The Cross-Cultural Phenomenon of the Female

*Let me preface this post with a humble apology to my mom for my
difficult teenage years. *

A week and a half ago I received a slip of folded paper from the
Volunteer Coordinator. Scribbled inside was my assignment for "hogar",
the group of kids that I would be spending the next year of my life
with, every night and weekend. To best understand what an "hogar" is,
think of the division of cabins at a summer camp: boys on one side,
girls on the other, and from there each flank is sub-divided by age
and maturity level. Every hogar's name invokes a different religious
reference: San Francisco, Estrellas de Belin, etc. The group of eight
new volunteers had spent the previous two weeks on a "tour de
hogares", sampling a new group of kids each night to see where we fit
best.

One evening I spent an hour giving piggyback rides to 4 and 5-year old
girls in the baby house, Casa Suyapa. It was a simple form of pure
entertainment: load one squirming hobbit on my back, sprint across the
sport court as fast as I could with a trail of screaming girls behind
me, switch passengers at the other side, and repeat. I spent an entire
Saturday with 7 and 8-year old boys, doing chores with them, showing
them the Michael Jackson moon walk, watching them learn how to goop
their heads up with tubs of green hair gel, and playing with toy
trucks. Throughout the various hogares I have played soccer in the
hallways, shoveled manure, loaded up toothbrushes with toothpaste,
gone to mass, received about 1,000 hugs, constantly tested my Spanish
comprehension and have near defeated my fear of acquiring lice.

During my past few weeks in hogares, this much is obvious: there is a
distinct linear equation that relates a kids maturity level with how
hard you have to work to make them like you. The older the kid, the
harder they are to please. Twirling a 16-year old girl around by her
arms would just not incite the same ecstasy that it does for a 3-year
old girl, one that LOVES you just for hugging her. I kept this in mind
when I opened my paper that read: "Hermanas de Jesus", or "Sisters of
Jesus". The title of the hogar for 13-14 year old girls! My first
thought was to hope that the name of the hogar was not assigned in
irony.

Flash forward a few hours later. I am a nervous wreck with thoughts
like "I really hope they like me", "I don't know if I should wear this
shirt", and "what should I say?" making me feel like I am also a
teenage girl, about to go on a first date. In Honduras, appearance is
everything, and I was certain that this norm would only be amplified
in a house of teenage girls. Even worse, the new volunteers are still
grasping to understand what "looking good" means to Hondurans, are
still living out of our suitcases (read: wrinkly clothing) and most of
us did not bring our skinny jeans (THE "it" clothing staple to have on
the ranch). My family members remind me that the kids "will be so
excited to have me as a volunteer". I am definitely eager to finally
get my own group of girls, especially one so close in age to two of my
sisters. But my teenage years are not so far behind me: I do not have
golden anticipations of the girls jumping up and down upon finding out
that I am assigned to their hogar.

Here is my entrance: I muster up a faux aura of confidence and walk
into the girls' house to find them watching a Jackie Chan and Owen
Wilson movie. Half of them don't turn around. The other half dart
their heads back, look me up, down and back up again, ask if I am the
new volunteer and then return to the movie. Not so bad! Throughout
dinner and the next two hours in their home, I quickly learn that
initiative and persistence will get me far. Most girls grab their
dinners and go off to eat on their own. If I want to get to know them,
I have to follow and sit with them, like the awkward new kid at school
who wants to make friends (except add a language barrier). How do you
get them to understand that you want to be friends but still maintain
dignity? I suddenly miss the little babies in Casa Suyapa who clamored
to eat their pancakes next to me in a circle.

Constant reminders of "what it was like when I was in their shoes" pop
up in my head and I hope that I am playing it cool. I am pretty sure
that even though they did not actually invite me to sit with them to
eat beans, they secretly want me to hang out with them and are just
too "cool" and insecure to ask. This is at least what I am hoping for!
I am eternally grateful for the girls who did greet me with hugs. Some
even asked my name: I never would have thought that this question
could be so welcoming- they want to know who I am! A few who talked to
me told me that my earrings were "bonita". Most were referring to me
in conversation as "gringa" or "voluntaria". At least I was on their
radar. By the end of the first night, I accept that making my place in
the hogar would clearly be difficult at first. I tell myself that
although the older girls require more effort to establish
relationships with, that in the long run those connections may be more
meaningful. Fortunately I always love a good challenge.

Over the last two weeks, I have made noticeable progress with
"Hermanas de Jesus". At least that is what I think it is called when
several girls name a white kitten, with no eyes and an umbilical cord
still attached, "Holly", which has become my Honduran stage name. I
will never forget that first night when a group of girls told me to
come sit with them in their room: it was like the nerdy kid in the
"Sandlot" with no baseball glove getting invited to play with the
team. I finally saw their crazy, loving sides: two girls put their
heads on my legs, one girl braided my hair, and they all were dying to
know if I knew Justin Bieber, Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Avril Lavigne,
Miley Cyrus or the Black Eyed Peas. I felt an enormous rush of
happiness as they shouted "Holly!" and bombarded me with questions
about how many siblings I have (they can't BELIEVE I have nine
"hermanos", almost ten), if I liked Honduras, why I came to NPH, if I
have a boyfriend and if he is "guapo" or handsome (you are lucky I
said "si", Bryan, or you would get eaten alive when you visit).

Initiative and humility are my weapons of choice to making myself a
part of the Hermanas family. If I start an impromptu karate match,
join a soccer game, bring paper and crayons to hogar to make
valentines or tote my camera around, I get the best reactions from the
girls. Nothing is more thrilling for them than seeing a picture of
themselves flash across the screen of my camera. It is near suicidal
to carry it with me: pulling my camera out guarantees physical assault
and cries of, "HOLLY! FOTO! FOTO!".

There have been moments, and will be many more, when I feel like a
stranger in the hogar, when the girls are grumpy or frustrated, or a
girl who I was good friends with the previous day does not even want
to talk to me the next night. It is during these times that I draw on
the example of my mom, who takes parenting with stride, strength and
humility. Although I do want to be well liked, I am not here to be
popular. For teenage girls, whose lives have witnessed such hardship,
loss and abandonment, the best that I can do for them is to offer my
unfaltering and unconditional presence and support. I know this will
mean that I have to choose to let things roll off my shoulders, to be
patient, and to continue to reach out to girls even when they don't
reach out to me. Oh karma!

Fortunately, I come well equipped with an endless stash of fun and
random activities in my back pocket from girl scouts, being in a
sorority, and years of being a big sister. Sometimes, it is comical to
see uncanny similarities between these girls and American teenagers.
It seems that chicks everywhere are crazy, uncertain, loving,
difficult and a fluid roll-coaster of emotions and fun. These girls
are not so different from the friends I had at their age, my sisters
back home, and who I was only a few years ago. As almost all girls do,
they love to laugh, to have fun, to make jokes, share, and especially
to feel important and loved. I look forward to many nail painting
sessions, handstands, American celebrity gossip sessions and
choreographed dances. If only I had my plastic blow up chair,
Backstreet Boys CD, and karaoke machine from 8th grade.

n.b. I am always open to suggestions for fun activities!!