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    Ngäbere Don't Stop Us From Laughing and Having A Good Time Together. That Afternoon She

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    ricardo
    This document provides 3 accounts related to death in a Panamanian community called Rincon: 1) Sélfida tells the narrator that her mother has died and she appears fragile at his door. They share memories of her family. 2) At the community cemetery, the burial of Sélfida's grandmother involves laying out all her belongings in the grave and lamenting by relatives. 3) The document reflects on the death of a young boy in the community, possibly from diarrhea. It contrasts the growth and deaths of children the narrator has seen since living there in 2009.

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    Ngäbere Don't Stop Us From Laughing and Having A Good Time Together. That Afternoon She

    Uploaded by

    ricardo
    18 views2 pages
    This document provides 3 accounts related to death in a Panamanian community called Rincon: 1) Sélfida tells the narrator that her mother has died and she appears fragile at his door. They share memories of her family. 2) At the community cemetery, the burial of Sélfida's grandmother involves laying out all her belongings in the grave and lamenting by relatives. 3) The document reflects on the death of a young boy in the community, possibly from diarrhea. It contrasts the growth and deaths of children the narrator has seen since living there in 2009.

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    Ethno_Writing #5

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    This document provides 3 accounts related to death in a Panamanian community called Rincon: 1) Sélfida tells the narrator that her mother has died and she appears fragile at his door. They share memories of her family. 2) At the community cemetery, the burial of Sélfida's grandmother involves laying out all her belongings in the grave and lamenting by relatives. 3) The document reflects on the death of a young boy in the community, possibly from diarrhea. It contrasts the growth and deaths of children the narrator has seen since living there in 2009.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as docx, pdf, or txt
    18 views2 pages

    Ngäbere Don't Stop Us From Laughing and Having A Good Time Together. That Afternoon She

    Uploaded by

    ricardo
    This document provides 3 accounts related to death in a Panamanian community called Rincon: 1) Sélfida tells the narrator that her mother has died and she appears fragile at his door. They share memories of her family. 2) At the community cemetery, the burial of Sélfida's grandmother involves laying out all her belongings in the grave and lamenting by relatives. 3) The document reflects on the death of a young boy in the community, possibly from diarrhea. It contrasts the growth and deaths of children the narrator has seen since living there in 2009.

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    © All Rights Reserved
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    of 2

    Writing Module #5

    11/30/2018
    Ricardo Venegas

    I think it's the first time that Sélfida comes by the place that Lucía had lent me in Rincon to
    live in. My place. It's always me who goes to visit her. I ask her how she is and she tells me
    “fine”, but that she has just been told that her mother died. Sélfida is the grandmother I
    understand having to exchange an only few words with. Her scarce Spanish and my poor
    ngäbere don’t stop us from laughing and having a good time together. That afternoon she
    appeared at my door so fragile. We talked a little. I showed her photos of my family and we
    talked about her mother. She was married to a man from Cerro Otoe who died about eight
    years ago, while they both were living here in Rincon. Sélfida got up and went to my kitchen.
    She saw the empty pots and asked me what I had cooked. "Rice with peas, but they did not
    come out too tasty," I said. "Tomorrow they will drop her off the hospital," she finally said
    after some long seconds. I asked if there was anything I could do. She answered “yes”, but
    did not tell me what. She gathered up her dress into her right arm and I saw her disappear
    barefoot, in silence.

    There are at least 35 men resting, talking and watching as two others finish fixing the hole
    that has been excavated in Rincon's family cemetery. Stake, mallet, and shovel stop for the
    third time to allow the women of the family, daughters, nieces, and granddaughters, to
    present all of the grandmother’s belongings to the grave. For the third time, the docile black
    horse brings three large chácaras full of outfits to be buried with the grandmother. Each
    piece of clothing is laid out one by one and lamented by the relatives. Once the last garment
    is removed, they refold them and put them back in their corresponding bags. The singing-
    weeping-lamenting fills the air of Rincon and the grave itself. The fourth time they return will
    be the last one, and they will bury grandmother with all her belongings.

    But what things did Genaro and Teresa's barely-6-year old son have? Not much. A baseball
    cap, some clothes he inherited from his brothers, a toy, a notebook in which he scribbled
    things for the school, and his backpack. It’ll never be known what he died of. Diarrhea is the
    most likely. Since I arrived in the community in 2009, I have seen some children grow up and
    others be taken by death. We play soccer, to chase each other, to run circles, and those hand
    games that I do not know the names of but where you have to clap, mimicking the rhythm of
    the previous person, and then you laugh a lot. After one of those afternoons of playing, it
    occurred to a grandfather from the community of Ratón to name me Kändö Jädeberibo. He
    had seen me running on the field with a group of children and my long black ponytail
    Writing Module #5
    11/30/2018
    Ricardo Venegas

    reminded him of a squirrel.

    Since 2009, my name is Jädeberi's Squirrel. Those who then were 6 years old, today are 15;
    it’s simple math. But those who then were 15, now I play with their children! There are little
    ones who, running to school, shout "Kändö" at me and I do not even know them! It hurts when
    death comes to Rincón in that way.

    The grave is long, wide, and deep enough to fit the coffin. But at the bottom, it takes an “L”
    form. On one side another space is excavated to allow the coffin to enter. So it’s protected
    by ground that has not been touched, like a cave. Then when it’s filled the dirt falls to the
    sides, not on top. When they are halfway through, all the belongings that will eventually
    decay are tossed in, things like clothes and sticks. No metal, no plastic. Nothing pointy. The
    clothes with bright colors are left until last, shredded into strips; the shoes are broken.
    Grandma's cane must be broken in two. Once the grave is full, stones are placed on the sides
    and flowered and leafy-green plants are planted. A very spicy liquid whose name I do not
    remember is sprinkled about. The tools used are left to rest for four days next to the burial.
    At each end, two crossed sticks are placed.

    The wake lasts four nights; the family talks and shares food and knowledge around buckets of
    hot cacao. The community gathers to tell stories from the old days, the times when the eldest
    community members knew nothing about Spanish and were forced endure the abuses of
    Latinos. Times when mining came and brought some jobs for some people. New times where I
    play goalie in the village soccer championship and we win second place. Nights in which Don
    Lucho teaches to the younger men to weave hats, and Doña Lucia weaves chácaras, the
    traditional bags, with her daughters.

    Selfida thanks me for accompanying her and I say goodbye. Walking back to my place, under
    the moonlight, I see my shadow stuck in the road. I see my death accompanying my life.

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