As some of you know, I haven’t been very active in my Facebook community since November, when my husband Jim and I received his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. But this morning I wanted to share a story with you, and to let you know about a project of mine that could use your help. First I need to backtrack a little, with a story some of you may remember because I shared a part of it here before, a while back. It begins in the fall of 2001—a terrible time in our country, and in a far less terrible way, a challenging one for me personally too. That fall the last of my children had left home, and I was feeling very much alone in the world. Twenty eight years earlier, when I was twenty years old, I’d travelled to Guatemala (not the standard hippie pilgrimage of that era; I had set out on an orchid hunt with a pair of American retirees ). We only spent a single night of that trip at Lake Atitlan, but it was enough to make me fall in love with the place, and vow to return. Twenty eight years later, I did. I rented a little house on the shore of the lake that fall, and settled in to spend the winter on my own there--taking a long swim every morning, working on the novel that turned into The Usual Rules, walking into the village every afternoon to buy my vegetables for the simple little solo dinner Id cook for myself (accompanied by box wine, and followed by a night swim under the stars.) Looking back on this stretch of months, I realize it was among the most beautiful times of my life, but as Christmas rolled round, and I was so totally alone, a rush of memories overtook me. I missed my children--and all the old holiday festivities of home-- pretty achingly. A couple of days before Christmas, I took the boat into the town of Panajachel to do a little shopping. Just groceries, though I bought some candles and flowers and wine in an actual bottle, to celebrate. Then I stopped into the second hand clothing stall in the market , where used clothing (mostly from the US) was piled high. A pair of shoes caught my eye: Red, covered in glitter, the size to fit a very young child. For no good reason, I bought them. (This probably set me back about fifty cents. ) Christmas morning I woke to brilliant sun and a strange silence. No children bouncing on the bed, no Joan Baez Christmas carol album. Just a rooster or two, and the birds outside my window, and the sound of lake water lapping. I took a walk into the village, but the dirt streets were deserted. Most people were home with their families of course. Or in church. On my way home, I spotted a very young child, a little girl, by herself, collecting sticks. Id been living in this village long enough by now to understand, this was no game. She was collecting firewood for her family, bundling it in a hand woven cloth. And piling it on her head. She was barefoot. We got to talking . She told me her name was Rosa, and she was five years old. I studied her feet and knew shed fit the glitter shoes. Now, a person could get arrested in the US for doing this, but its different in Guatemala. I asked Rosa if shed like to walk over to my house . She said she would. When we got there, I took out crayons and paper,and we drew for a while. She wanted to see my bathroom, and spent a long time flushing the toilet over and over. I put the shoes on her feet. A perfect fit. I put on a tape of The Beatles, and Rosa danced around in the shoes for a while, then took them off and wrapped them in her shawl. Too special to wear home. She visited almost every day after that, playing by herself while I sat at my kitchen table, writing my novel. Id give her chalk and let her draw on the stones by herself, A North American child would have needed more entertaining, but she was happy just to be there. Over the years that followed, I bought a house of my own on the shores of that lake,and started coming down there every winter— to write, and swim, and to host my annual memoir workshop that’s taking place again for the fifteenth time, just two weeks from now. And every year, within a day of my arrival, Rosa would show up at my door. As she got older, she brought along her school work to show me. She was a good student—a lover of learning, from the start-- but it was always a question , whether she’d be able to continue her studies, because even the cost of notebooks and paper, and later, a uniform, was more than her family could manage. Rosa was the youngest of five children , and In this town of very poor people, hers was poorer than most. So every year when I came to the lake wed go shopping together and Id set her up with school supplies and (because she loves basketball) a uniform to play in, and good sneakers. And though I witnessed many children dropping of school over the years, Rosa kept at her studies. One thing I have learned from many years of part time living in the little Mayan village of San Marcos is that the presence of well-meaning gringos may do as much harm as good and possibly more. As hard as it is to reconcile my relative wealth--the big house I have at the lake, where I often came alone , and the tiny adobe hut of a family like Rosas, with eight people living in two rooms, and one light bulb and outdoor latrine--it is never a good idea to become the giver of handouts. I learned to give jobs instead. And though some North Americans might find this hard to accept, I hired children too, because that was a way to fund their education. There was a boy Id hire to bring me orchids from the mountain, and a girl who dug up interesting minerals, or gathered firewood. Sometimes, little boys hauled very large rocks to build stone walls. And often, when my arms were full of groceries, Id hire some little boy not much bigger than my grocery basket to help carry my purchases home. (Then Id put them away, and make us a meal.) And every February, when my writing workshop takes place Ive hired young people in the village to help in the kitchen, and serve the meals to my students. Some of them graduated to helping our wonderful chef, Henry. Rosa was one of these. Though Henry speaks almost no Spanish, and the girls who help him speak virtually no English, they somehow manage to figure things out. Mostly, during the workshop week, I’m so focused on the writers I don’t spend much time in the kitchen. But there’s always laughter there, and the sound of Henry’s big voice, calling out instructions, and the girls responding in their Mayan dialect of Catchikel. God only knows how they understand each other but it appears they do. (The writing students always bring down gently used shoes for the children of the village, by the way. Suitcases filled with shoes, in some cases. Children see me coming now and call out Zapatos! And those girls who work in the kitchen greet Henry like a returning hero, now. ) For several years, Rosa always helped out at the workshop. She came over every day, straight from school, and worked till dinner time, when shed run home with a flashlight I gave her , to do her homework by candlelight. Every year, after the workshop, I’d give Rosa money for her schooling, and we’d talk about her studies. One time, I helped her come up with the money to join a class trip to a part of Guatemala known as the Peten, where she saw Mayan ruins made by her ancestors. It is no exaggeration when I say her eyes were full of tears as she described them. A level of wonder present, in her, that is too seldom seen in the children of great privilege, who take so much for granted. I have to tell you here that often, when Ive helped with a young persons education in this village , it hasnt worked out. There are so many things that make it hard for a child to stay in school. They go to school hungry, for one thing. And the quality of the school, for another. Their parents may want them to care for siblings at home. The girls get sidelined by boys, the boys get sidelined by girls. Babies come young in this town. Though Rosa has assured me, every time I ask, that she has no intention of getting a boyfriend until shes thirty. Two years ago, Rosa came to tell me she wouldn’t be able to take her usual kitchen job that February, but for a very good reason. She had enrolled in a pre-medicine program in the town of Panajachel--a half hours boat ride from the village where she has lived all her life. And so a group of us in the pooled their funds to pay for her uniform and supplies, and her tuition, a stethoscope, and a laptop donated by a Facebook friend of mine. Since then, a portion of the money earned from my workshop has been allocated to Rosa’s schoolig. I asked Rosa that day how it was shed managed to overcome so much, to get so far, when so many do not. She said she always knew, even when she was five years old, that she wanted to accomplish something. And in the face of many hard things—including, at times, the disapproval of her family, and the difficulty of living in a tiny rented room away from home to attend classes--she has not wavered from her course. Now comes the part where Im going to ask your help. Rosa will turn 19 this month. She s just one more year away from earning her degree now. But the other day I learned that a number of the people who had been helping out with her tuition and expenses won’t be able to do that this year. Because of my husband Jim’s cancer, this is a hard year for me to take on the cost of Rosa’s education on my own. But I have made her the promise to get her through this year, and I know that we will. The only other time I’ve put out a call like this, it was to rally support for a candidate I wanted to support for a spot in the US Senate (NH) last fall, Jeanne Shaheen. I’m proud to say that friends from this community sent in over a thousand dollars in contributions. So here I am, reaching out once more. The total budget needed, to support Rosa through this final year of her training (including food and housing) comes to just over $4000. So far, I’ve donated a little over $1000 of the proceeds from my upcoming writing workshop to Rosa’s fund. If –reading this—you feel moved to help Rosa complete her medical education, I’ll consider it the best gift a friend or reader of mine could send me. Donations can be made through a group I’ve asked to oversee donations, called Miracles In Action. This means that all your donations are tax deductible. Just be very sure, when you donate, to specify “This is for Joyce Maynard’s Rosa Fund.” (Then just to be sure this happens,send me a note letting me know youve done this.) Ifyou can manage to donate $100 or more, please send me your address, so I can send you a book of mine. Donate $1200, and you can stay at my house on the lake for a week (and I’ll personally oversee arrangements, to make sure you have the most wonderful time.) You can check out my Lake Atitlan house at VRBO #101621. The place is even more beautiful than the pictures convey, by the way. The weathers perfect. The swimming is fantastic. But the best part is the people there. One last observation here: One of the things that is hardest about fighting cancer—or any serious illness, no doubt—is the way it can take over your life, and narrow a person’s horizons for all the other hopes and dreams she once held dear. Over the course of these past two and a half months, Ive been in danger of letting that happen to myself, I know. It’s hard to be the writer I want to be, the friend, the citizen, when so much energy and time is spent battling a tumor. But Jim and I don’t ever want the sum total of our days to be about pancreatic cancer. If we allowed that to happen here, the cancer really would destroy us. And we have no intention of letting that happen. Jim won’t be able to join me at the lake this year, because he’s starting a new and very tough course of chemotherapy next week, and because that’s true, I won’t be staying there long myself: I’ll host my workshop--something I love to do. Then Ill come home to my husband. Meanwhile, sixteen adventuresome women will be exploring their stories. And I will be there to help them get it right. The first picture, below, by the way, shows Rosa and me, on the steps of my house, in 2002, when she was 6. The other picture shows her at around age 9. To donate to the Rosa Education Fund: miraclesinaction.org To learn more about my house, Casa Paloma: vrbo/101621 I wanted to share a photograph of some children (a few of the many) who have been the recipients of our Writers With Shoes giveaway. And finally: The photograph of my dock and the volcano beyond it was taken by Jim. Hell be back there, I know.
Posted on: Wed, 21 Jan 2015 22:10:02 +0000
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