Embracing Reality

I appreciate a lot of customs. Hugging I'm still working on.

Anyone who knows me, really knows me, knows I’m not a hugger. Yes, that’s right. At the risk of sounding like a crotchety curmudgeonly hermit, yes, I cringe at the prospect of embracing my fellow human beings. I’m not saying that hugs don’t have their time and place. Family gatherings, a best friend’s wedding, bar mitzvahs, winning the lottery—there are appropriate moments for soliciting and distributing an occasional affectionate squeeze. This aversion was absolutely no problem for me when I lived in Asia. I relished in the arms-length distance of respectfully wai-ing (bowing in greeting) in Thailand and secretly applauded prudish caution among non-handholding couples in public in India. Coming back to Latin America was another story. I had forgotten the cheek-to-cheek kisses and full body embraces. I was not quite sure how to react to the effusive welcomes and invasions of my personal bubble on a daily basis. Caught between worlds, it took a bit of time (okay, quite a bit of time) to adjust to all the…touching that goes on here. 

Imagine my shock and quickly swallowed horror as I stood next to a video camera and its accompanying filmographer, urging, nudging me to wrap my arms around a young Colombian woman. A complete stranger no less! I was shaken to say the least, not merely for the suggestion that I intertwine my arms and torso in a strange contortionist manner with those of this young woman, but also for the inevitable crack, thunder, and crumble of the carefully erected professional barrier we maintain with all our refugee clients. But she was crying and I’m a softie without a heartless bone in my body. So I took a deep breath, steeled my nerves, and ventured slowly forward for the Herculean task (literally) in front of me.  

Are you surprised I love theater?

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me take a step back. I like to be in front of people. Rephrased, I like to take the stage in front of people. It’s why I dedicated 2 years of middle school, 4 years of high school, and my entire collegiate and even post-collegiate (hullo, Arena Stage!) experience to crafting the art of being in the limelight however possible. That is also a great part of why I loved being a teacher (not to mention the incredible cadres of students and comrade teachers I was so very lucky to work with at Payap University- hullo, Ajarn Oyporn!). There is something simply electric about commanding the attention of an entire room, connecting with the faces in front of you one by one. I thrive on that type of energy. In a way, it makes me feel strong. It’s when I feel most alive. It should come as no surprise then that as soon as the opportunity presented itself, I seized the chance to work with a visiting UN filmographer documenting the lives and livelihoods pursuits of Colombian refugees in Ecuador. I was captivated by the prospect of learning more about the process of story-telling with a purpose and of constructing compelling narratives from behind the camera lens.

Financial education telenovela (soap opera) style with theater!

Visiting homes and work places, we strove to create a snapshot of the daily lives of individuals who had been ‘given a leg up’ in one way or another—through seed funding to start a new business or training on nutrition and financial education—to try to set their new lives in this country on a different and more prosperous path. Each interview entailed a bit of background on the push factors that drove the refugee to flee to Ecuador, the conditions they experienced, and the transition they were able to make with the support of UN (and partners). Simple and straightforward enough, but in the hour plus for each session, it became very clear that not everyone gained such thrill out of the camera’s spotlight as I did. This form of story-telling was nothing like campfire tales or on-stage recitations. It was real. It was raw. And it was hard to take.

Behind the camera

Luisa (name changed and not pictured on this blog) was a young mother who escaped abuse in Colombia to start a new life for her and her two children in Ecuador. She lived in a one and a half room cement row house adjoined to her neighbors with whom she shared a yard full of chickens, ducks, and one very scary strutting male turkey the size of her toddler son. As she stood before the camera, fidgeting and absent-mindedly fumbling with the microphone at her hip, (Por favor, no lo toque, señora. Allí está el micrófono para grabarle. Please, do not touch it, mam. That’s the microphone to record you.) we started the usual round of questioning. When did you come to Ecuador? How did you come to Ecuador? Why did you come to Ecuador? She paused and glanced around nervously. Her two-year-old son squeezed between her thighs, tugging at her shirt. Her eyes on the camera she batted him away gently, still staring. I repeated the question. Porque usted decidió en llegar a Ecuador?

She maintained the same blank stare, but began to speak. Huimos. We fled. Yes, I prodded, but can you please explain the story of why, in your own words? We were used to the typical responses: threats, guerilla forces, assassinations. But as she slowly told the tale of years of abuse beginning with the disappearance of her father (who allegedly killed his second wife), the constant maltreatment from her mother and her mother’s changing suitors, and the several attempts she made to escape from her abusers, each time ending in discovery, beating, and being dragged home again, it was clear that a different type of dark story was unfolding.

Learning the art and process of story-telling

Most people are probably familiar with the choose-your-own-ending novels of our youth—does the gang of wily teenagers run into a gopher hiding out in the backyard shed or something more sinister? Does Molly uncover a hidden trove of family heirlooms or just an age-old empty chest? This was something like that. When you can feel the dread-mixed anticipation welling up from within because you know something is coming and you almost know just what. But I didn’t choose this ending and if I could have I wouldn’t have known what to pick. Watching your father murdered in front of you for refusing to pay guerilla vacunas (coerced contributions) or suffering years of abuse at the hands of your mother and her string of never-ending lovers? And then she said it: rape. Raped. I was raped. I was raped so much. I was raped. I left and I ran, but they found me. They always found me. And I was raped. So much rape. And the words didn’t stop. Nor did the tears, which fell freely, choking her words on the way down. I was stunned into silence while the seasoned filmographer at my side snapped into action, encouraging her to stop, telling her she did not have to recount any more of the story. But she wanted to. In some way, I think she had to. 

And then the moment happened and I could hear the words telling me to step forward and embrace her, but they were mixed up with the other words, or rather with that one word and for a moment, I couldn’t move. But then I was there and my arms were around her and I was breaking every rule I knew in my head and on paper and she held on and I held on and I just felt absolutely powerless to do anything but hug.

Those are the moments they don’t prepare you for in grad school or on the job for that matter. Those are the moments that they can’t. How do you teach someone to express genuine compassion and sympathy? How do you explain how to absorb a moment, assess the situation, and act from somewhere deep within? People might laugh at me when I say I am not a hugger or when I used to joke about fleeing from those “Free Hugs” campaigns on my college campus. But a hug to me is an act of love and a symbol of a shared bond between two people. It’s so much more than the mere mechanics of opening and closing one’s arms around another. It is a statement that says more than “Hi how’s it going?” It says, “How are you? I’m here for you.” It says, “What do you need from me? What more can I give?” It says, “I love you.” 

And then there are the small signs of beauty (cocoa beans).

Working in this field it’s easy to become inured to moments like those when you hear these stories on a daily basis. It’s easy to become numb to the horrors to shield oneself from sinking into the pit of no return, the pit of questioning humanity. Doctors and nurses experience it on a daily basis. Lawyers I am sure go through it all the time. But for me, it is still something new. Something I am learning to grow into because you see, what they don’t teach you in your school books or on that first day on the job is not so much how to pose gently probing questions or how to position the tissue box for easy access on the interview desk. What they don’t teach you is what to do with that feeling of crushing, weighing, guilt-laden powerlessness that engulfs you in moments like these.

Hugs are okay. Frightening turkeys not so much.

I am a doer. A consummate doer. When I see a problem, I am not only compelled, but impelled to do something to resolve it. I have a hard time just sitting on my hands. But there was nothing I could do for her in this moment, but let her have her moment and be there all the way through. So as I always say, I am learning. Learning to be patient with myself and with others. Learning to love the cheek-to-cheeks and embrace the mechanics of a hug. Learning to tell better stories that are not my own and to appreciate the true owners of the same. But the lesson I learned or ­re-learned that day was that powerlessness is an unfortunate part of the reality of this work and is something my doer self cannot always change. And those are the moments when you have to accept the fact that sometimes hugs are all you can give and, really, that is okay.