Guatemala: The Five Stages of Poverty

How does the sight of Poverty make us feel?

Like Grief, I believe Poverty also stirs within us stages of emotion. And that these stages of emotion can be presented in any order and can continuously be repeated. Now, there isn’t some published list, based off of extended studies by professionals, of these stages of emotion. The list below is only a developing reflection based off of my own recent experiences.

Stage One: Shock and Shame
Observing Poverty, there’s a lot I’m seeing that I’ve never seen before. It’s a “numbing” kind of shock, if that makes sense. I’m upset and disturbed by what I see, but the novelty of what I see seems to be in slow motion, and I’m so captivated, I can’t stop staring. And though I was well aware about some of the realities of Poverty before coming here, to actually stand in front of them is a shock that I’m not sure I could’ve prepared myself for.

In Guatemala City, the dump is an actual neighborhood. And where are all these people going to move? (At least for now an NGO has set up a school there.) Moving outside of the City, houses are made of scraps of wood, tin, and cardboard. On the highway I see woman and men, walking bare foot, and carrying about 100 pounds of “mimbre” (a special kind of wood used for cooking fires) on their backs. Children too—seven, eight, nine-year-olds—carry what looks to be their own weight and more. They’ve most likely spent hours collecting this “mimbre”, and are carrying it to the markets, to only be offered a low sales price.

In San Lucas I see an elderly man slowly walking up the street, his legs bent awkwardly, because they were broken and were never set to heal properly. Babies and toddlers, who should have black hair, have streaks of red-brown in their hair because of malnutrition. Daily I see the same blind man, on the same corner, wearing the same dirty clothes and shaking his can of coins. There are drunken men passed out in the middle of the street, as people step around them without a second thought; it’s a daily normality.

There are homes with running water next to ones without it, the sewage festering in dirt yards, and when it rains, then flowing down the stone streets into the Lake. Mothers and their children carry beaded necklaces, key chains, and bracelets, trying to sell them to the “gringos” (white people), hoping to make a few extra Quetzal to buy some beans and maize. People bathe in the lake after washing their clothes, waiting as their one or two sets of clothes dry on the rocks. There is so much poverty; it is impossible to describe it all.

And then there’s Maria, a 70-something-year-old woman, who lost her entire family in the 80’s during the civil war. Though her throat was slit too, she miraculously survived. Her vocal chords were cut, and I can always distinguish her raspy voice as she shuffles into the church, asking for food. I cannot imagine the struggle of her loss and loneliness. She doesn’t speak Spanish, but rather the Mayan language Cakchiquel. And I’m not sure whom she sees, if anyone, during her day. I often see her alone, followed by her two dogs. But whenever she’s around, we hug and kiss her, knowing she comes to meals not only seeking food, but also human touch. She smells and has greasy hair, and squats in a corner outside the church, with her skirt hiked, to relieve herself—these are things that would make me cry with shame if my own grandmother had to live like that.

And I feel shame. Not only in myself. But also shame for those who I see living in poverty. And then I feel shame for feeling shame. Like I’ve judged. Who am I to have the right to see these things and to have thoughts about what I see, about their reality, about a life that’s not my own? Who am I to feel these things?

Stage Two: Guilt
It’s when I’ve reached this point that guilt begins to grip at my heart. And what good does guilt do anyone? But I can’t help it. I feel guilty for the things I have, the opportunities I have…all the obvious good and ease of my life compared to theirs. I feel guilty for not thinking of poverty enough, for not trying to do more for those who suffer from poverty, for not trying to learn more about their history, for not understanding. I feel guilty for who I am, and for who they are.

But how self-righteous that sounds! These people aren’t asking for my guilt. They’re not asking for me to think that the standards of living of my society are the same ones that they seek. They’re not asking to exchange their traditions and values for those of my own culture. They’re not asking to have what I have (what my society has), to be who I am (who my society is). They’re not asking me to be provoked by our differences, to feel guilty for them and what they don’t have and who they aren’t. It’s demeaning.

Stage Three: Anger and Revulsion
Then anger begins to boil within me, and things get a little irrational. Oh, but it feels good to be irrational, to vent, and to feel revulsion. To find anyone to accuse—the fate of the world, myself, society, government, even the poor themselves.

I’m angry at the world, its inequity and its injustices, and its natural ability to marginalize so many people. I’m angry with myself for my lack of understanding, my insignificance, and my small influence (if any!) that I could have in this world. I’m disgusted with society and our values founded in consumerism, materialism, and individual achievement. And I loathe my own participation in all these things that seem so evil. Oh, and now I’m the hypocrite! And I’m bitter. I’m enraged with the governments and their corruption. But I’m annoyed, because I don’t so easily understand politics and economics, and I wonder if I’m easily duped. And then the poor, couldn’t they do more to help themselves? What are they doing? Whose fault is it! This poverty and this suffering, whose fault is it?

Stage Four: Cynicism and Idealism
Then cynicism begins to permeate my ideals. I never wanted to be the voice of a cynic. Of course, I have to learn to hear and understand cynicism, but I didn’t want to spread its disease. No. If anything’s going to get us anywhere, it’s criticism, not cynicism. There’s a difference.

Awe! But I’m discovering my inner cynic. And it’s f-ing negative. I read and hear (and even myself, write) such flowery phrases as: “They say that your fingerprints will never fade from the lives you touch.” (Sigh) doesn’t that sound nice? Seriously? Perhaps this phrase should follow: "But really, is that true for any of us, or just some poetic bullshit?"

It’s a battle. My ideals are constantly challenged. But some days, idealism prevails. I want my ideals to win. I want to believe that there is Good, that we are Good, that we can embrace the right changes and avoid the wrong ones, that we can appreciate and take care of creation and its beauty, that we can live in justice, peace, and understanding, that we can leave an exemplary legacy for the next generation. I want these things and more to happen. I don’t want to be a cynic, but rather to believe in idealism.

Stage Five: Realism and Empathy
But behind these thoughts is a waving red flag! That’s Reality saying, “HELLO, idiot.”

Or more delicately said, that’s reality reminding me that if I’m going to be a voice of idealism, then I better be one of realism as well. I better be able to look around, and see the realities of this place. My ideals will only meet inertia if they’re not matched with the world’s realities.

If we’re to be idealistic, we’ve got to be realistic. But also, we have to have some experience with our ideals. Gain some knowledge of the situation to gain some empathy. Read a book, read the news, study language and religion, immerse yourself in another culture, travel (international or national), ask questions, and listen, listen, listen. And we will gain some empathy.


In conclusion, there are many levels of poverty. There are groups of poor like the rural poor, the urban poor, and the third world poor. And I’m not sure what the solutions are, or if anyone has the answer. But I think there's a reason God allows for both Good and Evil to exist in our world. I don’t have a complete answer for why, but I think part of the reason has to do with how we react to injustice, adversity, and impunity. Part of that reason is about who we become, what we do, and what we believe is right and wrong.

Guatemala: Monotony

I’m in the garden. Every morning. I’m pulling weeds. Possibly the same ones I pulled yesterday. Sometimes I’m tending to the coffee seedlings. Maybe I’m shoveling some dirt. Or pulling dead leaves off the carrots and radishes. I arrive at the same time. Leave at the same time. Take the same break. See the same people. The conversations seem to be the same. Even the jokes are the same. It’s monotonous.

But what if I said, that that’s okay. That in fact it’s actually been something beautiful, this monotony. I could retell the above description, in a different way—a way that could possibly reveal something extraordinary.

Every day the sun rises and sets. There is light and there is dark. The moon revolves around the rotating earth, another day gone by. The earth moves around the sun, another year gone by. The four seasons are planted, blossomed, harvested, and fallowed once again. This doesn’t change. Its purpose is always the same. Its rhythm is monotonous. But how many poems, songs, stories, and Classics have been written about the beauty, power, and mystery of these monotonous celestial movements. They give life, cause the tides, and harbor humanity. Therefore, couldn’t it be said that from this monotony comes something extraordinary.

So let me start again, let me retell you…

I’m in the garden. Every morning. And do you know what views constantly surround me? Do you know what I see? Mountains. Volcanoes. Old and twisted trees. Light and shadow on the mountainside. Flowers. Blue skies. Clouds. All of this passes before my eyes. Constantly. How monotonous!

I’m pulling weeds. Possibly the same ones I pulled yesterday. And do you know what’s beneath my hands? Do you know what I touch? Creation. My hands work the soil, taking care of the seeds that sustain us. I’m weeding the dirt. Touching the cool, damp earth. Touching life. All morning long. How monotonous!

Sometimes I’m tending to the coffee seedlings. And do you know who’s affected by this delicate work? A family. Someone else’s livelihood. The Mission gives these seedlings out to families in need; the families harvest the red coffee beans, and sell them back to the Mission (which pays better than Fair Trade); for many, this is a main source of yearly income. The meticulous care of the coffee seedlings teaches me patience, humility, and solidarity, over and over again. How monotonous!

Maybe I’m shoveling some dirt. Or pulling dead leaves off the carrots and radishes. And do you know what I’m doing? The same thing many Guatemalans do. Every day. Three-hundred some days a year. Year after year. Preparing the ground. Planting the seed. Helping something to grow. They live close to the Earth. Their history is one of respect and revere for Mother Nature. Every day they remember what She gives…and what She can take away. How monotonous!

I arrive at the same time. Leave at the same time. Take the same break. See the same people. The conversations seem to be the same. Even the jokes are the same. And do you know what we talk about? Do you know what I hear? Their story. They mostly talk about work and the things they have to do. They don’t talk about traveling, dancing, the book they just read, or the movie they just saw. But they talk about how the harvest will be. Or how someone is donating money so their son can go to school. They talk about the other things they do to make money to provide for their family. They talk about death, sickness, and loss. They share their struggles. Silence lingers for a while after these conversations. But then soon a familiar joke will be told. And everyone will be laughing. Just laughing and laughing. They won’t stop laughing. How monotonous!

It’s monotonous. But couldn’t it be said that life’s a routine. That we did yesterday what we’re doing today and what we’ll do tomorrow. If we don’t like routine, if we scoff at monotony, then what else do we think life is. We each have our own kind of monotony. But perhaps within the monotony of our work and daily lives is something extraordinary to discover.

It is through work that human beings both shape and build the world. We are stewards of creation. Our work, however humble, is important. It is how we develop ourselves, our society, and our world. And the monotony of our work and life is needed. Because often we don’t learn so quickly. It often takes a lifetime just to learn a few wisdoms from our monotony.

Guatemala: 10/2 - Dia de los Muertos

“Death is no enemy, but the foundation of gratitude, sympathy, and art. Of all life’s pleasures, only love owes no debt to death.” ~Anita Diamant

The steel door bangs loudly behind me as I step out into the noise and traffic of San Lucas. Across the street a pack of stray dogs scampers up the street. A motorcycle rattles by, four people piled on its seat, followed by a huffing truck with Coca Cola bottles in the back. Dust blows up from the ground into my face; it dries my throat and makes me cough. The morning’s commotion seems to be moving in the same direction: towards the cemetery. I’m heading there too, to see the traditions of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), a holiday to pray for and to remember those friends and family members who have died.

On my way there, I walk through the market streets, where beneath the black tarps of shade, it is a world of color and movement. Everyone is there, or so it seems. It’s so crowded! There’s hardly any space, it’s shoulder-to-shoulder, and slow moving.

Women sit on blankets on the uneven stone street. In front of them are baskets full of fruits and vegetables. They yell at the passersby, “solo un quetzal, un quetzal…piñaaaaa, tres quetzal, tres quetzal…quiere bananooos, solo dos quetzal…” (only one quetzal, one quetzal (about $0.13)…pineapple, three quetzal, three quetzal…do you want bananas, only two quetzal…”). Buckets of fish sit in the shade, its smell pungent and lingering in the hot air. The man yells at me, “Gringa, canche, quiere camarónes…son baratos para ti” (white girl, blondie, do you want shrimp…they’re cheap for you”).

Spiced meat cooks on grills, and skillets warm tortillas. The smoke rises towards the blazing sun. Pastries, bread, and candy are all aligned on checkered table clothes. Traje— traditional Mayan clothing of bright threads woven into simple intricacies—hangs in the kiosks. A boy with a wooden box full of cigarettes and candy runs by me, yelling, “cigarillos, dulces, cigarillos, dulces…un quetzal, solo un quetzal!” Ranchero boots, caitos (traditional Mayan sandals), pointed-toe leather shoes, tennis shoes, and heels are in piles or displayed neatly. Soap, shampoo, dishes, thread, candles…all the necessities are sold on market day.

A short distance ahead I see the open gates of the cemetery. The crowd is pushing its way there, buying flowers, kites, and tamales along the way. Entering through the gates, the cemetery is alive with excitement and celebration. People and flowers are everywhere, there seems to be no organized layout of the grounds, no distinct walking rows. I weave between the rectangular and square cement altars that rise and fall at different heights. All around families are seated in front of gravesites, eating and talking. Many of them have been gathering since dawn, decorating the gravesites with flowers, grass, and fresh paint. Each year, the family repaints the faded cement altars, and they bring offerings of favorite foods and drinks to the deceased souls.

Los patojitos (little kids) run in front of me, over the graves that are flat with the ground. They hold strings to flapping barriletes (kites), made of plastic bags and sticks. Dia de los Muertos is more a day celebration than a day of mourning. And the graveyard is adorned with bright colors, play, smiles and happy chatter, the smells of cooking food, vibrant flowers, kites, and music. It is so different from the quiet, melancholy, and organized beauty of the cemeteries I’ve been to.

Indeed, sadness over lost ones grips the hearts of these people. Amidst the celebrating there are tears and shuddering shoulders. And family and friends are there, to embrace one another, and to find strength and love in. But it amazes me how this community, an entire culture, gathers every year for this occasion. They come together to mourn the death of loved ones, but more importantly to remember and to celebrate the life of the deceased, and to enjoy together the life they still have. There is no such holiday in our culture, where, with strangers and families, we share this kind of sorrow and joy.

From a hill, I look out one last time over the vivid colors and commotion of the graveyard. The place is packed. People are coming and going. Food is cooking, smoke rising. Flowers decorate the graves, their petals the dirt ground. Above, dozens of kites flutter and dive in the blue sky.

As I see all of this before me, I suddenly realize something that seems so evident to these people and of this celebration: In death we are in the midst of life. Death is not our enemy, but another reality, and an unknown moment. Its mystery is a cause for reverence and celebration of life itself. And the people that live and gather today are a powerful proof that love’s seed is immortal.

Guatemala: Sinew and Sutures

It is nearly seven o’clock in the morning, and I’m waiting outside with a gathering crowd. Leaves the size of elephant ears hang down from the two-story hospital. They move in the slight breeze, light and shadow dancing behind their vein-y, iridescent surface.

Next to me sits Andrea and her petit mother, Olga. Doctor Will asked me to accompany them to the hospital this morning. Andrea’s fourteen, and was hit by a pick-up seven years ago, and suffered severe damage to her left foot. At the time, there was no orthopedic or podiatrist in town, and Olga could only afford to have her daughter’s wound cleaned and stitched. The growth plate of the fibula was broken, thus causing uneven growth with the tibia. As a result, it appears that she’s nearly walking on the outer ankle and side of her foot.

Dr. Will, an American podiatrist from Seattle, moved to San Lucas a little over a year ago. Teaming up with a medical group from Michigan that visits yearly, they’ll be performing nearly 100 surgeries in the next five days. Today Andrea is receiving her first operation, which will set her foot straight. In the future, she will have further surgeries done to the growth plate at her knee, to gradually bridge the three-inch gap between her two legs.

I’m here as a resource and a translator between the American medical group and the Guatemalan patients and nurses. From my pocket I pull out a list of medical terms. In the past couple days I’ve been studying the vocabulary for different organs, bones, body parts, types of surgeries, and medical instruments. I feel a bit under-qualified for this task and am nervous. Sighing, I stuff the paper back into my pocket; if I don’t know it by now, I don’t know it. So maybe a moment to zone out before the day begins…

I stare into the eastern sky. Strands of blonde swirl like gossamer around my face. They shimmer like sunlight on a spider’s web. As I squint into the light, my eyelashes blur the morning sun, and the scene of trees and mountains appears incandescent and timeless. The sun’s heat finds my arms and face. I feel its warmth inside my chest as I breathe. Dawn gone an hour ago, the morning chill has left and the day is bright.

No windows or doors, the wind moves through the hospital corridors. At the end of the hallway, white sheets billow in the breeze, the sun bright and shining behind them. It’s getting hot, and the sheets will at least block some of the heat from the area where the patients will be waiting. Orange flowers and ferns peek in-between the white cotton.

Amidst my daydreaming, I sense someone else with me, and turn to my left. The glossy eyes of an elderly woman stare into my own. Her wrinkled hand touches my knee, and she asks if I’m a doctor. I smile at the thought, and tell her no. She seems anxious, her eyes searching. I reach for her hand, and ask about her family and where she’s from. Her story brings me completely out of my daydreaming and back to the realities of the people around me.

Suddenly I sense the crowd stirring around me. Pablo, the hospital administrator, is calling people to gather in a circle of prayer. Twenty or more patients and their families and friends are on bended knee, all of them. I do the same.

The prayer that we bow our heads and clasp our hands to, it is a prayer so wholehearted, compassionate, and moving, that I open my eyes so they’ll stay dry. Everyone’s eyes are still closed in prayer; mine look out towards the stone road. An elderly, bow-legged man, wearing a dusty hat and appearing to be dressed in his best plaid shirt and slacks, is slowly making his journey to the hospital doors. Leaning heavily on a walking stick, he places it two feet in front of him, takes careful steps to it, and then places it two feet in front of him again. He is alone; I wonder where he’s come from.

The prayer finishes with gratitude for, and hope in the doctors, “que sus manos sean las manos de dios” (that their hands be the hands of God). Looking down at my own hands as I unclasp them, I silently pray for the same blessing.

God, may the fibers and unity of sinew not only be within my own body, but also between the conversations and relationships that I develop with these people. Please be with us and between us. And may the sutures of their wounds not only bind and heal the flesh, but also may they bind humanity’s suffering and healing.