Life has begun to take shape here, my weekdays unfolding with site placements and time with my host family, my weekends taking shape with church services and birthday parties (which, incidentally, are a big deal here). Somehow it is already October (!) which I can't quite wrap my head around, but I find myself feeling content as I ease into a less hurried pace of life here and can anticipate a few staple activities week to week.
By far, my favorite of these weekly staples has been Sundays. In the mornings, my host family and I drive some 10 minutes to our church's historic sanctuary near the center of Barranquilla where our congregation of ~60 meets to sing, hear the Word, and visit with one another after the service. And yet, our time together doesn't end there as we split to spend our Sundays separately. Culturally, Sunday is generally reserved for family and friends, a day to be together and take a pause from working. And so, for the last few weeks, I've been invited to attend informal gatherings after church where lunch bleeds into an easy afternoon which bleeds into the early evening...until all of a sudden it's 9pm and we all scoot out the door to get ready for the new week. The first of these unexpected invitations was especially memorable because I had absolutely no idea what I was committing to when my friend Jenny asked me to "make lunch with a couple friends." With my simple yes, we quickly piled 6 people into 1 car and zipped across town to the pastor's house where we unloaded all of our precious perishable cargo into the kitchen to start making bandeja paisa, a traditional platter dish from the Antioquia region of Colombia. Naturally this is no simple dish but involves making massive pots of arroz and frijoles, grilling thin cuts of beef, caramelizing plantains on the stove, slicing avocado, preparing homemade chicharrones, frying eggs, and stirring up the aguapanela (a popular beverage of water, cane sugar, and lemon juice). As we sliced and chopped and peeled and stirred in the kitchen, more and more church folks trickled in the front door and "a few friends" quickly turned into about 13 or 14 people. At first I was confused but soon accepted the pleasant surprise -- this was a day for company and community. We occupied every open seat, enjoying the breeze from the fan on an especially hot afternoon, taking turns queueing up music, serving up plates as different elements were ready to eat. Although we had started cooking around 1pm it wasn't until at least 3:30pm that we finally enjoyed our meal with old vallenato favorites playing in the background, a hush falling over the otherwise chatty group as we settled in to eat.
As we finished eating I started assuming we would make our way home soon --- my time-sensitive tendencies assuming that our host's welcome was almost out -- but I couldn't have been more wrong. After second and third helpings, and with dirty dishes haphazardly stacked up next to the sink, the stereo volume inched up and the music transitioned from classic salsa to reggaeton, bachata, and champeta. One by one we scootched back every chair and cushion to make room to move and groove to the different beats and I was grinning ear to ear. It still makes me giggle thinking about us packed into the living room of the pastor's house dancing -- a hodgepodge of young people, parents, and even my friend's 3-year-old son shimmying at our knees. Of course, we settled down eventually once the humidity caught up to us and the smell of fresh tinto and arepas drew us out to the front patio for a final snack in the early dark of the evening.
Throughout the afternoon, I kept thinking to myself, "This is church." More than just cooking a meal with a group of friends, this was a day to bring people together and, in satisfying our physical hunger, a deeper need for relationship and connection was met. In that sense this experience was so reminiscent of the dinners Jesus visited during His years of ministry where, over food and conversation, Jesus formed some of His deepest relationships, and everyone from saints to sinners came to be physically and spiritually fed. In all the parables I've read they don't mention Jesus dancing...but all my years of singing camp songs tell me that He is the "Lord of the Dance," and I love the image of Jesus joining in the party out of sheer joy. There's even a sign hanging in my room that reads, "Dance with Jesus," and I like to think that's exactly what this day was about.
The following Sunday I had a somewhat better idea of what I was saying yes to when I made vague plans with a few girlfriends to spend the afternoon together following the morning's service. In the end, some 5 of us strolled over to our friend Evelyn's home for a lunch of asado de pollo y carne, arroz, and homemade guacamole. We spread out a white tablecloth and squeezed in too many chairs, bumping elbows as we ate with spoons and our hands (a coastal cultural norm that is delightfully messy). As our plates emptied and we sat back in our seats, the music again turned from traditional baladas to more upbeat rhythms. Soon, sweet Evelyn was dancing to the rhythm on the painted patio floor and got me out of my seat, too, practicing the fast footwork of champeta and brasileña. We kicked off our sandals, opting to move around barefoot until our hair was plastered to our necks -- after an hour or so of dancing my sore, dusty, dirty feet were my prize for learning new rhythms and dancing alongside my new friend.
At some moments I wondered what a bystander might think if they looked on to see a girl like me joining in for the fun. That is, I wondered how my identity might be interpreted in this particular context. Coming to the close of my first month in Colombia, I've begun to reflect on what it means for me to be a gringa here -- an interchangeable term used often here for a foreigner, someone from the US, and especially someone with blond hair and blue eyes. With some weeks of experience to inform my reflection, I think often on the positionality of my gringa - ness in this new context -- how I am perceived and received as a consequence of my identity. In every way I fit this informal definition of a gringa -- my physical appearance instantly marks me as different, people often expressing curiosity at my height, my hair color, my blue eyes. And while at times uncomfortable, this curiosity is almost always well-intentioned and only speaks to the conspicuousness of my white skin and European heritage in the Colombian context. What's more, the curiosity with which I've been received is evidence of the high valuing of Western beauty standards -- standards that I primarily meet. Thus, my visible identities and my sociocultural context define my positionality, meaning that before even being perceived or received as Hannah, I am seen as a gringa. This is a reality that I will likely confront throughout my YAV year, and I question what that means for me as I want to be my full self yet still be mindful of my context. I question what that means for me as I enter and exit communities that are made up of people who look differently than I do. I question what role I have in accepting gringa - ness and what responsibility I have to challenge some of the perceptions and assumptions that surround that identity. All of these are questions that I will continue to untangle as I seek to stay wakeful to the ways my identities influence how I am seen in this context. And I will specifically continue to wonder what it means to be Hannah, a gringa, barefoot and dancing to the beat on my friend's sun-spotted patio.
And again I return to that sign: "Dance with Jesus." I wonder if wrestling with these questions isn't a better example of what it looks like to dance with the Lord of Love. I stumble and misstep -- and will continue to -- but it is pure grace that invites me back into the rhythm.
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