December 21, 2003
Unwilling Center of Attention
So, I type like, half of the following post . . . but I'm on my dad's stupid Mac. And he wants to watch a DVD, like now. And our DVD player is mysteriously unavailable. So I decide to copy-paste the post before posting it to make sure I don't lose it . . . standard precaution and all that.
Hmmm . . . "Dad, how do you copy-paste on these things?"
"Ctrl-C, like normal."
"Okay." So I highlight the whole thing and hit Ctrl-C . . . and my post disappears, never to return. Which is funny because my dad has disappeared as well, and by the time he reappears, I could have just gone ahead and finished the post and published it after all . . .
"Dad, I pressed Ctrl-C and it ate my post."
"Oh, well the Ctrl key on a Mac is that funny little symbol."
"But there IS a Ctrl key . . . Why didn't you say 'the funny little symbol key'?!"
*shrug and blank stare from him*
*a good, swift smack from me*
So, after that brief interlude from the three stooges, here's the post:
Something's gotta give somewhere, because I'm through being caught off balance every time I greet someone. Either you Americans are going to have to quit being so freaking stand-offish, or these Guatemalans need to quit with the touchy/feely crap. So today before lunch I accompany my dad to the factory down the road to check on the orphanage girls who are working there. The last gasp of the Christmas crunch apparently made it necessary for the factory workers to come in on Sunday, and the girls provide childcare for the workers' children while they're on the job. My dad introduces me to the wife of the guy who runs the place, and she's an American, and she's heard a lot about me apparently, so as she comes forward and I'm meeting her for the first time ever and so on, naturally I stick out my hand. She sticks out both hands . . . and her arms . . . like, really wide . . . and then suddenly I'm in the middle of this quick big-hug-and-peck-on-the-cheek deal. Fun. I hate hugs . . . it's just not my style to go around distributing random displays of affection, especially to total strangers. However, it's just kind of a fact of life around here, and I can live with that. I can adapt . . . no problem. But I'm getting a little tired of having to re-adapt repeatedly with every single minor change of locale. Whatever . . .
So, after being here just over a week, I finally braved my first lunch in the dining hall with the orphanage kids. Last year I got in late Friday, stayed in my house all day Saturday, went to church elsewhere on Sunday morning, and then showed up in the dining hall for lunch. And was greeted by a rather rousing round of applause with some random cheering and whatnot mixed in. I hate being the center of that much attention, but it's nice to know one is loved. Whatever. So this year we ate out last Sunday for lunch, and since my dad went on a diet we've apparently stopped eating lunch with the orphanage kids every weekday as well. So I've seen almost all of the kids in very small, very manageable groups of 3-5. This minimizes the fuss considerably (I hate being fussed over), although it does tend to draw it out. But I hadn't really seen hardly any of the little kids yet, so I took it all on the chin when I showed up at lunch today.
Everyone knows how little kids are . . . I'm standing there behind my dad, waiting for him to hurry up and dish those freaking beans onto his plate already and he's taking his sweet time and ladling, like, ten spoonfuls or something. And meanwhile I've got about ten 2-6 year-old kids calling out "Jerry!" literally every five seconds, and when I look up they grin and wave . . . and what do you do? You grin at them and you wave back, even though you just did five seconds before. So I finally get my food, and I kind of back up and lean comfortably against the counter to eat . . . not wanting to mingle and all that. And 100 little voices are like, "Jerry, come sit here! Come sit here!"
Thank God they're all sitting at the same table so I'm not having my chain yanked in 30 directions or having to show some random breed of favoritism or anything unpleasant like that. *sigh* I go get a chair and I sit down amongst the throng. I choose a nice open spot on the table, where I can face most of them on the other side without being crowded, and immediately I've got two little girls on either side of me . . . so forget that. And now I'm being bombarded with questions of all shapes and sizes ranging from "Where do you live now?" ("Far away.") to "How old are you?" ("20." "Wow, you're old." "No, I'm not old," *turns and points at father* "He's old. I'm young.")
And I'm getting random glares from the ranking adult at the table because now none of these children are eating their lunches like they're supposed to be. So I answer some questions, peppered liberally with orders to them to eat up. And then I start answering questions with, "I'll tell you as soon as you've finished your vegetables," and the like. And I can just feel a million silly grins from the older kids boring into the back of my head . . . which didn't really bother me so much, but there it was.
Conclusions: Little kids are still fun and hilarious. I hate being doted on.
Good times.