“I
hungry,” came the call in broken English from a man walking toward
me on the sidewalk whose baggy dirty clothes and scruffy appearance
showed his statement was probably quite true. Right now, I think
how many people probably continued walking by. Sadly, my gut reaction
has become a bit jaded while here.
I've become accustomed to the fact that most of the time if a
stranger says something to you on the street it's a cat call or
asking for money. This can come in Spanish or broken English. I
have an innate reaction of annoyance at the use of broken English to
try and get my attention. It's as if I feel offended. I feel that someone is talking down to me as if I am too white, too "gringa" to possibly care
enough to have learned Spanish. The question runs through my head, "Don't you get that I have dealt time and time again
with the government so I can stay here even just one more month?" It's
this feeling that simply because I am white you think I have money and
ought to give it to you. However, I should know by now, my
bright orange hair and just as bright white skin will basically never
allow for anyone to see me as anything but a "gringa".
As each of these thoughts
is racing through my mind in the 5 seconds it took for the hungry man to walk
past me on the sidewalk my conscience began to yell at my brain. It
was that particular phrase, “I hungry” which hit me. Just two
days ago I had my little first graders practice while rubbing their
tummies saying, “I'm hungry!” Of course, we added in a whiny
voice that was sure to make learning the phrase more memorable. My
first graders, although not well off either, are at least guaranteed a
daily snack at school whereas this man probably had no
guarantee whatsoever.
I
began to wonder, what if in 10 years that man is one of my smiling 1st
first graders who needs a simple meal to keep going. I began to
think, there was probably a teacher at some point from whom this man
learned that phrase. I ought to be proud as a teacher that this man
shouted out to me in the language that here can be the difference
between a job and scraping by.
A couple more steps and I
began to think so what if I look like a “rich gringa”. Does that
mean I have to act like it too? This man thought he'd take a shot at
getting something to eat, and even called out in the language he was
all but guaranteed I knew how to speak. I began to think, “Weren't
you about to go buy yourself a baleada and a smoothie anyways.” I
went to turn around and he was gone. Geez did I feel like a “rich
gringa”.
It is these small moments
that make me realize that it's more than my hair and skin which give
off the perception of wealth. It is my inability to get over myself
and give back what I can. While yes this man was hoping for a hand
out, which is arguably not what he needed, I could have instead given
him the leg up he did need. There is no amount of hair dye or time
spent in the sun that can make me more Honduran. It is a very deep
place in my heart that has to change.
To be truly Honduran I
need to trust that “si Dios quiere” (if God wants) things will
happen. I need to be far more hospitable. Truly for God's sake, I can
be invited into a ramshackle mud and sticks home where the walls are
paper, flour and water wrapped around sticks and even though that
family has struggled to send their kids to school with supplies they
will feed me far more food than I can eat. I need to be more patient.
While it may be my job to maintain a schedule of events and
activities I have got to be okay with things happening on “Honduran
time”. The list goes on and on.
I know God places people
in our paths (or the sidewalk) to remind of us his presence in each
of us. All I can say is, “Sorry God, I failed once again. Please
give me another chance.” Thankfully though God is merciful, and
there is no lack of need here or really anywhere. He knows we cannot
change the world by ourselves, but we can start by changing
ourselves.
