Katie
McDonald’s Tastes Better in Colombia
I love Colombian culture. As this Duke Engage experience draws to a close, I have come
to realize how thoroughly immersed I am.
Conversations with my host family no longer revolve around the mundane,
but instead encompass my plans for the future, my host mom’s hopes for her son
and open-ended invitations to return, forever. My knowledge of Spanish has quadrupled as I find myself not
just reading subtitles in English, but writing them. I have even acquired a taste for arepisa, and am not sure
dinner back in the U.S. will be worth eating without it.
However earlier today Carrie and I craved a dose of American
culture so naturally, we thought McDonalds. We hailed a taxi and asked to go to that one mall that we
thought might have a McDonalds and the taxi driver replied authoritatively,
“ahh… Unicentro…” so we headed in that direction. Carrie checked to verify that this was correct. It wasn’t… so we headed to another
mall. Turns out that wasn’t
correct either. We called Jota,
our director, and he gave the driver an address so Carrie and I sat back and
relaxed for the first time on what had been a very stressful cab ride.
Next thing we know, the taxi is pulling up to our
neighborhood. I could picture Jota
standing on the corner, laughing at us, as though directing the driver back
home and depriving us of McDonalds was punishment for not knowing where we were
going. However, the neighborhood
turned out to be a minor detour, Jota wasn’t there to make fun of us, and we
soon found ourselves at McDonalds.
But this was no
ordinary McDonalds. The patio
outside contained large white umbrellas and perfectly trimmed hedges, reminding
me more of a country club than America’s favorite fast food chain. Inside,
there was a separate counter for “McCafe” that was about 10 times fancier than
my local Starbucks. I kept
thinking about what a bargain this was: free wifi, air-conditioning (I have
literally only been in one other building with AC in Colombia), kind and
attentive waiters, and I still had the dollar menu. Wrong. The menu
boasted a 17,000 peso hamburger.
That’s the equivalent of $9, making McDonalds the 2nd most expensive
restaurant I have been to in Colombia.
So when I sat down with my hamburger and fries, you better believe I
enjoyed every last bite. All nine
dollars worth.
As Carrie and I sat on the patio savoring the last of our
feast, a little girl and her mom came out, and the mom was sporting a Luis
Vuiton handbag. The little girl
pointed at us, the two “gringas” in our “natural habitat.” I waved at her as her mom laughed and
rolled her eyes. “I blame your
hair,” said Carrie, as if she totally would blend in as a paisa if I weren’t
there.
And that’s how I have grown in the last two months. Even though I look more Swedish than
Colombian and will never be a Paisa, I now feel more comfortable at Las Monas,
eating platano and carne de res, than I do in McDonalds, and not just because
the three course meal at Las Monas is cheaper than my quarter pounder. Suffice it to say, after our two-hour
excursion to McD’s, I had never been happier to return to my dinner of arrepisa
and tea de la casa with conversation in Spanish and no over-priced hamburger in
sight.
Cesar
One of
the biggest challenges I have had to face in Medellin is whether or not I
wanted to include my family’s story in the documentary I am currently working
on. Initially, I thought it would be a great to talk about how my family fled
Medellin amidst the violence caused by drug trafficking and about how they
began new lives in the United States. I am, after all, proud to have such a strong
and supportive family. So it was decided, I would be interviewed and my story
would be stand alongside the stories of the people I had interviewed during my
first three weeks in Medellin. Then, something changed. I began editing my
interview and came to the realization that I would have to show this to dozens,
if not hundreds, of people during our presentation. On top of that, the video
would be posted on online and become available to anyone with an Internet
connection. I hadn’t consulted my family about my interview and I had said some
very private things. Plus, I felt as if though the focus of my documentary
should be about the underprivileged people of Medellin, not about a privileged
Duke student that came from a very fortunate family. Needless to say, I freaked
out. I talked to Tam about my insecurities and she was very supportive of my
decision. So now, I’m focusing my documentary on all the lessons the families
I’ve interviewed have taught me. Here’s the introduction to my documentary:
Although
I consider myself first and foremost an American – or how Colombians say, “Estadounidense” – I also have a deep
connection with Medellin: both of my parents are Paisas (born and raised in Medellin). Yet, I feel like this
connection has always been superficial. I have always worried about how other Paisas view me. Do they resent me
because of my life in the United States? Or are they proud that I have been
able to maintain close roots with Medellin? Even though I was born and raised
in the United States, I’ve traveled to Colombia more than a dozen times, but
each visit has been to see my family. They take me to tourist locations,
sheltering me from the city’s struggles. My mom left her life in Medellin due
to the violence. In 1981,
she went to the United States in search of a better life. She is a typical Paisa mom and she raised me to value
family and friends. She also used the struggles she had to overcome, leaving
her home and starting anew in another country, as life lessons for me. My
mother's upbringing in Medellin played a pivotal role in defining the strong,
independent woman she would one day become. She grew up in home and working
conditions similar to those of the people I interviewed. I never fully
understood why my mom is the way she is or why my family members, in both
countries, are the way they are. Medellin Solidaria and DukeEngage Colombia
have given me an opportunity to reconcile my unfamiliarity with my family and
the city’s struggles with poverty, violence, and drug trafficking. So here I am,
in Medellin, honored and humbled to share the stories of “mi gente”…
Me as a child, dressed in typical Paisa clothing and holding a typical Paisa drink.
DukeEngage in Medellin exposes you to two different worlds.
There is the one in the field, which is marked by struggling and hope. Everyday, I would meet parents sacrificing everything to educate their children, families living without access to drinkable water, and relationships that seem beyond repairable. This is the world that exposed me to the dramatic wealth differences in Colombia. This is the world that makes me want to spread the stories I've heard and convince everyone I know to help. I've grown attached to the stories I'm turning into videos (to see the final documentaries - www.mobility17.org - after Aug 15) because I'm holding people's life stories. If it was just this world, I don't know if I'd feel as strongly that Colombia has changed from my preconceived notions of violence, displacement, and sadness.
Lost in Translation
My Spanish isn’t terrible. And sometimes that’s the worst
part. I have been able to get so far as to have a genuinely comfortable
relationship with my host family, my compañeros, and my cogestora, and at this
point I consider them all close friends and very important parts of my life.
But the frustrations ensue in those impossible times when I’m having a casual
conversation and I hit a road block—a word I can’t say, a phrase that doesn’t
translate well, a sentiment that just sounds wrong. I get rattled, nervous, and
stumble upon trying to say basic things going forward.
The tool I’ve found useful in crossing this language barrier is time. Sitting for an extra 5 minutes at the dinner table, inviting a friend to lunch, or even emailing my cogestora an interesting article, have proved to strengthen my relationships when words get in the way. But during interviews, I feel robbed of this tool and being able to form connections with the families with limited time has been extremely challenging. But from this challenge I’ve learned the importance of the impressions you make at all times—not only your first, and not only your lasting impression, but the impression of your presence. And although this video makes me cringe, it also makes me proud. Because through all the stuttering, “como?’”s and “umm”s, I managed to gain trust from these families to make them comfortable enough in my presence to tell me their story.
Before going to the DE academy, my neighbor, a woman born and raised in Colombia, was catching up with my mom when they landed on the topic of my upcoming trip. My neighbor told my mother and I that there is a lot of racism in Colombia. Before she mentioned it, race hadn't crossed my mind. Even so, the reality that racism exists didn't surprise me because there is racism in the States. The main difference is I wasn't sure how racism would present itself in Colombia.
Since arriving in Colombia I've struggled with the the denial of racism and differences between Black and Colombian culture as well as the lack of racial discourse. This is exacerbated when I consider Colombia's colonial past and the socioeconomic differences that persist today. It makes sense that Black (and Indian) populations are still disadvantaged and faced with lower socioeconomic standing, as they were hundreds of years ago. Poverty is often systematic because the resources needed to escape it are not readily available and populations that are impoverished, more often Black and Indian, are more likely to stay that way.
To better understand race in Colombia, I read blog posts, websites, essays and academic articles about the topic. The denial of racism by many Colombians as well as how racism manifested itself in Colombia were common threads across the board. Sure enough, I encountered the denial of racism here in Medellin. On my first day of work I talked to a social worker from Medellin Solidaria about race. I described racism in the States and he smiled, almost condescendingly, and said "here in Colombia, there is no racism. The color of your skin isn't important at all." His response is the standard one I've been given whenever I broach the subject, as my previous reading had predicted. Perhaps I'm already a cynic at the young age of 19 but the 'no racism here!' response seems too good to be true. There is an allure to the denial. It would be nice if who I am were what's important, like people say, rather than the pigment of my skin. Nationality further complicates the situation. I've avoided many problems, like being denied entry to clubs, solely because I'm an American but the influence of nationality and status is a topic better left for another blog post. What's confusing is Colombia claims to be multicultural but every person I've asked denies that there is a difference in between Black and 'typical' Colombian cultures. Paradoxical seems like an apt description. I'm not sure what's at work here, what the motivation is for avoiding discussing these topics but ignoring problems isn't going to fix them in the same way that ignoring your overflowing sink won't make the drain work.
I've experienced racism here first hand. Last week I was minding my own business, strolling towards the pedestrian bridge to record a time lapse when a police officer blocked my path and told me to stop. The rest I didn't catch, but the message was clear, you're being searched. This position isn't new to me but I've never been searched for walking down the street. I am still unable to divine a legitimate reason for my search, I was dressed in markedly American attire, T-shirt, shorts and flip flops, and disturbing no one. Apparently my complexion was enough reason to be considered suspicious. After the search I asked their names which they wouldn't give me because 'I had no right to know this information.'
Through their actions, the police made me feel powerless and, for a moment, stripped of my humanity. My right to privacy had been thoroughly trampled upon and I wasn't even worthy of knowing their names. There was nothing I could do but away and hate how they had disrespected me. While recording the time lapse, I witnessed the police stop two other people, another young black male and a homeless man. Based on their selections,it appears that blacks and homeless people have the same social standing here. To make this a completely stereotypical encounter with race in Colombia, a friend of mine told me that this happened because the police are stupid, not because of racism. The material I'd read proved to be spot on, racism exists in Colombia but no one wants to admit it.
In the states I'm aware of both Black and 'typical' American culture. Each has it's good and bad aspects and I love both of them dearly. I'm also pleased that they are not mutually exclusive groups and that I can be a member in each, an experience from which I've benefited. If the Colombians with whom I've spoken are correct, then I feel many people are missing out on the chance to experience racial and national culture. By no means am I trying to say that the USA has race and related topics figured out, that would be a lie. But at least there is space for discussion.
Despite the problems, there are things that I enjoy. Many Colombians are up front with describing you, especially with terms of endearment. Gordita, sweet fat girl, is a common example of this. I like when some of the host moms calls me "mi negrito," my sweet black boy, but this would be unacceptable and cringe worthy in the States because of the history behind the term negro. The intention is what makes the difference for me, through this term, these host moms are showing their affection for me and it helps that I was aware of this cultural practice ahead of time. That being said, I don't think I'd be okay with the term negrito in an American, English-speaking context At times, Colombia and the States don't seem that different. For example, people love to touch my hair. Sometimes they ask for permission, sometimes I offer after watching them eye my afro and other times they touch it without asking. They usually say the same things- "it's so soft!" "Do you have to comb it or is it always like that?" "Do you hide stuff in there?" etc.
My time here has spurred me to explore race and for this I'm thankful. Even so, It frustrates me knowing that I won't greatly influence the way many Colombians think about race and that I won't fully grasp the topic of race as it relates to me in the near future.
The Power of an Unheard Voice
Place
I never get attached to
places.
I’m not attached to my
Southern roots. Or the sleepy town where I was born and raised. My neighborhood
is an idyllic representation of the classic suburban landscape and it’s all an
illusion, lacking warmth while full of empty hellos and "how are
you’s." Spacious homes with spacious yards. Too much space. And too little
unity, a collective identity, a sense of belonging.
And then I come to Medellín.
My entrevistado/as are filled with pride for their homes, their barrios, their
city. “This is MY house. MY Picacho. MY Medellín.” Their eyes grow big, facial
expressions soft and joyful, and the room begins to glow with love and light.
Place is struggle. Place is renewal. Place is spiritual. Place is everything
I had yet to experience this
sort of love for a place before I came to Medellín. The sort of attachment that
exudes an immeasurable sense of devotion, pride, and loyalty. But I feel it
now. I felt it on my last day working in the field, the almost silent taxi ride
with my cogestora from Picacho to Metro Suramericana. I felt it when I handed
her my Medellín Solidaria chaleco, gave her a hug, and thanked her for an
invigorating three weeks of trekking up hilly terrains in order to interview
the brave and gracious families. I felt it when I was utterly speechless as a
compañero reminded us that we only had a few more weeks left, that there wasn’t
time to not enjoy every moment, even the little moments of just being together.
And I felt it when I labeled this post with the number 6. 6 of 8. A gentle
reminder that I will be leaving this place when 6 becomes 8.
Places ground us in context,
in empathy, in understanding. Places guide us into other worlds, other cultures,
other modes of being… of imagining a world that extends beyond our comfortable
existence in Durham, North Carolina.
Perhaps, this is to say that
what I have found most beautiful and challenging about my time in Medellín is
how fond I’ve grown of this place and its people.
Because even in the midst of
being displaced, a new place becomes a source of hope and healing. A new barrio
receives displaced families, offering them refuge from violence or conflict so
as to become a new home. And not even unemployment and economic woes can
undermine this conceptualization of place as a means of everlasting strength.
I’m trying to be present and
enjoy all the little moments, but sadly, 6 will eventually become 8. And the
words, the photos, and the videos will soon trigger memories of this newly
found attachment…this love for a place that has personally transformed me and
helped me start down a path that feels more right and more real.
So it only seems appropriate
that we return this love. We tell the stories of the people we have met…the
entrevistado/as in our documentaries and the ones that time didn’t allow for us
to fine tune during the course of this project. We tell the stories of
unexpected kindness, how strangers are never quite strangers, how paisas will
not settle for anything less than peace, and how we as gringos have been
welcomed here as family.
We tell the story of
Medellín, nuestro hogar.
Yo creo
que en los Estados Unidos hay un mayor sentido de…de derecho? …um…mucha gente siempre
se siente como mercen más. La mayoría de personas quieren más dinero, más cosas…
que tienen. En mi experiencia…
ellos no me parecen contentos con su situación*. My host mom seemed to understand
despite my long pauses where I would have to think of the right word. She had just asked me how poverty in
the U.S. differed from poverty in Medellín. A few of the many things that I love about my host family are
that they find happiness in sharing the gift of life with friends and family,
they exhibit an affection that I have not found outside of my own family in
Connecticut, and they genuinely want me to learn. When I do not understand something,
my host mom will explain it again, and again until I understand. There never has been a moment where any
member of my host family has just said nevermind
or it’s not that important. In fact, often times, they bring out
the dictionary or ask that I grab my computer from my room to more easily cross
the language barrier. Explaining
my opinions and emotions in Spanish proves difficult, and a discussion of
poverty was no exception, so long after the conversation ended, I reflected
upon how I had answered this question.
During my time in the field, I looked down on myself often. All of the families I visited lived in
houses smaller than I’ve ever seen; in conditions that I believed didn’t exist
in the United States. I grew up
close to New Haven, CT, a city that boasts Yale University, exceptional pizza,
great urban culture, but also gang violence, occasional drive by shootings and
extremely poor neighborhoods. In high school as I watched the nightly news
along side both my parents in the comfort of my living room, I always felt like
I knew what poverty is. Through my time in the field, I’ve realized
that I’m not sure I do.
In barrio Picacho, despite each family’s lack of money, lack of
resources, and sometimes running-water, they have things to be proud of and
things to be happy about. I
commonly heard phrases like I have my
health, my family and god in a tone that said these things were the 3
essentials to a happy life. These
families have no shame in their situations because they have so much more to be
thankful for. They may have been
poor in economic terms, but the families that I encountered live lives rich in
love, happiness, pride, hard work and dedication. At Duke, I’m focused on getting a great paying job; one that
maybe is not as fulfilling, but compensates with a large paycheck. I find that this mentality permeates
Duke’s campus. However, after each
day in the field, I walked home slowly from the metro. My feet dragged with fatigue after a
day of climbing countless stairs, but my mind reeled with a desire to give
back, to help, and to create change.
I think about if this feeling will weather my time abroad in the fall
and stick even when I re-enter the duke bubble.
When I thought back to my statement I made to my host mother, I felt
ignorant for generalizing. I have never experienced poverty. I observed it from the outside back
home as well as in Medellín, but was never forced to live in such a
situation. When I attempted to
apply my opinion to the entire United States, I realized that I committed a
mistake. I can only speak for the experiences
that I encountered in my life. My statement sounded like more of a
self-critique than any overarching statement. I cannot compare and contrast poverty in the U.S. and
Colombia because I don’t feel like I’ll ever know the extent of the
struggle. I know that Poverty led
my birth mother to give me up for adoption. I know that this life I am fortunate to live has origins in
poverty. But even that
“experience” in poverty will never be substantial to say I endured it. I can only
hope that I take what I learned here in Colombia back to the U.S. where I’ll
cherish more of the little details in life.
“Los simples detalles son los que hacen feliz la vida, no
necesitamos dinero para ser felices” – My host mother, Margarita Maria
Jaramillo.
(From left to right: my host mother, Katie,
me, my host tía)
* I think
that in the United States there is a greater sense of entitlement. Many people feel like they always
deserve more. The majority of
people want more money, more things than they have. To me, they never seem content with what they have.
