I did a bad thing last night... I think I even broke the law. My turmoil over it kept me from falling asleep, as I played and replayed the scene in my head. The only thing that allayed my anxiety was Rich's glee over what I did.
Last month I was away in the United States visiting family for over 2 weeks. Each night when I talked with Rich on Skype, he sounded lonely and unhappy. The worst part for him was not my absence, though, but the unceasing NOISE in our neighborhood. Rich is a quiet, contemplative man and after a long day of teaching economics to Latin American teenagers (which he describes as "like trying to stab someone with a rope") he needs quiet. I think he could bear it f it were only the planes flying out from the nearby airport, the birds and geckos that screech morning and evening, or the thunder that makes one's chest tremble. But add to these the incessant car alarms (that never mean burglary), the honking of taxis and school buses, and the late night parties that spill out into the street, and it pushes him over the edge. My kind, considerate, funny husband becomes an angry lunatic.
Worst of all are the barking dogs. When we were looking for a house to buy we had a running joke with our realtor. We wanted a block with NO DOGS. And of course what happened was that we bought a house in a block with no dogs, and now, a year later, there are at least half a dozen. Panamanians who buy a house in this neighborhood first build a wall around it, and then get a dog. They are quite worried about robbers and the dogs are procured more for protection of property than for pets.
Our next door neighbor got a little mutt recently that is mostly cute and friendly, but goes nuts when the neighborhood stray cats come around. Our neighbor directly across the street got a large dog which we seldom see or hear. A neighbor down the block has a dog that barks only when the other dogs start barking, but when this happens, he is the loudest of all. And then there's the neighbor diagonally across from us whose dog has put us over the top. He has a tiny little chihuahua, which barks like crazy, but only when it is outside, and a large pit bull whose deep, hostile bark can penetrate any closed window and interrupt even the loudest TV program. The pit bull lives outdoors when the family is not at home, which is much of the time. Whenever the dog is home alone, it barks incessantly.
We wondered if our neighbor realized that his dog barks so much when he is not home, since, by definition, he isn't there to hear it. On many evenings Rich or I have walked across the street to see what was causing the dog to bark so constantly, only to have it turn toward us, snarling behind its gate, and bark even louder. The noise is unnerving because it sounds so angry. Rich did an Internet search and found an article explaining why barking dogs are so annoying, from the physical and neurological effects to the emotional and hormonal impacts.
Last night I was really tired after a week of company and a busy day of chores following our guests' departure. I was looking forward to reading myself quietly to sleep, but at 9 pm the pit bull was in full chorus and I could neither concentrate on my book nor go to bed. I got a bottle of cold drinking water and walked to the nearby park to look at the mountains and the stars. I strolled up and down the nearby streets, hoping that by the time I got back our neighbor would have come home and taken his dog inside. Twenty minutes later, I walked back toward our house and the dog was still holding forth. Rich was out in the middle of the street, staring at the dog and shaking his head. There was a car in the driveway, but the house was dark, so we assumed that no one was home. As I reached the house, all of a sudden I stepped up to the gate behind which the pit bull was lunging, and squirted him with some cool water from my bottle. He was momentarily silent, and retreated from the gate. Rich and I went into our house and I got ready for bed as the dog resumed barking.
About fifteen minutes later, our doorbell rang. Rich opened the door and I heard a man's angry voice begin berating Rich and me for trespassing on his property and for squirting his dog. He went on and on, as Rich listened quietly, interjecting only a question now and then, such as: "Do you know that your dog barks for hours and hours when you are not home?" And: "Are you aware that there are children and workers who live on this block who have to go to bed early and get up early?" The man said that if we didn't like the noise we should move to Cerro Azul! I was in my nightgown, so I stood inside the front door, listening, ready to try to defend Rich if if got ugly. After the man's wrath was spent, he stalked down our steps, aross the street, and into his house. Rich came inside and I took his hand.
"I'm so sorry!" I said.
"What? NO! Don't be sorry! I'm not sorry at all!"
"But what I did was wrong. I should have gone over to talk with them about the problem instead of acting out. The only thing is, we've had every indication from how that guy treats his family that he wouldn't have been receptive, and I would have struggled more than ever with my Spanish in front of such a hostile audience."
"OK, but I am going to look up whether or not there is a law in Panama against dogs barking at all hours!"
Rich spent the next hour happily surfing the Net looking up barking dogs, dog whistles, Panamanian law, and related topics. I went to bed.
The dog was silent.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Too Noisy!
The noise here is driving Rich nuts. It bothers me from time to time, but not nearly as much as it bothers him. Car alarms, barking dogs, fireworks, drunken singing, loud parties, honking horns, unmufflered engines, weed whackers, children shouting, children crying, couples arguing, radios and TVs blaring... And every sound ricochets off the tiled and cemented surfaces of our neighborhood.
Rich has such a restless kind of intelligence that I have always had a hunch there is too much "noise" already in his own head to tolerate much from outside. He entertains his students by finding cube roots of large numbers in seconds without a calculator. He does "evil" Sudokus for fun. He dismisses my theory, preferring to subscribe to a "social decency" norm that Panama simply does not share. We argue about cultural relativism, social norms, and the line between customs and bad manners. It is clear to me that we shouldn't ever live in this urban a setting again... unless Rich goes deaf.
At home in Baltimore this summer we were amazed by the QUIET. Our old, suburban neighborhood has giant trees and so much more greenery than pavement that sounds are muffled. I remember feeling a sense of peace and relief at this lack of noise, even while missing the awareness of everyday life going on around us.
So the question is, is Latin American, or Panamanian, culture generally noisier than American culture? We have some friends who live in Barcelona, Spain who are driven half mad by the noisiness of their neighborhood. So that's one tiny piece of evidence that hispanic life enjoys or tolerates more ambient noise. But then again, New York City is a hotbed of sound, which argues more for the geographic density theory. Panamanians tend to live in larger family units and in smaller houses than comparably incomed Americans. Most of the houses in this neighborhood have three bedrooms, which house a couple, their several children, and a grandparent or maid. The more people in the smaller a space, the more noise. Plus, the houses are so close together, separated by a mere few feet of sidewalk, and sometimes a wall. We had thought that the wall our next door neighbors built would keep some of their hubub on their side and out of our ears, but not really. The wall provides another echo-producing surface for the loud TV, alarm clock, shower singing, and dish clinking.
One particularly noisy evening Rich was exasperated by a loud party across the street. He went out onto the front porch to send a psychic glare of disapproval to the happy, oblivious revelers. Our next door neighbor also stepped outside to smoke his late evening cigarette. Rich greeted him and said, "Such noise!" The neighbor looked at him in surprise. "What noise?" He said.
Rich has such a restless kind of intelligence that I have always had a hunch there is too much "noise" already in his own head to tolerate much from outside. He entertains his students by finding cube roots of large numbers in seconds without a calculator. He does "evil" Sudokus for fun. He dismisses my theory, preferring to subscribe to a "social decency" norm that Panama simply does not share. We argue about cultural relativism, social norms, and the line between customs and bad manners. It is clear to me that we shouldn't ever live in this urban a setting again... unless Rich goes deaf.
At home in Baltimore this summer we were amazed by the QUIET. Our old, suburban neighborhood has giant trees and so much more greenery than pavement that sounds are muffled. I remember feeling a sense of peace and relief at this lack of noise, even while missing the awareness of everyday life going on around us.
So the question is, is Latin American, or Panamanian, culture generally noisier than American culture? We have some friends who live in Barcelona, Spain who are driven half mad by the noisiness of their neighborhood. So that's one tiny piece of evidence that hispanic life enjoys or tolerates more ambient noise. But then again, New York City is a hotbed of sound, which argues more for the geographic density theory. Panamanians tend to live in larger family units and in smaller houses than comparably incomed Americans. Most of the houses in this neighborhood have three bedrooms, which house a couple, their several children, and a grandparent or maid. The more people in the smaller a space, the more noise. Plus, the houses are so close together, separated by a mere few feet of sidewalk, and sometimes a wall. We had thought that the wall our next door neighbors built would keep some of their hubub on their side and out of our ears, but not really. The wall provides another echo-producing surface for the loud TV, alarm clock, shower singing, and dish clinking.
One particularly noisy evening Rich was exasperated by a loud party across the street. He went out onto the front porch to send a psychic glare of disapproval to the happy, oblivious revelers. Our next door neighbor also stepped outside to smoke his late evening cigarette. Rich greeted him and said, "Such noise!" The neighbor looked at him in surprise. "What noise?" He said.
Panama's Public Nursing Home
I saw her as soon as I passed through the large front gates of the Asilo Bolivar. Slender and agile, she toted three bags, as if ready to leave on a trip at any moment. She peered out from behind a large tree, shot me a gap-toothed smile, and motioned to me to follow her. I sought a nod of permission from the security guard, with whom I had been chatting while awaiting my friend, Iriela, for this Saturday visit. He waved me in.
The largest public nursing home in Panama City, this institution dates back 125 years. Church and state are seamlessly intertwined here, with the facility government-owned, but staffed by nuns. There is a large two-story women's pavilion and a neighboring men's pavilion, separated by a fence, each housing nearly 100 souls. I have only been inside the women's pavilion, as it is where Iriela feels most comfortable, and I am her guest for these visits.
I followed the old woman, who glanced back to make sure I was coming. I wondered how she had escaped the walled garden surrounding the women's pavilion, as we were still on an outer driveway. Presumably someone knew her whereabouts? She lugged her belongings to a low wall beside a loading dock behind the administration building, where some workers were piling bulk-buy packages of paper towels, toilet paper, and diapers onto a pallet. She perched on the wall and nodded at me. I sat next to her, said good morning, and asked her name. She kissed me hello in the traditional Panamanian manner, and mumbled something, so I said my name in turn. I asked her if she knew about the festival that was about to begin, celebrating the Week of the Older Adult. She mumbled a few phrases companionably and then paused. My turn. I decided to switch from questions to narrative, since I wasn't able to understand her. I told her about my family, our stay in Panama, and my interest in the stories of older Panamanians. She gazed at me and seemed to take it all in. When I stood up once to look up the drive to see if Iriela had arrived, she laid a hand on my forearm gently, as if to urge me to stay. I smiled and sat back down. She smiled and visibly relaxed.
A second resident came up to us, dressed in a brightly flowered dress, sipping a can of soda. She greeted me in a friendly way and joined the conversation. Her speech was only a little easier to understand than my first companion, but I did get that she was excited about the festival, and tired from the heat. When I spoke, I turned back and forth between the two women, to include them both, but Ms. Flowery Dress waved her hand at Ms. Tote Bags and said, "You can't talk to her! She doesn't talk." I said we each “talk” in our own way, to which she laughed merrily. I continued to address them both, wondering who was getting what from this exchange. Ms. Tote Bags eyed her bags nervously, as if worried that Ms. Flowery Dress was about to make off with them.
Iriela arrived into this scene, together with her 14 year old daughter, Camilla, whom I had not met before. I took one look at the lovely girl and knew she was terrified. Together we walked into the gate to the women’s pavilion, trailing Ms. Flowery Dress and Ms. Tote Bags behind us, who came along at our suggestion. I still wasn’t sure whether someone knew they were out here.
Iriela carries a large grocery bag full of little juice boxes and packages of crackers to give to the residents. They chatter excitedly when they see her. Some want to talk, others just reach for the snacks. The women range in age from their late 60s to 90 or so. Some are ambulatory and agile, while others are wheelchair-bound and a few are resting prone on a stretcher.
The building is large and open to the outdoors, and surprisingly cool compared to the sunny garden. Our house traps the midday heat like a little oven, but these grounds have huge, ancient trees that shade the buildings. The entrance to the women’s pavilion opens into a terrace with two rows of chairs facing each other. Half a dozen women are sitting there, talking or just watching a group of young people who are putting up decorations for the festival. The worn linoleum floor is a black and green checkerboard, still clean from one of its several daily moppings. After talking with a resident who is sitting off by herself, I go over and sit beside Camilla, in hopes of setting her at ease. We talk about my learning Spanish and her studying English, and commiserate about the challenges. I ask her if the place seems a little strange and scary to her and she nods, and then smiles. Her mother is such a warm person, and so clearly enjoys chatting with the residents, that before long Camilla relaxes and offers to rub lotion onto a resident’s arthritic hands. Later we walk together toward the dining area and when I stop to talk with a woman I remember from my last visit, she walks on to seek out another resident.
The tiny woman is sitting on a folding chair with her two bandaged ankles propped up on a second chair. She exclaims excitedly “You came back!” and we discuss her ankles and the challenges of immobility. She is very animated, and has the crinkly laugh lines that suggest a good sense of humor. Sure enough. When Iriela approaches, the old woman says, “what are you peddling today?” Iriela says, “Mata-rata for you!” They both laugh delightedly, and then, seeing that I didn’t get the joke, Iriela translates for me. “Mata-rata is rat poison.”
The largest public nursing home in Panama City, this institution dates back 125 years. Church and state are seamlessly intertwined here, with the facility government-owned, but staffed by nuns. There is a large two-story women's pavilion and a neighboring men's pavilion, separated by a fence, each housing nearly 100 souls. I have only been inside the women's pavilion, as it is where Iriela feels most comfortable, and I am her guest for these visits.
I followed the old woman, who glanced back to make sure I was coming. I wondered how she had escaped the walled garden surrounding the women's pavilion, as we were still on an outer driveway. Presumably someone knew her whereabouts? She lugged her belongings to a low wall beside a loading dock behind the administration building, where some workers were piling bulk-buy packages of paper towels, toilet paper, and diapers onto a pallet. She perched on the wall and nodded at me. I sat next to her, said good morning, and asked her name. She kissed me hello in the traditional Panamanian manner, and mumbled something, so I said my name in turn. I asked her if she knew about the festival that was about to begin, celebrating the Week of the Older Adult. She mumbled a few phrases companionably and then paused. My turn. I decided to switch from questions to narrative, since I wasn't able to understand her. I told her about my family, our stay in Panama, and my interest in the stories of older Panamanians. She gazed at me and seemed to take it all in. When I stood up once to look up the drive to see if Iriela had arrived, she laid a hand on my forearm gently, as if to urge me to stay. I smiled and sat back down. She smiled and visibly relaxed.
A second resident came up to us, dressed in a brightly flowered dress, sipping a can of soda. She greeted me in a friendly way and joined the conversation. Her speech was only a little easier to understand than my first companion, but I did get that she was excited about the festival, and tired from the heat. When I spoke, I turned back and forth between the two women, to include them both, but Ms. Flowery Dress waved her hand at Ms. Tote Bags and said, "You can't talk to her! She doesn't talk." I said we each “talk” in our own way, to which she laughed merrily. I continued to address them both, wondering who was getting what from this exchange. Ms. Tote Bags eyed her bags nervously, as if worried that Ms. Flowery Dress was about to make off with them.
Iriela arrived into this scene, together with her 14 year old daughter, Camilla, whom I had not met before. I took one look at the lovely girl and knew she was terrified. Together we walked into the gate to the women’s pavilion, trailing Ms. Flowery Dress and Ms. Tote Bags behind us, who came along at our suggestion. I still wasn’t sure whether someone knew they were out here.
Iriela carries a large grocery bag full of little juice boxes and packages of crackers to give to the residents. They chatter excitedly when they see her. Some want to talk, others just reach for the snacks. The women range in age from their late 60s to 90 or so. Some are ambulatory and agile, while others are wheelchair-bound and a few are resting prone on a stretcher.
The building is large and open to the outdoors, and surprisingly cool compared to the sunny garden. Our house traps the midday heat like a little oven, but these grounds have huge, ancient trees that shade the buildings. The entrance to the women’s pavilion opens into a terrace with two rows of chairs facing each other. Half a dozen women are sitting there, talking or just watching a group of young people who are putting up decorations for the festival. The worn linoleum floor is a black and green checkerboard, still clean from one of its several daily moppings. After talking with a resident who is sitting off by herself, I go over and sit beside Camilla, in hopes of setting her at ease. We talk about my learning Spanish and her studying English, and commiserate about the challenges. I ask her if the place seems a little strange and scary to her and she nods, and then smiles. Her mother is such a warm person, and so clearly enjoys chatting with the residents, that before long Camilla relaxes and offers to rub lotion onto a resident’s arthritic hands. Later we walk together toward the dining area and when I stop to talk with a woman I remember from my last visit, she walks on to seek out another resident.
The tiny woman is sitting on a folding chair with her two bandaged ankles propped up on a second chair. She exclaims excitedly “You came back!” and we discuss her ankles and the challenges of immobility. She is very animated, and has the crinkly laugh lines that suggest a good sense of humor. Sure enough. When Iriela approaches, the old woman says, “what are you peddling today?” Iriela says, “Mata-rata for you!” They both laugh delightedly, and then, seeing that I didn’t get the joke, Iriela translates for me. “Mata-rata is rat poison.”
On Health Care in Panama
10/9/09
Here's my latest idea for a Fulbright fellowship! Travel around to different countries and get sick. Seek health care. Wait in a variety of settings for a variety of services. Get your vital signs taken by an attendant with gizmos you've never seen before. Wait some more. See the kind doctor and mime your symptoms since you can't remember the vocabulary you looked up 10 minutes ago. Listen to his/her carefully enunciated instructions, which seem clear at the time. Leave the clinic and sit outside, searching in your dictionary for something that sounds like what the doctor said to you. Take his/her scrawled prescriptions to the nearest pharmacy and search in your dictionary for something that sounds like what the pharmacist is saying to you. Go home and try to remember the dosage and schedule for the at-least-three medications-per-illness. Begin taking the medicines as you are supposing they were prescribed even if you can't find out anything about them on-line. See if you get better. Record your experiences....
We've been living in Panama for 14 months and so far the health care here has been wonderful. I wish I hadn't needed quite so much of it, but that's not their fault. So far I have had acute heat exhaustion, annoying peri-menopausal symptoms, two bouts of shingles (or something like it), and now, a persistent cough. For all but the menopausal symptoms I went to the little 24-hour clinic located in our neighborhood shopping center. As far as I can tell, they don't take appointments, but I have always been seen, in my turn, in a very reasonable amount of time. The clinic is absolutely bare bones - a simple waiting room with about 12 chairs, an alcove where vital signs are taken, a restroom, and several small exam rooms. The only art in the waiting room is a painting of Jesus on the cross, although the clinic has no explicit religious affiliation. The same efficient, cheerful receptionist has always been there when I arrived, no matter what time of day or evening. (I asked her once if she lives there. She smiled and said sort of.) All but once I have seen the same doctor, a large, handsome Panamanian man who is unfailingly polite and attentive. I don't know for SURE that he is a good doctor, but every time he has treated me I have gotten better, and he makes me feel welcome and cared about (complementing my Spanish as it improves, remembering my last visit, etc.) The clinic probably has a special place in my heart because the first time I went there I was so sick that it felt like they literally saved my life, but even when I am not feeling so awful, I have always felt better mentally when I walk out than I did walking in. I can definitely NOT say that for American health care! Most doctor visits at home leave me feeling foolish, rushed, dissed, or unaddressed. To the extent that mental well-being is an important component of physical health, I would take Panamanian health care any day.
Here's my latest idea for a Fulbright fellowship! Travel around to different countries and get sick. Seek health care. Wait in a variety of settings for a variety of services. Get your vital signs taken by an attendant with gizmos you've never seen before. Wait some more. See the kind doctor and mime your symptoms since you can't remember the vocabulary you looked up 10 minutes ago. Listen to his/her carefully enunciated instructions, which seem clear at the time. Leave the clinic and sit outside, searching in your dictionary for something that sounds like what the doctor said to you. Take his/her scrawled prescriptions to the nearest pharmacy and search in your dictionary for something that sounds like what the pharmacist is saying to you. Go home and try to remember the dosage and schedule for the at-least-three medications-per-illness. Begin taking the medicines as you are supposing they were prescribed even if you can't find out anything about them on-line. See if you get better. Record your experiences....
We've been living in Panama for 14 months and so far the health care here has been wonderful. I wish I hadn't needed quite so much of it, but that's not their fault. So far I have had acute heat exhaustion, annoying peri-menopausal symptoms, two bouts of shingles (or something like it), and now, a persistent cough. For all but the menopausal symptoms I went to the little 24-hour clinic located in our neighborhood shopping center. As far as I can tell, they don't take appointments, but I have always been seen, in my turn, in a very reasonable amount of time. The clinic is absolutely bare bones - a simple waiting room with about 12 chairs, an alcove where vital signs are taken, a restroom, and several small exam rooms. The only art in the waiting room is a painting of Jesus on the cross, although the clinic has no explicit religious affiliation. The same efficient, cheerful receptionist has always been there when I arrived, no matter what time of day or evening. (I asked her once if she lives there. She smiled and said sort of.) All but once I have seen the same doctor, a large, handsome Panamanian man who is unfailingly polite and attentive. I don't know for SURE that he is a good doctor, but every time he has treated me I have gotten better, and he makes me feel welcome and cared about (complementing my Spanish as it improves, remembering my last visit, etc.) The clinic probably has a special place in my heart because the first time I went there I was so sick that it felt like they literally saved my life, but even when I am not feeling so awful, I have always felt better mentally when I walk out than I did walking in. I can definitely NOT say that for American health care! Most doctor visits at home leave me feeling foolish, rushed, dissed, or unaddressed. To the extent that mental well-being is an important component of physical health, I would take Panamanian health care any day.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Second Language Learning
Maybe I am built differently from other people, but I don't think so. The single most important aid to my learning new things is NOT the specifics of the didactic method used, not the spiffiness of the materials, not the appeal to my visual-versus-auditory-versus-kinetic-learner tendencies, but simply, encouragement.
Toward the end of our first year in Panama I was taking Rich's visiting brother and nieces on a sightseeing tour. My Spanish was still fledgling, but increasingly functional. In Casco Viejo, the beautiful, old, colonial downtown neighborhood, we entered the National Institute of Culture building, partly because it has an interesting mural of Panamanian history, but more importantly because I know where the public bathrooms are in that building. The girls went off in the direction of the bathrooms and I tarried in the grand vestibule where Larry was looking at the mural. Larry is fluent in Spanish and brilliant in general, so I was generally reluctant to speak Spanish with him in earshot. As he moved farther away I noticed an older man in a crisp, white guayabara looking at me questioningly. He was clearly on duty as a tourist guide, so I greeted him politely and asked a question about the mural.
Now whenever a foreigner speaks to a native Panamanian, one of two things happens. By far the most common is that the Panamanian's face morphs quickly from its neutral or smiling expression into one of concentration; brow furrowed, slight frown about the mouth, and lifted eyebrows, intent on puzzling out what the foreigner is saying in their strongly-accented Spanish. This man was different. As I began to speak, his face relaxed into an encouraging smile and he nodded slightly as I went on. The effect was magical! I found words I didn't even knew I knew; I made fewer mistakes than I ever had; I was actually happy to be speaking my second language! We chatted for about 15 minutes, about the history of the Ministry of Culture, about his job, about my home country, about the climate. I felt as if I came of age in that conversation. No longer a toddler or even an adolescent, I could finally be seen - and more importantly, FEEL - as an adult in my new language.
In the book Dreaming in Hindi the author delves into the current research on second language acquisition to annotate her memoir about learning Hindi. All of it was fascinating, but the point that resonated most strongly with me was that human beings have a powerful drive to learn language, which flowers during the first few years of life, and during that initial phase of language acquisition a child generally receives positive affirmation every step of the way. A toddler, being cute and cuddly, is apt to be sitting on someone's lap, literally in the lap of emotional luxury, as the adult says, smilingly, "That's right! Horsie!" And in the child's limbic system, where emotional literacy is laid down powerfully while the word is cognitively absorbed, the pleasure of learning cements the deal.
Second language learners, especially in adulthood, get little or none of this encouragement. We are greeted with funny looks, well-meant but emotionally derailing corrections, and even attempts to change the conversation into English, as if we are hopeless in the adopted tongue. This last response drives Rich crazy. His Spanish is excellent, especially for a foreigner who learned it 40 years ago and has had little opportunity to speak it since, and he always feels slighted when Panamanians refuse to speak Spanish with him. Some of the staff at school, whose English is far more limited than his Spanish, insist on speaking halting English with him and on those days he comes home feeling insulted and defeated. I point out that in all likelihood the Panamanian is trying to be generous, trying to make it easier for him, although it doesn't make logical sense, and I'm not even sure of that. Is it somehow threatening for a foreigner to speak one's language? Do they just want more practice speaking English? Or is it wrapped up somehow with our North American colonial past in Panama that has spawned an odd combination of cultural insecurity and fierce national pride?
Toward the end of our first year in Panama I was taking Rich's visiting brother and nieces on a sightseeing tour. My Spanish was still fledgling, but increasingly functional. In Casco Viejo, the beautiful, old, colonial downtown neighborhood, we entered the National Institute of Culture building, partly because it has an interesting mural of Panamanian history, but more importantly because I know where the public bathrooms are in that building. The girls went off in the direction of the bathrooms and I tarried in the grand vestibule where Larry was looking at the mural. Larry is fluent in Spanish and brilliant in general, so I was generally reluctant to speak Spanish with him in earshot. As he moved farther away I noticed an older man in a crisp, white guayabara looking at me questioningly. He was clearly on duty as a tourist guide, so I greeted him politely and asked a question about the mural.
Now whenever a foreigner speaks to a native Panamanian, one of two things happens. By far the most common is that the Panamanian's face morphs quickly from its neutral or smiling expression into one of concentration; brow furrowed, slight frown about the mouth, and lifted eyebrows, intent on puzzling out what the foreigner is saying in their strongly-accented Spanish. This man was different. As I began to speak, his face relaxed into an encouraging smile and he nodded slightly as I went on. The effect was magical! I found words I didn't even knew I knew; I made fewer mistakes than I ever had; I was actually happy to be speaking my second language! We chatted for about 15 minutes, about the history of the Ministry of Culture, about his job, about my home country, about the climate. I felt as if I came of age in that conversation. No longer a toddler or even an adolescent, I could finally be seen - and more importantly, FEEL - as an adult in my new language.
In the book Dreaming in Hindi the author delves into the current research on second language acquisition to annotate her memoir about learning Hindi. All of it was fascinating, but the point that resonated most strongly with me was that human beings have a powerful drive to learn language, which flowers during the first few years of life, and during that initial phase of language acquisition a child generally receives positive affirmation every step of the way. A toddler, being cute and cuddly, is apt to be sitting on someone's lap, literally in the lap of emotional luxury, as the adult says, smilingly, "That's right! Horsie!" And in the child's limbic system, where emotional literacy is laid down powerfully while the word is cognitively absorbed, the pleasure of learning cements the deal.
Second language learners, especially in adulthood, get little or none of this encouragement. We are greeted with funny looks, well-meant but emotionally derailing corrections, and even attempts to change the conversation into English, as if we are hopeless in the adopted tongue. This last response drives Rich crazy. His Spanish is excellent, especially for a foreigner who learned it 40 years ago and has had little opportunity to speak it since, and he always feels slighted when Panamanians refuse to speak Spanish with him. Some of the staff at school, whose English is far more limited than his Spanish, insist on speaking halting English with him and on those days he comes home feeling insulted and defeated. I point out that in all likelihood the Panamanian is trying to be generous, trying to make it easier for him, although it doesn't make logical sense, and I'm not even sure of that. Is it somehow threatening for a foreigner to speak one's language? Do they just want more practice speaking English? Or is it wrapped up somehow with our North American colonial past in Panama that has spawned an odd combination of cultural insecurity and fierce national pride?
Religion de Monday Night
I'm trying to remember how I got into this... and wondering if I could get out if I wanted to! On Monday evenings a small, earnest group of women gathers at the next door neighbors' house (the people of the WALL) for a Christian evangelical prayer and study session... led by a man. It starts at 7:30. We gather and chat from 7:30 until 8:00 or 8:15, whenever the last stragglers get there. I gather that some of the women come in taxis, so their tardiness is an accepted fact of Panamanian life.
I was initially invited by Marcia because she thought it would help my Spanish, which it does. It turns out that she also hoped it would help my religiosity, but it doesn't.
"Our" men are conspicuously absent. I think all the women are married, but only the pastor's wife is here in the company of her husband. Marcia's husband has made it clear to us what he thinks of Marcia's "obsession" with religion. He is in his bedroom watching Monday night football. He once said to Rich that living with his wife's, his mother's, his mother-in-law's, and his daughters' religious propensities is like "living with the Taliban." Wow.
The formal program begins with a long, rambling prayer by Marcia, whom I think is being groomed for a higher position in their little church. We all stand. Marcia sways back and forth, eyes closed tightly, chanting syllables and phrases in a frenzy of devotion. I listen for words I can understand... "misericordia"... "Dios"... "Jesus"... She ends with an Amen, sinks into her chair, and looks up at the pastor expectantly.
The pastor is a vibrant little man who is more paternal than patriarchal. He announces the topic for the evening and begins talking about a passage from the Bible, citing historical and present-day analogies, and engaging each member of his audience with eye contact and enthusiastic gestures. Sometimes he draws pictures, like one of the temple in which David asked for bread after slaying Goliath, but was turned away because the only bread they had was sacred bread, meant for the priests, not for the people. (Do I have this remotely right?) The pastor is very interesting. He speaks much more clearly than any of the women, so I enjoy listening to the language and even get caught up in the story. Not having much of a church background, I suppose that is exactly what good preachers do. I am mildly curious about whether he also preaches in front of a large congregation, but after their enthusiastic commandeering of me into this little group, I am afraid to take the next step and find out.
He talks for a half hour, and then winds up his lesson with a prayer. This time we stay seated. We are sitting in the back room of Marcia's house, which is her home office for her customs business. The office has air conditioning, so we all cluster around the two desks, sitting on chairs and a sofa, enjoying the cool. (At least I am; several of the women seem to be uncomfortably cold.) When the pastor finishes, Marcia hops up and goes out to the kitchen to prepare little plates of ceviche and crackers, a breaking-bread ritual which may have symbolic meaning but all I can think of is how most of these women could do without an extra meal. Most are overweight, part of a growing trend in Panama.
Informal chat resumes. We talk about diets and cures for colds and about Diana's sister, who was cured of breast cancer by God. Diana then offers that she admires me (ME?) because I volunteer at a nursing home. At this, the pastor invites me to join a church group which visits a nursing home, which I am about to politely decline until he says the name of the institution, which makes me sit up and take notice. Asilo Bolivar - the public nursing home Angela has told me about. I will go.
I was initially invited by Marcia because she thought it would help my Spanish, which it does. It turns out that she also hoped it would help my religiosity, but it doesn't.
"Our" men are conspicuously absent. I think all the women are married, but only the pastor's wife is here in the company of her husband. Marcia's husband has made it clear to us what he thinks of Marcia's "obsession" with religion. He is in his bedroom watching Monday night football. He once said to Rich that living with his wife's, his mother's, his mother-in-law's, and his daughters' religious propensities is like "living with the Taliban." Wow.
The formal program begins with a long, rambling prayer by Marcia, whom I think is being groomed for a higher position in their little church. We all stand. Marcia sways back and forth, eyes closed tightly, chanting syllables and phrases in a frenzy of devotion. I listen for words I can understand... "misericordia"... "Dios"... "Jesus"... She ends with an Amen, sinks into her chair, and looks up at the pastor expectantly.
The pastor is a vibrant little man who is more paternal than patriarchal. He announces the topic for the evening and begins talking about a passage from the Bible, citing historical and present-day analogies, and engaging each member of his audience with eye contact and enthusiastic gestures. Sometimes he draws pictures, like one of the temple in which David asked for bread after slaying Goliath, but was turned away because the only bread they had was sacred bread, meant for the priests, not for the people. (Do I have this remotely right?) The pastor is very interesting. He speaks much more clearly than any of the women, so I enjoy listening to the language and even get caught up in the story. Not having much of a church background, I suppose that is exactly what good preachers do. I am mildly curious about whether he also preaches in front of a large congregation, but after their enthusiastic commandeering of me into this little group, I am afraid to take the next step and find out.
He talks for a half hour, and then winds up his lesson with a prayer. This time we stay seated. We are sitting in the back room of Marcia's house, which is her home office for her customs business. The office has air conditioning, so we all cluster around the two desks, sitting on chairs and a sofa, enjoying the cool. (At least I am; several of the women seem to be uncomfortably cold.) When the pastor finishes, Marcia hops up and goes out to the kitchen to prepare little plates of ceviche and crackers, a breaking-bread ritual which may have symbolic meaning but all I can think of is how most of these women could do without an extra meal. Most are overweight, part of a growing trend in Panama.
Informal chat resumes. We talk about diets and cures for colds and about Diana's sister, who was cured of breast cancer by God. Diana then offers that she admires me (ME?) because I volunteer at a nursing home. At this, the pastor invites me to join a church group which visits a nursing home, which I am about to politely decline until he says the name of the institution, which makes me sit up and take notice. Asilo Bolivar - the public nursing home Angela has told me about. I will go.
Nursing Home Tales September 2009
I visited my old ladies this morning and they were in rare form. Some days they are all sleeping, but today everyone wanted to chat. Food is a favorite topic, as are family structure, the heat, and how demented the other patients are. I try not to laugh, but sometimes it's hard to keep a straight face when Cecilia tells me her daughter is still a little girl (at 63?) and then Bertha asks where her husband went this morning (he's been dead for 2 years) and Cecilia comments, "She's crazy!". Ceci is an enigma to me. She is a beautiful 80-ish woman; still agile and ambulatory, but swaddled in the ubiquitous Pampers they all wear. She is always quite eager for my attention until she tires, when she abruptly tells me to "go with God" (like a friendly way of saying "go to hell"?). I always start with and end with Ceci because she retains enough of the social graces to enjoy the hello and good-bye rituals. She never seems unhappy, or particularly happy, but she is remarkably uncomplaining. Ever since they moved the home to this new location three months ago she says that her daughter, Nelli, the retired professor, hasn't been heard from and doesn't know where her mother is... I tell her that I would be glad to pick Nelli up and bring her over, but this never goes anywhere. I ask if her other daughter, Isolde, knows where Nelli is. This always triggers a story about a recent (10 days ago? 10 years ago?) trip with Isolde where they saw huge skyscrapers and gardens... She enjoyed the outing, which I hope was real. I often wonder if I could take her out away from the hogar for an afternoon, but I don't know what problems might arise that my limited Spanish would make difficult to resolve.
Bertha is the only resident whom I find repulsive. Conversational, ambulatory, and sociable, she is somehow more off-putting than poor Melinda, a skeleton of a woman who cannot control her spastic limbs, cannot speak, and must be fed, diapered, and lifted from chair to bed and back again. I sit down with Melinda each time I visit, hold her hand, and say (in English, her native language), "My name is Anne. I come to visit because I love to hear the stories of older people. I wish you could tell me your stories. You are a professor, no? And so you must have many stories about your students and your work." Sometimes she barely responds, but more often than not she sways her head wildly, staring at me and making guttural noises in her throat. The nurse tells me she can hear and understand me, but I don't know how she knows. Melinda has no muscle tissue left at all in her arms and legs, not having used them for over five years, and I could put my two hands around her ribcage. In the U.S. she would receive physical therapy, but here there is none in this private domiciliary care institution. She is very tall for a Panamanian and has a beautiful face, if not for the haunted eyes. The aides tell me she has a good appetite, so perhaps one could assume she wants to continue living, although it's hard to know what is instinct and what is volition. I cannot imagine persisting in her state for such a long time. I try not to project onto her what I imagine I would feel.
Bertha is a formerly plump woman of about 80 who is the proverbial busybody. She appears at one's elbow within minutes of arriving, looking for her husband, demanding conversation or sweets, and complaining that her tongue hurts. She leers at people and says critical things, making the other old ladies alternately laugh or yell at her. She stands by Melinda's bed and says, "Close your mouth! Don't leave your mouth open!" I explain to her quietly that Melinda can't close her mouth and she interrupts me to comment on my gringa blond hair and blue-green eyes. I laugh and agree that I am a gringa, and she says her daughter married a gringo and lives in the U.S. I ask her if she has visited her daughter there and she says she wants sweets. I ask if she is hungry and she says she can't find Alfredo. I don't know if people ever remind her that her husband, Alfredo, died two years ago, but it seems unnecessarily cruel, so I ask if she wants to take a walk with me. We do circles around the downstairs for awhile, steering her gently away from people when she is about to accost them with a nasty remark. I wonder whether this personality is consistent with her youthful self. If so, no wonder Alfredo gave it up and died!
Victoria is a luminous personality, always laughing and kissing my hands when I sit down on her bed. She is extremely bright and alert, but unable to walk and seems content to be utterly sedentary. Whenever I start a conversation, she is right there with me, on topic, asking how my mother is, my children, my house. She loves to talk about food and cooking, and about the jungles of Puerto Pina in the Darien where she grew up. She laughs delightedly at things I say, and compliments my Spanish. I have had to work hard to understand her speech, which is either an eastern Panama dialect or rendered blurry by her malformed palate and teeth. She speaks in a singsong tone which reminds me of the way another man spoke whom we had met from the Darien. Vicky has a daughter and son in Panama, and a daughter in the U.S. who teaches kindergarten in Virginia. Today, when I asked about her teacher-daughter, she exclaimed delightedly that she had talked with her on the telephone over the weekend! Vicky is the only one of my ladies who is consistently oriented in space and time, so I am pretty sure this happened. I asked her about her husband, but she says she was not married, but _____ (some other word). Common law?
Lucia reminds me of my mom. She is proud and dignified, kind when approached kindly, and quick to bristle when treated demeaningly (as the nurses' aides sometimes do). Her cap of beautiful white hair frames a face so wrinkled one can see the toll of years of sun exposure. She cannot walk, and sleeps much of the time, but when I get her started telling stories, she will go on until we are interrupted by lunch or by Bertha or Cecilia. She has told me about her childhood in Chiriqui, the mountains of western Panama, where she lived too far away to go to school. Her mother was fair-skinned (Italian?) and her father an "indio"; but her father died when Lucia was 2 months old, so she and her brothers were raised by her hard-working mother, who worked on a coffee plantation. Lucia, in turn, had three children, none of whom are still living. At least I think that's what she said... It's the kind of thing one doesn't want to make someone repeat. She has told me about bouts of malaria, and dengue fever, and the hardships of her working life as a school custodian and then a maid for a North American family in the Canal Zone. She shakes her head and says, "It was hard. So hard." I tell her she has earned a rest. She smiles and says she is content to rest now. I wonder if she has a single living relative...
More about my Lucia
Lucia grabs my hands as I kiss her in greeting and sit down on the edge of her bed. "Hello, my love", she says, "how are you?" We chat about the pros and cons of midday naps (it is 10:15 in the morning and everyone is lying on their beds); about Panamanian coffee and how it is grown, harvested, and dried; about planting seeds for fruit trees. I get up suddenly to assist Ana, who is about to take an unauthorized walk (Ceci always sounds the alert when one of the precarious ones makes a move) and Lucia, awake now and interested in the goings-on, swings her legs to the floor and sits up. When I return to her, she is brushing her hair. She asks how my mother is and asks me to remind her again where my mother lives? She acknowledges me with such warmth when I come, in contrast to the way she snaps at some of the aides, tht I feel sure she knows me. Still, for the umpteenth time, she asks "Do you have children?" I smile proudly - proud of my children, of course, but even more in this instance of my now-fluent oft-repeated response to this question. "Yes, I have three children; two boys and a girl. The oldest is a young man who is 28, lives in New York City, and works with computers. My daughter is 25, also lives in New York, and is a violist. My younger son is 23 and lives in Moscow, Russia, where he is a journalist." Lucia quickly rejoins, "Moscow! How far away!" An aide walks through the room, calling to a woman on a far bed to wake her for lunch. Lucia watches the brief, familiar scene of an aide cajoling one of her compadres to get up. She turns back to look at me, her eyes widening as she formulates her question.
"Do you have children?" she asks.
Sometimes when I tell people about my "teachers" at the old folks home, I laugh as I point out what ideal Spanish teachers they make because they forget what I tell them and, in asking me the same questions again, provide ideal conversation drills. Today, though, my eyes well up as I look at this beautiful old woman, her wrinkled face drawn in pain (her knees are hurting today) and wonder if she can feel any of the connection to me that I feel to her. I don't think she has any family left in the world who are still connected to her and, if I understood her correctly in a previous conversation, none of her three children is living. She says she was never married, but the father of her children was "an indio" (an Indian). Her father died when she was 2 months old. She worked hard as a school custodian for 13 years out in the province where she was born for an unkind principal before coming to Panama City to work as a housekeeper and cook for an American woman in the Canal Zone. That relationship sounds like it had its positive points (Lucia says of her mistress, "She never called me her "employee", but always "her girl") but the condescension even in that affectionate statement makes me wince.
What has Lucia known of love?
Bertha is the only resident whom I find repulsive. Conversational, ambulatory, and sociable, she is somehow more off-putting than poor Melinda, a skeleton of a woman who cannot control her spastic limbs, cannot speak, and must be fed, diapered, and lifted from chair to bed and back again. I sit down with Melinda each time I visit, hold her hand, and say (in English, her native language), "My name is Anne. I come to visit because I love to hear the stories of older people. I wish you could tell me your stories. You are a professor, no? And so you must have many stories about your students and your work." Sometimes she barely responds, but more often than not she sways her head wildly, staring at me and making guttural noises in her throat. The nurse tells me she can hear and understand me, but I don't know how she knows. Melinda has no muscle tissue left at all in her arms and legs, not having used them for over five years, and I could put my two hands around her ribcage. In the U.S. she would receive physical therapy, but here there is none in this private domiciliary care institution. She is very tall for a Panamanian and has a beautiful face, if not for the haunted eyes. The aides tell me she has a good appetite, so perhaps one could assume she wants to continue living, although it's hard to know what is instinct and what is volition. I cannot imagine persisting in her state for such a long time. I try not to project onto her what I imagine I would feel.
Bertha is a formerly plump woman of about 80 who is the proverbial busybody. She appears at one's elbow within minutes of arriving, looking for her husband, demanding conversation or sweets, and complaining that her tongue hurts. She leers at people and says critical things, making the other old ladies alternately laugh or yell at her. She stands by Melinda's bed and says, "Close your mouth! Don't leave your mouth open!" I explain to her quietly that Melinda can't close her mouth and she interrupts me to comment on my gringa blond hair and blue-green eyes. I laugh and agree that I am a gringa, and she says her daughter married a gringo and lives in the U.S. I ask her if she has visited her daughter there and she says she wants sweets. I ask if she is hungry and she says she can't find Alfredo. I don't know if people ever remind her that her husband, Alfredo, died two years ago, but it seems unnecessarily cruel, so I ask if she wants to take a walk with me. We do circles around the downstairs for awhile, steering her gently away from people when she is about to accost them with a nasty remark. I wonder whether this personality is consistent with her youthful self. If so, no wonder Alfredo gave it up and died!
Victoria is a luminous personality, always laughing and kissing my hands when I sit down on her bed. She is extremely bright and alert, but unable to walk and seems content to be utterly sedentary. Whenever I start a conversation, she is right there with me, on topic, asking how my mother is, my children, my house. She loves to talk about food and cooking, and about the jungles of Puerto Pina in the Darien where she grew up. She laughs delightedly at things I say, and compliments my Spanish. I have had to work hard to understand her speech, which is either an eastern Panama dialect or rendered blurry by her malformed palate and teeth. She speaks in a singsong tone which reminds me of the way another man spoke whom we had met from the Darien. Vicky has a daughter and son in Panama, and a daughter in the U.S. who teaches kindergarten in Virginia. Today, when I asked about her teacher-daughter, she exclaimed delightedly that she had talked with her on the telephone over the weekend! Vicky is the only one of my ladies who is consistently oriented in space and time, so I am pretty sure this happened. I asked her about her husband, but she says she was not married, but _____ (some other word). Common law?
Lucia reminds me of my mom. She is proud and dignified, kind when approached kindly, and quick to bristle when treated demeaningly (as the nurses' aides sometimes do). Her cap of beautiful white hair frames a face so wrinkled one can see the toll of years of sun exposure. She cannot walk, and sleeps much of the time, but when I get her started telling stories, she will go on until we are interrupted by lunch or by Bertha or Cecilia. She has told me about her childhood in Chiriqui, the mountains of western Panama, where she lived too far away to go to school. Her mother was fair-skinned (Italian?) and her father an "indio"; but her father died when Lucia was 2 months old, so she and her brothers were raised by her hard-working mother, who worked on a coffee plantation. Lucia, in turn, had three children, none of whom are still living. At least I think that's what she said... It's the kind of thing one doesn't want to make someone repeat. She has told me about bouts of malaria, and dengue fever, and the hardships of her working life as a school custodian and then a maid for a North American family in the Canal Zone. She shakes her head and says, "It was hard. So hard." I tell her she has earned a rest. She smiles and says she is content to rest now. I wonder if she has a single living relative...
More about my Lucia
Lucia grabs my hands as I kiss her in greeting and sit down on the edge of her bed. "Hello, my love", she says, "how are you?" We chat about the pros and cons of midday naps (it is 10:15 in the morning and everyone is lying on their beds); about Panamanian coffee and how it is grown, harvested, and dried; about planting seeds for fruit trees. I get up suddenly to assist Ana, who is about to take an unauthorized walk (Ceci always sounds the alert when one of the precarious ones makes a move) and Lucia, awake now and interested in the goings-on, swings her legs to the floor and sits up. When I return to her, she is brushing her hair. She asks how my mother is and asks me to remind her again where my mother lives? She acknowledges me with such warmth when I come, in contrast to the way she snaps at some of the aides, tht I feel sure she knows me. Still, for the umpteenth time, she asks "Do you have children?" I smile proudly - proud of my children, of course, but even more in this instance of my now-fluent oft-repeated response to this question. "Yes, I have three children; two boys and a girl. The oldest is a young man who is 28, lives in New York City, and works with computers. My daughter is 25, also lives in New York, and is a violist. My younger son is 23 and lives in Moscow, Russia, where he is a journalist." Lucia quickly rejoins, "Moscow! How far away!" An aide walks through the room, calling to a woman on a far bed to wake her for lunch. Lucia watches the brief, familiar scene of an aide cajoling one of her compadres to get up. She turns back to look at me, her eyes widening as she formulates her question.
"Do you have children?" she asks.
Sometimes when I tell people about my "teachers" at the old folks home, I laugh as I point out what ideal Spanish teachers they make because they forget what I tell them and, in asking me the same questions again, provide ideal conversation drills. Today, though, my eyes well up as I look at this beautiful old woman, her wrinkled face drawn in pain (her knees are hurting today) and wonder if she can feel any of the connection to me that I feel to her. I don't think she has any family left in the world who are still connected to her and, if I understood her correctly in a previous conversation, none of her three children is living. She says she was never married, but the father of her children was "an indio" (an Indian). Her father died when she was 2 months old. She worked hard as a school custodian for 13 years out in the province where she was born for an unkind principal before coming to Panama City to work as a housekeeper and cook for an American woman in the Canal Zone. That relationship sounds like it had its positive points (Lucia says of her mistress, "She never called me her "employee", but always "her girl") but the condescension even in that affectionate statement makes me wince.
What has Lucia known of love?
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