Biola welcomes its first Spanish-language newspaper

Pictured: James Browning, Liz Choi, Julia Piper and I worked on the planning stages of El Rincon last fall. Since then, the staff has regrouped and now includes almost all native speakers.

Nothing brings me more joy than opening up a fresh, unusually thick copy of The Chimes (Biola's newspaper) and finding in it a copy of El Rincon (Biola's Spanish language newspaper). El Rincon is the brainchild of my friend James Browning, who writes a highly popular humor column in The Chimes and is an ardent supporter of the Chimes Online. I remember last semester when James told me about the idea and asked me suggestions for how we could bring the project to life. We decided it was highly possible to print it and distribute it with The Chimes.

Of course, there were delays. It was a bit hard to secure funding and cooperation between the journalism department and the Spanish department. When James petitioned funds from our student government, some very recalcitrant senators and their petty constituents raised a fuss about the expenditure. I'm convinced that a lot of the complainers felt threatened because they didn't understand the articles in El Rincon.

Nevertheless, the paper made its debut this semester while I was away in Costa Rica. It was spearheaded by James, but also featured the diligent work of numerous students in the journalism department. I'm continually surprised at how many journalism majors are native Spanish speakers, or Spanish minors, or have studied abroad. Finally, here is a meaningful outlet for all those people -- an outlet for promoting and representing a beautiful culture that literally is all around us. It's an outlet for them to thrive and to explore how God is working in the Spanish-speaking community. It's also a place where new students who enter the "foreign culture" of Biola, which is demographically very white, don't have to feel alone.

I'm also thrilled that many journalism professors themselves -- Dr. Longinow and Melissa Tamplin -- speak Spanish and are at the vanguard of promoting these efforts to bridge cultures.

All that said, it was wonderful to pick up that paper Thursday and know that something great is happening on campus. As editor-in-chief of the Chimes next year, I'm going to do whatever I can to make sure El Rincon not only survives, but expands and increases in scope and quality. Because this is one project that truly vale la pena [is worth the effort].

A Word from the Wise

My grandpa, on why he's not writing my grandma a sweet card for Valentine's Day, their anniversary, or Mother's Day:

"When I was at the altar, I told her I loved her, and if anything changes, I'll just let her know."

Rat Witch Hunt Part 2

For those readers who have been in suspense for the past two weeks, I would have you know that the elusive rat was finally caught during my last weekend in Costa Rica.

It started when the putrid stench of "raton" was reaching a peak, and I decided I wanted to switch into the tennis shoes pictured above.

I got a little more than I bargained for when I found the small, wood-colored rodent lying prostrate in the corner of my closet. I'm not sure where he was going or from whence he came, but within a few hours my host dad had him squashed in a Kleenex and "disposed."

And everyone lived happily ever after.

A Week With Las Kunas

A group of students in the program ended up spending a whole week on a remote island with indigenous Panamanians: the Kunas. It was an incredible experience. Here are a few thoughts right afterward...

They sit alone under thatched roofs, the sound of waves colliding with the shore, and do biology homework in compact notebooks. The Spanish rolls across the pages, the letters written slowly and perfectly, telling about meiosis and mitosis and Watson and Crick. And it doesn’t seem to fit, these white-coated, beaker-wielding chemists, in a land where the telephone is a new contraption, where sahilas (chiefs) doze in lazy hammocks and sing of Babdumad (God) and a living moon.

An eclipse isn’t an eclipse here. It’s a giant, ferocious beast that summoned up the audacity to eat the moon. They have to bring the very sons of God – those strange and beautiful, sunburned albinos in their midst – to draw a bow and aim at that beast. They let an arrow loose; it darts across an eerie sky and somehow, in the great beyond, it pierces that villainous fiend and it chokes out the round, glowing sphere. In an instant, all is well again, and the people leave the shelter of their huts to laud their unassuming savior.

But here, the young ones learn the cold, calculated formulas of cell reproduction. The moon has lost its mystery. The cycles are predictable, their calculus can draw its orbit. And nobody believes in the beast anymore because Hubbel said no.

I watch them from the window as my plane lifts from the ground. In the distance, on a placid, turquoise bay, the graceful arc of a canoe dents the water. The silhouette of two Kuna men, slowly and rhythmically rowing, shifts in slow motion. I wonder if all the chemistry and electricity and jet fuel has really made life any better for us, or if it’s just drawn a jagged scar through our hearts and torn us away from the good and the beautiful. Our plane conquers gravity like a foe. They let gravity make waterfalls and rain. We burn the darkness with our lamps. They let darkness bring them rest and the dawn bring them newness.

Bienvenidos a Miami

So we officially landed in Miami this morning after leaving Panama City at 3:00 in the morning. I'm finding that even in this city -- in which about 70 percent of the population speaks Spanish -- I'm having a bit of culture shock.

It's weird to
1. Have free refills on drinks again
2. Have coffee that costs more that $1.00
3. See lots of new cars
4. Not have to throw the toilet paper in a trash can, but in the actual toilet
5. Order food in English, or Spanglish
6. Be able to call on a cell phone

Also, I just got done spending a week with a group of indigenous Panamanians on a remote island known as Kuna Yala. On our last day, we got little designs drawn on our noses that look really beautiful, like temporary henna tattoos.

Yesterday, everyone was staring at it and couldn't help but ask, "What exactly is that?" Today, as it faded, all I'm getting is, "Ma'am, I think you have a little dirt on your face." Lame.

Thoughts on Feminism In Response to Spanish Rap Music Videos

As I watch all the misogynistic programming on the television, in which the skinheaded, bling-bling flaunting pimps hold bikini-clad women by the midriffs, in which the camera angles pan slowly over the women as dismembered parts – cleavage here, butt here, legs there – I recoil.

Women are, to them, pretty objects, mindless and without wills of their own. They serve roughly the same purpose as those gaudy dollar signs around their necks: they hang on the guys, glisten in the sun and act as trophies, tangible reminders of the monetary prosperity of the owner. The only difference is they can shake on their own.

I was reading Howard Zinn’s book, A People’s History of the United States, and the chapter about women’s history; I have mixed reactions. He seems to exaggerate the situation; he looks at the women’s situations from the lens of a 21st century feminist, with all her expectations and centuries of progress, rather than viewing the situation as a woman at the time might. The result – a scathing feminist criticism of the constitution when in actuality, the newborn America's women's rights agenda was no worse than what had been going on in the entire world. Women’s rights hadn’t been awakened in ANY part of the world at the time. Those are unrealistic and historically hypercritical demands. Many women at the time were content in their roles as homemaker, likely as happy or happier than today’s “liberated” American woman.

But I think twice about this assumption. Just because we’re happy with the status quo doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be critical of it. Maybe we were only happy in those specific roles of homemaker because we didn’t think we could or should aspire to anything greater. We’ve been conditioned to believe this – perhaps from outsiders who really just want to keep us downtrodden for the sake of preserving their own power and keeping women into the luscious, lust-quenching category of “object.”

I think of how this applies to the psychology of hegemony and the mentality of poverty. Outsiders think that the poor could overcome their situation with sufficient cleverness, by taking advantage of educational opportunities, by organizing into labor unions. In reality, the poor have lived so long in poverty that they simply don’t believe any of that is really possible.

I have an analogy from my own life. As a kid, I always wanted to be a doctor. When I got into high school and took sciences and math classes, I did quite well – not incredible, but quite well, especially in biology. But there was always this subconscious idea imposed from the outside that I couldn’t be a doctor – I just wasn’t smart enough in those particular subjects, no women I knew personally had ever achieved this goal, and women in general are not wired for such subjects as science and math. I cowered because I didn’t know how to achieve this goal and there was no support structure to lead my along in this dream and help me overcome my fear of failure.

Right now, some of my friends who were in those classes with me are working on their pre-med degrees. Yes, it’s completely possible. But I was a casualty of a defeatist mentality. And for the poor, it’s just the same. Technically, it’s possible for many to get out of their situation. But it would require immense self-confidence, immense effort and encouragement to surmount the psychological barriers that subjugate them.

There’s such power in someone encouraging you and believing in you. There’s such a dearth of people like that. I’m not sure how we could ever bottle that up, mass produce it, institutionalize it and harness it as a tool to fight poverty, racism, sexism. This lack of confidence, this mental subjugation, is just as strong as any economic oppression.

Rat Witch Hunt

Here in Costa Rica, I have a pretty nice room -- lace curtains, antique wood furniture, plenty of room. And best of all, it faces east, which means I get incredible, warm sun every morning as my alarm clock.

But as of late, my lovely little haven has adopted a not-so-lovely odor. It started out subtly -- I´d catch a whiff when I opened my closet or put my shampoo bottles back there. It´s a sour, stale smell, like some dairy-based food product had spilled and a mold colony moved in. I thought maybe it was the shoes in the closet, but even when I put the shoes out on the patio, the rogue scent persisted.

I opened the glass panels of my window, hoping the chilly night air of San Jose might carry the scent off with it. But such was not my luck. The smell was just as onerous, even when the closet door was sealed shut. I silently endured the olfactory offense, worried that if I was too curious, I might just find something I really didn´t want to find.

Yesterday, my host aunt stopped by the smelly closet to stow away some blankets. Apparently the stench took her aback, however, because within minutes my mom showed up with an oversized broom and a look suited to the grave duty ahead of her.

A ratón had died here, she pronounced grimly, and thus commenced the rat witch hunt.

All my stuff came out of the closet -- shoes and cosmetics and medicines -- and she put her nose to the wood like a detective. Yep, she said, something definitely died here.

But few were brave enough to do the dirty search and recovery work of extracting said corpse. I refused, so my mom arrived with a long-tailed comb and began digging in the crevices of the closet. We discovered stuff in those crevices that hadn´t seen the light of day in years. There was a baby pillow, my mom´s ancient driver´s license, a tube of cream for who-knows-what. And there was lint -- globs and globs of it -- so that every time she pulled a gray clump out with the comb, we jumped, certain this was the blasted ratón.

Alas, 20 minutes of scraping, scratching, sniffing and scavenging turned out to be pretty much fruitless. The closet still stunk like something was decomposing, and all we had to show for it was a bunch of lint and a pile of expired knick-knacks. The ratón had eluded us once again.

So my mom reluctantly resigned her valiant pursuit and swept the room. Then, she filled up a giant old water bottle with some purple liquid she simply called ´Clorox,´lifted the bottle over her head and splashed the contents of the bottle throughout the room in broad arcs. She doused the carpet, soaked every wood object in sight, got all electric appliances dangerously wet, and finally gave up when all two liters of it were gone.

She marched out, not quite victorious, but close. And so I slept another night with my window open, the same pungent odor diffusing through the room just beneath the sickening fumes of Clorox. And I knew the real winner that night was the ratón.

All the Cute Kids are in Nicaragua

Los Pinguinos

Although I had my adorable infant brother Ruben to keep me company during the evenings, I really wanted some siblings that could talk. That’s where the neighbor kids came in. Nohany is 14, Esperanza is 11 and Wilmer is 10. They came over at night and we chatted about such things as the States, Pangaea, the Crocodile Hunter and Scary Movie III. I told them about my penguin obsession – about the penguin mousepad, the poster, the pajamas, the stuffed animals.

I was sad when, on my last full day, I didn’t see them. I had hoped we could run to the pulperia (corner store) together so I could buy them some treats. But it was late, so I sulked back to my room and climbed into bed.

A few minutes later, I heard a knock on my door. “Venga (come), Michelle!”

I stepped out to see those three holding out a good-bye present: a package of Pinguinos! Pinguinos are little chocolate cakes with cream filling, and pictures of happy penguins on the cellophane wrapper. I was floored. These three kids had scrounged up their own money, trekked to the pulperia and found the gift they knew would be perfect for me.

It was just a package of cupcakes. But the thought and the sacrifice spoke volumes. I’m just a stranger, an American who lived a few doors down for a couple of days. But Nohany, Esperanza and Wilmer opened their hearts to me as friends.

The Thief

I woke up yesterday with a nagging feeling of fear. Maybe it was just because my host mom was freaking out that I had only budgeted 30 minutes of travel time to get to the city. “Yes, mom, I know that there’s going to be traffic, but you really don’t need to repeat this 50 times,” I was thinking. Yes, even host moms know how to nag.

As I sat on the bus – sure enough, gridlocked in traffic because of a massive number of crisply-uniformed schoolkids headed to their second day of classes – that nagging feeling just continued. What if something horrible happened today, like I arrive late, can’t meet up with my group and miss the tour of the National Assembly? Or what if I do bad on that grammar test we’re having in language classes today?

I shuddered. And then I prayed that God would give me patience and peace no matter the circumstances today.

Things were going great. The tour at the National Assembly was informative and interesting. I never missed my group. And we had plenty of time between the tour and language classes, so four of us stopped at a quaint little café for some of the best coffee I’ve had yet.

Forty-five minutes later, as I reached below the table for my backpack to pay, I was shocked to find nothing. In a moment of horror, I thought I’d left the backpack in the park we just visited. In that case, it was lost forever! Nobody here just returns lost items, especially in the city. But my friend Dana reminded me that I’d brought it in and put it next to my feet.

Suddenly, all those prophecies that people here keep telling me endlessly, came true. We’d been sitting at the table the whole time, watching everything, and I’d seen NOTHING. But I’d just been robbed by one of the most stealth criminals ever.

I switched into action. Fortunately, I’d decided the day before that I only wanted to carry around things I wouldn’t be devastated to lose – that means no camera, no computer, no passport. All I’d lost was everything I needed for classes -- workbooks, notebook, the most wonderful Spanish dictionary in the world, my flash drive – my house key, and my wallet.

International phone calls are a pain here. But as soon as we swept out of the restaurant, my friend Andres, who is Costa Rican, taught me how to use a phone card and I called my [real] mom for the first time since I’ve been here. She lives for moments like these – she didn’t even flinch and had all my credit card information in seconds. I guess that’s what it means to be a mom.

Cancelling my ATM, debit card and checking account wasn’t too hard. But by the time I got that done, I had used up all those pricey phone card minutes.

We booked it to an internet café and Dana added money to my Skype account. When I finally got in touch with the credit card company, the operator asked if she could verify a few charges on the card. Sure enough, within an hour of swindling my backpack, the thief had made a $30 purchase at a gas station. Then he went on a shopping spree.

At an ATM machine, he tried unsuccessfully to withdraw $200 in cash from my account. Two minutes later, he went to a sportswear store and tried to charge $400 on my card. He’s going to have to wear last year’s gym shorts, since that charge was blocked too.

Andres’ dad is a high ranking officer in OIJ, the Costa Rican version of the FBI, so he knew exactly where to go. We filed a report with them. Today, I have to talk with an investigator and they’re going to see what they can do about catching this first-rate bandit. I missed my grammar test in the process, but I think this will probably be the most practical use of my Spanish yet.

It was too late to get to class, so Dana, Andres and I went to a museum instead and had a grand old time looking at pre-Colombian art and learning some very useful slang from Andres. I was glad to have such wonderful, generous, helpful people by my side to take care of me when I had absolutely nothing.

Losing so much was both inconvenient and sad. But as I rode the bus home, with nothing more than the clothes on my back and 50 borrowed cents, I thought of Jesus’ words: store up your treasures in heaven, where moth and rust cannot destroy, where thieves cannot break in and steal.

Even when I’m on my guard and think I’m invincible to criminals, it’s just not true. What I have on earth is so easily snatched away. In a moment, I can have an unlimited credit line and in the next, some thief can have my identity and $400 in running shoes at my expense.

I’m learning to hold fleeting earthly possessions with a very loose hand. I’ll never be safe here. My investments need to be in those intangible things of the heart, things that no sticky-fingered San Jose bandit can take from me…