So, I'm a godmother

I didn't want to be a godmother. I had said no before. But Jasmyn, 15, and one of my teen health promoters, really wanted me as the madrina for her confirmation.

"It's just one day," she pleaded. I sighed.

She's a good kid, and I wasn't busy.

"Ok, ok, but what do I have to do?"

I was right to ask this question. Normally, in addition to public speaking of some kind, being a godparent entails shelling out plata — for presents, hiring a DJ, the cake — something. But she assured me that I just had to buy her a small gift, attend a mass, and take some pictures.

So ... I went out and bought her a fun picture frame, along with some printed photos of some of our activities. I didn't want to buy a new dress, but the only other one I had was hole-y with moth bites. Even with my mediocre stitching skills, it was barely acceptable. In dark lighting, you could hardly see the tiny scunchies, but in sunlight ... well, it was questionable. I didn't mind being judged for my clothing (though my host mom has pointed out several times that I should), but I didn't want to embarrass Jasmyn.

I changed 3 times before I decided on a mid-length skirt and tank-top combination. As priests frown on spaghetti straps, I also had to toss on a black long-sleeved cardigan — it was the only thing I could find to cover my sleeves. Thank God it was only 100 degrees outside.

I showed up at 2, like J had told me. She was ready at 2:30. In the meantime, her mom chatted me up and laid on the guilt. Why didn't I come over more often? Why didn't we ever go out to the country to visit her mom? I smiled and nodded. The noncommittal affirmations worsened my guilt.

An hour into the 2.5 hour mass, I was getting antsy. This entire experience was forcing me to encounter everything I despised: dressing up, public appearances and sitting still for long periods of time. Seriously, I thought, what was I thinking?

Then, as if the small statue of Jesus looming over my head could hear my thoughts, I snapped out of it.

Wtf, Robyn, I thought. This isn't about you.

It was about Jasmyn. The 15-year-old, only child kneeling in the row in front of me. The health promoter who looked up to me like a sister and always arrived on time.

Shame mingled with the incense and overloaded my senses. How selfish could I be? She's a good kid. And it was an honor to be her godmother.

Once the focus shifted from me to her, the rest of the mass was much more bearable. For the first time, I noticed the colors in the room. The proud parents. The dangling rosaries. I sang along with the music, though I didn't always understand the words. And I felt it. The gratitude. The excitement ... to be here, experiencing things like this.

I still felt horribly uncomfortable in my non-Peace Corps-y clothes. My mascara was bothering my eyes, and I'm pretty sure some children gawked. But I felt lucky. And hey, check it out. I'm a godmother.

Jasmyn and me at a paseo to the beach