Kirsten Breau
Internship Reflection
Costa Rica 2015
Forjando Alas
I had already been in Costa Rica for three weeks when I leaned against the doorframe of Forjando Alas Youth Center late one Wednesday night. I watched Erica, the center’s director, lock the laptops up in the little classroom to my left. She wore brown winter boots with bright orange laces and a purple sundress that draped over her tiny figure. Resting on her collarbone was a crudely made necklace of random, chunky beads strung on a thick piece of yarn and secured with a fat double not. I absentmindedly twisted the beads that lay around my own neck and somberly listened to Erica speak.
We had just finished our English lesson for the night where I had Erica read me a story from the little library in the center’s bathroom. She then peppered me with questions about how to talk to guys in English. I wrote down compliments, pick up lines, and date suggestions on the little whiteboard in the corner. Laughter filled the tiny building and spilled out into the dark street as I deepened my voice to mimic a man’s and told her to recite the phrases back to me.
Now the center seemed empty as Erica spoke soft and low and the street was silent behind my back. We had been making small talk as we closed up the center for the night. Hesitantly, I asked Erica the question that had been troubling me all day. That afternoon I had brought a group of boys up the path to play soccer on the lawn of the church as we did most afternoons. I vividly remember the sweat dripping from my nose before we even started the game, I’ve realized as a Vermonter I’m not adapted to the temperatures of Costa Rica. I had been working with my host brother that morning moving rocks to construct a type of retaining wall at the center’s new property. My legs were tired, arms sore, and my patience was short. Hafet was teasing one of the other boys the whole walk there and was showing no signs of letting up.
I called him out in front of the whole group to let him know that I would have to talk to his mom that night when the center closed. Immediately I was bombarded by the whole group of boys screaming “no, no, Kirsten no!” Taken off guard I fumbled to calm the seven boys springing at my waist.
“His mom hits him!” Danny screeched desperately from my hip. Danny was Hafet’s best friend and partner in crime, but the urgency in his voice was echoed in the eyes of the whole group. My jaw dropped and I nodded my understanding anxiously, not sure what else to say. They seemed satisfied with this and soon we were taking the field and Danny was calling out the teams.
Erica wasn’t surprised by the comments. “She does,” she said. After a long pause she added, “we’re trying.”
As we went about the nightly routine of closing, Erica explained to me the story of Hafet’s family. How from a young age his mom was sold as a prostitute to the wealthy white men migrating to the mountains of Uvita following the extension of the coastal highway. Hafet and his little brother were products of this exploitation.
Yes, Hafet’s mom beats him as her dad beats her. Erica had filed three reports to the police on the abuse, but in Costa Rica, she explains, they turn a blind eye unless it’s extreme enough to force their hand. Essentially, if you aren’t dying you aren’t going to get help.
I followed Erica out the door as she flipped off the lights and we were left in the dark street. Erica spoke English now, talking slow to make sure I understood her words.
“But that’s why we do this,” She said glancing back at the tiny building, feathers painted brightly on its blue walls. “We make transformations with love because the law is poor.
I nodded my head because I didn’t know quiet what to say. She wrapped me up in a hug, as Erica often did, then bounded up the path towards her home. As I walked the opposite direction towards mine, all I could think was “there is so much love here.”