She's Just a Small Town Girl

Living in Bollullos Par del Condado can almost make you forget that there are bigger cities in the world. But I know better. So why did coming to Madrid strike me as utterly demasiado, although riveting?

I arrived in Madrid a few days ago visiting a friend, and en route back home for the holidays. Ideally when traveling, you wanna get an early start on the day, but mine started around 2pm yesterady and today. Shameful? Perhaps, but I plan to come back. There is so much to see. From the museums: Prado, Reina Sofia, Thyssien; to the Plazas, the districts, the royal palace... it goes on and on and on and on...

It's kind of crazy too to be in a "foreign" city and realize you know a couple of people either through like a third party or just people you've known. Apparently dancing in high school and getting a masters in international relations had a lot to do with knowing people who were here. I don't really live for travel books, so I look forward to their suggestions and recommendations, albeit knowing that I'll come to my own conclusions and probably walk an unbeaten path that gets me to an interesting photo or a place even the inhabitants of the city haven't been.

In short, Madrid overwhelmed me in a way that Bollullos could not. I've come to appreciate that I will almost always run into someone I know in Bollullos. It kind of gives you the feeling of small-town stardom. But I'd missed the diversity of the big city. The luxury of not being stared at. The convenience of the metro. Interior heating... need I say more. And yet, I feel a slight nostalgia for Huelva and Andalucia. We'll see if I still feel that way after three weeks at home. Can't wait for Noche Buena, Christmas, and New Years, and at the end of it all returning to Madrid to catch what I missed on this trip from sleeping late and catching up on overdue work.

The Traveling Diaspora

I think I'm obsessed with the Diaspora, but whatever! I may not see it everyday, but when I do I feel closer than ever. Must be the proximity to The Continent.

So, here in Spain, at least in Southern Spain - that Andaluz - there's a tradition that's existed for about two hundred years of burning gamonitas every 7th day of December, the day before the Dia de la Inmaculada. According to my rough spoken Bollullo sources, the tradition started a couple hundred years ago when there was an outbreak of tuberculosis, or el peste, and the people had to burn everything that had or might have been contaminated by the enfermedad. Since then, the costumbre has continued, although with slight variations, namely the burning of gamonitas instead of bodies, clothes, etc. As they burn the long twig-like gamonitas, people sing "gamonita, ita, ita!" and raise the bundle of sticks into the air. Apparently, you're also supposed to make a wish while doing this.

I had a chance to burn not one, but at least three bundles of gamonitas last night - the first of which I burned after a performance by a Ugandan dance group at the Casa de la Cultura. Again, you can imagine my elation at seeing mi gente, and how it tripled after the show when I got to talk to three of the dancer/singers, fluent in English, who are studying at the University, Mekelele, when they're not touring with the group.

I've decided that perhaps the burning of the gamonitas came at a symbolic time. Burning signifying renewal and all. With the crisis hitting home suddenly and muy fuerte in the last couple of days, and other peripecias of Bollullos coming to a head, it seemed like a great time to throw everything que no me cae bien into the fire. And I did. I felt a big relief, although I don't think it solved everything I would've liked it to.

On some level, it was a renewal for me, and my outlook on life in Spain. I'm glad that I'm repeatedly and randomly bombarded by the diaspora, which makes me exceedingly happy every time I see it. I also know that while I grow here and make wishes on gamonitas, I have to stay more connected to the conditions at home, and not forget my sense of individual agency, which will ultimately bring me more power than gamonitas alone.

An exercise in buscando la raza

I have a friend who understands the rarity of me going to the gym. Every time I tell my her I've gone, we both get a little laugh out of it. There was a time when my friends would have been amazed at my willingness to voluntarily go the library as well, but as it turns out I've realized the utility in both institutions.

Earlier this week, I paid for a two week membership (since I'm going home in two weeks for three weeks) and then when I get back I'll resume it. Maybe I fought it off for a while, but after I squatted and heard my favorite skinny jeans rip, I decided maybe... maybe it was time to get back to basics and bajo a couple of pesos.

The first class I went to was squatting intensive, so I decided I'd keep it on the elliptical machine and then, following the instructions of one of the owners, do a little "musculacion" after finishing my forty minutes of cardio. I went yesterday as well, after a full day of regalo shopping in Sevilla. By the time I left, the hair was in a state of obscurity, so I just twisted it again and threw on a scarf. I was planning to go out later, and it was cute, not that the standards are super duper high in Bollullos night life, but I have to represent well for la raza.

Going out on a good night in Bollullos involves not actually needing any money because there are rarely cover charges, you keep running into people you know, and on one of the upsides of machismo, the men are paying. I ended up running into a bunch of people I knew, so it was a good night, plus I got to practice a lot of Spanish, although there's always a couple of people who want to practice their English, on the odd occasion of having found a native English speaker in Bollullos. Basically the night starts at one bar Amadeus or John Lennon, moves to another called Don Pina, and then after that closes moves to another one called Zulu. Several people had asked if I was going to go there, and I asked them why the club was exploiting the nombre de mi gente? I did end up going though, and good thing, because I actually found the diaspora.

On the also rare occasion of seeing la raza in Bollullos, I get very excited. And when I walked into Zulu, I saw no less than four. A record high. With the excuse of having something in common, I'd introduced myself to all of them by the end of the night, which was around 6am, and had even taken a photo - since as my mom reminded me recently, life is all about making memories. Right before my friend saca'd the foto, I had the feeling that this was a really cool moment of seeing the depth of the Diaspora, and of being able to bring people together, since the four guys ended up all meeting each other and shaking hands. It turns out one is from Colombia, another is from Brazil by way of Portugal, and two others are from Maruecos aka Morrocco. I got goosebumps just standing there thinking about it. On the one hand it's amazing, and on another it's frustrating because Spanish is only the native language of one out of five of us. Nonetheless, seeing them all together at once, I thought, maybe this is why I came to Spain?

Even if finding la raza aqui en Bollullos is not necessarily my proposito, it brought me back to whole days spent in the library researching for my thesis on mi gente in Argentina, the Afro-Argentines. As it turns out, I don't mind the library when I'm completely interested in the work I'm doing and when it has some relevance to my own life. In short, although I've only just recently joined the gym, a memorable part of my experience in Spain will be that it was an exercise in patience, in buscando la raza, and in being entirely grateful whenever I got to see them and hear their stories. It may not be such a novelty when I return home where there's as high as percentage nationwide as there are people of color in Bollullos (about 13), but I'll embrace the novelty while I can.

La Accion de Gracias

Celebrating Thanksgiving in Bollullos was a trip! One of the couples whose daughters I tutor was hosting a couple from the United States because their companies work together. Combining their enthusiasm for Thanksgiving with the fact that there are eight other Americans, and an enthusiastic young woman from Ireland, teaching here in Bollullos I asked my tutees mom if we could take over her kitchen for two nights to make Thanksgiving dinner. It turned out really well, with everyone bringing a dish, chicken substituting for turkey, wine from one of the Bollullos bodegas, and a pumpkin pie made entirely from scratch.

I got a little choked up when we went around and said what we were all thankful for, since mine involved not having to cook all of the side dishes alone, not that I mind doing it when I'm home, but it was interesting to see what other people eat for turkey day.

I insisted on a trip to the florist shop for an extra gift to the mom of the family, since it wasn;t enough that we were jsut cooking for her, and I'm glad I did. She gave me an extra strong hug when she saw them and went into girly-surprised-flattered mode.

At the end of the night, we all walked home having made some new memories, and slightly less tired than we might have been without the turkey, cranberry sauce and accompanying football game, but happy nonetheless to have spent the evening pretending we were at home. The next day, I left for Huelva to spend the weekend with friends and ended up watching a basketball game of Huelva Recreativo, which ranks kiiiind of low on the basketball totem pole, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

Fandango Flamenco

So my phone has radio on it. And in those moments where you just want background noise, or to listen in Spanish without having to respond, it's perfect. Score one for the team. Plus, I get to listen to flamenco music all the time because it's always on the radio.

Flamenco is the traditional music and dance of Southern Spain, the gitanos, and I tend to think a mix that also incorporates the strong Moorish influence of centuries past. Each of the provinces of the community of Andalucia has a name for its own style of flamenco; Sevilla has the Sevillana, Malaga the Malaguena, Huelva the Fandango. I'd actually heard of Fandango before I got here - another random tidbit of knowledge that makes me feel like Huelva was not such a random locale for me to have been placed.

Nightlife culture in Bollullos is nothing if not an adventure. Sometimes random, always interesting. Granted its a small town, but that just tends to mean you always run into someone you know. I spent most of last weekend at a bar called John Lennon. Oddly enough the owners don't play a ton of John Lennon or even the Beatles, but that's ok. They're really friendly. They do play Stevie Wonder, though, and occasionally show concerts by Beyonce and J-Lo on the flatscreen above the bar.

The bar's owner's are also strong supporters of the flamenco singing tradition. So the scene I witnessed last night and a couple of times last weekend with a table of five or more people, one playing the guitar, another one or two singing intermittently, was totally normal. I listened to a restaurant owner as he described the distinctions between Fandango and other styles of Flamenco, and proceeded to ask him why he wasn't singing. By the time I left, he was. Along with a larger man with a huge mustache. It's pretty cool to watch a tradition coming to life. I'm working on getting the clapping rhythm together, I mean, I'm not super struggling, but it is highly irregular. And I don't quite know how the singers undulate their voices, or if the words are made up or from an older song, but uh, suffice to say I'll be back to John Lennon, and working my way towards that table.

Valoracion

How do we ever know our worth? I'm not saying it's normal, or that it's extraordinary, but when you get used to having people around that can speak in two languages, sometimes more, it's easy to take it for granted. But every once in a while something happens to make you realize your worth, or in this case, your valoracion.

I had the opportunity today to be a translator, which made me feel like kind of a big deal, if only for a few hours. I hardly slept last night, but it's the first time in a couple of weeks that I've woken up without delay, anticipating a challenge of a different variety than the classroom. I ended up translating for a company near Bollullos and there was some talk of valoracion, the appraisal or assessment, of the company's worth, taking into account its present condition and the capacity for future expansion and growth.

As I was summarizing the whole ordeal to my dad over a sketchy skype connection, and talking about how I like having specific goals, but a lot of creative freedom, he told me that I am perhaps better suited to working in a less structured environment. Can we say freelance? Well, I kind of like structure, but not so much routine. Needless to say, I have goals even if my path is somewhat of a labyrinth; I like change, even though it often overwhelms me. I don't like roller coasters, but it would seem as if I live for a thrill. Since 2004, I've lived in two cities, a town, and now a pueblo.

Talking to my dad on the phone, I think I might have learned a little bit more about myself, or at least that other people know more about me than I do. Either way, now I know too, right? I think my own self-valoracion went up a little bit today. I love a good challenge, especially one that helps me to figure myself out.

In my lifetime, still choked up

I went to the "campo" today with my church-folk and saw a part of Bollullos that made the little pueblo look like New York City. It was pretty cool. Food, nice people, more food, scenic views of Bollullos, trees, grass (which is rare here), futbol, and a couple of photo opps for my old school Pentax. I had a couple of nostalgic moments, and ended up talking to a woman from Bolivia, who's here with her daughter, about politics in her country. Interestingly enough, we can bond over some of the same stuff from being far from home, to having revolutionary presidents. Although, I'm hoping that mine retains a way higher approval rating that Evo Morales.

Between talking and sacando fotos, another member of my evangelist church asked me if I wanted a piece of chocolate. I'm overly self-aware these days, and I wondered if there was a joke I was missing about skin color. As it turns out, he remembered that I liked the chocolate cake his wife made last time we had a church gathering and was offering me some more. I am down for the brown.

And I'm not the only one. As it turns out, my country is down for the brown as well. On Wednesday, November 5th I woke up at 7:30am. The election, as I later found out, had been called 2.5 hours earlier, at 11pm EST. I'd heard a lot of projections on Spanish TV and on the internet news but the suspense was still ridiculous, and I went to bed to avoid the anxiety of knowing if, when, and where Obama might be winning.

The first article I read when I turned on my computer, "Obama Wins Election" sent me into complete shock. It happened in my lifetime. I wish I could've been home to celebrate something bigger than a new year. It's been a while since a candidate I was actually rooting for has won the presidency. More than that, I guess part of me was afraid that after all the positive speculation, people would somehow vote the other way when they went to the polls. So it took a while for the dead silence I felt inside my being to subside and make its way into tears.

I walked in to my school on November 5th, and the first greeting I heard was "estas contenta?" I thought maybe someone had put a word out that I was unhappy with being in Bollullos... and then she said "con Obama?" I cheesed, I'm not even sure I got any words out. It's great that Spaniards were and are rooting for Obama, although something in me misses the kinship there. I appreciate that they're supportive though, seeing as he is the leader of the "free world" and all. It makes sense. When they ask me if I'm happy about the results, I know it's only partly because I'm American. The other part of me that's African-American is of course prouder, still in shock, still tearing up when I watch stuff like his acceptance speech. I think I'm going to bookmark it in Mozilla...

Miralo: President-Elect Barack Obama in Chicago:
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jll5baCAaQU&feature=related)

It's amazing. I dare anyone to call me negra again with anything but the utmost intentions. I'm walking a little taller now and still wearing my stunner shades in the streets so that when the "Bollulleros" stare they'll think I'm famous, and it'll eventually hit them that black people are insanely and ridiculously amazing. I already knew.

I'm excited! It's election day in the United States, and even though I'm kinda far away, my absentee ballot is in and my friends are working hard around the midwest to continue campaigning. It's hard to believe that by the end of the day this will all be decided, well the counting might take longer, but you know...? CRAZY.

Anyhow, I'll be following the polls from the internet, and watching from my the television in our house here in Bollullos. I'm soooo excited, a little nervous. I think the expression is me ponga nerviosa. But whatever happens, there will be change right? Another big part of being abroad is realizing how much one country influences another. So at the end of the day, I hope mine takes this moment to set a momentous precedent!

OBAMA!

Viajando. Un mensaje de Cordoba

Traveling is, as i expected, one of the most fun and exciting parts of being abroad.

Right now, I´m in Cordoba taking in the famous and lesser reknowned sights and taking lots of pictures with my old school Pentax. So far, I´ve checked off stuff on my list from the Mezquita and Alcazar to the Roman ruins, Puente Romano, Plaza de Tendillas and de Potros, and finding little callejas, the Ciudad Jardin area, tapas, and the Plaza de Correderos.

One of my favorite parts was seeing the Alcazar earlier. It´s a huge building, not quite as big as the Mezquita, but sectioned off into different rooms. The view of the Guadalquivir River from the towers was amazing. Then in the gardens in the back, there´s a sculpture of Christopher Colombus asking Isabel and Ferdinand for funding to his voyage to the Americas. I don´t know if that was before or after they rejected to fund it and he´d started to go to France to ask for help. But in the end, obviously they helped him out.

Anyhow, the sculture is pretty cool, but I really also liked the bushes around it, they were huuuuge, not wide, but just very tall and have been there for soooo long. I tried to get a picture of the King and Queen with Colon, so I hope it came out well. I´m not working with a digital over here, so I really won´t know until I get it developed, which I might try to do in Bollullos, although I´m notorious for not ever developing my pictures...

Manana, regresamos a Bollullos Parrrr del Condado. Yo he gustaba mucho a Cordoba, la historia de este sitio, la comida, y la gente (quien, yo creo, miran en mi cara un poquito menos que los viejos de Bollullos). Doy verguenza que a mi, me gusta mucho el vino tinto, los calamares, y el pan. No quiero ganar mucho pesos, pero parece que no puedo evitar el pan. Pero bueno, estoy comiendo. Nuestro camarero nos dijo donde salian la gente joven por la noche. Pues despues es posible que vayamos a salir... quizas. Bueno. No he escrito mucho en espanol, y probablemente eso es muy mal, pero no importa. Me voy a tomar una siesta, porque si vamos a salir, necesito prepararme.

Happy Place

La vida esta mejorando:) i have a random entry though, to help my third graders learn about living things... just want to see if it works

src="http://www.bbc.co.uk/schools/ks2bitesize/blogs/shell.swf"

http://www.bbc.co.uk/schools/ks2bitesize/science/activities/plants_animals.shtml

Vista

It looks pretty interesting from here, but every once in a while, I think to myself... eight months?

Anyhow, let the travels begin - this weekend Cordoba. I realize all the pictures that need to be taken are already online, but I'll go ahead and take some more, for the sake of being a dedicated tourist.

We're teaching the five senses (los cinco sentidos) in the bilingual classes this week; oido, olfacto, tacto, gusto, and vista. Vista is sight. This picture, a view/vista from a Bollullera street, leads up to the tower of the biggest church in town - la Iglesia Parroquial Santiago Apostol. The streets do seriously look like this, although this is an older section of town. And by old, I mean older than the United States. From what I've been told, the Moors built the streets very narrow so there'd be more shade and to keep it cooler inside during the hot Andaluz days. Good thinking. It was eighty degrees two days ago, and in summer, it's well over 100 on a regular basis. Craziness. Lots of history though, which is a definite plus.

Culture Shock?

I'm thinking of silently avoiding extra-iglesia activities so my life doesn't turn into the movie Saved.

I'm Baptist, and I think the church I'm going to here may be giving me a skewed perspective of Evangelists. Not the ministry or the people, so much as a few people's strict perceptions of what is right and wrong. But I shouldn't let a few spoil the whole church. Maybe I'm just taking things personally. I do that sometimes.

In the interest of keeping my life on track, I'm trying to stay religiously active for the next eight months. The Catholic Church seemed a little too distant, but I wasn't expecting to be judged by the Evangelist one. What the heck does Evangelist mean anyway? I thought I knew, but maybe in my mind I just relegated it to televised ministries and mega-churches in the Bible belt of the South.

Basically, Church and the people in it have never been my whole life. I really like going but I'm not one to go to all the activities, although I usually mean to attend more. I've been to church with my friends before, but I've always had friends outside of it who balanced my life out with a bit of debauchery and non-church related fun. So, I believe, but I also leave; when the sermon's over, I feel like I may have gotten some questions answered, and have some more reading to do, but it usually doesn't leave me feeling bad about myself or permeating everything that I do. other than trying to be a good person. Still, I'm not used to having friendly neighbors who check in to make sure I'm going to this birthday or that one, or to see if I want a ride to church, or if I want to walk there with them. I don't so mind so much the invitations to lunch or dinner after the service, and people telling me to let them know if I need anything, that's all great. I really appreciate it.

On the other hand, I occasionally feel like I'm being punked when social gatherings always end with Christian video watching; when I get asked after going to a concert whether or not the artist was Christian... I don't know...? Neither am I used to people telling me that there's nothing positive going on in the club, just a bunch of drunken people ready to fight, or looking at me funny when I say that's where I'm headed. I feel like I'm being judged on a regular basis by people who haven't gotten out that much, and to be honest, I don't even know why I'm still listening. Listening gives their arguments more strength and makes me feel like I'm somehow more a sinner than they are. Not like I'm serving a different God than them, but I guess I've been feeling like where in the world did they come from with all this judgment that I don't even get in my own church or from my own family?

Anyhow, I've learned that anyone who makes me feel bad about who I am is no one I want to associate with. At least there are just a few, the rest are pretty cool, but who knows. Once they start talking it may be just as bad. Alas, Bollullos. Debating whether this should be lumped in with culture shock or Punk'd...

Kids: from El Ratoncito to Negritude

Kids perpetuate the things that they hear and see, from good to bad to ugly. From the the mystical Ratoncito Perez (the Spanish equivalent of the Tooth Fairy) to the most irrelevant and unsolicited insults. They've gotten it all from somewhere. I just wonder, first of all whose idea the rat was; and second of all, where and at what point in time calling somebody black became a bad thing?

They call him El Ratoncito Perez - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=le0BswMXIBc. And he is indeed a rat. I don't personally, but there are a ton of young children in Spain who get rather animated at the idea of a little rodent giving them gifts after loosing their baby teeth. They smile at the thought of the creepy crawler coming into their room and bringing them money and other regalos in the night, but I don't personally get excited about a little beast scratching up my sheets and giving me coins as a replacement gift.

On the bright side, topics like El Ratoncito are the norm as I pick up harto (a great deal of) vocabulary from the under 9 crowd: from pedo (fart) to calbo (bald) and and lots of other good and not so innocent vocab from the young adults of Bollullos. (I had to explain to one of my teachers that "rubber" is not the American English equivalent of eraser... that's only in the UK.)

There are indeed some young adults here, or I think I might go crazy. I'm thinking about doing intercambios to meet more peeople. I'm also in the process of signing up for a dance class, another social endeavor, to learn flamenco, a bright spot in the culturally synchretic history of Andalucia. It should be cool... if it ever starts. The class is offered at the Casa de la Cultura about a block away from the primary school (colegio) where I teach. I went in today, again, to check on the horario and see if they'd set a schedule for classes yet, but they're still having meetings to decide.

As I was leaving, I saw three little kids from my school, one of whom is in my class. I was saying hello, and then realized they were saying more than hello back to me. The little girl who's in my class said that one of the boys was trying to insult me by calling me negra. Why... (sigh). So I told him, in short, it's not an insult if I am (jackass). I mean, you could call me morena, but that's almost like an admission that calling me black is indeed an insult or somehow bad. The girl later explained that negra is an insult because you use it to say, for example, your hand is "black and ugly", but, I told her, my hand is black and beautiful. So boo-yah.

It was kind of disappointing in retrospect because these are some of the browner kids in the school in comparison to some of their whiter-looking classmates. On top of that, I wasn't expecting to be insulted by my students. As if it weren't enough already to get the stare down on a regular basis, and have some people continue the stare down even after I've said "hola!" with an attack of the smiley face... now I have to wonder what the kids are calling me? Is this a joke?

I think I corrected the problem as best I could. Although, I hope they won't ever think to insult anyone else ever by calling them a word that should never have a bad connotation. They might come up with new insults, but I was pretty nice to them, so why would they need to? Plus, having embraced the concept of negra as less of an insult than a fact and a complementary one at that, they can't really use it against me. My goal was to take the power out of the insult. I did, however, find myself walking away wondering how with so many black people in the world, por todas partes, we somehow allowed any type of insult involving our color to be perpetuated. Where did this hateration come from in the first place?

I'll keep my head up. Sube, it means sooooo much. Hopefully working with kids, I'll leave a greater impression than even I can recognize right now. I may not understand the excitement of El Ratoncito, but I hope they can at least begin to comprehend that black is beautiful, rare in some parts of the world perhaps, but for sure nothing to be insulted or used derogatorily.

Subir

at long last, a blog...

i tutor two girls, 4 and 5 year olds, five days a week. sometimes we take a walk after class and end up getting coffee or watching the girls skate around near the cafe. on the walks there and back, their mom usually says "sube" or "coche" when the girls are in the street and a car is coming, meaning she wants them to go up onto the sidewalk so the car can get by on the narrow streets, and so the girls don't get hurt. when i looked up the word, i realized there was a lot more to it. the actual verb, subir, can also mean: to rise up, to go up, climb, be promoted... i thought it was an appropriate title for my blog since a lot of being in spain and learning to live abroad is staying on your toes, staying "up", going "up", coming "up". staying on top, whether it be of your life or your surroundings.

anyhow, not a whole lot to say at the moment, still working on adding some nicer touches to the page, but i just thought i'd give a little explanation of the blog name. bollullos par del condado (huelva), espana seemed too predictable, considering that's where i'm living and teaching. hopefully, with this blog, i'll be able to post a few pictures, add some background music, and document my travels over the next months. i've almost been here for a full month already, and i'm just beginning the travels, so it was now or never with the blog idea.

entertainment awaits...