Estrogen congestion: a peek into a coffee break
The Hawthorne Effect suggests that merely by observing a person or animal, you alter the behavior. I didn’t find that to be true in this case, maybe they didn’t know I was observing them. One of the most intriguing observations since I’ve been in Honduras occurred at about 5:30 in the evening on a Wednesday and Thursday of Holy Week as I was staying with a friend. Since the week leading up to Easter is huge deal here, everybody is on vacation and the entire family gets together. Here’s how it went down:
A dozen women nosily enter the house and crowd into the tiny kitchen. Only the eldest sit at the table, the little ones and the not-so-little but not-yet-old-enough ones are on the sidelines watching.
We’re here for coffee, or rather, the coffee is here for us. The coffee is an enabler, an excuse for everyone to get together and get all up in each other’s business, for that is the norm. While it brews, multiple conversations arise. Don’t ask me what they’re talking about, there are too many conversations to follow and I’m in sensory overload. But I do know that they talk about the past, always the past. Even in their 40’s the five sisters and numerous cousins are still fiercely competitive, re-telling the stories of their youth and arguing about the details, talking over one another, no one letting the other finish. Not even their own mother. But with her the distractions are markedly less. Doña Iliana commands respect and on multiple occasions covers her ears and dramatically yells that it’s too loud in here. Her voice is of a slower cadence than her daughters, each word emphasized as if stressing the importance of whatever it is she is saying and reflecting the fact that she was raised in another time “when people used to respect their elders, damn it!” The times when one person had the floor all to herself.
I’m sitting on the countertop quietly watching and listening as the chaos unfolds, and of course, sipping my coffee. I am not yet allowed into the inner sanctum of the table and all that it represents. I’m too young and more importantly, I’m not family.
As for the men? They quickly cleared out, having their exit strategy ready in advance in order to avoid this scene like an accident on the freeway: taking alternate routes to avoid being caught in this estrogen congestion. Even the little boys seem to know better than to enter, for it is all women ranging from ages 4-75. One day they too will sit at the table and share their stories and memories, but for now they are on the outskirts; drinking milk and eating pan de yema (a central american sweet roll )while unconsciously absorbing the wisdom from the matriarchs. Soon they will try to sneak back to the table and grab a second sweet roll while the women are distracted by their stories.
Every so often one of the women catches my eye and looks at me for support. In the midst of their story they ask me “don’t you think so?” or “can you believe that?” I smile and nod or say “yeah, that’s crazy”, depending on the situation. The truth is, I only heard a fraction of their story, I was too busy catching snippets of the other conversations and mentally translating the chaos. So I just quietly watch and finish my café con leche, despite being dizzy from all the caffeine.
And then, just as quickly and noisily as they entered, they leave. Perhaps the estrogen and noise was too much even for them. All that is left are the dozen and some coffee cups lined up next to the sink, and just as I wonder who will clean all of them, one of the granddaughters sighs and silently steps up to the sink. She is one that is old enough to drink coffee and not milk, but not yet old enough to sit at the table. This too is a sort of rite of passage, one of the many examples of serving the elders.
While I was observing the whole phenomenon that constitutes an afternoon coffee break, it struck me as strange that I was gathering so much cultural information from something that is so routine for them, but nobody else in the room had any idea. It was as if I wasn’t really there. I wonder if things would have been different had I not been there, probably a little, but I guess I’ll never know.
prunes, over and out.
Quote of the day:
"Listen. Do not have an opinion while you listen because frankly, your opinion doesn’t hold much water outside of your universe. Just listen. Listen until their brain has been twisted like a dripping towel and what they have to say is all over the floor." –Hugh Elliot
A dozen women nosily enter the house and crowd into the tiny kitchen. Only the eldest sit at the table, the little ones and the not-so-little but not-yet-old-enough ones are on the sidelines watching.
We’re here for coffee, or rather, the coffee is here for us. The coffee is an enabler, an excuse for everyone to get together and get all up in each other’s business, for that is the norm. While it brews, multiple conversations arise. Don’t ask me what they’re talking about, there are too many conversations to follow and I’m in sensory overload. But I do know that they talk about the past, always the past. Even in their 40’s the five sisters and numerous cousins are still fiercely competitive, re-telling the stories of their youth and arguing about the details, talking over one another, no one letting the other finish. Not even their own mother. But with her the distractions are markedly less. Doña Iliana commands respect and on multiple occasions covers her ears and dramatically yells that it’s too loud in here. Her voice is of a slower cadence than her daughters, each word emphasized as if stressing the importance of whatever it is she is saying and reflecting the fact that she was raised in another time “when people used to respect their elders, damn it!” The times when one person had the floor all to herself.
I’m sitting on the countertop quietly watching and listening as the chaos unfolds, and of course, sipping my coffee. I am not yet allowed into the inner sanctum of the table and all that it represents. I’m too young and more importantly, I’m not family.
As for the men? They quickly cleared out, having their exit strategy ready in advance in order to avoid this scene like an accident on the freeway: taking alternate routes to avoid being caught in this estrogen congestion. Even the little boys seem to know better than to enter, for it is all women ranging from ages 4-75. One day they too will sit at the table and share their stories and memories, but for now they are on the outskirts; drinking milk and eating pan de yema (a central american sweet roll )while unconsciously absorbing the wisdom from the matriarchs. Soon they will try to sneak back to the table and grab a second sweet roll while the women are distracted by their stories.
Every so often one of the women catches my eye and looks at me for support. In the midst of their story they ask me “don’t you think so?” or “can you believe that?” I smile and nod or say “yeah, that’s crazy”, depending on the situation. The truth is, I only heard a fraction of their story, I was too busy catching snippets of the other conversations and mentally translating the chaos. So I just quietly watch and finish my café con leche, despite being dizzy from all the caffeine.
And then, just as quickly and noisily as they entered, they leave. Perhaps the estrogen and noise was too much even for them. All that is left are the dozen and some coffee cups lined up next to the sink, and just as I wonder who will clean all of them, one of the granddaughters sighs and silently steps up to the sink. She is one that is old enough to drink coffee and not milk, but not yet old enough to sit at the table. This too is a sort of rite of passage, one of the many examples of serving the elders.
While I was observing the whole phenomenon that constitutes an afternoon coffee break, it struck me as strange that I was gathering so much cultural information from something that is so routine for them, but nobody else in the room had any idea. It was as if I wasn’t really there. I wonder if things would have been different had I not been there, probably a little, but I guess I’ll never know.
prunes, over and out.
Quote of the day:
"Listen. Do not have an opinion while you listen because frankly, your opinion doesn’t hold much water outside of your universe. Just listen. Listen until their brain has been twisted like a dripping towel and what they have to say is all over the floor." –Hugh Elliot
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