I'm not there

Well, here I am.

I am in El Salvador. Again. I was here for nearly four months, going home for December for Christmas, the New Year, my father's wedding: you know, the usual. I returned to my home here down south just a week ago.

You may be thinking: What is young Nathan doing in El Salvador? You wouldn't be the first. I must admit, I've even often caught myself thinking the exact same thing.

You see, my father warned me. He said I was too much of an idealist, and not to get my hopes up. And I don't hold that against him. He just didn't want to see me disappointed, devastated, and down-trodden. The trouble is, though I can't say he was right, I can't necessarily say he was wrong, either.

Though devastated is a little much, and down-trodden is certainly an overstatement, I am a bit disappointed, if not depressed at times. Here's an excerpt from an article I sent in to a publication (it didn't get published):

For the past three and a half months I’ve been living in the maid’s quarters of a house in San Salvador, El Salvador. I left the States in August, looking for a perspective of the world apart from that of a 22-year-old recent college graduate with an English degree from the University of Arkansas and a life lived in the buckle of the Bible belt. Cynical at best concerning the current state of the most visible (or infamous?) parts of the North American church, especially in light of the recent political arena in the States, I felt that my trip south could be somewhat of a spiritual journey as well—one in which I could separate myself from some of the most haunting aspects of my own personal faith and spirituality. So with a job teaching history at a private Christian school and a furnished room the size of many closets in primo-suburban houses waiting for me, I got on a plane going to a place I had never been and had only read about a week before.

A few days after my arrival, I was disappointed to find that many things I was meaning to leave behind seemed to have followed me here. Shopping malls, huge disparities between the rich and poor, evangelical mega-churches: these are just a few things that I now find myself surrounded by. In fact, the very school I work at is an affiliate of a huge church with which it shares its same name and grounds, and both are affiliated with one of the most infamous evangelical universities in the States, the president of which is still facing allegations of misspending donors’ money on things like luxury vehicles (SUVs, at that) and house remodeling projects—as well as the illegal involvement in political campaigns. On top of that, the textbooks I was provided with bear names such as, America: Land I Love, and, The History of the World in Christian Perspective.

It was fine. I saw it as an opportunity. I thought taking refuge in my small cell of a room and using my time wisely to write, read, etc., would be a good attempt at finding a life of spiritual discipline, and a good milestone in my own “journey.” I felt it could be a kind of retreat, Bon Iver style. But it’s hard to retreat with a major thoroughfare in front of my house in a city known for its violence and a country with a homicide rate second only to Iraq. And I didn’t really want to retreat into myself anymore. I wanted to help people. I wanted to help ease the pain brought on by an economy that garners more than 20 percent of its liquidity from remittances sent from the U.S.

I know, right? A real sob-story. I've gotten pretty good at self-righteous-self-loathing. But the truth is, I really didn't feel like I could do anything for anyone, including myself. Outside of school, some Friday night dinners with a couple of good friends and colleages, and the occasional walk to the supermarket up the street, I was closed off in a kind of self-imposed house arrest. I still am. But I'm trying to change that. I want to change that, at least.

I walked farther than I ever have today. That's a start. The best part: the streets were alive. Peaceful political demonstrations everywhere. There was ARENA (Alliance of Republican Nationalists), with its scantily-clad models donning the red, white, and blue bars and the ARENA white cross. Then FMLN (something to do with liberation), the people's party (read: communist), with their modest cars, red flags, and a knack for seeming more genuine. Finally, the PCN (National Conciliation Party), partying in the Argentina Plaza, ska band and all.

I walked all the way to one of the malls, where there were some MONDO sales. I was self-concsious because I smelled bad, so I didn't try to buy anything except food, and even then I tried to distance myself enough from the other patrons so as not to cause offense.

I say all of this to actually say only this: I'm trying to change things, myself included. No longer will I be confined. I shall be released. Or should I say liberated? ¡Viva la revolución!

(Note: the flyer included in this article is old, and does not reflect my opinions)