ENCIRCLED

It’s hard to outwit helicopter parents, thought Cara. She had moved to Guatemala for a year to get away, but her mom’s texts, the Zoom calls and her dad’s long emails made it difficult. They had encouraged her to make a blog to share her experiences, but she refused. She intended this trip as her private personal time not for public consumption, particularly not parental consumption.

She looked back at her laptop which she kept at the school since she hadn’t enough money to pay for internet access at her little apartment. Her dad’s email, long and thoughtful, would take more effort to respond to than she could summon now. Besides, she had this hour in the day to plan her English classes and needed to work on that.

“Hi Cara!” Silvia greeted her as she came into the room, arms full of art materials from her last class. As floaters between different classrooms, they shared an office. “How are you?”

“Being smothered by my dad,” Cara looked up ruefully.

“Another long email?”

“Yes!”

“What is he worried about now?”

“The latest is that he thinks it would be great if I could work on an article about my experiences here. Ever since I told him I’d decided to go to grad school in journalism, he has a bee in his bonnet about helping me get published. But I hardly have the energy to do more than teach my classes, feed myself, and have a little fun!”

“He should be proud of you. You’re doing a great job—the students love you.”

“Who knows if they’ll ever use any of their English to do more than look at Tik-Tok and Facebook, but they are fun to teach.”

“Well, parents can’t help but worry about their kids. You know how much I go through worrying about Jose.”

“Yes, but he’s only ten, and I’m twenty-three! There’s a big difference!”

“My mom claims you never stop worrying about your children no matter how old they get.”

“Oh dear! I don’t want that! I think I’ll write him that I’m thinking about it and I’ll send him a longer response later. I wish I could help him understand me. You understand me!”

Silvia laughed. “I don’t understand you, I just enjoy being with you. You’re a great friend.”

“As are you.”

“Got to go to my next class.” Silvia had deposited the supplies she brought in and gathered other supplies as they talked, and she headed out the door.

Cara procrastinated on replying to her dad and thought about Silvia. She was only three years older, but she had a ten-year-old son and had been widowed at the age of twenty. Despite this, she had persisted in getting a university teaching degree, something her family sacrificed to help her achieve, caring for little Jose as needed. Neither of Silvia’s parents had gone beyond middle school, nor had any of her siblings, so her family took great pride in her accomplishment.

Cara liked all the teachers, had met interesting ex-pats, and had enjoyed her nine months so far in the colonial city of Antigua. In three more months she’d be back in the US, but she hoped never to lose this friendship with Silvia. Becoming friends and meeting her family, having Jose as a little shadow in the office part of the day, and occasionally going out together had given her a sense of security and belonging. Silvia has changed me, she thought. Perhaps the closeness with someone so cheerful despite her suffering had given her healthier compassion, moving her to empathy and admiration rather than pity. I’ve definitely tended to pity people and look down on them a bit, but not Silvia.

Her dad had researched Guatemalan history and shared it with her before she came, and he had expressed alarm that the current president had chosen not to attend the 25th anniversary of the peace accords, and that many human rights prosecutors, lawyers and judges had chosen to leave the country for their own safety. His alarm remained, though he had admirably suppressed it when he and her mom came to visit in the spring, but his emails occasionally raised the specter of danger. Cara felt no danger and thought his fears exaggerated. Instead, she had felt anger the more she learned about the poverty of her students, their limited opportunities for good jobs for their graduates, and the astonishingly low salaries even for people with university degrees. The contrast with her own wealth and privilege had sent her into guilt. Some of the families struggled to have enough to eat, and they benefitted from the scholarship programs for their children so they didn’t have to buy school supplies.

But Silvia helped her with that as well. She said it wasn’t her fault she was born as an American from a family with plenty of means, and that rather than feel guilty she should thank her parents for what they had given her. And that by trying to help her students she made a positive contribution to attempting to address poverty, and that made more sense than feeling angry. Besides, she had chosen a job that paid her only $500 a month for this year rather than what she could be earning in the US.

“Just do what you can do to help,” suggested Silvia, “and that’s all that matters.”

Cara appreciated her encouragement that she didn’t need to feel guilty. That helped. But she didn’t feel ready to send a big thank you to her parents even if she could see it might be a good idea. Instead, she still struggled to feel like they would ever let her get away from their intense scrutiny. Her dad’s email felt upsetting, bringing anger over a crazy mixed-up world.

He said he had recently met a man from Guatemala who worked for a landscaping company. He had come into the bookstore looking for something to help him learn English, discovered that the store served coffee and muffins, so came back repeatedly for them. Her dad said it took a little while for him to feel comfortable, but that by now the two of them spent some time chatting most mornings, and he had come to know and like Victor.

Victor, illegal of course, worked for a Mexican and didn’t know a lot of people beyond those he lived or worked with. He apparently had come two years ago, paying $20,000 to be taken through Mexico and across the border. He had some scares and near misses along the road but said the semi-driver knew how to evade the police. His higher fee meant he didn’t have to ride on the train, something he didn’t want to do since he knew someone who had been disabled by a fall off the roof. His fee also covered help to climb the fence and a van on the US side which took him and his companions to a safe house. He had a cousin who had driven down to pick him up and helped him find his job. It took him a year, but he’d paid back the $20,000. He and his family had felt intense relief since an uncle had borrowed the money with his land as collateral and he had feared getting caught and making them lose everything. Now he sent back remesas for his mother, a widow who had health challenges.

Cara felt fury inside herself over the story, thinking governments or smart businesspeople should figure out how to make enough good jobs in Guatemala so people could live their lives with decency and not take crazy risks. Also she already felt angry because two sisters in her classes missed their father greatly because he had gone to the US and she knew they suffered without him. And for Victor she felt angry that illegal status doubtless caused him suffering and huge expenses, inevitable and understandable pushback and resentment from native born Americans who wanted people to obey the law, and doubtless uncomfortable moments of being on the receiving end of racist rejection. She also asked the logical question of who would be doing the gardening if this man didn’t.

She wondered if her dad shared the stereotype that all Guatemalans wanted to go to the US. She had just now (defensively) checked the internet which said they estimated 1.5 million Guatemalans lived in the States. While a lot of people, 17 million, had stayed in their own country. From her experience, people loved their families and country but lack of opportunity for work and low pay resulted in the dangerous and expensive choice to migrate. She knew her dad felt this as a remarkable coincidence that meeting Victor helped him share her life in some way. How to respond? She decided she would ask Paul when she saw him. He worked on economic development in rural areas and doubtless had opinions about illegal migration. Laborer salaries here were only $12 a day so a minimum wage US job represented a drastic upgrade. Even Silvia would never gain much beyond the $1000 a month she currently earned.

She looked up as the school director came in. He smiled and said, “Your classes will be cancelled for a week while we use that time to prepare for the Independence Day parade. The kids need time to learn to march and you will have time to plan even farther ahead. And then on the 15th of September, we’ll all go watch them as they march.”

“Terrific!” She meant this. It took some pressure off and would give her more time to think.

On the 15th, Cara and Silvia walked together to take Jose in his spiffy uniform to the staging location for the parade. He looked anxiously at his mother as he lined up next to the other students, ready to do their patriotic march. The students in the band struggled with their instruments and the ones carrying the banner with the name of the school laughed at their own difficulties in getting it properly stretched out. But once all in place the students solemnly and creditably marched down the street.

Cara and Silvia followed and reached the plaza along with the students. They chuckled together at how serious Jose looked dutifully marching along. When the multiple schools had gathered in the Central Park with a massive crowd of parents and small siblings, the time came for the national anthem. A long and complicated song, Cara could never remember more than a few lines of it, no matter how often she had listened. But she always dutifully raised her arm saluting with her hand facing downward across her heart. The pale blue and white flag fluttered in the wind above the municipal building, the stage with the mayor and dignitaries set in front of it.

The moment felt solemn and profound. She heard Silvia singing by her side—all the words—and she searched for the faces of her students, seeing solemn patriotism. Her eyes filled with tears remembering singing her own national anthem with flags flying, and briefly, she felt the same love for her temporarily adopted country. Because of this unexpected moment, she felt that part of her heart would always belong to this place.

Shaken by the intensity of her feelings, she enjoyed the change in mood by watching outstanding students honored, and an elaborately decked out queen for the day with her sash hobbling across the cobblestones in heels to her car with her mother as the ceremony ended. Silvia collected Jose, and the three of them decided they needed ice cream. They chose their treat from a vendor with his cart shaped and painted like a small chicken bus and they walked toward their homes.

Silvia and Jose lived in a one-room rental near the school. She said she and her husband had started to buy a place, but when he died, she could not afford the payments and had to move. Losing that house, she said, had added to her grief at losing him. It had taken months before Cara learned he had worked late and been in a motorcycle accident on his way home. At one point she went with Silvia and Jose when they took flowers to his grave on the anniversary of his death. Silvia had teared up and told her the story of his death and Cara felt compassion that someone so near her age had already experienced marriage and the difficulties of widowhood. She looked a Jose’s small, pained face with humility, knowing she could not understand the loss of a father at an early age, and she felt her own complicated feelings for her own parents. For several weeks after that he repeatedly drew the cemetery and the flowers and Cara suffered for him.

During October she wrote her parents to ask how the foliage looked and to send her some pictures, feeling a mild homesickness. She wrote: “All the flowers and trees are just as bright as when you were here in the spring. The hills around are beautifully green and the volcano is as blue as ever. I’m told rainy season ends this month and it will get a bit colder, but truly it’s nothing like the dramatic changes of seasons we have at home and I’m missing that!” Her mother responded with pictures of the changing leaves.

She showed them to Silvia who exclaimed over their beauty. Cara also showed her the latest video from her friends Emily and Mitch who had now reached Peru in their travels.

“So beautiful! I love it!”

“I should show you the video they made about Guatemala when they were here—I don’t think you ever saw it.”

Silvia studied the screen as she showed it and when complete said, “Makes me proud of so much beauty in our country.”

“So beautiful,” agreed Cara.

When Silvia invited her to go experience the Day of the Dead, Cara assumed they would be going back to her husband’s grave and hesitated. But when she explained that Cara needed to experience the kites in Santiago as something unique to the country, the invitation became more attractive.

On November 1st Cara, Silvia and Jose climbed into a van driven by one of Silvia’s friends, and full of his family and Silvia’s sister Aura. Silvia had warned her not to bring a bag, but carry anything she needed in a money belt, warning her that pickpockets could be a problem. They drove east out of town and reached the cross-country highway and turned eventually toward the town of Santiago. They parked once they reached a place where crowds filled the street. As they joined the crowd, Aura teased Jose that he should not join in with any pick-pocket gangs. He looked at her, truly horrified.

As they walked along Cara suddenly realized that the driver, Chico, might be someone interested in Silvia and she watched them chatting animatedly together. They had both shared their stories of past boyfriends, and Cara looked forward to getting the straight story on him.

As they made their slow way with all the others toward the cemetery, Cara looked over the crowd, realizing she stood taller than most, quite noticeable with her white face and blond hair. A few other foreigners, but mostly a local crowd entered the cemetery, and Cara felt astonishment at a dozen 25-foot round, colorful kites along one edge. People sat on the brightly painted upraised tombs, many people snacking or pulling out picnic food. Young men ran through the place with six-foot colorful kites, pulling them into the air successfully or trying again when they failed.

Silvia and Jose appeared to find all this perfectly normal, and Cara could not help but wonder if they connected it in any way to their deceased husband/father. If so, the symbolism must be a connection to the unseen world that included food, fun, and a creatively beautiful craft. She looked at their faces but could discern nothing but enjoyment of the outing.

Chico and Jose decided they needed to buy a kite and try to fly it, so headed off to look for a small one. They tangled the line a bit, but eventually had the little two-foot kite in the air along with the larger ones. After enjoying the challenge, they climbed up again together onto the top of the turquoise painted tomb where Cara and Silvia sat.

They pulled out their food, and it included sandwiches as well as the traditional fiambre, a salad with many vegetables and cold cuts, pink tinged thanks to all the beets. Cara tasted it cautiously but found she could honestly say it tasted good when Chico asked. They had sodas to drink and spent time pointing out the multiple kites flying successfully off into the wind. A fun happy picnic in a cemetery with beautiful kites flying.

A profoundly different connection with those who have died than our avoidant American one, she thought. Silvia seems both to remember her husband and yet not continue to grieve after these six years. Doubtless she’s ready for a new romance.

Back at school Cara did hear about Chico.

“Yes! We knew each other in middle school, but lost touch and only happened to run into one another recently at the park. I had Jose with me, so I think he assumed I was married and spoke very formally. But I remembered how nice he was and asked about his family and work—he’s earning his living as an artist, he said. And I told him I was teaching art having gotten a degree after my husband died. That did it! He suddenly brightened up, and so one thing is leading to another…we’ll see! The outing was our first thing to do together.”

“A date with the entire crowd of family and friends around!”

“Exactly!”

“I liked him! He was fun.”

Later that afternoon Jose sat coloring and drawing at Silvia’s desk as he often did while waiting for her to finish teaching. At times he read or did homework, but he preferred drawing. Cara came in and looked at his paper, a bright happy selection of dozens of kites in the air.

“Like what we saw the other day!” she exclaimed. “You did it beautifully, Jose! You have some of your mother’s artistic talent for sure!”

He smiled shyly and said, “You can have this if you want it?”

Touched, Cara said, “I do want it. It will always remind me of you and our happy times together.” He handed her the paper, and she opened her arms for a hug.

A few weeks later Silvia asked if she wanted to go on Saturday to see all the flower displays for the Festival de las Flores. Chico would be along.

“So I’m the chaperone?”

“Oh no! I just thought you would enjoy the event. Businesses and public buildings made big decorations out of flowers and it’s just for fun.”

“Sounds great—what time should we go?” They made plans to meet at 10 at Cara’s house on Saturday.

Antigua appears to like artistic festivals, thought Cara. Sawdust carpets for Lent, lots of processions all the time, marches for Independence Day, and now this.

The creative displays surpassed her expectations. One business put a floral replica of the famous yellow Antigua arch over the door. Another had a jeep full of flowers in front, another a tractor, a firetruck, a classic car. They took a picture behind a floral cart. They laughed at a woman made of flowers with a flower umbrellas. One place had flowered butterfly wings one could wear, and they made Jose put them on for a photo. They took so many fotos of themselves that they started mocking their own selfie addiction. Chico seemed gifted at saying the right things to make Silvia laugh, and Cara joined in. Crowds of people took pictures with the displays, often sitting on benches provided for the purpose. They reached a huge star surrounded by poinsettias, pointing ahead to Christmas.

After admiring the large bouquets stretching across the Cathedral, they decided they needed lunch and headed for the McDonalds. In her nine month stay, Cara had avoided the American fast-food restaurants with their discreet signage on the colonial facades. (Exception: Starbucks—the place had such beautiful art and every now and then a shot of familiar upscale coffee tasted great.) When they walked into the old colonial house and ordered their food, Cara joked that this represented the worst of the US and the best of Guatemala in one place.

“Oh the food is good,” insisted Jose.

Cara laughed, “As a chapin you should be more loyal to Pollo Campero!”

“Oh, that’s good too,” he said.

She laughed even more when then went out into the courtyard with its fountain, iron tables, view of a ruin and the Volcan de Agua, lots of trees, and sitting on an iron bench, a statue of Ronald McDonald.

“You have got to be kidding me!” said Cara. “I kind of love this weird juxtaposition—I meant it about worst and best.”

Silvia teased her, “The whole world has become so mixed together it’s hard to sort things out. Just like the gringa/chapina combo that we are.”

Chico said, “I like my chapina with a dash of gringa,” which Cara interpreted as a compliment to them both.

A few days later Cara accepted Paul’s invitation to a Thanksgiving meal with some American friends of his. He texted, “Haven’t seen you for a while and it will give us a chance to catch up.” When she arrived at the house, a bottle of wine in hand, he introduced her to the hosts, Bob and Marjorie. She thanked them for the invitation, saying this would make a better celebration for her than she had expected. She had already met Joe and Danielle at another occasion and greeted them in the living room where they sat snacking on cheese and crackers.

“No Iris?” she asked Paul.

“She has classes, so no Iris,” he said. “It’s not a holiday here, of course. But I’ll see her all this weekend before heading back up country.”

A bright-eyed older woman with a cap of white hair arrived, and Marjorie introduced her as Sister Clare.

When they took their places at the table, traditionally set and with all the trimmings, Marjorie appeared from the kitchen with the turkey on the platter. Bob carved the turkey, and everyone served themselves.

“We look very Norman Rockwell,” said Bob. “We’re indulging our mild homesickness by having you all over to carry out the tradition.”

“And we can get to know each other by telling why and how we came to Guatemala,” suggested Marjorie.

Cara thought her honest answer would be, “to escape my parents”, but gave the more proper response that she had wanted to have a chance to serve others for a year. Sister Clare needed better Spanish skills for her border job, Joe and Danielle wanted a change from corporate life, Bob and Marjorie had retired and found sharing business skills more meaningful than loafing, and Paul had wanted to explore his Guatemalan heritage.

Cara didn’t even have to ask about illegal migration because the conversation drifted in the direction when Bob said he hoped that some of the people he helped would have an economic option to keep them from migrating. Sister Clare shared her experiences with families at the border including cases of women looking for an escape from domestic violence or gangs.

Joe said he was convinced that more investment in the country would make a difference, and he felt determined to help mobilize that. Danielle agreed. But Paul countered by saying the real need—investment in the rural communities—would not be affected by the work being done in urban areas so the magic bullet had not yet been found. He told how despite all his efforts at economic development, the transformative money coming into these small communities came from family members who had gone to the US. He had a hair-raising story of a young man caught at the border, sent back, his family lost their house since they could not pay the debt, and they had become drastically poorer through this failed attempt.

Bob prompted them to each share one thing they felt thankful for and Cara surprised herself by saying, “my parents.” Back at home after the pleasant evening, Cara knew what she wanted to write to her dad. The next morning at school she took her prep hour and started to type:

“Dad, Happy Thanksgiving to you and Mom—hope you had a good one. I enjoyed the tradition with some other Americans I know here and had a great time. Also had an interesting conversation about illegal immigration and it’s even more complicated than I already thought.

“I’m not the same daughter who left you and mom last January. In this year I have changed and wanted to try to explain myself. I think when I left I had probably spent most of my life being self-centered and hoping to achieve something important. Even my desire to help poor homeless people and all that work I did in high school had a self-serving angle of wanting to be known as a good person. I think I was always obedient and cooperative but also rather resentful of you and mom hovering over me, taking all our privileges for granted.

“In fact, I’ve always taken you and mom for granted, not really appreciating all the things you gave me, did for me, the ways you have always advised and helped me, and really truly loved me. Thank you for the good life you provided for me.

“When I first came it shocked me how other-oriented, and family oriented all the Guatemalans I met were. And how poor. I started to feel so guilty and so angry at all the poverty. And so critical of everything. I think you met Silvia, the art teacher. We became friends, partly because we share an office, but partly because she is just a truly kind person and she’s only a few years older than me. I got to know her son Jose who would hang out in our office after his classes, and after a while I realized she was a widow whose husband died about six years ago. In other words, she has had a truly hard life compared to my easy one. But she isn’t bitter or resentful or full of self-pity. She’s a great mom and her family is wonderful at helping her and Jose. I think Guatemalans value family and fun in an admirable way.

“Anyway, when you wrote about Victor I could understand why he went to the US illegally, but also why so many people don’t try to go. And I appreciate that the money people like him send is essential for their families here to have a better life. Silvia encouraged me to be more grateful for my privileges, and not feel guilty for being born into an American upper middle-class family, but instead to always look for ways to love and help others like I’m doing now. I think that is much more likely to happen since I have experienced all these friendships and relationships this year. Maybe I’m still somewhat self-centered, but perhaps a little less so?

“Also, I’m a lot humbler about what I can do to change things for people who are poor. If I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that it’s not for outsiders like me to feel like we have all the answers, but to listen and follow the lead of people from the inside. There are plenty of people like Silvia who are working to make their lives better and trying to help others. I don’t know how to fix the illegal immigration problem (and obviously all our supposedly smart politicians haven’t figured it out either so perhaps it presumptuous of me to think I would know anything), but I do know one important thing. Life can be very good even at a much much lower economic level than ours. Appreciating relationships, beautiful things, and being compassionate are part of the lives of those without means. It surprises me so often how cheerful and happy they are (more than us demanding, driven first-worlders?) Anyway, hope this makes some sense.”

She didn’t see her dad’s reply until after the weekend and she teared up as she read. “Thanks, Cara. This is beautiful. I’m so proud of you. We’ll look forward to hearing more about everything when you get home. And it gives me a deeper appreciation for what Victor is going through, perhaps inspiring me to a closer friendship rather than my being merely curious and voyeuristic about his life. I hope mom and I will have a chance to meet Silvia and Jose who have become so important to you. Appreciation and relationships are wonderful things. Love you, Dad.”

When Silvia came into the office Cara spontaneously stood and reached out to hug her. “Silvia, I will miss you so so much when I leave. I hope I can come back or even that you and Jose can come visit me. Or I can come back to a wedding with Chico!”

Silvia responded with an equally tight hug. “I love you Cara and we’ll always be friends. And if a wedding is going to happen, you will definitely be invited!”

“You know something, Cara means ‘friend’ in Irish, and you have made my name more meaningful to me. ‘Anam Cara’ means soul friend or soul mate in Celtic and I feel like that’s what you are to me.”

“Friends forever!” agreed Silvia.