. It gave me comfort that not all was lost at this nursing home.

Since these visits, I have been attempting to put myself in these people’s shoes, though arguably it is impossible. I’m from Southern California, am well fed, have a gym membership (and currently have one here, in Medellín) and use a Mac computer and an iPad on occasion. Maybe I have seen crime and homelessness in Laguna Hills, maybe brutal murders and pedophilic rape cases have emerged in my city, so through these very indirect experiences I may be able to relate myself to the tragedies these people have experienced. But, is this not the way the rest of the world is? No town or city or country is exempt from hardship of every flavor; this seems to be the nature of humanity. It may be difficult to fit myself into these people’s shoes, but even if these shoes will never fit, I will continue to try because I see a cause worth fighting for here. I am starting to understand that the more comfortable that I become with myself, the more readily I will be able to begin silencing my own doubts and concerns and listening to the stories of others, for I believe this is where the real learning-about-life process begins. I don’t claim to have a perfect picture of these scenes described above. This is what I have perceived and felt, and I know that this simply cannot be the whole picture; it is far more complex than I can imagine. I think that the mission of Medellín Solidaria is to lessen the population of these aforementioned institutions, and if there is anyway that I can bring this goal to fruition, be it by documenting these stories and eliciting emotional responses, I want to do it. The world is only an unfair place when people stand by idly and watch the world burn. I will not be such a person. I want to capture the visceral nature of these people’s lives. I want these people to seem extraordinary and ordinary all at the same time. I want to make a video that these people can be proud of, and I want their stories to change the world. 

Nikita

Today, our DukeEngage group visited El Centro Dia, a homeless shelter. The stench was evident even before we entered the gates due to the fact that many of these people do not have access to clean water. The shelter provides amenities such as shower stalls, beds, hot food, a basketball court, and even a small television. Even though there were plenty of clean beds to rest in, two men were curled up sleeping on the concrete floor. We were told that they were uncomfortable sleeping on the beds since they were so used to the streets. This word -- uncomfortable -- accurately describes the atmosphere. I have spent a night in a homeless shelter before, and it was quite possibly the most uncomfortable experience of my life. The unfamiliar smells, the forced proximity to strangers, the uncertainty of the day to come. Often, we are told to ignore people on the streets. Some beg, but some simply want someone to talk to. I feel that the greatest service offered at El Centro Dia is acknowledgment. By dishing out hot food, entertainment, and conversation, the shelter acknowledges that the homeless people of Medellín deserve to live, not simply survive. I am extremely thankful for these insightful, uncomfortable experiences because too many people can be complacent or willfully ignorant.


Graffiti Art depicting the children of the world,
from Biblioteca España

Vaib

Opening us up to different settings and people of Medellín, our time at Medellín's home and rehab for homeless children with la ACI tour guide has showed me the ultimate goal of many of these social projects and a hope for my own Duke Engage experience. Of all the people in need within Medellín, these children are by far the most relatable for me. We sat in a conference room as a video of the home's success stories played. One of the children from the video, Andrés, assisted the home's psychiatrist, illustrating in his limp how he has grown from his leg amputation to become a fundamental and productive part of his new home. This full circle transformation recounted only half the story. While the video delineated the home's crucial role in these children's lives, outside, the greater picture dawned on me. Through the bars of the window, we heard chants for "esperanza" or hope. Just a team name for them, esperanza reminded me of the perspective I must take into account when researching Medellín and simply listening to interviewees, as hope relates to an entirely different struggle for those children. After being introduced to the school, I got the chance to speak to a number of kids, the 11-year old hugging his girlfriend, a 16 year old in 4th grade, a boy who ran past their fence just to get a chance to speak to us again. In stark contrast to their faces while in the street, they now explode with vivacity and joy, traits that can't be simply bought by the mayor and given as a gift. With each persona encountered, my goal of hope and success for these children and the city of Medellín grows.