A long and complicated story
I have always had a loud voice. It wasn’t that I tried to speak loudly. Even as a kid, my voice was piercing, and I was ADHD in the days before they invented Ritalin, and I got in a lot of trouble in school for it. Bullies love hyperactive kids with loud voices. I got bullied a lot. Teachers were always telling me to speak more quietly. And it wasn’t that I shouted, but more that I could naturally project my voice, and it would carry to the farthest reaches of wherever I was.
Years later, I was at a party and a woman who I had just met came over to me and said, “Sam, I was in the other room, and I could hear you clearly. Your voice is very penetrating.” I apologized to her, like I usually did when somebody called it to my attention, though honestly, it was not a conscious act. I just opened my mouth, and this voice came out. She told me that she was a rower, at the local rowing club, and she wanted to know if I would be interested in being a coxswain. She rowed on a crew that had been training for 6 months to go to Amsterdam and compete in the Gay Olympics being held there. She told me that because they were training twice a day, that over the months they had burnt out many of their coxswains, and were desperate to replace them so that they could continue to train. The olympics were coming up in 3 months. I had no idea what a coxswain was, and told her so. She told me that a coxswain was the person who sat in the back of the long boat with 8 rowers, and would call out the cadence for the rowers, and also steer the boat. And her crew would be happy to train me.
Ok, I was game, and I went down to the rowing club a couple days later, and watched them row. I have always loved water, and was a good swimmer. It looked interesting. Best of all, a coxswain needed a loud voice, that would project all the way to the front of the boat, 60 feet away, where the bow rower could hear it. The coxswain was also responsible for getting 8 rowers to lift up the heavy boat from the rack, in unison, and carry it down to the dock on their shoulders, and roll it into the water, and then all get in at once without tipping the narrow boat over. It required someone that had an overview of all the rowers at once, so that while carrying the boat, they would not bang it into the other boats, or the rack, or the door to the boathouse, and would give the commands that would allow the rowers to do everything in unison. What could be better than bossing 8 women around in a loud voice? It was a job made for me. I came to enjoy it immensely. The women were patient in training me, and I coxed them 4 days a week for the next 3 months until they went away to compete. By that time, I was well known at the rowing club, and a pretty good cox, and as soon as the women’s crew left, other crews came and asked me to fill in for their coxswains on days when they couldn’t be available. I did that for a year, coxing 4 or 5 times a week, with various crews. Eventually, I got kind of tired of doing it. Though coxing crews was fun, I was looking for something to spend my free time doing, that actually had some greater meaning. I was a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, and wanted to do something with my time that benefited humanity on a level that helped people with their lives.
It was about this time, that a guy involved with the Returned Peace Corps Volunteer group in Austin asked me to come over and chat with him. He had been running the projects that the RPCV group did in Mexico, and he told me that they had burnt out all of the carpenters in the group, and if they were going to continue to do good works there, they needed someone with carpentry skills, and tools, and leadership abilities to lead the projects. I agreed to come along on the next project and see what they were doing. Their outreach projects were in a little colonia in Rio Bravo, Mexico. It took about 6 hours to drive down there from Austin. Arriving there and checking into a tiny hotel, we met with some local folks from the city government. The next 3 hours was a boring, seemingly endless meeting with fat men in barber shirts, and was in Spanish, a language that I had only a minimal ability to communicate in. Most of it went right over my head. The next day we met in the morning, and spent most of the day waiting for the local men to organize the materials for the project that they had in mind, and finally got to work about 4pm, digging trenches in a school, where we ran a water line to a new building. It was so disorganized. The next day we worked on nailing tar paper on the roof of a house in the colonia, while the family that owned the house sat around and watched us. I was pretty unhappy. In Peace Corps I had discovered that if you didn’t have the beneficiaries of what you wanted to do actually involved in the project, not very much was learned. And what this family was learning was that this random group of Americans was gifting them a roof that didn’t leak. I didn’t want to be Santa Claus. I wanted the beneficiaries to have some sweat equity in what was going on, so that, after we left, they would have the knowledge and desire to maintain what was done. And that was not happening.
That night, back at the hotel, one of the other volunteers and I were sitting, drinking a beer, and I was bitching about how nailing tar paper on those folk’s roof had really accomplished very little in the big picture of outreach work. They were happy to have a free leak proof roof, but as we worked, I could see that their neighbors were wondering when we would come and give them a roof, too. I was not very interested in doing that. The RPCV group leader came over and sat with us. He listened to my complaining, and admitted that the project was not very well organized, and that, yes, the beneficiaries had not learned much. And he suggested that, instead of complaining, I should walk my talk, and get into the trenches, and organize projects that met the goals that I was advocating. After he left, my buddy Rob and I continued to drink beer and talk about it into the wee hours. I advocated that we work on a level that benefitted more than just one family. I suggested that working, for instance, on a school, the beneficiaries would be whole neighborhoods, and I could go around and get the fathers and mothers of the students to come and work with us, for the benefit of everybody in the colonia. And that night, Amigos de Las Escuelas was born. When we got back stateside, Rob got busy, and set up non-profit status for Amigos, and started raising money for future projects. I drove back down to Mexico about a month later, and walked around and talked to people. I talked to directors of the local schools, and people in the Ministry of Education, moms and dads, and even though my Spanish was not very pretty, I managed to make people understand what I was saying, and was delighted to get a lot of support for my ideas from the people who lived there. I visited schools, and talked to teachers about their needs. And put together a tentative plan for the next project.
It all worked. Rob and the board of directors for Amigos raised money. I hashed out a plan, and put word out that I was seeking volunteers. The RPCV group was happy to turn the projects over to us. We planned to have the project twice a year, over Thanksgiving weekend, and during Spring Break. We would drive down to Mexico on thursday, work friday and saturday, and drive back to Austin on sunday. Easy peasy, and for the volunteers, it was like an exotic short working vacation in a foreign country. I ran the projects, brought my tools and taught volunteers how to use them, and we did a wide variety of things. We dug latrines and built the casitas for them, in schools out in the campo where there was no water. We fenced kindergartens that were on the side of highways, so that the little kids would not run out in the road and get run over, a thing that happened more often than you would think. We built classrooms for schools that needed more room for their burgeoning populations. I ran those projects for about 12 years. I walked around with a clipboard, helping here and there, hauling materials in my truck, and managed groups of volunteers and local moms and dads, that varied from 12 to 30 people. One of the projects I had 72 volunteers, working on 4 different sites. I was gratified to learn that with enough volunteers, we could build a 12′ by 20′ classroom, with plywood walls, and a tin roof, with windows that I brought down from the Habitat For Humanity recycle store, and a door, and complete it in two days.
It was during these projects that I met a lot of curious local kids, and was able to get them involved as well. My Spanish got a lot better. I had become pretty well known to the local residents, for my ever present clipboard of papers, and my loud voice, and my maroon Ford pickup truck. I would sit at lunch, which we provided for everybody who came to work on the project, and talk with the kids. Mostly it was young girls. The boys walked by the projects, but I guess it wasn’t cool for them to participate, and they rarely did. As I got to know the girls, I found some that were doing well in school, and liked it, but were not going to be able to go to high school, because school cost money for tuition and uniforms, and these were poor families, and if they had the money, it was the sons who would get to go to high school. The daughters, less so. After all, what use would a girl have for a high school education? They were just going to get pregnant, and live with their boyfriends, having kid after kid, and would have no use for it. So, I started cultivating my friendships with these girls who wanted an education. I would go and meet their families, so they could know better who I was. I would invite them to accompany me when I went to the lumberyard to buy materials, and to the grocery store to buy stuff for the project lunches, and rarely drove anywhere without 5 or 6 girls crammed into my pickup with me. I put them to work sawing plywood and nailing nails, and painting the classrooms. In return for their participation, I would buy them notebooks, and school shoes, and occasionally food to take home to their families, many of whom never had much income, or food in the house. Or fathers that hung around much. I gave the girls my company ballpoint pens for using in their studies. My pens were bright colored, and had printed on them:
Call Sam
Silk Purses Out of Sow’s Ears
PO Box 151025
Austin, Texas 78715
On my visits to schools, to talk to teachers about how Amigos could help them, I chuckled to see my company pens in wide use among the students. No one ever asked me what the Silk Purses part meant.
There was one girl in particular, Saida, who was 9 years old, and was at ease with groups of American volunteers, and showed up on every project. She and I became good friends, and when I would have a gaggle of girls with me, at the grocery store, she would be very proprietary in keeping the girls from taking advantage of my generous nature by asking me for everything under the sun. I am a sucker for a sob story, and the teen age girls that accompanied me quickly saw that. Thanks to Saidas protection, I often crossed back into the USA on my way home from Mexico, with 10 or 20 dollars still in my pocket. I knew her family well, and her 3 little sisters, and liked them a lot. Her dad was a very hard working man, working 6 days a week, 12 hours a day, at a local maquilla, for 1000 pesos per week. In those days, that was about 50 dollars US. On that, he managed to maintain his wife and 4 daughters, and pay the bills. But money for high school was not in the budget. Saida was of the age by then, to enter high school, and she really wanted to go. So, I had a chat with her dad, and agreed to take care of her tuition and uniforms and books, as long as she got good grades, and did her part in the family chores.
I was driving down to Mexico 6 or 7 times a year, to visit families, and organize people and jobs for future projects, to check on Saida and her studies, and frankly, to enjoy myself. I knew many people there, and wherever I went, I was greeted on the street by passersby. I ate yummy mexican food in the houses of my friends, and in the local restaurants while accompanied by groups of teen age girls. It was great. I never lacked for company, and had lots of opportunity to sing the praises of the value of a good education to my captive audience of girls.
Not everybody saw me with a benevolent eye. There were families who had not been open to me, and who I did not yet know, and they saw me pull up to a house, and saw girls with shopping bags getting out of my truck, and hugging me before going inside. And as people are most willing to suspect you of doing what they would do if they were in your shoes, there were men who figured that I must be taking these girls to the local rent-by-the-hour motel, and having sex with them, and buying them something for their efforts. After all, who wouldn’t? I battled that cultural bias for all the years that I worked my philanthropy in Mexico. The families of the girls knew me, or they would not have let their teen age girls go with me freely. But there was always a group that suspected me of the worst.
And there were always people who would come up to me on the street, complete strangers, and without even greeting me, would say something like, “I have no food.” Or, “My children need shoes for school.”
Person: My kids need shoes for school.
Me: Oh, then you should get them some shoes.
Person: I have no money.
Me; I am sorry to hear that.
Person: You should buy them some shoes like you do for those other girls.
Me: I buy those girls shoes because I know them and their families.
Person: Then buy my kids shoes too.
Me: I don’t even know you. You rudely did not even have the courtesy to introduce yourself to me when you came up to me. I am not a public program for buying shoes for all the kids in Mexico.
Person: But you have plenty of money because you are an American, and you should buy my kids some shoes.
Me: Well, ma’am, it was nice talking to you. Enjoy the rest of your day.
And I would walk away. That happened to me in various forms on a regular basis when I was walking around in public.
One day, in a conversation with Saida, she called me Padrino.
Saida: Thanks for paying my school fees for this semester, Padrino.
Me: Who is Padrino? My name is Sam.
Saida: A padrino is a grown up who helps children with things. For instance, in a quinceanera, there is a padrino for drinks, and a padrino for the vestido (gown), and a padrino who rents the tables. It is often an uncle, or a grandfather. Most families do not have the money to pay for everything, so relatives help them. That is a padrino. And you are paying my school fees, and you bought me school shoes yesterday. And though you are not my uncle, it makes me uncomfortable to call you Sam. It is not right for a child to call a grande by their name. So, I have decided to call you Padrino. It is a term of respect.
Me: Um, ok, I guess.
And from then on, Saida called me padrino. And so did her 3 sisters. And her mom and dad started calling me Compadre, which means, co-parent. And they treated me as if, in fact, I was a co-parent with them. Eventually, I started paying for the education of each of the girls, Tania, who went all the way through college and became a nurse. Nallely, who barely squeaked through middle school, hating every minute, and after school found a boy who immediately got her pregnant, and she is a mother of 4 kids now. And the baby of the family, Alicia, who was the most studious of them all, and stayed in school through college, and graduated with her degree in Psychology.
Another time while working on a project, a girl named Nereyda came over to talk to me. She was very forthright in her way with me.
Nereyda: Samuel, (she had no trouble with my name) I need to talk with you about my older sister.
Me: Ok, Nereyda, what is up with your sister?
Nereyda: Her name is Juany. She is a very serious student in high school. Last month our father died, and now she will have to drop out of high school because we have no money. I know you are helping the Carrera girls with their educations, and I would like you to come and speak with Juany, and maybe help her too.
Me: I am sorry for the loss of your father, Nereyda. When would be a good time for me to come and talk to Juany?
Nereyda: She gets home from classes at 4. You can come by then.
And I did. Juany was a delightful young lady. Very shy, but when I finally got her talking, she was very pointed, and obviously a deep thinker, and I found myself liking her immediately. And that began my paying of school fees and mentoring her. She graduated from high school, and stayed in college until the middle of her third year, studying computer and informatica. One day she stopped me as I was walking by her house.
Juany: Samuel, I am going to quit school.
Me: Holy crap, Juany, whatever for?
Juany: College is expensive, and so far this year, they have nothing new to teach me. I feel it is a waste of your money, to pay for school that has nothing to teach me. So I have decided to quit.
By that time in my odyssey in Mexico, I had learned a lot about how to mentor young women. It had been about 10 years since I had started paying school fees for kids. I was paying the high school fees for 5 other girls, and had promised 3 more that when they started high school next year, I would pay their fees. Tania was studying Nursing, and graduating soon. Alicia was in her first year of college. I was walking around completely broke all the time. But girls were getting educated, and I felt like that was about the best thing that I could be investing my money into.
I was famous for saying to my girls, “Quien esta la dueña de tu vida?” (who is the owner of your life?) My Spanish was greatly improved. I could say things in Spanish like, “A school girl needs a boyfriend, like a fish needs a bicycle.” And, “When God created man, She was only kidding.” I referred to the boys wandering around in the colonia as “inseminators”. I never tried to tell the girls what they should do. Instead, I taught problem solving, brainstorming, and weighing of alternatives. And tried my best to leave them free to decide for themselves. And I worked hard up here in Austin, so that the money was there, should they decide to continue with their education.
I was not all that successful, and statistically, kind of a failure, as the social pressure of boyfriends, and unexpected pregnancy, robbed me of many girls with great potential. Unfortunately, in Mexico, once a girl gets pregnant, that is pretty much the end of any opportunities for her, and the end of her school career as well. But I am an optimist, and I gave each girl the best of me, trying to help them take charge of their lives. Over the years, I joyously watched 5 girls graduate from college. And maybe 10 graduate from high school unpregnant. Girls who would have quit school after middle school. I spent a lot of money. As my father said, the last time I talked to him before he died, “William, (my real name) I just don’t understand why you would piss away any money you might save for retirement, in the lives of other people’s children.” Yes, Dad, you never did. How sad for you.
Juany eventually came north, to Minnesota, and married the boy she had loved in high school, who was working on a huge farm there. She now has 3 great, smart, bilingual American citizen kids, who will grow up to become hard working tax paying Americans. I have taken them under my wing, from a distance, so to speak, and send them STEM kits and educational fun things that I find online. Juany is an excellent mom, and her husband Lazaro is a hard working man who takes good care of his family.
I have ended my philanthropy in Mexico. The drug cartels have made it dangerous to go there, and the last time I was there, a couple years ago, I was coming back to the colonia from the grocery store, with a couple of my girls in my truck, and avoided a gun battle by seconds, as we drove by the park at the colonia entrance. The state police had pulled over a pickup truck that they thought was a drug cartel guy, and just as we passed, let loose with their guns, firing into the truck. It scared the crap out of me. The next day, as I left to come home, I heard that they had shot 150 bullets into it. And, oops, it wasn’t a drug cartel guy after all, but a young man coming home from engineering classes at the college. Sorry.
Girls Matter 
Even a poor carpenter can be a philanthropist
Cast your bread upon the water, and it shall return to you multiplied by a thousand – Ecclesiastes