Reflections inspired by our first translingual workshop | Reflexiones inspiradas en nuestro primer taller translingual

Andrea Gordillo
My family emigrated from Perú to the United States in 1998, when I was six years old. The United States was a land where our dreams could come true; where we could walk the streets without fear of being robbed, assaulted, or worse, where there was plentiful opportunity for economic security, and where my siblings and I could receive a superior college education and improve our standard of living. I grew up in the states; it has been my home for the majority of my life.

For eleven years, we lived in visa limbo. We kept renewing our visas year after year, pouring thousands of dollars, tears, and sacrifices into lawyers and documents that we hoped would allow us to live in peace. Worse than in our own home without fear of being found out, of being deported back to Perú. I had never truly entertained the thought that possibility; Perú was a land that was as foreign to me as the moon.

I rejected my Peruvian heritage, associating it and my immigrant identity with failure, inferiority, and uncleanliness. I thought that if I rejected my Latina-ness, acted “white,” and adopted the American culture, I could convince everyone that I was good, smart, and worthy of living in the states. I remember wishing I could wake up with the brown washed off my skin, that I had an American-sounding name, that my parents no longer spoke English with an accent, and that we could drive, work, and leave the house without fear. I was ashamed that my parents worked as maintenance and domestic  workers, and that we never had very much money because of all of the money we had to invest in our paperwork.

When my parents told me that despite their best efforts, we hadn’t been able to obtain our visas, I felt my blood freeze. We sat at our dining room table, and I cried. I refused to fully accept what they were telling me. It seemed impossible. I could not believe how this could be true, when I had always worked so hard; I was devoted to my passion for learning. Education was-is-so incredibly important to me. I felt alone, because none of my friends understood or shared my experience. I felt that I was not good enough, not “American” enough to be able to pursue my dreams.

Luckily, our visas were approved just in time to apply and be accepted to college. I attended Emerson College, where I recently graduated with a degree in Theatre Studies. I learned so much in my four years in Boston, and am so thankful to everyone who helped me get here.

One of the most formative experiences I had in college was a trip to El Paso, Texas through our Alternative Spring Break program, where I studied immigration at the border. I met many people and heard their incredibly moving immigration stories, and I suddenly realized that I was not alone. My trip to El Paso helped me put my story and my experience into perspective; I started to feel ashamed for feeling ashamed. By rejecting my Latina, immigrant identity, I had been diminishing the value of immigrants everywhere. I felt ashamed, for I could not think of anyone who deserves respect and love more than do those who display strength and courage in the face of danger, violence, and hatred on their immigrant journeys, who are determined enough to leave behind everything they know and love for the prospect of a better life. I decided then that I did not want to continue to be part of the problem; I wanted to stop perpetuating shame and stigma and prejudice. I wanted to celebrate and defend the immigrant, myself.

During my last year at Emerson, I joined Students for Rhetorical Mobility, an english class with undergraduates and maintenance workers where all are students and all are teachers. I have to admit, I learned much more than I taught. Our class wrapped a van with our stories and literally drove our narratives to a writing conference nearly 2,000 miles from Boston to Indianapolis (http://proyectocarritoblog.mobility17.com), where one of our student/teachers, Mario Ernesto, presented his writing to an audience of academics and professionals in the field of Writing Studies. Mario Ernesto, a maintenance worker at Emerson and a Boston hospital, worked hard on his composition, a narrative of his story of migration, hard work, and perseverance, and a call to action for the world to embrace the immigrant for the good of the whole. He reminds me very much of my own parents, who worked tirelessly for our family. I can imagine that it was not easy to raise a family as an immigrant in a foreign country. I am incredibly proud of my family, and of Mario Ernesto, who is taking his story one step further by using it to encourage change.

It was incredibly cathartic to hear Mario Ernesto’s speech in our first class with the Proyecto Boston-Medellín artists last week. His words sparked a wonderful discussion about migration, home, belonging, and acceptance. It was painful to hear, for it brought back feelings of shame and inferiority, but more than anything, it was beautiful. It was beautiful because Mario Ernesto, who I think is representing many of us who have ever felt inferior, achieved what I think is one of the most valuable things in the world: he connected people together. He spoke of “convivencia,” what he describes as “when different people learn how to live together, like for example, we have discovered that it is possible to have a real friendship between students and workers, regardless of nationalities and cultures.” I saw his words realized, transcending time and space to resonate in a translingual, transcultural classroom. They fit in perfectly with the work of the artists and our own as we try to identify, examine, and break down borders.

I felt inspired yet again by Mario Ernesto. I hope that my actions, like his, promote convivencia.


Chrislyn Choo

To my left is the wonderful artist that
Miurel, Elena, and I are working with in this taller!

Exactly two summers ago, I was on a missions trip in Taiwan. Although I was fresh out of high school, my role was to help local university students develop their proficiency in English through lessons on the principles of leadership. Given my youth and limited experience in leadership, teaching, and speaking Mandarin, I remember feeling very unqualified at the start. As the saying goes though, diamonds are formed in the rough. I emerged a more humble and confident woman through the ways I was able to both learn from and help the Taiwanese students.

Fast forward two years. I am now a full-fledged university student. Again, I find myself in a classroom with local university students. Yet this time, my role is much more organic. My service will be completely tailored to whatever the art students need as they prepare their projects for future exhibition in the United States, which translates into a curious mix of spontaneity and ambiguity. Perhaps I’ll draw on my English teaching to help an artist craft a clear project statement for a U.S. audience. Maybe I’ll be able to create a video that spotlights an artist's creative vision and work. I don’t quite know at this point. What is certain is that I want to be receptive to whatever I can do to help, and hopefully my skill set and personality will have something to offer!

During DukeEngage training, President Brodhead (Duke University) said that I might feel as if the community has had a greater impact on me than I have had on them. Like Taiwan, I can already tell that I will grow immensely from my interactions with the students, many of whom are older than me. Age is just a number, but wow! I am very impressed with the insightfulness, lucidity, poise, and passion of the students we are working with. Even at our first session last week, they spoke with so much wisdom, and they appeared to have absolutely no qualms about voicing their questions and thoughts. I tend to be very self-conscious about my participation in class discussions, so it is both inspiring (and slightly intimidating, but in a good way) for me to share that space with people who can comfortably articulate their ideas publicly. Tam describes our interface as a “conversation between youth", so I anticipate our interactions will continue to teach me to trust in my Big Beautiful Brain.

If there is a specific idea that has stuck out to me so far from our group discussions, it is the idea of stories crossing borders. They can traverse physical demarcations, such as the U.S. state lines that the narrative-covered van of Proyecto Carrito crossed. They can transcend walls in culture and language, as we help the Colombian artists prepare to share their deeply personal experiences with audiences that see the world through different eyes. Knowing my own insecurities about sharing my thoughts out loud, I can only imagine the nervous excitement the students may feel at the prospect of exhibiting their work to strangers in another country. Yet one of the most beautiful strengths of art is its accessibility. Your work can be displayed for others to taste through sight, touch, and sound. The amount of knowledge required for a work of art to be impactful is minimal since people can identify with the commonalities of human experience. The public will color your work with their perceptions, and it will be real to them too because they can use it to understand their own life or yours. Art is a powerful form of communication, and I’ve never been surrounded with this many people before who completely understand and appreciate its influence on the narratives that are told every day. Be it new friendships, worldviews, or self-discoveries, I am very excited to see the fruits of our conversation!


Elena Elliott
We have now been in Medellin for five weeks, and in that time, we have spoken to a lot of people and heard so many of their stories. I have found that, for the most part, people here are very eager to talk about their past and where they come from. For me, that hasn’t always been the case. In the United States it can sometimes be difficult to be a minority and also be of mixed races. You don’t know if you should be proud of being an American or if you should be more proud of your other heritage. I’ve struggled a lot with this identity crisis in the past, but, being here in a country where people are so proud of who they are and where they come from, I feel my self re-confronting this issue.

If I haven’t made it clear yet, I am a child of mixed origins. Because of my father (and my birth place) I am American (estadounidense), but because of my mother I am Mexican. Growing up, I wanted nothing more than to be white. Because of my pale skin and light eyes I was able to get away with it, and, for a while, I did because of my shame in my family and who I was. I eventually grew out of that and wanted to be seen only as a hispanic. For a while I even wished my skin wasn’t so pale so that I could identify with my Mexican side. However, I’ve come to learn a major lesson these last weeks from the people in Medellin. It doesn’t matter if I have colored eyes or if my skin is light. It doesn’t matter what I look like or what language I choose to speak because the blood of my ancestors, both American and Mexican, runs through my veins. It is who I am and I can’t ever change that. I am a Mexican-American. I am a child of two cultures, and I am proud of that.


Ishani Purohit

Talking about the racialized problems that have tainted American history in the first taller, or translingual classroom experience with Colombians and Americans, got me interested in international perceptions of race and nationality. Colombia’s diverse color spectrum has fascinated me since the moment I arrived. Whether I am walking down the quiet streets of Carlos E. Restrepo in the morning or climbing up the steps of the metro, I am constantly amongst beautiful shades of chocolate, peach, and caramel. And it’s truly beautiful. What I have begun to realize in my time here is that so many colors can not only just coexist, but also belong. To clarify: this is not to say that Colombia doesn’t have racism, just that one’s race doesn’t affect one’s national identity; one’s belonging to the nation.

Looking back on my life in America, I can comfortably say I am also constantly surrounded by a diverse group. But the “melting pot”, as we call it in America, is divided into categories defined by thick cultural and linguistic boundaries. We are a nation of immigrants, so in theory, we all belong. In practice, not all of us do.

Each minority group in America carries with it its own cultural traits, linguistic varieties, and history of oppression that is just different enough from the other minority groups to build walls between us all. And members of each minority group have the tendency to stand on one side of that wall; to self-segregate, because it’s easier that way. And if you don’t identify with one group or the other, you will be forced on one of those sides anyway.

My personal history navigating this wall has affected every decision I’ve made in life, every path I have chosen to take, the people I surround myself with, my own fears and anxieties. My entire identity, my entire existence, begins with this wall. It’s funny, sitting here, thinking about how I’ve spent the summer searching for untold stories in a foreign place, only to realize that the one of my people in my own country remains, to this day, very untold.

It’s the story of my religious symbols, which have been either reappropriated by the Nazis or reduced to cute tattoos on a skinny white girl’s back. It's the story of my name, which over the years I’ve learned to recognize as a long pause from the professor while taking attendance. It’s the story of my actions that are often chalked up to a product of my race. It’s learning that I either have to adopt the title of good little Indian girl or take action to distance myself from my culture. There is no comfortable in-between.

My color, my religion, and my family should not invalidate my belonging to the United States of America. But the reality is, they do. Indians are often referred to as the "model minority", meaning we have no visible, tangible history of oppression in this country. We tend to be middle to upper class. This means we must be complacent, because we haven’t suffered enough injustice to call the world out on it. So we silently shed the things that make us stand out as uniquely foreign. We leave “culture" for the home and adopt “Americanness” for everything else. We learn to soldier on. But we are still Other; we can’t scrub off the one thing that makes us stick out: brown.

I can’t help but feel jealous of Colombians and the amount of pride they have for their country. It’s such a beautiful thing, to love yourself and to love your land, but for some of us it’s hard to do. To be clear, I do not wish to criticize my life in America. I am extremely grateful for everything in my life and I would not ask for it to be any other way. I only wish that I didn’t carry the mountain of shame that I have accumulated over the years of my brown skin, my strange food, my strange Gods. But in the taller we are reminded something constantly that we don’t usually get in a classroom (or in life): aquí no hay vergüenza. Here there is no shame. I don’t want to be ashamed of my beautiful mocha color. I don’t want to be ashamed of the love that I feel from my religious community. I don’t want to be ashamed of my family. I’m not going to hold myself to this mythic standard of “Americanness” that I feel pressured to be because I am so visibly different from the stereotypical American. I am an Indian-American. I am equally one as I am the other, and I’m not letting anyone take that away from me.

Miurel Price
My first impression of our class at the university was that it was beyond my expectations. I thought I would struggle with academic words that I did not know. I expected us all to shy away from speaking up in the classroom because of our unfamiliarity with the classroom setting in Spanish. When I entered the classroom I made it a point not to sit by people from our original American group. Although I was a bit unsure about how relationships would form, I was excited to find out that the students wanted to meet me just as much as I wanted to get to know them. Not long after, we made plans to spend time together outside the classroom. As class began and we watched a video about “Proyecto Carrito,” I could not help but feel like the video represented me. This was an interesting thought for me because I have never before felt, or thought possible, a video was made by me for the world to see. Let me explain. The video talked about Latinos in the United States and the lifestyle and sentiments that come with it. The main character talked about power struggles and submissive conduct that comes with entering U.S. territory. All I could think about as the main character told his story was my mom because she has revealed similar feelings. My mom came to the U.S. from Panama during high school. She did not know English, nor did she understand the culture. She was often made fun of because of the clothes she wore. She was bullied for her accent, and oftentimes had to be strong and stand up for her younger siblings who were 4 years younger than her. Teachers did not think she was capable of taking rigorous courses, even though she maintained A’s and B’s in all of her classes. My mom worked as part of the custodial staff at Rose’s department store for her first job and she has told me how it feels to be underappreciated for your work. Whatever my mom does, she likes to do her best, no matter if it is considered socially unimportant or if she is the CEO of a company. She has always instilled in me to be proud of whatever I accomplish, no matter how people perceive its worth. Watching the video made me proud that the main character had a voice in telling the world his story. As a minority there is always a feeling of inferiority that is hard to shake with the deeply instilled perceptions of us in our nation. Sometimes I feel that it is so deep in our being that many Americans may not even recognize that they may perpetuate and communicate these perceptions, which are usually subtle. That is why this video touched me so deeply. It gave my mom and my family a voice. It gave me a voice and communicated what I do not so eloquently communicate. I hope that I am not giving a sense of a “us” versus “them” sentiment because I wholeheartedly feel that although many people have lived various lives, we are all connected by the simple fact that we are all humans who experience the same emotions, even though they may be brought on by various situations.


Nathaniel Sizemore

Writing. As a form of self-expression, writing is an action unique to the human race; it is the ability to project our internal thoughts onto a page and across physical or cultural boundaries. Despite the many forms, languages, and styles of writing that exist around the world, the act of writing itself is a universal truth inherently embedded into all of us. But writing is also something many people have loathed since they were first able to pick up a pen. But where does this loathing coming from? During our first translingual workshop with Colombian artists at the Nacional (a public university in Medellin), our program leader asked the U.S students to share in one word how they felt about the many mandatory writing classes they had taken in high school or college. Almost all of the responses were negative. First year writing classes can found at almost every U.S university, often focusing on “composition” and writing strategies. Despite the special attention writing has received in academia, and the many U.S corporations whose cite poor writing skills as one of the biggest reasons employees are under qualified, students continue to dislike or completely disregard the field. All of this frustration lies in the vocabulary surrounding writing and the way in which it is taught. Ironically, the writing classes many students encounter inhibit their creativity or style with strict literary restrictions, rather than encourage their growth as critical thinkers. They fail to stress the power words posses and the important role they play in unlocking our understanding of an increasingly interconnected world. The transligual workshop, however, is a process that places the quality of our ideas and depth of thought over conventional interpretations of writing. Additionally, the workshop emphasizes the significance of translation and languages ability to transcend political and social borders. Differences in language have long been viewed solely as a communicative barrier, when in fact it is in these lingual differences that we can learn the most about each other and the cultures they inhabit. By becoming effective writers, and more importantly effective interpreters of language itself, we can actively communicate in a translingual dialogue that every day forces us to reimagine how we view the world. The workshops we will be attending over the next few weeks seem to the first step in reshaping the role writing plays in many students lives.

Rehka Korlipara

This picture was taken when Nanamma (right)

was about five years old, and her mother (left) was

about 27. I believe it was taken either by the Indian

government or a newspaper as part of a series of

pictures of Freedom Fighters, to be kept in the

National Archives. 

My grandmother went to jail when she was two months old.

The British ruled in India for about 200 years, first through the East India Company, and then directly by the Crown. In 1857, there was a military revolt led by the Queen of Jhansi, which was a kingdom in North India. (My great grandparents named my Nanamma (grandmother) Jhansi Lakshmi after the Queen of Jhansi, because they believed in and were active in the independence movement.) The British eventually put down the revolt, and that was when they transferred their rule from a private company to the Crown (that is, the British government)—but in whole, they ruled for about 200 years.

In 1915, Mahatma Gandhi began to organize the masses to overcome this rule. Gandhi had many goals; he strove to achieve religious tolerance, increased rights for women, and the end of the caste system. Perhaps his greatest goal, however, was to achieve swaraj, or self-rule. By way of his own civil disobedience method, Gandhi led various groups of Indians in nonviolent protests. Among these were marches—perhaps the most famous one was the Salt Satyagraha (otherwise known as the Salt March, although satyagraha means “fighting for truth,” not march), which was a protest against the British government’s salt tax. At the time, no one was allowed to make or collect salt without paying a tax, which in whole funded about 8% of the British budget. Everyone needs salt, especially in hot climates such as that of India; the poorer population was hit particularly hard by this tax because they could not survive without salt, but also could not afford to pay the tax. Therefore, Gandhi used it to mobilize the masses as a part of his campaign for independence.

 My great grandfather was arrested for participating in the Salt Satyagraha. After he was sent to prison, some freedom fighters came to his (and my great grandmother and Nanamma’s) house to hide. My great grandmother gave them food and shelter. For this, she was arrested. Because she was still nursing, Nanamma was taken to jail with her mother. They remained there for a few months, after which the jail officials offered to release them if my great grandmother admitted to having had helped the freedom fighters (who, by the way, were Gandhi’s disciples, so they were non-violent). But she said that she had done nothing wrong, and refused to apologize. At this point, Nanamma was a little bit older—she was still an infant, but she was old enough that her relatives brought her out of the jail and took care of her. Meanwhile, her mother was sent to a prison for another couple of years. Her parents were in different prisons, her father in Bengal in the northeast, and mother near Madras in the south.

During the next two years, both her mother and father returned. In the meantime, however, the British vandalized their home and took various items such as furniture, as well as doors and windows made of valuable teak wood. They did this because they could not find valuables (grain, gold ornaments, etc.) because my great grandparents had hidden them away before arrest. In the words of my father, while my great grandparents were in prison, “farm animals wandered into their house because there were no doors, made it their own, and had a ball for a long time until the relatives came and took them out. I imagine it was a real Animal House.” When the doors, windows, and other belongings were being auctioned, Nanamma’s uncle found out and bought them back. Her mother and father reinstalled them after returning from prison.

Several years after gaining independence, the Indian government instituted a program of pension and other benefits (free rail passage, etc.) for people who had fought for freedom. Both of Nanamma’s parents were recognized as Freedom Fighters and were given those pensions and benefits. Nanamma, too, would have been recognized as a Freedom Fighter and given a pension and benefits, but to protect her from having a police record, the well-intentioned jail officials had not included her name on the jail roster.

Because of all of this, I have always been incredibly inspired by my great grandparents (even though I was not lucky enough to meet them). They stood up for themselves, their people, and their rights, but in a peaceful way. Although I admire them a great deal for what they did, their actions always just constituted a story for me. A few days ago, though, I told Luisa, a Proyecto Boston-Medellín (PBM) artist from last year, that my great grandparents were Freedom Fighters and about what they did. Her first response, as if she hadn’t even really needed to think to come up with the idea, was that I should share their story through art. The thought had never occurred to me before, especially because I have neither lived in India nor met my great grandparents. I find the PBM artists inspiring because they can absorb and feel the problems and situations that exist in their communities, even those that do not intimately affect them. They can turn other people’s experiences, which affect them peripherally, into a message to share with the world. In the same way that Tania can spread a message of unity through her videos of various racial and ethnic groups at the dinner table, and Cristina can spread a message about maintaining one’s identity despite gang presence, I can spread a message of strength, solidarity, and allegiance through the story of my great grandparents.


Sandy Ren

Universidad Nacional, hi-res

Despite the limited background the Colombian students had for the taller, they excelled in the seminar discussions. This is perhaps in part that our taller is composed of a diverse population of nationalities, ethnicities, and socioeconomic statuses. My experience in Medellín has made me recognize my misconceptions. Just in my first experience with the taller, I realized that: (1) writing classes were more or less universal across collegiate institutions, especially those located in cities. When this was uprooted by my introduction to the academic culture Tam presented, I had the misconception of (2) the Colombian students will have a hard time in the taller because writing about themselves will be a foreign concept. The discussions had proved me wrong.

Diversity in our Taller, hi-res

I had forgotten that these artists were chosen because they desire to do activist work through art. I had also forgotten a culture of family story-telling existed in Medellín. These undergraduates are passionate and fearless about what they have to share in the class. Our taller was rich with conversation about difficult topics: race, violence, political instability, displacement, and more. The diverse array of backgrounds of Colombians and Estadounidenses allowed a bubbling conversation with different perspectives. I am thankful to be part of this transnational, translingual experience. I am excited to help these artists and their work transcend languages, cultures, and borders.

Colombians' stories, in their own words | Las historias de colombianos, en sus propias palabras

Andrea Gordillo

When I first interviewed Margarita, I was surprised by how natural she was in front of the camera. She was an open book, generous in her answers and eager to show herself to an audience. She surprised me by sharing an incredibly intimate story about her family; however, the story was not only (or even primarily) hers to tell. I struggled with whether or not I could ethically include the story, about her sister, Marina, in this documentary without Marina’s permission.

I found that it did not feel right without Marina’s perspective. I asked to interview her as well, and the story became about the sisters as a unit, and how they’ve deal with their hardships. As Margarita says, every paisa family has been touched by violence. We all deal with trauma differently, and these two women are examples of this.

This story made me think about the arbitrariness of life; we have little to no control over the things that happen to us. We can only control how we react, and how we interact with each other. This city, Medellín, is made up of all sort of stories of loss, gain, rebirth, triumph. There is little black and white anywhere; this story is no different.

Andréa Nunes

Chrislyn Choo

This week, I am thankful for the opportunity to introduce you to someone who has become a dear friend to me here in Medellín. When I first met Santiago two weeks ago at a World Cup watch party, I was immediately captivated by his joie de vivre - su alegría de vivir, his buoyant enjoyment of life. His exuberance to share everything he knew about sports, language, and dramatic impressions left me with the strong feeling that Santiago Ramirez Rios has a story just waiting to be told.

In this portrait, Santiago offers candid insight into the influence of urban space on people’s mindsets and behavior. While five minutes cannot capture the entirety of our eighty-four-minute conversation, I hope to communicate the realistic optimism that shone through the stories he shared with me about his city, family, community service, and personal aspirations. “I think that sadness is like infermedad (sickness),” he confided. "When you start to be sad everyday, you’re going to make people be sad too…and happy is the same thing, you know? If you try to be happy everyday, you’ll be happier and happier. At the same time, some people think that I’m maybe too much fun. Everybody thinks that I’m going to take everything like a joke. But when people start talking to me, like the real Santiago, they realize that I have a really deep side, and that’s because I have had bad experiences.”

If you asked me to describe him a week ago, I would have dubbed him an insightful jokester. After being invited into his story, I now know he is that, and more - honest, clear-sighted, hopeful. He has witnessed inequality and tragedy that no one should have to live with, but rather than allowing the brokenness he sees to dishearten him, his experiences now motivate him to thoughtfully change the way his city shapes the lives of its people.

Elena Elliott


Ishani Purohit


Nathaniel Sizemore


Rekha Korlipara


Before I applied for DukeEngage Colombia, I had an entirely different picture of Medellín than what I have witnessed since arriving here. When talking about Medellín, teachers in high school focused on violence and drug trafficking; the two main things that stick out in my memory are the FARC and Pablo Escobar. It took only a couple of hours, though, for me to see that the city is much more than its history. Don Orlando, a friend of the program who drove us from the airport, at the top of an Andes mountain, to Medellín, in the valley, was warm and welcoming. My host mom greeted us with enthusiasm and hugs, the waiters at the first restaurant were kind and hospitable—even the Customs officials were sort of nice. It was immediately clear that Paisas (people who live in this area of Colombia) are a good-natured and affectionate bunch. There are obviously exceptions to this, but I have found that Paisas as a whole are more open, friendly, and—something that I personally love—relaxed than any other group I have encountered. My previous conception of Medellín as a dangerous city, filled with violence and narco-trafficking, has been replaced with the belief that this is a city defined not by its unfortunate history, but by its rebirth. Medellín is a city of art, of festivals, of food—and, most importantly, of good people. Problems still exist here, but problems exist everywhere. The city is continually progressing, and I hope that it will soon reach a state where the first words that come to mind when thinking of Medellín are ‘art’ and ‘beauty’ rather than ‘violence’ and ‘drugs.’ And one thing I have found from speaking to Millenials here is that they have the same wish.

I heard somewhere that much of the younger population does not feel as affected by Medellín’s history as people in other countries often think. That is, Generation Y does not feel defined by the problems created and experienced by Generation X. My friend, Ana, explains some of the sentiments of our generation in this video.


Sandy Ren

Storytelling spaces | Espacios para contar historias

Andrea Gordillo
In a 2009 TED Talk, Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie spoke about the dangers of a “single story”: when perceptions of an entity like a person, place or culture are defined by a single story representative of the whole. The problem with this phenomenon, she says, is that a story that generalizes the experience of a collective unjustly overlooks the many other stories that exist, resulting in an incorrect or incomplete understanding of the truth.

A self-identified estadounidense, I have fallen prey to the phenomenon of the “single story” of Medellín. All I had ever heard of the city before actually taking the time to learn about it involved violence and drug trafficking. After hearing the work of Mobility 17, however, after conducting some research, and especially after my visits to the storytelling spaces these past couple of weeks, I began to see the terrible injustice we do to such a city when we only speak of that single story.

Out of the five storytelling spaces that I have visited, none of them have told the same story. Each is distinct and particular, existing independently in time and space but also intricately threaded to each other in the fabric of the history of this city, this country, and the world. I see now that the whole account cannot be told without all of these stories.

One of the stories that most stood out to me was of the projects of urban renewal that are established or in process in barrios known for high levels of violence and crime. The part of San Javier that our group visited, for example, is an explosion of color that shouts stories of hope, light, and art. Some of our group visited San Javier twice: one visit with Carlos Escobar, the government-employed director of the many projects implemented there, and the other on a street art tour with El Perro, a local hip hop guru an street artist. During the former tour, we learned about the many projects in San Javier that strive to improve its inhabitant’s living spaces: to give them dignity of living, public spaces to gather, safety and convenience of travel, and a beautiful home to be proud of. During the latter tour, we learned about the controversy of some of these projects in the barrios (there is some dispute over how the money should be spent), the history of art on those streets, and the cultural and political messages painted on the walls. The image that I had of San Javier after the first tour changed with the second tour with El Perro; it had been molded by other perspectives. Both were fascinating and valid, and it reminded me of how no single story can accurately tell the full account of any given entity.

The concept of identity is so complex, and it seems silly to attempt to water it down to any single story. When I think of my identity, I would hate it if someone were to see me in a single light. I understand that it is sometimes easier to swallow and digest single stories in order to form judgements or understandings of another’s identity, but it is important to recognize that understanding someone or something is not about our own convenience; it is about the “other,” and their truth, as they define it. It is always complex. It is always multi-faceted.

If all we hear of Medellín is the single story of violence, we will only be capable of seeing her in that dark light. If we only see her in that dark light, there is no possibility of growth and progress. It is important to hear what else this city has to say; stories are virtually bursting from every crack and surface. For example, throughout the evolving Comuna 13 are black and white photographs of various everyday heroes, part of a campaign called “Héroes de la 13,” sponsored by Fundación Pazamanos. These photographs feature characters from the neighborhood that anyone could look up to; they are not famous, but they are the epitome of “heroes,” in the truest sense of the word. Each photograph has its own story; the people they feature are admired for being good, selfless, contributing citizens of the neighborhood. It would be a disservice to us all if they, or anyone else, are overlooked in our carelessness and blindness.

How does one avoid falling prey to the danger of a single story? I recognize that it is tricky, for how can we treat sensitively that which we are not aware of? I bought in to the single story of Medellín because I knew no others, and I did not bother to seek out any different ones. Perhaps the first step is to recognize that everything inherently has more than one story, and the next is to assume responsibility for learning more. Or at least it must be our responsibility to be open to hearing different stories, different perspectives. Then we can begin to uncover the truth.

Chrislyn Choo
How do cities tell stories about themselves? Who gets to tell them? Do the narratives align with my expectations? These questions filled my mind this week as we visited spaces in Medellín where the stories of the people are told. One particular neighborhood stands out in my memory for its vocality. Santo Domingo was once considered one of the most dangerous places in Latin America in the 1990s, but with the establishment of a library park and metro cable system, the barrio has seen prolific growth as a cultural center, as well as a thirteen-fold decrease in its murder rate. These staggering facts can be a little hard to comprehend at first, as Santo Domingo seems like a small town tucked into a big city. Upon first glance, the homes blend into a terrain of rust-red complexes wedged together on the slope. During our ascension on the metro cable, however, my attention was repeatedly arrested by the creative vision of the people. Unassuming alleyways erupted with unexpected pockets of colorful art. Vivid designs burst forth from peeling walls, stylistically and thematically ranging from stark realism to fantastical mythology. The faded facades could barely contain the pulsing imagination of the people. Through these artistic lifeblood vessels, I sensed their willpower to defy reduction to one narrative of violence and poverty. In giving voice to years of silenced pain and hope, the murals compelled me to fully acknowledge the community's humanity, not that it was ever lost. I witnessed a powerful juxtaposition that left me with a deep admiration for the persistent, unwavering spirit of the people.

This narrative of endurance is not without irony, however. While climbing the streets of Santo Domingo, I noticed several pairs of shoes dangling from a telephone line. Officially termed “shoe tossing,” this practice has invited a number of criminal explanations for its intent, notably as an advertisement of a nearby sales point for crack cocaine. It speaks to the international proliferation of the drug industry that I had actually seen the symbol's association with drugs before in the U.S., Amsterdam, and Argentina. The enduring spirit I admired appears to extend to those involved in drug trafficking. They want to leave their mark too. Amidst beautiful signs of redevelopment, the dangling shoes were sobering reminders of the brokenness that motivated the government's investment in Colombia’s cultural development in the first place.

As I absorbed all these contradicting yet complementary signs, conventional notions of “modern” and “old” came to a head for me. I found myself labeling the street art, library parks, and public transportation as signs of modern growth, while dismissing dirty streets and simple living (like clotheslines) as signs of antiquity. I suppose I’m struggling to define “developed” versus “developing.” When I thought of what a “more developed” Santo Domingo ought to look like in the future, I subconsciously envisioned buildings akin to those of El Poblado. As youth become more educated, do I expect them to “naturally" transform Santo Domingo into Medellín’s next affluent community? What is even the best measure of affluence, of development, of progress?

Fittingly, I read this quote on Humans of New York the day before we visited Santo Domingo: "I'm an architect, and I've designed buildings all over the world. Every time I get a commission in an emerging market, I get excited about the opportunity to draw from the country's heritage, culture, and art. But the client never wants it. They all want the same thing: 'modern style, modern style, modern style.' Everything has to be high and glassy. It's almost as if everyone wants to hide their differences. It's boring.” If I could change anything, I would dispel the sentiment within that feels compelled to impose a visual metric of progress that is based on my westernized notion of urban modernity. In the United States, we have a tendency to assess development in terms of economic growth. Yet I think that attention to happiness, human rights, and artistic and environmental innovation would yield a more realistic understanding of promising transformation.

I will need more time to reconcile the awareness I am gaining here with the ingrained ideas with which I entered Colombia, but for now, I cannot deny the genuine appreciation I have for the red-roofed homes just the way they are. In their quiet humility and simplicity, they are just as majestic as the glossy cable cars, towering library park, and evocative murals emblazoned on the walls. Through the echoes of hardship and poverty, the people of Santo Domingo exude resolve.


Elena Elliott
Last Wednesday we joined one thousand Colombians to bike twenty-six kilometers through Medellin. We stopped traffic as we rode through major streets and highways. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was exhausting. As we rode through the night, the locals told me that this event has gone on every Wednesday for the last four years. Colectivo SiCLas is a group devoted to getting more cars off the street and replacing them with bikes. Their goal is to create a less congested city with cleaner and clearer air, as well as to build a community of people. This bike tour through Medellin is incredibly fun, but, more than that, it is an event that stands to make a difference.

SiCLas

The morning after our bike ride, we woke at the crack of dawn to meet up with Carlos Delgado, the project manager behind Comuna 13, a neighborhood in the mountains of Medellin. Comuna 13 was once one of the poorest and most dangerous areas in Medellin. There was little opportunity for economic success in this area, and access to education was limited, as it was nearly impossible to make it down the mountain.  Proyecto Comuna 13, which was launched in 2007, gives life to the wild idea to put escalators on the mountainside. Because of this innovative idea, people can now get from the top of the mountain to the metro station (and vice versa) in roughly ten minutes, a journey that previously took hours.

Another day, we rode the metro cables up the mountainside of Santo Domingo. From the bottom of the mountain all we could see were three pillars up in the heavens; as we ascended the mountain, however, Parque Biblioteca España (or in English, Library Park) came into view. When we got out of the cable cars we encountered a local boy only 15 or 16 years of age eager to give us a tour. He explained to us that this library has brought the community a cultural and educational gathering place. It gives children a safe place to go after school, it offers workshops for adults, and it provides a space for local artists to exhibit their work. It is an area dedicated to the people and to their advancement. 

We have visited a great deal of communities this past week. They all have offered us a piece of Medellin’s history. Every space we have visited has told us an individual story about Medellin and its people, yet they have all shared one aspect. In each place I have noticed that they are all devoted to making Medellin a better place for its people and for its future generations. Medellin’s goal is to be the most innovative city in Latin America by 2021 and it is obvious that it is well on its way. 

MedellInovation

Ishani Purohit
I learned the distinction between a “comuna” and a “barrio” in the morning before we left for Comuna 13. Technically, every neighborhood is a comuna, but only the poorest places are actually referred to as comunas, the rest are barrios. I remember thinking about how I felt working or even passing through the poorest neighborhoods in Durham. I pictured small, run-down houses on unkempt lawns. I pictured children playing games outside with an ironic backdrop of desolation. I pictured an area that managed to carry on despite the neglect from the government, and the anger and resentment that had built up within the community because of it, isolating it from other inhabitants of the city. This photo project by Justin Cook embodies a lot of the “darker side” of Durham, to help explain my preconceptions.

I wasn’t sure what to expect to see in Comuna 13. I knew that the area had historically been one of the poorest and the most violent areas in Medellín and the government had made a great effort to rebuild the community. Our tour guide, Carlos, was instrumental in this process. From what I had been told, the change was massive. But for whatever reason, I was still expecting Comuna 13 to resemble the poverty and desolation I had seen in Durham.

Comuna 13 didn’t match my preconceived notions at all. I stepped out of the taxi to brightly colored houses stacked on top of each other. Innovations such as the metrocable and the addition of escalators had increased mobility within the area and expanded the opportunity for community members to visit the bigger city. However, what struck me most about Comuna 13 was not the infrastructure, but rather the art. As I walked through the neighborhood I was greeted with some of the most nuanced street art that I’ve ever seen, and it was everywhere. Each image I saw bled with raw emotion, an indication of the artist’s love for the space he or she was in.

The art stuck out to me as Comuna 13’s way of reinventing itself. Each meticulously crafted work on stairwells or concrete walls surrounding the houses was an artist’s effort to show the world in a different lens. To show the world that the violence that used to run rampant in the neighborhood could be replaced by beauty, and that a community should not be defined by its pain. That was the most important thing I took away from my visit to Comuna 13. I firmly believe that art is a universal language, and that art is one of the most powerful tools for social and political change.

However, the graffiti that stuck out most to me as a marker of change in this comuna was not a sprawling, grandiose piece of art. In fact, it was just writing in yellow spray paint, but it was poignant enough to bring tears to my eyes. It read “Ni putas, ni santas, sólo mujeres”. I stood and stared at the wall long after the rest of the group moved on.

This is an example of street art fulfilling its purpose. There is a message, loud and clear, and it speaks to anyone who is literate. The message denounces the virgin/whore dichotomy, which is prominent in nearly every country and nearly every religion. We either put women on a pedestal to glorify their purity or we shame them for their sexual “decisions” (not always our decision). We are slaves to sex in many ways, publicly and privately, whether we are doing it or not. This dehumanizing concept is so ingrained in every single culture that people are oblivious to it. But why is virginity a “good” thing? What about virginity screams purity? It’s not good and it’s not bad. It just is. Just like your skin is the color it is because it just is. Just like you have to breathe to keep living cause that’s just how your body works. I’ve hated this concept since I could first understand it, but reading this statement made me realize just how much people around the world feel it too. Someone who speaks a completely different language and has a completely different life than me feels the same anger that I do. And that is mind blowing.

A girl should not have to be tormented on her decision to have or not have sex; there are already enough headaches for us regarding that as it is. The art I saw in Comuna 13 does a wonderful job of encapsulating what I just tried to convey in one sentence. The simplicity of the sentence also highlights the simplicity of the concept. We are not bitches, we are not saints, we are women, and most importantly, we are humans.


Miurel Price

One of the instruments my host mom uses

Over the weekend, my host mom performed Reiki on me. Reiki is a healing ritual that covers a range of body illnesses. People from all over the world come to her to perform this ritual. I did not have to consume anything or participate in anything invasive. It simply consisted of prayers, musical instruments and scented oils. Because I am studying holistic healthcare, I had heard about this ritual and watched many videos on it before meeting her. Many holistic practitioners in the U.S. have begun to incorporate this healing method in their practices; as a future holistic physician I hope to do the same. Colombia has much more to offer than what meets the eye. Who would have known that I would come here and be able to participate in something that I have desired for so long? She asked me to play my favorite song about Jesus to begin the relaxation. Then she applied scented oils on my chakras, which are my body’s energy centers. During this process, she told me to imagine God’s light, His love, and my love for my family and for others. Then she pressed her cold hands on my forehead, face, neck, arms, lower legs and feet. During this process she said a prayer in Sanskrit, which she told me later was a prayer that all God had to offer would penetrate within me. Sanskrit sounds so beautiful. I love the way she integrates many cultural practices into her belief system because sometimes religion seems like a way to separate the human race, amongst other things. That is why, at times, I am hesitant to even say I practice a specific one. Some people may say God, some may say Universe and others recognize Him as other manifestations, the important thing is that we are more connected and similar than what religious institutions suggest. Anyways, she then placed a cross with my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ on my stomach and told me to put my left hand over it. Her voice, in combination with the scented oils and my positive thoughts, led me into such a calming state that I almost fell asleep. (I guess she noticed because she asked me if I could still hear her.) She then played instruments that vibrated my body. I cannot put into words the tranquility I felt. Then she told me to stand up and she lit a candle and walked around my body, until she was in front of me. Then she asked me to pray for what my heart desires. Among many things, I prayed that everyone connected to me will connect to their Maker and Savior, and that I will be able to look at anyone and emit love the way God does and to see people the way my loving God sees them no matter the situation. This is also what my host mom embodies. The first thing you notice upon meeting her is the love that she radiates. She has told me before that loving without blemish is the core of her healing practice. Imagine if all we ever saw in others was through the pure eyes of love and nothing else. I know some may doubt that possibility, but I have seen it and felt it, and I realize it is something I want to achieve in life. Colombia never ceases to amaze me.    

Nathaniel Sizemore

After groggily arising from my bed mid day this Sunday, I went over to Doña Cecilia (my host mom) to say our now customary good morning. After giving her a big hug, she quickly heated up some breakfast as we talked about the past night and our plans for the day. I asked her how she slept, how her morning had been, and how her son and mother were doing.

“Carlos is good, my mother is with my brother down the street- the dog is wonderful and the birds are happy” she said.

“Entonces todo es bien en Carlos E”, I replied. We both broke out into big smiles without saying another word.

Its sweet conversations like these that reveal the most about Carlos E and its residents. It’s a neighborhood grounded in family and friendship.  Families like Doña Cecilia have been living in Carlos E for over 20 years- they raise their children here and take care of their elderly parents in the same apartment. Speaking with Doña Cecilia, it’s easy to see just how close many of these families have become. Most of her best friends are in fact the other women of the building and of Carlos E. People aren’t just neighbors here- their extended family, treated like long lost cousins and always invited to stop in and chat on a warm Colombian afternoon.  Walking around the center of Carlos E, with its small restaurants and shops, it’s easy to forget that you live in a thriving metropolis of over 3 million people. The wide walkways and beautiful flora that characterize the neighborhood make it a tiny oasis among the fast paced life style of Medellin. While days in Carlos E are filled with a quiet sense of community, its nights show the more social side of the neighborhood.  Young and old people alike flock to Carlos E at night as a relaxing space to catch up with friends over a café or beer.  Everyone knows each other here, and it’s easy to spot the colorful crowd of regulars (and easy to become one yourself) who frequent the outdoor cafes of Carlos E. The neighborhood began in 1960 when it was first built as housing project, and its history is rich and ripe with culture and social activism. Early on in my time here in Medellin, I tried to explain how I felt about Carlos E to Doña Cecilia. Speaking in Spanish, all I could think to say was

“Carlos E esta en una ciudad, pero tambien no esta en una cuidad”

Doña Cecilia smiled right away and quickly nodded her head in agreement, as if I had just discovered one of Carlos E’s most profound secrets.

Rekha Korlipara

I have noticed that most of the dogs in Medellín are small. At first I paid attention to them because I was intrigued by their size—it was as if there were Chihuahua-sized versions of every breed that I see in the United States. Maybe it is an evolutionary trait, resulting from a lack of proper nutrition. But what is interesting (and contradictory), I realized, is that all of them look healthy. In Mexico and India, a majority of the stray dogs (that I have seen) appear emaciated. Here, in Medellín, I have exclusively seen healthy-looking dogs with relatively lush coats and big smiles. I realize, though, that I have only seen a very small proportion of Paisa dogs. I initially assumed that the sample of dogs that I have encountered is representative of all of the city’s dogs because I had seen them in a variety of places, from the richest areas, such as El Poblado, to the poorest areas, like Comuna 13. To verify, I asked a Colombian friend if people feed the stray dogs in Medellín, because I had noticed that they all looked pretty healthy. She told me that not all of the dogs are healthy; there are many sick dogs here. However, there are many healthy dogs, too, because people feed the dogs their leftovers. 

When visiting Comuna 13 and other mountain communities, I expected to see dogs similar to those that I have seen roaming the streets of Hyderabad, India—undernourished, sick, and uncontrolled. (I know that Colombia has an animal protection organization similar to the ASPCA in the United States, but I am unclear on whether it has an animal control department.) Instead, I came across well-trained dogs that were small, but healthy. It seemed clear to me that these dogs had been fed by humans. My appreciation for the residents of these communities was increased several-fold. Generosity is one of the qualities that I most respect, but this was not just generosity—it was altruism, a quality that I absolutely admire. The action of feeding stray dogs is particularly inspiring in more impoverished communities such as these, where the people themselves may be struggling to survive. 

There is beauty in all of the small things in Medellín, because everything is reflective of the genuine and compassionate spirit of its residents. It is visible in everything from the peace- and unity-promoting graffiti that blankets the city to the natural action of accepting a piece of paper discussing some bogus topic just so that the person handing it to you can get paid an extra cent or two. My personal favorite, though, is the condition of the dogs. The people of Medellín have incorporated dogs into their community—its diversity lies not just in socioeconomic class, race, or lifestyle, but also species.

Sandy Ren
When I began the storytelling space project, my expectations and ideas of the assignment were nebulous. The open-ended nature of the project made my left brain uneasy but my right brain excited. I was uncertain of the purposes of the assignment, but I realize now that it was part of the point of the exercise. There are many different ways of telling and understanding a story. If rigid rules had been set, then the free-flow nature would be constricted.

Comuna 13 at a glance, hi-res

My most memorable storytelling space occurred in Comuna 13, one of the most impoverished and dangerous neighborhoods of Medellín, found in the city’s hilly outskirts. Based on the knowledge with which we were prefaced, I expected to feel scared, cramped, and anxious. When I arrived, however, I instead found myself to be mesmerized by the beauty of the place. Comuna 13 was decorated with commissioned graffiti art, colorful houses, and artistically shaded outdoor escalators rather than the sleek albeit monotonous skyscrapers found in the touristy areas of the city. The more time I spend in Medellín, the more I find that the most beautiful locations are found in the most destitute areas. It is strange to think that the architecture of the ritzy, capitalistic sectors are not as mesmerizing as the less affluent areas, but that is what I have been witnessing. It is perhaps also a function of the government’s goals to build its best structures in the worst parts of the city. This may initially seem backwards and an inefficient method of allocating resources but is actually ingenious.

One of the many commissioned graffiti art
pieces around the neighborhood, hi-res

Wealthy neighborhoods have the capacity and resources to create beautiful, innovative public structures without governmental assistance. In locales with less economic influx, the means of creating innovative public spaces are not readily available. With intervention, these areas can have libraries with daycares and computers — for parents and students who would not have been able to attain such resources beforehand. The creation of these public spaces encourages productive use of time and growth rather than engagement in unproductive (or even shady) activities. This type of allocation of resources should be used more widely across the globe. Many arguments against building high-cost, especially intellectual, buildings in impoverished (and high crime) communities exist, such as those claiming that state-of-the-art resources will not be used near as much as people who are “better educated.” However, here I am in Medellín, Colombia and witnessing the “high-risk” students using the computers, the books, and the public spaces donated by the government to their neighborhood. This is the means for these children who have a hard time to access resources for education to rise above the environment they have been born into and build a better future. Other cities and countries should consider implementing pilot projects to build their best buildings in their worst neighborhoods. By offering children an alternative to perverse company and a way to become productive members of society, everyone gains.

First impressions of Medellín | Primeras impresiones del Medellín

Andrea Gordillo

Recently, a friend of mine passed on a bit of light to me with the following sentences in a Facebook message: 

“When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something’s suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful.”

I arrived in Medellin this week after spending a month in my hometown Lima, where I sought to reconnect with my family and the land where I was born. In my efforts to find some vestige of “home” in the land and the people, I learned much history of the country and my own family. I learned for the first time that my family had lived through the period of terrorism in Peru, where the terrorist group, Sendero Luminoso, and the government fought a war that started in el campo and trickled into the city. Tens of thousands of people were killed, tortured, maimed, abused, and displaced. My family grandfather was threatened and forced to move from his lands in el campo, and we, who lived in the city, chose to flee the violence to the United States. By the time we left, the violence had died down, however, and we were not able to seek asylum. All of this was difficult to hear, for I was surprised that my parents had never before spoken to me about this. Albeit my confusion, anger, and frustration, I did not want this to be the only lens through which I looked at my hometown; I tried to look for the beauty in Lima, the places where cracks were filled with gold. I found it manifested in random acts of kindness in the otherwise cold, hurried streets, in the wonderful works of theatre and art exhibitions that spoke of and urged audiences to address the pain of the past, and in the colorful vegetation that occasionally adorned the dust-covered buildings constantly in construction. 

I look, now, to the gold in Medellin. I do not pretend to understand or know very much about this country’s rich history yet, but I know enough to tell that Medellin, too, has seen its share of pain and that barrio Carlos E. Restrepo is one of those gold-filled cracks. It is not difficult to spot the beauty here; it is highlighted in everything from the people to the buildings to the vegetation.

At the Biblioteca Pública Piloto, a woman who works at the archives opinionated that it is difficult for a society to move on from a period of struggle when the remnants of that struggle are still alive: the people, the buildings, the loss. Everywhere I turn, however, I see that the city of Medellín is determined on driving their own narrative away from pain and loss. Everything from the expressive art to the innovative infrastructure to the rich cultural centers speaks the story of rebirth and growth, of creation rather than despair, paranoia, or resentment. It makes me think of how easy it is to fixate on a history of struggle--it is so much more difficult sometimes, I think, to forgive and move forward. Medellin's attitude reminds me that it is possible to remember and rebuild.

This weekend, I found another gold-filled crack of the city at the Medellín Marcha por la Vida y la Diversidad Sexual y De Género. It was as extravagant as any other Pride march, but I understood a little better just how special it was after talking with some people at the march, who expressed how rare it was to have a gathering of the LGBTI community like this. This march, apparently, was the only time the community had a space to be free. Residents of Medellín, the most Catholic city in Colombia, many said that they have directly experienced all forms discrimination, from being harassed to being thrown out of clubs because of their sexual identity or gender expression. That hit me hard. I came out as queer within the past year and a half, but I have not, until traveling to South America, lived in an unsupportive or exclusionary environment. I see now how stifling it is to not be fully accepted in your home. I thought it was beautiful, however, that despite all this so many people came out (pun intended) to celebrate their community and their identity; the very fact that they were there told a story of resilience and hope for a more inclusive future. 

I look forward to exploring more and more this city; it is pulsing with stories eager to be heard. 

Chrislyn Choo


The night we arrived, a glittering canopy of stars welcomed us. Not from the sky but from the valley, as we drove down the mountain towards the glimmering city lights of Medellin. It was breathtaking. As I drifted to sleep that night, I could only wonder at what sights the morning would bring. I am not an early riser, but six a.m. found me slightly awake and very much in awe. With a soft orange glow under my eyelids and light birdsong tickling my ear canals, I awoke in a cocoon of light. While a babe only knows darkness in the womb, Medellin enfolded me in a sunrise glimpse of the warmth that permeates her people. I am a very visual learner and consider my eyes my most acute sense, but lying there in my sun-kissed room, I realized that I could see Colombia clearer with my eyes shut. In the two full days that have since passed, the rest of my senses have begun to experience a similar tuning in vision as the people of Colombia teach me new ways to see through touch, taste, and sound.

TOUCH: Physical expression of love is a defining quality of human interaction in Latin American culture. Coming from a Malaysian-Chinese family that expresses affection through non-physical gestures, I am really enjoying the novel presence of the “touch love language” in my life. The way we greet old and new friends cheek-to-cheek with a beso; the way my host father Don Enrique grasps my hand in his excitement to play chess with me; the way my host mom Doña Merce affectionately squeezes my leg or leans up to take my face with both hands to plant a tender kiss on my face - all of it speaks to me, profoundly. I came expecting to improve my Spanish, but this linguistic reality is much better. Though I am still learning to be comfortable with the language of touch, I am continually amazed at how a simple pat on my back can transcend age, speech, and culture to communicate real trust, as if we’ve always been family.

TASTE: Food holds a special place in my heart (or rather, belly). My palate is utterly satisfied by the flavorful sabor of frutas tropicales, carne, jugos, postres…everything! Beyond the gastronomic delightfulness, I see Doña Merce's love through her attention to the details, like artistically arranging the strawberries of our salads. I see how deeply the people value quality time with each other. Meals aren’t hurried, and it is refreshing to see the locals take their time to savor the food and the company. This week the girls all felt closer after sharing cathartic girl talk over pineapple juice and meatball soup; it was a beautiful bloom on our budding friendships. My appetite is learning to value food in terms of the community it fosters, and I hope to bring this appreciation back with me when I share meals with my friends at Duke.

SOUND: Even as I write this, I feel so peaceful listening to the rhythm of rain against the rustling leaves, the trills of birds harmonizing every so often with the pulsing echo of passing traffic. I cannot wait for the scene that will come after the rain, of sun rays filtering through the iridescent canopy, lush leaves rippling in the cool rain-kissed breeze. The music of the rainforest is comforting. It mirrors the ease I feel among the people I have met. During our first conversation with Doña Merce and Don Enrique over breakfast, I was so struck by the special attention they paid to me and Elena. Our host parents encouraged the both of us to speak and probed for more details as we shared stories about our families and interests. I really appreciated their insightful questions, which revealed how well they listened and cared about me. Likewise with my compañero Santiago, whose exuberant enthusiasm to get to know me enhanced our lively World Cup watch party with quality talk and quality listening. I want to grow as a storyteller, and by internalizing how others express sincere curiosity in my stories in such a way that I feel comfortable opening up to them, I hope to externalize that warmth and acceptance when I ask a family to trust me with their story too. I am grateful that the people who have entered my life in Medellin are teaching me how to see with my ears through their example.

I feel immense kinship with this plant in my host family's dining room, called un tronco de la felicidad. It dislikes direct exposure to the sun, but it thrives in light. While the weather has reminded me of my tendency to wilt like a vegetable in high humidity and heat, I have felt so joyfully alive in the warm light of Latin American community and hospitality. It’s hard to believe that it’s only been two days. I know the eight weeks will pass by quickly, so I want to be present in each moment. I look forward to fully resting in the revelations of each sunrise, meal, and conversation to come!

Elena Elliott
I don't believe you can ever know what to fully expect when going to a new place whether that be another country or simply another city. You can anticipate the weather, learn about the food, or determine the best sights, but beyond that, there is little else you can anticipate. Too often we are filled with preconceived expectations of what we will find and, more often than not, those expectations are false, or at least that has been my case in the city of Medellin, Colombia.

In the months leading up to my trip, I only heard about the dangers within  the city of Medellin. However, when I arrived, that is not what I found. My first night in Medellin, my fellow students and I were greeted at the airport by our program directors and their friend Don Orlando. Don Orlando did us a favor by driving us easily down the mountain to the neighborhood of Carlos E. Restrepo, our home for the next couple of months. Upon arrival to Carlos E. Restrepo, my homestay mother, Doña Mercedes, warmly received us with a kiss on our cheeks, despite the late hour.

The next morning I woke to find breakfast already prepared, and Don Enrique, my homestay dad, eager to discuss everything from his love of President John F. Kennedy to the most recent World Cup matches. As the days have gone on, I have met Don Ulysses, our go-to guy when a taxi is needed; Ceci, a remarkable woman that found us a place to watch the U.S. vs. Germany match; and Erica, a local lawyer that helps with our program and well-being. The cast of characters goes on forever; There are tons of members of this community who met us only days ago and are already looking out for us.

Although I have only spent a few days in Medellin, it has already become clear that while Medellin's infamous past cannot be denied, it certainly is not what defines this city.  It is the people of the communities and of the neighborhoods that characterize this colorful and innovative city.

Ishani Purohit
One formative moment in my discovery of Medellin was the visit to the library in Carlos E. Restrepo. Upon entering, a security guard stored our bags for us before we were allowed into the actual venue. At home, I would have never thought to store my bag with the security at the public library. Already I could realize that the people around me took the library very seriously, which is interesting, because I cannot even remember the last time I visited a public library at home.

We went upstairs to a special exhibit with a guide to view the history of photography. This room contained some of the oldest photographs and cameras that had ever been made. It went back as early as the daguerrotype, which was the first photographic process that had widespread use. Later on, we walked to another part of the library in which there were small cartoon depictions of prominent figures. One of the figures was Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and beneath his portrait was a quote from my favorite book, A Hundred Years of Solitude. For those who don’t know, a common theme in the novel is the effects of the cyclical nature of history, and how that influences future generations. The quote read, “Aureliano no entendía cómo se llegaba al extremo de hacer una guerra por cosas que no podían tocarse con las manos…” Roughly translated, that means, “Aureliano didn’t understand how something so extreme as a war could come about over things that one cannot touch with one’s hands.” I began to think about the connection between the portrait of Colombia’s most esteemed author and the room dedicated to photographs, and what that means to this beautiful city.

The library visit made me realize how much Medellin takes pride in and also acknowledges its own history. The photograph museum shows how much the city values keeping a record of what happened before, and the depiction of Gabriel Garcia Marquez with the quote from A Hundred Years of Solitude on the absurdity of war shows their acknowledgment of the events that once deemed Medellín the most violent city in the world. That’s much more than I can say for the United States. Our society is built around the premise of “freedom” and “liberation”, which honestly just means we don’t want to deal with messes we never cleaned up from the past. Rather than looking back, we like to just look forward. But recently, I have begun to question why we do this, because the history of our country is crucial to the foundation of modern day society. And there is no way we can move forward without acknowledging the past.

For example, the question of reparations for slavery will occasionally come up among American politicians. Questions arise such as who pays, what to pay, how to pay, and who receives the payment, and because these questions are too hard to answer, no real amends are made. We fail to recognize that the disenfranchisement of an entire community can be traced back to a time period that is almost alien to us. And because it’s so alien to us, we don’t talk about it; it seemingly has no effect on our lives. Not talking about the past is pretending it doesn’t exist. But pretending it doesn’t exist does not erase the damage it has done to the community. It only invalidates the sorrow and spilled blood that happened as a result.


My friend once told me I had “too much empathy for my little body”. While this was meant to be a joke, I know that it’s often very true. I feel physically hurt by other people’s pain even just by reading it. And I hate the saying “time heals everything”, because it doesn’t work that way at all. Talking about the past, validating the events of the past – that’s really what “heals”. I think that’s why I cared so much about the library visit. I was both fascinated and saddened by the self-reflective nature of the place. While the library could not erase the damage that had been done in Medellín, it still validated the pain. And that is the first step to healing.


Miurel Price

On the second day that we were in Medellín, we visited the library in Carlos E. Restrepo. That was the first time that I became aware of color representation in Colombia. We visited photographic exhibits and I did not see one Afro-Colombian represented. This could have been because these groups of people may have been represented in another area of the library; however, my experience still led me to have a heightened awareness of the way Colombians are represented. Later that day, I asked to go to an Afro-Colombian salon, and discovered that their shops are located in one area. I am not sure if this is considered exclusion or exclusiveness, but to me it seemed like a sense of division. The next day, I started to realize that the billboards I saw resembled Spaniards, and no one else. Not that there is anything wrong with that—I just feel as though there is much more beauty in Colombia because of its diversity, which unfortunately, does not seem to be capitalized on, in my opinion. Sometimes I feel I may not choose the most politically correct way to express my feelings in a way that can understood by everyone and I am open to learning how to do that, but as of now this is my best.

My host brother and I traveling the city of Medellín.

I told my host brother of my observations and he told me that he never thought about it. He said that it was normal for lighter people to be publicized. I told him that I think I notice it more because I am black Panamanian and I live in the U.S. where I am used to more diverse people being represented in the media. He was really surprised and that made me realize that this issue may not even be a concern yet, here in Colombia, but I would have to do more research to know this for sure. These are just my first impressions.

 In the U.S., I have encountered many people who do not believe that black Hispanics exist. This may be because of the way Latin Americans are portrayed as being lighter skinned on television and any other public media outlets. However, black Latinos comprise a huge part of the Latin American population. My experiences in Colombia are wonderful because of its diversity. I love Latin culture, especially in the way that Spaniards, Africans, indigenous peoples, etc have collaborated to create such beautiful Latin American countries. 

Nathaniel Sizemore

“It's in your blood”, one of my friends remarked. We were in a salsa club late one night in Medellin, and I had told him there was no way I would go dance. Eventually they coaxed me into getting up and trying my hand at a few songs. I wasn’t very good, but I haven’t stopped thinking about that phrase. It’s a phrase I’ve heard a lot during my first week in Medellin. Because I grew up in an English-speaking household and did not learn Spanish till much later in life, I’ve always thought of myself as an American first and foremost. I grew up learning that talking about the Colombian side of me was redundant in the minds of my friends. They would always roll their eyes. I became ashamed I didn’t speak Spanish, that I didn’t know more about Colombia, that I had never visited the country itself. I am an American and always will be, but now that I’m here, I’m finally starting acknowledge both parts of my blood. 

Descending down into the heart of Medellin on our first night, I was struck by the seeming chaotic layout of the lights gleaming below me. The middle of the city glowed bright, but out of Medellin’s center stemmed veins of light that crawled up the mountains encircling the city. This was my first image of Medellin, and one that will stay with me for a very long time. The organized sprawl of Medellin is something I have already grown to love; America’s many planned cities, with perfect grids and flat lines often suffocate the creative nature of urban development. When I think of my first days in Medellin, creativity and ingenuity seem to be a running theme among its inhabitants. Whether is a building like the aula, a urban park, or the banana’s my home stay mom leaves out for the many birds that frequent her kitchen window sill, the open minded, loving, and innovative way in which many people carry themselves is something I have come to admire over the short time I’ve been here. I’m also struck by how at home at a feel in this country; walking along Carlos E or talking with my homestay mom, I can’t help but think of my Colombian side of the family and the honest similarities they share with the residents of Medellin. This trip for me has already become a chance to delve deeper into a part of my history that I’ve never really had the chance to explore.   

Rekha Korlipara

The first thing I noticed upon entering my Colombian homestay was a large—almost life-sized—photograph of Sathya Sai Baba hanging on a dining room wall. Sathya Sai Baba was a widely followed spiritual leader in India who passed away in 2011. He claimed that he was a reincarnation of the Hindu saint Sai Baba. If that photograph hadn’t already excited my sense of curiosity, the Ganesha statue I saw a few minutes later definitely did. Because there are so many Hindu gods, most practicing Hindus devote themselves more to one god; my main god is Ganesha, so seeing the statue struck me a little bit more than it may have if it was a different god. I do not consider myself to be a very religious person; I don’t go to temple very often or celebrate most Hindu holidays, and I believe in free will. I do, however, have my own personal sense of faith. I don’t need a temple or idols to feel secure about my religion. And one of the things that I appreciate most about the Hindu religion is that it is open enough to allow that. As far as I know, people do not try to spread Hinduism; rather, people gravitate towards it.

At breakfast the next morning, I asked my homestay mom, Doña Estella, if she followed Sathya Sai Baba. Her face lit up as she said, “El es mi guru. Estoy totalmente dedicado a él.” (“He is my guru. I am totally dedicated to him.”) When I mentioned the statue, she pointed out three other Ganesha statues around the room. She talked about Ganesha’s ability to remove obstacles, and how he has helped her.

Before coming to Medellín, I was not even aware that Hinduism was practiced in Colombia. I have noticed similarities in the Indian and Colombian cultures, from small things like the drink known as a ‘mango lassi’ in India, but ‘jugo de mango en leche’ in Colombia, to bigger things like the way that people treat each other. For example, I have always appreciated that Indian people are very generous with time, not only willing, but wanting, to spend time with/on others. Colombians are the same way. Some Indians and Colombians even look alike; my friend Ana’s family once commented (and others have agreed) that Ana and I look like sisters.

Regardless of the many obvious cultural similarities, it probably would not have occurred to me that there are Colombians who practice Hinduism if I didn’t have Doña Estella as my homestay mom. According to Doña Estella, there are Colombians who travel to India to explore spiritual and religious sites. These Colombian Hindus have helped to bring the religion to this area of the world, to people like Doña Estella. She attributes much of her spirituality to Hinduism (although she also incorporates elements of other religions), and much of her sense of self to her spirituality.

Right before I left for the airport on Monday, my mom (biological) reminded me to pray. I never would have imagined then, while I was praying to my own Ganesha statue, that I would have four others within ten feet of my room in Colombia.


Sandy Ren

City lights at night, hi-res

Hailing from the flat, treeless, ranch-filled Central Texas, my visual senses were overloaded when I first arrived in Medellín. I still remember the first time I flew into North Carolina: I was mesmerized by the abundance of green and blue in the landscape from my aerial view. It heavily contrasted with the patchwork quilt of the Texas landscape sewn in hues of yellow and brown. Medellín is even more saturated with the viridian part of the visual spectrum. After spending a few days walking around the South American city, I continue to be enthralled by the beauty of the mountains surrounding our valley and the lush greenery of tropical plants, amidst skyscrapers and small businesses. At night, it is just as beautiful. When we had dinner in Tam and Jota's seventeenth floor apartment, we were welcomed by the breathtaking view of brilliant lights dotting the valley and mountains. The juxtaposition of urban landscape and nature here never ceases to amaze me.

Urban city and natural landscape, hi-res

While this juxtaposition is amazing, it also often confuses me. Before my departure from the States, the knowledge that I was going to a highly urban area somehow did not register. To qualify, I did expect to have safe water, supermarkets, and modern transportation, but I failed to brace myself for a metropolitan city. As a suburban girl, I am used to having a generous amount of living space, eating in large restaurants, and driving between destinations. Medellín is a population dense locale with approximately three million people in about a one hundred fifty square mile space. Between my lack of remembrance that we were coming to a metropolis and the ubiquitous presence of botanical species (typically indicative of a suburban or rural area), I was confused by the abundance of high rises in the city, cozily stacked small shops, and walking-distance proximity of my home stay to (almost) everything I needed. Despite the disparity between my expectations and reality, I am sure the two will meet and meld over time as I become accustomed to beautiful Medellín.