Sunday, December 22, 2013

being the gringa

by Alanna

I'm a bit of an odd one here in Catacamas. It's true that I know of at least 3 other white woman who live in this city, all married to Hondurans, but I rarely, if ever, see them outside of school. If I forget that I look different, I'm reminded by the stares. After being here for over 4 months now and walking the same streets, I would have hoped that the novelty would wear off. But it hasn't.

This weekend my husband and I took a 2-hour bus drive to a place called Culmi, and experienced Honduran hospitality for a night. We went there with the music teacher from our school, and Yonas helped them with their music for a 'culto' (their word for a church service). It was such a blessing to be there. The young people were genuine and kind, and a stranger opened up their home to us. I enjoyed 2 cups of sweet Honduran coffee and wonderful food which they call Tacos Mexicanas. We walked the streets at night safely, under so many stars. Yonas played soccer with the guys late at night, and I watched them and prayed. I also marveled at the moon, which is sideways here compared to the way it is in the U.S.A. It means the crescent lays on its back horizontally, and last night just the top was in shadow and the whole thing shrouded in clouds. It was a beautiful night, me the only woman but feeling so lucky to be married to that one man. We learned new things about culture in Honduras, sharing a room with somebody else and using bathrooms with just curtains for a door. It pushed me a little out of my comfort zone, and I'm glad because I want to live in Honduras, not alongside it. But still, I'm not one of them. 

After lunch, somebody asked where can they buy Gringas? Here it's a term not just for American girls, but also for a kind of mexican quesadilla. Everybody laughed and looked at me, because clearly I am the only real gringa in the whole city. Yonas said I'm not for sale =P It reminds me that I'm being watched. The little kids in the house peer through the curtain at me; they ask us shyly if we want to come "platicar" with them in the living room (chat). Maybe I'm the only gringa they'll ever have in their house. I don't like being different, don't like standing out at the Christmas program among all the other teachers, don't like being watched. If I go to the grocery store with a bad attitude, I'm sure to meet a parent of one of my students there.  Sometimes I wish I could just be Honduran, but no matter how good my Spanish accent, this skin color will never change.

Being watched is good practice for me here, a sober reminder that we are ambassadors of Jesus, representatives of His name. We don't belong here on earth, we're strangers and sojourners. Yonas says his home is in the heavens, not here in Catacamas. And he's right. The thing I wonder is, how do I bear the name of Christ? Do I reflect even a little of His compassion, His love? Do I radiate joy because I'm beloved by the Creator of all? Do I dance happy because I'm forgiven and free? Do I forgive the way I am forgiven? I don't want people to see me in me, but to find reason in me to glorify His name. Today I want to remember that I'm being watched, not as a white girl in Honduras, but as a light in a dark place. Not so that I can perform, but so that I can cling to Him and so that He can produce fruit in me that brings Himself glory.

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