I have discussed the challenges I face in defining my relationships with my informants many times. As an anthropologist, it is one of the most confusing things about my work—that I study people, not things, and as such develop relationships with them. Of course these relationships don’t need a label, they are what they are, but at times I slip into friendships with them and have the same expectations of them as I would of any other friend.
Last night an incident happened in which I realized that I have a different type of relationship with my informants than with my other friends. K., the wife of Juan my bodyguard had invited me to Guayaquil for the weekend to visit her mother. We would leave Friday night on the 9:00pm bus, travel through the night and arrive early the next morning. We would bring their three children while Juan could stay in Quito and work (rob, or take advantage of carelessness, as he likes to call it). We had been planning this trip all week and with each day, K. got more and more excited about it. We planned everything to the last detail and agreed upon who would take what food for the bus. I had agreed to lend her a backpack to pack her kids’ things for the weekend. All week K. reminded me of more things—don’t forget your bathing suit, bring bug spray, it’s hot as hell on the coast right now—no jeans. Her excitement was infectious. I was excited to meet her family in Guayaquil. I was excited for a new adventure, especially since I haven’t been to the coast in years.
Friday night comes and I had spent the afternoon packing. I thought of everything, I think. I brought everything K. recommended and even bought some toys for the kids for the 8 hour bus ride (even though they would be asleep for most of it). I bought snacks for the bus and canceled my weekend plans with friends in Quito. Being a good gringa, I arrived promptly at the hotel where they live at 8:00pm. When I arrived no one was there. The owner of the hotel told me that both K. and Juan had left with the kids a bit earlier. Furthermore, the owner told me that K. always tells her when she goes to Guayaquil a few days prior and K. hadn’t mentioned a thing. Extremely confused and getting increasingly pissed off, I waited for K. and Juan to show up. Obviously, when K. said to meet at 8:00, that could mean anywhere between 8:30-10:00pm as Ecuadorians are not known for their punctuality. But I had a deeper fear that the trip was not going to happen.
It turns out that my instincts were right. Juan finally arrived at the hotel with their youngest, special needs’ son. He seemed surprised that I was there. I told him, “Remember, K. and I are going to Guayaquil this weekend—it’s her brother’s birthday—remember?” I was super pissed off. He shook his head and looked sad. He said, “Anita, I don’t think you’re going…K. is out working.” That meant that K. hadn’t earned the money she needed for the bus fares. Suddenly, I felt ashamed and guilty. How could I judge K. when I take my bus fare for granted? I can pay $9 so easily, it hadn’t occurred to me that the trip depended on the money K. could make that particular day. This family survives from day-to-day. They have no savings and often go to bed hungry.
Perhaps I felt guilty and privileged, but I still felt pissed off. I told Juan that K. should have at least called me to let me know that the trip was up in the air. Perhaps she felt embarrassed to tell me given her excitement all week. But at the same time, in the moment, I was angry that I had spent the afternoon preparing for a trip that wasn’t going to happen. Above all, I felt disappointed. I was excited to meet K.’s family, to travel to the coast and experience something new. Unfortunately, this incident also made me disappointed in K. as a person. I was disappointed that she couldn’t pull through for me—that she couldn’t even call me to tell me the trip was canceled. I understand that poverty can cause inevitable, abrupt changes in plans, but I wouldn’t accept such behavior from a friend so I couldn’t accept it from K. either.
Or so I thought…..now that I’ve had time to chill out, I realize that it isn’t K.’s fault that we couldn’t go. Her life circumstances may make her less reliable than my other friends, but obviously she’s still a good person and still a friend to me—we just won’t ever have the same type of relationship as I have with other friends—people who share my social class and who have less struggles in general. But K. IS a good friend in many ways. She is fiercely devoted to me on the streets and with Juan, takes care of me more than any other sex worker. Under her care, I know nothing will ever happen to me. For that, I am eternally grateful. But for now I’ve learned that I can’t count on her for weekend plans, and that’s not the end of the world.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Street Kitten
As any of my friends or family could tell you, at times I’m prone to impulsive acts. Lately this has included bringing home a street kitten. As impulsive actions usually go, I didn’t think much about the consequences or what the long-term future would mean. All I know is that it was pouring with rain and I saw a drenched kitten sitting near the doorway of my apartment building. In a moment of concern, humanity, and of course impulsivity, I grabbed the kitten, tucked her under my arm and brought her home to my apartment. It didn’t hurt that she’s incredibly cute (pictures to follow)…
Upon reflection of my actions, which is usually what happens after a sudden burst of impulsivity, I made a connection between my work on the streets and rescuing the kitten. The day I rescued her, Rubi (named after one of my sex worker friends), I remember feeling particularly vulnerable and emotionally exhausted. I wrote in an earlier post that at times my work feels emotionally overwhelming and unsustainable. I’m overwhelmed by the poverty and hardships these women face. I’m saddened to no end watching some of my friends fall into drugs—watching people shrink in size, lose their smiles and develop deep lines in their faces. I’m exposed to so much pain and feel completely hopeless. I also recognize that I’m simply an anthropologist. I’m not here to save anyone. Nor do I have the economic means, power or resources to do so. I feel guilty that I can’t do more. I always hope that my ability to listen as people share their stories is a small help—that at least I listen to these women, many of whom have no one to turn to for emotional support.
In my analysis, I rescued Rubi in order to fulfill my need to rescue something, anything, in a tangible way from the street. I can “save” this kitten. Indeed, I did save her. I provide her with food, water, and a warm place to sleep at night. I have brought her to the vet, cleared her of disease and illness. It is satisfying to watch her grow and flourish in my home. It fulfills my maternal (or guilt-driven anthropological need?) impulse, my yearning to rescue someone or something from the pain of the streets. Perhaps I didn’t bring home a street kid, as I’ve often wanted to do, but at least Rubi now has shelter from the rain.
Upon reflection of my actions, which is usually what happens after a sudden burst of impulsivity, I made a connection between my work on the streets and rescuing the kitten. The day I rescued her, Rubi (named after one of my sex worker friends), I remember feeling particularly vulnerable and emotionally exhausted. I wrote in an earlier post that at times my work feels emotionally overwhelming and unsustainable. I’m overwhelmed by the poverty and hardships these women face. I’m saddened to no end watching some of my friends fall into drugs—watching people shrink in size, lose their smiles and develop deep lines in their faces. I’m exposed to so much pain and feel completely hopeless. I also recognize that I’m simply an anthropologist. I’m not here to save anyone. Nor do I have the economic means, power or resources to do so. I feel guilty that I can’t do more. I always hope that my ability to listen as people share their stories is a small help—that at least I listen to these women, many of whom have no one to turn to for emotional support.
In my analysis, I rescued Rubi in order to fulfill my need to rescue something, anything, in a tangible way from the street. I can “save” this kitten. Indeed, I did save her. I provide her with food, water, and a warm place to sleep at night. I have brought her to the vet, cleared her of disease and illness. It is satisfying to watch her grow and flourish in my home. It fulfills my maternal (or guilt-driven anthropological need?) impulse, my yearning to rescue someone or something from the pain of the streets. Perhaps I didn’t bring home a street kid, as I’ve often wanted to do, but at least Rubi now has shelter from the rain.
“I clean, I cook, I iron….and so what?”
There is a fascinating social campaign against machismo as seen through dozens of billboards and advertisements on the sides of buses throughout Quito. One poster shows a man with children in the background stating such things as above. I’ve also seen one that says, “My wife makes more money than me, and so what?” Underneath these statements in large red letters it states, “Ecuador, move on from machismo—machismo is violence.” The first time I saw these ad campaigns I was shocked and filled with glee. One of the challenges of living in this country, (and I’m sure other in Latin American countries) is trying to earn the respect I’m accustomed to in the United States. Perhaps I have particularly high standards because I went to a women’s college (Barnard College in New York City) and study gender in Latin America for my doctorate.
Perhaps my investigation on sex work makes me especially sensitive to this topic, in which I’m exposed to some of the most horrific stories about men who beat their wives, clients who treat the women badly, etc. etc. Many feminists who study sex work feel that prostitution itself equals violence against women, a view I’m opposed to. Rather, I try to respect and accept what these women themselves tell me—that they do not feel like victims. They feel as if they have chosen the best employment available to them. Does it mean they like it? Of course not. I haven’t met anyone who enjoys working as a prostitute. But, I have met plenty of women who feel empowered that they can be single mothers and support their household without a man.
Indeed, I believe it’s the sex workers’ stories of pain and suffering that make me prone to identifying machismo at every moment. Just the double standard that exists around prostitution shows the potency of machismo here—no one ever judges the clients who visit prostitutes, despite the fact that most are married men. Instead, the “immortality” of the situation falls on the prostitute, they’re the ones who must carry the burden of their profession. In fact, I’ve seen the same male residents who are most vocal against prostitution in neighborhood meetings enter the hotel with a sex worker. It blows my mind to see such hypocrisy. Sex in any form, context, with whomever, is totally acceptable for men. Quito is still such a traditional city, heavily influenced by the church, that there is much pressure to always be a “good girl” (i.e. be a faithful spouse, never sleep around). It is frowned upon for young unmarried women to be promiscuous (perhaps the same in the United States, to a lesser degree).
Anyway, the machismo I have experienced personally is rather benign. Much of it could be labeled gallantry which at times, is a trait I wish more North American men value. For example, men accompany me to my bus or taxi when I’m out—it would be unheard of for a woman to walk alone anywhere. Part of that is entirely logical given the dangers in Quito. Sometimes I enjoy this backside of machismo, opening doors for me, paying for drinks because it’s expected—I won’t deny it, there are benefits to being a woman here in receiving this “special treatment” that I’m not accustomed to. However, sometimes cultural clashes erupt between myself and men here. They don’t understand why I go off by myself or feel comfortable being alone in general. I was raised by liberal parents who gave me my space and independence. I rarely answered to anyone. Here as a woman, you have less independence—I don’t envy my Ecuadorian women friends who have to answer to their fathers and their boyfriends about their whereabouts several times a day.
Things are changing in the younger generations. I have plenty of male friends who I would never label as macho. Most of them are from the upper class and have traveled or lived outside of Ecuador. They have been exposed to different types of gender interactions and live in a world where their mothers don’t cook their every meal. They even live in their own apartments and cook/clean for themselves, which is a big step in itself. In earlier generations men and women both went from their parents’ house to marriage and living as husband and wife. In my opinion, machismo starts with the mothers here. Ironic, but true. They don’t let their sons lift a finger and baby them to no end. Their sons are their little princes. Perhaps they focus so much on their sons because their husbands don’t provide them with the emotional support they need. These grown sons expect the same treatment when they get married. As such the cycle continues. This is just my own personal theory, I have done no investigative work to support this—simple observations. (That’s the glory of blogs, no footnotes needed).
Anyway, every time I see these anti-machismo ad campaigns I’m filled with hope and joy. Ecuador still has one of the highest domestic violence rates of the region, but at least someone realizes, at an institutional level, that machismo needs to be addressed. These campaigns make it crystal clear that machismo does indeed exist in Ecuador and that it’s no longer socially acceptable. What was once a social norm is now being challenged….change is in the future and it’s exhilarating.
Perhaps my investigation on sex work makes me especially sensitive to this topic, in which I’m exposed to some of the most horrific stories about men who beat their wives, clients who treat the women badly, etc. etc. Many feminists who study sex work feel that prostitution itself equals violence against women, a view I’m opposed to. Rather, I try to respect and accept what these women themselves tell me—that they do not feel like victims. They feel as if they have chosen the best employment available to them. Does it mean they like it? Of course not. I haven’t met anyone who enjoys working as a prostitute. But, I have met plenty of women who feel empowered that they can be single mothers and support their household without a man.
Indeed, I believe it’s the sex workers’ stories of pain and suffering that make me prone to identifying machismo at every moment. Just the double standard that exists around prostitution shows the potency of machismo here—no one ever judges the clients who visit prostitutes, despite the fact that most are married men. Instead, the “immortality” of the situation falls on the prostitute, they’re the ones who must carry the burden of their profession. In fact, I’ve seen the same male residents who are most vocal against prostitution in neighborhood meetings enter the hotel with a sex worker. It blows my mind to see such hypocrisy. Sex in any form, context, with whomever, is totally acceptable for men. Quito is still such a traditional city, heavily influenced by the church, that there is much pressure to always be a “good girl” (i.e. be a faithful spouse, never sleep around). It is frowned upon for young unmarried women to be promiscuous (perhaps the same in the United States, to a lesser degree).
Anyway, the machismo I have experienced personally is rather benign. Much of it could be labeled gallantry which at times, is a trait I wish more North American men value. For example, men accompany me to my bus or taxi when I’m out—it would be unheard of for a woman to walk alone anywhere. Part of that is entirely logical given the dangers in Quito. Sometimes I enjoy this backside of machismo, opening doors for me, paying for drinks because it’s expected—I won’t deny it, there are benefits to being a woman here in receiving this “special treatment” that I’m not accustomed to. However, sometimes cultural clashes erupt between myself and men here. They don’t understand why I go off by myself or feel comfortable being alone in general. I was raised by liberal parents who gave me my space and independence. I rarely answered to anyone. Here as a woman, you have less independence—I don’t envy my Ecuadorian women friends who have to answer to their fathers and their boyfriends about their whereabouts several times a day.
Things are changing in the younger generations. I have plenty of male friends who I would never label as macho. Most of them are from the upper class and have traveled or lived outside of Ecuador. They have been exposed to different types of gender interactions and live in a world where their mothers don’t cook their every meal. They even live in their own apartments and cook/clean for themselves, which is a big step in itself. In earlier generations men and women both went from their parents’ house to marriage and living as husband and wife. In my opinion, machismo starts with the mothers here. Ironic, but true. They don’t let their sons lift a finger and baby them to no end. Their sons are their little princes. Perhaps they focus so much on their sons because their husbands don’t provide them with the emotional support they need. These grown sons expect the same treatment when they get married. As such the cycle continues. This is just my own personal theory, I have done no investigative work to support this—simple observations. (That’s the glory of blogs, no footnotes needed).
Anyway, every time I see these anti-machismo ad campaigns I’m filled with hope and joy. Ecuador still has one of the highest domestic violence rates of the region, but at least someone realizes, at an institutional level, that machismo needs to be addressed. These campaigns make it crystal clear that machismo does indeed exist in Ecuador and that it’s no longer socially acceptable. What was once a social norm is now being challenged….change is in the future and it’s exhilarating.
Carmen's Lunch Place
Every day we all brave the fierce hill of Montufar Street, go careening down its back side, wait at the traffic light on Flores and take our first right onto Guzman. About ¾ of the way down the block we step into a dark and dingy lunch spot on the right—no windows, dirty wooden floors, long tables and benches where crowds of people eat at the same time. And there is Carmen herself, an affable woman from the coast, from Manabi to be exact, which is why people from all over the historic center seek out her food. Lunch is taken very seriously in Ecuador and Carmen has the best lunch in the area. For $1.50 one gets soup, juice and a second course which always includes salad, rice and some sort of meat (I never ask what it is—often I have no idea what I’m eating, but it’s delicious anyway). Carmen stands behind two huge pots, a big ladle in hand, first doling out the soup, and then serving heaping spoonfuls of rice and meat onto large platters. Standing under the heat all day, always wiping a bit of sweat from her brow, Carmen treats her business seriously. She always has enough food for everyone and never repeats her menus. Furthermore, Carmen is a lovely woman: she’s warm, accommodating, and friendly with her clients. In fact, everyone is friends with Carmen, everyone from all over the historic center.
The first time I went to Carmen’s I felt intimidated. Most definitely not a place to go alone--I went under the care and supervision of my sex worker friends. Carmen’s lunch place accommodates all the robbers, muggers, drug addicts, drug dealers, pimps, mafia members, and sex workers of the historic center. Basically, all of the area’s most “dangerous” individuals (as would be described by conventional society) eat lunch at Carmen’s. As such, my first trip to Carmen’s was filled with anxiety. The women warned me before we entered that I had to sit at the far table with them, on the inside, squeezed next to the wall, while they sat on the outside of the table. They took my bag and stuffed it into their pants. I glanced around at the unfamiliar faces and felt a bit scared. I was also worried that I’d get sick from Carmen’s food—I had eaten at other “hole-in-the wall” types of places before with the women, but this was the dingiest of all.
Many months have passed since my first visit to Carmen’s. Now I enter alone, greet Carmen with a kiss on the cheek, greet her brother, nephew and son who all help her run the place. I go from table to table and greet all the people—they are all still the muggers, addicts, drug dealers, pimps, etc. but now I know them and they greet me with much warmth. Only once I’ve made my rounds to say hello to everyone do I then sit down and eat. I dive into my food without fear. I’ve never gotten sick from Carmen’s food, so despite its outward appearance, I know it’s a safe place to eat. Usually I’m with a sex worker friend or join a few women at a table. I chat with everyone and it has become a very pleasant ritual in my day. I feel no fear at Carmen’s, nor do I need to. I know her brother guards me fiercely, as do many of the pimps I now know—as well as the sex workers and Javier, who is my official bodyguard. In fact, I feel completely at home with Carmen. I enjoy joking with her and the others in the restaurant.
Last week I arrived at Carmen’s with my transgender friend Ginger to find that Carmen’s had been closed. We rapped on the door again and again until we saw Carmen peer through a tiny crack. She whispered, “Come around the back.” As if entering an underground speak-easy, we entered a door a few doors down from her restaurant into a plaza and living area of an old colonial home. There was another gate to the right, surrounded by barking dogs. Carmen’s brother shooed the dogs away and invited us through the gate. We crossed through a yard, entered a cement basement, passed through several rooms and then finally, up some steep steel stairs through a trap-roof door to enter the extra-dark restaurant. Everyone was there, speaking in hushed tones. Teary-eyed, Carmen explained that they shut her down that afternoon for no apparent reason--that she had received a denouncement from someone and the police were investigating. We ate lunch silently, listening to Carmen as she complained that someone must be jealous of her and wanted to close her down. I asked if all her health codes were in order and she said she had just renewed everything.
The next day Carmen told me that the police shut her down because apparently she “sells drugs” from her establishment. When she told me this I almost laughed out loud. Anyone who knows Carmen knows that she’s the last person who would sell drugs. It is ridiculous. My laughter quickly turned to anger. How on earth could they assume such a thing, I asked. Carmen explained that these things are arbitrary, that the police don’t need any proof of anything to shut her down. Carmen explained that the police are angry that all the “scum of the earth” eat at her restaurant—that it’s a cesspool of vice, etc. but Carmen herself cannot be blamed. Carmen, again teary eyed, explained that she had to pay a $400 fine in order to reopen the restaurant. It’s a problem because she can’t control who comes to eat at her restaurant—it’s not her fault that her lunch place is smack in the middle of Quito’s most dangerous neighborhood, in the red-light and drug district. She told me that she can’t help it that she doesn’t attract diplomats or lawyers to her lunch place. Her food is for the locals—for the most humble and poor members of Quito’s historic zone.
What happened to Carmen strikes me as unbelievably unfair. Under no circumstances does Carmen sell drugs from her lunch place. She just provides an incredibly delicious meal that attracts faithful clients, many of whom are taking a break from their work in the underworld economy (furthermore, not ALL her customers are part of the illegal economy—plenty of local storekeepers and municipal workers eat there—I’ve even seen police too). I agree with Carmen—she doesn’t pick her clients, nor can she refuse to serve people, due to economic necessity. The police just fear the sheer number of “bad people” all gathered in one place, under one roof, sharing a communal meal together.
The first time I went to Carmen’s I felt intimidated. Most definitely not a place to go alone--I went under the care and supervision of my sex worker friends. Carmen’s lunch place accommodates all the robbers, muggers, drug addicts, drug dealers, pimps, mafia members, and sex workers of the historic center. Basically, all of the area’s most “dangerous” individuals (as would be described by conventional society) eat lunch at Carmen’s. As such, my first trip to Carmen’s was filled with anxiety. The women warned me before we entered that I had to sit at the far table with them, on the inside, squeezed next to the wall, while they sat on the outside of the table. They took my bag and stuffed it into their pants. I glanced around at the unfamiliar faces and felt a bit scared. I was also worried that I’d get sick from Carmen’s food—I had eaten at other “hole-in-the wall” types of places before with the women, but this was the dingiest of all.
Many months have passed since my first visit to Carmen’s. Now I enter alone, greet Carmen with a kiss on the cheek, greet her brother, nephew and son who all help her run the place. I go from table to table and greet all the people—they are all still the muggers, addicts, drug dealers, pimps, etc. but now I know them and they greet me with much warmth. Only once I’ve made my rounds to say hello to everyone do I then sit down and eat. I dive into my food without fear. I’ve never gotten sick from Carmen’s food, so despite its outward appearance, I know it’s a safe place to eat. Usually I’m with a sex worker friend or join a few women at a table. I chat with everyone and it has become a very pleasant ritual in my day. I feel no fear at Carmen’s, nor do I need to. I know her brother guards me fiercely, as do many of the pimps I now know—as well as the sex workers and Javier, who is my official bodyguard. In fact, I feel completely at home with Carmen. I enjoy joking with her and the others in the restaurant.
Last week I arrived at Carmen’s with my transgender friend Ginger to find that Carmen’s had been closed. We rapped on the door again and again until we saw Carmen peer through a tiny crack. She whispered, “Come around the back.” As if entering an underground speak-easy, we entered a door a few doors down from her restaurant into a plaza and living area of an old colonial home. There was another gate to the right, surrounded by barking dogs. Carmen’s brother shooed the dogs away and invited us through the gate. We crossed through a yard, entered a cement basement, passed through several rooms and then finally, up some steep steel stairs through a trap-roof door to enter the extra-dark restaurant. Everyone was there, speaking in hushed tones. Teary-eyed, Carmen explained that they shut her down that afternoon for no apparent reason--that she had received a denouncement from someone and the police were investigating. We ate lunch silently, listening to Carmen as she complained that someone must be jealous of her and wanted to close her down. I asked if all her health codes were in order and she said she had just renewed everything.
The next day Carmen told me that the police shut her down because apparently she “sells drugs” from her establishment. When she told me this I almost laughed out loud. Anyone who knows Carmen knows that she’s the last person who would sell drugs. It is ridiculous. My laughter quickly turned to anger. How on earth could they assume such a thing, I asked. Carmen explained that these things are arbitrary, that the police don’t need any proof of anything to shut her down. Carmen explained that the police are angry that all the “scum of the earth” eat at her restaurant—that it’s a cesspool of vice, etc. but Carmen herself cannot be blamed. Carmen, again teary eyed, explained that she had to pay a $400 fine in order to reopen the restaurant. It’s a problem because she can’t control who comes to eat at her restaurant—it’s not her fault that her lunch place is smack in the middle of Quito’s most dangerous neighborhood, in the red-light and drug district. She told me that she can’t help it that she doesn’t attract diplomats or lawyers to her lunch place. Her food is for the locals—for the most humble and poor members of Quito’s historic zone.
What happened to Carmen strikes me as unbelievably unfair. Under no circumstances does Carmen sell drugs from her lunch place. She just provides an incredibly delicious meal that attracts faithful clients, many of whom are taking a break from their work in the underworld economy (furthermore, not ALL her customers are part of the illegal economy—plenty of local storekeepers and municipal workers eat there—I’ve even seen police too). I agree with Carmen—she doesn’t pick her clients, nor can she refuse to serve people, due to economic necessity. The police just fear the sheer number of “bad people” all gathered in one place, under one roof, sharing a communal meal together.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
$240/month
That’s how much Ecuador’s Vice-President, Lenin Moreno, has offered families with special needs’ children in assistance each month. It’s the equivalent to a month’s salary at minimum wage, which is no small fee. My bodyguard Juan has a special needs’ son, D. (age 3), who still does not walk or talk at all. Over the past few weeks I’ve been filming Juan as he attempts to apply for this assistance. Through the process I’ve learned just how difficult it is to be a poor Ecuadorian, dependent on the public health care system for all services. But not only have we been traveling from one public hospital and clinic to another, we’ve also visited several government offices to figure out how one even applies for this special assistance. Clear, accurate, and direct information seems hard to come by here. Juan had seen the new assistance being advertised on the nightly news, but once we arrived at the supposedly correct government office, the employees knew very little about the actual details of the program.
For Juan and his partner K., who works as a prostitute while he looks after their three children, $240 would make a tremendous difference in their standard of living. They barely scrape by each day, sometimes forced to go to bed and wake-up hungry. The days that Juan works as my bodyguard, I pay for his lunch and for the lunches of his children, which comes to $5.00 daily. The assistance Vice-President Moreno offers is made exactly for families like K. and Javier because Javier cannot seek employment since his primary job is to care for their disabled son (who needs to be watched 24 hours a day). With one partner out of the work force, they must depend on K.’s meager salary to support a family of five. It is extremely difficult considering K. usually only scores an average of 2 puntos (encounters) daily, earning $5.00 for each one.
The catch to receiving the assistance is that the family has to prove that their child is a certain “percentage” disabled. I’m not sure how they quantify it, but the child must be at least “75%” disabled. To me such quantifications seem ridiculous because they are based on random (fairly subjective) evaluations from doctors. What if the child is “merely” blind, and receives a lower disability percentage but the family doesn’t have the resources to send him/her to a special school and therefore must stay home with him/her? What if a doctor misdiagnoses the percentage of an autistic child who is highly adept in some cognitive areas while severely impaired in others? What if a family has an emotionally disturbed child who needs special psychiatric care but has long periods of stability, in which he/she may not need to be watched at all times? (i.e. perhaps both parents might be able to work during these periods of stability, but might not be able to maintain jobs if their child has frequent moments of crises). There are a million more scenarios that make me skeptical of the quantification of these children’s disabilities. An attempt to standardize all the hundreds of possible disabilities a child could have in order to make a vast national comparison is an archaic gesture, reminiscent of French philosopher Foucault’s theories of state power, normalization and vigilance.
I’m terrified that somehow D. won’t “make the cut.” What if a doctor sees him as decides that he is “normal enough” for Juan and K. to not receive financial aid. What if an ignorant doctor decides that D.’s severe cognitive delays are just that, something that he’ll “grow out of?” Just trying to get an evaluation has been a nightmare process. Juan and I have attempted to have D. evaluated at three different hospitals or public clinics and each of them has sent him away, requesting more paperwork from some obscure government office. It has been a Kafkaesque maze of bureaucracy with no end in sight. To even get an appointment at one of the public hospitals most people spend the night sleeping at its doors, to line up in order to gain entrance in the morning. At 6:00am the hospital administrators start handing out appointments for the day. Since there are a finite number, only the first part of the line gains entrance. The rest will arrive later that evening to spend the night again, hoping to get an earlier spot for the next day. Once inside the hospital, people wait in lines sitting on the floor, in giant spirals. I’ve never seen anything like it. The lines go around and around the wards in huge circles. People literally spend the entire day waiting; when they finally see the doctor (if they’re lucky) he/she ushers them in and out of his office within five minutes because he/she has so many people to attend.
For someone like Juan with a special needs child, it is not possible to wait in such long lines. For any child it is torture, but for D. it feels especially tortuous because he gets overwhelmed very easily. He hates being in tight spaces with lots of crowds and quickly starts to tantrum, to the point that we’ve had to leave the hospital and lose our turn for the day. We finally decided to go to a local clinic that charges $5 a visit instead of going to the public hospital, because there would be less people. Unfortunately, even in this private clinic D. was exposed to long lines and cramped spaces. Even here people are not given a set appointment and they must wait in long lines. D. ended up having a fit, much to everyone else’s chagrin and to make matters worse, the doctor arrived 2 hours late. When we finally saw the neurologist for an evaluation, he turned us away saying that D. was too out of control to examine—that we would have to come back another day when he was calmer.
I kept my mouth shut, but I was fuming inside. Poor D. couldn’t help but get upset while waiting for a doctor who nonchalantly arrived 2 hours late. Even I was beginning to get tense, bored and irritable. I couldn’t believe this doctor wouldn’t give D. 10 minutes to calm down in his office. Why didn’t he realize that not all of his patients will be easy to deal with—wouldn’t such a realization come with the territory of being a doctor? The worst part about having the doctor turn us away meant that Juan would have to pay another $5 in an attempt to see him again. What will make D. any calmer next week when we have to wait in line for hours? I’m dubious that the doctor will treat him then either. It’s certainly not D.’s fault that he reacted in such a way—if only he could go to the expensive private Metropolitan Hospital, where I receive treatment, where one is given a set appointment, with no waiting in lines—and where the medical care is first-rate, where D. would be guaranteed to receive a fair and accurate evaluation.
I was also shocked by Juan’s reaction. He expressed neither surprise, nor irritation that the doctor turned us away. He accepted it without question. When we left the building I asked him why he didn’t defend himself. He said it hadn’t occurred to him. It made me realize the dramatic difference in our social positions. Juan treats doctors with reverence and views them as an ultimate authority. He would never have the nerve to question a doctor, given his low social standing. As he said, it wouldn’t even occur to him. For me, as the daughter of a doctor, I have a different type of relationship with these authority figures. Naturally I respect doctors, but with my father as one, I feel comfortable asking questions and confronting them when needed. Indeed, I feel empowered enough to question or confront any authority figure, due to the social position I occupy. I couldn’t believe Juan didn’t complain, but it gave me such insight into how it must be to belong to a marginalized, disempowered social group. I’m just worried that due to all the obstacles that accompany being a member of Ecuador’s lower class that somehow we won’t get the evaluation D. requires for Juan and K. to receive the financial assistance they so desperately need.
For Juan and his partner K., who works as a prostitute while he looks after their three children, $240 would make a tremendous difference in their standard of living. They barely scrape by each day, sometimes forced to go to bed and wake-up hungry. The days that Juan works as my bodyguard, I pay for his lunch and for the lunches of his children, which comes to $5.00 daily. The assistance Vice-President Moreno offers is made exactly for families like K. and Javier because Javier cannot seek employment since his primary job is to care for their disabled son (who needs to be watched 24 hours a day). With one partner out of the work force, they must depend on K.’s meager salary to support a family of five. It is extremely difficult considering K. usually only scores an average of 2 puntos (encounters) daily, earning $5.00 for each one.
The catch to receiving the assistance is that the family has to prove that their child is a certain “percentage” disabled. I’m not sure how they quantify it, but the child must be at least “75%” disabled. To me such quantifications seem ridiculous because they are based on random (fairly subjective) evaluations from doctors. What if the child is “merely” blind, and receives a lower disability percentage but the family doesn’t have the resources to send him/her to a special school and therefore must stay home with him/her? What if a doctor misdiagnoses the percentage of an autistic child who is highly adept in some cognitive areas while severely impaired in others? What if a family has an emotionally disturbed child who needs special psychiatric care but has long periods of stability, in which he/she may not need to be watched at all times? (i.e. perhaps both parents might be able to work during these periods of stability, but might not be able to maintain jobs if their child has frequent moments of crises). There are a million more scenarios that make me skeptical of the quantification of these children’s disabilities. An attempt to standardize all the hundreds of possible disabilities a child could have in order to make a vast national comparison is an archaic gesture, reminiscent of French philosopher Foucault’s theories of state power, normalization and vigilance.
I’m terrified that somehow D. won’t “make the cut.” What if a doctor sees him as decides that he is “normal enough” for Juan and K. to not receive financial aid. What if an ignorant doctor decides that D.’s severe cognitive delays are just that, something that he’ll “grow out of?” Just trying to get an evaluation has been a nightmare process. Juan and I have attempted to have D. evaluated at three different hospitals or public clinics and each of them has sent him away, requesting more paperwork from some obscure government office. It has been a Kafkaesque maze of bureaucracy with no end in sight. To even get an appointment at one of the public hospitals most people spend the night sleeping at its doors, to line up in order to gain entrance in the morning. At 6:00am the hospital administrators start handing out appointments for the day. Since there are a finite number, only the first part of the line gains entrance. The rest will arrive later that evening to spend the night again, hoping to get an earlier spot for the next day. Once inside the hospital, people wait in lines sitting on the floor, in giant spirals. I’ve never seen anything like it. The lines go around and around the wards in huge circles. People literally spend the entire day waiting; when they finally see the doctor (if they’re lucky) he/she ushers them in and out of his office within five minutes because he/she has so many people to attend.
For someone like Juan with a special needs child, it is not possible to wait in such long lines. For any child it is torture, but for D. it feels especially tortuous because he gets overwhelmed very easily. He hates being in tight spaces with lots of crowds and quickly starts to tantrum, to the point that we’ve had to leave the hospital and lose our turn for the day. We finally decided to go to a local clinic that charges $5 a visit instead of going to the public hospital, because there would be less people. Unfortunately, even in this private clinic D. was exposed to long lines and cramped spaces. Even here people are not given a set appointment and they must wait in long lines. D. ended up having a fit, much to everyone else’s chagrin and to make matters worse, the doctor arrived 2 hours late. When we finally saw the neurologist for an evaluation, he turned us away saying that D. was too out of control to examine—that we would have to come back another day when he was calmer.
I kept my mouth shut, but I was fuming inside. Poor D. couldn’t help but get upset while waiting for a doctor who nonchalantly arrived 2 hours late. Even I was beginning to get tense, bored and irritable. I couldn’t believe this doctor wouldn’t give D. 10 minutes to calm down in his office. Why didn’t he realize that not all of his patients will be easy to deal with—wouldn’t such a realization come with the territory of being a doctor? The worst part about having the doctor turn us away meant that Juan would have to pay another $5 in an attempt to see him again. What will make D. any calmer next week when we have to wait in line for hours? I’m dubious that the doctor will treat him then either. It’s certainly not D.’s fault that he reacted in such a way—if only he could go to the expensive private Metropolitan Hospital, where I receive treatment, where one is given a set appointment, with no waiting in lines—and where the medical care is first-rate, where D. would be guaranteed to receive a fair and accurate evaluation.
I was also shocked by Juan’s reaction. He expressed neither surprise, nor irritation that the doctor turned us away. He accepted it without question. When we left the building I asked him why he didn’t defend himself. He said it hadn’t occurred to him. It made me realize the dramatic difference in our social positions. Juan treats doctors with reverence and views them as an ultimate authority. He would never have the nerve to question a doctor, given his low social standing. As he said, it wouldn’t even occur to him. For me, as the daughter of a doctor, I have a different type of relationship with these authority figures. Naturally I respect doctors, but with my father as one, I feel comfortable asking questions and confronting them when needed. Indeed, I feel empowered enough to question or confront any authority figure, due to the social position I occupy. I couldn’t believe Juan didn’t complain, but it gave me such insight into how it must be to belong to a marginalized, disempowered social group. I’m just worried that due to all the obstacles that accompany being a member of Ecuador’s lower class that somehow we won’t get the evaluation D. requires for Juan and K. to receive the financial assistance they so desperately need.
Mother-Daughters
I know two examples of mothers and daughters who both work on the streets. In one case both work on our corner, independently of one another, not as a team—in both instances, they don’t advertise the fact that they are related. In fact, after working for 11 months on the street, I only just found out that there were mother and daughters on the streets a month ago. No one had told me, especially not the mothers themselves, as I sense that they feel a bit embarrassed or ashamed that their daughters also work.
I found out about A. and her daughter S. one day at lunch. When I entered Don Elio’s (one of our favorite comedores—cafeterias) on the street, I joined A. and another young woman at their table. A. is 35 years old and the woman sitting next to her appeared to be in her early 20s. She was a beautiful young woman whom I hadn’t seen before. As A. and this woman chatted away, I sensed that they were good friends, but since I had never seen her before, I wasn’t sure if she was a sex worker. (By this point, I recognize by face all the sex workers in our area). However, my instincts told me she worked, simply by how she was dressed and by her post-lunch ritual of re-applying her make-up with meticulous care. All the women take at least 10 minutes after lunch while still sitting at the table to re-line their lips, curl and apply more mascara to their eyelashes and to brush out their hair again. Some bring gel in their purses to pull their hair back in tight pony-tails or buns.
A. and S. acted like sisters, laughing and carrying on—I felt like an external participant, observing an intimate relationship. Finally, A. glanced at me, just as my lunch arrived and they were finishing, and to my surprise, said, “Anita, I want to introduce you to my daughter.” The young woman leaned across the table to give me a salutary kiss on the cheek. I swallowed my surprise and smiled at her nonchalantly, as if I always meet the working daughters of sex workers. I couldn’t see a striking resemblance, but told them that obviously they were from the same family because they’re both so beautiful. A. smiled widely and proudly said, “You see how much lighter she is than me, Anita? Her father is almost white!” A. is a black woman from the coast and its true, her daughter is much lighter than her, which is exactly why I didn’t see the resemblance at first. But I hate playing into these race remarks so I simply noted to A., “But she has your beautiful eyes!” which is true.
As A. and s. were leaving the restaurant, A. whispered to me, “Anita, don’t tell anyone she’s my daughter, its top secret!” I reassured her that of course I wouldn’t tell a soul. When A. requested that I maintain her daughter’s anonymity, it confirmed my suspicions that she was a sex worker. And indeed, since that day at lunch, I have seen S. working on the streets by the Marin, the bus depot, a spot where new, younger girls arrive. We always greet one another warmly and sometimes other women ask me who she is. I say she’s new and I met her at Don Elio’s one day. The fact that A. wanted me to keep her daughter’s working status top secret indicates that perhaps she is ashamed that S. also works on the streets. Perhaps she feels like a bad mother, as if she has failed to provide opportunities for her daughter to find other work. Given the tremendous stigma that comes with working as a prostitute, I’m not surprised that A. might feel embarrassed that her daughter fell into the same work. The vast majority of women on the street tell me that above anything else, they would never (ever) want (or allow) their daughters to work as prostitutes.
I don’t know any of the details of A. and S.’s case: perhaps A. forbade S. to work but S. defied her, or perhaps on the other hand, A. ushered S. into the sex industry. Who knows? I don’t judge them either way—that’s the way things work on the streets. I’ve never asked anyone and obviously would never ask A., unless she offered me more information freely.
The other mother-daughter “team” on the street is another woman with a name “A.” and her daughter “I.” Again, only recently did I learn they’re related, even though they don’t seem to keep it a secret. It seems like everyone except me knew. It had never come up and they don’t resemble one another at all, so I had never guessed it. Only when one of the other sex workers was looking for I. and asked A. if she had seen her daughter did I learn the connection. Sensing that it was an open topic, I asked A. to confirm, “I. is your daughter??? I didn’t know that!” A. laughed and said, “Of course she is, you didn’t know that Anita?” I was shocked. I would have never guessed they were related. They seem to be the same ages as A. and her daughter, S. The difference is that I see I. frequently on the street since she works on the same corner as her mother. I am very friendly with A., but I. works intermittently, so I’ve never gotten close to her.
Over lunch the other day, A. told me about her troubled daughter. I had asked her where she had disappeared to, as I hadn’t seen I. in weeks. Sighing deeply, A. said that I. had run off with one of her clients, convinced she was madly in love with him, despite the fact that she has a husband. She dropped her three children off with A. late one night promising that she would be back one day. A. has no idea where her daughter is and obviously feels resentful that she suddenly has to be a mother to her three grandchildren. As she explained the story, A. got more and more pissed off with her daughter, calling her immature and irresponsible. A. says they’ve always had a difficult relationship and that they often go for long periods without speaking. In fact, I’ve never seen them interact on the street before, which is probably another reason why I didn’t know they were related. Unlike A. and her daughter S., A. and her daughter I. don’t seem like friends at all or even casual acquaintances.
I haven’t probed into how I. began working on the streets with her mother. Just like with the other woman named “A,” I figure the details will emerge at a later date, although they don’t really matter much. It’s the marked difference in attitude of the mothers in each case that makes things interesting: the first A. keeps her daughter’s work status a top-secret, while the other A. shares it openly. As such, one might assume that the second A. doesn’t view prostitution as a shameful job. Perhaps she feels her daughter is old enough to choose her employment and that sex work is the best way for her to support her children (even though at this very moment A. is supporting them, not her daughter).
I found out about A. and her daughter S. one day at lunch. When I entered Don Elio’s (one of our favorite comedores—cafeterias) on the street, I joined A. and another young woman at their table. A. is 35 years old and the woman sitting next to her appeared to be in her early 20s. She was a beautiful young woman whom I hadn’t seen before. As A. and this woman chatted away, I sensed that they were good friends, but since I had never seen her before, I wasn’t sure if she was a sex worker. (By this point, I recognize by face all the sex workers in our area). However, my instincts told me she worked, simply by how she was dressed and by her post-lunch ritual of re-applying her make-up with meticulous care. All the women take at least 10 minutes after lunch while still sitting at the table to re-line their lips, curl and apply more mascara to their eyelashes and to brush out their hair again. Some bring gel in their purses to pull their hair back in tight pony-tails or buns.
A. and S. acted like sisters, laughing and carrying on—I felt like an external participant, observing an intimate relationship. Finally, A. glanced at me, just as my lunch arrived and they were finishing, and to my surprise, said, “Anita, I want to introduce you to my daughter.” The young woman leaned across the table to give me a salutary kiss on the cheek. I swallowed my surprise and smiled at her nonchalantly, as if I always meet the working daughters of sex workers. I couldn’t see a striking resemblance, but told them that obviously they were from the same family because they’re both so beautiful. A. smiled widely and proudly said, “You see how much lighter she is than me, Anita? Her father is almost white!” A. is a black woman from the coast and its true, her daughter is much lighter than her, which is exactly why I didn’t see the resemblance at first. But I hate playing into these race remarks so I simply noted to A., “But she has your beautiful eyes!” which is true.
As A. and s. were leaving the restaurant, A. whispered to me, “Anita, don’t tell anyone she’s my daughter, its top secret!” I reassured her that of course I wouldn’t tell a soul. When A. requested that I maintain her daughter’s anonymity, it confirmed my suspicions that she was a sex worker. And indeed, since that day at lunch, I have seen S. working on the streets by the Marin, the bus depot, a spot where new, younger girls arrive. We always greet one another warmly and sometimes other women ask me who she is. I say she’s new and I met her at Don Elio’s one day. The fact that A. wanted me to keep her daughter’s working status top secret indicates that perhaps she is ashamed that S. also works on the streets. Perhaps she feels like a bad mother, as if she has failed to provide opportunities for her daughter to find other work. Given the tremendous stigma that comes with working as a prostitute, I’m not surprised that A. might feel embarrassed that her daughter fell into the same work. The vast majority of women on the street tell me that above anything else, they would never (ever) want (or allow) their daughters to work as prostitutes.
I don’t know any of the details of A. and S.’s case: perhaps A. forbade S. to work but S. defied her, or perhaps on the other hand, A. ushered S. into the sex industry. Who knows? I don’t judge them either way—that’s the way things work on the streets. I’ve never asked anyone and obviously would never ask A., unless she offered me more information freely.
The other mother-daughter “team” on the street is another woman with a name “A.” and her daughter “I.” Again, only recently did I learn they’re related, even though they don’t seem to keep it a secret. It seems like everyone except me knew. It had never come up and they don’t resemble one another at all, so I had never guessed it. Only when one of the other sex workers was looking for I. and asked A. if she had seen her daughter did I learn the connection. Sensing that it was an open topic, I asked A. to confirm, “I. is your daughter??? I didn’t know that!” A. laughed and said, “Of course she is, you didn’t know that Anita?” I was shocked. I would have never guessed they were related. They seem to be the same ages as A. and her daughter, S. The difference is that I see I. frequently on the street since she works on the same corner as her mother. I am very friendly with A., but I. works intermittently, so I’ve never gotten close to her.
Over lunch the other day, A. told me about her troubled daughter. I had asked her where she had disappeared to, as I hadn’t seen I. in weeks. Sighing deeply, A. said that I. had run off with one of her clients, convinced she was madly in love with him, despite the fact that she has a husband. She dropped her three children off with A. late one night promising that she would be back one day. A. has no idea where her daughter is and obviously feels resentful that she suddenly has to be a mother to her three grandchildren. As she explained the story, A. got more and more pissed off with her daughter, calling her immature and irresponsible. A. says they’ve always had a difficult relationship and that they often go for long periods without speaking. In fact, I’ve never seen them interact on the street before, which is probably another reason why I didn’t know they were related. Unlike A. and her daughter S., A. and her daughter I. don’t seem like friends at all or even casual acquaintances.
I haven’t probed into how I. began working on the streets with her mother. Just like with the other woman named “A,” I figure the details will emerge at a later date, although they don’t really matter much. It’s the marked difference in attitude of the mothers in each case that makes things interesting: the first A. keeps her daughter’s work status a top-secret, while the other A. shares it openly. As such, one might assume that the second A. doesn’t view prostitution as a shameful job. Perhaps she feels her daughter is old enough to choose her employment and that sex work is the best way for her to support her children (even though at this very moment A. is supporting them, not her daughter).
Monday, August 30, 2010
My Birthday Bash
I knew celebrating my birthday (Aug. 27th) with my sex worker friends in the streets would be a good time. Despite all their hardships, (or because of them more likely), these women know how to party, and they’re willing to do so at any hour of the day. I wanted to have a relaxed gathering during the day because I had already planned a birthday party that night. I arrived in the Centro at noon with my birthday cake and more and more women kept appearing. They arrived with big bottles of beer in their hands—my birthday definitely gave them a good excuse to drink. As is the custom here, one person is in charge of pouring beer into one glass which is passed around and around. One is expected to down the glass in its entirety before giving it back to the main server. In this case, Ginger, one of our transgender friends who works on the streets in another part of the city, was playing host. Even though these women sometimes don’t have enough money to eat lunch each day, they certainly found enough money for endless beers at $1.00 a piece.
One tradition I didn’t know about is that the birthday girl (or boy) receives the equivalent number of spanks that he/she has in years. I couldn’t believe it when my friend K. took off her leather belt and all the women lined up. They told me to stand still and bend over. I couldn’t believe it! I was laughing hysterically as each of them slapped me hard across my ass. Some of them hit me really hard! Perhaps it was satisfying for them to pound a gringa—perhaps it felt like some sort of leveling of power. Thank God they decided to stop before reaching my age—apparently I’m so old that they got bored before completing.
The other unexpected act was when I blew out the candles for my cake, two women shoved my face into it. Again, I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. No one in my life had ever done that. I’ve seen it at weddings but not at birthdays. Perhaps it is also a custom in the U.S., I’m not sure. Then the party turned into a food fight of sorts. Once all the pieces were passed out to the dozen or so women who showed up (more and more kept trailing through the door—we were in the telephone cabins on the corner), the women flung bits of icing into each others’ faces. Then we took lots of group photos, all of us covered in icing and buzzed with beer. These women have to take each opportunity for fun seriously, because it doesn’t happen frequently. Many of the women only stayed briefly because they couldn’t take more time off from work. Despite my birthday, these women were still in the middle of a work day. I was so touched and flattered when each of them came and gave me a huge hug and kiss on the check. They all asked that “God Bless me” and wished me lots of happiness. It wouldn’t have felt right not celebrating my birthday with the sex workers. They are like family to me here and treat me as such.
One tradition I didn’t know about is that the birthday girl (or boy) receives the equivalent number of spanks that he/she has in years. I couldn’t believe it when my friend K. took off her leather belt and all the women lined up. They told me to stand still and bend over. I couldn’t believe it! I was laughing hysterically as each of them slapped me hard across my ass. Some of them hit me really hard! Perhaps it was satisfying for them to pound a gringa—perhaps it felt like some sort of leveling of power. Thank God they decided to stop before reaching my age—apparently I’m so old that they got bored before completing.
The other unexpected act was when I blew out the candles for my cake, two women shoved my face into it. Again, I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. No one in my life had ever done that. I’ve seen it at weddings but not at birthdays. Perhaps it is also a custom in the U.S., I’m not sure. Then the party turned into a food fight of sorts. Once all the pieces were passed out to the dozen or so women who showed up (more and more kept trailing through the door—we were in the telephone cabins on the corner), the women flung bits of icing into each others’ faces. Then we took lots of group photos, all of us covered in icing and buzzed with beer. These women have to take each opportunity for fun seriously, because it doesn’t happen frequently. Many of the women only stayed briefly because they couldn’t take more time off from work. Despite my birthday, these women were still in the middle of a work day. I was so touched and flattered when each of them came and gave me a huge hug and kiss on the check. They all asked that “God Bless me” and wished me lots of happiness. It wouldn’t have felt right not celebrating my birthday with the sex workers. They are like family to me here and treat me as such.
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