KGOU (University of Oklahoma), serving the greater Oklahoma City area, just bought the rights to air Storydive’s Making Amends. Add that to KUT in Austin and KVSC in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Glad new people might get a chance to hear the story!
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On Wednesday, middle of the afternoon, the skies in Cristo Rey open their floodgates. Rain comes down in sheets and the wind picks up enough speed that I wonder silently if we were at the beginning of another hurricane coming through Nicaragua. The group of us filming—Tim and Chris Bagwell of New Life Nicaragua, Marcos and Maria Jose Velasquez of El Faro church, volunteers, the crew and I, and of course the ever-present children—sit under the feeding center shelter and wait.
We watch as the residents of nearby homes deal with this liquid onslaught. One woman takes the opportunity to wash her hair in the downpour. Children catch rainwater in empty plastic bottles to drink later. A few others stand in their doorways getting drenched—probably taking a break from the stifling heat in their homes.
Throughout the day, we film the abysmal conditions that people here live with during the rainy season. The vast majority of the homes in the barrio have dirt floors and flimsy building materials. So their homes are essentially a bowl of mud. People get out of their beds and step into pools of water. And mind you, it’s not just water.
Much of the flooding in these homes is due to extreme run-off from a nearby rice farm. The rains are bad enough. But when the water at the rice plantation gets too high, the owners open up the dams, and the water runs downhill to the basin that is Cristo Rey. The ground just can’t hold all that water. It makes its way through people’s outhouses and sewage areas, carrying with it the pesticides used on the rice plants. When people step into those puddles—whether in their homes or on the roads—their feet are bathed in human waste and other toxins. Residents have lived with type of misery for years, but they’re starting to get fed up.
As the rain lets up a bit, across the way we watch a woman, Luce Marina, diligently shovel water out of her home. I watch how futile this is, but what else can she do? Like many people living in conditions I can barely fathom, she goes about her business with an equanimity I find saint-like. I remark how the tolerance for this must be relative—that these residents must be used to this, and maybe don’t have any other experience to compare it to. I know that I would have lost my mind a long time ago living like this.
As the universe would have it, a short time later as we are packing up to leave, I see Luce Marina standing at the Bagwell’s car on the phone. With Chris sympathetically next to her, she is on a cell phone, hysterical. She has finally reached her tipping point. Luce Marina is telling someone (turns out, her sister-in-law), that she is at her wits end with this flooding. “I can’t do this alone anymore!” she weeps. Her husband stays in Managua working. She stays awake all night to protect her children from the scorpions and other creatures that come into the house while they sleep. She is alone, exhausted, and going to pieces.
It’s hard to know what to say when the situation is so miserable. One can only do. Tim can’t take it anymore either. He is coming up with strategies, working with folks in El Faro there and the community, to divert this floodwater away from people’s homes. It’s a challenge but it’s doable. And regardless, something has to be done. Because while people in Cristo Rey have dealt with these inhuman conditions for years, I think it’s possible the coming autumn in Cristo Rey may start to resemble an Arab spring.
(Thanks to our soundman Chris McIntire for these photos.)
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- Rainstorm in Cristo Rey, Nicaragua
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- Boy in the rain, Cristo Rey
One of our goals on this trip to Nicaragua for the “Beauty From Ashes” documentary is to reunite with one particular 2 ½ year old boy. Justin lives in the barrio of Cristo Rey near Tipitapa, an hour outside of Managua. We met him briefly in March on our first shoot.
We were filming children at the weekday feeding center sponsored by New Life Nicaragua. Chris Bagwell, who founded New Life with her husband Tim, tapped me on the shoulder. “Come see what’s going on here, what’s happening with this child,” she urged me. I followed her. Chris crouched down by a naked little boy sitting in a chair who couldn’t shovel food into his mouth fast enough. Through tears she told us that Justin routinely walks by himself down several barrio blocks of dirt road to get to the feeding center. When he sees the missionaries’ trucks go by, he knows it’s time to start making his way to the only food he’ll likely get that day. Because it takes him a while to walk, Justin always shows up late to lunch. It didn’t take long for the program’s volunteers to catch on, and they save a bowl of food for him everyday. Sure enough, on this day, the other kids were already off playing by the time Justin got his meal.
We were told that Justin is always naked because his mother, a drug addict, sells his clothes. He is bald because he always has lice. He is incredibly self-sufficient because he’s had to be. Anything of value given to him by these workers doesn’t stay on his body or in his hands long.
It’s an understatement to say that this boy’s life deeply affects the documentary team (and anyone we’ve told). So we knew that in coming back, we would need to find him and really document a day in the life of this little boy. The big question was—will Justin still be there when we return? In this country of internal and external migration, the chances are pretty good that Justin moved out of the area. How to track him then?
I contact Marcos and Maria Joe Velasquez, a pastor and his wife who work with the Bagwells in the Cristo Rey feeding center. They are there everyday, but haven’t seen Justin in several weeks. They will ask around to find out. My heart stops—exactly what I was afraid of. The level of transience is significant—people come and go, no one knows what happens to them.
On my first day out in Cristo Rey with Mario and the Velasquez’, I’m told that they were able to get information on Justin from his grandmother, Dolores. Justin’s mother has taken him to Managua with her. “Where in Managua? Why?” I ask. They don’t know but Dolores is contacting the daughter to let her know that Justin is being requested. I have no idea what this means, or under what scenario Justin’s mom would bring him back to Cristo Rey. I’m hopeful, but not too hopeful.
Just as lunch is being served to the kids in the program, a commotion starts just outside. Maria Jose runs to me, speaking excitedly in Spanish, of which the only thing I understand is “Justin.” Following her with my camera, I see Justin being escorted into the feeding center by a couple of women and a group of children calling, “Here’s Justin! Here’s Justin!” It is, no joke, the Cristo Rey equivalent of Justin Bieber showing up at The Ivy. My big ole camera in his face only heightens his new celebrity status.
So here’s the surprise: Justin looks like a million bucks. His hair is grown out some, he’s wearing clean new clothes and sparkling white shoes. He’s grinning from ear to ear. Hmmm…
I keep filming to see what happens. He becomes self-conscious, so I keep a lower profile. But he’s still Justin. He’s really hungry, demanding food in a voice much louder than all the other kids combined. Justin’s hair has orange streaks, a hallmark of malnutrition. The clothes are super-clean compared to the other kids. And then there’s the little issue of him calling out for his mom. What?
Justin’s mother brought him, and is now helping serve the other children as well. I turn the camera on her, and she smiles at me, casually going about delivering drinks and chatting with another woman.
When it’s time to leave, Justin’s mom allows me to follow them all walking back to her house. Justin is somewhat awkward walking in shoes that are too big for him. His mother sweetly helps him over a large rain puddle, as his grandmother trails behind with a group of children.
Later, Maria Jose shares on camera what we figured out. When Justin’s mother heard a woman with a camera was sniffing around for her child, she decided to put on a show. Not surprising—but not remotely truthful. It is the first time Mom has ever come to the feeding center; the first time anyone has seen Justin wearing clothes.
Two days later, the Velasquez’, Mario and I meet with Justin’s grandmother to explain the nature of a documentary to her. We let her know that anything less than what is truthful naturally will not be helpful to the children and work being featured. Dolores understands; she doesn’t defend her daughter. She agrees to make sure the charade is dropped when we return with full crew next week. We’ll see what happens. But at least we know where Justin is, and are able to follow his determined little steps for a day.
It’s always mildly amusing to me how the presence of a camera can make anyone go into impression-management. It doesn’t matter who they are or what walk of life. But I find that eventually the façade drops because, sooner or later, people can’t help but do what they do. And as the poet John Keats famously wrote “Beauty is truth, and Truth beauty,” even if it isn’t always pretty.
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- Chris and Justin, March 2011
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- Justin, July 2011
I don’t think I’m much of a complainer about work (friends and family, check me on this!), but…wow. If I ever do, just remind me of this sequence of events I filmed the first day I met people in La Chureca, the massive dump in Managua:
In our rented vehicle, the nearby pastor’s wife Miriam, my translator Mario and I drive through the narrow barrio streets of the landfill. Ahead of us, a young woman walks up the street carrying a large garbage bag on her right shoulder. Miriam asks us to stop so she could talk to her. The girl, Seleni, 18, has a grin from ear to ear—she’s having a great day of work! She pulls out of her bag a deflated kiddie pool that she’s so excited to have found. Now, she can either sell the substantial amount of plastic, or make soles of shoes with it and sell them. I’m not sure how that process works, but hopefully we’ll find out when we film her next week. This is Seleni’s “pre-production” stage of work.
The discussion is short as Seleni clearly has to get back at it. She hoists the bag on her shoulder and goes on her way, leaning to the left from the weight. Given how thin she is, I’m sure the bag weighs as much as she does. We take off too.
Driving to the edge of the barrio where the homes meet a field on the banks of Lake Managua, we park and get out to walk to the lake. There is still trash strewn around, but it’s been largely cleaned by the Spanish government since they took over the land to build a future recycling center. The landfill is now only 15% of what it used to be and people have been moved out to other barrios. The families left there still sift through the dump and surrounding area for any “treasure” they can find to sell.
Walking along a large drainage ditch that flows into the lake, we spot Seleni on the other side. Between filming her little girl in the day care center earlier by chance, and now running into her twice, I’m certain she’s meant to be in the documentary. I follow her with my camera.
We are accompanied by a dozen children as we walk along the drainage ditch. I guess they find us very interesting. The kids like being filmed and inspect my work from time to time. Seleni, on the other hand, is completely focused on her own work.
Off one of the stone walls of this filthy drain to the lake, Seleni measures the depth of the water with a large limb, then jumps (at least 10 ft) into the drain, wading through to pick up plastic bottles and put them into her bag. The water is vile. She is a tomboyish, wiry and focused young woman, who clearly has been picking for a long time, knows her way around, and is fearless when it comes to going after her treasures.
Some minutes later, the kids who were following us hang over the edge of the wall to watch Seleni work. They are giving her encouragement. When she gathers all the plastic she can, she climbs the wall like Spiderman. The boys help get her and her bag over it onto the bank directly in front of me. She puts her flip-flops back on in a very businesslike way, and walks off to comb the bank of the lake.
No drama, no angst. Just clear and focused, going about her business amidst the filth and trash, doing what she has to do.
I can’t wait to ask her what she would really like to do in her life. I wonder if she’s even thought of the question herself.
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- Seleni working…
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- …getting a hand
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- …and Dina working
Home. It’s a word that vibrates with life, with each beat of our hearts in our chests. Home. Home. Home.
Far from my home on this Fourth of July, I’ve returned to Nicaragua to continue making a documentary for the San Damiano Foundation called “Beauty From Ashes: A Search for a New Life in Nicaragua.” We began shooting in March with the beautiful and rich story of the Bagwell family of South Carolina who came to this country and established their New Life Nicaragua ministry, feeding severely malnourished children in their re-nutrition center, as well as building homes in another community. We are back to expand the story a bit, describing the cycle of poverty and the internal migration that takes place in Nicaragua because of it. After a week of intense location and story scouting ahead of the crew’s arrival, I’m processing some of the places, conversations and feelings that are now weaving themselves into the fabric of the story we’re here to tell.
The morning after I landed, I had my translator Mario take me to El Faro church to meet up with the pastor and his wife. They would be our connections to finding a couple of stories in La Chureca, the largest landfill in Central America, located in Managua. My goal was to find two families to follow who both live and work in that landfill. Many of the people in the barrios around La Chureca have been moved by the government to other barrios in Nicaragua. But this location is the starting point of the film. The landfill is a dangerous place, and the crew and I will need protection when we shoot at the actual dump. But for now, the pastor’s wife Miriam would escort Mario and me as I get the lay of this land—like guiding souls across the River Styx into Hades. The analogy is apt. We drove the bumpy, winding dirt road around the barrio just off the massive landfill, passing dilapidated tin shacks, homes made of tree limbs and black plastic, kids running through mud and garbage barefoot, adults with worn faces. The rain now makes everything dirtier. It is rough, putrid, smoky, and heartbreaking. But somehow, faster than I would expect, I began to ease up despite the fact that we were driving a rented SUV and I would occasionally lift my large video camera to shoot—things that can bring lots of unwanted attention. I began to really see the landscape, the smiles on the children, the details that make homes of these shacks with the crooked, mismatched tin.
Down the road, we stopped at a house built up on a small hill. Miriam wanted to check in on Christopher, a 12-year old who got banged up when a horse cart overturned on him. He usually works the dump with his mom Luisa, but she let him take a break from it because he was hurt. On this day their DVD player was stolen and Christopher was nervous that his mom would would be angry when she found out. Miriam suggested one kid go buy her a large soda, and Miriam would go into the dump where Luisa was working, and bring her the soda so as not to be upset for letting the house be unprotected while they went off to play marbles. I wasn’t allowed to follow with my camera to see how the bargaining would go. Without armed protection, I could be attacked for the camera. It turned out that Luisa was excited to see her friend and receive a rare cool drink in her workday. She let the DVD issue go with a smile. Miriam came back to the car and cried.
Two days later, we all went back to La Chureca to meet with the families and officially ask them if they would participate in the documentary. We started at Seleni Gomez’s house, a young mom I photographed working the first day. Going to her house where she lives with her husband Silvio and two small children was interesting. I filmed us squeaking through a roughly 14” passageway between two houses to get to their house in the back. We arrived to see Silvio washing the baby in an outdoor sink and Seleni cooking rice on an open fire. The house sits on the edge of a cliff that overlooks Lake Managua and a garbage heap. If it wasn’t a toxic dump, it would be pretty. We sat down and discussed the film with them. They were very shy, but seemed happy to do it. I looked inside their home—a jerry-rigged lightbulb, couple of mattresses, family pictures hung on exposed beams. Small things that are their treasures, that make this shack their home.
We then picked up Luisa at the landfill, taking a couple of her sons for a ride to go get her. We brought them all back to their house for a talk. (I should add that Mario had to get the SUV thoroughly scrubbed down at the end of each day. The smell made the carwash guys curse him.) We stood outside their home to discuss the film, the tv inside going non-stop as it had a couple of days earlier. I won’t describe the inside of the house—just wait for the film. We explained why we wanted to follow them. Luisa heads up a family of 5 children and 2 grandchildren. She sifts through giant mounds of trash, freshly brought by trucks into the landfill, for 10-12 hours a day. Her oldest daughter, 17, takes care of the housework and kids. The two pre-teen boys work the dump with her. They agreed to let us include their life in the film.
On the day I met him, Luisa’s son Christopher and I chatted. I asked him what he thinks of his house. He told me it feels very much like a good home to him, he likes it. He doesn’t know anything different. And I wonder if he ever did live somewhere better later in life, if he could ever truly leave this house—this environment—behind. Most of us carry our family home with us wherever we go.
Maya Angelou wrote, “I long, as every human being does, to feel at home wherever I find myself.” As we document the lives and journeys to new locations of all the families we meet—from Luisa and Seleni’s in La Chureca, to the Bagwells and the children in their Re-Nutrition Center—I think we’ll get a sense of the heartache, struggle and opportunities that confront people compelled to leave their familial home. Whether because of disaster, unemployment, government directive, or divine calling, home cannot be where it once was. In the process I expect we’ll find glimmers of hope, new “family” structures tied together, and the occasional answered prayer to leave the old way of life for a better one. What never leaves is the person’s bittersweet longing to put down strong roots in a good place they can call Home.
I’ll try to keep updating on the stories and production process as I can.
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- Gomez home, La Chureca-Nicaragua
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- Dominguez home, La Chureca-Nicaragua
Continuing with “Musical Inspiration Week:”
I’ve been a long-time fan of Radiohead for a couple of reasons. First, they’re always coming up with new sound tapestries that support lead singer Thom Yorke’s emotionally complex voice–with brilliant results. The other reason is (of course!) the band’s story. In the face of early critical panning and next-to-no commercial success, Yorke and company kept at their music. They experimented, they found producers and supporters they could collaborate with, and they deepened their craft. After two decades of prolific and innovative work, Radiohead is considered one of the most influential bands in modern rock.
That could be inspiring enough. Until last week when Radiohead’s latest album The King of Limbs was released, and with it, a wave of mash-up videos of Thom Yorke dancing that nearly made me fall off my chair laughing. Forget for the moment the new, imaginative sonic territory the band is traveling through. What’s inspiring me right now is Yorke’s limbs are flying around to the beat of nearly every type of music under the sun! And the reminder that you can never take yourself, or anyone else, too seriously. You may decide to steal a few boogie moves when you take a look at this LA Times blog article that collected these mash-ups:
Note to self: Always remember, dance your own dance to any tune they throw at you.
Most people find themselves really inspired by music, particularly at sensitive times in their lives. There are songs that sum up the story of our lives or what we’re experiencing at a certain turning point with a few melodic phrases. Maybe it’s the recent full moon, but I’ve been feeling that a lot lately. So in honor of the light that flows in through our ears, I’m dubbing this “Musical Inspiration Week,” sharing videos or stories and audio of songs or musicians that make me laugh, open my heart, or light a fire in my belly.
A friend introduced me to Greg Laswell, and this great song about how clarity and joy helps us change our tune. It’s kinda been making my day for the past week. Being a writer, I’m a lyrics-gal, but the melody is groovy too. Also, celebrity-sighting in the video. Hope you enjoy it!
How the Day Sounds
P.S. My favorite line: “And the lines have all been drawn; I know where I belong.”
If you have a favorite lyric or song, please post it in the comments.
I covered the 19th parole hearing of a Manson clan member. It was by turns, fascinating and appalling, and it was a blip of a headline. But I took away a hidden gem in the tale.
Whether we produce or consume news stories, we’ll find the real gold is less on the “new” and more on the “story.” The human drama (or comedy!) is how we connect to ourselves and each other.
So, what if we could make any news story we hear relevant? What if we each took a few minutes to reflect—on the environment, on the characters, on the meaning—like we would a dream or a parable? What if we consciously chose–both journalists and audience alike–to go beyond the headline to make our lives a little more profound?
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Ever wanted to apologize or make amends for something? How ‘bout to somebody you’ve totally lost contact with, about something that happened way in the past? If you make that move, will that person even want to talk to you?
“Making Amends” is a story that begins in 1961, when the national office of Sigma Chi compels a group of Emory University fraternity brothers to enforce the “whites only” policy and depledge a Japanese-American student. The fraternity members comply, but the decision weighs on their minds for decades, until, 45 years later, they try to make amends.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
I am often drawn to stories of military veterans. The humility with which they wear their heroism and sacrifice moves me. But even as more troops deploy into Afghanistan, there are few stories about them and their missions; fewer still about vets and their families after the return home. And hardly a word about the vets who really feel themselves sinking.
One day in December 2009, when a friend in Orange County, CA “became a fan of” BanishedVeterans.info on Facebook, I immediately clicked on the link. “Those words don’t belong together,” I thought. A few hours later, I came to know Robyn Sword who, with the organization, is fighting to keep her veteran fiancé from being kicked out of the country. It’s been a mostly private war with a few allies, little press, but a lot of determination.
Thousands of immigrant U.S. military veterans have found themselves deported or detained. They’ve committed crimes (usually drug-related), but because the promise of citizenship didn’t come through years earlier, they are being removed from the country for which they fought. Between the black and white of “hero” and “villain” is the gray of reality for these troubled vets. Listen to this story.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
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- Louie Alvarez
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- Robyn Sword
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- Rohan Coombs
Related Links:
Banished Veterans
Vetspeak
