Dan Beirne’s Blog

Foreign Identity

Fri, 27 Feb 2009 00:00:00 -0600

Foreign Identity
2/27/09

San Salvador, El Salvador:
I read something once that I have come to find quite accurate in my life here in El Salvador,
There is nothing that makes you feel more like a native of your own country, than going to live somewhere where no one else is.
–Bill Bryson

This paraphrased quote really speaks a lot of truth to the sense of identity one develops as they form a life outside of the nation they call home. It is a heightening of the senses, in a way, as one becomes more aware of the things that make them distinctly who they are. There are many elements of American life, of my life at home, that are missing here. Yet, the moment I catch a glimpse, a taste, or even a scent of something uniquely home, this perhaps formerly common element of life at home becomes a powerful catalyst to my being made aware of exactly who I am, and where I come from. This “Foreign Identity,” as I’ve come to call it, is the irony behind the comfort I feel in always being at your side, though in truth, I am so many miles away.
I do believe, however, that this ironic phenomenon expands beyond mere patriotism, and identity with one’s country. For, while I do tend to perk up a bit more than I used to at the rare sight of the American flag, and I certainly enjoy the occasional taste of a good ol’ American style burger, this growing sense of identity with home that I feel is not limited to things that are just found within the Chicago suburbs, or the United States. In fact, I have felt things that have made me feel at home that would be completely out of place in Naperville, Illinois, but it is still the same sense of warm recognition that takes place. For, when I hear a Salvadoran orphan sing a song, or walk into my kitchen at home and smell my mom’s cooking, the sensation is almost one in the same. It feels like home, because it feels like Love.
This is not to say that any of these new experiences will ever succeed in replacing or making up for the things I miss from home. Rather, I am simply suggesting that the comforts we relish from home are comforting because they are derived from a sense of safety, security, and love that is just as sought after and appealing in our own homes as they are in the homes of those in the opposite hemisphere. And, in the rich diversity of our planet, this common love finds an equally diverse means of expression, making itself known in a way that the people of every unique context may access, and understand. Just as “Te amo” means “I love you” in Spanish just as much as it does in English, the same is true for our innately human actions; we speak the same messages with the vocabulary of our context.
This is where my mother’s cooking comes in. While I reiterate that nothing here will ever take the place of my home, nor its unique characteristics, I have begun to recognize how this part of the world speaks the very same messages that my home first taught me. My mom’s chicken and dumplings may taste nothing like the tortillas and beans that my friends offer me here, but home and love are in the cooking nonetheless. That is why I can honestly say that I feel close to you, despite the miles between us. For, along with the language barrier and other obstacles, the illusion of difference has melted away to reveal a humanity and fellowship that has God written all over it. And, when I feel this, when I catch even a glimpse of such refreshing familiarity, I can not help but smile and rejoice, finding myself in the midst of a homely embrace that I thought I left behind more than a year ago. It is truly beautiful, and I thank God for such Divine Craftiness, and I thank all of you for showing me how it works.
God bless you my friends, I look forward to running into you again.

Brew Time

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 20:29:21 -0500

Brew Time
Reflections on the True Intentions of Coffee
9/30/08

San Salvador, El Salvador
Having recently completed one year’s time here in El Salvador, I have been thinking a lot about the things I have learned, and how my life has changed over the last 12 months. Though there are many lessons and challenges that I would love to try and share here, there is one detail in particular that seems to remain constant throughout all of the other things I have learned in this beautiful country. Namely, I have become a coffee drinker.
I understand that this is a considerably small change of life style, and a seemingly insignificant beverage, but the culture surrounding the consumption of coffee has largely impacted the structure of my daily life. And, to be honest, I rather enjoy it.
I’ll explain.

The mere gesture of offering a visitor a cup of coffee implies brew time. When I enter a home, and hear the words, “Would you like a cup of coffee?” they might as well be asking me, “Would you like to commit yourself to friendly conversation for approximately the next 5-10 minutes, depending on altitude and boiling time?” It is a wonderfully creative gesture, if you think about it. It is as if it tricks you into their hospitality. One might think that such a wonderful thing as hospitality would need no trickery to pave its way, but there are some people that need to be tricked in order to receive such kindness. Like myself, for instance. This is what I am coming to see. I am just the type of person that needs to be tricked into accepting something as generous as an entire afternoon, and trusting that the only true inconvenience would be for me to turn it down. And, coffee, I am happy to say, is doing the trick. It is luring me into the genuine embrace of a hospitable people who look to your eyes to converse before they look to their watches to disperse. I love it.

This girl was outside socializing with her neighbors on the side of the street.
I almost passed her by.
This is the moment we shared when I stopped.

I say, jokingly of course, that I have been tricked because when I first came to this culture I really was convinced that a lengthy visit was an inconvenience. For reasons of culture, or respect, or personality, or who knows what, I felt like I needed to let them get back to whatever it was they were doing, and I needed to get back to whatever it was I thought I was doing. After a few of these coffee breaks with the neighbors, however, I am beginning to consider handing over my afternoons more often. Like finding out that there is an extra scene after the credits of the movie I just saw, I have this urge to go back to all my former visits and stick around a little longer, just to see how it really ends.
Since falling into the relaxed pace of this culture’s brewing ways, this coffee scenario has entered my mind many times. As I pass by an elderly woman on the street, I feel rushed as I walk by, but am I really? I crouch and talk with her nearly every day now, she tells me stories, and prays for my family back at home. Her name is Julia, and those moments have been more than worth it. Or in the office, I sit and try to work on the computer as a 7 year old finds endless enjoyment in startling me and pretending I cannot see him behind my chair; I feel frustrated, but which is more important? Now we find mutual enjoyment as I pretend (usually) to dunk him in a huge barrel of water. That is a much better use of my time, and his, in my opinion.

Coffee is not always involved, but there is certainly something brewing in the background.

This is just one of the many things that El Salvador has taught me, and I have much more to learn in the coming months. I hope that in sharing this moment together as you read, we may enjoy our own little metaphorical café, and grow together. Thank you for taking a moment to brew with me. Until next time, God’s peace.

Dan Beirne

By the way, this is Franklin.
He is the kid I dunk in the barrel of water.
(Usually)
As you can see, he is very dunkable.

Her Little Tapping Foot

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 08:28:16 -0500

I am not sure at what point it was that I was overtaken by her, but I think it was sometime around when I saw her little tapping foot. When I first saw her, she was sitting on the ground, sharing a song she knew in English with her new English speaking friends. She sung like an angel, and pigtails were her halo. Later, she led a musical group of eight other youth, all older than she, and despite her seven years, she sang with a boldness and grace that captivated me. Confidence beamed from every aspect of her posture. Her back was arched, and her left arm hung still at her side, and her right hand held the microphone with the steadiness of Liberty herself. Then, I noticed her foot. It was tapping to the beat. No more than a size four, and it drove the rhythm of this entire experience. I was taken aback, and much to my surprise, no more than ten minutes into setting foot in this place, tears rose to my eyes.

They were not tears of sadness.

In nearly an instant, this little angel, Rosa, reminded of something that I had learned in Namibia. She reminded me that poverty is merely a word. It is a word that describes a financial situation, a condition of living, but it does nothing to describe the people found there within. Poverty is what you see in statistics and uncomfortable commercials showing you images of starvation. It is something that people live, something that people suffer, but it is not something that people are. It is a sight to which our initial response can only be, “How terrible.” But, when in and among the life and company of those who suffer from poverty, and when the physical conditions are no longer allowed to define their state of being, poverty is the last thing that is felt. Life abounds. Hope, and faith and spirit radiate, and it is all a spectacle to which one’s initial response can only be, “How wonderful. How truly wonderful.”
For, when you meet a poor individual in their home, and eat the food they have to offer, and sip drink they have to provide, when you see the resilience and faith with which they and there family survive, and you look into their eyes and see a smile, you will think twice the next time you refer to them as “poor.”
That is why I cried when I saw Rosa’s little tapping foot. She sang like an angel and smiled afterward, as if the whole world were not saying that her situation was terrible. She is poor, without a home, and possibly without parents, but she is in no way whatsoever without hope. I was so happy for her, so proud of her for tapping her foot and singing, because in doing so she was not letting the noise of the world get to her. She had no idea how wonderfully strong she was being. Each little pat of her untied shoe drowned out a world of noise and overbearing clamor. She was bold, and afterward, she sat on my lap without even asking. I love that girl.

§

Love is better than charity for the same reason that breathing is better than life support; charity and life support can get the job done, but in the end there is no substitute for true love and a deep breath. I say this because charity as we see it today has been deprived of its roots. In the true nature of the word, charity is a beautiful concept, no different from that of love*, but in our modern practice she is too often limited to a dollar amount and passing gestures of good will. Sometimes, we are even charitable just because we feel bad about another person’s situation. We do it to feel better. That does no justice to Charity’s true character. When truly allowed to take root in one’s heart, and yield its fruit, it becomes very evident that charity has nothing at all to do with feeling bad. Rather, it has everything to do with feeling the goodness of life, and finding love to be the most natural and satisfying response.
The truth is, no one ever said that charity or compassion meant feeling bad for someone. I would, in fact, argue the opposite. I think that real charity comes about when we feel good for someone. The Hebrew word for compassion, for example, literally means to “have a womb” for someone**. We feel for one another as if all have been born of our own bodies. We just need to open ourselves up to the opportunity to feel so deeply. That is when charity really comes into play. When you laugh with someone, play with their child, or eat from the same plate, there is a connection established that implies emotion and investment. These are the fodder of love, and when established, one has opened themselves up to truly feel good for another. And, once this goodness is inside, one cannot help but do something charitable in response. It is in this drive, this charitable inertia, that Charity is done justice, and her true character is revealed. This is the charity that brings life.
This is not to say that monthly donations, a quarter in a beggar’s cup, or random acts of kindness are to be frowned upon, but rather that there can be so much more life behind these actions. That is what Rosa reminded me of. I’ve done many things just because I would have felt bad if I didn’t, but in her boldness, Rosa showed me that that is not what it is all about. It is about feeling good. It is about feeling love.
As I played with Rosa later that day, I spun her on the swing in back, and we made jokes about throwing up after spinning to much. We laughed and played, and enjoyed the moment. Never once did I feel bad. Never once did I look at her and say to myself, “How terrible.” On the contrary, in that short bit of time that I spent with her, she seemed to brighten up a bit, and so did I. It felt great, and I plan on going back for more.
I think that is how charity is meant to work. We take a chance at loving one another, come to see how wonderful it is, and from that point on, neither of us can keep from doing it all over again. Like a catchy melody with a rhythmic beat, it sticks with you. And, if you give yourself to it enough, you might not be able to keep your foot from tapping.
It’s a beautiful thing, really. “Truly wonderful,” I’d even say.

* In the popular 1st Corinthians 13:13 verse, “So now, faith, hope, and love abide…” “love” is sometimes translated as “charity.” They seem to be interchangeable.
** Sorry to be “that guy” that breaks out the Biblical languages, but come one…it fits.

How to be quiet

Tue, 20 May 2008 00:00:00 -0500

I walked in the clouds yesterday. Literally. I was on a camping trip with a youth group, and we climbed to the top of a mountain, and it happened to be among the clouds. I could not help but put on my “metaphorical thinking cap” and analyze what this mountain top experience might mean for me. I thought. I prayed. I tried to find the words in Spanish to explain to my new buddies what I was feeling while this white wind whipped through my dreads. It was really quite exciting. Every once and a while, I would listen too. I would listen to the wind. It spoke to me. It told me, very clearly, “Shut up!”
As I stood up there, trying to be metaphorical, it was as if the wind were saying, “I’m just wind! Stop thinking so much, and shut up!” I was perched on a rocky ledge overlooking Honduras (at least, I was told it overlooked Honduras-I couldn’t see it…I was in a cloud), swallowed up by the atmosphere, wind screaming all around me, and my mind was searching vigorously for whatever it is minds search for. But, I could not concentrate. This blasted wind was interrupting my thought process. I think I even tried to drown out the noise around me in order to think more about the noise around me. It was ridiculous, and that’s why the wind was telling me to shut up.
It dawned on me then, as my thoughts were failing me, that some moments are not intended for photographs, poems, or short stories. Now, you may be saying to your self, “Hah! What a fool he is. That’s like saying ‘I hate cake’ when you’ve got a mouth full of it.” And, if you are saying that, you do have a good point, I know this did end up in a short story, but hear me out. I tried to pray while I was up there, and the wind just got louder. I tried to think and the clouds literally shoved me aside. I was getting my butt kicked up there. Nature wanted nothing to do with my mind’s ramblings; it wanted me to be quiet. So, I smiled. There was nothing that I needed to do to that scenario to sift out its wonder. Nothing needed to be added, interpreted, thought out, or even realized. Any time I tried to do something of that sort, the clouds would smack me up side the head and tell me to shut up anyways, so I finally submitted to the orders of the atmosphere. I watched the sky trace the contours of the land, I listened to the wind, and finally, I shut up. The silence was beautiful.

§

Sometimes I exert so much energy thinking on the things around me that I deny them the opportunity to speak for themselves. I think that is why at times, God humbles us, people surprise us, and the wind tells us to shut our traps.
I had another silencing experience yesterday, but it was closer to sea level, and this time, the wind moved through my friend. I sat with a coworker and a teenager from the youth group, and listened as they accounted their struggles through the war. My coworker, one of the youth group leaders, told me how we had done all that he wanted to do in this campout. We had gotten here safely, hiked the mountain, had a campfire…check, check, check, all was done. He went on to say, however, that all of this was shit. “I felt that I accomplished the goal of this trip before we even did any of this shit,” he said as his words began to slow with sincerity, “when I walked for over an hour to pick up Heraldo here, so that he could come camping; that is what this trip is all about.”
Now, walking a few kilometers to walk a teenager to a camp sight may not sound like much, but consider the story of the teenager. About 12 years ago, during the war, Heraldo had been beaten and left to die. His mother and older brother were killed, and he was meant to die as well. “Gracias a Dios,” (“Thanks be to God,” as they so faithfully say here), “I was able to escape and get some medical attention.” He continued, “I believe that if God saved me, He has something for me to do.” Heraldo used to be in a gang, a terribly dangerous thing to be involved in in El Salvador, #1 in the world for gang violence. But now he is attending school, and comes to the youth group at his church. He had a test yesterday morning, and was not able to make it to the church on time to leave for the campout. Rayo, my coworker, happily walked a few kilometers to meet him, allowing him to take his test, and still attend the camping trip. They walked here together, and later enjoyed the chill of the clouds, and the warmth of the campfire with the rest of us. That is what Rayo was talking about. That is the type of thing this trip is to fulfill; everything else is shit in comparison.
While the two of them accounted the reality of these struggles, I could not help but feel…small. I felt like a spectator, an outsider, a foreigner. Our conversation was headed into territory that I hadn’t been to before, and I timidly followed my friends into this rocky topic. It was so intense, so real, that when the conversation ended, it felt as if a bubble had been burst, the moment had passed, and time had resumed its normal course. It was a volatile atmosphere, and for a few moments, I was swallowed up in it.
A few minutes after time had carried on, Rayo pulled me aside and looked me dead in the eye. He said, with a sternness that startled me, “We have just shared with you something that is very much…ours. You are privileged to have heard it, and what we just had there in that moment, you may never have again.” I felt like I had just treaded on holy ground. In fact, that is exactly what I did. All I could say was, “Yes. Thank you, Rayo, for sharing this with me.”
I spent the next few minutes, or hour, staring into the fire. My friends had already stepped back into the moment as it was, laughing and playing the guitar; I was not ready. I could not do it. I found myself without words and still feeling rather small. I have been in many situations where I listened to someone going through a difficult time, but never has it been in Spanish, and never has it been rooted in the gruesome irrationality of war. I felt like I had nothing to offer. I wanted to share, timidly, that I too have suffered, but that was not my time, nor was it my place. I was silenced. All I could do was listen. So, that is what I did.
That was a powerful moment, and my instincts to speak and query were definitely curbed. I learned about how to listen, and about how to be quiet. I learned how to take in those things that need to speak for themselves. It startled me, yes, but it was just loud enough to shut me up, and just gentle enough to keep me from blowing over the edge. There is now a sense of solidarity between these two friends of mine and me because of what we shared in that moment. It is not an overwhelming sensation, and I have no metaphors to back it up; no parallels to draw. I just know that it is there, and it asks me only to listen. So, I shall do it the justice of doing just that, and stop here.

Ladrónes

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 21:40:18 -0500

I got robbed the other day. I can tell you everything about the guy who did it too. He’s 6’ tall, about 160 lbs, and white. He tries to speak Spanish, has dreadlocks, and is not very smart.
I was being so “mindful” of the threats of robberies and muggings in the area I was walking that I decided to leave the majority of my money and belongings at home. That way, if I were to be mugged, I wouldn’t lose too much. Also, as an unforeseen bonus to this brilliant method, if I were to get lost or hungry, I wouldn’t have any money to remedy the situation. And, so it happened. I ran out of bus money, and was left empty pocketed and hungry in downtown San Salvador. Despite how brilliant I thought I was, I really ended up mugging myself. I felt like an idiot.
It is interesting what fear and precaution does to a person’s logic. Since setting foot in this city, I have been walking with a sense of caution and tension that has left me exhausted at times. This carefulness is not unfounded; this is a dangerous place to live, but that does not change the fact that it is still a place to live.
It was a brief conversation with a friend here that first brought this thought to mind. He is from Germany, and had been living here for just about as long as I have. He too is a foreigner, and white (makes you stick out…just a bit). He is working in a part of downtown that is very dangerous, and we were talking about the bus routes that need to be taken to get there. I take two busses. He asked me why I do not take the route that gets me there in one. I said, “Well, everyone says there’s a bunch of robbers on that one.” He smirked, “There are robbers everywhere in this country.”
Good point. I have heard stories robberies and shootings that have happened right down the street from where I live and work, so I suppose he is right. Danger and risk can find you no matter where you are. Now, that does not mean that I will proceed with less caution, but it does mean that from now on, I will be a little more mindful of how I let my own fears hold me up. Since that change of perspective, I have come to feel more at home here.
And, I am happy to report, life is surprisingly pleasant when you stop thinking that everyone is going to rob you. Turns out people are wonderful when you allow them to be. Try it out, its pretty sweet.

“All around you, people will be tiptoeing through life, just to arrive at death safely.” –Professor of Shane Claiborne