Wondering, Part III

Jamaica 4

Sunday, September 4 2012

I am awake at 4:00 and shower in the upstairs bathroom.  We don't need to be up until 6:30 today and we are aware of this fact, but still people begin rising in anticipation of our last day in Kingston around 5:00.

The plan for the day is to clean up the large chapel in anticipation of Mass, so the guys will need to temporarily clear out their cots and mattresses and help set up chairs.

We will not go to Mass here.  We will return to Bethlehem and the Lord's Place to help the residents get ready for Mass in the huge chapel on the grounds there.  Then we will be taken with other first time volunteers to Sacred Heart, where the Brothers live, for lunch.  

I pack everything up and strip my cot, as Jerry and I have made a reservation at a hotel, and will leave after lunch.  We have Morning Prayer, and then hang around the Holy Innocents compound until time to leave.  We enjoy the garden there for the first time, and marvel at the tropical vegetation.

We are assigned again to The Lord's Place.  By now some of the residents are familiar with us, and they greet us with enthusiasm.  The place has been transformed since the day before and erupted into a joyful frenzy.

My little girls with Downs, who have stolen my heart, are bustling about helping less able residents pull on clothing and find shoes.  The fearsome aunties are not to be seen, and the auntie on duty is patient and careful.

There are several Brothers on duty this morning, and I am thrilled to see them hugging and joshing with the residents, who clearly love them.

Still, it's a mess.  The residents do not own any clothing, and must take pot luck.  It's clear that some are vying for a particular dress or blouse to wear this week.

A wiry little resident named Bethany, black as ebony and clearly possessed of impressive organizational skills, bustles about issuing orders, which likely as not are ignored.  

A cabinet is opened.  There are stacks of new skirts that look like they came from the wardrobe of the Ballet Folclorico de Mexico.  They are sateen, flared, with three tiers of wide, colorful stripes.  In another cabinet are new pink golf shirts obviously donated following a charity golf tournament in the States, as they bear the logo of a church.  The combination is bizarre, to say the least, but becomes the favored fashion of the morning.

The little Downs girls dress identically and braid each other's hair.  (They are two of the few residents allowed to keep their hair.)  

The auntie on duty works with Amanda, from our group, and more seasoned volunteer from another.  Bras are issued for the day; the residents are thrilled and happily pull up their shirts to show me.

Some women are rubbed down with lotion before dressing, while others are powdered.  Then the hunt for shoes that fit, or that at least can be tolerated for the duration of Mass, are found and issued.

A final spritz of perfume and we are off to the races.  Bethany takes me in hand and shows me the way to the chapel.

We arrive early and are told to sit up close to the front.  Decker is seated  on the first row, with Samuel in his arms.  Samuel is the size of a two-year old, but has Downs and I estimate his age at about four.  He clings expertly to Decker and surveys everything and everybody with acute attention.

The pews are jam-packed into the Chapel, and every pew is full.  There is scarcely enough room to stand up, the pew in front of us is so close to us, but we manage.

Jamaica 4

An elderly Jamaican man is just finishing leading the Rosary, a hymn is announced, and the joyful procession begins.  There are 40 Brothers in the choir and 20 more m

Sunday, September 4 2012

I am awake at 4:00 and shower in the upstairs bathroom.  We don't need to be up until 6:30 today and we are aware of this fact, but still people begin rising in anticipation of our last day in Kingston around 5:00.

The plan for the day is to clean up the large chapel in anticipation of Mass, so the guys will need to temporarily clear out their cots and mattresses and help set up chairs.

We will not go to Mass here.  We will return to Bethlehem and the Lord's Place to help the residents get ready for Mass in the huge chapel on the grounds there.  Then we will be taken with other first time volunteers to Sacred Heart, where the Brothers live, for lunch.  

I pack everything up and strip my cot, as Jerry and I have made a reservation at a hotel, and will leave after lunch.  We have Morning Prayer, and then hang around the Holy Innocents compound until time to leave.  We enjoy the garden there for the first time, and marvel at the tropical vegetation.

We are assigned again to The Lord's Place.  By now some of the residents are familiar with us, and they greet us with enthusiasm.  The place has been transformed since the day before and erupted into a joyful frenzy.

My little girls with Downs, who have stolen my heart, are bustling about helping less able residents pull on clothing and find shoes.  The fearsome aunties are not to be seen, and the auntie on duty is patient and careful.

There are several Brothers on duty this morning, and I am thrilled to see them hugging and joshing with the residents, who clearly love them.

Still, it's a mess.  The residents do not own any clothing, and must take pot luck.  It's clear that some are vying for a particular dress or blouse to wear this week.

A wiry little resident named Bethany, black as ebony and clearly possessed of impressive organizational skills, bustles about issuing orders, which likely as not are ignored.  

A cabinet is opened.  There are stacks of new skirts that look like they came from the wardrobe of the Ballet Folclorico de Mexico.  They are sateen, flared, with three tiers of wide, colorful stripes.  In another cabinet are new pink golf shirts obviously donated following a charity golf tournament in the States, as they bear the logo of a church.  The combination is bizarre, to say the least, but becomes the favored fashion of the morning.

The little Downs girls dress identically and braid each other's hair.  (They are two of the few residents allowed to keep their hair.)  

The auntie on duty works with Amanda, from our group, and more seasoned volunteer from another.  Bras are issued for the day; the residents are thrilled and happily pull up their shirts to show me.

Some women are rubbed down with lotion before dressing, while others are powdered.  Then the hunt for shoes that fit, or that at least can be tolerated for the duration of Mass, are found and issued.

A final spritz of perfume and we are off to the races.  Bethany takes me in hand and shows me the way to the chapel.

We arrive early and are told to sit up close to the front.  Decker is seated  on the first row, with Samuel in his arms.  Samuel is the size of a two-year old, but has Downs and I estimate his age at about four.  He clings expertly to Decker and surveys everything and everybody with acute attention.

The pews are jam-packed into the Chapel, and every pew is full.  There is scarcely enough room to stand up, the pew in front of us is so close to us, but we manage.

An elderly Jamaican man is just finishing leading the Rosary, a hymn is announced, and the joyful procession begins.  There are 40 Brothers in the choir and 20 more make up the instrumental ensemble, with guitars, drums, bass, keyboard, and a riot of rhythm instruments.

At last Mass is ready to begin.  The Brothers announce the song and the chapel erupts with joyful song.  Everybody begins to sway and clap and sing.  The bamboo cross passes by and little Samuel, in Decker's arms, waves his little arms in perfect time to the beat.

And so it goes for two solid hours.  I am moved, I am relieved, I am restored.

I am reminded of my favorite scripture:  "God will restore the years the locusts ate."    Like a kaleidoscope that takes a quarter turn, the whole picture of my experience in Jamaica has shifted.  

Where there was despair, there was now hope, and Jerry and I agreethat we will find ways to help the Brothers in their work.

Thanks be to God.

ake up the instrumental ensemble, with guitars, drums, bass, keyboard, and a riot of rhythm instruments.

At last Mass is ready to begin.  The Brothers announce the song and the chapel erupts with joyful song.  Everybody begins to sway and clap and sing.  The bamboo cross passes by and little Samuel, in Decker's arms, waves his little arms in perfect time to the beat.

And so it goes for two solid hours.  I am moved, I am relieved, I am restored.

I am reminded of my favorite scripture:  "God will restore the years the locusts ate."    Like a kaleidoscope that takes a quarter turn, the whole picture of my experience in Jamaica has shifted.  

Where there was despair, there was now hope, and Jerry and I agreethat we will find ways to help the Brothers in their work.

Thanks be to God.

Wondering, conclusion

Jamaica 4

Sunday, September 4 2012

I am awake at 4:00 and shower in the upstairs bathroom.  We don't need to be up until 6:30 today and we are aware of this fact, but still people begin rising in anticipation of our last day in Kingston around 5:00.

The plan for the day is to clean up the large chapel in anticipation of Mass, so the guys will need to temporarily clear out their cots and mattresses and help set up chairs.

We will not go to Mass here.  We will return to Bethlehem and the Lord's Place to help the residents get ready for Mass in the huge chapel on the grounds there.  Then we will be taken with other first time volunteers to Sacred Heart, where the Brothers live, for lunch.  

I pack everything up and strip my cot, as Jerry and I have made a reservation at a hotel, and will leave after lunch.  We have Morning Prayer, and then hang around the Holy Innocents compound until time to leave.  We enjoy the garden there for the first time, and marvel at the tropical vegetation.

We are assigned again to The Lord's Place.  By now some of the residents are familiar with us, and they greet us with enthusiasm.  The place has been transformed since the day before and erupted into a joyful frenzy.

My little girls with Downs, who have stolen my heart, are bustling about helping less able residents pull on clothing and find shoes.  The fearsome aunties are not to be seen, and the auntie on duty is patient and careful.

There are several Brothers on duty this morning, and I am thrilled to see them hugging and joshing with the residents, who clearly love them.

Still, it's a mess.  The residents do not own any clothing, and must take pot luck.  It's clear that some are vying for a particular dress or blouse to wear this week.

A wiry little resident named Bethany, black as ebony and clearly possessed of impressive organizational skills, bustles about issuing orders, which likely as not are ignored.  

A cabinet is opened.  There are stacks of new skirts that look like they came from the wardrobe of the Ballet Folclorico de Mexico.  They are sateen, flared, with three tiers of wide, colorful stripes.  In another cabinet are new pink golf shirts obviously donated following a charity golf tournament in the States, as they bear the logo of a church.  The combination is bizarre, to say the least, but becomes the favored fashion of the morning.

The little Downs girls dress identically and braid each other's hair.  (They are two of the few residents allowed to keep their hair.)  

The auntie on duty works with Amanda, from our group, and more seasoned volunteer from another.  Bras are issued for the day; the residents are thrilled and happily pull up their shirts to show me.

Some women are rubbed down with lotion before dressing, while others are powdered.  Then the hunt for shoes that fit, or that at least can be tolerated for the duration of Mass, are found and issued.

A final spritz of perfume and we are off to the races.  Bethany takes me in hand and shows me the way to the chapel.

We arrive early and are told to sit up close to the front.  Decker is seated  on the first row, with Samuel in his arms.  Samuel is the size of a two-year old, but has Downs and I estimate his age at about four.  He clings expertly to Decker and surveys everything and everybody with acute attention.

The pews are jam-packed into the Chapel, and every pew is full.  There is scarcely enough room to stand up, the pew in front of us is so close to us, but we manage.

An elderly Jamaican man is just finishing leading the Rosary, a hymn is announced, and the joyful procession begins.  There are 40 Brothers in the choir and 20 more make up the instrumental ensemble, with guitars, drums, bass, keyboard, and a riot of rhythm instruments.

At last Mass is ready to begin.  The Brothers announce the song and the chapel erupts with joyful song.  Everybody begins to sway and clap and sing.  The bamboo cross passes by and little Samuel, in Decker's arms, waves his little arms in perfect time to the beat.

And so it goes for two solid hours.  I am moved, I am relieved, I am restored.

I am reminded of my favorite scripture:  "God will restore the years the locusts ate."    Like a kaleidoscope that takes a quarter turn, the whole picture of my experience in Jamaica has shifted.  

Where there was despair, there was now hope, and Jerry and I agreethat we will find ways to help the Brothers in their work.

Thanks be to God.

Wondering Part I

"Ideas lead to idols.  Only wonder leads to knowing."
                                                        St. Gregory of Nyssa

Today is the Memorial of the Guardian Angels.

In Jamaica we met a whole host of them.  True to our idea of angels, they are clad all in white.  The resemblance stops there, however, as they tend to be small in stature, dark in complexion, and speak in strong accents that can be a challenge to my aging ears.

Plus they wear flip-flops.

(But I correct myself: they do sing like angels!)

Following is the first of three blogs concerning our trip to Jamaica to visit the Missionaries of the Poor and their works in Kingston.  I cannot stress this enough: if you read this one, you must read the next two.

Because I don't know what they will say any more than you do at this point.

I wonder.  With God's assistance, I hope to know.

                                                            * * *

It is Friday, September 29.  We rise at the bell, shower in cold water in the semi-dark, and go to Morning Prayer and Mass.  Six Brothers are there, along with the five sisters of Holy Innocents, and 19 of us from Down Home Ranch and Mobile Loaves and Fishes.  We crowd the tiny chapel.

The Brothers play and sing praise and worship music, much of it composed by the founder Fr. Ho Lung.  It is joyful and fun to sing. Fr. Brian, from India, preaches an inspiring homily.

After a simple breakfast we are taken to a compound consisting of The Lord's Place, which houses people with intellectual disabilities, mental illness, and HIV, and Bethlehem, which is a bare-bones nursery and children's home for babies and children with massive physical deformities and complex care needs.

All the care and treatment takes place in a walled compound fenced like a maximum security prison, as is every place we see in Kingston.  The young men in our group would love to stroll the streets but the Brothers are most insistent that they not, and vigilant to make sure they don't.  They come to understand both the danger of daily life in this area of Kingston and the scandal it would bring should a foreign visitor be harmed while visiting MOP.

After a brief orientation, we are turned loose to do the best we can.  Jerry and I are assigned to The Lord's Place.  There ae two pavilions surrounded by dormitories, with steel barrier fences that can close off sections at a time.  Like a prison.

The dorms house 12-24 in bunk beds.  Although some of us are assigned to mop and clean and disinfect, and the facilities appear clean, there is the pervasive smell of urine which is so difficult to eradicate.

The residents are for the most part friendly.  Some are glad to see us, others seem disconnected and/or bored with yet another group of American do-gooders trouping through their midst.

I had brought crayons, markers, coloring books, and other small items with me, but we were asked not to introduce anything they didn't normally have because it leads to stealing and fighting and general unrest. So I hadn't brought them with me to the compound.

Therefore, as my mom would have put it, the only monkey on a string I have to entertain people with was me. I do the best I can to converse, struggling with less than optimal hearing, the Jamaican accent, and the scarcity of teeth of my conversation partners. I continue to make the rounds until my attention is captivated by a couple of young girls with Down syndrome.

They are about 12 and 14 as best I can tell.  Though non-verbal, they are plenty capable, and are caring for a baby, a healthy boy that inexplicably lives in the compound.  They feed him and pass him back and forth, and play with him until someone comes to take him away.  Then they link hands and wander off.

I spend time talking with Joyce, who is psychotic but possessed of a keen intellect I did not expect to find.  She is neatly dressed and aristocratic in bearing.  She informs me that it was she who created the universe and wrote the New Testament, and that she is a former ambassador to The Netherlands, and was born white but was poisoned and turned black by a jealous cousin.  She has many children, but has not seen them for many years.

After lunch I am asked to wash the residents' faces and hands with a basin of cold water and a wash cloth.  I ask permission first, wash a face, and then return to the spigot to rinse the cloth and get fresh water.  After a few passes, one of the three Jamaican staff, called "aunties," becomes exasperated with my slowness and and tells me brusquely just to use the same water and get the job done. 

I cannot do that.  I am indoctrinated and trained to a fault in hygiene protocols, and I say I don't mind the extra time and work to do it my way.  She reassigns me to distribute water, using two cups for roughly 30 people sitting around the Pavilion. 

True to form, I carefully wash each cup and refill it before offering it to the next person.  Auntie rolls her eyes and shakes her head and scowls, but I persist until everyone who wants water has water.

We have Noon Prayer after our lunch, and return for a few more hours of volunteering. Then we return to Holy Innocents.

The MLF contingent is eager to know what I think of our experience that morning. 

I cannot lie: Beyond the Brothers' faultless compassion and kindness and hard work on behalf of these people, the place is where the United States was in terms of care for children and adults with disabilities and mental illness 40 years ago when the federal government took over many states--including Texas'--mental health and mental retardation facilities.

Residents are warehoused and deprived of almost any semblance of human dignity.  They are allowed to own nothing, not even their clothing.  There is scant attempt to dress them in clothing that fits or even has zippers that zip or buttons.   They are shoeless.

Their heads are shaved to make their care easier on their keepers.  They are hosed down at shower time in cold water.  Except for foreign visitors, there is nothing at all to break the monotony of their days that I can see beyond the bowls of food handed them at meal times wherever they happen to be.

No music, no pictures on the walls, no books to read, no television to watch, no possessions, nothing that allows them to say, "Look world.  I am me."  Absolutely nothing to break the monotony beyond a bunch of Yankees wandering around trying to figure out what to do, asking the same questions the previous contingent had undoubtedly asked.

Yes, it's Jamaica.  Yes, it's poor.  Yes, the Brothers live in identical circumstances, eat the same food, bathe in cold water, dress all alike.

But the Brothers have chosen this life.

My soul is troubled at prayer time.  I think of our cast of characters at the Ranch, whom I know so well, and whom I love with all my heart and soul.  I try to imagine them here and my heart breaks and I vow I will never, never, never again become exasperated with their endless plans to become pop and country singers, their refusal to try broccoli, and their fanaticism over being either a Longhorn or an Aggie.  I would give anything for one of their exuberant hugs, and a halting description of their day.

I think of the little mute girls with Downs, who never learned to speak, who are dressed in rags that don't fit, expertly caring for a baby who will someday disappear from their lives, and the psychotic, the abandoned, and those dying of AIDs among whom they live.

And afterwards, I go into the bathroom, and cry. 

Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes

Friday, September 28, 2012 6:45 PM Jamaica Time

I am sitting at a table in a makeshift dining room/men's dorm in what in what usually serves as the chapel for Holy Innocents Maternity Home, run by the Missionaries of the Poor (MOP) in Kingston, Jamaica. I won't be able to post this blog until my return on Monday, because as you might suspect, the Missionaries of the Poor don't indulge in any more technology than absolutely necessary.

Innocent, a six-month old baby taken in by the sisters at birth after his mother abandoned him after trying multiple times to abort him, is indignantly wailing after being parked in his crib for a brief moment as Sister Joanna prepares his bath.

We are in Kingston with the Austin staff of Mobile Loaves and Fishes, a food truck ministry to the homeless. There are 19 of us total. We are there because Fr. Charles of MOP, and Alan Graham, who began Mobile Loaves and Fishes in the mid 10s, visited the Ranch last summer and invited us along. Among those served by MOP are people with intellectual disabilities, the elderly, babies with severe physical handicaps, people with mental illness, AIDS, TB, and leprosy. Tomorrow we are to meet and work a little with some of them.

The Brothers help us alight from our transportation to Holy Innocents

We were picked up at the airport by a young MOP brother in what we came to call “the cage.” Jerry searched for a respectful term and settled on “lorry.” We knew that lorry was an English word for a vehicle that transported things, although we were fuzzy on the details, but it sounded better than “stock trailer,” which I’m pretty sure is what it started out as.

We stood in the cage holding on for dear life as Brother drove speedily through the outskirts of Kingston. We couldn’t see much, and anyway, it took all our concentration and effort to remain upright. We did notice that every structure was surrounded by high fences with razor wire looped around the top.

We arrived at Holy Innocents and were shown our quarters—women upstairs and men in the chapel. The women’s dorm is filled with metal bunk-beds of WW II vintage. I know this for a fact because I scrounged identical ones for Ranch Camp some 16 years ago from an Army surplus store.

Everywhere fans are stirring the air, and not gently. Industrial fans blow like a Texas nor’easter barreling in, floor fans swivel to and fro, and exhaust fans hum merrily along. I can hear nothing of what Sister Joanna is telling us in our orientation and will have to trust that other volunteers will clue me in.

In addition to the fans, trucks are roaring loudly past, pouring diesel exhaust through the concrete louvers that allow the breeze to sweep through the enormous concrete structure.

We are served dinner, a simple meal of flavored rice with chicken bones and a few stray bits of meat. We have water and instant coffee, and bananas and peanut butter, too. (They know Americans.)

Ladies Dorm at Holy Innocents

The women divvied up the three bathrooms for shower times that evening, sufficient for our numbers because the cold water shooting from an open pipe did not encourage lingering.

I go to bed wondering if I will sleep even an hour. After ten the neighborhood dogs begin to bark in earnest, competing with the trucks that continue to roar by. Rain begins to fall on the uninsulated metal roof, and of course the fans drone on. Finally, in exhaustion, I incorporate everything into my dream life and—to my own amazement—get a pretty good few hours of sleep.