Spain: Day 9

Hola familias!

 

We arrived in Madrid .

 

One major objective of our time in Madrid has been to establish contrast. Just over a week ago, we were sitting around a hearth on a farm. And yet here we are now walking through streets packed with people and lights and music. Both experiences are beautiful, and the importance of this statement lies in the word "both." Where we get in trouble as a society is when we only assign value to one region or the other, one religion or the other, one political party or the other. I will admit this is an area I am guilty of. I have no issue loving rural Spain, yet back home, I am so pro-Atlanta yet find myself thinking poorly of Warner Robins or Clayton or Dalton. This program reminds me to reverse course. To right my mental ships.

 

A must-see activity in Madrid is visiting the Reina Sofia museum, and today's cold and somewhat rainy day lent itself well to wandering through rooms of breathtaking art. The Reina Sofia museum's most world-renown work is Pablo Picasso's huge painting Guernica. The painting intentionally looks like a cubist newspaper---black, gray, and white with lines of text combined with people, animals, and buildings intertwined with one another. Picasso's work depicts what he felt newspapers of his time didn't cover: the suffering of innocent civilians during the Spanish civil war. He gave voice to the forgotten, which is a theme we continue to explore throughout the trip.

 

After some time shopping and eating lunch in small groups (including Jordan getting to spend time with a friend Sophie, who lives in Madrid, that he met at IC a few weeks ago), we checked into our hotel to prepare for a special evening: a flamenco show and dinner. The flamenco show allowed us to come full circle from our dance workshop in January. We watched these artists give it their all knowing first hand that even though they made it look easy, what we witnessed was complex, profound, and in danger of extinction. The performers on stage were from southern Spain. Their skin was more olive-colored, their hair was darker, and their accent--cutting off the “s” in almost every word--starkly contrasted the northern tones our ears had grown accustomed to for twelve days. They were beautiful. Over the strumming of their guitars, the spinning of their clothing, and the stomping of their feet on the wood floor below, you could feel their commitment to keep their culture alive. They keep sweating, dancing, singing, and calling out in an effort to defy statistics and preserve their culture, even if it also means asking for a five-star review on Yelp.

 

A prominent, daily theme of the trip has been how to preserve the rhythms--whether literal or figurative--of one’s past. I use the word rhythm intentionally. G-d forbid we force tradition on future generations so they interpret customs as lifeless rules. At its best, tradition is music, not dusty books. It's structured freedom, not imprisonment. As I type this, I am reminded of one of my conversations with my late friend Javito over shabbat dinner a few years ago in which he looked me in the eyes, smiled, and said, "Di-os aprieta, no ahoga." G-d pushes/squeezes us, but He doesn't strangle. Javito's words serve as a charge for me as an educator: do I force ideas down kids' throats or do I invite them to be a part of something that is big, timeless, and life-giving? Do I say "no" more than I say "yes"? Do I give them an agenda or do I give them a compass? Do I stand in front of them or do I sit elbow to elbow with them? G-d bless my hands to always push and squeeze but never suffocate.

 

We closed our night with gelato and Havdalah. It’s unreal to think our last Havdalah was in an abandoned monastery. We’ve traveled far and done so much, and the braided candle tonight reminded me of our itinerary and how a country can be both several individual identities and one whole identity at the same time. I’m so grateful we have experienced multiple strands.

 

Buenas noches a todos.