Beauty
Pagent
by Tom
Hoaglund
The event was quite a spectacle. It was very surreal and
there were many disturbing elements to it. However, Betsy was wonderful and her answer to
the question on education was great. It restored my faith in humanity that she won. It was
quite tense when they were announcing the winner.
So, you want details
on the beauty pageant? I don't even know where to begin. It took place at the Sangre De
Cristo Arts center in Pueblo, one of the few cultural institutions that Pueblo possesses.
They show art exhibits, occasional plays and performances, and host events like high school
proms. Natalie and I arrived just in time to discover a disastrous parking situation (rare
for Pueblo considering the downtown is little more than a giant parking lot). We figured
the turnout was for the Miss Pueblo competition but it turned out there was another event
taking place and there were still many seats available for Miss Pueblo. We sat in
the front row, centered behind the judges, right by Dianne who was there with a few friends
as well as Zack and his friend.
The show started with the opening music from Back to
the Future and an
announcer's voice from a tape recorder welcoming us to the 2000 Miss Pueblo competition.
The judges were introduced and stood up from their table directly in front of the stage.
The MC then came on to give a little background about the competition. He is some sort of
local celebrity I think. Last year's Miss Colorado co-hosted as well. The contestants were then introduced and paraded across the
stage in capre-pant outfits. Betsy was 6 out of 9 in the batting order.
After the contestants were introduced, the first, but not
the last, disturbing event took place. They brought out Miss Pueblo Jr. Teen to do an act
while they were preparing for the swimsuit competition. Miss P.J.T. performed the Shania
Twain song "That Don't Impress Me Much." She was dressed in a tight fitting
black and gold stretch suit with gold fringe and leopard print briefs, gold fringe cowboy
boots with taps and a leopard print cowboy hat. She then proceeded to do a combination tap
dance/go-go dance while seductively lip sinking the song. She had big blonde curls and was
maybe 13 years old. The whole thing looked chillingly familiar to the tapes of Jon Bonet
Ramsey competing in the pageants that they show on the TV News. Have you seen the one
where she is wearing the cowboy outfit and dancing on stage wearing heavy make-up? It was
quite disturbing. There were whoops and hollers galore from the good ol' fashioned Pueblo
audience.
Then came the swimsuit competition (disturbing element #2).
The curtain opened to a posed beach scene with all the contestants. As their names were
called, they paraded across the stage and exited. They were being judged on
"athleticism and physical fitness." It was pretty tacky. However, Betsy was by
far the best looking woman up there (there was lots of big hair).
There were many more tacky performances,
disturbing
elements #'s 3-11. The former Miss Pueblo and Miss Teen Pueblo sang some cheesy duet. The
Pueblo County High School Choir sang three really boring songs, one of which was some sort
of Jesus hymn. The talent competition was awful. For the most part it was aerobics done to
music segments often heard at sports events and monster truck shows (Da da da da da da
"LET"S GET READY TO RUMBLE!") . Some also danced to Michael Jackson. There
was also some cheesy singing and a bad reading. Betsy's tap dance was
very entertaining though. Unfortunately, she had the smallest cheering section. This one
girl with enormous breasts and even bigger hair who did an aerobics routine had a huge
cheering section that whistled and whooped whenever she got up there.
R.O.T.C. made an appearance during the evening gown
competition. They escorted the contestants out. The contestants once again introduced
themselves, turned around to give a good look at the dress and went to the MC who asked
them a question. The questions were bizarre. In many cases the answers were sickening. The
girl with the enormous breasts introduced herself as "in favor of abstinence."
She was asked what she would be doing on a Saturday night and she said "catching a
cool new movie at Tinseltown with her boyfriend." Too bad they never get new movies
in Pueblo. Some other girl was asked how she would know when she was
successful, and she answered "when I am happy and have fewer challenges."
Another was told that a majority of high school boys do not want their future wives
to work. "What if your fiancée wanted you to stay home?" She said it was
important to preserve marriage so she would stay home. Other answers included many
references to "God" and "Family" but no real point.
Betsy's answer was great though. They asked her about the
governor's education program to tie school funding to its "grade" in student
achievement. To sum up, Betsy said she disagreed with it because it penalized
disadvantaged students and did not address the core problems in our education system. The
audience acted shocked (I think they were mostly in favor of the screwed up program).
Betsy won both the interview (30% takes place before the
competition) and the talent (40%) for separate scholarships and then it was announced she
won the Miss Pueblo. We already knew she did the best on the question. It was incredibly
tense when they announced the winner. I was very happy for Betsy.
The whole thing was really cheesy and it was hard to keep a
straight face through much of it. I am glad I went though, it was a unique experience.
Betsy was awesome and not your typical beauty pageant
contestant. I am very glad she won. It is exciting to know a Miss Pueblo. Furthermore, she
got a good scholarship to boot. Maybe she'll even become Miss America! I am not sure I was
able to adequately convey the experience here. I'd have to tell you about it in person
some time.
Back to top
by regular foreign correspondent Xip
A Chicago journalist, "G,"
once wrote that "Gay culture is absolutely uniform across the world. A gay bar in
Ulan Bator is no different from one in Chicago or Berlin or Buenos Aires. You’ll hear
the same vapid dance music, smell the same cologne, hear the rustle of the same neatly
pressed Polo shirts, and touch the same tanned, well-moisturized skin." Buying into
this idea, I expected no surprises from Spartakus, Sofia, Bulgaria’s oldest
"Private Mix Club." When I first visited the disco, which friends billed as a
gay establishment, in the summer of 1997, it was new and fashionable, and entrance was
restricted to people with exclusive membership cards. The music was indeed vapid, but it
was not like any dance music popular in the United States at the time (or ever, for that
matter). Scatman John, Era, and other European export bands sang in strangely accented,
non-native English over the club’s incredibly loud speakers, and the DJ occasionally
announced singles by home-grown pop stars in rapid-fire Bulgarian. Though the club’s
patrons may have been wearing familiar colognes, my nose could not detect them through the
thick clouds of smoke from cigarette brands called "Victory" and
"Stewardess." I did not see a single Polo, but it is true that tanned skin
peeked out from under every tight muscle shirt and microscopic mini-skirt. But it was only
as much skin as was necessary to cover the lean bodies of a population whose government
had plundered their wheat that winter, leaving them poor and without reliable sources of
food, in an economy characterized by 1000% annual inflation and 20% unemployment.
A quick scan of the room revealed that Spartakus was by no means an entirely gay club.
Although couples of carefully clad young women on the dance floor moved together to the
music, the thick-necked men lining the walls kept a careful eye out to ensure that no one
messed with their two girls. Later, threesomes left together in the dark BMWs that the men
had somehow managed to park in the highway underpass where the disco is located. In the
meantime, the throngs inside the exclusive establishment blushed and looked away from the
stage when the DJ introduced the male erotic dancers. Within a few minutes, however,
secret peeks at the stage yielded to enthusiastic applause, and no one in the hall failed
to watch the drag queen who came out to lip synch "I Will Survive" in fishnet
stockings and a feather wig.
Who were these people? I asked myself. And what did the audience have in common with
the transvestite on stage? Was this really a gay club? And weren’t people afraid of a
police raid? I had read in the Rough Guide to Bulgaria that "while homosexual acts
between men over the age of 21 are not officially illegal, there are heavy restrictions on
vague things like ‘scandalous homosexuality’ or ‘homosexual acts leading to
perversions’ — which basically means that the authorities have the right to
arrest you for any homosexual act." I feared that simulated fellatio and
cross-dressing might be considered scandalous, especially in an Orthodox country, and I
had heard rumors of a bar raid in Sofia in 1996. I was nervous all night, and I
didn’t understand why nobody else was as worried as I was. Mostly, though, I never
understood whether the ubiquitous pairs of girls dancing close were really just pairs of
platonic friends, both of whom happened to be dating the same Olympic wrestler. And I
never understood why the club bothered to hire transvestite dancers if the whole crowd was
as straight as it looked.
Two years later, I returned to Spartakus naïvely expecting time to have transformed
the club into something approaching an ideal-typical gay disco with a new Western face.
After all, ten years had elapsed since the fall of the totalitarian communist regime, and
Bulgaria had experienced two years of relative success with economic and political reforms
following the crisis of January 1997. Indeed, this time I found more standard European
music, fewer bodyguards, and more youth in the disco, which has abandoned its members-only
policy, and is now open to any members of the public who can pass the "face
control" and afford the cover charge of $1.50 (the average Bulgarian monthly salary
is $111). I also found an unusual underground culture and a loosely consolidated community
of people simultaneously drawn together and atomized by a set of fears and hopes that is
unique to the post-communist situation, and perhaps even to
the particular social
setting of fin-de-siécle Bulgaria.
Bulgaria has historically been one of Europe’s most tolerant countries. In the
early 1900s Bulgaria accepted waves of Armenian refugees from Turkey whom no one else
would take. During World War II Bulgaria refused to send its Jews to Nazi camps. In the
mid-1980s, Bulgarian citizens demonstrated against anti-Turkish communist policies, and
began a process that toppled the totalitarian regime and ushered in a transition to
democracy by writing a Constitution more liberal than any other Eastern European
country’s. Despite what is written in the Rough Guide, homosexuality is legal in
Bulgaria and has been since 1968. Moreover, law forbids discrimination based on sex or on
HIV-positive status in employment or education. It is expected that the Parliament will
soon ban discrimination based on sexual orientation.
At the same time, though, Bulgarian society as a whole is atomized as a legacy of the
totalitarian past, which fostered distrust and destroyed all but the closest individual
ties in favor of corporate identities and loyalty to the regime. Consequently, the gay
community has also remained unconsolidated. Traditional social values, especially among
older generations, and a dire economic situation make public heterosexuality almost
compulsory for young people who often continue to live with their parents until they are
married. Indeed, one informant told me that his greatest fear as a gay man in Bulgaria is
that his boyfriend will eventually break up with him in order to get married, even though
they will still be in love. Despite de facto conservatism, however, Bulgaria is
de jure
one of the most tolerant and inclusive societies in Europe, and gay people there enjoy
more liberties and protections than do their counterparts in Britain or France, so there
is no pressing reason to unite politically. Finally, widespread poverty means that only a
small segment of the gay population has access to the expensive clubs and private bars
where people can meet and unite their community, and lack of economic resources
prevents the community from producing any printed literature that might bind its members
together.
As the Bulgarian government is busy trying to meet the strict criteria for NATO and
European Union membership, the country’s populace is also doing its best to upgrade
Bulgaria’s image to meet what they think of as European standards. Although most
Bulgarians cannot afford large or elaborate wardrobes, the self-styled aesthetic elite at
clubs like Spartakus is trying to raise the bar on local fashion. Although it has cast
aside its membership requirements, Spartakus still has a strict dress code. Other than
sneakers and athletic shoes, which are explicitly forbidden in the club, it is not clear
exactly what the busty, tattooed transvestite at the entrance is looking for. Whatever her
criteria may be, everyone hoping to get inside the club has to pass her scrutiny before
being allowed entrance. In a way, this test unites the successful patrons in the knowledge
that they are the best-dressed, most stylish Sofians. At the same time, though, it
alienates would-be clients who cannot afford or do not feel like wearing the required
fashions and this atomizes the gay community. Monika, one of Bulgaria’s few out
lesbians, told me that she and a few female friends were once turned away from Spartakus
for wearing jeans. "This is a gay club," the face controller told her.
"That is why we’re here!" my friend responded. The bouncer refused to let
the women in, explaining that they were not appropriately dressed. After telling me the
story, Monika sighed and said,
"They can’t expect lesbians to look as
good as transvestites."
Bulgaria is the only country I have ever visited where transvestites are at the top of
the hierarchy in the gay community. They decide who can get into the exclusive discos,
they get reserved tables in private clubs, and everyone else wants to dance with them or
be noticed by them. The founders of Spartakus envisioned their creation not as a gay
disco, perhaps because almost no gay Bulgarians are willing to be out, even in
specifically gay establishments. Instead they wanted to found a Bulgarian version of
Studio 54--a club for the aesthetic elite, which by definition includes actors, pop
stars, artists, and designers, as well as ultra-hipster youth with avant-garde style. Just
to be sure, the club’s management hires predominantly transvestites to run the club
and to set the visual tone. Aside from the face controller, at least five transvestites
mill about Spartakus on any given night. Most of them are on the official payroll and
making around $10 a night, hardly enough to cover the cost of their makeup, let alone
their elaborate costumes. To earn their wages, some of the transvestites tend bar. Others
put on the stage show, dancing and lip-synching to one or two songs apiece every night.
All of the performances are well-rehearsed, although they have no paid rehearsal time, and
the crowds cheer them enthusiastically, but cannot afford to tip them.
Indeed, the audience can barely afford to dress themselves in the style required for
entrance to the club. Krâstina, a prominent Bulgarian fashion designer, explains "It
is interesting to try to make beautiful clothes in a country that doesn’t really need
fashion or designers, only clothes to wear." Indeed, the utilitarian clothing sold
from tables on street corners is certainly more affordable to the average Bulgarian than
is the haute couture produced by Krâstina, her partner Konstantin, and their estimated
eight to ten colleagues working in the genre. But inside Spartakus, it is the high-fashion
transvestites who set an example that everyone else must follow. Twenty year-old
Persephone, Bulgaria’s Miss Transvestite 2000, is lucky that her father runs a
successful business and gives her a large allowance without asking her what she spends it
on. Persephone competed against 15 other cross-dressers in the Miss Transvestite pageant
this March completely on a whim. She had never cross-dressed before, and didn’t
expect to do so again. But after she won, the other transvestites pressured her into
continuing, at least for the duration of her reign as queen. The 700 Deutschmark
honorarium that she won helps a little, but it will be difficult to build an entire new
wardrobe from scratch, especially considering the high standards within the community.
Bulgaria’s most famous transvestite, Ursula, has it much easier. Krâstina and
Konstantin, her adopted parents, are not only financially better off than the average
Bulgarian, but are also supportive of Ursula’s cross-dressing and capable of
producing fabulously extravagant costumes for her in their own design studio. While
Persephone designs her own costumes from inexpensive materials and has her mother sew them
in secret when her father is not home, a typical costume for Ursula costs $200-300, is
designed specifically for her, and is handmade by Krâstina from imported fabrics. It is
no wonder that Ursula won the Miss Transvestite pageant two years in a row. Her proud
parents want to raise the level of fashion at Spartakus to complement Ursula’s
beauty, but they cannot do it alone. Konstantin and Krâstina are the only designers who
work specifically for transvestites, but they cannot afford to absorb the costs for all of
them. "We would like to have more than one transvestite" explains Konstantin.
"But it is very expensive, and one family simply can’t afford it. So we only
have one. We put everything into Ursula. She is our only transvestite. The others have to
dress themselves."
With such support, it is not surprising that Ursula is the most celebrated of the
Bulgarian transvestites. What is surprising, however, is the fame that transvestites have
even in mainstream Bulgarian society. Krâstina is among Bulgaria’s best-received
designers, and her transvestite models are accepted as vanguards of fashion for the entire
country. At the after-party for the Miss Bulgaria pageant in April 2000 it was
transvestite dancers, not the girls who had competed in the pageant, who performed on
stage. In a club full of heterosexual businessmen and wealthy, middle-aged Bulgarian
glitterati, no one seemed to question the choice of entertainment. And no one complained
when Ursula whipped Miss Plovdiv, Miss Shumen, and even the new Miss Bulgaria herself away
from the edge of the stage with her cat-o’-nine-tails.
Transvestites can take over a Bulgarian stage even without whips, chains, and other
sado-maso props, though. In fact, the average Bulgarian cross-dresser wants to be
recognized for her beauty, tenderness, and intelligence. Before becoming Miss
Transvestite, Persephone, who prefers to identify herself as a drag queen because she
never intends to change her physical sex, got attention in public for wearing sado-maso
costumes that she described as "avant-garde, abnormal, powerful, and new." But
once she established a place for herself in the community, she began to design costumes
for herself that presented what she thinks of as her true nature. "In private,"
she says, "I am
just a gentle, tender guy."
It was the open
manifestation of this private identity that helped Persephone win her title. Konstantin,
who was one of four judges at the pageant, explained that the panel was looking for a
combination of "cosmopolitanism, mysticism, femininity, philosophy, and magical
love" in the winning contestant. Persephone’s white minidress, feather boa, and
softly curled platinum wig projected exactly that image, and her graceful, stylized dance
to Sonique’s "Feels So Good" in 9-inch platform shoes added an edge of sex
appeal that drew both the audience and the judges in.
Not all of the pageant’s contestants came close to the ideal that Konstantin
described. The oldest contestant, the 35 year-old Countess, gave a performance that was
more like a beer-bellied, Balkan version of Flight of the Bumblebee to the wild laughter
and cheers of the audience. Is this what gentle, tender young guys like Persephone and
Ursula can expect from their future? On one hand, that is not the worst of their fears.
Aside from the ordinary financial worries that every Bulgarian harbors, Persephone is also
nervous that her father might find out she cross-dresses and throw her out of the house.
When she is walking down the street in her unusual platform boots, she fears that she will
attract negative attention or even be attacked. Ursula and her parents worry that
Bulgarian privatization will never be completed and their fashion designs will never reach
the world market. Still, Ursula dreams of becoming a fashion designer like Krâstina and
Konstantin, and of having a career as a model. Persephone would like to go abroad to
study. She is currently taking a year off from Sofia University, where she studied biology
and genetics. If she can get a visa to study in the U.S. she would like to go back to
school. If not, she says she is ready to embrace a career as a performer. Though
Persephone does not see a sex-change operation in her future, Ursula does, and is saving
money for breast implants.
Though the Bulgarian transvestite community is as diverse as any other community in the
world, its members are tied together at the top of Bulgaria’s aesthetic hierarchy.
Most of them do not have many straight friends, and they are marginalized within the gay
community as well. Still, somehow, it is transvestites, not gays, who can afford to be
out in Bulgarian society. They support each other inside the community, and they are
famous, well liked, and respected by people outside of it. Bulgarians follow the trends
that they set and conform to their aesthetic taste in order to gain entrance into their
unique world of underground clubs and cafes. As a result, Bulgarian gay culture, and
indeed Bulgarian culture in general, truly is a bit different from the universal
stereotype.
Back to top
by musical consultant
xip
To be sung by by the character N. Krushchev in a new
Broadway craze: NIKITA! the Musical
Lyrics to the tune of Britney Spears' "Born To
Make You Happy"
I'm sitting in the Kremlin planning room
And thinking about the times that we've been through
(O Narod!)
I look at the statistics in my hand
And try my best to understand
I really want to know what we did wrong
Once our country felt so strong
I must create a Five Year Plan
Fixing Ukraine to Kazhakhstan
I don't want to live with virgin lands
Can I plant corn to make you happy?
I want to bury the Americans
Let's grow corn, it makes me happy!
Always and forever you and me
Workers busy just like bees
I don't know how to live without your love
If we plant corn will you be happy?
Yes, it seems hard with Comrade Stalin gone
We must repudiate him and carry on
(O Narod!)
But living in a dream of NEP
Is not the way our lives should be
Even Trotsky killed a lot of you
Come on tell me what to do
If only grain wasn't so tight
I know that we could make it right
I want to bury the Americans
Chest deep in corn will they be happy?
They wouldn't let me into Disneyland
The corn in Iowa is crappy!
I beat the lectern with my shoe
Abstained from voting at the U-
-N They divide Korea without me
I've only corn to make me happy.
I'll do anything, I'll risk the whole world
Put missiles in Cuba, that sweet island pearl
Food will be cheap, I'll keep plenty in store
Til I "resign" in '64
I don't want to live with virgin lands
Can I plant corn to make you happy?
I want to bury the Americans
Let's grow corn, it makes me happy!
Always and forever you and me
Workers busy just like bees
I don't know how to live without your love
If we plant corn will you be happy?
Back to top
by John Jacobsen,
Antartica March 2000
I am working here for three weeks as part of my "day job" for Lawrence Berkeley
National Lab. The temperature outside is about -30 F, with little wind, so it's not too
bad. That's a good thing, because I have to walk about half a mile to the building where I
work. That's where I'm writing this, during a break in the action.
It takes five plane trips and at least three days to get to the Pole. There is no scenery
except for odd man-made structures, textures in the flat snowscape, and an incredible
changeable sky which serves up haloes around the sun, thousand-mile cloud structures, fog
one hour and blinding sun the next. The altitude is about 9000 feet and the cold
temperature makes the air even thinner, so it takes awhile to adjust.
I'm living in "summer camp," which is a collection of odd wooden-framed
quonset-hut-shaped canvas tents known as Jamesways. My "room" is a cubicle big
enough for a bed and a bookshelf, separated from the others with a canvas curtain. There
are two choices for bathrooms - one is a short walk through -30°F, the other is a plastic
chamber pot. It's actually comfortable enough when you get used to it. When the wind blows
outside, the walls over my bed flap, and I think, "Cool, I'm in a strange tent-like
building at the South Pole!"
The Pole is a crazy place, a place which would be an incredible source of ideas and images
for art work if everyone wasn't working so hard. I have been taking lots of pictures and
even doing a bit of sketching outside, although the cold and the crush of challenging
deadlines make it difficult to stop for too long. All the same, I hope to shoot about ten
rolls of film filled with pictures of lovely, bleak white landscape photos with futuristic
vehicles and buildings. These will be turned into photo CDs and probably eventually
paintings of various sorts. The age of digital photography seems to be upon us; some folks
down here have collected over two thousand pictures that have been taken over the course
of the summer, and I have a CD of these as well. Some of my photos will probably make
their way to the Web eventually; but for now, if you want to see images from a previous
trip, look at the "Other Projects" section of www.johnj.com.
In addition to trying to photograph and sketch and memorize the sights, there is a gym
here which I use every day. The workouts help to adjust to the oxygen deficit and cope
with the stress of working under pressure and in crowded conditions.
In addition to getting a job done, being here is about two things for me. The first is
simply to experience and enjoy an incredibly bizarre place. I'm never sure if I have
landed on another planet or gotten myself in a sci fi film. The other aspect is to
appreciate what I have in my "normal" life. Showers are sharply rationed here -
two showers a week, two minutes each. With few exceptions, fresh fruits and vegetables are
absent. It is a blistering chilly daylight 24 hours a day, and I miss the nighttime.
Finally, there is not much space or time to create things, play and dream. All this is
tolerable for a time - it's nice to know they exist in the real world, and that I'll see
them again soon. Meanwhile, it's fun to watch the sky change by the hour, to notice
patterns in drifting snow, to work hard and get stuff done, and savour the strangeness of
a completely foreign place.
Visit John's web page at: www.johnj.com
Back to top
by Kate MacLaughlin, March 2000
I arrived on Monday, and was picked up at the airport by
two nice American guys who are also volunteering at UPAVIM.* We took a taxi ride out out
out of Guatemala City to where no taxis like to go. It's a squatters' settlement of about
5,000 people, on the edge of a large settlement of about 100,000. It was much colder
than I remembered, but then I got a very warm welcome from the other volunteers with whom
I'll be living (4 women; 2 Danes, a Canadian, and another U.S. American).
I staggered out of bed the next morning for my
"orientation," which basically consisted of the volunteers who are leaving
making a bid for me to take over their projects: English classes or teaching in the
Montessorri Schools. I still don't know what I'm going to do, but because La Esperazanza
is a community were the need for everything is excruciating, I've got my pick. Then I went
on a tour of the three-story building, which has a clinic, a sewing room where women of
the community make crafts to sell, the Montessori school classrooms, and the
"reforzamiento", where there's a tutoring/library hour for the little ones. I
went and read stories, and was completely smothered with affection from these kids who had
never seen me before and who came about up to my waist.
In the afternoon, I got dragged out of the classroom my six
highly energetic kids and was taken on a whirlwind tour of the neighborhood. I had to keep
on curtailing it because I didn't know where it was safe to go. Have I mentioned that the
kids just run wild here? We were winging all over the place, including right past the
roadside that serves as the dump. The six of them were picking through the foul (and I
mean FOUL) smelling stuff to find the odd treasure: gold colored bottle caps, very large
snail shells... I used every fiber in my body to stop myself from dragging them out of
there to the nearest water pump with some anti-bacterial soap.
That night we had dinner at the house of the two Americans
who had picked me up, Ryan and Goyo, who live a few blocks away from UPAVIM.
The first hour was spent playing with the 25-some-odd kids crammed into the four-room
house, and slowly moving them out. I've never felt so much like a jungle gym. We had a
nice lot of pasta with veggies, until we were interupted by Anna, one of the 8 year olds,
knocking on the door. She just wanted to let us know that Pacaya, the volcano about, oh,
10 miles-as-the-crow-flies away, was erupting. We were at a safe distance (I swear,
mummy), and it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
Darn, off to dinner I must go. I'm in Xela now, with a host
family expecting me. Next message: Kate's adventures with Casa Xelaju (for example, her
first day of classes)...
Kate bitten by dog; returns home with tail between
legs
To accomplish my goal of purchasing a guitar ($40, thank
you very much) and getting a lesson, I did not go to the splendiforous hotsprings on my
language school's trip with fellow students. So in the afternoon, I took a bus to the
local and less glamorous hotsprings. I was the only gringa to be seen, which was fun, as I
got to talk to some nice folks (the pastor of the enormous church of Almolonga, the town I
was in, for example). I decided to walk the three miles back to Xela, where I was living.
It was broad daylight, through a fair-sized town, on a very travelled road. Seemed like a
reasonable decision. So I walked past the lovely vistas and half-built houses, signs that
forbade people from dumping their trash and piles of burning garbage, up up up the hill,
and arrived at the top, just the descent to Xela remaining. I walked past a few roosters
and all of a sudden there was an explosion of barking behind me and then a dog attached to
my leg. It then slunk off into the house, and I limped home, somewhat weepily. "To
bite" was a new verb for me, and I had a little trouble with the conjugation. I told
the bus driver that "I bit myself a dog." There was some question as to whether
I'd be able to get the right kind of vaccine in a timely manner, and with the choices of
"overcautious" or "rabies," I opted for the former. I'll be home for a
month, and then back out.
I did enjoy the last few days before the bite, though I
appreciate that this break gives me the opportunity to request a different Spanish teacher
and family. My Spanish teacher took me on errands with her as my first class ("It's a
class in the street! There's so much vocabulary you can learn!") I went to a party given by
yet another school, which was mostly games for the host families' kids and a
"graduation" ceremony for the students. The kids kept on getting prizes of candy
(all I could think was tooth decay); it was ugly when a grown-up squatted down with a bag
of sweets. Like sharks and the scent of blood. And then there was the rendition of
"Blanca Nieves," known to us as Snow White...
So I'm home until early April for a series of shots that
last a month. I had a very scary adventure with Kaiser (it made me wonder why I'd come
home for the medical care). But that, my friends, is another story.
* UPAVIM is Unidas Para Vivir Mejor or
United for a Better Life
Kate is now back in Guatemala doing
health education and general tutoring in a squatter's settlement outside
Guatemala City.
Back to top
Donating Time
by Goody Tushues
"Time is money." I think about it when I forget to pack a lunch and I have
to go buy something from the coffee shop, when in a hurry I forget to pack
a toothbrush for a trip and I have to stop by the drug store to get one. I
have a friend who sends monetary donations rather than helping out at a
local shelter. Given how important money is to non-profit organizations,
it is a better use of his time. He gets paid a lot, so an afternoon spent
tutoring a struggling student would "cost" a lot if he were paid
for the time; so I'm glad that he sends much-needed money. These
organizations need money and time. My friend Alexis
thought she would send money and stop stuffing envelopes; the director
told her that anyone could send money what they really needed was time.
"Which, of course, is what everyone in this world needs. But I
thought about it and realized that even if I did three hours a month it is
worth much more than giving them $25.00 every year."
It makes sense for students to stand in line for the half-price theater
tickets rather than pay full price, but once time in line means hours away
from work, then you realize the value of time. I love that there are ways
to pay with money or with time, that there are discounts for ushering or
helping out at an event in order to attend for free. Alternatives like
that make more opportunities accessible to diverse audiences.
What motivates us to volunteer our time? To look up local or national
organizations that can use some assistance in either organized volunteer
projects or just a helping hand around the office? Different motivations
propel people to offer their services—some need
guilt to pull their strings, others function out of habit or
community-service obligations; some long for
interaction and appreciation for their good deeds, others quietly
contribute and list their names as Anonymous.
People volunteer for charitable work because they like the activity
itself, and because they want to help. While people generally work because
they need the money, many don’t particularly enjoy the work itself--it
seems that only the lucky few earn a decent paycheck and like what
they do. Volunteering means you don’t get paid, so your motives are
different. You can do the work purely for its own sake. It is better to
volunteer out of interest and generosity than out of guilt or obligation,
but plenty of community service requirements help provide the
non-governmental support of society."There are a lot of things God needs me to do." Abbie feels
an obligation to help other people; yet she generally does it because she
enjoys the work itself--that it helps others is why they let her do it.
Alexis points out that "there are always these people
that say “well, someone has to do it” and I just began thinking, yeah
that’s true. Someone does have to do it and if everyone thinks that way
then who is the person that is going to do it? And I thought, guess it is
going to have to be me." But Alexis is going to need some help.
"In these prosperous times the rich don’t come in contact with
the poor, they get stuck in their own little worlds--volunteering lets them get
out, see another side of life."
Volunteering means reaching out beyond yourself, beyond, perhaps, the
world of your daily travels and travails. I love it because it gives me
the opportunity to work with, and for, people I might not otherwise
interact with. It’s not at all doing something for nothing: it is giving
your time for an intangible salary that improves not only your standard of
living, but that of the world nearby. In the context of a soup kitchen or
a domestic violence refuge center, concentrating on the needs of clients
distracts us from the smaller challenges of our own lives. It’s a change
of perspective that sends us back to our daily routine with new insights.
Volunteering gives you the chance to get outside of yourself, to do
something you get no salary for, with people you might not normally work
with. It’s also a subsidizing work force in the private sector, to help
coordinate care at a homeless shelter or set up a fundraising event. The
volunteers I talked with have a desire to help others or to contribute
back to society; though sometimes they participate solely to do the work
for its own sake. Abbie said, "I know I don’t have to do this, but
I want to!" Alexis said that the doesn't necessarily want to spend
nights sleeping at a shelter, but she has to: The world needs deliberate
and regular acts of kindness, not just random ones. The trickle-down
effect of those acts don't always reach the people who really need it.
Of course, volunteers can undermine paid labor--but usually their work
would not be done otherwise because organizations couldn’t’ pay wages
and instead would go without. Abbie does many things that wouldn’t
happen if she didn’t do them, such as painting the walls of the Child
Care Center rooms and hand-making books for her day-care children when
their school closed.
At the Street Meal program at the First Presbyterian Church in
Berkeley, people volunteer to cook, preparing and serving food to hungry
people who line up outside the dining room on the second and last
Saturdays of each month. Various groups go to volunteer, possibly feeling
an obligation to others helping with the program more than to the people
they help. Often friends recruit other friends and can make volunteering a
social activity on many levels. I see some of the people who eat there
around town, on the bus or on the street. Some recognize me, others might
see so many faces that they can't remember individuals out of
context.
My sister got in the habit of volunteering from family and school
activities. She says, "it’s not altruistic, it’s rewarding."
She finds that it is not hard to just donate time, "not giving of
myself." When she doesn’t have volunteer activities going on she
misses that. My great-uncle George is nearly eighty, and he goes out to
home-bound people to deliver Meals
on Wheels. He has the good fortune to have his health and family
support, so he reaches out beyond the boundaries of his world to help
others.
Sometimes volunteering supports more political or other personal
efforts such as Vegan Action, or
people prefer to donate money to public radio or alma maters, sometimes
with corporate matching gifts. The people who volunteer their time often
also donate funds. They believe firmly in the good cause and know the
needs to make it happen and endure. "I thought that it
would make me not feel the necessity of dolling out money to people who
have less than me," Alexis said. "It doesn’t. I guess I
sometimes feel bad for not wanting to go or for not doing more. But I know
deep down that I am doing something that is really important."
Giving time is more intimate and involved than sending a check, though
both are crucial to keep the non-profit world running. Notices on the
buses request time, not money, for "Give a Kid a Hand." [Note: www.giveakidahand.org no longer online.] When Laurie was getting together a birthday party for
her four-year-old daughter, money wouldn’t have come in as handy as a
few people to show up and drive food to the park, set up the streamers and
the princess castle entrance Laurie had made out of a big cardboard box.
Giving time is invaluable, yet it isn’t always enough. In this
country money is a requirement, and many private sector service
organizations need checks and time and energy. Sometimes
contributions to help pay for school mean all the world to a child; in
other situations they most need love and attention at any cost.
Where do you find the time? As James Fallows pointed out, many
Americans "work long hours, are on the phone or in their cars when
not working, largely socialize with those they know from work and are so
desperate to make time for their spouses, children, and friends that they
feel they have very little left over for anyone else."
I know lots of people with busy schedules and lots with time on their
hands. Sometimes they need a little encouragement to make the leap of
attending an event or entering their credit card number on the Red Cross
web site, but everyone feels better for the effort. A friend of mine
admires the dedication of those who serve in the volunteer corps. Perhaps
that admiration will one day add another volunteer to the diverse group of
people who tie knots and fill in the broken or missing threads of society’s
quilt, trying to fill the gaps in a wholesome way. Not everyone has
specific training; some learn openness and generosity as a way of life and
find ways to help make the world a better place.
Links
Alternatives to giving time include giving money and simple things like:
For an interesting read on a related issue, see
The Invisible Poor by James
Fallows in the New York Times Magazine, March 19, 2000. Some quotations appear
in the above article.
Please contact the editor if you have any thoughts on the matter of
volunteering. We warmly solicit your input! --volunteer@irwincourterly.com
Back to top