Life and Death

Life is passing. 

Scurrying and whizzing.

Like a buzz that flies out the window. 

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The imminence of death struck me today, without the death of anyone intimately close.

Other realizations came, too. They came and calmly whispered to me on a slow-moving Sunday. 

And now I’m going to share.

I’m going to write to you what was whispered to me.

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Stan Musial and Tamar Kaplan. 

Do you know these names?

They are names I want to hug. 

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Stan the Man, you probably know. He was a baseball legend, and more importantly to St. Louis, he was a symbol of Cardinal culture. Faithful and loyal - to his city, to his team, and to his family. The great commentator, Bob Costas, says that he was just “a genuinely decent guy.”

But there was no mourning here in Ecuador, only a pensiveness that led me to think.

And then reflect.

And then go about my day.

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Unlike Stan Musial, however, I danced with Tamar Kaplan. 

In fact, she was the first girl that I danced Salsa with in Ecuador. I remember it clearly - the Salsa Studio, the Plaza Foch, the life and movement of happy Americans in downtown South America. We danced all night, quite energetically, quite terribly. 

At that point in my Salsa career, I was better at eating it than dancing to it. And Tamar, well . . . I think it's a good indication that she thought I was amazing.

Tamar, like all pigeon-toed people, was hilarious. I remember her singing Flo-rida's "Apple Bottom Jeans" on a bus at 1:00 A.M. I remember her unashamedly falling asleep at a restaurant, with her forehead stamped directly onto her unserved plate. I remember her confidence, her bubbliness, her unmistakable presence in groups.

All these things made Tamar's death particularly difficult to understand and accept.

The newspaper read:

“On January 6, 2013, just before midnight, CMC junior Tamar Kaplan passed away due to injuries resulting from a car accident while traveling in Bolivia. Kaplan and her close friend and classmate, Haley Patoski ’14, were touring Bolivia in a Land Rover after their semesters abroad when they got into an accident that left Kaplan in critical condition.”

“Late on January 6, Kaplan’s family released the following journal entry by way of the CaringBridge website: “Dear Friends, Tamar never regained consciousness, and passed away peacefully just before midnight on January 6th. Her dad was with her. Thank you for all your support and love, Maya, Danny, Liat, and Netta.”

This photo was taken on my birthday, in Canoa, a beach city in Ecuador. Tamar (pink jacket) is third from the right in the back row. Glued to her side is her best friend, Claire Ryan (white shirt),

What does Tamar’s death mean?

Does it even have a meaning?

Does it have to mean anything?

I keep coming back to the fact that I knew her. We weren’t best friends, but I knew her. One of the smiliest study abroad students that I knew died in a freak accident in South America.

It felt like death sat down next to me.

Like it crossed its legs.

Like it had made itself comfortable. 

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Katerina and Maria.

Do you know these names?

They are names I want to hug and kiss. 

I don't know what Stan Musial's death means, much less Tamar's, but the pain of their loss has brought great urgency to life here. To put away the unimportant stuff and live as I should. To love my new Ecuadorian neighbors and enjoy every minute with my new host family.

And most importantly.
Most obviously.
To cultivate an appreciation for the people that I love at home. 

To my family and friends: I miss you.

Thanks for reading. 

No more blogging

I feel slightly disconnected with things that I care about and people that I love, so I've decided that my next post will be my last.

Life is too exciting right now. Too many things are happening. So to quickly share:

- I have a job teaching in a language institute. It has been wonderful experience thus far, teaching the Ecuadorians how to pronounce "strawberry." They also find "Holy Cow!" and "Hold your horses!" to be quite funny expressions.

- I have 17 credits, in Spanish. Some days, I question that decision. But most days, I absolutely love it. With four literature classes in Spanish (and a fifth education class), I couldn't be happier about the progress of my Spanish skills, not to mention all the opportunities that I have to read and write in a new language.

- I have 50 hours of community service yet to complete. Right now, there's a gap between my life and the normal, poorer Ecuadorian life. I'm looking forward to heading back to a nearby Parish to help a few malnourished youngsters do their homework.

- I have new friends. From Europe, from America, from Ecuador. Relationships that I care about. A new host family that I want to get to know. New students to share life with. A crazy but good-hearted New Mexican companion whose friendship means a lot to me.

- I have plans to travel, more and more. To more beaches and hopefully at some point, the Amazon jungle (if Andrea can get it planned!).



But with all that being said, as I delve ever-more deeply into this study abroad experience, I know that many of these experiences will pass. My home will change again. And most of all, my best friends will no longer sit on a computer screen, next to a blue Skype cloud.

They will be real again. My tangible and palpable friends.

So I'm adjusting a bit.
I need to be here in Ecuador, and home, in conversation and in prayer.

Written reflections over Christmas

Not my Chinese family, per say, but I would say that my best,
most intimate moments over break came with my 4-year-old
 cousin, Fabrizio, and my 82-year-old grandfather, Papapa.

Written reflections - December 25, 2012 - Lima, Peru

What a gift, what a treat!

Christmas Eve with my Chinese family, my real Chinese family. It used to be a joke - my 12.5% of Chinese heritage. But not anymore!

I shook Chinese hands.
I kissed Chinese cheeks.

I know them now.
The Li family.
My family.

My Father, a pitcher of Pilsner,
and a Peru vs. Ecuador soccer match.

Written Reflections - December 27, 2012 - In a car in Peru

Time.

Time to not worry about time.

It's been a beautiful rest, this vacation. I would gift all 7 billion people on earth this sort of rest, if I could.

Written reflections - December 30, 2012 - A beach in Peru

During this evening’s sunset, I listened to Rascal Flatts. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated country music so much as I did today. It was weird - the pure enjoyment that I found. 

Host family from last semester:
Marcos, Emilia, Jose Tomás and I, Mamá, Dad

But was it really? 

Was it really weird?

I miss that country twang, the Carrollton piece of me.

Culturally speaking, country music represents America to me - the overt yet hidden cultural piece of me that I don’t understand. My time in Ecuador and Peru has opened my eyes to my own cultural identity.

My eyes are open, but I still don’t know what I see when I look at myself.

Jarret, a dear friend, invited us for dinner at his place.
Cesar (left) and Carol (middle) are my new host parents.

An American? 

A Peruvian? 

An Ecuadorian? 
A Lutheran?

It’s just complicated. 

I fit best in Lutheran circles, but I am realizing that I no longer will fit perfectly into any box. Because slowly, surely, I am becoming Latino. 

But Lutheran and Latino don’t fit!

Salsa songs aren’t found in hymnals. 

Ají de gallina doesn’t taste like roast beef.

Soccer connects my two worlds, but in my 21 years of existence the two worlds have never felt very connected. The Peruvian, Ecuadorian side of me has always felt like the different, undiscovered part of me, whereas the Lutheran side has always represented steadfast relationships, faithful love for my family, commitment to ideals, and ultimately, a devotion to God. 

How does these two worlds mix? Or is it three? Four?

It’s so murky. 
Fuzzy, at best. 

But that’s a good study abroad experience for you.

It's a wrestling match between you and yourself. 

And other things too, like cliff jumping...

The Thief with No Manners

Shopping malls tend to bore me,
 but this night was anything but boring.

--------------- Good ice cream in a dangerous mall

You weren’t there.

In Lima, Peru. In Jockey Plaza, the pride and joy of Peruvian shopping malls. In the food court, sampling different gelatos, gelatos with foreign, mouthwatering names that no one pronounces properly.

You weren’t there. So I won’t get into details about the deliciously tangy taste of the maracuya ice cream that was perfectly placed on my crispy, chocolate cone. Willy Wonka would have used the word scrumdiddlyumptious. But he wasn’t there, just like you weren’t there. No one was there really, no one I knew at least.

And that’s good!

It’s actually really good. Because you would have witnessed a terrifying robbery. I was ticked, and you would have been as well. Shock and sadness would have been yours. The bitter taste of injustice would have been stuck to the top of your tongue. And a night that was once a treat, a night that was once a sweet memory in a bagful of goodies, it would have quickly turned sour. You would have vomited.

You would have hated Peruvian ice cream forever.

--------------- The thief

The thievery of the thief was conventional. He lacked courtesy and respect and kidness and all those sorts of things. He didn’t say please before he snatched away my green, pea-colored, Nike pullover. He just took it, without a second thought.

Needless to say, I thought I’d teach this little crook a lesson. Why? Well, he was a thief with no manners. More importantly, he was a Peruvian with no manners, and that my dear readers, is an unacceptable paradox. Something had to be done.

So prepare yourselves, because the ensuing chase will be told for years. Most Peruvian tales include either a robber, a pick-pocket, or some sort of incredible heist. Add a defiant, American gringo and a shopping mall-sized audience, and you have yourself quite the spectacle.

And that it was, an epic spectacle.

--------------- The decision

My best friend John Fernandez popped into my brain with a bit of unexpected advice. “You’re still in your prime, Sito. Go get him.” I hesitated to oblige. Was it worth it to hunt down this Peruvian grinch? After all, he wasn’t after Christmas - it was just a green pullover!

But I had been waiting for this moment. Numerous times on Skype I had jokingly, but not that jokingly, boasted to my friends and family that I was yet to have gotten robbed. It was a declaration of pride, really, proof that I could survive in a place unforgiving to outsiders.

And I didn’t want to give that up.

--------------- The Chase

Quickly, furiously, my unstreched, athletic legs sprang to life as if I never took a two year sabbatical from soccer. Adrenaline pumped. Legs moved. A certain, athletic confidence began to return to the bones of my body. And I flew.

Yet as I flew, I quickly learned a very important lesson myself; determination, quickness, athleticism - these things mean very little when you realize that your opponent is a swindler. 

Whatever advantage I had in speed, the thief made up for in his slyness. His stealthy movement was wickedly unfair but undeniably graceful, whereas I could only run into poles and bump into people. He ran me in circles. The situation was hopeless. Crude reality set in. I was simply no match for the thief with no manners.

Trickery laughed.

But it did not win, though it really should have. Let it be known that trickery has a horrible, ominous connection with cockiness. And cockiness, well you know about cockiness, it has many ugly relatives.

Upon seeing the large distance between the two of us, the tricky Peruvian got cocky, and he proceeded to do something so utterly astonishing that I nearly tripped over my own two feet.

He smirked at me.

And oh what a smirk it was.

This look, this distinctly Peruvian smirk, it absolutely irked me to the core. To steal and to mock? What nerve! I couldn't believe my eyes. It’s like he wanted to say, “Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me. I’m the gingerbread man.”

And so it happened. The gingerbread thief taunted, and I was provoked. 

I would finish this chase once and for all. 

--------------- The Capture

I eventually caught the gingerbread thief. It was an easy catch in all reality. I sped up a bit and decided to avoid the next few poles as opposed to running into to them. The thief had tired of smirking so seriously, and I had tired of chasing for so long.

So we called it a night. I closed in on the thief, and I opened my arms to wrap him up. But before I could, the thief jumped into my arms. I admit that it was a wildly strange feeling, to look down at a thief utterly delighted to be in my arms. But so it was. Fits of laughter controlled him like a disease, and I knew, deep down I knew, that all along, this thief just wanted somebody to chase him.

I smiled.

And just like that, Fabrizio, the little crook, Fabrizio, the little thief with bad manners, Fabrizio, my four-year old cousin, avoided what was sure to be a boring night at the mall.

From there, the thief and I returned to our melting, maracuya ice cream, but we would not return to reality.

Continuing our game of pretend seemed like a much better option.

Stories

A relatively spacious ride on Quito's Ecovia Bus Line.

For the first time in my life, I’ve had to use public transportation for something other than getting to a Rams game. I know, I know, it’s pretty pathetic, but better late than never, right? I had to become a big boy someday. 

And in my big-boy experience of taking the bus every day, my stereotypes before arriving have changed to real stories about real people. Instead of meeting pick-pocket masters, I’ve begun to get to know the average Quiteño.

Each day, I ride at least two buses, and on each bus ride, I sit and observe these Ecuadorian people. I listen to them. I empathize with them. I put myself in their shoes. And in the process, we become a part of each other’s story. 

So, I invite you. Hop on the bus with me for a few minutes. Come meet the beautiful people of Quito, Ecuador.  

Experience 1: Life Through His Eyes

Messi and Ronaldo. Xavi and Xabi Alonso. Tarzan Puyol and the murderer Pepe. 

The names raced through my head - I was ready to get home. I was ready for the world to pause with me for the next two hours and embrace what is undoubtedly the biggest soccer rivalry in the world, Barcelona vs. Real Madrid. 

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could distract me from this game.....except...maybe....

A person.

He wore weird, dark shades and sang poorly. Very poorly. I wasn’t too interested in really paying attention to this young man . . . so I tuned him out, and I entered my own world again . . . until . . . 

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. 

He was done singing. He shuffled his feet slowly and approached my end of the bus, bumping into seats and rails as if he were drunk. 

It all seemed very weird to me. I thought to myself, “What is this man’s deal?” I couldn’t quite understand how this guy could possibly think that his atrocious singing and drunken trotting could possibly warrant any donation.

But things became clear as he methodically got nearer and nearer. With every step he took, I stared more intently. I completely forgot about the soccer game and became completely focused on this man. What’s he doing? Why does he have a walking stick?

And then it hit me. This man is blind.  

People give you new perspectives.

Yet the blind man didn’t wait for me to understand. No, he was busy surviving. He was busy begging for his lunch. Some people gave him a few cents. Some didn’t. He continued on. He drew near. He walked right towards me.

And the next few seconds seemed to last an eternity.

Though blind, he knew I was standing right in front of him. I don’t know how, but he sensed that I was there, standing in his presence. And he looked at me. Even though he couldn’t see, he looked right at me.

Then he said it - “por favor.” 

And that’s all that he said - “por favor.”  His please left me paralyzed. My eyes locked with his sunglasses. He waited. I hesitated. And our encounter was over.

As I walked home that day, I was shaken and confused.  Why didn't I give him money? Where is his family? Who abandoned this man?

I didn't have any answers - I just knew that I was going home to watch a soccer game...and that he would never watch a soccer game in his life.

Experience 2: Beating the system

The Ecuadorian youth are wonderful.
But they are sneaky too..

He was only 11, but he knew exactly what he was doing. With a deep breath and a small smirk, the young boy began to allure his audience..

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” the boy squeaked in his high-pitched 11-year old voice. “Unfortunately, I can’t be in school at this point in my life, so I’m here with you today. I don’t want to bother you, so please excuse me - I am going to sing a little song for you. If you enjoy it and can spare a little change, I would really appreciate it. God will pay you back.”

The kids here really know how to tug on your heart strings. He played the God card. He wore raggedy old clothes. He had a little dirt on his face. But his teeth were pretty white. I wasn’t sure if he was really poor or not . . . after all, he had enough money to buy a little speaker to play his beat. 

It was a “50 Cent” instrumental; he was one of the many rappers that I adored in grade school with my best friend Zak Caldwell. I got sentimental for a second and smirked as well. 50 Cent in Ecuador? I don’t mind. 

Of course, 50 Cent didn’t start rapping; the little kid did. And he was simply incredible. It seemed like the most unchallenging thing he had ever done. It came naturally, effortlessly, intuitively. After three minutes of listening to this little boy, I was thoroughly impressed. . . 

But something seemed very odd about his demeanor. He rapped well, but he didn’t even look at his audience. He was good, but he wasn’t even trying. 

He stared out the window, looking for something or someone. It was like the kid thought that the taxi driver in the next lane was going to be the one dropping a coin in his hand.  

But I was that person. I was the one with his money. I was the one digging through my pocked for a 50 cent coin in gratitude for his 50 Cent rap, not the taxi driver! 

What in the world is he looking at?

But his rap then ended, and he went about collecting his money. Now I’ve seen guitar players, singers, and heck, even bands that have tried their trade on the buses...but this little man was the one that took the prize. 

Finally, he got to the back of the bus. He grabbed my 50 cents, muttered a small gracias, and stepped off with a handful of coins. 

And waiting for him near the bus behind me was his 11 year old friend. They embraced, with mini-stereos in one hand and a stockpile of nickels, dimes, and quarters in the other. 

At only the age of 11, they were probably the most crafty bus performers that I had seen in all of Quito. They were skilled. They were smart. They were savvy.

And they knew how to work the system, 50 Cent at a time...

Experience 3: A Mother’s Life

I remember her eyes more than anything. She stared bleakly out of the window into the dimly lit streets of Quito that are so often unfair to the people that walk them. Her eyes told a story that must have been painful. Perhaps it was marked by injustice. Maybe abandonment. Possibly rape. I have no idea what her experience is, but I do know that she was suffering in that moment.

She looked hopeless.

"A mother who is really a mother is never free."
- Honore de Balzac

This woman that I encountered, she sucked the joy right out of me. It was so weird...but so contagious. Like a young boy that is paralyzed at his grandfather’s funeral, I was mesmerized by this woman’s quiet despair. In contrast to all the bored, tired people that surrounded us, this woman was absolutely demoralized.

But blessed are those who mourn. I repeated it to myself over and over - Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are those mourn. I whispered it unceasingly. It seemed like the most pertinent sentence that I could think of. You made a promise, God. Keep it.  

I continued to stare at her, and she continued to stare into the darkness of the night. In that moment, it seemed like that’s how the rest of the bus ride would go, with both of us wondering about the depth of life’s pain. 

However, that’s not how it went, not at all. Our eyes were gently pulled away by the sound of a hiccup.  It was the sound of a content baby. Her baby. Her content, hiccuping baby.

I smiled. 

But she didn’t. 

And so I was left to wonder. I wondered if the baby might be part of the pain in her life, if maybe she was struggling to make ends meet, if perhaps breastfeeding in public was just too embarrassing...

As the lonely mother pulled down her shirt to cover her breast, the world smacked me in the face. It can be so cruel. But it undoubtedly had already beaten her down with a cruelty that I simply do not know. All I knew in that moment was that her pain was real. 

Who will meet this woman in her pain? Who will incarnate in her life? Who will weep with her? Will anyone have the guts to come sit by her during the lonely bus rides?

She needs an answer today. 

Comfortable

Smack dab in the middle of Quito, Ecuador, there is a small hill, and on top of that hill, there is a not so small statue of The Virgin of Quito. 

She faces the North side of Quito - the good side, the rich side, the nicer side of this divided city. And she extends her right hand over that sector of the city, almost as if to give it her blessing. From the South, however, all you see is the Virgin’s back. There is no right hand. No blessing. No nothing.

The Virgin of Quito from the North.

In Northern Quito, you don’t pay attention to the poor. You pay tribute to the powerful. 

Here, money is God and comfort is supreme. 

And unfortunately, Northern Quito and Sito Sasieta have something in common - I really like to be comfortable too. Bruno Mars sings “the lazy song,” and I sing right along with him. Kanye West  “welcomes me to the good life,” and I walk right in. 

It's foolish.

I’ve been too comfortable. And if Northern Quito is comfortable at the expense of Southern Quito, who or what is at the expense of my cushy life?

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According to a survey done by ex-NFL lineman, Joe Erhmann, there are three particular things that the elderly regret not doing, things they wish they had done but never did.

1: Not leaving a legacy

2: Not taking time for reflection

3: Not taking more risks

Ladies and gentlemen, 90 year-olds are begging for you to take more risks! The elderly don’t wish they had a safer, easier life where they spent more time watching The Wizard of Oz with a bag of potato chips. Just the opposite, they said life was too comfortable. 

Just consider the people that we look up to. Martin Luther King Jr. was thrown in jail for insisting on justice. Mother Teresa lived in dirty slums and insisted on feeding the poor. Simon Peter got crucified upside down for insisting on following Christ.

Mother Teresa wasn't concerned about pedicures or Nike sneakers.

Clearly they didn’t get the memo. Misunderstood, they marched on. Persecuted, they pressed on. Hated, they held nothing back. And even though they weren’t comfortable, they are some of the most optimistic, joyful people we have ever known. 

No regret here.

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A 6th grade teacher once told his students, “All around you, people will be tiptoeing through life, just to arrive at death safely. But dear children, do not tiptoe. Run, hop, skip, or dance, just don't tiptoe.”

The quote makes me chuckle because it is so true. I’ve done so much tiptoeing and not enough dancing. I’ve been busy doing "service hours" without serving people. It's time to wake up before I'm 90 and writing my own list of regrets. 

I’ll probably never leave a legacy like Martin Luther King Jr. or be as selfless as Mother Teresa or be as bold as Simon Peter, and that's okay.

The point is to be bold and selfless today. The point is to reflect now. The point is that I have a life in front of me, and I'm ready to live it.

So join me. I'm ready to see Southern Quito.

Minority

This history of Latin America is filled
 with pain and misunderstanding.

Today in Ecuador, there are a lot guys that think they are conquistadores, out to conquer their girlfriends like Henan Cortez conquered the Aztecs. Such was the mentality of “la conquista,” and such was the experience of millions of indigenous women - relentless rape. 

Unfortunately, a white girl in Latin America sticks out just like an Indigenous woman. Different, sexy - there to be conquered . . . and so the typical Ecuadorian dude often asks me, “Alfonso, ¿cómo conquistas a una gringa?”  Or in English, “how do you conquer a gringa?” How do you subdue her? How do you overcome her, overwhelm her, overpower her?

Think I’m exaggerating? Ask an American girl that’s been to Latin America. They have 60 year-old guys approaching them to flirt every single day. Policemen stare at them as they walk by. Everybody whistles at them. They step on the bus, and this is how they are greeted by complete strangers.

“Hey baby.” 

“Hey beautiful.”

“Hey blondey.”

Being a minority is hard. Damn hard. 

The realization that you are strikingly different isn’t always pretty. Rapper Lil’ Wayne wrote a song a few years back called “misunderstood”  in which he sings for 3 minutes and then rants for 7 minutes. He cusses. He yells. He laughs sarcastically, but he definitely isn’t kidding around. Heck, he even got the word “misunderstood” tattooed on his face. 

"But you don't understand me so let me explain."
- Lil wayne

Now, I haven’t gotten any tattoos on my face (or anywhere else, Mom) during my stay in Ecuador, but misunderstood is exactly how I feel. My skin color is an attraction for eyeballs on the streets; my basketball shorts look silly in a world full of jeans; my desire to be a pastor is incredibly strange, at best. 

And on top of it all, it’s easy to feel dumb when you can’t even string a few sentences together. I’m sure you can think of an immigrant in the States that struggles to talk. Their accent is thick, and they sound somewhat goofy. 

Put yourselves in the shoes of a minority just for a second. Picture the Obama supporter at a republican convention or the black student in a classroom full of white kids. Imagine the homosexual person hanging out with 50 straight people or the Muslim girl that has to explain why she wears a veil every single day. Right now, that’s me! I’m that one guy, that one guy that’s different.

And gosh, it’s tough because you become a word or a label instead of a person. You have to live with the assumptions that other people have about you. You anticipate judgment. Worst of all, nobody, literally nobody, knows you.

When all this happens and you realize that you are a minority, you have one of the three options:

1. Blend in - You can sacrifice authenticity for blending in, but with this option your identity withers away. You dilute yourself, and you try to fit in to every situation with every group of people.
2. Be you - You can live in the uncomfortable world with authenticity, fully accepting that you might be weird to others, and though a weirdo, you know who you are and what you stand for.
3. Flee - You can sometimes just avoid the situation all-together. 

But here’s the thing - option 3 is out of the question for me. I didn’t come to Ecuador just to leave when it got uncomfortable. I asked for the discomfort.  I asked for the experience of my Father.

His name is Alfonso Ernesto Sasieta Li, and he was a minority with broken English, a Peruvian with a thick accent, a Latino that decided to move to a little town full of white people. He made the conscious decision to go where he had to go all the while knowing that he would be the foreigner, the outsider, and the stranger.  

But he’s not a conquistador. He’s different. He’s a man with guts. 

And I pray for these guts daily. The guts to be authentic and the guts to be like my Father, a man sure of his identity, a man willing to leave his bubble. He is humble but not haughty. He is bizarre but not boastful. He is my Father, and it is a privilege to be a minority with him.