In the United States we think of education as de rigueur for an ambitious young man or woman, not just learning to read and write, but college, even graduate school, a career, retirement, the good life—the American dream. For the Maya, such a concept is as remote as the planet Mars. The typical indigenous girl in Guatemala has little perceived need even to learn Spanish. Her whole world is a tiny corner in the mountains where only one or another of the twenty-two, mutually unintelligible Mayan languages is spoken. And the only people she will ever have occasion to speak with are the other residents in that village or hamlet, who also speak only language X. But even so, she seldom expects to leave her home. She will have many children, all born at home, some of whom will die, and in times of civil strife, others in her family will die as well. She will spend all day, every day, cooking over a wood fire, washing clothes in a river or lake, and caring for her children, all without appliances. No one in the family will ever see a doctor, a dentist, or indeed a professional of any kind. For medications they will rely on traditional herbs, some of which are quite effective, but treatment for serious illnesses and accidents is out of reach. She may even believe that witches can bring on sickness, injury, and death. The typical indigenous girl in rural Guatemala will never learn any history; even contemporary politics will be about as far from her consciousness as the farthest galaxy. Her language probably has no word for ambition. She does know that there are rich people in Guatemala City, but she has never been there and it never crosses her mind that she might ever have any reason to go there.

The young man is in even worse circumstances. He generally has a few years of schooling, probably less than six, just enough to know that there is something different, which he perceives as better, and no way of gaining it; social mobility does not exist. Instead the typical young Mayan male faces a lifetime of drudgery, working in a shop or a plantation and tending a mountain plot too small to feed his family and constantly worrying that the next heavy rain will wash it all away, perhaps carrying off his home and family in the process. Drunkenness, abandonment, and suicide are often perceived as the only relief.

Addressing the problems of poverty, illiteracy, isolation, in-adequate housing, hygiene, medical care, and nutrition in Guatemala has for years engaged the efforts of hundreds of organizations. Yet most poor Guatemalans say that conditions are not improving; many say they are only getting worse, and in some respects they surely are—the housing shortage, for example, increases by approximately 43,000 units a year.

Under such conditions it is easy to understand why many young people are ashamed of being Mayan. Until independence in 1821 and the abolition of slavery, a Mayan slave sold for less than the value a horse. The legacy of such racism today is easily demonstrated. There is a saying in Guatemala, estupido como un indio, “dumb as an Indian,” our “dumb as an ox.” A teenage Mayan boy and girl who were in Chapel Hill, NC, in 2004, when asked if any of the students in their school would rather not be Mayan, replied in unison, “All of them!” A Mayan woman reported that the indigenous “think they have no value, no worth.” An elderly indigenous man with a reputation for wisdom in his society when asked what the Maya want most, replied simply “respect.”

Sandra Bolom’s case is remarkable only because her father had the presence of mind to send her to school in town. The village school has only six grades and the language of instruction is Q’eqchí. Sandra is only one of two or three girls to break the mold. Her father, like all the men in the village, works on a banana plantation about an hour’s walk away. He leaves his house at 6:00 and returns after dark, earning $100 a month, a relatively good wage for an indigenous worker, but he has no benefits and no job security. Yet, determined that his daughter should go beyond sixth grade, he rented a room for her in a town about two hours distant by the bus that runs once a day along a road about a thirty-minute walk from the village. There he registered her in middle school.

The language of instruction in middle school is Spanish, a foreign tongue to Sandra. But Sandra is no ordinary girl. Highly organized and meticulous to a fault, she set about mastering her new environment. When we interviewed her two years later, she had learned Spanish well and was making good grades in all subjects.

Sandra arrived in the United States a month or so later than the other new students in 2009 but, typically, set about learning English with a will. She never complained. She never became disheartened. She just worked long hours, doggedly determined to succeed, and succeed she did, with a smile.
Sandra went home for the summer, as do all GSSG students, and picked up right where she had left off. There is no electricity in the village and the beds have no mattresses, but Sandra got up the next morning at 4:00 to make tortillas for her father, help her mother with the laundry, by hand, clean the house, which has a dirt floor, and take care of the baby.

In the villages there seems to be an inverse correlation between possessions and happiness. In Sandra’s home, as in all the others, an open fires serves as a stove, a concrete sink serves as dishwasher, laundry, and shower; though the weather is hot, there is no air conditioner, there is no refrigerator, no computer, no radio or stereo, the chairs are made either of plastic or rough boards, there are no light switches, there are no lights; there is no medical or dental care, no grocery store, pharmacy, or clothing store; there are no cars or trucks, and most people go bare-footed most of the time, the alternative is sandals; when you have a toothache, you wait for it to go away, if you are rich enough, you may buy one aspirin; and the schools have no textbooks. Yet, the villagers are happy.

 

In August of 2010, Sandra is scheduled to return to the United States, a rising sophomore at a public school in Minnesota. She is a good student and grateful for the opportunity to get a good education. Yet she remains a village girl, unpretentious, modest, respectful, generous, and happy. Though some day she may be the manager of a bank in Guatemala City, Sandra will always be what she is today––unpretentious, modest, respectful, generous, and happy––Mayan.